Tomorrow's Treasure (16 page)

“Oh, Edmund. Do you think this is wise?”

Evy hesitated.

“Perhaps it will be good for the child.” Uncle Edmund sounded concerned as well.

“I wonder …”

Knowing she shouldn't dally any longer, Evy hurried out of the room. The next day the decision was announced at breakfast. Uncle Edmund looked at Evy over his lowered spectacles and told her she would become a companion to the ailing Miss Arcilla. Three afternoons a week, beginning on Saturday, she would walk up the hill to Rookswood to visit.

Evy was thrilled. At last, she would go inside Rookswood!

Later that night, Evy slipped from her bed and went to the window. She could just make out part of Rookswood mansion and saw lights glowing in the rooms like golden jewels.
Like diamonds …
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
I am going up to the house of diamonds.

The old sexton, Hiram Croft, was digging a grave when Evy entered through the cemetery gate the next morning.

“Good morning, Mr. Croft.”

He was older than Mrs. Croft, very tall, with hunched shoulders and a lined face. It was not polite to say, but Mr. Croft reminded her of one of the rooks that made such a racket in the trees. The birds were noisy now and jumping from branch to branch.

He leaned on his shovel at the bottom of the trench he was digging.

“Mornin, Miss Evy. What brings you here?”

“The ghost of Master Henry Chantry,” she said with a teasing smile. “I thought you could tell me all about it.”

He grinned. “I remember Master Henry, I do. He used to ride by on a big gold gelding. Was the second golden horse he owned. Lost the first one in Zulu country, he said. He'd ride himself all over the village seeing how folks was. The women all swooned for him. Handsome rascal—some of his blood be in young Rogan Chantry, I'm thinking. More'n likely Henry had himself less concern for how folks was doing and more interest in dallying with the ladies than much else. Master Henry were a busy man when it come to that.”

He began digging again. Evy stood on the edge of the trench looking down. “How did he die?”

“Now, missy, don't you go asking me that sort of thing. You ask the good vicar.”

“I have. Uncle Edmund says gossip is a sin.”

“Aye, so it is. A wise man, the vicar.”

She held her hands behind her back. “It doesn't seem to me that my asking how Master Henry died is gossip.”

“Well, that do seem a bit true, but when questions are whispered about how a man killed himself … well, then, things change quicklike.”

“So it is true? The dark secret is that Master Henry did actually kill himself?”

He cocked one eye up at her. “Shot himself in the noggin, it's said.” He tapped the side of right temple. “Right inside Rookswood. Third floor. And on Michaelmas, too. I daresay that will be a mark against him.”

The morning seemed darker and somehow threatening. She realized she was holding her breath. Then—“But why would Master Henry shoot himself up there?”

“Why not? Better'n the first floor.”

“I don't mean
that.
I mean, it seems a bit odd that a man as important and rich as Henry Chantry would kill himself. From what I've heard he was an adventurer, a bold man, unafraid of most things.”

He leaned on his shovel again. “Aye, he was that. Odd, maybe so. I've seen me a whole lot odder things in my time.”

“Like what?” She sat down on the edge of the trench, letting her high-button shoes dangle over the side. She wished she had a pair of pretty grown-up slippers like Arcilla wore.

“Well … one foggy Allhallows Eve, I come out here to hang the lighted lantern on the gate over there—so folks could come like they always do and leave things for the ghosts—and lo and behold, I saw the ghost of ol' Henry wandering around here just as plain as though he were alive and kicking. Makes me wonder if Henry killed himself, or if it was more violent than even that.”

Evy swallowed, and a chilling breeze made her skin crawl. “You do not mean”—the word lodged in her throat—“he was …
murdered?
”

He looked up at the rooks with a faraway gleam in his eyes. “So some say.”

“But who would do such a wicked thing?”

“That were long ago, missy. Who's to say? Only Henry's ghost can tell us.”

“Oh, Mr. Croft, there aren't any ghosts. Uncle Edmund says ghosts are moldy suspicion from the Dark Ages. Miss Armitage is the oldest person in Grimston Way—nearly ninety—and Derwent vows he saw garlic hanging at her kitchen door. When he asked her why she hung it there, she said to keep vampires away. That's quite silly you know. When a man dies without believing in Jesus, he goes to a place to wait until God judges him. But those who believe go at once to heaven. So if all are accounted for, how can there be ghosts?”

“True enough.” He removed his cap and scratched his gray locks, then shoved the cap back on. “I still think there be ghosts.”

She smiled. “That is because you want to believe it.”

He set his jaw. “Seen Master Henry plain as day. He be restless. So he wanders, seeking justice against the kin who killed him.”

Evy stared at the man. “You don't think so! His own kin?”

“Aye. Who else coulda done him in?”

“Maybe a thief crawled in his window.”

“Ha! You take another look at them tall windows. Why, you'd need to be a rook to fly to one of 'em.”

“The bottom windows?”

“Locked, more'n likely.”

“But who would that kin person be? And why?” Then it occurred to her. Of course! “The Black Diamond?”

Mr. Croft's eyes fairly sparkled. “Ah … so you know about it too, eh? Could be that diamond. Again, maybe not. Who's to say? Vicar be a good man, but even
he
don't know everything. Spirits wander.”

“Human spirits can't wander after death, Mr. Croft. Maybe it was fog you saw instead. You merely thought you saw some unearthly thing wisping about.”

“It were foggy that night, all right. So thick and white that swirls wrapped round me like snakes.” He took a shovelful of dirt and tossed it, then looked up at her.

“There you have it, Mr. Croft. That's what you saw, plain old fog.

You know how thick it can become in autumn. So thick you can hardly see ahead of you.”

At the amusement in his eyes, Evy wondered if all this was just one of his jokes.

“Think so, eh?” He shrugged. “Well, you go ahead and think that. Ye'll sleep better, Miss Evy And Vicar won't be after me for filling your ears with nonsense. But I knows what I saw. And it were a ghost.”

“I know a better ghost story, Hiram, but better not tell her more.”

Evy nearly jumped out of her skin as the deep voice from behind her went on.

“The rectory girl is probably like Arcilla. My sister squeals and dives under the bed at such tales, and
she
probably does too, especially on foggy nights.”

She turned her head to find Rogan Chantry standing by the oak tree, his dog on a leash beside him. Rogan wore a fancy black coat and trousers with gold buttons. His hair was dark and glossy below his cap, and one wave fell across his forehead. He walked up to Evy, and they looked at each other. He took in her scuffed, high-button leather shoes and the plain gray cotton skirt and pinafore she wore. As he studied her, she realized her pinafore was splashed with berry jam from the kitchen. She had not cared about that until this moment. She blushed. His eyes came to hers, and the corners of his mouth turned up as though she amused him.

Evy suspected he was as difficult to get on with as Arcilla. Not only did his father dote on him, but so did the old governess, Miss Hortense. Evy brushed her pinafore, but it did no good. She gave a furtive glance at his shoes. They were shiny—most likely bought in London. His trousers and jacket were of expensive wool, as was his cap. He probably received just about everything his heart could wish for. The leash on his red Irish setter was a shiny silver. The dog, too, seemed to dote on Rogan. It sat humbly at his feet, gazing up with adoring brown eyes.

Evy resisted feeling small and unimportant. Instead, she lifted her chin and folded her arms. “I do not squeal.” She swung her high-button shoes. “Nor am I silly.”

His smile held a sparkle of mischief. “You would squeal if I took you to my uncle Henry's crypt on Rookswood.” Rogan's tone was full of challenge. “My sister is too afraid to go.
All
girls are afraid of everything, is that not so, Buster?” He patted the big dog's shiny head, and the beast whined as if to agree. Rogan's eyes danced as he looked down at Evy. “You see?”

Hiram Croft chuckled, and Evy's fingers itched to cuff that smug grin from Rogan's face. “I would
not
be afraid.”

Clearly Rogan did not believe her, but he smiled. “Fine, then, I will take you there. When you come to Rookswood to see Arcilla. If you squeal, I win. Then you will have to do some task to please me.”

“What if
I
win?”

The smug smile deepened. “You will not.”

Her foot swung faster. “Maybe I will. Then you must do a task for
me.
I will think of one.”

“No.”

Evy stared at him. “That is not fair.”

He shrugged, dismissing the subject, and turned to Mr. Croft.

Evy fumed.

“Now, Hiram, I do not see how you could see my uncle Henry's ghost here in the cemetery when he is not buried here.”

“Eh, what? Er, you got me there, young Master Rogan.” He chuckled again.

“Unless … Yes, that must be it—if he was riding his gold horse through the cemetery that night when you saw him. My father says his brother Henry was a wanderer.”

“Aye, that must be it, all right. Master Henry were on that horse of his.”

Evy folded her arms. “Now you are exaggerating, as Uncle Edmund says you do, Mr. Croft. I do not think you saw Master Henry at all, and I am
not
afraid of his crypt.” She clambered to her feet, brushing the grass from her skirt.

Rogan shrugged, still smiling. “Never mind his showing up here. My uncle's ghost haunts the third floor of Rookswood Manor all year
long. That is where he died. So he is not likely to be here in the cemetery anyway.”

Mr. Croft grinned. “I won't be arguing with ye.”

Rogan looked at Evy as if to make sure she did not challenge him either. She did not. Instead, to give vent to her miffed feelings, she said, “I will wager those are not real gold buttons.” She was staring at his jacket.

“What makes you think they are not?”

“Because Lady Camilla is too wise to let you wear solid gold buttons when you are outdoors riding or walking Buster. You would lose one, and then what?”

Rogan smiled indulgently.

“I think Miss Evy has you there, Master Rogan. If ye did lose one and it were gold, then we'd all be out treasure hunting.”

“Finders are keepers,” Evy said with a grin. “Because I would find it before anyone.”

“No, you would not.”

He was positively insufferable! “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because it would be a small chance indeed for anyone to find it, even me.”

And of course if
he
could not find it, no one could. How like a Chantry to think that of himself.

“Unless it caught the sun's rays.” Rogan snapped his fingers, and Buster lay down. Rogan snapped them again, and the dog stood. “I have taught him a lot of tricks.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at Mr. Croft. “I am going to find my own gold mine in South Africa. Just like my uncle Julien found a diamond mine in Kimberly. I could find a new diamond mine, but I want to do something different. So I will find gold. Lots. So much gold that I will have solid gold buttons on my jacket. And when I do, I will give you a small bagful, Croft.”

“What about me?”

He pursed his lips and studied Evy. “We will see.”

She had had enough. “I am not dumb. I would know what to do
with it. As for gold buttons—I daresay, it is a waste to have them. Do you not think so, Mr. Croft?”

Though Mr. Croft chuckled, he would not answer.

Well, she was not afraid to speak her mind. She met Rogan's gaze. “You would only be showing off wearing solid gold buttons.”

“Evy!”

She turned to see Mrs. Croft, who was clearly dismayed to think Evy would speak with such flippancy to a Chantry. Mrs. Croft carried a basket over her arm, and Evy knew it contained gingerbread cakes because she had helped Mrs. Croft in the kitchen earlier that morning.

Evy looked down at the ground. “I was just watching Mr. Croft dig.”

“You must be remembering your manners.” Mrs. Croft smiled an apology at Rogan.

For as long as she remembered, Evy had been taught, whenever she might run into Sir Lyle, to drop a little curtsy and say, “Good morning, Squire Chantry. God bless you on this day and all your house.” But this was not Sir Lyle. It was his insufferable son, Rogan, and he nettled her.