The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (11 page)

Anne burned sage in every room of the
house and in every space outside, including the stable and all the
outbuildings. On one level, she felt a bit silly doing it. On
another, she would not bypass any advice Mr. Harleston had. There
were just too many strange occurrences in the house to
dismiss.

"You especially must keep this sage
burning at all times," Anne said to Alfie, feeling self-conscious
being in his private quarters. He stood by and watched her. "It
seems you are affected by the things in this house worse than
either I or Lisle. Perhaps it would be safer for you if you left.
Mr. Harleston recommended it. He said the house was draining your
energies."

"No," Alfie said a little too sharply and
Anne was taken aback. "I have nowhere to go and if burning greenery
will protect me, then that is enough."

Anne still felt uncertain, but he seemed too
adamant not to be dismissed. She fully understood the fear of
having nowhere to go. "I can give you good references, enough to
get you employment elsewhere."

"I don't want to leave." He looked her
straight in the eye as he said it. There was frustration there that
Anne didn't understand, but if he insisted on staying, she would
let him. Their daily life would be infinitely more burdensome
without him. He had become integral to the smooth running of the
house and their minuscule working farm.

And to her surprise, the sage seemed to
work. There were not more footsteps, whispers or creaks in the
night. She slept right through to dawn. Even Lisle seemed to be
happier. Well, happy might be a stretch—less discontented was
probably more accurate.

Now it was about time she tackled some of
the spare rooms in the house, eager to remove all remnants of the
house's abandoned past. The decrepit rooms sat like sores hidden
away behind shut doors. Hidden, but not forgotten. Getting them
straightened would make the house feel more homely—free of its
past.

Mr. Harleston's thoughts on peaceful
happiness rang true with her and that was what she wanted to
achieve. It was enough now, of the fear and worry. Things were
fine. The garden was thriving, the chickens were growing and the
cow gave a good quantity of milk every day. It might not be much in
some people's books, but she was independently managing—something
she'd been taught she could never achieve.

They spent the morning carting out
unsalvageable furnishings, including heavy draperies, a medieval
tapestry which the moths had ravaged. Dragging these dusty objects
down the stairs and outside created quite a mess, but it would be
worth it. Alfie built a fire and it all burned.

The dust and the smoke from the fire
took a toll on Anne's throat and she had an aching cough later in
the day. The rooms were now stripped of everything that had to go,
including mattresses, and there was only dust left to deal with. It
covered everything and turned to grime the instant they put water
to it.

Even with the dust, the clear, open spaces
felt more peaceful. There was only one room left—one she hadn't
even looked into. The attic. She wanted to know how much clutter
was up there. It might be an utter mess, which would bother her, or
it may be relatively clean. She needed to know.

The entrance was down at the very end
of the servant's floor, a rough wooden door with a lock on it. The
keys were lost to time, so Alfie had to break it open with an iron
bar.

The space was dark and the heavy oak
beams sat low. The slate of the roof could be seen above and
cobwebs covered the clutter, of which there was some—old furniture,
debris, papers and boxes of what looked like farm implements. Paper
and other small objects crunched under her feet as she
walked.

A small window sat at the far end, sending a
thick column of light through the dust. There were things there,
but it wasn't stuffed to the brim.

Walking along in the dark space, Anne
hit her left chin on something hard and pain flared up her leg from
the wound. It was a strongbox of some type. It looked old, as did
the lock which was made of clunky iron. Thick rails of iron ran
down its length.

"Found treasure?" Lisle asked as she
appeared on the stairs.

"A strongbox of some type. It is
locked."

"Could be anything in there. Gold
maybe."

"I hardly think anyone would be keeping gold
in a box in the attic, Lisle," Anne said dismissively. Just a box
left for storage. Who knew how old it was?

Taking a last look around, Anne walked back
to the entrance. It wasn't too bad—not bad enough that it would
bother her knowing the state of the place.

Shutting the door, Anne tried to
replace the broken lock, but it hung limply. Hopefully, that lock
wasn't shutting something nasty inside—like the darkness that
slumbered. Who knew where darkness lay? Mr. Harleston hadn't said
anything about being careful where she went. It was passions that
woke it, not wandering around looking for cleaning work. There was
nothing passionate here. She'd even managed to keep her fear in
check.

So now she knew. The attic didn't
particularly need tending to. It was just the spare rooms and the
remainder of the servants' quarters, and then the house would be
hers in its entirety.

The house was silent that night, too.
Opening the attic hadn't disturbed anything and Anne was pleased.
She had another day of cleaning planned, determined to lay claim to
the house in full, and she felt that was achieved when she could
use all its spaces.

Lisle was baking downstairs and Anne went to
get the milk, which had become their habit. But opposed to what she
expected, the cow was still in the stable, eyeing her as she walked
in. The milking pail also stood empty. For some reason, Alfie had
been negligent in his duties.

Unease crept up her spine. Perhaps the sage
hadn't worked and he'd become too ill to leave his cot. If this
were the case, she would make him leave. Turning toward the
building his room was in, she rushed, taking the staircase two at a
time. "Alfie," she called, but there was no answer. The door gave
when she pushed on it and the room was completely silent, eerily
so.

"Alfie," she said again, stepping into
the room. All she heard were birds chirping outside. Her eyes
traveled to the cot where he lay, his eyes glassy and staring, his
lips blue. Covering her mouth, she gasped. A sheet covered his
hips, but he was otherwise naked, a sheen of sweat still on his
pale skin. The sheet was barely protection from the cold. He would
have frozen, but he looked like he'd suffered from a violent
fever.

Anne stumbled backward, crashing into a
stool and fell to the wall. He was dead. He'd been fine yesterday,
a bit gray and pale, but now he was dead. Anne tripped down the
stairs in her rush having to brace herself as her knee gave way.
Splinters stabbed into her palm. She had to get away, get outside.
It felt like the walls were closing in on her.

"What's the matter?" Lisle called. "I
heard you screaming."

Anne couldn't talk, only stared at her,
unaware she'd made any noise at all. Lisle rushed past her toward
Alfie's building, but Anne grabbed her. "No," Anne said, but Lisle
pulled out of her grip. She heard Lisle screaming inside, heard the
anguish in her voice. Anne felt so sorry for her. Lisle cared about
Alfie, even after the hurt he'd inflicted on her.

Lisle was silent when she returned, looking
shocked and numb.

"I'll go get help from Mr. Turner,"
Anne said and Lisle nodded as she continued walking slowly back to
the main house.

Anne started running and kept doing so as
long as she could. When she couldn't run anymore, the tears started
and she wandered toward the Turner farm with them wetting her
cheeks and blurring her vision. She should have made him leave. Why
had she been swayed by him? Had she put his life in danger because
she was too afraid to be without his help? She knew he was being
attacked and she'd brought herbs to deal with it. Herbs. How could
she have been so stupid? And now a young man was dead and Lisle was
distraught.

She'd fooled herself into thinking
everything in the house was fine. Nothing was fine and they'd
killed Alfie. This was all her fault. "A nice balance," the medium
had said so cheerily. This wasn't balance. Alfie had just died.
That wasn't balance. This was war. The house had attacked them and
claimed a victim.

Mr. Turner led her inside without a word and
his wife, who'd Anne hadn't met before, gave her something to
drink, which was disgusting and strong, but Anne drank it anyway.
She managed to hack out what happened and Mr. Turner said he'd go
to the village and inform the doctor and the vicar.

Anne started crying again. The vicar had put
Alfie in her care and she'd completely failed in her duties. And
now he was dead.

There was a carriage waiting by the time
Anne returned. Lisle was standing outside with her arms crossed, a
grim look on her face.

"Who's here?" Anne asked.

"The vicar and the doctor. They're in with
him now."

Anne felt tears sting her nose again. "I'm
so sorry—" Anne started, but Lisle held up her hand as if she
refused to hear it.

They stood there for a while, just looking
at the building where Alfie had his room. A time later, the vicar
appeared. "Ah, Miss Sands. Such terrible news. Poor Alfie, struck
down in his youth. So very sad. A deficiency in his heart, Doctor
Sorensen says. Something he would have been born with. Could have
happened at any time. Still, so very sad when someone dies so
young."

"What do we do now? Must we… send him
somewhere?"

"No, as he has no family, there is no one to
notify. I understand Mr. Turner is making preparations."

"Preparations?"

"There is a graveyard attached to this
estate. If you are amenable, it would be best to bury him
there."

Anne had no idea there was a graveyard. She
hadn't seen it. "Of course."

"Good. Mr. Turner will go directly and
make preparations, but it will take a little while."

The doctor appeared, carrying his black bag.
He was a man in his fifties with a head full of gray hair and a
pronounced pouch to his belly. "Miss Sands," he said, gently taking
her hand. "Such sad circumstances to make your acquaintance."

"Mr. Whitling said his heart failed,"
Anne said.

Mr. Sorensen tucked his thumb in a
pocket on his waistcoat and straightened. "Yes. It is true. His
heart failed. The weakness congenital. There was nothing that could
be done for him."