Free Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2) by Melanie Jackson

nonhuman
company in the form of a mysterious cat—but I didn’t want to spend the remainder
of my life with an unhappy ghost.
    “So,” Ben began, always ready to rush in where angels would
fear to tread. “What’s your story, Tess? You have one don’t you? I very much
want to hear it.”
    Ben isn’t stupid, and he had probably assembled some theories
about why I had been investigating the story of Colonel Sands.
    I finished pouring my own cup and added a splash of whisky. Quiet
settled on the room as my other guests realized that we were reaching the
zenith of the evening.
    “Yes, I have one to share. My story is both a little more
ancient and a little more recent. And it’s definitely closer to home,” I began
and saw Harris stiffen. “It concerns a relative of mine, Hannah Wendover. I
think most of you know her story if not her name. But for those who don’t know,
I will tell her tale.”
    I glanced at Bryson and could see the brothers draw
together, as though anticipating what I was going to say and bracing themselves
for the worst. Bryson was still after the first twitch but Everett seemed to be
having mental fidgets and looked guilty. Perhaps familial remorse was a foreign
experience. Or maybe he wanted to glare me into silence, as if leaving the
matter unmentioned would keep the ghost away. Maybe my great-grandfather had told them that she was there and they
didn’t want to deal with her. Whatever the cause, I had never liked him less.
Where was his compassion?
    I knew, as does anyone who ever watched the news, that there
are people who will stomp out a human life as easily as stomping a shrub. But I
hadn’t bumped into it firsthand before and the experience had offended me all
the way to my soul. Hannah’s rage and sorrow had become my own.
    “They hanged her when she was nineteen because she was
charged with witchcraft. Her lover could have cleared her name by alibiing her but
didn’t. It was more convenient to claim to have been bespelled into adultery and to let her die.”
    Another of those foreign memories washed over me. Those
moments were as hard to accept as real as they were impossible to deny. Instead
of fighting it further, I gave in to the overshadowing and began speaking about
what I saw.
    “Hannah was bound and gagged with a blindfold over her eyes.
She didn’t know that her lover rode near the cart that carried her, but she
suspected it.…”

 
    *   *   *

 
    She was bound and gagged with a blindfold over her eyes. She
didn’t know that her lover rode near the cart that carried her, but she
suspected it.
    Hope was all but gone. All that was left was the tiniest
dying ember that said he would surely intervene at the last moment and save her
somehow. It could happen if he recanted, if he admitted that she had not bespelled him. They could banish her instead.
    One hand throbbed where the fingers were broken and she was
cold—chilled to the very heart. Either way, she thought, let it be over soon.
Either let her be saved, or let Death reach out with
his scythe and take her quickly. Her mind and heart and body could stand no
more misery.
    Sounds plagued her though. Because her eyes and mouth were
covered and her flesh chilled to numbness, all her being was in her ears. She
heard whispers and footsteps and the wind strengthening in the trees. Who
walked beside her? Who, among the people she knew, had come to watch her die?
Were they glad she was gagged and without sight? Did they truly fear that she
would lay hurtful spells upon them? Or were they just experiencing secret
pleasure at seeing someone suffer? She thought that the women especially liked
to see her punished because she reminded them that they were all slaves, and
somewhere inside they all wished that they could escape if they had the courage.
    It didn’t matter who was there for no one would save her. She
was glad she couldn’t see them—didn’t know who among those she had thought of
as friends were there watching