Or some unknown killer in a costume? The same “ghost” who had pursued her through the churchyard? No, whoever it was had known her name....
She swept the light over Mr. Dalby’s person. He wore normal gentlemen’s attire. No robe, no wig, no beard. She leaned closer and studied his face. No signs of lingering glue. She noticed something else, though, and peered closer. His lips were blue. And within his open, vacant eyes, she saw his pupils were noticeably enlarged. She braced herself, leaned toward his half-gaped mouth, and sniffed. Alcohol, which was no surprise. But there was another smell too. Something highly unpleasant. She shifted the lantern and searched the ground nearby. Sure enough, in the grass a few feet away was evidence he’d been sick.
She took one last look at the man, looking for... exactly what, she was not sure. Signs of a struggle, perhaps? Then she saw something white protruding from his clenched fist. Shereached down and tugged it free, the hand still pliable—he had clearly not been dead long.
A small slip of paper, folded in half. She opened it and lifted it toward the lantern light.
Meet me at the bench near the churchyard door at 10:00. I have something you want.
R.S.
Anne sucked in a sharp breath.R.S....Was this Rosa Stark’s handwriting? Had she arranged to meet him in private? Surprise bordering on disbelief washed over her. Even though the girl had come to Painswick Court hoping to spur a second-chance romance, she had quickly soured on the idea. Had she changed her mind?
Another thought struck her. Had Rosa found the new will and offered it to the man to endear herself to him? Or worse yet, had she decided to make him pay the ultimate price?
Anne looked again at handsome, vain, conniving Jude Dalby with an arrow in his neck and thought the latter more likely.
Could Rosa really kill him? Had she ever shot a bow and arrow in her life? Anne supposed it was possible, yet found it hard to believe. And what about his dilated pupils, blue lips, and evident vomiting? Did that indicate she had poisoned him first? There was very little blood from the wound at his neck. Someone else could have lured him out here to his death, but this note would certainly implicate Rosa.
Thinking of the young woman’s son and uncle, Anne tucked the note into her glove, heart pounding.
She thought again of the figure who had chased her. If not Mr. Dalby, then who?
Suddenly someone grabbed her from behind, locking anaggressive arm around her and, before she could scream, pressing some sort of sponge against her nose and mouth. The Latin termSpongia somniferarose in her mind—sponges soaked in opium. She tried not to breathe, to pull away, but it was no use. Lungs burning, she sucked hard against the porous thing again and again, desperate for air. Soon her vision faded and she felt herself sinking into blackness ... and knew no more.
23
Anne awoke, eyes still closed, feeling groggy, cold, and wretched, her bed awfully hard. It had never been the most comfortable couch, but this? She felt the surface beneath her with chilled fingers. No bedclothes. Only damp wood. What in the world? Where was she? What had happened?
Slowly, slivers of memory began to return. The churchyard. Mr. Dalby ... dead. The note. Someone grabbing her, the sponge pressed to her face. Then ... nothing.
Until now.
Anne tentatively opened her eyes. The world remained black. Had she been blinded? Panic rose. At least she was still alive.
As she lay there in a stupor, she slowly realized she was neither blind nor in utter darkness. A faint light seeped in from somewhere above her and dimly illuminated the space.
Anne looked around and, with mounting dread, realized where she was. In a cell in the Painswick Court cellars. Alone.
God in heaven,helpme.
She’d been rendered unconscious and carried there. Now she lay—half seated, half sprawled—on the rottingwood-slat bed against the wall. High on the vaulted ceiling, a grated vent let in light and air from somewhere above. The scullery or kitchen, perhaps?
She raised her face toward the grate and called, “Is anyone there? Halloo! Can you hear me? I’m trapped down here. Please help me!”
No response.
How long had she been insensible? The faint light probably meant it was no longer nighttime—unless a lamp or fire was lit in the room overhead. Maybe very early morning? She would listen for sounds from above and when she heard them, call out again.
Who had done this to her, and why?
She lifted herself into a fully seated position. Her leg had been bent at an awkward angle and felt numb. She gingerly shifted, stretching her foot to the end of the sagging bed and then downward, preparing to rise. Her shoe came into contact with something. Something solid but malleable. Flesh? A body on the floor?
Anne recoiled. She was not alone. Who was in there with her? And were they dead or alive?
Over a lump in her throat, she asked, “Wh-who is it? Who’s there?” No response. She tentatively stretched out her leg again and nudged the body with her foot.
Again no response. She supposed she should not be surprised. If her shouting toward the grate had not roused the person, what would? A chill crept over her. Had her attacker dragged Jude Dalby’s body down here with her?No. Don’t think the worst, she told herself. Perhaps the person was only insensible, as she had been.God,have mercy on us both.
