Two tears slipped past her guard before she wiped them away with a savage hand. “The man’s wounded. Can you track him, Riot?”
“I’ll need my spectacles first.”
29
Disastrous End
GUNSHOTS IN THE COUNTRY (and even the city) were not uncommon; however, to a sanitarium of ailing women, it was startling. One shot was excusable, but four fired in rapid succession was not. Isobel and Riot were met with two rifles, one worried doctor and a handful of determined nurses, two of whom had pistols of their own. Isobel retreated to the bedroom, leaving Riot to handle the mess.
The detective brandished his card and came clean with the true reason for their visit. His firm voice and clipped tones knocked sense into the group. The words ‘murder investigation’ didn’t hurt either.
“Who attacked you?” Dr. Bright asked.
“I don’t know for sure, but I suspect he’s connected to the death of a former patient: Elizabeth Foster,” Riot replied. “Fetch the police, give them my card. There’s a dead horse a ways back from the bungalow.”
“Is your wife all right?”
“The man attacked her in this room. Keep your patients inside and the shutters closed.”
“Word mustn’t get out. We’ll be ruined.”
“That’s why we’re going after the man.”
“We?” the doctor asked, startled.
Riot ignored the question. “Do you have horses and a spare rifle?”
✥
Footsteps approached. Riot stopped a foot away; his gun was holstered on his hip, and he had two horses in tow.
“Our attacker wasn’t carrying much,” Isobel noted. “Provisions and the such, enough for two days.” Unfortunately, the contents of the saddlebags did not include a helpful calling card. The horse was branded, so there was that. But that lead could wait. She said as much.
“Did you recognize the man?”
“He seemed familiar,” she said, shaking out a spare bundle of clothes as if the act would loosen her memory.
“Can you ride?”
“Bareback even,” she replied, distracted. She squinted at a trouser leg. “Do you have your glass?”
Riot reached under his coat, and produced his magnifying glass. She unfolded it, and looked at the fabric. A few strands of fine hair were caught in the cloth. She extracted one, examining it beneath the glass. “Dog hair,” she muttered. “A ten pound Yorkshire to be exact. Its owner wears a monocle, can’t swim, and is an excellent actor.”
“All from a dog’s hair?”
“Simple deduction,” she said in a superior tone. Isobel stuffed the clothing back inside the bags and stood, dusting off her split riding skirt. It had been in the bag of clothing that Lotario had left her, and she was grateful for his thoughtfulness. Switching guises in a small town was near to impossible, and given her precarious existence, she was loathed to risk being fined (and possibly jailed) for indecency while wearing trousers.
Isobel took the reins from her companion. “I think that man is our ghost.”
Riot put his foot in a stirrup, and swung into the saddle with ease. Isobel followed suit, and while he kept his bespectacled eyes to the ground, she kept hers on the forest.
✥
An hour in, Riot dismounted. She followed, taking his reins as he crouched on the ground. “Our friend finally stopped here to bind his wounds. Up until now, he’s been running flat out. I think he has a destination in mind.”
Isobel looked around the countryside. The ground sloped upwards, and the oak climbed with the hill.
“He’s tired, and has a bad knee,” Riot added.
The comment drew her attention, and she frowned at the leaf strewn ground. “How can you possibly tell all of that from a few drops of blood and an occasional scuff in the dirt?”
“Simple deduction,” he said dryly. Riot pushed up his hat and looked at her from beneath the brim.
“I deserve that,” she admitted, and went on to explain. “The photograph of Virgil—it was familiar because I think I’ve met his aged self. The man who attacked me was familiar because I suspect he is the man who discovered Violet in the water. Only he went by the name of Nigel Harrison and wore a disguise. The monocle distracted me from his eyes.”
“Ah, the gentleman with the dog that did not care for you.”
“In the general run of things, dogs don’t find me agreeable.”
“Noted,” Riot said, rubbing his jaw in thought. There was a nasty bruise beneath his beard and blood on his lip from the fight. “That would explain why the handwriting in the letters matched the message in sand. And the claim that neither surfman noticed the writing.”
“I should have done what the police have been doing for years and suspected the first man to find the body. It’s nearly as bad as the ‘butler did it’,” she sighed.
Riot chuckled. “I’ve caught my fair share of butlers.” He pointed to the ground and she followed his fingers as he traced out the boot print, the length of stride, and showed her how one side of the print was deeper than the other, hence the limp. “And blood there, by that scuff, where he struggled to bind the wound.”
“Usually things are simplified when explained; this is not one of those things.”
Riot pulled his hat low, shading his eyes. “It’s like learning a new language. Things will start to make sense eventually.” He stood, and drew his revolver. “I think it wise if we walk from here on out.”
Isobel eyed the gun. When she had fired it, she noted the lack of a sighting notch on the tip. A common practice of gunslingers. The notch could catch, and in a gunfight even a split second spanned life and death. Therefore, the notch was sanded down to make for a quick draw.
Isobel took the reins of Riot’s horse, and let her companion take the lead. He walked on, moving at a careful pace that she might have found tedious if it had not been for the approaching dusk and a scarce trail. Virgil, for she was sure it was he, had taken greater pains to cover his tracks.
By the time Riot stopped, the forest was darkening. He nodded towards a sturdy branch. She took his meaning and secured the reins. Together, they moved forward; Riot was not crunching now. He left her behind, moving without sound, and crouched behind a fallen oak. All twisted and dying, its roots were a web of sickly grey.
She crouched at his side, and followed his gaze. A hole disappeared into the hillside. An old mine shaft, overgrown with bramble.
“Our rabbit went into his hole,” Isobel murmured.
“I don’t suppose you have a carrot?”
“Hungry?”
“I was going to dangle it in front of the entrance,” Riot replied.
“Who knew you were such a joker?”
“Ravenwood.”
“And how would the illustrious detective have handled this part?”
“He always left this part up to me.”
“I certainly won’t let you have all the fun.” She set her rifle against the log and brought out her pocket lantern.
Riot put a hand over hers. “Let me scout first. There may be another entrance. Keep your sights on that hole.”
She started to argue, but relented. “Tracking and scouting—next you’ll tell me that you’re a half-breed.”
“My mother was a crib whore. I don’t know what the hell I am,” he confided.
“Oh.”
Riot slipped away before she could formulate a better response. But her shock only lasted a moment. Isobel’s good sense spurred her into action. She reached for her rifle and pointed the barrel at the entrance, half watching the hole, but mostly pondering the prim man in a suit who spoke with traces of a European accent. From gutter to gentry; that was one long road.
Minutes passed, and Riot was nowhere to be seen. Time ticked by, and Isobel became suspicious, wondering if he would dare creep in a back entrance without her. She frowned, and just when she was about to move forward, Riot appeared at her side. She nearly squeezed the trigger in surprise.
&nbs
p; “There’s no tracks and no other exits,” he murmured in her ear. The man leaned against the log, watching the hole.
Isobel looked sideways at him. “You’re going to wait, aren’t you?” she accused.
“That was my plan,” he confirmed.
“Well, I have another.”
Without waiting for his reply, she slipped away, and took the long way around, circling out and away to approach the entrance. Riot met her on the other side of the shaft, flanking the cave. His features were grave, and questions lit up his eyes, but he didn’t dare give voice to his worry.
The tunnel disappeared into a void. She unfolded her pocket lantern, lit it, and set it on the ground. With the business end of her rifle, she nudged it towards the center of the passage and pushed it into the shaft. When no shots rang out, she slithered on the ground, hugging the wall. Another nudge, and the lantern slid forward; slither, scrape, slither scrape. The progress was tedious. But a man waiting at the end of the tunnel would be light blinded by the flame, and hopefully confused by its position.
Riot crawled on the other side, keeping on the edge of light.
A voice whispered in the dark. “Couldn’t leave it alone.” When it came again, it seemed to shift, and Isobel was reminded of Riot’s trick with the owl call. “I tried to warn you away, but you came back and stuck your nose in it.”
“It’s not too late, Virgil,” Isobel said, softly. “If you tell me what happened, I might be able to help.” She risked betraying her location, but she didn’t think he had a weapon. If he did, then he would have fired long ago.
“Not too late?” the voice cracked. “It’s far too late.” Nudge, scrape, creep, and a voice of emptiness entered the fray. “Elma told them, and now the roaring won’t stop!” An echo slammed down the tunnel. “Old friends of mine,” a whisper entered the echo, drifting in and out of madness. “Elma didn’t have to say a thing, but she did. I only repaid her in kind, but she was too weak. Ruin and despair. Too weak—” the voice trailed off.
“I understand, Virgil,” Isobel tried again. “You were hurting; you wanted revenge. But you didn’t need to attack me. I’ll let it slide if you come with me.”
Nudge, scrape, creep.
“Death was in the house,” he whispered. “I treated Henry as they treated me. Right into the ear.”
A cackle chilled her bones. Isobel stopped, squinting into the darkness. “Virgil?”
“The roar killed Henry,” he said with conviction. “And Violet let him die. Mad, we were, her and I. It’s done. It’s all done. Better we burned.” A match flared ten feet away.
A shot rang out. The match fell. And the cave filled with thunder.
✥
Rocks pelted her head. Dust filled her nostrils, and the afterimage of a man putting a match to a stick seared her mind’s eye. Isobel curled into a ball, shielding her head, but the earth did not wash over her. It stilled.
Isobel blinked and choked on the dirt. Slowly, she uncurled in the complete dark. A sudden worry pierced her shock. She scrambled across the passage and knocked heads with another skull.
“Damn.”
“I take it you are alive and well,” Riot’s voice was filled with grit.
“I was.” She felt around for her lantern. Riot located it first. After three tries, he managed to light the candle. A tiny orb of warm light illuminated a world of swirling dirt. He set the candle in the lantern, but the mirror was shattered, rendering it nearly useless.
The night sky, far at the end of the shaft, was a welcome sight. The tunnel had not collapsed.
“That did not go according to plan,” she coughed.
“Nothing ever does.” Riot offered a hand, and she accepted. He turned the light towards the source of the blast. Earth and rocks were strewn over the tunnel floor. Virgil lay on his back, half-buried beneath the rocks. She heaved on one, and it rolled away. Dirt shifted, falling from the ceiling, and Riot pulled her back. The tunnel held a restless air.
He lowered the candle, until the light illuminated the dead man. There was a jagged blast hole in his stomach and a neat bullet hole in his hand. He was missing the other.
“Was that dynamite?”
“A very old, tired, and poorly packed stick by my estimation. He likely shortened the wick. From the flash, I wager he was sitting on gunpowder.” More dirt fell, and Riot drew her away. She was happy to follow him into the night air. A biting wind swept down the hillside. In a few hours, it’d be close to freezing.
“I don’t want to sleep here, Riot.”
“No,” he agreed. “There’s a stream nearby. We’ll pack Virgil out in the morning.”
30
Campfire Madness
ISOBEL JABBED A STICK at the fire. “It doesn’t make sense,” she complained to the man at her side.
They sat on their respective bedrolls, and Riot stirred from where he leaned against a fallen log. He had been quiet, watching the moon through a break in the leaves.
“How did Virgil know where we were? Why would he attack us? He could have run and disappeared. And I don’t see that man disguising himself as a woman. Was Violet working with him? Was that message in the sand a lament and not a mocking tribute?”
“I’ve been wondering that same thing,” Riot answered. “There’s still the unknown man Elma caught him with.”
“The lover may not even be involved. Lotario changes his own out like dresses.”
“In that case, as Virgil said, it’s all done.”
A stiff breeze rustled the oak leaves, but with two fallen logs around their camp, the fire only fluttered. Isobel tossed more wood onto the flames. Then she sat back, letting her head fall against the tree. She had scrubbed off the dirt in the nearby stream, and tried to rid herself of the day’s events, but her throat throbbed and Virgil’s voice seem to whisper on the wind. She tried not to think of the half blown up man in the cave; instead, she focused on the myriad of stars.
The warmth radiating from the man next to her was distracting.
“Bel, I swear I can hear you thinking,” her companion drawled.
“This all feels so—”
“Incomplete,” he finished.
“Exactly,” she said. “I hate leaving things half done.”
“We’re not leaving; we’re pausing.”
She blew out a long breath.
“How’s your throat?”
“It feels like someone tried to choke the life from me.” She pulled her peacoat snug, and crossed her arms against the chill.
“Tried is better than dead,” Riot said wryly.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He kept rubbing his temple, pushing up his hat, working his fingertips beneath the brim to massage the scar beneath the white wing of hair.
“I apologize for knocking your head. I didn’t see you in the cave.”
His fingers stilled in surprise, and he lowered his hand with purpose. “It’s likely the blast more than your skull.”
“My company will do that too.”
Riot looked at her. “Never you, Bel.” His eyes were sharp and clear.
“You haven’t spent enough time with me yet.”
“Not nearly enough,” he agreed, “but I hope to.”
She looked to the fire, but her cheeks were already warm. “Where did you go—after you were shot?”
“I kept walking,” he confided. “The injury left me with terrible headaches. Walking seemed to help.”
“Do you have one now?”
“No,” he said, looking ashamed. “It’s a bad habit of mine.”
“Aah,” she realized. “A gambler with a tell.” Isobel clucked her tongue.
“A tell is only useful if you know what an opponent is telling.”
She narrowed her eyes in consideration. “That the jerky and biscuits in the saddlebags wasn’t near enough food.”
Riot’s teeth flashed in the dark. “We’ll have a feast tomorrow.”
“I could use two,” she sighed. “Dist
ract me before I start dreaming of it. Where did you walk?”
“I took a leisurely holiday around the world,” he said.
For the next hour, they swapped travel tales, comparing experiences, and discovering that they had shared the same city on a number of occasions.
“I’m surprised we didn’t cross paths,” Isobel mused.
“We may have.”
“I would have remembered you,” she stated with certainty.
“Would you?”
“Yes, I would have been instantly suspicious.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I’m unforgettable. And I’m sure I would have noticed you.”
“Pinned me for a murderer?”
“Your eyes,” he said. “There aren’t many as striking. They reflect whatever color you’re wearing.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that you’re purposefully trying to make me blush.”
“A worthy goal.”
“A useless one,” she corrected. “Finishing school taught me that a lady is supposed to graciously accept compliments with an artful acknowledgement while presenting her attractive side.”
“You appear to have failed that lesson, then.”
“It’s the firelight,” she said airily. “But thank you all the same.” The logs shifted, sending sparks into the night. Isobel took a breath, and then a plunge. “August told me about your partner.”
Riot arched a brow. “I thought everyone knew. The newspapers were worked into a frenzy.”
“I was overseas,” she reminded.
“Oh, yes, of course.” He fell quiet. His right hand covered his left, and he gripped it until the knuckles were white. There was a lifetime of grief in that grip. As if all his pain could be kept at bay.
“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said that to you in the graveyard—about Ravenwood resting in pieces,” she winced, and stammered, “At least I hope not.”
A Bitter Draught Page 25
