It wasn't the garden's fault. No, the garden itself was beautiful. This serene escape from the tension, spoken and silent inside that looming stone farmhouse. How inviting it was out here. Flowing greens, small riots of flowered color, a small patch of American Eden. Oh, but what happened here? Like a violation in the dead night. Who were those two figures, barely visible in the sunlight, speaking in hushed and urgent tones? She, young, beautiful, charming. He, older, wild, mild-eye and intense. Exactly what passed between them, no one else knew. And yet, their garden meeting planted seeds. And those seeds grew into jealousy, betrayal, a vanishing, and a sentence of death. I'm Keith Morison, and this is season 3 of Morrise and mysteries. Our story begins far from that American garden. It's the mid-1800s, London. Our narrator is the young attorney, Philip Lepfranck. He is driven, ambitious, and so overworked, he is collapsed. Slow down, the doctor will tell him. Take a relaxing trip. So Philip decides to see some distant relatives in America, where he'll soon visit that beautiful garden. Here now is The Dead Alive by Wilkie Collins. Chapter One, The Sick Man. Heart all right, said the doctor.

Lungs all right. No organic disease that I can discover. Philip Lafranck, don't alarm yourself. You're not going to die yet. The disease you're suffering from is overwork. The remedy in your case is rest. So the doctor spoke. In my attorney's chambers in London, having been sent for about a half hour earlier, after I had alarmed my clerk by fainting at my desk. Rest, I repeated. My good friend, are you aware of what time of year it is? The courts are sitting. Look at the briefs waiting for me on that table. Rest means ruin, in my case. And work, added the doctor quietly, means death. I started. He wasn't trying to frighten me. He was plainly in earnest. It's merely a question of time, he went on. You cannot deliberately overworked your brain and deranged your nervous system much longer. Go away at once. The next day, I followed my doctor's advice by taking my passage for America in in the first steamer that sailed for New York. I had chosen the voyage to America because a relative of my mother's had emigrated to the United States many years since and had settled there as a farmer.

He'd given me a general invitation to visit him if I ever crossed the Atlantic. So after a brief sojourn at New York, I started by railway for the residence of my host, Mr. Isaac Meadow Meadowcroft of Morwick Farm. I looked around me when I stepped off the railway. I said to myself, If to be cured means in my case to be dull, I have accurately picked out the very best place for the purpose. Mr. Metta Croft's eldest son, Ambrose, was waiting at the station to drive me to the farm. There was no forewarning in the appearance of Ambrose Metta Croft of the strange and terrible events that were to follow my arrival at Morwick. A healthy, handsome young fellow, one of thousands of other healthy, handsome young fellows, said, How do you do, Mr. Lafranc? Glad to see you, sir. Jump into the buggy. The man will look after your suitcase. With equal politeness, I answered, Thank you. How are you all at home? So we started on the way to the farm. You couldn't have chosen a better time, he said. Our house has never been so cheerful as it is now. Have you any visitors staying with you?

Not exactly a visitor, he said. It's a new member of the family who has come to live with us. Well, I said, a new member of the family? May I ask who it is? Ambrose Meta Croft considered before he replied, touched his horse with a whip, looked at me with a certain sheepish hesitation, it suddenly burst out with the truth in the plainest possible words. It's just the nicest girl, sir, you ever saw in your life. A friend of your sister's, I suppose, I said. A friend? Bless your heart, it's our little American cousin, Naomi Colebrook. I vaguely remembered that a younger sister of Mr. Metta Crofts had married an American merchant in the remote past and then died, leaving an only child. When Naomi made her appearance, Ambrose said, she conquered us all. Such a girl took her place as one of the family directly, learned to make herself useful in the dairy in a week's time. I tell you this, she hasn't been with us quite two months yet, and we wonder already how we ever got on without her. Once started on the subject of Naomi Colbrook, Ambrose held to that one topic and talked on it without intermission.

It required no great gift of perception to discover the impression the cousin had produced. I really felt a mild flutter of anticipation at the prospect of seeing Naomi when we drew up toward the close of the evening at the gates of Morwick Farm. And so, after a long journey, Philip stands on the threshold of Morwick Farm, expecting rest and relaxation. How naive, our London lawyer. He has no idea. Join Hoda Khatvi for a brand new season of her podcast, Making Space. For Season 5, I am making space to talk to people who are providing a sense of hope and inspiration when life changes course. Uplifting conversations with inspiring individuals like NFL legend, Drew Brees, singer-songwriter Ziggy Marley, and today's show co-anchor, Savannah Guthrie, as you have never heard her before. I found faith more viscerally, not because the bad thing didn't happen, but because it did. I promise you, like me, we'll leave these conversations with some wisdom for your own journey, empowered and inspired to make space in your own life. All episodes of Season 5 of Making Space with Hoda Koffie are available now, wherever you get your podcasts. Listen now. Chapter 2, New Faces.

Immediately on my arrival, I was presented to Mr. Metta Croft, the father. The old man had become a confirmed invalid, confined by chronic rheumatism to his chair. He received me kindly and a little wearily as well. He was widowed long ago, and his only unmarried daughter, Ms. Metta Croft, was in the room, tending to her father. She was a melancholy middle-aged woman, one of those persons who appeared to accept the obligation of living under protest as a burden which they would never have consented to bear had they only been consulted first. We three had a dreary little conversation in a parlor of bare walls, And then I was permitted to go upstairs and unpack my suitcase in my own room. Supper will be at nine o'clock, sir, said Ms. Metta Croft. I followed the groom up to my room, not over well-pleased with my first experience of the farm. My room was clean, depressively clean. I quite longed to see a little dust somewhere. My library was limited to the Bible and the prayer book. Above the white bed hung a scroll bearing a damnatory quotation from scripture in emblaisoned letters of red and black.

My spirits sank as I looked around me. I lighted the candles and took from my suitcase a charming and masterful French novel. In five minutes, I was in a new world, and my melancholy room was full of the liveliest French company. The sound of an imperative and uncompromising bell recalled me to reality. I looked at my watch, 9:00. Ambrose met me at the bottom of the stairs and showed me the way to the supper room. Mr. Metta Croft's invalid chair had been wheeled to the head of the table. On his right-hand side sat his sad and silent daughter. Silas Metta Croft came in at the same moment and was presented to me by his brother. There was a strong family likeness between them, Ambrose being the taller and the handsomer man of the two. The door opened again. Well, I was still studying the two brothers. Without, I honestly confess, being very favorably impressed by either of them when a new member of the family circle, who instantly attracted my attention, entered the room. He was short, spare, and wiry, single regularly pale for a person whose life was passed in the country. The face was in other respects, besides this, a striking face to see.

As to the lower part, it was covered with a thick black beard and mustache at a time when shaving was the rule, and beards, the rare exception in America. As to the upper part of the face, it was irradiated by a pair of wild, glittering, brown eyes, the expression of which suggested to me that there was something not quite right with the man's mental balance. A perfectly sane person in all his sayings and doings so far as I could see, but something in those wild brown eyes suggested to me that under exceptionally trying circumstances, he might surprise his oldest friends by acting in some violent or foolish way. A little cracked. That was my impression. Mr. Mettaecroft, the elder, having not spoken one word thus far, himself introduced the newcomer to me with a side glance at his son's, which had something like defiance in it. A glance which, as I was sorry to notice, was returned with the defiance on their side by the two young men. Philip Lafranc, this is my overlooker, Mr. Jago, said the old man, formally presenting us. John Jago, this is my young relative, Mr. Lafranc. He is not well.

He has come over the ocean for rest and a change of scene. Make acquaintance with Mr. Jago. Sit together. He cast another dark look at his sons, and the sons again returned it. They pointedly drew back from John Jago as he approached the empty chair next to me and moved round to the opposite side of the table. It was plain that the man with the beard stood high in the father's favor and that he was disliked for that or for some other reason by the sons. The door opened once A young lady quietly joined the party at the supper table. Was the young lady Naomi Colbrooke? I looked at Ambrose and saw the answer in his face. Naomi Naomi Colebrook at last. A pretty girl. And so far as I could judge by appearances, a good girl, too. Describing her generally, I may say that she had a small head, well-carried, and well-set on her shoulders, bright gray eyes that looked at you honestly and meant what they looked. A trim, slight figure. I liked Naomi Colebrook at first sight. Liked her pleasant smile. Liked her hearty shake of the hand when we were presented to each other.

If I get on well with nobody else in this house, I thought to myself, I shall certainly get on well with you. Ambrose made room for Naomi to sit between his brother and himself. She changed color for a moment and looked at him with a pretty reluctant tenderness as she took her chair. I strongly suspected the young farmer of squeezing her hand privately under cover of the tablecloth. The supper was not a merry one. The only cheerful conversation was the conversation across the table between Naomi and me. For some For incomprehensible reason, John Jago seemed to be ill at ease in the presence of this young countrywoman. He looked up at Naomi doubtingly from his plate and looked down again slowly with a frown. When I addressed him, he answered tensely. Even when he spoke to Mr. Metta Croft, he was still on his guard, on his guard against the two young men, as I fancy, by the direction which his eyes took on these occasions. When we began our meal, I had noticed for the first time that Silas Metta Croft's left hand was strapped up with surgical plaster. And I now further observe that John Jago's wandering brown eyes looked with a curious cynical scrutiny of the young man's injured hand.

A more dreary and more disunited family party I never sat at the table with. Envy, hate hatred, malice, and uncharitableness are never so essentially detestable to my mind as when they work under the surface. But for my interest in Naomi and my other interest in the little love looks, which I now and then surprised passing between her and Ambrose, I should never have sat through that supper. At last, the unendurably long meal was at an end. Do you go to your room immediately, sir? If not, may I offer you a cigar? Provided the young gentleman will permit it, asked Mr. John Jago. I excused myself from accepting the cigar. With studied politeness, the man of the glittering brown eyes nevertheless wish me a good night's rest and left the room. Ambrose and Silas both approach me hospitably with their open cigar cases is in their hands. You were quite right to say no, Ambrose began. Never smoke with John Jago. His cigars will poison you. And never believe a word John Jago says to you, added Silas. He is the greatest liar in America. Naomi shook her forefinger reproachfully at them, as if the two sturdy young farmers had been two children.

What will Mr. Lepfrank think, she said, if you talk that way of a person your father respects and trusts? Go and smoke. I'm ashamed of both of you. Silas slunk away without a word of protest. Ambrose stood his ground, evidently bent on making his peace with Naomi before he left her. Seeing that I was in the way, I walked aside toward a glass door at the lower end of the room. The door opened on the trim little farm garden, bathed at that moment in a lovely early sunlight. I stepped out to enjoy the scene and found my way to a seat under an elm tree. The melancholy side of my nature was fast getting the upper hand of me when I felt a light touch laid on my shoulder. It was Naomi Colebrook. Philip, our narrator, is beginning to find his way around Morwick Farm. It's not quite the peaceful place he'd expected. One family dinner is all it's taken for the tension to seep out. There's the father, ailing Mr. Meadowcroft, and the sullen daughter who takes care of him, Ms. Meadowcroft. And then the sons, Silas and Ambrose, who clearly hate The man their father has hired to run the farm, John Jago.

It's not hard to see why either. There's something off about that man. Those searing stares, the bristling beard, the intensity. The The lonely sweetness in the house seems to emanate from the Metta Croft's distant relative, Naomi Colebrook. She floats through the stodgy old place like a fresh summer breeze. And now she's followed Philip out into the garden. To tell him something. Here again, the words of Wilkie Collins. Chapter 3, The Moonlight. I want to speak to you, Naomi began. She seated herself by my side, looking at me frankly and fearlessly by the light of the Moon. You are related to the family here, she resumed, and I'm related, too. I guess I may say to you what I couldn't say to a stranger. I am right glad you've come here, Mr. Lafranken, for a reason, sir, which you don't suspect. I guess you may do some good, sir, in this wretched house, the girl went on with her eyes still earnestly fixed on my face. There's no love, no trust, no peace at Morwick Farm. You're a gentleman. You know more than they know. They can't help themselves. They must look up to you. Try, Mr. Lafranc, when you have the opportunity, try to make peace among them.

You heard what went on at supper time and you were disgusted with it. Oh, yes, you were. I saw you frown yourself. I acknowledge the impression which had been produced on me at supper time, just as plainly as I have acknowledged it in these pages. Naomi nodded her head in undisguised approval of my candor. But oh, my. You put it a deal too mildly, sir. When you say the men don't seem to be on friendly terms together here, they hate each other. That's the word, Mr. Lafranck. Hate. Bitter, bitter, bitter hate. She clenched her little fist. She shook them vehemently by way of adding emphasis to her last words. And then she suddenly remembered Ambrose. Except Ambrose, she added, opening her hand again and laying it very earnestly on my arm. Don't go and misjudge Ambrose, sir. There's no harm in poor Ambrose. The girl's innocent frankness was really irresistible. Should I be altogether wrong, I asked, if I guessed that you were a little partial to Ambrose. Naomi did not hesitate for an instant. You're quite right, sir, she said with the most perfect composure. If things go well, I mean to marry Ambrose.

If things go well, I repeated. What does that mean? Money? She shook her head. It means a fear that I have in my own mind, she answered. A fear, Mr. Lepfranck, of matters taking a bad turn among the men here, the wicked, hard-hearted, unfound a feeling man. And I don't mean Ambrose, sir. I mean his brother, Silas, and John Jago. Did you notice Silas's hand? John Jago did that, sir, with a knife. By accident, I asked. On purpose, she answered, in return for a blow. This plain revelation of the state of things at Morwick Farm rather staggered me. Blows? The knives under the rich and respectable roof of old Mr. Metta Croft? My first impression was like your first impression, no doubt. I could hardly believe it. Are you sure of what you say, inquired. I have it from Ambrose. Ambrose would never deceive me. Ambrose knows all about it. To what household did I rationally voyage to cross the ocean in search of rest and quiet? May I know all about it, too, I said. Well, I will try to tell you what Ambrose told me, but you must promise me one thing first, sir.

Promise you won't go away and leave us when you know the whole truth. Shake hands on it, Mr. Lafranc. Come and shake hands on it. There was no resisting her fearless frankness. I shook hands on it. When you were shown over the farm here, she began, you will see that it's really two farms in one. On this side of it, they raised crops. On the other side, they've raised cattle. When Mr. Metta Croft got too old and too sick to look after his farm himself, the boys I mean, Ambrose and Silas, divided the work between them. Ambrose looked after the crops and Silas after the cattle. The things didn't go well somehow under their management. I can't tell you why. The old man more and more dissatisfied, especially about his beast. His pride is his cattle. Without saying a word to the boys, he looked about privately for help, and he heard of John Jago. Do you like John Jago, Mr. Lafranc? So far, no, I don't like him. Just my sentiments, sir, but I don't know. It's likely we may be wrong. There's nothing against John I go, except he's so odd in his ways.

They do say he wears all that nasty hair on his face. I hate hair on a man's face. On account of a vow he made when he lost his wife. Don't you think, Mr. Lafranck, a man must be a little mad who shows his grief at losing his wife by vowing he'll never shave himself again. Perhaps it's a lie. People are such liars here. Anyway, the old My father here isn't easy to please, and he pleased the old father. Yes, that's so. John does certainly know his business. Since he's been Overlooker, things have prospered, as they didn't prosper in the time of the boys. John gives the orders now. The boys do their work, but they have no voice in it. When John and the old man put their heads together over the business of the farm. Since I've been here, things seem to get worse and worse. There It's hardly a day goes by that hard words don't pass between the boys and John or the boys and their father. The old man has an aggravating way, Mr. Lafranca, nasty way, as we do call it, of taking John Jago's part. Do speak to him about it when you get the chance.

The main blame of the quarrel between Silas and John the other day lies at Jago's door. I don't want to excuse Silas either. It was brutal of him to strike John, who's the smaller and weaker of the two. But it was worse than brutal in John to cut out with his knife and try to stab Silas. If Silas had not caught the knife in his hand, it might have ended for all I know, in murder. She stopped as the word passed her lips, looked back over her shoulder, and started violently. I looked where my companion was looking. The dark figure of a man was standing, watching us in the shadow of the elm tree. Who are you? She asked, turning sharply toward the stranger. What do you want there? The man stepped out from the shadow into the sunlight and stood, revealed to us as John Jago. I hope I'm not intruding, he said, looking hard at me. What do you want? Naomi repeated. I don't wish to disturb you or disturb this gentleman, he proceeded, when you were quite at leisure, Ms. Naomi, you would be doing me a favor if you would permit me to say a few words to you in private.

His wild, brown eyes, wilder than ever in the sunlight, rested entreatingly with a strange underlying expression of despair on Naomi's face. His hands, clasped lightly in front of him, trembled incessantly. Little as I liked a man, he did really impress me as pitiable at that moment. Do you mean you want to speak to me tonight? Naomi asked in undisguised surprise. Yes, miss, if you please. It's your leisure, and at Mr. Lafrancs. Naomi hesitated. Won't it keep till tomorrow, she said. I shall be away on farm business tomorrow, miss, for the whole day. Please to give me a few minutes this evening. He advanced a step toward her. His voice faltered and dropped timidly to a whisper. I really have something to say to you, miss Naomi. It would be a kindness on your part, a very, very great kindness if you will let me say it before I rest tonight. I rose again to resign my place to him. Once more, Naomi checked me. No, she said, Don't stir, she addressed John Jago very reluctantly. If you are so much in earnest about it, Mr. John, I suppose it must be. I can't guess what you can possibly have to say to me, which cannot be said before a third person.

However, it wouldn't be civil, I suppose, to say no in my place. You know, it's my business to wind up the hall clock at 10:00 every night. If you choose to come and help me, the chances are we shall have the hall to ourselves. Will that do? No, not in the hall, miss, if you'll excuse me. Not in the hall? And not in the house either, if I may be so bold. What do you mean? Bear with me, miss Naomi, he said, I think I can make you understand me. There are eyes watching and ears listening in the house. And there are some footsteps, I won't say who's, so soft at no person can hear them. Well, where's it to be? She asked resignededly. Will the garden do, Mr. John? Thank you kindly, miss. The garden will do. He pointed to a gravel walk beyond us, bathed in the full flood in the sunlight. There, he said, where we can see all around us and be sure nobody is listening. At 10 o'clock, he paused and addressed himself to me. I beg to apologize, sir, for intruding myself on your conversation. Please do excuse me.

His eyes rested with the last anxious, pleading look on Naomi's face. He bowed to us and melted away into the shadow of the tree. The distant sound of a door closed softly came to us through the stillness of the night. John Jago had reentered the house. Now that he was out of hearing, Naomi spoke to me very earnestly. Don't suppose, sir, I have secrets with him, she said. I know no more than you do what he wants with me. I have half a mind not to keep the appointment when 10 o'clock comes. What would you do in my place? Having made the appointment, I answered, it seems to be due to yourself to keep it. If you feel the slightest alarm, though, I'll wait in another part of the garden so I can hear if you call me. It's close on 10 o'clock. She said, We must say good night. I'm glad I've spoken to you, sir. I say again at parting what I've said already, use your influence to soften them and make them ashamed of themselves in this wicked house. We'll have more talk about that when you can tomorrow, when you're shown over the farm.

Say goodbye now. Hark, there's 10 striking. And look Look, here's John Jago stealing out again in the shadow of the tree. Good night, friend Lafranc. In pleasant dreams. With one hand, she shook mine and pressed it cordially with the other. She pushed me away without ceremony in the direction of the house. A charming girl, an irresistible girl. I was nearly as bad as the boys. I declare I almost hated John Jago, too, as we crossed each other in the shadow of the tree. Arrived at the glass door, I stopped and looked back at the gravel walk. They had met. I saw two shadowy figures slowly pacing backward and forward in the sunlight. The woman, a little in advance of the man. What was he saying to her? Why was he so anxious that not a word of it should be heard? A vague distrust of that sunlight meeting stealthily took a hold on my mind. Will mischief come of it? I asked myself as I closed the door and entered the house. Mischief did come of it. You shall hear how. A secret meeting in the garden between Naomi and John Jago. As you will see in our next episode, mischief would come, all right?

And mystery, and maybe murder.