by Tamara Berry
“I’m familiar with the traditional signs, yes,” I say, not bothering to lower my own voice. “But I think you’re mistaken regarding what it is I do. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to or what kind of rumors are going around the village, but I don’t make love potions. I’m a medium, not a witch.”
She flaps her hands at me as if to disburse my words. “Of course not. No one said that. In fact, you don’t look anything like I imagined. You’re so young, so pretty, so . . .”
“Human?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s it exactly. So you’ll do it?” The woman’s pleading eyes meet mine, and I take a moment to look her over. It doesn’t take long to assess what I see. I’d put her age at somewhere in the early fifties, her once-brownish hair now brindled with gray, her cheeks rosy and well-filled in that way that only exists in the good country air. She could easily wipe a decade off with the magic of a brow pencil and some concealer under her eyes, and her well-cut suit jacket indicates she has the resources to do just that. However, the fact that she’s turning to me for help rather than her hairdresser suggests she’s susceptible to mystical influence.
In other words, she’s the perfect client. Gullible, well-to-do . . . desperate. It’s the last one that compels me to act. Not because I’m going to take advantage of her desperation, but because it strikes a chord of sympathy deep within me.
I know how it feels to reach the point where hope begins to die. It’s a slow death, a painful one. And just like the real thing, there’s no crossing back once it’s over.
“It’s not easy, rekindling a flame that’s been allowed to burn out,” I warn as I pull her aside. The potsherds are giving way to fossils, which leads me to believe we’re moving back in time, chronologically speaking. “I’ll need a few days to gather the necessary supplies. And so will you.”
“Of course,” she says. “I completely understand. And I can’t thank you enough. I know how this sort of thing looks, a woman my age—”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Explanations aren’t necessary. It’s not my place to judge the mysteries of the human heart.”
As I happen to have my notebook handy, I scrawl a few tasks for her to carry out. It seems cruel to send her on errands I know are fruitless, but she’ll feel more like an active participant this way. Besides—it’ll be fun for her, trying to sneak locks of her husband’s hair by the moonlight and getting him to drink the root of a hibiscus from a golden chalice. More than anything else, I suspect this woman needs a little fun in her life.
“You have one week to complete this list and bring the necessary items back to me.” I cast a furtive look around the museum. No one is nearby, not even the bored young man who collected my two-pound entrance fee as I came in. “But let’s not meet here. Do you know the tea shop leading into town?”
“Of course.”
“When the sun touches the top of the evergreens on the twelfth day of the month, meet me there.”
Her brow furrows. “When the sun . . . ?
“Eleven o’clock or so. On Tuesday.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I see.”
I press the paper into her hand. “And tell no one of your plans. I don’t want word getting around, you understand?”
“What if I need to get in contact with you before then?” She shoves the paper down the front of her bra. It’s all that’s needed to convince me I’m doing the right thing. Women who smuggle secret witchcraft recipes next to their breasts are the type of women who need regular doses of adventure in their lives.
“You won’t,” I say with perfect sincerity. “Now go.”
I’m half afraid that as soon as I see the back of her brindled head in the distance, another local resident is going to come popping up with a request for wart removal, fertility tonics, or, one can only hope, a necromancer spell or two, but the cheerful chime of the door closing is followed by nothing but silence.
Well, silence and the gentle pinging of the guy at the front desk playing games on his smartphone, but one can’t have everything. I use the moment to find the location of the Hartford treasures, which, according to the map, is downstairs in the documents section.
I pick my way down a creaky set of wooden steps, wondering how shortsighted it was of Nicholas to move his family’s personal effects from the safe, if damp, setting at the castle to the less safe, and still damp, setting here at the museum. But as soon as I pull open the door at the bottom of the steps, I realize I couldn’t have been more wrong.
No expense was spared in the renovation of the downstairs space, and I don’t have to look at the plaque near the door to know that this particular wing of the museum was funded by a generous donation from the Hartford family. The hiss of the air-sealed door closing behind me is matched by the bright illumination of incandescent lighting and items carefully arranged for display.
Whatever is kept down here is obviously valuable enough to protect at great personal cost to the Hartfords. Interesting.
The research aspect of the job isn’t always my favorite, especially when I have to scour through dusty libraries in the middle of the night, but peering through the Hartford family history spyglass ends up being a real pleasure. Whoever Nicholas hired to organize and oversee the content was amazing. Not only is there a log of all the files open to the public, but everything has been catalogued and alphabetized for maximum efficacy.
Unfortunately, there’s not much information related to my specific needs. There are entire books of agricultural documents dating back to the eighteenth century, not to mention deeds of ownership and real estate transactions that prove the Hartfords came by their riches honestly. There’s even a private diary of someone named Matilda, who appears to have been determined to list every ripped sheet she ever repaired.
But no mention of Xavier. Not as a first name, not as a last name, not even a passing mention in the moldering family bible, where all the names have been carefully listed as far back as the seventeenth century.
I do note, however, that a few other names are absent from the bible, most notably that of my generous hosts: Vivian and Nicholas, Fern and Rachel. The answer could be a simple one—namely, that it’s an antiquated practice few people adhere to anymore—but as I peer closer, I can make out the jagged line of a page that must have been taken from the book at the seams.
A shiver works through me as I run my finger over the torn paper’s edge. I’m not enough of a documents expert to know if it has been recently ripped away or if it’s an accident of ancient origins, but its absence does seem portentous, especially given the conversation I just had with Rachel.
Driven by an urge to discover more, I return to the files in hopes of finding anything related to the current ownership of the castle. It’s a fruitless search. As generous as the Hartfords have been with historical documents, there’s not much related to the current generation.
For whatever reason, the Hartfords, like the Wildes, value their privacy. No emphasis on priv this time.
A quick glance at the clock warns me that I’ve already spent far too much time in the museum—and in the land of the living—so I shut the bible and return it to the shelf. As much as I’d like to explore this room and its contents further, Madame Eleanor is going to need to make a few forays into the netherworld if she intends to maintain her reputation.
“Thanks so much for letting me in,” I say to the young man at the desk on my way out. He’s just as bored and distracted as before, his attention riveted on his phone. He uses a black-painted fingernail to scroll up and down, pausing every so often to push his overly long hair out of his eyes. “It’s so quiet down there. Do you get many visitors to the Hartford collection?”
He responds with a grunt. “Dunno. Sometimes.”
“Probably more around this time of year than in the summer, I bet,” I say. “The cooler weather always seems to drive people indoors.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Helpful this boy is decidedly not. “Is there a guest book
or something I should sign before I leave?” I ask, making a last grasp. “I’d love to let the family know how much I appreciated my visit.”
With a sigh, he extracts a leather-bound portfolio that looks as if it’s never been cracked open. I don’t expect to uncover much in the way of clues inside, which is why I’m not surprised to find that I’m the first to sign it. In defiance of the young man’s ennui, I pen my name with a scrawling flourish, along with a note about how friendly and accommodating I found the staff.
He looks at it with a scowl. “You took up half the page.”
“I prefer to leave a mark,” I reply. “That way you’ll remember me the next time someone comes in here asking questions.”
“I liked the last bloke better. He just paid his money and didn’t say a word.”
“Oh, really?” I say disinterestedly. “I bet it was my friend Cal. About yay tall? Loud? Partial to linen?”
“Um, no.” The boy holds his hand up a good foot below mine. “He was up to here and had dark hair. Real skinny guy. Had one of those twirly mustaches.”
“My mistake.” I bestow a bright, sunny smile on him. “Thanks again for letting me in.”
I glance up as I begin the walk back to the castle, happy to note that the dull bulb of the sun is about a quarter of the way above the horizon. A little past three, is my guess, which makes for a decent day’s work.
Telling time by the position of the sun isn’t the most accurate way to go about things, but I’ve found that it impresses the families I work for. Even though ghost-hunting technology has moved forward by leaps and bounds in recent years, it’s the antiquated mysticism that always dazzles people the most. I can tell time by the sun, direction by the stars, and, in a pinch, make painkillers out of tree bark.
I’m nothing if not thorough.
I’m also nothing if not prepared, so I make sure to stop by the tea shop on my way back. Rachel isn’t the only one who’s going to smuggle a whole pound cake into the castle for later.
Chapter 9
In my line of work, a home the size of Castle Hartford is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because the number of hiding places for my tricks is in the hundreds, a curse because it’s almost impossible to keep an eye on everything that’s happening all the time. The amount of ground to cover is downright ridiculous, which is why I decide to walk around the perimeter to make sure I’ve mentally logged all the windows, doors, and outbuildings before I head inside.
I’ve made it almost all the way around before I stumble onto the garden, which Nicholas had been so kind as to invite me to explore. Considering that “garden” appears to be a euphemism for “mud pit and cesspool,” I’m starting to believe he was playing a trick on me.
There is, however, an interesting cylindrical stone structure standing off to one side of the garden wall. The roof of the building is in need of repair, and a good washing would go a long way in eliminating the acrid tang emanating from it, but I’m otherwise delighted to find that it’s a dovecote in the full British tradition—and by British tradition, I mean the Hartford ancestors probably used it to raise entire flocks of pigeons to roast for dinner.
There don’t appear to be any birds currently residing inside. That would account for the state of the kitchen cupboards, but I don’t know enough about aviaries to be sure, so I draw closer. The sudden urge to get my hands on a white pigeon or two is a strong one. Not because I’m hungry—not even a week at this castle would drive a city girl like me to eat a pigeon—but because inspiration has struck once again.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” a voice calls from behind me. “Parts of the mire are less like mud and more like quicksand. One wrong step and you could be stuck forever.”
As if to prove it, my pause allows the mud to take over, suction holding one of my borrowed galoshes fast.
“Does gardening fall under your man-of-all-work title?” I ask, glancing back at Thomas. He’s sitting casually on the rock wall, watching as I struggle to free my foot. I have no idea how long he’s been there, but I could have sworn I was alone out here a minute ago. “I hate to pass a judgment on someone I’ve just met, but if it does, I think you might want to consider a new career.”
“You’ll have to acquit me.” He laughs and leaps down, extending the long handle of a rake in my direction. “Nothing has grown here for at least twenty years. Here. Hold on. I’ll pull you in.”
I’m fairly confident in my ability to escape the quagmire without assistance, but I’ve been hoping for another opportunity to speak with Thomas, so I grab hold and let him haul me in. At the last step, my toe hits a submerged rock of some kind, and I propel forward, falling—literally—into his arms.
My first thought is that it’s not going to do my ethereal reputation any good to be caught covered in something so ordinarily earthy as mud. My second thought is that Thomas smells like a decaying forest. It must have something to do with all the damp English greenery—it’s seeped into his pores like an immersion bath of ferns.
“Careful there.” His arms linger around my waist as he rights my position, waiting until I’m standing solidly on two feet before letting go. Even then, his fingers brush over the small of my back and along the upper curve of my hip, the work-worn surface of his hands evident despite my layers of wispy, trailing scarves.
Like Kevin of Mexican restaurant fame, I find Thomas’s bland solidity highly attractive. Unfortunately, being attracted to a man isn’t the least bit conducive to my image as a mysterious medium who’s above such ordinary things as human desire. Women in my position don’t fornicate; we prognosticate.
“Sorry,” I say and hold a hand to my temple, as though I’m feeling either a migraine or a premonition coming on. “I’m not usually so clumsy. It’s been a trying afternoon.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, falling easily into my trap. If anything, that only makes me more interested in him. Bless the sturdy and simple folk of this world. “Did you find something interesting in the village?”
I adopt my most thoughtful Madame Eleanor pose. “Not directly. But one never knows what will come in handy with spirits like Xavier. It’s likely he’s been here longer than any of you, so it could take some time to unearth all his secrets. I may need to look centuries back.”
“As far as all that?” he asks, impressed. He also begins walking toward the house, compelling me to follow. Alas, my survey of the dovecote will have to be resumed at a later date. My to-do list is growing by leaps and bounds.
“Of course. No one I talked to seems to recall a throat-cutting victim any time in the past three or four generations, so Xavier probably pre-dates common memory.” I feign a thoughtful pause. “You and your family have a long history here. Is the name familiar to you at all?”
Thomas stops on the threshold to the house, our entry a doorway I failed to notice during my earlier investigations. From the looks of the sagging wooden portal, which hangs askew on rusted hinges, I’m guessing this is some kind of servant’s kitchen entrance.
“Do you mean, are there any Xaviers in my family tree?” Thomas laughs and shakes his head. “Not that I know of, but then, my family never kept track of that sort of thing the way the Hartfords did.” His smile is self-deprecating and, if the fluttering in my lower belly is any indication, all the more powerful because of it. “Most of us couldn’t read, let alone keep careful birth records. Besides, what use would a relative of mine have for haunting a place like this?”
“Maybe he likes the square footage?”
He laughs again. “I’ve always preferred something cozier and easier to maintain, myself. But if you want my opinion, I think you should spend less time looking at books and more time trying to find the smuggling tunnel.”
I swivel my head to stare at him, not bothering to hide my excitement. My interest in smuggling tunnels is second only to my interest in secret passageways. “I’m sorry. Did you just say smuggling tunnel?”
“I reacted the same way when I first heard
about it,” he says with another one of those devastating grins. “Of course, I was six years old at the time, so that might have had something to do with it. Legend has it there’s one that leads from somewhere in the castle to the caves over there.”
He points in the direction opposite the village, where a series of hills rise up through the greenery like rocky pustules.
“But don’t get too excited. I spent the better part of my youth trying to find it with no luck. Nicholas—Mr. Hartford, I mean—and I both did.” He hesitates, as if he’d like to say more on the subject of his employer, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks a question at me. “They say it was used to move brandy up from the coast during Napoleon’s reign. Xavier is a French name, isn’t it?”
It’s French enough to suit me—or, rather, to suit whoever is trying to pass off a legitimate ghost backstory.
“And you say Nicholas knows about this tunnel?” I ask.
“Everyone does. It’s a popular story hereabouts.”
That’s less helpful than a mysterious tunnel known only to a select few, but I’ll take anything I can get. The number of things Nicholas didn’t tell me about this place are starting to add up to a whole lot of something, or my name isn’t Eleanor Wilde.
“Would you be willing to show me some of the area?” I ask. “Since Xavier has already shown himself to be . . . sympathetic toward you, he might be willing to aid in our search.”
“Anytime,” he promises. Just as I’m about to suggest a short walk, he adds, “Except for this afternoon. I’ve got heaps of chores still to do, and Mrs. Hartford wants dinner pushed up to five.”