Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  I opened my mouth to tell her it was a lovely name, but shut it again. She didn't want sympathy from me. Any kind of acknowledgement from a servant would only embarrass her, so I kept quiet and pretended I wasn't listening. I hoped Lincoln would say something kind to her, but he didn't.

  "I believe Lord Harcourt, your father, somehow learned the baby was full-term, not premature. He went to Estelle Pearson to find out the truth and she confirmed it."

  "How could she," Marguerite said again, the words tearing from lips twisted with bitterness. "I trusted her. She came highly recommended."

  "Did he confront you?" Lincoln asked them.

  "That's none of your bloody business," Lord Harcourt ground out.

  "If you want your brother found, it is."

  "Yes, he confronted us," Marguerite blurted. She winced as her husband's hand tightened on her shoulder. "We told him Hector was full-term but sickly, and he hadn't lived long. That was the end of that. He never mentioned it again." She accepted her husband's handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "Do you think that will be of use in finding Andrew?"

  "Everything is of use."

  Lord Harcourt grunted. "It's more likely his disappearance has something to do with this damned supernatural order Father belonged to."

  I froze.

  "What order?" Lincoln said, none too smoothly. From Lord Harcourt's smug face, I thought it too late to pretend innocence anyway.

  "Don't play the fool, Fitzroy. I know you're very far from it. Father mentioned it to me, years ago, when I was still at university. He didn't tell me much, but I was led to believe I would inherit some important position upon his death. Clearly that didn't happen, and I forgot about it until my stepmother told me there were books about the occult found in Andrew's rooms."

  "She mentioned that," Lincoln said flatly.

  "She did. It prompted my memory so I asked her about it. She told me what the order—ministry—does and that she inherited Father's position." The baron shook his head and muttered, "Old fool."

  "I don't understand." Marguerite had gone pale again, her lips as bloodless as any corpse. "What is this ministry? Is it dangerous?"

  Lord Harcourt gathered her hand in both of his and bent to her level. "Don't fret, my dear," he said gently. "It's nothing for you to worry about. Andrew will turn up. He always does. You know what he's like."

  She bit her lip and nodded down at the cold bowl of soup. "Yes, of course. You're right, Donald. You always are."

  His wife's faith seemed to inflate him a little. He angled his chin at Lincoln. "If I were looking for a reason behind Andrew's disappearance, then I would change direction and leave my wife out of it. I don't care a whit for this ministry of yours, nor do I care that I was overlooked for a position in favor of my stepmother. However, it is the sort of thing that would annoy Andrew. God knows, he has enough reasons to resent our father, and this just adds to the pile."

  I wondered if he was referring to Andrew having his sweetheart stolen by his father, or whether he merely meant having his inheritance—Harcourt House in Mayfair—bequeathed to Julia instead.

  "Now, if you'll excuse us, my wife has a headache. She's in no fit state to continue with dinner." He pulled out Marguerite's chair as she rose then escorted her to the door, where he paused and raised his eyebrows at me.

  It took me a moment to remember that it was my duty to fetch their cloaks. I passed Seth near the door, carrying a tray of oysters and shrimp. "Take that back to the kitchen," I whispered. "Inform the Harcourts' coachman to bring the carriage around."

  He shot a glance over my head then departed without a word.

  "Your footman looks familiar," Lord Harcourt said, as I handed him his cloak.

  "He's not my footman," Lincoln said. "He's my assistant. Lichfield Towers is short-staffed, and he sometimes performs other duties."

  I helped Lady Harcourt on with her cloak and bobbed a curtsy. She turned away and thanked Lincoln, apologizing for her delicate health. Her husband too, thanked Lincoln, and he accepted it. It was an odd dance of etiquette. After the tension in the dining room, I expected them to storm out without a word, but they were acting as if none of that had happened. Toffs were strange indeed.

  The coach wheels crunched on the gravel, and I opened the door, bobbing another curtsy as they left. Lincoln walked them out and Seth, who'd traveled around on the coach from the stables, held the cabin door open and assisted Lady Harcourt up the step.

  "Well that was the height of rudeness," Seth said, shutting the door after they'd gone. "Was it the soup?"

  "Fitzroy's questions."

  Seth's mouth formed an O.

  "I can't blame them for walking out," I said. "I would have too, if confronted with such impertinence. Perhaps you should have waited until dessert."

  The corners of Lincoln's eyes crinkled, almost as if he were smiling. "One course in their company was enough."

  "It wasn't even an entire course! Nobody finished their soup."

  He strode in the direction of the dining room. "As I said, that was enough."

  "You really ought to master the art of small talk."

  "And responding without actually listening," Seth added, following us. "It saves one from boredom. Just nod at key moments or utter general sentiments that could be applied to any topic. It's a trick I learned back when I had to endure dull parties peopled with dull debutantes searching for a husband."

  "There will be even more food left now," I said, collecting the soup bowls. "Such a shame when Cook went to all that effort. And the dining room has never looked more magnificent." I'd spent more than an hour getting it just right, setting out the best silver and china, following Seth's instructions on which forks, spoons and knives went where. Folding the napkins had taken an age in itself, although I'd given up trying to make a swan and simply formed them into a peak. The lack of color in the autumn garden meant the center of the table wasn't as pretty as I'd have liked, but the pineapples Gus had brought back from the costermonger gave it an exotic flavor.

  "You're right, the room shouldn't go to waste," Lincoln said. "We'll dine in here all together."

  All of us, including Cook, sat at the long mahogany table and feasted on the oyster and shrimp appetizers, followed by a sorbet to clean our palettes. I'd never heard of sorbet before coming to live at Lichfield, but the lemon flavored dish had quickly become a favorite. With palettes suitably refreshed, we helped ourselves to the roasted sirloin and chicken, with sides of lobster salad and vegetables. I wished I'd saved room for dessert when Cook and Gus brought in the apple pie, sweet cakes, frozen creams and cheeses.

  "There'd better be some left for me tomorrow," I said, watching Gus shove an entire cake into his mouth.

  "There is enough food left over in that kitchen to feed half of London," Seth told me. "You won't miss out."

  "So, what'll we do next?" Gus asked. "About Buchanan, I mean. Don't know as we're any closer to findin' him than before."

  Lincoln had told Gus and Cook of our confrontation with the Harcourts as we ate, but he had gone quiet since then. Perhaps he was contemplating exactly the same thing as Gus.

  "I think Harcourt is correct," Seth said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "His brother's disappearance is most likely due to his sudden interest in the supernatural, not the baby. We don't even know if he learned anything about Estelle Pearson and her visit to Emberly Park. It's not like he could summon her spirit and ask her."

  Gus stretched his legs out under the table and leaned back, his hands clasped over his stomach. "I agree. He prob'ly read about the ministry in his father's journal, then found all them other books and charms. That got him more interested and he dabbled with forces he don't understand then disappeared." He belched. "Gawd, me stomach hurts."

  Seth pulled a face. "You're a pig."

  "You ate just as much as me."

  "But you don't see me making disgusting noises at the dinner table."

  "Disappeared how?" I asked before they could
come to blows. "And where?"

  "If we knew that, we wouldn't be sittin' hear stuffin' our faces."

  "Mr. Fitzroy?" I prompted. "What are you thinking?"

  "That if I were Buchanan, and had found some references in my father's journal that piqued my curiosity, I would try to find out more from someone with a better knowledge of him than me."

  "His wife," I suggested.

  "Or brother," Seth said.

  "Neither mentioned speaking to him about the ministry."

  Lincoln shook his head. "I meant he would sneak into their rooms and search while they weren't there, or intercept mail, question servants, that sort of thing."

  "Or he could have just asked them directly," I said.

  His left eyebrow kicked up. "We don't know if Buchanan would behave more like you or me, or a combination of both."

  "How do we find out?"

  "I'll question them in the morning."

  "If they will speak with you now. You're unlikely to be on their list of favorite people."

  * * *

  The dowager Lady Harcourt saved Lincoln the trouble of visiting her when she called at Lichfield the following morning. Dressed in full black again, her hair pulled back severely beneath her small hat, and her face pinched, she reminded me of a raven about to swoop on an unsuspecting mouse.

  But Lincoln was no mouse. He met her at the door and invited her into the parlor, where I'd just finished cleaning out the fireplace. She greeted me with a curt nod, but no smile, and waited for me to leave. I did, but I hovered on the other side of the door, out of sight. Lincoln wouldn't mind if I eavesdropped, surely. Not after allowing it the previous night. Anyway, if he wanted privacy, he ought to walk with her in the garden.

  "What got into you last night?" she asked, her voice pitched somewhere between incredulous and curious. "Donald and Marguerite told me you posed some very impertinent questions, and now they think you vulgar. You must call upon them and apologize immediately."

  "I was merely trying to ascertain the whereabouts of Buchanan."

  "Andrew's disappearance has nothing to do with Donald or Marguerite!"

  "How do you know?"

  "Because…because…" She clicked her tongue. "You're being deliberately provoking. Of course they don't know where he is."

  "I didn't imply that they know, just that he may have discovered their secret and disappeared in the course of finding out more."

  "What secret?"

  "Julia, you know I can't tell you."

  "You can, you just won't." After a moment, in which neither spoke, she sighed. "Everyone has secrets, I suppose, but I am surprised that Marguerite and Donald do. They're so…ordinary. Dull. I wonder…"

  "Wonder what?"

  I leaned closer to the door.

  "I wonder if you may be heading in the right direction."

  "About Buchanan's interest in their secret?"

  "I'm not sure if this is important or not but, in light of what you've just said, perhaps it is. My coachman informed me yesterday that Andrew wanted to be driven to Paddington Station on the morning of his disappearance."

  There was a pause then Lincoln said, "The Greater Western Railway trains leave from Paddington and go through Oxfordshire."

  "Precisely. There is a station not far from Emberly Park."

  I pressed my lips together to suppress my gasp. We were finally getting somewhere.

  "Did your coachman not understand the importance of this information earlier?" Lincoln asked.

  "No, because he never took Andrew anywhere. He was busy driving me that day, you see, and thought no more about it. He said he forgot the conversation entirely until yesterday."

  "It's possible Buchanan took a hackney instead."

  "I agree; it's possible, even likely. But he cannot have reached Emberly Park or Donald and Marguerite would have said something."

  "Unless they don't want us knowing."

  Lady Harcourt's throaty chuckle had me picturing her taking Lincoln's hand and batting her eyelashes. "You're so suspicious of everyone. Or almost everyone." The laughter died, and her voice became clipped. "Your own employees seem to escape your suspicions."

  "Do they?" he said lazily. "You know my mind?"

  His accusation stung her to silence.

  "Please convey my apologies to your stepson and his wife," he went on. "But, I can assure you, my questions were necessary."

  She sighed. "Why not apologize to them personally? Dine with us tonight at Harcourt House."

  "I doubt my presence would be welcomed."

  "Nonsense. I welcome it. Isn't that what matters?"

  Silence.

  "Come to dinner, Lincoln. Please. You can ask Donald directly, in the billiard room afterward, if Andrew ever reached Emberly."

  "If he has kept silent until now, I doubt more questions will produce results."

  "Come to dinner and try anyway. I'm sure you'll know if he's lying or not. You have a knack for that."

  What was she up to? A moment ago, she'd been appalled at Lincoln's poor manners during dinner, and now she was encouraging him to question Lord Harcourt further, over yet another dinner. Worse, she was advising him to accuse Lord Harcourt to his face of hiding his brother's visit to Emberly. Why?

  "What time?" Lincoln asked.

  He was agreeing?

  "Eight-thirty. We'll dine at nine." Her skirts rustled, and I dashed across the entrance hall and slipped into the corridor leading to the service area.

  I waited until her coach drove off then intercepted Lincoln when he returned inside. He didn't seem surprised to see me. "She's up to something," I said. "I could hear it in her voice."

  "I know." He went to walk off, but I caught his arm.

  "If you think she has an ulterior motive for inviting you to dinner, then why are you going?"

  He looked at me like I was a fool. "To find out what that motive is."

  "Oh. Yes. I suppose." I let him go. "Why didn't I think of that?"

  "I don't know." He headed up the stairs, but not before I saw his lips twitch at the corners. "Devious methods of gathering information are usually your specialty."

  Chapter 9

  I awoke at dawn the following morning, but Lincoln was already in the kitchen when I went down, cooking bacon and eggs. The man required very little sleep. I'd not heard him return after dinner, but I'd still been so tired from the night I'd missed sleep altogether, that I slept soundly.

  "Are you going to eat all of that yourself?" I asked, peering past him to the five rashers of bacon sizzling in the pan and the three boiling eggs.

  "Not anymore."

  I fetched another plate and eggcup then allowed him to serve me. I chose the side of the table closest to the warm range and he sat on the other. He didn't seem to feel the cold. When I'd first met him, he'd seemed more machine than human, with his lack of emotion and few needs, and sometimes I still felt as if I didn't know the man behind the mask. At least I now knew he wore a mask most of the time.

  "How was the dinner?" I asked.

  "Adequate. Cook's a better cook."

  "You should tell him that. It would mean a lot to him."

  He considered this a moment then nodded.

  "I was actually referring to the conversational aspect of dinner. Did you get an opportunity to ask Lord Harcourt whether Buchanan arrived at Emberly Park?"

  "No. I wasn't seated near him at dinner and he avoided me afterward."

  "But you were the only two gentlemen there. Weren't you alone with him in the billiard room?"

  He shook his head as he cut through a bacon rasher. "Another two were invited to make up numbers."

  "But you were already two gentlemen and two ladies, an even, if somewhat small, number."

  "Four ladies, four gentlemen. Julia invited the Overtons—Mr. Mrs. and Miss—and an elderly fellow by the name of Matthews."

  I'd been slicing off the top of my egg, but his news caused my hand to slip. The egg and cup toppled over, spilling gooey
yolk on the table. I quickly righted the cup, stuffed the egg back into it, and reached for a cloth to mop up the yolk.

  Lincoln watched me from beneath long, thick lashes. "I was as surprised as you are. Julia didn't warn me."

  Probably because she knew he'd refuse to go. "She seems very keen for you and Miss Overton to…become better acquainted."

  "I noticed."

  "And did you become better acquainted last night?"

  "No."

  "Surely Lady Harcourt contrived to sit you next to her."

  "She did, with her mother on my other side. They soon learned that I make a terrible dinner guest and gave up attempting to converse with me."

  "Did you even try to have a proper conversation? Or did you sabotage it deliberately?"

  "I don't give away my secrets." His eyes gleamed like polished jet.

  I couldn't help a smile, although it vanished just as quickly as it rose. "Poor Miss Overton. Do you think she will give up now and set her heart on someone else?" Or was she so smitten with him that she would continue to throw herself in his path? It was a distinct possibility. I certainly couldn't imagine setting aside my affections to consider another man.

  "I don't think it's up to Miss Overton but her mother. And perhaps Julia, to some extent. She hasn't accepted that I am a hopeless case, unfit for marriage."

  "You're not, Lincoln. Not in the least." I raised my fork as he opened his mouth to protest. "Can we discuss something else? Please? I don't wish to go over old ground with you again. We only seem to end up fighting, and I don't like it when we do."

  "Nor do I." He rose. "Tea?"

  "Yes, please. So we've hit a dead end again in the search for Buchanan."

  "Not quite," he said as he checked the kettle. "I'm catching a train to Emberly Park straight after breakfast." He cast an eye at the clock on the sideboard. "Seth or Gus will drive me to the station even if I have to drag one of them out of bed."

  Seth chose that moment to enter, hand over his mouth, smothering a yawn.

  "Speak of the devil," I said.