Silent Witnesses Page 20

  Late that afternoon we received a note from McCurley. A photograph was enclosed that showed Haywood with his wife. I didn’t find anything familiar in his face.

  McCurley’s note read,

  * * *

  Mr Haywood has not been seen at either of the dairy companies, or at any of the farms he inspects, or at the milk contractor’s depots. All three railways where the Strangler’s victims were found are used to transport milk to and from the milk depots that Haywood inspects. Mrs Haywood stated that her husband went to work on the mornings in question, and returned late in those evenings. She has no knowledge of his current whereabouts.

  Boyle will remain at your house for your protection. Do not leave! I will come to you later this evening.

  Quinn McCurley

  * * *

  I crumpled the note, and began to disassemble my revolver on the kitchen table.

  ‘A Wembley Mark I,’ Boyle remarked. ‘British service revolver. Reliable.’

  ‘Would you like more tea?’ Margery enquired with a trembling voice.

  When I’d finished cleaning and oiling my gun, I gave the photograph to Zachary. ‘If you see this man, point your revolver at him. Sergeant Boyle will arrest him.’ And then to Margery, ‘Pack food and milk for tonight and tomorrow morning. And several books for Klara. As soon as darkness falls, you will all leave through the tunnel.’

  ‘Inspector McCurley ordered me to protect you,’ Boyle pointed out.

  ‘And you will. I will lock up the house, and make sure it looks as if we’re at home, and then follow shortly after.’

  Frowning, Boyle scratched his neck, but then nodded agreement.

  24

  I walked about the house to draw the curtains, switch off lights, and lock all doors. From the outside, it would look as though we were retiring early. A deviation from the norm. But I didn’t worry about it, for who goes to bed at precisely the same time every night, like an automaton? No one.

  I went into the kitchen and found one of Margery’s muffins. It was bone dry. I spread butter on it. Leaning against the sink, I ate and thought about Haywood. It was not an unusual name. I’d probably heard it previously. But his face…I didn’t think I’d ever met him. Perhaps in passing, years ago. If he’d spent a short time at Harvard Medical School and we’d never talked, there was a good chance I would not have noticed him at all.

  Margery, Zach, Klara and Sergeant Boyle had left an hour before. It was time for me to follow, else Zach would grow alarmed and send Boyle after me.

  Despite the danger, I felt surprisingly calm. This case would soon be solved. All fears and worries would soon be gone.

  I drank the last bit of cold tea left in the pot, brushed muffin crumbs off my hands, and picked up a candle. I held a match to the taper, switched off the electric light, picked up my revolver, and made for the dark corridor.

  There was a sudden movement in the corner of my vision. The revolver was wrenched from my grasp. I couldn’t even turn my head before something heavy wrapped around my throat and squeezed. As the candle dropped to the floor, my mind sent quick flashes of information: The first was the revelation of how the murderer was able to subdue his victims without a fight. The second was that the blood flow in my carotid arteries was reduced to a minimum and I would lose consciousness within seconds. Five, perhaps. The third was that I desperately wanted to live.

  I kicked. My heel met his knee. He grunted. But the pressure on my throat did not slacken. Lights were popping in my vision. My ears began to sing.

  I struggled against his weight. He was massive. The top of my head didn’t reach his collar-bone. My elbow sank into his gut, but he didn’t even twitch. I tried to squeeze my fingers between my throat and his arm. He didn’t budge. My limbs felt oddly detached. My mind began to float and darkness descended.

  Something tugged on my consciousness: Had I in any way indicated that there might be a secret door in my bedroom? Had I in any way betrayed my family’s hiding place? Had I in any way…

  * * *

  I woke to pain in my head and chest. Something was crushing my ribcage. Groaning, I opened my eyes, and received a slap to my cheek. My ears rang. A face came close to mine.

  He hissed, ‘So, what do you think of me now, bitch?’

  ‘Who are you?’ I croaked. My throat felt raw. Words crept up my windpipe with reluctance.

  ‘You don’t even remember me? Ha! You’ve always been arrogant.’

  ‘I can’t see your face. It’s too dark.’ I tried to move my arms, but they were pinned.

  ‘Colin Haywood,’ he rasped.

  I dug in my mind, but still he was only a stranger. There was nothing familiar about his voice, his figure, his facial features — from the photograph and the few I could make out in the dark.

  I needed a strategy. Fast. Something to bargain for more time. Because the longer I managed to stay alive, the greater the chance that Zachary would realise something was wrong. They were expecting me.

  Sergeant Boyle would come.

  Would Boyle even accept Zachary’s gun? Probably not. And where was my gun? Still on the floor? Or had Haywood grabbed it?

  ‘I don’t know you,’ I said.

  A chuckle. ‘Oh my. But I know who you are. The games you played. For years! I could get you behind bars for fraud. You’d be stripped of your license.’

  I said nothing.

  He waited for a moment. ‘Come now. There is no need to deny it. You are an abomination.’

  A snorted. ‘And you are not? You took Henrietta’s life. And then you killed Elizabeth. And then Millie—’

  He boxed me hard. The side of my face fell numb, and then began to pulse with pain. ‘You believe you can distract me? Ha! I never forgot your arrogant face. That self-important scowl. You’ve always been so full of yourself, Anton Kronberg. Or should I say, Elizabeth Arlington? Your Judgement Day has come. Death is spreading his cloak for you.’ He threw out his arms, pausing for effect, and then lowered them to slowly draw a finger along my jawline.

  My body vibrated with fear. It took effort to keep my mind focused. I couldn’t buck him off — he sat too high up my chest. I couldn’t drive my knees into his kidneys — they would merely tap his shoulder blades as ineffectually as a friendly clap. I wriggled my arms again, but they were trapped so tightly under his shins, I could as well have been manacled.

  There was only one thing I could do.

  ‘I think… I think I remember you. But it’s too dark to see your face.’

  He lifted his hand from my neck, and sat up straight, putting his weight fully on my chest. I gulped for air.

  He fumbled in his pockets, extracted a small something, and then struck a match. He held the flame close to his face. ‘Remember now?’

  I studied his features. ‘I…I’m not sure.’

  He bent lower. The flickering light painted his right iris red and yellow. The heat crept too close to his fingers. He flicked the match aside and struck another one. ‘How could you forget me?’ he hissed. ‘You threw insults at me. You broke my nose.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m a woman. I was never involved in fistfights at Harvard.’ Was he mad? Or did he confuse me with someone else?

  Snarling, he bent even closer. I felt his breath and the heat of the match on my face. And I struck. My forehead crashed against the bridge of his nose. There was no crunch, but he reared back with a cry. He dropped the match on my chest. The flame died. The weight on my wrists disappeared. I yanked back my arms, landed a right hook and a straight left punch in quick succession. I boxed his chest, aiming for the solar plexus to cut off his air.

  But failed.

  Grunting, he threw his weight forward. His hands came around my neck like vices, setting my throat on fire. Cutting off all air. I clawed his face, his wrists, his arms. But he didn’t seem to register the pain. He kept squeezing and I felt my windpipe collapse. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Blood screeched in my ears. My only thought was Klara. That I
could not — would not — allow this man to make her an orphan.

  With a last scrap of consciousness, I lifted my hands from his face, angled my arms, and wrapped the fingers of my left hand around his wrist. With the other palm, I struck his elbow. A satisfying pop, and the bones dislocated. He cried out and slapped at me wildly. I struck his chest again and again, until I heard the telltale screech of air freezing in his lungs.

  I pushed him off of me. His arms flailed, his legs kicked out and hit my side. Gasping, I scuttled backward, and nearly fainted from the exertion and the lack of air. My trembling fingers flew over the floor, searching for my gun, but came up empty.

  I jumped as the backdoor shuddered in its frame. Once. Twice. And burst open with a splintering crack. A silhouette rushed into the corridor, hollered, ‘Stop! Police.’

  McCurley. I could have hugged him.

  Haywood rolled aside and flung an arm out at McCurley, who took a swift step back. There was the metallic snick of a hammer pulled back. And a steady voice, ‘I’m arresting you for the killing of three women, and the assault of another. Put your hands flat down on the floor, Mr Haywood. Now!’

  The last word was shouted with such force, it made my ears wilt.

  McCurley took a step closer to Haywood. But Haywood didn’t want to go down quietly. There was a flurry of movements. Sounds of dull impacts. McCurley cried out. Haywood grunted.

  I had no wish to get between McCurley’s gun and Haywood’s fists. I saw only one option. My arm shot forward, my fingers curled around Haywood’s testicles, and squeezed with a violent twist.

  A high-pitched screech nearly drowned out the gunshot. The large man’s legs jerked straight out, and threw me on my rump. Then Haywood fell silent. A burbling and hissing betrayed the hole to his chest.

  ‘Are you all right?’ McCurley asked, his breath coming in short bursts.

  I wanted to say yes, but all my throat was able to produce was a faint croak. He ran his hands over Haywood’s prone form, and muttered, ‘He still has a pulse. Faint, though.’ Then stepped over the man. There was a scraping noise as he searched for a light switch. A click and electric light pierced my eyes and hurt my brain.

  I groaned.

  McCurley knelt at my side, touched my hands, arms, shoulders, and brushed his fingers along the bruises on my face. ‘How badly are you injured?’ he asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘That pig.’ He muttered, and touched my throat.

  A memory flashed past my vision: That of Colonel Moran and his footman Parker. One pressing an arm over my throat, the other sitting on my chest and hacking off my finger.

  Panic struck. Fast and hard. I flung out my arm and smacked McCurley’s chin. My throat seized. I couldn’t breathe. All I managed were small gulps. Hap-hap-hap. In a distant corner of my mind I knew that I was hyperventilating, and that I needed to put a damper on it. To breathe slowly. But I couldn’t. Terror had its claws in deep.

  McCurley was saying something I didn’t catch.

  ‘Tilt up your chin!’ His sharp command cut through my haze. All I wished to do was fill my caved-in lungs, but nothing would slip past my clenched teeth. Only the tiniest sips of air. My vision was dimming again, my heart racing.

  ‘Up with it!’ He repeated loudly, and put a single finger under my chin to lift it. ‘In through the nose. Out through the mouth.’

  The sips grew bigger. Half a mouthful. And then another. Air began creeping down my windpipe. I could have wept.

  ‘Good. You are good. In through the nose. Out through the mouth,’ McCurley spoke in a soothing voice. ‘Lean on me. I won’t touch you, I promise. Slow now. Take your time.’

  Leaning back against him, I kept fighting the fear. His knee touched my side, and I slapped it away. I couldn’t stand anything near my chest or throat. With every fibre, I pulled my focus toward breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Chin up. And little by little, I regained control. It was agonisingly slow.

  ‘That’s good. You’re doing well. Breathe.’ He was breathing with me now. He pulled in air through his nose when I did, and pushed it out his mouth when I did. My back was pressed against the length of his torso, my head rested on his shoulder. His heart was beating with mine, our lungs filling in unison. Gradually, my airways relaxed and my senses returned to me as sweet air rolled through my body.

  ‘There. There you are,’ McCurley whispered into my hair. ‘It’s over. He’s dying. He can’t hurt anyone anymore. You did very well. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. Did I ever tell you that I earned coin as a pit fighter when I was young? It’s highly illegal so don’t tell anyone.’ He chuckled. A puff of air blew across the top of my head. ‘I got kicked in the throat twice. The pain was unbelievable. I thought I would never draw another breath. I know exactly how you are feeling.’

  He paused and looked over at Haywood, who had begun to suck in short, hacking breaths, interrupted by wet noises from his chest wound and an occasional thump of his heel against the floor.

  ‘It was strange. Suddenly he cried out and seized up. I wonder why. He must have pressed the trigger. But I’m not sure. We were both grappling for the gun. How stupid of me to get too close to him. He could have grabbed it and… Never mind.’ McCurley shifted to look down at me, his mouth compressed, and said again, ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t come earlier.’

  I tapped a finger to my chest, pointed at Haywood, then pantomimed grabbing my crotch and twisting.

  He laughed. ’Ah, so that’s what happened. Mystery solved.’ And then, he pressed his mouth to my hair, groaned and instantly jerked back. ‘You saved my life.’

  I shook my head, tapped his side and then my chest. You saved mine.

  ‘Maybe. That’s up for discussion. Can you sit?’

  I nodded, and he helped me lean forward. He moved around me, and inspected my face. ‘Your eyes are blood red. Bruises and swelling… Can you move your jaw at all?’

  I opened my mouth and moved my jaw from side to side. It didn’t feel fractured.

  ‘The swelling here looks bad.’ Gingerly, he touched my eyebrow.

  I probed my face and skull with my fingertips, but found no serious injuries. I put a smile on my face, to let him know I was all right. In some fashion.

  His eyes flared in shock. ‘You are in pain. I’ll summon an ambulance.’

  Well, that hadn’t worked as planned. I shook my head at him, wondering how horrid my attempted smile must have looked. Or my face in general.

  ‘No ambulance?’

  I put my hand on his shoulder and slowly pushed myself up. I swayed on my feet and McCurley caught my arm, steadying me. I motioned toward my bedroom, and he helped me walk there.

  Without thinking, I opened the secret door, snatched a piece of paper and a pencil from my nightstand, and wrote down the address of our hideaway. And below that:

  * * *

  Make sure my family is safe.

  * * *

  He looked first at me, then at the black maw of the tunnel. A jerk of his head toward the man in the corridor. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever move again, but…can you keep an eye on him anyway?’

  I nodded.

  He handed me his revolver, picked up a candle and a box of matches from my nightstand, and left.

  Cocking McCurley’s gun, I shuffled back to the corridor. Only then did I recall my own gun. I found it’s butt peeking out from beneath the splintery leftovers of the backdoor.

  The bright ceiling lamp painted Haywood in a harsh light. The bruises on his face. The twitching of his limbs. Even the wet whistling emanating from the hole in his chest. Close to the heart. He must be drowning in his own blood, his lungs collapsed, unable to draw breath.

  His eyes pleaded for mercy.

  Exhausted and aching, I leant back against the wall, and sank to the floor.

  I watched him die, and felt no pity.

  Death is spreading her cloak for you, I thought.

  Epilogue

  The sudden q
uiet was setting me on edge. A part of me was waiting for someone to emerge from a dark corner of the house and wrap his hands around my neck. I bit back a threatening shudder. I wished McCurley would say something. Anything. But he just sat in the wicker chair, his face tilted toward the darkening sky.

  Margery had been hovering protectively the entire day. She’d found a hundred reasons to enter my office — either to bring us fresh tea or coffee, or to enquire if I or the gentlemen were in need of anything. I would smile at her and shake my head. She flinched every time.

  I looked horrible.

  Klara hadn’t left my side for most of the day. Only later in the afternoon had Zach managed to lighten her worries by taking her to the workshop to tinker on some wooden contraption.

  After helping Zach to reattach the back door, Sergeant Boyle and Mr Halverton had taken my statement — a slow process because my voice was a painfully small thing stuck to the back of my mouth. They left then, a mix of worry and relief was carved into their brow. McCurley asked if he could stay a few minutes longer.

  That was more than an hour ago.

  Since then, he’d said very little. He was concerned about something. Whether it was the beaten-up state I was in, or the sketchy statement I had given, I wasn’t sure. I doubted he was upset about the promise that I extracted from him and Boyle to never mention the secret tunnel. After all, it was a small omission and irrelevant to their investigation.

  When McCurley finally spoke, I nearly jumped from my chair. ‘Will you be all right?’

  I nodded. He’d asked me that about a dozen times already, and my answer had been the same. After a heartbeat, I whispered, ‘I watched him die.’

  His gaze sharpened. ‘There was nothing you could do.’