My One True Love

by Deborah Small

  THE GUENTHERS, LYONS, Banners, Mayor Bellman-Winn, and Sheriff Klugg and one of the two deputies he’d arrived with, all turned towards the parlour’s entry doors when Margaret and Joe entered.

  “Well?” Tonia asked, breathless with anxiety as she clutched a blue shawl around the shoulders of her white day dress in defiance of the afternoon stuffiness of the room.

  Margaret shook her head, and Tonia’s dark eyes brightened with pooling tears.

  “Don’t start, Tonia,” Daniel said. But he threw a protective arm around her waist as he fixed a scowl on his son, as though not quite believing that his nine-going-on-ten-year-old blind granddaughter wasn’t on the mansion’s roof.

  But she and Mr. Banner had checked. Then they’d gone back inside her bedchamber and rechecked it, and then all the bedchambers on the first floor and all closets and byways on down through to the ground floor where Miss Alma, Mr. Rufus, and Miss Lisette were at this moment continuing to search, despite having gone through every nook and cranny in the mansion twice already.

  She and Mr. Banner had also checked and double-checked the attic, stables, and the cemetery grounds before Mr. Banner reluctantly sent for the sheriff shortly before ten o’clock, after she and he had been to the archive—though he assured her Maisie wasn’t aware of its existence, and even if she was, she wouldn’t know how to open the secret door to access it. But the cylindrical chamber had been as dark and empty as the hole Maisie’s disappearance had torn in her soul the moment Miss Lisette knocked on her bedchamber door with a request to look inside the room after a search of the other upper floor bedchambers had failed to turn up any sign of the child. And the hole was growing larger and colder with each tick of the minute hand pushing the hour hand around the clock face.

  It was already past two in the afternoon. If Maisie wasn’t found alive and well soon, the hole would rise up and devour the whole of her sanity. From the reverberant tension in the room, she wasn’t the only one teetering on the edge of reality.

  Mr. Guenther stood fixedly behind one sofa, a hand on each of his wife’s shoulders as she sat bolt upright, her expression wavering between alarm and bewilderment. It was a position they’d maintained for over an hour since following Mr. Banner back to Sugar Hill after he’d gone to their place, while awaiting the sheriff’s arrival, to ask if he might search their house and grounds on the very remote chance Maisie had tried to find her way there.

  Miss Chloe, thankfully, was away for the weekend in Thomasville with her eldest brother and his wife after her plans with Maisie had fallen apart with the Banners’ arrival, freeing Mr. Guenther to focus only on his wife, something Margaret was infinitely grateful for. Emotions were running high and complicated enough without adding an inconsolable or confused child to the mix.

  The mayor and sheriff where the only ones in the room who seemed moderately at ease.

  They’d arrived in the sheriff’s motor wagon shortly after eleven, the Lyons a hot minute later in their Cadillac. The mayor had been with the sheriff when Magnus ran in to notify him, and Mr. Lyons had been in his office retrieving files en route to church while his wife waited in their auto on the street. Lyons had looked out and, seeing Magnus exiting the sheriff’s office, had gone out to ask if there was a problem. Upon learning of Maisie’s disappearance, he and Mrs. Lyons rerouted, ending up at Sugar Hill dressed much as they’d been the night before, he in a dark three-piece suit and tie and she in feminine and flowy dress, her blonde hair twisted up in a tidy bun. They stood close together by the front window, Mr. Lyons as quietly reposed and observant as the male lion he resembled, and Mrs. Lyons twisting her hands together nervously as she chewed her lower lip, silent and uncomfortably compliant in comparison to the vivacious, teasing woman she’d been the night before.

  But then, they were all silent and anxious awaiting some word on Maisie, the sheriff having forbidden them—and everyone who lived, worked, or had spent the week at Sugar Hill—from joining the search. A search he’d initiated in all the same places they’d already looked—a search now extended out into the fields and forests and swampland around the estate.

  Though the sheriff hadn’t come right out and explained his reasoning, they all knew why they were being held in check: those who’d remained on the estate after all the guests had gone home the evening before were easy suspects should the search for Maisie not end well.

  God forbid.

  “Joe.” Mr. Guenther moved out from behind the sofa. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” Mr. Banner said. “This isn’t your fault—”

  “It is,” Mr. Guenther said. “If we’d just kept her at our house—”

  “It’s not your fault, Norm. And it’s not yours either,” Mr. Banner added fiercely to his parents as though anticipating a chorus of guilt-ridden apologies from them. “Or yours.” He looked at Margaret, his wolf’s gaze as hard as the steel edging his tone. “Whatever’s happened here—wherever she is—it’s nobody’s fault but mine. I’m responsible for her. And I’m going to find her if I have to beat Barrister Griffiths’s corpse for an answer.”

  “Joseph!”

  Mr. Banner ignored his mother’s admonishment other than to grit his teeth, his jaw muscles flexing as he glowered at Sheriff Klugg who, upon arrival at Sugar Hill, had dismissed his suggestion that Barrister be questioned about Maisie’s disappearance.

  Square of body and chin, with slightly almond-shaped brown eyes and chestnut brown hair shaved close to his skull, the sheriff reminded her of a Staffordshire Terrier. She could almost see a whip-like tail jutting out behind him, quivering, like the ringed tip of rattlesnake’s tail as he matched Mr. Banner glower for glower.

  “I told you, Joe,” he said. “You’re out of line. Just because Barrister said and did some things he deeply regrets, it doesn’t mean he’s a kidnapper. And why would he take your daughter, anyway, if it’s Sugar Hill he wants? The estate belongs to Mrs. Sweeney, not you. Look,” he added in a conciliatory tone, raising a placating hand. “I know you’re upset. We all are. Maisie’s a good girl. A sweet girl. I’ve got good men out there looking for her. My deputies, and half of Quellentown—”

  “You wanna suspect anyone,” the mayor piped up between bites of a breakfast roll from the basket of baked goods Miss Alma and Winnie had set out on the sideboard along with a host of savoury edibles only the mayor so far had the stomach for, “you should be talking to that apprentice of Lyons’s. He was the only one here last night that didn’t belong.”

  “How dare you slander my employee,” Mr. Lyons said, rounding on him. “I’ll—”

  “Mayor, Mr. Lyons, Sheriff—Mr. Banner,” Margaret snapped when he curled his hands in fists as he transferred his glare from sheriff to mayor. “We mustn’t fight. Or blame anyone without evidence that Maisie was kidnapped. Because we have no proof. Do we, Sheriff?” she added in an inquiring rather than commanding tone. “Is there anything, anything at all to tell us what happened to her, or where she is? Because that is all that matters—Maisie. Maisie is what matters, and we must stay focussed on her.”

  The sheriff’s flat expression didn’t change, and he didn’t look away from Mr. Banner as he replied, “I’ve got four teams of ten searchers fanned out in a two-mile radius around this house. I’ve also sent a deputy back to my office with Miss Lisette—”

  “What?” Margaret exclaimed. “When? She was just here.”

  “Five minutes ago—”

  “On what grounds did you arrest her?” Lyons interjected.

  “I didn’t arrest her.” Sheriff Klugg edged his blocky hands towards his gun belt when Mr. Banner took a step towards him. “I took her in for questioning.”

  “Why?” Mr. Banner demanded. “Why are you questioning my governess instead of the man who burst in here threatening Mrs. Sweeney—”

  “Barrister hasn’t been here in weeks,” Sheriff Klugg said. “But your governess was the last person with Miss Maisie—”

  “I was the last person with her.” Mr
. Banner’s knuckles popped as he clenched his hands more tightly. “I left her room just after nine.” He thrust his hands out in front of his body, wrists close together. “So cuff me—”

  “Enough.” Margaret pushed his nearest arm down to his side and scowled at both men. “The sheriff will not let Miss Lisette come to harm while she’s in his custody, will you, Sheriff?” She held Klugg’s gaze, prompting a rise of colour up his short, thick neck.

  “Of course not,” he bit out.

  “Good,” she said. “Then we can all focus on finding Maisie. If she went for a walk, she couldn’t have gone far—”

  “She’s never wandered off before.” Mr. Banner shoved a hand through his hair and turned a circle. “And why would she take her quilt? Even if she did, and somehow got lost, she has Reba with her. Or I hope she does. And that dog would get her home...” He faced back to the sheriff. “Are you using dogs?”

  Sheriff Klugg shook his head. “The dogs I hire hunt suspects and prison escapees. I couldn’t, in good conscience, risk a young girl being hurt should they get to her before their handlers.”

  Margaret pressed her palms together and raised them to her mouth prayerlike as the image the sheriff’s words invoked sent a skittering of panic through her, followed by hollow terror as more images of dangerous and fanged creatures reared up in her imagination: cottonmouths, gators, rattlesnakes...Tonia’s face reflected similar horror, her eyes wide and her olive skin pallid. Daniel looked just as grey and haggard. Margaret went to them and gripped Tonia’s hand in both of hers.

  “She’ll be fine,” she whispered. “We’ll find her. We’ll find her.”

  Tonia nodded, but tears tracked silently down her cheeks.

  “You use Jeremiah and Ira Young’s dogs, don’t you?” Mr. Banner said.

  The sheriff nodded. “They run the best dogs in the county.”

  “No. They don’t,” Mr. Banner said. “Whitey Coombs does.”

  “That ol’ coot?” Sheriff Klugg sneered. “He’s half-blind.”

  “Maisie’s fully blind,” Mr. Banner said as he stalked from the room. “It’s never slowed her down.”

  Chapter 35

  Whitey

  EIGHTY IF HE WAS A day, and lean as knotted rope, his eyes clouded by cataracts, Whitey Coombs navigated the ground and darkness with better agility than a sighted man a quarter his age as he exited the coach and entered the manor aided by his grip on a leather harness attached to the flop-eared dog at his side.

  Bess was a ten-year-old bloodhound, dam of seven-year-old Bayou, that was at the end of a lead held in check by Mr. Banner, who’d taken Magnus and the coach to request Mr. Coombs’s help.

  “Best scent hounds in these parts,” Whitey said after being introduced to Margaret. “If any hounds are gonna find that girl, it’ll be these two.” The dogs’ nails clicked on the marble as they crossed the foyer.

  Sheriff Klugg bared his teeth.

  “Joe, I told you, I don’t need dogs—”

  “My daughter, my decision.” Mr. Banner turned to Whitey. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Last place she was seen,” Whitey said. “That’s where the freshest scent usually is.”

  “Just a minute,” Klugg said. “I’m in charge—”

  “Actually, you’re not.” Margaret met his surprised stare. “This is my land. I decide who goes where, and when.” She raised a hand when he started to protest. “Mr. Banner is my employee. He and his daughter live on my estate, under my roof at the moment, which makes their safety my responsibility. But Maisie,” she added, arching an eyebrow at Klugg, “is Mr. Banner’s child. Her ultimate well-being is his responsibility. Ergo, he chooses what measures will be taken to look after her, or to look for her.”

  The sheriff blinked. “Ma’am, I’m the sheriff—”

  “And I’m the landowner in whose house and on whose land you’re standing,” she said, grateful the Guenthers and Lyonses had taken her advice and gone home with the assurance she would send word the minute Maisie was found.

  She had no patience left for attending to guests or for entertaining foolishness born of male pride like that of the mayor, who’d tried to insist he should remain. It was only after Sheriff Klugg confirmed for her that Mayor Bellman-Winn’s presence was not germane to the search that she was able to convince him to go with the Lyonses, who graciously agreed to take him—solely to relieve her of his presence, she was sure. He went, vociferously insisting that he be informed of any change in the status quo—the status quo being that Maisie was missing, and had been since Mr. Banner had entered her bedchamber to find it empty early that morning. Long hours that had snipped loose every thread holding Margaret’s mask of politesse in place.

  Klugg held her gaze a moment, and, clearly seeing the naked anger in her face, he shot Mr. Banner a glare as he conceded, taking a step backwards. Mr. Banner looked at Mr. Coombs.

  “What do you need, Whitey?”

  Whitey unhooked a rolled leather lead attached to his belt. “Not me.” He affixed the lead to Bess’s harness. “You.”

  “Me?” Mr. Banner frowned. “They’re your dogs.”

  “Fast dogs, too,” Whitey agreed. “Me, not so much anymore. ’Sides, when these dogs come baying out of the darkness, Miss Maisie’s gonna need someone she knows to comfort her. That’s you.”

  Mr. Banner cast a doubtful look at each dog. “Will they listen to me?”

  “They will. Jus’ keep hold o’ Bess and let Bayou go. When he finds Miss Maisie’s trail, he’ll be off like a shot. Bess, too. Bayou’ll find Miss Maisie, Bess’ll find Bayou. When he finds Miss Maisie, he’ll be singing loud as angels’ trumpets, so you have to tell him, ‘Hush now. Hush now, Bayou. Hush, Bess.’ ’Cause she’ll be singing too. They’ll shut up, smart-like. Then you give ’em some o’ this.” Whitey reached in his trouser pocket, pulled out a wad of wrinkled wax paper, and handed it to Mr. Banner. “Chunks o’ dried ’gator. They go crazy for it, but they only gets it when they done their job right. So they do their job right every time.”

  Sheriff Klugg made a scoffing sound that earned him a dark glance from Mr. Banner.

  “You can do this, Joe,” Margaret said. “You must. For Maisie.”

  Mr. Banner’s jaw muscles flexed, but he nodded and took Bayou’s lead more firmly in hand.

  “Maisie’s room is this way,” he said.

  “I THOUGHT YOU SAID that she didn’t know where the door was?” Mrs. Sweeney murmured.

  “I didn’t think she did.” Joe frowned at Bayou, who pawed at the bookshelf concealing the hidden door.

  After being given one of Maisie’s shoes to scent, and snuffling briefly around her temporary bedchamber, both dogs headed into the corridor. The next few minutes progressed in a maze as the dogs padded nose to floor from room to room, pausing periodically to lift their snouts and sniff the air before eventually turning down the short hallway to the last place Joe expected: the study.

  “But we already looked down there,” she said as he handed her Bayou’s lead to roll the shelf out of the way and grabbed a candle from a wall sconce.

  “Here.” Klugg slid something from his belt.

  An electric torch.

  Joe replaced the candle, took the torch, and switched it on. He and Bayou led the way, followed by Whitey and Bess and then Klugg. Mrs. Sweeney brought up the rear.

  For the first time, the dogs showed no hesitation, no deviation, but followed their snouts in a direct line across the cold stone floor to another bookcase.

  “Best in the county,” Klugg muttered.

  Joe ignored him and a cramp of unease as he reached to the top of the case, found the button, and pressed down.

  The click was barely audible, absorbed in the echoes of dogs’ panting, and humans’ confused silence—confused silence that swelled to a crescendo of disbelief as Joe rolled the shelf out and away to reveal a hole. He shone the torch into it, exposing damp stone walls, floor, and ceiling.

  “My heaven,” Mrs
. Sweeney murmured. “You’ve known that door was there all this time, and you never told me?”

  He ducked his head into the corridor, holding fast to the lead as Bayou started to bark, scrabbling his claws on the stones as he tried to lunge into the blackness beyond the torch’s reach.

  “Maisie?! Maisie, are you in there?” he called, angling the beam left and right and up and down. His voice echoed back, but no other sound followed in its wake.

  Bayou yelped and leaped, and fell back as Joe kept a tight grip on the lead.

  “Quiet, Bayou,” Whitey commanded, earning the dog’s immediate obedience, though it continued to whine. At the old man’s side, Bess quivered, her gaze fixed on the tunnel and drool trailing from her jowls.

  “Ol’ Terrence had this tunnel built as an escape route for the family should there be a slave rebellion,” Joe said, shining the light in the centre of the darkness. “No one but the family is supposed to know it’s here. Maisie!”

  Again, the only sound to return was the echo of his call.

  “But you know, and you told Maisie?”

  He turned and met Mrs. Sweeney’s stunned stare, and then Klugg’s assessing one.

  “I never told anyone about it,” he said. “George showed me only as a matter of interest and because he trusted me. He used to use it sometimes to escape the house without his father seeing him. When he left Sugar Hill, I made sure everything was locked up and never came down here again. Until you.” He nodded to Mrs. Sweeney.

  “Then how would she know it was there?” she demanded. “And where does it go?”

  “To the family crypt,” he said. “And even if someone had told her about this hidden passage, she couldn’t reach the top of that case.”

  “The family crypt?” she murmured, staring incredulously into the well of darkness.

  “Yes.” He turned to Klugg, who was leaning down, peering into the tunnel. “I found this in the debris of my burned-out cottage.” He drew the lighter from his pocket. Klugg frowned at it and, straightening, took it from him.