Michael seemed shocked. “You think his references might be forged.”
“I don’t know any such thing. But I would rather be certain. I’ve seen similar tricks pulled in London.” Gage crossed his arms over his chest. “In the meantime, tell me how they alternate shifts. I take it you haven’t noticed a pattern. Whether one man is always on duty when Will slips into one of his episodes.”
“No. Donovan was on duty yesterday afternoon when it started, but Mac was just coming to relieve him.” Michael’s brow furrowed in concentration and then he shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you who was with him the last time it happened.”
“And their shifts?”
“Eight hours on, eight hours off. When William was first brought home they took twelve-hour shifts, but it became too much on the days when he was particularly difficult and refused to sleep. Eight hours was more manageable, and neither man wanted to switch back once Will settled.” Michael frowned. “I thought the shorter shifts would help them to better keep their tempers. I spent enough time with my brother after his release to understand how trying he could be, but I never dreamed . . . that one of these men would actually harm him.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I told Michael, even though I felt some of the same gut-burning betrayal that he must be feeling tenfold. “We don’t know for certain that either of them is at fault yet. And until we do, we can’t assume guilt.” I needed that reminder as much as he did.
“Kiera’s right,” Gage said. “Let’s work with just the facts.”
Michael nodded stiffly.
“Does anyone else help care for William? What happens on their days off?”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “One of our footmen, Lachlan, helps out when we need him to. Or I sit with my brother.”
“And this Lachlan?”
He shook his head. “He’s never been around when William had one of his episodes, except once in the very beginning. I would remember that.” His expression was wry. “Lachlan’s somewhat more timid than Mac and Donovan, and Will . . . notices it. On his better days, he likes to harass the lad.”
I was so surprised to hear that Will had the presence of mind to see even the tiniest sliver of humor in his situation, or at least enough to be teasing someone about it, that it startled a laugh out of me.
A smile curled the corner of Michael’s mouth. “I felt the same way the first time I realized my brother was badgering the lad on purpose.” His gaze turned distant and thoughtful. “When I confronted him about it, I think it was the first time I’d seen him smile since I’d brought him home.”
My chest tightened, and my smile stiffened into something far more bittersweet.
“We’ll need to interview Mac and Donovan,” Gage said, reminding us of the matter at hand. “Not only about this, but also to discover whether William has confided in either of them about his confinement. There’s still the issue of Dr. Sloane’s accusation to deal with, and whether he lied to discredit William.”
“And the missing girl,” I added, and then sighed. “But I’m afraid not much can be done about that until we visit Mr. Wallace again tomorrow.” And with four days—rather, five—having already passed since her disappearance, I was beginning to worry there wasn’t anything we could do at all, especially with Mr. Paxton’s interference. All of the urgency certainly seemed to have drained out of the situation, even for Mr. Wallace. I wondered whether that was because he secretly believed Mr. Paxton’s theory or because he had other reasons to suppose his daughter was beyond our assistance.
Michael nodded. “I’ll make it known to both Mac and Donovan that they’re to answer your questions, if you want to speak with them now. I’m not sure I want to be present.”
“It’s best if you’re not,” Gage answered his friend. Then he turned to me, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that whatever he said next would not be pleasant. I braced for it. “And if they can’t or won’t provide us with the information we seek, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a look at those drawings of Will’s in the attic.”
I dropped my gaze, not relishing such a task, not if they were anything like the sketches currently decorating Will’s walls or, perhaps worse, like the paintings he had made of the war.
Michael’s voice was stretched thin. “I understand.”
I tried to catch his eye, to offer him some reassurance, but he would not meet my gaze, and I had to wonder why. Were the drawings worse than we’d seen thus far? Or was he hiding something else from us? Something he didn’t want us to know about. I worried it might be the latter.
*