'Neath Hallowed Halls and Ivied Walls: Stacey & Peter Trilogy, #3

By Maureen McMahon

A thrilling paranormal mystery that plumbs the depths of an evil subculture as memories of a couple's past romance are revived. Will they give in to love - or will they die trying?

Stacey Christian and Peter Mansfield come together again to attend the funeral of their beloved Harvard history professor, Bertram Donelson.

Stacey's emotional stint as a reporter in Afghanistan, and Peter's exhausting high-profile business takeover, make them even more vulnerable to the romantic chemistry that's always been between them. Little do they know their old Alma Mater holds an evil secret that will propel them into a whirlwind of ghostly, shocking and even deadly experiences. Will this adventure be enough to finally bring their love to fruition?

Don't miss out on this breathtaking ride!

Grab a copy of 'Neath Hallowed Halls and Ivied Walls today.

Stacey Christian & Peter Mansfield Trilogy
Book 1: Return of the Gulls
Book 2: Ghost of Auld Lang Syne
Book 3: 'Neath Hallowed Halls and Ivied Walls

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen McMahon
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215966600

Book preview

‘NEATH HALLOWED HALLS AND IVIED WALLS

Stacey Christian & Peter Mansfield

Book 3

MAUREEN MCMAHON

COPYRIGHT

'Neath Hallowed Halls and Ivied Walls

© 2019 by Maureen McMahon

http://www.maureenmcmahon.com/

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission of the author in writing.

DEDICATION

To Madelon, Jeff and John in continuing friendship and love.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to my production manager, Kim Cox, for providing her expertise, time and efforts in getting my books out to you. Visit her website for further information at http://www.kimcoxauthor.com/

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

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DEAR READER:

OTHER BOOKS BY MAUREEN

BLURB & EXCERPT: ‘RETURN OF THE GULLS

BLURB & EXCERPT: ‘GHOSTS OF AULD LANG SYNE

BLURB & EXCERPT: ‘SHADOWS IN THE MIST

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Light thickens; and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood:

Good things of the day begin to droop and drowse;

While night's black agents to their preys to rouse.

William Shakespeare, Macbeth, (3.2.50-53)

A re you going?

Yes. Definitely. You?

Yes. He was one of my favorite professors.

Yeah...mine, too. Peter's voice sounded tired and strained.

Are you okay? I longed to be able to reach through the phone lines and touch him. It was already mid-October—three months since I'd seen him last, and I missed him terribly.

I'll be okay. I just need—he hesitated—sleep.

I made a wry moue. Yeah, sleep.

We'd both been busy, he in London acting as financial advisor for his father's bank during a much-publicized corporate takeover, and me in Afghanistan researching and writing a disturbing series of articles on the after-effects of war on women and children. I didn't usually write controversial pieces, but my editor'd asked if I could help out a colleague who published one of the more formidable current affairs magazines, and I couldn't say no. The faces of the children still haunted me.

I'd give anything to feel Peter's arms around me and be able to lean into his warm strength.

I've really missed you, he said.

I sighed. He always seemed to know what I needed to hear.Me, too. I could picture him lying half-naked on his bed in his small hotel room, his lips so close to the phone I could nearly feel them, his thick, sun-streaked hair tousled, the neatly defined muscles of his upper body begging for my caress. I flushed. The hiss of air on the line reminded me he was thousands of miles away in another country.

When will you be back? I asked.

I'm flying out tomorrow morning. How about we meet at the Oyster Pot—you remember?

Oh, yes.

On Friday?

Yes, sounds good.

There was another pause. Stacey, do you have any idea how Professor Donalson died?

I sat on a wicker chair nearby. He...well... Didn't they tell you?

No. My mother called and said someone from Harvard contacted the house. She sounded upset, but she wouldn't go into detail—said she didn't want to run up the phone bill.

I smiled to myself. Peter's mother never changed, even though she probably had enough money at her disposal to buy the phone company outright.

There's a police investigation into his death, I said, but it appears it was suicide. He was found in his car in the garage with a hose from the exhaust... You get the picture. I shuddered.

I could tell Peter was shocked, too. Such an act seemed totally unexpected and out of character for the jolly, fun-loving history professor we'd both come to know and respect during our college years.

I wonder what could have driven him to...? Peter's voice seemed even more distant and withdrawn, and I clutched the phone tighter, itching to reach out and take his hand.

Try not to think about it, I said. We'll find out more at the funeral. Until then, there's no point in brooding. These things happen. Sometimes, we just have to accept it.

The desperate, pleading eyes in the sunken face of a dying Afghani mother suddenly filled my vision. I remembered how she'd held her arms out for her baby. The baby was being removed to a shelter by the Red Cross. The mother would remain in the broken-down, dirt-floored hut. She didn't have long. I'd wanted to grab the baby from the nurse and place it in those skeletal, outstretched arms. But instead, I just backed away, afraid and uncertain.

The sudden, unexpected power of the flashback knocked the wind out of me, and I had to bend over and draw deep breaths, holding the phone in my other hand so Peter wouldn't hear. Finally, I put the receiver back to my ear.

What's wrong? His voice was urgent, knowing.

Nothing. It was just too complicated to explain, and frankly, I felt too shaken by the experience to talk about it yet. I'd better go, I said. I've got to get this last article in today if I'm going to meet you by Friday.

Stace...

Hmm?

You know how much I've missed you?

I smiled and sighed. Yes. Yes, I do—as much as I've missed you. But Friday's only two days away.

Yes. Two days. He let out his breath audibly.

See you Friday.

See you then.

I replaced the phone on its hook on the wall and turned to look out the kitchen window at the Manhattan skyline. It was sunny but cool, with a cloud haze moving in.

A crow lit on the black balustrade of the balcony, tilting its head this way and that as it eyed me through the closed sliding door. Suddenly it let out a piercing squawk, lifted its wings and flew directly into the glass pane of the door. The sickening crack as it hit the window made me cry out in shock, the impact leaving a stain of blood and feather down on the glass.

I was out the door in an instant, but there was nothing I could do. The bird's neck was broken, and it lay in a messy heap of plumage on the concrete balcony. I squatted and reached out a tentative hand. Its breast was still warm, but its eye—a mustard-yellow—stared sightlessly up at me. For no reason I could logically name, I drew my hand quickly away, shivering, overwhelmed by an irrational feeling of mortal dread.

CHAPTER TWO

For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins;

The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;

And time remembered is grief forgotten,

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, Atalanta in Calydon

The Oyster Pot was where Peter and I had first met. We'd been young—just freshmen at Harvard—and filled with the sense of our own self-importance. We didn't hit it off immediately. In fact, I convinced myself I loathed him and his smug self-assurance. But forced to share a detailed history assignment, compliments of Professor Donalson, we had no choice but to work as a team.

As time went by, we learned to respect each other. We discovered what we once saw as unsavory personality traits were admirable character strengths. After that, it didn't take long for the sexual chemistry lurking just below the surface to bubble up and overcome any inhibitions. Within months of our first meeting, we'd become friends, then lovers, then practically inseparable.

Unfortunately, our passionate time together at Harvard ended all too soon over what now could only be deemed a silly disagreement. In actuality, we were both too young to see beyond our own ambitions, and being independent and headstrong, after graduation we went our separate ways.

Only recently had we come back together. I was now a travel writer for a respectable national magazine, and Peter worked in various high-level capacities for his father's bank.

But although we both still felt the intensity and depth we'd experienced before, with maturity we'd learned caution. We were trying desperately to find our way toward a new, less volatile, more stable relationship than we'd had before. This time, we were taking a delicate and careful approach. The fear of losing each other for a second time dampened our more impulsive urges.

Still, sometimes I wished we could throw caution to the wind and run off together to live happily-ever-after in some remote island paradise. Unfortunately, logic always seemed to bring reality crashing relentlessly down. Patience and time, I told myself.

I could wait.

THE OYSTER POT WAS a small seafood restaurant situated off the beaten path near the heart of Cambridge, Massachusetts. From the outside, it looked somewhat sleazy and ill-kempt, but the inside was charming, with dark, smoky beams and cozy booths. The most heavenly aromas filled the air, and there was always a parade of strange and exotic clientele to distract even the most jaded diner. But mainly, the creamy oyster chowder was the draw card.

I stood in the doorway waiting for my eyes to adjust, taking in the intermingling smells of rich sauces, fresh coffee, frying onions and garlic bread. I was late and I knew it. Let him wait! I'd thought. It'll do him good. But when my eyes finally lit on him innocently arranging the complimentary sugar, salt and pepper packets into opposing armies, I felt something inside me dissolve into sweet syrup. He was still the adorably predictable Harvard freshman I'd fallen for some eight years ago.

Who's winning? I asked as I slid into the booth. I felt my heart skip a beat as his clear, thickly lashed hazel eyes lifted to mine and lit with a mingling of joy, appreciation and longing.

I think the pepper is taking out the salt, but the sugar is about to send in the right guard.

Hmm. Well, I'd say the pepper had better retreat, and the salt should send for reinforcements.

We laughed, and he reached out and took my hand, stroking my knuckles with his thumb while taking in every aspect of my appearance.

You look wonderful, he said.

I blushed, but smiled. Well, I guess a stint in the Middle East tends to bring out the roses in one's cheeks.

He cocked a brow. Was it so bad, then?

I shrugged. It was a real eye-opener. What about the takeover? Did heads roll?

He nodded. It was a bloody mess. I don't dare show my face in London again until the lynch mob has dispersed.

I laughed. Well, beheadings must agree with you because you look wonderful, too.

He smiled. Thanks.

I gently pulled my hand away to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. So, do you want to order?

I already did.

With impeccable timing, the waitress appeared with a laden tray and arranged steaming bowls of chowder and a basket of garlic bread on the table.

We murmured our thanks, and I closed my eyes, breathing in the delicious smell. God, I sure have missed this place!

Peter had already picked up his spoon and was attacking his bowl. You know it. There's no place like home, he said.

Pleasantly sated and comfortably reacquainted, we sipped coffee and discussed the situation at hand.

How did you hear about Donalson? Peter asked.

I shrugged. Someone from the University called and...

Don't you find that odd?

What?

Why would someone from the University call us? I mean, we're not relatives—just friends. Ex-students, really.

I thought about this a moment. You don't suppose he's left something in his will...? The idea was macabre. I didn't want anything from Professor Donalson. But Peter was right. There would be no reason for anyone to contact us. I tried again. Or maybe they're contacting all his students—past and present.

Peter shook his head. That would mean thousands.

What was the name of the person who called you? I asked.

Mmm...Constance...Camilla... No, it was...

Cassandra?

Yes! Cassandra Vale. What department was she from?

I frowned. She didn't say. She just said she was calling from Harvard.

Then she may not even be a faculty member.

Maybe not.

Well, I'm glad she called. I'd feel really rotten if I missed the funeral. He was a great guy.

Yes, he was. And I think he really liked us, too. Remember when we went back to his house that time and he showed us his collection of African totems?

Yeah. We must've talked until two in the morning about his research.

I sighed. He was so enthusiastic. It's just so weird that he'd ...

"Yes. Too weird. I know you said we need to accept things, but it goes against my grain. And frankly, it goes against your grain, too, in case you've forgotten. Remember Clementine Kreen? You were like a dog with a bone going after that particular puzzle. And what about Ireland and my Aunt