The Secret of the Three Fates E-Book

Jess Armstrong

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

October, 1922. Ruby Vaughn's octogenarian employer and housemate Mr Owen said the trip to Manhurst Castle in the Scottish Borders was to appraise some illuminated manuscripts for their bookshop. However, the truth soon unravels along with the decades-old secrets he has been carefully hiding. For Mr Owen, whose son Ben was killed in the Great War, is desperate to speak to him again and a trio of mediums billing themselves as The Three Fates are the answer to this keen wish. However, as the candle smoke from the séance clears, Ruby finds a body and discovers that she and Mr Owen are the prime suspects. In a desperate bid to clear their names, they must uncover the truth about the killing even as they realise someone is determined to prevent them at all costs.

Leseprobe

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THE SECRET OF THE THREE FATES

JESS ARMSTRONG

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For Lynne, who lights up my life

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Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter One: Sic Semper Tyrannis Chapter Two: Enter, the Three Fates Chapter Three: An Ounce of Truth, No More, No Less Chapter Four: Medium Trouble Chapter Five: A Midnight Swim Chapter Six: An Unpleasant Surprise Chapter Seven: An Unexpected Party Guest Chapter Eight: Secret Confessions Chapter Nine: A Tale of Two Bullies Chapter Ten: Lady Detectiving Chapter Eleven: The Hunt Begins Chapter Twelve: Setting The Scene … or Perhaps Unsetting It Chapter Thirteen: The Questionable Efficacy of Locks Chapter Fourteen: A Mother’s Fear Returns Chapter Fifteen: A Coerced Admission Chapter Sixteen: A Spot of Golf Chapter Seventeen: A Necessary Sacrifice Chapter Eighteen: Safe Harbour Chapter Nineteen: A Bad End Chapter Twenty: Quite the End Chapter Twenty-One: A Curious Discovery Chapter Twenty-Two: Rivenly Chapter Twenty-Three: An Unrepayable Debt Chapter Twenty-Four: Forti Nihil Difficile Chapter Twenty-Five: Persephone Visited the Devil Chapter Twenty-Six: A Second-Chance Séance Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Twist of Fate Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Spirited Guest Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Feint … of Sorts Chapter Thirty: A Fetid Discovery Chapter Thirty-One: Ghosts Chapter Thirty-Two: An Unwelcome Intrusion Chapter Thirty-Three: A Tiny Problem Chapter Thirty-Four: The Bitter End Chapter Thirty-Five: And into the Fire Chapter Thirty-Six: The Prodigal Daughter Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ablutions and Absolution Epilogue Acknowledgments About the AuthorBy Jess Armstrong Copyright

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Chapter One

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Manhurst Castle, Scotland, October 1922

I was going to murder Mr Owen, there was simply nothing for it. Blood thrummed through my veins as I looked up at the librarian of Manhurst Castle, struggling not to lose my temper. It certainly wasn’t this man’s fault that I’d been brought here under false pretenses. No, that blame lay squarely at the feet of my octogenarian employer who was currently enjoying his midmorning nap.

‘What do you mean there are no illuminated manuscripts?’ I asked for the second time, my voice far more strained than I intended.

Mercifully, the young man remained unaware of my rising ire as he turned back to the dark mahogany bookcase behind him, pulling the newest copy of Debrett’s guide to the peerage from an overburdened shelf containing every edition published from the company’s eighteenth-century inception to now. He set it on the long low study table beside me. In a desperate hope that the young man had forgotten a cache of illuminated manuscripts secreted away with the most recent month’s serial novel, I scanned the spines of the next nearest shelf. Mostly modern fiction alongside some late-nineteenth-century poetry. Nothing awe-inspiring. In fact, there wasn’t a single interesting book in this library – ­it was a rather insipid collection all told. As if someone hastily purchased 8everything from a rummage sale in an attempt to fill the empty shelves.

‘I told you earlier, Miss Vaughn, there are no illuminated manuscripts left in the collection. The lot of them were sold off two years ago, not long after Mr Sharpe took over the estate. I understand they paid for the renovations here.’

My attention snapped back to the young librarian and I blew out a breath, my eyes lingering on the most recent copy of the who’s who of the peerage on the tabletop. A more generous soul might assume that Mr Owen had simply got his estates mixed up. After all, he was in his eighties and I’d known plenty of other folk his age – ­younger even – ­who had begun to forget harmless little details like that. Though Mr Owen never forgot anything – ­an annoying habit of his.

Besides, even if he had got his estates confused, it didn’t explain the telegram in my pocket offering said missing manuscripts for sale. No. I was certain that Mr Owen was up to his old tricks again.

‘Is there anything else here Mr Sharpe is thinking of selling? Perhaps there was some mistake …’

The librarian shook his head, glancing to the open door leading into the main hall of the hotel. ‘Nothing, miss. I was as surprised as you were when you came in asking for them this morning. Mr Sharpe sold everything of value from here not long after acquiring the estate. From what I understand, Manhurst Castle was falling apart when he bought it –  and it took everything he had and more to fix this old place into a resort suitable for the sort of guests we entertain.’

‘You’ve not been here long then?’ I raised a brow.

He shook his head. ‘I come from Edinburgh, miss. I was hired on earlier this year when the resort had its grand opening. Mr Sharpe believed that any proper estate ought to have a librarian.’

I couldn’t argue with the elusive Mr Sharpe on that score. A 9nagging worry lingered as I unfolded the telegram that Mr Owen had handed me the morning we left Exeter and offered it to the librarian. He took it from me, reading it with a frown.

Have a dozen twelfth-century manuscripts for sale. Please come at once. M. Sharpe.

The young man reached up, rubbing at his smooth-shaven jaw. ‘That is peculiar, miss. Very peculiar. I shall ask Mr Sharpe about it, but feel free to take your time to look around. I warn you not to get your hopes up; if there was anything of value here –  I’d know it.’ He looked again at the door behind me, scooping up the newest copy of Debrett’s and holding it under his arm. ‘I’d best be off. The dowager countess has requested this delivered to her rooms.’

I groaned at the mention of the horrid woman. Every time I’d come across Lady Morton and her young daughter, the elder avoided me as if I carried some twelfth-century pestilence. It was a wonder the woman needed the book at all. I’d assumed a soul as pompous as she would have the whole of Debrett’s memorised already. I fiddled with the telegram before folding it back up and thrusting it into my pocket. There was only one person who could illuminate our reason for being here, and he was currently upstairs taking a nap.

I rushed through the fashionably decorated hallways of Manhurst, recently redone in le style moderne. A stark contrast to the sparse Georgian exterior of the building. The lush green, black, and gold paper on the walls must have cost a fortune. There was no wonder this Mr Sharpe, whoever he was, sold off everything of value to fund the renovation.

Pillaging a library for wallpapering. The very idea made my skin crawl. I blew out a breath, brushing past a cadre of well-­heeled gentlemen coming in from a game of golf smelling irritatingly of sunshine and the Scottish hills. 10

The only positive of my morning’s discovery was that now we could board the first train back to Exeter and return to our bookshop there. Perhaps Mr Owen would feel more like himself once we returned home. As it was, he’d spent most of the forty-­eight hours since our arrival shut in his room, not even taking his meals with me, leaving me to wander the castle alone. Decidedly not my idea of a restful vacation.

The real puzzle was why Mr Owen had brought me here in the first place. It was unlike him to hare off after mysterious manuscripts without knowing absolutely everything he could about the seller. The old man was a born meddler, and possessed investigative skills that would put the Home Office to shame. He could sniff a fake from miles away –  so why would he have come all the way to Scotland for manuscripts that had been sold off years before? Mr Owen ought to have known they were not here the moment he received the telegram.

No. Something was amiss, and I was about to find out what.

My throat grew dry as I turned the knob on the door connecting our rooms.

Locked.

I rattled the handle as a frisson of tension inched its way from my palm up my spine and settled itself in my jaw.

‘Mr Owen …’ I rapped on the wooden panel.

Still nothing.

I waited on the plush crimson carpet for any sign of life from the other side but was met with silence. ‘Mr Owen, you’re beginning to worry me. Please open the damned door.’

Still no response.

He never locked the door in Exeter, not even when he was sick. Of all the times for him to get missish about privacy … My satchel sat on the dressing table and I took two steps in that direction with the intention of digging out my lockpicks, when I heard the hinges creak behind me. 11

Mr Owen appeared in the threshold, wearing his bright blue silk pajamas with a garish pomegranate-­and-­black dressing gown tied at his waist. His fluffy white hair looked as if he’d just awoken and my stomach unknotted in response.

‘Good grief, Mr Owen, I thought you were dead. Or worse!’

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. ‘It’d take more than this old place to do me in. You should know that, lass. Now, come sit and tell me why you look like you’ve drunk curdled milk.’

I huffed out a breath. All my worry from a few seconds before evaporated. He was fine. Fine. Mr Owen was the closest thing I had to family, as my own father had died upon the Lusitania seven years ago now, along with my mother and younger sister, Opal. At times it seemed a lifetime ago that I received word that their bodies had not been recovered, and yet at others it was as if I’d just received the telegram.

The telegram. Suddenly I recalled my reason for seeking him out in the first place. The missing manuscripts. I dug into my pocket and waved the folded-up paper at him. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

He wrinkled his nose and took it from me, holding it at arm’s length as he tried to read it without his spectacles. ‘Ah yes … that.’

‘Ah … that …’ I repeated dryly. ‘I take it there are no illuminated manuscripts here?’

He shook his head, then crumpled the telegram and stuffed it into his dressing gown pocket before turning and gesturing for me to follow into his room. As I entered, I caught a whiff of whisky – ­likely expensive stuff if his normal taste held true. His room was far darker than my own with the curtains pulled tight against the sun and the fireplace providing the only light.

I sank down into an old armchair with an irritated grunt. ‘I sense there is a reason we’re here, and that you didn’t just change your opinion on Scotland after all these years?’

He settled himself slowly into the chair across from me. His 12left hand trembled as he ran it over his white beard before picking up a half-­full glass of whisky. Its twin sat there on the table, equally full.

‘Was someone here with you?’ I glanced from the pair of whisky glasses to his face. The man had scarcely left his room since we’d arrived; I couldn’t imagine who he’d be entertaining in here. While I knew he’d grown up in Scotland, he had no family to speak of – ­at least none I knew of besides his litany of fictitious great-­aunts he’d pull out of his pocket whenever he needed to make a point.

‘Leave off, Ruby. It isn’t important.’

Of course it was important. Mr Owen never did anything without a reason, and I knew he had no desire to be here. His temper had grown shorter with every moment we remained at Manhurst Castle. Something about this place bothered him and if he wasn’t going to tell me, I’d have to figure it out myself. There was a faint scent of flowers in the air. Lavender perhaps. No, that wasn’t it. But I couldn’t quite place it.

I leaned forward, placing my palm on his forehead. It was cool and clammy. ‘Mr Owen, you are clearly unwell. It’s time we go home.’

‘Not yet, Ruby. Another night. We must spend another night here.’

‘Not yet?’ I almost squeaked, my hand flying into the air. ‘There is no reason on earth good enough for us to stay. There are no manuscripts, the entire library is devoid of anything even remotely interesting. I cannot fathom why you want to remain here when you are clearly miserable!’

He turned back to face me, brushing away at the moisture gathered in his eyes with his palm. ‘I take it you haven’t seen the papers yet.’

The skin at my neck prickled. Newspapers were the bane of my existence. I still recalled the glee with which the New York newspapermen had picked apart my every flaw after my disgrace. 13I’d been scarcely sixteen at the time – ­manipulated and misused by a grown man I’d believed to be honourable – ­but it made no difference to society that I’d been the victim. A proper girl would never … that’s how every backhanded comment would begin. For the truth didn’t matter to society, nor did it matter to the men who profited from my pain.

My expression must have betrayed me, as Mr Owen reached out, touching my hand tenderly. ‘No, lass, not those sorts of stories. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all. You are safe with me. I promise you that.’

I let out an amused sound – ­safe was a matter of perspective considering he’d nearly got me killed six weeks before on an errand to Lothlel Green. My relief was short-lived, as the meaning behind his words became clear. If it didn’t have to do with me, it had to do with him. ‘Oh no, Mr Owen … what have you done this time?’

He eyed his glass of whisky, tilting it in the firelight. ‘I did not think you would come with me if I told you the truth straightaway.’

Not again. ‘Told me what … Mr Owen, why are we here?’

He grimaced, picking up a folded copy of The Scotsman, turned it over, and laid it flat on the table between us, allowing me to read the advertisement beneath the fold.

The Three Fates, at Manhurst Castle for one night only.

Join them to commune with the dead. War widows.

Grieving mothers. Brokenhearted sweethearts.

Take heart and find your consolation and peace for ten pounds.

TONIGHT!

I stared at it in disbelief. Mediums? Mr Owen had brought me all the way to Scotland for us to commune with the dead? Anger. Annoyance. Dread. I wasn’t quite certain which emotion would win out. ‘You have to be joking. You’ve brought me here for a séance?’

He rubbed at his thick white beard and tapped the paper. ‘This 14is why I did not tell you earlier. You would have got all into a tizzy over it.’

I shot to my feet, hands on my hips. ‘I do not get into tizzies. It is perfectly reasonable to be annoyed when your employer lies to you and brings you to the middle of nowhere under false pretenses.’

He shrugged, his eyes not meeting mine. ‘I did not lie, Ruby. I obfuscated. There is a difference.’

‘I’m not in the mood for semantics this morning. Aren’t there plenty of fraudulent mediums closer to home willing to take my money from you?’

He harrumphed, not rising to the barb, as both of us knew that Mr Owen lived off my fortune. It was part of our agreement. I had free rein over the bookshop and permission to run his household however I saw fit, and his name was on the bookshop door in large painted letters. My money bought me anonymity and freedom – ­two things I treasured above all else.

But arguing with the man was not going to bring Mr Owen around. I leaned against the arm of his chair, softening my words. ‘You know as well as I do that they’re all frauds. I saw my share of their kind in France after my parents died. They’ll say anything to get your money. I thought we were in agreement on that …’

His jaw grew slack as he stared at me. ‘After all you saw –  after all that happened in Lothlel Green –  you still mock the other world? You doubt its existence?’

He had me there. A great many things happened in Cornwall a mere six weeks ago, things I didn’t dare think on at present. ‘I am not mocking it. I am simply pointing out that the dead are dead – ­they aren’t coming back. And whether I believe in ghosts is immaterial. What is material is that you lied to me to bring me out here.’

Mr Owen did not believe me. His bushy white eyebrows rose in unison. 15

I crossed my ankles, looking away. ‘Nothing happened in Cornwall out of the ordinary.’

‘Curses and witches aren’t out of the ordinary?’

Well … almost nothing. Mr Owen didn’t know half of what I’d found there when he sent me to deliver a box of books to his Pellar friend, Ruan Kivell. Nor did I even know what a Pellar was. I still wasn’t entirely certain, only that Ruan was a type of folk healer – ­a witch of sorts.

Mercifully, Mr Owen also remained unaware of the fact that Ruan could somehow hear my thoughts without me speaking, or the uncanny way I could sense his … well … whatever it was he did. I still was not certain how much I believed in the supernatural, but I did know that Ruan possessed … something. Something I feared to put to voice. He could do things. Things he didn’t understand nor could he control. Things unbound by the laws of science, at least any science I knew. And the less anyone knew of what he was –  the better.

A loud thunk came from the floor overhead, startling me out of my wayward thoughts and causing me to bite my tongue. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. ‘Damn.’

He arched an eyebrow in challenge. ‘No such thing as ghosts, lass?’

‘Very amusing. All I mean to say is that it’s well known about these types of women. They go to the most absurd lengths to wheedle well-meaning people out of their money. Goodness knows, I’ve seen plenty of them in my life, all of them telling me …’ That my mother lived. No, I couldn’t bring myself to speak it – ­not even to Mr Owen. Those horrible frauds had given me false hope for far too long.

‘It’s only …’ He paused, twisting a simple gold band on his finger. ‘Ruby, I need you tonight. Please don’t make me ask you twice. I do not think I’m brave enough to face the dead on my own, and I need you by my side.’ 16

My eyes widened at the rawness in his voice. ‘But Mr Owen, it’s not real. You can’t possibly be planning on –­’

He held up a hand, silencing me. The golden ring winked in the electric lights, catching my eye. ‘I must speak with my son.’ He pulled out a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The paper trembled in his outstretched hand.

Owen, I know it has been years since we’ve spoken but I have a message from Ben. He has come to me in my dreams. He is angry and will speak to no one but you. If you have any love for your departed wife, you will come. You will come and hear what your son wants to say.

L.C.

‘Who … who sent you this?’

‘Lucy Campbell,’ he said with a vague wave of his hand, as if that name meant anything to me. ‘In another life, I knew her well. She is a true spiritualist. The only one I’ve ever known to possess the gift of speaking with the dead.’

‘And she’s here … one of these Fates.’

He nodded. ‘She has a message from Ben. From my darling boy. How could I do anything but come to hear what he has to say?’

Mr Owen rarely spoke of his life before I came into it. I only knew the barest of sketches. Ben was the youngest of his children, and I got the sense his favourite. He’d been an aviator during the war and would have been about my age, had he survived. But he was shot down somewhere over the lines and wounded near the end of the war. By some minor miracle he managed to live through all that, only to die on a troop transport on his way back home.

‘I understand how you feel, Mr Owen, but how do we know that letter is any more real than the telegram we received about the manuscripts? Ten pounds for a public séance is an obscene amount 17of money. If this Lucy Campbell woman truly wanted to help you, wouldn’t she just meet you in private to deliver Ben’s message?’

Mr Owen’s eyes were glassy and bloodshot in the dim firelight. ‘I lost him once. I cannot bear to lose him again. I will not take that chance. I would offer up all the illuminated manuscripts in the world, burn each and every one until not a single page remained if it brought him back once more.’ A tear slipped down his face, running along the well-worn ridge by his nose, sealing my fate. ‘You of all people must understand that. If Ben has a message, I must hear him out, no matter the cost to me.’

He’d won this battle before it even began, touching that fathomless wound in me that refused to heal. I reached across the table, taking his wisened hand in my own, and squeezed. ‘Very well. I’ll go. But I won’t like it.’

‘And no scenes, Ruby. I mean it. I need you to be by my side for this. I depend on you, lass, more than you could ever know.’

‘Me? Cause a scene? I’d never dream of it.’ I struggled to keep my tone light, to bring him away from that dark place that he’d entered. Mr Owen needed finality – ­and that was the one thing I could not give, but perhaps these Three Fates could.

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Chapter Two

Enter, the Three Fates

That evening found me in a dreadful temper, terribly overdressed, and seated in the castle’s dimly lit ballroom. I’d racked my brain – ­and boot – ­for what might pass for suitable attire for a séance – ­a difficult task as I had not known upon packing that I was attending a séance. I was supposed to be appraising and acquiring a dozen illuminated manuscripts for Mr Owen. Perhaps finagling a discreet love affair once matters were settled with the books, should a suitable candidate show themselves. Someone pleasant enough to eradicate those unruly feelings I harboured for one Mr Ruan Kivell without causing any extra emotional entanglements. That’s exactly what I needed –  something to help me forget the irrational pull towards the peculiar man.

Tonight, I ended up settling upon an airy green-and-gold evening gown with a daring décolletage. Everyone else in the room was dressed in mournful shades of greys, lilacs, and black. Serge and wool. At least it was dark –  making my inappropriate attire less obvious –  but even still the gold threads caught the candlelight, sparkling in the shadows.

I shifted in the wooden dining chair, resisting the urge to tug on the seafoam silk of my skirt, and hide within the pathetically thin material. I’d never been skittish, but ever since my adventures in Cornwall, crowds made me nervous. It could be a mere gathering 19of ten people, and I would start feeling … rabbity … consumed by this primal need to flee before something larger came along to gobble me up, even though I knew good and well no harm would befall me in here.

A half-­dozen ancient silver candelabras were set around the perimeter of the room, throwing the centre into little more than shadows and shapes. All the better to disguise the sleight of hand that inevitably would follow. Two anemic electric lights battled the darkness, allowing the guests to find their way to their seats, while the candlelight danced in the breeze from the open windows. It certainly was a scene set for deception. One where strings became invisible, filament mistaken for ghostly renderings, and sticks rattling tables would remain unseen.

Mr Owen sat beside me, a grim expression beneath his full white beard. He frowned, lifting his hand to tuck a curl back into the gold cloth that bound my unruly brown curls. ‘Don’t think I don’t know how much it is costing you to come here, my girl.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk. Look at you. A man bound for the gallows, if I’ve ever seen one.’

‘I mean it, Ruby. I’m old and have seen and done far more than is wise. But you …’ He reached up, thumb lingering at the slight pink scar bisecting my eyebrow. He dropped his hands limply to his lap with a gruff shake of his head. ‘Never mind me. This place has too many ghosts, that is all.’ Mr Owen quickly changed the subject, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you see that man over there?’ He tilted his head to the far side of the very large circular table. The man in question was probably sixty or so, with typical patrician features. A delicate nose. Fine brows and fair hair that shone like burnished bronze in candlelight. At his side was a much younger woman, not much older than I, who looked as if a stiff wind would blow her over.

A hollow and brittle thing, putting me in mind of the fictional Miss Havisham, albeit not in her wedding gown tonight. Now 20that would be overdressed for a séance. ‘Who are they?’ I asked, swallowing down the amusing image.

‘The Duke of Biddlesford. Capital fellow.’ He leaned closer, finally getting a bit more colour again and spoke behind his hand. I’d heard whispers that a duke had arrived this morning, but I hadn’t crossed paths with him yet –  not that I particularly wanted to. I didn’t have much use for the aristocracy, nor they me.

‘Of course, the young lady next to him who looks as if she bit into an unripe persimmon is his second wife, Catherine. And before you ask –  I haven’t a clue why she looks miserable when she has more money than you. Perhaps marriage to old men does not suit her.’ He leaned closer still, whispering into my ear, with a nod towards the dowager countess. ‘I’m honestly surprised Lady Morton is here at all. I heard rumours that she was angling to be the second Duchess of Biddlesford before he settled on that one.’

I raised my brows. ‘How is it that you are better versed in the history of the people in attendance tonight than I am, when you have scarcely left your room for five minutes in all of two days?’

He gave me a pained look, laying a hand on his chest. ‘You wound me, Ruby. How am I to acquire their treasures if I don’t know what secrets they’ve hidden in the attic?’

I laughed, earning me a cross look from Lady Morton, who was reluctantly seated only a few places to my left, alongside her daughter, Lady Amelia. The girl couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, still with the vestiges of childhood on her face.

Mr Owen squeezed my hand, drawing my attention back to our conversation. ‘I knew Biddlesford a lifetime ago, back when he was a boy.’ He grew wistful as he watched the duke.

‘When you lived in Scot—?’ I started to ask but my words died away as my attention was caught by an old man who had sat down directly across from me. His angry expression stole all the light from the room. The fellow’s grey hair was scraggly, falling loose about his shoulders. Gauging from the fine cut of his coat, he had both 21means and access to an enviable tailor, even if he lacked a decent barber to go with it. Likely some lesser aristocrat considering the rest of the company here. Though one could never tell; after all, Mr Owen and I were also in attendance and didn’t have a drop of aristocratic blood between us. I drew in a shaky breath then a second, tapping my thigh beneath the table, desperate to will away the slow creeping panic clawing its way up my throat.

‘Who is that?’

‘No one to concern yourself with.’ Yet the tense muscle at the edge of Mr Owen’s jaw told me this was another prevarication.

A younger man came in, pulling a spare chair from the wall to settle himself beside the scraggly haired fellow, drawing the man’s focus from me at long last. The addition of the newcomer caused the seats to shift, putting young Lady Amelia beside me, to Lady Morton’s dismay. At least I didn’t have to see her disapproving glowers any longer. A small mercy.

There was something familiar about the fellow who’d just joined the group –  something in the shape of his eyes and line of his Roman nose, perhaps the geometry of the two together – ­but before I could ponder the question of his intriguing features any more, the electric lights to the room were cut, thrusting us all into the dark.

‘Right. Time for the ectoplasm and table shaking,’ I muttered.

‘You promised to behave yourself.’ Mr Owen whispered behind gritted teeth. His good humour from earlier had vanished.

I hadn’t agreed to anything.

Lady Amelia giggled behind her hand, casting me a curious look.

A low hum reverberated from somewhere outside the room and the air filled with the unctuous scent of incense –  dark and rich – ­putting me in mind of the old cathedrals I’d visited during the darkest days of the war, back when I still sought meaning amongst the devastation of life. 22

Three shrouded figures appeared in the doorway, processing into the room. The first bore a dove in a cage, fluttering noisily against its confines. The second, a pair of shears, and the third clasped a book tight against her chest. I’d give them high marks for maintaining the theme. Perhaps I’d get my ten pounds’ worth yet.

I reached into my pocket for the flask I often carried with me and realised that I’d left it in my room. Damn.

Sensing my turn of thought, Mr Owen cut me a sharp look and I dutifully retrained my attention upon the Three Fates. Their dark gowns were Roman in style, thin and light falling to the floor, and each wore a long black veil shielding their faces from view.

The low rhythmic hum grew louder, settling under my skin and embedding itself uncomfortably in my brain. Where was it coming from? I took in a slow breath and let it out again. Counting in my head. Fingertips drumming on my thigh. I’d been to war and back; surely, I could endure a single séance sober? But as the moments dragged on, a clawing sensation ran down my spine, followed by a cold flush to my face. I recognised it at once –  fear.

Run.

Run, child. Run.

The voice in my head was clear as if the words had been spoken aloud.

The first medium immediately swung her gaze to me, holding it for several seconds, before looking to each participant in turn with an unnatural jerk of her chin.

My throat clenched. Her movements were stilted, almost inhuman. Mr Owen clasped my hand, squeezing it against my own leg as one would to calm a fidgety child. This was absurd. It was theatrics, that’s all, and yet I could not escape the creeping dread that threatened to devour me whole.

By the time I managed to settle my thoughts, the three mediums had taken their seats around the table at twelve, four, and eight o’clock, splitting our group into equal portions. One by one the 23women lifted their veils. The first medium was very old, probably of an age with Mr Owen. Another possibly a decade older than me with fine features and auburn hair. And the third … 

When I looked upon the third, all my earlier fears made perfect sense. The woman’s distinct hawkish appearance and unusual eyes unnerved me as much now as they had the first time I saw her at the crossroads in Lothlel Green weeks earlier.

It was the White Witch of Launceton, and she was a very long way from home. The first time I laid eyes upon her, I thought she was a ghost. I had no idea I’d ever see her again, nor did I want to – ­for last time there was a murderer on the loose.

‘What is it, lass?’ Mr Owen whispered in my ear. His breath rustling my hair with his words.

I was unable to speak. The memories from my time in Cornwall struck hard and fast –  no more than fragments of thoughts –  of how she’d mysteriously appeared portending death and destruction only to vanish again like an ill omen. I stared unblinking at her pale face, unable to form the words.

The oldest of the three women began to speak.

Mr Owen took my hand in his own, squeezing tenderly, as did Lady Amelia, reminding me of what I must do.

Join hands.

Right.

I think that’s how it went the last time I participated in one of these ridiculous charades, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except the White Witch, and why she was here.

The youngest of the three mediums began to speak from where she sat on the far side of Lady Morton, the dowager countess.

‘Arthur. Arthur McTavish. Can you reach him, see why he called for me?’ Lady Morton asked.

McTavish? Now that was intriguing, my own curiosity at war with my sense of self-­preservation. While I wasn’t as versed in the aristocracy as Mr Owen, I was quite certain that the late Lord 24Morton was not named Arthur. Nor were they McTavishes. I chewed on my lip, curious about this turn of events despite the White Witch’s unwanted appearance.

She couldn’t harm me.

She couldn’t.

I simply had to make it through this farce, then I could find out what she wanted. And from the way she watched me, I was certain that I was the reason she’d come.

As soon as I latched onto my post-­séance plan, the temperature dropped precipitously. The room fell into silence as a strange lilting voice rang out. ‘He’s here … the one who betrayed me … he’s here.’

Mr Owen’s pulse galloped against my palm as he crushed my knuckles against his fingers.

‘What’s your name, spirit?’ called the youngest medium. Her voice bore a faint Russian accent. ‘Tell us your name.’

But the eerie voice continued, as if she had not heard the young medium’s request at all. ‘Boundless ambition. Boundless desire.’ The lilting voice called, the words neither spoken nor sung – ­hovering somewhere between. ‘Wanting and striving. Always wanting and striving. My love was not enough. Was never enough. Never enough.’

Mr Owen tensed as the voice echoed around us.

‘I tried to warn you. Tried to show you … but it was too late.’ The strange voice grew sharp, as the words died upon the lips of the eldest medium. It was she who spoke. Was this the Lucy Campbell that Mr Owen spoke of? The only true spiritualist he’d ever met. I swallowed hard, unable to look away from the scene before me. The old woman’s head lolled from side to side, her eyes rolled back into her head revealing only the milky whites. I’d certainly never seen anything like this in France. ‘But you … I know what you did. I know … what … you … did. And soon the world will know too. Too long have I lain in my stony tomb. Too long have you 25stolen my tongue. I will be heard. We … will … be … heard.’

The eldest medium’s expression contorted in pain as her body drew ramrod straight in the chair. Her eyes wide and sightless as her head continued to rock about on her neck like that of a newborn babe unable to control the weight –  white eyes moving from face to face to face with a terrifying liquidity I’d never seen in all my days.

The spirit was seeking something.

There was no other explanation for it.

My breath was visible in the coldness of the room.

The medium grew still at last, her eyes fixed upon me with an odd gentleness before looking away, craning her neck into an improbable angle. ‘There is nowhere on earth you can hide from the dead. We have not forgotten … we shall not forgive. The dead know what you’ve done.’

‘What do they know, spirit?’ Challenging a possessed spiritualist was likely a terrible decision – ­but she, it, had been looking at me before going on this tirade, and someone needed to take charge of this nonsense as things were quickly getting out of hand.

The unearthly voice softened as an icy breeze floated through the room, gently caressing my neck. ‘He knows you’ve come, child. He’ll be coming for you now.’

Who is coming?

I ought to be afraid – ­any rational person would – ­and yet I could not quite convince my body of what my mind knew to be true. Only a fool would argue with a ghost. But surely this séance couldn’t be real. Could it?

‘Who. Who is coming?’ I asked at last.

Her mouth grew round and her word came out in a hush. ‘Run.’ And with that final word the candles all snuffed out in the room, casting us all into the darkness and cold.

‘It’s Mariah!’ a man shouted from the far side of the room.

‘She’s returned.’ 26

‘Back … she’s come back …’

The voices began to bleed into one as the youngest medium rose to her feet, rattling the tabletop with her movement, struggling with matches that refused to light.

Someone else was looking for the lamps.

Lady Amelia squeezed my hand, causing my knuckles to ache. Her skin damp against mine. The room grew colder, as if such a thing was possible.

‘I left you the key, but you abandoned me. Why did you abandon me? Why did you leave me, my love?’ The old medium’s voice grew shrill as she called out into the darkness. ‘The key will tell all and then you – ­you will pay for your sins …’

At long last the youngest medium managed to locate the switch, and the room was flooded with artificial light, burning my eyes which had grown accustomed to the darkness.

The room warmed instantly, and the strange specter left as quickly as it had come.

‘Murderer!’ the scraggly haired old man across the table roared, leaping from his chair and lunging towards the spot where Mr Owen sat. ‘Murderer!’ he shouted again, waggling a bony finger at Mr Owen.

Mr Owen shrugged away from me, scraping his chair across the worn wooden floors, and fled the room as it descended into chaos. Everyone spoke at once, clamouring to understand what had occurred.

The oldest medium had gone utterly slack, her neck resting on the high back of the chair. A grayness settled over her features as she opened her fathomless eyes and looked at me.

This was not the face of a woman who was playing a con. No vapor or smoke tricks here –  nor silken scarves masquerading as ectoplasm.

My heart thundered in my chest as I heeded that warning voice at long last. 27

I ran –  scrambling through the sweaty bodies, struggling to make sense of what had occurred. Where was Mr Owen? I strained up on the tips of my toes – ­a benefit of my height I supposed – ­where I could make out a tuft of his fluffy white hair near the west wing doors. I darted through the crowd and down the hall after him in hopes of finding out what in God’s name had happened back there.

28

Chapter Three

An Ounce of Truth, No More, No Less

‘Mr Owen!’ I gasped, chasing him down the servants’ stair into the bustling kitchen, past the harried staff still cleaning up after supper. The old man didn’t slow his pace at the sound of my voice, if anything he quickened it, disappearing out into the rapidly cooling night.

Murmurs of what had happened at the séance had already found their way down here, if the curiosity of the staff was any indication. Muttering apologies for us both, I raced out of the kitchen, following Mr Owen past the ruins of the previous Manhurst Castle, which loomed in the moonlight, casting dramatic shadows in the night. The overgrown lawn was tall and dew-laden, soaking the silk and lace hem of my evening gown.

A stitch formed in my side as I climbed up and over the ancient wooden stile and headed out towards the lake where an old Palladian bridge connected this estate to the neighbouring one. Hawick House, I think it was called. I’d overheard the dowager countess whispering about it to her daughter, Lady Amelia, half in awe and half in warning. The place’s lurid history alluded to, but never mentioned outright. Something about a murdered countess or duchess or something. I wasn’t really paying attention at the time, as I was full up on murdered aristocrats after leaving Lothlel Green. 29

I could scarcely hear my own thoughts over my chattering teeth as I struggled on through the thick muddy ground, farther from the electric lights of Manhurst Castle.

During daylight, rolling hills and woodlands stretched out as far as the eye could see. With hidden streams that wended into dark and mysterious copses, the Scottish borders were a wild place where one could lose themselves –  disappear, never to be found again. At night, such wildness took on a far more sinister tone, as if all the bloody years of history here conspired to ward off intruders.

My left foot sank into a muddy animal burrow, twisting my ankle and sending a fierce pain up to my knee. I tumbled to the ground, hands and knees in the cold mud. My gown gave a loud rip at the impact.

Lovely.

Just lovely.

Wiping the sting from my hands, I got up and limped farther into the night. I could barely make out his silhouette in the moonlight. I glanced over my shoulder, no longer able to see Manhurst at all. We must have ventured onto Hawick grounds by now. Fabulous. Mr Owen would likely get me shot by some overzealous groundskeeper at this rate. It was dark now – ­with nothing but the moon and stars overhead to light our way.

A fox screamed in the distance. At least I hoped it was a fox.

Perhaps this was not the best of ideas.

Mr Owen paused outside what looked to be an iron gate leading into a walled garden. Something large rose up from within. A grave perhaps, or a monument? From this distance it was hard to tell which. My patience had worn thin and I didn’t care a jot about what it was. I was simply grateful he’d slowed down long enough I could catch my breath.

I found the old man seated on a bench at the far side of the walled garden. His shoulders slumped and his head was buried in the palms of his hands. The sight of him evaporated any remaining 30annoyance from chasing him halfway across Scotland. As usual. Weak and tenderhearted thing that I was.

The beast merely has to look at you, Ruby, and you will make a home for it in your heart. My mother’s gentle chiding suddenly came to mind and I brushed her voice away.

‘Mr Owen …’ I drew nearer. ‘What happened back there?’

He didn’t answer. His dark eyes remained fixed on the gravel path before him, leading towards the marble obelisk. The foxes were truly carrying on now. A second screeched, sending a chill down my spine.

Drawing in another breath of bracing night air, I tried again. ‘Mr Owen, please. Talk to me.’

Still nothing.

‘Mr Owen, for God’s sake, say something,’ I grumbled, running a muddy hand through my tangled hair. I must have lost my headscarf when I took a tumble in the grass. A problem for morning, as I hadn’t a hope of finding it in the dark.

‘Uncle. There you are!’

Uncle? I turned quickly and found myself face-­to-­face with the same fellow from the séance. Not the straggly haired one, but the younger man who’d sat beside him. The one with the cane and familiar patrician features. Well, that certainly explained things. The man was thin and slight, and of a height with me.

‘Ah, Andy, did Malachi send you to scold me for returning to Scotland as well? I didn’t think you ever put much stock into those old rumours.’

Mr Owen’s nephew laughed and drew nearer, his limp pronounced as he heavily favoured one leg. ‘I am only surprised it took Father that long to dredge up the murder accusations. I fear last time you were here he’d started into them well before teatime. Perhaps time finally is soothing his temper?’

Mr Owen let out a dry laugh, rubbing his hands together, staring into his palms. ‘Doubtful.’ 31

I looked warily at Mr Owen’s nephew. Up until this moment I had no idea he even was in possession of a nephew, nor a brother for that matter. Mr Owen had always guarded his secrets closer than gold.

Then again, if I had a sibling accuse me of murder in front of a room of more than a dozen people, perhaps I wouldn’t speak much of them either.

‘Miss Vaughn. Meet my ill-begotten nephew, Captain Andrew Lennox. Andy, this is my … this is Ruby Vaughn.’

Captain Lennox made a slight bow, shifting his weight onto his cane. ‘Miss Vaughn.’ His eyes grazed over my exposed shoulders, and he quickly shrugged out of his dinner jacket, offering it to me. Ordinarily I bristled at such outmoded displays of chivalry, but as I was wearing little more than a few damp scraps of silk and lace, I was too damnably cold to care.

‘Ruby works at the bookshop and lives with me in Exeter, taking care of the things that I’m too old to be bothered with.’ Mr Owen gave his nephew a meaningful look that I could not quite decipher.

‘I’d seen something of it in the papers about a month ago. It sounded like you’d got into a spot of trouble in Cornwall, Miss Vaughn.’ He was a decent enough looking fellow with short cropped auburn hair and features that put me in mind of the cliffs along the seaside. Craggy and sharp-hewn. It was a wonder I’d not noted the resemblance between the two men immediately. They had a similar set to their shoulders in addition to the uncanny physical resemblance. Mr Owen might have had forty odd years on his nephew, but beyond the lines in the elder’s face the only substantial difference was that Andrew had broken his nose at some point in time.

‘It’s been in the papers that you’d been spotted here as well, Miss Vaughn. It was how I knew my uncle couldn’t be far behind. I wouldn’t put it past Sharpe to have let them know you were coming 32in order to build excitement for tonight’s spectacle. Though Uncle Owen seemed to have taken the limelight all on his own.’

‘Nor would I, my lad. He’s a bit of an eccentric from what I hear,’ Mr Owen grumbled, continuing to rub his hands together between his knees.

‘Have either of you ever met this Mr Sharpe? I’ve been here for two days and I’m beginning to think I’m the only person in Scotland who hasn’t met him.’

Mr Owen grimaced. ‘He’s an American, lass. What more do you need to know?’

My brows rose in mock surprise. ‘Indeed. Two of us all the way out here?’

Captain Lennox laughed, a hoarse, rusty sound. ‘My father and I live nearby. We’ve not spent much time in his company but from what little I’ve witnessed, Sharpe is a perfectly affable fellow –  American or not. I hear he made his fortunes at the card tables. The luck of the devil and a consummate showman.’ Andrew turned to Mr Owen and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sure that’s all it is, Uncle. He likely paid the Fates extra for that bit of drama.’

Mr Owen harrumphed again.

‘Rather cynical of you. Besides, why are you certain what happened at the séance was false?’ My mind went back to the way the medium’s voice sounded and the liquidity of her movement – ­neither seemed natural. ‘It certainly seemed real enough to me.’

‘To me too, lass.’ Mr Owen patted my arm through the coat sleeve. ‘But Andrew comes by his scepticism honestly. Men of our line are terrible cynics. Always thinking the worst of everyone. Would suspect the motives of a saint. Speaking of the saints, how is my dear half  brother? Shouldn’t you be off soothing his delicate nerves instead of bothering with an irredeemable old devil like me?’ Mr Owen flitted his gaze between the two of us before turning his attention back to the monument. 33

‘He’ll bide. Besides, after that outburst I don’t care to speak to him myself. You know my father, all temper. I’d not even meant for him to learn you were here, thinking to avoid a spectacle like tonight – ­but you know how he can be.’ Andrew’s attention drifted to the monument. Neither he nor Mr Owen able to look away.

‘As much as I’m enjoying this lovely family reunion, could one of you please tell me what happened tonight? Who is Mariah and why are we out here in the cold instead of nice and warm inside Manhurst?’ My teeth chattered together, despite the meagre warmth provided by my borrowed dinner jacket. The sweet scent of roses flooded my senses, then disappeared again.

Mr Owen muttered something that sounded a lot like insufferable besom, the edge of his mouth curving up in a hint of a smile. Perhaps all would be well if he was hurling affectionate aspersions at me again.

I turned back to the marble monument where a woman’s profile had been lovingly carved in relief. Her delicate stone features almost glittered in the night. The craftsman who’d made this had been a master, capturing every detail with an uncanny reality. A work like this must have cost a fortune to have commissioned. I glanced down at the damaged plinth, where the plate had been hastily removed.

‘Forgive him, Miss Vaughn.’ Captain Lennox stood shoulder to shoulder beside me, studying the woman’s lovely face. ‘My uncle, he is … well, suffice to say the men in my family tend to be temperamental even at the best of times. I’d best see that he makes it back to the castle in one piece.’

I remained by the obelisk watching the two men disappear into the darkness before turning back to the marble bas relief, running my fingers over the woman’s finely chiseled face.

‘I suppose you aren’t going to enlighten me either, are you?’

But the stone woman kept her silence.

34