Chapter Eighteen

“Doom Under Glass”

1.

“Miss Somerset! Annabelle! Where are you?”

Annabelle scrambled out of the air duct and replaced the grate. Dolan’s voice was near, but it was clear he had not discovered her yet. She didn’t want him coming about when she had so soon made her discovery.

“I’m here! Where are you?”

“Where you’re supposed to be, woman! Come a-running!”

Annabelle made her way back to where she had been working. Dolan was there waiting for her, face stricken.

“We’ve run into something, girl.”

Annabelle was worried. Dolan wasn’t a man who took anything too seriously. Whatever had him so frightened, she could not help but worry. “What is it?” she asked.

“Doctor van den Bosch. Someone tried to poison him and your man, Stone, in the good doctor’s study, no less.”

“Poison?”

“Yes.”

“Is Nathanial―?” It was the bomber, it had to be. If that monster had harmed Nathanial, she would tear him apart.

“Stone’s fine.”

Relief flooded her.

“Then you’ve got to get your men together and start a search! Check the air ducts, Dolan! That’s how he moves about!”

Dolan became rigid. His concern vanished; he stared hard at her for a moment. “How do you know that?” he asked.

“That’s irrelevant. Get your men, Dolan!”

The Irishman shook his head. “They ain’t me men anymore. Hague’s in charge, now.”

“Then we have to talk to him!”

Dolan caught her arm as she tried to push past him. “It won’t do you any good. If you thought Doctor van den Bosch was a son-of-a-bitch, wait until you’ve dealt with Hague. The Devil and the Devil’s misbegotten nephew, that’s them two.”

“Well, what do we do, Dolan? Surely you don’t expect me to sit here and count cans of peaches with you?”

“I should get you somewhere safe,” he said.

“Perish the thought!”

“They just found van den Bosch’s steward in a broom closet with his throat cut! Are you daft? Do you think he won’t come for you, as well? You’ve seen his face, after all!”

Annabelle stabbed an accusatory finger into Dolan’s chest. “So you do believe me!”

Dolan looked away, clearly ashamed. “On my life, woman, I do.”

“Then you also know I can find him. The air ducts, Dolan.”

“I need to get you safe, Miss Annabelle. You don’t know what this fellow is capable of.”

“I know better than you—ˮ

A roaring explosion stopped their conversation dead.

“What was that?” Annabelle asked, already knowing the answer. “An explosion…?”

But Dolan wasn’t hearing her. He stared upward, as if the answer to everything were written on the ceiling. “My God,” he whispered, breath blowing out the wispy strands of his moustache. “We’re under siege.”