The Dark Between Part 8

"This is highly unusual, I must say," murmured Mrs. Thompson. "Such a strange day."

Asher noticed Kate staring at the doorway with a frown. Was she afraid? She'd seemed skittish from the moment he'd encountered her outside the gate, as though she were constantly looking behind her. Whom did she fear to find there?

The three of them sat at length in stilted silence, poking at the food on their plates, before Mr. Thompson finally hobbled back into the room. Asher studied the man's drawn face as he sat at the table without saying a word.

"Well?" Mrs. Thompson raised an eyebrow. "What was that about?"

"Perhaps we should discuss it later."

"Oh, Oliver," cried Mrs. Thompson, "don't be so mysterious! Who was at the door?"

"The police," he said quietly.

Asher kept his eyes on his plate. The police had somehow learned of Elsie's escape to London. Perhaps someone had reported her collapse at the museum, and had given details on his appearance, thinking him an abductor. He cast a covert glance at Mr. Thompson, dreading his hard gaze of condemnation.

But the man had returned to his supper.

"Oliver, what did the police want with you?"

"My dear, if you insist, I will tell you, though it's not a proper thing to discuss at the supper table." He paused for a sip of water. "The police have found a body, this time in Queens' Green."

"Another body?" asked Mrs. Thompson. "Was it an elderly man, like before?"

"No. It was a boy."

Kate's chin jerked up. "A boy? How old?"

Mr. Thompson turned to her, clearly perplexed. "Not even ten years of age. Why do you ask?"

The girl bit her lip. "Just curious," she mumbled.

"Why did the police come here?" Mrs. Thompson tapped the table. "Queens' Green is much farther than the cricket grounds. I don't see how they could connect this with Summerfield."

"I couldn't really say, my dear." Mr. Thompson did not meet her gaze. "Just routine, I'm sure."

"I well remember the tales of your days as a Trinity undergraduate. Think of those ill-behaved young fools who had the habit of luring street people into the college to drink themselves into a stupor for their entertainment. There was even a death once, wasn't there? Is this happening again? This time to a child, Oliver?"

Mr. Thompson turned to her, his face pale. "It's not even term time now. The students are gone. This is merely a coincidence."

A heavy silence fell over the table as the Thompsons stared silently at each other.

As if to bring an end to the matter, Mr. Thompson once more put his napkin on the table. "It has been a long day. I suggest we all retire early for the evening."

His wife nodded slowly, allowing him to help her to her feet. But rather than twine her arm around his as usual, she walked ahead of him through the dining room door. Asher moved to do the same but paused when a hand pressed his arm. He turned to find Kate looking up at him, her eyes dark and bold.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I must see that body." Her fingers tightened on his arm. "I may know who it is."

Chapter 12.

Elsie woke early the next morning, her eyelids lifting easily. When she sat up her head felt clear of its usual fog. She threw back the coverlet and walked to the window, parting the curtains to welcome the golden glow of early dawn.

When was the last time she'd woken before the sun had topped the horizon?

She turned away from the window and sat before the mirror. As she brushed out her hair she delighted in the tingling sensation on her scalp. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. She left off brus.h.i.+ng and stretched her arms wide, yawning a great gulp of air. Her body felt deliciously awake, just as it had when she was a young girl.

She glanced at the bottle of Chlorodyne that sat before the mirror. The prior evening she'd taken only a small sip before falling into bed. Her stomach knotted at the thought of sinking back into that dull drowsiness. What harm would come if today she skipped her dose entirely?

A vision of the ghastly woman flashed in her mind, prompting her to reach for the bottle. The feel of the cool gla.s.s rea.s.sured her. She ran her thumb along the edge of the stopper as she studied the label.

It had been a long time since a seizure had run its course. Nearly five years, in fact. She hadn't dwelled on those episodes in ages-the drug had dulled her memory-but now they came to mind in vivid detail.

On the first afternoon she'd been allowed outdoors following the accident, Elsie had celebrated her new freedom by sitting in the sun, weaving flowers into a wreath near the old well. Upon completing the dainty circlet, she'd placed it on her head and wandered closer to the well to admire the lichen that crept along its stone.

Suddenly the air had writhed and s.h.i.+mmered before her eyes. That first time had felt like falling into a hole or a dark dream. When she opened her eyes again all had vanished-the meadow, the well, and the trees. Elsie s.h.i.+vered in the darkness. A small figure emerged from the gloom, a girl whose long curls fanned away from her pale face. The skirt of her dress, wet and mud-stained, seemed to float around her slight body. When her mouth opened, words billowed out like fog.

"I only wanted to see myself," the girl breathed. "Mummy's going to be very angry about my dress."

That was all-a simple confession that framed a horrible truth-and then Elsie blinked and found herself back in the meadow.

She'd dismissed it as a nightmare, more unsettling than frightening. Not worth mentioning to anyone. A short time later, however, a gossiping young housemaid let slip that the vicar's niece had fallen into a Peverel well and drowned. As soon as the words were spoken, the maid clapped her hands over her mouth. "I weren't supposed to say anything, miss," she mumbled. "Her Ladys.h.i.+p said you was too delicate to hear of it, but maybe now that you're healed proper and out of bed, she won't mind you knowing?"

At first Elsie was too stunned to speak. Had she somehow seen the vicar's niece that day by the well? Was it a premonition ... or an encounter with the dead?

"Exactly when did the poor child die?" she finally asked.

"Whilst you was recovering. You was sleeping most of the day and having the most peculiar nightmares, so Her Ladys.h.i.+p didn't want you to hear of the girl's death. She feared it would upset your rest. Oh, miss, you've gone so pale-have I upset you?"

Elsie dismissed the maid as calmly as she could and spent the morning puzzling over what she'd learned. Could such a vision, one in which a girl's hair and gown floated as though she were underwater, merely be a nightmare? It seemed too specific to be coincidence.

It was the second vision, a few months later, that truly terrified her. Sadly, it also proved her undoing as her mother's darling little girl. They had been packing away her grandmother's clothes and linens shortly after the old woman's death. Though Elsie had suffered a bout of gooseflesh as she folded the yellowed underclothes, she'd felt no hint of sorrow. The Dowager Lady Rolleston, widowed early and kind to no one but her son, had excelled at being unpleasant. It was no secret that only Elsie's father mourned her death. And that death had seemed to go on for an eternity-an extended cycle of relapses and last-minute rallies. Elsie had sighed with relief when Mother told her the old woman's struggle had finally ended.

That day, as she tidied the room so the maids could give it a proper airing, she glanced toward the handsome oak headboard of the bed and saw the air writhe and s.h.i.+mmer as it had that strange day in the meadow. Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor, hearing her mother's cry of surprise as if it came from a long distance. This hole gaped even deeper and darker than the first, and the figure that rose from the gloom was not a sweet-faced girl who merely looked lost. Instead it was the formidable apparition of her grandmother.

Only it was something else, too. The old woman's eyes were black, and a substance like ink stained her mouth, making it a dark pit in the middle of her face. She lifted a hand and beckoned her closer. Elsie's heart pounded, but she could not resist.

"You thought to be rid of me," the woman said, showing blackened teeth.

Elsie stared, unable to speak.

"Poison, you stupid girl! You thought to rid me with foul poison."

"What?"

"You gave that poison to me every day with a spoon," her grandmother spat, "and then you poured the entire bottle down my throat. But I'm still here, aren't I?"

The woman's hand reached out to clutch Elsie's wrist, her grasp cold as ice. Elsie looked down and saw her fingers darkening to the ink black of her grandmother's mouth. The black traveled through her veins as the chill snaked up her arm. She fell backward, drowning in darkness and bone-s.h.i.+vering cold.

She'd opened her eyes to see her mother's anxious face hovering over her.

"My dear!" Mother slapped her lightly. "Elsie, are you awake?"

Elsie had pushed the hand away. "Stop, Mother."

"Thank G.o.d! I've never seen you shake and moan like that. Your eyes were rolling back in your head!"

Elsie had rubbed her eyes to push away the image of her grandmother's dark gaze and blackened grimace. "I saw Grandmama. She spoke to me."

Mother frowned. "What?"

"Grandmama said ..." Elsie's voice quieted to a whisper. "That I poisoned her!"

A flush of anger mottled her mother's neck and spread across her cheeks. "You never saw her. You never heard her say such a terrible thing." She gave Elsie another slap, and this time it stung. "Don't ever speak such lies again."

Elsie had lain awake most of that night, afraid to dream again of her grandmother. By the time the dawn light streamed through her window, she was certain none of it had been a dream-neither the girl by the well nor the vision of her grandmother. They were real, and yet they were dead.

She had little time to ponder it further, for later that morning her mother had taken her to a London doctor. With little prompting he'd dashed out a prescription and presented it to Lady Rolleston like a gift. After that Elsie's existence had devolved to a Chlorodyne haze, each day melting into the next with hardly anything to anchor her to waking life-nothing until he came to Peverel Place and put a camera in her hands.

For the first time the memory of his touch made her stomach convulse.

A dull pain began to thud behind Elsie's eyes, making her groan. Her clear head came at a price-pain and nausea, as well as the threat of another full-blown episode.

She opened the bottle and took her dose.

After that she dressed and pinned her hair, frowning slightly as the heaviness settled over her body. There was comfort, however, in its familiarity. With the drug she was calm and grounded. Thus protected, she finally turned her thoughts to her beautiful artist, for whom she'd been willing to risk everything. She remembered him at the museum as if in a staged photograph-"Portrait of the Artist Preparing His Canvas"-and a wave of sorrow washed over her. The convulsions must have repelled him if he'd left the museum so abruptly. In his case, at least, her mother had been correct. How pathetic were the lengths she'd been willing to go to in order to be with him, when he couldn't even look at her during her fit. Perhaps he'd never truly loved her at all.

At least Asher hadn't abandoned her.

And the dark-haired gentleman who'd held her ... Elsie's heart fluttered to remember him. He'd been quite tender in his attentions to her.

A curious rush of relief followed these thoughts. She needn't give up everything after all. Her treasures and comforts need not be abandoned for a life of poverty. She glanced at her camera and smiled. The light would be good this morning.

Perhaps the Poole girl could help her. After all, if Elsie were to continue on at Summerfield, she would need practice in making friends.

For once Kate was entirely without appet.i.te. She tapped her toast against the plate as the others tucked into their own breakfasts. Asher avoided her gaze each time she risked a glance at him.

The previous night he'd stared at her as though she were a lunatic.

"Why would I want to go look at a dead body with you? The very idea is repulsive."

"I doubt they'd let me see it if I went alone. Aren't you at least curious to know if this dead boy is who I think it is?"

"It has nothing to do with me," he'd said.

He was my dear friend, she thought. Doesn't that mean anything? Judging by his scowl, she doubted it would. She'd taken a breath and switched tactics. "If we identify the body, it could help with the murder investigation. That would be rather heroic, don't you think?"

A flicker of interest had pa.s.sed through his eyes. She let the idea hang in the air between them, resisting the urge to press him further.

"Ask me again tomorrow," he'd finally said. "I'm too tired to think right now."

Now she was biding her time until the Thompsons rose from the table. She would ask him then, and she would have to be persuasive.

All night horrid thoughts about Billy had plagued her. Where had he gone that night after the seance? Who would dare hurt him? The last time she'd seen Billy, his thin face peering out at her from the shadows of Mrs. Martineau's staircase, he'd a.s.sured her he'd be fine. Even then she'd had a feeling of dread.

The notion that he could be dead had flourished in her imagination, and now its hazy borders had hardened into certainty. But if she was so certain, why this powerful need to see the body? She stared at her toast, considering this. Seeing the body would bring an end to the matter. And it might help her to know why it happened, perhaps giving her some clue as to who would kill a small boy. What scheme had Billy been working? Did it arise from his work with Martineau and the little detectives? More specifically, did it have something to do with Mr. Thompson and her father? Billy was clever for his age, but sometimes too brash. Perhaps he'd crossed a line and angered his target. He may have uncovered a piece of information that someone wished to stay buried.

If only she hadn't taken the knife from him, he might have been able to protect himself. She shuddered at the thought of an adult-a burly man, she imagined-laying cruel hands on Billy. Knocking him down, wrapping his hands around the boy's throat. The body would be bruised and broken, and it might as well be her fault. She would have to steel herself.

"Aunt, I would like to take some photographs in the garden today," Elsie was saying. "I hoped you might allow Miss Poole the day off so she can a.s.sist me."

Kate studied Miss Atherton. She seemed very sleek and pink-cheeked. Obviously she knew nothing about the body found near the college. She'd gone to bed before supper, and no one had dared tell her this morning.

Kate turned back to Mrs. Thompson. "I really can't ignore my work in the library. Miss Freeman depends on me."

Mrs. Thompson sipped her tea as she considered Kate. "I'm pleased to see someone of your years taking an obligation so seriously. Why do you need her, Elsie?"

"I hoped to pose her for a portrait. I don't have enough practice with live models, you see. I'm imagining her as a character from a story, like the work of Julia Margaret Cameron."

Kate didn't know who this Cameron lady was, but she smiled behind her napkin in spite of herself. Miss Atherton wished to photograph her and her only. She couldn't deny it was terribly flattering. And yet ... there was Billy to consider.

Mrs. Thompson was smiling, too. "Seems like a worthy project. You may use the darkroom in the Science Annex-that way we can all see the results of your endeavors. Why don't we compromise and say that Kate can have the morning to work with you?" She turned to Kate. "That is, if it suits you."

Kate nodded shyly, feeling a traitor to Billy. Somehow, though, she would manage to steal away before Freeman expected her at the library.

"I can help, too," said Asher, his eyes on Elsie.

"Sounds like a lovely plan," Mrs. Thompson said. "All I ask is that you don't leave the grounds today, Elsie. And send Kate to the library when you're finished. I will explain to Miss Freeman."

When Asher stood to the side, allowing the ladies to exit the dining room first, Kate trailed behind. Once they were alone she clutched his s.h.i.+rtsleeve and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow.

He shook his head. "You heard what Mrs. Thompson said. We are not to leave the college grounds today."

"She doesn't want Miss Atherton to leave, but I'm quite certain you and I could slip out for half an hour. Mrs. Thompson need not know." She held his gaze. "And if you don't help me, I'll be forced to tell Miss Atherton about your face when she doesn't know you're staring at her."

"I don't stare at her." Asher frowned. "What are you saying about my face?"

"It reminds me of the wolf staring at Little Red Riding Hood."

"Not sure I follow," he muttered.