The Wrong Girl (Freak House) (24 page)

"Did you search the house?"

"My men are doing it now. So far, no luck. You'd better give me the name of your witness after all. There's no avoiding it now, I'm afraid."

Jack nodded. "His name is Patrick O'Dwyer."

Sylvia shifted her weight. Tommy cleared his throat. "Patrick's dead," he said gently. "We found out yesterday. That's why we came here, to warn you."

Jack sat back down beside me and drew up his knees. He dragged his hands through his hair and lowered his head.

"I'm sorry." I wanted to stroke his hair and draw him into my arms, but it would only end in sparks and I didn't want the inspector to see, or to start something I couldn't stop.

Jack thumped a fist into the ground. "He told me Tate was dangerous. I should have listened."

"We weren't to know how dangerous," I said. "No one could have guessed he was a murderer."

"And arsonist," the inspector said, nodding at the factory. The blaze was under control, but the brigade-men continued to pour water on it. "The Senior Fireman told me this place has been set alight numerous times and recently too."

That would explain the new furniture and painted walls in the house. "How many?" I asked.

"Eight that I know of," said a man as he passed us. He was dressed in one of the brass helmets and woolen tunics of the firemen.

"Come inside and tell me everything," Inspector Ruxton said to us.

We walked single-file back along the path at the side of the house to the front door, leaving enough space for the firemen and their hoses to pass us. It was early afternoon, but the heavy clouds obscured the sun and allowed little light through. Two horse-drawn fire engines were positioned near the street-plug connected to the city's water supply. Steam hissed and spat from the brass cylinders, pumping the water to the hoses. Several workmen from the nearby factories helped, and others stood by and watched Tate being led to a waiting coach by a constable. Ham was bundled into another by four policemen. Despite having his hands tied, he managed to knock over one of the constables with a bump of his massive shoulder. It took some effort and a lot of foul language, but the others eventually got him into the cabin.

Tate was more sedate. He simply stared at me with such longing in his gaze that I shivered, despite the heat still coursing through me. He must have seen because his top lip curled up in a distorted smile.

Jack positioned himself between Tate and me. "Take him away," he growled.

We went inside and gave our version of events to the inspector, leaving out only the details of how Tate started the fire. Of course none of us had seen how he did it, and the inspector didn't dwell on that aspect. He was more interested in the fact that Tate had chained Tommy up and wanted to kidnap me.

"A madman," he muttered as he dipped his pen in an inkwell held by one of his constables. He wrote something down in his notebook then blew on it to dry the ink. "Are you four returning to Frakingham tonight?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Jack said. "We'll stay at Claridges tonight. The ladies will be tired."

"The ladies would like to go shopping," Sylvia corrected.

When all the men looked at her, she merely shrugged. "You cannot expect us to spend another moment in these garments. I'm sure we can organize new dresses from our rooms. It's what all the refined ladies do."

"For once, I agree with you," Jack said. "We all require new clothes. If you need us, Inspector, you can find us at Claridges."

We headed outside and skirted the fire engines to reach Olsen and the carriage. We set off, and Tommy alighted at the stables where he'd left the brougham. We three drove on to the heart of London. Jack had offered to get a room for Tommy at the salubrious hotel too, but he'd refused saying he'd feel too awkward in a "toff place." He and Olsen were to stay at an inn they knew nearby.

***

I slept solidly that night and into the next day. All three of us did. The rest of the day and part of the next was busy with fittings and fabrics. Dressmakers and milliners came to us, and by the third day, they had clothes and hats ready for our journey home.

Home. Yes, I supposed it was, in a way. There was nothing for me at Windamere anymore, but I now knew I at least had friends in Jack, Sylvia and Tommy. Frakingham was the only place I belonged.

I was grateful to be finally leaving Claridges. Not that the hotel wasn't exquisite, our every need and comfort met, but because I wanted to be alone with Jack again at Frakingham. We'd been surrounded by others ever since the fire, and I had so many things I wanted to talk to him about before we saw his uncle again.

He rode with Sylvia and me inside the cabin on the journey back. Olsen drove because Tommy had left the morning after the fire to report back to Langley. At first I was glad I wasn't going to be near him when he found out what Tate had almost done to us, but then I changed my mind. Seeing Langley's first reaction may have said a great deal about his character as well as his intentions.

"Well," said Sylvia on a breath. "I'm glad that's over."

London grew smaller in the distance, the miasma that hung over the city merely a brown stain on the horizon. I didn't dislike the place, but I didn't want to return there in a hurry. Frakingham at least had fresh air and open spaces, although its moodiness was something I wasn't yet used to.

"There'll be a trial," Jack said. "We'll all be called as witnesses. It's not quite over yet."

"I can endure a trial to see that man swing," Sylvia said. "He and his creature."

"They don't actually hang people in public anymore, Syl."

"You know what I mean. They deserve to be hanged. You shouldn't have gotten Tate out, Jack."

He lowered his gaze and said nothing.

"And now that I think about it," she went on, "why didn't you throw one of those fireballs at the thug, Ham? You could have saved yourself all those bruises."

Jack fingered his swollen lip. The cut above his eye had closed, but it still looked raw and would be for some time. His knuckles too were grazed and must be sore.

"That's a good question," I said to Jack. "You threw one at Tate, but not Ham. Why?"

"It would set his clothes alight and burn him," he said.

"So?" Sylvia said. "The man was horrible. He doesn't deserve our sympathies or your consideration."

"You think that now," he said. "But if
you
were the one inflicting the fireball and you had to watch a man burn alive, would you think the same then?"

"Yes."

He shook his head and turned to the window. From the distant gaze reflected in the glass, I guessed that he wasn't actually seeing any of the scenery that slipped past. "It's the screaming that gets to you first," he said. "Even a man as large and strong as Ham has a high-pitched scream when his skin is exposed to intense heat. After the screams comes the smell. Burning flesh has a distinctive odor, Syl. It's not very pleasant. You wouldn't like it."

She fell silent and pulled the collar of her new fur coat closed at the throat.

"I saw someone burn to death once," he went on. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"You, Hannah and Tate can't burn though, can you?" Sylvia asked.

Jack shook his head. "I know I can't. Hannah? Did you feel anything in there? Did your skin hurt?"

I shook my head. "I felt nothing on the outside, only the inside when Tate touched me." The memory of him stroking my face made me want to scrub myself clean again. There had been no desire in the touch, not the sort between a man and a woman, but it had been filled with a kind of longing that I'd never seen before and had not known could exist. "He was boiling. To me he felt hotter than the fire."

Jack leaned forward and lifted a hand. He stroked a strand of my hair that had fallen out of the pins and dangled near my face. Although I instantly warmed, there were no sparks. It seemed it was only actual contact between us that produced those.

I smiled and he smiled back. "Thank you for rescuing me," I said.

"My pleasure." He continued to stroke my hair. I liked it, liked him near me, but it took every ounce of self-control not to lean into that hand and feel it cupping my cheek, caressing my lips.

Sylvia, not looking at us, shuddered. "Thank goodness Tate's gone. Finally we can resume some normalcy at Freak House."

"Normalcy," Jack said with a lopsided smile. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

CHAPTER 15

Langley met us in the courtyard on our arrival. He sat in his wheelchair, his hands folded in his lap. Bollard stood behind him, staring straight ahead. When we strolled up to them, Langley's hands moved from his lap to the wheels as if he would push himself forward, but quickly returned to his lap again. He scrutinized each of us in turn before finally settling on Jack's swollen lip.

"You're back," was all he said. "Tommy told me you were successful in your endeavors."

"Oh Uncle, it was awful!" Sylvia bent down and hugged him. It was awkward with him sitting, and she seemed not to know where to put her arms. Langley was equally ill at ease. He patted her back as if she were a puppy that had just fetched his slippers for the first time.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks then went to move away. He caught her hand and kept her at his side.

"It's cold out here," he said. "Mrs. Moore will bring tea to us in the parlor. Tell me everything there."

He continued to hold Sylvia's hand as Bollard wheeled him inside. He must have been concerned after all and relieved to see us again. The only time I'd seen him outside, or indeed downstairs, was on the night of the fire. Neither his old room nor his new one were on the ground floor. He must have seen us coming up the drive and had Bollard bring both him and the wheelchair down to meet us. My eyes pricked with tears, until I realized that he hadn't been eager to see
us
again, only his niece and nephew. Or perhaps only Sylvia. Aside from frowning at Jack's cuts and bruises, he'd not paid his nephew much attention.

We sat in the small parlor that we'd been using since the night of the fire. It no longer smelled musty. A low fire warmed it, keeping the chill out of the air I suppose, although I'd never known what a chill really felt like. Some of Sylvia's paintings now decorated the walls and her embroidered cushions sat plump and inviting on the sofa. Tea arrived shortly after us, brought in by Tommy, not Mrs. Moore. It was odd to see him all stiff and formal again. Aside from a quick glance at each of us, he resumed his blank, footman's gaze. I found it most irritating.

"It's good to see you, Tommy," I said, smiling. "Have you suffered any ill effects from the fire?"

"No, Miss Smith."

"I thought we agreed you would call me Hannah now."

He splashed tea over the side of a cup and looked at Langley. "I, uh, don't feel right calling you anything other than what's proper."

"I agree," Sylvia said. She lifted her chin, but it didn't hide the quick glance she shot at Tommy and the slight blush to her cheeks. "Whatever transpired in London should remain there."

"How can you say that?" I said. "The four of us formed a bond at Tate's factory. You can't deny it."

"She'll try her hardest," Jack muttered.

"Circumstances in London were...unique," she said. "Never to be repeated. Besides, just because we all endured a nasty experience together doesn't mean we can allow social mores to lapse. I know you don't fully understand the importance of keeping everyone in their place, Hannah, having lived your entire life in an attic among a total of two people. You'll simply have to trust me. It's important. Isn't that right, Uncle?" She faced her uncle, but her gaze slid between him and Tommy.

The footman was too busy pouring the tea to notice, but he did seem more rigid than usual.

"Social order is everything," Langley agreed. "The opposite is chaos."

Behind him, Bollard's nostrils flared. Tommy left, carrying the tray with him.

"Tell me what happened," Langley said. "Tommy informs me they arrived before you, Jack. Where were you?"

"I'd gone to the Harborough constabulary immediately after leaving here," Jack said. "I had to wait for that fool of an inspector to return, and then I wasted more time trying to convince him to come with me to London. He refused." He shook his head. "I wish I hadn't bothered."

"You tried to do the right thing," I said. Sylvia and I had already told him so in the carriage when he spoke of his reasons for his delay, but he hadn't accepted it then and it still seemed to rankle now.

"I went to the Hackney Wick authorities as soon as I arrived in London," he went on. "There was no point confronting Tate without a witness. I had to wait at the police station there too, and then when the inspector did return, I spent some time apprising him of the case against Tate. He agreed to come with me, albeit reluctantly."

"It was a good thing he did," I said.

"When we arrived, we heard noises coming from the factory. The fire had already taken hold, and Tate..." He swallowed heavily and looked at me.

"Tell me about the fire," Langley asked.

"Tate started that," I said. "He accidentally emitted sparks from his fingers. You didn't tell us he was a fire starter too. It would have helped, you know."

"Perhaps," Langley said and sipped his tea. I was reminded of Tate casually drinking tea in his parlor and avoiding our questions. The similarity sent a shiver down my spine.

"That's why he wanted Hannah, isn't it?" Jack asked. "Because he's a fire starter too and he wanted to...study her." From the lack of shock on his face, I suspected he'd been thinking about it the entire journey home. As had I.

Sylvia, however, gasped and almost dropped her teacup. "You think he wanted to dissect her to find a cure?" She turned quite pale. "Now I regret reading that book on biology last year."

"I'm not sure about dissection," Langley said. "But I do think he wanted to use her in some way." He frowned into his teacup. Something troubled him and from the look on his face, I'd wager he'd just thought of something he
didn't
know the answer to. The scientist in him must hate it.