Christmas Spirit

by Amy Corwin

  “There he is!” Lord Wolverton announced, thrusting out an accusatory finger. “The murderer!”

  Giles brushed past his father. He gingerly straightened the bones and clothing, laying the poor man on his back. The results brought a sick feeling to his stomach. Despite the fragile state of the clothes, dark stains remained on the dusty linen shirt and waistcoat, accompanied by a suspicious nick in the vertebrae. That groove, in what remained of the neck, led to a depressing conclusion.

  The corpse in the cellar had been killed in the same way as Mr. Lane.

  “There! You see?” Lord Wolverton pointed to the skeleton. “Murdered, just as I said. And in the same way as our host. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Let us examine the situation, my lord,” Mr. Butcher answered, shifting from one foot to the other. His boots belched small rivulets of water from their tramp through the snow.

  The men whispered to each other, craning their necks to look through the doorway as the constable and coroner bent over the body. A few entered the room cautiously, glancing around as if they expected a razor-brandishing ghost to suddenly appear and continue his grisly business of revenge.

  Giles stepped into the main room of the cellar, working to organize his thoughts. A spirit could not commit murder. At least he’d never heard of one that could do more than scare you or give you the shakes.

  That left a human. Someone who’d been at Folkestone Manor long enough to kill this poor chap and hide his body in the cellar.

  And who was the victim? Not a prosperous man. His plain, patched clothing belonged to either a servant or a relatively poor man.

  Mr. Lane could have murdered the man and hidden him. But if he had, who had murdered Mr. Lane?

  A relative of the dead man who enjoyed the poetic justice of dispatching Lane with the same method?

  No. If that were true, why had the killer left the body in the cellar? A relative would not have left him here, not if he cared enough to exact revenge. The poor victim should have been decently buried by now.

  So the same person had to be responsible for both deaths. It was the only reasonable conclusion. Someone who had been here several months, at least. It would have taken that long for mice and insects to reduce the body to the partially skeletonized state in which they’d found it.

  But how had the murderer managed to kill Lane while leaving the sitting room door locked from the inside?

  Much as Giles disliked it, the only solution seemed to be the presence of a secret passage.

  Chapter Ten

  Although she hadn’t touched the body of the poor man in the cellar, Eve’s palms felt gritty with dust. “I’m going upstairs to wash my hands.”

  Her mother examined her. “And your face.”

  “My face?” How long had she been walking around with dirt smearing her cheeks? “Never mind, I’ll return shortly.”

  She escaped from the sitting room, hoping to avoid Mr. Danby and the men he’d brought back with him, at least until she looked more presentable. She’d heard their footsteps tramping down the hallways, their masculine voices discussing something in low, serious tones. If they were lucky, the authorities would make a quick arrest of the responsible party, and they’d finally be safe.

  Despite their gruesome discovery, she couldn’t agree with Lord Wolverton that a ghost had killed Mr. Lane. She didn’t know who had done the deed, but she prayed the culprit wasn’t Mr. Danby. Or his father. That would not create a satisfactory conclusion for their adventure. Not at all.

  Thankfully, when she returned to their room, she found a few more abandoned garments, albeit horribly out of date. After washing her arms and face, she changed her dress as quickly as she could without assistance, sweating as she twisted and turned to fasten the pins and straps.

  She should have asked their maid to accompany her, she thought as her muscles protested when she buttoned the top button on the back of her gown.

  The floor creaked.

  She jumped, clutching the skirts of the pale blue muslin dress she’d selected. A quick glance around revealed nothing out of place. The room was shadowy, and the cold light from the windows glimmered gray as the day faded. Snow fluttered against the glass with a soft shushing sound.

  In the breathless quiet, she experienced the strong sensation of someone observing her.

  She quickly tied the final laces of her dress and inserted a few pins where it gaped around the bodice. That was sufficient. There was no one here to impress, except her eagle-eyed mother.

  And Mr. Danby.

  Suddenly eager to rejoin the others, she dashed out of the room, leaving the door open in her wake.

  When she returned to the sitting room, her mother was gone. “Sarah, where is Lady Weston?”

  “She tugged and tugged that bell.” Sarah motioned at the bell pull near the fireplace. “But no one came.”

  “If she wanted something, why didn’t you go?”

  “I tried, Miss. But she wanted to talk to that nice Lord Wolverton. So she went off.”

  “She shouldn’t be wandering around this house alone!”

  “I told her that, too, Miss.” Sarah shrugged, obviously comfortable in her chair by the fire. “She said to wait for you. So I did.”

  Where could she have gone? Eve remembered that sensation of being watched…. “Wait here.”

  The maid nodded and went back to mending the hem of the heavy traveling dress Eve had worn the previous day.

  Eve hurried out of the room and paused. She hadn’t passed her mother in the hallway. Perhaps she’d gone downstairs in search of Lord Wolverton. Eve’s emotions on that subject were mixed. She wanted her mother to be safely accompanied by a man, but she didn’t necessarily want that man to be Lord Wolverton.

  Unfortunately, her worst fears were realized when she reached the bottom of the grand staircase.

  Some exuberant servant with an excess of holiday spirits had festooned the cavernous hallway with garlands of holly and fir, tied in place with red ribbons. A huge swag hung above the front door, complete with a clump of mistletoe dripping with waxy, off-white berries.

  Directly beneath the sagging bit of greenery stood her mother, enveloped in the embrace of Lord Wolverton.

  As Eve watched in horrified silence, her mother smiled up at him.

  He kissed her.

  “Mother!”

  Her mother looked over Lord Wolverton’s shoulder and giggled.

  “Mother! How could you?” Eve asked.

  “You can’t blame your dear mother, young lady.” Lord Wolverton smiled, though his gaze remained on Lady Weston’s flushed face. “I caught her under the mistletoe. She had no choice.”

  Eve sputtered. Before she could think of a suitable response, Mr. Danby came through the door leading from the servants’ area. Behind him, a straggling line of men followed, looking for all the world like a gaggle of ungainly geese waddling through a barnyard.

  “Lady Weston.” Mr. Danby gazed at Lady Weston briefly before studying his father. Finally, he noticed Eve. “And Miss Tomlin. The constable and coroner have been investigating. It would assist them if you could provide your own observations.”

  “Of course.” Lady Weston stepped away from Lord Wolverton. Nary a blush tinted her cheeks. It was as if she kissed men under mistletoe on a shockingly regular basis.

  “I don’t know what we can tell you,” Eve said, struggling for control. “We were caught in the storm and barely managed to find our way here. Well after these unfortunate events had already occurred.”

  “Ah, but you discovered the second poor gentleman,” a stocky man behind Mr. Danby said.

  “This is Mr. Butcher,” Mr. Danby said, gesturing toward him. “The coroner.”

  “And mayor.” Mr. Butcher smiled. “Perhaps we would be more comfortable in another room?”

  “The dining room. There are sufficient chairs there….” Mr. Danby offered his arm to Eve while Lord Wolverton moved to escort her mother.

  What
can we say? Eve glanced at her mother’s complacent face. If only they’d made it to Hythe last night.

  When they entered the dining room, Mr. Butcher and Mr. Mackney sat down on either side of Lord Wolverton. Wolverton sat at the head of the table with the complacent air of someone who knew where he belonged. The rest of them arranged themselves awkwardly, with the two ladies sitting together near Mr. Danby.

  The coroner lost no time in asking the first question. “Now, there’s no continuing until we know what we’re dealing with. We have the circumstances surrounding the demise of Mr. Eric Lane, but now we face the difficulty of identifying the unfortunate soul in the cellar. Does anyone here know who that man might have been? In life?”

  Silence.

  No. Not in life or in death, Eve thought, moving restlessly in her chair. She glanced at her mother. Lady Weston was smiling at Lord Wolverton, completely ignoring the question.

  Eve nudged her arm, but her mother ignored her, moving out of reach.

  “No one knew of a missing man?” The coroner’s dark brows compressed. He frowned and scratched beneath his left ear. “Surely, a man can’t go missing without his absence being noted by someone. Mr. Mackney, have there been any reports of a man gone without a word?”

  Mr. Mackney frowned and rubbed his mouth, staring at the polished surface of the table. “’Tis hard to say.”

  “Hard to say! Hard to say? Either a man has been reported as missing or not!” Mr. Butcher exclaimed.

  The constable shifted to rub the back of his neck. “Well, yes. But there was that Edward Green as ran off with Miss Evan’s maid a few months ago. He don’t seem a proper—er—candidate.”

  “Perhaps a stranger? A guest of Mr. Lane’s?” Eve asked. All the men stared at her in astounded silence. A tide of heat rose up the column of her neck to burn her cheeks.

  “Of course,” Mr. Butcher said in a fatherly way that set her teeth on edge. “It could certainly have been a guest.”

  “But the clothes was a little rough,” Mr. Mackney commented. “For the friend of a gentleman such as Mr. Lane.”

  Mr. Danby nodded. “A servant, then.”

  “Jem!” Mr. Mackney slapped his palm on the table. “Shoulda thought of him afore! Jem Tappenden. Went missing last June.”

  “No, sir,” one of the men, blessed with deep red hair and a brown beard, interrupted. “Sorry, sir, but didn’t Jem say as how he was going to London?”

  “Now, I don’t know about that, John,” Mr. Mackney replied. “He talked about London, but he never made a bit of effort to get there.”

  “Was this Jem Tappenden employed by Mr. Lane?” Mr. Danby asked the question hovering on Eve’s lips.

  Mr. Mackney nodded. “Odd-jobs man. Worked on Mr. Lane’s boat when the need arose.”

  “So he’d have reason to be here,” Mr. Danby concluded.

  Several men murmured agreement, nodding like branches caught by a gust of wind.

  Whether he intended to or not, Mr. Danby seemed to take control. “Is there any way to identify him? I didn’t see any jewelry—no rings or papers in his pockets.”

  “No,” the coroner agreed, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and index finger. “Well and who made his clothing? If we knew that, we might get somewhere.”

  Everyone flicked glances at each other. Mr. Mackney shrugged.

  “Jem has family in Folkestone. A sister, if I’m not mistaken. She’ll know if he ran off to London. She may remember his clothes. May have made them.” The coroner made a note on the sheaf of papers he arrayed in front of him. He hummed, off-key, under his breath as he wrote.

  Having exhausted speculation concerning the unknown body, the men moved on to other questions. It didn’t take long before they realized there was nothing Eve or her mother could add to the investigation.

  Eve refused to mention the presence of the ghost in their bedchamber. There was no need to encourage Lord Wolverton, and she sensed that Mr. Danby was not pleased with the notion of sharing the manor with incorporeal entities.

  The less said, the better.

  As for her, she hoped there were no spirits, but she feared there might be. Talking about the possibility only seemed to make it more… likely.

  “There’s no need to detain you further, Lady Weston. Thank you for your assistance,” Mr. Butcher said, rising. He bowed them out, and Eve was surprised when she turned and found Lord Wolverton following them.

  “Shall we retire to the sitting room?” His eyes twinkled when he caught Lady Weston’s dimpled smile.

  “That would be lovely,” Eve’s mother said. “However, you must excuse me for a few moments.” She drifted toward the stairs before Eve could answer.

  “This is the perfect opportunity,” Eve said.

  “Opportunity?” Lord Wolverton echoed as he watched her mother reach the first floor and disappear down the corridor.

  “Yes.” A sudden inspiration hit her. She could help them all, and perhaps create a glint of admiration in Mr. Danby’s eyes. “We should look for a secret passage!”

  “Secret passage? My dear young lady—”

  “One must exist.” There had to be one in the bedroom they used. And a secret passage was a more comfortable answer than a vengeful specter seeking to murder them. She climbed the stairs to the first floor, drawn by the generous expanse of rotting wainscoting. The dark wood could hide anything, any number of hidden panels and passages.

  Catching her enthusiasm, Lord Wolverton picked up a lamp from a nearby table. He lit it and carried it up the stairs to survey the paneling. Through the thin walls, Eve heard the light tapping of her mother’s shoes. A board creaked. The sound seemed to cheer Lord Wolverton up immensely.

  He obviously thought Lady Weston would join them momentarily.

  “Lord Wolverton,” Eve caught his sleeve when he extended his arm to cast the flickering light from his lantern onto a discolored panel. “I…I’m terribly worried.”

  “About what, my dear?” he asked in an absentminded voice.

  About you kissing my mother, you old roué! You’re going to break her heart!

  She couldn’t say that. “My… um… well, I’m worried about you!”

  “About me?” He turned to her, his face as blank as a fresh square of linen.

  “Yes!” Inspiration tightened her grip on his arm. “You’ve no idea how close you are standing to the fire. My mother is a flirt!”

  He stared at her, open-mouthed.

  “She’s broken dozens of hearts—she’s cruel! You’ve no idea. I’m so worried you’ll be hurt dreadfully. She flirts and then casts men aside like a… a… like a worn-out fan! A broken, worn-out fan!”

  His startled expression encouraged her. Maybe he’d leave her mother alone, and they could escape with all their hearts and souls intact.

  Then his expression shifted. An odd gleam inflamed his eyes. “Indeed.” He pursed his lips.

  “Yes! It’s true. She’s… uh… she’s heartless! You must not fall victim to her wiles!”

  “Heartless?” His smile stopped her.

  Her stomach clenched. Had she taken the wrong tack?

  Her mother’s shoes tap-tapped across the floor again, sounding nearer.

  “Yes! You… you must avoid her at all costs!”

  “Indeed.” He looked positively entranced by the thought of her heartless mother.

  “Please… you must not fall victim to her… um… her cruel… wiles!”

  “Well, of course.” He patted her hand and gently removed it from his sleeve. “Of course. But then, you must know…. Well, what can a mere child understand of such matters?” His words trailed off as he contemplated with joy the very thing Eve had tried to warn him against.

  Her mother opened the door. “Oh!” Her eyes widened and then softened as she gazed at Lord Wolverton. “How sweet! You’ve come to escort me.” She closed the door behind her. “I feel quite safe with you, Lord Wolverton.” She tucked her hand through Lord Wolverton’s elbow. “And
it was very thoughtful of you to seek me out.”

  “We’re searching for a secret passage,” Eve said. Her mother would never agree to go on such a hunt. She’d abandon both of them.

  She proved correct.

  “Oh—” Lady Weston frowned.

  “Never fear!” Lord Wolverton thrust the lamp toward Eve, then patted Lady Weston’s hand and squeezed it against his side. “I’d never place you in such danger, my dear.”

  Her mother glanced at her as they turned away. “You may continue your search if it amuses you, Evelynola, but don’t be too long.”

  In numb horror, Eve watched the two of them stroll away. Her mother giggled at some remark and briefly tilted her head to touch his shoulder in a revoltingly coquettish manner.

  How could they? They’d only known each other a few hours under the worst of circumstances. How could they be so enamored of each other that they were oblivious to the dangers besetting them all?

  It was simply appalling.

  Chapter Eleven

  Once the women left the room, the men relaxed as much as they could under the circumstances. Except for Giles. He watched with serious misgivings as his father followed Lady Weston through the door. His father seemed determined to court disaster, despite Giles’s efforts to protect him.

  He shifted uneasily in the hard, straight-backed chair, distracted.

  “Mr. Danby,” Mr. Butcher said. “Mr. Danby! Do we have your attention?”

  “Yes. I was simply… considering matters.”

  Mr. Butcher cleared his throat. “Well?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Giles had missed the question, but he quelled a flush of embarrassment.

  “How did you happen to be here at this time of year?”

  “I knew Mr. Lane. At Harrow,” Giles answered shortly. “He invited us for the holidays as he had no close family.”

  “And you…” The pseudo-question hung in the air. He cleared his throat. “There was that other unpleasantness, wasn’t there? If you’ll forgive me, sir.”

  Other unpleasantness? You mean the previous accusation of murder? “I’m here, aren’t I? Obviously not guilty or I wouldn’t be standing here discussing irrelevancies.”