Loved From The Grave

by Maggie Carpenter

  Contents

  Title Information

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  A Word From Maggie

  Maggie's Titles

  Title Information

  LOVED FROM THE GRAVE

  Maggie Carpenter

  Copyright © 2018 Dark Secrets Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Dark Secrets Press LLC.

  http://www.MaggieCarpenter.com

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  PROLOGUE

  Bumpily-bump-bump-bump.

  The heavy thudding sounds sent April's heart racing. Trying to control her fear she slipped quickly from the bed, grabbed the flashlight and faced the closed door.

  "Troy?" she whispered. "Troy, are you there?"

  Met with silence, she gripped the door handle, slowly turned it, and cracked it open.

  "Troy?"

  The eerie stillness sent an icy chill down her spine. Taking a long breath, telling herself not to be ridiculous, she stepped into the hall. The centuries-old house was an ongoing subject of village ghost stories, but her husband had remained the steadfast voice of reason. She'd been in bed reading, and he'd just returned to the bedroom after taking a shower, when the lights had gone out. He'd laughingly blamed it on the ghosts, but April hadn't been amused.

  "It's just a fuse," he'd said confidently. "You know we need to replace that darn panel. I'll be right back, then I'll give you your surprise, but remember, I have a really big one for you tomorrow. One that will amaze you."

  "You're such a tease."

  "Uh-huh, and you love me for it."

  "This is true!"

  But he'd been taking far too long.

  Pulse racing, she moved to the top of the stairs and sent the beam down into the foyer.

  "What the hell…?"

  A large white cloth was sprawled out on their new burgundy rug.

  "Troy! Where are you?"

  There was no response, but a frightening chill was sweeping through her body.

  Something was wrong!

  Walking quickly back to the bedroom she grabbed her cell phone. She had no desire to walk through the dark silent house, but she felt compelled to find him. Fighting her panic she returned to the stairs, gripped the handrail, and started down, but as she slowly drew closer to the oversized, bulky white cloth, goosebumps fanned across her skin.

  It wasn't a cloth.

  It was her beloved husband's white robe.

  "Troy! Oh, my God. Troy!"

  Frantically hurrying forward she almost stumbled down the last few steps, and falling beside him she took his head into her hands.

  "Troy! Wake up! Please, please, wake up."

  Then she felt it.

  Her hands. They were wet.

  She didn't have to shine the light on her fingers to know they were covered in blood.

  "April…"

  "Troy? Thank, God. Hold on, my darling, hold on. I'm calling an ambulance."

  Dropping the flashlight, she clutched her phone and hit the icon for emergency services.

  "What is your emergency?"

  "I need an ambulance! Hurry. It's my husband, I think he fell down the stairs. I'm at Hammond Hall on Feathering Way. Hurry, please hurry."

  "And your name?"

  "April Hammond. Please, hurry."

  "They'll be there in less than five minutes. Don't move him."

  Tears spilling from her eyes, she was about to reach for the flashlight when the lights flickered on. While it was a relief to no longer be in the dark, it sent a fresh ripple of fear through her body.

  "April…"

  "Troy, stay with me, sweetheart. The ambulance is on its way. You'll be fine."

  "I won't leave you," he whispered, his half-lidded soft brown eyes gazing up at her. "Not…"

  "Not what?"

  "Real."

  "What's not real?"

  But his eyes were glazing over.

  A dagger plunged through her chest.

  "Noooooo! Stay with me. You have to. I can't be without you, do you hear me? Please. You can't leave me. Please…don't…"

  The sound of a siren told her the ambulance was fast approaching, and unsteadily getting to her feet, she staggered towards the door. She was unbolting the lock as the ambulance rolled up the driveway, its headlights flashing through the leaded glass windows on either side. Stepping on to the porch, copious tears cascading down her face, she saw two men carrying their cases walking swiftly towards her.

  "At the b-bottom of the stairs. H-He's…h-hurt"

  Striding past her, they dropped down next to him. Standing back, quaking and sobbing, she watched their attempts to revive him.

  But she knew it was too late.

  I won't leave you.

  Her heart leapt.

  It wasn't his spoken promise replaying in her head.

  She had felt his whispered breath in her ear.

  "Are you all right?"

  She blinked. The medic had his fingers around her arm, and his worried face was staring down at her.

  "Uh, I'm…n-not…sure…"

  Everything went black. She had a vague sense of being weightless, lifting in the air, then resting on a soft cloud.

  "April, open your eyes, that's it, good. Hello, April, it's me, Doctor Harris. You had me worried. You were gone quite some time."

  "Troy? Where's Troy? Please tell me he's all right."

  "I'm sorry, my dear."

  Her face crinkling as the fresh tears fell, she rolled over and took hold of her dead husband's pillow. It smelled like him.

  "You can't be gone. You can't. You just can't. Please, God, please let it be an ugly, terrible dream."

  But she knew it had been real. Every horrible, frightening, unthinkable second.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  For several days she cried, felt numb, then cried again. There was nothing else. Everywhere she turned, he was there, and every night she'd feel his breath against her ear as he whispered his promise.

  I won't leave you.

  Maude Jackson, the vicar's wife, brought her food, but April was constantly nauseous and had no desire to eat. She stopped caring about the alleged ghosts in the house. Her greatest fear had been realized. There was none left in her. If some gruesome ghoul wanted to scare her they'd be out of luck.

  The funeral, arranged by the vicar, had been like some strange nightmare. People were hugging her, promising things would be all right, but they were wrong.

  Nothing would ever be all right ever again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ten Days Later

  Detective Inspector Jonathan Banks knew genuine grief when he saw it. He had moved into the quaint English country village from the Metropolitan Police five years before. Razor-sharp instin
cts and a love of the job had made him a rising star, but after losing his wife in a senseless crime he could no longer stomach the city. Witnessing April Hammond's anguish had brought heat to his throat, and he knew there was nothing he could do or say to alleviate her pain. It had been a week since the funeral. He'd wanted to visit her sooner, but there would have been no point. She would have had no clarity of thought.

  Turning into the driveway and coming to a stop in front of the grand old home, he cast his gaze across the grounds. Troy Hammond had been a keen gardener. He'd added new flowerbeds, created attractive pathways, and brought in stone statues. It was picture book perfect.

  "Tragic," Jonathan muttered. "I'm going to get to the bottom of his untimely death. I swear I will. I know how his wife is feeling right now, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

  Jonathan didn't believe Troy's death had been an accident. His every instinct said foul play was involved, and he certainly didn't believe Troy's beautiful American wife had pushed her husband down the stairs. Extensive research into Troy's life before he'd arrived in Glenwick had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, so who would want to murder him, and why? The questions had kept Jonathan from sleeping.

  When Troy and April Hammond arrived at Hammond Hall, Jonathan hadn't expected them to last. The house was reputed to be haunted, and in spite of having a caretaker it had fallen victim to lack of attention. Foster Hammond, the home's owner, had moved into a sanatorium after a stroke, leaving written orders only the caretaker and Troy, his distant cousin, were allowed on the property. Foster had been estranged from the Hammond family for many years, and Jonathan's research had revealed Troy shared Foster's disdain for the aristocratic family traditions. It wasn't surprising that Foster had left him the estate.

  Climbing from his car, Jonathan walked up the cobblestone path. When he'd telephoned the day before and made the appointment, the young widow had sounded almost normal, but he knew she wasn't, and probably wouldn't be for some time. The heavy wooden door was original, as was the lion's head knocker. Everything about the house reeked of its history. For a moment he wondered if the rumors were true. Maybe there were resident ghosts within its walls, but the door opened, breaking into his thoughts.

  "Detective Inspector, please come in."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Hammond."

  "I've made us a pot of tea. Thankfully Maude Jackson brought over some scones yesterday or I'd have nothing to offer you. I still don't have much of an appetite and my cupboards are bare."

  "I understand, and I'm sorry to trouble you."

  "You're not troubling me, but I have to admit this is the first day I've felt I might be able to carry on a conversation. Come on through to the kitchen. You don't mind sitting in there, do you? It overlooks my favorite part of the garden."

  "That sounds very nice."

  As he followed her through the foyer, past the stairs and down a hall, he could feel the presence of a bygone era. The bannister was carved wood, and magnificent landscapes shared wall space with impressive portraits of former inhabitants.

  "These oil paintings, they're remarkable."

  "Aren't they? Troy spent much of his youth here so he grew up with them, but I was in awe when I first saw them. I still am. When we arrived everything was draped in sheets, including the artwork. As they came off I found myself staring at the paintings for ages."

  "They must be valuable."

  "They are, but Foster didn't have them insured except for fire."

  "That's odd."

  "That's what I thought. Apparently he claimed to have the best insurance money could buy, and it wasn't costing him a penny. It's a mystery, but not one I'm up to unraveling at the moment."

  "No, of course not," Jonathan said as they continued into the kitchen. "Just how old is this house?"

  "The early 1700s, but the family can be traced even further back. They're quite important."

  "I understand Foster didn't get along with them."

  "No, and neither did Troy. Please, sit down."

  The table was set against a bay window that overlooked the backyard. Like the grounds in the front of the house, it was artfully landscaped. The charming centerpiece was a large stone wishing well.

  "I don't think I've ever seen one of those in such good condition. It's remarkable."

  "Troy and I restored it. It was a labor of love. I'm sure it could tell many tales," she remarked wistfully as she poured the tea. "You see those daffodils around it? I'm not much of a gardener, but we planted those together as well."

  "They look as if they're on guard duty."

  "Now that you mention it, they do. Standing up stiff and straight, all present and accounted for. I'll have to call Ned soon."

  "Ned Clifton?"

  "Yes. He was the caretaker here, though I don't think he did very much. When we moved in Troy hired him to help with the landscaping. If he doesn't want to continue I'll have to find someone else. As I said, I'm not much of a gardener, but I do love daffodils. I intend to take care of that patch myself. Sorry, I'm rambling. Please help yourself to a scone. I whipped the cream and found a jar of jam for your visit."

  "Thank you. I've had Maude's scones before. They're excellent, and with jam and cream how can I possibly say no?"

  He knew how desperately she wanted to be okay. He remembered his first foray into the world after his wife had died. His best friend had taken him to the pub. It had been surreal. As he'd dolloped the toppings on a scone, April had been pouring milk into her tea. When she placed the jug back on the table, she tilted her head to the side and looked at him thoughtfully.

  "You know how I'm feeling," she murmured. "Forgive me, that was—sorry—I shouldn't have said that."

  "You don't need to be sorry. Yes, I do. Only members of a club like ours can truly understand."

  "What was her name?"

  "Ivy. It was an old-fashioned name, but it suited her."

  "How long ago?"

  "Just over five years. Killed by a junkie for her purse."

  "Oh, dear God. You poor man. That's dreadful. I'm so sorry."

  "It was an extremely difficult time, just as this time is for you. It's why I left London. I used to have an aunt who lived here. I'd visit as a boy. After Ivy's death, this village was the only place I could think of where I might find some peace."

  "And have you?"

  "Yes. I have. I love it here."

  The intimate conversation was connecting them, and sharing his tragedy was comforting her, but it was unexpectedly comforting him as well.

  "So, how can I help you, detective?"

  "Jonathan, please call me Jonathan."

  "Then you must call me April. How can I help you, Jonathan?"

  "I need to get a better understanding of what happened."

  "My husband fell down the stairs. The Coroner ruled it was an accident. He wouldn't have released the body if there'd been any doubt, would he?"

  "No, and I'm afraid we did have a bit of a disagreement about that."

  "What are you saying?"

  "At the moment I'm not saying anything because all I have is my nose."

  "Your nose?"

  "Something doesn't smell right. Can you please tell me everything that happened that night," he asked, pulling a small leather notebook from his pocket.

  "Do detectives still carry those?"

  "This one does," he replied, smiling at her, and to his great joy she smiled back at him. A real smile. Not one of the fake smiles she'd probably forced herself to make since her husband's tragic death. "In your statement you said the lights went out, and Troy left to check the fuse box."

  "That's right."

  "Did the lights flicker, or did they just go out?"

  "I think they just went out. Yes, everything went black. There was no flickering. We've had quite a bit of electrical work done. Like everything else in this house it needed attention. Anyway, when it happened he made a joke about it being our ghost. I didn't laugh. The thought scared me. It wouldn't now. I'
d laugh right along with him."

  "Why is that?"

  "I don't care about the noises anymore. I don't care if there's an old soul rattling around. If something went flying across this room I wouldn't bat an eye."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said solemnly.

  "I know you do," she said softly. "Should I go on?"

  "If you wouldn't mind."

  "He picked up his flashlight—sorry, you call them torches."

  "Either works."

  "We both carry them at night, or rather, carried, because of the electrical issues. He left with his, and mine was sitting on the nightstand. He seemed to be taking forever, and then…"

  "Are you all right, April?"

  "It's the first time I've talked about this."

  "Take your time."

  "And then I heard this banging sound. It made me jump. At first I thought it might be Troy playing a joke, but then I knew it wasn't. He would tease me, but he'd never want to truly frighten me. I went to the door and called out to him, but he didn't answer. That's when I started to have a bad feeling. You know what I mean?"

  "I certainly do."

  "I walked into the hall, called again, and when he didn't answer a second time I went back to the bedroom, got my phone, then shone the torch down the stairs. I thought I was looking at some kind of sheet. I didn't realize until I got closer…"

  Stopping abruptly, she picked up her tea cup. Jonathan saw her hand had begun to shake, and as she took a sip, a rogue tear slipped from her eye. Impulsively Jonathan reached across and wiped it from her cheek.

  "Sorry," he said hastily, pulling it away. "I didn't mean to overstep."

  "Don't be. You didn't. It was nice. Thank you. I'm okay. I can keep going."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I am, and I want to. When I reached him and saw how badly he was hurt I called 999, and right after that the lights came on."

  "That's what you said in your statement. Given how you must have been feeling at the time it would have been easy to get things confused, but that's still how you remember it."