A Man Of Many Talents by Deborah Simmons

colonel paused to stroke his mustaches thoughtfully. “In the late Middle Ages, sightings became much more prevalent, with most of the apparitions supposed to be from purgatory, a sort of waiting area between death and their final reward. They often required the living to do penance for them or buy indulgences from the clergy. But, of course, the Reformation did away with all that.
    “Now we get things more on the order of poltergeists, possessions by the devil, knockings, flutterings, and abominable cases lik e your Belles Corners business, o f course, you probably know all this!” the colonel exclaimed. “After all, you are the expert here and should be lecturing me, eh?” Christian shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with his ignorance. He didn’t know which was worse, the implicit faith granted him by Mercia, the ma nly reasoning imputed him by th e colonel, Emery’s scorn, or the vaguely disdainful expectations of Miss Abigail Parkinson herself. As Emery ha d noted, this was not Belles Corn ers, and that lark was rapidly losing whatever amusement it had once possessed, if any.
    Christian wondered whether he ought to brash up on his spectral knowledge, but the thought of closeting himself in a library was only slightly more palatable than reciting poetry. Muttering imprecations about a certain interfering earl under his breath, he wished the cursed phantom would make an appearance, so he could get out of here and back to the business of Bexley Court.
    Instead, he was being treated to a lecture on paranormal manifestations. “How about ghostly animals?” Christian asked suddenly, in an attempt to sound more knowledgeable than he felt. “Why do they always appear as black dogs with red eyes and slavering lips? ” He had received plenty of cor respondence on that subject.
    For a moment the colonel appeared taken aback, then he laughed in his deep, resonating way. “Just so! You do know your stuff. S o, what is your opinion as to th e cause of these aberrations? Cases of people wanting attention, or simply those open to suggestion? Is it some kind of mass hysteria or just singular attacks of mental illness?”
    Christian blinked, a bit overwhelmed by the colonel’s views. “Are you saying Mercia’s a bit queer in the upper story?” he asked, tongue firmly in cheek.
    “Eh, what? Oh, no! Certainly not. Obviously, there must be something behind whatever she saw,” he said, clearing his throat and ducking his head.
    “Or someone," Christian muttered under his breath as they entered the old hall.
    It was dim and quiet, the rain a distant rhythm against thick glass set high up in the walls. Christian roamed the perimeter, but to his disappointment, the place looked just as it had during his evening vigil, the overcast day cloaking the room in a pall that made him long for some proper lighting. He wondered idly if he would ever get a good look at the space. He prowled restlessly about while the colonel kept up a steady stream of commentary, pausing beneath a wall of what appeared to be ancient weapons, which he had barely noticed the night before.
    Christian studied a battered helmet, a broadsword, some rather nasty-looking daggers, a brace of old pistols, and a pair of foils and wondered if they might come in handy at some point. Unfortunately, anyone might put them to good use, and he made a mental note to watch his back even as he kept an eye out for the phantom. The thought made him glance toward Sir Boundefort’s favorite haunt, with the hope of seeing something—anything—bu t only darkness yawned behind th e wooden screen.
    With a frown, Christian stepped behind the partition. Nothing awaited him there except shadows and the outlines of the two doors along the wall. He moved toward the first, then paused, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the floor. He had been here before, last night, and yet there was no sign of his footprints. Crouching low, he put a finger to the dank tiles, swiping them, but no