Juliana stepped back to let him run past her to the vestibule. He flung open the door to the last person Juliana wanted to see. Mrs. Dalrymple.
“Morning, love,” she said. “I need to speak to ye if ye don’t mind.”
Gone was the stiff-necked pose, the rather superior accent. Though Mrs. Dalrymple wore a well-made morning gown of gray cotton, she no longer looked like the prim and proper middle-class woman who’d tried to ignore everything Indian when she’d lived in India.
Her softly lined face looked more that of a harmless, middle-aged woman who went to the market with a basket on her arm. Also, her strained proper accent had gone, and now she sounded as though she’d come straight from the backstreets of Glasgow.
“Come in,” Juliana said.
Mahindar looked unhappy, but Juliana wanted to hear what the woman had to say. She led Mrs. Dalrymple to the morning room and bade Mahindar bring them tea.
“I won’t stay long,” Mrs. Dalrymple said, sitting in the same chair she had occupied a week ago. “I just came t’ give ye warning. Not that one,” she said quickly as Juliana’s brows went down. “Ye see, lass, I know ye’ve tumbled on t’ us. Me husband came across Mr. Stacy’s death certificate when he was working for the civil service in Lahore. He heard tell that your husband had turned up after being missing, crazy as a loon. So George stole the certificate. When we came back to Glasgow, me husband asked about and learned that Elliot McBride had purchased a house up here in Highforth. I’d never heard of th’ place, but George says we were goin’. He decided that if your husband was out of his wits, maybe George could make you or his family believe he’d murdered Stacy and get some money out of ye.”
“But Mrs. Terrell described you as a friend,” Juliana said, keeping her anger in check with difficulty. “You knew her?”
“Mrs. Terrell.” Mrs. Dalrymple dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “She’s a simple one. I convinced her that her mother and mine had been great friends. Easy to do while I dithered at the post office and managed to steal letters of likely ladies in the area. So Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple were invited to stay.”
“Well, I am sorry we disappointed you,” Juliana said stiffly. “Neither I nor my husband were willing to pay you any of your blackmail.”
Mrs. Dalrymple winced. “Oh, I don’t like that word, love. Sounds so nasty. Mr. Dalrymple and I, we provide a service. You’d be amazed at the things people get up to—rich ladies who steal from any house they enter, proper husbands who keep a bit on the side, upright clerks and bankers who skim out of the till. They get away with it—theft, adultery, embezzlement, and now we thought murder. The law can’t touch these people, but we make them pay. ’Tis only right—they’ve committed crimes after all.”
Juliana forbore to point out that blackmail was also a crime. In any case, the Dalrymples, or whatever their true names might be, never took the evidence of the wrongdoings to the police.
She grew impatient. “Why did you come to see me today?”
“Well, first I wanted to make my apologies. We had no idea that Mr. Stacy was alive, and your husband entirely innocent. We were so glad to learn it. ‘Emily,’ Mr. Dalrymple said to me, ‘I’m that glad we were wrong about Mr. McBride. He’s a fine Highland gentleman.’”
“What is this warning?” Juliana asked in a hard voice.
“Because we stole the death certificate and asked questions about Mr. Stacy and Mr. McBride along our way here, I’m afraid we inadvertently alerted some very bad men as to their whereabouts. But I wanted you to know that Mr. Dalrymple and I had nothing to do with that. We might ask people for what they can give—a contribution, if you like—to apologize for the wrongs they’ve done, but we never harm anyone. I know you have a man from Scotland Yard staying with you, but if anything happens to Mr. Stacy or your husband, it’s nothing to do with us. That’s why I want to warn you, to put you on your guard. I can tell that you are a sweet, respectable lady, and you and your husband should take care.”
Too late for that. Hamish came barreling down the back hall, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Mahindar! M’lady! Mr. McGregor! Mr. McBride went out to chase brigands in the woods!”
“There, you see?” Mrs. Dalrymple stood up. “Well, I’ve done me duty. ’Tis nothing on me and m’ man, remember. I’ll go and leave you to it.”
“No,” Juliana said. Her sharpness made Mrs. Dalrymple jump. Juliana pointed at the chair. “You will sit down and tell me every detail you know about these very bad men, and you will stay there until my husband and Mr. Stacy come home in safety. Hamish—run back to McPherson’s and tell him all about it.”
“I’ve just been. He’s coming over. And all the Mackenzies.”
“Good. Then wake up every man in this house and tell them to come and talk to me. We are going to find my husband and these assassins and end this, for once and for all.”
Hamish’s eyes rounded. “Aye, m’lady.” He disappeared to do her bidding.
Elliot and Fellows moved swiftly and silently across the land, following the trail Elliot had picked up. Elliot’s tracking ability came back to him as had the steps to the sword dance. Inspector Fellows had been hunting criminals in London for years and could move as quickly and quietly as Elliot.
The trail took them north across the hills and down into the next valley. The ocean was to the east of them, the land sloping out of uplands to farms and flat land by the sea.
Stacy would have led them that way and then doubled back, if Elliot were any judge. The rising sun spilled over the sea, anyone heading east walking into the large ball of light.
Elliot knew exactly where Stacy would head. A twinge of dread went through him, but Elliot motioned Fellows to follow him back toward the hills.
The trees closed around them again, cutting off the view of the cultivated lands and the cottages, civilization gone. The passes from Afghanistan to the Punjab were like that, knives of land that masked the view of anything but the steep cliffs to either side.
However, those roads came out of stark mountains to river valleys of amazing beauty. Elliot had been stunned by the glories that had existed outside the tunnels where he’d been buried, as he’d slunk back home like a wounded animal. Evil should not exist in that much beauty.
It had been cold there as well. Elliot had had only vague ideas of the seasons when he’d been held captive, but he remembered weeks of icy cold wind.
Here, summer made the air soft, but under the trees, cool mist gathered. The feeling of alertness as Elliot tracked was the same, though, the calm wariness, the warm sweat on his back, the controlled breathing that let him walk for long distances without becoming exhausted.
The fact that he was walking through damp leaves in Scotland instead of dry, cold mountains made no difference. Every rock and tree was either concealment or a hidden danger, each an obstacle to be assessed, traversed, then watched. All as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
Elliot made for the entrance to the tunnels closest to the edge of the hills. He knew Stacy had used them for cover and likely was there now.
He held a whispered conversation with Fellows about what he wanted to do, and approached the first tunnel cautiously. The entrance could barely be seen, covered with brush, weeds, and a fallen limb of a tree.
But Elliot had scouted these on his many walks around the estate in the last couple of weeks, taking note of every possible entrance to Castle McGregor. He knew he hadn’t missed any.
The first sign that someone had passed that way came at the tunnel’s opening. The brush had overgrown it, but someone had cut away the natural brush and replaced it with care.
Elliot moved the branches as quietly as he could, while Fellows kept watch. When Elliot had cleared a space, he dove inside in one quick movement, crouching beside the opening so he wouldn’t be shown against the light outside.
Fellows followed, copying his movements. Elliot waited until his eyes became used to the dark, then he walked forward.
As they
moved through the damp caves, Elliot sensed the darkness inside him hunkering down in the corner of his mind, waiting to pounce.
His heartbeat quickened, and the perspiration that clung to his back began to trickle down his spine. The wet of it was clammy and cold, and his pulse pounded in his temples and made his head ache.
Not now. Right now, he had to find Stacy. He had to find Stacy and get the thugs chasing him arrested. Whatever was between himself and Stacy, they would have to work through it, but first he had to save the man.
Elliot hadn’t had the chance to explore every bit of the maze of these tunnels. The ceiling on this part of it was low, and he and Fellows had to walk half bent over. Elliot’s rifle would be useless down here, the walls too tight for any close shooting, but he had a knife, and Fellows was armed with a pistol, a good Webley.
Elliot knew men were down here with them. He found no sign, just as he’d never seen sign of Stacy in the woods, but he knew.
The darkness in his mind laughed at him. It was there, and it didn’t care how dire was the situation. The waking visions or the sudden dizziness that stole his breath could rear up at any time, ripping away everything but stark animal panic.
Elliot drew a long breath and tried to fight it off. If killers were under the house, that meant that everyone in the house was in danger. Elliot had tried to seal off all entrances to the old castle from above, but that was before he’d known professionals had come here to kill Stacy. They might have been working at opening up those places while Stacy hid at Mrs. Rossmoran’s and Elliot helped Juliana with her fête.
The thought of Juliana in danger, and Priti with her, helped him push away the mocking voice inside him. He’d never let anyone touch them. Never.
A faint sound came down one of the tunnels. Elliot stopped, reaching back for Fellows in the dark, halting him.
Elliot heard it again, a footstep. Only one, probably misplaced. Elliot motioned Fellows to stay where he was, and crept forward, crouched almost to the floor.
He brought his rifle around, sighting down the barrel at the rough-hewn opening to the larger room.
Elliot saw them, or at least, saw the flicker of their lanterns. They were careful not to let the light fall on them.
He saw a flash of movement beyond them, which might be Stacy. Elliot had taught Stacy the trick of using just enough movement to entice an enemy out into the open, which was what they had done when they’d rescued the English family up in the Afghan mountains.
Stacy was drawing them into tight quarters, preparing the ambush. The problem with that plan was that there was only one of Stacy. In theory, a single man could hold off a platoon if he had the right kind of ground advantage, but in practice, many against a platoon was always better odds.
Elliot peered into the room again. If he and Fellows moved to flank, they could disarm both men, and Stacy would be safe. Elliot could go back home and feast on porridge prepared by Hamish or lentils and spices from Mahindar, whoever managed to get to the kitchen first.
He turned to creep back to Fellows to tell him his plan, when someone shouted deep in the bowels of the tunnels. The two assassins were moving forward in a flash, lost down the tunnel that led to the boiler room.
Elliot swore silently as he hurried back to Fellows. “The idiot Stacy is trying to lead them into a trap,” he said in a low voice as he led Fellows forward. “They’ll kill him instead.”
“Then let us get there,” Fellows said.
Elliot led Fellows up the tunnel and into the large room, the other man staying close behind.
Images of his last night in the caves came to Elliot, his desperate run down the tunnels, the churning in his stomach when he dared to crawl through the crack that led into the cave that held his rifle. At any moment, he’d be stopped and shot, or strangled, or beaten again. If they caught him, he’d never have another chance to get away.
He’d alternately crept on his belly like an animal and run like a rabbit. At every moment, he’d expected to feel shot ripping through his back, stopping his life in a wash of pain.
Elliot’s breath came faster. If he didn’t slow, if he didn’t calm himself, he’d run in on a burst of panic and get Stacy killed.
He saw the flash of gunfire. Heard yells. Elliot’s thoughts scattered, and he ran forward.
Stacy. Was he dead or alive?
A few more shots were fired, then silence.
Elliot moved on, Fellows behind him. Both men moved noiselessly on toward where he’d heard the shots.
Another flash of revolvers. Bangs echoed through the tunnels and made it impossible to hear. Fellows clapped his hands over his ears, but Elliot, trying to hold on to his rifle, didn’t have that chance. His ears rang, and smoke choked him.
The barrage of bullets died, and Elliot moved quietly forward.
He finally saw his old friend Stacy at the end of the tunnel behind a crate, a lantern on the floor to give away his position. Two men rose from the shadows, revolvers cocked, and opened fire on Stacy.
Chapter 27
The light extinguished to blackness. Elliot sensed rather than saw Stacy rise, aim his gun with uncanny precision at the flash of one revolver, and shoot his assassin through the heart.
A marvelous shot, with only the tiny light of the gun’s flash to guide him, but the problem was, the bullet that had left the assassin’s gun hit Stacy. Stacy grunted, then went quiet.
Elliot could neither see nor hear. He crept into the end of the tunnel, shouldering his useless rifle again, trying to stay utterly silent.
On a sudden, he was shoved against the wall, a body rank with sweat and smelling of blood and smoke pushing past him. The second assassin, who fled down another tunnel.
Elliot heard the worry in the other man’s running footsteps, the growing terror. The assassin didn’t know where he was, and his friend was dead. He was alone. In the dark. Under the earth.
Elliot let him go for now. He returned to the crate and the lantern, dug matches out of his pocket, struck one, and lit the lantern.
Stacy sagged against the wall, blood on his side. Another man lay stretched out beside him, facedown, unmoving.
Stacy lifted his gaze to Elliot, his eyes resigned. “I’m sorry, old friend. So sorry.”
“Shut it,” Elliot said. “Ye trying to die a hero?”
“Best way.”
“You’re an idiot. Stay still.”
Fellows came into the light, shaking his head. “Heard him, tried to follow. Lost him.”
“Never mind,” Elliot said. “You don’t know your way around down here. Stay with Stacy. I’ll hunt.”
He turned away and picked up the fallen assassin’s pistol as Fellows nodded, Elliot’s heart hammering, his skin hot.
“McBride,” Stacy said.
Elliot looked back. Stacy was grim-faced, blood trickling from the side of his mouth.
“Get the bastard.”
Elliot intended to.
Elliot could move like smoke when he wanted to, or a ghost in the night. He tracked the other assassin in silence and darkness.
The footsteps of the man ahead of him moved swiftly, then hesitantly, then swiftly again.
This was Elliot’s territory, and here he was master. He’d learned his way around the tunnels of his prison on his own, sometimes hiding down there for days. Whenever his captors found him again, they beat him, but eluding them had given Elliot a small measure of triumph. He’d made his captors hunt him. He’d turned the tables and enraged them.
The unknown man in the dark was trying to kill Stacy for defiling an Indian prince’s sister. Never mind that the prince had kept Jaya behind locked doors, never allowing her even to look out a window. Jaya, as headstrong as her brothers had been, had escaped. Jaya had been gifted in conversation and intelligence, wasted, secreted in her luxurious home, waiting for her brothers to marry her to some elderly wealthy man to further their own power.
He couldn’t help thinking that Juliana would have liked Jaya
in other circumstances and been indignant on her behalf.
The man was slowing now, uncertain. He went one way, then the other. Elliot followed, allowing his footfalls to sound occasionally so that the other man would flee him.
Up through a tunnel, again with a low ceiling. A faint light glowed at the end, and the man hurried forward.
The light was not daylight. It came from the cracks around the trapdoor that led to the boiler room. Elliot’s quarry hesitated, then swarmed up the ladder fixed into the wall.
They or Stacy must have found the entrance before and worked on the door, because the man quickly pushed it open and climbed through. Elliot rushed him, yelling.
The assassin turned around and shot once, but Elliot had expected that. He threw himself out of the way, the bullet missing him and pinging into the wall. The assassin climbed desperately up into the house, Elliot after him.
The assassin burst out of the boiler room and through the main cellars, up into the kitchen. Screams sounded, and Elliot’s throat closed up as he pounded after him. Mahindar’s family would be up there—with Priti.
Elliot was hard on the man’s heels. He had his pistol, but the assassin decided that using Channan then Nandita as shields was a good idea. Komal, on the other hand, picked up a long knife and went at him.
The man dropped Nandita, who, screaming, somehow found her way to Hamish as the lad barreled into the kitchen.
But the assassin was still running. He stormed into the main part of the house, where Juliana would be. Alone.
There she was, standing in the vestibule, looking down the hall at the approaching man with wide, frightened eyes. Priti was nowhere in sight, hadn’t been in the kitchens either. Safe?
The assassin ran into the staircase hall. Elliot stopped, lifted his pistol, and took aim.
“Mr. McGregor!” Juliana shouted. “Now!”
A deafening roar filled the hall as McGregor, on the landing above them, aimed his shotgun at the ceiling and fired both barrels. The shots struck the plaster and stone around the great chandelier, which swung, groaned, and tore out of the ceiling with a rush of rock, nails, and rusted metal.
The Seduction of Elliot McBride Page 24
