Page 40 of The Journal of a Thousand Years
“Jakes,” I countered.
Cyclops rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t offer an opinion. Alex watched his father through eyes narrowed to slits. Something passed between them. Something that made them both even more grim.
Willie hadn’t noticed. “What did you say to Gabe in your message?” she asked me.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Course it matters. It might be relevant.”
Alex saved me from answering. “I can’t stand around here doing nothing. I’m going to hunt for Thurlow. Even if he’s notresponsible for Gabe’s abduction, he is responsible for Sylvia’s. I’d like to punch him.”
“You won’t find him,” Cyclops said. “The house where they kept Sylvia was empty. He will have gone to ground by now. The Hobsons, too.”
That was a surprise. Mrs. Hobson sounded like she was going to place the entire blame on Thurlow. Perhaps Ivy encouraged her mother to flee after Bertie left with me.
“I have todosomething,” Alex growled. “I can’t sit around here waiting.” He strode out of the library.
Willie followed him. “I’m coming.”
“As am I,” I said.
I didn’t immediately follow, however. I wanted a quiet word with Cyclops first. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Something Alex has realized, too. What is it?”
He pressed his lips together and I assumed he wouldn’t answer. But he must have decided to trust me. “The front door wasn’t forced, nor was the service entrance or any of the windows.”
“So how did the kidnappers get inside? Who has a key?”
“The Bristows, Sally, Gabe, Alex and Willie. Mrs. Ling, Dodson and Murray don’t, but could have easily taken one and made a copy without anyone knowing.”
My stomach dropped. “You mean…”
“The intruders were either let in or got their hands on a key. Since Willie and Alex are above suspicion, that means the kidnappers had help from someone who works here.”
CHAPTER 9
Ileft Cyclops with the unenviable task of questioning the servants about keys and joined Alex and Willie in the Vauxhall Prince Henry. We drove to the house where I’d been held prisoner.
In the early hours of this morning when I’d escaped, the parlor had looked sinister. Brown cheerless curtains covered the windows, the cast-iron fireplace was cold, and there were no cushions or rugs to soften the hard surfaces.
In daylight, with policemen crawling through it looking for clues, it was no less cheerless, but it wasn’t sinister. It was quite ordinary. The sergeant in charge recognized Alex and invited him inside. Willie followed. After taking a few fortifying breaths, I entered behind them.
Pages from the books blanketed much of the parlor. They covered the chairs and table and piled up in corners like drifts of snow. The only visible parts of the floor were where my kidnappers had cowered during the paper tempest, hands over their heads. Some of the pages’ edges bore bloodstains.
I picked one up. How much blood signaled a fatal wound had been inflicted?
In an uncharacteristic show of sympathy, Willie put a hand to my lower back. “You didn’t kill any of ‘em.”
“Are you sure?”
“That ain’t enough blood.”
I blew out a shuddery breath.
“Next time, don’t give up until one of ‘em bleeds out.” She gave my back a hard pat.
The sergeant indicated the papers. “We’re going to tidy this up now. Don’t know what happened in here. Do you, Miss Ashe?”
I tried to look innocent as I shrugged.
