Thirty
Rafe: Monday
Monday, after he’d fed his increasingly sour guests breakfast and demanded payment in banknotes or small coins, Rafe oversaw the set-up of the cider presses in the inn yard. He’d have to clean out the giant kettle he’d used last year for stew. Feeding whoever helped with the pressing was expected.
In better times, they’d make a festival of it. This year, with vultures hovering—it seemed suitable to have a ghoulish holiday. The manor folk were demented, but he was prepared. He couldn’t help biting back a grin of expectation as the young lawyer approached.
Who’d thought this time last year that he’d be driving away guests?
“What is all this?” Haggarty gestured at the ancient wooden presses and rusted implements.
“Apple harvest is over. Time to make cider. The old monks haunt us until we do.” Rafe nodded at the overgrown hedge between the inn and church yard. “Didn’t you hear them last night, hooting and wailing?”
He didn’t know which of the actors had performed last night, but they’d done a chilling job.
“Owls, my man said. Shouldn’t the manor make the cider?”
His guests really were bored if they were inquiring about rural life. Rafe deliberately carved a witches’ mark on the press frame. “Don’t have owls. No rats to feed on. Spooks drive them off.” And lack of grain. Even vermin had to eat. No point in explaining to city folk.
“Well, you have an owl now. The spooks must not be performing to expectation. Do you have any idea when Captain Huntley will return? I need to return to town soon.”
Verity had read ghost tales last night for the entertainment of the children and Rafe’s edification.
They’d had a good time developing their own tales afterward.
Rafe twisted one to suit the occasion. “Captain won’t return until after All Hallow’s Eve.
The women say that’s when the line between us and other worlds is thinnest. Last year, the ghost of the old earl’s son appeared, the one a witch cursed until he drowned himself.
He near sent the captain’s horse into the river.
Place is haunted all year, mind you. It’s just worse about harvest.”
The lawyer eyed the witches’ mark Rafe had just carved, apparently recognizing the symbol. “That’s ridiculous. Horses spook. I hear the captain is lame and half blind, and was drunk, most likely. If he won’t be returning until week’s end, can you tell me where to find him?”
Hunt was a bigger, stronger man than this whey-faced chap, and even drunk, the captain swung a wicked sword. He’d probably terrify Haggarty, should he ever meet him. Curious that the fancy lawyer had been given this odd impression of the extremely competent Army engineer captain.
“No notion. He don’t keep me informed. I answer to the ladies, and they want me hanging soul bells and witch hexes to ward off any more spectral appearances, as they say.
Reckon the ladies ain’t done nothing wrong that the monks will haunt them.
Still, there’s a lot of folk here to help with the pressing, so it’s best to play safe.
” Rafe made a sign against evil and hung a wooden cross on a fence post.
“The ladies pay you to protect them from superstition?” Haggarty asked in incredulity.
Rafe picked up his tools and ambled toward the inn.
“Not well informed, are you?” That might be an understatement now that he talked to the chap.
“Ladies own all this, lock, stock, and barrel. Manor, all the village. The captain and lieutenant deal with business sorts, because it’s expected.
But they can’t do a thing unless the ladies approve. And the ladies believe in ghosts.”
To prove his point, inside the lobby, Thea and Lavender were setting out hollowed turnips with evil eyes. They had dressed properly this morning, all lacy gowns and beribboned blond curls, looking like innocent Christmas angels. Disguises came in many forms.
The little modiste smiled happily at him. “These are perfect, Mr. Russell, thank you. We won’t have any more dreadful incidents like last year.”
“Last year?” Haggarty asked worriedly, following Rafe into the pub. . .
Where the curate was helping Arnaud hang colorful—newly painted—witch mark symbols over the windows. The circle containing six petals and the spirals were as beautifully done as anything Rafe had seen in a geometry book.
“Tell Mr. Haggarty what happened last year at the cider pressing,” Rafe called. “I have to cut up the chickens. Still want the blood and feathers?”
“I don’t approve of anything but good, old-fashioned prayer to thwart evil.” The curate climbed down from the ladder and moved it to the next window. “But if the ladies wish to dabble in witchcraft to prevent anyone else dying, I won’t stand in their way.”
“I think they’re burning chicken feathers to keep away the late viscount’s evil spirit.
Or was it the ghost of the witch who killed him?
” Arnaud handed up the colorful sign for the curate to hang.
“And we’re to sprinkle the blood in the graveyard to prevent the spirits of the poisoned from returning.
Everyone is pretty worried about that, since they just died this past year. ”
Parsons, Rafe’s ex-convict clerk, stared at them as if they’d tucked their heads under their arms. He was fairly new to Gravesyde also. But he’d been warned to hold his tongue, and Parsons was dutiful.
After a long evening with Rafe’s excellent ale, the older guests hadn’t emerged yet. But the gambler’s pretty-faced valet and Humphries’ burly valet/bodyguard were huddled over coffee in a corner. They listened with puzzled expressions.
“People were poisoned? Here? At the inn?” The young lawyer had almost reached apoplexy.
The curate climbed up again and glared at the company, which would look ridiculous to anyone who knew genial Upton.
“That’s what happens when women are allowed to practice witchcraft.
It’s said even the viscountess was a witch, mixing potions in that strange laboratory in the tower.
I’ve sprinkled holy water everywhere that the apparitions have appeared, but this time of year—" He clucked in disapproval.
Rafe had difficulty biting back a howl of laughter. He had to hide his grin by turning his head toward the curate and away from his guests.
“Laboratory?” Tatum, the gambler’s man asked. “The manor has a laboratory?”
For perfume making. Arnaud’s shy young niece practiced her craft in one of the tower’s chambers.
Enjoying himself a little too much, Rafe didn’t explain but admired the signs the artists had created, as if by magic, overnight. The medieval symbols suited the ancient pub with its mullioned bay windows and smoky timbers.
“Dismantled, of course,” Rafe said reassuringly. “We’ve had no reports of spirits on that floor of the tower, but even the curate can’t prevent the pirate from walking. We think he’s here permanently, like the monks.”
“Pulls down the manor’s drapery, flings chairs on the fire.
” Arnaud began picking up his tools. “Nearly burned down the manor when he threw kitchen chairs into the fire after it had been banked for the night. If it had not been for the smoke, we should all be roasted. Priory’s haunted, certainement. ”
Tatum and Jones scraped back their chairs and fled.
The game was in play.