The Dead of Haggard Hall

by Marie Treanor

  I swallowed. “How about both?” I whispered, and his smile returned, dazzling me.

  “How I hoped you’d say that.” He caught my finger between his lips, nibbled with his teeth and gave it a little suck before falling on my mouth instead. At the same time, he gave a little thrust inside me, unexpectedly gentle, but swiftly followed by another and my discomfort vanished into a raging lust that quite matched the desire tearing at his breath as he pushed fully into me with a soft groan.

  He arched his back, twisting his neck to kiss my breasts with blatantly sensual tenderness. I pushed my hips upward into him, spreading my hands flat against his hot, smooth, undulating back, giving myself up once more to the joy to come.

  The unease which swept through me was sudden and unwelcome. Some nameless emotion hovered close by—a kind of malevolent, excited anticipation. I didn’t want to think about it; it was nothing to do with me and Patrick. I tried to shut out the malice, to concentrate with new desperation on the man moving in passion above me, inside me.

  “What is it?” he whispered. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No. God, no—”

  A very physical cry interrupted me, followed by several thuds. We froze, staring at each other for an instant while I recognized the sounds had come from outside the room, and yet something had seemed to thump against the wall from the other side.

  “The stone staircase,” I said in dismay.

  “The servants must be up early and dropped something,” he said, grasping my hips and pushing upward at such an angle that a squeak of surprised delight escaped me. But I grabbed his shoulder.

  “Not something,” I gasped. “Someone. Patrick, something bad has happened. Someone has done something terrible.”

  He frowned, but made no further effort to persuade me. Instead, he eased out of me, leapt out of bed, and climbed into his trousers while hopping across the room. Without even fastening them, he opened the door.

  I followed him, seizing a robe that hung ignored on a hook.

  “Oh Jesus,” Patrick’s despairing voice drifted back to me.

  I forced my trembling arms into the thick velvet robe and stumbled outside. Malice filled the air, surrounding me like a fog I could barely see through.

  Patrick knelt at the foot of the stairs, over the still figure of Arthur.

  Blood seeped from under Arthur’s curly head. His arm was bent at an impossible angle. In terror I reached out to him, searching for life, while Patrick desperately pressed his ear to his cousin’s lips, then felt for the pulse at his wrist.

  “He’s alive,” I whispered with unspeakable relief as I felt a fluttering of emotion, of need. “But his life is faint.”

  “I can barely feel his pulse,” Patrick said grimly. “He’s out cold and his arm is certainly broken. We need the doctor. Ring the bell, Barbara.”

  I dashed back into the bedroom and did so, while Patrick rose to his feet with his cousin in his arms and brought him inside. As he laid Arthur gently on his bed, I went to close the door. A figure stared at me from across the passage.

  Miss Salton, fully dressed for her normal morning, come to investigate the disturbance. As our eyes clashed, two things struck me like blows. Her fear and her sudden, blinding contempt for me, who was clearly wearing a man’s dressing gown in a man’s bedroom. The unspoken word “slut” flew between us like an arrow.

  I opened my mouth to say calmly that we were sending for the doctor. But before the words would come, she whipped away from me and walked on, heading no doubt for Irene’s bedroom.

  Patrick was pouring water into his washing bowl. “Barbara, you’d better go,” he said, half-rueful, half-distracted. “Someone will be here any moment and there’s no reason for you to be seen here.”

  Too late, I thought grimly, collecting my discarded clothes from the floor. But my own problems didn’t matter right now, not in the face of a young man so nearly dead. Emily’s husband.

  “I’ll come back,” I murmured, fleeing to the door. I couldn’t look at him right now. As I closed the door behind me, the malevolence I’d sensed had vanished. But still I hesitated, glancing up the stone spiral stairs. Blood from Arthur’s head stained two that I could see.

  Before I could change my mind, I ran up into the darkness, feeling my way as I approached the top. And then I found it. A line of twine, stretching across the second top step, held there by two hooks dug into the stone. One of the hooks had been pulled loose by Arthur’s fall, so it was easy for me to remove it, and bundle the lot together under the other hook. I could hear footsteps hurrying, no doubt in answer to Patrick’s bell, so I had no time to dismantle the rest.

  I hurried back down and had only just made it past Patrick’s room when I heard the servant clumping after me on the stone steps. I fled along the passage and around the next corner, still clutching my clothes under one arm.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was the maid Milly who summoned me to Emily. By then I was dressed in my usual dull gown, Patrick’s robe hidden inside my travelling bag under the bed, and I was just pinning my hair with unnecessarily forceful jabs.

  “Young Lady Haggard says please will you join her in Mr. Patrick’s room. Sir Arthur’s had an accident, and her ladyship is distraught.”

  I dropped my hands. “I’ll come at once.”

  “I’ll show you the way, ma’am. It’s easy to miss.”

  So I was ma’am now and not miss, I thought irrelevantly. I walked as calmly as I could beside Milly, who told me Jem had ridden at full tilt for the doctor.

  “That’s Mr. Patrick’s door, ma’am, half-hidden in the corner. And that stair’s where Sir Arthur fell.”

  “Thank you, Milly,” I said faintly and knocked on the door.

  It was wrenched open almost at once by Patrick, now at least wearing his shirt, although it was open halfway down his chest. A deep frown marred his brow; distracted anxiety filled his eyes. And his soul. His desolation washed over me. Without a word, he stood aside for me to enter, and Emily flew into my arms, sobbing.

  While I held her, stroking her hair, I met Patrick’s gaze over her shoulder.

  “How is he?” I asked quietly.

  “Still out cold. The wound is deep, but maybe not so bad as I first thought.”

  I nodded and sat Emily down in the winged armchair. “Come, my dear,” I said bracingly. “What will Arthur think if your tears are the first thing he sees when he wakes?”

  She gulped and sniffed. “Oh Barbara, what was he thinking of to go by those awful stairs? Even the servants don’t use them!”

  “We used them as boys,” Patrick said with odd abruptness. He too was controlling emotion. “A sort of secret way between our rooms that George would never think of. What I don’t know is why he was using them before six o’clock this morning.”

  Emily wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and gazed up at him with conscious bravery. “We quarrelled. I said some terrible, mean things. I expect he wanted some comfort or advice from you. Oh dear God, what have I done with my awful temper? He’d never have come in the first place, certainly never have been distracted enough to fall somewhere he’s known intimately all his life! If only I hadn’t been so awful to him! Oh, Barbara, what if he dies believing I don’t love him? Because I do, I do!”

  “I know,” I soothed. “And so does Arthur. He’s not going to die.” Surely it wasn’t wishful thinking that made his hold on life seem stronger to me? The beginnings of emotions were struggling up, sick and confused, as if he were regaining consciousness.

  Emily and Patrick both gazed at me like children desperate to believe in miracles. Then Patrick’s eyelids closed down like hoods.

  “I hate this house,” Emily said intensely. “And it hates us.”

  “Houses can’t hate,” I said with schoolteacher firmness.

  “But the spirits within them can. You
told me so.”

  “They can hate,” I agreed. “But they can’t harm, not physically. So don’t for one moment imagine any supernatural cause for Arthur’s accident.” I hesitated, but these were the people who had to know. “Malevolence there most certainly was. But neither abstract emotions nor spirits can stretch twine across a staircase and screw it into stone at both sides.”

  They both stared at me, speechless with shock. At least Emily looked shocked. Patrick merely looked more puzzled.

  “I checked,” he admitted. “There was nothing there.”

  Damnation, I swore in my head. “When did you look?” I asked calmly.

  “A few moments ago, just after Emily arrived to sit with Arthur.”

  “Then someone’s moved it,” I said flatly. “Because it was most definitely there earlier. One hook had pulled almost free, so I yanked it right out and left it and the twine at the other corner of the step so that no one else would fall over it.”

  Patrick stared at me an instant longer, then left the room without a word. I heard his footsteps on the steps beyond the wall.

  Emily grabbed my hand to get my attention. “Someone tried to kill Arthur? But they couldn’t have known, surely, that he’d ever use that stair.”

  “I thought that,” I admitted. “I wondered if it was some deadly quarrel between the servants, perhaps something connected with Martin’s death.”

  Emily dropped my hand and stood up. She walked to the bed and sat at her husband’s side, taking his hand in both of hers. “I think his colour is better,” she said hopefully. Then, “Do you still think that? That it’s a servants’ quarrel got out of hand?”

  Patrick returned to the room and closed the door.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Patrick said, “There’s nothing there. But there could have been. There are holes and crumbling bits of stone where hooks could have been.”

  “Then someone took away the ‘weapon’,” I said, “between my finding it and your looking.” I thought of the unseen servant clattering downstairs behind me without pause. Although, of course, he could have gone back up more slowly once dispatched by Patrick for the doctor. And I thought of Miss Salton, staring at me, and then walking past, away from the stairs. And yet she’d been frightened of something. Discovery? Someone else’s discovery?

  “But it can’t have been meant for Arthur, can it?” Emily said with a triumph that sounded more hopeful than convinced.

  I said, “Someone could have overheard your quarrel, someone who knows the house and its inhabitants very well, who knows all your histories.”

  “Who?” Emily demanded. “The room to the left of us is empty, and the one on the right is our own private sitting room. I’m sure we weren’t nearly loud enough to be heard above or below. Who’d be wandering around the house at that time of night listening at doors? Most of the servants weren’t even awake. After their late night, they had permission to sleep for an extra hour.”

  Patrick met my gaze. “Your whispering ghost,” he said slowly. “Who turned out to be able to flee quite solidly when we followed him.”

  I nodded. “Someone is used to wandering this house at night. I thought they were just spiteful and annoying, but what if they were really waiting for some kind of opportunity? What if this person overheard your quarrel and Arthur storming out? What if he guessed where Arthur would go for comfort? If our “ghost” was wrong, he’d lost nothing by setting his trap; he could just remove it again. If he was right…”

  “But why?” Emily demanded. “Who could possibly want to harm Arthur?”

  Patrick paced around the room. “Me?” he snapped. “I would inherit, a huge advantage by most people’s standards. I was in the house when the bust almost fell on Arthur. Martin died where Rose did. Arthur fell next to my room on our ‘secret’ stairs. What if this isn’t about killing Arthur but disgracing me?”

  We both looked at him. “Cartwright,” Emily said. “But he wasn’t here when Martin died, or when the statue fell.”

  “Could he have an ally in the house?” I asked.

  Emily shook her head. “We all know about his obsession. And I can’t imagine the servants turning on Patrick or Arthur.”

  As if he heard his name, Arthur groaned.

  “Arthur!” Emily cried, rubbing his fingers between her own.

  “Hello,” Arthur said weekly. His head moved, as if he were trying to focus on something. “Emily,” he said in clear relief. “I’m not dreaming, am I? Just can’t help feeling it’s not normal to have Patrick and Barbara in bed with us.”

  Patrick’s breath hissed out on a laugh that might have been half sob. Emily hugged her husband.

  “You’re not in your own bed, you’re in Patrick’s.”

  “Is that why my head hurts?” he asked vaguely.

  “Oh dear,” I said shakily. “I hope the doctor hurries.”

  * * * * *

  After the doctor’s visit, Patrick promised to sit with Arthur, and between us, we were able to persuade Emily that she needed to eat and to reassure her guests. The doctor had bound Arthur’s head wound and set his arm, which he pronounced broken. He also left some laudanum for the pain.

  “Sir Arthur is black and blue,” he said frankly to Patrick in my hearing. “On top of which he’s going to have a pounding headache. He needs to be kept rested and calm, but try not to let him sleep until tonight. Give him the laudanum then. He’s going to be a bit sore and stiff for several days, but provided he’s kept quiet for a couple of days, he’s young and healthy enough to make a speedy recovery.”

  “Can we move him?” Emily asked.

  “In a little. Wait an hour or so, and then if he feels up to it, he can be taken to his own room.”

  “Taken?” Arthur objected. “I’ll walk by myself!”

  The doctor scowled at him. Clearly, he’d known Arthur all his life. “With a strong man on either side, avoiding stairs where possible. You’ll be subject to dizzy turns after a bump on the head like that. And frankly, Sir Arthur, you’ve given your wife enough of a fright for one day.”

  By the time the doctor left, Arthur seemed so much better that Emily allowed herself to be persuaded downstairs to breakfast, though only after Patrick agreed to sit with him while she was gone.

  Most of the guests were planning to depart that day, but since it was still so early, the breakfast room was much busier than usual when we arrived, and rumours of Arthur’s accident had clearly percolated throughout the house, for Emily was immediately bombarded with requests for news.

  As Emily explained in as brief and optimistic terms as possible, my searching gaze found the Cartwrights exchanging wide-eyed glances by the sideboard. But although there was an unpleasant hint of triumph in their surprise at this news, I sensed none of the violent malice that I was sure had been there before Arthur fell. Someone had watched. Probably from upstairs, unless Patrick erupting from his room had scared the culprit away from downstairs.

  Once everyone was reassured that Arthur, although in pain and need of rest, was in no immediate danger, talk moved on to church, since it was Sunday. Susan, who planned to attend with Irene and Miss Salton, was organizing the excursion. Most were happy to walk to the village since the day appeared to be fine. Carriages were arranged for the less energetic.

  Emily and I both declined, she to stay with Arthur and I to stay with her. Although it might not have been good for Emily’s position to allow Susan to play chief hostess again, the matter seemed trivial when compared with her husband’s accident. So Emily and I left the breakfast room as soon as we’d eaten; and Emily didn’t eat much.

  At the doorway, Margaret Cartwright caught up with us. “Forgive me for asking,” she said urgently. “But does Patrick Haggard plan to go to church this morning?”

  “You must ask Patrick,” Emily said with unaccustomed tartness. “But sin
ce you’ve known him longer than I, I’m sure you realize it’s unlikely.”

  “Then be on your guard, Lady Haggard,” Margaret pleaded. “Don’t leave your husband alone for a moment. Don’t leave him with anyone you don’t trust implicitly.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. Her lips fell apart as she struggled between outrage and fear.

  “Thank you for your advice,” I said coolly, and drew Emily on with me.

  “The cheek of the woman!” Emily hissed. “I know she was warning me against Patrick without quite actually saying.”

  Emily closed her mouth in a hard line, walking faster to the stairs and almost striding up them. As we reached the top, she suddenly stopped to let me catch up and took my arm to keep me with her.

  “It couldn’t be him, could it, Barbara?” she whispered. “I’d swear he loves Arthur.”

  “Well, if it is him, Margaret doesn’t know it,” I said calmly. “She’s merely sewing dissent as part of her ongoing campaign against him.”

  “But where does that come from, Barbara? Why is she so sure that Patrick was responsible for Rose’s death?”

  I shrugged. “People find it hard to deal with tragedy, with grief. They want to blame someone.”

  “I left him with Arthur,” Emily said in a small voice.

  “And why would he be stupid enough to harm Arthur when everyone knows he’s with him?” I spoke bracingly, and yet panic was trying to sweep over me. I didn’t know if it was because somewhere deep inside me, I shared her sudden doubts, or just because Emily was voicing them in response to Margaret’s relentless poison. Either way, I was far too deeply involved not to be hurt by this. Why could I never simply stand back and observe?

  In any case, by the time everyone returned from church, I was sure my reputation would be ruined. My only doubt was whether Miss Salton would be discreet enough to tell only Susan, or if she’d blurt it out to anyone who’d listen. I could, I judged, expect my marching orders instead of luncheon.