by Amy Cross
Feeling a sigh of relief that I have at least determined the cause of the noise, I make my way over and reach out to pull the doors shut. I shall have to be most firm with Mrs. Ferguson in the morning and make her understand that she cannot do this again, but then – as I begin to pull the doors closer – I happen to glance out at the dark lawn and I freeze as I see that there is a figure standing near the summer house.
I remain completely motionless for a few seconds, staring at the figure. As I do so, I begin to discern perhaps a different shape, and I tell myself that this figure is just a trick of the shadows. I can almost believe that, yet the shape certainly does look human.
My heart is racing and my mouth is dry, and for a few seconds I struggle to calm my nervous thoughts and persuade myself that what I am seeing is not real.
Then, slowly, I begin to realize that perhaps Mrs. Ferguson has for some reason gone out to the summer house. I cannot imagine why she would do such a thing in the middle of the night, but she is sometimes a rather emotional woman and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that some fancy took hold of her during a bout of insomnia. Indeed, she might have remembered something else that she wants from the summer house, and I did expressly tell her to fetch any further items herself.
But then, why does she seem to be simply standing there, not doing anything?
She is a very -
“Mr. Lawrence?”
Startled, I turn and step back, and in the process I bump against the door's frame with such force that a sharp pain flickers through my right elbow.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Mrs. Ferguson says, silhouetted against the far door, “whatever are you doing, creeping about like this?”
“I...”
Before I can finish, I remember the sight of the figure out there on the lawn. I turn and look, and I see that the figure is once again quite visible.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Mrs. Ferguson says, and I feel her touch my arm, “are you quite alright?”
“I am fine, thank you,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the distant figure. I want to ask Mrs. Ferguson if she can see what I see, but at the same time I worry that she might overreact.
“I heard footsteps down here,” she explains, “so I came to see what was up. Your bedroom door was open, so I supposed that you had it all in hand, but I still wanted to see whether there was anything I could do.”
I swallow hard, still watching the figure.
“Mr. Lawrence,” she continues, “you seem...”
She pauses for a moment, and then she takes a step forward until she is standing right next to me.
“Mr. Lawrence,” she says cautiously, “forgive me for perhaps speaking out of turn, but there is something out there that looks... Well, it looks rather as if there is a person standing in front of the summer house.”
For a moment, I do not know what to say.
“Mr. Lawrence, is there a person standing in front of the summer house? Oh, Mr. Lawrence, who could it be?”
I want to tell her that she is wrong, but I cannot find the words. A moment later I hear her shuffling away but, again, I cannot bring myself to turn my gaze away from the distant figure.
Suddenly the electric light flickers on behind me.
I turn and see Mrs. Ferguson coming back over.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
“The switch,” she replies, rather matter-of-factly.
“But it didn't...”
I hesitate, before turning to look back out toward the summer house. And this time, although I can still see the human shape, there is just enough light for me to realize that this is in fact a pair of potted plants that – from this angle – conspired to form a quite powerful illusion.
“Oh,” Mrs. Ferguson says with a sigh of relief, “it's just those things.”
“Of course it is,” I reply, turning to her. I too feel relieved, although I am determined not to let her see. “As I have often said in the past, Mrs. Ferguson, there is always a perfectly rational explanation for seemingly impossible things.”
“Oh, there is?” she replies, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “So you're telling me that you were not, even for one moment, troubled by that shape out there?”
“Of course I was not,” I tell her, before pulling the doors shut. “And might I remind you that these doors need to be locked at night. I don't even know why you opened them in the first place.”
“I didn't open them,” she replies. “I assumed you did.”
“Then they must have been blown open by the wind,” I point out. “Either way, they should have been locked.”
“I haven't touched these doors since I arrived!”
“Then... I suppose I must have left them unlocked,” I reply, and I can tell now that I must seem rather flustered. “I would not have done so, however, if I hadn't been distracted by all your foolish talk during the evening. I would like to think, Mrs. Ferguson, that in future you will try to keep your comments more guarded. We have enough to discuss when it comes to getting the house up and running.”
With that, I turn and head back across the kitchen. Ahead of me, there is the stubborn light switch that failed to work for me but that, for whatever reason, was entirely obedient when it came to Mrs. Ferguson's touch.
“And you're sure a few ghost stories didn't set you on edge?” Mrs. Ferguson asks.
“Well of course they did!” I snap, stopping in the doorway and turning to her. In an instant, I regret that outburst, and I take a moment to calm myself down. “It is immaterial,” I continue. “I will not have such talk in this house. Do you understand? There is to be no more mention of ghosts.”
She pauses, before nodding. “Fine,” she mutters. “Whatever you say.”
“I am sick to the back teeth of such matters,” I tell her. “We are two grown, professional adults. Tomorrow I want no mention of any of this. Do you hear?”
“I hear.”
I open my mouth to admonish her further, but then I realize that I have probably said enough. Mrs. Ferguson is a fine woman and a good worker, but from time to time she needs to be reminded of the solemnity of her duties. With that in mind, I bid her goodnight and head back through to the hallway, and from there I climb the stairs and return to my bed.
We face another long day tomorrow. The day after, His Lordship might arrive.
Chapter Fifteen
The Authority of a Doctor
Stopping in the kitchen, as morning light hits the windows, I listen for a moment to the sound of Mrs. Ferguson shaking rugs in one of the other rooms. Since a rather muted breakfast, we have been working in different rooms, and I am starting to feel that she has taken offense at my comments during the night.
Still, that is her right, even if she is very clearly wrong. Sooner or later, she will come around and see sense, and then I imagine she will come and find me. She might even apologize.
I take a moment to pour myself a glass of water, and then I turn to go back through to the study. At the last moment, however, I stop as I spot a mark on one of the nearby windows. I spent quite some time yesterday cleaning the windows – both inside and out – yet now there is a very clear hand-print on one of the panes. Sighing, I hurry over and take a cloth from the counter, and then I start wiping the mark off. After a moment, however, I discover that the mark appears to be on the outside.
Once I am outside, I hurry to the window and start wiping away the mark. This time, I am successful. However, I cannot help but notice after a moment that – from where I am standing now – I have a perfect view of the double doors. Anybody standing here last night would have been able, from quite close quarters, to watch me as I stared out toward the summer house. And while I remain a rational and lucid man, I confess that this thought sends a slight shiver through my chest.
***
“Ah, there you are,” I say as I walk into the conservatory, where Mrs. Ferguson is working to put one of the rugs back in its rightful place. “Let me help you.”
“I'm f
ine, thank you,” she replies, not even looking at me.
I watch for a moment, and it is clear that she is struggling. The rug is thick and heavy, so I head over and lift one end of a chair. This allows her to more easily arrange the rug.
“I told you that I was fine,” she says, and there is evident irritation in her voice. Perhaps she is not quite ready to apologize yet. “You needn't trouble yourself to help me, Mr. Lawrence. I'm sure you have plenty of your own tasks to get done.”
“Indeed,” I reply, slightly amused by her tone. “I was only -”
Before I can finish, I see a box nearby, containing what looks to be the equipment required for a game of bar billiards, including a table extension.
“What is this?” I ask, wandering over to take a closer look.
“I'm sure you remember His Lordship's game-playing evenings.”
“I do,” I reply, “but...”
I stare at the equipment for a moment longer, trying to understand how it can be here in the house, but then I force myself to stay focused. Turning to Mrs. Ferguson, I see that she is attending to the leg of one of the chairs.
“The room looks good,” I say, hoping to sound a little diplomatic. “You have worked wonders.”
“I'm certainly very busy,” she adds brusquely. “I am making good progress, though, and I certainly hope to be ahead of my plans by mid-morning. You will forgive me, though, if I do not take time off to prepare lunch. I am sure, Mr. Lawrence, that you are more than capable of making something for yourself.”
“Certainly,” I reply.
“Very good, then,” she says, turning and starting to gather together some pillows. “Please do not stay in this room on my account,” she adds. “I shall perhaps see you later, in the evening. Until then, I would much rather work undisturbed. I'm sure you will understand.”
“Indeed.”
I hesitate for a moment, but it is clear that I am making no headway, so I turn to leave the room. As I do so, I glance once more at the box of bar billiards items, but I resolve once more to put that question out of my mind, at least for now. I certainly do not wish to pepper Mrs. Ferguson with questions. Perhaps later, once she has calmed down, she will be more amenable to a discussion. As things stand, however, she is exhibiting some of the less desirous traits of her sex.
“Can I ask you something, Mr. Lawrence?” she says suddenly.
I turn to see that she is staring at me.
“By all means,” I reply.
“Don't worry,” she continues, “it's not about ghosts or anything of that nature. In fact, it's about something very serious and very real.”
“Please,” I say, “let me try to set your mind at ease.”
“What happened to her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know who I mean,” she continues. “You've never really given me a proper answer, and I suppose I accepted that once we were in London. But being back here at Aldburn Park has brought all sorts of thoughts back to the front of my mind, and I just have to know the truth. What happened to Her Ladyship? Where is Catherine Fetchford?”
I pause for a moment, before taking a deep breath.
“Is she dead?” she asks finally.
“You are not the first person to ask this question,” I reply, choosing my words with care, “so you shall not be the first person to hear my answer. She -”
“Are you going to say the same thing you always say?” she ask, sounding a little angry. “That His Lordship sent her away to a mental asylum, and that she's been there ever since?”
“That is indeed what His Lordship did.”
“Which asylum? Where?”
“I am not at liberty to -”
“Under the authority of a doctor?”
“I am not -”
“Is she ever to be released?”
“I -”
“Does he visit her?” she continues. “For I do not know when.”
“Mrs. Ferguson -”
“She vanished, Mr. Lawrence,” she adds, interrupting me yet again. “I was here that night, she was in a terrible state, worse than ever, and then she just vanished. Are you telling me that His Lordship swiftly arranged for her to be taken off one night, and that ever since she has been looked after in some kind of facility?”
“That is indeed what happened,” I reply.
“So she didn't die?” She pauses, still staring at me. “Forgive me, Mr. Lawrence, but an awful lot of people think that she is no longer of this world.”
“That is preposterous,” I point out. “His Lordship has told me dozens of times about Her Ladyship's treatment.”
“And you have seen proof?”
“Proof?”
“Letters. Receipts. Anything that shows it's true!”
“Why would I need such things?” I ask. “I have His Lordship's word. He is not a man who would lie.”
“But you haven't seen proof?”
“I have all the proof I need.”
“Were you there when she was taken away? It must have been in the middle of the night.”
“It was.”
“And did you see it happen?”
I swallow hard, and I must confess that my throat presently feels extremely dry.
“It's just as I thought, then,” Mrs. Ferguson continues. “You have His Lordship's word, but you don't know that Her Ladyship is being looked after.”
“I think you fail to understand the value of a gentleman's word,” I point out. “His Lordship has described the circumstances in which Her Ladyship presently finds herself.”
“And he gets you to do the paperwork?”
“Why would he?”
“Then he gets you to contact people on his behalf, does he?” she continues. “I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence, but I find it very difficult to believe that His Lordship would or could arrange all of this without involving you in any manner whatsoever.”
“Mrs. Ferguson -”
“The man damn near needs you to tie his shoe-laces every morning!” she snaps, before shaking her head. “I am sorry, Mr. Lawrence, I should not have said that. Please forgive me. It was disrespectful toward His Lordship.”
I stare at her for a moment, shocked by what must be her strongest outburst yet. Had she not offered that immediate apology, I would have had to start seriously considering her position. As it is, she seems to be casting doubt upon His Lordship's good name, and that is something I simply cannot allow.
“His Lordship has spoken to me in great detail about Her Ladyship's current condition,” I say, hoping to put the matter to bed at once, “and I certainly have had no reason to doubt any part of what he has told me. I would strongly advise you, Mrs. Ferguson, to put all such concerns out of your mind. I need hardly add that you must under no circumstances spread rumors about our employers. His Lordship, in particular, is a fine person. I will accept no gossip to the contrary, not in this house.”
She stares at me for a moment.
“I suppose that is an end to the matter,” she mutters finally. “What more is to be said?”
“And now,” I say, “perhaps we can -”
“What's that?” she asks, turning to look past me.
I cannot help but sigh.
“Mrs. Ferguson -”
“I hear a car.”
I am about to tell her that she is mistaken, when I suddenly realize that I do actually hear the sound of a motor car's engine in the distance. For this to be the case, the only possible explanation is that a visitor is arriving at Aldburn Park.
“The butcher and the green-grocer are not due until this afternoon, I believe,” I tell her, as she gets to her feet.
“Perhaps they are here early.”
“Perhaps.”
With Mrs. Ferguson following closely behind, I head through to the main hallway, and then I proceed directly to the front door. Once I am outside, I stop at the top of the steps and I listen to the sound of a motor car's engine coming closer and closer. A moment later, a vehicle ap
pears from behind the line of trees, and I am surprised to see that it is not an ordinary motor car at all.
It is an ambulance.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Mrs. Ferguson says behind me, “could it be...”
She hesitates.
“But he is not due until tomorrow,” she adds.
The ambulance comes to a halt in front of the house, and I make my way down the steps. I am trying to work out what could possibly explain the ambulance's arrival. The most obvious answer would be that His Lordship has arrived a whole day early, but of course that is not possible. I would have been informed by a telephone call. There is absolutely no chance that His Lordship would have left his Mayfair townhouse early and that not one person would have seen fit to inform me.
“Good morning,” I say to the man who is already climbing down from the front of the ambulance. “Might I ask where you are headed? This is Aldburn Park and -”
“Finally,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We had trouble finding the place.”
“Aldburn Park is your intended destination?” I ask.
“Let me tell you,” he says, as he and his associate head around to the rear of the ambulance and begin to unlock the double doors, “all those winding country lanes look the same after a while. Would it kill the locals to put up a few more signs?”
At a loss for words, I watch as they open the doors, and then I turn to see that Mrs. Ferguson is watching proceedings with an expression of some concern.
Heading around to the rear of the ambulance, I am about to ask again what is the matter, but then I see that the two men are attending to a figure who is strapped down to a bed on wheels. And in that moment, with a heavy heart, I realize that I recognize the bed, and that somehow the impossible has happened.
“Right,” one of the men says, “remember to be careful when we bring him down. Make sure not to knock him on the bit that sticks up.”
