Guy seemed to read her hesitation. He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wiping again at his tear-stained face, but it didn’t alleviate the redness of his eyes, nor the shaking of his hands. “I’m not staying behind, Catherine.”

She imagined him sitting alone downstairs while clocks chimed the passing hours. Her throat closed at the thought. “Very well,” she said.

“Yes, I’m coming along too,” said Owen, getting to his feet. “It’s best if we all go. This man knew where I was buried—he might know who killed me.”

Guy started down the hall, heading for the stairs. Catherine took another glance at the bedroom door as Owen followed Guy. The floorboards creaked beneath them, the sounds of the clocks in the shop below muffled but steady as a heartbeat. Catherine turned away and set off after them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CATHERINE SAT NEXT to Owen as the omnibus rattled over North Bridge. A patchy drizzle speckled the cobbles, the dark evening sky holding the promise of more rain. Leaning against her shoulder, Owen pitched his voice low. “What are we going to do, Catherine?” His gaze went to Guy, sitting on the bench across from them.

Guy had spoken little since leaving the shop. Now he sat with his shoulders slumped, head down, so Catherine couldn’t see his face.

Policemen had returned with them to the watchmaker’s shop. In the back room, they’d questioned Guy, and he’d stared down at the floor, his voice growing quieter with each answer he gave.

“He was dead when I found him,” he’d said. “He took medicine, to help him sleep, but it’s not the same sort I saw on his nightstand. It was replaced with something else.”

Her heart ached as she remembered Guy’s smile that morning, the light in his eyes. To Owen, she said, “He needs time. His father was all the family he had.”

Owen looked to the rest of the people crowding the omnibus. Almost every space was occupied, umbrellas folded up and dripping rainwater. He cast his gaze down, skimming his fingers over the brim of his hat.

“What are you thinking, Owen?”

“Only that…” He swallowed. “I don’t think my memories are going to come back, and I know I likely don’t have any family, but—I’m hoping we are friends?”

“Yes.” Catherine smiled softly. “Of course we are.”

He smiled back at her, his hazel eyes bright. He looked again in Guy’s direction, and his smile fell away. “I wish there were some way to ease his pain.”

“I wish it too,” said Catherine. “We’ll help him however we can, but grief isn’t a wound that can be neatly stitched.”

Owen nodded. They were silent for the remainder of their journey, the omnibus clipping along, passing the establishments that made up the university district. Near Watt’s street, the three of them stepped out and started walking. The mansions here were great brick piles, their hedges and gardens leafless this late in the autumn, but Catherine had seen how many flowers bloomed here in the summer months.