Bonfire Night (5 page)

“Do you think they mean to drive us away? Perhaps they resent Londoners coming in, strangers who might upset the apple cart.”

“No, I think it likelier they mean to keep us intrigued.” He smiled again. “Your reputation undoubtedly precedes you.”

I bristled. “I am not
that
curious!”

“You are curious as any cat, my love, and if you don’t mind, I think I’ll nap a bit before luncheon.”

“Whatever for? Are you ailing?” I asked, a trifle anxiously. Brisbane had a robust sort of energy one usually associated with peasants or well-bred farm animals.

“No, but I know my wife. And she will not let me sleep tonight when there are ghosts afoot on All Hallow’s Eve,” he said, dropping a kiss to my nose. And of course he was right.

* * *

I myself took a long nap after luncheon. I had not planned it, but between the excellence—and generous portions—of the meal, and a library stocked with my favourite titles and an exceedingly comfortable sofa, I whiled away the afternoon in slumber, rousing only for teatime. Mrs. Smith kept the household running so smoothly I had no need to lift the smallest of fingers. It left me free to write letters and read and play with Little Jack, and by the time we had dined and prepared ourselves for the evening’s entertainments, I was rested and relaxed as I had seldom been.

“I could accustom myself quite easily to this life,” I mused as I descended the stairs, candle in hand. We had arranged to meet up after changing into our darkest clothes. We gathered in the hall, dousing our candles and putting out the fire so that only the light of a three days’ full moon provided us with any illumination. We sat in the darkness, straining our ears, and for the longest time all we heard was Plum’s occasional yawns. But at last, just as the clock on the stairs chimed midnight, it began.

First there came the clattering of chains and the moaning we had heard the previous night. We rose to follow the sound, but just as we reached the stairs, Portia grabbed at my sleeve.

“Look there!”

“Where? I can’t see where you’re pointing,” I reminded her.

She pushed me towards the window. “In the wood!”

We peered through the rippled old glass into the darkened wood. “Ghost lights!” I cried, and with the others hard upon my heels, I raced to the door, stumbling over furniture in the dark.

I wrenched open the door and we hurried across the garden, plunging into the Haunted Wood. The lights danced and bobbed, luring us on, but as soon as we entered the little copse, they vanished.

“Where did they go?” I demanded.

“I suspect they didn’t want to compete with that,” Brisbane said dryly. He pointed to the village road. Barrelling down at breakneck speed was a coach, all in black, the lanterns blazing with green light. It looked like something straight from hell, and as it tore past us, I noticed with a shudder that the coachman, sitting atop in perfect silence, had no face.

“Good God!” Plum exclaimed.

“It was a hood,” I said, suddenly understanding how it was done. “A black hood to mask his features and hide his face.”

“It was effective,” Portia said, her voice faint.

“And green glass in the lanterns,” Brisbane put in. “Nothing supernatural at all.”

“And the ghost lights in the copse?” she asked.

“Villagers with small lanterns. They would have blown them out as soon as we drew near. They know this wood. It is an easy thing for them to slip out with only the moon to guide them.”

“Diabolical,” Portia said, but this time there was a note of admiration in her voice. She clapped her hands. “What’s next?”

Brisbane considered. “I should think a large black dog—” he began, but before he could finish the sentence, a single note from a hunting horn split the night, and an enormous dog, black as a shadow, bounded past. “They haven’t missed a trick, have they?” he asked.

“Well, we haven’t visited the plague cottages,” I pointed out.

“And we shall not,” Portia said firmly. “I’ve had quite enough haunting for one night.”

But of course, that was not the end. We made our way back to the hall, where we sat through another two hours of wailing and rattling chains and lights bobbing about in the garden and the coach tearing down the village road until Brisbane ventured a thought.

“Do you suppose they’re waiting for us to go to bed to put an end to this?”

“Dear me,” I replied. “I hope not. How awkward of us.”

“I think Brisbane has a point,” Plum put in. “The last run of the coach seemed decidedly slower than the rest, and the wailing lady is quite hoarse now.”

“She does sound as if she could do with a bit of salt water to gargle,” I agreed.

We retired, and as soon as our doors were firmly barred, the haunting stopped. The ghostly lights disappeared from the wood, the coach rode no more, and the weeping lady gave up her moaning with something that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

Chapter Five

Curiously enough, the next five days were somehow idyllic. The weather was fair with crisp mornings and a bit of unexpected sunshine to warm the noon hour. We spent the days in playing with Little Jack and taking the children for walks into Narrow Wibberley, where they were much admired, and we spent freely to encourage goodwill.

But our smiles and our coins also bought us opportunities to investigate. Brisbane, taking a leisurely stroll about the village—which in itself would have alarmed the neighbourhood had they known that Brisbane never did anything entirely for leisure—discovered a black coach discreetly parked behind the smithy. The lanterns were fitted with green glass, and if that were not proof enough, a quick glance into the coach revealed a coachman’s livery of unrelieved black as well as a hood.

Likewise, on his visit to the pub, Plum made the acquaintance of an enormous black mastiff, clearly our spectral hound of death. Portia herself unearthed a cache of small, old-fashioned lanterns behind one of the plague cottages, while I met the postmistress’ son, a truly strapping lad who seemed to be suffering from a strained back, the result—or so he claimed—of a sporting injury. It was not difficult to imagine he might have sustained it instead in moving an enormous Tudor bed across our bedchamber, I reflected with a sympathetic smile.

The villagers were clearly behind our haunting, and to our amusement, they continued with them, doggedly rattling their chains and lighting their lanterns every night between midnight and two. We sat up and watched them, warming ourselves with an excellent supply of single malt provided by Mrs. Smith. It was merely the latest in a string of that lady’s successes. Every meal was a triumph, and no sooner did any of our party express a wish for a particular book or set of paints or bit of sheet music than she somehow produced it. I might have wondered if she practised witchcraft, so intuitive were her services, and we were deeply content as we played with the children on the lawn just after breakfast on Guy Fawkes Day.

The morning post had come, and Brisbane was perusing his letters while the nannies hovered just out of reach in case we had need of them. Mrs. Smith was bustling about with cushions and rugs to make certain we were warm enough, but the late-autumn sunshine was particularly brilliant that morning, and the babies gurgled happily as they played together.

Jane the Younger was in especially rare form as she shrieked at Little Jack for his stuffed rabbit.

“No, Jack,” Portia said patiently, “you must learn to share your toys.” She plucked the rabbit from his grasp and handed it to her offspring.

If she hoped to quiet the little beast, she was entirely disappointed. Jane the Younger crowed her triumph as Little Jack’s face darkened murderously. I retrieved the rabbit.

“No, Jane, you must learn to wait your turn,” I said, eyeing my sister sternly.

Before she could respond, Mrs. Smith appeared wreathed in smiles. “I do hope the fresh air gives you all an appetite. There’s roasted apples with fresh cream after luncheon, and I’ve plucked pheasants for tonight’s dinner in honour of the occasion.”

“The occasion?” Plum asked, rousing himself from a quick sketch of the manor, a streak of charcoal across one cheekbone giving him a dashing air.

“The occasion? Bless me, sir! It’s Bonfire Night. The lads will spend the day building the bonfire on the village green and come tonight they’ll light it up as grand as any bonfire you’ll see. The babes will long be abed, but the four grown folk will certainly want to see it. And you must not forget about Guy Fawkes’ ghost!”

Brisbane replaced a letter he had been reading in its envelope. “Three, I’m afraid, Mrs. Smith. I am to London on the afternoon train.”

I glanced at the letter. “Trouble, dearest?”

He gave me a significant look. “It’s from Monk. He’s learnt something about our friend in London.” I knew he meant Mr. Sanderson, the solicitor who had brought us the news about Thorncross, and before Brisbane said another word, I understood.

“He is not what he presented himself to be?” I asked carefully.

“He is not.”

“Oh, but you can’t go!” Mrs. Smith said, suddenly sounding rather frantic. “It’s Bonfire Night! You must stay or the house is forfeit.”

Brisbane slanted her a curious look. “So you know the terms of my inheritance?”

She smoothed her skirts in an attempt to gather her wits, no doubt. “Everyone does,” she said easily. “You’ll not want to forfeit such a lovely house, not when we’ve all gone to such pains to make it so comfortable,” she pleaded.

The babies began to squabble again and the nannies swooped in to pick them up and console their charges. I noticed Jane the Younger was once more in possession of the rabbit, but Morag soon put an end to that, removing it decisively with an expression of such ferocity that even Jane the Younger did not dare oppose her.

I turned my attention to Mrs. Smith. “I’m afraid if my husband says he must return to London, he must,” I told her, then looked to Brisbane. “But perhaps I should go with you?”

“No!” Mrs. Smith interjected.

We looked as one to her, our expressions varying only in degrees of surprise that the housekeeper should raise her voice so adamantly, but she did not temper her insistence. “You cannot go, my lady. Not you, as well. Wait until tomorrow, Mr. Brisbane,” she pleaded. “Just until tomorrow and you can all go.”

Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so important about tomorrow?”

“Nothing,” she said, twisting her hands, her expression one of frank desperation. Suddenly, a look of animal cunning came into her eyes. “But it would be very unkind to leave without making an effort to find what’s become of her ladyship’s maid.”

She flicked me a glance, and I looked around in astonishment. “My maid? Whatever do you mean? What’s happened to Liddell?”

“Only that she’s gone missing.” Her manner was smugly triumphant now as pandemonium broke out and the four of us began to question her at once. Finally, Brisbane raised a hand.

“Mrs. Smith, explain,” he ordered.

“Well,” she began slowly, gathering speed as she grew more confident, “she never came to breakfast this morning. After she dressed her ladyship,” she said with a nod to me, “she went for a walk and never came back. She could be anywhere. Why, she could be in the Haunted Wood with a broken leg or fallen down a well or—”

Brisbane held up a hand. “Yes, Mrs. Smith. There is no need for every ghoulish possibility. What has been done to recover her?”

She shrugged. “Well, that’s not for me to say, is it? She’s no housemaid, so she isn’t under my supervision. She’s her ladyship’s responsibility,” she added slyly.

“Oh, for the love of God,” I began, but Portia cut me off with a sharp hiss.

“You know Jane is speaking,” she said,
sotto voce
, but the damage had already been done.

“LOVE OF GOD,” crowed Jane the Younger.

Plum rolled his eyes. “Excellent work, Julia. You have lost a maid and corrupted the youth of the family in thirty seconds. I commend you.”

“Do shut up, Plum,” I said through gritted teeth.

“SHUT UP,” Jane the Younger screeched.

Portia swept inside with her daughter and the nanny while I sent Morag and Jack to join them. Brisbane and Plum organised a search party for Liddell from amongst the household staff. In a remarkably short time we had divided up and began to cover ground. Brisbane and Plum searched the copse, on the grounds that if she had fallen, she would need to be carried back and that task would fall more easily to one of the men. I volunteered to walk into Narrow Wibberley to ask if she had been seen. I passed the plague cottages, pausing to have a quick nose around for any sign of her. But the little dwellings were as sober and still as they had ever been, and I hurried on. I called in at the post office and the pub and the smithy, but no one had seen her. My last stop was the vicarage, where Mr. Belton kindly gave me a quick cup of tea and the promise to begin searching at once on his own. He did so with a smile behind his hand, and that, coupled with Mrs. Smith’s odd manner, persuaded me that somehow our village ghosts were behind this newest misadventure.

I left him abruptly, suddenly tired of their childish tricks, and made up my mind to return with Brisbane to London as soon as the girl had been recovered. I strode purposefully through the churchyard, but on a whim, I stopped. The churchyard was a small one, and the largest memorial was clearly that of the family who had inhabited Thorncross Manor. It was the most impressive construction, a lavish affair of sculpted angels and wreaths of roses, and the bronze plaque, though worn with age and weather, confirmed what I had begun to suspect.

I hastened from the churchyard as quickly as my stays would permit, making straight for the copse. As I walked through the little wood, the leaves began to rustle. My heart beat faster and I sped along, slowly becoming aware of a deep breathing behind me. I dared not turn, but broke into a run as did my pursuer. My plan was not an elaborate one, for there was no time for such things. I intended to dart behind a tree once I had passed a bend that would conceal me for a moment. From my hiding place I could either flee another direction or face down the villain behind me.

But I had left it too late. Just as I rounded the bend he reached me, touching my shoulder. I gave a banshee shriek and turned to defend myself, expecting to clip the fellow neatly on the chin. As it happened, my pursuer was rather shorter than I had anticipated. My tidy blow to his jaw landed instead on his temple and he fell as swiftly and flatly as a felled tree.

At that moment Brisbane rounded the bend and took in the scene before him. “Julia, did you assault the vicar?”

“Yes. But I had an excellent reason,” I told him.

“I have no doubt of it. Shall we see if he is still living?”

We bent and prodded him, looking for significant injury, but he bore none. Of course, this did not prevent him from abusing me in the foulest language possible when he came to consciousness with the result that Brisbane struck him a second blow, this one landing precisely where I had intended mine. A spectacular bruise was blossoming on the fellow’s chin as we marched him into the manor.

Mrs. Smith stared at him with wide eyes, but he shook his head, wincing. “Never mind, Smithy.”

She rushed to bring him cold wet towels and when they had been applied, Brisbane turned to her sternly.

“It’s time to make a clean breast of it, Mrs. Smith. Tell us why the lot of you have been playing at ghosts and tell us what has become of Liddell.”

She looked to Mr. Belton but he waved a wan hand. “Go on, then. They’re not going to rest until you do, and no coin is worth this.”

She gave a snort. “I should have known better than to think you could manage this. He warned me you would be the weak link, but I spoke up for you.”

Her voice was cold with scorn, but he did not react. He merely pressed another cold towel to his chin as we waited. At length, she sighed.

“Very well. Yes. As you guessed from the first, we were engaged to do a bit of play-acting, to pretend the village was haunted. We each had a part to play.”

“Do you even live here?” I asked.

She bristled. “I do. As does everyone in the village, God help us. Narrow Wibberley was a good place to live until the railway came. Ask anyone here, and they’ll tell you. It was a tragedy when they laid the tracks on the other side of the valley. All of the village custom dried up. Those jumped-up folks in East Wibberley knew what they were about. Called themselves Greater Wibberley, as if they were better than us. Built a new hotel, they did, and travellers liked it better than the pub. Then shops opened, and the shopkeepers were happy because they could get their goods directly off the train. No more hauling them across hills and down into the valley. And so it went, with everyone and everything being replaced and all because some fellow in London drew a line on a map,” she said in disgust. “We suffered here, and the folk who depended upon the manor suffered most of all. As it happened, I knew a gentleman,” she said, her expression opaque, “and he was a clever fellow. I knew if anyone could figure out a way to make us a bit of money, he could. And he did. He said he had a friend, a London man he wanted to play a bit of a prank on. He said he wanted him to think he had inherited the manor. He laid it all out, careful as you please. How we were to act, what we were to say. He told us what books to have in the library, what meals to cook. And he said that wasn’t enough. He said you were curious folk, and that you would like a bit of mystery about the place. So he arranged the haunting, as well. He even wrote up that book to be printed out, the one that made up all the legends of ghosts and other nonsense. Gathered us all together one evening in the pub and gave us each a part to play.” She looked thoughtful. “Mrs. Ninch’s boy will be right sad to miss out on playing Guy Fawkes’ ghost. He’s been practising so hard. Makes quite a terrifying effect, it does.”

“And did your gentleman friend arrange the drugging of the chocolates and whisky,” I asked tartly.

She had the grace to look embarrassed. “He never told us about that,” she said. “He sent them on with instructions to place them in your rooms, but never said they were drugged.”

“No doubt just a bit of fun to heighten the experience,” I mused.

“And that’s all it was,” she said, her manner as earnest as any beggar in the street. “He said it was all in fun, and that we were, above all to treat you like royalty. We were to give you the very best holiday here, and—”

She broke off suddenly, and seemed reluctant to say more.

“And you were also instructed not to tell us anything about the real owners of Thorncross, isn’t that true?” I asked softly.

Her shoulders sagged a little. “Yes, my lady.”

“What owners?” Brisbane asked.

“This afternoon as I was crossing the churchyard it occurred to me to look for the grave of our mysterious Mr. Thornhill. But there was no grave. There was no Thornhill family marker at all. Because the Thornhill family never owned this manor, did they, vicar?”

The vicar shook his head miserably. “No,” he said, his voice muffled by the towel.