The Memory Keeper

by C. J. Archer

  Had I been too, once? Was this the man whose eyes I'd seen through?

  I shoved the questions away. If I reached for the answers now, the fear would overwhelm me. I needed to keep my wits about me and act.

  I kicked back hard and connected with his shin. He swore and repaid me by jerking me back by my hair again. I screamed, but the sound didn't travel far, with his hand covering my mouth.

  He dragged me back toward the closed door; he would have to let go of my hair or my mouth to open it. It was my only chance.

  I was wrong. He did let go of my hair, but not to open the door. He swung me around to face him and I got my first proper glimpse of my assailant. He was older than me by perhaps twenty years. I was tall for a woman, but he was taller, his massive frame towering over me. He had a face like a bulldog's, his features almost disappearing beneath the bulges of muscle and fat. His collar butted against the underside of his chin, with no neck to speak of. If I knew him—as I must if he knew me—then the memory block had worked exceedingly well. I didn't recognize him.

  He'd let me go entirely. My mouth was free. I couldn't scream, though. I had not yet gasped in enough air for that. I backed up against the wall, but he lunged at me.

  I kicked out, connecting with his nether region. He clutched himself in pain and hissed. I went to kick him again, but he caught my foot.

  His fleshy lips curled into a sneer. "You always did make a sport of it. That's why the master liked you so much."

  His words punched me in the gut. I felt ill. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

  "I'm returning you to where you belong. Piece of luck you bein' in the first room I checked here. Piece of luck finding you here at all. So you been dabblin' in witchcraft, eh? Been seein' through the master's eyes?"

  I didn't get a chance to answer, or ask him more questions. He twisted my foot, unbalancing me. I fell to the floor, but grabbed for something on my way down. Anything. My fingers connected with the small table I used to display my few possessions. They tumbled off, clattering onto the floorboards. It probably hadn’t made enough noise to wake the other teachers in the nearby rooms, so I opened my mouth to scream.

  Stinging fire tore across my cheek as he slapped me. Dizziness clouded my head. I wanted to close my eyes, wanted to curl into a ball and sleep.

  I had to get up. Had to fight or run. If he managed to get me out of the school, I would assuredly end up like that girl—a prisoner of his master.

  He picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder. I went limp and let my arms and legs dangle loosely. I still felt a little dizzy from when he'd hit me, and being upside down didn't help clear my head. Nor did his smell, and I wrinkled my nose as the acrid stench of sweat filled my nostrils. But I didn't move a muscle, hoping he might think me unconscious.

  He carried me into the dark corridor, where the moonlight did not reach the narrow passage. The other doors along it were closed, all behind them silent. I had mere moments before all would be lost.

  "Help!" I screamed. "Get the pistol!" I fought him, but he held me clamped against his shoulder like a sack of straw. I beat his back with my fists, and prayed that more than one teacher would come to my aid. I doubted my attacker would be too troubled by a single female, even an armed one. But the call for the pistol had been a ruse; we had no weapons of that kind. I'd hoped to frighten him, but the big brute didn't falter. He ran with me towards the stairs.

  Doors opened along the corridor. The other teachers gasped in horror, screamed and pleaded with the man to let me go. They did all the things I expected frightened women to do. Only one came to my aid: Mrs. Peeble.

  Her room was the closest to the stairs. She opened it just as we passed and a gunshot rang out. Next thing I knew, my assailant cried out and dropped me. Sharp pain surged along my right side as I landed with a thud on the floor. I rolled out of the way and kicked out hard, connecting with the brute's knee. He swore and went to kick me back, but stopped.

  Mrs. Peeble and five other teachers all approached slowly, weapons poised to strike. Mrs. Peeble was the only one with a pistol, while the others held vases or fire irons. She must have wounded him, forcing him to drop me.

  The man's eyes widened. He glanced at me, then back at the women approaching him in their nightgowns, looking like specters from a Gothic novel.

  My anger rose now that the immediate danger was over. How dare someone come into my sanctuary and try to kidnap me! "What do you want wiv me?" I heard my accent change from the carefully crafted one I used nowadays back to the cant of my youth.

  He heard it too. He sneered. "You've not come so far from the gutter after all, eh?"

  "The gun, Mrs. Peeble." I beckoned her to hand it to me. "I want to shoot this turd and watch 'im bleed."

  Mrs. Peeble didn't flinch, bless her. She went to give me the small pistol.

  The man turned and fled down the stairs. We all raced after him and chased him until he exited through the back door. He disappeared down the alley, knocking over crates in the darkness. No one followed. That would have been foolishness indeed.

  "Are you all right, Miss Charity?" Mrs. Peeble asked.

  One of the teachers circled her arm around me. I nodded. "I'll be all right after a cup of tea."

  "Forget the tea. You need something more fortifying."

  "We don't have anything more fortifying here."

  "I do. Upstairs." She locked the back door. We did the rounds of the rest of the school, checking on the children. All slept soundly, thank God.

  The headmaster and two male teachers emerged from the men's dormitory. They insisted on checking the surrounds again and making sure I was unharmed. Then came the questions. I expected them, but had no answers. They weren't aware that I'd had a memory block placed upon me. I'd asked for some leave to visit friends in the country and had not told them the real purpose for my absence. The supernatural frightened many good, God-fearing folk, and I didn't want to upset them. Only Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort, my employers, knew of my background before coming to the school. As far as the other teachers knew, I was a normal, virginal young woman like the other unwed staff.

  I never did get my fortifying drink. Dawn came and I dressed while a policeman was fetched. Inspector Hart and his constable arrived shortly afterwards. I was able to give them a description, but few other answers. They must think me a liar for not knowing why I'd been chosen as the man's victim. In a way, I did lie. I omitted to tell them that part of my memory had been wiped.

  "He said my room was the first one he looked into," I told them. "It was my bad luck, I suppose."

  "And you fought him off?" Inspector Hart asked, stroking his thick moustache as if it were a pet.

  "With much help from my fellow teachers." I smiled at Mrs. Peeble, who'd taken it upon herself to remain with me throughout the questioning. I'd never really liked the stern, humorless woman, with her strict adherence to the rules, but the night's events had me changing my mind. I owed her a great deal, and it would seem she was prepared to bend the rules from time to time. She owed me a fortifying drink, for one thing. "Mrs. Peeble keeps a pistol in her room. She shot him."

  "I did," she said, lifting her square chin. Her small, black eyes shone like polished jet. I had a suspicion she had rather enjoyed herself. "I sleep with the derringer under my pillow, just in case. A woman alone can never be too careful. You ought to remember that, Miss Charity."

  "I think I'll take your advice on such matters henceforth, Mrs. Peeble."

  "I shot him in the arm," she told the inspector. She indicated the position on her own arm. "Then Miss Charity kicked him in the knee."

  The inspector's brows rose. "Remind me never to cross you two in a dark corridor at night." He and the constable chuckled.

  Mrs. Peeble and I glared at them. Considering the circumstances, it was a tasteless joke. Their chuckles died.

  "Yes, well, we'll do our best to find him, Miss Evans, but you've not given us much to go on."

  "I wish I had mor
e," I said. The truth of that struck me in the chest. I did wish I could give him a name to go with the face. Yet that would mean having all my memories, and I didn't want those back. Not even now.

  Unless…

  Samuel. Samuel knew all the pieces. He could give the police a name to go with the face. Not only would it resolve the problem, but it also meant I didn't have to know why the man had tried to kidnap me.

  "I have a friend who will want to speak to you about this matter," I said. "He might be able to tell you who to question."

  The inspector frowned. "Forgive me for asking, Miss Evans, but… was he here?"

  Mrs. Peeble gasped. "How dare you imply something of that nature! It's uncalled for."

  The poor inspector couldn't get his apology out quickly enough. He looked a little intimidated by Mrs. Peeble. I didn't blame him.

  "My friend is a, er, psychic," I said. "He may have seen something, if you know what I mean."

  "No, Miss Evans, I do not." Hart exchanged a curious glance with Mrs. Peeble, who flared her nostrils at him. "But I will listen to what he has to say."

  "I'll go to him directly," I said. "If he can help, I'll send him to your station."

  "Right you are, miss, but I must make a suggestion, if you don't mind. If this fellow can't help, you need to get away from here. Even if he can, you should still leave. Just until we can arrest the intruder. It's not safe for you here, now."

  I stared down at my hands folded on my lap. The knuckles were white. "I suppose not," I whispered. "But I have nowhere to go."

  "Perhaps you can visit those friends of yours in the country again," Mrs. Peeble said, with surprising gentleness.

  Go to Frakingham House? Would they have me? I gave a small nod. I had no other options. I would not go to the Beauforts and endanger their young children; no matter how friendly they were, I couldn't ask that of them. Tommy and Jack were my only true friends. Even with Jack gone, I felt sure that I would be accepted into his home.

  "That's settled then," the inspector said, standing. "Leave today, Miss Evans. Not only are you in danger if you remain here, but so are the rest of the residents."

  Oh God. The children. Mrs. Peeble reached out and took my hand in her own. "It's for the best," she said. "For everyone."

  She was right. I had to leave my home and my children. But first, I needed to speak to Samuel and learn the name of my attacker.

  ***

  I alighted from the hansom cab in front of Claridge’s Hotel, where Samuel was staying. A footman took my valise while another directed me inside. I inquired after Samuel, and pretended not to notice the way the butler's mouth turned down in disgust. It was not proper for an unwed woman to ask after a gentleman at a hotel. He must think me the sort of woman I used to be.

  "Mr. Gladstone has gone out," he said, peering down his nose at me. "Would you care to wait?"

  I was about to answer when a well-dressed woman of middling age came up beside me and jerked me around roughly by the arm. "Were you enquiring after Samuel Gladstone?" she asked.

  I bristled at her direct tone. It was the tone of someone used to having every question answered, every whim catered to. She wore an exquisite gray and peach dress, made of silk, with white lace cuffs and a row of silver buttons down the front. She had a hawkish nose beneath quick gray eyes that took in my dress, valise and face. She did not smile.

  "Well?" she prompted. "Were you inquiring after Samuel Gladstone?"

  "Calm yourself, my dear," said a man standing behind her. He was a tall, striking gentleman with thick gray hair and side whiskers, and a stern countenance. His face was handsome for a man who appeared to be in his forties, but it was his eyes that had me take a step back. They were the brightest blue, the same color as Samuel's before he'd hypnotized me.

  "Are you Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone?" I asked. "Samuel's parents?"

  "Did I not ask you a question?" the woman said. "Am I invisible to you?"

  "My dear," the gentleman scolded. "Do not upset yourself."

  The woman seemed to collect her wits at the sound of his voice. She smoothed her skirt and looked around. None of the staff or hovering guests appeared to be listening, but I was quite sure they were all straining as much as they could to hear our conversation.

  "I know Mr. Gladstone through Jack Langley," I said. I received blank stares in return. "Samuel's friend, Jack Langley. From Frakingham House. We've known one another for years, but I only met Samuel a few months ago."

  Finally, a spark of recognition. Mrs. Gladstone, if that's indeed who she was, blinked slowly. She put out her hand, as if to grip hold of something for balance. Her husband took it. "Freak House," she whispered. "I've heard of it. Why would he be there?"

  I tried not to show my surprise, but I'm sure I must have. How had they not known their son was at Frakingham?

  The gentleman turned to the butler. "Is there a Samuel Gladstone staying here too?"

  "Yes, Mr. Gladstone."

  Mrs. Gladstone pressed a hand to her heart. "He's here," she whispered. To the butler, she said, "Why did nobody tell us?"

  "I, er, that is it's not our way, Mrs. Gladstone."

  She enclosed her hand around her husband's arm and peered up at him through swimming eyes. "He's here, Henry."

  I thought I saw the man’s mouth twitch, but he merely nodded. "And this young lady is going to tell us why."

  I gulped. "I'm not sure that I can do that."

  "You seem to have some notion of what he's been doing, at least," Mrs. Gladstone said.

  "Is there a private parlor where we can wait?" Mr. Gladstone asked the butler.

  "Of course." The butler clicked his fingers to get the attention of a hovering footman. "Privett will show you the way." He turned a false smile onto me. "Will madam be requiring a room?"

  "No, thank you," I said. At Mrs. Gladstone's little whimper of shock, I quickly added, "I'm catching a train out of London today. Please store my valise, for the time being." I did not want anyone thinking that Samuel and I were lovers, least of all his parents.

  We followed Privett into a small adjoining room, set out with four comfortable looking armchairs. A harpsichord snuggled into a corner beside an unlit fireplace and a low bookshelf provided reading matter for waiting guests. I sat in one chair and Mrs. Gladstone sat in another. The derringer pistol given to me by Mrs. Peeble pressed against my thigh. I'd tucked it into the pocket sewn into my dress, as she'd instructed.

  Mr. Gladstone remained standing, his hands behind his back. His expression was guarded as he studied me with those unnerving blue eyes.

  His wife studied me again too, but she was much easier to read. I knew she didn't like me, I could see it in her tight lips and rigid jaw. She removed her gloves and set them on her lap. I kept mine on. It seemed best to hide my scars from prying eyes for the moment.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "My name is Charity Evans."

  She dismissed my answer with a flick of her long, fine fingers. "I mean, who are your family?"

  I thought about lying. I could have made up a story about the Evanses of Derbyshire, with their rich lands and a heritage that could be traced back through the centuries. It was what I used to do as a child, after my mother abandoned me. She'd been a charwoman when she could find work. When she couldn't, she was just a drunk. I'd never known my father. He could have been a duke or a beggar. The only time my mother did mention him, she'd followed it up by spitting in the dirt.

  "I have no family," I said.

  Mrs. Gladstone snorted. "Everyone has a family."

  "Not me." They would draw no further comment from me on my background. It was none of their affair.

  Mr. Gladstone must have sensed my reluctance. "My dear," he said to his wife. "It's not important."

  "Not important!" Her loud outburst must have shocked even her. She quickly glanced at the door then took a deep breath and splayed her fingers across her lap. "Very well. Let me ask another question. How do you know our son?"<
br />
  "I told you. Through our mutual friend, Jack Langley of Frakingham House."

  "And I told you. We know no Langleys, although we have heard of the estate."

  "Did they buy it from Lord Frakingham?" Mr. Gladstone asked.

  "I believe so," I said. "Jack's uncle is a successful microbiologist. He owns the estate and Jack manages it for him. Samuel has lived with them since before Christmas, I believe."

  The two exchanged glances. Mr. Gladstone's lips flattened, but his wife seemed to grow more agitated.

  She turned back to me and inched forward in the chair. "But… why is he there? Why did he leave the employ of Dr. Werner? And his studies, too?"

  "I don't know."

  She slammed her hand down on the arm of the chair. "You must know!"

  "I assure you, I do not." I would not be brow beaten. I owed her no answers.

  Mr. Gladstone pressed his wife's shoulder. "There there, my dear." He watched me over the top of her head, but I still could not fathom his thoughts.

  No matter. I didn't particularly care whether they believed me or not; their estrangement from their son was none of my affair.

  Yet I could not stop wondering if it had something to do with Samuel's hypnotic abilities.

  "Bloody hell," came a gravelly voice from the doorway. "Am I living a nightmare?"

  We three turned, as one, to see Samuel standing there, glaring at us through bloodshot eyes. He scrubbed both hands down his face and by the time he'd dropped them, his mother stood before him. For one heart-stopping moment, I didn't know if she was going to slap him or embrace him. It would seem Samuel was equally uncertain. He leaned backward a little and eyed her warily.

  She embraced him. "My boy! We found you!" She gave a little sob into his shoulder.

  Samuel patted her back gingerly and looked to me. "Sorry," he said. It wasn't clear if he was speaking to me or his mother. "Is everything all right, Charity? I wasn't expecting to see you so soon after our… parting."

  "Actually—"

  "Now is not a good time," Mr. Gladstone snapped.

  "Something's wrong," Samuel said through a tight jaw. He tried to extricate himself from his mother, but she refused to let him go. "Can we do this later? I need to speak with Charity."