“Move over, Jane Austen, for the latest literary ladies who snoop in this... lively series debut.”—Kirkus Reviews on The Vanished Bride   Haworth Parsonage, February 1846: The Brontë sisters— Anne, Emily, and Charlotte—are busy with their literary pursuits. As they query publishers for their poetry, each sister hopes to write a full-length novel that will thrill the reading public. They’re also hoping for a new case for their fledgling detecting enterprise, Bell Brothers and Company solicitors. On a bitterly cold February evening, their housekeeper Tabby tells them of a grim discovery at Scar Top House, an old farmhouse belonging to the Bradshaw family. A set of bones has been found bricked up in a chimney breast inside the ancient home.   Tabby says it's bad doings, and dark omens for all of them. The rattled housekeeper gives them a warning, telling the sisters of a chilling rumour attached to the family. The villagers believe that, on the verge of bankruptcy, Clifton Bradshaw sold his soul to the devil in return for great riches. Does this have anything to do with the bones found in the Bradshaw house? The sisters are intrigued by the story and feel compelled to investigate. But Anne, Emily, and Charlotte soon learn that true evil has set a murderous trap and they've been lured right into it... Bella Ellis is the Brontë-esque pseudonym of an acclaimed author of numerous novels for adults and children. She first visited the former home of the Brontë sisters when she was ten years old. From the moment she stepped over the threshold she was hooked, and she embarked on a lifelong love affair with Charlotte, Emily, and Anne; their life; their literature; and their remarkable legacy. 1   The scream ripped through the frozen air, sharp as a knife.   Liston Bradshaw sat bolt upright in bed, his quick breaths misting in the freezing air. Outside a snowstorm raged, and the wind tore around Top Withens Hall, imprisoning it in a howling, furious vortex of noise. When the dreadful cry sounded for the second time, Liston stumbled out of bed, dragging on his breeches and shoving his bare feet into his boots. Careering down the stairs into the hall, he heard his father's violent shouts.   "Begone with you, demon, begone!" Clifton Bradshaw railed at thin air. Liston arrived to see his father swivelling this way and that, a rusty old sword from above the fireplace in his hand, as he jabbed at and threatened empty spaces. His eyes were wild with fright and red with drink. The hounds barked madly at his side, in turn cowering from and snarling at some invisible threat. "Show yourself, and let me fight you!"   "What is it, Pa?" Liston asked as the latest scream died away, and he searched out every dark corner for the phantom intruder. "Why are we cursed so?"   "I'm mortal afraid that she has come back to claim my soul," Clifton told his son, his voice trembling.   "Who? Is there someone outside?" Liston went to the door, grabbing a poker from the fireplace.   "There's no one outside, fool," Bradshaw spat. "This fury comes from within the house. It comes to take revenge."   When the wailing came again, it was heavy with a piercing, plaintive sorrow that soaked the very air in grief. His father was right. There was no mistaking it: the cries were coming from the oldest part of the house, from the rooms that his father had shut up on the day Liston's mother died, and none had set foot in them since.   "Mary." Bradshaw's face crumbled as he spoke his dead wife's name aloud, dragging the sword across the stone flags. "Mary, why do you hate me so? Please, I beg you. Tell me what you want from me!"   "Pa?" Liston called after him uncertainly.   "Are you coming, or will you be a milksop all your life?"   Liston swallowed his misgivings and followed his father into the perfect dark.   The dull jangle of heavy keys, the clunk of the stiff lock opening and the creak of the old door echoed in the night, and Liston held his breath. His mother's mausoleum had been unlocked.   The rush of air that greeted them was stiff with ice.   Liston shuddered as he stepped over the threshold into the old house. Thirteen years since his mother had gone to God. Thirteen years since his father had shut off these rooms, keeping the only key on his belt at all times, even when he slept. In all that time there had been no fire in the grate, not even a candle lit at the window.   It was as cold and silent as the grave.   "Mary?" Liston was stunned to hear his father's voice thick with raw and bloody sorrow. "Mary, is it you? Are you coming back to me, my darling? Mary, answer me!"   As they entered what had once been his mother's bedchamber, it was as if time stopped. The storm quietened in an instant, and suddenly every corner was lit up by the full moon, almost as bright as day. The ancient box bed crouched in the corner, as if it might pounce at any moment. The few things that his mother had owned were still laid out on the dressing table, and a h