Singled Out (10 page)

‘Neither was I,’ he said thoughtfully, setting his candle lantern down on a little side table and regarding me through narrowed eyes. A trick of the flickering light made them glow aquamarine again, and his expression was so gloweringly unpleasant that the cupboard began to seem almost the better option.

‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I’m C-cass Leigh, a local horror writer, and I’ve got permission,’ I stammered, unable for a few long minutes to drag my eyes away from his: and it wasn’t just because I was mentally registering all the dark, edgy, don’t-mess-with-me vibes he was radiating either, but because I felt an unexpected and scary tug of attraction.

It didn’t seem to be mutual, for he frowned down at me and said: ‘You look familiar … but where from?’

‘Perhaps you’ve seen my picture on a book jacket?’ I asked hopefully. That picture was
gorgeous.
It didn’t look like me in the least, really. Even my hair looked inoffensively black instead of its real dark dried-blood colour.

‘No, I think I saw you near the graveyard last night,’ he said slowly. ‘In that cloak, too. But weren’t you wearing teeth?’

‘I still am, all my own.’

‘No, pointed ones. You’re a part-time vampire?’

‘Yes, and I’d just done a Crypt-ogram.’

‘Cryptogram?’ he exclaimed incredulously. ‘Are you trying to tell me you were doing puzzles in the graveyard?’

‘No, of course not – it’s like a singing telegram. You get dressed up and do birthday parties and stuff.’

He regarded me narrowly. ‘So you’ve been doing one tonight, then?’

‘No, why –? Oh, you mean the cloak? It’s just so warm, and although it’s a bit much for everyday I do love purple velvet. Why wait until I’m old to wear it?’

‘Why indeed?’ he said dryly.

‘So what’s
your
excuse for that get-up?’ I inquired coldly.

Not that the half-open shirt and close-fitting knee breeches didn’t become him: he had a powerful frame even if he did seem to be pared down to sinew, bone and whipcord. You couldn’t imagine anything less spectral if you tried.

‘I don’t need an excuse for being here,’ he said loftily. ‘But if you must know, I got this outfit through a friend who does historical re-enactment, and I was just trying it on.’

‘Oh yes? Something for the dressing-up box?’ I said politely. ‘You know, my friend Orla Murphy who runs Song Language would employ you like a
flash
if she saw you dressed like that.’

Though come to think of it, I’m not sure what we could market him as. Historical Totty-ogram? The Laughing Cavalier? (Not that I’ve seen him even smile yet. His is not a face formed for laughter, but would look well standing by a gallows.)

‘I wanted to get into the spirit of the place – only when I saw you, there seemed to be more spirit than I’d bargained for.’

‘Oh, I see!’ Illumination dawned. ‘Jack’s been selling multiple tickets, and you’re a ghost-hunter too?’

‘No, I’m not a ghost-hunter, but I might have known you’d be one of the supernatural weirdoes,’ he said disgustedly. ‘And would that be Jack Craig, he of the missing valuables and empty lodge?’

‘What? Which missing valuables?’ I asked, confused.

‘I’ve been here since last night going over the inventory, and your Jack Craig seems to have made off with every small portable valuable in the house – and a Roman statue of Diana from the rose garden.’

‘Not my Jack Craig,’ I corrected as I let this sink in. ‘So that’s why he wouldn’t let me come before, in case I noticed anything suspicious! I suppose he got wind of you arriving and shoved the key through my door on his way to pastures new?’

Another thought struck me: ‘And perhaps by “tonight” he meant last night, before you came? Only of course I didn’t see the key till much later, and thought he meant tonight. He was probably only trying to do me a good turn.’

‘He certainly hasn’t done me one! I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?’

‘No, sorry. Are you from the solicitors? You don’t look like one!’

He looked at me rather strangely: ‘You mean, you really don’t know who I am?’

‘No. Should I?’ I said, though now I came to think of it he
did
look sort of familiar until it occurred to me that he had the same sort of bony face as mine, with deep-set eyes and straight brows, only his was more gaunt. I’d have looked haggard, but he looked haunted and interesting in a hungry sort of way.

‘Are you Irish?’ I demanded. ‘Only Orla always says I look Irish, and you’re a bit like me – though I haven’t got your nose, thank God,’ I added devoutly.

‘What?’ he said, looking strangely disconcerted. ‘Of course I’m not Irish!’

‘Neither am I.’

‘Fascinating! Spare me a list of all the other places you don’t come from! And what’s the matter with my nose, anyway?’

‘It’s a bit beaky,’ I said with a slight shudder, though the fine, hawk-like curve of it didn’t actually look out of place on his face.

‘Beaky! It is not —’ he stopped. ‘I don’t know why I’m standing here in the middle of the night arguing about noses with you! And it may interest you to know that I’m not a solicitor but Dante Chase, the new owner of Kedge Hall, and you’re trespassing.’

I peered more closely at him. ‘You’re Dante Chase? Aren’t you too young?’

‘Too young for what?’

‘To be old Miss Kedge’s cousin.’

‘I’m not her cousin, but I am the next male relative in line. I won’t draw up a genealogy for you just now, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day, and it seems destined to be even longer.’

‘What are you doing up at this time of night, then?’

‘I know it’s past my bedtime,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘but I’m allowed to stay up on special occasions.’

‘Well, don’t wait up for me, ‘I said brightly. ‘I can find my own way out.’

‘I was also giving these famous family ghosts a chance to show themselves until you interrupted me. I especially wanted to see poor blind Betsy run mad and stark-naked down this very gallery at midnight.’

I checked my watch. ‘You’re out of luck then. And anyway, ghosts don’t run about naked – at the most they’re drifting shadows.’

‘Or mere figments of the imagination? I know that, but you seemed pretty convinced a few minutes ago.’

‘Well so did you, when you first saw me. Who’s Emma?’

He frowned. ‘Did I say that?’

‘Yes.’

His straight lips compressed into an even thinner line, like you might have to prise them apart with a crowbar to get any more out of him, but I persisted: ‘So who is she?’

‘Was. Emma was my wife, but she’s dead. For one minute when I saw you I thought … not that you’re anything like her, really.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘It must have been a shock—’ I broke off and froze as a low hoarse muttering echoed down from above, followed by a heavy dragging noise. I couldn’t think of any rational explanation for
those
sounds, and my mind went blank with surprise.

My hand was still resting on Dante’s sinewy warm arm where the ruffles had fallen back, and the contact between us combined with that blank moment somehow allowed the door to his mind to open to me, releasing a dark-edged whirlpool of thoughts and feelings.

Mind-reading is not a gift I choose to exercise very much, but this time it came of its own volition and I recoiled, snatching my hand away and backing from him with horror: ‘Such guilt, pain and remorse – have you killed someone? Was it Emma?’

He stared back through narrowed, furious, suspicious eyes. ‘That’s all I need, a bloody mind-reader!’ he snapped, and reached out a hand for me.

The sounds from above, which had been rising to a sort of crescendo, suddenly ceased. Dante lunged, I jumped back – and then there was nothing under my feet and I was tumbling and bumping down the stairs, to fetch up against the wall at the first turn.

The Catherine wheel in my head suddenly went out.

Chapter 7: Things Go Bump

Cass Leigh writes of the unspeakable horrors of the night with such familiarity and understanding, that you would think she was on intimate terms with them …

Independent

I woke up with a thumping headache and a fiery trail of brandy burning its way down my throat.

You could say I coughed my way back to life, which is certainly not in the Haunted House Gothic Heroine style at all, but when I tried to pull away a strong arm held me fast and tipped another fiery dose down for good measure.

‘You’re awake,’ said a relieved voice that was at once strange and familiar, and I opened watering eyes to find myself lying on a four poster bed with the gallows face of Dante Chase looming over me, a half-filled glass in one hand.

‘Half-empty – or half-full?’ I muttered.

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ he demanded.

‘You’ll be missing a couple if you try and force any more of that vile stuff down me!’ I told him, struggling to sit up.

He frowned. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have given you alcohol if you’ve got concussion,’ he conceded.

‘I haven’t got concussion,’ I said coldly, fingering the back of my head. ‘Only a little bump. No thanks to you, though! I must have fainted from terror when you attacked me.’

‘I didn’t attack you,’ he snapped. ‘I was trying to stop you falling down the stairs!’

‘A likely story.’

‘You’ve been unconscious for about fifteen minutes – long enough to carry you up here. I was starting to get worried.’

He didn’t look worried, just tense, wary and irritated, and suddenly I recalled my involuntary lucky-dip into his subconscious. Was I in Bluebeard’s chamber?

The room was lit by a candelabra, the lantern, and a crackling open fire, and was strewn with what must be Dante’s belongings.

‘Where’s Guido?’ I demanded suddenly. After all, if I needed to make a speedy getaway there were all sorts of handy things in my bag I could use … practically a complete escape kit.

He stared at me. ‘Guido? There was someone with you?’

‘No – he’s my handbag.’

‘Of course he is,’ he said smoothly. ‘And he’s sitting right over there on the chair. Perhaps he could keep you company while I go for a doctor? You did bang your head on the wall, after all, and head injuries can be tricky.’

‘I haven’t got a head injury, just a bit of a bump – and you were holding up four fingers,’ I added as final proof ‘Terror made me faint. But really, I’m fine now.’

I began inching away from him across the bed. ‘I’ll just be on my way. Goodness, it’s late, isn’t it? You must be
dying
to go to bed, and here am I keeping you up … I wonder where my cloak is? Oh yes,’ I babbled, seeing it draped over the back of a chair. ‘Perhaps I could just borrow this little lantern to find my way out, and I’ll be—’

A large hand closed like a manacle over my wrist. My pulse went
berserk.

‘You did read my mind before you fell, didn’t you?’ he demanded. ‘I didn’t believe it was possible – but I saw your face change.’

‘No, of course I didn’t,’ I assured him, smiling nervously. ‘I can’t read minds, or crystal balls or anything else!’

He didn’t let go, but continued to look at me.

I searched for an explanation that would satisfy him: ‘I just … well, sometimes if I touch someone and I let my mind go sort of blank but receptive I get a kind of impression of what’s stirring in their subconscious,’ I admitted cautiously. ‘But I don’t know what they’re
thinking,
really.’

‘And you did that to me?’

‘I didn’t
do
it to you, I just happened to be touching you when that grisly noise started. And believe me, I’ve forgotten all about it already!’ I assured him brightly. ‘That noise—’

‘There’ll be some simple, rational explanation,’ he said shortly. ‘Which is more than can be said for you … although you really
didn’t
seem to recognise me when we met. But then, you’ve probably seen me on the TV or read about me in the papers and forgotten about it, except in your subconscious.’

‘I only watch horror films and videos on my TV, and I don’t read newspapers,’ I told him. ‘What were you in the news for?’

I sincerely hoped it wasn’t wife-murder.

‘I was a foreign correspondent for a newspaper,’ he said tersely. ‘Got caught up by FARC guerillas in Colombia about eighteen months ago and held hostage with another man – a photographer. I made it back out, he didn’t.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he said tightly. ‘He – Paul – wasn’t just another man, he was my oldest friend.’

His deep-set eyes weren’t looking at me, but at something hellish only he could see.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said inadequately.

‘And you were right about my wife, Emma: she was pregnant when I left for the trip, and dead when I got back.’

‘Then it wasn’t your fault she died, was it?’ I said, relieved.

‘According to her mother it was,’ he said bitterly. ‘Because I might have got her to hospital in time to save her if I’d been there. Emma thought if she got pregnant I’d give up the foreign trips and work closer to home instead, but she was wrong: so you see, I’m not a lucky person to have around.’

I eyed the distant door longingly.

‘Don’t worry, you’re safe enough with me,’ he said sardonically. ‘Only people close to me seem to meet a sudden end.’

He appeared to have forgotten he was still gripping my wrist, and my fingers were now turning an interesting shade of blue.

‘You know why seeing you gave me such a shock? I’ll tell you: Emma was so convinced there was life after death that she even made me swear when we married that if she died first I’d call her back – and she’d come. I knew it was all rubbish, but I promised anyway, and for a minute there I actually thought I’d got it all wrong.’

I eyed him narrowly, which he didn’t notice because all his thoughts were turned broodingly back into some dark place. He must really have loved his Emma.

His guilt had been strong enough to send me running: but then, everyone whose loved one dies feels guilty to some extent, or blames themselves, and coming straight after the hostage thing where he’d lost his friend, his wife’s death must have knocked him for six.