“Thank you,” Artful nodded, stepping over the threshold, but waiting to see where she would put Darrish. He exchanged a glance with her before following Mrs. Hardy to the second door, which she opened for him.

  “The third door is the empty room,” Mrs. Hardy said, standing aside and passing a key to Darrish. “The fourth door belongs to Eve Kelly, the girl who works here. You may come down when you please, and we’ll get you warmed up with some food. While you’re down there, we’ll have the fires made up in your rooms.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hardy,” Darrish said to her as she squeezed past him and Artful to head down the stairs again. Artful held her breath and listened to Mrs. Hardy’s descending footsteps. As soon as they silenced, Artful set her baggage inside her room and faced Darrish. He put his luggage in his own room, too, then joined her in front of the third door. For a moment, they just stared at it.

  “So, this is it, huh?” Darrish murmured, eyeing it. “The haunted room.”

  “Supposedly,” Artful said, lifting an eyebrow and folding her arms.

  “Let’s have a look,” Darrish proposed, reached inside his pocket, and withdrew a lock-pick. Expertly, he bent and stuck one of the prongs into the skeleton keyhole, and in a matter of moments, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Together, they ventured inside.

  It was a small, square, dusty room, with shutters on the window. Only vague light leaked in. A cold, immaculate fireplace stood to the right, and to the left, against the wall, stood three traveling trunks half draped in a sheet. Otherwise, it was empty.

  Darrish opened the shutters to let the grim light in, and both could see that the fog had thickened rather than thinned since their arrival. Artful headed to the fireplace and began inspecting all of it, from the mantle to the hearthstones to the throat of the chimney.

  “No one has made a fire here in a long time,” she noted. “And they cleaned everything very well before shutting up the room.”

  Darrish moved the sheet and unstacked the trunks, opening each lid.

  “The trunks are empty,” he noted. “And…there’s nothing in any of the compartments. I can’t feel anything abnormal under the lining, either.”

  Together, the two of them ran their hands along the walls of the room, feeling for bumps or heat beneath the faded floral wallpaper. They found nothing.

  “Well, we can keep looking after tea,” Darrish sighed. “Let’s take off our wet things and go downstairs before Mrs. Hardy wonders where we are.”

  Miss Eve Kelly

  After doffing their hats, gloves, scarves and coats and leaving them in their rooms, the two of them headed downstairs to the tavern and were shown to a booth by Mrs. Hardy. A few other people had come in out of the fog to enjoy a pint and some stew, and they sat at various tables throughout the room. A large fire roared in the fireplace. Artful and Darrish sat down across from each other.

  “At least it’s warm,” Darrish said, leaning his elbows on the table.

  “There’s that,” Artful muttered.

  “There wasn’t any mold in the room,” Darrish said. She glanced at him.

  “That doesn’t rule out the other possibilities,” she countered. “I’ve been here about an hour and I’m already depressed.”

  He chuckled a little.

  “Well, you may be an exceptional case, Lelia,” he countered. “Especially if…” He trailed off, suddenly looking past her.

  “What?” Artful asked. He didn’t reply. His attention followed someone back there as he or she moved through the room. Artful didn’t dare twist to look, as that would be too obvious. But Darrish still said nothing, until…

  “Good afternoon,” came a quiet, moderate voice. And Artful looked up to see a young woman standing beside their table. She wore a simple blue dress and white apron. She was built very slightly, with pale skin decorated by a smattering of freckles, fine features, and large, mild blue eyes. She had dark eyelashes and eyebrows, but feathery hair of a light, soft red color. She had a serious, comely mouth, and shadows around her eyes. Her entire bearing seemed effortlessly-graceful and composed.

  “Good afternoon,” Darrish answered—and Artful was struck by the change in his tone. She stared at him as he looked up at this young woman with a softened, earnest, intrigued look—as if there was no one else in the room. He smiled at the girl. Faintly, she returned it.

  “What can I get ye, sir?” she asked. She had a lovely Irish accent, sounding as if she had grown up around Dublin.

  “Erm…Is there a stew on the menu?” Darrish asked, never taking his eyes from her.

  “Yes, sir. A hearty one.”

  “I’ll have that, and a stout,” he answered.

  “And what about your wife?” The girl turned to Artful.

  “Oh—no, this is my sister,” Darrish said pointedly. “She’ll have the same.”

  “Good, sir.” She dipped a curtsey and started to leave—

  “Are you Miss Kelly?” Darrish asked.

  The girl stopped, then faced him, a flash of unexpected alarm crossing her eyes.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Sorry—Mrs. Hardy told us you worked for her, and…well, my sister and I are staying on the same floor with you for the next few nights.”

  Miss Kelly froze. And Artful watched keenly as the color drained out of her face.

  “Ye are, sir?”

  “I’m Alderman Bracegirdle,” Darrish offered. “And this is my sister, Lelia.”

  “Miss.” Miss Kelly dipped an absent curtsey, still staring at Darrish. “Which…Which rooms, sir? Which rooms will ye be in?”

  “Lelia’s in the first room, I’m in the second,” Darrish told her. “There’s a room that’s empty that’s next to mine, and then there’s yours, I believe?”

  As Artful watched, Miss Kelly’s practiced, ladylike poise began to slip.

  “Sir…” Miss Kelly’s lower lip trembled. “Sir, I’ll ask Mrs. Hardy to move you. Ye’ll be much more comfortable on the second floor, sir. The draughts on the third floor are chilly, ye’ll be ill—”

  “No, our rooms don’t feel draughty at all,” Darrish countered, with a cheerful gentleness. “They’re good enough for us. You don’t need to move us.”

  “Please, Mr. Bracegirdle, let me have you moved,” Miss Kelly said vividly, her delicate brow contracting and her eyes widening. “It isn’t…It isn’t…”

  “What, Miss Kelly?” Darrish asked, hushed, as he leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “It isn’t…safe,” she whispered. “Please, sir. Go to the second floor.”

  “Miss Kelly,” Darrish said quietly—and reached out to gently take her hand. He squeezed it, gazing up into her eyes. “What is the matter? What are you afraid of?”

  She stared back at him, something flickering behind her eyes that reminded Artful of a hunted deer.

  “Sir, if I dared speak of it…” she gasped. “Ye’d think I’d gone mad.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Darrish insisted. “Tell me.”

  She bit her lip hard. She glanced back over her shoulder, then back at him.

  “Not here,” she said shortly. “After dinner, in the hallway. I’ll tell ye what I can. For your own sake. Come by yourself, and I will tell ye.” She pulled out of Darrish’s grasp, then, and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Darrish watched her go, his eyebrows drawn together, his eyes bright. Artful studied him closely.

  “There’s definitely something wrong, here,” Darrish finally said. “And it isn’t in her head.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Artful pressed. He nodded.

  “Absolutely.”

  Shortly, Miss Kelly returned with their meals. She didn’t say anything, but she kept looking at Darrish as she smoothly laid things out, with the ease of having done the same task thousands of times. And Darrish kept looking at her. Soon, flushed color rose prettily in her cheeks, and her glances lingered on his gaze, which never wavered. She didn’t speak as she worked, and when she finished, she hurried away—but Darrish’s gaze followed her.

  Artful shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and she did her best to eat her stew. Darrish descended into brooding quiet for the rest of the meal, leaving Artful alone with her own thoughts and suspicions.

  Artful, her arms folded over her chest, stared out the window in her little bedroom at the impenetrable fog. She could see literally nothing outside, not even the lamps in the windows of the neighboring building. It would be downright dangerous to venture out into the streets walking, riding on a horse or in a carriage.

  She glanced around the room. It was tiny, with an iron-framed bed with white quilt and pillows, a little bedside table, a dressing table with little mirror, a washstand beside, and a rag rug on the floor. A little landscape of the white cliffs hung near the bed. Artful’s baggage stood at the foot, and her hat hung on the hat stand. With even these few articles, the room seemed packed. There was also a very little fireplace against the wall that separated her room from Darrish’s, and within it, low flames swayed and crackled.

  She glanced down at her watch. The sky was darkening, and soon she wouldn’t be able to see much in here. She crossed the room and lit the lamp on the bedside table, then moved to close the shutters. She glanced back at the door.

  She had already performed their obligatory check-in with headquarters. Darrish had gone down to talk to Miss Kelly twenty minutes ago, and he still hadn’t returned.

  It was long enough.

  Making sure she had her room key in her pocket, Artful left her room, locked the door behind her, and headed down the dark corridor to the squeaky staircase.

  She took care to hold onto the bannister as she descended, using the single wall lamp for illumination. Finally, she arrived in the first floor corridor and made her way into the tavern.

  The room was empty of patrons, and quiet. The subdued lamps flickered on the tabletops, and the fire burned low. Darrish sat in a bench before the hearth, right beside Miss Kelly.

  Artful stopped.

  Miss Kelly sat with her back to Artful, turned on the bench so she faced Darrish. Darrish sat very close to Miss Kelly, his knees touching hers, and it looked like he was holding her hands. He was looking raptly at her, listening without moving. Miss Kelly spoke so faintly, Artful couldn’t make out the words. And all of a sudden, she felt like she was intruding.

  Artful held back, hiding in the shadow of the corridor, watching this exchange with increasing unease. The way Darrish looked at this girl was different than anything she’d seen before. He was warm, attentive, intent. And the entire angle of Miss Kelly’s frame mirrored his. As if the two of them were perfectly attuned to each other.

  Several minutes later, Darrish began to nod, and speak to Miss Kelly in a reassuring tone—though Artful still couldn’t distinguish spoken words. Then, he stood up, bringing her with him, for he was indeed holding onto both her hands. She arose, standing very near him and gazing up into his face.

  Artful turned and retreated. She made her way swiftly up the stairs, stepping on the edges of the steps so they wouldn’t squeak. She reentered her room soundlessly and shut the door without latching it. There, she waited, listening.

  Finally, one set of footsteps sounded heavily. It had to be Darrish. He passed her door, and the lock clicked for the neighboring room. The door opened and shut. Artful waited another moment, then re-emerged, went to his door, and knocked.

  “Fox, it’s me.”

  “Come in,” he answered. She turned the knob and entered, shutting the door behind her. Darrish’s room was even smaller than hers, with a wooden bed and similar furniture. A large, haughty portrait of Oliver Cromwell hung on the wall that divided his room from the empty room. Darrish stood near the bed, tugging his tie loose.

  “What’s up, Doyle?” he asked.

  “I should probably be asking you that,” Artful answered, folding her arms again. “What did Miss Kelly say?”

  “She told me that the room between hers and mine is haunted,” Darrish answered, jerking is thumb over his shoulder. “She heard a rumor when she first got here that the woman who lived in it before, a servant named Marie, went crazy and threw herself out the window.”

  “Well, that explains why she’s afraid of it,” Artful shrugged. “It’s perfectly reasonable. Nobody would like to live alone next to a room where someone lost her mind and died, and everybody says is haunted.”

  “Nobody told her it was haunted,” Darrish shook his head, tossing his tie on the bed and putting his hands on his hips. “In fact, Eve told me that Mrs. Hardy is a deeply religious woman who won’t tolerate any kind of superstitious talk or ghost stories, especially about her house. Which is why she won’t listen to Eve’s concerns, and tells her that she’s imagining things.”

  “That would only make matters worse for her, psychologically, not better,” Artful countered. “Feeling trapped and unable to speak about one’s fears naturally exacerbates them and makes them more terrifying, more lifelike.”

  Darrish nodded.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Besides, we found no proof whatsoever of any technology in that room,” Artful added.

  “True, but that’s not the first time that’s happened,” Darrish reminded her. “Remember our poor politician’s choking wife, who appeared to fall backward through the floor? We guessed it was probably in the walls somewhere.”

  “You want to examine the room again?”

  “I want to conduct an experiment,” Darrish said. “Eve tells me that it gets worse at night, around midnight. I want to take some things into that room and sleep there, see what happens.”

  “What’s going to happen is you’re going to wake up with a sore back,” Artful said flatly. He laughed.

  “I’ll be fine. Won’t be the first time I’ve slept on a floor,” he winked.

  “But there’s no fire in there, Fox,” she reminded him. “It’ll be cold.”

  “I’ll wear my clothes, and take extra blankets,” he said easily, removing his stiff collar. “Could you come wake me in the morning? I don’t want Mrs. Hardy to find me in there.”

  “Okay,” Artful nodded, still uneasy.

  “Look, it’ll be fine,” Darrish smiled at her. “If I see something come crawling out of the walls, I’ll holler and you can come rescue me.”

  Artful nodded again, her mouth tightening.

  “Goodnight,” she said, heading toward the door.

  “Night night,” he replied. Artful went back to her room and shut the door. She could hear Darrish’s movements in the room next door—the walls were apparently very thin. Methodically, she got ready for bed and washed up, contemplating as she did.

  To her, this case seemed clear-cut enough. A previous maid had killed herself in that now-empty room, a fact which was causing the new maid a considerable amount of mental distress. And from what Artful had seen of this Eve Kelly, she didn’t appear to be very healthy or strong to begin with. Darrish obviously saw what she did: a young, innocent lady who was weak, vulnerable.

  Artful paused midway in the act of pulling back her covers.

  What else did Darrish see in Eve Kelly? There seemed to be more than simple concern in his eyes, on his face, when he looked at her. In the way he attended to her with every angle of his body. In the way he held her hands...

  Scowling, Artful crawled into bed, shivering, and snuggled deep into the mattress and pillows. Then, she lifted the chimney of the lamp and blew out the flame. All that remained now was the low flicker of the fire in the hearth. She turned on her side and watched the wavering flames, frowning dully. She tried to relax, but something tensed her stomach muscles.

  A door creaked.

  Artful’s head came up. She froze.

  Footsteps. They walked a short way. Then, another door creaked open, and shut.

  Oh. It was just Darrish going into the empty room.

  Artful put her head back down on the pillow and took another deep breath, trying to force her muscles to unclench. She could hear Darrish quietly arranging things in that room, shuffling back and forth.

  More footsteps. This time, on the staircase.

  Artful sat up. She held her breath, listening intently.

  Lighter footsteps. Definitely not Mrs. Hardy.

  Could it be…

  Eve Kelly?

  The footsteps quickened past Artful’s door, past Darrish’s…

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Wait—had she knocked on the door of the empty room?

  “Mr. Bracegirdle,” came the urgent whisper. “Are you in there?”

  Movement. The door opened.

  “Hullo, Eve. Come in,” Darrish said.

  Artful’s eyes widened. What was going on?

  Miss Kelly apparently did as he bid her, and the door shut. The two then began talking in low tones, and Artful couldn’t make out anything they said. For a moment, she just sat there, grinding her teeth…

  Then, she flung off her covers, got up, moved to the wall and pressed her ear to it.

  She could now distinguish between their two voices, but still couldn’t tell what they were talking about. Miss Kelly sounded urgent, insistent, while Darrish sounded calm, reasonable and comforting. Occasionally, their speech lowered almost to whispering, and Artful could only tell they were still speaking by straining all of her concentration.

  Then, after about a ten-minute conversation, Artful caught the words “Good night,” spoken by Darrish, and the door opened again. Miss Kelly’s light steps left the room and hurried toward her own, even as the door to the empty room shut. Miss Kelly went into her own room and locked herself in.

  More shuffling came from the empty room where Darrish was, and then silence reigned. Artful stood there for a long time, her brow furrowed. Then, slowly, she went back to her bed and lay down. But for several hours, she just stared at the ceiling, her jaw and forehead tight. Trying to ignore the deep, sinking sense of resentment in her chest.

  Rules and Regulations

 

1 2 3 4