Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (19 page)

“So who told you about it?”

“One of the maids saw it and told Therese, Lady Sophie’s abigail. She told me.”

“And you believe her?”

“I didn’t believe Therese, but I asked the maid, and she admitted she had seen it. She told me when and where.”

“When did you hear this?”

“The day before you arrived. It’s why… why I was so distracted and told no one you were coming. I was upset! I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I can’t seem to think!” She broke down in tears again, great gusty, heaving sobs.

Anne watched her with a dispassionate gaze. So when Lydia asked her to come to Yorkshire, she had not known about her husband’s indiscretion with the maid, though she
had
felt something was wrong with John. “John was seen kissing Cecilia—what did you say to her about it?”

“N-nothing,” Lydia said on a choked sob. “I didn’t know what to say! She did my hair the next morning, and I kept trying to figure out how to say it, but Cecilia had been so different toward me in the last weeks, and I… I was afraid. Afraid of what she would tell me.”

“And you haven’t asked him?”

“No.”

That was Lydia, Anne thought, afraid to hear the truth in case it was unpalatable to her. “So which maid told you she saw your husband kissing Cecilia?”

“Ellen… Henderson, I think her last name is.”

Ellen, Cecilia’s competition for the attention of young Jamey, the groom. Much seemed to come back to those two young women. After her conversation with Lydia, Anne went in search of Ellen, but Mrs. Hailey told her that the maid had a half day off—they rotated half days off through the staff so not too many would be off on the same day—and had presumably walked to Hornethwaite, her usual destination. A conversation with her and an exploration of what she actually saw would have to wait until the next day.

***

Dinner at the castle was a formal affair. The magistrate and the reverend and his wife were once again invited, as was Mr. Grover.

Anne tried to imagine why the neighbor would attend, since he despised the marquess. The answer, of course, was his friendship with Lady Darkefell. He was attentive all through dinner to the aloof marchioness, while Darkefell watched, his dark eyes hooded by half-lowered lids, his lips permanently twisted in the sardonic expression she was beginning to understand. All of the cruelty, baseness, and villainy he had seen in his life had made him cynical about humankind, if she understood him correctly. Cynicism was a tempting path; she fought against it on a daily basis. There was much to criticize in human behavior and little to laud, but it did no good to focus on the debased among humanity.

The ladies moved to the castle drawing room after dinner for a languid half hour of conversation, but Lydia was withdrawn, and Lady Sophie kept darting glances at the doorway through which they could expect the men. It was left to Anne and Mrs. Sydney, the reverend’s wife, to keep up the conversation. Anne learned all about the woman’s many children and several grandchildren, and even some gossip about village affairs. If they had been alone, Philodosia Sydney would have been an excellent source of information, for a reverend’s wife heard many tales, but Anne could not question her with everyone there.

It was going to be a long evening.

***

Darkefell sat in his favorite chair in the library, where he and the other gentlemen had repaired after dinner. The book-lined walls and leather furnishings, soft lamplight and carpeted floor, gave a sense of cocooned warmth. Tanner handed around port and cigars, neither of which he liked much. John kept darting him glances, for though John didn’t know what his older brother had to do that night, he seemed to feel something in the air. Finally, appearing too restless to stay still, he got up and moved to a window, shoving aside the draperies and staring through the glass.

The reverend and Mr. Grover spoke in hushed tones about Spottiswode’s arrest. Mr. Sydney had been to see him, and it appeared the fellow was beginning to have regrets about his confession.

“What did you say just now, Mr. Sydney?” Darkefell asked. He set aside his unlit cigar and untasted port.

“William Spottiswode is now claiming it was the drink that was talking, not him. He says he was seized by the devil, and it whispered in his ear, forcing him to mouth untruths,” the little man said with a perplexed frown.

“Merely the regrets of a man who now knows how much trouble he is in. The hangman’s noose will cure him,” the magistrate said.

“May I remind you, Pomfroy,” Darkefell said, “that you were quite ready to hang my secretary not too long ago.”

“But Mr. Boatin did not confess, did he, my lord? William Spottiswode did. And I say, no matter how much a man drinks, it does not make him believe he killed a woman!” He glanced around the room, the dim light from the oil lamps creating gaunt shadows on his ascetic face.

Mr. Grover merely appeared troubled but stayed silent. Mr. Sydney, though, shook his head and said, “Gin is an awful thing, sir. Is it gin he has been drinking? I read a tract that said women in London ignore their children and resort to all manner of perversion once introduced to its seductive influence. The devil’s brew! It leads to madness.”

“I don’t know about gin,” the magistrate said, “but I have come upon him more than once with a bottle of wine clutched in his grimy hands. And he would never say where he got it. Stolen, most likely. I took stock of my own cellar after that, I can tell you.”

Darkefell sighed. The conversation served only to remind him of what he had to do that evening. He had been planning on putting it off, but it wouldn’t serve. “John, may I see you for a moment? If you will excuse us, gentlemen, we have family business. I’ll leave you to your port, and please join the ladies as soon as you wish.” With such a disparate group as Grover, Sydney, and Sir Trevor, they would find relief in the ladies’ company, he had no doubt.

“What is it, Tony?” John asked as he followed his older brother out of the room.

“I’ll tell you in a few moments. Just come with me.” He strode down the hall to the door of the drawing room. They were, of course, in the modern wing, so the hallways were wide and well lit with lantern sconces every few yards. He entered and saw his mother sitting alone, as usual, apart from the clustered women, and he beckoned her. She rose smoothly and approached him. Lady Anne, ostensibly in a conversation with Mrs. Sydney, noticed Lady Darkefell leave, but she would never guess what their family meeting was about.

“What do you wish?” his mother asked in a whisper in the dim hallway.

“Come,” he said. “I need to ask you and John a question.” He led the way to a small office where Osei awaited them. The secretary heightened the wick, and the pool of light cast over the table expanded. His mother and brother, both with expressions of trepidation mingled with dread, approached. Darkefell had a cloth bundle on the table, and at a word from him, Osei unfolded the bundle.

His mother gasped. “Where did you find that?” she asked.

That was the confirmation he sought, even though he didn’t need it. “It’s yours, isn’t it, Mother?”

“Yes, of course, but where did you find it? And what is that dark staining?”

He watched them both. John had been silent but appeared bleached of color. “John? Do you recognize this?” He pointed at the item.

“I suppose,” he said. “But I don’t know what this is all about. What did you bring us here for? Lydia’s not feeling well, and I should see how she’s doing.”

Darkefell shifted his glance between his mother and brother. Both eyed the item on the table—a long wooden stake with a handle—that had been plunged, he believed, into Cecilia Wainwright’s throat before her slender neck was savaged to make the assault look like an animal attack. Or that of a werewolf. It was a dibber, used to poke holes in the earth for planting bulbs and tubers. On the handle were the initials S. D., for Sophie Darkefell.

“It’s the murder weapon used to kill Cecilia Wainwright.”

“When did you last see it?” Darkefell asked his mother.

“I don’t remember,” she said, her face drained of all color and expression.

“This spring?”

She shook her head, but said, “I don’t know! Tony, are you sure this is the murder weapon?”

He watched her carefully. His mother was an intensely private person, and no one shattered her shell. When the news came that Julius, her favorite son, was dead, she allowed one single tear to slide down her face and retreated to her suite. She may have cried a river of tears there, but when she emerged a week later, she was calm. In the year since the news of his death had come to them, only her garden seemed to give her any solace. And now one of her personal garden tools, crafted by her order with her initials on the handle, had been used for such a vile purpose as the murder of an innocent maid.

“Doctor Younghusband,” he said, referring to the family’s trusted physician, “examined Cecilia’s body before she was buried. He told me she was with child, of course, and confirmed what I already suspected—her throat wasn’t savaged by any animal. Someone thrust something directly into her throat to kill her. It wouldn’t take a lot of strength.”

There was silence for a long moment. His mother began, “But that does not follow that my… my… ” She broke off and looked away.

“I know,” he said gently as John still stared in horror at the dibber. “And I can’t say it was used thusly. But something about this size and shape pierced her throat,” he said, indicating the thick wood stake, pointed on one end and with a metal handle on the other. “It killed her quickly, and then her neck was ravaged with a blade of some sort, and all to make it look like an animal attack.”

“In your opinion,” John said hurriedly.

“In my opinion,” Tony agreed. “And that of Dr. Younghusband. So when I found this, where it had no cause to be, and with stains that I believe are blood…?”

He let that hang in the air, but his mother didn’t offer anything else. Osei cleared his throat finally, and Tony turned to his younger brother. “John?”

“What?”

“Where did you last see this?”

“I’ve never seen it in my life. I don’t even know what it’s used for.”

Tony eyed him; that was not what he’d said just a moment ago. He let it pass for the moment.

“Where did you find it?” the marchioness asked.

“The cave above Staungill Force,” he said. “Lady Anne was with me, but I successfully slipped the dibber in my jacket. She didn’t see it.”

“Why did you take that woman anywhere?” his mother said, an expression of distaste pulling her mouth down.

“I thought it best to control her view of the estate,” he said. “She’s quite capable of haring up to the waterfall and across the countryside on her own. I didn’t know the murder weapon would be concealed in the cave, nor did I know someone would be living there.” Damn… he hadn’t meant to say quite so much with his mother there.

“Who is living there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Darkefell said, exchanging a look with his brother. “That’s beside the matter.”

She stared at him, worry in her pale eyes, so like John’s, then turned her gaze to the dibber, choking back an exclamation of revulsion. She then glanced at Osei and said stiffly, “Tony, does Mr. Boatin need to be here while we discuss this?”

Darkefell gazed at her in surprise. Osei knew every family failing and foible and had helped immeasurably over the last two tumultuous years, providing succor and support to him, his mother, and his brother. He supposed it was her private nature that objected to his secretary’s presence.

Osei got up and bowed, his dark, thin face void of expression, and said, “I will make sure your guests are comfortable, my lord.” He exited without another word.

“That was rude and unnecessary,” the marquess said to his mother.

Her lips tightened. “You coddle him as if he’s family, Tony, but he’s not, he’s your secretary and the source of a great deal of trouble for us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

But she tightened her lips, shook her head, and would not be drawn out further. “Tony,” the marchioness said, putting one hand on her son’s arm. “Just let this alone. Spottiswode has confessed. Can you not leave it at that?”

He stared at her pale face in the lamplight. “If I thought he was guilty, I would, but there are too many unanswered questions. How would he get the dibber? I’ve told Pomfroy I’m going to speak with Spottiswode tomorrow, and if he seems to have no idea of how Cecilia was killed, then I’ll have to tell the magistrate about the tool.”

“Really, Brother, what do you think is going on?” John asked, his fleshy face pallid and filmed with a sheen of perspiration.

“I don’t know,” Darkefell said. “All I know is, young women seem to be dropping all around us, and I intend that it should stop.”

“How reassuring to hear you say that, my lord,” a new voice said from the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen, my lady,” Lady Anne said as she entered, “but Lydia is not feeling well at all and asked me to find her husband.”

Darkefell, behind his back, tried to rewrap the dibber in the canvas but instead knocked it off the table onto the floor.

Lady Anne advanced swiftly and picked it up, glancing down at it as she handed it back to him. “What…” She stopped and stared at the bloodstained implement, then looked up at him with questioning eyes. “What is this?” she asked, and her glance took in each one of them.

“This,” the marquess said, snatching it away from her, “is none of your business.” He looked to his brother. “John, go see to your wife. Mother, I’ve kept you away from our guests long enough.”

Lady Darkefell, with a haughty look at Lady Anne, swept from the room, followed closely by John. The marquess wrapped the dibber back in the canvas then stowed it in the drawer of the folio table against the wall. He turned to meet her suspicious glance.

“You think that may be the murder weapon,” she said, accusation in her voice.

“It’s one possibility. I found it up at the cave today, and I wanted see if my brother or mother had ever seen it before.”

She eyed him. “What is it?”

“Some kind of farm implement,” he said. He took her arm and pushed her out of the room.

“May I see it?”

“Not right now, my lady. I’ve been too long from the others, too.”

“Did Spottiswode have access to a tool such as that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not told Sir Trevor about this—I don’t want him leaping to conclusions that are not warranted, something I think he does far too easily. Let me handle it, please.”

***

Anne was restless and anxious after the dinner at the castle. Too many ideas, too many possibilities, roiled through her brain. Why had Lord Darkefell hidden the farm implement, if that’s what it was? She was sorry now that she hadn’t examined it more closely when she had it in her hands, but her first instinct was to hand it back to the marquess. Did he know where it was from? He had avoided her when they returned to the others, and there was no opportunity to question him further.

Still dressed but with her hair undone, Anne watched the rising moon from her window seat, with Irusan lolling half on her lap and half on the rest of the cushioned window seat. There had not, after all, been country dancing after dinner. They made up a couple of tables of whist, and Lydia played the piano, but otherwise, conversation, always difficult with such a mixed group, was the order of the night. Darkefell was brooding and morose for the rest of the evening, watching all of them, his dark eyes traveling each face as if he sought answers. Even from her; his gaze rested on her face at times, and she could not fathom him. What did he want from her?

They hadn’t stayed late. Lydia really didn’t seem well, but whether it was worry or something else, Anne couldn’t tell. The marchioness had not appeared well, either; the reverend’s wife was concerned, but Lady Darkefell claimed a headache. For both reasons, they returned to Ivy Lodge relatively early.

Mary, who had attended her to the castle dinner party, of course, said that castle maids were still nervous about the werewolf sightings. Some had seen a wolflike creature just two nights before and had been scared into staying inside in the evening, despite the improving April weather. Sanderson heard that some boys from the village were egging each other on with a bet as to who would have the grit enough to come up to Darkefell at night and “bag the wolf.”

Anne still had not been able to speak with Ellen, and her earlier conversation with Lydia haunted her. If Lydia’s husband had an affair with Cecilia, and she carried his child, he had a motive to murder her. As little as she could imagine the placid and pleasant fellow committing such a violent crime, it was possible. She feared even Lydia had thought of the awful possibility.

She ruffled Irusan’s thick collar of neck fur. “Why was Lord Darkefell hiding the weapon, puss? Did it have some connection with his brother? And was he confronting him with that evidence at the dinner party?”

Irusan murmured a throaty rejoinder and stretched.

What if John
was
the guilty party? Lydia loved her husband, but if he was the killer… no, there must be another answer! She got up, dumping Irusan off, and paced, wringing her hands. He watched her with a disgruntled expression.

Something must be done to solve this awful crime. If Ellen had come back from her half day in the village, she would likely be up in her shared bedchamber at the top of the house; it was tempting to go up and demand answers, but Anne was afraid she was just looking for something to do to ease her own anxiety. She returned to the window seat and tried to compose herself. She must wait until tomorrow to speak with the maid.

Just then, through her window, she spotted someone stealthily creeping away from Ivy Lodge. She strained, staring through the glass, the angle awkward; the figure was cloaked, but a wisp of light-colored hair wafted out of the hood. It had to be Ellen slipping out to meet Jamey again. Anne bustled into the dressing room, but though Robbie was there and sleeping soundly, Mary was not. She had said something about going down to the kitchen to get a hot compress to ease her cramps—she suffered from women’s complaints badly at her time of month—and Anne didn’t want to wait, nor did she want to drag Mary away when she was feeling poorly.

She scrawled a note and left it on Mary’s cot, then grabbed her cloak quietly, so as to not disturb the sleeping child, and fled from the room. Irusan followed, swift when he wanted to be. She tried to make him go back, but he yowled. He’d wake the house if she put him forcibly in her bedchamber and shut the door, so he’d have to go with her. She wouldn’t mind the company.

She carried an oil lamp, and hidden under her cloak she had a penknife. Foolhardy it might be to follow the maid, but she did
not
believe in werewolves. Jamey and his friends were just playing tricks. Ellen knew something, she was sure of it, and Anne wanted to know what she was hiding.

Getting out of the lodge was easy, for the door had not yet been latched. Getting back in might be a problem, but she would deal with that when the time came. Anne held her cloak closed with one hand and the lamp in the other as she sped over the gravel drive, around the lodge, and across the green sward of grass that began to elevate toward the wooded glade that backed the property, being careful to skirt the chasm Lady Darkefell was creating for her rockery. Irusan, a swift gray shadow at her side, seemed delighted with the adventure.

A howl cut through the sound of her own heaving breath, and she skidded to a stop, panting from exertion. If the howl was a dog, as it must be, then surely she was in no danger. She could just make out a movement in the woods; it
must
be Ellen, for the girl had vanished from sight and was gone by the time Anne topped a rise, yet she could not have gone far. Anne had to continue, for the image of Lydia’s pretty, tear-stained face floated before her. Her friend was depending upon her. Either her husband was an adulterer and murderer—in which case, as difficult as it was, she would be better off
knowing
than
fearing
it—or he was incredibly stupid and unfairly maligned. Either way, Anne was going to solve this mystery.

Irusan made a funny little chirring noise of interrogation, and she looked down at him. “Yes, we’re continuing on, my boy, and if you see a dog, I want you to go up a tree!”

She plunged forward, grateful she had at least thought of the oil lamp this time, instead of a flickering candle; the flame was protected by glass and burned steadily.
Where on earth was Ellen going this time?
she wondered. And where was she now? Anne stopped just inside the edge of the forest and could hear nothing, not a whisper of a sound, not even the howling dog.

But no, she was wrong… there was a faint rustling sound. As her breathing slowed and her heart stopped pounding in her ears, she heard it more clearly. Someone—or something—was creeping through the woods. A trill of instinctive fear snaked down her back, but she refused to pay it heed. She did, however, get out her penknife. It might not kill any creature, but it would give it a surprise and some pain, perhaps enough to stop any attack.

She had been foolhardy, she admitted to herself, plunging into the wood after Ellen. It was imprudent, but now was not the time to flog herself for an error in judgment. However, as much as it pained her to admit it, she should retreat and rouse the household.

And tell them what? That she heard an animal, saw a figure, acted like a flea brain?

She held the lamp higher and looked around, commanding her nerves to calm. Looking about was not conducive to calmness, as all around her were shadows that could too easily be creatures poised to pounce. She shivered. Irusan had paused by her side but now hunched down, his ears flat back on his skull and his neck fur bristled into a ruff, tail like a bottle brush, his appearance when he saw a bird or mouse. The rustling had stopped, but she was not alone. The hairs on her arms under her cloak rose, standing to attention as her cat growled, a low, menacing sound. Her heart pounded, her breath quickened, and she considered backing away, but she was closer to a clearing on the other side of the woods, she knew, from her past expeditions. So she edged forward, listening and watching, determined not to be caught off guard.