The Dark Between (24 page)

“Let go or I’ll hurt you,” Kate growled between clenched teeth, wriggling in his grasp.

He clutched both her wrists in one hand and searched her body with the other. She started to scream, hoarsely, but he only pulled her tighter and moved his free hand to cover her mouth. Better there than in her pockets … or under her skirt. She squirmed with all her strength, trying to break his hold on her wrists.

“Strong for such a skinny thing. Must I tie you up?”

He let go of her hands to pull something from his own pocket. Heart thumping in her chest, she fumbled for the knife. As she slipped the blade free of its sheath, he pulled a silk scarf toward her wrists.

Before he could restrain her again, she stabbed at his thigh.

He cried out in pain, finally easing his grip, and she shoved him hard enough to throw him off balance. As he sagged against the wall, whimpering, she leapt toward the street and slogged as fast as she could through the mud and muck toward Trinity Lane, not daring to slow down until she’d reached Garret Hostel Lane.

She leaned against the cold stone of Trinity College and gasped for breath.

What had she done?

Eliot would have the police after her now. She wasn’t merely a fraud anymore. Causing bodily harm with a knife would land her in the clink for certain. Eliot didn’t know her name, or where she lived, but he could learn it from anyone who used
to work for Martineau. It was only a matter of time. She would have to leave Summerfield, never to see the Thompsons or Elsie and Asher again. Seeing Tec there by the river had made her think he’d come for her, that they would leave Cambridge together. And she would have followed him anywhere. But he’d
run
from her. She simply couldn’t make sense of it.

She must somehow find a way to leave Cambridge on her own.

For now, however, the rain was easing up, and there was nothing to do but go back to Elsie and Simon Wakeham.

Her first sight of them did nothing to ease her desperation. The two faced each other on the picnic blanket, damp from the rain and sitting too close for casual conversation. Something had happened—they stared at each other without speaking, their expressions grave. As she drew closer, Elsie turned. For a moment the ghost of a frown played at her mouth, stopping Kate in her tracks. Then Elsie seemed to draw herself up, leaning away from Simon Wakeham. She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Kate, you’re absolutely soaked! Why did you run off like that?”

“I saw a friend. I meant to catch up to him, but the rain … it was pouring and I—”

Elsie made shushing noises. “Silly goose. Here—let me wrap this blanket around you. We need to get you home and out of these wet clothes.”

As Kate stood still and dumb, shivering under the blanket, the other two worked quickly to pack up the picnic items, all the while averting their eyes from each other. Clearly they must have misbehaved in some way, but Kate didn’t care to speculate further. She did note, however, how gently Mr. Wakeham held Elsie’s hand as he helped her into the boat. How they shared
a glance that seemed heavy with meaning—something deeper than flirtation.

They were a quiet group on the journey back. No one asked her about the boy she’d chased through the rain. They would never guess, of course, that she’d attacked a gentleman in an alley. Alone in her thoughts, Kate focused on the sound of oars slapping the water. She had little time for planning her next move, but she knew her future wouldn’t include Summerfield College much longer.

Asher had warmed to Philip Marshall at the Thompsons’ dinner party, but he found him even more interesting in his own element. Self-assured and free with his opinions, Dr. Marshall came across as refreshingly logical.

He also seemed sincere in his desire to open Asher’s eyes to the wonders of his alma mater. As they ate a private supper in Dr. Marshall’s rooms, Asher listened intently to the man’s detailed introduction to the most important people and buildings of the college. Dr. Marshall was an accomplished lecturer, apparently accustomed to speaking for long periods of time without interruption. But he did eventually pause long enough for Asher to pose a question.

“Dr. Marshall, how exactly did you come to know Mr. Thompson? I have trouble seeing you as a member of the Metaphysical Research Society.”

Dr. Marshall put his fork down and lifted his napkin to his lips, almost as if to stifle a laugh. “I’m not a member, really. I have spoken at their meetings before, on subjects relating to the mind rather than the soul or spirit. I’ll speak at their London meeting this weekend, as a matter of fact. But I keep my distance from their ghost hunting.” He set the napkin down, his
expression thoughtful. “Once upon a time, Oliver and my father were part of a group called the Ghost Society at Cambridge—they had grand plans to collect true ghost stories and investigate the claims of local mediums and psychics. But nothing much came of it. Oliver was considerably more enthusiastic than my father. Later he did ask me to join the Metaphysical Society, no doubt out of respect to my father, but I declined.”

“Because you don’t believe in ghosts?”

Dr. Marshall shrugged. “It was more that I had other research interests, and I wished those pursuits to be taken seriously by the scientific and medical community. When I saw how much ridicule was aimed at the Metaphysical Society’s efforts, I was relieved I hadn’t joined them. I’m not ashamed to confess that. However, I did keep in touch with Oliver and a few others.”

A few others
. “Did you, um … did you count Frederic Stanton among your friends?”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, yes. Stanton was older, but he supported my work and often mentored me. He had a medical degree, you know, so we had something in common other than an interest in the metaphysical. His death was a blow—in fact, I testified at his inquest.” He paused to wipe his mouth again. “He was a good friend to your father as well. Did you ever meet Stanton?”

“No, I didn’t.” Asher paused, uncertain how to phrase his response. “But Mr. Thompson and my father have spoken of him with great fondness. And Mr. Eliot knew him.”

“Eliot?” Dr. Marshall grimaced. “A fool of a man—he’s exactly why I don’t wish to be a member of the Society. Such a fatuous brute.”

“I know you and Simon Wakeham are cousins. Are you good friends as well?”

“Oh yes. We practically grew up together, so we may as well have been brothers. Simon’s a bit of a dreamer, I must say. Rather suggestible. I did my best to toughen him up when we were boys, but he’s still so damned idealistic.” Dr. Marshall grinned. “The ladies love it, of course.”

Even as Asher nodded he felt his stomach sink. It would be so easy to put Elsie off Simon Wakeham forever, if he could convince her that Wakeham was the one who hurt Billy. At the same time, he could clearly imagine Kate’s penetrating glare if she knew what he was about, and he was ashamed for wishing so desperately to discredit Wakeham just so Elsie would be free of his influence. It smacked of the most cowardly sort of deceit. And the man wasn’t even pursuing her, as far as he could tell.

“I’d hope to hear more about your work,” Asher said, keen to change the subject. “I confess to finding my father’s research rather far-fetched, but your theories on the subliminal self intrigue me.”

“It is my dearest hope that you
will
hear more about my theories in the not so distant future—you and everyone in the scientific community.” Dr. Marshall smiled. “There’s more data to collect, but one day these theories could make my career.” He pointed to a handsomely carved file cabinet of oak. “I keep all my notes locked away for now, lest one of my colleagues steals my ideas … or, even worse, misunderstands them. I’m afraid it’s all a bit unconventional, you see.”

“Unconventional how?”

Dr. Marshall crossed his arms. “I feel it’s wise to keep those details to myself for the moment. You understand, surely?”

Asher could only nod, for it did seem better to keep unconventional ideas to oneself until sufficient evidence was gathered. Much preferable to spouting baseless theories, as some members of the Metaphysical Society seemed eager to do.

Once the meal was finally cleared away, Dr. Marshall reclined on a lumpy sofa in the sitting room. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute or so, and then I’ll take you to my favorite pub. Tomorrow we’ll dine with a medical friend of mine, and Thursday night we’ll sup at High Table—it’s not quite so grand out of term, but I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy it. And at some point you must come by the hospital to see my work with electrotherapy,” he said, his eyes closing as he sank farther into the cushions.

That night, as Asher settled into the spare room’s narrow bed, he imagined the Thompsons relaxing comfortably in their sitting room with Elsie and Kate. Would the young ladies be talking of their row on the Cam? Had they spared a thought for him at some point during the day?

Somehow, he doubted it.

Chapter 24

T
he morning after the rowing trip Elsie woke with the feel of Simon’s lips on her own. She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the pillow, luxuriating in the memory, but the warm sensation soon faded like a dream. Rising from the bed with a sigh, she took her dose—an even smaller spoonful than the day before. Then she dressed and arranged her hair. She wished to develop the previous day’s photographs before breakfast.

No one stirred downstairs except for Millie, who smiled and bobbed a curtsy as she opened the door for Elsie. The morning air was cool and fresh after the previous day’s rain. As she walked toward the Science Annex, the flesh on her arms prickled again at the memory of Simon’s kiss.

Had she confessed too much? He hadn’t seemed shocked, nor had she read doubt in his eyes. In fact, her honesty had seemed to draw him to her, and their kiss had consecrated this delicate new bond.

She let herself into the darkroom and smiled as the familiar fumes of developing solution filled her nostrils. To postpone her delight, she first developed the photograph of Kate.

Despite the staged positioning of Kate’s limbs and body, the photograph came out beautifully. Kate’s pose seemed natural, as though the camera had caught her just as she’d turned around, wide-eyed and mouth slightly open. The pose was a little wild, actually, and Elsie congratulated herself on the composition. She’d had help, though, from Simon.

His photo brought a pang to her heart. He seemed young and unguarded, while at the same time terribly dashing, with his open collar and dark hair ruffled by the breeze. She searched the photograph for any sign of a spirit—she’d sensed his lost lady that day—but found nothing. Clearly he’d been thinking of Elsie at that moment, not
her
.

She shook her head sadly as she loaded clean glass plates in her camera. With Simon due to leave for the Continent, there simply wasn’t time for a proper courtship. Not that she had any notion of how to conduct one—her condition had robbed her of that opportunity. At least, she’d always believed it was her condition. Simon didn’t seem fazed by it. Neither did Asher, for that matter. She wondered—was it merely her mother’s fear that had kept her from joining society and finding a respectable husband?

If only she and Simon had more opportunities to be alone together. If only he weren’t leaving in such a short time. Elsie indulged in a fantasy of traveling through Europe with him. Honeymooning in Paris or Venice—places she knew only from books and paintings. When they returned, they could keep house at Stonehill while Simon pursued his master’s and, eventually, a fellowship.

Perhaps this needn’t remain a fantasy. It would only become reality, however, if she acted quickly. If she confronted Simon and made her feelings clear, wouldn’t that help matters along?
The problem was finding the proper setting—a place where they could be alone for more than a few minutes. She would have to be bold, but after that matters would take their course.

It hadn’t worked with the artist, but she knew now that he hadn’t been worth the effort. She had gotten smarter. And Simon was different.

Elsie raced down the steps of the Science Annex, swept up in an eddy of longing, but she came to a halt when she saw the old laboratory ahead of her. Uncle Oliver’s chastising words echoed in her head. His anger had been so uncharacteristic, planting suspicion in her mind even though it shamed her to think ill of him. She shook the memory away. She would not dwell on it this morning. Later she would share her concerns with Simon. He would know what to do.

It was strangely quiet at the breakfast table that morning. Her aunt and uncle ate quickly, each having early appointments. Once Mr. Thompson had departed, Kate took his paper and buried her face in it. Elsie watched her calmly, sipping her cooling tea, but all the while her mind raced.

“Kate,” she said.

“Mmmm?” Kate said from behind the paper.

“Tell me—how do you get out of Summerfield at night without being caught?”