“More on that later, perhaps.”
“But—”
“What is your impression of our darling Italian countess, Mrs. Eames?”
Mrs. Eames? How on earth was she relevant?
“I . . . beg your pardon?”
He took my confusion in stride, smiling benevolently. “Just trust me, please, for I am steering us toward the answer you seek, yes? What did you make of Mrs. Eames?”
The woman had not crossed my thoughts in some time. After all, having a run-in with a living shadow and an accursed book rendered all other thoughts unimportant. But I scraped up my one memory of her, of serving tea and watching her nibble a biscuit and do her best social acrobatics to escape George Bremerton.
“She’s a widow,” I said shakily. “And she’s extraordinarily beautiful. She’s here for the spa. George Bremerton fell all over himself to escort her to the gardens. I think she mentioned sons.”
“All true.” He resumed drinking his tea, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Did you know, the female of the praying mantis species will often decapitate her counterpart just before or after mating?”
Now I really did blush. Never had a young man discussed anything so vulgar as mating rituals in my presence. But there had to be some purpose to the story; he did not strike me as the type to jettison all propriety at a moment’s notice.
Mrs. Eames. Right.
“Are you suggesting Mrs. Eames ate her dead husband?”
Mr. Morningside snorted over his tea. “Actually, no, but she did decapitate him. I believe she called it an agricultural incident on their vineyard. Funny how scythes can just”—he slashed the flat of his hand across his throat—“fall from the sky.”
I recoiled, nearly sloshing my tea everywhere. “That is a severe accusation. How do you know this?”
“Not all of my employees work on the premises, Miss Louisa. Maids, valets, urchins, even the occasional priest . . .”
He was being condescending again, and it made me feel very young, and made him by comparison seem so very old. But how many years could he have on me?
“One of her sons died, too,” Mr. Morningside said lightly. “His boat destined for Italy sank . . .” He paused and consulted a small, leather-bound diary on the desk. “. . . two days ago.”
“Good God,” I murmured. “You don’t think she’s responsible for that, too? An entire boat?”
“When there’s a fortune at stake, the greedy are capable of anything.” He finished his tea and cocked his head to the side. “The world would be well rid of these vermin, don’t you agree?”
I did, but it felt like I was stepping stupidly into a trap. “I suppose.”
“And so I’ve instructed Poppy to do away with the lovely Mrs. Eames on the morrow.”
Murder. Brazen, remorseless slaughter. Of a woman who killed her husband and child and stood to profit from it. Hadn’t I hated rich, haughty women like Mrs. Eames? Hadn’t I watched with disdain as ladies like her came to collect governesses from Pitney? Appraising us like farm animals. Choosing a human being like one would choose a pair of earrings or shoes? Why should I care that someone like her might be killed?
But it mattered that it was Poppy doing the deed. She was just a girl like me. A child. Could she really be a killer?
“Poppy . . . But she’s so . . . so . . .”
“Sweet?” Mr. Morningside nodded toward the brilliantly plumed parrot.
All that loveliness, and it conceals savagery.
“Are you always this quick to murder your guests? That’s monstrous!” I stood, ready to hurl myself out the door, out of the house, and into the cold. I couldn’t stand to be there another minute.
Mr. Morningside stood, too, but it didn’t quite seem like a threat. “Monstrous? Killing two innocent people is monstrous. I’m merely practical. Yes, I lured her. She may claim she came on her own terms to visit the spring, but that’s only half true. You said the book compelled you to touch it. No doubt you felt drawn to it, and no logic or reason or burst of foresight would keep you from doing so, correct?”
I nodded, trying frantically to piece it all together. This was madness. I didn’t belong here. It was time to leave.
“Ah. Well. That is how rats like Mrs. Eames feel, Louisa, only toward this place. They are drawn here. Compelled.” He leaned toward me and placed his palms on the desk, his smile crooked and cocksure. “They do not know why they come, but they do, and once they step through the doors, their fate is sealed. They come here because they are evil. Irredeemable. They come here to die.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Let me out of here. I want to leave. At once.” Panic rose hot and strangling in my throat. I backed toward the door, wrist throbbing to the erratic beat of my heart.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Mr. Morningside said with a sigh. He did not advance on me. “You cannot leave.”
So this encounter was not meant to mete out punishment, but to be a death sentence. I had to get out. If there was one skill I had developed in all my years, it was self-preservation at all costs.
I made my eyes wide and innocent, and pleaded with my hands in prayer position. “I’ll tell nobody of what you’re doing here. I just want to leave—”
“You misunderstand. It is not possible.” To his credit, he looked genuinely upset. “You touched the book, Louisa.”
That made me freeze in place. The book? What did that have to do with anything? How could a damned book stop me from leaving? Did it command coaches? Horses? The very road itself?
“Just slow down and let me explain.”
“No! You’re a murderer.”
“A murderer of murderers; the farmer who kills the lamed animal; the laborer who throws the match on the refuse heap. What’s the difference?” he said matter-of-factly. “Still, I cannot argue with you there.”
I took another big step toward the door and turned, preparing to bolt. “Nor do I wish to argue. I want only to leave this place and forget all about it.”
This time I did not wait for his response. The door to his study was already open and I shoved through it, feeling his eyes upon me, knowing it was just a matter of seconds until he caught up and restrained me. But he moved not, and I was at the bottom of the stairs, on the brink of freeing myself, when he spoke once more.
His voice boomed in my ears. “You should already be dead.”
My hand clutched the railing of the stairs, and I twisted, listening, staring back at him, afraid but unwilling to let him see it. There was nothing to say. I should be dead? Were those shadow monsters meant to kill me?