Mr. Frick and Miss Haynes came also, and sat with her until supper, when they left to attend to their evening duties. Doctor Michaels visited again after supper, and from his expression, she knew Ambrose was not progressing as he had hoped. By that night, they could not wake him.
She held Ambrose’s discolored hand and laid her head on his pillow, murmuring comfort to him. She told him how they would take a walk on the windy moor when he was better. He had papers to write and books to publish. There were still so many plants and animals to study and books to read and things to learn.
After everyone else had gone and when dawn approached, she told him all the stories of heroes and enchanted animals and adventure that she could remember. Then she sang him songs that her mother had sung to her when she was a little girl.
Chapter 37
Ambrose waited beside the railing at the edge of the Thames. It was the precise spot where he had proposed to her, and she liked the familiar feeling of the place. A large black dog sat beside him, its ears alert and its eyes watchful and appraising as she approached. It was not threatening and she was not afraid. A foghorn boomed in the distance where a barge toiled upriver, its hulking form indistinct in the mist. Though it was foggy, she did not feel any chill.
Ambrose took her hand and she looked into his eyes, brown flecked with amber. He looked younger somehow, the picture of health and vitality. An overwhelming feeling of well-being emanated from him and somehow transferred into her, and she felt pleasure and warmth. She did not ever want the feeling to end. She could stand here with him forever.
The dog nudged its head up under Ambrose’s hand, and when he looked down, the animal made a short chuffing sound in its throat.
Ambrose took her hand, and she felt all of him, his thoughts, his feelings and his soul through the touch of his fingers. She was aware of every part of his being, every cell of him thrumming with life. She felt his contentment and his sorrow, his love for her, both fierce and gentle. And there was something else, a pulling feeling. He bent to kiss her hand, and afterwards he did not release it, but held it in both of his.
Then, without a word, he let her hand fall. He touched the brim of his black top hat, turned and walked away. The dog trotted beside him and Ambrose’s long coat flapped around his legs as he vanished into the swirling London fog.
“Wake up, dear.”
Someone was shaking her shoulder.
“You have to wake up now, love. He’s gone.” It was a woman’s voice.
Chloe raised her head. Someone had pulled a sheet over Ambrose. No, he wouldn’t be able to breathe like that. She reached over and tore it off. He was asleep but something was wrong. She climbed up next to him and put her arm behind his head and shoulders to raise him. She tried to wake him and pressed her cheek against his forehead, and then froze. He wasn’t there. His body was lifeless.
Her Ambrose had gone. She had seen him by the river. She cradled him there on the bed, holding him to her body. His head lolled back and his mouth was slack, the lips pale. His eyes were closed, but he did not look asleep. Not at all.
He was still limp. He would stiffen in time, she knew. There was a word for that, but she could not think of it. Oh God, her Ambrose, dead and stiff and cold. His arms had been folded over his chest, but now fell to the sides. His discolored hand lay palm-up on the covers, a hand that would never wrap hers with warmth and reassurance. A hand that would never hold his stomach as he laughed his easy rolling laugh.
She crushed him against her, wrapping herself around him. People came into the room. There was a terrible sound, high and keening, but she did not know if she made it or if it came from somewhere else. She wanted it to stop, but it was the sound of her heart, crying out. It would always be crying out.
Someone pulled her backwards and off the bed. She was being held against someone. It was someone large, a man. She was being held against his chest, and she clung to him. It was not Ambrose. No, this man smelled different. He felt wrong. His voice was not the right voice, though it spoke reassuring words.
She turned to see Alexander pulling the sheet over Ambrose again. The cloth poked up where his nose was and she could see the line of his chin. Mrs. Block was nearby. She had been the one to shake Chloe awake.
The air would not come into her lungs properly. She couldn’t breathe. She gasped and pulled air into her lungs with heaving effort. She recognized the man’s voice as he made soothing sounds. He shushed her, like one would do with a young child. A small sensible part of her told her to breathe deeply and slowly. She tried.
“Brrr?”
She looked at Giles, sitting on the side table. He turned to the bed and leapt up beside Ambrose. He let out a long, high yowl, a sound like the one she had heard a few moments before.
Alexander snatched up the cat and tossed him out the door, slamming it closed. Chloe almost called out not to break him, but the words did not come. Giles could be repaired over and over. His parts were interchangeable with other parts. He could be fixed.
The arms around her loosened and she relaxed against the man who held her. The terrible sound in the room was gone, and she stepped back from William, who kept his hand on her shoulder. Faces peered into the doorway, and a few people entered.
Mr. Frick and Miss Haynes were there, and the valet stood close to the younger woman as she wept, but did not touch her. He was speaking quietly into her ear. They had lost their master, Chloe thought. Mr. Frick had known Ambrose for decades, Miss Haynes less time. But she knew they both considered Ambrose a good employer and a good man. There were others who would mourn.
People came and left, one by one, until only she and Mr. Frick remained, along with Doctor Michaels. Mr. Frick closed himself in Ambrose’s dressing room. Perhaps he was packing his master’s belongings.
She felt as if she were not entirely in her body, but was operating it from a distance, like a remote mechanical. She saw and heard and could respond, but she was somewhere else. It was not with Ambrose.
It was full daylight outside. She did not know what time or even what day it was. Robert was there. Then Beatrice was beside her, leading her down the hall to a quiet sitting room. She wanted to stay with Ambrose, but Robert had said something. She couldn’t remember what, but it had been sensible and she had let him lead her away. Beatrice, Dora and Robert sat with her, but she did not know why. They could not help her. All they could do was to offer her a handkerchief, which she took, and cup of tea, which she refused over and over. Finally, she relented and drank.
“How long has it been since you ate or slept?” asked Robert.
She shrugged and shook her head. The clock on the wall read eight thirty. She thought she had fallen asleep just at dawn, but she couldn’t be sure. Ambrose had taken that time to slip away quietly and without fanfare. A gentleman to the last.
She allowed Beatrice and Dora to take turns reading to her, but she did not hear the words, only the drone of their voices. Robert brought Giles to sit in her lap. She stroked him. He was unbroken and whole. There were parts in his legs that allowed him to absorb an impact. There were names for all of the mechanical pieces. Beautiful, scientific names.
They stayed with her for lunch, which she ate. They stayed with her through the afternoon. Robert had tablets from one of the doctors, which he wanted her to take. She obeyed.
Evening came. Miss Haynes, red-eyed and teary, drew a bath for her and she bathed. She dressed in her nightclothes and Miss Haynes combed her hair.
As her maid spoke to her and combed, each stroke gave her the gradual sensation of coming back into herself, back into her body after an absence. It was both better and worse than the previous feeling.
It was time for bed. Miss Haynes wanted her to take a sleeping tonic that the doctor had left for her, but she refused. There was a reason she needed to be awake and alert.
Miss Haynes left the tonic for her if she changed her mind. Then she poked the fire and bid her good night. Chloe turned off the gaslight so t
he only light in the room was from the fire. She knelt on the rug and watched the flames for a long time. She sat until her hair was completely dry and the skin of her face was overly warm. Fire was hot, and it consumed. It destroyed. She watched it. A log popped.
A flicker of something came into her mind. And slowly, something dark and mighty rose within her, like a leviathan rising from the black depths. The thing was powerful and it was large. Larger than her pain, and larger than her grief. Her agony fed it, and it blossomed, immense and powerful. It was a dragon awaking from a thousand year slumber, its dark wings unfurling, stretching until they blocked out the entire world. Its fury was searing and good. It engulfed her until she felt like she was buried in its heat. It fed her.
Death. There was too much death. She was surrounded by death. Camille had mud in her eyes, her skull bashed until she was dead. Josephine was crying, tortured and helpless in her arms, wishing for death. And Ambrose. Her Ambrose.
A person had done this. Death was not an impersonal force. It was not a ghostly hound at the riverside. It was a person. A person had murdered her husband and a little girl and Camille. And the person who did this would pay, yes. They would suffer as their victims had suffered. It was right.
The law said that the punishment for murder was hanging. But hanging would be an undeserved mercy for a demon like that. It was cheating justice, even if the murder would spend his or her last days contemplating death and the fiery hell that waited after that last dance on the gallows.
The heat of her fury poured down her spine and out her limbs. Her hands felt larger and stronger. Her eyes were keen.
She needed rest. The voice in her mind told her this. To rest. She could not do anything tonight. Her body and soul were exhausted. She needed to replenish them. Even a mechanical required periodic maintenance or it would fail. She needed her wits about her. She needed to be able to think logically, to see.
Deadly bogs and mine cave-ins and drunken men in alleyways no longer frightened her. The dark thing within her did not know fear.
Chapter 38
The next morning, Miss Haynes set out the clothing that Chloe had worn to Camille Granger’s funeral. It was the only mourning clothing she owned.
“How are you feeling, mum?”
Chloe rubbed her eyes which felt pinched and tight. She pulled on the underclothes that Miss Haynes had laid on the bed.
“I’ll be all right,” She had to be. She needed to discover why Ambrose was killed. There was something tickling the back of her mind from the night before, but she could not identify it. “I am as well as can be expected when one’s husband has been murdered.”
Miss Haynes paused in her activities and shook her head. “Everyone is saying that, but it’s hard to believe it wasn’t simply an accident.”
“It would only be an accident if everyone didn’t know what the Destroying Angels look like.” Chloe pulled her dress over her head.
“I don’t know what they look like,” said Miss Haynes, pulling the dress down and arranging the skirts.
“Neither do I. But from what everyone says, it seems to be common knowledge for those who live here, especially anyone who would pick edible mushrooms.”
“Funny that the master wouldn’t have recognized them. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“They were chopped up fine. I don’t think anyone would recognize them in that state.”
Miss Haynes laced up her dress and worked on her hair. She kept glancing at Chloe in the mirror, as if assessing her.
“What is it?”
“I’m just worried about you, mum. I think you should stay and rest for a day or two. Not strain yourself. You’ve been through too much.”
“No. There will be time for resting when we return home. But for now, I have things to do.”
“And when we get back home, we will have to go to your dress shop and order some mourning dresses and things.”
Chloe paused. Of course, she would be dressing in black mourning for at least a year. The thought pleased her, in a dark way. Let the dark veils and black bombazine show the state of her soul. It was fitting.
“Yes, but while I am here, there are things I need to do,” Chloe said.
“The elder Mr. Aynesworth is arranging for everything. He has already sent word to Mr. Sullivan’s solicitor and arranged a cold car to take him to London.”
It took a moment for the thought to register. Ambrose would be shipped in cold storage to London to be buried. She wanted him there, in London with her. Not out in this desolate place. Not near his killer.
“Mr. Aynesworth asked me to tell you that he has arranged an airship to take you back to London the day after tomorrow. The funeral is set to be the next Monday.” She caught Chloe’s eye in the mirror. “I think you should take a day to rest. Please. Just stay in your rooms for the day. I can tell everyone downstairs that you need to have rest and quiet for your nerves.”
“Absolutely not. In fact, I need to be out of these rooms or I truly will fear for the state of my nerves.”
“I think I should insist, mum.”
This was unusual. Miss Haynes had never pressed her mistress into doing much of anything she did not wish to. She knew that Chloe was an active sort of person who hated being confined with nothing to do.
She studied her own reflection. Her appearance was not lovely by any means, but was acceptable. Her hair was in order. She could use a little color in her cheeks, but perhaps she only looked pale because of the dark color of her dress. Her eyes were puffy, but with good cause.
“Why do you want me to rest today? Tell me truly. You know I would be better off with a brisk walk outdoors or time in my laboratory. Lying about in bed will only make my mind twist and turn.”
Miss Haynes sighed and gave her the hand mirror for her to inspect her hair. “The inspector from town is here with a constable. They’re asking questions.”
“That’s good. They should be asking questions. I have a few questions of my own. I expect they are talking to everyone in the house?”
“Yes. But today they said that they wanted to see you.”
“I would expect so,” said Chloe.
“You don’t understand. Once everyone knew that the little girl and Mr. Sullivan were poisoned with the soup, the police wanted to talk to you. They wanted to question you yesterday, but Mr. Aynesworth chased them off. They just arrived a bit ago and asked for you.”
This was a new development. She had not thought that she might be a suspect. But the pieces were falling into place.
“They think I killed my husband.”
“Yes, mum.”
“I will inherit his fortune.” She had not considered this. Ambrose had no other heirs.
“I expect so.”
Chloe stood. “Well, if they want to ask me questions, they are welcome to do so. I have not harmed a soul, and they can ask me anything they like. I have nothing to conceal.”
“I can tell them to come back tomorrow. I could ask Mr. Aynesworth to do it.”
“I appreciate your concern and protection, but I do not require it. Where are they?”
“In the front parlor.”
“Please tell them I will be down in a few minutes.”
“One more thing. I heard that Mr. Granger is no longer a serious suspect. Word is that he threatened to bring down the entire police force. They didn’t have enough evidence to do anything.”
“I didn’t think they would.”
Miss Haynes left and Chloe took another look at herself in the mirror. She straightened her carriage and lifted her chin. Her eyes were too puffy to be imperious and commanding. But yes, she could still cut an imposing figure. Well, as imposing as she was capable of being. If only she were taller. She sailed down the stairs and heard voices from the front parlor.
“You know what they say about mushroom hunters?” The man’s voice was unfamiliar to her.
“I don’t believe this is appropriate.” That was Inspector Lockton.
<
br /> “There are old mushroom hunters, and there are bold mushroom hunters,” said the unfamiliar voice. “But there are no old, bold mushroom hunters.” He laughed, but stopped when he saw her in the doorway. The constable, a heavy man in his twenties with close-set eyes, sat beside Inspector Lockton. They both rose as she entered. She saw a hint of pleasure in the inspector’s expression, but it was gone immediately. He needed to question her about murder, and Chloe knew that he could not allow his past acquaintance with her to interfere.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” said Inspector Lockton. “May I introduce Constable Bell.”
She inclined her head as the constable gave a small bow. She took the seat opposite the two men which placed her with the sunlight in her face. She wondered if the servants and family had been questioned in the same uncomfortable position. Giles jumped up onto the windowsill and sat so he could see both the outdoors and the parlor.
“You would like to question me about my husband’s murder?”
“I would,” said Inspector Lockton. “We understand if you would like us to come back at a later time, after you have had some time to grieve.”
She got the impression that he was saying it as a courtesy and treated it as such. His note pad was already open on his knee.
“No, I am able to talk to you today.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan.” Inspector Lockton licked the tip of his pencil.
“How long had you and your late husband been married?”
His use of the past tense made her pause. She was a widow now.
“Three years.”
“And you will stand to inherit a considerable fortune, will you not?”
Hounds of Autumn Page 23
