by C. J. Archer
I was the last to be ready, and I hurried out the front door and down the steps to the waiting coach. Buchanan was already inside and Seth sat on the driver's seat. Lincoln and Gus waited for me.
"Has he thanked you for rescuing him yet?" I whispered to Lincoln as I drew on my gloves.
"No, and I expect none," he said in a low voice. "People like him don't know how to say thank you or sorry. The words aren't in their vocabulary."
Gus leaned in. "Sure you don't want to take him back to Bedlam, sir?"
"Don't tempt me."
I smiled and climbed in, settling opposite Buchanan. Lincoln sat beside me, and Gus closed the door. He was to remain behind at Lichfield. We drove in silence most of the way. Once, Buchanan muttered his brother's name again, but he mostly appeared lost in thought.
As we neared Harcourt House, he said, "Julia was worried about me, you say? Interesting." His twisted smile almost made me feel sorry for her.
The shock on Millard's face as he opened the door to his mistress's stepson set the tone for the reunion. Marguerite squealed then threw her arms around him and wept into his shoulder, whereas Julia was a little more sedate but no less effusive in thanking God and Lincoln for returning Buchanan to their midst.
Lord Harcourt also embraced his brother, only to be shoved away. He frowned, his arms still extended. "Andrew?"
"Where ever did you find him, Lincoln?" Julia asked as she studied her stepson from head to toe. "Somewhere far away, I suspect. He looks awfully tired."
Mr. Edgecombe rolled in from the direction of the drawing room, his assistant pushing the wheelchair. "Good lord, you're back! And unscathed, too. Well it's about bloody time. The uproar around here has been rather excessive. The ladies have missed your company most keenly. So, tell us. Whose bed have you occupied this past week?"
"Bedlam's," Buchanan answered.
Marguerite crumpled in a dead faint. Fortunately, Millard caught her before she hit the floor. He and Harcourt carried her into the drawing room as Julia fetched the smelling salts. The rest of us followed the main party.
Buchanan eyed his brother with such venom that it was a surprise he didn't feel it. Harcourt was much too intent on his wife, however, as she came around. She rested a pale, shaking hand on her throat as tears welled in her eyes. Her lips began to move but no words came out.
"My dear," Harcourt said, sitting beside her. "It's all right. I am here." He took her other hand in his until she noticed and snatched it back. She turned her face toward the back of the sofa, away from him.
He swallowed and slowly stood. "How did you wind up in that place, Andrew?"
Buchanan's eyes flashed. His jaw went rigid. "You swine. You pretend innocence in my own home—"
"Julia's home. What do you mean 'pretend innocence?' What are you getting at?"
Buchanan swung his fist, but Harcourt moved at the last moment and the punch merely clipped his shoulder. Lincoln was close enough and fast enough that he could have intervened but he didn't. He merely stood by, his hands at his back, and watched.
Julia gasped. "Stop this! Stop it at once. Andrew, explain yourself."
"Why not get him to explain?" He nodded at Harcourt, now safely out of reach. "He put me there."
"In Bedlam?" Julia turned her wide eyes onto her eldest stepson as he spluttered a protest.
Marguerite sat up and blinked at her husband. "You did what?"
"Had him admitted to Bedlam," Edgecombe drawled. "Keep up, Sis."
"I did no such thing!" Harcourt tugged on his waistcoat hem. "I would never commit anyone to Bedlam, let alone a family member. Not anymore," he added upon Edgecombe's derisive snort. "That place is worse than a prison. It's a torture chamber. I wouldn't commit my worst enemy, let alone my own brother."
"Don't play the innocent, kind big brother," Buchanan sneered.
"Andrew, listen to yourself! Why would I send you to Bedlam? What possible motive could I have?"
"Jealousy." He arched his brow at Marguerite.
Harcourt regarded his wife coolly. "Andrew, you are a fool," he said with lofty condescension. "I admit to occasionally having bouts of jealousy still, but you and I both know that Marguerite's infatuation with you will go nowhere."
Marguerite clutched her throat and blinked back tears. She looked like a china doll, all pale glossy skin, pink heart shaped lips and vacant eyes. Julia waved the smelling salts beneath her nose again until Marguerite regained some color.
"If not jealousy then simple anger," Buchanan went on. This time he sounded less certain. I, too, began to have doubts about our theory. Harcourt wasn't acting like a guilty man. "You were angry with me for asking you for money. When we fought and I hit my head, you panicked. If I died, you would be arrested for murder."
"You wouldn't have died! You were already on your way when I left you."
"On my way?" Buchanan sat and rubbed his temples. "Yes, I was. I recall walking off down the drive, away from the house."
Harcourt hitched up his trousers and sat too. "I cannot believe you would accuse me of such a thing. I would never take you off to Bedlam. Never. As to your debts, yes, I was angry when you asked for money, but that's nothing new. You often make me angry. You have ever since you were knee-high."
So if he didn't do it, someone must have falsified his signature on the admission forms and passed themselves off as Lord Harcourt to the Bedlam governor. That meant a man was involved. While it didn't eliminate Julia or Marguerite—they could have hired someone—I didn't think it was either of them. Marguerite loved him unconditionally, and Julia had been the one to come to us in the first place.
That left one man. I watched Edgecombe from beneath my lashes. Surely it couldn't have been him. He was wheelchair bound, and he'd been friends with Buchanan before his accident.
Before, but not after, perhaps. Why not? Had Buchanan lost interest in a friend who could no longer join in with his revels? Perhaps Edgecombe had been the one to pay a man to pretend to be Lord Harcourt at Bedlam. His man, Dawkins…
No, not Dawkins. He was new. The previous assistant had died—at around the same time Buchanan disappeared.
"Then who…?" Julia asked, clutching the back of Andrew's chair. She appealed to Lincoln with a delicate lift of one shoulder.
He looked to me, which brought her brows crashing down. "Charlie, if you please," he said. It would seem he had the same suspicion as me.
I nodded as he moved to block the doorway. "Mr. Edgecombe, what is the name of your previous assistant?" I asked.
Edgecombe blinked at me. "Good lord, you don't think he did it, do you? Why would he?"
"Tell her the name," Lincoln growled.
Edgecombe bristled. "It was Cleves. Norman Cleves."
"Middle name?" I prompted.
"What in God's name for?"
"It helps."
"Helps with what?" Edgecombe looked to me, then to Lincoln and on to Julia when she smothered a small gasp. She understood what I was about to do.
"What was his middle name?" Lincoln asked in that ice-cold tone that brooked no argument.
"I think it was Charter, after his mother's side."
"Thank you." I drew in a breath and kept my eye on him. "Norman Charter Cleves, please come to me. I summon the spirit of Norman Charter Cleves."
Edgecombe's frown deepened. "What the devil is going on?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Buchanan said, although his tone held curiosity not censure.
Julia clutched the choker at her throat and scanned the ceiling, as if she could see the spirit of Norman Cleves now hovering above the fireplace. Of course, she could not.
"Are you…?" Lord Harcourt stared at me. "Is she…?" His wife held out a shaking hand and he took it and sat beside her once more. They were the picture of a united couple again, reliant on one another for comfort in times of difficulty. "My god…you are."
"Are what?" his wife asked.
"A spiritualist, I believe."
"She speaks
to ghosts?" Marguerite whipped around to face me. "Has she summoned Cleves here?"
"Well, well," Buchanan said, grinning at me. "You're a medium. Did Father bring you back here to question you? Thought I recognized you."
"My name is Charlie," I told the spirit of Norman Cleves as well as answering Buchanan. "I'm a necromancer, not a medium. I work for an organization known as the Ministry of Curiosities."
Cleves would have been a large, impressively-built man in his lifetime. He had the broad shoulders of a navvy, the muscular chest of someone used to carrying heavy loads—like grown men—up and down stairs. I knew this because he was naked from the waist up.
"A necromancer, eh?" the spirit said without taking his eyes off Edgecombe. "Can you turn people into spirits too, just by calling their names?"
"No, only summon the dead. Tell me about your death."
"This is ridiculous," Edgecombe spluttered. "Dawkins, I'm leaving. Julia, I would appreciate the use of your driver and other servants to assist—"
"Stay," Lincoln said quietly. "Listen."
"Listen to whom? There's no one there. Your assistant is a crackpot!"
"Mr. Cleves?" I prompted. "I can bring you justice, if it's deserved."
"Oh, it's deserved, all right. He killed me." He nodded at Edgecombe. "He bloody killed me, after everything I did for him." With a baring of teeth, he swooped at Edgecombe. But Edgecombe sat without moving and the spirit whooshed through without Edgecombe feeling a thing. "We'd been out for a drive in the brougham, just me and him. We were almost back at Emberly when we came across Mr. Buchanan, wandering along the drive, all befuddled and stumbling. As soon as we offered him a ride, he passed out. I said we should call on the doctor, but Mr. Edgecombe had this look in his eyes. A real mean look, it was. Like he hated Mr. Buchanan. Really hated him and wanted to hurt him. He said he would take him to a special hospital. He told me to go to his rooms and get his medicine, the stuff that puts him to sleep at night."
I remembered Dawkins telling me about the strong medicine that made Edgecombe sleep peacefully throughout the night. I looked to Lincoln and gave a slight nod of my head. He blinked in understanding—he must have guessed that Cleves had implicated Edgecombe.
"I returned to the curricle and injected the stuff into Mr. Buchanan, then we set off for London," Cleves went on.
"That's a long way from Emberly Park."
"Aye, miss, it is. If I'd known that's where we were headed, I would have refused to go. We drove all bloody night. By the morning, I was tired and my back hurt. But I did what my master wanted, because he's always been good to me and he paid well."
"What happened when you reached London?"
"London!" several voices echoed at once.
"What's going on?" Edgecombe growled. "What's the silly chit doing?"
Cleves grunted a humorless laugh. "Tables are turned now, aren't they?" To me, he said, "Mr. Edgecombe directed me to a hospital then told me to pretend to be his brother-in-law, Lord Harcourt. We swapped jackets, waistcoats and even boots, then I carried Mr. Buchanan into the hospital."
"You filled in the paperwork?"
He lifted his chin. "I can read and write my letters as good as any man. Mr. Edgecombe waited in the brougham. After, we checked into a hotel and rested. The next day, we drove back to Emberly. That's when he killed me. Not sure how. Slipped some medicine into my drink to make me sleep, I expect, then injected me with some of the stronger painkillers the doctor gives him. I never woke up. I waited for a while in this form then decided to cross over when I was called. I saw by then he wasn't going to be arrested." He shook his head. "Bloody bastard. Tell him I hope he rots in hell."
"Mr. Edgecombe," I said. "Mr. Cleves would like you to know that he thinks you're a bloody bastard and that he hopes you rot in hell."
Marguerite gasped. Julia clicked her tongue. "Really, Charlie, was that necessary?"
"Very," I assured her. "Mr. Cleves was murdered by Mr. Edgecombe and—"
The rest of my speech was drowned out by Marguerite's screeching protest. "You're lying! She's lying, Donald! John would never harm anyone! Besides, look at him. He's hopeless. He can't do a thing for himself, can you, dear? He's like a child—"
"Shut up!" Edgecombe shouted, sending spittle spraying from his mouth onto his chin. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! Dawkins, push me out of here. You," he pointed at Lincoln, "step aside."
Lincoln didn't move. Nor did Dawkins. He was staring at the back of his master's head. He muttered a few colorful words then strode for the door. "I didn't sign up for this." Lincoln let him past without stopping him.
Edgecombe pushed himself forward with laborious heaves of the wheels. He grunted on every push and sweat beaded on his hairline. "Out of my way."
"You?" Buchanan grabbed one of the wheelchair handles, stopping Edgecombe in his tracks. "Stay here. You put me in Bedlam, for Christ's sake! I'm not letting you get away with it."
"Not to mention he murdered Cleves," I added.
But no one heard me. All attention was on Buchanan and Edgecombe. Fury burned bright in both men's eyes and tensed the muscles in their necks.
"Why?" Buchanan asked. "I thought we were friends."
"Friends!" Edgecombe growled. "You did this to me." He indicated the chair and his useless legs beneath the blanket. "You made me like this."
"You fell of your horse." Buchanan straightened his back and turned his head away. "Nothing to do with me," he muttered.
"You shot at my horse and he bolted!"
"A competent rider would have stayed in the saddle. Besides, I didn't shoot at him. I saw a fox nearby…" He shrugged. "You can't blame that on me."
"If you really believed in your own innocence, then why not come to visit me in all this time?"
"Emberly is too far from London, and London is where all the pretty girls are."
Edgecombe snorted. "You stayed away because you couldn't face me. You never wrote, never asked your brother to pass on your regards."
"I'm no good at letter writing."
"Coward!" Edgecombe rolled himself forward again, this time toward Buchanan. Buchanan stepped nimbly behind the sofa. Edgecombe gave up with a frustrated snarl.
"You hadn't seen Mr. Buchanan since your accident," I said, putting the final pieces together. "All your anger and resentment toward him had festered over time, so when you saw him wandering along the drive, you decided to punish him for robbing you of the life you had."
"John," Marguerite sobbed into her husband's handkerchief. "How could you?"
"I could have killed him," Edgecombe snapped. "Taking him to Bedlam was a mercy." He pushed the wheels himself, putting all his upper body strength into it.
"No further," Lincoln said when Edgecombe was almost upon him.
Edgecombe slipped his hand beneath the blanket and whipped out a pistol. "Move!"
Chapter 17
Marguerite screamed. Donald pulled her into his chest, perhaps as much to smother her into silence as protect her.
"Move!" Edgecombe growled, pointing the pistol at Lincoln.
Lincoln stepped calmly aside.
"Marguerite, push this bloody chair. Julia, a carriage, driver and footman, if you please. Now!"
"You're just going to let him go, Fitzroy?" Buchanan's high-pitched voice was almost as ear-splitting as Marguerite's.
"He's not going to get shot for him," I said hotly. "Or for you. This is a family matter, not a ministry one, and I have a mind to let you all deal with him. We're not risking our lives for any of you."
"Really, Charlie." Julia's clipped tones fell like shards of glass in the silence that followed my tirade. "There's no need for hysteria. While I'm sure Lincoln enjoys being the object of your infatuation, it's not very helpful."
I wished I could think of a retort to put her back in her place, but for once, I was speechless. That annoyed me as much as her insults.
"Julia!" Edgecombe snapped. "Retract your claws and be useful, instead of decorative, for
once. Ah, the servants are here. Good."
Millard had returned upon hearing the shouting, along with two footmen. They reared back when they spotted Edgecombe with the pistol. Each of them looked to Harcourt for direction—not Julia, their mistress, or Buchanan, the other regular member of the household. That must be galling for them both.
"You!" Edgecombe barked at one of the footmen. "Tell the driver to prepare a fast vehicle. Go!" As he ran off, Edgecombe turned to the other footman. "You look strong. You'll be assisting me. Wheel this chair, since my sister refuses to get off her arse. Do it backwards so that I may keep my eye on them all. And don't try anything stupid."
Harcourt gave a slight nod, and the footman complied, taking a wide, circuitous route to the back of the wheelchair without taking his wary gaze off Edgecombe.
"You won't get far," Lincoln said as Edgecombe rolled past him and out of the drawing room. "That's a four-barrel pistol. We're more than four."
"I'd wager you're not willing to risk four lives to capture me."
"You don't know me very well if you think that."
There were several intakes of breath in the drawing room, but mine was not among them. I knew Lincoln wouldn't take such a risk. Two months ago, yes, but not anymore. Particularly when one of the lives at risk was mine. He was not the cold-hearted killer some—including himself—thought him to be.
"Perhaps I'll start with you." Edgecombe swung the pistol in Lincoln's direction to another round of gasps, this time including mine. Lincoln didn't move.
Nor did Edgecombe. The footman had stopped and stepped away, his shaking hands in the air. "Get back here, you fool!" Edgecombe shouted. The footman glanced at each of us and at Harcourt's nod, he once again took the wheelchair handles and dragged Edgecombe backwards out of the drawing room.
"If you do not shoot anyone, there is a chance you will walk free and the family will sweep this under the carpet," Lincoln told Edgecombe. "You can live as you were."
"Not bloody likely," Harcourt said in a low threat that may not have reached Edgecombe's ears. "I don't want him in my house after this. Marguerite, cease your appeals. You cannot ask that of me." His gentle pats on her back didn't placate her as she fell into a teary mess against the back of the sofa.