"And did it help?” Kim asked.
"It seemed to for a while, and then things were as bad as ever—worse than ever. He moved out of our bedroom and told me not to come into his part of the house. He would sit up all night brooding in the library and drinking. He never drank to excess before, but overnight he was drinking all the time. He quarreled with everyone who got close to him, over nothing at all. He even fought with Missy and he had always adored her so much no one was allowed to say anything the least bit unkind to or about her.” Betty shook her head.
"So when he died, everyone thought it must have been suicide,” Liz surmised.
"Yes, it seemed a more rational explanation than Missy's story. He was unhappy the last few months of his life. I blamed myself, of course, thinking I should have tried harder to make him believe I wasn't having an affair.” She sighed, looked at her hands and turned the diamond wedding ring she still wore. “If anyone killed him, it must have been me, just as surely as if I had held the gun to his head."
John knelt in front of her chair, “Why didn't you tell me all this?"
"Johnny, there was never a time—we lost Leonard, Missy and then your father, all in the space of a few months. I lost my mind for a while, too, or so it seemed—and then I didn't want to talk about such things for years. Later, it didn't seem to matter anymore. No matter what the reason, they were all still gone.” Betty said.
John kissed her hand, looked up at her, whispered, “I can't believe you kept it all bottled inside yourself all those years. Is that why you left the house, because the last memories of Leonard there were so hard for you to bear?"
A silent tear slipped down her cheek. “Yes,” she said. “I still blame myself for his and Missy's death. If I had been stronger, maybe I could have seen it coming and done something to prevent it. The house was too lonely without them and I felt guilty for wanting to be there in the first place. Maybe if we had never gone there, whatever drove him to be unhappy enough to kill himself might not have happened."
Liz closed her eyes tight, pinched the bridge of her nose. She was beginning to feel that dizzy sensation again and she wanted very much to finish her visit with Betty. “Betty, I don't have any concrete answers yet, but for what it's worth, I don't believe Leonard killed himself,” she said. “I'm not sure what did happen or what made him so troubled, but I believe he loved you and that he didn't kill himself. You are just going to have to trust me on that. I think we'll have some answers for you soon."
Betty smiled at her. “I have made a sort of peace with it, dear—but if you find out anything, I want to know it, no matter what it is. It would mean a great deal to me to know someone else did shoot Leonard."
"I promise to tell you as soon as I know anything. But I'm afraid I have to excuse myself; I have an incredible headache and I think I should go get some air.” Liz said as she rose from her chair and bolted from the room.
"What in the world?” John asked.
"She has been having these episodes for a couple of days. I think she is getting too much psychic information to process and it is making her feel ill,” Kim explained.
"Does this always happen?” Betty asked.
"No. It has happened before, but it isn't a regular occurrence with Liz,” Kim answered.
"Leonard experienced that sudden onset headache for a few weeks before he died. Could there be a connection?” Betty asked.
Kim thought about the question. She didn't know what to answer, but she wanted to reassure Betty if she could. “She could be in contact with Leonard's spirit but not know it was Leonard, I suppose.” She didn't want to say the more plausible possibility she had thought of, which was whatever spirit had been plaguing Leonard was also bothering Liz. “I should go check on her. Betty, it was so nice to meet you and I'm sure we'll be seeing you again soon."
"Thank you, dear, for coming. I really do believe you and Liz will unravel this mystery and be able to bring peace to the house—and to me—again.” Kim leaned down and gave Betty a hug before starting for the door.
"I'll be down in a few minutes; I just need to get Betty's signature on a couple of documents,” John told Kim.
"Oh, that's fine, I think. I'll be with Liz. Take your time, John. Goodbye, Betty,” Kim said as she, too, fled from the room.
Chapter 17
The following week they conducted a proper funeral service for Ben McCann and Constance at which Father Joel Murchison, priest of the local Catholic church, delivered an impressive eulogy for a man he'd never met. John had secured the necessary permission to bury Constance next to her true husband with McCann's cat Timothy at their feet. No one in the Spencer family voiced any objection, since the child born to her had also died before his twelfth birthday and Spencer had remarried soon after Constance's death. Their interment was on the Manor grounds east of the gazebo overlooking the river on October first, the anniversary of the letter McCann had written to Constance, pleading with her to come to him.
Willard Pierce had determined the probable cause of Constance's death as complications of giving birth to her son, thereby ruling out any foul play. No one knew the name of the child Constance died bearing and as far as anyone knew, the boy had been buried in an unmarked grave separate from the family plot, although no one knew why Spencer would have done such a thing.
The day of the funeral turned off cooler with light, puffy clouds and a soft breeze wafting in from the southeast. Peter Humphrey, Willard Pierce and Jack Lance came to attend the service with John, Liz and Kim. Father Murchison spoke of Ben McCann as though he had been a member of his own flock and Liz had the idea the young priest had more than his fair share of psychic insight into McCann's nature than most would think a priest should have. After the service, she invited him and the others to come in and visit a while.
John, Peter, Willard and Jack all said they had responsibilities to get back to, but Father Murchison accepted the invitation. After they waved goodbye to the others, he turned to Liz and Kim, smiled and said, “I was hoping you would invite me in. You two are quite the talk of the town, you know."
"Oh? Why is that?” Kim asked.
"Well, the Catholic community takes quite an interest in hauntings and the like, even though the official pronouncement upon such things is one of non-involvement. There are a good number of spiritualists in the church—always have been. So, of course, your being here is a hot topic.” Murchison said.
Liz opened the front door, motioned for the priest to enter. “Father Murchison, we have done some cleansing work here, but it isn't complete by a long shot yet. Would you bless the house while you are here?” she asked.
"Are you Catholic, Liz?” Joel asked.
"No, I'm not,” she said.
"Are you, Kim?” he asked.
Kim shook her head, replied, “No. I'm afraid I'm not, either."
Murchison grinned, followed the two women down the hall toward the living room. “First of all, then, I would appreciate you both calling me Joel. I'm certain we are going to be great friends, but I'm a modern priest and I believe the title of ‘Father’ should be used by Catholics for their priest."
"Sorry, Joel. Does that mean you don't want to bless the house?” Liz asked.
"No, not at all. McCann was Catholic, and he built this house. I would consider it an honor to bless the place for you. The diocese didn't have a church here in Bastrop in McCann's day, so it's likely he never had the chance to have it blessed himself.” Joel said.
"That was my thinking,” Liz agreed. “Would you like some tea, coffee, milk, water—cookies?"
"Ah, water, please—and yes to cookies, too.” Joel replied, a twinkle in his eye. “Never could pass up sweets—at least not in moderation.” He sat down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and Liz went to the kitchen to serve up the water and cookies.
"I know what you mean. I have a bit of a sweet tooth myself,” Kim agreed as she joined him at the bar. “So, tell me; you have an accent—is that Irish?"
&nbs
p; "My lineage is Scots-Irish, yes. I was born here in the States, but my parents died when I was three and I was carted off to Ireland to live with my grandmother. So I sound more Irish than American, I suppose.” Joel answered.
"Wow,” Liz said. “I always wanted to go to Scotland and Ireland. Did you learn a lot about the folklore and legends?"
"Yes, my grandmother was very wrapped up in traditional teachings and so I learned a good deal about that aspect of my background. As far as visiting there, I am afraid you might be disappointed, ladies. Scotland and Ireland are both rather poor countries when compared to your own,” Joel confided.
Liz listened to the easy lilt of his speech, smiled in spite of herself. Joel Murchison was in his early to mid thirties, over six feet tall and thin—much thinner, she'd wager, than if he'd been brought up in the States. He was handsome with merry green/hazel eyes and sandy colored hair, and he somehow looked out of place in the garb of a priest. She said, “My own heritage is Scots-Irish as well, Joel. I suppose the desire to go there is my soul's longing to find out more about itself."
He considered her words. “Perhaps, Liz, but it is God who holds the answers to the soul's search, you know."
"Yes,” she agreed, “I do know that, but—well, I think it's a richer experience to see the places where one's ancestors walked and lived than it is to merely read about them."
"Yes, I suppose that might be true if your ancestors were wealthy. Otherwise, it might not be as rich an experience as you might imagine,” Joel commented.
Liz nodded. “That wasn't the kind of rich I meant,” she said.
"Oh, I see—you meant rich, as in the tapestries of life's experiences—like a college education, versus attending the university of hard knocks,” he surmised.
Liz opened her mouth to speak, frowned, closed it again and took a bite of the homemade chocolate chip cookie Kim had prepared. There seemed to be resentment in Joel's attitude toward his heritage. She decided not to ask him any more questions about Ireland. “Mm—you outdid yourself with these cookies, Kim. Delicious!” she commented.
Kim cocked her head at her friend in amusement. “Oh, yes, I am such a very good cook!"
"Here, here! I'll second that,” Joel said, toasting her with his half-eaten cookie. “You can feed me cookies anytime and I will most assuredly accept the invitation."
"Why, thank you, Joel. I like chocolate chip cookies, so I learned to bake them—simple as that.” Kim said. “I think what Liz was trying to say is that we are glad to meet someone who shares some of the background we have read and dreamed about. There is much to be learned from people from other places. No matter what a New Yorker has heard or read about Texas, he can't know Texas until he has been here and known a few real Texans."
To this, Joel nodded. “Life was hard for me in Ireland. I always glamorized existence in the States and thought I would have had a better time of it had I lived here. My Grandmother, God rest her soul, was very poor and though she did the best she could by me, there was scarcely enough to feed us both. When she passed on, I joined the priesthood to get away from Ireland. I knew they would feed and educate me and I wanted the education more than anything else. I worked hard to get an assignment in the States because I was an American. Now I'm here, I'd not like to go back there. I apologize if I let my suffering in my grandmother's world speak too loudly, Liz. I try not to be hateful about it, but sometimes I fail."
"I understand. I suppose we all have things we feel that way about. We're only human, after all,” she said with a shrug.
"Yes, but I am a priest; I should strive to do better than that,” he said.
Kim handed him the platter of cookies. “You're among friends here, Joel. You can be a priest with your parishioners. Here, you are just a friend. Besides, too much striving to do better produces frustration. God works with us to cancel out strife and to produce from us a finer vessel, doesn't he?"
Joel smiled as he took another cookie, “That he does. Thank you for reminding me I don't have to be perfect yet. I said I'm a modern priest; but I also still have a lot of old ideas coursing through my brain—I was taught in the old school."
"Speaking of the old school, I found some very old manuscripts written in a language I can't identify. Something made me think they might be Celtic in origin. Do you know anything about the language? Could you, for example, translate it?” Liz asked.
He pursed his lips, rubbed his chin, “Yes, I do know quite a bit of the old languages, but many of the writings are considered taboo in the Church. Translating them for you could get me into trouble. What manner of writings are they?"
"I think I would have to be able to read them before I would know that,” Liz said. “What I do know about them is that they predate Benjamin McCann by a century or more and they are most likely, very secret."
"I see. Maybe I had better think and pray on it before I make any commitment, then. Could I see them?” he asked.
Liz looked at Kim; Kim shrugged. “They're in a secret passage that adjoins the library. Do you want to see the passage as well, or do you want me to just bring one of them out?” Liz asked.
"How many of them are there?” Joel asked.
"Dozens. There are some texts written in French and German, but the handwritten ones are the ones I'm most interested in. I'm not sure why, but the feel of them was different from the others,” Liz said.
"You mean they give forth a different energy? Is it an evil energy?” Joel asked.
Liz tried to remember the feeling she got from the manuscript she had held, recalled the dizziness she had felt, “They felt very powerful, but I didn't identify the feeling as being evil. My protection is strong, though, so I might not have perceived evil, I suppose."
Joel nodded, agreed, “Yes, both of you are surrounded by light and angelic presences. I have seldom encountered such stable spiritual protection. It would be difficult for a harmful entity to get at either of you for long.” He paused to look at them again, “Does my assessment surprise you?"
Liz considered him a moment before replying. “My first thought about you was that you had a good amount of psychic insight. I'm glad I was right about it."
"And it pleases me to approach this with you as friends, not as a priest to a member of his flock. You have to promise me though; you will never tell anyone I'm even considering reading these manuscripts for you,” Joel pleaded.
Kim smiled, patted him on the back, “Don't worry. We are accomplished secret keepers, and I trust you will promise the same."
"Ladies, this is a serious pact we are entering here. You have my word,” Joel promised.
"And you have ours,” Liz affirmed. “There are a lot of secrets in this house, some of which we are aware of and some we are still in the process of discovering."
"I understand,” he said. “Nothing you show me here today will go outside this house with me. If I decide to translate your manuscripts—assuming, of course, that I can—I will do it here in this house, under your supervision."
"That's probably best, since these things don't belong to us, but I feel we need to delve into some of them in order to put the spirits here to rest. We can use your help.” Kim said.
He nodded, “I will try to help, but I can't promise you anything. I am curious, though; how did the two of you get into this business of spirit rescuing?"
"Spirit rescuing,” Liz mused, “I like that analogy. No one ever called it that before, but it is, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is,” he agreed.
"Spirits always came to us for help—ever since we were just girls,” Liz began.
"Maybe because we were sensitive to them—who knows? Maybe we became sensitive to them because they always came to us. Anyway, over the years, people started coming to us as well, offering to pay us to come talk to their ghosts for them,” Kim continued.
"So you have always both had the gift?” he asked.
"Yes, that is about the size of it, Joel. What about you?” Liz asked.
&nb
sp; "Ah, well, my grandmother saw something in me and taught me as much as she could about it. She said I was quite exceptionally talented, but I always feared it somehow. I have never tried to use it without having other psychics there to help me. The three of us, for example, would make a very strong union of souls to communicate with the other world,” Joel said.
"That is a good way for us to go about this—all three of us should be present any time you are working on the translation,” Kim agreed.
Joel nodded, “I don't mind telling you, I came here hoping something like this would happen. Now that it has, I'm a bit unnerved."
Liz smiled at him and said, “That's why we are all going to do this together. Something has been happening to me whenever I try to work on it alone. It is almost like another spirit is trying to control my thoughts. It has confused me as to what's true and what's not and I am having bad headaches and dizzy spells. This kind of thing seldom happens to me."
"It shouldn't happen at all, as much protection as I sense around you,” Joel commented.
"I know,” Liz agreed. “But there is something almost managing to get past all the protection. That's why I feel the need to learn as much as I can about those manuscripts because I think they hold the key somehow."
* * * *
Liz and Kim explained as much of what they had discovered in the five weeks since they moved into the house as they could while they made their way to the crescent room. Once inside the room, Joel stood in silent amazement at the sheer volume of books and manuscripts in front of him. When he at last spoke, it was in a hushed whisper, “This is amazing; I have never seen anything like it. These books and manuscripts must be worth an absolute fortune, just because of the age and condition of them, let alone the information they must hold. There is something sinister surrounding them, though, isn't there? Why were they secreted away here, for example? Why does this room seem impervious to time and the effect of the elements? What force has protected them all these years?"
McCann's Manor Page 18