Page 36 of The Right to Remain Single

“Because it doesn’t exist!”

“I’m sure it does, sir, but if you need more proof, the tower door was unlocked last night, and I saw Furbelow’s footprints up there in the snow.”

“Tommie must have left it unlocked,” Papa growled, “and the footprints could have been anyone’s. You had no right to go up there, young man. You’re a damned meddler.”

“He is not!” cried Thomasina. “He is trying to help, and we should be grateful. He can talk to Max, which no one else could.”

“The ghost has warned me of danger twice now—both yesterday afternoon and last night,” James said.

“You’re supposed to order him to leave, not listen to his nonsense.”

James swore under his breath. “On both occasions, Max showed particular antipathy toward Furbelow.”

“Nobody likes Sam much,” Mr. Warren said dismissively, “and I repeat, it’s none of your affair.”

* * *

Unfortunately, it was entirely James’s affair. He gave up on the stubborn old man and went outdoors to look for the missing rope. He didn’t find it.

“The rope, wherever it is, must be buried under the snow,” he told Thomasina upon his return. “We won’t find it until there’s a thaw.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you found it, Papa would dismiss it as meaningless,” she said. “Once he has made up his mind, he refuses to change. Sam is just the sort of person to play a stupid prank, as Papa knows very well from his childhood escapades.” She paused. “I must say, though, this doesn’t feel much like a prank. Why did he do it?”

“To make it seem as if Max really is a murderer.”

“So that Papa will be even more eager to get rid of him? He’s already bound and determined.”

“Sam must have another reason,” James said.

“Whatever it is, I hope he gives up and goes away, but I’m determined he shan’t ruin Christmas.” On this note, Thomasina went to help with festive preparations in the kitchen.

Left to himself, James was prey to dark unpleasant thoughts. Furbelow needed money, and needed it quickly. Maybe he’d ruined one too many fools, and gossip had turned people against him. Maybe he had tried to borrow upon his expectations and failed. He couldn’t count on Walt Warren’s death by natural causes anytime soon; the old man might live several more years.

If he could show that Max was indeed murderous, and somehow engineer an ‘accident’ that would be blamed on the ghost…

James blew out a breath. Thomasina saw the next few days as a purgatory that would soon end. On the contrary—those days were Furbelow’s opportunity to commit murder.

* * *

Thomasina put up more greenery, rolled out pastry for several more Christmas pies, and helped Martha cut up dozens of apples for the lamb’s wool with which they would regale the villagers that evening. Anxiety pricked at her, making these activities far less pleasurable than usual.

Shortly before dusk, her father’s angry bellow summoned her to the drawing room, where he was drinking brandy with Cousin Sam and the monk.

“What is the meaning of this?” He brandished a sheet of writing paper. “It’s from Tilson. He says you and he have agreed that you will not suit.”

She did her best not to grin with relief. “I wasn’t aware we had agreed on anything, Papa, but I told him numerous times that I would not wed him.”

“And I told him you would,” Papa said. “Deuce take it, girl, what did you do to make him change his mind?”

Sam slouched in his chair, grinning. “Don’t scold poor, innocent Tommie,” he drawled. “The blame, I am sure, lies with that fellow Blakely.”

“Blakely? I should have known. He’s as bad as his father.” He opened his mouth to embark on a rant—but suddenly his eyes lit up, and his rage evaporated. “Aha! So that’s why you defended Blakely this morning. I should have known. He’s courting you, isn’t he?”

Oh, no!

“He cut Tilson out neatly, I must say. Well! I don’t like him, but he’s of excellent birth, if only a younger son.”

“He is not courting me, Papa.” She wrung her hands. “As I have told you time and time again, I don’t wish to marry.”