Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (12 page)

Memphis knocked on Taylor’s door at five minutes to seven. She’d rested up, washed her face, and changed into black wool slacks and a cream cashmere turtleneck. At the last minute, she put on her grandmother’s pearls. Memphis said they dressed for dinner, and the pearls were original Mikimotos—a beautiful, graduated, princess-length strand with a delicately scrolled platinum clasp that had a tiny, perfect pearl on it. She hoped that would be dressed enough.

She opened the door, and Memphis looked on her with approval.

“Very nice. Shall we?” He extended his arm, and she accepted it. They started down the hall. “I talked Cook out of serving downstairs in the main dining room. I didn’t feel like giving the radiators a workout. We’ll be eating in my parents’ dining room, the second dining room, we call it, instead. Be prepared, she’s gone a bit all out.”

They went down a flight of stairs, not the same ones she’d been on earlier, and entered another wide, open passageway. Delicious smells wafted out of the room at the end of the hall.

Goodness, Memphis. Just how many stairways are there in the castle?

He stopped, brows knitted. “You know…I’ve no idea.”

She shook her head. How very Memphis.

She was no longer a stranger to the castle’s opulence, but the second dining room, as Memphis called it, was as fine as the finest restaurants she’d ever been in. A fire crackled in the grate; she could have stood, only slightly stooped, in its cavity if she chose. The mahogany table could comfortably seat fourteen. Above it floated a crystal chandelier, each drop pendant reflecting the glow of the ten white pillar candles she counted. Crystal goblets, delicate china on engraved chargers, four sterling forks, three knives. Intimate dining. Yeah, right.

All out?

He just smiled.

At least they weren’t sitting at opposite ends of the table—she would have felt like a fool. She’d have to shout pass the salt, and the room would echo in return.

Memphis grandly held her chair for her, then tucked him self in on her right side. He’d remembered that she ate continental-style, with her left, and hated to bump the person next to her. Goodness, he wasn’t playing games. He wanted her to know that he remembered every little detail. The momentary flush of flattery was replaced with a tiny touch of concern. Fantasy could easily turn into obsession. She’d seen it happen time and again, with poor results.

She dismissed the thought.
He’s trying to woo you, stupid girl. Not own you.

No one else joining us?

“Of course not. The servants take their meals in the kitchen—some traditions aren’t easily changed. Trixie will see to them. That’s her job.”

Soundlessly, two young girls appeared with the first of the seven courses Cook had planned for them.

They started with a thick fish soup Memphis said was called Cullen Skink, then moved into more traditionally French fare. The venison stew must have been for the servants.

Memphis explained that Mary, Queen of Scots, was responsible for the French inflection to their cooking, having brought a passel of countrymen back from France when she returned. There was delicate Dover sole, beef Wellington, venison, fresh veg, carrots and peas and mashed potatoes, a dizzying array of cheeses, then burnt cream—she knew it as crème brûlée—and apple frushie, a delicious open-faced tart, for dessert. Memphis had also opened a bottle of Châeau Latour ’54. She couldn’t help herself; she was impressed, and said so.

“I’ll show you the wine cellar later. You’ll love it. Father is quite the oenophile. He’s been adding to the collection for years, through auctions, estate sales, the works. He has over 50,000 bottles down there.”

“Wow,” she managed to say. That
was
quite a collection.

Taylor ate until she was uncomfortably full, succeeding in eating only two bites of the apple frushie before she couldn’t handle another bit.

She pushed her plate away and picked up her pen.

My God, that was amazing. Thank you.

“It was, wasn’t it? Shall we repair to the drawing room and have some port? It will help you digest.”

Good Lord, Memphis, you’re making me feel like I’ve stepped onto the page of a Victorian novel.

“Oh, no. If this were Victorian times, I’d head off for port and cigars and whist and you’d be stuck with the ladies, nannering on about…whatever it is you women nanner on about.”

“Ha,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm, then scribbled in her notebook.

Besides, you know exactly what we women talk about when we get together.

“Length, breadth and depth, I assume. What else is there to discuss?”

Memphis, you are extremely naughty.

It was so comfortable. She was so comfortable. Even her head hurt less. That was the wine and pills and jet lag talking, she was sure of it.

The room Memphis took her to next was more her speed, subtly decorated while still lavish, but not overdone. The walls were paneled in dark wood. Two leather club chairs faced a leather sofa with a table in between. The fire was off to the right. Half the room was another library, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the other half an office centered around a stunning oak rolltop desk. Very masculine, very posh, but eminently comfortable.

“Nice,” she said.

“This is part of my suite of rooms,” he said. “My office, when I’m here. I like to have a bit of privacy. Why don’t you try talking some more? I know you need to practice. It sounds like your voice is working.”

“I…” Nothing else came. Her throat constricted. Damn it. She wasn’t ready. She just wasn’t ready. The pressure of being asked to speak was too much for the tenuous hold she had on her voice.

Memphis took a step toward her. He traced her jawline with his forefinger, then slowly moved his hand down until his palm cupped her throat. Her traitorous heart responded by speeding up. She could feel her pulse fluttering under his thumb. His eyes met hers, desire plain in his gaze.

“Try now.”

She shook her head.

“Poor darling. I wish I could fix you myself. Take away the last month, take away your pain.”

They stood there, face-to-face, transfixed. She felt oddly vulnerable, in this position of supplication before him, his hand wrapped around her neck.

Memphis was a strong man. All he had to do was squeeze. Cut off her air supply. It
would
stop her pain. No more struggling, no more looks. No more people talking about her behind her back—well, that wasn’t true. Tongues never cease, even in death. She just wouldn’t be around to hear it. She’d drift away without a care in the world, the scent of Memphis strong in her nose.

Good grief, Taylor. Get hold of yourself.

He meant what he said. No pity, no coddling. Just a statement of fact. He wished she didn’t have to go through this. No one else had said that to her.

Interminable moments passed. His eyes spoke to her, questioning. She didn’t know how to answer. He finally began to lean his head in and she went rigid. He stopped immediately, dropped his hand and turned away.

“Don’t worry about it. Your voice will come back in time.” He went to a small drinks cabinet, poured the port into snifters.

“I do hope you like vintage.”

He handed her a glass as if nothing had just happened.

Her heart was still pounding. She dragged a breath into her lungs, fought for composure. Wished for that stiff upper lip all Brits seemed to possess. Took a sip of her port, then grabbed her notebook.

Of course I do. Tawny and ruby aren’t my thing, I’m glad that’s what you have. It’s delicious.

He’d made a lucky guess on that one, she wasn’t sure she’d ever discussed port with him before. Of course, vintage was more expensive. She recognized that Memphis, while quite understated about his heritage, did enjoy the trappings that came with it.

She started to sit, then felt the strangest sensation down her back, accompanied by a draft of cool air across her shoulders. Her senses went on alert immediately. She’d been a cop long enough to recognize the feeling. They were being watched.

She angled her head to look behind her, assuming one of the servants had entered the room. There was no one there.

Her spine grew cold. She hadn’t imagined it. Had she?

She looked back to Memphis, who was whistling slightly as he poured himself another little bit of port. Topping off, her father always called it. He’d done that every time he’d poured a drink—taken a healthy swallow, then filled his glass again. Maybe she’d just had a little too much.

Memphis turned and caught her looking at him. Her face must have registered her distress.

“What’s wrong?” He crossed the room to her, set his glass on the table and sat on the sofa next to her. Took her hands in his. “Jesus, your hands are like ice. I told you this place was hard to heat.”

She pulled her right hand away.

I just had the strangest sensation that someone was watching us. One of the servants…?

Memphis leaned back, keeping her hands securely tucked in his. “Ah. Not the servants. No, in this part of the castle, that was probably the Lady in Red. She’s one of our more famous ghosts.”

Taylor shivered. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But the thought that the feeling she’d just had was caused by the otherworld was all too real. She was still overwhelmingly chilly, and suddenly on edge. She pulled her hands from his, grabbed her notebook.

Don’t mock me. It’s not funny.

Memphis waited a moment, then gently took her left hand back, rubbed it between his to warm them.

“I’m not mocking you, dearest. Dulsie Castle is haunted. Several times over.”

Please. It is not haunted. You’re just trying to scare me.

“Not at all. It is haunted, just like most of the castles in the Highlands. Battles were fought over these lands, brother against brother. Enemies tried to plunder the castles for their contents. Most were built on sorrow and death, vaults for the overlord’s treasures. With all that enmity, it’s not at all unusual to have multiple ghosts wandering about.”

Come on. That’s silly.

“Taylor, it’s not silly at all. People pay good money to stay at haunted castles. That’s why we opened the attics for Samhain. Let the public in, have a few delicious ghost stories at the ready. One of our best is the Lady in Red.”

Okay. I’ll bite. Tell me.

Memphis sat back into the cushions. “According to my family lore, she’s the ghost of Lady Isabella Bruce, a relation of good King Robert, sold as a child bride to Colin Highsmythe, the fourth Earl of Dulsie. He was forty-eight, widowed, with seven bairns, some of which were older than Isabella. She was fourteen, ripe as a peach, headstrong and unwilling to marry such a disgustingly old creature. She was overruled, of course. It was an advantageous match. Her father recovered most of the lands he’d lost to Longshanks—you’d know him as Edward the First—when Scotland and England were at war in the 1300s.”

He settled in closer to her, put his arm around her shoulder. They were touching now, rib to rib. She let him. She was still cold. And despite her interest in Memphis’s history, ghost stories weren’t her thing.

“She moved to the castle, and they married in a ceremony befitting a queen. Colin doted on her like she was a doll, buying her anything she wanted, throwing the most lavish of parties in her honor. He, being an honorable sort who disliked the idea of bedding a child, promised the girl they could wait until her sixteenth birthday.”

Taylor could see the woman-child, promised off, unwilling to devalue herself for the sake of her parents and their ever-amassing fortunes. She liked Isabella immediately.

“But the stupid girl played Colin for a fool. She had an affair with the youngest of the Highsmythe sons at the time, the dashing Oliver, and of course got with child. She hid it for as long as she could, but Colin eventually found out. He had Oliver killed, locked Isabella up in the tower above us for the rest of her confinement. When she had the baby, he took it away and murdered it as well. Then he bedded Isabella as many times as it took to plant his own seed in her belly.”

That’s hideous!

“Quite. As you can imagine, Isabella was terribly distraught. She’d lost her lover, her child by him, and all the freedom she’d been accustomed to, for Colin kept her in the tower and would allow her no visitors. She was subjected to what amounted to no more than rape on a regular basis. So she hatched a plan. She figured if she could get Colin out of the way, she could have everything back the way it was. She’d find a new lover to mend her broken heart, would dispose of the child she was carrying. She planned to leave it out in the wild, let the faeries take it for their own.”

Faeries?

“Oh, yes,” Memphis replied. “Faeries all over the land round here. The
auld folk
. You’re in the Scottish Highlands, remember. We live for myth.”

He brushed a stray hair back from her forehead, gently, then continued.

“Anyway, the lady Isabella kept back a knife from one of her meals, and when Colin came for his nightly assignation, she waited until he was in the throes of passion and stabbed him. Did a good job of it, too. He, mortally wounded, fought with her for the knife, managed to get it away from her and cut her throat, but he was too weak to injure her properly. He died; she lived. But the earl, ever prescient and distrustful of his child bride, had left strict instructions in his will that if anything were to happen to him before the child was born, the doctor was to take it by force from her womb.”

Held a grudge, did he?

“Oh, yes. We Highsmythes are known for it.” He said it lightly, or attempted to. She wondered who had been fool enough to cross Memphis in the past.

“The doctor kept Isabella alive long enough to give birth. She carried twins, two boys. It’s said she traced an
O
in blood on the forehead of the first one, who was named Oliver, after her lover, the child’s dead uncle. She died before naming the second, so the family took it upon themselves to call him Colin. As you can imagine, theirs was a contentious life.”

Memphis was staring into the fire now. “Young Oliver ended up with the title, oddly enough. Through battles and changes of allegiance and illnesses, the elder Colin’s sons from his first marriage died soon after their father. Isabella’s son, Oliver, firstborn of the twins, truly in the prime of his life, was legally heir.

“He banished his brother from the area, sent him to England, to Bristol, to the Highsmythe properties there. Where he would be well out of the way. Young Colin worked as a cleric, then rose in the Church’s esteem until eventually becoming a very powerful bishop. He made quite a name for himself.

“So the family was permanently split, half propagating in Southern England, the rest of us in the North. I’m directly descended from Isabella and Oliver the younger, by the way. And as such, the legend says that the first son, the Dulsie heir, is the only one who can see Isabella. She appears in the night to impart great wisdom, so we’re told.”

Taylor knew she was staring at him. What a creepy, odd story.

Do you see her?

“Do I see Isabella?” Memphis flexed his hand a few times, balling the strong fingers into a fist, then stared into the fire. He took his arm from around her shoulders. His tone changed, no longer imparting a delicious ghost story, now more subdued.

“Well, I can’t rightly say. May have done a few times, especially when I was a boy. She’s supposed to be much more partial to young boys. Once they pass the age of twenty, which was Oliver’s age when he died, she loses interest. But I’ve definitely seen something that could be her, many times. More of a feeling, really, that chill in the air, the sense that someone’s watching, an awareness of the color red. Almost like having a bout of synesthesia. I’ve gotten used to it now.”

He was holding back, she could tell.

What is it? What’s the matter?

He met her eyes then. “I can’t help but wonder, if Evan had carried to term, whether
my
son would have seen Isabella.”

Oh, God. Taylor felt terrible, she’d forgotten. It was easy to; Memphis rarely spoke of Evan, and even more rarely mentioned the child she’d been carrying when she died.

“Another dead Highsmythe bride.”

He played with Taylor’s engagement ring. After a second, she instinctively pulled her hand away. It felt profane to have Memphis touching the physical expression of Baldwin’s love. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I never got to see her, you know. After the accident. Father wouldn’t let me. He said it would be a very bad idea indeed. She’d gone through the windscreen, was cut to ribbons. He thought I would carry the image with me forever. Though honestly, I can’t comprehend it could have been any worse than what my imagination conjures up, late at night.”

That she understood.

You’re right. I tell victims’ families the same thing, but I’d want to know. I’d want to see. The mind can play terrible tricks.

“That it can.”

He was lost to her, there in the room physically, but mentally in another world, another time. Grief did that to a person, snuck up on cat’s feet when you were most unawares. He must have realized, because he cleared his throat and looked at her.

“We buried them on the estate, you know. Together, of course. In the graveyard up by the kirk. It broke my heart. I don’t know which was worse, losing her, or never having a chance to see him grow up.”

Oh, Memphis. I’m so sorry. It’s just not fair.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, companionable in their silence. Taylor couldn’t help but think of Sam, and the child she’d lost. Of her face when Taylor found her, bloodied and tied, the sheer agony of what had happened etched in eloquence across her features. She sighed. Baldwin had lost a child as well, though she was having a hard time equating his loss with Sam’s, or Memphis’s. His child was most likely still alive. Regardless, they were all surrounded by too much sadness.

Memphis finally roused himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone and properly cocked up our lovely evening.”

She sought to distract him, and herself.

No, it’s fine. Tell me more. Why is Isabella called the Lady in Red?

He met her eyes then. “Oh, that’s simple. She appears drenched in blood.”

They’d stayed in his office a bit longer, on safe topics—her plans for the next day, which included the early-morning visit with Dr. James and a little side trip he’d like to take her on, how the weather was expected to behave, what time she’d like to take breakfast—then drank the rest of the port and called it a night. She wasn’t tired, but she knew she needed to get some sort of rest.

He left her at the door to her room with a chaste kiss on the top of her hand, in classic French style, and departed without a backward glance. After that moment in his office, she’d expected to have to fight him off, to set the ground rules, but the conversation’s turn had put a damper on his mood. It had the same effect on hers.

Upon returning, the rooms seemed slightly changed, which alarmed her for half a second until she realized it must have been one of the maids turning things down for the evening. Straightening up after her like she was an untidy child. No wonder everything in the castle looked so lovely. Unseen hands followed behind the family members, restoring order in their wakes. In defiance, she went and pulled a book at random from the shelves and dropped it on the chair, where it spilled open. There. It looked like someone was staying here now.

A bath sounded heavenly. She started the tub to fill, and took another Percocet. It had worked wonders tonight; the headache had been at a dull simmer in the back of her head for the past few hours. She could continue to keep it at bay if she took the meds now instead of waiting the prescribed six hours. Deciding she felt like reading, she went back in the sitting room to gather the book.

The hardcover she’d so carelessly plucked from the shelves and tossed on the chair was now closed, sitting squarely in the middle of the cushion. Good grief. She went to the door to make sure it was locked. She didn’t like the idea of the maids being able to come in and out as they pleased. Memphis had probably told them to tend to her every need, but this was ridiculous.

But the door was locked. And the interior latch bolt had been thrown as well. Which meant no one could come into the room without her knowledge.

She glanced back at the book, sitting so pristinely front and center on the chair, and a little frisson of fear went down her spine.

Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Taylor. There is no such thing as ghosts
.

She scooped up the book from the chair and headed back to the bath, stripping off her clothes as she went, dropping them willy-nilly on the floor. When she got into the tub, she opened the novel, and nearly laughed out loud. She’d chosen Daphne du Maurier’s
Rebecca
from the shelves.

She allowed herself to get lost in the nameless second Mrs. de Winter’s world for thirty minutes, until her eyes started to ache and her heart throbbed in her temples, then climbed from the tub. Her room was as she left it. Despite herself, she sighed in relief.

She got dressed for bed, snuggled under the covers, found the bed was equipped with an electric blanket, turned it on and texted Baldwin.

He wrote back immediately. His presence chased away all the ghosts.

How are you?

Fine. Full as a tick, warm from my bath. Going to sleep, just wanted to touch base. How are you? How’s the case?

Just fine. I might have to be out of touch for a few days. Immersion. So don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.

Ah. She was being punished. She had a feeling this might happen. She clung to the hope that when she saw him next, she’d have her voice back, her head on straight, and could give herself to him again. Either that or she’d be handing back the ring. The thought filled her with sadness.

Don’t react, Taylor. Be nice. Be sweet
.

Atlantic is sending you somewhere warm, I hope. Maybe you can get a break.