by Adele Clee
“Brass buttons?” Deep furrows appeared on Taylor’s brow. He remained silent for a moment. “Describe them.”
“Don’t listen to her. We should put an end to it now,” Mrs Wilmslow glared at the doctor, “before the earl comes.”
“Wait.” Taylor shot forward, gripped Rose’s elbow and dragged her to her feet. “What buttons?”
Rose struggled to catch her breath. “The ones engraved with the sun and a unique leaf pattern. Lady Farleigh had one in her hand. The other lay amid the leaves next to Miss Stoneway’s body.”
Mrs Wilmslow tugged the doctor’s arm. “We must leave now. I think I hear something. If the earl finds us here, we’ll both hang.”
Taylor pushed her away with his arm. He pulled his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat and showed Rose the gold case. “Are they like this?”
The intricate scrollwork matched the buttons perfectly. “Yes, they are exactly like that.”
With a loud exhalation, Taylor released Rose’s elbow, and she stumbled back into the chair. He turned on Mrs Wilmslow like a rabid dog in the fighting pits. “You bloody bitch.”
With wide eyes, she shuffled back until she hit the edge of the wooden table. “Why would you speak to me like that? Are we not in this together?”
“Tell me! Tell me why. What did you hope to gain?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs Wilmslow clutched the knife to her chest. “She’s poisoning your mind. How can Lord Farleigh have the buttons when you lost them here in London?”
“Did I though? Is that not what you wanted me to think? When I packed my valise, my waistcoat had six buttons. When I unpacked, two were missing. You were in my bedchamber that afternoon. You had ample opportunity to steal them while I slept.”
“But why would I do that?” Panic infused her tone, and she struggled to hold his gaze.
“To frame me for the murders you committed.” He stepped back and dragged his hand down his face, but then his eyes grew wide. “Good God, you killed Miss Stoneway.”
Rose glanced at the half-open door and debated whether to run. It was only a matter of time before Christian arrived, but with the volatile mood in the air, she decided not to take the chance.
“You killed Miss Stoneway?” Taylor repeated.
Mrs Wilmslow’s hands shook. “I did it for you. What if Mr Watson gathered enough evidence to go to the magistrate? What if she made it to Everleigh and convinced Lord Farleigh that she wasn’t mad at all?”
“Damnation, do you know what you’ve done?” Taylor gestured to the blade in the woman’s hand. “Give me the knife, Abigail.”
Abigail? It didn’t sound like the name of a murderess. But it was fair to say, Mrs Wilmslow’s logic had abandoned her long ago.
“No, I don’t trust you. I’m the only one alive who knows the truth of what you’ve done. Why do you think I planted the evidence?” She spoke so quickly it was difficult to follow her ramblings. “For security. Because all men are liars and cheats. You’re going to use me and discard me and—”
“Just give me the damn knife and let us think of a way out of this mess.”
“Step back.” Mrs Wilmslow jabbed the knife at the doctor. “I’m leaving. You can deal with this on your own.”
“Like hell you are!” Dr Taylor lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. A scuffle broke out. They pushed and shoved, knocked a glass beaker onto the floor and it shattered into a hundred pieces. “Stop fighting me and listen to sense.”
Rose shuffled to the right, eager to escape the small confines of the room. She’d take her chances. But mayhem ensued as the pair wrestled for control.
Then a guttural growl put paid to their wild tussle. Mrs Wilmslow charged at the doctor and drove the blade deep into his chest.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Christian opened the carriage door and vaulted down to the ground. “Move the cart out of the way else I’ll smash the blasted thing to pieces.” In anger, he kicked the apples strewn across his path, much to the horrified gasps of the passersby.
The grey-haired man doffed his shabby hat. “I can’t, my lord. The wheel’s come off, and it won’t budge.”
Stanton marched around the carriage. He took one look at the mess on the road. “Jackson, climb down and help us with this damn thing.”
The coachman obliged. Between them, they carried the cart and set it down on the pavement. Stanton jerked his head to Jackson who happened to understand the silent nod and so removed a few coins from his coat pocket and thrust them into the old man’s hand.
“Much obliged to you, my lord.” The man beamed and flashed them a mouth full of rotten teeth. “And may the Lord bless you all this fine day.”
They climbed into the carriage, relieved to hear Jackson crack the reins and to feel the violent rumble of the wheels as the conveyance picked up speed.
Christian whipped his watch from his pocket. “Rose has been alone with Taylor for almost twenty minutes.” He stared at the delicate gold hands, convinced they were moving faster than usual. Why hadn’t they called for him sooner?
“Taylor? You’re sure the doctor is the one responsible for sending the note?” Stanton raised a dubious brow. “The man is so considerate, so generous to his patients.”
“What other explanation is there?” Deep down, Christian had always known something wasn’t right. He blamed himself. They’d had him chasing his tail for nigh on two years. But then who would suspect a reverend of adultery? Who would suspect a doctor of murder? “Taylor’s not what he professes to be, of that I’m certain.”
A heavy silence filled the small space. Jackson’s impatient cries to those who happened to get in their way conveyed the sense of desperation hanging in the air.
“We’re nearly there.” Lady Stanton kept her nose pressed to the window, only moving to rub away the patch of mist that appeared every few seconds. “Did Jackson not say it was the next road after Paradise Row?”
“The entrance to the garden is on Swan Walk,” Stanton replied.
Christian closed his eyes briefly. “I still can’t believe you let her go alone. What the hell were you thinking?” Images of Rose lying face up in the shrubbery flooded his vision.
“What else could I do? She’s not the timid woman she was before my father locked her in the manor. And I couldn’t take the risk of her sneaking off without my knowledge.”
Lady Stanton dragged her gaze from the window and gave her husband a reassuring smile. “Rose is determined to solve Lord Farleigh’s problems. Yes, I’m worried, but I can’t help but admire her tenacity.”
The lady’s thoughts mirrored his own. Rose risked her life to bring him peace. And by God, he would worship her with every breath in his body until the end of his days.
“We’re here,” Lady Stanton cried, opening the door before the carriage rumbled to a stop.
“Wait!” Stanton grabbed his wife’s arm. “Just because you’re wearing breeches doesn’t mean you can leap out of a moving carriage.”
With a huff of impatience, Lady Stanton waited, though the last few rolls of the wheels seemed to take forever. As soon as their feet touched the pavement, they made a dash for the Physic Garden.
Christian reached the iron gate first only to find it locked. “The garden’s closed today. Are you certain we’re at the right place?” He rattled the metal bars and peered through the gaps at the deserted path. Panic surfaced.
“Here, let me try.” Stanton stepped forward and fiddled with the handle. He put his hands on his hips and frowned. “So how did Rose get inside?”
Christian glanced down the length of Swan Walk. Other than a boy lingering near an oak tree and a woman pushing a perambulator, there wasn’t another person on the road. “You’re certain the note said Chelsea? Are there other botanic—”
“This is the right place,” Stanton interjected.
“When you’ve finished debating will one of you give me some assistance?” Lady Stanton stood before the wall,
the toe of one boot wedged into a gap between the brickwork, her fingers lodged into another gap higher up. “Hurry, before someone sees us and goes looking for a constable.”
“Good God, woman, are you planning to scale the wall?” Stanton strode over to his wife. “When we return home, remind me to hide all the spare pairs of breeches.”
The lady sighed. “Take hold of my foot and push me up.”
With no time to argue, Stanton gave his wife a boost, and she hauled herself over the wall.
A few moans and groans accompanied a dull thud. “I’m over, but I may have killed a plant in the process.”
“Don’t move until we join you.” Stanton turned to Christian. “She’s liable to go tearing off looking for Rose.”
Christian scanned the height of the wall. “You go next. I don’t need your assistance.”
Stanton blinked in surprise as his gaze drifted over the breadth of Christian’s chest.
“School pranks,” Christian continued, “you know how it is.” Once, he’d climbed from the roof down to the lower floor to seek revenge on Haystack Henry.
Stanton was heavier than expected but one good push and the earl cleared the wall, too. Christian followed Lady Stanton’s lead and used the gaps left by the missing mortar as footholds.
“Did the note say where Rose should meet Taylor?” Christian brushed the dust from his hands as he scoured the garden. Rows of beds lined the walkways, each one filled with unusual plants and herbs.
“No, but I don’t suppose there are many places for a person to hide.” Lady Stanton walked a few paces along the path. “But from the stench in the air, it’s clear we’re close to the river. Perhaps there’s a—”
A high-pitched shriek captured their attention.
“Rose!” The sound of a woman’s mournful wails held Christian rooted to the spot.
“This way.” Stanton pointed south, and they took flight along the path. With the heavy crunch of their boots on the gravel, the whole of London would have heard them coming.
They followed the cries to a row of brick buildings, the door to one stood ajar. Christian thrust out his arm, a gesture to urge his companions to stop and tread carefully.
“Shush,” he whispered, and they crept closer to the door. “We don’t want to startle Taylor.”
The loud din inside the building obliterated any other sound. Cries of despair followed bouts of angry curses.
“You did this,” a woman yelled, “meddling and poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Don’t just stand there,” Rose said. Hearing her voice calmed Christian’s racing heart. “We must call for help.”
“Why could you not leave things alone? Look! Look what you’ve made me do.”
“It is of no importance now. You must check his pulse. You must try to stop the bleeding.”
Lady Stanton put her hand to her mouth and coughed. Perhaps she still suffered from the effects of the smoke inhaled at Morton Manor. But one cough led to another, and another.
“Who’s there?” The woman peered around the door but shot back into the room. “Don’t come any closer else I’ll put a knife through your maid’s heart, too.”
Christian looked at Stanton. No one knew quite what to do.
A scuffle broke out inside the building. Rose groaned. The woman cursed. A chair scraped along the floor. Rose appeared in the doorway. Her frantic gaze met his, and Christian’s heart dropped like lead into the pit of his stomach.
The woman held Rose around the neck, the edge of a shiny blade pressed to her throat.
“Move away,” the woman cried, shoving Rose forward.
A single drop of blood trickled onto the collar of Rose’s white shirt.
“Let her go.” Christian spoke as calmly as he could, given the circumstances. “Leave here, and we’ll promise not to follow you.” It was a lie, but he’d come to learn that sometimes they were necessary.
The woman snorted as she shuffled to her left. “We’re leaving by barge. Once I’m safely away, I’ll let your maid go.” That was another lie.
“Do what she says.” Rose’s hoarse voice conveyed fear. She kept her head stiff and rigid as she spoke. “One of you must attend to Dr Taylor.”
Taylor?
Stanton looked at him and raised a questioning brow. “Is he alive?”
“Barely.”
It was only as the woman continued her movement towards the path that they saw her face clearly. Christian recognised her instantly.
Mrs Wilmslow?
It took every effort not to gasp and call her name. What had this got to do with the reverend’s wife?
Lady Stanton raised a hand. “May I attend to the doctor?”
“Leave him.” Bitterness infused Mrs Wilmslow’s tone, and she pressed the knife against Rose’s porcelain skin to show she meant business. “It’s too late now.”
They stood helplessly and watched the reverend’s wife drag Rose onto the path.
“We must do something,” Stanton said through gritted teeth.
Rose disappeared behind a stone pillar, and they followed slowly behind. The walkway led down to a gate and a flight of stone steps giving access to the river. From what he’d heard, the apothecaries transported herbs and plants via a barge to other botanic gardens and nurseries in the district, took delivery of new specimens transported from far and wide.
As they moved closer to the steps, a vessel bobbed into view. Clearly, Mrs Wilmslow had missed the flaw in her plan. How was she to loosen the boat’s moorings when she needed both hands to hold Rose?
A crippling sense of panic burst to the fore. What if Rose seized the opportunity to break free, and the woman lashed out? As he watched Mrs Wilmslow open the gate and descend the steps, Christian’s blood rushed through his veins at such a rapid rate it affected his vision.
Christian tapped Stanton on the arm. “We must close the gap if we have any hope of ensuring Rose’s safety.”
Stanton nodded, and as Mrs Wilmslow stared at the iron ring embedded into the stone wall, wondering what to do about her dilemma, they quickened their pace.
Mrs Wilmslow looked up, her eyes suddenly bulging with terror. Christian thought her fear stemmed from their sudden advancement, but a shuffle of footsteps and a mournful groan caused Christian to glance back behind him.
Dr Taylor approached, shambling like a man who’d downed copious amounts of brandy, and whose limbs had a mind of their own. Blood stained the front of his waistcoat and trickled through the gaps between his fingers where he clutched his chest. Christian was not a doctor, but he knew the look of death. The doctor’s sallow skin held a bluish tint, and his sunken eyes were glassy and unresponsive.
Lady Stanton gasped. She took two steps towards the doctor and hesitated as if expecting Mrs Wilmslow to protest.
Mrs Wilmslow’s frantic gaze shifted back and forth between the doctor and the iron ring. Her arm sagged, the knife no longer pressing into the delicate skin at Rose’s throat. But then the doctor dropped to his knees, and another heartfelt wail burst from the woman’s lips.
“Oh, what have I done?” In her distress, Mrs Wilmslow stumbled back and slipped on the bottom step. The knife fell from her hand and landed with a clatter. Arms flailing, she tried to keep her balance and grabbed the back of Rose’s coat for support.
“No!” Rose’s eyes were wide, her mouth agape.
Christian stared in horror. Time slowed. Rose was falling, clutching at nothing, almost suspended in the air.
“Rose!” Christian darted forward, as did Lord Stanton.
Mrs Wilmslow hit the water first, banging heads with Rose who fell on top of her. The almighty splash sent waves rippling across the surface. Watermen stopped rowing as they passed although no one called out to offer help.
“Rose!” Christian shrugged out of his coat, threw his hat to ground and raced down the steps. Rose tried to keep her head above the water. Again, her hands came up as if stretching for the sky. There was no sign
of Mrs Wilmslow.
“Help! Christian! She’s pulling me down.” Rose disappeared beneath the circle of white foam.
“Good God, she can’t swim,” Stanton cried.
“I know.” Without another thought, Christian dived into the murky Thames.
Beneath, the water was a cloudy green yet surprisingly clear. His eyes stung, and it hurt to keep them open. He spotted Rose, writhing and wriggling to free herself from the coat. With her eyes closed, Mrs Wilmslow showed no sign of distress. Perhaps the bang on the head had knocked the fight out of her. Indeed, when Christian wrapped his arms around Rose and tugged, the woman relinquished her grip, and sank serenely to the bottom.
With Rose in his arms, he swam the few feet to the surface and spat out the foul taste of the river.
Lord Stanton stood on the bottom step in his shirtsleeves, ready to jump in. “Thank the Lord,” he gasped, and he waved them ashore as though the thought of swimming to safety hadn’t occurred to them.
Christian reached the steps, and the earl grabbed Rose by the arms and pulled her out.
“What about Mrs Wilmslow?”
Christian glanced back over his shoulder. “I’ll go back for her.”
“No.” Rose coughed and sucked in a breath. “I-I can’t lose you, Christian.”
But despite all Mrs Wilmslow had done, he could not leave her there. He returned to the water and dived down. He could see the woman’s lifeless body, but couldn’t hold his breath long enough to reach her.
He returned to the bank and Stanton hauled him out. “No luck?”
Christian shook his head and collapsed on the steps next to Rose, his clothes sodden, his breath coming in painful pants.
Rose scrambled to his side, stroked his face, pushed the wet strands of hair off his forehead. “Say something. Tell me you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, but I was too late to save the reverend’s wife.” Guilt flared until he noted the red line marring the skin at Rose’s throat. Then he pushed all grim thoughts aside.