Chapter 12 #3
Her amusement deserted her at the rusted gates of Stonefold Grange. Rowton climbed down from the box, unfastened the thick chain and kicked aside the grass that had grown against the gate.
She met Mr Stanton’s gaze. He only frowned.
“They say houses reveal much about their owners,” she said as the carriage lurched through potholes and weeds that had claimed the drive. If that were true, Stonefold spoke of a man who had stopped caring. She wasn’t convinced he had.
“I’m merely the custodian until some distant relative lays claim. But I have no wish to discuss the house beyond how it serves our present needs.”
She felt the sting of those words, though he couldn’t hide forever. Whether he liked it or not, the answers were buried somewhere on this estate.
“Then I shall confine my comments to matters of supper and murder.” And why a man who feared nothing else seemed to fear this place.
Stonefold Grange emerged from the tree line.
A square red-brick manor with mullioned windows and a low roofline softened by ivy.
The house itself showed little sign of neglect.
The gardens told a different story. Box hedges grown shapeless, gravel paths swallowed by grass, a sundial sinking into the earth, its bronze face no longer keeping time.
She swallowed and pasted on a smile. “It has character.”
“It has no redeeming qualities.”
She didn’t argue. “I suppose the first thing to do is find wood. Pullman warned we might feel the first pinch of frost tonight, and the house has been cold for quite a while.”
“Rowton will see to the wood and fetch supplies from Bromley. We’ll need to air the beds and check for clean linens.”
“How long do you expect us to stay here?”
He didn’t look at the lifeless fountain. Or the dead roses around the arbour. “Until we’ve found Bellingham’s killer and you’re no longer in danger. London is close enough for us to continue the investigation.”
“Won’t this be the first place someone would look?”
He scoffed as though it were a foolish question. “I doubt anyone would expect me to come here. And I trust Pullman to keep a confidence.”
The carriage rolled to a halt before the front steps, lost beneath a drift of dead leaves. Two broken urns flanked the entrance.
Mr Stanton didn’t move.
His gaze remained fixed on the house. Not the windows. Not the door. Somewhere in between, as though he were looking through the stone and mortar to something only he could see.
Grief didn’t announce itself. One moment, they were discussing firewood and bed linens. The next, they were staring at a house full of ghosts.
She shuffled past his knees, opened the door and alighted. “Do you have the key? It will be dark in an hour or two. We should make haste.”
The carriage rocked on its axle as Mr Stanton climbed down behind her. His boots crunched on the gravel while she mounted the steps.
He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and stood aside. “After you, Miss Vane.”
She crossed the threshold and stopped short. A suit of armour stood before a vast stone fireplace. She took a step towards it, then caught herself smiling.
“You’ll have to ignore the grime,” he said, mistaking her reaction for dread. “And it’s cold enough to freeze hell’s flames.”
But she was already skipping to the tarnished silver suit, lifting the visor and calling, “Hello. Is anyone there?” She swung around, laughing. “You’re supposed to say, ‘If he answers, invite him to dinner.’”
“I wouldn’t know. I was never allowed to touch it.”
She abandoned the armour for the mounted stag’s head above the fireplace. “My father made a mechanical one that looked just like this. It used to nod as we climbed the stairs to bed, and I’d blow it a kiss.”
For the first time since the gates, some of the strain left his face. “You’ll have to make do with me tonight.”
She smiled, picturing a different kind of kiss. One with gasps and restless hands. “It’s no hardship. You’re far more interesting than armour and a mechanical stag.”
“Then you’ve led a remarkably sheltered life.”
Sheltered? She bristled at that. He wasn’t the only person to lose someone he loved. Had he forgotten she was homeless and without funds? “My parents are dead too. I’ve dealt with my fair share of hardships.”
“Yes, but every memory before is worth cherishing.”
He was right. Melinda had turned every magical moment into a tragedy. Had he done the same? Surely Stonefold held happier memories than he realised.
She moved to the under-stairs cupboard. “We had one of these when we lived in Oxford.” She drew the bolt and opened the door. “It was the perfect hiding place. Melinda was afraid of the dark.”
He stood rigid, so rigid he might be made of stone.
“Is this where your parents put disobedient servants?”
He hesitated for so long she could almost hear the case clock ticking, though it had stood unwound for years.
“This isn’t the time for games, Miss Vane. Better we hunt for clean linens.”
He marched past and mounted the stairs.
Emma frowned and looked back into the cupboard.
That’s when she saw the deep gouges in the wood.
The scratches were on the inside.
The bolt was not.