by Amy Corwin
She whirled, bruising her shoulder against the rough walls. An amorphous gray shape hung at the edge of the lamplight. It glimmered and moved like fog as the light reflected here and there before the shadows absorbed it. Despite the drifting blackness, she could make out an even darker man-like shape submerged within the shimmering gray.
She stared, unable to move.
“Leave this place.” The whisper seemed to come from all around her, rustling and echoing like the scratches of rats. “Or stay and die….”
The darkness swallowed the voice.
A sound, somewhere between a moan and a scream, choked her.
“Leave!”
The word hit her like a hammer to the chest. The wooden panel under her hand shook. She turned and dashed up the stairs, struggling as she tripped over her skirts. Her toe stuck in her hem.
Rip!
Her knee hit the edge of a wooden stair.
Snap. Pain flared and she dropped the lamp. The glass shattered.
Fire!
Trapped on these narrow wooden stairs, she wouldn’t be able to escape. She threw her shawl over the flame before it could spread.
Blackness and the taste of smoky dust returned, making her cough.
When she tried to stand, she bit off a scream of pain. Sickened, she realized the significance of the snap. Her knee throbbed, the agony escalating until it pounded with each beat of her heart. She’d broken her limb here in the darkness with that… thing. With whatever moved in the shadows below her.
If she screamed, it might draw it to her. She almost sobbed in frustration as she heard the muffled sound of her mother’s voice on the far side of the fireplace.
She wanted to scream, but she knew that if she wanted to live, she had to escape in silence. She dare not draw the attention of the being drifting through the secret passage.
Desperate, she sat and reached behind her, placing her palms awkwardly on the next step up. Using her arms and good leg, she levered herself upwards. A sharp gasp of pain shook her as her damaged limb bumped the lower stair.
Nothing answered her gasp. She strained her ears. The scrabbling in the walls sounded louder than ever. Closer. Rats? Hungry, scratching rats searching for something weak, vulnerable.
Or that thing…. A specter, or… what? Something rustled in the impenetrable gloom.
In the distance, her mother laughed.
Eve choked back a sob and reached upwards again, straining to pull herself up.
Step by painful step, she dragged herself up the stairs. But with each jolt, each painful bump, the blackness lightened. Slowly, she got closer to the opening of her bedchamber.
Finally, trembling uncontrollably and nauseous from the pain, she spilled out into the watery gray light of her bedroom.
Chapter Thirteen
Unable to locate the missing footman, Giles returned to the dining room. A few others had already returned and stood in clusters by the windows, casting unhappy glances at the snowy scene outside.
Giles nodded at them as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He took one sip and choked. It was cold.
“You didn’t find him, either?” one of the men asked. A scar bisected his left brow and his face looked battered by long years of hard work. He glanced out the window and shook his head. “If we don’t hurry this along, we’ll have to stay the night.”
“You’re not afraid of ghosts are you, Bainbridge?” A towheaded man with virtually no eyebrows or eyelashes laughed. His fair hair gave him the pop-eyed expression of a startled flounder. “Leastways, looks like we’ll have a lovely super if we stay. Goose.” He licked his lower lip in anticipation.
Bainbridge flushed. “If that isn’t just like you, Crumby. You ain’t afraid of nothing ‘cept missing a meal.”
Crumby opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another man rushed through the door, white-faced and sweating. “Upstairs!” He pointed at the ceiling.
“What’s wrong with you, Piggott?” Crumby chuckled. “Seen a ghost?”
“Upstairs! One of the ladies… I heard her moaning… she’s hurt!” He panted, clutching his thighs as he struggled to catch his breath.
“One of the ladies?” Giles grabbed his arm. “Which one? Where is she?”
“M…M…Miss Tomlin!” Piggott stammered, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, despite the chill in the room. His cheeks above his beard were almost as red as his hair.
“Show me!” Giles shoved him through the door and followed him up the stairs.
In the bedroom where the ladies had spent the night, Miss Tomlin lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, disheveled and pale. Cobwebs clung to her shoulders and cap, and long streaks of grayish-black dust darkened the skirts of her dress. Behind her, the wall gaped as if waiting for the chance to swallow her whole.
When she caught sight of him, she pointed wildly at the opening. “Please, shut that—it’s coming—I can hear it!”
“What’s coming? Who did this to you?” Giles asked.
“A ghost—it’s real! I saw it in the passageway! Please, hurry! Can’t you hear it?”
He walked to the narrow gap between the wall and fireplace and peered inside. Silence. Then a faint, distant scratching.
“Mice.” He turned back to Miss Tomlin.
“Yes—I’m sure there are mice. Or rats. But there was something else….” She hooked one elbow over the seat of a nearby chair and sat up so she could lean against a chair leg. Her face grew paler from the effort.
“Are you injured?” He gripped her hand to help her to her feet, but she shook him off.
“Don’t! I’ve… I think I’ve broken my limb.” She bit her lip. Despite the pain tightening her features, she leaned to peer past him, her eye fixed on the gap. “Please, can’t you shut that panel? It may seem foolish to you, but I did see something.”
“That can wait—”
“No—it can’t! It might have followed me.” She stared at him, her features pinched with fear. Her eyes hardened. “Even if it’s just a mouse. Please.”
He picked up the china figurine she’d wedged between the sliding panel and the fireplace and eased the wooden slats back into place with only a twinge of regret. He needed to explore the passage, see if there were any clues to Lane’s death left. But for now he had to be satisfied to know about its existence. He ought to be able to open the hidden door again, later.
If not, there was a hatchet just outside the kitchen door.
“Now.” He turned back to Miss Tomlin. “The first order of business is to see to that limb. Let’s get you to the bed where you’ll be comfortable.”
When he slipped his arm around her back, she stiffened and pushed him away. “How are you going to do that?”
“I was planning to lift—”
“No, you’re not. My limb….” She shook her head. “You’ll have to help me stand.”
“If it’s broken, you can’t walk—it’s a good fifteen feet.” Nonetheless, he slipped an arm around her again and helped her stand. She leaned against him, breathing heavily, her face damp with tears. “Miss Tomlin, please. Let me carry you.”
“I can’t bear the thought of your arm supporting my limb—it would press against the broken joint.” She crooked her elbow around his neck and took a tentative hop forward.
A moan broke from her white lips. She buried her face against his chest, her breath hissing as she tried to control a hacking sob.
“This is sheer nonsense.” He gripped her around the waist and lurched forward, trying not to hear her gasp of pain. “It’s only a few feet. We’re almost there.”
When they reached the bed, she collapsed on it, her face streaming with tears.
He studied her and then drew up a coverlet to cover her uninjured side. “I apologize, Miss Tomlin, but I must examine your limb. It may not be as bad as you imagine.”
“Or it may be worse. Examine away.” She hugged the quilt to her chin and squeezed her red-rimmed eyes shut, turning her face away.
Beneath her quilted petticoat, woolen stockings in pale gray covered the long curve of her leg. Despite the thick wool, her knee joint appeared suspiciously swollen. He stared at it for a moment, trying not to feel like a lascivious cad when he untied her stockings from their garters. He brushed the firm, white skin as he rolled the stocking carefully down, and he tried to remain detached the way he imagined a physician would be.
It didn’t quite work until he examined the joint.
The black-and-blue skin bulging around the exposed knee confirmed her fears. It was indeed broken, or badly strained. But at least no bones pierced the inflamed flesh.
Nonetheless, he was no doctor. What did he know? He was hesitant to probe to determine the extent of the injury. He could very well cause more harm than good.
“Well?” she prompted.
“I fear you did break it. Or have a severe sprain. How did this happen?”
“Exploring that passageway behind the fireplace.” Her voice sounded soft, exhausted with pain. “I wanted to prove it was a man and not a specter who murdered our host.” The ghost of a laugh threaded through her words. “I may have proved the opposite, however.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw it—a ghost. A sort of foggy shape….” She shivered.
“A trick of the light—”
“No. I saw it clearly. I had a lamp with me. It frightened me, and when I ran, I tripped over my hem. My limb hit the edge of the stairs.”
“How did you get back?”
“Not very gracefully, I’m afraid.” She laughed and shook her head. “I pulled myself up the stairs and simply, well, I gave up when I reached this room. I couldn’t move another inch.”
“You were amazing—to have found that passage and explored it on your own….” He shook his head. “Despite what you saw, I’m not convinced there are forces beyond mortal man at work.”
“But it threatened us! Please, listen to me. I—”
“I understand, believe me. But for the moment, you can’t be moved and you need to rest.” He frowned, realizing he had another long walk into Folkestone ahead of him. It would be well past dark when he returned. “Right now, you need a physician.”
“How do you propose to find one in this weather?”
“I—” Another notion struck him. He might not need to return to Folkestone. “Wait here. One of the men downstairs may have medical training.”
“I assure you, I haven’t the least desire to go for a walk.” Her gaze strayed toward the fireplace.
“You won’t be alone.” He strode to the bell pull and gave it a hearty yank.
To his relief, Nancy and Miss Tomlin’s personal maid both arrived before he’d even taken a step back toward the bed.
“Mr. Piggott said as how Miss Tomlin was lying here, hurt,” Nancy explained in a rush.
“Yes, she—” he began before he was interrupted.
Lady Weston, followed closely by Lord Wolverton, entered. From the volume of the male voices rising from the hallway, it sounded as if the rest of the men had followed her. Mr. Piggott had apparently been quick to spread the tale about an injured lady.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Weston asked. “Who attacked my daughter?”
“No one, Lady Weston.” Giles stepped between her and the bed. A show of hysterics was the last thing they needed.
“Then pray tell, how was my daughter struck down? In her own bedchamber?”
“She fell on some stairs.”
“Fell? Fell! And pray tell how did she come to fall? I see no stairs here.”
“She found a passage behind the fireplace—”
“A passage?” Lady Weston echoed, her face blank.
“Yes. And while she was exploring it, she got frightened and fell.”
Lord Wolverton rubbed his hands together. “Frightened, eh? So she found it, did she? Good girl. I knew there was a ghost!”
“A ghost?” Lady Weston gripped Lord Wolverton’s forearm with one hand and held the back of her other, shaking hand to her forehead. “We’ll all be murdered before the day is through! I know it!”
“Ghost!” a male voice repeated.
The other men, catching the remark, turned to each other. Fear raised the volume of their voices to near shouting. “The place is haunted!”
“I told you we shouldn’t-a come here!”
“I’m not staying—it’ll be night, soon!”
“I don’t care what anyone says, I’m leaving! Who’s with me?”
“I am, Mr. Morford!”
Hysteria gripped the small group. Giles shut the door in their startled faces. He couldn’t think with their shrill voices cutting through the air like a flock of noisy crows. Then he took a deep breath and turned to the remaining occupants of the room. “We’ll investigate the passage later, Father. Right now, we need to send for a physician. Miss Tomlin has broken a limb.”
“Oh, you’ll never get a doctor. Not out here,” Nancy said. “I used to work for ‘im. In Folkestone. Not a man for poor weather, is our doctor.”
“A physician employed you?”
“Yes, sir.” Nancy nodded. Suddenly, the maid didn’t seem half as flighty and dim-witted as she had when facing the coroner, although she did flush under the onslaught of their surprised stares.
“Did you ever assist him?” Giles asked.
“Certainly, sir. There weren’t many as wished to. Never bothered me, though, the blood and whatnot.” She shrugged.
“Can you help Miss Tomlin?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. I helped the doctor set limbs and so forth, but he always did the manipulation and such.”
“I fell faint,” Lady Weston announced with a dramatic flourish.
“Then go lie down.” Giles caught his father’s startled glance and nodded toward the door. He had no patience to deal with Lady Weston when her daughter was the one in need of assistance.
“Er, yes. Of course.” Lord Wolverton guided Lady Weston away from the bed. “The, uh, sitting room has a comfortable sofa, my dear. You’ll need a restorative, too. Tea. Or perhaps something stronger?”
“Stronger? Of course,” she replied in a fading voice as she leaned against his arm. “I saw a delightful brandy on the sideboard earlier. That might do. You’re such a thoughtful man, Lord Wolverton. This ordeal would have been unbearable without your kindness.”
He patted her hand as he ushered her into the hallway. “Nonsense. You’ve been wonderfully brave, my dear. Guiding your daughter through a blizzard and whatnot. Wonderfully brave.”
When Giles turned his attention to Miss Tomlin, he discovered Nancy staring thoughtfully at the swollen joint. “Can you set it?”
She nodded. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Lane had laudanum in his chambers, sir. If you could fetch that and tell John to fetch some splints and linen wrappings, we can make short work of this.” She gave Miss Tomlin’s hand a squeeze. “You’ll be comfortable in no time.”
John! Giles had forgotten all about the missing footman. “We’ve been looking for John—I don’t know where he is. I’ll have to find those things for you.”
“Well, Kitty can help, then. There’s firewood stacked in the washroom behind the kitchen. You can split off some pieces for splints.” When she noticed the look of consternation on his face, she grinned. “Don’t fret—we’ll wrap linen around the wood. She won’t be worried by splinters.”
“Fair enough,” he said, relieved to have something to do.
In a matter of minutes, he found the stack of firewood and carved off a pair of suitably straight lengths. He was about to return upstairs with them when he was surprised by another maid running through the kitchen.
“Mr. Danby! My Danby, sir!” She came to a stop at the door, one hand on her chest a she tried to catch her breath. “Do come, sir!”
The break must have been worse than he thought, or Nancy less skilled….
He nearly dropped the wood he held. “What is it? Has something happened to Miss
Tomlin?”
“A fight, sir!”
“Fight? Fight?” What had Nancy done?
“In the dining room, sir! Oh, do come—they’re beating John terrible, sir!”
He thrust the sticks and roll of lint into her unresisting hands. “What’s your name?”
“Kitty, sir.”
“Take this upstairs to Nancy. You must assist her.”
“Oh, sir, I couldn’t.”
“You can, and you will! Now go on.” He pushed her forward.
“But John, sir!”
“I’ll see to John,” he promised, giving her another encouraging shove toward the hallway.
He followed hard on her heels, making sure she went up the stairs towards Miss Tomlin’s bedchamber before he went to the dining room.
The sounds of a scuffle pounded through the wall, followed by a series of fleshy thwacks. After a brief silence, he heard a deep, anguished groan. He winced and walked faster.
What were they doing? Surely, they weren’t trying to beat a confession out of the footman?
He threw open the door and stepped into the dining room, shocked to see the constable with one hand upraised, preparing to slap the poor servant across the face. John lolled back, eyes closed, in one of the chairs, surrounded by a group of frowning men. His shirtfront was stained with blood. A sluggish stream dribbled down the side of his face from an ugly gash on his forehead.
The constable let loose another resounding thwack across the man’s reddened cheek.
“What are you doing?” Giles advanced upon the group. “You can’t beat that man!”
Mackney glanced at him in astonishment. “Beat him?”
“He’s already unconscious. Leave off.”
“Oh—that.” Mackney relaxed and released his grip on the footman’s shirt. The footman slipped bonelessly to the floor. “Found him in the stables—obviously intent on escape.”
“And you stopped him?”
Mackney shook his head. “Stopped himself. When he saw me, he turned too fast. Bashed his head into a lantern, didn’t he?”
“And you took advantage of the situation to thrash him a bit more?”
“No, no. You misunderstand. Trying to bring him ‘round, wasn’t I?” He nudged the limp form with his toe.
