Christmas Spirit

by Amy Corwin

  Chapter Sixteen

  “We’ve yet to ascertain if it is indeed Jem Tappenden in the cellar,” Giles pointed out. “We’ll need his family to identify his clothing, if they can.” He fingered the knife he’d wrapped in a tea towel before rejoining the men in the dining room.

  He ought to present it to them, but it might be the final nail in the coffin for John. He needed to avoid adding to the footman’s troubles, and he needed time to investigate his own growing suspicions. Little facts kept tumbling around, nearly aligning into a proper pattern. Nearly, but not quite.

  They’d missed something—something obvious. But he couldn’t seem to drag it from the depths of his mind.

  Time. They all needed more time.

  Butcher drummed his fingers on the table, mulling over Giles’s remark. While he was obviously relieved at finding a likely candidate to stand trial, he also appeared to be a fair man. “Sit, Mr. Holden. We must speak to this Anatoly.

  With a wave, he sent Mackney off in search of the cook. The men whispered around the table, glancing uneasily at the gray windows.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Hodgkinson, a dark, slight man said. “It’s getting on. I don’t fancy being here after dark.” When the coroner’s expression darkened, Hodgkinson hurried on. “It’s not the ghosts, sir, it’s the weather. My wife….” he trailed off as the others nodded and murmured agreement.

  “We all have families as needs us, sir,” Bainbridge added. “My wife’s unwell. I can’t leave her alone. Not overnight.”

  “I doubt anyone will be able to return to Folkestone. Not through this snow,” Giles said. “If any of you wish to stay, I’m sure we can locate sufficient room—”

  “No, sir, that won’t be necessary.” Butcher said. “We’ll put a few questions to the cook, then we can adjourn for the day.”

  Mackney returned, followed by the flushed and obviously much aggravated cook.

  “Do you wish to ruin dinner?” Anatoly waved a heavy fist.

  “Quiet!” Butcher ordered.

  Anatoly stared at him before crossing his beefy arms over his chest. Not a good start to questioning him, Giles thought, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Now,” Butcher continued, “what can you tell us about the circumstances surrounding the death of your employer, the late Mr. Lane?”

  Anatoly stared at him.

  “Well?” Butcher prompted. Mackney nudged the cook.

  “I am to be quiet. As ordered. While, no doubt, my lovely sauce for the goose burns.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Bainbridge lurched to his feet. “I’ll watch the sauce.” He caught Mackney’s irritated gaze. “If you wish. It’s no bother. I often cook. My wife….”

  “How dare you!” Anatoly glared at him. “No one is allowed in my kitchen.”

  “Then the sauce will burn,” Butcher replied coldly.

  “So be it!” Anatoly said. “My sauce—it will burn! And you will be responsible.”

  “Shall we get back to the question at hand?” Butcher asked. “What were the circumstances surrounding Mr. Lane’s death?”

  “Circumstances? What circumstances? How should I know of circumstances? I am in the kitchen—was he murdered in the kitchen? No! So what can I know of circumstances?”

  “You obviously do leave that domain on occasion,” Butcher pointed out. “I doubt even you can sleep standing over the stove, stirring this delicate sauce of yours.”

  Anatoly shrugged his massive shoulders. “I sleep. I cook. I don’t speak to Mr. Lane.”

  “Except to argue about the menu?” Butcher asked.

  “The menu? The menu? What argue? Who argues? I tell Mr. Lane what he shall have and he has it. There is no argument.”

  “Apparently there was some disagreement, for you were heard to have words with Mr. Lane regarding the menu.”

  “It is unimportant. He does not always listen. But in the end….” Anatoly smiled. “I serve what he shall have. As I said, there is no argument.”

  Having seen the frustration on Lane’s face several times when he sat down at the dinner table, Giles had to agree. Anatoly basically did as he wished. Lane’s orders were irrelevant.

  “And what of the man in the cellar?” Butcher asked. “Did you also disagree with him?”

  “What man?”

  “Jem Tappenden.”

  Anatoly stared at the coroner. “Who is this… Tappenden?”

  “Surely you’re aware we discovered a second corpse. In the cellar.”

  “Maybe so, but I do not know this Tappenden.”

  “But you do go down into the cellars, don’t you? You must have known he was there.”

  “Cellars? Me? I am the cook! What business have I in the cellars?”

  “But….” Momentary confusion clouded Butcher’s face. “There is wine, flour—”

  “And there is the scullery. And the footman, incompetent though he is. I have no reason to go down there.”

  “Then you’ve never been in the cellars?”

  Anatoly shook his head.

  “Or the rest of the house?”

  “Certainly, not!”

  Despite the cook’s arrogance, Giles could find nothing in the cook’s disdainful replies to believe he was lying.

  “Are any of your knives missing?” Giles asked.

  “Knives?” Anatoly’s black eyes stared into his.

  “Yes, knives. I noticed you keep excellent care of your equipment. Is anything missing?”

  “There are no knives missing from my kitchen, sir!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Anatoly snorted and waved his hand in the direction of his domain. “Count them. You will see—not a one is missing! Not one!”

  “Thank you,” Giles said. He suspected as much. The knife he found was not one of Anatoly’s. He’d been fairly sure of it, even without Anatoly’s sarcastic confirmation.

  “Now that you have ruined the dinner—will you release me?” Anatoly asked.

  Butcher eyed Mackney. The constable shrugged. Butcher said, “You are dismissed. For now.”

  “For now?” Anatoly took a step forward, hands balled into fists, before he thought better of it. “You are to blame if the dinner is ruined,” he declared before turning on his heel and walking out.

  “That should do. For now.” Butcher rose.

  “Can we leave?” Hodgkinson asked, hope smoothing away the stutter from his words.

  “Perhaps we should view the hidden passage. Before you leave.” Giles said, feeling cruel when disappointment at the delay crumpled Hodgkinson’s face.

  “It’ll be here when we return,” Mackney said. He studied the what he could see of the weather through the windows with a frown.

  “Then may I request your assistance in moving Mr. Lane and Mr. Tappenden?” Giles asked, thinking of the ladies upstairs. “We can lay them out in the storage shed behind the stables. Until they can be decently buried.”

  No one appeared enthusiastic at the prospect. Several complained sotto voce, but in the end, they all dutifully traipsed after Giles. They collected several planks of wood from the stables, bundled the bodies onto them, and trundled them outside. Giles had to use a shovel to crack off the ice sealing the shed’s door, but he finally managed to wrestle the creaking door open.

  “We’ll make arrangements for decent burials when the ground thaws,” he said.

  “That may take a while.” Butcher’s words puffed out in a misty cloud, frozen by the bitter cold.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay?” Giles examined the graying sky.

  Twilight was fast approaching. Forbidding drifts of snow looked bluish in the pale light. It was no weather to start the long walk into Folkestone. Giles stamped his feet as cold seeped through the thick soles of his shoes.

  Mackney shook his head. “We have families, responsibilities. The men can’t stay, and we must go with them.”

  Giles suspected it was more fear than responsibility that made them so anxious to leave. Panic at the thought
of staying at a supposedly haunted house drove them. He nodded. “Will you return?”

  “Not tomorrow. ‘Tis Christmas day, and we’ve church. But rest assured we’ll be back. I suspect we’ll relieve you of Mr. Holden when we return.”

  “Perhaps,” Giles temporized.

  “I trust it won’t prove a mistake to leave him here. Free to do as he pleases. Take my advice, sir.” Butcher rocked back on his heels, clearly feeling the situation required a few drops of his wisdom. “Lock him in a room with a sturdy door. For the sake of those ladies.”

  “I don’t fear Mr. Holden,” Giles said. “But I’ll consider your advice.”

  “Do so. Carefully.”

  Giles nodded. “And if you run into difficulties on your way, turn back. We have room for you.”

  The men glanced around, staring at the sky and drifts of snow as if unsure about their decision. In the end, Piggott led the way, following the trail previously cut through the crusty snow.

  Giles watched until the group of men, hunched and stumbling against the rising wind, rounded the bend. They disappeared into the steel-gray and white landscape without a sound except the crunching sounds of their footsteps.

  §

  It was time to explore the hidden depths of Folkestone Manor. Giles returned to the house and discovered his father and Lady Weston in the sitting room, laughing and crouching in front of a fireplace. As he watched, Lady Weston rearranged a few of the ribbons tied around a huge log as his father made a show of pouring a glass of wine over the shaggy bark. The mouth-watering aroma of cinnamon, cloves and buttery, mulled wine filled the room. Obviously affected by the spirit of the season, Lord Wolverton leaned over and gently kissed Lady Weston’s pink cheek.

  The besotted look on his father’s face made Giles grimace. “What’re you doing?” Other than preparing to have your heart broken by yet another female.

  Lord Wolverton glanced up, his round face flushed with pleasure. “Lighting the Yule log, of course! We’ve welcomed it with a bit of wine, and that wonderful lad, John, found the sliver left from last year so….”

  A Yule log in a murdered man’s house? It hardly seemed appropriate, but perhaps they needed the luck.

  “Where is Miss Tomlin?” Giles asked.

  “In bed. Asleep, I should imagine.” Lady Weston’s brows arched. “We felt we should let her rest.”

  Of course it also meant the two of them could be alone. Together.

  Then a nagging, worrying thought caught him. He excused himself and made a second quick trip to the storage shed. He collected a few pieces of scrap wood, some nails, and a hammer.

  On his way back through the kitchen, Anatoly eyed him and the clumps of snow falling from his boots with distaste. “This is not the place for guests, sir!”

  “Indeed.” Giles continued past, hurrying through the narrow corridors and back upstairs to the blue and gray bedroom. He knocked softly and waited a moment before Sarah opened the door. “Is she asleep?” he whispered, looking beyond her to the bed.

  “No, she’s not asleep!” Miss Tomlin said before Sarah could answer. “Do you know where my mother is?”

  Giles nodded as he entered. “Lighting the Yule log.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth drooped. “It’s Christmas Eve. I’d forgotten.”

  “Understandable. How are you feeling?”

  “Well enough.” Her pale skin and the bruised patches under her eyes told him that she wasn’t well. Not at all.

  He shifted the wood he was holding. “I don’t want to distress you, but I felt it best to ensure you have no unwanted guests tonight.”

  She glanced from him to the wall next to the fireplace. “Wouldn’t it be better if I moved to a different room?”

  “Tomorrow. Tonight, you should rest. And I’m going to make sure you’re not disturbed.” He laid down the wood and the tools and picked up one long, narrow strip of wood. He positioned it against the moveable panel, just above the baseboard.

  “Wait!” Miss Tomlin said as he held a nail against the scrap. “Won’t that ruin the wall?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care if it does.”

  “But….” She shook her head. “Please don’t do that. Can’t you nail it shut on the inside, where it won’t show?”

  “Yes.” He could, although it seemed unnecessary. Whoever the heirs were, they’d redecorate and rearrange matters to suit themselves. A few holes in the wall would trouble no one. Particularly not him.

  Nonetheless, he forced the panel open, picked up a lantern, and moved his supplies inside. It was a matter of minutes to nail two strips of wood to the base of the sliding panel and midway up. They would effectively prevent anyone from opening the secret doorway.

  Unless they pried the slats off.

  He eyed his handiwork uneasily. It would be easier for someone to remove them from within the passage than outside where the missing strips would be noticed. No one would see him working at it. He could take as long as he needed.

  Giles could only pray it would slow the murderer down.

  For now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Troubled and restless from the incessant ache in her leg, Eve watched Giles disappear into the darkness and slide the panel shut. The pounding from his hammer reverberated through the wood, making the china ornaments on the mantel quiver. Even her knee throbbed in the same, measured tempo, echoing his blows. Finally, when she thought she could stand it no longer, silence. A second later, a series of muffled footsteps sounded. Even that whisper of noise dwindled into the distance and left her with only the ticking of the clock for companionship.

  Would he bother to come back?

  She hoped he would. It was lonely to lie here, staring at the gray walls or through the windows at the twilight sky and blue-tinged drifts of snow. Everything was shrouded in cold, bitter silence. Even Sarah seemed reluctant to stay in the drafty room. She was constantly finding errands to run, leaving Eve to her own slender resources.

  Where was her mother? The spicy scent that had followed Mr. Danby through the door had lingered, reminding her that their parents were lighting a Yule log. Quietly enjoying Christmas Eve. Laughing. Had Lord Wolverton found a way to maneuver her mother to stand beneath the mistletoe again?

  Those who stood beneath the kissing bough and shared a kiss were destined to marry.

  Was her mother flirting? Losing her heart? Courting pain again?

  Eve’s restless fingers picked at the edge of the blanket, pulling out tiny bits of wool. She wouldn’t put anything past that sly devil, Lord Wolverton. He might look and sound like a jolly old soul, but she knew better than to believe that.

  He was a man, after all. And like most men, he was probably just enjoying himself at her mother’s expense. He’d laugh under the mistletoe and blithely ignore the promise it held. And once Lady Weston left, he’d forget her as quickly as he forgot the wine he drank the night before. Just another conquest in a long line of conquests.

  Although he had been kind to both of them….

  Her heart ached. Her mother had never been lucky in love. And neither had Eve. Her gaze fluttered toward the door.

  Why didn’t Mr. Danby return?

  On the other hand, her practical soul asserted, wouldn’t it be better if he joined his father and broke up that intimate tête-à-tête downstairs? She was being selfish, wishing he’d come and talk to her when he could be keeping his dear father from despoiling her mother.

  “They’ll be serving dinner, soon” Sarah entered, sniffing the air. Her rosy cheeks and her eyes bright with excitement gave her back the fresh appearance of her youth. “Smells like Christmas, it does! It’s such a shame you can’t join your mother. But I’ll fetch you a tray, Miss.”

  Even Eve could smell the delicious scents of roasted goose and mincemeat, wafting upward, carried by fragrant wood smoke. “Don’t worry about me. Enjoy your supper.”

  “Oh, no, Miss! I couldn’t do that!”

  “Of course you can. It’s Christm
as Eve—enjoy yourself.” She nestled into the pillows. “And I’m so tired, a nap will be wonderful. I can always eat later.”

  “Are you sure?” Sarah’s eyes glowed at the thought of enjoying a meal and a good gossip with the other maids.

  Eve yawned elaborately. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “And you’ll be safe?”

  “Mr. Danby nailed the panel shut. I feel quite secure now.”

  “A bit of wood won’t stop a spirit.” Sarah eyed the secret door and crossed her arms. She clutched her elbows and squeezed them nervously.

  “I’m not worried!” Eve replied with a laugh. “Now go on—I’m falling asleep talking to you.”

  “Yes, Miss.” After straightening the blankets and making sure a pitcher of water and a glass were within Eve’s reach, Sarah left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Eve was alone.

  And she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. She shifted in the bed, pushed the pillows around, and tried to locate a comfortable spot amidst the lumps and depressions in the old mattress. Her knee itched. When she moved, bursts of pain pounded like a church bell.

  Desperate to take her mind of her discomfort, she looked around. There was nothing to read, not even a letter or a scrap of paper.

  The gray walls seemed to close in on her. Outside, night had fallen, and there was nothing to see but darkness pressing against the frosty glass. The panes reflected flickering lights from the fireplace and her candle.

  In the distance, she could hear the tinkling sounds of a pianoforte accompanied by voices, laughing and singing. The others had finished dinner. It certainly hadn’t taken them long.

  Or perhaps they hadn’t started, yet. Which meant it would be even longer before Sarah, or anyone else, returned.

  She stared morosely at the fire and wondered if she should try the laudanum again. Then she heard a noise, the slithering sound of something brushing against the thin wood next to the fireplace.

  Thud! A heavy object hit the floor. Then, more scratching and another loud crash. A bull thrashing around in the confines of the narrow passage couldn’t make more noise. The china on the mantel rattled. The shepherdess and her lamb fell onto the brick apron of the fireplace and shattered.