Her voice rose with every word, until even the servants down the hallway were looking at her like she was a specter risen from the grave. But Bacchus, bless him, was taking her seriously—he left, and she hoped it was to carry out her request.
She stared down the servants. “Are you deaf? Cuthbert Ogden of Brookley is a killer! Tell the police!”
They scattered.
Closing her eyes, Elsie leaned her head back against the wall. Her wrists itched something fierce, and the annoying sensation flowed up her arms as though carried in her veins. She tried to scratch, but her sleeves were so damn tight.
She sat there for a while, listening to the back-and-forth of servants, the occasional wail. The duchess came by once, asking after her. Elsie managed a half-hearted assurance, and the woman let her be. The itching started to recede.
Would the police require a testimony? Would they use another truthseeker? She’d have to confess her spellbreaking to make her story work, wouldn’t she? Or was there some other way around it? She needed to think, but she’d been thinking so much lately. Her brain was exhausted.
Grabbing some wainscoting, Elsie heaved herself to her feet. She needed to go. She needed to protect Emmeline. Heaven help her, she would be so frightened if she was in that house when the police arrived—
Several policemen chattered among themselves in the dining room, pointing at the body and the damage, taking notes. Someone had informed them of the situation on the way over, perhaps. Could she slip out without being seen? It would be hard to find a cab back home, since she hadn’t told the previous one to wait for her. She hadn’t told the driver anything, merely left his coin on the seat and bolted for the house—
“Elsie.”
She jumped, hand flying to her breast. “Bacchus, you blend with the shadows.” She’d had enough frights for one day.
He offered her that subtle near smile. “Let’s pull you away from all this.”
Elsie eyed the policemen in the dining room. Two blocked the sight of Nash’s body.
“I’m not turning you in,” he assured her, and took her hand, guiding her down the hallway. The noise of the investigation slowly quieted behind her. A relief.
He stopped by a massive staircase to the first floor. Turned toward her and took both her shoulders in his hands. “You never answered me. Are you hurt?”
“No. Not really.” Her gaze fell to the floor.
He let out a long breath, forceful enough to stir her mussed hair—she couldn’t recall where her hat had gone. “That’s twice now.”
“I wouldn’t have broken in if that butler weren’t such a daft—”
“I mean twice that you’ve saved my life.”
She lifted her gaze almost unwillingly. His hands on her shoulders were too warm, and a flush crept up her neck. She cleared her throat. “Well, if you want to focus on that part of it.”
He chuckled, which almost helped her relax.
“Bacchus,” she pressed, “you did hear me, didn’t you? I’m part of this.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
He lowered his hands, but only so they held her upper arms instead of her shoulders. “Did you at any point know or suspect that you were part of it?”
She paled. “Of course not!”
“Then you’re fine.”
“But the police—”
“I told them Abel Nash confessed Ogden’s name before his demise. I told the others that I’d invited you to dinner and you must have seen Nash sneaking in. The police shouldn’t question you outside of a recounting of the events that occurred tonight. As long as they match my retelling, you’ll be fine.”
Elsie gaped, a numbness she hadn’t noticed lifting from her limbs. “But a truthseeker—”
“The duke has sway. They won’t use one on you.”
She rolled her lips together. “You’re interrupting me a great deal tonight.”
He smirked at her.
Remembering herself, Elsie pulled away from his touch and folded her arms against the chill that rushed in to replace his warmth. “Thank you. Truly.” She glanced toward the dining room again. “They came quickly.”
“The duke owns a telegraph. And the High Court employs spiritual aspectors who can project themselves to further the message.”
“That’s fortunate.” Her pulse quickened. “Oh, poor Emmeline. She’ll be so confused. I need to get to her.”
“You didn’t come from Brookley?”
She shook her head. “Reading. Before that, Juniper Down.”
“Why were you away?”
Her shoulders sank. “Well, funny story. I was led to believe my father had come looking for me, but it turned out to be some highwayman who’d mistaken me for someone else.”
Bacchus ran a hand down his face. “Elsie, I—”
But a police officer swept down the hallway at that time, his hard-soled shoes echoing in the corridor. Bacchus stiffened. “Has word come in?” The man must have been walking from the direction of the telegraph.
The young officer hesitated a moment, perhaps unsure what he was allowed to share, but he gave in easily enough. “Cuthbert Ogden has fled his home, but a neighbor claims to have seen him headed north.”
Elsie’s chest tightened. The last vestiges of hope dissipated, making her feel like a dried corn husk. She added Ogden’s name to the list carved into her heart. He was yet another person who’d left her behind. Another father who’d abandoned her. Maybe he’d always planned to, once Elsie’s usefulness ran dry.
Elsie rubbed her wrist. “Why would he head toward London? If I were a fugitive”—she very much did not like how that sounded—“I wouldn’t go into the crowds. I’d run away from them.”
“He has the cover of darkness,” Bacchus offered. “He can get lost in the throng.”
Elsie bit down on the knuckle of her index finger hard enough to leave prints. Pulling it free, she asked, “Would you ask after the maid? Emmeline Pratt? Make sure she’s all right?”
“We do have priorities, miss. Any staff will be seen to.” He tilted his hat toward her and continued on his way toward the front entrance, perhaps to report to someone outside. Elsie watched him go, her stomach cramped.
After several seconds, Bacchus asked, “Are you hungry? You’re welcome to stay here tonight, until we sort this out.”
“I doubt I’d be able to sleep.” Though she’d gotten precious little of it lately. It suddenly struck her that the policeman had said a neighbor had seen Ogden leave home. He’d taken off before the police had arrived. Why? “How would Ogden even know to flee?” she asked. “I sent no word ahead, and I know Abel Nash didn’t, either.” She paced at the end of the stairs. “They shouldn’t have too much trouble catching him. He doesn’t own any horses. You can’t get a cab at night in Brookley unless you order it ahead of time. But there’s no possible way he’d have known to do that—”
If things ever do get bad, we’ll steal away, you, Emmeline, and I. Ride up to the Thames, maybe even the St. Katharine Docks, and take a discreet boat out to the channel. How’s your French?
She froze.
“Elsie? What’s—”
“He’s going to the docks. Of course.” She spun toward him. “Bacchus, I think I know where Ogden is going.” It was strange that he should have told her, and in such detail, yet there’d been a certain look on his face as he said it. He’d been in earnest. He’d considered an eventual escape and planned it in advance. “We have to stop him! With all these opuses . . . he’s powerful, and if he flees . . .”
Bacchus’s face darkened. He considered only a moment. “We have to tell the police.”
This time, Elsie agreed with him. She loved Ogden, but . . . “Yes, tell them. If they leave now . . .” But would a carriage be fast enough to catch up? How much of a head start did Ogden have?