Chapter Five. A Midnight Swim

C HAPTER F IVE

A Midnight Swim

THE damp night air grew colder by the minute as I darted into the shadows off the east lawn toward the bridge. The ruins of the old castle rose up in the moonlight, swallowing up what little light existed. The dreadful construction was the sort of thing that inspired ghost stories. No wonder I was leaping at shadows as of late.

You’re in a ghost story, Ruby.

I swatted that thought away. There was no such thing as ghosts, and no matter how convincing the séance seemed, there had to be another explanation for what I saw tonight—I’d just have to figure out what exactly that explanation was.

The wind picked up, cutting through my woolen coat as if it were no more substantial than my pitiful gown beneath. The hem was soaked— again —likely ruined for good and not even my housekeeper Mrs. Penrose’s estimable skills with a needle could save it now.

A shadowy, lumbering figure appeared in the distance, making his way back toward the castle. I squinted to make him out, but whoever it was disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

No such thing as ghosts indeed.

Thighs burning from exertion, I climbed back up and over the stile, hurrying through the muddy pasture down toward the lake. The soft light of candles appeared in the distance. There must have been a dozen of them flickering below on the bridge—a warming glow drawing me nearer. Somewhere from my left an animal splashed into the water. Whatever it was, it sounded large. My frozen fingers wound themselves around the grip of the revolver as I continued onto the bridge.

But there was no one there.

Nothing but twelve lit candles set into a circle.

Odd. But what hadn’t been odd this evening?

My foot skidded as I took a step nearer to the circle of flame. Each of the candles had been set within a larger ring made of what looked to be coarse salt. I stooped down, running the substance between my fingers. I pinched a bit and held it near the flame before testing it on my tongue. Definitely salt.

I picked up a still-burning candle from where it’d been stuck to the bridge with its own wax, and began to explore my surroundings. Another of those strange flower symbols had been hastily scrawled on one of the columns in charcoal. I touched it gingerly, a bit of the carbony substance rubbing off onto my skin. Each of the bridge’s columns was marked with the same symbol. I counted quickly. There were twelve in total.

I sighed, leaning back against the railing. Where was Lucy?

Glancing back to the circle of candles, I realized another had been knocked over and extinguished in the salt, breaking the circle. Thirteen candles then. Not twelve as I’d first believed. I walked over, lifting the fallen candle. The wax was still soft and malleable. I certainly hadn’t knocked it over, but it had to have happened immediately before I arrived on the bridge.

At last my sleep-deprived brain placed the pieces together: a broken salt circle, an overturned candle. These were signs of a struggle. Then the splash I’d heard as I approached. With sickening certainty, I walked to the edge and peered into the water, knowing good and well what I’d find there.

A lifeless shape floated upon the surface. Bits of dark cloth billowed out from her body like a discarded doll. It was the same dark fabric that the mediums had been wearing during the séance.

Lucy.

It had to be her.

I shucked off my jacket, dropping it on the stone bridge, revolver along with it, and hastily slipped out of my shoes. Without a second of hesitation, I threw my legs over the side and dove into the water. The iciness hit me hard and fast. My heart stuttered at the sudden drop in temperature and I sucked in a pained breath. Lungs aching, I swam over to where she floated along the surface. The silk of my own gown stuck to my legs, making it hard to tread water. I only had a handful of minutes before the cold would drain my strength. I had to be quick getting her to shore or we’d both die here. I rolled her lifeless body over in the water to face the sky and kicked violently, struggling to keep the both of us afloat. My limbs grew heavy but I managed to wrangle my left arm around her chest, my hips pressed against her back.

I’d always been a strong swimmer; my mother had taught me when I was very small. Pushing hard against the lake, I moved us incrementally closer to the pebbled shore. The weight of her dress threatened to pull us both down. She couldn’t have been in the water long or else she’d have sunk like a stone.

Perhaps she was still alive and the air in her lungs had kept her afloat. I didn’t have time to check, I had to get her to the shore.

That’s it, Ruby, just a little farther. I could almost hear my mother as I fought against the pull of the lake.

Gasping for air, I finally reached the water’s edge. Droplets of churned-up water filled my lungs as I took in an accidental mouth ful. I heaved her up onto the cold rocks, coughing and spitting out half the lake for my efforts.

I laid my cheek against her chest, listening for the faint thrum of her pulse. The crepe of her dress plastered wet against my skin. Nothing. My fingers went to her throat.

Still nothing.

Good God.

Lucy Campbell was dead.

I rocked back onto my bare feet, struggling to catch my breath and reorder my thoughts. Someone had killed her. They had to have. I looked around in the darkness, but it was still. There was no one around.

I slicked my short hair back from my face, and patted down her body. I wasn’t quite sure what I was seeking—a clue—an answer as to why she was killed? My hand felt something inside the pocket of her dress and I fumbled with the layers of drenched fabric, before finally pulling it out. I knew, before I even opened my own palm, what it was. I’d seen thousands of them during the four years I spent on the western front. An octagonal identification disc. I held it up in the eerie moonlight, turning it over. British for certain. Then I made out the name in the darkness: B. Lennox.

Lennox. That was the name of Mr. Owen’s nephew and before I could think twice upon the wisdom of my actions, I shoved it into the bodice of my dress and ran back to Manhurst.

I REACHED THE flags of the back terrace, panting heavily—my limbs numb from the cold and teeth chattering loud enough to drown out my own thoughts. The soles of my feet were bloodied, leaving ruddy smears across the stone.

The house was dark, most of the guests having gone to bed long before I set out to meet Lucy Campbell. I caught the edge of my toes on the frost-covered flags and toppled forward. I thrust my hands out to brace my fall, when I was caught by someone in the darkness.

“Good God, Miss Vaughn…” My body and mind were far too muddled to recognize the voice.

“You’re soaked and nearly blue… We must get you inside—” I blinked, looking up at Andrew Lennox’s eerily familiar face. In the darkness, he looked enough like Mr. Owen that he might have been his own son. Hell, he might have even been Mr. Owen in another lifetime.

Captain Lennox righted me, shifting his cane to better help me walk inside. “Come, let’s get you warmed by the fire. What in God’s name happened—you’re soaked to the bone.” His accent far broader than it had been earlier in the day.

“There’s… there’s… a body… b-b-by the lake. It’s the medium… Lucy… Lucy’s dead…”

Captain Lennox’s expression darkened as he shuffled me inside the castle—and for the briefest of instants, in the electric lights of Manhurst, I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. But more than that—I had the strangest notion that he already knew my answer long before he voiced the question.

An hour and a half later, I was curled in a deep leather chair in the library, snugly wrapped in a woolen blanket. The fire danced in the hearth before me as I struggled to make sense of the evening. Had it only been this afternoon that I’d been here inquiring after illuminated manuscripts?

I stared into the flames, testing my stiff fingers against the heat of the fire licking up in the immense hearth. The needling sensation had finally stopped. That was good, at least. About the only good thing to happen this evening.

It was dangerous to do what I’d done. I knew that from the moment I leapt into the lake and yet I hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t paused to imagine all the thousands of ways it could have gone terribly wrong. Tucking my legs against my chest and sinking deeper into the armchair, I watched as Andrew Lennox spoke with another man deep in the shadows by the far bookcase. I could only imagine the other party to be the mysterious Mr. Sharpe, the owner of Manhurst Castle. Though to watch the two of them one would think their roles reversed, as Captain Lennox had been barking out orders ever since returning with Lucy Campbell’s body, while Sharpe stood meekly by, casting the occasional glance in my direction.

I’d repeated my story a thousand times already to Captain Lennox, omitting a couple key facts—details that would do no one any good to know. Firstly, not a soul knew of the note the dead medium had left for me. And secondly, I wasn’t about to let anyone know about the identification discs I’d found on her body, which remained safely tucked into the damp bodice of my evening gown.

“Are you certain?” Mr. Sharpe asked in a hushed voice. I turned to see if I could make him out.

Captain Lennox took a weary step backward, leaning against the shelf and rubbing at his hip with a grimace. The subtle change in his position finally revealed Mr. Sharpe’s profile to me, and I could not help but gape—half in disbelief, half in horror—as the years slipped away. Once again, I was that uncertain young debutante, head full of books and hopes and dreams. Living in New York, brought up to be her father’s crowning achievement before being sold off in marriage for the most advantageous match.

It would have been considered an ideal situation to most girls of my acquaintance had my most advantageous match not been a grown man already in possession of a wife. My blood turned to ice as I stared at Mr. Sharpe’s profile, not wanting to believe the truth. It couldn’t truly be him. Elijah. Elijah Keene. I hadn’t thought his name in over a decade. Not since my exile from New York.

And yet my eyes and heart were certain of it, even if my mind could not make the leap. Elijah had been the one person who knew the truth about my former lover. Knew the truth and hid it from all of New York society until I was well and truly ruined.

I tucked the blanket tighter around me, arguing with my own mind. The last I’d seen Elijah had been at the Vanderbilts’ ball, the night of my great disgrace when I’d been caught in flagrante delicto—to put it mildly—with my supposed fiancé. But there was no reason for Elijah to be here, not when there were plenty of wealthy young socialites to swindle back in New York.

My thoughts were cut short as Captain Lennox shifted again, blocking my view of Mr. Sharpe—Elijah—whoever he might be. “I am as certain as I can be without further examination. From all accounts it looks to be suicide. The inspector will be able to say more when he arrives in a few hours. I’m sorry for it, Sharpe, I know it’s the last thing you need right now.”

“Fuck.” Sharpe muttered beneath his breath.

My sentiments exactly.

I quietly wrapped myself in the blanket and headed to the door. No good would come of remaining any longer. Elijah Keene or not—Mr. Sharpe’s identity was another problem for another day. I’d settle for a bath, and then tomorrow I’d find out what really happened to Lucy. Because I did not for one moment believe it was suicide.