“Did you see anyone else?”
“No. I was but five or six steps from the bottom when I noticed his body and realised he was dead.” She shuddered visibly as she recalled his grisly expression. “His face was ashen, the texture a powdery white. His hair practically stood on end. His body lay twisted and contorted like the corkscrew branches of a willow. Over the years, I have seen many distasteful emotions in his eyes, but I have never seen terror.”
Tristan shuffled uncomfortably, his clenched jaw a sure sign of agitation. “Had his heart given out? Did the fall kill him?” He gestured to her mask. “Would you mind removing your disguise? I find I cannot concentrate. I cannot absorb what you’re telling me when your face is obscured.”
His comment dragged her away from the morbid scene back to the present. She wondered if he doubted her account. Did he imagine she would lie about something so horrifying?
“Forgive me. I know when one intends to deceive it is often reflected in the eyes,” s
he said, although she had failed to notice it in Tristan’s. Forcing steady fingers, she removed her mask and placed it on the bench next to his. “You only need to look into mine to know I speak the truth.”
For some unknown reason, he gave a mocking snort. His assessing gaze drifted over her face, but he chose not to look into her eyes. “What was the cause of death?”
“Samuel suffered a broken neck. Apparently, death was instantaneous.”
Tristan rubbed his chin in silent contemplation. “Although you did not hear a sound,” he eventually said, “he could still have tripped and fallen. What makes you believe someone murdered him?”
Just thinking about her time at Highley Grange sent shivers rippling through her. “In the two days prior, we experienced various unexplainable events — strange noises, the sound of footsteps pacing the landing in the dead of night. And then there was a spate of accidents. The horse Samuel had ridden for years threw him unexpectedly. He was walking outside when two tiles slipped from the roof, missing his head by mere inches. I believe someone or something forced him from his bed that night and pushed him down the stairs.”
Tristan leant closer, his interest in the topic evident. “Something? You cannot mean an animal, which leads me to conclude you mean a …” Even an erratic wave of his hand failed to help him say the word.
“A ghost. A phantom. The spirit of his first wife.”
“Surely you’re not serious?”
Raising her chin, she attempted to rouse an element of confidence even though she knew her assumptions were evidence of an unstable mind. “I understand it is hard for you to comprehend,” she said, noting the way his bottom lip almost touched his chin. “Had our situations been reversed, I would have tried to find a rational explanation for the sinister events. But I have witnessed things, terrible things that defy all logic and reason.”
Tristan sat back. “What sort of terrible things?”
“I should start by explaining that we were not at Grangefields, the Fernall’s family home, but at Highley Grange. It is a house Samuel bought for the sole purpose of entertaining, for those times when he wished for privacy to host his sordid parties. Ordinarily, I would not have been permitted to reside there. But Samuel often found it amusing to taunt those closest to him and I believe, that in those last few days, he feared being alone.”
A feminine screech sliced through the air, making them both jump to their feet. She grabbed Tristan’s sleeve as her frantic gaze scoured the mass of green foliage and tall shrubbery.
Had the wailing widow followed her to London?
Tristan placed his hand over hers. “It is nothing to cause alarm. It is just a few amorous guests lurking behind the hedgerow.”
The heat from his hand penetrated her gloves. The friendly gesture was remarkably soothing. Indeed, for a moment she almost forgot she was utterly alone in the world.
She was about to speak when Mr. Chandler sauntered out from behind the topiary hedge. A lady in the guise of a shepherdess hung from one arm. A dishevelled nun, wearing a grass-stained grey tunic, clutched the other.
“You were right to decline my offer,” Mr. Chandler called out as the trio strolled back towards the house. “When a man is starving, the last thing he ought to do is share his meal.”
Tristan turned to her and snorted in amusement. “Chandler is a rogue though I cannot help but like him.”
“He does appear to have a certain appeal. I’m sure you would have preferred to frolic in the bushes with his companions than hear my morbid tale.” A pang of jealousy caused a pain in her chest. Rather than feel disgruntled, she welcomed the feeling for it meant her heart wasn’t completely dead.
“Whilst I enjoy Chandler’s company, we have very different views on courtship.”
Once, she had presumed to know Tristan’s character. But she would not make the same mistake again. “Well, you do not have to explain yourself to me.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the air.
“You were telling me about the terrible things you witnessed at Highley Grange,” he eventually reminded her.
A host of inconceivable images flashed into her mind. “Have you ever seen a ghost? Have you ever seen a spectre disappear before your eyes?” The gravity of her situation lent for a more direct approach.
Tristan jerked his head back in astonishment. “No. But I am of the mind that the living are far more terrifying than the dead.” He offered his arm. “Shall we walk? It is not a conversation to have whilst people are lingering in the bushes. By its very nature, the topic would see us both locked away in Bedlam.”