Shades of the Past (20 page)

"No.  Never that.  At the very least, the procedure should have saved the infant.  Those who accept the theory, believe he only sought to rid himself of Clairissa and that his means were unconscionable."

A lump rose in Vanessa's throat and lodged there.  What more did she not know?  "You said these accusations arose at the time of Olivia's death.  But that was an accident, was it not?"

Lawrence rose from the bench and offered her his hand.  "Let us take a turn outside, shall we?  The fresh air will do us both good." 

Minutes later they paced the expansive grounds of the close where the shrubbery was just beginning to blush with autumn colors.

"The investigation revealed Olivia's carriage had been tampered with—the axle weakened so that it would break," Lawrence disclosed as they walked arm in arm.  "Just hours before, Adrian and Olivia had become embroiled in a ferocious argument.  Most everyone in residence at the time must have heard it.  Excepting myself.  I was going over some papers in the west tower. 

"Adrian left Sherringham directly after the quarrel and headed for London.  That is where the news finally reached him two days after the accident.  Hereford's constable is convinced Adrian sabotaged Olivia's personal carriage before he departed, being well aware of the deadly stretch of road at Devil's Hairpin.  Since then, the constable has done everything in his power to ruin Adrian."

It all seemed so unfair to Vanessa that Adrian should be so vilified.

"But it doesn't make sense that Adrian would sabotage the carriage and send it into a ravine if Olivia was carrying a fortune in jewels."

Lawrence shook his head.  "He didn't know she had them.  No one knew.  Personally, the family believes she was leaving Adrian for good and assuring her future by taking the jewels.  Of course, when she stepped into the carriage that night, her fate was already sealed."

"Nanny believes Olivia was racing after Adrian to mend their rift."

A smile touched his lips.  "Nanny would.  She is a kindly soul, no matter how befuddled she becomes. 

“But you indicated that Adrian is still under suspicion.  Were you speaking of Hereford's constable?"

"Yes.  He's convinced of Adrian's guilt and longs for the day he can lock my brother away.  He'd have done so already had he solid evidence.  But nothing could be proven.  It all got very ugly, of course.  Adrian was ostracized from all polite society for a time.  Even now, many doors remain closed to him."

Lawrence brought Vanessa to a halt and turned toward her.  He dropped his gaze away for a moment, as if debating whether to say something, then looked again into her eyes.

"It was at the time of the investigation that Aunt Gwen chose to leave Sherringham.  I hate to admit it, but I believe Auntie did so because she believed in Adrian's guilt.  And for the same reason, she chose not to return."

Vanessa couldn't find her voice for a moment as his words sank in fully. 

"I think that unlikely," she commented with no real basis for doing so.  "Lady Gwen didn't speak of the tragedy." 

"No, I wouldn't imagine she did.  The entire affair pained her deeply."

"And what of you?  What do you believe?"

Lawrence shuttered his look.  "I have to stand by my brother, of course.  Especially since he is my twin."

"That is no answer, Lawrence, and well you know it," Vanessa chided, her temper rising at his lack of conviction in Adrian's behalf.  "Certainly you do not believe he is capable of murder?"

"And are you so certain he is not?"

"Yes, I am and so should you be," she returned with more force than necessary.

Lawrence loomed over her, a shimmer of light passing through his eyes.  "Adrian has a fierce protectress, does he?  I would be jealous if I didn't already know my brother has forsworn all women.  I'm sorry, I see that surprises you.  I thought it was rather obvious."

Words deserted Vanessa.  Nanny had implied as much when she questioned whether the Marrable line would continue through Adrian, saying he might not desire to wed again given the unhappy experiences and tragedies of his previous marriages.  But to hear Lawrence say it so concretely, well, he might just as well have slipped a blade into her heart. 

Vanessa watched numbly as Lawrence checked his timepiece.

"We should be on our way to meet Cissy.  Shall we walk?" Lawrence asked, his tone almost cheerful.

At her nod, he signaled to their waiting carriage to go on ahead, then offered her his arm.

The walk helped refresh Vanessa as she and Lawrence proceeded in silence along Broad Street.  At first she simply drank in the overall scenery, finding it soothing to do so.  Soon, she turned her attention to the colorful shop windows and their crowded displays, welcoming their distraction.

Coming upon an antiquarian shop, she discovered a watch in the corner of the window.  The case appeared to be of pewter, and the numerals upon the face, bold and easily readable.  She could also see that the second hand was functioning, and, happily, the little card laying before it stated a most reasonable price.

"See something you like?" Lawrence inquired, standing close beside her.

Vanessa smiled, never taking her eyes from the watch.  "Yes, something quite perfect.  Perfect for a budding photographer."

Vanessa stepped swiftly through the shop door with Lawrence following on her heels.  Ten minutes later she emerged with a small bundle in her hand.  Lawrence tarried inside, considering a cherrywood pipe. 

Smiling to herself, Vanessa tucked the package into her drawstring purse and imagined how surprised and delighted Geoffrey would be.  As she lifted her gaze, her smile faded from her lips.  Directly across the street, Adrian Marrable stood framed in the portal of the Herefordshire News and Telegraph Office. 

He did not detect her presence, since he was engrossed in reading a small missive, presumably a wire.  Finishing, he creased the paper in two and stepped onto the walkway, at the same time glancing up.  Adrian's eyes collided with Vanessa's, and like her, he stood stock-still.

Vanessa had no idea how to react, or what she could possibly say if he crossed the street to approach her.  More than his angry, parting words separated them, more than the fresh knowledge of his past and the accusations that stood against him.  What truly separated them was the wall he'd erected around himself, barring anyone from drawing too close.

And yet, the wall was not impenetrable.  She'd peered through the cracks and caught a glimpse of his heart.  In no way could she believe his was the heart of a murderer.

"Well, well, speak of the devil," Lawrence's voice floated to her ears as he came out of the shop and rejoined her. 

Vanessa bristled at his tone, it being identical to the one he'd used at the funeral, when Adrian arrived unexpectedly.  She bristled again when he laced his arm around her shoulders.

She glanced back to Adrian as his eyes traveled to Lawrence then returned to her.  A shadow fell over his features.  Touching his hand to the brim of his hat, in a polite but stiff gesture, he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away in the opposite direction.

A heaviness suffused Vanessa's heart as he disappeared down the street.

»«

Adrian lengthened his stride, the image of the two firing his mind.  He had only himself to blame for driving Vanessa to Lawrence's arms.  He was a fool.  A damnable fool whose jealousy was feasting on his insides.

Vanessa, Vanessa.
  Her name echoed through his mind as did her face.  What was it he'd seen in her eyes just now?  He'd expected to find anger, pain, even fear perhaps.  But there was something else.  A look of awareness, comprehension . . . of something.  But of what?

He quickened his pace, a vile thought entering.  Had she questioned his brother?  Had Lawrence disclosed the details of his past?

Adrian squeezed his hand to a fist, then heard the crumple of paper.  He glanced down to Cameron Kincaid's telegram then stuffed it in his coat pocket.

 His friend at the Yard had reviewed his theory that Olivia might still be alive and supporting herself with the sale of the Marrable jewels.  Cameron dismissed his speculations outright but offered encouraging news.

"Another jewel has come to light.  Have full description of woman.  Strong lead.  Unless Lady Olivia possessed sizable mole on right jaw, woman described is someone else.  Bonnie Beckford?"  The message ended:  "Accept your wife is dead, friend.  Get on with the matter of living."

Adrian unclenched his fist.  It would seem he was free of Olivia after all, unless she could reach him from beyond the grave.  Still, would he ever be free of the past?  Of the rumormongering, the suspicions, the outright accusations of blood staining his hands?

Vanessa flooded his mind and once more his heart warred against better judgment.  He should distance himself from her, an inner voice argued.  Besides, if she knew the truth already, she surely must despise him now. 

Better she not be touched by the curse that followed him, another voice taunted, lest that evil destroy her as well.

But his heart battled back, undaunted, its armor hardened and yet strong.  There was no curse, only choices poorly made.  A far worse choice would be to abandon Vanessa to another.  Then Olivia would have truly won, and he would be left to tilt against shadows, alone and isolated behind his wall of pain.

After a long session of developing and printing out the negatives for the mourning album, Vanessa and Geoffrey set the Photo House to rights—washing the pans and implements, scrubbing down the tables, and storing the solutions in their proper places.

While Geoffrey refilled the buckets with fresh water, Vanessa unpinned the photographs from the edges of shelves, checking each one before placing it into a deep drawer.  She was pleased with the results of the portraits—those of the Norland and Pendergast families, Lawrence, Nanny Pringle and the many household servants who knew Lady Gwendolyn while she lived. 

Adrian's photograph, of course, was not among the others.  The way things were progressing, Vanessa doubted it ever would be.

 Vanessa's emotions coursed restlessly through her as she thought back to yesterday and to Adrian.  She'd watched him walk briskly away down Broad Street and would have continued to watch till he disappeared from sight had Lawrence not insisted they hasten on to meet Cissy.  Vanessa hadn't seen Adrian since.

Her spirits flagged at that thought.  Directing her attention back to the shelf, she unfastened the last of the pictures and glanced down at it.  There, beneath her fingers, was the image of Lady Gwendolyn lying in her coffin in Knights Chapel, her hands folded one atop the other.  A familiar pain splintered through Vanessa's heart.  She steeled herself, choosing to feel gratitude instead of grief—gratitude to have known so exceptional a lady and to have been touched by her light and joy and kindness.

Vanessa began to place the picture in the drawer with the others then drew back her hand.  Though the quality of the photograph was without fault, there was something about it that struck her as not quite right. 

As she puzzled over the picture, Rascal, who had been lying patiently outside the open door, lifted his head from his paws.  A low growl rumbled in his throat.

"What's the matter, boy?" Geoffrey called as he replaced the last of the buckets. 

The pup continued to growl at something in the courtyard, out of sight.  An instant later he sprang to his feet, the fur along his neck and back bristling as he began yapping excitedly.

Vanessa deposited the picture in the drawer and closed it, then started across the room to see what agitated the animal so.  She halted, seeing Geoffrey reach the door before her and step outside.  He glanced right and left then looked back to Vanessa and gave a shrug.  Squatting down beside the puppy, Geoffrey ruffled his fur and gave him a thorough petting.

"Quiet, boy.  There's nothing out here."

Unconvinced, the pup maintained its stiff-legged stance and continued to bark noisily.

"Calm down, boy.  Rascal,
no!
  Stop!" Geoffrey commanded.

Rascal pinned back his ears and sat down on his haunches.  But as the boy rose and left his side, the pup began to whine.  No sooner had Geoffrey reentered the Photo House and taken several steps, than Rascal bounced to all fours again and launched into a fresh fit of barking.

"We're almost finished here, Geoffrey.  Why don't you go on ahead and take Rascal for a run?  He's a high-spirited pup and the exercise will do him good."

"Are you sure, Mrs. Wynters?"

"Quite sure."  She cast him a smile.

Geoffrey started for the door, then stopped on the threshold and turned back.  Digging into his pocket, he produced the pewter watch and held it up.  His face mirrored his delight.

 "Thank you again, Mrs. Wynters.  It's capital!  I'll treasure it always, I promise."

  His words drew another smile from Vanessa.  "Tomorrow, we'll photograph one of the follies—your choice, Geoffrey—and you can time the exposures."

"Can I really?"  His face brightened further.

"Really."  Vanessa chuckled at his enthusiasm.

At that moment, Rascal bounded out of sight, barking wildly.

"Probably a squirrel."  Geoffrey shrugged, then dashed after the ungovernable pup.

Vanessa stacked the porcelain trays at the end of the long worktable then crossed the room and closed the doors on the cupboard.  As she started to step away, the temperature plunged around her, turning a sharp, bitter cold.

Wrapping her arms about her, Vanessa took a long, deep swallow.  "I know you're here," she called out to the empty room.  "What do you want?"

Unsurprisingly, there was no detectable response.  Nor was there a change in the frigid air.  Wary, Vanessa reached out her hand and felt the space directly before her.  "Polar" was a term that came to mind.  As her arm remained stretched forth, the air's iciness abruptly dissolved, the room returning in an instant to its former temperature.

Vanessa snatched back her hand, her heart pounding fiercely.  Was the specter gone or still present, watching?  What did it want?  Why did it come here, to the Photo House?

Vanessa assumed her unseen visitor to be the same entity that had appeared in the gallery photographs—the misted lady, beckoning with a vaporous hand.  If it—or rather, if
she
—wished to reveal something, where had she evanesced to now?

Vanessa paced the room, searching for chilly areas but found none.  Her hands shook and her heart thumped madly yet, curiously, never for a moment did she feel threatened.  Vanessa waited a quarter-of-an-hour longer, timing the passage on her watch.  The minutes stretched out for a seeming eternity.  Still, the phenomenon did not recur.  Deciding she couldn't wait the remainder of the day on a ghostly whim, Vanessa prepared to leave. 

"Let me know when you're ready to have your picture taken," she addressed the empty room with a dash of humor, though her nerves and patience were stretched thin.

All remained silent, unchanging.  Perhaps, the specter had departed after all.  Or perhaps she was going a touch mad, Vanessa told herself.  She had, after all, just attempted to communicate with a disembodied spirit.

Slipping her shawl and keys off the peg by the door, Vanessa stepped through the door, quitting the Photo House.  As she fitted the key to the door's lock, the temperature plummeted dramatically around her once more.

Vanessa whirled in place.  She swept on her shawl then, composing herself, reached forth her hand and felt the characteristic frigidness in the air.  She sensed it to be the same as before, the degree and quality of the cold almost like an icy fingerprint.  Certainly, the specter was the same one she'd experienced moments before and, she believed, the one that had inhabited the gallery as well.

As Vanessa continued to explore the chilly expanse of air, she discovered it possessed a definite form, like a huge icy sphere.  She could extend her hand deep into its center as well as move around its perimeter.

Suddenly, the ball of cold drew away from Vanessa, but she easily located it several feet from where it had hovered moments before.  Again, the sphere of wintry air moved off and, again, she located it.

Vanessa's pulses quickened.  "You wish for me to follow you, is that it?  All right.  Stay here a moment.  Don't leave.  I need to get my camera."

Vanessa raced back inside the Photo House and retrieved her equipment from the far corner.  Thankfully, the tripod was already attached to the camera.  It took her another minute to affix a lens.  She then grabbed the oak box containing a small cache of sensitized dry plates and her brass stops and started back outside.  She knew she'd have to depend on her experience and guess at the proper settings.  Yet, even should the exposures print out poorly, at least she would learn where the specter wished to lead her and hopefully what it wanted.

With camera and case in hand, Vanessa rushed into the courtyard.  When she didn't immediately locate the frigid mass of air, she worried she'd taken overlong, and that the specter had withdrawn.  But seconds later, the glacial cold engulfed her once more.

"Good"—she panted for breath—"You're here."  She shouldered the tripod and camera on her shoulder and gripped the handle on the oak box.  "I'm ready.  If there's something you wish to show me then, please, lead on."

Vanessa followed the moving sphere of chill air.  It led her in a steady line to the far end of the courtyard, coming to a stop before the entrance to the west tower. 

Vanessa gazed up at it, remembering the night she'd thought to have seen a figure there in the topmost window.  Realizing the specter continued to hover before the entry, Vanessa assumed it wished her to enter.

"Let me make an exposure before we go inside.  I'll be quick about it, I promise."

Vanessa worked hastily, hoping the entity would remain patient.  After stabilizing the tripod, she swiftly brought the tower's arched door into focus on the glass viewing screen, wasting no time for artistic considerations.  She estimated the settings, stopped down the lens, and adjusted the shutter, judging everything by instinct.

"If you are there, stay there.  Uh, look toward the camera."  This was insanity, sheer insanity.  Not only was she talking to a ghost, now she was posing it for its picture.

Removing the glass screen, Vanessa inserted the negative plate holder, pulled the slide, and released the shutter.  Immediately, the ball of bitter-cold air moved off.

Hurriedly, Vanessa replaced the slide to protect the negative.  Gathering up her equipment, she followed the frigid mist inside the tower, pausing only long enough to open the door, unlike her "companion" who'd just passed straight through.

Vanessa found herself standing in a stone stairwell, confronted by a long flight of stairs.  It turned back on itself many times, reaching upward and out of sight.  The sphere of cold hovered before the staircase, then began to ascend, skimming upward over the steps, leading Vanessa high into the tower. 

The temperature within the stairwell quickly fell, the stone reflecting the spectral cold.  Vanessa trembled and her teeth chattered, but she climbed steadily onward.  At one point, she passed a door that opened onto the connecting wing, but the specter did not divert or tarry there.  Instead, it continued its ascent, bringing Vanessa at last to the spacious landing at the top and to a substantial, multi-paneled oak door. 

The sphere of cold centered before the door then passed through the wood.  Obviously, it expected her to follow.

Testing the brass S-curved door handle, Vanessa found it gave under the pressure of her hand, allowing her entrance as the door swept easily open. 

Stepping inside, she found herself standing in what she assumed—by its masculine decor and antiquarian curiosities—to be a private study.  The furnishings offered solid comfort while, additionally, there were glass cases containing varied collections and even an entire suit of armor for both man and horse displayed to one side.  Books lined the walls all around, both on the entrance level and in the gallery above.  There, tall, arched windows interrupted the bookcases periodically, each window containing an ancient seal in its apex.

Vanessa recalled being advised on several occasions that hers and Lady Gwen's photographs were stored in the west study.  Surely this must be the place, she reasoned, being that this was the west tower.

Her interest drew to the beautiful wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner which led to the gallery above.  Its narrowness reminded her of the staircase she'd encountered, and almost toppled down, yesterday in St. Ethelbert's Cathedral.

The spectral cold flowed over her, recaturing her attention before moving off again.  Once more, Vanessa followed and was mildly surprised when it led her to the bottom of the twisting stairs.  Almost at once, the sphere of cold began spinning rapidly, as if greatly agitated, and creating a distinct gust of wind. 

Vanessa fumbled with her equipment, swiftly setting up her camera.  For whatever reason, the steps held significance and she knew she must capture its image now, while the specter was communicating, well, whatever it was communicating.

Removing the exposed negative, still lodged in the camera, she quickly judged the distance and light, estimated the shutter setting for an indoor exposure, and inserted a fresh negative.  As experience could only guide her so far, Vanessa decided to make two exposures with two different settings, lest one guess was wrong. 

Again, barely had she finished than the sphere of cold began to move off, ceasing its spinning as it advanced up the twisting iron stairs. 

Vanessa left her camera where it stood, sensing she no longer needed it.  Catching up the skirt of her gown, she mounted with care, thankful the climb was far shorter than yesterday's.  Still it was not insignificant.

As Vanessa gained the top, she discovered the icy sphere waiting.  Immediately, it led her along the gallery to a series of shelves containing rows of deep cardboard boxes.  Each was marked and dated in a neat hand.  Lady Gwen's hand, Vanessa realized, recognizing the script at once.  Presumably, the boxes contained family photographs.  But what, precisely, did the ghost want her to do now?

"Is there something here you wish me to see?  A photograph?  Which box should I look in?  Show me." 

Vanessa touched her hand to the boxes, one by one.  As her fingers grazed the one labeled "May 15, 1878," the air surrounding her hand turned icy.  She snatched her hand back, stung by the cold.

"All right, I understand.  This is the one."