She shuddered at his mention of the gallows and turned to stare at the hearth, where flames were rapidly consuming the log.
— I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. They've given me so much morphine, I don't know what I'm saying anymore. — He looked down at his bandaged stump. — I'm no good for anything these days. Can't even get around on my own two feet. —
— It's late, Mr. Lackaway. You shouldn't be out of bed at all. —
— I only came down for a nip of brandy. — He gave her a hopeful look. — Would you fetch it for me? It's in that cupboard over there. — He pointed across the kitchen, and she suspected that this was not the first time he'd made a nocturnal raid on the brandy bottle.
She poured him only a knuckle's worth, which he drank down in one gulp. Though he clearly expected more, she put the bottle back in the cupboard and said firmly: — I'll help you back to your room. —
With her candle to light their way, she guided him up the steps to the second floor. She had not been upstairs before, and as she helped him down the hallway, her gaze was drawn to all the marvels revealed by candlelight. She saw richly patterned carpet and a gleaming hall table. On the wall was a gallery of portraits, distinguished men and women rendered with such life-like detail that she felt their eyes following her as she guided Charles to his room. By the time she helped him to his bed, he was starting to stumble, as though that small bit of brandy, on top of all the morphine, had tipped him into full intoxication. He flopped onto his mattress with a sigh.
— Thank you, Rose. —
— Good night, sir. —
— He's a lucky man, Norris is. To have a girl who loves him as much as you do. The sort of love that poets write about. —
— I don't know anything about poetry, Mr. Lackaway. —
— You don't have to. — He closed his eyes and sighed. — You know the real thing. —
She watched as his breaths deepened, as he sank into sleep. Yes, I know the real thing. And now I could lose it.
Carrying the candle, she left his room and stepped back into the hallway. There she suddenly halted, her gaze frozen on a face that stared back at her. In the gloom, with only the glow of the flame to illuminate the hall, the portrait seemed so startlingly real that she stood rooted before it, stunned by the unexpected familiarity of those features. She saw a man with a thick mane of hair and dark eyes that reflected a lively intelligence. He seemed eager to engage her in debate from his perch on the canvas. She stepped closer so that she might examine every shadow, every curve of that face. So entranced was she by the image, she did not hear the approaching footsteps until they were only a few feet away. The nearby creak made her whirl, so startled that she almost dropped the candle.
— Miss Connolly? — said Dr. Grenville, frowning at her. — May I ask why you are wandering about the house at this hour? —
She heard the note of suspicion in his voice and flushed. He assumes the worst, she thought; about the Irish, they always assume the worst. — It was Mr. Lackaway, sir. —
— What about my nephew? —
— He came down to the kitchen. I didn't think he was steady on his feet, so I helped him back to his bed. — She gestured toward Charles's door, which she had left open.
Dr. Grenville peered into the room at his nephew, who was sprawled uncovered on the bed and snoring loudly.
— I'm sorry, sir, — she said. — I wouldn't have come upstairs if he didn't —
— No, I'm the one who should apologize. — He sighed. — It's been a most trying day, and I'm weary. Good night. — He turned.
— Sir? — she said. — Is there news of Norris? —
He stopped. Reluctantly he turned to look at her. — I'm afraid to say there's little cause for optimism. The evidence is damning. —
— The evidence is false. —
— The court must determine that. But in court, innocence is determined by strangers who'll know nothing about him. What they know is what they've read in the newspaper or heard in the tavern. That Norris Marshall lives in proximity to all four murders. That he was found bending over the body of Mary Robinson. That the excised face of Eben Tate was discovered in his quarters. That he is a skillful anatomist as well as a butcher. Taken separately, these points might be defended against. But when presented in a court of law, his guilt will seem undeniable. —
She stared at him in despair. — Is there no defense we can offer? —
— I'm afraid men have gone to the gallows for less. —
In desperation she recklessly grasped his sleeve. — I cannot see him hanged! —
— Miss Connolly, not all hope is lost. There may be a way to save him. — He took her hand and held it as he looked straight into her eyes. — But I will need your help. —
Thirty-one
— BILLY. Over here, Billy! —
The boy looked around in confusion, searching the shadows for whoever had just whispered his name. A black dog capered at his feet. Suddenly it gave an excited bark and came trotting toward Norris, who was crouched behind a stack of barrels. The mutt, at least, thought no ill of him, and was wagging its tail, delighted to play a friendly game of hide-and-seek with a man it did not even know.
Dim Billy was more cautious. — Who is it, Spot? — he asked, as if fully expecting the dog to answer him.
Norris stepped out from behind the barrels. — It's me, Billy, — he said, and saw the boy begin to back away. — I won't hurt you. You remember me, don't you? —
The boy looked at his dog, who was now licking Norris's hand, clearly unconcerned. — You're Miss Rose's friend, — he said.
— I need you to take her a message. —
— The Night Watch says you're the Reaper. —
— I'm not. I swear I'm not. —
— They're searching for you, all up and down the river. —
— Billy, if you're her friend, you'll do this for me. —
The boy looked at his dog again. Spot had sat down at Norris's feet and was wagging its tail as it watched the conversation. While the boy might be a dimwit, he knew enough to trust a dog when it came to judging a man's intentions.
— I want you to go to Dr. Grenville's house, — said Norris.
— The big one, on Beacon? —
— Yes. Find out if she's there. And give her this. — Norris handed him a folded scrap of paper. — Put it into her hands. Only her hands. —
— What's it say? —
— Just give it to her. —
— Is it a love note? —
— Yes, — Norris answered too quickly, impatient for the boy to be off.
— But I'm the one who loves her, — Billy whined. — And I'm goin' to marry her. — He threw the note down. — I ain't bringing her your love note. —
Swallowing his frustration, Norris picked up the scrap of paper. — I want to tell her she's free to go on with her life. — He placed the note back in Billy's hand. — Take it to her, so she knows. Please. — He added. — She'll be angry with you if you don't. —
That did it; Billy's biggest fear was of displeasing Rose. The boy stuffed the note into his pocket. — I'd do anything for her, — he said.
— Don't tell anyone you saw me. —
— I'm not a half-wit, y'know, — Billy retorted. He walked off into the night, the dog trotting at his heels.
Norris did not linger, but quickly moved on, striding down the dark street in the direction of Beacon Hill. As well meaning as Billy might be, Norris did not trust him to keep a secret, and he had no intention of waiting for the Night Watch to come looking.
Assuming they believed he was still alive and still in Boston these three days later.
The clothes he'd stolen were ill fitting, the trousers too large, the shirt too tight, but the heavy cloak concealed all, and with a Quaker hat shoved down low over his brow, he walked purposefully down the street, neither skulking nor hesitating. I may not be a murderer, he thought. But now I'm most certainly a thief. Already he faced the gallows; the commission of a few more crimes scarcely mattered. Survival was all he cared about, and if it meant lifting a cloak from a tavern hook or snatching trousers and shirt from a drying line, then that's what a freezing man had to do. If he was going to be hanged anyway, he might as well be guilty of a real crime.