The Dress Shop of Dreams (28 page)

“Oh, God,” he whispers. “Oh, God. Oh, God …”

Cora stares at him, wide-eyed. She steps back, away from Dr. Baxter, toward Henry. “You did? You … you killed my parents?”

Dr. Baxter starts to shiver, as if he’s suddenly freezing cold. He drops down into the chair behind his desk and begins to sob. “I didn’t mean to … that is, I did, at first, but as soon as the fire started I tried to stop it, I …”

“I don’t, I can’t believe,” Cora stumbles. “But, how, why—
I’ve been working for you for four years and you’ve … you’ve always been so, so—I don’t understand. I just don’t …”

“It was an evil thing I set out to do.” Dr. Baxter speaks so softly he’s almost inaudible. “I knew your parents had made a great breakthrough. I overheard them in the lab one night. And I’d done nothing, nothing to help anyone, and I wanted it, I wanted to be a part of that.”

“A ‘part’ of it?” Cora snaps. “You wanted to take it all, you took it all from them. Everything.”

Colin Baxter nods. “But as soon as I’d done it, I knew, I did everything I could to stop it, to put out the fire and, when I couldn’t, I ran upstairs to wake them. That’s when you started to scream.”

“What?”

Dr. Baxter walks around the desk until he’s standing close to Cora.

“I’ve never forgiven myself,” he says softly, “and I’ve tried to give you the life I knew they would have wanted for you. The postdoc position, to enable you to continue their work—I know that’s nothing. I know I took your life from you and there is nothing I can begin to … But I’ve punished myself for it, every single day, you need to know that.”

Slowly, Dr. Baxter rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Every inch of his skin is scarred, the flesh burned away. “Every night,” he says, “I pick a new piece of my body and I burn their memory into myself. This is my penance. And I know it’s not enough, but it was the best I could do.”

Cora glowers at him with absolute hatred but, quite in spite of herself, she feels the swell of her emotions start to soften. She may not have Henry’s ability to detect liars but she can see
the sincere regret and sorrow on Colin Baxter’s face. Still, she won’t forgive him. Not now, not ever.

In the silence Henry steps forward. There is something he needs to settle for himself. “Did you bribe Nick Fielding to corrupt those blood samples?”

Dr. Baxter nods. “I almost confessed that night, when they interviewed me. But then, I realized—if I went to jail it’d all be in vain, I couldn’t do any good from there. My soul would burn and I could never … but if I carried on in this world, I could take their discovery and use it to help, to do so much good … I could make amends, I could try … to save as many lives as I could, to make up for the two lives I took.”

Cora wants to say something but all she can think of is her parents, burning to death while the man she’d admired fled from the house, leaving with their lives and their legacy. She’s so lost in these thoughts that it takes her a moment to realize that Dr. Baxter is speaking again.

“You screamed and screamed, so loud,” he says, “I found you first and I took you and ran outside … But I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t get back inside the house. I tried, I tried, but I couldn’t get down the corridor …”

“No, you didn’t,” Cora snaps. “You didn’t save me.”

“Then how did you escape,” Dr. Baxter asks softly, “when they died?”

“I, I, they saved me, somehow they saved me.” Cora grasps for answers, for memories, she doesn’t have. “I don’t know how, but they did.”

Colin Baxter shakes his head. “It was me,” he says softly, “I saved you.”

In the corner of the room Henry gives a little cough. “He’s telling the truth.”

Cora glances over at him. Then she turns back to her former employer and shrugs. “It doesn’t mean anything. You killed them. Nothing matters after that.”

Dr. Baxter nods. “I’ve tried to turn myself in, a million times, and then I’d think that it would be better to live my sentence out here, instead of in jail, where I could do nothing—”

“You don’t have that choice anymore,” Cora says. “Now you’re going to jail for the rest of your life.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, not for that, but for what I did. To them, and to you. Every day of my life. I truly, truly am.”

Cora glances at Henry, who nods.

“Well, I suppose I’m glad for that,” she says. “But it doesn’t change what you did. And I’m going to make sure you’re punished for it.”

Henry glances at the office walls, at the pictures of Colin Baxter in Africa surrounded by children, at the framed certificates and newspaper clippings. He coughs so Cora looks at him again.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“That you want a man, albeit one who has done something so dreadful, to be imprisoned when he could be out there, saving people’s lives?”

Cora is silent for a moment. “He shouldn’t be out there. He killed my parents. I don’t care if he didn’t mean to. It was his fault. And now he’s saving people with stolen ideas and—”

“That doesn’t alter the fact,” Henry interrupts gently, “that he’s doing it. Despicable as his actions were, it seems also that he’s someone who does a lot of good.”

“I don’t care,” Cora snaps. “It doesn’t matter. He’s going to pay for what he did. That’s all I care about.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” Cora spits the word at Henry’s feet.

“No, it’s not,” Henry whispers, “you’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Cora protests, her words drenched in sorrow. Tears fill her eyes and fall down her cheeks. “I’m not.”

“Sorry,” Dr. Baxter says, stepping toward her. “I’m so, so …”

Cora glowers at him. Then she raises her right hand and slaps him hard. Then again. Henry winces. Colin doesn’t make a move to his red cheek but closes his eyes in surrender.

“Fuck you,” Cora says. “Fuck you.”

Colin Baxter just nods.

“You deserve to die for what you did,” she says, and he nods again. “And, personally, I wish you would. But I won’t be the one to take you away from what you’re doing. If I did then I suppose I’d be doing something … Whatever, I won’t, but I’ll be watching you and you’d better save a bloody lot of people or …”

“I will, I, thank—”

“Don’t thank me,” Cora snaps. “You’re the last person I’m doing this for. And you’ll never make up for what you did, not if you save the whole world. But that’s what my parents always wanted to do and, since you stole their work, now you’ll keep doing it in their memory, every day for the rest of your life. And you’d better set the record straight—publically—you’d better give them the credit they deserve. You owe them that much, at the very least.”

Dr. Colin Baxter says nothing, but nods.

Their office was downstairs, which was a stroke of luck. Although it shouldn’t really be called luck, given what he was about to do. He didn’t deserve a lucky break; that much was certain. Dr. Baxter fumbled with his torch, stumbling along the
dark corridor. Warm, wet blood dripped slowly down the fingers of his right hand. Tiny shards of glass still pricked his skin from where he’d fumbled breaking the windowpane in the back door.

He found the safe almost immediately. Of course he couldn’t crack it, he wasn’t a thief, after all. But he kept looking, hoping they’d made copies, or left scribblings of calculations he could decipher. And then, less than half an hour later, he got lucky again. He found more than simply a copy. It was a folder—upon which were inscribed the words F
INAL
D
RAFT FOR
S
CIENCE
M
AGAZINE
—containing ten pages of type, pages covered with formulas and equations so close to the ones he’d been working on himself for the past decade, only—he could see straightaway—these worked. It was a major breakthrough in sustainable farming, a huge step toward a solution to world hunger that he’d been striving for every hour of every day of his twenty-year career. Now he held it, he had it, it belonged to him. When Dr. Baxter pulled the half bottle of sambuca out of his bag, he hesitated. Was he really about to do this? Was it possible?

He mustn’t think about it, that was the answer. If he thought about it now, he certainly wouldn’t do it. He’d turn around and run. Indeed, he was only here in the first place because the contents of the other half of the sambuca bottle were currently sloshing in his stomach and firing adrenaline through his blood. Dr. Baxter dropped the bottle to the floor. Clear liquid splashed the bookshelves and the hem of his trousers. He flinched, stepping back. It felt as if an hour passed until he flicked the lighter on, but it might have been less than a minute, even a few seconds.

The flare of the fire was so sharp and fast that he cried out. The heat was instant, flames lapping at the floor, engulfing papers and debris, swallowing the empty bottle. It was no longer
an idea, it was happening. It was happening and he had done it. What had he done?
What the hell had he done?
Dr. Baxter looked wildly around the room, looking for something, anything that could be used to put out the fire. But everything was flammable, everything he could take hold of would only make it worse.

He sprinted out of the room—filling with fire and smoke—and turned into the hallway. Panic swept through his body, his heart beating so fast, his stomach lurching, his hands shaking. Dr. Baxter ran through the house, hoping desperately he was heading for the kitchen. As he passed the stairway he heard the screaming. He stopped, frozen. At first he thought it was Maggie and then—in the next moment—he realized it was a girl. A little girl.

Dr. Baxter nearly collapsed against the wall, paralyzed by the sudden urge to throw himself on the fire to put it out. He’d forgotten about the girl. How the hell could he have forgotten about the girl? She slept in the lab sometimes, while Maggie and Robert were working late; she ran up and down the corridors, giggling and calling out, inviting the biochemistry students to join in her games. Cora. Little Cora Carraway.

Dr. Baxter snatched the stair railing and pulled himself up two or three steps at a time—he almost slipped on a partially unwrapped present halfway up the stairs but caught himself in time. The air was filling with smoke and he ran as fast as his triple-beating heart would allow. He turned right at the top, with no clue where he was going, following the siren call of the scream. He started to shout himself, a sharp warning screech to alert the parents, needing to pierce their dreams and pull them out of their beds. When he reached her room, Dr. Baxter ran in and snatched up the screaming girl, holding her tight to his chest, pulling his coat over her head to keep her air clean. With
every breath he took, the smoke was sweeping into his lungs, and—in a snap decision he’s regretted every second of his life since—Colin Baxter didn’t run farther down the corridor but turned down the stairs. As he clutched Cora (now silent) to his chest, he kept shouting for help as long as he could, reaching with his breath instead of his hands, until he was out of the door and onto the street, gasping, gulping up the sweet, fresh air, dragging it into his lungs. He didn’t let go of the girl yet, but when he turned back to the door, planning to put her down and reenter the house, thick white smoke was billowing out in hungry clouds and the flames were gobbling up the doorway. Dr. Baxter stood rooted to the pavement, unable to let go of the little girl, thinking he’d never be able to let go of her again.

Chapter Twenty-Six

W
alt is walking along the street in a daze. Now that he’s away from Milly he can’t quite understand what just happened. He’d been going to talk to her, to tell her that, while he cared for her deeply, he didn’t think he could ever love her, not while there was a chance that Cora … But when he’d seen her, in that dress, those thoughts had been swept from his head and all he’d felt was passion and desire. It was very unlike him. The dress, he thinks as he walks, it was the dress that did it. He was enchanted. He was under a spell.

But now that he’s alone again it’s worn off, as if he’s walked out of a smoky fog and only a faint scent of it still lingers on him. He must go back to her in the morning, while she’s in the shop wearing sensible attire. He should speak to her before he speaks to Cora, it’s only right.

Walt turns the corner of Trinity Street and into All Saints’ Passage. He can see the door to the bookshop illuminated by the one streetlamp and he hurries toward it. When Walt reaches the door he stops to fumble for his keys in his coat pocket and that’s when he sees them: Cora and another man standing outside the window of Etta’s dress shop. They are standing close, heads dipped forward, talking. Walt cocks his head toward them, straining to hear. The name
Henry
floats toward him and he catches it just before it falls. A few other words drift over:
love
and
wife
and
hope
. Crouched down on the step, Walt listens, his spirits sinking with each minute that passes. When he sees them hug each other tightly, Walt closes his eyes.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Cora says. She gives a nervous giggle. “I can’t quite believe all that just happened. I’m still shaking.”

“Me too.” Henry smiles. “But you’ll be okay.”

“Will I?”

Henry looks at Cora, her eyes red and arms wrapped tight around her, and wants to give her a hug. In his professional capacity as a detective of course he really shouldn’t, but since this hadn’t been an official police investigation perhaps it doesn’t matter. Instead he nods.

“You’ll be better than okay. You’ve faced your demons. You’ve done what most people never do. After courage like that I doubt you’ll be scared by anything else. And a life without fear, well, that’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? What could be better than that?”

Cora smiles. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Henry glances at his watch. “Are you okay if I go? I want to be back in Oxford in case my wife, well, you know …”

“Yep, of course, please,” Cora says. “I’ve got my grandma. I’ll be fine.”

“And that chap you love.”

Cora’s smile widens, all the horrors of the day suddenly eclipsed by the thought of Walt. “Yes, well, I’ve not got him yet. But I hope …”