“My orders were to find you,” he replied simply. “I’m afraid that your car will have to be left in situ while our investigation is in progress.”
I didn’t mind about the car, but I did express concern about my luggage and shoulder bag. I kept mum about Reginald. I wasn’t up to explaining the plight of my pink flannel bunny to a British army officer.
The captain assured me that my things would be returned to me at Wyrdhurst once his investigation was complete, then strode forward to open the Rover’s passenger door. “Shall we get in out of the rain, ma’am?”
“Please stop calling me ‘ma’am’,” I said, as he gave me a hand up into the car. “It makes me feel a hundred years old. I’m Lori, okay?”
“As you wish, Lori.” He paused before closing the door. “And since I’m not your commanding officer, why don’t you try calling me Guy?” Again, the fleeting smile came and went almost before I had time to register it. It was as if he regarded emotional expression as an unwarranted breach of military discipline.
Guy tossed his poncho into the backseat and climbed into the Rover, then sat for a moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel. “I don’t wish to alarm you, Lori, but I must inform you that your accident may not have been entirely… accidental.”
“Huh?” I said.
“As Chase pointed out, a gate was left open. It’s an extremely serious offense to leave a gate unlocked. I doubt that any of my men would have been so careless.”
“You think someone left the gate open on purpose?” I peered at the captain uncertainly. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
Guy’s lips compressed into a thin line as he turned the key in the ignition. “As I told Chase, an investigation is under way.”
As we pulled away from the fishing hut my imagination went into overdrive. Was some vindictive idiot trying to make the army look bad by staging an accident on military property? I drew the captain’s jacket about me more closely. There were thousands of ways I didn’t want to die. Near the top of the list was as an innocent victim of someone else’s vendetta.
“We try our best to protect civilians, as you can see.” Guy slowed to a crawl as we passed a large white sign posted by the side of the road. The sign’s triangular warning symbol called attention to the message printed in large black capital letters on a yellow ground:
DANGER
MILITARY TARGET AREA
DO NOT TOUCH ANY MILITARY DEBRIS
IT MAY EXPLODE AND KILL YOU
“Subtle,” I said, gulping, “but effective.”
“We post signs at the entrances to all military roads,” Guy explained, “expressly forbidding access to civilian vehicles.”
“Good idea,” I said, “if you could think of a way to make them fog-proof.”
“That’s why we have gates.” The captain depressed the accelerator and pulled away from the sign. As he did so, he nodded toward the rushing stream that flowed beside the road. “Remarkably good fishing, if you’re so inclined.”
I welcomed the diversion. I’d come to Northumberland for books and scenery, not exploding debris and near-death experiences. “What’s it called?” I asked. “The river, I mean.”
“The Little Blackburn,” Guy replied. “It’s not a proper river, just a trickle that runs into the Coquet a few miles below here. The name means ‘black stream’ or ‘black brook’. It’s thought to derive from the color of the water.”
“Which is dark because of the peaty turf the stream flows through higher up,” I said. I’d run into the same phenomenon in Ireland.
“Those are the facts,” said Guy. “Would you like to hear the legend?”
“Sure,” I said, brightening.
“According to the locals, the Little Blackburn flows with the blood of a thousand Scotsmen slaughtered by the English on the high moors.”
“How… colorful,” I faltered.
“Northumberland isn’t the Cotswolds, Lori,” Guy said. “You’re in border country now. Every inch of land has been fought over for centuries. The hills around us are drenched in blood.”
I stared at him, appalled. “You and Adam should get jobs with the tourist board. The Cotswolds tourist board. I don’t think you’d do much good for Northumberland.” I tossed my head indignantly. “You with your blood-filled river, and Adam with his ghosts. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the two of you were trying to scare me.”
“I don’t mean to put you off,” Guy said, “only on guard. The people in Blackhope are friendlier than most, but they’re not entirely happy with the changes that have taken place at Wyrdhurst Hall.” He turned his head to look directly at me. “Bear that in mind while you’re there, will you?”
“Why should I?” I asked. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“Not necessarily, but if you run into any, please ring me.” He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and passed it to me. “The number of my mobile. Feel free to ring me anytime, day or night.” He rebuttoned his shirt pocket before adding, “Chase told you about the ghost of Wyrdhurst Hall, did he?”
“The alleged ghost,” I retorted.
“A skeptic? Good. I hope you feel the same way after you’ve spent a night there.”
“Don’t worry about me.” I swung around on the seat to face him. “I’m a mother, Captain Manning. What terrors can a place like Wyrdhurst hold for a woman who’s toilet-training a pair of teething toddlers?”
Guy brought the car to a halt. “See for yourself,” he said.
I peered forward eagerly, then shrank back in dismay. Now that I’d finally reached Wyrdhurst’s gates, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through them.
CHAPTER
4
The heavy black wrought-iron gates hung from a pair of lichen-clad stone pillars. Atop each moldering column stood a menacing bronze figure of a predatory bird, wings spread and talons reaching, as if poised to tear the throats out of unwelcome visitors. I yelped in alarm when one of the bronze birds moved.
“It’s a security camera,” Guy informed me. “Mr. Hollander doesn’t like surprises.”
Apparently we passed muster, because the gates slowly swung open.
“Electronic,” murmured Guy. “Controlled from the house. Useful, when used consistently.”
The stone walls stretching outward from the black wrought-iron gates were webbed with moss and brambles, and the drive ahead curved upward through a dense growth of dark firs and encroaching rhododendrons. The curving lane was matted with pine needles and leathery dead leaves, the air heavy with the scent of rot and damp. We drove in silence save for the patter of rain as it slithered and dripped through the shadowy canopy, silvered here and there by vagrant gleams of watery light.
The dank woods opened suddenly and there, looming imperiously at the edge of a vast plateau of wind-scoured moorland, was Wyrdhurst. I caught my breath and touched the captain’s arm, willing him to stop.
“It’s… it’s a castle,” I stammered. “No one told me it was a castle.”
“It’s a pseudo-castle,” Guy corrected. “A Gothic Revival country house built by a man with more money than sense. I’m not fond of the place, myself. Do you like it?”
“I don’t know…” It was too much to take in all at once.
The open ground surrounding the queer edifice was bramble-choked and thoroughly neglected, but the building was immaculate. A pair of ponderous round towers pierced with arrow slits and faced in rough gray stone framed a center block bristling with a fierce array of turrets, balconies, and battlements. Grim-faced gargoyles peered furtively from shadowed perches, downspouts ended in grotesquely yawning snouts, and the deep-set leaded windows were as bleak as dead men’s eyes.
“It’s… striking,” I said.
“Not intimidating?” said Guy.
Wyrdhurst scared me spitless, but I wasn’t going to admit as much to Guy. I motioned for him to drive on.
The captain parked the Rover beneath the crenellated porte cochere and escorted me to the iron
-banded front door, where he tugged the bellpull. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a black dress, who motioned for us to enter.
As I crossed the threshold, I was seized by a dizzy spell so acute that my knees buckled and I would have fallen if Guy hadn’t been there to catch me. He bellowed something at the woman and she flew up the staircase while he steered me to a high-backed settle.
“Sh-should have eaten breakfast,” I managed, as the dizziness subsided.
“You should be in hospital,” Guy shot back.
“I hate hospitals.” I took a steadying breath and sat up straight. “There. Crisis passed. Please don’t mention it to the Hollanders. I hate being treated like an invalid.”
“You may be injured,” Guy pointed out.
“I’m just hungry,” I insisted, and moved on to another topic. “Who was the woman who answered the door?”
“Mrs. Hatch,” Guy replied, “the housekeeper. Her husband is the handyman cum butler.”
I nodded absently, too amazed by my surroundings to pay strict attention to his words. The entrance hall was magnificently medieval.
The tessellated floor reflected gilded coats of arms set into the coved ceiling. Two burnished suits of armor guarded the mahogany staircase that swept upward to a balustraded landing. Stag’s horns, ram’s skulls, and a miscellany of mock-medieval weaponry hung from the paneled walls, and a row of square-backed Jacobean chairs sat to one side of a massive fireplace.
Three tapestry-draped doors led to rooms beyond the hall. Light was provided by an extraordinary brass-and-stag’s-horn chandelier, and an enormous bronze gong in a wooden frame stood beside the door opposite the hearth.
I’d scarcely had time to absorb half of the details when our hosts appeared, descending the staircase, looking every bit as eccentric as their home.
Jared Hollander was the very picture of a proper Victorian patriarch—plump, prosperous, and a good twenty years older than his new wife. He wore a voluminous vintage dressing gown in quilted black silk with a bloodred ascot knotted at his throat. His graying hair was slicked back with a powerfully perfumed pomade, and the waxed tips of his walrus mustache looked positively lethal.
Nicole Hollander was dressed all in white, her slight frame overwhelmed by a frilled and beribboned dressing gown. She had luminous dark eyes, and her raven hair, bound in a knot on the top of her head, was so thick and luxurious that it seemed too heavy for her slender neck to bear. She trailed after her husband, clutching a fringed shawl of embroidered silk around her narrow shoulders, and hovered, meek as a mouse, at his elbow while he did most of the talking.
“Damn the woman,” Jared boomed, as he crossed the hall to greet us. “I instructed Mrs. Hatch to take you through to the drawing room.” He bowed ceremoniously. “I do apologize, Mrs. Willis. A drafty entrance hall is hardly the place for you, after your ordeal.”
I rose, shrugged off Guy’s supporting arm, and explained that Willis was my husband’s name. “My name’s Lori Shepherd, but please, call me Lori. And Mrs. Hatch didn’t leave us here on purpose. I felt a little lightheaded—”
“Ms. Shepherd nearly fainted,” Guy interrupted. “I hope you’ve contacted Dr. MacEwan.”
“Thank you so much for your valuable advice, Captain,” Jared said tartly, then turned to me. “I’ve rung the local quack. He’ll be round later this morning.”
“Thanks,” I said, and silently forgave Guy his treachery. Jared Hollander seemed to have a fairly testy temperament. I didn’t want Mrs. Hatch taking the blame for my dizzy spell.
“I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up,” Jared continued. “My wife and I would be delighted if you’d join us for breakfast.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, with utter sincerity. It had been a long time since Adam’s bowl of broth.
“Jared,” Nicole said timidly, “shouldn’t we…” Faint traces of pink stained her cheeks as she nodded shyly to Guy. “Shouldn’t we thank the captain for his help?”
“I don’t see why.” Jared acknowledged Guy’s presence with a cold stare. “It was his bungling that caused the mishap. It may interest you to know, sir, that Mrs. Willis’ husband is a noted solicitor.”
Guy ignored Jared’s comment and spoke to me. “Lori, about the investigation—if I might have a word… ?”
“Certainly not.” Jared interposed himself between Guy and me. “I won’t have you badgering my guest so soon after her ordeal. If you must speak with her, you may make an appointment to do so later, when she’s had time to recover her wits.”
“How about this afternoon, Guy?” I slipped out of his camouflage jacket, stepped around my host, and handed it over with an apologetic smile. “Say, three o’clock? My wits should be fully recovered by then.”
“Please, come for tea,” Nicole put in, as if to compensate for her husband’s bad manners.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hollander,” Guy said, his voice softening. “I shall.”
As Nicole emerged from Jared’s shadow, I saw that her eyes had a strained look about them, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. I also noted, with a flicker of interest, the way in which her gaze lingered on the captain’s broad back as he let himself out of the iron-banded door.
“Officious cad,” Jared muttered. “I hope your husband will take the army to task for its negligence, Mrs. Willis.”
“How did you hear about the accident?” I inquired.
“The captain posted men here, as part of the search,” Jared replied. “They passed his report on to me. As your host, I had a right to know what had happened to you.”
My heart went out to the poor soldiers who’d caved in to Jared’s pestering. Determined to show more backbone, I squared my shoulders and gave him my most intimidating stare. “I haven’t told my husband about the accident, Mr. Hollander, and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the explanations to me. I don’t want him worried unnecessarily.”
“Unnecessarily?” Jared began, but his wife put a restraining hand on his arm.
“Lori is our guest, dearest,” she reminded him. “We must abide by her wishes.”
“Of course,” Jared said stiffly. He paused to take in my bedraggled state. “A bath,” he pronounced. “A hot bath and a change of clothing before breakfast, I think. My wife should have something that will fit you, Mrs. Willis. You’re both delicate.”
His choice of words floored me. I was a fairly small woman, but I was also as strong as an ox—no mother of twins could afford to be otherwise—and as tough as nails, as my recent five-mile forced march had demonstrated. No one had ever described me as delicate.
But, then, no one had ever called me “Mrs. Willis” more than once. Jared evidently lived as he dressed, by the rules of another century. In his Victorian mind, all women took their husbands’ names and were, by definition, delicate.
“Nicole, show Mrs. Willis to her room,” Jared said. “I wish to have a word with Mrs. Hatch.”
“Please, Lori, come with me.” Nicole led the way up the mahogany staircase, pausing on the landing to gaze worriedly at her husband as he bustled through a door at the rear of the entrance hall. When the door closed behind him, she sighed. “I do hope Jared will go easy on Mrs. Hatch. He means well, but he’s more forceful than he realizes, and if the Hatches desert us, I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“It must be hard to keep staff in such a remote location,” I said, stepping past my hostess.
“It’s nearly impossible,” Nicole admitted.
I’d taken the lead now, with Nicole a few steps behind. When we reached the second floor, I turned instinctively to the left, then came to a halt, feeling mildly confused.
“I seem to be getting ahead of myself,” I said, with a sheepish grin. “Am I going the right way?”
Nicole assured me that I was. “Our bedrooms are in the west wing, the guest rooms are in the east. We’ve put you in the red room.”
I was a bit surprised to hear that the Hollanders had separate bedrooms, but I held my peace
. The newlyweds’ sleeping arrangements were none of my business.
The corridor, with its lush crimson carpet and brightly striped wallpaper, was pure Victorian. Hanging lamps with frosted globes and faceted pendants illuminated the passage, and a series of sentimental landscapes hung above occasional tables littered with a wilderness of small, shiny ornaments.
“My husband collects Victoriana,” Nicole informed me. “That’s why we wanted Wyrdhurst. We hope to turn it into a showplace for his collection.”
“It’s big enough to be a museum,” I commented.
“Ninety-seven rooms,” Nicole confirmed. “My family has let the place many times over the years, but no one’s stayed for long. As you said, it’s a rather remote location, and the upkeep of so many rooms can be a bit daunting.”
“How do you manage?” I asked.
“A cleaning service comes up twice a month from Newcastle,” Nicole explained.
I gave her a sidelong glance. In my experience, it was de rigueur for a wealthy homeowner to contribute to the local economy by hiring local help. Importing workers from as far away as Newcastle was tantamount to snatching bread from the villagers’ tables.
“Weren’t there enough local women to tackle the job?” I inquired.
Nicole slowed her pace. “A few came, at first, but they soon left. They seemed… uncomfortable, working here. There’s a silly rumor going about that the place is”—she hesitated—“haunted. But I believe that they left because Jared found their work unsatisfactory.”
It struck me that Jared’s disapproval might have sparked the rumor. If the women in Blackhope were as house-proud as the women in Finch, they wouldn’t have taken kindly to his criticism. They might have decided to repay his nitpicking by rekindling hoary tales about the Wyrdhurst ghost. It was just the sort of prank my own neighbors would pull, if I were ever so foolish as to offend them.
“Do you believe that Wyrdhurst is haunted?” I asked.
[Aunt Dimity 06] - Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil Page 3
