“Then tell me what you’ve heard,” Hal said mildly. “And I will judge it for myself.”
She sighed, looking down at the floor. “Well, my oldest sister—she was a maid here back when Lady Catherine was alive, when his Lordship’s father was so ill. And she said the hedgewitch—Mrs. Pyle—she used to bring her granddaughter with her when she tended to his Lordship’s father.”
“What else?” Hal said, blowing out a puff of smoke.
“Well, she was pretty—the granddaughter, I mean—Mrs. Forsythe, that is, though she wasn’t married then,” Addy said. “And Lady Catherine had been bedridden—and his Lordship—oh, I can’t. It’s too ugly.”
“Never mind, Addy,” Hal said. “You’ve said quite enough.”
“You see?” Lady Ransom said, sitting down in her chair, the fire going out of her. “This is why she hates me so.”
“Perhaps,” Hal said mildly. “Or perhaps she is merely devoted to her employer.”
“He was not her employer when her grandmother tended his father,” she said, and sighed. “Oh, it does not matter. No one listens when I speak.”
“I told you before—I am listening.” Hal pushed his hands into his pockets. “I’ve other news for you—I am growing closer to breaking this curse. It is coming together—though one piece of the puzzle remains.”
She turned away from him, staring into her fireplace. “I have already told you who has done it. Why must you take so long? My son . . .” She broke off with a choking sob, laying her head on her arms.
“It takes time to understand a curse,” Hal said, quietly. “Even if you know who has cast it.”
She did not seem to hear, for she continued weeping without even looking up. After a moment, Hal turned to leave and I followed him. He gave the door a troubled glance as Addy shut it behind us.
“Well, what do you make of that?” I said. “It seem absurd that anyone could have a love affair with Mrs. Forsythe when he had Lady Ransom as his wife.”
“Hm,” Hal said, frowning around his pipe. “Perhaps it is absurd now—but when she was young? And even if he does not love her—it is not impossible that she loves him. It would certainly explain her behavior toward his wife.”
“I suppose,” I said, skeptically. “But where does that leave us? Why should Mrs. Forsythe have curse the son of the man she loved?”
“Perhaps to save that man from his own terrible fate,” he said, turning to go down the stairs. “And it is his life that is in danger now—perhaps that is what the spirit meant.”
We returned to the library, where Hal settled into a chair and refilled his pipe. He stared broodingly at the fireplace, pipe smoke curling up about his head, and I sat watching him for a moment, waiting expectantly for some further discussion of the case. But he had lapsed into a thoughtful mood, and in such a mood conversation from Hal was rare.
I leaned back against the sofa, brooding over what the spirit had said to me. A reckoning was due—but what sort of reckoning, and why? I chewed at my lip, feeling the headache creep back up behind my eyes.
“There is something on your mind,” Hal said, breaking into my thoughts. “I could see it when we spoke to Lord Ransom. What is it?”
I sat up, but did not look at him. “It’s nothing—I’m only—I’m thinking of the case.”
“No,” he said. “It is something to do with what Father told me—what Lord Ransom’s father told him. Did the spirit say anything else to you?”
I shifted in my seat uncomfortably—I didn’t think I could put Hal off for long, but I didn’t know what to tell him. “Yes.”
He was silent for a long moment, as if waiting for me to elaborate. “Well?”
I scrubbed my hands over my face and took a deep breath. “It said—it said that you can’t protect me forever, and a reckoning is due.”
There was another long silence. I looked up to see Hal staring at me, his face pale, a strange and unfamiliar expression on his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me at once?” he said, his tone sharp. “You should not have kept that from me.”
“I don’t—I didn’t want to worry you. And I wanted—I wanted to think about it for a bit.” I shrugged, looking away. “That’s fair, isn’t it? I wanted to think about it.”
He sighed. “I suppose I can’t complain—I’ve told you the same thing often enough. But—you don’t understand. This—that the spirit said it—it changes everything.”
I looked up, frowning. “Changes what? What do you mean?”
“There is a note Father left me,” he said, his tone careful and steady. “It—it explains a bit more about what he feared for you—why he was afraid. I had hoped that it was merely rambling—but now . . .”
A chill ran through me. “I don’t understand—what reckoning? Why?”
He turned away from me, looking into the fire with a strange, remote expression. “It’s—I will tell you everything when we are finished here. I promise, Jem.”
“But—if I’m in danger, don’t I have the right to know?” I said, fear creeping into my tone. “What if—what if something happens to you? What if you can’t replace the spirit? He said . . .”
Hal stood up abruptly, coming over to where I sat on the sofa, and put his hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly. “I know what the spirit told you,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “But I will protect you for as long as I can.”
I looked away, feeling a pricking at the back of my eyes and a lump in my throat. “I know you will—but . . .”
He released my shoulder, walking over to the bell pull beside the fireplace. “And you needn’t worry if anything happens to me,” he said, pulling the rope. “I’ve instructed Mrs. Evans to give Father’s notes over to Mr. Bonham in that event—and he will make certain that you get them.”
“That—that is not exactly reassuring,” I said, feeling a bit dazed. “I’d rather—it would be better if she didn’t have to do that.”
His mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Then let us endeavor to make certain that she doesn’t.”
A maid entered in response to his call, and he instructed her to bring tea—and to send in Mr. Forsythe. The girl gave him an odd look.
“Mr. Forsythe, sir?” she said. “Not Missus?”
“I believe I spoke clearly,” Hal said, frowning. “Mr. Forsythe. I should like to speak to him.”
She left, and I turned to Hal, puzzled. “Why should you want to speak to Mr. Forsythe?”
“Because he is one person I am certain remembers Mrs. Forsythe when she was a girl,” he said. “And I should like to ask him about it.”
I gave a shocked laugh. “Hal—you can’t mean to ask the man if his wife was ever in love with their employer!”
“Why not?” he said. “He would be the person to know.”
“You—well, you can’t, that’s all,” I said, shaking my head. “Just imagine his reaction to such a question! It’s absurd.”
He leaned back, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “If I ask it—then it won’t be necessary to imagine.”
“Hal . . .” I began, and he laughed.
“Come, Jem,” he said. “Give me some credit.”
I regarded him skeptically, but let the matter drop. After a moment, the maid returned with the tea tray, setting it on the table in front of me. She turned to Hal, a look of consternation on her face.
“Mr. Forsythe will be in shortly, sir,” she said. “But he’s none too happy to be pulled from his work.”
“Hm.” Hal closed his eyes. “Well—his work is not my concern.”
She shook her head. “I’ll let you be the one to tell him that, sir.”
When she had finished setting out the tea things, she left the room, the door shutting behind her. I took up my cup of tea—the medicinal-smelling herb tea that Mrs. Forsythe made—and took a sip. It eased my headache slightly, though not my anxiety—I found myself glancing at the door, anticipating Forsythe’s arrival.
For his part, Hal did not eve
n take his tea—he remained exactly as he had been when the maid left, his eyes closed and his pipe sending curls of smoke into the air. He was perfectly still—but I knew that meant he was deep in thought, and I wondered what he expected to learn from Forsythe.
After what seemed an excruciatingly long time—but which in reality was only a few moments—Forsythe pushed open the door of the library. The maid had been quite right—he looked even more sour than usual, a disgruntled expression on his craggy face.
“Alice said you wanted to speak to me,” he said. “I’ve a great deal of work to get on with—what can I do for you?”
Hal opened his eyes and gestured for Forsythe to take a seat. Forsythe sat as he was bid, rigid and uncomfortable in the chair across from Hal. Hal regarded him solemnly for a moment, tenting his fingers beneath his chin. Forsythe’s brows drew together—which had the effect of making his face look as though it were closing in on itself.
Finally, Hal spoke. “I wanted to ask about your wife.”
Forsythe’s eyebrows shot up. “My wife? But what about her?”
Hal leaned back, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How did you come to meet her? I understand that she was not employed by Lord Ransom in her youth.”
Forsythe stared at him. “I told you, I’m quite busy—why are you making small talk?”
“Small talk?” Hal raised an eyebrow. “I am not in the habit of asking irrelevant questions. Please answer me.”
Forsythe sighed. “Well—her grandmother was the hedgewitch around here. Very gifted woman, if the gossip’s to be believed. His Lordship’s father had her in when he was ill—and Nell came with her. She was just a slip of a thing then—and reckoned quite pretty. I don’t mind telling you I was set on her from the first I saw her. Though she didn’t think much of me.”
“No?” Hal tapped his fingers more vigorously. “How interesting.”
Forsythe frowned. “I don’t like that tone. I see where you’re going with this—I’ve heard the rumors myself—but I don’t credit them. At any rate, Nell and I were married by the time her Ladyship—that is to say, Lady Catherine—was ill. There’s no truth to that. It’s only vicious gossip.”
“Hm.” Hal rubbed his chin. “And Jack—he was born before Matthew?”
“Months before,” Forsythe said, stolidly. “I tell you there’s no truth to that rumor—his Lordship was devastated when Lady Catherine died. It’s a wicked rumor.”
Hal nodded, taking another pull from his pipe before speaking again. “Speaking of Jack—your wife said he was feeling poorly?”
Forsythe blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject. “Aye—he’s been sleeping poorly. It’s—it’s all the excitement, I think. But Nell wants to send him away—to school, she says.”
“Does she?” Hal frowned.
“Aye, and I must say I’m surprised by it,” Forsythe said. “Not but what it won’t do him good—he’s too much freedom around here, I say—but Nell has always hated the idea. She says he can learn whatever he needs to right here, with me.”
“How interesting,” Hal murmured. “Well—you’ve been quite helpful, Forsythe.”
“Then—may I go?” Forsythe said, a bit peevishly—he plainly did not understand why he had been summoned from his work for such an inconsequential conversation.
Hal waved a hand, and Forsythe left without a backward glance. Hal watched him go, then leaned forward, staring into the fireplace with a strangely intense expression.
“It’s coming together, Jem,” he said, after a long moment. “I believe I’m beginning to see the truth of the matter.”
“What do you mean?” I said, setting my tea down. “What did you learn from him?”
“I mean that I think I know who the third victim is now,” he said. “All that remains is to wait—and see if I am right.”
He slipped into a brooding mood after that, and I went up to bed, leaving him to his thoughts.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I awoke the next morning once more to the sound of rain, and a faint sense of surprise that nothing had yet happened—I had gone up to bed the night before with a feeling of anticipation, that something was about to happen. That same feeling followed me down the stairs into the dining room, where I ate a solitary breakfast; Lord and Lady Ransom both being indisposed, and Hal having been up hours before. When I had finished, I went into the library, where I found him sitting before the fire, eyes closed and surrounded by a haze of smoke.
“What now, Hal?” I said, sitting down on the sofa.
He opened his eyes and glanced over at me, before returning his focus to the fireplace. “First, I should like to speak to Jack,” he said, then paused before continuing. “And then—I must return to the tor.”
“The tor?” I said, frowning. “Why—what do you need there? Surely you’ve gathered all the information you can from it.”
He shifted in his chair, and did not look at me. “It is necessary to speak to the spirit once more.”
I stared at him. “You can’t be—why? You’ve already—he’s put his mark on you. It’s dangerous.”
“No.” He refilled his pipe, tamping down the tobacco. “He has given me until the spell is complete—he will not take me until then. But I must—I must inform him of my progress.”
I chewed at my lip, dread tightening around my chest. I could think only of the hollow eyes of the spirit staring into mine as he leaned over me, and of the terrible pain in my arm when he touched it. “I don’t think—you should let him alone. At least until you’ve done what you’ve promised.”
Hal rubbed at his forearm—his thoughts must have been along the same lines as my own—but he shook his head. “No, there is something—it is necessary. But you needn’t come along, Jem. It is something I can do myself.”
I shook my head vigorously. “And let you face that thing alone? Not likely.”
His lips quirked up in a half-smile. “That’s settled then,” he said, standing up. “Come, let us go and find Jack.”
I followed him from the library, through the kitchen to Forsythe’s office, pushing back the dread that bubbled up in my chest every time I thought about the spirit. Hal knocked on the office door, receiving a curt invitation to enter. Forsythe greeted us with a dyspeptic scowl, not even attempting to cover his irritation at the interruption.
“What do you want now?” he said. “More idle gossip? I’ve work to do.”
“As have I,” said Hal equably, not fazed in the least by his attitude. “And at the moment, it requires your son.”
“Jack?” Forsythe raised his eyebrows. “I told you yesterday—the lad’s poorly. He can’t be of any help to you today.”
“Is he too poorly to speak?” Hal said. “I have questions for him.”
Forsythe’s scowl deepened, his brows knitting together in consternation. “If you even hint to that boy about those rumors . . .”
Hal waved a hand dismissively. “What would he know about that? No. I simply wish to speak to him.”
Forsythe gazed around his office, at the piles of paper that surrounded him, appearing to weigh his options. At last, it seemed he decided that the best way to rid himself of us was simply to concede, and he sighed.
“He’s in the back,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “In our rooms—he’ll be having his tea.”
Hal inclined his head gratefully, and we went through to the rooms where Forsythe lived with his wife and son—a severely neat chamber, very clean, but not warm, despite the fire burning feebly in the fireplace. Jack sat beside the fire, wrapped in a quilt, a mug of tonic at his elbow and a bowl of porridge, untouched. He looked up as we entered, frowning in surprise.
“Mr. Bishop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”
He was a bit pale, and tired-looking, with dark circles under his eyes—but nothing about his appearance suggested a dangerous illness. Certainly he did not look nearly as badly off as Lord Ransom—and I wondered at Mr
s. Forsythe comparing the two.
“I wished to speak to you,” Hal said. “And your father told me I would find you here.”
The boy nodded, coughing into a fist. “Aye—I’ve picked up a bit of a cold. It’s hard on Dad—now he has all the work to do himself.”
“Hm.” Hal pushed his hands into his pockets. “How long have you been ill?”
Jack thought about it a moment. “Not long—must be since Master Matthew went. Likely I picked up a chill wandering about the mire—for all the good it did.”
“Yes,” Hal said, frowning. “And have you been sleeping well?”
“Not—not really,” Jack said, looking puzzled. “I’ve been—nightmares, I suppose you could call them. But I don’t remember them in the morning.”
Hal nodded, but did not say anything—he simply frowned and puffed at his pipe. Jack watched him for a moment in silence, a troubled look behind his eyes.
“Mr. Bishop,” he said, finally. “Is this—did my mother send you?”
“No,” Hal said, looking up in some surprise. “Why should you think that?”
Jack looked away from him, drawing the quilt more closely about his shoulders. “I don’t—I’m worried for her, if you want the truth,” he said. “She’s been—she’s taking it rather badly. Matthew, I mean. She was fond of him. And she—she’s been fussing over me awfully. Wants to send me away—she’s making a great deal more of this cold than it is.”
“Hm.” Hal blew out a puff of smoke. “Well, it is in a mother’s nature to worry.”
Jack shook his head. “No—it’s more than that. She’s frightened, Mr. Bishop—and I can’t think why. I’m worried for her.”
Hal was silent for a moment, giving Jack an appraising look. “Your mother understands magic better than most,” he said at last. “And she cares a great deal for you. I am certain she has her reasons for acting as she does.”
Jack frowned at him. “That—I don’t find that exactly comforting.”
“It was not meant to be,” Hal said. “It is simply an explanation.”
We left Jack by the fireplace, puzzling over Hal’s words, and passed once more through the office, under the wary eye of Forsythe, into the kitchen, and then out into the passage. Hal’s pipe was sending great clouds of smoke into the air, and he walked with his head down, frowning deeply. He stopped when we reached the passage, not looking up.
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