Loved From The Grave Read online

  "What a story. Does the child still live in the village?"

  "Yes. Very happily. There's something else you should know. Foster is so infamous for his womanizing, his good qualities have been forgotten. If someone was going through a rough patch, he'd help them. His door was always open, and not just for pretty girls. Every Christmas he'd throw a party in the village square. He'd hire musicians, bring in great food, and a Father Christmas with presents for the children."

  "When I looked at the face in that portrait, I didn't see a bad man. Complex perhaps, but not bad. Ah, our dinner. Perfect timing," Jonathan declared as their waitress arrived and set their meals in front of them. "I'm starving."

  As he picked up his fork and began to eat, he noticed she was hesitating. It hit him. The meal had a special meaning and she was struggling.

  "Perhaps it's too soon," he said softly. "Healing your heart has stops and starts. Sometimes we think we're ready for something, and we're not. Sometimes we think we're not, and we are."

  "I want to be. It feels right, but…"

  "It might be me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're having that meal with another man. Do you feel as if you're betraying Troy, or his memory?"

  He watched her forehead crinkle, and as she wiped a tear from her face, she slowly nodded her head.

  "You're amazing, Jonathan. I didn't realize it until you said it, but that's what it is."

  "I'm having chicken and dumplings. Would you like to know why?"

  "Yes," she said softly, lifting her eyes.

  "Unlike most people we loved the winter. The first storm that marked the beginning of fall she'd make chicken and dumplings. I couldn't have it the other night, so I'm having it now. Do you want to tell me about your roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding?"

  "It was what we both had on our first date. I'd never had it before, or the Sticky Toffee Pudding. Every year we'd find a pub and do it again. The feeling to order when I sat down—it was so strong."

  "You're honoring his memory, not being unfaithful. I'd like to make a toast," he said, picking up his glass and raising it in the air. "To first dates and the first autumn rain."

  "To first dates and first autumn rains," she repeated, lifting her glass.

  She drank the wine, then letting out a sigh, she picked up her fork and took the first bite. It wasn't easy, but it felt strangely liberating, and as she continued she knew Jonathan had been right. She was honoring Troy and their memory with the man who had brought them justice, and a man who truly understood.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  For the remainder of their meal Jonathan was able to steer the conversation to April's career. Talking about her work her eyes lit up, she became animated, and for the first time he had a glimpse of the sparkling personality that had been buried by her tragedy. When the meal came to an end and they stepped outside, they found a brisk clear night and an almost full moon. Settling into the seat in his SUV, April let out a long yawn.

  "You'll sleep well tonight," Jonathan remarked. "We both will."

  "I think you're right. Having answers. It's such a weight off, but when do you think they'll pick up Sylvie?"

  "Any time now. I'm surprised I haven't heard anything."

  "Do you think she might have done a runner?"

  "It's possible. Her gallery was closed when they went by there late this afternoon, but she has the weight of the family behind her, and I don't think she—oh, no! I'm a complete idiot."

  "Compared to who, Stephen Hawking?"

  "April, I'm serious. That night—the storm—the woman by the wishing well. Dammit. I was beginning to think it had been a trick of the light, then I wondered if the well held more secrets. I've been meaning to check it out, but now…"

  "You think you saw Sylvie?"

  "It makes sense, but it doesn't make sense. The whole thing is confounding."

  "Let's look at this logically," April said calmly. "We know she was there that night, and we know she ran out the back door. It's logical to assume you did see her. There's only one question. Why was she there?"

  "Thank you!" he said gratefully. "That was doing my head in."

  "You're welcome. You want to check out the well right now, don't you?"

  "I have to," he replied as he turned into her driveway. "You do too."

  "Guilty as charged, Detective Banks."

  Coming to a stop in front of the garage, they climbed from the SUV and walked around to the kitchen door. Thrilled to see them, Terrence barked happily, then ran into the yard. Fetching their flashlights, they started across the lawn to the wishing well, and the happy dog immediately raced across to join them.

  "What are we looking for?" April asked as they approached.

  "Anything that shouldn't be here," Jonathan answered, shining the torch across the brick. "Forgive me for being blunt, but somehow you were shown how to open that block of concrete at the foot of those steps. Maybe you should ask—"

  "Jonathan. I don't need to ask anything."

  Her voice had sounded strange, and looking over at her, he saw she was sending the beam into the well.

  His heart jumped.

  Stepping forward, he stared into the abyss.

  A woman was lying face down in the water.

  "Now it really is over," April mumbled. "Ned, George, and Sylvie Hammond. They can't kill anyone ever again."

  "I need to call this in."

  "No! Not yet. Please let me get through the night with some peace."

  He paused, then let out a breath.

  "You're right. Waiting won't change a thing. I'll do it in the morning, but this moment must remain between us."

  "Hammond Hall and its secrets. After everything that's happened it seems fitting we should have one." Then staring across at the headstone, she added, "Would you mind giving me a minute? I need to talk to Troy."

  "Sure. I'll see you inside."

  As he marched away, April ambled over to the grave. Though it was cold, she removed her coat, laid it on the damp grass and sat down.

  "You managed to stop them all," she murmured. "You saved me. I wish I could have saved you."

  She calmly watched as the grey fog materialized in front of her. As it slowly began to shroud her body and wrap her in its warmth, she closed her eyes, inhaled his smell, and felt herself slipping into an altered state of consciousness.

  I loved you in life. Now I love you from the afterlife. You must find comfort in the arms of another, but my darling, our love will continue. You are carrying our precious baby, and I will always be here, loving you from the grave.

  EPILOGUE

  The following day Sylvie Hammond's body had been pulled from the wishing well, then transported to London. How she'd fallen over its four-foot high brick wall to her death was a mystery. Jonathan put forth the theory she'd been so close to the lightning strike she'd been blasted backwards and toppled over the edge. It was the only explanation that seemed to make sense and was generally accepted.

  George kept insisting he hadn't murdered Ned. He claimed an unearthly gargoyle had smashed the vase over Ned's head, then stabbed him in the back with a shard of glass.

  "After that he made me slash my wrists. He took control of me," George vowed. "I couldn't stop it from happening."

  A psychiatrist's evaluation determined he was suffering from a rare form of stress induced psychosis, brought about by years of mental and emotional abuse from his uncle and it was recommended he be institutionalized.

  With Sylvie's freakish death, and the disgrace she brought on the family, Troy's mother made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with Hammond Hall, or anything associated with it. She'd made the pronouncement as though she was delivering bad news, but April felt nothing except relief.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  It came to light that Foster had quietly played a supportive and loving fatherly role in Ruth's life. He had provided her with an excellent education, and when it became clear she'd inherited her mother's ta
lent, along with a flair for business, he'd set her up in the gift shop. The art she sold was painted by her, and she handcrafted many of the unique gifts. Though Foster had encouraged her to expand into the trendy stores in London, she'd refused. She had no desire to leave her roots, and peaceful life in the village.

  Ben had always known the secret story of his mother's birth. Foster had welcomed him into Hammond Hall, and had kept Margaret's memory alive by telling the young lad all about his beautiful and talented grandmother. Ben had learned to appreciate the artwork that adorned the home, and though he'd studied art history, his heart was in law enforcement. His goal was to work at Scotland Yard.

  Man At Peace was one of Ruth's favorites. She said it personified the serenity that could be found in Glenwick. The day Ben had helped April hang it back on the wall, he'd immediately noticed the tiny M in the right-hand corner. He knew immediately his grandmother had recreated the famous painting, but he already knew his grandmother had recreated many famous paintings. Foster had told him it had been for the sheer joy of it.

  When Ruth decided to go public with her story, she told April she wanted to do so by writing a book. But April wanted to keep the rumored hidden rooms of Hammond Hall just that. Rumors, and she had no idea exactly what Ruth knew, and what she didn't. It was Jonathan who came up with a way to solve two problems at once.

  In an effort to satisfy the rumor mill, she would reveal the space behind the cellar wall, and declare its history as a secret room in which Foster had hidden his treasures in the event of a German invasion. She needed help to sort through it all, and Ben was the ideal candidate. He was familiar with the collection, and he was a strong young man who'd be able to handle moving the priceless items. When she made him the offer, he was thrilled.

  "There's nothing I'd like better," he said enthusiastically. "I want to be a detective like DI Banks, but I want to work in the area of art fraud. Do you know what you want to do with the fakes?"

  "I've been thinking about that," April replied. "I'd like to sell them as high quality copies, and donate the proceeds to create scholarships for up-and-coming needy artists."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The second death of a member of the aristocratic family had brought the press to Hammond Hall in droves. Television vans were parked outside, reporters crowded around the front of the driveway, and April once again became a virtual prisoner. She was relieved and grateful when Jonathan agreed to stay on until the drama passed. Not only did she enjoy his company, it was reassuring to have someone of authority on the property in the event the paparazzi became aggressive.

  She began cleaning Margaret's studio, and often felt she was being watched, but she knew it wasn't Troy. One afternoon as she was sorting through a box of odds and ends, she found an old shopping list written in a feminine hand. It could only have been written by Margaret. It felt extraordinary to hold such a personal piece of paper written so many decades before, and among the items listed was jasmine bubble bath.

  It was Margaret's energy she'd been sensing, and though she already suspected it was her, April was glad of the confirmation. Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, April walked into the center of the room and searched for the right words.

  "I hope you can hear me, Margaret. This was—this is—your studio, and I respect that. I'd love to paint in here, but only if I'm welcome. I can feel your energy. It's amazing. Your work is amazing, and I know you will inspire me. If it's okay for me to share this studio, I hope you'll find a way to let me know."

  She stood for a moment, and not seeing or hearing anything, she returned to the box and continued to sort through its odds and ends. When she'd finished, she spied a group of smaller canvases she'd not yet investigated. They were resting against the wall, and walking over, she sat down and began to go through them. The first was a painting of a young man walking down the street. It was a back view. His hands were in his pockets, his clothes were rumpled, and he seemed to have a jaunty stride. It made her smile, and setting it aside, she reached for the second.

  She caught her breath.

  It was a small version of the scene she'd painted on her bedroom wall when she was just twelve-years old. In the foreground of the meadow in front of the playing wolf pups, it read.

  April brings the Spring

  A time of renewal, and a season always welcomed.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The authorities had finally wrapped up their investigations. The professional crime cleaners had come and gone, and April's bedroom was her own again. She'd been comfortable in the guest room, and though she'd felt Troy's presence, it hadn't been as pronounced and she could feel it waning. She sensed he'd found peace, and he wanted the same for her.

  Walking in for the first time in over a week she found sun beams flooding the room, and the first thing she noticed were the two top drawers of Troy's dresser. They were open.

  "I supposed I have to go through all his things," she muttered as she moved across the room. "That won't be much fun. I'll make a start later."

  As she began to put away his belongings, she saw a small white envelope with her name scrawled across the front. Carrying it to the bed, she sat down and opened it. Inside was a white card with the words, Tiffany & Co embossed at the top, and a note in Troy's familiar handwriting.

  April,

  Forever Love, Forever Mine

  That's what you are.

  When I saw this pin and read its message I hadn't even met you, yet I could feel the magic in the air. We say we don't know what tomorrow will bring. At that moment I did, but it has been, you have been, so much more than I could ever have dreamed. From the first moment, you stirred something inside me I didn't even know I had, and after the first hour, my heart was utterly and wonderfully lost. You have saved me from a worthless life of meaningless affairs, and it is better my days be short and filled with you, than long and filled with emptiness.

  Forever Love, Forever Mine

  Troy

  "It is better my days be short and filled with you, than long and filled with emptiness," she murmured. "Did you know?" Tears brimming, she walked back to the dressing room, sat at the vanity, and picked up the broken pin. "This was the surprise you had for me that night. You must have been carrying it in the pocket of your robe. I know you want me to find my way through this pain. I know you want me to be happy again, and I will. Do you know why I know that? Because, Troy, you taught me how to trust, and you've shown me what it means to be truly loved."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Jonathan was in the elegant salon staring up at Foster's portrait. The man looked alive, so alive Jonathan almost expected him to jump off the canvas. That had been Margaret's gift, the ability to make her subjects look real. Traveling his gaze across the painting in search of more hints about Foster's life, his eyes fell on a tiny key lying next to the basket of valentines.

  "Huh. How did I miss that? It must have something to do with having a key to those hearts, or is that too obvious?"

  "There you are," April declared, walking through the door. "I had a feeling you might be in here. Were you talking to Foster, or talking to yourself?"

  "Both, I suppose."

  "I've solved the mystery of the broken pin. It was a gift from Troy. I found the card he'd written to go with it."

  "He must have been carrying it with him that night."

  "Before he went downstairs he said he had two surprises for me. A small one he was going to give me when he came back up, and a big one the following day. Something that would amaze me. I don't suppose I'll ever know what that was."

  "But you already do. The secret door in the library."

  "How do you know?"

  "You told me you had a dream about it, remember?"

  "Oh, my gosh, you're right. That's it exactly. Jonathan! You've done it again. You should be a detective."

  "I'll give it some thought," he said with a grin, then looking back up at the portrait, he asked, "Does that key strike you at all? The on
e by the basket of hearts?"

  "I assume it's somehow related to all those hearts although—maybe it's real. Maybe that's a hint. From what I've learned about that man, it wouldn't surprise me."

  "I just got a chill," he said, staring at her. "I bet it's hidden in this room. Maybe we should have a hunt for it."

  "And if we find it, we'll have to figure out what it unlocks. Hammond Hall is one mystery after another."

  "That's probably why I like it so much. It speaks to the detective in me. I suppose I'd better head off."

  "I'll find Terrence while you get your bag," she said as they headed out.

  "April, before I leave I have a favor to ask."

  "Whatever it is, the answer is yes."

  "You haven't heard it yet."

  "It doesn't matter," she said softly. "Anything."

  "I have an awful cheek asking you this, but it's about Terrence. Would you consider keeping him? He's so much happier here with that big yard, not to mention I'll sleep better knowing you have such a great alarm system."

  "I would absolutely love to have him," she said eagerly. "Yes, a thousand times yes."

  "Excellent. Really, that's excellent."

  They had reached his room, but as she started to step away, he touched her arm.

  "Jonathan? What is it?"

  "The thing is, uh, would it be wrong for me to say—I'd like him to stay here so I have an excuse to come back, not as DI Banks, but as Jonathan, your new friend?"

  "Would it be wrong for me to say you don't need an excuse?" she said softly.

  "It's Thursday. On Saturday afternoon, how would you feel about looking for that key, then going to the White Goose for dinner?"