Chapter 22 #2
Shadows deepened, closing in on her, the many large yew trees obscuring much of the moonlight and casting even darker shadows across her path.
As she rounded the corner of the church, she heard something. What? The clank of metal? Ursula Birt’s former words echoed through her mind once more: “More than one person has heard the sound of clanking armor as the king’s ghostly cavaliers suited up for battle.”
She told herself her imagination was getting the better of her. The sound could have been any number of things. A local blacksmith at work. A chain being hung, ready to padlock a gate. Someone dropping an iron pot.
Despite her assurances, a chill prickled over her and she had the uneasy sensation of being watched. She looked one way, then the other, and whirled around. Nothing.
Foolish creature.
She turned again toward the door to Painswick Court, and faltered.
An outline of a figure stood out against the lighter wood of the door. She blinked, but the figure did not disappear.
And then it began to move.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Anne called.
Another clank as the door latched shut behind whoever . . . or whatever . . . it was.
The figure started forward, and Anne instinctively stepped back.
What should she do? The church was deserted at this hour, the shops shuttered. Should she hurry back to Miss Lotty’s? Or to one of the cottages nearer by—and hope someone would answer her knock in time?
Another step back. Another move toward her.
As the figure stepped from the shadows, faint moonlight shone on it.
Anne gasped at the image, so like paintings she had seen. Long curly hair, beard, doublet, robe . . . the white of the large collar brighter in the dark than the rest of him. Nearly as bright as the glint of something slender and metallic in his gloved hand.
A knife? The missing knife?
Anne froze. This was no ghost. No figment.
A moment later she turned and ran, bolting in the direction she had come. She gained a few yards by the element of surprise, but within two seconds, footfalls ate up the distance between them.
She would never make it out of the sprawling labyrinth of headstones, tombs, and trees, let alone to Yew Cottage by speed alone.
Yew . . .
She would have to try to evade him and hope he was not as familiar with the churchyard as she was.
Anne dodged headstones and ran through the low opening of a yew archway. Emerging on the other side, she ducked behind a large chest tomb as her pursuer ran past.
When he had, she ran in a different direction.
She needed to escape the lonely churchyard, reach a house, reach help.
But all too quickly, the footfalls were once again on her trail. Drawing close.
Then a thud, a fall, a grunt. Whoever it was had likely tripped over one of the low-lying granite slabs that marked many of the graves.
Anne ran on. She heard her pursuer scramble to his feet more quickly than she’d hoped. Not enough time to reach Yew Cottage or the Court. Instead, she headed toward her old hiding place, hoping he did not know of it, or would not think to look there.
Reaching it, she dropped to hands and knees to avoid hitting the branches and making a telltale noise. Clearing the low, prickly branches, she hoisted herself atop the tomb chest within to hide her light skirts and more fully conceal herself.
The bare, sun-starved underbranches scratched at her. Sharp, sheared-off sticks poked into her neck. She bit back a yelp of pain and tried to catch her breath, to breathe deeply and quietly, when, winded as she was, she longed to gulp large gasps of air.
She tried to think of her next step. If he found her and pushed his way in, he would have to bend down to do so, and when he did, she would kick him in the face as hard as she could and hope to clamber out and away before he grabbed her. Or stabbed her with that knife . . .
She had one guess of who it might be. Perhaps she was wrong and it was some evildoer unknown to her. A passing madman. A stranger bent on scaring—or worse—whoever he happened to meet.
The running footsteps slowed and walked past her hiding place. So close she could hear him breathing. Did that mean he could hear her too? He paused, perhaps looking in all directions. Listening? She held her breath.
A gruff, ghostly voice hissed, “Aaaanne . . .”
Her stomach twisted. Whoever or whatever it was knew her name.
Then the footsteps continued on, moving farther away.
Anne slowly released the breath she’d been holding and drew in one shaky inhale after another, listening in case the footsteps returned.
She heard only silence for several seconds. Then perhaps a minute.
Had he gone? Given up? Or was he simply searching another section of the graveyard?
How long should she stay hidden? Or would it be wiser to sneak away before he returned?
Yet Anne was disoriented by the darkness and her fear, and couldn’t be positive which direction he’d gone.
And she certainly did not know where he was now.
She silently prayed, O God, please help me.
Another minute passed, and Anne began to think the danger had passed too.
Suddenly, light flickered through the foliage, branches rustled, and a figure entered her sanctuary, rising to his feet right before her.
Anne shrieked and drew back her foot, kicking with all her strength.
“Anne? Anne! Stop that. It’s me—Jasper. What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing!” She slapped his arm once, then again. “Was that you, chasing me around the churchyard? Scaring me to death?”
“What? Chasing you? Heavens, no. I came out to look for you. Katherine said you were expected back some time ago.”
“How did you find me?”
“You always did hide in the same place.” In the dimness, his teeth shone in a teasing grin. “Moreover, I climbed the church tower to look around, saw a flash of your white skirt, and guessed where you were headed.”
“Did you see no one else?”
“No. It was dark, and I wasn’t looking for anyone else. Who should I have seen?”
“Someone dressed as King Charles the First.”
“Really?”
She looked him over in the dim light. Jasper was bareheaded and wore an ordinary frock coat, but he might have discarded the robe and wig. “Show me your hands.”
“What? Here.” He lifted them.
“Turn out your pockets.”
“Dash it, Anne. What are you on about?”
“Whoever it was carried a knife.”
“A knife? And you thought it was me!”
“Well—here you are. What am I supposed to think?”
“You’re frightened, so I’ll overlook it. Any other idea who it might have been?”
“I don’t know, but I think maybe . . . Oh, you won’t like it.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Dalby.”
“Jude? Why would you think that?”
“Because we argued. He accused me of taking something from his room.”
“What?”
“I . . .” Anne licked dry lips, fearing he wouldn’t believe her. She said only, “He would not say. But he even searched my things.”
“The devil he did.” Jasper frowned and reached for her hand. “Come, let’s get you inside. I want to have a word with him.”
Jasper helped her down from the tomb chest, and together they ducked and emerged into the open. She looked around, half expecting to see her pursuer lurking nearby. She felt uneasy but much less terrified now that Jasper was at her side.
“Where were you the last few days?” Anne asked. “No one seemed to know. We were worried.”
“London. I’ll tell you everything later.” He picked up the lantern he’d evidently set down to climb into her hiding place, then turned to her. “Here, take my arm. Good heavens, you’re trembling. Let’s get you into the warm.”
Reaching the churchyard door, he held it open for her. As they passed through it, light from his lantern shone between the trees to a bench on one side . . . and a figure seated there.
Anne cried out. Jasper swore and whirled around, free hand up, ready to fight off an assailant.
For there on the bench sat Jude Dalby. Mouth ajar. Eyes open and unseeing. An arrow in his neck.
Jasper looked from his cousin to the woodshed, where the arrows were kept, brow furrowed in thought or disbelief. Then he turned back to her. “Go into the house,” he said, his tone commanding. “Tell Toby to lock the doors. I will go and find the constable.”
He handed her the lamp. “Take this. I’ll be fine without it.”
Stunned, Anne nodded vaguely and turned toward the house. She took several steps along the curving path toward the side door she and the physicians regularly used.
Behind her, the churchyard door latched with a clank as Jasper departed.
Anne hesitated and turned back, morbid curiosity and confusion drawing her. She had believed Mr. Dalby a killer. Yet now he had been killed.
As she retraced her steps to the bench, she realized it was partially concealed from view by the trees and the woodshed. Rounding a broad tree trunk, she looked again to assure herself he was still there. It was too terrible to be true.
Lifting Jasper’s lantern, Anne forced herself to look again at Jude Dalby, struggling to grasp that this destroyer of women’s lives had been destroyed.
By whom? One of the women he had betrayed? An enraged father, brother, or . . . uncle?
Or one of the family? That left only Katherine and Jasper that she knew of. Or someone from his late wife’s family, like her brother, Mr. Palling?
Or some unknown killer in a costume? The same “ghost” who had pursued her through the churchyard? No, whoever it was had known her name. . . .
She swept the light over Mr. Dalby’s person.
He wore normal gentlemen’s attire. No robe, no wig, no beard.
She leaned closer and studied his face. No signs of lingering glue.
She noticed something else, though, and peered closer.
His lips were blue. And within his open, vacant eyes, she saw his pupils were noticeably enlarged.
She braced herself, leaned toward his half-gaped mouth, and sniffed.
Alcohol, which was no surprise. But there was another smell too.
Something highly unpleasant. She shifted the lantern and searched the ground nearby.
Sure enough, in the grass a few feet away was evidence he’d been sick.
She took one last look at the man, looking for . . . exactly what, she was not sure. Signs of a struggle, perhaps? Then she saw something white protruding from his clenched fist. She reached down and tugged it free, the hand still pliable—he had clearly not been dead long.
A small slip of paper, folded in half. She opened it and lifted it toward the lantern light.
Meet me at the bench near the churchyard door at 10:00. I have something you want.
R. S.
Anne sucked in a sharp breath. R. S. . .
. Was this Rosa Stark’s handwriting? Had she arranged to meet him in private?
Surprise bordering on disbelief washed over her.
Even though the girl had come to Painswick Court hoping to spur a second-chance romance, she had quickly soured on the idea. Had she changed her mind?
Another thought struck her. Had Rosa found the new will and offered it to the man to endear herself to him? Or worse yet, had she decided to make him pay the ultimate price?
Anne looked again at handsome, vain, conniving Jude Dalby with an arrow in his neck and thought the latter more likely.
Could Rosa really kill him? Had she ever shot a bow and arrow in her life?
Anne supposed it was possible, yet found it hard to believe.
And what about his dilated pupils, blue lips, and evident vomiting?
Did that indicate she had poisoned him first?
There was very little blood from the wound at his neck.
Someone else could have lured him out here to his death, but this note would certainly implicate Rosa.
Thinking of the young woman’s son and uncle, Anne tucked the note into her glove, heart pounding.
She thought again of the figure who had chased her. If not Mr. Dalby, then who?
Suddenly someone grabbed her from behind, locking an aggressive arm around her and, before she could scream, pressing some sort of sponge against her nose and mouth.
The Latin term Spongia somnifera rose in her mind—sponges soaked in opium.
She tried not to breathe, to pull away, but it was no use.
Lungs burning, she sucked hard against the porous thing again and again, desperate for air.
Soon her vision faded and she felt herself sinking into blackness . . . and knew no more.