| |
Betsy was on her knees in one of the guest rooms, scrubbing the hearth. She put the brush down as Charlie entered, but only to take up the kindling to lay the fire. “I can’t stop to talk to ye, Charlie Not-A-Copper. We’ve a funeral to prepare for.”
“I’ve only one question for you, Betsy. Do you know where Henry Ormsby is?”
“Now, whyever would I know that?” Betsy fumbled the pieces of wood, collapsing the kindling pyramid.
“The police need to know, Betsy. Henry’s life may be at risk.”
She turned to face him. “You think Henry killed his father.”
“No, I don’t. And I mean it. I think Henry’s life is at risk.” Charlie didn’t repeat Gideon Alexander’s suspicion that Henry was mentally unstable and likely feeling desperate, knowing the police suspected him.
Betsy looked him in the eye and saw that he was in earnest. “My cousin, Duncan Grant, has hidden him in the stable. Duncan’s the gardener and stableman. He’s the only person who ever goes into the stable, so we knew Henry would be safe there.”
“I expect you have looked after your friend too, by taking him food and clothes, and telling him what is happening in the house.” Her downcast eyes confirmed his suspicions. “Don’t worry, Betsy, I won’t get you into trouble.”
Charlie took her downstairs with him, so she couldn’t run to the stable to warn Henry. He made her wait, while he telephoned the police station. Wallace and Kelly were out, so he left an urgent message that Henry Ormsby was hiding in the Ormsby stables, not across the other side of the city near Cargill’s fire-ravaged former castle.
Charlie warned Betsy to stay in the house, while he went to find Henry. As he reached the French doors onto the terrace, Agnes rushed in from the garden, her little face pinched with fear.
“Henry is asleep on the floor of Mummy’s workroom,” Agnes squeaked, “I went around to open the door, but there are hay bales outside. Someone has lit a fire. It wasn’t me, honest.”
Charlie had heard enough. “Fire,” he yelled at full volume, hoping the fire hadn’t had time to take hold in the wooden structure of the stables. “Stay inside, Agnes. Tell Mr Pugh. Tell everyone.”
Charlie pushed the French doors open, slamming them on their hinges. As he ran down the steps of the terrace, a tendril of smoke escaped from the entrance to the workroom lobby.
Duncan Grant was racing across the garden from the other direction. When Charlie reached the workroom entrance, the gardener had already stripped off his coat and was using it to beat out the flames, which had taken hold in bales of hay stacked in the lobby.
Charlie stripped off his own coat. Together, he and Grant beat the flames down. Inside the main house, a bell rang, creating an infernal din. He could hear shouts and running, dominated by Pugh’s commanding voice at full roar. “Stables on fire. Form a bucket brigade.”
After a panicked few minutes, it seemed as if he and Grant had succeeded in quelling the flames. But, as soon as they stopped beating, Charlie could see that the fire still smouldered deep within the dry hay, beyond the reach of their coats. With a jolt of fear, Charlie remembered the store of flammable chemicals on the opposite side of the lobby from where the hay was stacked. They didn’t have much time. If the flames took hold and spread across the lobby, it would soon be a bonfire worthy of Mr Fawkes and his gunpowder plot.
The fire was still concentrated in the front bales, but spreading. Charlie leaped across to the rear bales, stacked up against the workroom door. The door was locked and the keyhole was blocked. He tried to kick the door open, but the angle was wrong and the door far too solid. The heat from the resurgent flames seared through his trousers, forcing him to leap away.
“We could try to drag the bales outside,” Charlie shouted, over the steadily growing crackle of the fire.
“It’s too late,” Grant shouted back. “I need to get the two horses out of the stable.”
The gardener-stableman fled around the corner to the stable entrance. The fire was quickly taking hold in the dry hay, driving Charlie back. Behind him, Pugh yelled for him to stand aside. Charlie ducked as a bucketful of water sloshed past him. Behind Pugh, the terrified household staff passed buckets and basins and pots of water along a chain from a series of rainwater barrels around the side of the building.
Mrs Ormsby ran up, pushing past everyone, trying to enter the workroom. “Henry!” she yelled, but the heat beat her back. She stood in the doorway, mesmerised by the flames.
Pugh hauled her aside, pushing a baking bowl into her hand. “Help with the water,” he commanded.
Mrs Ormsby grabbed the bowl and joined the bucket brigade. Cecilia watched, horrified, from the safety of the terrace, holding Agnes in her arms. Richard Ormsby and Nelly Lawson were nowhere to be seen.
The hay bales were all alight now, the flames licking at the thick door to the workroom. Worse still, the fire was spreading across the other side of the lobby towards the flammables store. The noise was ferocious.
“Pugh,” Charlie yelled. “Get everyone clear if the fire reaches the flammables store.” He had to repeat it before the butler got the gist. Pugh’s eyes went wide, and he grabbed the incoming bucket with renewed vigour.
Charlie could see the bucket brigade was losing the battle with the fire. There had to be another way to get Henry out. He ran to the tree outside the workroom window and scrambled up into the branches. The flames had not yet penetrated the workroom, but the room was slowly filling with deadly smoke, which streamed in around the edges of the door.
Inside, he could see Henry on the floor, motionless, despite the chaos unfolding on the other side of the workroom door. He couldn’t tell if Henry was already dead, but he could see no signs of injury. Had he been wrong in thinking Henry innocent of his father’s death? Was this the final suicidal act of a guilty man? Or a second murder by a ruthless killer? Either way, burning to death was a terrible was to go.
The bars on the window were embedded deep within the frame. Charlie would need help to get in that way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Duncan Grant leading two terrified horses out of the stable and down the side of the main house to safety. He waved to get Grant’s attention, but the stableman was fully occupied keeping his charges from bolting.
Charlie yanked at the bars covering the window, cursing their rigid refusal to yield to his muscles, even when he planted his feet on the wall to gain maximum force. No matter how hard he heaved, the bars didn’t budge. What he needed was an implement to provide more leverage. There must be a spade or some sort of pry bar in the stable.
Charlie dropped down from the tree. As he ran along the path that led to the stable entrance, he remembered that the cupboard within the workroom had been formed from an old stall in the stable. Presumably the wall would be a standard interior wall, wooden framed and plastered. Much easier to break through than the window bars. And much safer, as the cupboard was on the other side of the workroom from the fire and the flammables store.
The inside of the stable was blissfully calm and cool, with only the faintest whiff of smoke. The horse stall that had been converted into the workroom cupboard was easy to spot. Charlie grabbed a mallet from a rack of tools and attacked the back end of the cupboard, smashing through the plaster with ease.
“Drop the mallet,” a voice said behind him. “Walk back to the stable entrance and lie on the ground with your face down.”
Charlie swung around, mallet at the ready. The black hole at the end of a revolver barrel pointed at him, unwavering.
“Put the mallet down. Now.”
Charlie dropped the mallet. He looked into the face of a murderer, expecting to see evil or insanity. Instead, he saw compassion. And apologetic determination. A flicker of hope ignited. Charlie might still be able to talk his way out of this situation, if he remained calm. Easier said than done, when standing a trigger-squeeze away from death. He walked backwards down the stable to the entrance, with his hands in the air.
Rapid footsteps crunched on the gravel drive behind him. He tensed, ready for an accomplice to attack. He heard the swish of fabric – a woman’s skirt.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the killer said. “Best you walk away now. I’d rather you not see what happens next.”
Grace stepped between Charlie and the gun. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, when you are holding a revolver on my sweetheart. You’re not going to shoot me, Thayne, so why don’t you put down the gun, and let us rescue whomever you are trying to kill in there. Your father was a medical man, who took an oath to save lives. He would not want this evil revenge.”
“My father can no longer save lives, because Ormsby destroyed him with a lie. I can’t let you interfere, although I would hate to have to shoot a woman of your undoubted skills. I intend to keep my vow to my family, that I will rid the world of every last drop of Ormsby blood. I was hoping to take over his fortune as well. God knows my family deserve it after what he did to them. But their deaths are my priority.”
Grace stayed calm, even as the revolver barrel remained three feet from her nose. “Don’t be a fool, Thayne. Edgar Ormsby did a terrible thing letting your father take the blame for his mistake, but his family had no part in it.”
“Grace, get out of the way,” Charlie begged. “Let me handle this.”
Grace ignored him and took a step towards the end of the revolver. “You won’t shoot me. It’s not in your nature.”
The revolver didn’t waver.
Charlie moved to go around her, desperate to get between her and the killer. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his father and Alistair sprinting towards them. He needed to distract the killer’s attention, right now. Charlie grabbed Grace roughly. “Gracie Lee, don’t you dare disobey me. You know what happened last time you did. Get out of the way.” He shoved her aside, hoping she had taken the hint.
Grace stumbled backwards over a bale of hay, screaming as her left hand hit the ground. “You’ve broken my wrist, you brute,” she cried, writhing on the floor, milking the drama. “Don’t just stand there, help me.”
The tip of the revolver waivered. Thomas Pyke jumped the killer from the rear, letting out a mighty roar as he jerked the revolver skyward. Charlie joined the attack at leg level. A shot rang out, showering them with sharp fragments of roof tiles and pigeon droppings. With the two angry Pykes squashing their captive, Alistair Stewart stepped forward and retrieved the gun.
Thomas pulled handcuffs from his coat and fixed one cuff to a wrist. “Threaten my son and his girl again and you’ll regret it.”
“You stay here, Pa,” Charlie ordered. “I’ve got to get into the workroom. Henry Ormsby is about to die in there.”
Thomas Pyke clipped the other cuff to Alistair. “You’re not going in alone, son.”
Charlie didn’t have time to argue. Together, he and his father ran back into the stable and broke through the wall into the cupboard behind the workroom. It took them mere seconds, with powerful strokes of the mallet and a nearby axe. But seconds were precious, with the fire raging on the other side of the building.
Tendrils of smoke gushed out to meet them. Charlie thrust his head through the hole and saw a body lying in the cupboard. It couldn’t be Henry, who was in the main workroom. Through streaming eyes, he recognised Richard Ormsby’s shoes.
Charlie and his father plunged in, grabbing a leg each and pulling Richard out. Both men were coughing. The victim was ominously still. The sickly-sweet smell of chloroform oozed from the rag tied around Richard’s nose and mouth. Charlie ripped it off.
“Take him out to the fresh air, Pa,” he ordered. “Grace will know what to do.” Charlie grabbed an empty feed sack and wrapped it around his nose and mouth, before taking a deep breath and disappearing back into the rear of the cupboard.
He burst through the cupboard door into the thicker smoke of the workroom. His lungs demanded air, but he couldn’t risk inhaling the smoke and whatever toxic chemicals lurked in the air. All he could do was crawl across the floor, feeling for a body in the middle of the room, trying not to breathe.
The only visible object was the main door to the workroom, glowing red around the edges as the fire ate away at it. Fortunately, its stout construction had survived so far, but it wouldn’t hold off the wrath of the fire for much longer. Across the lobby, the flames must surely be close to the flammables store. And when that happened, the ether and alcohol stored inside would ignite and turn him into charcoal.
All Charlie could see was a dense swirl of black and grey. His fingers touched a leg. He pulled at the body, drawing it to himself to get a better grip. Desperate for oxygen now, he took a gasp of air from low to the floor. Smoke rushed into his lungs, sending him into an uncontrollable spasm of coughing. He hoisted up the body, hoping it was the only one left in this hellhole.
Now all he had to do was find his way out. Charlie took a step, before realising he couldn’t see where the cupboard door was. Smoke swirled around in front of his eyes and filled his lungs, stealing his consciousness and turning the body in his arms to lead.
A muscular, Pyke-sized arm caught him around the waist and propelled him out the back route into the stables. Charlie ran blindly beside his father, knocking into the door frame and shelving, jostling bottles of herbs and potions.
As they emerged into the light, Charlie could hear screaming and an ominous roaring. Pugh shouting for everyone to run, in a parade-ground bellow that would have done a Sergeant-Major proud.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel at a run. Somebody grabbed Henry’s body from his arms. Thomas Pyke lifted Charlie as if he weighed no more than a goose-down pillow, then dashed to safety at the far end of the drive. Powerful hands ripped off the feed sack and held him in a tight embrace, while Charlie sucked in blissful fresh air.
A giant whoosh cut off all other sounds. The fire had reached the flammables store. Flames shot up through the walls and roof, creating a fireball of scorching heat.
Charlie watched in dazed horror as the inferno raced through the roof-space and enveloped the stables. He would have died in there if his father hadn’t rescued him. Grace had saved his life too, stepping in front of that revolver. Where was she?
The figures around him danced in front of his smoke-ravaged eyes. Alistair Stewart, still handcuffed to the instigator of this madness, stared at the blaze. Horror and despair battled for space on his face, turning to palpable relief when he swung around and saw Charlie.
Richard Ormsby was on the ground, moaning. Mrs Ormsby kneeled beside her stepson, cooling his exposed skin with water. Agnes was next to her mother, using her own tiny handkerchief to wash away the soot from her stepbrother’s face. Pugh and Finch ran up with a stretcher for Richard. Nelly Lawson hurried behind them, calling Richard’s name through sobs. Whether Richard was aware of her or not, he kept his face turned away. Mrs Ormsby rose with the stretcher, accompanying her stepson into the house, with Agnes holding fast to her hand. Lawson let a moment pass, but none of them turned back. She ran after them.
Betsy Dean and Duncan Grant raced up with a second stretcher, passing Charlie by. He turned to see them roll Henry Ormsby’s body onto it. Grace was beside Henry, on her knees, checking his vital signs and looking concerned, but not excessively so. Apparently, the Ormsby brothers would live.
As soon as Betsy and her cousin stretchered Henry away, Grace redirected her attention to Charlie. Instead of giving him the embrace he longer for, Grace ordered Thomas Pyke to hold his son still, while she plunged his singed fingers into cool water and prised open his eyes. “Charlie Pyke, what in heaven’s name were you thinking, running into a burning building? And you too, Sergeant Pyke.” Her voice cracked. She turned her face away and busied herself with checking him for injuries.
“Sorry, Grace,” Thomas said. “I would have stopped him, but he was too intent on issuing orders to listen to his old man.” Thomas glanced up at Alistair. “Didn’t you teach Charlie to obey his seniors, Alistair?”
Alistair shrugged, but wore the same proud smile as Charlie’s father. “What can I do, Thomas? One case as a private detective and he forgets everything he knows. I suppose we’ll have to forgive him, as he and Grace did solve the case and save two lives.”
“Only with the help of everyone in the Southern Investigations team,” Grace said, as she gently washed the soot from Charlie’s eyes.
“A grand start to our business venture,” Alistair said. “Although, next time, it would be nice to solve the case without almost killing our client. I assume the man chained to me is our murderer?”
Charlie looked to Grace to reply. After all, she was the one who figured out the final piece in the puzzle.
“He is,” Grace replied. “Let me introduce Gideon Alexander, previously known as Gideon Thayne. How did you know to come to our aid, Alistair?”
“Lily and Jasmine made a fingerprint match to the sample Charlie got this morning at the hospital,” Alistair replied.
Doctor Gideon Alexander stood beside Alistair Stewart with such calm and dignity, it looked as if they were nothing more than old friends passing the time of day. “How did you work it out, Grace? I’ve been so careful.”
“Unfortunately for you, Gideon, Doctor Beechworth recalled that doubts had been raised over Ormsby’s references when he started as a surgeon in Dunedin, due to a possible scandal in his past. And Doctor Harvey knew all the details, because his son was best friends with your father in Edinburgh. Harvey even went to your father’s wedding.” Grace pulled a thick piece of card out of a hidden pocket in her skirt.
Charlie read out the elegantly penned words: “To celebrate the marriage of Shelagh Mairi Alexander to Iain Gideon Thayne.”
“I’m deeply sorry for the tragedy your family suffered, Gideon,” Grace continued. “Doctor Harvey told me how Ormsby lied to save his position, condemning your father to disgrace in the process. You had every right to be angry. But murder?” She waved a hand to take in the burning building. “And this? Not even the unforgivable ordeal your family faced could justify such terrible revenge.”
“You’re wrong, Grace.” Gideon Alexander Thayne spoke with the strength and certainty of a man fighting for a just cause. “Ormsby not only killed my father, he took everything from our family, including my father’s good name. My mother never left the house again and died a broken woman. My sisters were forced into a life of hardship and servitude. My uncle sacrificed his savings to put me through medical school, far away in London, so I wouldn’t be tainted by my father’s disgrace. Ironically, I could not repay my uncle, because I was unable get a position without the right family connections.”
Gideon looked at Grace, almost tenderly, begging her understanding. “All the while, Ormsby’s family was living in luxury. His children had everything they could wish for. Not that they were the least bit grateful. Do you not think I was justified in taking back what ought to have been mine and my family’s? To give my own sisters a chance for a decent life? To repay my uncle? To buy a headstone for my parents’ graves? I would do it all again without hesitation. I may not have taken his fortune or wiped out his tainted bloodline, but I got my revenge on Ormsby.”
Cecilia appeared around the side of the stables. She broke into a stumbling run on seeing them. “Gideon, my darling. Did you hear that Henry and Richard were hurt in the fire? Thank the Lord you have come back again...” Her words petered out as she saw the handcuffs.
Gideon looked down on his supposed love with disgust. “They will live, more’s the pity. They will continue to be rich and pompous and ungrateful, when they deserve nothing but shame and penury.”
Cecilia shrunk from the searing contempt of Gideon’s words and burst into tears.
“Yes, that’s right Cecilia, wallow in tears as you always do when you do not get your way. Did you really think I wanted to marry you for anything other than your money?” Gideon spun away from Cecilia. “For heaven’s sake, take me away from these despicable people.”
Thomas Pyke and Alistair Stewart led him away. Gideon held his head high and never looked back. Cecilia ran into the house, weeping, not realising how close she had come to marrying a man who would certainly have murdered her too, once her fortune had been secured.
Charlie and Grace were left standing alone on the drive in a haze of smoke. Grace stared after Gideon, her face tense with shock and pain. He put his arm around her and led her away from the chaos into the tranquil seclusion of the trees beyond, where he crushed her to his chest. He held her close for a long time, until she stopped shaking. “My brilliant, courageous love. You were magnificent.”
Grace ran a hand over his face. It came away black. “As I recall, you were the one who had the courage to run into a burning building to save two lives.”
“I wouldn’t have been alive to rescue them if you hadn’t stepped in front of that revolver.” Charlie lifted her chin, leaving a sooty smudge. “Promise me you will never try to sacrifice yourself for me again. I’d rather die than live without you.”
“And how would I live without you, Charlie Pyke? Besides, Gideon would never have shot me. He’s a doctor. His vocation is to preserve life, Ormsby excepted.” Grace yelped as she attempted to put her arms around him. “I know you needed to deflect Gideon’s attention, but did you have to push me quite so hard?”
Charlie stepped back. “Are you hurt? I thought your fall was a convincing piece of acting.”
“It was mostly acting.” Grace held out her swollen wrist. “Only a minor sprain. You may take a moment to finish singing my praises, before you bandage it.”
Charlie sat her down on a tree stump and found a clean handkerchief to bind her wrist. “I hope to have a lifetime to sing your praises, Grace. I am a man of few words. I don’t want to wear them out all at once.”
“I don’t mind if you repeat yourself, Charlie. Ouch, not quite so tight. You’ll cut off my circulation.”
“Darling Grace. The worst of it is that I would have killed Alexander before I let him hurt you. Am I any better than him?”
Grace’s good arm slid around his torso. “Defending a loved one in the face of a deadly attack is one thing, Charlie. Planning and carrying out cold-blooded murder is quite another. Besides, you found a way to disable Gideon, rather than killing him, which proves your true character.” She rested her head against his chest, above the beat of his heart. “Forget Gideon. Tell me again how you can’t live without me.”
Charlie buried his lips in her hair. “As if you didn’t already know. Shall I take you home?”
“Home? That sounds wonderful. However, I suspect Detective Inspector Wallace will want us to make a statement. His eyebrows are going to dance a wild jig when he finds he’s missed all the action. And we should see if Richard Ormsby is recovering. He is your client after all.”
“We should,” Charlie agreed, but he didn’t want to let her go just yet. “We don’t want Richard to forget he owes us an enormous fee.”
Grace didn’t move either. “After that, I really must go home and have a fitting for my bridesmaid’s gown. I need to finish my essay on the anatomy of the heart too. And we mustn’t forget to practice our dancing for the wedding.”
“Is it always going to be like this, Grace?”
She reached up to kiss him. “I certainly hope so, my love. Although I have to admit that I’d prefer fewer murders and more dancing. And kissing, definitely more kissing.”
Charlie smiled down at her. “I can’t do much about your uncanny knack for uncovering murders, Grace, but I can promise you as much dancing and kissing as we can fit into our busy schedules. Indeed, I do believe I can spare a few minutes right now.”