The Ghosts of Greenwood

by Maggie MacKeever

  Livvy was the first to speak, a fact which didn’t escape her husband’s notice. “Was Mr. Halliday hurt?”

  “He was not.” Dulcie leaned one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “I can’t decide whether I should congratulate him or offer a hint.”

  “A hint to what effect?” Sir John demanded. Dulcie did not reply.

  Nor did Livvy, when her spouse remarked that she seemed damned concerned with Connor Halliday’s well-being. “My God!” he uttered, under cover of the conversation that had broken out. “You do fancy him. I warn you, Livvy, I won’t tolerate another man paying pointed attentions to my wife.”

  Lady Dorset might have reacted to these heavy-handed statements in any number of ways. She might have pointed out that she had but twice laid eyes on Connor Halliday, and had in both events experienced less attraction than annoyance; she might have expressed doubt that the man existed who could turn her affections from her sadly unappreciative spouse.

  Naturally, she did neither. “You appear to be suffering a lapse of memory, husband. May I remind you that, not long past, you expressed a total lack of concern for my conduct?”

  Certainly Lord Dorset had done so, but with no more serious intent than he would have told his wife she might ride naked in Hyde Park. Dickon was long familiar with the contrariness of females: had he forbidden Livvy to flirt, she would have immediately set out to do precisely that. Now it appeared, and despite his cleverness, that she meant to do so anyway. “Must I remind you that you’re carrying my child?” he snapped.

  “That Connor escaped injury was due to sheer providence,” the Baroness said, ignoring the fact that Lord and Lady Dorset were regarding one another with covert hostility. “The mishap occurred near Lady Margaret’s Garden. Connor had meant to try and catch the culprit at his tricks. No, John, there is no use plaguing me about who moved the trap and why. If Connor knew, he didn’t confide in his valet, who in turn couldn’t pass the intelligence along.”

  “You’re a deuced clever one, Dulcie,” remarked Hubert. “Can’t you hazard a guess as to what mischief is afoot?”

  “Good God, don’t encourage her!” said Sir John.

  Ned rose, and left the room.

  Livvy was still smarting from her husband’s far-from-tactful reminder that she was coming to resemble a discontented cow. “Be off to chase your vixen,” she informed him. “She may find you less tedious than I do.”

  With an oath, Lord Dorset flung himself out of his chair. Sir John sighed, and followed. Livvy pressed her napkin to her nose.

  “A popular place, Lady Margaret’s Garden,” Hubert murmured. “One is tempted to explore it for oneself.”

  “Humbug,” said his aunt, “do hush. It is Lady Halliday who most often frequents Lady Margaret’s Garden. According to local gossip, Connor seldom goes there.”

  “So the trap was meant for Lady Halliday?” Hubert was uninclined toward silence. “Forgive my presumption, dearest aunt, but why?”

  “By whom seems a more pertinent question,” mused Dulcie. “Have you any suggestions, Jael?”

  “Sweet Christ, I’ve only been here five days!” Jael stabbed a sweet roll with her knife. “So far as I can make out, the most curious part of this business is the ghost various people claim to have glimpsed.”

  “Ah, yes, the ghost.” Lady Bligh leaned back in her chair. “Has Cade risen from the grave to divert us with supernatural manifestations? Or has he returned in the flesh to plague his brother? A pretty puzzle, is it not?”

  “Pray forgive my presumption,” Hubert said, unapologetically, “but that explanation is a trifle obvious. One might conclude, therefore, that one is supposed to think just that.”

  “One might,” said Dulcie. “I conjecture that Connor might himself be playing ghost.”

  “But to what purpose?” Jael inquired.

  “I don’t understand!” protested Livvy. “If Connor Halliday’s brother has returned, why doesn’t he simply present himself at the Hall? Why must he skulk about? And surely someone would have recognized Connor if he were pretending to be his brother’s ghost. You talk in riddles, and I think it very hard.”

  “Most riddles are simple constructs once one knows the answer.” Dulcie reached for the chocolate pot. “And the answer to this riddle is that Connor and Cade Halliday are — or were — twins, as like one another in appearance as two peas in a pod.”

  Chapter Twelve

  While Lady Bligh and Lady Dorset, the Honourable Hubert Humboldt and his inamorata pondered the meaning of recent perplexing events, Lord Dorset and Sir John prepared to indulge in that ritual so beloved by all gentlemen who chased the fox. Clad in leathers and top boots and scarlet coats, they collected their thoroughbreds and set out across the fields.

  Once he was mounted, Sir John’s mood improved. It was a fine day for hunting. Weather so remarkably clear and crisp and cool must inspire at least a hundred riders to take the field. Lady Bligh might be correct in saying that chasing foxes across country with twenty couple of hounds and a hundred horses wasn’t the most efficient manner to keep down their numbers, but logic be damned. Few sights were more inspiring than a field of foxhunters in full chase. Elegantly dressed and superbly mounted horsemen behind a pack of specially bred hounds, following the fox over stock and stone like a cavalry in hot pursuit— Even Dulcie could not gainsay the exhilaration of the chase.

  One did not merely ride across country, taking every obstacle in any possible way. A skilled sportsman had an eye for the terrain, and planned in advance how he would keep up with the hounds. Here, he might avoid a field of heavy plough and, there, cut a corner; yonder, choose a place because his horse was good at timber, or another spot because no one made for it. Sir John inhaled deeply of the crisp air. Whatever reasons lay behind it, he was grateful for Dulcie’s invitation. Many years had passed since he’d had either time or opportunity to ride after the hounds.

  Unfortunately, that was not the only opportunity being afforded him by Lady Bligh. With this reminder that his rural recess was being enlivened by the Honourable Hubert’s lies and wiggeries, Lady Dorset’s megrims and Lord Dorset’s unpredictable temper, some of Sir John’s good humor fled.

  He glanced at his companion, whose expression was grim. Sir John had overheard some of Lord Dorset’s earlier conversation with his wife. The Chief Magistrate wondered what had prompted Dickon to conclude that his sensible and usually levelheaded Countess was acting like a tart.

  One did not ask impertinent questions of the Earl, especially when one had prior knowledge of the Earl’s quick temper. Nor did one accuse him outright of pig-headedness. A pretty pair were Lord and Lady Dorset, she convinced that he was desirous of mounting a mistress, and he certain that she sought diversion elsewhere. In Sir John’s estimation, they were both muttonheads.

  This reminded him of another matter on which he sought enlightenment. Sir John hung back until they were some distance from the other riders, and then spoke with care. “Wellington took a pack of hounds with him to the Peninsula. He claimed there were none like the fox-hunting officers for the accomplishment of daring deeds. Among other things, he used those officers to carry messages onto the battlefield. Your cousin was one of them, I believe.”

  “Ned was commended in several dispatches,” Lord Dorset answered impatiently. “Though you’ll not get him to speak of it.”

  In Sir John’s experience, young officers returning from war were more likely to embark upon a round of gaming and wenching than to expound upon their honors. “Lieutenant Sutcliffe’s frame of mind seems to have improved since he first arrived. It must have been difficult for him to make the adjustment from military life.”

  “Don’t shilly-shally, man,” snarled Dickon. “What do you want to know?”

  Lady Bligh’s family, reflected Sir John, were a rag-mannered, ill-tempered, and entirely too sharp-witted lot. “It is mere speculation on my part, but— You don’t care for your cousin’s friendship with Lady Halliday?�
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  “I do not,” said Dickon. “Ned needs a romantic entanglement as much as he needs another blow to his head. If Lady Halliday had a grain of good sense, she wouldn’t encourage his attachment. Obviously, she has none.”

  Ahead of them, the other horsemen were engaged in receiving and exchanging the compliments of the morning; discussing the weather, the state of the country, and the wretched condition of the roads. Sir John hastened to get to the point of the conversation while he could still hear and not be overheard. “Were the lady to share his sentiments, would you oppose the match?”

  “It’s not the match I dislike, but the timing of it. Sir Wesley’s corpse is scarcely cold.” Dickon turned his head and caught the Chief Magistrate’s startled glance. For the first time that day, he smiled. “You are astonished to find me so high a stickler? For all my sins, I have never dallied with newly bereaved widows. Nor did I offer marriage to any of my petites-amie, which I fear will be Ned’s next mistake.”

  Lest Lord Dorset recall the unhappy condition of his own marriage, Sir John spoke quickly. “Am I to assume you don’t consider Lady Halliday respectable?”

  “Assume what you like!” Dickon retorted rudely. “I’m simply pointing out that the circumstances are open to misinterpretation, especially since clandestine meetings are involved. You look surprised; I was myself. That particular tittle-tattle was courtesy of my valet. Were Ned not already so damned pulled-about, I’d make a push to scotch the affair. Don’t look so astonished. I am the head of the family.”

  And deuced arrogant, thought Sir John, but did not say so aloud. “Why would you wish to scotch it? Do you know something to Lady Halliday’s discredit? Aside from the circumstances not being what one might like?”

  “Other than what I’ve already told you, no.” Lord Dorset frowned. “Why does everyone rush to that female’s defense? Granted she’s a taking little thing, albeit empty in the upper story; inside of a week, I’d find her a dead bore. You’re thinking Ned lacks both my temperament and experience? So he does. Ned also lacks wealth, which Lady Halliday can’t provide him. He has a mere competence, and needs to marry well.”

  Sir John could stand proof against only so much temptation. “As you did yourself.”

  A haughty eye fixed on him, suddenly looked amused. “I deserved that, didn’t I? Prosing on like a pompous windbag. The truth is, I can’t like this sneaking about.”

  Sir John refrained from further reference to pots blackening kettles. “Your cousin and Lady Halliday may wish to keep Connor Halliday in ignorance of their, ah, friendship, since she is recently bereaved.”

  “If Connor doesn’t know about it, he’s the only one. I’d think he would be pleased at the prospect of having his stepmother taken off his hands, since he doesn’t seem to like her above half.” Dickon’s gaze moved over the field. “Ordinarily, Connor acts as the Master to Hounds. It seems his recent misadventure with a mantrap has kept him from the hunt.”

  Sir John studied the current Master, who wore a good heavy hat, a round-cut single-breasted coat, roomy breeches, and top boots embellished with silver studs and buckles. On his hands were doeskin gloves, and in one he held a lapped whalebone whip. This man would be strong in the saddle, a neck-or-nothing rider. Sir John abandoned further speculation, and gave himself up to the pleasure of the hunt.

  It was a pleasure not without interruptions. The first occurred when the hounds dashed full cry in pursuit of a gorse bush sent trembling by the breeze on an opposite hill. Then came the arrival of a flock of sheep. The resultant tangle was eventually sorted out by the huntsman, supported by his two whippers-in, though not without the loss of several saddles of mutton. At length, after a long draw, a fox broke cover. The hounds set briskly to the scent, and the chase was on.

  Up and down hill they went, over plain fences with a ditch on one side or both; solid park palings; four-barred stiles on footpaths; wide banks with post-and-rail fences across the top and ditches running down the middle; high stone walls. Enclosure had added considerable spice to the sport.

  The riders paused for checks, which were received gratefully by the foremost, after each hard twenty minutes’ ride. It was during one of these that Sir John, listening to the conversation of his fellow-sportsmen — conversation that included such intriguing phrases as ‘double the horn’, ‘stubbled’ and ‘swine-chopped’ — saw Lord Dorset approach the Master of Hounds. After a brief and apparently heated conversation, that worthy turned away. Looking thunderous, Dickon rode back to join Sir John.

  “That fool’s letting the riders press too close on the hounds,” he said by way of explanation. “He’s never acted in this capacity before.” It was advisable always to keep the hounds clear of the horses; but since no one liked to be last, even on the road, the field crowded to the head. Sir John realized that he hadn’t once heard the traditional warning of “Hold hard!”

  The hounds had gone into cover, and now they gave tongue. The grove echoed with their cry. The fox had run the cover’s limits and dared not break. A look of anticipation replaced Dickon’s annoyed expression of moments past.

  The cries ceased. The fox had slipped back and the hounds had overrun the scent. “Tallyho!” cried a whipper from the far end of the cover. The whippers were responsible for keeping the hounds in a pack. His call was taken up and echoed. The huntsman’s horn twanged as he galloped toward the sound. The hounds strained to overtake him. Excitement gripped one and all.

  The pack was running best pace now, the riders causing no little damage to fields of turnips and young wheat. If the Master of Hounds was functioning at less than peak efficiency, his huntsman more than compensated for his lack. That worthy had the eyes of the best of his breed, quick to perceive which of the hounds carried the scent; and his ears were so excellent as to distinguish the foremost hounds even when they were out of sight. Thus he noted when one hound turned its head and flung to the right a pace.

  After five hundred yards, they checked. The huntsman made the usual casts, then recalled the hound’s behavior, went back the appropriate distance, and right away hit off the scent.

  “Crafty devil!” Dickon remarked cheerfully. “He’s doubled back again.”

  Had he a pack of hounds baying on his trail, Sir John would be inclined to evasive action himself. This precept, he had more than once applied to foxes in human form, forcing them with stealth and guile to break cover and expose themselves to his own merciless hounds. The whimsy amused him and he expanded it to encompass the methods by which miscreants could be induced to lay information against themselves. At that point, he caught himself up short. It was not to mull over criminal matters that he had come to Greenwood.

  Nor was that a suitable topic for contemplation. Sir John’s reasons for taking a vacation had all concerned his hostess, and were unsuited to a gentleman of his occupation, dignity, and age.

  Abruptly, he returned to an awareness of his surroundings. Looming up ahead of him was a leap consisting of four strong rails, more than five feet high.

  “Throw your heart over and your horse will follow!” called Lord Dorset from behind him. Sir John didn’t especially appreciate this advice, but it was too late to act otherwise. He appreciated the advice even less when, on the far side of the leap, he landed in a deep muddy lane.

  Sir John checked and turned back. Lord Dorset, who had followed him over the leap, had dismounted to inspect one of his horse’s legs.

  Dickon released the horse and straightened. “The damned screw has strained a tendon. Naturally, it must be right in the middle of a run. There’s nothing for it but to take him home. I wish you joy of your hunt.”

  After murmuring condolences, Sir John watched Lord Dorset lead his animal into the trees. He, and his horse, had a trek ahead of them. Greenwood Castle lay some distance away.

  Sir John dismissed the luckless Earl from his mind and set out to rejoin the hunt. He had no wish to attempt the rail leap from the uphill side and therefore proceeded in a leisurely
manner to circumvent it, as much for his own sake as for his horse.

  A fifteenth century Duke of York had claimed that hunting diverted a man’s mind from unwholesome notions and pursuits. Sir John feared it would take more than a brisk ride after a fox to divert Dulcie from hers.

  According to Voltaire, a man should be judged by his questions rather than his answers. Samuel Johnson averred that curiosity was, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last. Sir John tried to imagine what the Duke and Voltaire and Samuel Johnson might have made of the present-day Lady Bligh.

  Himself, he could not help but recall the adage that curiosity was fatal to felines.

  A gunshot interrupted his reflections. He turned his horse and rode in the direction of the sound.

  The direction in which Dickon had set out.

  In the distance, he heard men’s shouts, the neighs of startled horses, the barking of hounds.

  If he didn’t miss his guess, and Sir John seldom missed a guess, that shot had nothing to do with foxes and everything to do with Dulcie’s favorite nephew.

  Dulcie would never forgive him if Dickon had been murdered. Overlooking the fact that he was among those who had, at one time and another, contemplated murdering the Earl of Dorset, Sir John touched his heel to his horse’s flank. Better that he determined the source of that gunshot before the hunt bore down upon them. Not, of course, that the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street would engage in any action meant to circumvent the law.

  At least, Sir John hoped he wouldn’t. His notions of right and wrong tended to take on several shades of grey when members of Dulcie’s family were involved.

  To his relief, he found Lord Dorset alive and on his feet in a copse thick with shrubs and trees. Dickon had tied his horse’s reins to a tree limb. The horse didn’t appear happy at this circumstance. Save for that strained tendon, Sir John suspected the beast would have taken to its heels.