The Runners
Chapter thirty-four
Violet
Henry’s fingers tightened around hers.
She had come upstairs expecting the worst and found him the same. He was pale, breathing shallowly, the charcoal poultice dark against his chest. But when she took his hand, his fingers closed. A faint, involuntary grip, like a man reaching for something in his sleep.
“His pulse is ninety-six. Down from one hundred and four,” her mother said from the plush chair with the other three ladies. They had trays of tea and sandwiches in front of them.
Violet pressed her lips to his knuckles. His skin was still too warm but the mottling on his forearms had faded.
“Has he opened his eyes?”
“Once. Briefly. He said something I could not make out and went under again. Dr Bainbridge believes the worst of the crisis has passed, but the next twelve hours will determine whether the organs have sustained permanent damage.”
Violet looked at her mother. “Thank you, Mama.” She looked at the Mrs Bickle and her daughter. “Thank you for bringing the tincture all this way.”
“Do not thank us,” Mrs Bickle said. “I want to hear it from the duke himself when he awakes.” She smiled mischievously.
Violet kissed Henry’s forehead. She placed her lips close to his ear and whispered, “I love you. Come back to me.”
When she entered the drawing room, Kit was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.
“How is he?” Kit asked.
“Improving. His pulse is dropping.” She looked at Vexley who was sitting in a settee, his head drooping. “How is our guest?”
“He proved cooperative, in the end. Sleeping now.”
“I hope you did not torture him.”
“He resisted for the first quarter of an hour. After that he was forthcoming.”
“You were not gentle with him, I gather.”
A shrug.
Kit glanced at Vexley, then back at her.
“He and Sarah Baker had an affair. Eleven years ago. They met once. He has been providing for their child with what he had. He did not know she was extorting from the duke. Said he was embarrassed when he heard about it at dinner. He confronted her right away.”
“And the poisoning?”
“He claims he had no knowledge that Baker was harming anyone. When I told him, he went white and asked to be sick. I gave him a basin. He used it quite well.”
Violet studied Kit’s face. “Do you believe him?”
Kit considered this, his hand rubbing his jaw. “Yes. I do.”
She looked at the man whose head was still bobbing. “I would like to speak to him.”
Kit tapped Edmund’s shoulder who lifted his head and looked around the room, his eyes red and bleary. His attention settled on Violet.
“Is he alive?” His voice cracked. “Please tell me he is alive.”
Violet sat in a chair opposite him. “He is alive. His condition is improving.”
Edmund’s head dropped. A breath came out of him that shook his whole body. He pressed his bound hands to his face and stayed like that for several seconds.
“Thank Heavens,” he said.
Violet saw that his face was blotched and wretched.
“You told Kit about Sarah. About the child.”
“Yes. All of it.”
“Why did you never tell Henry?”
His mouth twisted. “Because I was ashamed. Because she told me it would ruin her reputation and employability. I did not realise she was telling lies to Henry.”
“Have you met him? Your boy?”
“No.” His voice was barely audible. “I asked in the beginning. She would not let me see him. She used it to gain what she wanted. I complied a few times then realised she would not perform her promise. Other than sending quarterly allowance for the child, I stopped our association altogether.”
“Is that why you helped her kill Henry’s wives? To secure her favours, that she may allow you to see your son?”
His head snapped up. “No! I would never! I meant demands for more money which I had to borrow from Henry to fulfil. Or an introduction to staff of affluent households. References. I would never hurt a soul, especially Henry, Your Grace. That is God’s honest truth.”
Violet said nothing for a moment. Her last argument with Henry floated around in her mind, and she shook her head at herself.
Henry had one family member he trusted in his dark life.
She had tried to take that from him, and she had been wrong.
Watching Edmund fall apart now, she realised how wrong she had been.
She didn’t want to believe him but there it was.
“Did you know anything about why she killed the duchesses? Has she mentioned anything?”
“Nothing. If I had suspected, I would have gone to Henry or the Bow Street Runners. I would have intervened. I had not spoken to her for a decade until recently. After I learned what kind of woman she was, I had avoided her. The dinner with Your Grace and Henry,” he pointed at her with his chin, “was the first time I heard it. I swear it.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“About her taking money from Henry, about lying to him.” His expression pleaded with her to deny it. “Do you truly believe she took those lives?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head again with a shuddering sigh. Violet rose to her feet. “Please stay in the house while the investigation is occurring. If you run, I will assume you are guilty of murder.”
She turned to Kit. “Untie him and put him in the guest room on the third floor.”
Kit nodded once.
“May I see him?” Edmund said as she stepped toward the door. She turned, hesitated.
Then: “Not yet. He needs rest and peace. When he is more stable, you may see him.”
She left them, with Kit kneeling and working the knots.
The Bow Street Runners arrived at half past four.
There were two of them: a senior man named Hatchett, broad and greying with hands the size of bread loaves, and a younger man named Poole who carried a leather notebook and wrote in it constantly.
They came through the front door with their clothes rumpled and hats crooked.
Violet received them in the small drawing room. She rang for tea.
“Your Grace,” Hatchett said as he took a seat in the settee across from her. Poole sat beside him. “We have apprehended Sarah Baker.”
Violet exhaled. “Where?”
“At the cottage in Surrey. The direction your man provided was accurate. She was packing the boy’s belongings when we entered.”
“Where is she now?”
“In a cell at Bow Street. She has not confessed to the poisoning, but she has not denied it either. She is…” Hatchett paused, choosing his words, “She is very composed for a woman in her situation.”
“I find her frightening, if you don’t mind me saying so,” the younger man interjected. Hatchett gave him a look that ended the contribution, then returned his attention to Violet.
“We will need to take statements,” Hatchett continued. “From Your Grace, His Grace when he is recovered, the household staff, and from Mr Vexley whom we understand is on the premises.”
“Of course. Whatever you need, Mr Hatchett.”
After the Runners took her statement, Violet put the Duchess of Cranbrook in charge of organising the staff for questioning. Kit confirmed that there were enough footmen stationed at Edmund’s door. She then climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Henry was in the bed with her mother in the chair beside him. Dr Bainbridge was gone for the evening, his instructions written in a neat hand on the bedside table. The room was warm and quiet and smelled of iron and charcoal and her mother’s lavender soap.
“His pulse is eighty-eight,” her mother said. “He moved his legs an hour ago. He said your name.”
Violet sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand. His fingers curled around hers, stronger now, a proper grip.
“I am here,” she said.
Her mother stood and placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“I shall give you time alone, Dearest. He is stable. No treatments are required. We now wait for his body to do what it does best.”
Violet thanked her, and she left. She turned back to her husband. His eyes were open now, although only partially. He looked at her then his hand tightened on hers.
“Stay,” he said. His voice was a ruin.
She almost laughed. She almost sobbed. She did both, an ugly sound that was neither.
“I am not going anywhere,” she said. “Neither are you.”
His eyes closed, but his hand did not let go.
Violet kicked off her shoes, lay down beside her husband on top of the covers, and pressed her face into his shoulder. She slept.