Night had fallen, and John was jotting down a few notes for the following morning when he heard one of his sergeants call out in concern. He frowned and looked out his office window to see the officer approaching a woman who held a blood-soaked cloth to her head. Her red hair gave him pause, and his heart thumped. Surely not . . .
She exchanged a few words with the sergeant when he reached her side, and he looked toward John’s office and nodded.
The woman continued across the room, and with sickening clarity, John realized it was Charlotte. Her hair was mussed, long auburn curls hanging free of their usual tidy coiffure, and bright spots of red dotted her shoulder and the bodice of her jacket.
His heart pounded in alarm as he made his way to the door and yanked it open. “Charlotte!” As he approached her, he told the sergeant, “Bring a pitcher of water and the medical chest from the locker room.”
The sergeant nodded, wide-eyed, and hurried away. Voices sounded in the stairwell signaling the arrival of officers and staff working the night shift. John wrapped an arm around Charlotte and urged her into his office. He pulled out a chair, and as she sank into it, he closed the blinds to preserve her privacy.
“What happened? Do you need a doctor?” he asked, pulling another chair close and gently cradling the side of her head. “Was it an accident? Were you run down in the street?”
She made eye contact with him, and the size of her pupils gave him pause. Wincing, she removed her handkerchief from the wound, exposing a number of cuts and scratches from temple to chin. A large bruise had formed on her temple and was spreading to her forehead, and blood seeped from a deep abrasion.
John swallowed and withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, gently touching it to the oozing wound. “What happened?” he whispered.
Tears slid down Charlotte’s face. Her cheek was swelling, and he imagined her entire head must hurt like the dickens.
She sniffed and placed her hand atop his, and he moved to let her hold the cloth. She winced again, and he noted the state of her hand, which was as bruised and swollen as her face. He placed his fingertip at the cuff of her jacket sleeve and pulled it back to reveal discoloration extending down her arm.
“I was attacked,” she finally said, then cleared her throat. “I am very angry.”
“Who did this?” He felt his temperature rise with a surge of anger. “A patient?”
“No.” She began shaking her head but clearly thought better of it with a wince and a quiet exhalation between pursed lips.
A knock sounded at the door, and John retrieved the medical kit and water from the sergeant. “Stay close, if you please,” he told the young man, who nodded. He quietly closed the door and set the medical box on the table near Charlotte’s elbow. Retrieving a clean cloth, he dipped it in water and wrung it out, forcing himself to keep from peppering her with questions.
After a few moments, she finally began speaking, explaining everything that she could remember about the last hour.
He cleaned the wound as she spoke through tears, which seemed to be more a source of frustration than the attack itself.
“Charlotte, it is not a weakness to cry, you know.” He met her eyes, worried to see them glaze over as though her vision was fuzzy. “I believe you should see a doctor,” he told her, holding a fresh, damp cloth against her head.
“He will tell me I have a head injury,” she mumbled. “Which I already know. I knew it as it was happening. He will also tell me to drink plenty of tea and get plenty of rest.”
“You may require stitching.”
She focused on him with some effort. “I’d hazard a guess that it’s an open abrasion, so there really isn’t much to stitch.” She sighed quietly. “The bleeding will slow—let me see the cloth.”
He moved it away from her head, and she studied it.
“It’s already slowed.” She smiled weakly. “Your treatment is as good as anything I’d offer my patients. Have you any clean, dry bandages?”
He retrieved a long, white strip of cloth from the medical kit and folded it on itself, then placed it over the worst of the wound that still seeped blood.
“Just tie it around my head, for now,” she said, motioning a circle with her left hand.
He followed her instructions and then leaned forward, carefully holding her hands. “Tell me everything you remember about the attacker.”
“He was taller than I am, by several inches, I would guess.” She closed her eyes.
“Did you see anything—clothing, gloves?”
“I saw his hand on my wrist as he held it against the wall.” She swallowed. “He was wearing gloves.”
“Did you smell anything?”
“Musty, as though his coat had been in storage somewhere damp.” She blinked, meeting John’s eyes. “His voice was low, but he sounded like an American southerner. A slight accent to his words.”
“Did he admit to being an American?”
She frowned. “Implied more than admitted.”
He rose and retrieved a paper and pen from his desk. Sitting down with her again, he recorded her recollections. A picture formed in his head, but it lacked too many pieces to be complete. He suspected it all hinged on her father.
“Did anyone else know about the things your father said in his letter to you?”
“I don’t think so, but he admitted he might have put me in danger. Whomever he’d been pestering for ‘justice’ for my mother must assume I am here to pick up the cause.” She paused. “That is what I find confusing. I’ve not spoken of it to anyone except to you, my cousins, and Michael and Nathan at the funeral. I’ve barely even broached the subject of my mother’s death with Aunt Sally.”
He frowned. “I suppose someone may have overheard the conversation we had after the funeral. It isn’t as though the French doors separating the parlor from the study provided a proper sound barrier.” John made a note to question Charlotte’s brothers about the identities of the guests at the funeral. “I’ve been thinking I could make time to revisit her last days here in Town. That might provide a clue as to whose cage your father was rattling these recent months. I do wish we knew with whom your parents socialized.”
Charlotte’s half smile seemed sad. “I believe I have an idea of who that might have been. I found some things in my mother’s trunk that she’d been keeping secret. A journal and some letters.” She bit her lip. “I do not want you to think ill of her—indeed, I do not know what to make of it. I cannot bear the thought of her reputation being tarnished.” She lifted her chin.
He cradled her uninjured cheek. “I would never think ill of the woman who gave birth to you.” The sight of her, battered and bruised, twisted something in his heart. Underlying the tumble of emotions, cold anger had taken root. “I am going to find the man who did this to you, and if I am feeling generous, I’ll allow him to live to see his day before a judge.”
She smiled, and he saw a shade of her regular self. “You are not judge, jury, and executioner, Director Ellis.”
“Oh, I do not speak of myself as an officer of the law when I say I am going to find the man.” He smiled at her and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
“Perhaps you should allow someone else to investigate.”
“Now where would be the satisfaction in that? Come. Let us get you home.”
“I can manage,” she said, waving a hand in his direction and then wincing, holding her injured wrist with her other hand.
He shot a look at her that he usually reserved for his subordinates. “You are not going anywhere alone until this matter is settled. Is there a room available at Hampton House?”
She wrinkled her brow. “Yes, but who do you suggest should move in?”
“Me.”