Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

Seth blinked sleepily. "Huh?"

  "You're driving Mr. Fitzroy and me to Paddington station this morning. Come on, eat up or we'll be late. What time does the train leave?" I asked Lincoln.

  "It's inappropriate for you to join me," he said darkly.

  It was not an outright refusal. I took that as a positive sign. "It's inappropriate for me to live here with four men, and yet I do. Lincoln," I said, deliberately calling him by his first name, even though Seth was listening, "let me be involved. I think I'll be of use in questioning the servants, which I'm assuming was on your agenda." At my arched brow, he nodded. "We all know that I'm better with people than you."

  After a loaded silence in which his gaze didn't waver from mine, he finally gave in. "Don't make me regret it."

  "Thank you," I said, in the most dignified manner I could muster, when I really wanted to let out a whoop of victory.

  "Pack for an overnight stay in the village. You'll act as my sister."

  "We look nothing alike. No one will believe it."

  "My ward, then. It's close enough to the truth."

  I hadn't thought of our relationship like that. I was an adult in my own eyes, if not that of the law. I wouldn't gain my majority until I turned twenty-one. But it threw up an interesting question—who was my legal guardian? My real father was dead, and if I had living male relatives, I didn't know them. Anselm Holloway might have been given legal guardianship when he took me in, but he'd disowned me so was that still relevant? And did it really matter if I didn't have a guardian anyway? All my needs were taken care of by Lincoln, and I owned nothing, not even the clothing I wore.

  "Can we simply say I'm your assistant?" I said.

  Lincoln blinked, which I took as ascent.

  Seth sighed. "It seems you're going to be doing more ministry work, Charlie, and that means less time for your maid duties."

  "Don't worry," I told him. "I'll only leave you the dirtiest tasks. I know how you love them."

  He groaned.

  * * *

  The train to the village of Harcourt in Oxfordshire took a little under two hours, and we both read most of the way, although I regularly peeked to see if Lincoln was looking at me. He wasn't.

  We secured rooms at The Fox and Hound Inn, a short walk from the station. The bedrooms were separated by a private sitting room that could be accessed from each bedchamber. Lincoln had asked for entirely separate rooms, that were not joined in any way, but the proprietor had said there were none. If we wanted a sitting room, then those were the only two bedchambers available. I'd quickly accepted them before Lincoln could announce that we were going to try another inn.

  "My foot's a little sore," I lied. "I don't wish to traipse all over the village in search of another place to stay. Besides, The Fox and Hound is charming." I smiled at the innkeeper as I said it, and he smiled back, handing me a key.

  "That it is, miss. The Fox is the oldest and best inn for miles. You won't get a fireplace as cozy as the one in the dining room, and our beds are clean, unlike some places I could mention. Be sure to dine with us this evening and enjoy our cook's special. You won't be disappointed."

  "I look forward to it."

  He led us up the narrow staircase, worn smooth in the center from centuries of trampling boots. Lincoln had to duck as we passed from the ground level to the next, and the top of his head almost skimmed the thick, black beams holding up the corridor ceiling. The innkeeper showed us into our rooms, then left. After fifteen minutes, Lincoln tapped on the door leading to the sitting room.

  "Ready?" he called.

  "I'll fetch my cloak and gloves."

  A few minutes later we were outside, hailing a cab to take us to Emberly Park, a few miles west of the village. The term "cab" could only loosely describe the vehicle. It wasn't the hackney variety that crowded London's streets, but a crude wagon that happened to be going to the big house to deliver sacks of flour, tea, sugar and other supplies.

  I sat on one side of the squinting, stooped driver and Lincoln sat on the other. Fortunately it was a lovely sunny autumn day, albeit a cool one, and we didn't require protection from the weather.

  "Does Lord Harcourt own this village?" I asked as we drove along the main street, lined with shops that seemed to be a mixture of old and new. Three of them were the narrow black and white Tudor type, all leaning drunkenly to the right. "It's very pretty."

  "He owns a few buildings here and there," the driver said.

  "Is he a good landlord?"

  He shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. He ain't my landlord."

  "Have the Buchanan family lived here long?"

  "Long as anyone alive can remember, and well before that."

  "The baronetcy was named after the village when it was awarded to the Buchanan family, a little over a century ago," Lincoln explained. "They lived at Emberly Park for two centuries before that, however."

  "You know their history well."

  "I know the history of every noble family in the British Empire. My tutor on the subject made sure I memorized family trees."

  "That sounds horrible."

  "It wasn't."

  Probably because he possessed an excellent memory. "Does the baron's brother come here often?" I asked the driver.

  "Wouldn't know."

  "Do you know if he was here recently, say about a week ago?"

  "No."

  We'd already asked the stationmaster, but he claimed not to know what Buchanan looked like, never having met the fellow in the year since he'd moved to the village. We couldn't rule out Buchanan having arrived by train. Not yet.

  I fell into silence as we drove past thatch-roofed cottages, over a stone bridge that crossed a gently babbling stream and out of the village. I was too in awe of the beauty of the countryside to bother attempting conversation with two of the poorest conversationalists in England. Sunshine speared through the remaining autumn leaves clinging to the elm trees, turning them a fiery gold. Beyond the trees, green hills rolled into the distance, as smooth as carpet, with only some sheep and the occasional hedgerow to break it up.

  I breathed deeply, drawing the cleanest air I'd ever known into my lungs. It was so clean that it even tasted different to the London air. The colors were much brighter than in the city too, as if someone had dipped trees, grass and sky in the same dyes used to color silk gowns and waistcoats. I'd thought the Lichfield Towers grounds were pristine—and they were, compared to London—but this was magical. If fairies existed, they would surely make their homes here.

  "You've never been to the countryside," Lincoln said quietly.

  The driver glanced at him then returned to concentrating on the horse and road.

  "Not this far outside of London," I said. "Is the rest of England like this?"

  The driver snorted, and I instantly regretted asking. I sounded so unworldly. Lincoln had been to the continent and perhaps further. He must think me childish. The driver certainly did.

  "The countryside changes, depending on a variety of factors from the weather and soil, to the proximity to the sea, mountains and other natural landmarks."

  I breathed deeply again and watched a little bird take a bath in a shallow puddle by the side of the road. "One day I'm going to go to the seaside."

  I thought he hadn't heard me, but then he suddenly spoke in a rush. "I'll take you."

  I glanced at him over the driver's head, but he quickly looked away.

  He nodded up ahead. "There's Emberly."

  I followed his gaze to the large building situated on the rise, its soft gray stone wings stretching out like a dancer's slender arms. Beyond the iron gate, the driveway circled the lawn. No smoke rose from the dozens of chimney pots, and the curtains were drawn across the arched windows. No footman greeted us either. The house seemed empty.

  Lincoln jumped down from the cart before it stopped completely and came to assist me, as if I were a lady. I needed to remember to act my part and not to fall into habits picked up from living with boys' gangs. Wh
ile my accent had returned to the middle class one of my childhood, over the last two months, other habits weren't so easy to adopt, like walking with a small, neat step and keeping my hair tidy.

  The cart driver drove away just as the front door to the house opened. A silver-haired man dressed in a tailcoat emerged. The thrust of his chin and clear, direct gaze gave him an air of authority, but it was undermined somewhat by the ruddiness of his cheeks and his heavy breathing. He must have run to the door.

  "Good afternoon, sir," he intoned in the plummiest of toff accents. "May I offer you assistance?"

  "I'm Lincoln Fitzroy, a friend of the dowager Lady Harcourt's, and this is my assistant, Miss Holloway. You are?"

  "The butler, Yardley. I'm afraid Lord and Lady Harcourt are in London."

  "We know. I dined with them last night. We're not here to see them, we're here to speak to you."

  "Me?"

  "And the other servants. We're looking for Andrew Buchanan."

  "He's not here, sir." The poor man looked terribly confused, and Lincoln wasn't explaining himself at all well.

  "Have you seen him recently?" he asked.

  "Not for a year or more. He rarely comes to Emberly."

  "Are you sure? It would have been a week ago."

  "Quite sure, sir," Yardly said.

  "May I question the other servants?"

  The butler's jowls shook with indignation. "I'm afraid not, sir. Not without his lordship's permission."

  "He's not here." The steeliness in Lincoln's voice was a sure sign that his frustration was rising. "Don't you have authority in his absence?"

  "Y-yes, but—"

  "I'm trying to locate his lordship's brother. Are you attempting to stop me?"

  "No!"

  I looped my arm through Lincoln's. "It'll only take a few moments, Mr. Yardly," I said quickly. "And then we'll be on our way. We do hate to trouble you at such a time, but this is very important and his lordship is most anxious to have his brother return to the family bosom. We simply want to ask the staff some questions. One of them may have seen him."

  "I doubt it," he said, but he suggested we follow him anyway.

  He ushered us into a spectacular drawing room, furnished with spindly chairs and sofas upholstered in pale blue, with paintings of country scenes on the walls. The white marble mantelpiece was the largest I'd seen, but it would have to be to warm such a vast space. There were ornaments everywhere, mostly vases of differing size and design. Lady Harcourt must collect them. Filling some with flowers would have given the room a little more interest, however. As it was, it felt like a museum rather than a home.

  The butler opened the curtains and bright country sunshine flooded the room, burnishing the gilt frames. It helped give the room some life, but I still felt uncomfortable in it, like I didn't belong.

  "We shut the place up when his lordship and ladyship are away," Yardly said. "Mr. Edgecombe doesn't mind."

  "Mr. Edgecombe?" I echoed.

  "Her ladyship's brother. He lives here."

  "Oh. I had no idea."

  Going by Lincoln's narrowed gaze, neither did he. We both eyed the door, expecting him to walk in at any moment, but no one came. The house felt empty.

  "Is Mr. Edgecombe at home?"

  "He's in the garden. I'm afraid he's not well enough to receive callers, however."

  "But if he's in the garden, surely he's not unwell."

  "I'm afraid so, Miss Holloway." He tugged on a bell pull and stood like a soldier with his back to the wall, his hands behind him. I wondered if he didn't want to leave us alone in case we were, in fact, opportunistic thieves. I admired his loyalty.

  Lincoln sat in an armchair, looking very much out of place in the feminine room. It made me realize how masculine the Lichfield parlor was. Our furniture was more blocky and sturdy than slender and curvy, and the colors were bolder. The vases, statuettes and other knickknacks were rather pretty here, however I didn't like the paintings of cows. There were an awful lot of them.

  A footman entered, took orders from the butler, then left again. Mr. Yardly didn't introduce us.

  "Andrew Buchanan disappeared about a week ago," Lincoln informed the butler. "Are you sure you haven't seen him here?"

  "I'm sure. Mr. Buchanan hasn't been to Emberly for a long time."

  "Have any strangers come to the house recently?"

  "No, sir."

  "Have there been any disturbances?"

  "No, sir."

  A few moments ticked by in which I could hear the clock on the mantel ticking. "What about rumors?" Lincoln eventually asked.

  "What about them, sir?"

  "Have you heard any about Mr. Buchanan?"

  "I couldn't say, sir."

  "What about the baby Lady Harcourt gave birth to a few years ago?"

  The butler's mouth dropped open. A red patch crept up his throat and over his cheeks.

  I shook my head at Lincoln, and he arched his brows in return. We weren't going to find out anything useful from this man. He was much too loyal. Or perhaps he simply knew nothing.

  The footman returned, after what felt like a painfully long time, and Lincoln asked him the same questions, omitting the final one about the baby. The footman glanced at the butler before answering each time. Intriguing. If he had nothing to hide, then why check with the senior member of staff?

  I thought for a moment Lincoln wouldn't let him go after he served us, but he dismissed him with a nod as if he were the lord of Emberly Park. "I wish to speak to the other servants," he told Yardly.

  "Their answers will be the same, sir. Mr. Buchanan wasn't here a week ago."

  I cleared my throat before Lincoln lost his temper. "Yardly, can you point me in the direction of the powder room, please."

  "Certainly, miss."

  He gave very precise directions, but even so, I was sure I would get lost in such a large house. It was fortunate that I wasn't looking for the powder room but the service area. I might have better luck getting answers without Yardly there to frighten the other servants into silence with his glare.

  After a few minutes, I despaired of finding the service area, however. The doorways must be hidden. I was about to begin tapping walls when I passed through a music room that overlooked a paved terrace and garden. A man sat with his back to the house, gazing out across the low shrubs, potted flowers and lawn. It must be Mr. Edgecombe, Marguerite's brother.

  I quietly unlatched the door leading out to the terrace then closed it again behind me, so that my voice couldn't be heard by any servants passing inside. I approached the figure who sat a little slumped in what I'd thought was an ordinary chair, but now saw had wheels attached.

  I cleared my throat. "Mr. Edgecombe?"

  The man jerked and twisted. He pushed back his cap and peered at me from beneath droopy eyelids patterned with red spidery lines. It was difficult to determine his age. The brown hair poking out from beneath the cap bore no gray, and he had smooth if somewhat slack skin except beneath his eyes, where it was dark and puffed. If he was under thirty, he wasn't aging well.

  I smiled but he didn't smile back. "I'm sorry to wake you—"

  "You didn't." His top lip curled up in a sneer. "I was just sitting here, enjoying a drink and doing nothing, as usual." He lifted his empty glass. Going by his slurring, it wasn't his first. "Who're you?"

  "Charlie Holloway." I came forward and stood where he didn't have to twist to see me. "I'm an acquaintance of the dowager Lady Harcourt's."

  "Charlie's a boy's name."

  "It's short for Charlotte."

  "Prettier." He appraised me, but I bore his scrutiny and didn't duck my head like I wanted to. He lifted his glass in salute, and went to take a sip, but remembered at the last moment that it was empty. He muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like a crude word I hadn't used in months. "The dowager isn't here," he said. "She never comes here. If you were an acquaintance of hers, you'd know that."

  "I didn't say I w
as calling upon her."

  His back straightened, and he grunted as he gave me yet another appraisal, this one quicker. It didn't leave me feeling like I needed to bathe.

  He adjusted the blanket over his lap, pulling the edge up to his stomach. Neither it nor the blue and gold striped smoking jacket hid his paunch. "Why are you here?"

  "The dowager has asked my employer to look for her stepson, Andrew Buchanan. He has disappeared."

  "So I heard. Marguerite and Donald have gone to London to help with the search. Not that they'd be much help," he added with a mutter.

  "I've met them. And you're right, they've been of very little assistance."

  He gave me a rueful smile and a nod of approval. "I don't know why the fuss. Buchanan's a grown man and a rakehell at that. His shoes are probably parked under a whore's bed, or in an opium den. Perhaps a whore in an opium den. Does that shock you, Miss Charlotte Holloway?"

  "No. I've been to opium dens. In fact, I smoked opium once." It was perhaps more accurate to say I'd accidentally inhaled the smoke of others' opium pipes, but he didn't need to know that.

  His brows rose. "Is that so? It seems you're more worldly than me, and I got up to a thing or two before my accident." The grim smile softened his appearance and tugged at my heart. So he hadn't been born with legs that didn't work.

  "What sort of accident?" I asked.

  "You're bold, for a mere slip of a thing."

  "So I've been told. You don't have to answer it if my question upsets you. I was simply curious."

  "Curiosity can get a girl into trouble."

  "So I've discovered," I said with a wry twist of my mouth that he matched with one of his own.

  "Riding accident. I fell off my horse at home. My home, not this one."

  "But you live here now?"

  He nodded. "Have for a year or two. What month is this?"

  "Late October."

  "Then it's been one year and nine months. The days all blend into one, when you've got nothing to do but sit in this contraption and watch the world pass by out the window." He smacked the arm of his wheelchair then dragged the same hand through his hair, knocking off his cap.

  I picked it up and handed it to him. He snatched it from my grip and slapped it back on his head.