Chapter 36 #2
She stopped that line of thought before panic arose again. What was happening with Fletch? She tried to peer through the thick shrubbery but saw only an old bird nest. If she couldn’t see the house, they couldn’t see her, right?
Think, Kate.
According to the actors and Ana Marie’s daughter, Vivien and her sister had been seamstresses working with Ana Marie.
Vivien or her sister had been caught stealing and been turned off.
They then sewed privately for actors, who claimed their purse was stolen.
The tale had sounded convincing but vague.
She had only the letter to support the troupe’s accusations and neither source implicated Hugh.
But the children claimed their da had told them to steal from the actors today. And Hugh was their father? If true, that might make Hugh a thief and not the sisters.
But what of all the so-called accidents at the manor? Hugh hadn’t been inside for either one of the stair tumbles, or the mule incident, that anyone could tell.
But Vivien had been in the manor when Ana Marie had fallen. Vivien and her sister had been present when the mules almost crushed Kate. Had the sisters been there when Mrs. Young talked about her mushrooms? Vivien had. Still, thievery did not make anyone killers. What would be the purpose?
Kate had reached the side yard. She wasn’t wearing boots. Her indoor shoes slipped in the weeds but she knew better than to catch branches this time. She caught glimpses of the Hall but no activity. She pushed on, trying to stay calm by using her head for a change.
What did the accident victims have in common?
Kate and Mrs. Young had the shop, but that belonged to Lavender.
Ana Marie was only a maid and owned nothing of value.
It was far more likely that she’d been mistaken for Kate, which was a connection of a sort.
Ana might have recognized Vivien but Wilma Jameson hadn’t been around then. Another mark against Vivien?
Nothing explained Vivien’s fall, whether self-inflicted or not.
Unless—she was so desperate to work in the shop she’d maim herself and kill to have the position.
That would be as mad as Hugh, and Vivien had never struck Kate as mad, just ambitious to a fault, but then, Kate wasn’t in the habit of meeting killers.
If a killer had the missing women. . . Panic reared its ugly head—this time, for the women who might be in that house. Reaching the back of the Hall, Kate plunged into Fletch’s habit of resorting to action rather than thought. She shoved aside grasping branches, listening for any sound from inside.
Shouting! Had Fletch gone in the front then?
Before Kate could push further into the shrubbery, Wilma Jameson burst from the backdoor, yelling over her shoulder. “I told thee not to leave the cart in sight! There’s naught reason for that plaguezum lobcock bist at the door. Get out!”
Wilma? How on earth was a lumbering slow-top like Vivian’s sister involved? She had children and spent her time working. She should have nothing to do with anything.
“I’ll be there dreckly. I want my grub,” a man shouted from the kitchen.
“If ye’d spirited away the right ‘un, we’d not bist in this mess, ye old fool. Can’t do nothin’ right.” Wilma turned and glared behind her. “If we leave, they’ll think the queer bitches stole her.”
Her? One person?
She marched toward the barn, tumbling Kate into confusion. If the children weren’t lying or confused. . . Hugh might be their father. And Wilma was his wife? But then, why wasn’t her name Morgan?
And whoever she was, she was laying the blame for a kidnapping on the actors? Was there any other translation of that gibberish? Hugh had kidnapped the wrong person?
Who had he kidnapped? Who had he wanted to kidnap and why?
If Lavender or Maryann had been harmed because of her—
Where was the sentry Fletch had sent? Could Fletch hear the argument? He’d hoped to hear her shouts—but if he was already inside. . . That house had thick walls.
Swallowing hard, Kate forced down her panic to study the overgrown flowering shrubbery on either side of the kitchen door. Bridey and Damien had trimmed the worst of it, but the lilacs and rhododendrons were still enormous.
If these were the kidnappers and they weren’t bringing their victim outside. . .
She needed to get inside. Could she slip behind bushes crushed against a stone wall? Although, if Hugh was still in the kitchen, she didn’t want to confront him. If he was strong enough to fight Fletch, she didn’t stand a chance.
There was another entry in the south wing of the house, through the office in the shoe workshop.
She never wanted to revisit that horror again.
The next closest alternative was at the far end of the north wing. No shrubbery adorned that long wall. She couldn’t reach that entrance without being seen.
Near the kitchen, there used to be a hatch into the woodshed. . . where they’d found the skeleton. Kate closed her mind to nightmares. Concentrate on helpless, terrified victims—pray they were alive.
Fighting with the new barn latch, Wilma had her back to the house.
Kate took the opportunity to squeeze behind the lilacs.
There really wasn’t room. The branches tore at her clothing and she fought a sneeze as leaves brushed her nose.
She pulled her spencer closer to shield her muslin and hoped her bonnet protected her hair from spiders.
She couldn’t enter through the kitchen if Hugh was in there.
Given the accent, it had very much sounded like him.
They finally had him trapped. Where was Fletch? Was he hurt?
She heard whining and grumbling through the open door. She ought to wait for Hugh to emerge and just shoot him, but she didn’t trust her aim. She was shivering too hard.
“What’s takin’ them there brats zo long?” Hugh finally stumbled down the steps, obviously having indulged in pot valor. “We be needin’ the coin.”
The brats? Wilma’s children? He had them stealing the actors’ coins so he could escape? Shoot, Kate, just shoot him dead right now.
She couldn’t. She was a coward.
Was Vivien here?
Frozen in indecision, Kate desperately wished she could hear Fletch. Surely, he was inside by now? She watched as Hugh stumbled to the barn door to help Wilma, both their backs turned to the house.
Fine, then, a sign from heaven. . .
Sending up prayers of gratitude that she wouldn’t have to enter through the haunted woodshed, she took a deep breath, shoved aside branches, and slipped in through the kitchen entrance.
The house was silent, filled with echoes of the past.
She’d once considered this low-ceilinged kitchen a home away from home.
The colorful quilts Mrs. Sutter had used to adorn the plain whitewash were gone.
Instead, Brydie had painted the walls a cheerful yellow and hung lacy curtains.
Pots and pans covered the sink and stove but they appeared to be clean.
Kate’s nightmares had left her fearing walls smeared with blood and corpses on the floor.
Another deep breath. She almost choked on it. She gripped the pistol hard until she stopped shaking.
Where to look? Sutter Hall had been added onto over the centuries, back when the extended family was growing and prosperous.
It had been empty for a long time. She didn’t have any notion what was where any longer.
She should have come over when Brydie was fixing it up.
Stupid coward that she was, she’d refused, and now her ignorance might hurt Lavender or Maryann. Or even Vivien, for all she knew.
She listened for Fletch but still heard nothing. She supposed he had to tie up the horses and seek a way in if the front was locked.
The main door out of the low-ceilinged kitchen led to a gloomy dining parlor. Through that was the foyer and front parlor, where Fletch should be entering. Not knowing the house as she did, he may have gone up the stairs in the foyer, to the bedchambers.
The service stairs on her right would take her to the same place.
She simply couldn’t imagine Hugh carrying anyone taller than himself up stairs. He’d take the easiest path. . .
Which led in the direction of Kate’s nightmares. . . down a more recently added narrow hall that went to the workshop, woodshed, and drive.
The actors’ cart had been stopped outside the workshop. Assuming Hugh didn’t want to carry a burden far. . . She should go that way.
She very much didn’t want to. Maybe she ought to see if Fletch was still at the front. . .
“Can’t go on without coin,” Hugh’s voice approached the open door. “We’uns can nick a piece or two.”
Panicking, Kate darted down the dark side hall.
“Hark at me, ye old fool! We ain’t leavin’ now,” Wilma shouted from the yard. “He left. Didn’t ye ’ear ’im?”
Fletch left? Not possible. Shivering, Kate listened to their arguing. Hugh apparently wanted to steal funds and move on. He’d always been itinerant. Wilma was digging in her heels.
The children had said Hugh had promised Kate’s house to Wilma.
Vivien wanted Kate’s position.
Could they really have mistaken Lavender for Kate? That made no sense. Young, fair-haired, willowy Lavender in no way resembled Kate’s shorter, auburn-haired, plump self.
Find Lavender. Let Fletch take care of the cork-brains.
And she actually had confidence that the grumpy clockmaker would do just that, that he was even now sneaking around to catch them by surprise. He wouldn’t desert her. She didn’t know why she knew that. Her judgment had never been the best. . .
It was that lack of confidence that had kept her home all these years.
Clinging to the shreds of her courage, Kate gritted her teeth and edged down the narrow hall toward the workshop. Someone had hung a clothesline in here. It dangled outrageously colored and strangely-sized drawers, corsets, hose. . .
Odd undergarments didn’t hide the specters awaiting in that workshop office. She really didn’t want to go where ghosts lingered. She couldn’t shoot ghosts.
She ought to wait for help. The guard behind the barn had to have some notion that the scoundrels were planning an escape. Fletch had to be nearby. Perhaps he was searching the other wing.
A muffled thump from the workshop office startled her. Could Wilma or Hugh have gone in there while she was dithering? What were they doing?
Could she cower behind the damp clothing until they left? The alternative was the crude door out to a skeleton-haunted woodpile filled with spiders and other nasties—and possibly an ax.
She was less afraid of snakes, spiders, and skeletons than that haunted office. When the muffled thumping continued, she had horrible visions of someone killing the victims. Panicked, she darted into the woodshed.
The firewood supply had dwindled to almost nothing, but the worst webs and spiders had been swept out. In the dark, she had difficulty finding any weapons.
At another thump, she cast a glance to the hall behind her, praying rescue was on the way.
She saw no one—but she heard the wretches screaming at each other in the distance. If she heard rightly, then Wilma and Hugh weren’t in that office. She refused to believe ghosts thumped. Could she flee the shed, cross the wide backyard, and find the guard?
If the scoundrels saw her, they would be warned that they’d been discovered. That could turn violent.
Was that a muffled scream?
Thinking of lovely Lavender in that horrifying office with its haunted couch. . . No, never again.
Kate grabbed a hefty piece of wood, darted into the hall, and ran for the office.
The door was locked. Without thinking twice, she slammed the key plate with her log. Her best Sunday gloves split at a worn seam, only adding to her rage. Shrieking her fury, she smashed the wood into the lock again and again.