The Dead of Haggard Hall

by Marie Treanor

  A shocked laugh escaped her. “Barbara!”

  “Tell me,” I said lightly.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just, I’m not expecting an interesting event. Again. As I discovered when we came back from our ride.”

  “Well, it is very soon,” I excused. “You are both young and have plenty of time.” While I was old and wily and could manipulate any conversation to my own ends without compunction. “Of course, gentlemen want heirs.”

  “There is that, but Arthur never reproaches me. If it ever entered his head, he’d be quite happy for Cousin Patrick to succeed him. It’s I who want a little baby…”

  Once, I’d thought the same. And I’d got the information I wanted. I stood and crossed the room to sit beside her on the bed. “You’ll have one. When you’re grown up yourself.”

  She looked rueful. “Am I being childish? Give me a handsome husband to love me, and a big house to live in. Give me pretty clothes and a ball to show off at. And Barbara to make me comfortable. Now, a baby to complete my perfection. Am I so shallow?”

  I shook my head. “No, but no one gets everything they want all at once. You have a pretty good start.” And I didn’t want anyone to take what she had away from her.

  * * * * *

  After a light luncheon, Emily and I walked down to the village with a basket and sympathy for Martin’s devastated family. They seemed genuinely touched that young Lady Haggard had taken the trouble to visit, and Emily played her part well, at first with an appealing hint of nervous shyness, and then with more confidence as she realized she could really help these people in a material way. When Martin’s mother revealed that Martin’s earnings had been important to the family over the last year or two, she immediately said she was sure there would be a place in either the Hall or the London house for Martin’s younger sister should they wish her to go into service.

  “Though why they would,” Emily said to me as we walked home, “when we failed so signally to look after Martin is beyond me.”

  Martin’s death was making me uneasy in all sorts of ways, especially when taken in conjunction with all the other odd things that had happened in the house: Rose Haggard’s untimely death via the same window; the marble bust which had almost fallen on Arthur shortly after his marriage; the deliberate ghostly noises designed to frighten Emily and me.

  And then there were the genuinely ghostly presences, and the seething emotion-formed half-beings which had troubled my sleep with outrageously sensual dreams both nights since I had arrived.

  “So, what do you think, Barbara?” Emily asked me as the house came into view once more. Today, in the sunshine, it looked a lot less ominous for some reason. It was, in fact, a charming, if sprawling old house. “Now that you’ve settled in, are there ghosts here? Am I imagining things as everyone says?”

  There was no answer I could give that would reassure her, so, as I’d already decided, I stuck with truth. “It’s an old house. Of course there are ghosts and powerful emotions woven into the stone by now. It may be you’re sensitive to those emotions just now, perhaps because of your feelings for your husband.”

  She eyed me. “Are you talking about physical feelings?” she asked.

  “Probably. But I’m guessing. Whatever, these things are no threat to you. I don’t believe there’s a connection between them and the strange sounds you hear. I believe these are caused by other people moving around in other parts the house. You hear the echoes through walls and chimneys, and because of your nervous sensitivity just now, you’re more aware of them than you would otherwise be.”

  She frowned, immediately finding the flaw in my argument. “Why are people moving around in the middle of the night?”

  “Who knows?” I said lightly. “Intrigue and insomnia. Or rats. But I’ve heard the sounds you mean and you may trust me they are very much of this world.”

  She thought about that for a little as we walked. She lifted her face up to the sun. “I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.”

  “No, it is better,” I insisted. “We can make people desist. Spirits would be much more problematic.”

  “And poor Martin? Is his death part of this?”

  “I wish I knew.” Telling her my fear that Martin had been pushed by someone who mistook him for Arthur would have neither helped nor comforted her at this point. “But I’ll try to find out.”

  “How?” she asked helplessly.

  I didn’t answer, because I didn’t want her anywhere near when I did it. But the best way to discover something about the dead is to ask them.

  Chapter Eight

  Having changed early for dinner, I went in search of Emily or Arthur to discover the best means of sending my letter to my mother in London.

  “Where is young Lady Haggard?” I enquired of a scurrying footman.

  “In the library, miss,” he replied.

  “Thank you.” I hurried on along the gallery and closed my fingers around the library door handle, but it wasn’t Emily’s voice but Henry Faversham’s that I heard inside saying, “…cannot advise it. Personally, I rather like the lady, but there is no doubt that Patrick is right. Her mother does indeed set herself up as a medium and is currently taking advantage of Lady Fairford’s good nature, to call it nothing worth, to live rent free in her house, where she holds séances once or twice a week. Admittance is by shockingly expensive invitation only. While—”

  “Barbara has nothing to do with any of that!” Emily’s voice interrupted with impatience. “If it’s even true.”

  “Oh, it is true,” Patrick’s voice said, stirring a sense of something ridiculously like betrayal in the pit of my stomach. “I was there.”

  “Even so,” Arthur said reasonably, “I don’t think we can blame the daughter for the sins of the mother.”

  “All the same, given her background,” Mr. Faversham said uncomfortably, “I’d be derelict in my duty if I released money in my trust to pay to her.”

  “Given her background? She is a respected teacher!” Emily fumed.

  “Respected? Emily, the school forced her to resign because she was holding séances for the pupils!”

  “Lies,” Emily said dismissively. “I’ve spoken to her about that, and you should too. Barbara Darke was my teacher, and remains my wise friend. If you’re going to be so stuffy about it, I shall pay her out of my own pin money.”

  “Well, there’s the thing, Emily,” Mr. Faversham said quietly. “If she is a friend, why do you need to pay her?”

  There was silence inside the room. I let my hand fall very slowly from the door. Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves, as I had just proved, and yet I couldn’t make myself move away.

  In a small, hard voice, Emily said, “Because she could not otherwise afford to come to me right now.”

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t help being poor. I could, however, avoid being the object of pity. I would leave tomorrow, after a thorough talk with Emily. Which meant I had tonight to find out what the devil was going on here and stop it. A tall order…

  “From what I hear,” Mr. Faversham said wryly, “her mother can well afford it.”

  “Yes, but we can’t have it both ways, Harry,” Patrick said sardonically. “If we condemn her for having such a parent, we can hardly condemn her for standing apart from her as well. I would suggest a compromise. If Mrs. Darke is not filling Emily’s head with nonsense, I would suggest advancing one month’s salary rather than the quarter year you requested.”

  Was Emily really supposed to be grateful for that? I knew I wasn’t. But what had I expected? I had always known I would not be accepted as a suitable companion for young Lady Haggard. I hadn’t even wanted to be. Frankly, my mind needed more exercise than running simple errands for a young Society matron. I’d never intended to stay beyond a few weeks. But somehow, to hear the disapproval, and my circumstance, my penury, and my moth
er’s gifts discussed in such a way at some kind of a family meeting made me want to kick things. Or people. It made me want to weep.

  We hadn’t asked to be so different, whether you called it gifted or cursed. We just were. And I would never, ever apologise for it.

  Inside the library, a footstep sounded too close to the door. I fled across to the large drawing room and hid inside until everyone had emerged from the library, still arguing, although I’d no idea, and less care, what decision they’d eventually come to. When the place was quiet again, I made my way to the small drawing room and began the torture of the dinner hour.

  At least I was glad to see that Miss Salton brought Irene down to sit with the adults before dinner. And later, after dinner, when the governess had performed her tea-pouring duties after the meal, and said good night, Susan said suddenly, “Tell Irene that if she’s good, I will be in to wish her good night.”

  “Of course, Lady Haggard,” Miss Salton said submissively.

  “How did you manage that one so fast?” Emily murmured in my ear.

  “Manage what?” I returned and rose to my feet. “Do you know, for some reason I am utterly fatigued tonight. Is there anything I can do for you before I retire for the night?”

  “Why, no,” Emily said, clearly surprised.

  “Find the wretched cards,” grumbled old Lady Haggard.

  “Alas they appear to be lost entirely,” I mourned.

  “Well, get plenty of rest,” Emily advised. “Tomorrow is our last day before guests start to arrive, and we shall be run off our feet preparing.”

  “I shall bring my notebook to breakfast,” I promised her. “And make us a most alarming list of tasks. Good night.”

  I was aware I was being a poor companion to Emily, but the truth was, I had much to do if I was to leave here before the ball. And besides, I had no wish to encounter either Mr. Faversham, who had smiled to my face and spoken of me so callously, or Patrick Haggard who had, presumably, discovered and reported the details of my life. At least he had always openly disliked me, whatever desires his body harboured. Arthur himself, and Bela, with whom I had conversed amusingly enough at dinner to induce a decided sparkle in the young rake’s eyes, were the only gentlemen I could stomach right now.

  Unfortunately, as I opened the drawing room door, I saw them all emerging from the dining room and crossing the hall in my direction. Bela was laughing at something Patrick had said in his most sardonic voice, and Arthur was talking animatedly to Faversham. I pretended to be too distracted to notice them. From the conversation I had overhead earlier, they should have been happy enough to go along with that. But…

  “Mrs. Darke,” came Patrick’s torturing voice. “Are you looking for something Arthur or I could help you with?”

  I cast my eyes to heaven without letting my head follow to give me away. What did he think I was doing? Going to steal the silver? Organizing a séance—or a black mass—for the servants in the attic?

  One foot on the first step, I turned back to face them. “Unfortunately not. Emily has promised me an exhausting day tomorrow so I’m retiring early to make myself fit. I bid you good night, gentlemen.”

  I would have bowed from a distance and continued on my way, but as I spoke, Patrick’s gaze flickered to my shoulder, and for some reason, he frowned and started towards me so that I could not, in courtesy, walk away.

  “Good night, Mrs. B,” Arthur called cheerfully and Bela and Faversham followed his lead before walking on to the drawing room.

  Patrick advanced on me, frowning still at my shoulder.

  “If I’ve torn the lace, I’ll mend it,” I said tartly.

  “It hasn’t torn. It’s slipped.” He lifted one hand, and I felt the shock of his fingers on my bare skin. “Not shadow.”

  “What are you…? Oh.”

  I must have stood clumsily on the lace when I turned, and pulled the overdress too far off one shoulder. Although hardly indecorous, the lilac gown beneath was styled with a wide V-shaped neckline from the edges of the shoulders, and when I looked down, the crazy purple-and-green discoloration of my skin was only too obvious.

  I flinched away from his touch. But his eyes were angry rather than amorous.

  “Did my aunt do that last night?” he snapped.

  I’d almost forgotten the incident, so it took me a moment to understand what he meant. “Lord, no,” I said lightly. “An accident of my journey. Which was why I yelped with such poor spirit when Lady Haggard poked me last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “I fell against the side of the coach when it lurched.”

  His frown deepened. “With some force. Was there an accident?”

  “Oh no. The vehicle was old.” I was deliberately vague, more to cut short the conversation than anything else, but his eyes flew up to mine with an arrested expression I could almost have imagined was horrified.

  His lips thinned and then, unexpectedly, his hard eyes seemed to soften ever so slightly. “You are a very strange woman, Mrs. Darke.”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Haggard,” I replied.

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “And that works both ways.” He delved into the pocket of his loose-fitting coat and emerged with an octavo-sized publication which he offered me. “I thought you might like to add this to your judgment of my journalism.”

  I took it from instinct, noticing the shape and strength of his long fingers more than the title of the book.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “Good night,” And this time, although more baffled by him than ever, I did turn my back on him and walk calmly upstairs. He watched me all the way up, his gaze burning into my neck, my waist, my hips, but I didn’t look back, even when I reached the top and walked towards my own wing of the house. My bruises still hurt; the rest of me exulted in his attention. It was all I would ever have of him. Or he of me.

  * * * * *

  I had decided in the afternoon that this part of the evening was my best chance. The Haggards and their guests were together in the drawing room and the servants would all be busy about their post-dinner duties. So, once in my own room, I simply removed the lace overdress, swung my old shawl around my shoulders, collected my candle, and left again.

  I saw no one as I made my way up to the attic—avoiding the narrow spiral staircase beside Patrick Haggard’s room. No whispering, no excessive creaking or rustling of walls followed me. The spirits were also quiet.

  The door to Arthur’s studio was still unlocked, although as I went in, holding my candle high, I saw that a large plank of wood had been nailed roughly across the tied-shut window.

  I lit two of Arthur’s candles from my own and placed them around the empty area between Arthur’s easel and the window, where I sat on the floor with my legs crossed beneath my skirts. It was the most stable position, and not so far to fall.

  I absorbed the silence around me, let the feel of the place seep into me. Inevitably, the echoes of old emotions came with that, but not the threatening kind. After a few moments, I gradually lowered all my barriers.

  It was rare for me to call spirits to me. I didn’t need to. They came without invitation, drawn to my ability to receive, I could only imagine. But I was my mother’s daughter, and if I knew anything, it was how to summon the dead. I was fortunate too that I didn’t need an interpreter. I didn’t go into a trance. I was aware of everything that was said and done. It didn’t always feel like an advantage, but in this situation, I was glad of it.

  “Martin,” I murmured. “Martin, who passed on so recently in this very place, hear me call to you. Speak to this living soul who will hear you.”

  The spirits of the house were converging. I could feel them flitting towards me in a lethargic kind of a way, curious, but only up to a point. They were unlikely to try to enter me, and I was perfectly capable of keeping them out. The other, nastier things, like
the malevolent consciousness that had haunted me in sleep, were a different matter, but I wasn’t asleep now, and the risk of them was worth it if I could only speak to Martin.

  “Martin, who worked in the stables for Sir Arthur Haggard, whose smock you held as you fell to your death, hear me now. Those who cared for you would discover what happened. Speak to me for them. Martin.”

  The candles flickered. The spirits gathered close together, surrounding me but not touching. I reached out among them with my mind, calling aloud to Martin, and felt something, very faint and confused and timid. One of the newly dead.

  “Martin,” I whispered. “Martin, speak to me. I mean you no harm. I wish only to help. Speak to me. Feel me; I am open to you.”

  Something brushed against my mind, curious, investigative. But it wasn’t Martin.

  “Martin, you can speak to me this way. Just reach out and touch me. Comfort those left behind. Speak to me.”

  It wasn’t a connection, far from it, but I sensed something—a partially formed presence of Martin. I reached out, trying to draw him to me, and the presence shattered to nothing. I waited a moment, aware of the curious one still stroking against my mind. I tried a different tack and spoke to it instead.

  “Will you bring Martin to me? Calm him, show him I mean no harm, and let me speak to him.”

  “I don’t know Martin.” The reply came back with sudden clarity and a good deal of carelessness as the curious spirit slipped into me. Feminine, sad, resigned, wondering. But communicative. I let her stay.

  “What is your name?” I asked her.

  “Am I speaking to you?” she asked, apparently fascinated.

  “More through me.”

  “I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “It’s rare,” I admitted.

  “You are rare, or I am?”

  “Both,” I said diplomatically.

  “Then you are of that world, the first world?”

  “The first world you remember, yes.”

  She was silent as a jumble of fragmented memories and sudden, fierce hope swept from her into me. “Patrick,” she said. “Do you know Patrick?”