by Edith Layton
“Have you seen the viscount?” Will demanded.
“I thought I seen him!” Jack volunteered. “When I was on my way here. From a far piece back. I thought I seen Mr. Arthur too!”
“Were they together?”
“Nah. I thought I seen the viscount on my way here. Looked like he was standing, waiting. But when I got here he was gone. And I was early. So then I went on down the aisle, walking up and down to see what I could whilst I waited, but keeping an eye out all the same. That’s when I thought I seen Mr. Arthur going to the apothecary’s tent. But when I got back he was gone too. I guess they missed each other, and me. What a day.”
“Hoy!” a strident voice called, splitting through the clamor of the Fair. They all turned.
Mrs. Gudge and Mrs. Gow waved as they came rolling over the ice with the shifting stride of sailors, looking like two animated bundles of clothing. “We seen the viscount,” Mrs. Gudge puffed, as she came abreast. “He said as to how he’d be meeting you here. Well, I says to Mrs. Gow, why not say hello?”
“Where was the viscount?” Will demanded.
“And a good afternoon to you too, I’m sure, Mr. Redbreast,” Mrs. Gow said with heavy sarcasm, “‘’E was over to the fire-eater’s stall, saying as to ’ow ’e was weary of just standing waiting ’ere.”
“Aye, he couldn’t stand still,” Mrs. Gudge said, “and he’d the right of it. It’s mild-like, but you got to take care. Stand too long and you’ll take a chill, it’s February ain’t it, after all? Didn’t Mr. Burke catch his death doing just that last year? Merry as a grig on Monday, blue as Death which he was by Sunday. And all for taking off his jacket because it were such a mild morning for February.”
“It were January,” Mrs. Gow said meticulously, “not that you ain’t right in all other particulars, Mrs. Gudge.”
“Well, there you are,” Mrs. Gudge said. “But so I told his lordship, and he thanked me kindly for it. Well, but he looked merry enough to thank me for nothing. Happier than I ever seen him, and there’s a fact. Well, but who wouldn’t be? Ain’t this a fine Fair?”
“I’ll ask Mr. Abernathy if he left a message,” Maggie told Will, biting her lip, “and pick up some purges—in case.”
“And antidotes,” Will said as she went to the tent.
“None, for there are none,” she said over her shoulder, drawing back the flap and disappearing inside.
Will stood, impatient, waiting, looking around for a glimpse of the nobleman or his brother. The Fair was in full swing, but it seemed frayed, tawdry, overused to him today. The streaming banners were ragged, their edges picked to fringes by the shifting breezes. The ice was pocked and filthy now, with strewn ashes and trash, all the charm of the thing was gone. The huge crowd taking advantage of the clement air made it less charming every minute.
Maggie seemed to be taking a long time, Will thought. But he knew he was experiencing time differently because of his growing unease. He too couldn’t keep still, but he was set pacing by thinking of the reason the viscount might not have been able to. He didn’t like waiting but couldn’t go—not with the viscount supposedly so near. And perhaps in such danger. But he hated inaction. With an oath, Will finally strode to the tent, flung back the flap and marched in. He almost tripped over Maggie.
She stood just inside, frozen in place, her hand to her mouth. It was dim inside; the single lantern cloaked the perimeters in shadow. But it gave light enough to show Mr. Abernathy clear. He sat at the table in the center of the tent, with his bottles and packets of herbs. He would never rise again. The black and still sluggishly bleeding bullet wound in the center of his forehead made sure of that. The air was thick, acrid and blue with gunpowder smoke. It smelled like the devil himself had just arisen from the sulfurous air of hell to come and personally carry the apothecary’s black soul away.
“I was screaming and screaming,” Maggie whispered to Will without turning when he put his hand on her shoulder. “Why didn’t you come?”
“You never made a sound,” Will said gently.
But someone else did.
“There he is!” They heard Jack call from outside the tent. “He’s coming. Hoy! My lord Maldon! Over here! Stop a minute. Spanish Will’s here! He wants a word with you!”
Chapter Eighteen
“Come,” Will told Maggie gently, “the viscount’s here.”
She spun round. “Is he well? Does he stagger or…”
“He seems well enough—so far. But come, see for yourself.”
She glanced back into the tent. He wondered if he’d have to bodily carry her away. Shock took some females like that. When she finally spoke, he relaxed. He should have known her better.
“No,” Maggie said, “I have to get herbs, elixirs.” She turned an ashen face up to his. “I know it may be too late. But if there’s any chance we must give it to him. Let me get an emetic. I won’t touch him,” she said, inclining a shuddering shoulder toward the dead man. “But if we can purge the viscount, it may make a difference. It might have helped his uncle, had someone known in time.” She swallowed hard. “Well, even if not—at least I can try. I’m all right now. I can deal with it now. I’ll be there quick as I can. I know what to look for. Hold him, if you must.”
Will understood. He nodded, pulled back the flap and left the tent. He squinted at the westering sun to see Maldon coming toward him. The viscount was negotiating the ice smoothly enough, Will noted with relief. But he was troubled because he could see the man’s broad smile even from afar.
Mrs. Gow gave the viscount a great “Halloo!” The nobleman was soon surrounded by the fishwives and Maggie’s servants. Will shouldered his way through them.
“How do you feel?” he asked without preamble.
He got a grin as answer. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Corby. In point of fact, I feel most excellently. It’s as though my cares have vanished with the cold.”
Well, that wasn’t babbling, Will thought. But he wished Mrs. P. would hurry. The viscount obviously wasn’t in pain, nor was he bowing. In fact, the only unusual thing Will noticed was that the man had such strong even white teeth. He’d never seen them displayed so brilliantly before. He glanced back at the tent, and then at the viscount again.
“I heard you were here, then left,” Will said. “Did you go in to see the apothecary before?”
“No. Was I supposed to?”
“No. What in God’s name is keeping her?” Will muttered.
Maggie frantically rummaged through the apothecary’s boxes on the table he still sat at. Her hands shook so badly she dropped packets and vials back into the box before she could read their labels clear, and had to pick them up again. But she couldn’t find what she needed. All she found was senna and tincture of rhubarb. “Too slow, not enough, not enough,” she muttered in frustration. Things that would readily sell at a Fair, not what she needed. Laxatives for costive old men. Nothing for a young man poisoned in his prime.
She looked around desperately, trying to blot out the sight of the apothecary and yet see all that was in his tent. She peered behind him into the shadowy recesses by the thick brown walls.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were boxes stacked there! He must have packed up most of his supplies in readiness to go. Nux vomica, she thought quickly…mustard, ipecac certainly, barberry, castor bean, there were so many she could use. She had only to find one or two. Whatever she gave the viscount had to be specific, and quick. She edged around Abernathy, avoiding his staring eyes, and ventured into the shadows. There was an open box, filled with medications. She rifled through and grasped a vial, looked some more…and stopped. Something was stirring in the dark behind the boxes.
She wasn’t a missish woman, feminine vapors had been trained out of her. Bernard had boxed her ears whenever she’d been squeamish about her duties in the shop, and the streets of London soon cured a body of foolishness. She’d learned how to confront the unknown, not faint or flee it. She no longer had to kill sea turtles
or skin live eels, and never would again. But she knew how to deal with fear. And that was not to show indecision. She stiffened, but didn’t shriek.
“Ooh!” a man’s voice moaned. “My head! Someone struck me…what’s happened…?”
“Mr. Arthur?” Maggie said hesitantly, peering into the dim recesses, as he arose from the floor, “You? Here? Now?”
“I was consulting with the apothecary and this wildly angry man burst in…” he said as he emerged from the shadows. “He struck me…I just awoke…” He came closer. He wasn’t that much taller than Maggie but he seemed to loom over her now.
She stepped back. Too late. He locked a hand around her wrist. They both realized how fragile it felt in his clasp. She swallowed hard. “Mr. Corby’s just outside,” she said eagerly. “Let’s go tell him…”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I saw him. I heard him too. You’re looking for purges for my brother? Or so at least I thought you said.”
She nodded, her throat too dry to answer, her pulse racing hard.
“Whyever are you doing that, I wonder?”
“We heard…that is to say, we thought…”
“You somehow heard he ate his nuncheon with me, did you? You then decided my man was such a bad cook he needed a purge? I hardly think so. But my brother is here? Now? Who’d have guessed he’d leave me and go to the Frost Fair, of all places?” Arthur mused.
He was so calm Maggie took heart. He was after all, a pleasant, open-faced young gentleman. Her hopes rose—until he spoke again.
“He never said,” Arthur sighed. “I should have asked. Still, he might not have told me… But you’ve put the two facts together, haven’t you? Why else would you be speaking of purges, my brother and my unfortunate uncle, all in the same breath? I came back to deal with Mr. Abernathy when I happened on the same thought. Too late too, it seems.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. Now she saw Arthur held a long pistol in his other hand. The sight of it robbed her of speech. He didn’t seem to care that she saw it. That frightened her even more.
“And you know me by sight,” Arthur said, his hand tightening on her wrist. “Although we were never really introduced. It wasn’t necessary. I knew you before we met the other day. I went to see you in your fetid little shop, did you know? No, I saw to that. I had to see what was toward. He visited with you too often and never said a word about it to me, or Mama. That certainly got my interest. My brother practically took up rooms in your wretched shop. And he is usually so fastidious. Yet attracted to you, a common fishwife with carrot hair, and freckled like a toad. When he has a mistress a man would give his eyes for? Madness.
“How could I have known you knew Abernathy too?” Arthur said bitterly. “When I found out, I acted. Too late. I ought to have spoken with Mr. Abernathy at greater length. I ought to have done the thing when I first saw you visit him here the other day, but I had to leave with Maldon then. I thought I’d time… Who knew you’d come back? You’re a fishwife, not a woman of leisure. Damn it!”
“But we can’t prove anything,” Maggie blurted.
“And the ‘we’ of it!” Arthur said, his voice breaking. “The runner and you, and Maldon! Oh, God!” Now for the first time he showed an emotion other than chagrin. He bit his lip, shook his head, and heaved a trembling sigh. “What a mad triumvirate! Who could have thought it? I’ll have to go,” he murmured as though to himself. “There’s nothing for it. I’ll just have to cut and run now.”
“Yes,” Maggie said eagerly.
“But you have to come with me. There’s no help for it. They’re all out there, aren’t they? How else can I leave? I couldn’t get out the back of the tent without sending it crashing down on my head or I’d have done right away. The thaw’s made it freeze fast to the ice. But Fate stays with me. It’s luck I ran into you. Once gone from here, I can go anywhere—especially with half London on holiday today. I don’t want to go, but I must,” he said in agitation, “and there’s only one way out. The way you came in. You have to come with me now.”
“I won’t,” Maggie said. She tried to pull back. He was surprisingly strong. And angry.
“Don’t be stupid. I have a pistol. Do you think I care? Especially now?” He easily spun her around, locking one arm tight across her neck, pulling her back tight against himself. He pressed the pistol into her back as he pushed her forward. She went staggering out of the tent, blinking at the sudden light. …And Spanish Will’s shocked face. He and Lucian were coming into the tent as she came stumbling out. They paused, aghast, when they saw her—and Arthur, behind her.
“Stand away!” Arthur cried. “There’s a pistol at her back.”
“Arthur?” Lucian said. He was confused for a moment, until he saw Maggie’s expression and realized she was being held. Cold rage lit his long narrowing eyes. But then sudden comprehension dawned. He gazed at his brother in horror—then sorrow.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “I’m sorry. I really am, Maldon. Well, but you don’t know how it is. How it was.” He was almost pleading. Maggie could feel his heart thumping madly against her back. “Uncle had so much,” his voice trembled with outrage and self pity. “All of it was to come to me. Then suddenly he was going to give it to Lousia? That was not fair. Mama said so too, and so it was not. There is such a thing as justice, and one must attain it any way one can. Do you think our ancestors would have stood silently by and let vandals take all from them?
“But what would you know of ancestors and family?” he said in despair. “Uncle left it all to you, after all. And you simply didn’t care. You offered me bits of our history as though they were nothing. A house? ‘Why here—take it, it’s nothing to me,’” Arthur said mockingly. “It was everything to me!” he cried.
Maggie’s little group stood transfixed. But Arthur was only speaking to his brother.
“You had it all,” Arthur raged. “The name, the money, the houses, the treasures, the wonderful books with the stirring tales of our family. Yours, just because you breathed first! And the travesty is that you don’t care. You never did. I cared. It’s not right, it’s never right. Mama said so, Uncle agreed. You know it too.”
“Yes,” Lucian said softly. “You’re right about that, Arthur. But I’m still your brother, and I care about you. Let’s sit and talk about it. The books? I don’t read them. I don’t need them. I can give them to you. Money matters can be arranged and…”
“Do you think I’m mad?” Arthur shouted.
Maggie’s servants and the fishwives inched closer. But Arthur saw them. “Stand back!” he threatened them.
Will motioned them back sharply, never turning his gaze from Arthur. Alice and Annie wrapped their arms around each other, Jack frowned like thunder, watching warily. Flea stood like a stone, his big face a study in confusion as little Davie and the brothel girl cowered in his shadow. The fishwives, amazed, stood as though their thick legs were planted in the ice.
“I’m prudent. Not mad, brother,” Arthur said more quietly. But Maggie could hear his breath sawing and felt the rise and fall of his chest against her back. “Brother? As to that—what’s in a name, indeed? Ten years is a generation. Too long a time to make us anything but brothers in name. You don’t know me. How can you care about me? Mama loves me. You never did. She won’t grieve for you. Nor will I.
“You’ll be gone before nightfall,” he added. “The kidney pie. The strong taste covers all.” Maggie stiffened. He prodded her with the pistol to warn her to be still. “I could have waited,” he told Lucian, “but why? Once I heard everyone thought Uncle died of the vile thing he was attempting in that filthy brothel, there was no need. God! Had I known that before! How much easier all of this would have been. I wouldn’t have felt badly for a moment. I did, you know, now and then. At first. Until I knew what he’d done. I’m not a monster. Only trying to get what is my due.”
“You murdered a man,” Spanish Will said, his voice steel under dark velvet, soothing yet threatening. “No—two men. And now, th
ree? Come, leave off. Help us help your brother. There’s no sense to this anymore.”
“Is there not?” Arthur said. “I didn’t do wrong. I did justice, my good man! God’s hand was in mine all through this. I didn’t see that before, but I see it clearly now. Uncle should have been punished for what he did to that child. I was merely the instrument of justice. Abernathy? He was a criminal, selling poison as though it were candy, to anyone who asked. But Maldon…?” He sighed. “I grant you that, perhaps. But it’s needful. If I waited, I’d have felt worse. I was growing to like you, Maldon. The famous Maldon charm,” Arthur said bitterly. “It was working on me too.
“It had to be done quickly,” he said, his bright blue eyes sincere as they fixed on his brother, “before I lost my resolve. No one would have seen my hand in it. I was surprised at that myself. Who knew it would take so long for it to work on Uncle? How far he’d get, how normal—no how happy everyone would think he was before he died? I wouldn’t have tried to get that horse to trample you had I known. I wouldn’t have had to pitch myself into the street either. Why, my knees hurt still. As it was, it was ridiculously easy. No one so much as suspected. That’s how I knew I hadn’t lost all, even after the damned Judas will was read.”
“We knew,” Spanish Will said.
“Oh, did you?” Arthur laughed. “Only because of Abernathy and the coincidence of my brother’s plaguey ginger slut being acquainted with him. Otherwise? I think not, runner. You didn’t know what really happened with Uncle. I daresay you’re still not sure, and he’s dead and buried now, so you’ll never prove it. If Maldon had wandered off and something happened to him later, you’d never have connected it to me either. Especially when everyone knew there was someone evil after both of us. It was perfect. And to be caught for Abernathy? And because of what he said? What a travesty.”