Page 64 of Winterset

Dr. Felton stared at Anna. “You mean, you think someone attacked Sir Christopher?”

“Why else would he have run away from us?”

“This is mad. Why would anyone have attacked your brother?” Dr. Felton asked.

“I have no idea. Why would anyone have attacked Estelle or Frank Johnson?”

Dr. Felton glanced from Anna to Reed, then shook his head. “It seems as if the world has run mad. Who could be doing such things?”

Anna shook her head. The doctor sighed and finished cleaning the wound, then bandaged it.

“Shouldn’t Kit have awakened by now?” Anna asked worriedly.

The doctor shrugged. “It’s hard to say. He got a hard knock. It tore the scalp, and there is a contusion. Normally, I would not have thought he would remain unconscious this long.” He bent, lifting Kit’s eyelids one by one and peering into his eyes. “He isn’t in a coma. I—he almost seems to be deeply asleep.”

He straightened, frowning, and looked at them. “Give him until tomorrow morning and see what happens. It may just be the effects of a hard knock after a few whiskies. Let me know if his condition is unchanged. Here is a powder for his headache. Simply empty the packet into a glass of water.”

The doctor had a cup of tea with them afterward, and then Anna and Reed walked with him downstairs, leaving Kit’s valet to sit with the patient.

As they reached the front door, Reed thanked the doctor for loaning them his father’s journals, then went on. “One thing puzzled us, however.”

“Oh, really?” Dr. Felton turned to him inquiringly.

“Yes. We noticed that there were some pages torn out of the journal.”

“Ah.” Dr. Felton nodded. “I should have mentioned those. Unfortunately, I’m not really sure what was on those pages. My father left the journals to me upon his death, so I could not ask him. I noticed the missing pages, as well. I asked my mother, but she had no idea. She had never read his journals.”

“We thought it might have been pages where he made a mistake in a drawing or something, and so tore it out and started over.”

“It is possible,” Felton agreed. “However, there are other places where he has simply crossed something out. I have given the matter some thought, and what I decided was that there were perhaps records of a patient that he considered too private, too confidential, to be revealed even to his son after his death.” He shrugged. “I am sorry I can be no more help than that.”

“Oh, no, we are very grateful for your help,” Anna assured him.

“Did you get any ideas from the journals?” the doctor asked. “I mean, about who could be copying the killings?”

“No, not really,” Reed told him. “Except that it must be someone who knew enough about the killings to imitate them.”

“I am afraid that might encompass all too many people,” Dr. Felton said. With a slight bow, he bade them good-night and left.

Reed and Anna turned back down the hall. Reed reached out and took her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Anna…about the other day…could we talk privately?”

“Yes, of course.” She led him into the music room, which was nearby, and closed the door, turning to him.

“I wanted you to know—I am sorry I was so harsh with you when you told me your reason for not marrying me. I had no right to blame you. You only did what you thought was right.”

“Thank you.” Anna could feel the anxiety and sorrow that had plagued her for the last few days loosening within her. “It is generous of you to say so. I have thought about it, too, and I see that you were right. It was my fear that kept me from telling you the true reason. I should not have hidden behind the falsehoods I told you. I thought only about myself and my fears, not about you. It was wrong of me.”

“But understandable,” Reed told her. “People have called my family mad for as long as I remember, and though I know that the epithet is untrue, still, it stings.” He paused, then went on. “I would hope that we can be friends now, however, that we will not have to shun each other’s company.”

Anna smiled, her face lighting up. She would not be completely cut off from Reed, would not have to face the rest of her life without ever seeing him.

“I am so glad,” she said. “It is what I want, as well.” It occurred to Anna that she seemed too eager, and she hastily explained. “I—I had hoped that we could continue to try to find the killer. I want to do so even more now that he has attacked Kit.”

“I would like it, too,” he told her.

“I went to talk to Nick Perkins today,” Anna said. “I can’t imagine why I did not think of him before. He is still quite alert and was a young man at the time of the earlier killings.”

“You went by yourself?” Reed frowned.