Page 29 of Impetuous

“Sneaking! No, Chumley…”

“I reckoned he was trying to break in.”

“He was not trying to break in,” Cassandra assured him earnestly. “Pray, put down your gun. Sir Philip is our guest. We invited him to meet us here today.”

She turned toward Sir Philip as the servant reluctantly lowered his gun. “I am so sorry, Sir Philip. I cannot think why Chumley would have accosted you.”

“I’ll tell ’ee why,” Chumley volunteered loudly. He had been growing gradually more hard of hearing over the years, and the volume of his voice had grown with the decrease in his hearing. “’Cause of the strange happenings out here last night, that’s why. I may not be working here no more, but it’ll not be said that Jack Chumley allowed such goings on where he lived and worked his whole life.”

“Dear Chumley, of course you would not. But what are you talking about? What happenings are you talking about? What goings on?”

“You mean nobody’s told you? It was all over the village this morning. Ned Plumpton was the one who told me. Folks are saying there’re ghosts in the house.” He jerked his thumb toward the castlelike structure behind him.

“Ghosts?” Cassandra repeated blankly.

“Aye,” he said disgustedly. “Ghosts! ‘Ye’re mad,’ says I. ‘Weren’t never any ghosts at Chesilworth.’ Why, his lordship would’a gone on and on about it if there had been. He’d’a been tickled pink, he would, been talking on and on about ’em, tryin’ to see ’em and all.”

Cassandra smiled fondly. “You’re right about that. But I still don’t understand—”

“Well, it weren’t just Plumpton, now, was it? Missus Brookman, she tells me she’d heard the rumors, too. From Farmer Crawford. Now I know Farmer Crawford, and he’s one with a good head on his shoulders. Missus Brookman, she says it were his son what seen it.”

“The ghost?”

“Yes’m. So I goes over to the Crawfords’ place, and he says the story’s true enough. His son—”

“Ben?”

“No, not that one. Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but that one’s got bats in his belfry, he does. No, Crawford wouldn’t go ’cause Ben saw it. It were young Alf. Only the age of the young lordship here, but he’s as sharp as the day is long. So when he come in talking about lights in the windows and such, Crawford knew he’d seen something, well, just like we would if it were Master Crispin or Master Hart.”

“He saw lights in Chesilworth?” Cassandra repeated, her gaze going to Sir Philip. She saw mirrored in his face the same sudden concern that stabbed her.

“Aye, miss, lights, and not just him, neither. When he told his pa about it, Farmer Crawford went back over with him to look. He knew Alf wasn’t lying, but he figured he must have been mistaken about what it was. Well, Crawford saw the light, too. It were in the attic, he said. You can only see it from those little windows. But it were there, and it glowed.”

“I see.” Someone had been in the attic. Cassandra could think of only one reason why anyone would go there at night—to search alone and undetected.

“’Course, I knew it weren’t no ghosts. Intruder, more like. A tramp or something, I thought, who’d broken in for a place to stay. Though the attic seems a mighty uncomfortable place to choose, if you ask me. So, anyway, I decided I best come over here and check things out, see if there’s sign of someone breaking in. And who do I find but this one—skulking about.”

“My good man, I was not skulking,” Sir Philip protested. “I was waiting for Miss Verrere and family.”

“And how was I to know that, sir? Ye’re a stranger to these parts.”

“He was telling the truth, Chumley,” Cassandra assured him. “But it was very thoughtful of you to come to check on the place for us.”

“I reckon it were my duty to his lordship, God rest his soul.”

“Papa would have been very grateful. You may go on home now. I don’t expect you to watch Chesilworth for us. We will check and see if there are any signs of an intruder.”

The old man looked doubtful. “Mayhap I’d best come in with you. You might need a weapon.”

“I am sure that whoever it was is gone now.”

But the old man would not be satisfied until he had gone around to each of the downstairs doors and windows and found the broken pane where the intruder had reached in and opened the window. He nodded, vindicated, and said that he would board it up.

They made a cursory inspection of the upper floors with Chumley, but as all of them expected, they found no one, or even a sign of anyone. Even the attic floor, dusty as it was, had had too many people tramping through it to isolate an intruder’s footprints.

After Chumley clumped down the attic stairs, the others stood for a moment, looking at one another. Finally Crispin cried, “Well? Who is it? Is somebody looking for our treasure?”

“It could be simply an intruder, I suppose,” Cassandra said slowly. “Someone who needed a place to spend the night.”