Victorian Dream (35 page)

“You were correct,” he said to Willie. “This isn’t a matter of money. It’s a matter of unfinished business. Deadly, unfinished, business.”

Chapter Thirty

As the carriage skidded to a halt, Trelayne flung the door open and scrambled to the ground. The snow was deep, the footing slippery, her escape short lived. The man driving the coach caught her by the hood of her cloak, and near choking the life out of her, dragged her toward a hulking building.

Inside, he shoved her into a chair, and with but a few quick turns of a waiting rope, secured her firmly to the piece of furniture. She kicked and struggled, her attempts useless. Seemingly amused at her futile efforts, he laughed and lit an oil lamp.

Realizing she was accomplishing little other than exhausting herself and providing entertainment, she stopped struggling, trying to slow her racing heart as she studied her surroundings.

The building was a deserted mill, the massive wooden wheels and cogs silent and draped with cobwebs. Torn burlap bags lay heaped in one corner, a pile of moldering wheat in another. A rat squeaked and took cover as the man walked toward a table to set the lamp down beside a pipe and a bottle of rum. As he took to the chair, the glow of light washed across his face. She knew him. He’d been with Lucien the day of the charity bazaar. It was Grimsby, the man Walker had long sought but could never make pay for his crimes.

Disoriented, as if reliving a nightmare, she glanced around half expecting Lucien to materialize out of the dark. But he was dead, and she was here in America, and this was to be a special night with her family and husband.

“What do you want, Mr. Grimsby?” she snapped, angry with this man for disrupting her life. “If it’s money you’re after, you could have selected better accommodations to await the transaction.”

“So you’ve recognized me,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “No, it’s not money for which I’ve come, but recompense of a more personal nature. This is where it all started, and this is where it will end. The good Captain has escaped death twice, once right here in New Bedford, and once in Brighton. But as the saying goes, the third time’s the charm.”

At his inference, the blood drained from her head leaving her dizzy and sick at her stomach. He didn’t want money. He didn’t want her. He only wanted her husband. And Walker would surely come—she was the perfect bait. She and the baby. This monster must never realize he had two bargaining chips.

“What have you against him?” she pressed, trying to reason out his obsession with murdering the man she loved.

Grimsby uncorked the bottle, took a healthy swig, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “It’s a matter of principle,” he barked, slamming the bottle down on the tabletop. He sounded belligerent, and she guessed this was not his first nip of the day. “I don’t like leaving unfinished business. And it’s a matter of loyalty. Because of him two of my boys in Brighton are dead, and one’s in jail. And I’m also doing it for Beatsie.”

Beatsie? He must mean Beatrice, Lucien’s mistress.

“I remember her. What was she to you?” If she kept him talking, maybe she could learn something useful to turn his intentions.

“She was my sister. And from what I hear you helped her off the top of that Abbey.”

“No, it’s not true. It was an accident. I wished her no harm. You weren’t there, how could you know?”

“I ran into Lucien before he burned up in your barn. He denied it was his fault, and that leaves you. It did my heart good to see what he’d become. Just deserts if ever there was any.” He grabbed the bottle and took another pull. “In the end he were no better than me. And he were no smarter. Now I’m going to finish what he couldn’t. I’m gonna kill the Captain, and give you a taste of what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

“He won’t come for me,” she lied. “We had a terrible fight. I hate it here in America—didn’t want to come in the first place. I’m going back as soon as the weather permits.”

“Ha, that’s a good one, Mrs. Garrison. I seen the two of you aboard ship, cooing and petting like the lovers you are.”

“You were the stowaway.”

“That I was. No use wasting good money when you can get the ride for free.”

“Oh, I wish they’d caught you and thrown you overboard.”

“If wishes were horses the postman would ride,” he chortled. “Now shut yer yap and stop prattling.”

She fell silent, and the stillness of the cavernous building was unnerving. A tomb or mausoleum couldn’t be more inhospitable. Then the wind switched direction, making her jump as it spattered sleet along the north side of the millhouse. It grated and scraped against the wood like sand blasting out of a hot desert, but it was far from hot. She shivered with cold, wishing this night to be over, yet dreading what it might bring.

****

“The note said to come alone,” Walker pointed out, changing into warmer clothes.

“Well, I ain’t staying behind,” Willie insisted. “I was with you when that mizzen mast broke and they dug the two of us out of the rubble, and I been with you through a dozen other hair-raising experiences. I’ll hang back and stay out of the way.”

“All right,” Walker conceded. He wouldn’t mind having another gun along. There was no guarantee Grimsby was in this alone. “But you stay low. I don’t want you getting hurt. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Of course I ain’t as young as I used to be. That’s an impossibility. What kind of thing is that to say? Here,” he tossed a pair of fur-lined gloves at Walker. “It’s cold enough out there to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” he muttered.

“Just be careful,” Walker reiterated, trying to stem the verbal tidal wave Willie was wont to unleash when he was wound up and heading into danger or adventure.

Dressed for foul weather, and armed sufficiently, they led the horses to the street and mounted up. The packed snow on the road had turned to ice, and as the animals fought for purchase, the going was slow.

“Let’s see if the footing’s any more stable off the road,” he hollered, over the wind.

They swung to the right. The sun dropped low, playing tricks with the shadows. His horse found solid ground, but Willie’s mount stumbled in a ditch, sending Willie flying. A tree stump abruptly stopped his trajectory.

Walker vaulted out of the saddle, and crouched at his friend’s side.

“Dammit to hell,” Willie gritted, “caught me in the ribs. I’m guessing I broke two or three, but I can still ride.”

“No you can’t, and no you won’t”

As gently as possibly he helped Willie to his feet. Each step was an agony, and his old friend couldn’t stifle the groans of pain.

“Just a little farther, Willie. You can do it. I don’t have time to take you all the way back to the house, and I’m not about to leave you to freeze in the snow. That nearby church will have to do.”

He settled his friend in the back pew. “Looks like there’s an evening meeting going on. When it’s over, someone ought to be kind enough to fetch Dr. Robinson, or at least get you back home.”

“You can’t abandon me in a dad-blamed church. I ain’t a Methodist. Why, this is worse then the time you left me sittin’ at that temperance meeting so’s you could sweet talk that gal handing out fliers. She was the only one around young enough not to remember the Revolutionary War.”

“I’ll make it up to you when this is over.”

“Oh, get on with you then,” he gritted, “and watch your back.”

Willie offered up his pistol. Walker took it, and hurried back into the storm. Going it alone would be dicey, but maybe it was for the best. He glanced at the clock tower, barely able to make out the hands on the face. The 5 P.M. deadline was drawing close. He pushed his horse as fast as he dared. Ever optimistic, he led Willie’s mount for Trelayne to ride home.

He slowed his pace and squinted. The mill came into sight, grim and looming in the muted glow of the setting sun. The river, where it wasn’t frozen, ran along the back of the building, the north side was piled high with drifted snow. Not even considering a frontal approach, he headed for the south wall.

Reduced to an opaque disk, the sun dropped out of sight. The cold increased, but the wind died down. It was so dead silent, he felt as if he’d gone deaf. No matter, the snow would muffle his movements. Riding as close to the building as he dared, he dismounted and tried to tie up the horses, but couldn’t. Frozen solid, the reins were useless. He herded the pair behind a tall thicket, and hoped they would stay put.

Pistol at the ready, he broke a trail through the deep snow, exertion soon taking its toll. Halfway there, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and the air whooshed through his lungs with the sound of a forge bellows.

Why did this keep happening to the two of them? Every time he thought they were finally safe with only happiness ahead, something extraordinary waylaid their plans. Their road to happiness had been repeatedly sidetracked by misadventure and mortal danger. It was a hell of a way to start their life together. Please, God, he prayed, let their future be boring and mundane, littered only with children, good times, and good friends.

Reaching the building, he pressed his back flat against the rough boards, held a moment to catch his breath, then edged sideways until he was even with a crack leaking light from within. Peering through the opening, he gritted his teeth and choked back a growl of rage. Trelayne was trussed up and tied to a chair. With a start, he realized she was wearing Katie’s mittens and wool cap. The sight threw him for a moment. Memories of Kathleen rushed at him, confusing him, yet giving him strength. At least Trelayne appeared alert and uninjured.

Grimsby, a portrait of evil framed by brute determination, sat at a table contentedly smoking a pipe and biding his time He wouldn’t underestimate the man. Although not a genius, he was crafty. And if not solid brains, he was solid muscle—mean and strong as a corn-fed bull.

His gaze tripped around the shadowed interior. There didn’t seem to be any of Grimsby’s henchmen in attendance. It was too easy. Quickly, he surveyed the area outside. Other than his, there were no footprints in the pristine carpet of white. He must be missing something. Grimsby liked to play games, outsmart his quarry, devise uncommon methods of accomplishing his dirty deeds. There was something more here than met the eye.

Regardless of whatever the blackguard was up to, Walker needed to do something quickly. He was cold to the bone, and could only imagine Trelayne was, too. Trelayne and the child she carried. He imagined the poor little mite shivering inside her.

He studied her again, wishing he could somehow let her know he was here, and she was going to be all right. Then he saw it. There was a rope around Trelayne’s throat, the tail end disappearing upward. It was probably tied to the hoist used to move grain to the sack floor in the top of the mill. But the building was derelict and long out of commission. Could parts of it still be operational? Maybe Grimsby planned to use counterweights or gravity. If he rushed in, it might set something into motion he’d not be able to stop.

It seemed he had little choice but to surrender, giving Grimsby what he wanted in exchange for what Walker couldn’t live without.

****

Ever since this horrid man had placed the rope around her neck, she’d been afraid to move, afraid to take a deep breath. It escaped her how the apparatus to which it was attached worked, but she had no doubt it was designed to efficiently end her life. Carefully, she licked her lips, and tried not to shudder. This waiting was agony, yet its culmination promised to be worse.

Maybe she should tell him about the baby, maybe he would take pity on her. Moving only her eyes, she glanced in his direction. Grimsby checked his pocket watch and grinned, the image sent a chill down her spine. He would show no pity.

Why hadn’t she had a dream of forewarning about this, one of her standard hideous nightmares? Lately there had only been those splendid visions of babies and happiness. Maybe that meant everything was going to turn out all right. She had to cling to that, had to have faith Walker would rescue her yet once again.

The main door creaked open. With great caution, she canted her head. Walker’s outline filled the opening, a dark visage against the backdrop of white snow. Relief for salvation smashed headfirst into fear for his safety. Should she warn him Grimsby was intent on killing him? Her mouth felt dry as dust; besides, Walker would assume the man was armed and deadly. A wave of nausea slogged through her stomach. She’d best remain quiet, and try not to be sick

Their nemesis gained his feet and rattled forth the small saber he carried at his side. With a pistol in his other hand he strode toward her. “Do come in, Captain. Nice of you to be on time.”

“Untie her,” Walker demanded, taking a menacing step forward.

“All in good time, Captain. Hold where you are and drop your weapon.”

Walker’s pistol clattered to the floor.

“And your other one,” Grimsby ordered, positioning the saber crosswise on a separate rope near the one wrapped around her throat. “One cut of this and the hoist takes her up by that slender white neck.”

As if weighing rage against logic, Walker clenched and unclenched his fists. Then he produced a second gun and tossed it aside.

“Excellent. Now over to the pit wheel if you please.”

“I’ll not move an inch until you release my wife.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands,” Grimsby sneered. He sawed through a few strands of rope. Unable to suppress an involuntary whimper, she sat up taller as if it might somehow aid her condition.

With a curse, Walker complied, striding toward the massive intermeshing of wheels and cogs. A small heap of straw littered the floor, and he took his place in the center of it.

Grimsby sprinted forward. Walker braced for an attack but none came. Howling with glee, Bartholomew muscled a large stone over the edge of the pit leading to the river. A rope attached to the stone, looped up over a rafter, the other end lay hidden beneath the hay. Drawing tight, the hemp encircled Walker’s ankles jerking him off his feet and up into the air.

****