His mouth covered hers in a swift rebuttal. “For me,” he whispered. “I’ll be back. If Kimpton and I don’t return before the party ends tomorrow night, you and Lady Kimpton will take up Lady Alymer’s invitation and accompany her back to London. Kimpton and I are taking his carriage.”
“Griston should be thrilled with our absence today,” Kimpton said as the grand house behind them lessened in the distance.
Brock didn’t respond. He was attempting to digest the fact that a nurse had been strangled. That added up to an unlikely link in Brock’s view. The prickling at his nape since the night Griston had strolled up and interrupted him and Ginny at the Peachornsbys’ musicale increased his unease. “This entire scenario does not sit well. I don’t like it, Thorne.” He ran his hand across the back of his neck. “And where did Griston disappear to last night? At the height of his own gathering.”
Traveling in Kimpton’s carriage was considerably slower than horseback, and less satisfying. But they’d realized the director of the asylum might be more willing to answer questions from gentlemen appropriately dressed than if they arrived haggard and dusty. And if by chance they stumbled upon Harlowe? All the better to transport him. Brock prayed they would not be transporting a corpse.
Kimpton smirked. “He showed up not long after you manhandled Lady Maudsley from the room. I believe someone said you flung her over your shoulder once you were clear of the parlor doors. I take it you and she came to a mutually satisfying resolution?”
That comment was not worthy of an answer. He let out a low grunt. “What do we know about the dead woman?” he asked instead.
“I was able to learn her body was found near Mersea Island. It’s within a stone’s throw of Tolleshunt, which incidentally is where Tranquil Waters Sanctuary is located. Less than an hour’s ride away. Sorry to pull you away, we’ll be missed today.”
“One would hope,” Brock muttered under his breath.
In all, it took less than fifty-three minutes to find Tranquil Waters. It wasn’t that difficult to spot. The building was of Jacobean architecture with three levels of windows in height. The roofline was simple. There were no elaborate balconies or decorative trimming. Just a structure of dull red brick and dark mullioned windows, uniformly aligned. Brock counted thirteen across the top two floors and twelve on the lower level.
Kimpton instructed Andrews to follow the long tree-lined graveled path to a series of wide steps leading up to a less than stellar entrance. The small portico wouldn’t protect much in a downpour. At the door, a butler greeted them. Kimpton handed over his card. “The Marquis of Brockway and the Earl of Kimpton to see the director.”
“Very good, sirs.” He ushered them to a large drawing room where a blazing inferno roared in the hearth. It did nothing to lessen the deep chill within. Brock doubted if anything could warm the room, short of the entire hospital being engulfed.
The door opened, admitting a portly fellow with a balding plate and a harrowing scream from within the bowels of the asylum.
“Another little fact I won’t share with Lorelei,” Kimpton murmured.
Brock didn’t blame him. If indeed Harlowe was housed at Tranquil Waters Sanctuary, just imagining the atrocities he’d suffered as a resident sent a shudder snaking up his spine. A year in such a place could harm the stoutest of constitutions.
“Gentlemen.” The man inclined his head, which reflected the hearth’s flickering flames. What little hair he sported sprouted in a variety of directions. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What with all the pandemonium in the last few days… I’m short a nurse, you see.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, my lords. My name is Carson. I’m the director here at Tranquil Waters Sanctuary. Might I offer you a drink?” Without awaiting an answer, he hurried over to a bar in the corner and poured out three tumblers of brandies and brought them over, indicating the chairs in front of the fire. “Please have a seat and tell me how I can be of service?”
They accepted their drinks, and Kimpton said, “We are interested in learning about a young woman found on Mersea. It’s said she was found in a ditch, strangled.”
The director’s Adam’s apple bobbed with his hard swallow. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his shiny plate, jowls shaking. “Sad state of affairs. Sad. Sad. Yes indeed.”
Brock settled back in his chair and stretched his legs out before him, ankles crossed. “You knew her, then?”
Carson stopped, his gaze darting from Kimpton to Brock like a frightened rabbit. “Yes. Evelyn. Evelyn Hill.”
“I see.” Kimpton took a leisurely swallow of his brandy. “Approximately how long did Miss Hill work at the, um, sanctuary?”
“Oh, three or four months, I believe. I shall have to check our records. ’Twas the oddest thing.”
Brock tossed back the rest of his brandy, watching the man closely. There was nothing threatening about him. He was one of those blustering underlings anxious to please anyone above his station. He’d seen it a million times over. “What was that, sir?”
“She willingly stepped in for our regular nurse, Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson was one of our longtime, more experienced nurses in charge of the, er… most dangerous residents. I worried, as Miss Hill was rather young. Too young for that particular wing. But when Mrs. Jackson was suddenly struck ill and no one else willing to step in, well, you can see as I had no choice but to allow the young woman… well, ’tis regrettable. Yes indeed. Regrettable.” He brought his glass up, his hand trembling so violently that the contents spilled over the edge. He tossed back the whole of his drink. “Such a lovely girl.” He trained his gaze on the fire, his words seeming undirected to anyone in particular. He blinked and glanced back up at Kimpton and Brock, his cheeks flushing a harsh red. “Forgive me, my lords. I-I forget myself.”
“Were you enamored with Miss, er, Hill?” Kimpton said.
The man’s face turned a deep violet shade. “I beg your pardon,” he sputtered out. “I’ve never met a more compassionate young woman. She did her utmost by our most dangerous resident.”
It wasn’t a denial.
Brock glanced at Kimpton, whose shoulders drew up tense, matching Brock’s insides. “What made this resident so… dangerous?” Brock kept his tone low and conversational, non-threatening but pointed.
The director’s startled demeanor registered guilt. “For one thing, he kept insisting, ludicrously of course, he was of noble descent—” He cleared his throat. “A member of upper society,” he finished weakly.
Brock smirked.
Visibly shaking, the director continued, “He kept insisting he’d been kidnapped. Well, imagine my shock. The man was rail thin. There were scars on his face. He turned violent, and I was forced in having him restrained.”
