Page 103 of Beyond the Grave
"Put the gun down," Lincoln said. "I won't allow you to get out of here alive if you shoot anyone."
"Faster, man!" Edgecombe's darting eyes assessed the numbers and the exits. He must have seen that it was hopeless; he had four bullets and there were more than four against him, taking the footman and Millard into account.
"Give up, Edgecombe," Lincoln said from the doorway. "You won't get away with this. Your family will never forgive you if you shoot someone. Such a crime cannot be overlooked by them or by the law. If you surrender now, there is still a chance of being free. You can live out your life peacefully, somewhere in the countryside. Somewhere quiet and far away from the city, Bedlam, and madness. You will be free."
His voice droned on, an unrelenting rhythm of calm that must have felt like a blunt instrument to Edgecombe's mad mind for he clutched his head. He thrust his fingers through his hair as if he would penetrate his skull and dig out his brain. Perhaps he was the maddest of the lot.
"I will never be free!" He pressed the gun to his temple and fired before anyone knew what was happening.
I jumped and covered my mouth but not before a cry escaped. Marguerite and Julia both fainted, while Buchanan and Harcourt turned pale faces away from the shocking sight.
The poor footman stumbled backward and fell to the floor. He scrambled away from the wheelchair, then turned onto all fours, and vomited. He was covered in blood.
The smoky spirit of Edgecombe rose out of his body and drifted aimlessly around the room, as if caught by the drafts. When he finally stilled, he stared down at his own ghostly legs. Was he unable to believe he'd just killed himself? Or was he enthralled by his transformation into a ghost?
The spirit of Cleves strolled up to him, signaled a rude hang gesture, then came back to me. "Am I done here?"
"Yes, thank you," I said numbly. "Your assistance was most beneficial. You are released now, Mr. Cleves. Return to your afterlife."
He slipped away, and Edgecombe's spirit followed soon after, thank God. I didn't want to converse with him.
Lincoln checked the pulpy mess of the body in the wheelchair. He also held a pistol. Where had it come from? Why hadn't he used it before?
My brain was busy trying to sort through questions and answers, yet my feet wouldn't move. I did not, however, collapse into a faint like Julia and Marguerite. I attributed my stoicism not to my more robust health, but my refusal to wear a corset. My lungs were not restricted like theirs. I was able to breathe as much air as my body required.
Harcourt gently picked up his wife and carried her back to the sofa, where he waved the smelling salts beneath her nose. As she began to rouse, he wordlessly passed the salts onto Buchanan, who repeated the motion beneath Julia's nose. It would have been quite a romantic, noble scene if it weren't for the dead body and the retching footman in the entrance hall.
Lincoln tucked his gun back into the waistband of his trousers, beneath his jacket. He then took charge, ordering the servants and helping where needed. He and Millard carried the body into the mews to await a coroner, and I summoned the courage to assist two of the maids in cleaning up the mess. I liked to think my lack of hysteria helped calm them, but in truth they cried throughout and raced off to the service area to wash themselves clean afterward.
"Let’s go home, Charlie. You've done enough." Lincoln gently took my bloodied hand in his own and steered me toward the door and out to the waiting carriage. Someone must have apprised Seth of the events, because he seemed unsurprised to see us in such a state and did not ask questions.
Back at Lichfield, I headed straight for the bathroom and turned on the taps. While the bath filled, I stripped off and scrubbed as much of the blood off my skin as I could at the sink without removing the skin itself. Finally, feeling more like myself, I sank into the bath and let the warm water soak away any remaining blood, fear and horror.
The knock on the door roused me some time later, when the water had begun to cool. "Charlie? Are you all right?" It was Lincoln. He must be concerned, though perhaps he was waiting for the bath himself.
"Yes, thank you. I'll be out in a moment."
"I have clothes for you."
I dried off, and with the towel around my body, opened the door a crack. The corridor was empty except for the clothing placed neatly in a pile on the nearby table. I took the garments back into the bathroom and hurriedly dressed.
I found Lincoln in the parlor, stoking the fire. He must have washed outside because he was clean, his hair damp.
"I'm sorry I occupied the bathroom for so long," I told him as I settled on the chair by the fire.
"The bathroom is all yours whenever you want it. Tea?"
"God, yes." Cook had not only provided tea, but also scones with large pots of jam and cream. He knew me so well. I helped myself to one and slathered as much jam and cream on top as would stay on.
I angled my head to the fire to help dry my hair and ate an entire scone in a mere three bites.
"Better?" Lincoln asked as he watched me sip tea.
I nodded. "Much, thank you. I think I was a little in shock for a while there."
"Nobody but me would have noticed. You carried yourself admirably, Charlie. Much more capably than the other females."
I felt the heat rise in my face at his praise. "Perhaps that's because I'm used to death now."
