CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A t the bottom of the stairs, self-preservation prevailed. Leona turned left and headed for the front door rather than the parlor. She’d bring the letter to Detective Day and—
“What are you doing?” Gil—no, Lawrence’s voice boomed out as he stepped in front of her. He must have heard her on the stairs. “Go back to bed.”
“I’m feeling better,” she said through gritted teeth. He cocked his head, apparently sensing her distress. “I’m hungry. I missed lunch.”
“Well, we’re going to have to fend for ourselves for a time, as I’ve fired Mrs. McCarthy.” He waved a hand toward the kitchen.
“You—what?” Leona sputtered, shock running through her like a splash of fire. “How could you?”
“Easily, once I realized what she was up to.”
She followed him into the parlor. “And what was that?”
He sat in the armchair where he’d apparently been reading the newspaper. “She stole my notebook. Probably in cahoots with your grandfather.”
“That’s—” They had been up to something, hadn’t they? Abigail had revealed as much. Her stomach rolled as she realized she’d left her escape too late.
“Where is your grandfather, hmm?” he asked sarcastically. “Well, it won’t do them any good, they won’t break that code.”
Her thoughts spun in wild arcs, and she fumbled toward the chair opposite him.
“Don’t sit,” he commanded. “I want my dinner. You’ll have to make it. Then you can go back upstairs.”
She went into the kitchen and filled a tray with what came to hand—cold meat, cheese, bread, butter, and pickles.
She removed the gun from her pocket and tied it tight to her thigh, above the knee with strong leather laces.
Despite her general feeling of unwellness, her heart remained calm, her mind clear. Battle ready.
Death had been stalking her all along, even before Daphne’s death.
This stranger had burrowed into her life and chewed away at the moorings, just as he had with Henry; she’d disappear, and so would her grandfather.
Lawrence was up to something right now if he’d sent Abigail away.
Grandfather and Abigail knew, or suspected. Perhaps they’d go to Gideon Day and—
Behind her, he opened the cellar door, and she jumped in her skin.
He descended the steps—for wine, she hoped.
She brought the tray to the dining room and set the plates out in the middle.
Laid out silverware and lit the candles, comforted by the heft of the gun as she placed the wine glasses.
Lawrence brought in the bottle and opened it.
All very domestic and achingly familiar.
Lawrence stared at her a moment, then came around the table to pull the chair out for her.
Leona sat as her stomach made a woeful noise.
She’d missed luncheon, and breakfast had been light.
She buttered bread and ate it, feeling as she did before every battle, after every skirmish.
The air charged and alive, the edges and outlines brighter and sharper.
“Do you want to tell me where your grandfather is?” Lawrence asked, pouring the wine. “You must have known what they were about.”
She couldn’t bear the charade any longer. “Why don’t you tell me, Lawrence Gladney?”
He started when she pronounced his full name, red wine running down the side of his glass to stain the white tablecloth.
“I don’t know where he is.” She sipped from her glass with a steady hand. True, the gun made her braver, given the circumstances. But she’d only have one shot.
He flushed red with sudden anger. “Tell me where he is,” he gritted out. “If you lie, I’ll know.”
Refusing to be intimidated, she said, “Perhaps he does have your notebook and will find someone to break the code.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “He won’t break it, not in time, anyway.”
In time for what? She brought the glass to her lips and drank again, hoping her silence would encourage him to keep talking. But he sat chuckling to himself until she had to stop the awful noise he made. She cast about for a place to start, trying to gain control.
He asked, “What makes you think I’m Lawrence and not Gil?”
“Henry, of course,” she replied.
“Henry,” he said with an air of finality and dismissal. “He’s been gone for months now, Leona. Though you foolishly thought Henry was my assassin.”
“Helen said Henry found out the truth about you on his own. He told her he was going to confront you—”
He narrowed his eyes, a smile playing at the corners of the mouth she’d kissed with such passion. “And when did Helen impart this knowledge to you?”
“There’s a letter.”
He smirked. “Where is the letter?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “Helen told me Henry wrote her a letter.”
“Why do you believe her and not me? Did we not prove to the police that Darius Varney had the wrong brother? They at least believed me.”
She swallowed hard to relieve her dry throat. “How did Henry know? How did Henry know you are Lawrence and not Gilbert? Who told him and why?”
“Dirty blackmailer,” Lawrence muttered. “Tell me again when you last spoke to Helen?”
Deny, deny. “Before she left town. I’ve gone to her house multiple times, but she appears to have packed up and left.
” Leona hoped this was true, and Helen was out of Lawrence’s reach.
She felt the weight of Lawrence’s gaze and looked up from her plate into his cold eyes as he fought not to smile. What really happened to Helen?
Henry had told Helen everything he knew and speculated about Lawrence’s plans for Leona and Grandfather in the letter.
He’d stage their deaths, together would be ideal, a house fire or a robbery gone wrong.
He’d hired help, like the gang of thugs who’d attacked them after Geneva’s party, perhaps even the man who’d appeared in her backyard so long ago.
Someone, likely Dr. Farouche, would provide an alibi for Lawrence at the time of the murders.
He’d inherit all her grandfather’s money through her. But the letter had changed everything.
“I don’t remember,” Leona said, trying not to look away.
He glanced pointedly at her plate. “You should eat. You’ll be sorry if you waste this opportunity.”
“Why should I eat if you just plan on killing Grandfather and me?” She banged her fist on the table.
“You’ve got away with murder too many times now.
Did you think you’d get away with it again?
” Her voice rose, and she reached deep to clamp down the rising terror.
“Where is Henry, buried in the basement? Did you kill Helen, too?”
Helping himself to the food on the platters, he buttered bread and laid a slice of cold roast beef on it. Runnels of red dripped off the edge.
“Too many people know who you really are, Mr. Gladney.” Her heart pounded a warning, her pulse rising. Not now, damn you.
“Henry is in the river. Helen drank too much one night about a week ago and fell down the stairs to her kitchen. I suppose she’s still there, providing dinner for the rats.” He smiled and bit into the bread and meat. “Well, I’m hungry. I’m not letting this food go to waste.”
On her right, half-formed in a haze of smoke, Jack said, “Be careful, old girl. He’s a stone-cold killer.”
To her left, through a red mist, Luke said, “Kill him. Kill the dirty dog before he kills you.”
“I need answers,” Leona said to them, her eyes on Lawrence. It comforted her to hear their voices. But she knew it to be the mad clock again, bringing them into the present moment to help her.
“What do you want to know?” Lawrence asked with an indulgent air.
He and Dr. Farouche could declare her insane, as was his legal right as her husband.
They would bury her in Blackwell’s or Bloomingdale and kill her grandfather.
She wouldn’t have to die, but it’d be a living death.
Without her grandfather, who would speak the truth for Leona?
Lawrence would be free to move onto another unsuspecting woman.
“That’s why you feigned sick on the night of Geneva’s party. You hired those men to attack us afterwards. You had Dr. Farouche for an alibi.”
“If you insist,” he said.
“And whoever broke into our house on Christmas Day didn’t realize Grandfather and I had followed you, leaving the house empty. You would have found a reason to leave whether we had fought or not.”
“Well, if it quacks like a duck, my dear wife....”
She cried, “How could you kill your own brother?” She’d tried to match his unemotional demeanor, but anguish seized her as the whole scheme unraveled around her, trapping her.
“Because he had what I wanted. Maud McTeague and her family’s money.”
“How did you do it?”
He leaned a little forward with apparent eagerness; he wanted to tell her, to brag, to show her how clever he was. It made her sick inside to see it, but perhaps she could buy herself time by keeping him talking.
“In the war I belonged to the army’s corps of engineers.
We built bridges and destroyed them. I worked out a firebomb and how to time it to go off while I was out of town, pretending to be Gilbert.
We did look as alike as twins. I dressed in his clothes, attended a lecture, and dined with his friends in Manhattan City the night the house burned with them in it.
Don’t worry, they were already dead,” he said to her horrified cry.
“I made it look like Lawrence and Maud were having an affair and tucked them into bed together.”
She didn’t want to hear anymore, but Jack gave her a long serious look, one eyebrow raised. So familiar, her heart almost burst with grief and joy.
“And Mr. Varney’s fiancé?”
“Amy was far easier to get rid of. The silly cow drowned. Varney never believed it was an accident, though. I almost got him hanged for it.” He laughed like a ghoul.
“And there are other women you’ve murdered?”
He only grinned at her, reaching for his wine glass again.
“Why me? Surely there are less troublesome heiresses out there?”
“Mrs. Alcott told me about you when she gave her lecture at the lyceum the very night we met.”