Halting in front of the door she had sought out, she rested her forehead against the wood, both hands clinging to Esme’s wrists and keeping her in place. What she was about to do was a gamble. Emlyn might even call it foolish, but Gwynnie had no choice.
She had seen one man die at Fitzroy’s hands. She was not about to let that man’s wife lose her life, too.
Shifting both of Esme’s wrists to one of her hands, she reached for the handle and turned it, pushing the door open. She didn’t expect to find anyone inside. At this time in the morning, surely the lawyer would be tucked away in his bedchamber. But she was wrong.
At the sound of her entrance, Tombstone jerked his head up off the desk. He had parchment stuck to his cheek and his copper hair was wild about his ears. His eyes widened when he saw her.
“I need your help,” she gasped, halting in the doorway. “I fear… I fear she’s dying.”
“God have mercy!” Tombstone yelled and was on his feet.
Though he may have been fast asleep a few seconds ago, he now leapt across the room toward her, knocking his chair over in the process. Tombstone reached for Esme and lifted her easily. Relieved of Esme’s weight, Gwynnie kicked the door shut behind her, leaning upon it and then slumping down onto her haunches.
Tombstone lay Esme on his desk, shoving all his papers out of the way. He checked Esme’s pulse at her throat. He nodded to himself then crossed to the cabinet in the corner of the room, pulling out the same carved box Gwynnie had seen him use when he attended to the cut Renard had given her.
Gwynnie sat motionless as she watched Tombstone work. He rolled Esme gently onto her side and mopped up the blood on the back of her head.
“Who did this, Gwynnie?” Tombstone looked up from his work, his hands still moving the cotton bundles.
She said nothing and closed her eyes. What could she possibly say that would persuade him to believe her?
“Did you do it?”
Her eyes shot open. “What? No! Why would I be trying to save her life if I had done this to her?”
Tombstone was silent as he returned to his work, laying a thick linen strip across the base of Esme’s head as he bound the wound.
“How is she?” Gwynnie asked quietly, her eyes filling with tears. “Will she live?”
“Her skull isn’t cracked, but there’s a lot of blood. She looks to have been heavily stunned.” Tombstone collected what appeared to be a chamber pot from a cupboard and placed it beside Esme on the desk.
“What’s that for?” Gwynnie asked.
“If she wakes, she’ll need it. I’ve seen such head injuries before. People are often dizzy and sick. Sometimes, the sickness calms. Other times…” He trailed off, not needing to say any more.
Tears rolled down Gwynnie’s cheeks. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hid her face in her hands, suddenly overcome with emotion. Somehow, by the grace of good fortune, she had not been seen carrying Esme to this building, but it might not matter if Tombstone believed she had been the one to hurt Esme.
“Gwynnie?” Tombstone came toward her, but she didn’t look up. Her cries came in great, gasping sobs. He must have bent down to her level, for his hands latched onto her wrists in an attempt to prise them from her face, but she resisted, crying into her palms.
“What’s that smell?” Tombstone sniffed harshly. “That scent…” He hesitated. “What have you drunk?”
“I do not know.” She tried to dry her cheeks, but only succeeded in smearing mud and blood across her skin. “It tasted foul. Sickly sweet, then bitter. I felt sick.”
Tombstone stood. He moved to Esme, checked her breathing, then laid a blanket over her to keep her warm, tucking a cushion from a settle bench under her head. Next, he added logs to the fire and set it alight with a tinderbox, blowing on the flames until they took hold, and warmth spread across the room. Then he opened a cupboard door and reached for a basin of water inside. He pushed up the sleeves of his doublet and dipped a cloth in the basin. He returned to Gwynnie and offered it to her.
“What’s th-that for?” she stammered through her tears.
“You need to clean your face.”
Gwynnie slowly stood and staggered across the room, toward the basin and the cupboard, where a looking glass was propped up inside. When she saw her reflection, her crying became greater than before.
Great smears of dirt on her cheeks and temple were mingled with Esme’s blood, and her eyes were bloodshot. With frantic movements, she tried to remove it all, dipping the cloth repeatedly into the water.
“This thing you drank,” Tombstone said. “Did you lose consciousness?”
Gwynnie halted with the cloth, staring into the water, then nodded.
“Sweet then bitter, you said?”
Once more, she nodded.
“I’ve smelled that scent before, Gwynnie. On the Continent.” At his words, she turned away from the basin to face him. “It’s made of bryony root and opium.”
“Opium?” she whispered.
“The mixture is called dwale. It’s often used in medicine to render a patient unconscious. It helps in surgery, makes it easier.” He stared at her. “Why would someone give you dwale, Gwynnie?”
She bent over the basin of water, suddenly feeling nauseous.
“Quick, sit down.” Tombstone moved to Gwynnie, taking her shoulder and guiding her toward the fire. She knelt down on the hearth rug and leaned toward the flames to warm herself. Tombstone put a pot of water on the fire and added some leaves that he produced from a small wooden box. She didn’t ask what he was doing, but she watched every movement he made, warily. He produced a blanket and placed it around her shoulders. Tugging on the ends, she wrapped it around her body. When the water boiled on the fire, Tombstone took it off and poured it into a glass, proffering it toward Gwynnie. “Drink it.”
She took the glass, wrinkling her nose as she watched the leaves dancing about in the now green liquid.
“What is it?”
“Mint leaves, among some other things. My mother always told me they were good for settling an ill stomach. Drink it. It’s perfectly safe.”
She lifted it to her nose and inhaled, hesitant to drink anything after last night.
