“Here, in Smithfield she . . . practices?” He’d not heard of a Madame Browning, though he suspected he would likely see too many more of her victims in the months to come.
“I do not believe her address is in Smithfield, but it could not have been too far, do you suppose? I had nowhere to go . . . after . . . and was of a mind to take a room at an inn nearby. The White Owl?”
“Yes, I know it, but it is good fortune you had not done, for likely as not you would be—”
“The cover-shame. It is poison?”
“Not always. And it is effective, when given in the correct amount . . . The dose makes the poison, it is said. Very true. She likely mixed it with something else. Turpentine, perhaps. Opium? I do not know, but very likely, forgive my bluntness, you would be dead had you not fallen over my threshold.”
She was fortunate. The birthing canal seemed clear enough, the uterus intact as far as he could tell. He removed his hand, discretely toweling away the blood, which covered him fingertip to elbow. She was not yet out of danger, but he was convinced she would soon be recovered.
“Perhaps it would have been much the better, sir, should I not have done.”
He placed his hands in the basin, allowing the green solution to skate down his forearms before drying them with a fresh towel. “Truly you cannot believe that! You’ve your whole life before you—”
She blushed and turned away her face. “It was my cousin,” she blurted.
“Your . . . ? Did what? Brought you to Madame—?”
“That did it . . . took me . . . I did not want to . . . He forced . . .” She was sobbing again. “I’m sorry; I cannot talk about—”
Gaelan’s hands clenched into tight fists. Too often he’d heard this same unforgivable story. A cousin. An uncle. A father. A brother. Hers explained much. She would have little standing to remonstrate against the blackguard.
A change of topic was in order. “I brought you something to wear; it is not much, but I fear I’ve nothing better to offer. It should suffice for the moment, as you shall not be venturing out for a day or two at least. I have given you a preparation made from ergot to stem the bleeding, but you will yet be weak, and must be watched closely.”
She nodded, her lips drawn into a tight line.
“There now. We are done. All appears in good stead. Dress. I shall be in the shop should you need assistance.” He bowed slightly, and taking up the bowl of green liquid, went through the curtains, pulling them tight.
By the time he returned, she had dressed in his nightshirt and was sitting on the edge of the cot.
“Good. Now, if you do not mind, I believe the settee in my flat might make for a more comfortable . . . and private . . . sanctuary for your recovery. There, you will also find soap and water to wash. Use it. A bath will need to wait . . . a day or two.”
She would not make the steep stairs, even with his help.
“I shall need to carry you; the stairs are out of the question for now. Are you ready?”
Again, she nodded tightly.
“Arms about my neck—like before.” He gathered her up, and slowly managed them both up the dark turns of the staircase.
“There. Much the better up here,” he said once she’d been settled on the settee and a fire lit on the hearth. “Forgive the chill. It will be warm in a trice.”
“You have been more than kind, sir; I should trouble you no longer than need be. Most assuredly, by tonight I shall be away. Already, I am much improved and—”
“Did you not hear what I have spoken only a moment ago?”
“I cannot think to put you out—”
“You must rest, my lady, and we shall take up the matter later.”
“Why did you not let me die? Why . . . ?”
She was asleep before she finished the question.
CHICAGO NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 10
Preston bloody Alcott, standing in her doorway. What the fuck was Anne supposed to do with that? Of all the self-important gall. She slammed the door and waited to hear the slosh of his boots all the way to his Jaguar. She peeked through an adjacent window. He hadn’t budged from the lintel.
She couldn’t very well leave him standing in the downpour; he’d still be loitering on her doorstep come morning. Trapped.
Fine. As long as he was here, she could confront him about his appalling Galahad Society personally, face to face, and not through the anonymity of email. Directly involved with those postmodern vampires or not, he certainly was bloody aware of their activities.
The door banged against the wall behind her as she opened it with a force she hoped would throw him onto his bum. No luck with that. “Fine.” She sighed. “You’ve the time it takes us to have dinner. But not here. In a restaurant. And then I have several questions for you.”
“All I’m asking, then fire away. Any questions you want. I know the perfect place. Evanston. Near Northwestern U. Hung out there when I was in grad school there.”
“I’ll get my coat and be right out.”
“May I come in?”
“No.” She shut the door again, less violently this time, and locked it behind her.
By the time they got into the red convertible, the sun had again emerged. She wasted no time to begin her interrogation. “Tell me about the Galahad Society. Are you a member?”
“The Frothy Pint is like stepping back into another time. A real institution,” he explained. He pushed a button and the car’s roof disappeared behind them, the wind effectively extinguishing any possibility of conversation as they whipped through the snake curves and hairpins as the road twisted and turned along the shoreline.
What was she thinking? Dinner? What a bloody bad idea. Each red light, Anne contemplated bolting and catching a taxi home. Then, Alcott stopped the car beneath an enormous neon beer mug. Too late.
“And no, you can’t take her out for a spin,” Alcott admonished the valet with a grin, handing over the keys to an eager young man. He led her through a door and into a darkened restaurant, greeted by the strains of the Moody Blues. “Nights in White Satin.” Evidently the “another time” was the 1970s.
“Like I said, the place is sort of a landmark.”
“A time machine, more like,” Anne said, eying the black walls decorated with garish posters, concert flyers, bumper stickers, autographed photos of George Harrison, Paul McCartney, Freddie Mercury, et al.
A massive island of a salad bar dominated the middle of the crowded restaurant. They slid into a tall wood banquette, graffitied with carved initials, hearts, emojis, generations of youthful symbology. “I’m just going to do the buffet,” Anne said as an earnest college student appeared and began to list the day’s specials.
Alcott knew exactly what he wanted. “Onion blossom and burger. With fries.” He watched as the server left the table, waiting until he blended back into the crowd, before turning back to Anne.
“So, Dr. Shawe. I’m glad you agreed to—”
“I want to ask you about a mutual acquaintance—”
Alcott cringed; she noticed it even in the votive-lit booth. “Ah. Tony Cantwell.”
“You do know him, then?”
“Got your name from him, in fact. Of course, you read about . . .” The scent of grease and onion filled the air. He rubbed his hands together dramatically. “Perfect timing. The rings have arrived. Best thing about this place . . . ’cept for the ambience, that is.”
“How can you eat those? My LDL is skyrocketing just watching you salivate over them!”
“Bah! Never a take a doctor to dinner! Guilty pleasures, Dr. Shawe, when taken in moderation are good for the soul—”
“If not for the heart! What’s your connection with the Galahad Society? And Anthony Cantwell?”
The server reappeared, setting a chilled pewter salad plate before her.
“None and none. Tony is an acquaintance. Hardly call him a friend. I financed a small venture of his a few years ago. End of story. Onions are
a vegetable, you know. This is practically health food.”
Full-on fucking charm offensive of forced affability. She wasn’t buying it. “Yeah. I’ll keep that in mind as I make my way around the salad bar! And not ‘end of story.’ What about Galahad?”
“Lot of guilty pleasures there, I’m sure. At the buffet. Galahad? Wasn’t he some sort of knight? King Arthur and the Round Table, right? Or was that Lancelot?”
“I’m waiting—”
“I honestly don’t know that much. An investment. To help out a friend’s startup. I’m not actually involved. At all. So, I don’t know what I can tell you. Beyond what Google already has.”
“Enough!” She brandished the pewter plate and headed for the buffet. He was lying; she knew it. Layered good and thick as pudding with that . . . façade of fake niceness . . . There had to be a way to get out of this . . . colossal mistake.
The salad bar was huge, but nothing appealed; her appetite bled away as the crowded restaurant closed in around her like the walls of a cave. She had to get out of there. Now! To think. To . . . something.
Anne glanced back toward the banquette. Alcott was on his mobile. A short-term fix, but she saw her chance as a boisterous entourage of university students congregated in the restaurant foyer. The perfect camouflage.
Slipping away from the buffet, Anne pushed her way into the pack of kids, leaving a trail of apologies as she maneuvered her way toward the exit, still gripping her salad plate. Setting it down gently on a newspaper box just outside the restaurant door, Anne took a half-second to breathe in the fresh air before dodging around the corner. Now what?
To one side, the elevated tracks roared to life as a train flew by, creating a small cyclone of leaves and dust on the ground before her. Instinct screamed to call for a taxi, go straight to the airport, buy a one-way ticket home, and never turn back.
No! She would not allow that puffed up billionaire vampire to intimidate her. No fucking way. She stared at the home screen of her phone as she walked down the block, crossed and continued, wondering if even now Alcott was tracking her, expecting his red Jaguar to wheel about the corner any second. Nothing. Maybe he’d gotten the message. A girl could only hope.
Think, girl! Use that considerable brain of yours and bloody think, damn it!
Wait a moment—something familiar about this street. Alcott had said they were in Evanston. Gaelan lived . . . had lived . . . in Evanston. She stopped and looked up, finding herself directly across Gaelan Erceldoune’s bookshop.
Her heart caught in her throat midway between horror and the relief of not being completely lost in a strange city. His shop would make for a dandy escape from Preston Alcott. And she had the keys right there in her bag. On a keyring, alongside Simon’s.
Candles small and large, plain and elaborately carved, flowers of every variety—single roses, large bouquets, baskets of them—took up half the sidewalk in front of his door. Bloody hell.
She remembered the night they’d first met, staking out his shop, sitting in wait among the flowers—a shrine, not unlike this one. To Miracle Man.
Gaelan had despised it. The attention it symbolized, and with good reason. She’d cleared it all away that night. A gift. A peace offering that managed to break all the way through his formidable fortress of defenses. Now he was dead. Or so far off the grid he may as well be. The tributes had returned; he never would.
For hours now, she’d not given one stray thought to Gaelan Erceldoune. Now here she was. His home. A deep breath and she crossed the crowded street to his front door, stopping before wreaths of English lavender and baskets of wildflowers. And notes. So, so many notes. Stuck in the door jamb, in the window sash, scattered among the flowers, tied to baskets and black balloons.
She plucked a note from the ground, expecting to find within it proposed sainthood for the Miracle Man of Evanston, Illinois. She needed the laugh. Even, perhaps especially, at Gaelan’s expense. Miracle Man, indeed!
May you find the peace and wholeness that has eluded your years here, it began. The rest of the note Anne devoured, rereading it twice more through a haze of tears. From your lectures to epic chess battles late into the night, I learned more Renaissance science history listening to you than from any other prof. Half my doctorate rightfully belongs to you. Rest in peace, Professor E.
—J.F., (newly minted) PhD.
Could she be mistaken? Were they all like this? Not a shrine but a memorial. Placing the note in her pocket, she collected another, and another, each evoking a similar sentiment. Eulogizing his teaching skill, his way with words, his knowledge—as if he’d lived the times, one said. Oh, if only they knew the truth of it.
These were not tributes to Miracle Man but remembrances of a kind friend, a teacher—so much more than an expert in “antiquarian books and antiquities.”
How little she knew him. Not really at all. Jealousy and shame constricted about her like a vise. They’d all understood him in a way she now never could. The way he didn’t quite fit, his terrible loneliness. Grief sucked the breath from her, pouring over with an unanticipated fury, burying thoughts of Preston Alcott beneath an avalanche of sorrow.
Whatever brought her to this threshold, she needed to be here tonight. To finally say goodbye. To accept his death. To be among his books. To sleep in the bed they’d shared that beautiful early morning as they both teetered on the edge of the abyss. To ask his forgiveness for the wrong she’d done him that morning in Scotland, goading him into a promise he could never keep. She opened her bag, retrieving the ring of keys left for her at Simon’s house, finding the one marked “GE.”
“Dr. Shawe!”
Alcott. Shite! She hadn’t heard his car pull up.
“Look, Doc. I get your point. I’ll leave you be. I’m curious as hell about why you’ve got the keys to the Miracle Man’s place. You friends? Lovers? Rhetorical question, you understand. Don’t feel compelled to answer, ‘cause I’m sure you won’t. Why should you? You don’t know me; you don’t trust me, and I don’t really blame you. So, I’ll leave you in peace, but ask you to keep an open mind about what you do—and do not—read in the online press. About me, your Miracle Man—or anything else.”
“Thank you.” She did not turn around until she heard the Jaguar’s engine roar down the street. And good riddance!
It was early evening, and the shade of the train trestle painted the shop’s interior in sepia hues. The shop smelled of old leather and spice tea, the essence of Gaelan Erceldoune. She felt like a cat burglar, slinking about in the semidark, wondering if she dared turn on the lights.
He’d left all of it behind, taking nothing save a sleeping bag and his passport. Everything he owned left to her, certified in a letter from Gaelan’s Chicago attorney. We will be happy to dispose of the estate and settle it in cash after you’ve taken for yourself any keepsakes from his shop or home. Please advise. The letter was dated the day they’d left for the UK on separate flights. The day before Glomach. The day before he’d told her “trust me,” and then betrayed her. She understood better now the why, but it still smarted.
What the hell was she doing here, anyway? What did she hope to find? A souvenir of a relationship that lasted less than a week? What did it matter that he was connected to her family through a many-times removed aunt who’d died more than a century ago?
The books were valuable, and meaningful to her. Those, she could embrace—a purely professional interest; no emotions need be involved. An incredible library of medicine’s history, of discovery from ages long past. She’d wager most of his collection were originals, one-of-a-kind books, and in perfect condition. Worth a bloody fortune.
Almost involuntarily, she opened the door at the back of the shop, and climbed the steep staircase with an impulsive, urgent need to know him, to understand him, his relationship to her family, everything about him. She knew the clues lurked not in his shop, among the books, but upstairs in the sanctum sanctorum of his private residence.
A pungent
infusion of marijuana, cigarettes, and whisky ambushed Anne as she stepped through the doorway and into Gaelan’s flat. After weeks, the haze of tobacco smoke and weed had long settled from the air and saturated every surface.
The overpowering chaos of aromas matched the entropy of the sitting room. Papers, folders, electronics, empty bottles of Lagavulin strewn about in a heap on the floor just as he’d left it. A fit of frustration, he’d said with no further explanation save a shrug of the shoulders. Well, she wasn’t about to clean it up now, but at least she could open the windows. As many as possible.
The small pass-through kitchen was as organized as the sitting room was disastrous. A full canister of coffee beans, vacuum sealed, sat near a coffee maker. She could use a cup right now, despite the hour. Fair trade, single-origin Costa Rica estate. Perhaps later.
Resigned to the task of weeding through the accumulation of Gaelan’s things, Anne grabbed a wastebasket and dropped to the floor beside a large mound of papers and files. The task appealed to her inner detective.
What might she uncover beneath some random yellowed envelope? What rare find hiding inside a circa 1940s manila folder? What insights might this mess reveal, Gaelan Erceldoune, about yourself, about my family? Yours?
Ariadne. Wasn’t that his daughter’s name? His and Eleanor’s. Lady Eleanor Bell Braithwaite Langford, her very own ancestor and the origin point of that strange genetic line in her family tree. All those long-lived women for generation upon generation. All descended from Ariadne, her aunt—many generations removed. What might she discover about them?
Disappointingly, most of the papers seemed to do with his business. Of minimal interest, but for one letter, several pages, and in French. Photographs of a well-preserved but very old book were stapled to the corner. Anne’s French wasn’t good enough to decipher the letter, but she got the gist. A medieval French medical book of recipes. Yellow highlighter marks and margin notes in English, most likely Gaelan’s, covered practically every inch of the letter. “Facsimile” was scrawled in red marker across the photographs. “Decline” had been written with a flourish at the top of the letter.
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