A Deadly Fortune

by Stacie Murphy

  Andrew straightened his spine and started toward her. Some of the patients stood at their doors, watching, and he tried to project an air of calm and reassurance as he passed. He was certain he was failing miserably. Even from halfway down the hall, the mingled odors of blood and waste were apparent. Andrew swallowed hard.

  As he approached the open door, his racing mind snagged on a sickening possibility. They could have betrayed him. Neither Amelia nor Jonas had wanted to make the bargain in the first place. He’d coerced them into the agreement. Would they really balk at breaking it?

  Andrew nearly stumbled, cold with dread. Possibility hardened into certainty in his mind, growing stronger with every step. Hadn’t there been a playacting quality to Amelia’s plea? And Jonas had agreed far too easily. The promised month had barely begun, and they’d tricked Andrew into going along with an escape attempt. Amelia was lying in the cell ahead, playing the corpse, leaving it to him to decide in the moment whether to expose the ruse or go along with it and lose her aid in searching.

  They had called his bluff.

  A flash of movement caught his eye from the cell on his right. A dissonant jolt tore through him as Amelia stepped into view. Andrew’s steps stuttered as his eyes met hers, and he felt his expression begin to slide toward confusion. Amelia motioned him onward with a sharp jerk of her head, her own face unreadable.

  Andrew forced his numb legs to keep moving, trying to marshal his thoughts in the wake of their aborted riot. As he drew even with the still-sobbing nurse, he turned.

  His mouth fell open in horror.

  Elizabeth Miner lay half on her side, her head tipped back to show a ridged gash across one side of her throat. Blood spattered the cell and sheeted down her chest and onto the floor. One breast was bared by a rip in the neckline of her dress, and dried blood coated it, crusting over the nipple.

  A glint on the floor beneath her outstretched hand—also blood-covered, he noted from what seemed a great distance, appeared to be a jagged shard of… something. Metal, perhaps? The copper smell of blood was so heavy it coated the back of his throat as he breathed.

  “My god.” His voice was strangled. He coughed and tried again. “I…”

  Andrew stepped into the cell, avoiding the sticky puddle of blood only now drying to black around the edges. He felt like an automaton, his movements jerky and unnatural.

  He crouched and reached for the wrist dangling off the cot, half expecting it to be cold and stiff. He bit back an exclamation as he found the pulse, strong and steady. The rush of relief was so profound the room tilted around him for an instant before he collected himself. He lifted the limp hand and laid it gently on the cot. His own hand, he noticed, had a pronounced tremor.

  Andrew leaned forward, pretending to examine the gory “wound” in her throat. At this near a distance he could see it was false. But from a few paces away it would look—had looked—unnervingly real. Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and tried to orient himself. He knew what he was meant to do next; he just needed to make himself do it. He stood.

  “That’s done, then. I suppose there are reports to be made?” He directed this to the nurse. Her face was pale and tear-stained, though at least she’d stopped sobbing. He softened his tone. “Nurse? Polly—is that your name?”

  She started and blushed. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t know the procedure for an incident such as this.”

  “Oh! Yes, sir. Dr. Harcourt. He’ll…” She stopped.

  “Why don’t you go and see if you can find him, then get yourself a cup of tea? Wash your face,” Andrew said. “And if you happen to pass an orderly on your way, send him to me as well, if you please.” Jonas was meant to be waiting to help with the removal, so Andrew wouldn’t have to find a way to keep the other orderlies away from Elizabeth’s “corpse.”

  She departed, and moments later, Jonas appeared in the doorway. His face went white as he took in the scene, and he shot a furious look toward Amelia’s door.

  Andrew had only an instant to wonder at his reaction before Harcourt came rushing in behind him.

  “Dear god,” the superintendent said with a gasp, coughing and holding the back of his hand to his nose.

  Andrew stepped forward, partially blocking Harcourt’s view. “Yes. It’s a messy one.” He tried to sound calm. Here was where it would all fall apart. “Without family, I believe. I’m told you’ll handle the paperwork?” His voice was brusque.

  “Yes.” Harcourt backed away. “I’ll let the ferryman know they’ll need to leave room. Excuse me.”

  To Andrew’s amazement, the superintendent strode away without another look. God in heaven, it was working. Andrew’s shoulders sagged.

  Jonas’s face was hard, and his eyes glittered as he stepped into the cell. “Did you have anything to do with this?” He searched Andrew’s face and must have read his confusion. “Damn her,” he muttered. He bent and peered beneath the cot.

  “What are you doing?” Andrew hissed.

  “Making sure there’s nothing in the cell that shouldn’t be,” Jonas said in a low voice, checking the door. “Amelia knew what to do, but if…” He leaned over Elizabeth, scanning the mattress. “We’re all right. She’s hidden it all in her dress. Just make certain nothing falls out when we move her. Let’s get her wrapped before anyone else comes.” He nodded at Andrew, and they tucked the ends of the blanket around Elizabeth’s still form.

  Andrew stepped out of the cell as a second orderly appeared, carrying a stretcher under his arm. Andrew stood in the hallway as the new man and Jonas lifted the shapeless gray bundle from the ruined mattress, Jonas with quiet efficiency and the other man with muttered complaints about the mess, the smell, and the indignity of being asked to do such work. Moments later, they carried Elizabeth’s supposed corpse past him and out of the ward.

  Andrew leaned against the wall, his legs going weak with relief. He’d done what he could. The rest was out of his hands.

  * * *

  Jonas carried his end of the stretcher in grim silence, unable to remember the last time he’d been so furious. Amelia had thrown away his perfect plan on some near-stranger. And she’d deceived him to do it. If he’d been asked, he would have sworn there was no way she could have managed it. He would have said he knew her too well for it to ever work.

  Showed what he knew.

  Half a dozen little inconsistencies made sense now. Her hesitancy, her tension. He’d thought she was feeling guilty for double-crossing Cavanaugh. Jonas snorted, feeling like a fool.

  How was he going to get her out now? They couldn’t pull this same stunt again. No, Amelia was trapped here until he came up with something else, and he had no idea what the something else might be. He ground his teeth.

  Fortunately, Russo didn’t notice his mood. The pock-faced orderly kept up a steady stream of grumbling that required only the occasional grunt of acknowledgment from Jonas. The man had a remarkable aversion to doing his job.

  They reached the stairs. Without warning, Russo stopped to adjust his grip. The stretcher tilted and lurched.

  “Be careful,” Jonas snapped. “That’s all we need, for this mess to fall off and go rolling down to the bottom. I’m not cleaning it up if that happens.”

  The other man rolled his eyes, but he did move more carefully.

  Elizabeth remained perfectly still throughout the exchange. Jonas felt a flicker of grudging admiration for the woman. For a complete amateur, she was playing her part well.

  He blinked in the relative brightness as they stepped outside. The wagon was already waiting, the open coffin sitting on the bed. As they neared Jonas caught a whiff of pinewood, clean and welcome and almost enough to overwhelm the faint stench coming from the wrapped bundle on the stretcher.

  He and Russo slid the stretcher onto the wagon alongside the coffin and climbed up.

  Jonas took hold of the blanket wrapped around Elizabeth’s shoulders and nodded for Russo to take her feet.

  “Easier to
lift the stretcher and tip it. Body’ll roll right in,” Russo said. “Don’t have to touch it again that way.”

  By damn, the man was lazy. Elizabeth would roll right in, true enough, but she would land on her face in the hard wooden box. There was no way she was that good an actress. And tipping her might dislodge the things she’d concealed in her dress. They couldn’t risk it.

  “Have some respect,” Jonas barked. “On three.”

  To his relief, Russo made a sour face but complied, then climbed down to remove the stretcher. Jonas lifted the lid halfway into place. He hesitated, then, making sure no one was looking, he reached inside and twitched the flap of blanket away from Elizabeth’s still face. Relief flashed across her face before her expression smoothed again. He scraped the lid into place and jumped back down onto the gravel. Jonas thumped a fist against the wagon’s side.

  “Good to go,” he called to the driver. The wagon lurched forward, and Jonas watched in bitter defeat as his perfect plan rolled toward the river, carrying the wrong woman to freedom.

  30

  Amelia fidgeted in her cell, dreading Jonas’s return. His face as he carried the stretcher past her cell had been livid. Perhaps half an hour passed before he appeared at the door and extracted her from the cell.

  “Jonas, I—” she said.

  “Don’t.” His voice was black and unyielding as cast iron.

  She went quiet, guilt forming a hard lump in her chest.

  When they reached Cavanaugh’s office, he rounded on her the instant the door was closed behind them.

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to. Elizabeth is my friend, and she was going to die. I had to get her out, and I couldn’t be completely sure—”

  Amelia glanced at Cavanaugh. He’d risen at their entrance and now stood behind his desk, looking between them with narrowed eyes. Amelia grimaced. He might not understand exactly what had happened, but he knew there was something here he wasn’t privy to.

  Jonas followed her gaze, then closed his teeth on whatever he had been about to say and stepped back.

  Cavanaugh continued to regard them for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head. “Whatever it is, it’s between the two of you. I don’t want to know. But could one of you please, for the love of god, explain to me how you did that? What was all that blood?”

  Amelia looked at Jonas. “Didn’t you tell him what you were going to do?”

  “Not in any detail,” he said, the words clipped. “I wanted his reactions to be as authentic as possible.”

  “But. Oh. That must have been terribly distressing.” Amelia fought a sudden, highly inappropriate urge to laugh.

  It must have shown on her face, since both men glared at her.

  “It was, in fact,” Cavanaugh said with exaggerated patience. “Please tell me how you did it.”

  Amelia glanced at Jonas, who still seemed to be barely holding himself in check. His jaw was tight as he turned away and waved a hand at her to go ahead.

  “It was easy enough. We have a friend who does costumes for stage shows. He’s very good. He got Jonas the supplies—the sharpened metal, wax to mold the wound, a little spirit gum to hold it in place. The blood was mostly real—it’s hard to fake the smell. It was cow’s blood, I assume.” She looked at Jonas, who nodded once. “If you mix it with glycerin and carmine, it keeps its color and stays liquid longer. I picked the locks with a hairpin, explained everything to Elizabeth, then helped her get in position. All she had to do was hold still until someone found her.”

  “And now they have,” Jonas said. His face was bleak. “We’ll need a new plan for you.”

  “What was your second-best idea?” Amelia asked. “What were you planning on doing if we hadn’t had help?”

  He looked sour. “I was thinking of sneaking you out the next time one of those big charity groups came in. I thought if I could get you the right clothes, you could mix with them in the hallway and leave the island when they did.”

  Cavanaugh’s face was horrified. “But that would never work.”

  “That’s why I didn’t propose it,” Jonas said in an acid tone.

  “Well, we’ve got some time,” Amelia said.

  Jonas pinned her with a look. “Twenty-two days.”

  “But if you haven’t come up with another plan—” Cavanaugh began.

  “Oh, I’ll have one by then,” Jonas said, a warning in his voice. “Twenty-two days from now, we’re leaving. And if your help is still worth anything, I expect you to give it without complaint.”

  Jonas went on when they looked at him. “It’s not going to do your reputation here any good, having a patient turn suicide two days after you recommended she be released.”

  It was Cavanaugh’s turn to look sour. “No. I suppose it couldn’t be helped. Although if I’d known exactly what you were planning, I might have—” He cut himself off and looked away.

  “What’s done is done,” Amelia said. She took a breath, eager to move on, yet dreading the topic she was about to introduce. “For now, I think you should transfer me to ward five.”

  “The incurables? Are you sure?” Cavanaugh asked.

  Jonas didn’t speak, though he looked no more enthused than the doctor.

  “I’m as sure as I can be that Julia isn’t in ward seven,” Amelia said with a grimace. “I’m going to have to search five eventually, and I’d just as soon get it out of the way.”

  31

  Jonas woke the following morning to the familiar sound of water running in the washroom. It took him a few drowsy, contented seconds to remember it wasn’t Amelia in the other room.

  A jumbled wave of emotions swept over him. He lay staring at the ceiling as he tried to sort through them. Anger, obviously. Frustration and disappointment. A not-insignificant degree of embarrassment—he was supposed to be the brilliant one, but Amelia had managed to trick him with ease. A measure of affront that she had believed it necessary.

  And down, deep down at his core, a whisper of chagrin that it might have been justified.

  Jonas rubbed a hand over his face, appalled by the realization. Angry as he was with her, Amelia might have saved him from a choice that would have made a monster of him.

  The sound of the water stopped. In the silence, Jonas blew out a breath. There would be time enough to consider that thought later.

  He rose and dressed, emerging from his bedroom to find Elizabeth Miner sitting at the table, flipping the pages of a magazine.

  “Did I wake you?”

  Jonas shrugged. He’d worked two full shifts, switching with one of the other orderlies so he could be on duty to both deliver the supplies for their masquerade and help with the removal of Elizabeth’s “corpse” once it was complete. He’d been looking forward to sleeping in this morning, with Amelia in her own room doing the same.

  “It’s fine. It means we should be able to get you on an early train, if you’re ready.”

  They’d talked it through the night before. Elizabeth had been remarkably self-possessed for someone who’d been told only hours before that she would die if she didn’t immediately agree to a chancy, frightening escape attempt requiring her to unearth enough innate acting ability to fool trained medical personnel into believing her dead. Not to mention taking a ferry ride trapped in a coffin with the vague assurance that someone she’d never met would be there to rescue her on the other end.

  The woman had moxie. Jonas would give her that much.

  By the time he’d gotten back to the apartment, Elizabeth had already worked out the next step on her own. Everyone she’d ever known believed her dead. Turning up alive in the city would create an uproar—one that might well reach the ears of whoever was running this plot. They had to get her away as soon as possible. Elizabeth had a childhood friend in Chicago, someone her husband hadn’t known, so it was probable he hadn’t bothered to convey the news of her supposed death. Elizabeth claimed the friend would help her. Jonas detected a hint of uncertainty
in her voice, but he didn’t care enough to pry.

  “I’m ready.” She stood and smoothed the skirt of the ill-fitting brown dress she wore.

  Tommy had gotten it for her. Jonas had asked him to help, and he’d performed admirably. According to Elizabeth, he barely blinked when he wrenched the lid from the coffin to find a blood-spattered stranger peering up at him. He brought her back to the apartment so she could tidy herself up, and—since she left the asylum with quite literally nothing but the ragged, filthy clothes on her back—went back out to find her something clean to wear.

  It had probably been bought with his own money. Jonas grimaced. He’d have to pay the man back. He lifted the cashbox from its hidden shelf behind the icebox and examined its contents. They’d also need money for Elizabeth’s train ticket. And whatever supplies Jonas required for Amelia’s eventual escape. And the rent was due—a bit past due now, in fact. He’d been ducking Sabine for the past several days.

  Jonas pulled the thin stack of bills from the box and fanned through it. His orderly’s pay, extra shifts notwithstanding, didn’t come near to filling the void in their finances left by Amelia’s absence and his own recent patchwork schedule.

  A few silver coins slid across the bottom of the box. He scraped those up as well—they’d need fares for the streetcar, and perhaps something to eat along the way. He placed the empty box back on the shelf with a resigned sigh. “Let’s go.”

  Dawn was a pale gray smear in the east as they left the apartment. They were silent as they walked down the sidewalk beneath flickering streetlights. The streets were quiet, though not deserted.

  A loutish-looking fellow eyed them from the mouth of an alley. Jonas gave the man a quick sideways glare, and he shrank back into the darkness, convinced to try his luck elsewhere. Jonas and Elizabeth paused at a corner as a milk wagon rattled by, crates of empty glass bottles tinkling as the wheels rolled over the cobblestones.