by Cindy Anstey
“Yes, indeed, miss,” Hayter replied. All three men were visibly confused now. “Everyone knows the bell tower; great spot to watch for deer or to grab a kiss from your girl.”
Hayter turned a bright red with this declaration and looked vastly uncomfortable. But Sophia barely heard him. She brought her hand up to her mouth, suddenly feeling sick. Fear gripped her insides, and bile crawled up her throat. She stared up the hill to where the carriage had been stopped moments—no, a quarter hour ago.
“What is it, miss?” Phillips asked, coming to her side.
“Why did Charlotte insist that they go up the hill to the Priddy house … if there is no house and nowhere to deliver a ham?” she asked, thinking aloud.
Phillips would have no idea what she was talking about. Sophia glanced at him. Then she straightened, lifted her skirt to knee height, and started running as fast as she could.
If Sophia believed the men, which she did, then there was no doubt that Charlotte had lied. It had been a planned distraction. A decoy.
Charlotte knew the area; she had lived in West Ravenwood nearly all her life. She knew that there was no other house at the top of the road—just the Hummels, who were related to the Tumblers. It had been a logical hiding place for Mr. Tumbler. And it was just as logical that Jeremy and Sophia would look for Tumbler there. It would be a simple matter for Charlotte to bump into them as they came down the hill.
And Charlotte’s gamble had paid off; with most of the town at the fair, few would see her on the deserted road. She had pretended to be scared; she had lured, or tried to lure, both Jeremy and Sophia to the church.
To what end?
Was Charlotte their murderer? Had she killed Andrew—her lover—and then Stacks and Bertha?
Was she now going to kill Jeremy?
Sophia nearly tripped, awkward in her distress. She could hear the men behind her running to catch up.
“There’s trouble ahead,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I may need your help!”
One of the men kept calling her name as if she were a runaway puppy. She did not have time to stop; no time to explain further. She needed to get to Jeremy. He was in grave danger, she could feel it in her bones.
Sophia hurried up the road, breathless as much from fear as exertion, and then rounded the boulder. There the grass had grown tall but had recently been crushed and bent—as might happen when ridden over by a carriage.
She wanted to see the carriage—Jeremy’s rented carriage—returning. It should be coming back down by now, with a frustrated but hale and hearty Bow Street Runner at the reins. He would be annoyed about the wild goose chase. Charlotte would be flustered because she had failed … but what was she trying to do? Compromise Jeremy? No, Charlotte was interested in William. She wanted to be a mistress of a grand estate … like Allenton.
Then why? If Charlotte was the murderer, why would Jeremy be on her list? Had he discovered something that incriminated her in Andrew’s murder?
Try as she might to villainize Charlotte, Sophia could not see the young woman stabbing Andrew or Bertha or feeding Stacks a poison. No, it didn’t make sense. None at all.
A sound broke through her thoughts. It was a rumble and snap—not close by but not distant, either.
Sophia scanned the hill and listened again. The lea was broad and seemed deserted. No other sound reached her, certainly nothing loud enough to be heard over her own heavy breathing and the footfalls of the men behind her.
Finally, the top of the bell tower came into view. As she crested the hill, the sizable meadow was dominated by the large ruin of a gothic church. Abandoned for centuries, the front door was gone. Crumbled walls exposed the arched backbone down the length of the nave, and the stairs leading up the tower were visible even from the far side of the meadow where Sophia stood. What had once been an area set aside for carriages of parishioners was now dotted with undergrowth—bushes, shrubs, weeds—and a carriage.
Sophia blinked. She came to an abrupt halt and squinted across the distance. She could not see Jeremy. Where was he?
A figure moved closer to the carriage, a figure in soft pink. Charlotte.
Picking up her skirts once more, Sophia ran. Her boots pounded the path—grasses tried to trip her up, but Sophia plowed through them all. She was focused and determined. She would chase Charlotte. She would get answers.
Even as she watched, Sophia saw Charlotte step into Jeremy’s carriage; she flicked the whip, and the horses started off in a casual trot. The nerve!
Sophia wanted to call out, wanted to scream for answers, but she knew better. She would bide her time. The only way out of this meadow was the path on which she stood.
With a twist, Sophia pivoted. The three men were running in tandem behind her.
“Spread. Out. Hide,” Sophia panted, putting her hands on her waist. She bent, briefly, trying to catch her breath. “Don’t let her get away,” she puffed, pointing to the carriage that was approaching.
They must have felt her urgency, as they immediately separated and spread out across the path and then hunkered into the grass, hidden among the weeds and bracken.
Turning back to face Charlotte, Sophia watched as the vehicle grew closer. Hooves pounded the ground in a quick rhythm, drawing ever closer. Sophia wondered if she could grab the bridle as the carriage passed. It was dangerous, but Sophia was desperate.
She had to find Jeremy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Catch Me!
Jeremy flicked the reins to encourage the horses into a quick trot. He wanted to get this detour over with as soon as possible. He didn’t like leaving Sophia on the side of the road; it felt wrong, despite her reassurances. He would rush to the Priddy house and hurry back. With luck, he would return to Sophia before she was even halfway down the hill.
Trying to hide his anger, Jeremy stared at the road ahead. He was frustrated, irritated, and generally annoyed with Charlotte. She had manipulated Sophia out of the carriage with deft maneuvering, and the last thing he wanted was private time with the reverend’s daughter.
As they approached the turnoff to the Priddy property, Jeremy slowed the horses and then brought them to a stop just after the boulder. “This can’t be right, Miss Dewey. The road is overgrown. No one has been down here in a dog’s age.”
“It does look rather deserted. Perhaps there’s another way in, a secondary drive or path … but this is where Mrs. Priddy said to turn. She made a point of mentioning that rock.” Charlotte pointed to the boulder. “I should think she would know how to get to her own house.”
“I think you’ve been sent on a wild goose chase, Miss Dewey. But … I suppose we can go a little further to verify.”
“Oh, thank you. I would hate to have to explain to Mrs. Priddy that we did not continue down her road because of its deplorable condition. It would be insulting.”
With careful steering, Jeremy kept the carriage on the road and plowed through the long tufts of grass. He undertook a comfortable pace past the boulder, and they crested the hill safe and sound, but what met their eyes was not the Priddy house. Indeed, it was not a house at all.
A stone church, aged by centuries, stood in a dilapidated state at the far end of the clearing. There were no intact windows or doors or, for that matter, a roof. Ivy hung from arched rafters, vines fingered into the cracked stones and the ground was strewn with mortared rocks. The bell tower that rose high above the arched entrance was all that remained in reasonable repair. Stairs leading up were visible through the opening due to the lack of doors.
Frowning, Jeremy stood on the foot rail as the horses continued to plod forward. He twisted left and then right, scanning the edge of the forest, looking for any hint of a cottage or dwelling other than the church.
“Oh dear.” Charlotte, likely vexed, snorted. She waved toward the church. “Behind perhaps?”
Shaking his head, Jeremy sat back down and guided the horses to the church. He pulled them up near a tall collection of fallen maso
nry, a temporary stand-in for a hitching pole. “The road is worse here; pocked with holes and parts of the church have tumbled into the grass. I’ll have to check the rest on foot. Stay here, I’ll look—”
Charlotte slid off her seat before Jeremy had finished his sentence. “The church is so pretty. I might want to sketch it one day. I’ll just take a quick peek inside, I’ll only be a moment.”
“If you wish, Miss Dewey. However, it would be more productive if you helped with the search first—”
“I’ll be right there,” she said, and with great enthusiasm rushed toward the church, leaving Jeremy sputtering with frustration, and the ham abandoned on the carriage floor.
If it were not for his obligations as a gentleman, Jeremy would have turned the carriage around and started back down the hill right then and there. He wanted to get back to Sophia. He was almost certain that she would not have encountered a murderer on the way back to West Ravenwood, but there was just enough of a doubt that he was anxious to return to her side. She could take care of herself—she was rather adept at it, in fact—but she was also adept at getting into trouble.
A squeal from inside the church drew Jeremy out of his thoughts. Charlotte was behaving like a child—they were preforming an act of charity, not taking a jaunt. Frivolity was unseemly.
With another huff of frustration, Jeremy wended his way around several scraggly bushes, ignoring the happy chortles echoing through the nave of the church.
“Mr. Fraser, you must see this!” Charlotte called from within. “There is an engraved stone on one of the walls. Come tell me what it says. I think it is in Latin. You know Latin, don’t you, Mr. Fraser? All well-educated young gentlemen know Latin.”
As Jeremy had already walked around to the other end of the church, he stuck his head through one of the nearest windows rather than go around to the door. Overlooking the apse, Jeremy glared at Charlotte’s back. She stood in what used to be the center aisle of the church; her soft pink gown contrasted sharply with the cold gray tones of the stone pillars and half walls.
“I’m not in a Latin reading mood, Miss Dewey,” Jeremy said, watching her jump and whirl around in surprise. When her eyes met his, she smiled—an insipid display that was most unappealing. “We need to find the Priddy place before we do anything else.”
“I can see through all the windows.” She gestured toward the gaping holes in the walls. “But I have yet to see a cottage. However, there is a better vantage point, which can offer us a view in all directions: the tower. Yes, come check out the view from the tower. I’m sure with the two of us looking, we’ll be able to spot the Priddy cottage in no time.”
Giving the meadow one last glance, hoping—to no avail—for the magical appearance of the Priddy cottage, Jeremy stepped through the window. It took little effort, as the sills had rotted and the stone below them crumbled. It was now no more than a two-foot barrier.
“I don’t think a higher view will make a nonexistent cottage suddenly appear,” Jeremy said dryly. “We’re in the wrong place, Miss Dewey. Your directions were off. Let’s go back down to West Ravenwood, pick up Miss Thompson, and ask after the Priddys. Besides,” he started to say when he heard Charlotte’s footsteps hasten to the front of the church.
“Besides,” he repeated louder, calling after her. “The supports to the tower might have crumbled. Best—Miss Dewey, don’t go up yet, wait!”
Jeremy dashed across the stone floor to the front entrance hall just in time to see Charlotte’s skirts disappear around the corner on the first landing of the bell tower. With a quick glance at the stone columns beneath the stairs, Jeremy shook his head and took a deep, calming breath. He no longer needed to rush; the supports were well preserved, and though the pillars showed signs of age, they were not about to collapse. He followed Charlotte into the tower.
The staircase was wide, the treads worn down in the middle from countless footfalls. At each of the three landings, windows were placed high on the wall. Unfortunately, the windows were small, and while they offered light, they didn’t provide any view.
The stairs led to a roofless, crenulated enclosure of considerable size, and as Jeremy stepped out into the open, he saw a figure seated opposite and nearly tripped.
Across from the stairs, Charlotte Dewey rested on a stone bench that was clearly feeling the effects of the weather and age. The deteriorating wall behind it showed signs of decay, missing several large chunks of mortar.
“Careful, Miss Dewey, the wall is crumbling,” he said, lifting his hand in warning.
Turning toward him, Charlotte lifted her chin. “I’m hardly a child, Mr. Fraser. I know what is safe and what isn’t.” She turned back to the notched wall, leaning out in what Jeremy considered a foolhardy fashion.
“Besides, you would catch me, wouldn’t you, Mr. Fraser? Oh dear, oh dear, I’m going to fall!” she said, flailing her arm in a dramatic but unconvincing manner.
Slowly, Jeremy stepped closer. “You’re smarter than that, Miss Dewey. You would not take such a chance.”
Charlotte turned back toward him. “How do you know? We’re virtually strangers.”
And then she smiled. It was a most unappealing grimace and gave Jeremy pause. Something was not right.
Charlotte’s eyes were focused on something behind him, and her churlish expression had disappeared. In its place was a look of triumph—a gloating sort of smirk.
“What is this about?” Jeremy asked. His heart pounded out an accelerated rhythm even as he stilled, listening to the stealthy footfalls behind him. “Is this a prank? Do the Priddys even live in West Ravenwood?”
Without waiting for an answer, Jeremy whirled around, arms raised in a defensive position.
He didn’t know what to expect, but Mrs. Curtis would not have been his first—or tenth—guess.
As he turned, the housekeeper swung a wide plank at his head. But it was heavy, and missed when Jeremy jerked back; the board smashed painfully into his shoulder instead and pushed him to the ground.
Mrs. Curtis stepped closer and swung the plank again at his head. Jeremy rolled onto his back, but rather than deflecting the blow, he grabbed the board and ripped it out of her hands. He tossed it to the side with a great heave and watched as it sailed over the crenelated wall and clattered to the earth below.
Mrs. Curtis’ look of surprise was priceless—surpassed only by that of Charlotte, who stood opposite the housekeeper. Mrs. Curtis recovered first, pulling out a sizable knife that had been hidden in the folds of her black skirts. Holding it in a white-knuckle grip, Mrs. Curtis lifted the weapon and brandished it at Jeremy.
Still on the ground, Jeremy watched the slow hypnotic movement of the knife until it came to a menacing halt.
The housekeeper glared at Jeremy as she spoke. “Where is Miss Thompson, Charlotte?”
Surprised by the familiar address, Jeremy swiveled his head toward Charlotte.
“I tried to get her to come, didn’t I, Mr. Fraser?” Charlotte circled around Jeremy to where Mrs. Curtis stood blocking the stairs—the stairs down to freedom and safety. “But she would not be convinced. We left her on the road just before the boulder.”
“Did she see you? Did Miss Thompson see you, Charlotte?” Mrs. Curtis asked, still staring at Jeremy. “Ah, ah, Mr. Fraser, stop. I can see what you’re doing. Stay right where you are.” She straightened her arm—the one holding the knife.
Jeremy took a sharp, silent breath and leaned back, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He looked at Mrs. Curtis with new understanding as the clues fell into place.
Someone in the house. Yes, who better than one of the guiding forces of the domestic staff? The housekeeper could go anywhere unquestioned—to the attic for a toy, into the kitchen with poisons, to the library to find a book. Grabbing a rifle from the gun cabinet might have required some implausible story if she had been caught … but she hadn’t been. Yes, Mrs. Curtis was perfectly placed to mete out her murderous mission.
But why? Why w
ould she do such a thing? And where did Charlotte figure in this whole mess?
He stared at the knife, somewhat unnerved. His training had not covered the threat of physical violence.
“A knife? Really?” Jeremy snorted. He tried a derisive laugh, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. Mrs. Curtis was in lunging range, and she held the knife with well-practiced ease. “I thought a rifle was your weapon of choice.”
Mrs. Curtis lifted the corners of her mouth in a slow, calculated smile. “As you know, rifles can be woefully inaccurate. Especially shooting through glass.”
“And unwieldy, at times.”
“Exactly,” the woman said calmly. “I’ve learned to rely on a good sharp knife. Gets the job done every time.”
Jeremy nodded. “Good to know.” He shifted his balance. “I’m getting up now, Mrs. Curtis. The stones are eating into my hands and it’s rather painful.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, using his movement to stealthily grab a stone from the ground and hide it in his palm. The two women stood between him and the stairs, and he wondered if he could barrel past them to escape. He glanced at his forearm, assessing the number of layers of material that would protect him from the blade of Mrs. Curtis’ knife.
Again, Mrs. Curtis spoke to Charlotte without looking away from Jeremy. “Did Sophia see you leave with Mr. Fraser, Charlotte?”
“Of course Sophia saw me. I tried to get her up here as well, but she didn’t want to be squished in the carriage.” Charlotte turned to Jeremy with a sour look. “Why did you have to hire such a small vehicle?” She shook her head and frowned. “Sophia said she would walk to Allenton Park. She hasn’t had time to get back to the main road yet, she—”
“Go, now! Stop her from getting any further.”
“No!” Jeremy said with more emotion than he intended. He took a calming breath. “You don’t need to fetch Sophia. She doesn’t know that you were involved in any of this, Mrs. Curtis. And we did not suspect Charlotte. Nothing has changed. Sophia doesn’t know anything. Let her be.”
