Page 1 of The Secret of the Three Fates
CHAPTERONESic Semper Tyrannis
MANHURST CASTLE, SCOTLAND
OCTOBER 1922
Iwas going to murder Mr. Owen, there was simply nothing for it. Blood thrummed through my veins as I looked up at the librarian of Manhurst Castle, struggling not to lose my temper. It certainly wasn’tthis man’sfault that I’d been brought here under false pretenses. No, that blame lay squarely at the feet of my octogenarian employer who was currently enjoying his midmorning nap.
“What do youmeanthere are no illuminated manuscripts?” I asked for the second time, my voice far more strained than I intended.
Mercifully, the young man remained unaware of my rising ire as he turned back to the dark mahogany bookcase behind him, pulling the newest copy of Debrett’s guide to the peerage from an overburdened shelf containing every edition published from the company’s eighteenth-century inception to now. He set it on the long low study table beside me. In a desperate hope that the young man had forgotten a cache of illuminated manuscripts secreted away with the most recent month’s serial novel, I scanned thespines of the next nearest shelf. Mostly modern fiction alongside some late-nineteenth-century poetry. Nothing awe-inspiring. In fact, there wasn’t a single interesting book in this library—it was a rather insipid collection all told. As if someone hastily purchased everything from a rummage sale in an attempt to fill the empty shelves.
“I told you earlier, Miss Vaughn, there are no illuminated manuscripts left in the collection. The lot of them were sold off two years ago, not long after Mr. Sharpe took over the estate. I understand they paid for the renovations here.”
My attention snapped back to the young librarian and I blew out a breath, my eyes lingering on the most recent copy of the who’s who of the peerage on the tabletop. A more generous soul might assume that Mr. Owen had simply gotten his estates mixed up. After all, he was in his eighties and I’d known plenty of other folk his age—younger even—who had begun to forget harmless little details like that. Though Mr. Owen never forgotanything—an annoying habit of his.
Besides, even if hehadgotten his estates confused, it didn’t explain the telegram in my pocket offering said missing manuscripts for sale. No. I was certain that Mr. Owen was up to his old tricks again.
“Is there anything else here Mr. Sharpe is thinking of selling? Perhaps there was some mistake…”
The librarian shook his head, glancing to the open door leading into the main hall of the hotel. “Nothing, miss. I was as surprised as you were when you came in asking for them this morning. Mr. Sharpe sold everything of value from here not long after acquiring the estate. From what I understand, Manhurst Castle was falling apart when he bought it—and it took everything he had and more to fix this old place into a resort suitable for the sort of guests we entertain.”
“You’ve not been here long then?” I raised a brow.
He shook his head. “I come from Edinburgh, miss. I was hired on earlier this year when the resort had its grand opening. Mr. Sharpe believed that any proper estate ought to have a librarian.”
I couldn’t argue with the elusive Mr. Sharpe on that score. A nagging worry lingered as I unfolded the telegram that Mr. Owen had handed me the morning we left Exeter and offered it to the librarian. He took it from me, reading it with a frown.
Have a dozen twelfth-century manuscripts for sale. Please come at once. M. Sharpe.
The young man reached up, rubbing at his smooth-shaven jaw. “That is peculiar, miss. Very peculiar. I shall ask Mr. Sharpe about it, but feel free to take your time to look around. I warn you not to get your hopes up; if there was anything of value here—I’d know it.” He looked again at the door behind me, scooping up the newest copy of Debrett’s and holding it under his arm. “I’d best be off. The dowager countess has requested this delivered to her rooms.”
I groaned at the mention of the horrid woman. Every time I’d come across Lady Morton and her young daughter, the elder avoided me as if I carried some twelfth-century pestilence. It was a wonder the woman needed the book at all. I’d assumed a soul as pompous as she would have the whole of Debrett’s memorized already. I fiddled with the telegram before folding it back up and thrusting it into my pocket. There was only one person who couldilluminateour reason for being here, and he was currently upstairs taking a nap.
IRUSHED THROUGHthe fashionably decorated hallways of Manhurst, recently redone inle style moderne.A stark contrast to thesparse Georgian exterior of the building. The lush green, black, and gold paper on the walls must have cost a fortune. There was no wonder this Mr. Sharpe, whoever he was, sold off everything of value to fund the renovation.
Pillaging a library for wallpapering.The very idea made my skin crawl. I blew out a breath, brushing past a cadre of well-heeled gentlemen coming in from a game of golf smelling irritatingly of sunshine and the Scottish hills.
The only positive of my morning’s discovery was that now we could board the first train back to Exeter and return to our bookshop there. Perhaps Mr. Owen would feel more like himself once we returned home. As it was, he’d spent most of the forty-eight hours since our arrival shut in his room, not even taking his meals with me, leaving me to wander the castle alone. Decidedlynotmy idea of a restful vacation.
The real puzzle waswhyMr. Owen had brought me here in the first place. It was unlike him to hare off after mysterious manuscripts without knowing absolutely everything he could about the seller. The old man was a born meddler, and possessed investigative skills that would put the Home Office to shame. He could sniff a fake from miles away—so why would he have come all the way to Scotland for manuscripts that had been sold off years before? Mr. Owen ought to have known they were not here the moment he received the telegram.
No. Something was amiss, and I was about to find out what.
My throat grew dry as I turned the knob on the door connecting our rooms.
Locked.
I rattled the handle as a frisson of tension inched its way from my palm up my spine and settled itself in my jaw.
“Mr. Owen…” I rapped on the wooden panel.
Still nothing.
I waited on the plush crimson carpet for any sign of life fromthe other side but was met with silence. “Mr. Owen, you’re beginning to worry me. Please open the damned door.”
Still no response.
He never locked the door in Exeter, not even when he was sick. Of all the times for him to get missish about privacy… My satchel sat on the dressing table and I took two steps in that direction with the intention of digging out my lockpicks, when I heard the hinges creak behind me.
