Mistress of Darkness: Dredthorne Hall Book 2

by Hunter, Hazel

  As she neared the top of the stairs, she saw Frances making her way up. “Oh, Frances,” Gwen said. “I thought perhaps you were sound asleep.”

  Startled, the young maid dropped the rag she’d been carrying—and tripped.

  “Frances,” Gwen cried, grasping for her. Though Frances thrust out her hand, their fingers just missed.

  As Gwen clutched the handrail, she watched in horror as Frances flailed her arms frantically. Her terrified gaze met Gwen’s and then she fell backward, cartwheeling head over heel. She caromed down the steps, her body alternately doubling over or her limbs splaying out. There seemed to be no stopping her as she gained speed, only to be halted abruptly by the stone floor far below. With a great thud, the limp body came to a rest.

  “Frances,” Gwen shrieked, running down the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” she heard Robert shout from above.

  But as Gwen reached the broken body of the young maid, the awful truth was only too clear: Frances was dead.

  More shouts and thundering footsteps filled the air. Suddenly Robert was beside her, pulling her close. “My God, Gwen, what happened?”

  Gwen covered her face with her hands as tears sprang into her eyes. “She tripped,” she sobbed.

  As she hid in the safe embrace of Robert’s arms, he called for Parks to bring a sheet and told Agnes to stay back. When Jonathan arrived, he was sent for the doctor. Quiet finally descended and Robert softly asked, “Gwen, are you all right?”

  She nodded tightly and swiped at her eyes, looking at Frances just as Parks finished covering her with a white linen.

  Robert shielded her from the sight with his body. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “How did she trip?”

  “I…I’m not quite sure,” Gwen said, looking back to the top of the stairs. “I had rung for her to order warm milk, and Frances had come. But she’d taken overly long and I’d assumed I would get it myself. I met her at the top of the stairs.” Gwen gazed up at the steps. “There,” she said pointing. “She dropped her rag because I think I startled her.”

  Parks hurried up the steps to fetch the rag.

  Robert shook his head. “But surely being startled wouldn’t have been enough to cause her to fall. She must have been up and down these steps hundreds of times.”

  Parks cleared his throat. “Sir, I believe there’s something here you should look at.”

  As Robert joined him, Gwen followed.

  “Careful of your step, Miss,” Parks warned her.

  Robert took her arm in a firm grip. “What have you found?” he asked his valet when they’d nearly reached the top.

  Parks pointed at the step near the handrail. “Here, sir.”

  Robert carefully knelt and Gwen peered over his shoulder. The marble step was broken, its front edge almost neatly cleaved off. Though she was no stonemason, it seemed an improbable crack.

  “The stone has fractured,” he murmured. He ran his finger over the edge. “The break is crisp, and look here,” he said pinching a few specks of what appeared to be white powder, “this is fresh stone dust.”

  As he stood, he motioned Parks back. “Back to the top,” he said, and when the valet had retreated, Robert gingerly used one foot to try his weight on the remainder of the step. The front fractured off.

  Gwen’s hands went to her mouth. “Sabotage?” she gasped.

  Robert nodded, his jaw tight and his eyes seeming to burn into the stone. “It would seem so.”

  * * *

  Dr. Thackery hadn’t arrived until well after midnight, but by that time Robert had managed to get Gwen to bed. To her credit she hadn’t been hysterical, although she’d clearly been shaken, as had many of the servants. But he and Thackery agreed that if Gwen had gotten to sleep, there was no need for medicines or tonics.

  As Jonathan and Parks stood by, the doctor examined Frances’ body. Robert watched as the stout older man donned his spectacles and gently probed Frances’ limbs and back, and then he examined her head.

  “Mmm hmm,” he muttered, and harrumphed through his mustache a few times, but, apparently satisfied, he stood and wiped his hands with a kerchief.

  “Broken neck,” he said. “She would have died immediately. Good thing, really. It was quick and relatively painless and better than begging as an invalid.” He squinted and glanced up the stairs. “I presume she fell from up there?” Robert confirmed his guess and recounted all the details, including the broken marble. Thackery harrumphed again. “You think someone had reason to kill this girl? To kill the maid?”

  “I sincerely doubt it,” Robert answered. “I think the malice might have been more…general in nature.”

  “Well,” the doctor said, stowing his handkerchief in his leather bag and closing the top, “general or specific, I suggest you get that step fixed, and quickly.” He eyed the body. “Have her people been notified?”

  “I believe she had no family to speak of,” Robert said quietly. “Isn’t that right, Parks?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered. “She was an orphan.”

  “She’s for the potter’s field then.” As though the doctor had only just noticed the two men standing to the side, he waved a hand at them. “Put her in the back of my phaeton.” Although Jonathan jumped to do the man’s bidding, Parks looked at Robert.

  “It’s all right, Parks. Do as the doctor says.”

  “And the sooner, the better,” Thackery said, pulling out his pocket watch and checking it.

  Robert picked up the linen and watched as the two solemn men carefully lifted Frances and took her to the front entry doors, which Robert opened for them.

  Thackery followed them through, buttoning his overcoat and pulling the wide collar up high. “Damnable storm coming from the north,” he grumbled.

  After Parks and Jonathan had lain her on the floor of the rig, Robert covered her again with the linen. The doctor climbed up to the driver’s seat and only glanced back to see that they were done, before snapping the reins and setting off.

  Robert watched the phaeton disappear into the darkness before turning to his men. “Thank you both for your help. Please go get some sleep.”

  Chapter 6

  Robert spent the rest of the night in his library, pacing and creasing a small path in the rug. His breath came in shallow and sharp gasps and the scowl on his face was starting to feel permanent. Rage built upon rage in his chest until he stalked to the window and heaved it open. The frigid air filled his lungs and helped to clear his mind.

  He had teased Gwen with her belief in ghosts, but now something had nearly happened to her—twice. Whether he liked it or not, and seemingly beyond his control, he was taking the threat of the supernatural much more seriously. He still didn’t believe that ghosts existed, much less incorporeal beings that could tamper with marble steps, but something malevolent was at work.

  He glanced behind him at the elegant dueling pistols mounted for display in one of the bookcases. Surely if someone intended harm, there were more direct methods than fractured marble steps.

  After a long vigil at the window, Robert stalked back to his desk. Stacked upon it were several of the journals that Gwen had already finished. Perhaps she was on the right track, after all, in her quest to determine the fate of Miss Wilson and the Thornes. Was it possible that they had been the source of this evil?

  When he’d put Gwen to bed, he had seen her own writing on the dressing table. He’d only just stopped himself from trying to glimpse a line or two when he thought better of it. Though he’d dearly like to know her private impressions, hopes, and plans, he knew it would be an intrusion.

  Instead he would have to content himself with Mrs. Thorne’s journals. He picked one up and began flipping through its pages. It was easy to see that she believed that she was purposely being driven insane. She claimed to have seen the courtesan hiding around corners, watching her. Mr. Thorne, of course, was said to have spent most of his nights with Miss Wilson, sneaking into her chambers and not l
eaving until the very early hours of the morning to return to his, which were separate from his wife’s. She wrote that she had stalked the halls nightly, listening at the doors, not satisfied until she heard him go to bed.

  “Poor disturbed woman,” he muttered.

  He recalled the letter from the courtesan that Gwen had found stuck in the middle of one of the journals. What was it that Miss Wilson had seen that made her think that she was going to be harmed? More importantly, who was attempting to harm her? He had his suspicions, of course, Mrs. Thorne chiefly among them.

  “But was the poor woman’s insanity of a lethal type?” he wondered.

  But as much as he searched in her writings, some more lucid than others, there was no answer. Nor had he really expected one. They were journals, confidential musings at best, not indictments supported by fact. He closed the book and pushed it away.

  If Mrs. Thorne had murdered Miss Wilson, or if Mr. Thorne had killed his wife to be with the courtesan, what kind of evidence could possibly show itself after all the years that had passed.

  “Why am I even thinking about this?” Robert exclaimed, sitting back in his chair with a groan. “Gwen has gotten into my mind. I need to be thinking about this logically. Who or what could have possibly sabotaged the step that killed Frances?”

  There was also still the matter of his chair, which had clearly been tampered with. Looking back, he couldn’t discount the chandelier either, though they’d found no evidence of foul play. But taken together with the step and the chair, it only made sense that it had been the first instance of the unseen malevolent force.

  But why? Always his mind returned to this central question. What possible reason could a person or even a ghost have for wanting to make Dredthorne seem haunted?

  He wearily shook his head. It seemed the night held no answers for him, only more questions. It was time to seek his own bed.

  * * *

  Though it was well past the hour when Parks and the other servants should have been asleep, some of them were quite awake and gathered around the table in the back of the kitchen.

  “I said it, didn’t I?” Agnes said. “Frances looked like a young Miss Gwen, she surely did. And now the ghost went and claimed her by mistake. There’s nothing else can be said about it.”

  Parks set down his tea. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, Agnes.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” she said quickly. “But now…”

  This time Jonathan didn’t argue, but nodded his head slowly. “You told Frances to look out. I never thought that you were telling the truth. I thought it was silliness and that nothing would ever come of it.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement around the table.

  “The hall is cursed,” Jonathan finally said. “It’s true. And whatever protection the servants such as we had against it seems to have passed. The ghost is getting stronger and the blood lust of the damned is growing.”

  “Ridiculous,” Parks said, trying to stem the rising tide of panic. Frances’ death had come as quite the shock. “I saw those chair legs that fell out from under Mr. Sheraton, and those fractures in the marble stairs. Both were rigged. Someone living, someone flesh and blood is doing this.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’d help the master find out what’s happening, but I don’t know how.”

  “And so what if they were rigged?” Agnes said. “Is a killing person any less dangerous than a killing ghost?” Again there were murmurs of agreement from the rest. “And how could any murderer escape our eyes undetected? The master and mistress might not notice such things, but we would’ve seen any stranger coming and going.”

  “And which one of us worked here fifty years ago?” Jonathan demanded. “None, that’s who. No, this is the work of a vengeful ghost or the devil himself, not a man.” He visibly shivered and shook his head as if trying to throw off the trembling. “The appearance of tampering is just that. It’s meant to deceive us.”

  “I have a cousin that knows something of the old ways,” Agnes put in. “She knows the witching ways. Perhaps she could do something.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “The master would never allow it. He seems purposefully thick when it comes to anything he can’t see or touch. But we know that a murderous phantom haunts these walls.”

  “Listen to yourselves,” Parks said. “You sound like peasants who read chicken bones.”

  Agnes stood up, and took her tea cup with her. “Well maybe we are, Mr. Parks. But at least we’ll be live ones.”

  Jonathan stood as well. “I see no choice, but that we must act accordingly.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, Gwen was reluctant to get out of bed. She stared up at the ceiling for a long time, trying to find some halfway reasonable excuse to stay there for the rest of the day. She was more confirmed than ever in her belief that the hall was haunted. Now it was only a matter of trying to convince Robert.

  Even the weather seemed to want her to stay in bed. Outside a gale was raging, the force of the wind bending the trees like grass. It blew as if God himself had taken a breath in anger and released it into the world. Even at this hour, the sky was as black as coal. Her room was darker than she’d realized, so she rose and lit the candle.

  Finally stirred to action for the sake of adding a little light to dispel the gloom, Gwen knew she must relent. She must join the day, such as it was. It was no time to hide away.

  She struggled into her thickest dress, unused to dressing herself after having got used to Frances. Frances… She shuddered at the memory of the poor girl’s death, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders; to think Frances had been the victim of some malicious sabotage.

  Gwen’s gaze landed on the sheet of paper where she’d begun recording her own thoughts the previous night. She strode to the dressing table, and fetched a sheet of clean paper, before dipping her quill in the ink.

  Dear Journal,

  Poor Frances, the maid, has died, and I might have been the cause. I’d rung for her so that I could order warm milk that might help me to sleep. But when she didn’t come up, I started downstairs to make it myself. At the top of the stairs we almost ran into each other and I gave her quite the fright, so much so that she lost her footing and fell backwards to her death.

  More than this, though, was the matter of the fractured marble. Though poor Frances had surely been frightened by my sudden appearance, the step upon which her foot had landed was ready to break. Robert is sure that the sabotage was intentional. I cannot say, for I am not an expert in such matters of masonry. But if it was, it was cunningly done.

  It would seem then that the Ghost of Dredthorne Hall knows a thing or two about stonework. The malevolent phantom has finally managed to perpetrate its black will and kill someone. Had it not been for Frances coming up just as I was heading down, I might have been

  Gwen set down the pen, her hand shaking, and pulled the shawl tighter. Not only did she refuse to admit that she might have been the target of something malicious, but she refused to be daunted by it. Whatever was in store for her this day, she would have to go out and confront it.

  In the hallway, except for the sounds of the storm, it was quiet. Carefully, and holding tightly to the handrail, she slowly made her way down the stairs, stepping over the damaged one, and taking each one after that one at a time.

  Finally having successfully made her way down, she peered into the living room and found it was empty. Where was Robert? Each morning he liked to know what she had planned for herself that day; she liked knowing that perhaps her day meant more to him than it should. Not only was there no Robert, there was no breakfast. With a hand to her heart, she dashed to the kitchen—also empty.

  All manner of thoughts flew through her mind. It seemed as though the entire hall was vacant. There were no sounds at all. Why would Robert leave her here in Dredthorne Hall by herself? As thunder boomed from above, tears sprang to her eyes.

  But in the next moment, she went still
. What if he hadn’t abandoned her? What if he’d been killed or disappeared? What if all of them had?

  As she stood unmoving, she felt a frigidly cold breeze stir a few tendrils of her hair. Where was that coming from? Again she ran and found herself in the entry hall, and then at the open front door.

  Robert would never have been so careless, and neither would Parks, nor any of the other servants. A tremor ran down her spine as she peered through it. Driving rain and lashing wind made it almost impossible to see anything. But a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the entire front grounds and also the stable. There was a silhouetted figure standing in front of it.

  “Robert?” she shouted.

  If he’d made a reply, she wouldn’t have been able to hear it. The wind was howling through the trees now and again thunder crashed. Standing in the doorway, she cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted for him again, but she could barely hear herself.

  There was nothing for it. If she was going to find him—or whoever was at the stable—she would have to go there. She glanced back into the empty house and found that its dark stillness made up her mind. Nothing would keep her in the haunted hall by herself, not even a storm. She pulled her shawl as tightly around her as she could, then took a deep breath before she launched herself into the gale.

  The wind whipped around her, sticks and leaves flying in every direction. Desperately she shielded her face with her hands, and only just managed to keep the torrent of rain from suffocating her. Placing one foot in front of the next, she trudged blindly forward in the direction of the stable. Puddles the size of small ponds had formed everywhere and in under a minute her shoes were sodden. But there was no thought of returning to the hall. She had to know if Robert was alive.

  She squinted through the rain and found that she was nearly there. A shadowy form seemed to dance across the opening. Was that him?