Chapter 3
Chapter Three
CEASE YER POUNDIN’!” SHOUTED OLIVER IRRITABLY. “I canna move faster than this!”
That was, in fact, a matter of debate. Whoever was rapping heavily upon the front door appeared to take him at his word, however, and the insistent knocking stopped.
“Have ye nae learned the virtue of patience?” Oliver grumbled, grasping the latch with his gnarled hands.
“Did yer ma nae teach ye ’tis no proper to be breakin’ down an old man’s door?
” He swung the door open, finishing crossly, “Have ye no more manners than a stinkin’, hairy—oh, beggin’ yer pardon, Governor Thomson. ”
“Kindly inform Miss MacPhail that Police Constable Drummond and I must speak with her at once on a most urgent matter,” said Governor Thomson impatiently.
Oliver leaned against the door and idly scratched his white head. “What’s amiss, then? Did someone finally take a torch to that nasty pile o’ rubble ye call a jail?”
Indignation nearly turned the roots of Governor Thomson’s wiry beard pink.
“I’ll have you know I run a respectable prison, which meets with all the current recommendations of the Inspector of Prisons for Scotland.
Second, what I choose to discuss with Miss MacPhail is none of your concern.
And third, if you had learned anything whatsoever about being a butler since you left my prison, you would open this door this minute and escort the constable and myself into the drawing room to await Miss MacPhail’s company. ”
Oliver snapped his brows together in a snowy scowl.
“Is that so? Well, I’d wager yer precious inspector would make a far different list of recommendations if he’d been made to actually stay in that stinkin’ cesspool a week or so.
Second, I’m nae in the habit of lettin’ anyone enter this house without havin’ them state their business first. And third, as Miss MacPhail is my mistress, I’ll be lettin’ her decide whether ye’ll be sittin’ in her house or standin’ out here biding yer time on the doorstep.
” He slammed the door in their startled faces.
“Let them stew over that for a moment.” He chuckled. “Are ye ready, then, lassie?”
“Almost,” said Genevieve, lifting her skirts as she hurried down the staircase.
She had been tending to her patient, who was still sleeping, and had needed a moment to straighten her appearance before facing the authorities.
“You may show them into the drawing room, Oliver.” She rushed into the room and seated herself.
Oliver waited another moment, just to further annoy Governor Thomson before finally opening the door. “Miss MacPhail will see ye both in the drawing room.” He raised an arthritic arm and gestured grandly at the modestly appointed room.
Regarding him with irritation, Governor Thomson removed his coat and hat and held them out for Oliver to take.
“’Tis kind o’ ye to offer, but I canna say I’m particularly fond of black,” Oliver told him. “Makes ye look like a corpse, Guv’ner, if ye dinna mind my sayin’ so. Besides, ye’ll only be wantin’ them again when ye’re leaving.”
Governor Thomson huffed with exasperation and marched into the drawing room, carrying his rejected attire. Constable Drummond removed his own hat and followed behind him, his thin mouth pressed into a line of disgust, as if Oliver’s rudeness was no more than what he expected.
“Good morning, Governor Thomson,” said Genevieve pleasantly. “Constable Drummond. Please, sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Constable Drummond replied before Governor Thomson could accept.
“Forgive us for disturbing you this morning, Miss MacPhail,” Governor Thomson apologized, plopping his corpulent backside into a chair, “but I’m afraid something terrible has happened. Lord Redmond has escaped.”
Genevieve regarded him blankly. “Who?”
“The murderer who shared a cell with the boy you took home with you last night, Miss MacPhail,” Constable Drummond explained. “He was Lord Haydon Kent, Marquess of Redmond. I believe you exchanged some words with him before leaving the prison.”
Constable Drummond was a tall, dour man of some forty years, with unfashionably long hair that dripped in a scraggly fringe below his collar.
More hair oozed in two dark stripes along the sides of his face, which only served to accentuate the thinness of his somber features.
Genevieve had first met him when she had gone to rescue Charlotte a year earlier from prison, and she had taken an immediate dislike to him.
It was he who had arrested the poor child, who was all of ten at the time, for the criminal offense of stealing a turnip and two apples from a garden.
It was Constable Drummond’s impenetrable conviction that those individuals who did not uphold the law deserved to be dealt the harshest of consequences, be they adult or child, and he had not been supportive of Genevieve taking Charlotte into her tender custody.
“Of course. I was not aware of his name.” Somehow Genevieve managed to keep her expression neutral.
The warder used to call him “his lordship.” Jack had said.
Her own father had been a viscount, and her former betrothed was an earl, so she was not easily impressed with aristocratic titles and the preposterous implication of social, moral, and intellectual superiority that accompanied them.
Nevertheless, it was somehow disconcerting to think that the naked man whose battered, aching body she had swabbed throughout the night was a marquess.
“My maid told me when she returned from the prison last night that the prisoner from Jack’s cell was missing.” She drew her brow together in feigned worry. “I had hoped you would have found him by now.”
“Rest assured, he can’t have gone far,” said Governor Thomson, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His waistcoat was straining tautly against its buttons, which looked as if they might suddenly fly off at any moment. “Not in his condition.”
He appeared to be trying to convince himself as much as her.
Clearly it did not reflect well upon his abilities to have a dangerous murderer escape from his prison the very night before the man was to be executed.
It occurred to Genevieve that the governor might well be in danger of losing his position for such a grave blunder.
The possibility was troubling. Whatever his faults, she had carefully cultivated a valuable partnership with him over the years.
With Governor Thomson running the prison, she was always informed when there was a child sentenced to languish behind its foul walls.
She could not be certain a new governor would be nearly so accommodating—or so open to bribery.
“I will find him.” Constable Drummond spoke with a harsh resolve that Genevieve found unsettling. “Have no fear of that. I expect he will be locked up again before nightfall, and hanged first thing tomorrow.”
She managed what she hoped was a sufficiently bright smile.
“How very reassuring. Just hearing you say that makes me feel much better. As I’m certain you can appreciate, a woman with young children becomes most anxious when she hears that a dangerous killer is lurking on the streets.
Until you have succeeded in your capture of him, I shall be sure to keep careful watch over all of my family.
Thank you both for taking the time to come here to warn me.
It was most kind of you.” She rose, as if presuming their discussion was finished.
“Actually, that isn’t the sole purpose for our visit.” Governor Thomson shifted awkwardly once again. Genevieve thought he looked like a giant egg wobbling back and forth. “We wanted to speak to the lad.”
She arched her brows in confusion. “You mean Jack? Why?”
“It is possible your new—” Constable Drummond’s mouth tightened as he searched for a palatable noun “—charge can provide us with some clue as to where Lord Redmond may have gone.” The word “charge” was laden with scorn.
“What makes you think he has any knowledge of such a thing?”
Constable Drummond leaned back and steepled his long fingers together, studying her. Genevieve regarded him with brittle calm.
“They must have talked about something, Miss MacPhail.” His manner was infuriatingly condescending, as if he were trying to explain the obvious to a dullard.
“Lord Redmond is not from Inveraray, and was arrested for his brutal crime shortly after he arrived here. This leaves us with limited clues as to where he might be hiding. Given his severely weakened condition at the time of his escape, we do not believe he can have traveled very far. We know he did not return to the inn where he was staying prior to his arrest, or to the tavern at which he became intoxicated on the night of the murder. We need to find out from the lad if Lord Redmond made any mention of his acquaintances in Inveraray, or discussed some place where he might go were he to escape.”
“I have known Jack only a short while, but I can tell you he is not a boy who engages much in conversation.” Her tone was light as she finished obligingly, “However, if you believe he may be of some assistance, of course you must speak with him. Oliver, would you be kind enough to fetch Jack and ask him to join us?”
Oliver poked his scraggly white head around the door to the drawing room. “Aye.”
He disappeared and returned a moment later, with Jack reluctantly following.