What Darkness Brings

Chapter 24



P

aul Gibson sat with his hands wrapped around a frothy tankard of ale and his head tipped back against the old-fashioned settle of his favorite pub on Tower Hill. His eyes were sunken and dark with exhaustion, his cheeks covered by a day’s growth of beard. Seated across from him, Sebastian took a sip of his own ale and said, “You look like hell.”

The surgeon gave a hoarse chuckle. “Sure then, but I must be getting old. Time was, I could spend all night fighting to save some poor lad’s life and then turn out to play a fine game of cricket early the next morning. Now I deliver a contrary babe in the wee hours and find I’ve a hard time crawling out of bed before Evensong.”

“And how did your contrary babe fare?”

“Mother and child are doing just grand, thank you.” Gibson’s eyes focused on Sebastian’s face. “You don’t exactly look too chipper there yourself, you know.”

Sebastian grunted. “The more I find out about Daniel Eisler, the more of a tangled mess events surrounding his murder appear to be.” He told Gibson of his previous night’s visit to the ancient house in Fountain Lane, of the young man who died in his arms, and of his interesting conversation with the lapidary, Francillon.

“Have you spoken to this nephew, Perlman?” asked Gibson.

Sebastian shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to drive out to see Annie again first. I take it you’ve finished Wilkinson’s autopsy?”

“I have.”

“Anything?”

Gibson shook his head. “I’ve listed the likely cause of death as Walcheren fever.”

Sebastian hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it ease out in a long, forceful exhalation. “Annie will be glad to hear that.”

“Think she’ll believe it?”

Sebastian met his friend’s troubled gaze. “Are you saying it isn’t true?”

“It could be. I did say ‘likely.’ The truth is, I simply don’t know for certain.” He took another deep draft of ale. “It must have been a living hell for a man like Wilkinson, to find himself reduced to a weak invalid.”

“Yet he told me recently he thought he was getting better.”

Gibson met Sebastian’s gaze and held it. “He lied.”



Leaving Tower Hill, Sebastian drove down to Kensington, where he found Annie Wilkinson seated on a bench in the small walled garden of the square near her lodgings, her gaze resting thoughtfully on Emma, who was sailing a small red boat in a puddle left by the rain. The day was misty and cool, but both mother and child were wrapped up warmly, and Sebastian thought he could understand the need that had driven them here, away from the memories that surely haunted their small rooms down the street.

“Devlin,” said Annie, rising quickly to her feet when she saw him. “Have you heard anything?”

“I’ve just spoken to Gibson. He says he’ll be reporting to the coroner that Rhys died of Walcheren fever.”

She pressed the fingers of one hand to her lips. “Thank God.”

They turned to walk together along the path, with Emma skipping happily ahead of them, her little wooden boat clutched in one fist. He said, “Annie, you told me Rhys went for a walk that night at around eight or nine. Do you know why?”

“He did sometimes, right before bed.” She looked over at him, her soft gray eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Had he seemed unusually troubled by anything that day?”

She drew up short, her head jerking back, her features tightening. “If he had, do you think I would tell anyone?”

“Annie,” he said gently. “I’m on your side. I just want to make certain we’re not missing anything.”

She brushed a soft tendril of hair off her forehead with a shaky hand. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated a moment, as if considering his question, then said, “Rhys hadn’t been himself for some time now. It can’t be easy, watching your health crumble, finding yourself unable to do even the simplest things. But he seemed no different Sunday than he had the day or the week before.”

“Had he any enemies that you know of?”

“Rhys? Good heavens, no. You knew him. He could sometimes be quick to judge, but he was never the kind of man who collects enemies. What are you suggesting? Surely you don’t think someone could have . . . that someone might have murdered him?”

“I don’t think it, no. But I wanted to be certain.”

They paused again as Emma squatted down to launch her boat in a new, larger puddle that ran along the edge of the path.

Watching her, Annie said quietly, “She remembers Rhys now, but she won’t for long. Soon he’ll just be someone she hears her mother talking about, someone no more real to her than the tortoise and hare in that book of fables you gave her.”

“She might remember him—or at least the warm glow of his love for her, even if it’s only because she grows up hearing you speak of it.”

“But she’ll never actually know him, just as he’ll never have the joy of watching her grow up into the woman she will become. And when I think of it, it’s almost more than I can bear.”

He wanted to say, Then don’t think about it. Dwelling on it now will only twist the pain of his death that much deeper. But he kept the thought to himself because he knew the truth was that no newly bereaved woman could help thinking these things.

As if echoing his thoughts, she said, “How dreadfully maudlin and female I must sound.”

“You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known, Annie. It’s all right to give yourself time to grieve.”

She shook her head, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “You know what one of the worst parts of all this is? I find myself thinking that in some ways I lost Rhys—the Rhys I fell in love with—three years ago, when he sailed for that damned, diseased-ridden island. He was never the same afterward. Only, then I feel so small and selfish and contemptible that I can’t stand myself.”

“Annie, I understand.”

She pulled a face that reminded him so much of the girl she’d once been that he found himself smiling. “Listen to me,” she said. “More maudlin pap. And I haven’t even thanked you for coming all the way out here again to see me.”

“I’ll come again tomorrow, if I may. Perhaps next time Emma will let me read her a story.”

“I think she’d like that.”

He was aware of mother and child watching him as he let himself out of the garden and climbed up to his curricle’s high seat. But when he looked back, it was to see Annie hunkering down beside her daughter, the hem of her black mourning gown trailing unheeded in the puddle as she gave the small red boat a powerful push that sent it skimming across the water before an ever-expanding wake.