Chapter Thirty. A Fetid Discovery

C HAPTER T HIRTY

A Fetid Discovery

UNWELCOME things— feelings. I’d known I was infatuated with the irritating man since leaving Lothlel Green, and that sentiment had only grown worse since he appeared in Scotland. Once we were shot—and I was faced with the very real prospect of losing him—I realized that my feelings ran far deeper than mere infatuation. But feelings were not to be trusted—mine least of all.

Sentiment sorted—for the time being, I darted up to my room and grabbed a woolen cardigan and thrust my trusty flashlight into the pocket. The evening was growing dark, and I was determined to prove to myself that what happened downstairs had been a farce and to find that woman Ruan had spotted. She must be the answer to what happened tonight.

How do you explain the cold?

Oh, do be quiet. My never-ending cavalcade of thoughts were not aiding in finding the killer. I was unraveling—minute by minute—and I needed to find a rational explanation. What did it matter if Ruan had seen a woman that I had not? A woman that I ought to have been able to see from where I sat.

My breath was visible in the night air as I hurried along the beaten path toward the dining room’s window, desperate to find a pulley or cord. Anything to reassure myself that it had all been a show. I slowed my step, flicking my anemic light over the ground, looking for clues of human involvement. The ground here was damp and muddy—granted, everything at Manhurst was vaguely damp and muddy, reminding me of the inside of a cave. The benefit to said state was that it ought to show if someone had been here. But no matter how I looked, there were no obvious footprints, nor any sign of a tie or contraption to cause it to slam with such force.

This did not bode well for my hoax hypothesis. I turned back to the inky night sky where the ruins of the old castle loomed in the shadows. This was where Ruan had been staring, where he’d seen a woman.

Well. He’d seen something .

I rubbed absently at the aching scar on my chest. What if Genevieve had not been pointing at me at all during the séance? What if she had been looking past me and pointing toward the ruins instead? I’d scarcely explored them, having been inside only the once—when I’d spoken with Andrew Lennox. I’d not looked around at all. What if that was where the secrets lay? The ruins certainly would have been here during Mariah’s time.

I darted off through the damp grass toward the earthen footbridge leading into what was once the main keep. Overhead a cloud of rooks soared up into the night sky, disturbed by my approach. The sound of their flapping echoed off the broken stone walls.

The air here was all wrong.

I sniffed again.

Not wrong—it smelled of death. That strange sweet undercurrent of decay that sent my stomach into free fall. I’d thought it my imagination when I’d been in here several days before, but perhaps it had only begun to smell then.

I was going to be sick.

From the ramparts above the lone remaining pair of birds began to heckle me, calling down as I walked deeper into the keep, searching for the origin of the scent. It was stronger near the back, where a narrow passageway went between the old stone walls leading to the left turret. The opening was barely wide enough for me to walk through with my shoulders brushing each side. Ruan would have to turn sideways at places to make it through here. Slits intended for arrows pierced through the thick walls, allowing in only the faintest moonlight to illuminate my path.

The scent was far more intense now.

My eyes watered.

I ran my light over the floor and walls, but there was nothing out of order—at least out of order for a ruin . The ground was littered with stones from where the ceiling had given way over time, making it difficult to traverse, but such things were to be expected when a place was slowly returning to the earth.

The cloying scent filled my lungs and I pulled my cardigan up over my nose, but my body remembered the smell. A soldier never forgets. And while I did not fight alongside those men in the trenches, I spent far too much time there with them to not be keenly aware of death.

Cold sweat pricked my brow as I struggled against my instinct to run.

Moving deeper and deeper into the broken corridor, I had to use my left hand to keep my balance as I approached the curving tower stair. Some newer wooden planks lay across the floor ahead, spanning a gap where the stones had given way to a dugout chamber below.

I was close now. Very close.

I flicked my flashlight down to where the planks spanned the gap and knew without a doubt that that I would find the body there. I nestled the light between my cheek and shoulder and hefted one of the planks up to confirm my suspicions.

Acid rose in my throat as I stared down at the decaying form lying some three feet below where I stood. A woman—by the state of her clothes—wearing a burnt-gold cotton dress, the color of winter wheat. Similar to the one Genevieve had been wearing when I saw her on the bridge a few days before. While the woman’s face was unrecognizable, I knew without fail it must be the missing medium. My light began to flicker, and for half a moment I thought my flashlight was failing—before realizing it was my own hand that shook.

Get yourself together, Ruby. It’s only a dead body.

I drew in a breath, then a second before lifting the other plank to make room for myself in the grave beside her. This was no worse than anything I’d done during the war—vastly easier in many ways as this poor woman was already dead. There would be no screaming. No groaning. Nothing but silence. I could not harm her now. My feet hit the stony debris beside her. I stooped down to get a better look and noticed a large rectangular fieldstone lay alongside her hand, much like the ones that formed the walls of the corridor above.

I lifted the rock, turning it over to reveal dried blood staining the surface. Whoever it was that killed her must have dropped it in after her to hide the evidence. I flicked the light over it, revealing hastily scratched graffiti on the smooth side, partially obscured by the dead woman’s blood.

Forti Nihil Difficile

The same words from the ring.

My skin pricked. She’d found it. This poor woman had found whatever Mariah had hidden—long before the ring ever made it to Manhurst. I caught my lip between my teeth as I struggled to add the pieces together. This had to be Abigail, the missing medium. Mariah. Abigail. Lucy. All three women disappeared in a similar fashion. All had been afraid, and all in a hurry to leave— which meant that Abigail must have discovered Mariah’s secret. Lucy must have known as well.

I blew out a breath, rocking back onto my heels, suddenly dizzy.

But what had they found? My muddy fingers trembled of their own volition. I flexed them, willing myself to be strong—but it didn’t work. With uncharacteristic gentleness, I patted over her body in case her killer had left something behind. Gently, I lifted one of her hands to inspect it. Despite the discoloration and decay, they were not damaged. Her nails not broken—and very little dirt or blood beneath them.

Whoever had done this had surprised her, caved in her head with the rock, then buried her here.

The poor woman.

The stars overhead offered no answers nor were there any to be found down here. Whoever had killed this medium had taken whatever she’d discovered with them. With a frustrated groan I stood, climbed out of the hole, and promptly vomited up the contents of my stomach.