Chapter 6
May 2nd, 1881
Asheford Hall, England
By the light of the lamp, Henry sat at his writing desk, his head heavy with fatigue. He opened the window next to him and the cool, afternoon breeze revived his waning energy.
The briefcase did not offer a key to his freedom.
He had dissected all the contents twice over, and none gave him the answer he needed. All he had found was a small, useless key that he attached to his key ring, a letter to a man called Clarkson – presumably a policeman – and his grandfather’s research on the time-travelling technology. Despite the mystery of the briefcase, he knew something foul had happened in London, and the mere thought it had been a trap set by his father to prove his loyalty made him feel ill. He wondered what to do next.
His pen hovered over the blank paper.
He wanted to write to Clarkson, but he was unsure how to proceed. It was still too risky. A flood of insecurities for his future swelled within him. What if he were doomed to live at the mercy of his father? With a heavy sigh, he removed his spectacles and massaged his eyes. He had to trust that the answer would soon come.
A vibration tickled the nape of his neck.
He froze.
A light tremble rocked the ground beneath his boots. A rapid surge of heat swept down his spine, and outside his window, the trees swayed in a strong gust of wind.
No. Impossible.
There was a high-pitched scream outside.
Henry lurched from his chair and darted to the front door.
Two figures were wrestling in the grass before his house. The larger figure sat atop the smaller one, simultaneously howling and cursing, while the figure beneath kicked their legs in every which way.
The fine hairs on his neck rose when he realized he was witnessing a man strangle a woman. Henry reached them in two strides and wrenched the attacker away.
The man fell back onto his ankles and a ghoulish white eye peered up. “Christ, not you.”
“Josiah?” Henry scowled.
The woman scrambled back and pulled herself up onto shaking legs. Panic marked her delicate features as she grasped her neck and glared at Josiah. She had a wild mane of honey-coloured hair and indistinguishable clothing.
Henry took in her alienness. She’s wearing trousers … black, skin-tight trousers with colourful patches of stars. What the devil?
Her hazel eyes met his, and she recoiled. “Who the hell are you?”
“Care to answer that question, Henry Asheford?” Josiah said, enunciating every syllable of his name.
The name sparked a haunted expression on her face, and she shuffled a few steps back. “What the hell is going on?”
“Well, isn’t this a fun treat? The old meets the new—” Josiah said.
“You shut up!” She drew her lips back into a snarl. “I should rip off your balls and feed them to you for what you did to me.”
Henry’s brows shot up. Alien, fearless, and … American?
“And I shall throw you off the cliff!” Josiah blew puffs of air from his clenched teeth. His hand clasped something thin and rigid sticking from his thigh as he strutted toward the woman. “You fucking bitch, I’ve had enough—”
Henry stepped between the two.
Josiah stopped in his tracks and glared at Henry. “Fuck off and let me do business.”
“Business?” Henry spat. “What business would that be?”
“Honestly, old boy, why must you always play the dim-witted fool?” Josiah rolled his eyes. “Do you remember nothing from London?”
“Do you mean to say this woman is the greater threat?”
“She has something I want.”
“Something you want? As in another device? Is that what my father is after?”
Josiah went silent. His tongue protruded limply from his mouth, and he licked the blood off his lip.
“Travelling across the thresholds of time for a crusade is despicable,” Henry said.
“If it weren’t for your grandfather forcing Edwin’s hand—”
“My grandfather put a stop to my father’s madness!” Henry shouted. “But apparently his efforts did nothing since the bastard managed to get his hands on one anyway. How did you get the damned device, hmm? Where is it now? In your pocket? Around your neck? Does she know what has happened here?”
“She doesn’t, and that is precisely why I must finish the job,” Josiah said.
Henry’s face twisted. “You’re stark raving mad if you think I will allow you to harm her.”
“C’mon,” Josiah said. “What is she to you but a nuisance?”
“Hey, asshole,” the woman said as she held up a black bag. “You want the documents? You can have them! God knows why some ancient murder case of a general manager is relevant in this day and age, but I want nothing to do with this bullshit.”
Henry tilted his head. The heat was rising in his chest. “The general manager, what was his name?”
“I think … I think it was Coo … Cooper something,” she said. “Look, I want no trouble—”
“And it was confirmed a murder?” Henry said.
“There’s a police report saying he was strangled.”
Rage swept over him. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were starting to fall into place, and it confirmed his theory. Cooper was not only silenced because he gave company secrets to the police but was also most likely killed for not giving up the contents of his briefcase. What’s more, it was used as an opportunity to further threaten Henry into submission. And that was a stench produced by just one hell hound…
Slowly, Henry looked at Josiah.
“Now, old boy—”
Henry punched Josiah across the jaw, sending him sprawling into the grass. He brought a knee against Josiah’s chest. “I knew it. The man didn’t give up his secrets, so you killed him and tried to teach me a lesson. A lesson meant to scare me into doing my father’s bidding, was that it?”
“Among other things.”
“I am at my wit’s end with your games.” Henry grabbed hold of Josiah’s collar and shook him. “What does this woman know? Why does my father seek to kill her?”
“If you think I’ll tell you, another turncoat—”
“He’s hunting for the time-travelling technology, isn’t he? I’d be damned to let it fall into his hands again.”
“Oh, yes, your grandfather’s stoic mission. Look how that ended.”
“Bite your tongue,” Henry growled.
“I still remember the day Albert and Rhys died,” Josiah said. A wicked smile crept onto his face. “Losing his favourite son broke your father’s heart. To this day, he claims that it should have been you to die that day, not poor Rhys.”
Henry slammed his palm on Josiah’s nose. A sickening crack of bone followed. With a guttural roar, Josiah’s knee met Henry’s ribs, and he fell onto his rear. Josiah came barrelling forward. His fist smacked against Henry’s cheek.
“You don’t deserve the bloody life that you live!” Josiah roared.
Blinded by the sudden attack, Henry’s world momentarily spun. Another hit collided against his jaw and he fell sideways onto the ground.
“You don’t deserve to carry the Asheford name,” Josiah seethed. “Remember that the next time you try to order me around—”
The sound of splitting wood echoed out.
In the dizzy sway of his vision, Henry caught a glimpse of the woman holding a chunk of firewood.
“You whore,” Josiah grunted as he clutched the back of his head.
“Oh yeah? At least I’m not an ugly son of a bitch,” she cried. “I bet not even your own mother can love that face of yours.”
Josiah reached her in one stride. She dropped the firewood and her palm shot out to his bloodied nose. With a muffled groan, he dug his fingers into her hair and pulled her to him.
Henry rolled his aching head against the grass. His chest tightened with a growing sense of panic. Get up and defend her!
“Who gave your father those documents?” Josiah yelled.
“Go to hell,” she spat.
Josiah kicked the back of her knees, and she fell to the ground. He loomed above her, bound her fists behind her back and shoved his nose into the crook of her neck. “You think I won’t find out? I’ll track everyone you’ve had contact with. The bartender, your handsome property chap…”
As Josiah’s hands closed around her neck, her breath sawed in and out. She tilted her head at Henry. Fear clouded her features as tears ran down her flushed cheeks. Her lips mouthed the word help.
Wincing, Henry staggered from the ground.
“In the last throes of life, Miss Quinn, a person may react in the most animalistic ways,” Josiah said. “But your father was unremarkable in that sense because, after I strangled him to death, he simply … pissed himself.”
She gave a strangled cry.
“Let’s see if you’ll do the same,” Josiah said.
“No—” she choked. “I’ll tell you … I’ll tell you everything.”
Henry’s breath quickened. He went to his gutting station and snatched the hunting knife from the table. The blade was still slick with pheasant blood from earlier in the day. Before he could think, Henry’s hand was already on Josiah’s forehead. With a sharp pull back, he tilted Josiah’s head and brought the knife to his throat.
Josiah released the woman. His hands immediately grasped Henry’s knife-wielding arm. “What are you doing?”
“Silencing greater threats,” Henry said.
“You fucking prick. I knew you were a rat!”
Henry increased the pressure but struggled to bring the knife closer. Just as his strength waned, the woman staggered from the ground. Their gazes met before she locked her fingers around his wrist.
Time stopped.
His heart thudded fiercely. He knew in that moment their lives would irrevocably change because together they would kill his father’s most respected henchman.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed down. The blade came closer and closer and closer. Slowly, the knife entered Josiah’s muscled flesh. The pulse in Henry’s ears muted the guttural scream that came from both the woman and Josiah.
Josiah’s hands slipped as he went limp.
The woman pushed harder.
“Stop,” Henry said, but she continued to push on his hand. “It’s done! Stop!”
With a gasp, she opened her eyes and stumbled back.
Henry released Josiah, and his body collapsed into the grass. Gradually, the blood stopped pulsing from the savage wound in his neck. There was a final twitch and a faint gurgle before a dark patch spread across the lap of his beige trousers.
They glared at one another with a mutual understanding that they were both horrendously and unequivocally damned to high hell.
“We have to call the police,” she said.
“We must throw him off the cliff,” he said at the same time.
A look of sheer horror crossed her face. “Off the cliff?”
His brows knitted. “We can’t call upon the police.”
For the second time, they spoke simultaneously. Nostrils flaring, her mouth snapped shut.
“Not a single soul can discover what occurred between us, do you understand?” Henry said.
“But it was self-defence,” she said.
“Yes, it was.”
“And he’s dead.” She pointed to Josiah. “Oh God, we killed him.”
Henry stood still, appalled by the turn of events. Josiah Smith is dead, and I’m stuck with a woman from the future. He clenched his fists to stop his thoughts from wandering to the darkest crevices of his mind. He had to focus on the corpse.
“Will you not help me, then?” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“To throw him off the cliff?”
“That is what I said.”
Her hazel eyes widened, and she threw her bloodied hands in the air. “Are you insane? That would make us cold-blooded killers. Look, if I call the cops…” She paused, her mouth twisted, and she held a hand over her chest. “If I call the cops and explain that he stalked and attacked me, I’m sure … I’m sure … Oh, God—”
She turned from him. Chest heaving, she knelt down and vomited onto the grass.
He averted his eyes to look down at Josiah. The ugly crimson slash in his neck made Henry’s stomach churn. Worst yet, Josiah’s one milky eye stared directly at him and it made him angry. Battling his own nausea, Henry removed his shirt and covered Josiah’s face, binding the arms around the dead man’s head. With their crime partly covered, Henry could almost think again. His hands began their search for the time-travelling device.
“What are you doing?” she said, wiping her mouth.
“I am searching for an object you will need,” he muttered.
“An object?” she scoffed. “What I need is the police and probably decades of therapy.”
He looked at her.
On her knees, she clutched her stomach as her eyes travelled the length of his naked torso.
A flush came to his face. Dammit. It’s not the time to be shy because a woman sees you topless. “Are you aware of where you are?”
“In England.”
“Good observation,” he muttered.
“Are you … are you being sarcastic?”
“Answer the question.” He frowned and dug his hands into Josiah’s pockets. “Where are you?”
“At Asheford Hall.”
“What is the year?”
She did not immediately respond. He watched her expression change to dread as she considered his question. Just when he thought the realization of time travel had set in, she let out a sharp laugh.
“I’ve gone insane,” she said, shaking her head.
He pressed his lips together. “No, you have not gone insane.”
He removed a photograph from Josiah’s jacket pocket. The image showed the woman with an older man, standing before London’s Clock Tower, smiling. It was a landmark he had seen many times before but, in this image, structures of a modern world surrounded the tower. Henry swallowed hard and pocketed the image.
“But I’m seeing and talking to a ghost,” she said.
He stiffened. “If you think I am a phantom, you are sadly mistaken.”
“That’s the only explanation.”
“For what?”
“Your … your name, clothing and … and way of talking,” she stuttered. “Oh God, who are you and who was he?”
“Perhaps it’s best that you go to the house,” he said with a heavy sigh. “It will be much safer there.”
“House?” Her eyes widened at the sight of Bondieux House. “Oh, God … it’s not abandoned…” She promptly stood. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Her face was a dull shade of green. She covered her mouth, stumbled in the opposite direction of the house and fell against a tree with an anguished wail.
He approached her.
“I am aware how horrified you are, but I beg you to go to the house,” he said. “We need to talk about this, we need to—”
“We need to call the police!”
“No,” he said, his patience faltering. Stay calm. “Please, I mean you no harm,” he urged. “All I ask is that you go to the house and wait for my return. I can explain everything, and I can help you, but before we talk, I need to take care of Josiah.”
To his relief, she did as he said without a fight.
He took in a sharp breath as he watched her stumble up the path to the front door. Maybe he should tend to her first? No. Whatever came next with the stranger, he was confident it would be a lengthy, tangled affair. It was only logical to get rid of Josiah before he tumbled straight into the madness of their problems. With the woman gone, his fearful thoughts returned, and he distracted himself by continuing his search.
After several minutes of fruitless searching, he felt a hard, square object protruding from the inner pocket of Josiah’s jacket. Henry dug out a palm-sized mahogany box, its lid hanging off one hinge. Inside, the watch’s face was secured by a brass bowl, held fast to the corners of the box with brass pins. The Breguet key, no doubt the trigger to set the device in motion, was bent at a crude angle against the box’s outer frame.
Henry was fascinated and angry in equal measure at the discovery. Fascination for finally seeing the time-travelling device fashioned as a chronometer and angry when he realized that Josiah and his father had one of the three devices crafted by his grandfather. God only knew what trouble they had been stirring.
He pocketed the box in his trousers.
Before he moved Josiah, the small, thin object stuck in his upper thigh caught Henry’s attention. He dislodged it and held it up for examination. Made out of a material he did not recognize, the transparent casing was inscribed with the letters BIC.
He frowned. Best pocket this too, lest someone discover a relic from the future floating in the sea.
With a grunt, he picked up Josiah’s limp body, dragged it toward the cliff edge and pushed it to its watery grave.
***
The next few minutes passed in a blur. After entering Bondieux House, Henry went straight to his bedroom to empty his pocket of the objects he had found on Josiah. He dipped his trembling hands into the cool water in the porcelain bowl of his washstand and scrubbed frantically with a bar of soap to remove the horrific stains of the afternoon. Pulling on a fresh shirt, he considered how he would approach the woman from the future.
She was somewhere in the living room. Her muffled cries reached his ears, making him feel sick and oddly numb, as if his mind were a lonely vessel in a raging storm without a captain at the helm.
I need to think rationally.
He regarded his washstand. She would want to wash away the blood too. And her wounds? He should probably help her tend to those. Perhaps a fire? Yes, the living room was chilly. After he had done all those things, he would try to speak with her.
Henry went to the living room to build a fire, looking neither left nor right for her. He stacked logs of wood in the stone chamber of the fireplace, stuffed it with kindling, and lit the bundle with a match. A flame caught, and he carefully blew until larger flames grew. He walked to the kitchen, poured fresh water into a bowl, grabbed a towel, and went in search of the woman.
He found her on the floor between the liquor cabinet and the window, her head resting on her knees.
He set the bowl and towel by her side. “I’ve brought you something to wash with.”
She did not respond.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
Again, she remained silent.
He brought his fingers to his jaw. The pain of getting punched was settling in his bones. “We must speak,” he said quietly.
Her head fell back against the wall. The tears on her cheeks shimmered from the glow of the fire. The skin around her neck was raw, like it had been twisted with hatred.
“And say what?” she croaked.
“In order to help you, I need you to explain how you came to be at Asheford Hall.”
“Look, I know nothing about the Asheford family, but if you want to silence me too, go ahead … I won’t put up a fight.”
“Seriously?” he said with a tone of contempt. “If I wanted you dead, I would not have gone to the trouble of defending you against Josiah.”
She looked at him as if he were a disgusting creature. “You and Josiah did seem awfully well acquainted.”
He exhaled. “We were acquainted, but not how you may think. He and I were, well, we were enemies.”
“I don’t understand…” she stammered. A fresh wave of tears glistened in her eyes and she blinked them away. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You have travelled through time to 1881—”
“No!” She shot to her feet. “No! This is some sick joke, isn’t it? They hired an actor to look like an Asheford ancestor to scare trespassers. Am I being pranked? Are there cameras here?” She whirled her head to observe the ceiling. “Spook the stupid Canadian girl who doesn’t believe in ghosts, eh?”
“Listen to me—”
“It’s not funny anymore.”
“Listen!” he shouted, snapping her out of her tirade. “Henry Alexander Asheford is my name, and the man we murdered was my father’s most trusted henchman.”
“Your father?” Her voice fell to a whisper.
“Edwin Asheford.”
“Nope!” She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and fled past him. “Nope, nope, nope, we are not doing this!”
He bolted after her and pressed himself against the front door.
“Are you holding me captive now?” she gasped.
“You do not understand the danger you are in,” he said. “I cannot let you leave.”
“Drop the act already.”
“Christ, I know you recognize who I am!” he said urgently. “I saw it in your face the moment you laid eyes upon me.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
“God knows how, and honestly, I don’t think I want to know, but one thing is certain … if my father wishes to silence you, he will never stop until it’s done.” Remembering the documents she had mentioned, he added, “I can help you. In fact, I believe we can help each other.”
Her eyes bore into him. “Let me go.”
“Have you heard nothing of what I said?”
“I did, and it was all crazy talk.”
“Stop being a stubborn fool.”
“You are not Henry Asheford. Your father is not Edwin Asheford. I did not time-travel to 1881.” She pointed into his chest. “This is a sick joke and I want off this crazy ride.”
“What must I say to convince you otherwise?”
“You can step aside and let me leave.”
“Absolutely not,” he said sternly.
“I swear to God I won’t hesitate to move you out of my way.”
“Try what you will. I will not allow you to gallivant around my property looking like a strange alien creature covered in blood.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “You’re the one who looks like a bad caricature of a Jane Austen character.”
An unexpected laugh bubbled from his lips. “You are a few decades off with that judgment.”
She pushed him with her hip. “Move, goddammit!”
When he would not give in to her demand, she jerked away with an exasperated sigh and looked down the hallway. Before he could stop her, she had sprinted toward his bedchamber and burst into the dimly lit sanctuary.
Heart racing, he ran after her.
In the room, she frantically tried to unlock the windows. When they did not open, she whirled around and grabbed hold of his writing chair.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll smash my way out the window,” she cried.
Anger flared within him. “Want to set fire to my home, too? Fine, be my guest! Destroy the last thing I truly love because God knows my life was over the moment you fell from the blazing sky.”
She paused, still holding the chair aloft. After several tense seconds, she set the chair down and glanced around the room.
The flush in his face became an inferno. She was the first woman to set foot in his bedchamber. She would bear witness to all his failures and loneliness; the mountain of crumpled paper across his floor, the stack of books by the foot of his bed, the half-wrinkled sheets of a bachelor, the emergency flask of whisky to help induce sleep.
But why should he care what this boorish woman thought? She was the one barrelling through his life. She had willed him to commit murder. She, with her large, fearless hazel eyes, boisterous energy and plain-spoken ways; a fiery hurricane of stubborn wickedness, a destructive modern spirit that defied his every word with determined spite. He wondered if she would ever come to accept her new reality. Would she ever accept him? Unfortunately, they were now bonded by a crime and he had to cooperate with her, even if that meant grinding his teeth to stubs from stress. Besides, she had something he wanted…
She set her bag on the floor and opened it to reveal a flutter of documents inside.
His heart lurched. Yes, he needed that evidence.
He watched as she pulled out a sheet of paper, came up to him and held it to his face. Her gaze darted back and forth between the two subjects, scrutinizing his face as if peeling away the layers of his identity. It was uncomfortable. It was too intimate.
“Henry Asheford,” she said.
His mouth thinned with annoyance. An irrational desire to shake her shoulders gripped him. “Do you wish to see my wardrobe too or are my private quarters enough proof of my words?”
Her face, pale in the distant lamp, contorted. For a brief second, he thought she would scream at him, then her eyes welled up and she covered her mouth with her hands. The paper she held fluttered to his feet. It was a photograph of him at the age of twenty-two.
Christ.
She stepped back.
So did he.
He was no longer angry. He had one calming thought. You must make her feel at ease. She needs to trust you.
“I mean you no harm,” he said softly. “I can help you.”
She shook her head, tears falling.
“We can make a plan to fix this,” he continued.
“No—”
“Please, listen to what I have to say—”
“If it wasn’t for your family, none of this would have happened!”
“I am not like my father,” he said, grabbing hold of her shoulders. “Please.”
Her palms pushed at his chest as a sob escaped from her lips. “I don’t want to see you or hear you. You should be dead, do you hear me? Dead!”
Grabbing her bag, she rushed out of the room.
Alone with the hollering wind rattling against the glass panes, Henry stared at his ghostly reflection in the window. Her words continued to stab at his heart with the precision of a bullseye. God, what I would do to never hear them again.