The Ghost of Emily Tapper Read online

  The Ghost of Emily Tapper

  Copyright © 2017 by Nita Round

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Other Titles from Nita Round

  About the Author

  Visit Us On Line

  The Ghost of Emily Tapper

  by

  Nita Round

  Mystic Books

  by Regal Crest

  Tennessee

  Copyright © 2017 by Nita Round

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN 978-1-61929-328-1

  eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-329-8

  First Printing 2017

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design by Acorn Graphics

  Published by:

  Regal Crest Enterprises

  1042 Mount Lebanon Rd

  Maryville, TN 37804

  Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to everyone at Regal Crest for this opportunity to publish. I couldn’t have done it without you. An especial thanks must also go to my editor, Staci Blevins, for her patience in all matters grammatical.

  Thanks to the Inkflingers SF writers group for all of their input on this story. And of course to KT Davies, and Ewan for putting the group together.

  None of this would be possible without the loving support of my wife, Liz, and her patience when I’ve lost mine.

  Dedication

  To my wife, Elizabeth. For everything.

  Chapter One

  Tick.

  Tock.

  The reassuring sounds of the ancient clock echoed through the cavernous kitchen and marked the passing of the minutes and the hours with mechanical exactness. Maggie Durrant, a kettle of hot water in one hand and a teacup in the other, paused, her tea all but forgotten. She stared at the old age-worn clock, its craquelure fascia discoloured from a long and extended life in the kitchen, and waited.

  Tick.

  The spring mechanism groaned and strained as it reached towards its next movement. The moment lengthened and stretched, like elastic, almost to the point of breaking.

  Tock.

  Released with a sigh of relief, the instant ended and moved on to the next.

  Tick.

  Time took a deep breath and held it. The world slowed, and everything in it moved with great deliberation.

  Maggie, aware of the nuances of her clock, stilled her mind and body. She knew this place, knew it was not then and not now, but caught between, and she knew this moment well. The moment expanded and stretched, until this instance was everything. Maggie, still and readied, attended to her world with the fullest extent of her senses. The chill of her skin warmed by the heat radiating from the solid fuel stove, the lingering aroma of chicken pie wafted up from an oven door left ajar. Her clothes grew heavy and clung like silken chains to her body. She strained to hear more, as if she could improve her ability by the force of her will alone. Her mind focussed, and the mundane fell away to leave a quiet stillness in which she could seek further understanding. Then she heard the whispers, the echoes of voices and distant words. These were sounds that had no place in this world, and yet they reverberated through the corridors of Magwood Hall as though they had always been there. And they had.

  With exaggerated deliberation, she put the hot kettle back on to the stove, put the teacup on the counter, and stepped away. Her ears no longer considered the distant whispers, but settled on nearby sounds. The electric buzz of the old fluorescent lights, the hiss of the gas burners on the stove, and the wind rattled the kitchen windows until she thought they would break. Hearing nothing strange was worse than hearing the whispers. Her eyes darted left, then right, but there was nothing to see. Not at first.

  A shadow, at the very edge of her field of view, flashed by and Maggie took another step backward. A steel pan flew from the top shelf and crashed on the floor at her feet. Maggie sighed, picked up the pan, checked it for damage, and placed it on the kitchen table.

  Tock. Time breathed out.

  “I hear you,” she whispered, “and it is not my time yet.”

  “Do you?” A voice echoed. “Do. You?”

  “No,” Maggie answered.

  A chill draft of air blew around her shoulders and wrapped her skin in bitter cold. She shivered in spite of herself.

  “Do you?” The wind asked once more.

  Maggie slammed her hand on to the table. “No. You know I don’t. Why don’t you leave me alone?” A sigh, like a heart broken afresh, breezed through the kitchen and then it was gone.

  The whispers stopped.

  The kitchen was a kitchen, and Maggie knew she was alone again. “And it is still not my time,” she shouted, even though no one listened. “Not my time. You hear?”

  Tick.

  She leaned against the table, head down, the defeat weighed upon her shoulders. “Damn,” she said, pouring hot water into the teapot. “You’re going to drive me insane before you kill me aren’t you?”

  Tock.

  Maggie scowled. She needed no one to remind her time was running out. She finished making her tea and stormed from the kitchen. The china cup rattled in its saucer. Behind her, the antique kitchen clock once more marked the passing of the minutes with mechanical exactness.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Chapter Two

  MAGGIE LEFT HER tea on a small side table, ignored the man sitting in the wingback chair to the far side of the inglenook fireplace, and stood right in front of the flames. Even though the Great Hall was already warm from a generous pile of burning logs, the ice in her bones needed more than mere flames. She rubbed her hands together against the heat and stared into the fire.

  “I hear you crashed the Land Rover. Again,” Charles Durrant said.

  “Yes,” Maggie answered. Talking to anyone, her brother in particular, was not something she relished after her kitchen episode.

  “It costs money to repair the vehicles every time you break them. You can’t go around wasting my money.”

  “Your money?” Her hand flew to her chest where the marks of the seat belt were still raw underneath her shirt. Anger blazed and overrode the pains of her body. She closed her eyes, and tried to regain control of her emotions. There was no point when her brother was there, he would use anger against her. “I didn’t plan on having an accident.”

  “What was it this time?”

  “Excuse me?’’

  “What caused the accident this time?”

  “The brakes failed,” Maggie replied.

  “Again? Your driving is not improving is it?”

  “This has nothing to do with my driving.
It was a mechanical problem and the brakes failed. I wonder how something like that could have happened?”

  Charles snorted. “Sounds like paranoia creeping in. Well, with you it is not so much creeping as galloping.”

  “Ha ha. You are so very funny. Sometimes I can barely contain my mirth.”

  “No need to be so sarcastic, you are becoming rather mistrustful dear, and it is getting worse. Perhaps now is the time to go and see some doctor or something.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. Besides, even if I was paranoid it doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out to get me. Philip took a look at the damage, and he thinks it was cut.”

  “Locals. What does he know about such things? Does he claim himself to be some great forensic expert now, does he?”

  “He claims nothing more than what he is, and what he is, Charles, is a mechanic and he knows what he is talking about. More than I can say for you,” she shrugged. “I’m fine, thank you so much for asking.”

  “Don’t be facetious. I can see you’re fine. You’re standing there giving me lip.”

  “Sometimes I think if it weren’t for the fact you were my brother I would have you escorted off the estate.”

  “But I am your brother, dear sister, and if this were all mine, which it should be, I would marry you off and run the estate in a very different manner.”

  “Of course you would.” And knowing the way Charles thought, they would be bankrupt within weeks. Charles was not the kind of man to take an active part in anything to do with their estate. “You should help out more.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Help pay for those very fine clothes you wear?”

  “These clothes are my right. Why would I want to get them dirty?”

  Maggie wondered the same thing. Charles didn’t own work clothes of any kind, but he did possess the finest Italian leather loafers, which would never see the inside, or even the outside, of a working barn. She stared at his shoes, and longed for a day when she could wear or own such luxury. Her finest rubber boots were waterproof as long as she remembered to renew the duct tape keeping them together, and her waxed jacket, with the almost non-existent quilted lining, was all the protection she had from the rain and cold. In the mountains and valleys of the estate it rained a lot, and when it didn’t rain, it was cold and damp.

  He sighed in such a way she almost felt his scorn. “Our line is an old one, and deserves more than this. Only fools would work when there are plenty of farmer tenants to do what needs to be done. The purpose of life is pleasure and joy, not the folly of being knee-deep in animal excrement.”

  “You sound like a character in some dramatic opera.”

  “Still, I’m not wrong.”

  “And if I don’t work who will pay your trust money? The amount you get paid has very little resemblance to what the estate can afford.”

  “Not my problem, the trust is my right.”

  “Perhaps destitution would be a better option for us all then.”

  “I think we are far from such distastefulness,” Charles said.

  “I wouldn’t count on it, but never mind eh? It will be yours soon enough.”

  “Of course.” He smiled, but there was neither warmth nor humour in his shark-like leer. “Still, you’re the heir and you’re in charge.” He folded his paper, placed it on the side table, and rose in one fluid motion.

  She wanted to snarl at him, only her brother could make “heir” sound like something dirty.

  “Never mind,” he said, “I bet you’re looking forward to your birthday, seeing as it is destined to be your last one. Will you do something special on this momentous occasion or will you celebrate in your usual fashion, alone, with a glass of wine?”

  “What’s it to you what I do?”

  “Nothing. It is one birthday closer to my inheritance. Nothing more.”

  “You’re a heartless bastard,” she growled.

  “I am off now, don’t wait up for me, I’ll be late. Very late.”

  “So you’re not going to help out tomorrow?”

  “Don’t be silly, why would I want to do such a thing? If you want to make some money, then you should turn it into a theme park. I would, and you’d make a fortune.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “I know,” Charles laughed. “For now, it’s your inheritance dear sister. You deal with it. And try not to crash any other vehicles. I’d rather you didn’t leave me penniless.”

  Maggie scowled. It was one of her most common expressions around Charles. “Where are you going this time?”

  “I’m going out to act like the lord you can never be.”

  “Being the lord of this estate is not about flaunting position and wealth, especially when the wealth is not yours.”

  “Not mine...yet.” He grabbed himself and smirked, “A man should be in charge and I have the right equipment for being the Lord here. Plenty of this to go around. Without doubt, I will be the one to fulfil familial duties to populate the Durrant line as you can’t, or won’t.”

  “Go get drunk then, find some strumpet. I hope she gives you a nasty itch for your troubles.”

  “Maybe you should go find yourself a strumpet. It might even put a smile on your face.”

  “Get out!” she roared.

  Charles laughed as he left. “Don’t forget to go and milk the hens, or whatever it is you do at dawn. Looking at chicken eggs is as close as you’ll ever get to getting laid.”

  “Crude, Charles. Very crude,” she responded although he wasn’t in the room. She slumped into her chair and stared at the fire. Her anger didn’t last long, there was no point fighting herself over the things she could not change, like her brother. He wanted to bait her, nothing more. One day he would be the next Lord Durrant. He would have children, pass along his vileness, and the cycle would continue. There was no point fretting about the things she could not change. They were Durrants and destined to perpetuate all of the bad attitudes associated with old money. They never seemed to learn.

  She stared at the fire until she heard the back door slam closed, and then a few minutes later she heard the roar of Charles’ gas guzzling sports car as he raced out of the courtyard and through the gate.

  Alone at last, Maggie settled in her usual chair by the fire and she allowed herself the chance to relax. The stress of the day seeped from her muscles. Heat from the fire bathed her skin and the warmth spread throughout her body until the chill in her bones fled. For a moment, even though her world was a harsh and unforgiving one, she felt at peace, almost content. She worked hard and although she had no time for play, she didn’t miss it. Though she wished, sometimes, she could share at least some of it with someone.

  A face appeared in her mind’s eye. It was not a new image. The same face had haunted her dreams and thoughts since she was a child. Brown eyes, so dark they appeared almost black, looked at her with cool disdain. Tapper eyes, they were, and the face of her fate was a beautiful one.

  Maggie wondered, as she stared into those imagined eyes, whether her father had also dreamed of his Tapper? Did he even need to dream of her when his Tapper, Maud Tapper, lived so close they could hate each other on sight? She wondered if the unknown Tapper dreamed of her. Did she know they would meet? What would this Tapper heir make of her, the Durrant heir? Maggie shook her head and tried to clear away her thoughts. Given the history of the two families, the one with the dark eyes wouldn’t care at all.

  MAGGIE WOKE WITH a start. The fire had long since gone out, and it was cold, cold enough to show steam jetting from her mouth and nose with every breath. She shivered. In the distance, whispers echoed through the quiet of the night. She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes past midnight. Right on time.

  “Do you?” she heard as clear as if someone were speaking at her shoulder, but when she looked, there was no one there.

  “Do you?” The voice persisted.

  Maggie shook her head. Why bother with a response? Her answer never changed, and even if
she said something, it would never appease this spirit.

  “All is lost.”

  “I know,” Maggie whispered back, “I know.”

  Chapter Three

  MAGGIE LEFT THE Hall a little after dawn, and when she arrived at the farmyard she was gratified to see Phil Jackson already waiting for her.

  “Fixed it?” she asked as she pointed at the Land Rover.

  “I have. Looked worse than it was, you drove well considering where you crashed it.”

  “Luck, I suppose, and caution. I never travel fast around the Inger, too many bends and not enough barriers. Any other of the mountain roads and I wouldn’t be here to talk about it.”

  “So I straightened the panels, but it’ll be a while before I can spend the time painting them, I’ll brush rather than spray if it’s alright with you? It’ll be quicker.”

  “Sure. It doesn’t have to be pretty, just functional.”

  “As I thought, so in the meantime, I’ve primed and undercoated any exposed metal to help stop the rust until I can put on a good coat of paint.”

  “Excellent job. Thanks, Phil.”

  “No problem.”

  “And did you manage to get a look at the brakes?” Maggie queried, and although she wanted to know the truth, she dreaded the answer. Was she paranoid after all the accidents she seemed to attract? Or was there something more to fear?

  “Do you want my honest opinion?” Phil asked.

  “Of course I do, tell me what you know.”

  “Then I’d say your brakes were cut. You should get an expert in to check, their judgement would be certain and reliable.”

  Maggie stared out over green fields and tried to control her fear. “As far as I am concerned, your judgement is more than enough.”