The Draugr (Midnight Gunn Book 3) Page 8

  Laura was in turmoil. It was the third day since the attack and Lord Gunn was still unconscious and, by all accounts, very ill indeed.

  Giles had summoned the doctor on the first night, right after he, Laura, and Agnes had carried him upstairs and lain him on his bed. After an extensive physical exam, the doctor had diagnosed a heart attack. “Likely from the fright,” he had concluded. Giles had huffed indignantly at this, and Mrs Phillips had run down to the kitchen to prepare a special tincture that she was convinced would bring the master round. It had not, but they persevered, and now, Laura had taken on the task of nursing him at her own insistence. Giles had suggested they send a telegram to Nurse Carstairs, but Laura had reminded him that, if the master accidentally let loose his powers whilst unconscious, it would be curtains for him and the hospital. It was an unlikely story, but she had insisted upon taking on the role of nurse herself.

  That horrible night when she saw the inspector attempting to kill his friend—and almost succeeding—had made her realise that she had feelings for Lord Gunn. It had not been a huge surprise to her; she had always sensed the connection between them. But this had been different. She had been able to suppress her feelings whilst he was alive and well, knowing that propriety was priority. However, in that instant when she thought she had lost him, when she had thought him dead, and she had held him in her arms in street, she had wished with all her heart for just one chance to tell him how she really felt, and then, it had looked like it was too late.

  There was a faint knock at the door and Polly entered.

  “How is Papa? I have just finished me lessons with Aggie, so I thought I’d visit him before Mrs P calls me down for lunch.” Polly stood by the end of the bed and gazed hopefully at her father. “He’s no better then?”

  “’Fraid not, miss. But I’m sure he’ll be up and around in no time, eh?” Laura smiled, trying to reassure the girl. “Come ’ere,” she said, opening her arms.

  Polly went to her and flung herself into her embrace.

  “Now, now, miss. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. We’ll make him better again, eh? All of us. And the master will be as good as new.”

  “Oh, Laura! I hope so. I ain’t never had a father before, and I don’t wanna lose him so soon. It ain’t fair.” She sobbed.

  “You ain’t going to lose anyone, miss. You hear me? There’s me and Mrs Phillips and Mr Morgan all looking after him, and we ain’t going to let anything bad happen to him, alright? I promise.”

  Polly sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Stepping back from Laura, she said, “We need to find the inspector and make him tell us what he did. Then, we can make Papa better.”

  “I’m not sure how to, or even if that’s a good idea, darlin’. You saw what he did to your father, and even with all his powers, he still nearly died. I don’t think he’d want you or anyone else in the house going looking for the inspector. Mr Morgan’s in the library now, figuring out how to make him better. Best to leave him to it, eh? I’m sure he’ll come up with somethin’.” Laura smoothed Polly’s hair and gave one of her curls a playful tug as she had seen Lord Gunn do. It made Polly smile.

  The little girl sat on the edge of her father’s grand bed, swinging her feet. “P’raps I should read him a story? Papa likes it when I read. It might make him wake up,” Polly said brightly.

  “I think that is a lovely idea.” Laura beamed. “Why don’t you run and fetch a book, but mind you don’t disturb Mr Morgan.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” Polly swung herself down from the bed and scampered from the room, leaving Laura alone with her recumbent master.

  She gazed upon him in his all-too-silent slumber. He still looked very pale, and every now and then, he would shiver violently as if he were freezing. Despite the roar of the coal fire that burned continuously in the room and the three thick blankets that Laura and Mrs Phillips had tucked in around him, he felt cold to the touch. Laura reached for the cup of hot brandy and herbs that the old housekeeper had brewed up, and put a teaspoon of the liquid to his lips.

  “Here you go, Your Lordship. This’ll warm your cockles a bit, eh?” Most of the liquid ran down his chin and she hurried to wipe it up. She tried again, this time gently encouraging him to open his mouth with her other hand and tilting the spoon so that the hot toddy trickled on to his tongue. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. She dared not attempt to feed him too much of the drink at once for fear of him choking.

  “Sorry. I spilled it. That was clumsy of me,” she said to him. “I ain’t never nursed anyone before, see? Don’t know what I’m doing, really.” Laura laughed softly and rose to put more coal on the fire. She continued to chatter with Midnight in their one-sided conversation as she pottered around his grand bedroom, picking up used napkins and piling the dirty crockery, left over from the dinner Giles had brought her earlier, on to a tray.

  “Mum always said I’d make a useless wife. I was never very good at cooking or cleaning. Funny that I ended up working as a maid, eh?” Laura sighed heavily and reclaimed her seat by the bed. “Thank you for taking me to the museum, sir. It was very kind. But then, that’s you, I s’pose—always kind.” Leaning forward, Laura folded her arms on top of the bed close to Midnight’s side and lay her head on her arms so that her face was buried in the blankets.

  “Please come back to us,” she whispered.

  Laura stayed like that, her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of the room and listening to the pop and crackle of the spitting coals until Miss Polly came back.

  The girl held up a book to show her. “Got one.”

  Laura lifted her head and smiled, patting the bedcovers. Clambering up beside her father, Polly prepared to read.

  “My father’s family name being Pir-rip, and my Ch-ris-tian name Philip, my in-fant tongue could make of both names nothink longer or more ex-ex-pli-cit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip and came to be called Pip.”

  She paused and wrinkled her nose. “He don’t half use a lot of words to say not very much this Mr Dickens, eh?”

  “That’s how fancy people write, I s’pose.” Laura shrugged. “What is the story called?”

  Polly turned the book to look at the gold lettering on the spine. “Great Ex-pec-tor-ations, or sommin’ like that. It’s one Papa bought me to practice on ’cause he reckons it’ll improve me ‘elocution’ and me readin’.”

  “Your reading really has gotten better, Miss Polly.” The little girl beamed at Laura, lapping up the praise. “Carry on then,” Laura urged her.

  The bedroom settled into a companionable silence as Polly eventually fell asleep beside her father. The afternoon sun had sunk low enough to bathe the room in a spectacular wash of orange. Laura looked upon her two favourite people: Polly—who lay angelic-like with her head on her father’s chest, looking like butter wouldn’t melt—and Midnight—who was majestic and oozing with presence despite his saporous state. How she loved them both.

  Her life here at Meriton had changed her completely. Not just her financial status, although that had been one benefit in working for Lord Gunn—he paid her a more-than-decent wage—but in mind and heart too. Midnight always made her feel like she had value and that she could do anything or be anyone, even if she knew it not to be true in her heart. If she could, she would choose to be a lady of means and influence, free to go where she pleased, and buy the best silks, and visit museums and art galleries whenever she felt like it. She would never have to worry about mending holes in her stockings; she would just buy new ones. In her mind, Laura pictured herself dressed to the nines in a shimmering gown made of the best silk, trimmed with French lace, her hair curled and pinned, jewellery adorning her exposed décolletage… She would host a hundred balls and dine in candlelight with Lord Gunn by her side. If she were a lady, she could have everything.

  She smiled ruefully to herself. “A nice dream, Laura Elizabeth Carter, but that ain’t ever going to happen. You’ve done good ’ere, gal. Don’t spoil it with silly notions that are way beyond your reach.”

  She stretched out her arm and lay her hand upon his as a single tear slid down her plump pink cheek and fell upon the white cotton sheets. Her heart was both gloriously full and painfully empty. She felt grateful and satisfied with her lot, and yet, when she looked upon her pretend little family, she could not help but desperately yearn for something that would not, could not ever belong to the likes of her.

  The last rays of the winter sun skimmed over Midnight’s face, and it reminded Laura of one of the perfectly carved marble statues of some Grecian god that she had seen in the museum. He was beautiful. There was no other way to describe him. He was the most enchanting and excitingly dangerous, fair, and kind, and mysterious human being she had ever seen—so heartbreakingly perfect that, right at that very moment, he didn’t even seem real to her. It was almost like he glowed from within. Looking down at her hand on his she was startled to find that he was, in fact, glowing. It was not just a fancy of her imagination. There was heat and light emanating from the fingers that were clutched in hers.

  Laura watched in awe as Midnight’s whole body appeared to luminesce with ethereal brilliance. She dropped his hand and stumbled away from the bed, then was back by his side just as quickly.

  “No, no, no! Don’t die. Please don’t die.” Laura yanked hard on the bell-pull three, four times. Her heart raced now. What was happening to him? Is this what death looked like?

  Polly awoke and rubbed her eyes. “What’s ’appening?” she asked, still half asleep, then sat bolt upright when she noticed her father.

  Laura’s hands were clasped to her mouth. She wanted to scream so loudly. Instead, she yelled instructions at Polly. “Run and fetch Mr Morgan! Quickly! I think… he’s dying. I think the angels have come
for him.”

  Polly didn’t move.

  “Go! Hurry! What’s wrong with you, girl?”

  “Look.” Polly pointed at her father. “He’s not dying, Laura. He’s waking up!”

  16

  STONES END

  JANUARY 20TH 1863

  Once Midnight had regained consciousness, he had been able to heal himself almost back to full health. The only trace of what had occurred were five scars in the shape of finger-marks that remained emblazoned and raw on his chest, a bizarre circle around his heart and a constant reminder of the attack by his friend.

  Only it had not been Arthur Gredge. He knew that now.

  Once the entity had touched him, he had known something was very different. However, his daughter and his housemaid had not. Neither had Giles, who had reported the attack to the police soon after the event, thinking that Gredge might once again be apprehended before harming anyone else.

  Whilst Midnight had been unresponsive, Laura, Polly, and Giles had been interviewed that very evening only to be told the next morning that Gredge was still, and always had been, safely locked up in his cell in Surrey County Gaol. The result of this was that Lord Gunn had been ‘invited’ to attend an interview at the station with Superintendent Branford as soon as he was fit and well.

  Midnight settled into the chair that Branford offered him, exchanging pleasantries, as good manners demanded. Once the formalities were out of the way, a momentary silence, charged with tension, developed between the two gentlemen.

  Branford blinked first. “I am glad to see you are well enough recovered to attend today’s meeting, Lord Gunn. Thank you for taking time out from your busy schedule to help us clear this matter up.”

  “Thank you, Superintendent Branford. Anything I can do to help,” Midnight stated.

  Branford cleared his throat. “I would like to begin by reading over a brief timeline of events in accordance with the statements given at the time by one Miss Laura Elizabeth Carter and your adopted daughter, Miss Polly Gunn, if I may?”

  Midnight proffered a brief nod of acquiescence. and the Super continued. Bending his head over a small pile of handwritten papers on his desk, he read, “On the night of January the fifteenth, an attack upon your person took place in the street outside of your home, Meriton House, Berkeley Square. Is this correct?”

  “It is.”

  “You had just arrived back home with your carriage after an outing to the British Museum with the aforementioned Miss Carter, your… housemaid, and your daughter?”

  “That is correct,” Midnight replied, choosing not to elaborate as to the reason why Laura had been with them despite the definite emphasis Branford had placed upon the word ‘housemaid’.

  “I see,” Branford said after it became clear that Midnight was offering up not a wink of an explanation to satisfy his curiosity.

  Whatever Branford’s status was in the force, Midnight had no intention whatsoever of discussing his private business with this man. Neither would he tolerate intrusive, irrelevant, and impertinent questions.

  “In your own words, can you describe to me what happened next?” Branford persisted.

  “I will do my best. I helped my two companions down from the carriage. Then, Mr Fenwick, my resident driver and groom, drove the carriage away. I reached for my door key as we, all three, approached the front steps. I felt a sudden presence behind me, and the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed with a very sore head.”

  “I was hoping for a little more detail, in truth. Can you tell me more about your attacker? Did you recognise him?”

  “Him? I confess I have no recollection of the incident other than what I have already described to you. I understand that my daughter and Miss Carter named Detective Inspector Gredge as the man who attacked me, but obviously, we know that to be impossible, seeing as he is safely imprisoned.”

  “Yes. It is a conundrum, is it not?” Branford raised an eyebrow. “You must have seen his face though. Your housemaid has stated that you even said the detective’s name out loud, which means you must have seen the man.”

  “I am quite sure that Miss Carter’s statement is correct. Perhaps I did see the blackguard. However, as I have already told you, I do not now recall,” Midnight lied.

  Branford tapped his fingers on the desk. “Well, since you declare that Mr Gredge could not possibly be the culprit, given his current situation, I wonder, sir, if you could tell me of any enemies you may have accrued over time or if you can think of anyone who may wish you harm.” Branford tried another angle.

  Where would you like me to start? Midnight thought to himself. “None that immediately come to mind,” he said.

  Branford began riffling through the papers on his desk. When he found what he was looking for, he held it up for Midnight to see. “Lord Gunn, I am aware that, for quite some time now, you have acted as a consultant to the Yard, working specifically with and at the personal recommendation of Mr Gredge on some of our more unusual cases.”

  “I have indeed. It is a privilege to do my part in keeping the citizens of the city safe.” Midnight smiled.

  “Mmm,” said Branford. “You call yourself an ‘alienist,’ is that correct? You claim to be an expert in this field. I have to say your track record with us is quite impressive.”

  “Kind of you to say. Thank you. I would not ever proclaim to be an expert in anything. I rather think that overly complimentary label may be due to the inspector’s gracious elucidations of my contributions to the investigations we have worked on together.”

  “Quite,” Branford agreed. “And so, Lord Gunn, how would you describe what it is you do for us exactly?”

  “I consult.”

  Branford’s eyebrow twitched. He changed tack again. “How would you describe your relationship with Mr Gredge? Would you call him a friend? I refer to an incident earlier this year when Mr Gredge came to your aid when your daughter was kidnapped in Scotland—something a close friend would do. Would you say you know Mr Gredge well?”

  Midnight eyed the superintendent quizzically. “I should like to know the relevance of the question to the attack. We have already established that the inspector could not be the culprit of that particular crime, have we not?”

  “Being innocent of one crime does not absolve him of another,” Branford stated.

  “Indeed. However, I am not here to pass judgement on a friend who may or may not be guilty of murder.”

  “He confessed, Lord Gunn.”

  “I am aware of that. However, I am also aware, as I am sure you are, that, in this country, a person must be proven to be guilty in a court of law. Should you wish to follow this particular line of questioning, then I would ask that my solicitor be present as is my right, Mr Branford. I must confess that I was under the impression we were here to discuss an assault on my person, an attempt on my life, not to pass sentence on a man still awaiting trial. If I am mistaken then please allow me some time to contact my solicitor, and we can reconvene this meeting at another mutually agreeable time.”

  “Sir, I am—“ Branford paused, sighed, and pushed himself back in his chair. Looking at the ceiling, he continued. “I have known Arthur Gredge for many years. Had you asked me but a year ago if he was capable of cold-blooded murder, I would have thought you insane. But lately…” He shook his head. “He’s changed. In these last months, in particular, I have noticed a vast difference in his countenance and his professional conduct. Elevated, it seems, since his return from Scotland… with you.” Branford paused for effect. “Lord Gunn, I would not be doing my job if I did not ask all the right questions.”

  “All the right questions in all the wrong ways. I understand,” Midnight said, nodding. “I understand perfectly.” He could see now what Branford was really hoping for; he wanted to see for himself what kind of man the mysterious Lord Midnight Gunn was and how much influence he may hold over Gredge.

  In a way, Midnight took comfort in this as it showed that Branford did not truly see Gredge as just a cold-blooded killer. No, he was trying to establish if Midnight was the cause of his best detective’s uncharacteristic behaviour. Midnight had to admit, it was a credit to the superintendent to not take Gredge’s confession as gospel.