“Oh,” Keira muttered. “They didn’t accept, did they?”
Mason gave her a tight-lipped smile. “They did. The family was gone the next morning.”
“Wow.”
“No one knows where they went. Frank maintained that he intended to marry Emma as soon as he found her, but over the following six months, his father wheedled and threatened and cajoled so severely that Frank began to talk of his love less and less.”
“Emma came back, though, didn’t she? Her grave’s just outside.”
“You’re right. While her side of the story isn’t so well-known, it seems she never stopped loving Frank. When he didn’t come to find her, she left her family and went looking for him. It’s suspected that she traveled on foot through the back roads because the first sighting of her was by the Crispins’ groundskeeper, who saw her emerge from the woods surrounding the property and walk toward the mansion.”
Keira had a sickening idea of what came next. “She didn’t find Frank, though.”
“No. George discovered her in the garden behind the house. They argued. He was incensed. She refused to leave without seeing Frank. So George picked up one of the rocks lining the path—”
“And beat her head in,” Keira murmured, absorbed in thought.
Mason raised an eyebrow. “That’s right… Good guess. The groundskeeper fetched the police. They arrived in time to find George digging a grave-sized hole in the garden. He didn’t try to deny the murder. The only thing he said as they took him away was ‘I wish I’d done it sooner.’”
Keira shuddered. “What a pleasant soul. What happened to him?”
“Life imprisonment, no parole. He passed away about five years ago from heart failure.”
“Will I sound like a horrible person if I say good riddance?”
Mason laughed. “You’ll only be echoing the sentiments of most of the town. That’s not quite the end of the story, though.”
“Oh no. I’d almost forgotten about Frank.”
“Out of everyone, I think he may have suffered the most. He was in the house when his father murdered his intended but didn’t hear about what had happened until the police called everyone out for questioning. He stayed just long enough to see that Emma was buried in this very graveyard, then walked to the abandoned mill behind the house, found a length of rope, tied one end around the rafters, and fashioned the other into a noose.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. It took a few days for his body to be found. Although he’d left a note asking to be buried beside Emma, his siblings chose to put him in the family plot. They also supported their father through his unsuccessful legal battle.
“There’s not much to the story after that. The Crispins, who had been one of the most respected families in the area, were permanently tainted by the scandal. One of George’s remaining children moved overseas; the other chose to stay in the family home until his death several years ago. He only had one son, Dane, who is the last of the once-great Crispin empire.”
Keira chewed on the edge of her thumb. When she’d first seen Emma, she’d assumed the injuries had come from a spur-of-the-moment attack, such as a mugging, with the attacker fleeing the scene. Knowing that she’d been killed by the town’s most prominent social figure made the situation both much simpler and much more complicated.
There was no need for her to uncover Emma’s murderer because he’d already been found. Whatever Keira wanted to learn about him would probably be public knowledge. But he’d been caught, convicted, and incarcerated…so why did Emma’s ghost linger?
“Keira?” Mason watched her closely while he scratched around the cat’s head. The black creature’s tongue had emerged again, and it showed no signs of retracting. “Do you remember something?”
“Ah, no, I’m afraid not. But it’s a fascinating story.” She rubbed at the back of her neck. “I was just thinking about Emma. And whether she’d have returned to town if she’d known George was capable of murder.”
“Good question. I like to think so. Love can make people do reckless, crazy things.”
The cat tried to roll onto its back but slipped off Mason’s lap. He lunged to catch it, then chuckled as he set it onto the rug. “I’d better get going. As much as I’d like to stay longer, I promised to help my neighbor wash her dogs.” He made a face. “She’s a tiny woman pushing eighty with three Great Danes the size of horses. I’m seriously worried that one of them will sit on her and squash her someday.”
Keira followed him to the door. “I’d better let you go to her rescue, then. Thanks for visiting. It was nice.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” He paused in the doorway. “I’ll come back in a couple of days to take the stitches out. But give me a call if you need anything—even if you just want to chat. I have too much time on my hands these days.”
Keira waved as he left, then she closed the door and went to the window. His long coat swirled around his legs as he strode through the graveyard, and the wind swept through his chocolate hair as he disappeared into the mist.
Chapter Thirteen
Mason’s story had solved the mystery of Emma’s death, but it didn’t answer why she remained on earth. Keira paced the length of the cottage, rubbing one hand over her mouth, as she thought it through.
Is it possible that Emma doesn’t know her killer was caught? She’s a ghost, but that doesn’t mean she’s omnipotent. Could she think George Crispin is still a free man?
It was worth a try. Keira crossed to the shopping bags and retrieved the bunch of daisies Polly Kennard had given her. The little black cat followed at her heels as she returned to the door, and Keira smiled at it. “Want to go outside for a bit?”
The cat gave a squeaky meow and butted at her leg. Keira opened the door, and it frisked out ahead of her, dancing through the barren garden as though it had lived there its entire life.
Mason’s visit had consumed a lot of the morning. Keira didn’t have long until she needed to meet Zoe for coffee. She pulled her hoodie up over her head and passed into the graveyard.
The groundskeeper’s garden had been neglected for a long time. Dead stems crunched under Keira’s boots as she rounded the stone fence. According to Adage, the old groundskeeper had only passed a year before, but it seemed as though he’d been neglecting his duties for upward of a decade. Either that, or things just decayed faster in Blighty’s cemetery. Keira scanned the markers and saw little recent intervention. There were very few flowers and no gifts, even though many of the stones had been placed within the past few years.
Something cold grazed her cheek and she shuddered, hiking her shoulders up. Nothing was visible, but the presences around her didn’t want to be forgotten.
She turned toward the forest, retracing her path to the space where Emma’s spirit had indicated to her grave. The paper around the daisies crinkled as she pressed them to her chest.
Mist dragged against her ankles like a current. She thought she heard a distant noise: a child crying. It was gone before she could even turn toward it. Keira swallowed, her tongue dry, and focused on the small, plain grave marker ahead. The name Emma Carthage seemed to rise out of the mist.
Keira paused ahead of the monument, staring at the block of dead grass that must have covered Emma and her casket, then she bent to place the daisies, propping them against the stone. As she stepped back, she wondered how many years it had been since anyone had left a gift for the weeping woman. Or if there had been any gifts left at all.
The daisies looked unnaturally fresh and bright against the neglected stone. It wasn’t as old as many of its companions, but cracks had begun to form around the edge where frost had worked into the stone’s weaknesses, and gray lichen clung to the surface. It was a sad monument. Lonely, like so many others in the graveyard. She cleared her throat. “Emma?”
There was no response, but she hadn’t expected one.
“I hope you can hear me, Emma. I know who killed you. It was George Crispin, wasn’t it?”
Again, she waited. The world seemed exceptionally quiet. Even though the forest edge was only two dozen paces away, she couldn’t make out any noises from it. But something in the air seemed to change. It was only a tiny difference—a prickle of raised hairs, a breath of slightly cooler air—but Keira knew she wasn’t alone.
“He was caught, Emma. Caught and convicted and spent fifteen years in prison. He died in there.”
Mist rose from her lips with every word. The temperature was dropping; it stung her cheeks and chilled the inside of her nose. She took another step back from the gravestone but fought the impulse to retreat further. “He saw justice. You’re free to move on, if you feel ready.”
A muted crunching sound came from near her feet. The daisies under the headstone were withering. The petals turned black while the leaves darkened and shriveled. Even the blue-tinted paper holding them together seemed to age, curling as though from water damage while the color bleached out of it.
Keira still couldn’t see anyone, but fog thickened between the headstones. The sky had been overcast all morning, but it deepened further into an angry black.
“Emma? Is this what you wanted? He was punished for his crime. I know it doesn’t undo what happened, but—”
Frost spread outward from the dead flowers. The white crystals threaded up the headstone and spread over the grass, transforming it from brown to gray. Keira inched back from the ice’s reach and wrapped her arms around her torso. She felt as if she’d fallen into a frozen lake.
Run, her instincts pleaded, but she still hesitated. She’d promised to help the ghost if she could, but her news seemed unwelcome. She couldn’t understand it. Hadn’t Emma wanted justice? Did she think prison was too light of a retribution?
Hearing a faint exhale, Keira turned. Behind her loomed a wall of fog. It was dense, suffocating. Keira tried to draw breath, and her lungs stung as frozen air hit them.
Black eyes stared out of the mist. Emma’s beautiful face was contorted. Wild. The blood streaking down her cheek was no longer transparent monochrome but bright, violent red.
I can hear her breathing. I can see her color. What’s happening?
The spirit’s jaw stretched open. Behind the teeth was an endless pit of rotting flesh and squirming maggots, stretching away, as the throat shook with a howling scream. Keira pitched backward. Her legs hit the tombstone; she tumbled over it, gasped as she fell, and smashed into the dirt. Something—a rock or the corner of a gravestone, she wasn’t sure—scraped the back of her shoulder. Red-hot pain pulsed through the shock.
Get up! Run!
The cold was all-consuming. Ice crystals flowed across Keira’s skin as she scrambled to regain her feet. Emma reached toward her, her howling cry a deafening, unending tone that filled Keira’s head and drowned out conscious thought. The outstretched hands hit Keira and passed through her. Cold burrowed into her chest, and she felt her heart miss a beat before stuttering back to life.
She couldn’t tell if the spirit continued to scream or if the wails were merely trapped in her ears, destined to loop forever. She was blind in the impossibly thick mist. The freezing blanket of white pressed against her on all sides, so dense that she felt as if she were drowning in it. She couldn’t see anything—not the spirit, the gravestones, or even the ground.
A tiny, muted meow came from somewhere to her right. Keira responded instinctively. She staggered toward it, holding her breath, simply hoping that she wouldn’t collide with any of the hidden stones. Something dark flashed through the endless white. A cat’s tail, its tip curled, bobbed like a lantern in the void, and Keira focused her remaining energy on following it.
The shape wove and flicked. It moved faster than Keira could have imagined; even at a full run, she only caught glimpses of the little black cat’s twitching ears before it faded back into the fog.
Then, abruptly, the cat slowed to a trot, allowing Keira to catch up to it. A dark shape emerged from the drowning mist: a familiar wooden door. The cat craned its head toward Keira, whiskers puffed and tail twitching, as it waited impatiently.
Keira felt emotionally numb as she turned the handle. She followed the cat inside the cottage and slammed the door. Suddenly, she could breathe again.
Her chest ached. She sucked in fresh oxygen as she pressed her back to the wood. The mist had drenched her and soaked through both layers of clothes; water dripped off her face and hair. She wiped the moisture away from her eyes and turned toward the window.
It was a cold but relatively clear day. The graveyard, dappled by muted sunlight, appeared peaceful. Keira swore under her breath.
The cat wove around her legs, rubbing itself against her jeans and purring so loudly that it sounded like a motor. Keira stared at it, then bent, picked it up, and cuddled it to her chest as she carried it to the empty fireplace.
This isn’t just a regular cat, is it? She found me; she led me out of the mist. I don’t know what would have happened if I’d been trapped out there, but I suspect I owe her an awful lot.
“You’re wet,” she murmured, and smudged some of the dew off the cat’s head. It arched into her hand, purring gleefully, and Keira shuffled forward to light a fire.
As soon as the flames caught, she went to retrieve two towels from the bathroom. The first went to blotting as much water out of the cat as possible. She used the second to dry her hair, then pulled off the wet clothes and changed them for dry items from the bundle on the round table.
She glanced outside as she passed the window. The scene remained peaceful and clear. The mist rose in minutes but disappeared in seconds. Almost as though the ghost had to work to manifest it but could only hold it for a short time.
Keira fetched a new can of cat food from the bags, scraped it onto a plate, then cautiously approached her helper.
The cat had sprawled in front of the flames, its purrs now dulled to a low rumble, and showed no interest in the food she placed near it.
“Um…thank you.” Keira tried not to feel stupid as she knelt beside the cat. “For helping me.”
The cat twisted onto its back to expose maximum belly real estate to the heat. A smile pulled at Keira’s mouth, but she fought to keep her voice gentle and polite. “Can you understand me? I’m assuming you’re not a normal cat.”
No response. After a second, Keira reached forward to scratch its chin. The feline redoubled its purrs, and its paws twitched.
Could it have been dumb luck? Is it possible she’s just a normal cat after all?
“Well…if you can understand me…there’s some food there. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. And, uh, thank you again.”
The cat licked its nose but failed to retract its tongue. The little pink protrusion made it impossible for Keira to take the creature seriously. She chuckled as she brushed her hair out of her face. “Well, if you’re planning to stay here much longer, I’m going to need to call you something. Got any suggestions?” The cat stretched luxuriously. “No? Then…how about…” The bunch of flowers below Emma’s grave appeared in Keira’s mind’s eye. “How about Daisy? Is that all right?”
No answer. That either meant she approved, or she was just a normal, nonsapient cat who had no clue what Keira was saying. Either way… “Daisy it is.”
Keira sat back and watched the flames. She was still shaking from the experience in the graveyard, but at least her heart had stopped fluttering like a panicked bird.
Emma seemed angry. More than angry…furious. So much so that she appeared more corporeal. Is it possible that ghosts’ tangibleness is based on how strong their emotions are? When I saw her the first night, she was agitated. But none of the other ghosts were visible until I strained to see them. Is that because they’re not distressed like Emma is?
Keira sighed and ran her hands over her face. “What upset her? It must have been something I said.” She peeked through her fingers to watch the cat, who was happily ignoring the world. “D’you think George was wrongfully accused
or something? Mason said he admitted to the crime, but what if he was covering up for someone, like one of his sons? That could explain Emma’s frustration.”
The cat’s face twitched as it enjoyed the fire. Keira hoped it was having happy thoughts. She let her arms drop and leaned back. I’ll have to keep looking for answers. I don’t think she meant to hurt me—it felt as though she was just so broken that she couldn’t contain herself. Which means she must need the help badly. And I’m the only one who knows.
She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was nearly one.
“Oh no.” Keira scrambled to her feet, startling the cat. “Sorry, Daisy, I’ve got to go. I promised I’d meet Zoe. I’ll be back later, okay?”
The cat hiccupped, and its tongue poked out even farther.
Keira snorted as she ran to the door. My life is a joke. Not only am I seeing dead people, but now I’m talking to my cat and actually expecting her to answer. If anyone saw me like this, they’d check me into a mental institution in a heartbeat.
She looked through the window a final time. The idea of leaving her cottage’s relative safety wasn’t appealing, but the cemetery appeared calm. A family had arrived to pay their respects to a grave near the opposite fence. Keira took a fortifying breath, slipped through the door, and turned toward town. She was going to be late for her meeting with Zoe, and there would be hell to pay.
Chapter Fourteen
Zoe stood outside the café, her arms crossed and her face a mask of pure disgust. “Keira Jane Doe. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
“Sorry!” Keira slowed to a halt and pressed a hand to her torso. She’d run from the church, and not even her muscles could save her from breathlessness.
“I’ve been here for at least four minutes. That’s, like, equivalent to an entire month of a mayfly’s life.”
The Whispering Dead: Gravekeeper Book 1 Page 9