Which meant I had to find the truth very quickly. As it was, I hated to leave Emily to manage Arthur’s recovery alone. I accompanied her to Patrick’s room, where Arthur sat up in his cousin’s bed, apparently reminiscing with him about their boyhood games that had involved the stairs he’d just fallen down.
Briskly, Emily sent Patrick to breakfast and settled down on the edge of the bed. Patrick grabbed a coat at random, and, looking pretty disreputable, he left the room with a promise to help Arthur move back to his own room when he returned. If Arthur felt up to it.
“Oh, and should I tell the old lady?” he asked Emily.
Emily flushed, perhaps because she’d forgotten all about Arthur’s mother; perhaps because he was being so considerate while she’d been thinking terrible things about him.
“Just tell her I’m not dead,” Arthur advised dryly. “She won’t care about anything else.”
“Thank you, Patrick,” Emily said.
He didn’t look at me as he left, which hurt a quite stupid amount.
“I thought I’d go and visit Irene,” I said brightly. “Before she goes to church. We have ball notes to compare.”
Emily smiled distractedly, then focused on me once more. “I think Susan’s been seeing more of Irene over the last few days, despite all the rest of the excitement.”
“About time,” Arthur muttered. “If you ask me, the girl reminded her of George. Probably couldn’t stand the sight of her.”
“Arthur!” Emily exclaimed.
“Well, she isn’t like George at all, so far as I can tell. Expect Susan’s just noticed.”
“Was that your doing?” Emily asked me unexpectedly.
I smiled. “How could I possibly do anything like that?”
I left them to it, gladness warming me that at least I had managed to accomplish some good here. If only Irene was as she seemed to be.
I found her in her bedroom, ready for church in her best dress and ribbons. A jacket and a straw bonnet sat on the bed.
She greeted me with surprised pleasure, and I could see as well as sense that she was excited. Just to be going to church with her mother?
“Good morning, Mrs. Darke! Are you coming to church too?”
“No, not today. Lots of people will be with you, though. I’m going to stay with your Aunt Emily. Sir Arthur had an accident this morning and is still feeling pretty rough.”
Her eyebrows flew up, widening her eyes. I could have sworn there was surprise and concern there.
“What happened?” she asked, and when I told her, she frowned and said matter-of-factly, “That isn’t like him. He’s very sure-footed when we play tag on that rocky bit of heath on the way to the village.”
I sat down on the bed, smiling faintly. “Well, everyone misses their step sometimes. You must like playing with such a fun, young uncle.”
“Oh yes. And Emily—Aunt Emily—is nice too. I’m glad she married him.”
“Do you like living here?” I asked.
She looked slightly baffled at that, a frown of thought flitting across her face. “Yes,” she answered, with just a hint of uncertainty, and when I continued to look at her, she added, “It’s better now.”
Because her bully of a father was dead? Because her mother was finally paying her a modicum of attention?
She sighed. “I wish there were other children, though. How many children were at the school you taught in, Mrs. Darke?”
“Thirty girls,” I replied. “From about your age to…oh, almost Aunt Emily’s.”
“Maybe I could go to school,” she said thoughtfully, gazing out of the window as if at the wide world beyond the Hall.
“Schools can be lonely too,” I pointed out. “You’d miss your family, and Miss Salton.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Probably.”
“Has Miss Salton always been your governess?”
Irene turned her back on the window. “Yes, I think so.”
“Then you like her?”
“Oh yes.” The answer was thoughtless, almost vague, meaning, perhaps, Irene had no reason to dislike her. I did catch a hint of impatience and resentment from her, though, as if the time spent with her governess could have been better spent elsewhere. She was, simply, used to Miss Salton.
I opened my senses a little further, searching for the turbulence, the anger, I’d been aware of around her before. I met a little confused, childish stuff, but nothing of the intensity to create the sentient blocks of emotion flitting around the house.
Odd. A disturbed child did not recover equilibrium overnight just because her mother invited her to tea a couple of times in a week and agreed to walk beside her to church.
If Irene was a damaged child, it was nothing that could not heal on its own. I rose from the bed. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Maybe later, if your mother and your aunt agree, you could come and cheer up your uncle.”
She smiled. “I’d like that. Can he play snap still?”
“Maybe a quieter game would be better.”
“Or Cousin Patrick could play his hand for him,” Irene suggested.
“Is he good at snap?” I asked gravely.
“Of course!”
Again, my senses were open and picked up only a quick rush of affection, and a quieter, more solid feeling beneath. She did like Patrick, but there was nothing inappropriate that I could see. She was just a child, emotionally immature even for her tender years.
Baffled as to why I’d ever imagined otherwise, I left her to it. At the doorway, I paused.
“Irene? Do you remember the day the bust fell near the schoolroom, when Sir Arthur was bringing Emily to meet you?”
Now, at last, something secret burned inside the child. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Were you there?”
“I was in the schoolroom, writing out a poem. I heard it.” A swish of panic, of fear, accompanied a physical shudder. And a slamming door on memory, perhaps, or just speculation she refused to entertain.
I smiled at her, feeling a little guilty for raking things up for her. “It’s a lovely morning for a walk.”
“Yes,” she said with definite relief. “It is, isn’t it? Tell Uncle Arthur I’ll draw him a picture.”
“I will,” I promised and closed the door behind me.
While I waited for people to depart for church, I decided to go to the library and search out the bound house plans Patrick had mentioned. As I approached along the Long Gallery, I became aware of the curious sight of Margaret Cartwright, hovering outside the library door, her ear all but pressed to the wood as she blatantly eavesdropped.
Nor did she show any signs of embarrassment when she caught sight of my approach. And admittedly, I had no business throwing stones since I had listened outside this same door not so very long ago. Margaret, however, beckoned me urgently without removing her ear.
I contemplated ignoring her in an attitude of righteous superiority. But as usual, curiosity won me over. I did want to know what she was listening to, and what else she would say to me.
Margaret pointed at the door, but in fact there was no need, since Prince Bela’s voice was already raised in expostulation.
“…but damn it, Patrick, I will not take the blame for that!”
“One thing I asked of you,” Patrick’s voice returned, tight with irritation. “Just one!”
“And we failed,” came Henry Faversham’s quieter voice. “We’re sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Before I could even begin to put my own interpretation on this ill-natured exchange, I knew what Margaret’s would be. Grabbing me by the arm, she dragged me back from the door and towards the main staircase.
“They’re his creatures!” she hissed. “They do his bidding while he stays safe in London, or at least well out of the way. Obviously Arthur’s accident was down to the
m, and Patrick is furious with them because they failed to kill him!”
My stomach twisted. “That is quite a leap from a few overheard words,” I managed to say calmly.
“A few? Trust me, Mrs. Darke, I heard all. Patrick Haggard is trying to murder Arthur exactly as he murdered my sister.”
As if I could push away her vile suspicions with her person, I brushed her hand off my arm and kept walking towards the staircase.
Her despairing voice followed me. “Are you blinded by him already? Besotted, as Rose was? For God’s sake, don’t leave it so long to open your eyes!”
Chapter Fifteen
I wandered around the house, avoiding servants and guests, simply absorbing every feeling the house had to offer me. The darkness went back a long way, but then so did happiness and contentedness and endurance. Gradually, I began to think I had distinguished the new malevolence from the age old. It felt different, active, growing, rather than merely a combination of passive memories.
And in time, as I’d intended, I found myself in the schoolroom passage, where the bust had so nearly fallen on Arthur. The malevolence was strong here, as if it knew me now and didn’t like me. I went into the nursery first, closing the door behind me.
The chair I’d once stood on to see the top of the door was back in its place by the wall. It had struck me that a tall man standing on it wouldn’t have needed the precarious pile of cushions to see over the door. And then it had struck me that no one needed to see over the door. The rope attached to the bust could have been thrown over the door by anyone of any height, and simply pulled when the time was right, as decided by peering through a tiny crack in the door and waiting for Arthur and Emily to reach the right spot.
Of course, if Arthur had come into the nursery first, instead of going straight to find Irene in the schoolroom, then the plan might have been thwarted. But, I thought, if I was the would-be killer and Arthur had laid a finger on the handle, I’d have pulled the bust over anyhow to cause a distraction. Perhaps I’d even have rushed out to help and in the confusion retrieved the rope from around the bust’s neck. Which is probably what happened when the bust did indeed fall, because no one ever mentioned seeing any signs of foul play. Even in daylight, the passage was gloomy and dim… Whose idea had it been to put a nursery and a schoolroom here?
I began a methodical search of the nursery, looking under the mattresses of the little beds and the cradle, and pulling out drawers full of old baby clothes and bedding. I looked behind curtains and inside cupboards, and found nothing remotely suspicious. Which was a pity. I didn’t really want to start searching bedrooms. Especially since I could be completely wrong, and the marks over the top of the door were due to some other reason entirely. Or the evidence could have been thrown away or burned. That, surely, would have been the safest move for the would-be killer. Actual killer, if the same person had killed Martin, and Rose.
I shivered. The malevolence was building in the room, as if my thoughts or my actions gathered its many threads to me, dragging it in my wake as I walked to the door leading directly into the schoolroom.
Here, at least, it was a little brighter. The windows were obviously washed regularly and the room cleaned and dusted. I began to search here too, the spirits like eyes on my back, closing, looking for a way in. But they had no means of communications; they were little more than a concentration of emotion with a smattering of sentience, drifting invisibly in the air. They chilled me, set my teeth on edge, but they did not worry me. It was the human behind them that scared me.
“Rose,” I said aloud. “I’ll speak only to Rose.”
But I’d no way of knowing if she heard or would pay any attention if she did. There wasn’t much of her left here.
“Or Martin,” I added hopefully. I knew he had few ties with the house, apart from his death. He’d lived and worked in the stable outhouses and his family lived in the village.
I opened the children’s desks. All were empty apart from Irene’s, which contained some of her workbooks and drawings, including recognizable sketches of her family. The girl had talent, whatever else.
Miss Salton’s larger desk contained an array of pencils, pens, and inks as well as some well-thumbed texts, but nothing else. On the shelf behind her desk were several globes of various sizes. On impulse, I took down the largest, and, setting it on the desk, I ran my fingers all over it, feeling the join that ran around the equator. Then I put both arms around the globe and twisted.
I almost fell as it came apart and revealed its hollow insides. Well, not entirely hollow. Nestling inside were several lengths of twine, most painted black. One was still attached to two metal hooks, and I recognized it.
The schoolroom was a good hiding place. No one was here in the evenings or on Sundays or holidays, and it was never locked. Anyone could hide anything here, especially if they were familiar with the schoolroom.
Although I hesitated, in the end I replaced the top of the globe and put it back on the shelf beside its smaller brethren. There was nothing to show who the incriminating twine belonged to, and as I well knew, the most obvious answer wasn’t necessarily the correct one.
I left the schoolroom, still dragging the spirits in my wake. They crowded me in a maelstrom of meaningless disturbance that felt like noise. Aggressive noise. They would hurt me if they could. But then, I could return that compliment.
I went up to Patrick’s room and found Emily with two of the footmen and Jackson, Arthur’s valet, flanking their master, who looked rather rakishly noble with his head bandaged and his arm in a sling. Apparently he insisted on going to his own room.
“He won’t wait for Patrick,” Emily explained to me with a hint of defiance that seemed to hark back to her school days. “In fact, since Patrick hasn’t told anyone where he’s gone, and we don’t know when he’ll be back, there’s no point in waiting for him. But I’m sure Arthur will be fine if we go slowly.”
Although I thought he would be safe enough, I went ahead of them like a mother hen, checking every step and scanning walls and shelves and hanging portraits. Arthur himself seemed a great deal improved, although the deep frown etched between his brows spoke of considerable pain.
When we reached their bedroom, Emily and I left the invalid in the tender care of his valet and went modestly into the adjoining sitting room—a pretty apartment which Emily had made very much her own, decorated and furnished in light colours.
“You don’t trust Patrick anymore,” I observed. “Because of what Mrs. Cartwright said?”
“No, no. She just made me think. I don’t really distrust Patrick. It’s just I don’t really know him. He’s a very reserved man, and yet I can imagine him doing frightening things.”
I shivered. “Everyone’s judgment is being warped by these events. Patrick spends his life defending the poor and the helpless, trying to better their lives. Why should anyone believe he’d hurt women, servants, his own cousin?”
“Envy?” Emily suggested. “I don’t know about Rose, but we both know Martin was probably pushed in mistake for Arthur. Maybe Patrick doesn’t want anyone to be rich—apart from himself. Maybe he imagines he’d used Haggard Hall for his good causes if only it were his. I don’t know.”
“Arthur knows. Arthur trusts him.”
“Arthur grew up with him. He’s too close to see what a relative stranger can.” Discontentedly, Emily threw herself into the nearest chair and waved one tired, dismissive hand. “But I’m not accusing him, Barbara. I’m just aware. In any case, why are you defending him suddenly?”
I hesitated, willing my face not to flush. Then I said, “At first, I thought the person responsible for trying to frighten you, and then me, with the strange nighttime noises was probably not the same as whoever killed Martin. They didn’t seem to be connected. Now, I think they probably are, and I know Patrick wasn’t making those ghostly noises, because he helped me chase after t
he person who did make them.”
Emily shrugged. “Maybe he has an accomplice.”
Like Bela or Faversham, as Margaret Cartwright had claimed? Irritably, I shook her words from my memory.
“In any case, they’ve stopped now,” Emily said.
“What we need,” I said, with a frown of concentration, “is a way to draw out the culprit. Without endangering Arthur any further.”
Emily’s eyes gleamed. “How do you propose we do that?”
I considered her. In fact, I had been thinking aloud and had no intention of including her in my plan, whatever that might be, except in keeping her safe with her husband.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’ll think about it this afternoon.”
“Well, either Jackson or I will stay with him at all times,” Emily decided. “I should really pay some attention to my guests at some point too.”
“Yes, you should,” I agreed. For one thing, Susan would revert to being lady of the Hall.
I thought about taking myself for a brisk walk in the fresh air. Away from the oppressive atmosphere of the house, which seemed to have grown worse all morning, I thought I might be able to think more clearly.
But I had just stepped outside Emily and Arthur’s bedroom when I almost bumped into one of the housemaids. As I murmured an apology and stepped aside, she thrust a folded piece of paper at me.
“This was left for you, ma’am.”
It certainly had my name written in a bold hand across the front.
“By whom?” I asked, taking it from her.
“No idea. Found it on the silver tray by the front door. Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, already unfolding the note. I confess my heart skipped a beat when I saw that it had been signed with the letter “P”.
“Barbara, there are things we need to discuss. Meet me in the woods behind the summer house. I’ll wait for you. P.”
As the first epistle from the man to whom I had given myself last night, perhaps it lacked in romance. Dear Barbara might have been nice, or some indication that he longed for this meeting as much as I did. I smiled, refolding the note and tucking it into my sleeve. Such effusions were not in his nature. Patrick let his actions speak.
The Dead of Haggard Hall Page 19
