Wicked (28 page)

With that thought, she leaped to her feet. Her plan to search the cartons here for the mummy of Hethre now seemed insanely dangerous; she had to get out. Down here, in the dark, in the very bowels of the castle, she was trapped and in tremendous peril.

She threw the ancient linen shroud far from her, forcing herself to run up the stairs with a modicum of control, lest she lose her footing and come flying back down.

Someone had tried to kill her, someone who knew about Brian Stirling’s crypts, the office, the cartons. And whatever else went on down here!

She had to get out, and quickly. Then the truth could be discovered. Yet at the top of the stairs, she found that the door was locked, bolted from the outside.

Again, panic filled her. Did she dare bang on it? With all the other excitement going on at the castle entry, would she be heard? And by anyone other than whoever had cast her down here?

She backed away from the door and returned to the office and storage area, looking desperately around for an escape—and a weapon. She flew to the desk where the single lamp burned and quickly rifled through the drawers. Nothing! Unless she could protect herself from a cunning killer with a pen!

She turned around to look at the room, praying for calm and an objective eye. The iron doors to the crypts were ajar, she noticed. Walking toward them, she saw that there was plenty of room for a body to slip through. It was dark beyond.

She went for the lamp on the desk, then moved into the vault area, listening warily for the arrival of anyone at the chapel door. She walked down the length of the tombs. It was cold here, very cold. Despite her firm hold on logic, the dank darkness seemed to slip beneath her skin. These weren’t the ancient mummies of a different society, or a world so long gone that it was difficult to really feel the touch of the bygone lives.

Here the dead were Brian Stirling’s family, knights, lords and ladies of old.

“Lady Eleanora, wife of James, Fifth Earl of Carlyle,” she murmured aloud, raising the lamp.

A squealing sound nearly caused her to drop it. She spun around, her flesh crawling. To her horror, she saw a bat slamming against stone, trying to find a perch. A bat!

But if a bat was in here, then…there was another way out.

She held the lamp high, looking at the tombs that lined the wall. Then, setting the lamp down, she began to press against the stone slabs that closed each burial in. Time was ticking, she knew. Was she missed?
Were the whisperers waiting for just the right moment to return, to finish what they had started?

She worked in a fever, pressing, pushing, shoving, tapping. Then she saw the fissure, small, barely ajar. But it wasn’t right, wasn’t flush with the others. There was a name on the stone, but it gave no date of birth. It said nothing except Sarah.

She pressed against the stone. And there it was, that noise she had heard time and time again. A scraping sound, stone against stone.

Swallowing hard, she pushed with greater force. The stone pushed backward and she stared into a gaping hole of darkness. Hesitantly, she grabbed the lamp. She set it into the hole, then hoisted herself up. It was difficult going, crawling along, moving the lamp, trying to see what lay ahead. And the space was suffocating. She had to steady herself against the walls, and try to maintain some sense of distance.

She hesitated, inhaling deeply, panic setting in as she felt the cramped darkness and the poor air all around her. She realized then that she really was trapped if someone came in from…from where? She didn’t know where the passage led. The lamp would not offer a good enough view.

She forced herself to keep crawling, then realized that she was moving at an angle. Not downward, upward. She
paused, fighting the dizziness caused by the cramped quarters and the lack of air. She moved the lamp, then steadied herself with a hand against the wall to her left. It gave way, crumbling. And she could see light at the end of the shaft now uncovered.

She blew out the lamp and began to crawl in that direction. Something covered the light, but still it was there. She kept moving, seeing an end in sight now, eager for air, for freedom from the tight wall of stone that had done no more than allow her to creep and crawl.

The light became brighter. She came to the end of the corridor. There was light, yes, but something barred an exit here. She pushed against it hard. Bit by bit, it gave. Desperate then, she managed to turn around in the shaft, to position herself and shove with all her might with her feet. She heard a groaning sound, a scraping.

The thing budged, barely. She pushed harder and harder. There was an inch, then another inch. Finally, there was room for her to slither out. She squeezed through the small opening she had created.

Then she looked around, with horror, realizing where she was.

B
RIAN WASN
’
T SURPRISED
that Shelby’s announcement had created such an uproar. But as the news was absorbed and he vowed that the police would find out the truth about old crimes and new, the uproar died down. Now people were anxious to leave.

It was then that he realized he had not seen Camille. Tristan was standing at the entry, blankly watching the carriages as they left.

“Where is Camille?” he asked.

“What? I don’t know. Dear God! I have to find her. This is going to be terribly upsetting to her. She worked with
Sir John day in, day out. This is terrible!” He lowered his voice. “The man in the square. Now Sir John. I have to find Camille!”

“Try her room, and I’ll search this level,” Brian said.

Tristan headed for the stairs. Brian strode swiftly back through the ballroom, but when he didn’t see her, he started to turn. He hesitated, then headed for the chapel and opened the door to the curving stairway that led down to the dark crypts.

Striding back through to the ballroom, he snatched up one of the elegant candles from the dining table and hurried back, slowly descending the stairs, aware that a trap might await him. When he reached the office area, there was no one, but cartons had been moved about. Just slightly. By lowering his candle, he could see that dust marks on the floor were slightly off from the cartons. And there was a tattered, dust-covered linen shroud thrown on the floor.

He straightened, looking toward the great iron doors to the crypt itself. They were opened enough for a body to slip through. He entered the crypts. What he had looked for during a solid year was now boldly visible. One of the great stone slabs that covered every sarcophagus was open. It had been cleverly attached on hinges, the hardware apparently several hundred years old, yet as basic and sound as any that might have been made in their great age of industry.

There was no grave behind the stone, only a passage. He crawled into it. The going was rough, tight, and carrying the candle was difficult. Ventilation was almost nonexistent. The candle, with no oxygen to feed upon, soon went out. Pitch darkness seemed to swim before his eyes. Then…a pale and distant light.

He followed it, dread beginning to fill him as he did so. At the end of the passage, he was blocked. There was a small opening, but it was not large enough for him to escape.
Straining, he shoved at the object that blocked him, knowing exactly what it was and damning himself a thousand times over.

How had he not known?

C
AMILLE TOOK A DEEP BREATH.
She looked around. Then she fled.

Flying down the stairs, she heard voices. They were coming from the ballroom. She inched that way, but stopped, looking in, a fever in her heart. She no longer knew who to trust. Tristan? But Tristan wasn’t in the ballroom. Nor was Ralph. She peeked in, and saw that Hunter and Evelyn Prior were there alone. Whispering.

“And now the announcement that Sir John is dead! Without the police even giving out the how and why,” Hunter was saying.

Sir John…dead!

The horror of it struck her. No! She nearly cried out in anguish, but clapped a hand against her mouth. Sir John dead…

Hunter had been with him at the museum, when he’d supposedly struck his head on the carton lid. And old Arboc had been there, as well. Oh, God!

“Yes, well, you know what it all means?” Evelyn said. Their heads were bowed; they were close to one another. She said something else, something that Camille couldn’t hear. Then she looked up suddenly, as if sensing that they were being watched.

Camille backed away from the door. She couldn’t race back up the stairs, and she couldn’t trust either of the pair in the ballroom at the moment. There seemed only one thing to do.

She ran out the front door. She could see a carriage just crossing the drawbridge to the forested property that comprised
so much of the estate. Picking up her skirts, she ran. Her breathing was labored; she was in pain in a million places. Her heart thundered but she ran as fast as she could. Still, the carriage was moving far more quickly. She slowed, desperately gasping for breath.

Then she heard the snap of a twig behind her. She jerked around. No one was to be seen. But there, back by the courtyard entrance to the castle, there was someone. Someone who had seen her. Someone who was coming after her.

In sheer terror, she bolted into the woods.

B
RIAN STEPPED OUT
of the passage into his own room. His massive wardrobe, in place since the 1600s, had been the heavy object to block the small, square opening to the tunnel.

His heart thundered. Only one person could have slipped through so small a space from the tunnel. Camille! So what in God’s name would she be thinking now? And had she heard the announcement about Sir John? Where the hell was she?

He tore out of his room and down the stairs. The entry was empty, no sign of anyone. A few carriages remained across the courtyard, their drivers most probably sleeping. Then, looking across the locked drawbridge, he saw a figure, dark in the night, running.

His heart sank. Camille! She was fleeing, terrified.
And terrified of him!

She’d be ready to throw herself into the arms of anyone she knew and trusted. She was running into the woods. And into danger. Someone was a killer, and that killer could be anywhere.

As Brian started after her, he saw another figure emerge from the woods. Someone who was now chasing Camille….

A
S SHE RAN,
C
AMILLE
realized that Tristan and Ralph were back at the castle—in danger. But she didn’t dare go back! She had to elude whoever was following her! She couldn’t help those she loved if she was dead herself!

Terror threatened to close her throat, to choke her. Brian was Arboc, and Arboc had been at the museum that day when Sir John had been injured. He had not returned…. He could well have discovered that Sir John was not dead and gone to his flat. But why?

Because they all had to pay the price. No! Brian was not a murderer. He was just determined to solve the riddle. She so desperately wanted to believe in him! But he had lied and worn that mask over and over again, in so many ways! The passage from the crypts led to his bedroom!

A cry sounded in the woods. Her heart thundered to a stop. He was calling out to her, trying to find her. She should stop, go to him. He wouldn’t dare dispose of her then and there, in his own woods!

But she knew she couldn’t talk to him. If he were to do no more than touch her, she was afraid that she would forget all logic.

She heard her name shouted again. It was Hunter’s voice, she thought. She stopped for a moment, holding on to a tree trunk. Hunter! But Hunter had been whispering with Evelyn in the ballroom. And there had been someone whispering below in the crypts, whispering that she knew too much!

The wolves howled. She ran again, spurred on by plaintive cries to the moon.

B
RIAN KNEW
the forest trails. Camille did not.

He burst into the area where he had seen her head, and even in the moonlight, her flight had been so desperate and thrashing that he could easily follow her trail. But as he rushed at her, he was nearly flung back, the tie at the back
of his mask catching on a dangling branch. Swearing, he ripped the thing from his head and went on.

He heard the cry of the wolves, and knew that they were near. He had encouraged the creatures to live in these woods; they had been part of his life as a bitter, monstrous recluse. The wolves were actually afraid of people. They wouldn’t hurt Camille; they wouldn’t come near her. They would run from the sounds of footsteps in the forest.

“Camille!”

There she was, at last, before him. She spun and faced him, and the way that she looked at him made his heart sink. He stopped, not coming closer.

“Camille! Camille, please, for the love of God, come with me. Come with me now.” He spoke softly, reaching out to her.

They were both aware of the snap of branches just a few feet away, in the opposite direction. Hunter stepped into the clearing.

“Camille, thank God!” He strode for her instantly, and Brian, his voice rich with fury, snapped out a fierce warning.

“Touch her and you’re a dead man.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes at him, all pretense of friendship, courtesy and civility gone. He turned to Camille. “He’s going to kill you, Camille.”

Brian shook his head, his tone and posture pure steel. “Never!”

Hunter cast him a scathing and wary gaze. “You know that one of us is a murderer,” he said to Camille. “For the love of God! Camille, the man is a monster and it’s been proven. Carefully, quickly, come to me.”

And Camille, her hair a tangle around her shoulders, her beautiful gown torn and dirtied, her face smudged, her eyes brilliant in the moonlight, looked from one to the other, torn.

He thought that she was about to go to Hunter! His muscles constricted painfully. She didn’t know who to trust.

“Think carefully, my love,” he told her. “Think of all that you have seen, learned and felt. Think back, Camille, and ask yourself, which man here is the monster?”

“I
DON
’
T TRUST EITHER OF YOU
!” she cried.

Hunter took a step toward her, taking her by the arm, too roughly. “Camille, look at him! There’s nothing wrong with his face. He’s been wearing a mask just to play at lies and charades. He’s obviously a madman!”

Brian strode toward him and wrenched him away from Camille, flinging him around. Hunter took a swing at him. There was no mocking the man’s ability. He was muscled and strong, had fought with the Queen’s troops and traveled far and wide, learning to defend himself. But he swung too quickly and too wildly. Brian avoided the blow, ducking below it. When he straightened, Hunter was already preparing to swing again. Brian caught him with an upper jab to the lower jaw just before Hunter’s blow flailed against his shoulder. But he staggered back, and as he did, Brian tackled him.

“You’re trying to kill us all!” Hunter roared.

“You bastard! All I want is the truth.”

“Sir John is dead!” Hunter roared.

“I didn’t kill him,” Brian returned. “Good God, you might well have—”

“You wretch! I didn’t kill him!” Hunter tried an upswing, but Brian had him down, his fingers around his throat then.

“Stop it!”

He heard the cry as Camille’s fingers tore into his hair. “Stop it, you’re going to kill him!”

He fought to regain his temper, and eased his hold on Hunter. He came to his feet just as a light came bursting into the forest. Shelby had arrived on horseback.

“Lord Stirling!” he cried.

Hunter rose on his own, attempting to dust himself off. Another horse arrived right behind Shelby. Tristan and Ralph were with him.

“Camille!” Tristan was off his horse in a flash, hurrying to Camille’s side, taking her into his arms.

For a moment, Shelby remained upon his mount, as did Ralph. Hunter and Brian glared at one another, and Tristan looked at them both as if they were tigers in a zoo.

Tristan frowned at Brian. “There’s nothing wrong with your face!”

“Precisely!” Hunter declared. “But there’s everything wrong with his blackened soul!”

Camille gently disentangled herself from her guardian’s hold, smoothing back her hair as if that could change the fact that she was covered in white chalky dust, twigs and dirt. “How did Sir John die?” she demanded icily.

They were all silent for a minute. Shelby answered her at last.

“A bite.”

“By an asp?” she inquired incredulously.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“No one knows,” Brian said. “At least, as yet they don’t know. The asp was in his flat. Apparently, he knew the creature was in there with him. He shot and killed it, but not before it got him.”

She walked up to Brian, furiously slamming a hand against his chest, eyes blazing. “You were in there! You
were in the museum with him on Saturday. As
Arboc!
And what a group of fools we were! None of us realized it!”

“I was in early. I never saw Sir John,” Brian told her.

“Why?” she demanded.

“To take a look at the terrarium and find out if anyone had tampered with it.” He hesitated. “Besides, Arboc was hired as manual labor. I had to put in a few hours cleaning and sweeping the debris from the night before.”

“You’ve been lying to me!” she told him.

“He lies every step of the way,” Hunter agreed.

But Brian kept his eyes locked on Camille’s. “No, I never lied to you. I didn’t tell you certain things because I had to be sure that I could trust you, that you really weren’t working with any of these men.”

“Working with us!” Hunter repeated. “At what?”

Brian turned to him at last. “At finding whatever it was that my parents were killed for. You see, there is a medieval entrance to the castle and tunnels that run from the crypts to that secret entrance beyond. I believe my father finally figured out the how and where of the entrance and the layout of the tunnels before he died. Someone else knows and has been breaking in.”

He couldn’t help it; he was moving toward Hunter again. “I can imagine what happened in Egypt, and when I do, I feel ill all over again. The killer threatened my mother first, until my father told him everything that he could. Crates had already been shipped. There were probably things he couldn’t answer. But he must have told the killer—or killers—just where he believed the outer, secret entrance to the tunnels, and thus the crypts, to be. If the crates were here, at the estate, and someone was armed with that information, they could conceivably slip in without anyone being aware. My father would have said or done anything to save my mother. So he talked, and he was
good. He probably talked a very long time while praying for time, desperate to save her life. He must have known that no matter what he said, the killers didn’t intend for either of them to live. But he played for time, praying help would come before—”

Brian had to pause, the pain was overwhelming. Then he continued, “They didn’t die easily. They were tortured first. The autopsy done here clearly shows the bruises on my mother’s arms. No chances were taken. They were bitten time and time again. Do I want vengeance? Dear God, yes! Do I have any desire to kill randomly? No, you fool! I want the truth. I want a trial, and I want the killers to know every day before their executions that they are going to die, just as my father surely knew that the help he so desperately needed wasn’t coming.”

Silence followed. Then Hunter shook his head. “Brian, what you’re saying…it can’t be true.”

“Come study the autopsy notes, Hunter,” he said. “I have a strange feeling that Sir John knew. I don’t know exactly what he suspected, but there was something. And that’s why he’s dead now, too.”

The forlorn cry of a wolf rose to the heavens just then.

“We should go back to the castle,” Tristan said, suddenly the man of reason. “There’s nothing to be done out here, in the woods.”

Brian was suddenly afraid that Camille would refuse to go. That she would insist it was time that she, Tristan and Ralph returned to their own humble little home—far away from all of this. But she didn’t.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s time to return.” And she walked straight to Ralph, who still sat on his horse. “A hand, Ralph? I am really weary, with no desire to walk back.”

Ralph leaned down, catching her arm, helping her to a
sidesaddle position before him. Tristan went back for his own mount.

Brian realized ruefully that he might well be the Earl of Carlyle, but, apparently, everyone had decided that he and Hunter could just walk themselves back. And if they decided to tear into one another again in the process, well then, they could beat one another to pieces, if they so chose.

Brian turned and started back for the castle. Hunter fell into step with him.

“Secret entrance, did you say?”

“My father believed, from family diaries, that a tunnel had been dug—an ancestor was a staunch supporter of Charles I. I believe that messages, and people, came and went through the tunnel at that time. In the years that followed, there was no need. There was no more mention of it after the days of Anne Stuart, and the 1750 Act of Union with the Scots. The story fascinated him. He talked about it now and then. His passion was ancient Egypt, but he was also a huge believer that there was much for us to discover here at home.” He was quiet for a moment. “Had he only stayed here.”

They were both long legged and walked quickly. They crossed the drawbridge and approached the castle through the courtyard.

Hunter indicated the carriage, sitting at the far side. “I’ll take my leave. I—really thought that you intended harm to Camille,” he said. It wasn’t exactly an apology. “I was a fool, I guess. The minute I met her…well, she wasn’t just beautiful, but so incredibly intelligent and sure of herself. She would even flirt a bit and tease, but she had no intention of falling into any kind of an affair. I thought that I must marry above myself, being a lowly sir! But then you made your announcement, and I realized that I was a true
horse’s ass! Oh, she knew I was enchanted. But I thought that I was too good to offer more, since her background…Ah, well, I am the loser. But I will remain her most ardent defender! And, Lord Stirling, if you are not serious in your intentions, if you…well, if you do harm to her in any way, I swear, you will know how fervent an enemy I can be!”

Brian was startled by Hunter’s sudden and truly passionate declaration.

“You see, I have sense now,” Hunter added. “I would marry her. And cherish her the rest of my life.”

Was it all an act? Brian wondered. So much of Hunter was an act. Maybe they all put on acts. But was this a true declaration? Or a scene calculatingly played out now, so that suspicion would be averted from him in all ways?

“You may rest assured, Hunter, that I would not allow Camille to be hurt in any way. And if I discovered that someone did intend her harm, I’d kill him on the spot and risk an assignation with the hangman.”

Their eyes held as a breeze picked up in the courtyard.

“Well, then, where do we go from here? It appears that the gloves are off, that we all suspect one another of all manner of things. What do we do? There must be some answers, some reckoning. Sir John is dead,” Hunter said. “And God help us all, the museum is an incredibly fine institution. We’ll be bringing it down along with ourselves if we don’t find a way out of the insanity!”

“Insanity? Yes and no. Someone is selling treasures out of the country. Insane? Not when there’s a fortune to be made.”

“Lacroisse! You suspect Lacroisse of buying from…who?”

“If I knew, we’d know who was guilty,” Brian said, watching him intently.

“In a thousand years, I’d have done no harm to your mother!” Hunter told him. He shook his head.

“And I would not blindly go about murdering people!” Brian countered. “I believe that the police will begin questioning all of us.”

“And if we’re lucky, they’ll find the answers,” Hunter said.

“No. If the killers are lucky, the police will find the answers. Because if I discover the truth first…well, I’m afraid that I will remember exactly how my parents died. Good night, then, Hunter,” Brian said, and he walked wearily into the castle.

T
RISTAN WAS MARKEDLY UPSET,
suggesting that they leave the castle as they rode.

“We can’t do that,” Camille told him.

“Why?”

“The answers are here.”

“But we’re in danger! People are dying,” Ralph said.

She slid down the horse as they reached the courtyard and the great entry to the castle. “Ralph, if you’re worried, you must go on home.”

“What?” Ralph demanded.

“Camille, Ralph is making sense,” Tristan said. “Alex bitten, and now Sir John dead! I’m not worried for Ralph and meself, we’ve lived good lives. But Camille, lass…dear God! I know you’re engaged to an
earl,
but child, your life is worth more than any title!”

“Tristan, this has nothing to do with a title! Tonight there have been answers. And we are nearly to the end of it. We’re not leaving,” she said firmly. “Well, I’m not leaving. Perhaps the two of you should go—”

“And leave you!” he said with horror.

“I wouldn’t want either of you hurt,” she said softly.

“Camille—”

“Excuse me. I’m taking a bath,” she informed him. And
she left them there. She walked back into the house, ignoring Evelyn, who was worriedly pacing the entry.

“Camille!” Evelyn said, horrified at her appearance. “What’s happened? Where is Lord Stirling…Hunter? He said he saw you run out of the house. Into the woods!”

“Yes, I ran into the woods. Brian and Tristan should be back any minute. Good night, now. I’m going to my room.”

“Camille!” the woman called after her, her voice sounding frantic.

“Good night!” Camille repeated.

Upstairs, she locked the door and began peeling off her filthy clothing. She ran water in the bath, grateful for the great iron tub and the fire heater beneath it. It didn’t do to sit too long—one could scorch one’s self in certain places—but the hot water was such a luxury!

Unfortunately, she needed more time for it to really heat, and she couldn’t bear the dirt and dust upon her another minute. She sank into the water, knowing that he would come. And, of course, he did.

She didn’t hear him enter the room, until he was standing in the entry to the bath, leaning against the frame, watching her.

“I had thought you’d be gone. That you’d have run far away,” he said softly. “I thought that you’d still be angry.”

She studiously scrubbed an elbow. “I am furious. I am beyond furious. And my heart is bleeding for Sir John. My little corner of the world is a disaster. And you are a monster!”

“But you’re still here.”

She looked over at him. His features were tense, his eyes dark.

“I am a part of the department,” she said. “Sir John is dead, and that is quite personal, Lord Stirling. In truth, though I lack the men’s college degrees and experience in
the field, I am a scholar, though I’ve not thought so all these years.”

“Ah.”

She dropped the soap and cloth and stood, dripping, reaching for her towel. She approached him, eyes narrowed. “You…cad!” she told him, slamming against his chest as she had earlier. “You had to know that your wardrobe hid a tunnel!”

“I didn’t,” he swore, catching her wrists. “I swear to you, I knew nothing about it until tonight!”

She realized it was unlikely that he had. She had broken through a decaying wall to take the path she had. She looked up at him, knowing her eyes showed fear. “That wasn’t the only tunnel. There was another passageway. Actually I broke into that route by accident. Brian, someone could get in—and now get up here!”

He shook his head reassuringly. “No. No more.”

“But—”

“Shelby and Corwin are in the crypts now, sealing the tunnel with bricks and mortar.”

She searched his eyes and sighed. “So…when you’ve heard that noise, someone has been in the crypts.”

“I believe so. Definitely tonight.” He said sternly, “What were you doing down there tonight? You little fool! With a household like that, you went down those stairs?”