She knew what needed to be done, and she hurried down the hallway and rapped on a door. The footman who'd brought them up when they decided to stay, told her these rooms were occupied by the captain and his son.
No one answered, but she wasn't deterred. She knocked harder.
"Cuffe. Come to the door this instant."
Her friend Violet Truscott and the women who worked together in running the Tower House told her she had an excellent angry mother's voice when she chose to use it.
"Open this door now!"
Dark eyes appeared as the door opened a little. A shock of hair hung over his face.
"You didn't give me up to him," Cuffe said.
The tremble in his voice made her want to pull the child into her arms, but she held back.
"A man could have died down there," she said sternly, pushing the door open. "Mr. Barton was in no position to defend himself. Is that what you were after? Did you go down there to kill him?"
Cuffe stabbed at tears that sprang onto his cheeks. He shook his head. "No, I didn't. I didn't know that would happen. He told me it was a lark, to rile up the fellows who watch the ward at night. And he gave me this to do it. But I don't want it."
Jo stared at the coins in the boy's open hand. "Someone paid you to do this?"
Cuffe nodded.
"And he told you to put the tam on Mr. Barton's bed?"
He nodded again.
"The man who put you up to this is evil," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "This was no lark. He wanted to hurt people and he used you. He didn't succeed. But that doesn't mean he won't try again."
This was more dire than what she first assumed. Jo deeply regretted not having Wynne there. It was important for Cuffe to go to him and tell him.
"This evil man could use someone else. Or even do it himself. We need to stop him," she told him in what she hoped was a stern tone. She needed to make him understand and do the right thing. "You have to stop him. You must go to your father and tell him who was behind this."
He shook his head. "I'll tell you his name, and you tell the captain."
"No," she replied firmly. "You did wrong, Cuffe. You put those men downstairs at risk. It's your responsibility to tell the truth."
He stood perfectly still for a long moment, staring at the floor before he finally spoke. "I don't talk to him."
Jo recalled the frustration Wynne expressed about his son. Whatever reason existed in Cuffe's head to make him want to punish his father, it was none of her business.
"I didn't give you up to him because I believed you would do right . . . on your own," she said. "You're not a child. You're a young man. I barely know you, but I see an intelligent, strong, and independent lad. And I think you already know this is the time to put aside your obstinacy and act as you should."
"The captain will be angry," he whispered.
"That's his right and his duty as your father. A man was hurt tonight," she reminded him. "A disaster will happen if you do nothing."
She dropped her hand from Cuffe's shoulder and looked directly into his eyes.
"You need to decide whether you follow the path that is right or wrong. But I trust that you know which one to take."
Cuffe's chin sank to his chest, but he faced up to his responsibility and stepped out of his room.
"Go find your father and tell him what he needs to know."
As Jo stepped back to allow him by, she glanced down the hallway to see Wynne standing at the top of the stairs.
* * *
He'd barely reached the ground floor when he heard the loud knocking and Jo's sharp commands to open the door. Retracing his steps, he stood at the top of the stairwell, watching her talking to Cuffe.
And Wynne heard every word that passed between them.
Cuffe's face was the very picture of misery as he came down the hallway to him.
"What is his name?" he asked brusquely. "The man who put you up to this?"
"Abram."
"Abram from the kitchens?"
Cuffe nodded.
"Wait in my office," he ordered. "I'll deal with you when I return."
Head down and feet dragging, his son went directly to Wynne's office. Down the corridor, Jo turned and disappeared into her own chambers.
The man had taken advantage of a naive lad to commit what was a deliberate attempt to injure or even kill Barton. As Wynne hurried down the steps, he seethed with anger.
He knew this Abram. An older man from the Inverness. They'd hired him fairly recently to work in the kitchens, deliver food trays, and help the attendants with whatever needed to be done. Because of his work, Abram was perfectly familiar with the peculiarities of the patients in the ward.
When Wynne reached the door to the ward and put the question about the man's whereabouts to the attendants, the last anyone had seen of him was when he took a dinner tray up to Cuffe.
Dermot came out as Wynne was sending two of the men to go and fetch Abram from the staff's quarters on the uppermost floor. Quickly, he explained to his friend what he knew, including what Cuffe had done.
"I hope you didn't punish the lad too harshly. He was manipulated."
"You don't need to make excuses for him," Wynne told him. "I've done nothing to him yet. He's awaiting his punishment in my office right now."
He started for the kitchen in spite of his doubts that Abram would still be there. Dermot fell in beside him.
"Having Cuffe free Stevenson and at the same time direct the attack at Barton was clearly a deliberate move," the doctor said. "Difficult to imagine why he'd do such a thing."
Wynne's thoughts immediately turned to the Bartons. "And how curious that all of this should happen today."
"You don't seriously think his own family would try to harm him."
"We both saw Graham and Mrs. Barton's reaction," Wynne retorted. "But we need to talk to Abram. He told Cuffe it was all a ‘lark', but that's rubbish. Perhaps he harbors a grudge and saw this as an opportunity to get his revenge."
"He was hired at around the same time that Barton arrived," Dermot said thoughtfully.
"We'll know when we get our hands on the rogue."
Wynne could not get the Bartons' reaction to Jo out of his head, however. What exactly was her connection to the family? He worried if she could be at risk too.
"Don't forget, we know nothing of Charles Barton's years as a shipowner," Dermot reminded him. "We don't even know what caused the explosion that eventually brought him here."
Wynne knew very well the hard world of the sea, and the dark side of some who made their living on it. Smugglers who would cut a man's throat for an extra share. Slavers who vilely continued to transport human cargo in spite of the laws banning it. He'd fought against them and hunted them down from the Mediterranean to the coast of Africa to the West Indies. For shipowners, a line existed. On one side, honest living. On the other, violence, double-dealing, and the chance for greater riches. If Barton chose to do his business among the latter, his enemies would hardly be above seeing him battered to death in an asylum ward.
When they reached the kitchens, they found only two young men washing up. The rest of the staff had retired for the night.
"I'm guessing Abram is halfway to Inverness by now," Dermot complained. "But how can we keep Charles Barton safe when we don't know where the danger is coming from?"
* * *
"I should run away now," Cuffe murmured, looking out the window at the rising moon and the patches of forest on the mountains to the west.
This place wasn't home. He turned his back to the window and frowned at the open door. He could be gone, and no one would miss him.
Instead, he sat hard on the floor and slid back against the wall, cramming himself between two chairs.
Only an inch or so was left of the candle he'd lit on the captain's desk. The wax dripping down the side reminded him of the tears on his Nanny's wrinkled cheeks when she'd pushed him toward the solicitor who'd come to bring him here. She said she had no choice. She was getting on in years. Be dying soon. He had to go to his father.
Dying. Cuffe stabbed at the stubborn tears that kept finding their way out. They came every time he thought about her. How many nights had he lain in bed worrying about who was taking care of his Nanny now that he was gone? Bringing her water in the morning, moving the heavy pots hanging over her fire, fetching wood, fixing the roof when it sprang a leak during the hard May rains.
He took care of her as much as she took care of him. And their two-room cottage in the Cockpit village above Falmouth was home. Not this place with its houses of stone and its guards and lunatics roaming the gardens and living right beneath him. This wasn't home.