A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Not the vengeful sort?”

  The man across from her became very still, like cold marble. “Once upon a time, I was,” he said quietly.

  Isobel had little doubt of that. There was a dangerous glint to the man, a steady, unwavering determination that she hoped she never crossed. She took a long draught of the amber liquid, feeling it warm her shaky insides.

  “After we return that record, we can head to the Napa Asylum. Hopefully August will come through with the warrant. Bright Waters was a simple affair, but the Napa Asylum is secure.”

  “Hmm.” Isobel held the top of the glass with her fingers, watching the firelight dance in amber. A thought swirled to the surface of her mind. “How did I escape?” she repeated softly. “My father’s vineyards aren’t far from the asylum—maybe ten miles. When I was young, eight or nine, I remember a scare that rippled through the town. A patient had escaped from the secure ward. Days later, the newspaper said he had been found dead, and everyone breathed easy.” She frowned. “But during one my nightly excursions, I saw him—the dead man—stealing apples from an orchard.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I asked the fellow how freedom was treating him. He said just fine, handed me an apple, and we parted ways.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “He was just some poor Italian immigrant with a slur and a lazy eye. I was more terrified that he’d turn me in.” She shrugged. “I’ve a knack for judging people. There’s a lot you can tell from looking a man in the eye.”

  “I’ve been wrong once or twice,” Riot confided.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes,” he said gravely. “Vindication is a strong deception. If a man believes he is in the right, there is nothing to give him away. Are you suggesting that Virgil is still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” she sighed. “And I’m not sure I want to find out.” Her eyes drifted to Violet’s record. She felt suddenly sick, and set down her glass, changing the subject. “This is the second night you've gotten me soused.”

  “You don't hold much liqueur,” Riot pointed out. “Take the bed.”

  “This chair will suit me just fine,” she murmured, resting her head against the cushion.

  Riot looked at her evenly. “Do I strike you as a man who would allow a lady to suffer sleep in a stiff chair?”

  “Do I look like a lady?”

  “I know you are.”

  “Well, I'm a stubborn one.”

  “And I'm a stubborn fellow. I suppose we'll both sleep in the chair.” He crossed his arms over his chest and settled in.

  “Together?” she arched a brow. “I doubt we'd fit, Mr. Riot.”

  He tilted his head. “You'd be surprised.”

  Before color could trace her cheekbones, she stood, and walked a relatively straight line towards the bedroom. “Fine, I’ll take the dratted bed.” Riot smiled, and despite her back to him, she sensed it. “But I think you’re more clever than stubborn.”

  “Everyone has his weakness,” he drawled.

  She stopped in the doorway, and turned. “And you think you’re mine?”

  “Am I?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve a mind to call your bluff.”

  “Cock sure of yourself, are you?” Isobel smirked.

  “I’ve never been wrong about a bluff.”

  “Then why don't you?” she challenged.

  “I would never force your hand, Miss Bel.”

  In answer, she clucked like a chicken and made for the bed.

  28

  Shattered Peace

  Tuesday, February 20th, 1900

  “ANY WORD ON THE hackman, Tim?” Riot asked into the telephone.

  “I tracked him down!” the old man’s voice burst from the other line.

  Riot jerked his head away from the earpiece. “You don’t need to shout.”

  “What?!”

  “Never mind. You were saying?” Riot prodded, keeping the earpiece at a safe distance.

  “The hackman picked up his fare on Market, took this woman to Elma’s, was told to wait, and Violet emerged about fifteen minutes later. She had the hackman drop her off a block away from the house where we found Henry.”

  “Interesting.”

  “No, what’s interesting is what Smith discovered,” Tim said with pride. The young man was something of a project for the grizzled veteran. Riot was not yet sure if the ex-patrolman showed promise. Smith was not a free thinker, but at the very least he was thorough. “I had Smith ask around the neighborhood there. A mother with a buggy said that a handsome gentleman with a beard came out of the lane about two o’clock. He had a suitcase, and that struck her as odd. So I passed his description on to my contacts in the Union. A hackman picked up a gentleman that matched the description on the main street nearby. He remembered him so readily because he took the fellow all the way to Ocean Beach.”

  “Good work,” Riot said. “We’ll show your hackman the photographs when we return. See if he recognizes either men.”

  “Oh, and that August fellow rang the agency. He was lookin’ for Miss—er Bonnie. Seems the request for records will take weeks.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Backlog,” Tim said.

  “I see.” Riot frowned at the nosey switchboard operator, and turned away. “Are there any judges who owe us a favor?” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Favors, Tim,” he said suggestively. “Do we have any?”

  “No, ‘fraid we ran out of those years ago. Most have retired. New blood and lots of graft.”

  “Can we grease any?”

  “Do we want to?”

  “I might,” Riot hesitated. “Hold off for now. The closest telephone line is about three miles from Bright Waters. If you need to contact me, it’ll have to be by messenger. We’ll likely be traveling to Napa Asylum, today or tomorrow.”

  “Sure thing. And A.J.?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be too much of a gentleman. I like that girl.”

  In answer, Riot hung the earpiece on its hook.

  ✥

  Water trickled in the fountain, a pleasant accompaniment to the rustle of leaves. Isobel sat on the edge of the stone, idly running her fingers over the water. One eye was on the rippling patterns, and the other on the front of the building.

  Dr. Bright was ensconced in his office with a new patient. She had wandered the hallways one too many times and attracted the attention of a concerned nurse. When the nurse had tried to coax her into one of the group activities, Isobel had fled. And here she had remained, waiting.

  A woman walked onto the green. Curly red hair stuck out from beneath her wide hat, and a white rabbit hopped behind her on a leash. “Mind the weeds, Mr. Darcy. You know they don’t agree with your stomach.” The woman cooed and talked to the rabbit, walking ever closer. Five feet away, she stopped, and lifted her head, blinking through her spectacles. “We’ve a visitor.”

  “Yes.” Introductions were made. And Isobel gave a polite nod to Mr. Darcy.

  “I saw you with that handsome gentleman yesterday,” Miss Meredith said. She had not offered a proper name.

  “My husband.”

  “Hmm.” The woman eyed her with skepticism. “Mr. Darcy doesn’t believe you to be trustworthy.”

  Isobel glanced at the rabbit. “Well, I’m likely not. He’s a wise lagomorph.”

  “You should speak directly to him, he has large ears, after all.”

  Isobel repeated herself to the rabbit.

  Meredith smiled. “You’re still not trustworthy.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first to think so. Life wouldn’t be half as interesting if I won over everyone.”

  “No, no it would not.” Miss Meredith took a seat on the fountain. “I became tired of everyone smiling behind glassy eyes, so I started walking around with a rabbit to amuse myself.”

  “I pretended to be a cat once for a full week.”

  “How did that go?”


  “I was chased by numerous dogs.”

  Miss Meredith laughed. And then abruptly stopped, turning a sharp gaze on her. “You’re not unstable. I didn’t think. Not on that man’s arm. There’s too much mirth in your eye.”

  “Most would disagree.”

  “Well, not the crazy kind at any rate.”

  “Most would disagree with that too.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m recovering from—” Isobel was about to say fever, but she took one look at the woman and changed her story. “Truth be told, I’m hoping to discover more about a patient who used to work here: Elizabeth Foster.”

  “Oh,” Meredith sighed. “I was hoping for something more exciting.”

  “If it helps, I broke into the doctor’s office and stole her file.”

  “Delicious.” The woman’s eyes sparkled. “Did you find all that you required?”

  “I suppose,” Isobel said. “Did you know her?”

  “Of course, I know every patient here.”

  “Are you a patient?”

  “Only when I want to be,” Meredith smiled. “When San Francisco becomes tiresome, I come here.” The woman’s brows creased. “Is Elizabeth in trouble?”

  “I’m afraid she committed suicide.” Isobel held her breath, wondering if she would have to quiet a hysterical woman, but no such thing occurred, which was fortunate, because the only thing that came to mind was hitting the woman over the head.

  “Oh, dear,” Meredith breathed. “Bright will be crushed. He really thought he helped her find peace.”

  “She died under suspicious circumstances. That’s why I’m investigating. Did she confide in you?”

  “Yes, I know all about Virgil. She blamed herself for his death.”

  “It was her fault,” Isobel said, bluntly.

  Meredith tilted her head to the side. “Have you never made a mistake, Miss Bonnie? Spoken a wrong word, loved the wrong man, hurt a friend?”

  “I take responsibility for my blunders,” she said matter of fact.

  “So did Elizabeth, or she wouldn’t have been plagued with guilt.” The woman reached down and stroked her rabbit. “All around it’s a sad end.”

  “Did she ever say who she caught Virgil with?”

  “Violet didn’t recognize the man.” There wasn’t even a shade of coloring on the woman’s cheek. But then that was unsurprising in San Francisco; eccentrics thrived and polite society’s varnish was thin.

  “Is Virgil dead?”

  “Why, of course,” Meredith said. “Who else would have been writing those letters?”

  “You believe a ghost was writing letters?”

  “Living or dead; man or beast, every thing has a way of communicating. Mr. Darcy tells me what to write all the time.” Meredith smiled pleasantly, stroking her rabbit. Isobel waited, but the woman did not betray any hint of jest.

  “Er, yes, I’m sure he’s eloquent.” The stiff papers tucked under her waistband reminded her of other matters. “Are you acquainted with Dr. Bright?”

  “I am.”

  “Would you like to aid and abet my replacement of this file?”

  The woman’s eyes twinkled. “Consider him distracted, but only if you promise to visit Mr. Darcy in San Francisco.”

  Isobel looked at the rabbit. “Does he get along with cats?”

  “Depends on the cat.”

  ✥

  The hallway was empty. Isobel opened the door, and slipped out, taking care to walk at a normal pace. The record was safely ensconced in its drawer. She glanced out an open window, and spotted Miss Meredith with Dr. Bright. The rabbit was on his lap. Perhaps the woman had coaxed the alienist into a session with Mr. Darcy.

  Isobel gave the agreed upon signal and Miss Meredith dipped her hat in acknowledgement. With her task complete, Isobel made for the bungalow. Riot had left some time ago, trusting her to return the stolen record. He had made no suggestions, there had been no overtures of concern; simply a tip of his hat.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, Bel,’ he had said.

  As Isobel strolled through the complex, she considered the detective and his easy confidence, not only the way he carried himself, but with her. Riot trusted her as he would any competent man.

  With her thoughts swirling, she opened the bungalow door, shedding hat, coat, and gloves on her way to the bath. The day was hot. She turned on the taps in the sink, loosened her tie, unbuttoned the collar down to her bodice, and soaked a washcloth in cool water. As much as she’d like to take advantage of the mineral baths, Riot would return with news soon, and whether August had secured a warrant or not, she intended to discover the fate of Virgil Cunningham.

  Refreshed, she turned off the taps, and walked into the bedroom, rubbing a towel over her brief hair. She looked into the mirror, and stopped. The wardrobe was cracked. And an eye stared from the darkness.

  As one, the wardrobe burst open and Isobel threw herself towards the sitting room. But the man was fast. A hand gripped her loose blouse, tugging her back. She was lifted clean off her feet, and slammed onto the floor. The air was knocked from her lungs. A heavy weight fell on top of her and fingers locked around her throat. She kicked and twisted, but the grip was iron. Vacant eyes loomed, empty of feeling.

  Isobel kicked up, catching the man’s groin with her boot. He was unfazed. Dark spots danced across her vision. Desperate, she let go of the rock like forearms and slapped her palms against his ears. The man reeled and howled like a beast. She turned and scrambled forward on her knees, reaching for her umbrella. Steel slid with a rasp, and she lunged at the man with purpose.

  ✥

  “Your wife will be in good hands, Mr. Morgan. You may visit her whenever you wish. Gentlemen also enjoy the restorative powers of the hot springs,” Bright was saying. The doctor had intercepted Riot as he entered the compound from the road.

  “I have no need of restorative healing, but I thank you.”

  The cheerful man shifted, looking grave. Bright cleared his throat and leant forward, as if the expanse of green was a crowded lobby. “All men deny it.”

  “Deny what?”

  “When I spoke with your wife in private yesterday, she confided that you had certain—inabilities. Such debilitating ailments can greatly contribute to a woman’s hysteria. I’m afraid your wife is quite ill. I think a joint treatment would be beneficial.”

  “My ailment,” Riot murmured in thought. The word clicked. And he imagined Isobel’s impish relish as she divulged this bit of information during her interview. “Yes, right,” he cleared his throat.

  “She confided in me under the strictest confidence.”

  “I’m sure,” Riot drawled, and then glanced towards the main ward. “There appears to be a nurse signaling you.” He pointed towards the door with his stick, and Bright followed like a well trained dog. “She ducked back inside the door.”

  “I’m afraid I’m needed, then.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, if a cure is possible, I shall greatly like that.”

  “Any man would.”

  Riot watched the doctor trot after the imaginary nurse. With a slight shake of his head, he readjusted his panama, and made for the bungalow to confront his imaginative ‘wife’.

  Stick in hand, Riot ambled under the sun, enjoying the birds and quiet. This was a hospital he could bear.

  An inhuman howl shattered the peace. It raged like a bear caught in a trap. The sound came from the bungalow.

  Without pause, he gripped his stick around the neck, and ran. His hat flew off, forgotten, as he stretched his legs. The door flew open to his worry.

  Isobel was on her knees. A man towering over her. She thrust her sword. The man caught the blade between his palms, twisting and wrenching the sword from her hands. She fell forward, gasping for breath.

  The man swung, but Riot lunged, catching the blade on his stick. The edge slid dangerously down the length, and he jerked his stick up, knocking the blade away. Off balance from the extended thrust, Riot
staggered forward. A head slammed into his, dropping Riot to his knees. A swish of air signaled death, and he reacted, rolling forward. He came up, slapping his stick across the man’s wrist. The sword fell. Riot pressed the attack, catching the man across the jaw with a double-handed swing.

  The man charged.

  Riot’s face caught a fist, knocking his head to the side. His spectacles flew into the room. He tasted blood. Isobel came to his rescue, snatching up her fallen blade and driving it towards the man’s chest. The point dug in, bones deflected, and it slid along his ribs.

  The man staggered, turned, and threw himself out the window. Riot followed, revolver in hand. Without spectacles, he was nearly blind, but his ears were keen. He followed the crash of boots, and fired at the racing blur. The blur darted to the side, and he fired at another. It might have been a tree.

  Something jangled, and metal clicked. A hoof stomped. Riot threw himself to the side. Wood and dust pelted his face as a thunder of hooves filled his ringing ears.

  “Riot!” Isobel rasped, skidding to a stop. He pressed his revolver into her hand and watched as she extended her arm, aimed, and fired. A horse screamed, followed by a crash.

  Isobel dashed forward, and he followed on her heels, keeping her form in his limited orb of sight. She came to a stop at a thrashing horse. Riot took his gun from her hand, and she doubled over; hand on knees, gasping for air.

  Nothing moved in the blurred forest.

  “He’s gone,” she choked. “It’s like he doesn’t feel pain.” More words were lost in a fit of coughing. Riot eyed her torn blouse and the red discoloration on her skin. A slow, smoldering anger took root. The marks were sure to bruise black by tomorrow.

  When her breath returned, Isobel looked at the horse, and reached for the fallen rifle. “At least he’s weaponless.” Mist clouded her eyes. “I wanted him alive—so I shot the horse.”

  “Let me.” Riot held out a hand, because her own were shaking.

  “It’s my doing—my duty.” She pulled the lever, expelled the cartridge, and loaded the next with a snap. In one determined motion, she cocked, aimed, and fired. The wounded horse stilled.