“That man hit me on the head,” she said.
“Did you see who it was?”
“No. I didn’t get a chance to, but he must still be here. I’m not sure this is good.”
“I will watch the door personally, if you like.”
That would make her feel more safe. Although there was no reason the culprit couldn’t clunk him in the head to get to her, and… drown her. Fear reasserted itself again. Or even more ghostly writings on the mirror. The Italian’s explanation made sense. That didn’t mean it was the only explanation—merely a way of explaining it away.
But she was cold—cold enough to catch sickness. That was important. She needed to warm herself, and wash all the scrapes. Even in her hands, she could see mud and dirt ground into her wounds. If she developed an infection, it could be the end of her. “Yes, I would appreciate that,” she said and started walking again.
The water had been poured, and a maid was fussing, ready to help her. “I think I prefer to do this alone,” she said and the maid quietly left. Mr. Weber nodded to her before closing the door.
Towels were folded on a chair, as was her dressing gown. Her torn gown was useless. It couldn’t be repaired, so she wasn’t gentle as she took it off. Her fingers made clumsy with the cold.
Her body was a sight, with bruises and scrapes. Blood smeared across one knee. Angry welts in places. And then it felt like her skin was on fire as she stepped into the hot water. Her toes and fingers the worst. It felt too hot, but she forced herself in, and as soon as the pain relented, the warmth eased her.
She lay there for a moment and let the warm work its way into her body. Every tired muscle, every ache. The wounds on her hands and knees pierced in pain. There was also one on her hip, she felt now. And the warmth was making her head pound in ache too. Particularly on the back where she’d been whacked. With her fingers, she felt a large swelling, but it didn’t seem the skin had broken. At least not there. There was blood in her hair however, and the water took on a less than pristine hue from the dirt and blood.
In the warmth, her eyes wanted to close, but she feared falling asleep. She still feared this room, and that fear made her scrub her body, even the aching sores, and then get out. Her skin was pink and steaming as she wrapped the towel around her.
Nothing had happened. No one had come crashing through the door, and no ghostly messages. At once she felt exhausted, but too awake to sleep. Her vision felt a little blurry and her mind disengaged with lack of sleep, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep properly again.
There was also a deep pride that she had survived. She’d matched wits with an evildoer, someone intent on subduing her in the most horrible way, and she was still here. She’d made it back to the hotel, and the constable was coming. These last few hours, she would guard herself. Whoever this man was, he would not get her now. She was going to win. She was going to live.
And with the constable, hopefully there would be some answers to what had happened to Oliver, and to Mr. Carter.
Being that she was only in her dressing gown, she had to return to her room. Inside, the fire had been lit and the maid stood by to help her dress. Again, Clemmie dismissed her. Even though she knew a man was responsible, she didn’t feel as though she could trust anyone at the moment. Once the maid left, Clemmie placed her key in the lock and partially twisted it so no other key could be placed inside it from the outside.
For now, she was safe in here, unless someone broke down the door. Hopefully the person responsible wouldn’t be so blatant. Again she told herself the constable was coming and safety would come with him.
Grabbing the chair, she brought it over to the fire to sit and dry herself. Maybe she should rest for a moment. She feared not being on guard, but at some point, she would have to sleep.
Chapter 25
A KNOCK ON HER DOOR WOKE Clemmie from where she’d sat down by the fire in a damp dressing gown. The warm had overcome her and she’d slipped off. In some ways, she felt better for it, but she was also a bit groggy.
“Mrs. Rowland, the constable has arrived, and he’d like to speak to you,” Mr. Weber called from outside the door.
“Uhmm,” she said, trying to get her mind in order. “I’ll be there shortly.”
Mr. Weber seemed to accept her answer and it remained quiet outside her door. On stiff feet, she rose. Her shoes were utterly destroyed, but they had protected her feet from the worst of it. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been strong enough to protect her from bruising, and the soles of her feet felt like long bruises. It hurt to walk, but she took herself to her wardrobe and opened it.
Most of her dresses would require assistance to get into, and for some reason, that fact had her crying, but she didn’t know why. Maybe because she was completely unable to fend for herself. She couldn’t even dress herself.
Obviously, she could call a maid to assist her, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to be alone, and she wanted the ability to manage herself.
Pulling herself together again, she drew out one of her day dresses and pulled it on, but got a fright when she sat down in front of the mirror. Her face looked awful. Bruises on her cheek, a scrape on her chin and forehead. Red eyes, with dark circles beneath them. With a sigh, she grabbed her hairbrush. No hairstyle was capable of making this look better.
In the end, she tied her hair back simply with a ribbon. Really, no one was going to be looking at her hair.
In was actually sunny out of the window, completely countermanding how she felt, and what the situation really was. Something terrible was going on here, and had been.
Rising, she left her room and locked the door. Stuck again in a desolate hallway where someone had attacked her before. She was very conscious of the fact that someone could walk up to her any moment and whack her on the head. There was someone here very intent on carrying her away from here. For a moment, she was a little resentful of Mr. Weber for not waiting for her.
Steeling herself, she walked, but every nerve in her body was aware of her surroundings, her ears listening for someone coming, her eyes searching for betraying shadows approaching.
It was an uncomfortable walk, but eventually, she made it to the light of the lobby, to safety.
A policeman stood in the lobby. Dark hair and mustache, wearing a dark blue coat with brass buttons, and a square hat. He didn’t immediately look like a man she would trust. Something about him came across as sneaky-looking. But she supposed he was intelligent and observant, and maybe that made for a good constable. It didn’t, however, look as though he could subdue a strong man.
Mr. Weber stood with him and she could see him informing the constable of her arrival. “Mrs. Rowland, may I present Constable Luchon. He is here to investigate the disappearances.”
The man looked at her, taking in all her injuries. “Madame,” he said. “Please.” He indicated toward the library and she walked as he directed.
They sat down at the small table by the fire. Clemmie couldn’t help but look up where that message had been carefully cleaned away.
“I understand there was some trouble last night.” He spoke in English and brought out a notebook from his pocket. His collar looked so stiff that he could barely bend his neck. Posture was straight and strong.
“Yes, I was abducted and carried away on a cart.”
“And where were they taking you?”
“He,” she added.
“A man. Was there only one?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you get in the cart?”
“They—he snuck up on me from behind, just in the hallway back there, and hit me on the head with something.”
“And you have no recollection of what happened after that?”
“Not until I woke in the cart. In the dark.”
“And when were you abducted, do you think?”
“Before lunch.”
The man twisted his head. “And you awoke again at night. That is a long time to be unconscious. It would sugges
t a very bad injury to your head, or some chemical applied to keep you unwitting.”
“I noted a sweet taste in my mouth when I woke.”
“Is that so?” he said, noting the observation in his notebook. “You were subdued with a chemical.”
“They must have carried me downstairs, and then taken to a cart.”
“You are a slight woman, so a man could carry you.”
“Did Mr. Weber tell you about Oliver, my husband, and Mr. Carter? They are missing too.”
“He did tell me.”
“I suspect they were hidden somewhere and taken out under the cover of darkness and carried away.”
“And where was he carrying you?”
“I don’t know. I had to walk for hours. The road joined the one here outside the hotel, but up the road to the right. I couldn’t tell you the distance, I’m afraid.” It had felt like forever to her, but she had no idea how far it had actually been. “It was dark.”
“And this man beat you?”
Clemmie blinked for a moment. “No, I sustained these injuries escaping. At least I think so.” How could she say which bruises had been there as she’d woken up? “I took a tumble or two.”
“And what did the man do?”
“He searched for a while, but I hid. Then he turned around and returned the way we’d come. Returned here, I suppose,” she said, looking around furtively.
“And who do you think this man was?”
“He swore in a language I don’t know.”
“Did you recognize his voice?”
She shook her head. “But it was dark and I was distressed.”
“Why do you think this man targeted you and your husband?”
The question stumped her. “I don’t know. Oliver did come here once before, so I wondered if he’d upset someone who then remembered him. But as far as I know, Mr. Carter has never been here before. It has to be some deranged mind at work. Did Mr. Weber tell you about the messages?”
“Which messages?”
“The ones in Latin. One was written right here,” she said, pointing to above the fireplace. “Traitors die first, it said. Written in Latin.”
“You speak Latin?”
“Mr. Carter did. Does,” she corrected herself in a notion of solidarity with him, as if her belief he was still alive would make it so. “Someone has been threatening the people here. Miss Marnier was the first to experience harassment. Miss Juno, the nursemaid and the countess von Rothbach’s grandchild, heard… noises in the hallway. I heard them too. They sounded like… armor.”
“Armor?”
“Are you familiar with the legend of the disappeared Roman soldiers? It is said they are looking for traitors.”
“I know of the legend.”
“They say people have disappeared around here for centuries.”
“I am only interested in the last week.”
“Alright. A few of us have heard them calling from the mist. The clouds, I mean.”
“Calling?”
“Marching,” she said. If she hadn’t experienced it so fully during the night, she might not mention it, but there was no doubt that there had been a battalion, or whatever a group of Roman soldiers was called, marching past the road she’d been hiding by. It couldn’t have been anything else.
It also threw much of what she’d assumed into question. A battalion of soldiers had marched past her, which now made her wonder at the assumption that someone was using the legend to enact malice. Could this all be the work of ghosts? The cart had felt real. And that man hadn’t been a ghost.
It was all too much to think about, and suddenly, she felt utterly exhausted.
“Does your husband have any enemies?”
“No, of course not,” she replied. “He was a very happy-go-lucky man. Well-liked. From a good family.”
“You are newly married.”
“Yes.” What did this have to do with anything?
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She had to think back now. “Well, the morning he disappeared.”
“And when did you discover he was missing?”
“I walked down to the village.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to buy an Italian and English lexicon.” This seemed so long ago now.
“And did you?”
“Yes. When I got back, Oliver wasn’t here. I thought he’d gone out, had gone tramping with Mr. Schonberg, as he had before, without leaving word. So I waited, but he didn’t come back. We searched, the men from the village, and some of the guests, but he wasn’t found on the mountain, or in the hotel. They even searched the forest. There was speculation that he’d tried to traverse the glacier.” She left out the speculation that she’d been deserted. “It wasn’t until Mr. Carter disappeared that we knew something more malicious was happening.”
“And how did Mr. Carter disappear?”
“The last time I saw him had been at supper.” Time had so stretched and shifted that she couldn’t tell exactly how many days ago it had been. “Someone had seen him going to take a bath, but I can’t recall who it was. A message appeared on the mirror as I was taking a bath,” she added, feeling it urgent to let him know before the fact was overlooked.
“You think something happened to him in the bath?”
A shiver worked down her spine, because she could imagine the fear and panic of someone holding her down in the bath. “I hope not. I don’t know. Perhaps he was subdued like I was and carried away. He’d been asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“I’m not sure. The girls in the countess’ party told me he had been. You will be speaking to them, won’t you?”
“I will.”
“How long have you and Mr. Rowland been married?” The question surprised her, because she didn’t see how it was relevant.
“About two weeks. Three now, I think.”
“That is not a long time. And why were you here?”
“We were going to Italy. Oliver loves Italy and we are going for our honeymoon.”
“Mr. Rowland is a wealthy man, is he not?”
“His family is, I suppose.” Was he thinking this was some kind of kidnapping attempt? She supposed he had to consider it.
“And how long had you courted?”
“About three months.”
“That is quick, is it not?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Did you know him before you courted.”
“Yes. Our families have been acquainted.”
“And is your family wealthy?” These were odd questions.
“Yes, I believe you could say that. We are from the same social circle.” What was he implying? And then it dawned on her—he was querying if she was responsible for Oliver’s disappearance. She snorted. A week back, she wouldn’t even have thought that possible, that someone could question her character, but apparently people could. “I didn’t marry up, Mr. Luchon.”
Now she was deeply offended. It hadn’t been the first time on this trip she’d been treated with a lack of respect. But she’d never had her character truly questioned before. It made her worry what she was now saddled with an incompetent whose main line of inquiry was to prove she was responsible for Oliver’s death. Deep disappointment bit her. Did no one come to assist when it was truly needed?
The countess had said something to that effect, hadn’t she? That one needed to depend on oneself when things were tough. Clemmie hadn’t really understood. She’d been so firm in her belief that people came to her assistance, but it turned out she’d been protected and coddled by her father and brother, and Oliver.
Homesickness flared inside her. And she missed Oliver. Right now, Oliver needed her, so she had to stay, had to be strong. She must find him, whatever state he was in.
Chapter 26
INTERVIEW FINISHED, CLEMMIE returned to her room feeling perturbed about it all, and her confidence in the man was ruined. It was quite clear that a strong
line of inquiry for him was her and her being responsible for her husband’s disappearance.
Right now, she felt as though she needed to be away from people, and she felt safe in her room. Even more so as she’d wedged a chair under the handle.
Things were not going well, and her hope that this would all be resolved was dashed. Maybe she should leave now and return home. Her father could hire an investigator to come here and discover what had happened, but all the people who were here now would be gone. This all felt a little hopeless just now.
On the bed, she tucked her hands under her cheek and sighed. She was so very tired. Her body ached, and her heart ached. She really needed to send that telegram to her family. This wasn’t something she could solve on her own. How had she ever thought she would, and that she wasn’t wholly out of her depth?
Sleep claimed her, and she dreamt of men chasing her, of being frightened. Throughout, she kept just out of their reach, but they were coming closer and her luck would run out. And the soldiers, they were there in the background, searching for her. Everyone was trying to find her and she didn’t want to be found.
Startled awake, her senses searched for danger around her, but the room was quiet. Not safe in her dreams, and not safe awake. It was a miserable existence.
Looking at the small clock on the bedside table, she saw it was just the end of the lunch services, so she shot up and straightened herself. In the mirror, she saw that there were streaks from the pillow on her face, but that could not be helped. The former her would never go down with such telltale signs on her, but she was famished and there were bigger things to worry about than people knowing she’d just come from a nap. Who wouldn’t think it was understandable in these circumstances? Unless it was construed into some kind of sign of guilt.
Straight and strong, she marched through the hallway, while secretly, she was terrified someone lay in wait for her. She would scream and scream if someone came rushing toward her, but luckily, no one did. Maybe they were too afraid to act now that the constable was here.
There were people in the lobby, and they all stared at her as she emerged. Something had happened, she felt it like a tension in her spine. Everyone was there, including the constable. Miss Juno was shaking like a leaf. The countess’ mouth was as tight as Clemmie had ever seen it.
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