The old man stood up and swayed, grabbing the chair back to steady himself. “She would never have left me. Took her, he did. Snatched her away and pulled her into the water. That Cramond is a sea monster, preying on our women. I heard he took another, the Rivers woman. How many will he steal before someone listens to me?”
Wycliff pinched the bridge of his nose. This was all he needed—talk of some creature masquerading as a man and dragging women into the ocean. An old memory stirred, but he couldn’t bring it to the surface. “Enough. Pack your things, Miller. Swift will bring a cart to move you at the end of the week. This farm is going to a man who isn’t too drunk to work the land.”
Wycliff turned his back and walked to his horse, ignoring the man’s pleas for more time. The hours wouldn’t stand still for anyone. Not for a lonely old drunk, nor for the wife of a viscount.
9
After the funeral, Hannah sat in the kitchen for a moment of quiet reflection. Wycliff had headed off with Mr Swift to visit the tenant farmers. As lady of the manor, she reviewed her own small progress in restoring the estate. The beds in the conservatory were weeded and needed only fresh soil. The reflecting pool was emptied and scrubbed. The windows, however, were a much slower task. The dirt caked on the glass seemed resistant to all but hot water, soap, and large amounts of elbow grease. Not to mention the curved sides of the conservatory frame meant she could only reach so far without needing a ladder and some nimble assistance. She was seriously considering tying a scrubbing brush into Barnes’s palm and setting him to work on the more difficult spots.
Then her mind wandered back over recent events, and one in particular that nibbled at her curiosity.
“Have any other people drowned recently?” Hannah asked Mrs Rossett.
“Why do you ask, milady?” The housekeeper peeled potatoes from her seat across the table.
“The other day I heard someone mention another one, in reference to Mrs Rivers’ death.” The conversation occurred the day she had ventured into the village with Mary, and saw the woman’s limp body retrieved from the ocean. Two women had spoken of it—one woman had asked if it were another one. The other had scolded her not to start that old nonsense. The phrasing stuck in the back of Hannah’s mind and refused to budge.
Mrs Rossett dropped the peeled potato into a pot of water and set down her knife. “Sarah is the third in the last year. We lost Amy Miller just before Christmas and Lisbeth Wolfe a year ago. All of an age similar to your ladyship, and all in good health.”
“All drowned?” Most healthy young women tended to die in childbirth. It seemed unusual for a trio of them to lose their lives to the ocean instead.
“Yes. Although Amy had quite a large bump on her head and there were rumours about how it got there.” Mrs Rossett pointed to a spot on her temple.
“The how would depend on whether it were pre- or post-mortem.” Hannah’s mind immediately turned to how bodies acquired wounds and silently told what happened to them. Had the unfortunate Amy been struck on the head and then ended up in the water, or did she drown and the action of the waves and rocks had caused the injury?
Mrs Rossett stared into the basket at her side and selected another potato. “What does that mean, milady—pre- or post-mortem?”
Sometimes Hannah forgot herself in her enthusiasm to examine a death. Not everyone shared her fascination with mortality and its many ways and means.
“Whether the bump occurred before she died, or after. If the blow to Amy’s head had caused her death, there would not have been any water in her lungs. Was an autopsy conducted?” Three women dead in a year seemed an awful lot to Hannah. Not that she knew any statistics about the causes of death in rural and seaside communities, but still.
“Oh, no. We don’t do that sort of city thing with dead bodies here. They were pulled from the water so it’s obvious they drowned, isn’t it?” Mrs Rossett wielded her knife with precise skill upon the next potato’s skin.
Hannah swallowed her commentary about the benefits of an autopsy and how it advanced medical knowledge. Instead, she stuck to the available facts. “Did anyone question how Amy received the blow to her head?”
Mrs Rossett stared up at the ceiling while she fetched the memory. “Lots of talk at the time. Her grandfather—one of his lordship’s tenants—is a mean old drunk and many thought he might have hit her, to stop her running off with Harvey Cramond.”
“Did he not approve of the match?” How sad when a woman did not have her family’s support to follow her heart’s calling.
“Didn’t want to lose the free labour, if you ask me. Amy was the only one doing any work there and the place fell apart after she died.” The housekeeper tossed the peeled potato into the pot.
There was a common problem for rural families—many hands were needed to tend sheep or nurture a crop. What a shame the woman’s grandfather couldn’t see that he would have acquired an able-bodied grandson-in-law, rather than losing a granddaughter.
“What of Lisbeth Wolfe? Were there any rumours about her demise?” Hannah’s spirits perked up at the ghoulish thought of three deaths to investigate. She would question Wycliff later—he might know more about the circumstances of each.
“Hmm…let me think. I know we were right shocked at the time. Beautiful thing, she was. Hair as black as night, skin as white as snow, and lips as red as rose petals. Many thought she was part Fae.”
“Really? Was she?” Hannah had recently learned that her dear friend Lizzie possessed a Fae grandmother, which gifted her features with ethereal beauty. Perhaps another conspiracy against Fae offspring had claimed Lisbeth.
Mrs Rossett snorted. “Not likely, if you’d ever met her parents. Lisbeth was a shy and lonely thing. Girls can be so cruel and it turned my stomach, the way they tormented her.”
There was a lesson many women learned. Some chose to lift up their sisters, while others viewed them as the enemy. “Why were they cruel to her?”
“Too pretty, I suspect. That didn’t change as they all grew older and her beauty matured. Lisbeth kept to herself, and having a touch of magic made the locals even more suspicious of her. She lived in a cottage in a wild spot, right by the water.” Mrs Rossett rose from her seat and took the pot of potatoes to the range.
Hannah sipped her tea and contemplated the life of the unknown woman. “How sad. She must have been terribly lonely.”
“Well, his lordship more than made up for that. They were close as two halves of a clam as youngsters. Always running about and getting into mischief. We all assumed he would marry her one day and make her Lady Wycliff.” Mrs Rossett turned with wide eyes, as though she had just realised what she had said.
An ache stabbed through Hannah. It had never occurred to her that Wycliff might have intended another woman to be his bride. She searched the dregs of her tea for something to say. “Was his lordship at Mireworth when she died?”
“No. But he did return for her funeral.” Mrs Rossett pulled out the sack of flour, the butter container, and a clean bowl. “Now, what sort of pie shall I make for after dinner? I can send Mary out to pick some blackberries, if you like?”
Apparently the subject of the young Wycliff and the ethereal Lisbeth was now closed. “Blackberries would be lovely. I’m going to explore the house this afternoon, and have promised Wycliff I will be careful. I think Sheba should stay here with you, in case she gets trapped.” Wycliff had warned her that there might be storm-damaged areas, and Hannah didn’t want to risk the spaniel falling through a rotten floor or becoming lodged in stacks of furniture.
“I’ll send out a search party if you’re not back by dark.” Mrs Rossett winked as she measured out flour to make pastry.
“Oh, never fear. If I am stuck, I will summon Wycliff. My mother has enchanted my wedding ring.” Hannah held up her left hand with its plain gold band. While Wycliff’s matching ring would vibrate if Hannah needed him urgently, she would still need to rely on the silver peacock feather wrapped around her smalles
t finger to get a message to either her mother or her husband.
The housekeeper stared at Hannah as though she had sprouted a second head. “Well, I imagine being the daughter of a mage comes in handy at times.”
“It certainly does. I promise I shall return by dinnertime.” Hannah patted Sheba and told the spaniel to stay with the housekeeper.
Then she fetched her small ensorcelled mushroom lamp to provide light and stood in the grand foyer, taking a moment to consider where to begin. Wycliff had said there were parts of the house that were quite old, but how to find them? Logic dictated that she start on the ground floor and examine every room in a sequential manner, until she arrived back at her point of origin. Except ancient whispers called to her from above. Murmurs like dancing will-o’-the-wisps that lured travellers deep into the forest, but in this case urged her to climb the stairs to find them.
She placed one hand on the head of a griffin, stared up the sweeping stairs, and made a decision. “Up it is.”
Hannah followed the curve of the staircase and then stepped out on the semicircular balcony that looked down on the foyer. A vague pattern tried to emerge from the tiles, but the muted colours and lack of light kept the overall design hidden. Scrubbing tiles was a task that could wait for another day.
The corridor presented her with two options, left or right? She tapped the mushroom and the top lit up a deep yellow. With eyes closed, Hannah asked the shadows what direction to take. A chill brushed over her left side. Did that mean she should go in that direction or avoid it? Never one to steer clear of the darker side of things, Hannah struck out to the left.
What little daylight that managed to filter through the dome above was soon lost as the corridor closed around her. Hannah grabbed a brass door latch and pressed it. The door gave with a creak and swung open to reveal an empty room. Not a single piece of furniture remained, except for ghostly marks where once rugs had covered the floorboards. Goosebumps ran along her arm, as though a trapped ghost had slipped past her to escape.
Shutting the door, Hannah crept farther along the dark corridor. Doors revealed more empty rooms. In some cases, they were firmly locked. At one point, a cold gasp of air brushed over her cheek and she raised the mushroom lamp, searching for the source. A piece of trim on the wall sat a fraction of an inch away from its companions on either side.
“Has damp made you swell and pull free?” Hannah pushed on the strip of wood in an attempt to tap it back into place and a creak sounded against her fingertips. Curious, she traced a finger along the rail and found a vertical crack that ran all the way to the floor. Her nails slipped into the split and when she tugged, a panel sprang open.
“Oh,” she whispered. She had found a secret door, albeit a short one, as it stopped about chest height where the panelling ended and the plaster wall began. Something for children, perhaps, or pixie staff?
She extended her arm as far as it would go to shine the mushroom into the space behind. A narrow corridor angled upward, but she couldn’t see where it went. Part of her wanted to strike off along the hidden passage and see. Another part of her cautioned that it was foolish to follow the narrow corridor when no one knew where she was. What if she became trapped?
Light glinted on her wedding band. If the door closed behind her and she could not open it, she could summon Wycliff by rubbing her ring. Both he and Mrs Rossett knew she was exploring and they would search for her in the gloomy house. Then a moment of doubt gnawed at her. Would Wycliff respond? With all the work he had to do, if his ring vibrated would he drop everything to find her, or continue about his day?
No. She must push that thought aside. In the worst-case scenario, all she had to do was bang on the door and someone would hear her. Eventually.
If Wycliff had been half as rambunctious as a child as Mrs Rossett claimed, he would know of the secret door and whatever lay behind it, and might head in this direction. In case more people roamed the halls to find her, Hannah cast around for an object with which to wedge open the door as an additional clue to her whereabouts.
In a corner where another corridor intersected the current one, Hannah found a knee-high unglazed pot. She dragged it along to the hidden door and placed it in the gap. Pleased with herself for thinking through the possibilities, she bent her head and stepped through.
The corridor slanted upward and as she walked, hunched over, the ceiling rose and soon she could stand upright. Not long after that, Hannah emerged in a space about ten feet square and flooded with light from a large square window. What drew her attention wasn’t the view outside, but the one within. Before her was the curve of an ancient stone wall with an arched doorway. A set of worn stone spiral stairs beckoned, the light from above casting them in a pale pink glow.
“I say, how did you end up here?” She rested a hand on the smooth stonework and peered up. Someone had walled up a tower and constructed the newer building around it. The rounded wall before her called to mind ancient forts that had once dotted the countryside, with thick walls to withstand any storm—whether thrown by Mother Nature or a mage.
When she peered out the window to try to orient herself, the exterior stone of Mireworth showed no hint of the tower hiding within. As though someone had tried to erase its very existence. If they didn’t like it, why not pull it down instead?
“No point in turning back now,” she said to the empty room, as she began the next leg of her journey.
The steps pulled her upward until they opened upon an airy room. Hannah walked to the middle and turned a slow circle, while her mind spun wondering about the history of the odd tower. The circular room had a timbered ceiling that soared to a point in the middle. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from a chain, its many branches empty, the candles gone long ago. Windows on one side looked back over the roofs of Mireworth; the other side allowed a view overlooking the drive. A fireplace opposite the door was plainly constructed and set into the curve of the tower, the surrounding stones stained black by centuries of smoke seeking escape.
No furniture remained to give any hint as to the former use of the space. Odd scratches and grooves in the walls could have been from bookcases…or the fingernails of prisoners. While this room lay above Mireworth’s roof, she had entered the spiral stairs on the first floor. From what she recalled, the stairs didn’t extend in the other direction to the ground.
The fireplace drew her. She had to stretch her arms wide and still barely grazed either side with her fingertips. The mantel sat at her eye level, giving an excellent view of the accumulation of dust on the stone. Inside, thick black soot clung to the bricks and indicated that once, the room had been much used. Had it been a solar for the lady of the house? Or like her mother’s turret, used for study?
In one spot on the left, a thick layer had peeled away and revealed scratches in the brick. Hannah leaned closer but couldn’t make anything out. Searching her pockets, she found her small knife and used the blade to scrape away at the soot and resin. As she worked, she discovered the marks ran vertically.
Scratches formed into images and Hannah let out a gasp. “Impossible!”
Her work had revealed a vertical edge of stones inscribed with hieroglyphics. Her hands itched for the ensorcelled translation paper her mother had made. When the sheet was held over hieroglyphics, the images would transliterate and then translate themselves. If she had known the magical paper would be needed at the old manor she would have packed it, instead of leaving it tucked inside a book on her desk.
“Why would a tower hundreds of years old have stones inscribed with hieroglyphics in the fireplace?” She looked around, but of course no one answered. The most likely scenario was that a roaming ancestor of Wycliff’s had removed the plaques from somewhere in Egypt and carried them home.
With one side revealed, Hannah tackled the other and discovered that it too bore a vertical line of ancient script. Careful knife work found the edges of the rectangular stones. There were four in total, each a foot high and about six in
ches wide. Two were laid on either side of the fireplace. She sat back to survey her afternoon’s work. Soot coated her hands as though she had worked a twelve-hour shift down a coal mine.
The light outside dimmed and reminded her there was little more she could do today. Her knees protested as she rose and, resisting the urge to wipe sooty hands down her skirts, Hannah put away her knife and retrieved the mushroom lamp. Once she retraced her steps, she headed straight for the kitchen, where Mary and Mrs Rossett prepared dinner.
“Where on earth have you been? You look as though you fell down a chimney,” Mrs Rossett said.
Hannah dropped the glow lamp on the table and peered at her blackened fingernails. “You are close. I was exploring a fireplace with unusual stones laid into it.”
Mrs Rossett gestured at Hannah with a large knife. “Well, lady of the house or not, you must wash up.”
Mary poured hot water from the kettle into the sink. Hannah picked up the soap and a brush to scrub her hands. Now that she’d started cleaning one spot, she itched all over. She probably had soot in her hair, too. “I will take the worst off here, but do you think a bath would be possible before dinner?”
“Anything is possible, but I doubt you want to bathe in the kitchen in front of the range like I do when I’m here alone.” Mrs Rossett filled a large pot at the pump and set it on the range.
Hannah preferred a modicum of privacy in which to have a bath, but didn’t want to stray too far—they had to cart the hot water. She had yet to test Wycliff’s hellhound ability to heat a bath, even if he had been available for the task. “What if we set up a tub in the conservatory? That’s still fairly close to haul the hot water.”
Mrs Rossett nodded and peered under the bench to find two more large pots. “Mary can fetch the slipper tub. It’s in the larder.”
Hannah gathered a robe and clean chemise, and when she returned, Mary was dragging a small copper tub through the door. The two women placed it the conservatory next to the pool.
Sixpence and Selkies Page 8
