Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  "Don't you have something better to do than stand there and talk to me?"

  "No. I'd like to ask you some questions, if I may. Since all you do nowadays is sit and peer out windows, I think you may be of help to me."

  He barked a harsh laugh. "Glad to know you've found a use for me." He lifted his empty glass. "Fetch me a drink and I'll answer one question. Fetch an entire bottle, I'll answer a dozen."

  "Where?"

  "Billiards room, through the music room on your right."

  I took the glass and headed back inside. No one had come searching for me yet, but it wouldn't take long before the butler grew suspicious or Lincoln became worried. I wondered if he was enjoying his tea while the dour Yardly watched on.

  I grabbed the first decanter I could find from the sideboard in the billiards room and returned to the terrace. "Will this do?"

  "Nicely."

  I handed back the glass and poured an amount that I'd seen Lincoln drink at a time. Edgecombe waggled the glass until I poured more. He then downed it in one gulp and held the glass out again. I hesitated.

  "Don't pretend you care, Miss Charlotte Holloway. Just fill the damned glass. And be quick about it. My assistant will be back soon, unless he's forgotten about me. He's stupid enough that he may have."

  "Why hire a stupid man to assist you?"

  "I hired him for his brawn, not his brain."

  I poured another then set the decanter down. "I've fulfilled my side of the bargain, now you fulfill yours."

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Of course. A gentleman doesn't renege on a promise."

  I swept aside my skirt and sat on the terrace step that led down to the lawn. I twisted so that I could see him. "Andrew Buchanan disappeared a week ago. We have evidence to suggest that he wanted to come here on the morning of his disappearance, but no firm proof that he took the train. The stationmaster doesn't remember, and the butler said he never called at the house. I rather think he's lying, however. Do you remember him coming here?"

  "No, but I don't come downstairs often. It's not easy when one has to rely on an assistant who'd rather be in the kitchen with the maids. My previous fellow wasn't quite so bad as Dawkins, but he very inconveniently died, and I had to hire the fat-headed Dawkins in rather a hurry. As you can probably guess, I can't manage the stairs without him."

  "Your sister didn't mention Buchanan calling?"

  "No."

  "Your brother-in-law?"

  "We rarely talk."

  "May I ask why?"

  He hesitated. "I don't like Donald, and he doesn't like me."

  "Yet he allows you to live under his roof."

  "Yes." His brittle chuckle sent a chill down my spine. "Yes he does."

  I smoothed my hands over my skirts then clasped them over my knees. While I felt some sympathy for Edgecombe's plight, I was very glad that he couldn't reach me from his wheelchair unless he rolled it forward. I suspected I could leap out of the way faster than he could move. "Did you see or hear anything unusual a week ago? Did the servants act strangely, or was there more activity in the house than usual? Anything?" My desperation was getting the better of me, and I spoke more harshly than I meant to. I suspected Buchanan had made it to the house, but time was running out to find proof.

  "A week ago, you say? Yes, I suppose there was something out of the ordinary." He pointed at a low rise in the distance, well beyond the formal garden and parkland. There seemed to be a small folly built on it, but it was difficult to tell from a distance. "Do you see that mausoleum?"

  "Mausoleum?" I squinted at what I'd thought was a folly. "Who's buried up there?"

  "Everyone who matters, according to Donald. All the Buchanans, going back centuries. But that structure itself is new. It was built only a few years ago."

  "Five years ago?"

  His eyes turned cloudy. "So you know?" he said quietly.

  "About Marguerite's baby? Yes." But how much did he know? According to Estelle Pearson, no one outside of herself, Marguerite and Donald knew the baby was full-term. I decided to take another risk and said, "Marguerite told me she had him christened Hector before he died."

  "After our father." He lowered his glass and stared toward the mausoleum. "Marguerite told me he was full-term. Not at the time, but later, when she was…upset. She never quite got over the baby's death, you see. It affected her greatly." He tapped his temple. "Up here. It hasn't helped that she doesn't seem to be able to have more children. She's taken her barrenness very hard. And he hasn't helped."

  "Lord Harcourt?"

  He nodded and drained his glass. He held it out for me to refill. I did. Whatever was in that decanter had loosened his tongue nicely.

  "What about the mausoleum, Mr. Edgecombe?" At his frown, I added, "You implied that something happened up there."

  "I can see it better from my rooms." He pointed up. "Third floor. Great view." He snorted. "With nothing else to do, I sit in this bloody chair all day and stare at the same bloody scenery. One evening, about a week ago, I saw two figures up there. The full moon was out, I remember, because I could see them quite clearly. They appeared to be fighting."

  "Any idea who they might have been?"

  "None."

  "Did you ask your brother-in-law or the servants about it?"

  "No. Why would I?"

  Because it was something different, something interesting. But I didn't let him see my frustration at his lack of curiosity. "Thank you, Mr. Edgecombe. I appreciate you telling me. But may I ask, why are you telling me? No one else seems to want to admit that Buchanan might have been here."

  "It may not have been him."

  "True, but it may well have been too."

  "Perhaps no one else saw the commotion. Perhaps they don't sit by windows all day and all night. Or perhaps they're protecting the great lord and master." He drained the glass again, his fingers white around the tumbler.

  "Do you hate him?"

  He sucked air through his teeth. "Do you know my sister spent time in Bedlam?"

  I gasped. "The lunatic asylum? Because she was so upset about the baby?"

  He nodded. "He had her committed. By law, he can. By law, he's the only one who can get her out again, other than the doctors, but why would they when she brings in a tidy sum as a patient?" He drifted off as his eyes turned cloudy, dark.

  "When was this?"

  "About a year or so after the baby was born. She was troubled but not insane. She shouldn't have been put in there."

  "Lord Harcourt came to his senses and got her out, though."

  His lips twisted and his back teeth ground together. "Only because I demanded he do so. That place…what they did to her…it was inhuman. I dragged him there one day, and showed him what it was like. He'd only seen what the doctors wanted him to see before that—the relaxing garden, the gentle massages—but I forced my way through and showed him the cold bath room, the manacles on the beds, and the degrading things the so-called patients had to endure. He signed her out immediately, thank God, but I never forgave him. She did, but I haven't forgotten and I never will."

  "Is that why he allows you to stay here?" I asked quietly, aware that I was treading on rocky ground. "Because he feels guilty?"

  "Guilt?" He snorted. "No, he allows me to stay here because he's afraid I'll tell people what he did. He doesn't care too much for society convention, but even he knows how humiliating it would be for them both if it were discovered she spent a few weeks in an asylum. He had let everyone believe she'd gone to the seaside for some rest, you see, but I found out the truth. I'm the only one who knows the truth."

  Dear lord, poor Marguerite. I knew little about asylums, except that the boys in my gang thought they were haunted. Edgecombe didn't paint a very nice picture. Manacles and cold baths didn't sound like they could cure much, let alone deep sorrow.

  "Thank you," I said rising. "I appreciate your honesty."

  His hand whipped out as I passed him and he grabbed my arm. "My
brother-in-law would not like to know that I told you that."

  "I won't tell him."

  His fingers tightened. "I wish my sister had never married into this fucking mad family." A drop of spittle landed on his lower lip and he wiped it off with the hand that held his empty glass. "She was always a little simple, but now…" He shook his head. "They've got secrets, and not just the one about the baby. For one thing, the late Lord Harcourt was a blind fool for not seeing your friend, the dowager, for the gold digger she is."

  "She's not my friend."

  "No, I suppose she wouldn't be." Once again his gaze raked over me, and this time it was openly lewd. "She would never befriend a younger, prettier woman."

  The door to the music room opened and Lincoln charged out, the butler on his heels. While Lincoln's glare was sharp enough to tear Edgecombe to pieces, Yardly's eyes went wide as he seemed to realize that I'd been questioning him.

  Edgecombe let me go and held up his hand in surrender. His gaze flicked from Lincoln to me then he chuckled into his glass again. Discovering it empty, he went to pick up the decanter near the wheel of his chair, but Yardly was faster than he looked. He got to it first.

  "I'll fetch Dawkins to take you back inside, sir." Yardly held out his hand for us to walk ahead of him into the house.

  I went first, followed by Lincoln and the butler who shut the door on the sorry figure of Mr. Edgecombe cradling the glass to his chest.

  "Thank you, Mr. Yardly," I said in my sweetest voice. "We'll trouble you no further." I hurried ahead of them to the front door, eager to get far away from Emberly Park and its occupants.

  Chapter 10

  Yardly didn't offer us the use of one of the Harcourt carriages to take us back to town, and Lincoln was not too pleased about it.

  "My assistant has only recently recovered from a foot injury," he said. "We require a ride back to the village."

  "It's quite all right, sir," I said before Yardly could respond. The poor man looked as if he didn't know what to say anyway. Manners dictated that he should offer us the use of his master's coach and driver, but he didn't seem to trust us, particularly after catching me plying Edgecombe with drink. "I can walk, and the day is lovely. Thank you again for your warm hospitality, Mr. Yardly. Lord Harcourt will hear of it."

  As Lincoln and I walked along the drive, I told him everything Edgecombe had told me. I'd finished by the time we were out of sight of the house.

  "If we head that way, we'll reach the family graveyard," I said, nodding to our right.

  "You think we'll learn more there?"

  "I don't know, but we should take a look." I set off across the grass, and he soon fell into step beside me.

  "Your foot?"

  "Is perfectly fine, thank you. What did you and Yardly talk about while I was gone?"

  "Nothing."

  "You sat in silence the entire time?"

  "It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Next time, I'm not going through the front door and making idle chatter with servants."

  "Why do so this time?"

  "I didn't want to leave you on your own."

  I rolled my eyes. "I would have been perfectly all right. In fact, separating works well, as we proved in the hospital. I question people while you sneak about."

  "You had Seth with you then. You would have been alone here."

  "Yardly doesn't look dangerous. I think I could have managed him on my own."

  We fell into silence, and I hoped he was considering my suggestion. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. By separating, we could attack on two fronts, each of us doing what we did best.

  "Did Edgecombe say whether he or anyone else told the late Lord Harcourt about the baby?" So much for him considering my suggestion.

  "I never got a chance to ask. It's possible, I suppose. Or perhaps he saw the mausoleum too and realized that fetuses aren't given proper burials in such grand style."

  "It's difficult to miss."

  The square building with classical columns marking the entrance reminded me of a miniature version of the British Museum. It occupied one corner of the small graveyard and commanded a spectacular outlook toward the house. I wondered if Mr. Edgecombe was watching us from his window or the garden terrace. I resisted the urge to wave.

  "There are signs of a scuffle." Lincoln pointed to some divots in the grass near the base of the mausoleum step.

  "They could have been made by anything, at any time."

  He crouched and inspected a dark stain on the stone. "Blood."

  I crouched beside him. "Are you sure?"

  "Moderately."

  "Wouldn't it have been washed away if it was from a week ago?"

  "Not entirely, if the rain wasn't heavy and there was a lot of blood." He moved away and, keeping low, brushed his fingers through the ankle-deep grass.

  I followed suit, heading in the other direction. Not three feet away, I found a silver button. "From a gentleman's jacket or waistcoat?" I asked, showing it to him.

  "Possibly."

  "It's quite distinctive. Look, something's been engraved on it."

  We bent our heads closer. Our arms pressed together and our faces were only inches apart. Being so close to him scrambled my senses and clouded my brain. I fought to clear it and focus on the button.

  After a moment, I could make out the inscription. "The letter B," I said. "For Buchanan?"

  Lincoln cleared his throat and shifted his weight which moved him a little further away from me. "I…yes, it is."

  I opened my reticule and placed the button inside. "This proves that Buchanan was here and knew about the baby."

  "Agreed."

  "I think it also proves his disappearance is related to that discovery, and nothing to do with the occult."

  He shook his head. "It proves nothing, except that he knows his sister-in-law gave birth to a full-term baby and he got into a fight up here. We don't know who with or why."

  "Surely with his brother."

  "Perhaps. But we also don't know what happened to him after the fight."

  "I'll put money on him being dead."

  His face darkened. "You are not going to summon his spirit."

  "I wasn't going to. However—"

  "No."

  He walked out of the graveyard, back down the slope. I picked up my skirts and ran after him. "Come now, Lincoln, it will prove one way or the other if he's alive."

  "You're suggesting that, after what happened with the Pearson woman's spirit?"

  "Andrew Buchanan doesn't have magical powers."

  "He might have learned some through the books."

  "Lincoln," I said, walking fast to keep up with his long strides, "you've read the same books. Did you learn any new magic tricks?"

  My logic had silenced him for almost a mile when I decided to break it. "Do you have a better idea?" I asked defiantly.

  "Yes. We'll question the local doctor. It's likely he sought out medical assistance to tend the wound."

  "If he was alive."

  We walked another mile, and I finally conceded that his idea had merit. "But if we learn nothing, may I then summon his spirit?"

  "No. And for once, I would appreciate you doing as I ask."

  "I would," I muttered, "if you actually asked me instead of telling me."

  A muscle bunched in his jaw. It remained bunched until we reached the village. The day was still sunny, and I'd enjoyed our walk. While he'd walked on in anger, I'd soaked in the fresh air and sunshine, and the pretty scenery. I wasn't ready to head inside, even though I was a little hungry.

  "You can go ahead, if you like, and find the doctor," I said. "I want to walk alongside the stream." I picked up a brown leaf and dropped it over the side of the bridge. I counted the seconds as it floated to a large tree with giant roots clinging to the bank like claws. I picked up a smaller leaf and timed it too.

  "I'll walk with you," he said.

  I turned to see him watching me, his eyes clear an
d not as dark as they usually appeared. It must be an effect of the bright sunshine. I smiled at him. I couldn't help it. He was so dashingly handsome, standing there with his hands resting on the stone bridge. It was so tempting to kiss him and see if he kissed me back.

  But I didn't want to risk ruining the moment.

  I clamped a hand on my hat and trotted along the bridge. "Come along then."

  We descended a set of crude stone stairs to the path edging the bank. Small fish flashed silver in the water, darting over pebbles and between reeds. I removed my glove and dipped my fingers in near the school. They scattered but a moment later returned to investigate the strange objects in their midst. They kissed my fingers before once more swimming off to find something to nibble. I stood and shook off the icy droplets.

  "I can't believe how clear this water is," I said. "The Thames is a cesspit by comparison."

  When Lincoln didn't respond, I glanced at him. He leaned one shoulder against a tree trunk, his arms crossed, and watched me from beneath lazy lids. I'd never seen him quite so relaxed before. The countryside agreed with him.

  We walked a little further but my growling stomach reminded me that it was growing late and we hadn't eaten luncheon. "Hungry?" I asked.

  "Very." His quiet purr made my stomach flutter.

  We ate a hearty lunch at The Fox and Hound then headed out again, following the innkeeper's directions to Dr. Turcott's rooms. We waited while the doctor finished with a patient, using the opportunity to question his wife who sat at the front desk and managed his schedule. She claimed that her husband hadn't seen any patients fitting Buchanan's description a week ago. The doctor confirmed this when he finally spared a few moments for us.

  By the time we left his rooms, the shadows had grown longer and the air cooler. I pulled the edges of my cloak together.

  "What now?" I asked.

  "Now you should rest your foot. You've walked far today."

  "It's fine, Lincoln. Besides, I'm not going to sit down while you continue to question villagers."

  "You are if your foot hurts."

  "It doesn't."

  "If the wound reopens, it could become infected and take much longer to heal."