Read Online Death at Rottingdean by Robin Paige - Free Book Online Page B

Charles asked lightly, turning to Kipling. “You say you heard him recently?”
    â€œA few nights ago,” Kipling said. In a mischievous tone, he added, “We can extinguish the candle and wait, if you like,” and suited the deed to the word.
    Kate gasped as the chill dark closed suddenly around them. Beside her, Aunt Georgie shivered. They stood for a moment huddled tensely together, listening to the muffled footfalls of the servants moving around in the kitchen over their heads. Then even that noise ceased, and all Kate could hear was the low sound of their communal breathing. And then, just as she was feeling that they had waited long enough, she heard something else: a heavy, echoing thud on the other side of the wall, but very distant, as if it were miles away—or years ago. A second later, there was another thud, and a low rumble.
    â€œThere!” Kipling exclaimed in a jocular tone, out of the dark. “Is everyone satisfied that we have heard the ghost, or do we prefer to wait for the rattling of chains?”
    â€œI believe I am quite persuaded,” Aunt Georgie replied. She spoke with a self-possessed air, although Kate could feel her trembling.
    â€œI too,” Kate said quickly.
    â€œAnd I,” Charles replied. “You have shown us your ghost, Rud.”
    â€œWell, then,” Kipling said, and struck a match. “Shall we adjourn to the parlor and report our adventure to Carrie, and see if the serving maid has provided us with dessert and coffee?”
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    Walking back to Seabrooke House along the silent, moonlit street of the little village, Kate thought that it did not take much imagination to see the place as it must have been in the time of King George, when mothers and children shut themselves up in the dark houses while the men and boys were busy on the beach and in the tunnels, leaving the deserted street and the treacherous, windswept path along the cliff to the patrolling guard. She was deep in reflection, thinking that Rottingdean would indeed be a marvelous setting for one of Beryl’s stories, when Charles spoke. His voice was amused.
    â€œWell, my dear, what did you think of Kipling’s ghost?”
    Kate matched his light tone. “He made an impressive thud or two, but I should like to have seen him.”
    He smiled down at her. “You caught a whiff of him, didn’t you?”
    Kate was surprised. “A whiff?”
    He nodded. “I should have thought that the cellar, so long closed up, would be musty. But I caught the distinct odor of a sea breeze. The ghost must be an old salt, fresh from the briny depths.” His voice became sepulchral. “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.”
    Kate laughed, then stopped, intrigued. “But if you could smell the sea breeze, that means that the tunnel is not entirely closed up!”
    â€œI should think so,” Charles said. “Interesting, isn’t it?” He paused, looking down at her, his eyes concerned. “I hope the evening wasn’t too trying for you, Kate.”
    Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and a cloud veiled the moon. “The children, you mean,” she said.
    â€œYes.” He pulled her arm under his, and matched his step to hers. “You were very brave.”
    Kate cast a sideways glance at her husband, loving the strength of his face, the firm nose and sensitive mouth, the kind brown eyes. But it was a shuttered face. Charles Sheridan was a true British gentleman, reserved, stoic, naturally reticent. He had never spoken to her of the bitter disappointment she was sure he must feel, knowing that there would never be a son to carry on the traditions and responsibilities of Somersworth. And he had never even hinted that the whole thing might have been her fault for being so reckless as to risk her health for the sake of a few good deeds. Often, when his glance lingered on her, then moved away,