A Madness So Discreet (16 page)

“I never did understand it,” Lizzie said.

“I had seeds in me hair fer days,” Nell said. “And we near burned the 'ouse down. But Janey said she assured 'er mum that Grace won't be throwin' nothin'.”

“And it's Thanksgiving anyway,” Lizzie said. “So there won't be any jack-o'-lanterns.”

Nell narrowed her eyes at Grace. “Ye don't 'ave anythin' against turkeys, do ye?”

The three girls burst into laughter, heedless of the dark and the wind outside.

S
undays brought fewer people as the air found its teeth, the bite of cold chasing them away from the grounds and into the warmth of their homes. A few brave souls still traversed the paths, their desire for fresh air before winter bringing them out despite the colder temperatures. Mary and her mother were among them, though the baby was left behind to rest more comfortably with his father. By an unspoken agreement Grace had been under the willow every Sunday since they met, and when their paths crossed she would look to the mother for permission before holding out a hand to Mary.

The girl always flew to her, the weight of her little body bringing a bittersweet happiness. This was not her sister but a stand-in for Grace's affections, the mother a walking reminder of what Grace's
life should have been. She looked to the little family for a glimmer of what life was like beyond the brick walls she now called home, and while she knew they offered her safety, they also denied her a life like theirs.

One Sunday they did not come, and Grace's fingers curled around Alice's most recent letter, the tips of them nearly blue with the cold. The pages had become fewer and far between, and though Grace continued to write to Falsteed and Alice, she often received no reply from her little sister. Reed weighed her pages with stones, but the fingers of the wind could reach into any crevice, and Grace knew that many of her well-intended letters were read by no one. She pored over the one in her hands as the wind whipped at the pages, until she heard someone coming along the path.

Grace came to her feet, a smile of greeting in place for Mary and her mother, but it soon disappeared when a fellow inmate rounded the corner, his loping gait stalling when he spotted her.

“Hello, hello,” he called. “Cold day. You must have the wandering bug, like me.” He left the path, his feet eating the distance between them as Grace tried to widen it by backing away. But the lake was behind her, and she could only retreat so far.

“Don't be afraid,” he said. “Patrick's never hurt anybody. Patrick don't hurt people.”

She motioned at him to go away, Alice's letter fluttering in her hands. He ignored her, eyes drawn to the paper.

“What have you got? What is it?” He came closer and Grace dodged to the side, ready to run for the asylum. He snagged her wrist and bent it, plucking the letter from her numb hand in an instant.

“From a lover? Is it? From a man?” His eyes roamed the pages, and Grace felt her panic dissolving into rage as he followed a line with one huge finger, mouth moving with the words.

She ran at him, but he moved quickly, holding the pages above his head and dancing out of the way as she grabbed for them.

“She wants it back, yes she does. She wants it,” he sang. Grace tore at his arm but he lifted her whole frame, swinging her in the air easily. She kicked at his shin and he yelled, dropping her near the base of the willow. Grace grabbed a broken branch from the ground, whirling to stab at him with the sharp point. He sidestepped her lunge, laughing as he tore one of the pages in half, lifting the shreds to the wind.

Grace screamed, the sound tearing through the cold air and following the ripped pages as they blew out over the lake. She went after him again, no feint in her stab as she drove at him. Footsteps were running down the path but she ignored them, her entire being bent on getting what was left of Alice's letter back even if it meant impaling her tormentor. Strong hands grabbed her before she could do it, and she was wrestled to the ground, her stick tossed out of her reach.

“Patrick!” a male nurse yelled as he squared off against the
patient. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Me?” he asked, hands in the air where the single page still fluttered. He curled it up quickly, popping it into his mouth. “I ain't doib nuffin.”

Thornhollow had flipped the blackboard to the clean side on more than one occasion. But two new murders had brought nothing more compelling than a son anxious to inherit sooner than nature intended and an inconveniently pregnant girl whose lover had turned himself in at the station only hours later.

“There's nothing here,” the doctor bemoaned, as he flipped the board back to the doll killer. “There's no real work involved in finding any of these people, especially when they're boring enough to turn themselves in. It's a fairly bleak time when I find my protégé attacking people with sticks a welcome diversion.”

Grace didn't comment from her seat by the fire, her feet tucked under a blanket. Patrick had been disciplined for taunting her, and Janey had gravely informed Grace she'd had to make a note in her file about possible violent tendencies, but nothing stung like the loss of Alice's letter.

Thornhollow sighed when she didn't answer, his eyes drawn back to the board. “Yes, I believe the winter may be dulling us all. But this man . . .” His voice wavered, almost verging on admiration. “This man I'd like to meet.”

“It seems unlikely,” Grace said. “Even if we count Mellie as his work, it's been weeks.”

“I know it,” the doctor mused, eyes roaming the board. “And why would that be? We've only spotted two of his victims, and them somewhat close together. There's not enough to establish a pattern.”

“There's not much of a pattern when our killer has stopped killing,” Grace said.

“He can't have stopped,” Thornhollow said over his shoulder. “I've told you. A man like that doesn't indulge in a passion and then move on.”

“What if it's exactly that? What if he has, in fact, moved on?”

“It's possible,” the doctor acknowledged. “But I've been keeping tabs on the medical men, and they're all still in practice. None of them have died, either. I'd have noticed.”

“You've had an eye on them all this time, even when we saw them face-to-face and you were sure our theory was wrong?”

“Off,” Thornhollow corrected, a finger in the air. “Our theory is
off
, not wrong. I may have made a mistake or two in guessing how our man would react to you, Grace, but that doesn't unravel all the threads.”

“Well then,” Grace said, joining him by the board. “Let me review. We're looking for someone familiar with ether who is strong enough to hold a girl against her will long enough for it to act. He may be healthy physically but he's unable to be intimate with a
woman, possibly connected to the idea that he had an overbearing mother. He's intelligent but socially awkward, perhaps mostly with women.”

She thought a moment, hands on her hips. “I'm sorry, Doctor, but we could be talking about you.”

“I'm offended. You've never met my mother,” he said. “One other thing makes me unfit for the profile, but we need not get into that.”

Grace rolled her eyes but let the comment pass. “Our visit to the brothel only solidified the idea that a doctor is at work here. And if, as you say, none of the locals have moved practice or died, I suppose this leaves us with nothing more than to wait. And watch, although it sounds as if you're doing that rather thoroughly.”

“And not just the local medicals, Grace,” Thornhollow said, his eyes not meeting hers. “I have some news from Boston.”

Grace's knees were suddenly weak, her vision fuzzy on the edges. “Is it Alice?” Her voice barely made it past her lips, her treacherous throat closing on itself.

“No, nothing like that. Grace, please sit down.” His hands were on her shoulders, and she leaned into him gratefully, all her strength sapped at the mere mention of her birthplace. Thornhollow set her back in the chair by the fire and returned with a glass of amber liquid.

“Is it that bad?” Grace asked, taking the drink and sniffing it cautiously.

“No danger has come to your sister, I know that is your main
concern,” he said, standing in front of her to gauge her reactions to his words. “After I learned that you were in correspondence with Falsteed, I began to take the Boston papers. I agree that Heedson's mouth is forever shut to protect his own skin and that both Falsteed and Reed are more than trustworthy. However, the efficacy of a secret is strained thin the more people who are drawn into it, and I thought it best to stay apprised of news in Boston.”

“If not for Alice I'd be happy to never hear of that place again,” Grace said, taking a drink. It burned a path down her throat and heated her belly, bringing a false relaxation in its wake that was welcome nonetheless.

“I quite agree,” Thornhollow continued. “But both our pasts are anchored there. Your father is a highly prominent man. Heedson, as the head of a major medical facility, does merit mention from time to time in the papers, and I thought it best to be aware of their movements. If Heedson were to suddenly be replaced, your father to travel unexpectedly, any indication that their normal lives were disrupted could indicate that tongues may have loosened and our secret was a secret no more.”

“And?” Grace's hands went to her scars, fingers massaging the smooth skin there for the comfort it brought.

“And there's no reason to think either of us is in any danger.”

Relief swelled along with exasperation as Grace swallowed another mouthful of her drink. “Really, Doctor. I know that you're
not terribly good with people, but you need to learn how to deliver news so as not to needlessly—”

“Your father is coming here, Grace.”

“What?” Her grip on the glass loosened, and it wobbled along with her quickened heartbeat. “You said there was no danger.”

“And there is not,” Thornhollow insisted, dropping to his knees in front of her chair. “Grace, I assure you if I thought for one second that man suspected you were alive, I'd put us both on a ship and damn what people would say.”

“Then why would he come here, if not because he was following us?”

“Unfortunately, like most disagreeable things in the world the answer is
politics
. Your father is campaigning for the presidential ticket. You've seen for yourself that the grounds are open to the public, and the formal ballroom falls under the same banner. The asylum offers work for half the town, and a lovely place for the rich to gather so that the employed ones can serve them. It seems that when I brought you to the only place that could offer safety, I never considered that it's in a river-and-railroad town in a swing state before an election year.”

Grace laughed bitterly, her breath tinted with alcohol. “So that's it? He's coming here to stump for the party? Lord.” She threw back the last of the drink and handed the glass to Thornhollow.

“It's the worst of luck, I admit.”

“Yet, I'm not entirely surprised,” Grace said, her eyes on the fire. “Have we not both learned by now that fate is cruel?” She fell silent for a moment, words lost in the flames.

“Fate may be cruel, but it does occasionally play fairly. The superintendent has been insisting on throwing a formal dinner to honor my employment here and introduce me to key citizens. I've put it off but was able to convince him to make your father's visit a dual event. As one of the two guests of honor I'll be able keep an eye on your father throughout the evening, and you, of course, will be nowhere near the ballroom.”

“I may seek out Ned's company,” she said.

“Nonsense. The guest carriages, horses, and drivers will be in and out of the stables. You'd be more visible there than sitting quietly in your room.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “However, I understand that being closed away would only tax your nerves. I thought fresh air would be best and the company of friends.” He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a small iron key. “The west turret. Take Lizzie and Nell to the roof and treat it as an adventure.”

“An adventure,” she repeated, turning the key in her fingers.

“One in which you can keep an eye on the comings and goings of the guests,” Thornhollow said. “I thought a degree of control might make you feel more secure.”

“It will,” she agreed. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you're quite welcome,” he said. “Meanwhile I'll be taking a meal with a man I detest, surrounded by people who want to make small talk and wear evening clothes. I may end the night as a patient and not an employee.”

“If so, I assure you that you'll be under the most excellent care.”

“Watch yer step now, Lizzie, there's a bit o' ice here on the flagstones, and we don't want String takin' a tumble.”

Grace firmly tied Lizzie's hat under her chin while Lizzie supposedly held String out of the way. Once Grace was finished, she took the other girl in hand and they picked their way down the steps to meet Nell on the gravel roundabout. The fountain stood silent, its gurgling voice frozen by the frigid air.

“Come on, then,” Nell called, practically dancing in front of them down the path. “Janey said if we're late she'll never be able ter talk 'er mum into bringin' the crazies 'ome again.”

Lizzie shivered and cuddled close to Grace as they walked, hand cupped protectively near her ear. “String doesn't like to be whipped about,” she explained as they crossed the footbridge. “Janey's mother's place is just at the base of the hill, though.”

Their feet punched through the snow behind them as they left the path for a side trail into the woods. Nell passed in front of them to hold back branches for the other girls to duck under.

“I promise I'm na leadin' ya into the woods to murder ya, dear
Grace,” she said. “Janey's mum likes 'er peace and quiet, and she's got it, sure enough.”

They arrived at the step of a cabin with merrily lit windows, bare branches interlacing thickly above it to create a canopy even without leaves. Nell shooed a chicken off the stoop with her boot and then knocked.

“Hello, girls,” Janey said, opening the door with a smile. Grace couldn't help but smile in return, seeing her stoic nurse in an apron with a dab of flour on one cheek. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with the heat from the kitchen. Janey bustled them inside and hung their coats near the fire as they stomped the snow from their boots.