Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #3)(38)

"You're right." George petted her hand. "A very clever suggestion."

"Mrs. White is not acting alone," Lady Preston said. She did not seem to notice that George and Adelaide were still touching. Her hard gaze locked with mine. "Follow her and find out who her accomplice is. Stop them before they can do more harm to my son."

"I will. I promise you, Lady Preston, I will not let them succeed." If only I felt as confident as I sounded.

She blinked rapidly and her gaze softened. "I know you will, Miss Chambers. You've been very good to us, and to my boy."

Lady Preston and Adelaide alighted from the coach and bid us farewell. George watched them go until they were out of sight.

Another hour passed before Mrs. White left number twelve Grosvenor Street. She walked to Oxford Street then hailed a passing omnibus that swerved out of the traffic to collect her. We followed in the carriage, stopping well back every time the omnibus let passengers off. It traveled through the suburbs at a fast clip and by the time Mrs. White finally stepped off, it was obvious she was heading to Leviticus Price's house.

"I'm sorry, George, but it does seem like he's involved after all."

"Perhaps," he said on a sigh, "but I still think Blunt is very much involved too." He got out of the carriage and offered his hand to assist me down the step.

"As do I."

We followed her to Price's house, but turned our backs when the door opened, so that we would not be seen.

"Now what?" George asked. "Should we knock first or simply burst in?"

"Unless you want to break down the door, I suggest we knock."

"Wait a moment." He returned to the carriage and reappeared a moment later, patting his hip.

"You've got a pistol under your jacket?"

"Of course. Do you want the other?"

"No, thank you. I'll leave the shooting to you. Let's hope it won't be necessary."

"I couldn't agree more."

We knocked on the front door. It was a long time before the landlady answered it and from her harried expression, she didn't look very pleased to have visitors. I quickly placed my foot inside so that she could not slam the door in our faces.

"What do you want?" she whispered, thrusting her prominent chin at us.

"Answers," George said.

"We are busy. Go away." She spoke with an accent. I'd noticed it before, but this time it seemed more pronounced, as if she'd been attempting to hide it previously but decided against the ruse now.

"We know what you're doing," George said.

"I am standing here waiting for you to leave. That is what I am doing."

I'd had enough. We had not come so far to walk away without answers and I refused to be intimidated. Besides, if we didn't get answers here and now, we'd be at a dead end.

George seemed to have the same idea. He pulled out his gun.

The landlady rubbed her hands down her apron and the nostrils in her sharp nose flared. She stepped back to let us in.

George insisted on going up first. I followed close behind, turning often to see what the landlady was doing. I didn't trust her, but she did not attempt anything untoward. At the top of the stairs, George pushed open the door to Price's parlor.

"They have a gun!" the landlady shouted before we could speak. "I could not stop them."

"Good lord," George murmured, taking in the scene in the small parlor.

I gasped and clapped a hand over my mouth as bile burned my throat. Mrs. White stood over the half-naked figure of Blunt, lying on the sofa, what appeared to be a brass syringe in her hand. It was poised to plunge into his bare arm.

"What are you doing?" I cried.

"I think I know," said George. He aimed the pistol at Mrs. White. "Don't move."

"No!" Blunt cried. He tried to sit up but fell back to the sofa. His face was pasty white and glistened with sweat. He was in the grip of opium withdrawal again.

"It's not what you think," Mrs. White said. Her hand trembled and the syringe was in danger of stabbing Blunt by accident.

"Put it down slowly," I said.

She pulled her hand back but did not let go of the syringe.

"What's in it? What are you injecting into him?"

"It's a...medicine," she said through lips stretched into a grim line. "To cure him."

Price sat on a chair near Blunt's head. His face was as gray as his long beard and he looked much older than the last time we'd seen him. The hands resting on the arms of the chair were paper thin and as wrinkled as dried prunes. He didn't speak but watched the proceedings with interest.

"Cure him?" George asked. "What do you mean?"

Mrs. White seemed to be the only one capable of speaking. Or the only one with answers. "We're going to cure him of his addiction," she said. "It's the latest treatment."

"Don't shoot her," Blunt pleaded. He tried to get up again but flopped back into the cushions once more. He breathed heavily, and his face suddenly distorted with pain. He gripped his stomach and moaned. I expected him to throw up at any moment into the bedpan placed on the floor beside him. As awful as the sight was, I didn't dare look away.

Mrs. White and Price exchanged unreadable glances. Then she pressed the syringe against Blunt's arm.