Someone to Love

by Jude Deveraux

  “Very,” Nigh said, then she got up and left the dining room. Ten minutes later, she was packed.

  Mrs. Fenney was downstairs and ready to drive her to the train station. “I’m so sorry about this,” she said. “Our village ghost hasn’t appeared to anyone in years, so we thought maybe he’d gone to his heavenly reward, but the vicar said you spent some time with him.”

  All Nigh could do was nod. She was too angry to do much more.

  They drove the four miles to the station in silence and when they got there, Mrs. Fenney handed her the tickets. They were for first class.

  “Mr. Montgomery said I was to ask if you needed anything and I was to give you this.” It was an envelope that she knew contained cash.

  “I don’t want—” she began, planning to refuse the money. She’d eat when she got home.

  Mrs. Fenney took Nigh’s hands in hers. “You shouldn’t be angry at him, dear. He’s been sick with worry about you. He stayed out late last night and I was told that he talked to the doctor about you, and the vicar, and he visited our local historian. When he got back I had to unlock the front door for him and I happen to know that he stayed in your room last night. He looked after you. He must love you very much.”

  “No,” Nigh said. “He—” She broke off. She didn’t want to tell this woman her private problems. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. You have a lovely home and the food was excellent.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed part of your visit,” she said, starting to shout because the train was pulling into the station.

  Nigh hefted her bag onto her shoulder and started toward the train. “Take care of him, will you? And keep those blood puddings away.”

  Mrs. Fenney smiled. “They never hurt my husband,” she said.

  “Ah, but where is he now?” Nigh asked as she climbed onto the platform.

  “He’s in Alaska working on an oil rig,” Mrs. Fenney called as the train started to move.

  Nigh laughed and waved, then went to find her seat.

  15

  Nigh got the greengrocer’s son to give her a ride from the train station to her house. He didn’t shut up for the whole ride.

  “I tell you, Nigh, you are the most exciting thing that has ever happened to this village. I know that people think it’s Priory House and all the ghosts those people see, but my money’s on you. First you run off the day after your mother’s funeral, and the next time we see you you’re on the telly reading the news and the next time we see you’re in—Where was it?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Right. I knew it was some place really foreign. You know how some places are more foreign than others? Australia is foreign but not really foreign. You know what I mean? Maybe it’s the language. And the States are foreign, but not really. Although, ol’ Harris at the butcher’s says that the States are the most foreign of all. You know what I mean? But, anyway, I think anybody would agree that Afghanistan is about as foreign as you get. You know? So, anyway, there you are and there you’ve been and everybody’s lost count of all the places you’ve been. So then this rich American shows up and first thing we know, you and he have run off together. ‘But how could they?’ everybody says because you wrote that awful stuff about him in the paper. No offense, Nigh, but if my girlfriend wrote anything like that about me, she wouldn’t be my girlfriend no more. You know what I mean? But maybe Harris is right that Americans are the most foreign because you two run off God only knows where to together just like you was regular lovebirds. Mrs. B. said the two of you spent a whole day together in that haunted bedroom, didn’t even come out for lunch. Then you run off together and the next thing we hear is you made up the whole thing and there’s not gonna be any industry in the village and we could have used some industry here, if you know what I mean. So where’d you and that American go, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  They were at last at her house. Nigh opened the car door, said thanks for the ride, and got out.

  “If you get tired of foreigners, you know where I live,” he called to her through the open window.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Nigh said, gave a wave, then hurried into her house and shut the door behind her. She paused only a second to listen to the quiet, then she went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It hadn’t even come to a boil when she heard her friend Kelly’s voice. The only thing in the world she wanted at that moment was to be alone to collect her thoughts.

  Nigh managed to put a smile on her face as Kelly came into the kitchen. “Kelly, dear, how nice to see you.”

  “Don’t give me that crap!” she said, tossing her bag on the kitchen table. “I could wring your neck! Everybody in town has been asking me what you’re up to and I’ve had to say—truthfully, mind you—that I have no idea. When you were in Afghanistan, you sent me a video letter telling me everything. When you were in Saudi, you sent me twelve postcards. You’ve called me from some places that I couldn’t find on the map. But now you return home and what happens? You disappear. And not only do you disappear, you do it with some man nobody knows anything about. Where the hell have you been?”

  The answer to Kelly’s question was so long and complicated that Nigh didn’t know where to begin—or if she even wanted to. She was silent as she filled the teapot, got some digestive biscuits out of the cupboard, and put them on a plate.

  While Kelly poured the tea and put in the milk, she kept glancing at her friend. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

  “To hell, but certainly not back,” Nigh said.

  “So where is he?”

  Nigh shrugged. “In a village in Hampshire.”

  “You spent the night together? What happened? Did you quarrel and split up?” She put her hand over Nigh’s. “I’m sorry. But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe—”

  “Could you think a little higher than below the belt?” Nigh snapped. “First of all, I didn’t run away with him. If you remember, the whole village was going crazy because they thought a Ghost Center was going to be opened and they wanted in on it.”

  “But that’s what you wrote, isn’t it?”

  “At the time, that’s what I thought he was going to do. It’s what I was told.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Nigh shook her head. “That doesn’t matter now. That was so long ago I can hardly remember it.”

  “It was three days ago,” Kelly said.

  “Three days can be a lifetime.”

  Kelly drank her tea and ate a biscuit as she looked at her friend. “So tell me everything.”

  “No,” Nigh said. “I can’t.” She put up her hand when Kelly started to speak. “It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s because I don’t know anything to tell you.”

  “Are you trying to make me believe that you spent days with this man and didn’t ferret out every secret he had, including the whereabouts of the secret box he had when he was a kid?”

  “I don’t know anything more about him now than I did before I met him. Oh, I know where he grew up and the names of some of his cousins. I know lots of unimportant things, but I don’t know what’s driving him. I don’t even know why he bought Priory House.”

  “For the ghosts. Mrs. B. has told everyone how he made up the haunted room to look like a Victorian set. Of course everyone says Americans know nothing about history because they have none of their own, or he would know that Lady Grace did not live in Victorian times. Somebody should help him get his time periods right.”

  “Stop it!” Nigh said, her hands over her ears. “I am sick of hearing gossip! I am sick of people making up stories about something they know nothing about.”

  Kelly didn’t say anything and when Nigh looked at her she was serious.

  “You’re right,” Kelly said. “I’ve become one of them. I’ve sunk so low that I’ve begun to listen to that harridan, Mrs. Browne. I apologize. If you talk, I will listen, and what you tell me won’t go any furthe
r than this room. If you want, I’ll even spread false rumors so people won’t know the truth. Come to think of it, I might enjoy that.”

  Nigh took her friend’s hand. “You’re a good friend to me, and I want you to continue to be a good friend.”

  “That means you plan to tell me nothing.”

  “Right,” Nigh said. “But I want you to give me some information.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You get me George Clooney’s autograph. And it has to be made out to Kelly. I don’t want just an anonymous signature.”

  “Are you crazy? I don’t do celebrity interviews.”

  “I saw on TV that George Clooney and his father went to some country like you go to and—”

  “Okay, I promise that if I’m in some war-torn country and I happen to bump into Mr. Clooney and Mr. Clooney, I will ask George to sign a piece of shrapnel to Kelly. Satisfied now?”

  “Perfectly. So what do you want to know?”

  “Everything you know, and can find out, about Clive Sefton.”

  Kelly’s face mirrored her disappointment. “That’s it?”

  “What I really want to know is what to do to make him reveal secrets to me. I’ll do anything except have sex with him. I’ll even cook for him.”

  “I’m sure that will make him talk,” Kelly said in sarcasm.

  “You know what I mean,” Nigh said, then laughed.

  “What?”

  “The greengrocer’s son drove me back from the station.”

  “Oh,” Kelly groaned. “That boy can talk, can’t he?”

  “The last time I saw him, he was just a kid.”

  “You’ve been away a long time.”

  “I feel like I’ve been here longer than I’ve been away.” Nigh ran her hand over her face. “Mr. Montgomery is so afraid of something or someone in this town that I can’t get a word out of him. I really need to know what it is.”

  “It’s ghosts,” Kelly said. “Anyone in their right mind is afraid of ghosts. If I saw one I’d—”

  “Pass out, and a doctor would come and administer a sedative that would keep you flat on your back for most of twenty-four hours.”

  “Tell me you’re not saying that from experience.”

  “I won’t tell you,” Nigh said. “Now, would you mind going to find out what you can? I’d ask questions myself, but…”

  “The sight of you would cause a riot. People are torn between being furious and being glad that Margate isn’t going to become famous for its lady highwayman ghost. What’s funny?”

  “It’s just that I’m not sure there ever was a lady highwayman ghost. However, I know for absolute certain that there’re a couple of Victorian ghosts running around loose.”

  “Then your American isn’t so uneducated after all.”

  “No,” Nigh said, smiling, “he’s not uneducated or dumb, and he doesn’t want to turn Priory House into a place for tourists.” Her head came up. “Kelly? Do the MacFarlands still have that dreadful little dog that pees on people?”

  “Yes, but they keep it penned up in their back garden.”

  “Would you like to do something really awful for me?”

  “Love to.”

  “Do Lewis and Ray still have lunch together every day outside the fire station?”

  “Haven’t changed in ten years that I know of.” Kelly and Nigh had been best friends since they were three years old and there were many times when they could read each other’s minds. “Wait! Don’t tell me. They were the skunks that told you lies about the American. And you believed them?”

  Nigh shrugged in embarrassment.

  “Okay. I’ll take care of them. I’m sure the MacFarlands would love to lend me their dog. I assume I get to tell them why. A truck full of Londoners ran over one of Mrs. MacFarland’s flowerbeds, so she’ll be glad to help.”

  “Sounds good to me. Now go so I can do some work. I have some things to figure out. Call me the minute you find out anything.”

  “I’ll unload the kids onto James tonight and come over with everything. I’ll bring dinner.”

  “Perfect,” Nigh said as she ushered her friend out the door.

  The house was quiet once again and she planned to spend the rest of the day writing down everything she could remember about Jace Montgomery. He hadn’t told her much, but she might be able to piece together something. It had been on the train that she’d realized that the only reason he would send her away was if he was afraid for her. Since she knew that he wasn’t afraid of the two ghosts who had been in love with each other for over a century, it was something else and Nigh meant to find out what it was.

  16

  Kelly called at seven and said she couldn’t get away, but that Emma Carew knew “everything.”

  “What does that mean?” Nigh asked.

  “I don’t know. George said that Clive and your Montgomery had their heads together for nearly an hour one night and they were talking very seriously about something.”

  “What led up to their getting together?” Nigh asked.

  “George said he couldn’t remember, but you know George, if it isn’t politics, he isn’t interested. He said Emma and Clive were in some argument, then Montgomery dragged Clive off into a corner. George said to talk to Emma.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell them it was me who wanted to know.”

  “Certainly not! I told them I hadn’t seen you. Sorry, but I have to live here and your name is mud right now.”

  Nigh hung up the phone, wondering why she had left the relative peace of the Middle East.

  She’d made a list of all she knew about Jace Montgomery’s activities since he arrived, and was trying to figure out the real reason he’d bought Priory House. She was certain of two things. One was that he hadn’t bought the house because he loved it and wanted to live there forever. The second was that he wasn’t there for the ghosts. For him, the ghosts were a means to something else, the something that had made him say he was “close to death.”

  She made an outline of where he’d been and who he’d met, as best she could. Jace had told her some things and she’d heard the others. She’d been told that he had met “the three,” Mrses. Browne, Wheeler, and Parsons. Growing up, the children of the village had outdone themselves in adding to the names. Terrible Three. Horrible Three, etc. Kelly won by calling them the Three Gorgons.

  Whatever their names, the women thought they were the rulers of Margate. They had known each other since they were children and had been fast friends, equally involved in telling everything there was to know about everybody else—all while keeping their own lives secret. Not that they had much that people wanted to know about, but what there was was private. Mrs. Browne’s husband had been killed in some war—some people said it was WWI—and she’d come back with a baby and needed a job. She’d been at Priory House ever since. Her daughter had fled the town when she was eighteen and had never been seen or heard from again.

  Mrs. Parsons’s husband had died only last year, and he had the reputation of being the most henpecked man on earth. She used to boss him about in the stationer’s shop as though he were a slave. Mrs. Wheeler had been born in Margate as Agnes Harkens. She’d left with her parents when she was sixteen and returned when she was twenty-three with the title of Mrs. Wheeler. She had no parents, no husband, no children, but she did have enough money that she bought a house on the main street and opened what she called a “historical library.” She was as formidable at twenty-three as she was at her present age, and no one had dared ask her what had happened to her parents or her husband.

  The three women had renewed their childhood friendship and had reigned over Margate for half a century. There wasn’t anything that went on that they didn’t tell each other and the town about.

  Nigh found out that Jace had been subjected to the New House Treatment by the three. He’d been sold a lot of expensive notebooks and pens by Mrs. Parsons and had been lent the Priory House box by Mrs
. Wheeler.

  As Nigh looked at her list, she had an idea that maybe Jace had seen something disturbing at the library.

  Yawning, she went to bed. For a while she lay awake, fearful that she’d see Danny Longstreet again, but all was quiet and she closed her eyes. She dreamed of Jace, saw him laughing as he pulled vines away from the stone round. She seemed to see him laughing everywhere.

  When she awoke it was 8:00 a.m. and the sun was out. Her energy had returned and she was more determined than ever to find out what Jace Montgomery was hiding.

  She drove her Mini around the back of Margate, not wanting to drive down the high street, and parked behind the library. She knew that it wasn’t open until nine, but she also knew that Mrs. Wheeler was there at seven. She knocked on the back door.

  “I’m not open yet,” Mrs. Wheeler said in her imperious voice as she opened the door, ready to tell the person what she thought of him. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yes, it’s me. Do you mind if I do a little private research? I won’t bother you.” Subservience often worked with Mrs. Wheeler.

  “All right,” she said grudgingly, but Nigh could see that she was pleased. After all, Nigh was the local celebrity. “I don’t have much on the Middle East, if that’s what you want.” She lowered her voice. “I do have some things on Cornwall.”

  Nigh was puzzled, then she looked at her in conspiracy. “Are they smuggling down there again?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” Mrs. Wheeler said, but she let Nigh know that she knew something no one else did.

  “Is that where you lived in those years you were away from Margate?” Nigh asked innocently as she got her pad and pen out of her bag, as though she was going to record whatever the woman revealed to her.

  As she knew she would, Mrs. Wheeler backed off. “What can I help you with?” she asked coldly.

  “I’m researching our newest resident, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Wheeler said, and began to warm up. “Now there is an odd man. Not that I carry tales, but Mrs. Browne tells me of the very strangest things that go on with him.” She looked Nigh up and down. “But then you should know. You’ve spent a great deal of time with him.”