She sighed deeply and looked at me. “Len was an easy target. I was miserable and needed something or someone to take my mind off my troubles.”
“Were the drugs yours?” I asked.
“No, he supplied the coke, but I didn’t need much persuading. I was happy to find oblivion, in the drugs and in the sex. And then, when I realized what I’d done, I felt so low, I went down to the cellar, thinking that if I got the wine straight from the source, no one would know come morning. I don’t want to lose my kids, Nicole,” Yvonne whimpered. “And I will if Mark gets wind of this.” Yvonne fixed me with a teary gaze. “Nicole, did Kyle take photos down there?”
“What? No. Why would he do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that Len…” Her voice trailed off.
“Len what?”
“There’s something between them. Something ugly. Did Kyle say anything to you when you went for that drive?”
“No, Len never came up.”
“Watch out, Nicole. I think Kyle is hiding something.”
“Thank you for the warning,” I said with more anger than I meant to show. Yvonne wasn’t exactly in a position to offer advice.
Yvonne sat up straighter. She looked lighter than she had when she’d arrived in my room. Perhaps she’d needed to unburden herself, or maybe she felt the need to get ahead of the story, offering up her confession as a way to protect herself from accusation. Not that she had to explain herself to me. It was none of my business.
“Goodnight,” Yvonne said once she reached the door. “And thank you for listening.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you get the help you need.”
She nodded and left. I returned to the seat I’d just vacated and stared into the leaping flames. I had come to Lockwood Hall to find tranquility, maybe even inspiration, but what I’d found was a sordid reality and a tragic past. I suppose that was what all good books were based on, but as I climbed into bed, I felt awfully low, my mind returning to the innocent-looking tree outside and its dark history.
Chapter 25
An hour later, I was still wide awake, my mind refusing to quiet, conjuring up shadowy images of a young woman who’d spent her last night in this very house. Was her spirit still here, searching for peace or vengeance or answers to questions that had long since been forgotten? Why had she scratched her name into the wall? Was it because she’d hoped she’d be remembered? By whom? Was there someone in the house who cared about her?
I tried to imagine what it would be like to be locked in that stone box of a cellar, with no windows to gauge the passage of time or even a sliver of light to dispel the darkness. Alys must have been terrified, and very cold. It had been arctic down there, and I had been wearing a warm cardigan and jeans. Had she eventually fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, or had she stayed up all night, refusing to give up even a moment of the time she had left?
And what of her son? Who was his father? And where did the boy go? It would have been common knowledge if someone had taken him in, so the obvious answer was that someone had wanted him gone. Had they killed the child to erase all traces of the mother? Or was it possible that the issues of today weren’t so different from the problems of the past? Could it be that, like Yvonne’s husband, the father wanted to get the child away from a mother he thought unfit and keep the boy safe from persecution? Had he been afraid the child had inherited the mother’s taint? There had to be a way to find answers to at least some of these questions, even after all this time. One only had to figure out where to look.
I glanced at my phone. It was nearly midnight. Lisa Prentiss had refused Jonah Hargreaves access to the library but said we were welcome to use the library, so I had nothing to feel guilty about. The library was sure to be empty at this hour. Lisa and Alastair would be in their private quarters, and the other guests were most likely in their rooms or in the sitting room, enjoying one last drink before heading to bed.
Pulling on track bottoms and a T-shirt, I stealthily made my way downstairs. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I had no desire to explain myself. I knew it was silly, but I felt like Alys belonged to me, her story exclusively mine to tell. It was as if a thin, frayed thread stretched between me and her, and with every little bit of information I uncovered, the thread grew stronger and thicker, binding us tighter. I felt a kinship with her I couldn’t explain, but I relished it. It was only through this kind of emotional connection that I could hope to bring her back to life.
Entering the library, I shut the door behind me and turned on the light. If anyone questioned me, I’d simply say I couldn’t sleep and had come down to borrow a book, which was sort of true. If I found anything that related to Alys Bailey, I would borrow it and read it from cover to cover. The library at Lockwood Hall was exactly what you’d expect a library at a Tudor manor house to look like. It was a cavernous room with tall, arched mullioned windows, a handsome fireplace with comfortable leather wingchairs, and small tables where one could set down one’s book or drink.
