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Chapters (63)
  1. Cover
  2. BRONTË SISTERS MYSTERIES
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Haworth Parsonage, April 1852
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. "Music on Christmas Morning"
  60. Author’s Note
  61. Acknowledgements
  62. About the Author
  63. What’s next onyour reading list?

Even as he spoke so defiantly, Liston looked unbearably young and uncertain.

“There is something more,” he said, frowning deeply. “Pa wanted to keep it hidden, and until this moment I didn’t see that it mattered, but the truth is, there is a date. At least we know a year that the body could not have been hidden before.”

“Liston, what do you mean?” Emily asked him. “If there is anything that will help us to name the child or add any detail to the burial, then you must reveal it.”

Emily watched as Liston went to the fireplace, stepping over the rubble that had once formed the chimney breast. Reaching into the cavity where the bones had been found, he brought out something small enough to be entirely enclosed within his fist.

“This were round its neck,” he said, delivering it into Emily’s hands.

Emily frowned at the object that lay lightly in her palm.

“A medallion,” she told her sisters as she closely examined the object under candlelight. “Here on the front an engraving of the Virgin Mary, and the date eighteen thirty. And on the back these symbols and stars, and another date that appears to be roughly etched: eighteen thirty-two. Here.” She moved her palm around for all to see.

“Eighteen thirty-two is but thirteen years ago,” Anne said. “The child was placed here much more recently than we assumed.”

“Well within living memory,” Charlotte added.

“It was the year my mother died,” Liston said heavily. “The year my father locked away this room and all the secrets it contained. Do you suppose . . . ? No, I cannot say it aloud.”

“Say what aloud, Liston?” Emily asked him.

“That my father may have known that the bones were interred within this room?”

Liston looked so lost, so afraid that he might be speaking the truth, that Emily wished she were able to reassure him. She was not, however.

“We cannot know,” Emily said. “At least not yet, Liston. But my family has a knack for detecting the truth, no matter how well it might be hidden.” She looked in turn at all gathered there as she spoke. “From this moment on, we must assume the circumstances of this child’s death to be most heinous and wicked. And regard this room as the scene of a murder.”

8

Emily