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and sober gaze. “They all said you were a lunatic, but I think maybe you knew what you saw, didn’t you, Mr. Lloyd?” she whispered to the faded image. “And my guess is, you were the sanest man around.”
    With a frown, she dug deeper into the pile of clippings.
    …
    Catherine stood in the darkened library. Breathing in the scent of old leather, she stared into the shadows and recalled her gloried past, conscious of its stark contrast to widowed life. She glanced at oak paneling ribbed with book-laden shelves, at red velvet curtains hiding a bow window of leaded glass. Dust covers draped heavy furniture, including a mahogany desk and leather sofa. The room had been unused since her husband’s death, a too-painful reminder of the brilliant solicitor, her friend and lover, her dearest heart.
    “Arthur.” Catherine whispered his name once, gently, like a prayer. She walked to the window and briskly pulled open the curtains.
    Light streamed into the room. She stared through the glass at her garden and then let her gaze roam over the wall of books.
    “Arthur darling, I need your help. I went out today. I followed our Anne, and I talked to people who spoke with her. I’m afraid, Arthur, so afraid something could happen to her. I’m worried she might start experiencing things similar to what happened to Jonnie.”
    Catherine moved toward the shelf containing history books and then reached for a slim leather-bound tome. Opening the book, she thumbed through the pages until she found a chapter on the early years of a queen’s reign.
    “Elizabeth,” she whispered.
    …
    After glancing at the clippings, Anne read each one thoroughly. At first, they were all about Jonathan Brandon’s vanishing, but deeper down in the pile the subject of the articles changed to other people, other mysteries. Her grandmother had collected stories about disappearances around London, pinning them together by location. The dates varied widely, beginning several months after Brandon’s story faded from the headlines and continuing through the late eighties.
    The articles spanned over forty years and covered unresolved disappearances around the Tower of London and St. Etheldreda’s, as well as Cannon Street Station, Hampstead Heath, and the churchyard at St. Giles Cripplegate. In each case, murder—some even hinted at serial murder—was the only explanation offered.
    An article fell from Anne’s fingers, and she reached inside the trunk to retrieve it. Frowning, she read, Hampton Court Shocker. A most unusual pair of occurrences yesterday at Hampton Court.
    Anne checked the date—1973—and then continued reading.
    Several groups of tourists claimed to have seen a variety of apparitions yesterday afternoon in and about the grounds of this famous site. German tourists were at first pleased to witness sixteenth century courtiers milling about the Pond Garden, but grew dismayed when the courtiers, so they claim, suddenly faded into mist before disappearing all together.
    Another group, this time Americans, claimed to have seen Henry VIII himself riding off to the hunt. Whilst the king is not said to have vanished before their eyes, he did rein in his mount to berate a young American woman for wearing suggestive clothing. It seems old King Hal did not mind her halter top and hot pants, per se, but thought she should await him in his chambers and “not make so bold” in broad daylight.
    The Royal Historical Society assures us there were no reenactments taking place yesterday at Hampton Court. The only people dressed in period costumes were those who work exclusively within the building complex. Officials at Hampton Court have refused to give credence to the assertions of the tourists, yet can offer us no logical explanation for the events.
    “Whoa, that’s creepy.” Anne stuffed the clipping into her pocket. She had to visit Hampton Court as soon as possible.
    Nervous because her grandmother could walk in at any moment, she replaced the