Into Thin Eire Read online

  “What’s that?” Carson asked, pausing briefly in extolling the virtues of this plan.

  “I don’t know,” Pickett said, pulling one end of the string until the knot came free. “Our hostess said it had been left for me. At least, I think that’s what she said.”

  “Who would even know we were going to be here?” Thomas wondered aloud. “We sure didn’t, until two days ago.”

  Pickett offered no opinion on the subject. He unrolled the tube of brown paper until it disgorged its contents—whereupon his expressive countenance changed color. He uttered a strangled sound, dropping the item and its wrappings to the floor as he ran from the inn.

  “What—gorblimey!” Thomas exclaimed, his face assuming a greenish cast as Carson bent to retrieve the object and hold it up for their inspection.

  It was just over two inches in length and, like its wrappings, roughly cylindrical in shape. Its color was a mottled gray, although at one time it had very likely been nearer to pink.

  It was, in fact, a human finger.

  “AND SOMEONE LEFT IT for him here,” Carson said thoughtfully. He lowered his voice, although it was unlikely that Pickett could hear him, having not yet returned from wherever he’d fled.

  “In other words, someone knew we’d be pitching up here sooner or later,” Jamie observed. “At least we know we’re on the right track.”

  Thomas stared at him. “That’s a bloody unfeeling way of looking at it! If you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir,” he added hastily, all too aware of having spoken disrespectfully not only to one of his betters, but to one of the mistress’s nearest and dearest.

  “If it were really her finger, you’d be right,” Jamie told him. “But it’s not. It can’t be.”

  Seeing the major did not intend to hold his lapse against him, Thomas was emboldened to ask for an explanation. “Why not? If you don’t mind my asking,” he added hastily.

  “Whoever this belongs to was dead before her finger was cut off. If you’ll look at the end here, you’ll see there’s no sign of its having bled.”

  Thomas forced himself to lean in for a closer look. “At least”—he swallowed hard—“at least he’d already killed her before he did—this.”

  “It’s very likely she died of natural causes—illness, perhaps, or childbirth. I tell you, this is not Julia’s—Mrs. Pickett’s—finger. It can’t be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if Mrs. Pickett had been killed, it must have been done at least a week ago—and that’s assuming she was murdered on the same day she was abducted. This woman, whoever she was”—he indicated the severed finger—“has been dead rather longer than that.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I saw action on the Peninsula and in the Low Countries,” Jamie said, his voice hardening with the recollection of long-suppressed memories. “Casualties can’t always be buried in a timely manner. Let’s just say I know what a dead body looks like at various stages of decomposition.”

  Thomas merely nodded, disinclined to ask for further enlightenment.

  “So you’re saying,” Harry Carson put in, “that someone went to the trouble of digging up a woman’s body, cutting off its finger, and sending it to Mr. Pickett here, knowing full well that he’d think the fellow was chopping his wife’s fingers off? That takes a special kind of madness.”

  “Or a special kind of hate. The man behind her abduction holds Mr. Pickett responsible for the death of his own wife, and this seems to be his idea of revenge.” Jamie cast a glance toward the door through which Pickett had fled. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d best see to him.”

  He left Carson and Thomas to the task of discovering to which rooms they had been assigned while he went outside in search of his brother-in-law. Pickett was not difficult to find; Jamie had only to follow the sobbing, snarling noises, more animal than human, emitting from around one corner of the inn. He reached the end of the building and discovered his young brother-in-law pressed against the half-timbered wall, his face buried in the curve of one arm while with the other arm he beat at the wall until his knuckles bled. A rather pungent pool at his feet represented all that remained of the porridge Jamie had compelled him to eat that morning.

  “It’s not hers, old thing.” Jamie put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, all the while speaking in low, soothing tones. “It’s a cruel prank, but nothing more. It’s not hers.”

  Gradually the significance of his words began to penetrate Pickett’s brain. At last he turned to his brother-in-law with something akin to hope lightening his bleak expression. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” For the second time, Jamie explained his reasoning, concluding, “But the fact that he had it sent to you here, rather than, say, London, or the Lake District, would seem to suggest we’re on the right track.”

  Pickett collected himself with an effort. “Yes—I know you’re right—it’s just—it’s just that I feel so bloody helpless! Julia is in the clutches of a madman, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it!”

  Jamie nodded. “I know,” he said simply, and Pickett realized Major Pennington was probably the only man of his acquaintance who did, who could. For he, too, had been forced to stand by helplessly while the woman he loved was in danger. In Jamie’s case, the danger had come from Claudia’s own husband, a man with not only age and experience, but power, position, and even the law on his side. And yet Jamie had won in the end, and that without firing a shot: first when he’d carried off Claudia, Lady Buckleigh under her husband’s nose, and again a dozen years later, when justice had finally caught up with his lordship.

  “But,” Jamie continued, more firmly now, “I disagree that there’s nothing you can do. There is—and you’re doing it. And now it seems to me that there’s something else you can do.”

  “What?” Pickett asked eagerly.

  “Come inside and get what sleep you can before we set out to sea in the morning.”

  If there was one form of transportation Pickett disliked even more than riding on horseback, it was setting out to sea in a boat. Still, he had no intention of trusting Julia’s rescue to his companions while he waited patiently on land. He took a deep breath, then set his jaw and followed Jamie back inside.

  THE QUESTION OF JUST how she was to get word to her husband was one that caused Julia considerable perturbation of spirits. Her abductor refused to leave her alone for a minute except when they stopped for the night, at which time he either locked her into her room and kept the key, or tied the handle of his own chamber door to the handle of hers—a fact she had discovered early in their journey, when she’d attempted to make her escape in the middle of the night while her captor slept.

  It was not until the third night that a new and unexpected opportunity presented itself. Or perhaps it was the fourth night; the pain in her head had subsided, but there were still great chunks of time unaccounted for in her memory, so much so that she suspected the man of adding something to her food.

  She could recall several stops during which meals had been obtained while the horses were changed, and she had vague memories of being taken aboard a sea-going vessel, although exactly how long the journey had taken, or in what direction they had traveled, was unclear. They had stopped once more for the night—or was it twice?—and although her head was finally clear, she had no idea where they were. As they had been traveling in northwesterly direction, she thought it unlikely that they had crossed the Channel to France—a suspicion that was confirmed when the proprietress of the establishment inquired in English as to what she might do for them. And not just any English, Julia realized with growing certainty, but English spoken with the same lilting accent that distinguished her abductor’s speech. Which meant they must be in Ireland—although exactly where in Ireland she had yet to determine. The framed prints adorning the walls offered no clues, at least not in the casual glances with which Julia was forced to be content. Nor could she hope t
o glean any information by eavesdropping on her fellow guests, since her captor had asked if he might hire a private parlor where they could partake of their dinner safe from any prying eyes.

  If their hostess had seen anything unusual in this request, she had not let on. She had ushered them into a small room where, she assured them, they would not be disturbed, and then produced a hearty albeit humble meal of bacon and cabbage, to which she’d added a thick white sauce and a sprig of parsley. They had been sequestered in the private parlor with this repast for perhaps half an hour when the requested privacy was interrupted by a man in a caped frieze coat whose well-worn condition identified him as an actual coachman, rather than one of those sporting gentlemen who had appropriated the fashion and made it their own.

  “Bohannan?” Her companion scowled. “What the devil might you be wantin’?”

  The readiness with which her captor identified the newcomer gave Julia to understand that this was their driver. Until that moment, she had not given much thought to this individual; he had merely been a bulky but anonymous presence on the coachman’s box, little more than a broad back and a somewhat misshapen hat pulled down low over his ears. Now, as she listened to their conversation, she realized that here at last was the opportunity she had been waiting for.

  “I thought we were agreed that you were to be remainin’ in the stables.”

  The unhappy Bohannan had removed his hat, and now twisted its brim in his hands, a gesture that went a long way toward explaining its sorry state.

  “I know, and ’tis sorry I am to be after floutin’ your wishes.” Bohannan’s voice betrayed his Irish origins just as surely as her captor’s did. “ ’Tis the front axle, it is.”

  “Broken?” A fierce scowl accompanied the single word.

  “Not yet. But ’twill be a near-run thing if we expect to reach—where it is that we’re goin’—without it.” While his passenger considered the implications of this speech, Bohannan said, more urgently, “I know you’re in a hurry, Flynn, but Himself won’t be pleased if we’re after havin’ an accident on the road. Besides takin’ us longer to get there, she could be hurt, or even killed. And then—”

  “You don’t have to be drawin’ me a picture,” interrupted her captor—Flynn, Julia thought, pleased to know he had a name, at any rate. He uttered what Julia suspected was a Gaelic oath. “I expect I’d best be havin’ a look.”

  He pushed back his chair and rose, then looked down at her. “Before you go gettin’ any ideas, Mrs. P., you should be aware that the stables offer a fine view of the front of the inn. If you think to escape, you’ll have to be doin’ it through the kitchens—and that would raise such a hullabaloo that we’d surely hear of it in the stables.”

  Julia hung her head in apparent defeat, but her brain was awhirl. She waited only long enough to hear the door close behind them before seeking out their hostess.

  “I wonder if I might ask for your help,” she said in hushed accents, glancing furtively over her shoulder at the door through which the two men had exited. “As you may have guessed, we—my companion and I—are a runaway couple.” Julia silently blessed the proprietress of the earlier establishment where they had stopped, and took considerable satisfaction in the knowledge that, by giving the woman the idea that they were eloping, Flynn had himself provided the means by which she now might warn her real husband.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Aye, I was after thinkin’ there was somethin’ queerish about the pair o’ ye.”

  “The three of us, actually, for his cousin is lending his aid by driving the carriage. But there can be no marriage over the anvil for us. I have a husband, you see, and I fear that he may at this very moment be pursuing us.”

  This much was true, so far as it went. But her hostess was clearly not pleased by the idea that she might be called upon to assist an adulterous union. “Well, now, and mayhap you ought to let him,” she advised the runaway bride. “I’m sure it’s not unusual for a married couple to be havin’ a little spat from time to time.”

  “Yes, but this is nothing like that,” Julia said with perfect truth. “Alas, some husbands are cruel and abusive, and in such a case, what choice does a woman have but to flee?”

  “Aye, I suppose you’re right about that,” came the reluctant concession. “But then, what can you expect from the English? This man of yours is an Englishman, is he not?”

  “He is, but Mr. Flynn, my”—she could not bring herself to call him her lover, not even to save her husband’s life—“my gentleman friend is Irish.”

  “Flynn, you say?” the woman asked with renewed interest. “Aye, it’s a good old Westmeath name! My late husband’s sister was after marryin’ a Flynn, although—but never you be mindin’ that! You say you’re wantin’ my help?

  “Yes! I want to write a letter to my husband, to be left here for him in case he comes in search of me. I shall urge him not to pursue us—Mr. Flynn and me, that is—as such a course of action could only cause pain.”

  Her hostess apparently took this claim quite literally. “D’you mean one of them might be killin’ the other in a duel?” she asked, both thrilled and horrified at the prospect of such an outcome.

  Julia had meant no such thing, although she didn’t hesitate to embrace such a scenario, now that it had been presented to her. “Yes, should they meet, I fear it must come to that very thing.”

  “What will you be needin’, then? Paper and ink brought up to your room, I suppose, and a quill?”

  “Yes, and I would be obliged if you could bring me a cup of tea as well, and milk, sugar, and lemon to go with it. I find tea a wonderful composer when one is suffering from an agitation of spirits, don’t you?”

  To this the woman readily agreed, and so Julia was emboldened to continue. “I fear I must impose on you for one other favor. Mr. Flynn must know nothing of this. He—he is very jealous of my husband, you know. Heaven only knows how he may react if he discovers I am in communication with him, even for such a purpose as this.”

  The innkeeper’s wife frowned at this, and gave it as her opinion that it sounded as if there was very little to choose between the two of them.

  “I suppose it must sound that way,” Julia acknowledged, then added, again with perfect sincerity, “but if you only knew the two of them, you would see that there can be no comparison.”

  “And what’ll you be doin’ with this letter, once you’re after writin’ it?”

  Julia cast another surreptitious glance over her shoulder at the door, a gesture that was only half feigned. “I dare not bring it downstairs for fear Mr. Flynn will see. Instead, I shall drop it out the window of my chamber. Is there a kitchen maid or a stable hand you would trust to retrieve it for me?”

  “I’ll be doin’ it my own self, ma’am,” her co-conspirator vowed, placing a hand over her heart for emphasis.

  “Excellent woman! I wish I could give you some token of my appreciation, but I was obliged to come away with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

  “I’m sure I don’t wonder at it, ma’am, if your man’s as brutal as you claim. But how am I to be knowin’ him? What’s his name? What does he look like?”

  He’s beautiful, Julia thought. Beautiful, and brilliant, and brave, and if he were to be killed in an attempt to rescue me, I should die of grief. Aloud, she merely said, “His name is John Pickett. He is quite tall, with brown eyes and brown hair that curls, and a diffident manner that makes people tend to underestimate him.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but the fellow you describe doesn’t sound like the brute you’re makin’ him out to be.”

  “No,” admitted Julia, improvising rapidly. “He is usually the sweetest and gentlest of men. It is only when he is in his cups that his temperament changes.” In this she knew she did him an injustice, for on the one occasion when she had seen him the worse for drink, his conduct had still been nothing less than gentlemanly.

  Something in her expression must have arouse
d her co-conspirator’s suspicions, for the woman’s eyes narrowed. “It sounds to me like you’re still lovin’ him, for all that.”

  “I daresay I shall love him until I die,” she said, blinking back tears at the bitter irony that the last thing she could do for him was to blacken his character in order to save his life.

  13

  In Which Julia Writes a “Dear John” Letter

  Closeted in her room upstairs, Julia lost no time in adding milk and sugar to the steaming cup of tea provided by her hostess. The lemon wedge that had accompanied them remained untouched, however, even as she raised the cup to her lips and took a long and satisfying pull; she had spoken no less than the truth when she had praised the beverage for its soothing qualities. She took two more sips, then set the cup aside to make room on the writing table for the paper and ink she had requested. It would not be an easy letter to write; she would have to couch her message in the words of a regretful lover, lest her co-conspirator be unable to resist the temptation to open the letter and read it. Fortunately, she had begun composing the missive in her head almost from the moment she had realized such a correspondence would be necessary, and so it did not take as long as it otherwise might have done.

  My dearest John, she wrote, I sit here with my teacup at my elbow—sugar, milk, and especially lemon, just the way I like it—contemplating our past, and my own future. Much as I love you (and always will), I cannot persist in a marriage that has brought me equal parts despair and bliss. Marriage is meant to last “till death do us part,” I know, but surely you will agree with my own view, that it would be better to not waste precious time in trying to fix ours, which is long past being mended. And so I must beg you not to waste your energies in pursuit, but to give me up. To do otherwise can only bring pain to us both. Please know that although I must bid you farewell, there remains a part of my heart that will always be yours.