The police report lay buried under the solicitor's letters, the deeds and land receipt, the hospital bills and the letters of condolence from New York. Edith, who had never before flinched away from piles of paper, kept avoiding this one, moving around it whenever she passed by that corner of the desk.

She couldn't avoid it forever, of course. It was late spring now, and although the events of the winter were past, and her physical wounds had healed, Edith still felt the aches and anguish deep inside her for all that had happened at Allerdale Hall. She, Edith Shar-, no, she, Edith Cushing had killed a woman. A lunatic to be sure, a monster driven by hateful jealousy and twisted love, but still, that didn't change the truth of the matter. Lucille Sharpe had died at her hands.

It should have been satisfying to send her father's murderer to hell, but it . . . wasn't. Edith knew despite it all her father was just as dead as before, along with Thomas.

Thomas. It still hurt to think of him even now, months later. His dimpled smile; his gentle hands; his unwavering gaze. Edith tried to hate those memories, tried to push them away by reminding herself he'd been an accomplice to murder himself; that he too had broken laws of ethics and morality. He'd even conceived a child in his perverted relationship with her father's murderer. All of that should have snuffed out her love but the damning truth was it hadn't.

Something lost within her still longed for Thomas Sharpe, and at night she lay awake, hoping against hope that his ghost might appear. Just a glimpse, a last look perhaps to lay to rest that flicker in her heart.

But nothing haunted her now, except regret, and pain.

Alan, dear Alan was still at her side, and she owed him a great deal. He wasn't the sort to press her, especially at the moment, but he'd been getting regular letters from his mother demanding to know when he was returning to America, and although he wanted to stay, it was proving difficult. He'd overextended himself and needed to get back to his practice.

He'd offered to start it in England, but Edith wouldn't hear of it. "I'm not staying here, but I'm not ready to return to Buffalo just yet."

A half-lie, but necessary. Edith didn't think she could face her childhood home again and return to a circle of people ready to judge her tragic circumstances. They would eye the healing scar across her cheek and shudder, would probably whisper among themselves and that, Edith knew, would never end.

Better to stay here in Carlisle for a while longer and then perhaps go to London. Maybe Paris. Certainly she had the money to do so, with possible a little more when the moldering remains of her brief home could be sold. Various solicitors assured her that Allerdale Hall would be freed for sale very soon, but time kept dragging on.

She stared at the pile, and took a breath. Moving stiffly, Edith settled herself into the cushioned chair and began sorting the papers, making neat piles that could be filed later. Everything related to the Hall in one pile. Bills in another. A third pile for correspondence from home. And finally her fingers touched the thick envelope with the detective's signature on it. Edith picked it up, feeling her pulse jump.

There would be nothing here she didn't already know, Edith reasoned with herself. She'd lived through it all, and knew the worst. There would be mention of Lucille and the other bodies found at the Hall, of the knives and blood and grisly trophies. Diagrams very likely, and maps.

Possibly drawings.

She pressed her lips together. With sudden ruthlessness, Edith scooped up the letter opener, slid it behind the flap and let it slice through the thick envelope. Before her courage waned, she unfolded the pages inside, smoothing them out on the desk, aware of her thumping heart.

The details seemed at odds with the soft spring day outside the study window, the facts in contrast with the sunshine and warmth. The detective's handwriting was very neat, she noted absently as she reached for her glasses, and read on.

It was all here: Enola's recordings, the skeletons in the vats, the civil records of multiple marriages, the large cleaver. Edith swallowed, trying not to let her rising gorge spill over as memories flare in her head. She scanned all the way to the end of the report, feeling faint, and near the bottom one line caught her eye.

n.b. Body of Sir Thom. Sharpe was not found at this time. Further searches will be conducted.

She re-read it three times, each one making her draw in a quick breath.

It didn't make sense.

Edith blinked. She looked on the other side of the report, expecting to find an addendum but there was nothing. The detective constable's signature graced the bottom of the report, along with the date nearly five months earlier. She let the paper drop onto the desk and stared at it.

"Thomas . . ." she murmured, as if saying his name would bring him before her. Nothing of the sort happened, and Edith drew in a calming breath, trying to decide what to do.

An update. There must be an update to the investigation, she realized, and even as she reached for a pen, she paused.

Alan would be the first to tell her to leave it alone. And he had the right to advise her, Edith knew. He'd earned it in blood that night and she'd always be grateful to him. Grateful and glad of his support, of his concern, but despite everything they'd been through together, it hadn't deepened her affection for him into love. Edith cared for him, cared about him of course, but the deeper bond simply wasn't there, much as he might long for it. Alan loved her; she didn't love him back.

And that hurt too. He'd been there most of her life, and through the horrors of the last year, and yet even those events didn't change matters between them. Edith had been gentle but firm in her rejection of his proposals, and over the last few months Alan had stopped putting them forward, but his longing glances continued.

Edith shook her head slightly and stared down at the name of the detective constable: Edmund Burton. She vaguely remembered him; a short burly man with a beard and glasses. He'd questioned her at the hospital, his manner respectfully slow. She hadn't seen him again and suspected Alan had intervened on her behalf. The inquest hadn't called her, and results of the investigation were clear.

Lucille Sharpe had been declared a mad woman and murderess; had been named as the killer of at least seven persons including her parents and brother. Edith herself had been acquitted of all charges through clear evidence of self-defense. The press had come swarming to Allerdale Hall, trampling through the house until the police had surrounded it with a hastily erected fence. Reporters had tried to interview her but Alan had hired bodyguards to drive them away, and now months later, matters had slowly settled down, somewhat.

She uncapped the pen.

Dear Detective Burton, Edith wrote. Thank you for your work on my behalf regarding the events at Allerdale Hall. I appreciate all that you have done to resolve this difficult tragedy and provide justice for the other victims.

However, when I finally read the report that has lain on my desk these many months, I noted that at the time of writing, you had not found the body of my late husband, Sir Thomas Sharpe. Has this changed? Have you found his remains at all? While I bear no love for his sister's memory and care nothing for the details of her burial, I feel an unfulfilled obligation to that of Sir Thomas. Please reply at your earliest convenience so that I may plan accordingly.

With deep gratitude,

Edith Cushing Sharpe

It felt odd to write her name, and Edith stared at her signature for a moment before capping the pen and setting it down. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she flexed them before reaching for an envelope, addressing it, and folding the note within it.

The maid popped in moments after Edith had rung for her, and took the letter, exchanging it for the morning paper. Edith took it and moved to the chaise lounge, feeling slightly exhausted as her emotions took their toll. She shook open the paper and scanned it, prepared to lose herself in the news of the day.

-oo00oo-

Three days later, Detective Constable Edmund Burton sat uncomfortably on the settee across from Edith Cushing Sharpe, studying her pale features with care. She looked stronger than she had in the hospital but not by much, and the pink line across her right cheekbone stood out against her milky complexion. He noted too, that although she seemed composed, her hands flexed periodically as she moved the tea cups around on the tray.

"I myself don't drink tea . . . anymore," she murmured, "but I'm sure you do. Milk? Lemon?"

"Neither, ma'am, although I do take sugar," Edmund rumbled. He watched her fix his cup, noting that her fingers were free of rings. Not surprising, that. Once she handed him his cup, he took a sip, letting it fortify him for what was to come. "Thank you."

She waited, her brown eyes fixed on him, and he gave a little sigh before speaking again. "In regards to the matter on which you wrote me, the answer is no. We did not find Sir Thomas' body anywhere on the grounds of Allerdale Hall. I had my men search the house, the mines and the surrounding fields after the blizzard but they turned up nothing."

Years of watching people gave him an insight to their reactions, and Edmund saw that this news didn't surprise her as much as it should have. She frowned. "He should have been in the house."

"Yet he wasn't," Edmund quietly pointed out. "My men looked everywhere for him and didn't find a trace. And that bothers me, ma'am. His body should be there. Unless . . ." he left his sentence unfinished, to see what she would do.

"He died," Edith replied firmly. "I . . . I know he did."

"Begging your pardon ma'am, but how?" Edmund asked quietly. "Did you see his body?"

"No," she replied, "but I am . . . convinced he died."

Edmund set his cup down. "Respectfully, I am not completely sure he did." Forestalling her, he held up a hand. "The most likely truth is that he may have crawled off somewhere, or sank into the clay, may have been lost in the snow and died elsewhere, but without a body it nags at me. I have been told to close the case so that legal proceedings can get on, and I will, but under protest."

"I see," Edith replied. They sat in silence for a moment, and Edmund Burton watched her face, noting the shades of wistfulness and hope cross her features. It didn't surprise him; he'd seen a lot in his time on the force, tragedy and horror, despair and longing.

"I don't want you to get your hopes shattered, ma'am. He's very likely dead although we can't prove it. All I'm telling you is that you won't have a body to bury. Raise a stone to his memory if you wish, but wherever Sir Thomas lies, it won't be under it. Sorry to be blunt, but that's the way of things."

"No, you're probably right," Edith told him faintly. "I suppose it would be best to . . . move on."

"Yes ma'am," he agreed. "It would. And my condolences of course."

He allowed her to see him out, feeling relieved to have spoken his piece, and regretful at inflicting further hurt, but the sooner this business was finished, the better. At the door, he turned to look at Edith, but she was gazing off towards the horizon and Edmund knew where her glance had gone.

"The lawyers tell me that there is a buyer waiting once the case is closed," she murmured. "That they intend to bring the house down with dynamite."

"Do they now?" Edmund turned to gaze towards the distant Hall. "That will be a sight."

"Yes," Edith agreed. "One I think I will not stay to see. Although I may visit it one last time before it happens."

The little hairs on the back of Edmund Burton's neck stood up in a chilly rush. "Begging pardon Ma'am but do you think that's wise?"

She turned to look at him, a strange little smile on her pale face. "No. But then again, I've already made so many unwise decisions, that one more won't do much harm, will it?"