Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil

by Nancy Atherton

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” I was glad that Nicole hadn’t let Guy’s defection spoil her day. “Were you in Alnwick all afternoon?”

  “I left after lunch,” she said. “Jared won’t be pleased—he doesn’t like me driving on my own—but I don’t care. I simply had to get away from Wyrdhurst.”

  “Why?” I asked quickly. “Did something happen?”

  Nicole’s laughter rang like a tinkling bell. “Boredom happened, that’s all. I suppose I should be grateful. It’s a pleasant change of pace from abject terror.”

  If Nicole had spent the afternoon at Alnwick Castle, she couldn’t have moved the ledger or examined Edward’s notes. I was about to ask if Mrs. Hatch had been in to dust the library when Nicole sent me veering in an entirely different direction.

  “What’ve you got there?” she said, looking down at the stooping kestrel. “A children’s book?”

  It was as if a flare had gone off in the room. The elusive fact I’d been chasing suddenly flashed across my mind in neon letters. I looked from the kestrel to the books in the wooden crate and whispered, “Edith Ann…”

  “Pardon?” said Nicole.

  I was too blinded by insight to respond. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner?

  Shuttleworth’s Birds was a children’s book. Claire must have had dozens like it. Fairy tales, fables, and Arthurian romances had been all the rage during her Edwardian childhood.

  And one of the best-loved children’s writers of the period was a slightly crack-brained woman named Edith Ann Malson.

  Malson’s books had long been out of fashion, but Stan Finderman had acquired a few copies for the juvenilia section of the university’s rare-book department. I remembered the day he’d shown them to me.

  “Malson was a nutcase,” he acknowledged, pulling a volume from a high shelf. “But kids loved her. Kids always love sick jokes. See here? Monmouth Mouse and Romney Rat go to a natural history museum in Sussex. Monmouth thinks he recognizes a cousin in one of the displays. Turns out that his cousin is one of the displays.”

  I could see the illustration as clearly as if the book were open before me: the stuffed cousin, Monmouth’s horrified recoil, Romney’s solicitous paw on Monmouth’s shoulder. The story ended happily—they smuggle the cousin out of the museum and give him a decent burial—but Malson’s gruesome sense of humor, though endearing to children, had proved unpopular with modern parents. Successive generations scarcely knew her name.

  I groaned softly, chagrined that it had taken me so long to put two and two together. Edward had assured Claire that “Edith Ann” would carry his letters to her while he was gone. I was willing to bet that he’d arranged to have his letters smuggled into Wyrdhurst, hidden in seemingly innocuous copies of Edith Ann Malson’s works. Claire, for her part, would have shelved Malson’s books unobtrusively with the rest of the juvenilia in the hall.

  I glanced at the hollowed-out copy of Ivanhoe in which Claire had hidden Edward’s notes. If I could locate the children’s books in Wyrdhurst Hall, I felt certain that Malson’s works—and possibly Edward’s letters—would be with them.

  I silently blessed Edith Ann Malson’s name. She’d given me the perfect excuse to search Wyrdhurst Hall. If I happened to find evidence of human intruders in the process, so much the better.

  “Nicole,” I said, turning to my young friend, “could I interest you in a treasure hunt?”

  CHAPTER

  Nicole was entranced by my tale of her great-aunt’s grand passion. She handled each scribbled note as if it were holy writ, and choked up when she read the inscription in Shuttleworth’s Birds.

  “Just twelve years old,” she said, with a tremulous sigh. “I wonder if she was already in love with Edward when he gave the book to her, or if friendship turned to love as she grew older?”

  “She couldn’t have been more than twenty when she died,” I chimed in. “He must have been her first love and her last.”

  Nicole put the book aside and wiped her eyes. “She never seemed real to me before. It must have taken enormous courage to defy Josiah.”

  “And here we are, defying him again, just by talking about Claire and Edward.” I glanced over my shoulder at the portrait. “Do you ever get the feeling that he’s watching you?”

  “Constantly.” Nicole gazed intently at Josiah. “There’s something about his eyes, so fixed and full of disapproval.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t approve of us looking for Edward’s letters,” I said. “I’m afraid Jared might feel the same way. It’s not really what I came here to do.”

  “It’s what I want you to do,” Nicole replied stoutly. “If Jared objects—”

  “He may not object,” I temporized. “A complete run of Edith Ann Malson would be worth a pretty penny at auction. Collectors froth at the mouth when they come up for sale.”

  “Money,” Nicole said darkly, “is the one thing my husband understands.” She got to her feet. “But if he so much as mentions selling Miss Malson’s books, I’ll…I’ll become very cross.”

  I was both disconcerted and greatly cheered by Nicole’s boldness. The alarm-free night and the solo journey to Alnwick Castle had evidently awakened her independent spirit. I had a sneaking suspicion that Jared would come home to find a full-blown rebellion on his hands.

  If, I reminded myself, he’d left Wyrdhurst to begin with.

  Nicole’s newfound self-confidence proved to be a double-edged sword. I was glad she’d found the strength to stand up to her husband, less pleased when she stood up to me.

  Over dinner, she firmly vetoed my suggestion that we begin looking for Malson’s books at once, then badgered me into retiring at an absurdly early hour.

  “I’m just as eager to find Edward’s letters as you are,” she lectured, “but we musn’t forget Dr. MacEwan’s sensible advice. If he wants you well rested, then well rested you shall be.”

  One can’t be well rested with food half digested. The rhyme tripped through my mind as I climbed into bed less than an hour after gorging myself shamelessly on a succulent saddle of lamb and devouring more than my fair share of Claire’s Lace. Once under the blankets, I tossed and turned restlessly, regretting my overindulgence, until my thoughts strayed to plans for tomorrow.

  Where would we find Malson’s books? There was no need to search the east tower. Hatch had assured us that the only books there had been the ones in the wooden crate. The juvenilia must have been stored separately. Perhaps, I thought, they’d been crated and left where they’d once been read: in the nursery.

  I turned my head and looked past Major Ted’s stalwart silhouette to the barred windows. What had Dr. MacEwan told me? The nursery, he’d said, would have been upstairs, where “the kiddies’ bawling” wouldn’t disturb the parents.

  A nursery would be easy enough to recognize. All I had to do was look for another room with barred windows. Nicole would thank me if I located the letters. Guy would thank me if I found evidence of intruders. My tummy would thank me for giving it a chance to walk off the heavy meal.

  I flung back the covers and hopped out of bed. When it came to being a strong, determined woman, Nicole had nothing on me.

  I felt like a cat burglar, sidling furtively down the corridor, garbed in black turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers, Nicole’s flashlight clutched firmly in one hand, the other cupped around its lens to keep the beam from giving me away.

  Wyrdhurst was as silent as a tomb. I heard no creaks, no moaning wind, and the only audible footsteps were the sneaker-muted ones I made myself. If Jared was lurking in the upper stories, he was doing so discreetly.

  I paused at the main staircase to peer downward. The light in the entrance hall had been extinguished and I saw no sign of life. Nicole and the Hatches were, I hoped, in bed and sleeping soundly.

  Satisfied that my self-appointed guardian wouldn’t catch me prowling after curfew, I dropped my cupped hand from the flashlight and started up the stairs. I’d climbed no more than three steps when a faint so
und caught at the edge of my hearing.

  It came from below. I thought at first it was the high-pitched whistle of a distant teakettle and wondered if Mrs. Hatch was in the kitchen, brewing a late-night cuppa. It took a moment for me to realize that the unearthly, piercing shrieks came from a human throat.

  The blood froze in my veins. For a moment I couldn’t move. Then I was sprinting down the stairs, shouting, “Nicole! Nicole, where are you?”

  The screams went on and on and I raced after them, plunging through the dining room, the billiards room, the study, crashing into tables, chairs, and shelves of bric-a-brac, leaving a trail of destruction in my wake.

  The study doors stood open and the library was dimly lit. I barreled straight into the room, rumpling the Turkish carpets as I skidded to a halt. Nicole sat facing the windows, her spine rigid, her nails biting into the oak table, shrieks streaming from her gaping mouth.

  I tore across the room, pulled her from the chair, and spun her around.

  “Nicole,” I ordered. “Stop it.”

  Her mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. She seemed not to recognize me.

  “It’s Lori,” I said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Nicole drew a wavering breath. “The w-window…I s-saw…”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “It flew,” she breathed, and folded at the knees like a rag doll.

  She was as light as a sparrow. I carried her to the sofa and covered her with the cashmere blanket that had, just the day before, covered me. A brief phone call roused the Hatches, who came quickly, clad in flannel robes and slippers. Mrs. Hatch brought brandy, Hatch the mobile telephone. He’d already summoned Dr. MacEwan.

  I called Guy.

  “There’s been another incident,” I told him. “Nicole saw something outside the library. She’s shaken, but Dr. MacEwan’s on his way. I’m going out to—”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Guy seemed preternaturally calm, a prim professor offering a mild rebuke. “You’ll stay with Mrs. Hollander.”

  “But—”

  “It’s too late,” Guy interjected. “Whoever was there is long gone. You’re to stay with Mrs. Hollander and leave the rest to me. Please.”

  The final, gruff monosyllable was all that kept me from tossing the phone aside and dashing out into the night. I glanced at the prone figure on the sofa, swallowed my frustration, and agreed, reluctantly to follow orders.

  “Let me know if you find anything,” I said. “I want this sick joker locked up.”

  “He will be, Lori. He will be.”

  The next few hours passed in a blur. Nicole drifted in and out of consciousness, babbled incoherently about flying ghosts, and became hysterical when Dr. MacEwan suggested taking her to her room. She finally wound up in my bed, heavily sedated.

  After the doctor had gone, I tucked Teddy in with Nicole, then paced the room, too furious to sleep. It was so unfair. Nicole had just begun to try her wings. Now she lay in a fetal curl, half out of her mind with fear. I laid my hand on her feverish forehead, then went to the windows to peer out into the darkness.

  Guy had been right to rein me in. If I ever caught the devil who was tormenting Nicole, I’d wring his neck.

  CHAPTER

  It was past midnight before I dropped into a fitful doze on the fainting couch. Mrs. Hatch arrived at eight, with breakfast on a tray, and Dr. MacEwan showed up at nine to check on his newest patient, who had not yet wakened from her drug-induced slumber. When he’d finished his examination, I accompanied him to the front door.

  “Mrs. Hollander thinks she’s seen a ghost flitting about outside the library windows,” the doctor informed me. “Daft, of course, but there you are. I don’t want her left alone. Have you notified her husband?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know where to reach him, and he didn’t leave a number with the Hatches.”

  Dr. MacEwan scowled as I opened the front door. “The great lump. He’s no more use than a headache. He’d be no use at all to his wife, in her present condition.” He snorted scornfully and trotted down the stairs, promising to return later in the day.

  Mrs. Hatch volunteered to remain with Nicole, so I left them in my room and returned to the library. I felt restless and unsettled, impatient for action or for news that some action had been taken.

  Had Guy’s men combed the tangled garden for clues during the night? Had they searched the terrace? Had they found fingerprints, footprints, a telltale tuft of wool caught on a thorny bush? I went to the windows and peered closely at the garden, but saw no sign that anyone had been there.

  I turned my attention to the oak table, where Edward’s notes lay in disarray. Nicole had evidently been rereading them when she’d been so rudely interrupted. I sat where she’d been sitting, straightened the scattered sheets, and watched in startled amazement as a bar of sunlight fell across my hand. Delighted, I lifted my gaze and looked straight into Adam’s eyes.

  He stood at the central window, dressed in a lightweight anorak, black jeans, and the cobalt-blue ribbed sweater I’d first seen by firelight in the fishing hut. As he raised his wrist to tap his watch, the mantelpiece clock chimed ten.

  “Oh, jeez,” I muttered, mortified. Our outing to the Devil’s Ring had slipped my mind.

  I jumped up, pointed to my left, and met him at a tall, glass-paned door that had been hidden by the rotting drapes. He brought a bracing breeze with him as he entered the room.

  “I tried the bellpull,” he explained, “but no one answered. I somehow knew I’d find you here. Are you ready?”

  “I will be,” I promised. “Don’t move.”

  By venturing out of the hall, I was, strictly speaking, disobeying Guy’s orders, but the thought of sunlight on my face was irresistible—it seemed an age since I’d last seen a cloudless sky. I dashed upstairs to grab my jacket and change into hiking boots, told Mrs. Hatch I’d be gone for a few hours, and, as an afterthought, pocketed Nicole’s cell phone, in case Guy called.

  Adam was standing at the oak table when I returned.

  “Are these the notes you mentioned?” he asked. “Edward’s notes to Claire?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about them, but let’s get out of here first, before someone tries to stop us.”

  “You sound as if you’re being held against your will,” Adam commented as he stepped onto the terrace.

  “I’ve got bars on my bedroom windows, don’t I?” I pulled the door shut and paused with my hand on the latch.

  “Forget something?” Adam asked.

  “No,” I said, perplexed. “It’s the door. Nicole never told me about it. It was hidden by the drapes and I don’t remember noticing it before. So how did I know it was there?”

  “You made a logical assumption,” said Adam. “Where there’s a terrace, there must be a door.”

  “Right.” I stared at the door a moment longer before turning my face to the sun and saying, “I’ll race you to the mausoleum.”

  “You’re on,” said Adam, and he took off, with me chasing after him, both of us laughing like children.

  We strode side by side across the rolling plateau, following a path that was little more than a groove cut into the sheep-cropped turf. A brisk wind flattened the dried grasses bordering the path, and powder-puff clouds scattered shadows across an endless expanse of hills. The view was spectacular, the clear light almost dazzling, but the land wasn’t as open as it had at first appeared to be.

  We’d gone no more than fifty yards beyond the mausoleum when the path dipped into a fold that hid the house from sight. It seemed to me that an intruder using the path would find it easy to approach Wyrdhurst undetected, and he could do so without leaving a trace. The wind-scoured ground was too hard to give up footprints, there were no thorny shrubs to catch at clothing, and the brittle grasses were already split and broken.

  “Does this path meet up with the military track?” I asked.

  Adam nodded, his dark curls tossing in the wi
nd. “The track’s a quarter-mile from here, as the crow flies. Will it bother you to see it?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’d make a lousy poster child for post-traumatic stress.”

  “You fainted on the hidden staircase,” Adam reminded me.

  “Ancient history.” I pursed my lips. “Which brings us to the fascinating conversation I had yesterday with Guy…”

  Once I started talking, I couldn’t stop. I spoke at breakneck speed, as if ridding myself of an unwanted burden of information. I started with Guy’s unspoken feelings for Nicole and went straight through to my curtailed search for Edith Ann Malson’s books. By the time we reached the military track, I’d filled Adam in on everything that had happened since I’d last seen him.

  When I finished, I felt as light as a feather. I felt a bit lightheaded, too, so intoxicated by the pure air that I swayed on my feet. Adam put out a hand to steady me, but I dodged past him and strutted confidently across the rutted track, to prove that I could face reminders of my crash without coming unglued.

  “Your turn to talk,” I said as we regained the path. “Tell me about the Devil’s Ring.”

  “It’s a neolithic stone circle,” Adam began. “Northumberland is littered with them.”

  “What about artillery practice?” I said, alarmed. “Is the army allowed to destroy prehistoric sites?”

  “If it weren’t, it couldn’t conduct exercises anywhere in Britain,” Adam replied. “Ours is a very small island with a very crowded history. Preservation isn’t always possible, but the Ring is safe enough. Its proximity to Wyrdhurst Hall protects it—and us.”

  “Why is it called the Devil’s Ring?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard a dozen explanations,” Adam said. “My favorite goes something like this: those who enter the Ring must be pure of heart or risk losing their immortal souls to the devil.”

  I felt a twinge of apprehension, but chose to ignore it. I refused to let a morbid superstition cast a shadow on our perfect day. Forcing a laugh, I linked arms with Adam and demanded, in a mock-solemn tone of voice, “Are you feeling pure of heart today, my son?”