CHAPTER SEVEN

I spend the night awake, not because I fear my nightmares, although I am grateful to avoid them, even at the cost of my rest. I lay awake because I wonder how I might investigate my suspicions. It’s clear that Theresa suspects foul play as well, and working for this family for fifteen years, she must surely have heard the same cries Oliver has.

I should have asked her about this yesterday, but I don’t, and I don’t plan to ask her today. I don’t think she’ll tell me. Her worry for Sarah was touching, but by the evening, it’s clear that she won’t look any further for the missing maid. Unlike me, she has the ability to avoid entangling herself in a mystery she isn’t equipped to solve.

I still don’t have that ability.

But who do I ask? I don’t dare bother his Lordship. Cordelia might talk to me, but I don’t want to add to her stress.

I am at my wit's end. Fortunately, I have a friend who makes a career out of solving mysteries. That career is on hold while he establishes himself in Boston, but Sean O'Connell is first brought to my attention as a private investigator, and he has proven to be a very effective one.

I go to the bathroom and dial his number, hoping that if I speak softly behind closed doors, the sound won’t carry out of my room. He answers quickly.

“Mary? My God, how late is it over there?”

“So late that it’s early,” I reply. “Listen, I need your help.”

He is silent for a moment. Then he sighs. “Again, Mary?”

“Sean, I’m in no mood for your judgment,” I snap. “You haven’t had to hear a child complain of ghosts or watch an entire staff of servants quaking with fear for their missing maid.”

“So it’s a maid missing this time,” Sean replies. “Have you checked his Lordship’s bedroom?”

“This is no time for crass jokes. Sean, please. I’m serious.”

“So am I. You forget I lived in Britain for forty-two years. Trust me, there’s not a Lord or Lady in that House who hasn’t bedded every pretty maidservant they’ve ever had. Or ugly maidservant. Or manservant. It’s become a running joke in that country.”

“Well, it’s not a joke, and I fear that something worse than sex has happened to her.”

“And once again, it has to be you who finds out what.”

I rub my temples. “Are we really going to have this argument again?”

He sighs heavily. “No, we won’t. God knows I love wasting my time with you, but I’m a bit sore from the last time we wasted time.”

“Oh, go soak your head. Listen, I need you to look into Lord Blackwood’s history. Look into the history of the manor as well. Find out how many women have disappeared here.”

“A thousand-year-old castle in Northumberland? It might be easier to find out how many women have lived there who haven’t disappeared.”

“Sean—”

“All right, all right. You know I’m going to do it. Don’t get bloody pissy with me.” He sighs. “Tell me about this latest poor soul.”

“Her name was Sarah. I don’t know her last name. She went missing last night after taking the evening off to go on a date.”

There’s a pregnant pause before Sean says. “Really, Mary? Must I explain the birds and the bees to you?”

“I’ve already thought of that,” I reply, “but she hasn’t returned Mrs. Pemberton’s phone calls, and everyone says she would. I could see her being enamored and deciding not to come to work, but I can’t believe she would ignore multiple calls from people who care about her.”

“She would if she was having enough fun.”

“Will you please take this seriously?” I snap. “When have I been wrong before, Sean?”

There's another pause. That last remark must have finally convinced Sean of the seriousness of this situation because he uses a professional tone when he speaks again. "I'll look into this. It will take some time, but I can find information on Lord Edmund from Parliament records and go from there. Be patient, please. He's an Earl, and it's a delicate thing to investigate an Earl for wrongdoing. Even if he's innocent, it's a delicate thing to investigate wrongdoing in the vicinity of a high-ranking member of the peerage. In the meantime, please, please, please don't put yourself in danger. You're very far from home in the house of the most powerful man within two hundred miles in any direction. The Blackwood family has a history that goes back to the time of the Romans, and that still means something in that part of the world."

“I’ll be careful. It may be hard for you to believe, but I care for my charge, and I intend to be focused on his care more than on this mystery.”

“Is that why you’re calling me?” he challenges.

“Yes. I trust you. I know you’ll do good work. I can step away now knowing that you’re helping me.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Mary. I wish I could believe it.”

I roll my eyes. “I was going to tell you how much I missed you now that my business is out of the way, but if you’re going to be an arse—”

“I miss you too, Mary. I’ve gotten used to having someone else in my bed. It’s rather cold out here all by myself.”

I flush beet red. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is. I’m just brave enough to say it. But since you insist on being proper, I also miss our conversations over tea and the outings we take to the city.”

“Well, thank you,” I say drily. “It’s nice to know I’m more than a warm blanket for you.”

“Don’t underestimate the value of a warm blanket. The winters are long there.”

“Are you saying I should find someone else to keep me warm?”

“Honestly, Mary, if it keeps you from putting your life in danger over another bloody mystery, I’ll consider it the lesser of two evils.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re far too young to be this grumpy, Mr. O’Connell.”

“You age me.”

“Like fine milk,” I retort. “Good night, Sean. If you’d like, you can throw the comforter in the dryer for twenty minutes so you can sleep with a warm blanket tonight.”

He hangs up without replying, and I laugh. It’s a truly fine thing, romance. I rather hope that Sarah has thrown caution to the wind and given herself wholly to some lucky lad.

But as the American saying goes, hope and five dollars will buy you a hamburger. It now falls to Sean to see if we can learn what truly happened to poor Sarah.

***

I have broken a promise to stay out of mysteries so many times that I wouldn’t blame Sean for never trusting me again. I have no more success keeping this promise than I do any previous one, but I can’t be entirely blamed for that. The opportunity falls into my lap unasked for after breakfast that morning. It’s the weekend, and Oliver has no school. The day is unseasonably warm, and Lady Cordelia has decided to take him to the ocean for a walk along the shore. It seems she doesn’t fear Lord Edmund as much as my first impression suggests.

I plan to help Theresa with the chores since she is short one maid, but she asks for different assistance. “Miss Mary, I don’t mean to intrude, but could I ask you a favor?”

“Of course! I am at your disposal today.”

“Could you run into town and pick up some cleaning supplies for me? I normally have one of the others do it as I don’t drive, but since Sarah is… absent… I need Franny and Matilda to help me with chores.”

An idea comes to my head. I don’t let it fully realize quite yet. Perhaps I am afraid it will show on my face. “Of course. What do you need?”

“I’ll make you a list. It’s not too much, and I’ll send you with money. His Lordship has a budget for this. There’s a car too.”

“He has a car for the servants?”

Theresa nods. “We have to purchase supplies from time to time, and his Lordship’s driver has to be at his Lordship’s beck and call. So he’s purchased a wagon for us to use when we need it. If you go to the garage, Willem will give you a key. Go to the market in Tarly. It’s the first village you come to driving south along this road. It’s a little farther than Clifton, but the shopkeeper there is more honest.”

She hands me the list, and I head to the garage for the car.

Willem hands me the key, frowning darkly. Not at me. I can see in his eyes that he is concerned for the missing maid.

“Willem,” I ask, “do you know anything about the young man Sarah was dating?”

Willem shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, Miss Mary. We try to keep our private lives to ourselves. Makes for less awkwardness at work.”

I purse my lips. I have worked in many different environments in my life. In not one of those environments have people refrained from sharing nearly every detail of their personal lives. “So you’ve heard nothing?”

Willem sighs. His dark frown fades to a look of dejection and remorse. "People here are taught to stay out of everyone's business. We're taught that it's better to focus on your own life and not worry about others. I've always thought life is better when people are concerned with themselves and not mixed up in things that don't concern them. Now…" His shoulders slump. "We all heard her say he was a kind and sweet young man. We just took her at her word. I suppose we should have looked deeper into it."

He straightens and takes a deep breath. “Anyway, the police have interrogated him. I overheard the inspector say that he has an alibi. It turns out she never met him at the theater.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“Just so. He waited for her for twenty minutes after the show started. The theater’s cameras have him standing in the lobby. Finally, he went home. He called her and texted her, and when she didn’t answer, he assumed she wasn’t interested in him anymore. So it looks like he’s not the killer. But someone is. Maybe if we weren’t so private, we might know who.”

His shoulders slump again. “Anyway, here’s the key. It’s in stall ten.” He tries for a smile but fails badly. “Have a good day, Miss Mary.”

He walks away, and I make my way to the car, my thoughts even more disturbed than previously. There must be someone I can speak to who will have a better idea of what happened to that poor girl.

The car is a late model of what an American would call a minivan. Hardly luxurious but more than adequate for the needs of a household servant.

It’s only when I’m on the road to Tarly that my idea formulates in my head. I don’t mention it to Theresa, but I actually know where Tarly is. I drove through it on my way to the manor. It’s nine miles south of Blackwood Castle. The people there will surely be familiar with the goings-on at the manor. If anyone can confirm the potential history of disappearances here, it will be the townsfolk.

I reach the market fifteen minutes later. It’s a charming little shop that is most accurately compared to an American general store. In the smaller towns of England and most of Europe, in fact, shopping is rarely completed at a single massive supermarket. Shoppers visit the dairy, the butcher, the grocer and the market. Perhaps this is because shopping is considered a social activity here as much as it is considered a chore or a task.

I find evidence of this in the little shop here in Tarly. The proprietor is a kindly, bespectacled man with a burly frame, wire rimmed sunglasses and a long white beard that reaches his chest. It would not be inaccurate to say he resembles Santa Claus in all of the best ways.

He talks with another English stereotype, a rough-looking, middle-aged fisherman with powerful arms underneath sleeves rolled to the elbows. He clenches a pipe between his teeth, and I’m quite sure it remains there whether he has tobacco to smoke or not.

It’s not so much the men who interest me as the conversation I overhear. It seems I won’t have much digging to do to hear what the town’s understanding of Sarah’s disappearance is.

“D’ye think they’ll ever find the girl?” the fisherman asks in a thick Northumberland accent.

“Doubt it,” the proprietor replies in an accent not quite as thick. “They never find the missing ones.”

“What d’ye think ‘e does with ‘em?”

The proprietor chuckles. “What d’ ye think ‘e’ does with ‘em?”

The fisherman scoffs and flexes his hands. The muscles in his forearm ripple. “I’d like to have a go at ‘im, I would. Teach ‘im to treat people like they’re cattle.”

“Have a go,” the proprietor encouraged. “‘E’s a high lord, he is. What d’ye think’ll happen to ye? Won’t make it five steps through the front door before you’re taken. Then you’ll be one of the disappeared.”

The two men notice me and fall silent. The fisherman pushes off of the counter and tips his cap to the proprietor. “See you later, Gavin.”

“Aye.”

The fisherman tips his cap to me, then walks out. The proprietor smiles and rings up my cart. “Ye’re new here.”

“Yes. I’m the new governess for Master Oliver Blackwood.”

Gavin stops still. He meets my eyes, and the fear in his expression disturbs me. He plays it off and says, “Well, don’t be puttin’ too much stock in what ye hear around Tarly, love. It’s all ghost stories, anyway.”

I hesitate. The prudent thing to do would be to leave and not pry any further.

But as poor Sean will attest, I am rarely prudent in these circumstances. “Forgive me,” I say, “but I’m worried for Sarah. That’s the maid who’s gone missing. If you know something, please—”

“I don’t know but one thing,” Gavin interrupts. “And that’s this: Sarah ain’t the first girl to go missing in that house. She won’t be the last. But there’s nothing we can’t do about that. Best not to meddle with the affairs of a high lord.”

He hands me my bag and says, “Have a good day.” His tone makes it clear he’s not interested in further conversation.

His advice is sound, but as I say before, I am not good at being prudent when justice is at stake.

And now I know for sure that I’m not alone in my suspicions. Something terrible is happening at that castle.

And it’s up to me to find out what and put a stop to it if I can.