The Solemn Bell(4)

Pushing that fear from her mind, Angelica tried in vain to sleep. The man upstairs was so angry and loud. He’d begun to shout and curse—not at anyone in particular; she knew he was alone, but it was still so frightening. He was obviously troubled. Possibly dangerous.

Really, she should bar the kitchen door. But, even then, a powerful man could easily break it down and strangle her where she lay. The only way to save herself was to keep him from coming downstairs at all.

Angelica hadn’t known many men in her life, but she remembered Freddie had been perpetually hungry. He could eat three plates of Sunday roast and still have room for dessert. If this man was anything like her elder brother, he would soon come looking for a meal.

Rising off her pallet, she fumbled around for something worth eating, for something she could part with, if only to prolong her life for a few hours more. She gathered some fruit, and went to the basin to wash it. She took a cup from the drying rack, and then filled it with fresh, cold water—it was easy to keep things cold in this frigid place. Most mornings, she had to break the ice in the pitcher just to wash her face.

Hopefully, this clutch of apples would be enough to sustain the stranger. Angelica climbed the stairs from the kitchens to the servants’ corridor. The servants were long gone, of course, but she could pass through these areas without suspicion. Even in a derelict old house, trespassers preferred to keep to the family areas. She felt comfortable enough to walk quickly toward the baize door separating her world from his.

Stopping at the panel, she paused to listen. He was mumbling to himself, talking nonsense. Obviously, this man was distressed. He was injured—she could smell blood on him. But that wasn’t all. He was sick and rotten. He stank of general decay.

She pulled back from the door. Whatever it was that plagued him frightened her. She’d never encountered anything like it before. Honestly, Angelica doubted if this man could physically consume the meager fare she’d brought him. He needed a doctor rather than food.

“Aghh!” His screams echoed through the hallway. “Christ Jesus!”

Angelica heard his boot heels rake the carpet, and the sofa creak and groan as his body contorted. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. His pain was an almost physical thing, heavy and sour in the air. She wanted to run from it.

He would probably die from whatever ailed him. If he died here, she would never get him out of the house. His corpse would pollute her home. The flies would come, just like when the food had first spoiled in the kitchens. He would rot and reek, and the smell would draw animals from the wood. It might even make her ill, too. His death would surely drive her from the only place she called home.

This wasn’t like the urgent, moaning couples who’d entered her house before. They’d wanted nothing more than to please themselves. She could afford to ignore them as they copulated in her mother’s drawing room, or mussed the sheets of her own bed upstairs. Those couples would leave once they were sated. This man, however, needed refuge. He needed what little help she could give. If he died here, he would never, ever leave this place.

Angelica knew she should let him suffer in peace. It was the only way to save herself. But she’d been alone for so long. She knew how it felt to be afraid, with no one to turn to for comfort. At the very least, she should offer him food and water. It would be the Christian thing to do.





CHAPTER FOUR





Brody’s gut cramped, and his body convulsed, spewing vomit down his coat front. It dripped off him and splattered onto the carpet at his feet. He’d been sick so much that it had started to puddle.

He was dying, surely. If he wasn’t, he wished he were. Death would be easy compared to this. Hellfire and eternal damnation would be a kindness. He did not want to suffer anymore. He’d left his service revolver in the car, or else he would’ve ended it all in this forgotten place.

Anything to keep the morphine sickness at bay.

Countless times, Brody had begged for death, only to reach for the syringe when survival loomed eminent. He didn’t like living, but, if truth be told, he was too much of a coward to pull the trigger. Keeping himself doped was the blessed in-between—not quite life, but not death, either. A way to pass the time until nature took its course.

Groaning, he angled himself onto his side, so he could be sick directly onto the floor. He was sorry to ruin such a costly carpet, but the vomit was starting to seep through his tweeds. From the state of the house, Brody doubted anyone would miss the thing, and if they could afford to abandon it, then they could surely afford to replace it. Tonight, he needed his clothes more than anybody needed a dust-caked Turkey carpet.

Though the storm raged outside, the house was surprisingly sound. It was a solid, sturdy place, despite the neglect. Once or twice, he thought he heard mice scraping in the walls, but most of these old country manors were home to far more than human inhabitants. The mice probably shared their space with bats, spiders, and all sorts of creepy-crawlies.

Ever since the trenches, he feared rats gnawing at his fingers and toes. He knew how quickly those insidious rodents could render a corpse unrecognizable. If he died here tonight, he’d really rather not be found half-eaten and peppered with their feces.

A creak of wood paneling just over his shoulder brought his mind back into focus. Another creak. For a moment, he swore the panel shifted. Surely, his senses were playing tricks on him. Rats could not move walls.