His Wicked Sins (22 page)

on either side of a dark smear.

"And I believe I see a footprint there in the dirt."

What good was it, such a find? Would it make the dead rise again?

A footprint. In the dirt.

Henry looked down at his boots, then looked at Sam's, and finally Robert's. Three very

different pairs of boots.

"The footprint," he said, and because he spoke louder, they heard him now, despite the

hoarseness of his voice. "Measure its length. And then trace the shape to a paper." He

paused, his thoughts muzzy, his stomach clenched in a sick knot.

"Whatever for?" Robert asked and turned to stare at him.

Yes. Whatever for. It would not bring her back. She was never coming back.

"To compare to his boots. To show his guilt. If"—Henry swallowed, forced himself not

to break down and sob. He looked back and forth between Sam and Robert—"
when
we

find him."

They were dubious of his suggestion. He could see it.

He knew the way things worked. Talk to witnesses. Survey the scene. Surmise and

make a guess as to what had happened. It was the way things had been done for a very

long while. Sam and Robert were seasoned officers, while he was green as new grass.

They had no reason to value his opinion.

Sam frowned, long furrows marking his brow, and finally he nodded and headed toward

the front door. Henry wasn't certain where Sam went. Perhaps to measure the boot print.

Turning away, he looked down the long, dark hall. Numb and nauseous, battered by a

cold fury, he could not divert enough emotion to care if they listened or not. Ginnie was

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dead. Dead. Dead.

But the girl … the girl…

Feeling bleak and sick and terribly overwhelmed, Henry backed away and followed the

hallway to the far end where he found the staircase to the second floor. Bending, he

touched his finger to the edge of the stair. It came away dark with blood.

His stomach heaved and rolled. He ought to run, ought to tear up the staircase and see

with his own eyes that the child was there, asleep, unharmed. Instead, he could only drag

his feet up, one step and the next, weighed down by fear and loathing of what he might

find.

The child was up there. Alive?

The wood floor of the landing creaked and groaned beneath his weight. He shoved at

the first door on his right, and it flew open to hit the wall with a sharp crack.

The room was dark, empty.

Turning, he tried the first door on the left, with no better results. The faint stink of

tallow lingered in the air, but the room was unoccupied. In a frenzy, he returned to the

hallway and shoved at each door, thrusting them open, until at the end of the hall he

pushed open the last, the creak of the hinges strident and harsh, the rasp of his breath loud

in his ears.

A rushlight in a tin waged battle with the darkness, the meager illumination crawling

across the walls, the floor, the bed. The scent of blood was strong, like tarnished silver.

He froze, shaking, hands fisted at his sides. In horrid contrast, crimson flowered against

the white bed linens, a massive, dark stain right in the center of the bed.

Dear God.

On shaking limbs, he walked forward, hands outstretched, touched the child's pillow,

the small rag doll. Finally, he turned his gaze to the crimson blot.

His breath stopped. His heart stopped.

Dear God. Dear God.

With a great, gasping breath, Henry Pugh sank to his knees and began to sob.

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Chapter 13

Burndale, Yorkshire, September 14, 1828

B
eth lay in the dark, her limbs shifting restlessly under the covers, her emotions knotted

and snarled like a ball of yarn tossed about by a cat. She had slept in fitful snatches,

haunted by a multitude of disturbing things: thoughts of Mr. Fairfax, his mouth pressed to

her wrist; the certainty that she had seen someone lurking in the back garden last night,

standing in the dark, his face tipped up to her window; the conviction that someone had

been in her room, touched her books, her clothes, even her nightgown where it lay folded

beneath her pillow.

Alone, each thought was distressing. Combined, they multiplied and swelled, and the

secret terrors she had thought well under her control oozed free of the confines she set.

Exhaustion and worry combined to weaken her defenses. Over the years, she had

learned to recognize the signs of her fraying control. The walls she had constructed around

her quirks and peculiarities were only as strong as her will, and this morning she felt

poorly suited to the task, her panic threatening to slide free in a greasy torrent.

The dawn was not yet upon them, but she rose from her bed, prepared herself to meet

the day, performing her morning ablutions and dressing with all haste. She had come to a

determination. She must seek out Miss Percy in her office first thing this morning. The

headmistress was fond of routine, and she regularly worked at her desk for an hour before

breakfast.

Taking up her candle, Beth made her way through the dark passage and down the stairs.

A damp chill seeped through unseen cracks to touch her skin with clammy fingers.

She quickened her pace, pausing once to shift to the right and avoid the place on the

stair that creaked.

Corridors fanned from the main vestibule, and she chose the one she sought, though it

was as dark as a pit, with shadowed doorways on either side. The flame of her candle was

a pallid warrior against the gloom.

She passed a partially open door, and with a hissing sound, the wind seeped through,

catching the flame, making it dance and finally, snuffing it altogether.

Freezing in her place, she felt the press of darkness heavy upon her shoulders, her chest.

With a shake of her head, she fended off the tide of dismay. There was a bit of light, the

first whisper of morning. It was enough. She willed herself to believe it was enough.

A scratching sound, quick and light, came to her. A mouse? A draft, come through a

crack? It mattered not. She had a task, and she would see it done, and so she walked on.

Once, she stopped, fearing she had taken a wrong turn, only to continue on, uncertain of

her way until her destination appeared out of the shadows before her.

The door to Miss Percy's office was slightly ajar. A finger of candlelight and a murmur

of sound slipped free.

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Beth stepped closer, her hand raised to knock, and then the sounds became a low-voiced

conversation that made her stay her movements, made her stand and listen, her pulse

speeding up with each word.

"…not at all the sort of woman we wish to employ at Burndale." Miss Percy's voice,

sounding perturbed and blunt.

"I quite agree. But we need her for the time being. Perhaps an admonishment to temper

her ways?" Beth could not be certain, but she thought the respondent was Miss Browne.

The sound of china touching china made Beth think they were taking tea in the office,

that a cup had been set on a saucer.

"She is barely competent in the classroom, and her overblown emotions hardly serve the

students well," Miss Percy pointed out, the words an icy dagger plunging deep in Beth's

breast.

Dear heaven. She thought they must be speaking of her, and she felt sick and terrified,

horrified that she might lose this position, her family's one hope. She had come here, to

the headmistress's office, to share terrible suppositions and fears, things she had no proof

of, things that would only serve to underscore her failings.

Oh, what had she been thinking?

Slowly, she backed away, feeling the heavy thud of her heart and the sick swell of her

despair. She dared not tell Miss Percy anything. Not after overhearing such a damning

exchange.

They spoke of overblown emotions. Surely spouting suspicions of watchers in the night

and unseen intruders would only solidify their worst opinions of her.

Spinning, she retreated down the corridor, making her steps soft and quiet, little caring

where she went. She knew only that she must get away from here before her presence was

discovered, before she added eavesdropping to the headmistress's list of her failings and

gave her further cause for dismissal.

She thought to return to her chamber, then she thought she could not bear it, could not

bear the confined space.

Perhaps she would go to the refectory and await the girls. The room was large, with a

bank of wide windows. She would not feel so very confined there. She thought for a

moment, mentally mapping the way from Miss Percy's office to the refectory. The halls

and passage were a labyrinth, and she had no wish to lose her way.

Unfortunately, with her worries and unease crackling like a raging fire and her

exhaustion from her restless night leaving her prey to her secret despairs, the way was less

than clear to her.

Lifting her skirt, she began to walk, choosing a vaguely familiar passage with floors of

red clay tile and walls of paneled wood the color of oversteeped tea. The walls felt like

they were closing in upon her, and she pressed her palm over her heart, willed herself to

settle.

With a shudder, she turned through a doorway into a wider hallway, paused,

backtracked, and finally chose the same path she had started out upon in the first place.

There was a little light now as the dawn seeped from beneath closed doors to paint the