LONDON CHRONICLE

HISTORIAN VANISHES AT LANDINGHAM HILL  ------  CURSE OR CONSPIRACY?"

Inspector Charlotte Morgan, better known as Charlie, stared at the newspaper, frowning at the sensationalist headline. As the waitress placed a croissant and coffee in front of her, Charlie couldn't stop herself from muttering, "They'll do anything to sell newspapers these days."

The waitress smiled. "Yes, ma'am. But that castle does have its history."

"You don't believe in that whole haunted castle bit, now do you, Mary?"

"I'm not saying that, ma'am, but you know some strange things have happened there." Mary wiped her hands on her apron and lowered her voice to whisper, "How would you explain Mr. Bell coming up missing?"

Before Charlie could continue the conversation, a loud crash erupted at the far end of the pub. Two men slammed into a table with their fists flying. Glass shattered, and a waitress nearby shrieked.

Charlie shoved through the crowd. "Alright, break it up —"

A young guy, pale and wide-eyed, stumbled backward, clutching something tightly in his hand.

Charlie grabbed his wrist. "What's that?"

The man hesitated. Then, in a shaky voice, he muttered, "He told me to give this to the police — if anything happened to him."

Charlie's stomach tightened. "He — who? Arthur Bell?"

He opened his hand, revealing an old key wrapped in parchment and an insignia ring. He dropped the items in her hand and pushed through the crowd.

Before she could process it, a familiar voice drawled behind her.

"Ah, Inspector. You always find all the fun, don't you?"

Charlie closed her eyes briefly, praying for patience and hoping it wasn't Jack Lexington.

She turned slowly to find him grinning like the devil, whiskey glass in hand.

"Tell me you're not involved in this," she said flatly.

Jack took a slow sip of his drink. "Depends. I've nothing to do with the two knuckleheads trying to bust their heads open, but —" He waved the newspaper at her. "But my current residence is the castle. Poor chap — he was a chatty fellow."

"You met him?" Charlie raised an eyebrow.

Jack smiled. "Shared a drink with him two nights ago. He was telling me about his research. Mighty boring until he got to —"

Charlie grabbed his arm and pulled him to a less occupied section of the Devil's Den.

Jack lifted his arm from the fingers clutching his shirt. "If you wanted to get me alone that much, Inspector, all you had to do was ask."

Charlie glared at him and inhaled sharply. "It had nothing to do with getting you alone. I just didn't want you blabbing evidence to every Englishman within hearing distance."

Looking shocked but amused, Jack spouted, "Evidence? I have no such thing to my knowledge."

"Weren't you about to tell me something Arthur Bell told you? That would be considered evidence."

"Oh, you mean —" Jack hesitated and struggled to hide his laughter. "You mean you wanted to know what Arthur told me? Well, keep in mind he did have a few tankards under his belt."

"Never mind that, Jack Lexington. What did he tell you? Had he discovered something important?"

Laughter danced in Jack's eyes, and he leaned in very close to Charlie's ear and whispered, "He was pretty excited."

"By what? Can't you get to the point?" Charlie snarled.

Jack glanced around the pub and, with a somber tone, he said, "He had a go-around with a shapely little number. According to Arthur, he hadn't seen a woman move like that since he was a private in the army."

Charlie's lips parted. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. He had a one-night stand with one of the guests?"

"Well. Arthur described it more like a spiritual happening." Jack glanced around and then lowered his voice, "He said she was a ghost."

"A ghost? Were the two of you blitzed out of your minds? There are no such things as ghosts — here or in Landingham Hill."

"Tell that to Arthur." Jack cleared his throat and muttered, "Well. I guess you can't do that now, can you?"

Charlie opened her mouth to retort, but a chill passed through her. She clenched the key in her fist, its cold weight sending an eerie sensation through her fingers. She looked for the young man, but he was gone.

Before Charlie could say anything more, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and pressed it to her ear.

"Inspector Morgan."

A hesitant voice on the other end said, "We found something, sir."

Charlie tightened her grip on the phone. "Go on."

There was a pause before the officer spoke again. "It's a body. At first, we thought it was recent. But — it's not. It's old."

Charlie closed her eyes briefly. "Where?"

The answer made her sit up straighter. "Near the Castle."

And then came the part that made her blood run cold.

"Inspector, we also found something else. A personal item belonging to Arthur Bell."

Charlie exhaled slowly, schooling her features before slipping her phone back into her pocket.

"I have to go," she said abruptly, already turning toward the door.

Jack watched her leave, his whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. His smirk faded slightly as curiosity flickered in his eyes.

Mary approached cautiously. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

Jack shook his head, but Mary lingered. She glanced at the door Charlie had just exited before lowering her voice. "I don't mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you two talking about the castle."

Jack turned his full attention to her. "That so?"

Mary hesitated before nodding. "People talk about Landingham Hill, you know. That place has a past. Some say it's cursed, others think it's just a pile of old bricks with a few ghost stories to scare off tourists. But there's one tale no one laughs about."

Jack leaned forward slightly. "And what tale is that?"

Mary swallowed. "The bride. The one who roams the halls in her wedding dress. Looking for something or someone. They say she was left at the altar and flung herself from the highest tower. Some believe she was murdered. Either way, she's still waiting. And if you see her," Mary hesitated before lowering her voice further. "They say it means something bad is coming. Real bad."

Jack drummed his fingers against the table, his expression unreadable. "And do you believe in all that, Mary?"

The crime scene starkly contrasted the picturesque landscape of Landingham Hill. The remains had been found near an overgrown section of the castle's grounds, partially buried under tangled roots and damp soil. Crime scene tape cordoned off the area, and forensic technicians worked under the dim, clouded sky, carefully uncovering the skeleton.

Charlie arrived to find the lead forensic investigator, Dr. Evelyn Hart, crouched near the remains. The skeleton, twisted slightly as if the person had died in distress, was mostly intact. Time and nature had stripped away anything but the fragile bones and a few tattered remnants of clothing.

Dr. Hart glanced up as Charlie approached. "We're estimating at least fifty years, possibly older. The cause of death is still undetermined, but there's no immediate evidence of blunt force trauma or gunshot wounds. Could be anything from poisoning to exposure."

Charlie studied the remains. "And Arthur Bell's personal item?"

One of the techs held up an evidence bag. Inside, caked with dirt but still unmistakable, was a small leather notebook—its edges weathered, the ink on the front barely legible. It was Arthur's.

Charlie took the bag, turning it in her hands. "Where exactly did you find it?"

"Half-buried near the skeleton's hand," Dr. Hart replied. "Almost like someone placed it there deliberately."

Charlie's stomach tightened. "Or like he dropped it while running."

The thought sent a ripple of unease through her. If Arthur had been here, had he found this skeleton before he vanished? And if so — what had happened to him?

She exhaled and handed the bag back to the technician. "Get it to the lab. I want a full report on any fingerprints, DNA—anything."

Charlie walked away from the crime scene, her mind racing. She needed answers, and the castle staff might have them. As she made her way down the gravel path leading to the house, a sudden noise behind her made her stop.

Footsteps.

She turned quickly, scanning the empty pathway. The wind rustled through the trees, but there was no one there. Frowning, she took a few steps forward, listening.

Silence.

Brushing off the unease creeping up her spine, she continued toward the house, only for Jack to step out from the shadows near the entrance.

Charlie halted, her eyes narrowing. "Were you following me?"

Jack held up his hands innocently. "Not this time, sweetheart."

She folded her arms. "Then why are you lurking?"

He smirked. "Heard you were heading up to question the staff. Thought I'd make sure you got there in one piece."

Charlie patted the gun holstered at her hip. "This is all I need to keep me safe."

Jack's grin widened. "Then I suppose I'll walk with you so you can keep me safe."

Charlie rolled her eyes and quickened her pace, Jack striding easily at her side, the castle looming ahead.

As they walked, Jack tilted his head slightly, studying her. "So, what did you find at the crime scene?"

Charlie kept her gaze ahead. "A body."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Arthur's?"

"No. This one has been there for many years, possibly decades."

Jack whistled low. "A skeleton, then? And Arthur's personal item — what was it?"

Charlie hesitated. Sharing too much with Jack meant letting him in on details she wasn't ready to discuss. "Enough to confirm he was there."

Jack frowned. "That's awfully vague, even for you."

Charlie exhaled. "A notebook. His notebook. Near the remains."

Jack let out a thoughtful hum. "So, either Arthur found the body before he disappeared, or someone wants us to think he did."

Charlie's steps faltered for half a second before she resumed her pace. She didn't want to admit it, but Jack had a point.

Jack flashed her a knowing grin. "That means you don't know if he's dead or alive, do you?"

Charlie clenched her jaw. "Not yet. But I will."

Jack opened the door and allowed Charlie to enter the house first, chuckling as he did so. Under his breath, he muttered, "It never crossed my mind that you wouldn't."

Author Notes

Eleanor - ghost detective Jenna - Eleanor's daughter, and falling in love with Donatelli Matthew Donatelli - Bayside's lead detective Margaret (Maggie) - daughter of Jenna and Matthew Donatelli Garth Woodman - FBI Agent and widower (Allie) Tango and Poppa - Garth's top agents and constant sidekicks Danni - Jr. ghost detective working with Donatelli Dylan Weldon - Eleanor's nephew and art curator Charlotte (Charlie) Morgan - England's Metropolitan Police Inspector Jack Lexington - a retired gangster in the U.S. Frank DiVito - retired gangster, childhood friend of Garth Danny Veraci - casino owner who walks on both sides of the line Sam -Frank's right-hand man Nathaniel - wealthy art curator and working undercover Rosalie Jarvis - a young lawyer who got caught up in underworld activities Stacy Trudeaux - society's darling with a past Arthur Bell - local Historian researching the castle's past

Regardless of how often Charlie had visited the castle, the grand entrance always took her breath away. Though outwardly, she always appeared analytical and focused, she harbored a quiet, inner dream of a fairytale wedding. As she entered, just for a moment, she imagined herself descending the grand staircase in a sweeping wedding gown. The vision made her inhale sharply, only to be shattered when her gaze landed on Nathaniel descending the stairs.

She and Jack had barely crossed the threshold when a voice called from above. "Inspector Morgan. Mr. Lexington."

Nathaniel was a picture of composed elegance in his gray linen blazer and dark, tousled curls. A young woman followed at his side, hands clasped, face pale but poised.

"I know Nathaniel," Jack muttered. "But who's the delicate shadow?"

Charlie watched the pair descend. There was something fragile about the woman, like a china doll on the verge of cracking.

"Jack. Charlie." Nathaniel greeted them warmly. "May I introduce Rosalie Jarvis, a dear friend of mine? She's been under a great deal of strain, and I thought a little time in the countryside might help her recover."

Charlie raised a brow. "Recover from what, exactly?"

Nathaniel smiled politely. "Let's just say city life has its dangers."

Rosalie nodded faintly, quietly saying, "It's nice to meet you," before lowering her gaze.

Jack gave Charlie a look but said nothing. They knew a deflection when they heard one.

Before Charlie could press further, a server gestured them toward the drawing room. "Pardon my interruption — refreshments have been prepared if you'll follow me."

The drawing room was grand but not stuffy, with arched windows overlooking the beautiful garden and manicured lawn. Firelight flickered behind a decorative screen, and soft music played from a gramophone in the corner. Silver trays carried glasses of sparkling wine and trays of canapes.

Jack plucked a glass from a tray and held it up. "Well, if this is recuperation, sign me up."

Charlie took a glass more cautiously. She glanced at the server who offered it, meaning to ask for a napkin, but he was gone.

Charlie glanced around, puzzled as to where he'd disappeared. "Wasn't he just here?" she asked.

Jack turned. "Who?"

"The server. Tall, thin, reddish hair?"

Jack shrugged. "Didn't see him leave."

Charlie frowned but said nothing.

Another waiter entered the room, leading the way for the new arrivals. His voice was deep as he ushered them into the parlor. "Please join the other guests, sir. With your leave, sir, I'll take your luggage to your room."

Dylan entered, a grin already on his face. "Look at this crowd! The gang's all here."

Charlie smiled despite herself. Dylan's energy filled the room like sunlight. But trailing behind him was Stacey Trudeau, with miles of leg, a snug dress, flawless makeup, and a socialite shine.

Jack took one look and whispered, "Ah. Trouble in heels."

"Stacey," Dylan said, slipping an arm around her waist, "wanted to see the place for herself. We're spending the summer here. Family time. A little healing."

"Healing?" Jack echoed. "Sounds contagious."

Charlie sipped her drink. Stacey had already begun circling the room, eyeing artwork and antiques with great interest, remarking, "Dylan, you must see this. It's a David Hockney painting. If this is an original," Stacey's fingers brushed the corner of the painting. "It sold at Christie's in New York for $80,000,000. And now it's here at the castle."

Surprised by Stacey's knowledge of artwork, Dylan joined her, examining the painting and hoping to downplay its importance. "I'm sure it's a copy, Stacey. Well done, but not the original." Dylan slipped his arm around her waist and steered her toward the server with a tray of drinks. "Come on, let's have some champagne. I came to relax. I study artwork every day. Let's enjoy ourselves."

Stacey snuggled against Dylan, letting her gaze settle on Charlie before she pressed her lips against his cheek. "Of course, darling, how silly of me. I only meant to admire the work."

Nathaniel stood by the hearth, drink in hand, and turned to Charlie. "I heard one of the guests was missing. What's that all about, Charlie?"

Charlie nodded slowly. "Arthur Bell, a local historian, was conducting research. No one has filed a missing person case. I imagine he took one of those tour jaunts to a neighboring town and failed to notify anyone of his intentions. Nothing to be concerned about. The newspaper likes to make money from its unnecessary hype."

Rosalie looked up sharply, then masked it. Nathaniel, too, showed a flicker of concern. "I met him a few days ago. He was excited about his research. Something about learning new details about the original Landingham family."

"He left behind a notebook," Charlie said. She paused, then added, "Someone will tell you anyway, so I may as well tell you another body was found with Arthur's notebook nearby."

Rosalie's eyes widened. "Another body. How dreadful. Are we safe here, Nathaniel?"

Charlie pressed her lips together and answered, "I wouldn't worry about this body, Ms. Jarvis. It appears to be over fifty years old, maybe even more. It's part of the castle's past."

Jack leaned closer to the fire. "It gets better. There's the possibility that the notebook may have been planted. Arthur might have found something before he vanished."

"Interesting? You and the Inspector appear to have different opinions. Instead of an innocent tour, do you believe it's tied to the castle?" Nathaniel asked.

Charlie glanced around the room and laughed. "According to Jack, everything's tied to the castle."

There was a moment of silence as the fire crackled softly. Nathaniel and Jack exchanged glances. Charlie might make light of Arthur Bell's disappearance, but they sensed her underlying concerns.

Rosalie shifted, leaning against a chair. "Excuse me," she said, rising. "I think I need some air."

Nathaniel moved to follow, but she waved him off gently. "Just a minute alone." As she slipped through the doors, Charlie caught Jack's eye. "She's hiding something."

"Oh, absolutely," he agreed. "But whether she'll tell us is another matter."

"Maybe I should join her?" Charlie smiled. "Being the newcomer to the group, she might like a friend."

"Something tells me there's something different than friendly vibes happening between the two of you."

"Oh, Jack, whatever do you mean?" Without waiting for his response, she left the room to check where Rosalie had gone.

A soft draft rustled through the room as conversation resumed between the others. The curtains fluttered, and the fire dipped for half a second. No one spoke of it. But Dylan felt it. It was a chill he'd become accustomed to. He had the sensation that they were being watched.

Stacey approached Jack, swirling her wine in its glass. "So, Jack, what exactly do you do when you're not haunting castles?"

Jack gave her a crooked grin. "Oh, I'm retired. Used to leave a trail of bodies in the dark. But don't worry — I'm not responsible for any found at the castle."

Stacey blinked, unsure if he was serious.

He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to tease. "Promise. I gave all that up — strictly old habits now. I'm here for the wine, not the intrigue."

*****

Charlie stepped out into the cool afternoon air and found Rosalie standing near the balustrade, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared out over the garden.

"Mind if I join you?" Charlie asked.

Rosalie glanced over, a hint of surprise crossing her features before she nodded. "Of course not. It's so peaceful out here."

Charlie stood beside her for a moment in companionable silence. "Yes, I love it." She inhaled, breathing in the scent of the roses before she asked, "I've known Nathaniel for years. I don't think I've ever seen him as concerned about someone as he is about you."

Rosalie gave a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "He's been kind. I wasn't expecting kindness from anyone. Not after — everything."

"Must've been something significant to shake you like this," Charlie said gently.

Rosalie nodded, but didn't elaborate.

Charlie didn't push. Instead, she softened her voice. "I'm guessing Nathaniel brought you here, hoping the quiet would help."

Rosalie gave a small laugh. "Quiet doesn't always mean safe, does it?"

Charlie tilted her head. "No, it doesn't. But sometimes it's a start."

There was another pause before Charlie asked, "Did you know Arthur Bell, by any chance?"

Rosalie's grip on her arms tightened ever so slightly. "Only in passing. He asked a few questions —  seemed harmless at the time."

"That's how a lot of stories start," Charlie murmured.

Rosalie looked at her, eyes serious. "Do you think something's really wrong here, Charlie?"

Charlie held her gaze. "I don't know yet. But I intend to find out."

Rosalie looked away, her voice almost too soft to hear. "Just be careful what you stir up. Some things like to stay buried."

Charlie studied her for a long moment. "Good thing I brought a shovel."

 

*****
In the sealed-off tower, far above the music and murmurs of the drawing room, the air thickened. A silver shimmer coiled in the corner, and then the ghosts began to appear — one by one, filing into the room as if court was in session.

Thomas emerged first, his coat buttoned tight despite the still air, frost whisking around his boots. He leaned against the window, the glass covered with years of grime and memories. His voice was raspy, thick, and gravely from years of neglect. "Where are Maynard and Gaston? Were they not in charge of keeping the living separated from our domain?"

Margaret stepped forward, hands clasped before her, eyes brimming with a sadness that had long outlived her tears. "They'll be along shortly, but you can't place the blame on their shoulders."

Elias paced the edge of the chamber, his boots making no sound on the dust-covered floor. "If any fingers are to be pointed, they should be in the direction of Sir Garrett. T'was the reading of his will that opened this can of worms."

"Opening the castle to the people was a beautiful gesture. Sir Garrett did not know that his generosity would lead to corruption beneath the towers."

Penelope joined the trio, swishing her petticoat as if promenading around a dance floor. "Elias and Thomas, are your empty skulls filled with sawdust and cobwebs? There will be no blaming any of us for the trouble that has fallen on the castle."

"Woman, be still. This is not your concern," Elias snarled.

Penelope moved closer to Elias, running her fingers up and down his lapel. "Your tongue still casts a bitter taste, but it can no longer silence me. I'll not be treated as property. We are all equal in this council."

Margaret reached out and squeezed Penelope's hand. "Penny is right. Each of us decided to remain in the castle and finish Sir Garrett's efforts to clear the dungeons of the evil within its walls. If any of you in the Council of Thirteen have had a change of heart, then speak now and leave." She glanced around the room, not looking for approval but seeing if their alliance still held.

Thirteen men and women — faded figures drawn from the corners of time. Some shimmered in the faint glow. Others flickered like candlelight about to gutter out. Their expressions bore centuries of secrets. One leaned on a cane he no longer needed. Another clutched a lace handkerchief that would never dry her tears.

A younger specter paced, arms folded. "Arthur Bell should never have come. He was told the past was not his to uncover."

"You told him too late," Thomas replied. "They always look. The living are blind to warnings."

The older ghost didn't turn, but his voice darkened. "He remains where he was placed —

alive but forgotten."

"That wasn't the plan," Gaston argued. The thought of leaving an innocent man to die went against his ideas of a soldier. "He was meant to warn the others."

"He chose to dig where he shouldn't," the Elder replied. "The living do not understand the weight of the past. He would have torn open wounds better left sealed."

"And now?" Penelope whispered.

A pause. Thomas's gaze settled on Margaret before he spoke, "Now, others have noticed. If the fixer finds out — Albert will never speak again."

A gust of cold swept through the chamber.

"Then we wait," Gaston said grimly. "And pray the right ghosts rise when the time comes."

Chester, a man of few words but always a gleam in his eye, moved out of the shadows and into their auras. "Silencing the historian will not bring an end to any of this. You know as well as I that the human, the one they call the Fixer, is responsible — him and his foul associates. Sir Garrett suspected and it cost him his life."

Clinging to Johan's bony skeleton for support, Lily shuffled forward into the group. "The law — the one they call the Inspector — she'll not back down. If she catches a whiff of what's happening, she'll be a dog with a bone."

Margaret nodded. "I saw her this afternoon when they discovered Jason's remains. A shell of a body that did not dig itself up to be discovered. I could sense her mind whirling with questions about the body and Mr. Bell."

"Someone disturbed the ground," Elder Whitcomb whispered, his voice like the rustle of dead leaves. "The book was left. Now, the body has been found."

"He heard the whispers," murmured a woman in a high-necked gown, her eyes glassy with sorrow. "They always do — the curious ones. He came too close."

"And now he's missing," Thomas added.

Silence settled among them. Outside, the wind rattled against the stone, like fingers seeking entry.
"The inspector is here," said Gaston, tall and angular, dressed in a soldier's coat. A soft hum of agreement passed through them.

"She'll ask the right questions," the Elder said. "But one alone will not be a strong enough force. From the others, the vibes are like twisted vines, some good, some not."

"The supreme council has sent word. The others are coming. The ones marked by fate. Some will help. Some will destroy." Maynard's eyes remained downcast, avoiding the glare of Thomas and Elias. He'd felt their accusations.

"What about the girl?" asked the young specter. "The one with haunted eyes."

"Rosalie," the soldier answered. "She sees more than she admits."

"She's afraid," the woman added gently. "Not of us. Of herself."

Elder Whitcombe nodded once. "Then we must watch her. Guide her, if we can."

"And Arthur?" the young ghost asked. A pause. "If he still breathes, it's borrowed time. And not even the walls will protect him much longer."

"The castle woke when he went missing," said Gaston. "It knows we're being watched again. We must act before the wrong hands take hold of what lies beneath."

The Elder turned toward the window, looking out over the gardens and the distant glow of torchlight.
"Let the living search their way," he breathed. "But if they come too close, we must be ready to reveal the truth or bury it again."

Margaret sighed. "I'm told I'm to meet my ancestor. Alive, she was known for her paintings, but in death, she has become a champion in the fight for what's right. It will be interesting to learn what fresh eyes see. Until then, we watch and listen."

A long silence fell. Dust hung in the golden candlelight like frozen breath. Then, they heard a dong.
The grandfather clock in the great hall began to chime. Once. Twice. Three times.

A soft, shrill ring echoed moments later — a telephone.

Margaret's head tilted, her voice a whisper, "So, it begins."

*****
Below, in the main corridor, a young maid in a crisp uniform poked her head into the drawing room, glancing toward Charlie. "Inspector Morgan?" she called. "You have a call. He says it's urgent."

Author Notes

Eleanor - ghost detective Jenna - Eleanor's daughter, and falling in love with Donatelli Matthew Donatelli - Bayside's lead detective Margaret (Maggie) - daughter of Jenna and Matthew Donatelli Garth Woodman - FBI Agent and widower (Allie) Tango and Poppa - Garth's top agents and constant sidekicks Danni - Jr. ghost detective working with Donatelli Dylan Weldon - Eleanor's nephew and art curator Charlotte (Charlie) Morgan - England's Metropolitan Police Inspector Jack Lexington - a retired gangster in the U.S. Frank DiVito - retired gangster, childhood friend of Garth Danny Veraci - casino owner who walks on both sides of the line Sam -Frank's right-hand man Nathaniel - wealthy art curator and working undercover Rosalie Jarvis - a young lawyer who got caught up in underworld activities Stacy Trudeaux - society darling with a past Arthur Bell - local historian researching the castle's past Ghostly Castle Residents— Thomas, Margaret, Elias, Penelope, Gaston, Maynard, Jason, Elder Whitcomb. Chester

Chapter 3
Landingham Hill Chap 3

By Begin Again

The fire in the drawing room had burned low, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. The conversation had shifted to lighter things — art, wine, gossip — but Charlie remained distracted, her thoughts still circling Rosalie's tight-lipped fear, the missing historian, and the sudden chill she'd felt earlier.

The telephone call was a welcomed distraction. She stepped into the hall and hurried across the foyer to the phone. A dispatcher spoke as soon as Charlie said hello.

"Inspector, we just received a call we thought you'd want to hear directly. It's recorded so I'll play it for you."

"This is for Inspector Charlotte Morgan. You don't know me, but we met this morning at the Devil's Den. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance — Arthur Bell. I can't say more on the line. You'll meet me at the Crooked Lantern if you want the truth. Tomorrow morning — six a.m. Come alone."

The voice was low, deliberate, and British, but faintly cracked with tension. Though he never said his name, something in her gut said, "This is the young man from this morning." She asked the dispatcher to replay the message, listening closely this time to the pauses — the way he almost choked on the word "truth."

Jack stepped into the hallway behind her, wine glass in hand. "Everything alright?"

Charlie turned toward him slowly, eyes narrowing. "I just got a meeting request."

"Charming. From anyone I know?"

She hung up the phone as she answered, "Says he knows Arthur Bell. Claims to have information for me alone."

Jack's brow arched. "Alone? Hmm, sounds like something out of a crime novel or my past. Rarely ends well."

"It's at a pub," she said. "The Crooked Lantern."

Jack took a thoughtful sip. "That's the one off Barrow's Lane, isn't it? With the tilted sign and the questionable lighting?"

"The very one." Charlie laughed. "Leave it to you to know all the back-alley dives in Landingham."

Jack sighed. "Creepy name, off-the-map location, and a mystery informant. Classic Morgan bait."

Charlie gave a tight smile. "Exactly."

Jack's expression turned serious. "You're not actually going alone, right?"

Charlie hesitated, then nodded toward the stairwell. "I'll go alone. You'll go with me. Just — not officially."

Jack grinned. "Ah. The usual dance."

She nodded. "I don't trust this guy. But I think he wants to tell me something real. And if he's connected to Arthur."

"Then he might be our thread."

Charlie looked at the phone again, the voice still echoing in her head. If you want the truth, you'll meet me. "Well, I guess, we wait until tomorrow."

*****

The Crooked Lantern was the kind of pub that didn't ask questions. Nestled on the edge of the old village, its windows glowed amber like tired eyes, and the wooden sign above the door creaked in protest with every gust of wind. Charlie pulled her coat tighter and stepped inside.

The air was thick with smoke and the scent of dampness and old beer. A fire cracked halfheartedly in the hearth. Two older men played chess in the corner. The bartender glanced up from drying a glass and nodded like he'd been expecting her.

He tipped his head toward the area in the back. There were no windows to allow the rising sun to shine in and share some light — just a metal shade over a grimy light bulb. "Back booth," he murmured.

She spotted him instantly. Young, mid-twenties at most, hunched into himself, pale beneath a mop of unkempt hair. His eyes darted to hers, then to the door, and back again. He didn't rise.

Charlie crossed the room, slid into the booth opposite him. "You asked me to come. So talk."

His fingers trembled around the chipped teacup. "Coffee? It's meant to steady the nerves."

Charlie wore her poker face, nothing to portray what she was thinking. "My nerves are fine, Mr. —" She raised an eyebrow. "This is usually where you tell me your name."

M-m-y-y name?" He stammered. His gaze shot around the room, flaring wide when the bell above the door jingled and someone came in.

His eyes flicked to the door. "That man. The one who just sat at the bar. He's watching me — us. I said to come alone." He slid to the edge of the booth, his eyes shifting, planning an escape route.

Charlie glanced over her shoulder. A man in a dark coat had just stepped in, tall, square-jawed, scanning the room like someone born suspicious. She should have known — it was Jack.

She relaxed a touch, turning back. "That's Jack Lexington. He watches everyone. It's his hobby."

The young man exhaled. "Lexington? He's registered at the castle."

Charlie leaned in slightly. "You know who's registered at the castle? Did you know Arthur Bell."

He nodded, pursing his lips. "He was warned, but he wouldn't listen. He wasn't supposed to find it. But he did."

"Find what? The ring and key?"

The young man hesitated. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper — aged, torn at the edges, ink smudged by what looked like water or sweat.

"Arthur made notes. He believed there was a chamber beneath the cellar. One that was sealed off when the last of the original family disappeared. He thought it tied into the legend of the Ghost Bride."

Charlie took the paper carefully. "Why not go to the authorities?"

"I did. Or tried to. No one would listen. Or maybe someone made sure they didn't listen." His eyes flicked up again. Jack was leaning against the bar now, watching without watching.

The young man whispered, "He wanted to tell Eleanor. He said she'd believe him."

Charlie's heart skipped. "Eleanor knows about the cellar?"

He nodded. "Well, Arthur suspected she did. Something about the land remembers. Do you know this Eleanor woman?"

Charlie tucked the paper into her coat. "Where's Arthur now?"

He looked haunted. "I think someone's keeping him from speaking. He disappeared."

"Do you think he is alive?"

"I — I think so. But not for long. If you know this Eleanor woman, you should give her the key."

He started to rise. Charlie reached out. "Wait. At least give me your name —"

But the pub door creaked again — another man in a hoodie, face not visible. The young man froze. Jack had stepped away from the bar, heading their direction.

"No," the young man whispered. "I've said too much."

He slipped out of the booth like smoke and vanished through the rear door.

Jack slid into the seat he'd left behind. "He was skittish. Want me to follow?"

Charlie shook her head, still watching the empty doorway. "No. Not yet. He gave me something."

Jack glanced at the folded page in her pocket. "You think he's telling the truth?"

"I think," she said quietly, "we're standing on a trapdoor and someone doesn't want us to open it."

 

"Or maybe they do," Jack mumbled.

 

*****

The Devil's Den was quieter than usual, the lunchtime crowd long gone and the evening patrons not yet arrived. A low fire crackled in the hearth, and Jack was nursing something expensive and unnecessary while Charlie reviewed notes at the table they'd claimed as their unofficial headquarters.

Charlie's eyes hadn't left the crumpled paper the informant had given her. Jack had already made three sarcastic comments about secret chambers and cursed rings and was halfway through another when the pub door opened behind them.

"Well," came a voice smooth as aged wine. "You two look as guilty as a pair of teenagers caught sneaking out after curfew."

Charlie blinked and then did a rare double-take. "Eleanor?"

Jack slid from the booth, one eyebrow arching upward. "Speak of the devil." He immediately scooped Eleanor into his arms and planted a purposely demonstrative kiss on her cheek.

"I heard that," Eleanor said as she glided past Jack and slipped into the booth. "I would expect you to keep better company than a pub called the Devil's Den, but then again—" She gave Jack a pointed look, "You are who you are."

Jack chose to ignore Charlie's glare as he slid in beside Eleanor. "You wound me. I know this is a far cry from the castle, but you are here by choice or so I assume."

"I considered making my presence known at Landingham," she said, settling into the seat with a satisfied smile. "But something told me the living were deep into something mysterious and you know how I love a good mystery."

Charlie gave her a fond, weary look. "How long have you been in town?"

"Long enough to walk past the castle, circle the block, hear whispers I don't like, and still arrive in time for whatever this is," she said, motioning toward Charlie's notes. "I assume it's not a Sudoku puzzle."

Jack chuckled. "We were just talking about you, actually."

"Of course you were," Eleanor replied. "I have that effect."

Charlie slid the folded page across the table. "Someone says Arthur Bell found a sealed chamber under the castle before he disappeared. He left this behind."

Eleanor's eyes scanned the paper. Her lips pressed together at the name Ghost Bride. "I see the rumors have gotten ambitious."

Jack leaned in. "Ever hear of a sealed chamber under the cellar?"

"I've heard of more than that," Eleanor murmured. "But I never found one while I lived there."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "But?"

Eleanor looked up. "But I always thought certain parts of that castle were never meant for the living to see."

Jack tossed back a sip of his drink. "Which begs the question — where is he now? And what happens if someone else goes poking around?"

"He's alive," Eleanor said softly. "I haven't felt him cross over. But something is keeping him quiet. The castle has many secrets."

Charlie nodded slowly. "That's what the informant said, too. Said he tried to go to the authorities and someone made sure he wasn't believed."

Eleanor sat back. "That sounds like the Fixer."

Jack swirled his glass. "Funny how he keeps showing up without ever showing his face."

Charlie stood. "We were about to head back to the castle."

Eleanor rose with them, adjusting her coat. "Well, I suppose I'll join you. I'd like a word with Nathaniel."

Jack offered a gallant bow. "Shall we ride together?"

Eleanor tilted her head. "Why, Jack Lexington. Are you offering me a lift, or do you need one of my inspiring lectures?"

"My carriage is at your disposal, my lady," he said, grinning. "After spending the afternoon with this fair damsel, I can do without the lecture."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "I'll follow behind. Some of us don't enjoy being trapped in a car with flirtation and innuendo."

"Suit yourself," Eleanor said, already heading for the door.

Jack lingered behind for one more sip, then followed her out, calling back, "You just don't appreciate the classics, Inspector."

Charlie grabbed her coat, muttering, "I appreciate silence — something you don't appear to be fond of."

******
The sleek black car glided out of the village and onto the narrow, tree-lined road leading toward Landingham Hill. Twilight was sinking in, and the trees cast long shadows like spindly fingers across the road. Inside the car, Jack drove with one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other on the gearshift.

Eleanor sat beside him, perfectly composed, her expression unreadable as she watched the countryside roll by.

"So," Jack said after a stretch of silence. "Back from the beyond to meddle in mortal affairs again?"

Eleanor didn't look at him. "You're still driving like you're auditioning for a James Bond film."

"And you're still dodging questions like a woman with far too much history," he shot back.

"I don't dodge," she said lightly. "I just wait until the right people are listening."

Jack smirked. "You always were good at that."

They rode in silence for a moment longer. The tires hummed softly over the road.
"She doesn't trust Nathaniel," Jack said suddenly.

"Charlie?" Eleanor asked.

He nodded. "She won't say it outright, but I know her face. He's too polished for her. Too smooth. He gives answers before questions are even asked."

Eleanor tilted her head slightly. "He's an art dealer, Jack. And now — due to no circumstances of his own — he finds himself in several different roles, keeping secrets he'd rather not be involved with."

"Does that somehow involve the woman he's taken under his wing?"

Eleanor nodded. "It's amusing that you should describe their relationship that way. But your intuition is spot on, as always. He did stumble into Rosalie's life, and because I asked, he agreed to help her."

"Stumbled or was it something else? A man of his caliber meets many women."

Eleanor couldn't contain her laughter any longer. Jack was used to being in control of a question-and-answer session, and now he found himself dealing with both Charlie and her. Feeling mischievous, she answered, "You might say he found her in his bed."

Jack grinned, pleased with himself, like the Cheshire cat spotting a mouse. "Aha! So she had a tumble in the sack with our smooth-talking art dealer."

"You've been dwelling in the gutters too long, Jack. I hate to pop your bubble, though I'd love to continue toying with your mind. Rosalie is in need of protection. She has every reason to be afraid. Even though Zhang and Garland are out of the picture, her life is still marked."

"Oh wow. No wonder the girl is trembling underneath that polite exterior. That kind of fear doesn't come from a rude waiter or a noisy neighbor."

Eleanor's tone shifted. "The moment I passed the threshold of that castle, I could feel trouble lurked in many corners. The house knows something's stirring."

Jack exhaled and drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Charlie said the kid mentioned you by name. That Arthur wanted you to have the key."

Eleanor was silent for a long beat. Then, softly, "Arthur and I spoke once at a gallery event. He asked me about the painting. He was the kind of man who could see the story behind the brushstroke."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "The painting that's now missing?"

"It was mine," she said, her voice cool and even. "And it belonged right where it hung above the landing of that staircase. I felt its absence before I saw the wall."

Jack gave a low whistle. "Well, that complicates things."

"Doesn't it always?" Eleanor murmured.

They rounded a curve. The spires of Landingham Hill rose in the distance, etched against the darkening sky. Jack shifted gears. "Do you think Arthur's alive?"

"I know he is. Barely," she said. "But he's hidden. Not just physically. Someone is keeping him behind a curtain of silence. And not all the voices in that castle are friendly."

Jack gave a tight smile. "You mean the ones we can't see?"

Eleanor looked out the window. "Them, too."

Jack slowed slightly as they neared the castle gates. "So what's the play, Eleanor?"

She turned to him then, meeting his eyes. "We walk in with our eyes open. We listen. We watch. And we don't trust anyone who smiles too much when asking if we've had a good night's sleep."

Jack laughed under his breath. "Fair enough."

As the car rolled up the final hill, the castle lights flickered like distant, watchful eyes.
"Home sweet haunted home," Jack muttered.

Eleanor's lips twitched. "Let's see who's waiting for us."

Author Notes

Eleanor - ghost detective Jenna - Eleanor's daughter, and falling in love with Donatelli Matthew Donatelli - Bayside's lead detective Margaret (Maggie) - daughter of Jenna and Matthew Donatelli Garth Woodman - FBI Agent and widower (Allie) Tango and Poppa - Garth's top agents and constant sidekicks Danni - Jr. ghost detective working with Donatelli Dylan Weldon - Eleanor's nephew and art curator Charlotte (Charlie) Morgan - England's Metropolitan Police Inspector Jack Lexington - a retired gangster in the U.S. Frank DiVito - retired gangster, childhood friend of Garth Danny Veraci - casino owner who walks on both sides of the line Sam -Frank's right-hand man Nathaniel - wealthy art curator and working undercover Rosalie Jarvis - a young lawyer who got caught up in underworld activities Stacy Trudeaux - society darling with a past Arthur Bell - local historian researching the castle's past Ghostly Castle Residents -- Thomas, Margaret, Elias, Penelope, Gaston, Maynard, Jason, Elder Whitcomb. Chester

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