“Who could have guessed that the countryside would be so dangerous?” she asked. “It is quite pretty here in Little Dixby but it does appear rather dull. Not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.”
“And to think that Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh banished you here so that you could recover from your case of shattered nerves,” Clarissa Slate added. “Wait until we tell them of how you were attacked in your own bed by a man armed with a knife.”
“Make certain they realize that I was not actually in the bed when the villain got to the bedroom,” Evangeline said. “No need to alarm them any more than necessary. By the time Hobson arrived I was halfway out the window.”
“As if that will reassure them,” Clarissa said. “You know that they have both been very concerned about your nerves since the events of the Rutherford affair. They packed you off to the country to recover and just see what happens.”
“I did try to tell Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh that I was not suffering from shock as a result of the incidents that followed the Rutherford case,” Evangeline said.
It was mid-afternoon and they were walking along the lane that would take them into Little Dixby, where they planned to have tea and tour the ruins. Earlier, Evangeline had met her two friends at the station with a hired carriage. Mayhew, the owner of the town’s only cab, had driven the women and their luggage to Fern Gate Cottage. After unpacking, Clarissa and Beatrice had declared themselves eager to see some of the antiquities.
Evangeline was feeling a great sense of relief now that her friends had arrived. Although she was certain that her nerves had not been shattered by the events of the night, the truth was that this morning she had discovered that she was far more shaken than she cared to admit. The assault had revived all of the fearsome emotions she had experienced two weeks ago when Douglas Mason had lunged out of the bedroom doorway and held a knife to her throat. Really, she thought, how many such violent attacks should a lady have to endure in a month?
She was very glad that Clarissa and Beatrice were planning to stay for the next two nights. With luck she would get some sleep. If she had been obliged to spend the next two evenings alone in the unnervingly quiet countryside, she was certain she would have spent the long hours of darkness lying awake, listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall and watching for shadows at the bedroom window.
She had met Beatrice and Clarissa shortly after joining the firm of Flint & Marsh. The bonds of friendship had sprung up very quickly among the three of them, in part because each of them was alone in the world and each was facing a lonely future.
There were few options for women when it came to obtaining respectable employment. With marriage out of the question due to their poor finances and lack of social connections, they had each faced the gloomy prospect of making their livings as governesses or paid companions. Both professions were notoriously ill paid. After twenty or thirty years in either career, a woman was likely to find herself as impoverished as she had been when she started out. The only hope was that somewhere along the way a generous employer would remember to provide a tiny bequest in the will. It was a hope that was often cruelly crushed.
When Evangeline had begun making the rounds of the agencies that supplied governesses and companions to the wealthy, she had heard rumors of a most exclusive firm. The Flint & Marsh Agency in Lantern Street, it was said, placed their employees in the most elegant households. And unlike their competitors, they were rumored to pay exceptionally generous fees. Evangeline had hastened around to Lantern Street. After an intensive interview with the proprietors of the firm, she had been hired on the spot.
It transpired that there were two reasons for the superior fees. Flint & Marsh was no ordinary hired companion agency. The firm provided unusual services to its wealthy clients. And although the agency exercised every precaution, there was occasionally some danger involved. Not everyone was suited to the work, Mrs. Marsh had explained.
The second reason the agency paid well was because it demanded an unusual characteristic in the women it employed—a degree of paranormal talent.
The combination of psychical abilities and their determination to survive on their own terms in a world that was hard on women had bonded Evangeline and her friends as securely as a shared bloodline would have done. Perhaps even more so, Evangeline thought. In her work for Flint & Marsh she had seen enough of the intimate side of some of the most exclusive families to know that appearances were often deceiving. It never failed to astonish her how much jealousy, anger, bitterness and even violence could seethe at the heart of the most outwardly respectable families.
By the time Evangeline arrived on the doorstep of Flint & Marsh, Beatrice and Clarissa had been employed there for a few months and had already agreed to pool their resources to lease a small town house. They soon invited Evangeline to join them. She had accepted the offer with gratitude.
The prospect of sharing a house—to say nothing of expenses—held great appeal and not only because of the financial aspects. She savored the simple pleasures of taking meals with her newfound friends, sharing the news of the day and discussing the interesting work they did for Flint & Marsh. She had lived alone in the months following her father’s death and she had not enjoyed the experience. Not that Reginald Ames had provided much in the way of company when he was alive, she often reminded herself. He had been consumed by his obsession to invent mechanical devices powered by paranormal energy.
She never saw a great deal of him but he had always been there in the background of her life. To be more precise, he was usually to be found in his basement workshop. Nevertheless, as long as he was alive, there was, at least, someone else in the house besides the housekeepers and daily maids, none of whom stayed long. Reginald’s experiments and unpredictable moods ensured a steady turnover in the small household staff.
Evangeline had been lonely at times when her father was alive but she’d had her dreams of writing and her imagination to keep her company. She had not discovered what it was to be truly alone in the world until she had found Reginald dead in his basement workshop, a pistol on the floor beside him, a farewell note on the workbench.
Although they had much in common, Evangeline was well aware that she and her friends were very different in appearance. Beatrice, with her red-gold hair and lagoon-blue eyes, possessed an air of fey innocence that caused others to underestimate her intelligence and her insight into others. The impression of innocence and naiveté served her well in her career at the Flint & Marsh Agency but it could not have been more false.
Beatrice had lived a very different life before she had found her way to the Lantern Street agency, a life that had stripped away all traces of innocence and naiveté. Her experience as a clairvoyant in Dr. Fleming’s Academy of the Occult haunted her still.
Dark-haired and amber-eyed, Clarissa peered out at the world through a pair of gold-framed spectacles that gave her a prim, scholarly air. Few people saw beyond the stern appearance to the spirited woman underneath. That was fine by Clarissa. She used her strictly tailored clothes, tightly pinned hair and the eyeglasses to conceal the secrets of her past, secrets that could get her killed.
“If you ask me,” Beatrice said, absently twirling her parasol, “the real problem is that the conclusion of the Rutherford affair came as a dreadful shock to our employers’ nerves. They underestimated the danger involved in that assignment. It always upsets them when they make a mistake of that sort.”
“I think you’re right,” Evangeline said. “But to be fair, they could not have foreseen what happened after the case was closed.”
“Very true,” Beatrice agreed, “but it does not mean that they do not feel the weight of responsibility. After all, if they had not sent you into the Rutherford household, you would not have encountered that dreadful man.”
Clarissa’s dark brows crinkled in a concerned frown. “The thing is, we simply cannot attribute two attacks within two weeks to coincidence. It defies logic.”
“The
first incident is easily explained, of course, given the nature of our profession,” Beatrice said. “But this second assault makes no sense whatsoever.”
Evangeline clenched her hand around the handle of her parasol. “The long odds against the two attacks being a coincidence have already been pointed out to me.”
Beatrice’s expression sharpened with curiosity. “By the gentleman who saved you?”
“Mr. Sebastian, yes,” Evangeline said.
“You say he appears to possess some psychical abilities?” Clarissa pressed.
Evangeline thought of how Sharpy Hobson had fled, screaming, to his death. She shivered. “Trust me, there can be no doubt about it. Furthermore, Mr. Sebastian admitted his talent and recognized my own psychical abilities. Like us, he accepts the paranormal as, well, normal.”
They walked in silence for a time, contemplating that observation.
“I must say,” Beatrice said after a while, “Mr. Sebastian’s presence on the scene strikes me as yet another stunning coincidence.”
Evangeline and Clarissa looked at her.
“What do you mean?” Clarissa asked.
Beatrice swept out one gloved hand to indicate the landscape around them. “What is the likelihood that, out of all the picturesque country towns in England that Evangeline might have chosen for her retreat, she happened to pick the one spot on the map where she encounters a gentleman endowed with considerable psychical talent?”
Evangeline smiled. “You know very well that my choice was hardly a matter of random chance. When Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh informed me that they were going to banish me to the country for a month, I immediately decided that I would come here to Little Dixby, if you will recall.”
“Yes, I remember,” Clarissa said. Her parasol bobbed impatiently in her hand. “Something about having come across a reference to it in that old journal of your father’s.”
“Papa was convinced that there are places dotted across England, indeed, the world, where the paranormal forces of the earth appear to be exceptionally strong,” Evangeline said. “I have always wanted to explore some of them.”
“I understand,” Beatrice said. “But there were several other locations that you could have chosen.”
“All of which are even more remote than Little Dixby,” Evangeline pointed out. “At least this town has a train station and a bookshop as well as some interesting ruins. I had hoped that the energy in the area would prove inspirational to my writing.”
Clarissa narrowed her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles. “Has that proved to be the case?”
“No,” Evangeline admitted. “At least not until recently. I’m sorry to report that I have written very little since I settled in at the cottage. I have been having some problems with my plot.”
“That’s not good news,” Beatrice said. “What is wrong?”
“It was as if I struck a wall. Fortunately, all is not lost. I am making progress. Two days ago I finally realized that I had made a dreadful mistake.”
“What mistake?” Beatrice asked.
“I discovered that I had selected the wrong character to be the hero,” Evangeline said. “I now realize that the villain, John Reynolds, is actually the hero. The handsome gentleman who appears to be the hero in the first chapter will turn out to be the fortune hunter.”
“Good heavens,” Clarissa demanded. “How on earth could you make such an error?”
Evangeline waved one hand. “It’s hard to describe how that sort of thing can happen to a writer. It just does.”
“How odd,” Beatrice said.
“It is very inconvenient, I assure you,” Evangeline said. “But now that I have fixed the problem I’m sure I can finish the next chapter easily enough and post it to Mr. Guthrie.”
Beatrice smiled. “That sounds encouraging. What about the local ruins? Have they given you inspiration for your story?”
“Not those of the old Roman villa that you will see in town,” Evangeline said. “Unfortunately, the most interesting antiquities around here are locked away on the grounds of Crystal Gardens. They are not accessible to the public.”
Clarissa looked intrigued. “But now you are acquainted with the new owner. Do you think Mr. Sebastian might give you a tour?”
Evangeline smiled. “I intend to try to persuade him to do precisely that.”
Beatrice frowned uneasily. “Evie, I realize that you are very curious about mysteries. We all are, for that matter, or we would not be employed by Flint and Marsh. But, frankly, the old abbey sounds like a very dangerous place and from what you have told us, Mr. Sebastian may be as dangerous as his gardens.”
Clarissa looked at her. “Why do you say that? Mr. Sebastian saved Evie last night.”
“Don’t you find it rather convenient that Mr. Sebastian appeared so quickly on the scene?” Beatrice said, her voice very neutral.
“Oh,” Clarissa said. “I see what you mean.”
Evangeline glared at both of them. “I don’t see what she means. Whatever are you talking about, Bea?”
Beatrice raised her delicate red brows. “You say you fled into the grounds of Crystal Gardens at two o’clock in the morning?”
“Approximately,” Evangeline said.
“And you encountered Mr. Sebastian and his man, this person named Stone, almost immediately.”
“Yes.”
“They were both fully clothed?” Beatrice persisted.
Evangeline hesitated. “Yes. What are you getting at?”
“Both men just happened to be wandering about in what you say are very dangerous gardens at two in the morning?” Beatrice asked pointedly.
“Good question,” Clarissa said. “It does not sound as if they were roused from their beds by a commotion and dashed out into the gardens to investigate. If that were the case, they would have been partially undressed.”
“They were already outside,” Beatrice said. She paused for emphasis. “Rather an odd hour for a stroll in the garden, don’t you think?”
“I see what you mean,” Evangeline said quietly. She was annoyed with herself for not having made the observation. “I should have thought to question Sebastian’s presence in the gardens at that hour, but, to tell you the truth, there was a great deal of excitement and commotion at the time and I was very happy to have him appear when he did. I must admit I was a bit rattled.”
“Understandable,” Beatrice said.
“Perfectly,” Clarissa murmured. “After having endured two violent attacks in two weeks anyone would have been unnerved.”
“I would appreciate it if you two would stop patting me on the head and speaking to me as if I was a victim of a case of shattered nerves.” Evangeline twitched the parasol in a somewhat violent manner. “I assure you, my nerves are in excellent condition.”
“Of course,” Beatrice said gently. “We never meant to imply otherwise, Evie dear. It is just that we are worried about you.”
“You know that is true,” Clarissa added.
Evangeline stifled her irritation. She was fortunate to have such good friends, she reminded herself, even if they could be irritating at times.
“In hindsight, I seem to recall that Mr. Sebastian asked most of the questions,” she said. “I felt he was entitled to some answers, under the circumstances. I was the one who was trespassing inside his gardens, after all.”
Clarissa narrowed her eyes. “What questions did he ask?”
“He had done some research on his new tenant,” Evangeline admitted. “In the process he learned that my last post was in Lady Rutherford’s household and he was aware of Douglas Mason’s death. He was curious about the coincidence.”
“Oh, my,” Beatrice murmured. “Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh won’t like that. You know how keen they are on discretion.”
“It’s not my fault Mr. Sebastian made some inquiries about me,” Evangeline said, defensive now.
Sunlight glinted on Clarissa’s spectacles. “How much did you tell him about the Ruther
ford affair?”
“Nothing that need concern Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh, I assure you. As far as Mr. Sebastian knows, I was merely hired as a companion to Lady Rutherford for a short period of time. That’s all.” She hesitated. “But Mr. Sebastian appears to have some knowledge of Mason’s true character.”
“Yes, well, Mason’s career as a fortune hunter was in the papers,” Beatrice said. “It’s the fact that Mr. Sebastian noticed a connection between your post in the Rutherford household and Mason’s accident that makes one uneasy.”
Evangeline said nothing.
“It’s interesting, but I don’t see that it’s a reason for concern,” Clarissa said with her customary logic. “After all, there was absolutely nothing in the press to indicate that Mason’s death was anything but an accident.”
“No,” Beatrice said quietly. “Nevertheless, I think Sebastian knows far more than he ought to know about you, Evie. Do you think he believes that Douglas Mason’s death was an accident?”
“I cannot say,” Evangeline replied. “But of one thing I am certain.”
“What is that?” Clarissa asked.
“Mr. Sebastian was not overly concerned with the fact that Mason is dead,” Evangeline said. “Only with the possibility that there is some connection to the attack on me last night.”
Clarissa and Beatrice considered that briefly.
“It is not as if we can ignore the possibility, is it?” Clarissa said at last. “I do not like it that you are living here alone, Evie.”
“Neither do I,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps you should return to London.”
An unexpected jolt of alarm twisted through Evangeline. She found herself searching for reasons why leaving Little Dixby would be a very bad idea.
“Not yet,” she said. “My imagination has finally been reinvigorated. Indeed, Little Dixby has inspired me. I must seize the moment. I dare not leave here until I have written a few more chapters of my book.”
IRENE WITTON WAS behind the counter, concluding the sale of several postcards featuring photographs of the local ruins, when Evangeline led Beatrice and Clarissa into the bookshop. She looked up and peered at them over the tops of her spectacles.