Death at Bishop's Keep by Robin Paige

forthright hazel eyes under straight dark brows unusually striking. She would photograph well. And more, she had intrigued him with her odd remark about Mark Twain’s use of fingerprints. It had betrayed an unusual interest. What sort of woman read detective stories?
    Three-quarters of an hour after leaving the station, the carriage with its four passengers turned off the road and onto a curving lane lined with mist-cloaked beeches. Miss Ardleigh seemed to be holding an excited expectation in stern check. “I suppose Bishop’s Keep is very medieval,” she said in an offhand way, glancing across the fog-wreathed landscape.
    â€œMedieval?” Eleanor asked in surprise. “Why, no. Why did you—Oh, of course. The Keep.”
    Charles suppressed a smile. Americans harbored endless misconceptions about England. All the fault of Byron and Wordsworth and those other soulful purveyors of the Romantic view. Caught up in a New World whirlwind of invention and innovation, Americans loved to take a holiday from progress to revel in the picturesque, the macabre, the mist. That’s what came of having virtually no history of their own, and no castles. And very little fog, either.
    â€œYou have been reading thrillers,” Bradford remarked. “Towers and turrets and dead bodies in great chests, and bats in all the belfries.”
    Charles was distracted from his reflections on the American temperament. “Ah, bats,” he said energetically. “D’you know, there is a bat in this locality that is quite a rare little fellow, a—”
    Eleanor’s laugh was a melodious tinkle. “I am sure Kathryn will have more exciting things to do than spy out bats for you, Charles.”
    â€œAre you saying that Bishop’s Keep is not really a castle?” Miss Ardleigh asked, clearly disappointed but trying not to seem so.
    â€œThere once was a castle,” Bradford said carelessly, “the country seat of some great churchman or another. But Cromwell pulled it down during the Civil War, and there is little left save the odd flint rubble wall. The present residence is less than seventy years old. Not as romantic as a castle, but a damned sight less drafty, I warrant.” A little of his flirtatious good humor seemed to be coming back, and he grinned. “If it’s romance you’re after, Miss Ardleigh, you must visit Marsden Manor. No ruin, but we have our own resident ghost.”
    At the word “ghost,” Charles noticed, Miss Ardleigh leaned slightly forward, her face eager. She was no doubt impressed by Bradford’s attention, as were most women. The brief sigh that escaped his lips as he turned away was largely unconscious.
    Sir Charles could not know, of course, that Kate was far less impressed by Mr. Marsden’s person and manner than by his last remark. “Is there truly a ghost?” she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.
    â€œTruly,” Bradford said solemnly.
    Eleanor patted her hand. “Do come and be introduced to him, Kathryn. Bradford will give you the life story of the wretched creature, and I shall show off my wedding dress.”
    Kate smiled. “I certainly shall,” she said. “I don’t imagine your ghost goes to weddings,” she said, hoping to prompt Mr. Marsden to say more.
    The corners of Bradford’s mouth twitched and his pale blue eyes were amused. “No, but he’s quite civil, all the same. If you will do us the honor of staying over the night, we can put you in the chamber which he frequents. In search of his missing head.”
    â€œHis head!” Kate exclaimed. “You mean, he was murdered?”
    â€œBradford!” Eleanor protested.
    â€œAh,” Bradford said knowingly, and to Kate’s disappointment, lapsed into silence. Eleanor launched into a lengthy description of the gown she planned to wear to the next ball, while Kate feigned interest.