by C. J. Archer
"Love is fleeting," Mrs. Gladstone said quietly. "Once the first flush of it is over, there is only suitability remaining. He'll see his mistake and change his mind."
"No, Mrs. Gladstone, I don't believe he will. It's foolish to think he will ever love me as much as he loves her. Perhaps I'm being selfish, but I want him to look at me the way he looks at her. At least, I want someone to do so."
I had always felt a little sorry for her, and hearing her talk of being loved only increased my sympathy. She was no different to any other girl. Strip away the expensive clothing, the jewelry, the influential father, and she was simply a girl wanting to be loved for who she was underneath.
Mrs. Gladstone fell silent once again. Perhaps she remembered what it was like to want a grand love. Perhaps she understood after all.
"We'll be a laughing stock if he marries her," she muttered.
My heart stopped beating. Here was the crux of her dislike of me. I wanted to dismiss her concerns as superficial, yet that was unfair. She was right. The Gladstones would become the butt of jokes. Invitations would dry up. Her acquaintances would refuse to visit her, and when they did see her in the street, they would whisper cruel things behind their hands.
But I also knew that the jokes would pass, her true friends would remain at her side, and her son would always be her son.
"The thing is," Ebony said, "I don't think Samuel cares about any of that."
"That's the problem." Mrs. Gladstone sighed. "When will you leave?" She sounded like she had accepted the fact that Ebony and Samuel would never marry.
Relief swamped me from head to toe. I had thought I didn't care about her opinion, but I found that I cared very much. For Samuel's sake. Hopefully, now they could begin to mend the bridge that lay broken between them.
I sped past the door in the hope that I wouldn't be seen, and made my way down the stairs. Sylvia, Bert and Cara ate breakfast in the dining room. They were in earnest discussion about the events of the night before.
"Charity!" Cara beckoned me with her butter knife. "Perhaps you can offer your thoughts on something we've been discussing."
I stood at the sideboard and heaped bacon and toast onto a plate. "I'll try."
"We know three hypnotists, all linked to the ruins. Mrs. Gladstone claims the energy down there somehow infected unborn babies. Yet if it were that simple, why aren't there more hypnotists about? Sylvia claims that other women, servants, have been to the old abbey when they were with child."
I stopped pouring my tea to stare at Sylvia. "Are you certain?"
"Oh yes," she said, looking pleased to contribute some new knowledge. "The maid before Maud left when she could no longer hide her delicate condition. She had certainly been to the ruins and her little son is no hypnotist. There must have been others before her, too."
"Blast," Bert mumbled. "Mother and Frakingham are hiding something from us. Something else must link Samuel and Douglas."
I joined them at the table and set down my teacup and plate. "Do you think it has anything to do with those missing men? Or the book that Myer is so keen to get his hands on? Or both?"
"I think it's very likely," Cara said. "The men disappeared around the same time that the unborn babies of Lady Frakingham and Mrs. Gladstone gained their power. That's not a coincidence."
"We won't get any answers from either of them," I said. "Or Mr. Myer, and Mrs. Butterworth knew very little about the missing gentlemen. We could ask other Harborough residents, but I suspect the answer will be the same."
We fell into silence, nibbling and sipping, until Samuel joined us. We told him our suspicions and he agreed that it was more than coincidence.
"I've been thinking about it most of the night," he said, standing by the sideboard. "I came to the same conclusions, as it happens, but I do know who we can question."
"Who?" we all asked.
"Detective Inspector Weeks."
"The policeman?" Sylvia shook her head. "He wouldn't have been in the constabulary twenty-two years ago. He's not old enough."
"No, but there will be records of the investigation in the files."
"Brilliant thinking," Sylvia declared. "Who will come to the village with me after breakfast?"
***
Cara, Sylvia and I drove into the village alone, accompanied only by Fray, the driver. Tommy was needed at the house, Bert claimed to be too tired, and Samuel wanted to remain close to Malborough, to ensure he didn't hypnotize anyone else.
The police station was a single-story building with a simple flat facade, one door and a window. Inside, a baby-faced constable sat at a desk behind the glass partition, stabbing a typewriter with one finger. He didn't look up until Sylvia cleared her throat.
"Good morning," she said. "Is Inspector Weeks here?"
The constable leapt up, bumping the desk. The pen tipped out of the inkwell and splattered ink on his paperwork. He didn't notice. He only had eyes for us as he approached the partition. He was very tall and as thin as a pole, except for his cheeks. They were as chubby as a cherub's.
"Miss Langley!" He did an awkward bow and flushed to the roots of his blond hair. "Welcome. Er, I mean, I'll fetch him for you."
Sylvia looked equally embarrassed by his awkwardness, but maintained the haughty tilt of her chin as he scrambled to the side door.
"Sir," he announced, opening it. "Miss Langley is here to see you."
The man who must have been Detective Inspector Weeks shot through the door and into the reception room like a canon ball, knocking his constable aside in his eagerness to clasp Sylvia's hand. He didn't shake it as he would a gentleman's, but merely held it between both of his as if it were a bird that might try to fly away.
"Miss Langley! What a pleasure. Indeed, yes. Very unexpected, but a pleasure nevertheless." He had a thin, ratty face with small eyes that slid between the three of us with curiosity.
Sylvia made the introductions and he directed us into his office. We sat in hard wooden chairs on one side of the desk and he sat on the other, his hands linked on top of a pile of papers.
"I do hope nothing is amiss up at the big house, Miss Langley?" He framed the sentence as a question and his brows rose almost to his slicked hairline.
"Nothing like that," she said on a laugh. Sylvia had been laughing and smiling all morning. Her good humor was infectious and I found myself smiling along with her. "It's just an old mystery we wish to settle and we hoped to find some answers here."
"An old mystery, eh? How intriguing. Go on."
She told him about the missing men and the subsequent police search for them.
"It was before my time. I'm not Harborough born," he said to Cara and me. "So what's it got to do with now, eh?"
"Lord Frakingham is staying with us, and he mentioned it," Sylvia said. "He was very sad about it, and says the unsolved mystery was the one thing he regrets from his time there. When we asked him what the police concluded, he said he didn't know. We thought perhaps we could find out for him before he leaves."
"It would give him a sense of satisfaction," Cara said. "A closure to a sad chapter of his time at the house, as it were."
Weeks steepled his fingers and nodded earnestly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Good idea. I'll see what I can discover." He waited for us to get up and leave, but we weren't going anywhere.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind checking your records now," Sylvia suggested.
"We would be very grateful," I said in my sweetest voice.
"Very," Cara agreed. "Would it be filed away in those drawers? We can wait while you check."
The poor man looked like a cornered animal. His ratty nose twitched and his eyes narrowed to slits. "The older files are kept in the storage room out the back. The thing is, I'm very busy—"
"It won't take long." Sylvia rose. "The storage room, you say? Perhaps we could look while you continue with your very important work."
He quickly stood, scraping the feet of his chair on the bare floor. "No, no, no. It's quite all righ
t."
"We're very trustworthy," Sylvia went on. "We won't peek at any other cases, I promise."
"Of course, and I trust you wholeheartedly, Miss Langley. It's just that I don't want you getting all dusty. Allow the constable to help you."
He opened the door and beckoned the baby-faced man over. "Constable Jeffries, help the ladies look through the files for a missing persons case. From sixty-seven, you say?"
We nodded. He handed us over to the rather nervous looking constable. He asked us to follow him through a door at the rear of the station reception room, down a whitewashed corridor, past two empty cells to another room. This one was hardly big enough to store the two enormous bookcases that reached to the ceiling. Instead of books, each shelf held a rectangular box.
The constable read the labels until he found the one he needed. "Here we are. Sixty-seven. Do you know the month?"
"Try summer," I said, thinking about the light clothing the group had worn in the daguerreotype.
He skipped ahead a few more boxes. "It should be in either this one or the next. There weren't many cases at that time." He looked through the box then returned it. "Not in there." He pulled out the next one and leafed through it. "Nor there either." He tried the next one and the next, but found nothing. "Are you sure about the year?"
"Quite sure," Sylvia said.
We helped the constable go through more boxes on either side of the Sixty-seven ones, but found nothing related to Frakingham or any missing persons. The constable gave up with a huff as he shoved the box back into its slot.
"We must have been mistaken," I said, trying to catch Cara and Sylvia's attention. "Thank you for your time, Constable Jeffries."
"But it must be here," Sylvia declared, eyeing the boxes as if it were their fault we'd not found what we came for. "Everyone says the police got involved."
I took her hand and held it tightly. "Never mind. Lord Frakingham will simply have to be satisfied with not knowing what happened."
The constable showed us out and locked the storage room door. We headed back to the front reception where Inspector Weeks greeted us.
"No luck?" he asked. At our head shakes, he said, "Shame. Ah well, it shall remain a mystery."
A mystery I hated not solving. "Tell me, sir," I said, as a thought came to me, "do you know who was in charge here in sixty-seven?"
"That would have been Nelson," Weeks said. "He was inspector here for a very long time, prior to my arrival. A good enough policeman, I believe. Why?"
"Good enough" didn't sound terribly encouraging. "Would he know what happened, do you think?"
"Perhaps, but he's dead. Died two years ago. Your Lord Frakingham would have known that. They were good friends, I believe. Kept in touch right up until Nelson passed. Now that I think about it, it's odd he wouldn't have kept his lordship informed of that investigation."
Both Cara and Sylvia straightened, their interest piqued. I took a step closer to Weeks and lowered my voice. Even though the constable had moved away, I didn't want to risk being overheard. "Was he a good inspector, would you say? Thorough?"
Weeks looked offended. "Thorough enough. What are you implying?"
"Nothing. We just want to assure Lord Frakingham that everything that could be done was. You see, it will seem odd to him that there's no record of the investigation. He might jump to conclusions about the station's record keeping. We wouldn't want him to think his friend destroyed the report."
"I'm sure Nelson wouldn't have done that," he said, horrified. "Miss Evans, I don't like what you're implying."
Sylvia muscled in, also speaking quietly. "Do you see how it looks?" she said to Weeks. "If Nelson didn't destroy the records, then Lord Frakingham will think his replacement did."
"Me!" he blurted out. Constable Baby-faced Jeffries looked up from his typewriter. Weeks bent his head and whispered, "Why would I want to do that?"
"Nobody said you did." Cara sidled closer. "But it's what everyone will think. If, as you say, Nelson was of impeccable character."
Weeks looked as if his tie was too tight. He dug a finger down between his neck and collar and swallowed audibly. "I didn't say his character was impeccable, I said it was good." He glanced at Jeffries and seemed to come to a conclusion. "He was known to do little favors for people." He rubbed his fingers and thumb together to imply he did it for money. "Evidence disappeared or materialized from nowhere, that sort of thing. Little things, really. Harmless in the grand scheme. It shouldn't tarnish his memory."
"It most certainly should," Sylvia hissed. "I'm sure if his superiors had known, they'd have put an end to it."
"Of course, of course. I wholeheartedly agree. You do know that there's been nothing like that since his retirement. Nothing at all."
We left Weeks to his paperwork and conscience and piled back into the waiting coach. I lifted my skirts to allow room for Cara to sit beside me, and whisked my hand over the cotton with a frustrated flick.
"I had hoped to learn more than that," Sylvia said with a sigh.
"It's not a complete waste," Cara said. "We do know that Inspector Nelson probably destroyed the file."
"But we'll never find out what was in it!"
"I agree with Cara," I said. "As frustrating as it is, we can be quite sure Nelson was paid to keep quiet, which he did until his death."
"Yes, but who paid him?"
"Lord Frakingham perhaps," I said with a shrug. "He knew Nelson well, according to Weeks. The men disappeared from his property, too. The only person who may have more reason to pay off Nelson would be the one who killed them."
Sylvia gasped, but Cara simply nodded. It seemed she had already come to the same conclusion.
Sylvia stared wide-eyed at me. "You think they were murdered?"
"It's a strong possibility," I said. "We certainly shouldn't rule it out."
"I have another theory," Cara said as the coach turned a corner. "Those men may have simply left of their own accord with the parchment of spells that Myer claimed disappeared at the same time. Or perhaps with the book he's so sure he'll find in the ruins."
"I like that theory better," Sylvia said, as if that would make it true.
"Myer didn't think the book was there," I reminded them. "Just that clues to its whereabouts are hidden in the abbey."
"They could have found a clue," Sylvia said, her eyes wide and bright. "They decided not to share their findings with anyone and left in the middle of the night, taking the clue and parchment with them. They've probably found the book by now. Perhaps whatever was contained within its pages destroyed them. Perhaps they destroyed the book! Yes, I definitely like that theory."
I exchanged a glance with Cara. "Let's hope that's the truth," I said quietly.
***
We didn't confront Lord Frakingham immediately. I spotted Myer down by the ruins as we drove up to the house. Sylvia thought we should get his opinion on the missing police report before we spoke to Frakingham.
"I'd like to see his reaction," she said. "It could be telling, even if he doesn't give us any more information."
"A good idea," I said. "It's worth trying anyway. Besides, it's a lovely day for a stroll down to the ruins and lake." Before we had to face Frakingham and Malborough.
She stepped down from the coach and looked around, probably for Tommy, who was usually there to greet our arrival. He wasn't and she emitted a small sigh. I wanted to tell her that he must be too busy, now that he had to take on Bollard's role too, but I wasn't sure if she wanted to know that I was aware of the direction of her thoughts.
Sylvia and I set off across the lawn, but Cara followed at a slower pace. I stopped and called back to her. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes. It's just that…" She blew out a measured breath as she came up alongside me. "I've never been down to the ruins. The last time I was here there was a demon on the loose and we had to remain indoors."
"It's quite safe now," Sylvia said. "Charity's right—the day is perfect for a little s
troll around there. The spot is very pretty."
I looped my arm through Cara's. "You're worried about seeing spirits?"
She nodded.
Sylvia frowned. "But you've never been afraid of seeing spirits before."
"Ordinarily I'm not, but this is different. I know now that there were many deaths at the abbey. Violent deaths. It's usually the ones who died violently that linger. When I've met spirits in the past, it's been one here, one there, rarely two or more at the same time. The only time I did meet more than one was in Melbourne. A set of twin brothers died in a house fire and wanted retribution on their landlord for his negligence. They were very angry." She nodded at the ruins in the middle distance. "The possibility of seeing scores of angry ghosts makes me uneasy. What if I can't help them all? What if I can't help a single one of them?"
"Would you like to stay here?" I asked gently.
She nibbled at her bottom lip. I'd never seen her look so uneasy. Cara was always a bright spark. I didn't like this change in her. "I should go," she said. "If there are spirits who need my help then I ought to try." She sucked in a breath and squared her shoulders. "Let's go."
We walked together across the grass. I tried to think of something to say to keep Cara's mind off what she might encounter at the abbey and finally hit on something. "What do you think about employing a supernatural archaeologist, as Myer suggested?"
"I don't like the idea at all," Sylvia said, screwing up her nose.
"Why?"
"Because anything Myer suggests must be wrong, or dangerous, or both."
"True. You're right. If that book of spells or whatever Myer is looking for is still there, or the clues to it are, perhaps its best left unfound."
Myer didn't hear us as we approached. It wasn't that we were particularly quiet, although the three of us naturally treaded lightly over the grass. It was more that his entire attention was focused on a pit dug into the ground. He knelt at the edge, his jacket discarded on a ruined wall nearby, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A shovel lay to one side of him next to a heap of soil.
