by Kaite Welsh
“She should never have had to go to Fiona to get rid of the child. I’d have done it for her, how could she not have known that?” His voice was raw with pain, but his words shocked me. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. The women in these slums can barely afford to feed the children they have. If they want to end a pregnancy, there are countless ways to do that. I’d rather they be seen by a doctor, especially a woman doctor, than by some of the backstreet butchers around here.”
“You could be struck off for saying that,” I said, appalled.
“I had no idea she was even pregnant,” he said brokenly. “I’m sorry to say it, but it did occur to me that you were just trying to get a reaction out of me.”
“It worked,” I pointed out. “Would you really have had me expelled?”
He looked affronted. “Of course not. You have a lot of potential, Sarah. I’d hate to see that go to waste. But I couldn’t risk you getting caught up in this. I was in danger enough, but a woman, alone?”
“I think Fiona Leadbetter proved just how resourceful one woman can be,” I said grimly. “What are you—we—going to do with . . . ?” I waved my hand in the general direction of her body.
“We can’t dispose of her here, but there’s a gentleman with a fishing trawler who owes me a favor. He can see to it.”
Not for the first time, it occurred to me that Gregory Merchiston had a number of unsavory acquaintances.
“She has no family to speak of,” he continued. “I believe there is a great-aunt somewhere, Carlisle perhaps, but no one close. She had very few friends, and those she had, she kept at arm’s length.” He looked at me. “I think you might have been the closest person to her.”
Despite what Fiona had done, and what she had tried to do to me, his words made me unbearably sad. I remembered the look in her eyes as she had locked the door. If there had been another way to silence me, I think she would have taken it. But there had been, I thought, and countless other ways to deal with Lucy, Ruby, and Miss Hartigan. Mixed with the remorse, there had been something else, a queer sort of excitement. She had killed for the sake of killing in the end, deliberately blind to all her other options. She had played games with the lives of vulnerable people as though they were chess pieces, and for all her kindness to me, I would never truly be able to forgive her.
“We should leave.” Merchiston sighed. “I’ll hire a cart and call my friendly fisherman once I’ve delivered you safely home. You need half-decent medical attention, and I can’t give it to you here.”
“No,” I murmured. “Not my aunt’s. Anywhere but there. Take me to the infirmary.” I was aware that my words were slurring, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
He shook his head. “Too many questions. Especially with . . .” He stared at Fiona’s corpse, with an expression I couldn’t identify. Regret, perhaps. Not something I would have expected from a murderer. Then again, I recalled Fiona’s tortured, desperate expression as her fingers tightened around my neck.
He pulled me to my feet, but it became quickly apparent that I couldn’t stand unaided. With his arm around my waist to support me, I partly stumbled and was partly dragged across the floor. By the time we got to the stairs, it was clear he was going to have to carry me. When he scooped me up, I was too tired to object.
The lamp lighter had been down here by then, I realized. The street was bathed in flickering light, and somehow the shadows were more threatening than the darkness had been.
Exhausted, I was dimly aware of being bundled into a carriage, but I was so tired that I couldn’t bring myself to care. But as we jolted down the poorly paved street, the pain invaded my consciousness and I mumbled a curse.
“You’re awake,” he said. “Good.”
I grunted, although whether it was out of pain or at his lack of sympathy, even I wasn’t sure.
“Sarah, you need to stay awake. You have a concussion, and you know what that means.” My eyes drooped. “Sarah! Tell me the symptoms of a concussion.”
I did so reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes.
“Very good,” he said soothingly. “Now how would you treat it?”
I told him, stumbling over the words.
We carried on like this, him quizzing me about basic diagnoses, me providing the answers through a haze of pain. The part of me that was awake enough to respond wondered if this would count toward my end-of-term examinations.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It was dark outside, and I had no idea where we were. In my mind I tried to retrace the path Fiona had led me through the slums, but my brain kept flitting from memory to memory, like stones skimming across a pond. Eventually, I realized that we were heading through the Meadows, the moon hovering over the castle and bathing it in eerie light. Despite Merchiston’s best efforts, I faded in and out of consciousness as we traveled; the smoother road meaning the jolting of the carriage bothered my injuries less, although my head still throbbed. As we clattered to a halt, and Merchiston lifted me out of the cab gently, I realized he was carrying me toward an open front door, light and voices spilling out into the street.
“Merchiston, thank God. We’ve been worried out of our minds. You should have let me come with you, man, not sent a bloody note!”
“Is Sarah safe?” I recognized that voice, but when my brain scrabbled for a name, I drew a blank. I just knew it meant safety, friendship, tea, and honeyed crumpets by the fire as we talked. Elisabeth. She clutched my hand as we went inside the house, talking frantically. “Gregory, is she all right? Lord, she’s black and blue. What did that bitch do to her?” I had never heard her so angry.
I felt an odd shuddering against my cheek and realized that Merchiston was laughing.
Another pair of arms lifted me down onto a sofa, and he collapsed onto a nearby armchair, his shoulder shaking.
“He’s hysterical,” I heard Professor Chalmers say. “Gregory, for God’s sake, get hold of yourself! Eilidh, can you fetch Professor Merchiston a pot of coffee? Black and sweet, as strong as you can make it.”
I felt a cold, damp cloth against my forehead, and I gingerly opened my eyes. Although the light hurt at first, as my eyes adjusted I realized that the lamps were turned down low and the grate was burning with the beginnings of a fire.
Elisabeth sat by my side, her eyes red with weeping.
“You’re awake.” She sighed with relief. “My dear, we were so worried about you. Gregory made us promise not to send a policeman. He knew you couldn’t be dragged into another scandal.”
“What on earth possessed you to go off with that madwoman?” Merchiston growled.
“Come now, Gregory, Fiona Leadbetter fooled everyone,” Randall chided. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if Sarah hadn’t gone missing.”
“How long has it been?” I asked. Hours could have passed or days, I had no idea.
Randall glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s nearly one in the morning.”
“Aunt Emily,” I murmured. “She’s going to be furious.” The reality of the situation settled on me, and I struggled to sit up. “My God, she’ll throw me out! I have to go home. No, Elisabeth, leave me alone, I have to get back to the house.”
“It’s all right,” Elisabeth soothed. “When we realized where you had gone, I sent a message saying that you were spending the night with me because I had been taken ill.” She grimaced. “Of course, now your aunt thinks I’m in a certain condition. She sent the most effusively euphemistic reply I’ve ever read. Why you British can’t learn to speak plainly, I have no idea.”
I heard Randall and Merchiston talking in low voices, as Elisabeth tried to distract me by telling me how brave I was. I caught words here and there.
“Fiona,” I said. “We left her there. We can’t just leave her there, we can’t.” Tears choked me, running hot down my cheeks. I convulsed, shuddering with sobs, crying for the friend I had lost, who had gotten so lost, in a situation that had spiraled so quickly out of her limited co
ntrol.
“We didn’t leave her there,” Merchiston corrected.
Randall whirled around, staring at him in amazement.
“You brought her here? What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“I couldn’t risk the body being discovered,” he said. “And believe me, the cabbie won’t talk. I know him of old, and he has a great deal more to lose by talking than I do.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’ll send him away. My housekeeper won’t ask questions, I’ll make sure I dispose of her.”
Beneath the horror and exhaustion of the evening, I felt terribly sad. While Lucy at least had people to mourn her, there would be nowhere to go for Fiona’s friends and colleagues. What would we even tell them?
“She did a lot of good,” I whispered. “She deserves to be remembered for that, at least.”
“Would you have been so bloody magnanimous if it had been me after all?” Merchiston said. “I don’t deny that Fiona helped a great number of people, but why the hell should she get a memorial?”
I shrugged, wincing at the nagging ache in my shoulder. We were sitting in Elisabeth’s parlor, discussing the best way to dispose of a body. I wasn’t in the mood to argue morality.
“If we leave her to be discovered, there’s a chance the trail will lead back to us.”
“The river?” Elisabeth’s voice shook. I squeezed her hand, grateful beyond imagining that she was staying so calm in a crisis that must have horrified her.
Merchiston shook his head. “It won’t wash. I’m afraid that her body . . . well, the way she died is obvious.”
I remembered that sickening thud of her head against the floorboards, and the shocked look on her face before her eyes had rolled back. I heaved again, spluttering and dribbling bile on Elisabeth and myself. True to form, she simply mopped it up with the damp cloth, although she did look faintly disgusted as she did it.
“Lucky you’ve got a good nurse there, eh, Sarah?” Randall smiled gently. I tried to smile back, but all I could manage was a grimace.
“Perhaps I’ve found my calling,” she said with forced lightness. “Can she sleep yet?”
The doctors shook their heads in unison.
“I wouldn’t risk it. Perhaps coffee?” Merchiston suggested.
His sallow skin was even paler than usual, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Fiona had clearly landed in a few good punches—there was a shiner on his cheekbone and his jaw was clawed where a five o’clock shadow crept across his face. He looked drained, and I couldn’t blame him. No matter how horrible my ordeal, his was much worse. He had come face-to-face with his sister’s murderer, and killed someone all in the same night. It was a miracle he wasn’t in pieces, and I didn’t know whether to be impressed or frightened by his resilience. He turned and caught me staring, and I couldn’t account for the blush that crept across my cheeks. Before I could look away, his eyes locked onto mine and for a moment I found myself unable to breathe. Then, with what looked like an act of will, he tore his gaze away and rose.
“But first a bath,” Elisabeth said firmly. “And some fresh clothes. For both of you.”
“And then breakfast,” I pleaded. All of a sudden I was starving. Elisabeth rang the bell, and I realized that she was turning the household upside down for us without a second thought.
She helped me upstairs, and summoned her lady’s maid, hastily dressed and fuzzy with sleep, to pour me a bath and help me undress. The water was hot and scented with roses and lavender, too relaxing really for my fragile state. Elisabeth prevented me from dozing off by splashing me repeatedly every time I looked as though I were closing my eyes, and before long we were giggling like schoolgirls. She washed my hair for me, and I reveled in the touch. After Fiona’s assault and the odd, lingering sensations Merchiston’s hands had left, it was a relief just to be cared for. I thought of the way I had hurt her, with the best of intentions and the worst of results.
“I’m sorry, Elisabeth. For what I said about Randall—I jumped to conclusions. He’s a good man, and a devoted husband. I know he’d never hurt you.”
She hugged me tightly. “You were just trying to help. Plenty of people would have said nothing, or laughed at me behind my back. You just wanted to protect me.”
She wrapped me in a towel, the way my nursemaid used to do when I was a child, and found me some clean clothes.
I was surprised to find that one of Elisabeth’s old dresses fitted me, and said as much.
“I put on a little weight last autumn,” she said in an odd, tight voice. “It didn’t last.” She turned away, but I divined her meaning, and crushed her into a hug.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear the pity.”
“I think you have enough of my secrets for me to share the burden for once,” I murmured into her hair, stroking rhythmic circles in her back as I felt silent tears soak through the fabric.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Considerably cleaner and fortified by the coffee, I made my way downstairs to discover an impressive breakfast laid out on the dining room table. Tucking into a plate of kippers and black pudding—not a combination I would have chosen, but it looked delicious then—with the sleeves of a fresh shirt pushed up to his elbows, was Merchiston. Realizing we were alone in the room, I found myself tongue-tied.
“Would you care for some coffee, Miss Gilchrist?” he asked through a mouthful of kipper.
So we were back on formal terms. The thought made me feel something akin to sadness.
I nodded. “Please, Professor.” He looked as though he were going to object to my use of his title, but whatever he was going to say he forced back, and handed me my coffee in silence.
“Try the devilled kidneys,” he offered. “They’re very good.” From the state of his plate and the platters left by the servants, I realized he was on his second plate, at least.
“I shouldn’t have spent so long in the bath,” I apologized, helping myself to toast, bacon, eggs, and the devilled kidneys that smelled as good as Merchiston had promised. “But Lord, it feels wonderful to be clean again!”
He was focusing on his breakfast very intently, and the slightest flush of color mingled with the bruises on his face. The realization that I had embarrassed him made my cheeks burn, but I was somehow secretly pleased. I took a gulp of the scalding hot coffee to find it just as sweet as I liked it, and tucked into my own plate with gusto.
At length, I noticed that he had finished and was resting on his elbows, watching me curiously. It was on the tip of my tongue to scold him and tell him to remove his elbows from the table, but I fought the impulse. I remembered Fiona, and the swift, practiced way with which he had dispatched her. It wouldn’t do, I warned myself, to get too friendly with him.
“What?” I scowled.
“I wanted . . .” He trailed off, looking as though he wished he hadn’t spoken. He opened his mouth again, but then shook his head and sipped his coffee. I suddenly wanted very much to hear what he had to say.
“Professor Merchiston?” I asked tentatively. “What is it?”
“I wanted to tell you about Lucy,” he said in a rush. I was touched at how willing he was to confide in me, and yet somehow disappointed, although I could not have put into words exactly what it was I had wanted him to say.
I nodded slowly. This, I realized, was what I had needed all along. Not just to find her killer and bring him—her, I reminded myself, with an odd, aching pain I suspected would never leave me—to justice. I had wanted to know Lucy, not just for what she did but also for who she was.
“Please,” I said softly. “I think I would like that very much.”
He talked about the little girl she had been, and the rebellious woman she had grown into. Of the plans she had had for her life and the existence she had eked out in the slums, too stubbornly proud to accept more than the occasional coin from her brother. He talked about the mother she could have been, about how they could have raised her child tog
ether.
He laid his head on his arms and sobbed quietly. I marveled at his lack of self-consciousness, but he was beyond embarrassment or even anger now. This was raw pain, a pain I suspected he had not allowed himself to feel until now. He had been fueled by anger, as I had been, I realized. I stood, and went to him, putting my arms around him tenderly. After a while, the gasping sobs subsided, but I carried on stroking his back the way I had soothed Elisabeth, enjoying the heat of his body against mine. I must have come to the same realization of what we were doing as he did, and at the same time. It was as though we had both suddenly woken from a dream, and as I pulled my hand back, he lifted his head to look at me. His eyes were wet, and darker than I had ever seen them, but for a moment I thought he was no longer heartbroken.
His gaze lingered on my mouth, and I felt it almost like a touch. I felt his breath on my lips and I opened them, acting on some primal instinct. His head moved closer, or maybe mine did. I couldn’t tell, wasn’t thinking, I just knew that I needed him closer to me but that somehow he would never be close enough.
“Sarah, I—”
We pulled back so quickly it was almost comical. Elisabeth stood in the doorway, blushing so deeply that it clashed with her hair, which glowed red in the rays of the morning sun. Somehow, the sun had risen while we were talking, or maybe we had stood in the same position, so close to touching but not quite, for hours.
She looked flummoxed, but it was gone in a moment and the facade of the perfect hostess descended, although her eyes sparkled.
“Do you have quite enough coffee there, Gregory?” she asked sweetly, as if he had not been so close to her unmarried friend that he was practically kissing me. I banished the thought from my mind, and moved back to my own seat on shaky legs that had little, I suspected, to do with the previous night’s ordeal.
He cleared his throat, looking everywhere except at either Elisabeth or myself.
“Plenty, thank you, Elisabeth.” He lifted his coffee cup as if to illustrate his point, making a face when he saw it was empty. He looked sweet in his flustered embarrassment, and I realized that however frightened I had been of him before, he was ten times more dangerous like this, rumpled and vulnerable. Elisabeth’s eyes caught mine, making it clear in that indefinable way that women have when they communicate with one another without words, that very soon we were going to have a conversation about the scene she had just witnessed. I sipped my own coffee, only to realize that I had left it to go stone-cold as I had listened to Gregory—to Professor Merchiston—talk.
