Chapter Thirteen. The Questionable Efficacy of Locks

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN

The Questionable Efficacy of Locks

ONCE inside my own room, I locked the door between us. A symbolic gesture at best as he had the key to open it from his own side. I simply needed time and space to adjust to what I’d learned today—neither of which I had. It would be all right. It had to be.

I allowed myself precisely thirty minutes of self-pity before I went downstairs to the kitchen to procure a plate for supper, and settled myself back at the dressing table with my notepad and a half bottle of wine. Hours passed while I sketched out what rudimentary information I had. Mariah and Lucy were sisters.

Both died.

Presumably at Manhurst, though that was less certain.

Mr. Owen was a viscount .

I underlined that bit before drinking down the dregs of my wine, licking a droplet from my lower lip. Now that was going to take a while to adjust to. My head ached and I finally looked up at the clock. It was half past midnight and I was out of ideas and desperate for someone to talk to—someone I could reasonably guarantee was not lying to me.

I started for the door, picks in hand, when I heard a sound outside. The rustling of feet on carpet then the sound of a latch catching. Odd. I cracked my own door, cautiously looking out into the darkened hallway in time to see Malachi Lennox walk away from Mr. Owen’s room and disappear down the stairs. What on earth could they have to say to one another? After what Mr. Owen revealed to me hours before—odds were if they were in the same room they were likely to come to blows and I hadn’t heard any commotion through the door.

Alas, another question to add to my notebook when I returned later this evening. Why is Malachi Lennox skulking about?

Shaking the thought away, I hurried down to Ruan’s room, knocking softly on the door. Pressing my ear against the wood panel listening for signs of life on the other side. Mr. Owen is a viscount! The knowledge irked me to no end. I waited impatiently for Ruan to answer.

Nothing.

I tapped again, hoping everyone stayed in their own rooms.

Still no response.

Why wasn’t he opening the door? It wasn’t that late. Besides, he seldom slept as the man was used to doctoring cows and cats and half of Cornwall.

I let out an annoyed huff of air and reached into my roll of lockpicks, pulling out the middle-sized one and inserted it into the keyhole, gently fiddling with it until I heard the click, and let myself in.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. A low fire was rolling in the hearth, casting the room in a cozy glow. Ruan was in fact asleep. His breath slow and even in the darkness and I was suddenly struck by the intimacy of what I’d done, but I couldn’t be bothered with that. I needed him.

Needed. I wasn’t going to think too much on the meaning of that word.

“Ruan. Ruan, we need to talk.” As I edged closer to where he was lying I realized that this might not have been the best idea. He was lying on his back, his chest bare and his left arm thrown over his eyes. His right arm draped lazily across his stomach, partially obscuring the trail of dark hair that disappeared below the sheet. I swallowed hard, casting my eyes dutifully to the ceiling before trying again.

“I need you to wake up.”

He shifted, groaning softly as he rolled over, the thin sheet slipping lower on his hips. I squeezed my eyes shut. Get yourself together, Ruby. He isn’t the first naked man you’ve seen. But he hadn’t agreed to be naked in front of me. Oh, why hadn’t I knocked louder? I’d been so caught up with Mr. Owen’s betrayal that I all but burst in on a man in his privacy. Good God. What else might I have interrupted? I squeezed my eyes tighter to preserve his remaining modesty.

“Why do I question the efficacy of locks whenever you are around…” There was an edge of humor in his voice.

“We need to talk.” The bedclothes rustled. Good. He must be sitting up.

“And you couldn’t knock?”

Eyes squeezed tight, I sighed. That was a very good question. I hadn’t really expected him to be asleep. “I did. You didn’t answer and this is important.”

“I’m wearing trousers. You can open your eyes anytime you’d like.”

The heat rose to my cheeks as I sank down in the chair beside the bed, hazarding a glance over to him. He did, indeed, wear trousers. He ran his hands roughly over his hair, doing little to calm the angry curls. My mouth grew dry, all my frustrations with Mr. Owen fading away into another entirely unrelated emotion.

Desire.

Lovely. Just what I didn’t have time for.

“Ruby.”

“Right.” I swallowed down my very wayward thoughts.

The edge of his mouth curved up and my stomach unknotted. He was back. The man I’d known in Cornwall. “Are you going to tell me what can’t wait until morning or must I start guessing?”

I’d nearly forgotten how much I truly liked Ruan. “He’s a viscount. A viscount!”

He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his face. “Who is? Besides, we have a duke, a countess. Why not have a viscount?”

I swatted at his bare arm. “Ruan, I’m serious. Did you know about him? That Mr. Owen is the Viscount of Hawick?”

Ruan either was an incredible card player or he’d had his suspicions. Suddenly I felt ill.

“No.” He reached up, touching my brow softly, a cool rush flooding my veins from the contact. “No. I didn’t know. I just am not surprised.”

Whether his words, or whatever it was he did when he touched me, it eased my mind considerably.

“I always knew he was hiding something. I just didn’t know what, and frankly didn’t care to ask.”

I wasn’t certain if that was better or worse. I drew in a deep breath and proceeded to tell him what I’d learned after leaving him by the bridge. He listened intently in the firelight as I left no detail unspoken. As I finished I looked up, waiting for him to say something. Really anything. Perhaps chime in with an oh, I know who did it! That would have been fabulous at this moment. We could tell the inspector and all go home.

“Owen doesn’t have any living children, does he?” Ruan asked.

“No. All his sons died in the war. Ben was his youngest.”

Ruan swore.

“What?”

The muscles in his jaw worked as he weighed his words.

“This isn’t good, is it?”

He shook his head. “You said that Andrew Lennox was the first to check the body after you pulled her from the lake?”

I nodded.

“And he took the revolver from the scene, returning it to you?”

I nodded again, not quite liking where Ruan was headed. Coldness sank beneath my skin as I watched him in the firelight. “You cannot possibly think that Andrew Lennox killed her. Why would he?”

“I don’t know, but if Owen is a viscount, then his nephew would be his heir. Andrew would be his heir.”

“But what would he stand to gain by killing her ? Why not just kill Mr. Owen?” The question gave me pause.

“I don’t know. I’ve never liked him, and never trusted him. He was a beastly boy at Oxford, I cannot imagine time has made him any better.”

“At Oxford? What were you doing at Oxford?”

Ruan let out a startled laugh. “What everyone else does at Oxford. Read books, sit examinations. Make questionable life decisions. Are you surprised by that fact?”

“I suppose not.” I had never asked about Ruan’s past. I didn’t like the place—at least my own—and as a result I tried not to muck around in other people’s either.

“I don’t speak much of it. It wasn’t a happy time in my life. A wealthy benefactor sent me up. It’s not unusual for clever boys to have a patron pay their way through school. I’ve never been ashamed of the fact I was a charity case—it was a better option than staying in the mines—that’s for certain. But it’s where I met Andrew. I never finished. I ah… left… midway through my last year there.”

“I’m sorry.”

His features were cast in shadow. “I’m not. I never fit in with any of the lads. I saw their world, realized it wasn’t for me, and when an opportunity arose, I went back home where I belonged.”

There was a sadness there, and I hated it. Hated everyone in the world who put that in his eyes. I reached out, taking his hand in mine, palm to palm. “I’m glad you’re not like them.”

He let out a sound of amusement and laced his fingers in mine. “You came here tonight to tell me that Owen’s a viscount and to remind me that Andy is a great arse?”

I let out a startled laugh and shook my head. “Yes… well… no, not entirely.” I pulled my hand from his, regretting the loss of contact at once, and withdrew the glass plate negatives from my pocket, careful of the broken edges. “I found these.” I handed them over to him. “Do you remember how I told you that I’d gone into Lucy’s bedroom looking for her the night of the murder? I went back today and the entire room had been ransacked.”

“You what ? After all that’s happened, you are still nosing around?” He sat up straighter and I noticed a silver chain hung around his neck, with a golden ring at the end. In the darkness I couldn’t quite make it out. Had he a sweetheart? Jealousy coiled in my stomach. Jealousy? That’s preposterous. I didn’t get jealous. I swallowed the sensation down, clearing my throat.

“Of course, I am. The authorities are convinced I’m involved, and someone has been trying to make it look that way. Besides, I didn’t come here to be chided by you. I came for your help.” I pointed at the negatives in his lap for emphasis. “So, yes. I am poking around.”

“And you think that sneaking around the estate stealing things will make you look less guilty.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You must be careful. This isn’t Cornwall. I can’t get you out of trouble here if you wind up on the wrong side of the law.” Ruan grumbled as he tilted the glass plates into the firelight, studying them intently. His expression grew comically horrified. “What are these?”

It seemed my country Pellar wasn’t quite as experienced with cabinet cards as I. “I’m not sure. I found them in Lucy’s room. I think it’s what her killer was looking for. What do you make of them?”

Ruan’s ears grew that endearing shade of pink again. “That your dead medium has very interesting hobbies.”

“Have you ever seen such a thing?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you really asking that question? To me this looks like some sort of club or group. See how they’re all wearing the same chain around their neck?”

I moved nearer to him, resting my hip on the arm of his chair, and looked down into the image in his hands. “I wish we had someone we could trust who could print the photographs. It would be a great deal easier to see what we’re working with.”

Ruan made a sound of agreement in his throat as he gingerly moved through the images, one by one, and indeed each of the men wore a chain around their neck which bore an odd resemblance to a livery collar.

“That seems uncomfortable.”

Ruan laughed. “You are the most astonishing creature I’ve ever met. I ponder about the existence of sex clubs and you are concerned over what they’re wearing.”

I stood quickly and began to pace the darkened corners of his room. He’d been here less than a day and the place even smelled of Cornwall. Of those herbs he’d have drying from the beam in his sitting room. “What if this is what Lucy wanted to tell me that night and that the answer to who killed her is in those photographs somehow? Lucy was afraid of something, desperate enough to meet me at midnight on a bridge. What I don’t know is what the images are supposed to tell me. Do they identify someone, or some place?”

Ruan leaned back, watching me as I tried to burn off the nervous energy taking over my body. “How does the séance fit in with your theory?”

I ran my hands roughly over my face, looking at him through my fingers. “It doesn’t. I’m still not certain if it was real. But Mr. Owen seems to think it was real enough. It felt real, Ruan. And you know I don’t ordinarily believe in ghosts but it certainly felt like a ghost.”

Ruan rose and walked to the wardrobe. From the shadows, I couldn’t help but admire the way the muscles in his back flexed with his movement. He certainly knew how to distract me from the point at hand.

What are you doing, you peculiar man?

“Finding a shirt.” He grumbled as he latched on to something in the closet. “As I presume you will not let me go back to sleep until we’ve looked at the medium’s room again.”

“No. I probably won’t.” My eyes lingered on the width of his back, and the deep scar that went like an arrow alongside his spine disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. What had happened to cause such a wound? It had to be nearly twelve inches in total, if not more.

Ruan coughed, tugging on the fresh shirt. “About that, twelve and a half I’m told. But it was nothing romantic, I assure you. A German soldier took issue with my men’s and my presence in his tunnel.” At times his ability to hear my thoughts was unsettling, but at others, like now, it was as if we spoke a language that only the two of us could understand.

“That wasn’t very charitable of him. I’m sure you were a perfectly well-mannered tunnel-guest.”

He laughed again, those creases from worry between his brows disappearing as he fastened the buttons one by one. My stomach churned at the thought of the scar—of the wound that had been dealt him. I’d seen soldiers with injuries like that that during my time in the war, back when I was driving an ambulance between the casualty clearing stations back to the main hospital in Amiens. I’d never seen a man survive a wound like that—certainly not along the rough road to Amiens.

“Evidently I’m a difficult man to kill. Now, what are you intent upon showing me?” Gauging from the tone of his voice, there’d be no more discussion about his past. Not today. Besides, we had more important things to do. Like break into a dead medium’s room.

I T HAD BEEN only a handful of hours since I’d left Lucy Campbell’s room looking as if it’d been raided by invading Visigoths—and yet somehow between then and now it had been fully cleaned, making me doubt my own memories. All the broken jars and pottery removed. Clothes tidily folded and returned to the wardrobe precisely as it should be. Even the carpetbag had been repacked, sitting in the middle of the dresser as if awaiting its mistress to finish the task and go on her way.

“You said it was ransacked.” Ruan folded his arms from where he stood in the doorway.

“It was.” I wet my lips, turning to face him as I gestured to the peculiar six-petaled flower carved in the wood. “What’s that?”

He stepped farther into the room, pushing the door closed to inspect the carving.

“That’s the image I saw on the bridge. She—someone—drew it in charcoal on the columns…” My mind flickered back to Andrew Lennox’s gray fingers from his sketching. Ruan had accused him of killing Ben and I’d disregarded it—but perhaps there was more to Mr. Owen’s nephew than met the eye.

Ruan let out a low chuckle.

“I don’t see what’s amusing.”

“It’s a hexafoil.”

“Yes, well. What is a hexafoil? I assumed it’s something related to the occult but I don’t believe I’ve seen one before.”

Ruan stared at me in disbelief. “Working for Owen all these years you haven’t come across a hexafoil? It beggars belief… Half the barns and cottages in Britain have these somewhere. It’s used to protect a person from evil spirits, witches, demons, and the like.”

“But you’re a witch.”

“Pellar, remember? Besides, they aren’t trying to protect against my kind. They’re concerned about harmful magic. I’m not sure I could do harmful magic if I tried. Besides, I always found them nothing more than a bit of folklore and superstition. No carving—no matter how pretty—will save you if the devil’s after you. You’d need something far more powerful than that.” He ran this thumb over the carved line and my reckless heart responded as if it were me he touched.

I opened my mouth to point out that to most people, Ruan himself would be considered little more than folklore and superstition but wisely held my tongue on that score. “The salt too… do you think she was worried about the spirits she summoned?”

“It does look that way.” Ruan bit his lower lip, green eyes full of pity for this soul he’d never met.

“But ghosts can’t harm anyone…” After all that I’d witnessed in the last six weeks, I couldn’t quite discount the theory as easily as I once would have. “Can they?”

Ruan exhaled, tapping his fingers on the wood.

“And you are having trouble with your abilities. You said you can’t hear me as well here…” I gestured at him, the words melting away. “Is this killer human or is it something else?”

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. The air between us growing sharp, taking on the vague scent of an electrical storm. He stayed that way for several seconds before he gave his head a grave shake. “The spirits are angry here. They’re as loud as I’ve ever heard them, even during the war. I think that’s why I’m having trouble hearing you. I reach out and it feels as if I’m on the edge of something, all the voices, they’re clamoring for my attention, pulling at bits and parts of me—they want something—but cannot speak its name. Ruby, it’s enough to drive one mad. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Everything here seems more…” He hesitated, taking a step closer to me, his eyes wide. “Even you.”

I swallowed hard. Even me. What was that supposed to mean?

He ran a rough hand over his jaw. “I’m not sure what is happening, but the spirits… they don’t trust it. Something has come to Manhurst, Ruby. That much is clear to me. I do not know what, but it’s as certain as the change of seasons.”

I shivered, fingers tightening on his arm. “Do they speak to you? The spirits…”

“Not in that way. The living, the dead. They all sound the same. A sense of foreboding. A murmur. A hush. But I can promise you that they didn’t harm the old woman.”

“Did they tell you that… just now?”

He laughed softly, tucking a stray bit of hair from my brow. “Haven’t you ever sensed the dead before?”

I shook my head. The only thing I was feeling right now was him. Not precisely the same thing. I stepped away from his touch and turned back to face the wardrobe. “I’m not sure I believe in ghosts.”

He started for the door. “Unfortunately, they believe in you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.”

And with that unsettling statement, he turned and left, leaving me to an old woman’s things and the horrible realization that once again I was in far over my head.