Page 81 of Beyond the Grave
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You're worse than Harcourt and Yardly combined." Nevertheless, he took the cup and eyed his sister over the rim as he sipped.
Marguerite seemed more composed, although the remnants of her hysteria were still visible in the tear stains on her cheeks. In my absence, they had been discussing the possibility of Harcourt having killed his brother and burying the body somewhere on the estate. Edgecombe was suggesting possible spots. While Marguerite didn't meet anyone's gaze, she seemed resigned to the fact that her husband was the main suspect in her past lover's disappearance. Put like that, I wasn't surprised that she felt somewhat fragile.
"So, what happens now?" Edgecombe asked Lincoln. "Will you confront Harcourt today?"
"No," Lincoln said.
"What? Why not?"
"While your own suspicion is new, you haven't presented me with new evidence. You've told me nothing I haven't already considered. I can't accuse Lord Harcourt of murder, when it's quite possible that no crime has been committed and Buchanan will turn up alive."
"You're thicker than you look." Edgecombe snatched back the bottle and pointed it at Lincoln. "Very well, go in search of more evidence, but you'll forgive me if I insist my sister remains at Harcourt House rather than return to Emberly with her husband."
Marguerite stared down into her teacup. Her shoulders drooped, her mouth was slack, and her body slumped. She looked as though she'd given up altogether. It was hard for her. She may not love her husband, but she seemed to depend upon him. Now a long, dark shadow had been cast over his honor. It must feel like the very ground trembled beneath her feet.
"I must insist that his lordship is not made aware of your suspicions," Lincoln said. "Not yet."
I touched Marguerite's knee again, rousing her. She blinked at me then handed me the teacup. "I would like to lie down now," she announced.
Lincoln and I alighted from the cabin and watched it roll away. Dawkins, standing on the footboard at the back, waved at me. I waved back.
"Did you learn anything from him?" Lincoln asked as we returned inside.
"He hasn't been there long enough to have heard much. Yardly is very loyal, though. If he helped Lord Harcourt remove Buchanan, he wouldn't tell us."
"Remove him to where? If he's not dead, he must be held prisoner somewhere. Not at Emberly, or the other servants would know; I doubt all of them are so loyal to Harcourt that they would cover up murder for him. The village is too public. He could be paying a farmer to use an isolated barn. But why? What's the point?"
"Revenge? Frustration?" I shrugged. "To lord it over his brother and prove that he has all the power and money? If he's jealous of Buchanan, it might simply be a case of one-upmanship. Perhaps being pressured to pay off Buchanan's debts was the last straw."
"True, but it brings us back to the question of where he's being held."
We returned the tea service to the kitchen, and I set to washing the dishes in the scullery, mulling over the problem of the missing Andrew Buchanan. The more I thought about it, the more I suspected Edgecombe was right, and Lord Harcourt must have a very big hand in his brother's disappearance. He'd fought with Buchanan and had the power to keep the servants quiet if they saw anything.
Buchanan wasn't dead. We'd proved that. So where was he? Where could Harcourt hide a personandkeep him alive without raising an alarm? Somewhere that Buchanan's shouts for help couldn't be heard.
Or wouldn't be believed.
I dropped the teacup into the water and ran out of the scullery. I dried my hands in my apron as I sprinted through the kitchen.
"Charlie?" Cook called. "Where you off to in a hurry?"
I didn't stop to answer. I took the stairs two at a time and burst into Lincoln's sitting room without knocking. He was near the door, as if he'd been expecting me, which, I supposed, he probably was.
"What is it?" He searched my face, his own handsome one marred by signs of worry. "What's wrong?"
"Tell me about Bedlam."
Chapter 14
Bethlehem Hospital for the insane—Bedlam to most of us—looked more like a museum or courthouse with its imperial dome and columned entrance. Located in St. George's Fields, behind a tall iron fence, it took us some time to get there in the midday traffic, allowing me to quiz Lincoln about the place. What he told me chilled me to the bone. Apparently near relations could have someone committed for madness simply by filling out a few forms. After a medical assessment, which could be bought for an undisclosed sum, the madman or woman was then admitted and treated. Treatments varied according to the severity of the madness, from undertaking simple tasks like embroidery or laundry, to cold baths, shackles and isolation. It seemed so medieval.
"This is where Lord Harcourt sent poor Marguerite," I said as we entered the vast, empty entrance hall. "And all because she was sad over her baby's death."
"Also where he may have committed his brother."
We'd briefly discussed the likelihood of Buchanan being sent here and decided it was very much a possibility. Harcourt knew about this place after having his wife committed a few years ago. It would be easy enough to take Buchanan there after a fight if he was dazed from a head wound, and administering certain drugs would insure his continued compliance. Any complaints would be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. Buchanan could disappear in this vast hospital, and Harcourt knew it. If he wanted to be rid of his brother without killing him, this was the place to send him.
Our footsteps echoed around the clean, too-bright entrance hall. A nurse dressed in crisp white looked up from the desk. Her lackluster hazel eyes flared briefly as she took in Lincoln's face, his dark hair tied back, and his gentleman's clothing.
