Anne sat listening for any sound from above and trying to think what to do. As her eyes adjusted further, the shapes around her came into better focus. The iron bars. The man at her feet.
Ernest Finch.
Her heart plummeted.Please,no. Don’t let him be dead.
He sat, slumped on the floor, one hand chained to the wall in a locked manacle, legs sprawled before him, head lolling back. Something dark trailed down his temple and stained his cravat.
She tentatively stretched out her hand and touched his shoulder. Gently shook him. “Dr. Finch? Can you hear me?”
No response. She raised her hand higher and reached for the exposed skin of his upper neck. The blood on his jaw was still warm, but his skin was cold. Too cold. She felt for a pulse on the side of his neck. Pressed harder. Yes! Blood yet pulsed in his veins. She hoped he had not lost a great deal of it.
“Dr. Finch? Ernest, it’s me, Anne. I need you to wake up.”
Admonishing herself to remain calm and think, Anne reached over with both hands, unknotted his simply tied cravat, and began unwinding it from his neck.
One area was stiff with blood, but she found a clean section and laid that against the wound, looping the rest of the length around his head and tying it in place.
He uttered a low groan but otherwise remained insensible.
Anne rose on unsteady legs and tried the iron door. She pulled and pushed until her arm ached. To no avail.
Did the killer intend to leave them there indefinitely? Or did he plan to return and kill them?
Anne heard something in the distance. The sound of the old iron-strapped door creaking open, followed by a heavy tread descending stone stairs. Her heart began to beat hard in time with the footsteps.
Light entered with the newcomer. Anne held her breath, fearing who it would be—killer or rescuer?
The figure holding a lantern strode slowly toward the cell, the bright light momentarily blinding Anne. She winced, trying to make out the person haloed in light.
Richard Marsland. Anne exhaled in relief.
“Dr. Marsland!” she exclaimed. “Hurry and unlock the door—the keys are on the hook there. I think Dr. Finch has been concussed.”
Instead of looking surprised or rushing to their aid, the older physician asked, “I suppose you knew?”
“Knew what?”
He opened his thin lips and shut them again, perhaps thinking the better of whatever he’d been about to say. “Why, that Jude Dalby is dead.”
“Yes. I saw him outside. The colonel has gone for the constable.”
“The constable has been and gone. Gone to summon the coroner again.”
“Already? What time is it?”
He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I suppose you also knew that Rosa Stark is Finch’s niece, and Mr. Dalby seduced her before she came here.”
“I ... did learn of it, yes. How did you...?”
“He recently boasted of his conquest. And considering the child in Finch’s care, and rumors of a young blond woman visiting often, it didn’t take a genius to deduce the rest. Here I thought you had the strongest motive for killing him and perhaps Lady Celia too, with what you told us about your sister. Now I may have to revise my opinion. Perhaps she and Finch both came here with revenge in mind. Why else would they keep their connection a secret? Unless ... Were the three of you in on it together?”
“Of course not.”
“Just the two of them, then?”
“I did not say that. I don’t think either of them would hurt anyone ... seriously.”
“But you don’t know that, do you? You don’t know who killed Mr. Dalby?”
