She tried to shake herself awake. Drew up an image of her room. Her bed was soft and warm, the blankets thick, the sheets crisp. And the pillows deep. Which reminded her that her head ached severely. More than severely. It positively pounded against her skull.
She shifted slightly and cried out as something tugged against her hair. Was she stuck on something? Had brambles caught hold of her? Her temple stung as she lifted her head and shuddered as coarse material brushed against her cheek. She shook her head and winced as her hair and skin pulled and the material suddenly fell away. Something warm trickled slowly down beside her eye. Horror rose. Was that blood running down her face? She gagged against a wad in her mouth but couldn’t move it. Her nostrils flared as she sucked in stale air, finally coming fully awake and realizing that this was definitely no dream. She was in a living nightmare.
What the devil was going on? She had to see.
Opening her eyes felt like the hardest thing she had ever done, and then she wasn’t sure that she opened them at all. For a moment Madeleine thought something had blinded her, but then she realized that her lack of sight was probably more to do with the darkness that surrounded her.
She blinked several times. Nothing. Black, impenetrable darkness extended in all directions and grew heavier with every passing second. It felt as if walls were closing in on her, were about to crush her. Panic seized her. Her heart pounded furiously blocking out the thump in her head. She was about to let out a scream when she remembered that her mouth was filled with something... Foul tasting material. Ignoring the vile tang, she pressed her tongue against it, trying to force it from between her lips, but it had been tied with some kind of strip around the back of her head.
A sudden scraping noise had her tilting her head to one side. Was there someone else with her in this never ending void? She remained still and silent, wrestling with her fear to locate the source of the sound above the thumping of her heart and head, but nothing reached her ears except for the occasional creaking sound.
Occasional creaking sounds? Regular occasional creaking sounds? Footsteps! She strained for a direction. Above her, definitely. Or were they to the left? She tried to reach out a hand to test if this space had walls, but her hands wouldn’t move and the pain induced by the small movement seared like fire through her shoulders. She was tied! With her hands behind her back! She thrust her legs. Damn! Her ankles too. Anger surged through her. Who had done this?
And then she recalled the sound of the hidden door, the sunlight on the floor, the guttering candle and the shadowy figure in the passageway. A ghost? The spectre of Phillips’ imagination? No! She winced as she remembered the blow to her head. A real person. One who wanted her dead? Clearly not or they would have killed her already. Unless they were going to do it later, when everyone was in bed.
Asher? No! Her heart raced at the thought. Please no! She felt tears spring to her eyes as her whole being begged that it wasn’t so. And then her brain began to function. Relief swept through her so quickly that she let out a laugh, mocking her own foolishness. Of course it wasn’t Asher! The sinister figure wasn’t near big enough to be her husband. Ash would have filled the space, wouldn’t have had the room to swing whatever her assailant had clubbed her with.
The footsteps paced somewhere in the dark again. Someone was close by. Were they coming in her direction? Should she take a chance and shout? No! They might belong to a foe rather than a friend. And if they belonged to a foe she would rather meet them standing on her own two feet with her right fist ready to give them what they deserved.
She took a few calming breaths and rolled onto her stomach. Dust rose from the floor and she spluttered as it filled her nose and eyes. Not one of the usual passageways. She kept the secret ones reasonably clean. The hidden room too. Was this a forgotten corner? An unused nook in the servants’ corridors. Was this even her house at all? Somehow she didn’t think anyone would have taken her from Claiborne, and as if to confirm her thoughts, the faint aroma of mustard and herb encrusted roast beef suddenly floated in the air. Cook’s own recipe. As distinct and unique as any handmade perfume.
Her dress caught on the floor, trapping her as she struggled to gain her knees. Twice she nearly tipped forwards and landed on her nose, but her efforts eventually prevailed and the material went slack enough as she knelt up on the floor. Her breath came in frantic pulls, but at least she was now able to lean back on her shins and feet. Her spine arched painfully, her tied fingers stretched out, reaching, feeling the air, until they touched her bound ankles. She only hoped her fingers had strength to untie her bonds.
Was that a ribbon? No. A cotton strip. Her fingers worked, found the knot. Tugged. A nail broke and she used some dreadful language behind the gag. For some reason her muffled spleen made her giggle. She swore into the rag again. The worst words she could think of, and directed them at the fiend who had done this to her.
“You black-hearted, blistering bastard. You yellow bellied shite covered snake. You piece of a festering pig’s balls!” In her head the words sounded as clear a as a bell. In life they sounded like the mumblings of a madwoman. She didn’t care. Her shoulders screamed at her, her back felt as if it might break. Her knees wore holes in her dress.
“You son of a Babylon whore. You snivelling, cowardly arse. May your manhood rot slowly and fall off before your eyes! Gah!” The tie suddenly loosened and dropped to the floor. She forced her straining back straight, her knees protesting violently as her feet found purchase on the floor. She had to stand up. Now! Shuffling sideways she moved carefully until coming up against a wall. She pressed her shoulder into the surface for balance, and staggered to her feet.
Breathing hard at her accomplishment she tested the bonds at her wrists. Had her efforts untying her ankles loosened the ties at all? Yes! She found she could twist her hands further, in opposition to one another. Her thumbs could touch the wrist of the other hand, could feel the band of cloth but there was no way she could twist her thumbs backwards to untie the knot with one hand. She twisted her wrists against one another. The thumb of her left hand caught under the material encircling her right. She pulled it towards her fingers and tucked the right hand thumb in tight to her palm. Her skin bunched, wrinkled against the band, but she eased it and wriggled it, and forced her flesh through until her hands were suddenly free.
Her arms shrieked in protest as they dropped to her sides, but she ignored the pain and lifted them, snatching at the gag in her mouth and forcing it down over her chin. She gasped in a breath and stood there sucking in the stale air, listening intently for any indication that her struggle had been heard.
Several seconds passed. Not a sound reached her ears. The creaking above her had stopped. A minute went by. Two. She cocked her head. Was that the scraping of a chair? Did she dare call for help? No! Shouting might only bring her assailant. Might hasten her demise. She had to wait until she knew where she was, and to see if she could discover the way to freedom.
Placing her hand on the wall, she moved along slowly, her feet feeling the way in front of her. Swallowing a shriek as a cobweb covered her face, she quickly dragged it away but immediately walked into another. More caught in her hair, coating it with a sticky veil. Where was this place? Certainly nowhere she had ever been before.
Holding out her free hand in front of her, feeling for any obstruction as well as fighting off the skeins of gossamer threads, she shuddered at the thought of what sized creatures might have made such impressive webs. Sending up a silent prayer that they had all vacated the passageway before now, she moved along, feeling for any change in the brickwork’s surface, straining to find a pinpoint of light...
Phillips stood in front of the desk, his eyes wide as if surprised. He shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“But I don’t understand it my Lord. I was not drunk. I didn’t drink this afternoon. I’m not saying I am some altar boy but I don’t drink often at all.”
Ash sighed deeply.
“
I am trying to help you, man! I cannot do that if you won’t admit your fault. You were sleeping in the library, an empty bottle of brandy at your side. I carried you to your bed and could smell it on your breath.”
Still the valet shook his head.
“I don’t know how that happened. I didn’t take the brandy. I swear it. Yes, I went to the library. I was tired. I’ve not been sleeping at nights. The ghost...” He stopped and glanced up as Ash scraped his chair back and stood up, glowering.
“Stop now before you make things any worse. I already told the household what I would do if anyone mentioned ghosts again.”
Phillips’s face distorted in anguish.
“But I am not lying! I am not. My Lord, I beg of you to listen to me. It was there in the master’s bedchamber as clear as you are now in front of me. It had horrible grey hair all over its face.”
Ash shook his head. He didn’t want to do it, but if Phillips wouldn’t accept the help he offered, there wasn’t much he could do.
“You had been drinking. It was a figment of your stupor. If you won’t admit it, I will have to ask you to leave my household.”
Phillips looked as though he were about to cry, but Ash had to stand firm on this. He couldn’t have a drunk living under his roof. And he didn’t have the time to argue about it. He wanted to see Madeleine, wanted to confront her about that afternoon. Why had she taken to her bed when she should have been questioning the staff? That’s what they had agreed.
The valet interrupted his thoughts.
“Please my Lord. I am begging you. Believe me, not what you might have heard. Rumour and gossip are a dreadful thing when untrue. My reputation has been tarnished by jealousy and envy. The earl trusted me. Do you think he would have kept me on if I drank as you have been wrongly led to believe?” Phillips wrung his hands together.
Ash looked at the man’s pale face. Sweat was on his brow. Two spots of pink flushed his cheeks, and he shook like an autumn leaf in a storm. He looked as if a fever had struck him. Ash had never seen anything like it. Could the man’s nerves make him react so strangely or was he really ill? Ash wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t throw the man out in this state. He’d likely either fall over and cause a serious injury to himself, or have a fit and die. Neither prospect was acceptable.
He remained silent for a few moments, the only noise in the room being Phillips rattling jaws. But another sound became evident. Ash wasn’t sure that the valet heard it, but he could have sworn he detected a low mumbling. Just the glimmer of a sound. It stopped momentarily, and then began again. What was it? He glanced about the room. The study at least looked tidier and a lot cleaner than the last time he had seen it. Madeleine and the maids must have worked hard. Which reminded him of his wife again. He had to speak to her without delay. He turned back to Phillips.
“I don’t want to disbelieve you, but put yourself in my position and listen to yourself. Ghosts, rumours, lank haired ghouls, denial of the drinking when I have seen the confirmation of it with my own eyes this very afternoon. You were insensible! There was the smell of alcohol on your breath, the empty bottle at your side!”
Phillips roused himself.
“But I only drank a cup of tea!” he squealed out in desperation.
Ash held up his hand to stop the valet interruption.
“I want you to go to your room and think about what I have said, think about how this behaviour looks to me. If you have any evidence of what you claim, please feel free to present it to me here tomorrow morning. I cannot discuss it any longer. I have an appointment with my wife.”
Chapter Fifteen
A Ghost in the Night
Ash had always considered himself a patient man. His shipping line had taken years to build. He could not recall ever losing his temper over delays caused by the weather, a client reneging on a deal, even prices not being what he expected.
When Jane Fairbanks had jilted him, he had admittedly felt more than a little sore. Her rejection of him irked for far more than the embarrassment she caused. But though he had wanted to strangle Arthur Kirkdale, he had taken deep breaths. He had counted to ten. He had acted with supreme decorum when he could have torn the man’s house down.
Even the Fifth Earl of Claiborne hadn’t caused him to crack. His ridiculous proposal might well have made other men shout, either with laughter, or indignation. But Ash had taken a step back. Had considered the proposition. Had made some counter demands of his own. And he had thought he had come out on top.
But when his third knock on Madeleine’s door received the same silent response, he vowed that when he eventually spoke to her it would be to tell her that she was indeed a childish, spoiled brat and needed a good thrashing. One that, by this time, he was quite prepared to give.
Yes, the last week had been hellish for her. He couldn’t deny that, but this was becoming ridiculous. He couldn’t wait until morning. He needed to speak to her. Forgetting that she hadn’t made any enquiries of the staff, he wanted to consult with her over Phillips’ behaviour. It was peculiar to say the least. Why deny a drink problem that everyone knew about and had commented upon. Even his own wife. But Phillips hadn’t wavered in his protests of innocence; had looked genuinely confused that he wasn’t believed. And at the end of the interview the man sounded as though pleading for his life, not just his job.
There had to be more to this than Ash knew. And he meant to find out what. The silence behind the door aggravated him more than he could say. God damn it! What was the woman playing at? He’d had enough. She would speak to him. Would help him. He had no idea how to handle this situation. He needed her advice, for what it was worth given her current behaviour, and he wasn’t going to let her get away with burying her head in her pillows any more.
His hand fell to the doorknob and he twisted it hard, throwing the door open with perhaps a little too much vigour. The heavy oak hit the inside wall and began to bounce back, but Ash was already inside the door, staring at the empty, and un-slept in bed.
He didn’t realize he had shouted furiously until several people came running at once. Mary stopped at the door and stepped back into Gertrude who had made it up the stairs right behind her. Ash pointed at the bed.
“My wife is not here!” He stated the obvious.
Mrs. Grenfell puffed up and peered over the maids’ shoulders.
“It would appear not, my Lord. Perhaps she is in the garden room.”
Ash took some deep breaths.
“I was informed that she retired to her room in the mid afternoon. Mr. Flack was quite insistent that you had told him that.”
Mrs Grenfell’s bosom rose as her cheeks turned pink.
“I might have said something of that order, but in truth I didn’t know where she was. She said that she was going to lie down. I assumed that was what she did.”
Ash lost all patience.
“At what time did she tell you that? Think carefully now. I saw her in the garden room at five as I came across the lawn. I assumed she had simply gone to bathe and change for dinner until she didn’t arrive in the dining room and Mr. Flack stated otherwise. Has anyone seen her since I noticed her at the window?” He wasn’t sure what was upsetting him most. The thought that she was avoiding him, or worry that the murderer had struck once again. Fear curled in his stomach.
Mary lifted her hand.
“I swear that I haven’t seen her, my Lord, but I was thinking that she might have gone to see the foal. To name it maybe? I know that Aiden had asked if she would name it soon.”
Ash nodded, grateful that someone was making sensible suggestions.
“Send Michael or Jimmy to find out.” Mary hurried off to find the boys.
Gertrude stepped forwards.
“Would she have gone to her father’s room? She would have been upset today and ‘tis just across the hall.” She pointed behind her.
Ash brushed past the women and shoved open the master’s suite door. The still, stale air hit him like a wall. The room st
ood empty, curtains drawn and clearly undisturbed since the earl’s body had been removed to the church. He slammed back out again and ran his fingers through his hair before glancing back at the two women again.
“Does she have a preference for any other rooms?”
Mrs. Grenfell shook her head.
“She prefers the outdoors. Always has. She’s sat inside longer this week than I swear she has all her life. She likes the old Abbey. Picks up old rocks and things she thinks important. Load of old stones if you ask me. Would be more use on the drive than sitting on her shelves.”
Ash raised his eyes to the hall window at the end of the corridor. The evening was drawing in. Why would she be out at this time of night? Was this one of her more unconventional traits? Night riding? He looked down at Mrs. Grenfell for some kind of confirmation, but the woman couldn’t meet his gaze. She fiddled with her apron, smoothing it, picking off a speck on invisible dirt. She scratched the side of her nose. Was she avoiding looking at him?
Or was the housekeeper simply trying to get him to search in the wrong direction? Outside the house rather than in it.
“It is becoming dark. She wouldn’t linger there now, surely. And I doubt she would have gone without telling someone, especially with a murderer still at large. She might be headstrong, but she is not foolish. Far from it.”
The housekeeper frowned, seemingly losing patience at his words.
“Perhaps she just wanted some time to think and has carted herself off somewhere in the house. It’s big enough to lose yourself for a while.”
The irritation in the woman’s tone startled Ash. And then he knew. It hit him with blinding force. Madeleine wasn’t naming a foal or wandering in ruins. She wasn’t taking time for herself. No, it was as clear as day to him now. Everything fell into place. Madeleine didn’t know the house as well as she had thought. She was lost in the passageways.
Madeleine cursed the blackness and her own folly as she picked herself up from the floor and sat recovering from her shock on a step. She had thought she had known all the passageways, all the secret doorways, the hidden rooms. But clearly she hadn’t. Falling down the short flight of stairs had informed her of that even if the multitude of cobwebs hadn’t.
An Unexpected Title (Suspicious Circumstance Book 1) Page 22
