Eve Silver (24 page)

She rose and crossed to Dr. Grammercy, staring down at him in silence. He watched her apprehensively. At length, she spoke.

“Please.” The word was more than a plea. It held all her desperation and fear.

Dr. Grammercy sighed. “You could easily hear it elsewhere.”

Darcie perched on the edge of the sofa, twisting so she had a clear view of Dr. Grammercy’s face.

“So I might as well hear it from you,” she prompted.

“Yes, well. I suppose that is true.” He shook his head, a gesture of sorrow and despair. “First there was that poor girl in Edinburgh. Damien was visiting. Attending the lectures of the anatomist, Dr. Barrow. The man is quite well-known. He sells tickets to his dissections. The gentry often attend. Quite the spectacle, I have heard.”

Darcie waited impatiently as Dr. Grammercy stared at the far wall, lost in his memories.

“I know of this only through hearsay, you understand,” he continued. “There was some confusion at a lecture that Damien attended. He challenged Dr. Barrow. Challenged his ideas and his science. Damien was never one to allow an audience to be entertained by the dissection of the dead. He allowed medical students to view his work, but never gawkers. Damien and Dr. Barrow had words. Later that night, Barrow’s daughter was found with her throat slashed.”

“Surely you don’t think—” Darcie exclaimed.

“
I
don’t think,” Dr. Grammercy interjected. “But the authorities did. They took Damien in for questioning, but naught was proven. In fact, his alibi was indisputable. He was at a pub with a dozen medical students. No question as to his whereabouts that night.” His gaze slid nervously away from hers.

“No question? Are you certain?” There was something not right here.

“They were all well into their cups. At first, they said they couldn’t recall, but then after a bit…” Dr. Grammercy cleared his throat and gave a short sharp nod. “There was a London lordling there for a visit. Lord Ashton… No, perhaps Lord Alton… I cannot recall. He swore that Cole was there all night. The constable agreed that there was no evidence that Damien was anywhere but in that pub.”

Darcie rose and strode across the room, fumbling with the brandy decanter as she sought to busy her hands while her mind sorted through this new and troubling information. “May I offer you more brandy?”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

Returning to the man’s side, Darcie took the snifter from him and refilled it. The motions felt odd, unfamiliar. She was standing in Damien’s parlor acting the part of hostess while Damien was being interrogated regarding a terrible crime. Was it truly only a handful of hours past that she had lain in his arms? Feeling as though she was caught in some frightful dream, she turned away from Dr. Grammercy and returned the brandy decanter to its place on the table as she struggled to maintain her composure. A fit of tears would serve no good purpose here.

“There is more,” she said softly, staring at the glittering crystal facets of the decanter, not daring to face Dr. Grammercy, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

“Yes.” His acknowledgement hung heavy in the air.

Darcie closed her eyes against the pain of it, taking a long, slow breath as she fought to maintain a calm façade, though her emotions roiled and churned.

“It happened here, in London, at the University. Damien went a bit mad after—” He stopped abruptly. “Do you know about Theresa?”

“Damien’s sister? Yes, I know she died a tragic, needless death.” At last Darcie found the strength to face Dr. Grammercy once more. She crossed to the sofa and sat on the edge of the seat, though in her agitation she was sorely tempted to pace the length and breadth of the room.

“There was an episode,” Dr. Grammercy said. “Damien’s sister. He brought her body. There was an experiment with electricity being carried out at the University.” Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed her hand. “Do you understand?” he rasped.

Darcie stared at his fingers where they curled over her wrist. She shook her head. “Right now, I feel as if I understand too little.”

“Theresa’s body was cold, lifeless. Damien, by all accounts was calm, collected, devoid of emotion as he carried her through the corridors to the laboratory on the top floor. The night watchman tried to stop him, but he walked past as though he heard nothing, saw nothing. I was working late that night reading old journals of the Royal Society. I heard the hue and cry the watchman raised. By the time I got to the laboratory, Damien had laid his sister’s body on the table. He’d attached wires. Allowed an electrical charge to flow through her flesh.”

“You can’t mean—” Darcie surged to her feet, no longer able to force herself to sit still. Terrible images of a book she had read, Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein,
quivered to life in her imagination.

Dr. Grammercy still held her hand, and his grasp stopped her mindless flight. She stood over him, looking down into his ravaged expression.

“I do mean,” he said solemnly. “Damien didn’t really think… He didn’t imagine he could bring her back. It was the grief that did it to him. I’ll never forget the look on his face, that terrible, hopeless void that reflected in his eyes…” His voice trailed away, and Dr. Grammercy sat for a moment, silent, lost in his memories. “‘What is the point of scientific study,’ he asked me as I tried to talk to him that night. ‘What is the point of scientific study if it has no practical application to the human condition?’”

Darcie stared at him, horrified by the thought of what Damien had done, yet empathetic to his actions. What good were the experiments conducted in closed laboratories if they were not used for the good of man? She understood that he could not have lived with himself had he not tried to save his sister by any means possible, even if those means were horrific in the minds of many.

“The night watchman had sounded the alarm,” Dr. Grammercy said. “Damien was dismissed from his position at the University. There were those on the board who were looking for an excuse.” A huge sigh escaped him. “And a second dead girl, so close on the heels of that terrible tragedy in Edinburgh…”

“It seems a harsh punishment,” Darcie mused. “You would think he would have been allowed some latitude for his situation, some acknowledgement of his loss. And with the equipment in place… You mentioned that experiments were already being done?”

Dr. Grammercy grunted, and then took a sip of his brandy. “There were those who whispered that Damien was mad. An intense youth, he was, always caught in the what-ifs. He thought he could change the world, if only he could change the minds of his colleagues. Brilliant, but combative. There were those who were glad to see him go.”

“Then he was hounded out without good cause,” she exclaimed.

Dr. Grammercy peered at her, unblinking. “Without good cause? He was found in the laboratory with the body of his sister. He was using equipment for unauthorized purpose. On a human corpse. Until that night, the experiments were used to make animal parts reanimate. The most interesting was the limb of a dead simian that would clench into a fist with the application of the current. Before that night, there was never any involvement of human remains.”

“I see.” Darcie grimaced at the thought of the severed simian limb. She clasped her hands in her lap, pondering her companion’s revelations. “But that does not make Damien a killer,” she blurted. “He was trying to restore life.”

“You do not need to convince me, my dear. I am firmly in Damien’s court.” Dr. Grammercy gulped down the last of his brandy. He set the empty glass on the small side table beside the sofa. “But in the eyes of the authorities, there was that matter of the dead girl in Edinburgh.” He held his hand out, palm forward, as she opened her mouth to protest. “There was no proof, but suspicion is a weighty enemy. A dark cloud like that can hang over a man for the rest of his life.”

Darcie shivered. Suspicion. It was like a dark seed that would take root and grow with alarming speed. Inspector Trent had taken Damien away for questioning. She had little doubt that in the inspector’s mind, Damien was a viable suspect. But what about her mind? Could she honestly say that she harbored no doubts, no questions, no suspicions?

With a heavy heart, Darcie buried her face in her hands, barely aware of Dr. Grammercy as he laid his hand on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Oh, to turn back the hands of time, to restore her faith, her trust. She wished away her reservations, but they were not so easily dispelled.

o0o

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the midnight hour, and still Damien did not return. Darcie shifted uncomfortably on her chair; in her mind, the sound of the clock’s chime akin to a death knell. Elongated shadows crept from the corners, and every sound made her skin prickle with nerves. The fire had burned low in the massive fireplace, leaving the parlor in semi-darkness.

She had not thought to light a lamp, for all she truly needed to see was in her heart. The hours of silent contemplation had led her round and round a single question. Had she given her love, her body, her very soul to a murderer? The idea was beyond reason.

She knew Damien Cole to be a man who answered to his own conscience. He was unorthodox, unconventional. She had seen only good in him, but she knew from her own bitter experience that a man could be something other than he appeared. Steppy had gone from loving father to vile demon, his sanity chased away by drink.

Darcie recalled the one time she had gone to Damien’s study and found him sequestered there with the smell of alcohol hanging heavy in the room. But she had not seen him drink it, neither that day nor any other. There was only his own intimation that there were nights when he succumbed, but exactly what did he mean? Did he lose control of his actions or his emotions? Frustrated by her own confusion, she fisted her hands in the worn material of her skirt, willing her restlessness under control. She was reasoning herself in circles.

As the clock’s twelfth chime echoed through the still house, Darcie strained to hear the sound of the front door opening, wishing that this nightmare of waiting would end. She longed to hear the thud of Damien’s booted feet on the stairs, to feel his arms pull her close. Her breath hung suspended, held still by hope. But no masculine footfall answered her unspoken prayer. Only lonely silence.

She rose, arms wrapped tightly about herself, her gaze roaming the darkened parlor, resting momentarily on the dim outline of the large ornate mantel above the fireplace, then sliding to the silhouette of the mahogany writing desk on the far wall. The distinctive shape of an oil lamp’s glass chimney caught her eye, and she crossed to the desk, her tread muffled by the thick woven carpet that covered the floor. Striking a Lucifer match, she lit the lamp, filling the parlor with a soft glow. The smell of sulfur stung her nostrils.

Dr. Grammercy shifted noisily, his sonorous snore rumbling through the quiet. Darcie glanced anxiously over her shoulder at him, for she had not intended to rouse him with her actions. He sprawled, half reclining on the sofa, his head tipped at an odd angle, his mouth hanging open. She felt a pang of empathy, thinking he would have a sore neck come morning.

Darcie took a step toward her recently vacated chair, but found the prospect of returning to it distinctly unappealing. The thought of sitting idle for even one more second was maddening. Seeking a distraction from her uneasy thoughts, she crossed to the tall window overlooking the street. She pushed aside the heavy velvet drapery and faced the night-darkened panes of glass. The reflection of her face, pale and tense, stared back at her.

“Oh, Damien,” she whispered brokenly.

Extending her arm, she rested her fingertips against the glass. Her chin dropped and she closed her eyes in a futile attempt to block out the terrible thoughts and wretched doubts that assailed her. Her imagination tortured her with vivid images of the murder scene in the yard of Mrs. Feather’s House. The horrific possibilities haunted her, undulating at the edge of her consciousness, until they shifted and coalesced into a memory of the small flat where Steppy had died. She could taste her fear as she had that long ago night; she could feel the terror and despair. Sally had surely known fear a hundredfold greater. And while Darcie had survived, Sally had died.

Shivering, Darcie tried to imagine Damien plunging a knife into Sally’s body then tearing her heart from her breast. She tried to conjure a vision of him doing murder. The image refused to form. She could not conceive of such a thing.

How could Damien be the monster responsible for those foul crimes in Whitechapel? The very idea was preposterous.

The man who had held her in his arms and cherished her with his body was not a man who could do murder. The caring doctor who had tended to Sally’s leg, apologizing for the pain he caused her, was not a man who could rip out a woman’s heart, snuffing her life. There must be a reasonable explanation for the presence of Damien’s scalpel at the scene of the murder at 10 Hadley Street. There must.

Dropping her hand to her side, Darcie lifted her head and stared absently out the window. With heavy heart, she caught the edge of the curtain, ready to pull it across the casement and close out the night. The rattle of carriage wheels on the cobblestones stopped her. Frowning, she extinguished the lamp. The room thus darkened, the view of the street became clear. Expectation flickered at the sight of a cart rolling slowly along the street.

Damien.
His name was a silent cry of hope.

But as the cart drew near, Darcie saw that it was not a carriage meant to carry a person. It was an oddly made pull-cart that resembled a backward wheelbarrow. Not Damien, then. Her heart sank at the realization.

She was about to turn away, when the wagon stopped directly in front of the house. Her curiosity roused, she watched as a tall, roughly garbed man lowered the wooden handles of the cart to the ground. His shorter companion swaggered to his side and cuffed him on the shoulder. A tremor of recognition shuddered through her.

There was no doubt in Darcie’s mind; they were the two men she had seen the night she had stood in Damien’s study, watching as they dragged the chest to the carriage house.