“Not quite all alone,” Davy stepped out of the shadows. “We don’t leave her, but she goes wild if she sees us. She starts hittin’, hollerin’, generally throwing a fit. Come night, one of us will slip in an’ build a fire. One o’ tha girls will pertend to be you an’ coax her to bed.”
“How long…?”
“Three days,” Constable Brooks replied. “I spirited her away the night that Lord Northbury was injured.”
“Why?” Tiffany frowned at him.
“Because she was in danger. Have you ever looked closely at the knife that is supposed to have been your father’s?”
Tiffany shrugged. “It’s just an old knife. It’s kind of crude, not as nice as the cutlers made up Sheffield way.”
“It is a handmade knife, Tiffany. A one of a kind. There is not likely to be another in all the length and breadth of England.”
“And this means . . .?”
“It means that your father was a blacksmith, a skilled man, or he knew one. Not a nobody who should have been seeking work at inn.”
“I’m still at a loss as to how this should make a difference to me. They are still dead, I am still accused of attempted murder, and Lord Northbury might well be at death’s door.”
Constable Brooks brushed a hand over his face, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners.“Rumors to the contrary, I believe he is in tolerably good health in spite of the misadventure,” he said. “In fact, if you were to call on him tonight, I think you would find that he is happily playing cards with his old friends Quentin and Kenault, with Smithers making up a fourth for them.”
“Truly?” Tiffany whispered.
“Truly,” Constable Brooks nodded. “The gentlemen are there at my request. Like you, I do not find the situation entirely to my liking, and having His Lordship all alone with no one to keep an eye on things but the servants seemed like a possible disaster in the making.”
“Thank you,” Tiffany said. “You set my mind at ease on one score. But what about her?” She nodded toward the clearing.
“That is a problem for which I have few answers. But I think if I had left her in the poorhouse, she would have soon quietly died in her sleep. Even now, I am not certain of her health.”
“What is wrong with her?” Tiffany asked.
“Opium. It was why she grew so strange when you were trying to run the bakery, and where a lot of the money went.”
“Opium? But I don’t understand. How and why?”
“As to the why, she and my wife, rest her soul, were friends. Both were childless, but my Beth was easier with it. She volunteered at the poorhouse because she said that way she could have all the babies she wanted without the pain of havin’ em.”
“Oh!” Tiffany exclaimed. “How kind of her.”
“My Beth was kind,” the Constable said. “And she did her best to stand as a friend for Mrs. Bentley. It was her suggestion that she and Mr. Bentley adopt a child. I’m afraid it did not turn out as well as it might. I’m sorry, my dear.”
“So you felt responsible?”
“I did. I got her out of the poorhouse, because her next stop was the mad house or death.”
“What is wrong with her now?”
“The opium is wearing off. As it does, it creates a kind of delirium. It is my hope that when the poppy is completely out of her system that some of her wits will remain, and that we might get some answers.”
“I don’t know whether to hope that there will be, or to be afraid,” Tiffany said softly, watching Mrs. Bentley slap someone who wasn’t there, then turning to coo as if addressing someone loved. “Right now, she appears to be quite mad.”
The constable sighed. “You might be right to be afraid. But for the time being, we must take care of her. Will you help, Tiffany?”
Tiffany turned to stare at him. “Will I help? She nearly killed me.”
“I know,” Constable Brooks said. “But this time, you will not be alone or in her power. She will be in yours.”
Chapter 41
