As Death Draws Near

by Anna Lee Huber

  No, but his son had.

  He glowered. “But if she wanted to know anyting, she should speak to dat gardenor o’ theirs. He was always around.” He narrowed his eyes in dislike. “Always watchin’.”

  And he had been watching that morning. He’d seen Colin with Miss Lennox, though he’d thought it was Mr. LaTouche when he saw him at the fair.

  A sickening stirring began in my gut, just as the first trumpeted notes of a song from the band went up farther down the street. Everyone turned to see, even Mr. LaTouche and his son, but I grabbed at Colin’s arm. He glanced over his shoulder at me in surprise.

  “I know this is going to sound incredibly impertinent,” I told him. “But I assure you there is a reason for it. Did you take hold of Miss Lennox’s hand that morning when you met her, after she told you everything? Did you touch her or kiss her?”

  The pain stirring in his eyes and the color cresting his cheeks seemed to answer for him, but I waited for him to respond. “Yes. All of it.”

  I nodded, releasing him, and glanced up at Gage, who was looking down at me in question. “I need to speak with Mrs. Scully,” I leaned in to say over the noise.

  His gaze lifted over my head across the street toward where she still stood, and then down the street toward where the parade could just be seen rounding the bend in the road. He nodded and turned to confer with Anderley and Marsdale briefly. Then clutching my arm close to his side, we hurried across the street.

  Mrs. Scully’s eyes widened as she caught sight of us coming in her direction. Her gaze darted to her left and her right, as if considering an escape into the crowd, but she held her ground, clutching her parcel to her chest. I glanced to the right just as we were stepping up onto the pavement, locking eyes with Mr. Baugh, the Priory’s gardener. His eyes shone in curiosity, but he did not speak.

  “Mrs. Scully, how is your husband?” I asked, opening with something I hoped would set her at ease.

  “Ah, now,” she exhaled almost in relief, and then nodded. “Much better, m’lady. Surgeon tinks he’ll be able to keep the leg.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “Me, too. Me, too. And I never got a chance to tank ye for all ye did to help him.”

  “Of course.”

  She shook her head. “Wit out ye an’ the sisters, I don’t know what I woulda done, sure I don’t.”

  “They are wonderful, kindhearted ladies, aren’t they?” I asked, seeing my opening.

  “Oh, to be sure. The best o’ us.” Her eyes dipped to the pavement. “They don’t deserve what’s been happenin’ to ’em.”

  “Then why haven’t you come forward with what you know?”

  Her head snapped upward and her eyes rounded in their sockets, but still she shook her head. “What I know? I don’t know nothin’.”

  A few people nearby glanced at us distractedly, hearing the distress in her voice. “Yes, you do,” I persisted, more certain than ever that I was right.

  Her eyes began to fill with tears as she kept shaking her head.

  “Mrs. Scully,” I said as gently as I could while having to raise my voice to be heard over the band and the throng. “We already know. Your remaining silent will change nothing.” I prayed the Lord would forgive that lie, as it was meant with good intentions. “But confessing what you know to us might alleviate some of your guilt.”

  She lowered her head and began to sob. “’Twas an accident,” she gasped. “I know it was. He would never ’ve hurt her. Never.” She sniffled loudly, making the women next to her glance at her and then glare at me. “Ye shoulda seen how upset he was. His hands were shakin’ so bad, he almost singed ’em.”

  “And what of Mother Mary Fidelis? Was her death an accident, too?” I demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice rose frantically, and she reached out to clutch my arm with one of her hands. “But ye have to understand, he . . . he’s like a son to me. Me own boy. I couldna’ tattle on ’im. All I saw was him burnin’ some clothes. Da-dat’s no proof.”

  I lifted my eyes to meet Gage’s, his own now bright with the same understanding. But at almost the same moment, the crowd parted and my gaze snagged on the tall man with a head full of brilliant copper hair weaving his way toward us. He saw us at nearly the same time and his steps slowed as his stare shifted to see Mrs. Scully gripping my arm, her head bowed as she wept.

  In an instant, I saw the shock and horror and guilt flash through his eyes as his body slammed to a rigid stop.

  “Gage,” I murmured to be certain he’d seen him as well.

  “I see him. Don’t even think it . . .” he muttered, breaking off with a grunt as Davy turned to flee.

  Gage took off after him, pushing his way through the bodies lining the street, impeding both of their progress. People shouted in affront and shoved back. Then Davy did the unthinkable. He dashed into the middle of the street, straight at the line of Orangemen riding on horseback.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I gasped and flinched as the horse nearest Davy reared, lashing out with his hooves. Somehow he managed to dodge to the side, evading them, but the rider was not so fortunate. He tumbled from the back of his steed onto the hard dirt with a sharp thud. The pole of the banner he carried struck the flank of a mare and snapped in half with a loud crack. The mare and two other horses panicked, and depending on the skill of their handlers, either shied under their reins or stampeded down the street toward the crowd.

  Several shouts went up and a woman screamed, and then the crowd began to surge and writhe in every direction at once. I caught sight of Davy disappearing beyond the Orangemen, as one of the men marching on foot grabbed hold of Gage, slowing his pursuit. Gage shoved him aside, sending him careening into a man from the crowd who had moved into the street, and then resumed his chase.

  In the blink of an eye, pandemonium seemed to ensue. The already roiling tensions of the Ribbonmen and Orangemen bubbled over in the chaos, and there simply weren’t enough constabulary forces to contain it.

  I moved forward to follow Gage, knowing he would never be able to make his way back to me even if he tried, but an arm shot out from behind to haul me back. Just in the nick of time, too. A man in front of me swung out with some sort of stick, narrowly missing my skull as he tried to hit one of the men in orange. My heart pounding in my chest from the narrow miss, I glanced upward to thank whoever had saved me.

  “Mr. Baugh,” I exclaimed in relief.

  “Ye want to go after yer husband? Come wit me.”

  I didn’t waste time or words by replying, instead allowing him to help me weave through the mayhem before us. Only once did my steps falter, at the sight of a man bent over rocking the body of a woman, his face a mask of anguish. But one glance told me the woman was already past my aid, so I let Mr. Baugh pull me away, sending up a swift prayer.

  When we reached the other side of the street, we began to move more slowly, trying to figure out where the two men had gone, but still avoiding the fists and objects being hurled about. The scene was a deafening melee of shouts, thumps, shrieks, and the occasional clap of gunfire. The band had long since given up playing, their instruments turned into weapons. Even so, I heard Bree’s voice rising above the tumult toward our right, and pointed Mr. Baugh in that direction.

  She stood at the entrance to the old graveyard, one side of the gate gaping open. “They went in there,” she explained. “Anderley and Lord Marsdale followed in case Mr. Gage needed help.”

  I felt a trickle of relief ease the tightness in my chest to know Gage was not pursuing a double murderer alone. “Then come on,” I told her and Mr. Baugh, urging them through the gate. Inside had to be safer than without.

  The metal clanged shut behind us as we made our way down the shaded path. I spared a glance for Bree, wondering if she was worried about her half brother out there in the chaos. Her expression was fixe
d and determined, but that didn’t mean her stomach wasn’t a mass of knots like mine.

  Tall stone walls overgrown with ivy and moss lined both sides of the path, creating a sort of long channel through which one had to walk to reach the graveyard. Our feet crunched against the old leaves and other detritus which had built up over time, blocked from escaping by the walls and twin portals. The second of which was a sort of stone archway through which we had to pass to reach the cemetery proper.

  There the walls were lower and easily leapt over in several spots despite the heavy vegetation filling the space. Towering trees, thick with leaves and vines, blocked out a great deal of the sunlight, giving the graveyard a gloomy appearance, filled with shifting shadows and the clatter of the limbs overhead in the wind. It was not the sort of place one wished to visit at night. In fact, even in daylight, I found it to be rather unsettling.

  Many of the gravestones already leaned at awkward angles, as if the ground beneath had given way. One stone table monument had even cracked down the middle, collapsing in on itself. The crumbling remains of the old church at the center were overgrown with vines and shrubbery, so that much of what stone endured was all but swallowed by it. It was near this wreck that Gage, Marsdale, and Anderley stood with their hands on their hips, turning in circles, searching.

  We crossed the space toward them, kicking up the thick musk of moss and mold which covered the earth. It coated my nostrils like a cloying miasma even though I snorted repeatedly, trying to clear the stench. The men looked up at our approach.

  “He just . . . disappeared,” Gage grunted in frustration.

  “Could he have jumped the wall?” Bree suggested, glancing over her shoulder at the spot I’d also noticed near the entry arch, the place where Constable Casey had likely vaulted over to listen at the chief constable’s window.

  “No. We saw him run this way.”

  I turned to meet Mr. Baugh’s eyes, seeing that he was thinking the same thing I was. “The tunnel.”

  “Yes,” Gage replied impatiently. “But where is the entrance?”

  “Dis way,” Mr. Baugh said, striding past him to the other side of the church ruins.

  Bree, Marsdale, and I followed them, but Anderley set off in the direction of the back wall of the graveyard where something must have caught his eye. Mr. Baugh halted about twenty feet from what had once been the corner of the building and reached down into the tangled vines of a patch of ivy growing near the base of the stone. With a hard tug, he pulled open what appeared to be one of two wooden cellar doors fashioned at an angle, and completely obscured by the vegetation. The smell that wafted outward, of rot and damp and earth, was enough to make my throat seize closed at the prospect of entering.

  “The opening to the tunnel is in the far left corner,” he explained as Gage moved closer to peer down inside the dark interior.

  All that was visible was a half-dozen stone steps leading down into blackness, and none of us had brought a lantern or even a candle. Had Davy? Was he stumbling through that suffocating darkness even now?

  I backed away. There was no way I was going to enter that hole, and neither was I going to let Gage go in. Not as unprepared as he was now.

  To my relief, rather than attempting to advance, he straightened and shook his head. “There’s no way we can follow. Not like this.” He turned to Mr. Baugh. “This opens on the other end at the castle?”

  He nodded, rubbing his chin. “Question is, where he’ll be plannin’ to go from there?”

  Through the tunnel to the abbey? He must know we expected that. Did he hope to beat us there and leave again before we could reach him? Or would he take the other tunnel to the Yellow House or even set out from the castle? There was no way to know for sure which direction he would run.

  Then Anderley called out from behind us. “Not that way. He leapt the wall over here.” He skipped sideways, waving for us to follow.

  Mr. Baugh dropped the door in place as we all hurried after the valet toward the back corner. The ground vegetation was thicker here, mixed with sweet grass and red fescue, some of which had obviously been trampled recently. Sure enough, there was a small gap between a scraggily bush and a tree where someone could squeeze through to escape the graveyard.

  “There are tracks leading downhill from here toward the west,” Anderley explained.

  Gage’s eyes narrowed in focus. “Good work. Take the lead,” he told Anderley, before swiveling toward Marsdale. “I need you to wait here in case he decides to double back.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m coming with you. If that sod murdered my cousin like I assume you believe since you’re chasing him, then he’s going to answer to me.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at Homer. “Leave him.”

  “That’s precisely the reason you should stay behind,” Gage argued. “You’re too invested in this. Your temper’s too riled. Besides, Mr. . . .”

  “Baugh,” I supplied. “He’s the Priory’s gardener I told you about.”

  He nodded. “Mr. Baugh is a local man. He knows this land far better than any of us, and we may have need of him. I can’t abandon the women here in case he returns or that mob spills over, so that leaves you.”

  Marsdale glared mutinously, but before he could complain further, Gage’s patience snapped.

  “Come now. You’re wasting time, and allowing Somers to get away. If he doubles back, you can pummel him all you want with no witnesses to stop you.” Something dark flickered in Marsdale’s eyes, which made Gage add, “Just don’t kill him.”

  “Fine,” Marsdale barked. “Go!”

  Having already helped me and Bree to scamper over the wall safely to the other side with Anderley’s assistance, Gage hoisted himself over. His hand briefly caught hold of mine in reassurance before pushing me forward to follow the others.

  Anderley led our progress down the hill as we all surveyed the open land around us, overgrown with tall grasses. The hill ended at the edge of a mill race, the water inside swirling and eddying its way south through a series of man-made rapids toward the next mill along the line. Several yards to the north, a narrow stone arch formed a bridge over the expanse. Still following the trampled trail of grass, Anderley didn’t even hesitate before crossing the majority of its expanse, pausing at the end to reach a hand back for Bree and then me. The gap was crossed in the matter of about four steps, but the bridge was slight enough and the water flowing fast enough, that given time to pause and think about it, I’m not sure I would have managed the passage.

  Once we were all over, we climbed uphill toward another thick swatch of vegetation, our steps slowing at the sound of what lay beyond. The muted roar of a swift-flowing river is not easily mistaken for anything else, and the rush of this one made the mill race seem like a gurgling trickle of bathwater. Even so, among the otherwise tangled underbrush, we could mark the distinct passage of a person or a large animal entering the trees. Was there some footbridge beyond? Or a trail leading down toward the river?

  There was nothing for it but to proceed cautiously through the forest, though this time Gage insisted on leading. I stayed close behind him, but not near enough to hinder him should he suddenly need to move quickly. The woods were still and silent, but for the shuffle and crunch of our footfalls and, ironically enough, the shrill “chee-kee, chee-kee” whistle of a kingfisher somewhere in the boughs overhead, as well as that ever-present, ever-growing surge of the river. It must pass through a swath of stone or rock ahead for the sound to seem so amplified.

  Sure enough, as we emerged from beneath the trees, we could see down into what appeared to be a shallow gorge. The water funneling through echoed off the cliff faces, turning the river into a roiling flume. The trees grew right up to the edge of the rock, leaving little if any room to skirt along the edge toward the rock that jutted out over the river. It was a sort of bare promontory with nothing but a scraggily tree clinging
to its tip.

  Gripping this tree as he leaned over to stare down into the river stood Davy Somers. My chest tightened at his precarious position, and when he looked back, revealing his wild eyes and tearstained face, I began to fear just precisely what his intentions were for being there.

  “Somers, come away from there!” Gage yelled to be heard over the pounding water below.

  When he didn’t respond, not even with a shake of his head, Gage picked his way through the trees to get closer, with me close at his heels, echoing his every step. However, once we’d reached the base of the rock, but a few steps from him, Davy yelled for us to stop.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he threatened, leaning back over the river.

  Gage held up one of his hands, while wrapping the other around my waist to hold me close to his side. “Somers, you don’t want to do that,” he shouted.

  “Why? I deserve it.” His voice was sharp, near the edge of breaking. “I’ll be swingin’ from a gibbet soon in any case, to be sure.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Yes, but to kill yourself . . .” We were told that suicide was an unforgivable sin.

  “What does it matter? I’m goin’ to hell anyway.” He ended on a desperate whimper.

  For a moment, I thought he was going to release the wiry tree and allow himself to fall over the edge, and I felt Gage’s body tense against mine. But he righted himself at the last minute, shaking the leaves of the tree with the force of his grip. There had to be something we could say to convince him to come away from the edge, something to salvage this situation.

  I focused on his face, the pain etched there. “Davy, we know it was an accident.”

  He closed his eyes. “I . . . I didn’t want to hurt ’er.”

  I swallowed the sick taste that coated my throat at that sentiment.

  “I know. You loved her.”

  He exhaled a ragged breath. “I did. But den I . . . I saw her wit dat gentleman, dat LaTouche. And she kissed him. She . . . she was becomin’ a nun, but she kissed him.”