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Nicole a few steps behind. When we reached the second floor, I turned instinctively to the left, then came to a halt, feeling mildly confused.
    “I seem to be getting ahead of myself,” I said, with a sheepish grin. “Am I going the right way?”
    Nicole assured me that I was. “Our bedrooms are in thewest wing, the guest rooms are in the east. We’ve put you in the red room.”
    I was a bit surprised to hear that the Hollanders had separate bedrooms, but I held my peace. The newlyweds’ sleeping arrangements were none of my business.
    The corridor, with its lush crimson carpet and brightly striped wallpaper, was pure Victorian. Hanging lamps with frosted globes and faceted pendants illuminated the passage, and a series of sentimental landscapes hung above occasional tables littered with a wilderness of small, shiny ornaments.
    “My husband collects Victoriana,” Nicole informed me. “That’s why we wanted Wyrdhurst. We hope to turn it into a showplace for his collection.”
    “It’s big enough to be a museum,” I commented.
    “Ninety-seven rooms,” Nicole confirmed. “My family has let the place many times over the years, but no one’s stayed for long. As you said, it’s a rather remote location, and the upkeep of so many rooms can be a bit daunting.”
    “How do you manage?” I asked.
    “A cleaning service comes up twice a month from Newcastle,” Nicole explained.
    I gave her a sidelong glance. In my experience, it was de rigueur for a wealthy homeowner to contribute to the local economy by hiring local help. Importing workers from as far away as Newcastle was tantamount to snatching bread from the villagers’ tables.
    “Weren’t there enough local women to tackle the job?” I inquired.
    Nicole slowed her pace. “A few came, at first, but they soon left. They seemed…uncomfortable, working here.There’s a silly rumor going about that the place is”—she hesitated—“haunted. But I believe that they left because Jared found their work unsatisfactory.”
    It struck me that Jared’s disapproval might have sparked the rumor. If the women in Blackhope were as house-proud as the women in Finch, they wouldn’t have taken kindly to his criticism. They might have decided to repay his nitpicking by rekindling hoary tales about the Wyrdhurst ghost. It was just the sort of prank my own neighbors would pull, if I were ever so foolish as to offend them.
    “Do you believe that Wyrdhurst is haunted?” I asked.
    “Certainly not,” Nicole said, much too quickly. “Uncle Dickie says it’s absolute nonsense.”
    “I’m sure he’s right,” I said.
    “He’s such a dear,” Nicole went on, her face brightening. “He restored the fabric of the building, updated the wiring and the plumbing. He even furnished the lower rooms for us. The third story’s still unfinished, but I seldom go up there.” She shot a nervous glance at the ceiling, then pointed toward a door to our left.
    “The bathroom,” she informed me. “And the red room—”
    “—is next door,” I interrupted.
    “How did you know?” she asked.
    “Lucky guess,” I replied. “If this were my house, I’d put my guests close to the bathroom.”
    “That’s what Jared thought,” said Nicole. “I hope you like the red room. He selected it for you.”
    She opened the next door to our left and stood back. I stepped past her, stopped dead on the threshold, and shuddered.
    “Oh, Lori, you’ve taken a chill. Go sit by the fire while Irun your bath.” Nicole draped her gorgeous shawl around my grubby shoulders and left me standing mutely in the doorway.
    I was glad of her absence. I needed a private moment to come to terms with the red room’s sheer awfulness.

CHAPTER

    I t looked like a funeral parlor. Every ponderous piece of furniture was made of time-blackened oak or covered in bloodred fabric, and everywhere I looked, dead animals stared back at me. A stuffed ferret frolicked on the mantelpiece, a monkey crouched rigidly atop