“All right,” Nick said sunnily, “if you’d rather I kept it to myself.”
“Nick—”
“Look here, we’ve got to get out. That Blackstock is up to something.”
“The milkman? I thought he’d gone.”
Nick’s mouth turned down in disdain. “He made a great show of it, that’s sure, but I swear I saw him not half an hour ago.”
“What?”
“I saw what happened when you were arrested.”
“You saw Midgley get killed?”
“No. I wasn’t there till Constable Watts was taking you off. I thought I’d better go get Trenton, but he wouldn’t listen. Said to talk to Watts about it. But I heard what Watts told you, and I know that would be a bust all the way round. So I thought I’d better get you out myself. I don’t know what Blackstock’s up to now. At first I didn’t quite think it was him. It was hard to see in the dark, and he didn’t look the same, but I’m certain now it was him.”
“What would he have been doing out there? Especially this time of night? The only place he could have been was Midgley’s or . . .” Drew sprang to his feet. “We’ve got to get out. Nick, we’ve got to get out now.”
Nick nodded. “Right.”
“The key, man. Give me the key.”
Drew snatched it from Nick’s hand, almost sending it flying across the cell and then fumbling with it as he reached through the bars and fitted it into the lock.
“Quiet now,” Nick whispered. “You’ll have Teddy in here before you can say jailbreak.”
“We’ve no time. God help me, Nick, why didn’t I see it before?”
There was a loud clank and then a metallic shriek as he shoved the cell door open.
“Here now!” Watts was on his feet, standing between Drew and Nick and the door to the street. “You just give me that key and get back where you were. It’s a violation of Ordinance 126—”
Drew stepped right in front of him, putting his face not a foot from the constable’s. “Shut up and listen to me.”
The constable blinked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bloodworth and my wife and who knows who else might very well be being murdered at this instant. Now either my friend here and I can shove you into that cell and leave you locked up until we’ve stopped those murders from happening, or you can come along with us and do your job.”
“Murders? Just hold steady there, sir. We’ve been through this about Midgley already. Now you claim Mr. Bloodworth—”
“Blackstock’s headed towards the Lodge right now. He killed Midgley. I daresay he did for the vicar and Miss Patterson, as well.”
“That nice Mr. Blackstock? But he’s gone to America.”
Drew and Nick seized the constable each by an arm, hurrying him toward the door.
“Here!” Watts protested. “You can’t—”
“I’ll tell you everything on the way.” It was all Drew could do to keep his voice low and even. “So help me, if anything happens to my wife because you stood here dithering—”
The constable swallowed hard. “We’ll take the car.”
Madeline sighed and put down her book. It was a new one by Sayers, The Nine Tailors, and whether it was the author’s long, technical passages on parish bell ringing or her own restlessness, she couldn’t seem to truly engross herself in the story. Perhaps the problem was that for the first time in nearly two years, Drew was not lying beside her in bed, reading over her shoulder or listening to her read aloud or reading aloud himself.
They had fallen into the habit of not just reading mystery stories, but solving them along with whatever sleuth happened to be in the starring role. They discussed the clues and the suspects, forming and discarding theories as the story progressed and then judging their success not by whether they found the same answer the book presented, but by whether, with the clues they had been given, their solution had been superior. And woe betide the author who did not play fairly with his reader. Reading mysteries on her own was never as engaging as it had been when she was single.
She removed the two pillows she had behind her, bunched them into rather square packet-looking shapes, and put them behind her once more. She didn’t like Drew being out there on the moor all night. Surely that wasn’t really necessary anyway. If Midgley was going to have a clandestine meeting with whomever was paying him, there was no actual need to have that meeting at the stroke of midnight under a full moon or any other such Gothic nonsense. The whole thing would probably, as Drew liked to say, be a bust.
She picked up the book again, determined not to worry, and felt a wave of grogginess roll over her. It was ten past twelve now, not so very late. She had spent the time after dinner playing cards with Sabrina while Beaky saw to some business matters, and their conversation had been illuminating. It had nothing to do with the case, though it said much about Sabrina herself, yet it wasn’t something Madeline felt she could share with Drew. Sabrina deserved to have her confidences kept.
The book slipped into Madeline’s lap, and she blinked, sitting up straight again. There was a sudden throbbing in her head. She couldn’t seem to draw a steady breath. Something was wrong. Wrong with the air. Something nasty in the smell of it. She knew it was wrong, although she couldn’t seem to remember why, and yet she was vaguely aware that she should get out. Get out. Still, she was so tired, her head was heavy, and her eyes would hardly stay open. That was all right. It was getting a little dim anyway.
Get out. Get out.
There was something urgent in the words. Her words? She didn’t know. She wanted to just lie down and sleep, but she couldn’t. She had to get out.
She pulled herself up against the bedpost and managed to put her feet on the floor. She wouldn’t say anything to Drew about Sabrina . . .
Sabrina? Sabrina and Beaky.
The door seemed a mile away. She staggered to it, somehow remembering to turn the knob, somehow remembering that smell. That rotten, sulfurous smell. It was still faint, but it was growing stronger.
She flung open the door and stumbled down the hallway, coughing now, her head pounding. Pounding. She pounded on the door to Beaky and Sabrina’s bedroom, trying to call to them but unable to manage more than a breathless wheeze. She had to get out. They had to get out. She pounded again, barely able to hold herself upright, and then she pushed the door open.
Beaky was lying in bed in his pajamas, mouth open, looking strange without his glasses. His face was oddly pink, his lips unnaturally red, hair flaming against the pillows. He had been pulled to one side. The upper half of his body looked as if it might slide off the bed. Across him at an odd angle, one hand twisted into the front of his pajamas, lay Sabrina, as pink and red as he. She must have known, too. She must have been awake and smelled the choking foulness. Must have been overcome with dizziness.
Madeline grabbed her arm. “Sabrina, get out. Have to get out. Sabrina.”
She tried to shout, to shake her, to wake her, but nothing seemed to work. Not her voice, not her limbs, not her eyes. It was getting dimmer, the throbbing in her head was almost unbearable, and her stomach heaved as if she would be sick.
“Get out,” she sobbed.
She gave Sabrina’s arm another useless tug. Then the room spun, and a rushing blackness swallowed her.
Nineteen
Bloodworth Park Lodge was dark and still.
“Stop here,” Drew said when they’d reached the bend that turned toward the house. “Turn out the lights. We’d better walk from here. I’d rather see what’s going on before we make our presence known.”
The constable complied, and the three of them started toward the house. There was just enough moonlight to keep them from stumbling, just enough to illuminate the dark figure hurrying across the moor toward the north wing. Drew caught Nick’s arm and pointed at it. Nick nodded, motioned for Watts to come with him, and disappeared around the far side of the house.
Drew moved into the shadows near the house, waited until the figure drew closer, and
then stepped forward. “I think you ought to stop right there.”
“Mr. Farthering.” Rhys Delwyn glared at him and lowered his shotgun. “I thought you were locked up.”
“Obviously. Leaving you and your mate the perfect opportunity to—”
“Don’t be foolish. He’s gone inside already, into the north wing. The Bloodworths and your wife—”
“I’ll have that if you don’t mind,” Watts said, taking the gun from Delwyn as he and Nick emerged from the other side of the house. “We’ve been watching you for some time, lad.”
“Give it a rest, Teddy,” Delwyn said. “Keep the gun if you like, but don’t waste time out here. He’s already inside.”
“Odd your being here just now,” Drew said.
“It was Iris. She told me what her father said to the man who killed him. She didn’t tell the police. She wasn’t sure what it all meant and, him having just been killed, she didn’t like to speak ill of her father. But she said they were going to finish things off tonight. Evidently, Midgley said he wanted more money or he’d go to the police with what he knew, and that’s why he was murdered. I tell you, Mr. Farthering, we haven’t time for this. She didn’t hear any details, but it’s supposed to look like an accident. Something to do with the furnace.”
“We’ve got to get them out of there.” Drew sprinted toward the house. “God help us. Come on!”
“What about Blackstock?” Nick asked, running after him. “He might well blow the whole place to kingdom come if he knows we’re onto him.”
“We’ve got to get them out,” Drew repeated, calling back as he ran, “Watts, go round to the servants’ wing and see they all get out. Away from the house!”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He rushed to the front door, opened it with the latch key, and dashed into the hallway.
“Madeline!” He took the stairs two at a time with Nick and Delwyn just behind him. “Madeline!”
The door to the room he and she shared stood open. The bedcovers were thrown back, one of the pillows lay on the floor, but she was nowhere in sight.
“Over here!” Delwyn shouted from down the corridor. “They’re here!”
Drew ran to him and skidded to a stop in the doorway of Beaky’s room. He was sprawled on the bed with Sabrina collapsed over him. And there on the floor—
“Madeline.”
She lay there in her white nightgown, curled up on the thick carpeting, her skin too pink, her lips too red. He stumbled to her side, half choked on the noxious air.
“Madeline.” He patted her cheek. “Madeline. Darling.”
“Quick, let’s get them out,” Delwyn said, feeling the pulse at Sabrina’s throat and then at Beaky’s. “It may already be too late.”
“No,” Drew breathed. “Nick, get that window open. Hurry.”
Nick glanced back at him, eyes wide, wheezing with effort. “It’s not budging.”
“Get it open!” A prayer for help shrieking inside his head, Drew gathered Madeline into his arms as Delwyn picked up Sabrina.
Nick seized the chair from in front of the dressing table and smashed it through the glass. There was a sudden rush of cold air, and Drew’s head cleared just the slightest bit.
He stood, swayed for an instant, then started for the door. Delwyn was already in the corridor. Nick had Beaky heaved across his shoulder. The three of them staggered to the stairs, down to the entryway, and out onto the front lawn. Watts and all the servants were coming from the other end of the house, frightened and confused, dismayed to see their master and mistress and the American lady laid out on the dead grass and not moving.
Sabrina coughed first, wheezing and choking, soon joined by her husband in that. Nestled against Drew’s chest, Madeline was still.
“Darling,” he murmured against her cheek as he chafed her wrist. “Please, darling.”
Please, God, please . . .
She drew a little gasping breath and then began to cough, struggling for breath, struggling to free herself from whatever was holding her.
“Shh, Madeline. I’ve got you, love. You’re all right. Just breathe.”
She clung to him, coughing and shaking as he stroked her hair. He laughed softly, his face turned heavenward as he too gulped down the sweet cold air of the October night, his eyes stinging with tears. Thank God.
“It’s all right, darling.”
Sabrina was struggling to sit up, to breathe, to talk. Delwyn gave her into the capable hands of her maid and went over to Nick and Beaky.
“How is he?” the gamekeeper asked. “Sit him up a little.”
Nick did so. “Come on, Beaky, old man, rise and shine now.”
Beaky wheezed and choked as if he would be sick, but then his eyes snapped open. “Sabrina? Where’s—?”
“She’s all right. She’s right here.”
Beaky squinted into Nick’s face.
“That’s more like it,” Nick said with a grin.
“That’s not Nicky Dennison, is it?”
“The very same,” Nick said. “Getting you out of a fix as always.”
Beaky tried to laugh and wheezed instead. “Sabrina—”
Sabrina pushed her maid away and managed to wriggle closer to him, her expression severe. “Beaky, you idiot,” she rasped, but she twined her fingers into his, and his hand tightened around them.
Drew frowned and then noticed that Madeline’s eyes were on him. Drat the girl, she was smirking. Not caring, he hugged her closer and felt her shiver. At once he had his coat off and around her shoulders.
“We’ve got to get them inside somewhere,” he said, “until the house is safe.” He looked around, trying to see into the darkness. “We’ve got to find Blackstock, or Faber rather. Before he gets away.”
Madeline’s forehead wrinkled. “What?”
“I’ll tell you everything later, darling. Are you all right for now?”
She nodded, still looking perplexed.
“I’ll see to her, sir.” The cook, Mrs. Norris, came to Madeline’s side and put her own slippers, worn and a world too wide, on Madeline’s bare feet. “Come on, dear. We’d better get you out of the cold.”
“The garage, if you think it best, sir,” Halford said, helping Nick get Beaky to his feet.
Beaky kept hold of Sabrina’s hand, and she stood with him.
“You’ll see to things here, Halford?” Drew said, still scanning the area.
“Certainly, sir.”
Beaky’s valet, Anderson, had already taken charge of his master, clucking over his thin pajamas and unshod feet there in the wet.
Drew kissed Madeline. “You rest and catch your breath, darling. Nick and I are going to see to our mysterious Mr. Faber.”
She was too dazed still to make much protest. Halford began helping everyone toward the relative warmth of the garage.
Drew motioned to Nick and Delwyn. “Come on.”
Watts fell in with them. “I am a constable,” he said when Drew gave him a hard look.
“You’d better keep that gun at the ready then,” Drew said. “Or give it back to Delwyn.”
Watts kept stubborn hold of the weapon. The gamekeeper only huffed and strode toward the house.
“He can’t be long gone,” Drew said. “They’d all be dead if we hadn’t come fairly soon after he’d done his tampering. I don’t know where—”
He froze at the sound of a low growl, and then a large black shape stalked out of the darkness of the north wing, snarling and showing white fangs. Behind it, another figure, barely visible, laughed low.
“Come out, Faber,” Drew said. “The game’s up. We know who you are.”
That elicited another low laugh. “You say there’s no hound. Maybe. Maybe not. But I can promise you this one will tear you to bits unless you stand aside and let us go.”
The man’s voice must have been the one Iris had heard when her father was murdered. It was a gentleman’s voice. Not Blackstock’s.
Watts leveled the gun at the dog.
“Step back, Mr. Farthering, sir.”
Swearing under his breath, Delwyn snatched the weapon from him, still keeping it trained on the dog. “You think again, Blackstock, or Faber, or whatever you go by. Don’t make the poor beast suffer for what you’ve done. Just call him off and come out quietly.”
For a moment there was absolute silence. No one dared move. Then with a sob the man threw himself to his knees beside the dog, pulling its head against his heart, shielding it with his body.
“Poor old Kedgeree. They turned us both out, didn’t they?”
The animal whined and wriggled, its heavy tail thumping the ground.
“Come on, Baxter,” Delwyn coaxed. “You remember me, boy, eh?”
The dog looked at him, old eyes wary, puzzled. Not forgetting their last encounter, Drew took a careful step forward. The dog immediately lowered its head, growling low in its throat.
“Never mind now,” the man kneeling there soothed, and the dog thumped its tail again. “Never mind.”
It was Blackstock all right, the man they had known as Blackstock at any rate, even if his voice was different now and his beard and spectacles were gone. Gone too was the bland, eager-to-please expression. In its place was something craftier, watchful, defensive.
“He hasn’t done anything,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Don’t hurt him.”
“I’ll see he’s looked after,” Delwyn said, holding out his hand but keeping the gun at the ready just the same.
“You’ll have to come with me, sir,” Watts said, looking uncertain of whom he was arresting and on how many charges. “Better let him be seen to now.”
The other man glared back and then took his arms from around the dog. “Go on.”
“Come on, Baxter. Come on.” The gamekeeper patted his leg encouragingly, and the dog padded over to him and sat down at his heel. Delwyn put his hand on its head. “There’s a boy.”
The other man stood. “What now? I suppose you’ll put me away again. Wouldn’t want to upset things now. Wouldn’t want to make the family uncomfortable. Not after fifteen years, would we?”
“You’ve been busy since you left Norfolk,” Drew said. “We’ll have a nice talk about that once everything here is cleared up, wouldn’t you say, Faber?”
Murder on the Moor Page 25
