Page 21 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 21

T HE BORROWED P LANE M ANOR CARRIAGE dipped as it hit a rut on the darkened streets of morning’s twilight. Lydia’s shoulder brushed against Detective Lawson’s, stirring the unease in her stomach. She shouldn’t have come. But how could she stay home and sleep? If indeed that fitful twisting and turning of her mind could be called sleep. The moment Detective Lawson knocked on her parents’ door to summon Papa as coroner, she’d known.

Her words had killed another person.

In her foolish need to see what horrors her pen had wrought, she’d pressed to join until Papa and Detective Lawson acquiesced. Neither man would share which of the remaining four victims had met their end, but as the carriage turned onto Main Street, she knew.

The derelict row house of Samuel Ross sagged beneath the weight of the horror that stood within.

God, forgive me. That man’s fictional demise had been her most disturbing one to write, but she’d done it nevertheless. The vile, evil monster that was her soul had deemed torture and a lingering execution the only sorts of justice Mr. Ross deserved. Where had been her mercy—or her conscience, for that matter? It should have rebelled at such a callous, hideous thought. Had she really learned to strangle it so much that it had gasped its last? Were her heart and mind so degraded that, even now, the Lord had given her over to depravity and washed His hands of her?

No. That was a lie straight from the devil. She’d repented, and God had promised to help her change. But could she change when the stench of her own wickedness spilled out into the streets from the attic above?

The carriage stopped on the opposite side of the street from where the windows and doors stood flung open. Death mingled with the mist to haunt the air with a foreboding that warned all to turn back. Even with a handkerchief pressed over her nose, the rot seeped into every fiber and breath.

How many days, hours, and minutes had Mr. Ross suffered in the sweltering heat of a summer attic, dying of hunger and thirst while relief lay in sight but forever out of reach?

This wasn’t justice for those poor, abused, and neglected children. This was revenge.

No wonder a vigilante as deranged as Billy Poe had thought her a perfect match for him. It was only natural that one monster should be attracted to another.

“Do not get out of this carriage.” Papa did not wait for her agreement, but grabbed his bag and hopped to the ground.

For once, she had not the slightest objection. She’d lost her courage to face her sins almost as soon as she’d entered the carriage.

“I’ll station an officer to stand with you once I get inside,” Detective Lawson said. “You won’t be alone.”

Gooseflesh pricked her skin.

Though he’d meant his words for comfort, they reminded her that Billy Poe likely watched her. A glance around revealed neither Marcus nor Mr. Clemens, but a small group of curious gawkers with cloths over faces gathered nearby. Any of them could be Billy, should she be wrong about his identity.

She wrapped a hand around the horseshoe she’d nabbed from Theresa’s carriage house. It wasn’t a great weapon, but it would give her punch more potency if she needed to slug Billy.

An officer staggered outside, yanked his face covering down, and heaved near Papa’s feet.

Lydia dipped her chin and took slow breaths to abate the queasiness of her own stomach. How bad must the smell be inside for that to be his reaction?

After a few moments, the sounds stopped, and she sought Papa’s reaction. Ever the kind soul, he patted the man’s back and offered him a handkerchief. Once assured the officer would be fine, Papa retrieved the perfume-scented strip of fabric Momma kept in his bag and secured it over his nose. He glanced at Lydia one more time before going in to see the depths of depravation his daughter’s words had instigated.

Never again would their relationship be restored. Not after he saw what awaited him in that attic. What a fool she’d been. Published mysteries were not worth all that she’d lost. All the lives lost.

The officer, who’d since composed himself, approached the carriage. “Detective Lawson assigned me to watch over you.”

“Lucky you.”

“You have no idea.”

“Is it that bad inside?” By God’s grace and mercy, may her mind have conjured images worse than reality.

Still pale with a tinge of green, the stout man shook his head and shuddered. “You don’t want to even imagine it. It’ll give you nightmares.”

She sat back, nauseated. Five men now had died via her nightmares, with three more anticipating their turn. Her current villain still awaited his fate, but her deadline loomed. Soon the pages that sat on her desk would soak up her ink and sentence a real man to a brutal end.

What was wrong with her? Was she still such an ogre that she’d condemn another man?

Yes, breaking her contract came with consequences, but what were those in comparison to a man’s life?

But maybe she didn’t have to break her contract. What if she changed the victim? After these events, no one would consider Billy Poe a hero. Perhaps it was time for him to experience his own demise and allow for a better detective to rise and take his place.

“Good almost-morning, Richards. I heard we have another Billy Poe body.”

Lydia startled out of her thoughts as Mr. Clemens appeared next to the carriage.

Upon noticing her, he faced her fully. “I didn’t expect to find you here. Come to inspect your handiwork, have you?”

She worked to infuse confidence into her posture. Fear was no option in the face of such evil. “Do not jest with me, Mr. Clemens. I do not approve of this.”

“Tell me.” He leaned against the door of the carriage. “What do you think of Ross getting what was coming to him?”

Did he seek affirmation from her for what he’d done? She’d only suspected he was Billy Poe, but did this serve as proof that he really was the sword behind her pen? Her grip on the horseshoe turned white-knuckled. She would not, under any circumstances, encourage the man further.

“I think his murder excruciatingly vile. I’m horrified to ever have written such a thing. If Billy Poe thinks he is showing me his love through these acts, he is mistaken on what overtures of love should look like.”

“‘Overtures of love,’ is it? Hmmm. What sort of ‘overtures of love’ would the Killer Queen of Romance desire if not these? I doubt she is a woman swayed by flowers, sweets, and poetry.”

She glared at him, determined to stop this madness. “There is nothing Billy Poe could ever do to convince me to love him, but if he should stop his vigilante ways, then I might not kill him off in the next book.”

“Still seeking justice through fictional murder, are you?”

The blood drained from her face—no, her whole body. He was right. Killing Billy Poe in her next book wasn’t any different from what she’d done before. Had she really changed so little? She might have sought forgiveness and repentance within the last few days, but was she so far gone that even God couldn’t make her a new creation? Her stomach churned.

“Clemens!” Abraham’s voice cracked like lightning striking a tree.

Lydia recoiled from the shock of it, and Mr. Clemens jolted upright.

Abraham strode from the house with the force and fury of tornadic winds. Whether coming to her defense or to arrest the man purely for the sake of his job, Lydia didn’t care. She’d never been so grateful to have a man with fists clenched and eyes narrowed storming her direction.

Mr. Clemens recovered quickly from his shock and adjusted his coat before pulling out his notebook. “Ah, Hall. Glad to see you. How about you help a fellow investigator out and allow me a peek into the attic?”

“You’re a reporter, not an investigator. Go home. You’re not welcome here.”

“Can’t. I have a job to do. If you won’t allow me into the attic, what about sharing some details? Anonymously, of course.”

“Go. Home.”

Undeterred by Abraham’s crossed arms and wide stance, Mr. Clemens pressed on. “How would you describe the scene inside? A body chained to the wall? Food and water just out of reach? Just exactly how closely does the scene resemble Miss Pelton’s story?”

Given the speed at which he rattled off the questions, he couldn’t truly expect verbal answers. What was Mr. Clemens’s strategy?

“Was Billy Poe as meticulous as always? Or now that he knows who Dupin is, has he taken to adding his own panache? Perhaps placing chocolates or roses with the dead body as a show of affection?”

When Abraham stiffened, Mr. Clemens’s smile grew.

So that was it. Mr. Clemens was reading Abraham’s unconscious responses. The body had a language all its own, and apparently Mr. Clemens was fluent—just like the Billy Poe she’d penned when she believed him valiant and superior. The flesh-driven part of her wanted to reach out and strangle Mr. Clemens for ruining Billy Poe. However, Spirit-filled conviction demanded she get hold of that murderous thought and discard it. Murder was not justice.

Maybe she was changing. Nevertheless, at the moment, it would be nice to shove aside conviction and give in to her fleshly desire to slug the man.

“Richards, escort him to the station. I will stay with Miss Pelton.” Abraham glared at Mr. Clemens. “Let’s see how you like cooling your heels in a jail cell.”

“Are you charging me with something? Because if not, I’m free to go as I please. You cannot hold me.”

“Detain him as a suspect in Mr. Ross’s murder.”

Clemens shook off Richards’s reach for him. “What? That is an outlandish and falsified reason.”

“Is it? Your description of the crime scene is reason enough.”

“Anyone who’s read her books could describe the scene up there. I haven’t even seen it, and evidently I did a good job of it.”

“Take him in. I’ll be in to question him later.”

Richards gripped Mr. Clemens’s arm. “Come on, Eugene. I’m sure it will get straightened out at the station.”

Mr. Clemens held his ground. “What did I say that makes you think you can blame me?” After a moment of silence from Abraham, his eyes widened and lit with delight. “It was the comment about chocolates and roses, wasn’t it? It’s the only thing not described in the story. So which was it? Flowers or chocolates?”

Abraham pointed toward the end of the street. “Get him out of here now !”

Mr. Clemens rubbed his hands together. “How’s that for romantic overtures, Miss Pelton? It appears the Killer Queen of Romance has found her king.”

No doubt he’d make that tomorrow’s headline. At the rate he fanned the flames of Cincinnati’s fury, she’d be burned alive at the stake before sunset.

Abraham stepped closer, fists clenched and ready to finish the job Marcus had started. That would never do.

Lydia jumped from the carriage and placed herself between the two men. Foolishness, she knew, but she wouldn’t have Abraham getting in trouble for starting fisticuffs with Mr. Clemens, even if Mr. Clemens was Billy Poe.

Lifting her horseshoe-clutching hand, she jabbed a finger of her other hand toward Officer Richards. “Do what you’ve been told, Mr. Clemens. I’d hate to see you hurt.”

Mr. Clemens eyed the piece of iron and laughed. “Are you trying to threaten me or wish me luck? Because I have to say, that is the oddest weapon I’ve ever seen.”

Abraham reached around her and plucked the horseshoe from her hand. “Go with Richards, Clemens. The more uncooperative you are, the guiltier you seem.”

Clemens glanced toward the row house, and his face lit with excitement. “Ah, so he left roses for her. A far cry from the earlier wildflowers.”

Lydia stepped back, colliding with Abraham. There was no way he could have known about the wildflowers. Tipsy had most of them eaten before even she arrived.

Mr. Clemens really was Billy Poe.

Detective Lawson joined them, carrying a vase of pristine roses, their beauty defiled by the stench of decomposition. “You’re not welcome here, Clemens. This is an active investigation. You can get your details at the station once we’re done.”

“I’ve already instructed Officer Richards to escort Clemens to Central for questioning.” At Detective Lawson’s responding scowl, he added, “He knew about the flowers.”

“I only suggested there might be flowers or chocolates in response to Miss Pelton’s enlightening comment.” Mr. Clemens snagged a rose and sniffed it before making a face and extending it toward her. “You wanted overtures. It appears Mr. Poe is quite ready to give them. A man doesn’t like to be rebuffed, so I’d be careful of your next move. Billy Poe has already proven himself unstable.”

When she didn’t accept the flower, he dropped it to the ground.

“What a shame. It appears I will have to spin this as a tale of unrequited love.” He tsked and strode off with Officer Richards.

Lydia remained rooted against Abraham, afraid that if she pulled away from the strength he provided, she’d collapse. Would it not add to the scandal of the morning, she’d steal a page from her romance novels. She’d turn around, bury her face into his coat, smell his masculinity—perhaps a sandalwood or bergamot cologne—and allow his arms to wrap around her in a protective barrier from the horror that surrounded them.

“For a man as smart as Billy Poe seems to be, Clemens sure is painting himself guilty.” Detective Lawson shook his head. “Unfortunately we only have circumstantial evidence, and he’s smart enough to cast reasonable doubt if this were to go to court. We can’t do anything. Yet.” He shifted the vase to his other arm and retrieved a note from his pocket. “Mark my words, he’s starting to slip up. It won’t be long and we’ll have him, and this is the first nail to his coffin.”

Lydia accepted the note with trembling fingers and unfolded it.

Abraham snagged it from her hands. “It serves no purpose for you to read it.”

While she appreciated his attempt to shield her, not knowing would make it worse. She turned and faced him. “I have an overactive imagination. It is best that I know the words rather than guess them.”

His lips firmed into a hard line, but he flipped it open and read it aloud to her. “‘To my Killer Queen. A gift to you as proof that I’ve long held you in regard, even before I knew who you were.’”

Her gaze flitted to the building. Did his words mean that Mr. Ross had suffered for more than a week? With the August heat, the need for a drop of water must have been of the utmost torture as he eyed the whole glass—perhaps watching in desperation as condensation rolled down the side and soaked into the wood.

Curse her imagination. It conjured the scene, the whole experience, with morbid clarity.

Though she shouldn’t, she leaned her head against Abraham’s chest. Instead of the soothing and romantic scent of sandalwood or bergamot, all she smelled was rotting flesh.

His arm came around her, and he squeezed her shoulder in a familiar yet brotherly way. Given that he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as her less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d take the kind gesture and try not to allow her mind to spin it into something more. “Do you want me to stop reading?” he asked.

She shook her head and croaked out a no just in case he couldn’t determine her answer.

He continued. “‘Ross suffered less than he deserved, but thanks to you and me, at least his children will endure it no more. Dead bodies don’t make for the greatest declarations of love, but I hope the justice I have served and these flowers will assure you of my unwavering ardor. Until we meet again, stay home—even from church. Stepping in to rescue you was an honor, but an unnecessary risk. It’s easier to keep you safe at Plane Manor. Ever yours, Billy.’”

“What a horrid note.” Tears stung her eyes and clogged her throat.

Glass clinked against wood, and she lifted her head.

Detective Lawson straightened from setting the flowers inside the carriage. “The only person who has ever called her the Killer Queen of Romance is Eugene Clemens, and he’s the one to have stepped in to rescue her from the Keatons. It’s not enough to arrest him, but it’s a start.”

“I don’t think it’s safe for Lydia to remain here.” Abraham’s voice rumbled against her ear. “I’ll escort her back to Plane Manor and finish out the night there.”

“Lydia, is it?” Surprise and incredulity lilted Detective Lawson’s voice.

The bob of Abraham’s throat pressed against Lydia’s head. Obviously that had been a slip of the tongue.

She pushed away from him and swiped at her eyes. After a sniff to stop an embarrassing stream from her nose, she faced Detective Lawson. “Yes. I insisted that he call me by my Christian name. You should as well.” She extended the offer more as a cover to the faux pas than out of genuine desire, but it couldn’t be helped.

Detective Lawson glanced between them. Disbelief and suspicion crinkled the corners of his eyes. “If that is to be the case, then you must refer to me as Talbot.”

“Thank you, Talbot. I’m sorry to have insisted I come, only to return so quickly.”

He waved away her apology. “I will take her, Hall. You should head back home and rest.”

“You just arrived at the scene. You should give it your experienced eye. I’ve already been here long enough for putrefaction to seep into my skin.” Abraham pressed a hand to her back and directed her toward the carriage. “We’ll compare notes when we meet later.”

Detective Lawson frowned but did not argue further. And was she ever glad for that. He was nice enough, but Abraham was the man she wanted by her side right now.

The death flowers blocked her entrance to the carriage. What a diabolical display of romance. She picked up the vase with her fingertips to minimize contact. Those foul blooms were an appropriate display of Billy Poe’s love. He’d taken something beautiful and meant for good and transformed it into something that she would forevermore revile. She transferred the vase to the ground, then settled herself on the bench. Let the rats find and devour them.

Abraham joined her on the same bench, leaving the opposite one empty. He adjusted his truncheon so it didn’t smack against her as he shifted. A flush of warmth crept through her body.

This is not a scene from your romance novels. Stop. Don’t let your mind go to hand-holding and secret kisses.

Drat. It was a mistake to even scold herself. She sat on her hands and clamped her mouth shut. She would behave. No lacing fingers through his and definitely no daydreaming about Detective Darcy finding a bride.

“Take care, Hall.” Detective Lawson picked up the abandoned vase. “There is no guarantee Clemens didn’t give Richards the slip, and I fear what he might do if he discovers there is any familiarity between you two. Jealousy is a dangerous emotion.”

Abraham didn’t deny the familiarity but nodded. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

It was a valid concern. How many times had she employed jealousy as a villain’s motive? She sidled closer, hoping neither man noticed, and retrieved the horseshoe from where it sat between them. It wasn’t much, but if necessary, she’d protect Abraham and deliver some bad luck right to Billy Poe’s face.