Bittersweet Obsession

by Rachel Blake

  Hanover opened his mouth to speak but Angel grabbed hold of his shirt before he could utter one word. His eyes widened with fear as Angel leaned closer.

  “If I drop dead in that circle, you must promise me that you will bury me in an unmarked grave without my father ever knowing.” He did not release his grip on the man’s shirt until he nodded his assurance. Then he smoothed the fabric before clapping the befuddled man on the shoulder. “Let’s have at it then.”

  Angel stripped down to his breeches. Hanover wrapped his hands as his opponent stood grinning at him. The man was built like a cargo ship, and Angel was certain the fight would be punishing, but in his years of participating in the occasional prize fight, he’d discovered one thing— the big ones were generally dull witted and slow. Of course, if the man had trained at Jackson’s Salon like he had bragged, then he would be highly skilled and Angel would probably leave tonight with less blood and possibly even less teeth.

  Money and wagers were flying around the tight circle of spectators. Angel didn’t need to hear their shouts to know that most of the shillings were falling on the side of the hairless giant.

  Hanover stood on a milking stool and whistled over the heads of the mob. “Let us not forget Van Ostrand’s skills. You’ve all seen him in matches with men twice his size and he still leaves them cold on the floor.”

  Some of the men groaned in agreement but they still looked leery about taking a risk with their hard earned money.

  Hanover whistled again. “Pick your fighter and let’s start the match.” The crowd cheered.

  Aside from no eye-gouging or groin hits, there were few rules in Hanover’s matches. Angel was propelled into the center by the restless spectators. He nodded to his opponent who merely grunted in return. Angel took quick notice of possible vulnerabilities on Lawford. Aside from his crooked nose looking just one blow from being knocked clear off his face, there were faded bruises on his left side from a previous fight. Angel hoped the ribs beneath had not healed completely yet. Lawford needn’t have looked too hard for Angel’s weak spot. The bayonet scar on his side still pained him both physically and mentally. After the war, he’d had to retrain himself to lead with his left.

  The fighters came to the center. Hanover recited his short list of rules and started the match. Shouts and jeers roared through the building. Even the milk cows seemed to join in the chorus. Angel took the first swing but Lawford ducked away from it easily. Then he lunged forward and his gargantuan fist plowed into Angel’s gut. He bent over from the agony and fought to find his breath again. Lawford thrust his elbow down hard between Angel’s shoulder blades. Angel stumbled forward but caught himself. Two painful blows were all he needed to get his temper and enthusiasm up. He twisted back around and brought his fist clean into the man’s jaw. The impact nearly broke his knuckles but Lawford barely flinched from it. Angel had stepped into the ring with a cast-iron bull.

  Lawford, who’d now obliterated Angel’s theory about large men being slow, skittered around with the movement of a petite dancer. Before his opponent could draw back his powerful arm, Angel landed a solid punch to the bruises on his rib cage. It caught Lawford off guard and he stumbled back like a giant tree being felled in the forest. The helpful crowd caught him. It took four men to shove Lawford back into the ring.

  Four rounds in, Angel’s right eye was swollen, his lip bled profusely and every breath sent a jarring pain through his rib cage. Lawford did not look much better off and he appeared to be tiring, but he still had the upper hand. Hanover called time and Angel collapsed onto the small stool set in the corner. Hanover gave him a ladle full of water from a bucket, but all Angel could taste was blood. The man leaned down to assess his fighter’s mental capacity. Truthfully, after several blows to his skull, Angel felt bleary headed and he wondered why he’d volunteered for the fight in the first place. He was going to suffer the pains of it for a week.

  “How many fingers am I holding up, Van Ostrand?”

  “Three?”

  “You don’t sound too certain.”

  Angel nodded and the motion nearly pitched him forward onto his face. Hanover caught him on the shoulder and sat him upright again. “Definitely three,” Angel said.

  Hanover went to clap him on the shoulder then seemed to think better of it. He helped Angel to his feet. The circle of faces leering down at him made him dizzy. With a faltering step he stumbled out of his corner. Even in his muddled state of mind, a face in the crowd caught his attention and he remembered why he’d jumped so readily into the ring. Anger at his insane father had prodded him out of the house and into Hanover’s fighting match. His head spun enough that it was difficult to scan the faces without losing his balance. His opponent stood from his corner and charged him like an overgrown, rabid dog just as Angel spotted the face again.

  The man who’d dumped the girl in the pond stood eagerly watching over the shoulder of the man in front of him. Then searing pain shot through Angel’s scarred side. He had let his guard down and his opponent had used the opportunity to strike. The agony was too much. Angel grabbed his side and collapsed to the ground nauseous with pain. Mercifully, Hanover counted him out and declared Lawford the winner.

  Thomas helped Angel to his feet and led him to a bale of straw to sit. Once he’d regained his bearings and some of the pain had diminished, he scoured the crowd for the wagon driver. The wretch was nowhere in sight.

  Hanover walked over. “That was a grand match indeed. I’ve got a spare room if you need to stay the night.”

  “No, I’ll ride out. I’m in need of my belongings though.”

  Hanover retrieved his clothing and boots. It took effort, but Angel managed to pull his shirt over his head. Blood and sweat immediately spread across the white linen fabric.

  Hanover held out his boots and his share of the money.

  “There was a man in the crowd,” Angel said. He winced with pain as he struggled to pull on his boots. “He had shaggy brown hair and close set black eyes.”

  Hanover shrugged. “You could be describing half the men in this room.”

  Angel closed his eyes for a moment to remember. His brain had definitely taken a beating tonight, and everything was unfocused. Then it came to him. He opened his eyes. “He has a deep scar across one cheek and a small one over his lip.”

  “That blighter? He shows up here whenever he finally has something in his pocket. Think his name is Gosnell or something—”

  Angel reached up and grabbed Hanover’s sleeve to stop his description. “Where did he go?”

  “Think he walked out a few minutes ago. I’m always glad to see the back of that one. He’s involved in some shady dealings.”

  “Like murder,” Angel said more to himself but Hanover’s eyes widened. “Thank you for the opportunity to fight. I needed it tonight.” Angel pulled on his coat and walked out.

  Clouds had drifted in, blocking the moonlight. Aside from the wavering lantern light coming from the barn, blackness shrouded the yard. Angel searched around for the shabby wagon they’d seen in town, but every wagon looked the same in the dark.

  He wandered through the maze of farm carts and was about to give up when he spotted the stubborn plow horse he’d seen in front of the man’s wagon. A figure was crawling up onto the box. Angel strode to the wagon and grabbed the man’s coat before he sat down. He fell hard on the ground spitting curses and flailing his fists.

  The man’s eyes nearly bulged from his marred face as he stared up at the figure standing over him. “I’ve got no money. I wagered for the bloody soldier with the hole in his side.”

  Still holding the grimy collar of the man’s coat, Angel yanked him to his feet. “Do you mean this bloody soldier?”

  The man’s eyes were cloudy from age and too much drink. His face paled beneath the grime. “What do you want with me?”

  “I want to know why you murdered the girl.”

  Just when Angel was certain the man’s skin could not grow pastier, it faded
white as the snow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tried to twist out of Angel’s grip but it was futile.

  Angel lifted his head and looked down at the wagon bed. “Your wagon still smells of her blood. Who was she and why did you stab her?”

  “I didn’t stab no girl,” foul breath punctuated his words. “I swear to you, I didn’t kill nobody.”

  Angel had had enough. Every bone in his body hurt and the icy temperature was not helping. He dragged the man up against his own wagon. His head smacked back against the side and he groaned in pain.

  “You were dumping her body in the ice water so no one would find her. I believe the magistrate is inside this barn. Shall I fetch him? Then you can explain the blood in your wagon bed to him.”

  The man reached up and grabbed Angel’s lapel not in rage but in fear. “No need for that. Someone paid me to get rid of the body. I never saw who was wrapped in the blanket. I swear to you I didn’t know it was a girl. I didn’t know what the man dropped into my wagon. I was just paid to get rid of it.”

  Angel didn’t dare loosen his grip on the man who looked close to losing consciousness. “Who paid you?”

  He didn’t answer at first. Angel grabbed his throat and squeezed enough to return the red color to his skin. He clawed at Angel’s hand.

  “Tell me.” Angel released his hold and the man coughed and sputtered.

  “I was cookin’ a rabbit over a fire outside the village and someone came from behind and held a knife to my throat. He told me if I turned around he’d kill me. Then he put a sixpence in my hand and told me to take the body to the pond. He warned me that he’d be watching me. If I didn’t do it, he threatened to slice me open and feed my entrails to the ravens.”

  The match was over and purses had been settled. The crowd flowed out of the barn, some with more than they came with and some with less. Angel stepped back. The man scrambled onto his wagon, picked up his reins, and clucked impatiently at his horse.

  ***

  Aside from faint light coming from the manor’s east wing where the lab was located, the house was dark. Pain in every muscle had made for a long ride home. Angel slid from his saddle and groaned as his feet hit the hard ground. A bottle of gin and two days in bed would ease the aching and drown the misery.

  He stabled Titus and dragged himself up the front steps. Father nearly slammed into him as he rounded the corner to the liquor cabinet. Father’s trembling, age gnarled fingers clutched a glass of port. Angel hoped the man was drowning his sorrows from another experimental failure. His eyes widened. “Angel, you look dreadful? Have you been fighting again?”

  “What gave it away? The black eye or the torn bottom lip?” Angel pushed past him to the cabinet and reached in for the fullest bottle of gin he could find.” A glass would not be necessary. He lifted the bottle in toast to his father. “See you in a few days.”

  “But I’m still busy in my lab. I need you to look after Zander.”

  Profound disappointment struck him. “You’re still working on the girl?”

  Father averted his eyes. The girl seemed to cause him unease. “Things are progressing,” he said shakily.

  “Sorry to hear. By the way, I think someone may have seen us take the body from the pond.” Angel said casually.

  “What do you mean?” Father asked.

  “Too tired to explain.” He brushed past his father then looked back. “Zander is your burden. I’m not trained to be a nursemaid.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Ellie threw open the heavy drapes, and needles of sunlight pierced the darkness.

  Angel covered his eyes with his forearm. An entire bottle of gin and two days in bed had brought some relief from his fight injuries but had left the residual misery of too much alcohol. “Blasted woman, what the hell are you doing?” He squinted into the light and immediately regretted his terse tone when he saw the worry on her face. Even sitting took some effort. “What is it, Ellie? Has something happened?” Two days inebriation had not erased his memory as much as he would have hoped.

  Lettie carried in a tray and laid it on his bed table. Her frail hands shook more than usual. Ellie waited for her to leave then moved closer to the bed.

  “I don’t like to talk in front of Lettie. Poor thing is wound tighter than a rabbit cornered in a wolf’s den.”

  Angel smiled at the analogy. He reached for the coffee then remembered, too late, his gashed lip. He shifted the cup to the less swollen side of his mouth. “Has father emerged from his den then?” Angel intended on marching into the lab and forcefully taking the body. Now that he’d learned a few details of the girl’s death, the magistrate could deal with the mess of it. He only hoped that the murderer had not seen them take the girl’s body.

  “We see Dr. Van Ostrand only on occasion.” She moved closer as if the walls were listening. “But he looks very bad, very distressed. Exhaustion is taking its toll on him. There is a fever in his eyes, and he mumbles to himself a great deal as if he struggles with something.”

  No doubt struggling with the notion of whether to tell authorities or return the corpse to the ice, Angel thought. “I shall deal with it this morning, Ellie. Don’t give it another thought.” Angel reached for a piece of bread but Ellie lingered. “Is there more?” he asked.

  “There is.” Her face dropped as she spoke. “I fear there is something terribly wrong with Zander.”

  If that was not the boldest understatement Angel had ever heard. “Is he talking to the garden statues again?”

  Ellie shook her head weakly.

  First he’d regretted his harsh tone now he came to regret his light tone. “I’m sorry, Ellie. What has you so worried?”

  Her face lifted, and Angel then noticed the dark rings beneath her eyes and he chastised himself for leaving her in charge of Zander.

  “Yesterday he walked small circles around the rug in the parlor for two hours.”

  “Perhaps he’d invented another game to occupy himself,” Angel suggested.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but it seemed as though it was not a game. His brow was creased as if he was confused.” She wrung her hands together and Angel saw that her fingers trembled. He’d never seen Ellie nervous. “It was as if he didn’t know how to get himself out of the circle. It was as if he had no sense of direction.”

  Angel had not ever given thought to the notion that Father’s one success could go completely awry. And with his size and strength, Zander was no small specimen. He could not just be tossed away like any other botched experiment. Ellie looked nearly ill with concern. “Ellie, go to your room and rest. I will deal with all of it. I’m sorry I left you alone these past days. I was feeling—”

  “Rather beaten,” Ellie said with a glimmer of a smile. Her shoulders had lost some of the tension they’d held when she first spoke. Angel was pleased to see it.

  “Yes, that is a good term for it.”

  She turned to leave then stopped and faced Angel again. “I forgot to mention— it is the strangest thing and perhaps ‘tis only the imaginings of an old, blind woman who has not slept well for several days, but yesterday afternoon as I walked past the doctor’s laboratory, I could have sworn that I heard a feminine voice.”

  It felt as if Lawford had thrown a fist in his stomach again. Angel caught his breath and it took every inch of his self-control not to display any emotion in front of Ellie. He finally managed to gain his composure and speak. “Yes that is strange, Ellie.”

  He waited for her to leave then crushed the porcelain coffee cup in his hand.

  CHAPTER 5

  Opening her lids took effort. The light stabbed at her eyes. Was it the glow that lit the path to heaven? Her limbs were heavy, and she could not move. The surface behind her head and back was hard and cold. And there was the ache in her side, the hot, sharp pain that brought suffering with even the slightest movement. A shadow fell across the table. It was a man, a complete stranger, but with the unbearable pain and frozen limbs she could not move
away from him.

  Green eyes stared out from a face weathered by age. “Do not fret. I have sewn up the wound in your side,” the man spoke softly but his words did little to soothe the terror she felt.

  She moved her arms but her wrists were tethered to the table. She turned her face away from him and hoped the bad dream would end soon. Nightmarish portraits and skeletal faces stared down at her from the wall then, mercifully, her eyes drifted shut again.

  She felt the warmth of a blanket cross her body. “Sleep, Jane. All will be well.” The man spoke gently into her ear.

  The ghastly images from the wall plagued her thoughts as she sank into unconsciousness. In her confused state of mind one question kept repeating itself as she coasted into blackness— who was Jane?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Zander’s thick finger traced the small vine that wound its way over and over again in the pattern of the drapes. Angel sat in the chair by the withering fire and watched him. The giant was completely absorbed in his task.

  “Zander,” Angel called his name several times but the creature did not hear him.

  The possibility of a female specimen, equally simple and equally pathetic, lurking about the house made staying much longer impossible. In a month the ice would melt enough to free up the roads and Angel would leave Greystock forever. He knew not where, perhaps north to Scotland or south to Wales. Somewhere along the vast British coast he would find a merchant ship or fishing vessel in need of the labors of an ex-soldier. He would be forsaking his future estate and what remained of the family wealth. It was a hefty price to pay for sanity.

  Lettie carried in a tray of tea. When she saw Zander standing at the curtain performing the strange ritual he’d begun an hour ago, she nearly threw the tray onto the table and ran out of the room. Even the clattering of tea cups did not break Zander’s concentration.

  Angel moved his feet closer to the meager fire, but the heat hardly penetrated the leather of his boots. Zander was preoccupied with the drapes, so Angel added an armful of kindling to the hearth. Even though the coal grate had been empty for a week, the dried kindling proved sufficient. Within moments, impressive flames burned in a hearth that had not felt the scorching heat of a respectable fire all winter.