Disclaimer: I don't own them, earn nothing from them, and mean them no harm.
Charles managed to wait until the car was stopped in front of the cottages, but just barely. He was opening the door of his home before Mr. Crawley and Inspector Lewis were out of the car. Despite their protests behind him, he burst inside and then stood surveying the front room.
It was still a little warmer than outside. Passing his hand over the stove, he could tell there had been a fire there. Three cups were still sitting on the table with the dregs of tea in them. Someone had certainly been here. He stepped further into the room to look for any other changes and noticed leather bound book on the table beside his armchair. Stepping over to the table, he picked it up and found that it was a journal, a good quality one with thick paper. It would be a pleasure to write in. As he started to open the book the two other men came to the door.
The Inspector admonished him, "Mr. Carson, you shouldn't run off like that. What if they had been here?"
Charles turned back to him and nodded toward the table, "They have been. The stove is still warm. They've not been gone for long."
"What's that you have?" Mr. Crawley asked.
"This wasn't here yesterday. It must be Elsie's gift," he said and then opened it to see that there was an inscription on the inner cover. When he read it, his eyes clouded momentarily and he swayed slightly. Inspector Lewis noticed his distress and came over to take the book from him.
"Charles and Elsie Carson, 14 November 1913, To finish our story," he read aloud and turned to Charles with a curious expression.
Charles waved his hand and said, "A promise that I made to her. I just hope that now…" His throat tightened around the words.
The Inspector spoke softly, "This is not the end, Mr. Carson."
Charles nodded and took the book back from him to study it closer. "There's a page missing from the front."
"I believe this may be it," Mr. Crawley had been examining the room while they spoke and walked toward him from the mantle, holding out a folded piece of paper.
Taking it from him with the steadiest hand he could manage, he scanned the short message and growled low in his throat, "They must have made her write this. She would never leave willingly."
Mr. Crawley took the paper back from his hand and scanned the contents, "Liverpool and then America." He raised his eyes to study Charles's face carefully, "Are you quite sure Mr. Carson? She had already fled once, and I believe she would do anything if she thought it would spare you harm."
His reply was fierce as he snatched the paper back from the other man's hand, "She would know now that this would do anything but spare me hurt. No; they must have made her write this so I wouldn't look for her."
He walked back into the kitchen deep in thought, "But then why leave the cups on the table. Surely they'd want it to look as though she left of her own accord." His thoughts broke off when he noticed that a drawer was slightly ajar. Cautiously, he opened it fully and his heart began to race when he noticed the missing item.
"There's a knife missing," he turned back to the Inspector in a panic, "Surely they wouldn't do anything here, would they?"
Inspector Lewis's gaze shifted to the back door, "Perhaps she ran?"
Charles started in that direction, but Mr. Crawley stopped him, "Mr. Carson, before we go out there, we should check the other room."
He glanced at the bedroom door. If they had done something to her in there…
The Inspector opened the door but stepped back to allow Charles to enter first. Charles took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment to settle his nerves as much as possible and then stepped through the door. His first impression was that it was much cooler in here, and his second was that the bed thankfully looked undisturbed. He crossed to the wardrobe to see that his clothes were still there along with an interesting looking box tied with a lacy bow. The Inspector and Mr. Crawley had followed him into the room and the Inspector spoke from the doorway, "Had you left the window open?"
The curtains blew inward at that moment, and Charles walked toward the window as he answered, "No, we certainly did not. Why would we have done that at this time of the year?"
He pushed the curtains out of the way and what he saw on the window sill caused a cold fury. He turned back to the Inspector, "There's blood here."
Mr. Crawley spoke, "There's no need to jump to conclusions. That could be from anyone."
"Including Elsie," he snapped, turning to him sharply, "We need to start searching outside now."
As he spoke, he started toward the door with determination. Just as he stepped through to the other room, he heard the back door bang open. A tall young man looked over at him in surprise, and Charles glanced down to see that there was blood on his hands and shirt. In a rage, he was to the man in two long strides and had his shirtfront twisted in his fist. He slammed the man against the wall with one hand and hit him with all his force on the chin with the other, once, twice, three times in quick succession. The man raised his hands to push against his chest, but Charles brought his knee up into his groin. He hadn't fought a man since he'd been in the halls and there would certainly be no fighting fair, not when this man could have ended the life of the woman he loved. With that thought his mind clouded with fury and he gripped his throat, squeezing. Vaguely he could feel the Inspector and Mr. Crawley pulling at his arms and back as the man slowly stopped struggling. He ignored them, knowing that he might hang for this, but he would do so gladly if it meant bringing justice for Elsie.
Then he heard something that caused him to instantly release the man, dropping him to the ground.
"Charles, Charles, stop. Let him go. I'm here. I'm fine…"
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