The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story

by Irina Shapiro

  “It took about two days to adjust, but I’m back to my usual routine. It’s nice to be home.”

  “Oh? Looking forward to a nice long winter, are you?” he joked.

  “After roasting in the desert for six months, a cold winter sounds like a dream come true. I won’t even complain about snow.”

  “We’ll see about that. I wouldn’t say no to a couple of weeks in a warm sunny place. Haven’t had a holiday in longer than I can remember. Ibiza would do me very well right about now.”

  “Maybe you can take Eve after Christmas,” Quinn suggested. Gabe always spent Christmas with his parents, but liked to take off for a week after the holiday, having had enough family togetherness, particularly since his mother had a long list of chores for him to complete before returning to London. Being an only child, it fell to him to see to the never-ending repairs needed to maintain the family home. His father was getting on in years and could no longer manage the upkeep on his own, but was too stubborn to hire a handyman.

  “Actually, Eve and I are no longer, but that’s not why I’m here,” Gabe said but didn’t elaborate. Eve had been the latest in a string of women in Gabe’s life, an editor at a fashion magazine who was glamorous, vivacious, and dangerously independent. She was the type of woman who had lovers, not partners, and Quinn strongly suspected that she’d moved on to someone else while Gabe wasn’t looking. Quinn never could understand why a man as intelligent and warm as Gabe always went for women who could never quite give him their full attention and bailed at the first sign of trouble. She had never known Gabe to be truly in love with any of his amours and wondered what kept him from finding someone who could really touch his heart.

  Perhaps he feared commitment, or was wary of getting hurt. After her experience with Luke, Quinn could commiserate. She’d always craved a relationship that could sustain her, but her choice of partners hadn’t been any wiser than Gabe’s. There had been a few men who professed to love her, but sadly, she’d never become their number one priority and was discarded as soon as something better came along, as it had with Luke. The future she offered him couldn’t compete with a professorship at Harvard University.

  Quinn was actually surprised that Gabe made no mention of Luke’s departure. Luke would have informed him since he’d been on the faculty and would have had to give notice. Perhaps Gabe even warranted a phone call or an e-mail, and not just a text, Quinn thought bitterly.

  “So, why are you here on a rainy Friday night?” Quinn asked, her expression coy. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Luke or Eve, but she was too curious to remain silent any longer.

  “Have you seen the news?” Gabe asked as he took a sip of his whiskey-laced tea and sighed with pleasure as the alcohol hit his bloodstream.

  “No, why?”

  “Human remains were discovered yesterday at a construction site in Mayfair. They’d just broken ground a few days ago for another building of luxury flats few of us can afford. It seems there was a hidden chamber below ground that never appeared in the blueprints.”

  “And they called you?” Quinn asked, unsure of why exactly Gabe was involved. “Hardly your area of expertise.”

  “The foreman called in the Met and the coroner, but they quickly ruled it out as a recent crime.”

  “So, why’s it on the news? Don’t skeletal remains normally get reburied or left where they were found?” Quinn asked.

  This wasn’t the first case of human remains being found during excavation. The ground beneath London was full of surprises. Workers routinely came across remains of plague victims who’d been carelessly thrown into pits and buried en masse. At times, they even dug up what used to be whole cemeteries and reburied the dead in another part of town. Unless the remains belonged to someone of historical interest—like Richard III, whose remains had been resting under a parking lot for centuries—they didn’t get much press. These were nameless, faceless relics of another time, a time when people were buried in paupers’ graves and plague pits and forgotten about. There wasn’t much to be learned from these remains, historically speaking, so they were usually just left in their final resting place as a sign of respect or moved somewhere safe.

  “This find was special,” Gabe replied with a sigh. “The remains were in a large chest of some kind, padlocked and chained. The two skeletons inside were lying face-to-face, as if sharing a final kiss as they lay dying. Clearly, they didn’t die of natural causes, especially since there are scratch marks on the inside of the lid. Those two were murdered, their bodies hidden and denied proper burial.”

  “Do you think they were someone of historical significance?” Quinn asked, her interest piqued.

  “I have no idea, but some tosser took pictures with his mobile and sent them to the media. The Globe picked up the story, and it went from there. The skeletons are now being referred to as ‘the Lovers,’ and they’ve become a real human-interest story. The public want to know who they were and what happened to them,” Gabe said with a faint lift of his eyebrows. “If the media runs with this, we’ll have another Romeo and Juliet on our hands.”

  “They’ll lose interest in a few days,” Quinn replied. She was very familiar with the fickle nature of the public. Unless the find was significant, people’s attention very quickly strayed to something more current.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve actually had a call from someone at the BBC just this morning. They’re thinking of doing a program based on various finds of historic interest that have cropped up all over the country these past few years. Think of them as historical scavenger hunts, if you will, like Time Team. Interest is high since Richard’s remains were found earlier this year. People are intrigued by the notion that they are going about their daily lives and not suspecting for a second that they might be walking over the mortal remains of a royal.”

  “In all probability, those poor people in the chest were as far from royalty as one can get,” Quinn said. Modern people didn’t invent crime; murder had been around as long as humans themselves, and many a murder had gone unsolved, especially in times before the creation of a police force or forensic science.

  “It’s still good publicity for the institute and might result in some generous grants from the powers that be.”

  “Why do I have the feeling there’s more to this?” Quinn asked with a smile. She could see the sheepish look on Gabe’s face as he met her gaze. He was getting to the good part.

  “I want you to take on this project, Quinn. You are the best forensic archeologist I’ve ever worked with, and you can use your gift to learn about the victims,” he added softly.

  Quinn’s eyes flew to Gabe’s face in alarm. They never discussed her “gift.” She’d told him about it a long time ago, in a bout of alcohol-infused self-pity in a pub in Ireland, and now she couldn’t take the revelation back. Gabe had respected her confidence and never brought it up again, allowing her to forget that there was one other person out there in the world who knew of her uncanny ability to see into the past. She’d never told anyone else, not even Luke, frightened of the implications the knowledge might have on her life and her work. It was her ability to see into the past that had influenced Quinn’s choice of career—that, and a desperate need to tell the stories of people who could no longer speak for themselves. But she could hardly use the information she’d gleaned as scientific research. Every bit of information had to be documented and supported by fact, so Quinn kept a lot of what she saw to herself, using her secret knowledge as a road map to finding out more about the people whose possessions she came across and dressing the information up as scientific discovery.

  Quinn had been able to learn quite a lot about a twenty-two-year-old man called Atticus, a dark-eyed, handsome youth who came to Judea from a province of Rome in search of glory. He died far from home and left behind a child born to a Jewess who’d been married off in haste to hide the disgrace of having lain with a Roman soldier. The sword that belonged to Atticus had been rescued from the clutches of h
istory, but not his story; it would die with Quinn since there was no one she could share it with without betraying her ability—no one except Gabe.

  Gabe came to her because he was fully aware of the limitations of this particular assignment. In all probability, historians might never be able to put a name or a face to the two skeletons in the chest, and his only hope of making this project appealing to the BBC was to truly dig deep and find out who the victims were. He was using her most treasured secret against her, knowing that she was likely the only one who could find out the truth about the two people locked in an eternal embrace in that dark chest.

  “Why are you doing this to me, Gabe?” she asked warily, her voice devoid of any hint of accusation. She knew why. Gabe would give anything to possess her gift, if only for his own academic ends. He genuinely loved history, and to see into the past as it had really been rather than as it had been imagined was something that, as a historian, would send him into raptures.

  “Quinn, your ability is nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been given an amazing gift, one that’s invaluable in your chosen profession. You can not only use physical evidence to find out more about your subjects but actually see into their lives, hear their thoughts. Why are you so reluctant to use it?”

  “Because publicly admitting to it would make me look like a quack and destroy my credibility as a scientist. Can you just imagine me discussing my visions on BBC? People would go from calling me a historian to calling me a psychic, a label I don’t really care for.”

  “But you are psychic, and you are the real deal.”

  Quinn shook her head. She’d fought her ability ever since she was a child, resentful of the responsibility it placed squarely on her skinny shoulders. She didn’t want to see people who were long dead going about their business, nor did she want to hear their thoughts or feel their joy and pain. She just wanted to be a normal kid, if such a thing were even possible. Her life could never be normal anyway, given the way it had begun.

  “I’ll think about it,” she replied with a grudging half-smile.

  “All right, do. I’ll be going now. I’ll wait for your call. If I don’t hear from you by Sunday night, I’ll give the project to someone else—like Monica Fielding, for instance.”

  “Like hell you will,” Quinn retorted, suddenly furious. Gabe knew offering this find to Monica would shake her out of her complacency. Quinn supposed that every person eventually came across someone who got under their skin for reasons they couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t just professional rivalry that pitted the two women against each other, it was a personal one as well. Monica genuinely disliked Quinn and made no secret of it, actually going as far as to question Quinn’s credibility in television interviews and periodicals. She had some sort of personal score to settle with Quinn and wouldn’t be satisfied until Quinn became a laughing stock and a pariah in the scientific community.

  “I’ll do it,” Quinn blurted out without thinking. “I’ll take it on.”

  “I thought you might.” Gabe’s victorious smile said it all. “I’ll give BBC a call and tell them you’re on board.”

  Chapter 3

  December 1664

  London, England

  Elise de Lesseps smoothed down the skirt of her gown and patted her hair into place, suddenly reluctant to enter the room. She’d been in her father’s study countless times, to tidy up mostly, but this morning she felt strangely nervous. This summons felt different, more official somehow. She wasn’t here to restore order but to be spoken to on a matter of some importance; she was sure of it.

  “Oh, stop being such a ninny,” she said sternly to herself under her breath. “There’s absolutely no reason to be frightened.”

  But the brave words did nothing to dispel her sense of foreboding. She’d seen the young man come and leave this morning, had heard the thunder of hooves on frozen earth, and knew that something of significance had occurred. She just couldn’t imagine what. Elise refused to entertain the notion that it was bad news. They’d had more than enough of that lately. The anxiety of not knowing made her hand shake as she finally raised it and knocked on the solid oak door.

  “Come,” her father called out. He stood with his back to the room, gazing out the window. The diamond-shaped panes glittered in the morning light, bright winter sunshine filling the room, which was freezing cold, the fire having been laid but not lit per her father’s instructions. Hugh de Lesseps conserved firewood whenever possible; his own comfort was of little importance to him these days.

  Elise stood just inside the room, waiting for her father to speak. He finally turned around, his expression unreadable. Elise couldn’t help noticing the stooped shoulders or the stern set of his lips. Her father had aged drastically during the past year. His once-dark hair and beard were now streaked with gray, and his powerful frame had shrunk, making him appear older than his forty-seven years. Hugh de Lesseps’s deep-set eyes studied his daughter, his head cocked to the side, as if he were listening to some inner voice.

  “What is it, Father?” Elise asked, now even more worried than before. “Are you ill?”

  “Sit down, child,” Hugh said. “I would speak with you.”

  Hugh lowered himself into the carved hardback chair behind the massive desk and clasped his hands, his fingers intertwined. Normally, her father leaned back, but today he was hunched forward, his shoulders stiff with strain. His eyes slid away from Elise toward the cold fireplace, as if he was reluctant to speak, and he remained silent for a few moments before finally facing her again.

  “Elise, I’ve had a messenger this morning,” he began.

  “Yes, I saw him leave,” Elise replied. “What news?”

  Her father took a deep breath as his eyes met hers over the breadth of the desk. “I won’t beat about the bush. You’re old enough to know the truth, and since your mother died, you have been the lady of this house and a mother to your sisters.”

  Her father sighed, as he did every time he mentioned his late wife, who’d left them only last February. Nothing had been the same since. The house seemed cold and empty, even on the warmest and sunniest of days. The laughter had died, as had the music. Hugh often called his wife frivolous while she was alive, but he always said it with a smile, glad to see his wife laughing and dancing with her daughters. Their two sons were grown men now, one living in Massachusetts Bay Colony and one in Port Royal, Jamaica, where he was most useful to his father.

  Caroline de Lesseps had been a child bride, a girl of fifteen when Hugh married her, and she’d retained something of that innocence and joy, a quality he loved above all else in a woman who never aged in his eyes. She’d been only thirty-six when she died, but to him she was still the young, beautiful girl who took his breath away the first time he saw her. It had been a marriage of convenience arranged by the families of the couple, but the relationship had blossomed into one of love and respect and became a true partnership. Many men married again once the period of mourning was over, but Elise was certain that her father wouldn’t look at another woman for a long time to come, if ever. No one could replace his beautiful Caroline, and secretly she was glad.

  Hugh de Lesseps pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he had a terrible headache, then looked up at his daughter, his expression one of utter misery.

  “The messenger was from Lord Asher. I owe him a great deal of money since the cargo he’d paid for is now at the bottom of the sea. I am not in a position to repay him, at least not at this time. Since the sinking of the Celeste, our financial situation is dire, Elise.”

  The Celeste went down in a storm just off the coast of Jamaica in September, taking with it all her father’s precious cargo and its crew. Hugh de Lesseps owned one more ship, the Sea Nymph, but no ships crossed the Atlantic during the winter, and it would be nearly a year before Hugh saw any profit from the sale of the cargo the crew would bring back from the West Indies.

  “Is Lord Asher demanding payment?” Elise asked carefully. She had more of an e
ducation than most girls of her station and understood only too well the ramifications of losing the cargo and the vessel. Her father would need ready capital to purchase goods, which would be shipped to Jamaica and sold, the profit used to purchase Jamaican goods that would then be transported to the American colonies. A third cargo would then be loaded on the ship for the voyage back to England, the hold loaded with tobacco, furs traded from the savages, and wooden spars, which would be sold to the Navy for the building of masts. Only once the cargo was sold in England would a profit be realized and the debt to Lord Asher repaid.

  “Lord Asher has offered to allow me a grace period of two years to pay the debt, but on one condition. He wishes to take you as his bride.”

  “Me? Why? I hardly know the man,” Elise exclaimed. Lord Asher was a wealthy and powerful man who had the ear of the king and could choose any woman for his wife. Elise had neither title nor fortune, and the dowry her father had set aside for her was hardly enough to tempt a man of Asher’s wealth and position. Why would he want her?

  “Lord Asher has offered to forgo the dowry,” her father added, his expression pained. “It seems he has no need for it.”

  Elise slowly rose to her feet, her legs suddenly too wobbly to hold her up. She grasped the back of the chair for support as she faced her father. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “I’m sorry, Elise. I promised your mother that I would see you happy, but if Lord Asher calls in the debt, I will be ruined. Your brothers will lose their livelihood, and your sisters will have no dowry once they come of age. I can’t afford to refuse.”