“Fair enough. I’d been working along the back attic wall all morning. I kept hearing sounds in the wall—scratching and scrabbling, like.”
“Like rats?”
“Yes, maum. Just that.” Freddie nodded. “That’s a problem, see. When rats get between the inner and outer walls of a house, it’s bad. Dangerous. I started tearing through the lath and plaster with my hammer. The lath was all rotted out, so it was easy work. As I was at it, the air around me started getting cold.” Freddie passed a hand over his jaw. “But it wasn’t cold at all down by my mates. And you’ll remember, it was a warm day, otherwise.”
Eliza remembered the unnatural chill in her room on the night she’d felt the presence beside her bed. Had this been the same spirit? “Go on, please.”
“I started to wonder if I was taking ill, seeing as I got real sick to my stomach. But I kept on working, as it were almost the lunch hour. A few minutes went by. Some sort of crazed, wavery line flickered at the corner of my eyes, all different colors.”
“Like a migraine aura?”
“I couldn’t say, maum. All of a sudden, I felt something stinging the back of my neck, like a cat had sunk its claws into my skin. I cried out and clapped my hand to my neck, and that’s when it jerked me over the scaffolding. Grabbed me by the shirt, just like a bloke does during a brawl.” Freddie shook his head. “I didn’t justfall, maum. Whatever that thing was, it meant to hurt me. I don’t figure it liked us working on the house. The misplaced tools and all, that was a warning, right. And when we didn’t heed it ...”
Eliza reached for Freddie’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Rest assured, Freddie, I mean to find out what’s going on. And should you need more compensation to tide you over until you can work again, come to me, not my husband.” After turning his mood happier with talk of Polly, Eliza bid Freddie farewell and left the ward.
Lydia met her at the foot of the stairs. “I see from your face he’s told you whatreallyhappened.”
“I don’t know what to make of it, Lyddie.”
“He won’t talk to me about it now, but I heard enough on the day it happened. His friend was in a state.” Lydia pressed her lips together, blanching their color. “It’s what some call a poltergeist ... or a demon. The bad energy I was telling you about. If it’s strong enough to toss a man from a scaffold, it’s mortally dangerous. I’m worried for you.”
Eliza grasped her sister’s hands. “You’ve enough to worry about here, with your work. I won’t go poking around, trying to stir things up. I promise,” she lied.
Lydia wrinkled her brow. “I wish I could believe you. I will pray for your protection, Liza.”
CHAPTER 29
Eliza peered out her window through branches furred with hoarfrost. A ragged chill ached through her wool stockings, cramping her toes. Shirley knelt before the grate, humming to herself as she stoked the embers, but the meager fire did little to dispel the cold as Eliza dressed. It now felt like true winter, even though they were only a fortnight into October. Eliza had spent the three days since Malcolm’s departure watching the shadows grow long across the floor as the sunlit hours grew shorter. Even her favorite books were no longer a distraction. She’d been too consumed with thoughts of malevolent spirits and Lydia’s warnings to concentrate on anything else.
The truth was, for all her protestations otherwise, Freddie’s story had rattled her. His distress as he relayed his account of the accident had been enough to demonstrate his honesty. Whatever happened in the south wing, it had frightened him terribly. It was one thing to have spirits that played at games. It was quite another to know it was done with malicious intent.
That evening, Eliza took her solitary dinner early, then went up to her rooms. She was settling down for the night, doing her mending by the fireplace in her chambers, when a creaking sound, as if a door were slowly being opened, sounded from the other side of the wall. She paused, listening. The unmistakable sound of footsteps came down thehallway. Eliza glanced at the mantelpiece. The clock read eleven. She rose and went to her door, peering out. The shadow of the winged seraph at the foot of the main staircase loomed like a great dragon over the gallery leading to Malcolm’s chambers. There was no one about that she could see.
Perhaps it had only been Turner, tending to his last few chores before going to bed. Yes, that was all. Surely. Eliza slowly closed the door. She settled back into her chair and picked up her sewing. Her hands shook slightly as she strained to keep her stitches in a steady row.
There it was again. Footsteps.
She put her work to the side and rushed to the door like a bloodhound with its nose to the ground. The sound was further away now—the distant clicking of heeled shoes on marble flooring. The ballroom. Eliza went into the hallway and crossed the gallery to the ballroom’s entrance, her heartbeat jumping in her throat. She put her ear to the door and listened. The tapping was dainty—delicate. The footsteps of a woman.
“Shirley, is that you?” Eliza called, her voice wavering. The footsteps stopped immediately. But no voice answered in reply.
Eliza closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She flung the door open wide and then stepped back as if she were expecting a ghostly cavalry to come charging through with swords drawn. She cautiously peeked over the threshold. The room was empty apart from the decorations for their abandoned ghillies ball, the plaid bunting shrouding the corners. The wet scent of fallen leaves wafted through the room, as if carried on an invisible breeze. “Hello?” she questioned. “Shirley?”
The distant sound of footsteps came again. On the floor, just visible in the wan light from the windows, a faint tracery of damp footprints led to the doors to the south wing. Eliza raced across the room, nearly slipping in her haste. “Shirley, are you in there?” She shook the doorknob and twisted it. Locked. As usual. She ran her hands along the edges of the molding, feeling for anything that might indicate aweakness she could use to her advantage. The wood was as smooth as vellum, the joining solid. She tried the latch again, but the lock held fast.
“This is ridiculous. I’m finding my way in here, one way or another.”
She went back to her room and rifled through her writing desk until she found her pearl-handled letter opener, its edge as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. She flew back to the doors and wedged the pointed tip into the lock’s opening. She leaned on the handle as she worked the letter opener in a circle, trying desperately to engage the lock’s tumbler. After going through various maneuvers, she gave up, groaning in frustration. A locked door was not going to keep her out for long. Someone was in there. Someone corporeal enough to leave footprints on the floor.
She had the momentary thought of going through the windows from the outside, as only two of them had been replaced during construction. But that was risky. If she injured herself, no one would know until it was too late. She needed a better plan. One that Malcolm would never find out about.
Eliza was helping Shirley clean the larder when she decided to bring up the matter of the keys. “His lordship didn’t happen to have a copy of the house keys made for you, did he, Shirley?”
“He did. Mr.Turner has his set and I’ve one, too.”
A frisson of excitement ran through Eliza. “Is Turner here?”
“Nae, mum. He’s gone to the village for the weekly errands.”
