Unraveled (12 page)

But he only took her elbow and conducted her to the other side of the road.

“I don’t like my Christian name,” he said as they crossed to the other side. “I thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to contend with it on a regular basis.”

“It can’t be that awful.”

The path they were on dipped closer to the Avon. The water rushed through the channel, swirling in greenish-white rapids.

“Yes, it can.” He took her elbow and guided her to the inside of the path. The gesture seemed almost sweet—as if she were a lady, and he a gentleman, protecting her from being splashed by puddles. He didn’t even seem to have noticed that he’d done it.

“I knew a man named Defatigus once,” she supplied. “He took the stage name of Robert Johns. He wasn’t a pleasant fellow. Your name can’t be much worse. I doubt you have any reason to mope about it.”

He sighed. “You’re indefatigable, did you know that? It’s Smite.”

“Smite? Your father named you Smite?”

“No. My mother named me. Also, she didn’t name me ‘Smite.’ That’s a short version of my real name, which is, ‘The Lord said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every living thing, as I have done.’”

She stared at him.

“It’s a verse from the Bible. Genesis. After Noah’s flood, when God is promising that he’ll never again punish all humankind by drowning them.” He huffed, and waved a hand at her. “Stop looking at me that way. My mother wasn’t well, and my father wasn’t present. I trust you won’t spread that about.”

“Your mother named you after the rainbow?”

He winced. Around the corner, she could see the cold stones of New Gaol rising up.

“Oh, that’s sweet. It makes me think of doves and olive branches and peace. I can’t see why you don’t use the name.”

“For the love of all that is holy.” His words would have been harsh, but his cheek twitched, ruining the delivery.

“I suspect,” Miranda said, “that it has been a long time since anybody dared tease you.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t tell her to stop. A few more steps. They reached the dripping front gate of the gaol. He stopped just outside the entrance. “Miranda Darling,” he said in repressive tones that would brook no argument.

So why was it that she heard “Miranda, darling,” instead? Maybe he paused for emphasis. Maybe he paused to indicate a comma. Never had one little punctuation mark mattered so much.

“Yes?” she answered breathlessly.

“We’re looking for the records of George Patten, due to be released three days before. He was committed the twelfth of August. Yes?”

Ah. That had definitely
not
been a comma, then. “I told you all that?”

“No. You mentioned his name was George Patten. The rest I determined from our records, and interpolated as to the release date.”

She swallowed. The conversation they’d just shared had verged on the intimate—she had thought. But perhaps he’d not felt the same.

He closed his umbrella. A shower of droplets spun out from it, and the warm cocoon of heat that had enveloped her disappeared. No sun was visible, and the rain had robbed the sky of most of the light. He rapped once on the wooden door, turning from her. The door swung open; he leaned forward and murmured something to the man behind it.

The fellow narrowed his eyes, casting Miranda a sullen glower. Still, he stepped aside and let them through. The heavy door closed behind them. It had seemed dark outside, with the rain clouds hiding the sun. But when the door shut, all the light seemed to vanish. Only a trickle of fitful illumination fell from the gaoler’s lamp—not enough to light the way even ten feet in the damp corridor where they stood.

“Is there not more light than this?” Turner asked.

“No.” The gaoler adjusted the hood on his lamp to demonstrate.

“I see.”

Likely he couldn’t see much. But no doubt he could smell. The gaol smelled of old things—sour sweat, years of mold that had never been scrubbed away, buckets of waste left to sit for weeks. It made her faintly ill.

Turner’s nose twitched, but he showed no other sign of distress.

“Well?” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

The records were in a dank room off the main hall. They were brought there by one of the gaolers, who stood in the corner. Turner ignored the man and took a dingy book from a shelf. “This,” he said to Miranda, “is the record of arrivals and departures. If anything happened to your friend, it’ll be listed here.”

He opened the book and set it on the table. Miranda peered over his shoulder. He turned the pages, scanning them so quickly she wondered if he was even looking at the words.

“Hmm,” he said, after he’d flipped through ten pages. “This is his arrival record.” He tapped it. “I didn’t see any record of his release. Or of a transfer. Curious.” He didn’t mention the possibility that he might have missed it.

“Is that bad?” Miranda asked.

He turned and plucked a more battered volume off the shelves. “The roll call,” he explained without answering her question. He flipped through a handful of pages and then stopped. “He was here five days ago. He wasn’t the day after.”

“People don’t just vanish into thin air.”

“No.” Turner frowned. “They do not. Maybe he escaped.”

Miranda shook her head. “Not George. Why become a fugitive the day before he was to be set free? I find that unlikely.”

He met her eyes. “I do, too. The most probable answer is that there has been an error. He was moved, or he was released, and it simply wasn’t recorded. These things happen.”

Miranda wasn’t so sure. Accounting errors did happen. But if this was a simple failure to record, where was George?

Turner crossed to the gaoler, sketched out the situation in a few words. The man listened, and then shrugged.

“Sometimes,” the gaoler said, “they disappear each other down there. Takes a while to notice it.”

Miranda swallowed. But Turner simply nodded, as if such casual mention of murder meant nothing to him.

The gaoler continued with an indifferent shrug. “Only way to find out is to ask.”

“Ah.” Turner didn’t move. He stood in the foul-smelling murk for a moment, staring straight ahead of him. “Of whom should I make these inquiries?”

“The prisoners,” the gaoler said. “Who else?”

Turner had set his hat to the side of the book when he entered. He picked it up now and turned it over in his hands. “Is there some kind of an interview room up here? How does one go about having prisoners brought up?”

“Interview room? Brought up? What do you think this is?” The gaoler laughed. “No, you can talk to them right where they are. Don’t worry; they’re shackled. They’ll be at the water wheel now, the ones this fellow would have been with. I’ll take you down.”

“We need to go down there,” he repeated. If Miranda hadn’t known better, she’d have thought Turner uneasy. His voice sounded sure. Something else in his face gave her that impression, but she couldn’t have identified it. A trick of shadow, no doubt.

The gaoler shrugged again.

Turner set the hat down on the table, looked at Miranda once and then shook his head—a short, fast shake, as if he were shaking off raindrops. “Take us, then.”

The gaoler led them back into the main hall, around a bend, and down a cramped staircase.

If it had been dim above, it was beyond black below. The darkness seemed to eat at the faint illumination from the lantern. Miranda could scarcely see the stone floor, strewn with straw; some feet away, she could make out the dim shape of thick iron bars. The scent of sewage grew heavier, almost overwhelming. Miranda slid a handkerchief in front of her nose, but it scarcely had any effect on the smell.

Somewhere in front of them, she heard the splash of water.

Turner stopped. “What is that? That noise.”

“The water wheel. The prisoners that are here for hard labor, of course, need to—”

Water splashed again, this time in a louder rush.

“Never mind,” Turner muttered beside her. “Not worth it.” He turned in his tracks and started back up the stairs. Miranda stared at his retreating form. She couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t leaving. He couldn’t be leaving.

She scampered after him. He mounted the steps so swiftly, she was out of breath by the time she caught him halfway up. “Wait. We haven’t talked to anyone. Just a few people. A few minutes. Turner.”

He said nothing; just turned into the hall.

“Is it the smell?” she asked. “You’ll grow used to it, soon.”

“It’s not the smell.”

She had to run to keep up; his long strides took the stairs two at a time, then three. But he didn’t look at her when they came out into the dark corridor, didn’t look as she came abreast of him.

“Listen to me,” she started, reaching for him. “I’ll ask all the questions. You don’t even need to—”

He caught her hand. “I told you before.” It came out almost as a snarl. “I’m not kind. I’m efficient.” He pushed her away and turned down the hall. “Open the door,” he called, and from down the corridor, a widening slit of gray daylight cut the darkness.

“I understand,” she said, running to catch up with him. “It is a bit much to take in. But I promise, if you’ll just stay—”

“You don’t understand anything,” he interrupted. His voice shook. She felt as if he’d slapped her.

“I don’t believe you. You’re acting like an unfeeling brute, and—”

“Believe it.” The door opened to the day beyond. Clear air streamed through. He strode into the open gray of the rain outside. He kept walking, not looking to see if she followed.

Miranda darted in front and held up her hands to stop him. “No,” she said. “If you think I’ll allow you to walk off—it’s my
friend
who’s back there. My friend disappeared. How can you care about justice and not care about what happens once someone leaves your court?”

“Get out of my way.” He spoke in an intimidating growl.

Miranda wasn’t about to be intimidated. She set her hands on his chest. “Please.
Listen.”

He put his hands about her shoulders. His face was white, his lips pressed together in tight resolve. For a second, Miranda thought he was actually going to shake her. Maybe even strike her. She felt an instant of real fear. Instead, his fingers bit into her flesh—hard. He lifted her up—she hadn’t thought him so strong as to simply heft her in the air. And he set her down so roughly that she stumbled. Her arms stung where he’d held her.

“Don’t you
dare
manhandle me,” she hissed.

But he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking back at the gaol he’d quit so hastily. Instead, he doubled over as if in pain and fell to his knees.

And then, before she could quite comprehend what was happening, Lord Justice vomited into the bushes.

Chapter Eight

A
FTER THE FIT OF
retching passed, Smite became aware of two things. First, the mud was soaking through the knees of his trousers. And second, he’d just vomited in front of a woman. He was dirty and bedraggled. Miss Darling stood behind him, her breaths echoing amidst the sound of falling rain.

For a long second, he stared at the bushes in front of him, willing Miss Darling to disappear.

He had thought as long as it was dry and he wasn’t alone, he could manage the darkness. But the smallest sound of liquid—the bare splash of water—and he’d been transported back. Back to that cellar.
He
had been the one shivering on the cold floor, the one who had felt the water seep through the one thin blanket that had been allotted him. In that moment, he’d been transported back to the truth of his past, and he’d felt all that old terror.

He took a deep breath of cleansing air and looked up at her. For one second, he hoped she had misconstrued what she’d seen.

Instead, her face was a mask of confused sympathy. She stood, staring at him, her lips pressed together. She appeared to be searching for something to say.

“Don’t bother with platitudes. Don’t ask after my health.” He found a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his mouth off. “I’m perfectly well,” he added, feeling idiotic.

“Actually,” she said, “what I was going to say was: I’m sorry.”

He winced. “That’s even worse. Don’t
pity
me, for God’s sake.”

“I’m apologizing. I thought you were an unfeeling brute. But—you’re not. Are you.” It was not a question she was asking.

He spat again, his mouth sour. “Don’t make too much of it. It was just bad fish, understand?”

Her clear green eyes bored into his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “That’s as bad as your story about the cats.”

He bowed his head, not wanting to acknowledge that. “I’ll just need a moment.” He coughed and planted one foot on the ground. “I’ll go back.” He curled his lip, and he attempted to stand. His muscles ached. Deep inside, that image swirled, floodwaters washing up.

“You’re shaking.” Her hand landed on his shoulder. “Was it…that wasn’t the smell, was it?”

“Yes,” he said, a moment too late for believability.

Her nose wrinkled.

“No,” he amended softly. “It wasn’t the smell. But I can return.” He just wasn’t sure what would happen if he did.