Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (31 page)

Not eager to discover that I was correct, I turned and hurried up the next section of stairs ahead of me, which continued to spiral around the outside of the building, so that the door to the chamber above opened at a spot on the south side of the castle rather than the east. This room was very similar, save for an irregular, two-foot hole in the stone on the west-facing wall. I did not fail to note the staircase continued to climb around over this shoddy section of masonry, and prayed the surrounding stones were still strong enough to support the walls and staircase.

I passed the next floor’s chamber without peeking inside and walked straight into a tightly wound spiral staircase that was better lit than the others, for it opened onto the roof. I shivered from the wind being directed down the shaft and picked up my pace, even though my legs protested and I was panting from the exertion. The stairs in older castles had certainly not been built for the convenience of ladies in long, heavy dresses. More than once, I had misjudged the height of a step and almost fallen forward onto my knees on the dust-shrouded stone.

I gasped for breath as I stepped out onto the battlements. The wind whipped furiously at my cloak and the skirts of my Prussian blue dress, swirling them around my legs, and tugged at the pins in my hair. I glanced cautiously to the left, seeing the crumbled section of the roof that had fallen in on the old nursery. My stomach pitched and I turned away, deciding it would be best to avoid even looking at that portion of the roof.

Ahead and to the right of me, Will still perched on the edge of the battlements. His back was to me and he had not even flicked a glance over his shoulder to indicate he knew that I was there. I stepped out onto the stone roof between us, saying a silent prayer that it would hold beneath my weight. It did. So I continued forward, taking each step with care so as not to alarm Will, in case he truly didn’t know I was behind him or I upset the fragile masonry.

As I approached a gap in the battlements, I could not withhold a tiny gasp. The view was magnificent. Ahead of us the Firth of Forth stretched out like a deep blue blanket, rippling and undulating in the blustery weather. Whitecaps formed farther out, crashing into the shores of Cramond Island and another island to the left toward the coast of Fife. I thought I could see yet another isle far, far in the distance, possibly even the infamous Inchkeith Island, but the fading light made it hazy and indistinct. The north and south shores stretched out like the arms of a lover opening for an embrace, the bright colors of their autumn forests now shrouded by encroaching shadows.

I looked to Will to see that he was now leaning more heavily on the merlon to his right, whether from weariness or inclination. The crenel he was seated on was wide enough for two people to sit side by side, but I did not dare attempt the maneuver, particularly in heavy skirts and a cloak. I was not certain I could have managed it in any case—the ledge was at the height of my bosom—or that I wished to perch myself so precariously. My nerves were already stretched taut at the sight of Will doing so. If he shifted forward but a few inches he would tumble to his death. I still wasn’t sure that wasn’t his ultimate goal, so I bridged the few remaining feet between us with extra caution.

When finally I stood next to him, I lifted my hands to rest them on the crenel and studied him out of the corner of my eye. There had still been no discernible reaction to my presence, but I knew he was aware of me. It was there in the weary manner he seemed to accept everything lately, in the way his breathing deepened, whether in relief or resignation.

In any case, I did not speak, waiting for him to do so first, as I had done that first night when I saw him hunched in a corner scribbling with a nub of charcoal, revealing so much about his inner turmoil with just that simple act. I wanted to shout at him, to pull him from the battlements, but I was afraid such a drastic action would only precipitate matters, so I willed myself to wait, trusting the roof would hold and Will would eventually respond to me.

It took a few minutes—several long, nerve-racking minutes—but, as expected, somehow my quiet, undemanding presence loosened his tongue.

“I thought I could do it this time,” he murmured in such a soul-weary voice that I felt the breath catch in my lungs. “I’ve wanted to so many times. It’s just . . . it’s all too much. I just want it to end.” He was begging now, the words wrung from so deep inside him that they were raw and ravaged.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes.

“But every time,
every time
I think I can end it, or just . . . let it end, when it comes right down to it . . . I can’t.” He began to weep; bitter tears etched trails down his cheeks. “I always change my mind. I always fight it. Despite how much it hurts to do so.” He turned to look at me. “Why? Why don’t I have the strength to end it? Is this my punishment?”

“No,” I rasped, unable to listen silently to his self-recrimination a moment longer. I grabbed hold of his hand, clasping it between my own as his image swam before me and answering tears spilled down my face. “No. None of this is your fault.”

“But it is,” he insisted.

I shook my head.

“It is,” he sobbed. “I killed her!”

My heart stuttered in my chest and grew cold. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t, and meanwhile he continued to speak.

“She was good and sweet and kind, and I killed her. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t want to. That I
begged
her not to make me.” He turned to look out at the firth, the wind playing with his hair, but his mind was far away in memory. “But she threatened to do it herself. She just couldn’t take it anymore. She said hell would be better.” He shook his head. “But I couldn’t let her do that. She didn’t deserve that fate. She was an angel. My angel.” His face tightened in revulsion. “And I killed her.”

Somewhere in the midst of his speech, I had become confused. Were we still talking about Mary Wallace, or . . . I suddenly realized he was talking about the girl from the drawing, the one Michael had showed Gage and me.

“By suffocating her?” I guessed.

He nodded, too lost in his memories to wonder how I had known such a thing. “Meg told me it would be just like she’d gone to sleep. That she knew she was going to die soon anyway. The seizures were getting worse from everything they’d done to her, and she wanted to die peacefully rather than in the grips of one of those fits. She promised she wouldn’t fight me, and she didn’t. But I could see the pain in her eyes. She’d lied about that. It wasn’t peaceful, and it wasn’t kind.”

I didn’t know what to say. His pain, his hatred of himself was so deep, I didn’t think there was anything I could do, anything I could say to even come close to touching it, to soothing it. Especially when I myself felt so conflicted about what he’d told me. Yes, he’d killed this Meg, but only after she begged him to. If he hadn’t acted as she wanted, she had threatened to commit suicide. Her threats must have been very real, because after listening to him, I didn’t for a second believe that he would have carried out her wishes if he hadn’t feared she was speaking the truth. Suicide placed her soul in jeopardy. It could be argued that the girl was insane, either before she entered the asylum or because of what had happened to her there, and thus the sin might be forgiven, but how could Will allow her to chance it? To face eternal damnation?

And if Meg’s seizures were getting worse, and she was certain she would die soon anyway, wasn’t Will protecting her from further pain, despite what she felt when he suffocated her? Whatever they were doing to her in there couldn’t have been tolerable, not if she was that desperate to end it.

It was difficult to absolve him completely of guilt, but it was also hard to condemn him. I couldn’t help but wonder what I would have done in similar circumstances. What if Will had been the one begging me to end it for him? I couldn’t with any certainty say I wouldn’t have done the same thing for him that he had done for Meg.

I frowned. That name kept nagging at me, as if I’d heard it recently. But where? I didn’t think I had met anyone named Meg, not in Cramond or on the Dalmay estate. Perhaps someone had mentioned a . . .

I jolted, suddenly recalling. Good heavens! Could it be true? I glanced up at Will, wondering if he knew the girl’s full name or if he’d only known her as Meg. I decided there was nothing to do but ask.

“Do you know, was Meg short for Margaret?”

Will replied without looking at me. “Yes.”

I swallowed. “
Lady
Margaret?”

That brought his head around, suddenly curious. “Yes.”

“Was she, by chance, the Duke of Montlake’s daughter?”

He nodded hesitantly.

I pressed a hand to my forehead, feeling sick. “Your sister told us about the Duke of Montlake’s daughter and how she’d gone missing several years ago,” I explained. “She also mentioned that she had the falling sickness.”

Something flickered in his eyes. I thought it was anger. “She told me she’d been abducted from her father’s estate. That Dr. Sloane had examined her a few months before, but her father had refused his suggested treatment. So Sloane had kidnapped her.” His mouth tightened into a thin line. “To be honest, I was actually relieved to hear the duke had not been so heartless as to consign his daughter to such a fate.”

Unlike his own father. But that knowledge was a raw wound that even Will seemed unwilling to touch. I wasn’t certain any of us would ever understand the old Lord Dalmay’s decision.

“I’d long ago learned to accept that Sloane was willing to do anything to further his desires, no matter how vile. He had no regard for us as people.” His voice was hollow and bitter.

I turned to study the sky behind us. Dark clouds had rolled in, blocking out the last rays of the setting sun, so that the sky to the west was as dark as that in the east. The remaining light was fading fast, and I knew we had little time before the prickling dots of rain I felt sporadically hit my face began in earnest. But I had one more question to ask him before I had to insist he climb down off the battlements and come with me. A question I’d wanted to ask from the first, but never had the courage to until now.

“Will,” I murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear that the wind had pulled free from its pins.

He must have heard the caution in my voice, for he turned to look at me in guarded expectation.

“What exactly happened to you in there? I’ve seen your drawings, but . . . what . . . was he doing to you?”

Will’s eyes went a little unfocused, and I removed my right hand, the same hand that he had crushed in his grasp only hours before, from holding his to touch his lower back. I would have hugged him, but his waist was level with my shoulders, making any embrace much too awkward to attempt.

When he finally answered it was with a hard shake of his head. “No. No, I won’t tell you about that.”

The horror and dread in his voice made my heart clench. Part of me wanted to argue, but it was clear that it was too awful for him to relive, so I did not press him. Especially when another part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Just because I had the courage to ask did not mean I had the courage to listen.

“But you should know, if you don’t already,” Will added, making me peer up at him through the gloom in curiosity. His next words were choked. “That Mary Wallace was taken up by Sloane as well.”

My heart beat faster in my chest. “How do you know for sure?”

He stared down at me in rebuke. “The same way you do. The bindings, the bruises, the marks left from bloodletting. It all begins the same.”

“Why the bloodletting?”

“To weaken us,” he replied, confirming my suspicions. “Then the routine varies.”

“Depending on what sort of brain abnormality he thinks you have?” I guessed.

He nodded, and then his face crumpled in pain. “I befriended her. She was so sweet and kind. And she understood me, like no one had before. And I brought her to his attention.” He shook his head. “I may as well have killed her, like I killed Meg.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have. It was my mistake to think I was free of him. He’s always watching. He always will be.” He looked down at me, his eyes bright with fear. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Especially not here.”

I blinked up at him. The idea that Dr. Sloane might come for me next sent a cold shiver down my spine. “He wouldn’t be interested in me,” I protested, trying to convince myself as much as him. “You had battle fatigue, and Lady Margaret had the falling sickness, and Miss Wallace second sight. He’s only concerned with oddities. And I’m not . . .”

I broke off. I had been stared at and whispered about since I was old enough to pay attention to such things, probably before. Our nursery maid, a woman whom I knew had loved me without question, had even called me her “odd little duck” with quiet affection. I just never seemed to respond the way I was supposed to, especially in social situations. I had different interests from other women, and I had the somewhat disturbing ability to lose myself in my art, to the extent that no one and nothing else existed. I had also learned, from painful experience, to blunt my emotions when needed, something my late husband had alternately praised and ridiculed me for, but that was more a skill of survival than a desire to be stoic. I still felt the pain and fear and despair; I’d simply learned not to react.

Perhaps I didn’t have a distinct affliction, like Will or Lady Margaret or Mary Wallace, but my mind certainly didn’t work like everyone else’s. I saw things differently, questioned them more. Would Dr. Sloane see enough peculiarity in me to make him want to add me to his collection of subjects?

I frowned. Was that why Donovan had been asking my maid questions about me? Had he been probing for information for his employer? I remembered how Gage had stiffened up when I mentioned it to him. Had he suspected something similar?

I pulled the flapping ends of my cloak tighter around me and glanced up at Will to find him watching me with a mixture of sympathy and affection.

“I see your point,” I told him. “And though I don’t concede that Sloane will be coming after me next, perhaps it would be a good idea to return to Dalmay House. I’m sure Mac is wondering . . .” my gaze swept the ground at the base of the castle “. . . what’s taking . . .” I leaned farther out to see closer to the foundation “. . . so long. Where’s Mac?”