Read Online Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn - Free Book Online Page A

cold wet towels and when they had been applied, Brisbane turned to her sternly.
    “It’s time to make a clean breast of it, Mrs. Smith. Tell us why the lot of you have been playing at ghosts and tell us what has become of Liddell.”
    She looked to Mr. Belton but he waved a wan hand. “Go on, then. They’re not going to rest until you do, and no coin is worth this.”
    She gave a snort. “I should have known better than to think you could manage this. He warned me you would be the weak link, but I spoke up for you.”
    Her voice was cold with scorn, but he did not react. He merely pressed another cold towel to his chin as we waited. At length, she sighed.
    “Very well. Yes. As you guessed from the first, we were engaged to do a bit of play-acting, to pretend the village was haunted. We each had a part to play.”
    “Do you even live here?” I asked.
    She bristled. “I do. As does everyone in the village, God help us. Narrow Wibberley was a good place to live until the railway came. Ask anyone here, and they’ll tell you. It was a tragedy when they laid the tracks on the other side of the valley. All of the village custom dried up. Those jumped-up folks in East Wibberley knew what they were about. Called themselves Greater Wibberley, as if they were better than us. Built a new hotel, they did, and travellers liked it better than the pub. Then shops opened, and the shopkeepers were happy because they could get their goods directly off the train. No more hauling them across hills and down into the valley. And so it went, with everyone and everything being replaced and all because some fellow in London drew a line on a map,” she said in disgust. “We suffered here, and the folk who depended upon the manor suffered most of all. As it happened, I knew a gentleman,” she said, her expression opaque, “and he was a clever fellow. I knew if anyone could figure out a way to make us a bit of money, he could. And he did. He said he had a friend, a London man he wanted to play a bit of a prank on. He said he wanted him to think he had inherited the manor. He laid it all out, careful as you please. How we were to act, what we were to say. He told us what books to have in the library, what meals to cook. And he said that wasn’t enough. He said you were curious folk, and that you would like a bit of mystery about the place. So he arranged the haunting, as well. He even wrote up that book to be printed out, the one that made up all the legends of ghosts and other nonsense. Gathered us all together one evening in the pub and gave us each a part to play.” She looked thoughtful. “Mrs. Ninch’s boy will be right sad to miss out on playing Guy Fawkes’ ghost. He’s been practising so hard. Makes quite a terrifying effect, it does.”
    “And did your gentleman friend arrange the drugging of the chocolates and whisky,” I asked tartly.
    She had the grace to look embarrassed. “He never told us about that,” she said. “He sent them on with instructions to place them in your rooms, but never said they were drugged.”
    “No doubt just a bit of fun to heighten the experience,” I mused.
    “And that’s all it was,” she said, her manner as earnest as any beggar in the street. “He said it was all in fun, and that we were, above all to treat you like royalty. We were to give you the very best holiday here, and—”
    She broke off suddenly, and seemed reluctant to say more.
    “And you were also instructed not to tell us anything about the real owners of Thorncross, isn’t that true?” I asked softly.
    Her shoulders sagged a little. “Yes, my lady.”
    “What owners?” Brisbane asked.
    “This afternoon as I was crossing the churchyard it occurred to me to look for the grave of our mysterious Mr. Thornhill. But there was no grave. There was no Thornhill family marker at all. Because the Thornhill family never owned this manor, did they, vicar?”
    The vicar shook his head miserably. “No,” he said, his voice