by Amy Cross
“She never even left the grounds of the house,” she says again, with tears in her eyes as she watches me from the bus stop. “Mr. Lawrence, you poor deluded fool, Her Ladyship... You understand now, do you not? Tell me you understand what really happened.”
I sit in silence for a moment, as rain pours down all around us. I want to defend His Lordship's good name and character, but somehow – for the first time in my life – I find that I cannot. There are perhaps doubts, long dormant in me, that now bind my tongue.
Still the rain falls.
“We should be getting along,” I say finally. “The road -”
“I shall wait for the bus.”
“Don't be ridiculous, there might -”
“I shall wait for the bus and go to stay with my sister in Darlington.”
“I'm sorry?”
“I'm not going back to London with you,” she says, her voice tense with what I suppose must be anger. “I shall go to stay with my sister, and from there I shall find another appointment.”
“I was going to tell you,” I reply, “that I might be able to -”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lawrence.”
“But if -”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lawrence.”
I feel a shiver pass through my chest. I want to tell her that we could most likely obtain employment together, but I am starting to sense that this might not be her preferred option right now.
“You are a good man,” she says, “and I will not make trouble for you. But you have allowed your loyalty to Lord Fetchford to cloud your every common sense, beyond the point at which any reasonable man might have done so. I suppose there might have been something admirable in that, perhaps, had it not all ended with...”
Her voice trails off into the rain.
I try to think of something I can say, something that will get her back into the motor car.
“Goodbye, Mr. Lawrence,” she adds suddenly.
“There might not be a bus for -”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lawrence.”
I pause, seeing the tears in her eyes, and then I realize that perhaps I am being foolish. If Mrs. Ferguson wishes to wait for a bus, and to go to her sister in Darlington, then I am in no position to stop her. I am sure she will come to her senses soon, but that must be her choice. She is clearly cold – indeed, I think she is shivering – but she is a stubborn woman and no good will come from trying to shepherd her along. Despite my misgivings, then, I reach over and pull the passenger-side door shut, and then I watch her for a moment longer through the rain-spattered window.
And then, finally, I put the motor car into gear and set off once more on the journey to the nearest town.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Ghost of Catherine Fetchford
“What do you call that weather, then?” a gentleman at the public house's bar asks, after an extended period of silence. “It's raining buckets out there. There'll be flooding soon if we're not careful.”
Turning to him, I see that he seems to be eyeing me with a curious expression. He and I are the only people here in the saloon. Even the landlord has apparently seen fit to go into one of the rearward areas. Perhaps, after serving me this distinctly adequate sandwich, he has some cleaning to do in the kitchen.
“You were here the other day,” the man continues. “I remember you. You were going out to Aldburn Park, weren't you?”
“That is correct,” I reply, and now I think that perhaps I do recognize him.
I pause, before looking back at my sandwich. I am not remotely hungry, but I would prefer to eat rather than engaging in a conversation. I therefore raise the sandwich from the plate and try to avoid thinking about Mrs. Ferguson – still out there in the rain – as I take a bite.
“I heard he died,” the man says suddenly.
He glances at him, while chewing a mouthful of bread and cheese.
“I heard Robert Jerome had to go out there in the night, and it's a matter of fact that he and his lad came back a few hours ago with a body.”
“I am afraid that is true,” I reply once I have swallowed. “His Lordship has fought his final battle, and he passed away during the night.”
“Huh.” He pauses. “Peaceful end, was it?”
“It was,” I lie.
“Lord Fetchford's a goner, is he?” he continues. “That'll put the fox among the hens. Who's gonna take over that old house now? He didn't have any kids, did he?”
“He did not,” I reply. “I am sure that he left behind suitable instructions.”
With that, I look back down at my sandwich and take another bite, hopeful that this time the gentleman at the bar will leave me alone.
“He was a bad one,” he says suddenly.
I glance at him again.
“It's wrong to speak ill of the dead,” he continues, “and I'm sorry if I offend you, because I know you worked for him. But everyone round here knew that the latest Lord Fetchford was a rotten sod. His father was alright, I remember he used to donate to local events, but his son – Matthew was his name, I think – was a right piece of work. He just wanted to live the high life, and he didn't give two hoots about anyone else. I'm not just talking about that business with his wife, and whatever happened to her. I'm talking about the man in general. He thought he was the bee's knees, just because he was born into all that money. He never worked a day in his life. You won't find many round here who are sorry he's gone.”
Finally his little speech ends. I don't know where to begin correcting him, but strangely my sense of indignation feels rather muted. Ordinarily I would leap to His Lordship's defense and give this ruffian a piece of my mind, but this time I simply stare at him for a moment before, quite suddenly, turning to the window as I hear an engine approaching.
I watch as a bus trundles past the public house. I peer at its windows, but they merely reflect the morning gloom and it is impossible for me to see whether or not Mrs. Ferguson is on-board.
And then, before I can turn back to look at my companion here in the public house, I spot a figure in the distance, standing under a large oak tree and seemingly staring straight at me.
I watch the figure for a moment, convinced that it is just some individual from the village, but after a few seconds I begin to realize that this person – though quite far away, and thus difficult to make out – rather resembles Her Ladyship.
It is not her, though.
It cannot be here.
I squint slightly, so as to see more clearly, but I still cannot be sure.
Whoever this person is, she appears to be simply standing and watching, almost as if she is waiting for something. And the more I stare at her, the more I feel as if I am most definitely the object of her gaze. Furthermore, the more I tell myself that the figure cannot possibly be Her Ladyship, the more I feel that it does look very much like her indeed.
Waiting for me.
I blink, and the light changes, and she's gone.
“There'll be a chance round here, that's for sure,” the man at the bar continues. “I suppose the house'll be sold, maybe it'll end up being bought by one of those American millionaires you hear so much about. Lord knows what people'd make of that, but I suppose we've got to move with the times. And Americans aren't so bad, really. Not that I've ever met one, but some of their books are quite -”
“You'll have to excuse me,” I say suddenly, even surprising myself a little as I get to my feet and hurry to the exit. “Please tell the landlord that there was nothing wrong with the sandwich. I simply must be somewhere.”
He says something in response, but I do not hear exactly what. Instead, I almost break into a slight run as I make my way across the parking area and climb back into His Lordship's motor car. The rain is still falling as I start the engine, and I quickly maneuver the vehicle out of its spot and then onto the road, and then I start driving back the way I just came. I had intended to continue my journey to London, but now I am overcome by the sudden realization that I should inform Mrs. Ferguson of the
opportunities that might exist for us to find new employment together.
She should know her options before she makes a decision.
I glance briefly toward the oak tree, but there is nobody there. Of course there isn't, there never was. It was merely a trick of the light.
As I drive out of town, then, I start rehearsing my words in my mind, even speaking out-loud once or twice. I know I shall have to be rather persuasive, since she is liable to be skeptical, but I believe I shall be able to win her around. So long as she did not get on the bus that just passed, I am quite sure that I have a good chance of bringing her round to my way of thinking. Indeed, as I finally spot the little bus stop in the distance, I am feeling rather confident, and about a minute later I take a deep breath as I bring the motor car to a halt and look out through the window.
And then my heart sinks as I see that the bus stop is empty.
I sit completely still and in silence for several minutes, as rain continues to tap against the car's roof. I do not entirely know why I am so affected by Mrs. Ferguson's departure, but I feel rather hollow. I tell myself that this is not necessarily the end, that she will undoubtedly be in touch to arrange for references and that I can then attempt to persuade her, but somehow deep down I do not believe that such an eventuality will transpire. Indeed, it is almost as if the finality of the situation is hanging in the air all around me, impressing itself upon my mind and leaving no room for doubt. It is in this moment that feel quite sure that I shall never see Mrs. Ferguson again.
After staring at the empty bus stop for some time, I turn and look ahead. It is not so long since Mrs. Ferguson and I were driving along this road, heading away from Aldburn Park. Now I am sitting here alone, facing the other way, and I realize after a moment that Aldburn Park is now, once more, ahead of me. I could turn the car around, of course, but in some strange way that would feel wrong. It is almost as if the house itself is waiting for me, and I can feel it waiting.
I think for a few seconds of that empty place, with all its empty rooms, and then it occurs to me that perhaps it is not empty after all. I think of the summer house and the pond, and of the moment years ago when I assisted His Lordship in disposing of that large bag. I think of the bag now, presumably still resting in the depths. And I think of the fear that struck His Lordship in his final moments, indeed which seemed almost to have been the cause of his death. I think of that terrified expression carved into his dead face, and of his eyes which seemed in that final instance to have seen...
What?
What did he see?
And was it the product of a sick, delirious mind, or was it real?
Putting the car once more into gear, I ease my foot onto the accelerator and start driving once more along the road that leads back to Aldburn Park. My chest is tightening with fear and I can feel myself desperately trying to think of an excuse to turn around, but I keep my hands on the wheel and I watch the road ahead, which in that moment seems to darken slightly as the rain continues to fall. I am not a man given to superstitions or to petty fears, but I saw His Lordship's dead body and it is certainly clear that he believed what he was seeing. And if I am to have any rest at all in my later years, if I am ever to put this whole distressing period in the past, I must surely know the truth for myself.
I must go one final time to Aldburn Park, and I must prove to myself that I have been right all along.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Haunting of Aldburn Park
It is remarkable how one can tell, even from the outside, that a house is empty. Why, standing here beside the motor car and staring up at the grand edifice of Aldburn Park – on this crisp morning, with the rain having finally stopped falling – I can almost feel the emptiness and stillness of the place. Perhaps the silence helps, for even the trees are unable to make any sound other than the faintest of rustles. The house's windows are pure mirrors right now, reflecting the gray sky and the tops of the trees, permitting no view of the inside. All except for one window, lower down, in which I can just about make out the top of my own head reflected.
Yes, this is such an empty place, and it is difficult to believe that some people choose to imagine a presence where there is none.
For a few minutes, it occurs to me that there is no need to disturb this beautiful old house, that I can turn around right now and drive away, safe in the knowledge that Aldburn Park is indeed empty. Yet, as I reach into my pocket and feel the key, I realize that driving away so soon might leave me with a nagging worry that I had turned back too soon. Did I not return here this morning with the express intention of disproving all fears and superstitions? Then I surely must take a little more trouble and actually go back inside. I must prove to myself that there is no ghost.
I make my way toward the steps and then up to the main door. As I do so, I cannot help but think back to the other day, when I brought up my breakfast in this spot. I feel the same tight knot of nausea in my belly now, but somehow I find the strength to keep going, and finally I reach the door and remove the key from my pocket, and then I do a rather curious thing. I reach out and press my left hand flat against the door's rough wood, and for a moment I simply feel the coldness. Why I do this, I cannot fathom. There certainly seems to be no sensible reason. I remain in such a strange position for several seconds, before eventually coming to my senses and slipping the key into the lock, and opening the door.
As I step into the house, my footsteps ring out. I shut the door carefully once I am inside, and then I turn and look around the hallway. Am I listening for some sound? For a hint that I am not alone? I should like to think that I am not that foolish, but I suppose one can be forgiven for succumbing to such slight worries. At least, I tell myself, I have not actually called out and asked if there is anyone here.
“Mmm,” I mutter, before making my way over to the study and stopping in the doorway.
I immediately see the spot where His Lordship died. It is strange to think of him now, in the office of some doctor who is even now about to perform some kind of examination. Then I find myself thinking of His Lordship in his prime, when he used to march about the house and tell me of his grand plans. I allow myself a faint smile, but then my gaze alights upon a portrait of His Lordship that hangs on the far wall. I make my way over and take a closer look, admiring the portrait's presentation of such a strong and noble man. And then, tilting my head slightly, I perceive that the surface of the painting is rather cracked, as if it has dried over the years.
I reach out to touch one of the cracks, only for a flake of paint to fall away.
Rather distressed by this discovery, I try for one moment to think of how I can rescue the painting. Reaching up, I start to remove it from its hook on the wall, supposing that perhaps I can take the painting back to London and have it properly restored. The hook seems to have a surprisingly strong hold, however, and I have to really jiggle the painting and move it first one way and then the next, constantly trying to find a way to move the string off the hook. Then, just as I feel as if I might be about to have some success, the entire frame comes apart in my hands. I do not react with enough haste, and the painting slides out and hits the floor in front of my feet, with the frame's lower section swiftly following.
I freeze for a moment, before letting go of the frame's fragile remains and crouching to take a closer look at the painting itself. The impact of the fall has disturbed several more sections of paint, leaving great white patches that rather obscure His Lordship's features. Indeed, one would now struggle to tell – if one had not been forewarned – that this had been a painting of Lord Fetchford at all. I suppose some skilled restorer might be able to salvage something, although even that hope feels rather forlorn.
I stare for a moment at the damage.
“Mmm,” I murmur finally, before getting to my feet.
Well, that was rather unsuccessful, and as I turn and head out of the study I make a silent resolution to be much more careful in future. I am inclined to seek th
e exit, having already proven to myself that the house is empty, but then at the last moment I decide to go through to the dining room. Once in that doorway, I look over at the table, and I am minded to think of all the times His Lordship entertained guests here at Aldburn Park. I could reminisce for hours about such events, although I suppose there will be time for such things later. Now, still watching the table, I find myself recalling instead all those silent, awkward meals that Lord and Lady Fetchford shared in this room. One could, if one wanted, most likely chart the deterioration of their marriage through a series of such meals, noting the growing quietness and the occasional marked comment that would slip from Her Ladyship's lips.
I stand in complete silence for a moment, before spotting the mirror at the far end of the room.
What was it that His Lordship said the other day?
“She was in the mirror!”
Yes, that was it. And more too.
“I saw her reflection, she was staring at me again!”
And then, later, his imaginings became even worse.
“I felt her hand reaching around from behind. Her cold, dead hand. It was as real as anything I've ever felt before, Lawrence. I pulled away, I ran, but I already knew. It's her, she's here.”
He said similar things on several occasions during his final hours. I suppose he must have truly believed that the ghost of Lady Fetchford had been waiting for him.
I take a step forward, intending to go over to the mirror, but then I stop for a moment.
No.
No, there is no need to add fuel to such foolish notions.
Instead, then, I walk through toward the kitchen, although I stop for a moment as I pass the sitting room. The bloodied hand-print is on the wall again, even though I am sure that I removed it earlier. Or did I? Perhaps, in all the commotion, I once again forgot. I shall have to get to that later.
I resume my journey to the kitchen, where I immediately spot Mrs. Ferguson's apron. She must have left it on that chair when we were getting ready to leave. I step over and reach out to take the apron, thinking that I can return it to her when I get to London, but then I remember that she will be gone. I pick the apron up anyway and hold it for a few seconds, and then I do another curious thing. I lift the apron up and I smell it. Yes, I actually sniff the fabric, and I believe that I am able to detect a hint of the soap that Mrs. Ferguson used to use. That smell is enough to briefly make me feel as if she is nearby, and I must confess that I am heartened by the idea. And then, of course, I am dis-heartened by the realization that she is gone, and I feel that overall I am now less content than I was before I touched the apron at all. Therefore I set it down, and I clasp my hands together behind my back as I walk through to the conservatory.
