moments, he collapsed back onto the bed. Now what did he do? Yet again, he’d hit a brick wall. Literally. He looked at his watch. “I wonder if the pub’s open. I need a drink.”
6
J ace was sitting on the stool in the Leaping Stag pub, nursing a beer. Beside him sat the young policeman Clive Sefton. George and Emma were behind the bar, filling the orders of the few other people in the pub. Jace had just finished telling them how much he hated the story of Barbara Caswell, Lady Grace. “How could anyone think that woman was a character who should be romanticized?”
“You do know the truth, don’t you?” Emma said. “The whole story is made up.”
“But I thought it was a true story,” Jace said.
She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell the tourists. Lady Grace gets us in every haunted England book written.”
“It all started with a book about ghosts,” George said while filling a big glass full of stout.
Emma leaned toward Jace. “In the thirties someone wrote a book about the ghosts of England and said that Priory House was haunted by the spirit of an aristocratic lady who used to slip out at night and rob people. That’s all there was to it. In 1946, some writer made up the rest of the story and passed it off as true. Did you see the movie?”
“I didn’t have time,” Jace said.
“We heard you were in London,” Emma said, glancing at her husband over her shoulder. “So what was London like?” she asked loudly, and George shook his head.
“Same as always,” Jace said, then waited for Emma to ask him about making a room in his house look like a set for a Victorian play. When she said nothing, Jace hoped that he’d at last been able to keep one secret. “I don’t want to write what someone else has. Are you sure there haven’t been any other mysteries in this village?”
Clive looked down at his beer. “There was one.”
Emma and George groaned.
“Not again,” Emma said. “Don’t get him started. It’s Clive’s favorite topic, and he’s argued about it until we’re all sick of it. It was suicide, pure and simple.”
Jace took a breath and tried to keep himself calm. “Suicide?”
“Yes!” Emma said, looking pointedly at Clive. “Suicide.”
“But you don’t think it was?” Jace said, gripping his beer so the shaking of his hand wouldn’t show.
“I think…” Clive began slowly.
Emma started washing glasses. “About three years ago, a young woman—”
“A real beauty,” George interjected.
“Yes,” Emma said, “a beautiful young woman committed suicide in a room upstairs. She’d been drinking and crying and she stopped in here and asked if we had a room for rent.”
“Still had a room for rent,” Clive said.
“I don’t know if that’s what she said. I know I said that right after we found her body, but later I wasn’t sure. It was noisy in here and I may have misheard her.”
“But you found her the next day,” Jace said, his voice soft as he tried to keep it steady.
“Yes. Poor thing. She’d taken most of a bottle of sleeping pills. I called George and he looked at her through the chain lock on the door, then he called Clive—who, I might add, was brand new on the force and didn’t know anything.”
“Not that he does now,” George said, but Clive didn’t smile.
“But you think it was murder,” Jace said to Clive, but the young policeman said nothing.
“Go on, tell him,” Emma said, but Clive was silent.
George took Jace’s empty glass and gave him another beer. “Her sister and her mother came from the States and—”
“Her mother?!” Jace asked, then had to cover himself. “That must have been hard for her to have seen.” He took a deep drink of his beer.
“It was,” Emma said. “The two women were beside themselves. They kept saying that they knew it was going to happen sooner or later.”
“It seems she was a real nut case,” George said. “Her mother showed us a stack of letters from psychiatrists about
6
J ace was sitting on the stool in the Leaping Stag pub, nursing a beer. Beside him sat the young policeman Clive Sefton. George and Emma were behind the bar, filling the orders of the few other people in the pub. Jace had just finished telling them how much he hated the story of Barbara Caswell, Lady Grace. “How could anyone think that woman was a character who should be romanticized?”
“You do know the truth, don’t you?” Emma said. “The whole story is made up.”
“But I thought it was a true story,” Jace said.
She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell the tourists. Lady Grace gets us in every haunted England book written.”
“It all started with a book about ghosts,” George said while filling a big glass full of stout.
Emma leaned toward Jace. “In the thirties someone wrote a book about the ghosts of England and said that Priory House was haunted by the spirit of an aristocratic lady who used to slip out at night and rob people. That’s all there was to it. In 1946, some writer made up the rest of the story and passed it off as true. Did you see the movie?”
“I didn’t have time,” Jace said.
“We heard you were in London,” Emma said, glancing at her husband over her shoulder. “So what was London like?” she asked loudly, and George shook his head.
“Same as always,” Jace said, then waited for Emma to ask him about making a room in his house look like a set for a Victorian play. When she said nothing, Jace hoped that he’d at last been able to keep one secret. “I don’t want to write what someone else has. Are you sure there haven’t been any other mysteries in this village?”
Clive looked down at his beer. “There was one.”
Emma and George groaned.
“Not again,” Emma said. “Don’t get him started. It’s Clive’s favorite topic, and he’s argued about it until we’re all sick of it. It was suicide, pure and simple.”
Jace took a breath and tried to keep himself calm. “Suicide?”
“Yes!” Emma said, looking pointedly at Clive. “Suicide.”
“But you don’t think it was?” Jace said, gripping his beer so the shaking of his hand wouldn’t show.
“I think…” Clive began slowly.
Emma started washing glasses. “About three years ago, a young woman—”
“A real beauty,” George interjected.
“Yes,” Emma said, “a beautiful young woman committed suicide in a room upstairs. She’d been drinking and crying and she stopped in here and asked if we had a room for rent.”
“Still had a room for rent,” Clive said.
“I don’t know if that’s what she said. I know I said that right after we found her body, but later I wasn’t sure. It was noisy in here and I may have misheard her.”
“But you found her the next day,” Jace said, his voice soft as he tried to keep it steady.
“Yes. Poor thing. She’d taken most of a bottle of sleeping pills. I called George and he looked at her through the chain lock on the door, then he called Clive—who, I might add, was brand new on the force and didn’t know anything.”
“Not that he does now,” George said, but Clive didn’t smile.
“But you think it was murder,” Jace said to Clive, but the young policeman said nothing.
“Go on, tell him,” Emma said, but Clive was silent.
George took Jace’s empty glass and gave him another beer. “Her sister and her mother came from the States and—”
“Her mother?!” Jace asked, then had to cover himself. “That must have been hard for her to have seen.” He took a deep drink of his beer.
“It was,” Emma said. “The two women were beside themselves. They kept saying that they knew it was going to happen sooner or later.”
“It seems she was a real nut case,” George said. “Her mother showed us a stack of letters from psychiatrists about
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