He puts a cup into my hand. The liquid inside is flavored with citrus, cinnamon, and honey. I take another sip, and Kelly leads me about the room, chatting with the other partygoers and allowing me to hear their voices.
“Anything?” he asks an hour later.
I shake my head. Sorry, I sign. Not yet.
A man steps up and joins us. Kelly seems to know him. “I must admit, Mr. Scarlett. You throw as fine a party as I’ve ever attended.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” an attractive voice replies. “It’s high time you joined us.”
Kelly puts his hand on my back. “May I introduce you to Miss Grayson? Hester, this is Mr. Scarlett.”
“An absolute delight,” Scarlett says, taking my hand.
I smile and offer a small curtsy. So this is the owner of Griffin House? Our younger maids whisper about him with the greatest reverence. According to them, he’s God’s gift to women and quite without equal in degrees of handsomeness and sophistication.
He turns toward Kelly. “How is it that I’ve never met this lovely creature? Been hiding her away, have you? Keeping her all to yourself?”
Kelly laughs. “I’m afraid she’s spoken for, Scarlett. Your hopes are dashed.”
I ignore the banter and use my gift of olfaction. Interesting.
No scent to Mr. Scarlett at all. No emotions of any kind, no sweat on warm skin. Not even a drop of liquor to his breath. If I hadn’t heard his footsteps and voice, I’d swear Kelly and I were standing here alone. Of course, there are exceptions with olfaction, rare people whom I find difficult to read. Perhaps this man is one of those.
Out of the blue, Scarlett asks for a dance. What? How embarrassing. Does he not realize I am blind? A bolt of terror runs through me and my limbs feel gawky and uncoordinated. I turn to Kelly, seeking rescue, but he does not intervene. The doctor takes my cane.
“It’s a party, Hester. Enjoy yourself. I’ll give the cane back when your dance is finished.”
Scarlett puts his hand at my waist and draws me onto the floor. “It’s easy, Miss Grayson,” he says in a kind voice. “Just follow my lead.”
My partner is a sublime instructor. He negotiates the floor effortlessly, skilled enough to put a sightless neophyte at ease. At last, a town rake who lives up to his legend!
“Thank you,” he murmurs, when the set is finished.
We are walking back to Kelly when another fellow steps forward. He returns me to the dance floor before I can refuse. The night goes on forever, or so it seems according to my dance card. I must be a novelty to the men of Stonehenge. Yet we have accomplished nothing in regards to solving Maude’s murder, even though I have listened to most of the men in the room.
Kelly has not returned with my cane, and my feet are aching. Cursing the inventor of high-heeled shoes, I limp off the dance floor with the help of my last partner. He is anxious to conquer the next lady and leaves me in a quiet alcove. A curtain divides the tiny space from the rest of the ballroom, and I pull it aside, desperate for a moment of relative peace. The silk sofa cushions feel like heaven beneath my weary back. Dancing is hard, dangerous work, and I want nothing more to do with it. Let Maude haunt me all she likes.
“Parties can be so tiresome,” a voice says from the other side of the sofa. “Especially if there’s dancing.”
The woman sounds friendly. For want of a better reply, I point to my throat and shake my head.
“Oh, you don’t speak? That’s all right. My husband says I talk enough for ten people.”
I smile at her self-deprecation, and she laughs softly.
“My name’s Cecily Thornhill. I was a Vaughn before I married my David.” Cecily pats my knee, laughs again. “Forgive my tendency to ramble. I haven’t been out in public since Junior was born.”
I like this lady. She has a genuine, endearing quality about her. Like a child with an enormous amount of love to give and not enough people to give it to.
“Have you always lived in Stonehenge?” Cecily asks.
I nod in reply.
“Perhaps you could visit our place in Summerton when the weather improves? It’s only twenty miles by train. We could make a day of it and—” She stops midsentence and releases a happy-sounding sigh. “I always get carried away. David says I’m far too enthusiastic, but it is so nice to make a new acquaintance.”
Cecily talks for twenty minutes straight, and I find we have much in common. Both of us like having books read aloud, the smell of lilacs, and cashmere blankets. But neither of us enjoys liverwurst, oysters, or dentistry. While I am pleased at the prospect of gaining a friend, I remind myself of my true purpose in attending this party. I try to think of an excuse that would allow me to go in search of Kelly.
Then Cecily turns toward the left and fairly quivers with excitement.
“Oh, David,” she says. “There you are!”
“It’s getting late, darling. We should go. Can’t having you tiring yourself.”
I freeze in my corner of the sofa.
David Thornhill is Mr. Murder.
16
Quem di diligunt, adulescens moritur.
He whom the gods love dies young. —Plautus
Pulling the alcove curtain forward, I hope to conceal my profile, but Cecily pushes it aside. “Let me introduce you to my new bosom friend. Don’t be bashful, dear. Show yourself, and meet my David.”
I feel his gaze running over me. “Do we know each other?” he asks, a puzzled note in his voice.
As soon as I shake my head, I sense a new tension in the air. Thornhill remembers Halloween night. Will he tell his wife about our encounter in the gazebo? When I touched the killer’s face and he thought me mad?
No. He ignores me instead and chats with Cecily about Junior needing her at home.
“Would you like a last glass of punch before we go, dearest wife?” Thornhill asks. “It’s rather good.”
“Oh, I’ve already had too much, David.” Cecily stands and touches my arm. “I hear Mr. Scarlett built a ladies room for this event. Marble floors, golden sinks. Why don’t we visit it together?”
Yes, let’s do that. I’d like to get away from Mr. Murder now that I have his real name. Pushing up from the sofa, I turn toward Cecily, as though I intend to leave with her.
“Your friend needn’t follow you to the lavatory,” David Thornhill says. “Run along, sweetheart. I’ll keep her company until you return.”
She laughs, apparently chagrined. “Bossiness is one of my worst faults. If you don’t wish to go, I won’t make you.”
What I don’t wish is to remain here with her husband. I move to follow Cecily, but Thornhill grabs my waist and pushes me in the opposite direction. Unaware of his actions, his wife continues on the other way.
We leave the ballroom through a side entrance, and I call out for Tom in my head.
Killer’s here! West end of the building.
Right. On my way, love.
“Damnedest thing,” Thornhill mutters, as we travel down the hall. “What are the odds?” He suddenly stops and pulls off my glasses. “I read the newspaper only this morning—sensational story about a blind girl who overheard a murderer’s confession. But I didn’t believe it.”
Seconds tick by as Thornhill studies my face. Emotions swirl around him. He’s terrified of being exposed for his crime and completely baffled as to how he ended up here with me. “How could you know? I never said a word to anyone. Not a living soul.”
A sliding, metallic sound. Like the hammer of a revolver clicking into place.
Take care, Tom. Gun.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Thornhill says. He presses the hard nose of the weapon into my hip. “We’re going to the stables now, and you’ll do just as I tell you.”
We take a few steps and something big hurtles past me and tackles Thornhill, knocking him to the ground. Things happen simultaneously—an awful popping sound, the smell of gunpowder and sharp particles bouncing off the wall next to my head. They puncture my cheek in
several places. I stumble, fall backwards, and hit the floor. My ears are bleeding from the sound waves, and I retch, willing myself not to vomit as I subdue my hearing.
Holy hell.
Humanity floods the hall—still so loud, so loud—and Kelly calls my name. People shout complaints as he pushes them aside. “Where’s the fire?” “Look out, good fellow!” “Who do you think you are?” My head pounds with the noise.
“What happened?” he asks, reaching me. “There’s blood on your face. Are you all right?”
Still a little dazed, I nod and point to where Thornhill fell. The killer is crying. “An accident,” he wails. “Didn’t mean to hurt him.”
He smells of terror and regret. This clears the confusion in my head, replacing it with panic. Tom? Dearest? Are you there?
Aye, love. Don’t worry.
Deo favente. Thank the gods you’re safe!
A great commotion erupts as David Thornhill is taken through the back exit. “Help me,” he says. “Send for my attorney.”
Kelly kneels down beside Tom, and immediately begins cursing. “I’ll need my medical bag. Craddock’s been hit.”
What? The bullet struck you? How bad is it? Why didn’t you say something?
K-knew... you’d…fret.
I crawl forward and grasp Tom’s leg, working my way up his body. The leather duster—Tom’s cowboy coat—feels slick in some places. Blood, so much blood! I find his hand and lift it to my heart. Hold on, sweetheart. That’s it. You’re going to be fine, I just know it. Kelly shouts orders—has the crowd disbanded and clean linen brought. The doctor is strangely quiet as he works on Tom.
My beloved coughs. Wet, sputtering. “Amor vincit omnia,” he whispers.
A tear rolls off my chin, drops onto our threaded fingers. Another cough breaks through Tom’s lips, and a horrifying realization strikes me. He’s saying goodbye.
You can’t leave, Tom. What an idiotic notion.
But his thoughts grow hazy, and he shudders under my hand. I kiss his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks, over and over, blood soaking through my gloves and smudging my chin. I would gladly sell my soul to the highest bidder, if it meant saving Tom’s life. I send message after message, pleading for him to live.
Breathe, darling! Don’t give up. You’re all I have in the world. Can’t you see?
So cold, Hettie. Hold me tighter.
I cradle him as close as I can, but he doesn’t respond. Don’t you dare quit, Thomas Craddock. You stay and fight.
Lifting his knuckles to my mouth, I close my eyes, and listen, until the whole universe narrows to the beating of just two hearts. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. His grows slower and slower and finally stops. No, stay. Stay here. Then my body seizes, as though I’m drowning, and I can’t get any air. I rock back and forth—Wait, Tom. Wait for me—keening in my head, still clutching his hand. But Kelly interrupts and hauls me to my feet. He hits me hard on the back, and shocked, I gasp in oxygen.
“Get her out of here!” the doctor yells.
Someone takes me to a nearby room. Is it James Scarlett? Whoever the fellow is, he puts me on a chair, and shoves a drink into my hand. I don’t know what to do with the scotch so I rest it on my thigh. Tom? Tom? He doesn’t answer. Why would he be so cruel? His silence is enough to kill me. I drop the drink and the glass bounces away. Rising to my feet, I feel unmoored and adrift in a life that makes no sense. What do I do now? Where have they taken Tom that he cannot hear?
Oblivion embraces me and I succumb.
The smell of lye is strong, like the laundering house after a busy day of cleaning sheets. Other scents permeate the air, more medicinal in nature, and my tongue tastes bitter. What are those sounds? Horses? Carriages dashing down the street? They’re driving so fast. At first, I am befuddled by these unfamiliar conditions, but memory has a way of catching up with one.
Heavy as a stone, it presses against every cell in my being. Yet I feel empty, too—like a fruitless, hollow pod waiting to be cast into the fire.
Tom, my love. Tom…
Nothing. Just the painful clarity of my own thoughts.
This private grieving is interrupted when someone walks down the hall toward my room. It’s a woman, I think. She moves slowly, side to side, as though each step brings discomfort. Old age, perhaps? A bad back? Turning my face into the pillow, I stop myself. I do not wish to play this idiotic guessing game. What’s the point?
The door to my room opens, and a woman shuffles over to the bed. “Good,” she says. “You’re awake. I’ll get Dr. Kelly.”
I roll over and draw my knees to my stomach. If only Kelly would stay away. Leave me alone for a while. But he comes quickly and makes a racket, pulling a chair to the side of my bed. He sits down and waits for half a minute in silence before touching my shoulder.
“Stop pretending you’re asleep, Hester,” he says. “You’re at Stonehenge Hospital. I brought you here last night and removed the splinters from your face. Particles from when the bullet hit a wooden beam in the ceiling. Looks worse than it is at the moment, but I doubt you’ll scar.”
His voice is tired, as though he’s barely scraping along on adrenaline. Perspiration, dried blood, and coffee. For the first time since I’ve known Kelly, he does not smell nice.
“I don’t want to offer you false hope, but Tom Craddock is alive. For now anyway.”
I sit up and reach for the doctor—clutching at his arm—and silently beg him to continue.
“He was dead. For nearly three minutes, I tried everything I knew to bring him back, and then I pounded on his chest with my fist. Repeatedly, not even expecting it to work. But Tom inhaled after the fourth blow and kept right on breathing. I didn’t think he would last through the next hour, but he did. Doubted he’d survive the night. He did that, too.”
Visit him? I sign.
I can feel Kelly nodding his head. “Later this afternoon. We’ll have to watch for infection, and see how he progresses. I’ve never had a patient survive this kind of trauma.”
Lambson’s killer?
“In jail. He went mad once they locked his cell, confessed everything before the lawyer arrived. David Phillip Thornhill, if that’s his actual name, is a con man with a long list of aliases. When he visited Stonehenge, Maude Lambson recognized him from a job he did a few years ago and wanted payment for her silence.”
David Phillip Thornhill. It matches the initials on the engraved cufflinks from the vision—DTP.
Maybe Kelly’s learned more details about the killer’s motive. Why murder? Why not leave town?
The doctor’s hands make a scrubbing noise as he rubs them over his face. “I asked Thornhill that very thing but he said he couldn’t leave.”
Because?
“Because he loves his wife. Thornhill wanted to be the man she thought he was, to make his new identity real. Claims he heard a voice in his head, urging him to do away with Lambson in order to protect his family. The fellow must be insane.”
After hearing my stomach rumble, Kelly decides that I need sustenance. He insists upon a cup of tea with sugar when I decline food and goes to find the old nurse. Poor lady. She’ll have to walk all this way with her bad back just to deliver my tea.
Leaning on my pillow, I consider Kelly’s inaccurate assessment of Thornhill. The killer is not insane but selfish, weak and impressionable. He was used by the heir of Archimendax due to those very characteristics. But why influence David Thornhill to murder Maude Lambson?
Her ghost has finally moved on to the spirit world with the assistance of Sir Death. I saw her departure in my rather troubled sleep.
Not yet, Sir Death, Maude begged. That Visionary should pay. I’ve been so patient.
You have, Death agreed. What price do you ask?
She leaned against the Reaper and smiled. All I deserve.
Death’s blue gaze turned shrewd—perhaps He wasn’t as taken with her as I thought. Oh, Maude. I’m afraid that’s not my judgment to make. You’ll get what you deserve on the
other side.
No, Death. You owe me.
If Maude imagined treasure or wealth untold, she was disappointed. The ghost pounded on Sir Death’s chest, but He only smiled, pulling out His pocket watch. It’s time to move on, Maude. Your eternal reward awaits.
He encircled her with his billowing cloak, and that was the last I saw of Freckles.
I touch the scratch on my throat and wish her well in the afterlife. Something tells me she’s going to need all the positive thoughts she can acquire.
The blanket makes me feel closed in, so I push it off my body. I wonder where my clothes might be. Should I feel my way around the room and search them out? Are they here? Halting footsteps and sweet-smelling tea arrive as I move my legs to the side of the bed. The nurse enters my room and I gratefully accept the cup she puts into my hands. Kelly was right when he insisted on the tea. It’s hot and strong and restorative. I may even feel human again soon.
The doctor comes in next and returns to the chair at my bedside. “I had to get these for you. Thornhill carried them in his suit pocket.”
Patting the area on the mattress where he placed the object, I locate my glasses. Thank you, Noah, I sign.
“I shouldn’t have left you alone at Griffin House, Hester. Will you ever forgive me?”
No blame.
“I was foolish. I told Scarlett I suspected one of the fellows in his club of committing murder, and he said that I could look over the membership records. I thought it would only take a few minutes to scan through the names, but I lost track of time.”
While I listen to Kelly’s explanation, something doesn’t make sense. Not about him leaving me to go with Scarlett but about Thornhill. He was confused when we met at the ball, as though he didn’t quite know me at first. But that doesn’t sound right. If he had made the recent attempts on my life—the wagon accident and the attack near the ravine—surely Thornhill would have recognized my face immediately. I share these impressions with Kelly.
“It could be that the man was just stringing you along. His wife was standing right there, after all. Obviously, he would go to great lengths to keep her in the dark.”
Veritas Page 14