“And Kathleen…”
“Is healthy. He must not marry her, or any woman. And I will make sure of that.”
The other man sighed, and the muscles of his face relaxed. “Then that is all I care about. For the rest, I am in your hands. How much do you know?”
“I know little, but I suspect a great deal and wish to propose even more. For instance, I guessed last night that this must have been your basset hound. Who but a student of medicine, as you were, would name his dog Harvey, after the immortal William Harvey, discoverer of the circulation of the blood? Your brother might take your dog, but he could not change its name. And who but a student of medicine might have ready access to a corpse, when one was needed to inhibit further pursuit? Even before that, I wondered at an incongruity. You were known, I was told, as Stinking Jack. But I deliberately moved close to you yesterday, and detected no odor.”
“When I had reason to go to Dunwell Hall, I did my best to offer Harvey a false scent. I succeeded, but apparently at some slight cost in reputation.” Trelawney pushed the eye patch up onto his forehead. His brown eyes were clear and resigned. “Very well. I admit it. I am Richard Dunwell. Although you are apparently a perceptive physician, you are not a magistrate. Do you intend to arrest me? If not, what do you propose?”
“I have definite plans. How permanent is the stain of your skin?”
“It can be removed with turpentine. The glued eyebrows may be more difficult.”
“But scissors would reduce them. The three of us must join in serious discussion— inside the coach house. I do not wish to be observed.”
Before marrying a woman, look at her mother.
But the maxim worked poorly with Kathleen and Milly Meredith. Standing together outside the Anchor Inn in the pale light of a cold, overcast noon, the two women formed a study in contrasts: Milly fair, short, and dimpled, with the peaches-and-cream complexion of a milkmaid; her daughter tall and stately as a galleon in light airs, high cheekboned, gypsy-dark, and with flashing black eyes.
And yet, Darwin thought, admiring them from his hiding place, perhaps the old rule was not so wrong after all. Both women would be very easy to fall in love with. Certainly there was no mistaking the adoration on Brandon Dunwell’s face, as he helped Kathleen to board the coach and climbed in after her. The two sat side by side, and Kathleen waved to her mother before Milly went back into the inn. Kathleen closed the window. The cabriolet, with Jacob Pole driving, rolled off at a moderate pace along the road to St. Austell.
One minute later Darwin was inside the inn stable and climbing up on horseback. He did not look too comfortable there. As the cabriolet vanished from view, a second man holding a horse by the reins ran toward him from the rear of the stable.
His thin-featured face had the unnatural pallor of a man who has just shaved off a dense beard. Brown eyes beneath cropped black eyebrows seemed worried and perplexed.
The transformed Richard Dunwell swung quickly up into the saddle. “We must hurry!”
Darwin did not release the reins of the other horse. “On the contrary, we must not.”
“But Colonel Pole—”
“Knows exactly what he has to do, and is thoroughly reliable. We will follow, but cautiously. If we were to be observed by Kathleen, or by your brother, our plans would become worthless.”
He started his horse along the deserted road that led toward St. Austell.
“Kathleen still knows nothing?” Richard Dunwell came forward to ride two abreast.
“Nothing. I wish that it had been possible to take her and Milly into my confidence, but I fear their inability to dissemble. Patience, my friend. Play your part correctly, and soon all need for dissimulation will vanish.”
“God grant.” Richard Dunwell rode on, his face grim. As they rounded every turn, or breasted a hill, his eyes were constantly scanning the road ahead. At last he gave a little cry and urged his horse to a gallop. The cabriolet was visible a quarter of a mile in front of them, with Jacob Pole dismounted from the driver’s seat and standing in the road beside the coach.
Darwin followed at a more leisurely pace. When he came to the cabriolet a door was already open. Richard Dunwell, with infinite tenderness, was lifting from within the coach the unconscious body of Kathleen Meredith. He sank to his knees, holding her and staring hungrily at her silent face.
“Not now, man.” Darwin swung himself off the horse’s back. “You have other duties to perform. Fulfill them well, and you will have a whole lifetime to gaze upon that countenance. But hurry!”
Richard Dunwell nodded and laid Kathleen gently on the ground, with Darwin supporting her head. “You will explain?”
“Everything, as soon as she wakens.” Darwin passed across to Richard a gallon jar. “Seawater, with a little wormwood and asafoetida mixed in. Disgusting, but necessary. Now—go! Jacob is waiting, and you have little time to prepare.”
The other man nodded, but he received scarcely a glance as he headed for the waiting coach. When it rumbled away Darwin’s attention was all on Kathleen. Soon he detected a change in her breathing.
Just in time! The creak of coach wheels was still audible when her eyelids trembled. He held the sal volatile vial of ammoniac water under her nose, and leaned close as her eyes fluttered open to show their whites.
“Do not be afraid, Kathleen.” He spoke slowly and clearly. “I am a good friend of your mother and of your uncle, Jacob Pole. You are in no danger.”
Her lustrous dark eyes rolled down, to focus on the fat, amiable face close to hers.
“Who are you?” The words were hardly a whisper.
“I am Erasmus Darwin. I am a physician.”
“Brandon—”
“Is not here.”
“But just a second ago he was holding my hand—in the coach—” She lifted her head and her gaze roamed over the coast road and deserted cliff. “And now—”
“I know.” Darwin lifted her to her feet and watched to make sure that she stood steady. “That is very good. I have much to tell you, and I believe that you will find it all welcome news. But first, as soon as you are clearheaded, one other unpleasant act must be completed. When you are ready, you and I will ride a little way together. The horses are waiting.”
Even at noon the air was chilly, made more so by a cutting wind from the sea. Brandon Dunwell had closed the windows tight, but still he felt chilled. He held Kathleen’s hand, yawned, and shivered a little. Someone was walking on his grave. Even the hand gripped in his suddenly felt damp and clammy.
He turned to look at her, and flinched back in horror. Kathleen had vanished. Instead he was holding the hand of a man, a pale-faced figure whose damp hair flopped lank on his forehead and whose dark, wet clothes clung to his body like cerements.
The man gave him a death’s-head smile that showed blackened teeth. “Greetings, brother.”
Brandon gasped. “Richard!” He dropped the cold hand and shrank back against the side of the coach.
“Richard, indeed. But a condemned murderer. Even in the grave I cannot rest.” The apparition inched a little closer. “Neither I nor you will ever find rest, brother—unless you confess.”
“No! I did nothing. Don’t touch me!” A pale hand was lifting clawlike fingers toward Brandon’s face. Wafting from it came a dank, rotting odor that made him want to vomit.