Secret Reflection

3


Day Two

‘I should be back in time for dinner,’ Kelly assured her friend as she climbed into the taxi.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to borrow the car?’ Nancy asked. ‘Cabs are going to be awfully expensive.’

‘I still have to arrange for an international licence. Besides, I wouldn’t dare try to drive on the other side of the road after being here little more than a day. I’d much rather take in the countryside and enjoy the trip. And according to my map Abingdon isn’t very far.’

Nancy pushed the door closed and stepped back to wave her off. ‘If you get lost, or need anything, just call. Tom could probably drive over to pick you up after the new stable doors have been fitted.’

‘Don’t be silly. I promise not to get lost and I now have a good idea of the quickest route to Abingdon. Barnsley lives off Ock Street, just outside the town centre.’ The last was said loudly enough for the driver to hear. Cost mightn’t be an issue but she wasn’t going to be fooled a second time.

The driver didn’t appear to react but Nancy grinned with comprehension before again reciting the names of the main road they should follow. She leaned into the cab and kissed Kelly’s cheek. ‘Enjoy yourself. Do a bit of sightseeing as well. Don’t just work. Abingdon is full of history.’

‘I will, and if I don’t get to see much today, I’ll make sure I go back before I return home to LA.’

Nancy nodded then retreated as the driver revved the engine.

‘Bye!’ Kelly called as the car began to move.

The township of Abingdon was indeed steeped in history, claiming the title of England’s oldest town. Kelly was disappointed that she’d missed the Monday Market by only a day, a tradition that had apparently endured since medieval times.

Thomas Barnsley lived in a small, white cottage at the edge of the town surrounded by a low, wooden fence in need of some repair and a pretty garden filled with tiny, pink flowers that Kelly didn’t recognise. The man himself was tall and thin with a skeletal look about him, but his smile seemed welcoming and his handshake firm. His clothing reminded her of a character from an old black and white movie she’d recently seen, however, it took Kelly less than five minutes to decide she genuinely liked the man. He projected an underlying sense of dignity that held his back rigid and his head high as he led her to his parlour, yet beneath that dignity she perceived a sense of humour that would have made the devil proud.

His house was a dimly-lit, nondescript concoction of browns and beiges, occasionally punctuated by splashes of gold and red that beamed out from the Turner prints scattered about the walls. Barnsley directed her to a heavy, sculpted dining table littered with dusty books and scraps of paper and bade her to sit.

A diminutive, grey-haired woman, who might or might not have been Barnsley’s wife since he continually referred to her simply as ‘woman’, served the obligatory cup of tea, along with buttery cakes and shortbreads.

Barnsley sat opposite Kelly in a straight-backed chair and studied her through steepled fingers, the skin transparent with age. ‘So you are interested in Stanthorpe House down the vale a bit.’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Looking for the ghost like all the others, I expect.’

‘Well, not really,’ she said with a slight hesitancy. ‘I’m a journalist. Stanthorpe is about to be opened as a hotel so I’m interested in anything you can tell me about the house itself and of course the stories of the ghost are a part of that.’

‘Happens every twenty years or so,’ he commented after a pause. ‘Someone always comes looking about the ghost. The legend being what it is, I’ve come to expect it. Don’t worry young woman, I don’t think you’re crazy.

‘M’grandfather told me the story. He was a lad when his grandfather first spoke of it. Now,’ he leaned forward in his chair and caught her gaze in his hazel stare, ‘I cannot say whether it be true or not, because it is one of those tales that’s been handed on and handed on – and the telling always changes the story somewhat, but rumour had it that a young viscount, John Tarrant, had committed murder and was killed in revenge. Another story said he committed suicide in remorse but the laws being what they were, the land and titles would have gone to the Crown so the cousin needed to fabricate another tale or lose his inheritance.

‘The papers don’t say which, of course.’ He leaned back in his chair and resumed his steeple-fingered pose. ‘Officially, John Tarrant is said to have drowned, but you’ll find that detail in any of the surviving documents.’

‘What do you think happened?’ Kelly urged.

‘I’m not sure of anything, mind you, but greed being what it is – I’m fairly convinced that the young viscount died at another’s evil hand. Whose hand, is the question. The records mention an account by the valet, and the cousin Ditchley, who inherited. But as far as I could find there was no burial and the body was never found. Some say he escaped to the colonies after the murder. Whatever did happen, the ghost hasn’t revealed it to anyone thus far.’

Kelly shifted in her chair, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Does that mean you believe the ghost really exists?’

To this he gave a short and throaty laugh. ‘Young woman, no man can live in a town like Abingdon all his life and not believe in ghosts. I once, in my teens, ventured to Stanthorpe to take a look for myself, but alas I timed my visit wrongly and missed the appearance by some weeks. April of ’41, as I recall.’

‘Have you ever spoken to anyone who did see the ghost?’

Barnsley’s eyes seemed to cloud over.

‘There was a boy about seventeen or eighteen – a distant relation of the owner … ’81 the year. After two nights in the master suite he ran off in terror. The father said he’d been smoking those “maryana” drugs we always hear about, so proclaimed the boy’d been hallucinating. Put him into a sanitorium, I believe … don’t know what happened to him after that.

‘If you’ve a mind to speak to him,’ Barnsley began sifting through some of his papers on the desk, ‘I think I noted his name here some place or another.’

‘Thank you, it might be helpful.’ She glanced down at her list of questions. ‘While you’re searching, is there anything you can tell me about the current viscount?’

Barnsley’s eyes darted up. ‘Don’t know that there’s anything of interest there. From what I hear he is the kind that gives the peerage a bad name – always carousing and womanising. I dare say he hasn’t worked a day in his short life and had some pretty big debts before those hoteliers stepped in with their offer. Nice pair. Will probably do a sight more for the place than the Ditchleys ever did. Aha!’ he dragged a slip of paper from the pile and held it up before her. ‘Knew I wrote the lad’s name down somewhere. Here we go …’ he squinted at the scratchings on the page. ‘Michael Babcock. Must be late thirties by now. The father’s name was Eric Babcock … a cousin of young Ditchley’s mother, Laurel. Family lived near Northampton. Not titled, but fairly well-to-do, shouldn’t be too difficult to track them down.’

‘Do you know what happened to Tarrant’s cousin Edward?’ Kelly’s curiosity couldn’t let her leave before she knew.

‘Strange tale, that one,’ he rubbed a temple with a bony finger. ‘After inheriting Stanthorpe, he married Tarrant’s intended and she bore him a son. Rumour had it that Ditchley beat his wife mercilessly throughout the short marriage. Not long after the birth, she apparently lost her mind and in a murderous rage, killed Ditchley. Her family stepped in and had her placed in the madhouse. Can’t say as how long she lived after that. In those days an asylum was usually a death sentence.’

‘And the son?’

‘The wife’s family took up residence and cared for both the son and Tarrant’s aging mother until the son, William, reached his majority. Some say that he was tainted by his mother’s madness. Served in the second Boer war, I believe. Not sure if he died then, or just after, but his wife and two children never saw him again.’

For the next hour Kelly asked Barnsley further questions about the building itself and its various stages of development, although the conversation invariably circled back to the stories about the ghost.

‘Well, that’s certainly a lot of information for me to proceed with, Mr Barnsley.’ She slid back her chair. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for your time.’

Barnsley stood. ‘My pleasure, young woman, I’ll escort you to the door.’

He came around the table to take the lead, his gait slow but proud and erect.

At the door she shook his hand. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Not at all – call on me anytime. If I learn anything else, should I telephone you?’

‘Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. Here’s my card. I’m not sure of the number at the manor, but I’ll ring and let you know when I get back.’ She turned to leave then a thought struck her. ‘I’m told that Edward kept a journal. You wouldn’t know where it can be found, I don’t suppose?’

Barnsley grinned, showing a row of even, slightly yellowed teeth. ‘Ah, the perennial mystery. Unfortunately, no one knows. People have searched … supposedly at the ghost’s request. But to this day the journal has never come to light, sorry to say.’

Kelly nodded her understanding. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘I hope you call in again, young woman. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.’

Returning his smile, Kelly headed down the walk and turned onto the lane that would lead her back to the main road into Abingdon.

When she’d gone only a few yards down the road, she stopped, spun about and retraced her steps. ‘Damn!’ she exclaimed, ‘of all the stupid things – and I call myself a journalist,’ she continued in disgust as she headed back up the cottage steps.

She rapped on the door again. Barnsley appeared a mere second later.

‘Sorry, Mr Barnsley, I forgot one question … has anyone else been asking questions about Stanthorpe House or the ghost recently?’

Barnsley stepped out into the sunshine. ‘Not in recent times. A gentleman came by, well over a year ago. I believe he thought the ghost was due to appear at that time. He seemed very disappointed when I told him he was mistaken.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Not as I recall. Never seen him before or since. Said he was from up Oxford way.’

‘Thanks.’ She again bade farewell and headed for the main road.

So someone had known …

One thing she had to admit was that Barnsley had confirmed the phantom’s story – if only as one of the possibilities. Tonight she vowed to sit vigil before the mirror until he appeared and demand more details that could be verified. Then when she made her trip to the archives she would have enough information to bring the little charade completely undone.

Taking a leisurely walk down Ock Street, she took in the sights of the ancient town.

A tiny shop caught her eye. Stones, like the ones she’d found on her windowsill, were displayed in front. She’d meant to ask Nancy about them but this morning they’d disappeared from where she’d left them outside her room.

A tiny bell tinkled as she pushed open the shop door. The heaviness of incense filled the air.

‘Help you?’ asked a short, bespectacled woman with skin like wrinkled parchment.

‘Yes,’ Kelly smiled. ‘I was wondering about those little stones in the window.’

The woman came around the counter leaning heavily on a dragon-headed cane. ‘Them’d be runes.’

‘Runes?’ Kelly had a vague memory she’d heard the word before, but she couldn’t recall from where.

‘Yes. Runes.’

‘What are they for?’

‘Weel, that’d be depending … some say they be for a’writing – like an alphabet. Others, them’d do magicking and spells and such. You might use ’em for protecting … or to attract good fortune. Or a’making hexes.’ She ducked back around the counter and began rummaging around below. ‘I got me some pamplets here a’somewheres.’

Seconds later she straightened, triumphant.

‘Here you go, lassie.’ She handed across a thin sheet. ‘You might want to be a’looking in the books about druids too.’ She pointed a gnarled finger at a bookstand beside the end of the counter.

Hmmm. Druids. I should probably find out about those eggs on the mantle as well.

After purchasing two books, Kelly headed out into the sunshine.

On East St Helen Street she spied a pub, the Ram’s Horn. Since it was about lunchtime, it appeared the best place to stop and sample some of the local delights while doing some research. And it had been years since she’d indulged in an old-fashioned mug of beer.

Just as she was about to push the front door open, she thought she heard her name being called.

Looking about, she recognised no one and shook her head. Who could I possible know?

‘Kelly!’

Now she was sure she heard it. Again she looked around then suddenly Richard appeared alongside her as if by magic.

‘Where did you come from?’ she asked, not bothering to hide her shock.

‘Had a meeting at the Town Council. What brings you here?’

‘I’m doing a little research on Stanthorpe House.’

‘Ahhh,’ he nodded sagely, ‘been to see old man Barnsley, I expect.’

‘Yes.’

Reaching around her, he pushed the pub door open. ‘Let me buy you lunch since we’re both here, and afterward, if you’ve finished your business I can drop you back at the manor.’

It wasn’t an invitation – more of a command, but she didn’t really relish the idea of eating alone. Kelly gazed inside at the dim interior, the smell of yeast and hops danced about her senses, and the distinct aroma of freshly-baked pie filled the air.

‘Sounds good,’ she said as she preceded him inside.

After they’d found a table in a secluded corner, Richard went to the bar to place their order. ‘Best fish and chips in the whole shire. I’ll order two serves,’ he’d said before she even had a chance to study the menu.

She shrugged. Good thing I like fish.

Richard took a while, laughing with the girl behind the bar as if they were old friends, but when he returned with two foaming mugs of Guiness, she forgave him his tardiness and domineering manner; the cool dark ale was exactly what she needed.

‘I’m so glad I ran into you,’ he said as he raised his mug in a toast. ‘I—’

‘Hey, Ricky!’

A young girl materialised next to Richard’s chair. The girl eyed Kelly up and down, before giving all her attention to Richard.

He looked at the girl with a slight frown. ‘Deanna, what are you doing here?’

‘Just delivering some pasties to the pub.’

‘Well, you’d better get to it … say hi to your dad for me,’ he said, all but dismissing the girl.

She seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for him to say something else, but when he didn’t she simply said, ‘Yeah, I’d better get back, I guess. See ya, Ricky.’

‘Bye, Deanna,’ he replied on a tired sigh before taking a big sip of his Guiness.

At the back door, the girl turned to stare at their table for a long moment before slipping into the shadows beyond. Kelly got a mental flash of the girl she saw from the roof of the manor the previous day and wondered whether Deanna might be his accomplice in the ghostly charade.

Richard waited until the girl was long gone before smiling apologetically at Kelly.

‘Sorry I didn’t introduce you. Deanna’s a sweet kid, but I suspect her ambition is to marry into a title. Which is a little “old world” if you ask my opinion. Alas, she appears to think I am a likely candidate. If so, she is in for a big disappointment.’ He gazed deeply into Kelly’s eyes. ‘When I do marry it’ll be to a strong, professional woman.’

She glanced away, refusing to meet his penetrating look. Statements like that were the last thing she needed or wanted to hear right now. She allowed her attention to be captured by the waitress who headed in their direction carrying two platters heaped with food.

‘Great. Lunch. I’m starved.’

As they talked and ate, Kelly found she enjoyed Richard’s company immensely. He was nothing if not charming and before leaving the pub he managed to persuade her to join him for dinner at his house on Friday evening. ‘I’m a very versatile cook,’ he boasted, though his expression appeared to hold a much deeper meaning.

‘Now, as promised, I shall drop you back at Stanthorpe,’ he said after giving the waitress his credit card.

‘I’ll just take a quick trip to the ladies restroom, if that’s okay. Can I meet you outside?’ she suggested.

Before he could answer, she followed the sign that indicated the amenities. Behind the door she found a long hallway that led to the back of the building. The restrooms were housed in a rustic barn-like affair across a leafy courtyard.

The sudden loss of sunlight as she entered the small complex left her almost blinded. She gasped in shock when a firm hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her further inside.

‘What the—?’ she yelped but was immediately cut off.

‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re after, missy, but keep your paws off Ricky.’

Astonished, Kelly could only stare as Deanna’s face finally came into sharp focus.

‘Did you hear me?’ Deanna demanded almost savagely.

Kelly pulled back and held up both hands to ward the girl off, before veering around Deanna’s rigid form. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Deanna slid sideways to block Kelly’s access to the nearby cubicle.

‘Yes you do. Now he’s got himself all that money from leasing the manor house, he’s a ripe apple ready for a’picking. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. But he won’t marry you, of that you can be assured.’

Kelly could only laugh. The girl was obviously not of a sound mind.

Kelly stood her ground and affected her most neutral expression. ‘Not that it is any of your business but I met Richard for the first time a few nights ago and as far as I’m concerned, you can have your viscount all to yourself. I have no romantic notions where he is concerned.

‘Now, I’d like to empty my bladder, if you don’t mind.’

Deanna pouted before shifting aside far enough to allow Kelly to push past.

Kelly could feel Deanna’s daggered gaze on the back of her neck as she entered the cubicle and only allowed herself a relieved sigh once she heard the girl’s footsteps recede.

She took her time and leaned against the wall of the cubicle for several moments to gather herself before heading back to the pub.

Outside, she found Deanna engaged in conversation with another young woman in a chef’s uniform. Both pointedly fell silent and followed her progress as she crossed the courtyard, each sporting identical scowls. Kelly would have sworn she was back in high school where the mean girls had taken great delight in bullying her.

‘So, Kel, how was Abingdon?’ Tom asked as he handed a gilt-edged china cup to his wife. ‘The town must seem rather quaint compared to bustling LA.’

Kelly had settled into one of the larger chairs by the window, but her focus wasn’t on the expanse of green beyond; instead her eyes kept flicking up to the mirror that sat above the mantle, wondering whether she’d have to go over every mirror in the whole place. She shuddered to think how many that would be. If the rooms she’d seen were any indication, there’d be at least two in each and every one. To say nothing of the number of paintings and light fixtures … and she couldn’t trust her phantom to tell the truth. There could be cameras anywhere.

‘Kel?’

She gave herself a mental shake. ‘Sorry – what did you say?’

‘I asked about your excursion.’ Tom placed a teacup on the small round table beside her chair. ‘I gather you still prefer coffee?’

‘Please,’ she replied, favouring him with a grateful smile before she took a sip. ‘Mmm. Heavenly.

‘The trip this morning was pleasant enough. Richard turned up at the pub and took me to lunch. Plus, I had an interesting little run-in with one of his lady friends.’

Nancy’s brows shot up. ‘A run-in? With whom?’

‘A girl named Deanna. Told me to keep my paws off.’

‘Deanna?’ Tom asked as he and Nancy exchanged a frown so similar that Kelly almost laughed out loud.

‘Apparently she works at the local bakery.’

Nancy seemed quite taken aback. ‘Yes. We know Deanna, she’s just a kid.’ Again they exchanged a strange look. ‘And what did Richard say to her demand?’

‘Actually, he knows nothing about it. The girl waylaid me as I was going to the ladies’ restroom out back. I can’t really blame her if she wants to protect her territory.’ She looked away almost wistfully. Perhaps if she’d been a bit more diligent in protecting her marriage to Frank … no, best not to go there. All she’d get was more pain.

‘Somehow I don’t think Richard would see it that way. From what I know of him, he is a confirmed bachelor and has a real reputation as the local playboy. If he ever does marry, it’ll be to some titled lady, a model or a socialite perhaps – certainly not a teenage waitress in a bakery – definitely not his style.’

‘Well style or not, she sounded extremely proprietary. I told her she was welcome to him, but she didn’t appear to believe that I wasn’t interested.’

Nancy’s head bobbed up. ‘You aren’t? Don’t you find him attractive?’

‘Do you?’ Kelly fired back.

‘That’s different – I’m a respectable married lady,’ she shot a glance toward her husband who was grinning into his teacup.

Kelly couldn’t help baiting her. ‘I’m not respectable?’

‘Oh, you know what I meant. You’re a free agent. There’s no-one to prevent you having a short affair … get back your sea-legs, so to speak.’

Tom sprayed his mouthful of tea all over the side table in an attempt not to choke.

‘For goodness’ sake, Tom, we just had this piece French-polished,’ Nancy chided, trying to keep a straight face as she mopped the tea with her napkin. Tom jumped up and began wiping at a spot on the rug. Nancy left him to it.

Rolling her eyes at the pair of them Kelly counted to ten before she felt able to respond. ‘I don’t think a fling would be very sensible right now, Nance … so I’m going to assume that you said that in jest.’

Nancy met Kelly’s gaze for a long moment. ‘I just thought it might help you get over Frank. You know, a “no strings attached” diversion – a little therapeutic sex – can do a great deal for one’s self esteem.’

‘I think my self-esteem will survive without any help from the viscount. Besides … I’ve got a mission here, haven’t I?’

‘Made any headway?’ Tom asked, his expression devoid of any hint of complicity.

Against her better judgement, Kelly decided to give them both the benefit of the doubt for the time being. But she wouldn’t mention John Tarrant either. If they were involved, they’d undoubtedly learn what passed between John and her, in which case, she was sure they’d make some kind of slip before too long. And if they weren’t, then they wouldn’t be in any position to help at this stage anyway.

‘I’ve organised to do some research at the National Archives tomorrow. It seems you must go in person to make document requests, so I’ll do some preliminary research then fill out the paperwork to get access to whatever estate records are available from the past few hundred years.’ She didn’t tell them that she intended to spend most of her time in London trying to track down the identity of the actor who filled the mirror in her room.

‘Aren’t they on file here, or in the town?’ Nancy asked. ‘Or the parish church?’

‘I’m not sure about any papers here at the house. I’ll be going over it with a fine-toothed comb to see what I can dig up. The church records only register baptisms, marriages and funerals. I spoke to the town librarian and she said that most of the official records were sent to the National Archives several years ago.’

Nancy gave her a thoughtful look. ‘That’s great. Maybe you can verify who our ghost is, and why he is haunting us.’

Kelly let the comment slide.

‘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.