Otherwise Engaged (22 page)

Charlotte turned her gaze to the view of the garden, but Amity was quite certain she was looking into the past.

“The witch claimed that she had noticed evidence of mental instability in my husband’s daughter. She suggested that perhaps my son was also unhinged.”

“I see,” Amity said. “She threatened to take her theories about Virgil’s mental health to the press.”

“I may be deranged as well,” Charlotte said quietly. “Because I have spent a great deal of time imagining ways of murdering Mrs. Dunning.”

“I assume that she is the former director of the orphanage,” Amity said.

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “She is the one who is blackmailing me.”

“What stopped you?” Benedict asked.

Charlotte turned back to him. “At the start Dunning made it clear that if anything happened to her, she had made arrangements for letters suggesting insanity in the Warwick bloodline to be sent to the
press. But a year ago it got worse. She let me know that those letters would contain evidence that my son had murdered his wife and a young lady, as well. She intended to announce to the world that Virgil was the Bridegroom.”

Benedict looked thoughtful. “Is your son aware that Dunning has been blackmailing you?”

“No, of course not,” Charlotte said. “I never wanted him to know that he has a half sister, you see.”

A stark silence gripped the room. Amity looked at Benedict.

“We must go to Hawthorne Hall,” she said.

“Yes.”

Charlotte stared at them. “My son—”

“If you have any notion of where he may be hiding, you must tell us,” Benedict said.

“I swear to you, I don’t know. I believed him to be at Cresswell Manor.” Charlotte looked genuinely bewildered. “Mrs. Dunning claims to be well aware of my son’s nervous affliction. I was paying the blackmail. Why would she set him free?”

M
rs. Warwick asked an excellent question,” Benedict said. He surveyed the high wrought-iron gates of Hawthorne Hall with a sense of grim certainty. There were answers to be found here, he thought. “Why would the director of the orphanage take Warwick out of Cresswell Manor?”

He and Amity had set out for the Hall soon after ending the interview with Charlotte Warwick. He had allowed only a brief stop at Exton Street so that Amity could collect her cloak and a few necessities for the train trip. There had been no time for a visit to Logan. Penny had promised to convey the information they had gained to the inspector as soon as possible.

The village where the Hall was located was, indeed, an hour from London by train, just as Charlotte Warwick had said. The cab trip from the station to the old orphanage, however, took another forty minutes over bad roads.

Hawthorne Hall proved to be an aged mansion that was slowly crumbling into the ground. It loomed, dark and isolated, at the end of a long lane.

Benedict glanced back over his shoulder. He had paid the cab to wait. The horse and driver were only a short distance away, but they were slowly being swallowed up by the fog that had set in with oncoming night.

“We won’t know why Dunning removed Warwick from Cresswell Manor until we ask her,” Amity said.

He contemplated the gates. “You make a very logical point.”

The gates were unlocked—probably because there was little to protect, Benedict concluded. In a few spots the grounds were overgrown with weeds, but for the most part there was nothing left of the gardens except bare earth.

The last of the orphans had been removed years ago, according to the cab driver. He had explained that Mrs. Dunning was the only current occupant of the house. There was no permanent staff. A woman from the village went in twice a week to clean. She had told everyone that Mrs. Dunning lived on the ground floor. The upper floors had all been closed, the furniture draped in dust cloths. Mrs. Dunning went into the village to shop occasionally and sometimes took the train to London, where she stayed for a week at a time. But aside from those meager facts, she was a mystery to the locals.

Benedict pushed open one wing of the iron gates. It moved ponderously and with a great deal of groaning.

He took Amity’s arm. Together they walked toward the front steps of the old hall. The paving stones were cracked and chipped. The windows of the upper floors were dark, but weak lamplight leaked out from around the edges of the curtains on the ground floor.

At the top of the steps Benedict clanged the knocker. The sound echoed inside the house, but there was no immediate response.

“Someone is home,” Amity observed. “The lamps have been turned up.”

Benedict banged the knocker louder than before, but again no one came to the door.

“She is in there and we are not leaving until we have spoken with her,” he said. “Perhaps she cannot hear our knock. Let’s try the back door.”

“What good will that do?” Amity asked. “If she doesn’t want to see us, she won’t answer it, either.”

“You never know,” Benedict said.

He kept his tone deliberately casual but he saw understanding in her eyes. She knew exactly what he intended to do.

“Oh,” she said. She lowered her voice still further. “I see. You do realize that entering a house without permission is quite illegal.”

“That is why we are going around to the rear of the house where the driver of the cab cannot see us.”

Amity smiled. “You always have a plan, don’t you?”

“I try to formulate one whenever I can.”

“I expect it’s the engineer in you.”

She did not sound put off by that fact, he concluded. She merely accepted it as a part of who he was.

She followed him down the steps and around the side of the big house. A high wall enclosed the gardens at the rear, but the gate was unlocked. Inside the walls they found another mostly barren stretch of ground.

Benedict rapped sharply on the kitchen door. This time when he got no response he tried the knob. It was unlocked. A chill of knowing went through him.

“Just like this morning,” he said, more to himself than to Amity.

She gave him a quick, searching glance. “You mean when you found Dr. Norcott’s body?”

“Yes.” Benedict took the pistol out of his pocket.

Amity breathed out slowly, as if fortifying herself. Then she reached beneath her cloak and unhooked the tessen from the chatelaine. She held the fan-shaped blade in the closed position in her gloved hand.

Benedict considered ordering her to remain outside, but then concluded that she was no safer there than she was with him. Together they could protect each other if it transpired that Warwick was waiting for them inside the house.

He used the toe of his boot to prod the door open. A dimly lit hallway loomed in front of them. When no madman with a scalpel leaped out of the shadows, he moved into the gloom. Amity followed.

The house reverberated with emptiness. A single ray of lamplight slanted out of a room halfway along the hall.

“Watch the rooms on the left side of the hall,” he said. “I will keep an eye on the right.”

“Yes,” she said.

They made their way toward the wedge of light, passing the kitchen, a morning room, a pantry and a closet. All the doors were open except the one on the closet. Benedict tried the knob. It turned easily enough. The shelves inside were stacked with linens and cleaning supplies.

They continued down the long hall. The unmistakable smell of death drifted out of the lamp-lit room.

“Dear heaven,” Amity whispered.

Benedict stopped in the doorway and swept the space with a single
glance. The body of a middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gown lay on the floor near a desk. As was the case with Warwick, there was a great deal of blood. Most of it had soaked into the carpet and appeared to be dry.

“So much for Charlotte Warwick’s assumption that her son did not know about Mrs. Dunning,” Benedict said. “The bastard does like the scalpel. He cut her throat.”

“He killed her the same way he murdered his other victims.”

“Stay here. I want to make sure there are no surprises in the front hall.”

He checked the last room on the floor, a sparsely furnished library. The few leather-bound volumes on the shelves were covered in dust. He went quickly back to where Amity waited, her fan at the ready.

“What is going on?” she asked. “Why is Warwick murdering these people?”

“It’s probably unwise to speculate on the motives of a madman, but I have a feeling that he is killing those who know his secret.”

“But why now? And why these two? Dr. Norcott very likely saved Warwick’s life the day that I cut him with the tessen. And evidently Mrs. Dunning was the one who got him out of Cresswell Manor.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t think he needs them anymore,” Benedict said. “He believes they had become liabilities because they knew the truth about him.”

Comprehension widened Amity’s eyes. “And because he knows we are hunting him. He realized that sooner or later we would likely track down both Norcott and Dunning.”

“We must return to London immediately and inform Inspector Logan of what we discovered.”

“What about the body? We cannot simply leave it here.”

“Yes,” Benedict said. “We can and we will.”

Amity reattached her tessen to the chain at her waist and studied the desk with a speculative expression.

“Mrs. Dunning is a rather interesting piece of this puzzle,” she said. “It might be useful to take a quick look through the drawers of her desk.”

“Odd you should mention that,” Benedict said. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He took two steps before he felt the slightly raised object under the carpet. At the same time he heard a faint, muffled click. A small spark flashed underneath the desk.

“Run,” he snapped. “Back door. It’s the closest. Move, woman.”

Amity whirled, grasped handfuls of her skirts and cloak and fled down the hall. He followed.

Amity stumbled, swore, regained her balance and kept going. But she was not moving fast enough. He realized it was the weight of her gown and the cloak that was slowing her down. The heavy folds threatened to trip her. He seized her arm and half dragged, half carried her down the hall and out through the back door.

They burst outside into the dead gardens seconds before the explosion erupted in Dunning’s study.

Within moments the house was consumed in flames. Dark smoke billowed into the air.

Benedict took Amity’s arm and steered her back through the iron gates. Once they were safely outside the grounds he drew Amity to a stop. They both turned to watch the house burn.

“He set a trap,” Benedict said. “Well, now, isn’t that interesting?”

A
mity listened to the frantically galloping hooves of a terrified horse bolting down the long lane.

“So much for our cab,” she said.

She could not take her eyes off the burning mansion. Her pulse was pounding harder than it had the day she and her guide had rounded a corner on a Colorado mountain trail and found themselves confronting a bear. The extraordinary spectacle of the blazing ruins and the knowledge that she and Benedict had very nearly died in the explosion riveted her senses.

“He intended us to die in that house,” Benedict said.

“The driver will no doubt assume that we were killed in the explosion,” she said.

“Yes,” Benedict said. “I believe he will.”

She got the impression that he was doing some intricate calculations in his head. She took her attention off the inferno long enough to glance at him.

“You have another plan in mind, don’t you?” she said.

“Perhaps.”

She turned back to the view of the fire. The flames roared, consuming the interior of the mansion. Even though she and Benedict were some distance away she could feel the waves of heat. The stone walls would stand, she thought. But by morning Hawthorne Hall would be a burned-out hulk.

“Do you think this fire will ignite the woods?” she asked.

“Doubtful,” Benedict said. “There is little to burn in the immediate vicinity of the house and it has been a damp summer. In any event, there is another storm coming. The rain will suppress the blaze.” He studied the dark clouds. “We need to find shelter soon.”

“Surely the driver will summon help.”

“He will no doubt carry the tale back to the village, but there is no way the local fire brigade can defeat a house fire of this size. A few curiosity seekers may show up this evening, but even that is unlikely.”

“Like the driver, everyone in the village will assume that we are dead.”

“Yes,” Benedict said. “And that may prove quite useful.”

“I detect the engineer at work again.”

“We may have something of a grace period tonight, a time to think about what we have learned. I have been overlooking an important piece of the puzzle, Amity. I can feel it.”

“Isn’t it possible that the killer was watching the house and saw us flee into the woods?”

“Certainly, but I’m inclined to doubt that he is anywhere nearby. The village is small. This isn’t London. Around here everyone would remember a stranger who arrived at the railway station, inquired about directions to Hawthorne Hall and then failed to take the train back to London until after the explosion.”

“I see what you mean,” she said. “In order to remain as anonymous as possible, he would have wanted to be seen leaving the village long before the explosion occurred. But you are assuming he came and went by train. What if he hired a carriage?”

“Again, that is a possibility,” Benedict conceded. “But it is a very long trip from London by carriage. No, I suspect that he took the train, just as we did, and that he returned to the city hours ago. At the moment he is no doubt anticipating news of the explosion at Hawthorne Hall and the deaths of three people in tomorrow’s papers.”

A chill swept through Amity. “Dear heaven, the press reports. Yes, of course. My sister will surely see the accounts and believe that we are dead. We must get word to her.”

“We will do so first thing in the morning,” Benedict promised. “There is no hiking back to the village tonight, not with that storm about to break over our heads.”

“But Penny will be worried when we do not return on the midnight train.”

“There is no help for it, Amity,” Benedict said gently. “She is accustomed to losing track of you from time to time due to the vagaries of your travels. She will not panic.”

“I hope not.” Amity paused. “She is aware that I am with you. That will no doubt reassure her.”

“Come, we must find some shelter.”

He started around the side of the burning house. Amity collected the folds of her cloak and fell into step beside him.

“As you pointed out, the nearest farm is some distance from here,” she said.

“We won’t be able to get that far before the rain comes. We will have to content ourselves with that cottage we saw at the far end of the lane.”

“That should do nicely,” Amity said. “I’ve certainly stayed in far more uncomfortable accommodations.”

She tried not to think about the obvious but it was impossible to ignore. She would be spending the night alone with Benedict.

“It won’t be the first time,” Benedict said. “You spent three nights on the
Northern Star
in the same cabin with me if you will recall.”

She smiled. “There are occasions, Mr. Stanbridge, when I wonder if you can actually read my mind.”

“From time to time I have wondered if you can read mine. But as neither of us claims to be psychic, I think we must look to another explanation for these occasional flashes of mutual intuition.”

“And what would that explanation be, sir?”

To her surprise, he hesitated, as if searching for the right words.

“I think that we know each other perhaps better than we realize,” he said finally. “I expect that lurching from crisis to crisis together as we have been obliged to do lately has that effect on two people. We know what to expect from each other in a pinch.”

“That is very insightful of you,” Amity said.

“You are surprised?” He smiled faintly. “I may not possess Declan Garraway’s knowledge of psychology, and as I have noted, I’m not a fan of poetry, but I can usually add two plus two and arrive at four.”

“Something to be said for a sound foundation in mathematics.”

“I like to think so.”

“What made you realize that Hawthorne Hall was about to go up in flames?” Amity asked.

“I knew there was a problem as soon as I stepped on the trigger mechanism hidden under the carpet and saw the spark. I admit that I leaped to the conclusion that the spark might ignite a fuse, but it seemed prudent to act on the assumption.”

“In hindsight, it was a positively brilliant assumption, Mr. Stanbridge.”

The cottage at the end of the lane was empty, but it was in better shape than Amity had expected. There were no signs that rodents or other forms of wildlife had taken up residence on the premises. The well pump functioned and there was a shed that contained a supply of firewood.

The storm arrived with a crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder just as Benedict came through the door with the last of several logs. Amity closed the door behind him, shutting out the blast of rain.

“I think that the owner of this place probably rents it out at least occasionally,” she observed. “Everything is in reasonably good condition, including the bed.”

She winced as soon as the word
bed
left her lips. That particular item of furniture stood in the corner, but it seemed to dominate the small space.

Mercifully, Benedict politely chose to ignore both the comment and the bed.

“We will go hungry tonight,” he said. “But at least we will have water to drink and we’ll be warm. I’ll get a fire started.”

Amity smiled, feeling decidedly smug. “We won’t go hungry.”

He was on one knee in front of the fireplace, preparing to strike a light to ignite the kindling that he had brought in from the shed. He paused, looking at her with great interest.

“You found something to eat?” he asked.

“I brought something to eat.” She went to where her cloak hung on a peg near the door and opened the folds to display the many pockets sewn inside. With a flourish, she took out two small waterproof pouches. “I long ago learned that one should never set out on a journey without at least some biscuits and tea. One never knows what awaits at the other end.”

Benedict’s eyes gleamed appreciatively when she opened one of the pouches and removed a small packet wrapped in paper.

“I do admire a lady who is always prepared,” he said.

She found a kettle and used it to boil water from the well. When she opened a cupboard, she discovered a pot, some mugs and a few chipped plates. She smiled.

“It is as if we were expected,” she said.

Benedict watched her with a bemused expression.

“I am acquainted with a number of people—male as well as female—who would long since have begun complaining about the poor quality of the accommodations,” he said.

“When one travels as much as I have, one learns that the definition of poor-quality accommodations is subject to considerable flexibility depending on the circumstances,” Amity said.

Benedict glanced at the cloak. “Between the items you carry on your chatelaine and the number of pockets in your cloak it is no surprise that you occasionally clank when you walk.”

She cleared her throat. “You think that I clank?”

He nodded appreciatively. “I think that you are the kind of woman who is able to cope with unforeseen circumstances.”

She smiled and reminded herself that he did not read poetry.

When she had the small repast ready, they sat down at the table in front of the fire to dine on biscuits and tea.

They ate in a companionable silence and contemplated the
cheerful blaze on the hearth. Outside, the bluster of the storm turned to a gentle, steady rain.

When they finished, Benedict helped rinse the mugs and plates.

And then they were left with the issue of the single bed in the corner of the room. Amity determined to take a brisk, no-nonsense lead. She was, after all, the kind of woman who could cope with unforeseen circumstances.

“It will be just like camping out in the West,” she said. “Except that we will not have to sleep on cold, hard ground and there will be no need to fret about wolves and bears.”

“Just a human predator who kills with a scalpel,” Benedict said.

Amity looked at him. In the firelight his face was hard and grim.

“Have you changed your theory about the present whereabouts of the killer?” she asked. “Do you think he is out there somewhere in the storm, watching us?”

Benedict looked into the fire for a moment and then shook his head. “No. I think he is being careful now. He got rid of the two people who knew his secret and who might conceivably go to the police. He will have returned to his lair for the time being. In any event this cottage is reasonably secure. The windows are too small for a man to crawl through and he cannot break down the door without an axe. That is not his style.”

“He might use an explosive device such as the one he left behind at Hawthorne Hall.”

“No.” Benedict sounded more certain now. “That sort of trap requires time, planning, access and—above all—the right materials. It is highly unlikely he traveled all this way prepared to set two explosive devices. In any event, he could not possibly know that we would escape the first explosion and seek shelter here.”

She watched Benedict for a moment.

“What is it that worries you so much tonight?” she asked. “Beyond the obvious fact that we are hunting a killer, of course.”

He took his attention off the fire and met her eyes. “Damned if I know. But there is something about this affair that I am not seeing.”

“It will come to you in time,” she assured him.

“I fear that time is the one thing that we do not have in great measure.”

“We have tonight,” she said.

Benedict smiled. It was a wry smile but a real one.

“Yes,” he said. “We have tonight.”

He gazed at her as if he was in some sort of trance. She understood that he was waiting for a response from her, but she was not sure what to say. When she just looked at him, mute, he stirred and pulled himself out of the stillness.

“I got the bed the last time we spent a night together,” he said.

“The bunk in your stateroom, do you mean?”

“Yes. It is only fair that you get the bed tonight. I’ll sleep in front of the fire.”

A sinking feeling came over her.

Well, it had been a rather long and difficult day, she reminded herself. What else could one expect except a sinking feeling?