Free Nobody's Secret by Michaela MacColl Page A

just after Thanksgiving.
    Without James to inherit, the money went to Jeremiah’s brother, Sam, and his sister, Violet. Emily wondered why Sam’s house was so dilapidated if he had inherited half of a huge fortune.
    She rifled through the remaining papers and found only some correspondence and a copy of the application to have the will probated. She knew her father was conscientious to a fault—so where was the death certificate for the son, James.
    “Who’s here?” The door slammed open. A voice from the doorway was like a clap of thunder. Emily closed the file and shoved it back in the drawer.
    “I have a shotgun! I’ll shoot!” The voice wasn’t quite as bold as the words, but Emily thought she recognized it. She hastily lifted the lantern to show her face. “Mr. Ripley, is that you?” she asked. The light quivered in her trembling hand.
    “Miss Emily?” Mr. Ripley stepped into the office, still aiming the shotgun in her direction. “What are you doing here?
    “I can explain,” Emily said. She backed away and moved behind his desk. She opened her mouth, but her usual facile explanations deserted her. How could she possibly explain her presence?
    “What are you doing here?” he repeated, coming close enough so that she could smell whiskey on his breath.
    “Perhaps you might put the weapon away,” Emily said. She kept her eyes on the shotgun until Mr. Ripley, looking slightly shamefaced, broke open the barrel and laid the gun safely on the table. “Thank you.”
    A thought occurred to her. “Where did that gun come from?”
    “I keep this locked in the outside closet,” he said. “But why are you here?”
    With a sinking stomach, she realized that Mr. Ripley was bound to tell her father everything. Her only option was to take the offensive. “What are you doing out so late at night? My father prefers his clerks to be sober. I’m sure he would not approve of you carousing.”
    Mr. Ripley took a step backward. “Miss Emily, I assure you my habits are regular indeed. Tonight I was celebrating a special occasion. . . . I am engaged to be married.”
    “Congratulations, Mr. Ripley,” Emily said. “Who is the fortunate lady?”
    But the clerk would not be deflected. “I must insist you tell me why you are here. Has Mr. Dickinson returned?” He glanced toward his employer’s dark office.
    A third voice startled both of them. “I can explain.” Emily and Mr. Ripley turned with astonishment to the doorway to see Vinnie. She was wrapped in her mother’s shawl and clutching a lantern.
    “Miss Lavinia!”
    “Vinnie, what are you doing here?”
    Vinnie hurried over to Emily and embraced her. “It’s all right now, dear sister. I’m here to bring you home.” She turned to Mr. Ripley and spoke in a confidential voice, as though Emily were not in the room at all. “She has these turns.”
    Emily stiffened, but her sister squeezed her shoulders in warning.
    “Turns?” Mr. Ripley repeated.
    “She gets obsessed. Last year it was my mother’s recipes. Emily could be found at all hours sorting through them—to no purpose, mind you—just for the sake of touching each one, over and over again. Tonight she began talking about Father’s papers in just the same way.”
    Mortified, Emily stared down at Mr. Ripley’s desk. Her attention was distracted from Vinnie’s nonsense by the blotting pad. She could make out the word Wentworth, reversed on the blotting paper, but legible nonetheless. What had Mr. Ripley been writing recently that involved the Wentworths?
    Vinnie was still prattling. “When I saw that she had Father’s keys, I suspected she might come here—so I followed her.” She gestured to her cloth shoes, so much less suitable for walking than Emily’s sensible boots. “But she walks much faster than I.”
    “I had no idea,” Mr. Ripley said. “Although now that I think on it, she often says very odd things.”
    Emily straightened and was about to speak her mind when she was