Chapter Nineteen
M itchell strolled along the walkway with Corrine proudly on his arm. This would be the last time they spent alone, which filled his heart with sadness. He would miss the ease with which they conversed—and the potent attraction that grew stronger whenever they were close. There was so much Mitchell wanted to say and do, but Corrine had made it clear that as long as she was married, she could never—and he ultimately agreed.
“What do we do next?” Corrine asked, drawing closer to him. “I cannot believe Christmas is only ten days away. It does not feel like the holiday season with everything going on. I do not want to share a meal with my father or husband.”
“Understandable. You could always come and share a repast of turkey or roast beef with Drew and me,” Mitchell suggested hopefully.
Corrine squeezed his arm, causing a blast of desire to tear through him. “I would love that, but I had best not.”
Disappointing, but she was correct. “As to what we do next? See about a solicitor. I will ask Drew. That is a start. We will take the rest as it comes.”
They located Drew’s carriage, and Mitchell assisted Corrine inside. He climbed in after her, biting his lip to stem the jolt of pain tearing through his leg. Though he faithfully followed Drew’s daily rehabilitation exercises, he had not seen any improvement, at least not enough to make a marked difference. Sighing, he knocked on the roof. The window slid open.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Thirty Wimpole Street.”
At that, the carriage lurched forward. Corrine patted the bench seat beside her. “Is it terrible that I wish you to sit beside me? And hold me?”
“Not at all.” Mitchell crossed the small space and slid his arm about Corrine’s shoulders, pulling her close. Try as he might, he couldn’t resist kissing her forehead.
Corrine sighed softly. “I feel safe when you are near like this. I never thought a man would ever make me feel this way.”
“I will do anything to keep you safe. Anything,” he whispered fiercely.
They held each other close until the carriage slowed. Reluctantly, Mitchell moved over to the opposite bench. Pushing the curtain aside, he peered out onto the quiet street.
“Your place is in darkness.”
“It’s past nine. Thomason may have gone to his rooms.”
A tug of caution pulled at Mitchell’s gut. “I thought butlers didn’t retire for the night until everyone in the house was accounted for?”
“That’s true in a larger household. Not so much ours, especially where the other servants do not live in. I will be fine. I have a key.”
“I should come in with you.”
“You had best not. Someone could see. A strange man coming into my house past nine o’clock? I do not want to give Travis anything to use against me. Believe me, neighbors see all sorts.”
“It’s pitch black outside. No one will see much of anything at all.” Mitchell frowned. “But I will not argue the point. I will stay here until you give me the all-clear sign. Just come out on the front step and wave, then I will depart.”
“Very well. Send me a note once you talk to Drew about the solicitor.” Corrine took his hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Good night.”
Mitchell watched closely as she unlocked the door and stepped across the threshold. But what momentarily caught his attention were the number of people coming out of their residences on either side of Corrine’s. And across the street. How odd. It seemed she was right about being seen. But something told Mitchell this was more than just a case of meddlesome neighbors. Something had occurred on this street, and everyone was looking in the direction of Corrine’s house.
*
Corrine removed her gloves and stuffed them in her cape pocket as she inched along the hall. Blast it, it was dark. “Thomason?” How strange that he wasn’t nearby. “Thomason?” she called out loudly.
The only reply was a drawn-out groan. Corrine followed in the direction of the wounded animal sound. Travis’s study. As she reached the doorway, a distinct odor slammed her senses, a smell she was well familiar with. Blood.
When exposed to the air, blood took on a copper or iron metallic smell. That salient fact was one of the first things she’d learned when studying to be a nurse. And in this room, the scent was overwhelming. Corrine took three steps toward the gas light wall sconce when she slid on something and lost her balance. Down she went, falling hard on her side. When she got up, she realized she’d fallen into a pool of blood on the floorboards. And now, she was covered in it. Horrified, she came to her knees and crawled into the hall, then managed to stand.
As she raced for the front door, she glanced downward. Part of her gold gown was coated in blood. She stood on the front step and yelled, “Mitchell! Come here!”
He was out of the carriage and at her side at once. As he took her arm, a voice called out, “Baroness, we heard loud booming sounds from your house not more than a few minutes ago.”
“Do you have a telephone?” Mitchell asked the man who stood wearing a coat over his dressing robe.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then call the police immediately.”
The man turned and hurried into his house as more neighbors converged on the walkway.
Mitchell escorted her inside and closed the door. “Where are the lights? Do you have electric ones?”
“Only in the parlor. There is gas lighting in the study. It’s where I heard a groan—and I fell.” She pointed to her gown and cape. “Blood.”
“Stay behind me,” Mitchell whispered. “And do not touch anything.”
They made their way a short distance in the hall when Corrine grabbed the back of Mitchell’s coat to make him stop. Taking a handkerchief from her cape pocket, she covered her hand and turned the gas light on. Illumination filled the hallway. Then she pointed to the doorway on the left. “In there.”
When they reached the entrance, the overwhelming odor hit her again, but she managed to stay against the wall’s perimeter until she reached the gas light. Turning the knob, the yellow flame flickered to life and revealed a scene of horror. Two men lay on the floor. One of them was Travis.
Tossing her cape and the handkerchief aside, Corrine’s nursing training came to the forefront, and staying well clear of the pooling blood, she laid two fingers against Travis’s neck artery. His chest was not rising and falling. He had no pulse.
She turned her attention to the other unconscious man. He still breathed. Looking about, she pulled the drapery from the window and folded it several times. “Mitchell, hold this against his wound. It’s there, on his side. There is a revolver at Travis’s feet. I have to check Travis once again. He has been shot as well, more than once, I think.”
When she returned to Travis’s lifeless form, it was plain that any lifesaving skills she had learned, like sternal compressions, would be pointless. Travis had been shot in the chest and above his right eye. There would be no bringing him back. Even though she had wanted out of this marriage, she’d never wished it to end like this. How utterly horrifying.
Corrine turned, looked at Mitchell, and sadly shook her head. “He’s gone.”
Mitchell shook the unconscious man until he groaned. His eyes fluttered. “Someone was here with you. Who was it? Who left you to bleed out? Give me a name!” Mitchell demanded.
“Left me,” the young man rasped. “He left me.”
“Who?”
“Father. The bastard.” The young man started coughing, and a thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t die and let him get away with it. Give me a name,” Mitchell urged.
But the young man had fallen unconscious again. Corrine pointed to the hallway. “I am going to ring for an ambulance wagon.”
“It will be too late. The constables can take him quicker. This house is located in Division D, Marylebone, number two district. I know some from this region. Listen, we will be taken in for questioning right away. We tell the truth, but we will leave the loan out of it. They won’t keep us overnight. I assume you do not want to come back here.”
Corrine shivered. “I will never stay in this house again.”
A wagon pulled up to the front door, the bell clanging loudly. “Here, hold this against the wound. I will let them in,” he said.
They exchanged places, and Mitchell grabbed his cane and headed toward the front entrance. Corrine pressed hard against the wound; already, the drapery was soaking through. The bullet may have nicked a vital organ. She could hear a muted discussion in the hallway, and then four constables ran into the room, along with a man in a derby hat and a long wool coat. He was dressed similarly to Mitchell, meaning he was undoubtedly a detective.
The detective pointed to the young man. “Take him to St. Mary’s Hospital.”
Two constables came forward to grab the young man’s arms and legs.
Corrine stepped back. “You must keep pressure on the wound on his left side. There might also be internal bleeding, possibly in his intestines. Be careful with him.”
“Keep him alive, lads. I want a statement,” the detective directed. “And the other man?”
Corrine sadly shook her head.
“Take the wagon, and Wilson, you stay at the hospital,” the detective continued. “Murphy, stop by the station and tell them we need a photographer and an ambulance wagon for the body.”
Corrine cast a glance at Travis. She still couldn’t believe it. All he was now was a corpse to be hauled away.
“Yes, sir.” The constables picked up the young man and headed toward the door.
“The baroness was a nurse for over a decade,” Mitchell interjected. “Lady Addington knows of what she speaks.”
“Tell the doctor or surgeon everything the lady said,” the detective commanded.
Once the men departed, the detective reached into his pocket and took out a notebook and pencil. “So, you’re on leave, you say?” he asked Mitchell.
“Medical leave, temporarily working as a private investigator. Lady Addington, this is Detective Reid Mahone. Detective, Lady Corrine Addington.”
“My lady,” Mahone murmured. He pointed at Travis. “Your husband?”
“Yes. Baron Travis Addington.”
“My condolences. Who was the young man?”
“I have no idea,” Corrine answered.
“The man was not here alone,’ Mitchell stated.
“Oh? Why?” Mahone asked.
Corrine was curious to know how Mitchell had come to that conclusion as well.
“There is only one revolver at the scene. Multiple gunshots were exchanged since both men were shot. The second man took the gun and escaped, probably only mere minutes before we arrived. People were already gathering on the street when we approached the door. The neighbor heard ‘booming sounds,’ meaning more than one shot.” Mitchell pointed to the wall. “It could be a robbery. The wall safe is empty.”
Corrine spun around. Wall safe? She had no idea Travis had one.
“But even more damning is the fact that the young man said he’d been left behind…by his father, whoever that might be.”
Mahone furiously took notes. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Corrine spread her arms. “I would like to change. And before you ask, I came into a dark house. I called for the butler, but he was not there. I heard a groan in the study, entered the room, and slipped in that pool of blood. I crawled to the hall, stood, and called for Sergeant Simpson. He came in, I turned on the gas lights—I had a handkerchief wrapped around my hand—and it was then we saw the bodies. I felt for a pulse on my husband, but there was none. His injuries were fatal.”
Mahone’s mouth quirked. “That answered several of my questions, but I have more. Many more. And I believe it best we make this official at the station. So, yes, my lady, you may change, but bring the gown to me. I will need it for evidence.”
Corrine took one last glance at Travis’s lifeless form. “I hired Detective Simpson to follow my husband. I believed he was cheating on me. We only married a few months ago, but it was not a love match. If you are wondering why I’m not sobbing uncontrollably, I have learned to keep my emotions in check in stressful situations, medical or not. I am sure it will hit me later. And you should also know that I had a meeting tonight with Doctor Drew Hornsby. I work with him at the free clinic, volunteering as a nurse. Detective Simpson was there also, to discuss my ongoing case. There were dozens of witnesses.” Good lord, she was rambling. Perhaps the stress had already taken its toll.
“My lady,” Detective Mahone said firmly. “You are not a suspect.”
“Yet, you mean.” Corrine blew out a shaky breath. “Ignore that. I will go change.”
“I will have to corroborate your story, my lady. It’s part of my job. But I’m acquainted with Doctor Hornsby and have heard of Sergeant Simpson’s sterling reputation. My asking questions does not mean I believe you guilty of anything.”
“I understand, Detective.” Corrine nodded and hurried upstairs. Her cheeks were hot. She could feel it. She had to keep a cool head and not take offense to any inquiries.
Oh, Travis. I am so sorry this happened to you. What were you up to?