At first, all I see is more mud and some pewter-colored beetles. But I clear the top layer of dirt away and find a single item nestled in a holey fabric bag: not bones but a glass bottle, small enough to fit in a pocket. It's too plain to be a perfume bottle, though I can't imagine what other purpose it might have served.
I remove the bottle from its fabric casing carefully. The glass is clear, and the mouth corked, and the interior looks to be empty. I tease at the cork until it slides loose, and then I sniff at the opening—and recoil. Whatever this bottle once contained, it was pungent, not perfume and certainly not a food additive. Maybe it was a particularly foul-smelling medicine. But why would someone bury a medicine bottle in the ground?
I flip the box over and notice a rusty plate engraved with the initials XM—Xavier Manderson—affixed to the bottom.
Perplexed, I put the bottle back in the box and punch the phone number Marie gave me into my cell phone. No answer, so I leave a detailed message—probably too detailed—along with the house's address.
Then, box in hand, I stand up and go indoors to join Trudy in the attic.
- - -
Despite Marie's warning that the attic might not be safe, the floor feels sturdy beneath my feet, and it's obvious that the previous occupants used this space quite often—for storage or, judging by the two partially furnished bedrooms, for sleeping.
“I think this room must have been Xavier's,” Trudy tells me, aiming her flashing beyond the large entry room—stuffed with trunks and strewn with old, moth-eaten rugs—and into the smaller bedroom of the two. The space is windowless and narrow but kind of cozy. Well, it might be cozy if it were clean. As it stands, there are cobwebs stretching across the ceiling and evidence of mice in every corner. A twin-size bed, stripped of its sheets, and a low dresser are the only objects in the room, but there's a picture tacked on one of the bedposts—a photograph. My breath catches in my throat when I realize who the woman in the picture is.
“Elizabeth,” Trudy sighs.
I remove the nail affixing the photo to the wooden post and flip the picture over in my hand. In a messy scrawl, someone inked My Bess on the back of the image.
“Do you think they were having an affair?”
“Xavier and Elizabeth?” I shake my head, troubled. “I guess they could have been. Maybe. But it just...feels wrong somehow. I told you about Victoria's note to Bess, the one I found in the shell.”
Trudy nods, her blonde head tilted to one side. “Love triangle?”
I narrow my gaze at a small hole cut into the opposite wall, at about eye height. Then I place the box that I found in the ground on top of the squat dresser and pull open one of the drawers. Instead of clothing, the drawer is full of faded photographs, an old-fashioned pair of binoculars—or “spyglasses,” as Trudy calls them—and a long lock of dark brown hair tied with a bit of string. Trudy reaches past me to pick up the hair and holds it up to my head, frowning.
“Same color as yours. Was probably Elizabeth's.”
I take the lock from her and examine it, frowning, too. It's too long, too thick. When a person gives someone a lock of hair, they typically cut off only a small amount, so that the snip wouldn't be noticeable. But this would be noticeable. I've seen Victorian memorial jewelry and artwork woven from a deceased loved one's hair, and in those instances, large portions of hair were cut off of the head—since the dead, obviously, wouldn't miss it.
A sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach, and I feel my face go white.
“What is it? What's wrong?”
With shaking fingers, I drop the hair back into the drawer and pick up the pile of photos, tasting bile in the back of my throat. Apparently Xavier was a photographer. These are travel photos, taken on Godrick's dig sites, I assume—sweeping expanses of sand and sky. And Elizabeth is present in nearly every picture. She isn't posing. She isn't aware that her photo is being taken.
Xavier stole her image—just as, I suspect, he stole her hair.
And, worse, he may have stolen her life.
“Here, smell this,” I urge Trudy, handing her the small glass bottle. “It was buried in the backyard in this box.” I show her Xavier's initials on the metal plate. “XM. There's no mistaking who this belonged to. So what do you think? What do you make of it?”
“Hmm.” She uncorks the bottle, sniffs the rim, and her eyes grow distant, thoughtful, a hundred miles away. Then she smells the bottle again. “I know what this is.” Her blue-violet gaze clamps onto mine—wide, shining, and unmistakably alarmed. “I...I worked for my father's business the summer after I graduated high school, before I went off to college. Truman was in Canada with some friends. Dad had hoped I'd give up on my college plans and decide to stay on, though he must have known I'd hate it.” She grimaces. “When I was a little girl, I used to rescue spiders from the bathroom, carry them outside on the palm of my hand. So the idea of extermination turned my stomach. But I didn't want to disappoint him...” She bites her lip and sighs. “I did disappoint him, anyway, again and again.”
I squeeze her shoulder gently.
“Sorry. The point is—” She narrows her eyes at the bottle in her hand. “This is strychnine.”
“Strychnine? You mean—”
“Rat poison.”
My heart begins to beat at twice its normal pace. “Right. So, if someone buried a bottle that once contained rat poison in the backyard—”
“—they were probably covering something up. Like...” Trudy's lips close, and her eyes hold mine. In the harsh light of the flashlights, her features look flat, like they would in a painting, or in a photograph. She shivers. “Alex. I don't want to say it.”
“I don't want to, either. But Elizabeth died of a sudden, undiagnosed illness while her father was out of the country, and there's a bottle of strychnine buried in the backyard, and Xavier has all of these voyeuristic photos of Elizabeth in his room...”
“Do you really think he could have—”
“Maybe he found out about Elizabeth's relationship with Victoria. Maybe he was jealous. And maybe—”
“Maybe he poisoned Elizabeth.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, taking the bottle back from Trudy and dropping it in the box, then wiping my fingers on my t-shirt. “Maybe he did.”
A sudden shattering breaks the silence, and we run, heedless of the rumpled rugs and the hovering dark, out of Xavier's bedroom and into the smaller room adjoining it. There are shards of broken mirror all over the dusty floor, along with the heavy mirror frame itself, having tipped over—or having been tipped over.
“Oh, God. I only glanced in here earlier. But I saw something draped in fabric and leaning against the wall,” Trudy says, kneeling down to pick up one of the shards. “It must have been this mirror. If I'd known it was a mirror—but why would Xavier break it? Alex!” She stumbles backward, flailing to the floor, as a finger, followed by a hand, and then an elongated, misshapen arm emerges from one of the scattered mirror pieces.
I grapple for her, dragging her to her feet and pulling her out of the room, out of reach. But as I'm shutting the door, I notice that the space, which appears to have been used for storage, boasts a bed with unexpectedly frilly coverings...and there are two silky, though moth-eaten, robes draped over the blankets.
Two.
“Trudy, the robes—”
“I know. I saw. Let's get out of here.” Trudy pulls me toward the ladder staircase, taking large, leaping steps. “I'm too tired to deal with that Peeping Tom asshole right now. Run.”
We trip down the ladder and land on the hallway floor below; with shaking hands, I fold the ladder until it's fastened in place against the ceiling, effectively closing the attic off from the rest of the house: a meaningless gesture, really, because it isn't as if Xavier is unable to follow us elsewhere. It does seem, though, that the attic might be his domain, given that he lived up there.
Now it's my turn to pore over the library books while an exhausted and shaken Trudy falls to
dreams in my bedroom. She's too tired for innuendo as I help her slip out of her jumpsuit. She slides beneath the covers, I plant a kiss on her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips, and moments later, smiling softly, she's fast asleep. On tiptoes, I heft the stack of biographies down to the kitchen, make myself a kettle of tea, and get to work.
I read for an hour, then two, then three. I'm searching for a specific mention of the trip Godrick Patton embarked on just before Elizabeth's death. Why didn't Elizabeth accompany him? And, more importantly, why didn't Xavier go with him? Several of the books clearly state that it was Xavier who found Elizabeth's body and telephoned her doctor. Did no one ever suspect foul play? Was Xavier such a model employee? Surely someone noticed his fascination with Elizabeth Godrick...
Granted, most of the evidence we've gathered thus far would disintegrate in a court of law, but no court of law will be interested in a late Victorian-era crime, anyway. I'm researching this for Elizabeth's sake, for Victoria's sake. Maybe their spirits just want someone to figure out the truth. Maybe their souls will be set free if—
“Ow!”
I see, too late, that the newly warmed tea kettle on the table has toppled, spilling scalding water over my arm. Ugly red welts swell along my wrist, and hot tears leak from the corners of my eyes as I wince, gritting my teeth against the pain.
But how on earth did that happen? I hadn't even moved, and the table isn't tilted...
Once the shock abates, I stare at my warped reflection in the sideways teapot, watch as my scowl gives way to a too-familiar, sinister grin. “I'd call you a monster, but you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?” I hiss at Xavier's face, far more angry now than afraid. “Is this how you get off, by hurting women? What did you do to Elizabeth? Did you poison her? Tell me!”
“Alexxx...” his ghostly voice mocks me. “I saw you. I saw you and Truuudy. Just like I saw my Bess with that whooore!”
I smack the tea kettle off of the table, sending it clattering to the floor. Then I stand up and toss the kettle into the trash, though it's too hot and begins to melt the garbage bag. With the scent of burning plastic in my nose, I stalk out of the kitchen, climb the stairs, and lower the ladder leading to the attic. “I'm sick of you,” I tell the cold, swirling air around me as it teases at my hair, nips at my cheeks. “You chased my sister away, you scared my girlfriend—” I stutter over the word girlfriend, unused to the shape of it on my tongue. “And you forced me to smash antiques, for God's sake. It's over, Xavier.”
His laughter swoops around my ears, causing every hair on my body to stand on end—which makes me so furious that my temples begin to pound. I stomp up the rungs and, once I'm standing in the attic, I stomp again into Xavier's room, flinging the drawers open one by one and sending them crashing to the floor. More photographs, stubby candles, some handkerchiefs... And then I reach the bottom drawer, which is larger and deeper than the others. Inside of it is an old-fashioned camera, along with a small black velvet pouch.
Something crashes against the wall; I glance over my shoulder, see what was a small drinking glass broken to smithereens. “Temper tantrum, Xavier?” I whisper, pretending at nonchalance, though I'm beginning to feel nervous—and a little shocked by my own bravado. What exactly am I planning to do here? I don't know how to stop Xavier. The next object he sends flying might connect with my head...
Fingers trembling, I loosen the cord holding the tattered velvet pouch closed and slowly draw out two photographs. At sight of them, my stomach clenches; I'm afraid I might be sick. Something sails past my ear and hits the wall with a thud, but I'm too dizzy to investigate it. Clutching the pouch and the photographs, I run out of the room, back down the ladder, and I careen into my bedroom, where Trudy is sitting up in bed, messy-haired, stricken.
“I heard something—”
“Come on,” I tell her breathlessly, reaching for her hand. “We have to get out of the house.”
“Now? But I'm not dressed—”
“There's no time. It isn't safe. Hurry—please!”
“I'm coming. Are you okay?”
I nod weakly, pulling her into the hallway. “I'm okay. But—”
Trudy screams as the wall sconce beside her head explodes in a shower of glass. “Run, Alex!”
We fly down the stairs and slide over the polished hardwood until we reach the front door. Maybe I've watched too many horror movies, but I half-suspect the door to be locked, impossible to open, but it gives freely beneath my hand, and then we're outside, panting, washed in moonbeams and the pinprick light of the stars.
And a woman carrying a carpet bag is walking toward us, her thin lips set in a grim line.
“Alex Dark, I presume,” she says in a voice that I would describe as early Hollywood-era posh. She sounds cultured, wise, and when she holds out her hands to Trudy and me, they're heavy with rings—pentacles and quartz and silver crescent moons.
I cough; my throat is tight, and my stomach is knotted. “Are you Constance Reed?”
“I am.”
I stare, astonished. “But I didn't expect you to—”
“I was in Buffalo for the evening, visiting relatives, and when I listened to your message, I...” Her hazel eyes glint as they drift toward mine. She's an impressive figure, tall, with snow white hair wrapped into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, contrasted starkly with her swooping black brows and long black lashes. Her flowing garments are saturated with every color of twilight. “I cleared my schedule and drove right here. The truth is, Alex, I'd been waiting for your call.”
“Waiting?” I narrow my eyes. I'm still breathing hard, still feeling as if I might faint, or vomit, or scream, so I'm having difficulty comprehending this new development. Trudy clings to my arm; there are tiny shards of glass sparkling in her sleep-flattened hair. I begin to pick them out carefully as I clear my throat, ask, “Did Marie tell you she'd given me your number?”
“No, dear. But my spirit guide informed me two days ago that I should be expecting a—and I quote—'call from the dark.' I must admit, that sounded rather sinister, but then I listened to your voicemail, heard you call yourself Alex Dark, and I knew that you and I were destined to cross paths. So...” She spreads her arms, decorated with bangle bracelets, and smiles warmly. “Here I am. Shall we begin?”
I glance at Trudy; she smiles weakly and offers me a small shrug, as if to say, “Why not?”
But there's a violent entity loose in my house, and I'm not certain that holding a séance within Xavier's vicinity is going to subdue him. More likely, it will make him more disturbed, more vengeful. I glance at the still-stinging burn on my wrist, swallowing the lump in my throat.
If we do this, one of us might get seriously hurt...
“Ms. Reed—”
“Call me Constance.”
“Constance, we—I mean, we just—I'm worried that it's a bad time for this because—”
“Now is always the right time,” she interrupts me cryptically, though her eyes are twinkling, and her mouth is crooked into a subtle smile. “Relax. I can tell that the two of you are stressed, tired, a little afraid, but you won't have to do a thing. Well, aside from focusing your minds and concentrating on the task at hand.” With a swoosh of skirts, she moves past us slightly and gestures toward the house. “I take it that this is the site of the spirit activity?”
“Yeah. But it isn't safe—” Before I can finish my sentence, a windowpane bursts outward from the front hall, spitting glass in our direction. We leap to the side, crouching down to the ground and narrowly avoiding the shards, though broken glass crunches beneath my shoes, and Trudy, barefoot, has to tiptoe to the grass to avoid slicing her feet open. I offer Constance a shaky, slanted smile. “Like I said, it isn't safe. He has this thing for glass,” I explain quietly.
“He? The entity you mentioned in your voicemail?”
“Mm. He tends to appear in mirrors, reflective surfaces...”
“Of course. A mirror ghost. I've never encountered one, but I'm fami
liar with the type.” With a curt nod of her white head, Constance strides back toward the front door and—bravely—swings it wide. “I don't suppose you have any rooms without mirrors or windows?” she calls back over her shoulder.
“Only in the attic.” I curse, wishing that I could take back my words. Because now Constance is going to suggest—
“To the attic, then! Come on now, ladies. We aren't going to let this fellow push us around, are we? There are three of us and only one of him.”
“Technically, there are five of us,” I mutter beneath my breath, shifting my gaze to the front windows, searching them for Elizabeth's face, but she's nowhere to be found. There isn't any sign of Victoria in the yard, either. Xavier has grown powerful in recent days; maybe he's keeping the other ghosts suppressed, muted. Maybe he's done something to restrain them. God, if he has...
The thought causes my hands to clench into fists at my sides. Alternately trembling and fuming, I begin to follow after Constance, who's already climbing the staircase up to the second floor. But I pause before I cross the threshold to cast a glance back to Trudy. She regards me with an oddly blank expression: the face of a doll, fixed in place. My heart clenches in my chest—with fear, with love.
God, I think she's in shock.
“Listen, you don't have to come in.” I touch her hair, admiring the way that its yellow waves collect the moonlight. Then I sigh softly, shaking my head. “It's incredibly stupid that I'm about to go back in this house, but it's my house, damn it, and Bess and Victoria need our help, and if I back out now—”
“Alex.” Trudy raises a single blonde brow. “Hell will freeze over before I allow you to confront that creeper alone.”
Despite the tension in my limbs, despite my contradictory thoughts, a smile steals across my face, and I chuckle quietly, stepping nearer to her. “That may be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Cross My Heart Page 16
