Unclenching his fists, Theodore turned back the way he’d come. He needed to ensure the Stantons’ safety. The rat’s extermination would have to wait. For now.
As Theodore neared the Gingerbread Gnome, an unearthly stillness pervaded the atmosphere. Gone was the music. Gone was the laughter. Turning the corner, he found the inn’s outdoor dining area deserted and the street vacated. Except for the lone figure of a woman slumped on the ground, clutching a turtle to her chest.
Mrs. S.
Theodore rushed through overturned tables and scattered chairs. Kicking aside trampled gingerbread and shards of porcelain, he knelt by the dear woman who felt more like a mother every day. The woman whose crushed bonnet hung from her neck by limp ribbons. Whose hair was now matted with blood.What the deuce happened in my absence?Where was Clara?
He took a breath. One thing at a time. Assess the wounded. Then gather information about Miss Stanton’s whereabouts.
He placed a hand on Mrs. Stanton’s shoulder. “Are you able to stand?”
Unblinking, Mrs. S. remained still as death. “He just ran. They all just ran ... ran away ... and left us.”
Theodore’s heart caved in on itself.Oh, God, what have I done?His hand retreated. Raked through his hair. He should’ve taken more precautions when that rat scuttled out from the gutter. Confirmed the women were safe before giving chase. A blackened coal of regret clogged his throat, reducing his words to ashes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. S. I never should’ve left you alone.”
“Alone.” A shudder disturbed Mrs. Stanton’s petite frame. “What sort of monster abandons their turtle in the street?”
Exactly how severe was her head wound? He inspectedthe injury on the back of Mrs. Stanton’s cranium, but dark hair matted with blood obscured his view. He withdrew a clean handkerchief from a pocket and searched for water. After locating a pitcher on the table farthest from Mrs. S., he returned to attend his patient. She remained silent as he wiped away the mess of sticky scarlet, but every now and then, she’d stroke the turtle’s shell and shudder.
Once her scalp was clean, Theodore resumed his examination. The wound was shorter than the pad of his thumb. A jagged abrasion. Thankfully, no deeper than the edge of his fingernail. The broken china surrounding Mrs. S. made sense now. She’d been hit over the head, but by whom? And why?
Might the same brute have taken Clara?
Theodore laid aside the pitcher and soiled handkerchief. He needed to get Mrs. S. out of the street and squared away in her bed. That’s what Miss Stanton would wish him to do above all else. Take care of her mum. Now, how to get Mrs. S. to her feet without exacerbating her state of shock? “Does your turtle friend have a name?”
Not a word. Not a flicker of recognition.
God, help me get through to her.“I bet the timid fellow would be more inclined to peer out of his shell if he felt safe. Why don’t we convey him to your room, let him take shelter there?”
The dazed expression dissipated from her eyes as she met his gaze at last. “Excellent idea, my boy. I’m sure the little dear would feel much safer in the chamber pot. The porcelain appeared quite solid. ’Twas twice fired, I believe. Chamber pots that’ve been twice fired are less prone to cracks, you know.”
A smile eased the tension gripping his face. “That is most reassuring.”
Theodore provided her a steady arm as they ascended the inn’s narrow stairwell. Once secure in her room, Mrs. S. placed the timid turtle in the perfectly clean, twice-fired chamber pot. He settled her in bed, propped with many apillow, and placed the chamber pot on a bedside table so the turtle was in her sights. Fred and the kits leapt on the bed, nestling around Mrs. S. tenderly, as if sensing she was unwell.
Pledging to return swiftly, Theodore raced downstairs to the kitchens. His abrupt entry startled two women he presumed to be cook and maid. From them he procured a cold compress and poultice, but unfortunately, no answers. Neither had witnessed the attack, and according to the ruddy cook, those who had were likely long gone or scared silent, but the soft-spoken maid reassured him there was no need to worry as the police were even now being summoned.
He only hoped said police were inclined to forgive the fox debacle in light of Miss Stanton’s disappearance. Surely they’d agree her safety was all that mattered now.
After treating Mrs. S. with the poultice and placing the cold compress upon her head, Theodore sat at her bedside, leather boot tapping wooden planks as he awaited the police. With each passing second, Miss Stanton’s absence—abduction, more likely—grew more worrisome. For what else could prevent Miss Clara Marie Stanton from tending her wounded mother? Nothing, that’s what. Some brute had to have dragged her off, and that brute had to be connected to Forrester. The timing of the two events was too coincidental. Too perfect.
Too planned.
He restrained his fist from flying into the wall. Gah, he was the densest of idiots! That yellow-toothed, flea-bitten, scurvy-scummed rat was the distraction! The bait in a primed trap. One he’d gobbled up like a blind dormouse.
A hand gripped his arm like a vice.
Mrs. Stanton’s eyes latched on to him with wild desperation. “You’ll find her, won’t you, lad? Promise me. Promise you’ll bring Clara back to me unharmed?”
That was a promise he couldn’t make. No matter how muchhe wished otherwise. But hecouldscour the streets for Miss Stanton instead of waiting idly for help that was long in coming.
“I won’t stop searching until I find your girl, Mrs. S. Onthatyou have my word.” Prying Mrs. Stanton’s blanched fingers from his arm, Theodore placed a kiss on her hand. “Wait here with the little ones until I return ... and pray for me. Pray for Clara.”
Back on the street, Theodore found the inn’s elderly proprietor surveying the toppled furniture and debris as he anticipated the return of his grandson with the authorities. Theodore paid for the damages, dipping into the savings concealed in the lining of his overcoat, and requested that a maid be sent to look after Mrs. S. in his absence.
Eyes welling with tears, the innkeeper clapped him on the back and assured him Mrs. S. would want for nothing. Then the man handed Theodore his crutch and the answers to his most pressing questions—there’d been two attackers, and the one who’d taken Miss Stanton fled westward.
Waiting be hanged!
