Spirit of the Season

by Cate Dean

  She cursed, and turned away, staring through the window at Ashton. He sat at the table, his head lowered, and cuffs shackling his wrists.

  “What happens now?”

  Ian joined her, and laid one had on her shoulder. “I’ll keep him here until the road clears, then have him sent up to London. He confessed to the murder he was acquitted for, Maggie. The Yard needs to know they can stop looking for another suspect.”

  “What a mess,” she whispered. “I believed him, Ian. Part of me still believes he can’t be guilty.”

  “Unless he recants, or explains exactly how he acquired the details of the murders, I have to hold him. I am sorry, Maggie.” He squeezed her shoulder before he freed her. “Why don’t you go on home, while the weather holds. Ashton will be safely tucked in one of the holding cells, at least for the next couple of days.”

  “Can I say goodbye to him?”

  Ian sighed. “As long as you don’t try and talk him into taking back his confession. Again.”

  “Cross my heart.” She tried a smile, and failed miserably. “I just want him to know he won’t be alone, whatever happens next.”

  “Very well,” He unlocked the door and opened it for her. “Five minutes, Maggie.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stepped inside, tried not to flinch when Ian closed and locked the door behind her.

  “I won’t recant, Maggie.”

  “I’m not—Ashton.” She pulled up the chair that sat against the wall and covered his hands with hers, doing her best to ignore the cuffs under her fingers. “Whatever you decide to do next, I want you to know I’m here. You’re not alone, okay?”

  He blinked, and she knew he was fighting tears. “Thank you, Maggie. I hardly deserve your support, after what I’ve brought down on you—” He cut himself off, and took a shaky breath. “Can you do one thing for me?”

  “Name it, and I’ll do my best.”

  “Keep yourself safe, and the professor as well.”

  “I—” She didn’t expect that. “Yes, of course. Is there anything you need?” He shook his head, and slid his hands free. Maggie took the hint and stood. “I’ll come and see you—”

  “No.” He raised his hands, the handcuffs clinking. “Forgive me, Maggie, but I’d rather you not attach yourself to a falling star.”

  “Ashton—”

  “I’m done here.” He stared at the window, where Ian stood, watching them. “Detective Inspector, I’d like to be taken to my cell.”

  Maggie moved to the door, looking at Ashton one more time. He kept his gaze on the window, eerily calm. But when she glanced down at his hands, she saw that they were clenched together, so tightly his knuckles were white.

  Ian opened the door, sympathy in his eyes. “Would you like one of my PCs to walk you back?”

  She shook her head, afraid her voice would betray how upset she was. Ian seemed to understand; he didn’t push her, just locked the door, then walked her out to the front.

  “Go home, Maggie. Let the law sort this. If Ashton is covering for someone, it will come out.”

  “Thank you, Ian.”

  She headed down the high street, and kept her head down, finally thankful for her wild mane of hair. It helped cover her face, a curling shield between her and any curious people walking past her.

  It felt like years before she reached The Ash Leaf. She unlocked the door, slipped inside, and locked it behind her, laying her forehead against the cool glass.

  Why did Ashton confess? He seemed more concerned about her than himself.

  She lifted her head as a possible theory struck her.

  What if he had been forced to confess, by the real killer? Someone he’d seen in the village had scared him enough to run from his room. Scared him enough to keep him away.

  She needed to talk to Martin, bounce ideas off him.

  Some of the weight lifted off her heart as she strode across the shop. She halted in the doorway of the room leading to the staircase, and sucked in her breath.

  One of the Waterford vases had been swept off the sideboard. Pieces of it were scattered across the hardwood floor, and the faded Aubusson rug.

  “Martin—” She leapt over the wicked shards and bolted up the stairs. The door she had locked was ajar. Her heart pounded hard and fast as she pushed the door open.

  ***

  The handcuffs dug into Martin’s already abraded wrists, and he flinched again.

  He never thought he would get used to the feel of handcuffs—until he had walked into a murder spree in the village of Holmestead, and was arrested as a suspect.

  How quickly his life had changed.

  His captor yanked on his arm, and Martin bit back a moan, stumbling forward. His bare feet felt numb on the icy, cracked concrete floor of the museum’s loading dock. With the weather, the museum had been closed to the public, but Maggie had told Martin that Spencer was using the free time to sort out the mess his late predecessor, Giles Trelawney, had left behind.

  Martin sincerely hoped Spencer had stayed home today. As much as he could use the assistance, he didn’t want Maggie’s oldest and dearest friend caught up in this mess.

  “Sit, Professor.”

  Martin lowered himself to the rickety wood chair, and met the furious green eyes of his former student assistant.

  Terry Harmon may have been the name he used with Maggie, but with the blonde wig and moustache gone, Martin had recognized him immediately.

  “What now, Ken?”

  He scowled, the temper Martin remembered all too well flushing his face. “I didn’t—I’ll figure it out.”

  “So, this was impulsive, and not well thought out.” Martin let out a sigh. That had always been one of Ken’s least attractive quirks. The only time he had gotten it right was when he had stolen the apothecary jar. Martin played a hunch with his next question. “When did you resort to murder?”

  “It was self-defense!” Ken let out a breath and ran one hand through his dark, sweat-damp hair. He was agitated, and Martin needed to calm him before he lost his temper. More than one artifact had been victim to Ken’s outbursts. Martin still could not figure out why he hadn’t fired the boy long before the theft. “I was selling him a rare Victorian miniature—it was part of my inheritance, Professor, so stop glaring at me.”

  “Sorry.” He forced himself to look as impassive as he could. “Please, continue.”

  “Like I said, I was selling him a rare miniature, of a family member, and he took out a pistol, intending to swindle me. I had no choice.”

  “So, instead of reporting it, you set up an innocent man.”

  “Ashton? He was my flatmate, so it was convenient.”

  “Odd, but you don’t sound repentant, Ken.”

  Martin knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment the words left his mouth. Ken backhanded him with his fist and Martin spun to the floor, landing on his right shoulder. He felt something give, and was certain of it when pain ripped across his shoulder as Ken hauled him up.

  “You won’t judge me—” He threw Martin at a pile of broken down cardboard boxes, and Martin nearly dislocated his left shoulder trying to avoid landing on his right side. Ken stood over him, waving the knife around. “Your own family disowned you because you couldn’t live up to the standards of a noble.”

  That was hardly the reason for their estrangement, but Martin wasn’t about to argue the point with him.

  “Ken.” Martin stilled, and swallowed a groan when his right shoulder shifted. “You can leave, right now. One of the museum employees will find me, and I can claim that I never saw who brought me—”

  Ken smacked him again. Since Martin was already on the floor this time, the only damage was a second painful bruise on his left cheek.

  “Shut up, Professor. I need to think.”

  Martin closed his eyes briefly, his cheek throbbing. The double impact reawakened the wound on his forehead, which made it difficult to think straight. Ken had deliberately left Martin’s glasses a
t the flat, giving himself the upper hand. Between the wound and his dodgy eyesight, Martin could barely see beyond his outstretched feet.

  Martin had one possible advantage, one Ken didn’t know about.

  It all rested on Maggie—and whether or not she understood the message he had left behind.

  ***

  The flat looked like a whirlwind had hit it.

  “No—” Maggie sprinted to the bedroom, skidding to a halt when she saw the empty bed, the pajamas Martin had been wearing—and his glasses still on the bedside table. “Martin—”

  She started to sink to the floor, despair and sheer terror fighting each other. Anthea appeared at the end of the bed, on the move almost before she completely materialized. She walked right through Maggie—and left behind a chill that seemed to wrap around her bones.

  Stumbling after her, out to the lounge, Maggie nearly ran into her when she stopped.

  “What? What are you trying to...” Her voice faded when she saw what Anthea was pointing to. A brochure Spencer had left for her, about a new exhibit at the museum. “Spencer took him? No—forget I said that. I can’t think straight.”

  She closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths, forcing herself to calm. It was her fault Martin had been taken. If only she’d set the alarm when she left, like she normally—

  Cool air brushed her cheek. When she opened her eyes, Anthea stood in front of her, one hand hovering next to her face.

  “What are you trying to tell me? Is it about Martin?” Anthea nodded, and pointed at the brochure again. Maggie wanted to smack herself. “Martin was taken to the museum—”

  She didn’t wait for Anthea to finish her enthusiastic nod, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket as she ran for the stairs. Spencer’s mobile number was at the top of her contacts. She tapped the phone icon halfway down.

  “Please pick up, Spence. Please—”

  “Mags?” He sounded exhausted. “What is it?”

  “Did I wake you—I’m sorry—”

  “Just resting in between massive piles. What’s up?”

  “Spence—” She set the alarm this time before she unlocked the front door and slipped through, locking it behind her. The constant movement helped keep her panic from taking over. “I think Martin has been taken by the killer. He left me a clue, and it points to the museum.”

  “You think he’s here?” Spencer’s voice lowered, and Maggie could tell he was on the move. “Anyone can walk into the loading dock. I left it open for the delivery later today, so I didn’t have to wait around for the truck. With the next storm coming, I never expected anyone to be insane enough to wander down the high street and walk in—”

  His voice cut off, and Maggie started running.

  “Mags.” His whisper startled her. “There are two people in the storage room behind the loading dock.”

  “I’m almost there. Don’t go in alone, Spencer. I can see the museum now.” She ran around the side, slipping on the icy sidewalk. “Spencer—”

  “I can see you.” She looked up, and spotted him just outside the loading dock, his back to the wall. “I’m going to hang up now. Call Ian.”

  “He thinks he has the killer.”

  “Call him anyway. Tell him Martin’s been kidnapped and you think he’s at the museum. Now, Mags.”

  “I got it.”

  “Good. Stay put. I’ll come to you.”

  “Okay.”

  She ended the call and tapped in Ian’s number. When it went to voice mail, she left a quick message, then tried the front desk number. Just when she was about to hang up, a breathless, familiar voice answered.

  “Holmestead Police.”

  “Jackie? It’s Maggie Mulgrew. I need to talk to Ian—”

  “Sorry, Maggie. We’ve a situation here. Ashton managed to escape before the PC escorting him could lock him in—coming, Detective Inspector!”

  The call ended before she could say anything else.

  Ashton couldn’t have been the one to take Martin—could he? She did take her time walking back to the shop, still in shock after his confession.

  Spencer jogged up to her, and wrapped her in his arms.

  “I missed you,” he whispered. “Ready to go rescue the Professor?”

  “We need to be careful, Spence. I just talked to one of the PCs, and Ashton escaped custody.”

  Spencer cursed, and she waited for him to say I told you so. Instead, he nodded, taking her hand. “Stay behind me.” He pulled a nasty-looking knife out of a scabbard at his belt.

  “Spence—”

  “I use it to open boxes. Giles left it behind.” He lifted the knife so she could see it.

  “Is that—”

  “Late Victorian, not medieval. I checked the records, and it’s part of the inventory for Acquisitions.” He continued in a whisper as he led her into the loading dock, hugging the inside wall. “Stop glaring at me—I also checked the value of the knife. It was mass produced for the Crystal Palace Exhibition, and worth about as much as a standard craft knife. Stop.”

  She did, trying to peer around him. He gently pushed her behind him, and used his arm to keep her there.

  “Spence—”

  “I hear arguing.”

  Her heart skipped. “Is one of the voices Martin?”

  After endless seconds, he nodded. “He sounds tired.”

  “He got caught in the last storm. Still recovering. Go—we need to get him out of there—”

  “Stay here.” He looked over his shoulder. “I will—”

  “Not without me.”

  He let out a sigh, and started moving forward.

  Maggie almost ran into him when he halted without warning. “Spence—”

  He clapped one hand over her mouth and dragged her behind the half open door to the storage room. When she started to fight him, he pressed his mouth against her ear.

  “Whoever has Martin, it isn’t Ashton. And he has a knife pressed to Martin’s throat at the moment, so we shouldn’t startle him.”

  ***

  Martin knew he had pushed Ken too far. The knife at his throat confirmed it.

  “Ken—”

  “Shut up!” The blade nicked Martin’s throat, and he stilled. “You ruined my life, Professor. I was thrown out of Oxford. Did you know that? It destroyed any career I may have had. Now I am forced to peddle antiques to greedy people who don’t want to compete for the right to own them.”

  “Why did you kill the other two men, Ken?” Martin kept his voice quiet, even, hoping it would calm Ken.

  “They were my partners.” He snorted, and stalked away from Martin. With a relieved sigh, Martin gradually shifted to his left side, in an attempt to take some of the pressure off his throbbing right shoulder. “But Nick wanted a bigger cut. Then he and Doug thought up a foolish plan to expand the business, and start fleecing—I mean, selling antiques to the shops outside of London. Start another income stream, they said.”

  “Wouldn’t that help your bottom line?” Martin needed to keep him talking, to give Maggie time to get to him.

  “I didn’t think you were so thick, Professor.” Ken sneered at him. “I am selling fake antiques, to rich people who don’t know better. What would happen if we came across someone who actually knew what they were doing? Nick planned to sell to your American, but after Doug spent time in the shop, he realized that she would spot a fake as soon as she saw it.”

  “They argued about it,” Martin said. “In front of Maggie’s shop.”

  “And would not stop, no matter how many locals heard them. I had to put a stop to it, before one of them spouted off in front of the wrong person. Killing Nick was an accident.” Ken rubbed his forehead, a gesture Martin recognized from his time as Martin’s assistant. The young man was fast losing control of his volatile temper. “I shoved him, and he fell into the holly bush. How did I know the bush had just been trimmed? It wasn’t my fault!”

  “No one said it was, Ken.” He decided not to mention the knife foun
d in Nick’s left side. No point in pushing Ken over the edge faster.

  “I can feel your judgement, Professor. You always judged me, every moment I worked for you.” He stalked over to Martin, the knife raised. “I never seemed to be able to stand up to your high standards. Funny, that, since you weren’t able to, either, when it came to your own family.” He stared at the knife, and lowered it. “Time to leave, Professor.”

  “Ken—”

  A harsh cry cut Martin off when Ken hauled him to his feet. Darkness narrowed his vision, and he knew he was hallucinating when he thought he saw Maggie standing in the doorway.

  “Let him go, Ken.” Her voice rang through the storage room. Perhaps he hadn’t been hallucinating.

  Ken jerked against him. “How did you—”

  “I saw a photo of you and Martin, not long after we met. It always bothered me, that I knew you from somewhere, but I just couldn’t place you. Now, let him go. The police are on their way.”

  “So sorry for the deception. And I seriously doubt the police will be here anytime soon. Not if Ashton fulfilled his end of the bargain.” Ken turned around, Martin in front of him, and the bloody knife at his throat again. The surprise on Maggie’s face drained the hope Martin had begun to feel at her appearance. “He did escape, didn’t he? Tossed the local constabulary into chaos. I do love the simplicity of villages.”

  “He did, but unfortunately for you, he was caught almost before he got out the door. The DI called me right before I got here. He’s on his way, and I told him that I knew where the real killer was.”

  “You bitch!” Ken dragged Martin backward. “If you want to see your precious professor again, you will stay right there, and let me walk away.” Maggie stepped forward, and Ken dug the edge of the knife into Martin’s throat. She froze, her gaze on the knife. “Good girl. Stay where you are, and nothing will—”

  “Spencer, no!” Maggie’s desperate shout echoed through the storage room—just before pain roared through Martin.

  ***

  “No!” Maggie sprinted forward, not able to see Martin behind the struggling men. She let out a hoarse shout and barreled into Ken.

  Spencer grunted, and took Ken down, pinning him to the concrete floor.

  “Martin—” Maggie dropped to her knees beside his hunched body, her hand shaking as she reached for his left shoulder. “Please, no.”