He bent over to place the poker in its holder; I thought I saw him take a surreptitious wipe at his eyes. But when he turned back to me, his face was impassive, and, without a word, he started toward the hallway.
I rose. “Where are you going?”
He waved his hand to hush me. “To listen, o’ course.”
I hurried to the doorway to watch. He was moving nimbly up the stairs, hugging the wall, silent as a cat.
My boots and skirts made it impossible for me to follow, so I went back into the parlor and sat down on the edge of my chair, waiting for one of them to reappear.
Five minutes later, Jeremy was back.
“What’s happening?” I demanded.
“Bloody fool,” Jeremy said, slouching into a chair opposite, his grimy coat doing a grave injustice to its pale brocade. “Mr. Galton’s sending Mr. Wilcox packing, tellin’ that railwayman ’e’s going to be sorry ’e didn’t call him straightaway, ’cos now ’e’s going to die, no matter wot. But if ’e starts in on other folks, they’ll be sorry when they’re sucked dry and ’eavin’.”
I shuddered at the image that came into my head, of all the leeches fat with blood.
Jeremy’s lip curled. “ ’Cept if anything ’appens to ’em, Mr. Galton’ll find a way to blame Mr. Wilcox.”
We heard the sound of boots coming down the stairs, and Mr. Wilcox appeared at the threshold, his face grim. “We can go.”
I looked at him uncertainly. “You’re finished?”
“There’s no point in staying.”
“Told you,” Jeremy muttered to me. To Mr. Wilcox: “Is ’e dyin’?”
A brief nod.
A different maid than the one who had met us at the door materialized from somewhere. She glanced at Mr. Wilcox and Jeremy, then at the clock, and my eyes followed hers. I saw with dismay that it was nearly midnight. Her eyes raked over me, her gaze frankly insolent. She opened the door and held it for us with exaggerated courtesy. I felt an angry heat rise to my cheeks and hoped Mr. Wilcox had been too preoccupied to notice her smirking.
On the front porch, Jeremy turned to Mr. Wilcox and handed him the lantern. “You best get ’er back. I kin make my way from ’ere. Mr. Flynn’s comin’ on the late train.”
“Where are you staying tonight?” Mr. Wilcox asked.
Jeremy jerked his head. “Miz Smith’s boardin’ouse over that way. ’Taint far. We’re goin’ to Malverton tomorrow early wi’ Mr. Blackstone. ’E’s bringin’ one of those men with his machine for pi’tures, in case it’s wot ’e ’spects.”
Malverton again.
My ears pricked up, and I fiddled with my glove to hide my interest.
Were the pictures to be the “tangible proof” that Tom needed? And proof of what?
I hoped they’d keep talking about it, but all Mr. Wilcox said was, “All right, then. I’ll be in my room later, if Tom needs me.”
Jeremy made a faint gesture of pulling his cap at us and headed off down the street, his hands buried in his pockets, looking rather like a small version of Mr. Flynn. At any other time, it might have made me smile. But the dark that lurked at the edge of the lantern’s arc felt ominous. I glanced sideways at Mr. Wilcox, and his face bore an expression I was coming to know; the lantern might be pushing away the black of night, but it was doing nothing to hold his dark thoughts at bay.
Chapter 8
The front hall was empty when we arrived back at the inn, though I could hear the sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. I could have run up to my room, and no one would ever have known I’d been gone. Instead, I took Mr. Wilcox’s arm, drew him into our usual sitting room, and closed the doors behind us. There were still coals glowing on the hearth, so the room wasn’t cold.
He went to the window, and I took my time lighting two lamps, unsure what else to do. Finally, I said gently, “I’m sorry. That didn’t go very well, did it?”
His back still to me, he shook his head.
“What happened?”
He gave a hard little laugh with no
I rose. “Where are you going?”
He waved his hand to hush me. “To listen, o’ course.”
I hurried to the doorway to watch. He was moving nimbly up the stairs, hugging the wall, silent as a cat.
My boots and skirts made it impossible for me to follow, so I went back into the parlor and sat down on the edge of my chair, waiting for one of them to reappear.
Five minutes later, Jeremy was back.
“What’s happening?” I demanded.
“Bloody fool,” Jeremy said, slouching into a chair opposite, his grimy coat doing a grave injustice to its pale brocade. “Mr. Galton’s sending Mr. Wilcox packing, tellin’ that railwayman ’e’s going to be sorry ’e didn’t call him straightaway, ’cos now ’e’s going to die, no matter wot. But if ’e starts in on other folks, they’ll be sorry when they’re sucked dry and ’eavin’.”
I shuddered at the image that came into my head, of all the leeches fat with blood.
Jeremy’s lip curled. “ ’Cept if anything ’appens to ’em, Mr. Galton’ll find a way to blame Mr. Wilcox.”
We heard the sound of boots coming down the stairs, and Mr. Wilcox appeared at the threshold, his face grim. “We can go.”
I looked at him uncertainly. “You’re finished?”
“There’s no point in staying.”
“Told you,” Jeremy muttered to me. To Mr. Wilcox: “Is ’e dyin’?”
A brief nod.
A different maid than the one who had met us at the door materialized from somewhere. She glanced at Mr. Wilcox and Jeremy, then at the clock, and my eyes followed hers. I saw with dismay that it was nearly midnight. Her eyes raked over me, her gaze frankly insolent. She opened the door and held it for us with exaggerated courtesy. I felt an angry heat rise to my cheeks and hoped Mr. Wilcox had been too preoccupied to notice her smirking.
On the front porch, Jeremy turned to Mr. Wilcox and handed him the lantern. “You best get ’er back. I kin make my way from ’ere. Mr. Flynn’s comin’ on the late train.”
“Where are you staying tonight?” Mr. Wilcox asked.
Jeremy jerked his head. “Miz Smith’s boardin’ouse over that way. ’Taint far. We’re goin’ to Malverton tomorrow early wi’ Mr. Blackstone. ’E’s bringin’ one of those men with his machine for pi’tures, in case it’s wot ’e ’spects.”
Malverton again.
My ears pricked up, and I fiddled with my glove to hide my interest.
Were the pictures to be the “tangible proof” that Tom needed? And proof of what?
I hoped they’d keep talking about it, but all Mr. Wilcox said was, “All right, then. I’ll be in my room later, if Tom needs me.”
Jeremy made a faint gesture of pulling his cap at us and headed off down the street, his hands buried in his pockets, looking rather like a small version of Mr. Flynn. At any other time, it might have made me smile. But the dark that lurked at the edge of the lantern’s arc felt ominous. I glanced sideways at Mr. Wilcox, and his face bore an expression I was coming to know; the lantern might be pushing away the black of night, but it was doing nothing to hold his dark thoughts at bay.
Chapter 8
The front hall was empty when we arrived back at the inn, though I could hear the sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. I could have run up to my room, and no one would ever have known I’d been gone. Instead, I took Mr. Wilcox’s arm, drew him into our usual sitting room, and closed the doors behind us. There were still coals glowing on the hearth, so the room wasn’t cold.
He went to the window, and I took my time lighting two lamps, unsure what else to do. Finally, I said gently, “I’m sorry. That didn’t go very well, did it?”
His back still to me, he shook his head.
“What happened?”
He gave a hard little laugh with no
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