The Ghosts of Greenwood

by Maggie MacKeever

  “No,” ventured Livvy. “Have you?”

  Amanda shivered. “Maybe. I don’t know. After Sir Wesley’s death I vow I glimpsed— But it was probably Connor dressed up in a sheet.” She deposited her teacup in its saucer with a decided clunk. “I’ve tried my best to be polite to them, but it doesn’t serve. Rosamond curls her lip and looks at me as if I were some sort of insect while Connor is forever pinching at me, muttering about slips ‘twixt cups and lips, and pretty kettles of fish, and pigs in a poke.”

  She paused for breath. “How horrid for you,” Livvy said.

  Amanda reached for the teapot and refilled her cup. “Rosamond wouldn’t have taken to her bed, had she anticipated your visit. Nor would Connor have left the house to tend his monstrous man-traps. Sir Wesley had forbidden the gamekeepers to use the horrid things, which just shows how little one’s opinion is valued after one is dead. I’ve not seen the traps myself, but Connor has explained — it is the sort of thing Connor would explain to me, though as to why he doesn’t like me he remains mumchance! At any event, there are spring-guns hidden in the brambles to guard the pheasants at the expense of a man’s life or limb, which will give you a good notion of the sort of man he is.”

  Connor Halliday was the sort of man, thought Livvy, who upon his father’s sudden death immediately set about arranging things to suit himself. All too easy to envision what manner of arrangement he might devise for his father’s inconvenient wife.

  “He says he wishes to prevent poachers making off with our game,” Amanda continued. “I think he hopes to catch the tinkers trespassing in the park. You may already know that Sir Wesley allowed them to camp by the old mill. Why Connor so dislikes them, I don’t know, since they never bother anyone. Perhaps having tinkers camped on Halliday soil offends his sense of the fitness of things.” She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Shall I tell you a secret? I had my fortune read. That was before Sir Wesley’s death, you understand. What with Connor’s nasty traps set all around, I wouldn’t dare set foot in the woods now. Which is probably why he put them there.”

  “Gracious,” murmured Livvy. “Have you considered, Lady Halliday, that you may not be safe?”

  “You were to call me Amanda, remember,” Lady Halliday replied. “Naturally I have considered it; anybody must! But if some call me a slow-top, I’m not at all craven, and I shan’t be forced out of my own home. In any event, there’s nowhere else I’d care to go. It is all most provoking, because I was truly sensible of the honor Sir Wesley did me, and I tried very hard to make him happy, which no one can deny I did! Had I known how things would be—” She withdrew a pretty lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and applied it to her nose. “Sir Wesley told me I should have married a younger man, and he may have been correct, but I did so wish to be married, and few young men will take a bride who has no dowry, which my papa could hardly be expected to provide, because we existed in a state of genteel poverty. I tell you, it is most disheartening to be landed gentry when there is no longer any land.”

  Before Livvy could question her hostess further, which she meant to do, not only because Dulcie asked it of her but because her own interest had been aroused, a rough voice sounded in the hallway. Amanda shrank back in her chair. “Connor,” she breathed.

  A tall, swarthy man strode into the room. He had the physique of a sportsman, the yellow eyes of a predatory hawk, and hair the color of autumn leaves. “Haven’t you stopped sniveling yet? All this blubbering is enough to curdle a man’s stomach,” he snarled.

  Amanda gestured, timidly. “Lady Dorset was kind enough to call.”

  Connor swung round and scowled at Livvy. “Lady Dorset, is it? I don’t care if you’re the Queen herself. This is a house of mourning, and we aren’t receiving callers. Unless you wish to feel my boot against your arse, you will leave at once.”

  Chapter Four

  Lady Bligh was busy as a hive of bees for the remainder for that day. She listened to Livvy’s account of her visit to the Hall and suggested that certain details be kept private lest Dickon aspire to use Connor’s guts as fiddle-strings; and then summoned Austen, who had passed a profitable interlude listening to servants’ gossip while he munched on scones. Next, before sallying forth to the solar, she issued instructions to her staff that had nothing to do with such traditional seasonal endeavors as goose pies and Yule-logs and ale.

  The Baroness found the members of her house party embarked upon a tournament of tiddlywinks which, surprising no one, Jael won. To Hubert, currently lamenting that country life was damnably dull, she remarked that the sacrilegious wall-paintings in the Castle’s little Norman chapel were in grave need of repair, thereby sparking a gleam in his artistic eye, for Mr. Humboldt was a painter of no little talent and renown; to Sir John she proffered a promise that Humbug would not spoil his holiday by posing as a highwayman, nor her butler, who had sticky-fingered tendencies, filch his pocket-watch, at the same time flirting so outrageously his reservations were forgot. Having rendered the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street thoroughly, if temporarily bemused, Dulcie next sent Dickon’s cousin Ned to bed with a tisane prepared by her abigail, Culpepper, and her solemn promise that this night’s sleep would be free of the nightmares that had plagued him since he received a head wound at Toulouse. By this time, Jael had exceeded her tolerance for civilized conversation and slipped away. Lord and Lady Dorset had also, to no one’s surprise, previously withdrawn.

  A good day’s work behind her, the Baroness retired to her own chamber. With her went the orange tomcat, who customarily slept at her feet, and the parrot, who liked to doze on the headboard of her huge four-post bedstead — which was, courtesy of her absent spouse, adorned with Cupids strewing flowers, and shell-work, and wreaths — save when the Baron was in residence, at which times they were both banished as result of an unfortunate occasion when Casanova had imagined his mistress threatened and rushed to her defense, greatly to the amusement of she who was under attack, and the irritation of he who had laid siege. All its occupants accounted for, the Castle settled down to a peaceful night free of excursions and alarms.

  Thoroughly rested, Lady Bligh rose early the next day. She dressed with Culpepper’s dour assistance, then made her way through the Great Hall, the screens passage, out the massive Castle door and into the quadrangular courtyard. To the left of the arched iron gateway that connected the two ancient towers where the ninth century marauder responsible for the structure had confined the more annoying of his neighbors stood the gigantic chimneypiece and crumbling kitchens of a ruined medieval banqueting hall. To the right stood the inhabited part of the castle, its thick walls broken up by windows placed higgledy-piggledy here and there.

  The sun had but started its journey across the sky when Dulcie’s little trap clattered under the arched iron gateway between the crumbling towers, through a second gate set in the mossy old stone wall, across the moat that had been drained years before; rattled along the road that wound down through the dense woodlands surrounding the Castle, cedars and chestnuts, oaks and limes; turned at length onto the road that led to the village of Greenwood. Dulcie didn’t keep long to this route, but detoured onto one of several wooded lanes. She drove past farmhouses wreathed with vines up to their clustered chimneys, and little enclosures so closely set with growing timber as to resemble forest glades, until she came at last to the double avenue of beeches that marked the beginning of Halliday property.

  The Baroness left her trap and pony at the stable, in the care of an awed groom. Skirting the house, Dulcie walked swiftly past gardens and fruit orchards and forcing beds until she arrived at the hothouse. She entered; inspected the ivy and pomegranate and Christmas roses, the orange trees, figs, and gigantic purple plums; picked up a wicker basket and filled it with fruit before returning to the door.

  Moisture had fogged the glass. Lady Bligh raised one gloved hand and wiped it away.

  Lady Margaret’s Garden beckoned. Dulcie walked down the pathway and opened the gate; surve
yed the vine-covered benches, the clogged fountain, the shattered statue and neglected flowerbeds.

  The Baroness was not one to be put off by either violent death or vengeful shades. She crossed the arched bridge, followed the winding gravel path to the small mock temple, crossed the threshold where Sir Wesley had not long ago lay dying, and stepped inside.

  The place was cold, unwelcoming. What little furniture remained wouldn’t have made sufficient kindling for a fire. Long mirror frames still hung on the walls, but contained only slivers of tarnished glass. The sole unbroken item in the room was a lantern that perched on one chipped marble bench.

  Dulcie stood motionless, gazing at the shambles; the lantern, then the floor, which showed neither footprints nor dust. She closed the door softly behind her, leaving the temple to its ghosts.

  An elderly butler admitted her to the Hall. Not by a single muscle’s quiver did he reveal dismay at receiving a caller at so unreasonable an hour, or surprise at having a carriage whip thrust into his hand, or astonishment at the caller’s demand to be escorted immediately upstairs.

  In Greenwood, Dulcie’s wish was tantamount to law.

  Rosamond Fellowes was sipping her morning chocolate and reading a gazette when a tap came at her door.

  “Enter,” she called.

  “Lady Bligh,” announced the butler. Rosamond dropped her newspaper and stared. The Baroness was wearing a bright green habit with military trimming, black halfboots with green laces up the back, and a black beaver hat trimmed with a magnificent ostrich plume. But, pink? Her hair was pink? Rosamond felt at a disadvantage. Her own habit was more than ten years out of fashion, her gray hair mussed from her equally unfashionable riding hat.

  “You don’t look ill,” said Lady Bligh, as she set her basket on a table.

  Rosamond caught a pineapple that threatened to roll onto the floor. “A morning ride is good for the constitution. You’re out early today.”

  “As is Connor, tending to his duties as Master of the Hunt.” Dulcie stripped off her York tan gloves and held her hands out to the warmth of the fire. “This is an extraordinarily fine chamber for a poor relation who is little more than a glorified housekeeper. I applaud your enterprise.”

  Rosamond was not one to accept insults meekly, but accept this insult she did. “My cousin assigned me this room when I first arrived. Margaret was a saint.”

  “Saints are deuced hard to live with,” responded the Baroness, to whom such an accolade would never be applied. “You were accustomed to acting the lady of the manor before Miss Amanda came along. I imagine you treat her as an unwelcome guest.”

  Rosamond placed the pineapple back in its basket. “Did you come here to insult me? I do my duty, of course.”

  “By your lights, I’m sure you do. You are aware that odd things are being said?”

  That awareness had Rosamond hiding, for the most part, in her sitting room. “What sort of things?” she asked.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Dulcie took possession of a cane chair. “It’s being whispered that Connor so disliked his father’s marriage that he did away with the old man. As previously he had disposed of his brother. The resurrection of that old gossip must please you, since it places Connor in a bad light. As I recall, one brother was as bad as the other, so the reason for your preference remains unclear.”

  Rosamond forced her eyes away from the Baroness’s pink hair and plumed hat. “Cade was nothing like Connor! His pranks were no more than youthful high spirits. Like any colt, Cade felt his oats.”

  “He sowed them, you mean, far and wide,” the Baroness amended. “Why was Sir Wesley out so early on the morning of his death?”

  “What has one thing to do with another? It was Sir Wesley’s habit to rise early. Old men don’t sleep well.”

  “Unlike old women,” observed Dulcie, with a pointed glance: Rosamond was a spare spinsterish female in her sixth decade. “Did Sir Wesley quarrel recently with anyone? Had he enemies?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. You can’t mean to imply that his death wasn’t natural?”

  “I merely find it curious that Sir Wesley died in Lady Margaret’s Garden after forbidding everyone the place.” Dulcie smoothed her gloves against her knee. “Now, about this ghost.”

  “I don’t care to discuss such rubbish!” Rosamond snapped.

  “I daresay you don’t, but we shall discuss it all the same. To speed up matters, I’ll tell you what I already know. Years ago, Cade trysted with an unknown woman in Lady Margaret’s Garden. Sir Wesley found them there. Cade and Connor came to blows over the business and Connor was left for dead.” The Baroness ignored Rosamond’s gesture of protest. “But Connor didn’t die, and Cade disappeared. Or at the least departed, and on Sir Wesley’s command. What say you, Rosamond?”

  Rosamond pushed herself away from the table. “I have nothing to say about the matter. Other than that it is a blessing poor Margaret didn’t live to see her son disgraced.”

  “Which son?” inquired Dulcie. “Though Cade may have been disinherited, Connor has been suspected of enacting Cain and Abel with his brother ever since.”

  “And so he deserves to be. I’ve long been convinced that it was Connor who sent Sir Wesley to Lady Margaret’s Garden that night, knowing what he would find. Connor wouldn’t have been sorry to see his brother placed in a bad light.”

  “If so,” Dulcie said dryly, “Connor had his wish. Moreover, Cade hasn’t been seen in Greenwood since. Seen alive, that is. Perhaps it’s his ghost that haunts Lady Margaret’s Garden. Perhaps he caused his father’s death.”

  Rosamond gazed out the window. “A ghost in Lady Margaret’s Garden? Is that what they’re saying now? You must know as well as I that there are no such things as ghosts.”

  “Must I? And then there are the tinkers. There has long been speculation as to why Sir Wesley allowed them to camp on his land every year.”

  Rosamond swung round to face her tormentor. “Sir Wesley alone knew the answer to that question, and he can hardly tell us now. However, I can tell you that their welcome is about to end. I only wish that Connor might be rid so easily of that scheming little minx Amanda. He was in a rare taking when his father brought home a wife. It was midsummer moon with the old fool.”

  “So I’ve heard. What I haven’t heard is anything to Lady Halliday’s discredit, barring the comments about May and December marriages that one might expect.” The Baroness also rose. “Do you know something I do not?”

  “Unlikely,” said Rosamond, with a flash of spirit. “But you may think what you wish.”

  “Thank you. I shall.” Lady Bligh moved toward the door. “And what I think is that you are not without responsibility for what is being said.”

  Rosamond clasped her hands tightly together. “You misjudge me, Dulcie. I’d not see even Connor hang for murder when there is no proof.”

  Chapter Five

  Not only Lady Bligh ventured forth that morning. In hunting season, sporting gentlemen did not laze late abed. Unlike Lord Dorset, who set out to hunt down foxes, Sir John was content to wander through the hedgerows, shotgun in hand. If he flushed a pheasant, so be it. If not, he didn’t care.

  The Baroness had left the castle early. Sir John wondered what his hostess was about. He also wondered why he inevitably allowed himself to become entangled in her schemes.

  His current discomfort could not be blamed on Lady Bligh. The Honourable Hubert Humboldt was as annoying as a buzzing gnat. However, were Humbug locked away in Newgate, as he so richly deserved to be, Sir John would have been left alone to deal with Ned, whose reminiscences had progressed, thus far this morning, from the liberation of Oporto to the chaos left in the wake of Soult’s fleeing army; from the sodden animal carcasses and human debris that choked the eddies under every rickety bridge to a phlegmatic corporal who during the hostilities at Salamanca had erected a barricade of dead Frenchman against artillery fire and cold wind.

  “That boy,” murmured Hubert, “is i
n need of distracting. Do you wish to do the honors, or shall I?”

  “By all means, you do it,” Sir John replied.

  Humbug was a master of distraction. As result of his efforts, Ned was soon regaling them with a somewhat more cheerful account of Wellington’s triumphant entry into Spain’s first city, Madrid; and the consequent abrupt departure of Joseph Bonaparte, among whose army were so many women that it was known irreverently as ‘un bordel ambulant’.

  Fortunate, mused the Chief Magistrate, that he’d set out with no burning ambition to bag a bird. Since Ned’s most recent experience with hunting involved tracking down and shooting human quarry, Sir John would have hesitated to use his gun even had a pheasant burst out of the hedgerow right under his nose.

  He glanced sideways at Hubert, who was wearing the fustian pantaloons and nankeen shooting-jacket that were customary for such sport. Instead of carrying a game-bag and a shotgun, Humbug had brought along an umbrella, which he used alternately as a hedge-beater and a cane.

  An ecstatic welcome had awaited the victors, Ned informed them. Among the entertainments provided in Madrid had been a ribald comedy. The lead actor had delighted his audience by using the pot de chamber before retiring for the night, which scene concluded the play.