Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  “Lady Eleanora, wife of James, Fifth Earl of Carlyle,” she murmured aloud, raising the lamp.

  A squealing sound nearly caused her to drop it. She spun around, her flesh crawling. To her horror, she saw a bat slamming against stone, trying to find a perch. A bat!

  But if a bat was in here, then…there was another way out.

  She held the lamp high, looking at the tombs that lined the wall. Then, setting the lamp down, she began to press against the stone slabs that closed each burial in. Time was ticking, she knew. Was she missed? Were the whisperers waiting for just the right moment to return, to finish what they had started?

  She worked in a fever, pressing, pushing, shoving, tapping. Then she saw the fissure, small, barely ajar. But it wasn’t right, wasn’t flush with the others. There was a name on the stone, but it gave no date of birth. It said nothing except Sarah.

  She pressed against the stone. And there it was, that noise she had heard time and time again. A scraping sound, stone against stone.

  Swallowing hard, she pushed with greater force. The stone pushed backward and she stared into a gaping hole of darkness. Hesitantly, she grabbed the lamp. She set it into the hole, then hoisted herself up. It was difficult going, crawling along, moving the lamp, trying to see what lay ahead. And the space was suffocating. She had to steady herself against the walls, and try to maintain some sense of distance.

  She hesitated, inhaling deeply, panic setting in as she felt the cramped darkness and the poor air all around her. She realized then that she really was trapped if someone came in from…from where? She didn’t know where the passage led. The lamp would not offer a good enough view.

  She forced herself to keep crawling, then realized that she was moving at an angle. Not downward, upward. She paused, fighting the dizziness caused by the cramped quarters and the lack of air. She moved the lamp, then steadied herself with a hand against the wall to her left. It gave way, crumbling. And she could see light at the end of the shaft now uncovered.

  She blew out the lamp and began to crawl in that direction. Something covered the light, but still it was there. She kept moving, seeing an end in sight now, eager for air, for freedom from the tight wall of stone that had done no more than allow her to creep and crawl.

  The light became brighter. She came to the end of the corridor. There was light, yes, but something barred an exit here. She pushed against it hard. Bit by bit, it gave. Desperate then, she managed to turn around in the shaft, to position herself and shove with all her might with her feet. She heard a groaning sound, a scraping.

  The thing budged, barely. She pushed harder and harder. There was an inch, then another inch. Finally, there was room for her to slither out. She squeezed through the small opening she had created.

  Then she looked around, with horror, realizing where she was.

  BRIAN WASN’T SURPRISED that Shelby’s announcement had created such an uproar. But as the news was absorbed and he vowed that the police would find out the truth about old crimes and new, the uproar died down. Now people were anxious to leave.

  It was then that he realized he had not seen Camille. Tristan was standing at the entry, blankly watching the carriages as they left.

  “Where is Camille?” he asked.

  “What? I don’t know. Dear God! I have to find her. This is going to be terribly upsetting to her. She worked with Sir John day in, day out. This is terrible!” He lowered his voice. “The man in the square. Now Sir John. I have to find Camille!”

  “Try her room, and I’ll search this level,” Brian said.

  Tristan headed for the stairs. Brian strode swiftly back through the ballroom, but when he didn’t see her, he started to turn. He hesitated, then headed for the chapel and opened the door to the curving stairway that led down to the dark crypts.

  Striding back through to the ballroom, he snatched up one of the elegant candles from the dining table and hurried back, slowly descending the stairs, aware that a trap might await him. When he reached the office area, there was no one, but cartons had been moved about. Just slightly. By lowering his candle, he could see that dust marks on the floor were slightly off from the cartons. And there was a tattered, dust-covered linen shroud thrown on the floor.

  He straightened, looking toward the great iron doors to the crypt itself. They were opened enough for a body to slip through. He entered the crypts. What he had looked for during a solid year was now boldly visible. One of the great stone slabs that covered every sarcophagus was open. It had been cleverly attached on hinges, the hardware apparently several hundred years old, yet as basic and sound as any that might have been made in their great age of industry.

  There was no grave behind the stone, only a passage. He crawled into it. The going was rough, tight, and carrying the candle was difficult. Ventilation was almost nonexistent. The candle, with no oxygen to feed upon, soon went out. Pitch darkness seemed to swim before his eyes. Then…a pale and distant light.

  He followed it, dread beginning to fill him as he did so. At the end of the passage, he was blocked. There was a small opening, but it was not large enough for him to escape. Straining, he shoved at the object that blocked him, knowing exactly what it was and damning himself a thousand times over.

  How had he not known?

  CAMILLE TOOK A DEEP BREATH. She looked around. Then she fled.

  Flying down the stairs, she heard voices. They were coming from the ballroom. She inched that way, but stopped, looking in, a fever in her heart. She no longer knew who to trust. Tristan? But Tristan wasn’t in the ballroom. Nor was Ralph. She peeked in, and saw that Hunter and Evelyn Prior were there alone. Whispering.

  “And now the announcement that Sir John is dead! Without the police even giving out the how and why,” Hunter was saying.

  Sir John…dead!

  The horror of it struck her. No! She nearly cried out in anguish, but clapped a hand against her mouth. Sir John dead…

  Hunter had been with him at the museum, when he’d supposedly struck his head on the carton lid. And old Arboc had been there, as well. Oh, God!

  “Yes, well, you know what it all means?” Evelyn said. Their heads were bowed; they were close to one another. She said something else, something that Camille couldn’t hear. Then she looked up suddenly, as if sensing that they were being watched.

  Camille backed away from the door. She couldn’t race back up the stairs, and she couldn’t trust either of the pair in the ballroom at the moment. There seemed only one thing to do.

  She ran out the front door. She could see a carriage just crossing the drawbridge to the forested property that comprised so much of the estate. Picking up her skirts, she ran. Her breathing was labored; she was in pain in a million places. Her heart thundered but she ran as fast as she could. Still, the carriage was moving far more quickly. She slowed, desperately gasping for breath.

  Then she heard the snap of a twig behind her. She jerked around. No one was to be seen. But there, back by the courtyard entrance to the castle, there was someone. Someone who had seen her. Someone who was coming after her.

  In sheer terror, she bolted into the woods.

  BRIAN STEPPED OUT of the passage into his own room. His massive wardrobe, in place since the 1600s, had been the heavy object to block the small, square opening to the tunnel.

  His heart thundered. Only one person could have slipped through so small a space from the tunnel. Camille! So what in God’s name would she be thinking now? And had she heard the announcement about Sir John? Where the hell was she?

  He tore out of his room and down the stairs. The entry was empty, no sign of anyone. A few carriages remained across the courtyard, their drivers most probably sleeping. Then, looking across the locked drawbridge, he saw a figure, dark in the night, running.

  His heart sank. Camille! She was fleeing, terrified. And terrified of him!

  She’d be ready to throw herself into the arms of anyone she knew and trusted. She was running into the woods. And into dange
r. Someone was a killer, and that killer could be anywhere.

  As Brian started after her, he saw another figure emerge from the woods. Someone who was now chasing Camille….

  AS SHE RAN, CAMILLE realized that Tristan and Ralph were back at the castle—in danger. But she didn’t dare go back! She had to elude whoever was following her! She couldn’t help those she loved if she was dead herself!

  Terror threatened to close her throat, to choke her. Brian was Arboc, and Arboc had been at the museum that day when Sir John had been injured. He had not returned…. He could well have discovered that Sir John was not dead and gone to his flat. But why?

  Because they all had to pay the price. No! Brian was not a murderer. He was just determined to solve the riddle. She so desperately wanted to believe in him! But he had lied and worn that mask over and over again, in so many ways! The passage from the crypts led to his bedroom!

  A cry sounded in the woods. Her heart thundered to a stop. He was calling out to her, trying to find her. She should stop, go to him. He wouldn’t dare dispose of her then and there, in his own woods!

  But she knew she couldn’t talk to him. If he were to do no more than touch her, she was afraid that she would forget all logic.

  She heard her name shouted again. It was Hunter’s voice, she thought. She stopped for a moment, holding on to a tree trunk. Hunter! But Hunter had been whispering with Evelyn in the ballroom. And there had been someone whispering below in the crypts, whispering that she knew too much!

  The wolves howled. She ran again, spurred on by plaintive cries to the moon.

  BRIAN KNEW the forest trails. Camille did not.

  He burst into the area where he had seen her head, and even in the moonlight, her flight had been so desperate and thrashing that he could easily follow her trail. But as he rushed at her, he was nearly flung back, the tie at the back of his mask catching on a dangling branch. Swearing, he ripped the thing from his head and went on.

  He heard the cry of the wolves, and knew that they were near. He had encouraged the creatures to live in these woods; they had been part of his life as a bitter, monstrous recluse. The wolves were actually afraid of people. They wouldn’t hurt Camille; they wouldn’t come near her. They would run from the sounds of footsteps in the forest.

  “Camille!”

  There she was, at last, before him. She spun and faced him, and the way that she looked at him made his heart sink. He stopped, not coming closer.

  “Camille! Camille, please, for the love of God, come with me. Come with me now.” He spoke softly, reaching out to her.

  They were both aware of the snap of branches just a few feet away, in the opposite direction. Hunter stepped into the clearing.

  “Camille, thank God!” He strode for her instantly, and Brian, his voice rich with fury, snapped out a fierce warning.

  “Touch her and you’re a dead man.”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at him, all pretense of friendship, courtesy and civility gone. He turned to Camille. “He’s going to kill you, Camille.”

  Brian shook his head, his tone and posture pure steel. “Never!”

  Hunter cast him a scathing and wary gaze. “You know that one of us is a murderer,” he said to Camille. “For the love of God! Camille, the man is a monster and it’s been proven. Carefully, quickly, come to me.”

  And Camille, her hair a tangle around her shoulders, her beautiful gown torn and dirtied, her face smudged, her eyes brilliant in the moonlight, looked from one to the other, torn.

  He thought that she was about to go to Hunter! His muscles constricted painfully. She didn’t know who to trust.

  “Think carefully, my love,” he told her. “Think of all that you have seen, learned and felt. Think back, Camille, and ask yourself, which man here is the monster?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I DON’T TRUST EITHER OF YOU!” she cried.

  Hunter took a step toward her, taking her by the arm, too roughly. “Camille, look at him! There’s nothing wrong with his face. He’s been wearing a mask just to play at lies and charades. He’s obviously a madman!”

  Brian strode toward him and wrenched him away from Camille, flinging him around. Hunter took a swing at him. There was no mocking the man’s ability. He was muscled and strong, had fought with the Queen’s troops and traveled far and wide, learning to defend himself. But he swung too quickly and too wildly. Brian avoided the blow, ducking below it. When he straightened, Hunter was already preparing to swing again. Brian caught him with an upper jab to the lower jaw just before Hunter’s blow flailed against his shoulder. But he staggered back, and as he did, Brian tackled him.

  “You’re trying to kill us all!” Hunter roared.

  “You bastard! All I want is the truth.”

  “Sir John is dead!” Hunter roared.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Brian returned. “Good God, you might well have—”

  “You wretch! I didn’t kill him!” Hunter tried an upswing, but Brian had him down, his fingers around his throat then.

  “Stop it!”

  He heard the cry as Camille’s fingers tore into his hair. “Stop it, you’re going to kill him!”

  He fought to regain his temper, and eased his hold on Hunter. He came to his feet just as a light came bursting into the forest. Shelby had arrived on horseback.

  “Lord Stirling!” he cried.

  Hunter rose on his own, attempting to dust himself off. Another horse arrived right behind Shelby. Tristan and Ralph were with him.

  “Camille!” Tristan was off his horse in a flash, hurrying to Camille’s side, taking her into his arms.

  For a moment, Shelby remained upon his mount, as did Ralph. Hunter and Brian glared at one another, and Tristan looked at them both as if they were tigers in a zoo.

  Tristan frowned at Brian. “There’s nothing wrong with your face!”

  “Precisely!” Hunter declared. “But there’s everything wrong with his blackened soul!”

  Camille gently disentangled herself from her guardian’s hold, smoothing back her hair as if that could change the fact that she was covered in white chalky dust, twigs and dirt. “How did Sir John die?” she demanded icily.

  They were all silent for a minute. Shelby answered her at last.

  “A bite.”

  “By an asp?” she inquired incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “No one knows,” Brian said. “At least, as yet they don’t know. The asp was in his flat. Apparently, he knew the creature was in there with him. He shot and killed it, but not before it got him.”

  She walked up to Brian, furiously slamming a hand against his chest, eyes blazing. “You were in there! You were in the museum with him on Saturday. As Arboc! And what a group of fools we were! None of us realized it!”

  “I was in early. I never saw Sir John,” Brian told her.

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “To take a look at the terrarium and find out if anyone had tampered with it.” He hesitated. “Besides, Arboc was hired as manual labor. I had to put in a few hours cleaning and sweeping the debris from the night before.”

  “You’ve been lying to me!” she told him.

  “He lies every step of the way,” Hunter agreed.

  But Brian kept his eyes locked on Camille’s. “No, I never lied to you. I didn’t tell you certain things because I had to be sure that I could trust you, that you really weren’t working with any of these men.”

  “Working with us!” Hunter repeated. “At what?”

  Brian turned to him at last. “At finding whatever it was that my parents were killed for. You see, there is a medieval entrance to the castle and tunnels that run from the crypts to that secret entrance beyond. I believe my father finally figured out the how and where of the entrance and the layout of the tunnels before he died. Someone else knows and has been breaking in.”

  He couldn’t help it; he was moving toward Hunter again. “I can imagine what happened
in Egypt, and when I do, I feel ill all over again. The killer threatened my mother first, until my father told him everything that he could. Crates had already been shipped. There were probably things he couldn’t answer. But he must have told the killer—or killers—just where he believed the outer, secret entrance to the tunnels, and thus the crypts, to be. If the crates were here, at the estate, and someone was armed with that information, they could conceivably slip in without anyone being aware. My father would have said or done anything to save my mother. So he talked, and he was good. He probably talked a very long time while praying for time, desperate to save her life. He must have known that no matter what he said, the killers didn’t intend for either of them to live. But he played for time, praying help would come before—”

  Brian had to pause, the pain was overwhelming. Then he continued, “They didn’t die easily. They were tortured first. The autopsy done here clearly shows the bruises on my mother’s arms. No chances were taken. They were bitten time and time again. Do I want vengeance? Dear God, yes! Do I have any desire to kill randomly? No, you fool! I want the truth. I want a trial, and I want the killers to know every day before their executions that they are going to die, just as my father surely knew that the help he so desperately needed wasn’t coming.”

  Silence followed. Then Hunter shook his head. “Brian, what you’re saying…it can’t be true.”

  “Come study the autopsy notes, Hunter,” he said. “I have a strange feeling that Sir John knew. I don’t know exactly what he suspected, but there was something. And that’s why he’s dead now, too.”

  The forlorn cry of a wolf rose to the heavens just then.

  “We should go back to the castle,” Tristan said, suddenly the man of reason. “There’s nothing to be done out here, in the woods.”

  Brian was suddenly afraid that Camille would refuse to go. That she would insist it was time that she, Tristan and Ralph returned to their own humble little home—far away from all of this. But she didn’t.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s time to return.” And she walked straight to Ralph, who still sat on his horse. “A hand, Ralph? I am really weary, with no desire to walk back.”