Part 5 (1/2)
”Was it Grizel herself told you this tale?”
Jennet gave a derisive snort. ”That one? She's not much of a talker. If you want my opinion, she'd be afraid to say boo to a goose.”
”Can you blame her after such an experience?” Mark asked.
Tossing her head, Jennet ignored him and concentrated instead on impressing Susanna. A certain sly cunning came into her manner as she offered a suggestion. ”I could find out more, madam, if you were to send me back to Denholm.”
Susanna did not respond. Preoccupied, she was contemplating the fire. Why hadn't Effie Denholm told her that it had been her own maid who'd seen the ghost? She had to have known. Word of mouth spread tales quickly. Just as, two years after the fact, even young maidservants knew how Sir George had died, so everyone in the Hundred of Salford had doubtless heard the rumors surrounding John Bexwith's sudden demise.
They had been interrupted. Susanna decided to believe, for the moment, that her new friend would have confided the truth about Grizel had she had more time.
Belatedly, Susanna turned to address Jennet's proposal, but as she glanced up at the two on the bench her words died in her throat. Not just Mark and Jennet, but Lionel and Fulke, as well, were staring, transfixed, at the stairs to the solar. Only Dame Cat seemed unaffected by the sudden tension in the hall. She'd curled up next to the fire and gone to sleep.
A muted thud sounded from the top of the stairwell. Jennet seized hold of Mark's arm and clung to him so tightly that he winced. Slowly, Susanna turned to see for herself what was frightening her retainers.
The light from the hearth was not bright enough to penetrate the shadows on the distant stairs, but just at the turning something was visible. An eerie shape fluttered there, glowing from what seemed to be some inner source of illumination. As they watched, the light increased enough to reveal a human form, a figure draped in thin, white fabric. Lawn, Susanna thought. The creature's pale face, its features obscured by a gauzy, fluttering veil, appeared to float above a loose-bodied gown.
”The ghost,” Jennet whispered. ”It is the ghost of the servant girl old Sir George was chasing!”
Susanna rose quickly to her feet and sprinted toward the stairs, intent on proving that this was no ghost. She'd covered only half the distance to the stairway when strong hands caught her around the waist and hauled her to a stop. Struggling against the restraint, arms flailing, she landed several sharp blows, but even though Mark grunted in pain he would not let go.
”Dangerous,” he gasped. ”Thing's killed ere now.”
”Release me at once!” Susanna was not entirely surprised when her command was ignored.
”Madam, please. You must not go up there.” Eyes fearful, Jennet trailed after them, tugging at her mistress's sleeve. She dared one terrified look toward the head of the stairs. The relief that washed over her features gave all the proof Susanna needed to know that the fearsome apparition had already vanished.
Torn between frustration and a grudging appreciation of her retainers' concern for her safety, Susanna stopped trying to break free. Mark loosed her at once, mumbling apologies. One hand went to his nose and she saw that she'd struck him sharply enough there to bring tears to his eyes. In any other circ.u.mstances, she'd have apologized, but too many precious seconds had already been lost. She rushed toward the staircase.
By the time Susanna reached the top, no sign remained of either human connivance or supernatural manifestation. She had not expected there to be anything obvious, but she'd hoped to find some small indication that their ghost had been someone's cleverly arranged hoax.
”Bring me an oil lamp, Mark,” she ordered.
It burned with a high, steady flame, less fitful than torches or candles would have been, but even that soft, glowing light cast shadows that appeared ominous in the aftermath of their brush with the supernatural. With painstaking care, Susanna surveyed the landing, searching for any trace of the unknown person who must have been there. She found nothing, not even their own footprints in the dust. Thanks to Jennet, the stone steps had recently been thoroughly scrubbed and swept.
”Torches,” she called down to her maidservant, who had come no closer than the foot of the staircase. ”Light every corner.”
When that was done, Susanna could see the length of the hall from her vantage point. She also had a bird's eye view of an alcove hidden behind the curving staircase. The door inset there led to the b.u.t.tery, pantry, and kitchen and had doubtless provided their eerie visitor with an avenue of escape. Frowning, Susanna considered the distance between the landing and the door. Without the pale illumination they had seen, in the concealment offered by darkness and shadows, it would have been the work of a moment to descend the staircase. Susanna had been delayed by Mark long enough for their ghost to escape.
”What we saw was a trick of the light,” she said aloud. ”A light cleverly arranged by a human hand.” Unfortunately, she had found nothing to indicate just how that had been done.
”But, madam,” Jennet began to protest.
Susanna cut her off with an impatient gesture. It was far too easy to entertain second thoughts, to wonder if there might have been a real ghost on these stairs. She was succ.u.mbing to the temptation herself when her sensitive nose came to the rescue, rea.s.suring her and at the same time dispelling all possibility of the supernatural. A faint smell still lingered in the air at the top of the stairs, the distinctive scent given off by wax tapers. They had found no such luxury at Appleton Manor, and had acquired none, which meant that the woman pretending to be a ghost had brought candles with her . . . and taken them away.
”Inhale, Mark,” she ordered. ”Tell me what you smell.”
He indicated his bruised and battered nose. ”I can scarce breathe, madam. Imitating a bloodhound is quite beyond me.”
The torches in the hall below had already begun to destroy the evidence, overpowering the more delicate aroma of candlewax with that of burning pitch. Her expression rueful, Susanna accepted that she could rely only upon her own senses. No matter. She considered that sufficient proof. They had been gulled. It remained for her to discover by whom.
Resolute, Susanna descended the stair to explore the rooms beyond the door. As she'd expected, neither a white veil nor a filmy gown had been conveniently left behind for her to find. The door that led to the disused herb garden was firmly closed, though not latched. When Susanna peered out into a particularly dark night, she could make out almost nothing. In addition, the garden offered many places of concealment.
”Search the grounds,” she told Mark. ”Take Lionel and Fulke and as many torches as you can hold and look in every outbuilding. Leave no stone unturned, no door unopened.”
They were afraid, but they obeyed. Likely they thought it safer to be outside the house than to remain within. Certes Jennet was of that opinion. She busied herself building up the fire in the hearth, but her hands shook every time she added more fuel.
”What we saw was not a ghost. You have no need to fear some supernatural horror.”
Jennet was not rea.s.sured. She glanced fearfully toward the staircase. ”Something was up there.”
”Aye, something was. Someone wants us to think Appleton Manor is haunted.”
Susanna did not know yet how the trick had been done, let alone the reason behind it. Did someone want to drive them away because he or she feared Susanna would discover there was something peculiar about Bexwith's death? This seemed an odd way to go about it, raising more questions than ever. Susanna was certain of only one thing. She would not give up now until she had all the answers.
”That was no ghost,” she said again when the menservants returned empty-handed.
They did not argue.
Neither did they believe her.
Chapter Eleven.
Jennet stumbled along after her mistress, grumbling under her breath. She'd not slept a wink the night before, and no wonder! Who knew when that creature would appear again, or what wickedness it intended. When a spirit walked, trouble followed. Everyone knew that. Everyone, it seemed, except Lady Appleton.
Look for poisonous plants, indeed! What good was that against the supernatural?
”I fear I can be of little help to you, madam,” she said aloud. ”All I see is green. I cannot tell one leaf from another.” Jennet exaggerated, but not a great deal.
”There were once ornamental hedges here.” Lady Appleton pointed off to their left. ”See there where wild rosemary grows among the wortleberries?”
Green growing things, Jennet thought. She inhaled. At this time of the year, they did not even give off much of a scent.
”This is a pa.s.sable kitchen garden, but sadly neglected.” Lady Appleton peered more closely at a plant. ”Here is wormwood and sorrel. Every English housewife knows to gather those two herbs to keep her family healthy through the year.”
”The old man had little need for more than leeks and a few pot herbs.” Jennet said.
”He had a cook,” Lady Appleton reminded her, ”who required more. Sage. Marjoram. Bugloss and borage. And fennel. And yet, if cook was a poor one, someone who knew naught but boiling and roasting, then mayhap she could not tell the difference between plain parsley and dog parsley.”
Belatedly, Jennet caught her meaning. ”You think the cook accidentally poisoned John Bexwith?”
Jennet could not quite bring herself to suggest that the act had been deliberate, even though Lady Appleton had already mentioned the possibility of murder, back before they'd left the safety and security of Leigh Abbey. Jennet preferred to think her mistress's extraordinary interest in poisons was only the result of her great project.
Lady Appleton had begun work some time ago on a definitive herbal of hazardous plants. Its purpose was to warn the unwary housewife of the dangers present in her own herb garden and growing in the wild. She had reason to know how hazardous innocent-looking berries could be. Her only sibling, a sister, had died at the age of six from eating the poisonous fruit of the banewort plant.