Beyond the Grave (25 page)

"I'm no good at letter writing."

"Coward!" Edgecombe rolled himself forward again, this time toward Buchanan. Buchanan stepped nimbly behind the sofa. Edgecombe gave up with a frustrated snarl.

"You hadn't seen Mr. Buchanan since your accident," I said, putting the final pieces together. "All your anger and resentment toward him had festered over time, so when you saw him wandering along the drive, you decided to punish him for robbing you of the life you had."

"John," Marguerite sobbed into her husband's handkerchief. "How
could
you?"

"I
could
have killed him," Edgecombe snapped. "Taking him to Bedlam was a mercy." He pushed the wheels himself, putting all his upper body strength into it.

"No further," Lincoln said when Edgecombe was almost upon him.

Edgecombe slipped his hand beneath the blanket and whipped out a pistol. "Move!"

M
arguerite screamed
. Donald pulled her into his chest, perhaps as much to smother her into silence as protect her.

"Move!" Edgecombe growled, pointing the pistol at Lincoln.

Lincoln stepped calmly aside.

"Marguerite, push this bloody chair. Julia, a carriage, driver and footman, if you please.
Now
!"

"You're just going to let him go, Fitzroy?" Buchanan's high-pitched voice was almost as ear-splitting as Marguerite's.

"He's not going to get shot for him," I said hotly. "Or for you. This is a family matter, not a ministry one, and I have a mind to let you all deal with him. We're not risking our lives for any of you."

"Really, Charlie." Julia's clipped tones fell like shards of glass in the silence that followed my tirade. "There's no need for hysteria. While I'm sure Lincoln enjoys being the object of your infatuation, it's not very helpful."

I wished I could think of a retort to put her back in her place, but for once, I was speechless. That annoyed me as much as her insults.

"Julia!" Edgecombe snapped. "Retract your claws and be useful, instead of decorative, for once. Ah, the servants are here. Good."

Millard had returned upon hearing the shouting, along with two footmen. They reared back when they spotted Edgecombe with the pistol. Each of them looked to Harcourt for direction—not Julia, their mistress, or Buchanan, the other regular member of the household. That must be galling for them both.

"You!" Edgecombe barked at one of the footmen. "Tell the driver to prepare a fast vehicle. Go!" As he ran off, Edgecombe turned to the other footman. "You look strong. You'll be assisting me. Wheel this chair, since my sister refuses to get off her arse. Do it backwards so that I may keep my eye on them all. And don't try anything stupid."

Harcourt gave a slight nod, and the footman complied, taking a wide, circuitous route to the back of the wheelchair without taking his wary gaze off Edgecombe.

"You won't get far," Lincoln said as Edgecombe rolled past him and out of the drawing room. "That's a four-barrel pistol. We're more than four."

"I'd wager you're not willing to risk four lives to capture me."

"You don't know me very well if you think that."

There were several intakes of breath in the drawing room, but mine was not among them. I knew Lincoln wouldn't take such a risk. Two months ago, yes, but not anymore. Particularly when one of the lives at risk was mine. He was not the cold-hearted killer some—including himself—thought him to be.

"Perhaps I'll start with you." Edgecombe swung the pistol in Lincoln's direction to another round of gasps, this time including mine. Lincoln didn't move.

Nor did Edgecombe. The footman had stopped and stepped away, his shaking hands in the air. "Get back here, you fool!" Edgecombe shouted. The footman glanced at each of us and at Harcourt's nod, he once again took the wheelchair handles and dragged Edgecombe backwards out of the drawing room.

"If you do not shoot anyone, there is a chance you will walk free and the family will sweep this under the carpet," Lincoln told Edgecombe. "You can live as you were."

"Not bloody likely," Harcourt said in a low threat that may not have reached Edgecombe's ears. "I don't want him in my house after this. Marguerite, cease your appeals. You cannot ask that of me." His gentle pats on her back didn't placate her as she fell into a teary mess against the back of the sofa.

"Nobody has asked
me
what I wish," Buchanan said. "Where is my justice?
I
will not sweep this under the carpet." He stepped forward onto a creaking floorboard.

Edgecombe pointed the pistol at him.

"Don't shoot!" Julia shouted.

"Andrew!" Marguerite flung herself at Buchanan, her body between him and her brother. "Don't do this, John. It's madness."

"Perhaps I ought to be the one in Bedlam then." Edgecombe's harsh cackle had me thinking that he was right. The suddenly serious, cruel twist of his mouth only reinforced my opinion. "Move, Marguerite. Give me a clear shot at the prick. He deserves to have his life ended the way he ended mine."

"You're not dead, John!"

"Might as well be."

"If you kill him," Lincoln went on, in that unruffled tone of his, "you will be arrested for his murder."

"Be quiet," Edgecombe hissed. "Marguerite,
move
!"

Marguerite broke into hysterics against Buchanan's shoulder. He winced and patted her back as if he couldn't stand to have his borrowed clothes spoiled by her tears.

Harcourt looked away as his wife fell to pieces over her lover. Only Julia remained unmoved, and the spirit of Cleves too, as he stood near Lincoln, his presence forgotten by all except me. If only there was a dead body nearby that I could force him to enter, so he could overpower Edgecombe for us.

But there wasn't. We had to use Earthly means.

"Put the gun down," Lincoln said. "I won't allow you to get out of here alive if you shoot anyone."

"Faster, man!" Edgecombe's darting eyes assessed the numbers and the exits. He must have seen that it was hopeless; he had four bullets and there were more than four against him, taking the footman and Millard into account.

"Give up, Edgecombe," Lincoln said from the doorway. "You won't get away with this. Your family will never forgive you if you shoot someone. Such a crime cannot be overlooked by them or by the law. If you surrender now, there is still a chance of being free. You can live out your life peacefully, somewhere in the countryside. Somewhere quiet and far away from the city, Bedlam, and madness. You will be free."

His voice droned on, an unrelenting rhythm of calm that must have felt like a blunt instrument to Edgecombe's mad mind for he clutched his head. He thrust his fingers through his hair as if he would penetrate his skull and dig out his brain. Perhaps he was the maddest of the lot.

"I will never be free!" He pressed the gun to his temple and fired before anyone knew what was happening.

I jumped and covered my mouth but not before a cry escaped. Marguerite and Julia both fainted, while Buchanan and Harcourt turned pale faces away from the shocking sight.

The poor footman stumbled backward and fell to the floor. He scrambled away from the wheelchair, then turned onto all fours, and vomited. He was covered in blood.

The smoky spirit of Edgecombe rose out of his body and drifted aimlessly around the room, as if caught by the drafts. When he finally stilled, he stared down at his own ghostly legs. Was he unable to believe he'd just killed himself? Or was he enthralled by his transformation into a ghost?

The spirit of Cleves strolled up to him, signaled a rude hang gesture, then came back to me. "Am I done here?"

"Yes, thank you," I said numbly. "Your assistance was most beneficial. You are released now, Mr. Cleves. Return to your afterlife."

He slipped away, and Edgecombe's spirit followed soon after, thank God. I didn't want to converse with him.

Lincoln checked the pulpy mess of the body in the wheelchair. He also held a pistol. Where had it come from? Why hadn't he used it before?

My brain was busy trying to sort through questions and answers, yet my feet wouldn't move. I did not, however, collapse into a faint like Julia and Marguerite. I attributed my stoicism not to my more robust health, but my refusal to wear a corset. My lungs were not restricted like theirs. I was able to breathe as much air as my body required.

Harcourt gently picked up his wife and carried her back to the sofa, where he waved the smelling salts beneath her nose. As she began to rouse, he wordlessly passed the salts onto Buchanan, who repeated the motion beneath Julia's nose. It would have been quite a romantic, noble scene if it weren't for the dead body and the retching footman in the entrance hall.

Lincoln tucked his gun back into the waistband of his trousers, beneath his jacket. He then took charge, ordering the servants and helping where needed. He and Millard carried the body into the mews to await a coroner, and I summoned the courage to assist two of the maids in cleaning up the mess. I liked to think my lack of hysteria helped calm them, but in truth they cried throughout and raced off to the service area to wash themselves clean afterward.

"Let’s go home, Charlie. You've done enough." Lincoln gently took my bloodied hand in his own and steered me toward the door and out to the waiting carriage. Someone must have apprised Seth of the events, because he seemed unsurprised to see us in such a state and did not ask questions.

Back at Lichfield, I headed straight for the bathroom and turned on the taps. While the bath filled, I stripped off and scrubbed as much of the blood off my skin as I could at the sink without removing the skin itself. Finally, feeling more like myself, I sank into the bath and let the warm water soak away any remaining blood, fear and horror.

The knock on the door roused me some time later, when the water had begun to cool. "Charlie? Are you all right?" It was Lincoln. He must be concerned, though perhaps he was waiting for the bath himself.

"Yes, thank you. I'll be out in a moment."

"I have clothes for you."

I dried off, and with the towel around my body, opened the door a crack. The corridor was empty except for the clothing placed neatly in a pile on the nearby table. I took the garments back into the bathroom and hurriedly dressed.

I found Lincoln in the parlor, stoking the fire. He must have washed outside because he was clean, his hair damp.

"I'm sorry I occupied the bathroom for so long," I told him as I settled on the chair by the fire.

"The bathroom is all yours whenever you want it. Tea?"

"God, yes." Cook had not only provided tea, but also scones with large pots of jam and cream. He knew me so well. I helped myself to one and slathered as much jam and cream on top as would stay on.

I angled my head to the fire to help dry my hair and ate an entire scone in a mere three bites.

"Better?" Lincoln asked as he watched me sip tea.

I nodded. "Much, thank you. I think I was a little in shock for a while there."

"Nobody but me would have noticed. You carried yourself admirably, Charlie. Much more capably than the other females."

I felt the heat rise in my face at his praise. "Perhaps that's because I'm used to death now."

"Death, yes; horror, no. I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Poor Marguerite, to see her brother die in such a ghastly manner."

"I would like to tell you that she'll recover, but her mind was already delicate. I'm not sure how she'll cope with this."

I sighed. Then I frowned. "I didn't know you had a gun."

"We were confronting a man who put another into Bedlam using force and trickery. I thought a weapon might be useful."

"Why didn't you use it?"

"There was no opportunity. If I had, he might have shot you. Or anyone." His eyes banked with deeper, blacker shadows as he looked at me. "I couldn't risk it."

He couldn't risk
me
being injured. Of all the people in that room, I was the only one he cared about. It was both thrilling and intoxicating, yet troubling too to think that he might sacrifice other lives if it meant saving mine.

"If only you'd pulled your gun out before he drew his," I said.

He sipped his tea and looked at the flames.

"You could have, couldn't you? Either before or after, when his attention was on one of the others. He wouldn't have noticed you until it was too late."

Still he didn't answer, and I knew I was correct. Lincoln had deliberately not shown his hand, perhaps so as not to startle Edgecombe into shooting one of us. But perhaps also so he could calmly and very deliberately talk the man into seeing the hopelessness of the situation and his future.

"You intended for him to kill himself," I said quietly. "Didn't you?"

He slowly lowered the cup to the table. "The man hated his life. He wanted it to end. Added to which, he would have gone to prison. Buchanan and Harcourt would have seen to it."

A lump made swallowing difficult. Tears pricked my eyes. Perhaps he was right and the future he so coldly mapped out for Edgecombe was the one he would most likely have had. And perhaps Edgecombe would never have been willing to make the best of the situation. But Lincoln should not have encouraged him to end his life. He should not have played any sort of hand in Edgecombe's decision.

"I have told you, do not romanticize me," he said, standing. "I'm the man known as Death by the people who know me best."

"Not by me."

He bent and touched my hair, brushing the damp locks off my cheek and tucking them behind my ear. "Perhaps you're a fool."

"Perhaps I am."

He lowered his hand, before I could catch it, and walked away.

T
he dowager Lady Harcourt
arrived two days later when I was in the midst of packing a trunk for my journey to France. Lincoln and I weren't set to leave for another two days, but I decided to get an early start. I had to do something or go mad from waiting to experience so many firsts—first time outside of England, first time on a boat, first glimpse of the sea, first time alone with Lincoln for several days.

I wasn't sure if Julia was a welcome distraction or not. On the one hand, I didn't want to suffer through her remarks, which had become snider and snider over the past few weeks, but on the other, I wanted to know how her family was faring after the recent tragedy.

Lincoln took the decision away from me. "You'll act as mistress of Lichfield and have tea with us in the parlor," he told me. While I was recovering from my shock he opened the door to greet her.

"Lincoln," Julia said, kissing his cheek and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I'm so pleased to see you've recovered after that trying experience."

"There was nothing for me to recover from," he said, stepping away.

Julia lowered her hand and caught sight of me, standing back near the staircase. "Charlie," she said with bland indifference.

"Lady Harcourt," I said, unable to call her by her first name when she hadn't asked me to. Some things were so deeply ingrained into one's habits that they could not be expunged, even with a large dose of spite.