The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Ghost of Robin Hood's Bay: The Pendywick Place, #5

By Alydia Rackham

A phantom begins to stalk Victoria and Basil through the hollow corridors of a Yorkshire mansion, leading the Pendywick Pair to a watery—or fiery—clash with the very enemies that mean to destroy them.

It is too late to retrieve the code. Victoria and Basil must instead recreate it and get it to the queen as fast as possible. To do that, they must travel to the remote Yorkshire seaside, along with Basil's sister and her husband, and their friend Fred Brody, to a vast, empty house of Professor Winchester's where Victoria's reference books reside. But a ghostly presence begins to interfere, drawing closer and closer every day. Will Victoria, who has already lost so much and achieved so much, be able to stop her old mentor's wicked plans once and for all?

"The Ghost of Robin Hood's Bay" is the fifth installment in Alydia Rackham's captivating Victorian mystery series. If you like a Dickensian atmosphere, Sherlockian thrills, and Austenian intrigue, you will love this adventure.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Apr 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224016426

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

He must needs go that the devil drives.

-William Shakespeare

Chapter One

Wednesday, November 1st, 1882

(Quite early)

IMOGEN! BASIL COLLINGWOOD’S thunderous voice rang from the rafters to the cellar of Pendywick Place. Where is my blasted overcoat?

Which one? his sister, pushing several frazzled strands of gold hair out of her face, called up the stairwell.

The only one I have! Crashing sounds issued from the family-level bedrooms—and then a trunk slammed. "I’ve had it for three years—it was tailored to fit the length of my arms and I need it—"

Have you hung it in your wardrobe? Imogen adjusted her armload of dresses as she shouted back up to him.

You think I haven’t already looked there? Basil barked back.

How the blazes would I know where your bloody overcoat is if I haven’t been here in four years? Imogen screamed.

Im! Captain Fleetwood appeared through the hallway door, his pale blue eyes wide with shock. His own dark-gold hair wasn’t mussed, but his usually-neat collar hung askew, and he hadn’t put on his jacket yet. He hauled three pieces of luggage in both hands.

I don’t have the faintest idea where any of his things are, Imogen, her face flushed, hissed at the captain. I can hardly find anything of my own—and I’m certain I’m going to leave half the things I need behind—

Just then, Jack went dashing up the stairs past Imogen, catching her skirt in his wake.

"Ugh! Jack!"  Imogen scolded, catching her balance.

Jack’s curled tail wagged madly as he leaped past the second landing and up into the family wing.

Victoria, standing in the center of the parlor and trying to cram her braille book into her small satchel, fought to gather her own frantic thoughts as the chaos of the Collingwood-Fleetwoods raged all around her.

She had packed several dresses in a trunk, along with other necessities, and she’d managed to stuff her Christmas dolly, her necklace, and her braille book into her beaten leather satchel to keep with her throughout their journey. She wore a simple, dark blue dress with her black hair bound up in a bun—she hoped her coat, hat, gloves and blackthorn cane were still where she had left them the brief night before...

The captain’s butler hurried through the hallway door, carrying a small trunk, and the captain had to quickly step out of the way.

So sorry, sir, the butler grunted.

It’s all right, Hemsworth—don’t hurt your back, the captain advised. The butler set the trunk down with a huff, his face red, and then dashed back down the hallway toward the servants’ stairs. The captain quickly set his luggage down by that trunk, then maneuvered around his wife and up the main staircase.

Sorry, dearest, he muttered.

Then, Mrs. Butterfield, followed closely by the young, freckle-faced maid, Susan Sowerby, hustled down the main staircase at the same time, bearing more bags and two hat-boxes, their footsteps thudding heavily beneath their loads. The captain nimbly dodged around them, with quick shouts of Pardon! Pardon! as he charged by. The maids staggered sideways into the wall, fighting not to drop their burdens...

Sorry, Mrs. Butterfield—if you could just stack those there... Imogen nodded to the pile of luggage that was quickly mounting by the front door.

Yes, Mum, Mrs. Butterfield huffed, passing her mistress on the last set of stairs and hefting the bags onto the stack. Imogen then re-wrapped her arms around her dragging bundle of dresses and toiled up the stairs after her husband, muttering about overcoats.

Come, come, come! came another lightning-bolt shout from Basil upstairs. The train leaves in less than an hour and I’ll be hanged if we miss it!

Such language this morning, Mrs. Butterfield panted, adjusting her crooked cap. Not even seven o’clock yet...

Victoria snapped her fingers, remembering something—set her satchel down on Basil’s armchair and hurried across the parlor, down the hallway and into the kitchen, then through the door to the servants’ stairs, hoping to avoid a bottleneck on the front steps—

Whoops. That had been a mistake.

She instantly hopped sideways to avoid three maids trundling down the noisy wooden stairs carrying folded piles of linen.

Sorry, Miss! they all chorused. Victoria just nodded quickly, pressing herself into a dusty corner to get out of their way, and then raced up the winding steps all the way to the third floor. She burst out—

And almost cracked Mr. Hemsworth, the butler, in the face with the door. 

She yelped and leaped backward, slapping her hands over her mouth.

Good heavens! he cried, blinking rapidly.

/I’m so sorry!/ Victoria signed.

It’s all right, Miss, he smiled thinly. Just missed me.

Victoria blushed and stepped out of his way so he could descend. Then, hiding her face, she moved into the tiny library and clambered up the iron-wrought spiral staircase to her tower room.

She opened the door and pushed through, the racket still resounding through the house below.

Hm, hm, hm, she hummed impatiently to herself as she tried to remember...

She dived toward her wardrobe, opened it, and pulled out a small bag of balled yarn and some knitting needles. She snatched it up, shut the wardrobe, straightened, and glanced around the room.

She paused.

It looked rather bare, without her trunk, her dolly, her satchel and her book. And it felt hollow, too, since all of her clothes had been packed.

The room, in its solemn stillness—in spite of the activity downstairs— reminded her of the first time she had stepped across the threshold at Pendywick Place, almost exactly one year ago.

How much had changed since then.

And yet, one thing remained the same as ever before.

Her blood turned cold, and her jaw tightened. Slowly, her fingers tensed around the handle of her bag—and the edge of her severed tongue ached.

Finally. Finally, she could put all of this right.

And it would begin this very day.

She turned and briskly strode across the room, opened the door, stepped through, and shut it firmly.

Victoria tracked down the spiral stairs (for she could do it in her sleep if needed) and ventured into the servants’ wing, heading for the main staircase instead. She certainly didn’t want to repeat what had almost happened to Mr. Hemsworth...

Listening, so she wouldn’t plow into anyone, she descended as quickly as she could, keeping her bag close, and entered the family wing. She strode down the hall, wondering what time it was—

Basil came lunging out of his bedroom door and crashed into her.

Her bag of yarn went flying.

She cried out—so did he—

He caught her round the middle, swung her, and caught himself against the doorframe—

Stopping them both from careening down the staircase.

"Good lord, Basil gasped, staggering and trying to right himself. Are you all right?"

She nodded, her heart hammering, realizing she had taken fistfuls of his waistcoat. His arm still steadied her as he pushed off from the doorframe, and she glanced up at him. He had cleaned the severe cut above his left eyebrow, and bandaged it, but a great bruise formed all around his eye and marred his cheekbone. A cut also marked his lower lip. He had run a comb through his short, curly hair, and changed into travel tweeds, but wore no jacket.

Victoria relaxed her grip on his shirt, her brow furrowing at him.

/I’m fine,/ she signed. /Are you? You look pale./

Ah, I have an infernal headache, he answered, his left arm sliding loose from her waist as he pressed his right-hand fingers to the bridge of his nose. Hardly slept at all.

/I think perhaps everyone is in too much of a hurry,/ she signed.

What? he asked, forcing his bright grey eyes open to frown at her.

/I think everyone is in too much of a hurry,/ she repeated. /I nearly killed Mr. Hemsworth with the door./

Basil snorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Well, he ought to mind his step, he said. Besides, we can’t afford delays—the train leaves at eight, and there isn’t another one to Whitby until noon.

/Since your parents stayed the night with the Brodys, do you think they will have breakfast there?/ she asked.

Undoubtedly, he replied, running a hand through his hair. I’d actually suppose they’ll stay there all day.

/Then we’ve nothing to worry about,/ Victoria told him, smiling a little. /I’m sure we’ll make the train at eight, before they ever come home, and be at Robin Hood’s Bay by midafternoon./

How long a journey is it, did you say? Basil asked.

/Between five and six hours,/ she replied. /I’ve only ever made the trip from Oxford. But that’s my estimate./

And from Sleights Station, you said we can get a carriage of some sort to that hall, near Robin Hood’s Bay, Basil recalled.

/Heathfell Hall, yes,/ Victoria nodded.

I can’t fathom how I didn’t know that Winchester had a summer home in Yorkshire, Basil muttered. Victoria looked at him darkly.

/There’s a great deal that nobody knew about him./

Basil watched her, his vivid gaze direct but measured.

And you’re certain you can recreate it there? he asked quietly. That you’ll have everything you need?

Victoria drew in a bracing breath.

/I will have all I need in that library. That’s where I invented the language in the first place,/ she said. /But no...I’m not certain I can recreate it./

His gaze sharpened. She gazed back up at him.

/Not without help./

You will have help, he said, firm and low. Imogen is a great genius with languages, and puzzles of all sorts. He shrugged. Almost as clever as I am.

Victoria suddenly smiled—and he smiled back down at her, the expression warming his features. Then, she canted her head, and studied him further.

/I never asked...Who cut your hair so short?/

Oh, Dr. Watson, he sighed, raising his eyebrows. When I complained, he reminded me that he had been an expert in...amputations... Basil trailed off and swallowed as Victoria lifted her left hand and gently brushed a curl away from his forehead. She traced his temple, then ghosted her fingertips back, just above his ear. He took a shuddering breath.

Do you mind it? he asked, quietly.

She met his eyes, still smiling—shrugged, and shook her head. And then, she brought her other hand up, and touched his bruised cheekbone.

Basil swallowed again.

Victoria... he breathed shakily.

By George, there’s enough noise in this house to wake the dead! Fred Brody, completely dressed in tweeds as well, and groomed tidily, burst out of his borrowed bedroom.

Victoria’s hands drifted down from Basil’s face—Basil ducked his head and glanced away.

If the neighbors don’t realize something’s up, Fred pointed out, shutting his door behind him. They’re completely deaf.

Woof! Jack agreed, from down at Fred’s knees. Fred rolled his eyes.

Exactly, he muttered. "Well I am ready for it—Basil you’re not even dressed."

"I am dressed—I just don’t have my jacket or my OVERCOAT!"  Basil raised his voice to a shout and bellowed down the stairwell.

I don’t know where your blasted overcoat is!  Imogen howled back up the stairs.

/I believe it’s in Mrs. Butterfield’s room,/ Victoria signed. /She had it out to mend a few weeks ago, to sew a button in it. But...it made her sad to look at./

Basil watched her a moment, then smiled crookedly.

Thank you, Victoria. He then swept around her and up the stairs. Fred, take your luggage downstairs—we’re leaving in ten minutes and we’re not waiting for you.

Ha! Fred cried indignantly, looking to Victoria. "Wait for me? Says the man who isn’t even dressed."

Woof! Jack said again, wagging his tail.

Victoria smiled.

/Exactly,/ she signed, and picked up her bag of yarn. And together, she, Fred and Jack bustled downstairs.

Precisely ten minutes later, they all stood in the parlor near the front door—Basil, Victoria, Imogen, Captain Fleetwood, Fred, Mrs. Butterfield, Susan Sowerby, Mr. Hemsworth, and the three other maids. Jack sat next to Basil’s feet, and Imogen held her tortoise-shell-colored cat Queenie in both arms. The men wore their coats, gloves and scarves, and Basil and the captain wore travel top-hats. Fred wore a stylish tweed flat cap. Imogen and Victoria wore their long, warm black coats and practical felt hats, with satchels hanging from their arms.

Now, Basil began in his deep, precise, solemn voice, scanning the line of servants before him. "We’re to be taking Mr. Hemsworth and Susan with us on this venture. Mrs. Butterfield shall take charge of the rest of you whilst you remain here at Pendywick Place. And if even one of you intimates to my parents or anyone else on earth that I am still alive, I shall personally see you all fired." He leveled a terrible glare