by Amy Corwin
“Who is there?” Eve called. There was nothing, not even a letter opener, on her bedside table. She poured the rest of the water in the jug into her glass and hefted the bulbous ceramic pitcher. It wasn’t much of a weapon. “You can’t get in!”
Silence.
“Help….” A thready whisper filtered into the room.
Her hair stood on end, prickling the back of her neck. A chill shook her. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Help me….” She heard the sound of something large sliding down the wooden panel. It thudded against the floor.
I can’t stand much more of this. Someone—please! Sarah—come back—please!
Mr. Danby….
Wrapping her hands around the bedpost, she hauled herself out of bed. She bit back a cry of pain as she eased her broken leg from under the quilt. The air in the room felt deathly code despite the fire. Unable to stand, she leaned against the wall, working to control the throbbing agony in her knee.
A low, wet gurgle whispered through the wall.
“Go away,” she whispered, choking back a sob. She hobbled to the bell pull and yanked with all her might.
Surely someone would hear. Someone would come. They had to!
“Dear God, please! Please send someone—send Mr. Danby—anyone!” Propped in the corner, she closed her eyes and pulled at the bell again.
A sickening, dragging noise, like someone pulling a bag of flour behind them, started. The sound came clearly through the wall she leaned against.
Thump…drag…thump….
Eve skittered along the wall, eyes focused desperately on the bed. If she could just get back to its safety. Why had she gotten up? Her good limb shook with the effort to stand. Then her entire body spasmed with her efforts until she collapsed in a nervous heap by her bed.
Where was Mr. Danby? Sarah? Someone?
Thump…drag…thump…
The sounds moved down the stairs of the hidden passage, slowly fading.
“Miss Tomlin,” a knock sounded at the door.
She didn’t have the strength to answer. With resignation, she watched the door open.
“Miss Tomlin—what are you doing out of bed?” Mr. Danby rushed to her side. “What happened?”
She clutched at his lapels in relief. “The most horrible thing! I heard—oh, I don’t know! Something in the passage.” When he studied her, his eyes filled with confusion, she pointed at the panel beside the fireplace. “Someone was there! A ghost! Someone—he called for help! It was horrible!” Tears of fear and frustration stung her cheeks. Why didn’t he understand? “I heard him… die! It must have been the ghost of that wretched man in the cellar!”
“Miss Tomlin—”
“Listen to me! I heard it! In that hidden passageway—I heard someone die. His body was dragged away—” Her voice broke with a sob. “You’ve got to believe me! I heard it!”
“I do, but….”
“You don’t!”
“Please, let me help you to bed.”
“Bed? Bed? Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
He slipped an arm around her and carried her back to the bed. “Yes, I have. But I can’t leave you on the floor. Please, stay in bed. I’ll go through one of the other doors to the passageway and investigate. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“No! Wait!” She gripped his arm. “You—you can’t leave—” She broke off, realizing she’d been about to beg him to stay with her. In her bedroom.
But she felt safer when he was near. She couldn’t face lying in bed, listening to unknown things moving in the darkness behind the walls.
If it truly was a spirit, the wooden strips holding the panel shut would not stop it.
She’d be alone. Defenseless while her mother flirted with Lord Wolverton, downstairs.
“Please, wait!” she pleaded.
He eased her onto the bed and lifted her bandaged limb to tuck it under the covers. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”
“How can you promise such a thing? At least give me a knife—something to defend myself with!” It wouldn’t help against the incorporeal, but….
He studied her face, his expression grave. “I’ll have to leave for a few minutes, to find a weapon—”
“No! Yes—yes.” She nodded. “I understand. What about the sword your father had?”
“You want a sword?” The glimmer of a smile lightened his face.
The request was ridiculous, but a nice, sharp sword would make her feel more secure.
“Yes—oh, anything. Just hurry back.”
“Don’t worry. And I promise no one will harm you.”
After he left, every small sound echoed eerily through the room. Mice skittered on the floor above her. Tree branches tapped at the window panes as wind rushed through their boughs. Eve’s gaze darted from the door to the walls. Her nervous hands found the jug amidst the covers. She picked it up and held it to her chest.
It seemed like hours before he returned, but he brought reinforcements. Sarah followed him, carrying a large wooden tray laden with a savory assortment of treats.
“I’m so sorry to take so long, Miss.” Sarah left the tray on a chair while she cleared off the bedside table.
Eve eyed Mr. Danby’s hands. They were empty. No sword.
He winked at her and shook his head.
No sword and no pistol. Nothing.
But there was a fine knife on the tray, intended to cut the goose. It would have to do.
“Is there anything else you require, Miss Tomlin?” Mr. Danby asked.
A weapon. Or failing that, a small militia.
“No. This looks delightful.” She picked up the plate Sarah had placed on her bedside table.
“Good. I have an… errand to run,” Giles said. “May I ask that you remain, Sarah? In case Miss Tomlin should require any assistance?”
“Of course, sir!” She curtsied.
He nodded at Eve and disappeared through the door.
Trying to appear calm and cheerful, Eve picked at the food. Her appetite has deserted her, and the juicy, delicately browned goose tasted like sand. She choked over a mouthful, listening to the soft noises of the house and bracing herself after each creak echoed through the walls.
What would be worse? Mr. Danby finding a body, or finding nothing at all on the other side of the fireplace?
She shivered and tried to be properly grateful when Sarah noticed and wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders.
Sarah would be terrified if she knew why Eve was suddenly very, very cold.
Chapter Eighteen
Holding up a lighted lamp, Giles stood in the door to the secret passage and listened. He stared into the shadows, searching for movement. While some might believe Miss Tomlin had just been suffering from nerves, he believed her fears were justified. He’d been uneasy all day. Again, he experienced the sensation that he’d missed something, something important.
A low moan, like wind whistling through a narrow crevice, echoed faintly. He took a deep breath. Under the dusty odor of old wood, he detected an underlying scent of fresh sea air. He stepped down a few of the worn stairs.
Another groan rose, reverberating hollowly within the narrow space. Thud-a-thud-a-thud. The noise of a body, or something soft and weighty, hitting wooden steps. The muted thumps echoed through the soles of his shoes.
His stomach clenched. Who was it this time? One of the maids? Lady Weston? Or his father? Surely they were safe, enjoying themselves as they toasted each other and watched the Yule log burn.
But who else was left?
Slipping sideways down the stairway, his back tight against the wall, he eased downward. Something moved ahead of him, in the darkness. The rickety stairs vibrated with their shuffling movements, shaking as more thuds sounded.
Suddenly, the muffled noises stopped.
Giles paused and held the lantern down near his feet. Dark smears streaked the dust. Blood.
When he touched it, his fingertips c
ame away sticky and coated with gritty dust mixed with blood. Fresh blood. He studied it under the light and rubbed his fingers together. Not just soft dust, but sand. Even one or two tiny fragments of shells.
The heat pouring off the lantern reminded him that whoever moved ahead of him would be warned by the light. It would work in his favor, rather than Giles’s. Opening the lantern’s glass door, he held it up before he stopped.
There was a chance that the victim was still alive. It might be the injured person he heard, dragging himself down the stairs in search of assistance. Giles could save him if he found him in time. Or her…. It could be an injured woman. One of the maids….
He had to follow the blood, and he couldn’t do that in the dark.
Warning or not, he needed the light. And with it beaconing his approach, there was no need to be stealthy. He leapt down the stairs, only pausing when he reached one of the small landings indicating a sliding panel and egress into another room. He stopped and checked the platform.
Two landings. At both, the dark trail continued downward.
His tension increased. He’d already passed the entrance to the cellar, or at least the floor where it should be. How much farther did the passage extend?
Another level down, the walls changed from wood and brick to stone. Then the staircase ended. He held up the lamp. He stood in a small room carved from rock. The floor was sand; sand that greedily soaked up the blood.
But enough clots remained to lead him to a wall. Immovable rock.
He bent, brushing away the sand from the base. A deep groove ran along that section of the wall. Wedging his fingers around the rock, he pushed it to the right. It refused to budge. He adjusted his grip and tried again, straining the muscles in his shoulders and back. Slowly, it began to slide along the groove, grinding over the sand.
When the opening was wide enough, he slipped through sideways, into a larger room. Wooden crates, barrels, and bales wrapped in waxed canvas filled the space. The wavering, golden light from his lantern flickered over the maze of shapes, casting odd-shaped shadows everywhere. They flared up the walls and over the irregular containers, making the entire space look alive with movement.
A few yards away, he saw the worn soles of a pair of heavy shoes. They lay wedged in the narrow space between two wooden crates.
He strode forward quickly and placed his lantern on the crate to his right.
A man. With a shock, Giles recognized the dark blue jacket.
John, the footman.
Pushing aside the crate on the left, he gently turned the footman over. John’s hands were webbed with gashes and encrusted with blood as if he’d tried to fight off a vicious attack. But John hadn’t succeeded. His linen shirt was dark with blood, and a wound across his throat still trickled sluggishly.
Giles hurriedly unwound the linen stock from his own throat to bandage the slash in John’s throat. The cut wasn’t deep enough to slice through the major arteries, but he’d lost a lot of blood. His face looked pale in the flickering light. Dead gray.
But a faint trace of warm breath fanned his lips.
Suddenly, the light danced more wildly.
It was the only warning Giles had.
Caught in the narrow space between the crates, he could barely maneuver. He managed to turn and lean forward, throwing out his right hand to brace himself and protect John.
A sharp blade sliced through his jacket, scraping along his shoulder and left arm.
He wrenched around and kicked, sending his attacker stumbling back. Giles leapt to his feet, ignoring the stinging warmth dripping down his arm.
An amorphous gray shape faced him, fluttering wildly in the dim light. Within the shifting column stood the vague shape of a man.
Blinking, Giles crouched, ignoring the hammering of his heart. He couldn’t let terror destroy logic. Think!
Not a ghost, a man. A man draped in pale, filmy silk, armed with a bloodstained razor.
“Surrender!” Giles called, taking a chance on a bluff. “I know who you are—you won’t escape.”
The silk puffed out with soft laughter. The veiled man made a feint toward Giles, the razor cutting through the air.
When Giles stumbled against a crate, the killer lashed out again. The blade sliced at his hand, but the heavy cuff of his jacket took the brunt. Giles caught the man’s wrist and the grabbed the silk covering.
Clenching his teeth, Giles grunted with the effort. He had to hold him, wrest the blade away. Another whispery, taunting laugh brushed past his ear.
“You won’t win, mate. You’re bleeding. Losing your grip.”
Giles didn’t waste breath replying. He tightened his hold and yanked at the silk with his free hand, working to swath the razor in the shimmering folds.
Then he released his grip, nearly falling backward.
The killer pulled back, poised to strike. Giles threw the force of his body into a blow aimed at the man’s head.
The madman staggered back, the rest of the silk sliding off his face as he shook his head.
Piggott! His red hair and brown beard were unmistakable, even in the poor light.
Before he could recover, Giles hit him again on the chin. Piggott didn’t fall, but as he faltered, Giles grabbed the razor—silk and all—out of his hand. He threw it into the darkness beyond a stack of barrels as he closed the distance between them. Giles grabbed Piggott’s red-spotted neckcloth and hit one more time. The he yanked off the neckcloth and bound Piggott’s hands before he could twist away and escape into the shadowy maze of boxes.
The red-haired man staggered sideways against a canvas-covered bale, head bowed. Then Giles noticed the axe resting against the bale. He grabbed it before Piggott could reach it.
He didn’t trust him, even with his hands bound.
“Sorry, but I don’t think you need this,” Giles said as he hefted the heavy implement. He looked around. Bales of expensive silks, cases of French wine, casks of brandy, crates of other goods. Smuggled goods. “So this is why you murdered Mr. Lane.”
Piggott shrugged, his face blank.
“Isn’t smuggling rather passé?” Giles searched for a rope as Piggott twisted his hands, working to free himself. When he didn’t find anything, Giles cuffed him before tightening the makeshift bonds.
“I’ve done nothing,” Piggott complained.
“Nothing? Indeed. Nothing except murder.” Giles edged through the stacks until he found the silk and razor. Using the blade, he cut off a series of strips. The thin silk bound Piggott much more securely than the bulky linen neckcloth. “I must leave you here for a few minutes while I see to Mr. Holden, but I’m sure you won’t mind,” he said dryly.
After checking the unconscious footman once more, Giles raced back up the secret passage. He found his way to the kitchen and approached the massive cook. Anatoly was occupied at the kitchen table with a large mug of spiced wine.
“Anatoly, I require your assistance.”
The cook stared at him over the mug’s rim. “Assistance? What assistance?”
“Mr. Holden is injured. I need help getting him to his room.”
“John is a fool.”
“No doubt, but do you want his death on your hands?”
“I will have nothing on my hands. Except flour.” He drained his mug.
“Get up or get out.”
“You cannot give me orders, sir!”
“You will assist me, by God, or I’ll have you arrested for aiding and abetting a murderer!” Exasperated beyond endurance, he grabbed the cook’s damp collar and shook him.
Anatoly frowned, but after a long sigh, he stood. He followed Giles, mumbling imprecations and threats Giles pretended not to hear. He was too tired to care what Anatoly thought about the legitimacy of Lord Wolverton’s offspring.
Between the two of them, they managed to get Holden upstairs and into bed.
“Whatever happened?” Nancy asked, wringing her hands, when they called on her to sew up the ugly wounds. “
He needs a physician!”
“Perhaps. But you’re his only hope at the moment,” Giles said. A waved tiredly at the dark windows. “You said yourself, the doctor won’t come. Not in this weather.”
“But he looks fair dead! I don’t know what I can do, sir.” Despite her lack of confidence, she collected her sewing kit and a bottle of wine.
“Wine?” Giles asked. He wouldn’t mind a drink, himself, his throat was parched and burned from the dust in the secret passage. But Holden seemed beyond the ability to take even a small sip.
She poured it over her needle and a length of white thread, into a bowl.
“The old doctor claimed this helps wounds to heal. He always soaked his thread and needle.” She took a soft wad of cotton and soaked it in the wine, as well, before swabbing the gash in Holden’s pale throat. “Cleaned the wound this way, too.” She flicked a glance at him. “John’s not the only one who needs care. You’ve got some deep cuts there, sir. Don’t want them to go bad.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Giles watched her work for a few minutes before nodding to Anatoly. “We have one more person to remove from the cellar. Our murderer, Mr. Piggott.”
“Piggott?” Anatoly spat, although he was careful to aim at the basin containing the wine and bloodstained cotton Nancy had discarded. “Leave him to the ghost.”
“Much as I would like to do so, I feel obliged to lock him in a secure room. So he can’t escape.”
“The butler’s pantry.” For once, Anatoly seemed happy to oblige.
He galumphed after Giles and was pleased to thump Piggott whenever the man paused on the stairs. A few times, he knocked him in the shoulder just for good measure, chuckling when Piggott stumbled. Giles almost felt sorry for the small man.
But not too sorry. He’d been responsible for too many deaths to deserve much sympathy.
When Piggott was finally locked away, Giles checked on Holden one more time. Nancy waved away his offer of assistance and sent him on his way, so Giles climbed wearily up to his own quarters. He rested for a few minutes, aware of bruises and a sense of exhaustion that pulled him like the moon pulling the tide.
