The Dark Between (11 page)

“He didn’t wish to leave me alone, you see,” Elsie continued, “so there was no way to get word to you.”

Mr. Thompson studied her. “Are you feeling better now?”

“A little groggy, Uncle, but relieved to be safely returned.”

“Perhaps it’s best that you stay home for the next few days,” said Mrs. Thompson. “I confess, I never considered the possibility that you might have an attack in public. It’s quite an inconvenience, isn’t it? A bit more than an inconvenience, actually. I should have thought of it, but I was more concerned about …” Her eyes widened. “What if you hadn’t had your medication?”

Asher forced himself not to look at the girl.

“I always have it with me, Aunt,” she said.

He marveled at her steady voice.

Mrs. Thompson nodded. “I’m certain you both would like an opportunity to rest before supper. Elsie, why don’t you go upstairs? Kate, would you accompany her and see if there’s anything she needs?” She glanced at her husband. “Mr. Thompson and I wish to speak with Mr. Beale for a moment.”

Elsie smiled demurely, giving him the briefest glance before she followed Kate out the door.

Asher felt the sinking sensation again. What if they interrogated him and later cross-referenced his answers with Elsie’s? His father had often used this tactic to ferret out the truth. Asher would somehow have to convey his answers to Elsie. Perhaps a note tucked under her door—

“Asher,” Mrs. Thompson said gently. “You needn’t look so worried. We don’t blame you for what happened today. It’s just that Elsie’s mother is very concerned about propriety. And I’m afraid she also feels some … 
unease
 … about the nature of Elsie’s illness, particularly how it could be perceived by onlookers who know nothing of her condition.”

Asher nodded, remembering the crowd that circled her at the museum.

“The poor girl has scarcely left the confines of her home for years. I’d hoped she might have a bit more freedom when she came here—a chance to see more of the world now that she’s seventeen. And I still feel that way. But she’ll need our protection in order to keep safe.”

Mr. Thompson laid a hand on his wife’s arm. “What my wife is trying to say is that we thank you for protecting Elsie today. It reassures us that someone we trust was with her during such a trying episode.”

“Of course, sir.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Mrs. Thompson, her smile faltering. “But there is something else.”

Asher stiffened. “Yes?”

Mrs. Thompson reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew a sealed envelope. “Your father has been in touch. This telegram is for you.” She handed it to him. “He’s also written to us asking after you.”

“How did he know I was here?”

Mr. Thompson straightened in his chair, his expression contrite. “We wired him as soon as you arrived.”

Asher choked back an angry retort. The Thompsons were old friends with his father—surely it was a courtesy to contact him. So why did it feel like meddling? “No doubt he had terrible things to say about me.”

Mrs. Thompson lifted an eyebrow. “He asked after your health and said that he wished to hear from you.” She gazed at him searchingly. “Asher, is there any way we can help? Perhaps if we knew the nature of the trouble between you—”

“It was a difference of opinion, and I’m afraid there’s
nothing
you can do to help,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I do appreciate your concern, however.”

“Just know we are here if you need us,” said Mrs. Thompson, clasping her hands in her lap. “It’s been an eventful day. Won’t you take some rest before dinner?”

He’d spent less than three days with the Thompson family and already he was lying to them. And for what reason? First to protect a girl who’d deceived him, and just now to preserve his own pride. If he were smart he’d be on his way before he became further entangled.

Once in his room he threw the envelope on his desk. He couldn’t really blame the Thompsons for their concern, but that
didn’t mean he would read the message. His father deserved no such courtesy.

Elsie was a different story. As he rehearsed the day’s events in his head, he found it impossible to maintain his indignation toward her. She had lied, to be sure, but not merely to protect herself. She had covered for him as well.

In fact, she’d made him look like a hero.

Asher had hoped to meet Elsie’s gaze over the supper table, to somehow channel the thoughts in her head by looking directly in her eyes. She had elected to retire early, however, and he had no choice but to focus his efforts on maintaining light conversation with the Thompsons.

Kate was no help. She hardly said anything, as usual. She did stare quite a bit, though—particularly at him. That night her gaze held more than curiosity. She seemed to be assessing him somehow, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Everyone looked up when the front doorbell clanged. Mrs. Thompson turned to her husband. “Are you expecting someone, my dear?”

“Of course not.”

They waited in silence, their forks suspended in the air, until Millie appeared in the doorway. When Mr. Thompson beckoned her, she murmured at his ear. He nodded solemnly, folding his napkin next to his plate before turning to his wife. “Please continue with supper. I’ll see about this.”

“See about what?” she asked, her brow wrinkled.

But either he did not hear her or he deliberately ignored the question. Before anyone could say another word, he was out of his chair and through the doorway.

“This is highly unusual, I must say,” murmured Mrs. Thompson. “Such a strange day.”

Asher noticed Kate staring at the doorway with a frown. Was she afraid? She’d seemed skittish from the moment he’d encountered her outside the gate, as though she were constantly looking behind her. Whom did she fear to find there?

The three of them sat at length in stilted silence, poking at the food on their plates, before Mr. Thompson finally hobbled back into the room. Asher studied the man’s drawn face as he sat at the table without saying a word.

“Well?” Mrs. Thompson raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

“Perhaps we should discuss it later.”

“Oh, Oliver,” cried Mrs. Thompson, “don’t be so mysterious! Who was at the door?”

“The police,” he said quietly.

Asher kept his eyes on his plate. The police had somehow learned of Elsie’s escape to London. Perhaps someone had reported her collapse at the museum, and had given details on
his
appearance, thinking him an abductor. He cast a covert glance at Mr. Thompson, dreading his hard gaze of condemnation.

But the man had returned to his supper.

“Oliver, what did the police want with you?”

“My dear, if you insist, I will tell you, though it’s not a proper thing to discuss at the supper table.” He paused for a sip of water. “The police have found a body, this time in Queens’ Green.”

“
Another
body?” asked Mrs. Thompson. “Was it an elderly man, like before?”

“No. It was a boy.”

Kate’s chin jerked up. “A boy? How old?”

Mr. Thompson turned to her, clearly perplexed. “Not even ten years of age. Why do you ask?”

The girl bit her lip. “Just curious,” she mumbled.

“Why did the police come
here
?” Mrs. Thompson tapped the table. “Queens’ Green is much farther than the cricket grounds. I don’t see how they could connect this with Summerfield.”

“I couldn’t really say, my dear.” Mr. Thompson did not meet her gaze. “Just routine, I’m sure.”

“I well remember the tales of your days as a Trinity undergraduate. Think of those ill-behaved young fools who had the habit of luring street people into the college to drink themselves into a stupor for their entertainment. There was even a death once, wasn’t there? Is this happening again? This time to a
child
, Oliver?”

Mr. Thompson turned to her, his face pale. “It’s not even term time now. The students are gone. This is merely a coincidence.”

A heavy silence fell over the table as the Thompsons stared silently at each other.

As if to bring an end to the matter, Mr. Thompson once more put his napkin on the table. “It has been a long day. I suggest we all retire early for the evening.”

His wife nodded slowly, allowing him to help her to her feet. But rather than twine her arm around his as usual, she walked ahead of him through the dining room door. Asher moved to do the same but paused when a hand pressed his arm. He turned to find Kate looking up at him, her eyes dark and bold.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I must see that body.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “I may know who it is.”

Chapter 12

E
lsie woke early the next morning, her eyelids lifting easily. When she sat up her head felt clear of its usual fog. She threw back the coverlet and walked to the window, parting the curtains to welcome the golden glow of early dawn.

When was the last time she’d woken before the sun had topped the horizon?

She turned away from the window and sat before the mirror. As she brushed out her hair she delighted in the tingling sensation on her scalp. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. She left off brushing and stretched her arms wide, yawning a great gulp of air. Her body felt deliciously awake, just as it had when she was a young girl.

She glanced at the bottle of Chlorodyne that sat before the mirror. The prior evening she’d taken only a small sip before falling into bed. Her stomach knotted at the thought of sinking back into that dull drowsiness. What harm would come if today she skipped her dose entirely?

A vision of the ghastly woman flashed in her mind, prompting her to reach for the bottle. The feel of the cool glass
reassured her. She ran her thumb along the edge of the stopper as she studied the label.

It had been a long time since a seizure had run its course. Nearly five years, in fact. She hadn’t dwelled on those episodes in ages—the drug had dulled her memory—but now they came to mind in vivid detail.

On the first afternoon she’d been allowed outdoors following the accident, Elsie had celebrated her new freedom by sitting in the sun, weaving flowers into a wreath near the old well. Upon completing the dainty circlet, she’d placed it on her head and wandered closer to the well to admire the lichen that crept along its stone.

Suddenly the air had writhed and shimmered before her eyes. That first time had felt like falling into a hole or a dark dream. When she opened her eyes again all had vanished—the meadow, the well, and the trees. Elsie shivered in the darkness. A small figure emerged from the gloom, a girl whose long curls fanned away from her pale face. The skirt of her dress, wet and mud-stained, seemed to float around her slight body. When her mouth opened, words billowed out like fog.

“I only wanted to see myself,” the girl breathed. “Mummy’s going to be very angry about my dress.”

That was all—a simple confession that framed a horrible truth—and then Elsie blinked and found herself back in the meadow.

She’d dismissed it as a nightmare, more unsettling than frightening. Not worth mentioning to anyone. A short time later, however, a gossiping young housemaid let slip that the vicar’s niece had fallen into a Peverel well and drowned. As soon as the words were spoken, the maid clapped her hands over her mouth. “I weren’t supposed to say anything, miss,” she mumbled. “Her Ladyship said you was too delicate to hear of it, but
maybe now that you’re healed proper and out of bed, she won’t mind you knowing?”

At first Elsie was too stunned to speak. Had she somehow
seen
the vicar’s niece that day by the well? Was it a premonition … or an encounter with the dead?

“Exactly when did the poor child die?” she finally asked.

“Whilst you was recovering. You was sleeping most of the day and having the most peculiar nightmares, so Her Ladyship didn’t want you to hear of the girl’s death. She feared it would upset your rest. Oh, miss, you’ve gone so pale—have I upset you?”

Elsie dismissed the maid as calmly as she could and spent the morning puzzling over what she’d learned. Could such a vision, one in which a girl’s hair and gown floated as though she were underwater, merely be a nightmare? It seemed too specific to be coincidence.

It was the second vision, a few months later, that truly terrified her. Sadly, it also proved her undoing as her mother’s darling little girl. They had been packing away her grandmother’s clothes and linens shortly after the old woman’s death. Though Elsie had suffered a bout of gooseflesh as she folded the yellowed underclothes, she’d felt no hint of sorrow. The Dowager Lady Rolleston, widowed early and kind to no one but her son, had excelled at being unpleasant. It was no secret that only Elsie’s father mourned her death. And that death had seemed to go on for an eternity—an extended cycle of relapses and last-minute rallies. Elsie had sighed with relief when Mother told her the old woman’s struggle had finally ended.

That day, as she tidied the room so the maids could give it a proper airing, she glanced toward the handsome oak headboard of the bed and saw the air writhe and shimmer as it had that strange day in the meadow. Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor, hearing her mother’s cry of surprise as if
it came from a long distance. This hole gaped even deeper and darker than the first, and the figure that rose from the gloom was not a sweet-faced girl who merely looked lost. Instead it was the formidable apparition of her grandmother.

Only it was something else, too. The old woman’s eyes were black, and a substance like ink stained her mouth, making it a dark pit in the middle of her face. She lifted a hand and beckoned her closer. Elsie’s heart pounded, but she could not resist.

“You thought to be rid of me,” the woman said, showing blackened teeth.

Elsie stared, unable to speak.

“Poison, you stupid girl! You thought to rid me with foul poison.”

“What?”

“You gave that poison to me every day with a spoon,” her grandmother spat, “and then you poured the entire bottle down my throat. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

The woman’s hand reached out to clutch Elsie’s wrist, her grasp cold as ice. Elsie looked down and saw her fingers darkening to the ink black of her grandmother’s mouth. The black traveled through her veins as the chill snaked up her arm. She fell backward, drowning in darkness and bone-shivering cold.