“I see.” Peckwood nodded as if they discussed nothing more than which cloth suited best as a bandage. “I suspected something has been eating at you these past several days, hence my reason for seeking you out, but what exactly are you babbling on about?”
Lifting its great nose, the horse snorted, and Graham didn’t blame it. He felt like doing so himself. “Did you really expect me not to react to the botched surgery you performed on Mr. Balfour? Or your harmful experiments on St. Peter’s inmates? And what about the corpse I saw in your office? We both know that body was there courtesy of lawless resurrection men.” Bypassing the doctor, he grabbed a bucket of grain near the door, anything to busy his hands lest he strike the arrogant man. “Any one of those charges is enough to lock you away for a very long time. And don’t botherenlighteningme, as you call it. I won’t listen to your twisted truths anymore and, in fact, am of half a mind to inform those journalists who are singing your praises of the real truth about you.”
“Tut-tut, Lambert.” Peckwood clucked his tongue and let the portfolio fall to his side. “Your claims have no more validity in the real world than an actor’s passionate monologue. My work at St. Peter’s is sanctioned by the warden, who will attest to the help I have provided in bettering the lives of many of his inmates.”
“Abetteringof lives? That’s what you call it?” He grasped the pail so tightly, his knuckles throbbed. “Is creating a dependency on you and your drugs any better than madness? Both your methods and insanity control the mind, causing behaviour that is erratic and dangerous. And what happens when your drugs run out? Or you die? Those inmates will be worse off than before, as evidenced by Caroline Safie. She may never regain the use of her left arm thanks to the mangling she received when scrambling over glass shards to get to you. You did not better her life!”
Graham clenched his jaw, caging the hot fury that begged to spew out in curses he’d later regret. Sensing his unease, the mare stomped the barn floor. Graham stepped a safe distance from her front hooves.
Peckwood dipped his head sadly. “I grant you that Miss Safie’s wounds are unfortunate, but they were not caused by me. I was not even present at the time.” Peckwood shrugged, the folio in his hands bobbing with the movement. “Surely you know your insinuations will not hold up in a court of law. Anything you say against me and my work at the asylum is mere conjecture on your part. You have no proof.”
Gritting his teeth, Graham stalked past the cagey old surgeon. As much as he hated to admit it, Peckwood was right. There was no substantial way to attest to the maltreatment of the inmates, not with Mr. Waldman to say otherwise.
With a pat to the horse’s neck, he once again faced Peckwood. “It is true I may not be able to convince a jury of your malfeasance in the case of St. Peter’s, especially with the way you have the warden neatly tucked into your pocket, but I do have proof in the case of Colin Balfour. Tangible proof, both in the broken mind of the man and in the testimony of his sister and household staff. You cannot talk your way out of the visible harm you have done to him.”
A flicker of fear sparked in the man’s gaze, which was quickly snuffed out by a shake of his head and a smirk. “I won’t have to, for you will say nothing. The truth is, Lambert, that you came to Bristol in order to link your name to mine, to give you validation as a doctor. If you besmirch my honour, you taint yours as well.”
Bah! Had he not already lived through just such a ruination? Graham strode close to the man, lifting his chin in defiance. “You think I care about that?”
“Yes, I think you do. Very much. For therein is your whole career and future—a future that begins today.” He shoved the portfolio into Graham’s hands. “I trust this will be quite sufficient.”
Frowning, Graham opened the folder and leafed through a sizeable collection of banknotes. His gaze bounced between the money and the man. “What is this? How can you possibly have so much money to offer me when you’ve not even paid the lamp oil bill?”
“Just can’t keep your nose out of my affairs, can you, Lambert? I owe you nor anyone else an explanation for what invoices I choose to pay or leave off.” Peckwood sniffed. “Not that it signifies anymore. There’s enough in that folio for you to walk away and begin your own practice here and now. It is what you have wanted all along, is it not?”
Graham gaped. “You think I can be bought so easily?”
“No, Iknowit. For if you do not avail yourself of my offer and instead go to the authorities, it is I who will ruin you.”
“You seriously think to bribe me? What a mockery. Colin Balfour deserves justice!” He thrust the portfolio against Peckwood’s chest, forcing the man to grab it. “And I will see it happen, Doctor. You mark my words.”
“Justice? Interesting.”The doctor chuckled and pulled out a banknote, then stuffed it into Graham’s pocket with a swift movement. “Take that and a couple of days to think about this proposition, because who is going to believe the word of a dismissed naval surgeon against that of a respected doctor of more than thirty years?”
Graham stiffened, a sickening twist in his gut clenching tighter and tighter—the same feeling he’d had facing the admiralty board, when the lieutenant’s word had trumped his. When he’d been the one who’d lost everything and the guilty man had walked free. Perhaps Peckwood was right.
He’d better think twice before acting.
A choice must be made. A decision rendered. But for now, Amelia pushed the thought of what to do about Colin to a dark corner of her mind. Would that she might evict it altogether! But something would have to be done. Soon. And as she trudged up the stairs with a tea tray in hand, each step bringing her closer to her brother’s room, dread increased in her belly. Would she find him asleep or crouched in a corner, ready to spring?
She set the tray down on the stand in the corridor, then ever so gently rapped her knuckles against his door. The slightest noises or movements seemed to trouble him, so she made sure to keep her voice dulcet. “It is teatime, Brother.”
Twisting the knob with a smooth motion, she eased the door open. Late afternoon sunshine didn’t visit this side of the house. Still, there was enough light to clearly see nothing but rumpled sheets atop her brother’s bed.
“Colin?” She eased inside and glanced about. No monsters lurked in any of the corners. No big shape sat at the desk or in the chair, nor did one loom near the hearth or the window. Her heart crashed against her ribs.
Colin was gone.
A ripple of childish laughter fluttered in through the open sash. Close. In the backyard. Amelia frowned, lured by the sound, and as she approached the window, the pounding of her heart stopped altogether.
Colin knelt on the lawn, towering over a boy—a child who could have no idea of the sort of danger he was in.
Amelia tore from the room. Flew down the stairs. Raced through the corridor and yanked open the back door.
But then stopped, keeping to the inside shadows. She might startle Colin if she bolted out there in a flurry, which could send him into a fit. By the looks of it, he’d recently suffered just such an episode. His hair stood wild on the unshaven side of his head. The other side sported his exposed stitches, ghastly purple and puckered, his bandage straggling behind him like a limp banner. The edge of the hastily cast-off dressing was caught on the collar of a waistcoat that hung half on and half off his body, only one arm having been shoved through the sleeve hole. His other arm stretched out, his big fingers gripping the shoulder of a sandy-headed boy. One little squeeze would crush the child’s bones.
Despite the late July afternoon, she shivered.
Strangely, the lad didn’t seem to mind the awful weight on his shoulder or the malformed giant in front of him. He lifted his hand, so small in comparison to her brother’s, and pointed at Colin’s hideous scar. “Do it hurt terrible much, sir?”
