With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (29 page)

“But Atticus didn’t fall,” Bertram pointed out. “Which would suggest a very narrow window of time indeed—between his coming downstairs and your following after.”

Mrs. Threll’s mouth had tightened in disapproval. “I do not see that any
tampering
need have taken place. And perhaps the rod has been loosening for some time now.”

Our theorizing had only succeeded in putting her on the defensive. With this in mind, and because the throbbing in my head was growing so painful it discouraged further conversation, I dismissed her.

The doctor, when he arrived, examined the back of my head minutely and announced that rest and sleep would be my best healers. I chafed at this mandated inactivity, but with my head aching so dreadfully I was not fit for much at present in any case. I retired to my room and slept—and I am not certain whether it was my injury that made my dreams so troubled and violent.

At one point I woke to see someone sitting on the edge of the bed, indistinct in the gloom. With the drapes closed, the room was sunk in a twilight dimness. “Atticus?” I ventured drowsily.

“Hush, my love.” I felt his lips brush my forehead. “Rest.”

But I had little talent for being silent. “Did Bertram tell you—”

“He did.” I heard the steely sinew of anger in his voice. “I would never have forgiven myself if you…” He seemed unable to complete the thought.

“Why should you feel responsible?”

A brief silence. He took my hand, which lay atop the counterpane, and held it in his. In a different voice he asked, “Do you wish Richard were the one you had married?”

“What?” I said, startled.

“You loved him very deeply, didn’t you?”

“That was years ago.” I freed my hand and pushed myself up into a sitting position. “Light the candle—I want to see your face. What on earth are you talking about?”

He made no motion to strike a light. “I simply wondered if you’d be happier if you had married Richard.”

“Of course not. In any case, what is the purpose even of thinking about it? He’s dead, so the question is moot.”

I thought I could hear a wry smile in his next words. “Very reassuring for me.”

“Atticus, don’t.” I touched his face, wishing I could read his eyes. “I’m the one who wanted to make our marriage a true one, aren’t I? You could have had your reassurance in spades last night if you hadn’t sent me away.”

“Reassurance,” he repeated, and this time I was certain of the smile. “Not a very romantic word for it, surely?”

At least in the darkness he could not see me blush. “If you are trying to embarrass me—”

“Never think it, my Clara.” His hands cradled my face, and then he drew me to him for a kiss that was strangely anonymous in that darkened room, but also touched with an urgency that I had not heard in his words or voice. He kissed me so long and so fervently that, even as my blood quickened and warmed with answering passion, the strange idea came to me that it was as if this were the last time, as if he knew there would be no more chances.

“Atticus, what is wrong?” I asked breathlessly when at last he released me.

A heavy silence, then: “A great deal is wrong. I am going to try to put right what I can.” His hands still framed my face, and with his thumb he traced my lips. “I love you, Clara,” he said.

He had never said this to me before, though he had indicated it in ways large and small. Why say the words now? More than ever I wished he would light a lamp or open the drapes. “You sound so
final,
” I said, hearing the thin note of panic in my voice. “Please tell me what is in your mind.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Suddenly his voice was brisk, and he rose briefly to return holding something. When he placed it in my hands, I realized it was a wine glass. “I almost forgot—Dr. Brandt left a sleeping draught for you. He wants you to rest as much as possible.”

“I’ll drink it,” I said, “if you will tell me what you are about.” His portentous manner had filled me with unease.

“Very well, it’s a bargain.”

Satisfied, I drained the goblet. The sleeping draught had been mixed with red wine, and the taste was sweet. I handed the empty glass to him. “Now, tell me,” I ordered.

“I lied,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but I’ll not have you involved in this any more than you already are.”

“You
tricked
me?” I was almost too astonished for anger.

“I’ll explain everything tomorrow, if—” He hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“Don’t you dare leave,” I gasped as he rose to do just that. “You have to… you must…” Suddenly my tongue was thick, and the room seemed to slide sideways before my eyes. I felt my eyelids drooping, felt myself sinking toward the bed. The part of my mind that had not yet been claimed by the drug wondered if the doctor had indeed sent the sleeping draught or if it had been Atticus’s own idea—to prevent me from pursuing him to get to the bottom of these mysterious hints and implications.

It was my last coherent thought as the opiate effect of the drug filled my head with velvet sleep. I could not be certain whether the voice I heard saying
goodbye
was my husband’s—or my imagination. There came the sound of a door closing, very soft and far away, and then unconsciousness claimed me.

I woke to the sound of rain and thunder.
Construction will be halted again,
I thought drowsily. Then memory began to return, and I dragged my heavy eyelids open and looked around.

The room was even darker than before, but a flash of lightning briefly showed through a narrow opening in the drapes, and I saw that I was alone. I pushed back the bedclothes, noticing that it took a greater effort than usual; evidently the effects of the substance Atticus had given me had not yet completely worn off.

I felt my way over to my bureau and struck a light. My head still ached from my fall, and other parts of me had begun to ache as well. Picturing the length of that flight of stairs, I could not repress a slight shudder. I had been extremely fortunate not to have been more severely injured.

I drew a simple wool frock from my wardrobe and began to dress myself. My movements became faster as my mind cleared. I must find where Atticus had gone and what he had intended to do. Without a doubt he was putting himself in danger, but I could not imagine how… unless he intended to give himself up to the authorities for something. For Collier’s death, perhaps.

It makes no sense,
I fumed as I drew on my walking boots.
Atticus is no killer.
All those signs of guilt had to signify something else, for I could not in my heart of hearts think him capable of murder… could I? Perhaps the man I knew and loved was not, but there was that other self, the one who had spoken with such biting anger and coldness. That unknown Atticus might be capable of anything.

Which made it all the more crucial that I find him and forestall any plan he might be embarking upon. I strode to the dressing-room door, steadier with every passing moment, and found it unlocked. The second door, likewise, was unlocked, and I emerged into Atticus’s bedchamber, where a fire was burning but no one was present.

The room should have looked peaceful, normal. Nothing stood out at first as unusual, yet my mind twinged with a faint unease. Atticus’s evening clothes were laid out on the bed, the patent-leather shoes placed neatly on the floor beneath. A glance at the elaborate timepiece on the mantel told me it was nearly eight o’clock. He should have been dressing for dinner, or have already finished doing so.

The door to the corridor was ajar, and perhaps that was what had awakened that stirring of unease. I crossed the room and opened the door wide: the hallway was empty. From the far end past my sitting room, I could hear rain flinging itself against the window, and intermittent flashes of lightning showed around the edges of the drapes.

It was there, at that end of the corridor, that I had thought I saw Richard one night—and from that direction I had thought I heard my name spoken on my first night as a bride at Gravesend. I had never resumed my scrutiny of that portion of the corridor for anything unusual, and with a decisiveness I could not entirely explain I strode down the hall in the direction of those mysterious manifestations.

The wainscoting was almost shoulder height, and above it the wall was papered in a dark, elaborate pattern of flowers and acanthus leaves. It confused the eye, so I decided to use my other senses instead. With my eyes shut, I walked slowly toward the window, trailing one hand lightly along the edge of the wainscoting. For the distance of several paces I detected nothing unusual.

Then I felt it: the faint cold breath of air emanating from a place where there was no aperture. When I opened my eyes and looked closely, I could see the tiniest fissure in the paneling—a break that was suspiciously straight and symmetrical. Like the edge of a door. I traced it down to a small knot in the wood and pressed it. It gave easily—so easily that it must have been designed for the purpose—and a door in the wainscoting opened gently inward into darkness.

My scalp tightened. Without any evidence to the contrary, this seemed the most likely place for Atticus to have gone. But which Atticus—and why?

After returning briefly to my room for a candle and matches, I set out to explore what lay beyond the hidden door. I had to duck my head to pass through it, and when I did I found a small empty chamber with stone walls and floor. Perhaps “chamber” was giving it more than its due: there was scarcely much to it beyond a stairwell with stone steps leading downward. Its size must have been determined by what space there was at this corner of the house between the windows on the two perpendicular walls.

When I examined the door, I found that the latch on the inside was controlled by a button similar to that on the wainscoting side. I made certain it worked from this side before I shut it behind me. I had no desire to be trapped in the little room—or wherever it led.

From the stairwell I felt again that chilly current of air. Was the other end of this passage open to the outdoors? I could only find out by making the journey.

That journey was the strangest of my life. Not only was I venturing into uncharted, even unguessed territory, but I did so with a combination of urgency and reluctance. My instincts told me that I must stop Atticus from doing whatever his dark hints had referred to, whatever—I inferred—was putting his future, or ours, in danger; but the prospect of what might lie ahead struck me with an almost paralyzing dread. Whether it was some dark side of Atticus himself or some unknown party, I knew this was not an adversary I would find it easy to confront. I had begun to evolve a theory about the hidden player in this gruesome ongoing drama of Gravesend, and I wasn’t certain which outcome would be more horrifying: to be right or to be wrong.

The steps led down past a similar small landing or chamber at the next floor, and then another at what would have been the bottom floor with the kitchen, scullery, pantry, wine cellar, and the like; but it descended again before feeding into a stone-lined passage through which the cold breeze came, more strongly now, stinging my cheeks. I hesitated at the mouth of it. The candle’s flame illuminated a long stretch of tunnel narrowing into a wall of darkness. I could not tell how long the passage was, where it led, or whether anyone was guarding it. All I knew was that I did not want to give anyone a hint of my coming.

I extinguished the candle and placed it on the bottom step against the wall where, I hoped, I would be able to retrieve it later. The matches I kept in my pocket. I unlaced my boots and set them aside as well; otherwise the sound of my footsteps would reveal my presence just as readily as would the light of the candle. Thank heaven I had not dressed in taffeta or any such rustling fabric.

The passage was so narrow that it would have been impossible to walk two abreast. As I progressed I felt along the left-hand wall with one hand, with the other extended before me in case I encountered an obstacle. The stone walls of the passage were rougher than those in the stairwell through which I had come; evidently this was not a route intended for much traffic, although this I had already gleaned. I thought of what Richard—no, Atticus—had told me about the Blackwoods’ smuggling days, and I knew this must be a remnant of those times. That meant that this tunnel probably led to a bay of some kind where ships could have unloaded the contraband goods.

I could not tell how long I felt my way along the passage. Hours, it seemed. The passage sloped downward, but so gently that I could not say how far beneath the earth it descended. It turned occasionally, sometimes so sharply that only the hand extended before me prevented me from walking into the opposite wall. Soon I had lost all sense of what direction I was going in. Occasionally one stockinged foot would come down on a pebble—or dislodge one, and each time I caught my breath, listening to the echo of it skittering against the walls, and hoped that no other ears had caught the sound. The darkness became oppressive, my hands and feet grew colder and colder, and I had to suppress panicked thoughts about never finding my way out again. All I knew for certain was that I was moving farther away from Gravesend with every step… and closer, I devoutly hoped, to Atticus.

At one point the faint echoes of my own progress vanished, and the wall on my right seemed to fall away. When after listening hard I caught no sign of any presence other than my own, I drew a match from my pocket and struck it against the rough stone wall.

The light that sputtered into being was drowned in a great dark space, but when I moved the match I could see that I was in a large, rough-hewn chamber. A few old wooden barrels were stacked along the far wall, along with a newer packing crate. On the crate rested a candle in a holder, matches, half a loaf of brown bread, a bottle that must once have held wine, and a pewter mug. Someone had been here recently, for the bread was neither moldy nor bitten by vermin. Before the match sputtered out I also saw a straw pallet, a stack of folded blankets, and an upended crate with a broken mirror upon it. Had someone been living down here? And if so, for how long? There was no answer to be gleaned from the scant objects I saw, so I struck another match, located the arched opening where the passage continued, and resumed my journey.

It grew colder. The breeze strengthened all the time, and at last it brought something with it besides the numbing chill and what I was beginning to think was the briny tang of the sea. It brought the sound of voices.

Or was it merely one voice—Atticus, again, in a terrible dialogue with himself? More swiftly I crept along, but taking pains to be ever more stealthy. If the last incident was to be taken as precedent, my intrusion would bring the discussion to an end. I must overhear without being noticed. Fortunately the sound of thunder had ceased, so I did not have to strain to hear over it.

When the voices—or voice—came again, closer, my footsteps slowed and I clung more closely to the wall.

“I refuse to believe you’ve no conscience.” That was certainly Atticus.

But the answering laughter was also Atticus’s. “A conscience is a heavy burden,” came the drawled response. “I’ve traveled lighter without one.”

There was an exclamation of… disbelief? disgust? “How can you say such a thing? You cannot claim your soul is at peace with itself after you murdered two men in cold blood.”

My involuntary gasp was drowned out by an impatient sigh. “A sick old man with one foot in the grave, and a dangerous lunatic? Some might say I did them a service. Besides, Collier’s death was crucial. Without that admission of guilt, you’d still be on the hook for Father’s death.”

There was a silence. I could hear, faintly, the sound of surf or rain; I could not be certain which. “I know you have some scruples left,” the first voice said. “Show it: be a man, and turn yourself in to the authorities.”

“So you aim to school
me
in being a man?” scoffed the second voice. “You with that pistol you’re afraid to use, and your comely bride a virgin still? I was more of a man than you when we were still in short pants.”

I bit my lip. Still I could not be certain whether this was Atticus alone. I crept forward a few more steps until I neared a corner, beyond which I could see light glowing faintly on the rough stone. Candlelight, perhaps—or a lamp, since its illumination was steady.
Illumination,
I thought desperately,
is sorely in need here.

“I’m not afraid to use it,” came the voice of Atticus—
my
Atticus—quiet and grave. “I’m simply hoping it won’t be necessary and your better nature will prevail. Despite our differences, and despite the terrible things you have done, I would still prefer not to have to shoot my own brother.”

My hands flew to my mouth to hold back a gasp. So it was true. It had seemed so farfetched an idea… but the more I had considered it during that long, strange progress in the dark, the more logical it had become. All except for the central mystery:
how?

I edged closer to the light and very, very slowly moved my head to peer around the corner.

Atticus and his twin stood confronting each other in a shallow cave formed where the passage opened out. From where I stood, a narrow set of roughly hewn stone steps led down to the sandy ground on which they stood. Beyond, although I could not see it in the darkness of night, must be a cove, and I knew I had been right to suppose that the passage and the underground chamber had been constructed with smuggling in view.

A lamp placed on a flat rock lit up the two figures as if they were on a stage. But the pistol in Atticus’s bandaged hand was no prop, and this confrontation, as fantastical as it seemed, was no playwright’s creation.

Atticus held the gun trained on his brother. There was no wavering in his grip or in the sober gravity of his eyes, but a telltale tremor fluttered in his bad leg. I wondered suddenly how long the two men had been wrangling here, how long Atticus had been on his guard, so focused and so intent. How much longer could he maintain his watchful stance before his concentration broke and his brother made a move to disarm him—or worse?

Richard, in contrast, seemed as relaxed as if he were at a garden party. As I watched, he lit a Turkish cigarette from the lamp, then replaced the glass chimney and propped one foot on the rock as he regarded his brother.

The years had wrought some changes, but they had not been unkind to him. His clothes were rough, but his movements as easy and powerful as ever. He sported several days’ worth of ginger whiskers, and his hair wanted washing, but the lean rangy lines of his body were not blurred, nor was the speculative gleam in his ice-blue eyes. The half smile that curved his mouth was so familiar that it clenched my stomach with dread and a kind of superstitious fear. He did not fear his brother—no, nor did he even take him seriously. Atticus was not going to win the day by appealing to Richard’s better nature.