The Haunting of Maddy Clare by Simone St. James Page A

there. Several paintings fell from the walls in the house this morning, and crockery was broken in the kitchen. She never comes into the house anymore, not like she did at first. You said something to upset her.”
    I looked at her helplessly.
Lock your barn,
I thought.
Please, lock it—though perhaps it is too late.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I told her my name. I hardly had a chance to say more. I can’t think what set her off.”
    Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she didn’t believe me. I stood on my unsteady legs. “If you’ll pardon me. I must go lie down.”
    “By all means, Miss Piper,” said Alistair.
    I looked at him and saw nothing but bland politeness on his face. Alistair, so friendly and sweet, and, I was discovering, so capable of deception in pursuit of what he wanted. I looked at Matthew, seated in the corner with one ankle crossed over the other knee, but he was staring down at his boot and frowning. He did not look at me. I turned away and left the room.
    As I approached the stairs, a man descending them brushed past me. His shoulder jarred mine, and as I turned to look at him, he lowered his face. He wore a cloth cap and a gray jacket, and he disappeared quickly out the door.
    I slowly ascended the stairs. I went to the washroom first, where I splashed warm water on my face and hands. Despite my manufactured excuse, I found exhaustion was indeed weighing on me, and I wanted nothing more than to lie on my bed. I dragged my aching limbs down the hall to my bedroom and opened the door.
    The entire room was in disarray. The drawers were pulled from the dresser and overturned, the nightstand pitched against the wall. My valise had been opened and everything inside pulled out,and—I let out a cry at this—my clothes were shredded. Every piece of clothing I owned—paid for with pennies earned one by one—every skirt and blouse, so painstakingly packed by the naive version of myself who thought this to be a wonderful paying job, torn to pieces.
    I thought of the man in the cap and the gray jacket. He had ransacked my things.
    I should have screamed; I should have run for the landlord. I could do nothing but stare in a sort of sickened, exhausted horror that left me without the will to move. One of the maids found me there, five minutes later. I remember nothing of it, though later she told me I was weeping.

Chapter Eleven

    T here was an uproar, of course, though I hardly recall it. The employees at the inn were questioned. They had seen nothing, no strangers or suspicious men. I was repeatedly asked for a description of the man. I could not give one. I had not seen his face, and there had been nothing distinctive about him at all.
    Someone suggested the constable be called—there was none in Waringstoke, but someone could be summoned from a neighboring town, some sort of representative of law and order. Alistair turned the idea away. He took pity on my embarrassment and told the innkeeper that no harm had been done, that it need go no further than it already had. He requested I be given a new room. He said he would replace my things himself.
    That broke me from my exhausted stupor. “You can’t,” I protested.
    “You are here at my discretion, Sarah,” he said gently. “I’ve put you in this predicament myself. I feel terrible, if you want to know the truth. Of course I’ll replace your things.”
    I was proud, but what choice did I have? I was alone with nothing but the clothes I wore, and hardly a penny to my name. I had to accept. Secretly I hoped it would be a loan, that I would be able to repay Alistair someday.
    Everyone listened to Alistair, of course. He had a way of easy authority about him. The curious patrons drifted away and the innkeeper and his wife set to work moving my room, no longer panicked. It was easy to believe everything would be all right when Alistair said so.
    I knew better. Nothing would be all right. My upper arms hurt where Maddy had touched them, and I rubbed the