by Amy Corwin
Mr. Butcher flushed and stared at the floor.
Would Giles never be allowed to forget he’d once been accused of murdering a man? A friend, in fact. Giles had been exonerated and the real murderer hung. However, it seemed the taint of accusation was enough to damn him for eternity.
“Certainly,” Mr. Mackney hastened to assure him. He leaned forward, an earnest look on his face. “We meant no offense.”
But… The unspoken doubt still filled the room like smoke from a poorly built fire.
“Did you and your host have any… disagreements?” Mr. Butcher asked.
“No. We were friends. We had no reason to quarrel.” He took a deep, calming breath. “This is my first visit to the area. I was not here when the first victim meet his death. Unless you’re suggesting there are two murderers loose in Folkestone, we must keep our attention on those who’ve been here for a year. Or more.”
“One of the servants?” Mr. Mackney eyed the footman who’d entered the room bearing a tray laden with a coffee pot, cups, and several plates of sandwiches and tea cakes.
As he caught the remark, the footman paled. The dishes clattered as he placed the tray with shaking hands on the sideboard and began to transfer the contents to the table. With jerky movements, he placed the coffee pot in front of Giles and randomly arranged the plates of food in front of the men.
Once the tray was empty, he galloped out of the room, clutching the tray to his chest.
“That one—someone fetch that man back. I’ve a few questions to put to him.” Mr. Butcher pointed after the footman with a quivering hand.
“What, Andy?” the red-haired man, Mr.Piggott, asked. “Why would he murder his employer? Lose a good position like this one? No.” He shook his head. “No, why would he?”
“That’s what I intend to discover, Mr. Piggott.” Mr. Butcher grabbed the silver bell near the head of the table and rang it vigorously.
The room stilled. The men cast uneasy glances at each other. Mr. Piggott shook his head before helping himself to one of the perfectly browned buns and a creamy chunk of butter. Seeing this, the other men began helping themselves to the food. The activity lightened their grim faces considerably, particularly as they realized the quality of the food.
After a lengthy period—long enough for Mr. Piggott to finish his bit of bread—Giles rose. He yanked at the bell pull in the corner of the room.
Ten minutes later, a flustered maid entered. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re all at sixes and sevens—”
“Never mind that!” Mr. Butcher said. “Where is that footman?”
“John, sir?”
Mr. Butcher eyed Piggott. “Didn’t you say his name was Andrew?”
“Oh, yes,” the maid replied, brightening. “Mr. Lane prefers all his footmen to be called ‘John.’ Saves time, he said. Mr. Lane were a great one for saving time.”
“Was he, now? And what’s your name?”
“Nancy, sir.” She curtseyed.
“Are all the maids here called ‘Nancy’?”
She giggled. “No, sir. Just me and the scullery. But that just happened, sir, as it were. Mr. Lane didn’t insist on it.”
“Never mind.” Mr. Butcher stifled a chuckle. “What do you know of the events that have brought us here?”
“Why nothing! I swear—I never knew a thing until John came tearing into the kitchen, wailing that we was all done for! He said the master’d been killed, and we’d all be murdered in our beds by some foul fiend.” She paled and wrapped her arms around her waist. “‘A vengeful spirit,’ he said, ‘as could walk through the very walls, for they found Mr. Lane dead and the door locked!’”
“And what did John do then?”
“Well, we all ran to him asking questions and such, but Mr. Anatoly sat him down and gave him a bit of the brandy he keeps for cooking. Told him to get ahold of himself, didn’t he?” Tears streamed down her face. “We’re all going to lose our positions now, aren’t we?”
“When did you last see Mr. Lane?” Mr. Butcher asked.
“That morning, sir. I brung him his water and towels as always.”
“And you never saw him again?”
She shook her head. “He always insisted we wait to tidy his room ‘til he was in the study or someplace else. Didn’t like the bother.”
“Did you see anyone outside the room where Mr. Lane was found?”
“No, sir. I had no reason to go there. Not unless he rung. And he didn’t—not for me, he didn’t.”
“Then did he ring for someone else?”
“I can’t say.”
“Do you remember anything that seemed unusual at the time?” Giles asked when Mr. Butcher paused. “Someone in an unexpected place?”
“No, I’m sorry. I were busy with the rooms—making the beds, dusting and such. There’s only me, Kitty, and the scullery. This is a big house. Mr. Lane keeps us busy, sir.”
The coroner studied her for a moment, then waved her away. “Send that footman back. John, or Andrew, or whatever the rascal’s name is.”
“Yes, sir.” She dipped a quick curtsey and hurried out, leaving the door open in her wake.
“We’ll need to talk to the other maids, as well. They might have seen something,” Giles said.
“And so we shall,” Mr. Butcher said, clearly indicating that he was the one to make such decisions, not Giles. “’Though I doubt they’ll be any more help to us than that one.”
“A woman could have killed him,” Mr. Mackney commented. “It takes no strength to cut a man’s throat from behind. And Mr. Lane would have felt no concern if a woman were busy cleaning the room behind him.”
“But he didn’t like the bother,” Giles reminded them. “The maids had to wait until he left a room to clean it.”
“He wouldn’t have minded a footman.” Mr. Butcher’s face grew flushed as he pulled out a battered pocket watch and flicked it open. “Where is that blackguard of a footman?” He rang the silver bell vigorously.
Nancy rushed back into the room, one hand holding her rumpled cap on her head. “I’m sorry, sir, did you need something more?”
“Where is that footman?” Mr. Butcher planted his fists on the table and stood.
“I’m sorry, sir!” She covered her face with her apron and burst in a spasm of hiccupping tears. “He’s gone!”
“Gone? Gone! What do you mean, gone?”
“We can’t find him, sir!”
Giles stood. “I’m sure he’s here. Where did you look?”
“The kitchen, sir. And his room.” She wailed into her apron.
“He could be anywhere in the house,” Giles assured her. “Go back to the kitchen. Have a cup of tea. We’ll find him.”
Mr. Butcher and Mr. Mackney exchanged glances. “We’ll sort it out, never fear,” Mr. Butcher said. “Go back to the kitchen. There’s a good girl.”
She looked at Giles. He nodded again. “We’ll search the house. He’s fine, don’t worry.”
Once she left, the men looked expectantly at Mr. Mackney.
“Well, search the house. Bill Piggott, you take Smeath and Glassford. Start at the top. Saunders, Crumby and Hogkinson, take the ground floor. Mr. Danby, I’d appreciate it if you would find the ladies and stay with them.”
“I should—”
“It would be best, sir, if you ensured the safety of the ladies. The rest of us will search the outbuildings and cellars.” Mr. Butcher glanced at his watch. “And don’t take all day about it. We will resume proceedings in one hour. Here.” Then, as if he considered them all irresponsible louts, he added with a scowl, “And kindly refrain from discovering more bodies. We have sufficient, if you please!”
Chapter Twelve
After wrestling with a strong desire to sneak after her mother, knock her over the head with a convenient vase, tie her up, and deposit her in the nearest wardrobe for safety’s sake, Eve returned to the task at hand. There had to be a secret passage somewhere in this dreadful house, it was the only reasonable ex
planation.
Assuming Mr. Lane hadn’t accidentally killed himself shaving in the sitting room, of course.
Despite her desire to believe in Lord Wolverton’s eccentric view that Folkestone Manor was infested by specters bent on murder, it seemed more likely, albeit prosaic, that Mr. Danby was correct. A man was responsible for the tragedies here. And someone had to prove it.
There was another troubling aspect as well. If she didn’t find the secret passage, she didn’t know how they could stay another night in this house. They’d spend the night terrified that some villain would pop out of the woodwork and cut their throats as soon as they closed their eyes.
She flicked a glance down the hallway in the direction taken by her mother.
It really would be simpler if her mother could be persuaded to spend the night locked in a wardrobe. Neither the murderer nor Lord Wolverton would think of annoying her there. She’d be safe and secure.
Of course Eve had to remain here. Exposed. In danger, but determined to help Mr. Danby find the responsible party. They wouldn’t be safe until they did.
Besides, she couldn’t leave Mr. Danby to face the coroner and his men, alone. Despite her growing belief that he was innocent, she was aware that he gave a terrible first impression of restrained… well… violence. She’d been only too willing to believe him the murderer for several tense hours. But then he’d spent the night watching over them and proved he had a kind heart beneath his dangerous exterior.
He hadn’t even tried anything even vaguely improper. She frowned. Part of her wished he had at least tried.
Of course, tramping through the blizzard and subsequently donning some other lady’s shabby nightclothes didn’t leave her at her best, but still…. She hated to think she was that unattractive.
Well, staring mindlessly at worm-eaten paneling didn’t help. She moved down the hall, absently rapping her knuckles here and there against the dark wainscoting. While this created odd, muffled sounds, she couldn’t tell what they meant. The place might be riddled with passages, hollows behind the walls, for all she could tell.
Wait! A new thought made her hesitate.
A ghost visited them last night. Or rather, the murderer. Obviously, he’d used a secret passage. She should start her search in their bedroom. To be precise, in the corner by the fireplace.
Abandoning the dreary hallway, she walked to the bedchamber allotted to them. In daylight, it looked dreary and subdued. The muted colors of blue and dove gray did nothing to improve the room’s appearance or create a welcoming feeling.
She moved to the suspicious corner and proceeded to rap up and down the long strips of wood framing the fireplace.
It sounded… hollow. One spot produced a faint echo.
Odd.
She tapped harder, hard enough to redden her knuckles.
Knock. Knock-knock, knock-a-knock… snap!
She stepped back in surprise. A board seemed to come loose. She slipped her fingertips into the dark gap, and a narrow section swung back. A black hole, smelling strongly of mold and damp earth, yawned beyond the panel of pale gray wood.
Mr. Danby must see this, it proves he was right! A ghost had no need of secret passages. Despite her confidence, the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Don’t be a fool. There’s no ghost.
Nonetheless, because she wasn’t foolish, she went in search of her mother and Lord Wolverton. When she found them, they barely listened to her plea to accompany her on her investigation.
“I’m sure it’s very nice, dear,” her mother said before smiling at Lord Wolverton. “Terribly clever of you.”
He winked at her. “Indeed. Fascinating.”
“But I hoped…. Can’t you come with me?”
“Is it very dusty?” her mother asked.
With the sinking feeling that the question wasn’t quite as innocent as it seemed, Eve answered, “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“If it’s dusty, then it wouldn’t that mean it is unused, Evelynola?”
“No, not exactly. There was that presence in our room. Last night.”
“Yes, but that was last night,” her mother pointed out.
Lord Wolverton patted her mother’s hand. “That’s right. And a spirit wouldn’t need a secret passage, although it’s a wonderful discovery.”
“And it wouldn’t be very pleasant to explore, would it?” Her mother persisted. “You’re libel to ruin your gown.”
“Well….” Her gown was the least of her worries. Why didn’t her mother feel the sense of urgency Eve felt? Or danger? Even Lord Wolverton seemed oblivious.
“If you insist on going, then it should be safe enough. Since it’s so clearly unused. Why don’t you go ahead, dear? You can tell us all about it at supper,” her mother said.
“But I….” She looked from one to the other before shrugging and returning to her room. If they thought the secret passage was safe, then who was she to argue? It was either go alone or wait until someone felt disposed or bored enough to go with her.
And if she did find that it led to the room where Mr. Lane met his fate, it would be very helpful to Giles. She could imagine his dark eyes lighting up with admiration when she told him about it.
After a second’s hesitation, she picked up a lamp from the bedside table and lit it with a phosphorous box. Holding it aloft, she edged sideways into the dark abyss behind the wall.
When her eyes adjusted, she saw she stood in a small closest-like space. On the right, a narrow staircase hugged the brick wall of the fireplace and twisted down into the darkness. The floor felt gritty beneath the thin soles of her shoes. Small puffballs of dust moved restlessly in the corners, disturbed by the movement of her skirts.
She looked over her shoulder at the watery gray light coming through the opening into the bedchamber. If the panel slid shut, how would she open it again? The thought of being trapped in the narrow, pitch-black space terrified her. She slipped back into the bedroom. Looking around, she selected a rather ugly china figurine of a shepherdess with a pig-like lamb prostrate at her large feet. Eve wedged the object into the gap to keep the secret panel open.
No sense tempting fate, only to be found years later like the poor gentleman in the cellar.
Or not at all.
She took a tentative step down the hidden staircase and paused to listen. Far away, a soft scratching rustled. Mice. Or rats running between the walls. Rodents with beady black eyes and sharp little teeth, constantly gnawing and clawing, searching for food. She’d heard stories. They’d eat anything, living or dead.
She shivered but took a few more steps down. Her nose itched from the close, dusty air. The air seemed thick, difficult to pull into her lungs. Then below her, just at the edge of the lamp’s glow, she saw another little platform like the one just inside the panel in her bedchamber. In the distance, she could hear the soft mumble of men’s voices, the tapping of their shoes. The sounds emboldened her, and she moved down another step.
Had they adjourned already? If so, why were they wandering about the house instead of preparing to return to Folkestone?
No matter. If she hurried, she’d be able to show them what she found before they left. They’d resolve matters and everyone would be safe.
Although perhaps she ought to send her mother and maid to town with them, when they left, regardless of the outcome of the investigation. They’d be safer, there, away from the murderer and Lord Wolverton’s influence. They could stay at a comfortable inn and when the road cleared, they could carry on to their cousin’s house as planned. They’d only be a few days late.
Lord Wolverton would be a distant memory for Lady Weston, and her fragile heart would be safe. Most likely, they’d never meet again.
Of course that meant Eve would never see Mr. Danby again, either. She leaned against the cobwebbed bricks.
Never see him again. How sad.
Scratch, scratch, screech. She held the lamp up. Silence.
Just rats. Or mice. Pattin
g the wall next to her, she searched for another panel. She was sure it would lead into the sitting room where poor Mr. Lane met his untimely end. The wooden slats next to the chimney wouldn’t budge, however. She rapped them with one hand before running her fingers over the seams.
Nothing.
Placing her free hand flat against the wood, she tried to push it open, but it resisted her efforts.
Perhaps it would be easier to open from the other side. She glanced around. The stairs continued, descending into the darkness. Where did they go? The passage seemed to hug the walls of those rooms with fireplaces joined to the central chimney. But perhaps it was more extensive than it seemed.
She brushed her gritty hand off on her skirts and descended another flight. It was possible it went all the way to the cellars. Discovering that might be important.
And wouldn’t Mr. Danby be pleased when she revealed the house’s secret? Very pleased and grateful.
Enough to wish to see her after they left Folkestone?
She shook off the selfish thought. She couldn’t keep his father away from her susceptible mother if she encouraged Mr. Danby. She had to forget him if she wished to protect her mother.
Scratch. Something wavered in the darkness. The lamp’s flame fluttered even though there was no draft, no hint of air in the stuffy confines of the passage.
“Is someone there?” Had someone found the hidden staircase? “Mr. Danby?”
Another flutter. A glimpse of a paler gray.
A soft susurrus echoed up the stairwell.
She held the lamp higher. “Hello?”
Silvery white gleamed. It rippled and then disappeared.
The lamp trembled in her hand. The movement made the shadows leap wildly. “Come forward! The constable is here—don’t be a fool!” She descended another step. “Who is there?”
Nothing.
She took another step down. Then another. It was just a shadow, nothing to be alarmed over.
Finding herself on another small landing, she took a deep breath. She sneezed and wiped her face on her sleeve.
“Leave….” A thready voice whispered over her shoulder. “Leave. Or die….”