Page 52 of The Detective and the Baroness

Mitchell escorted her inside and closed the door. “Where are the lights? Do you have electric ones?”

“Only in the parlor. There is gas lighting in the study. It’s where I heard a groan—and I fell.” She pointed to her gown and cape. “Blood.”

“Stay behind me,” Mitchell whispered. “And do not touch anything.”

They made their way a short distance in the hall when Corrine grabbed the back of Mitchell’s coat to make him stop. Taking a handkerchief from her cape pocket, she covered her hand and turned the gas light on. Illumination filled the hallway. Then she pointed to the doorway on the left. “In there.”

When they reached the entrance, the overwhelming odor hit her again, but she managed to stay against the wall’s perimeter until she reached the gas light. Turning the knob, the yellow flame flickered to life and revealed a scene of horror. Two men lay on the floor. One of them was Travis.

Tossing her cape and the handkerchief aside, Corrine’s nursing training came to the forefront, and staying well clear of the pooling blood, she laid two fingers against Travis’s neck artery. His chest was not rising and falling. He had no pulse.

She turned her attention to the other unconscious man. He still breathed. Looking about, she pulled the drapery from the window and folded it several times. “Mitchell, hold this against his wound. It’s there, on his side. There is a revolver at Travis’s feet. I have to check Travis once again. He has been shot as well, more than once, I think.”

When she returned to Travis’s lifeless form, it was plain that any lifesaving skills she had learned, like sternal compressions, would be pointless. Travis had been shot in the chest and above his right eye. There would be no bringing him back. Even though she had wanted out of this marriage, she’d never wished it to end like this. How utterly horrifying.

Corrine turned, looked at Mitchell, and sadly shook her head. “He’s gone.”

Mitchell shook the unconscious man until he groaned. His eyes fluttered. “Someone was here with you. Who was it? Who left you to bleed out? Give me a name!” Mitchell demanded.

“Left me,” the young man rasped. “He left me.”

“Who?”

“Father. The bastard.” The young man started coughing, and a thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die and let him get away with it. Give me a name,” Mitchell urged.

But the young man had fallen unconscious again. Corrine pointed to the hallway. “I am going to ring for an ambulance wagon.”

“It will be too late. The constables can take him quicker. This house is located in Division D, Marylebone, number two district. I know some from this region. Listen, we will be taken in for questioning right away. We tell the truth, but we will leave the loan out of it. They won’t keep us overnight. I assume you do not want to come back here.”

Corrine shivered. “I will never stay in this house again.”

A wagon pulled up to the front door, the bell clanging loudly. “Here, hold this against the wound. I will let them in,” he said.

They exchanged places, and Mitchell grabbed his cane and headed toward the front entrance. Corrine pressed hard against the wound; already, the drapery was soaking through. The bullet may have nicked a vital organ. She could hear a muted discussion in the hallway, and then four constables ran into the room, along with a man in a derby hat and a long wool coat. He was dressed similarly to Mitchell, meaning he was undoubtedly a detective.

The detective pointed to the young man. “Take him to St. Mary’s Hospital.”

Two constables came forward to grab the young man’s arms and legs.

Corrine stepped back. “You must keep pressure on the wound on his left side. There might also be internal bleeding, possibly in his intestines. Be careful with him.”

“Keep him alive, lads. I want a statement,” the detective directed. “And the other man?”

Corrine sadly shook her head.

“Take the wagon, and Wilson, you stay at the hospital,” the detective continued. “Murphy, stop by the station and tell them we need a photographer and an ambulance wagon for the body.”

Corrine cast a glance at Travis. She still couldn’t believe it. All he was now was a corpse to be hauled away.

“Yes, sir.” The constables picked up the young man and headed toward the door.

“The baroness was a nurse for over a decade,” Mitchell interjected. “Lady Addington knows of what she speaks.”

“Tell the doctor or surgeon everything the lady said,” the detective commanded.

Once the men departed, the detective reached into his pocket and took out a notebook and pencil. “So, you’re on leave, you say?” he asked Mitchell.