The Ruby Locket (8 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Anne

I
found Wyatt polishing silver at the dining room table, his curly black hair falling over his eyes as he scrubbed at a punch bowl.

              Leaning against the doorway, I said, “Ivan makes you do that?”

              Glancing up, Wyatt’s sharp blue eyes fixed on me. “What do you want?”

              Biting my lip, I entered the room and sat across from him. “Listen, I’m sorry for writing you off in the kitchen last night. What do I know, after all? You’re the one who’s lived here for years.” I rubbed my eyebrows with my fingers. “And besides, I have to admit, this place is pretty creepy. Dark passageways, catacombs with psycho graffiti, a housekeeper who seems stuck in the 1800s. Much as I hate to admit it, you could be right.”

              Wyatt went back to his polishing, but the edges of his mouth softened a little.

              I wasn’t exactly sure I really believed the things I just told him, but I hated the idea of Wyatt thinking that I was insensitive to his grief. I understood his pain and I wanted to be there for him, even if he sounded a little unhinged. Looking up at the large oil painting of the woman hung high on the wall, I asked, “That’s your mother, isn’t it?”

              Without looking, he said, “Yes.”

              The woman had heaps of thick black curls and piercing blue eyes. “You really take after her.”

              Wyatt glanced up at me, and I could tell he was letting his steely guard down. “Thanks.”

              Feeling that our tentative friendship was partially restored, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the sailboat I’d found in the catacombs. “I’ve been wanting to show this to you, but I haven’t had the chance.” As Wyatt took it from me, I said, “Check out the writing between the sails.”

              He angled the boat in his hands. When he saw Ivan’s name, his eyebrows shot up. “Where did you find this?”

              “Down in the catacombs. In that creepy room. At first I thought it was just a random toy, but then I saw the name.”

              “And you said the room was full of weird markings?”

              I nodded. “Yeah. Pretty disturbing.”

              Wyatt stood and shoved aside the half-polished punch bowl. “We need to go down there. Maybe we can find out something about Ivan’s past.”

              I swallowed. “
We
?”

              He handed the sailboat back to me. “Well, yeah. The only way in is through the hole in the floor, and we’ll need each other to get back out.”

              “Why do you want to investigate Ivan’s past?”

              “I’ve lived here for seven years and that man is still a mystery to me. Let’s just say I’m rabidly curious.” Instead of walking around the long table to get to the door, he vaulted up onto the tabletop and slid across it to the other side, brushing past me. When he reached the doorway, he looked back at me. “Well, come on.”

              Drawn almost against my will, I stood and walked over to him, like he was some sort of magnet pulling me along. Right as we left the dining room, I caught a fleeting glance of the portrait of Wyatt’s mother. It felt like her eyes were trained on me. There seemed to be a gleaming awareness in them that wasn’t there before.

              But the strangest thing of all was that the vibrancy of her blue eyes had faded into a dull brown. A chill washed over me as I followed Wyatt down the hall.

              By the time we reached the boardroom, I’d convinced myself it had just been shadows playing on the wall.

              We slipped through the hidden entrance to the passageway from the boardroom. When the panel clicked shut behind us, I could almost feel my pupils widening in the total darkness of the passage. Wyatt felt along the wall for the switch and flicked the lights on, the bulbs winking on along the corridor, making a metallic whir.

              As we made our way toward the hole in the floorboards, I attempted conversation. “So, where do you go to school?”

              Wyatt shot me an incredulous look, as if he thought we were somehow past mundane chatter. “Private tutors come to the abbey to teach me. I assume Ivan will do the same for you.”

              “So that’s how you know French?”

              “Yeah, and some Mandarin and Spanish too.”

              I gaped. “Whoa. Impressive. Is Ivan preparing you to inherit Belrose Abbey?”

              “I thought maybe he was. Until he told me he was marrying your mother.” His face held an expression I couldn’t read.

              I fell silent. I hadn’t even thought of that angle. We’d be dispossessing Wyatt of his role as future master of the abbey. Sweat prickled on my palms. Was it possible that Wyatt was resentful? I barely knew him, after all. Who knew what sort of emotions were seething beneath the surface? Suddenly, exploring the dark catacombs alone with him seemed like a pretty risky move.

              Before I could decide if I wanted to turn back, we reached the shelving that hung above the spot I’d fallen through.

              But the hole was boarded up with rough plywood, stark and new against the worn original flooring.

              Wyatt groaned. “Ivan got here first.”

              Relief surged through me. “Man, he’s fast.” I shrugged. “Well, we tried. Head back?”

              But the words were barely out of my mouth before Wyatt strode toward the edge of the shelving and picked up a hammer, holding it up like a trophy. “But he made the mistake of leaving the hammer.” He knelt down and began to pry up the hastily-nailed boards with the back of the tool.

              I brought my hand to my forehead. “Seriously? Are you sure we should be doing this?”

              “Completely. Don’t worry, I’ll nail them back down later.”

              I watched him pry up the boards one by one, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. His determination to discover something—anything—about Ivan was almost feverish. Without thinking, I blurted, “Do you think Ivan killed your mother?”

              Wyatt paused, his breath coming fast from the exertion. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

              That had to be an understatement. He went back to pulling up the boards, piling them off to the side until the gaping hole was uncovered. “Why?” I asked, as Wyatt gazed into the pit.

              “Why what?”

              “Why do you think Ivan killed your mother?”

              He rose from a squat and avoided my eyes. “It’s just…a very intense feeling I have.”

              I crossed my arms. “So you don’t have any evidence?”

              Agitated, Wyatt pushed his hair away from his eyes. “No, not really. But haven’t you ever followed your gut before?” He made a fist and held it against his stomach.

              A memory of my dad surfaced in my mind, surprisingly vivid. As a little girl, he’d taken me to the animal shelter to get a kitten for my birthday. When I saw their furry faces, mewing through the bars of their cages, I looked up at him and crooned, “Daddy, I can’t choose. How do I decide which one to pick?”

              Dad put a hand on my shoulder and said—in that steady voice of his—“Go with your gut.”

              Wyatt exhaled through his nose, shoving the memory into the back of my mind. “Anne, please. I need your help.”

              It was probably not a good idea to drop into a dark rat-infested abyss with a guy—who quite possibly had a rather large bone to pick with me—in order to investigate the buried past life of my future stepfather. But, for whatever reason, my gut told me Wyatt could be trusted.

              And it was that gut feeling that took me to the edge of the pit, flashlight in hand, ready to descend.

Chapter Fourteen

Anne

W
yatt lowered himself down first, hanging from the floorboards by his hands and then dropping down like a cat to the dank room below. He clicked on his flashlight, set it on the floor, and then held up his arms. “Scoot off the edge. I’ll catch you.”

              I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Methinks you overestimate your own strength.” Attempting the same maneuver as him, I swiveled my back toward the hole and lowered my body down, hanging from my arms. However, my descent was much less graceful than his and I swung forward—clinging to the ceiling like a terrified monkey—until Wyatt caught me around the waist and set me down on the stone floor.

              He looked down at me, inches away. “Not bad.”

              I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thanks.” I took a few steps away from him.

              We wielded our flashlights and began to search the cell, the small circles of light revealing the creepy, stomach-twisting etchings on the walls and a narrow wooden door I hadn’t seen last time. As I stared at a crude drawing of a decapitated head, the eyes made of X’s, I realized that I wasn’t nearly as afraid as I had been the first time I was here. Having Wyatt with me made all the difference. I only hoped my trust in him wasn’t misplaced.

              After a few silent moments, Wyatt turned to me, his flashlight creating pools of shadow on his face. “You weren’t kidding. This is some pretty psycho graffiti.” He pointed at a wall that had endless tally marks, too many to count. “These marks must be the number of days someone was down here.”

              “I thought the same thing.” I approached the wall. “But see how the tallies are separated into chunks? Maybe whoever the person was wasn’t imprisoned for one long sentence, but a bunch of different times over a span of years?” I felt like an archeologist, deciphering the meaning of some ancient code.

              “Possibly.” Wyatt gestured toward the sailboat in my back pocket. “I wonder why one of Ivan’s childhood toys was down here. I can’t swallow the idea of someone trapping a kid in this place, especially the heir of Belrose.” Leaning close to another wall, he studied a batch of etchings. “Some of these pictures are more detailed and better drawn than others, but all of the faces seem to be the same.”

              I swept my light over the wall, taking in all the faces, their eyes crossed out. There had to be hundreds. Even though the figures were all acting out different deaths—hanging from trees, falling from cliffs—the facial features on all of them were similar: the same sharp nose, heavy brow, and stern mouth. It was as if every etching was the same person, dying over and over again.

              I shuddered. “I wonder who that person was supposed to be.”

              Wyatt pointed at a particular carving. “I think it’s supposed to be a woman. A lot of them are wearing dresses.” He gave me a weak grin. “But maybe they’re all the same because the artist could only draw one face.”

              I lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.” Then something dawned on me. “Hey, the toy chest is gone.”

              Wyatt’s eyes grew wide. “How did I not notice? Getting out of here just got a lot harder.”

              I hugged myself, feeling the chill close in around me. “Didn’t you say there was an entrance Ivan had blocked? Surely it wouldn’t be locked from the inside.”

              He turned toward the cell door, testing the iron handle. “Yeah, but that’s our last resort.”

              “Why?”

              “Because it leads into Ivan’s bedroom.”

              “Oh.” I thought about bringing up the fact that he’d already broken into Ivan’s office. What was the difference? But I held my tongue.

              Wyatt put his shoulder against the door, holding down the latch. “Help me shove this door open. It’s not locked, it’s just swollen shut.”

              I walked over and leaned against the door. “How will going deeper into the catacombs help?” Did I even
want
to go deeper?

              “Hopefully we’ll be able to find something that can boost us up a little higher so we can reach the hole in the ceiling.”

              I guess he had a point. Although he probably wanted to explore more for other reasons too. Still being careful with my tender ankle, I pushed against the door with Wyatt, the cool wood hard on my shoulder. After a few grunts and heaves, the door released its hold and flew open, throwing us out into the inkiness of a low-ceilinged corridor, the only illumination coming from the bouncing beams of our flashlights.

              To the right, the corridor stopped at a dead end—a flat stone wall with an ancient sconce that might have been used to hold a candle long ago.

              “Shall we?” Wyatt asked, gesturing toward the left.

              Squaring my shoulders, I said, “No way but forward.” My words echoed off the close walls, whispering back to us. I followed Wyatt down the corridor, walking on tiptoe, although I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was afraid I’d awaken something from the deep.

              Oh cut it out, Anne.

              We passed a small enclave filled with large urns that were draped with a silken layer of spider webs. Speaking just under his breath, Wyatt said, “The last time I was in this corridor, I was playing hide and seek with my mom.”

              “Really? Down here?”

              “She had a way of making anything fun. She was usually pretty happy, but she was physically frail. She had a bunch of maladies. Scoliosis. Asthma. Ulcers. Hemophilia.”

              I glanced up at him, surprised. “Really? My mom is a hemophiliac.”

              “I could have guessed from the cut she got at dinner last night.”

              There was a question pressing on my mind. Since our faces were mostly obscured by the darkness, I felt more comfortable asking. “Do you know where Miss Easton found…?”

              “My mom’s body? No. That’s not the kind of thing people usually tell a ten-year-old.” He stopped. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

              I paused mid step, my ears pressing against the silence. “What?”

              “Shh.” He held up a hand.

              Then I heard it. Soft at first, then growing. A high whining.

              No, it was a wail. A woman’s wail.

              It rose and fell, undulating and warbling, like a keening lament.

              I clutched Wyatt’s arm, trembling. “What is that?”

              He swallowed. “It’s probably the wind sneaking through a crack. Wind can do some weird things.”

              “Are you sure?”

              “Mostly.” Looking down at me, he said, “Come on. No way but forward.”

              Still holding his arm, I advanced with him, the wailing echoing around us.

              After a few tense moments, we came upon a heavy oak door, a heavy padlock hanging from the latch. Wyatt tugged on the lock but it was fastened tight. “I wonder what’s in there.”

              The wailing died to a hum. “Something that somebody wants hidden,” I said. “Can you pick the lock?” Who knew those words would ever come out of my mouth?

              “No, the lock is too strong.” He gave the padlock one last vicious tug.

              In the center of the door, I noticed a smudgy black rectangle the size of a postcard behind a kind of grate. “Wait, there’s a little window behind these metal bars.” On tiptoe, I stuck a finger through the bars and scrubbed some of the grime from the glass. I succeeded in clearing a small space, enough for my eye to peer through. I pressed up against the door, straining to see into the pitch black room.

              “What do you see?” Wyatt asked.

              “It almost looks like…” I squinted, attempting to identify the dark shapes. “Like a table set for two.”

              A distant jangling snapped my head toward the corridor. “That can’t be the wind, can it?”

              Wyatt growled through his teeth. “Nope, not this time. We need to go. If I remember correctly, there’s a spot up ahead where we might be able to hide before she comes by.” He grabbed my arm and we continued down the corridor at a brisk walk, my ankle smarting.

              “She?”

              “Miss Easton. Who else jingles when she walks?”

              Of course, the keys. “Miss Easton? Why would she be down here?”

              Wyatt shushed me and said in a whisper, “No more talking. It’ll echo.”

              Now I could hear footsteps, a steady clack of heels on stone, coming closer. Wyatt clicked off his flashlight and then reached over and turned off mine.

              Darkness.

              Wyatt led me forward, my eyes straining to adjust, my free arm groping the chilly emptiness around me. Gradually, a faint glow began to appear, like a night sky graying to dawn. It didn’t seem to be coming from directly ahead though.

              The footsteps kept approaching.

              In a hiss, I said, “Shouldn’t we turn around—”

              Wyatt clamped a hand over my mouth. Suddenly the corridor split, going in two directions. To the right, the growing light bobbed with the rhythm of the footsteps. He pulled me to the left and we slipped into a shallow alcove in the wall. I shuddered as I felt the softness of countless spider webs enclose my shoulders and hair.

              The light rounded a corner and the strong beam shone unhindered down the corridor, almost illuminating the toes of our shoes. Miss Easton paused at the branch in the corridor, as if she were debating which direction to go. Had she heard us?

              A rat skittered out of the enclave we were huddled in, running over my shoe. A scream burned its way up my throat, but I held it in, clenching my teeth. My eyes seemed to bulge from the effort. Once the rat found itself caught in Miss Easton’s spotlight, it scrambled away down the corridor, disappearing from view.

              Then the footsteps and the beam of light turned to the left and faded away, taking the path we were just on.

              Once the jangle of keys was out of earshot, Wyatt and I exhaled, our breath shaky. We clicked our lights back on. Putting my hand to my forehead, I said, “That rat just about did me in.”

              “I could tell. But you didn’t scream.” He smiled, a spark of admiration in his eyes.

              “What would have happened if she’d caught us?”

              “She’d tell Ivan we were down here, which we definitely don’t want.” He pointed forward, the way Miss Easton had come in. “Let’s go. It’s time to use our last resort.”

              “We’re leaving through Ivan’s bedroom?”

              “Yup.”

              Even though the plan could be risky, I was anxious to leave the catacombs, so I followed without complaint. We passed the fork in the corridor and continued on, turning a corner and walking for several silent minutes before reaching a short flight of steps leading to a small plain door.

              “Let me peek in first,” Wyatt whispered, after he’d put his ear to the door to hear if anyone was within. Turning the lock and grasping the little iron knob, he cracked open the door and looked through the slit. Then he widened the door to stick his head in. “The coast is clear,” he said, waving me on.

              We entered the bedroom, a cavernous space with rich red walls and heavy rugs to hush our feet. This would soon be my mom’s room too. Weird. Would I be able to visit her here or would that be against the rules? After Dad died, Mom and I had made a ritual of drinking hot cocoa together in her bed every night—me filling the empty, empty space that was once Dad’s. I doubted our little tradition would continue here. But I’m sure if Mom ever wanted hot cocoa, Ivan would get it for her, probably the finest available.

              As we left the bedroom—Wyatt once again checking outside the door for any passersby—I spied an intricate silver jewelry box, inlaid with rubies, sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. Just below the lid were two heart-shaped indentions, side by side. A ray of sunlight snuck through the heavy drapes, making the box wink silver at me, bright and beckoning.