Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil (Aunt Dimity Mystery) (5 page)

“I hate hospitals.” I took a steadying breath and sat up straight. “There. Crisis passed. Please don’t mention it to the Hollanders. I hate being treated like an invalid.”

“You may be injured,” Guy pointed out.

“I’m just hungry,” I insisted, and moved on to another topic. “Who was the woman who answered the door?”

“Mrs. Hatch,” Guy replied, “the housekeeper. Her husband is the handyman cum butler.”

I nodded absently, too amazed by my surroundings to pay strict attention to his words. The entrance hall was magnificently medieval.

The tessellated floor reflected gilded coats of arms set into the coved ceiling. Two burnished suits of armor guarded the mahogany staircase that swept upward to a balustraded landing. Stag’s horns, ram’s skulls, and a miscellany of mock-medieval weaponry hung from the paneled walls, and a row of square-backed Jacobean chairs sat to one side of a massive fireplace.

Three tapestry-draped doors led to rooms beyond
the hall. Light was provided by an extraordinary brass-and-stag’s-horn chandelier, and an enormous bronze gong in a wooden frame stood beside the door opposite the hearth.

I’d scarcely had time to absorb half of the details when our hosts appeared, descending the staircase, looking every bit as eccentric as their home.

Jared Hollander was the very picture of a proper Victorian patriarch—plump, prosperous, and a good twenty years older than his new wife. He wore a voluminous vintage dressing gown in quilted black silk with a bloodred ascot knotted at his throat. His graying hair was slicked back with a powerfully perfumed pomade, and the waxed tips of his walrus mustache looked positively lethal.

Nicole Hollander was dressed all in white, her slight frame overwhelmed by a frilled and beribboned dressing gown. She had luminous dark eyes, and her raven hair, bound in a knot on the top of her head, was so thick and luxurious that it seemed too heavy for her slender neck to bear. She trailed after her husband, clutching a fringed shawl of embroidered silk around her narrow shoulders, and hovered, meek as a mouse, at his elbow while he did most of the talking.

“Damn the woman,” Jared boomed, as he crossed the hall to greet us. “I instructed Mrs. Hatch to take you through to the drawing room.” He bowed ceremoniously. “I do apologize, Mrs. Willis. A drafty entrance hall is hardly the place for you, after your ordeal.”

I rose, shrugged off Guy’s supporting arm, and explained that Willis was my husband’s name. “My name’s Lori
Shepherd, but please, call me Lori. And Mrs. Hatch didn’t leave us here on purpose. I felt a little lightheaded—”

“Ms. Shepherd nearly fainted,” Guy interrupted. “I hope you’ve contacted Dr. MacEwan.”

“Thank you so much for your valuable advice, Captain,” Jared said tartly, then turned to me. “I’ve rung the local quack. He’ll be round later this morning.”

“Thanks,” I said, and silently forgave Guy his treachery. Jared Hollander seemed to have a fairly testy temperament. I didn’t want Mrs. Hatch taking the blame for my dizzy spell.

“I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up,” Jared continued. “My wife and I would be delighted if you’d join us for breakfast.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, with utter sincerity. It had been a long time since Adam’s bowl of broth.

“Jared,” Nicole said timidly, “shouldn’t we…” Faint traces of pink stained her cheeks as she nodded shyly to Guy. “Shouldn’t we thank the captain for his help?”

“I don’t see why.” Jared acknowledged Guy’s presence with a cold stare. “It was his bungling that caused the mishap. It may interest you to know, sir, that Mrs. Willis’s husband is a noted solicitor.”

Guy ignored Jared’s comment and spoke to me. “Lori, about the investigation—if I might have a word…?”

“Certainly not.” Jared interposed himself between Guy and me. “I won’t have you badgering my guest so soon after her ordeal. If you must speak with her, you may make an appointment to do so later, when she’s had time to recover her wits.”

“How about this afternoon, Guy?” I slipped out of his
camouflage jacket, stepped around my host, and handed it over with an apologetic smile. “Say, three o’clock? My wits should be fully recovered by then.”

“Please, come for tea,” Nicole put in, as if to compensate for her husband’s bad manners.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hollander,” Guy said, his voice softening. “I shall.”

As Nicole emerged from Jared’s shadow, I saw that her eyes had a strained look about them, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. I also noted, with a flicker of interest, the way in which her gaze lingered on the captain’s broad back as he let himself out of the iron-banded door.

“Officious cad,” Jared muttered. “I hope your husband will take the army to task for its negligence, Mrs. Willis.”

“How did you hear about the accident?” I inquired.

“The captain posted men here, as part of the search,” Jared replied. “They passed his report on to me. As your host, I had a right to know what had happened to you.”

My heart went out to the poor soldiers who’d caved in to Jared’s pestering. Determined to show more backbone, I squared my shoulders and gave him my most intimidating stare. “I haven’t told my husband about the accident, Mr. Hollander, and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the explanations to me. I don’t want him worried unnecessarily.”

“Unnecessarily?” Jared began, but his wife put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Lori is our guest, dearest,” she reminded him. “We must abide by her wishes.”

“Of course,” Jared said stiffly. He paused to take in my bedraggled state. “A bath,” he pronounced. “A hot bath and a
change of clothing before breakfast, I think. My wife should have something that will fit you, Mrs. Willis. You’re both delicate.”

His choice of words floored me. I was a fairly small woman, but I was also as strong as an ox—no mother of twins could afford to be otherwise—and as tough as nails, as my recent five-mile forced march had demonstrated. No one had ever described me as delicate.

But, then, no one had ever called me “Mrs. Willis” more than once. Jared evidently lived as he dressed, by the rules of another century. In his Victorian mind, all women took their husbands’ names and were, by definition, delicate.

“Nicole, show Mrs. Willis to her room,” Jared said. “I wish to have a word with Mrs. Hatch.”

“Please, Lori, come with me.” Nicole led the way up the mahogany staircase, pausing on the landing to gaze worriedly at her husband as he bustled through a door at the rear of the entrance hall. When the door closed behind him, she sighed. “I do hope Jared will go easy on Mrs. Hatch. He means well, but he’s more forceful than he realizes, and if the Hatches desert us, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

“It must be hard to keep staff in such a remote location,” I said, stepping past my hostess.

“It’s nearly impossible,” Nicole admitted.

I’d taken the lead now, with Nicole a few steps behind. When we reached the second floor, I turned instinctively to the left, then came to a halt, feeling mildly confused.

“I seem to be getting ahead of myself,” I said, with a sheepish grin. “Am I going the right way?”

Nicole assured me that I was. “Our bedrooms are in the
west wing, the guest rooms are in the east. We’ve put you in the red room.”

I was a bit surprised to hear that the Hollanders had separate bedrooms, but I held my peace. The newlyweds’ sleeping arrangements were none of my business.

The corridor, with its lush crimson carpet and brightly striped wallpaper, was pure Victorian. Hanging lamps with frosted globes and faceted pendants illuminated the passage, and a series of sentimental landscapes hung above occasional tables littered with a wilderness of small, shiny ornaments.

“My husband collects Victoriana,” Nicole informed me. “That’s why we wanted Wyrdhurst. We hope to turn it into a showplace for his collection.”

“It’s big enough to be a museum,” I commented.

“Ninety-seven rooms,” Nicole confirmed. “My family has let the place many times over the years, but no one’s stayed for long. As you said, it’s a rather remote location, and the upkeep of so many rooms can be a bit daunting.”

“How do you manage?” I asked.

“A cleaning service comes up twice a month from Newcastle,” Nicole explained.

I gave her a sidelong glance. In my experience, it was de rigueur for a wealthy homeowner to contribute to the local economy by hiring local help. Importing workers from as far away as Newcastle was tantamount to snatching bread from the villagers’ tables.

“Weren’t there enough local women to tackle the job?” I inquired.

Nicole slowed her pace. “A few came, at first, but they soon left. They seemed…uncomfortable, working here.
There’s a silly rumor going about that the place is”—she hesitated—“haunted. But I believe that they left because Jared found their work unsatisfactory.”

It struck me that Jared’s disapproval might have sparked the rumor. If the women in Blackhope were as house-proud as the women in Finch, they wouldn’t have taken kindly to his criticism. They might have decided to repay his nitpicking by rekindling hoary tales about the Wyrdhurst ghost. It was just the sort of prank my own neighbors would pull, if I were ever so foolish as to offend them.

“Do you believe that Wyrdhurst is haunted?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” Nicole said, much too quickly. “Uncle Dickie says it’s absolute nonsense.”

“I’m sure he’s right,” I said.

“He’s such a dear,” Nicole went on, her face brightening. “He restored the fabric of the building, updated the wiring and the plumbing. He even furnished the lower rooms for us. The third story’s still unfinished, but I seldom go up there.” She shot a nervous glance at the ceiling, then pointed toward a door to our left.

“The bathroom,” she informed me. “And the red room—”

“—is next door,” I interrupted.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Lucky guess,” I replied. “If this were my house, I’d put my guests close to the bathroom.”

“That’s what Jared thought,” said Nicole. “I hope you like the red room. He selected it for you.”

She opened the next door to our left and stood back. I stepped past her, stopped dead on the threshold, and shuddered.

“Oh, Lori, you’ve taken a chill. Go sit by the fire while I
run your bath.” Nicole draped her gorgeous shawl around my grubby shoulders and left me standing mutely in the doorway.

I was glad of her absence. I needed a private moment to come to terms with the red room’s sheer awfulness.

I
t looked like a funeral parlor. Every ponderous piece of furniture was made of time-blackened oak or covered in bloodred fabric, and everywhere I looked, dead animals stared back at me. A stuffed ferret frolicked on the mantelpiece, a monkey crouched rigidly atop the wardrobe, and a flock of silent songbirds perched coyly in a glass dome on the dressing table. Reginald, I knew, would be appalled.

The fire crackling in the tiled hearth only made matters worse. The monkey’s shadow quivered ominously on the ceiling, the songbirds’ eyes glittered pitifully, and the ferret’s fur gleamed in a grotesque parody of good health. The furniture’s carved figures seemed to writhe in the firelight, and the crimson damask bedcover glistened like a spreading pool of blood. I could easily picture a hollow-cheeked cadaver lying
in state on the canopied four-poster. It was harder to imagine me lying there.

I forced myself to step into the room and stand before the fire. The heat was so oppressive, the room’s decor so claustrophobic, that a wave of nausea rocked me and I sank, wobbly-kneed, onto the red velvet fainting couch.

“Your bath is running.” Nicole bustled into the room and opened the wardrobe. “I’ve put some of my things in here for you—normal things, not vintage clothing. I wouldn’t dream of imposing Jared’s taste on you.”

“Thanks.” I put a hand to my damp forehead. “Ruffles don’t really suit me. It’s like spraying whipped cream on a horse.”

“Nonsense,” Nicole exclaimed. “You’ve a lovely figure.” She gazed at me expectantly. “Do you like your room?”

Nothing warms a mother’s heart more than being told she has a lovely figure. I carefully swallowed the absolute truth and replied with a close approximation. “It’s stunning. Were the stuffed animals always in it?”

“No,” Nicole said. “Jared brought them up from the study as a finishing touch. We think the room must have been used as a nursery at one time. It’s the only way we can explain the bars.” She crossed to the windows and pulled the heavy drapes aside, revealing a row of stout iron bars set four inches apart in the stone sill.

The barred windows and the lifeless animals suggested a zoo, but the words that came to my mind were:
a prison
. I must have spoken the words aloud, because Nicole shook her head.

“The dungeons are down below,” she told me. “Jared plans
to use them as an annex to the wine cellar, once we clear them of rubbish.”

“You have dungeons?” I said weakly.

“What would a castle be without a dungeon? My great-grandfather, Josiah Byrd, built Wyrdhurst, and he didn’t believe in half-measures.” Nicole peered past the bars. “We would have had a drawbridge and a moat if the workers hadn’t gone away to the war.”