A Stroke of Malice Page 5
Gage, on the other hand, was less impressed. But then again, he’d never been inclined to believe in the supernatural, even though we had both seen things that would make the most logical of humans question the possibility. My Scottish roots and the tales woven by my nanny since birth made me more susceptible.
“This is ridiculous,” he leaned close to whisper in my ear as we followed Lord Edward down a passage bustling with servants moving between the kitchens and storerooms and up to the staterooms two floors above. Further along the passage, the periodic flourish of fiddle music could be heard emerging from the servants’ hall as the door opened and closed. “I can think of four dozen things I’d rather be doing.” His teeth nipped my ear. “And one in particular.”
“Later,” I retorted.
He chuckled. “And the honeymoon is over.”
I swatted his arm playfully. “I said ‘later,’ not ‘never.’”
He sighed. “Yes, but you’d still rather go looking for some moldy old ghost.”
“Perhaps fright will have an amorous effect on me,” I countered, arching my chin upward.
His lips quirked. “It’s more likely you’ll wish to spend the evening debating whether these clankers his lordship is telling us are true, and how they originated.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but then stopped when I saw the gleam of affection in his eyes. He was teasing me. Something I should have realized sooner, for he’d always given every indication he enjoyed our unorthodox discussions as much as I did.
I clung tightly to his arm as we made our way down the circular staircase which led from the servants’ quarters on the ground floor down into the level below ground that Lord Edward persisted in calling the “doom.” Whether this epithet had been ascribed to it purely for our benefit or it had always been called this, I didn’t know, but it sent a frisson of unease down my spine.
“This part of the castle is most often used for coal storage now,” Lord Edward explained as we reached the bottom of the stairs. The musty stench of dirt, dust, and damp stone assailed our nostrils. An echo of the bustling noises from the floor above wafted down to us, but otherwise the space surrounding us was dark and quiet.
Lord Edward hefted his lamp, leading us along a stone passage. “But in days past, this part of the castle also housed the dungeons, complete with its own impressive array of torture devices. As children, we used to pass through here, but even as inquisitive boys, we never dared venture into the old cells and chambers that made up the larger part of the dungeon.” His eyes widened as if in fear, dark hollows in the shadows cast by the lantern. “Not when we could hear the chains clanking as if they still remained fastened to prisoners, and feel the hot breath of the dead on the back of our necks.”
As if to illustrate this, the skin on the back of my head began to crawl, and I felt the almost irresistible urge to squirm. Many of the others did not resist, wriggling their shoulders, and giggling even as they did so.
Our Lord of Misrule’s gaze met mine almost in challenge. “If you listen, you can still hear their moans and their screams of terror.”
I arched a single eyebrow back at him, even as we all held our breaths to listen, refusing to be baited by such a blatant ploy. Moans and screams, indeed. If we heard any, they were no doubt being made by some servants conned into doing so by Lord Edward.
However, I did shriek when something crawled across my foot. I leapt away from it, nearly climbing onto Gage as a furry creature darted into a hole in the masonry to our right.
“Oh yes. Perhaps I should have said. There are rats down here as well.”
I pressed a hand to my chest over my pounding heart, glaring at Lord Edward and his wry smirk.
“The ratcatcher persists in setting traps, but the vermin obstinately insist on staying,” he continued blithely. “It is a dungeon, after all, even if no one has been imprisoned here in over two hundred years. They’ve probably lived here for generations, their grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather passing down the knowledge that this place holds the potential for tasty treats, so they refuse to leave.”
“That’s gruesome,” I snapped. “And absurd.”
He shrugged.
“If there are rats doon here, I’m leavin’,” one lady behind me screeched.
“’Tis a jest,” the man with her insisted. “He’s just tryin’ to scare ye. Aren’t ye?” he swiveled to demand of Lord Edward.
“Am I?” was his oblique answer.
The man glowered while Lord Henry, standing at the back of the small cluster of us holding a second lantern, rolled his eyes.
The agitated lady stamped her foot. “I’m leavin’.”
“Go on then,” her male companion declared, turning away and crossing his arms over his chest.
This seemed to forestall her, for she glanced uncertainly about her. But Lord Edward was already leading us forward, deeper into the dark corridors of stone. The chill air grew even colder as we made our way further into the cellar. I tucked my arms close to my sides, grateful for once for the warmth of my nun’s costume. I imagined the other ladies, and even the men in their kilts, were not so comfortable.
Water dripped somewhere, striking a steady staccato to my nerves as we paused in what appeared to be the furthest corner. At first, I wondered whether our guide had taken a wrong turn, whether even he could get lost down here. But then I realized he stood at a blind corner. What appeared to be a dead end merely concealed a small opening in the stonework.
“This tunnel is a secret known to but a few,” Lord Edward declared with relish, nodding toward the opening. “It leads into the catacombs beneath the ruins of Kirkbryde Abbey, and from there out into the Scots wilderness. Our ancestors used it upon occasion as a convenient means of escape from their enemies, or as a way to come and go as one pleased without the others in the castle being aware of it.” He grinned. “On one notable occasion, the laird’s men slipped out to exact revenge on a neighboring clan, all while the marches’ warden slept in one of the beds upstairs.”
The men chuckled at this tale from the time of the Border reivers. As I had my own fair share of such ancestors, I’d heard plenty of evocative legends of their plundering exploits. So much so that it was often hard to separate fact from fiction. But I had no trouble believing his next anecdote, especially when his good humor slipped a notch.
“Our ancestors also sheltered a number of priests and canons in our dungeon, disguising them as prisoners, when Henry VIII’s men swept through to destroy the abbeys.” He inhaled a deep breath, smiling brighter again. “And most recently my brothers and I utilized it to escape our tutors.”
“Or Cook’s wrath for stealing her raspberry tarts,” Lord Henry added.
Lord Edward turned to lead us through the opening into the tunnel of similar construction, which made me suspect it had been built at the same time as the initial castle. The floor was less compact, the dirt looser, crunching beneath our feet, but the walls were lined with stone. It was damper here as well, and smelled sharply of mold, lichen, and moist earth.
“It’s along this tunnel and in the hallowed chambers ahead that our castle’s most amiable ghost resides—Friar Thatch,” the Lord of Misrule prattled on over his shoulder. “He was once a canon at Kirkbryde Abbey. One who supposedly met a rather ignoble end by falling out of the bell tower after imbibing too much ale. You’d think he might be cross to be consigned to the catacombs for all eternity, but he’s a jolly fellow. Performs his own bit akin to Hamlet’s poor Yorick.” He pivoted to walk backward, calling out to his brother at the end of our tiny procession. “Perhaps you should take care, my Fool, lest he mistake you for his decayed former companion.”
I didn’t see Lord Henry’s response, but from Lord Edward’s sudden bark of laughter, I gathered it was a rather crude gesture.
“Now, now, Fool. Don’t shock the ladies.”
However, it was not
his brother who needed to take care at that moment, but Lord Edward himself.
“Look out!” Gage cried, just as the back of Lord Edward’s heel connected with a stone.
He stumbled, but contrived to remain upright with the help of the wall.
“Are you injured?” I gasped, hastening forward to help him.
“No, no,” he assured me. “Just my pride.”
We turned to glance at the offending piece of rubble that had tripped him, only to discover it hadn’t been a stone at all. A lucky thing, for had it been, he likely would have broken his ankle. Rather, the offending item was a gentleman’s leather boot—a Wellington by all appearances, and one of recent origin.
Gage bent down to retrieve it, giving it a precursory examination before handing it to Lord Edward.
His brow furrowed and I could tell he was puzzled, and perhaps even a little troubled by the boot being found down here of all places, but he did not comment upon it, except to make a quip. “It looks like our friar has developed a fondness for modern apparel. And who can blame him?” He tucked the boot under his arm and led on, facing resolutely forward this time with the lantern lifted before him.
Gage’s gaze met mine, and I could read in his eyes that he had observed something, though now was not the time and place to discuss it. I considered whether it could have been the boot or something about Lord Edward’s demeanor. Either way, it had worked a sobering effect on my husband. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me more securely to his side as we followed Lord Edward.
The deeper we walked, the more unnerving our surroundings became. I kept glancing upward at the shadowy dirt ceiling, wondering how sturdy this tunnel truly was. What if it caved in around us or on top of us? What if we were trapped?
The disturbing thought made my heart beat faster, and I had to consciously order myself to take slow, deep breaths, lest I become frantic. I’d never imagined myself to be claustrophobic, but then I’d never been in a dank, dark tunnel, far from any means of escape. Cocooned between the light cast by Lord Edward’s lantern in front of us, and that of his brother’s lantern behind us, it seemed like nothing beyond them existed.
The slight strain in my legs told me the tunnel had begun a gradual slope upward, and soon we passed a series of recessed shelves built into the stone. These were largely empty, but I knew that wouldn’t be the case the further we ventured into the crypt. Not that the sight of old bones would normally disturb me. I’d seen much worse on my late husband’s dissecting table. But coupled with my anxiety from being in such a tight, enclosed space, they weren’t exactly reassuring.
The tunnel opened into a small chamber, its walls slanted to form a small hexagon with two entrances—one led back the way we came, while the other presumably progressed further into the catacombs and out into abbey ruins. It was in this chamber that Lord Edward turned with a theatrical flourish, waiting as we all gathered together to hear the tale he would weave for Friar Thatch. As Lord Henry brought up the rear, carrying the second lantern, the space was illuminated with more light than our eyes had grown accustomed to. I blinked, turning my head to the side to gaze into the shadowy recesses while my vision adjusted.
Though my nerves were still tense, I found I could breathe more easily in the wider space. But with those deeper breaths emerged a new scent—one that was faint but somehow familiar, though mingled with the dirt, the damp, and the musk of ancient stone I found difficult to place. Whatever it was left a sour taste at the back of my throat that with each swallow made the lump of uneasiness forming in my gut grow bigger. I allowed my gaze to linger over the skeletons still draped in their disintegrating coarse woolen cassocks. Their bodies had long ago decomposed, even in the cool climate of the crypt. Even so, not all sense of their humanity had drained from them. The bony hand of one monk still clutched a wooden cross to his rib cage.
Lord Edward stepped closer, leaning against the wall to my right. “This is the supposed final resting place of Friar Thatch,” he declared, dipping his head toward the skeleton in the lower niche, where I noticed an old, dusty bottle had been set in the far corner for dramatic effect.
I nearly rolled my eyes, knowing full well the monks would never have set it there. It had been added at a later date, probably by one of the Duke of Bowmont’s ancestors. Possibly the same ancestor who had first dreamt up the absurd tale of Friar Thatch’s haunting.
“At this hour, you’re most likely to see his ghost seated at the top of the crumbling walls of the bell tower, swigging from a bottle. But at times, he roams the corridors of the catacombs. You’ll hear his hearty chuckle as he jests with the bones of his long-dead brothers.”
Lord Edward gave his own hearty chuckle, clearly amused with himself. However, I was more interested in Lord Henry’s reaction. He had taken a step closer to the lower recess to the right of Friar Thatch’s, the bells on his shoes jingling. His brow was furrowed with obvious confusion, and a quick study of the niche in question explained why.
The body or object that lay there was not open to the air like the others, but had been stuffed into a crude sack of some kind—one of a far more recent construction than the fabric of the long-deceased monks inhabiting the other recesses. The pair of ragged holes the canvas sported had not been caused by time, but most likely by the rats Lord Edward had informed us lived in these passages. Meanwhile, the niche above was naught but a disorganized jumble of bones and cloth rather than a ceremoniously laid out skeleton.
Lord Henry’s expression left no doubt that he was surprised to see the canvas sack, and a quick glance at Lord Edward’s face when his words faltered showed that the discovery was also unexpected. That, or he was simply a very good actor.
He stepped forward. “Now, what do we have here? I wonder if our friendly friar has been making a bit of mischief,” he remarked as he reached out to finger the largest hole.
I heard the pops of ripping fabric as he widened the opening. It was then that something inside the sack shifted and suddenly out flopped an arm. Or rather, what was left of one. The skin between the gloved fingers and the coat had been gnawed.
I turned away, pressing a hand to my nose as recognition of the stench that had been tickling at my nostrils finally became clear. With that rend in the fabric, the scent had grown stronger, and I struggled to retain my composure as memories battered at my senses. Gage’s arm tightened around me, anchoring me to the present.
CHAPTER FIVE
One of the ladies screamed at the sight and another joined in as two rats scampered from the sack and dashed down the corridor into the darkness. The space rang with their shrieks of horror and the men’s shouts of outage, making the dank air tremble, but the duchess’s sons only had attention to spare for each other. Their jaws hardened and their eyes flashed with misgiving.
“What is the meaning of this?” one man bellowed, the lady beside him cowering into his shoulder. “Frightening ladies with such gruesome and vulgar tomfoolery. The duke will hear of this, for I cannot believe he would sanction such shameful nonsense.”
Lord Edward inhaled a deep breath, as if much struck by this comment, and then wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting it. “Yes, yes. My apologies. Perhaps in hindsight this was taking matters a bit too far.”
He and his brother continued to communicate with each other furiously through their eyes, and Lord Henry flicked his gaze our way.
“Fool, perhaps you could lead the way back,” Lord Edward added, speaking over the continued complaints of the others.
He dipped his head in agreement and turned to lift his lantern higher, plunging back into the tunnel. The others swiftly followed, all the while grumbling and screeching with anger and residual fright. But Gage and I lingered, waiting until our companions passed out of hearing range before we spoke.
“That’s no prop,” Gage accused, searching the Lord of Misrule’s now solemn gaze. “And this is no jest.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Not when the truth might have sent the shrieking ladies and even some of the inebriated men into hysterics.
“Do you know how that body got down here or who it is?” Gage pressed.
He shook his head, but there had been a slight hesitation. One that told me he knew more than he was admitting.
“Then perhaps we should find out.” Gage’s gaze met mine, silently asking what I wished to do. I knew that he would never ask me to look at a corpse. That if he had his way, I would never be exposed to such a ghastly business ever again. But he also respected my knowledge, and he recognized that with my training—no matter how unwillingly it had been forced upon me by my late anatomist husband—I could glean far more information from a dead body than he ever could.
Starkly aware of that cold, hard fact, I nodded.
Gage released me, extracting a knife from the scabbard he’d concealed at his waist beneath his long coat before he approached the recess. Lord Edward moved to the side, lifting his lantern as my husband sliced through the fabric of the sack, opening the canvas wide enough so that the cloth could be peeled back from the body. Clasping my hands tightly in front of me, I swallowed the acid already building at the back of my throat and composed myself for what I suspected I would find as I approached the niche.
Despite the numerous murder investigations we had conducted in recent years, it had been some time since I had been confronted with a body in such an advanced stage of decomposition. Such a sight was always a shock to the senses, particularly when there was evidence of animal activity. The cool temperature of the crypt and the chill of a Scottish winter had slowed the decay of the body, at least internally. But the scavengers had disfigured the corpse, attacking the softest and most vulnerable parts first, namely the face. I could not look on it with more than a cursory glance before moving on to search for evidence of how the victim had died.