The Dark Farewell (16 page)
Julian lay trembling and pale in the aftermath of his convulsion. His dazed eyes moved unseeing from Flynn’s face to the ceiling to the table.
Mrs. Packard and Amy attempted to soothe Joan, who continued to weep on Casey’s shoulder. He
swept her up in his arms and bore her from the room, the worried women on his heels.
“Well, well. What have we here?” Dr. Pearson lowered himself painfully on one knee and examined
Julian curiously but not unkindly. He took his pulse, checked his pupils. “You’re all right now, aren’t you?”
Julian didn’t answer. Did not seem aware of his surroundings yet. He kept licking his lips and
blinking.
“Let’s get him to bed. The worst of the attack is over. He’ll sleep now.”
“He should have been dosed properly. You shouldn’t have discouraged me,” Devereux said to the
doctor. He stroked his grandson’s damp hair with a shaking hand and whispered in French.
“If he’s having these fits more frequently, then yes, we’ll have to dose him with the bromides. You
said the fits were rare.”
“This is your fault!” Mr. Devereux charged, and Flynn gazed up at him stupidly.
“How is it my fault?”
“You know what you’ve done. Overexciting him, overtaxing his strength, encouraging him to-to
unspeakable—”
Flynn waited in horror for the old man to say it. Rescue came from an unexpected source.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Dr. Pearson broke in impatiently. “This isn’t doing the young man any
good. What he needs now is absolute rest and quiet. Save your dispute for later and help me. Between the three of us we should be able to get him upstairs to his room.”
“I’ll take him,” Flynn said roughly. He bent, gathering Julian carefully in his arms. In fact, Julian, for all his willowy height, was no featherweight, and Flynn did require the assistance of the older men to gain his feet.
He needed their help up the staircase as well, but at last they got the sufferer to his own room,
undressed and tucked comfortably inside his bed. By then Julian seemed to be coming back to himself. He clutched Flynn’s hand.
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“David…”
“Shhh.”
Devereux senior moved between them, breaking Julian’s hold, and there was nothing Flynn could do
or say to stop it. He had no rights here despite the way Julian’s tired, dazed eyes sought him out.
He turned around as Amy appeared at the bedroom door. “Dr. Pearson, you’ve got another patient
downstairs. Joan took a fit right after the séance.”
Dr. Pearson, taking Julian’s pulse once more, looked confounded. “Very well.” To Flynn he said,
“He’s all right now. I expect he’ll sleep all night and most of tomorrow. Someone should sit with him, though.”
“I’ll sit with him,” Mr. Devereux said with a fierce look at Flynn.
“David,” Julian murmured.
“What are you thinking? Mr. Flynn can’t stay,” Devereux said sternly. The ready tears of the invalid filled Julian’s eyes.
Flynn opened his mouth in protest, but what could he say?
He threw one final look at Julian who was wiping shakily at his tears.
Dr. Pearson had already followed Amy out of the room and down the hallway. Their footsteps rapidly
disappeared as the elder Devereux said grimly, “A word, Mr. Flynn.”
Flynn nodded reluctantly and Devereux followed him over to his own room.
“If you come near my grandson again, I’ll go to the sheriff. Julian is not responsible for the things he does. He’s ill. You see that. And you know only a man as ill as Julian would let you do those foul, perverse things to him.”
“Julian might be epileptic, but he’s not a child and he’s not insane.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Devereux said with bitter triumph. “This filthy disease has eaten away
his mind and his will. He’s like a child, and for your information, the law recognizes that fact and has placed him in my guardianship.”
“He’s twenty-six years old.”
“He is epileptic. Already he shows the signs of moral insanity.” He glared at Flynn. “I’ve told him and now I’ll tell you, if he doesn’t obey me in every respect, I’ll have him committed for his own damned good.”
“You won’t have him committed,” Flynn said quietly. “That would be the end of the golden goose.”
Devereux said equally low voiced, “But if the golden goose is going to run away with you, Mr. Flynn, then I will have no choice but to have him committed in the hopes the doctors can help him. Or at least keep him from harming himself.”
“
Run away with me?
” Flynn repeated, stunned.
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The old man stared at him suspiciously, then said slowly, “You don’t know? You didn’t offer to take
him away…?” He laughed an acrid laugh. “There. You see now? You see what that poor, sick, young
madman made of your using him? You should be ashamed, sir. And if you approach my grandson again,
I’ll see that you’re shamed before all the decent world.”
He left Flynn’s room, closing the door silently behind him.
For a long time Flynn stood motionless, unable to think past Devereux’s words. Distantly he could
hear the house still in commotion. He thought that across the hall Julian was crying. His heart squeezed, but he continued to think hard.
There was no way around it, was there?
He couldn’t risk exposure. New York might be more sophisticated in its tastes than Herrin, but it
wasn’t
that
sophisticated. Nowhere on the planet was
that
sophisticated. Oh, they could easily manage it if
Grand-père
wasn’t bound and determined to keep his meal ticket. Julian would be safe enough in Greenwich. Flynn could say that he was his distant cousin or some such thing. He would be safe and he would thrive there, and Flynn could make sure he got the care and attention Dr. Pearson had spoken of, particularly the affection and love.
But not if M. Devereux was going to come after them.
He needed to put the thought out of his mind and go to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come—even after
the house settled into a heavy, portentous silence. Flynn lay fully dressed, hands behind his head on his bed, staring out the window at the old, tarnished moon.
It wasn’t possible, was it?
The old man had already had Julian placed in his wardship. He was two steps ahead of them all the
way. They couldn’t run away like children or hobos. Start a new life without money or friends?
Perhaps he was the insane one to lie here contemplating such a thing.
And yet…and yet Julian had told the old man they were going away together. Julian
wanted
to go with him.
Sleep was impossible. He felt uneasy, restless. He needed to speak to Julian.
After a time he rose and went down the hall to Julian’s room. He eased open the door. The lamp on
the dresser was down low. An ominous-looking bottle and a glass with a spoon in it stood next to the bed.
Mr. Devereux sat in a chair near the window, dozing. Julian was lying in bed gazing up at the ceiling.
As the door swung open, he stared at it, stared at Flynn without expression. Flynn came to stand at the end of the bed. “Hello.”
Julian nodded politely.
“How do you feel?”
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He curled his lip contemptuously, but said nothing. Flynn shot a quick glance at the old man, gently snoring, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. He took Julian’s hand. Julian did not resist, but he didn’t respond either. Not even when Flynn leaned forward and kissed him.
His lips were feverish and dry and there was the taste of bitter—medicine or bromide, no doubt—on
them.
When Flynn withdrew, Julian gave a long, weary sigh. “Now you know.”
“I already knew. I knew the day before yesterday.”
Julian’s brows drew together. “You did? How?”
“It doesn’t matter how.” Flynn said, “You could have told me. It doesn’t make a difference.” And he
realized as he said it that it didn’t. As frightening as the convulsions were, the fear that the disease might—
probably would—grow worse, something about Julian made him feel alive and happy in a way he hadn’t in too many years. And if the war had taught him one thing it was that happiness was fleeting and fragile. You had to grab on to it and hold tight for as long as it lasted.
“Oh, it matters,” Julian said bitterly. He glanced at the old man in the chair. “You asked about why I can’t take the money I earn and go do as I like? Because he’s my legal guardian. And if I don’t do exactly as he likes, he can have me shut up in an insane asylum or an epileptic colony like the one in New York.”
“He can’t do it simply on his say so.”
“Oh, David.” Julian sounded both miserable and impatient. “You still don’t understand. This affliction is…it’s a curse. And people blame you as though you had control of it. There are plenty of folks who think I’m crazy for seeing spirits. Let alone if they saw me having fits. Any doctor would have me committed if he told them even half of it and let them examine me. Let alone if they knew…” He gave Flynn a
despairing look.
“There’s a way around it.”
Julian’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”
Flynn threw a quick look at the sleeping man. “Did you tell him you would go away with me if I
asked you?”
Julian’s mouth trembled. “I shouldn’t have, I know it. I know you didn’t ask, didn’t plan on asking.
But I-I wanted it to be true.”
“And if it was true?”
Julian swallowed hard. “You know the answer. You know how I felt from the first minute I saw you.
But it’s no use.”
“How brave are you?”
“I don’t know.” Julian’s eyes were puzzled.
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“I’ve got friends and I’ve got family and they’re a hell of a lot more powerful than anybody on the
side of your loony
grand-père
. But it would be a fight and it wouldn’t be a pretty one. Do you have the nerve for it?”
Julian’s riveted gaze held his, so Flynn saw each emotion flash past: joy, doubt, fear, stubbornness, despair. “For myself, yes,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t do that to you. You’d be ruined. You don’t know what it would be like.”
“Neither do you.”
“It would be bad.”
“Yes. Probably. He’s a stubborn old coot. But then it would be good. That’s what I believe.”
“I…wish I could believe too…” Julian closed his eyes. Wet glittered beneath his lashes. “Sorry,
David. I…can’t talk anymore. I want to sleep now.”
“All right.” David squeezed his hand and rose. “I’ll come and see you in the morning.”
Tears trickled down Julian’s cheeks. He ignored them stoically and said, his voice nearly steady,
“We’re leaving on the morning train.”
“Not now, surely? Not while you’re ill?”
“Oh yes. I’ll be well enough tomorrow. He’ll want me away from here—and you—as soon as
possible.”
Flynn stared down at his lover—yes, he acknowledged, his lover—and squatted down beside the bed
so that his face was level with Julian’s.
“Julian?”
Julian’s eyes opened, red-rimmed and over-bright.
“We’ll see it through together, I promise you. I won’t abandon you. I have resources and contacts
your grandfather doesn’t. Maybe he can paint you—and me—in an unflattering light, but when I’m done
I’ll have him tarred and feathered and run out of town.”
“Don’t, David.” Julian reached out a quick hand. “He’s not evil. He thinks he’s protecting me.”
“Maybe. But he’s using you too.” Flynn covered his hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it. “Rest.
I promise it’ll be okay.”
Julian’s eyelids were already fluttering shut.
Flynn watched him and in a few seconds he could see that Julian was sleeping again. He looked with
far less affection at the old man, starting to snort as he woke himself with his snoring.
Flynn hesitated. He was ready to do battle now, but clearly Julian was not. It would have to wait, but in one thing he was determined. Julian was not going to be dragged off to another performance in
Murphysboro tomorrow morning.
He left the sickroom and stood undecided in the hall.
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If he was going to do battle, it would be wise to be as well-prepared as possible. He thought of the medical book that Dr. Pearson had started to hand him and then thought better of. He might as well know now what he was committing to, but either way he was committed. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, that would be his motto from now on.
Flynn went downstairs. The house was in darkness. The silence seemed complete and absolute. There
was a single band of light down the hallway beneath a door. Joan’s room he guessed. The other sickroom.
He went into the study and turned on the light. Going to the tall bookshelf, he scanned the green, red, blue bindings for the medical book Dr. Pearson had pulled from the shelf. A gold embossed title caught his eye.
The Burial Customs of Ancient Egypt as Illustrated by the Tombs of the Middle Kingdom
.
For an instant Flynn could not seem to process the information. He recalled his conversation with
Julian about the Little Egypt Slayer. That the slayer would be someone his victims knew and trusted, someone with medical knowledge and tools, someone who frequently traveled the countryside, someone so well-known and liked that his eccentricities might be taken for granted.
He took the book down from the shelf and it fell open with the loose-leafed familiarity of an oft-read section.
A priest then cut an opening in the abdominal cavity. The internal organs were removed in ritual
fashion leaving only the heart. The ancient sons of the Nile believed that the heart contained the
individual’s essence and was the centre of intelligence…
