The Burning (22 page)

He was in danger of going to Maitlands tonight, and he knew it.

He shouldn’t get involved in her life. She had recovered from her encounter with him. He had no further obligation. It did no good to dwell on her situation: friendless, or nearly, Van Helsing living under her very roof, the townspeople sure she was at best mad and at worst some supernatural evil. She wasn’t evil. He knew that in his soul. She wasn’t mad. But she was far from ordinary. He could sympathize
with the fact that she was an outsider who would never be accepted. If only seeing her would not endanger his mission. Would she remember what she had discovered of him?

But wasn’t she in danger, too? The townspeople of Cheddar Gorge wanted to believe she had done the murders that he owned.

Perhaps there
was
an obligation.

Or perhaps he should just be certain she did not recover her knowledge of him. He had nothing better to do for a few days.

Below him, a new guest arrived. Stephan, in his room on the first floor, heard the arrival quite clearly. He had expected the Bow Street runner to be a thug half a step away from criminality himself. But the voice of the man who presented himself to the landlord was, if not cultured, at least educated.

“My good man, I’d like to bespeak a room.”

“All our rooms are either taken or reserved, sir,” Mr. Watkins replied brusquely.

“Mr. Van Helsing said I might find accommodation here.”

“Oh. Oh, of course. You’re . . . you’re not from Bow Street, by any chance?”

“I am. My name is Steadly. Ernest Steadly.”

“Well, Mr. Steadly, you’re most welcome. Give him room, there, Jemmy, Peg.” The proprietor lowered his voice conspiratorially. “As a matter of fact, I’ll put you in a room next door to one of the prime suspects. Boots! Boots there. Take Mr. Steadly up to number five.”

Scurrying feet. “Guv’nor!” A reedy voice, no doubt the boots. “Turrible deed,” he muttered as he started up the stairs. Stephan heard his step coming closer, and the faint clink of keys. A second step sounded behind him. “You’ll want to take Sincai, then go get the witch girl up at Maitlands. Get confessions from them both, I expect. Probably in it together.”

Just what Stephan had feared. He could take care of himself. The girl could not.

“Will you want rooms for your associates?” The boy halted outside Stephan’s door.

“No.”

“Well, we’re pretty much the only place in the village that puts up travelers, aside from Mrs. O’Reilly, and she takes only two. I’m sure Mr. Watkins could accommodate you.”

“I am alone, sir. I have no associates.”

The steps froze. “Alone? How do you ’spect to take killers like the ones wot done that as folks saw at Bucklands Lodge?”

“I have my ways, boy.” The voice was quiet and sure of itself.

“The village could muster a militia fer you.” The steps continued. Then the voice lowered again to a whisper. “You want Mr. Watkins to gather the lads now?”

“No,” Steadly said calmly. “I shall interview Mr. Sincai and then look in at the lodge, if you can provide me with a guide.”

“A guide! Well, I ’spect Jemmy could take you.”

“I would appreciate it.” Stephan listened as the boots opened the door and showed Steadly in. “Perhaps you could ask Mr. Sincai if he is free to join me in the coffee room?”

Stephan opened his door and stepped into the hallway. “I’d be happy to join you, Mr. Steadly.” The boots scuttled past him, pressed against the farther wall. He looked for all the world as though he was about to make the sign against the evil eye. It was a sign Stephan knew well, though he hadn’t seen it in more than a century.

Steadly nodded, polite but watchful, and motioned to Stephan to precede him. He was a tall man, slightly past middle age, sinewy, with gray at the temples. He was dressed in a respectable coat if not a truly stylish one and his cravat was crisply starched if plainly tied. His eyes were a sharp gray Stephan could not say he liked in the present circumstances.

Stephan seated himself in the coffee room, one leg stretched out, exuding relaxation. Steadly stood, rather stiffly.

“What can I do for you, Steadly?”

“You may not credit it, but I am from—”

“Bow Street,” Stephan interrupted. “No doubt about those dreadful murders. I’ve half a mind not to take a property here if people are going to be killed in such a gruesome manner. Tell me, do you suspect an animal?” That was more speech than he had indulged in since he’d come to England; more speech than he had made in years. And he had no doubt the landlord was listening. He would think it odd. Fine. He wanted suspicion cast his way. Better his than hers.

“Hard to tell, yet, Mr. Sincai. I shall know better after I have seen the site of the murders. I would like to know where you were on the night of March the eleventh, however.”

“Me?” Stephan let himself sound incredulous. “You can hardly suspect that I had anything to do with these dreadful events!”

“I’m asking everyone, sir.”

Stephan appeared to gather his wits. “Well, let me think back. Tuesday. I was with Pillinger the estate agent searching for a house to let down near Wedmore. I’m sure the agent can vouch for that.” He wouldn’t. But that’s what Stephan wanted.

“All night?”

“Of course not. We saw the last property about ten. Then I rode back here.”

“No one saw you come back?”

Stephan shrugged. “Ask them. I did not speak to anyone, if that’s what you mean. The taproom was noisy. I went directly upstairs.”

“Word has it that you sleep in the daytime, sir.”

“Is that a crime?”

Steadly looked down for a moment, his smile tight. “No.
Of course not.” He looked up sharply. “It would be nice if there was an explanation.”

“I am sensitive to sunlight. An unmanly weakness, I know, but there you have it.”

“I have never heard of that.”

“Are you a medical man?” Stephan kept his voice soft.

“No.” Steadly frowned. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, then.”

Silence stretched between them as Steadly considered Stephan.

Stephan smiled and raised his brows. He was baiting Steadly and Steadly knew it. The better to create an underlying animosity. “Do you have other questions?”

Steadly cleared his throat. “No. Not at the moment. But I expect you to make yourself available for questioning at a future date. Do not plan on leaving Cheddar Gorge.”

“At your command,” Stephan murmured. If Steadly expected him to leave the taproom, he was disappointed. Stephan stayed rooted where he was, looking openly up at the runner until the man cleared his throat once more, turned on his heel and retreated.

Well, that would keep the runner busy for at least another day. When he found Stephan had lied to him, it would focus all suspicion on him, and away from Miss Van Helsing. But there was nothing the man could do. There were no witnesses, no evidence connecting Stephan to the horror at the lodge. And he had only a few more days to wait here, visible, until Kilkenny came.

He tightened inside. Then he would fulfill his purpose or die in the attempt.

He glanced out the window and saw that the sun was sinking low. It would set in half an hour. Van Helsing was back at Maitlands. The runner was certain proof. So, he was for Maitlands to make sure Van Helsing stayed downstairs. It was a small enough thing he could do to make up for the fact that
Miss Van Helsing had suffered trying to help him. He found he wanted to see her. Easy to explain. He wanted to know she was truly recovered. And what she knew. Nothing more.

Mrs. Simpson came up to carry away Ann’s tray, and recommended that she get some sleep. Ann acquiesced. But she wasn’t sleepy. Tired, true, but she had slept all afternoon and early evening and now a thrill of anticipation kept her wakeful. Would he come? What if he didn’t? What if she never saw him again? Her body seemed to quiver, somewhere deep inside, at the thought of him in the chair beside her bed.

She felt him more than saw him. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with energy. The scent of cinnamon, and more subtly, ambergris, came to her. His scent. She would never have realized it was ambergris before she touched him. She breathed out. She knew everything about him. Not that she remembered everything, still. But she would. She was sure of it.

“Hello,” she said softly. After a brief hesitation he stepped into the room.

He examined her face with a frown. “Are you well?”

She nodded. His lips looked like they would be soft. The shoulders under his coat were heavy with muscle. She bit her lip. What was she thinking?

“You look very pale.”

“The doctor bled me. That makes me pale, I expect.”

“He
bled
you?” He was at her side in three strides. He reached for her wrist and she snatched her hand back in panic. He stopped himself, swallowed. “Apologies. I forgot myself.” He clasped his hands behind his back.

Had he wanted to check her pulse? How . . .
like
him to be concerned for her. She wondered how many other people knew his generous impulses. Perhaps none. She took her
own wrist and felt for the pulse. “A little fluttery, but perfectly strong.” She raised her brows.

He let out a breath. “Bleeding! Quackery, pure quackery,” he muttered. “I shall have to have a talk with the good doctor.”

“Would . . . would you care to sit? You quite make one nervous, looming over one.”

“No, no. I can stay but a moment. It is late.” He stepped back, apparently so as not to loom. But that meant she could barely see his face in the shadows of the nursery. “Did your cousin come to see you today?” he asked.

“He sent up a note when he first arrived from London. But I was too tired to receive him.” Again the revulsion showered her.

“Don’t receive him,” Sincai ordered peremptorily.

She raised her brows. What right had he to order her? “My own cousin?”

His mouth went grim. “Not until your uncle recovers. You are not . . . safe with him.” The words seemed torn, as if even that elucidation of his motives was more than he was used to giving. And it was. What need did a man of his power have to explain himself? And . . . now she came to think of it, how could he know about the danger of her cousin?

She drew her brows together. “The days I was ill . . . did he come to visit then?”

“Yes.”

She almost . . . almost remembered.

“Don’t think of it. But don’t let him visit.”

“You are quite alarming me . . .”

“I . . . I didn’t mean . . . Sincai trailed off, then seemed to listen. “He’s having dinner. I’ll let you know if he is coming up. And I can prevent his visit.” Ann looked up at him. She knew exactly how he could prevent that. He could make her do anything he wanted her to do, as well. He had made women come to him often enough in his life. He had taken their blood and left them with an impression of a pleasant
dream. She searched his memory, her memory, for a time when he had forced a woman to have sex with him. He could do that. But he hadn’t. Not ever.

She smiled. She liked that. But then the smile evaporated. Why would a man like Sincai have to force a woman? Women would fall over themselves to draw his attention. He had experienced love in all its countless varieties. He was exciting. Why, his very presence filled the air with expectation, while she was a country girl of twenty-five years, a virgin who could never touch a man. The gulf between them seemed as wide as the river Axe when it spread itself across the plains below the Gorge at Wedmore. In some ways she wished she didn’t know about him. She let her eyes drift away. She thought she heard Sincai clear his throat, but he said nothing. The silence goaded her to say
something
. “Couldn’t you sit, only for a moment?” Her voice sounded small and uncertain in her own ears.

He cleared his throat, quite audibly this time, and sat on the edge of the chair. He took his hands from his knees and folded them in his lap then put them back on his knees. “You might wonder that I myself did not ask permission to visit. It is late and you are ill. I . . .” He trailed off. He wanted to ask her something, but couldn’t bring himself to it. He got up and paced the dim room. The air fairly crackled with his agitation.

She didn’t want him to go. The feeling washed over her unexpectedly. The gulf between them was real. Yet had they not exchanged their souls? She had got his at least. Telling him so might frighten him away from her. He was not a man who shared his secrets easily. And yet, if he did accept her friendship and then found out she had known about him all along, would he not hate her for dissembling and putting him through the farce of dissembling, as well? She took a breath. What she was about to do took all her courage. “I know why you come at night without asking leave.”

“You do?” In the dim light he looked aghast.

She nodded, serious. She wanted to touch his brow and smooth away the anxious frown. Was he only worried that he’d been found out? Maybe he was afraid that if she knew him she would despise him. But of course that wasn’t it. How could it be? She had no right to judge someone like him. He must know that.

Now how to explain that she knew about him without frightening him away? The explanation would expose her own secrets. Maybe vulnerability was the only way to win through. “I need to explain about the touching.” Suddenly her throat threatened to close. Could she tell him? There were only two people in the world who knew the whole. One dead, and one, God help him, soon to be so.

She looked down at her hands. Somehow they had twisted themselves in the covers. “I told you in the forest that I know things about people by touching them.” She looked up. “I touched you in the cave.”

“You tried to bandage my wounds.” He seemed puzzled over that. Did he not believe that someone would try to help him?

She took a breath. “I didn’t know your Companion could heal them then.”

He jerked up to standing, straight as a broadsword. “You know, then.” His eyes burned her. He looked dangerous and distressed all at once. The energy which always hovered around him cycled up another notch. She should never have said it right out like that. She should have approached it obliquely.