"You are not enjoying the performance?” murmured Mr. Wyckliff.
"Pray excuse me,” she whispered, hoping she had not banged his injured foot. She moved to his side. “And I am enjoying the show immensely."
"You aren't watching it."
Which was true. She had been too preoccupied with maneuvering around the floor to actually watch the performance. She made a point of raising her eyes. “Yes, I am."
Skeletons with blood red eyes cavorted across the waxed muslin screen. Suddenly a disembodied voice cried “Blood!” and warm liquid splattered on the back of her neck. Gwenllian jumped sideways, practically colliding with Mr. Wyckliff, while feminine squeals and giggles filled in the darkened room in reaction to the clever lanternist's routine. Mr. Wyckliff's arms closed around her, ostensibly steadying her, but he held her just a bit too tightly and a tad too long.
Mr. Wyckliff bent his head and spoke softly, his breath puffing lightly against the sensitive skin of her ear. “'Tis only water."
"I know,” she replied. She jerked away from his possessive embrace, irritated that he had witnessed her jump so.
Turning from him, she noticed Mariah cozied up against the Baron. The light was dim, but it certainly looked like she was whispering in his ear. Well, she was doing something with his ear. Gwenllian glanced away, feeling terribly uncomfortable. Who would have thought Mariah such a sauce-box? What had come over her to behave so peculiarly today?
Malevolent ghosts floated above shackled ghouls to the accompaniment of rattling chains. Then the supernatural foes were replaced by deranged-looking men clearly intended to be Bonapartists who started to decay right before their eyes. The playful shrieks from the ladies in response to this ghastly sight were intensified by the strings that at this point sailed through the air from the back of the saloon and wriggled down arms or necks, or landed in hair.
Gwenllian ducked her head, but not before she had seen giggling Letticia attempting to take cover within her husband's embrace. The Baron reacted awkwardly. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about his earlier familiarity with Mariah. Or perhaps he simply did not deem it dark enough to engage in such intimate behavior. Gwenllian felt a presence at her side and realized Mr. Wyckliff had sidled up to her.
"Shall I protect thee from the worms?” He plucked one of the damp strings from where it had landed in her hair.
"Yes, please.” She shied away from another clammy string that slithered down her arm.
Mr. Wyckliff took her by the shoulders, moved her in front of him, and put his arms over hers such that her bare skin was sheltered by his sleeves just as her body was shielded by his taller frame. Gwenllian's heart thudded in her chest. To be so near to him—and in such weak light. Thrills scampered up and down her spine.
He had to feel some partiality toward her. Despite her treasonous sentence structure. Despite her lack of beauty. He could have been enjoying such intimacy with Isabella or Mariah but instead he had chosen her. He must have some tender interest in her still. He must have. Her elated brain could hardly give credence to the thought.
"'Twould be preferable if these ‘worms’ were bees, do you not think?” Mr. Wyckliff whispered into her ear. His breath tickled pleasantly.
"Certainly not. They'd probably chuck needles at us and say they were the bees’ stingers."
He did not respond. Gwenllian gingerly craned around to see his face. Even in the poor light, she was sure he was looking at her strangely. A sort of hostile uncertainty as he waited, expecting something from her, some sort of response. What did he want? She thought she had voiced a proper answer. Gwenllian racked her mind. What else could he want? Unfortunately she could not produce wit upon command.
Her continued lack of reaction did not seem to bring disappointment, however. Instead, the minutest ghost of a grin flitted across Mr. Wyckliff's lips. It was gone in an instant, but it belied his fierce countenance.
"No man's easier to fool than he who wants to believe,” he mumbled as if to himself.
Gwenllian bit her lip. Was this another philosophical discussion? Was she truly supposed to reply? She swallowed. She would answer. She could trade cryptic comments with the best of them. She had opinions. If he could not accept that then it was best she know now.
"Well, sir, if the belief is true then a man is a fool not to believe."
Mr. Wyckliff subtly glanced about. He seemed to be surreptitiously ascertaining whether anyone was listening to them. Gwenllian found herself glancing around, too. The rapt attention of the room was clearly upon the grisly images of walking skeletons that had returned to the screen.
"And how will I recognize truth?” Mr. Wyckliff murmured.
She smiled. “And if I knew the answer to that, I shouldn't be here, I assure you.” He cocked his head quizzically so she continued, “I should be the Oracle at Delphi or a queen in some distant land. If still you press for an answer, then, I think truth is something that cannot be explained, categorized, or qualified. It exists. And if you do not recognize it with your heart, then no words can tell it to you."
For many long seconds he did not reply. She could feel the soft huff of his warm breath upon her ear. She waited. Still he did not reply. Anxiety churned in her stomach. The Magic Lantern show was coming to a close. Gwenllian was beginning to think he might never respond.
And then Mr. Wyckliff finally whispered, “You shall be the death of me. Tha really shall."
* * * *
It was a sustained creak this time. The sort of creak a virtuoso on the rusty hinge would have admired. The ghosts were certainly active tonight. But Gwenllian was safe, cocooned in her warm, comfortable bed. She pulled the feather quilt up to her chin. The motion disturbed Oliver, and he awoke with a snort. The mattress wobbled as he trundled up to her pillow. Then the silhouette of his head appeared inches from her nose. After a moment of snuffling, during which he presumably ascertained he had her attention, he turned and jumped off the bed. She heard him hit the floor with a thud.
"Do not tell me you have to go out,” she protested.
Claws scraped the wood of the closed door.
"Oliver, can you not wait until morning?"
More scrabbling at the wooden door.
She groaned, but threw back the bedclothes and stood with a shiver in the brisk air. By the silver glow of moonlight through the gaps in her imperfectly closed curtains, she could see Oliver poking the door impatiently.
"Yes, yes, yes.” She slipped on her nearest pair of shoes, grabbed her paisley shawl, and tried to open the door with quiet care, but Oliver was squeezing his chunky body through the moment a gap appeared, forcing the hinges to pop open with a squeak. Gwenllian held her breath, hoping the noise had not disturbed anyone. The house slumbered on.
Cautious in the dimly moonlit halls, she followed Oliver down the grand staircase and down the narrow back stairs, across the kitchen, to the door which opened onto the garden. A lit Argand lamp sat on the floor at the end of the short stone vestibule, just as it always did in case she had to take her dog outside in the night, its flame glowing bright and safe inside its glass globe. She picked up the lamp and then slid the door's chunky bolts open, wincing at the unnaturally loud grating sound that accompanied their movement.
The pug was first out the door. But once outside, he seemed to have forgotten his urgency. He trotted about the flowerbeds as if on tour.
"Hurry it along, puglet.” She set the lamp down upon the grass and clasped her shawl close against the breeze that carried cool air and the scent of salt from the Channel. It was not a night for loitering.
She shivered as she surveyed the daunting, unfriendly darkness. Odd little sounds scurried about. Clicks. The crack of a twig snapping beneath more weight than Oliver possessed. And perhaps there flitted a wisp of white?
Be sensible. She tried to maintain breathing in a calm, regular rhythm. This was nothing more than a mood, instilled by the Magic Lantern show. There were no walking skeletons here.
A cloud sc
uttled in front of the moon, plunging the garden outside the radius of her lamp into temporary oblivion. Nervous giggles accompanied her thought that nature was not making this wait easy on her. She peered into the dark and thought she could just make out Oliver marking a plant.
"Are we done now?"
The moon emerged, but her pug did not. He continued to trundle amongst the flowers like an outsized, hairy pixie frolicking in the moonbeams.
"Oh, really, Oliver, do come along. Please."
Oliver decided to claim some more greenery as his own. With a frustrated moan, Gwenllian turned and ambled a few steps in the direction of the door.
Far on the periphery, at the very corner of her eye, a shadow pounced.
That was not her dog.
No walking skeletons.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore her prickling skin. So she and Oliver were not alone. That signified nothing. It could be just one of the house guests. What was she thinking? Of course it was one of the house guests. Or one of the servants. There were many people at Primroselea. It was a person.
Not a ghoul.
And not a walking skeleton.
She opened her eyes. She should just look over there and see what it was. Turn and look. Gwenllian's heart pounded as if it would break her ribs. Why was her body not obeying her brain? Just turn and look.
She turned her head ever so slightly. The moon-washed grounds were a muddle of shadows. Shadows thrown from tall, leafy bushes. Shadows tossed from the gently swaying branches of trees. It had been one of those shadows most likely.
A gray wraith seeped from one puddle of shade to another.
Her hands ached from clutching her shawl. That had not happened. That absolutely had not just happened. She narrowed her eyes, desperately trying to make out something of substance among the shifting shadows in the night.
And it moved again.
Gwenllian recoiled. The shadow kept moving—not just moving—progressing. The phantom was progressing along the far wall of the house.
It was coming ever closer to her.
Eight
"Oliver! Come!” Gwenllian did not bother to hide the anxiety in her voice.
The pug blithely ignored her. He clearly did not understand their peril. The black specter slid closer. She had to do something.
The lamp!
Gwenllian scrambled back to the little Argand lamp sitting on the grass. Clutching it in fingers stiff from being clenched, she held the lamp up to the full extent of her outstretched arm, trying to throw its radiance upon the approaching shape.
"I see you!” she lied.
Like ice in front of a blazing fire, the phantom melted down the wall and merged into the shadows.
It was not necessarily a retreat, but it was respite. Heart hammering, she dashed to the door and yanked it open. This time when she called, Oliver came. She slammed the door shut the second his curled tail cleared the threshold and with shaking fingers banged the bolts locked.
Oliver was completely unperturbed by the incident, but Gwenllian brought the bright Argand lamp up to her room with them. And she left it lit all night.
* * * *
The far wall of the house was solid. Gwenllian ran her fingers over the rough bricks, periodically thumping her fist against sections that contained hairline cracks or anything that might be considered remotely suspicious. But the sunlight shone upon no secret entrances, no long forgotten doors. Just a solid, brick wall.
It was most disappointing.
She stepped back, held out her arms, and tried to recreate the shadow on the wall. Unfortunately, the morning sun was in the wrong position for such work.
"Could it have been a ghost? How think you?” She turned to look down at Oliver.
Eyes closed and his head tilted back, her pug sat next to a pink blossom, his collar of bells shining in the sun. He did not respond. She shut her eyes and tried to picture last night's scene. Assuming it was no ghost but a solid object whose shadow the moon had caused to be thrown upon the wall, and assuming that it was incapable of disappearing into the wall through any secret passageway, the only way for the shadow to melt like that, would be for the object to have changed its position. Perhaps it removed itself far enough from the wall that its shadow could no longer stretch there.
Opening her eyes, she turned around. With her back to the wall, the only things in front of her were three flower beds and the pinery.
"Let us go look at the pinery, Oliver."
At the sound of his name, the dog lurched to his feet with a snort and a jingle and followed her.
The near wall of the pinery seemed to be completely intact. None of its panes of glass were broken. Gwenllian could hear Oliver snuffling around the corner. She walked over to see what he was so interested in. He was inspecting the pinery door.
The slightly open pinery door.
It was not ajar, but the slender, wooden door frame did not meet its jamb. She scooted Oliver over and crouched down to see why. The door should have closed, but several slivers of wood had gotten in the way. Slivers that had peeled back from the now ragged space in the jamb where the locked latch should rest. Someone had forced the door open, but they had hacked at the wood rather than simply breaking the square pane of glass nearest to the scrolled door handle.
"Quite a substantial ghost.” She stood, shoved the door shut so that the heat inside would not seep out, and then wiped her palms on her skirts. The pinery's assailant must be someone from Primroselea. Someone who tried to use the door because they cared that the pineapples and other forced plants continue to grow unstunted. A thief or any other sort of intruder would not have cared about the ongoing health of the plants. They would have just broken the pane. She shook her head. “What are we going to do about this, Oliver?"
* * * *
"Remarkable talent you have for hiding.” Daniel's boot heels rang against the flagstone floor of the stillroom. “I was about to start peering under rocks."
Costeroe stepped out of the shadowed rear corner to stand warily in one of the two beams of morning sunlight streaming in from the stillroom's windows—two small rectangular panes positioned high on the wall, near the ceiling. He slowly shook his head with something akin to admiration.
"Wyckliff. Still can't believe you're here. Thought they'd done for you months ago."
Unbidden images flashed in Daniel's mind, blurry and disconnected as always. Mostly he remembered the blood. And the screams. And the overpowering smells of gunpowder and gore and death. He pushed the memories away and shrugged.
"Killing me was more difficult than they expected. You'd be surprised."
Costeroe's eyes narrowed. He had understood the implied warning in Daniel's words. “You lookin’ t’ talk with me?"
"Oddly enough, yes. You have yet to explain your being here."
Costeroe smiled and crossed his arms. “Sent by Adamstone I was, same as you."
"I find it difficult to believe he would not have warned me of your presence."
"Don’ mean what I'm saying's not true."
Daniel pivoted on his heels to inspect the tidy wooden shelf nearest him. It was populated by an eclectic mix of jars, pots and bottles, each with its own handwritten label: Syrupy orange peel, gooseberry vinegar, black butter. He read the labels and waited. He could hear Costeroe fidgeting behind him.
"Adamstone didn't say nothin’ as regards you neither. Probably sent me out after you'd gone already,” Costeroe volunteered.
Daniel continued to scan the shelves in silence.
"Is this a way t’ treat a fellow agent, on orders same as you an’ just as good as you are?” Costeroe sounded appropriately cross. “When d'ya take on such airs? I reckon ya owe me an apology."
He turned to face Costeroe. “What are your orders?"
"Why, t’ watch the Baron. Has all sorts of ties with the Frenchies, he has. An’ his wife's no better than she should be. Fact is, all these high-bred strumpets’ skirts are so light they float off the gr
ound ‘less ya forcibly hold ‘em down."
"I'll thank you not to speak that way about the ladies of this house."
"You're partial t’ that dark one. She's a frost-piece, she is."
Daniel could feel his jaw tightening. But he controlled his temper. Costeroe was manifestly attempting to distract him from the question at hand.
"You realize I shall be writing to Mr. Adamstone to confirm your story."
Costeroe shrugged. “Write and be damned. He'll tell ya same as me. An’ then you'll really have t’ apologize. You'll have t’ apologize or I'll be giving you a duel."
"Gentlemen do not duel with sewer rats."
"Oh, I'll duel you,” Costeroe maintained.
This was just another try at irritating him. Daniel shook his head. He would learn nothing more from this man.
"Then we shall duel,” he replied with a cheerfulness he did not feel. “My choice of weapons shall be grammar."
"Grammar's no weapon."
Daniel had already started for the door. He didn't turn around.
"You bastard, don’ leave when ya don’ make no sense,” Costeroe called after him.
Daniel looked back from the doorway and grinned. “I win."
* * * *
He was a fool. Daniel watched the deep black ink drip off the nib of his pen back into the little glass bottle from whence it came. The quiet plop of each slow droplet was complemented by the quicker ticking of the ostentatious clock perched in front of him upon the fine walnut desk. He had been well-pleased to discover this unused bedroom, its quiet solitude presenting the perfect setting for his letter-writing. And yet he had only scrawled two lines.
He was clearly a fool. The fact that he had actually completed two lines before the realization had hit him confirmed this status. He returned the pen to its place.
The Secret Hunter Page 10