And the evening reading a bit more Poole family history.
It seemed Hester Dobbs escaped from her cell shortly before she was to be hanged for Astrid Poole’s murder, only to leap to her death from the seawall at the manor after Collin Poole’s suicide.
Various tools of witchcraft were found in her cabin.
“That’s cheerful.”
She turned to Connor, Collin’s twin, who’d inherited the manor at his brother’s death.
And by all accounts had lived a happy life, from childhood, through his own marriage—with a big ugly murder and suicide in there. He, too, had expanded the manor, and the business, while producing five children.
One of which, she noted, had died on her wedding day.
Just creepy.
Yet he’d died at the age of seventy-two, in his own bed, surrounded by his wife, their surviving children, and his grandchildren.
She decided to end the night’s reading on that happy note.
She then binge-watched three episodes of a new Netflix series and called it a night.
“Situation normal,” she murmured as she slipped into bed, and into sleep.
The clock chiming three didn’t wake her, nor did the creaks of doors, or the drifting music, or a woman’s heartbroken sobs.
PART TWO
The Manor
All houses wherein men have lived and died
are haunted houses.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Haunted Houses”
Chapter Eleven
She rolled through the next few days. Maybe she used tunnel vision more than once, but she rolled through. And with the start-up catering company having signed the contract, she had plenty to roll through.
On a Saturday morning, armed with her phone and a flashlight—just in case—she went through the servants’ passageway. The stairs creaked on the way down, but the light showed the way, so she stuck the flashlight in her back pocket.
She couldn’t imagine herself sitting alone in the media room. Not that it wasn’t nice, she observed as she wandered it. Cozy in its way, with big, comfortable chairs and a huge screen.
He’d even put in a little bar. Maybe he’d stocked it with drinks and snacks.
Had Collin sat there, alone in the big, empty house, going into the worlds on-screen? Had he laughed at comedies, felt his pulse quicken at a thriller?
Had he munched on popcorn and watched old favorites as she often did?
So odd, she thought, to have never known him, and see clearly they’d had things in common. A love and talent for art, a love of stories—books, movies. An appreciation for rambling old houses steeped in history and character.
Would the brothers, if they’d had the chance, have bonded? Would there have been shared holidays? Family jokes?
The longer she lived in the house, the more she thought yes. She’d never know for certain, but she felt yes. They’d have become family, even if they’d met as grown men.
She moved from the media room into the gym with its rack of free weights, a treadmill, and a recumbent bike. And yet another wall screen.
The man had seriously liked TV.
Hooks held exercise bands and yoga straps. He’d had a stability ball, medicine balls, even a pull-up bar. So he’d been serious about fitness, too.
Idly, she picked up two dumbbells, faced the mirror, and did some curls.
She could probably talk herself into using this space. She missed her membership at the gym—a gym she’d given up, as Brandon went to the same one.
She could stream workouts on the screen, get back into the habit.
“No time like now,” she decided, and spent the next thirty minutes reminding herself how much she hated squats.
Rubbing her ass because she felt it, she toured a storage area, found holiday decorations. Halloween, Christmas, Fourth of July.
“You and my mother would’ve gotten along, too.”
She found another set of stairs leading down, peered into the dark.
“The basement basement,” she concluded. “I just don’t think so.”
It gave her the boiler room from Stephen King’s The Shining vibe.
And she shut the door.
She wandered more, and to her delight found a panel of bells. Maybe she didn’t have her uncle’s full passion for movies and TV, but she’d seen this sort of thing in period pieces.
Each bell connected to a room, and signaled the staff to respond. No connection now, of course, but they’d kept that old communication in place down here.
She rang one.
“Mr. Poole must want his elevenses in the morning room.”
She shook her head and thought, What a life.
Up and down the stairs, she thought as she started back up. In and out of the passageways so the family or their guests didn’t have to see you.
Did it make a good life or a bad one? she wondered.
Had there been a warm bed at night, a full belly, decent pay?
Would someone have been pleased to work here, or had it been sheer drudgery?
As she started to the third floor, the bell, far below, marked the Gold Room rang.
But she’d walked into another storage area, and didn’t hear.
She found furniture—tables, desks, chairs, what she thought might be a cabinet for sheet music. She discovered an old Victrola—and a stash of the thick old records that played on it.
For the fun of it, she cranked the Victrola, chose a record at random. Billie Holiday—she’d heard the name, didn’t know the music.
After carefully placing the needle, she heard a few seconds of scratchy, jazzy piano and a horn.
Then magic.
“Okay,” she mumbled as the music, that voice filled the air. “I get why I’ve heard the name when you recorded this about sixty years before I was born.”
Ms. Holiday, the Victrola, and all of it, she determined, needed to find a home in the music room. Once she figured out how to get it down there.
When she opened the first of a treasure trove of trunks, she actually squealed, then sighed in pleasure as she ran a hand over the lace and silk of the top dress.
Careful packing layers of tissue and the cedar lining had helped preserve the deep green material. She didn’t have a clue what era it represented, only that it was gorgeous.
Afraid to disturb it, she lifted an edge, saw more dresses beneath, just as meticulously packed.
They should go to a museum, she thought. She needed to have someone who knew fashion and eras come in, go through them.
“Maybe keep a few,” she considered. “This would kill at a costume party. And if the manor isn’t the spot for a killer costume party, where is?”
Sitting back on her heels, she realized it hadn’t taken three months. It hadn’t taken three weeks.
She’d already decided to stay.
One by one she opened trunks. More clothes—for the lady and the gentleman. Shoes and hats, all lovingly wrapped.
A museum, she thought again. Or if they weren’t worthy, at least a vintage shop.
“My great-great-whatevers wore all this stuff. They need to be seen, admired, worn again.”
She stood up, looked around.
On impulse, she chose another record. “In the Mood,” because she sort of knew it, and, well, she was in the mood.
Was it odd, she wondered, for her to stand here with the old music playing on the old machine while surrounded with so much from the past?