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Gancanagh
There were angry slashes of ink that I could barely make out, but Callum’s name was written in savage repetition followed by a picture of a peculiar bell-shaped flower, one I’d seen before in ashes of the greenhouse, and adorning the head of Mrs. Hughes’s ghost like a crown. The words below were smudged with too many tears to read, but the next page was legible, the author steady.
I should have guessed sooner. His mother had known when she’d looked into his eyes that he wouldn’t be a regular man. She knew that the Good Folk take and take, and to love one is to be walking toward death. She died for her son, and it seems now I will as well.My beloved Callum, how could he? How could he? I’ve loved him with everything I am, I’ve given him all of me. I found the datura. Devil’s trumpet. I found it in a neat little white packet, tucked inside the breast pocket of a suit jacket he’d left on the back of his chair in the library.
This is what the spirit was warning me of, why she keened every night so that only I could hear. She cried for my children, and she cries for me.
I sank to my knees, the papers falling from my slack grip.
Callum had poisoned his wife.
Chapter 23
When I was able to stand, I took the papers and tucked them into my pocket. Forsaking my bag, I slipped to the door, opening it enough to make sure no one stood in the hall waiting for me. The corridor was empty. As quickly and quietly as humanly possible, I made my way toward the kitchen. The sun was setting below the horizon, leaving only dusky light to see by, but I knew the way. I prayed fervently to no god I could name that I wouldn’t be caught. To my relief, no one interrupted my escape. I stole through the empty kitchen and to the pantry, then down the stairs to the cellar where I was sure I’d find the door I’d seen from the outside of the house. The walls of the staircase were stone, cold to the touch, the storeroom itself even colder, the early spring freeze lingering in the windowless cavern where caskets of wine and other spirits languished. To my great relief, the exit opened easily, and I ran out into the twilight, straight for the groundskeeper’s cottage, tears making a trail behind me.
Callum had driven his wife mad, had possibly chased her into the night where she’d taken her own life to escape him. From all the stories, Mrs. Hughes had been hallucinating so extensively in her last days, she’d screamed of demons, spirits, and a woman in white. But I’d seen the same woman myself. My addled mind couldn’t determine whether or not the spirit was real or a figment of my imagination, encouraged by toxins and ghost stories. My world was unraveling, and all I knew to do was run.
I fell upon the cottage door, banging my fists against the smooth sanded oak, hurting myself with the force. I called out as loud as I dared hoping someone was there.
The door opened, and Rodney’s shocked face appeared. He was half dressed, wearing only his work trousers and a white sleeveless undershirt. Despite this, I collapsed into his arms, and he caught me like a man who’d been waiting forever, then pulled me farther inside, kicking the door shut with his foot.
“It’s all right, Millie,” he soothed. “I’m glad you came. Look, here’s Felicity, she’s told me everything.”
I raised my head up from his shoulder and found his sister standing near the small kitchen table, looking like death warmed over. She’d been crying extensively and her nose was raw, her usually neat hair coming undone from its pins, clinging with sweat to her neck and cheeks.
“Millie,” she said, pained, and I left Rodney’s arms to run to hers, anxious for comfort from a friend who had done so much to help me when I wouldn’t help myself. We clung to each other, Felicity’s sobbing beginning anew, encouraging mine. Rodney allowed us our moment to weep, and at last I pulled away.
“We have to call the police,” I said.
“I don’t think the police handle this sort of thing,” Rodney said regretfully, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Callum’s been poisoning me.”
He stilled.
“What?”
“The tea he made Felicity bring me at night, I think he’s been poisoning it. He poisoned his wife too. Here, I have the proof.” I pulled the papers from my pocket and pressed them into his hands. He kept a disbelieving eye on me as he unfolded them, then read through Mrs. Hughes’s final journal entry.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it in the greenhouse. She must have hidden it there when she was trying to escape, before the ravine. She might have hoped someone would eventually find it.
The red of rage tinted Rodney’s tan skin.
“I knew the man was touched,” he muttered, “but I didn’t ever expect…”
“What’s datura? Devil’s trumpet? That’s what he’s using.”
“It’s a flower. It grows prolific around here in the spring. It was always part of my father’s, now my, job to keep it out of the gardens so someone unsuspecting couldn’t accidentally poison themselves just by smelling it. The professor must have been growing it himself somewhere, because I haven’t seen hide nor hair. It causes hallucinations. Have you been seeing things?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“The son of a bitch has been trying to drive you crazy. And now we know he did the same to poor Mrs. Hughes.”
“Butwhy?” I said, torn apart inside, prepared to dissolve again, but Rodney put a comforting hand on my shoulder, squeezing and dipping his head to catch my gaze.
“Millie, whatever his reasons, it’s not your fault, and we’re going to make it right. Come on.”
