Phoebe nodded solemnly. “There have been other deaths over the years. On this staircase. Why do you think we’re not booked solidly for weddings?”
Sloan looked over at Jane. She stared back at him with her eyes widening. No, she had to admit, she hadn’t done much research on the castle. It had just been beautiful and available, perfect for the two of them. Or so she had thought.
A wry half-smile played lightly on Sloan’s lips. An assuring smile, she thought. One that conveyed what she already knew. Ghosts don’t stay behind to kill. And something else. They both knew they would be together always, whether this turned out to be the wonderful event of a wedding or not.
“Someone else died here? On these steps?” Sloan asked.
Phoebe looked at Jane. “Last time, it was the bride.”
Sloan stared at Jane again. She widened her eyes and gave her head a little shake. Another point she had not thought about either.
“What happened?” Logan asked.
“The bride fell. She tumbled down the stairs. The police said that she tripped on her dress and fell. She died in a pool of white. It was terrible!” Phoebe said.
“It doesn’t seem to be a particularly dangerous staircase,” Kelsey murmured.
Jane looked down again at Marty MacDonald, dead at the foot of the stairs, his eyes still open in horror. As if he’d seen something awful. His murderer? Or something else? Why the hell would anyone have murdered the man? She realized that Sloan was watching her, frowning, aware of how upset she was. Or maybe relieved? Last time, it had been the bride to die. Sloan gave her a warning look filled with empathy. One that said this was sad, but there was no reason to believe it was anything other than a tragic accident.
“It has to be the ghost. It has to be,” Phoebe whispered.
He gave his attention back to Phoebe Martin.
“Must be a powerful ghost,” he suggested, not arguing with Phoebe but trying to get her to converse, without really stating anything they knew about the ghost world. “The reverend was not a small man. Assuming that they exist, I’m sure that ghosts do have certain powers. But, personally, I do find it unlikely that the ghost of Elizabeth Roth pushed a man down the stairs.”
“You don’t know our ghosts,” Phoebe said, sounding a little desperate. “Maybe it wasn’t Elizabeth. Maybe it was John McCawley, her fiancé. Oh! Maybe his hunting accident wasn’t so accidental. Maybe he’s seeking revenge!”
There was no painting anywhere of John McCawley, but then, he hadn’t lived to become a member of the family and only family members, Mrs. Avery had assured Jane, were pictured on the walls.
“Most likely the poor Reverend MacDonald tripped,” Sloan said. “But that’s still a sad, accidental death. I believe we should gather everyone on the property here. The police will be arriving soon,” Sloan said.
“Of course. I’ll gather the others,” Phoebe said.
But before she could scamper off, a man in his late-twenties with sandy blond hair, a trifle long, dressed in a tailored shirt and jacket reminiscent of Lord Byron, appeared at the landing.
“What in the devil? What’s going on down there?”
Miss Martin didn’t scream in terror again. She gaped in astonishment, staring upward.
“Mr. Roth!” she strangled out.
Jane arched her neck to get a better look at the man. Mrs. Avery had informed her that the owner would be gone for the duration of time they were at the castle. He’d supposedly left several weeks ago.
“Hello, Miss Martin,” he said gravely.
“Hello,” he said to the others, coming down the stairs and carefully avoiding the fallen dead man. He seemed justly appalled by the corpse, sadness, confusion, and horror appearing in his expression as he looked at the dead man.
“Mr. Roth?” Jane asked.
He nodded. “How do you do? Yes, I know. I’m not supposed to be here. And I’m so sorry. Poor man. Do you have any idea… the banister is safe, the carpeting is… secure. I’ve had engineers in here to make sure that it’s safe. But, poor, poor fellow! He must have fallen. Are the police coming?”
“On their way,” Kelsey said.
“It’s just a normal stairway,” Emil Roth murmured, looking up the stairs again. “How does it happen?” The question seemed to be retrospective.
“Mr. Roth, we just heard that a woman died here in the same way. Is that true?” Sloan asked.
Roth nodded, disturbed as he looked down again, then away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at the dead man. “Can we do something? Put a sheet on him, something?”
“What about others?” Logan asked. “Dying here.”