by Cindy Anstey
As the two young men crossed into the room, Ben told Matt to head to his own bed. The valet was not best pleased with the idea of leaving without fulfilling his duties. However, he allowed that he could iron out the wrinkles of their coats in the morning … because it was most likely that the coats would be hung incorrectly and be in need of care.
Ben just nodded; it was easier that way.
“Lawks, this is a small room.” Jake glanced around. “Don’t know if our plan will work.”
“What plan is that?” Ernest asked, taking up a position by the head of the bed.
Percy reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a deck of cards. “Whist.”
“Whist can prove that you are not behind the moaning and groaning?” Ben said, his words full of skepticism. “How?”
“Simple. We play until the ghost appears, and then you know we are not responsible.”
“And if the ghost does not appear?”
Jake shrugged. “Well, then it is just a full night of whist. Wouldn’t be my first.”
In the end, Ben and Ernest sat on the bed; Jake leaned against the washstand while Percy leaned against the windowsill. It was rather cramped, and as the time ticked slowly by, rather pointless—for the ghost was in absentia.
“You realize that your guilt is still in question—if not more so, now.” Ernest collected the cards and began to shuffle. And yet, despite saying so, he looked relaxed.
Jake grinned. “Most erratic creatures, the tormented spirits—” He paused, tilted his head, lifted one side of his mouth in a lopsided smile. “There.”
Sitting and standing, almost not breathing, the four of them waited and listened—with eyes widening.
Softly, as it had begun the night before, a voice whispered, growing louder and changing into a moan, only to drop into a whisper once more.
“There,” Jake said again. “Now we know you weren’t lying.” He glanced at Percy. “We thought it a bag of moonshine.”
Ben snorted a laugh. “That makes better sense.”
* * *
“IT LASTED NEAR on two hours,” Ben told Imogene and Emily the next day as he stifled a yawn. They were sitting at the table in the morning room breaking their fast. Not many were up and about as yet, the sideboard still laden with foodstuffs. It was as if the damp had drained the company of their humors.
“We traipsed up and down the stairs trying to find the source to no avail. Percy thought the sound might be coming from the roof; Jake thought the room below. But we checked, and nothing.”
“So it truly is a ghost,” Emily said in a voice filled with awe.
Imogene watched Ben blink, lean forward as if unsure that he had heard correctly, and then sit back and rub at his temple. “Ah, no. I don’t believe so. We have just not caught the culprit as yet. Or it might be something as innocuous as a whistling breeze through the halls.”
Pursing her lips together, Emily waited a moment before speaking. “Oh dear,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I did so want to meet a wandering spirit.”
“I believe Ben is too tired to recognize funning, Emily.” Imogene picked up her bread to add a scraping of strawberry jam. It was a pretext—she couldn’t eat. She glanced over at Ernest, seated sedately beside his brother, sipping his coffee … and staring at her over his cup.
“Yes, of course you were.” Ben shook his head as if to clear it.
“If Percy and Jake were with you, then who can be party to this latest attempt to cause trouble?” Imogene paused. “We have always assumed that they were the guilty ones … that it was their insatiable need for mischief that has been the purpose of these incidents. Must we now rethink that premise?”
“Absolutely.” Emily nodded. “Though the waters are quite murky, if we have to look beyond tomfoolery … it takes on a rather baffling aspect.”
“Indeed. The reason all but disappears.” Imogene bit at her lip, frowned, and glanced back across the table at the tired faces—staring back, blankly. “Yes, well, too tired to discern teasing likely means too tired to unravel a puzzle.”
Ernest nodded his agreement; Ben just yawned.
Imogene turned back to Emily. “If we filter out the mischief—ignore teasing the dogs, dousing Pauline, and overturning the boat—we are left with the topaz necklace, tying up Jasper, the burr, and the ghost.” Imogene was not about to mention the letter—it didn’t need to be discussed. “Had my necklace been found where it lay, Ben and I would have suffered the worst consequences, though Ernest, too, would have been affected. But it might simply have been the work of a thief.” She frowned and then added, half to herself, “an inept and inconstant thief … as nothing else that I know about has gone missing.”
She dropped the unappealing toast on her plate and wiped the crumbs from her fingers. “As to the night of the storm, the men working on the ruins claim not to have tied up Jasper, but not all the same men were there when I asked.… And enticing a rescuer across a floor ready to collapse could have been an accident.”
“The burr was not an accident,” Emily interposed.
“No, that certainly appears to have been deliberate, and Ben could have been terribly injured.” Imogene shook her head in frustration and then heard the echo of her words. “And the haunting was meant to scare Ernest and Ben away.” When listed, there was a common thread. “Ben.”
“Hmm?” His eyes were open, but was he awake?
“Why would … did you have a disagreement…?” Imogene could hardly articulate her question; it felt too intrusive, almost rude. She thought of a way to rephrase her query. “Can you think of any person who might wish you ill? Ill enough to follow you about from one manor to the next trying to cause harm?”
“Someone who could enter a house at will and sneak into the stables without causing alarm?”
“Yes, indeed. Ludicrous. We cannot blame a stranger. More’s the pity.”
“Or I am not the intended target.” Ben shrugged.
Imogene shook her head. “I might agree if it were not for the burr.”
Ernest cleared his throat. “I prefer the idea that these are separate incidents—that there is no one underlying purpose, no one intended victim. Accidents.”
Emily frowned. “It would certainly be easier to sleep at night. I’m not at ease with the idea that someone under this roof has some sort of sinister intent. That is something that happens only in novels, not in reality. Besides, between staff, guests, and family, there are near on thirty people to consider. No, no: mischief. Simply mischief. Perhaps not Percy’s or Jake’s, but someone else’s naughtiness.”
“Accidents,” Ernest repeated, sounding almost certain.
Imogene stared across at Ernest, surprised. There was no foundation for this belief. The thought of someone setting out to intentionally harm his brother would be very disconcerting, but burying his head in the sand was not the wisest of approaches. As she continued to stare, she realized that Ernest was staring back … and that he might infer the wrong reason for this overly long look. She gulped, blinked, and turned her eyes toward Ben … who was also staring at her. With a sharp shake of her head, Imogene dropped her eyes to her plate, picked up her cold toast, and added another layer of jam.
“Just as I had hoped,” Mrs. Beeswanger said as she entered the room in a soft lavender gown festooned with ruffles along the hem. Mr. Beeswanger and Mr. Tabard followed on her heels, looking smart in their country casual. “We caught you before you set off on your day’s adventure.” She walked over to the sideboard, lifted a plate, and waved it absentmindedly in the air as she talked. “The weather has cleared—and so we thought we might away to Taverock Castle. An alfresco luncheon, perhaps. What say you? The girls have always enjoyed the castle,” she said, pointedly talking to Ernest. “Might you take a break from A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
Looking over at Emily, Imogene felt a stirring of enthusiasm. The castle was a wonderfully picturesque ruin, excellent sketching fodder, with nooks and crannies
aplenty. Perhaps there she might begin a conversation with Ernest—about the value of friendship.
“Most accommodating, Mrs. Beeswanger. I think it a capital idea.” Ernest looked expectantly at Imogene.
“We can sketch.” Imogene lifted her cheeks, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.
“Where are the boys?” Mr. Tabard asked, frowning while he waited behind Mrs. Beeswanger to choose her breakfast. “Slugabeds?” He snorted with disgust. “At their age, I was out riding every morning just after the sun came up.” He turned toward Mr. Beeswanger, who had snorted a laugh. “Yes, well, perhaps a little later than that.”
“Percy and Jake were up very late with Ernest and Ben, Mr. Tabard,” Emily explained. “Chasing ghosts.”
Mr. Tabard started. “Ghosts? Spirits? Ethereal creatures wandering the land of the living lamenting their loss of … whatever they have lost? Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Clara would stand none of it. No, no. No ghosts at Greytower.” He turned back to Ben. “Did you catch it?”
Stifling another yawn, Ben shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid not.” He stood, pushing back his chair. “Think I need to clear my head. A brisk walk might do the job.”
Mr. Beeswanger leaned around Mr. Tabard. “Plenty of time, plenty of time. We won’t be going immediately, young man.”
Ben nodded and lifted his hand in a haphazard wave. “Excellent.”
“Might I join you, Benjamin? I would enjoy the fresh air as well.” Emily stood, not waiting for the reply. “I’ll just run upstairs for my bonnet.”
Imogene watched the Beeswangers share knowing looks and matching smiles as Ben and Emily left arm in arm.
* * *
TAVEROCK CASTLE WAS an odd, triangular fortress of red stone surrounded by a wide but shallow moat, which was now predominantly water lilies. It had undergone many alterations in its golden era but had been a ruin for the better part of fifty years. Time had taken its toll on the six-hundred-year-old building; crumbling, it was now half covered in ivy, home to countless birds and rodents and a bat or two. The grounds were rough from neglect but added to the charm. Far from possessing an atmosphere of desolation, this castle was now a destination for many a summer visitor in the northern part of Kent.
With the sea visible but not too close, the breezes were warm and the ambiance festive. At least it was festive for those who were not vastly uncomfortable walking beside a young gentleman with love and hope in his eyes, when said person would have to tell this kind gentleman that his patience was for naught. And yet said person was obligated to say nothing for at least a day or two—which she thought terribly unfair for all parties involved, and she was not sure she was going to be able to—
“I am going to invite everyone to Musson House,” Ernest declared, interrupting Imogene’s agonizing pangs of guilt.
She tipped her parasol to the side so that she might see him better. He was grinning; Imogene’s roiling insides did an extra tumble. “That is very kind of you but unnecessary.”
“Oh, I do not agree. I have been welcomed at Gracebridge, Shackleford … and Greytower, and I want to reciprocate the generosity.”
Imogene noticed the hesitation and thought Ernest’s attitude admirable considering the rude welcome he had received at Greytower.
“I spoke to Grandmother before we left, and she thought it a perfectly equitable idea. Besides,”—he cast her a come-hither look—“it is the perfect setting for any questions or offers that might be upcoming.” He pushed the hair out of his eyes and bobbed his brows.
“Please, Ernest, I would like to talk to you about friendship and the marvels of that institution.”
“Worry not, Imogene. I am not pressing you. I simply believe that your understanding of who I am might be better brought about when you see where I call home … and you might one day, too.”
Shaking her head, Imogene dropped the side of her parasol, cowardly hiding from his cheerful expression. “Ernest, I believe we—”
“I shall wait until dinner and speak to everyone all at once. Don’t want to ruffle any feathers about who was asked first.”
Most people would not care when an invitation was issued; however, her mother and father were not most people. Ernest was being observant and considerate again. Bother! “Ernest, my father might have given you the impression that I do not have a mind of my own.”
“Well, he tried. But I have—happily—learned better.” Taking her hand, he placed it on his arm.
Imogene tipped her parasol once more to accommodate the closer proximity and tried to broach the subject again. She had to divest him of this false euphoria, or her refusal was going to hit him all the harder. “Ernest, you seem expectant. I know I asked for time—” She frowned as he raised his other hand and waved.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Pauline and Harriet were wandering through the grass just off the path. They waved back, and while Pauline continued to smile at them, Harriet’s head was once again bowed.
“What are you doing?” Imogene called across the lea.
“Looking for lady beetles,” Harriet said without looking up. “You know, those spotted red ones.”
Imogene laughed. “I do indeed.”
“You have to see this.” A new voice caught Imogene’s attention, and she turned toward it; it was a lively voice, full of amusement and no longer yawning. “Come, I’ll show you.” Ben grabbed her hand from Ernest’s arm and then made a show of looking at her from side to side. “Did you not bring your sketching paper?” He puckered his mouth in mock disapproval. “Left it with the food baskets? Shortsighted, my dear girl. Very shortsighted. No matter, I have mine.”
Imogene started and glanced at Emily’s grinning countenance; her friend was apparently unaware that Ben had just used the same endearment that had set her all atwitter the day before. It appeared to be a habit, not a declaration—but Imogene was not about to say so.
“We have to go inside,” Ben said, leading her across the narrow wooden bridge. “The tower staircase is tilted, and there has been erosion.”
Emily, now behind Imogene, chuckled. “Such an exciting discovery.”
Ben pulled Imogene under the pointed arch of the entrance and across the courtyard to the rear roofless building. In the corner, a tower lay half exposed to the elements.
Glancing around at the curious faces, Imogene nodded to a woman and her two small sons, who were leaning over the edge, staring into the moat. Well, they had been staring until Ben had rushed in. They were now staring at him with great curiosity.
Naturally, the mother admonished them for such rudeness while commenting on the strange proclivities of overexcitable persons, something that she hoped her children would never try to emulate. The mother shepherded them to the far side.
Oblivious of the disapproval, Ben dropped Imogene’s hand and pointed. She wasn’t entirely sure at what he was pointing; the lovely ivy climbing up the wall and draping down into the water, perhaps the large, somewhat disconcerting, wasps’ nest clinging to the arch, or the crenellations encrusted with bird droppings. Remembering Ben’s affinity toward foundations, Imogene lowered her gaze and saw that erosion had exposed the supporting structures of the stair treads.
“Wonderful,” she said, surprised that she actually meant it. Ben’s excitement was contagious.
In short order, Ben set up near the stairs, paper and board propped up on what was left of a wall. Using it as a seat rather than a table, Imogene settled beside him half turned so that she might look over his shoulder. Without her own drawing supplies at hand, she concentrated on her role as teacher and simply enjoyed Ben’s proximity. Ernest had, at first, stayed with them, but boredom and the call of his book had won the day. He and Emily had headed back to join the rest of their group to laze about and wait until Ben had perfected his sketch … or two.
Twirling the handle of her parasol, tapping her heel against the wall, Imogene closed her eyes and imagined another time, another place, and for a moment reveled in happiness
born from a vision of life with Ben. A buzzing insect pulled her from her reverie, and she opened her eyes to swat at it.… A wasp. Lazily flicking her hand, Imogene hit two more and frowned.
A rock skittering across the old ruins floor on the other side of the wall caught her attention, and she stared as another followed in its wake. A hollow thunk brought her eyes up, and Imogene watched in horror as the wasps’ nest above their heads broke free from the arch and dropped.
“Bees!” Imogene screamed as the nest landed next to them. “Look out!”
Within seconds, a loud hum accompanied the mass exodus of wasps from the nest. They were furious, and they were going to take their wrath out on anything in their proximity.
chapter 14
In which an ordinary parasol bestows both protection and privacy
Throwing her hands up, Imogene frantically swatted at the wasps charging down on her. They swarmed around and in her bonnet, some trapped by the brim. The noise was horrendous. She felt a sharp prick on her neck, and then on her cheek. She shook her head wildly, sending them spinning, but only for a moment.
A sharp gasp brought her attention to Ben. With no hat and gloves off, the wasps were crawling and stinging at will. Protecting his face with his hands, he was forced to blindly endure the insects’ rage.
Flailing, Imogene sent clouds of wasps flying. She felt a puncture as her unprotected wrist connected with an angry insect, but she kept swinging madly at those around her, at those around Ben.
But there were too many. Too many! She had to do something. Something else. Desperate, Imogene tore off her bonnet.
“Into the moat, Ben! Drop!” She swung her feet to the other side of the wall and jumped into the cold, waist-deep water, parasol in hand. A great splash next to her announced Ben’s arrival. The spongy bottom sucked at her feet as she fought to close the gap between them.
“Get under,” she yelled, lifting the parasol. She dropped it as soon as he obeyed and pulled him down into a crouch, with their heads at water level. Swatting one-handed, Imogene chased the remaining wasps around the canopy to no avail. “Duck,” she said when she realized they had no other option.
