She leaned over and examined her lip in the mirror. The inside had a small cut where it had been smashed against her teeth. She took a sip of water to get the taste of blood out of her mouth. Thankfully, the outside of her mouth was only swollen a little. With her hair down and tangled she looked like a wild woman.
Bloody hell. The poor family servants. She would have to tell Miss Haynes to be careful or to avoid Mr. Baxter completely. And poor Dora was about to be married to a man of such character. She considered. Would telling William or even Alexander or Ian about the incident stop the marriage? Ambrose had said that Mr. Baxter had told some wild tales that evening, so surely the Aynesworth men had at least hints of his character. Would Dora wish to call off the wedding? Or, like so many other women, would she simply overlook her husband’s dalliances and keep on, content with fortune and material comfort?
She looked at her wrist where finger-shaped pink marks were starting to show. Fortunately her long sleeves would cover them. Her heart still pounded. She needed to calm herself down or she would never get to sleep. Her mother had done two things for her when she was upset as a child. She would make tea, and she would brush her hair. Chloe picked up her hairbrush.
She didn’t want to tell Ambrose about what had happened. He would immediately know that she was indulging her curiosity about Ian’s rides by wandering at night. The thought of his disapproval stung. She could tell him that she had left her room to get some water. But she had a jug of water in her room, as well as anything else that she might need during the night.
Even if she emptied the jug, she did not think she could lie to him. No, if she told him, she would tell him the complete truth. It was probably best to wait until they were back in London. Then, if he felt it necessary, he could write to William and inform him of his potential son-in-law’s character. It would be up to the Aynesworths to handle their own affairs.
A soft snore came through the door of Ambrose’s room. Her heart surged in gratitude that her husband was not a drunkard, a womanizer or a gambler. She was one of the fortunate ones, though she had not always thought herself so.
They had been married for three years, but it felt like longer. She had known him for more than ten years before that, since she was a young girl. He had gone from being an uninteresting friend of her father, to an occasional conversation partner, to someone with whom she enjoyed long walks and animated discussions. He had always loaned her interesting books, many of which her father would have forbidden, had he known. But he had never known. It had become a delicious little secret. But even as she reached marriage age, she had thought of Ambrose as her father’s friend, and not as a romantic partner.
No, she had thought of another man in that way. Her older brother’s classmate, Phillip, caught her eye. He was intelligent, laughed often and looked at her in a way that made her stomach jump. They courted.
One day, her brother took her for a walk in Kensington Gardens and asked about her feelings for Phillip. He asked if she thought she might accept Phillip’s offer of marriage, were he to make one. That evening, she heard the muffled sounds of her father and brother talking in the study. She could not make out a word through the heavy door. She walked outside and leaned back against the garden wall. How beautiful the sky was that evening.
Then there were whispers from acquaintances about bad investments, gambling debts, a ship that had not come into port and many others that had lost money. While her father’s income was good, he had been able to keep creditors at bay. But when the payments stopped, the creditors threatened legal action.
The family released the servants, sold the house, the silver, most of the furniture and even the antique pearl pendant that had been her grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s. Her spools of wire, unopened bottles of lubricants, boxes of gears and everything else she had kept on her bedroom desk were sold, as were all the household mechanicals. The family moved to a small home in a neighborhood that was not only unfashionable, but low enough that their friends ceased to call. All except Ambrose Sullivan, that is.
Phillip came to visit her once in that place. His manner, which was usually so jovial, was reserved. He stayed for twenty minutes, enough time to have tea and inquire about her well-being. He looked at her in a new way—with pity. She thought she felt his hand tremble when he took her hand to say good-bye. He did not call again.
In the five years that followed, her mother had taken in sewing work, and her brother dropped out of college. He worked long hours and ate little. Her father drank too much. One afternoon, he and Ambrose had a row. She and her mother sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the second-hand sofa in the front room while the two men shouted in the next. The walls were so thin.
She had never known that Ambrose had lost a wife and son. Nor that he had nearly died when he was snared by the lure too much drink and of opiate-induced forgetfulness. Her father had helped him, saved his life, Ambrose said. And Ambrose roared that he would fight the devil himself before he allowed his friend to follow that dark and evil path.
Her name was mentioned, and her mother’s, though in quieter tones. Ambrose offered to give her father money, or to loan it if her father insisted. Her father shattered a brandy snifter and told Ambrose never to set foot in his house again.
Ambrose had arrived the next morning with two more books for her. She gave him the three she had borrowed, and he asked her to take a walk.
As a lower-class woman on the verge of spinsterhood, as well as one whose reputation was of little consequence, she did not need a chaperone. Their walks became longer and their conversations more interesting. His fascination with the natural world and its classification intrigued her. He listened to her complicated descriptions of her mechanical experiments. And she loved the way he laughed—with his whole body, head thrown back, and hands holding his stomach.
When he had asked for her hand, at first she had refused. They both knew that she was a woman of practicality, and that fanciful notions of romantic love had not been a part of her inner makeup for years. Ambrose had known about Phillip.
“Why not marry?” Ambrose asked, stopping mid-stride on the riverfront. He planted his walking stick and turned to her.
She shook her head. “You are asking for my father’s sake. And I am grateful, for his sake as well as my own. I know you want to help him, and my mother and brother. But I cannot indebt myself to you in that way. I would be like one of those women. Trading myself for the sake of money.”
“Is that what you think? Truly?”
“I would not say it otherwise. We are beyond polite falsehoods, you and I.”
“Then think on this,” he took her hand, and his skin was much warmer than she expected. “I wish to marry you for myself. There is no charity in my offer. It is pure and complete selfishness.” He watched her face, his eyes steady. “You are everything I want in a companion. You are kind, unselfish and fiercely intelligent, though a tad stubborn.”
At her cry of protest, weak though it was, he gave her a knowing look. His expression softened, and he looked down at her hands. “Besides which, you are my dearest friend.”
She bit her lip. “I will think on it.”
A week later, she had accepted his offer, but only after a long walk and a conversation about the terms of their marriage. He had laughed one of his belly-holding laughs, when she insisted upon having his word. He was to allow her to read whatever she pleased, be it shilling shockers, the violent stories in the newspaper or scientific papers. Especially scientific papers. She was to be allowed to create what she pleased, and she wanted a laboratory. Not a fancy one, simply a room in the house where she could do what she liked without interruption.
She was twenty-seven when they married. Her father still did not accept money from her, but her mother did, and she paid for groceries, household items, a housekeeper and one female servant out of her “pocket money.” Her brother went back to school, and her father did not ask who had loaned him the money. Her brother swore he would pa
y back every cent if he had to work for twenty years. Chloe knew he would.
Giles leaped onto the vanity, and she picked him up. She glanced at Ambrose’s door, hating herself for what she planned to do. But what other option did she have? Camille was dead, and her killer was free. Tomorrow night, she thought, would be the night. After she and Ambrose spent the day looking for the hound, he would sleep soundly. He would never notice her absence.
She resolved to tell Ambrose everything when they were back in London. It was not strictly a lie, but rather a brief delay in the full disclosure of the truth.
After all, someone had killed Camille and the police were of no use. They would chase the hound, destroy it, and congratulate themselves on a job well done. The killer would be snug in his bed, just as he was at this moment, wherever that was.
Chapter 18
Chloe gripped Ambrose around the waist as they bumped down a narrow dirt road on the steamcycle. Her teeth clacked together for the hundredth time, and she thought with irritation how she would have to check the steamcycle’s shock springs before either of them took it out driving again. At least the valves were giving no trouble. She wanted as much time as possible for their task, so she had gotten up early to repair the leaky valve before breakfast.
Dust coated her driving goggles, and she tried to wipe them on a sleeve. But no sooner had her hands unclasped from around her husband’s mid-section than they hit a hard bump, jarring her backwards on her small leather seat. She gripped him harder. That was another thing that needed improvement on the steamcycle. The passenger seat was entirely too small. She squinted through the grime-covered goggles, looking for any sign of the hound or a place where it might hide.
Ambrose stopped in the middle of the remote, narrow road. There was no need to pull to the side, as it was doubtful anyone would come along during their short visit. Chloe dismounted and shook out her split skirt. It was made of heavy brown wool with so many folds of fabric that the bifurcation was almost invisible when she stood. She had designed it herself after the sight of her riding through the countryside wearing a pair of Ambrose’s belted trousers had given one of their neighbors in the country a shock.
Chloe pushed her riding goggles onto the top of her head. There was nothing to be seen in any direction but scrub and grass. A small patch of pale heath violet drew Ambrose’s attention, and he went to investigate while Chloe opened the basket behind the seats. Inside her satchel was the map she had copied from A Dartmoor Companion. She rubbed her nose. Blasted dust.
“It should be a bit of a walk in that direction,” she pointed and Ambrose looked up. A hundred yards away, over a rise that hid it from view from the road, they found the remains of a stone hut. It was small, barely large enough for two people to have slept inside. Only two thirds of the original round wall remained, and it was crumbling. Stones were scattered around the base of the wall, and it looked like some had been restacked at the top. The roof, which had once been made of branches, was long gone. A small circle of rocks was in the center of the floor.
“There are ashes here,” said Chloe. “This place has been in use.”
“Sometimes people camp on the moor. There are wanderers, as in any place. It must have provided a little shelter for them.”
Chloe walked the perimeter of the hut and did a second examination inside, but found no prints or any other evidence of the hound. She found Ambrose with his hand shading his eyes, looking at a skylark which took off in a flutter of wings at her approach.
“Nothing,” she sighed. “I was so certain that the hound would seek out shelter. If it had a decision engine as simple as Giles’s, it would have. And its engine is more complex, I’m sure.”
“The moor is a big place.”
“I know. But we’ve already seen two rock caves, that place at the base of that tor with the small sheltered place and so many hills and valleys I cannot count. I am going to check the map again.”
He followed her to the steamcycle, found their canteen in the basket and drank while she glared at the map.
“I don’t suppose we brought any victuals,” he said.
“I’m hungry also.” She pulled out her pocket watch. “It’s after two o’clock.”
He grunted and stretched.
“Do you want to go home for lunch?” she asked. She desperately wanted to keep looking for the hound, but they were both hungry and she knew that Ambrose was tired. They had been out for hours, and she had anticipated him wanting to return home by lunchtime. He had already agreed to visit two extra places that were not originally planned.
“I could stay out. But I am hungry, yes.”
“By the time we go home, have something to eat and come back, it will be late.”
He took the map. “We’re not too far from town. Let’s grab a pork pie or a sandwich there. Then we can look a while longer before dark.”
Chloe returned everything to the satchel, cleaned her goggles, fastened the basket lid and got on the seat behind Ambrose. She knew that Ambrose would park the steamcycle outside of town. He would not give the townsfolk any reason to breathe a word of scandal about the Aynesworth family.
Ambrose parked beside a stone bridge about a quarter of a mile outside town. They removed their goggles and placed them in the basket. Both of them had clean circles around their eyes standing in contrast to the rest of their dust-covered skin. Chloe found a clean cloth and poured water from their canteen on it to wash her face and neck, then folded the rag, wet it again and handed it to Ambrose. Chloe shook her skirts and Ambrose slapped his trousers. They then took turns brushing off each other’s backs until most of the dust was gone.
“For such a damp place, there is an awful lot of dust,” said Chloe.
“Only on a few of the roads.”
“We seem to have driven them all.”
They turned off the main street and eventually found the Taper and Spoon. They were in the middle of their meal of battered fish and fried potatoes when Ambrose pointed out the window.
“By Jove, I think that is John Hammond. Would you mind, my dear?”
“By all means, go and say hello.”
The bell over the door tinkled pleasantly as he rushed outside. John Hammond was with a younger woman with features similar to his own. Chloe watched as Ambrose hailed them and John Hammond’s face went from uncomprehending to shocked surprise. He pumped Ambrose’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. Ambrose was motioning toward the Taper and Spoon when the serving boy came to see if Chloe needed more to drink.
“I think we’re nearly done,” said Chloe. Then, glancing out the window, and verifying that John Hammond and her husband were still in animated conversation, she turned back. “Could you tell me something? Are there any stone circles about? The ancient kind.”
“Yeah, I know what you meant. You’re not from here then? Sure, there are all sorts of circles within a few miles of town. Maybe six or seven.”
Six or seven. That was five or six too many.
“Are there any ones that people still go to? For instance, on the solstice? Times like that?”
The boy’s eyes widened for an instant and he shrugged. “Wouldn’t know about that, mum.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. But if you did, which one would you guess?”
She reached into her satchel and felt around at the bottom. Finding what she was looking for, she slid two coins onto the table.
“If I had to guess?”
“That’s right.”
“I would guess the one southwest of town. About three quarters of an hour’s walk, maybe less.”
Chloe turned to see Ambrose listening as the young woman spoke to him. She turned back and the boy and coins were gone. She pulled out the map. If a person walked at two miles an hour over the rough country, then three quarters of an hour was one and a half miles. She used the pencil as a ruler against the crude legend to measure the distance and marked a faint O in the place where the circle should be. She had just put away the pen
cil and map when the bell over the door jangled.
Ambrose fell into his seat. “That was a pleasant surprise. Most pleasant. That woman with him is his daughter. He has a younger son also. We will be joining them for supper tomorrow night.”
On the way out of town, they passed a bakery where Ambrose purchased four sweet buns and had them wrapped in paper. “For later,” he said and tucked the package under his arm.
They left the shop and were walking down the main street when they saw three familiar faces. Robert was carrying two small parcels and a thin stack of envelopes. Beatrice and Dora were on either side of him, pink and lavender parasols open.
“What a pleasure to see you!” said Dora. “Are you enjoying your time in town?”
“We are. I had the pleasure to see my old friend Mr. Hammond not twenty minutes ago,” said Ambrose.
“Speaking of friends, you received a correspondence.” Dora reached into her bundle and pulled out an envelope.
“From Graves,” said Ambrose with a smile. “I didn’t think he would be so prompt.”
“And this,” said Robert, handing him a book-sized parcel. It was large, and Chloe wondered if there would be enough room for it in the basket with their canteen, the sweet buns, a few things Ambrose had brought and her satchel. It was a good thing she had not brought Giles.
“Would you be so kind as to take it home for me?” said Ambrose. “Our mode of transportation requires us to travel lightly.”
“You could join us in the carriage. It’s waiting for us just there,” Robert pointed down the street.
“No thank you,” said Ambrose. “We have a few other places to explore before the evening comes.”
Hounds of Autumn Page 11
