Page 30 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“No.” Detective Poll toed some of the shards as he made his way to the window frame. The gaslights made the roomglow warmly, and he looked like a dark silhouette as he reached the opening. “Part of the window is still intact.” He eyed the strewn glass and the table they’d used in the séance. “It’s puzzling. There should be something responsible for this.”
“There is,” Maribeth piped up, even though the men were exchanging ideas. “Eunice Withers.”
George leveled his dark gaze at Maribeth.
Detective Poll met Perliett’s eyes, then looked to Maribeth and finally cleared his throat. “Miss Withers—she is deceased.”
“But her spirit is very,verydisturbed.” Maribeth made a broad sweep of her arm. “As you can see by the mess she has made of my late husband’s study.”
Detective Poll scratched his head. There was a helpless desperation in his expression, Perliett noticed, when he glanced at George.
George stepped forward. “There must be explainable reasons for a window exploding.”
“Such as?” Perliett stepped forward also, and she heard glass crunch under her shoe.
He glared at her, visibly irritated by her challenge. Well, he should be used to it by now.
“Compression on the glass, for one thing.” George redirected his attention to Detective Poll. “Improper installation could apply exponential pressure on the window to cause it to, over time, bow inward and thus explode from the stress.”
Detective Poll pursed his lips and nodded. “Good point.”
“Or...” George darted a look to Perliett, and she crossed her arms. Irritated. Really she should be grateful there might be a human explanation for such a spiritual occurrence. George continued. “Or,” he repeated, “a nail meant to hold the window in may also have been erroneously putting pressure on the glass. Perhaps even having nicked it during installation. Eventually, the glass was bound to shatter.”
“Explode,” Maribeth supplied.
“Combust,” Perliett challenged.
“Shatter,” George said once more. “Had it been an explosion, you can be assured you would all have glass skewering you and I’d be stopping far more blood flow than a sliver in your cheek could cause.”
Detective Poll cleared his throat again, attempting to command the discussion once more. “Regardless, I don’t see anything criminal behind this. Whether happenstance”—he shot a look at Maribeth—“or something else, I see no signs of foul play.”
“Eunice never meant it to look like foul play.” Maribeth had adopted a stern demeanor. “She was trying to tell us something. Tellmesomething. There is violence at play here. In Eunice’s death.”
“Mrs. Van Hilton,” Detective Poll said and held up his hand, “it doesn’t take anything other than common sense to know that. Miss Withers was—”
“Miss Withers was brutally murdered,” Maribeth interrupted. “Her mother is beside herself, and now the family has no less agony surrounding Eunice’s death than before. More agony, I daresay, after tonight.”
“And what would you have me do about it?” the detective retorted, obviously annoyed.
“Solve it,” Maribeth snapped in uncustomary sharpness. “She deserves to rest in peace. Eunicewishesto rest in peace.” She swept a critical glance around the area. “She has made that very clear.”
There is another.
She is beautiful.
She is mine.
11
Sleep had been stolen from her. Perliett’s tossing and turning the last few nights since the debacle during the séance had left her bleary-eyed, achy, and downright irritable. Now she stuck another pin into her hair, adjusted the sash around her waist, and lifted her gloves from her bureau.
It was Sunday. Time for services at church. A day of rest. A chance during an eventful and gory week to have things set back to rights in the eyes of God and man. The line between them—this veil that separated the spiritual from the earthly—was ever so thin. This Perliett knew. But she also knew that God all too often seemed to toy with humanity. Giving them small glimpses into the other side, but never really revealing its true nature.
Today would be no different. She would ride alongside her mother in their carriage. They would sit in the fifth pew from the front, left side. Hymns would be sung mechanically—not unlike the clickety-clack of a train on its tracks—habitual and rhythmic. The reverend who had officiated over Eunice’s funeral would now gab prolifically on the nature of God, or the damnation of humanity, or as he so often did, the vices of men, such as the demon liquor.
At the end of his profusely disparaging sermon, churchgoers would remove themselves from the sanctuary with solemnity over their sins. Once outside, all would return to normal. God would be appeased for the rest of the week, and then they’d repeat the process. The church membersmight have a twinge of conscience, but even Perliett knew that no one would transform the course of their life or the decisions they made. Thus it made going to church every Sunday feel useless to Perliett, the experience leaving her in the doldrums. There was nothing real in church outside of censure from others and God, and a part of her wished it were more than it was. That God was more infinite than the mental boxes the reverend put Him into, and that hope was something immeasurable instead of being carefully doled out in tiny portions.
“Are you coming?” Maribeth called up the stairs.
