Peak of the Devil (The Adventures of Lydia Trinket Book 2)

by Jen Rasmussen

  I’d been too caught up in my own drama to notice the sag of his mouth, and the way his usually perfect fingernails looked chewed on. In his own time, he was only eight hours older than the last time I’d seen him, but he looked like it had been ten years.

  “What happened at home?” I asked. “What did you find out?”

  “Something happened, all right, but I don’t know what I’ve found out.” He sighed and walked over to the window.

  Was that anxiety I saw in his eyes before he turned away? That wasn’t good. I’d never seen him behave with anything but cheerful calm. Or at worst, just calm. Even when we were taking Wulf to the hospital, he was grave, but not jittery.

  “You’re not making me less scared.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll explain it all, but you’ll have to be patient until I know more.”

  I thought about arguing, but something—compassion, I guess—stopped me. As for Kerr House, he was right about that. Whether I was scared or not, it had to be done. “Okay. I’ll try to find a hotel that’s close by, but not in Bristol proper.”

  I found one in the relatively nearby town of Crowley’s Peak that would allow Wulf. Phineas handed me his credit card again, and I booked us for three nights to start with. I’d been working sixteen-hour days while Wulf was recovering, unable to leave him alone for more than the twenty minutes it took to go buy an armful of frozen meals, so I was at least in decent shape to take the time away. The only other call I needed to make was to Charlie, to tell him I was leaving again.

  “I’ll be back in plenty of time for Easter,” I said. At least, I hoped I would. It was almost a week away. “I’ll bring the coconut cake. And brownies. And maybe a pie.”

  “You’re traveling with this guy an awful lot,” Charlie said irritably.

  “Yeah, well, it’s a complicated case.” I tried to keep the resentment out of my voice, but I couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was really worry for me, and how much was his having assumed I’d be around to help out with Warren. Norbert’s birthday happened to fall on the day before Easter that year, and no doubt Charlie had expected me to offer to babysit so they could have a romantic dinner.

  “Be careful,” Charlie said, and the concern in his voice made me feel like a jerk.

  “I will,” I promised.

  That quick call, overheard by Phineas while he made coffee in my kitchen, led to his asking some questions about Charlie and Nat and Warren. I spent most of the way to Crowley’s Peak that afternoon talking about my brother, and how he died, and the years after that that I’d spent playing Aunt Mom to Warren. What I didn’t say out loud was that the talk of me being a fake mom was making me think of Kevin, about to become a real dad. All in all, I was feeling pretty melancholy by the time we got to the hotel, and the sight of the threadbare pink bedspread and the not very clean looking bathroom didn’t help matters. No wonder it had been so easy to get a room on short notice. I had to say this much for Bristol, the devil and Madeline Underwood at least had a nice place to trap unsuspecting souls in.

  We went to Kerr House the next day. I called ahead and told them we were coming with an assistance dog, since they didn’t normally allow pets. I used the PTSD excuse again, and I was prepared to forge documentation if I had to (or perhaps sew a little vest), but they didn’t ask for it. The woman at the desk did look a little alarmed, though, when she saw that he was a bloodhound.

  “I thought they used labs for assistance dogs, mainly,” she said.

  “They do, mainly,” I agreed.

  What’s the matter lady, are you harboring a devil you’re afraid he’ll sniff out?

  When I didn’t offer further explanation, she gave me a bright, fake smile and waved us inside. “You’ll have to clean up after him, of course,” she called after me.

  I turned around with an indignant look. “This is a highly trained assistance animal,” I said. “There won’t be anything to clean up.”

  I guess I passed the test, because her smile was a little more genuine this time. “Great,” she said.

  “Wulf, you had better be on your best behavior,” I muttered as we walked through the little gatehouse and onto the grounds of Kerr House.

  The gardens on the grounds, in contrast to that crazy-ass house (which looked even more crazy-ass in person), were extremely orderly. Little signs poked out of the dirt, identifying the plants as we walked along the neatly paved walkway, which was arranged in such a way that you could follow its twists and turns all the way around the house and back to the front again, without missing any of the exhibits.

  Wulf, thank heavens, refrained from pooping on any of it. He raised his leg a few times to pee, but I wasn’t sure whether that was a violation for an assistance dog or not. We were outside, after all. And he was a hound. I could no more stop him from peeing on every single thing he sniffed than I could stop him from breathing.

  When we came back around to the front door, it was time to go inside. None of us were too eager to do it, not even Wulf, it seemed. There were a couple of moms with toddlers who’d been wandering around the garden at the same time we were. They paused, as we did, looking at the front of the house. Then thought better of it, agreeing with nervous laughter that their kids would almost certainly get bored walking around the inside. They went off in the direction of the guest house, a much more sedate and ordinary building where, we’d been told on our way in, they sold snacks and small gifts.

  That unsettling feeling of stepping into a child’s drawing intensified to downright disturbing as soon as we crossed the threshold. I’d never felt anything like this. It was like we weren’t on earth at all. In fact, the closest I’d felt to the odd, almost tingling sensation of being an intruder in an altogether different world was in the netherworld.

  I tried to remind myself that that hadn’t turned out all bad, but it was small comfort. Beowulf’s tail drooped until it pointed straight at the wide-planked hardwood floor. I jumped a little—I hoped too little for Phineas to notice—as the door closed behind us.

  Phineas cleared his throat and looked around the cavernous entrance hall. “At least it’s not dark,” he finally said with a shrug. That much was true. For an old house, it had a lot of windows.

  There was an ornate curved staircase immediately in front of us. We decided to start at the top and work our way down, but the top in this case turned out to be the second floor. The third floor staircase, dank and musty smelling and much less grand than the one we’d come up, was cordoned off with velvet ropes and a sign that said Kerr House Staff Only, Please.

  “Should we sneak up there?” I whispered to Phineas.

  He squinted up and finally shook his head. “Not yet, anyway. I don’t think we should get kicked out quite right off the bat.” He smiled. “They’re probably just using the servants’ quarters for storage and stuff. If there was anything really secret up there, they’d have more than just the rope blocking it, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged at that. “You’d be amazed at how much people respect the velvet rope. Even people who have very few boundaries otherwise.” But I didn’t press the point. For one thing, I was pretty sure that Wulf wouldn’t appreciate the steep climb. His wounds were healed, but he still got sore and tired fairly easily. And heaven knew he looked dejected enough already.

  The rooms were decorated with antique furniture of several mismatched eras, many with signs instructing us to keep our hands off. I guess they were going with the honor system, though, because I didn’t see or hear any staff around. We finished the north and east wings without incident. The south was a bit more interesting.

  I’d visited an old Civil War battlefield once, with my family as a teenager. It was supposed to be haunted, which my mother, having no idea of the occupation my brother and I had recently embarked upon, thought would be “a hoot.” I didn’t see any ghosts there, and Nat and I, in hushed whispers as we walked behind our parents and older brother, agreed that we didn’t think there were any. But I’d still ha
ve called it haunted. There was just a feeling about the place, like maybe the ghosts were gone, now, but their ill will remained like a stain. I’d seen the same thing since, although never to the same degree. Even when the apparitions departed, sometimes the place just never recovered.

  The bedroom at the end of the house’s south wing felt just that way. It had clearly been the master suite, spacious and luxurious, with ornate crown molding and carved paneling around the fireplace, and a spectacular view of the gardens and the mountains beyond. It was sunny, and should have been cheerful. Instead I felt like I was going to gag. I leaned over to Phineas, maybe farther than was strictly necessary to speak to him, since we were the only people in the house as far as I could tell, but his tall, solid form was comforting.

  “I think we’re on to something, coming here,” I murmured.

  He smiled, but didn’t laugh. “I think you’re right.”

  Wulf’s tail shot up, and he immediately began sniffing around the room. He let out one sharp bay before I shushed him.

  “He thinks we’re on to something too,” I said, with neither leaning nor murmuring. Wulf’s sudden snap into professional mode had done the same for me. He sniffed every inch of the bedroom and adjoining sitting room, dressing room, and bathroom, but after that first burst of excitement, didn’t get frantic over any of it. As I’d suspected, whatever spirit had lived here was gone, or at least out for the moment.

  The downstairs was an odd jumble of rooms that flowed very poorly, but we didn’t get that haunted feeling again. Not until we got to the kitchen, where it came back twofold.

  There was a small door at the back of the pantry, with a sign similar to the one upstairs, if a little more abrupt. Staff Only. Keep Out.

  “Smells like mold,” I said, moving closer to it.

  Phineas nodded. “A root cellar, probably. Originally, anyway.”

  I tried the knob while he was talking. “It’s locked.”

  He gave me a half-cocked smile. “Well, that might make it worth getting kicked out for.”

  “Can you pick it or something?” I asked.

  “Why would I be able to pick it?”

  “I don’t know, you’re otherworldly. Shouldn’t you have superpowers?”

  Phineas frowned down at me. “Lock picking is not a superpower.”

  “Well, what can you do?”

  He considered this. “I did a pretty good job of stealing a key a little while back.”

  “That’s not a superpower either. But it might do.”

  I followed him back through the maze of rooms to a cordoned-off study we’d passed earlier. An office-like study, with the kind of desk one might keep keys in. There’d been nobody in it then. Now there was a woman with a harsh gray bun and even harsher face sitting behind the desk. She raised an eyebrow as we approached the velvet boundary, and for a second I hesitated. It was like Mrs. Danvers had walked straight out of Rebecca to terrorize us.

  “Excuse me,” I said from my side of the rope. “I don’t know if you’d have a minute to tell me about some of these paintings?” I gestured vaguely behind me.

  The woman smiled, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It completely transformed her forbidding appearance. Now she was a sweet grandma who made dozens and dozens of delicious cookies every Christmas.

  “Do you mean the portrait room?” she asked.

  “Yes.” No.

  We’d passed through a room with dark paneling and hunter green walls, without windows, furnished only with two long upholstered benches that were a bit too reminiscent of the animal hospital for comfort. Nearly every inch of the walls was covered in portraits of various sizes. All those staring eyes. Like Helen Turner’s eyes were now, when she visited me. It wasn’t a place I wanted to linger.

  But it would also take a long time to show a person around, and the woman seemed enthusiastic about her subject. So I nodded in affirmation of my yes, and ignored the no in my head.

  She stepped forward and unhooked the rope from its metal stand so she could pass through. “Certainly,” she said, and held out a hand. “I’m Marjory Smith.”

  I shook and said, “Caroline Bingley.” I didn’t even hesitate in the decision to lie.

  Phineas, with a smile that was surely meant more for me than her, introduced himself as Philip Elton. Points for knowing his Jane Austen.

  “I assume you have permission for this dog?” Ms. Smith asked. She did not ask what his name was. Probably a cat person.

  I nodded. “Assistance animal.”

  She nodded politely without asking more questions, and led us toward the portrait room. Phineas hung back when we came through a room that seemed to be dedicated to nothing but the arrangement of flowers, and paused in front of a display of yet more information on local plants.

  “I’ll catch up,” he said.

  The portrait room seemed to have a lot of pictures of people who weren’t Kerrs. When I remarked on that, Ms. Smith shrugged and gestured at two portraits, larger than the others, in the place of honor over the fireplace.

  “That’s because there weren’t many Kerrs, all told,” she said. “The one on the left is John Kerr.”

  Another flash of familiarity at the name, but I shrugged it off so I could focus on what she was saying.

  “He’s the one who started the candy company. On the right is his son Jeremiah, who was John and Estella Kerr’s only child. He lived to be nearly ninety and married three times, but never had any children.” She shrugged again. “Built up the business quite well, though, and died a very wealthy man.”

  “Is that when the house became a museum?” I asked, although I already knew it wasn’t.

  “No, that wasn’t for another thirty years,” Ms. Smith said. “The Farnham family bought the house.”

  She took a few steps to the left and paused in front of what I assumed were portraits of the Farnhams: a friendly-looking but otherwise nondescript man, a woman in a blue dress, and a young girl standing between two greyhounds. The girl had an unhappy look on her face, but I supposed that might have been nothing more than aggravation over having to sit still for the picture.

  “Mr. Farnham was quite an eccentric. He was responsible for some of the more bizarre additions to the house, although the eclectic tastes of Jeremiah Kerr’s three wives had already made a mess of it by then anyway.” She laughed, and I smiled in return.

  “Their daughter Eliza inherited the house in 1917 and lived here with her own husband and two children. She was Eliza Brighton by then.” Two more steps to the right and there was the grown-up version of the greyhound girl, and beside her a very handsome but arrogant looking man. The pictures of the two children were small ovals, hanging below Eliza’s. There was no question of these two looking unhappy, and I was sure it had nothing to do with sitting still. The girl looked downright terrified. My skin went cold just looking at her. I wondered that they even kept this on the wall.

  Ms. Smith nodded at the girl’s portrait, as if reading my thoughts. “Their daughter Laura was often ill.” She leaned toward me and said in a low voice, “Mental difficulty.” She sighed, as if regretting the weakness of Laura Brighton. “Some even say she started the fire that nearly destroyed the place in 1923, but I don’t believe that. In any case, the Brightons sold the house to the Bristol Garden Club and Preservation society early in 1924. We just go by Garden Club now, it’s shorter.”

  She started walking toward the next wall, continuing her tour of the portraits. “Most of these aren’t even people related to the Kerrs or Bristol. Edgar Farnham just liked collecting portraits, as it turned out.”

  By then Phineas was back, standing behind me. He squeezed my shoulder. I nodded, and as Ms. Smith’s recitation wound down I said, “Well, thank you for your time, but I won’t keep you from your work any longer. Can you tell me where I might find a restroom?”

  “Back at the guest house, in the hall outside the gift shop,” she said. “And it was lovely to meet you both.”r />
  With that she walked back to the office. I waited until I couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore before asking Phineas if he’d found a key to the cellar.

  “I did better than that,” he said. “I got the key, unlocked the door, then put the key back.”

  “You had time for all that?”

  “She seems very chatty about the portraits.”

  I nodded, but I was frowning at a painting centered on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was big, but Ms. Smith hadn’t mentioned it, and by then Phineas was back and I didn’t think to ask her. There were three men in it, all holding shotguns, and one of them was definitely John Kerr. Another looked like Colonel Phearson. Many years of researching people long dead had given me a knack for identifying clothing, and I judged theirs as early nineteenth century, which would have been right around the time Bristol came into being.

  I took a few steps closer, then grabbed Phineas’s forearm. “Look.”

  The third man was pudgy and round-faced, and the shape of his eyes gave him a permanently surprised—or maybe frightened—look. It was all just familiar enough for me to be certain of a family resemblance.

  “He looks like the ghost at the hotel,” Phineas said.

  “Exactly. The ghost who just happened to die the year this house burned down.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that, but I wasn’t going to get any answers standing around waiting for Marjory Smith to notice I hadn’t gone to the restroom. We went a roundabout way, through a maze of rooms I’d never have been able to navigate without Phineas, back to the pantry.

  The descent into the basement was not easy. We didn’t want to use a flashlight or turn on any lights that might be in the cellar, for fear of being given away by light shining under the door. But eventually, through very careful stepping and much clutching of the railing, I made it to the bottom. Wulf, for once, came behind me instead of taking the lead.

  Once we got down, there was just enough light to see by from the ground-level windows on three of the walls. And once I had a look around, I had no particular urge to see it any better.