The familiar voice sparked a painful shot of urgency. Either Humphrey had escaped, or he had somehow eluded the officers, but whichever the case, I needed to move, needed to ensure he could not have his "fun" yet again. I pushed off the mattress, aiming for the revolver Holmes had left in the corner.
"Watson!"
Holmes' hand landed firmly on my shoulder. Two rapid steps reached the end of the hall, and the door swung open to reveal Humphrey, an older man who looked very much like him, and Sir Walter.
Sir Walter. Our host and client would have received most of the story from Brent. He would undoubtedly attack Humphrey, not lead him to us.
Which meant the remorseful young man must be Gideon, Humphrey's twin.
"My apologies, Doctor. I should 'ave considered the resemblance before speaking."
"It's—alright." My stitches protested the sudden movement to make the sentence falter. I barely smothered a flinch. "I would much rather you visit than your brother."
"I would agree." A faint smile revealed the coming humor. "I also would much rather visit myself than see Humphrey. You figured it out, then?"
"That you have an 'evil twin'?" My own amusement escaped in my phrasing. I did not often find myself in one of my yellowback novels. "I did, as did Holmes, I'm sure, though we have not yet discussed it. 'Spiegel' is a rather obvious nickname. Hello, Lord Thrombak, Sir Walter."
"Call me Greyson," Gideon's father corrected with a nod of greeting. "Walter told us about everythin' you did this week. While we very much appreciate the assistance, I wish you 'ad not taken injury in the process."
"It will heal. You are unhurt?"
"Indeed, though I suspect I might never feel full again." A gesture thanked Holmes for the chair as my friend took the edge of my bed. "Cook and Brent are fine as well, and Kemble's injuries are already mostly 'ealed. That boy was a lifesaver during this, stealing food from under Humphrey's nose to take to each of us. I still do not know how he did it for so long."
"Cook had stored some nonperishable foods in the stable," Holmes supplied. "When that ran out, Kemble waited for Humphrey to go for supplies and helped himself to whatever Humphrey's haphazard packing had left loose."
"And did an excellent job at remaining unnoticed," I added when Holmes did not continue. A look conveyed the long-standing discussion of voicing a compliment that I would not raise in front of the others. "Humphrey only caught him when he tried to leave the grounds, and he escaped that encounter quickly enough to avoid more than a few painful welts."
A pain with which I sympathized. The twitching muscle in my lower back made me adjust against the pillow.
"…arrived well before sunup that mornin'," Greyson was saying when I focused again. "I recognized him, o' course, and Gideon has known 'bout 'Umphrey for several years, but 'is behavior…" The sentence trailed away. "We all would have followed my Leslie if we 'ad tried to fight back," he continued simply. "Gideon joined me in my room so confidently Humphrey never guessed 'e still had his own, and Humphrey located Brent before Brent started his day. 'E would not have known who 'ad locked 'is door and why if not for sharin' a wall with Cook."
"Did Humphrey tell you what he wanted?" Holmes asked.
"Purely to be 'imself," Greyson answered seriously. "From torturin' small animals to settin' up the other children to hurt themselves, that boy has always been…off. The doctor declared him insane after Leslie's death, an' I sent him to the asylum both to protect Gideon and to try to get him some 'elp. It seemed to work. He slowly improved over the years, but th' same examiner that declared him cured lost 'is life when Humphrey decided to celebrate. Humphrey avoided execution at age eleven solely due to 'is age. I doubt the courts will be so lenient this time considering he spent that entire trial talking about how much fun he had had with both his mother an' th' doctor."
"His mother," I repeated. Some of his ramblings had made me wonder, but— "He killed his own mother?"
"He did. Purposely and wi' no shame. Police arrested 'im—at five years old—within the hour. Leslie never recovered enow to learn the truth of the encounter."
I could only shake my head. My rounds had taken me into both Bedlam and the nearest prisons several times, but while I had seen many hardened criminals, I did not often come across one so young with absolutely no conscience.
Sir Walter stood from where he had been leaning against the counter, a gentle hand landing on Greyson's shoulder to herald a topic change. "But enough of the past," he said quietly. "Are you well enough to move, Doctor? You know you are welcome in my home, and I imagine my guest room would be a more comfortable place to recover than here. Doc doesn't have nearly as big a library."
Effort forced laughter into a wide grin. I would recover faster with more to do than stare at the wall or argue with Holmes, but while Holmes clearly shared my desire to leave, his frown halted my reflexive "yes." I shifted one way. Then the other, pretending to debate the offer even as I studiously hid a wince when several twinges warned against moving much more.
"I could tolerate the carriage," I decided, "provided we go slowly."
"We can do that," Greyson promised with a grin. "Gideon an' I will take any excuse to spend more time out o' doors, as will Stewardson, I'm sure. Walter, do you want t' check with Doc?"
"Certainly." He disappeared through the door, though Holmes stared at me rather than start gathering our things.
Are you sure? that asked, gaze darting to the deepest cut protesting my shoulder's spasms. I nodded. Yes, I was sure—that I wanted out of this room. Comfortable enough or not, I would grow bored within a day while my injuries would probably keep me abed for two or three. Better to go now while the offer remained.
He still frowned, clearly worried I pushed myself too far too soon, but less than a minute retrieved the bags he had thrown into a corner yesterday. Holmes' silent request made Greyson take my other side, and I barely avoided crying out when he brushed one of the more tender lacerations.
"Sorry."
"S'alright." A deep breath partially eased the discomfort, but aches, tugging, and true pain ricocheted up and down my back with every step. I kept my eyes on my feet. "I thought Stewardson was on holiday?"
"He was." Gideon's amusement colored the words, though whether from watching us turn sideways to fit through the door or from the story I could not tell. "He cut his trip a few days short due to weather, and early this morning, he tried to use his key to reach his rooms without waking anyone. Brent about tackled him before Stewardson walked through the light of a window."
That would have made an unpleasant welcome home, but the two stairs in front of Doc's practice made a smile take the place of a reply. Doc himself hurried up behind us as I painfully cleared the second one.
"You are up sooner than I anticipated!"
And probably than I should be, though I would not say as much. How such shallow injuries could affect every movement had never ceased to amaze me. A flesh wound should not leave me struggling to walk, no matter if that flesh wound had been repeated over every square inch from shoulder to hip, but I leaned heavily against the carriage's oversized wheel, fighting to both catch my breath and conceal the niggling thought wondering if I could reach Rossenthwaite. That had hurt more than I had expected.
Doc caught up before I could force myself upright. His practiced glance noted quite a bit more of my discomfort than I hoped Holmes saw, but he did not comment, thankfully. Gentle fingers peeled the bandage on my shoulder aside. "Any pain while walking?"
Not enough to admit. "Minimal," I answered shortly, "and only if I move too quickly. Standard practice for the stitches in my shoulder?"
"Provided you keep it clean," he agreed. Barely a moment stuck the tape back into place. "Stay abed as much as possible for a few days until those are well scabbed, but you should heal without a problem."
Good. Gideon held the door for me while Doc gave Holmes last minute instructions—something about coming back to remove the stitches if I could not do it myself—but even Sir Walter's assistance could not find a good position on the seat. Holmes knelt in front of me when I finally put my back to a corner.
"Watson?" Alright?
I hummed a yes but shifted to give him room to sit beside me. Someone would end up on the driver's bench with Stewardson if I took an entire side, and at least the angle prevented more than two places from touching the wall. Sir Walter, Greyson, and Gideon sat across from us before a thump on the carriage roof eased us into motion.
And made me readjust again. Bumpy roads jarred my back, and hard walls prevented me from growing truly comfortable. A small blanket padded my shoulders and let me rest my head on the wall at the same time. Perhaps I could find a position just good enough to let sleep make the ride go faster?
Only if Holmes let me. Greyson and Sir Walter studiously ignored my efforts with a discussion of tunnels, gardens, and something about mapping the manors, but long fingers gripped my wrist the moment my eyes closed. I forced a scowl.
"What?"
Silence answered. Either he had disregarded the question, or I had missed his reply, but I did not try to learn which. Turning my head found a better position, and I drifted away.
Just one more chapter to go!
