Page 101 of Beyond the Grave
"Youfilled in the paperwork?"
He lifted his chin. "I can read and write my letters as good as any man. Mr. Edgecombe waited in the brougham. After, we checked into a hotel and rested. The next day, we drove back to Emberly. That's when he killed me. Not sure how. Slipped some medicine into my drink to make me sleep, I expect, then injected me with some of the stronger painkillers the doctor gives him. I never woke up. I waited for a while in this form then decided to cross over when I was called. I saw by then he wasn't going to be arrested." He shook his head. "Bloody bastard. Tell him I hope he rots in hell."
"Mr. Edgecombe," I said. "Mr. Cleves would like you to know that he thinks you're a bloody bastard and that he hopes you rot in hell."
Marguerite gasped. Julia clicked her tongue. "Really, Charlie, was that necessary?"
"Very," I assured her. "Mr. Cleves was murdered by Mr. Edgecombe and—"
The rest of my speech was drowned out by Marguerite's screeching protest. "You're lying! She's lying, Donald! John would never harm anyone! Besides, look at him. He's hopeless. He can't do a thing for himself, can you, dear? He's like a child—"
"Shut up!" Edgecombe shouted, sending spittle spraying from his mouth onto his chin. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! Dawkins, push me out of here. You," he pointed at Lincoln, "step aside."
Lincoln didn't move. Nor did Dawkins. He was staring at the back of his master's head. He muttered a few colorful words then strode for the door. "I didn't sign up for this." Lincoln let him past without stopping him.
Edgecombe pushed himself forward with laborious heaves of the wheels. He grunted on every push and sweat beaded on his hairline. "Out of my way."
"You?" Buchanan grabbed one of the wheelchair handles, stopping Edgecombe in his tracks. "Stay here. You put me in Bedlam, for Christ's sake! I'm not letting you get away with it."
"Not to mention he murdered Cleves," I added.
But no one heard me. All attention was on Buchanan and Edgecombe. Fury burned bright in both men's eyes and tensed the muscles in their necks.
"Why?" Buchanan asked. "I thought we were friends."
"Friends!" Edgecombe growled. "Youdid this to me." He indicated the chair and his useless legs beneath the blanket. "You made me like this."
"You fell of your horse." Buchanan straightened his back and turned his head away. "Nothing to do with me," he muttered.
"You shot at my horse and he bolted!"
"A competent rider would have stayed in the saddle. Besides, I didn't shootathim. I saw a fox nearby…" He shrugged. "You can't blame that on me."
"If you really believed in your own innocence, then why not come to visit me in all this time?"
"Emberly is too far from London, and London is where all the pretty girls are."
Edgecombe snorted. "You stayed away because you couldn't face me. You never wrote, never asked your brother to pass on your regards."
"I'm no good at letter writing."
"Coward!" Edgecombe rolled himself forward again, this time toward Buchanan. Buchanan stepped nimbly behind the sofa. Edgecombe gave up with a frustrated snarl.
"You hadn't seen Mr. Buchanan since your accident," I said, putting the final pieces together. "All your anger and resentment toward him had festered over time, so when you saw him wandering along the drive, you decided to punish him for robbing you of the life you had."
"John," Marguerite sobbed into her husband's handkerchief. "Howcouldyou?"
"Icouldhave killed him," Edgecombe snapped. "Taking him to Bedlam was a mercy." He pushed the wheels himself, putting all his upper body strength into it.
"No further," Lincoln said when Edgecombe was almost upon him.
Edgecombe slipped his hand beneath the blanket and whipped out a pistol. "Move!"
Chapter 17
Marguerite screamed. Donald pulled her into his chest, perhaps as much to smother her into silence as protect her.
"Move!" Edgecombe growled, pointing the pistol at Lincoln.
