A/N: Thanks for reviewing TheRisingAlleria, Guest, meksters, and xolovegrace. You guys are cool.
Chapter Seven - The Boathouse
Lydia didn't like the secret passageway. She didn't like the fact it existed, she didn't like the fact someone had been using it to sneak into the study and murder people, and she didn't like the fact she was currently in it with a single kerosene lantern and a revolver. She didn't like that it was freezing cold and she was still in her party dress, or that the tunnel twisted and turned under the house, looping back on itself several times and ended in a ladder.
"I'll go up first," Stiles offered, handing her the lantern.
"You'll do no such thing," Lydia said, handing him the lantern and reaching for the ladder. "Whatever you told your father-"
"Yes, I'm a target, I know," he said, sounding almost annoyed. "Maybe the murderer will listen to reason if I explain I'm not actually anywhere near an option."
They stared at each other in the gloom of the tunnel, and then glanced back at the ladder.
"We'll both fit on that," Lydia pointed out.
They crept up it together. At the top, Stiles pushed up the trap door, at which point they found themselves in the boathouse. Lydia looked around to see if there was anyone there and shivered in the late December night. The lake through the windows was mostly frozen, the banks blanketed in snow. There were no footprints in the drifts.
"So this is how the killer got into the house, I suppose," Stiles said, shining the lantern around the room. When it fell on the corner, there was a groan and a clatter. They rushed forwards to discover Meredith holding a bleeding wound in her side.
"Meredith!" Lydia exclaimed, helping her sit upright.
"Who did this?" Stiles asked, kneeling next to them.
"It was the man in the painting," Meredith said, her eyes darting around, focusing on nothing and everything at once.
"What man in the painting?" Lydia asked, helping her put pressure on the wound.
"The man in the painting in the study," Meredith said.
"We have to get her back to the house," Stiles said.
"We shouldn't take the tunnels," Lydia replied, helping Meredith to her feet. Stiles pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her. Lydia figured neither she nor Stiles would freeze to death walking across the grounds to the house, but Meredith was already hurt.
"Which portrait in the study, Meredith?" Lydia asked gently, pulling one of Meredith's arms across her shoulders. Stiles took the other.
"The one with the secret passage," Meredith said. She yelped when they stepped outside into the snow. Lydia couldn't help but agree with the assessment, but managed to keep quiet.
"But Meredith, the man in that painting has been dead for…" Stiles said, glancing over Meredith's head at Lydia for some sort of answer.
"Twenty-two years," Lydia supplied.
"Then he was a ghost," Meredith said. With a little gasp, she collapsed on the snow-covered ground.
Stiles scooped her up and they kept walking, eager to be out of the cold.
"Was he the one who gave you the note to give to Jackson?" Lydia asked.
Meredith nodded and curled closer to Stiles. "He said he wasn't going to stop until they were all dead."
"They are all dead," Stiles whispered.
"Scott and Isaac aren't," Lydia whispered back, her teeth chattering in the cold.
"So we have to find a ghost and keep them alive," Stiles summarised. "That shouldn't be too difficult."
Lydia glanced up at him reproachfully and he had the grace to look ashamed of himself.
"Or it'll be very, very difficult and we should get the doctor immediately," Stiles corrected while Lydia knocked on the back door. They heard frantic and worried whispers on the other side of the door and then it opened a crack to reveal Finstock.
"She's been hurt," Lydia said before Finstock could close the door. His eyes widened and he ushered the three of them into the hall.
"Put her in my office," Finstock instructed, leading them down the hallway after he re-locked the door.
"No, put her in mine," the head of house said, appearing from the kitchen. "I was a nurse before Scott was born."
Lydia didn't argue with her mother's head of household and neither did Stiles. Meredith had broken out in a sweat and her blood was soaking through her dress and Stiles' borrowed coat. They put her on the sofa in Mrs McCall's sitting room and she shooed them off to find the inspector.
"Is she going to be okay?" Lydia asked.
Mrs McCall looked up at her from where she was kneeling next to Meredith and pressing a cloth to her forehead. Lydia could see from her eyes that the answer was no.
"Go find the inspector," Mrs McCall said. "He was in the ballroom helping the earl remove the guests."
Lydia and Stiles dithered in the doorway until Finstock pulled them both away.
"Go find them, let them know what's happened," Finstock said. "Mrs McCall and I will keep an eye on Meredith."
Lydia nodded and went with Stiles to the stairs. She realised as they walked that they were both bloody, but they were in a hurry, and she didn't know where to find Stiles a new shirt.
Fortunately, when they reached the ballroom, everyone was gone except for her mother, Argent, and the inspector who were deep in conversation. At least, they were until Natalie caught sight of them.
"Lydia!" she exclaimed, looking horrified. "Why are you covered in blood?"
"It's Meredith's," Lydia said, trying not to feel sick about the whole thing as her mother grabbed her arms and examined her for damage.
"Stiles, I sincerely hope the blood on you isn't yours," the inspector said.
"No," Stiles said. "We found Meredith out in the boathouse. She said that the killer wasn't going to stop until they were all dead."
"Did you ask her who it was?" Argent demanded.
"She said it was your father," Lydia said.
"My father," Argent repeated blankly. "My father who has been dead for twenty-two years."
"She had already lost a lot of blood," Lydia said. "But have all the guests gone?"
"Yes, we've sent them away," Argent agreed. "The inspector and I are going to search the house thoroughly. Lydia, find your sister and tell her to keep an eye on Isaac Lahey. He's the last person we have to worry about. Then I want you to go to sleep, lock your door, and don't open it unless I come for you."
Lydia was perfectly alright with that plan of action, and didn't correct him as far as Isaac being the only remaining target.
"What should I do?" Stiles asked.
"You've done far too much already," the inspector said. "Lord Argent, is there somewhere he can sleep for the night? Preferably somewhere with a lock."
"There's a spare room on the second floor just down the hall from Lydia's," Natalie supplied. "We'll find you some unbloodied clothes as well. And you two – be careful."
Lydia glanced at the earl and the inspector and felt a lump in her throat. She would never forgive herself if something happened to either of them.
"But I could help you search," Stiles insisted.
"No, please Stiles," the inspector said. "Please just go to sleep. I should never have brought you with me."
Lydia watched as Stiles shook his father's hand firmly and then abandoned pretence and hugged him. Then Natalie was leading them both out of the room and up the stairs. They paused at Allison's room on the first floor and Natalie knocked sharply.
There was a scrambling noise and then the door opened a crack to reveal Allison's eye. When she saw who it was, she opened the door wider.
"Mr Parrish and Mr Tate are both dead and Meredith has been gravely injured," Lydia said before her mother could say anything. "Father wants you to keep an eye on Isaac since he's the last remaining target."
Allison nodded and her eyes darted to Stiles very briefly. Then she noticed the blood on Lydia's hands.
"Are you alright?" she demanded, seizing her hands and inspecting them for damage.
"I'm fine," Lydia promised. "It's Meredith's. Mrs McCall doesn't think…"
She didn't need to finish the sentence because Allison understood.
"Mr Lahey, I'm so sorry to put you out like this, but it wouldn't be too uncomfortable for you to sleep on the davenport in Allison's dressing room, would it?" Natalie asked, giving him a sympathetic look. "It's only, there are two locks between there and the rest of the house and we'll get you out of here first thing in the morning."
"It's perfectly fine," Isaac said and Lydia noticed he'd removed his jacket and cuffed his sleeves and had generally become quite casual and comfortable. Lydia tried not to think about the fact Allison's hair was down and Scott was presumably hiding in the dressing room at that moment.
"We'll keep the doors locked until morning or someone comes for us," Allison said. "But Mr Tate doesn't…"
"Peter Hale admitted to that one," Stiles said. "Malia's his daughter and he – well, actually, we didn't get the full story."
Natalie stared at him for a second and then glanced at Lydia.
"How is it the two of you are so much better informed than I am?" she asked.
Lydia and Stiles shrugged together.
Natalie still looked concerned but hugged Allison tightly and kissed her on the cheek before she led Lydia and Stiles away. They heard the lock click on Allison's door as they headed back for the stairs.
"Mother, you shouldn't walk back to your room alone," Lydia said. "It isn't safe."
"I can't let you walk to yours alone, either," Natalie said.
"We could go by your room first, Lady Argent, and then I can walk Lydia to hers and she can point out which room I'm to stay in," Stiles offered.
Natalie glanced between them and Lydia saw the fear in her eyes. Suddenly, she felt awful for her mother. She'd been kept completely in the dark until the eleventh hour and now her husband was searching the house with very little help.
"Mother, I'll be fine," Lydia said. "I promise. And neither of us have come to harm yet."
She pushed open the door to her mother's room and held her hand until she sat in her arm chair.
"And you should try to get some sleep," Lydia suggested, hugging her tightly and kissing her on the cheek.
"I'm afraid that's going to be impossible, dear," Natalie said, cupping her face briefly. "I'm so sorry about Jackson."
"Thank you," Lydia said. It wasn't the time to point out that while she was sad about Jackson's death, she was perfectly fine that she wasn't going to be marrying him.
"Lock the door behind us," Stiles said, ducking his head quickly in deference and then following Lydia into the hall. They heard the lock click behind them.
"We actually ought to sleep," Lydia said quietly. "And let our fathers search."
"Yes, I suppose you're right," Stiles agreed. "Do you mind if I borrow Jackson's clothes again?"
"No, that's fine," Lydia said, leading the way up the stairs and to Jackson's room. She helped Stiles find a new shirt and pair of trousers and showed him to the spare room. "Be sure you lock the door."
"Of course," Stiles said. "Do you suppose Scott was still in Allison's dressing room?"
"Yes, I do," Lydia agreed. "Your father isn't going to tell ours about Scott being a target, is he?"
"No, I shouldn't think he would, since he's romancing Mrs McCall," Stiles replied.
"Naturally," Lydia said. She had no further reason to be standing at his door, but couldn't seem to make herself leave. "Sleep well."
"You too," Stiles said, his eyes falling from hers to her mouth and then back to her eyes. As awfully inappropriate as it was, her heart fluttered.
"Good night," she said. She wasn't going to trip into the same pitfalls as Allison and take to having a secret common lover.
"Good night," Stiles echoed.
She nodded once, mostly to stop herself from saying anything else and turned to leave. She had barely moved when he caught her wrist and spun her back around. She found herself pressed against him, their foreheads touching. She almost gave in to her desires, almost kissed him, but at the last second she caught sight of the blood on his shirt.
"I can't," she murmured. "I can't be responsible for getting you killed as well."
"You wouldn't be responsible," he said, his hand trailing up her arm.
"I can't," she repeated. She kissed him on the cheek and walked briskly down the hall to her room, pausing in the doorway to make sure he closed his door and locked it. She locked her own door and used the basin in her room to wash the makeup off her face and Meredith's blood off her hands.
It was ridiculous. As soon as the killer was caught and as soon as her instituted period of mourning was over, her parents were going to find her another fiancé. She couldn't afford to develop an attachment to a detective inspector's son. Especially not when anyone close to her was doomed to death by wire.
Her mind was ill at ease as she braided her hair and crawled into bed. For a single moment, she considered turning the lights off. Instead, she pulled her pillow over her head and tried to rid herself of the images of Jackson, Mr Lahey, Mr Tate, Mr Parrish, and Meredith that insisted on running through her mind's eye.
Fun Fact: (because I couldn't come up with one that actually relates to this chapter, I'm sorry) One of my distant family members appears to be a conspiracy theorist and I spent the entire morning (hence how late this chapter is) listening to his mother describe the idea the Knights Templar are responsible for the blood of Christ ending up in a secret Templar/Mason sanctuary somewhere and she absolutely would not listen to me when I pointed out that it was essentially a fiction created in the eighties and then parroted by Dan Brown in the Da Vinci Code, and didn't seem to believe me when I explained the Templars and the Masons aren't actually the same thing, the Masons just borrowed the (long dead) Templar's ideology. Most of the charges associated with the Templars and their heresy were collected through forced confessions when the members were tortured by the French king. I could go off on an explanation of why it wasn't really France in 1309, but I won't because this story takes place in 1908 and it isn't relevant. And I'm sorry for my rant. I just get annoyed as a medieval historian who specialises in the crusades.