by Dawn Brown
“Why would anyone wantae kill me?”
“Why would anyone want to kill me?
“I couldnae say, but the fact is, ye’re no’ terribly popular with the people of Culcraig.”
“That’s true, but how does Joan factor into this?”
He sighed. “I dinnae know.”
“And if this was about me, why are my things intact? Your work was thrown all over the study, but mine hasn’t been touched.”
“Yer clothes are all over the place,” he said slowly, as if forming the words mechanically while his mind considered other possibilities.
A woman’s stern voice over the intercom announced the end of visiting hours.
“Some one broke into the house, but took nothing,” Hillary continued. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Compared to what? This morning I was in a burning building and found you in a cellar. It’s been an odd sort of day.”
“A cellar I didn’t know about,” she added, her rate picking up. “And you only just found when you had the builder in.”
His eyes widened. “That means whoever was in the house has been in before.”
“And knows it well enough to know where the cellar is. But what could they have been after? Anything worth taking is in the attic, which we’ve been keeping locked just as Agnes did.”
“If someone’s been watching the house they’d have seen the light on, they’d know we’ve been up there. That we had the key.”
“If someone’s been watching the house, maybe they think you’ve started selling some of the more valuable pieces.”
Caid stood, his face white. “Oh, Christ, I was right all along.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Bennett,” a tiny, dark-haired nurse poked her head in. “Visiting hours are over.”
“Just one minute more,” Hillary said.
The tiny nurse’s black eyes bored into hers and her mouth pursed. “Visiting hours end at eight o’clock sharp. No exceptions. ”
“Not exactly Florence Nightingale, is she?” Hillary murmured as she turned back to Caid. He still looked pale and more than a little shaken.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Ye’re only here overnight. I’ll be back tomorrow to fetch you.”
“What did you mean? What were you right about?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m glad ye’re all right.”
“But--”
“Tomorrow, I promise.” He kissed her forehead.
Twice Hillary had tried to find her way to Joan’s room, and twice that nasty little nurse had caught her and sent her back to her own room. The last time with the threat of large orderlies and restraints if she got out of bed again. With only her reflection in the dark window for company, and a growing sense of unease, Hillary tapped her fingernail against the plastic bed frame and nibbled on her lip.
She should be doing something, not just sitting here. If only she could get to Joan and ask her what she remembered. And Caid. The memory of his stricken expression flashed through her mind. What had that been about?
She picked up the phone and dialed Glendon House again. No answer. Her worry amplified.
He’s probably asleep.
He’d been up most of the night, and before leaving her room, he’d looked dead tired. She winced. No more death analogies.
She grabbed a journal from the tray next to her bed and a sudden wave of emotion caught her off guard.
The last time she’d been in the hospital, Michael hadn’t brought her a damn thing. He’d only stood over her, a deep frown clouding his features, his eyes cool.
“You had to have done something, Hillary, for him to have attacked you,” he’d said, his tone accusing, impatient.
“I didn’t,” she’d managed. His reaction had shocked and unnerved her. What was he accusing her of? Her overwrought brain simply couldn’t grasp his meaning. “I did everything the university and police told me to do. I did everything right.”
“Then explain to me why there’s a dead man in our house and a policeman waiting for you.”
His words had been like a slap, the grim reality of her situation slowly sinking in. Michael had been such a bastard that night. Still, comparing him to Caid wasn’t exactly fair. Her ex had been privy to much more than Caid. Last night she’d promised to tell him about Randall. Would Caid react the same way Michael had, once he knew the truth? She hated to even think about it.
She opened the journal and picked up where she’d left off, determined to push memories of Michael and her fears about Caid from her mind. Instead, she buried herself in the dull, pompous words of Roderick Douglas.
After an hour of his sanctimonious drivel, her eyes grew heavy and she slumped down in the bed. She’d almost drifted off when her gaze slid over the page and came to rest on the word Anne.
Hillary jerked up and skipped to the next entry.
I spoke to Radcliffe today, who behaved most strangely when I mentioned his tenant. The odd woman has been lurking about my land, frightening my wife. Janet is to give birth any day now and I will not have her upset by this madwoman. I have told Radcliffe that under no circumstances will I abide that woman speaking of curses to myself or my wife. I instructed Radcliffe to insist that Anne stay off my land. If she refuses to obey, then Radcliffe must force her from his cottage. Radcliffe said only that Anne Black had the gift of second sight, and if she warned of a curse, that I must take her seriously, for her predictions always come to pass. Since losing his sight, his brain has gone soft. First Janet, and now Radcliffe. Has all of Culcraig gone mad? Clearly, I must finish the matter myself.
Did he? Hillary flipped through the pages searching for Anne’s name. She didn’t need to look far. Anne appeared once again in the very next entry.
I am absolutely furious. When I confronted that woman, she had the nerve to laugh at my threats. She also told me that Radcliffe had given her the cottage. Janet is in a state. She fears for our child. Anne Black has convinced her that our family’s curse shall be visited on our children if we do not pay her to remove it. Such nonsense is not to be tolerated. I do not know who angers me more. Anne Black for her vicious lies, or Janet for her weak mind.
Anne might not have been as innocent as Hillary had believed. Had she been extorting money from the villagers with threats of supernatural violence?
People in the early twentieth century were not as superstitious as they were in the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, but spirituality had once again gained popularity. Had the village believed in Anne’s powers? Feared them so much they’d hanged her?
Hillary lowered her gaze back to the book. Her head throbbed from beneath the bandage. She considered asking the nurse for more painkillers, but suspected Nurse Ratched--as she’d come to call the small, beady-eyed woman-- would make her put the books away. Reading was probably adding to her discomfort, but what else was she supposed to do by herself at ten o’clock at night. Stare at the wall?
She opened the book again and turned to the next entry.
All of Culcraig is going mad. Two nights ago the Frasers died, the entire family, even the two wee ones, in a terrible fire. In the village, they’re saying that it was a curse that led to their deaths. Anne Black had warned them that death would come to them all within the fortnight if they didn’t pay her to lift the curse. Thomas thought the woman was as mad as I do, and wouldn’t give her a farthing. Janet has become despondent. She will not leave her room. When I try to speak to her, she rails at me, and accuses me of murdering our unborn child. I would take the time to correct her were she not so close to her time. And perhaps I pity her. She is a woman, and her simple mind is easily swayed. I must go to the source. Anne Black must be driven from the village.
Hillary’s stomach tightened. Hadn’t Joan said something about couple named Fraser dying after their car had been tampered with? They’d been murdered.
Hillary swallowed hard. A coincidence?
Instead of moving on to the next entry, she set the journal aside and
lifted her laptop from the duffel bag Caid had brought. She flipped open the screen and waited for the computer to boot up while mentally preparing a list.
What had Joan said that day? One man hit by a car walking home, Charlie Radcliffe. A woman fell in her bathtub, but Hillary couldn’t remember her name. And Agnes had fallen down her stairs.
Hillary opened her word processing program and typed her list, adding Joan’s fire to the bottom. Then she opened the file with the first half of the journals transcribed and searched for anything remotely similar to her list.
Maybe she was grasping at straws. Maybe it was just a bizarre coincidence. She hoped so.
Because the alternative was terrifying.
It was going on ten when Caid pulled in front of his parent’s townhouse. His throat ached miserably and his eyes stung from not sleeping, but he couldn’t go another minute without knowing the truth.
As he climbed the stone steps, he did his best to ignore the flood of memories assailing him, reminding him of the lonely existence he had lived here. How many years since he’d last entered this house? Too many to count. He banged on the door. When no one answered right away, he tightened his fist and banged on the heavy wood again.
The door swung open and Jude, his parent’s housekeeper, stood before him in a dull yellow housecoat, her steel-gray hair bound tightly in pink rollers. Her dark eyes rounded in surprise, then swept the length of him. When her gaze met his, there was admonishment in their mud-colored depths and her thin lips all but disappeared as her mouth drew into a flat line.
“I wantae see my father,” he croaked out. Damn, of all the times to lose his voice. Confrontations with James were difficult when he was the picture of health. Unable to speak, it would be bloody impossible.
Jude’s frown deepened. “He’ll no’ see you when ye’re like this.”
“Like this?” he parroted. Then the meaning of her words sunk in. “I’ve no’ had anything to drink.” Not that the craving wasn’t there, scratching beneath his skin. This meeting would be so much easier if he were half out of his mind.
Jude continued to eye him doubtfully.
He sighed. “I’m no’ leaving until I’ve seen him. You can tell him I’m here, or I will.”
“Dinnae you threaten me,” the older woman snapped. “I’ll call the police and have them remove you.”
“Aye, you do that,” he sneered. “After all, there’s nothing James and Eileen enjoy more than a scene.”
Jude glared at him, her tightly wrapped curls practically reverberating with suppressed hate. “I’ll see if he’ll speak to you. Wait here.”
As soon as the squat little gnome left him alone, he wandered into the dark sitting room and sank down onto the uncomfortable settee. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the stiff cushion, then smiled grimly.
Hard to believe that after so many years Jude still disliked him as much as she ever did. Not that he’d gone out of his way to win her affections. For a moment he felt sorry for the poor old thing. She’d caught the brunt of his anger when his parents had sacked their previous housekeeper, Sophie.
Sophie’d had a soft spot for Caid. She’d been with his family for as long as he could remember and was more family to him than his own parents. She’d been kind to him, and often ignored his parent’s instructions where he was concerned. Perhaps she sensed that many of the restrictions put on him were more a means to keep him from underfoot.
Not that he hadn’t earned the punishments. He’d been a right little shit, never out of trouble with teachers and the police. Now, looking back, it had all simply been to have his parents notice him. At least a lecture on how he’d embarrassed and disappointed them yet again forced them to speak to him.
Poor Sophie had probably felt a little sorry for him, a grievous error that had cost her her job. When his parents had found out she’d taken him with her to the shops after he hadn’t been permitted to leave the house, that had been it for Sophie. James and Eileen would not have their punishments for their youngest son interfered with. They were struggling to make Caid into all that they’d ever wanted him to be. Invisible.
No point in dwelling on childhood slights and misdeeds. He had more immediate problems. Like what he planned to say to his father.
Should he just out and out accuse him of killing Agnes and shoving Hillary into the cellar? And let’s not forget trying to burn Joan Howard alive in her inn. That last part nagged at him. It was the only piece of the puzzle he couldn’t pound into place.
Had the fire been a ruse to lure Caid and Hillary from Glendon house? If that was the case, why move the cabinet over the door? Why try to kill the woman?
“What are you doing here?” His father’s deep voice seemed to reverberate inside his skull.
“I needed to speak to you,” Caid said, barely above a whisper.
“Then speak up.” James sounded impatient.
Caid opened his eyes. His father’s silhouette, large and hulking, filled the doorway. With only the light from the hall behind him, Caid couldn’t read the man’s expression. “I cannae. There was a fire this morning--”
“At Glendon House?” his father cut in, panic replacing impatience.
“No. Joan Howard’s inn burned down. I lost my voice from breathing in too much smoke when I went to help her. A good thing too, she almost died.”
His father snorted. “Have you come all this way to tell me ye’re a hero, then?”
“Did you know that Dr. Bennett’s staying with me while she transcribes Roderick’s journals?”
His father let out a defeated sigh and sank into the large chair facing Caid. “I knew you hated me, I suppose I never realized just how much.”
Caid rolled his eyes, grateful for the darkness, so his father couldn’t see. No need for James to know just how little effect his pathetic attempts at manipulation had on him. “It’s nothing to do with hate. She and I have a mutually beneficial financial arrangement.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Caid smiled at his father’s snide remark. “Did you know?”
“Why would I?”
“Mum didnae tell you?”
“She knew?” James demanded. “Why didnae she say anything?”
Caid shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her.”
“Believe me, I will the moment she arrives home.”
Caid frowned. “She’s no’ here? Where is she?”
“Her sister’s for a few days.”
His insides twisted. God knew what sordid liaison he’d interrupted, visiting unannounced. With his wife away, James could do whatever he pleased. Even manage a trip to Culcraig without anyone knowing. “How long has she been gone?”
“What business is it of yers?”
“How long?” he rasped.
“A few days. Why are you asking?”
A few days. Nausea swirled in his stomach. His father could have been to Culcraig. Could have set fire to the inn and stashed Hillary in the cellar.
“I dinnae know what ye’re playing at, Kincaid, but I’ve had enough.” His father stood and took a step toward him, looming above Caid, the way he had when Caid was a child. “What do you want from me?”
“What would you be willing to do to get yer hands on Glendon House and keep old Roderick’s journals to yerself?”
“Are you accusing me of something?” The impatience had vanished from his father’s voice, leaving his tone quiet and dead serious.
“Did you know that Agnes had been selling things from the house?”
James’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Answer my question.”
Caid smiled. “What could I possibly have to accuse you of?”
“You show up here, in the middle of the night, looking like you’ve been on a three week bender.”
“I promise you, old man, I’m dead sober.”
“What do you want, Caid? Answer me or I’ll throw you out, myself.”
His father was rattled. Caid could hear the annoyance ting
ed with something more--fear? In for the kill. “I wantae know if you murdered Agnes.”
For a moment sound evaporated from the room, then returned with his father’s long, furious exhale. “You must be drunk. Or mad. I know you dinnae care for me, but that you could accuse me of such a thing.”
“I dinnae think it’s that far a stretch, really. You tried to have her shut up in an old age home to get yer hands on her house.”
“My house,” James corrected, seemingly without thinking. “The house is rightfully mine. And attempting to see a senile old woman receives the care she needs is a long way off from killing her.”
“But you knew Agnes had contacted Hillary about the journals. You didnae want yer grandfather’s name tarnished, so maybe you were no longer able to sit back and wait for the inevitable. You had to move things along.”
“For a man who makes his living writing fiction, you’ve a very dull imagination.”
“Am I wrong?”
“’Course you are. And if it came down to it, Jude could attest to my whereabouts the night in question.”
A mirthless chuckle escaped Caid. “I dinnae for a second believe you would have done the work yerself. No, you wouldnae dirty your own hands, but I wouldnae be surprised if you had someone take care of the poor old girl for you. Someone like Wille Innes, perhaps.”
His father shot to his feet and was across the room before Caid could move. He grabbed Caid by the shirtfront with one meaty fist and hauled him to his feet. “You listen to me, you wee bastard. I’ll no’ have you spreading yer lies about me like you did before.”
Caid met his father’s glare, not bothering to fight free of the bigger man’s grasp. He didn’t have the strength, nor the inclination. “Everything I said about you before was true, though.”
“This conversation is ridiculous. I want you out of here.” A slight falter in his father’s voice, barely audible to the untrained ear, turned Caid’s stomach. How close had he come to the truth?
He knocked his father’s hand away with his forearm, forcing the older man to release his grip on Caid’s shirt. “I’m leaving, but you call off yer thug.”