No Comfort for the Lost (23 page)

“I’m afraid you’ve lost yourself a grocer, ma’am,” he said.

She took a deep breath and smiled. “That is quite all right, Mr. Greaves. I shall find another.”

“Are you okay?” His gaze scanned her face.

“‘Blythe as a bird on the wing,’ as Addie might say,” she said, attempting to jest. And then exhaustion hit, and she sank into the seat. “I am tired of being afraid, Mr. Greaves. Very tired indeed.”

“I’ll come and check on you at the house once I’m finished at the station tonight.”

“There is no need to go to the bother. We will bar the doors and windows and be fine.” Nonetheless, the concern she read on his normally impassive face touched her.

“There’s every need, Mrs. Davies,” he said. They passed a streetlamp, and the flames lit the angles of Mr. Greaves’ face. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I don’t want to lose another woman because of my stupidity.”

“Do not worry about me, Mr. Greaves.”

“Ma’am, it seems that’s about all I do.”

The hack stopped and they alighted. Addie threw open the front door. “You made it home, then!”

Celia turned to Mr. Greaves. “Thank you. I shall be safe from here.”

“Lock every door tight, ma’am. I’ll return as soon as I can. Miss Ferguson,” he said, nodding at Addie before climbing back into the hired carriage.

Celia ascended the steps and went into the house. “Pack to leave tomorrow morning, Addie. Mr. Greaves has recommended that we find accommodations at a hotel. I suggest the American Exchange.”

“’Tis expensive,” said Addie, taking Celia’s wrap.

“We shall not be staying long,” she said. “I shall take the money out of the funds Uncle Walford left for the clinic.”

“I’ll pack as soon as I fetch you some tea,” said Addie, tea being the solution to every problem. “Miss Barbara will be happy to hear we’re leaving this house for a while.”

“I hope so, Addie.”

• • •

C
elia awoke with a start, her neck stiff from her awkward position. She must have fallen asleep at the dining room table. The candle Addie had left lit on the sideboard had guttered out and the fire in the kitchen stove had dwindled, plunging the dining room into darkness. She’d sat at the table for a long time, long after Addie had finished packing upstairs and the house had gone quiet. Celia had been so weary, she hadn’t been able to convince herself to stand and go to bed. But she
had
managed to doze off and leave a crick in her neck.

She stood and shuffled toward the kitchen with the cold tea things, skirting the dining chairs. She had walked this path hundreds of times; she needn’t bother to rummage about to find the matches and light a candle.

She yawned and wondered if Mr. Greaves had ever come by to check on the house. Celia felt sorry for him, though she supposed he would not care for anyone’s pity. But the look on his face when he’d mentioned the woman he had lost had reflected the deepest pain. He had to have meant his younger sister. Celia hoped that one day he would entrust her with the story. Because Celia understood his suffering more than he might believe.

With another yawn, she crossed the threshold between the dining room and kitchen. She heard a sound, the faintest rustling, and paused. Barely able to make out the table that she knew was directly ahead of her, she felt her way forward and set down the heavy tray. Her pulse hammering, she peered into the room’s black shadows.

“Hello?” she said, her voice wobbling.

The noise did not come again. It had probably been a mouse.

It was then she noticed a chink of light between the back door and its frame. The door was open. Addie would not have left it ajar.

Celia turned to flee just as a hand grabbed her from behind. The other clapped over her mouth, silencing her scream. The hard end of a blunt object jabbed into her stomach where her assailant clutched her. A knife? It had to be the butt end of a knife.

She fought against him, flailing her legs, her stocking-clad feet hitting his shins. He grunted and she struck out again, as hard as she could, and knocked him off balance. She flung back an elbow, connecting with his arm. The collision broke his hold on the knife, which clattered to the floor and skidded across it.

“Help!” she screamed, and he slapped his hand over her mouth again.

She bit down on his fingers, tasting blood. He cursed and started dragging her toward the rear door. She had to get free. The more she struggled in her assailant’s grasp, the tighter he held her, his fingers digging into her cheek and chin. He stank of liquor and cigar smoke.

Celia tried again to scream, but the sound didn’t make it past his fingers. He butted her head with his, sending her senses reeling, and she stumbled.

Grumbling, he yanked her to her feet and continued to pull her toward the door. But he was not headed outside. He was trying to recover the knife, which must have ended up between the pantry and the doorway.

Celia clutched his arm and lifted herself, kicking out, trying to knock over the stool she knew was somewhere nearby. He angrily jerked her backward. They were almost at the door now. She had to find a weapon. One hand was free, but she couldn’t reach far because of the way he held her. They reached the pantry, and he turned to search for the knife. His hold slackened, and Celia hastily groped along the edge of the small table near the wall, looking for something, anything. Her fingers connected with a heavy pan, and just as he eased his grip on her arm to crouch and hunt for the knife, she lifted the pan and swung backward. The blow glanced off his head, and he bellowed with rage. He seized the knife and swiped it at her. Free of his grip, she flung herself out of his reach, falling to the ground.

“Addie! Help!”

The outside door burst open, and a boy, silhouetted in a hazy shaft of moonlight, shot through the doorway and into the kitchen.

“Oy, there!” he yelled.

Taken by surprise, her assailant lashed out with the knife, connecting with the boy’s arm. Owen recoiled, his back smacking against the hard edge of Addie’s oak prep table.

“No!” Celia screamed.

Again the man swiped at Owen with the knife and lunged for the open door. He ran outside, his heavy boots thudding down the stairs. Celia dropped to Owen’s side. She felt for his arm and found warm, sticky blood, a great quantity of it. The assailant had sliced through more than just the boy’s arm.

“Owen?” she said, wishing she could see more than the dim outline of his face and the darkening pool spreading across the floor.
No. No!

Overhead, footsteps pounded along the hallway and down the staircase.

“Addie! Addie, come quick! To the kitchen,” she shouted.

“I saved you, ma’am,” Owen said, gasping for breath. He attempted to sit up and slumped against her arm.

“Owen?” He did not respond. “Owen!”

Light bobbed through the dining room, and Addie rushed into the kitchen with a candle. “What’s happened?”

“He’s fainted, Addie.” Now that there was light in the room, Celia could see how badly Owen had been cut. There was a deep wound on his arm and across his chest as well. “Light the lantern in my examination room and gather my supplies.”

Addie hurried through the connecting door to the clinic, the desk lamp flaring inside.

“You were very foolish, Owen,” Celia said, gathering the hem of her petticoat and pressing it to the gash in his arm. The cotton quickly turned red.

Addie returned and gathered Owen’s legs while Celia clambered to her feet and lifted his shoulders. Together, they carried him to the clinic, Owen’s blood trickling to the floor, and lowered him as gently as possible to the examination bench.

Addie collected what Celia required. “Your carbolic, ma’am. And your silk thread and needle,” she said, handing the items over. She held the lantern aloft. “Oh, poor wee bairn. What have you gone and done, Owen Cassidy?”

“He saved me, Addie.” Tears pooling in her eyes, Celia swabbed the wounds with the carbolic solution. “He saved me,” she said, threading the needle and starting to sew.

• • •

“
Y
ou were damned lucky,” said Nick, staring at Mrs. Davies, who was scrubbing blood off the oilcloth-covered floor of her kitchen, seemingly every lantern she owned called into service to illuminate the room.

Earlier that evening, they hadn’t been able to pin anything on Wagner and had been forced to let him go once again. And by the time Nick had finished interrogating the boy who’d earlier assaulted Mrs. Davies and her cousin, along with the kid’s father, and drawn up assault charges, it had gotten late.

He’d gone to Celia Davies’ anyway, even though he’d been in a foul mood, because he’d made her a promise. His mood had gone from foul to panicked when he’d been forced to pound on the front door to get anybody to open it. By the time Addie Ferguson had shown him into the house, Mrs. Davies had just finished stitching up a scruffy Irish boy while a hysterical Barbara Walford sobbed from her perch on the staircase.

The watcher had finally escalated his attacks from cryptic messages and disemboweled rats to a direct assault. And Nick hadn’t been there to stop the man. He could’ve lost Celia, too.

“I am aware of how fortunate we are, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Davies, dipping the rag into a wooden bucket, the water inside red with Owen Cassidy’s blood.

Addie Ferguson dumped a second bucket of water into the corner sink. “’Twas Owen who saved us,” she said with a frown, pumping the tap handle until fresh water splashed into the bucket. “And now he’s upstairs, clinging to life!”

“He should recover, Addie,” Mrs. Davies said, the rag swirling across the floor. But to Nick she didn’t sound all that certain.

“You need to move to the hotel in the morning, ma’am,” he said. “That fellow tried to kill you. He might try again.”

“That was my intention, but now I cannot leave Owen.”

“Then bring him with you.”

“He lost too much blood and is very weak.” She gazed at the damp encircling where she knelt. Blood had splattered everywhere, and a trail of it led through a nearby doorway. The iron pan Mrs. Davies had used to thump her assailant on the head lay against the baseboard where she’d dropped it. The Cassidy kid was asleep in an upstairs bedroom, probably resting in a soft bed for the first time in years, Barbara Walford assigned the task of sitting watch over him.

“It appears Owen also bruised several ribs when he fell against the table there,” she said. “It would be dangerous to move him now. I simply will not consider doing so.”

“Then pay somebody you trust to watch him,” he said. Why in hell did she insist on being so stubborn? “You’ve
got
to leave this house and go someplace safe until we catch the man who assaulted you!”

Celia Davies looked over at him. Her pale eyes were red rimmed, and strands of hair straggled down one side of her face. The boy’s blood was a rusty streak across her skirt and on her cheek where she’d accidentally wiped some. Her attacker had left a bruise along her chin. He’d kill the man. Honest to God, he’d kill the man.

“You do not need to shout at me, Mr. Greaves,” she said with more calm than
he
was feeling. “There is no one I trust to tend to Owen. He saved my life, and now I shall save his. It is plain and simple.”

“’Tis no use trying to change her mind, Detective,” tutted Addie, sounding resigned to her mistress’s pigheadedness.

Nick drew in a deep breath and then released it. “At least tell me what you remember about your assailant, ma’am.”

“All right.” Mrs. Davies dropped the rag into the bucket and moved to stand. Nick helped her to her feet. “I cannot recall much. It was dark in the kitchen. Far too dark to see.”

Her housekeeper moaned. “’Tis my fault. I must have forgotten to lock the door afore I went to bed.”

“You did not forget, Miss Ferguson,” Nick said. “The door was forced.” The lock on the side gate had been broken as well, the hasp yanked off the hinge.

“Perhaps that was the sound that woke me, then,” said Mrs. Davies.

“Can you remember anything about the man?” Nick asked. “His height, weight? Any smells that might suggest a line of work? What about his clothes?”

She mulled over his questions. “He was taller than me, given that when he struck my head with his, he hit the crown of my head. It seemed he was stocky, but that might have been the thickness of his clothing. He did not speak, so I cannot tell you what his voice was like, or if he had an accent of any sort. As for aromas . . . the smell of a cigar was distinct. And alcohol. Also, he wore heavy boots. I heard them against the floor.”

“He had to be the man who’s left the notes and that rat, Detective Greaves,” said her housekeeper.

“There will also be a sizable bruise on his forehead from where I struck him, Detective.” Mrs. Davies’ glance took in both him and Miss Ferguson. “If the bruise does not identify him, I do not know what will. I only wish I’d landed a better blow and knocked him senseless.”

“Taylor and I will visit everybody we’ve come to suspect and see if they have signs of the injury you caused,” he said. He pushed away from the table he’d been leaning against and gathered his hat. He pointed it at her. “And, Mrs. Davies, if you still refuse to go to a hotel, then don’t even think of leaving this house until I’ve caught the man.”

She didn’t blink or cringe. Worse, she didn’t agree. He could tell she wasn’t going to listen to him.
Damned woman.

“He attacked me in my own kitchen, Mr. Greaves. Which makes me question if there is much difference between the security of the street and that of my home,” she replied soberly. “If I am called to tend to a patient, I shall leave.”

He slapped his hat atop his head. “Then, go buy a gun.” He turned to the housekeeper, her mouth agape. “Don’t let her out of your sight. You got it?”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Greaves,” she said, which didn’t sound like much of a promise at all.

• • •

“
H
ow is he?”

Celia looked up to see Barbara standing in the doorway to her father’s bedchamber, her fringed shawl wrapped around her shoulders.