Lady Avely's Guide to Guile and Peril, page 8
part #3 of Matronly Misadventures Series
Judith descended the rest of the stairs cautiously, lifting her candle. The massive room was strangely barren apart from the kegs. Perhaps it was too large to keep cold, and indeed it was oddly warm, moderated in its bower of earth. Judith looked around in satisfaction: here indeed was a suitable hall for a queen’s roost. She could transform this into something elegant and welcoming, given time. She could just imagine the walls softened by hangings, and the floor carpeted a warm red. The long wooden beams across the high ceiling were perfect for bats, and she could affix ropes and landings.
Rectangles of darkness interspersed the left-hand wall, hinting at further storerooms, or possible guest vampiri rooms. She peered into the dark archways as she passed, seeing cells of varying size and cleanliness. As she strolled along, she noted with interest that the feeling of sorrow was intensifying. In fact, it seemed to be coming in waves from the far corner where the kegs sat.
It was now mixed with an insidious fear, suggesting to any visitor that they should leave right now.
Judith paused and braced herself against the enchantment, for that was surely what it was. Grimly, she noted that she had felt an echo of it earlier in the day when Mrs Ulrich had served her plum cake. That had been an exercise of Diplomacy, subtle yet effective, persuading Judith that she was unwise to stay. This was a similar weaving, she was certain, but increased manifold times and mixed with a dreadful grief.
She had a moment to wonder if the gloomy housekeeper had fashioned this experience too. Almost, she began to feel sorry for her, to be able to evince such sorrow. Then a glimpse of movement caught her eye. She spun around, her candle flickering wildly.
A shape of woman hovered against the far wall. Her face was dim and indistinct, her dark hair piled upon her head, bare of any cap. Judith had half-expected to see Mrs Ulrich, but this woman wore an ornate gown from a bygone age, glowing deep red in the fluctuating light.
Judith stared, disbelieving. After a long, tense moment, the figure vanished, leaving darkness in her place.
“Did you see that?” she hissed to Marigold.
Marigold dived down, becoming human and clinging to Judith’s skirts. “Yes!” she squeaked.
“She seemed strangely far away. As if she were beyond the wall.”
“Uh huh,” said Marigold nervously.
“It is a trick, of course.”
“Uh huh.”
“A crimson gown, I note.”
Marigold was silent. Then the red figure suddenly flickered into sight again.
Judith tried to master her nerves, despite the fear and dread that now overwhelmed her. This was not a ghost, she told herself. For one thing, the sense of despair was emanating from the far-left corner with the kegs, not the wall where the Crimson Lady hovered to her right. There must be two different charms working together in unison. Ordinarily, someone treated to the chorus of them would be too unnerved to think closely on it, but Judith was not an ordinary observer. She was accustomed to parsing truth from lies.
The lady vanished again, leaving darkness in her wake. Bracing herself, Judith turned her back on the spectre and trod towards the awful feeling that came from the kegs, stoutly disregarding the instinct that told her to flee. Whatever it was, it didn’t want anyone near it, which was enough to pique her curiosity.
Really, it was quite understandable that the last cook had left her position. Who would want to fetch the potatoes with this lurking below? It simply must be hiding something.
She reached the kegs, and stopped, assailed now with the scent of brandy, fruit, and spices. It was the heady smell of ratafia: peach, citrus, cinnamon, and cloves, mixed with brandy. The sweetened liquor was commonly drunk by ladies of the ton, and it took months to ferment. Someone had set up quite the operation here, for there were at least a dozen kegs slowly fermenting in their dark nursery.
A smugglers’ stash? Judith wondered. It was doubtful that smugglers would trade in ratafia, but the brandy could be a smuggled ingredient. Could this be the reason for the theatrical ghost, to hide this secret brewery? It seemed an excessive performance for what could be claimed as lawful goods.
Then she saw it: another door, shadowed and easy to miss. It was set deep into the corner behind the kegs.
“Aha,” she murmured. “A secret door!”
“Excellent,” said Marigold, with some irony. “Only…it seems to be a door of doom.”
Judith had to agree, gritting her teeth at the sense that welled from the door. It was a cry of dread, of deep, dark despair, and she felt as if she might suffocate with the horror, or drop into never-ending sadness. She had to hold herself firmly as she gripped the handle, repressing the notion that the Crimson Lady had only appeared to warn her. Was this another more dire admonition? Might she find a mouldering skeleton beyond?
Carefully, she opened the door.
But rather than a skeleton, her dim candlelight showed a broad passage, with an archway at the end. She stepped through into the welling anguish, narrowing her eyes, searching for the charm that must hold this awful Dread Spell. Spinning in a slow circle, she held herself stiff. Marigold clung to her pocket, eyes slitted, her body hunched and rigid.
Above the lintel they had just crossed, Judith saw it. A wine cork, unassuming but oddly placed. It lay flat, just visible, its shadow flung larger by the flickering light. She stepped towards it, reaching as high as she could, but it remained frustratingly out of reach. She wished she had Dacian with her right now, and not just because he was tall.
“Marigold,” she whispered. “The cork above the lintel. Can you fetch it for me? I suspect it might hold the charm.”
She held her light up. Marigold lifted into the air, wings sweeping out. She flapped past Judith’s shoulder, and in the sudden draft of her flight, the candle went out.
The darkness was abrupt and complete.
Judith bit back a curse, her heart thudding loudly. Wing beats fluttered against her face, and a moment later, her skirts twitched slightly again.
“I’m sorry,” Marigold whispered. “I was unnerved.”
Judith couldn’t blame her. She tried not to dwell on the fact that they were deep within the bowels of the castle, a dreadful sense of horror all around, and a red spectre in the next room. “Never mind,” she replied calmly, despite the constriction in her throat. “Did you get the cork?”
“It seems to be stuck. But it certainly felt like the source of it all. Like imminent death by despair.”
Judith considered. “Perhaps it is best to leave it.” She took a wary breath. “Is anyone around?”
“No. Other than the Crimson Lady next door.” The skirts twitched again.
“Such an ostentatious ghost.” The sense of terror clawed at her throat, and she told herself firmly that it was false. “Marigold, you are going to have to tug me in the right direction, for I can see nothing. But first I would much appreciate it if you could fly through that arch and tell me what lies beyond.”
“Are you mad?”
“Please, Marigold. I cannot see, so you must look. We cannot abandon the opportunity now. This is obviously what the Crimson Lady is trying to hide.”
Marigold heaved a sigh and detached herself from Judith’s skirts, presumably twisting into her bat form again.
Judith was given plenty of time to regret her instruction, as she was left sitting right under the Cork of Doom in the black darkness, with only the company of a ghost in the next room. She swallowed and felt her way back through the door—holding her breath as she passed under the lintel—and edged into the large cellar, creeping along the wall until she felt the reassuring bump of a keg of ratafia. Closing her eyes, she clenched her fingers on the solid wood and focused on the smell, identifying the fragrances in a bid to distract her thoughts. Cloves. Cinnamon. Orange. The scent of fortified brandy reminded her, oddly, of Almacks and her last outing there with her daughter. Nothing could be further from this stark cellar than the famous assembly rooms, bright with dancing and laughter. Though, of course, the ratafia at Almacks was famously watered down, unlike the rich smell that wafted from the kegs.
Long minutes later, a brush of air heralded the return of Marigold. The weight of her human form landed on Judith’s shoulder.
“There’s another small cellar,” she whispered in her ear. “With a table, two chairs, two glasses, and a decanter of brandy, by the smell of it. And less dread.”
“A meeting place,” Judith speculated. “And smuggled brandy, I’ll wager.”
“Looks like it.”
“Anything else?”
“Beyond, another passageway. I didn’t want to go too far down and leave you here in the dark. Regardless, I came to another door and couldn’t turn the handle myself, curse it.”
That was the problem with vampiri: even in their human form, their tiny fingers could not manage to turn large doorknobs.
“Curse it, indeed,” said Judith. “How intriguing, another passageway. We’ll have to come back in daylight, with another lantern.”
“Yes, but can we leave now?” asked Marigold plaintively. “Let’s hie away from this awful miasma. I’ll tug you in the right direction. Better close the door first.”
Judith felt a scrap of lace tug at her bodice, and she edged obligingly along, pulling the door shut with a soft thud, with much relief to put a barrier between her and the Cork of Doom. Then she had the unnerving task of traversing into the huge empty blackness of the underground hall. At least she was inching away from the despair, though she did not like to think of the Crimson Lady watching her progress. Soon, thankfully, they had left the nest of kegs far behind. Marigold whispered a warning, guiding Judith around the wheelbarrow and spade, until they reached the stairs to the upper cellar.
Judith had managed two faltering steps up the stairs when suddenly Marigold swooped up to her ear again.
“Footsteps,” she hissed.
Judith froze on the stairs. Ears straining, she could hear nothing over the pounding of the sea. Then she made it out: soft footsteps, and the swishing of skirts.
It seemed to come from just above her head. Or behind her, or below her. Judith shook herself sharply, her skin prickling. It must be Mrs Ulrich, coming to check on her ratafia, walking through the cellar above, or the kitchen. Judith grimaced, for she would be in plain sight to any candle, standing like a startled rabbit on the steps. And Mrs Ulrich surely would not believe her excuse of being ‘lost’, so far from her room.
Yet the footsteps did not pause at the cellar door above. They continued and faded, in what direction Judith could not fathom, slow and deliberate.
Judith felt Marigold lift off her shoulder without a word. She did not need to be told to flit high and unseen, to track the hidden walker.
After an interminably long time, she returned, settling next to Judith’s ear again with a huff. Her voice was low and baffled. “I couldn’t see her anywhere. Do you think it was a ghost?”
Judith frowned. “Nonsense. It must have been the housekeeper. Perhaps she went behind a door where you could not follow.”
“I didn’t hear any door.” Marigold was silent for a moment. “I’m starting to doubt anyone was there in the first place.”
Judith shook her head in the darkness. “The atmosphere of the place is impeding your judgment.”
At that moment, Marigold gave a tiny scream. It was rather loud in Judith’s ear and made her start.
“What?!”
“A creature! An enormous creature! With a white face and glowing eyes!” Marigold gulped. “It’s coming down the steps!”
After a horrified moment, Judith’s shoulders sank in relief. “That must be Ghastagon, the castle cat.”
“A cat!” If anything, Marigold’s voice lifted higher. “It’s enormous!”
Judith felt the push of a large body against her skirts and heard a loud rumble. Ghastagon was purring.
“He wants a pat.”
“Don’t pat him! He’s a monster!”
She recalled that Marigold had experienced violent encounters with a feline previously at the inn where they had met. “He won’t eat you. Miss Onslow told me that he is a Zauberer breed, who tolerate vampiri.” Cautiously, Judith bent slightly to run her hand over the massive furry body. The purr intensified.
“Well, I don’t tolerate him!” Marigold scrambled onto the top of Judith’s head, to move farther away from the lethal jaws.
Ghastagon purred even more loudly, pushing himself against Judith’s legs. “I think he might want some food.”
“Yes, me!”
“Come now, Marigold. He hasn’t tried to leap at you, despite all your squawking.”
“Squawking!”
“And I still can’t see, so you must lead on.”
“Not I!” Marigold continued to cling to Judith’s mobcap.
Sighing, Judith put her hand against the wall of the stairs, using it to guide her. It was even more difficult trying to navigate steps in the dark with a monstrous feline underfoot and a vampiri on her head, but she doggedly managed it, while Marigold kept up a stream of invective from her vantage point. When they reached the well-stocked cellar, however, the vampiri condescended to drag Judith forward by the ribbons of her mobcap, in the direction of the final steps to the kitchen.
They had left the door open, so a faint light came through as Judith grew closer. As she crested the steps, she was extremely glad to see the glow of coals in the hearth. She quickly set about lighting her candle again. Ghastagon’s white face peered up at her, oddly amusing in the sudden relief of tension.
“Let’s see what I can find for you,” she murmured, and after a short hunt around the kitchen, presented him with a couple of herring, stolen from a string drying above the fireplace. “I hope the cook won’t miss them.”
Marigold perched on a high wooden beam. “Don’t encourage him!”
Judith smiled down at the cat, who was wolfing down the herring with a pleasing enthusiasm. Poor creature, he must be hungry. She would have to ensure he was properly cared for now that she was mistress of the castle. Then he looked up and let out an ear-splitting miaow, much like the keening of a goat.
Her smile dropped. “Shhh!”
“Miaaaooow!” repeated Ghastagon, now like a large goat giving birth.
Judith snatched another herring and thrust it at him. Then she picked up her candle and skirts and ran out the kitchen.
Of course, they became hopelessly lost on the return journey, for this time Marigold didn’t have the scent of the kitchens to guide her. Yet they eventually managed to scout out a path back to the Captain’s Cabin, and Judith collapsed gratefully onto the huge bed.
“Good work, Marigold. Could you have a hunt around, while I sleep? See if there is anything else nefarious lurking around.”
“You mean apart from the cat?”
Ghastagon had followed Judith up to her room, perhaps hoping that she would produce more herring. He now leapt onto the bed and clawed at the blankets, purring loudly again. At least he had stopped keening. Perhaps his wails explained the myth of the Crimson Lady, suggesting desperate despair to the unwary listener.
Marigold eyed him in disgust, though with less alarm, for it was true that he seemed uninterested in eating her. “I don’t know if I should be offended or not. Cats are usually eager to snack on me.”
“Perhaps you can be friends instead.” Judith kicked off her slippers, absently stroking Ghastagon. Marigold huffed and leapt into the air, becoming a bat once more, and vanished out the door, leaving it open a crack.
Judith stared at the large feline. A belated thought had arisen: the memory of Miss Onslow saying that Ghastagon could be quite frightening with his white face showing in the dark. The observation had proven true, but now Judith wondered how Miss Onslow had cause to make it. Had she been the one creeping around the castle so late?
Or if, as was far more likely, Mrs Ulrich had been the prowler, what was the housekeeper up to? And if she was hiding something in the bowels of the earth, why, then, didn’t she come down the stairs?
Firmly, Judith put aside the foolish thought that the footsteps might truly belong to a perambulating ghost. Marigold must have simply—in the strain of the moment—missed the sound of a door opening. It was quite unnecessary to postulate the existence of a lady who could pass through walls.
In which a letter is written
Beware the peril of an insubordinate housekeeper. It is essential that there is no ill-feeling between the two mistresses of any household.
— from Lady Avely’s Guide to Guile and Peril
Judith was woken before dawn by Marigold tugging on her ear.
Blearily, she opened her eyes to see that Ghastagon had disappeared. Marigold was sitting stark naked in his place, with a disgruntled expression.
“Open the cupboard, please. The sun rises soon.”
Judith sat up and carried Marigold over, unlatching the cupboard door. “Did you see anything interesting on your gallivant?”
Marigold shrugged as she clambered onto the upper shelf. “Cows, puffins, cottages, a dairy, a hundred rooms to this castle, and lots of locked doors impervious to my determined assault.” She brightened. “But it does seem to me that there are some rooms without windows, which may be ideal for vampiri, away from sunlight.”
Judith reflected it might be a good thing they needn’t rely upon the cellars, if she couldn’t detach the Cork of Doom. She shuddered at the memory. “What about attics?”
“Also locked.” Wearily, Marigold crawled further into the cupboard.
“No sign of others like yourself?”
Marigold shook her head. “Not that I saw.”
Judith sighed, fetched a new linen handkerchief (courtesy of Trebellow), and tucked her in. “Sleep well, my dear. Don’t forget: tonight, you must fly halfway to Pendennis to meet Wooten for news.”
“I’m sure the duke is fine.” Marigold yawned. “Don’t fret too much. You still have two days to find your answer and bargain for his freedom.”
But with Marigold safely shut away, Judith found it difficult to fall asleep again. Now she wasn’t preoccupied with investigating a haunted cellar, thoughts of Dacian’s plight plagued her. Yet—she told herself—he was safe enough in his gaol. Wooten was watching over him, and Yvette too. Marigold was right, they had time. Two days should be enough for a Truth Discernor to discover a murderer.
