Page 43 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

“Malcolm?”

He met her eyes, nodded. The whisky in her glass was shaking. “You’re scared,” he said.

“Terrified. And you’re not, which scares me even more. There’s more, isn’t there? In your texts, you told Charlie that your parents joke about the painting being haunted. All because your mother had one dream about Lord Malcolm?”

Arthur studied the floor. “No,” he finally said. “Not just that.”

“Well?” She raised her hand, waiting not very patiently.

“There’s an old family story about Lord Malcolm. His mother forced him into a marriage he didn’t want. The second his wife was gave him an heir, he ran off with some girl he was lusting after. Her father followed them and caught them in bed together—so he shot Malcolm.

“That should be the end of the story, but it’s not. While he was dying, he allegedly sold his soul to the devil—not to avenge his own murder, but to get revenge on his family for forcing him to marry someone he despised. The other rumor is he sold his soul so he could keep on whoring after he was dead. Maybe both. Maybe neither. It’s all third- and fourth-hand gossip.

“Anyway, the bed he died in was the bed my mother found the painting in. The bed she was sleeping in when she dreamed about him—supposedly.” Arthur sighed. “And…”

“Go on. Tell me everything.”

“You’ll think we’re all starkers.”

“You’re a Godwick—I already do.”

“He seems tointerfere, for lack of a better word, with the family sometimes. For good. Only for good so far. My father didn’t know what to get Lia for a graduation present. He swears a wind blew through his office though all the doors were shut and all the windows down, and it opened a sales catalogue to a page for an Ancient Greekkylix. She loves Greek mythology, so he thought this would be perfect. He found one for Lia, and then a collector came and tried to buy it from her. Now she and that art collector are married.”

“So Lord Malcolm plays matchmaker. Anything else?”

“Mum’s not the only one who’s had dreams about him that have come true. Dad dreamed Lord Malcolm came to him and said, ‘Ditch that girl you’re after. She only wants you for your title.’ Turns out that was all she wanted. Then Dad met Mum. Like I said, Mum’s dreamed about him and…I’ve had my own encounter with him.”

“You dreamed about him, too?”

“When I was very little, about four or five, I think? My parents had a party and the house was full of people. I snuck out of the nursery and wandered to the landing on the stairs to watch what was happening. Just a load of people drinking and talking and laughing. This man saw me and walked up the stairs and asked if he could hide up there with me. I remember the two of us putting our faces up to the balusters, looking down at the people below.”

Arthur put his hands to his face, miming a small boy’s face pressed between the spindles on the landing.

“The man asked me questions about Mum and Dad and Lia and Charlie,” Arthur sad. “He asked if I liked Wingthorn and what I wanted to be when I grew up. The sort of questions any adult asks a child to get them talking.”

Arthur took a breath. He didn’t want to tell the rest of this story or Regan might never speak to him again. She’d call the men in white coats to take him away.

But he went on.

“After a few minutes the man said he had to leave. At breakfast, I told Mum and Dad I’d met a nice man in a black suit called Malcolm, and I thought they should invite him back because I liked him so much. Mum dropped her coffee cup. It shattered everywhere. Dad didn’t hesitate. He took me immediately into the picture gallery and showed me the painting.” Arthur looked over his shoulder at Lord Malcolm. “I said that was him. Dad said I must have dreamed the whole thing since that man had been dead a long time.”

“But you didn’t dream it.”

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe I did. More likely than I had a nice long talk with a man who’s been dead since 1939.”

“When that young man from security joked we had a ghost in the suite, your eyes flicked upstairs.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Arthur said. “Do you?”

“No, but you still looked.”

“I looked,” Arthur admitted. “And you’re still shaking.”

She lifted her whisky to her lips but didn’t drink. She turned, set the glass on the mantel, didn’t turn back.

“You told Charlie you dreamed about him, too,” Arthur said.

She sighed, but didn’t turn around. “It was the night after Sir Jack’s funeral. Soon as he died, I moved into the hotel. Couldn’t stand to spend another night in our house at Ferry Hill. This suite, Lord Malcolm’s old flat. Supposedly it looked just like this when he lived here.”

---