by Joan Smith
“Did I kill him? Did I kill Bulow?” was the first thing I had to hear. I waited with bated breath, not knowing whether I wanted to hear a confirmation or denial. There is something so wickedly final about killing someone.
“He’s dead, but you can’t claim full credit. You hadn’t the strength to finish him off,” she told me merrily. “He should have been dead long ago. I never trusted that dirty red halo he has—anger and oodles of energy with it.”
“How did he... ?”
“With his own pistol. He put it in his mouth and—”
“Stop! I understand. I didn’t know he had a gun.”
“We figured it was in case you escaped, you see. He’d have shot you if you managed to run free from him. Bulow is very thorough. He thinks of everything. Planned this stunt for years and years. It was the roof of the icehouse he meant to hang you from. He had the hook screwed in for the rope, a shiny new one. When the stable hands got there, he had finished himself off. Too proud to go into the dock like a felon. Homer was over with a rush light and looked around. I went too. There’s blood all over the ice and sawdust.”
“How is Woodie?” I asked, to stem the flow of description—images that would find a home in my head and come back to haunt me.
“He’s chirping merry today, the cock of the walk. He saw you leave the house yesterday afternoon, and since he wasn’t too busy, he told the lads he’d walk the pretty lady home. But he didn’t see you ahead of him on the path. He managed to communicate his story to Homer last night by pointing and grunting and saying the few words he can. The icehouse door was not latched, so he opened it to pick up a small piece of ice to suck as he went along. He often does it in summer. I’ve done the same myself, but I doubt I ever will again since seeing the blood.”
“He’s all right then, no ill effects?”
“He hasn’t the sense to be frightened, the poor loony, but he knows he’s some kind of hero. Homer says he’ll adopt the lad. He don’t mean it, dear, so you needn’t fear. All he means is that he’ll show him special consideration in future, and his family too.”
“When did Homer get back from Exeter?”
“Not till eventide. There was some trouble finding the lads who ran the auction, or races, or whatever it was Bulow was supposed to be at that day. When he learned Bulow had not bought the horse there, had not been there at all, he wasted an hour or more finding out where he did get it, which he says don’t matter a hoot. Then he had a premonition Bulow wouldn’t wait. His first. Homer hasn’t had much of a knack for premonitions before. He was sorry he ever went, when he learned what had happened to you.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s back from the constable’s office. He had to make a report, you know, since you weren’t able to do it. You’ll have the chance to give your evidence too, so don’t despair.”
“Was Bulow mad, Millie? Was he insane, like Norman?”
“Devil a bit of it. He was proud and a scoundrel. He had the notion Wyngate belonged to him by rights, and decided to take the law into his own hands to get it. First he scared Norman off by telling him he was crazy like his mama. Trust Norman to believe him. He should have seen I am as sane as can be, and I am Emily’s sister. The thing ain’t hereditary at all, or I’d have it.”
“He didn’t even wait to see if my child was a boy.”
“Killing heirs is more suspicious than pushing widows. If he’d waited and it had been a boy, then he’d have had so many to kill that it was bound to look suspicious. Best not to take chances. I told you he was thorough.”
“Do you think his mother knew?”
“Nora is an idiot. She thinks the sun rises and sets on the boy. She’d threaten to sue us if she dared. But deep in her heart, she knows. She must.”
“I expect he got the belladonna for the plum cake from your supply. You should get rid of it.”
“We’re rid of him, so there is no need. The progress of science cannot be halted because of one scoundrel. My work is vital.”
“So it is. You helped me last night, and I thank you.”
“Anytime, dear. Anytime. What happened is right and just. Norman would soon have gone over the edge into total lunacy and been no use to the world. You should read your Darwin, my girl. You’d get your eyes opened up wide. As to Bulow, don’t shed a tear for him, either. The bad seeds have got to be uprooted or they spread and strangle the good. Nature’s balance must be maintained. The weak perish young, and the strong carry on and multiply.”
When I was fit to be seen, I asked her to send Homer to me when he was free. Within two minutes, he was knocking at my door. He said only one word—”Davinia!”—before sweeping me into his arms. It was enough. There was love, desire, excitement, regret, relief, hope—a whole world of meaning in the word and its tone.
I went to him with no words at all, but only my outstretched arms for reply. For a long moment, we stood, holding each other in mute gratitude that it was over, the nightmare was over, and the awakening about to begin.
As if our minds were one, we pulled apart at the same instant, looked at each other, smiled, and embraced. I feared nothing would ever wash away the horror of the icehouse, what I had done, and what had been done to me, but love does conquer all. When his lips possessed mine, I thought of nothing but how much I loved this man, wanted him, needed him, as a flower needs the sun, and as he needed and wanted me. Every sense was alive, tingling with the urgency of his desire, his passion, and my own. Once that giant is born in us, it cannot be long denied.
Propriety must have her say. I consider propriety a female, but as such, she may be manipulated by another of her own sex. A discreet, quiet wedding, a honeymoon abroad till talk of all the irregularities at Wyngate are forgotten, then a return. It will be a triumphant return, for Homer is much loved here, and I am not despised either. I will come back to Wyngate as I should have come in the first place, as its mistress. We will fill the house with love and laughter and children. We will drive out the shadows, the anger and bad memories. A new day is dawning. I know it surely as I know he loves me, and I love him.