Page 63 of The Trick of the Treasure
Solomon.The brokenness of his voice moved her to weak tears. But he was lifting her, turning her, his arms so very strong and safe and wonderful… With a gasp and a huge effort, she flung out her own arms and clung to his neck.
Everything flooded back to her. Johnny, who was surely David, his sketches, Samuels the carpenter, who was Clarke, and his dead body on the floor.
Dear God, had she fallen on him when she was struck?
She tightened her grip on Solomon, who was holding her against his chest, his hand at the back of her head, murmuring incomprehensible, soothing words.
Just his voice was enough. She had always loved his voice.
“Clarke is dead. Someone hit me.” It was her voice, just weak and husky.
“I know, my darling, I know. Hold on.”
He rose with unusual awkwardness, taking her with him, and for a moment dizziness overwhelmed her. He set her down gently in an old, upholstered chair in a small parlor.
“The wound has stopped bleeding,” he murmured. “I’ll see to it in a moment. First, I’d better send for the local constable.”
She didn’t ask if he would come back. She knew he would. And, in fact, he was only gone a minute or two, for the street outside was busy at this time of the morning and no doubt his battering at the door had already attracted the neighbors’ attention.
When he came back, he had a bowl of clean water and a cloth in his hands, and he walked with brisk, soothing efficiency.
“One of the neighbors has run to fetch a policeman. What happened?”
“I went back to Jackson’s room,” she said, trying not to wince as he touched the wound in her head.
“Why?” he asked.
She stopped herself just in time from blurting out the truth. She didn’t want him to know yet that David—if he really was David—had denied having a brother. And she certainly didn’t want him to believe that if David came to see him, it was only because she had persuaded him.
“I just thought something was wrong there… Anyway, don’t get cross because the door was open and no one was there. I found sketches there of the crew of theQueen, and Clarke was one of them. I knew then he had to be Samuels, so I sent you word… Did you get the message?”
“I did. Janey overpaid the boy who brought it.”
“Does no harm to have willing helpers and messengers scattered across the city.” She swallowed. “The door here was open, too, though something was impeding it and I couldn’t get in at first. It was Clarke’s feet. I knelt beside him to see if he was still alive—he was cold; I knew he was dead—and then someone moved behind me, and before I could turn, he hit me.” She shuddered. “I fell on him, didn’t I?”
“Just on his arm. He didn’t mind.”
In spite of everything, a snort of laughter surged up. It might have been hysterical, but something lightened in Solomon’s intensely focused eyes.
“Who hit you?” he asked after a moment.
She shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. “I don’t know. I didn’t see.”
“You saidhehit me.”
“I’m making an assumption. I feel better about being bested by the stronger sex.”
“So where didhecome from?” Solomon asked. “What was behind you?”
“The front door.”
“Then he wasn’t in the house already. Do we havetwoattackers, then? Someone who shot poor Clarke and scarpered, leaving the door open? And then another man who hit you and then departed, carefully locking the door behind him?”
“Bizarre,” she admitted, frowning, grasping at impressions and memories. “There were feathers in the hall.”
“Well, it wasn’t an armed bird who shot him. I think we need to let a doctor see this. It might need stitches.”
It said a great deal about her weakness that she did not object either to the doctor or, after the constable had taken their names and addresses, being taken home and carried into her own establishment via the mews.
