Chapter Six. An Unpleasant Surprise

C HAPTER S IX

An Unpleasant Surprise

EARLY the next morning, I was sitting in the courtyard with a large cup of black coffee, letting it wind its way down my throat before checking my pin watch. It was a little past six, and I was shockingly rested considering I had approximately three hours’ sleep to my name. But even those precious few moments were marred by terrible nightmares. The sort I could not recall beyond the vague sense of searching, and the peculiar metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

I was certain that the reappearance of Elijah Keene, like a specter from my past, caused the return of my nightmares. I did not want to believe that Mr. Sharpe could actually be Elijah, and yet the signs were all there. What if Mr. Owen wasn’t the one the medium had lured here at all? What if it was me that had been sent for? After all, Elijah and I had not parted on the most charitable of terms. What if that was the warning the medium was trying to give? The warning that was thwarted so violently.

But was Elijah a killer? I didn’t think so—but can one ever truly know another’s innermost soul? No. No, I learned that lesson long ago. One never could tell what evil lay within a man’s heart.

A dense fog blanketed the grounds beyond the courtyard, sealing us away here at Manhurst. It’d likely be hours before it burnt off. I tugged at the sleeves of my woolen jumper against the damp air.

“I see you’re up early.”

I started at the unexpected interruption, and looked up to see Andrew Lennox coming across the slate flags with a curiously wrapped parcel beneath one arm. I stiffened, uncertain what to make of the man after the previous evening. While he’d been nothing but kind and attentive to me, he’d concealed the truth of Lucy’s death.

“Did the inspector arrive last night?”

“Mmm. The man arrived not long after you went to bed. It’s probably for the best. He’s not the most agreeable sort. The fewer dealings you have with him, the better in my opinion.”

Captain Lennox leaned heavily upon the shepherd’s crook he used for a cane. Its handle gorgeously smoothed giving the creamy sheep’s horn a mirrorlike finish. He laid the package down on the table, sliding it over to me. “I believe this belongs to you.”

“Me?” I asked before tearing the paper and lifting the lid. My breath caught as I looked from the Webley revolver back to Captain Lennox.

His expression was grim. “It would do no good for someone else to have it found out there.”

I’d forgotten completely about it in all the chaos of Lucy’s death. Perhaps he had good reason for claiming it was suicide after all. I pointed to the open chair across from me with my coffee cup. “Join me? I think there may be more left in the pot. I’ll have your jacket sent to your rooms later on today.”

He hesitated, eyeing the silver pot. “How are you feeling this morning?”

I furrowed my brow, not understanding. I was perfectly fine—why would he even ask such a thing?

“Most women of my acquaintance would be still abed after doing what you did last night. And to have carried a grown woman back to shore with you? That is indeed quite remarkable.”

I let out an irritated sound. “Well, then apparently I’m not most women. Though I feel it important to add that few women are most women in absurd statements such as yours. They’re simply words used to divide and insult my sex. Women contain multitudes, Captain Lennox, as do men—at least in my experience.”

He flushed, giving him a softer appearance as he looked down to the table between us. “Touché, Miss Vaughn. It was a poor choice of words on my part. You exceeded most men as well last night. I hadn’t meant offense—only to say that the fact that you didn’t suffer hypothermia is a surprise in itself. I’ve not known many—man or woman—who could do such a feat and be up the next morning.”

My temper soothed—a bit—as I took another sip of my coffee, watching Captain Lennox carefully. “What do you know of Mr. Sharpe? You seem to know more of him than most.”

Captain Lennox folded his arms across his chest and straightened slightly in his seat. “Not nearly enough. There’s been a bit of gossip about him in these parts. You see, he bought the castle here after the war. The inheritance tax was too great for the Campbells to keep hold of it. Granted, I don’t know why they’d wish to—not after all that happened here.”

I leaned forward, interest piqued. “The Campbells? Lucy was a Campbell. Is it the same family?”

“Aye. They’ve had nothing but bad luck for generations.”

“Bad luck?” I let out a startled laugh. “What all has happened here for you to say that?”

“What hasn’t happened here…” He inclined his head toward the ruins behind me, which were little more than two turrets and three broken-down walls that looked liable to crumble at any moment. I’d been told the old castle burnt in the mid-eighteenth century, replaced by the current structure some decades later. “I firmly believe that no good ever comes from the goings-on at Manhurst. First Mariah, and now this?”

“Mariah? Do you mean the spirit from the séance?”

He nodded grimly. “She has haunted these lands for decades. Whispers of her fate have been told as bedtime stories.”

“What happened to her?”

He shrugged, his tone growing icy. “A well-born woman who met a sorry end. It is not a story fit for repeating, that’s for certain.”

“If children are fit to hear the tale, then why not me?”

He reached out, laying a hand over mine. “Perhaps you should ask my uncle. He knows the story far more intimately than I.”

A coldness lodged itself in my throat at the thought that Mr. Owen had known this Mariah. He’d also known Lucy—an inconvenient coincidence to say the least. I snatched my hand back and folded my arms beneath my chest.

“The point is, Miss Vaughn… women have a nasty habit of coming to bad ends here at Manhurst. First Mariah, now Lucy. It is only a matter of time before another dies.”

“Why would you say that?”

He gestured to the ruins behind. “Manhurst has been the center of great misfortunes and sadness. Perhaps it’s fitting for Lucy to die here as well. The last of the Campbell line extinguished. Perhaps with her death it’ll be the end of it.”

“She is the last of her family?”

He nodded, running a finger beneath his collar. “Aye. The last living heir. It was part of the details of the sale. Sharpe was to allow her to live here the remainder of her days.”

I wet my lips, disliking the picture that Andrew was painting. “Rather convenient for him that she died only a handful of years after he took over the estate.”

Andrew’s expression shuttered. “Indeed.”

“Do you think he might have had a hand in what happened last night?” I fiddled with the identification disc I’d taken from the dead medium’s body, which I had in my pocket. I hadn’t felt safe leaving it in my room. Truth be told I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Lucy having it in her possession to begin with. Perhaps Captain Lennox had a brother, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask about his own family but something in his expression gave me pause. “You lied last night to Mr. Sharpe when you said it was suicide. You know as well as I that someone killed her.”

He licked his teeth, warm brown eyes not meeting mine. “It had to be done.”

“Why?”

“I fear for my uncle. Owen is a complicated man, but a good one. And it would do no one any good to find his revolver in the field the night a woman is found dead.”

“You can’t possibly think Mr. Owen was involved in anything. He was asleep when I left my room.”

“That does bring up a rather perplexing question, Miss Vaughn. Why did you leave your room last night? That part does not quite add up.”

“I… I’d gone for a walk. To clear my head.”

He looked somewhat relieved by that answer, as if he’d expected me to tell him something closer to the actual reason I was on the bridge that night.

I laid a protective hand down on the box bearing Mr. Owen’s revolver. “My jacket… it was there too… Did you happen to find it?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t, Miss Vaughn. When I went to fetch the body all I found was the revolver. I pocketed it before any of the servants saw.”

Behind me, a few other guests had roused from their slumber and come out to enjoy an early morning repast. In the distance I spotted Mr. Sharpe among them, making his way from table to table, presumably reassuring the rest of the guests that they were not about to be murdered in their beds. I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the man in the light of day, but he remained at a cautious distance from me.

“Why did you come to the séance?” I asked quietly.

He blinked, surprised by the question. “I told you, I heard my uncle was here and I wanted to speak with him about Ben.”

“That doesn’t explain why you came to the séance.”

He bit his lower lip. “I’d not meant to go at all. I’d intended to slip over to Manhurst, speak with my uncle, and go home. My father, however… somehow he found out that Uncle was here, and he is like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t leave it be.”

He had said last night that he’d not meant his father to come. The words came out on a breath. “You didn’t tell him about the séance.”

He let out a startled laugh. “God no. I expressly hid the papers from him. I know how badly my father hates Uncle Owen and I saw no sense furthering their quarrel. I cannot fathom who told him about the séance. As he’d left the house before I did, I had no choice but to attend, solely to keep him from skewering Uncle Owen in front of an audience. I love my father, Miss Vaughn, but I do not like him very much sometimes.”

My mind went back to the letter Mr. Owen had shown me before the séance. The invitation to speak with Ben. Perhaps Andrew’s father, Malachi, had received a similar one. “Do you think Lucy would have invited him? Like she did Mr. Owen?”

I had surprised him.

“Lucy sent for Uncle Owen?”

I almost regretted revealing it, but it was too late to recall the words. “She did. She told him Ben had a message for him. Do you have any idea what that message might be?”

He shook his head. “It’s hard to say with Lucy. She did as she pleased for decades. Most people around here gave her wide berth because of it. She was respected, aye, but feared.”

“Would anyone want her dead?”

“Not that I know of, but a woman who can speak to the dead? Who knows what secrets she might have uncovered along the way.” Andrew checked his watch and shot up, expression troubled. “Forgive me. I have somewhere I need to be.” And with that he disappeared, leaving me with a thousand questions hanging in the air like the very fog that refused to lift.