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Margaret appeared, frowning, as John
led Bridget back to her own room. "What's happened?"
she asked.
"Mary's dead," Quinn told the elderly woman as he and
Sheila came from the salon.
"Harry?" Margaret questioned, ignoring the annoyance
on Quinn's dark features as she turned to her grand nephew for
confirmation.
Remington stood up, climbing the stair to join his wife and Aunt.
"Looks as if she broke her neck in the fall," he said.
"How did she fall? I thought she was watching Bridget ."
"She was, Aunt," Quinn said. "Looks as though it's
happened again, doesn't it?" His eyes narrowed dangerously
as he lifted his glass of whiskey.
"What's happened again?" Laura wanted to know as Margaret
paled slightly. "Margaret-?"
"Not now, dear. Later. I need to check on Bridget,"
she insisted, meeting Quinn's look with one that caused him to
lift his glass in silent acknowledgment before he turned back
toward the main salon.
"I need another whiskey." Sheila followed him, frowning
deeply.
"We'd better call the authorities about Mary's death,"
Laura pointed out.
"I'm sure Callahan as already seen to that," Margaret
assured her, stopping before Bridget's door. "Just as he's
notified her family, no doubt." From within, they could hear
soft sobbing and John's soothing voice, trying to calm his sister.
"There, there, Bridget," he cooed. "Just try to
rest. Close your eyes ," he said as the door opened.
"I can't," she insisted. "I keep seeing Mary falling.
Like a marionette whose strings have been cut."
"You SAW her fall?" Laura asked quietly, drawing the
young woman's attention.
"In my mind," she explained. "I was sleeping then
I woke and -," she shuddered.
"There, there, dear," Margaret said, placing a thin
hand over that of the girl. "Don't think about it now. Just
get some rest. Where is her medicine, John?"
John brought two tablets and a glass of water to his sister's
bedside. "Here you go."
Bridget swallowed the tablets and then handed the glass back.
"It's the curse, Aunt. The curse."
"Nonsense, child," Margaret insisted, lifting her hand
to smooth the red curls. "We'll talk more later. Just close
your eyes right now. That's it. Relax." She looked at John.
"You'll stay with her?"
"Of course." He looked at Remington and Laura. "Sorry,
Cousin. Not much of a welcome to Crayston for you and Laura, I'm
afraid."
"You just take care of your sister," Remington said.
"If you need anything," Laura added, "Just call."
"Thank you."
As they left the room with Margaret and headed for the stairs,
where someone had draped a sheet over the poor, unfortunate Mary,
Laura recalled Quinn's earlier comment. Entering the salon, she
asked, "Margaret, what did Quinn mean about it having happened
again?"
Quinn, nursing a drink before the fireplace, frowned as Margaret
hesitated. "Might as well satisfy her curiosity, Aunt,"
he told her. "If you don't, I'm sure someone else will."
He emptied his glass and headed for the bar, only to stop as Sheila
grabbed his arm.
"Quinn."
He pulled away from her and picked up the decanter of whiskey.
"Leave me be, Sheila. I don't need you telling me what to
do," he told her in a soft, dangerous tone.
Margaret's voice was firm as she spoke. "I think you need
some time alone, Quinn," she suggested.
He lifted his glass. "Excellent idea, Aunt. Right as always."
Picking up the decanter, he turned toward the door, only to pause
as he realized that his wife was following him. "I won't
be needing your help, wife."
The blonde stopped, and Laura easily read the intense anger on
her perfect features as Quinn stalked out of the room.
"Come and sit, Sheila," Margaret said quietly, patting
the cushion at her side. "You know that following him will
only result in an argument at the moment," she said as Sheila
remained by the door. "Leave him to his drink for now."
At last Sheila turned back into the room, but instead of taking
the seat beside the elderly woman, she went to the windows that
overlooked the grounds. "Now," Margaret said. "What
was I saying?"
"You were going to tell us about Bridget," Remington
reminded her gently. "And the last time something like this
happened."
"Ah, yes. Such a terrible tragedy that was," Margaret
recalled. "About six years ago, Bridget met a young man while
visiting friends in Dublin. He was quite handsome, and she fell
very deeply in love with him- and he with her. He asked her to
marry him, but Bridget refused and returned home. Brian followed
her here, refused to leave until she gave him a good reason for
telling him that she couldn't become his wife."
"What were her reasons?" Laura asked.
"Fear. Brian was English. He had a home in London, a promising
future as a solicitor in one of the city's most prestigious firms.
Marriage to him would have meant leaving Crayston Manor. It's
the only home Bridget's ever really known. The idea of moving
to London terrified her."
Laura recalled from the report that John and Bridget had been
orphaned at an early age by their parents' deaths in an auto accident
and had been raised here at the manor. "Did Brian accept
her reason?" she asked.
"No. Brian was the type of man who had never been afraid
of anything. So he couldn't understand poor Bridget's fear of
leaving everything, everyone she knew. She asked him to stay here,
at Crayston, but he refused. They argued, and Bridget stormed
out to go for a ride. You'd never know it now, but the lass had
a terrible temper in those days." She sighed deeply. "She
didn't come home until late that evening- everyone but Brian were
already in bed. John said that he heard them arguing as they came
up the stairs, and then -," she paused. "Bridget's scream
woke us all. When I got out of my room, I saw a sobbing, broken
Bridget in her brother's arms, and Brian lay dead on the floor
in almost the exact spot where we found poor Mary." She shook
her head. "Bridget was never the same."
"Is that when her seizures began?" Laura asked.
"Yes. The local magistrate ruled Brian's death an accident,
but,- I think Bridget holds herself responsible."
Remington looked thoughtful as his blue gaze found his aunt. "WAS
she?"
"I don't know, Harry," Margaret admitted. "She's
never talked about it- insists that she doesn't remember what
happened that night."
Sheila took a cigarette from a slim gold case, tapping it on the
metal. "Her memory has always been extremely convenient,"
she commented dryly. "I doubt she'll even recall what happened
tonight." The sound of someone knocking on the front doors
drew their attention. "The authorities, no doubt." She
turned gracefully. "If you don't mind, Aunt, I think I'll
leave you and Remington to deal with them."
As she left, Laura frowned. "Won't the police want to talk
to Sheila and Quinn?"
Margaret placed a hand over Laura's. "That's not the way
things are handled, Laura, dear. The constable will inspect Mary's
body, then order it removed, and once he hears that she fell coming
down the stairs,-"
"But- what if there's more to it?" Laura wanted to know
as Remington placed a hand on her arm.
"Laura. I think Aunt Margaret should handle this for the
moment," he told her gently. When she would have argued,
he shook his head, his eyes sending her a silent message that
they would discuss it later, when the two of them were alone.
Callahan entered the room. "Constable O'Malley," he
announced, watching as a short, balding little man entered the
room, his battered hat in his hands.
"Thank you, Callahan," Margaret said regally. The butler
bowed, then left the room, closing the doors behind him. "Constable
O' Malley, allow me to introduce my nephew and his wife, Remington
and Laura Steele."
The constable smiled at the couple. "Your Lordship. I heard
that you had arrived today. `Tis too bad that something like this
had t'happen."
"Yes."
"Did you inspect poor Mary, Constable?" Margaret asked,
apparently anxious to get right to the heart of the matter.
"That I did, Miss Harrison. She broke her neck when she fell.
Were there any witnesses?"
"No. My niece Miss O'Riley found the body -she was terribly
upset. She and Mary were quite close. We had to sedate Bridget,"
Margaret informed the man, who was nodding thoughtfully.
"I understand, Miss Harrison," he assured her. "I'll
speak to the magistrate and let him know what I found. The inquest
will take place tomorrow afternoon, I'm sure."
"If you need any of us there, let us know."
"I'll do that." He nodded in Remington's direction.
"'Twas a pleasure t'make your acquaintance, your Lordship,"
he said. "Will y'be staying long?"
"We haven't decided yet," Remington said.
"Enjoy your visit, then. Good day t'you," he said, smiling
nervously as Remington opened the doors for him to take his leave.
"If you don't mind, O'Malley, I'll walk you to your car,"
Remington said.
O'Malley glanced at Margaret, then nodded. "I'd be honored,
sir."
"I'll be right back," Remington told Laura.
Laura went to the doors, noticing that Mary's body was no longer
laying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. "What just
happened here, Aunt Margaret?"
The old woman rose stiffly, using her ebony cane as leverage,
then joined Laura at the doorway. "You have to remember,
lass, that for almost two centuries, this area was under the almost
absolute control of the Harrison family and whoever held the title.
The local authorities know that they depend upon our good graces
to keep their positions. I know it's not the way things are done
where you are from, but this is a very different world here."
She patted Laura on the hand. "I'm going back upstairs to
my room and try once again to rest after I look in on Bridget."
Laura watched her climb the stairs. Mary hadn't fallen accidentally
to her death. Someone had killed the young woman. Laura's detective
instincts were on full alert. If Bridget HAD killed two people,
then she was insane and needed help, not protection from her crimes.
Laura examined the stairs carefully, following the probable path
that Mary would have taken to where she had been found. No loose
carpet, no uneven steps nothing that could have caused a woman
who probably climbed these steps every day of her young life to
fall. Laura paused, seeing something shine on the step above as
the light struck it. Bending down, she found a silver button-
laying near the top step. As she stood on the landing, Laura played
out a mental scene in which two people struggled, one of them
trying to push the other down the stairs. She grabbed for something
to hold onto- finding a button from a robe- and grasped it. The
button came loose, and fell to the step as the woman's hands grasped
at empty air as she began to fall. Laura heard a noise behind
her, but before she could turn around, she felt someone's hands
on her shoulders, and she then felt herself falling . . .
To Be Continued - - -