The Truth of All Things by Kieran Shields Page B

cabin, he is wrapped in an old woolen blanket. The fire roars, lighting the dark walls of wood planks, where dried mud and hay fill the gaps. A film of gray-blue smoke hovers close to the low ceiling. The skin of his legs tingles, itching from his body’s sudden shift back toward a living warmth.
    His mother, fair-skinned and beautiful, reads from an English book, her words musical, rising and falling with the story. There are knights and ladies and great beasts. He gazes up past her pale eyes, aglow in the firelight, to the drifts that rise from his father’s pipe. The smoke curls into hints of shapes, and he imagines the breath of a fiery dragon. He puffs out his chest, drawing in the smoky breath and making it part of him, tasting the bitter, almost medicinal smell of his father’s tobacco. He smiles.
    Grey stared at the plate in front of him. The cigarette was only cold ashes, and all visible signs of the smoke had dissipated. The scent lingered in his memory as he looked toward the windows. The light around the curtain was different now. He stood up, steadied himself against the edge of the worktable for a moment, then strode across the room. Grey snatched his hat from the rack and slipped on his lightweight frock coat before heading out the door. He made no effort to soften his descent as he thudded down the stairs, welcoming the feel of the unyielding wooden treads and the almost palpable sound of his own footsteps in the narrow stairway.
    Lean entered Delavino’s smoke shop near the corner of Middle and Exchange. A large sign in the window advertised the fashionable new brand of Turkish Treasures cigarettes. He moved past displays of colorfully illustrated cigar boxes, chewing tobacco, patent medicines, and spruce gum. Posters lined the walls, calling out for him to enjoy the delights of Duke’s Preferred Stock and White Rolls. There was even a small display of Cameos, though Lean couldn’t recall ever having seen a woman inside this shop in all his years of coming to Delavino’s.
    At the counter, Lean was greeted by the sweaty pate and smiling eyes of the proprietor.
    “Deputy, good to see you. How many today?” He turned away and reached toward the stacks of cigarette boxes on the shelves behind the counter. The man’s thick fingers tripped along the rows of Allen & Ginter products until they reached the Richmond Straight Cuts.
    “Just one pack ought to do it, Tino.” Lean’s eyes roamed over the shop as he dug in his pocket for change. Under a banner declaring her famous phrase “Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay” was Lottie Collins, the toast of the English music halls, her right leg kicking high to reveal her stocking and garter, tempting all who passed to try Phillips Guinea Gold cigarettes.
    “There is something else you can help me with.” Lean drew the killer’s cigarette butt from his pocket. “What can you tell me about this? It’s not regular tobacco—got a funny scent to it.”
    “Well, it’s hand-rolled, eh. So it could be all sorts.” He took a whiff, then another. “Oh, this is Indian tobacco. It’s native, a wild-growing herb.”
    “You sell it?”
    Tino gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Of course, for you I can get some if you like. Not the kind of thing people here are willing to pay for. But then”—Tino rolled the butt between his fingers—“it’s perfectly fine rolling paper. Not cheap. For whatever that’s worth to you.”
    “Thanks. Very helpful.” Lean took the butt back and pocketed it.
    “If you’re interested in the Indians, there’s a new series of Duke cards, famous Indian chiefs. Your boy might like them.”
    “Maybe next time.” Lean moved to the door.
    “Yes, always next time.” The proprietor took up his newspaper and rattled it loudly after Lean. “If I’m still in business, I can sell you just the one pack again.”
    The landlady, Mrs. Philbrick, blocked the doorway at the two-story brick house on High Street, chin out and arms folded across her