CHAPTER ONE
Sic Semper Tyrannis
MANHURST CASTLE, SCOTLAND
OCTOBER 1922
I was going to murder Mr. Owen, there was simply nothing for it. Blood thrummed through my veins as I looked up at the librarian of Manhurst Castle, struggling not to lose my temper. It certainly wasn’t this man’s fault that I’d been brought here under false pretenses. No, that blame lay squarely at the feet of my octogenarian employer who was currently enjoying his midmorning nap.
“What do you mean there are no illuminated manuscripts?” I asked for the second time, my voice far more strained than I intended.
Mercifully, the young man remained unaware of my rising ire as he turned back to the dark mahogany bookcase behind him, pulling the newest copy of Debrett’s guide to the peerage from an overburdened shelf containing every edition published from the company’s eighteenth-century inception to now. He set it on the long low study table beside me. In a desperate hope that the young man had forgotten a cache of illuminated manuscripts secreted away with the most recent month’s serial novel, I scanned the spines of the next nearest shelf. Mostly modern fiction alongside some late-nineteenth-century poetry. Nothing awe-inspiring. In fact, there wasn’t a single interesting book in this library—it was a rather insipid collection all told. As if someone hastily purchased everything from a rummage sale in an attempt to fill the empty shelves.
“I told you earlier, Miss Vaughn, there are no illuminated manuscripts left in the collection. The lot of them were sold off two years ago, not long after Mr. Sharpe took over the estate. I understand they paid for the renovations here.”
My attention snapped back to the young librarian and I blew out a breath, my eyes lingering on the most recent copy of the who’s who of the peerage on the tabletop. A more generous soul might assume that Mr. Owen had simply gotten his estates mixed up. After all, he was in his eighties and I’d known plenty of other folk his age—younger even—who had begun to forget harmless little details like that. Though Mr. Owen never forgot anything—an annoying habit of his.
Besides, even if he had gotten his estates confused, it didn’t explain the telegram in my pocket offering said missing manuscripts for sale. No. I was certain that Mr. Owen was up to his old tricks again.
“Is there anything else here Mr. Sharpe is thinking of selling? Perhaps there was some mistake…”
The librarian shook his head, glancing to the open door leading into the main hall of the hotel. “Nothing, miss. I was as surprised as you were when you came in asking for them this morning. Mr. Sharpe sold everything of value from here not long after acquiring the estate. From what I understand, Manhurst Castle was falling apart when he bought it—and it took everything he had and more to fix this old place into a resort suitable for the sort of guests we entertain.”
“You’ve not been here long then?” I raised a brow.
He shook his head. “I come from Edinburgh, miss. I was hired on earlier this year when the resort had its grand opening. Mr. Sharpe believed that any proper estate ought to have a librarian.”
I couldn’t argue with the elusive Mr. Sharpe on that score. A nagging worry lingered as I unfolded the telegram that Mr. Owen had handed me the morning we left Exeter and offered it to the librarian. He took it from me, reading it with a frown.
Have a dozen twelfth-century manuscripts for sale. Please come at once. M. Sharpe.
The young man reached up, rubbing at his smooth-shaven jaw. “That is peculiar, miss. Very peculiar. I shall ask Mr. Sharpe about it, but feel free to take your time to look around. I warn you not to get your hopes up; if there was anything of value here—I’d know it.” He looked again at the door behind me, scooping up the newest copy of Debrett’s and holding it under his arm. “I’d best be off. The dowager countess has requested this delivered to her rooms.”
I groaned at the mention of the horrid woman. Every time I’d come across Lady Morton and her young daughter, the elder avoided me as if I carried some twelfth-century pestilence. It was a wonder the woman needed the book at all. I’d assumed a soul as pompous as she would have the whole of Debrett’s memorized already. I fiddled with the telegram before folding it back up and thrusting it into my pocket. There was only one person who could illuminate our reason for being here, and he was currently upstairs taking a nap.
* * *
I RUSHED THROUGH the fashionably decorated hallways of Manhurst, recently redone in le style moderne. A stark contrast to the sparse Georgian exterior of the building. The lush green, black, and gold paper on the walls must have cost a fortune. There was no wonder this Mr. Sharpe, whoever he was, sold off everything of value to fund the renovation.
Pillaging a library for wallpapering. The very idea made my skin crawl. I blew out a breath, brushing past a cadre of well-heeled gentlemen coming in from a game of golf smelling irritatingly of sunshine and the Scottish hills.
The only positive of my morning’s discovery was that now we could board the first train back to Exeter and return to our bookshop there. Perhaps Mr. Owen would feel more like himself once we returned home. As it was, he’d spent most of the forty-eight hours since our arrival shut in his room, not even taking his meals with me, leaving me to wander the castle alone. Decidedly not my idea of a restful vacation.
The real puzzle was why Mr. Owen had brought me here in the first place. It was unlike him to hare off after mysterious manuscripts without knowing absolutely everything he could about the seller. The old man was a born meddler, and possessed investigative skills that would put the Home Office to shame. He could sniff a fake from miles away—so why would he have come all the way to Scotland for manuscripts that had been sold off years before? Mr. Owen ought to have known they were not here the moment he received the telegram.
No. Something was amiss, and I was about to find out what.
My throat grew dry as I turned the knob on the door connecting our rooms.
Locked.
I rattled the handle as a frisson of tension inched its way from my palm up my spine and settled itself in my jaw.
“Mr. Owen…” I rapped on the wooden panel.
Still nothing.
I waited on the plush crimson carpet for any sign of life from the other side but was met with silence. “Mr. Owen, you’re beginning to worry me. Please open the damned door.”
Still no response.
He never locked the door in Exeter, not even when he was sick. Of all the times for him to get missish about privacy … My satchel sat on the dressing table and I took two steps in that direction with the intention of digging out my lockpicks, when I heard the hinges creak behind me.
Mr. Owen appeared in the threshold, wearing his bright blue silk pajamas with a garish pomegranate-and-black dressing gown tied at his waist. His fluffy white hair looked as if he’d just awoken and my stomach unknotted in response.
“Good grief, Mr. Owen, I thought you were dead. Or worse!”
He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “It’d take more than this old place to do me in. You should know that, lass. Now, come sit and tell me why you look like you’ve drunk curdled milk.”
I huffed out a breath. All my worry from a few seconds before evaporated. He was fine. Fine. Mr. Owen was the closest thing I had to family, as my own father had died upon the Lusitania seven years ago now, along with my mother and younger sister, Opal. At times it seemed a lifetime ago that I received word that their bodies had not been recovered, and yet at others it was as if I’d just received the telegram.
The telegram. Suddenly I recalled my reason for seeking him out in the first place. The missing manuscripts. I dug into my pocket and waved the folded-up paper at him. “Do you know anything about this?”
He wrinkled his nose and took it from me, holding it at arm’s length as he tried to read it without his spectacles. “Ah yes … that.”
“Ah … that…” I repeated dryly. “I take it there are no illuminated manuscripts here?”
He shook his head, then crumpled the telegram and stuffed it into his dressing gown pocket before turning and gesturing for me to follow into his room. As I entered, I caught a whiff of whisky—likely expensive stuff if his normal taste held true. His room was far darker than my own with the curtains pulled tight against the sun and the fireplace providing the only light.
I sank down into an old armchair with an irritated grunt. “I sense there is a reason we’re here, and that you didn’t just change your opinion on Scotland after all these years?”
He settled himself slowly into the chair across from me. His left hand trembled as he ran it over his white beard before picking up a half-full glass of whisky. Its twin sat there on the table, equally full.
“Was someone here with you?” I glanced from the pair of whisky glasses to his face. The man had scarcely left his room since we’d arrived; I couldn’t imagine who he’d be entertaining in here. While I knew he’d grown up in Scotland, he had no family to speak of—at least none I knew of besides his litany of fictitious great-aunts he’d pull out of his pocket whenever he needed to make a point.
“Leave off, Ruby. It isn’t important.”
Of course it was important. Mr. Owen never did anything without a reason, and I knew he had no desire to be here. His temper had grown shorter with every moment we remained at Manhurst Castle. Something about this place bothered him and if he wasn’t going to tell me, I’d have to figure it out myself. There was a faint scent of flowers in the air. Lavender perhaps. No, that wasn’t it. But I couldn’t quite place it.
I leaned forward, placing my palm on his forehead. It was cool and clammy. “Mr. Owen, you are clearly unwell. It’s time we go home.”
“Not yet, Ruby. Another night. We must spend another night here.”
“Not yet?” I almost squeaked, my hand flying into the air. “There is no reason on earth good enough for us to stay. There are no manuscripts, the entire library is devoid of anything even remotely interesting. I cannot fathom why you want to remain here when you are clearly miserable!”
He turned back to face me, brushing away at the moisture gathered in his eyes with his palm. “I take it you haven’t seen the papers yet.”
The skin at my neck prickled. Newspapers were the bane of my existence. I still recalled the glee with which the New York newspapermen had picked apart my every flaw after my disgrace. I’d been scarcely sixteen at the time—manipulated and misused by a grown man I’d believed to be honorable—but it made no difference to society that I’d been the victim. A proper girl would never … that’s how every backhanded comment would begin. For the truth didn’t matter to society, nor did it matter to the men who profited from my pain.
My expression must have betrayed me, as Mr. Owen reached out, touching my hand tenderly. “No, lass, not those sorts of stories. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all. You are safe with me. I promise you that.”
I let out an amused sound—safe was a matter of perspective considering he’d nearly gotten me killed six weeks before on an errand to Lothlel Green. My relief was short-lived, as the meaning behind his words became clear. If it didn’t have to do with me, it had to do with him. “Oh no, Mr. Owen … what have you done this time?”
He eyed his glass of whisky, tilting it in the firelight. “I did not think you would come with me if I told you the truth straightaway.”
Not again. “Told me what … Mr. Owen, why are we here?”
He grimaced, picking up a folded copy of The Scotsman, turned it over, and laid it flat on the table between us, allowing me to read the advertisement beneath the fold.
The Three Fates, at Manhurst Castle for one night only. Join them to commune with the dead. War widows. Grieving mothers. Brokenhearted sweethearts. Take heart and find your consolation and peace for ten pounds. TONIGHT!
I stared at it in disbelief. Mediums? Mr. Owen had brought me all the way to Scotland for us to commune with the dead? Anger. Annoyance. Dread. I wasn’t quite certain which emotion would win out. “You have to be joking. You’ve brought me here for a séance?”
He rubbed at his thick white beard and tapped the paper. “This is why I did not tell you earlier. You would have gotten all into a tizzy over it.”
I shot to my feet, hands on my hips. “I do not get into tizzies. It is perfectly reasonable to be annoyed when your employer lies to you and brings you to the middle of nowhere under false pretenses.”
He shrugged, his eyes not meeting mine. “I did not lie, Ruby. I obfuscated. There is a difference.”
“I’m not in the mood for semantics this morning. Aren’t there plenty of fraudulent mediums closer to home willing to take my money from you?”
He harrumphed, not rising to the barb, as both of us knew that Mr. Owen lived off my fortune. It was part of our agreement. I had free rein over the bookshop and permission to run his household however I saw fit, and his name was on the bookshop door in large painted letters. My money bought me anonymity and freedom—two things I treasured above all else.
But arguing with the man was not going to bring Mr. Owen around. I leaned against the arm of his chair, softening my words. “You know as well as I do that they’re all frauds. I saw my share of their kind in France after my parents died. They’ll say anything to get your money. I thought we were in agreement on that…”
His jaw grew slack as he stared at me. “After all you saw—after all that happened in Lothlel Green—you still mock the other world? You doubt its existence?”
He had me there. A great many things happened in Cornwall a mere six weeks ago, things I didn’t dare think on at present. “I am not mocking it. I am simply pointing out that the dead are dead—they aren’t coming back. And whether I believe in ghosts is immaterial. What is material is that you lied to me to bring me out here.”
Mr. Owen did not believe me. His bushy white eyebrows rose in unison.
I crossed my ankles, looking away. “Nothing happened in Cornwall out of the ordinary.”
“Curses and witches aren’t out of the ordinary?”
Well … almost nothing. Mr. Owen didn’t know half of what I’d found there when he sent me to deliver a box of books to his Pellar friend, Ruan Kivell. Nor did I even know what a Pellar was. I still wasn’t entirely certain, only that Ruan was a type of folk healer—a witch of sorts.
Mercifully, Mr. Owen also remained unaware of the fact that Ruan could somehow hear my thoughts without me speaking, or the uncanny way I could sense his … well … whatever it was he did. I still was not certain how much I believed in the supernatural, but I did know that Ruan possessed … something. Something I feared to put to voice. He could do things. Things he didn’t understand nor could he control. Things unbound by the laws of science, at least any science I knew. And the less anyone knew of what he was—the better.
A loud thunk came from the floor overhead, startling me out of my wayward thoughts and causing me to bite my tongue. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. “Damn.”
He arched an eyebrow in challenge. “No such thing as ghosts, lass?”
“Very amusing. All I mean to say is that it’s well known about these types of women. They go to the most absurd lengths to wheedle well-meaning people out of their money. Goodness knows, I’ve seen plenty of them in my life, all of them telling me…” That my mother lived. No, I couldn’t bring myself to speak it—not even to Mr. Owen. Those horrible frauds had given me false hope for far too long.
“It’s only…” He paused, twisting a simple gold band on his finger. “Ruby, I need you tonight. Please don’t make me ask you twice. I do not think I’m brave enough to face the dead on my own, and I need you by my side.”
My eyes widened at the rawness in his voice. “But Mr. Owen, it’s not real. You can’t possibly be planning on—”
He held up a hand, silencing me. The golden ring winked in the electric lights, catching my eye. “I must speak with my son.” He pulled out a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The paper trembled in his outstretched hand.
Owen, I know it has been years since we’ve spoken but I have a message from Ben. He has come to me in my dreams. He is angry and will speak to no one but you. If you have any love for your departed wife, you will come. You will come and hear what your son wants to say.
—L.C.
“Who … who sent you this?”
“Lucy Campbell,” he said with a vague wave of his hand, as if that name meant anything to me. “In another life, I knew her well. She is a true spiritualist. The only one I’ve ever known to possess the gift of speaking with the dead.”
“—and she’s here … one of these Fates.”
He nodded. “She has a message from Ben. From my darling boy. How could I do anything but come to hear what he has to say?”
Mr. Owen rarely spoke of his life before I came into it. I only knew the barest of sketches. Ben was the youngest of his children, and I got the sense his favorite. He’d been an aviator during the war and would have been about my age, had he survived. But he was shot down somewhere over the lines and wounded near the end of the war. By some minor miracle he managed to live through all that, only to die on a troop transport on his way back home.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Owen, but how do we know that letter is any more real than the telegram we received about the manuscripts? Ten pounds for a public séance is an obscene amount of money. If this Lucy Campbell woman truly wanted to help you, wouldn’t she just meet you in private to deliver Ben’s message?”
Mr. Owen’s eyes were glassy and bloodshot in the dim firelight. “I lost him once. I cannot bear to lose him again. I will not take that chance. I would offer up all the illuminated manuscripts in the world, burn each and every one until not a single page remained if it brought him back once more.” A tear slipped down his face, running along the well-worn ridge by his nose, sealing my fate. “You of all people must understand that. If Ben has a message, I must hear him out, no matter the cost to me.”
He’d won this battle before it even began, touching that fathomless wound in me that refused to heal. I reached across the table, taking his wizened hand in my own, and squeezed. “Very well. I’ll go. But I won’t like it.”
“And no scenes, Ruby. I mean it. I need you to be by my side for this. I depend on you, lass, more than you could ever know.”
“Me? Cause a scene? I’d never dream of it.” I struggled to keep my tone light, to bring him away from that dark place that he’d entered. Mr. Owen needed finality—and that was the one thing I could not give, but perhaps these Three Fates could.
Copyright © 2024 by Jess Armstrong
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