Ghost of a Chance

by Cate Dean

  He caught a glimpse of red hair and wide blue eyes before she shot past him. He could have sworn she mouthed an apology. She was forgotten the moment he stepped out of his car and sprinted to the open double doors of the estate.

  A pretty woman stood next to a table at one side of the foyer.

  “Excuse me.” Martin strode over to her, and hoped his hair was not sticking out in all directions. The way she smiled at him told him that he was at least presentable. “I am here for the auction.”

  Her smile faded. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. The auction ended at half past. Would you like to speak with the auctioneer, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He swallowed the bitter taste of disappointment, silently promising to make the rest of Ken’s time at university miserable—if he managed to stay.

  Martin followed her into what looked like an immense dining room, toward a tall, thin man bent over a table facing the rows of chairs.

  “Mr. Tanner.” The man looked up. “This gentleman wishes to speak with you.”

  “Thank you, Hilde.” He straightened, and held out his hand. “Tanner, of Tanner Auctions and Estate Sales.” He frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “Professor Pembroke Martin.”

  “Ah.” His brow cleared. “The archaeologist. I thoroughly enjoyed your latest documentary, Professor. What can I do for you?”

  “I am sorry to be the one to bear bad news, Tanner, but you sold an item that was stolen from me.”

  Tanner’s face paled. “Which item, Professor?” He looked as if he already knew the answer.

  “A Sayer & Brown apothecary jar.”

  Tanner gripped the table. “Do you have proof of ownership?”

  “Will a bill of sale be enough?” Martin pulled it out of his jacket and unfolded the yellowed paper, handing it to Tanner. “My assistant stole the jar from my office, along with the provenance. I hardly blame you for accepting it—he did have all the necessary paperwork.”

  Attention to detail was one of the qualities that made Ken an invaluable assistant. Martin sighed.

  Had made—the fool couldn’t simply tell me he had money trouble—

  He knew why; it was the stigma that had followed him his entire life. Nobility equaled money. As far as Ken was concerned, Martin couldn’t understand his situation. Unfortunately, he understood all too well.

  “Sir.” Tanner’s voice brought him back to the present, and what he did not want to face.

  “Professor, please. Or Martin.” He ran one hand through his hair. “Would it be possible to have a list of the buyers?”

  “I cannot. It is against policy to divulge a private citizen’s information. But,” he rummaged through the sheaf of papers in front of him. “There was a business—an antique shop. I can give you the address of a business, which is public. It would be up to you to broach what you needed to discuss with the owner.”

  “I would appreciate that, Tanner.” Relief spread through Martin, and he took the slip of paper. “The Ash Leaf, Holmestead.” He looked at Tanner. “Where is Holmestead?”

  Tanner smiled. “It’s a pretty village on the coast, just south of here. If you follow the road, you will drive straight into it.”

  “Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  Tanner shook his outstretched hand. “I saw the apothecary jar, Professor. I have a good idea.”

  “Right.”

  He left as quickly as he could, without seeming rude, and sprinted to his car. He took long enough to pull out his mobile and punch Holmestead into his GPS.

  It looked to be about a fifteen minute drive from here. He dropped the mobile into a holder on the dash, shifted into reverse, and swung around, heading for the road that would take him to The Ash Leaf, and hopefully, the answers he needed.

  Please let Holmestead not be related to the detective.

  Six

  Maggie let Spencer go after he helped her unload the Rover, holding him long enough to pull it around back. She wasn’t going to deal with the public lot again. Not on tourist Tuesday, when every bus tour in the Southeast converged on villages like Holmestead.

  Once Spencer was gone, she retrieved the paper handle bag holding her box, and dragged her smallest work table out of the back, setting it up next to the counter. This way, she could watch for customers, and work on the box at the same time.

  There was no way she could wait until the shop closed.

  She gently removed the box from the paper bag, and set it on a cotton cloth draped over the table. The weight surprised her every time she lifted it. Whatever it had been made to hold must have been heavy—or precious.

  She carefully brushed her fingers over the dirt on the top edge of the lid. It crumbled, instead of sticking to her fingers which told her it had been stored in a dry place. Hopefully, the dirt crusting the box had preserved the decoration underneath.

  After shaking out her hands, she picked up the small, soft brush, gently, slowly brushing away the dislodged dirt. All it revealed was time-darkened wood.

  “Slow and steady, Maggie. That will get the job done.”

  A chill wrapped around her, and she shivered. She made a mental note to check the thermostat, and headed to the back room, where she grabbed a bottle of water out of the small fridge.

  Back in the main part of the shop, she pulled a short stool up to the table, and got to work.

  Twenty minutes later, she was close to revealing what was under the dirt on the end piece. She took a deep breath, then brushed away the final layer of dirt along the bottom edge. When she saw what she had uncovered, she almost dropped the brush.

  “That’s enamel inlay,” she whispered. “And the wood. It looks like—”

  “Rosewood.” The deep male voice froze her hand. Maggie stood—and did drop the brush, forgetting what she was going to say. She had been watching the man who stood in the doorway on BBC last night. Good heavens—renowned archaeologist Pembroke Martin was standing in her shop. “The box is rosewood. And it belongs to me.”

  His last words snapped her out of the shock at seeing him here, in the flesh. “I’m sorry, Professor Martin, but I just bought this box at auction, which means it belongs to me.”

  “A Yank,” he muttered. “It figures.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He blinked at her, his grey blue eyes clear and intense behind his wire rimmed glasses. Maggie would never admit to him that she had rewound one section of the documentary several times, to watch a close up of him while he talked about—something.

  Too bad he wasn’t the same charming man in person.

  He cleared his throat. “Did I say that out loud?”

  His response surprised her so much she laughed. “Yes, you did.”

  “Sorry.” He ran one hand through his wavy, dark brown hair, making it even more disheveled than it already was. “About the Yank comment, and saying it out loud. We nearly met in the lot next to the estate, and I figured it was a foolish Yank.” Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. He had been in the little sports car she’d almost run over, forgetting to orient herself again before she headed toward the road. “Not that you are foolish—” Maggie lowered her hand, smiling at his horrified glance. “Lord, I am going to quit while I’m still only at my ankle.”

  “Smart move.” She decided that he wasn’t such a beast after all. “Why don’t you come all the way inside, and tell me why this box is yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maggie.” She held out her hand as he approached. “Maggie Mulgrew.”

  He stopped in front of her, and flashed a smile that left her a little breathless. “Are you related to Irene Mulgrew?”

  “She was my great aunt.” Maggie composed herself, and put a little space between them, using the need to take a drink of water as an excuse. “So, if the box belongs to you, how did it end up in an estate auction?”

  “My former assistant stole it, along with the jar it contained.”

  Maggie choked on her
water. “Jar?” she whispered.

  “It held a rare Sayer & Brown apothecary jar. Ken most likely separated them, hoping to get more money for the sale.”

  “He would have been disappointed with the profits from the box. I bought it for ten pounds.”

  Professor Martin sighed, running his hand through his hair again. He looked so young when he did that—like a college student who had been outside all day—

  Stop it.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. I was not able to clean the box before Ken stole them both out from under me.” He lowered a well-used leather satchel to the floor, crossed his arms and studied her, like she was one of his artifacts. Maggie straightened her shoulders, aware that her wild waves were wilder than usual, even constrained in her usual bun. Barely constrained. “You knew, when you saw the box. You saw its potential.”

  “That’s what I do. Look for the potential, bring it out, and sell it for a profit.”

  Professor Martin laughed. “I think I like you, Miss Mulgrew.”

  “I have the feeling you didn’t come here to talk about the box.”

  He ran one hand through his hair, and pushed his glasses up. He was obviously stalling while he decided what to say next. “Tanner gave me your address, and I was hoping you had seen who purchased the jar.”

  “I did—and I’ll tell you, on one condition.”

  He frowned, and Maggie wanted to smile. “What would that be?”

  “I go with you.”

  “Oh.” He must have expected some mild form of extortion, because he looked relieved. “That will be fine. Since I am unfamiliar with the area, perhaps you can lead the way.”

  “Sure.” She glanced at the wall clock, surprised to see how late it was. Long past closing time. She had been too caught up in cleaning the box to notice. After she pulled her keys out of the drawer under the counter. “You can leave your satchel here, if you like.”

  He stopped, half bent over. “Thank you. It tends to weigh more than it should, since I am always forgetting to clean out old papers.”

  Maggie would love to be there when he did clean it out—

  Stop. You just met him—he’s here for his jar, then he’s leaving.

  She headed across the shop. “This way, Professor.”

  “Please, call me Martin.” He followed her to the front door.

  “You don’t use your first name?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Laughter burst out of her before she could stop it. She clapped one hand over her mouth and glanced over at him, hoping she hadn’t insulted him. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head, amusement in his grey blue eyes. “I’m not offended, Miss Mulgrew. I got over that years ago.”

  “Maggie.”

  He bowed his head. “Maggie. It suits you, with your sparkling eyes, and your exuberant ginger hair.”

  “No one has ever called my hair exuberant before.” Was it a compliment? She couldn’t tell—his face was neutral now, the amusement in his eyes gone. “We can walk from here. Unless you want me to drive.”

  “No—ˮ He cleared his throat. “Walking will be perfectly fine. It’s a beautiful night for a walk.”

  Maggie was teasing him. For some reason, his gracious avoidance of her terrible driving didn’t bother her as much as it should have. She turned the sign to closed and opened the door.

  “After you.”

  “Please, ladies first. It has been ingrained in my very DNA.”

  She laughed again, and walked outside, waiting next to the door so she could lock it after them.

  Maggie had always loved this part of the day—after the shops had closed, and the locals who were eating out had already settled in their chosen restaurant or pub. The pedestrian high street became deserted, seagulls and tired tourists her only company when she strolled down to the green, then to the boardwalk lining the beach.

  It felt comfortable walking in the evening hush with him. Too comfortable.

  She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket, and filled the silence. “Is this your first time to Holmestead?”

  “I’d heard of it, but visited it for the first time today.” He looked around as they walked down the center of the cobbled street. “It is more charming than I expected. I was afraid it might be—”

  “More Holmesian?” She smiled up at him, surprised by how tall he was. She barely came to his shoulder. “We have one.” She pointed at Enid’s shop, and watched his eyes widen. “It’s more than enough, trust me. The name of the village actually comes from an owner of the estate to the west of us. That doesn’t stop Sherlock fans from showing up, expecting a mecca of Holmes everything.”

  “And do you take advantage of the influx?”

  “As much as I can.” She smiled up at him. “I have a Victorian section in the shop, catering to the purists, and a section of more modern, eclectic wares, for the recent fans. It gives me an excuse to head to London every month, so I can replenish my stock, take in a play or two.”

  “How long have you been here, Maggie?”

  “Six months tomorrow. This is my home now. I have plans to expand the shop into the next building, maybe do a trash to treasure section.” At his puzzled glance, she explained. “I love finding furniture pieces at boot sales and completely overhauling them.”

  “Ambitious.”

  “It was an escape when I was younger, and turned into a passion. I learned most of my techniques from Aunt Irene. She encouraged me, taught me what to look for—and I’m rambling.”

  “I enjoy your rambling, Maggie. How much farther?”

  She pointed to a cross street ahead. “Left up there, then a right at the end of the lane. Angus Fitch likes his privacy.”

  Professor Martin halted. “Not the historian.”

  “Yes—do you know him?”

  “We were—colleagues.” He did not look happy. “Reacquiring my jar may not be as simple as I had hoped.”

  “I think Angus bought it out of spite. His rival was bidding on it.”

  Professor Martin looked afraid to ask, but he did. “The name of this rival?”

  “Giles Trelawney.” Professor Martin closed his eyes. “He’s a curator at the local museum—and you know him, too, don’t you?”

  “We worked together. Archaeology is a small community, Maggie. And memories are long.” He let out a sigh. “Giles and I had a disagreement more than three years ago. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  “Whoa. Three years? I can’t remember the last time I held a grudge more than a few days.”

  “Good to know.” He smiled down at her, and she had the urge to take his hand. She felt so comfortable with this good looking, rumpled man. She had been expecting ego—a load of ego. Instead, he turned out to be funny, and a little self-deprecating. A dangerous combination for her. “Would you mind if I had a go at the box when we’re done here? My assistant snatched it out from under me before I could even take a brush to it.”

  “Sure. I’d love to—um, see what’s under the dirt. Can I ask a question?”

  “I will do my best to answer.”

  “Why this jar? There are other Sayer & Brown apothecary jars. According to your last documentary, you’ve been searching for this one for years.”

  “This jar has a ghost story attached to it.”

  Maggie used a good part of her control not to roll her eyes. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Professor Martin smiled down at her, and she tripped. He caught her elbow, his grip strong, and held on until she found her footing. “All right?”

  “Yeah. Uneven cobbles. I’m always tripping over them, because I don’t look at my feet. An old dancer’s habit,” she said, when he raised an eyebrow. “I danced ballet and jazz in high school. I still take a dance class here and there, and I kept up with daily stretching—and I’m rambling again.”

  “I find it quite soothing.” She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “As for not believing in ghosts—you are missing out on the most in
triguing aspect of history.”

  “I’m game. Tell me about the ghost story.”

  “How about later, while we work on the box?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Who was she kidding? She’d love it.

  Very few people in Holmestead had her passion for history, with the exception of Spencer. His passion nearly outstripped hers. She’d have to introduce them. Spencer would get a kick out of—

  Maggie jerked to a halt after they turned into the short lane. A figure stood in the open doorway of Angus’ cottage. It was too dark inside to see who it was, but she knew it wasn’t Angus. The figure was too tall.

  She must have made a sound, because the figure disappeared inside. Professor Martin took off after them, leaving Maggie to try and keep up with his long strides. By the time she got to the cottage, Martin was disappearing around the back.

  Maggie moved to the open front door—and a figure bolted out, running into her. Strong hands set her on her feet.

  “You should’na be here, Miss Maggie.”

  “Henry? What are you doing here? Is Angus...” Her voice faded when she saw the blood on his hand. She looked at the sleeves of her jacket, where he’d grabbed her. Two bloody hand prints stained the bright blue. She looked up at Henry. “What did you do?”

  He shook his head, panic in his clear green eyes. Maggie had liked the Scot since she met him, with his big, strong hands, and his ability to fix almost anything.

  “Nothin’, Miss Maggie. I swear to ye, Mister Angus was already dead and gone when I found him. You have to believe me, Miss.”

  “Tell me what happened.” She kept her voice calm, and Henry started to relax.

  “I was to repair the outside light here. Mister Angus said it was broken out last night when he came home from his office. I was runnin’ late, from another job, and when I got here, the door was open, and—I tell ye true, Miss Maggie, he was dead when I found him!”

  “It’s all right, Henry.” She started to take his hand, and thought better of it. Drew Cooperman, the Police Constable in charge of the night shift, would want to see the evidence. “Did anyone else see you arrive?”