Page 12 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
“So he’s a doctor?”
The constable let out a dry laugh. “Ruan Kivell? Certainly not. But he knows his way around a sickroom. Let’s say that.”
“It’s a bit late for that sort, isn’t it?”
Enys cocked his head to one side. “You don’t have Pellars in America, Miss Vaughn?”
“I scarcely know what a Pellaris, Mr. Enys.”
That earned me a smile from the rather dour constable. “He’s a witch.” He paused before adding, “More or less.”
“A what?” I would have choked had I been drinking. Surely he couldn’t expect me to believe in witches.
Enys rubbed his scarred jaw with the back of his hand as we both watched Mr. Kivell work. “Aye. A sort of conjurer. Surely they have wisefolk where you’re from?”
“Witches, in New York City?”
The damaged side of his mouth quirked in amusement. “Perhaps it’s best if he explains it to you.”
But before I could think any more on the subject, Mr. Kivell rocked back onto his heels and gave his head a low long shake.
“Bloody hell!” the constable swore, the easygoing expression he’d worn seconds before faded to one of fear. His whole body tightened on a spring, unable to make out what to do with the silent information that Mr. Kivell had imparted. “Pardon my language, ladies.”
“What is it? What’s he found?”
The constable and Mrs. Penrose stared blankly at Mr. Kivell as the man procured that same small glass bottle from his bag and washed his hands.
“It’s what he didn’t find is the trouble, Miss Vaughn.” His jaw settled into a deep frown.
“It’s the curse, isn’t it, Ruan? Tell me true.” Mrs. Penrose’s voice rose with each word. Her eyes wide, frantic for the first time since she’d rung that damnable bell.
Curse?I mouthed the word, half to myself.
The elderly housekeeper’s breath trembled in her chest as she clutched at her breast. “Thirty years ago, the beast came. It killed them all.” As her words spilled out, the copse grew even more silent. My own heart beating in my ears.
“You can’t possibly…”
She looked up at me with such a forlorn expression my heart cracked in response. “The Curse of Penryth Hall, maid. It’s the Curse of Penryth Hall.”
“YOU CAN’T POSSIBLYbe contemplating that Sir Edward was killed by a curse?” I spluttered out once Mrs. Penrose and Constable Enys were out of earshot. The younger man had taken her by the arm, like one would their favorite aunt, leading her back to the house presumably to wheedle more information out of her.
Mr. Kivell,the Pellar, slung his haversack over his shoulder with a groan. He raked a hand through his dark hair and shook his head. “Have you any likelier ideas as to the cause, Miss Vaughn?” He gave me a knowing look.
The shotgun cradled to my chest provided cold comfort. I glanced down at Edward’s splayed form and cleared my throat. “I’m an antiquarian, not an inspector. But there are no such things as curses, Mr. Kivell.” Because if that was a possibility, even a remote one, then perhaps my dreams were more than just coincidences. And that thought couldn’t be borne.
He narrowed his gaze at me, penetrating through the thin layers of my nightdress. Not in a lecherous way. No. It was worse than that. It was as if he was adding up my bits and parts and gauging the sum.
I turned away from him and stalked across the copse. Distance was precisely what I needed from this man. “What is a Pellar?”
“Didn’t I tell you the story yesterday?” he grumbled as he stooped down again next to Edward’s body, still puzzling over his death.
“I’m afraid I’m a poor student.”
“Who,” he gritted out while he ran his fingers over Edward’s pallid cheek, probing gently into the garish wound with a tenderness one would reserve for a thing of beauty, not this… horror that lay out before us.
“Pardon?”
“Who is the Pellar?”
