Chapter 13
When Edmund descended the narrow stair, leaving Mrs. Larkin and the unconscious Blake behind, the weight of her last words—‘You must tell no one’—settled upon him like a mantle he had half a mind to shrug off and half a mind to guard with his life.
“I will not betray you,” he had told her.
He meant it, and hoped it could be true.
Yet as he stepped into the quiet corridor, closing the door softly behind him, his face twisted with the very contradiction he had sworn to contain.
He prayed—truly prayed—that she was not a traitor. His instinct told him she was not.
He did not think her one. Everything in her manner bespoke caution born of necessity, not deceit born of malice.
Nevertheless, he had seen entirely too many honourable women drawn into peril they had neither invited nor deserved—and he had seen, likewise, too many clever villains wear the mask of virtue.
God preserve me, he thought grimly, from becoming yet another fool undone by a graceful woman’s secrets.
He halted midway on the stairs, rubbing a hand over his mouth in frustration. Impartiality and distance were essential for him to do his duty, and he would do it regardless of the cost.
He could still see the way she had looked at him—her eyes storm-grey, fearful for another man’s life, yet refusing to give a single inch of truth.
There was nothing mild or ordinary about Elise Larkin.
His heart thumped an unwelcome agreement at the thought.
“That will not do,” he muttered, resuming his descent. “You will be sensible, Edmund. You will keep your wits, no matter how she looks at you.”
He reached the last step and paused in the shadows of the corridor the stairs led to. Blake’s injuries passed before his mind—the neat slice of the blade, the deliberate bruising, the savage kicks that had broken ribs.
This was not the work of drunkards or petty thieves but of men who wished someone silenced. Holt.
That meant Blake knew something.
The combination set Edmund’s instincts buzzing unpleasantly.
Blake. The name had come too quickly, too nervously, to be false. No surname, no rank, no explanation—only the look in Mrs. Larkin’s eyes; that quick, frightened flicker when she realized she had said more than she had intended.
Resolute, he adjusted his coat collar, and on leaving the school by the same side door, headed toward the cliff path. The quickest route to the town ran along the headland and past the old fishing shack where he had found Blake that morning.
No ordinary violence explained a man being beaten so brutally and left to die. He needed clarity—evidence. He needed something to keep him from leaping to conclusions—whether in Mrs. Larkin’s favour or against it.
The hut came into view around a bend, slouched against the cliff like a wounded animal bracing against wind and time. Edmund slowed, scanning the area before stepping through the half-open door.
Inside, the air remained cold and stale with the scent of dried blood.
He crouched near the place Blake had lain, tracing the impressions in the dirt. There were two sets of heavy boot prints, at least—one deep-heeled, one smooth-soled but wide—and made by men, by the size of them.
The disarray of the hut told a story. Blake had struggled. Someone had pinned him down near the back wall—impressions suggested knees or boots beside him—and then dragged him across the floor, judging by the long smears.
Edmund rose, sweeping his gaze slowly around the room.
A faint metallic glint near a fishing net caught his attention.
He retrieved it: a button. It was Navy-issue, but the engraving had been filed down.
He turned it over in his fingers, feeling that familiar prickling at the back of his neck—the sense that he stood too close to something he ought to recognize.
Men who wished to hide their allegiance defaced their buttons. It was an old trick. Smugglers did it.
He slipped the button carefully into his pocket.
Near the door, he noticed something else: the imprint of a boot larger than the others, set in drying mud and leading out of the shack—not toward the coast, but inland. He straightened slowly.
Had someone come here after the assault? Not Elise—her steps were light, quick, unmistakable. This print belonged to a large man.
He scanned the shack once more, committing everything to memory. The attackers had been methodical, the beating intentional. It had been the kind of violence meant to extract information—or punish its absence.
That meant Blake had something Holt wanted. Had Blake given them what they sought?
And Elise… she was in danger by association if not more.
Edmund drew a deep breath of cold, bracing air, feeling more and more uneasy about Elise Larkin.
He continued toward town with long, determined strides.
Before collecting the medicines, he stopped at the post office and stepped inside.
He would send off a query at once. Renforth would know whether Blake belonged to the Navy, the Army, the smuggler-watch, or something darker still—and he would know it quickly.
There was a desk for patrons to write messages at before handing them to the courier who rode to London twice a day. Edmund took up a pen, his hand steady despite the conflict roiling beneath his ribs.
He wrote swiftly, clearly and sparingly:
Require immediate intelligence on a man answering to the name of Blake—found wounded on the coast. Knife wound, deliberate assault, left for dead.
Confirm whether he is known to our circle or any branch of service.
Colonel Renforth and the other officers might make sense of it.
He folded the message with precision and sealed it with the small signet he carried for correspondence only Renforth would see. Handing it to the courier, he said quietly, “To London with haste.”
The man nodded, slipping it into the dispatch bag without question.
Edmund stepped back out into the daylight and exhaled.
He felt steadier already. He had a clue to follow.
Now he would fetch the willow bark and laudanum.
Edmund quickened his steps. He would keep his promise to her—as long as he was able—but he would not let himself wander blindly into whatever network of danger she was entangled in. Duty came first.
Edmund returned to the school with the apothecary’s parcel tucked firmly beneath his arm, the winter wind snapping at his coat-tails as though urging him along. He had set out the moment he left Mrs. Larkin, whilst his mind had remained lodged in that room the entire walk.
The images were imprinted on his mind’s eye: A wounded man—‘Blake,’ she had said, though the name had tumbled out with a hesitation that lingered unpleasantly in his memory; a knife wound to the thigh, ribs bruised by boots, half-delirious and left to die in a broken hut.
Whoever had delivered this brutality was delivering a message.
Mrs. Larkin had clearly known that the very moment she saw the wounds.
No ordinary schoolmistress would have tended those injuries with such practised deftness, lest she had experience. And no woman living quietly would react to danger by moving a dying man into a hidden room to tend, let alone without help.
He approached the school’s side door and knocked lightly. He had meant to be discreet, but she opened it so swiftly he wondered if she had been waiting by the door.
“Mr. Leigh,” she said softly, her eyes unreadable. “You have returned promptly.”
“Of course,” he replied, lifting the parcel. “I thought it best not to delay.”
She stepped aside, admitting him into the narrow corridor. Her composure was unchanged—calm, grave, maddeningly controlled—yet there was a faint strain at the corners of her eyes he had not noticed before.
He followed her up the small back staircase, careful not to appear too curious. When they reached the landing, she turned with a quiet warning in her manner—as though she expected him to behave with solemnity. He inclined his head in reassurance.
He paused, weighing the wisdom of seeking further information. Her face, however, held no guilt, only the weary determination of someone who had done what had been needed, regardless of propriety or expectation.
She opened the parcel, inspecting the bottles with a practised eye. “These will do well. Thank you.”
“You need not thank me,” he murmured. “I am glad to be useful.”
She set the medicines aside and folded her hands. “Did anyone question your purchases?” she asked quietly.
“Only a little. I said I was restoring the Admiral’s supplies.”
A small breath escaped her, whether relief or weariness he could not tell.
He hesitated, then ventured, “Mrs. Larkin… forgive me if this is impertinent, but may I ask how you came to be at the fishing hut this morning?”
Her eyes flicked towards him—alert yet guarded. He had struck at precisely the place she did not wish him to tread.
“It is a path I take from time to time,” she said evenly, “for the freshness of the air.”
“Ah.” He smiled gently, hoping to ease rather than trap. “Then it appears we share the same habit.”
Her expression flickered.
He continued lightly, “I walk most mornings before breaking my fast. It helps to clear my thoughts.”
She studied him with suspicion softened by uncertainty.
“And this morning?” she asked.
“This morning,” he said, “I saw you take the cliff path. I meant only to greet you, but when I reached the hut, I heard the sounds of distress. That is all.”
He saw the moment she accepted this—at least partly. Her posture eased somewhat, though her eyes remained wary.
“You should not have involved yourself,” she murmured.
He almost laughed. “A man was bleeding to death, and you—alone—were trying to lift him. You needed assistance, whether you wish to admit it or not.”
She turned slightly, as though the weight of the truth made her uncomfortable.
He softened his voice. “Mrs. Larkin… I am not your enemy.”