by Anita Higman
I shivered as Wyatt lit the candle and another that was farther down the table. Had the candles last been used at Ivan’s dinner with Celeste? This must be the room where she had been murdered. How did he do it? It had to have been something that looked like suicide. Had Ivan planned it? I mean, the fact that he’d brought her into this place for an intimate dinner made me think so. But why? Had she done something to tick him off? To bring out that twisted light that I’d seen in his eyes? Had he grown to hate her? And had Miss Easton truly been a part of it? Despite my terror, I felt a surge of relief knowing Mom was saved from marrying a murdering psychopath. But my relief was immediately replaced with panic. Surely a man capable of killing his wife was capable of hurting my mom. Or worse. I brought my hand to my stomach, feeling sick.
Wyatt picked up one of the candlesticks and was about to inspect the wall when he glanced my way. He leaned toward me and said, “Listen, everything’s going to be okay. Once your mom notices you’re missing, she’ll come looking for you. There’s nothing Ivan can say that will persuade her otherwise.”
“But what’s to stop him from killing her too?” My voice choked into a whisper.
His expression grim and determined, Wyatt began to circle the room. “We’ve got to find a way out of here. Even if we have to beat the door down.” He tested the latch on the door and shoved hard against it. But it was locked tight.
Using every ounce of my will to swallow down my terror, I picked up the other candlestick—which stood beside a pair of champagne glasses draped in a layer of silky cobwebs—and I began to search the room, unable to rush for fear of the flame guttering out.
The room was empty of furniture except for the table and two chairs. Beside the door, there was a rectangular frame on the wall, covered with a black cloth. I pulled at the corner until it slipped off and fell to the floor, a cloud of dust billowing into my face. Wyatt joined me at the now exposed black and white photograph, holding up his candle.
It was an old wedding portrait of a young couple—the groom sharp in his suit and the bride totally coated in white, a long, intricate cathedral veil flowing from her head and coiling around her feet, like a pale snake. It would have been a beautiful photo, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the woman’s eyes had been completely erased with two white X’s.
“That’s Ivan’s mother and father on their wedding day,” Wyatt said.
I connected some dots in my mind. “And the eyes are crossed out, just like the eyes in all of the drawings in that cell.”
“I wonder if—”
But before he could finish, my eye caught a chink in the floorboards of the ceiling. Pointing up, I cried, “The ceiling! That’s our way out.”
Chapter Twenty One
Dauphine
I picked up the champagne flute and stared into the glass as the sunlight made sparkling, almost dreamlike images on the delicate crystal. I normally didn’t drink, so how was it that my glass was now empty? Ah yes, at Ivan’s insistence, a servant had arrived with the beverage on a silvery tray. Ivan was in the groom’s room, and he wanted me to drink along with him, toasting to a long and happy marriage. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I drank a sip. Didn’t I? Or did I indeed drink the whole glass?
My face flushed. Maybe I had a fever. I rested the back of my hand over my forehead. No fever, but I felt drowsy and my head spun. Must be because I wasn’t used to drinking anything stronger than coffee. I made a mental note to ask someone about the champagne, but then that impression vanished with the rest of my swirling thoughts.
The door creaked open then and Ivan peeked his head around the corner.
“Ivan, you’re not to see me before the ceremony!” I stepped back, bumping into a table.
“I know, my dear, but you’re late. The minister is waiting.”
“He is?”
“Yes.”
Anne should have told me I was running late. “But where is Anne?”
“Your daughter is on her way,” Ivan said more loudly and distinctly. “Anne said for you to go ahead now. She is on her way.”
“On her way.” Is that what Ivan really said? That didn’t sound like my Anne. “She would be here. Is she sick?”
“No, not at all. But she said she would be along soon and to go ahead.” This time Ivan’s voice held a tone of insistence. Or was it irritation?
I rubbed my head, the fuzziness getting the better of me. “I guess it’s okay. If she insists.”
“She did insist. Now come along, my pearl.” Ivan scrunched up his face. “You do still want to marry me, right?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then save those words for the altar…please.” Ivan gave me his most earnest smile.
“Yes, I’m coming.” I grinned. At least I think I grinned. I was no longer sure.
Ivan closed the door behind him, and after I’d waited a few moments to give him a head start, I stepped out from the little bridal room and onto a dark red carpet that led up the aisle to my beloved. I did one more fluffing on my cathedral veil, which was a last minute addition that Ivan had insisted on.
I made my first formal steps up the aisle toward my groom. The room spun a bit, and I placed my hand on a nearby pew to steady myself. Breathe, Dauphine. It’ll soon be over.
The chapel was empty except for the two men at the front—the minister and Ivan. I thought Ivan had said the front of the chapel would be filled with servants. Had I heard him wrong about the invitations? I must have. I couldn’t seem to remember anything anymore. We had wanted an intimate affair—that was true. But it turned out to be so informal that my precious Anne hadn’t even bothered to come. But why?
I paused mid-step, a feeling of uneasiness making me hesitate.
Ivan nodded at me, smiling, encouraging me to come stand by his side.
Ah, yes, Anne had said to go ahead. Those words whorled in my head like a merry-go-round. I took another step and then another. My head throbbed. I felt so old. So very old and tired suddenly. When the ceremony was over, first thing I would do, would be to treat myself to a long bridal nap. Yes, that was what I needed.
The moment I took my place next to my groom, he reached out his hand to mine and held it tightly. Maybe a little too tightly, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Maybe he was nervous too. Or maybe just anxious to make me his bride. What a lovely thought. Yes, think on that, Dauphine, so you won’t be tempted to think about what you really feel in your gut. That rising panic that was getting stronger by the second. The kind of alarm that made me want to run away like I did from the creature in the meadow.
“Dearly beloved,” I heard the elderly minister say from a far-off place. “We are gathered here in the sight of God to…”
Yes, in the sight of God. Oh, God, yes, please help me. I think something is wrong…
Chapter Twenty Two
Anne
After I’d discovered the rotten gap in the ceiling, we had dragged the table over, placed a chair on top of it, and while standing on its seat, we’d succeeded in clawing and bashing a human-sized hole in the wood with the butts of our candlesticks. Wyatt and I took turns, letting each other have a break, one of us always holding up the bare, lit candles to illuminate the dusty, splintery work.
When the black hole looked big enough to slither through, we both paused and craned our necks up at it. Where did the hole lead to? The hidden passageway? Some other room? Or what if we found ourselves inside a wall?
Wyatt, who was already standing on the chair, said, “I’ll go first.” And before I could say a word, he hoisted himself up into the blackness, being careful to spread his weight as evenly as he could over the fragile flooring. I was able to breathe again once his tuxedo-clad legs had disappeared from view. Then his face peered down at me, looking eerie in the wavering light. “Pass me one of the candles and then I’ll help you up.”
Fitting one of the candles back into the stick and blowing out the other, I stood on the chair and handed it up to Wyatt. Then I reach
ed up into the ragged hole and gingerly pulled myself up, feeling Wyatt’s strong hands pressing at my waist. Then I was out of the hole, in the corner of a small room filled with dusty crates and boxes.
Wyatt helped me to my feet and picked up the candlestick. “Come on, let’s get away from this rotten flooring.”
We started for the door. “Where are we?”
“I think we’re somewhere off the main hallway.” He opened the door and the sudden natural light bit at my eyes. Wyatt took the lead, his candle sputtering out as we jogged through a richly furnished room, another door, and into the main hallway. Still clutching the candlestick, he pointed to the left. “This way.”
And then we were running, sprinting down the hall, my skirt billowing out behind me. I lost one of my shoes, but I didn’t even look back. Horrific scenes involving Ivan and Mom spun through my head. What if it was already too late? And even if we did get to the chapel in time, how were we supposed to stop a madman with a gun?
Just before the main entrance, Wyatt skidded to a halt and snatched up a well-camouflaged telephone, muttering something about calling the police. But when he held it to his ear, his mouth hardened. “Phone line’s been cut.” He tossed the receiver to the ground and continued down the hall. I followed, feeling terribly alone, knowing we’d be the only ones running to my mom’s aid.
We reached the huge double doors and then we were outside. The gravel of the walkway bit into the sole of my bare foot and then I felt the warm grass as we cut across the lawn, toward the woods. A stitch gnawed at my side and my lungs heaved, but I kept running, kept imagining the terrible, violent things Ivan could be doing—or had already done—to my mom. My sickening fear and my rage kept my legs pumping.
The chapel came into view, its doors closed tight. It looked so oddly serene, nestled in a grove of trees, pristine and white. The exterior revealed nothing of what might be happening within. It could be that they weren’t even in the chapel. They could be anywhere at this point.
Wyatt reached the steps first and took them two at a time. My heavy legs tripped on a stair and I fell, tearing an ugly gash in my shin but I kept going. Wyatt heaved the door open and we both ran inside the vestibule, panting hard. The double doors of the sanctuary were flung wide, revealing a rich red carpet leading up to the altar at the front.
And there, tenderly holding hands, was Mom and Ivan, standing before a minister who was reading from a small book.
Of all the things I’d expected to see, this one surprised me the most.
But the moment they spotted us, the entire scene changed drastically. Ivan’s face curled into a cruel expression and he dropped Mom’s hands. “How did you two get here?”
Beside the minister, Mom swayed, her long veil and heavy dress making her look small and frail. Her eyes looked glassy and out of focus, as if she wasn’t quite sure how she had gotten there. “Anne?” she slurred, stretching out her arms toward me. Before I could reach her, she sank into a nearby pew, her head lolling against her shoulder.
A shock of anger tingled my skin. Ivan must have drugged her. That was the only way Mom would have started the wedding without me.
Wyatt ran forward down the aisle. With perfect precision, he flung the heavy candlestick straight at Ivan. It flew end over end and hit him square in the chest, knocking the air out of him. As Ivan gasped for breath, Wyatt stopped, fists clenched. “You killed my mother. You and Miss Easton. You’re guilty. Admit it!” He roared these last two words, blood flushing his face.
Placing a hand on the altar to support himself, Ivan glared at Wyatt with such a hateful, twisted expression that it made me shudder. Then he said, “So little gratitude for the care I’ve given you all these years. It’s a pity.” And his other hand slipped into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out the pistol, and aimed it straight at Wyatt’s heart.
“Wyatt, no!” I screamed, and before I could think or blink or breathe, I raced to Wyatt’s side and shoved him out of the aisle, just as a gunshot—deafening and surreal—boomed around us.
Wyatt and I landed on our sides, between two of the pews. For a second that seemed to last for ages, I thought that I had been shot through the chest but the pain hadn’t reached me yet. But then, I heard a guttural groan. My eyes flicked to Wyatt beside me, but he appeared unharmed, although terrified.
Another moan, from the front of the chapel. Sitting up slowly, I peered over the top of the pew. There was Ivan on his knees, a bright crimson oval spreading on the stark white of his tuxedo shirt, his bloodied hands fumbling against the wound. His pistol lay on the floor.
And in the aisle stood Miss Easton, a small black revolver clenched in her hand.
Chapter Twenty Three
Anne
The elderly minister, who until this moment had been rooted by shock, rushed to Ivan’s side. He pushed the pistol out of Ivan’s reach and then eased him to the floor, whispering prayers over him all the while.
Miss Easton looked on with a grim, oddly calm expression, as if she had expected these events to take place. Turning to look down at me, she grasped my hand with surprising strength and pulled me to my feet. She made to do the same for Wyatt, but he stood without her help, his bowtie askew.
Before either of us could find words, Miss Easton said, “I did not kill Celeste as you say, Wyatt.”
Wyatt’s blue eyes blazed. “And why should I believe you?”
Miss Easton’s eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps because I just saved your sorry skin by shooting the man who was the closest thing to a son I’ll ever know.” She pointed to the front pew, where Mom sat, crumpled and still. “We must check on Madam Knight.”
I rushed to Mom’s side, Wyatt and Miss Easton trailing after me. Mom moaned softly and peered at me through the slits of her eyes. My thumb felt for the pulse on her wrist. It was slow but strong. Still, I had no idea what it was that Ivan had drugged her with or how heavy the dosage was. “Are there any doctors nearby?” I asked. “We need to send for one.”
But Miss Easton’s attention was now fixed on Ivan, lying a few feet away, the minister kneeling at his head. Her expression was that of someone who desperately wanted to do something, but who knew it was too late. Ivan, his face paper-white and pasty, lifted his head a mere inch from the ground, but it seemed to take every single ounce of his remaining strength. With his eyes trained on Miss Easton, he opened his mouth, and in forced, garbled speech, said, “I’m sorry…for what I’ve put you through.” And then his head sank to the ground and he was still.
There was a moment of profound silence in the chapel. Then, stony-faced, Miss Easton strode over to Ivan, pulled something from a deep pocket in her dress, and placed it in the open palm of Ivan’s hand. When she stepped away, I saw that it was the small wooden sailboat that I’d found in the catacomb cell, bearing Ivan’s name.
The next hour was a surreal blur. At the orders of Miss Easton, one of the servants was sent into the nearby town to fetch the police and an ambulance. A doctor arrived and checked on my mom, who was beginning to snap out of her stupor. He said she was fine but needed to rest.
When the ambulance came, medical staff buzzed around the chapel. Once Ivan was pronounced dead by the doctor, they enclosed his body in a bag and removed him from the sanctuary.
After Ivan had been taken away, I felt a sudden, unexpected relief. I hadn’t realized how deeply his prone, lifeless body had disturbed me until he was gone. But I knew the memory of him would haunt me for a long time to come.
However, the greatest shock came when the police arrived. Miss Easton, without batting an eye, introduced herself and then said, “I confess to the crime of being an accomplice to the murder of Celeste Youngblood, seven years ago, in the abbey.”
Wyatt, who had been sitting numbly in a chapel pew, started from his seat. “What did you say?” All the anger that had been boiling in him earlier surged back into his face.
The police chief—a portly man with a thick mustache—seemed more confused than stern. “Murder? I
thought the death out here years ago was a suicide.” He pulled out a small notepad and a stubby pencil, as if having them in his hands reassured him in some way.
Miss Easton raised her chin. “Ivan Helsburg, late master of Belrose Abbey, killed his wife Celeste in the catacombs, using a lethal dose of drugs. He then asked for my assistance in making the murder look like a suicide and convincing those who needed convincing. While I love the truth, I loved him more.”
Wyatt lunged at Miss Easton, grabbing for her shoulders. “How could you—”
But before he could grip her, two police officers snagged his arms and held him back. Wyatt tried to shake them off, his eyes burning into Miss Easton. “Why did you help him?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.
Something almost like compassion flickered in Miss Easton’s eyes. “A mother’s love can make you do anything. Master Helsburg was like a son to me. His own mother was brutal to him. Beat him and sent him to a cell in the catacombs for misbehaving. For days. Isolated in near darkness. He had none of the joys children are meant to have. Except for that toy sailboat I gave him when he was young.”
Miss Easton knotted her hands together. “He could have been a good man. He had such a sweet spirit when he was a boy. But as he grew, I could see the goodness in him being stamped out, day by day, by that foul woman. Every bit of kindness and decency and mercy was extinguished in him. And a sickness began to take hold of him. A sickness of the mind.” She grasped at the thick fabric of her black dress, as if saying the words injured her. “There was so much pain in him—he didn’t know how to release it. Or at least, he didn’t know how to release it without hurting others. I believe he saw an irresistible vulnerability in Madam Celeste. As well as in you, Madam Dauphine.” Miss Easton glanced at Mom—who had been listening, still and silent. “I had a terrible feeling Master Helsburg would repeat his pattern with you. Before you arrived, he even released that vile dog he uses to patrol the estate, most likely to keep you from leaving. The beast won’t harm anyone, but it is a terrifying sight.”
