by Nancy Warren
I was pleased that she wanted to be helpful and also slightly worried that she might do something inappropriate and dangerous. “What we want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. See if you can find a way to be introduced to a student named Judith Morgan.”
Carlos turned to look at me. So far he’d been mainly silent. “Judith Morgan? Is she a literature student? A pretty girl with dark-colored hair?”
Hester’s sullen look began to descend. “Why do you ask?”
Oh boy. She wasn’t his girlfriend, and the way she was going, she never would be. Carlos didn’t seem to notice the bad attitude. “She’s in one of my classes.”
Before Hester could say anything else, I jumped in. “But that’s fantastic news. See if you can introduce Hester and Judith over the weekend. Or maybe the three of you could hang out. You are our undercover spies at the college this weekend.”
Hester looked thrilled at the idea of being a spy, Carlos not so much. “I was a spy in the Spanish Civil War. It got me killed. Nearly.”
I immediately regretted my choice of words. “Not spies. I mean—”
“Undercover sleuths,” Theodore supplied.
It was so nice having Gran and Sylvia and Theodore back again. I thought the break had been good for all of them.
Rafe gave Carlos a recap of everything we knew about the dead Wilfred Eels, his ex-wife, the daughter, the stepfather, Fiona McAdam’s injuries, Reginald Cameron and his meetings with Georgiana Quales in the weeks preceding her death. He explained that Gran, Sylvia and Theodore had gone to Edinburgh to find out more about Fiona, in case she’d been the intended victim rather than Wilfred Eels. Now that we knew he’d had anger management issues and his daughter had been miserable with Fiona for her tutor, it seemed more likely that, if Fiona hadn’t fallen by accident, he was the one most likely to have attacked her.
Carlos listened intently. Even if his time as a spy hadn’t ended well, at least he had experience in espionage. “But if this Wilfred Eels attacked professor McAdam, how was he then killed?”
“Fiona thinks she remembers two men arguing. Her memory’s admittedly fuzzy, but could there have been two crimes?”
Carlos looked thoughtful. “You suggest the caretaker attacked her and then someone came and defended her? Fought off Wilfred Eels and in the fight, the caretaker fell to his death?”
I sighed. “It’s one theory.”
Rafe turned to Theodore, Gran and Sylvia, who were sitting together. “Do you have anything to report from Edinburgh?”
Theodore shook his head, looking disappointed. “Nothing but that Fiona McAdam was well-respected. Her former students either loved her, especially if they worked hard and had an affinity for the work, or loathed her, if she felt they didn’t work up to their potential.”
“You were going to see if you could find a link between the professor and Wilfred Eels,” Rafe reminded them.
Theodore shook his head once more. “If there’s a link, we can’t find it. Eels never worked at the university that I can see. Fiona McAdam seems to have been dedicated to her work. When she wasn’t teaching, she was writing a book about the Brontës. She even took a term off to study the collection at the Haworth Parsonage Museum, which houses the Brontë collection.”
I nodded. “Landscapes of the Mind.”
Sylvia looked impressed. “Have you read it?”
I barely managed to suppress a snort. As if. “I flipped through it. It looked very, um, scholarly.” Code word for boring.
“It was published by the OUP.” As Hester and I both stared, she clarified, “Oxford University Press.”
“Oh, right.” I’d walked by the grand buildings on Walton Street frequently. “Impressive.”
“It was that book, which was well reviewed, as well as her academic and teaching record that got her the job at St. Mary’s.”
I was slightly puzzled. “But Landscapes of the Mind came out eleven years ago, and she’s only just got a job here?”
“The wheels of academia, my dear Lucy, do not roll quickly,” Theodore reminded me.
“Did you find out anything else?”
“The wool shop where Fiona bought her supplies is perfectly charming,” Gran piped up. “I’d love to take you up, Lucy, to see it. I spent several happy hours there.”
I caught the glance Sylvia exchanged with Rafe. I knew they were plotting to move my grandmother to a safer city, where she’d be less likely to bump into daywalkers who remembered her. Perhaps this was the real reason for the road trip. I knew the day was coming when I’d have to bid my gran goodbye. At least Edinburgh wasn’t too far away. If she moved there, I wouldn’t see her as often as I did now, but the vampires would all be safer.
After the meeting, four of us headed back to St. Mary’s: Hester and Carlos to begin their sleuthing duties, me to try once again to learn something useful from the poltergeist, and Rafe to protect me from harm.
Chapter 16
It was after midnight, so I knew I’d have the library to myself. I was all but jangling with protection crystals imbued with extra power by Margaret Twigg, but still, I felt nervous as I went back into that library. This time, I held Georgiana Quales’s scarf in my slightly unsteady hands. Amazingly, it still emitted a slight scent of perfume or perhaps talcum powder. If her smell was still on it, I was positive some of her essence would have lingered, too.
Before coming to the library, Rafe and I went over every inch of the scarf under bright light, but there were no clues to where the manuscripts were hidden. I hoped the scarf was the key to getting the poltergeist to co-operate though.
Once I was certain I was alone in the library, I took the candles out of my bag and placed them in a circle. I’d nearly brought salt along for extra protection, but I didn’t want to have to bring a dustpan and brush and clean up after myself. I would trust to the strength of the protection spell and the fact that Rafe was as close as I’d let him come. I had left him pacing up and down Amelia Cartwright’s office. He wasn’t happy that I was doing this alone, but we both knew she wouldn’t appear if he was close.
I’d wanted to lock the library door to avoid having some student on deadline blunder in, but Rafe had absolutely refused to let me. Even though he could get through locked doors, he wasn’t always rational where I was concerned. Hester and Carlos were so anxious to help that we stationed them up the corridor, far enough away that they could stop any students from coming in. I was as safe as it was possible to be under the circumstances. I only wished the circumstances were different.
I lit the candles one by one and then settled myself cross-legged in the circle holding the scarf. I recited a protection spell and then closed the circle. I should be safe within it. I closed my eyes and did some yoga breathing. It wasn’t part of the spell, but it made me feel better and slightly calmer. When I felt ready and my mind was clear, I softly said, “Georgiana Quales, your rest is troubled, like a sea that’s boiled and bubbled. I wish to help find you calm and then, your task done, you can finally move on. Georgiana Quales, appear to me, so I will, so mote it be.”
I wasn’t great at extemporaneous rhymes, but they were the ones that always worked for me. No doubt because I was so focused on making up the rhyme, my energy was concentrated. However, this time, nothing happened. I sat there in the light of the flickering candles looking around. In the dimness outside my circle of light, the bookshelves stretched high and shadowy. Even though I knew help wasn’t far, I still felt so nervous I wanted to jump up and run. I could hear my own blood pounding in my ears. Breathe in, I told myself, breathe out.
I’d made sure to sit in the middle of the library where, if the poltergeist pushed bookshelves over, they’d be unlikely to fall on me. I held the scarf up and called out softly, “Professor Quales? Please talk to me.”
The temperature dropped so suddenly, I shivered. The moment I’d longed for and dreaded appeared to be here. I looked around and couldn’t see anything. “Georgiana?” Something white fluttered at
the edge of my vision, outside my circle of light. The spirit didn’t normally stay long, and I didn’t want to waste a second chitchatting with a ghost who liked to terrorize people. “Where are the manuscripts? The Brontë manuscript and the Shelley manuscript? I know you didn’t sell them. I’m here to help you. Tell me, show me, where are they?”
There was a sound like a low moaning and then another sound, one I had unfortunately become used to when in the library with this ghost. The sound of tumbling books. Really? Could she not come up with some new ways to scare people? In spite of myself, I turned my head to where the sound of falling books came, and on the wall behind where the books had been, I could see a word. However, I couldn’t see it clearly from where I sat. I was too far away, and the writing was too small.
I made my own noise. A low, bitter laugh. “I am not stepping out of this protection circle. If you want me to read what you’ve written, you’ll have to make the words bigger.”
I really hoped this protection circle was strong, because I was provoking a very angry ghost. It made another sound. This time it was like hungry jaws snapping. The word disappeared, and then as I watched, it came again, much bigger this time. “Taken.”
“Taken? You mean the manuscripts were taken? Oh, no. All that searching for nothing? People have died and we’ve turned this college upside down trying to find the manuscripts. And you’re telling me they were taken? Was it before you died or after?”
I looked at the space where the word “taken” had already disappeared. I wondered if this was going to be like a ghostly version of instant messaging, where I asked a question and she printed out the answer. I hoped so. But in my limited experience of ghosts, they weren’t big on straight answers. Sure enough, the word that appeared was “betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” I said the word aloud. “Who betrayed you?”
The next word that appeared was “danger.”
I was getting a little irritated by these single words that weren’t exactly leading anywhere specific. My tone was tart as I snapped, “Who’s in danger?”
There was nothing vague or teasing about her final message. Two words.
“Lucy Swift.”
“Me? I’m in danger? Why?” I sensed that she was leaving. The chill was going off the air. I had so much I wanted to know. “Wait. How did you die? And what happened to Wilfrid Eels?” A word floated through the air like a whisper. “Betrayal.”
And then the lights came on as though she’d flicked a switch as she passed it. I felt incredibly foolish sitting in the suddenly bright library in a circle of flickering candles. I turned to where the messages had been, but as before, the books were back in perfect order. Those messages might never have appeared.
They had. And unless that ghost was toying with me, she was telling me the manuscripts had been taken, someone had been betrayed, and the clearest message I’d received was that I was in danger.
When I came out of the library, Hester and Carlos came toward me. “Are you all right?” Hester asked. I nodded and then saw Rafe striding toward us. He didn’t ask me the same question, only touched my shoulder as though making certain I was in one piece.
“Where’s the scarf?” Hester asked. So not the first question I’d have asked in her position.
I glanced back at the door. Rabid dogs snapping at my heels wouldn’t get me back in there tonight. “I guess I forgot it.” I’d just about managed to jam the candles back into my bag before getting out of the library and defiantly turning the lights back out.
“Never mind,” Rafe said. “It’s served its purpose. From the look on your face, successfully.”
I shuddered. “If success means getting a warning I was in danger, then yeah.” I went through everything that had happened.
“That’s so cool,” Hester exclaimed, obviously sorry she couldn’t do some ghost-provoking while she was on campus.
“All right. I need to get Lucy home. You two are prepared?”
“Yes,” Carlos said. “I’ve arranged to meet Judith tomorrow so I can introduce Hester.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hester’s face fell. “You’re coming here? Tomorrow? Why? To check up on me?” She looked as though she were about to throw a tantrum. Rafe would have let her, but I didn’t want her to spoil her chances of a friendship with Carlos. I spoke before she could gather her fury. “Hester, Rafe’s the only one who’s supposed to be here. He’s evaluating the college’s collection.”
She didn’t look convinced. “If I see you, I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
“That will be a blow,” Rafe said. Then he took my arm.
Later, we were sitting in his lounge, going through everything again. William had brought me hot cocoa and cookies. Rafe had tried to talk me into a brandy, but I still felt chilled, and I preferred the hot chocolate. Besides, I needed to keep my wits about me if I was in danger. Naturally, Rafe hadn’t let me go home. I loved it here, but I didn’t want to feel like I was too frightened to stay in my own place. Even though tonight it was true.
“Taken.” Rafe looked as frustrated as I felt. “That’s all she said? Taken.”
“Yes. Not when they were taken or who took them or anything useful. Just that the manuscripts have been taken.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Well, we can stop searching the library at least.” He let out a heavy sigh. “That’s a real blow to the college. They must be gone.”
“I don’t know, Rafe. How many people want manuscripts like that badly enough to kill? And over the space of a decade?”
Rafe looked at me. “Two violent book collectors?”
Was he joking? I couldn’t tell. I was so tired from all the late nights. I really needed to start napping in the day if I was going to keep vampire hours. “It’s possible.” Maybe my fatigue was making me crazy, or brilliant. I couldn’t tell anymore. “What if you put the word out in your bookie circles that you’ve found the manuscripts?”
He frowned at me. “Bookie circles?” Then, “Why would I do that? I could damage my reputation telling lies.”
He had a point. “Okay, don’t say you’ve actually found those manuscripts. Throw out some hints that only someone who took the manuscripts would get. I feel like it might provoke them somehow or flush them out.”
“But why? Whoever had the manuscripts will know I don’t have them, since they do.”
“What if you can somehow make them believe that what they have is a copy? If they are crazed enough, or greedy enough, to kill for the original, and you let it be known that you could prove you had the original, wouldn’t that flush them out?”
He looked at me with an expression I found hard to read. “No wonder even poltergeists are warning you that you’re in danger. Lucy, this is a crazy idea. It could bring the very person or persons who killed Wilfrid Eels and Georgiana Quales into your world.”
“Well, according to the poltergeist, I’m already in danger. At least we’d know where the danger was coming from.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw a black shadow moving toward me, and I jumped so that I slopped hot cocoa over the rim of my mug, burning my thumb. Not another ghost. Then I realized it was Silence Buggins walking toward us. She held a leather-bound manuscript in her hands. She didn’t look very pleased.
If she started on some monumental description of Victorian button-making, I was going to bed. She chose a straight-backed chair and sat primly. “I do wish you had informed me you were going out. I might have liked to take a break from this incessant reading.”
I did feel bad. She’d been at it solidly since we’d brought her the manuscripts. “I’m sorry, Silence. You’ve been such a help. Are you finding anything useful?”
She seemed mollified by my apology and brightened up. “I’ve come across a lovely pattern and instructions on the best way to make flowers out of human hair. I’m very tempted to fashion a little bouquet.” She began eyeing me in a way I didn’t like. “But, of course, I need someon
e to donate their hair.”
“You want to make a bouquet of flowers out of human hair?” I knew the Victorians had some strange pastimes, and I’d heard of mourning brooches fashioned from the hair of dead loved ones, but a bouquet of hair flowers? I couldn’t even imagine.
“Oh, dear me, yes. I made a charming little picture once. I’ve never tried a bouquet. And I have a bit of whalebone about me, I’m sure.” Then her face creased with annoyance. “I was in the middle of the directions of how to make a pansy and then the instructions just drifted off into some rather uninteresting person’s correspondence about their trip to somewhere cold.” She held up the book as though it was to blame. “I kept flipping and flipping, but I could not seem to get back to the hair flowers.”
I thought letters about somebody’s trip to somewhere cold would be a lot more interesting than reading about human hair pansies. I looked at Rafe to see if he was sharing my horror, but he looked keenly interested in the whole pansy thing. He reached eagerly toward Silence. “May I see these letters?”
“I don’t see why you’d want to. There’s little to be gained from them.” But she obligingly reached forward and handed him the book.
Then she turned to me. “A load of letters written to someone named Mrs. Saville. Whoever she is.”
I didn’t know who she was either, but Rafe was staring at the open book transfixed. He began, carefully, to page forward. I wondered if she was a former acquaintance of his. “Did you know this Mrs. Saville?” He’d known so many people in his long life that I supposed it was possible.
Then he looked at Silence with an expression he usually saved for me. “Silence, my dear. I believe you’ve discovered what scholars have been seeking for more than a decade.”