Yrs sincerely,
James G—
I read it over twice, with care, my dread growing with each review. Instead of putting to rest my concerns, the letter brought them into sharper relief. The names were far too similar to be coincidence. The death was distant enough that few would associate Edward Masterson with his previous self. The interest in lore seemed in keeping with a man who would make such speeches about England, or enjoy such lurid poetry. Again, I felt the blade against my throat, the sudden searing pain, and the terrible fall into the icy depths where that great eye watched.
Leviathan.
The eye... but here, my mind balked at the prospect: I could envision a man with such an untoward obsession, I could envision him crafting some complex motive for murder, but that there could be such a beast? More likely Sir Edward suffered from some kind of madness that possessed him of such fantastic ideas—and that he could twist his own gift of rhetoric to inflict those ideas on others.
Inflict his ideas, and far more. The letter had taken my inclination and made it certainty. Somehow I needed to ascertain the truth, for both Emily’s sake and my own... even if it meant going to Harkworth Hall.
CHAPTER XI
Follies
THAT MORNING, I helped Mrs. Simmons pack a small satchel, then saw them both off in a neighbor’s cart to go to her sister’s house. As I had hoped, the neighbor had news, though none of it was good: the villagers had searched the countryside throughout the previous day and started again this morning, with still no sign of Emily. They had even searched the grounds and outbuildings of Harkworth Hall with Sir Edward’s enthusiastic permission, with no results. The Hall itself had supposedly been locked until yesterday evening, and there were no signs of a forced entry. This explanation had satisfied everyone, it seemed, but it did not satisfy me.
I made my father and I a light breakfast while trying to think the whole business through. The gruesome images of Miss Chase’s clippings, the stark description of the letter, all swirled in my mind, now with a helpless Emily in the role of victim, now myself, each of us tumbling into the cold waters of the bay. Still, I hesitated to act alone: surely there must be some way to suggest that the villagers search the Hall itself, or the nearby shoreline, without having to explain in detail—and possibly branding myself a madwoman.
I found my father poring over a set of notes Sir Edward had left behind, detailing his proposal for the bay. That he did not so much as glance at me when I put breakfast at his elbow told me he planned to be engrossed for some hours. Indeed, I had to clear my throat three times before he finally looked up.
“They’re still searching for Emily,” I began hesitantly.
“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples. “Perhaps now you can understand why I am so loathe to let you wander on your own? This countryside has its dangers, especially for young women.”
“I thought perhaps she might have gotten into the Hall,” I said. “Through one of the tunnels. Or perhaps she’s trapped inside one that collapsed.”
My father only smiled at this dire image. “I know how much that day frightened you,” he said gently. “But truly, Caroline, it is much closer to what your Uncle Stuart was describing. Any tunnel that was bound to collapse has already done so, and most were sealed off by different tenants over the years. The chances of her finding an open one are quite small. And if she had made her way into the Hall somehow, Sir Edward would have found her—I’m sure he searched the house thoroughly.” He beckoned me close and took my hands in his. “It is very good of you to be so worried, but it seems to me the most likely explanation is that she was never bound for Harkworth Hall in the first place.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, startled.
“She’s a young, pretty girl, Caroline. Serving girls especially are flighty things, they get their heads turned in the blink of an eye.” When I still looked confused, he squeezed my hands. “I mean that it’s most likely she ran off with a fellow, for better or worse.”
“But her family relies on her wages,” I said. “She has three little siblings! She wouldn’t have abandoned them.”
My father only gave me a knowing look, then squeezed my hands once more before releasing them. “Well. If she is to be found then they will find her, I’m certain of it.”
His voice had a note of dismissal. I started to speak again, but what could I say? To press my case would be to cast aspersions on a valued friend, and, in truth, I did not want to see my father hurt a second time. He had been so withdrawn after my mother died, so distant. I did not want to lose his affection again.
He was engrossed in the notes once more, muttering to himself and scribbling in the margins. I could wait for news, I could wait for the Simmonses to return... but it might already be too late.
It was the work of a few minutes to change my dress into something plain and serviceable and my shoes for an old leather pair my mother had worn for walking. A hooded cloak completed my costume. I left a brief note claiming that I was walking to Diana’s in the hopes of hearing more about Emily. Hopefully it would mitigate my father’s concerns if he believed me merely at the Fitzroys’.
As for what I would do once I reached Harkworth Hall, I could not rightly say. How would I explain myself if confronted by Sir Edward, or Miss Chase? My resolve quavered at the thought, but I told myself that surely when the time came I would know how to act.
I set out with a satchel containing a little food, skirting the windows of the drawing room so as to avoid notice by my father. The walk, however, was more difficult than I remembered. We had only walked to the Hall a few times in my youth, and I had forgotten the uneven land, and how strong the winds could be. The gusting, briny air left me breathless; the rocky dirt hidden beneath the knee-high grasses threatened my knees and ankles. The satchel quickly became a dead weight on my shoulder, my skirts a veritable yoke I was dragging through the resistant vegetation. Too, I had not walked such a distance in far too long; it took far more endurance than the short bursts of housework I typically performed. Even the fierce beauty of the land could not distract me from how grueling the journey was, and I thought several times to turn back. But then Emily might be lost forever, and soon I would face my own dark fate at the Hall.
These grim musings carried me the rest of the way, but the sun was well past its peak when I finally came in view of the copse-dotted hollow and the slate rooftops of Harkworth Hall. And here was another unexpected aspect of the journey: how I was promptly assailed by memories of my mother, memories that only intensified as I drew closer to the house. My last visit here had been the party where I wandered into the tunnel, but my mother and I had made several visits that summer, exploring the gardens and visiting with the Archers. I had let my fright overshadow all other memories of the Hall, but to look before the day of the party was to find many happy recollections, each marked by my mother’s easy laugh and welcoming arms. There had been so many other people in the county, then. I had never wanted for playmates. All gone now; our county was long since out of fashion. Families now looked for country homes farther south and west, closer to town and the better-kept coach roads.
Only then did I realize that I had avoided these memories not only to spare my father, but to spare myself.
I reached the last copse of trees before the gardens. From my vantage, I could see the lawn where we had played games, and the shady, rose-filled nook where the mothers would retire for tea and gossip. It was all sadly overgrown; how my mother would have wept to see it so unkempt! But try as I might, I could not spot the folly. My childish cries of panic had been heard, so therefore it should have been close to the house. Yet I could spot no round building, or any kind of structure that might include the door I remembered. Perhaps it had been filled in and razed.
As I crept through the gardens, I took advantage of the afternoon shadows to keep myself hidden. I was still teasing out memory from the moment, and thus did not notice the folly until I was nearly
upon it.
Whatever the walls had been, they were now pulled down by the vigor of the vines I remembered, creating a spray of crumbled stone choked with vibrant green. But the floor remained, though cracked and crisscrossed with vines, and in its center was an angled door, set in a frame of mossy stone. The door of my childhood. Yet it seemed impossible that a small child such as myself should have pushed open such a heavy slab of wood, and at such an angle. Had the door been left open? I distinctly remember pushing it and having it open easily, like a door in a house. Or had there been another tunnel, another folly? For a moment, I felt overcome by doubts: of my memories and perceptions, of my purpose in coming here.
But, God help me, I could not turn back. For Emily’s sake, if not my own.
As if in agreement, a sudden breeze rushed through the gardens, making the trees rustle pleasantly. It felt dreamlike to pick my way through the vines and step onto the stone circle, and though it was no longer the enclosure of my youth, still I shuddered to find myself standing there once more. I had to step over more vines to reach the door. Situating myself to best draw it open, I found myself thinking not of my living mother but of her coffin, as it had been lowered into the earth...
Oh, even the rustling leaves seemed muffled. Truly my child-self had been right in one instance: it was another world within the folly, one that seemed smothered of all life.
Smothered of life. It struck me then: the chimneys. I studied the roof of the Hall, but there was not a hint of smoke, nor did I recall seeing any on my approach, not even from the outbuildings. Yet who, upon taking possession of a property, would leave the fires unlit?
Resolved to be more observant, I pulled on the door, but the handle was slippery with dew, the surrounding stone slick with moss. When I threw the fullness of my strength into the movement my feet slid from beneath me. I fell one way, the satchel flew in another, and I found myself sprawled on the stone with my food strewn about. Once I struggled to my feet again I was smeared with dirt and moss, a fine addition to my muddy hems and shoes, and my food inedible.
I felt foolish... and then I was angry. I had not come all this way to be defeated by a door. Bracing my feet properly this time, I strained at the heavy wood slab until at last it swung free, far more smoothly than I had expected. I gave a little cry of triumph. It fell to the side, baring its dark opening in a way that felt obscene. The hinges gleamed with oil, and there were oval marks on the steps leading down.
Someone had used the passage, and recently.
I took a deep breath. In all likelihood, it had been done by an agent, or Sir Edward himself when he was surveying the property. That my armpits were damp with sweat as I descended, that my heart fluttered in my chest, was all merely my own foolishness.
The passageway was as dark and humid as I remembered. Swaths of web clung to the edges of the ceiling and the broken paving glistened with moisture. Positioning myself with care once more, I swung the door up and closed behind me, using a stone to prop it open so I would have some light and air. I began to walk forward, my skirts catching on the damp walls. In all likelihood, I would find the house empty; in all likelihood, Sir Edward was a scoundrel, a rake, and nothing more.
For God’s sake do not go anywhere alone with him.
The passageway dipped. The light from the door grew thin, then disappeared altogether. Now, I had to feel my way, letting my fingers slide along the moist walls. I stepped carefully, feeling for gaps in the paving stones lest I fall and injure myself. That would make a fine coda to my brief, unremarkable life: my corpse found in an illicit tunnel, midway to spying on a suitor. The thought set me giggling, and just then my foot skidded on something soft and wet. I felt a stabbing pain in my ankle as I nearly fell on my face, exactly as I had imagined. Cold wetness soaked into my skirts and my sleeve where I had grabbed at the passage wall. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I wiped my wet hands on my skirts and continued on.
At last, I saw thin lines of light ahead, at first so faint as to seem a trick of my straining eyes, but as I drew close they elongated and swelled until finally they formed the approximate outline of a door. It was the work of a few minutes’ careful exploration to seize upon an iron pull. There was not a sound from the other side save the soft whistling of air. I slowly eased the door open.
I found myself in a dusty cellar, dimly lit by small windows set near the ceiling. A spiral staircase led up into gloom. The room was empty save for some broken crates piled against a wall. As I crossed to the stairs, I glanced at the broken wood, then pulled a board free. Burned into it was a shape like a sun, with thick, sinuous rays, and beside it in large block letters, LEVIATHAN.
Indeed, he even called the shipping firm he founded, “Leviathan.”
And there it was, in my hand: a physical link between Theodore Masters, murderer, and Sir Edward Masterson. I dropped the wood as if it was burning me, so sickened did I feel, only to see that my knuckles were spattered with what looked like flakes of rust. Leaning forward, I pushed away more of the broken wood, and found underneath a pile of dirty clothing and other rubbish—but it was the clothes that caught my eye. With some effort, I pulled free a large shirt, holding it up to the light—
—only to recoil at both sight and smell. I knew that vast stain, I knew the smell coming off it. The smell seemed to fill the air, as it had filled our house the night my mother died.
Blood.
I ran blindly up the stairs, my mind whirling. I had to get it off me. My mother’s sightless eyes, the stained sheets beneath her spread legs. The monster in the red, red water. I had to get it off me.
At the top of the stairs, I burst into the far end of the kitchens. My gaze fixed upon the cistern—to get it off me, to get it all off me!—but it was empty. I looked around frantically for some other means to wash, but the afternoon sunlight testified to a room untouched for years: hearth and furniture thick with dust, beams swathed in delicate cobwebs, flagstones peppered with rodent droppings. Every hook and shelf was empty.
I took a deep breath, and another. Sir Edward had never intended to live here. He had never intended to live here at all.
Slowly, I wiped my hands as best I could on my skirts, willing myself to stay calm. That the blood was Emily’s, that it spoke of villainy—but I had to be certain. They could as easily have killed an animal. Even the wooden crates, I saw now, could be dismissed as coincidence, or burned while I was getting help.
As I reasoned this through, my eyes kept roving over the kitchen. It was as I remembered, every wall punctured by doors, many of which were blocked by furniture. A few, however, were decidedly in use, with polished knobs and dirt on the floors before them. Now I saw with renewed unease that among the droppings were spots of brown; now I saw the smear along one of the table edges, punctuated by what looked like the marks of bloody fingers. Closer inspection revealed more stains on the floor and then a larger discoloration in a corner, in front of a padlocked door.
My heart was racing as I drew close. In the soft light, I saw a shape in the center of the stain, coiled like a small, dead animal. Only when I stood over it did I see that it was a clump of reddish-brown hair, clotted with dried blood and flecks of something else, something pale and leathery.
“Emily,” I whispered.
The stain ran under the door. I felt faint, completely nerveless, as I pulled on the padlock, trying to wrench it open. There was not a key in sight.
“Emily,” I said, as loudly as I dared.
I strained to hear through the wood, any hint of movement, of breath, of some indication that she lived. But there was only silence.
Somewhere in the Hall there had to be a key.
It was with this grim mandate that I searched the kitchen once more, then ascended the few stairs that led into the house, inching my way deeper into Harkworth Hall.
CHAPTER XII
Harkworth Hall
THOUGH THE MAIN floor was as vacant as the kitchen, Harkworth Hall was decidedly occupied.
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br /> Room after room greeted me with the same vista: furniture swathed in canvas and windows shuttered and latched. Outside the kitchen, there were no more bloodstains, though the floors were marked with other debris: mud and leaves, but also gnawed bones, heels of bread, and empty wine bottles. Inside the main entrance doors, I saw several different sizes of footprints, which gave me pause. I had not anticipated so many. Was there a veritable gang to contend with? What, then, were the roles of Sir Edward and Miss Chase?
That she, too, might be complicit in Emily’s suffering—for some reason, the thought was more upsetting than Sir Edward’s criminality. Yet, something kept her by her employer’s side. I could not but assume that she was as much to be feared as he was.
I looked in cabinets and closets, I checked mantelpieces and every tray and dish I saw, but there were no keys to be had. In all likelihood, Sir Edward kept them in his rooms, or perhaps he never let go of them at all.
In the conservatory, I found the most blatant display of the men’s presence and learned what manner of companions Sir Edward fraternized with. The room I remembered as my favorite in the house, a light, airy space decorated by a feminine hand, peaceful and inviting. Now it was a ruin of its former self. The large windows were pocked with holes, through which the wind stirred the various items scattered about like the spoor of animals: a table hastily uncovered for a card game and splattered with wax, old papers and cheap tobacco pipes discarded on every surface, and everywhere the bottles, wine bottles and spirit bottles and ale-jugs, even the remains of a cask sitting in the corner and framed by crimson splashes. I did not dare to examine the corners of the room. The smells alone told me what baser functions had been performed there.
The room did yield one useful item, though: a stout poker, well-made and of an impressive weight. If they wanted another victim, I would make them work for their prize.
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