by Cate Dean
“Really? I would love to have you, Ashton.”
He let out a relieved sigh. “I was afraid I might be overstepping by asking.”
“Not at all.” She headed back to the main part of the shop. “Spencer had absolutely no interest in going, so I just got used to scouring the sales by myself. Having company would make them so much more enjoyable.” She smiled. “The one time I took Martin, he spent hours at one table, discussing the pros and cons of different excavation techniques with the seller. Not one of my more productive trips.”
Ashton laughed, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “I don’t care about different excavation techniques.”
“Good. To be honest, neither do I. You’ll be the perfect buying partner.” She winked at him. “Just don’t tell Martin.”
***
That night, Maggie was ready to face Anthea, ready to fulfill her promise.
She stood in the library, holding Anthea’s journal. “I made a promise to you, and it’s time to finish what I started. Anthea? Are you here?”
“She is.” Martin stood in the doorway, holding out his hand. “Let’s go meet her.”
He led Maggie downstairs, and she felt the temperature drop before she saw Anthea, hovering in the front parlour.
“Hi, Anthea. I’m sorry it’s been so long. But I think I know what happened to you. It has something to do with Cragmoor Manor, doesn’t it?”
Anthea twisted her hands into her skirt, and finally nodded.
Martin took Maggie’s hand. “There is a room, behind the book case in the library.” Anthea nodded again, looking agitated. “We are going to take the journal you led Maggie to, Anthea, so you may follow us if you like. If not, we will return, and tell you what we learn.”
The books on the side table rose into the air, Maggie braced herself for more destruction, but Anthea surprised her. One of the books separated itself from the floating pile and hovered in front of her.
With shaking fingers, she took it, reading the title. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” she whispered, looking at Martin. “This was the first published locked room mystery. We need to go, Martin.”
“Not tonight—ˮ
“Anthea has waited long enough. And it’s time for me to face down my fear of that place.”
After studying her for endless seconds, Martin nodded. “On one condition.”
“What?”
He smiled. “I am driving.”
Fourteen
The journey out to Cragmoor Manor was uneventful.
Maggie stared out the window of the Rover at the dark countrytside, as Martin drove, trying not to think about the last time they had come out here. But when they reached the part of the road where they had fought for their lives, he stopped, pulling over.
“Talk to me, love.”
“I swore I wouldn’t come back, and here I am.”
“For a good reason.” He took her hand. “If you like, you can have the pile torn down. You would be doing a service; I don’t know that the evil done in that place will ever be completely vanquished.”
“I’ll think about it.” The historian in her shuddered at the thought of destroying something so old, but Martin was right; if what they thought had happened there did happen, it might be better to be rid of the manor. “Let’s go get this done.”
He nodded, and pulled back to the road. A few minutes later, the rambling outline of Cragmoor appeared. Under the full moon, it looked almost serene. Maggie would never be fooled again.
Martin pulled up in front of the door, and she got out, running around the car to open his door. He smiled at the reverse chivalry. “Thank you, love.”
“Anytime.” She knew the sling confining his right arm hampered him. The door of the Rover was heavy enough to make it awkward for him to try and open it with his left hand. She held the journal that had changed her life, and moved with him to the front doors. “I have the key the solicitors sent.” She dug the skeleton key out of her coat pocket. “Just in case.”
They didn’t need it; the door opened when Martin turned the latch. Taking a deep breath, Maggie followed him inside.
He found the light switch, near the door, and flicked it on. The huge crystal chandelier lit up, chasing away the shadows in every part of the foyer. Maggie stared up at it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this turned on. It’s stunning.”
Martin joined her, studying it. “Early 19th century. It was wired for electric.” He pointed at the candle wells that now held flame shaped bulbs. “There is no evidence that gaslight ever reached this part of the country. They would have been burning candles until electric service reached them.”
“Thank you for the history lesson, Professor.”
He smiled down at her. “My pleasure.”
Maggie laughed, feeling some of the tension ease. She took his hand, and they wandered through the hallways, turning on lights, and stopping every time something caught Martin’s eye. The manor was a living museum, with so much original detail under the decades of dust and grime.
“I can’t destroy this, Martin.”
“I agree.” He ran his hand along a plaster chair rail. “We were rushed through by Leo, and it was so dark, I missed all of this.”
“Maybe we could have the manor blessed by a priest, or three.”
“Or you could use the atmosphere to your advantage. Nothing draws in tourists like the prospect of a haunted house.”
“It will take months to clean. Who knows what all the decades of neglect have left behind.”
“The choice will be yours, Maggie. But I know some people who do incredible restoration. The cost would be dear, especially if there is water or termite damage.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They turned a corner, and they both halted in front of the painting that dominated the wall.
It was an oil of Cragmoor Manor. The stone gleamed white and grey in the sun, the multiple windows sparkled, and lush gardens surrounded the eccentric home.
Martin pushed up his glasses—his backup pair, with thick black frames. Maggie liked the way he looked in them. He leaned in to read what had been written in the bottom right corner of the painting. “Blakeney Hall in summer. For my darling Anthea, Jeremy Cragmoor, 1827.” He turned to Maggie. “This was the Cragmoor Anthea knew.”
“So beautiful,” Maggie whispered. “And so isolated. No wonder she felt alone. It was stunning, Martin. Can the people you know restore it to match this painting?”
“Absolutely. It would be a tribute to the people who loved this home, and planned to create a family here.”
She studied the painting, and saw families picnicking on the expansive lawn, couples wandering the gardens, hand in hand, people coming from all over the country to see the house built with the love of one man for his wife.
“I want you to call them,” she said. “Find out just how dear it would be to bring it back to its former beauty.”
He cupped her chin, kissing her. “I am proud of you, Maggie Martin.”
She took his hand, glancing at the painting one last time as they headed for the library.
Once Martin turned on every light he could find, the huge room looked less like a cavern, and more like a cozy, enchanting room. Maggie almost had heart failure when two shadows streaked out from behind the desk.
A plaintive meow drew her attention to the wing chair behind Martin. She smiled when she saw the black cat perched in the middle of the chair, jewel green eyes studying her. A second set of eyes appeared over the top of the chair, rich amber, belonging to the sleek brown cat that climbed up and stretched out along the top of the chair.
“Hello, there,” she said, approaching the chair. “Aren’t you just two beauties. They don’t look neglected,” she said to Martin, keeping her voice low. “We can take them with us, drop them off at the shelter.”
The black cat leapt off the chair and twined itself around Maggie’s leg, purring like an engine. Its companion joined in,
sitting in front of her, those amber eyes locked on her face. Martin laughed.
“I believe they have already chosen their new owner.”
“I don’t—” Maggie looked at the cats. “I’ve never had a pet. I don’t think I’d be any good at it.”
“You’ve never had a pet?” Martin scooped up the brown cat, and it settled in his arm, snuggling into his chest. “There were always half a dozen cats running about on the family estate. They are spectacular mousers, don’t demand constant attention. Why no pets, love?”
“My parents thought they were unsanitary.” She crouched, and carefully ran her hand over the black cat’s back. It purred louder, arching into her hand. “So soft,” she muttered. Her fingers touched a collar; the thin black leather blended into the cat’s fur. “Let’s see if you have a name, sweetie.” She found a heart-shaped tag. “Sheba. It suits you. Check yours for a collar, Martin.”
He did, smiling when he read the name. “Manny.”
“They must have belonged to Arthur. I can’t see Leo or Craig caring enough to want an animal.”
“We can check the kitchen before we leave, see if there are any supplies. If you want to take them home, that is.”
Sheba crawled into Maggie’s arms, and she laughed. “I don’t think we have a choice. We’ve just been adopted.” She stood, rubbing Sheba between the ears. The cat closed her eyes and leaned into Maggie’s hand. “Okay, beautiful. We have a mystery to solve.” She set Sheba on the desk, then moved to the book case. One hand slipped into her coat pocket, touching the journal she’d found hidden in her book case at home, and laid her hand on the empty spot on the shelf. “Anthea—are you here?”
The cold slapping her warned her right before Anthea appeared. Both cats streaked out of the library. Manny used Martin as a launch pad, hissing as he bolted past Anthea.
Martin brushed cat hair off his sweater, and stepped to Maggie’s side, his hand on the small of her back. “Do you remember where you died, Anthea?”
The ghost shook her head, but Maggie had a feeling she did know. Every clue she had given Maggie had led them here, to the home she once shared with her husband.
She handed Martin the journal, and turned to face the book case. After taking a deep breath, she reached into the empty space. She found the latch faster this time, and closed her fingers over it. Instead of twisting, this one shifted under her grip.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Here goes.”
She pushed down on the latch.
Martin grabbed her when the book case shuddered, pulling her across the library. As they watched, the entire case slowly swung inward.
“Bloody hell.” Martin kept himself between her and the case as he moved closer. “It’s another room.” He stepped inside, and turned to Maggie. “Can you fetch the candelabra for me, love?”
She grabbed the ornate candle holder off the long table and moved to Martin. He had a lighter in his hand, and lit the candles before he took it from her.
“Why do you have a lighter?”
“It comes in handy more often than you would expect, especially on a dig where the electrical is touchy. Ready?”
She nodded, and he pushed the door wide, moving slowly into the room.
The décor was distinctly feminine, and she felt like she had just stepped into a time capsule. Nothing in the room dated past the early 19th century. Martin crouched in front of a small woodstove, his fingers touching the rug.
“Blood,” he said. “Something happened here.” He stood when Anthea swept into the room, staring at the spot on the rug. “Is this yours, Anthea?” His voice was gentle when he asked.
She didn’t move, her head bowed, her arms wrapped around her waist.
Maggie stepped to Martin’s side. “Anthea? What is it?”
She lifted her head, and startled them both when she whirled and disappeared. The icy wind in her wake almost snuffed out the candles. They sputtered, but the flames came back, highlighting a door Maggie hadn’t noticed before.
“There,” she said. “I think that’s where she went.”
They made their way across the room, Martin keeping himself in front of Maggie. She didn’t object. Every hair that could stand up did, dread and anticipation fighting for control. She could hardly breathe when Martin reached for the silver door latch.
He twisted it, pulled the door open, and froze. When Maggie peered around him, she understood why.
A skeleton lay on the floor, curled up around clenched hands, dressed in the same gown that Anthea wore.
“Oh, no,” Maggie whispered. She knelt next to the skeleton, and gently lifted the shawl that partially obscured the joined hands. A small dagger rested in the skeleton’s hands, the brown of dried blood staining the blade. “She was stabbed, Martin.”
He set the candelabra on a small side table and joined her. “There is something else here.” He carefully separated her fingers, lifting a button, with thread and a small piece of silk attached to it. “She must have pulled it off whoever attacked her.”
“I’ve seen that button before.” Maggie pushed to her feet and headed for the library door, running when she reached the hallway.
She skidded to a halt in the section where Leo had pointed out the painting of Jeremy. There had been another painting she noticed at the time, one of his brother, Jacob.
“Maggie.” Martin caught up with her, a little breathless. “What are you—”
“Here,” she said. She stopped in front of the painting and held up the button. It matched the buttons on Jacob’s waistcoat—and so did the pattern on the silk. She let out her breath. “Anthea must have blocked him out. Who would believe that their brother-in-law could kill them in cold blood?”
Cold wrapped around her, and she turned, finding Anthea in front of Jeremy’s painting. The ghost studied his image, and Maggie swore she saw tears slip down the pale cheeks. When Anthea finally pulled her attention away from Jeremy’s image, she floated closer, anger burning away any grief.
“You remember now,” Martin said, his voice quiet.
Anthea nodded, and glided back in the direction of the library. They followed her, ending up in the hidden room. She stood in front of a small cabinet, and brushed her hand over the enameled handle, looking over her shoulder at Maggie.
She moved past Anthea and opened the cabinet. “There’s a letter here.” Carefully, she picked up the envelope, recognizing the writing on the front. To whoever may find this, on the event of my unnatural death. “Let’s go out to the library.”
Martin lit a fire in the gas fireplace, taking his coat off and setting it next to Maggie’s before he joined her on the long, leather sofa. She had already pulled the letter out of the envelope, but she waited for him before she opened it.
After a deep breath, she unfolded the single sheet, and started reading.
“My darling Jeremy has been missing for days now. The servants are whispering, and pointing fingers at me. I have never been accepted as part of the household—I had been one of them, at a neighboring estate, and they never allowed me to forget my once humble station.”
She glanced up at Anthea, who hovered near the open book case. The ghost studied her, blue eyes intense. Maggie lowered her gaze to the letter and continued.
“Jacob watches me now, with hunger in his gaze. As if he knows that Jeremy is not coming home, that he now has the chance to become the lord of the manor, and lord in my bed. I will die before I allow him to touch me. As a precaution, I have sent my infant daughter, Amelia, to stay with a trusted friend.”
Tears stung her eyes. How hard was it for Anthea to send away her own child, knowing they might never be together again?
Blinking her eyes clear, she kept reading.
“I am spending more time in my secret room, the one Jeremy created for me when I expressed my need to escape the pressures of my new life. I am writing this letter now, on this day, the third of March, eighteen hundred and thirty, and Jacob has found me. I know, by the look in hi
s eyes, that he is aware of my knowledge that he had been the one to kill my beloved Jeremy. Not how I learned it, only that I know he killed his own brother, and now he expects to own me, as he owns Blakeney Manor. He knows nothing of the journal I hid in my beloved friend’s home, with the evidence that will incriminate Jacob, and send him to the gallows.”
She looked up at Martin. “That’s the end of it. There’s blood on the last page, so she must have been holding the letter when Jacob attacked her. I didn’t find anything in the journal about Jacob.”
“She may not have had the chance to see her friend again.”
Maggie shook her head. “It says that she hid the journal with the evidence. I missed something.” She stood, and pulled the journal out of her coat pocket. After running her fingers over the cover, and the inside, she found a slit in the back, with a single sheet tucked in between the decorative paper and the leather cover. “Another letter.”
She returned to the sofa, and handed it to Martin.
“Are you certain?” He took it when she nodded.
She was afraid the tears that already threatened would keep her from finishing whatever Anthea had written on the single page. She watched him unfold the sheet, firelight winking off the thick black frames of his glasses. He looked even more like a disheveled grad student with them.
He cleared his throat, and started reading. “I, Anthea Cragmoor, wife of Jeremy Cragmoor, do attest on this day, 27 February, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and thirty, that the following is true: Jacob Cragmoor did willfully, and with malice, kill his own brother, my beloved husband, Jeremy, ambushing him on his return from London. The evidence that will condemn him is secreted with this letter—a note he penned, agreeing to pay a smuggler the sum he requested to draw Jeremy into the arranged trap. If I am found dead, be assured that Jacob has learned of my discovery, and murdered me before I could publicly accuse him. Should this letter not be found before his death, I am still comforted by the fact that he will spend Eternity in the Hell of his own making. My friend, and sister of my heart, Nora Mulgrew, stands as witness, having seen both this letter and the note. I will rest with the knowledge that Jacob has paid for his heinous sin, either here, or in Eternity. Anthea Cragmoor.”
