His cousin hadn’t said anything about her change in circumstances, but it was obvious by the state of her person and house. All of her gowns were several years out of fashion, her staff had been reduced to one, and the steamer she had been so happy to buy after her wedding had been sold even though they obviously needed it. Seeing her sneak out and disappear into the tunnel near the cove proved something was amiss. Then there was the look on Nash’s face when she collapsed and the business with stealing the plant. Someone had to put an end to it. Argus would continue to bumble along unaware while everything went on under his nose, so that only left him. Glancing toward the door, he unfolded the letter.
This has gotten out of hand. We need to speak and finally put a stop to this nonsense. Meet in the usual place tonight at three. Tell no one.
Anger flared in Nadir’s breast as he jammed the letter back into his pocket. No names, no formality, no question of where to go. How many clandestine meetings had they had? Well, Nash would be in for a surprise this time. If he didn’t take him seriously before, he would now.
Chapter Twenty-One
Into the Dark
Sitting in the gloom, Nadir drew on his black coat and soundlessly slipped his feet into his boots. The house had fallen silent long ago, and each sound he made, no matter how small a creak or sigh, seemed to reverberate through the plaster. At the door, he listened for his cousin but heard only her husband’s choking, throaty snores. Nadir opened the door a crack and stepped into the hall, careful not to make the hinge whistle. In the darkness, he could scarcely make out the lantern in his hand, but as he edged toward the stairs, moonlight filtered in through the front windows and shone off the framed portraits hanging across the wallpaper. He stepped over the loose board and padded over to the front door. Taking his walking stick from the umbrella stand, he pulled the ends apart just far enough for the hidden blade to catch the light. He closed it and tucked it under his arm, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Nash seemed like a man who wouldn’t necessarily listen to reason but wouldn’t take him lightly after a show of steel and coin. The latch’s spring clicked loudly as he pushed open the door and walked into the cool night air.
The moon peeked behind murky clouds as Nadir kept his head down and picked along the deserted paths, keeping an eye and ear out for anyone who might notice his presence. In the village, nearly every house had fallen silent with the only light left to illuminate them coming from the electric globed streetlamps lining the pavement. He kept close to the fences and stone facades. Rounding the corner near the edge of town, he watched as three men in rumpled work clothes and shabby hats stumbled out of the tavern, its electric lamps shining bright and its tinny player-piano still playing at the late hour. Nadir stopped, locking eyes with one who glanced his way with bleary eyes, but when one of his companions made a joke, he laughed and staggered after them. Even if the man remembered him, it would be hard to distinguish what was real from what came from the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He swallowed against the dry knot in his throat and continued down the path toward the shore.
Half-fallen fences and scraggly bushes reached out with budded claws to catch his coat and hair as they drifted in the salty breeze. He stopped a few steps from the tunnel’s entrance and drew in a long breath, savoring the calming tug and pull of the ocean below. With the taste of distant lands on his tongue, he lit the lantern with shaking hands and stepped into the brush. Even with shutter nearly closed, the harsh light gleamed against the dew-soaked rock like a beacon, illuminating the slick lichens growing in the grooves. As he stepped forward, his hand disappeared into the cliff’s face.
Opening his lamp, he raised it ahead of him. The damp air sunk into his clothing, sending a shiver through his body as his feet splashed through the sole-high water. Nadir’s resolve wavered. The endless abyss disappeared into the earth thirty feet beyond the reach of his meager lamp. Panic lanced through him at the thought of losing his way in the catacombs. He had heard tales of tourists becoming lost in Paris’s underground necropolis only to be found months or years later, barely more than the piles of bones around them. Closing his eyes, he tucked the heavy walking stick beneath his arm and ran his free hand along the wall. The cold stone soaked through his glove, but a wave of calm washed over him. If Leona could make it through, so could he.
The peaked roof hovered inches above his head, occasionally tugging at his hair. As he passed rats’ nests and things so decomposed he could no longer discern their forms, his stomach flipped. He had seen worse in London, but there he could cross the street to avoid it; here, he was forced to confront the world’s ugliness. He stared into the darkness beyond his lamp, catching a whiff of a strange smell wafting from the far end of the cistern. Above the murk of stagnant water and centuries of moss, a musky odor rose. He crinkled his nose at the acidic, bitter notes of alcohol and stale sweat competing with spiced cologne. Water rippled over his feet as the smell grew stronger.
Darting to the other side of the tunnel, he scrambled onward. Metal grated against the stone wall behind him, sending his heart into a frantic tattoo. The stench drifted closer, but as he broke into a run, his lantern went out. Nadir heedless flung forward, feeling shafts of fresh air cut through the dankness as he passed under the parlors and drawing rooms of Brasshurst Hall. Ahead, the floor shivered with light, the ripples from his footsteps casting undulating patterns on the wall. Pale green light illuminated the water drifting beneath a half-rotted metal ladder affixed to blocks of staggered stone that formed a makeshift staircase.
At the edge of the shaft, he slowed his pace. In the otherworldly light, he found both sides of the tunnel deserted. His gaze rose to the opening. Another branch of the catacomb had been sealed long ago with massive blocks of marble, but above them, an engine thrummed despite the late hour. He had seen that absinthe glow. Something heavy thudded down the tunnel from where he had just come, echoing through the empty cavern, and the rank smell of sweat burned his nostrils. Nadir placed his light and stick on the top step before pulling himself up with the rusted rails. As he pivoted into the entrance, the catacombs fell away to reveal the vast dome of the orangery rising above him.
The liquid moon reflected off the glass, amplifying what little light could diffuse within the manmade fog. Relighting his lamp and setting it beside him, Nadir closed his dark eyes and slowed his breathing. With his heart pounding in his ears, he could scarcely tell whether it was his pulse or the heart of Brasshurst. Whatever the thing in the catacombs was, it didn’t seem to follow him up. Maybe his imagination had played tricks on him. He pressed his hand to his pocket, feeling the aqua bead beneath it. There was no question in his mind that this was where Leona and Nash met. The tunnel led straight to his house, but no man would bring his untoward dealings so close to home. If they wanted to meet, it would have to be in the once deserted confines of the manor or the tunnel itself. Why else would Leona be so bold as to sneak into the orangery in the dead of night unless she had been there before?
Drawing up to his full height, Nadir clutched his lantern in one hand and his walking stick in the other. It was no wonder the earl and countess hadn’t found the hatch yet. It had been surrounded by tall brush and was blocked on one side by a bull-sized boulder. He inched out of the thick bushes and massive ferns, his eyes sweeping over the slumbering plants for any sign of Randall Nash. A smile crossed Nadir’s lips at the thought of the look on the old man’s face when he realized that Leona had been left at home and what he would face would be far worse than anything she could have done. Even if he couldn’t see or hear him, Nash was in there somewhere, waiting.
Apart from the gurgle of the pond and the hum of its engine, the greenhouse was silent. Nadir’s eyes flickered down the path as he walked past the windows separating the dome from the delicate plasterwork and rich woods of the manor. Keeping the light half-shuttered, he walked toward the pool. He hoped Lord and Lady Dorset would remain fast asleep. Even if he expected that Lady Dorset would be at least somewhat rea
sonable, explaining his presence in their home at that late hour uninvited was a task he would have preferred to avoid, especially if it meant the possibility of having to reveal Leona’s theft.
As he reached the crest of the trail, a light flickered at the edge of the tiled pond. It caught the light, creating tortured, deformed shadows that writhed around its wick. He squinted at the shuddering flame. Something lay beside it, but it was too dark to see. Following the dirt and cobbled path, Nadir’s body locked at the water’s edge. What he had imagined was a bough of wisteria or a fern dripping into the pool was really a pale hand.
The saliva dried in his mouth as he opened his lantern and stepped closer. A body lay twisted against the tile. A crimson pool surrounded the body, seeping into the tiles and following along the grout until it poured into the water in minute streams, narrow as capillaries. Nadir’s heart pulsed in his temples at the sight of a bloodied hole torn through the fabric of his coat where a bullet had escaped. Walking along the man’s side, he stopped at the grey head. He averted his gaze before he could see his lifeless features. Nash. He didn’t need to flip him over to recognize the fine fabric of his suit and the curled but closely clipped hair on the back of his head. Nash was the one who was supposed to be there, and there could be no other. Laying his walking stick beside him, Nadir reached out and placed his fingers against the man’s neck. The tide of blood inched toward his shoes as the pieces flooded into place. In a moment, all thoughts fled his mind, except one.
He had to get out of there. He had to tell someone what transpired. The smell, the chase, the letter, the body. It would mean waking up the Sorrells, but it would be worth it not to venture into the catacombs again and confront whatever lurked in the darkness. He stared up at the high windows. Would they even hear him if he banged on the windows? Maybe they had left one of the doors unlocked, but if he got in, who would he turn to? Climbing to his feet, he turned toward the path he had just come down.
He had only taken one step on the trail when a shadow slid out of the garden behind him, rustling the low branches of a pomegranate tree. He sensed him before he saw it, but his body didn’t respond quickly enough. The specter raised something high above its head and brought it down hard. Pain thundered through Nadir’s neck and skull, reverberating through his form as he stumbled onto his knees. His lantern skidded across the tile and sputtered out. He staggered. His head swam and his vision tunneled, sending the world into blackness.
***
Calloused hands snaked across Nadir’s face and around his chest. He tried to pry the man’s hand off, but it felt as if he were trapped underwater. The air had thickened around him and his arms moved twice as slowly as he commanded them. Before he could stop him, the man pulled him up by the chest and held him in place like a photographer with a cadaver. Despite being raised to his feet, Nadir’s shoes uselessly slid out from under him on the bloody tiles. His head lolled back against his will, heavy with confusion and throbbing pain. He fought to open one eyelid, which rose halfway before drooping again until a metallic click resounded in the gloom.
At the sound and the burn of cold metal being placed against his palm, his body rallied and stiffened against his attacker. As his senses cleared, his nose burned with the mixture of astringent cologne and sweat that he had smelled in the tunnel. Nadir flailed and struggled to push his shoulders into his attacker and throw him back, but with his weakened legs, he barely moved. The man’s arm tightened around his waist and hand, holding him in place even as he writhed. He arched his back and felt the shorter man teeter backwards. With adrenaline pulsing through his veins in the nearly pitch black orangery, he threw his weight back again. The man stumbled and fell into the dirt beside Nash’s body. Cool soil clung to Nadir’s cheek as he landed hard to his side, his knee banging against a rock. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled out of his assailant’s grasp and tumbled forward.
He took two hesitant steps before his feet slid out from under him, and he landed on hands and knees at the edge of the blood trail. The breath caught in his throat as he knelt frozen in horror at the warmth soaking through his trousers and into the lines of his palms. In an instant, he gathered his wits and ran toward where he believed the house to be. Through the heavy fog and his blurred vision, he could barely see a foot ahead of him, but he could hear the man’s booted feet pounding after him. His body tilted and faltered, recovering as quickly as it staggered. Light glinted off the library windows as he rounded the path, but before he could reach it, a shot erupted behind him.
The boom reverberated through the trees and along the dome, sending leaves and bits of bark scratching across his cheek. Nadir sprinted forward as another shot rang out. By the time the noise finished echoing in his ears, pain seared through his left temple and rang through his skull. He clutched the side of his head and stumbled forward. The strength seeped from his limbs, and he slumped to his knees. Pulling his hand away from the wound, he found his palm nearly as dark as his coat. He strained to keep his thoughts together. Bolts of pain trailed across his scalp and down his neck while bile rose in his throat at the growing pressure in his temples.
He should get up. He should run toward the house and find help. He should move, but his legs refused to budge except to collapse under him. Wetness brimmed from the cut before trickling down the side of his face in slow rivulets. His eyes flickered shut against his will, the lids growing irresistibly heavy. The world grew quiet as the footsteps and smell trailed into the darkness and all that was left was the dull, rhythmic pulse of the engine. Closing his eyes, Nadir sunk to the cool soil and fell into the void.
ACT THREE
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
–Oscar Wilde
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Writer of Little Infamy
“What was that?” Hadley cried as she shot up in bed, the words issuing from her throat before she was even certain she was awake.
“I don’t know.”
Eilian sat up beside her in the darkened room, the only sound their rapid inhalations. His wide eyes traveled the length of the room for the source of the phantom noise but found nothing out of the ordinary. Had she imagined the sound? No, he had heard it too, but the memory was already fading from his mind. As he leaned closer and brushed against her, her pounding pulse rushing against his arm.
A boom echoed through the stillness. Hadley ducked against him as Eilian covered her with his arms. In an instant, it was over. Locking eyes, they slipped out of bed without another word and donned their dressing gowns. As Hadley reached into the bedside table for her derringer, her heart thudded against her breast. She had heard that sound before. The retort ricocheting through the desert plateaus as she emptied a round into Edmund Barrister’s ursine chest. Canvas tents whipped in the wind while blood spurted from the wound, spreading across his khaki jacket. She shut her eyes against the image of his body giving out before falling at her feet. Swallowing the fear tightening her breast, she slipped the gun into her pocket.
At the door, Eilian ran a shaky hand through his sleep-mussed hair and across his tired eyes. “Ready?” When she nodded and smoothed her nightgown, he wrapped his arm around her and whispered, “You needn’t worry, Had. I’m willing to bet it’s Nash again.”
She furrowed her brows and frowned, she wasn’t so sure. Stepping into the hall, they flipped on the gas lamps with each empty room they checked. At the top of the stairs, Patrick stood waiting for them. His white hair was wild from sleep and his pajamas’ buttons were misaligned under his rumpled dressing gown. He yawned behind his hand as he clutched a heavy silk parasol. Hadley suppressed a chuckle at their manservant’s choice of weapon.
“Are the girls somewhere safe?”
“Mrs. Negi is standing guard of them downstairs.”
“Good. Did you find any damage on your way up, Pat?”
“The servants’ quarters are untouched, as are the drawing rooms, parlors, and day rooms. Every door and window is locked.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course. Where else would he be?”
They flipped on the light in every room until the manor blazed. No longer did they have to fear what lurked in the darkness or skulk with cudgels raised. Eilian was certain he knew who caused the mischief. Even if he didn’t know what had been done, Randall Nash had to be behind it. No one else caused them any problems or tried to maliciously upset their lives, and the sooner they left, the happier Nash would be. No matter how many passages he read in his great-grandfather’s journals, he still could not reconcile the innocent, loving child with the abhorrent man who did nothing but antagonize them and everyone around him.
At the library door, Patrick released the lock and turned on the auxiliary lights. The green glow from the high lamps and the bright lights from the rooms surrounding the orangery cast stark shadows over the trees and dome. The room stood as still as a picture.
“Nash! Nash, I know you are in here. Come out now, and I won’t call the constabulary!” Eilian yelled at the threshold.
His heart thundered in his ears. Despite the stillness, the room felt charged, as if a battle had stopped the moment he opened the door. When no reply came, he left the shelter of the library and stepped into the stifling humidity of the greenhouse. Even without the sun’s gaze upon him, sweat broke down his back and arms, but as he called again, a chill fell over him. A groan came from the trail just out of sight. He turned back to find Hadley at his elbow with her derringer at the ready. He shifted uncomfortably as they crept forward, his naked prosthesis feeling strangely heavy without its external springs or couter. The irritation died away as his eyes locked on a figure lying at the edge of the path. Before he could react, Hadley ran ahead, dropping her hand and gun.
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 72
