Chapter Seventeen
S olomon’s head reeled all over again, and yet lots of mental gears were slipping into place.
They had never truly considered Dr. Murray because he was the one who had drawn attention to Frances’s lungs, pointing out that she had not drowned as was originally assumed, and setting off the whole murder inquiry.
But if Murray was the dead woman’s lover… Surely, it made sense? She’d wanted to be a physician once, had studied books on anatomy that appalled her parents. She must have been drawn to a doctor who was young, personable, a gentleman by education if nothing else. No doubt he had been flattered and easy to manipulate—until he had had enough. Perhaps she had betrayed him, taunted him as she had done Elizabeth and Maule, because he had only ever been a substitute for Sir Humphrey. From a lover, such cruelty must have been unendurable…
If Murray had been with Frances in Sarah Phelps’s cottage, then it would have been easy to smother her with Sarah’s pillow, or poison her or whatever was done to her, then put her in the wheelbarrow in the dead of night to dump her in The Willows lake—taking with him the lantern Frances herself was carrying when she’d left Elizabeth and gone to meet her lover.
Oh, yes, Murray…
The young doctor placed a bandage on the table and poured two cups of tea from the pot beside it. He put sugar in one without asking and pushed it toward Constance, along with a jug of milk. The other cup, he gave to Solomon.
“Thank you,” Constance said meekly, although she did not take sugar in her tea.
Murray picked up his own half-full cup and finished it before reaching for the bandage. Solomon waited for fear and anger to slice through him. But they were unaccountably slow to form, even though a murderer should not be touching Constance.
Nor should he be such an instinctively kind man, a healer. Murray had not even asked where she had fallen or why they were out walking so late. Healing was his first priority. Had he not pointed out that Frances had not drowned, everyone would have gone on assuming she had.
“I do like that shape of lantern,” Constance said idly, as though making mere small talk while the doctor bandaged her foot and ankle.
“Hmm?” Murray spared it a quick glance. “Oh yes. It’s not ours. It comes from the Grange. Laing keeps forgetting to take it back.”
Because not Laing but Murray had brought it to the house? Then again, only Laing attended the Nialls, so how had Murray met Frances? By chance?
Sarah insisted on seeing Laing too. Solomon took a breath. Where was Murray’s excuse for going to Sarah’s house so often? Maule had given the impression that earlier today had been the first time. Sarah, like the Nialls, only consulted Laing.
Solomon wanted to bang his head on the table for his own stupidity.
“Does Dr. Laing get called often to the Nialls?” he asked casually.
Murray grimaced. “All the time. They must be a household of hypochondriacs. Poor old Laing barely gets a night’s decent sleep.”
“Even now?” Solomon said. “Since Miss Niall’s death?”
Constance was staring at him over Murray’s head. The doctor’s fingers paused in the act of tying off the bandage. “Actually, not so much. She must have been the worst offender. Or should I say the sickest.”
Constance’s eyes widened. Was she following Solomon’s groping for the truth? This was the truth. It slotted everything into place.
Laing had either deliberately ignored the state of Frances’s lungs at the autopsy or been too upset by his lover’s death, or by his own act of violence, to realize that Murray would see the evidence better than he.
“What are the visible signs of asphyxiation?” Constance asked.
Murray rose and stared at her. “If you are talking about Miss Niall, there were none.” He frowned. “Except perhaps those tiny brown spots on her eyelids, but Laing’s opinion was that they were not distinct enough to—”
“Why did you attend Sarah Phelps?” Solomon interrupted, for his mind was racing. Laing had interfered with the autopsy report, just enough to prevent any certainty. Murray was observant and smart, but Laing was the man of experience and decision. “I thought she insisted on Dr. Laing.”
“Laing was too busy, but I was worried about her and went myself. She didn’t summon either of us.” Murray looked bewildered, turning back and forth between Solomon and Constance. “Why are you…?”
Laing had not been too busy to see Sarah. He had been afraid to go near her because she knew… The same reason she had not asked for him.
A footfall sounded beyond the door to the hallway. Everyone looked toward it, and Solomon forgot to breathe. He should have got Constance out of there as soon as the truth hit him. She was in no condition to face a murderer, to run… Their only hope was that Laing did not suspect they knew.
In the sudden tension, he risked a glance at Constance, willing her to understand. Not Murray. Laing . Their eyes met for barely an instant of silent communication, but he saw that she was already with him. She knew.
The door was pushed open with a creak of unoiled hinges, and Dr. Laing stepped into the kitchen. No monster of murder and lies, just an overworked medical man with rumpled hair and shadows beneath his eyes, still fully dressed as though he had been working.
He smiled amiably. “What a lot of chatter for the small hours. It’s after midnight, you know. Are we having a feast?”
“Cup of tea?” Murray offered. “Mrs. Grey sprained her ankle.”
The two doctors were on good terms, Solomon saw. Did that matter? Was Murray an ally, deliberately covering for Laing? Did he know what Laing had done? The cottage was not large. They could not help but be aware when each other went out, when someone visited…
Focus .
“Bad luck, ma’am,” Laing was saying, concern on his face that was surely genuine. “But you should have sent a servant for one of us to come to you. I’m sorry, I didn’t even hear your conveyance arrive.”
“Oh, we don’t have one,” Constance said. “We were out walking when I foolishly turned my ankle.”
“Walking in the dark is unwise, even in the country. Rabbit holes, poacher traps, and all sorts of obstacles that you can’t see or would even think about coming from the city. You must have fallen close by.”
“Up toward Fairfield Grange,” she said with a lightness Solomon knew was forced, though he doubted the doctors would notice. “My husband carried me here, though I told him not to disturb you.”
“Mr. Grey was quite right,” Laing said, taking the last available chair at the table. “To walk on it without support would have been much more damaging. As it is, you should rest it as much as possible for the next few days. You should not, for example, walk home. Murray, if you harness old Betsy to the gig, I shall drive Mrs. Grey back to The Willows.”
Oh no, you won’t . Solomon summoned a smile, the kind of meaningless yet implacable expression he normally reserved for business meetings. “I confess the use of your gig would be welcome, but there is no need to disturb either of you. I can harness it myself and have one of Maule’s people return it immediately.”
“First light will do, won’t it?” Murray said with a quick glance at Laing. “That way, you and I can get a tad more well-earned rest.”
“Well, I’m glad you are awake enough to think more sensibly than I,” Laing said with a tired smile.
Murray reached for an old coat hanging from a hook on the back door, struggled into it, and lit a spill from the lamp before choosing the shabbier lantern beneath the table, the one that had not come from the Grange.
“You must remember to take that one back to the Nialls,” he said, tapping the bulbous lamp.
“I doubt they’ll miss it,” Constance said. “They have lots of them.”
It was a mistake.
Solomon knew she spoke to ease the curious tension in the room, which she was extremely good at. But the words drew Laing’s attention. Just for an instant, and his expression was unreadable. More sorrow than panic or anger. As if the lantern was the last memento he had of his lover? Or was he just reluctant to return it now, while the police were still poking around and one of the mysteries surrounding the death was what had happened to Frances’s lantern?
“They have lots of everything,” Laing said lightly. “But you are right. I will take it back tomorrow.” As Murray left by the back door with his lantern, Laing turned his gaze back to Constance. “How does your ankle feel? Are you still in much pain?”
“It feels much better with the bandage,” she replied.
Laing glanced from her to Solomon. “I suppose you are still investigating Miss Niall’s death for Lady Maule? Is that why you were up at the Grange?”
Damn… Solomon shrugged. “Yes, though it was a waste of time. We didn’t find anything.”
“Except a rabbit hole,” said Constance, “or whatever it was. Those policemen actually came up to The Willows this evening, intending to arrest poor Lady Maule.”
Laing’s idly drumming fingers on the table stilled. “You mean they didn’t?”
“Thankfully, no. Their information was incorrect.”
“Well, that is a relief. They were here this afternoon, asking questions about her, about her past. Obviously, I could tell them nothing except she had come initially as the governess and I knew nothing against her. I have always found her a most pleasant lady. I am glad she is still free, though one can’t help wondering what on earth they thought they had against her.”
“Lies, I daresay,” Constance said amiably. “There are many lies and deceptions surrounding Miss Niall’s life and death. If only they were not so wretchedly impenetrable.”
Good girl . Solomon breathed again.
“Then your investigations do not prosper?” Laing asked sympathetically.
“Quite the opposite,” Solomon said, flicking one hand toward Constance’s ankle, still propped up on the kitchen chair.
“Ah, let me fetch you a cushion for your ankle, ma’am. And perhaps a blanket?”
“No, no,” Constance said. “It will be too short a drive to get cold.”
“Although the cushion will be welcome,” Solomon said.
At once, Laing rose and left the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.
Solomon looked at Constance, who gazed back, eyebrows arched. They did not speak, in case Laing overheard them. And yet to say nothing must surely seem unnatural… Not that it would matter once they had left the cottage. Solomon had every intention of driving straight down to the village and rousing Inspector Omand from his no-doubt-uneasy slumber.
On its own, perhaps the Fairfield lantern was not enough evidence against a trusted man, but among Laing’s private things, Solomon was sure they would find proof of the liaison. If they did not give him time to destroy them.
And with all of that, Sarah Phelps would surely break her silence.
“You know, it really does feel much better,” Constance said in light, admiring tones, even though he could feel her rigidity next to him. He covered her hand in her lap for an instant, giving it an understanding squeeze.
“All the same, I think you’ll be glad of the cushion—and I will be glad of the gig.”
“Are you calling me fat, husband?”
“I would not dare, wife of my heart.” The bantering words came easily, almost as if he meant them.
Laing returned to the kitchen, clutching a plump cushion, which Solomon rose to take from him with thanks. From outside came the clop of hooves, the rumble of wheels coming along the lane and onto the road.
“Your carriage awaits,” Laing said with a smile. “Don’t forget your lantern.”
Solomon lit it with a spill, as Murray had the other one. Behind him, he heard the change in Constance’s breathing and whipped around to see that Laing had lifted her from her chair. She did not cringe, and surely her odd stiffness would seem natural in a lady being handled by a man not her husband?
Solomon, who was not her husband either, was conscious of much more powerful emotions. He wanted to snatch her from Laing’s hold and knock him down for daring to touch her. Only fear for her held him back. The man held her, could hurt her, throw her… The blood rang in his ears and his stomach twisted into knots.
Somehow, he managed to move forward, to open the kitchen door for Laing to pass through with his burden.
“You see?” Constance said cheekily. “Dr. Laing carries me easily. He does not find me fat.”
Her performance enabled him to breathe, to keep up with her. “He is clearly far fitter than I,” he said mildly, following closely on the doctor’s heels and watching closely for any attack from Murray, who waited at the horse’s head. Solomon hadn’t yet decided if Murray was the dupe or the active ally. After all, he had allowed himself to be overruled at the autopsy, if not on the lungs then on the spots on the eyelids.
“You go up first,” Laing instructed Solomon. “And I shall pass her to you.”
Solomon hesitated. He would be in the gig, with Murray in control of the horse, and Constance in Laing’s hands. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it all.
But Constance was already in Laing’s hold. Solomon could not challenge him.
“Of course,” he murmured, hooking the lantern to the side of the vehicle and then climbing in. His heart in his mouth, he reached for Constance as though he had no doubts whatsoever of Laing’s next move.
Laing surrendered her with no reluctance at all, and helped settle her comfortably on the bench. Solomon placed her sprained foot on the cushion, and Murray darted inside briefly to retrieve her forgotten boot.
“Thank you both so much,” Solomon said, shortening the reins. “We are in your debt. I’ll be sure to see horse and gig returned to you at dawn. Goodnight.”
He flicked the reins, and the old horse ambled off.
“Goodnight.” The voices of Constance and the doctors mingled with the sounds of horse and gig. Solomon was afraid to breathe until he heard the distant closing of the cottage door.
Constance sagged beside him. “Oh, thank God. Does he know we know? Is Murray covering for him?”
“I think he knows,” Solomon said grimly, trying to shake the old horse into an increase of pace. “Shall I drop you at The Willows before I go on to the village?”
“Absolutely not!” she exclaimed, making him smile in spite of everything. “Speed is of the essence now.”
As though she agreed, the old mare finally broke into a reluctant trot.
Which was when a light suddenly flew over their heads and dropped beneath the traces in a tinkling of glass. An instant later a sharp crack rent the air and Betsy screamed, trying to rear up, while flames licked up over the front of the gig.
Solomon dropped the reins and dived into Constance, hurling her with him into the road, just as another shot rang out.
*
Sarah had fallen asleep in her chair by the stove. She woke with a start to a loud bang. Disoriented, she didn’t know if it was a clap of thunder, a firework, or a gunshot. She had no idea of the time, but alarm set her struggling out of her chair.
The candle had burned down an inch or two—which was a waste, since she should have gone to bed and blown it out—but it couldn’t have been so very late. She just felt so very tired and groggy with this damned cough.
As another bang sounded, she staggered across to the cottage door. Definitely not thunder. Opening the door, she saw the flaring glow at once. It was further up the hill, on the road where nothing should have been able to burn. No one but poachers hunted in the middle of the night, and surely they would not risk shooting or burning…
But someone was risking it. With a spurt of angry shame, she knew she had stayed silent too long. The girl had been vile in many ways, but she hadn’t deserved to die. Killing was wrong, but once committed… Well, one might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. She couldn’t change that murder. And she was probably too late to stop this one, but she would try.
She didn’t even bother with a coat as she stormed across her little yard, seized the wheelbarrow, and put the shovel into it. Then, as fast as her stiff legs would carry her, she ran out into the road and charged up the hill.
*
Maule felt sick. That such things could happen in the world, that a woman was so reduced… And yet he was no blind, sheltered fool. He had always known. But these were things that happened to other females, not to women he knew, let alone to his wife.
And yet the world would blame her. In his heart, he knew it would take time before he did not. A single fall from grace, he could understand and forgive, although if he ever met the man who had so cynically seduced Elizabeth and left her to bear her shame and her child alone, he would probably beat him to a pulp.
That was different. Different from the three weeks when she had been unable to find shelter or to eat, and had finally sold her body on the streets for pennies.
Elizabeth’s words tore at him, and yet he still clutched her close, keeping his face hidden from her lest she should see his disgust, even while they talked and talked. He understood she had been left no other choice. There had been more than her own life at stake. There was her child, whom she had both hated and loved in those weeks, and yet whom she had fought so fiercely to preserve through her own degradation.
His whole being twisted with pity and anger for her pain, her fear, the awfulness of that time. So did hers. But she said, “I’m not the only one. Women are used and blamed and face impossible choices all the time. I could feel it killing me. I was ill and I thought I would die with my baby, despite everything I had done. If it had not been for Constance… She found me and took me to her house. Whatever it was, I thought it had to be better than the sick vileness my life had become.”
“Was it?” he whispered into her hair. His eyes were tight shut. He felt her nod.
“I didn’t quite believe it at first. She said a friend had told her about me. She gave me a comfortable bed, a room of my own, even though some of the girls shared. You know about her establishment—it is a very exclusive, extremely expensive brothel. The men she employs to protect the household are large, fierce, and decent. But not all the women are whores. Only those who choose to be. She trains others to be servants or teachers, or finds them employment in shops and the more decent factories. There is even a female accountant… And as the women move on, others come in. All the women on the street, even some of the reformers, know about her. Some of them try to shut her down, but her connections are too powerful.”
It sounded like a bizarre mixture of decadence and philanthropy that he could not quite appreciate.
“From the day I first entered her house, there were no more men. I was well fed and got well. When I had my baby, Constance helped me find good people to adopt him. The rest you know. I worked at various rag schools and church schools, where I was given character references that enabled me to apply for the post with you. And that is everything, Humphrey. This time, it is everything.”
He wanted to shout at her for not telling him at the beginning. And yet if she had, would he not have sent her away? He would never have married her.
Resentment and anger mingled with his pity. It all hurt .
“Is it over?” she whispered. “Should I go?”
Something jolted through him. He actually lifted his head to look at her in alarm. “Go where?”
She shrugged hopelessly. “To Constance, I suppose. Begin again. But you must make the children understand I still love them. And make up some story for the neighbors—tell them I am traveling or something…”
“No,” he said, unreasonably revolted. “How can I condemn your lies and tell more of my own?”
Alarm crossed her face. “It would not be kind to the children to tell everyone the truth about me.”
“Damn it, that is no one’s business but yours and mine.” He searched her eyes, wondering if he looked as frightened as he felt. “Do you want to leave? Have you had enough of my temper and bluster?”
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
“Then it wasn’t lies?” he blurted.
Her eyes narrowed with incomprehension, then widened impossibly. Tears gathered in the corners and his own throat closed up. “That I love you? Oh, Humph, how could I lie about that? How could I bear…?” She threw her head back with a gasp. “You think because I endured other men for money, I did the same with you? Oh God, I do have to go…”
She jerked away, and perversely, he tightened his arms around her. “No! I need time, Elizabeth, to be comfortable again, but I…I couldn’t bear you to go. The children love you.”
He could not say aloud that he did too. Not yet. He didn’t know if the words were true. He didn’t even know if her revelations had changed his feelings, though it seemed he didn’t want them to.
Abruptly, a sharp crack sounded, like a firework, or a gun in the distance. He greeted it with relief, an excuse to rise, to walk away from her to the window and gather himself away from his need to touch her.
“What the devil was that?” He pulled back the curtain. His study window at the side of the house looked up the hill toward the Grange. Another bang sounded, but what really scared him was the glow in the sky. “Fire! Dear God, it must be Sarah’s cottage!”
Seizing his coat on the way, he strode from the room. “Rouse the men to help!” he threw over his shoulder at Elizabeth.
From the front door, he began to run, taking the quick path to the road before he recognized that if he arrived exhausted, he would be unfit to help Sarah. So he forced himself to slow to a brisk walk.
He had a soft spot for grumpy old Sarah. She reminded him of himself, and he had always thought her heart was good. She had been devastated when her husband died. As Maule would be devastated without Elizabeth.
Abruptly, his throat closed up again. And as if he had conjured her from his thoughts, her hand slipped into his. He blinked down at her.
“We can help together,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve wakened the grooms, and they’ll rouse the others. They won’t be far behind us.”
Thank you . He found he couldn’t speak, but he curled his fingers around her hand in gratitude. Gratitude and love.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I always will.”
Her head pushed against his arm. She emitted something like a sob and then straightened with a jerk. “It isn’t Sarah’s house that’s burning!”