The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (36 page)

The detective nodded. “One more question, Miss Moorland.”

“Certainly.”

“Do you have any idea why both your former roommate and your mother are out of communication? It seems … unusual for them.”

Belinda shook her head. “I have no idea. It really is odd. I’m hoping they’ve simply realized they can’t bully me into leaving my job here and have decided to let me be.” She paused. “Who reported my mother missing?”

“A neighbor was concerned.”

Belinda’s eyes widened. “But her neighbors hate her.”

“She left her window open and her television was on a religious channel. Her neighbor complained about the racket.”

Grant suppressed a chuckle.

The detective handed Belinda and Grant business cards. “Please let me know if you think of anything else.” His skirt was riding up and he gave it a hard tug.
 

“Certainly.” Grant opened the door. “By the way, I know an excellent seamstress here in town if you need some alterations, Detective …” He glanced at the card. “Flankenball.”
 

The detective eyed him then turned and headed toward his car, strutting with the ease of a man who’d spent plenty of time in heels.

Grant returned to the house and found the others still standing in the great hall. “I don’t mean to make light of this,” he said, shutting the door, “but perhaps the two of them have gone off on holiday together? Are your ears burning, Belinda?”

“I suppose they should be.” She smiled. “I know I ought to be worried about them, but not having my phone go off constantly is such a relief that I can’t work up any enthusiasm. You know, Grant, you’re probably right. Momma loves religious retreats. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she talked Randi into going to one with her.”

“Perhaps they’ll send you a postcard, dear,” Cordelia called over her shoulder as she left the hall.
 

In the Cemetery

“You don’t strike me as the sort who enjoys strolling through cemeteries, Belinda.” Grant opened the black wrought iron gate to the family plot and stood back. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you, sir.” Belinda stepped inside. After the detective left, she and Grant had indulged in Niko’s amazing gyros loaded with lamb, onions, and tomatoes drizzled with exquisite cucumber-yogurt sauce. She’d eaten too much and when she asked if Grant would like to take a constitutional with her he’d patted his stomach and readily agreed.
 

“I like cemeteries,” she said. “They’re very peaceful.”

“They don’t frighten you, then?”

“Of course not.” She laughed. They’d walked at least a quarter mile from the house, past the pools, the huge garage and the small orchards. The sprawling cemetery was shaded by huge old oaks and pines that grew between the tombs and monuments. Angels stood guard over several and one sprawled weeping on a marble bench surrounded by sweet violets that still bloomed in patches of shade. “She’s beautiful.” Belinda headed for the sculpture.
 

After a moment, her eyes turned to a small mausoleum behind the angel. “Henry Manning and Violet LeBlanc Manning,” she read as Grant joined her. “If I hadn’t heard so many stories, I’d be able to tell you who she is.”

“The silent-movie actress better known as the White Violet.” Grant didn’t need to look at the inscription. “She married Eric’s great-uncle Henry at the tender age of twenty-two. She was quite a sensation back then, a true celebrity - and all the rage at the parties she and Henry used to throw. But that changed when the talkies began taking over around 1929. She couldn’t make the transition.”

“Why? Was her voice terrible?”

“No, she stuttered badly. She took many lessons to cure it but none worked. She was only free of the problem when she sang, and her singing voice was quite beautiful. We have a few recordings.”

“I’d love to hear one.”

“Indeed you shall. She had turned to singing by the time she gave birth to Albert - who would become Eric’s uncle - but she’d always been given to depression and hysteria, and it only became worse at that point.”

“Was she bipolar?”

“I think that’s likely.”
 

“That’s so sad. I hope the baby didn’t suffer much for it.”

“I doubt it. By the time the child was three, Henry had to lock Violet away on the third floor. Doctors visited almost daily and she had a live-in nurse and a companion to look after her. By then, she was mad and couldn’t be trusted with her own child.”

“That’s heartbreaking.”

“Yes, but I’m sure Albert wanted for nothing.”

“Did she ever recover?”

“No. She took her own life in 1938.”

“And she walks the third floor of the west wing.”

“Yes, so it’s said.”

“Grant …”
 

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

“Go ahead. This is a good place to chat.”

“Okay, well… I heard a real peacock’s cry while we were picnicking last Sunday. It’s absolutely not what I heard in the pool house that first morning I went swimming. What I heard in the pool house was a human scream. Do you think it might have been Violet’s?”

“As I told you before, I believe the scream may be a ghostly echo left over from Violet’s era, but I doubt that it’s her.”

“Why do you think it’s not her, but from her era?”

“The sound has been reported since the early 1930s and Violet reported hearing it herself on at least one occasion. I’m inclined to think it may be one of several women who died in that pool. Henry Manning’s parties rivaled Hearst’s for decadence and debauchery.” He rubbed his chin. “Though it may be her scream; it’s not unknown to see or hear your own ghost in a place you frequent. I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if she’d had hysterics in front of their guests at one time or another - that was in her nature.” He paused. “Belinda, listen to me. What you heard was only a scream, not a portent. Nor is it a spirit, but just a sound, a recording if you will, that plays back now and again. Don’t let it worry you.”

Belinda nodded and they moved deeper into the cemetery, Grant telling her about the generations of Mannings buried there along with many servants and other locals who had depended on the family over the centuries. They passed another stone mausoleum and her eyes fell on a clutch of life-size statues of nymphs dancing around a satyr by a graceful fountain. Her breath caught and her vision reeled.

“Belinda?” Grant touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’d nearly put it out of my mind.”

“What?”

“Last night.” She paused, feeling foolish. “Something …”

“The earthquakes? Surely you’re used to those? They didn’t even make the local news this morning.”

“Oh, no, not the quakes, though that’s what woke me up, I think.” She shook her head. “I must have been hallucinating. I went to the window and thought I saw the statues in the garden moving.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What precisely did you see?”

“They looked like they were … dancing.” She hesitated. “And, uh, well, I thought they were having an orgy.”

Grant’s intensity surprised her. “Did you see anyone else out there?”
 

“What? No. Not down there, anyway.”

“Belinda, what do you mean?”

“I saw Thomas Manning’s ghost in my room right after the statues uh, did their thing ... He spoke to me.”

“Come.” Grant led her to a shady marble bench. “Tell me everything. What did Thomas say?”

“He asked for my help.” She held Grant’s gaze, the same terror she’d felt the previous night overtaking her once more. “I must be going crazy.”

Grant took her hand. “You’re not losing your mind, Belinda, I guarantee it. This is a house that holds many mysteries, most of which go unnoticed. But you, dearheart, appear to be a sensitive. You’re picking up on things that even I haven’t witnessed and I’m no slouch in that department, myself.”
 

The gentleness in his smile nearly brought her to tears. “But it’s such nonsense. I must be imagining most of it.”

“I assure you, you’re not. The things you’ve told me are accurate. You’ve probably noticed that I’m something of an expert on the Manning family history. I believe you. Now tell me what Thomas said.”

“He said two things.” She felt ridiculous. “First he said the moving statues were meant to frighten me. He said it was witchcraft.”

Grant nodded. “He spoke the truth.”

“You know about that?”

“I know enough to know you weren’t dreaming. Witchcraft and Ravencrest are on intimate terms - but we’ll talk more about that later, off the property. What did Thomas ask you to help him with?”

“He asked me to rescue Prudence.” Belinda looked down at her hands.

“Interesting. He knows you were able to communicate with her when you were trapped in the east wing.” He paused. “I wonder why
he
came to you. I would’ve expected Alice to ask for your help.”

“Because Prudence is his daughter.”

“He told you that?”

Belinda nodded.

Grant’s eyes went far away. “In Bran Lanval’s journals, he stated that he suspected as much. But there’s never been proof.” He shook his head. “I didn’t believe it myself.”

“You’ve mentioned Bran Lanval before, but he isn’t your ancestor?”

“Not my blood ancestor, but my spiritual one. Bran Lanval was a Knight of the Order of the Mandrake. He was a physician and herbalist, a scholar who studied witchcraft and other dark - and light - arts. He, like his predecessors - also my spiritual forefathers - has always been with the Mannings. We are their protectors.”

“You’re a knight?”

“Of the Order of the Mandrake. That has nothing to do with swords and armor, I assure you.” He smiled. “It’s a secret society and it’s not something I share casually.”

“I’ll never say a word.”

“I know.”

“Does Eric know?”

“Yes, but like most of his ancestors, he doesn’t want details. He simply accepts that my advice, which is sometimes rather outrageous, ought to be followed.”

“The persimmon tree,” Belinda said.

Grant’s eyebrow shot up. “What about it?”

“Eric told me that he was going to tear it out after his uncle died, but you advised against it even though its fruit is horrible.”

Grant chuckled. “He has a gift for understatement. It tastes like it was grown in the most sulfurous pit of Hell.”

“Actually, I think that’s exactly what he said.” Belinda smiled. “And that it bears fruit out of season and is very old. Why did you tell him not to cut it down?”

“We call it the ‘family tree.’ There’s a curse on it, you see.” He looked sheepish. “It’s probably nonsense, of course, but we’d rather not take the risk.”
 

“A curse?”

Grant watched her a long moment then glanced toward the house as if afraid of being overheard. “The story goes that when the tree was just a sapling in the early nineteenth century, a witch cursed it. As long as the tree lives, so will the Manning clan. The tree is said to be immortal unless it is cut down - and if it is, the family will die quickly. And most horribly.”

“I noticed the tree this morning. It seems bigger. There’s so much more fruit on it than I thought. Suddenly, it looks so … alive. How is that possible?”

“I’m impressed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that you noticed. Few people, even Eric himself, have ever commented.”

“I’m not following.”

“The tree is nourished by more than water, earth, and sunlight. The sudden lushness has to do with the quakes and the dancing statues. It’s all connected.”
 

“By witchcraft,” Belinda said.

He nodded, holding her gaze. “Somebody’s been tinkering with Mother Nature. That’s never a good idea.”

“Who?”

Grant seemed to be debating on his answer. “We’ll talk more later. We need to get back - my duties await.”
 

Belinda tried to hide her disappointment. “Perhaps-”

“Of course I will tell you more. When we go to lunch again. And we must talk about Thomas and Prudence soon.” He rose and extended his hand. “Inside the cemetery gates is hallowed ground and it’s probably safe to chat here - but I’d feel better going to town where I know she can’t hear us.”

“Cordelia is a witch.”

“Yes. She’s always the witch.”

“What do you mean?”
 

“Ravencrest reveals its stories in its own good time.” He opened the gate and firmly latched it after they left the burial ground.
 

Beyond the Door

Darkness and tragedy first laid claim to the east wing of Ravencrest in 1810 when Edward Manning’s second wife, Rebecca Dane, was found murdered in her art studio on the third floor. Her deep burgundy gown at first hid the blood from her husband’s view, and upon entering the studio, the fool thought she had fainted and had run to help her.
 

Then he saw she had no head.
 

Edward and his son, Parnell, searched in vain for Rebecca’s head and for her murderer. They questioned the servants and tenant farmers and went down into the tiny outpost of Madera del Diablo, or Devil’s Wood, as English-speaking settlers called it. They even searched the nearest seaports, including the one where Chloe Harker had disembarked.

Chloe had only recently arrived in Alta California, making the long journey from London across the Atlantic, around Cape Horn, and up the Pacific coast, following rumors of the grand mansion. Ravencrest Manor had been imported from England and rebuilt by the Baronet Edward Manning and his son. According to the stories, the mansion stood on a hill not far from the ocean some distance north of La Purisima Concepción, one of the missions so recently built by the Spanish priest, Junipero Serra.
 

Chloe Harker, bearing a falsified letter from her father, Lord Harker of Woodley Glen, waited until after Rebecca Manning’s funeral to arrive on Edward’s doorstep, letter of introduction in hand.
 

Chloe claimed to have been sent for by Lady Manning to serve as her companion and secretary. Edward did not question her claims but told her she was no longer needed and invited her to stay at Ravencrest until she secured her passage home.