I wait under my duvet for the snoring to begin. When at last it does, I gently push back the curtains around my canopy bed and climb off the feather mattress. Next come thick stockings, my oldest but warmest dress, and a pair of sturdy boots. I’ll need the extra coverage since it’s snowing outside. Cordelia looked out the window before reading Herodotus to me and complained about the snow. My companion never fails to surprise. I expected her to bemoan the ancient Greek historian rather than the weather.
When I am dressed, I wrap one of Cordie’s wool scarves around my throat, drape another over the top of my head, and don my winter cloak. Tom is waiting for me when I emerge from the house, and we steal away like bandits through the night.
Once we reach Stonehenge, he places the case of throwing knives in my hand. “This is your own set, Hettie. We’re trying the real thing now—letting you get some experience with an actual blade.” He lights his clanky lantern and turns me north. “I brought up a bunch of burlap sacks earlier today and filled them with snow and dirt. Those’ll be your fifteen targets. Each of the stone pillars has one. They sit at the base, ’bout three feet high.”
The bit on Tom’s belt clanks against the buckle as he takes it off and then he cinches the belt around my waist. Rather puzzled, I jump when my skirt is lifted, a gust of cold air blowing across my legs. Tom hikes the material up and tucks it under the belt. The length of my calf is exposed, woolly stockings and all.
Excuse me?
“Better access, love.”
Access to what?
He removes one knife from the carrying case and gives it to me. The handle is so cold my fingers hurt. I touch the flat side of the blade. It’s coated with frost, but I wipe it clean. My breath catches as Tom touches my garter, lingering there for a moment. Then his hand moves higher, and I feel him strapping the knife case to my thigh.
“Too tight?” he asks.
I swallow and shake my head. No, but I’m freezing.
“Sorry, Hettie. You’ll warm up once we get to work.” Tom finds a place to sit, far out of range. “You know the layout of the stones. Directly ahead of you is number one. Go clockwise, and I’ll retrieve the weapons after the third throw.”
The snowy weather heightens the sense of solitude and smothers sound. It makes things more difficult for me to locate.
“Hold the point between your fingers,” Tom says. “It won’t cut you if you’re careful.”
I’m assured by the solid weight in my hand, and I review the steps Tom has taught me, the moves I’ve been practicing. I lift my arm, draw back, and throw.
Tom claps. “Very nice. Severed an artery at the least.”
Although my skirt is tucked up somewhat, it still covers the knife case, and I’m awkward at getting the blades from under the flounces of wool. Blasted clumsiness. I throw again and the knife just nicks the edge of the bag. But the third attempt slices straight through the middle.
“Dead center,” Tom says, his voice dulled by the snow.
He brings the knives back, and I try again with mixed success. All the practice and trial-and-error kicks in on the next round. Every throw is golden.
Then I hear a horse whinny and extend my hearing to pinpoint its location. The animal isn’t far distant, just past the clearing, but Tom seems oblivious.
A rider’s coming from the south.
He grabs my arm, pushes me toward the nearest pillar. Hide. I’ll handle this.
Slip-sliding, I make it to cover as a man rides out across the bluff.
“Is that you, Craddock?” he asks.
Tom returns his double-barreled shotgun to the holster on his saddle. “It’s me.”
“Where’s Hester?” Noah Kelly asks. There’s a metallic click, as though he’s just slid the hammer of his revolver out of the cocked position. “I was on my way home from a late night call when I saw you two riding for the foothills. Didn’t want to wake her parents so I followed you instead.”
“Hester’s here,” Tom replies. “She’s all right.”
The saddle creaks as Noah Kelly dismounts. “I’d like to verify that fact, if you don’t mind. And even if you do, for that matter.”
I’ll come out, Tom. We aren’t doing anything wrong. He’ll see that and go.
I leave my hiding place, and Kelly moves toward me, takes my arm. He flicks the hem of my tucked-up skirt. “Have you no shame, Hester? I would have expected more restraint from you than this. Exposing your leg like a common doxy.”
“A doxy?” Tom repeats. “How dare you?”
And that’s all it takes. They are fighting again.
Stop it. Right now. Stop it.
Tom doesn’t respond, so intent is he on maiming Kelly. And vice versa.
Perhaps a well-aimed snowball will get their attention. I quickly make a pile of hard, packed balls. I listen to Kelly curse, finding the location of his head, and take aim a bit lower. There’s a surprised yelp, and then Tom laughs. I throw at him, too. In fact, I pelt them both repeatedly, until Kelly calls a truce.
“Quite an arm there, Hester,” he says. “Your aim is uncanny.”
Did you have to throw so hard, love?
You wouldn’t stop!
Neither would he.
I have one last snowball in my hand, and Kelly asks to borrow it. “To counter the swelling in my jaw.” He laughs ruefully and takes possession of the orb. “You’re rather beautiful when you’re in a temper. I should provoke you more often.”
This comment prompts another solid punch from Tom, and the doctor stumbles.
Last one, Hettie. And he asked for it.
“Let’s call this a draw, Craddock,” Kelly says, spitting into the snow. “You’re a grand scrapper, but I’ve broken some fingers and your face is bleeding a stream.” He takes a few steps and sits down. “Now that rusty lamp’s a romantic touch. Adds atmosphere. But it’s awfully cold for a tryst. Wasn’t there a shed or silo somewhere closer?”
I am gripping Tom’s hand, keeping him from making another fist. Tell Kelly the truth—about the knife throwing and why we’re here.
“Burlap sacks?” Kelly drawls. “For the life of me, I have no idea what those are for…”
Does it really matter what he thinks?
After a moment, I nod. Yes, it does.
Tom exhales and hands me the knives. “Show him yourself.”
Keeping one, I put the other two on the ground by my right boot, instead of returning them to the case on my thigh. I’d rather not have Kelly see me fumble under my skirt for the weapons. He’d only think me improper and inept. I concentrate on the stones and their burlap targets.
“Stay where you are, Dr. Kelly,” Tom says. “If you value your life.”
The knife flies from my fingers, whistling through the air, driving into the bag twenty feet in front of me. I don’t need anyone to say it’s perfect, I already know.
Tom whispers, “Stone number six, Hettie.”
I swing about and release the weapon—clean and deadly. The third stone is next, and I hit that target just as well. Tom fetches the knives for me, and I continue on. Ten, four, seven. Not one wasted throw in the entire lot.
Kelly claps and whistles through his teeth. “You’re remarkable, Hester. Absolutely amazing.”
I smile and wipe the sweat from my forehead, trying to catch my breath. Concerned I’ll catch a chill once I cool down, the doctor goes to his horse to get a blanket from the saddlebag. “And maybe a flask,” he says. “For medicinal purposes.”
Tom unhooks the leather case from my leg, puts the knives away, and pulls down the side of my skirt. A picture erupts inside my head, related to the Halloween vision. The killer walks up the mountain path, arguing with Freckles as usual, but in this rendition I am positioned at his side. So close it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. I look down at Freckles as he slaps her when she says that his wife is as good as dead. She trips, falls, and loses consciousness. The killer checks to see if she is alive. A bluish vein pulses at her neck and
her mouth is slightly open. How young Freckles looks in sleep—innocent and rather pretty, without the bitter lines around her mouth or the hateful tone of voice.
Would she have looked soft like this if her life had been easier? Was the harshness the world saw only a defense?
Sympathy grows in my heart, but I haven’t long to examine the emotion. Mr. Murder picks her up and throws her away like so much trash. Standing on the cliff edge, he watches her hit the rocks below. Her screams echo in my head as he turns toward the path down the mountain, lighting a partially-smoked cigar. Mr. Murder takes a few puffs and the smoke wafts around his face. He notices a smudge on one of his cufflinks and rubs it on his jacket. What’s that engraved on the cufflink? Are they initials? Before the killer lowers his arm, I identify three letters. D...T…P
Then the vision changes. I stand in the center of a wasteland with Sir Death. Freckles is at His side. She watches me with hard, glittering eyes and looks rather triumphant. As triumphant as one can appear while wearing a blood-stained gingham blouse and sporting terrific injuries after falling off a cliff.
Inky robes swirling about Him, the Reaper floats a few inches off the ground. He smells of marble, moss and damp soil. It isn’t unpleasant, just a bit intimidating when one considers why He smells that way. The spirit world has many of His kind. They are immortal and legion in number, identical in appearance, purpose, and thought. All are called Sir Death, or the Reaper, and I have worked with this particular entity as long as I’ve been Veritas of Stonehenge. He supervises other Visionaries as well, covering the whole Rocky Mountain Sovereignty.
It’s difficult to look into that pale, ageless face. He glances at His gold pocket watch, the chain glittering in the half-light. What are you doing to free this ghost, Hester? She’s been quite patient, I believe.
Do I have anything to report? Even though Tom’s been searching the foothills and talking to people in town, he hasn’t discovered anything new. Cornishwomen with red hair abound in Stonehenge apparently, but none have been reported missing or dead. At least Tom has made an effort to move the investigation forward, in addition to meeting me at midnight. I, on the other hand, have been caught up with sign language and alphabet stencils and my ill mother, leaving little time or opportunity to sleuth. All I’ve got are those damned initals DTP.
I force myself to meet Death’s blue, blue eyes. We’re still investigating, Sir. I’m confident we’ll find the killer soon.
Let us hope so. It’s unfair to make the dead suffer longer than necessary. It makes me upset just thinking about this poor woman’s plight.
Oh dear. Upset is a step away from angry. No one wishes to meet the Reaper in high dudgeon. Especially me. I enjoy living, thank you very much.
As I nod my head in agreement with Death, Freckles smiles at Him warmly. Why did she wink like that? Is the ghost infatuated with Death? The idea makes me shudder.
Her fair skin is growing translucent, looking more wraith-like than human. This happens when ghosts fail to cross over. Ripped from life in an untimely fashion, murdered souls are often hazy about their own mortality and death. The memory of dying violently traumatizes them and they subdue it. Yet ghosts are very clear about their desire to continue on to the spirit world. This cannot happen until the truth is revealed—about them and their killers. Only then will they move forward to the Judgment, where all of creation makes an accounting and justice and mercy await.
If the ghosts were good people in life then they are gentle and easy to work with. The bad ones are an entirely different matter. Despite my earlier sympathy with Freckles, I sense she is from the latter category. The friendly show she’s putting on for Sir Death seems artificial.
But the Reaper appears to welcome the attention. He gazes at me in disappointment and fades away. I force myself back to the world of the living, back to Tom. It will become more and more difficult to separate myself from Freckles. The longer she stays here, the greater the risk her darker nature will take over. Visionaries have gone mad from such spirits.
We need to find our killer, Tom. Sir Death is upset. He wants justice now.
Tom puts his hand on my back, rubs gently. What about that old chapel on Settler’s Ridge? I haven’t checked there.
Our Lady of Sorrows? No. It’s in ruins after the fire.
He slides his arm around my shivering body. But the building was whitewashed, Hettie. It might look like a snowy mound from a distance, and there’s a fairly deep ravine thereabouts. I think it’s worth a try.
When?
Tomorrow morning? We’re lucky it’s so windy up there. The snow doesn’t stick for long, even after a storm. Maybe we’ll find something.
Let’s pray we do, Tom. Our ghost is trouble. She’s trying to beguile the Reaper.
That’s just wrong.
She winked and smiled at Him. Flirted even.
Tom’s happy laughter makes my heart light. The Shade and the specter? Now there’s a love story to give you nightmares.
I punch him on the arm. Be serious. It’s not love, it’s manipulation waiting to happen. Let’s help her move on, whatever it takes.
Out of habit, he switches into speech, forgetting the rules of clairvoyance yet again. “Fiat justitia ruat caelum.”
“‘Let justice be done though the heavens fall’?” Kelly asks, making both of us jump.
Wrapped up in our telepathic discussion, we forgot the doctor was still here. “Strange,” he says. “I’ve been watching you two. It’s as if you can talk to each other without saying a word.”
“Such a wild imagination,” Tom replies. “I wouldn’t have expected it in a man of science.”
“Most scientists agree there’s much beyond our understanding.” Then Kelly’s pragmatic nature takes over, and he changes the subject. “Tell me about the knives, Craddock. Why is Hester learning to use them?”
“For self-protection. The horse was intentionally spooked on the day you saved her life.”
Liquid sloshes inside a container. Is it the flask Kelly mentioned before? “Do you know who’s responsible?” he asks, twisting a metal cap.
Don’t mention the magic, Tom. Kelly will never believe it. Say I overheard the killer talking to himself. The doctor could help us search for evidence.
We’ve managed without him this far.
And we will again, but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone with his training on our side.
I don’t trust the man, Hettie.
Well I do, and we could use an extra person on Settler’s Ridge.
Tom hesitates but still concedes to my wishes. “Miss Grayson overheard a stranger incriminating himself in the murder of a young woman. We think he is most likely the one trying to harm her.”
Thanks, Tom. I’ll make it up to you later.
“Is this true, Hester?” Kelly puts the flask in my hand. “You didn’t recognize the voice of the killer?”
Shaking my head, I smell the beverage in the flask. Strong, alcoholic fumes singe my nostrils. I drink and liquid fire slides down my throat. It makes me cough and wheeze. I hastily return the flask to the doctor, but he pushes it back. “One more sip.”
I do as he suggests and my insides are hot as hellfire. I remove my scarf and decline Kelly’s blanket although he insists I take it with me on the journey home. My very innards feel flammable. Like the parlor maid Martha, I could combust.
Kelly passes the flask to Tom, who isn’t shy about taking a drink. He has several before handing it over to the doctor. “The crime may have happened at a ravine nearby,” he says. “We plan to go there tomorrow and search for clues.”
“What kind of clues?” Kelly asks. “And why haven’t you told the police about this?”
Taking Tom’s hand, I give it a comforting squeeze. Be as honest as possible. I won’t hold it against you.
He’s angry inside—that he has to spell out my situation to the doctor, that the circumstances exist in the first place. “Hester can’t speak for herself, and the people in to
wn treat her like she’s too impaired to function. We’ve worked with the police before, but they expect evidence, not heresay.”
While Tom talks, Kelly has a drink and stows the flask in his coat pocket. “Crimes aren’t solved unless they’re reported, Craddock. Speak to the police for her, just as you’re doing now.”
Tom exhales with frustration. “We’ll do that eventually. Right now we need an alibi for Hester to be away from home. You can provide that, Doctor.”
“Why does she need an alibi?”
“To search for the murder site on Settler’s Ridge.
Kelly shifts his weight and the snow under his shoe makes a crunching sound. “What are you thinking, man? It’s dangerous up there. Hester could get hurt.”
“That won’t happen, Doc. I’ll protect her.”
“Perhaps you’ve been with cattle too long and have forgotten how civilized people behave. Gentlemen don’t subject ladies…”
Not wanting Tom and Kelly to fight again, I interrupt and sign something the doctor recently taught me. He groans, and I sense that he has given up the fight. Irony is at last in my favor.
What was that you did just now? Tom asks, our minds linked again.
Smiling, I repeat the sign and translate. It’s an idiom. I told Kelly he’s full of hot air.
The doctor counts under his breath and paces. After a few minutes, he returns to Tom and me. “Answer me one thing, Hester. Will you continue with this scheme if I refuse to help?”
I nod and Tom says, “Hell yes.”
“Just as I suspected.” Kelly sighs like a man about to embark on a doomed voyage. “Very well then. I’m in.”
The two men make arrangements as we pack up and ride back to town. The storm is nearly over and snowflakes fall sporadically, touching my face now and again like an icy kiss. Dr. Kelly follows Tom and me to the Revels. He leaves his horse and walks with us to the arbor.
Dulcis Domus. Home sweet home.
Goodnight, Tom. Thank you for doing things my way. I know it wasn’t what you wanted.
Let’s hope it works, love. Give me a proper farewell.
The kiss is possessive—leaving no room for misunderstanding on the doctor’s part.
Veritas Page 10
