Elizabeth reached out for the carpenter’s rough hands. “My dear Mr. Wendt, you are gracious, as always. I believe the original plans are in the Branham archives. Our librarian, Mr. Gresham, has been cataloguing all our histories. You might speak with him. He lives in Anjou-on-Sea, I believe.”
“I’ll write to him at once, my lady.”
“Excellent!” she said happily. “Mr. Eberly, I should like to see an accounting for all expenses regarding the planned construction. I’ve put together a proposed budget for the fête, which is ten times our normal expenditures, but worth it, I think. Four hundred years is something quite monumental, and all England will join us to celebrate. My husband and I shall invite dignitaries from other countries, of course, but we’ll also provide the usual delights for the villagers and our local friends. I anticipate attendance in the tens of thousands over the course of the week’s activities.”
Eberly was jotting down notes from the conversation in shorthand and had started to ask which account the duchess planned to use, when the door to the library was opened by Mr. Kay.
“My lady, do forgive the intrusion,” the young butler said softly.
“Not at all, Kay. What is it?”
“Lord Aubrey asks for you. It seems one of the missing men has been found.”
“Thank you, everyone. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice coloured with a mixture of apprehension and relief. She left the room, speaking quickly as she walked beside Kay towards the lift. “Who found him? Where was he found? Is he alive? Is he injured?”
“We’ve taken the gentleman to a small apartment in the east wing. His lordship said to tell you it’s Lord Salter’s son, my lady. And he’s in very poor shape. It might even be fatal.”
Beth grew exceedingly pale, and Kay dared to touch her hand. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“Yes, yes. Have you sent for Dr. Price?”
“We have, ma’am. The earl says he found Lord Paynton beneath the old abbey. In some sort of cavern.”
“The cavern?” she repeated weakly. “Oh, not there!”
Her eyes rolled into her head as every memory of that awful place flashed through her mind in a blink: her mother’s murder, Trent’s threats, the ritual sacrifices, the blazing fires, the deep pools of innocent blood, the laughing men cavorting in animal masks.
Kay caught his mistress just as she fainted.
Montmore House
Following supper, Violet Stuart had decided to investigate a mystery. After telling her fellow patients she suffered a headache, the amnesiac used a side passage, which Mrs. Crossfield had told her about, to exit the house without being seen by any of the servants or the ever vigilant Emily Winstead. She carried a small candle as she walked along the moonlit path, her chiffon and taffeta skirts brushing against the bricks and picking up telltale bits of debris. It had begun to snow, and Stuart shivered, wishing she’d worn a heavier coat. Her destination stood just beyond the fountain, so she hurried her pace, praying she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.
All round, night creatures roamed through the brittle leaves and lacy underbrush. A black rat stared at her from its spot near the foot of a faded lilac bush. Its red eyes looked eerily human.
At last, she reached the gardener’s cottage and started to knock. The door wasn’t latched, but swung inward an inch or two. Inside the pleasant interior, she could see shadows dancing along the walls of the narrow entry. One of the attendants was sorting through a suitcase. Perhaps, a donation? More likely, the clothes belonged to the new mystery patient.
She dared to enter. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“Good evening,” she said as innocently as she could muster.
“Miss Stuart, you’re not allowed in here,” the man said politely. “Dr. Hepplewhite’s coming to speak with everyone shortly, and he’ll expect to find you in the main house. Go on back, now, Miss.”
“I shall,” she promised, “but I wanted to satisfy myself regarding the man staying here. I noticed him earlier from my window, when Dr. MacAlpin first admitted him. I believe I know him.”
“I doubt it, Miss.”
“Oh, but I’m sure he’s familiar to me, Mr. Rush. As you know, I’m unable to remember very much about myself. I hoped this man might help.”
“I’m not supposed to make decisions like that, Miss.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but I’ll never sleep for thinking about it. May I ask the man’s name, at least?”
Footsteps sounded from nearby, and then a tall man emerged from the parlour. Both he and Stuart gasped.
“Anthony,” she whispered, the sudden shock of memory nearly causing her to faint.
Gehlen’s medical experience precluded all else, and he ran to her side. “Fetch a nurse!” he told the attendant. “Now!”
Rush hastily left the cottage, whilst Gehlen carried the unconscious woman into the parlour, where he placed her on a small settee. He rubbed her wrists and patted her face. He despaired for the lack of a medical bag or brandy, or even a bottle of smelling salts, but the circulatory stimulation soon brought her round, and Violet opened her eyes.
“Hello, Susanna,” he said.
“Susanna?” she asked. “It’s Anthony Gehlen, isn’t it? I once knew you.”
“A long time ago in Paris. 1884. What are you doing here, in an asylum?”
She sat up slowly, pieces of her past flying through her mind. It was like watching an entire library of photograph albums whoosh past her eyes in quick succession. She could make very little sense of the images, but she did remember him.
“I was in Paris?”
“For a few weeks. You were with Sir Clive Urquhart. I never understood what you saw in the man.”
Clive Urquhart? Who?
“And my name is Susanna?”
“One of them. Clive told me you had another name, but he never revealed it to me. Why are you here?”
“I might ask you the same question. Oh, I’m very confused!”
He fetched a glass of water and helped her drink it down. “You act as though your memory’s impaired.”
“I thought my name was Violet Stuart. I can’t remember much.”
“Then, I’m sorry for shocking you,” he told her. “My memory comes and goes as well. But not about who I am; rather where I’ve been. Mr. Rush is right. You shouldn’t be out here. Where’s Henry?”
“Gone to Branham Hall. He received a message and left immediately.”
This caused Gehlen concern. “Has it anything to do with the duchess?”
“I can’t say. You’re right. I should go.”
He took her hand. “Susanna, if you want to talk, I’ll be here for a few weeks. Henry’s treating my memory loss. If I can help with yours, I’d consider it a fair trade.”
She smiled. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”
Gehlen kissed her hand, which startled Morgan. “It used to make you giggle when I’d do that. Sorry. Have you any idea why you lost your memory?”
“No; though, it might have to do with a fire.”
“We had a terrible fire in Whitechapel yesterday. I need to recover quickly and get back there.”
Fire? Perhaps, she hadn’t imagined it! “When?”
“It started around eight yesterday morning. Hundreds of people were injured. The London was overrun with patients. I hear Mrs. Winstead coming, Susanna. You must go.”
She quickly left the cottage, running into the nurse a few feet from the door. Morgan pretended to remember nothing, deciding to discuss it further with Gehlen the next day. But before dawn broke, every moment of her previous life would tumble back into her conscious mind, and Henry MacAlpin would return to find his favourite patient missing.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Branham Hall
Charles and Baxter arrived back at the hall shortly af
ter nine o’clock. It had been a long, puzzling day, and the exhausted duke needed food, a glass of wine, and the reassuring touch of his wife’s hand. Instead, he was met at the door by a contentious Victoria Stuart, who’d arrived with Dolly Patterson-Smythe half an hour earlier.
“It’s time you came home!” she declared without preamble. “Dolly and I had to drive all the way in from Faversham, of all things, because the line to Branham was closed. It took us nearly an hour, and Samson barked the entire time. You’d think he’d never seen sheep before. Poor Dolly’s having a lie-down, due to her head, and now it’s snowing of all things!”
“So I’ve noticed,” Charles said, brushing fluffy snowflakes from his gloves. “And it’s nice to see you, too, Tory.”
“You’ve heard about Seth, I presume?”
“Seth?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you all about it after you’ve had a chance to relax. Now, where has that dog of mine gone? Samson! He’s been fiddling with the Christmas decorations. He always does. Samson!”
Responding to the call, the terrier came tearing into the foyer, nearly upsetting a footman carrying boxes down from the attics. Staying remarkably calm, despite the animal’s odd behaviour, the underbutler Stephen Priest continued removing the duke’s overcoat (expertly overseen by Cornelius Baxter, who quietly mentioned several bloodstains upon the left sleeve, assuring Priest he would personally see to them later that evening and to send the coat to Baxter’s rooms).
In the background of this familiar ballet, the foyer buzzed like a hive in July. A tall ladder sat beneath the largest chandelier, which was now being decked with festive greenery before the arrival of the largest of the home’s Christmas trees the following morning. Some footmen hung holly and ivy garlands along bannisters and doorframes, whilst others trimmed the foyer’s smaller chandeliers. All of this activity was augmented by the pleasant chatter of farmers and gardeners, most in stained clothing from the day’s long search. A long table dominated the northern portion of the palatial foyer, laden with a variety of food and served by the evening shift of farmer’s wives and kitchen staff. It all felt a bit like Victoria Station to the duke, an apt comparison; only this time it was his Aunt Victoria Stuart in charge of the madcap depot. In his weary state of mind, Sinclair found it difficult to focus on his aunt’s endless stream of words.
“Charles, are you listening? I said we all need a guiding hand! The search teams have nothing to do until you make a decision regarding how to proceed. Do the men call it quits until tomorrow or push on tonight, despite the snow? With Elizabeth off her feet, it’s up to you, Nephew.”
This last phrase drilled into his brain, and suddenly the duke heard every word. “What do you mean ‘off her feet’? Is Beth ill?”
“Not ill, really. She fainted earlier, but...”
The rest of his aunt’s sentence hung in the air without an ear to hear it, for Charles was already halfway up the staircase. Anatole’s warning to ‘keep watch on the duchess’ rang in his thoughts, and all he could think of were his wife and unborn children.
Even at such a panicked pace, it took him two and a half minutes to reach the master apartment. Branham Hall’s layout had altered little over the centuries, growing haphazardly larger as each duke or duchess added to its complex design. Some of the journey took him through formal state rooms, whilst others along hotel-like corridors filled with busy maids and footmen. When he finally reached the master chamber, he found—to his very great relief—his wife sitting in a chair, talking casually with Paul Stuart.
“Thank the Lord!” Charles exclaimed as he took her hand to kiss it. “Tory told me you fainted, and I... Well, I worried, that’s all.”
Though somewhat pale yet, the duchess appeared unharmed. “I had a shock, nothing more. I imagine Tory told you all about it. She’s been hovering ever since she arrived, but nothing’s amiss. Really, I’m fine, Captain. Sit down, won’t you? We have good news. Paul found Seth.”
“Tory mentioned it. Is he injured?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Is it true the dead man is one of the Cambridge students?”
“Yes, darling. I hoped to keep it from you.”
She nearly argued with him, but the look of exhaustion in his eyes stopped the thought before it reached her mouth. “I understand. I’m very sorry for his family.”
“As are we all, little one,” he answered softly. “But tell me about Holloway. Has he spoken? Did he tell you what happened? Does he know where the other student might be?”
“Let me, Beth,” the earl answered. “I found him beneath the old abbey, about an hour after dark. He’s in very bad shape, Charles. Nearly out of his mind with pain. He looks as though something fierce attacked him. That’s why I sent for Henry. With Emerson still in Edinburgh, and Gehlen a mystery...”
“Dr. Gehlen’s a mystery?” Beth asked. “Is he also ill?”
Charles took the seat nearest her. “No, dear, he’s merely run off his feet with the fire at the docks,” he told her, deciding against any further explanation for the moment. “Where is Holloway?”
“The east wing. Alcorn and Price are looking after his physical needs,” she told him. Beth reached for her husband’s hand. “I’d like to sit with him, Charles. If it’s all right with you.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” the duke murmured, for he had to consider Holloway a murder suspect. He might be a dangerous man.
Paul stood, straightening his waistcoat. “Sitting with him is pointless just now, Princess. Price gave him a strong dose of morphine. I doubt he’ll wake before tomorrow. As for me, I’m off to see Della. She’s reading a book to Dolly. It seems to help with her migraines.”
“Did Sir Richard come as well?” asked Sinclair.
“He’s coming down tomorrow, assuming the line’s open. Charles, if you have a moment I’d like to hear about your findings in the village.”
“Yes, of course. Is there a room that’s quiet?”
“Hardly,” Beth said, hints of colour returning to her cheeks. “You might try the blue library. If there are servants decorating, ask them to go elsewhere until you’re finished. Since the line to Branham is closed, Grandfather sent word that he’ll remain in London for another day.”
“Do you mind if I abandon you?” Charles asked.
“Not at all, Captain. I’ve plenty books to read. Go be a detective. The dogs will keep me company.”
He kissed her and then left with the earl.
The men took the stairs to the main floor and then turned into the west wing, walking past a series of state rooms alive with greenery and festive ribbons. They found the smaller, blue library warm but devoid of activity, awaiting its turn for Christmas cheer.
Sinclair took one of the leather chairs near the fireplace. Paul poured two small glasses of cognac. He handed one to his cousin and then sat into the companion chair.
“What a day! I could sleep for a week.”
Charles swallowed, smiling at the woody taste with a hint of citrus. “Danflou?”
Paul laughed. “You’re becoming an expert now? Yes, I find it restful after a long day, but Tory also loves it, which means it will disappear quickly. Look, Charles, before we go over the investigation, let me explain about Holloway.”
“What’s to explain?” asked his cousin.
“How and where I found him, but also his relationship to Beth.”
The duke set the glass aside. “I’m aware of her affections for him, Paul. They’re childhood friends. She cares for him deeply.”
The earl took a moment, and his cousin could read concern as well as doubt. “It’s my fault really. The way I treated Elizabeth. Abandoning her so often, I mean. We were always so close, it never crossed my mind she might grow fond of anyone else. Her reaction to you in ’84 is but one example of my education.”
“Are you saying something happened twixt Beth and Hollow
ay?”
Aubrey gulped down the wine and poured a second glass. “Another?”
“No, I want to keep a clear head, and I’ve not eaten much today.”
Returning to the chair, Stuart continued, his manner almost apologetic and uncharacteristically downhearted.
“Life’s been strange the past few days.”
“Only the past few days? Really, Paul, it’s been strange for me since October! Not that I’m complaining regarding my family or my marriage. It’s just that I’d not imagined I’d be fighting a constant war against an unseen enemy.”
“I’ve grown accustomed to that part of it,” his cousin answered. “Or rather, I’ve grown used to watching Beth go through it. When I was younger, I loved the idea of chasing down criminals and spies. None of the circle’s spiritual aspects affected me the way they do you and Beth. My targets have always been the humans involved with Redwing. I suppose it’s one reason I reacted so badly to her short affair with Holloway.”
“They had an affair?” Charles exclaimed, sitting forward anxiously.
“Forgive me. That was a poor choice of words, and I believe I also used it with Beth that summer. In fact, it’s why she and I argued so often before she left for Paris. You’ve no reason for jealousy, Cousin. I only wish someone had told me the same back then.”
The duke relaxed, but only a little. “Tell me what happened. How did they meet?”
“As you already know, Seth’s parents are Lord and Lady Salter. Their country estate’s ten or fifteen miles to the west, close to Faversham. Seth’s sisters used to take the train up almost weekly after Elizabeth became duchess. Ruth and Melinda are close to Beth’s age. Ruth’s a year older, Melin’s a year younger. They called themselves the Kent County Riding Club, and the three of them would spend hour upon hour, racing along the hunting paths of Henry’s Woods. Seth travelled a great deal of the time with his father. Salter’s an avid antiquarian and took Seth along to learn the family business.”
“Archaeology?”
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