Chapter 6
“She was a complicated woman.”
I jolt in shock. I don’t know how long I’ve stood here staring at the grave in front of me. I certainly didn’t hear anyone creeping up on me, but when I turn sharply to see who’s spoken, I see the white-haired man from Vivienne’s funeral approaching.
Does he mean Vivienne?
“I’m sorry, who?”
The man nods at the gravestone. “Cordelia.”
“What do you mean?” My eyes narrow suspiciously. For an insane moment, I wonder if this man is responsible for my mother’s death and he’s lured me here. Suddenly, Sam’s overprotective nature doesn’t seem so unnecessary.
But I have to say, I’m not getting evil witchy vibes from him. He looks more like a professor. A very well-dressed one. Surely, if he was intent on killing me, he wouldn’t be wearing such an expensive suit.
“The grave’s empty, you know.”
“What?” I blink in confusion as he comes to a stop next to me.
I’m still not getting serial killer vibes from him.
Lowering my shields just enough to read him, I find no malice at all, just a calm, quiet amusement.
There’s something else there, but before I can figure out what it is, he nods to the grave again.
“Cordelia’s grave. Her body’s not in there. That’s why there’s no date of death.”
I look back at the headstone and realise he’s right.
“Why would she have a grave if there was no body?” I murmur, more to myself than the stranger beside me.
“The story goes that she disappeared one night. No one knows what became of her. But her brother loved her, despite…well, despite many things. He wanted to have a place to come to grieve, but more than that, he wanted a marker of her life. Something to show she’d existed.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about someone who died over a century and a half ago,” I say suspiciously.
He smiles, holding out his hand. I shake it out of politeness. “Wentworth Hadley,” he introduces himself, then reaches into his suit jacket and produces a business card.
Mr Wentworth Hadley, Hadley & Mason, 22-24 St James Row, Cheapside. Est. 1758.
“A solicitor?” I look up after reading the card. “Do you often trawl graveyards looking for business?”
He gives a small chuckle, and it’s a nice sound. “No.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask bluntly, studying his face. When no answer is forthcoming, I add, “I saw you at Vivienne’s funeral.”
He hums in contemplation. “Yes. I knew Vivienne very well. I was her solicitor, having first met her after her parents passed away. She was very young at the time, barely out of her teens. Hadley and Mason has been my family’s business for centuries.
We have been the caretakers of the Crawshanks family for almost as long. ”
“Caretakers? That’s a strange way for a solicitor to describe their dealings with a client.”
He hums again. “It is a rather complicated and special relationship.”
Mr Hadley doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate further on that special relationship, so I turn back to the grave.
If they never found a body, what the hell happened to Cordelia and her demon? My gaze tracks across to the grave beside hers, and I blink in surprise.
Cornelius Crawshanks.
“This whole section of the graveyard is dedicated to the Crawshanks family, from Elmer and his wife to all these who came after them. Husbands, children, siblings”—Mr Hadley walks past Cornelius’ grave to the one on the other side of it—“and those who were the most important to them.”
Curiosity tugs at me, and I move to stand beside him, looking down to read the name.
Ichabod.
The surname is obscured by vines of ivy, but an image from one of the many strange dreams I’ve had lately floats to the surface in my mind. A beautiful red-haired man on his knees in Cornelius’ study.
“Ichabod,” I mutter. “They were lovers.” The words are out before I can censor them, but Mr Hadley just nods, not questioning how I would know such a thing.
“In a time when it was forbidden and discovery could cost them everything, but they never left each other’s side.
” He looks over to me and smiles. “They spent their entire lives loving each other against the dictates of an unforgiving society. Some love stories deserve to be remembered, don’t you think? ”
“Yes, I do,” I murmur quietly. When Mr Hadley starts walking again, I join him. “You said you knew Vivienne well?” He nods as we continue to walk. “What…” I hesitate, but the compulsion to know wins out. “What was she like?”
“Ah,” he sighs. “Vivienne was also a complicated woman, but not in the same way as Cordelia. Vivienne spent her whole life trying to run from her family’s past, and in the end, it caught up with her anyway.”
“What do you mean, her family’s past?”
We come to a stop at the entrance’s iron archway. “Like most families that old, the Crawshanks family comes with many responsibilities…and many secrets.”
“But—”
The sky rumbles with thunder that is not too far distant.
“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Mr Hadley says mildly as the first few drops of rain begin to fall.
He produces a small black umbrella wrapped in on itself. He presses the button on the handle, and it springs open just as the heavens open. Holding the umbrella over himself, he raises his wrist to check the time.
“I’m afraid I must depart. I have a meeting shortly,” he says politely, and holds out his hand once again. “Good day to you, Mr Ames. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”
I shake his hand, then watch him walk away briskly. It’s only when he rounds a corner and disappears from view, leaving me standing there drenched by the rain, that it occurs to me.
I never told him my name.
It’s late by the time I return to my flat. I’m cold and wet and my feet are squelching unpleasantly in my soaked shoes. I head into the bathroom for my second shower of the day, hoping it will warm me up and stop my teeth from chattering.
It’s not until I’m in the shower and my body temperature has returned to normal that I remember I was supposed to message Sam when I got back.
Shit.
I hurry to finish and dry off. Slipping into some soft lounge pants and a T-shirt, I head into the living with my phone and curl up on the sofa.
Me: Sorry I didn’t text you earlier, got caught in the rain and needed a shower to warm up once I got home.
Less than two seconds later, I see the bouncing dots on the screen followed by a reply.
Sam: I think you should describe it to me in great detail.
I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips.
Me: Fine, when the precipitation in the clouds… I start chuckling as I type a long reply about storm systems.
Once again, the response is instant.
Sam: You’re mean.
Sam: I meant the shower.
Sam: A naked, soapy Harrison is my favourite kind.
I huff out a quiet laugh.
Me: Pervert.
He sends me back a string of emojis, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Me: What are you doing now?
Sam: We’re about to raise a glass to Viv. Apparently, someone swiped a bottle of the old girl’s gin from the bookshop.
Me: Was that someone you?
Sam: Actually, I think it might have been Chan or Tristan, I’m not sure.
Me: Have fun and try not to get into too much trouble.
Sam: We’re at Danny’s flat, and he’s the most responsible and straitlaced person I’ve ever met. What could possibly go wrong?
I snort quietly and, after typing out a quick goodbye, set my phone down on the sofa’s side table. When my stomach punctuates my movement with a loud rumble, it occurs to me that I missed lunch. I head into the kitchen in search of food.
For the next hour, I potter around the kitchen cooking myself some early dinner, my mind churning over the events of the day.
I’m still not sure what to make of Mr Hadley.
What had he been doing in an old, almost forgotten graveyard in Whitechapel just after Vivienne’s funeral?
Had he followed me? And how did he know my name?
I should’ve asked him all this at the time, but my brain was still a bit scrambled from lack of sleep, 3D dreams about murder, and the funeral of the mother I never knew.
I plate up my meal and settle at the small table in the living room to eat. By the time I’m done and have cleaned up the kitchen, I’m still no closer to any plausible answers.
Instead, I make myself a cup of tea and head back to the sofa, switching the track of my thoughts to the fox.
I chew my lip. Is it tied to Vivienne specifically? It could be a familiar. Then again, piecing together all the pieces of information Tristan has given me about her, I don’t think my mother was a witch, at least not a practising one. I suppose I could be wrong.
If it was Vivienne’s familiar, why show itself to me? And why did it lead me to Cordelia’s empty grave? Tapping my fingers against the arm of the sofa, I mull it over. What if it’s not connected to Vivienne specifically but to the Crawshanks bloodline, which includes me?
And what is it exactly? It takes the form of fox, but it doesn’t seem to be a spirit, and neither is it fully corporeal.
I’m not going to find any answers sitting here and brooding on my own. What I need is to ask someone, someone with more experience than me. Picking up my phone from the table, I swipe through the screen to bring up my contacts. I’m still not calling my dads, but there is one other person I can ask.
I hold the phone to my ear and listen to it ring.
“Harry?” A gruff voice answers.
Everything in me relaxes at the familiar voice of my grandfather. “Grumps.”
It had started as a bit of a joke when I was a child—Gramps had become known as Grumps, and it had stuck.
Despite us not sharing DNA, it became clear to my dads very early on that Grumps and I shared a deep bond and the same prickly personality traits.
I hear several loud crashing noises in the background, as well as a lot of raised voices and other commotion. It certainly doesn’t sound like the peaceful, upmarket retirement home in Devon where Grumps lives.
“Where are you?” I ask suspiciously.