The Mysteries of Pendowar Hall (The Audacious Sisterhood of Smoke & Fire #1)

Chapter Ten

A week passed. In subjects that were taught orally, Miss Fallbrook excelled. She conversed well in French, could name all the countries on the globe in Europe and Asia, and could recall a wealth of facts about the natural and scientific world. She was adept and creative when it came to needlework and, although she could not read music, she could dance and sing well, and she played the piano by ear with skill and enthusiasm.

To Diana’s regret, however, Miss Fallbrook still did not comprehend the purpose of the alphabet or how it related to the reading process. Diana tried every trick she could think of to help her pupil recognize letters and remember their sounds, but nothing stuck. Her puzzling habit of, on occasion, writing letters backwards or upside down continued.

Diana was discouraged. If she couldn’t teach the girl to read and write, what did that say about her tutoring skills? Every time she looked in the mirror, Diana felt like a failure… and a fraud. Every morning, she checked the post, awaiting a letter from Professor Vaughan, hoping he could provide insight into Miss Fallbrook’s case, but no answer came.

In the meantime, when Diana ate her solitary meals, visited the gardens, walked the cliff path, or lay in bed on the verge of sleep, her mind worked on the puzzling circumstances of Sir Thomas’s demise.

The baronet’s suicide note had been so brief. “I cannot go on.” What did that mean exactly? Why couldn’t he go on? What if he hadn’t even written that note?

Captain Fallbrook had ridiculed her suspicions and told her to mind her own business. “People behave in odd and unexpected ways when they are depressed,” he’d said.

Maybe he was right. Maybe Mrs. Phillips had sent Diana on a futile mission.

Diana wrote to her godmother, apprising her of everything she had learned and sharing her doubts and concerns. She wrote similarly to Athena and Selena, adding her worry that her godmother’s fears had become so embedded in Diana’s mind that all she could see now was murder.

One morning, three letters arrived. The first was a short note from Mrs. Phillips.

Rose Cottage, Yorkshire

Dearest Diana,

You are on the right track. You will get to the bottom of both of these mysteries—one about my niece and one about my brother.

You are a clever woman. Keep at it.

All my love and thanks,

Eliza Phillips

The second letter was from her sister Athena.

Seven Gables, Yorkshire

My dearest Diana,

Forgive my tardy reply to your letters. My work here requires my every waking moment. By day, when I am not struggling to keep my two charges out of trouble, I endeavor to cram some morsel of learning into their reluctant brains. Every evening until bedtime, I am obliged to sew by the light of a single candle for Mrs. Baldwin, until my eyes fall out. In addition to hemming endless bedsheets and tablecloths and serviettes, would you believe, the dreadful woman has me sewing clothes for the girls’ dolls?

I dream of the day when you and I and Selena can be the masters of our own universe, start our school for girls, and choose the pupils we admit to it. How heavenly that would be! By the by, I discovered the ideal house for such a venture, Thorndale Manor, only six miles away. It is an ancient building with lovely grounds, just the right size, and by all accounts has enough bedrooms for us and a handful of servants and ten or eleven pupils, if they share a room.

I accompanied my mistress and her daughters to an estate sale there last week (my presence naturally required in case the little darlings became unruly). It seems the owner has fallen into such bad financial straits that he must sell off many of his possessions and will soon be obliged to unload the entire property. I realize we could never in our wildest dreams ever afford such a place—which is a shame, for the house has the most thrilling reputation. It is said that a murderess once lived there. How exciting it would be to live in such a place! Hopefully, prospective students and their parents would find its history equally enthralling, rather than frightening. The fantasy of owning Thorndale Manor persists and brings me fleeting moments of joy. Meanwhile (can you hear my sigh?), we must soldier on.

Enough about me. I must say, I found your descriptions of Pendowar Hall delightful. How I should love to visit Cornwall! Captain Fallbrook sounds like an interesting man. However, I perceive, from what you wrote, that Miss Fallbrook has more serious learning difficulties than you anticipated. You questioned whether you are up to the task. This admission worries me.

My dearest Diana: you are an excellent, thoughtful, and insightful instructress. When I struggled with our German lessons last year, how patient you were with me! I think back with deep fondness on all our discussions of the great works of literature over the years. Your enthusiasm for your subject is and always has been infectious. The role of teacher fits you to a “T.” (Do you see the joke I made there? Ha ha.) I have always looked up to you. You are so good at everything you do, and you are far more perceptive than me. Whatever is holding your pupil back, in time, you will comprehend its nature and rise to meet it. I know it!

As for the other matters… have you forgotten Mama’s old saying: ‘where there is smoke, there is fire’? It sounds as though Mrs. Phillips knew what she was talking about. Do not doubt yourself!

With all my love,

Athena

The third letter was from Selena.

Gisborne Park, Lancashire

My dearest Diana,

Hello, sister dear! I think of you often and miss the daily conversations we shared during those precious months together at home, after Papa died. We have a long history of communicating via this method, however, during all the years we have been obliged to live apart. Sharing my thoughts in print and receiving yours in return is the closest thing I have to the pleasure of your company, so please indulge me if I babble on.

How fortunate you are to be in Cornwall at this time of year. To think that a Mediterranean climate exists in England, where tropical plants and palm trees flourish! It is such a departure from all that we have known. The skies here have been grey and stormy. The mistress constantly moans and groans about an ill wind that blows no good. But I love everything about the autumn—the chill in the air, the frost on the ground, the glorious colors of the leaves—and I adore the wind. It’s fresh and clean and revives my spirits, no matter how low they may sink.

You asked how I am faring, and my answer is: as well as can be expected. The children have started riding lessons, which allows me a blissful hour of freedom two mornings a week. I subscribed to a circulating library and save my pennies to borrow as many titles as I can afford. Thank you for recommending The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. I didn’t feel confident enough to read it in the original French, as you did, but I found a new English translation and I was absolutely enthralled. It is phenomenal, unlike anything I have ever read before, and such a grand adventure!

Speaking of adventure, it sounds as though you are having one yourself. (The most exciting thing that has happened to me of late was when young Master Ambrose dumped his glass of lemonade down the front of my frock just moments before the vicar came to call. Whether or not this was a deliberate act, I leave for you to judge.) I know you were skeptical about Mrs. Phillips’s reason for sending you to Pendowar Hall. Now you mention footsteps in the night, a flashing light in a distant tower, a curious legend about a mermaid, and unexpected circumstances regarding the former master’s death. You wonder if you’re onto something, or if these things are a series of coincidences.

I know my natural tendency is, as you keep pointing out, to see the best in everything. I still believe that in most cases, things will work themselves out perfectly well if left alone. However, I feel differently about your situation. It puts me in mind of our new favorite novel, Jane Eyre . While serving at Thornfield Hall, Jane also encountered strange circumstances, and was beset by doubts. Critical truths were kept from her, yet Jane blindly trusted Mr. Rochester and accepted all that she was told. This naivete on her part led to a near-criminal act, a breaking apart of all that she held dear—and it very nearly cost Jane her life.

I urge you, Diana, not to make the same mistakes Jane did. You have, my dear sister, a superior mind. I saw it at work all those years ago, when you and Athena and I called ourselves the Sisterhood of Smoke and Fire. We were determined to leave no stone unturned in our “criminal investigations.” I know it was mostly childish nonsense—then. But things are different now.

It is in your nature to question things. Mama’s words still hold true. If you believe something is amiss at Pendowar Hall, then perhaps it is. Trust your instincts. All legends have a foundation in truth. Seek the truth before it comes back to haunt you—or harm you.

Your loving sister,

Selena

Diana read all three letters through a second time, and then a third.

As she paced back and forth in the schoolroom, her godmother’s and sisters’ words echoed in her brain:

“You are on the right track. You will get to the bottom of both of these mysteries—one about my niece and one about my brother… Keep at it.”

“Have you forgotten Mama’s old saying: ‘where there is smoke, there is fire’?”

“It sounds as though Mrs. Phillips knew what she was talking about. Do not doubt yourself!”

“If you believe something is amiss at Pendowar Hall, then perhaps it is.”

The captain thought Diana’s worries were groundless. The parish constable had closed Sir Thomas’s case and would clearly never look into it again. But Diana had a gut feeling that her godmother was right. Someone had murdered the baronet and gotten away with it.

Diana recalled her one meeting with Sir Thomas Fallbrook when she’d been a little girl and he’d come to visit Mrs. Phillips. He had been kind. She had come to care about his daughter and was beginning to respect his nephew, two people who were both deeply hurt by the man’s purported suicide.

If Sir Thomas had not died by his own hand, and it could be proven, it would controvert Miss Fallbrook’s idea that her father had deserted her. Either possibility—suicide or murder—would be painful to learn. And yet, wasn’t it better to know the truth? If the taint of suicide were removed, the baronet’s body could be reburied in consecrated ground, which would no doubt be a great relief to Miss Fallbrook… and perhaps to the captain as well. If Diana was su ccessful, whatever she uncovered could bring a criminal to justice.

Moreover, Diana had promised to find the truth and report it to Mrs. Phillips. How could she let her godmother down?

Mrs. Phillips only had months to live. Diana must get to the bottom of this mystery. And fast.

To date, she had only asked questions. Now she must act . But where to start?

She thought of Sir Thomas’s journals. He’d probably kept the most current volume close at hand. Captain Fallbrook had said he’d already searched his uncle’s bedroom, the blue parlor, and the study.

How many times, though, had something of her own gone missing—a glove, a handkerchief, an article of clothing—only to turn up months later after repeated searches, in a location she had already checked several times?

The captain simply had not looked hard enough. That journal was somewhere inside this house—Diana felt it in her bones.

She was going to find it.

*

Diana’s pulse hammered with anxiety as she slipped past the first-floor gallery.

Miss Fallbrook was practicing at the grand piano in the music room downstairs. Captain Fallbrook was making the rounds of the property on horseback. The staff was on the basement level, engaged in late afternoon chores or preparing supper. They would not come up to the first floor again until the captain’s and Miss Fallbrook’s beds needed to be turned down and their fires stoked for the night.

Even so, Diana’s nerves were on edge.

The captain had made it clear that he didn’t want her prying into this. Diana didn’t want to upset him further, but she had to follow through. This morning—fishing for a clue as to where Sir Thomas might have kept his journals—Diana had casually asked Ivy if she’d ever seen Sir Thomas writing in a journal.

“No, miss,” the maid had replied, “but then I wouldn’t’ve, would I? The master and I didn’t often cross paths. ‘Stay out of sight and keep yer head down,’ Mrs. Gwynn always says. ‘The master likes his staff invisible.’ Cleaning his rooms, that were Hester’s province. I just tended the master’s fire and chamber pot, when he were out or fast asleep.”

Diana had decided to begin her search in Sir Thomas’s bedroom. By now, she knew which chamber had belonged to him. Pausing in the hallway, her hand on the doorknob, Diana checked to ensure that she was unobserved. She would have to do this quickly and quietly.

The handle turned. Diana slipped within, shutting the door behind her. It was a good-sized chamber, but the air felt close, as if it had not been entered in some time.

A marble hearth stood cold and empty. The heavy, velvet draperies were closed, but late afternoon sun filtered in around the edges, providing just enough light to see. Handsome, carved mahogany furniture filled the space; plush, Turkish carpets covered the floors; and oil paintings enlivened the walls. There was no closet.

Diana started with the writing desk. The drawers contained only blank paper, writing instruments, and an assortment of personal items.

As Diana glanced over the contents, guilt washed over her. What right did she have to see these things—the possessions of a man who had passed away? She almost left there and then. But she reminded herself her intentions were worthy. She must press on.

Diana checked behind the curtains on the four-poster bed and looked beneath the mattress. Finding nothing, she examined the other furnishings, then moved into the adjoining dressing room. The wardrobe was filled with a gentleman’s wear: finely made frock coats, waistcoats, and pantaloons. It didn’t surprise her that no one had yet disposed of the baronet’s clothing. Although her own father had passed away more than a year ago, she and her sisters had not had the heart to donate the contents of his wardrobe to the poor until recently.

A succession of hat boxes and neatly folded neckties and cravats took up an entire shelf. Diana checked the boxes. They contained only hats.

The only other piece of furniture was a tall, elegant, mahogany chest of drawers. Its main drawers contained more assorted clothing, accessories, and personal items. Only three small drawers at the top of the chest remained. Diana glanced inside each one in turn.

A Bible occupied the first drawer. The second held pamphlets about flowering plants and the gardens of Cornwall. Diana slid open the final drawer. A tray within held a gold watch and other masculine jewelry. Diana’s stomach sank. There was no journal here.

Another item, however, caught her eye: a metal ring holding a set of keys.

Most were ordinary brass household keys, but some were larger and heavier and made of iron. Could one of these keys , Diana wondered, fit the lock in the north tower door?

The soft, rhythmic patter of footfalls against carpet echoed in the hallway. Diana’s breath caught. She heard Mrs. Gwynn talking to a maid. What if they entered the room to clean? What excuse could she give for being here?

Pulse pounding, Diana shut the drawer, leaving the keys within, and glanced about for a hiding place. She considered slipping inside the wardrobe—but to her relief, the women passed by. Mrs. Gwynn’s voice grew fainter until it faded away.

Returning to her own chamber, Diana leaned against the door, her heart still drumming in her ears. She hadn’t found Sir Thomas’s journals, but there were other places to look. However, she may have—quite literally—found the key to the mystery of the north tower.

The next time a light shone from that window, Diana knew exactly what she would do.