Lyttleton found Lord Ashford's usually stolid demeanor broken; the man's eyes were filled with tears and his voice choked, while Lady Ashford was weeping openly, a delicately embroidered handkerchief crumpled in her hand. The grieving parents greeted him, and Lyttleton offered his condolences on the loss of their son. The house's atmosphere was tense, strained, so very unlike the evening of the dinner party, and for the first time Lyttleton felt uncomfortable in the Ashford house.
Again Lyttleton said how sorry he was, knowing that his words sounded awkward, but neither Ashford noticed. He said nothing about his having discovered Gerald; that, he believed, was best left to the police. He stayed as long as politeness dictated, then took his leave. On his way out he met Bethany Ashford in the hall.
"I'm very sorry about your brother," he said softly, taking her hand.
She nodded, started to speak, then pressed her lips together. Tears had darkened her eyes, and he saw grief there, and something else, too. Something akin to anger.
For a moment they did not speak as Lyttleton gazed at the young woman. She seemed to make some resolution, for she suddenly moved away, then whirled back to face him.
"It's her fault," Bethany stated in a murderous voice. Her hands were clenched at her sides.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Gerald's death is her fault." Her voice was still low.
"Her fault?" he repeated stupidly. For some reason he wasn't following. Whatever was the girl talking about? He frowned as he tried to concentrate on her next words.
"Yes." She leveled her gaze at Lyttleton. "It's August Hamilton's fault. She came here, and now Gerald is dead."
He looked as astonished as he felt. "Surely, Miss Ashford, I know you dislike that woman, but even you cannot blame her for — "
"Oh, but I do, Mr. Lyttleton. Mark my words: She is an evil woman, and she will,destroy others."
"Bethany!"
They both turned around. Lady Ashford stood by the stairs.
"Come here, my dear." Her daughter obeyed quickly. Lady Ashford turned eyes reddened from weeping toward him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lyttleton. Please forgive Bethany's melodramatic accusations. She is very upset by her brother's death."
"Of course," Lyttleton murmured, "I quite understand, Lady Ashford. Please, if there is anything that I may do for you, let me know."
Where now? he asked himself once he was outside. As he walked away, he glanced back at the Ashford house, black crepe draped across the front door. He sighed. He could go home to sit and think about last night, or he could be with friends.
He chose the latter.
As he walked briskly to the club, Lyttleton puzzled over Bethany Ashford's angry eyes and bitter words, her unusual accusation. He understood the girl's grief over her brother's death, for she had been close to him, but how could her anger be explained? Particularly when it was directed so vehemently at August Hamilton?
As he arrived at the club and handed his hat and cane over, Montchalmers hastened across to greet him.
"Did you hear about Gerald Ashford?" Montchalmers asked excitedly, pumping his friend's proffered hand.
"I found him," Lyttleton said quietly.
"Bloody hell you say." Montchalmers gaped at him. "Come in, come in, and sit down."
Lyttleton allowed himself to be settled into his favorite chair and took a glass of brandy in hand. It was a bit early for liquor, but he'd needed it after the night before. Taking a long swallow, he closed his eyes as the burning liquor trickled down his throat.
A faint noise came from Montchalmers, and Lyttleton smiled at the sound of impatience. He opened his eyes again. Montchalmers was sitting forward in his chair, an eager expression on his face.
"Well?"
"Well what, Henry?" Lyttleton countered.
"Tell me about it."
"It? If you mean the death of Gerald Ashford, I don't know what to say, Henry. The police suspect foul play, but they have no one in custody at the time."
"Come on, old man, that's not precisely what I meant." Montchalmer's tone was goading.
Suddenly Lyttleton realized what his friend wanted to hear. Montchalmers wanted the particulars of the death, all the details — gory and otherwise, and preferably the former.
Lyttleton curled his lip, barely able to contain his disgust. "I'm sorry, Henry, but there really isn't much to tell."
"But you say you found him!"
"Yes," Lyttleton heard himself saying somewhat irritably, "yes, damnit, I did find him, but there was nothing to see. The boy was dead. I happened along well after the event."
"How'd he die?"
Lyttleton shook his head. "I don't know, Henry. I'm no expert in those matters. You'll have to wait to hear from the police or read the newspapers."
"Oh." The other's voice softened with disappointment. He leaned back in his chair and looked grumpy.
This previously unseen side of his friend disturbed Lyttleton. He hadn't known Montchalmers had a penchant for the ghoulish, nor did he particularly like it. Curiosity was one thing; this was altogether another.
As for what he had told Montchalmers, it was quite true. There was little to tell. After he'd lit the match, he had stared in shock at the familiar face. The match had burned to his fingers before he dropped it, and cursing his clumsiness, he lit another. Gerald Ashford had still been handsome in death, although his skin had grown grey, his lips almost waxen in appearance. The hideous grimace on his face had upset Lyttleton even more, for he could not help but remember the horrible expression on Tommy Hamilton's face in death. He shook himself, brought himself back to the present.
"I called on the Ashfords before coming here," he said.
"I'll go see them later."
"It was hard, you know, finding him dead like that, and so soon after I'd last seen him alive. His poor fiancee." Lyttleton shook his head sadly, and he remembered his own youth when it had been the young woman who had died, leaving the young man bereft. Yes, he could sympathize with Lucy Chandler.
"Yes, rather."
"Henry?"
"Yes?" Montchalmers stirred, for he had been dozing. He yawned and sat up.
"Don't you think it's odd, all these recent deaths?"
"Recent deaths?" Montchalmers stared at him. "Whatever do you mean?"
"I mean, Tommy and Terris have died, and now Gerald Ashford, and while he wasn't a particular friend of ours, we were acquaintances." He paused. "What I'm saying is: Don't you think it's strange, the number of deaths within our circle?"
"It's only three."
"Yes, but when was the last time such a thing happened?" Montchalmers looked blank. "And the three men who died were young and in good health."
"Tommy wasn't," Montchalmers pointed out.
"No, but he had been two years before."
"Accidents do happen, you know. Why the morbid interest, old boy?" Montchalmers stared at his friend through slitted eyes.
Lyttleton found the expression disconcerting, and oddly unpleasant. Apparently, Montchalmers didn't see anything amiss in the deaths. Why should he, then? Perhaps they were nothing more than phantasms of his imagination. Except . . . Except nothing, he told himself firmly.
"Well," he said in what he hoped was a hearty tone, "I suppose you are correct, Henry. Accidents do happen." He stood. "I should be leaving now, I think." He saluted his friend and prepared to stroll off when Montchalmers called to him.
"Lyttleton." "Yes?"
"Do be careful."
Lyttleton nodded, collected his hat and his cane, and it wasn't until he was outside that he realized that he had broken out into a cold sweat.
*
Timothy Cleveland was the next to die. He was found the next night behind the carriage house at his parents' London home. Once more foul play was suspected.
Lyttleton shuddered as he put down the afternoon edition of the Times. He glanced around the reading room of the club. Only the older members were here today. He was the youngest man present.
N
ot as young as those who were dying, one part of him whispered.
He tried to force the voice away, but it wouldn't leave.
You're afraid of dying, it sneered.
No, he whispered half aloud. No, I'm not afraid of that, but he knew it was a lie.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his burning eyes and shuddered again. Then he dropped his hands and rose shakily, the newspaper sliding to the floor. He had to have fresh air.
Outside he stumbled away from the club. He kept his eyes on the pavement as his legs took him farther and farther away. He had no idea where he was going. He walked on, not caring. All he could think of was that his friends were dying, that they were all young, and that something was terribly wrong. He walked. After an hour he felt the strain in his legs. He ignored it and walked on.
Finally, as the light began fading from the sky, he raised his head to look around. At first he didn't recognize the neighborhood; then he realized where he was. He stood in front of the Hamilton house.
The sky had darkened and was streaked with brooding clouds. Occasionally lightning pierced the clouds, and he heard the rumble of faraway thunder above the clatter of the city. The air was damp, and his hair was plastered to his forehead; his clothes clung wetly to him.
Upstairs one window was lit, and as he stared at the yellow light he wondered if August were in that room. He thought he saw the faintest flutter of a curtain, but he couldn't be sure.
He waited. The wind rose, swirling dust through the street, and a crooked branch of a tree whipped back and forth. Abruptly he turned and walked away. What had brought him here? Sheer madness.
Lyttleton consulted his pocket watch. It was well past six, and he had a dinner party to attend at eight. He walked home quickly, changed into his formal attire, then left again, and to his vast relief he arrived only a few minutes late.
Most of the conversation centered on the recent deaths of Gerald Ashford and Timothy Cleveland. There had been two additional deaths last night — Phillip Thomkins and Birkey Davenant, acquaintances, not friends, of his, as had been Gerald Ashford. Murdered, the police thought.
People were uneasy. It was as though someone was out to murder their sons. Lyttleton listened intently as the, conversation whirled around him.
"The police think it's some horrible axe murderer," said a youngish matron whose chest was covered with glittering plaits of diamonds and rubies. She sipped quickly at her wine.
"There's no axe involved, Helena," said her husband with a faint Scots burr in his voice. "I've told you that before. They haven't found any blood by the victims."
"No blood?" asked another man seated close by. "Here now, what d'ye mean, Dr. Napier? No blood? Were they strangled? That wouldn't leave any blood now, would it?" The elderly woman seated next to him looked as though she were about to faint.
Dr. Napier shook his head. "It wasn't a strangulation that killed these men, Mr. Peterson, and it's quite true that no blood has been found at the scene of the deaths or on the victims themselves. That's why the police are beginning to question whether these were murders." He glanced at his wife. "But this is hardly a topic for the dinner table."
"Come now," Helena Napier replied briskly, "I haven't been a physician's wife these past ten years for nothing, David. You've told me far worse. Go on."
"That's true, my dear," he admitted. He took a bite of his chicken and thoughtfully chewed. When he was finished, he sipped his white wine.
"Yes, do," said Peterson. He was clearly impatient to hear more.
"What else would you know, Mr. Peterson?"
"Well, if it's not a murderer that's doing them in, how've they died?"
"Some of my distinguished colleagues are talking of natural causes."
"Not one of the victims was above the age of thirty! And they all enjoyed excellent health!" Peterson said. Lyttleton judged Peterson, who was decidedly nervous, to be close to five-and-twenty.
"Such men have died before."
"No doubt, Dr. Napier, but don't you find it odd that these deaths came so close together?"
"Odd?" Napier beetled his brows threateningly and looked as though he were about to scowl fiercely at the other man. "Why, of course I find them odd, Peterson! It's not natural causes that are killing these men, but I'm damned if I know what is."
"Some of David's other colleagues are suggesting it's some type of new disease," Helena Napier said.
"Disease?" asked Peterson. "What sort of disease?"
"If I knew, I probably wouldn't be here having dinner with you. I'd be doing something about it. It's just a suggestion, after all." Even as he spoke, though, Napier glanced at his wife.
He knows more than he's saying, Lyttleton thought, and he planned to take Napier aside later to find out what it was.
Dinner passed amiably enough, and they were leaving the dining room when another guest arrived. Lyttleton heard the voice before he saw who it was.
"I'm so sorry, Colonel Latimer, that I was unable to join you earlier," said the soft sultry voice.
A shiver ran down Lyttleton's spine, and he clenched his fists at his side.
"That's perfectly fine, my dear," said the jovial host. "I'm just pleased that you could come at all. Have you met all my guests?"
As the introductions were made to the Petersons and
Napiers, Lyttleton stood stock-still. He waited until the others had moved away.
"Have you met Mr. Lyttleton?" Latimer asked.
"Yes, Mr. Lyttleton and I have met before," August Hamilton said with a smile.
"Good, good."
Latimer tucked her arm through his and led her off, much to Lyttleton's relief.
Lyttleton settled down by himself with an after-dinner drink, but found the widow staring thoughtfully at him from time to time. Or at least he thought her expression was thoughtful. That further unsettled him, though, and when he could gracefully leave, he did.
He returned home to find a cold sweat had broken out over his body. The second time in a few days. Was he ill? Or was it something more? He threw off his clothes and crawled into bed.
She had smiled at him, almost as if she had expected to find him there. Of course, that was nonsense. They moved within the same circles, so of course she would come to expect to see him as well.
Nonsense, he told himself, it was all nonsense — his uneasiness about her and the deaths. It was simply nothing more than the fact that he was obsessed with her. Thoughts of her filled his waking hours and that disturbed him, for nothing had taken hold of his mind like this before. Nothing.
Lyttleton slid slowly beneath the covers. Gradually his eyelids drooped as he fell asleep and dreamed strange dreams.
He stood in a dark cavern, and nearby he could hear the lapping of water. A chill in the air sent shivers through him, and he wondered how he had come there when he'd last been in bed. He looked around, seeking a way to leave, when he heard the sound. His breath held, he waited, listening.
A faint footstep. Then a second, and another. Closer and closer. He held his breath, and his heart pounded as he waited.
Off to his left something white glimmered, and he thought he detected the smell of musk. There was a faint laugh, or was it the water?
Then he saw her. Gliding toward him, and as she approached, she shed her clothing. Soon she stood in front of him. She stepped closer.
Her dusky nipples pressed against his chest, branding him. He groaned as she slipped her hands inside his shirt and playfully tugged at the hair on his chest. He fastened his mouth on hers, probing with his tongue and greedily sucking at her breath. As they embraced, he stripped his clothes off. She traced the lines of his arms and shoulders with her fingertips, and his skin tingled. He grabbed her roughly by the arms and threw her down on the uneven floor.
Laughing, she arched her body, inviting him, and with a strangled cry he fell upon her. He bit her arms, kneaded her breasts harshly while her mocking laughter filled his head, echoed through the cavern, and
maddened him. He wanted her now, and he would have her.
She bucked, twisting and turning like a wild animal under him as he tried to enter her, and he kept missing, and he cried out in his frustration. That seemed to amuse her, for she laughed even more, then took his member in both hands and cradled it for a moment before digging her nails along the tender skin. He cried out, jerked away, then thrust deeply into her and screamed as the barbs tore cruelly into him.
He woke, screaming, and sat shuddering in his bed, his head resting on his drawn-up knees. For a long time he did not move. He had never had a dream like that. And never had he treated a woman like that. He closed his eyes, trying to force the images from his mind. Finally, when he was calm, he rose and slipped on his dressing gown and sat down to read. He would sleep no more that night.
*
The next night he did not sleep, for he feared the dreams that would come. The day after, in the early evening, he went to see Dr. Napier at his office, which was adjacent to his fashionable West End house in Hanover Square.
"I remember you from the Latimers' party," Dr. Napier said once Lyttleton was settled opposite him. "As I recall, you were quite interested in our topic of conversation, although you didn't say anything."
"Several of my friends were among those who have died recently."
"I see." The physician leaned back and thoughtfully studied the other man. "Is that why you've come here, Mr. Lyttleton?"
"Partially," Lyttleton confessed, "but also because I have had problems sleeping."
"What sort of problems?"
"I've been having terrible dreams — nightmares, really — and I wake up screaming. Afterwards I'm so shaken I can't go back to sleep, knowing it'll just happen again."
"When did the dreams begin?"
"I don't remember. Quite some time ago, I think. They weren't terrible at first, but later they grew worse."
"What are they about?"
Lyttleton blushed. "They're dreams of a highly personal nature."
Dr. Napier's voice held amusement. "That's natural, Mr. Lyttleton, as you're a young and healthy and virile man. But," he said, frowning, "you say you wake up screaming."
Blood Autumn Page 12