“But he was raised by his mother,” I reminded him.
“He wasn’t a Puritan, as far as I know. And he did resemble his father greatly. I’ve seen a portrait of him. He was a good-looking man.”
“Is there a portrait of Alys anywhere? I’d love to know how she looked.”
“Yes, there is. At my aunt’s house in Dublin,” Kyle said. “She was very beautiful. I’ll ask Aunt Fiona to send me a photo.”
“It’s strange that her name was spelled Alys versus the traditional Alice,” I remarked.
“I expect her name was the traditional version of Alice, but Alys was virtually illiterate. The only clue is the name she scratched into the wall the night before her execution, and it’s very possible that she simply misspelled it, not knowing how to write it properly.”
“That makes sense,” I said, thinking that Alys must have spelled it as she heard it, not knowing any better.
“She learned to read and write later on, once Jeremy joined her in Dublin.”
“Were they happy, Alys and Jeremy?” I asked, hoping they’d never regretted their choices. Normally, I wouldn’t be rooting for a couple whose path to love lay in adultery, but Marjorie was such a monster, I felt no sympathy for her. She’d made her bed, and it was a cold one.
“They were. The Honorable Jeremiah Lockwood became plain old John Locke, grain merchant.”
“Grain merchant?”
“He had to support his family, and everyone needs grain,” Kyle reminded me. “He supposedly wrote plays in his spare time, but none of them have survived, I’m afraid. I wonder if they were any good.”
“Well, he certainly had a creative mind,” I pointed out. “How many children did they have?”
“Just the three. They all married into local families. Hence the name Walsh,” Kyle explained. “Common Irish surname.”
“And you’ve known all this all along,” I said without heat.
“I did, but I’m impressed with how you managed to put it all together.”
“But I got it all wrong,” I protested.
“You didn’t. You found exactly what you were meant to find. Jeremy’s misdirection was meant to protect Alys, and it worked.” Kyle smiled. “Alys would be proud to have you tell her story.”
“And what about you? How do you feel about me writing about your family?”
“I’m honored. I know you’ll do the story justice,” Kyle said.
“So then there’s no ghost,” I said, wondering if I should tell Brittany or let her hold on to her little fantasy of Alys haunting the manor house. Perhaps it gave her street cred with her friends.
“If there is, it isn’t Alys,” Kyle replied. “She didn’t die here. She died in Dublin at the ripe old age of sixty-seven. In the seventeenth century, that was pretty old.”
“And Jeremy?”
“He died a few years before her.” Kyle held out his hand to me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready to leave this place.”
“I have a feeling you’ll be coming back,” I said. “You are the direct descendant of Jeremy Lockwood, so by rights, this place should belong to you.”
“I don’t want it,” Kyle said. “This was a house of prejudice and spite, and its sad history is there, in its very walls. I have no desire to live here, nor do I have evidence that will stand up in court to support my claim that Lisa and Alastair acquired it through fraudulent means. Jeffrey Lockwood might have genuinely wanted Lisa to have the place, even if she wasn’t his niece, and it was his right to leave it to whomever he pleased. She did look after him in his hour of need, so perhaps she deserves it after all.”
“Will you not confront the Prentisses?” I asked, shocked by Kyle’s decision. The house and grounds had to be worth close to a million quid, if not more. Besides, once my book came out, they’d know there were other claimants, and if they had acquired the estate through fraudulent means, that would give them a few sleepless nights at the very least.
Kyle shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re welcome to it. They have given me a wonderful gift, so I’ll walk away quietly as a thank you.”
“And what gift is that?” I asked, my heart fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.
“They led me to you,” Kyle said simply. “I’m not a big believer in destiny; we make our own luck, but I think it’s one hell of a coincidence that you and I came here at the same time and that you asked for my help in researching Alys’s story. I really am sorry for not telling you the truth sooner, but I hope you can understand my reasons.”
“I do,” I said. “And I would like to see all those things you mentioned: letters, family Bible, and the portrait.”
“And you shall. I’ll ask my aunt to send photos today. If you want to see the originals, I’m afraid I see a trip to Dublin in your future. She won’t part with them.”
“I’ve never been to Dublin. And I would like to include photos of the originals in the book.”
“So, this will no longer be a work of fiction?” Kyle asked.
“No, this is a true story, and I will tell it as such. Angela will not be happy since it will not have the same commercial appeal as a fictional account, but as she pointed out, witches are hot.”
“But Alys wasn’t really a witch,” Kyle said.
“Were any of the women who were accused by witch hunters and ultimately murdered?” I countered.
“No, of course not.” Kyle looked a bit sheepish. “What about our story? Will there be another chapter?” he asked, looking
