Once the lantern was lit, Thomas said, “Meggie, you will remain with Bernard to, er, protect him.”
“No, he’s not my husband. His head isn’t bleeding anymore. Mr. Leach, you don’t move. Thomas and I will find your wife. Don’t worry. Let’s go, Thomas.”
He could tie her down, he supposed, then just shrugged, raised the lantern high, and left the kitchen, Meggie on his heels.
Thirty minutes later, after looking into every bedchamber on the second floor, they went to the attic rooms where the servants stayed. There were no servants anywhere.
But they found Marie Leach hanging by the neck from a thick rope wrapped and knotted about a high beam in the far attic room. Meggie didn’t pause, just ran to the woman and lifted her up, trying to relieve the pressure of the rope around her neck. “Hurry, Thomas, hurry. I can’t hold on much longer.”
“I’m sorry, Meggie. It’s too late. She’s dead.”
She was holding a dead woman. Meggie gulped, slowly released her, and stepped back. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to accept that she was seeing a dead woman, and such a horrible way to die, but she forced herself. She wouldn’t faint, she wouldn’t moan and groan, she wouldn’t be useless.
She might have weaved a bit, but managed to say in a fairly firm voice, “Tell me what to do, Thomas.”
“Please hold her up again, Meggie. I need to get the rope off her.”
Thomas managed to untie the rope around her neck. “The knot wasn’t well tied,” he said as he eased Marie down onto the single narrow cot in the small bedchamber. He paused a moment, lightly touched his fingers to the dead woman’s cheek, then drew the cover over her. He was silent for a moment.
“You knew her. Well.”
Thomas raised his head. “Yes, this is Bernard’s wife, Marie. I’ve known her since I was a small boy. This shouldn’t have happened, Meggie. Now, there’s nothing more we can do for her. Let’s go downstairs. I have to tell Bernard, and then we must fetch a magistrate.”
* * *
Chapter 18
WAS NEARLY midnight when the housekeeper led Thomas and Meggie into a newly aired bedchamber at Squire Billings’s house at the head of Morgan Cove, just south of St. Agnes Head, a fine property some three miles distant from The Hangman’s Noose.
Once the housekeeper had left them, Thomas said, “Go to bed, Meggie. Squire Billings and I must speak about this further.”
She nodded, saying not a word. She’d not said a word, but she’d hurt and cried deep inside and let the shock burrow deeper than the tears, and now she was exhausted. Within five minutes she was stretched out on her back beneath a marvelous goose-down comforter.
Thomas came into the bedchamber to see that she was all right before going back down to Squire Billings’s library. He held the candle high and looked down at his wife. She was already asleep, her hair spread out about her head on the pristine white pillowcase. She looked so very young, untouched, but that wasn’t true. And now she was no longer innocent—she’d seen a woman hanging by the neck.
He didn’t like this at all. He turned on his heel and went back downstairs.
Meggie awoke the next morning, still alone. No sign of Thomas. She wondered if he’d even come to bed at all. Then she remembered what had happened.
She closed her eyes and tried not to think about Marie Leach. She looked about the bedchamber and didn’t like it. It was dark, the furnishings heavy, Spanish in flavor, she believed, having visited a Senor Alvarez in his home in London during her Season the past spring.
She looked toward the windows, not seeing the heavy draperies, but rather Marie Leach, and she was dead and it was perfectly horrible.
Thomas knocked lightly then quietly opened the door to see his wife sitting on the side of the bed, her face in her hands, sobbing, great ugly sobs that seemed to bow her utterly.
He strode to the bed, picked her up, and carried her to the large winged chair beside the fireplace. He sat down and settled her on his lap. He held her for a very long time.