The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  “Do what feels right to you, Jo. Logan and Jude will understand, given my own rocky relationship with our mother.”

  Jo had opened her mouth to reply when the doorbell buzzed. “That must be Seth.” She pressed the buzzer and a minute later there was a knock on the door. Jo pulled it open to find a young man bearing a huge bouquet of flowers.

  “Delivery,” he announced unnecessarily.

  “Well, those certainly put my flowers to shame. Who are they from?”

  Jo’s smile lit up the room. She smelled the flowers and slid the card into the pocket of her jumper. “They’re from Rhys. To welcome me home. How sweet.”

  Quinn laughed. “I strongly suspect the man himself will be appearing very soon with a large tin of baked goods. He’s good for that.”

  “I hope so,” Jo replied, blushing furiously. “I like baked goods.”

  “And you like Rhys,” Quinn replied with a silly grin. “I actually have something for you as well.” She’d collected the jewelry from the bank before heading to Jo’s flat.

  Quinn opened her bag and took out a rectangular velvet box, which she held out to Jo. “These pearls belonged to our grandmother Rae. She left them to me, but I want you to have them. I got to meet her and talk to her; that’s enough of a gift. I think she’d want you to have them.”

  Jo’s eyes filled with tears as she accepted the box. Nestled on a bed of blue velvet was the pearl set Rae had left for Quinn. Quinn held her breath as Jo beheld the jewelry. Luminescent and perfectly matched in size, the pearls glowed in the light of the winter sun that streamed through the window, and the diamond flower that adorned the choker sparkled and dazzled with its delicate perfection. The matching earrings twinkled among the velvet folds.

  “It’s a gorgeous set, Quinn, but I can’t accept it. She left it for you. I don’t have much occasion to wear something this posh anyhow.”

  “Won’t you at least try it on?” Quinn cajoled, watching Jo intently.

  Jo shook her head. “I’d rather not.” She shut the box and handed it back to Quinn. It was so fleeting, Quinn might not have noticed it had she not been looking for it, but there it was—the sliding away of the eyes, the sharp intake of breath, the sudden nervousness.

  “Are you afraid to touch them?” Quinn asked, her heartrate increasing as she waited for Jo’s answer. Jo looked like she was about to issue a flat-out denial, then shook her head, as if an internal argument was raging in her mind.

  “Yes, I am. I get these flashes sometimes,” she muttered. “They’re disconcerting. I’ve had them since I was a child.”

  “You see the people the items belong to?” Quinn persisted.

  “I suppose. The visions never last long, just a moment or two, but I hate them. They frighten me.” Jo’s eyes widened with dawning understanding. “You experience it too.”

  “Yes, and so does Brett. I see the lives of the people I investigate.”

  Jo’s mouth opened in shock. “You mean, Echoes from the Past? Those episodes are not based solely on an educated guess and diligent research? You actually know what happened to those people?”

  Quinn nodded. “I do.”

  “Does Rhys know?” Jo asked.

  “Yes, Rhys knows. And Gabe, but no one else. In my line of work, it’s best to keep this to myself or my credibility will come into question and there will be those who will troll me on social media and accuse me of being a fraud.”

  Jo exhaled noisily. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that. I’ve always thought there was something wrong with me. I’ve learned to avoid touching anything that might have belonged to the dead. I haven’t experienced a flashback in years. I am tempted to touch the pearls,” Jo confessed. “It’s the closest I can come to meeting Rae and learning something of that side of my family.”

  “Take them, then. Seth would be pleased.”

  “Does he possess the same ability?” Jo asked.

  “No, he doesn’t seem to. It must have skipped a generation.”

  “What about Rae? Was she psychic, do you think?” Jo asked, still clutching the box.

  “Rae married into the family. She wasn’t a Besson by birth. The gift is passed down the Besson line. I was able to trace it to our great-great-great-grandmother, who came to America from Trinidad on a slave ship. There’s no way to know how many generations it goes back before her.”

  “Oh my God. Of course. I saw the episode about Madeline and Clara several times. I just never imagined it had anything to do with me personally. I wonder if Clara’s sons were psychic as well.”

  “Very likely, but we’ll never know for certain. Clara’s sons and their families must have been freed after the Civil War, and without a surname, they were impossible to trace. They vanished into the mists of history, their stories with them.”

  Jo nodded. “That makes sense. I know you tried your best.” The ringing of the doorbell put an end to their conversation.

  “Seth is back,” Jo said as she stowed the box in a drawer. “You know, I’d never believe it possible to be this happy, especially after being blown up and shot at, but I am,” she said with an impish smile. “I don’t need pearls or flowers, or even baked goods. I just need to know that you will always be in my life.”

  Quinn wrapped Jo in a warm hug. She was happy too, not because Jo shared her gift, but because they’d been able to talk about it openly and trust each other. Now there were no more secrets between them, and they could move forward without the sword of duplicity hanging over their necks. Finally, they broke apart and Jo went to open the door. Seth stepped into the flat, bringing the smell of snow with him. He carried several shopping bags and his cheeks were ruddy with cold.

  “Quinny, nice to see you. And Alex, what a treat!” Seth cried as he kissed the baby. “You want to say hello to Grandpa?” Seth crooned. “Tonight, I’m making dinner for my girl,” he said as he bounced Alex on his knee and made him giggle. “I couldn’t find half the ingredients I needed to make her a real Cajun gumbo, so I’ll make fried chicken instead. Jo will taste the real thing when she comes to Louisiana this summer. Would be nice if you could join her, Quinn.”

  Quinn smiled. She hadn’t thought she’d ever set foot in New Orleans again after what had happened to her there, but suddenly, returning didn’t seem as traumatic. Perhaps she would visit Seth in Louisiana, and she’d even go and visit Madeline’s grave. She wouldn’t be ruled by her fears.

  “How about I make you two some sandwiches for lunch?” Quinn asked.

  “Sounds good to me,” Seth replied. “Never met a sandwich I didn’t like.” Seth grinned and raised an eyebrow in a comical expression, as if something awful had just occurred to him. “Now, you wouldn’t be making us fish paste, or cheese and pickle—a combination I just don’t get. Or marmite?” he joked. “That stuff reminds me of shoe polish.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not out to assassinate your taste buds. I will make you a very American ham and cheese sandwich. Jo can have whatever she likes. And then I have to dash.”

  “Won’t you stay for fried chicken?” Seth asked. “I love having you both here with me.”

  “I’d like to, but I have an appointment at two. You two enjoy.”

  “Oh, we will,” Seth promised as he lifted Alex over his head and spun him around, making him squeal with delight.

  Chapter 75

  June 1621

  St. Just, Cornwall

  Mary came to with a hard jolt and gasped as uncontrollable coughing wracked her body. Her eyes streamed and she gulped for air, but it didn’t seem to fill her burning lungs. She was shaking with cold, and her clothes were wet and smelled of seawater. Pressure was building in her head, which felt like it would split in two if the strain wasn’t immediately relieved.

  Mary carefully touched the top of her head and found a circular opening, the slimy surface of what must be her brain pulsating beneath. She yanked her hand away and tried to see if her head was bleeding, but although her eyes were wide open,
she couldn’t see anything, not even a chink of light. When she tried to move, her knees slammed into something hard and unyielding. Mary held her hands in front of her and tried to straighten them, but her palms met with solid wood.

  Her chest heaved with panic as the reality of her situation began to sink in. She was trapped. “Help!” Mary screamed. “Please, help me!” Her voice echoed dully, but there were no other human sounds, just an eerie silence broken only by what she thought might be the crashing of waves or the flapping of wings. She couldn’t be sure what she heard since her head tolled like an iron bell.

  Unbearable anxiety built inside her, rushing at her like an incoming tide, each wave coming harder and faster, and reaching further. Mary couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, and couldn’t make any sense of what was happening. Her jumbled thoughts scurried like mice, bumping into each other and scrambling in blind panic. And then the pains came, sharp and visceral, the pains of childbirth.

  “No, please, no,” Mary moaned as she wrapped her hands around her stomach and turned on her side, which helped marginally. The pain abated for a few minutes, but then returned, gripping her womb with cruel fingers and twisting it mercilessly. She clasped her hands and began to pray, begging God for help, but even as she mouthed the words, she knew there was no stopping what had already begun. The labor would continue until it culminated in a grim conclusion, for there could be no other outcome given her situation.

  Mary tried to hold on to consciousness as contraction after contraction tore through her body, leaving her breathless and shaking. Her thighs were slick with blood, and her back felt as if it would snap. She was trapped in her awkward position, unable to open her legs wide enough to allow the child to vacate her body. As a terrible pressure built in her lower abdomen, she bore down, unable to stop even when stars exploded before her eyes as her brain strained against the opening in her skull. She pushed again and again, her body following the dictates of nature, indifferent to what she might be feeling.

  Mary crossed her arms in front of her belly and rested her forehead against the rough wood of the coffin. She was so weak, and so tired. She knew, in that instinctive way people feel the approach of death, that she had only a short time left, and she was glad of it. She was ready. Whoever had interred her had condemned her to certain death, but perhaps the judgement had come down long before that. She’d tried to grab at happiness, going against the teachings of the Church and the laws of man. She’d attempted to thwart the natural order of things, and she was about to pay for her sins, not only with her own life, but with the life of her child, who’d spend eternity by her side.

  They’d die alone and unloved, with no one to mourn them or even pay for a crude marker to identify their lonely grave. She’d never lie in consecrated ground, and her child would never know the glory of God, not having been baptized before it died. Death was frightening enough, but to know that she would forever remain in hell as punishment for her sins was terrifying. Mary opened her mouth in a silent scream as her body began to shut down. She felt the approach of death and knew with unwavering certainty that she was damned.

  After a time, a wonderful peace stole over her, taking away the pain and the unspeakable terror of those final moments. Mary felt as if she were being cradled in loving arms. They wouldn’t let her fall.

  “I’ve got you,” Walker’s voice said softly. “You can let go now. I’ve got you both.” Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, she heard the haunting notes of his death song—but no, this was her own death song, her final act.

  Mary was nearly gone by the time the infant slithered from her body, its nose pressing against the back of Mary’s thighs and its hands balled into fists. Its tiny feet rested against Mary’s bottom, but she couldn’t feel the connection. The child whimpered once, and again, and then grew silent as the sodden wool of Mary’s skirts smothered it as effectively as a feather pillow.

  Waves crashed against the shore, and a hunter’s moon rose slowly and majestically above the dusky expanse of the sea. A broken mast rose out of the water, its tattered sails hanging on by lengths of torn rigging, and chucks of broken wood floated toward the shore, along with an odd assortment of household items. A man’s body lay face-down in the sand, his dark hair plastered to his head. It had been the first to wash up, but it wouldn’t be the last.

  Chapter 76

  March 2015

  London, England

  Hazy spring sunshine shone through the plate glass windows, casting a golden glow on Rhys, who suddenly looked like a deity wearing a holy halo. Rhys, oblivious to his divine aura, looked across his desk at Quinn.

  “Every time we wrap up one of these stories, I think there can’t possibly be a worse way to die, and every time I’m proven wrong. Dear God, what that poor woman must have endured in her final hours,” Rhys said, shaking his head in amazement. “I think she truly was damned to deserve such a gruesome end. People today complain nonstop about inequality, the incompetence of the government, and lack of services. They have no idea what life was like in centuries past when a person had no rights at all, especially a woman. Travesty lost her entire family because they’d been quarantined, Simon was sold into servitude for a crime he didn’t commit, John was executed for being homosexual, and poor Mary was banished and essentially murdered by the well-intentioned Dr. Paulson. He must have arranged for Mary’s coffin to be hidden in that cave, to avoid having to answer for her death. He got away scot free.”

  “He didn’t,” Quinn replied, her tone grim.

  “No?”

  “No. Once I learned the name of the vessel Mary was on, I decided to trace its history. The Constance left Jamestown on March thirtieth and was due to arrive in Plymouth at the end of June. On June 28th, 1621, it ran aground near the coast of Cornwall, the ship smashing to bits on the rocks. Now, you might think this was spectacularly bad luck, given that they were due to reach Plymouth the next day, but the most likely explanation is that the ship was lured onto the rocks by wreckers, who were after the valuable cargo the ship was carrying from Virginia. The wreckers never allowed anyone to leave the shipwreck alive, for fear of being reported to the authorities and identified. They drowned anyone who came ashore. Per maritime records, all souls went down with the Constance, including Dr. Paulson.

  “You see, whether you believe in fate or destiny, or some form of divine retribution, Mary wasn’t meant to survive that voyage. She would have died regardless. My guess is that Mary slipped into a coma after the trepanning and was presumed dead. Rather than throw her body overboard, as the crew would have done had they been further out to sea, they laid her in a coffin, probably per Dr. Paulson’s request, and would have had her properly buried once they reached Plymouth in a few days’ time. The coffin must have been retrieved from the wreck with the rest of the cargo and taken ashore, where someone recognized it for what it was and shoved it in a cave just to get it out of the way and not confuse it with anything of value. The victims of the shipwreck, including Dr. Paulson, were buried at the parish cemetery in St. Just. They lie there still, and I think we should inter Mary and her baby’s remains alongside them after we finish filming the episode.”

  “Yes, that seems fitting,” Rhys agreed. “What I still don’t understand is how Simon Faraday came to take legal possession of John Forrester’s plantation,” Rhys said, leaning back in his chair. “He had several years left on his indenture contract, and new colonists were coming over on every vessel. Surely that land would have been given to someone else, someone who wasn’t a convicted criminal, and Faraday’s contract would have been sold to someone else.”

  “There are some things we’ll never know,” Quinn replied as she gathered her belongings. “I can only see what Mary saw, so I have no way of knowing what occurred after she left the plantation.”

  “We’ll have to come up with a plausible explanation,” Rhys replied. “All loose ends need to be tied up before we begin filming.”

  “I’ll leave that to you. I’m
signing off for the next few days.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We are moving,” Quinn replied happily. “We closed on the house yesterday and Seth is in the process of buying our flat.”

  “Do you need any help?” Rhys asked with a smile that said, I’m not carrying any boxes or getting my hands dirty, but if you need someone to bring you a cup of tea and a sandwich, I’m your man.

  “Thank you, but we have it under control.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” Rhys got to his feet and grabbed his coat as he followed Quinn out the door. “I have lunch plans.”

  “Are you blushing?” Quinn asked as they strolled toward the lift.

  “Maybe.” Rhys smiled sheepishly.

  “I won’t ask you who you’re meeting, because I already know. Give my regards to Jo.”

  “I will. Quinn, did you ever ask her?”

  “I have.”

  “And does she?”

  “She does,” Quinn replied, amused by the amazement on Rhys’s face.

  “What a fascinating family you are.”

  “Jealous?” Quinn joked.

  “You bet.”

  They reached the lobby and walked out of the building into the mild spring afternoon. Quinn gave him a peck on the cheek and walked away, heading toward the Tube station. The case of Mary Wilby was closed, the mystery solved, and now she had to turn her attention to her own life.

  Chapter 77

  Quinn kicked off her trainers and plopped down on the sofa, sinking deep into the cushions. “I’m never getting up again,” she said as Gabe handed her a bottle of water. Every muscle in her body seemed to be moaning with fatigue.

  “Twenty boxes unpacked, one hundred to go,” he replied and sank down next to her. “Jill and Brian want to know when to drop off the children. Jill offered to keep them overnight, if we’re not ready.”

  Quinn shook her head. “No need. Their bedrooms are set up, and everything else will get done in the next few days. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.”