The still-living Mr. Bothwick cocked his head and regarded her with something that could only be described as suspicion. “What were you doing looking for new graves?”
“Did the plot appear to be old, or freshly dug?” Mr. Forrester asked, leaning too close. His breath smelled faintly of rosemary and ale.
“Don’t you see what’s happening?” Dead Mr. Bothwick cried, whirling around her. “If they find it first, all hope will be lost! I will have died for nothing.”
Susan considered the ghost’s anguished face. He would haunt her forever, since it would’ve been her big mouth’s fault she’d ruined his mission to find a box of missing jewelry by blabbing the secret location to the townsfolk. She made her decision.
“Three?” she repeated as if confused by the question. “There’s only two.”
The magistrate frowned, leaned back. “But you said—”
“No, no. There’s only two. But two graves are more than enough to discomfit a lady.” She pasted on an I-might-swoon-from-fright-at-any-moment expression, which under the circumstances, was not difficult to achieve. These days, she could only hope it differed from her normal appearance. “Might we turn the topic to lighter fare?”
“Oh!” Mr. Forrester appeared everything that was apologetic, the subject easily forgotten. “Of course.”
The still-living Mr. Bothwick, however, appeared unconvinced. He stood there, watching her. Silently.
Unaware his ghostly brother was doing the same to him.
“Shall we return?” The magistrate proffered his elbow. When she made no answering move, he reached for Susan’s hand.
Mr. Bothwick intercepted the polite gesture in one smooth sidestep, positioning his back to the magistrate and keeping his vigilant gaze on Susan.
“Go on,” he said, without bothering to so much as glance at Mr. Forrester—or to ask Susan if that was what she wanted. “Didn’t you say you had business to attend to? Far away?”
Mr. Forrester, clueless bumblepot of a magistrate though he might be, looked truly distressed at the thought of leaving Susan in the very-much-alive Mr. Bothwick’s lascivious hands.
Valid as the concern was (because even sprinkled lightly with sand, Mr. Bothwick cut a dangerously tempting figure), the magistrate had proven himself to be possessed of neither sense nor logic, and was therefore of little use until he came back with his carriage.
“Go,” she told him as kindly as she could, given she had to bend awkwardly around Mr. Bothwick’s frame in order to meet Mr. Forrester’s eyes. “I won’t keep you. I look forward to our trip to Bath.”
“Won’t I see you beforehand? You did say I could call on you next week.”
Even without glancing up, Susan could feel the displeasure emanating from Mr. Bothwick in waves of black heat. If she didn’t get Mr. Forrester on his way soon, Mr. Bothwick would launch himself backward and rip the well-meaning magistrate apart with his bare hands.
“Of course,” she assured him. “Call at any time.”
Mr. Forrester beamed happily. He bowed and took his leave, casting the occasional doubtful glance over his shoulders at Mr. Bothwick.
Who muttered an unsporting, “Good riddance,” and headed toward the cliffside trail without bothering to apologize for his presumptive behavior. Or to see if she followed.
Which she didn’t. She needed a moment alone with Dead Mr. Bothwick.
“Now what?” she whispered, turning to face the sea so that no onlookers would witness her apparent discussion with herself.
“Now we dig,” the ghost answered, his slender form not quite opaque enough to block a muted view of crashing waves. “Tonight. It’s more urgent than ever.”
“Where?” The chill rustling the nape of her neck proved she already knew the answer.
The look Dead Mr. Bothwick shot her indicated he knew she was less than eager to comply... and that he didn’t much care. “You’ll dig up the unmarked graves, of course. Itmustbe beneath one of them.”
An image of the scarecrow flashed in her mind. “I’ve no access to a shovel.”
“There are several in my house.”
“What if someone sees me?” she tried again.
“It’s almost a new moon. We’ll go after midnight.”
