Chapter 9 #2
Munro cursed. Stubborn, that she was. As well as strong-willed. He cursed himself as he found a driver and gave him the address. He should never have left her on her own. She was like a child that way, determined to go her own way and could get herself into all sorts of mischief.
He smiled in spite of himself, as he thought of her adventures across London in the motor carriage, escapades that reminded him too well of her Ladyship. If he didna know better, he would swear she was of the same blood.
Albany Street was north of Old Town. The trip was quickly made in spite of the weather and the climb of the hill from Princes Street. A light glowed from the second-story flat.
He paid the driver, took the steps, two at a time, then the stairs to the second floor as well.
The inspector’s sister met him at the door.
“Glad I am to see you, Mr. Munro,” she said as if they were long acquainted, then stepped back from the door.
“Miss Montgomery?” he inquired as he swept the cap from his head.
She nodded. “Aye,” and stood aside for him to follow her.
He swore again when he saw Lily.
“She was exhausted, poor thing, when she returned. I tried to get her to the bedroom, but she made it no farther. I covered her with a blanket.” She hesitated, twisting her hands together.
“Something happened, but she would not speak of it.”
He crossed the parlour, then went down beside the settee. He brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek and cursed all over again at the bruise he found there.
“She was soaked through from the rain. At least, I was able to remove her jacket before she went out like a light.” Elizabeth explained. “I put the blanket over her, poor thing.”
Lily was curled on her side, legs drawn up under the blanket and against the cold.
Munro lifted her into his arms and stood. “She has a room?”
“Just there.” Elizabeth indicated the room off the parlour.
He carried her into the room, then laid her on the bed. She had not moved.
He had seen it before, the ague that set in with those out and about in the cold. He removed her boots and stockings
“Stand aside Mr. Munro, I’ll see to the rest of her clothes. Ye need to tend the fire. It will need more coal from the parlour.”
He brought coal, set it in the firebox, then struck a match. The flame sputtered then grew, light from the flames spread across the wood floor.
“Oh, merciful heaven,” Elizabeth Cheney whispered.
He glanced over at the bed where she had been able to remove Lily’s skirt and shirtwaist.
She stood with a hand clasped over her mouth.
“Who would do such a thing?”
Munro crossed the small room. Even in the flickering light from the fireplace, he saw the dull gleam of the white marks across Lily’s back.
She had been beaten, badly enough that it had left scars. They were old. He knew the look of such things.
Mrs. Cheney looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes.
“I will stay with her,” he told her. It was not a question.
The woman made no objection, nor did she lecture him about the proprieties of such things. She simply nodded.
“It gets cold in the night. There are more blankets in the chest under the window.”
He thanked her as she left, then pulled a chair beside the bed.
If she wakened with him there, it would be an argument fer certain.
Much later, the sound wakened him from dozing at the chair. A whimper of sadness, something whispered, a sound he knew well from old things.
He glimpsed the scar on her shoulder, just there at the edge of her camisole. It was all but dry now and the inspector’s sister had not removed it.
Lily looked incredibly small and fragile on the bed.
Fragile.
It was not a word that he was familiar with in those he knew. Yet it was there, along with strength that she had acquired from other things she'd experienced.
She had lost the blanket as she stirred without waking. He pulled it back up over her shoulders. Then lightly touched her bruised cheek.
“Tha mi an seo. I am here.”
Lily
My friend, Abby! She was here! We stood together once more, shivering in that alcove at the Foundling Hospital, terrified of being discovered, yet daring to hope...
“We need to go!” I whispered.
“What if we're caught?” she softly cried. “You know what they do. They will punish us.”
The marks on my back were proof of that.
“I’ll go first and make certain no one is there. You can follow,” I told her.
But I could not persuade her. She was too frightened.
"I canna go with ye!"
And then she was gone, back the way we had come.
I called after her, but there was no reply. I waited, hoping she would return but she did not. Somewhere a clock chimed through the darkened night. They would come for one last time for the night, to make certain they were all in their beds.
If I were caught, I knew that I would be punished. Perhaps worse. There were whispers about the ones that disappeared.
“Ye are evil!” the nun had screamed at me, the memory sharp of her fingers digging into my shoulder for something I didna understand—the things I saw sometimes, the whispered warnings. Everything that I had buried deep and refused to accept because it was frightening.
“The devil’s own, with yer strange ways! I’ve seen it in ye!”
I could not go back. I turned and ran down that long hallway, the stones cold beneath my feet, down the stairs at the end that led to the kitchen, and out into the night...
There was grey light in the room as I came up out of the dream.
Slowly, gradually, I remembered the day before—Kip, the encounter at the Grassmarket, and how I had returned to the flat at Albany Street.
I glanced at the chair beside the bed with a faint memory, as I heard voices from the parlour and the kitchen beyond, as Elizabeth offered coffee to someone.
Munro! It was only a glimpse the night before. He had been there!
I found my gown that appeared to have been cleaned and quickly dressed.
“Will ye have more coffee, Mr. Munro?” Elizabeth asked him as I stepped into the parlour.
“Aye, if ye please,” he replied, as that blue gaze found me, then narrowed. He stood.
“Here ye are,” Elizabeth commented when she saw me, as if it was any other day and not the day after I had appeared at her door...
“And ye found the gown. I cleaned it with a few tricks from cleaning me husband’s uniforms.” A smile, perhaps a little anxious.
“Sit yerself and I will bring more coffee.”
I took the chair across from the one Munro had been sitting in.
I had brushed and braided my hair. Otherwise, I must look a sight with the bruise on my cheek that was now an impressive shade of blue that matched my gown, even in the meager light in the bedroom mirror.
I fully expected some disparaging comment from the man who sat across from me and was quite skilled at them. He said nothing as Elizabeth returned to the table with coffee and warm cakes that she placed between us.
“Me husband said that I should open a bake shop,” she commented, with a look at my cheek. “He used to say that I made the best cakes, scones, and biscuits. But I was not one to put up with gossipy women and nattering old men.”
I smiled and winced at the same time, as I thought of Rupert the hound, back in London at the Strand. He had a particular fondness for biscuits, usually filled with ham or sausage.
“I have something for yer cheek as well, to keep away the stares, although it is a glorious colour,” she commented, as she returned to the kitchen.
Munro still had not commented on the obvious situation from the day before, or the bruise. Still, I remembered something from the night before, something that was gone just as quickly as it was there.
He did have a habit of getting under my skin with just a look. Still, something had changed.
“I met with the man I told ye about, the man by the name of Campbell,” he said, sparing me his criticism for the moment.
I lifted the cup and took a careful sip, mindful of the pain in my cheek. The coffee was hot and strong.
“Was he able to tell you anything about the man who was seen the night Dory was murdered?”
“Not as yet, but then it was the first we spoke of it. He would have thought nothing of it before, as these sorts of things...”
Happen frequently. There was no need for him to say it. These sorts of things happened all too often in the Old Town.
“He will have his people make inquiries.”
“Can he be trusted?” Not the first time I had asked that question.
“No.” Not the first time he had said that.
“But I made it worthwhile.”
I was almost afraid to ask how he had done that, yet reminded myself that these things were more than familiar to him. There was a faint smile.
“Those who frequent his taverns and brothels have a particular appreciation for good whisky. I managed to see that he had more than enough.”
I suspected there was more to it, but he did not share that.
He took more coffee when Elizabeth returned. I did the same, as well as taking a biscuit from the plate. It was quite exceptional. She smiled, then returned to the kitchen.
“There is a Chinese woman who takes in laundry from those of us in the building,” she announced as she went to the door of the flat. “I will see that she has yers as well.”
“There is no need,” I told her.