Aconite House, Northern England, November 3rd 1832
This was supposed to be my week off, John thought grimly. And what plans he’d had. Relax. Join his best friend Fred Willcombe for a house party. Flirt with the pretty maid he’d had his eye on for…oh, three years. No investigating, no macabre tales, no danger. Merely well-earned respite. Yet here he was, stuffed in a wardrobe, investigating a murder, which, if left improperly solved, Fred would hang for.
Something poked his backside, reminding him of that—and he wanted to hiss, I know—but instead shifted as much as he could so the offending article—a boot—would no longer prod him.
‘Shhhhh,’ Miss Powell—Jane—hissed, hitting his knee; noisier than he’d been.
John glared into the darkness in her general direction, hoping she could feel his exasperation.
He swore he felt her glaring back, and settled, the offending boot thankfully nestled at his back.
Three days ago, had someone told him he’d be squashed thus with Miss Jane Powell, John would’ve jubilated. Jane was the highlight of his occasional visits to Aconite House—a pleasant name for an otherwise bleak, haunting house. A simple, endearing beauty, Jane was short, generously curved, with apple cheeks, a lopsided mouth, smatterings of freckles, pale brown hair continuously escaping its cap, and round honey eyes. Eyes which had captivated him from the first; full of old sadness, exuberant restrained joy, and sparkling intelligence.
In fact, she’d so bewitched him—despite sharing only a few conversations, John occasionally slipping wildflowers into her pockets, and despite a reluctance to invite anyone into his dangerous and unpredictable life—that he’d resolved this visit to ask the woman if he might…court her.
So you have…
In the loosest sense.
And if John had liked her before… It was nothing compared to how he felt now.
Especially since this investigation was her doing; and if their current situation bore fruit, she might well be the key to solving this, and saving Fred.
Miss Powell, whatever shall I do with you…
Insistent tapping on his knee.
The creak of floorboards.
Slowing his breathing, he waited, nerves tingling, as footsteps paced the room, and he prayed—as Jane surely did—that nothing would be needed from their hiding place.
Another creak. Another set of footsteps.
‘Mother…’ a voice called.
Well, now. Miss Powell was right.
Log in or create an account to read the next chapter of "An All Hallows’ Eve Mystery"
Every month we select a new title from one of our authors so that you can discover new stories, locations and genres for free.