Frederick had never seen anything like it.
As the last remnants of evening waned from the windows on one side of the dining room, a pale glow of light pulled everyone’s attention to the hallway just outside the room’s entrance. A wisp of smoke. A flash of light. And from out of the shadows and fog beyond the doorway came a figure in a pale gown.
A woman, though her features were unclear. Her dark hair fell loose about her shoulders, and one of her hands gestured to the left as if grasping something from the air.
“She came!” Laraby exclaimed, thin light drifting in from the windows behind him outlined his silhouette as he stood. “I knew the painting would bring her.”
A woman’s quiet cry pierced another few seconds of silence and then the ghost turned toward the table, pointing her finger at the crowd. Another gasp. A murmured exclamation, and someone—was it Paul—rushed toward the specter.
Paul made it to the threshold of the doorway, when the ghost redirected her pointing finger toward him. The man jolted to a stop as if seized by some invisible force. He reached for his throat, ushering up a noise like a man gasping for breath.
Frederick pushed to a stand. Paul grappled as if some invisible hand was squeezing the life out of him. Just as Frederick started forward, a shadow rushed from the right, tackling Paul to the ground.
The ghost quivered, raised her arms heavenward, and disappeared, leaving a smoky glow behind, before another flash of light shattered the shadows.
All went dark.
Something clattered to the floor to Frederick’s right.
“Are we going to die?” came a woman’s voice.
Was it Miss Benetti?
“No, not right now at any rate,” came Grace’s quick reply. “I imagine the ghost has already done her work, and if any of us are bound to die, it will have to wait for later.”
The woman’s whimpered response followed.
Well, for all her imaginings, Frederick was incredibly grateful Grace had such a practical head on her shoulders. Especially in times of ghosts or life-threatening dangers.
“George, Milo,” Laraby called from somewhere in the room, his words likely directed toward the servants. “Find the lanterns.”
As if insulted by such a request, the electric lights flickered back to life, brightening the room with such brilliance, it took a moment for Frederick to blink the view into clarity.
“Mr. Hopewell may need a doctor.” Jack bent over the man, likely the figure Frederick had seen rush from the right. Frederick joined him. “He has what appears to be a wound on his head.”
“What?” Laraby rushed forward followed by Frederick. “But … but no one was supposed to get hurt.”
“Do you have the foreknowledge to predict a ghost’s behavior, Mr. Laraby?” Jack ground out the question. “Another circus gift of yours?”
“It’s all for fun.” Laraby blanched, whispering, clearly grappling for a response. “I never supposed anyone would really—”
“I imagine no one was supposed to steal your painting either?” came Jack’s curt response.
All eyes moved to the spot where the painting had stood. The easel lay on the floor void of any Juliet.
“The painting?” Mr. Reynolds surged forward, his attention roaming the room. “What … but … this is preposterous. How—”
“A surprise we would not be dealing with if Mr. Laraby had heeded my warnings.”
“Right now, I think our focus should be on the injured man.” This from Miss Whitby, whose face looked almost ashen, her golden hair a bit unruly. She dropped to the floor beside Jack. “It’s not as if a ghost could really hurt him, is it?” She raised her gaze to Laraby. “Did you see?”
Something Frederick couldn’t quite place passed between the two before he turned back to the unconscious man. “I—I don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t you?” Jack countered, pulling back Mr. Hopewell’s collar.
“The Juliets are masterpieces.” Reynolds stepped closer. “Of course they’re important.”
“And this is a man’s life,” Miss Whitby countered and turned toward Jack. “Is he in real danger, Detective?”
Jack didn’t immediately answer. For some reason, he seemed frozen in place as he stared over at Miss Whitby. He cleared his throat. “Not that I can tell. His breathing is consistent and not shallow, but he’s taken a bump to the head.” He gave his own head a little shake and looked back at Frederick. “First things first. A doctor.”
Frederick took the cue from Jack and stood, turning toward Laraby. “Do you have a telephone to ring the mainland?”
Laraby blinked over at him, his hand running absently through his hair. “Um … yes, a telephone.” He cleared his throat and gestured absently toward the left, his gaze fastening on Paul’s still body. “There’s one in the hall,” he stated,
As if Frederick would know who to call.
“Your fiancée is Italian,” Jack groaned, sending Frederick a look as if to communicate how annoyed he was at the rest of the group’s lack of usefulness. Evidently, whatever had shaken the man wasn’t a problem anymore. “She will know who to phone. Send her.”
“I refuse to go into the hallway alone when we have just witnessed the visitation of a spirit, and evidently a spirit with designs to harm us.” The woman, donned in a slender gown of purple, shook her head. “I saw what the lo spettro did to Paul. Who is to say she is not waiting to hurt someone else?”
Jack murmured something unintelligible, but Frederick thought he caught the word ridiculous among the syllables. Evidently, the response almost sparked Miss Whitby’s grin, if the sudden tilt of her lips gave a clue.
Frederick moved his attention between the two and tossed the distraction away.
“Fine.” Laraby moved to Miss Benetti’s side, his palm to her back as he softened his voice. “I’ll send Zappa with you.”
“We need to search the grounds for anyone who may be trying to escape with your painting. The most logical conclusion is that they’d try to run.” Jack stood. “Have two of your men move Mr. Hopewell to a room where he will be more comfortable. Those same men are then on guard in the house.”
“You don’t plan to leave us, do you, Detective?” This from Miss Benetti, who stood at the doorway with Mr. Zappa. “How can you think we are safe after such a spectacle?”
“Spectacle, indeed,” Jack ground out the response. “I doubt the ghost”—he exaggerated the word—“has any designs on anyone else tonight.”
“I must agree with Jasmine, Detective.” Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward, her palm against her chest. “I have a great appreciation for suspense, but we’ve already witnessed one man wounded by this”—she waved one hand in the hair—“apparition, and if you hadn’t intervened, Mr. Hopewell could possibly have died.”
“I hate to place a wet blanket over such an excellent display of drama.” Grace offered a most comforting smile. “As an avid student of ghosts, I agree with Detective Miracle. For the present, our ghost has done her work.”
All eyes moved to his wife, and Frederick tilted his head to study her. What was she going to say next? He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. This seemed to be a constant question in his mind about his lovely bride.
Jack’s brows rose. Laraby’s eyes widened, but Grace merely raised her chin in a way to show she was quite proud of herself and stepped toward the dining room doorway.
“An avid student of ghosts?” Mrs. Reynolds tilted her head, staring at Grace as if she’d grown a horn from her forehead.
“Copious amounts of reading on the subject, as well as a real ghost hunt or two, does prepare one more readily than not.” Grace nodded. “And I must say it isn’t a usual occurrence for smoke to accompany the visit of ghosts, as far as my research is concerned, which begs the question, why did the smoke appear and how did it get there?”
“Who cares if there was smoke?” This from Mr. Reynolds, who moved to stand by his wife’s side, his body poised tall in excellent dramatic display. “A ghost attacked someone. Didn’t you see it?”
“We saw what we were meant to see. It was really fantastically done, don’t you think?”
“And Paul’s wounds are highly superficial,” Frederick added, the realization dawning. “A hit to the head enough to cause unconsciousness but not break the skin or create a depression.” So whatever wound he’d been given wasn’t serious or meant to kill. “It would have been fairly easy for someone to attack him from behind while the rest of us were focused on the ghost.”
Grace rewarded him with a smile. “I’ve seen a ghost like that appear in a few other places. The first time, of course, is always the most memorable, so I understand your high emotions.”
Frederick exchanged a look with Jack, the latter donning a slow, growing smile. His wife found the most uncanny times to be brilliant.
“But it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” Grace stepped toward the dining room threshold, gesturing toward the empty easel on the floor. “If I were going to steal a painting in plain sight, I’d choose a distraction to assist me, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you telling me there wasn’t a real ghost?” This from Mrs. Reynolds, who finally seemed to be catching up with the conversation. To her credit, she appeared more curious than incredulous.
“I highly doubt it, don’t you Jack?”
The detective moved from his place beside Paul, who was slowly being raised on a makeshift cot by two of the male servants. “It does seem terribly convenient, my lady.”
“And I’ve never read of a ghost stealing a painting before.” Grace nodded, slowly starting toward the hallway with Frederick on her heels. “Slashing it, perhaps, or taking up residence in the frame, but not making one disappear.”
“Which means we have been sufficiently distracted so that our thieves have gotten away with the painting.” Jack moved to the doorway. “Now we must make wise use of our time. Finch? Reynolds? Do you mean to remain inside?”
“Well, I’m not too certain,” came Mr. Reynolds’ grumbled response.
“Go on, Donald.” Mrs. Reynolds released an exhausted sigh. “I have no need of you in here.”
Mr. Reynolds didn’t so much as grimace at his wife’s dismissive tones.
“I have no intention of going through the dark in search of some thieves,” Finch announced, standing taller.
“Very well,” Frederick offered, holding the man’s gaze. “You can remain inside to keep the ladies safe from a revisit of our specter.”
Mr. Finch’s face paled. “This is ridiculous,” he growled. “But if you are in such need of extra hands, then I will stay near Miracle.”
As Jack directed the men, including a few willing servants, Frederick pulled Grace aside.
“You’ll stay inside, won’t you?”
“Of course.” She blinked those azure eyes up at him. “There’s much more to investigate in here than out there.”
His stomach tightened, and he pinched his lips closed. Perhaps, he should remain inside to protect the ladies.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be very cautious.” She nodded, as if the added movement would assuage his concern. “And as you’ll recall, I did bring my knife.”
Frederick had barely left her presence before Grace turned her full attention to the hallway outside the dining room. She’d only seen such a wonderful display of ghostliness on stage or when Grandfather purchased his own Magic Lantern, but she had a fairly solid idea of how the apparition appeared.
The smoke was truly just an extra benefit.
“What are you doing over here?” Mrs. Reynolds emerged from the dining room, her long blue gown trailing behind her. “Aren’t you concerned to be off on your own, Lady Astley?”
Grace offered a smile, a little distracted by the woman’s indulgence of purple eye powder, though purple had an amazing effect on hazel eyes.
“As I said, I think the theatrics may be over for this evening.”
Mrs. Reynolds scanned the hall. “And what do you plan to do now?” For an author of mysteries, the woman really ought to be the one coming up with those sorts of solutions.
“Looking for a few clues as to the creator of our ghost.”
“You … you think you can actually uncover who created the ghost?” This from Lydia Whitby, who studied Grace with those piercing green eyes.
“Well, since I don’t really believe in ghosts and have had a grandfather who adored experimenting with theatrical lighting, I have a general idea of how one might appear.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I am a detective after all.”
Miss Whitby’s smile fell. Served the woman right for dressing up as a boy on the ferry just to spy on perfectly decent people. Though Grace had to admit the idea held a little fun.
“May I join you?” Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes brightened, or perhaps it was the effect of the eye shadow. She stepped closer. “I’ve never encountered a female detective before, and I feel this could bode very well for my newest novel.”
Grace preened a little at the idea of not only being referred to as a detective but possibly inspiring a book character. Another dream to come true? Oh, it seemed much too generous of God! Detective, fictional inspiration, and romantically attached to the most wonderful man as they traveled the world solving mysteries? She almost sighed but thought that might give away too much of her fanciful nature.
And as a detective, she needed to appear a little more … composed?
“It would be helpful to have another set of eyes and ears, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Please, call me Dolores, won’t you?” She offered her gloved hand. “I know we are to become excellent friends.”
The woman was probably closer to Frederick’s age, likely older, with eyes even older still.
“Call me Grace.” Grace took the woman’s hand. “Friends are certainly a benefit in life, especially in life-threatening moments.”
Mrs. Reynolds’ smile stilled on her face before she seemed to recover. “Yes.”
“I would love to join you in your little hunt for clues.” Miss Whitby smoothed her palms together. “But I’m rather more concerned for the welfare of Mr. Hopewell than the pretension of a ghost hunt. If you’ll excuse me.”
Grace followed the woman with her gaze as she left the room. Her blond hair had come loose from its rather tight coiffeur from earlier. Perhaps she had unruly curls like Grace.
And she’d been much more playful and jovial at the table earlier. But now? Well, she seemed … angry? Of course, she was upset about the painting’s disappearance, but something seemed odd in her sudden change of demeanor. Could it be her concern for Mr. Hopewell?
“So what do you glean from our current situation, apart from a distraction to steal the Juliet?”
Grace pulled her attention back to the woman. Dolores’ soft accent gave off a comforting sound. Gentle, in contrast to her vibrant appearance, and curled with tones Grace couldn’t quite place. Some English, maybe? But not quite all.
Grace began walking about the periphery of the hall, reimagining the ghost’s placement. “A trick of mirrors and light, I’d guess.” A haze from the smoke still hovered in the air. “And there should be a pot of some sort nearby. The thieves would need glycerin and water to create such smoke as we saw, so they’d need a large container in which to mix the solution.”
“How remarkable.” Dolores followed, tugging a notebook and tiny pencil from her pocket. “Smoke and mirrors truly do come into play.”
Grace appreciated a good note taker. The fact that Dolores was taking notes on what Grace said just made things all the more delightful.
A ceramic pot used for a large indoor plant of some sort proved the culprit. Not only did the scent of smoke still cling to the area around it, but a small bit of residue also waited at the bottom of the pot. She wondered if the thieves had planned a better cleanup job but were thwarted by Paul’s interruption.
“I’d imagine they’d created a Pepper’s ghost, which means there should be a sheet of …” She tapped what looked to be the space within an empty doorway. “Glass for the reflection.”
“What do you mean?” Dolores moved to Grace’s side, taking in the sheet of glass wedged into the bottom half of the open doorway. “Some sort of reflection off this created the ghost?”
“Yes. My grandfather loved making them.” She studied the direction the glass was angled. “One time he terrified the gardener to such an extent, the man quit the next day. Needless to say, Grandfather didn’t create any more Pepper’s ghosts for the staff, but if you were family, you always got one for your birthday. My sister, Lillias, hated the tradition, but I always assumed that’s where I developed my fascination for ghosts. One time, he even produced a ghost dog. I think that was his favorite.”
Dolores’ eyes grew wider, and she barked out a laugh. “Your grandfather sounds as if he was a rather unique man.”
“Oh yes. He was born in the mountains near where I grew up and became rather rich through hard work and … creativity.” Grace didn’t think sharing some of her grandfather’s more nefarious endeavors would bode well for the current situation. “I do so hope I am able to do half the things he did in his long life. Everything except sea bathing in his”—she cleared her throat—“well, less than he ought to have worn.” Grace kneeled down to examine the glass, the angle fixed to such a degree its trajectory pointed toward a narrow door on the other side of the hallway. A narrow, poorly lit hallway. Perfect. Much less obvious and would allow a quick, shadowy getaway for possible thieves. “I think we may have our spot.” She marched to the closet door. The slight opening only showed darkness.
Grace drew in a deep breath and carefully placed her palm over her chest so that her fingers would have quick access to her dagger.
“What are you doing?” Dolores whispered behind Grace.
“Don’t worry.” Grace took another step. “If I’m right, the thieves are gone.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“We’ll be forced to fight them.”
“We?” Dolores squeaked just as Grace kicked the door open to reveal a small closet.
An empty small closet, except for a crumpled bunch of cloth on the floor and a dark wig.
Grace reached down and gathered up the cloth, shaking it out to reveal an old-fashioned gown.
“That … that is what the ghost was wearing.” Dolores’ voice shook. “But now there isn’t a body to go with it.”
Grace held up the gown in one hand and the wig in the other. “I highly doubt there is a ghost roaming the halls dressed in what my grandfather wore to sea bathe. And do you really believe a ghost needs a wig?” Grace spun around and peered down the narrow hall. A cool breeze, tinted with sea, rushed from the direction. “Let’s see where this leads.”
“Are most female detectives as curious as you?”
Grace turned to the woman, blinking. “I don’t know a great number of female detectives in real life, only in fiction, but most of them must possess some curiosity to be good at their jobs, I should think.” Grace dipped her head toward Dolores. “Much like an author.”
Dolores blinked. “Oh yes. Of course.”
The hallway grew darker, colder, with rooms closed off on either side. A sense of emptiness cloaked the chilled air, rooms left too long without the warmth of life. Grace swallowed against the thought. She was incredibly good at talking herself into near-hysteria.
They came to a door, open wide, that led out to a stone balcony stretching over endless sea.
“This must be how the thieves escaped,” Grace suggested, peering out into the darkness. This side of the house was poised near the edge of a rocky cliff that dropped hundreds of feet down to the sea. For some reason, thoughts of Dracula climbing up the cliffs to his mysterious castle came to mind. But this place was much too beautiful and white to be the home of a vampiric sort of villain, of course.
“How?” Dolores questioned, peering past Grace to look over the balcony’s ledge. “It’s a sheer drop!”
The question didn’t help the Dracula thoughts, but Grace made sure to keep her facial expression poised. She stepped out onto the balcony, which stretched the length of the house on this side, easily leading to doors or windows through which the thieves could have gone.
A shiver trembled up Grace’s neck. Yes, it was.
“Likely they found a way back inside from the veranda.” Grace gestured toward the length of the porch. She drew in a breath and turned around. “Which means, our thieves may never have left the house at all.”
“They’re still inside?” Dolores’ eyes grew wide again, her voice dropping. “With us?”
“Wouldn’t that make the plot even better for a story? All the suspects closed up together?”
“I suppose so.” Dolores drew in a shaky breath and attempted a smile, glancing behind her toward the dark hallway. “But I must say I prefer my intrigue in fiction.”
“It is usually much safer there,” Grace muttered, giving the veranda another look. Most of the doors to reenter the house led along to her left. Which rooms waited there? And were the thieves still hiding among those rooms? Or had they returned to the party as if nothing were amiss? And if they had returned to the party, they must have stored the painting somewhere.
“We should probably let the men know what we’ve found.” Grace stepped back into the house, Dolores on her heels.
“A very good idea.”
For a mystery writer, the woman didn’t seem to think very clearly on matters like thieves and dangers. Of course, Grace had imagined much worse scenarios than this, which likely helped her keep a clear mind. At least in this scenario, there were no sea monsters. That particular one always made her feel quite prickly on the inside.
Dolores started down the hall with Grace trailing behind. But the thieves couldn’t have gotten very far carrying a painting that size. So they may have needed to stash their prize somewhere to come back for it later and left the outside door open as a ruse.
Grace stopped. One door stood the slightest bit ajar, and the faintest light from windows landed on a bookshelf.
Dolores looked back at her. “Are you all right?”
Grace flashed a glance to her and then back to the door. “Yes, I’m going to check on a hunch.”
Dolores followed her attention to the door. “A hunch?”
“Please, go ahead, Dolores.” Grace ushered her forward. “The men need to know what we found. I’ll join you shortly.”
She hoped.
“And I don’t want to waste our window of opportunity, as you well know. The longer the time between the crime and the apprehension, the more difficult the mystery has a tendency to become.”
“But … you don’t want to go alone, do you?” The woman peered from Grace back to the door. “In there? It doesn’t seem like a very safe place.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve been in much scarier places than that.” Grace smiled to reassure her. “I fell into a freshly dug grave once. It’s surprising how far a fall that really is. It’s one of the first times I realized the value of ropes.”
The woman’s lower lip dropped by slow degrees.
“But that was nothing as terrifying as getting stuck inside a sinking barrel in a river. If you’ve never been stuck in a sinking barrel, don’t wish for it.”
Dolores pressed her fist to her chest. “Good heavens.”
The poor woman looked horrified. Perhaps Grace had gone too far. How could she reassure her?
“But don’t worry.” Grace waved toward the room. “I shall only take a peek. It’s always a good idea to look for clues while we can. Besides, this room has books. If I’m trapped for some reason, at least I’ll have something to read.”
Dolores’ eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, as if she wasn’t quite certain what to say next.
“And you can tell the others where I am.”
Dolores’ smile resurfaced in a strange, frozen sort of way, and she dashed off, her gown flowing behind her in elegant waves.
Grace drew in a breath and looked both ways down the hallway before she reached into her bodice and pulled out her little dagger. She didn’t really expect to need it, but the feel of the metal in her hand boosted her confidence a bit.
In fact, she felt very sleuthish.
With a nudge of her foot, the door creaked open to reveal a study of some sort. Pale sunset gold slipped between half-closed curtains, bathing the untouched space in soft light. The room reminded her so much of her first view of the east wing in Havensbrooke when she’d arrived in England. A slight chill skittered up her arms. And that place had introduced consecutive opportunities for adventures since.
Grace didn’t notice a switch for electric lights, but since the rest of the villa boasted such, there had to be one somewhere.
A sheen of dust-covered furnishings of an older fashion scattered across the room, but the most beautiful sight were the rows of abundantly stocked bookshelves. How a room like this remained untouched, Grace couldn’t fathom. She pulled her gaze from the shelves, feeling a bit lonely for those unloved books, and scanned the room with what light the fading horizon provided.
Nothing seemed out of place.
A door to Grace’s left, likely a servants’ door from the way it blended into the wall, stood slightly ajar. With a look toward the hallway, Grace tiptoed to the hidden door. It opened into another room, which appeared even more vacant and unused than the first.
And darker.
Grace moved to one of the windows and pulled back the heavy curtain enough to douse the room with a little light. Dust puffed from the movement, inciting a few coughs and stinging her eyes.
She wiped at the ready tears and blinked the room into better view.
A rocking horse stood forlorn in one corner. Two high-backs waited by a blackened fireplace. A few dolls poised on a settee stared back at her with lifeless eyes. She stepped away from them fairly quickly. How could something as pleasant as a doll take on a very different appearance in a shadowed, empty room?
At one corner of the room stood a magnificent wardrobe and beside it a beautiful carved trunk. A table stood in the center of the room, almost as if beckoning a passerby to stop and appreciate its offerings.
Grace obeyed, drawing close and squinting into the hazy shadows. A row of framed photos lined the table. One of a little girl on a bicycle. Another of a boy and a dog. A larger one with six people. An older man and woman, a younger couple, and two children. Tingles shot over Grace’s scalp and neck as she peered closer, gently taking the latter photo up in her hands.
Were these the Accardis? Her attention fell to the children. Were those the lost grandchildren?
Suddenly, a creak sounded behind Grace.
Before she could turn, a hand covered her mouth, cloaking her attempt at a scream. She fought against thick, strong arms, tightening so much, she dropped her knife. One elbow landed with enough force to loosen the man’s hold for a second, but before Grace could take a step, she was captured again. She struggled as he lifted her off the ground, taking advantage of her long skirts to wrap them like a mummy against her legs so that her flailing kicks failed to help her at all.
The man threw her down. Pain shot up her back and temporarily stole her breath. Within a second of landing, some sort of lid closed down upon her and doused her world into darkness.