Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil (Aunt Dimity Mystery) (12 page)

I hated to interrupt what must have been the high point of her day, but Guy seemed relieved to see me. He nodded stiffly to Nicole and hastened to his Rover before she’d finished saying good-bye.

“What’s the rush?” I asked, climbing into the passenger’s seat. “We’re only going to Blackhope. Would it’ve killed you to spend a few more minutes with Nicole?”

“It might have.” Guy’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

I glanced at him sharply, then turned my head away, abashed by my own clumsiness. I’d been so diverted by Nicole’s crush that I’d given no thought to Guy’s feelings.

“I’m sorry, Guy. I didn’t realize—”

“There’s nothing to realize.”

“Right,” I said, but he wasn’t fooling me. The raw pain in his eyes had betrayed the pain in his heart. Guy Manning was in love with a woman who was, by virtue of a slender band of gold, beyond his reach.

The fog had cleared from the top of the plateau, but the
woods were alive with residual wisps that hovered like recumbent ghosts along the rain-blackened branches. The queer, sunless patch of forest seemed to exert a silencing spell over Guy and me. Neither of us spoke until we’d passed through the camera-capped gateposts and turned onto the main road.

“Mrs. Hollander is a tenderhearted, innocent young woman,” Guy said calmly. “Any man with a scrap of decency would be concerned for her well-being.”

I gave him a sidelong look. “Is there a reason to be concerned for well-being?”

“You must have noticed how ill-at-ease she is in her new home,” Guy replied.

“She thinks it’s haunted,” I told him. “She thought she saw the ghost at her window, and she hears strange noises at night—footsteps, odd creaks. Jared’s never there to hear them, so he thinks she’s imagining things. If you ask me…” I paused as my mind caught a whiff of an idea.

I silently replayed Jared’s casual announcement of his latest trip, and his callous reaction to Nicole’s fears:
How often do I have to tell you that it was all in your head, my dear? Old houses make noises. You must simply accustom yourself to them.

I recalled the weird laughter I’d heard in the hidden staircase, and the glowing eyes hovering in the dark, and began to feel angry.

“Guy,” I said, “stop the car.”

He pulled to the side of the road and switched off the engine.

“What does Jared Hollander do for a living?” I asked.

“A murky subject,” Guy replied. “He seems to spend a great deal of time at antiques fairs and auction houses, acquiring furniture for Wyrdhurst Hall.”

“Not what I’d call a lucrative profession,” I observed.

“Nor I,” Guy agreed. “Your point being…?”

“I’m getting to it.” I stared into the middle distance as the vague idea began to take on a recognizable shape. “What if Jared doesn’t actually go to Newcastle? What if he pretends to leave, hides his car somewhere, and sneaks back into Wyrdhurst?” My voice sank to a murmur. “It was a man’s voice I heard.”

“Where?” said Guy, clearly bewildered. “When?”

“Yesterday,” I told him. “I was on a hidden staircase in the library when—” I stopped short as another thought occurred to me. “Maybe he was waiting to ambush Nicole and got me instead.”

“
Who
was waiting to ambush Nicole?” Guy demanded.

“Jared, of course.” I turned to face him. “What if he’s
trying
to frighten Nicole?”

“Why would he—” Guy fell silent for a moment before observing thoughtfully, “Mrs. Hollander is a very wealthy young woman.”

“She’s a wealthy young woman with a delicate constitution,” I pointed out.

“And a lively imagination,” Guy added.

I folded my arms. “So here we have a wealthy young woman with a delicate constitution and a lively imagination spending one week out of every month virtually alone in a supposedly haunted house—a house
her husband
insisted on acquiring.”

“A house where strange things happen only when her husband is away.” Guy’s brow furrowed. “Interesting…”

We sat ruminating in silence while the rain pattered
gently on the windshield. When we spoke again, our words collided and it took a moment to sort them out.

“You go first,” Guy ordered.

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “What if
Jared
is masquerading as the Wyrdhurst ghost? What if he’s manufacturing queer noises, appearing at her window in the dead of night, using the legend to terrorize her? What if he’s trying to frighten Nicole intentionally?”

“It might be in his interest to do so,” Guy conceded.

“It sure would,” I agreed. “Because if he managed to drive Nicole nuts or”—I thought of my tumble down the stone stairs—“cause a fatal accident, God forbid, well, then…” I shrugged. “Jared would be a very wealthy man.”

“He’s a wealthy man already,” Guy reminded me. “He and Nicole are married. What’s hers is his.”

“That depends on what you mean by married,” I retorted. “They have separate bedrooms, Guy. I mean, the marriage hasn’t even been—” I broke off, appalled by my indiscretion, but it was too late.

“It hasn’t been
consummated?
” Guy exclaimed.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” I ducked my head. “Nicole told me in confidence.”

“It won’t go any further,” Guy promised. He looked stunned, as if he couldn’t imagine a man wanting to share Nicole’s life without sharing her bed.

“My point is,” I went on, “that Jared isn’t behaving the way a happy newlywed usually behaves. He leaves his wife alone way too often, and he doesn’t give a hoot about her fears. In fact, he keeps telling her they’re all in her head.”

“And she’s naïve enough to believe him.” Guy sighed wistfully, but his jaw was set as he pulled the cell phone from
his pocket. “Perhaps I will make a few inquiries. It might be instructive to learn whether or not Mr. Hollander has gone to Newcastle in the past three months.”

I suspected that the captain would know the brand of Jared’s socks by the time he was finished. And I knew for certain that, if Jared had hatched a scheme to gaslight his young wife, he’d live to regret it. If Dickie Byrd didn’t hang him out to dry, I would.

The Little Blackburn curved away to our left as the main road became Blackhope’s high street. The village was larger than I’d expected. The houses, shrouded with ivy and screened by shrubs, crept up the hillside to cluster safely above the swollen stream. The pinnacled church tower rose highest of all, overlooking the narrow valley from a lofty prominence. Near it stood a larger, castellated tower built of rough-hewn gray stone.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the tower.

“It’s a fifteenth-century pele tower,” Guy explained. “A fortified house, built to protect the villagers from Scottish raiders. You’ll find a castle in every backyard in Northumberland. They’re picturesque, but they weren’t built for decorative purposes.”

It seemed to me as though nothing in Blackhope had been built for decorative purposes. The houses had no color, apart from shades of gray. Black slate roofs slick with rain gleamed dully beneath leafless branches, and every window frame and door was a matching, dingy white.

I was a bit puzzled when Guy pulled into the graveled parking lot beside Her Majesty’s, the local pub. The pub in
Finch was where people went when they wanted to spread news as fast as possible—not the sort of place I’d choose for a private conversation.

But Her Majesty’s wasn’t the sort of place I’d have chosen for lunch, either. It was an unappealing two-story building clad in the ubiquitous gray stone. Even the pub sign lacked vibrancy. The primitive portrait of Queen Victoria in black gown and white lace headdress was as close to monochrome as made no difference.

“What an appropriate name,” I commented, as we sloshed our way to the front door. “Queen Victoria would like it here. Blackhope looks as though it’s in a state of perpetual mourning.”

“What village looks its best in late October?” Guy chided. “Come back in August, when the heather’s on the hills. It’ll take your breath away.”

The pub’s interior was as cheerless as its exterior. A dozen wooden tables with round-backed captain’s chairs filled the space between the fireplace and the bar. A bank of video games bleeped annoyingly in one corner, a well-punctured
dartboard hung on the well-punctured wall opposite, and the bar itself was Formica-topped, utilitarian, and not as clean as one might have hoped.

The air was blue with cigarette smoke and stank of stale beer. The only attempt at decoration was an arrangement of three framed photographs surmounted by a Union Jack on the wall behind the bar. The large color portrait of Queen Elizabeth II was flanked by slightly smaller portraits of Prince Charles and Prince William. There was no mistaking which side of the border Her Majesty’s was on.

The pub’s occupants, a dozen or so men, sat at the tables clustered near the fireplace. At one, a foursome was playing cards. I recognized two of the card players. I’d last seen them on the stairs at Wyrdhurst Hall, on their way up to the east tower to help Hatch retrieve Claire’s books. Before I could mention the coincidence to Guy, the man behind the bar called a greeting to us.

He was a veritable giant, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, blue-eyed, and blond as a Viking. A winning smile gleamed from beneath his shaggy blond mustache as he came over to welcome us.

“Captain Manning,” he boomed. “An honor to see you, sir. Here for lunch, are you?” When Guy nodded, the man bellowed toward the back of the pub, “James! Customers!”

I nearly ducked behind Guy when the giant stuck a shovel-sized hand in my direction.

“And who would this lovely lady be, sir?” he asked.

Guy turned to me. “Bart Little, may I introduce Ms. Lori Shepherd? Bart owns Her Majesty’s,” he added. “James is his son.”

“Ms. Shepherd, is it?” Bart Little’s ice-blue eyes flickered
over me from head to toe. “You’re the lady who had the accident, aren’t you? A near thing, that. It’s good to see you looking so well, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand.

“You all right up there in the big house?” he inquired solicitously. “All on your own, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said. “Mrs. Hollander’s with me, and so are the Hatches.”

“Still, it’s off by itself, isn’t it?” Bart cocked his head to one side. “No one’ll hear if you call for help.”

“Why should I need help?” I asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” Bart seemed to grow even larger as he leaned toward me. “The place is crawling with ghosts.”

I held my ground. “Ghosts don’t bother me, Mr. Little.”

Bart let loose a roar of laughter and planted his hands on his hips. “Ah, a plucky one. I love ’em when they’re plucky, don’t you, lads?”

The card players rumbled their assent and Bart motioned us toward a table near the rain-blurred front window.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll see what’s keeping James. Fiddling with his computer, no doubt. Gadget-mad, the lad is.”

“Mr.
Little?
” I said under my breath, as Bart exited through a rear door.

“I’d refrain from ironical comment, if I were you.” Guy helped me take off my jacket and pulled a chair out for me. “Bart’s heard them all and no longer finds them amusing.”

“He’s got a sense of humor, though,” I said, when we were both seated. “Couldn’t resist yanking my chain about the Wyrdhurst ghost. Wait till he finds out—”

“Here’s James,” Guy interrupted, shooting me a warning
look. Our suspicions about the ghost’s true identity were evidently not open for discussion in the pub.

Bart Little emerged from a door at the rear of the pub accompanied by a somewhat nervous-looking teenaged version of himself. The husky young man colored to his roots when I said hello, and studiously avoided making eye contact with me. I wondered what mischief he’d been up to when his father had summoned him. To judge by his shame-faced expression, he’d been downloading naughty pictures from the Net.

James took our food order, and Bart served our drinks, a cider for me, a lager for Guy. When Guy reached for his wallet, Bart waved him off.

“You’re willing to pay for my freedom with your life, sir. I wouldn’t dream of charging you for a meal. And there’s no need to signal for a fresh pint. I’ll see that you’re well supplied.” He gave our table a quick wipe and returned to the bar, to keep an eagle eye on our drinks.

Guy sampled his lager before taking a pen and a black notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. “Now, Ms. Shepherd,” he began, “about your accident…”

Guy’s interrogation was as far from confidential as it could get. He even raised his voice at times, to be heard over the video games: When had the accident taken place? Had I seen or heard anything out of the ordinary? Why hadn’t I heeded the warning sign posted on the gate? I was about to inquire politely why I needed to repeat answers I’d already given him during our drive to Wyrdhurst when he startled me by asking:

“Do you have any known enemies in the area?”

I eyed him doubtfully. “I’ve never set foot in the area, Guy. How could I have enemies, known or unknown?”

“You’ve no idea why anyone might try to kill you?” he pressed.

“Did someone try to kill me?” I asked, vaguely alarmed.

“Whoever left the gate open is guilty of attempted murder,” Guy said sternly, “and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Cheers.” He raised his glass and drank deeply, then returned the pen and notebook to his shirt pocket.

My steak-and-kidney pie looked tasty, but I might as well have been munching hay. I couldn’t get Guy’s final question out of my mind. He’d warned me from the start that someone might have left the gate open with malice aforethought, but he hadn’t intimated that the malice might have been aimed at me personally.

Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill me, nor could I think of a more haphazard way of committing murder. I hadn’t been carjacked or tricked into taking the military track. I’d turned onto it purely by chance. No one could have planned my crash in advance.

A thousand questions teemed on the tip of my tongue, but Guy forestalled them by asking after my work in the library. When I mentioned the two men who’d helped Hatch with Claire’s books, he suggested that I thank them.