The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall (Sherbrooke Brides 11.50)

“A month ago,” Grayson said. “When did you and P.C. have the dream?”

“The first dream came two weeks later.” She paused, cocked her head in thought. “This is the final proof for me that what is going on here involves the medals. I mean, why else would the funnel hurl them about like that? I’ve come to think the black funnel was trying to communicate to the Great, but he didn’t understand and the voice became angry and thus came after P.C. and me. But why?”

Grayson said simply, “Because the Great loves the two of you more than anyone else in the world.”

“Oh,” P.C. said. “Perhaps that is true. Do you think so, Mama?”

“Perhaps,” Miranda said. “Mr. Straithmore, the Great has collected medals for many years now, all of them Waterloo medals. Since Max Carstairs came, he’s the one who buys them from pawn shops, and the Great polishes them up and returns them to the soldiers or the soldiers’ families if they were killed at Waterloo. I asked him why he did this. He said so much was owed to all these brave men, it was the least he could do since after Waterloo times were hard and so many soldiers had to pawn their medals.”

Barnaby shouted, “I see ye, Mr. Bickle! Ye keep yer distance from the sprat!”

Grayson looked over to see a small man dressed all in black slink from one oak tree to the next. Then he crept to stand behind a sapling, and he was so thin Grayson couldn’t see him. He pulled Pip closer. Since Pip was still holding Barnaby’s hand, the three of them ended up huddled together on the bench.

P.C. said, “He’s not moving now, but you know he’s listening.” She lowered her voice. “This funnel—the voice—do you think it wants a particular medal? Maybe the spirit wants its medal returned to its family? And it wants the Great to find it?”

Miranda said, “I think that must be it. But who or what is hoos?”

Barnaby said, “I agrees, it’s got to be a dead soldier from the Battle of Waterloo, and ‘e wants ‘is medal back.”

Grayson nodded. It sounded right to him.

Miranda slowly nodded. “But why would the spirit come now? Waterloo was years ago. Why begin this reign of terror now? Why not right after the battle? And the Great is looking for the spirit’s medal.”

Grayson said, “But it appears the voice couldn’t get the name through to the Great. So it tried you and P.C. Still no luck, so it’s taken the next step.” He sent Pip a worried look, but of course Pip wasn’t afraid. He’d been raised with talk of spirits and malignant creatures. His eyes glowed with excitement.

P.C. whispered, “Barnaby, Bickle slipped behind that maple tree. He’s only twelve yards from Pip.”

Pip looked over at the strange little man dressed in a shiny black coat, and waved to him. Bickle looked aghast and dived behind a yew bush.

Grayson said, “What about the servants? Do they know about the funnel? About the two dreams? About you and P.C. running from the house?”

Miranda said, “Oh yes, servants always know everything that happens. They’re nervous, on edge. But not Suggs.”

P.C. called out, “Bickle, we see you. You will not steal Pip. Go away.”

From behind the oak tree came a squeaky voice. “You know I must continue stalking my prey, Miss P.C., else his lordship will not eat properly and I worry.”

“This is all very strange, Papa,” Pip said, never taking his eyes off Bickle.

* * * * *

When Grayson returned to the Great’s study with one minute to go, Suggs informed him that his lordship had left to pay visits to his tenants. It was just as well. Grayson had some reading to do. He and Pip took their leave of Miranda and P.C. Grayson found himself looking down at Miranda Wolffe, and he was smiling. “Don’t worry, we will figure all this out. And soon.”

CHAPTER TEN

Belhaven House

Friday, midnight

Grayson awoke from a dream struggling with a banshee who looked remarkably like the Great. He was trying to grab up Pip and run out the door when he snapped awake at the yelling and banging on the front door.

He threw on his dressing gown, grabbed his pistol off the shelf in his dressing room, and ran downstairs. He threw open the door to see Miranda and P.C., both in their nightclothes, hair bedraggled, huddled together on the front step.

He quickly herded them inside and without a

thought brought them both against him. They were trembling, but he didn’t think it was from cold. No, it was from fear. What had happened? He heard another shout.

It was Barnaby, and he had Musgrave Jr. tucked inside his jacket. Musgrave was not a happy cat. He bounded out, a calico blur, and skidded across the entrance hall. The four of them watched him fetch up against a table leg. He turned to look at them, tail swishing, and he proceeded to wash himself.