shift as the heavy object that had been placed in front of it scraped across the bare floor. He heard movement inside the room.
“What the bloody hell is he doing in there?” he muttered.
He gave one last shove against the door. It opened far enough to allow him to slip into the darkened chamber.
“Stay here,” he said to Madeline. This time he made it a clear command.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” she said in a voice that carried an edge of authority as sharp as his own.
Artemas lunged into the room, keeping his body low and angled to the side so as to present less of a target. Instinctively he fell back on his old training and sought the deepest shadows.
But he knew already that he was too late.
Cool night air wafted through the window that opened onto the miniature balcony. A net of artificial cobwebs danced on the currents of the light draft. The gossamer curtain billowed in an eerie fashion in the moonlight, silently taunting him.
Bloody idiot, Artemas thought. How did he expect to escape that way? Unless he chose to risk the long drop to the ground, the intruder was well and truly trapped.
Trapped creatures were often extremely dangerous, however.
He circled a recently painted canvas backdrop that featured a pair of specters hovering over a crypt.
Easing aside the veil of cobwebs, he edged toward the window. He could see the length of the small balcony. It was empty.
“There is no one out there,” Madeline whispered from the middle of the chamber. “He has disappeared.”
“He’ll be lucky if he did not break his neck when he jumped.”
“I heard no sound.”
She was right.
Artemas stepped out onto the balcony and looked down. He saw no crumpled figure lying on the grass.
Nor could he detect anyone limping away into the woods toward the seldom used south gate.
“Gone,” she whispered.
“There is no way he could have jumped that far without injuring an ankle.” He stepped back and looked up. “I wonder if he used another route.”
“The roof?”
“It’s possible, although he would still face the problem of getting down from his perch—” Artemas broke off as the toe of his boot brushed against a soft, pliable object. He looked down. A cold feeling twisted through him. “Bloody hell.”
Madeline watched as he reached to retrieve the thing he had trod upon. “What is it?”
“The reason our intruder did not crack his skull when he went over this balcony a few minutes ago.”
Artemas held up a length of rope with an intricate knot tied in one end. “He no doubt used this to enter the mansion as well as to leave it.”
Madeline sighed. “Well, at least you know that 1 did not see a ghost.”
“On the contrary, I do not think that we can be entirely certain of that fact.”
She tensed. “What do you mean? ”
Artemas drew the heavy cord slowly across the palm of his hand. “The knots he used in his rope ladder are Vanza knots.”
Chapter Eight
Tell me the tale from the beginning,” Artemas said.
Madeline looked out at the small, bare garden through the library window. She clasped her hands behind her back and concentrated on composing her thoughts. She was keenly aware of Artemas lounging against the edge of her desk, waiting for her to begin her explanations.
Last night after the incident in the Haunted Mansion, he had brought her straight home, checked the locks on her shutters, and promised to send someone to keep watch on her house for the remainder of the night.
“Try to get some rest,” he’d said. “1 wish to do some thinking. I will return in the morning and we shall make plans.”
She had spent the night trying to decide how much to tell him. Now she must pick and choose her words carefully. “I told you that my husband murdered my father with poison. 1 found Papa before he died.
Bernice tried to save him but even her strongest remedies proved ineffective. She said that Renwick had used some fatal Vanza brew.”
“Go on.”
His voice was
“What the bloody hell is he doing in there?” he muttered.
He gave one last shove against the door. It opened far enough to allow him to slip into the darkened chamber.
“Stay here,” he said to Madeline. This time he made it a clear command.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” she said in a voice that carried an edge of authority as sharp as his own.
Artemas lunged into the room, keeping his body low and angled to the side so as to present less of a target. Instinctively he fell back on his old training and sought the deepest shadows.
But he knew already that he was too late.
Cool night air wafted through the window that opened onto the miniature balcony. A net of artificial cobwebs danced on the currents of the light draft. The gossamer curtain billowed in an eerie fashion in the moonlight, silently taunting him.
Bloody idiot, Artemas thought. How did he expect to escape that way? Unless he chose to risk the long drop to the ground, the intruder was well and truly trapped.
Trapped creatures were often extremely dangerous, however.
He circled a recently painted canvas backdrop that featured a pair of specters hovering over a crypt.
Easing aside the veil of cobwebs, he edged toward the window. He could see the length of the small balcony. It was empty.
“There is no one out there,” Madeline whispered from the middle of the chamber. “He has disappeared.”
“He’ll be lucky if he did not break his neck when he jumped.”
“I heard no sound.”
She was right.
Artemas stepped out onto the balcony and looked down. He saw no crumpled figure lying on the grass.
Nor could he detect anyone limping away into the woods toward the seldom used south gate.
“Gone,” she whispered.
“There is no way he could have jumped that far without injuring an ankle.” He stepped back and looked up. “I wonder if he used another route.”
“The roof?”
“It’s possible, although he would still face the problem of getting down from his perch—” Artemas broke off as the toe of his boot brushed against a soft, pliable object. He looked down. A cold feeling twisted through him. “Bloody hell.”
Madeline watched as he reached to retrieve the thing he had trod upon. “What is it?”
“The reason our intruder did not crack his skull when he went over this balcony a few minutes ago.”
Artemas held up a length of rope with an intricate knot tied in one end. “He no doubt used this to enter the mansion as well as to leave it.”
Madeline sighed. “Well, at least you know that 1 did not see a ghost.”
“On the contrary, I do not think that we can be entirely certain of that fact.”
She tensed. “What do you mean? ”
Artemas drew the heavy cord slowly across the palm of his hand. “The knots he used in his rope ladder are Vanza knots.”
Chapter Eight
Tell me the tale from the beginning,” Artemas said.
Madeline looked out at the small, bare garden through the library window. She clasped her hands behind her back and concentrated on composing her thoughts. She was keenly aware of Artemas lounging against the edge of her desk, waiting for her to begin her explanations.
Last night after the incident in the Haunted Mansion, he had brought her straight home, checked the locks on her shutters, and promised to send someone to keep watch on her house for the remainder of the night.
“Try to get some rest,” he’d said. “1 wish to do some thinking. I will return in the morning and we shall make plans.”
She had spent the night trying to decide how much to tell him. Now she must pick and choose her words carefully. “I told you that my husband murdered my father with poison. 1 found Papa before he died.
Bernice tried to save him but even her strongest remedies proved ineffective. She said that Renwick had used some fatal Vanza brew.”
“Go on.”
His voice was
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