Much as she hated to put the manuscript aside, Nancy had to admit to herself that it did little good to read while she was so tired. She turned out the light and curled up under the covers, listening to the wind howl outside.
Tomorrow I'll investigate that basement lab, she thought. And call Dad.
The next morning, Nancy crept down to the foyer before the other girls had awakened and dialed a familiar number on the hall table telephone. The glass from the shattered mirror had been swept into a neat pile in the corner, and it glittered like tiny diamonds in the golden morning light.
"Hi Hannah," Nancy said softly. "I can't talk long. How's Dad doing?"
"You can talk to him yourself," the housekeeper replied. Nancy heard her muffled cry of "Carson! It's Nancy!" before she returned to the line. "And how are you doing, dear?"
"Fine," Nancy said. "And Celia is fine, too."
"Here's your dad," Hannah said. "Promise me you're not getting yourself wrapped up in another mystery, Nancy."
"I can't really promise that," Nancy admitted. There was a rustling on the other end of the line.
A rasping voice said, "Hi, Nance."
Nancy felt a lump rise in her throat. "Hi Dad. How are you today?"
"Feeling better," Carson said. "I'm not as stiff and everything seems more—clear, somehow. How are you?"
"I'm good, Dad," Nancy said.
"Oh, listen, Hannah says breakfast is ready."
"I'll call back later," Nancy said, feeling slightly disappointed that she could not hold her father's evasive attention.
"Here's Hannah again," her father said. "Goodbye, Nance."
"Bye, Dad," Nancy choked, but it was Hannah who replied.
"Dear? Don't be upset, he's just a little unfocused th'smorning."
"It's been a month and a half since the accident, though," Nancy protested.
"And the doctors said it could be a year before he's back to normal," Hannah soothed. "Don't worry, dear, just have a nice time in the country. That poor girl needs you. We'll call you later."
"All right," Nancy said, and after saying her good-byes placed the receiver back in its cradle. She sighed deeply, staring at the empty frame that had once held the shattered mirror. It indeed seemed to be tilted toward the stairs, and Nancy could imagine that someone seated at the desk in the study would be able to see an intruder coming down the hall.
"Nancy?"
She looked up to see Celia standing in the doorway, dressed in a blue blouse and cream-colored slacks.
"I made breakfast," she said. "We're in the dining room."
"We?" Nancy said, shaking her head. "Is Isabel up too?"
"Oh, yes," said Celia, an unpleasant note in her voice. "She's quite chipper this morning."
Nancy followed her friend into the dining room. The warm morning light slanted through the cobwebbed windows, creating a sort of haze in the imposing, masculine room. Isabel was seated at the end of the table, in a shaft of golden light, spreading strawberry jam on a piece of toast.
"Hey Nancy," she said, looking up. "You sleep well?"
"Well enough," she replied, sitting down next to the blonde girl. "Did you find a room? I'm sorry we didn't—"
"She slept on the foot of Ethan's bed," said Celia curtly, dropping a plate of toast in front of Nancy with a hollow clunk.
"Oh," Nancy said weakly, watching the sunlight stream through her glass of orange juice. Celia sat down opposite her. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face seemed drawn and tired.
There was silence for a few awkward moments. Finally, Isabel spoke.
"Listen," she said. "I heard you two talkin' yesterday in the study. I know why you're here, Nancy, and I hafta say I agree with Celia. I think somebody killed Ethan, and I want to find out who. If his book can help, then I say we all read it and work on it together."
Celia frowned, but Nancy quickly added, "Actually, Isabel, I read some of it last night." She quickly filled the girls in on what she had read, emphasizing the secret passageway in the study, but omitting the Selkirk family history. Evidently Isabel had read part of the manuscript, because she looked up at Nancy in surprise when she failed to mention the death of Elizabeth Selkirk and her husband's subsequent disappearance. But she said nothing, and it was Celia who responded first.
"There's a passageway in the study? He never told me!"
"I don't know whether he himself explored it or not," Nancy explained. "I haven't read very far. We'll look into it after breakfast."
Nancy felt slightly uncertain about telling the girls everything she knew; she felt Celia was above suspicion, but something about Isabel still made her uneasy. Isabel seemed to have made herself at home at Selkirk End with Ethan's tacit consent. The question, Nancy wondered, was why?
"My mom would love to see this house," Isabel commented through a mouthful of toast. "She loves old houses and the Victorians and stuff. She named all of us kids out of romance novels she's read."
"That would explain it," Celia said in an undertone.
Isabel appeared not to have heard, however, and plowed onward. "My next-youngest brother is Ashley, the sister younger'n him is Guinevere, then Dmitri and Percival and then the littlest is Caravelle."
"Oh," said Nancy politely, her thoughts still lost in Ethan Laramie's manuscript.
"Percival Ficklin?" Celia said snidely. "That's quite a name."
"I like it," Isabel snapped, dropping her fork on her plate with a ringing clang that echoed in the stillness of the dining room.
"Do you?" Celia inquired pointedly. "Is that why you kept sneaking in here? You wanted to pretend you were a princess?"
"I never wanted to be a princess," Isabel said, her voice dangerously calm.
"That's good," Celia hissed, "because you'll never be anything but a filthy ignorant little redneck sl—"
"Enough!" Nancy barked, surprising even herself. "That's enough!" There was a meaningful silence, then Isabel spoke.
"'M sorry, Celia." She bowed her head, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I know I'm in the wrong here, but"—she burst into noisy tears—"I loved your brother too, and he was the only person I ever met who I thought understood me."
Celia looked ashamed, her gaze fixed on the gleaming rim of her plate. Nancy waited for her to apologize, but the girl was silent. Beside her, Isabel looked stung.
Suddenly, a pounding sound rattled the dishes and made all three girls jump. "The door!" Celia gasped, eyes wide. The trio ran into the hall, skidding on the rug in their sock feet. Celia reached the door first and threw it open, panting for breath.
On the porch stood a stocky, dark-haired man in his thirties. He was dressed in a conservative black suit and clutched a thick black book to his chest. There was something about him that looked vaguely and hauntingly familiar to Nancy, as if she had seen him in a dream or a past life. He regarded the girls through beady black eyes, a placid smile on his unlined face.
"Sisters," he said, holding out his hands as if in benediction. The biting October wind swirled around him, setting Nancy's teeth on edge. "Sisters, may I come in from the cold?"
Celia had an expression of disdain on her face, but she allowed him inside. He stamped off his glossy dress shoes on the hall rug. He turned to Celia and took one of her thin white hands in his.
"Sister Celia," he said earnestly, looking into her eyes, "how are you faring? I came as soon as I heard of your brother's passing."
"Fine, thank you," Celia said stiffly.
"Won't you introduce me to your friends?" he asked, gesturing broadly with the hand holding the book, which from its gilt-edged pages Nancy surmised to be a Bible.
"This is Nancy Drew and Isabel Ficklin," said Celia through gritted teeth. "Nancy, Isabel, this is Brother Michael of the Anointed Brethren."
The girls murmured their hellos. Nancy noticed that Brother Michael seemed especially taken with Isabel; he stared at her a moment, and an odd, unreadable expression clouded his blue eyes. At last he tore his gaze from the older girl and came to rest on Nancy.
"Drew," he said thoughtfully. "Related to Carson Drew, the criminal lawyer?"
"His daughter," Nancy replied.
"I was sorry to hear of his accident," Brother Michael said quietly. "I have been praying for his recovery."
"Thank you," the young detective murmured. "Tell me, Brother Michael, have you known Celia long?"
"I have spoken to Sister Celia before," the man said vaguely, finally letting go of the girl's hand; Celia surreptitiously wiped it on the front of her slacks. "I did not have the privilege of meeting her brother. He was in town when I called last."
Brother Michael glanced about furtively, as if expecting to be invited into the house. Celia shifted her weight from foot to foot, her lips drawn up tight.
Finally the man spoke, holding the Bible out to Celia. "I wanted to leave this with you," he said, looking earnestly into her eyes. "I hope you may find solace in it. I have taken the liberty of marking a few pertinent passages—"
"Thank you," Celia said stiffly, taking the book and placing it on the hall table next to the telephone. "Is there anything else?"
"No," Brother Michael said, stepping to the door. "I will call again later, when you have had time to pause and reflect. Goodbye, sisters. God bless." He opened the door and was swept away by the brutal gale. Celia slammed the door behind him.