Page 30 of One Last Whisper

“Uncle Edmund. He told me that my mother wasn’t fit to take care of me, and it was a good thing for me that I ended up with him.”

I can’t restrain myself this time. “That’s a cruel thing to say about someone’s mother.”

He looks away. “If it’s true, is it cruel? I know that some mothers do go insane, and they harm their children. Perhaps if she hadn’t disappeared, she would have harmed me.”

He’s not wrong, but I have serious doubts about lord Edmund’s side of the story in this case. “You needn’t worry about that. You’re in a safe place now with people who care about you.”

He lowers his eyes and plays with his fingers again. “I don’t know if uncle really cares about me. I think he’s only caring for me because it’s his duty.”

The proper response, I suppose, would be to insist that Oliver is wrong, that his uncle loves him very much. I don’t believe I could convince Oliver of this lie, though, so I tell him something I can convince him of, something that is true.

“I care for you, Oliver. Miss Theresa cares for you. Lady Cordelia cares for you. You are surrounded by people who love you, and I don’t care if your uncle is the King of England. We will see to it that you are properly taken care of.”

He smiles softly, but it doesn’t last long. “I hope Aunt Cordelia is all right. I couldn’t bear to lose her. She’s the only real mother I’ve ever known.”

I squeeze his hand and say nothing else. Repeating myself here won’t help, so I only hold his hand and show him that I will be here for him, no matter what.

Meanwhile, I pray that I can find the ghost that plagues this house and bring it to rest. I am no longer fighting only for justice but for the health and happiness of a little boy who risks losing the small safety net he has.

***

There’s another storm that night. This time, the cries are louder. I hear no words, but the wailing I hear sounds unlike any howl of wind or crack of thunder I’ve ever heard. What could possibly cause the storm to sound so much like the fearful and pained wailing of a young woman?

My own worries are far too intense to afford me sleep. I am not young anymore. I will soon need rest. If I endure another night without sleep, I will drive to the pharmacy in town and purchase some sleeping aids.

But tonight, I am awake, and the tea I drink gives me enough energy to overcome the physical exhaustion. I climb the stairs once more, heading directly to the library.

As I suspect, the window is open again. I close them, and then survey the damage. The leather chairs have already cracked from the previous bout with a storm, and a soft musty smell tells me they’ve already begun to mildew. They will need replacement.

I can’t do anything about that tonight, but I can bring a towel and some air freshener. I will mop up the water blown in from the storm and spray some scent on the chairs so the mildew doesn’t overwhelm the room.

I retrieve the necessary supplies and return to the library. The storm outside continues to howl, but with the window closed, those howls sound like actual wind, rain and thunder rather than the shrieks of a girl in mortal peril.

As I clean, I try to take a practical approach to this problem. There is precious little I can do myself. This is an Earl’s castle, and even in times like this, propriety must be followed. If I am caught snooping, the servants will not defend me. Even Theresa will do no more than shake her head and lament that I meddled in the affairs of high lords against her advice.

I will have to rely heavily on Sean. He can move more freely than I without fear that he’ll suffer the wrath of Lord Edmund. Perhaps he has to be careful, but he’s out of the earl’s reach.

The downside to that is that Sean is on the outside looking in. The absence of media presence here indicates just how effectively lord Edmund is at concealing his private life from the outside world. Even Inspector Hargreaves hints at the difficulty he faces investigating these disappearances. Sean is shrewd and very skilled, and I have no doubt that he will find information I can use, but it will take him a long time, and it might not be complete enough for me to act on. If I am to determine the truth of these disappearances, then Imustact, even if it puts me at risk.

“No!”

The wailing cry startles me so badly that I shriek and drop the mop handle. It falls to the floor, making a noise like the crack of a rifle.

My heart pounds as I listen for a repeat of the call. There is no one in the room, and I hear no footsteps outside. Could the wind be playing tricks on me again?

“No!”

That one is a little louder. It seems to come from behind the walls, but where?

I look outside, checking the hallway in both directions. There’s no one. The cries appear to have silenced as well.

I close the door softly. It must have been the storm again.Pull yourself together, Mary.

I listen for a few minutes more. Nothing.

I am somewhat disquieted by this experience, but I’m not ready to leave just yet. I approach one of the bookcases that line the walls. This one appears exclusively devoted to religious texts.

Perhaps religious is not the right word. Spiritual. Borderline occult in some cases. Not so borderline in a few others. Thereare copies of kabbalistic texts and grimoires, including the Key of Solomon and theArs Goetia. There are Hindu texts that deal with eastern mysticism and esotericism and on one shelf, modern texts of occult secrets designed to enhance one’s life in the areas of wealth, influence and sexual pleasure.

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