by Amy Corwin
“Just so,” Lord Wolverton agreed solemnly. “There’s no other logical explanation. The door was locked, son.”
Mr. Danby leapt to his feet. He shoved an impatient hand through his hair and paced around the table. Eve watched, her eyes dwelling for a moment on his broad shoulders. Giles—what a masculine name, she thought, wishing she’d met him under happier circumstances. Or someplace else.
Once they departed from the manor, there was little likelihood of meeting again. Particularly if she had anything to say about it, since any friendship with Giles had to include the disconcerting presence of his libertine father.
And Lord Wolverton had to be of that ilk since her mother seemed to lack an interest in any other sort of man. Her fascination with Lord Wolverton guaranteed he was a rapscallion.
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “You’ve merely overlooked the obvious.”
Everyone stared at her.
“The obvious?” Giles asked in a strangled voice. “What obvious notion would that be?”
“How should I know?” She shrugged an elegant shoulder and rearranged her dove-gray cashmere shawl. “But I’m sure it will be clear to whoever investigates.”
Her logic caused the others to fall into astounded silence.
Finally, Giles cleared his throat. “Lady Weston raises an excellent point. I should go to the village, one way or the other, to report this. The coroner and constable must be notified. And the remains must be viewed by the coroner’s jury before Mr. Lane can be buried—”
“That’s hardly a difficulty,” Lord Wolverton replied in a gruff voice. “We can’t bury him in this weather in any event.”
“By law, we have but twelve days for the jury to view the body—”
“You seem to know a great deal about this business of murder,” Eve remarked, wondering where he’d learned of coroners and their juries. Both men studied her. She was surprised at the flicker of anger in Giles’s dark gray eyes. “Did you study law?”
“No,” he replied abruptly before staring at his coffee cup as if he’d never seen one before.
“My son is, unfortunately, correct. I’ve no notion of what the coroner will think of matters here, however. Unless we could, perchance, discover the specter’s reasons for haunting this place.”
“Perhaps his remains are hidden here in unhallowed ground,” Eve suggested, half-joking. “If we find him, the coroner might believe his spirit murdered Mr. Lane.”
“Evelynola, how can you make such a cruel jest?” her mother chided.
“Ridiculous,” Giles said, clearly trying to put an end to the topic of spirits.
“But of course!” Lord Wolverton leapt to his feet. “Just the thing! We shall search for the spirit’s mortal remains. That’s the answer to this mystery—it must be!”
“No, I absolutely forbid it! The notion is ridiculous.” As Giles studied his father, his face filled with tired resignation. Eve could sympathize. No one was listening to either of them.
Certainly not his father or her mother.
Chapter Eight
“I don’t see why it’s so ridiculous,” Eve said, realizing it was the perfect way to separate her susceptible mother and Lord Wolverton. She nodded to him. He beamed back at her. “We’ll search the manor.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Giles paced between the table and the sideboard. A swirl of warm, damp air, carrying the scent of kippers and eggs, rising from the half-empty platters.
Eve held her napkin to her nose, trying to resist the faint queasiness that rose under her breastbone. After a deep breath, she placed the napkin down beside her plate. “Why? Why is it so ridiculous? We’re stranded here like castaways marooned on an island. We can’t leave, and this house is haunted by a murderer, be it man or specter.” She stood and faced him. The more she considered the situation, the more convinced she was that searching for the murderer was essential and it dovetailed beautifully with her ulterior motive to protect her mother. “There’s nothing else to be done. We must find him.”
“Very, very good!” Lord Wolverton rubbed his hands together. An excited flush brought color to his round cheeks. “We shall find this spirit—I’ve no doubt of it!”
“For the last time, there is no spirit!” Giles faced her. “I forbid you to place yourself in danger by searching for the nonexistent!”
“Nonsense. You can’t have it both ways,” Eve said. “If it’s nonexistent then how can it harm us? I’ll be quite safe in the company of your father. Won’t I, Lord Wolverton?”
“Of course. And perhaps your dear mother would like to accompany us?”
Eve held her breath.
Her mother shook her head and readjusted her shawl around her shoulders. A delicate shiver fluttered the lace at her throat. “I’ve no wish to search for phantoms. Or murderers. There must be some other way to pass the time until someone comes from Folkestone. Perhaps we could simply light the fire in the drawing room? There must be a deck of playing cards….”
A look of disappointment clouded Lord Wolverton’s eyes. He sighed, clearly torn between his desire to remain with Eve’s mother and his excitement over chasing a specter around the manor’s moldering corridors.
“That is an excellent notion!” Giles agreed. His gaze challenged Eve to disagree.
Her chin rose. “You may wish to spend the day playing cards in the drawing room, but your father and I refuse to sit and do nothing. You’re the one who pointed out a man,” she glanced at her mother and lowered her voice, “died here. We must find the culprit before anything else happens.”
“Have you considered what will happen if you run into a flesh-and-blood murderer?” Giles asked.
“There’ll be two of us.” Eve studied Lord Wolverton, wondering if this really was such a brilliant idea, after all.
“You shall have nothing to fear!” Lord Wolverton replied. “I shall carry a sword!”
“A sword?” Giles laughed. “Where are you going to get a sword?”
“There were several hanging on the walls in the library. One of those will be more than adequate.”
“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.” Giles looked at Eve, clearly hoping she’d agree. Dashing around the house clutching a sword and searching for a pile of bones, or a ghost, or both, was clearly one feather shy of insane.
However, for some strange reason, the notion made her feel marginally better. If they had to search for a murderer, she wanted one of them to be armed with something more adequate than a butter knife.
She smiled at Lord Wolverton and nodded. “That’s an excellent notion, my lord. I heartily agree.”
“Is there anything I can say to persuade you to remain here, where it’s safe?” Giles’s gaze followed his father as he left in search of a weapon.
Eve shook her head. Odd that he wasn’t more determined to investigate. Unless he didn’t wish to investigate. Was his reluctance an indication of guilt, or some other secret he had no wish to share?
“Take Sarah with you, Eve, if you must accompany Lord Wolverton,” her mother said, obviously losing interest and pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee. “There’s a good girl. I’m sure we shall do quite well here until it suits you to return.”
“But—” She looked from her mother to Giles. He stared back unhelpfully. Suddenly unsure, her gaze drifted back to her mother. Something hot and almost angry rose within her breast when Giles took a seat next to her mother.
He’s much too young! This is ridiculous.
A blush burned her cheeks as she realized her foolishness. Her mother might be bird-witted and a hopeless romantic, but she always set her cap at older gentlemen like Lord Wolverton. If Eve wished to keep her mother’s heart safe, he was the one Eve had to keep out of her mother’s reach, not Giles Danby.
Not to mention that Giles was ill-tempered at best and most likely a murderer. Although, after seeing that shape moving through the woods and the apparition last night in their room, she had to believe Lord Wolverton was co
rrect. It also seemed to explain the circumstances of their host’s death. Giles said they had found the victim in a locked room. Alone.
What else could have happened if the poor man had not done away with himself?
So, her mother’s heart should be safe if Eve could keep Lord Wolverton out of her immediate vicinity.
When Eve walked into the hallway, she found Lord Wolverton heading toward her, carrying a tarnished sword. His eyes twinkled with excitement as he waved the weapon through the air.
“My word, this is an adventure, to be sure! An apparition! The question is, how shall we prove the existence of one?” He crooked his left arm behind his back and made a feint with the sword toward one of the portraits in the hallway, mercifully stopping short of stabbing the prominent nose of the smug-faced man in the painting.
“I… um… I’m not quite sure.” She studied the sagging staircase and felt her own shoulders slump in response. How would one prove the existence of an evil spirit? Surely it would be impossible….
“Bones, then,” he replied cryptically.
“Bones?”
“As you said, spirits that can’t rest may be haunting the site of their mortal remains. If he was murdered and left unburied….” He raised his empty hand, palm up. His eyes shone even more brilliantly, as if he could scarcely contain the excitement boiling within him.
“We’re searching for bones?” Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
“Oh, yes.” He rattled the sword with glee. “Oh, yes, indeed! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Exciting is not the first word that leapt to my mind.” Terrible, perhaps. Or even insane.
“Where shall we start? The cellars?”
“The cellars?” Her voice rose.
“We’ll ask the cook. If anyone knows where the cellars are, he will.”
That’s right. They really weren’t alone. They’d forgotten the servants. What if the murderer were one of them? She could well imagine they’d have reason to murder their employer if he were anything like her mother. Eve would happily have strangled her mother when she locked herself in her room for three days after her last affaire de coeur.
“Are you sure we should search the cellars? Perhaps we should start upstairs?” she asked.
“Oh, no. No, we shall start with the cellars. Come along, don’t grow faint of heart. Why, we’ve yet to run into our first cobweb!”
“Indeed.” Her hand involuntarily rose to touch her hair. “Who can resist a lovely, dusty cobweb?”
“That’s the spirit!” Lord Wolverton threw open the green baize door leading to the servants’ regions. “After you, my dear!”
The narrow passage showed evidence of hard use. Dark splotches meandered in streams over the walls, suggesting leaks or water damage that had not been properly repaired. Even the air smelled dank and musty. Eve shivered and pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders as she hurried toward the flickering light at the end of the corridor. She wasn’t frightened, exactly, but…she had to confess to a certain concern.
When they entered the kitchen, they came face-to-face with a portly man. Wild, dark hair sprouted from his round head, and he brandished a cleaver in his meaty hand as he turned toward them. He looked like a veritable madman standing at the gates of the netherworld, silhouetted against the roaring fire blazing in the cavernous fireplace.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
Lord Wolverton stepped around her. “I’m Lord Wolverton, if you please! Are you the cook?”
“I am Anatoly!”
“You are the cook, then, Mr. Anatoly?” Lord Wolverton nodded, appearing not the least bit intimidated by the cleaver-wielding giant.
“Anatoly! Just Anatoly—and yes! I am the chef!”
And I am the guest! Just the guest! Please don’t kill me!
If anyone was running around the manor slitting throats, it had to be Anatoly, just Anatoly. He looked precisely like the kind of maniac who would kill his employer over the least little thing. A bit too much pepper in the sauce, perhaps. Eve edged closer to Lord Wolverton.
“Excellent! We are looking for the cellars,” Lord Wolverton said.
“The cellars?” Anatoly’s black brows rose. “Ahhhh.” He nodded in sudden understanding. “You wish for the brandy, though it is early yet.” His gaze drifted over Eve. He smiled. “But it is never too early, yes?”
“It is much too early, my good man, for that sort of nonsense.” Lord Wolverton did not look at all pleased. He rattled the sword. “The cellars! Now!”
Anatoly shrugged and brought the cleaver down on the breastbone of a plucked goose lying on the scarred table in front of him. “You stand in front of the door. Take a lantern, also behind you. Unless you wish to break your neck in the dark, yes?” He laughed heartily at his joke and set to work dismembering their dinner, his face creased in a satisfied smile.
A heavy oak door stood directly behind them. And, as Anatoly indicated, a battered carriage lamp rested on a small shelf next to it for anyone who wanted to brave the dark underbelly of the house.
“Ready to beard the lion in his den, Miss Tomlin?” Lord Wolverton held the heavy oak door open.
Through the doorway, murky gloom stretched out hungrily, hiding all but the first wooden step. Eve picked up the lantern and glanced around the kitchen. A twist of paper with a burnt end lay on brick apron in front of the fire. Picking up the twist, she held the paper in the crackling blaze until it caught fire. She lit the lamp and threw the paper into the flames.
Despite the cheerful glow, it didn’t do much to alleviate the shadows on the cellar stairs, and it left her in an awkward position. She didn’t want to give the lantern to Lord Wolverton, but if she carried it, she had to go first. However, his lordship carried their only weapon.
“Hand me the lamp, Miss Tomlin.” Lord Wolverton stepped down a step and peered into the darkness. He stretched his free hand out toward her.
“If you carry both the lantern and the sword, you won’t be able to steady yourself. Those stairs look rickety. Let me carry it.”
“Nonsense. I must go first, therefore I shall carry it.”
“Go already!” Anatoly exploded. “Get out of my kitchen! Leave me in peace!”
Eve brushed past Lord Wolverton, clinging to the wobbly railing and holding the light up. When the door slammed shut behind them, she nearly lost her footing.
Even Lord Wolverton grabbed the railing and grunted in surprise. “Well. Shall we?”
“Certainly.” She carefully descended, testing each dusty step before putting her full weight on it.
Why had she agreed to search this dreadful house? They were more likely to break an ankle than find anything helpful, although it did keep Lord Wolverton from flirting with her mother. The truth was, she almost hoped Giles was the murderer. It seemed less terrifying than an incorporeal alternative.
The last thing she wanted to find was a pile of bones and a vengeful spirit.
When she stepped down onto the floor, she glanced around, surprised to find it fairly… mundane. The floor was packed dirt, and in front of her stood neat wooden shelves holding baskets of produce including onions, potatoes, cabbages, and apples. An assortment of barrels filled the space under the stairs and another thick, wooden door was centered in the brick wall to her left.
“I don’t know where to start.” She eyed the barrels and dirt floor. If there was a body buried here, no one would ever find it. It could be anywhere.
Thank goodness.
“Do you see a shovel?” Lord Wolverton asked in such a cheerful voice that Eve nearly hit him.
“We’re not going to dig!”
He jabbed the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “Why not? This is the perfect place—”
“We’re not going to dig up the entire cellar! It’s ridiculous!”
“But a body could be anywhere,” he objected.
“True, but it isn’t practical to dig aimlessly.”
“Perhaps not.” He looked around and noticed the barrels. “Ah! The Duke of Clarence drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine!”
“He did not! Shakespeare made that tale up out of whole cloth for Richard III. I’m surprised at you, my lord.”
“Nonetheless, there could be a body in one of those barrels.” He used the pommel of the sword to tap on several of them. They sounded full. One of them showed a light dusting of white around the rim. Flour.
“Indeed there could be. But unless I see a blood leaking out, I refuse to open them. That one is obviously full of flour. Now do leave them alone.”
He turned to her, his mouth pursed like a disappointed child considering the merits of a tantrum. Then his gaze fell on the door behind her. “There! A locked room! There might be something in there.”
“Lord Wolverton, are you sure? These cellars most likely extend the length of the entire house, with one room leading into the next. I doubt there’s anything here but storerooms and a few rotten vegetables.”
“Don’t get discouraged so quickly. We’ve scarcely started our search, and we’re sure to find something to tell us why the manor is haunted.”
But I don’t want to find anything. I want to go back upstairs, have a cup of tea in front of a cheerful fire, play cards, and pretend nothing dreadful has happened.
It was cowardly, but true.
The cellar was dank and smelled of mold and dirt. And something kept flickering at the very edge of the small pool of light surrounding them. She tried to convince herself it was just the wavering of the flame in the lantern, but she couldn’t ignore the sensation that they were being observed by someone—or something—hidden in the darkness. The fine hairs on her arms prickled under her shawl. A draft arose from nowhere, fluttering the hem of her skirts.
With every minute that passed, the lantern grew heavier in her hand, causing the light to flicker ever more wildly. If she could just hold the light steady and see into the shifting shadows in the corners….
There! An oddly shaped silhouette sprawled over the far wall. She strained to see it more clearly. It vanished.
Then she noticed it, a thin, black line high on the wall where the silhouette had been. She took a step closer, holding the lantern well above her head. Strange. It looked like the outline of a door, but this one wasn’t like the stout wooden doors used elsewhere. It almost looked as if it were made of the rough, gray stone comprising the lower six feet of the cellar walls.
