Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“Not laudanum,” she quipped, remembering that Colonel Blackwood had said the same thing.
Dr. Scott’s lips twitched. Whatever had been troubling him seemed to have left his mind. “I won’t give you a drop more than is required for a restful sleep.”
As they made their way across the chapel, Selena said, “As soon as we can, we need to visit the catacombs again and work on a plan to entrap the villain before they can strike again.”
“We’ll see. Only when you feel better,” he cautioned. “Tonight, I’m going to ask Mrs. Hillman to post a servant at your bedside to watch over you.”
“Why? That’s unnecessary.”
“If someone really did just try to kill you, it’s completely necessary,” he insisted. “Plus, you’ve had a head injury. You may need help during the night. Someone needs to be on guard to alert me if anything changes.”
Selena couldn’t think of an argument against that. “Very well, but please make sure it’s not Gladys.”
“Duly noted.”
“What about you?” she asked, aware that the villain might have it in for both of them. “Who’s going to keep you safe?”
“I can take care of myself.” They were nearly to the chapel’s exit. Dr. Scott paused and, to Selena’s surprise, he bent his head to hers and kissed her full on the mouth.
It was an absolutely lovely kiss that sent sparks shooting through Selena’s entire body and literally curled her toes.
“What was that for?” she asked, her pulse racing.
“For believing in me,” he said simply. With that, he opened the chapel door and escorted her out.
*
Selena awakened the next morning to find Beryl asleep in the chair beside her bed.
Her memory of the night before was hazy.
When she and Dr. Scott had returned from the catacombs, he’d given Selena medicine to help her sleep.
She had been lost to the world for the rest of the day and night, waking intermittently only long enough to accept a glass of water from the maid who had been watching over her, and to drink the cup of beef tea the doctor had ordered.
As Selena slowly sat up in bed, her head began to pound, and pain shot up the back of her neck. She couldn’t prevent a groan.
Beryl opened her eyes. “Miss!” She yawned and stretched her arms. “I must have dozed off. I wasn’t supposed to. How do you feel?”
“My head hurts,” Selena admitted.
“I’m sorry. Dr. Scott said you might be in pain. I was to watch out for confusion and seizures, he said, and call him if you seemed worse.”
“Thank you for staying. I’m sorry you had to sleep in that chair. I seem to be all in one piece and not any worse for wear.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Beryl stood and opened the drapes.
Sunlight beamed into the room. The light seemed overly bright.
Selena held up a hand to shield her eyes as she squinted out the window, where moisture sparkled on the sodden back lawns and the remaining drifts of snow.
When Beryl helped Selena rise and perform her morning ablutions, she felt dizzy and was grateful to crawl back into bed afterwards.
“The doctor said you’re to stay in bed until he has a chance to see you. Before I call him, I’ll have your breakfast brought up,” the maid explained before exiting the room.
Selena closed her eyes to rest them. It seemed that Beryl had only been gone a few seconds when Gladys entered the chamber.
“Good morning. Mrs. Hillman told me to bring you breakfast in bed,” Gladys announced as she crossed Selena’s room with a tray.
Selena’s entire body tensed. Is she Gladys or Maisie? Could it have been Gladys who pushed over that statue in the catacombs?
“I hope you’re feeling better?” Gladys set down the breakfast tray over Selena’s lap and removed the silver domes from two plates, revealing scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, a dish of butter, and a cup of coffee.
The tantalizing aromas distracted Selena from her musings. Her head still throbbed, but she realized she was famished. “Yes, thank you.” To her surprise, a folded newspaper lay on the tray—an edition of The London Times. “How did we come by a newspaper, Gladys?”
“The snow being mostly gone, Mrs. Hillman sent Billy into the village this morning to fetch a paper,” Gladys replied. “The trains aren’t running yet, but he said they might be back in operation this afternoon. He managed to get copies of this old newspaper, though—it arrived just before the storm.”
“I see.” Selena unfolded the linen napkin on her lap and picked up the fork and knife. “Thank you, Gladys.”
The maid curtsied and left the room. Selena was glad to see her go.
She tasted a slice of bacon, relishing the smoky flavor.
As she ate, her headache dissipated. It occurred to her that she had slept through everything last night.
Selena wondered if the dramatic readings had taken place without her, and if so, she hoped they’d gone well.
She was so hungry, she ate nearly everything on the plate before she took time to open the newspaper.
It was dated December 23rd, 1852. The day that their guests had arrived at Darkmoor Park.
As always, the news was featured in multiple columns of short, blocklike snippets of identically sized text, each item separated by a horizontal line.
Selena took a sip of coffee as she glanced over the news.
There was an article about a concert at the London Harmonic Society, a notice that a steamship sailing from London to Dunkirk and Lille had been postponed due to poor weather, an article about a public meeting to consider the policies of The Times, and a shopkeeper’s list of food items for sale for Christmas dinner.
Another item caught Selena’s attention, and it made her freeze.
A LETTER HAS JUST BEEN RECEIVED BY THE TIMES from a MR. JOHN CLARKE, a businessman. Mr. Clarke writes:
“I am writing to The Times to ensure that there is a written record of the dire situation in which I find myself. I am the co-founder of the LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL FOUNDATION. I have raised ￡5000 in cash for this worthy project. My business partner, DR. ANDREW DALTON, who resides in Hampstead, is thirty-one years of age, a tall man of gentlemanly appearance with a jagged scar on his forehead. I have reason to suspect that he intends to murder me, steal all the funds, and flee the country. I am afraid to leave my house or go to the police. Should anything happen to me, should this villain carry out his threat, I pray that he may be apprehended, and justice may be served.”
Please note: The Times does not endorse this message nor purport any part of it to be true. Should you have information about the above proceedings, please contact Scotland Yard or The London Times office.
Selena read the article once, twice, and then a third time. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
She was shocked for two reasons. Firstly: that The Times had printed such a libelous letter, even while admitting that they did not endorse a word of it. And yet they had printed it, which implied that they must have thought it had merit and needed to be seen.
Secondly: the names contained therein were all too familiar, starting with the author of the piece, John Clarke.
The letter she had discovered in Mr. Clarke’s bedroom had been addressed to John Clarke, apparently the man’s formal name.
When he’d spoken out of turn at the White Hart Inn, he had confided that he’d brought money with him to protect it from a potential thief who had threatened his life.
But Selena now realized, he had never identified the man who had vowed to rob and kill him. Until now.
Dr. Andrew Dalton.
A tall, thirty-one-year-old man of gentlemanly appearance with a jagged scar on his forehead.
It was a perfect description of Dr. Scott.
The name on the calling card Selena had found in Dr. Scott’s coat pocket had been Dr. Andrew Dalton.
As she recalled, it had included an address in Hampstead.
Dr. Scott had explained that card away, claiming that it belonged to a colleague who had called on him the day before he’d left London. Had that been a lie?
Were Dr. Scott and Dr. Dalton one and the same person? They must be.
Dr. Scott was Mr. Clarke’s business partner. The thought was so astonishing it made Selena’s body go cold. She’d had a feeling all along that something wasn’t right about Dr. Scott, but she had always talked herself out of it—and she had never considered this.
Anger, embarrassment, and disappointment flooded her every pore.
The doctor, she realized, had been perpetrating a fraud the entire time he had been at Darkmoor Park.
He was a liar, a scoundrel, and a thief—and she had fallen for it.
The signs had been there from the very beginning. How could she have missed them?
When he had arrived that first snowy morning, he had seemed stunned to discover that the dead man on the stairwell landing was Mr. Clarke—but she had discounted that.
On more than one occasion, he had not responded when Selena had called him Dr. Scott—and no wonder, since he’d apparently made up the name.
And no wonder, when she had called him Adrian after they’d kissed in the folly, he had reacted with such guilt and confusion.
To think that she had kissed him! Heatedly! More than once! And had told herself she had fallen in love with him!
On one occasion, he had referred to the deceased man as “Clarke” without the “Mr.” title—an informality that she had wondered about. She’d suspected that he wasn’t from Bath—and now she knew she had been right. She should have listened to her gut.