Laura Kinsale (30 page)

He stood stock-still, listening, and repeated her name. The rattle came again, insistent. It was not in the room he was in. He shouted in elation, and flung himself back out the door, almost dropping the candle in his haste. He turned left, the way he had not been yet, and—

It was like being hit in the back with a brick bat. The impact threw him forward; he was aware of dirt in his mouth and the sound of explosion simultaneously. For a disorganized moment he could not focus, could not breathe, recognizing only a peculiar dull burning just below his ribs and a far more immediate agony in his jaw.

A vertical line formed before his eyes, a strange texture of light and dark, and he realized slowly that it was the floor. He tried to lift his head, but his muscles seemed to disobey him and he only ground his face a little in the dirt. There was something hard beneath his outstretched hand: his gun, and with that insight came the stunned understanding that he had been shot.

Like a difficult puzzle, his numbed mind put together the pieces. Stephen. Stephen wasn’t dead. Stephen was here, now, his shoes visible in the range of Gryf’s vision, making the shadows dance dizzily with the light he had just ignited. Gryf realized abruptly that he ought to be afraid; that he was flat on his belly with a killer behind him; and just as suddenly he
was
afraid: he was sweating, crying, stomach-twisting
scared,
and his hand closed on the gun, and his limbs obeyed him, and he made it as far as turning half-over before Stephen shot him again.

The bullet knocked Gryf onto his back, a paralyzing blow to his left shoulder. With a peculiar clarity he knew that he had at least taken Stephen by surprise, for the other man to miss his heart at such close range. There was black around the edges of Gryf’s vision, but he could see Eliot’s face well enough. Stephen was wiping at it with his shirt sleeve, white linen that came away spotted with red, and from the far-distant place where Gryf seemed to be he saw another drop of blood well from Stephen’s nostril.

A nosebleed.

Oh, God, a nosebleed.

Gryf wanted to laugh, for the way he had mistaken a bloody nose for a mortal wound. He would have, except he could feel a warm dampness spreading across his own abdomen, and his jaw hurt and his arm wouldn’t work. There was blood there, too, pooling and trickling down into his armpit. He looked up dully as Stephen came near. The revolver was aimed at Gryf’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen said, and he actually sounded like he was telling the truth. “If it’s any comfort, Cousin…you’ll be going to join your wife.”

Gryf hardly heard the words, but somewhere in the back of his brain they had an instant effect on his body. He moved. His leg caught Stephen’s ankle, and a tearing wrench went through his belly as he heaved. Stephen yelled and fired, but he was already toppling, arms outspread and flailing for balance, and Gryf pulled his trigger without any reasoned notion of what he was doing. His eyes were squeezed shut. He felt the jarring thud of Stephen’s body beside him and had no thought of anything except that Stephen had said that Tess was dead.

Stephen lay still, and Gryf lay gasping as the shock
wore off and the pain came, and it was like scarlet-hot spikes driven through his gut and his shoulder and pinning him to the ground. He tried to get up, twice, and the third time struggled onto his knees. He stood shakily, leaning hard against the wall. There was blood all over his shirt and his hands. It welled stickily between his fingers; it wouldn’t stop, and he gave up trying to stanch it.

He took a step, and his quivering legs folded. His good shoulder slid down the rough brick wall. Oh, Tess, he thought miserably. Oh, Tess.

The dirt floor came up to meet him. He did not care. He was thirsty; his vision came and went; sometimes he saw the arched bricks of the tunnel in the light of the lamp Stephen had lit, and sometimes all he saw was an infinite blue, like the ocean. After a while, even those were gone, and everything was black, and all he knew was that he was breathing, because he could hear it, and he hurt in his heart and his body, and he wanted to be numb in both. He wanted to die, and he wasn’t dying. Or he was, but it was taking so long…Why was it taking so long? And dear God, why did it have to hurt so much?

T
ess looked up from her sewing at the sound of a cart’s wheels in the farmyard below her window. She levered herself to her feet, and the unborn child kicked in agitation at the move—a sensation which had become familiar in the three months since Stephen had brought her here. Outside, the weak sunlight of September lit the chilly purple moors, empty as far as she could see in all directions except for the stone and slate farmhouse itself.

Before the donkey ambled to a halt, a dark-haired girl leaped off the cart, ignoring her mother’s laughing command. Tess smiled. She had become almost fond of her gentle jailers, especially twelve-year-old Janey, who wanted so much to learn to read. Tess could see that the girl had found new material; she was clutching a much-folded newspaper, and with her skirt hiked up to show her boots she was headed as fast as her skinny legs could take her up to Tess.

Over the passing summer and fall, Tess had become resigned to life in the farmhouse. She knew things could have been far worse. Her attempts to escape from Stephen on the dreadful trip north—once when he bundled her from the carriage into a private railway car,
and once when the train was stopped at a transfer point—had been defeated. Then he had brought her here and left her.

That was the last she had seen of him.

She had only a general notion of where she was. In Scotland, certainly: it had taken her weeks to make sense of the heavy dialect of the crofter family who kept watch on her. She had learned, mostly from the little girl, that the family had been evicted from their tiny cottage on one of the great highland estates to make way for sheep. They were pathetically grateful to Stephen for the abundant food and ample farmhouse he had provided. It was compensation almost unbelievably generous for the small trouble of keeping Tess, and she soon found that they would hear nothing against him. She also found that they never let her out of their sight. She had the freedom of the farmyard, but if she made any move to go farther, she found her way blocked by the huge husband, who urged her back with an apologetic smile and promises of a treat for dinner, as if she were a guest too welcome to be allowed to leave.

At first, she had lived in terror of Stephen’s return. But when he did not come, and her body grew heavier and more unwieldy, she began to lose the driving desire to escape. There seemed to be plenty of money for food, for Janey and her mother had gone off twice in the cart and returned with flour and cheese and honey, and there were three pigs and a milk-goat in the yard. The crofter’s wife was anxious for Tess to be well-cared-for, and had even offered cloth and assistance in making gowns for the coming baby. In all, it was a benevolent incarceration, for the family seemed to think of Tess as a kind of good-luck piece, to be cherished rather than neglected. The only real signs of imprisonment were the bars on her bedroom door and windows.

The pounding of Janey’s feet on the stairs was followed by a hesitation, and Tess could almost see the young girl on the other side of the door suddenly recalling her manners. There was a polite knock. When Tess answered, Janey forgot her temporary decorum and waved the paper with proud enthusiasm. “Look ye, wha the grocer gie us! It’s nae sae auld—yon weekie past, nae moor. Wi’ ye read ut, missie?”

“Immediately!” Tess laughed, as glad as Janey to have news of the outside world. “Let’s go down, so your parents can hear, too.”

Janey put a trusting hand in Tess’s and laid a cheek on her arm. “I love ye, missie.”

Tess squeezed the small hand. She was rapidly coming to love Janey, too. What a pleasure it would be to have her own little girl!

In the kitchen, the family gathered around Tess at the big table, Janey’s mother hastily finished putting away the goods from town, and then insisted that Tess must have a cup of tea with honey first. Tess accepted that, and spread the folded paper flat on the table.

She glanced down, ready to begin at the date, but her eye was drawn immediately to the bold black letters beneath. She choked on a swallow of tea.

“Good God,” she said, and set the cup down before her trembling fingers dropped it.

“Eliot Case Decided,” the headline proclaimed. “Mysterious Murderer Sentenced To Hang.” Tess caught up the paper and devoured the smaller print.

“The trial for murder at the Winchester Summer Assizes in the tragic case of Mr. Stephen Eliot of Ashland Court, Hamps., has come to a swift conclusion with a verdict of guilty against the accused,” the paper said. “Notwithstanding the refusal of the prisoner to cooperate with police, counsel, or bench, to the radical extent
of withholding even his name, on the basis of the evidence presented the jury decided that the accused had entered Mr. Eliot’s home, in the absence of most of the normal staff, and killed Mr. Eliot in an attempt at theft on the night of 25 June.”

She skipped downward. “…victim and incapacitated assailant were discovered in cellar…prisoner remained insensible for four days…given over to the care of…considerable experience in the Crimea enabled him successfully to treat the assailant’s bullet wounds despite serious loss of blood…upon partial recovery and trial, the assailant made no effort to defend his actions or identify himself, but stood silently in the dock throughout the proceedings…given the assumed name of John Doe…”

And then her widening eyes fastened on another paragraph. “The accused is a young man of good appearance; six feet two inches high; a nobly shaped head; bronze, sun-bleached hair curling at the temples; aquiline features, and a pair of fine gray eyes. His figure is that of an athlete, and his darkened complexion and callused hands have led police to infer an occupation of manual labor, although otherwise he gives much the appearance of a mannered gentleman. His gait and bearing showed him to be in lingering pain. He several times appeared to be faint in the dock, but never lost consciousness or asked to be seated.”

A whimper escaped her, a sound of dawning horror. She read every word of the remainder of the article with tremulous concentration. “The only sign of interest or awareness which the prisoner exhibited during the entire inquest and trial was to raise his head and stare most intently at the elderly Mr. Bridgewater when the butler was called as witness. This glowering perusal appeared considerably to disconcert the witness, who
mumbled his testimony and contradicted himself concerning the time of discovery of the crime, but since this testimony was not central to the case and Mr. Bridgewater, a man in his ninetieth year, was clearly distressed, he was not examined further.

“In a peculiar sidelight to this strange and unhappy case, Mr. Eliot’s wife still has not been located. Local sources indicated that Mrs. Eliot had been placed in an asylum for the insane in France, but her family denies any such placement, and so far police have been unable to determine the lady’s whereabouts.

“Still more mysteriously, the wounded man was reported to have spoken clearly of Mrs. Eliot during moments of delirium, using her Christian name, in addition to further ravings which the doctor understood to concern a ring, possibly an emerald of considerable personal or monetary value to the guilty man. There may be some readers who suspect from these circumstances that the motive for murder might have been other than theft, but the good name of the elusive Mrs. Eliot prevents this paper from speculating on such a point.”

And then, within a black-walled box at the bottom, the paper said:

“The condemned man will be executed at eight before noon Monday, 17 September, at Winchester Prison.”

Tess looked up at the crofter’s wife and cried, “What day is it?”

“’Tis mairkit day, miss,” the woman said, her face anxious.

“The date! What’s the day of the month?” Tess gave up on the crofter woman’s blank confusion, and looked down at the dateline of the paper. Market day—that would be Wednesday…if the paper was really only a week old. Or the nineteenth if it was older. Her mind strained to count the time she had been here. Could it
already be the nineteenth? It couldn’t, pray God it couldn’t.

She leaped to her feet, and only after the startled crofter had uprighted the chair she knocked over did she remember her keepers. Janey put out her hand. “Is’t sae mortal bad?” she asked apprehensively.

Tess wet her lips. “Mr. Eliot is dead.”

The crofter’s mouth dropped. “Master Eliot!”

“He was—” She stopped, aware that these people would have no sympathy for the murderer of their benefactor. “There was an accident. See, Janey, here is his name. E-L-I-O-T. Can you read it?”

Janey repeated the letters, and strung them together as Tess had taught her. “Aye, miss, it’s him.”

“It canna be,” her father said in a stunned voice. “It’s nae our mannie. It’s maun tae be some oother.”

Tess had to bite back a frustrated exclamation. To the crofter, news of Stephen’s death meant disaster for all newfound hopes. But the man had to be made to accept it, or Tess knew she would not get free until the money Stephen had left ran out. Panic rose in her breast. She pointed at the paper. “Janey, what is that date?”

“’Tis twenty and five. O’ June, missie,” Janey said promptly. She had learned all her months well.

“That’s the day he was killed. Three months ago.” Tess looked at the man. “Have you heard anything from him since?”

The crofter pulled the paper to him and pored helplessly over print that Tess knew was incomprehensible to him. He looked up, and Tess ached for the anxiety in his eyes. “I ken there’s been nae word since ye coome, miss. But we’ve still siller in plenty.”

“But you thought he would come back. Didn’t he say he would come back before now?”

The man lowered his eyes. “Aye. So he said.”

Janey’s mother said softly, “Yon laird’s been our savin’, miss. We waur sairly beset.”

Tess turned to the other woman. “I know. I know.” She clenched her hands. “And you’ve been kind to me. But you cannot hold me here longer. The police are looking for me. Please—take me into the town. I’ll see that you’re taken care of. I promise.”

“Dunna go from us, miss,” Janey begged.

“But I must,” Tess cried. “The silver will run out sometime, and then you’ll just need more. Mr. Eliot isn’t coming back. I can help you, if you’ll just take me.” She caught the hands of the crofter’s wife. “It’s wrong to hold me here against my will: You know it is.”

The woman looked down, and then up at her husband. There was shame in her eyes. “Duncan—”

“It isna wrong,” the man said stubbornly. “Nae more than we starve, lassie, and bleak winter comin’.”

But the crofter’s wife had taken Tess’s side. “Before the Lord God, Duncan? It dinna fash ye before Him? I ken it do, tho ne’r ye speak of’t.”

The crofter shuffled his big feet, and looked down at the paper again with a frown. He seemed to Tess like a child caught out at some grave mischief. In a low voice, he mumbled, “Where do we go, then?”

“Come with me!” Tess exclaimed. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. I’ll buy you your own farm, wherever you like. I can do that. I’m rich. I’m very rich.”

There was a long silence. They all looked at the crofter. The man stood up, his head bowed. “We wouldna take aught from ye, miss. We dinna deserve it. But I’ll carry ye to town.”

On a hard wooden pew in the gloomy chapel of Winchester Prison, Gryf sat staring at his clasped hands. The droning voice from the lectern rose and fell within
the cold stone walls. A pause came in the service, a shuffling of feet, and the warder behind Gryf gave him an ungentle shake on the shoulder.

He tightened his jaw against the stab of pain and slid awkwardly onto his knees, hampered by the shackles on his wrists and the soreness of his half-healed wounds. He bowed his head, not in prayer, but because it was expected, and he was indifferent to whatever they wanted him to do.

From behind barred railings, the other prisoners responded to the chaplain in a toneless murmur. When Gryf raised his head they were all looking at him, in his place of display below the lectern, and he simply looked back at them, emotionless, far past feeling or fear at the recital of his own burial service.

When the executioner came the next morning to take Gryf from his cell, there was a cluster of press reporters behind. They, too, all stared at him, as if they expected something. His eyes met the eager glance of one young scribbler. The contact held, and after a moment the boy’s cocky expression faltered. Blood rose in his face, and he looked down at his notebook. Another, in a low voice, asked, “Have you repented?” “Are you ready to meet your God?” “Will you not confess?”

Gryf ignored them all, and looked only at the young reporter, at the rosy cheeks of inexperience. The garble of unanswered questions gradually subsided, and suddenly one of the older men pushed the cub forward. “You’ve got his attention, lad. Ask him something.”

The boy was crimson. He stood before Gryf with his head bowed, as if it were he who had committed some atrocious crime. When he raised his face, it was chalk-white. In a failing voice, he asked, “Are you afraid, sir?”

Gryf thought of Tess. His family. Grady. Stephen.

He found a small, painful smile from some hidden place inside him. “No.”

The boy bit his lip. He looked as if he might be ill. Gryf felt something, for the first time in many days. A twinge of pity. A thin thread of regret for lost futures. He said softly, “You are.”

The boy ducked his head. “I’m sorry, sir.” As if he had somehow let Gryf down. He turned, and shoved his way out among the rest, and Gryf did not see him again.

The executioner took Gryf’s arm, and pinioned him with gentle efficiency. The reporters fell dutifully back. Gryf and the hangman went forward, out into the crisp daylight. There was a crowd there, huge and drab, and the rumble of conversation became a roar as Gryf appeared. He mounted the scaffold and came to stand in front of the waiting coffin, above the square outline of the trapdoor with the coarse rope dangling next to him.

He looked out over the cheering sea of faces. The morning was beautiful: the trees and the sky, the spire of the cathedral still partially hazed by white mist. A cool taste of autumn touched his cheek. He faced the crowd and blessed old Badger for keeping his secret at the inquest and trial; for sparing Gryf’s father’s and grandfather’s name from this. He had that much, at least. Nothing else.