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MY THOUGHTS WERE STILL in a muddle as I turned to enter my bedchamber. It was patently clear that Nell knew nothing of what had taken place in the tunnel following the séance. Having spent the bulk of the evening either in her room, or out-of-doors, she was unaware of the constable’s arrival or the fact that her father had threatened my life and worse, had been arrested for murdering the footman and hauled off to gaol! Plus, given what I had learned from Mr. Sheridan a bit ago regarding the murder of the servant girl, Nell was also unaware that her own life was now in danger.
I should have told her everything, but . . . because the hour was so very late and she was so excited over having been granted additional time in which to freely search for the letters in her father’s bedchamber, I suppose tomorrow would have to do. Unless, of course, the footman’s death was declared an accident, but that did not seem likely. The truth of the matter would shatter Nell, for what would happen to her once her father was hanged for killing a man?
Oh, this had truly been a wretched day! And, parts of it were still spiraling out of control. But, I could see no point in traipsing after Nell in the dead of night to explain everything to her this instant. Consequently, since I was so weary that it felt as if my very bones ached, at the moment, I saw nothing for it but to take to my bed.
I could scarcely see in the dim light in my bedchamber, even though Tilda had thoughtfully left a lone candle burning for me. Because it had burned down to nearly nothing, I soon found it impossible to see well enough to extricate myself from the complicated folds of fabric pinned to the garment I wore beneath the veils. Although I hated to awaken my little maid, I also saw nothing for it but to tiptoe into her room to ask if she would please come and help me out of the knotted folds of fabric that were holding me captive. She voiced no objection and once I had been set free, I donned my nightrail and climbed into bed. A sleepy Tilda returned to her mattress on the floor, which I assumed she was sharing with Little Georgie, as I’d not heard so much as a peep or a mew from him.
When my head finally touched the pillow, I could not help thinking that this truly had been one of the longest and most wearisome days of my life. But, a part of it was also quite glorious. My dear Mr. Sheridan was no longer locked up! Praise God! The brave, heroic man who I . . . rather feared I might be coming to love, would not hang. Thank the dear Lord above for that!
* * *
MONDAY MORNING, 20 August 1821
Because I awoke feeling far more rested than I’d felt since this nightmare in Middlewych began, I decided to go down to breakfast the following morning rather than ask Tilda to bring up a tray for me. I did pause at Nell’s door, but hearing nothing from within, I assumed she was still abed so chose not to disturb her. Below stairs, however, I chanced upon Mrs. Crumble, who looked as overwrought as she had the previous evening after she learned the terrible news and had shown the constable into the kitchen.
However, moments before I entered the dining chamber this morning, the anxious woman drew me aside and in a low tone said, “Come this way, Angel.”
Wondering what could be amiss now, I followed her a goodly distance away from the dining hall before she stopped in her tracks, glanced about to ascertain if we might be overheard, then in a sharp tone, said. “I forbid you to breathe a single word to anyone regarding last night’s disturbance. It would never do for word to get out amongst my Psychical Society members that a murder took place in my home.”
I said nothing, although I did wonder why she had not been equally so fearful of alarming her guests if they learned of the murder of the servant girl on the estate grounds a mere two days ago.
“Yes, yes, I am aware that a village lass was beaten to death in the meadow, but that has nothing to do with me. I understand the girl had . . . got herself in an . . . unfortunate way and that her death had something to do with that. But I refuse to allow my guests to learn that one of our own has been accused of a crime so reprehensible as murder. It would simply not do! I have already spoken to the servants. On threat of dismissal not a one of them is to breathe a word to anyone regarding the footman’s demise. In fact, I took the liberty of putting forth the notion that James merely fell against the stone wall, hit his head and expired on the spot. And that is what I shall continue to say if anyone should dispute my claim.”
Saying nothing, I listened intently to her rather selfish motive for evading the truth.
“However,” the woman cast another anxious gaze back down the corridor from which the hum of her guests assembled in the dining chamber now emanated. “I have conceived a fabulous plan that will turn this unfortunate incident to my advantage. Here is what I want you to do now, Angel.” She leaned in. “Following breakfast, I want you to go back down into the tunnel . . . you may take along your maid, if you wish.”
I assume that concession was made due to the gasp that fell from my lips when she informed me that she wished me to enter the dreaded tunnel again.
“Once there, this is what I want you to do. Since we now know for a certainty that you possess the Sight, I want you to return to the exact same spot where the footman, er, where James, lost his life. Once there, you will quiet your thoughts and focus fully upon your memory of the young man’s face, or his voice, or whatever else you can recall about him. You must close your eyes and think only of him. Do you understand?”
“N-Not exactly, ma’am.”
Her intent gaze held mine. “I want you to conjure up his spirit, Angel! You are the only soul who has ever seen the Crumble House Ghost. We are quite fortunate now that . . . well, perhaps James is not so fortunate . . . but at any rate, I have conceived a plan whereby I can profit from the fact that another soul has lost his life in my home. I am certain you can understand what a boon it will be to me when I am able to boast of a second ghost haunting the premises. The footman who was murdered in the tunnel. I shall call my new ghost The Candlestick Footman and I shall publicize it to the hilt! Other Psychical Society members will flock to my door in search of not one, but two ghosts!” Of a sudden, her countenance brightened as I assume, another brilliant thought struck. “I do not believe the candlestick has yet been removed from the tunnel. Whilst you are there, Angel, you will retrieve the candlestick and position it near the very spot where the footman fell and drew his final breath!”
I continued to stare at the woman as if she had gone daft, even as she reached to take my now quite cold hands in hers. “But, w-why must I move the candlestick?” I breathed.
“Because it will add credence to the tale, of course! I trust I can count on you to do this one final thing for me, Angel. You have been such a great help to me these past two days. I will not ask a single other favor of you.” Her calculating smile widened. “I knew when I spotted you at The Pig With Black Ears Inn that the good Lord Himself had sent you to my doorstep. And, now, my good fortune multiples!”
At that point, the woman reached to embrace me, a hug that I most certainly did not return. I could not. What she was asking of me now was the outside of enough, it was far and away the most bizarre and ghoulish thing I had ever before heard from her. Every inch of me rebelled.
She drew back. “You truly are an angel. You are my angel.” She brightened. “Now then, shall we go into breakfast?”
Following Mrs. Crumble’s morbid proposal, I found I possessed little to no appetite, although I still fell in step to walk beside the woman whose mind worked in a more macabre fashion than I could fathom.
At the table, I woodenly managed to nibble a few bites of the blueberry scone I had delicately plucked from the delicious assortment of sugared tarts, apples, pears, and cheeses, plus coffee and tea spread on the sideboard. Throughout the simple meal, it did not surprise me when no one remarked upon the fact that both Mr. Nugent and his daughter were absent. Apparently not a one of them knew of the horrific crime that had taken place during the night and perhaps assumed the man and his daughter had already departed early this morning for home. I knew of Mr. Nugent’s true whereabouts, of course. As for Nell, I assume, after having spent the remaining hours of the night in a fruitless search for the letters, which were not in her father’s bedchamber, she was, indeed, still sleeping soundly in hers. Mrs. Crumble made no mention of either the gentleman or his daughter at breakfast.
In fact, the only thing on everyone’s mind today was that, before departing the premises, each guest would receive a fresh new psychical assignment, or even two or three, should anyone desire multiple adventures to be completed during the coming twelve months. To undergo new searches for hauntings and spectral sightings dictated exactly where each member would travel during the coming year, whereupon the results of their findings would provide the tales to be discussed when the group reconvened in a twelvemonth.
Because I fervently hoped to never again set foot in the village of Middlewych, nor to ever again cross paths with Mrs. Crumble (or a ghostly phantom or spectral vision of any sort on the stairs or anywhere else in the dead of night) I excused myself as the other guests excitedly filed into the parlour to receive their new assignments. My only purpose this morning, apart from heading back up the stairs and gathering my belongings in readiness to set out as soon as possible for London, was that I truly must find a way to speak with Nell. That I had not crossed paths with Mr. Sheridan this morning told me that he had, indeed, made good on his word to rise early and see to repairing our carriage today, which, to me, was an especially uplifting thought.
Making my way back through the long hallway from the dining chamber to the staircase, I became aware of and did appreciate the bright sunlight and crisp fresh air pouring in through the bank of windows in the parlour and wafting throughout the house. Today’s sunlight was in high contrast to yesterday’s gloom and doom and last night’s noisy storm. For a moment, I once again paused in the hallway to gaze at the assortment of paintings and artifacts hanging upon the wall. This morning’s sunlight was making a valiant effort to dispel the darkness that, to my mind, had suffused this house since I arrived. I again studied the painting of the pair of young girls I had spotted hanging on the wall yesterday when I passed this way. The brighter light in the corridor today rendered the subjects easier to see although both pairs of eyes continued to stare vacantly upon a point somewhere beyond my head. I had been unable before to clearly make out the names inscribed upon the tarnished plaque affixed to the frame above the painting. Today, I again attempted to read the words, but even as I stood on tiptoe, my efforts were to no avail.
Walking on, I returned above stairs and upon approaching Nell’s bedchamber door, I again paused, but did not rap as the deathly silence emanating from within told me she still had not yet awakened this morning. I had no idea when she finally took to her bed last night. It had been quite late when I finally fell asleep, and even I had lain abed longer than usual this morning. I did not wish to disturb her slumber now. Once I revealed the whole truth to the poor girl, she might very well find that complete rest and sound sleep would elude her for weeks to come.
Less than a sen’night ago, I had been deeply embroiled in the murder and mayhem at Medley Park, and all facets of that horrifying experience had still not left my mind. I finally awoke this morning feeling less anxious and more rested than I’d felt in a good long while, especially now that Mr. Sheridan had been set free and a return trip to Mayfair was once again within my grasp. The final two disagreeable tasks that must be attended to here before I could truly breathe easy was revealing the terrible truth to Nell and complying with Mrs. Crumble’s latest ghoulish demand. Sucking in a long breath, I told myself I may as well get the second gruesome errand behind me before I tackled the first.
When Tilda returned from below stairs carrying Little Georgie in her arms, I haltingly informed her of my new assignment.
“She wants you to . . . what?”
“Please, Tilda, just set Georgie down for a nap and come with me. This dreadful excursion will be got behind us before we know it and we shall never be obliged to think on it again.”
“Very well, miss.”
When Tilda reached for her bonnet, I told her to never mind, we were going underground therefore no one would see us.
We decided to go downstairs via the servants’ stairwell in order to avoid bumping into any of Mrs. Crumble’s guests who might be heading up, or down, the staircase at the front of the house. As the bulk of them would be departing today, I expected there would be a good bit of to-ing and fro-ing throughout the house, in the corridors and on the main stairs with maids and footmen carting down luggage and whatnot to waiting carriages or dogcarts on the narrow roadway in front. A few guests had arrived in their own conveyances, others would be hitching a ride to either The Wooly Lamb or The Mind The Ducks Inn in order to catch the Royal Mail Coach that traveled all over England and would eventually carry them to their destinations.
Once Tilda and I got below stairs, I further decided that I did not wish to creep back through the darkened tunnel once again in search of the very spot where the footman was felled. Instead I announced to Tilda that we would enter the tunnel from one of the outdoor entrances, which I understood were generally left open during the day in order to allow fresh air to stream into the underground passage.
As we set out to walk towards the entry site that I recalled from having visited the Tunnel of Terrors on the day of the Fair, Tilda said, “I ‘spect leavin’ the tunnel open all day would likely invite rats and such like to wander in. Rats likes to build their nests in dark places, don’t they?”
I shuddered. “Please, Tilda, do not remind me of the sorts of creatures we may, or may not, encounter in the tunnel. I would just as soon not think on what manner of unsavory varmints might be nesting there.”
“If’n ye’ do summon a spirit, miss, how will ye’ know if it’s James? You might be summonin’ the spirit of a dead rat, or one o’ its babies?”
My eyes rolled skyward, but I refrained from replying.
“When my brothers and me was little, we used to play with baby mice. They’s kinda’ fun ta . . .”
“Tilda, please! I do not wish to discuss mice, or any other sort of vermin, deceased or otherwise.”
Once we located the entrance, partially hidden behind a profusion of vines and other greenery, I carefully led the way down the steep stairs to the ominous cave-like enclosure below ground. Tilda followed close behind me.
Although we had to side-step several puddles left from last night’s storm, to my surprise, with bright sunlight now streaming into the tunnel from this and other openings, it was not nearly so dark and gloomy down here as it was both the day and night before. However, the increased influx of light did illuminate a tangled profusion of cobwebs and other debris, dead leaves and whatnot, left by all manner of insects and other creatures who called the tunnel home.
Tilda and I both shuddered as we looked about. I recalled a footman saying that the tunnel walls would be swept clean along the route from the séance chamber to the kitchen. Apparently this wing had not been touched. Reluctant to lift my eyes to survey the rock ceiling, I finally did so and fervently wished I hadn’t! Because the shafts of sunlight filtering in from above did not fully illuminate the top-most part of the cave, I am certain I spotted several pairs of eyes staring down upon us from out of the darkness. Bats!
“Do ye’ know where you’s a-goin’, miss?” The sound of Tilda’s voice seemed to echo throughout the narrow passage.
I shook my head. “No, not exactly,” I replied, hoping we had entered the same wing of the enclosure through which Mr. Nugent had entered last night.
I did recall it being near the junction of two distinct passageways that he had roughly clasped an arm about my throat before he began to shove me deeper into the far darker corridor towards . . . I was not certain where he meant to take me, but perhaps he was hoping to exit the tunnel where he had entered it, then force me into the house from the rear, and from there, on up to my bedchamber to retrieve the letters for him.
“I am grateful for the light filtering into the tunnel today,” I murmured, “still it is quite easy to become turned around down here.”
“I ain’t as frightened today as I was when us maids made our way through the Tunnel of Terrors at the Fair. There weren’t a great deal o’ light in here then either.”
“Oh!” I halted the instant I felt something touch my foot. Glancing down I watched as a spotted snake slithered across the toe of my slipper. I squealed with alarm.
Tilda’s head jerked around. “What is it, miss?”
Not wishing to overset Tilda, who would likely turn tail and run, I made a shooing motion with one hand. “A-a flying insect wished to inspect my nose.”
“Oh. I was hopin’ ye’ didn’t see a rat.”
Seconds later, I spotted a large, dark red stain upon the dirt-packed earthen floor. Pointing to the place on the floor of the tunnel where I was certain was the very spot where the footman fell, I said, “I believe this is the . . . where the . . .”
“Where James lost ‘is life?” Tilda supplied as she and I both stood and stared at the burgundy-coloured stain on the floor. “And, just there’s the candlestick.” She pointed a bit further on.
My head jerked up. “Where?”
Then, I saw it. Lying in the shadows a few feet from where the body would have fallen. “I wonder who put it here?” I mused aloud.
“Maybe the constable come back this mornin’,” Tilda suggested.
“But, would not Mrs. Crumble have known of it? She said I was to look for the candlestick and place it near where the footman . . . died.”
Tilda cast an anxious gaze about. “Are ye’ ready to go now, miss? Feels kinda’ scary in here to me. Or . . . are you a’wantin’ to . . . mutter some sort a’ summonin’ spell.”
I drew myself up. “I am unaware of any sort of incantation used to summon the spirit of a dead person,” I declared matter-of-factly. “All Mrs. Crumble asked me to do was place the candlestick near the spot where the footman fell and . . . make an effort to summon his spirit. Which is something I confess I have no notion how to do,” I concluded briskly. “Our work here is done, so . . . let us return to the house. I mean to pack up my belongings today, Tilda. As well you should. Come along.” I turned to go.
With no further urging, my little maid complied.
“What are you goin’ to tell Miz Crumble?”
“That I did as she asked. What she chooses to do from here on out is her affair. I shall never again set foot inside the tunnel.”
We hurried up the steep rock steps and out into the warm sunshine and green grass. We’d only gone a few steps, when suddenly an odd sort of heaviness assailed me.
“You go on ahead, Tilda. I believe I shall . . . walk a bit.”
“Very well, miss.” After a pause, she asked, “Shall I set out your valises for ya’?”
“Indeed, please do, Tilda. Thank you.”
When she disappeared into the house, I continued to follow along the stone path that would take me through the cloistered walkway beneath the arched treetops where Mr. Sheridan and I had strolled the day we arrived here. That seemed a very long time ago, although it had only been two days. Such a great deal had happened in so short a time. To think on it rather made my head swim. Two young people had lost their lives. And, another man would soon lose his for I could scarcely imagine how Nell’s father could escape punishment when it was patently clear he had murdered the footman.
An unbidden sob rose in my throat. How quickly and unexpectedly one could lose one’s life; all one’s dreams and aspirations shattered and gone forever. Yesterday at this moment, James had no inkling that before the day drew to a close his life would be snuffed out in so violent a fashion. And, the poor servant girl who had set out on a bright summer day merely to gather wildflowers in the meadow, then suddenly, without warning, her life was snatched from her. It was all so tragic and unexpected and to those of us left behind, it seemed vastly unfair.
Two days ago, I had also believed and feared that Mr. Sheridan was near to losing his life. Less than twelve hours ago, I very nearly lost mine. How thankful I am that both Mr. Sheridan and I are now safe, and that we shall be allowed to spend a few more days together enjoying one another’s company.
I vowed then to always remember to be thankful for my very breath on each and every morning when I awaken to a fresh new day, and that throughout the day, I will be grateful for the many blessings that come my way. To breathe fresh clean air is a blessing in itself and one I shall never, ever again, take lightly, or for granted.
Reaching the end of the cloistered walkway, I stood for a moment gazing out over the lush green meadow, it fresh and clean-smelling now that yet another storm had washed away the dust blowing down from the limestone hills onto the fields below. With the sun glancing off the leaves in the treetops, and onto the meadow below, even the buttercup petals sparkled like gold. My heart swelled with gratitude as I remembered those few delicious, stolen moments that Mr. Sheridan and I had enjoyed beside the stream in the meadow.
God willing, perhaps one day . . . in another meadow . . . he and I . . . I wrenched my mind from contemplating such longing thoughts and with a sigh, turned and made my way back into the house, only to come face-to-face with Mrs. Crumble as she entered the kitchen to confer with the cook. Spotting me, she lifted a finger presumably to alert me to the fact that she wished to speak with me and to wait until she had delivered her instructions regarding today’s luncheon menu to the cook.
“There will only be a few of us present for luncheon today. The bulk of my guests have already departed or will be leaving before the small meal is laid out. Place everything on the sideboard again, just as it was for breakfast. And, see that there is plenty of ale for the gentlemen.”
When the cook nodded assent and turned away to discharge her duties, Mrs. Crumble hurried to my side. “Come with me, Angel.”
She led the way back up the corridor towards the main stairwell, but because Mrs. Priddy and Mr. Littlebaum, and the lady who had been hanging after Mr. Nugent, were only just then descending the stairs, I was obliged to wait whilst they all exchanged pleasantries regarding the wonderful sen’night they had all spent here together.
“I do wish I knew where Mr. Nugent had got off to so suddenly,” exclaimed the attractive woman, whose name I had never learnt. “Will you please convey to him how much I enjoyed his company and remind him to write to me, will you, Mrs. Crumble?”
“Indeed, I shall, Mrs. Henderson; indeed, I shall! May you all have a pleasant and safe journey home. Good-bye, Mr. Littlebaum! Mrs. Priddy! I am so pleased you were both able to come this year! We had a lovely time, did we not?”
Mrs. Crumble waved her guests away as I hung back, partially hidden beneath the staircase, wishing now only to make my escape from this house. Or, at the very least, to return to my bedchamber.
Once the foyer grew quiet, Mrs. Crumble headed my direction.
“How did it go in the tunnel this morning, Angel?” She kept her tone low and conspiratorial.
I moved a small step from beneath the staircase. “As well as can be expected, madam.”
“Were you able to locate the candlestick?” she demanded.
“Indeed.” I nodded. “The candlestick was lying right there on the floor at very nearly the same spot where the . . . where a large pool of blood has seeped into the . . .”
Mrs. Crumble’s brow furrowed. “Are you saying that is where you placed the candlestick?”
“No ma’am, I found it already lying there on the floor near where the footman’s body would have fallen, judging from the blood stain . . .”
She drew back, her eyes wide. “Why, I wonder who could have moved it? Only this morning, I spotted the candlestick leaning against the wall opposite the entryway to the tunnel from the pantry . . .” Of a sudden, her jaw dropped. “My stars! The candlestick found its own way back to the very spot where the footman fell!” A hand flew to her breast.
The expression that appeared on my face, I am certain, was one of sheer . . . astonished . . . disbelief.
“Why, how simply marvelous! This adds greatly to the mystical tale I am fabricating, er, I mean that I have been instructed to tell.”
I did not dare inquire what other worldly voice had instructed her to conjure up and forward such a preposterous tale.
“The candlestick of its own accord returns again and again to the very spot in the tunnel where the footman lost his life!”
Because I was certain now that the woman had indeed gone mad and also feared that she was about to embrace me again, I eased several additional steps beyond her grasp. “I shall be going back up to my bedchamber now, ma’am.”
“Wait! There is one more thing I must ask you to do for me, Angel. You must go back into the tunnel, retrieve the candlestick and move it to . . .”
“No! No, Mrs. Crumble! I shall not enter the tunnel one more time. It is far too distressing for me. I very nearly lost my life there. Perhaps you are unaware how frightening it is to have a mad man hold a knife to your throat. I am not keen to be reminded of that experience again for the sake of embellishing your grizzly tale. If you wish to test whether or not the candlestick moves of its own accord, you are free to place the candlestick anywhere you like and check its progress yourself.” I thrust up my chin. “I shall not enter the tunnel ever again! I have done all I intend to do for you, Mrs. Crumble. I have other matters to see to before I take my leave of this . . . this house of horrors!” Very nearly on a run, I hurried past her. “I am going up to my bedchamber now.”
I did not behold the look that appeared upon Mrs. Crumble’s face following my refusal to humour her, but I can imagine it was one of astonishment laced with a dash of anger.
I hurried back to the servants’ stairwell and raced up the steps, hoping to not cross paths again with the imaginative Mrs. Crumble until such time as I vacated the premises. Approaching my bedchamber door, Tilda burst through it into corridor.
“Thought I’d take Georgie outdoors and let him play in the sunshine, miss.” Pausing, she cocked her head to one side. “You all right? You look as if you seen another ghost . . . and stared ‘im down.”
Blinking away the remnants of my vexation with Mrs. Crumble, I reached to nuzzle Little Georgie’s fuzzy head. “Enjoy your romp, little fellow.” I looked up at Tilda. “I shall begin gathering up my things in preparation to depart.”
At that instant, Nell’s bedchamber door flew open and she emerged into the corridor, looking quite rested and in a pleasant frame. She wore a fetching gown I’d not seen her wear before, a pretty yellow muslin embellished with ruffles at the neck and hem. Her dark curls were gathered into a cluster atop her head with a few ringlets left to dangle over each ear. In one gloved hand she carried a fetching straw bonnet, in the other, a lemon yellow reticule that matched her gown.
“You look very pretty today, Nell,” I said, moving past Tilda to approach Nell. “I have something of import to tell you.”
Already the dark-haired girl was shaking her head. “I haven’t time now, Juliette. I am meeting Charles at The Wooly Lamb. He sent a note round asking me to join him for luncheon.”
I fell into step beside her as she hurried towards the front stairs, a bright smile on her lips, her dark eyes sparkling.
“I have thought of the perfect plan that will ensure Charles will ask Father for my hand in marriage today! I mean to bring Charles back here this afternoon to speak with Father. I shall tell you all about it tonight.”
“But, Nell, I . . .”
“Wish me luck, Juliette! Although, I shan’t need it. The next time you see me, Charles and I shall be as good as wed! I wonder I did not think of it sooner.”
“But, what of the letters?”
She shrugged. “I’ve no need for them now. I did not uncover them in Father’s bedchamber anyhow. Father can do whatever he wishes with them. I no longer care. Mine is the perfect plan,” she said again.
“Oh, Nell, do be careful. Your life may be in danger!”
“Mustn’t fear,” she called over her shoulder, then turning full around, she patted a slight bulge visible within her reticule. “I am prepared for any eventuality. No one will catch me unawares!”
