Oh,right. The ghost. Curiosity got the better of her.
“Has anyone actually seen the ghost?” she asked.
“To be sure.” Bailey nodded vigorously. “Through the years, there’ve been multiple sightings, and one ’appened recently. Nelly Nettles—she was your master’s last cook—woke up one night and saw an apparition standing in the doorway of her room. She said his face was white as snow, his eyes darker than midnight, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Chains were wrapped around his body.” The butcher shuddered. “He howled in pain before clanking off.”
A delicious shiver ran through Xenia, the kind she experienced when reading her favorite gothic novels.
“Where did he go? What did he do next?” she asked.
“Nelly couldn’t say since she fell into a dead swoon. When she came to, Bloody Thom was gone. She didn’t ’ave a mind to linger herself and gave notice immediately.”
“Why is the ghost named Bloody Thom? Has he…has he killed someone?”
“You don’t know the story?” Bailey stared at her as if she’d confessed to not knowing the Lord’s Prayer. “A rich bloke by the name o’ Thomas Mulligan bought Bottoms House some eighty-odd years ago. According to legend, a witch sought shelter at his manor, and he turned her away. She cursed him, and not long after, he was found shot dead in his own home.”
“Heavens,” Xenia breathed.
“Since then, every owner o’ Bottoms House has suffered misfortune, and it got to be that no one would go near the place. It sat empty for years before your master moved in.”
The tingle tiptoed up her spine. The only thing better than a ghost story was one that had acurse.
“There’s more. When the villagers discovered the witch ’ad killed Mulligan, they tried to hunt her down. A local hero named Pearce—you’ll see his monument in the square—led the charge and was found dead inhishome.”
Xenia gasped. “She killed two men?”
“Not only that, but she cursed theentirevillage. Before Mulligan’s arrival, we had spas to rival Bath, but the springs began to dry up. Now there’s only one spa left, and it’s barely staying afloat. We used to produce some o’ the finest fruit in the county, then all the crops failed. Our bustling market once attracted visitors from near and far. Now ’alf our buildings lay vacant or house disreputable businesses.” He counted out the misfortunes on his sausage-like fingers, his expression glum. “To heap insult on injury, the village has been rechristenedChuddums. We’re considered the latrine o’ Berkshire. No one stays if they ’ave a way out.”
“Why doyoustay?” she asked.
Instantly, she chided herself for concerning herself with others’ problems. That was how things had started with Tony: she’d wanted to help him with his writing career and his gambling habit. Not only had shenothelped him, but she’d gotten her heart broken and exposed herself to her enemy. She’d been forced to flee London with her mama’s lackeys snapping at her heels. If she hadn’t managed to give them the slip…she shuddered at the punishments her mama might have meted out.
“My family’s been here for three generations. No Bailey ’as ever left Chuddums, and I ain’t about to be the first…”
When he trailed off, she followed the direction of his gaze. Two coves stood outside the shop window. Their dark caps with lowered brims and flashy neckerchiefs told her what they were.
Trouble.
“I’d best be filling your order, Mrs. Wood, and letting you get on.”
In a blink, Mr. Bailey lost his affability, becoming anxious and twitchy. His transformation confirmed her hypothesis about the brutes lying in wait. Although a part of her wanted to ask if he needed help, she stopped herself.
You cannot afford to get tangled up in trouble. You have enough of your own. Move on.
She gave the butcher her ingredient list. He packed what she could carry, promising to deliver the rest, then nearly shoved her out the door. She hadn’t gone but a few steps when the pair of cutthroats prowled inside.
She forced herself to continue with her errands.
A few doors down was Pickleworth’s Produce, and the greengrocer was advertising his goods outside his shop. He had brown hair, twinkling eyes, and was a bit over four feet tall. He stood on a crate, holding a plate of sliced tomatoes.
“Ripe tomatoes,” he announced in a rich, booming voice. “Come get your ripe and juicy tomatoes!”
As Xenia wasn’t partial to tomatoes, she politely declined a sample. Unfortunately, the greengrocer took her refusal to try his fruit as a personal affront. To smooth things over, she went into the shop and arranged produce delivery with his wife, a pretty blonde who introduced herself as Loretta Pickleworth. Xenia went on to complete transactions with the cheesemonger, baker, and others.
Her errands completed, she was still worried about Mr. Bailey. She thought about checking in on him but abruptly changed direction, her heavy shopping basket banging against her hip. She took a shortcut through the village green to avoid the temptation of getting involved in the butcher’s problems. Her extensive knowledge of cutthroats told her that she couldn’t help him and would only risk her own hard-won freedom.
At the center of the square, she spotted the monument Mr. Bailey had mentioned and stopped to look. Sitting beneath the bare branches of a large, withered tree, the small slab of reddish stone bore a rusty plaque.
In memory of Langdon Pearce
