by Amy Corwin
“Well, it’s obviously not working. Leave him be.” Giles bent to straighten out the poor man on the floor.
“We’ve got to bring him ‘round. He’s obviously up to no good. Wouldn’t be surprised if he confessed once he knows we’ve caught him fair and square.”
Giles paused in his examination of the ugly wound spreading from John’s temple to a spot just above his left eyebrow. “Did you find evidence of his guilt?”
“I should think trying to escape were evidence enough!” Mackney asserted.
“Are you sure that’s why he was in the stables?”
“What other reason could there be, then?”
Giles shrugged. “Feeding the horses?”
“Now? At a time like this?”
“As inconvenient as it may be, horses have to eat every day. So, perhaps we should ask him. After he regains consciousness,” Giles replied dryly as he stood. “I should mention that Miss Tomlin has been injured.” He held up a hand when Mr. Butcher and Mr. Mackney started to interrupt with questions. “She’ll be fine, but she did make an interesting discovery. Apparently, there is a secret passage, after all.” He refused to mention the fact that it also appeared to be haunted. They’d had enough panic for one day. “May I suggest that Mr. Morford and Mr. Bainbridge remain here with John while the rest of us explore the passage? It may have some bearing on the case.”
Bainbridge and Morford exchanged glances, but to Giles’s surprised, they appeared more relieved than aggravated at the suggestion they stay behind.
“Well, yes, er….” Butcher pulled his lower lip and eyed the constable. “Um, if this footman comes to, we should be here. Questions, you know.”
“You wish to remain here?” Giles asked.
“Well, not wish. Not exactly.” Butcher stared harder at Mackney.
Mackney stepped forward. “Yes, well. Mr. Butcher and I should remain. Here, you see. In case this miscreant should awaken.” He nudged John with the toe of his boot. “You understand.”
Giles understood all right. They were terrified. Of ghosts. “One of us—”
“Of course.” Mackney straightened. “Very good of you. To volunteer and all.”
Well, all right, then. There you are.
“I’ll return as soon as I determine if Miss Tomlin’s passage has any bearing on Mr. Lane’s death,” Giles said.
“Thank you.” Butcher nodded. “And if you see any of the others, please have the goodness to ask them to return here. Unless we mean to stay the night, we should leave within the hour.”
“I’ll endeavor to do so,” Giles said, unable to resist adding, “Is there anything else?”
“Well… no, sir.” Butcher had the grace to flush at sending Giles out alone. “Thank you, sir.”
Giles had a foot on the lowest stair when he hesitated. The only known entrance to the passage lay in Miss Tomlin’s room. He couldn’t disturb her while Nancy was working to set her leg. However, it was clear that the passage clung to the central chimney, so he might be able to find another entrance. And if his theory was right, it would be in the sitting room where Mr. Lane was murdered.
A feeling of time running out impelled him to make a detour. He hurried to the room off the kitchen where the firewood was stored and picked up the axe. Then he returned to the dreary sitting room. After fifteen minutes of pushing and prying at the walls near the fireplace, he picked up the axe.
If he used the tool, he’d destroy evidence. And a clever lawyer could argue that there was no opening into the sitting room. After a moment of frustration, he dropped the axe and went back to prying at the tiny dark line where the wall abutted the bricks of the fireplace.
Nothing. The wood did not shift, even slightly.
He picked up the axe again and worked the sharp edge of the blade into the gap. The dry wood screeched. A few flakes of green paint showered his shoes. The wood moved slightly. Excitement tightened his chest. He pressed harder, only to have the panel buckle.
“Damn!” He swore. Dusty air gushed through the small gap.
Well, there was no point in worrying about it now. The wall was ruined. Still, he preferred to do as little damage as possible. They needed to see if it was possible that someone had used the passage when he murdered Mr. Lane. A human killer, not a specter.
He wanted someone arrested who could be hung for their crimes without evaporating into a wisp of smoke.
Using the axe as a lever, he worked on the aperture, slowly widening it. After a few minutes, he realized the difficulty. The panel was immobilized near the floor. He pried out a square of wood about a foot above the baseboard and reached through, feeling along the gritty base of the wall. His searching fingers touched a rounded piece of wood. A dowel, placed in the groove where the panel slid when opened.
Victory! He pulled it out and brushed a bead of sweat from his brow.
Pushing slightly on the panel, it slipped back half an inch into the channel. Once in its well-worn track, it moved easily to the left, leaving a gap he could just barely squeeze through.
They owed Miss Tomlin a debt of gratitude for her discovery. Thanks to the dowel holding the panel closed, they’d never have found the passage by searching this room. The panel would never have opened. And the dowel proved human intent. He examined the short piece of wood more closely. The wood was still pale, the ends newly cut so it would fit exactly in the groove.
The wood was fresh enough to believe it had specifically been manufactured by the murderer to hide his route into the sitting room.
Picking up a lamp, Giles entered the darkness behind the fireplace.
There was not much to see other than a great deal of dust and cobwebs. As the shadows flared in the wavering lamplight, he was reminded of Miss Tomlin’s remark about a ghost.
And the fact that the murderer appeared to favor a quiet assault from the rear. The narrow passage was built for just such an attack.
For one brief moment, he wished he’d stayed with the rest of the men in the dining room.
Chapter Fourteen
The room seemed very warm, Eve thought. Warm and… fuzzy. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her neck. Her limb ached, too, although the woman tugging on her calf had finally stopped pummeling her. Odd. The pain, while definitely present, didn’t really bother her.
She slipped in and out of drowsy, overheated sleep.
Laudanum. Part of her knew the peculiar feeling was due to the drug. However, she couldn’t understand its attraction. It didn’t erase the pain, it just made her sleepy enough to drop into unconsciousness and forget.
She didn’t like it.
Struggling out of a lurid dream where a ghost chased her down a dimly lit hallway, she heard a screech of wood sliding against wood. She glanced at the fireplace, suddenly fearful.
“Are you awake?” Mr. Danby eased through the secret panel. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. I got turned around. I honestly thought I was on the floor above this.”
“It’s all right.” The covers felt heavy and far too warm. She pushed off the quilt. “It’s dreadfully hot in here.”
He frowned and walked over to the bed to lay the back of his hand on her forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”
“No.” Something glinted in his left hand. “What are you carrying?”
Instead of showing it to her, he bent his arm to hide it behind his back. “Nothing to concern you. Though you did a good job, there, finding that passage.”
“Nothing to concern me? What have you found?”
“A weapon. Something for Mr. Butcher and Mr. Mackney.”
A bloody knife, no doubt. Other than prurient curiosity, she had no real desire to see it. “Is that all?”
“Well, not precisely. I did want to ask you—if you feel up to it…”
“I’ve nothing better to do than lie here and worry. What is it?”
“Can you describe your ghost?”
“Oh, that.” Had he seen something? Felt the menace emanating from t
he terrible, shadowy apparition? She lifted the blanket, intolerably hot. She wouldn’t take another drop of that foul laudanum if it made her feel like this.
“What did it look like?” he asked.
“Grayish. A sort of grayish fog. It, well, glimmered. It was horrible.”
“You said it was shaped like a man?”
She nodded. “Amidst the misty grayness, you could make out the darker shape of a man—as if it were trying to coalesce.” Her gaze went to the panel.
It was closed, but… That thing could be standing on the other side of the flimsy wooden panel, waiting. Waiting for the thickening shadows and night…
“I see.” He seemed to consider this. “Is it possible it was a man?”
“No—I don’t see how. It moved… unnaturally, floating on the stairs.”
“I want you to look at something—”
She held up a hand. “No, really. I’d rather not see the knife, if that’s what you have. I know it’s ridiculous for a ghost to carry a knife, but I know what I saw.”
“Not the knife.” He fumbled behind his back for a few seconds and then held out a small bit of something that looked like a cobweb. “Here, please.” He laid the silky thing on her hand.
When she raised it to the light, she realized it was a tiny piece of some light fabric. Thin, gray silk, tattered and filthy with dirt and… a nasty, clinging cobweb hanging off the torn edge. She dropped it on the edge of the bed and wiped her fingers. “What is that?”
“Silk. Part of your ‘ghost’ I should imagine.” He held it up and moved it this way and that until it caught a glimmer of pale afternoon light from the window. “The sheen of the fabric could have created the illusion of a spirit. It’s very sheer. The slightest draft would make it billow.”
But the way it had moved? Floating…. Had it all been a fearful fantasy? “Yes, I suppose it could have been. But silk is expensive. Who would have such a quantity that they could waste it pretending to be a ghost?”
He smiled enigmatically. “Who, indeed?”
“You know—don’t you?”
“Let’s just say, I have some suspicions.”
“Who?” She tried to straighten, but he placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tomlin, but you must rest. I need to attend to matters downstairs, first.”
“But—”
“It’s just a notion. I’m not sure, yet. I promise I’ll return, though, when I know for sure.”
“So, you’re leaving?” Inexplicably, a curl of panic twisted inside her. She pressed her fingers against her breastbone.
“There’s nothing to fear. Your maid will watch over you, and I’ll be downstairs.”
Eve glanced at her maid. Sarah sat in a roomy wing chair in front of the fireplace, head back, mouth hanging open as she snored gently. She glanced from her maid to the wooden panel next to the fireplace.
“Are you sure you must go?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry, but I’ll return shortly. This matter will soon be settled.”
Somehow, she doubted it.
Chapter Fifteen
Downstairs, Giles found the footman had regained consciousness, although he didn’t look much better. Butcher had allowed him to wash most of the blood off his face and out of his eyes, but his clothing remained in disarray.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Danby,” Butcher greeted him. “John, here, has finally decided he’s had enough rest. We were just going to ask him a few questions.”
Giles nodded and took the seat he’d vacated what seemed like hours before.
“How long have you worked here, Mr. Holden?” Butcher asked.
The footman’s already protuberant brown eyes bulged as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. He gingerly touched the wound on his forehead. “Why, you know me, sir. You know when I started here.”
“Just answer the question,” Mackney said.
“Three years come March, sir.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, stretching the skin of his thin neck. Noticing the censorious stares of the men around him, he paled and grabbed hold of the back of an empty chair to stay upright. “I don’t know nothing. Honest, sir! I were attacked.”
“You hit your head, Mr. Holden,” Butcher reminded him. “Due to your own clumsiness.”
“Wh-what?”
“Never mind the excuses. Did you know Jem Tappenden?” Butcher’s expression hardened into a frown.
“No, sir!”
Glassford wiped a smudge of dirt off his nose with his sleeve and chuckled. He shook his head.
“No lies, now!” Mackney warned the footman. “Tell the truth. Did you know Tappenden?”
“No—yes! I mean, yes, sir. I’m sorry, but with these goings-on, I can’t think straight. My head hurts.” He gently probed his forehead, wincing when he touched the bruised area.
The room was so quiet Giles could hear the heavy, nervous breathing of the footman. That slip was going to cost him. Giles knew from bitter experience that when you were a suspect, every statement had to be consistent and correct.
“No doubt it does. Is your answer ‘yes,’ then?” Butcher asked with elaborate precision.
“Yes, sir.” John’s grip on the chair back tightened. The desperation on his face turned to despair as he realized the position his hasty denial had place him in. “I never killed no one, sir. I had no quarrel with Mr. Lane.”
“And what of Tappenden? Did you quarrel with him?” Butcher asked.
“Tappenden? What?” John’s mouth gaped. “No, sir. We was friends. I had no need to quarrel with him.”
“What about that time, then, at the Blue Boar?” Saunders asked. The quiet, brown-haired man had remained silent during most of the proceedings. Giles glanced at him, surprised at his sudden participation. Saunders removed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and nervously cleaned them with a handkerchief. A tic pulsed in his left eyelid.
“It were nothing—I don’t even remember what it were about!”
“Do you know the nature of the argument, Mr. Saunders? Our lad, here, seems to have forgotten. Perhaps due to that unfortunate injury to his head.” The heavy sarcasm in the coroner’s question made both Saunders and the footman flush.
“I… I, uh, w-well…” Saunders stammered. “That is to say, I heard them mention an amount—some five shillings.”
“Five shillings!” Butcher eyed him. “How did you happen to remember that?”
“It, uh, st-stuck in my mind, as it were. Because I, uh, owed a similar amount to my brother-in-law, for some rope and a few other—”
“I see.” Butcher cut him off and turned back to study the footman. “What of it?”
John’s eyes glistened with fear. “I don’t know—that is—I….”
“You what?” Butcher prompted.
“I hardly remember….” He rubbed his forehead. Sweat covered his face, and he mopped it with his sleeve.
“So not only did you know him, but you were friends—or at least until you owed him money,” Mackney restated in a heavy voice. “And you forgot this until a few minutes ago.” He glanced at the coroner and shook his head.
“He’s nervous. Anyone might be,” Giles said. The servant was the obvious culprit, but Giles had doubts about his guilt. He looked more frightened than crushed by remorse.
“I, uh, owed him for a wager,” John gasped. “I needed more time.”
“And you apparently got it,” Mackney said.
John nodded rapidly in agreement and then stopped abruptly, moaning. He touched the bruise. A sick, greenish color washed over his face.
“By killing him?” Mackney suggested, ignoring the footman’s obvious physical distress.
John wavered and then straightened. “What? No! He gave me a week. I paid him back, and that were that.”
“When was ‘that, that’?” Butcher asked.
“Why, last spring.”
“What was the wager?” Giles asked to give John a chance to recover his wits.
“Wager?�
� John gazed at him, mouth hanging open.
“Your wager with Mr. Tappenden.”
“Right—oh. Oh. We wagered that Mr. Lane would not last over a month.”
Giles shook his head. Dear God, there was no helping him.
“Last over a month?” Mr. Butcher asked.
“Right.” John smiled eagerly. The dolt.
“So you intended to murder him, even then?”
“What? What? No—no!” John appeared about to faint. He grabbed hold of a chair back again, his knuckles gleaming white. “The ghost, sir! Jem said as how Mr. Lane wouldn’t want to stay in the manor, not with the ghost.”
“Ghost?” Mackney asked.
“Yes—it’s well known, sir. The manor is haunted.” He glanced around hopefully, searching the faces for agreement. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? A ghost got them both, didn’t it?”
“It’s more likely that you got them both, my fine lad,” Mackney said.
“No—no! I had no argument with either of them!”
“Except this wager,” Bucher said. “It’s my belief you tried to scare Mr. Lane away in order to win your wager. When that didn’t work, you murdered Tappenden to avoid paying. Mr. Lane must have discovered this, so you dispatched him, as well.”
“No—I swear it! Why would I risk my place? I had a good place here.”
“You wouldn’t have kept it for long. Not after Mr. Lane discovered what you’d done,” Mackney commented, nodding to Butcher.
“But I swear! I didn’t know nothing about Jem—that is, Mr. Tappenden! What about Anatoly?” John said, his words tripping over each other in his rush to shift the blame. “He’s always swinging that cleaver of his around, ordering everyone about as if he’s the lord of the manor. He got powerful mad when Mr. Lane changed his mind about what he’d have for dinner, which he did on a regular basis. He could’ve murdered ‘em both!”
“And we will question this Anatoly,” Butcher assured him. But there was a satisfied note in his voice that indicated he’d already made his decision.
The footman had known both victims. He was here. He was convenient, and there was a motive that at least Mr. Butcher found reasonable. Giles felt nothing but a sense of hopeless empathy for the poor man.
