12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  Rummaging at the back of the wagon, Pocket retrieved two axes, then walked to Ben’s side and handed one over. “Here you go, Lane.”

  He grabbed the handle by the throat and hefted the blade over his shoulder, smirking at the irony. Only a week ago he’d have given anything for an ax or sledgehammer to break out of Millbank, with a few extra blows rained down upon the heads of his captors along the way. And now? Here he was, tromping into the woods with a sharp blade in his hands and a lawman at his side. Despite what anyone said, God surely did have a sense of humour.

  Scanning the area for any dead trees, he wondered aloud, “Any luck figuring out who stole the jewels or started the fire, Inspector?”

  Pocket shook his head. “Nothing solid, but I have my suspicions.”

  Ben glanced at him sideways. “Such as?”

  Pocket snuffled, a great drop of moisture having gathered on the end of his nose. “I never accuse without solid evidence.”

  “Would that all law keepers shared your convictions.”

  Pocket’s brows disappeared beneath his hat brim.

  “Come now, sir.” Ben smirked. “No need to continue the charade. I know you’re here to keep an eye on me. I just haven’t figured out why.”

  The inspector grunted, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

  Their trek continued in silence. Pausing at the crest of a ravine, Ben pointed down the slope at a snapped-off tree, the top half of the trunk lying downward, with the splintered ends still attached. A wind must have knocked it over last season.

  “Looks like you’ve found our next Yule log,” said the inspector.

  The footing was tricky, but they set about taking turns swinging at the part of the trunk still clinging to the base. Once that was freed, and any frozen bits broken loose where the rest of it lay in the snow, they could haul it back to the wagon.

  “The way I see it, Inspector,” Ben said between swipes, “Tallgrass isn’t physically able to steal, and Miss Scurry hasn’t the mental capacity. That leaves you.”

  Pocket’s ax stopped.

  Chest heaving, Ben paused his next swing, as well. “Or the more obvious Mademoiselle Pretents.”

  “Interesting observation.” Arching his back, Pocket removed his hat and swiped his brow. Then he straightened and faced Ben. “Yet you’ve conveniently left off naming yourself or Miss Chapman.”

  A slow smile curved his mouth. “Do you really think I’d incriminate her or myself?”

  “Touché, Mr. Lane.” Pocket inhaled so deeply, his chest puffed out. “I’ve got the rest of this part, I think. Why don’t you go down to the end and pry the wood from the frozen ground?”

  Wheeling about, Ben took his smile with him, convinced the inspector truly had no knowledge yet of the mischief maker’s identification. The man’s pride simply would not allow him to admit it.

  Leaning his weight into his heels, Ben slid-walked deeper into the ravine. Maybe it would be better to assess the trunk midway before reaching the bottom. He turned partway—and a loud crack exploded.

  He flew sideways. Snow, sticks, rocks mashed into his face as he hit the ground. Flailing, he tumbled headlong into the gorge, then slammed to a stop. He lay, breathing hard. Maybe. Hard to tell. Sound receded. Only a buzzing noise remained, irritating and high-pitched. Heat leaked down his cheek, from temple to chin. Each beat of his heart pumping out more thick warmth from his body to the cold ground.

  But at least the thing was still beating.

  “Lane?”

  His name was far off. Like he’d heard in a nightmare once. No, at Millbank, from the guard outside his door, catcalling through the metal. Was he back there again? Had he never left? He clawed the ground, and his skull seemed to bust in half.

  “You all right, Lane?” The words were closer now. Heavy breaths attached to them.

  He groaned and pressed the heel of his hand to his head. Sticky fluid suctioned the two together.

  A strong arm hauled him to his feet, and he stood on shaky legs, watching the world spin in a white haze. When he pulled his hand from his head, it came away bloody.

  “What …” He staggered. “What happened?”

  “My blade flew off, grazing you. Lucky you turned when you did, or you’d have taken the full brunt of it at the back of your skull.” Pocket held up his ax shaft, pointing to the end of it where the sharp hunk of iron should’ve been. “Someone tampered with my ax.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Pulling the last stitch through a stocking scarred by previous mending, Clara used the slack to tie a knot, then nipped the thread with her teeth. The chill in the sitting-room air nipped her right back. She tucked the stocking into her basket of sewing, trying hard to pretend she was sitting in Aunt’s home instead of a cold manor.

  Adjacent to her, Mademoiselle Pretents huddled on a chair, hands clutching a cup of tea near her face, seeking what warmth might be found. “What is taking so long, eh? I’ll tell you. Those stupid men are probably lost in the woods. La! But all this cold is not good for my complexion.”

  Near the empty hearth, Mr. Tallgrass sneered. “Listen to you carping about yer skin. Such a little dainty, are we? A precious, tiny flower? Well, I’m freezing me rumpus off!”

  Mademoiselle Pretents glared at him over the rim of her cup. “Unfortunately, your lips are still attached and working.”

  “So are yours, you shrewish bag o’—”

  “Mr. Tallgrass!” Clara cut him off before he fired any more volleys. “I am sure Mr. Lane and Mr. Pocket will return shortly with a new Yule log. Let us wait in peace.”

  “He does not know the meaning of the word.” Mademoiselle Pretents slammed down her cup, rattling the saucer beneath. “He barely grasps ze English language.”

  Clara clenched her teeth. This was going to be a very long day.

  A rustle of skirts flurried into the room. Miss Scurry entered, scampering as quickly as one of her mice. “Such devastation. Such loss.” The old lady’s voice tightened into a shrill cry. “I have lost Love!”

  “Oh flap.” Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, Mr. Tallgrass wiped off a fleck of spittle, then flicked it onto the floor. “I should think at yer age love would be the last thing on yer mind, you crazy old titmouse.”

  “But Love is gone!” Turning to Clara, Miss Scurry held out her box. “Do say you shall help. She’s only just gone missing. She can’t have gotten far.”

  A prickle ran across the nape of Clara’s neck. The woman wanted her to look for a mouse? She’d spent her twenty-five years avoiding the things. And if she did find the rodent, she’d surely scare it away with a scream.

  “Miss Scurry.” She spoke slowly, praying for wisdom. How to dissuade the woman from searching, yet comfort her obvious grief? “I am sorry for your loss, but your mouse could be anywhere in such a great manor.”

  The lady shook her head, her ruffled cap flopping to one side. “Not anywhere, exactly. I had my pets upstairs. Do say you’ll come along.”

  “Oui, go.” Mademoiselle Pretents shooed them off with a sweep of her hand before she collected her teacup. “And good riddance.”

  Some choice. Remain in a room of vipers or search for a rodent. Sighing, Clara tucked her sewing basket against the side of the settee and stood. Miss Scurry led her to the grand staircase, but curiously enough, the old woman didn’t stop on the first floor, where their chambers were located. She continued on, exiting on the second-floor landing—where the men resided.

  Clara stayed the woman with a touch to her sleeve. “Why were you up here?”

  “The reckoning, of course.” Miss Scurry blinked up at her, as if she’d just explained the workings of the universe in layman’s terms.

  Clara’s brow pinched. Though she tried, no sense could be made of the woman’s strange words. “I’m afraid you’ll have to give me more information than that if I am to help you.”

  Miss Scurry held up her box, and Clara prayed all the while that the kerchief crammed in
to the hole on the side would not slip loose.

  “My pets must romp, Miss Chapman. No good being shut in a box all the time.” She whirled and scampered to the opening of a long corridor, the mirror image of the one that held the women’s chambers one flight below. “With the men out collecting wood, I thought to let my companions run the length of this carpet and back. No one to step on them, you see.”

  It made sense, somewhat. Clara studied the hall. Two doors, one closer and one farther. Same paneled wood. Same carpet runner. But clearly no white mouse scuttled about. She turned to the old lady. “What happened?”

  “Oh, such a frolic!” Miss Scurry’s whole face lit. “Many happy paws, racing about. All came when I called, except for Love. I fear she darted beneath one of the doors.”

  Advancing, Clara stopped in front of the first door and squatted. There was a small gap, much like the one beneath hers. Perhaps a mouse had dashed inside, but clearly neither she nor Miss Scurry had any right to enter. She straightened and faced the woman. “These chambers are not ours. Let us wait until Mr. Lane and Mr. Pocket return. Surely they will help us.”

  Tears sprouted at the corners of the old woman’s eyes. The first rolled down her parchment cheeks, then more, until wet trails dripped from her chin. Her lips quivered, and her face folded into grief. “Oh,” she wailed. “I fear it will be too late for Love by then.”

  The old lady’s sorrow hit Clara hard in the heart, and her chest tightened. What sufferings in this woman’s life had driven her to embrace a sorry-looking box filled with small rodents? True, neither of them had permission to enter a chamber not their own, but did that license her to crush this woman’s spirit? Both options seemed wrong.

  “Please, Miss Chapman.” The woman lifted watery eyes to stare into Clara’s soul.

  Clara fought to keep from flinching. She hated to give in, yet hated to refuse the old lady even more. “Very well, but I should like to go on record as being against this.”

  The woman’s tears vanished, and she darted around Clara. “I’ll take this room.” She dashed inside and slammed the door.

  Clara stared. Had this been some kind of ploy? She turned the question over, examining all sides of it as she wandered down the hall to the next door. Lifting her hand, she rapped on the wood. With any luck, either Ben or Mr. Pocket would answer, freeing her from having to violate whoever’s sanctity this room was—yet no one answered. She tried the knob, and the door gave way easily.

  Inside, she paused. On a washstand beside the bowl lay a man’s shaving mug and brush, along with a straight razor. Next to the bed on a nightstand rested a book, small and leather-bound, with a single red ribbon hanging out, the one Ben had retrieved from the manor’s library.

  Tingles crawled down her arms, and she rubbed them. This was Ben’s room. How indecent of her to have barged in here. What would he think if he found her thus?

  She whirled to leave, but remnants of Miss Scurry’s cries yet played in her head.

  Fine. Better to get this over with while he was still out gathering wood. A cursory look and she could wash her hands of the whole affair. She strode to the center of the room, then dropped to all fours, for surely a mouse would be on such a level.

  She searched from wall to wall, floorboard to floorboard. Nothing scampered except the erratic beat of her heart. A fruitless search, but an honest one nonetheless. She could shamelessly tell Miss Scurry she’d given it a good try.

  But before giving up and standing, she saw the bedskirt ripple. Could be a draft from the open door or could be the wayward mouse. But which? She swallowed, unsure if she really wanted to find out the truth.

  Slowly, she crawled toward the ruffle, then yanked it up, hoping to scare the fellow before it scared her. Nothing but a heap of stained fabric lay there. She sat back on her knees. No mouse. But wait a minute.

  She bent again and pulled out the garment, then held it up.

  Her heart broke when she realized what she held. A prison uniform. Torn. Bloodied. Reeking of sweat and despair. And no doubt belonging to Ben. Heaviness clung to her as if she’d put the garment on her own skin. She could only imagine the indignities he’d suffered. The desire to hold it to her breast and weep warred with the impulse to shove it away.

  “Victory!” Miss Scurry’s voice rang down the hall.

  Clara thrust the horrid garment back beneath the ruffle and fled from the chamber.

  The old lady grinned at the other end of the corridor. “Love has returned!”

  How on earth had the old lady found the thing? Had she truly lost the mouse in the first place, or had this been some ruse to rifle through rooms she ought not be in? Clara puzzled as she closed the distance between them. Whatever the reason, the sooner they returned downstairs, the better.

  “I am happy to hear it.” Clara patted the old lady’s arm, at the same time guiding her toward the stairs.

  “The reckoning is complete, for me at any rate. Oh!” Miss Scurry stopped at the top stair and turned to her, lower lip quivering. “Don’t fret, dear. Yours will come as well.”

  Clara hooked her arm through the old lady’s, hopefully urging her onward. She’d not rest until they were at least down on their own bedchambers’ floor. “I don’t mean to pry, Miss Scurry, but I fear I am not very good at riddles. What is it exactly that you’d hoped to gain by coming here to Bleakly Manor? What was it you were promised?”

  “That the lost would be found, dear.” Thankfully, the lady grabbed the handrail and worked her way down beside Clara.

  “Surely you don’t mean your mouse?”

  “Oh no, dear.” The old lady chuckled. “Though I own I am relieved to have found Love. You see, most people mock me for my special insights, such as Mr. Tallgrass or Mademoiselle Pretents. Others simply ignore me, like Mr. Pocket. But Mr. Minnow was such a gentle soul to me, and then there’s you.”

  They cleared the landing to the second floor, and Miss Scurry turned to her. “Since the moment you arrived, Miss Chapman, you have been the dearest of creatures to me. Why, I’d forgotten how delightful it is to be seen and heard.”

  Clara licked her lips, still not following the scampering logic of the old woman. “I thank you, but I still don’t understand.”

  “What I lost was my hope in humanity, dear.” The old lady patted her arm. “But because of you, I have found it again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Setting down her plate of cold toast, Clara glanced at the sitting-room door, willing Ben to cross the threshold. A highly irregular chamber in which to eat breakfast, but it was the only room that held any warmth. Despite the blaze in the hearth, she shivered and tugged her shawl tighter at the neck. This manor, these people, were getting to her in a way that crawled under her skin and shimmied across her shoulders. Why had Ben not appeared last night for dinner or for breakfast this morning? Surely by now he’d sent out a letter to every magistrate, barrister, and perhaps every law clerk in the whole of England. It wouldn’t do for her to visit his chamber, but she determined then and there that next time the maid Betty entered the room, she’d send her to ask after him.

  “Looking at that door will not make your lover arrive any faster.” Mademoiselle Pretents’s dark eyes needled her from across the room.

  A hot trail burned up her neck. Must the woman be so hateful? “Mr. Lane is not my lover.”

  The woman’s lips pulled into a feline smile. “Ahh, but you want him to be, no?”

  Near the hearth, Mr. Tallgrass ripped out a crude laugh.

  Mr. Pocket rose from his seat and faced the woman, skewering her with a dark look. “Mademoiselle, your coarse innuendos are inappropriate. Besides, how do you know Miss Chapman is not looking for Miss Scurry? That lady has yet to join us this morning as well.”

  “Pah! Stupidé man. What do you know of ladies? Nothing, I tell you.” She turned in her seat, murmuring more epithets beneath her breath and ending with a foul assessment at his failure to find her missing jewels.

  Pic
king at a bit of something in his teeth, Mr. Pocket retreated and sat beside Clara on the settee. “I am sorry you must endure such language.”

  She turned to him, a sheepish smile quirking her lips. “Thank you, Inspector. But I confess I have been watching for Mr. Lane.”

  Leaning back against the cushions, Mr. Pocket folded his arms. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, miss. Perhaps he’s just having a good lie-in this cold morning.” The inspector’s eyes widened. “Well, well. Speak of the devil and he doth appear.”

  Heedless of what Mademoiselle Pretents might think or say, Clara’s gaze shot to the door—and she gasped. A scabby gouge ran from Ben’s brow to his temple. Deep purple spread out in splotches to his eye. An awful, ugly injury. One that might’ve taken his sight. Or his life.

  She flew to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “A little mishap, but don’t fret.” He smirked. “I’ve seen worse.”

  No doubt he had, and the thought stung her eyes with tears. Gently, she pushed back his hair for a better look. Sweet mercy. There was nothing little about this. “What happened?”

  Ben pulled her hand away and whispered, “All eyes are upon us.”

  Indeed. She could feel the sharp stab of Mademoiselle Pretents’s gaze in her back. Of course Ben wouldn’t give her any details. There was no way to have an unmolested conversation in here.

  She retreated a step. “I am happy you are accounted for, but I wonder about Miss Scurry. She’s usually the first one to breakfast. You didn’t happen to see her on your way down?”

  “I did not, but that determined look in your eye tells me I shall not rest until I have checked on her for you.” He wheeled about and left as quietly as he’d arrived.

  “Not without me.” Clara followed.

  So did Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice. “That’s right, chase him like the little puppy dog you are.”

  She tried to ignore the woman and then the lion in the foyer, but both managed to slip beneath her guard, prickling and uncomfortable. Hurrying on, she caught up to Ben on the stairs. “What really happened to you?”