CHAPTER FIVE

The following night, Amy Phelps woke suddenly sometime in the early hours, aware that some sound or other must have disturbed her. She knew all the usual creaks and groans of the house, and they never bothered her, so it must have been something unusual that had stirred her. Outside, low cloud had covered the moon, and her room felt uncomfortably dark. Sitting up in bed, she strained her ears, but could hear nothing further.

Certainly there was no sound of a tiny, tinkling bell.

She had retired early, as had her nephew, both of them leaving Cora and Reggie downstairs playing cards (it was so nice to be able to be so informal with such lifelong friends), and had dozed off almost at once. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately and had been enjoying her first deep sleep for some time. For a moment she sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating just slipping back under the blankets and trying to get back to sleep again, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to do so. She would simply lie awake all night, tense and growing more and more agitated as she listened out for … something.

With a cross sigh, she reached for the box of matches on her bedside table, and after years of practice, lit the wick of the candle that had lighted her to bed hours before. It annoyed her to see the flame wavering, mute testimony to her nervousness, as she picked up the candlestick in a shaking hand and then looked about her for her slippers and housecoat. Then she walked to the door of her bedroom and opened it cautiously, peering out of a gap of only a few inches or so.

If someone was lurking about in this wing of the house, she wanted to catch the culprit unawares. But there was no sound and no sense of movement in the narrow corridor. She stepped fully outside, careful to make no sound as she closed the door behind her and slowly made her way to the top of the nearest flight of stairs.

There she paused and moving closer to the rail that protected her from the drop into the hall below, she lifted the candle higher and peered about her. Then almost let out a shrill yelp of terror as she saw the face of her dead ancestor, the infamous Wilbur Phelps, the ghostly smithy himself, looking up at her. But then, within the next moment, she slapped a grateful hand over her fast-beating heart as her boggling brain finally interpreted correctly what it was that she was actually seeing.

It was only the portrait of him, which hung on the wall above the small landing at the bend in the stairs. She told herself not to be so silly – the portrait had been there for years, but she had long since ceased to pay attention to it. It was just her luck to have noticed it now, when she was feeling as jumpy as a cat!

Smiling to herself now that all had become so prosaically clear and feeling mildly ashamed of herself for her attack of nerves (really, what would Nanny have said?), she started to turn to go back to bed.

But as she did so, she felt a shiver go through her, and the hairs rise in the back of her neck. And suddenly she was convinced that someone was watching her – maybe even gloating over her fear.

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, but her meagre candlelight illuminated only a small portion of her surroundings. If someone had been observing her from the depths of the dark corridor, she had no hope of seeing even a vague outline of the person. She really was going to have to get more gas lights fitted in her part of the house if this carried on. For almost a full minute she stood absolutely still, staring over her shoulder until her eyes adjusted to the candlelight and she was sure that nobody else was behind her.

Then she checked that the small window, looking out over the roofs, was firmly shut.

She told herself not to be silly.

And it was then that she heard it. The faint ring of the bell – was it coming from outside? Or from somewhere in one of the far rooms in the house down below? Wherever it was coming from, the sound of it not only frightened her further, but also succeeded in making her very, very angry. It was intolerable, she fumed, to be toyed with like this, in some outrageous cat-and-mouse game in her own home! She was going to put a stop to this at once.

With an out-thrust chin and determination in her heart, she took another step down. And that was when she felt it. Something light, unseen, but definitely there touched her forehead and the side of her temple. And yet – there was nobody but herself there! It was then that Amy Phelps finally let out a cry of fear and shock. Instinctively, and in a state of total panic now, she clawed at the air in front of her, half-expecting to feel a ghostly cold hand reaching out to her.

Not surprisingly, at this wild treatment, the candle was jettisoned from the candlestick and snuffed itself out as it landed on the stairs, leaving her in darkness. The slipper on her left foot slid out from under her as she danced precariously on the edge of the next step. Her hands windmilled desperately as she attempted to maintain her balance, but it was no good. The next instant, Amy Phelps was falling …

Seven hours later, Cora Delaney watched from her bedroom window as her friend limped out to a waiting taxi and was borne off to the railway station in the next village. Amy looked as if she was carrying her own thundercloud with her, but at least she was still mobile and feeling fit enough – if a little stiff and sore – to attend to her sudden but urgent business in town. And this business, she had announced boldly at the breakfast table, was to make some changes to her will.

And hadn’t that put the cat amongst the pigeons. Since she’d refused to be drawn on the specifics of these changes, speculation was running rife. Although everyone was being too polite to mention it of course.

When Cora had been woken by a cry and a thumping noise in the night, she hadn’t given a thought to silly ghosts or any other such nonsense but had simply donned her housecoat and gone out to investigate. Her mind had been more on potential burglars or Empress Maud knocking over some vase or other on one of her nightly feline wanderings than on ghostly goings-on. Luckily, when she found her friend sitting indignantly on the floor at the bend in the staircase, Murray had quickly joined her there, for she doubted if she’d have been able to get Amy to her feet and help support her back to her room. Although Murray had originally planned to leave the day before, his friend had sent a message to say that he couldn’t give Murray a lift until the next day. So at least poor Amy hadn’t been left in the dark for long.

Happily for Cora, Murray had now also left the house, so she felt perfectly safe to go about her business. And her business that morning was to have a good snoop around – her first chance since she’d arrived for her little holiday.

Throughout their lifelong friendship, Amy had always been close-mouthed about herself and her feelings, which had always made Cora very curious indeed. She knew that her need to ferret out information no matter its relevance was one of her few weaknesses but found herself unable to conquer it. During her student days this had been an advantage, but she was aware that it was not a trait that would endear her to her acquaintances. Which meant, over the years, that Cora had found circumspect ways and means of discovering what her friends were doing, and the more intimate details of their lives, and having Amy’s house to herself now was too good an opportunity to miss.

Besides, Cora thought, salving her conscience somewhat, unless she was very much mistaken, there was something more behind all this ‘ghost’ business than met the eye, and she was bubbling over with curiosity to find out what it was. Because one thing Cora was sure of – Amy was far too sensible and stubbornly logical to believe in her ghostly, vengeful ancestor. And yet she’d invited over that charming Mr Swift to sit up on a ghost-watch. Begging the question – what was her friend up to?

When they’d all been young gels together, Amy had prided herself on being the leader of their small coterie of debutants. Not the most beautiful – that had been poor Clementine D’Abry, who’d died so tragically young. Nor the wealthiest – that had been Bertha Young-Smith, who’d married an earl. But Amy had been the boldest and the most determined to get her own way. And right now, her old friend was showing all the signs of being ‘up to something’.

And Cora couldn’t wait to find out what it was!

Making sure that the housekeeper was safely installed in her kitchen downstairs, Cora walked quietly to Amy’s bedroom door and slowly pushed it open. Once inside, she closed the door firmly behind her, and looked around in satisfaction. This was the first time she’d managed to infiltrate her friend’s most private room, and she was not surprised to discover that Amy had an enormous feather bed, for Amy had always been serious when it came to her physical comforts. Nor did the lack of any pink ruffles or frou-frou touches surprise her either. Amy, although as vain about her appearance as any woman of quality, had never gone overboard about advertising her femininity.

For all that, she’d had admirers aplenty, although she’d never taken the same trip down the aisle as had Cora and so many of their contemporaries. Cora had often wondered if Amy had been afraid that her beaus were more interested in the Phelps family’s newly acquired (by county standards!) wealth. Or whether it had been because she’d simply never wanted to be at the beck and call of some man.

Cora first indulged herself by exploring Amy’s wardrobe and envying her slightly delicious coat that bore a famous Parisian label. Her shoes, however, Cora could dismiss with a satisfactory sense of disdain. Cora was known for her collection of shoes (since she was inordinately proud of her small dainty feet) and Amy, predictably, had nothing to match those that currently resided in her own wardrobe back in Yorkshire.

She next went to the small dressing table where she sat down and absently picked up a bottle of scent and sniffed it thoughtfully. No, she didn’t know it, but it was probably something expensive and rather exclusive. She debated dabbing a bit on her wrist but decided against it. Shaken up by her recent fall though she may be, there was nothing wrong with her friend’s nose! And if Amy realised she’d been snooping in her room, there would be the devil to pay.

She glanced outside the window and saw Reggie come out of his studio and set off with his awkward and bulky camera equipment, heading towards the river. Dear Reggie, with his menagerie of animal waifs and strays, his rather dreadful daubs, and transient hobbies. She knew why he still came here so often, of course. He and Francis had been so very close, the Old Forge probably helped keep the memory of him vibrant.

She remembered the look of worry on his face when she’d told him of Amy’s nocturnal tumble, followed by his obvious relief when he’d been assured that it hadn’t resulted in any serious injury. Amy herself had roughly brushed off his concern for her, telling him gruffly to sit down and eat his breakfast, which Reggie had taken in his usual good part.

Cora shrugged. Safely ensconced in Amy’s private inner sanctum, she reached for the handle on one of the set of small drawers that framed each side of the vanity mirror. In the first were some minor jewels, and Cora was interested to see that, for all the Phelpses’ money, she had just as good pieces – if not better – in the drawers of her own vanity dresser back home. The next drawer produced some stamps and unused pen nibs and ink, and some spare mother-of-pearl buttons.

The next drawer instantly intrigued her, for it seemed subtly different from the others. For a moment she couldn’t quite think what it was – and then, with a grin of nostalgia – realised that it was the dimensions that seemed off. Which could only mean that it hid a secret drawer! Her own dear mama had had a drawer similar to this one in her writing bureau, and Cora could clearly remember her childish delight when, at the age of seven or so, she had been shown how it worked. ‘A lady must always have places to hide her most precious secrets, Cora,’ her mother had whispered, guiding her tiny fingers to the little wooden catch hidden beneath the draw’s keyhole.

This dresser of Amy’s wasn’t the same, of course, but it didn’t take Cora long to explore and find the tiny catch needed to spring open the secret hidey-hole. And when she did, her heart did a little leap of excitement to see the ageing, yellowing stash of papers that lay inside.

For here was treasure indeed! Bringing out the small bundle of letters tied up in pink ribbon, she hesitated regretfully. She couldn’t really read them, of course, even given her overwhelming need to know what they contained. Already, she could feel the weight of reproof from her long dead parents, nanny, governesses and many others, who would be shocked to the core at the idea of a lady reading a friend’s private correspondence.

No, it must be enough for her to know that she’d pierced the veil of her friend’s secretive nature enough to discover that Amy was only human after all. Who’d have thought that the sceptical, cynical Amy had kept love letters? It made her glad to think that Amy, stern, old-maid Amy, had had at least some …

Her somewhat condescending thoughts crashed to a sudden halt, for her eye had fallen on one envelope in particular and her hand began to shake uncontrollably as she recognised the dear, familiar handwriting. And for a moment, Cora Delaney, respectable widow and upright society matron, was eighteen once again. And so dreadfully, completely, dangerously and totally in love. Back in time and in another world far away from this somewhat severe bedroom.

Gone, now, were all the taboos against reading private correspondence. Gone was any thought about right or wrong, or the dues owed to decades of friendship. Only one thought now flooded Cora’s mind.

Why had he of all people written to Amy Phelps? What could possibly have passed between her best friend and her first love, all those years ago?

With fingers that trembled slightly, Cora took out the single sheet of paper and began to read.