Page 46 of The Magpie Lord
“I suppose not,” Crane said. “Will you come to bed with me?”
Stephen took a deep breath. “Not in Piper.”
“Northamptonshire, then?”
“Yes. Or London.” He looked at Crane, gave up the last shreds of control, and went on, “Or on the train down to London, or up against a wall in the nearest alley to the station, or anywhere else you like. Just not in Lychdale. Too many ghosts.”
Crane paused, nodded. “Fair enough. First train to London tomorrow?”
“Lady Thwaite. Hector.”
“Bugger them both.”
“I’m not coming here twice. But...I could see Lady Thwaite early and get someone else to deal with Hector?”
“And we can get the midday train out of here. Right. Here’s the turning.”
The drained, deathly atmosphere of the house hit Stephen as they descended from the dogcart but Crane gave him no time to consider it. He swept Merrick up as he answered the door and bore them both into the drawing room.
“We deserve a drink,” he said firmly, unstoppering the decanter. “The jack is dealt with, the Thwaite is thwarted—”
“Graham took the evening off,” Merrick offered.
“And all’s well with the world. Port or brandy, Stephen?”
“Don’t touch the port, sir,” said Merrick helpfully. “Graham waters it.”
“Brandy, then. Thanks.”
“I spoke to Haining,” Crane told Merrick, returning to get a drink for himself. “He was—” He stopped, and gave a short, dry cough. “He was entirely—” He broke off again, coughed harder. “Blast this—” He made a hacking noise in his throat. Then another. His face convulsed and his hands came up to his neck.
“My lord?” said Merrick.
“Crane?” said Stephen.
Crane was gripping his throat with both hands, shaking his head, his skin suddenly white. He made an appalling retching sound and doubled over. His face distorted with horror, he gave a choking cough and opened his mouth, and Stephen saw that a mass of pale hair was bulging out up from his throat and between his teeth.
“Christ.” Merrick stared with disbelieving terror.
Stephen was up from his chair and over, skidding to his knees, grabbing Crane’s head with both hands and pulling him to the floor. “Lock the door, Mr. Merrick. Don’t panic, Lucien. Breathe through your nose. Can you breathe through your nose?”
Crane sucked in a half-stifled breath through his nostrils. It whistled horribly. He made another dreadful retching choke and shook his head frantically under Stephen’s rapidly moving, searching hands.
“Keep still. Try not to panic.”
Crane heaved, and a matted double handful of hair spilled out of his mouth. His face was a dark, mottled colour now.
“Fucking do something!” said Merrick savagely.
“I...am.” Stephen’s hands were over Crane’s skull, fingers wide and clawed, digging in. “In five, Lucien. Three, two,one.”
Crane convulsed, spine snapping back. Stephen lunged after him and grabbed his shoulder. “It’s over, it’s over, let me get this out—stay still, I don’t want to hurt your throat. Here.” He started pulling the hair out of Crane’s mouth, movements precise and gentle, as they knelt on the floor opposite one another and the shaking man sucked in deep desperate breaths through his nose. “Steady. It’s all right, I’ve stopped it. Sit down. Mr. Merrick, he’ll need a drink.”
“Him and me both,” said Merrick. “What the fuck was that? Sir.”
“Attempted murder,” said Stephen. “Keep still, Lucien. It’s nearly over.”
CRANE KEPT STILL, ASinstructed, fighting the urge to vomit. He could still feel the dry scrape of hair inside his throat, and worse, though Stephen’s prickling fingertips were only just inside Crane’s open mouth, he could distinctly feel the sensation of gentle movements deep down inside his throat, scooping out the last of the hair. He closed his eyes and tried not to gag.
