by Cindy Anstey
“Why then did you send for the other detectives—your reinforcements—if not to make an arrest?” Mrs. Curtis demanded.
Jeremy squinted at the woman, trying to assess her temper. He kept his tone passive, watching the finely honed edge of her weapon. “I didn’t call in reinforcements,” he said. “Bow Street thought the case was taking too long. They sent the extra men.”
“Oh dear, you were certain that you had been unmasked.” Charlotte laughed carelessly. “It seems you were premature, Mama. Jumping at shadows.”
Mrs. Curtis’ brow folded and her mouth pursed into a tight pucker. “The die is cast, my dear girl; there is no turning back. We need Sophia. Otherwise she’ll point her finger directly at you when his body is found. All will be for naught!”
She raised the knife yet again just as Jeremy stepped forward. The blade slit his vest, shirt and pricked his skin. A spot of red blossomed on his chest.
“Oh dear,” she said, watching the blood spread across his shirt. “It seems you have a ruined shirt.” She smiled a repulsive grin.
“You do know that murderers are usually hanged,” Jeremy said, holding absolutely still. “It is a most unpleasant death.”
Mrs. Curtis smiled her repulsive smile again. “Only if they are caught.” She glanced back at Charlotte. “You must stop Sophia. Send her up here and then get back down to the fair and make a great cake of yourself so that everyone will remember that you were there.”
Jeremy’s heart beat twice its normal rhythm. This conversation was surreal.
He frowned at the housekeeper, rubbing his thumb across the rough edge of the stone in his hand. As weapons go, it was rather lackluster, but at least it was something.
“Why?” Jeremy asked. “Why did they all need to die?”
There was no reply for several moments, as if he had not spoken at all.
Charlotte and Mrs. Curtis shared a look, one of superiority and condescension. “Charlotte’s life should not be made small because of an accident of birth,” Mrs. Curtis said. “She deserves all the comforts promised to her by a feckless boy pursuing his own pleasures at her expense.”
Then she shoved Charlotte with her free hand toward the stairs. “Go!” she yelled. “Get Sophia!”
Charlotte glanced at Jeremy. “Beg your pardon.” She offered a bobbed curtsy and a resigned shrug, as if murder were a small affair. An inconvenience. A slight faux pas.
Jeremy snorted in disbelief. With no sense of remorse or contemplation of what was right and what was wrong, Charlotte had accepted his murder as inevitable. Such a cold and calculating soul.
Watching Charlotte pivot and head down the stairs, Jeremy listened to her footfalls as she turned the corner of the second flight and the echo of her steps became softer.
“I didn’t want Charlotte to see this,” Mrs. Curtis said.
She suddenly lunged, catching Jeremy unawares. He jerked away, turning as he did so. The knife cut into his sleeve, leaving a gaping hole across his forearm.
Using the stone for extra heft, Jeremy smashed his fist against the knife hilt, trying to knock it from her hand.
It almost worked. Almost.
Mrs. Curtis jumped back, taking a ragged breath that turned into a chuckle. “You think you can escape.”
“I’m certainly going to try.”
The housekeeper stared at Jeremy for a moment. “By all means, Mr. Fraser. That is your prerogative.”
And then she thrust the knife at his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Learning to Fly
Jeremy’s arms were up before he even thought to move. He crossed them in front of his body, pushing out against the knife before the lethal blade reached his neck or his chest.
Had Mrs. Curtis never killed before, he might not have been alarmed; it took self-control, determination, and a hard heart to slit someone’s throat or stab them in the gut. But Mrs. Curtis knew what she was about—how much pressure was needed, even how it would feel to slice into flesh.
It was horrifying, all the more so because he did not sense any mania in the woman, just resolve—a cold, cold heart. Like mother, like daughter.
The knife bit into his coat and through his shirt. The slice across his bicep was almost anticlimactic; quick with only a slight sting. But Jeremy knew—he had been told—that the sharpest of knives cut deep and painless … and bled profusely. His coat sleeve and vest were soon soaked with blood.
Reaching through the swing of the blade, Jeremy tried to deflect Mrs. Curtis’ aim, paying for it when she nicked his hands, and then dragged the blade over his other arm.
An image of Sophia formed in his mind’s eye, her laughter echoed through his head, and anger coursed through his veins. Mrs. Curtis was a threat to Sophia, and she meant to end Sophia’s life as well as his. Fury nearly drove him blind, until reason prevailed.
He held his stone above his head in as threatening a manner as he could devise—considering it was a lumpy rock against a finely honed knife. Punching her in the head no longer seemed ungentlemanly—there had to be some justice, some retribution.
Mrs. Curtis shifted her gaze to his eyes, then to the stone in his hand. As he thought would happen, the knife slowed its thrashing.
He stepped back and lowered his stone—it really was a pathetic weapon. “Might I know why you wish to kill me?”
“I thought you would have worked most of it out by now.”
Mrs. Curtis leaned away, even going so far as to change the aim of the knife to just above his collarbone. She placed both hands on the hilt. Her intention was clear; she was preparing for a final assault.
Jeremy looked at his puny stone and nearly dropped it. “Is my knowledge that you killed Andrew enough? Or are you simply enjoying yourself now—enjoying the power of holding someone’s life in your hands?”
Mrs. Curtis snorted. “I most certainly am not enjoying the violence. What a terrible suggestion. I’m merely the hand of justice. Andrew deserved to die. He was a selfish boy, toying with Charlotte’s affections.”
“Does Charlotte have any affections?” Jeremy asked sarcastically. He regretted it immediately when Mrs. Curtis lashed up at his neck. Had Jeremy not lifted his arm in time, the knife would have run along his collarbone.
… As it had in Howard Tuff’s murder.
Jeremy frowned. “These murders didn’t begin with Andrew, did they? They began with Howard Tuff, twenty years ago. You rolled him into the hunting trap and left him to rot.”
Mrs. Curtis shrugged. “Have you figured out why?”
Jeremy glanced over his shoulder, more to turn his ear toward the stairs than to see if anyone was coming. He could hear the sounds of Charlotte jumping into his carriage and the slow clip-clop of his horses as they started off.
Jeremy shifted as if uncomfortable with his thoughts, when he was, in fact, decreasing the distance between them and planning his attack. “Charlotte called you ‘Mama,’ and you did not react in surprise or correct her. I would think that Howard was not happy about being a father.”
Mrs. Curtis snorted, and a frown flashed across her face. “That is quite a leap of thought. But you’re right; Howard was not pleased.” Her mouth curled up in disgust. “He was not interested in becoming a father. He decided to go back to sea—to sail away. Away from me, away from his responsibilities … Hardly the act of an honorable man.”
“But was it worth killing him over?”
“I thought so.” She smiled—the sight turned Jeremy’s stomach sour. “I stabbed him, dragged his body into an old poacher’s trap and got rid of his belongings. It wasn’t easy. Howard was not a small man.” Mrs. Curtis’ tone was plaintive, as if she were expecting sympathy.
“Indeed,” Jeremy said.
Mrs. Curtis stared into the space above Jeremy’s left shoulder, seemingly unaware of his sarcasm. “It was Mrs. Dewey who helped me deal with the complications.”
“Mrs. Dewey helped you? With the baby or the murder?”
“D
on’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Mrs. Dewey would not be involved in a murder; the baby, of course! I became her companion on an extended holiday, and when we returned, Charlotte was hers. And I was offered a promotion to housekeeper.”
“It must have been difficult to watch another woman raise your daughter.”
“I saw Charlotte at church; that was enough. I hardly cared for her, or thought I didn’t … until Andrew came into the picture. He told Charlotte that he adored her while chasing other skirts. Several other girls. It was monstrous.” She stared off into the distance. “It was Howard Tuff all over again. And so, Andrew met his fate much the same way as Howard. It was easier the second time. Curious, don’t you think, how these things circle around?”
“Poor Charlotte. She must have been devastated by Andrew’s death.”
“Why? William is much more suited to her. Charlotte’s biggest obstacle now is Daphne. Charlotte could be mistress of Allenton Park if it weren’t for Daphne. I tried to eliminate Daphne as well, but the girl didn’t cooperate.”
“So inconsiderate.” Jeremy tightened his grip on the rock, focusing on the hair above Mrs. Curtis’ left ear. A knock with the stone and then a twist of her arm should do the trick. He would throw her to the ground, use his neckcloth to tie her hands together, and march the woman down the stairs.
“Was that why you sent Daphne poison chocolates?” he asked, continuing to play for time. He gripped the stone and slowly cocked his arm behind him—he would need the extra momentum. “Why you tried to kill her? So the estate, when it was passed on, would not be divided between heirs?”
He tried to keep the derision from his tone—to no avail.
“Naturally.” Mrs. Curtis shrugged. “It was all for Charlotte … Charlotte and William.”
“Then why kill Stacks, or Bertha Tumbler?”
“Gracious, your questions! Too many! It’s been grand chatting, but I know you’re delaying. It’s rather pointless. There’s nothing you can do. I’m going to kill you and then Sophia. All I can promise is to do so quickly. You’re half gone as it is. I can see you’re starting to shake from the loss of blood.” She smiled, looking thoroughly satisfied. “I really didn’t want to kill anyone after Andrew, but you would not let it go.”
“Catching murderers and seeking justice is my job.”
“Yes. Annoyingly so.”
“Do you even realize that you’ve killed four people?”
“Four and counting,” Mrs. Curtis said with a most unpleasant smile.
Jeremy stared, astounded that someone would not care about taking one human life, let alone four. As he considered his next move, Jeremy heard voices echoing up from the churchyard. He could not understand the words, but he recognized one voice.
Sophia.
* * *
Sophia stared at the approaching carriage and then waved her arms in a wide arc, trying to get Charlotte’s attention. The horses shied and pulled the carriage off the path; one of the wheels fetched up on a large rock, bringing the vehicle and its driver to a sudden halt.
Charlotte leaned to the side, likely trying to see beyond the rumps of the horses. She met Sophia’s gaze with a look of surprise but it quickly disappeared.
“Oh, Sophia, I’m so glad you’re here. I was worried that you would be nearing town by now.” Charlotte glanced around the field as she spoke. “I need your help! Mr. Fraser needs your help.”
“Where is Jeremy, Charlotte?” Sophia asked with a calm she did not feel. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute, and she felt sick.
Charlotte gestured halfheartedly behind her. “If you could help me free the carriage, I’ll show you where he is.”
“Damn the carriage, just tell me about Jeremy!”
Charlotte sighed—sighed, as if she were deeply burdened. “He slipped on one of the rocks in the tower and he can’t get up.” Charlotte squinted at Sophia, almost daring her to doubt her word.
“Slipped?”
“Yes. He hit his head, blood streaming into his eyes. He looks awful. I’m afraid he’s going to die, and you won’t help me get the carriage back on the road. I need to get a surgeon.” She pushed herself to the edge of the bench and then used the hub of the wheel to step down. “I thought you cared,” she shouted as she examined the wheel. “If he dies it will be on your shoulders!”
Sophia ignored the girl, looking past the carriage to the ruined church. Movement on the top floor of the tower caught her eye. Through the crenellations, she could see two figures. Only one faced her.
“Jeremy,” she said in a whispered gasp. Then turned her head to yell over her shoulder. “Make sure she does not get away!”
Sophia ran to the church and through the front opening. She heard the rush of feet behind her and Charlotte’s scream—a shout of protest and outrage. Sophia would have praised the poachers for being fleet of foot had she not been so terribly worried about Jeremy.
Lifting her skirts to her knees, Sophia took the stairs two at a time. When she reached the top, she found Jeremy standing with Mrs. Curtis near the tower’s edge—too close to the edge, and too close to each other. Jeremy was covered in blood. His blood.
Mrs. Curtis glanced over her shoulder, met Sophia’s gaze, and raised her arm. The knife in her hand glinted in the sunlight.
Sophia moved before a single thought passed through her mind.
She slammed into Mrs. Curtis, knocking the woman sideways. The knife sliced through the air and across Sophia’s arm.
Mrs. Curtis fell hard against the crumbing wall, sending mortar and bricks cascading into the churchyard below. A shout echoed through the glen. It was muddled and unintelligible and Sophia ignored it, turning instead toward Jeremy.
Jeremy stood a few feet away, a horrified expression on his pale face. He reached out, grabbed Sophia’s hand, and jerked her away from the wall. The momentum pulled Sophia in a skid across the floor.
At the same time, Mrs. Curtis was attempting to rise. She braced herself against the wall, her knife was once again poised to strike a deadly blow …
But with her whole weight pressed against it, the crumbling wall gave way.
Mrs. Curtis fell into the emptiness.
Sophia cringed, expecting to hear a hideous crunch as the housekeeper’s body hit the hard-packed earth. But it never came. Instead, there was a shout and a thump, and then the sound of a woman screeching. Mrs. Curtis had survived the fall, but not unscathed—nor unconscious.
Jeremy helped Sophia to her feet, and they approached the edge of the tower to carefully peek over the side.
Below, Mrs. Curtis lay on the ground screaming, her skirts twisted around her knees. As they watched in amazement, the woman struggled to sit up, reached toward her right foot, and fell back with a yelp of pain.
Charlotte, on the other hand, bucked and pulled, and tried to break free of Glen Phillips’ grasp as they stood a few feet away from the fallen woman. She shouted rude words that Sophia rarely, if ever, heard, and finally was allowed to drop into a squat beside Mrs. Curtis.
“Are you all right?” Jeremy asked.
It took a moment for Sophia to realize that Jeremy was addressing her. She pulled her eyes away from the drama playing out below and turned toward him, taking a deep breath to calm her wobbly knees.
“Me?” she said, finally. “You were the one being menaced by a deranged killer.”
“I actually don’t think she is deranged,” Jeremy said, lifting Sophia’s arm. “And this is why I asked.” Her sleeve was a ruin, cut open and soaked with blood. “Mrs. Curtis had no qualms about slicing and dicing.” He pointed to his own coat sleeve and ruined waistcoat, still oozing.
Quickly undoing his neckcloth, Jeremy wrapped it around Sophia’s wound. “You need a surgeon.”
“Strange … it doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s good to hear. But, unfortunately, as soon as you start to relax, the pain will make itself known.”
Sophia glanced at his bloody waistcoat, knowing that he
was speaking from experience. She watched as he wrapped the cloth around her arm, ending at her wrist.
“Is this something they taught you at detective school?” she asked. “How to bind wounds and capture felons?”
“Yes, actually, it was.” He paused, staring down at her with a deep frown. “Why were you not more careful? The woman could have killed you—and would have done so cheerfully. She was so intent on securing Charlotte a place in society that she didn’t care a wit for anyone who got in the way.”
“Why? Why was I not more careful?! You are asking in all seriousness?”
Rather than step closer to Jeremy—which would have been closer to the drop, as well—Sophia tugged him away from the opening in the wall.
“For an investigator, Mr. Fraser, you’re rather obtuse at times. I have not hidden my admiration of you and your skills, and I would miss you terribly if Mrs. Curtis had made you into a minced Bow Street Runner.”
It was a huge understatement, of course. Sophia, in the space of minutes, had come to realize that her admiration of Jeremy Fraser was much deeper than … well, deeper than admiration.
“I could not stand by and let it happen.” She clicked her tongue. “Why indeed.”
Jeremy chuckled, and he brushed a coil of hair out of her eyes. “Being sliced and diced is not my favorite part of the job, either. But you should not take such chances; you could have gone over the side, too. You might not have fared as well as Mrs. Curtis.” He lowered his head. “No need to rearrange your features. I quite like you just the way you are.”
And then he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
At first, it was a tentative kiss, as if Jeremy was as surprised as she was. But when she curled her arms around his neck, Jeremy wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her to her toes. Their bodies pressed together in the most delicious manner and Sophia forgot to breathe. She was aware of Jeremy and of him alone: his strength, his gentle lips, and his growing passion. Never before had she felt so intoxicated by the presence of another. She was lost in all the sensations coursing through her body. It was exhilarating and filled her with an energy that she had never experienced before.
