Chapter Eighteen
A s Constance landed on the ground, agony shot through her ankle. She couldn’t even breathe to cry out, for the force of the fall had winded her. And yet she was aware that despite the speed and violence with which Solomon had pushed her, he had done his best to save her from the worst of the fall, twisting so that at least he did not land on top of her.
Stupefied, it took her an instant to realize what she had seen and heard. A glass lantern, fat and bulbous, flying through the air and breaking amongst the traces, the lick of fire. The scream of poor Betsy with a chunk out of her ear, the crack of gunshots.
Laing had followed them, moving quickly behind the hedges, thrown the lantern to stop them and no doubt destroy the evidence, and shot at them. Who had he hit, apart from the horse?
Solomon rolled away from her, bounding to his feet, so surely he was unharmed. He had a pocketknife in his hand with which he cut the screaming horse free of her harness and the burning gig. Old Betsy clattered away, and yet she didn’t get far before she stopped and whinnied piteously.
Ignoring the pain, Constance sat up to see Solomon running back toward her. A figure hurtled past her from the hedge, all but jumping over her before he crashed into Solomon and brought him to the ground.
Laing.
He no longer carried the gun. Unless Murray had done the shooting and still held it? In fresh fear, Constance doubled over, trying to crawl instinctively toward Solomon. But how could she help him? She had no weapon.
The men wrestling on the ground did. A steel blade glinted in the light of the fire. Solomon’s pocketknife? Or Laing’s? It didn’t matter. Solomon was in possession, but Laing, on top of him, was trying to force the blade toward Solomon’s throat.
Laing’s head snapped back in response to Solomon’s punch, and they rolled again. This time, Solomon reared up astride the doctor, hurling the knife away to the far side of the road. Laing lashed out with his fist, but Solomon dodged it, keeping his balance and grasping the fist, bearing it down to the road with one hand while the other sought Laing’s free hand.
He was too late. The doctor grasped Solomon by the throat and squeezed.
Dear God . Constance staggered to her feet and hirpled across the road at speed, though every step was agony. The merrily burning gig lit up Solomon’s knife quite clearly. She grasped it with a sob, then nearly jumped out of her skin as Besty whickered into her ear.
As she advanced on the struggling men, she saw Laing now had both hands around Solomon’s throat. Solomon struck him in the face and then hard in the side. One of Laing’s hands loosened, and Solomon grasped it, slamming it back into the road.
Constance raised the knife, wondering wildly how she was meant to use it. Would she just get in Solomon’s way? Their movements were so quick, she could easily stab the wrong man. And even if she could reach the right one, could she really risk killing him?
In a flash, she knew she could, to save Solomon. She thought his gaze flickered up to her, but he was already winning the fight, clinging on to both Laing’s hands now while the doctor bucked furiously beneath him.
Then, quite suddenly, their positions changed. She could have sworn that Solomon initiated the roll, but with a cry of triumph, Laing emerged on top, with one of his hands free.
Now, Constance told herself. Stab him in the arm and he is ours and he won’t die … With a gasp, she raised the knife and swung it downward—and was shoved roughly out of the way.
Sarah Phelps held a shovel in both hands and brought it down hard on Laing’s head.
Constance let her arm fall. Solomon hadn’t been presenting her but Sarah with the target. He had seen her coming.
Laing collapsed onto him. Solomon threw him off and leapt to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said politely to Sarah, as though she had given him a cup of tea, but his eyes sought out Constance as he closed the distance between them and swept his arm around her, holding her up as though he knew her ankle was screaming in pain.
It was, and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except his safety, his hold. For an instant, she let her forehead drop against his heaving chest.
“He won’t stay like that forever,” Sarah said crossly. “I can tie him with something, but you’ll have to put him in the barrow.”
Constance began to laugh.
*
Constance could do little but supervise as Solomon and Sarah tied the unconscious Laing’s wrists with bootlaces and his ankles with Solomon’s necktie. Solomon was heaving him into the wheelbarrow when Murray appeared, his hair wild, his eyes large and frightened.
“What the devil has been going on?” he demanded. “Did you hear shots? Dear God, was that our gig? Where is Betsy?” His jaw dropped as Solomon straightened, revealing the contents of the barrow. “Dr. Laing!”
“Wheel the barrow,” Solomon commanded, returning to support Constance. “May we use your house, Mrs. Phelps?”
“Why not?” The old woman coughed. “Everyone else has.” She put her hand on Betsy’s neck, and both elderly females began to walk. Murray followed, wheeling the barrow with some difficulty, while Solomon and Constance brought up the rear.
It seemed somehow inevitable that they run into Humphrey and Elizabeth at Sarah’s gap in the hedge. More surprising, and filling Constance with hope, was the fact that they were hand in hand.
“Someone should fetch Inspector Omand from the inn,” Solomon said.
“Oh, I think he’ll be here,” Humphrey said. “There’s a whole gaggle trailing up from the village, and from The Willows. If nothing else, they can clear up the mess. Er…what was the fire? And why is Dr. Laing in a wheelbarrow?”
Solomon said calmly, “The fire was the doctors’ gig, in which I was bringing Constance home. She has sprained her ankle. Laing is in the wheelbarrow because Mrs. Phelps hit him with a shovel.”
“How does a gig go on fire?” Elizabeth wondered aloud, while Humphrey’s jaw dropped.
“With the aid of a burning lantern thrown beneath it,” Solomon said.
“By Dr. Laing, if you’re wondering,” Constance added. It was beginning to be fun again, watching all the expressions from the shelter of Solomon’s arm.
“Let’s go inside,” he suggested. “Maule, will you help Constance? She can’t walk on that foot, and you may have noticed she has no shoe. I’ll help Dr. Murray with Laing.”
Constance would have preferred to keep Solomon with her, though she could hardly complain. Gratefully, she accepted the help of Humphrey and Elizabeth, and fell with some relief into the upholstered chair they put her in.
Without a word, Sarah filled her kettle and set in on the stove.
Laing was groaning as Solomon and Murray half carried him inside and dropped him onto a hard chair.
“There’s a halter rope in the corner,” Sarah said.
“There’s no need,” Laing said dully. But Solomon bound him to the chair anyway.
“Who doesn’t want tea?” Sarah asked. “There’s only three cups.”
Solomon produced a flask from his coat pocket and saluted her with it. “Perhaps just for the ladies.”
Constance, who would rather have had the brandy, did not argue.
“Fitting,” Sarah said, clattering cups and crockery, “that he comes back here in that barrow. It’s what he used to carry Frances Niall in before he dumped her into Willow Lake.”
Murray sat suddenly down on the floor. “ Laing killed her? For God’s sake, Laing, deny it!”
Laing shrugged wearily. “What is the point? I thought I could get away with it. I even believed it was best that I did, because of the good work I do here. But I was lying to myself. I broke my oath. I did harm. I killed and I lied. And you, Murray, are already a better physician than I would ever be.”
“But why?” Elizabeth asked, bewildered. “Why did you kill her?”
Laing closed his eyes and was silent. But Constance saw the tears running down his nose.
“He was her lover,” she said. “Not in an evil seducer kind of way, or at least I don’t think so. You really did love her, didn’t you, doctor?”
Laing nodded. Since he had no free hands, he swiped his face against his shoulder with indifferent results.
“Then why on earth did you kill her?” Murray demanded.
“Because she was evil!” Laing burst out, and then groaned. “Because she didn’t love me. It was always Maule. She talked about him all the time, mostly to wind me up, to hurt me as the representative of all men. I think she wanted to hurt Maule, although she never could, because he never really looked at her, not before she went to India, and certainly not when she returned. She said such awful things that night…”
And she had no empathy, Constance thought, no concept that people could snap with enough provocation and act outside their usual character.
“I couldn’t stand it anymore,” Laing all but whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill her. At least, I don’t think I did. I just had to shut her up, stop the terrible words just for a moment.”
“So you put the pillow over her face and she stopped,” Constance said.
He nodded dumbly.
“ My pillow?” Sarah said in outrage.
“Yours?” Humphrey said, startled. He’d seemed stunned since Laing’s revelations about Frances’s feelings.
Sarah placed two cups on the table with some force, shoving them toward Constance and Elizabeth.
Constance said, “Mrs. Phelps let them meet in her house.” In a lower voice, she added. “You don’t need to tell us how she compelled you, just that she did.”
“It’s my silence that led to her death,” Sarah said fiercely, “and nearly led to yours and his too. I should never have let her in the house, never have added to her silly belief that she was invincible, untouchable. But I could tell she was headed for a fall, and I was glad of it, God forgive me.” She sat down abruptly on the nearest rickety chair. “She said I’d killed my husband, that Dr. Laing knew and would back her up.”
Everyone stared at her, even Laing, who’d seemed to lose interest in the proceedings.
“Of course you didn’t kill Phelps,” Humphrey said forcefully. “You looked after him devotedly, nursed him…”
“I gave him digitalis for his heart,” Sarah said miserably. “I got the dose wrong. If I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have died.”
The appalled silence almost crushed Constance. The utter misery and despair of the woman to have committed such a mistake against the man she loved… No wonder she had embraced her reduced circumstances. She worked so hard to punish herself.
“He would,” Laing said. “His heart was too weak. Your digitalis kept him alive for years, and you never got it wrong. We talked about it. I never mentioned him or his illness to Frances.”
“She made it up,” Constance said slowly. “Like she made up stories about everyone, including Sir Humphrey and Lady Maule, just to get her own way. This was the perfect place to meet, close to Dr. Laing’s cottage and to Fairfield Grange, yet hidden from the road and from prying eyes. So she found a way to eject you whenever she wanted to be here, a way that would also keep you silent. Just part of her network of lies and petty power.”
“And I loved her,” Laing said hoarsely. “How could I love someone so hateful, so evil …”
Constance waved that aside. “She wasn’t all evil any more than she was the saint everyone made her out to be when she died.” Frances had just needed someone to stand up to her, to give her the shock of reality she needed—and the freedom to follow her own dreams. She should have come to me.
How ridiculous . Frances had never heard of Constance. And Constance could only ever save a handful of the lost souls swarming the great, ugly city…
Something drew her eyes to Solomon, who was gazing at her with his dark, steady eyes, eyes that were too sharp and too beautiful for anyone’s peace.
The cottage door opened without warning and Constable Napier almost fell in, the inspector more leisurely and, for once, more grateful to be behind him.
*
“Didn’t you suspect him?” Solomon asked Murray as the policemen took Laing away. They stood with Constance in the road, next to Sarah’s gap in the hedge. Sarah herself was bathing Betsy’s shot ear and murmuring comforting nonsense that seemed to soothe the animal.
“I was too wrapped up, too smug about thinking myself the better doctor than my master, even though he worked admirably long hours. It never entered my head that he was not seeing patients but was instead totally distracted by love.” Murray gave a short, bitter laugh. “Maddened by it, I should say. How can he have imagined he could get away with shooting you here in cold blood, yards from our cottage?”
“I think he suspected we had broken into the Grange,” Solomon said. “I presume he meant to silence us and blame our deaths on the same mythical thieves.”
“While destroying the evidence of the lantern,” Constance added. “I hope there is more proof in his cottage.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Solomon said. “He confessed to killing Frances before a room full of witnesses, and later to the police, too. Also to assaulting us.” Without warning, he lifted Constance by the waist and put her on Betsy’s broad back, then placed his hand beneath her foot to keep it steady.
Sarah gave the mare’s nose a last pat and exchanged curt nods with Solomon and Constance before she strode back into the yard.
“This will wreck Colonel Niall,” Elizabeth said, coming out a moment later with Humphrey.
“Laing has said he’ll plead guilty,” Humphrey said. “All the fight has gone out of him. No more needs to come out than that Laing killed her for love and is paying the price. Which he is. I suspect death will be a relief to him.”
“What will you do?” Solomon asked Murray.
“Take over the practice here, if I am allowed to. And if Laing hasn’t given everyone a disgust of doctors.”
Humphrey put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “We’ll support you all we can. Goodnight, Dr. Murray. I’ll send Betsy and another vehicle up to you in the morning.”
It seemed a very prosaic way to part, yet it reminded Constance only too well of her previous parting with the doctors only a hundred yards farther up the road. As Betsy moved beneath her toward The Willows, she found herself glancing over her shoulder and peering into the darkness of the hedges and fields.
The pain in her ankle had settled down to a dull ache. The desultory conversation around her seemed far away as her mind drifted. She was aware only of Besty’s plodding, of the warmth of Solomon’s hand beneath her bandaged foot, and the touch of his arm at her waist to keep her steady. It couldn’t have been very comfortable for him. Constance liked it, though. Awareness of him kept her awake when she was tired enough to fall asleep on Betsy’s back.
At The Willows, one of the returned stable lads was there to collect and care for the mare, while Solomon carried Constance into the house and upstairs to their bedchamber, the goodnights of their hosts ringing distantly in her ears.
“Why, Solomon,” she said sleepily, “this is so unexpected.”
“You know it isn’t,” he said, “so don’t try to bamboozle me.”
Smiling, she let her head fall against his shoulder. She must, she thought, be very tired indeed. She was relishing her own vulnerability in the arms of the man she was about to share a bed with. She remembered the touch of his lips in that Norfolk inn. She could not think, just feel , all warm and fuzzy and sweet…
He set her down on the bed gently enough, though he immediately stepped back. She twisted around to give him access to the fastenings of her gown, and as he had done several times before, he dealt with them for her.
Why did it feel different? Why was she so aware of his fingers at her nape, brushing the tingling skin of her back? Because he must be hurt too by his fight with Laing? No, although he was… But she could barely breathe, and her heart was pounding so hard he should have heard it.
His fingers fell away.
She closed her eyes . Now, Solomon. Now… What was she even hoping for?
“Can you manage?” he asked distantly. “Or shall I ask Lady Maule to help you? Our cover is shattered, after all.”
His words felt like a blast of cold water. “Of course I can manage.”
She didn’t even wait for him to turn his back before she began to tug off her gown. Her heart lurched when she heard him move, but he only walked to the window, looking out on the night while she changed into her nightgown.
Only when she stood and, holding on to the bed, hopped in the direction of the washstand did he stride back to her, and with his arm at her waist all but lifted her over the distance.
No doubt it was laughable, but her whole body blushed at the intimacy. The thin lawn of her gown was no protection from his heat, his movement against her, his very scent… But again, he moved quickly away from her, turning back the bedcovers while she splashed water over her hands and face, then brushed her teeth.
He was there again to support her back to the bed, his touch electric. His hand at her waist was long and slender, his body pleasingly hard and muscled and—
“I shall be back in five minutes and douse the lights then,” he said coolly, releasing her as soon as she sat on the bed. He walked out of the room.
I disgust him. I still disgust him as a woman, even if he tolerates me as a friend. Can I live with this?
Five minutes later, when he returned, she was lying down in the bed, turned away from him, willing herself to unconsciousness. After all, half an hour ago, she had almost been asleep on Besty’s back. Now, when she could and should have slept, her nerves were all coiled up like springs.
After the usual rustling of clothes and movements she had got ridiculously used to, he snuffed out the candles and the mattress dipped as he got into bed. He lay down well away from her.
“Goodnight, Solomon.”
“Goodnight, Constance.” There was a pause, then, “Does your ankle pain you? Do you need something for—”
“No, it’s fine, thank you.”
He did not reply.
She said, “We solved the mystery. We did very well, considering, did we not?”
“I think we did.”
“Are you in pain?” she asked. “Your throat—”
“I am not in pain.”
“Then why are you so unhappy?”
She felt him turn over. Was he peering at her through the darkness?
“I am not unhappy.” He sounded surprised. “Are you?”
She thought about it. “No. We proved Elizabeth’s innocence, and she and Humphrey seem closer. And there is no real evil, is there? Just bad behavior and consequences and tragedy. Would you mind very much holding me? Just until we fall asleep.”
Oh God, where had that come from? She just felt so small and alone…
If he had sprung out of bed and bolted, he would have surprised her less. Instead, he moved nearer.
“Constance,” he murmured as his arm came around her.
She did not turn into him, but she clung to his hand in gratitude. He snuggled her, and within seconds the tragedy had slipped away, leaving only warmth and comfort and him . And then she drifted into sleep.