Seared With Scars (The 2nd Freak House Trilogy)

by C. J. Archer

  But I could not. I wasn't ready. I picked up my skirts and hurried up the stairs. When I turned to look down at him from the half landing, he was gone.

  ***

  Of all the things Samuel had said—and not said—since his return from his father's funeral, it was his fierce hatred of Everett Myer that intrigued me the most. Perhaps the amulet had come from him. It made sense. He was known to have summoned a demon before and he seemed quite without morals. Had he willingly given the amulet to Samuel or had Samuel taken it? But if Samuel had been the one to actually use it, why was he angry with Myer? Perhaps Myer had used the amulet and Samuel had taken possession of it afterward.

  I sat in my room and tried to think of a reason why Myer would summon a demon to Frakingham. He'd done it the last time to test the strength of the abbey ruins’ supernatural powers. Perhaps that explained this latest summoning.

  Or perhaps he'd wanted to kill Mr. Gladstone. But why? Because of whatever linked them in the past? The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that Samuel hadn't summoned the demon. He didn't dabble in the supernatural beyond his hypnosis and he was no murderer. Besides, he had no reason to do it. If he had found it in Myer's things, and Myer had been the one to summon the demon, then it wasn't a surprise that Samuel now despised the man.

  I tried to settle and think of other things, but I couldn't rest. There were too many unanswered questions. I scooted off the bed and went in search of Sylvia's frivolous company. A conversation with her ought to stop me thinking about Samuel, the demon and all manner of troubling things.

  I found her in her own room, a collection of letters in her lap. "You've received post?" I asked.

  "These are old ones of Uncle's." She lowered the letter she was reading to her lap. "He asked me to go through them and discard any irrelevant ones. They're cluttering up his workspace, so he said." She held out the letter to me. "This one's from Mr. Myer. In fact, a whole bunch of them are from him."

  I took the letter and read it. In it Myer stated all manner of reasons he needed access to the abbey ruins. He wanted to study their formation, structure and composition. He listed his credentials and appealed to Langley's scientific mind.

  I'm sure you wish to find answers to the same questions as me. As one scientist to another, you must allow me access to study my subject matter.

  But it wasn't his words that had me re-reading the letter. It was his penmanship. The distinctive scrawl looked familiar.

  "You've got an odd look on your face," Sylvia said. "What is it?"

  "I know this hand. I've seen it before." I frowned at the paper and tried to recollect. "Have you got another from Myer?"

  She rifled through the stack of letters and handed me a single sheet. Like the first, it was an appeal to allow Myer access to the ruins. It was briefer than the first and appeared to be hastily written. More bells clanged in my head.

  I flicked the paper with my finger. "I've got it! Thank you, Sylvia." I kissed the top of her head and handed back the letter.

  "You do say the oddest things, Charity. Whatever are you talking about?"

  "Samuel found an anonymous note in the fireplace of his father's room the morning after his death. It was partially burned but was still legible nevertheless. I now know that it was Myer who wrote it. More importantly, when Samuel asked him at the time if he'd written it, Myer denied it."

  She stared down at the letter. "Are you quite certain? Because that means he lied to your face. It's quite an accusation to make of a gentleman."

  "That man is not a gentleman. Not in the true sense of the word."

  "What did the note say?"

  "'I know what you did.'"

  Sylvia expelled a little breath. "It sounds ominous. I wonder what he was referring to."

  "If he were here, we could ask him."

  "I wonder if he's still at Samuel's parents' house. His brother's house, I mean. I suppose Bert owns it all, now. How fortunate that he has the opportunity to manage the estate while he's still alive."

  "He could hardly inherit if he were dead," I said.

  "You know what I mean."

  Yes. Yes, I did. Bert was fortunate to have inherited while he was still healthy enough. He'd not been expected to outlive his father, hence their reason for wanting Samuel to return home. Yet all of that had changed with the death of Mr. Gladstone.

  The thought that accompanied that sickened me. Surely Bert wasn't capable of killing his own father just so he could inherit? Though I knew he was no angel. It was possible that he was cruel enough to do it. Being a weakling himself meant he would need someone—or something—stronger to do it.

  "Are you going to tell Samuel?" Sylvia asked, shaking Myer's letters at me.

  "Can't you?"

  "I've got to see Cook to discuss the week's menu. Besides, it was your discovery. You deserve his gratitude, not me."

  "I'm not sure he'll be grateful. That note implied that Myer knew something that Mr. Gladstone did in his past. I doubt it was something virtuous or he wouldn't have written it. Samuel may not want to have his father cast in a poor light."

  "I think he already thinks poorly of his father." She touched my arm. "You won't be adding any further burdens to his plate, Charity. Go and speak to him. There's no need to fear him."

  I hesitated. "He's looking a little wild lately. A little…mad."

  "That doesn't mean he's dangerous or that you need to be afraid. It simply means he's troubled. Indeed, he needs a friend to talk to." The look she gave me implied she expected me to be that friend.

  "He has Tommy."

  "Tommy is just a servant," she said, rising. "He may be Jack's friend, but he will never be Samuel's."

  "Then, by the same token, neither can Samuel be mine."

  She shoved the bundle of letters back in a small writing box and slammed the lid down. "How you do twist things."

  "You're very sweet to overlook my past," I said. "But you can't overlook mine and not Tommy's. That's not fair."

  She simply sniffed, her nose in the air, but did not argue the point further. I suspected that was because she knew she was wrong, yet I doubted she'd ever admit it. Sylvia liked elevating me beyond my status because she wanted a companion. It suited her needs. It did not suit her needs to see Tommy as more than a footman. She would never raise him up.

  She gave a silvery laugh and toyed with the amethyst pendant on her necklace. "How Hannah would find it amusing to hear me giving advice. Usually I'm the one in need of it."

  We parted ways outside her door and I went in search of Samuel. Instead I found Tommy emerging from one of the wall panels that hid the service stairs. He had shed his jacket and tie and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He held a hammer in one hand and small box of nails in the other.

  "You startled me," I said, pressing my hand to my rapidly beating heart.

  "Sorry. I'm on my way up to the attic to return these." He held up the hammer and box.

  "Is the music room secured?"

  "Aye. The window now has boards across it and Samuel is locking the door as we speak. Are you looking for him?"

  I bit my lip. "I wanted to have a word. I thought you two were together."

  "I'm glad you found me and not him." He lowered his voice and glanced up and down the corridor. "There's something I wanted to show you. Something that concerns Gladstone."

  "Then why not show him?"

  "Because of the nature of it." He jerked his head toward the stairs. "Come with me to the attic."

  We traipsed up to the topmost level. The attic was one single, large expanse housed beneath thick black beams. The curtains covering the three windows had been opened to let in the light. The spectacular views reached all the way to the hills in the distance.

  I stood in the doorway and gawped at the sheer volume of odds and ends stored in trunks and chests or simply lying loose. There seemed to be no particular organization of items, with old tools scattered amid clothes, scientific equipment grouped with do
llhouses, and journals, books and toys were littered about as if they were of no use.

  I picked up a miniature wingback chair and placed it inside the nearest dollhouse, a fully furnished mansion in the Georgian style. Someone had spent a great deal of effort making each individual piece to suit the period of the house, right down to the cat sleeping on a velvet cushion.

  "My children would love these toys," I said on a breath. Indeed, I would love the dollhouse. I'd never so much as had a doll as a child. Not unless the strip of leather I'd once found in the gutter when I was six counted. I'd tied a knot in one end and pretended it was my little sister for months. My mother had taken it from me when she discovered it and used it to tie up her shoe.

  "I'm sure Mr. Langley would donate them to the school if you asked," Tommy said, stepping over a sheet covering goodness knew what.

  I closed the dollhouse doors and looked around. Dust and cobwebs covered everything. Poor overworked Mrs. Moore, with her bad back, couldn't even begin to keep it clean let alone go through all of it. "You ought to catalog these things and clean up. I'm sure much of it could be donated to the poor in the village if Mr. Langley can part with it."

  "An admirable suggestion, except we don't have enough staff for such a monumental task."

  "You need another footman or maid."

  He sighed. "And where will we find such a person willing to come to Frakingham? Growing on a tree? It's hard enough keeping Maud and I can't tell you how many stable lads we've lost in recent months. Every time an owl hoots in the night they run off back to the village, scared out of their wits, convinced something will snatch them from their beds."

  "You're very brave for sticking it out."

  "I've got good reason to stay. It'll take more than a hooting owl or a demon to scare me away from here."

  "Yes, of course. You've got Jack."

  His gaze slid to me then away. "Yes, Jack."

  "So what is it you wanted to show me?"

  He set down the hammer and box of nails on a table and picked up another larger box. He opened the lid and pulled out a stack of daguerreotypes. "I found these when I was searching for a hammer. There's one in the stables, but we wanted to avoid going outside." He handed the top daguerreotype to me. "Recognize anyone?"

  The picture was faded and the corners curled. I held it closer to the window for better light. "It's taken here at Frakingham," I said. "Down by the ruins." A group of six people stood amid large stones scattered through the grass, a low, broken wall behind them. Going by the clothing of the two women in the group, it was taken some time ago, perhaps in the late sixties or early seventies. Having a daguerreotype taken back then would have been an expensive and cumbersome exercise indeed.

  "Look at the man on the far right," he said.

  The man he indicated was tall and thin with a regal tilt to his chin. "Myer," I said on a breath. "He looks younger, but it's definitely him. He was studying the ruins even back then. I assume Lord Frakingham owned this place at the time."

  "He did. But that's not the interesting part. Look at the woman in the center. Do you recognize her?"

  The woman he indicated was small next to her male companions, her waist tiny. She wore a broad-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over part of her face. It was a face I knew, although it had grown sharper with age.

  "Mrs. Gladstone! Good lord. So she did know Myer all the way back then. But where is Mr. Gladstone?"

  "He's not in the picture."

  "Perhaps he was taking it. Did he have an interest in the art?"

  "I don't know. I don't want to ask either. I'm not sure how to broach the subject with Samuel. He seems particularly angry with Myer lately, and presenting him with evidence of Myer's friendship with his mother might fuel that anger."

  "I agree," I said. "Samuel shouldn't see this. Not until we've learned the significance of it."

  "What shouldn't I see?" came Samuel's growl from the attic doorway. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscular forearms. "What are you two trying to hide from me?"

  CHAPTER 13

  I dropped the daguerreotype and shrank against Tommy. I felt him tense. It was no comfort to know that he feared Samuel's wrath just as much as I did.

  "We were, uh, just looking through some things we found in here," Tommy said.

  Samuel sized him up. His handsome blond looks used to make him seem boyish, but that had changed when his madness set in. The dimples didn't appear anymore because he never smiled. His eyes never danced with merriment either, but darted back and forth beneath hooded lids, always watching.

  He bent and snatched up the daguerreotype. I expected him to tear it or scrunch it, but he simply handed it to me. "I already knew they were acquainted."

  "I thought Myer knew your father," Tommy said carefully. "Not your mother."

  "It would seem he knew both of them."

  "Your father's not in that picture."

  "Thank you for your keen observation."

  "Were your parents married at the time this was taken?"

  "The daguerreotype's not dated," Samuel snapped. "Any other questions?"

  "Many, but I don't think you're going to answer them." Tommy seemed to have recovered from his shock at being overheard. He didn't flinch away from Samuel. "You have a few family secrets you don't wish to discuss. Charity and me, we have no family. We don't know what it's like to have secrets that could tear it apart."

  Samuel stepped back as if Tommy had shoved him. He looked to me, his lips parted.

  "That was unfair, Tommy," I scolded. "Samuel's father died under terrible circumstances. He doesn't have to tell us anything if he doesn't want to. His family is none of our affair and we have no right to ask about matters that don't concern us."

  Silence filled the attic, heavy and full, like a rain cloud. Rain clouds always burst eventually. Waiting for this one to do so was excruciating indeed.

  Samuel shifted his weight and the floor beneath his foot creaked. He blinked slowly and drew in a deep breath, as if he had made up his mind to do something he didn't want to do. He pointed to the daguerreotype in my hand.

  "Do you recognize any of these other people?" he asked.

  Tommy seemed as surprised as me that he'd taken up the discussion again as if there'd been no argument. He took a moment to answer. "I, er, no."

  "Do you think Mrs. Moore will?" I asked. "How long has she been housekeeper here?"

  "Not long enough, but she's lived in Harborough her entire life. She might know who they are."

  "Wait a moment." Samuel pointed at the only man sitting. He perched on the corner of a ruined column, one hand on his hip. "This one looks familiar." He headed further into the attic where covered furniture loomed like ghostly figures in the dim light. He muttered to himself as he peered behind chairs and rifled through what appeared to be framed paintings. "Here it is!" He pulled out an unframed canvas and made his way back to us.

  The painting was a small portrait of a stiff-backed gentleman of middle age, with high cheekbones and an unsmiling mouth. He stood in the foreground, a large hunting dog at his feet, with Frakingham House in the distance.

  "That's him," Tommy said, holding the daguerreotype up to the portrait. It was indeed the same man, although the gentleman in the portrait looked older than the one in the daguerreotype.

  "It's not finished," I said.

  "That explains why Lord Frakingham didn't take it with him when he left," Samuel said.

  "How do you know it's him? It could be a portrait of anyone." Tommy asked. "Have you met him?"

  "It says so on the back here." He turned the portrait around for us to see. The artist's name and the year 1877 were written on the back of the canvas just beneath the words Cromwell Malborough, 7th Earl of Frakingham. "I came across this and the other paintings a little while ago when searching up here for something."

  "So this is Lord Frakingham," I said, looking at the daguerreotype once more. "Do you think the othe
r lady is his wife?"

  "Could be," Tommy said, peering over my shoulder. "Are there any more portraits back there?"

  "Only of dogs and horses. This was the only one of a person." Samuel set it down on the floor and leaned it against a table leg.

  "It would seem Frakingham was friends with your mother and Myer," Tommy said.

  "Myer admits to knowing my father, too," Samuel said. "There's no great mystery here. They could have all been friends years ago and had a falling out. It happens."

  "Were your parents members of the Society For Supernatural Activity?" Tommy asked.

  I held my breath. It was the question I'd wanted to ask, but hadn't dared.

  But Samuel didn't answer with anger in his voice. He merely shrugged. "I don't know. If they were, they never spoke about it. The name hasn't even been mentioned."

  I cleared my throat. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to speak up, but I forced myself to. "Your mother has heard of the society."

  "How do you know?" Samuel asked.

  "She thought I belonged to it. She seemed quite disturbed by the mere mention of it."

  "Did you have this conversation when they were here at Frakingham?"

  "No. She visited me in the Stag and Huntsman after your father's funeral."

  "She did what!"

  I bit my lip and inched closer to Tommy again.

  Samuel swore and thumped his first on the table. The portrait toppled over and landed face down on the floor. "My apologies," he said, flexing his fingers. "Go on."

  "I told her I had an interest in the supernatural and she assumed I was a member of the society. She seemed disturbed, as I said. Afraid, even. Whatever her experience is with the society, I don't think it's been a good one."

  Samuel blew out a breath and sat on the edge of the table. "If my parents were members then that solves the mystery of how Myer knew them. I'd been wondering about a link. She wouldn't give me any clues."

  "I'd been wondering too," I said.

  He looked up sharply. "You've been thinking of me…of my family?"

  The plea in his voice made my heart lurch. I had to forge on and not be sucked in by it. "There's something more. Do you recall that letter you found in the fireplace of your father's room, after his death?"