Judith Ivory (35 page)

No Christina. No one here for him at all. No one but Claybourne. Adrien couldn’t even count on himself.

He had already proven he had the strength to hit
one guard, and the wits to bribe another. And he had already proven that this was nothing. Pathetically inadequate.

Just outside his cell door, Adrien could hear his last ally, drifting off, pronouncing his doom.

“Frankly, I don’t think he’s doing as well as you’re leading yourself to believe.” The doctor’s voice echoed along the stone walls. “He is slow to respond. He seems a little disoriented. Don’t judge everything, Edward, by how lucky you’ve been so far. That man shouldn’t even be alive.”

“Lucky, faugh. I planned—”

“Yes, you planned. On advice gleaned from a theoretical chat over a tankard of ale. We spoke of lead balls to the center of the body, not of a bloody massacre—”

“Come now, Angus—”

“Don’t ‘come-now-Angus’ me. The only reason that man is alive is that his body was so damn mysteriously cold. He hardly bled, all things considered. I am furious that my casual discussion blew a hole in that man’s gut—”

“Not so furious, I trust though, that you would like to see your wife stand trial—”

Townsend heaved a loud sigh. “That is always the most bizarre threat, Edward. You know I can barely tolerate the sight of Mildred—”

“Yes. And I know you will protect her to your grave—you have already jeopardized your career, your own life, in trying to keep her ‘little mistake’ from coming to light….” Their steps grew faint. Though Claybourne could be heard, continuing in confident solicitude: “We go through this every time, Angus. You want your delicate sensibilities to be on record. I understand. No one likes this sort of work. But it’s necessary. France does this to ours, I assure you—it’s hardly more than a game. We’ll get the information we need from him, then trade him for one of ours….”

Adrien had no idea how much later it was when he was nudged in the ribs. Claybourne’s face materialized through the smoky light of a lantern.

“Wake up.” The old minister reached over him. The sour smell of his body, the pit of his arm, crossed Adrien’s face. Adrien’s hands were untied. Blood rushed into them. He worked his fingers, then his arms. The shoulder that had taken a ball would not move at first. He massaged it as Claybourne spoke to him.

“Don’t get any sudden notions,” Claybourne cautioned. “Gregory is at your head.” He indicated with a nod.

Adrien could see only the shadow on the wall. Huge, shifting. But this was evidence enough. He remembered Gregory, the giant from the abandoned manor house.

“And don’t get too excited about the doctor’s concern. You and every trace of you will be gone from here by tomorrow.” Claybourne smiled.

Adrien’s feet were untied, and a tin mug was thrust toward him.

“Here. Sit up and drink this.”

Adrien groaned as he moved his legs over the side of the bed. Any movement that involved his abdominal muscles took considerable patience. He could hold the pain elsewhere to a minimum. But there was no avoiding the ache that cut to the center of his body. Then, the most exasperating effect of any movement: As he pushed himself up on his arms, the room went black in splotches. He had to stop, hold for a moment….

The next he knew, he was back on the cot, stretched out, and Claybourne was no longer smiling.

“Here.” Adrien’s head was lifted. “It’s only water. Drink it.”

Adrien closed his eyes, turned his head away; half-reaching for the unconsciousness that had held him for just a few seconds.

“Come on.” His head was jostled. “I’ll tell you about your son.”

Some blankets were bunched up, propped under his neck for a pillow. The tin mug was placed in his hand. Adrien took a draft of water. “My wife?” he asked hoarsely.

Claybourne smiled and pulled a chair over. “She’s never been better. She looks wonderful in black.” He crossed his legs thoughtfully. “What a striking woman she is.” He leaned a hand on the cot and lowered his voice in mock-frank assurance. “And, I’m not the only one who thinks so. Your friend, Mr. Lillings, is stumbling all over himself to console the pretty widow. He has even moved into your house.” Claybourne waved a hand. “But, of course, your grandfather is there to chaperone. A perfectly fine arrangement, despite gossip.”

Adrien stared at him over the mug. This was more information than he’d wanted.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” The old minister reached into a pocket. “I have something for you.” He took out a thin little package, rolled in paper, twisted at both ends. He opened it then held it out on the bony surface of his hands.

“Christ—” Adrien spilled the water as he recognized what was being offered. Though he didn’t dare reach for it. “And what,” his voice whispered, “am I supposed to do to get that?”

It was a finger of opium. Glossy black. With an odor, remembered, like the taste of a woman. He could already sense the bitter fumes in his mouth. Adrien closed his eyes, and let his head drop back. God, did he want that.

Claybourne laughed. “You don’t have to do anything. Here.”

The drug was put—tacky, slightly warm—into his hand.

Adrien stared at this unexpected development, looking for the catch. Then it occurred to him. “I can’t swallow it. It would make me throw up.” He wet his lips, wondering how much energy to waste on this. He was certain Claybourne was not here to improve his circumstances. “I need a piece of metal—” he began. “Something that heats quickly. A candle. And a reed. Or something else I can roll into a tube—”

“No.” Claybourne smiled, then made a face. “‘Hemlock.’ Honestly. Did you really want that poor man to think you were suicidal?” he asked.

With a swipe of his hand, Adrien shoved the tin cup, the water, the drug—

And giant hands from above latched onto his arm. A grip like a bulldog’s jaws. Adrien was yanked backward by the offending arm. His whole abdomen arched. It was pulled taut.

“A-ah!” With his other hand, Adrien tried to grab his belly; as if he could somehow hold himself together. While stars shot before his eyes. White pain. Edged in and out with blackness—

He could hear Claybourne chastising the hulking shadow. “Give me that water over there…. That was much too rough; I don’t want him to pass out….”

Half a pitcher of water came down into Adrien’s face. All he could do was sputter and try, in great gasps, to catch his breath.

Claybourne was standing over him again. “No tantrums,” he said, looking down. The opium was retrieved and laid on Adrien’s heaving chest.

“You can—” Adrien hissed, “stuff it—up your ass—”

The Old Man laughed. “There you go. I knew you would be clever enough to figure a way.”

Adrien turned slowly to his side, curling toward the wall. Claybourne leaned over him. There was a change of tone in his voice. He whispered, “Is she a very nice woman?”

Adrien didn’t answer. He was nudged, and the question was repeated, closer in his ear.

Adrien knew who he was speaking of. Christina. And this made him go weak himself. Adrien could detect Claybourne’s interest, his curiosity. And he agonized over it. If he hadn’t married her, he told himself, Claybourne wouldn’t have bothered. The marriage had protected him—so Adrien had thought—and exposed her. It declared her importance to him. Adrien was beside himself as he realized that Claybourne, almost certainly, was watching her now, inquiring…. And there was no way to warn her, no way to protect her at all—

“Your wife,” Claybourne whispered. “Is she a kind sort? Compassionate?”

Adrien still wouldn’t answer.

“What I’m getting at,” the old voice said, “is that I think she likes him. And he’s in great pain.”

Adrien glanced up, looking into the face that overshadowed his. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Lillings, of course. Shall I tell you what I’ve observed?”

“No.”

Claybourne smiled. “Mr. Lillings. If she’s there, he doesn’t see anyone else in the room. His mouth goes dry; he keeps wetting his lips. And when she’s not looking”—Claybourne gave his low, gravelly laugh—“my God, it’s indecent! His eyes drop all over her.” Softly, “He wants to sleep with her.” A pause. “Like a man in bad pain wants opium. Do you think she’ll let him?”

Adrien rolled his face back toward the wall. “I don’t know.”

“Shall I find out? Your new gardener in London—”

“No.”

Claybourne’s dry laughter reverberated through the cell. It was a sound of satisfaction.

Then a wrinkled, spotted hand reached over Adrien to the bed where the opium had rolled. Claybourne’s fingers retrieved it delicately from against Adrien’s chest. The drug was laid on his cheek. Adrien closed his eyes.

While old fingers stroked his hair. “I’m going to leave you alone with this and your imagination,” the Old Man said. “If you can’t think of something to do with it, I assure you, we will. And, my dear boy, remember it relieves all sorts of pain, not just the physical.” There was a short laugh. “Oh, and please be aware of another thing. An insensitivity to pain is an easy enough thing to verify—we will know whether you have been a good boy and taken your medicine or not.”

The weather was bright and clear. Everything was still; snow-covered. Like a scene on a museum wall; a translucent watercolor, washed from sunny blue to perfect, undisturbed white.

Christina Hunt marched into this picturesque landscape, leading seven reluctant men.

The high iron gates creaked as they pushed their way past. Once inside, all eight of them paused. Involuntarily, in unison. It was reverence that made them stop, perhaps. Or sheer awe. St. Mary’s Cemetery, just outside of London, held the dead of a great many families. More than a hundred graves. As well as a large structure, a tomb, at the rear.

Fresh snow crunched underfoot as they began to thread their way around tombstones and the mounded earth of graves. Their breaths trailed behind and mingled in low conversation. Slowly, they made their way across the frozen ground. They walked toward the distant tomb.

Built in the classic style, it stood two hundred yards
off, at the back of the cemetery. Marble block, Ionic pillars, classic Greek arches; peering through the bare branches of winter-dry trees. It belonged to the Hunt family. It sat there on a small hill, slightly higher than everything else around it, proclaiming that family’s privilege and position, even here among the dead.

Christina, Thomas, and Winchell Bower walked along silently, moving gradually in front of the others. Edward Claybourne was part of the group left behind; a clutch of necessary officials. He spoke to the other public men by first name. As .they walked along, Christina realized he knew each one—knew their interests, the names of their children, their wives, their personal circumstances. They formed a cohesive group. Five government officials, colleagues, on a public errand, sent out into a cold winter day by a legal system and a magistrate in London who didn’t know any better….

“It’s an interesting structure,” Claybourne could be heard saying. “Built originally in about 1200. Though the present façade is much newer….” As if he were giving a tour; trying to make this trip somehow worthwhile.

This graveyard trip had been fought for more than two months. Every sort of paper obstruction had been put before it. “Truly,” Claybourne had told Christina to her face just the day before, “had you less influence—or a less capable ally somewhere in the legal system, I would never indulge such pure female hysteria.”

And even her “capable ally” had his reservations. “Christina,” her father murmured as they walked. “Are you still sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not going to be pleasant. No matter what we find—”

At the entrance to the tomb, Thomas held out his
arm to guide Christina down the steps. The structure was half in the earth, half out. One descended between two embankments of dirt—

They stopped. There was a man sitting on the bottom step, in front of the high arched door.

He stood up quickly, turning, dusting his hands off on his coattails. “Dr. Billings is ill,” he began.

Then Claybourne spoke from above. “What are you doing here, Townsend?”

“Billings is…indisposed again. His wife called me.”

“That idiot—” Abruptly, Claybourne cut himself off and put on a more businesslike tone. “Very well. You will have to do.” Claybourne came down into the earth foyer, jangling a set of keys out of his pocket.

Another official came forward and broke the state seal. The burial place had been declared, two and a half months before, a national monument. The Crown had taken over its maintenance. And its security.

Claybourne darted a frowning glance at the newly arrived doctor, then opened the door.

It was pitch-black. Dank. A hole in the earth. It reeked of mold and damp stone. Christina reached out to the pillar by the entrance—the only thing she could see—as the others went past. She stood there trying to orient herself. The cold of the stone pillar came through her glove with a jolt. She withdrew her hand abruptly.

A torch flared. Then another. And another. Claybourne himself carried the fire from one to the next, igniting flames along the wall. The tomb, with its vaulted ceilings and gray-white columns of marble, materialized from the darkness.

The room was shaped like a cross. The torches displayed it like some wavering nightmare of overlapping shadows: an arrangement of walls and arches and stone sarcophagi, radiating from a marble table-like structure in the center.

The group congregated there. The table, Christina thought, looked more like some pagan sacrificial altar than a suitable place for its apparent Christian use: Candle wax covered its surface. A stand of iron spokes held the remains of candles, offerings long since melted into an amalgam of dirty tallow and burnt wicks.

“Townsend,” Claybourne said, “come with me. We’ll let you do the honors of primary identification.” Claybourne knew exactly which sarcophagus held what they had come for. One, inscribed and elaborately ornamented, was recently sealed. As the rest of them followed, he spoke to Christina. “Perhaps you will reconsider, my lady. This is not a healthy thing for a young woman to pursue—”

“I want it opened.”

“As you wish.”

She knew, from his tone, he would spare her nothing, then, after this.

He motioned to one of the men, the gravekeeper who had met them at the gates. This man came forward and, with a huge crooked bar, wedged the heavy lid. The stone lid was well sealed. It took four such attempts, then all the men present to lift off what showed itself to be an eight-inch slab. Christina shivered. No man would ever be able to push such a sheet of rock off alone. She thought of Adrien. And the huge weight…

Inside the sarcophagus was another box. Dark hardwood. Elaborately carved and polished. The fittings made of gold. There was inlaid ivory. Jade. At either end, belts made of leather were slipped down and worked underneath this coffin. And, slowly, it was raised. High enough to allow the hinged lid to open. The belts were secured.

Thomas squeezed Christina’s hand. Her father touched her shoulder. Claybourne brought the doctor in front of her.

“The death certificate?” Claybourne asked.

She withdrew it from her reticule and handed it over the doctor’s shoulder.

With no more preamble than that, the lid was un-latched and raised.

It was very heavy. In the end, Thomas had to step forward and help the other four men lifting it. Christina, involuntarily, stepped back. She closed her eyes for a moment.

“Well?” Claybourne asked the doctor.

The doctor consulted the paper in his hand. “Male, black hair, blue eyes, six feet two inches. That is the general description of the deceased here.”

Claybourne took the death certificate from his hand. “‘Distinguishing features,’” he read. “‘Has all his own teeth.’” He looked up.

“What’s left of them are his own,” the doctor replied.

“Many?”

“Half the upper arch at the right back of the mouth. Some on the same side, lower arch.”

Claybourne turned, smiling. “Were there any other features you wished to confirm, madam?”

He was so confident. And Christina was shaking; she couldn’t help it. Her voice broke as she spoke. “There was a scar that ran from here”—she indicated under her arm—“to here.” She showed where the old French injury cut downward across Adrien’s body. Then she bowed her head. It felt horrid discussing this; such a personal sight—she could see it so clearly cutting across the muscles of Adrien’s chest and abdomen—with these staring, disinterested men.

“Well, Townsend?” Claybourne had to prompt the doctor.

Nothing happened for several seconds. When Christina looked up, she found Doctor Townsend staring at her. There was a strange look on his face.

“Townsend,” Claybourne said with a little more irritation, “check for the scar.”

He did. Then looked toward Christina, as if speaking just to her. He announced almost sadly—and certainly without any surprise in his tone—“The scar is there. Poor devil,” he added.

Christina stood fascinated. The doctor, with all his years of experience with death and bodies, was as shaken as she was. He fumbled with the corpse’s clothes, trying to put them aright, then had to have help. Claybourne and another man stepped in as Townsend turned abruptly from the coffin, wiping his hands down his coat front.

“I am going to button his coat,” Claybourne said over his shoulder to her, “assuming you don’t want to examine the naked body yourself.”

Christina allowed him to finish. Then stepped forward and looked down. The mild odor of decay rose up to her. But this was nothing compared to the sight. She let out a cry and leaped back.

It was Adrien. A grisly, unrecognizable face, but the rest, the clothes, the build, the posture of the body—She had been ready for anything but this.

“No—” she gasped. Her face went cold. Her knees gave out. She felt her father’s arm go around her, Thomas’s hand catch her elbow.

A vision of Adrien ran before her eyes. In the same dark blue coat and gold-thread waistcoat. These rings. This watch chain. Moving. Smiling. Running his hand back over his beautiful hair—

She blinked. And stood a little more erect. There was something wrong with the hair.

“Wait—” She pushed at the people trying to help her. “Let me see again.”

“Christina.” Her father tried to hold her back.

“Lady Hunt.” Claybourne would have joined him.

But Christina suddenly found enormous strength
and resolve. She pushed through them. “I want to see—” She stared down into the coffin. Stared down into what remained of a face, the face of some poor man killed for his resemblance to the Earl of Kewischester. “It’s not he,” she said distinctly.

“Now, my dear woman—”

She turned on Claybourne. “It’s not.”

“How can you possibly be so sure?”

She didn’t know. She turned back again to confront the gruesome corpse. What was it about this very clever impersonation that made it wrong?

“The hair,” she began. Except that it really looked all right. It was just a little longer perhaps than Adrien usually wore it—That was it! “Look,” she said, pointing to the hairline. “The roots are brown. The hair is dyed.”

“It’s true,” Angus Townsend had told them, “that the hair on a dead man will continue to grow. Just as will the toenails, the fingernails….”

The doctor had been more than willing to add his voice to what seemed an imminent investigation. But Claybourne had moved the group, and excluded Dr. Townsend, after obtaining “only the objective medical information needed.”

“Angus can sometimes get too emotional over this sort of thing,” Claybourne explained as they boarded the two carriages that had brought them to the cemetery. “I was reluctant from the start—I hate to see him have to deal with a corpse. His son, you see. The boy died a year and a half ago. Angus was the doctor on call that night, was called to his own house by his own wife. Very sad. The boy was always a little feeble in the head. Some fool thing with a kitchen knife, an accident….” He paused. “Did Mr. Lillings decide to go in the other carriage?”

“No,” Christina answered, “he stayed so Dr. Townsend wouldn’t have to travel back alone.”

“Well, that was a useless thing to do!” Claybourne sat forward abruptly in his seat, as if he meant to go back after Thomas.

For an instant, Christina thought, the doctor knows something; his reaction…he’s our link….

Then Claybourne smiled and leaned back against the leather headrest. “I suppose Angus could use some comfort though, under the circumstances.” The carriage moved off.

Christina pondered this remark, half the way back to London. Such a humane response. Where she had been sure, just the moment before, she had detected worry, concern. Perhaps Claybourne had decided he could have confidence in the doctor. Or—the thought was a little uncomfortable—in Thomas. Claybourne might still believe that Thomas was in collusion with him. He had helped put Adrien wherever he was, so, Claybourne might assume he would continue to help. A foolish mistake—

Yet, Christina frowned. Claybourne was an astute man. He couldn’t have missed, over the last two months, that Thomas had shown nothing but distaste and hostility toward him: There was no mistaking that Thomas hated Edward Claybourne—the man had played him for a fool, then all but made him into a murderer. The question was, Why didn’t this attitude matter to Claybourne? How could he smile and settle back, knowing he was leaving Thomas with the doctor who, a moment ago it seemed, might have something to say?

For the rest of the trip, Christina was left with an uneasy feeling.

At Whitehall, Claybourne’s office was set out with tea. Christina’s father had to return to his own offices
to keep appointments. But Christina stayed. She sat herself down in the midst of five men who were finally officially mulling the problem of the wrong body in the wrong grave.

And watched. Claybourne was meticulous. He didn’t miss a beat. If he knew or had any part in this grisly hoax, he gave no indication.

By the end of the meeting, Claybourne had delegated various aspects of the investigation to the other three men, chastised them politely—making them somehow responsible for the whole fiasco—and put himself firmly at the helm of the search for a man who, just four hours before, he had denied was even lost. He had alienated no one. Convinced everyone. He controlled every aspect of the search.

Like another man she knew, Christina realized, Claybourne was a man of the moment. A man who knew how to harness the tide. Some organizational part of his mind, a gamesmanship, reminded her very much of Adrien.

They should have been friends, she found herself thinking.

Christina was staring down into her teacup.

“Excuse me, my lady”—Claybourne interrupted her thoughts—“but just one thing before we are off on this. Is it at all possible that the earl might have dyed his own hair? Without your knowing?” He said this with a show of great politeness and deference.

Christina looked at him sharply. “Adrien didn’t dye his hair. I thought we had settled that is not his corpse.”

“But how do you explain the scar?”

Again, Christina felt taken unawares. “I—ah—I don’t know—”

“Wethers.” Claybourne gestured to one of the men. “Make a note of that. The earl could possibly have dyed his own hair.”