“I...” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“He’sdead.”
“That’s right,” the ghost agreed, his tone harsh. “Because someone killed him. Possibly in a fit of rage. People in the midst of a rage are not in their best form. They forget things, like removing evidence from dead bodies. But when they calm down, they remember, and they come back. Often to remove the body itself. Do you want to be here when that happens?”
Susan started. Dead Mr. Bothwick was no doubt an expert on that particular situation. “I don’t want to be here at all, if you’re saying the madman could return at any moment and kill me, too.”
He shimmered in repressed fury. “For God’s sake, woman, just—”
“Fine!”
Susan held her breath and plunged her shaking hand into the Runner’s wet pockets. A ruined handkerchief, assorted candies, a few coins. She hesitated. Could she steal from a dead man? A sovereign or two meant nothing to him now. She wavered, then shoved the coins into her pocket. The only thing that mattered was rescuing cousin Emeline.
At last, her trembling fingers brushed against a damp scrap of folded parchment. She tugged it slowly forth, half expecting to find a treasure map or a pirate’s likeness sketched in ink.
Instead, she unwrapped her own missive.
“What is it?” Dead Mr. Bothwick demanded. “What does it say?”
“It says,” she replied, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice, “‘Dear Sir. I’m dreadfully sorry to address you thusly, but although I have misremembered your name, I have not forgotten your Intelligence and your Kindness, and I therefore must make a desperate plea for your immediate assistance regarding Important Matters of Extreme Urgency—’”
“Your letter.” Bizarrely, Dead Mr. Bothwick’s disappointment seemed to eclipse her own.
She nodded and began to refold the bloodstained missive. “We have now proved he did come to Bournemouth on my behalf. I told you I was important back in...” She couldn’t finish the thought.
The ghost hovered closer. “What? What is it?”
She stared. There, half-hidden in a crease on the reverse side of the paper, was a hurried note jotted by a male hand. (Women, and Susan specifically, had far superior penmanship.)
“There’s something written on the back,” she admitted. Dead Mr. Bothwick exploded—literally—in excitement, then rematerialized at her side. She pointed at a faint smudge. “See? Right there. It says, ‘T.B. has proof.’”
“They came for me,” he breathed.
She could swear the ghostly whisper slid across her cheek. “You’re ‘T.B.’?”
He nodded slowly, his form rippling. “You’re not the only one who summoned Runners. Perhaps it’s not too late after all.”
“For whom, exactly?” She gestured with the folded missive. “You’re dead. He’s dead. Both villains have escaped.”
“I’m not sure there are two villains.” He stared at the corpse lying in the sand. “And yes, this state of reduced animation is highly limiting, but that note proves I’m being taken seriously. The Runner came to check my facts. Someone will become suspicious of his continued absence. We need to be ready. We need that jewelry box.”
Enough with the impossible mission. “Why do we need the stupid jewelry box?”
Dead Mr. Bothwick’s pointed a translucent finger. “Read the paper again, Miss Stanton. ‘T.B. hasproof.’”
“Proof of what?” The answer flashed and she blurted the word without thinking. “Pirates?”
The ghost stared at her for a long moment before he responded quietly. “You’d be wise not to speak that word aloud.”
She gulped. “Then it’s true?”
He inclined his head.
In that case, they did need all the evidence they could get. She tried to think of a way to steal the box without the giant noticing its absence or suspecting the theft. She failed. “Why put the proof in a jewelry box, of all things? Was it a hide-in-plain-sight trick?”
He sighed. “As you might suspect, my contingency plan went grossly awry. I never intended the jewelry box to be buried in the rock garden, but at least its contents were safe. For a while. Now they’re not. Youmustget that box away from Ollie before he finds a way to open it.”
