The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Read Free Page B

way.”
    The steps down this rear staircase were no less narrow and treacherous. Lamb had to switch on the light, since there was no window like in the stairwell to the third floor. Emmie clutched the railing with her left hand as she descended behind him, and prepared to make a grab at the collar of his sweater vest with her right, if he were to take a tumble. Once both sets of feet were firmly on the tiled floor at the bottom, she breathed a silent prayer.
    The riven-surfaced grey slate was uneven; it felt like the floor of a cave. Her boots made a charming echo with each step, and she imagined what this underground world must have been like in its heyday. If she closed her eyes, she could picture servants in their black dresses and elegant livery rushing to and fro. An army of Victorian ants.
    “Mmmm, I can smell dinner.” She sniffed appreciatively. “It smells delicious. I totally forgot about lunch. I’m starved.”
    “We’re having venison stew. His lordship always did like his venison. I’m sorry it is no’ fresh, it’s been in vacuum packs in the freezer since the fall.”
    “I’ve never had venison before.”
    “I hope it suits your palate, then. It is leaner than beef, and has a distinct flavour to it. I cannot place it, exactly, but you’ll know it to taste it.”
    “Freedom?” Emmie suggested, somewhat tongue-in-cheek.
    Lamb cocked his head to one side; a low, airy chuckle bubbled up from his sunken chest. “Aye, freedom. I suppose that’s what it is.”
    The corridor at the bottom of the stairway led to a main, central hallway, with several closed doors down the length. Some had windows looking into the hall, but those windows were unlit. Peering through, Emmie could see that one or two had windows to the outside as well, but the dust on them was so thick that not much of the fading evening light made it through.
    “There’s plenty of old items in there,” Lamb noted when she paused and leaned close to the glass. “Mostly just pantry rubbish, cooking pots and skillets, jugs, crates, flatware—those kinds of things. But if you’re interested in researching them, too, I’ll fetch the keys. Just say the words.”
    “Yep. I’ll be knee deep in all this stuff eventually.”
    “I’ve no doubt.”
    The last door on the right led into the kitchen. It was the only lit room, besides the corridor itself. A cozy glow warmed the windows that looked into the central hallway. The unpainted plaster walls were tiled to about waist height, with old-fashioned orange tiles arranged in a subway pattern. The wooden countertops were easily a century old, and an authentic Victorian range stood unused in the corner farthest from the door. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls, and from a suspended pot rack over the counter beside the romantic black range.
    A solid work table dominated the centre of the room, at which sat two wooden stools painted a cheery sea green. Two placemats had been set out, with empty drinking glasses, forks, spoons and knives. Each placemat also had a small plate with a slice of whole-wheat bread. A crock of butter waited in the middle of the table, along with a utilitarian, but still antique-looking set of porcelain salt and pepper shakers, and a ceramic water pitcher.
    “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She pulled out the stool that faced the back wall of the kitchen, and sat down.
    “It was no trouble. I would have been doing this for myself anyway, if you hadn’t been here.”
    Lamb hobbled over to a modern stove where a pot of venison stew was simmering, and began ladling the thick, brown liquid into bowls which had been laid out on the sideboard next to it.
    Emmie watched his hunched shoulders thoughtfully. “You know, I sometimes forget that this is a way of life for people.”
    “What is?”
    “Eating dinner at the table.”
    “You don’t eat at the table?”
    She shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I mean, we used to when I was a kid. Grace—my