Shades of the Past (24 page)

Vanessa could barely contain her emotions as she paced the floor of the Photo House.  She'd not slept during the whole of the night.  Few at Sherringham had. 

At present, Adrian and Lawrence closeted themselves with Hereford's constable, Miles Grealey.  Cissy, Majel, and their husbands waited in the Grand Saloon for the men to emerge.  Meanwhile, Vanessa rushed against time to print out the negatives from the tower, as Adrian requested she do. 

Eyeing her watch, Vanessa moved to the table at the back of the room.  There, beneath the unshuttered window, she'd positioned the glass plates on the platinum-coated paper and exposed them to the full light of the sun.  Viewing them now, she estimated six minutes remained before the process would be complete.  She took up her pacing anew. 

Part of her wished Adrian had not been so quick to inform the authorities of their startling, late-night discovery.  Another part knew he had little choice.  Finding a skeleton walled up on the property was not something that could long be kept quiet—particularly when the victim was thought to have died elsewhere and in far different circumstances. 

Adrian was right—best they reveal their find at once.  To hide it even briefly would give the appearance of guilt.  Adrian had no desire to draw fresh suspicions or accusations on himself.  Seizing the initiative, he'd dispatched Timmons to Hereford before dawn with instructions both to inform the constable and to wire Cameron Kincaid at Scotland Yard.

Vanessa skimmed a glance to her watch as she came to stand by the open door.  Four minutes.  Gazing out into the courtyard, her thoughts shifted to Constable Grealey. 

She hadn't cared for the look of the man from the moment he'd arrived at Sherringham.  It wasn't his brevity of height or the fleecy muttonchops covering his jowls that she so disliked.  It was the gleam in his hard, marble-sized eyes and the gloating smile barely visible beneath his drooping mustache.  He looked every inch the cat ready to feast on its prey.  Lawrence had warned of the constable's eagerness to charge Adrian in his wives' deaths and to lock him away.  From the look of the hairy little man, she believed Lawrence hadn't understated the matter in the least.

Vanessa massaged her forehead then dragged her hand over her face.  Dr. Hambley had arrived with the constable to inspect the skeletal remains.  He then conveyed them to Hereford for further examination.  Before he left, he confirmed to all—Olivia had died from a broken neck.

Vanessa turned from the door and crossed to the back table once more, her watch showing only three minutes' time remaining.

The constable continued to bedevil her thoughts.  Despite his apparent zeal to find fault with Adrian, certainly Lawrence's account of events two-and-a-half years past must now be called into question. 

Last night, when she and Adrian returned to the manse, they informed Lawrence of their grisly discovery.  He appeared genuinely shocked.  Still, he stood by his original description of Olivia's flight with her maid and the subsequent misfortune at Devil's Hairpin.
 He found it unfathomable that Olivia should now be found sealed in a wall in the Abbey Ruin.  Again and again, he asked of the identifying details, proving the remains to be hers.

Since Lawrence appeared distraught, Adrian chose not to question him about his presence in the tower study late that fateful night.  Nor did he mention the photograph Vanessa had taken of the staircase there or their ghostly companion who guided them to the ruin wall. 

Later, Adrian explained his intentions to her in private.  Once the authorities had arrived and departed Sherringham, he would convene the family and disclose all to them including the revelations contained in the photographs.  He did not plan to share this information with the constable or his men.  It would only complicate matters and likely be regarded a hoax. 

Vanessa had sensed the dark concerns crowding in on Adrian as they spoke into the early hours.  Officially, Olivia's death had been recorded as an accident—despite the faulty axle on her carriage.  But the discovery of her remains, walled into the ruin, could only point to one thing—murder.

It also brought with it a thousand questions. 

Vanessa sighed tiredly as she gazed on the second hand, sweeping over the markings on the face of her watch.  Hopefully, the photographs would resolve some of the questions.  But they wouldn't answer all of them. 

Even if a plausible explanation could be found for how Olivia either departed the carriage prior to the crash or survived it and returned to the manse, what of the Marrable jewels that disappeared that night?  And why did the body found in the wreckage wear Olivia's ring?

Vanessa directed her attention to the prints, the processing time complete. 

Removing the glass negative from the square of Platinotype, she gazed on the developed photograph.  And smiled.  Quickly, she removed the second plate from the adjacent paper.  She'd judged the timing correctly and, thanks to the paper's superior quality and tonal range, the details in the prints were truly remarkable.  She and Adrian might have their answers after all—leastwise some of them.

Vanessa reached for the photograph showing the interior view of the tower study.  Her interest drew immediately to the spiral staircase and the distinct but transparent figure sprawled over the bottom steps. 

The woman's head angled awkwardly, facing away from the viewer, her features not clearly visible.  Still, the tonal values of her hair and dress were consistent with the shade of Olivia's red tresses and the yellow-gold gown in which she'd been found.  Then, too, there was the figured design of the gown's fabric and the lavish lace, spilling from elbow-length sleeves—identical to that which clothed Olivia's remains.

There could be no doubt.  Olivia had died, not at the bottom of the ravine consumed by fire, but in the tower study, from a fall she'd suffered on the staircase. 

The event must have happened that same night, Vanessa concluded.  Olivia had disappeared at the time of the accident and had never been seen again.  But was her death an accident, or had she been deliberately pushed?  And who sealed her into the wall?

Remembering the other photograph waiting on the table, Vanessa took it up and glanced on the ethereal figure standing before the tower door.  The facial features appeared clear and distinctive enough for Vanessa to identify the woman as Olivia, appearing much as she had in her wedding photographs.

Everything became plain to Vanessa now.  Olivia had led her to the box of stereographs so that, when Vanessa printed out the exposures, she could easily recognize Olivia, not only as the entity accompanying her, but also as the figure on the staircase.

Vanessa carried the photographs to the long worktable where she added them to the prints taken at the Tudor gallery.

Lady Gwen had always claimed spirits could communicate across dimensions if an urgent need existed.  The thought struck Vanessa that there had been no further contact from Olivia since Adrian opened the wall at the ruin. 

Perhaps, she felt she'd fulfilled her restless mission and returned from whence she came.  On the other hand, her remains had yet to be properly laid to rest and, in fact, had been removed to town. 

The fine hairs lifted on the back of Vanessa's neck.  Wary, she drew her gaze over the room.  If Olivia's spirit hadn't followed the good doctor into Hereford, quite possibly she yet lingered somewhere nearby.

»«

"I
told
you, constable, I left Sherringham that night at approximately ten in the evening and rode straight for London."

Constable Grealey crossed his arms over his thick, barrel chest and pulled thoughtfully on the whiskers covering his cheek.

"Let me see if I have the right of it, your lordship.  You arrived mid-afternoon by train—bringing no luggage—and after a disagreement with your wife, rode horseback—in the dark of the night—all the way back to London.  Is that correct?"

"Yes," Adrian snapped, his temper flaring at the note of ridicule in the man's voice.  "That is why I could not be reached for several days.  The wire informing me of Lady Marrable's death awaited me on my arrival."

The constable's hand fell away from his woolly jowl and he began to pace a short path in front of Adrian while staring at the tips of his boots.

"As I see matters, you arrived in Herefordshire with no intention of staying beyond that day.  Elsewise, you would have brought a trunk or two of luggage."

"I don't deny it."

"Then you will also acknowledge you did not obtain a return ticket to London by rail and, thus, were bound by no set schedule.  Thus, relying upon your own means of transportation, you could depart Sherringham anytime you chose."

"Your point being?" 

The constable stopped his pacing and pivoted to face Adrian.  "My point being, you had ample time to tarry about the grounds unseen, even after others believed you to be gone.  You had not only time, but opportunity, to do away with your wife and conceal her body in the folly wall."

"Damn it, Grealey, I did away with no one!" Adrian blazed, his voice rebounding off the walls as he clenched his hands to fists.  "I would never have killed my wife, no matter how angry I became with her."

Grealey's brows rose as did the right side of his mustache, his mouth quirking into a half-smile beneath. 

"And you were angry, were you not?  According to reports, it was no small disagreement in which you and Lady Olivia engaged, but a raging fight—a fierce shouting match that could be heard for hours and at differing locations within the manse." 

He paused long enough to withdraw a small, battered notebook from his vest pocket, then began thumbing through the pages.

"You'll remember, I interviewed Sherringham's servants at the time and procured their statements.  I have descriptions of some rather costly vases and marble busts being smashed.  And, yes, here it is—one servant overheard you threaten Lady Olivia with divorce."

   "That is none of your business," Adrian growled, turning away from the odious little man and glaring out a nearby window.

"It
is
my business when threats turn to crime.  You see, by another account, I know Lady Olivia made her own threats.  She vowed to fight you publicly and steep you in scandal, didn't she?   She claimed you would
never
be free of her.  That left you with a knotty problem, did it not, your lordship—ridding yourself of an unwanted wife?  But then, it's a problem you've solved before."

"I did not kill my wives—either one of them!"  Adrian shouted, swinging around, and lunged for the man.

Lawrence lunged too, rapidly interposing himself between the two and restraining Adrian.  "He's baiting you, brother.  Lay a finger on him and he'll give you a personal tour of Hereford's cell block."

The constable shifted his beaded eyes to Lawrence.  "Ah, the faithful brother who clings to a story increasingly difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile with emerging facts.  Are you so certain you saw the viscountess fleeing with her maid the night of the accident, and not someone else?"

"It
was
Olivia, I tell you!" Lawrence barked back, his face reddening with anger.  "The two women rushed to the stables and drove out minutes later in Lady Olivia's personal carriage.  I recognized the viscountess by her clothing."

"But you didn't actually
see
her face?" the constable pressed.

"I've explained before, she wore a long, hooded mantle—of ivory satin and trimmed with marten.  I'd seen her wear it on a dozen occasions."

"And yet, the mantle wasn't discovered with her remains.  Or am I wrong?"

Adrian exchanged a glance with Lawrence, then shook his head.

The constable pulled at the end of his wilting mustache and began to pace a slow circle around the two men. 

"Refresh my memory, Mr. Marrable.  Are you absolutely sure the carriage did not slow before reaching Devils Hairpin—say, long enough for Lord Marrable to intercept his wife and force her from the carriage?"  He gave a shrug.  "After all, she was in the course of carrying off the renowned Marrable jewels."

"I did nothing of the kind!"  Adrian snarled, unable to remain silent any longer.  "No one knew the jewels were missing until the following day.  It was Timmons who made the discovery."

"Your manservant?  How convenient," Grealey said dryly.

Lawrence stepped toward the man.  "In answer to your question, for once and for all, the carriage did not slow or stop at any time, nor did I observe Viscount Marrable riding about anywhere on that black beast of his.

"Black?  No, I imagine you couldn't see him at such a distance, at night, on a black horse."

The constable slipped his watch from his waist pocket then gave his attention to Adrian. 

"You are fortunate indeed, your lordship, to have such a
supportive
brother.  And yet, despite what you've told me, I must wonder what prompted you to open the wall at all, or precisely where you did."

"Call it a sixth sense," Adrian returned in an even tone.  "But you might better ask, if I was guilty of my wife's murder, why I would risk opening the wall and suffer the insinuations and charges sure to be leveled at me—as you do now?"