Hounds of Autumn (10 page)

Chapter 16

C
hloe paused upon entering the
work room she shared with Ambrose. She ought to take a look at the maps of the moor, but she also wanted time to go over Camille’s notes. If she worked efficiently, she would have time for both.

Mr. Frick, who was familiar with the way his master liked his things, had set up Ambrose’s end of the room in perfect order. The shelves on one wall were now populated with books. Ambrose’s black leather camera case lay closed next to the desk. The spool playing machine rested on a box behind the desk with two boxes of brass spools on either side of it. One set had handwritten labels while the other set was blank. The microscope case sat on a shelf with three cases of fungi, plant and insect specimens stacked nearby. Chloe knew without looking that the contents would be in alphabetical order by kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus and species.

Her own work table was undisturbed, and just as disordered as she had left it. Ambrose must have instructed Mr. Frick to leave her crates open on her end of the room. The straw had been removed and the contents waited for her. Perfect.

She found her three-tiered wood and brass toolbox as well as the pocketed toolkit roll she used when traveling. She found the case for her magnification spectacles and opened it. The fitted pair of eyeglasses had a series of magnification lenses that flipped down with the turn of a tiny knob at the corner. She laid her heavy work corset on a shelf. She would not be doing anything dirty or dangerous enough today to need the protection of its heavy brown leather. Nor would she need her heavy laboratory coat. She stacked her books, much fewer in number than Ambrose’s, on a shelf behind her desk.

She selected one book, pulled Camille’s notes out from under a spool of heavy wire, found her notebook at the top of a teetering stack and settled into her chair. She spent the better part of an hour going through Camille’s notes, her book on electrical design open beside her.

After wandering around the room, Giles jumped onto the desk, knocking over a pencil cup. Pencils rolled everywhere. She gathered them up and put them back in the cup.

“Stay,” she said. Giles swiveled his ears and blinked. Then he settled down, tucked his front paws under his chest and curled his tail around his legs. He looked like a loaf of bread.

“Good boy.” She smiled and stroked his back and he made a soft grinding noise that approximated a purr.

“At least that function works. What do you say we see if we can upgrade your battery?” The grinding sound continued.

“It won’t happen today, puss. You’ll have to wait until we get back home. It’ll take some work. See, your battery has a manganese dioxide cathode dipped in a paste I made from ammonium chloride and plaster of Paris. Then I had the idea to add zinc chloride to extend the life. Wasn’t that a brilliant idea? Yes it was.”

She stopped petting him and the grinding sound gradually ceased. She dug through her notes.

“Then I put an array of these little cells into zinc shells. See, Giles, you are fearfully and wonderfully made. You don’t know this, but the zinc acts as an anode. Isn’t your mummy clever? Hmm? Clever mummy.”

“Are you two willing to admit a third party to your conversation or shall I come back at another time?” said Ambrose from the doorway.

“Do come in. Giles and I were discussing his adorable innards.”

Ambrose smelled pleasantly of pipe smoke. The pink flush of his cheeks and the end of his nose told her he had consumed a fair quantity of brandy or some other spirits with the other men.

“Mr. Baxter is quite the storyteller,” he said. “I have serious doubts about a few of his tales though. Still,” he pulled a chair in front of her table and sat back, “I suppose an overactive imagination is not too much harm. And Alexander, Ian and William all seem to like him well enough to let him marry their sister and daughter. Well, who wouldn’t, with all that money, waiting to be spent?”

“Dora genuinely seems fond of him. Even though he’s American, and doesn’t have any family connections, it’s a fair match. I think she really likes him, loves him even. You saw her at supper.”

“She may not be so fond of him if they have any attractive female servants,” Ambrose said. “He didn’t say anything improper, but I got the feeling that he is over fond of female company.”

Chloe made a noncommittal sound and flipped a page. She felt him watching her and glanced up. The look on his face was serious.

“You saw him at supper?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m all right. It was rude. And shocking. And boorish. But I am not upset. I didn’t think you had noticed.”

“I noticed,” he said.

“The man has wandering eyes.”

“I don’t like it. And I don’t want his hands to follow where his eyes lead. I would hate for either you, Dora or Beatrice to be placed in an uncomfortable situation.”

“I will instruct Giles to attack him if he acts in an ungentlemanly manner,” she said with a grin. “And, as I will have no occasion to be alone with the man, I foresee no difficulties. So tell me, did you and the men discuss anything interesting over your drinks and smoking?”

“Nothing worth repeating. William is as intractable and taciturn as ever. Mr. Baxter and Alexander did most of the talking and Ian did most of the silent frowning. But I know he’s a kind fellow. He’s simply not the lively sort. No harm in that.”

“Speaking of Ian, Miss Haynes told me something that you ought to know. The other night, while I was here working, I saw Ian riding out toward town. No one knows where he goes, or why. But it was past midnight, and he was obviously trying to keep the sound of his departure quiet, as he rode the horse at a walk to the main road before trotting off.”

“Strange.”

“Indeed. Miss Haynes says that he goes out a couple of times a week. He has been doing it for years. I wonder if the police have questioned him.”

“The police, why?”

“A woman is murdered on the moors, and he takes mysterious rides at night. It seems like an obvious line of questioning.”

“But if he’s still doing it, then the rides are continuing after her death. That would suggest that the two are not related.”

“Not necessarily.” She tapped her pencil on her lower lip. “If he’s doing something nefarious, then the police ought to know about it.”

“There’s no evidence that he’s doing anything of the sort.”

“Then why is he doing it under cover of night? What is there to hide?” She stroked Giles. “Are you trying to defend him? You’re defending the family name, aren’t you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is if a woman’s life ended because of it.”

“That is an extraordinary leap, my dear,” he said.

“Perhaps so. But don’t you think the police ought to decide?”

“I thought you said the police were incompetent fools and brutish idiots.”

“I did. But now you’re just being difficult.”

“Simply stating facts,” he sat back.

She shut her notebook, jabbed the pencil into its cup and crossed her arms. “Tell me why we shouldn’t tell the police about the night rides. Tell me what you really are thinking.”

He adjusted himself in his chair and his gaze drifted to the wall behind her. “I don’t know where Ian goes, or what he is doing. But I can’t see any way he is connected with this. You said that Mrs. Granger had a box of money and though wealthy, used old parts for her mechanicals rather than buying new. She was saving up money, perhaps to flee her husband. Ian’s rides have been going on for years, and they continue still, even after her death. He goes in the direction of town, which is in the opposite direction of the Granger house. I don’t think he was ever going to meet her in town, certainly not a few times a week for years on end. And not after she’s gone, either. Therefore, I see no connection.”

Chloe considered. “All the same, I am curious where he goes.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

“I know. I think I would like to go into town tomorrow. I’ll take the steamcycle, unless you will be using it.” She knew he would not.

“I think you should take the carriage.”

“Well, I’d also like to take a look at a few likely places that the hound may be hiding.”

“And you want the steamcycle so you won’t need a carriage driver.”

“Precisely.”

“I will go with you. The steamcycle can carry us both.”

They had ridden it together before at their house in the country, though it was uncomfortable. But for short rides, they could manage. She had at least five places she wished to see though. And she worried that Ambrose might tire. But she would never hurt his pride by saying so.

“You don’t have to come,” she said. “The hound isn’t dangerous. I keep telling you. And it will be broad daylight.”

“The moor isn’t like anywhere else. The fairy stories about people vanishing are told for a reason. People get lost and are never found.”

“Now you sound like the old man on the airship that told me that the moor is alive and watches people.”

He sighed. “It can be dangerous. You saw that bog, and there are hundreds just like it. Tomorrow, we will go out together.” He stretched. “I am a little tired. I think I will turn in.” He rose, gave a half-bow and left.

She leaned her pocket watch against a book so it faced her. Giles batted a paw at it.

“No. Leave it be.”

“Brrr.” He knocked the watch over and poked it with his nose.

She picked him up and set him on the floor, where he wandered from one end of the room to the other. He circled Ambrose’s desk and jumped onto his chair. He leaped onto the windowsill and banged into the window. Chloe jumped.

“You are lucky that was closed, or the fall might have killed you.”

Giles ignored her and settled on the windowsill, watching the dark.

Chapter 17

C
hloe rose from her vanity
and set down her comb. She took the page that she had copied from
A Dartmoor Companion
and set it on her dressing table, ready for the next morning. She pulled back the bed covers and turned down the gaslight.

“Giles, come.”

The cat was on the bedroom windowsill. He had developed a fondness for windowsills and seemed to be remembering their locations in the rooms she frequented. He liked watching birds and plants moving in the wind. He also enjoyed sitting on shelves or anywhere he could look down upon the room’s proceedings. But unlike a living cat, his eyes were always open, taking in as much as his visual receptors could process. He also took no pleasure laying in sunbeams or curling up on soft beds or cushions.

“Giles, come.”

His ear flicked, but he did not move. He was captivated by something happening at the back of the house.

“What do you see out there?” she whispered and came up behind him.

The gleam of a lantern swayed and flickered as a figure hung it on the doorframe of the stable in the distance. A horse stood nearby, its head up, snuffling the air. A second figure, tall and lean approached. It must be Ian. He spoke to the first man, who had to be the groom. The groom took the lantern from its hook and seemed to be trying to get Ian to take it. After the light bobbed and dipped while they talked, the groom replaced it on the doorframe and Ian mounted the horse.

She could understand why Ian had refused the lantern. The night was clear and there was plenty of moonlight. If one’s eyes were to become accustomed to the dark, she supposed there was enough light by which to ride. She looked up. The moon was almost full. It would be only a few more days—maybe three or so until it was completely full.

Three. Just as the little maid in the library had let slip. Three days from now at the circle.

Chloe stepped back from the window. She turned to search for
A Dartmoor Companion
. Would it show where the local stone circles were? She did not recall any circles depicted on the maps.

She heard a door in the hallway open and close. It must be close to midnight. Who would be up at this hour? She heard footsteps pass her door, the soft thudding rhythm of someone without shoes. It couldn’t be one of the servants, as their rooms were not on this floor. The footsteps hesitated, and then moved on.

She pulled a dressing gown from the armoire, wrapped it over her cotton nightgown and stepped into the hall. She padded down the hall in the direction of the footsteps, passing closed doors and staring portraits. She paused just before she reached the top of the stairs, straining her ears in case the person was still on the stairs or the landing. She heard what she thought might be the soft turn of a doorknob in the downstairs hallway, but she did not hear the door shut.

She hazarded a glance down the stairs. Moonlight poured through a window onto the landing, leaving a rectangle of silver light on the patterned carpet. She hurried past it, holding up the hem of her nightgown and moving down the stairs as silently as she could. She poked her head around the edge of the wall and looked down the hallway. The library doorway looked darker than the others. It must be ajar.

She heard the sound of curtain rings sliding along a curtain rod. By now, Ian would be down to the main road, so the person must be closing the curtains, not opening them. She spun around and darted into the closest room, the front parlor. She could wait here until the person retraced his or her steps and climbed the stairs. Then she could risk a look and see who it was while the person’s back was turned.

The parlor doorway was large enough that anyone at the base of the stairs could see most of the room. A door at the back of the room was closed. If she wanted to pass through, she would surely be seen or heard. She’d have to stay here. Though the room was packed with chairs, plants and a few tables, there were no decent places to hide. And in the dark room, her pale blue robe and white nightgown would be a beacon.

There was barely enough room for her between the door opening and the hutch, but she squeezed in and pressed her back to the wall. She gathered the edge of her robe so it wouldn’t poke out around the doorframe.

She strained her ears, but did not hear footsteps or breathing. She stood unmoving, holding her breath. Listening.

The parlor’s lacy curtains were ghostly and still. Moonlight poured in through the window, illuminating the shelves of silent curios. A picture caught her eye. Something about shape of the woman’s nose and chin looked familiar. In the darkness, the woman’s face was only half-lit, but as Chloe studied it, she recognized the resemblance to her husband. This must be Rose, his late sister.

There was still no sound from the hallway. Had the person taken another route back to his or her room?

“Come out, little rabbit,” sung a man’s voice from the front hallway. He was so close. And he had an American accent.

She froze. She could run for the door at the back of the room, then go through the kitchen, up the servants’ staircase, or even double back to the main staircase. Or she could race outside, go around the back—

“Now, don’t run or I’ll have to catch you,” he chided. His voice was low and soft. He was closer now, only a few feet away. But she had not heard him move. She half felt and half heard him lean up against the wall behind her. They were back to back.

“Shouldn’t you be in the servants’ quarters, little one? I know you should. Very naughty little bunny to be snooping about.”

So he thought she was a maid. Well enough.

“Please, sir. I couldn’t sleep and I thought I’d get some water.” She hoped his American ear would accept her imitation of a lower-class accent as genuine.

“Now, no fibbing little rabbit. I heard you follow me. I saw you for a moment too. I didn’t survive the wild animals and savages in the wilderness by being oblivious. In fact, I rather liked you following me. Watching me in the dark. Waiting for me.”

“I—I wasn’t waiting, sir. I thought I heard a sound. I came to look. It’s Master Ian, isn’t it? The rider.” Maybe she could distract him. He must have wondered who the rider was.

“So you saw him too, then. Where is he going to, so late at night?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea. I have to get to bed. I have to go.” She pulled away from the wall. But a huge hand darted in the dark and grabbed her wrist hard, pulling her back. Her shoulder clunked against the wall. He was still on the other side of the wall, but holding her arm around the doorframe.

“Is the little rabbit frightened? Scared I might hurt her? I won’t hurt her. We can have a little bit of fun together, you and me. Now don’t make a sound, or you’ll be sorry.”

He spun around the doorframe, clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed her into the wall in one swift movement. He was huge, larger than she remembered, and her face was crushed against his chest. She struggled, tearing at the hand over her mouth as his other hand grabbed a handful of her bosom.

“Hush, hush, little bunny.” He leveraged his weight to hold her against the wall. She tried to push him away, but his bulk held her fast against the wall. She twisted her head hard. His hand loosened just enough for her to open her mouth a tiny bit. As his hand smashed against her mouth again, she bit down with all her might. He pulled back for an instant, and then slammed her backwards. Her head cracked against the wall. He crushed his hand back over her mouth, but he was now staring into her face.

“You!” he said in horror. He pulled his hand away and backed up a step.

She wanted to scream, but she had no breath. She grasped the hutch. Mr. Baxter shook his head as the full impact of what he had done hit him. She was a lady, and his actions were inexcusable under any circumstances.

Her mind spun as she tried to breathe. She thought of screaming for help, but drawing attention to herself would bring questions. She thought of Ambrose, and how it would hurt him if she was discovered following someone in the dark of night.

Chloe drew a shaky breath and pulled her robe closed, painfully aware that she was in front of a strange man, a violent man, wearing very little. She glared at him, spine straight, chin up, as her mother had taught her. She was a lady, even in her nightclothes.

“How dare you accost me in such a fashion,” she hissed and stabbed her finger at his chest. He backed up a step. “You shameless, disgusting animal! You get away from me and never so much as come within ten feet of me again. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and backed up until his legs bumped a coffee table. He gave her a final glance and hurried from the room. She sank into a chair. Her heart was still pounding and her lip throbbed hot. She thought she tasted blood. She’d have to check it back in her room. The back of her head would have a nice goose egg, she thought as she touched it gingerly.

She waited until she was certain Mr. Baxter would be in his room and then climbed the stairs to her own. She found the door key on the bureau and locked the door. She would have to open the door for Miss Haynes in the morning, but no matter.

She leaned over and examined her lip in the mirror. The inside had a small cut where it had been smashed against her teeth. She took a sip of water to get the taste of blood out of her mouth. Thankfully, the outside of her mouth was only swollen a little. With her hair down and tangled she looked like a wild woman.

Bloody hell. The poor family servants. She would have to tell Miss Haynes to be careful or to avoid Mr. Baxter completely. And poor Dora was about to be married to a man of such character. She considered. Would telling William or even Alexander or Ian about the incident stop the marriage? Ambrose had said that Mr. Baxter had told some wild tales that evening, so surely the Aynesworth men had at least hints of his character. Would Dora wish to call off the wedding? Or, like so many other women, would she simply overlook her husband’s dalliances and keep on, content with fortune and material comfort?

She looked at her wrist where finger-shaped pink marks were starting to show. Fortunately her long sleeves would cover them. Her heart still pounded. She needed to calm herself down or she would never get to sleep. Her mother had done two things for her when she was upset as a child. She would make tea, and she would brush her hair. Chloe picked up her hairbrush.

She didn’t want to tell Ambrose about what had happened. He would immediately know that she was indulging her curiosity about Ian’s rides by wandering at night. The thought of his disapproval stung. She could tell him that she had left her room to get some water. But she had a jug of water in her room, as well as anything else that she might need during the night.

Even if she emptied the jug, she did not think she could lie to him. No, if she told him, she would tell him the complete truth. It was probably best to wait until they were back in London. Then, if he felt it necessary, he could write to William and inform him of his potential son-in-law’s character. It would be up to the Aynesworths to handle their own affairs.

A soft snore came through the door of Ambrose’s room. Her heart surged in gratitude that her husband was not a drunkard, a womanizer or a gambler. She was one of the fortunate ones, though she had not always thought herself so.

They had been married for three years, but it felt like longer. She had known him for more than ten years before that, since she was a young girl. He had gone from being an uninteresting friend of her father, to an occasional conversation partner, to someone with whom she enjoyed long walks and animated discussions. He had always loaned her interesting books, many of which her father would have forbidden, had he known. But he had never known. It had become a delicious little secret. But even as she reached marriage age, she had thought of Ambrose as her father’s friend, and not as a romantic partner.

No, she had thought of another man in that way. Her older brother’s classmate, Phillip, caught her eye. He was intelligent, laughed often and looked at her in a way that made her stomach jump. They courted.

One day, her brother took her for a walk in Kensington Gardens and asked about her feelings for Phillip. He asked if she thought she might accept Phillip’s offer of marriage, were he to make one. That evening, she heard the muffled sounds of her father and brother talking in the study. She could not make out a word through the heavy door. She walked outside and leaned back against the garden wall. How beautiful the sky was that evening.

Then there were whispers from acquaintances about bad investments, gambling debts, a ship that had not come into port and many others that had lost money. While her father’s income was good, he had been able to keep creditors at bay. But when the payments stopped, the creditors threatened legal action.

The family released the servants, sold the house, the silver, most of the furniture and even the antique pearl pendant that had been her grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s. Her spools of wire, unopened bottles of lubricants, boxes of gears and everything else she had kept on her bedroom desk were sold, as were all the household mechanicals. The family moved to a small home in a neighborhood that was not only unfashionable, but low enough that their friends ceased to call. All except Ambrose Sullivan, that is.

Phillip came to visit her once in that place. His manner, which was usually so jovial, was reserved. He stayed for twenty minutes, enough time to have tea and inquire about her well-being. He looked at her in a new way—with pity. She thought she felt his hand tremble when he took her hand to say good-bye. He did not call again.

In the five years that followed, her mother had taken in sewing work, and her brother dropped out of college. He worked long hours and ate little. Her father drank too much. One afternoon, he and Ambrose had a row. She and her mother sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the second-hand sofa in the front room while the two men shouted in the next. The walls were so thin.

She had never known that Ambrose had lost a wife and son. Nor that he had nearly died when he was snared by the lure too much drink and of opiate-induced forgetfulness. Her father had helped him, saved his life, Ambrose said. And Ambrose roared that he would fight the devil himself before he allowed his friend to follow that dark and evil path.