Christmas Spirit

by Amy Corwin

  “By Jove! You’ve found it!”

  She jumped, startled, as Lord Wolverton edged past her. “Found what?”

  “The secret door!” He traced the outline with the tip of his sword. “This is it! What a clever girl—how did you find it? It’s painted to look exactly like stone. No!” He tapped the wall and the sound of the metal pommel hitting stone rang out. “It’s a thin layer of stone. Wonderful!”

  “No, really, I don’t think there’s a door—”

  To her dismay, he managed to pry the door open. A cloud of fetid air puffed out.

  Lord Wolverton poked his head inside, as eager as a schoolboy finding a secret passage promising escape from school. “Hold the lamp higher, I can’t see.”

  When he stood back, she leaned forward and peered into the gloom. The light caught a dull gleam of something a few feet away… a sliver of white…. She squinted and then caught her breath. Surely….

  A skeletal hand stretched out from a dusty pile of rags.

  “Nothing!” she gasped, trying to push him back. “There’s nothing in there. Just another moldy room.” She didn’t want to find anything down here, most especially not another dead body. One was enough.

  “Let me have a look.” Lord Wolverton wedged himself through the narrow door as she valiantly tried to block it.

  “No, really, we must return.” She threw caution to the wind. “My mother is waiting! Upstairs. She’ll be lonely.”

  “Oh—oh, yes, well.” He blinked at her. Then in a suddenly decisive move, he grabbed the lamp from her hand and held it up.

  The golden glow illuminated the small room in all its six-by-six-foot glory. The walls shimmered with some sort of fungus, most of which haloed the skeleton shrouded in tattered, gray rags in the corner.

  “By Jove! By Jove, you’ve found it!” Lord Wolverton crossed the small space and poked at the body with his sword. At the first jab, the bones rattled and fell over, sending a matt of fuzzy hair into the corner and the skull rolling toward Eve. It stopped with a jaunty spin a foot from the door.

  “Oh, dear,” she replied, feeling completely inadequate. All she wanted to do was scream and run back upstairs to fling herself into Giles’s arms.

  Unless this was another of his victims.

  No, it couldn’t be. This was far too old to be one of his.

  But it had been his father who insisted on coming down here. Alone. As if he knew there would be a body here. She’d expected to explore other parts of the house, like the nice bedrooms upstairs.

  “This must be our specter!”

  “Surely not.” Her voice refused to rise above a choked whisper. There were no such things as ghosts. Except that she might have seen one, twice. Or two, one time each. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “What?” Lord Wolverton stopped prodding the body. “What’s that?”

  “We should tell someone. Shouldn’t we?”

  “There must be some way to identify him.” He nudged one bony hand with the toe of his shoe. “A ring or something….”

  “Really?” Her voice faded. While she wanted to be the type of woman who could laugh in the presence of death, the truth was, she felt sick. And desperate. “I need to go upstairs. Fresh air….”

  “Of course, quite right. You’ve been awfully brave. Intrepid.”

  Quite mad, you mean.

  “Upstairs?”

  He lifted the tattered edge of the dead man’s coat and let it drop, clearly frustrated at being forced to leave before he could satisfy his gruesome curiosity. “Yes, of course. I should tell Giles.” He smiled. “And your dear mother. She must be wondering where you’ve gone.”

  “Yes.” On wobbly limbs, she staggered after him, up the stairs, and into the kitchen. Each step brought another tiny shred of relief.

  Anatoly scarcely gave them a glance. He’d finished mauling the goose and now stood in front of a huge stove, stirring a steaming pot. Eve glanced around with relief. Sunlight streamed through the window next to the kitchen door, sparkling off the snow. Small bright flecks of reflected light danced like sprites through the room. The heat drove away the chills running over her arms.

  She hurried through the narrow hallway, taking deep breaths, desperate to get the dusty, dank odors from the cellars out of her lungs. After searching the ground floor, she found her mother alone except for their maid, in a sitting room on the second floor.

  “Mother! Where’s Mr. Danby?”

  Her mother looked up from a game of solitaire. “Why, I thought he was with you?”

  “No—I was with Lord Wolverton.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, he must have decided to go to Folkestone after all. I remember he remarked that the sun had come out. And he said something about a constable.” She sighed and shook her head. “Sheer nonsense. The weather is dreadful, despite his optimism.”

  “Mother—there’s a body in the house! It’s not nonsense!” On the one hand, Eve was relieved that Giles had gone to get help. But she couldn’t help a certain feeling of abandonment. He’d left them to face… well… whatever it was that was happening here.

  “Ah, there you are, ladies!” Lady Wolverton walked into the room. After a quick glance around, he laid his sword down on the low coffee table in front of Eve’s mother. He rubbed his hands together. “Where’s my son?”

  “He’s gone to Folkestone,” Eve replied, miserable.

  “Folkestone! Did you tell him what we found?”

  “No—he was already gone.”

  “Excellent! Though I’m puzzled as to how he knew.”

  “Knew?” Lady Weston collected the playing cards and shuffled them with surprisingly expert élan. Even Lord Wolverton paused for a moment to watch her slim, white hands, his eyes glinting.

  “About the dead man,” he said.

  “Well, of course he knew. He told us, himself, about that poor Mr. Lane when we arrived,” Lady Weston said.

  “Ah, yes.” Lord Wolverton rocked back on his heels, a smile tugging at his mouth. “However, he didn’t know that we found the source of the haunting at Folkestone Manor.”

  “What?” Lady Weston sat straighter, her translucent skin growing paler.

  Eve rubbed her mother’s upper arm in reassurance. Why did he have to announce their grisly discovery in such a dramatic way? If only Giles were here, they’d all feel much safer. “Lord Wolverton, please!”

  “A body! A second body! In the cellar. I knew we would find the fiend responsible!” he exclaimed.

  “Please! Must we discuss this now?” Eve tightened her clasp on her mother.

  “Of course not, my child. We’ll wait for my son.” He sat in the chair across from her mother. “Is there any tea, my dear?”

  “I feel faint,” Lady Weston said in a weak voice.

  “Any lady would. Under the circumstances.” Lord Wolverton glanced at Eve expectantly. “Tea?”

  Obviously, she was not sufficiently ladylike to indulge in a fit of the vapors after stumbling over a grisly skeleton. She picked up the tea pot and poured them each a cup. Only stern self-control allowed her to resist the impulse to pour a fourth cup and offer to carry it down to the remains in the cellar.

  What would Giles think when he returned to find a second body? She stared out the window, watching as gray clouds momentarily blocked the sun. A shiver rippled through her. Another storm was brewing.

  Please return. Quickly. Before a third body is discovered.

  Chapter Nine

  Frustrated and half-frozen, Giles explained for the third time to the phlegmatic constable that Mr. Lane had died under suspicious circumstances. He needed to investigate. They couldn’t wait.

  “There’s a storm a-brewing.” The constable, Mr. Mackney, glanced out of the window. The sky was rapidly turning gray as the afternoon dwindled into evening. He must have been an excellent gambler, for his square face gave nothing away. Or perhaps there was nothing to give away. “I’ll have to fetch the coroner, Mr. Butcher. And some men to view the deceased.�
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  “Yes,” Giles bit off the word. If they didn’t hurry, he’d have to spend the night in town. Anything might be happening at the manor, despite the presence of his father and servants. No one was safe.

  He’d been a fool to come here for assistance.

  “We’ll have to walk,” the constable said. “Drifts are too deep for a gig.”

  “A sleigh?”

  “Where would we get a sleigh?”

  Giles shook his head. “Then we’d better leave soon. It gets dark early. I have to return. There are other guests and my father. I can’t leave them alone, overnight.”

  “No?”

  “I’ve explained already.”

  “That poor Mr. Lane did away with himself?” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “No.”

  “If the room were locked from the inside….”

  “It was a trick—it must have been. Mr. Lane was murdered, I’m sure of it. And there are women there, now. I fear for their safety if we don’t return soon.”

  “Pish-posh. You said yourself your father, Lord Wolverton, is there. They’ll be safe enough.” The constable finally stood, looking reluctant. The top of his curly head only reached Giles’s shoulder, and Giles had a sudden image of losing the man in a snow drift.

  However, once Mr. Mackney started moving, he proved efficient in collecting a handful of men. The mayor and coroner, Mr. Henry Butcher, Esquire, was a little more energetic and herded the men together, admonishing them all to wear their heaviest coats and boots. The weather was already turning for the worst.

  Although it was less than two miles from Folkestone to the manor, the rising wind, laced with stinging crystals of snow, made the walk cold and miserable. Drifts hid the edges of the road, and more than once, someone made a misstep and fell into a ditch. Giles had broken a path trudging to town, but the renewed snow had rapidly hidden his winding path.

  A bitter gust of wind slashed at them, causing them to turn around to protect their faces. They walked backwards for a few paces, just to keep moving.

  “Which way?” Mr. Butcher asked, pulling his cloak more tightly around him.

  Giles stared ahead. The path had disappeared under wind-sculpted dunes of snow. He shook his head.

  The men huddled together. “Who knows the way? Anyone?” The wind tore Butcher’s voice away.

  “That way,” Giles said, pointing to a lower trough between the drifts. He vaguely remembered the slender, twisted maple marking the way.

  Glancing at each other, the men took one step forward. One man hung back.

  “Begging your pardon,” he said, shivering in his worn, thin coat.

  “What is it, Mr. Piggott?” Butcher asked. His strong voice cut through the gale.

  “I think… yes, that way.” He pointed to the left.

  “Are you sure?” Giles asked, peering in that direction.

  Piggott nodded. “I think so, sir. Drove a wagon once or twice to the manor. The road follows the line of trees before striking out across the field. We’re headed into the field proper if we continue as we are. That maple were at the southeast corner of the field.”

  One or two of the men nodded as if suddenly coming to their senses. Giles glanced around and realized Piggott was right. “I agree.” With that, he led the way, feeling slightly more confident.

  Despite the correction of their course, it took them nearly an hour and a half to trudge through the deepening snow. A new storm gathered around them as they neared the manor, but the wind and snow seemed half-hearted at best, not nearly as angry as the beast that had howled through the woods the previous night.

  The men entered the kitchen, stamping the snow off their boots and piling their cloaks and heavy coats on two chairs, despite the cook’s fury.

  “You!” The black-browed chef scowled at Giles. “What do you do? This is not your wardrobe—it is my kitchen! You cannot come in here!”

  “We can, and we will,” Giles answered. “This is the coroner, Mr. Butcher.”

  “And mayor,” Mr. Butcher added, unwinding a long woolen scarf from his neck. “And, of course, coroner.”

  “And I am Anatoly, the chef! You will leave! Immediately! Or the dinner will be ruined!”

  Several of the men sniffed appreciatively at the savory fragrance of roasting goose. When Giles waved them to the servants’ stair, they shuffled forlornly, casting longing glances back at the wide fireplace.

  “Where is the deceased?” Mr. Mackney asked as he followed Giles up the narrow flight of stairs.

  “The drawing room on the first floor. We felt it best to leave things as they were when we found him.”

  “Excellent!” A hearty voice floated up the stairwell. It sounded like Mr. Butcher.

  More whispers echoed over the thuds of the men’s boots clumping up the bare wooden steps, but no one made any comments loud enough for him to overhear. In a sense, the silence was a relief. He didn’t want to talk about Mr. Lane. They would see the tragedy, themselves, in a few minutes.

  Halfway down the wide, first-floor corridor, Giles halted at the entrance to the drawing room. He dug the brass key out of his pocket and glanced at Mr. Butcher. The coroner gave one sharp nod. Giles unlocked the door and flung it open.

  A cold draft, laden with the copper-scented odor of blood, curled around them. The men hesitated, eyeing each other uneasily, their feet shifting on the worn floorboards. Giles entered the room first and moved toward the windows, leaving the constable and coroner with an unobstructed view of the body.

  Mr. Eric Lane sat where he’d left him, sprawled within the embrace of a Queen Anne wing chair in front of the cavernous fireplace. The high back supported his head. If one ignored the dried stains darkening his cravat and waistcoat, and his gray face, one could imagine that Mr. Lane slumbered comfortably in his chair.

  “It’s freezing in here.” Mr. Butcher tugged his coat over his waistcoat and buttoned it, glancing around.

  “I left a window open. To… preserve Mr. Lane.” Giles went to the window and brushed at the mound of snow encrusting the sill. Ice had collected around the frame, but after scraping at it with his pocketknife, he was able to pull the window shut.

  When he turned, the men were clustered around the wing chair, staring at the victim.

  “Did you move anything?” Mr. Mackney asked. “Where is the knife?”

  “We never found it,” Giles answered. “Hence my belief that he was murdered.”

  “But you indicated the door was locked, did you not?” Mr. Mackney watched as the coroner gently moved Lane’s head to examine the wound more closely.

  “Yes. The key was in the lock. On the inside,” Giles said.

  “But the door doesn’t appear forced,” Mackney replied.

  Giles shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to destroy my host’s home needlessly. I thought he might have fallen asleep. Or fainted. I slipped a piece of paper under the door and used my pocketknife to force the key out of the lock. After it dropped onto the paper, I was able to withdraw both.”

  “Clever.” Mr. Mackney commented.

  Giles shrugged. It had worked. That was sufficient.

  “If the door was locked, how did the murderer escape?” Butcher asked. “The window?”

  “The windows were shut when my father and I searched the room,” Giles said.

  Mr. Butcher glanced up, smiling cynically. “A secret passage, perhaps? Is that what you’d have us believe?”

  There’d been one in the bedroom used by the women, he was sure of it. It was either that or—

  “Not a secret passage! A ghost!” Lord Wolverton walked into the room. “And we’ve found him!”

  The men turned en masse and gaped at him.

  Giles groaned. Why now? Why confuse matters already too muddled for clear answers?

  “You’ve found a ghost, my lord?” Mr. Mackney asked.

  Lord Wolverton nodded. “His mortal remains. In the cellar.”

  “There’s another body? In the
cellar?” Giles repeated sharply.

  “Indeed, yes. It explains it, doesn’t it?” Lord Wolverton gestured at the door and then waved toward wing chair. “Locked door. Obviously revenge. How else could it have happened?”

  “Are you suggesting Mr. Lane murdered the gentleman in the cellar, and the ghost of his victim returned the favor?” Mr. Butcher asked, neatly summing up Lord Wolverton’s theory.

  “Precisely!” Lord Wolverton beamed and rubbed his hands. The other men shifted from foot to foot as they exchanged uncomfortable looks.

  “Ghosts!” One stocky man muttered. “Here? I don’t like that.”

  “I don’t, neither,” Mr. Piggott, the redheaded man next to him, answered. “And it’s late. Light goes early this time of year. I ain’t staying here. Not overnight. Not if there’s restless spirits about.”

  “We’ll stay until we’re done.” Mr. Mackney frowned, his eyes growing flinty. “We’ll have to view this second body as well, my lord. When we finish here.”

  “Of course. I’ll be happy to escort you.”

  What could they hope to accomplish? Despite his father’s enthusiasm, Giles felt sure that the law would object to trying either a corpse, or its ghost, for murder. For one thing, it was damnably difficult to question a specter. Or find a satisfactory punishment should he be found guilty.

  The men stared at Mr. Lane expectantly, as if waiting for an announcement that he’d been playing an elaborate, but tasteless, joke. When he simply leaned against the doorframe and waited with a satisfied smile on his face, they turned back to the task at hand. Mr. Butcher carefully checked the wounds and bloodstained clothing one more time before declaring himself ready to view the second unfortunate soul.

  When no one else seemed inclined to do any additional research, Lord Wolverton happily led his covey of witnesses through the kitchen and down the rickety stairs to a tiny room—no more than a closet, really. He pointed to the bundle of clothes, bones and dust.