Chapter 43
It was a fearful sight that met their eyes as they entered the small guest chamber. The bed covers were in a knot, as if there had been a struggle. The bedside table was overturned, and the clay dish that been sitting on it was shattered on the floor, spilling its grisly contents.
Mr. McElroy was sprawled across the floor, his new leg broken into splinters. There was a large bump on his forehead, and blood was spreading from a wound on his arm. Dr. Alton hurried to him, while Evelyn paused in the door. “What happened?” she exclaimed in bewilderment.
“That,” said Constable Morris, “is the question of the day. I was hoping you might have some answers for us.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t. I saw them at breakfast, then I went down the hall to spend time with the Duchess.”
“You’ve not been back to this room since?” Constable Morris asked.
“Not at all! What about Mayson? What has happened to him?”
“He was not here.” Constable Morris’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We can only hope that he was frightened and ran. The other possibilities are far more grisly.”
“Such as?” Evelyn fixed him with a glare.
“That he might have attacked Mr. McElroy.”
“I hardly think that likely,” she said tartly.
“Or that they were both attacked, which is more likely, and that Mr. Rudge was harmed, and then bodily carried away.”
“You will find him?” Evelyn could hear the distress in her own voice.
“We will do our best,” Constable Morris said. “We will start a search immediately. But Mrs. Swinton, with scarcely any information to go on, we will have a hard time of it.”
Betty appeared at the doorway. “Mrs. Swinton, the Duchess… Oh, dear Lord! What happened here?”
“That is what we are trying to determine,” Constable Morris said. “Mrs. Swinton, go on back to the Duchess. We will come talk with you directly. We need to clear the room so that Dr. Alton can work with Mr. McElroy.”
“Come on, please, Mrs. Swinton,” Betty tugged at her arm. “We’s just in the way here.”
Reluctantly, Evelyn let Betty draw her away, but not without one distressed backward glance.
“I will come to you as soon as I know anything,” Constable Morris said. “We will find him, Mrs. Swinton.”
Evelyn entered the Duchess’ drawing room as if she were a puppet on strings and sat down on the ottoman.
“What is it, Mrs. Swinton?” the Duchess asked in alarm. “What has happened?”
“Mr. Rudge is gone, and Mr. McElroy is dreadfully injured.” Evelyn buried her face in her hands, and tried to pull herself together.
“But how can this be? Did you not just see them both at breakfast?”
“I did, and now… Oh, Your Grace I am so dreadfully frightened for Mayson.”
“Oh, my dear. I am sure you are. But this is all very strange, Mrs. Swinton. Why should a cook, even a cook as excellent as Mr. Rudge, be a target of so much malice?”
A sob escaped Evelyn. “It is all my fault.”
“Your fault, Mrs. Swinton? But that makes no sense either. Come, come my dear. How can it possibly be your fault if you have been here with me all morning?”
“I will be breaking a confidence if I tell you,” Evelyn looked up at the Duchess. Her tear-streaked face was so pale it appeared bloodless.
“While I would normally endorse keeping secrets secret, this is hardly the time to keep something to yourself if it can help get to the bottom of this, Mrs. Swinton. Consider me your confessor. I will keep your secrets.”
“It is not my secret.” Evelyn scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands.
