Helen turned away, another realisation buffeting her like a physical blow. All she could see in her mind was that pale rusty name in Benchley’s journal: I Pike. Not Ignatious Pike, as she had assumed, but Isabella Pike. The woman standing before her had killed Sir Dennis Calloway, the Reclaimer that her husband had served. It all made terrible sense: why Pike hated Carlston and was so desperate to find the journal. Sir Dennis had asked Carlston for help to reclaim a madwoman and he had refused. In fact, Carlston had told Sir Dennis to put the woman out of her misery.
Helen pressed her hand against her forehead, as if she could slow the rush of cause and effect. In Pike’s eyes, Carlston had refused to save his beloved wife and by doing so had caused the death of Sir Dennis and the loss of his Terrene power. He had been forced to seek Benchley’s help and been placed in a madman’s debt. A madman who had recorded the affair in his journal.
Did Mrs Pike know?
She whirled around to the woman again. ‘Tell me, do you remember a gentleman by the name of Sir Dennis Calloway?’
Isabella Pike frowned in bewilderment. ‘Of course. He was an acquaintance of my husband. A government man as well. He died tragically, I believe.’
‘Yes, he did,’ Helen said. There was no sign of dissembling in the woman’s exhausted face. ‘Mrs Pike, forgive the personal nature of this next question, but do you suffer from times when you have no recollection of events?’
Mrs Pike ran her tongue over her cracked lips. ‘I do. In fact, I have for many years. They cause my dear husband much anxiety. He is always searching for a cure. But how would you know that, sir? Are you a physician?’
Poor woman. She did not know that in those missing hours she was a violent, murderous creature. Helen could almost pity Pike too: caught between his love for his offspring wife and his duty to the Dark Days Club. For years, living in a perpetual state of agony; knowing that discovery would mean the destruction of Isabella and his own ruin.
Even so, his actions had brought them all to this sorry state.
‘I am also with the government, Mrs Pike. Can you tell me the whereabouts of your husband?’
‘He is gone to London, Mr Amberley.’
‘When did he leave? Is he with Mr Stokes? What prompted his departure?’
She drew back a little at the barrage of questions. ‘I am not sure I wish to be interrogated in such a manner.’
The Duke smiled. ‘Be easy, madam. We are friends of your husband. I can assure you the information is of the utmost importance.’
She pressed her lips together, the quandary decided with a small sigh. ‘He received a note just after midnight and was gone almost immediately. I am not certain, but I think he intended to collect Mr Stokes on his way.’
Perhaps it was a coincidence that Pike had left hurriedly for London, but Helen doubted it. She would wager that someone had informed him of Carlston’s departure, and he and Stokes were following with violent intent. But who could have sent the information?
‘Do you have the note?’ Helen asked as the Duke crossed the room to stand by her side.
‘No, I am afraid not. My husband burned it, as he does all such correspondence.’
‘Unfortunate,’ the Duke said. He glanced at Helen: Time to go? She nodded.
‘Thank you, Mrs Pike,’ he said. ‘We will show ourselves out.’
‘My husband is not in any danger, is he, Your Grace?’ she asked.
The Duke smiled. ‘Of course not. You have my word upon it.’
Mrs Pike nodded; the word of a Duke must be the truth. Even Helen had to admit that, for a second, she almost believed it too.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Helen braced her booted foot against the front dash of the Duke’s racing curricle and leaned into its shift as they rounded a curve in the moonlit road to London. She tightened her left hand on the edge of the curricle’s folded-back hood, her right hand clamping down harder upon the top of her hat. It was in constant danger of being snatched off her head by the wind created by the speed the Duke was coaxing from his team. He’d had the foresight to remove his own hat and jam it in the footwell between them. He had obviously driven in such a breakneck manner before.
She had to admire his skill. He had both feet braced and the reins wrapped around his gloved hands, the jut of his long jaw showing the immense control it took to handle the four chestnuts in their headlong gallop. The heavy drum of hooves, grind of wheels, jangle of the harness, and the constant jolt and jar of the curricle on the poorly dressed road made conversation almost impossible. Not that Helen sought conversation; she did not want to disturb the Duke’s fierce concentration. Besides, she had more than enough to think about over the remaining miles to London.
They had already passed Lady Margaret’s coach near Albourne Green. Mr Hammond had been on the box with the driver, leaning forward as if the angle of his body could somehow quicken their pace. He had raised his hand as they passed, urging the driver to whip up the horses, but the Duke’s team had quickly left them behind.
Two small flickering wide-set glows appeared in the gloom ahead, the cold moonlight sliding across polished silver fittings. Another carriage. They had already passed three other vehicles since the turnpike at Hickstead. The last had been an elegant town coach on a blind corner, their two equipages almost scraping sides. The Duke had barely acknowledged the close call, merely uttering a low curse, then returning to their thundering progress. Helen, however, had peered back through the billowing rise of dust behind them. The heavier coach had pulled over and the driver was standing up on the box, his outraged shouts lost in the road noise.
‘Warninglid turnpike coming up!’ the Duke yelled, although he did not take his eyes from the road. ‘This team will last till Crawley. We’ll change there.’
The oncoming carriage must have seen their carriage lamps for it was slowly veering to the right. By the silver fittings and large silhouette it was another town coach — there were quite an unusual number on the road. Helen pressed herself back into the seat as they careered towards it. This part of the road, at least, was straight and wide.
A milestone flashed by: thirty-six miles to London. Still so far to go.
The tollkeeper at Hickstead had reported that, yes, Lord Carlston had passed and in a mighty hurry, but he had not seen anyone who resembled her description of Pike or Stokes. Presumably they had taken the Cuckfield road.
The driver of the oncoming coach had slowed his team to a walk, taking no chances. A feathered head poked out of the window to see what had happened. Helen saw an instant of a woman’s astonished face and then they were past.
The keeper of the Warninglid turnpike told the same story as his counterpart at Hickstead. ‘Aye, Lord Carlston’s been through, sir,’ he said, squinting up at Helen’s question. ‘Bit less than an hour back. Couldna missed ’im. His man — huge blackamoor with some kind of heathen drawings on his face — kept sayin’ his name.’
Quinn, making sure anyone coming after would know they had been through.
‘How much less than an hour?’ Helen demanded.
He sniffed, considering the march of time. ‘Not much less.’
‘What about two other men?’ Helen asked as she handed down the toll fee. ‘Both tall and thin. One with blond curly hair.’