“She’s powerful good at hiding,” Brogan said. “Kept herself tucked away for years after you were married. I suspect that’s what’s happening now.”
Barnabus had repeatedly told himself that very thing. She wasn’t being held captive by her family. She hadn’t been killed by them or the Mastiff. She was simply hiding.
“None of the Dreadfuls have reported anything?” Barnabus asked.
Fletcher shook his head.
Where are you, Gemma?
A commotion nearby pulled all their attention.
“That’s Lord Chelmsford’s home,” Brogan said.
“Maybe we oughta have a quick gab with Martin,” Fletcher said, motioning them both toward the servants’ entrance at the back, where chaos and shouts were spilling from the house.
A maid was screaming, tears streaming down her face. An older man—the butler, Barnabus guessed—was barkingout orders, his ruddy cheeks a sharp contrast to his pale countenance.
Fletcher never had been one to wait around for people to talk with him at their convenience. He pulled aside one of the maids and spoke firmly but gently. “What’s happened?”
“Claud stabbed him. Took a knife from the kitchen and just stabbed ’im.”
“Who’s Claud?” Fletcher asked.
“Footman here,” the maid said. “Weren’t no reason. No argument between ’em. Just stabbed him.”
Merciful heavens.
“I’m a doctor,” Barnabus said. “Take me to the injured man.”
The maid rushed back inside. Barnabus struggled to keep pace with her in the press of people. They didn’t need to go far, though. The violent scene had played out in the servants’ dining hall.
And the victim was ... Martin.
Barnabus dropped to the floor beside him. Years of training kept him calm as he checked his friend for signs of life. The wound in his back was high enough to have missed his heart and enough to one side to have avoided the major arteries. Barnabus’s next biggest worries were whether the wound had compromised his lungs and whether the blood loss had already proven too much.
He pulled his stethoscope from his bag and popped the earpieces in his ears. He set the bell on Martin’s neck. The man was lying on his chest; his neck was the likeliest place to find a pulse without turning him over.
Fletcher and Brogan were there in the very next moment.
“What can we do?” Fletcher asked.
“Shut up.” Barnabus needed to focus. He was searching desperately for a pulse, knowing if there were one, it’d be weak.
“Stay with us, Martin,” Brogan whispered.
A faint heartbeat. “Found it.” He looked up at the gathered staff. “All the towels or rags you can find. Get his shirt off. Cut it if you have to. We need to put pressure on the wound and stop the bleeding.”
Fletcher and Brogan got Martin on his side, working carefully but quickly to cut him free of his shirt. Barnabus pressed his stethoscope to Martin’s chest, listening to him breathe. No gurgling, which was a good sign. But his breathing was shallow.
He tugged at Martin’s eyelid, wanting to see if there was life in his eyes. “Look at me, friend. Show me you’re still in there.”
His eyes made an attempt at focusing. That was enough.
“He’s still with us.” Barnabus looked up at the butler hovering nearby. “Send someone to the mews to prepare a cart. This man needs to be taken to a doctor’s surgery without delay, but he’ll need to be laid flat to do it. A cart with an empty back.”
The butler rushed off.
Fletcher motioned a footman over. “Where’s the blackguard who did this? Claud, I’m told is his name.”