“My point is,” I went on, “that Jared isn’t behaving the way a happy newlywed usually behaves. He leaves his wife alone way too often, and he doesn’t give a hoot about her fears. In fact, he keeps telling her they’re all in her head.”
“And she’s naive enough to believe him.” Guy sighed wistfully, but his jaw was set as he pulled the cell phone from his pocket. “Perhaps I will make a few inquiries. It might be instructive to learn whether or not Mr. Hollander has gone to Newcastle in the past three months.”
I suspected that the captain would know the brand of Jared’s socks by the time he was finished. And I knew for certain that, if Jared had hatched a scheme to gaslight his young wife, he’d live to regret it. If Dickie Byrd didn’t hang him out to dry, I would.
The Little Blackburn curved away to our left as the main road became Blackhope’s high street. The village was larger than I’d expected. The houses, shrouded with ivy and screened by shrubs, crept up the hillside to cluster safely above the swollen stream. The pinnacled church tower rose highest of all, overlooking the narrow valley from a lofty prominence. Near it stood a larger, castellated tower built of rough-hewn gray stone.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the tower.
“It’s a fifteenth-century pele tower,” Guy explained. “A fortified house, built to protect the villagers from Scottish raiders. You’ll find a castle in every backyard in Northumberland. They’re picturesque, but they weren’t built for decorative purposes.”
It seemed to me as though nothing in Blackhope had been built for decorative purposes. The houses had no color, apart from shades of gray. Black slate roofs slick with rain gleamed dully beneath leafless branches, and every window frame and door was a matching, dingy white.
I was a bit puzzled when Guy pulled into the graveled parking lot beside Her Majesty’s, the local pub. The pub in Finch was where people went when they wanted to spread news as fast as possible—not the sort of place I’d choose for a private conversation.
But Her Majesty’s wasn’t the sort of place I’d have chosen for lunch, either. It was an unappealing two-story building clad in the ubiquitous gray stone. Even the pub sign lacked vibrancy. The primitive portrait of Queen Victoria in black gown and white lace headdress was as close to monochrome as made no difference.
“What an appropriate name,” I commented, as we sloshed our way to the front door. “Queen Victoria would like it here. Blackhope looks as though it’s in a state of perpetual mourning.”
“What village looks its best in late October?” Guy chided. “Come back in August, when the heather’s on the hills. It’ll take your breath away.”
The pub’s interior was as cheerless as its exterior. A dozen wooden tables with round-backed captain’s chairs filled the space between the fireplace and the bar. A bank of video games bleeped annoyingly in one corner, a well-punctured dartboard hung on the well-punctured wall opposite, and the bar itself was Formica-topped, utilitarian, and not as clean as one might have hoped.
The air was blue with cigarette smoke and stank of stale beer. The only attempt at decoration was an arrangement of three framed photographs surmounted by a Union Jack on the wall behind the bar. The large color portrait of Queen Elizabeth II was flanked by slightly smaller portraits of Prince Charles and Prince William. There was no mistaking which side of the border Her Majesty’s was on.
The pub’s occupants, a dozen or so men, sat at the tables clustered near the fireplace. At one, a foursome was playing cards. I recognized two of the card players. I’d last seen them on the stairs at Wyrdhurst Hall, on their way up to the east tower to help Hatch retrieve Claire’s books. Before I could mention the coincidence to Guy, the man behind the bar called a greeting to us.
He was a veritable giant, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, blue-eyed, and blond as a Viking. A winning smile gleamed from beneath his shaggy blond mustache as he came over to welcome us.
“Captain Manning,” he boomed. “An honor to see you, sir. Here for lunch, are you?” When Guy nodded, the man bellowed toward the back of the pub, “James! Customers!”
I nearly ducked behind Guy when the giant stuck a shovel-sized hand in my direction.
“And who would this lovely lady be, sir?” he asked.
Guy turned to me. “Bart Little, may I introduce Ms. Lori Shepherd? Bart owns Her Majesty’s,” he added. “James is his son.”
“Ms. Shepherd, is it?” Bart Little’s ice-blue eyes flickered over me from head to toe. “You’re the lady who had the accident, aren’t you? A near thing, that. It’s good to see you looking so well, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand.
“You all right up there in the big house?” he inquired solicitously. “All on your own, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said. “Mrs. Hollander’s with me, and so are the Hatches.”
“Still, it’s off by itself, isn’t it?” Bart cocked his head to one side. “No one’ll hear if you call for help.”
“Why should I need help?” I asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” Bart seemed to grow even larger as he leaned toward me. “The place is crawling with ghosts.”
I held my ground. “Ghosts don’t bother me, Mr. Little.”
Bart let loose a roar of laughter and planted his hands on his hips. “Ah, a plucky one. I love ’em when they’re plucky, don’t you, lads?”
The card players rumbled their assent and Bart motioned us toward a table near the rain-blurred front window.
“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll see what’s keeping James. Fiddling with his computer, no doubt. Gadget-mad, the lad is.”
“Mr. Little?” I said under my breath, as Bart exited through a rear door.
“I’d refrain from ironical comment, if I were you.” Guy helped me take off my jacket and pulled a chair out for me. “Bart’s heard them all and no longer finds them amusing.”
“He’s got a sense of humor, though,” I said, when we were both seated. “Couldn’t resist yanking my chain about the Wyrdhurst ghost. Wait till he finds out—”
“Here’s James,” Guy interrupted, shooting me a warning look. Our suspicions about the ghost’s true identity were evidently not open for discussion in the pub.
Bart Little emerged from a door at the rear of the pub accompanied by a somewhat nervous-looking teenaged version of himself. The husky young man colored to his roots when I said hello, and studiously avoided making eye contact with me. I wondered what mischief he’d been up to when his father had summoned him. To judge by his shame-faced expression, he’d been downloading naughty pictures from the Net.
James took our food order, and Bart served our drinks, a cider for me, a lager for Guy. When Guy reached for his wallet, Bart waved him off.
“You’re willing to pay for my freedom with your life, sir. I wouldn’t dream of charging you for a meal. And there’s no need to signal for a fresh pint. I’ll see that you’re well supplied.” He gave our table a quick wipe and returned to the bar, to keep an eagle eye on our drinks.
Guy sampled his lager before taking a pen and a black notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. “Now, Ms. Shepherd,” he began, “about your accident…”
Guy’s interrogation was as far from confidential as it could get. He even raised his voice at times, to be heard over the video games: When had the accident taken place? Had I seen or heard anything out of the ordinary? Why hadn’t I heeded the warning sign posted on the gate? I was about to inquire politely why I needed to repeat answers I’d already given him during our drive to Wyrdhurst when he startled me by asking:
“Do you have any known enemies in the area?”
I eyed him doubtfully. “I’ve never set foot in the area, Guy. How could I have enemies, known or unknown?”
“You’ve no idea why anyone might try to kill you?” he pressed.
“Did someone try to kill me?” I asked, vaguely alarmed.
“Whoever left the gate ope
n is guilty of attempted murder,” Guy said sternly, “and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Cheers.” He raised his glass and drank deeply, then returned the pen and notebook to his shirt pocket.
My steak-and-kidney pie looked tasty, but I might as well have been munching hay. I couldn’t get Guy’s final question out of my mind. He’d warned me from the start that someone might have left the gate open with malice aforethought, but he hadn’t intimated that the malice might have been aimed at me personally.
Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill me, nor could I think of a more haphazard way of committing murder. I hadn’t been carjacked or tricked into taking the military track. I’d turned onto it purely by chance. No one could have planned my crash in advance.
A thousand questions teemed on the tip of my tongue, but Guy forestalled them by asking after my work in the library. When I mentioned the two men who’d helped Hatch with Claire’s books, he suggested that I thank them.
“They’re Bart’s brothers,” he informed me. “Bert and Brett will appreciate a kind word from you.”
As soon as the bashful James had cleared the table, we walked over to speak with Bart’s brothers. The men hardly looked up from their cards. Indeed, Bert and Brett Little seemed to hunch lower in their chairs, as if embarrassed by my attentions.
“I just wanted to, uh, thank you for helping Mr. Hatch,” I faltered. I was unaccustomed to addressing the tops of people’s heads. “It was, um, really kind of you.”
The Littles mumbled something incoherent and continued with their game.
“The lads’re at your service, Ms. Shepherd,” Bart called from behind the bar. “If you or Mrs. Hollander need a hand with anything else, ring me and I’ll send ’em up to you.”
“Will do,” I called back. “Thanks for the lunch.”
“Come by any time,” said Bart. “Your money’s no good here, either.”
“Free lunch by association,” I mused aloud, as we exited the pub. “I should hang out with soldiers more often.”
“Bart’s offer has nothing to do with me,” Guy countered. “It’s your pluck he admires.”
“Plucky me,” I muttered. I waited until we were halfway to the car before grasping Guy’s elbow and stepping in front of him. “Okay, Captain, are you going to tell me what that song and dance was about or do I have to guess?”
“What song and dance?” said Guy.
I eyed him skeptically, then spoke in a stage whisper. “Everyone in the pub could hear us.” I lifted my hands, palms upward. “You might as well have printed our conversation on a billboard. Did you want to be overheard? And do you honestly believe that someone was trying to kill me?”
Guy peered at the clearing sky, clasped his hands behind his back, and squared his shoulders. “It’s stopped raining,” he observed. “Shall we take a stroll, Lori? There’s something I’d like to show you.”
CHAPTER
12
The streets of Blackhope were deserted, but our passage did not go unnoticed. Curtains twitched as Guy led me up a rain-slicked lane, and pale, furtive faces peered out from ivy-clad windows. I was acutely conscious of the covert scrutiny, and it crossed my mind to wonder if there was any real point to our walk, or if Guy was merely parading me before the villagers, letting them get a good look at “the lady who had the accident.”
We didn’t stop until we reached the church. It stood above and slightly apart from the village, separated from the pele tower by a soggy churchyard. The view from the churchyard gate would have been spectacular if clouds hadn’t obscured the horizon.
I paused at the church gate to catch my breath before following Guy to the edge of a small, hedge-bordered field that lay just beyond the church. The field was piled high with brush, bits of old furniture, broken fruit crates—a familiar assortment of inflammable odds and ends.
“Blackhope’s getting ready for Guy Fawkes Day,” I observed.
Guy looked mildly surprised. “You know about Guy Fawkes, do you?”
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” I chanted. “The fifth of November, 1605, to be precise when Catholic conspirators tried, and failed, to blow up Parliament with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder”—I took a breath—“an event which is commemorated unto this day by bonfires and general carousing.”
“I am impressed,” said Guy.
“My husband singed his eyebrows lightning the bonfire in our village last year.” I turned to look out over the valley. “This is a great location. If the weather clears, Blackhope’s bonfire’ll be seen from one end of the valley to the other.”
“It will also be seen from Wyrdhurst Hall.” Guy pointed to a dark blur of trees a mile or so up the valley.
If I squinted, I could just make out the tops of the hall’s twin towers. “Are Blackhope’s women sending Jared a message?” I quipped. “I’ll bet they’d like to light a fire under him.”
Guy didn’t crack a smile. “I presume Mrs. Hollander informed you of her husband’s dissatisfaction with the local charwomen.”
I nodded. “I imagine they were pretty ticked off.”
“They were. But the selection of this place for the bonfire has a more complicated history.” Guy drew a hand through the air, outlining a rectangle within the small field. “A school-house once stood here. It burned to the ground in October 1917. The schoolmaster burned to death in it.” He jutted his chin toward the church. “There’s a tablet on the south wall, commemorating his death. It was paid for by the people of Blackhope. He was greatly loved, you see.”
“Poor soul,” I said.
Guy kicked at a chair leg that had fallen free from the tangle of brush. “The villagers blamed Josiah Byrd for the schoolmaster’s death. Several had seen Josiah leaving the schoolhouse shortly before the fire started. Nothing was ever proved, but the villagers believed that Josiah had gotten away with murder.”
I looked from the rain-soaked kindling to Wyrdhurst’s gray stone towers and felt a chill seep through me. Had Edward been the schoolteacher, Claire his besotted pupil? Would Josiah kill a man to prevent an unsuitable match?
“What was the schoolmaster’s name?” I inquired.
“Clive,” said Guy. “Clive Eccles Aynsworth.”
I tore my gaze from the twin towers and relaxed. In hindsight, my scenario seemed faintly ridiculous. As a privileged young woman, Claire would have been educated at home by governesses. She would have had little, if any, contact with the schoolmaster.
“Why would Josiah want to murder a schoolteacher?” I asked.
“No one knows,” Guy replied. “Josiah had a foul temper and a tyrannical nature. The villagers may have simply wanted him to be guilty of the crime.”
I smiled ruefully. I felt exactly the same way about Jared.
Guy carried on with his story. “The villagers couldn’t bring Josiah to justice—he was far too rich and powerful—so they found another way to punish him. They built the Guy Fawkes bonfire on the burnt-out remains of the schoolhouse, where it could be seen from Wyrdhurst Hall.”
“Did Josiah get the message?” I asked.
“He closed the hall the following spring,” Guy replied. “He returned to Newcastle and was never again seen at Wyrdhurst.”
“Until he was buried there.” I looked again toward the gray towers and asked, “Was Josiah’s daughter interred at Wyrdhurst?”
“I don’t know,” said Guy. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why a guy who could afford to be buried anywhere would choose to be buried where everyone hated his guts.” I shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to be near his daughter. He must have loved her.”
“I’m sure he did.” Guy pulled his collar up against the stiffening breeze.
I turned to him. “How do you know so much about Clive Aynsworth’s alleged murder?”
“The story resurfaced when the hall was restored,” Guy informed me. “Someone revived the tradition of building the bonfire wher
e the schoolhouse once stood. Someone placed flowers before Mr. Aynsworth’s tablet. Someone resurrected the tale of Josiah’s guilty ghost.” He gazed at me intently. “Someone resents Wyrdhurst and all who dwell there.”
“Including me?” I said, after a beat. “Do you think a villager caused my accident?”
“Not directly. Not intentionally.” Guy glanced skyward. “Let’s return to the car, shall we? The wind’s becoming a bit brisk.”
“I don’t care if it snows!” I cried. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything… yet.” Guy looked down at the graveled lane. “The theory linking Jared Hollander to the Wyrdhurst ghost is worth exploring. But Mr. Hollander isn’t the only one who might want to impersonate the late and un-lamented Josiah Byrd.”
I stared hard at his chiseled profile. “Go on.”
“Jared Hollander has installed a more-than-adequate security system in Wyrdhurst,” Guy said, “but Mrs. Hollander seldom remembers to use it. If someone wished to enter the hall covertly, he would be wise to do so while Mr. Hollander was absent.”
“That would explain why weird things happened when Nicole’s alone.” I nodded thoughtfully. “I’m with you so far.”
“Your accident occurred on a military road that cuts across the Byrd estate,” Guy continued. “At its closest point, it comes within a quarter-mile of Wyrdhurst Hall. If someone wished to enter Wyrdhurst through the back door, so to speak, he might take the road you inadvertently took.”
“And leave the gate open in the process,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” I paused to marshal my thoughts before summarizing: “You think a villager has been using a military road to sneak into Wyrdhurst Hall in order to frighten Josiah’s great-granddaughter as a sort of delayed retribution for the murder of Clive Aynsworth.” I felt slightly winded by the time I concluded, “That’s why the gate was left open. And that’s why I nearly died.”
06 - Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil Page 9
