A maid answered with a confused smile. “Sir?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Willmott.”
“I am afraid he is—”
“About to ring your neck.” This from the man himself, who gently shoved the maid aside with a pinch-lipped look. His wig was gone, and without the cascading brown locks, he appeared a little smaller and a little softer in the face.
More fatherly.
Husbandly.
“See here, McGwen, this is outside of enough—”
“It concerns Elisabeth.”
“Which I have already told you I know nothing about.”
“Then ye will have no qualms in speaking with me.” Tom braced his legs. He’d fight his way in if he needed to. He’d do whatever it took.
Mr. Willmott must have sensed as much. “You better have a bloody imperative reason for cutting up my peace.” He mumbled a complaint to the maid for allowing pestering little pups to bang down the door at such an hour, then motioned Tom to follow him through the house.
The door of his study squeaked as he barged inside and squeaked into his chair behind a cluttered desk. The room was small. The walls were decorated with unskilled oil paintings, likely done by his twins. Every object in the room, though a little dusty and messy, seemed to hint at some sentimental attachment.
“I want to know the truth.”
“Pah, you little fool, I already told you. What is this about?”
“Mrs. Musgrave says you visited her shop.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted a stovepipe bonnet to set upon the wig I wear when I visit this elusive, ahem,deadElisabeth.” He pressed his palms flat on his desk. “What do you think I was doing?”
Tom bit the inside of his cheek. The same doubt pulled through him.Not him.It couldn’t be. Too many things that didn’t fit.
“It seems you have succeeded, yet again, in bothering me with trifling matters that are none of my concern. I am justice of the peace, McGwen. Not your guardian angel.” He stood. “Though I doubt it is of little consequence what I was doing, I visited Mrs. Musgrave’s shop to pick up blue velvet ribbon for Lydia. Is that satisfactory, or should you like me to fetch my daughter to attest to this purchase?”
“No.” The word rushed out on a wave of guilt. He should not have come. This was preposterous. His connections linking Elisabeth to the wigged man to the letters to the apothecary shop … they were all weak and falling apart.
“I am sorry.” Tom turned for the door. He took one last widespread glance at the room. “I will not bother ye again.” He reached for the knob … but froze.
Something across the room.
The round side table under the window, where a stack of books and magazine pages littered the crochet doily. A paper wolf peeked out beneath the hardbacks. Part of a pussy cat. A rooster.
His mouth dried.
The remaining worn pieces of Elisabeth’s cutout collection. Mr. Willmott was a liar.
CHAPTER 23
“What is it?” The attic bedchamber was small, windowless, and warm.
Too warm.
Sweat beads already formed along Uncle’s hairline as he drew the patchwork coverlet up to Tillie’s neck. “Water,” he barked.
