“It’s probably best you didn’t,” Jonas said, rummaging in his pocket. “I have something for you.” He pressed something into her hand: a trio of hairpins. “Just in case.”
“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll pick the locks and walk out the front door.”
“If it comes to it, that’s what we’ll do,” he said.
Amelia put her arms around him. He hugged her back, his chin resting on top of her head.
* * *
Andrew hurried out of ward four, where he’d been called to attend to a nurse with a bite on her arm. He’d been forced to use his chloral dose on the patient who’d inflicted it, leaving her snoring on her cot. The din of the ward faded behind him as he crossed into the main hall and turned toward his office, where Miss Cas—no, Miss Matthew, he corrected himself—should have been waiting.
He’d been up most of the night thinking about her ability and what it might mean. Andrew’s hand strayed to the pocket where he’d been carrying Susannah’s locket ever since Ned had come to him. Miss Matthew said she couldn’t control that aspect of her ability. But Susannah had come once. It could happen again. His heartbeat quickened, and he tried to discipline his mind. His job was to find Julia Weaver. Amelia Matthew might be the key.
His office door was partly open. She was there, then.
Andrew pushed the door open and froze in shock.
She wasn’t alone. A tall, dark-haired orderly stood with his arms around her.
Fury swept through him. “What is the meaning of this?”
Miss Matthew pulled back with a gasp of surprise as he entered, and the orderly’s face went taut and wary.
“You,” Andrew snarled, stepping toward him. “How dare you? You abuse your position. So help me I will—”
“Dr. Cavanaugh.” Miss Matthew stepped between them and lifted a placating hand. “Please, it’s all right, he only—”
“It is the furthest thing from all right.” Andrew kept his eyes on the man. “To take such liberties with a patient—”
“I lied to you yesterday.”
Betrayal lanced through him. He glanced at her. “Lied.” His voice was flat. “About what, precisely?”
“When I said there was no one who could come and claim me.” Miss Matthew indicated the orderly, who crossed to the door. Rather than exiting, however, he eased it closed and leaned against it, his posture relaxed but watchful.
“This is Jonas Vincent.”
A different surname. Not married, then. Andrew caught the look that passed between the pale, black-haired man and the petite blond woman—the sort born of long intimacy—and drew the obvious conclusion about the nature of their relationship.
She went on. “I didn’t tell you about him because I knew he was here. I wasn’t certain I could trust you.”
Andrew looked at her. Her voice was calm, though every line of her body radiated tension. “Well,” he said, the word clipped. “It seems you’ll have to trust me now. Why don’t we all sit.”
The orderly—Jonas—lifted his hand in a sardonic half wave. “I think I’ll stay right where I am. But yes, there are several things we ought to get sorted, since we’re all here.”
Andrew sat, feeling much like a man who thought he had been walking on solid ground, only to find himself abruptly adrift with no land in sight. “That was the only lie? You weren’t lying about everything else?”
Her eyes widened. “No,” she said hurriedly. “I swear to you, everything I told you about what I saw was true, as was everything I said about who I am. I just didn’t tell you all of it.”
He’d already known as much. Very well. He forced himself to relax before he spoke.
“Miss Matthew,” he began.
“Please. Call me Amelia.”
“I couldn’t. The circumstances—”
“Are highly irregular. But I’m not your patient,” she pointed out. “Unless you’ve changed your mind and decided I truly am mad, after all.”
Andrew made a noise that might have been a laugh, if he’d been capable of laughing. “No,” he said. “I’m beginning to feel I may be slightly insane, but I concede you are not.”
“Then,” she said, “I am Amelia, and that is Jonas, and we are both pleased to meet you.”
* * *
Jonas’s impatience got the better of him, and pushed away from the door. “Yes. Delighted. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about how we’re going to get her out of here.”
The doctor sighed and rubbed his forehead, looking suddenly tired. “I can’t release her. I would if I could. But there have been several incidents since her arrival, and—”
“And you went around Harcourt to get those two other women moved, and now he’s cut you off at the knees,” Jonas finished.
Cavanaugh dropped his hand. “Yes,” he said shortly.
“What if there were another way?” He watched the doctor as he spoke.
“What other way?” Amelia asked.
Jonas glanced at her. “Do you remember when I said I’d thought of a way, but that it wouldn’t work without help?”
“Yes.”
He nodded at Cavanaugh, who looked wary. “If he helps, I can make it work.”
Amelia straightened in her chair. “What is it?”
“You’re going to die.”
Jonas drew far more pleasure than he probably should have from their stupefied expressions. Unable to help himself, he grinned.
Cavanaugh began to sputter an objection.
Amelia stopped him with a raised hand. “Explain, please.”
“Do you remember Edmond Dantès?”
“From the novel.” She raised an eyebrow. “I remember, but I don’t especially like the idea of being sewn into a sheet and thrown into the river.”
Jonas waved that away. “Dantès is just the inspiration,” he said. “We’ll alter the details.” He looked at Cavanaugh. “You’ll declare her dead. They keep a stack of pine coffins in one of the outbuildings.”
Cavanaugh finally found his voice. “Edmond Dantès? The Count of Monte Cristo? Are you mad?”
Jonas sighed as he leaned against the desk. “Have you ever seen what happens when a patient dies here?” Jonas went on as they both shook their heads. “I have. And I’ve talked to the other orderlies—it’s always done the same way.”
“Which is?” Cavanaugh asked.
“The first doctor on the scene—whoever happens to be nearby when a death is discovered—pronounces her dead. They put the body in one of those cheap pine boxes and haul it off to the ferry and back to the city dock. The city morgue takes charge. If there’s family, they can claim the corpse. If there isn’t, or they can’t afford the burial, it goes to the medical school or to Hart’s Island.”
“What about the examination? The autopsy?”
Jonas scoffed. “What autopsy? No one has time for that here. And the city certainly doesn’t have any interest in paying for it. A corpse discovered at breakfast is on the ferry by lunch. Harcourt signs a death certificate and sends it with the body, and that’s that.”
Amelia looked thoughtful, but Cavanaugh was already shaking his head.
“It’s a preposterous idea,” he said.
“What’s preposterous is a sane woman remaining locked up in this place because no one will take any trouble to get her out,” Jonas said, his voice rising. “She can’t stay here. Look at her!” He flung a hand toward Amelia.
Cavanaugh’s eyes went to Amelia. Jonas could tell from his face that he was really looking at her—at the weary eyes, the face milk-pale beneath fading bruises, collarbones sharp beneath the thin fabric of her dress. He looked for a moment as if he might capitulate. Jonas held his breath, hoping.
But it was in vain.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “It’s madness to think something like that would work. And the consequences if I’m caught helping you… I can’t do it.”
Jonas slammed his hand down on the desktop, his an
ger and disappointment nearly choking him. “Damn you. You know she doesn’t belong here. If you’re too much of a coward to do the right thing, I’ll—”
He broke off as someone knocked on the door.
Cavanaugh rose to answer it. The nurse who’d brought them to the office stood outside. “Dr. Cavanaugh,” she said, frowning past him at Jonas as he leaned on the desk. “You’re wanted in the infirmary. We think it’s a broken arm.”
“Of course. I’ll come at once.”
The nurse left, and Cavanaugh ushered them into the hallway. “I’m sorry,” he said again, looking everywhere but their eyes. He turned and walked away.
22
The following morning, Amelia found herself again delivered to Cavanaugh’s office. To her surprise, Jonas was already there. She shot him a questioning look as Cavanaugh conferred with the nurse, and he shrugged in reply.
Cavanaugh closed the door and turned to face them, looking wan and rumpled. A rusty cot sat folded against the wall, blankets trailing on the floor. He must have stayed on the island overnight, though he looked as if he’d barely slept.
“Why are we here?” Jonas asked. “Have you changed your mind?”
Amelia waited for Cavanaugh to speak. Instead, he looked at her for a long moment, then plucked something—a photograph—from the desk.
“I meant to show you this yesterday, and then…” He gestured vaguely in Jonas’s direction. He handed Amelia the photograph. “Do you recognize this woman? Have you—either of you,” he said, turning to include Jonas, “seen her in the wards?”
Amelia took the photograph, studying the mousy hair and unmemorable features. She thought of the wards full of rows upon rows of identically dressed, gray-capped patients. She could have looked right at this woman and never noted her. “I don’t think so.” She passed it to Jonas.
Jonas shook his head. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Julia Weaver. Her brother came to me a little over two weeks ago.” He told them of Ned Glenn’s visit and his belief that his sister was somewhere in the asylum, trapped there by her own husband.
Amelia and Jonas exchanged a somber look. Just like Elizabeth.
“I said I’d help,” Cavanaugh went on, his face lined and weary. “At first, I found nothing. But then—” He stopped and rubbed his eyes.
“Then?” Amelia prompted.
“Several days ago, I found this.” He reached a hand into his pocket and withdrew a tattered bit of paper. “It was caught in the track of the desk drawer.”
He looked away as Amelia and Jonas leaned forward to peer at the scrap.
Julia Weaver’s name, and an amount of money. It seemed Ned Glenn must be right. His sister was here. But what—
Amelia frowned, her attention caught by the markings at the bottom.
Jonas saw it before she did. He made a surprised noise and reached for another piece of paper. He took the scrap from Cavanaugh, set it on the paper, and used a pencil to complete the partial letters beneath Julia Weaver’s name. A few strokes and it was there: Elizabeth Miner.
Cavanaugh looked at the name, then at the two of them, his eyes stunned.
“Who is that? How did you know?” His voice shook.
By the time Amelia finished relaying the story Elizabeth had told her, Cavanaugh had sagged into his chair.
“Another one,” he said in a hollow voice. He pressed his palms to his eyes, then dropped them to his lap. “Even after I found Julia’s name, I hoped there was some innocent explanation. But there can’t be, not if there’s another.”
“Why stop at two?” Jonas said, his tone thoughtful. “There are plenty of wealthy men with wives they’d like to have out of the way, and I’d bet private asylums are expensive. Admitting patients outside official channels could be a fine money-making scheme for someone here. Or perhaps several someones.” He looked back down at the scrap of paper. “Do you have any idea who wrote this?”
“This office previously belonged to Dr. John Blounton,” Cavanaugh said. “It seems likely it was he.”
“Elizabeth mentioned him,” Amelia blurted. “She said he came to speak with her one day, but then…” She frowned, remembering what she’d heard about Blounton.
“He’s the one who died,” Jonas said. “I’ve heard some of the orderlies mention him. They liked him.”
“Yes,” Cavanaugh said. “And there were some irregularities surrounding his death.”
All three went quiet for a moment.
Amelia reached for the paper, then hesitated. “May I?”
Cavanaugh nodded. He and Jonas leaned forward in anticipation as she picked it up. She rubbed the scrap between her fingers.
Nothing. She shook her head.
Cavanaugh’s face fell. “I suppose it was too much to hope it would be that easy.”
Amelia straightened at that, and Jonas’s eyes fastened on Cavanaugh, suspicion dawning on his face. “Why are you telling us this? What do you want?”
Cavanaugh looked uncertain for a moment, then took a deep breath before meeting Amelia’s eyes.
“I thought about it—about your plan. I still don’t think it will work. But I’ll do it anyway, if you’ll agree to help me first.”
“You want me to find Julia Weaver,” Amelia said.
“Yes.”
“What happens if I can’t? Or if I refuse?” Amelia asked, still feeling as though the breath had been sucked from her lungs.
Cavanaugh looked uncomfortable but didn’t answer.
Jonas shot him a look that could have flayed flesh from bone. “You bastard,” he said, his tone disgusted. He turned to Amelia. “The hell with him. We don’t need him. I’ll come up with something else. You don’t have to do this. To have any chance of finding anything, you’d have to go back into the wards. You’ve already been hurt once.”
Jonas gestured to her face, where Amelia knew the fading bruises still jaundiced her skin. “And god only knows what might happen with your gift,” Jonas went on. “You can’t risk it.”
“Can you afford not to?” Cavanaugh’s expression was that of a man who has bitten into something indescribably bitter. As though forcing himself to swallow it, he went on. “Jonas already admitted that faking your death won’t work without my help. And if he had another way, he’d already have used it.”
Amelia’s heartbeat thudded in her ears as she looked at the doctor, betrayal sour in her throat. She’d thought him kind. He’d helped Mara and Janey without asking for anything in return.
But they hadn’t had anything he wanted. A sound escaped from her throat—half laugh, half sob. It was her bad luck that she did.
She looked at Jonas, hoping he had another answer, but his face was all helpless fury.
Amelia ground her teeth and tried to calm the storm in her head. They needed his help. But he was demanding too much. The idea of staying in this place with no end in sight—she couldn’t bear it.
Elizabeth is bearing it. The thought was like cold water. Elizabeth was trapped here. And Julia Weaver. Amelia had a way out, if she chose to take it. Even if she didn’t, Jonas would get her out, eventually. But Elizabeth, and Julia, and god only knew how many others, would stay behind. And it would be Amelia’s choice.
Amelia’s heart felt leaden in her chest.
As she drew breath to speak, to submit to Cavanaugh’s terms, she saw a flash of something on his face—a momentary flash of ambivalence, of hesitancy, even as he leaned forward in anticipation of her agreement.
Amelia caught the words before they escaped. She marshalled her swirling thoughts, studying Cavanaugh, wondering how far she could move him.
“A month,” she said finally, pushing the words from between numb lips.
“What?” Cavanaugh looked at her.
“I’ll give you a month,” Amelia said. “I’ll help you look for Julia, but whether I find her or not, you’ll help me leave after that. And Elizabeth Miner, too.”
“I don’t know if I can—”
&nb
sp; “You named your price,” she said, trying to make her voice firm. “This is mine.”
There was a long moment. Amelia held her breath and tried not to sag with relief when Cavanaugh’s eyes met hers.
“Agreed.”
23
Jonas struggled to keep a rein on his temper as they left Cavanaugh’s office. He expected the doctor to look smug, pleased by his victory. Instead, Cavanaugh looked slightly sickened by what he’d done. Perversely, it made Jonas angrier.
Beside him, Amelia was silent, seemingly lost in thought.
When they arrived back at her cell, he opened the door, then glanced down the hallway. It was empty. He looked at her. “You didn’t have to agree,” he said. “I would have thought of something.”
“You already thought of the best way,” she said as she stepped inside. “This way, we’ll get to use it. And in the meantime, maybe I can actually do what he wants and find Julia Weaver. And help Elizabeth. Neither of them deserves to be here, either. I can stand it for a month.” She squeezed his arm, and he swung the door closed behind her.
“If we don’t find Julia, what’s to stop Cavanaugh from going back on his promise?”
Amelia caught her lip between her teeth, frowning slightly. “He gave us his word. I think he’ll keep it.”
Jonas scowled. “That’s a thin branch to cling to.”
“I could have misjudged him, but I don’t think so.” She shrugged. “It’s what we have. We’ll manage.”
A nurse approached, and Jonas was forced to leave without further reply.
Worry gnawed at his gut throughout the rest of his shift and made him fidget on the ferry ride back to the city. He sat in a corner of the club’s bustling kitchen that evening, trying to stay out of the way and eating a quick meal before his shift began. Waiters rushed by, carrying trays full of clean glassware for the bar. Their bay rum mingled with the smells wafting from the ovens.
A Deadly Fortune Page 14
