Page 39 of Silence of Deceit
ChapterTwelve
She’d forgotten how cold the rooms inside Shadewell were during the raw months of autumn. It was a pervasive, gnawing chill that seemed to grow from within her bones and spread outward. A coldness that was at first painful and prickling, but eventually dulled the senses.
Audrey and Hugh had pulled chairs to the hearth grate, as close to the flames as they could without risking one of the popping embers from landing on them. Two stacks of folios sat on the floor between their chairs—one thin stack held the records of names Audrey had recognized, and another, thicker stack were records that seemed to have no connection. They had been pulling one folio at a time from the two boxes that the superintendent had delivered about an hour ago, and she and Hugh were taking turns reading through each one together.
Hugh slouched in his chair, an ankle upon his opposite knee, with an open file in his lap. So far, their task had given them plenty to preoccupy themselves with, and they had not mentioned the kiss at the posting inn. It was for the best. Audrey had no idea what she would say about it anyhow. The truth? That the last two sleepless nights had been plagued with unseemly thoughts of Hugh, in his room, in his bed, just down the hall from where she lay? And what it might be like to be there with him, instead of in her own bed with her snoring maid?
In the long shadows of night, she’d given free rein to her unrestrained imagination. Oddly enough, it didn’t make his presence in the light of day awkward. Rather, she wondered if he’d had the same imaginings from his own bed. Right now, however, she could give no thought to anything intimate, imagined or otherwise.
Audrey basked only in the unexpected comfort of his presence. If she had been on her own, she wasn’t at all certain that she’d have been able to cleave through her blinding fear in order to approach Shadewell’s front door. She’d hardly been able to breathe without it feeling like she was sucking and exhaling air through a slim tube. Hugh had eased her back from a ledge, his reassurances a rope to cling to.
Now, she still felt shaky and alert, but the panic had receded.
Doctor Mathers had placed an orderly outside the door if either of them needed to leave the office but explained that he kept the door locked at all times, ever since an untoward incident with a violent patient.
“You should be quite safe in here,” he assured them before seeing himself out. On the contrary, a band of panic had tightened around Audrey’s chest. The mention of the violent patient had exhumed yet another memory.
When she’d first arrived, she’d been indignant, furious; her heart had felt like someone had placed it in their palm and then crushed it. She’d lashed out in anger several times, at the former superintendent, the tall and somber Dr. Warwick, the matron, Mrs. Derry, and the coarse orderlies, all of whom seemed to look at the residents as if they were plague rats rather than human beings.
How could she have forgotten the jacket? The one with the long sleeves and many straps that tied at the back, to keep her from being able to use her arms or hands. She’d fought them when they’d tried to put it on her. A hand sheathed in a white cloth had managed to clamp down over her mouth, and a sluggish haze had swept through her. Laudanum. It had made her sick for the rest of the night and all the next day. After that, she’d had the wisdom not to cause trouble, or to lash out angrily, no matter how powerful her outrage.
A kitchen orderly had brought in tea shortly after Dr. Mathers left them, and it had gone cold. She sipped anyway, grimacing at the cheap, bitter brew.
Across from her, Hugh closed the folio he’d been perusing with a slap. “George Harding, Jr., admitted a month after Lord Rumsford. You think this is the George who often accompanied the viscount to the library?”
“Doctor Warwick’s notes indicate he had a speech abnormality, and the George I recall spoke with a lisp.” Mr. Harding was no longer a patient, but Audrey did not believe him to be suspicious. “The killer is a woman,” she reminded him. “And George isn’t even in London. His home is listed as Grantham.”
“This woman from your vision could be another accomplice, like Delia, and perhaps Mr. Harding has changed his residence. Perhaps he did not want to speak to those he extorted due to a telltale speech impediment.”
Audrey sighed at the flimsy supposition and picked up another folio she had earmarked. Paper never retained much energy, but just to be safe, she had kept her gloves on. “Mrs. Esther Starborough, age twenty-two, admitted for extreme melancholy after the death of her infant son.”
Hugh sat up in his chair and stretched his back. “Esther?”
“I think it must be Estelle. Tabitha had confided in us once that Estelle’s baby had died and that she’d tried to end her own life afterward.”
“Tabitha was the one who wandered out onto the moors?”
“Yes. She and Estelle were close here. But the odd thing about Esther’s file is that there is no discharge date written as there are on the others, and I know she left. She bid us farewell.”
Hugh reached for the file, and Audrey passed it along to him. “Could it have been left off by mistake?”
“I doubt it. These other files have been quite thorough.”
He read through it again. “She is from London.” He looked at Audrey over the top of the file. “Her calling card was not among the others.”
“It wouldn’t be,” Audrey replied. “If she is the blackmailer and the woman I saw in my vision.”
With a sardonic arch of his brow, Hugh shook his head. “I will investigate her when I return to London, but it still isn’t clear how a former patient would have had access to these records.”
The quandary was valid. Audrey didn’t know either, unless she had befriended a matron here or orderly, someone who would have a better chance at access.
Hugh raked his fingers through his hair. He’d discarded his hat, even though it would have likely kept him warmer. “You could find nothing on the others you recall from the library?”
She shook her head. It seemed they had run up against a wall.
He held up Estelle and George’s files. “I will visit Mr. Harding in Grantham on my way south. The town isn’t far from the post road. As for Mrs. Starborough, I will call on her when I get back to London.”
Audrey nodded, but kept her lips sealed. Hugh would be at least another half day returning to London. That would give her time to visit Mrs. Starborough’s address herself. Approaching her might not be wise, if she was indeed involved in this blackmailing and murder scheme. But she could at the very least watch the residence from the safety of her carriage with Carrigan at the reins. Perhaps she could send Greer to the servant’s entrance and ask a few questions about the lady of the house.
