A Brush with Shadows Page 35

  The sound that issued from Lorna’s throat, a sort of hiss-shriek, made my heart rise into my throat. Had I not known any better, I would have been tempted to believe her act.

  “I said begone! Or that first stone won’t be the last to strike you,” she shrieked. “I’ll hurl this entire tor down on you if I must.”

  Hammett shuffled backward. “Keep ’em. There’s naught you can do now. For either o’ ’em. The Trevelyans’ honor is restored.”

  My stomach dipped. Were they dead? Both Alfred and Rory?

  I wanted to charge around the rock and discover for myself, but I forced myself to remain still. Revealing myself would not help. It was safer to let Hammett believe what he would and escape rather than have to confront him now. There was no telling how he would react. Or whether he would do something to precipitate Alfred’s and Rory’s demises sooner if they were not in fact dead.

  I felt Lorna’s answering scream in the pit of my stomach, and I instinctively shrank away from all the fury and distress it contained. It was far too genuine.

  Hammett recoiled and turned to hobble off toward his horse, whose harness we’d heard jangling. His body moved in an awkward shamble, his shoulders hunched in discomfort. The foot he’d dropped the rock on visibly pained him, but the other leg also appeared to do so. I realized then the other leg must have been injured during his scuffle with Gage in the middle of the night. He had been our intruder.

  Once Hammett moved out of sight, I dared to skirt around the rock and pick my way around the face of the tor to the place where Hammett had been at work. At first, I didn’t understand what he’d been endeavoring to conceal. The tor was riddled with cracks and crevices. But then I saw it. Just below the base of one of the outcroppings was a hole. If I hadn’t known something was there, I would have assumed it was merely another ice-shattered fissure in the granite. However, when I placed my hands inside, I could pull back the stones below it.

  Working quickly, I wrenched as many rocks from their places as I could. I started at the sound of a horse’s whinny somewhere in the distance, but when I turned about I could see nothing but the swirling mist. It must have been Hammett, setting back off across the moor. I resumed my frantic work, and moments later Lorna arrived to help.

  We scrambled to remove the stones, panting from the exertion. All the while we called out to both Alfred and Rory, praying one of them would answer. Regrettably, the lower in the pile we progressed, the heavier the rocks became, until neither of us could budge them, even working in concert.

  I sat back, gasping for breath. “They’re too big.” I touched her arm when she continued to strain. “Lorna, stop. You’ll only hurt yourself. They’re simply too big.”

  She leaned against the side of the outcropping. “We can’t stop. Alfred could be in there.”

  “Then let’s see if he is.” I stood to examine the opening we’d created. “I think I can squeeze through here. But I’ll need the lantern to see. Do you think—”

  Before I could even finish the question, she hurried off into the mist, presumably to draw our horse and the lantern she carried closer. I pried at some of the other stones, but while a few shifted, they were too unwieldy to dislodge. That Hammett had managed such physically demanding labor, and at his age, amazed me. Clearly I’d underestimated him in more ways than one. Or had he purposely been misleading us all with his shambling walk and creaky voice?

  I heard the clack of the horse’s hooves before I saw the light of the lantern Lorna had lit. She held it before her as they emerged from the fog, its light refracting the water droplets to form a sort of fuzzy halo around them. We lifted the lantern up to the small entrance to the cavity under the tor, but the light couldn’t penetrate deep enough to illuminate anything.

  Reaching up to remove my hat, I glanced up at Lorna and paused. “Perhaps you should be the one to climb inside. The space might only be large enough to fit one of us, and if the men require medical attention, you might be more skilled at giving it to them.”

  Her eyes were stricken. “I only know how to use herbs. I don’t know how to stitch up wounds and . . . and such.” She swallowed, gazing up at me hopefully. “Surely you would know better than I.”

  A strange feeling gripped me, for this was the first time I found myself wishing my late husband had actually taught me more about practicing medicine. Chiefly, the skills that pertained to his work as a surgeon rather than an anatomist.

  I passed her my hat, breathing deeply to settle the nerves roiling around in my stomach. “I’ll do my best. But remember, my first husband more often diagnosed ailments after the fact rather than treating and saving people’s lives before it was too late.” I could only pray the former skills would not be called upon.

  I stared into the darkness of the tiny crevice, refusing to let myself contemplate what other creatures might be dwelling inside. Then I squared my shoulders and crawled inside.

  The gap was narrow and difficult to navigate, particularly in my skirts, but I wasn’t about to remove any layers of clothing unless necessary. Not when my cheeks and nose already stung from the cool mist. The space smelled of dirt and stagnant air, making me suspect this was the only opening. Once inside, I reached my hand up to ask for the lantern. Together, Lorna and I were able to manipulate it through the opening without dousing the light.

  “What do you see?” Her voice was shrill with desperation as I turned to survey my surroundings.

  The cave sloped downward, opening up into a space about eight feet wide by four feet high. Not tall enough for me to stand up in, but at least high enough for me to sit or kneel comfortably. It was impossible to tell how deep the cave went, nor did I truly care. For immediately before me, at the base of the slope, lay the sight we were looking for.

  “I see them,” I replied, clambering forward, anxious to check for signs of life.

  “What?! Are they alive?” Lorna gulped. “Tell me what’s happening!”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Alfred lay closer to the entrance, and as I drew near I could hear him breathing, pained though it sounded.

  “Alfred is alive,” I reported.

  She sobbed in relief.

  “I’m checking Rory now.”

  Of the two men, he definitely looked worse. His skin was ashen, his eyes were sunken in their sockets, and his lips were dry and cracked. When I passed a hand under his nose, I could scarcely feel his breath.

  “And Rory is, too. But barely.” I moved back toward the entrance. “Pass me the water.” If he’d been down here since the evening after he was last seen five days prior, he could be close to death simply from lack of water.

  I tried rousing Rory, but when it became apparent he wasn’t going to wake, I parted his lips and dribbled a bit of water into his parched mouth, careful not to give him so much he might choke on it. Then I rubbed his throat, hoping I might stimulate his muscles to swallow. For a moment, it seemed futile, but then his throat worked as it should. So I poured a bit more into his mouth, repeating this process two more times.

  I shifted over to Alfred. When I patted his face, he moaned.

  “Alfred,” I said. “Alfred, can you hear me?”

  His eyes slit open to peer up at me. “Lady Darby?” he croaked.

  “Yes. Here, drink.” I lifted his head, helping him to sip the water. When he lay back, he sucked in a harsh breath, clutching his chest just below his shoulder.

  I moved closer to him, urging his hand aside. “Let me see.”

  He reluctantly complied as I hefted the lantern to better see his injury. Peeling back his coat, I could see the blood-encrusted shirt beneath. It was now stuck to the wound, and loosening it would be difficult and painful, but necessary to prevent infection.

  “I don’t know whether to be happy to see you or not,” he grunted as I prodded at the cloth. “But I suppose if you’re offering me water
and examining my injuries, you don’t intend to dice me up.”

  I flicked my gaze up at him, realizing it was a jest. One made in poor taste, but a jest nonetheless. Rather than chide him, I elected to take that as a good sign.

  “What’s happening? Is he drinking?” Lorna called in to me.

  “Who is that?” Alfred asked.

  “Lorna,” I replied, before raising my voice. “Yes. Alfred is awake.”

  “Oh, thank heavens,” she gasped. “Alfred, are you well?”

  “Yes,” he responded hoarsely, and then had to gather breath to speak louder. “Yes! Just a few bumps and bruises.”

  This was a lie if ever I heard one, though I knew it was done with good intention.

  “He shot you,” I pointed out.

  “Yes.” He sucked in a harsh breath as I prodded a particularly tender spot. “But Lorna doesn’t need to know that.”

  I snorted. “As if you can keep it a secret.” I sat back, turning toward the cave entrance where Lorna peered down at us, unable to see us past the low-hanging barrier of the ceiling. “He has a bullet wound, and though I haven’t examined him yet, I suspect Rory is suffering from much the same. Without proper medical supplies I can only do so much. One of us needs to go for help.” I didn’t complete my thought, though Lorna must have understood the implication. If we didn’t get help soon, one or both of them would die.

  She didn’t respond immediately, and I remained silent, giving her time to absorb the information I’d just relayed.

  “I should go.” Her voice was firm with resolve. “I know the way far better than you. Surely someone in Merrivale will be able to assist us.”

  She was right. Much as the idea of remaining here with the two injured men frightened me, the thought of striking out across the mist-shrouded moor without Lorna to assist me was infinitely more perilous.

  “Pass me down one of the saddlebags,” I told her. “Did you bring any of your herbs?”

  “No. I should have thought to do so,” she fretted.

  “You couldn’t have known,” I replied. “But bring back some garlic to pack the wounds with to ward off further infection.”

  “I’ll grab some calendula as well.”

  I accepted the saddlebag from her, reaching past it to grip her hand before she could withdraw. “I’ll do everything I can,” I promised her, hoping it would be enough. “You just focus on staying safe and finding help.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice shook with repressed emotion, but she smoothed it out as best she could as she called down to Alfred. “I’m going for help, Alfred.” Then almost as an afterthought she added, “Don’t die on me.”

  “Is she out there alone?” Alfred asked as I heard the sounds of her moving away.

  “Yes.”

  He shoved my hand aside, as I reached again for his wound. “You can’t let her go alone.”

  “We don’t have any other choice,” I replied. “She’s certainly not going to let me leave you and Rory here alone.”

  “Well, make her.”

  I arched an eyebrow at his petulant tone. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands. Now lie still. This is not going to be pleasant.”

  There was one positive thing about his peevish behavior. It made it easier for me to do what I needed to. I trickled cold water over the wound to loosen the encrusted fabric and then peel it upward. He winced and gritted his teeth.

  When I’d finished, he was breathing hard, and the sweat I’d already observed dotting his brow ran in rivulets down his face.

  “Maybe I spoke too soon,” he panted. “Maybe you do mean to finish me off.”

  “Hush,” I retorted, prying carefully at the skin around the wound. It was red and inflamed, but the placement and the relatively minor loss of blood suggested the bullet hadn’t hit any major organs or veins. If we could combat the infection and get him help soon, he should survive. So long as there weren’t worse injuries.

  “Where are your other injuries?” I asked, sweeping my gaze over his form.

  “There are none.”

  I glared at him. “From the labored sound of your breathing, I know that’s not true. Did he crack your ribs?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

  I leaned closer, inspecting the stain on his shirt and skin just above his shirt collar where his cravat had been removed.

  “Lady Darby, I hardly think this is the time,” Alfred quipped weakly.

  I looked up past his dry lips a few inches from mine to meet his eyes. “What is this?” I demanded to know, ignoring his attempt at levity. “What is smeared on your neck? It’s not blood.” I moved even nearer to smell. “I think it’s a plant of some kind.”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Hammett must have done it while I was unconscious.”

  I flicked a glance at Rory’s neck, seeing the same stain. Then a speck of something on his coat sleeve caught my eye. I reached across to pick it up, bringing it closer to the light. It was a cluster of leaves. Rue, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  “Why would he rub rue into your skin?” I voiced out loud. “It’s not a poison I know of.”

  “Perhaps because it’s supposed to ward off spells,” Alfred surprised me by replying. He attempted to shrug, which resulted in a grunt of pain. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

  I suspected Alfred knew a great deal more than he wished others to realize, but I didn’t comment on that. “I suppose that makes sense given the fact he believes Lorna is a witch.”

  He blinked up at the rock ceiling. “He kept babbling something about saving us from our own sinful inclinations and restoring the family honor.”

  I didn’t question him about it further, wanting to focus on what was most important here and now—keeping both men alive. I shifted across the cave again, settling next to Rory’s side. “Has he woken? Has he spoken to you?” I asked Alfred while I searched him for injuries.

  “For a short time.” His voice grew rough. “Though I’m not certain he was in his right mind. He kept trying to apologize. Said he swore Lorna was behind my disappearance. Then he saw me one day on the moor. Probably the same day you did. And he made the mistake of saying something to Hammett instead of you and Gage, thinking the butler might be an ally.” He swallowed. “He was worried the two of you might not take him seriously, that you already knew he’d been hindering your investigation. I guess he initially hadn’t wanted me found. He was angry, and wanted me to stew in whatever trouble I’d gotten myself into. But then he’d changed his mind, growing worried I might truly be in some sort of danger.”

  Alfred coughed, gritting his teeth in pain. I lifted a hand to halt his flow of words, but he pressed on, urgent to relay it all.

  “He wanted to tell Grandfather what he’d seen, that I was alive and well, but Hammett insisted they needed proof. However, when he took it to him, Hammett attacked him instead.”

  “What proof?”

  “He wasn’t very coherent, but I gathered it was a drawing of Lorna. She was wearing a necklace with a piece of amber strung on a chain. The piece of amber I’d found one day on the moors when we were boys. He knew I always kept it in my pocket.”

  The sketch of Lorna at Great Mis Tor. That’s why Rory had taken my sketchbook. He’d noticed the distinctive amber necklace when my book fell open to that image that second day we met on the moor. It was something that, as an outsider, I’d had no chance of discerning.

  I frowned, unable to find the source of Rory’s injury. “Did he tell you how he was attacked?”

  “Shot. Just like me.”

  “Where?” Frustration tightened my voice, and I pressed my hand into the ground beside his arm in order to reach up by his head. It sunk into wet earth and I nearly recoiled. I must have made a sound, for Alfred’s eyes snapped to mine in the darkness. I didn’t spare time for an explanation
, sliding my knee between the two men where they lay side by side in order to try to gain enough leverage to roll Rory onto his side. There I found the hole near the center of his back, and from the scent emanating from it, it had already begun to fester.

  My heart rose into my throat. I laid him back as gently as I could and turned to meet Alfred’s gaze. I could see the same horror and pain I was feeling glimmering in his eyes in the lantern light.

  Placing my hand around his wrist, I felt for Rory’s pulse. It was faint. I counted its beats, recalling something I’d overheard my late anatomist husband telling his assistant about the time he’d served as a surgeon during the Napoleonic Wars. He’d said that one of a field surgeon’s most important skills was his ability to distinguish between those injuries which were survivable and those which were not. Not only could he save more lives by focusing his time and attention on those he could mend, but by staying his hand he also prevented further suffering for those who couldn’t survive by not forcing them to endure an unnecessarily long and painful death when they could already be at peace.

  No matter how much I wanted to balk at the truth, somewhere inside me I recognized reality. This wound was not survivable. Even had the best surgeon in all of England swooped in at that very moment to attend to him, the chances of his recovering from such a wound while in such an advanced state of dehydration were infinitesimal. If the bullet had damaged an organ, the odds could be even smaller than that. He would lie in bed, slowly waiting to die. Perhaps even praying for it.

  It was far kinder not to do anything, but infinitely more difficult.

  I could see the moment Alfred recognized the same thing I had, though from the way his mouth worked, he seemed to want to fight it.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, not knowing what else to say. After all, the men were brothers. Regardless of everything else, there was still that bond between them.

  His throat worked as he swallowed, and then he nodded in acceptance. I glanced at Rory one last time, blinking through a sheen of tears. I hated that I’d allowed myself to think the worst of him when the truth was he’d been trying to protect me. Those letters he purportedly wrote telling his valet to poison me and threatening Lorna almost certainly had come from Hammett, not him. If only he’d trusted us with his suspicions and not Hammett. All of this could have turned out differently.