Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (6 page)

Anne spied a small room off the dark hallway, away from the food and washing area. She peeked in; it was the housekeeper’s office. “Ah, Mrs. Hailey,” she said.

The woman looked up from a book on a pedestal, with a startled expression in her prominent eyes. “Milady!” she gasped, slipping down off her stool and curtseying.

“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” Anne said, summoning up what charm she could and occasionally did use to soothe injured pride or hurt feelings. “I’m sure you’re dreadfully busy, especially with the awful events of last night. I didn’t wish to have you summoned all the way up to my room just to give you a bit of information you will find necessary for my stay.” Anne entered the room as she spoke, though she really should have waited for an invitation.

The woman would be within her rights to ask her to leave and to complain about the intrusion to Lady Darkefell, but Anne didn’t think Mrs. Hailey would. There was curiosity and intelligence in the depths of the woman’s pale eyes, but she merely said, “What information would that be, milady?”

“I’m expecting my maid, Mary MacDougall, to arrive tomorrow and have imposed terribly upon this household by having her bring along my tiger, Robbie. Mary is a widow, and Robbie is her son. My coachman, Sanderson, will be driving them, and I’d like him to stay.”

A housekeeper did more than keep house, she kept secrets, both ignominious and monumental; making friends with her would be vital to discovering what was going on at Ivy Lodge and Darkefell Castle. “I don’t know who else to ask, and you know better than anyone, Mrs. Hailey,” Anne continued in a tone that she hoped subtly flattered the housekeeper and magnified the importance of her position. “Will there be room at Ivy Lodge’s stables for my equipage, or should I approach the Marquess about using his facilities?”

Mrs. Hailey blinked rapidly and then said, “The lodge stables are small, milady. If you wish your coachman and team to stay, you’ll need to keep them in the castle’s stable. I could have Andrew send a message to the marquess’s coachman, Varney, if it pleases you? He’ll consult with the marquess and tell us what may be done.”

“I would consider that a great favor, Mrs. Hailey.” Anne hesitated but then plunged in. “I’m still terribly shaken by that poor girl, Cecilia Wainwright’s, tragic death. I can only imagine what those of you who knew her must be suffering!”

“Terrible!” Mrs. Hailey said, then glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “But not surprising.”

“Oh?”

“Considering how she did carry on with the gentlemen…” She trailed off with a significant nod and wink.

Anne watched her eyes. The woman’s words were deliberately meant to entice conversation. There was a ghoulish delight that sat ill with Anne but might prove useful to encourage. “Really? Do you not think her death the result of a wolf attack?”

“Humph!” she sniffed, jingling her chatelaine, from which dangled a glittering charm on a short gold chain, likely a gift from her employer for long service, or some such thing. “No wolves around here, no matter what the silly girls say.”

“I was told you were outside when I arrived last night, in the kitchen garden. Did you not hear a howl, as I did?”

The woman paled. “I did, but… but that was just one of the stable hounds, to be sure.”

“It didn’t sound like a dog to me. What were you doing out in the garden at that time of night?”

Mrs. Hailey bridled and clamped her mouth shut, but relented a moment later and said, “Lady John was a touch bilious. I went out with Cook to cut some mint and comfrey for a tisane, to settle her stomach.”

Anne leaned forward. “So who
do
you think killed Cecilia Wainwright?”

The housekeeper folded her arms over her chest. “Find out who the father of her baby is, I say, and you’ll find the murderer.”

It was not at all surprising that the housekeeper should be aware of Cecilia’s condition. Anne was just opening her mouth to ask who that might be when a shout echoed outside of the lodge, piercing even the thick walls, followed rapidly by an explosion that rattled the windows.

“What was that?” Anne cried.

“Gardener,” Mrs. Hailey replied stoically. She sighed. “Her ladyship is creating a rockery, so Gardener is using that devil’s powder to shape a shelf of rock above the lodge.”

“Good heavens! I’ll go, now, Mrs. Hailey. I’m sorry to intrude on your day.”

“I’ll send the message to the castle stables about your carriage, ma’am.”

“Thank you. By the way,” Anne said as if it was an afterthought, “you conjectured the father of Cecilia’s child may have killed her—do you know who that is?”

Mrs. Hailey shook her head. “No, milady. Just giving my opinion.” Her eyes held a trace of belated wariness after her openness of moments before.

“Had you observed Cecilia with any particular young man?”

“D’you mean, Mr. Boatin, the last one to see ’er alive?”

Anne watched her eyes. A veiled satisfaction at having said the man’s name seemed to tremble through her rigid frame. “I understand they were friends?”

“Threw herself at ’im, she did,” the housekeeper said with a sniff.

“I see. And you didn’t approve?” Anne wondered whether it was the man’s color Mrs. Hailey objected to or his status as secretary to the marquess—that position put him well above a lady’s maid—or Cecilia herself. That was answered by the housekeeper’s next words.

“Not my place to say, but no maid ought to behave as she did. She an’ some of the other maids… pure silly they are, ’bout men.”

“The last person to see Cecilia alive was whoever killed her, Mrs. Hailey, and that person would likely not come forward with that information. Mr. Boatin openly stated that he and Cecilia had been out walking. Do you know of anyone else with whom she may have been?” Anne asked.

“No. If you’ll excuse me, milady, I’ve got work to do if your maid and her boy are coming tomorrow. They’ll have to share with the other servants.”

***

Darkefell strode down the long hill toward Ivy Lodge, troubled by his talk with Osei. It had been evident, even to him, that Osei and Cecilia had some kind of relationship, but whether it was merely friendship or something deeper, his secretary was not willing to divulge. Osei was often lonely, Darkefell knew, and Cecilia was a pretty girl who may have been lonely too, coming into an insular family like theirs, with closed-mouth Yorkshire servants. Any man with eyes would have noticed the young woman’s lovely face and form; even
he
had when she accompanied Lydia to dinner at the castle. What had occurred between his secretary and Cecilia during their off hours, he didn’t know, beyond the fact that they had walked and talked, on occasion, when both had free time. But Darkefell knew Osei as well as he knew anyone and couldn’t imagine his secretary hurting anyone, least of all a woman.

Nothing made sense at the moment. He trudged on down the green, sloping lawn, barely aware of the light spring breeze and birdsong around him. Every tragedy that befell his family increased his uneasiness, he reflected; it was as if a shadow hovered over the Darkefell name. But this… this was worse than thievery, sheep slaughter, and filthy gossip about him circulating in the village. This tragedy, Cecilia Wainwright’s brutal murder, cut him to the quick. Was it related to the other torments, or was this an isolated incident?

He would find the perpetrator, but Lady Anne Addison’s involvement was an unwanted complication. As grateful as he was that she had found the girl so soon after the attack, and as much as he admired her calmness in the wake of such a terrible experience, he wished her back in London or wherever she belonged. Even John didn’t know why his wife had invited her friend without telling him. Lydia had given him some mumbled excuse that the lady was intelligent and would find out what was going on with the sheep killings and werewolf sightings.

But she would become a thorn in his paw, he sensed, unless he could convince her to leave. He reluctantly admitted her intelligence and courage—how many women would have been as steadfast as she in the face of murder? Still, she was too tenacious. He needed to get rid of Lady Anne and quickly find out who had done this most terrible deed; only then could he go on and figure out the rest of the mysteries that had lately plagued Darkefell estate.

He strode around the lodge toward the back garden. Though he had already sent a servant to warn his mother’s gardener to stop blasting for her cursed rockery, the command had not been heeded. He stopped and looked around; where was Pincher, his mother’s gardener? The man would listen to him or be expelled from the estate. The explosions were upsetting people. With everything else going on, he didn’t want to cause any more anxiety than was already being experienced. Just an hour ago Dandy Lincoln, his home farm manager, had visited to complain that the ewes were upset and holding back on birth, a phenomenon the experienced farmer directly related to the explosions that echoed through the valley.

Dandy also took the opportunity to hint at his troubled thoughts about the “werewolf” and his superstitious dread that the lambs, once born, would be carried off by the creature or cursed in some inexplicable manner. Superstition it might be, but several of their sheep had been killed and gutted, as had Grover’s and a few others nearer Hornethwaite. It had to stop.

“Hallo, Lord Darkefell!”

He looked around at the greeting. There, at the lip of the hill where the last explosion had broken away a chunk of rock and rubble, was Lady Anne, surveying the debris. Damnation. If he had seen her, he would have avoided her, for she was the sort of female who would demand answers of him, answers he didn’t have. However, he did need to see her at some point to establish exactly what she saw and if she suspected anything. Taking a deep breath, he tried to settle his features in some kind of moderately welcoming expression.

She waited for him to join her and then remarked, looking at the scarred hillside and the dressing of dirt that a nearby grove of hawthorn bushes wore, “If you’re looking for Lady Darkefell’s gardener, you are too late. He’s gone to the village for supplies from the blacksmith, he mumbled as he left. I had several questions for him, but he seemed in such a hurry to go!” She stared at the rubble. “I am told that this destructive fury is aimed at creating a rockery for your mother.”

Hands on his hips, feet planted apart, he surveyed the scarred hill. It seemed a travesty to try to rearrange nature to suit oneself, though it had already been done to much of the estate by none other than Capability himself. “She’s done what she wanted to the inside of Ivy Lodge and now wishes to beautify the outside,” he complained morosely.

Turning away from the scarred rock ledge, Lady Anne said, “The inside of Ivy Lodge is lovely.” She cocked her head to one side. “How grateful you—and everyone else—must be that she didn’t use explosives to effect
that
change.”

He laughed out loud; his dark mood lightened a shade. He hadn’t expected to laugh on this grim day. Examining her, he began to reassess his first impression of a plain spinsterish woman of mounting years. She was probably only in her twenties, though it was hard to tell, for her face was shadowed by an ugly bonnet with broken feathers. The monstrous hairstyle he had seen at the breakfast table was covered, at least, and that was a good thing, for the snakelike locks were distracting. She gazed up at him from under her bonnet, and he noticed that her skin was good, her lips full, and her eyes a brilliant, clear gray. She fairly gleamed with health and vigor, and that made her as attractive as she ever would be.

He would take the opportunity to speak with her about the previous night. “May I show you some of the property, my lady?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Certainly.”

“Shall we walk toward the castle?”

“I’m at your command, my lord, so ‘whither thou goest, I will go.’”

“Ah, quoting from ‘Ruth’? I didn’t think fashionable young ladies quoted from the Old Testament.”

“I’m not a fashionable young lady, as you surely must have noticed,” she replied calmly, matching her steps to his long strides.

“But you didn’t have your bags until after breakfast. I expect to see you decked in silks and satins when next we meet, at dinner.”

“After the events of the last twenty-four hours, my lord, I don’t think I would garb myself in satin even if it was a part of my apparel.”

Rebuked, he muttered, “You shame my light tone.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I merely found a creative way to introduce the subject that is on both of our minds and the reason you have enticed me to walk with you.”

There was no need to dance around the topic. “You’re right, of course; Cecilia’s murder. But first, let’s walk. I’m so seldom home this time of year, and spring is, above all times at Darkefell, the season I love.”

“Ah, yes… it’s parliamentary season, and you should be in London,” she remarked.

They set out, descending from the limestone cliff created by the explosion, and heading toward the unbroken sward of green grass that led to Darkefell Castle. The gravel drive was circuitous, and the grass more pleasant underfoot. “I have taken a leave from the Lords,” he said, referring to the House of Lords, “to solve the problems plaguing my people.”

“What do you think happened to Cecilia Wainwright last night?” she asked. “Is it related to this foolishness, this werewolf business?”

He hadn’t intended to speak of it yet and deflected the question with one of his own. “Did Lydia really ask you to come all the way here to find out what is going on?”

“Now, should I ask another question, too?” she asked, glancing up at him. “Soon we shall have an assortment of unanswered questions between us, like a heap of refuse neither deigns to notice.”

She was direct, and he was stymied. Obfuscation was a skill he had perfected in the last few months.

When he didn’t answer, she said, “I propose that we each answer a question before asking one of our own. I’ll start. Yes, Lydia asked me to find out what is going on. She’s frightened and accustomed to having someone around upon whom she can rely.”

“Why not rely on her husband?”

“I asked her that—to be blunt, she fears that he’s regretting the marriage.” She glanced up at him and seemed about to say something but then stopped. She cleared her throat. “Now I’m allowed another question. This is working out nicely.”

“But my comment was not truly a question.”

“But it was, my lord. You asked why she could not rely on her husband, and I answered.” She smiled up at him, the sly expression and laughter in her eyes unexpectedly charming, even on such a plain face. “So,” she continued, looking ahead as they strolled up the long sloping lawn that led to the rise beyond which Darkefell Castle loomed. “Lydia implied that you weren’t discouraging talk of a werewolf. I don’t for one moment think you believe in such drivel, so why do you not put a stop to it?”

“I choose not to engage in the discussion of werewolves at all. I don’t encourage such talk, I simply say nothing.”

She shook her head, appearing to reject his words, but didn’t respond. It was his turn, by her rules, to ask a question. “Lydia seems to be frightened of me. I can’t imagine why. I’m really the simplest of men with whom to speak.”

Lady Anne snorted. He chose to ignore that.

“Has she confided anything to you?” he continued. “Anything about what she fears is going on or even anything about Cecilia, any relationships she might have had here since her arrival?”

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried, dropping his arm.

Her expression caught him off guard, and he stared at her in alarm. They had topped a rise and circled a grove of trees, and Darkefell Castle was in view for the first time as a whole. She was staring at it openmouthed. He crossed his arms over his chest; she would say something disparaging, now. His mother hated the castle, and any other woman who had ever expressed an opinion had deemed it hideous at best, terrifying at worst.

“It’s glorious!” she said on a sigh, clasping her gloved hands together.

“Glorious?” He stared at her and then at the building.

It was huge, part of it in ruins. It truly was a castle, built in the fourteenth century, then abandoned, re-inhabited, then abandoned
again
in favor of the Jacobean Ivy Lodge, a more manageable household built by the third Earl of Staunby in the early years of the last century. His father had moved his family back into the castle and commenced rebuilding it, but soon after he died, his widow moved, as was her right, to what the late marquess had designated the dower house. He, as the new marquess, stayed in the castle.

“Yes, glorious,” Lady Anne said. She strode toward it with single-minded intensity, picking up her skirts and climbing the last few feet of the rise with surprising hardiness, a brisk, chilly wind lifting the bent plumage on her hat.

He was taken aback for a moment, stunned and unmoving. Then he followed, catching up to her with three long steps. “You like it?” he asked, matching her pace.

“It’s stunning! Beyond description. May I draw it?”

“Of course.”

She stopped, and he bumped into her, but she seemed unperturbed. “From here,” she said. She stared for a long moment. “Yes. From right here.”

He looked at Darkefell Castle over her shoulder. “There,” he said, pointing to the dark tower, a dry-moated, crenellated castle keep, “is the original section, the keep. It was built by Baron Geoffrey Destaun, my ancestor, from whom Staunby eventually took its name, which was kindly given back to us when a later ancestor was graced with the earldom.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “A castle keep? Darkefell, how romantic!”

She had seemed so pragmatic, but he was delighted to find her otherwise. “Destaun was a follower of Edward of Woodstock until they had a falling-out, it was said, over a game of chance.”

“Edward… the Black Prince,” Lady Anne said, looking back toward the castle. “But… what do you mean, ‘a game of chance’?”

“First,” he said, holding up a quelling hand, “Edward was never, during his life, called the Black Prince. Anyway, he and Destaun gambled on a backgammon game, though I don’t believe it was called that then, and quarreled. My later ancestors claimed the argument concerned something more noble, such as Edward’s treatment of those over whom he had control—he was a cruel man—but from what I have been able to ascertain, it was that one simple game and Edward’s charge that the baron cheated him.”