Chapter 4 #2
I had, however, washed my hands. Several times, in fact, in a manner that brought to mind a tortured Lady Macbeth. I could still see the stain of blood in my mind’s eye, swirled and dried with mud.
“Tell me.” Jack was seated across from me, a black book balanced on his knee, pencil poised to write. “Did the man say anything to you?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” Then I paused. “No, that’s not true. He said—” I had to pause, swallow. “He said, ‘You’re mine.’”
Jack said nothing for a moment, brow tipped into a V. “You’re sure?”
I nodded, and he began writing.
“And he wore a mask?” he asked.
“He did,” I replied. “Though it came free in the scuffle.”
Jack’s pencil paused. “You saw his face?”
“It was dark,” I said as Ginny brought me a cup of tea, hot and steaming. “But yes, well enough.”
Jack exchanged a look with Ginny.
“Verity?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Send for her immediately. And Denning too.”
I took the cup, brows lowered. “Why Verity?”
“She can sketch the man,” Ginny explained, “if you describe him to her.”
“And the sooner, the better,” Jack said. “You would be surprised how quickly memory fades.”
Ginny nodded and left the parlor, undoubtedly to send a message to the Dennings’ nearby home.
“Rawlings, did you get a good look at his face?” Jack turned in his chair. “Recognize him at all?”
Mr. Rawlings’s mouth was a tight slash, as if he were using every drop of self-restraint to keep from cursing out loud as the doctor continued his ministrations. “I did not recognize him,” he grunted. “But if I saw him again, I’d know him.”
Bruises were beginning to form on Mr. Rawlings’s face, around his left eye and along his jaw.
The assailant had gotten in a few good blows during their bout.
I bit my lip, sitting there feeling stupid and useless with my soft hands and unmarred face.
It had been luck. That was all. Just luck that I hadn’t died tonight—that we both hadn’t died.
My breathing was still too fast, my pulse galloping in my head. I had to get a hold of myself. I wrapped my hands around my teacup, willing my hands to stop shaking.
“You should sit with Verity as well,” Jack told Mr. Rawlings. “We’ll need both of your descriptions.”
We heard a commotion outside the room, voices and footsteps. The door opened again, and Mr. Drake appeared, looking rather disheveled. I straightened, a flush whispering across my cheeks. Blast it all. I hadn’t planned on him seeing me in such a state.
He quickly took in Mr. Rawlings with the doctor, Jack and me by the fire. “I just heard,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I came straight here. What happened?”
Jack explained everything, though I barely heard him as I discreetly tried to sort myself out—tugging my skirts straight and brushing back my untidy hair. I hadn’t yet looked in a mirror, but perhaps that was for the best.
I looked up and found Mr. Rawlings watching me from across the room, his face as unreadable as a blank book. But I could well read his thoughts. He knew I was trying to make myself presentable for Mr. Drake. I’d all but declared my intentions for the man when we’d argued at Vauxhall, after all.
I glanced away, my cheeks growing even hotter.
“And you’re well?” Mr. Drake turned to face me. “Miss Lacey?”
There was a sweet concern in his voice. “I am well enough,” I said. “Though the same cannot be said for Mr. Rawlings.”
“I am fine,” Mr. Rawlings said with a terse, manly denial.
“You are not fine,” the doctor countered. I hadn’t caught his name in the clamor of our arrival. “You’ll need to wear a sling for at least a week or run the risk of straining your sutures. And I’m not entirely sure you didn’t also crack a rib or two. You need to rest.”
“Rest?” Mr. Rawlings glared at the man as if he’d offered a grave insult instead of sound medical advice. “I have work to do. We must find the culprit.”
“How would we go about that?” The question escaped before I could think twice.
Mr. Rawlings moved his glare from the doctor to me. “We won’t be doing anything, Miss Lacey. Bow Street is quite capable of handling this on its own.”
“She has a point though,” Mr. Drake said. “How do you propose to track this man down? We have so few clues as to his identity.”
“True,” Mr. Rawlings said with a scowl. “But it’s quite clear why he came after us.”
Clear as mud, though Jack was nodding with understanding.
“It’s the case,” Jack said. “You think he’s trying to stop you from finding the murderer.”
“Not just that,” Mr. Rawlings replied grimly. “I would bet a year’s salary that our attacker was the viscount’s murderer.”
I gaped at him. It was foolish, really, that I should be shocked.
The masked man had attempted to kill both of us.
But realizing now that our assailant had possibly been the one behind the most gruesome and sickening crime London had seen in years .
. . I pulled the blanket around me, fear gathering like a knot behind my ribs.
Mr. Drake, however, was shaking his head. “That is quite the leap to make, Rawlings. We cannot know whether they’re connected.”
“What else could it be?” Mr. Rawlings argued as the doctor cut the thread and began bandaging the wound.
“It is the only case I’ve been working for a week, and I’m the lead officer.
I must have caught his trail somehow, and he’s determined to put an end to it.
Determined enough to attack not just me but an innocent woman. ”
Mr. Drake frowned. “What sort of leads have you been working? What might have tipped him off, if it is him?”
Mr. Rawlings shook his head. “It could be a number of things. I’ve been prying into the viscount’s financial affairs, but then we’ve also been questioning each and every one of the household staff and close acquaintances. If we have a strong lead, I can’t say I even know it.”
Frustration burrowed into his brow, deep as a newly plowed field. This was a man who hated being ignorant, hated not understanding.
“But we’ll discover it,” he said as the doctor positioned a white strip of fabric under his elbow and forearm and tightened it into a sling around his neck.
“If he is worried we’ll learn his identity, we must be doing something right.
We must get to Bow Street now, review everything we have so far. ”
Mr. Drake cleared his throat. “About that,” he said. “Mr. Etchells sent me with a message.”
Etchells. The name wasn’t familiar to me.
“The chief magistrate,” Jack explained to me, seeing my confusion.
“What sort of message?” Mr. Rawlings’s voice was suspicious.
Mr. Drake shifted his weight. “He wants to give you time to heal. Recover.”
“I don’t need time,” Mr. Rawlings replied immediately. “I can work.”
“Yes, well,” Mr. Drake edged, “there may be extenuating circumstances.”
“Spit it out, Drake,” Jack said mildly.
Mr. Drake sighed. “Mr. Etchells has removed Rawlings as head of the investigation. I am to take up the reins.”
Silence descended, thick as a wool blanket. My eyes darted between Mr. Drake and Mr. Rawlings, tension radiating through the room.
Mr. Rawlings did not react, only sat still as the doctor finished adjusting the sling around his arm. “You cannot be serious,” he finally said, more calmly than anything he’d said all night.
“There is no doubt in your abilities,” Mr. Drake was quick to assure him. “Mr. Etchells is worried you have become too public a face for the investigation. Painted a target on your own back, so to speak. And now with you injured—”
“Injured or not,” Mr. Rawlings broke in tightly, “I can work.”
Mr. Drake shook his head. “You need time to heal.”
“Not to mention,” Jack said, thoughtful, “that you’ve seen the man’s face. If he really is the killer, you’ve just become a key witness.”
Mr. Drake nodded. “He’ll be coming after you again, mark my words.”
The realization came slowly—painfully so. It pricked at the corners of my mind, toyed with me, then flared to awareness in one sharp burst.
“I’ve also seen his face.” My voice was unsteady.
The men seemed to have forgotten I was there. They all turned to me in surprise.
I tried to swallow, my throat suddenly rough as sand. “I’ve seen his face,” I said again. “He’ll be after me, too, won’t he?”
They stared at me, their faces showing varying degrees of alarm as they came to the same conclusion.
But it was Mr. Rawlings whom I looked at, searching in the dark angles of his face for a reassurance that I was perhaps overreacting.
I did not find it. Instead, in his grim expression, I saw only a confirmation of what I feared.
I was right.
And I was in terrible danger.