Authors: Jennifer Brassel
‘Oh, I meant to ask – did you take a pile of stones from the bureau outside my room?’
Nancy drew her brows together in apparent incomprehension.
‘Stones?’
‘Yes. Runes apparently. I was told about them today in Abingdon – I found a row of seven on the windowsill in my room. I left them on the bureau in the hall, intending to ask you about them, but this morning they were gone.’
Nancy and Tom exchanged blank looks.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll ask the builders if you like – perhaps they know where they went.’
‘Finally,’ Kelly said, ignoring the unwelcome throb between her thighs the instant John materialised in the mirror before her.
She’d sat cross-legged on the bed for over an hour as she waited. She’d considered calling out his name, more than once, but until she knew that Tom and Nancy were innocent of any complicity, she couldn’t afford to be overheard.
‘Did the lady await me? I am indeed flattered.’ A self-satisfied glow seemed to pass across John’s face.
Frustrated, she shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter who they are or where they’re from, does it – men’s egos are all the same.’
‘But Kelly, you must allow me a modicum of liberty. It has been over a century since a woman of any kind has shown me even a grain of encouragement. Surely that warrants some allowance?’
She scrubbed her face. If he weren’t so damn polite she’d want to throttle him. Again she could only marvel at how well he played his part.
‘I have some questions to ask.’
‘Certainly. I will answer as I can.’
‘Truthfully?’ she raised her left brow ever so slightly.
‘Of course, Madam.’ He lifted his chin as if affronted. ‘A man’s word is his bond.’
‘Okay—’
‘
Okay, okay
,’ he mimicked in obvious frustration, ‘… you often say this, as do your friends, but the word is unfamiliar to me. What do you mean by it?’
Surprised, Kelly had to think a moment. It never entered her head that he might not recognise colloquialisms that have now become a part of everyday language.
‘It kind of means … “all right” or “so be it” … or maybe “understood”.’
He cocked his head to the side as if seriously attempting to digest her explanation and suddenly she realised that at some point she had begun to believe him again.
‘Damn!’ she berated herself.
How gullible am I?
‘Madam! Such profanity is unbecoming in a lady – even if one is a divorcee.’
‘What the heck has that got to do with anything?’
His expression sobered.
‘Perhaps such behavior is acceptable in your world, but in polite society a lady would never demean herself by speaking thus. A little latitude is sometimes reserved for worldly ladies who have been long married or widowed, but never would such a word pass a lady’s lips in mixed company – nor a gentleman’s for that matter.’
‘Good thing we’re not in
your
world, then,’ she muttered under her breath.
The blue of his eyes hardened, but he didn’t comment.
‘
Okay
,’ he said the word loudly for obvious effect, ‘you wished to ask questions?’
‘Yes I did.’ Kelly studied the information on her laptop, then glanced up to find him poised as if ready to leap from the glass. ‘How did you die?’
His slow smile caught at her innards. In other circumstances she might have thought the arrogant tilt of his head rather sexy and appealing, but knowing he was merely trying to deceive her made her shut down her reaction.
‘As I stated in our previous conversations, I am not dead.’
That was not the answer she was after. ‘But according to the histories, you died. So how were you reputed to have died?’
‘I do not know for a certainty what tale Edward put about the countryside to conceal his vengeance.’
Hmmm
. Kelly wasn’t sure what to make of it. On the one hand, if he could conceivably be the man he proclaimed, it stood to reason that he wouldn’t know much of
anything that happened beyond this house after his imprisonment. On the other hand, his ‘not knowing’ might just as easily be a ploy to make her believe the act.
‘Then tell me this – what happened to your fiancée?’
An agonised expression crossed his features for a split second before he stilled, his face becoming cold and emotionless. ‘It is with much sorrow that I can say I do know this. Poor, dear Anne. Edward married her in my stead and she bore his son. But he treated her despicably.’
A massive understatement if Barnsley’s account is correct
, she thought.
‘But if you didn’t know how you supposedly died … how can you know about Anne?’
‘While Edward lived he could see me and speak to me, though no other person could. He took great delight in displaying Anne before me like a trophy. I could do nothing to help her escape her misery.’
Kelly could tell from both his sad tone and his closed stance there was a lot more to that story than he said. She wouldn’t press the issue now … there would be time for details once she had irrefutable information from the Public Records Office at the National Archives. Plus she didn’t want her search diverted in the wrong direction.
Knowable facts first
.
‘And your inheritance?’
‘That is indeed clear, is it not? If the title is still held by a Ditchley, then it is apparent that my cousin Edward inherited my title and estates. He was, after all, my legal heir.’
She typed his responses into the laptop, placing asterisks against details she needed to be certain of and rows of question marks for the many doubts his answers raised. When she looked up she found him gazing at her in expectation.
‘Did you leave a will?’
‘I do not believe so – I had not yet had my man draw up any papers. Edward forced me to sign several documents on the day after he learned of Elizabeth’s death, however I did not care to study any of them.’ A sense of futility seemed to settle upon John like a shroud. She steeled herself and refused to be taken in by it.
‘Why not?’
He looked away. ‘I … I assumed he was intent on killing me. Indeed, I would have welcomed it. After what I had done …
Elizabeth
…’
‘Why did you kill her?’
His head moved slowly around until his gaze again rested upon her face. His remorse almost became a tangible, living thing. ‘Does it matter?’ he whispered.
‘Of course it matters.’ She rose from her spot on the bed and came to stand before the mirror. ‘Nobody commits murder without a reason.’
‘Madmen do. A madman would do anything without a moment’s pause.’
‘Are you telling me you were insane when you killed her?’
‘No, I cannot claim that excuse … the madness came after.’ He closed his eyes and tilted his head back like a blind man seeking light. ‘The madness is now.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
John’s eyes snapped open and his gaze darted to hers. ‘Nor shall I. I murdered my dearest friend – is that not enough? No excuse will change it or pardon it. No excuse will suffice.’
‘But—’
‘Cease plaguing me, Madam. It is a past I cannot change and my actions stand for all eternity. I merely need your help to leave this hell so I might find another. Help me if you will … but I will not speak of Elizabeth again!’
Before Kelly could argue further, he vanished.
‘Damn!’ She yelled the word in the vain hope that it would bring him back, if only to chastise her. But after waiting several minutes she knew he would not return, at least not for a while.
Journal of Edward James Ditchley
,
Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England
.
November 17, 1861
My Elizabeth, today I thrust the knife deeper. I have convinced Anne to remain here at Stanthorpe. I have flattered her and I feel, with only a small measure of pressure, I can convince her to marry me in that murderer’s stead. Do not fret, my love, I have no feelings for the girl. My heart is always yours
.
Oh, how I will enjoy parading his sweet Anne before his eyes! He thrashes and rails but he can do nothing
.
I will never rest until I have vengeance for you
.
Day Three
The National Archives turned out to be quite an illuminating place. After much hemming and hawing, the portly gentleman behind the counter suggested Kelly try the Guildford Muniment room, which held documents relating to the time and parish she sought.
The smell of faded parchment fought for prominence with the tang of glass cleaner as she entered.
A long but cursory search told her that a John Tarrant had indeed lived at that time, born in 1838 to the then Lord Richard Tarrant and his wife, Elaine. There were no other offspring. A family bible and a notation of birth in the parish register from the town of Abingdon confirmed both names and dates. John Tarrant became Lord Stanthorpe when his father inherited the earldom early in 1861.
Her heart began to race unbidden when she found the entries for 1861.
The parish records pronounced John’s death to be by accidental drowning, when, according to the only witnesses, he fell, apparently inebriated, into a deep well somewhere on the property just south of Stanthorpe House itself. The account, taken down by the local vicar, stated that John, ‘overwhelmed with grief at the death of his cousin’s wife had taken himself off in a “sotted” stupor, never to be seen again’.
John’s torn coat was discovered snagged on the nearby well’s rope winder. Edward Ditchley, Tarrant’s cousin, and William Plunkett, Ditchley’s valet, each furnished a handwritten account of the viscount’s disappearance. The parish constable corroborated those accounts and John Tarrant was pronounced dead. No body was ever found. Reference was also made to a will, presented by Ditchley and bequeathing, as expected, all of Tarrant’s estates to his cousin and heir.
Kelly took down the names of all the people involved and recorded the document numbers so she could order copies, which she would collect upon her return early the following week. She also noted the next few entries in the family bible, citing the births and deaths that occurred immediately after John’s demise: Anne Aston married Edward Ditchley on March 5, 1862. Richard Tarrant passed away suddenly in a riding accident on May 15 of that year in a riding accident. A boy child, William John Ditchley was born prematurely to Anne and Edward Ditchley on August 6, 1862. Edward Ditchley died, believed murdered by his wife, on January 27, 1863. Anne Ditchley interred at a private sanitorium in Gloucester on February 2. Elaine Tarrant died at Stanthorpe House on April 22, 1867.
Hmmm. How do I find something the ghost might NOT know?
After another hour exploring, fruitlessly, she conceded defeat. She filled out all the forms required to obtain copies of useful documents, passed over her credit card and waited for a receipt.
The theatre district of the West End vibrated with colour, noise and vivid contrasts.
Kelly procured a ‘cover’ for herself by making fake business cards at a large stationery store that offered all sorts of do-it-yourself possibilities. For only three pounds she managed to turn herself from LA reporter to Hollywood movie scout in less than ten minutes – photo included. Kelly Reid became Kari Rosen, independent agent. Armed with her dummy business cards, she began her assault on London’s talent agencies.
The list she’d compiled went to two pages, but she reasoned that she’d most likely find the actor in question through one of the larger agencies because the man was good – very good – and that meant he probably had a lot of work, which in turn suggested that he’d have to be reasonably well known. In Kelly’s fuzzy logic, the fact that he might be well known on the London theatre scene shouldn’t have deterred Tom and Nancy if they were involved, since they knew Kelly hadn’t ever been to London.
What seemed like a good idea turned into a nightmare that lasted more than seven hours, wore out her best shoes, and cost her two pairs of hose – one of those the result of barely escaping a lecherous fellow who appeared to be looking for talent of a completely
different
nature.
She figured that if she came prepared with a detailed description of the actor in question, finding him would be easy. Her head pounded and her feet throbbed as she traipsed from office to dodgy office. But as time passed she found she remembered the face of the spectre from her bedroom less and less once confronted by page after page of ‘thirty-ish, piratical, tall, dark and handsomes’. By the close of business she decided that if she were ever to be attracted to a man again, he would be short, rotund and if he had hair at all, it would definitely be blond! No, that wasn’t honest. The man pretending to be John Tarrant was attractive, extremely so, and if they weren’t in opposing camps she’d probably consider the ‘therapeutic sex’ that Nancy suggested.
Not going to happen
.
By six o’clock, as she sat dejectedly making patterns in the froth of her overly hot cappuccino, willing her swollen feet to squeeze back into her ruined shoes, she wondered whether to even bother returning next week to check out the rest of her list. While some of the actors looked a little like John she was just as certain she hadn’t yet seen his face amongst the hundreds of photographs she’d viewed. For now, her ghost remained a mystery.
She picked up her mobile phone and punched in the Stanthorpe number.
‘Madam,’ John stated the minute she opened the door, ‘how do you propose to find the journal if you are never present on the premises to search?’
Throwing the two parcels and her purse onto the bed, Kelly turned to face the mirror. She felt like lashing out at him; after all, it was because of him her feet ached and her knee was scraped.
Then again, upon reflection she supposed she couldn’t really blame John for the knee. Walter McGuigin – if that was even his real name – was solely responsible for her almost falling down the rickety staircase in her hurried attempt to escape his roving hands.
And when she saw the naked vulnerability on her ghost’s face, she relented. It was late – much later than she’d planned. After a quick bite to eat, she’d had to trek about London to find a place where she could print from the file of images she’d downloaded to her disk. It still amazed her that any number of devices that might be hidden about her room could be as small as the specs said, some only millimeters across. Little wonder she hadn’t yet unearthed them, but at least she now had an idea what to look for.