by Paula Paul
“Of course you didn’t.” Alexandra started to pull him to her, but she felt his resistance and dropped her hand from his shoulder. “When someone close to us dies, it’s quite natural to feel angry and confused.”
“Really?” His eyes widened again. “Then perhaps I won’t burn in hell for saying I’m glad he…he is…”
“I’m quite sure you won’t.” Alexandra gave him a smile and once again restrained herself from exploiting him by questioning him further.
“I think Annie is glad, too.” Will’s words startled her, as did the fear that had returned to his eyes. “I think she would have run away long ago, except she had to take care of Mama and me.”
“Run away?”
“Yes, but we mustn’t talk about it.”
“Really? Why not?” Alexandra was straining at her self-imposed rules of propriety now.
“Because Annie said—”
“Master Will! You mustn’t bother Dr. Gladstone now.” Annie’s harsh voice startled both Will and Alexandra as she emerged from Jane’s room, her large frame dominating the room. Alexandra stood suddenly and turned to face Annie. Will backed away as well, placing himself on the edge of the landing. Annie reached for him and pulled him roughly toward her. “Go to your room. Go on now!” She gave him a gentle shove when she saw his reluctance. “I’ll be up with milk and biscuits later.” She turned to Alexandra when she was certain Will was on his way. “Mrs. Orkwright is resting now. She’ll be fine.” Her voice was no less harsh, and there was an odd tautness to her speech that suggested fear and, without a doubt, dismissal.
“I’m going to leave a medicine for her.” Alexandra saw Will pause in front of the door to his room, trying to hear all that was said. “I’m quite certain you’re correct. She will be all right.” Alexandra spoke the words for the benefit of the young eavesdropper. “The medicine will aid her recovery.” She moved toward the stairs urging Annie to walk down them ahead of her. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll give you instructions on how to administer it.”
Annie hesitated a moment, then reluctantly started down with one furtive look over her shoulder, as if she was uncertain her mistress and young Will would be all right without her.
In the kitchen, Alexandra took a vial of compound spirits of lavender from her bag, along with another vial of aqua ammonia. She mixed a teaspoon of the first with ten drops of the latter in a cup, half filled with water. She then added a bit of sugar, which she’d asked Annie to find for her. When it was mixed, she handed the cup to Annie. “See that she drinks all of this right away. If she continues to improve, she need only rest in bed until I return tomorrow. But if she shows more signs of faintness, send for me immediately.”
Annie gave her a solemn nod and turned away toward the hall that led to the stairs, taking great care to hold the cup with both hands. Alexandra was left to see herself out, which she did with reluctance, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions.
Nicholas saw her leave from his position behind an outcropping of gorse in an open field next to the house. He had stationed himself there in the hope of finding John Killborn. He had reasoned that the young man would eventually show up at his mother’s house if he was, in fact, in Newton-Upon-Sea.
His first instinct was to follow Dr. Gladstone and try to catch up with her. He would like to invite her for a carriage ride, perhaps. Or anything that would give him the opportunity to be alone with her. His reasons were not entirely dishonorable. Among other things, he’d like to know why she’d spent so much time in Gull House and what, if anything, she’d learned. But he wouldn’t attempt to catch up with her just yet. There would be time for that later. For now, his mission was to catch up with young John Killborn and convince him to turn himself in to the authorities. That would improve, at least to a small extent, his client’s worsening chances at trial.
It was only a matter of minutes before he saw a figure topping the steep hill that led up to Gull House. The quick, fluid movement of the body told Nicholas it was a young man, and although he had seen John Killborn only once when he was first assigned to defend him, he was certain it was Killborn.
Nicholas moved as quickly as he could through the gorse, his back hunched, trying to avoid being out in the open where Killborn could see him and be frightened away. Nicholas had to be quick enough to intercept him before he reached the house, however. Once inside, it could be difficult to flush him out. In spite of the fact that Dr. Gladstone had said Mrs. Orkwright was a reasonable woman, Nicholas would not discount a mother’s instinct to protect her offspring. John was, after all, no more than sixteen.
By the time Nicholas reached the edge of the gardens of Gull House, one of his hands, as well as the side of his face, was bleeding from various encounters with the thorns on the gorse. The thorns had also badly snagged the trousers and coat sleeves of his fine hand-tailored suit. There was no time to worry about that, however. He sprinted across the lawn calling out John Killborn’s name.
The young man paused for the briefest of moments then ran down the hill again. Nicholas sprinted after him, shedding his coat as he ran. Ahead of him, the young man moved like a machine of expertly synchronized parts, churning at rapid speed down the hill. Nicholas was equally agile and close behind, and when he was near enough, jumped, turning his body parallel with the ground as he dove toward Killborn, and, upon landing, encircling the young man’s legs with his arms while at the same time plowing several inches of gravelly soil with his own chin.
Killborn landed with a thud on the rocky road, burying his face in the dirt, too. He tried to struggle to his feet and out of Nicholas’ grasp, but Nicholas held on to him. Killborn continued to struggle, but he was winded and losing vigor. Nicholas stood, pulling the gasping Killborn up with him. The boy’s face was caked with blood and dirt.
“It’s you!” It was impossible to tell whether that exclamation from Killborn was fear or relief, or perhaps only disgust.
“It is I, yes, and you bloody well better be glad it is,” Nicholas said.
“How did you know…?”
“How did I know you would come here?” Nicholas gave him a rough shove up the road toward the gardens where there was at least some cover so they could talk without being seen. “I’m a lawyer. It’s my business to stay one step ahead of the lawless, as well as the law. Now you tell me what in bloody hell happened to your brain that made you decide to escape from prison.” He gave him a shake. “Your crime was burglary of a few trinkets. I could have gotten you off perhaps with a few months. Now you’ve an escape charge to face, and you’ll be damned lucky to get thirty bloody years. That is if you don’t hang.”
“It’s none of your business what I do.” He tried to wrench himself free of Nicholas’ grasp.
“You idiot. It bloody well is my business. I’m your barrister, remember? I’m the only person who can save you.” He gave Killborn another shove. Then, when they had reached a thin grove of trees, he spun him around to face him. “Now talk, damn you.”
“I have nothing to say.” His words were a defiant snarl.
Nicholas let the words hang in the air for a moment before he spoke. “Very well.” He loosened his grip on Killborn and brushed a bit of dirt from his damaged clothing, a futile gesture. “In that case, I apologize for the interruption, and I shall see you again when the police find you.” He had taken only a few steps when he realized his ploy had worked.
“I…I had a score to settle.” The defiance was gone from Killborn’s voice, replaced with choking fear.
Nicholas turned around to face him. “Indeed.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that burglary. It’s…a personal matter.” His face, clouded with terror, now looked even younger than his sixteen years.
“A personal matter, is it? I dare say it would have been much wiser for you to have the prison authorities contact me to take care of it for you.”
Young Killborn shook his head and some of the defiance returned to his eyes. “No. It was somethin
g I had to do. No one else.”
“Something regarding your stepfather perhaps?” Nicholas watched Killborn’s face for some sign of fear or guilt or even anger. He saw all of it.
“I didn’t kill the bastard.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
Killborn’s face went white, and his jaw tightened. Nicholas thought he might run again, and he grasped his arm to prevent it. “I didn’t kill him!” he said again.
“Come with me, John. You’re in quite enough trouble as it is. Don’t make it worse,” Nicholas said.
Killborn jerked free of Nicholas’ grasp, but he didn’t run. “I don’t care how much worse it gets, I have to…”
“Have to what?”
Killborn looked down at the ground.
“John, listen to me. You may not care how much worse it gets for you, but what about your mother? Can’t you imagine how she—”
Killborn raised his head suddenly to look at Nicholas. His eyes were hot with anger. “Keep my mother out of this, you bastard.”
“Listen to me, John.” Nicholas tried to grasp his arm again, but he jerked it away. When he tried a second time to restrain him, Killborn swung at Nicholas’ jaw, hitting it squarely with his fist. Nicholas staggered backward and felt blood trickle down his chin, but he quickly regained his balance and blocked another blow with his forearm before grabbing one of Killborn’s arms and twisting it behind him. “Don’t be a fool. Can’t you see you’re getting yourself deeper and deeper into trouble?”
Killborn made one more attempt to wrench himself free, but it was a half-hearted attempt. Nicholas felt him relax slightly, and he pressed his advantage. “Come with me to the local gaol. We’ll get word to Newgate as quickly as possible that you’ve surrendered yourself. I’ll make a plea for you that you’d heard of your stepfather’s death and were upset. That may help you, especially since you’re hardly more than a boy.”
Killborn stiffened again. “I’m glad the bastard’s dead. I wouldn’t waste my grief on—”
Nicholas forced Killborn’s arm to bend at an even more awkward angle behind his back, and he felt him wince. “Don’t say any more, you fool. Just turn yourself in and keep your mouth shut.” There was no response from Killborn, but Nicholas sensed a change. He relaxed his grip slightly. “Let’s go!” he said.
By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, Nicholas was no longer restraining Killborn. Still, he walked close by and watched him carefully.
Snow was just locking the front door of his office, preparing to leave for the day when the two of them approached. He glanced up at them as they neared him. A sudden, terrible light shone in his eyes, like shards of glass. He straightened his shoulders and seemed to will dullness to his eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Forsythe.” He refused to acknowledge Killborn with even a glance.
“I’m afraid I must disturb your plans to leave your work for the day.” Nicholas’ hand went cautiously to grasp Killborn’s arm again.
“I see.” For the first time Snow glanced at Killborn.
“Do you know who this is?”
There was no response from Snow.
“My client, Mr. John Killborn, wishes to turn himself in and requests that you notify Newgate Prison as soon as possible,” Nicholas said, puzzled at Snow’s lack of response.
Snow turned around and unlocked the door, then stood back for Nicholas and Killborn to enter. He went straight to his desk, and when he was seated, pulled out a form. Without looking up, he asked the routine questions of the prisoner while he wrote down his responses.
Name, age, city of residence, charges against him, next of kin. Snow must have known all of the answers without asking. Killborn gave his answers in a monotone. His face had turned as gray as lead and his lips were bloodless. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“Do you wish to make a statement at this time regarding your escape?” Snow still kept his eyes down and the pen poised over the line to be completed.
Nicholas was about to caution young Killborn not to say anything in that regard when the young man swayed slightly, clasped his hand to his mouth, and mumbled behind the hand, “I’m going to be sick!”
Snow looked up suddenly, then pointed with his pen to a side door. Killborn rushed toward it, flung it open, and stepped outside. Both Nicholas and Snow followed him. They both turned away when he began to retch, but Snow kept his hand firmly at the boy’s back, his fingers grasping his belt.
Young Killborn continued to retch, bending from the waist. And then suddenly he was running, and Snow was left holding his belt. The boy had obviously unfastened the belt and slipped it off as he bent over. Both Nicholas and Snow ran to catch him, but he had disappeared into an alley. When they reached the alley, he was gone.
“He had to go either right or left at the end of the alley,” Nicholas called to Snow. “You take the left, and I’ll take the right.” Nicholas ran, but he knew within seconds it was futile. Killborn was nowhere in sight. He continued to search, though, until the shadows grew too thick to see. He returned to the gaol, hoping Snow’d had better luck. He saw him standing at the back entrance, breathing heavily. There was no sign of Killborn, however, except for the stench and the puddle of his vomit.
Chapter Eight
Zack was not in a good mood. He made it clear he felt slighted because he had not been invited to accompany Alexandra on her last visit to Gull House. His first tactic was to sulk in a corner near the fireplace, emitting occasional whimpers of self-pity. His next was to follow Alexandra closer than a shadow everywhere she went in the house, as if to make certain she had no chance to leave again without him.
He leaned heavily against her leg as she sat at the kitchen table with Nancy, finishing her meat pie. Alexandra frequently took meals in the kitchen with Nancy, something her father, the late Dr. Huntington Gladstone, never did. He often scolded her for having a too familiar relationship with Nancy. “It’s best for each of you to remember your station in life,” he said. Yet, it had been he who had encouraged their friendship as children, and it had been he who had seen to it that Nancy received the same education as Alexandra when they were young.
“Poor Mrs. Orkwright. She seems to be taking it terribly hard,” Nancy said. Alexandra had just told her everything that happened on her most recent visit to Gull House.
“I’m afraid so. She doesn’t look at all well.” As she spoke, Alexandra tried to free her foot from underneath Zack’s heavy shoulder. He had been lying on it for so long, she had lost feeling in it.
“The little boy’s comments make a person wonder…”
Alexandra raised her eyes from her plate to look at Nancy. “You’re referring to his comment about being glad his father is dead.”
“Well, yes. You’ll have to admit that sounds—”
“I wouldn’t read anything into that, Nancy. It’s not at all uncommon for a child to feel anger over the death of a loved one. I should think it’s merely part of his grieving.”
Nancy gave her a frown fraught with skepticism. “Oh come now, Miss Alex, didn’t you tell me he said he was angry at his father for being mean to the housekeeper? Isn’t it possible he mistreated her in some way? Perhaps he beat her, or—”
“Nancy…”
“Now, don’t go shushing me, Miss Alex. I have no doubt the same thought crossed your mind.”
When Alexandra didn’t reply, Nancy pressed her advantage. “And isn’t it true Mrs. Orkwright’s older son detested his stepfather? The man must have been terribly unpleasant for one lad to fear him and the other to hate him. One wonders why Mrs. Orkwright didn’t detest him as well.”
Alexandra gave her a stern look. “Are you suggesting that his stepson, or perhaps even his own young son, detested him enough to kill him?”
Nancy shrugged. “’Tis something to consider. One never knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
Alexandra finished the last of her meat pie and touched her napkin to her lips. “I hardly think it worth co
nsidering that young Will could do such a thing, even if he did hate his father. And I’m not at all convinced he did hate him. I still say his anger could be just an expression of grief.”
“And John Killborn? Can you explain that away as well?”
Again Alexandra did not immediately answer. The truth was, she couldn’t explain John Killborn’s dislike for his stepfather, and, in truth, she had no way of knowing whether or not he was capable of killing anyone. Except that he was Jane Orkwright’s son, and irrational as it may be, she could not think of a person as gentle as Jane having an offspring who would commit murder. She’d mulled it over in her mind almost constantly, and now she felt very tired. She pushed herself away from the table.
“I don’t know, Nancy. I suppose you’re right. One never does know what goes on behind closed doors. But I’m too tired to speculate, so, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll retire to my bed. Our irregular schedule of late has left me rather exhausted.” She started toward the door but turned back to look at Nancy. “I suspect it has you exhausted as well. Why don’t we both—”
There was a sudden loud knock at the door that startled the two of them and Zack as well. His bark was sharp and loud. Alexandra and Nancy exchanged a glance, and Nancy started to the front of the house to open the door. Both of them, as well as Zack, were used to the occasional patient coming to the house late because of some medical emergency. Alexandra would have to forget that she was tired and minister to whomever it was who needed her.
Nancy opened the door, and Alexandra, several feet behind her, was surprised to see that it was Nicholas Forsythe who stood there. He was shivering without a coat, and the rest of his fancy clothes were torn. His handsome aristocratic face was bruised and bloody. Alexandra emitted a little cry and rushed toward him. Zack growled and followed her so closely she almost tripped.
“Mr. Forsythe! What happened to you?”