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Chapter Five
Edward sighed withrelief. The wind had abated and the voices which had swirled round in the air outside the house had dissipated into the air. He reached for the decanter.
Almost empty. But it would suffice. A glass, or two, might dull his senses enough that he’d not have to taste whatever concoction Mrs. Bramwell had seen fit to deposit in the kitchen for his supper. The damned woman had plagued him, yet again, about giving her a permanent position. But it was a waste of money for just one man who cared little about what he ate, and had no intention of entertaining. And she wasn’t offering out of the kindness of her heart. No—she wanted to squeeze a few more shillings out of him each week.
Most likely, out of spite, she ensured her pies contained as little meat and as much gristle as possible. Then there was last week’s offering—some godforsaken fish pie where the fishes’ heads poked out of the pastry, and stared at him reproachfully, their milky-white eyes, though unseeing, still laden with accusation. He shivered and drained the glass. That damned pie had given him nightmares for two days.
As he poured a second glass, he heard a hammering on the door.
Why couldn’t these bloody people leave him alone? Wasn’t that what “keep out” signs were for?
He grimaced and poured another glass. Let their belligerence be rewarded with a chill. The air had turned cold again, and most likely there would be a snowstorm later. At least, that’s what Mrs. Bramwell had muttered, and Edward suspected that if ever there was a witch residing in this part of Cornwall, it was that old crone.
The hammering continued, followed by shouting.
Curse them! Just like those bloody children, coming to poke fun at the Beast of Boscarne. That’s what they called him in the village.
Well, if they wanted a beast, he’d give them one. He slammed the glass on the table and marched down the stairs.
A voice called out from outside.
“Open up, God damn you! I know you’re in there!”
A woman! That was all he needed.
He grasped the door handle and wrenched the door open, then froze.
Isabella!
Standing in the doorway was his wife’s ghost.
Her skin was deathly white, her eyes dark with reproach, as they had been the day she’d died in his arms, cursing him for bringing about her death.
Her body was swollen with child, mocking him for his loss.
“Why have you come?” he cried. His heart shuddered in his chest and his legs threatened to crumple beneath him, as he staggered back.
“Why the devil do you think?” she shouted, anger flashing in her eyes. “Do you think the murder of innocents deserves to go unpunished?”
He raised his arm to shield himself from her fury, and she flinched. “Would you strike a pregnant woman?” she cried. “What manner of beast are you!”
“No!” he cried. “Isabella, I…”
“Who the devil is Isabella?” The ghost stepped forward and raised a lantern, illuminating her face.
No, not a ghost.
And not Isabella.
She had the same fair hair and delicate features, but the eyes, which looked at him with such fury, were a pale blue, not brown.
He swallowed his fear, his heart thumping in his chest.
“Who the devil are you to accuse me of murder?” he asked.
“You threatened my daughter and her friend, did you not?” the woman asked, “as well as their dog.”
“Those village urchins?”
