The Ghosts of Greenwood

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Are they?” Livvy asked.

  Amanda shook her chestnut curls. “Not to my knowledge. Rosamond told him to ask the head groom. I think Bow Street would do better to try and discover who moved that trap into Lady Margaret’s Garden than to go hunting horses with missing shoes.”

  Livvy remembered Dickon mentioning a horseshoe found near Connor’s body. Amanda didn’t know of that, it seemed.

  “When I recall I said that I wished Connor might be caught in one of his traps,” Amanda added, “I could bite off my own tongue. Well, maybe I wouldn’t go so far as that, but I still feel bad.” She paused, allowing Livvy an opportunity to appreciate the conversations going on around them, most concerning the nice tone of the recent ceremony and the appearance of the deceased, most particularly the not altogether successful attempt that had been made to camouflage his wound, and the odd circumstance that death caused people to look peaceful, even when they had not been in life.

  Amanda touched her arm. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have blurted out my troubles in that childish way. What must you think of me?”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” responded Livvy; what else could she say? “It is natural that you should feel as you do.”

  “Natural? At this point, I couldn’t say what is natural and what is not.” Amanda glanced over her shoulder. “May I take further advantage of your kindness? Will you deliver a message to Ned?”

  Here was a fine irony. Livvy had come to the Hall at Dulcie’s request, to gather information, but also so that she might try and understand her husband’s most recent infatuation, if infatuation it was and not something worse, only to be asked to bear his rival a billet-doux.

  Inconceivable, that Dickon should have a rival. Had he not made his interest known? Was it possible that he had been rebuffed? Cheered by a vision of her beloved rakeshame suffering his disappointment in stoic silence — for all his faults, the Earl was not the sort of man to try and steal a march on his own cousin — Livvy agreed.

  Surreptitiously, Amanda withdrew a folded paper from her sleeve. Livvy slipped the note into her reticule. “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” sighed Amanda. “It depends on how things have been arranged. Rosamond vows I shan’t have a penny more than I deserve. I’ll warrant she thinks she should have everything herself, though why she should deserve anything at all, I have no idea. Oh mercy, here she comes! Pray don’t forget to give Ned my note.”

  Rosamond Fellowes was indeed bearing down on them, a black-clad battleship with all sails unfurled. “You are neglecting your guests,” she said sternly to Amanda. “Go now and do the pretty, if you can.”

  Amanda fled.

  Rosamond’s eyes raked over Livvy. “A fine kettle of fish this is!” said she.

  What must it be like to live with such a Gorgon? Livvy doubted she could bear it, no matter how much money was involved.

  Thought of Gorgons recalled her ex-employer. “You should not stare at me like that; it is very rude,” she said, in good imitation of a certain Baroness. “I am Lady Dorset. You are acquainted with my aunt-by-law. Dulcie asked me to extend the family’s condolences. She would not care for us to seem unfeeling, although murder is not something of which we can approve.”

  Rosamond looked as if she might choke on her own ill-temper. Before she could vent her venom, the elderly butler entered the room. Accompanying him were a tall stooped gentleman who appeared ill at ease, and a slender lady whose features were obscured by a thick mourning-veil.

  Abandoning Livvy, Rosamond hurried forward. “Mr. Crossthwaite! You’ve come at last. Perhaps you’d care to explain why it’s taken you such an unconscionable long time. Who is this you’ve brought?”

  The tall gentleman looked even more uncomfortable. The butler cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, madam, but this person claims to be Mrs. Halliday.”

  “Mrs. Halliday?” Rosamond’s eyes narrowed. “Nonsense! Connor never took a bride.”

  “No?” The woman threw back her veil. “Interesting, if beside the point. Pray allow me to introduce myself, since your solicitor seems to have forgot his manners. I am Mrs. Cade Halliday.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What a to-do!” concluded Livvy. “Rosamond succumbed to vapors, and Amanda was nearly as surprised. Mrs. Halliday — Barbary, she said her name is — was the only person present who remained calm. I daresay she anticipated her arrival would cause a dreadful fuss.”

  Jael sat beside the Baroness on the green damask-upholstered sofa, laying out a deck of gaudy cards on a table drawn up by her knee. “What does she look like?”

  “Honey-blonde hair, a good complexion. Of medium height and figure. She’s probably quite attractive when not wrapped up in widow’s weeds.”

  “We have a superfluity of widows.” From somewhere Dulcie had produced a ball of scarlet wool and knitting needles, which she was wielding with remarkable dexterity. “I find myself curious as to the length of this particular widow’s bereavement, and how that bereavement came about. It is a pity, Lavender, that you are so excessively polite.”

  “Would you have had me outstay the other guests?” Livvy inquired crossly, from her seat on the Gothic pew. “I could hardly hide myself behind a curtain to overhear her explanations. I’m not sure I would have heard them, even had I remained behind. When I took my leave, Rosamond was being dosed with burnt feathers and vinaigrette, while Amanda was playing hostess in her stead and causing the servants to trip over themselves. Who will inherit now? The widow of Sir Wesley, or Cade?”

  Dulcie ventured no guess, but glanced at the cards Jael was arranging in a Celtic cross.

  The ladies were alone in the solar. Austen had retired to the library, accompanied by Casanova and Bluebeard, there to read, had Livvy but known it, not The Memoirs of Dick the Pony but Tom Jones. Hubert was in the little Norman chapel, adding the final touches to his wall-painting repair. Sir John was off about official business, while Ned and Dickon— But Livvy was determined not to dwell on her spouse, who had announced his intention to henceforth sleep in his dressing room before going to vent his temper on the local wildlife.

  Jael finished laying out her cards. In the center was the Queen of Wands, a staff in her right hand and a sunflower in her left, at her feet a sinister black cat. “You’re born to luck in some things, lady, but not all. You trust where you should not. You have a friend who is not a friend. Beware.”

  “And she will meet a tall dark gentleman,” scoffed Livvy, burrowing deeper into her pretty silk shawl.

  “I have already met a tall, dark gentleman.” Dulcie glanced at the door. “There is no use hovering in the hallway, Crump. We shan’t say anything of interest. Lavender, ring for tea.”

  Ah, but they had already said several things of interest. No whit abashed at being caught out eavesdropping, the Runner strolled into the room. Lady Dorset was looking wan in a loose-fitting blue dress; Jael was feral in pale grey silk. Lady Bligh appeared almost unexceptional, with that ginger hair — unexceptional, that was, if one ignored the fact that she was clad in a gown of jaconet muslin that prompted one to suspect she’d left off her stays.

  The Baroness patted an apple-green sofa cushion. “It’s been an age since we last met. Come sit beside me, Crump.”

  The Runner would rather have cuddled up next to a cobra. “My apologies, your ladyship, this isn’t in the nature of a social call.”

  “I didn’t think it was,” said Dulcie. “I imagine you have already discovered that Connor’s horse returned to the Hall late on the afternoon of his death. The beast had the appearance of having been ridden hard.”

  The arrival of a housemaid, with refreshments, saved Crump the necessity of reply. Ignoring him, the Baroness presided over the ritual of pouring tea.

  Lady Dorset’s abigail had been quick to announce Crump’s identity to the village. Had Dulcie had put Mary up to that, and if so, why? For that matter, why was Abel Bagshot acting as if Crump was his new bosom bow
?

  “Air-dreaming, Mr. Crump?” inquired Dulcie. “Do take some refreshment.”

  Reluctantly, Crump moved closer. He could not refuse without appearing rude. Lady Bligh grasped his wrist and pulled him down beside her. Jael flashed him her cold smile.

  He wondered if Jael was armed. Foolish question; of course she was. As was the Baroness, with those blasted knitting-needles. Crump had no notion, when he became a Runner, how exhausting it would prove to try and uphold the law.

  Dulcie thrust a teacup at him. “There! Are you not more comfortable? Now, tell us how your investigations proceed.”

  “As well as can be expected,” Crump said warily. The Baroness clearly meant to meddle, and he was curious as to why. “I wanted to ask Lady Dorset if she noticed anyone behaving oddly during Connor Halliday’s funeral.”

  Livvy had been studying Jael’s cards, pondering the significance of a Ten of Swords laying across the Queen of Wands. She glanced up at Crump, surprised. “Oddly? Not really. The whole village was present. It was impossible to notice anything in such a dreadful squeeze.”

  “Did you see a foreign-looking fellow?” Crump persevered. “With a wicked sort of face?”

  Livvy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I remember no one of that description.”

  Dulcie picked up her knitting. “You are describing Gypsy Joe. What makes you think Giuseppe was at the funeral, Crump?”

  Crump generally knew when he was being bamboozled, but with this group he couldn’t tell. It was possible that Lady Dorset hadn’t seen the tinker, albeit unlikely; Giuseppe was from all accounts not a man to go unnoticed by any female.

  Lady Bligh poked him with a knitting needle. “I asked you a question. Who told you Giuseppe was there?”

  “Abel Bagshot, among others.” Now that the innkeeper had gotten over the shock of having a Bow Street Runner on his premises, he was evincing every curiosity as to how the Runner’s business was gone about. “I take it you are acquainted with him, Lady Bligh?”

  “With Abel? Oh, yes. Over the years, he has been of no small service to the family. Why else should I have given him a Patent Warm-Air Stove?”

  Crump had his own suspicions about that blasted stove. “Not Bagshot, but the tinker. Gypsy Joe.”

  The Baroness tilted her head, birdlike, to one side. “You must learn to say what you mean, dear Crump! How could I not know Giuseppe? His mother was in service at the Hall.”

  Lady Bligh returned her attention to her knitting. Jael appeared more interested in her cards than in the conversation. Livvy was studying her hands with a pensive expression. “Gypsy Joe is said to hold a grudge against the Hallidays,” Crump ventured, feeling like he was attempting to roll a boulder up a particularly steep hill.

  “Giuseppe and how many others?” countered Dulcie. “Surely you’ve heard about Connor’s man-traps. As for Giuseppe, he resented the fact that his mother abandoned her family to go into service, though no one else could fairly blame her for wearying of the nomadic life. What has set you on the poor man’s scent?”

  Crump wasn’t often privileged to engage in a straightforward conversation with the Baroness. He wasn’t certain that he was engaged in one now. “The horse that habitually cast off a shoe was sold several times by Gypsy Joe.”

  “You consider that a suspicious circumstance? The tinkers make their living selling such nags.” Dulcie unwound a length of scarlet yarn. “Do have another sandwich. There are any number of things you haven’t told us, Crump.”

  So there were. Nor would his confidences be forthcoming. “I’m merely wishful of having a few words. I’d almost think this Gypsy Joe doesn’t wish to assist Bow Street. Being as he’s nowhere to be found.”

  Jael scooped up her cards and shuffled them again. “It’s a foolish tinker who willingly rubs shoulders with the law.”

  Crump attempted to balance both his plate and his teacup on his knee. “You admit you know him, then?”

  Jael’s icy eyes flicked over his face. “You might be surprised at the people I know.”

  Crump was unfamiliar with neither Jael nor her reputation. He regretted very much that the woman sat so close. “Maybe you won’t mind telling me what you were doing at the tinkers’ camp on the morning of Connor Halliday’s death.”

  “Ah, but I do mind.” Jael’s tone chilled him to his toes. “I will tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree, cully. Why should you think I had anything to do with Halliday’s murder? If murder it was.”

  “An excellent question,” murmured Dulcie. “We’re waiting, Crump? Or has the cat got your tongue?”

  This remark put the Runner in mind of the Baroness’s own feline, with whom he shared a strong dislike. He looked suspiciously around the room, but saw no sign of the huge orange tom. “Miss Jael may have been at the tinkers’ camp when she says she was, but I know for a fact your sainted Gypsy Joe was not. Where was he, I’d like to know. Where is he now? And why is he so reluctant to speak with the law about that bedamned horse?”

  “I’m no man’s keeper,” Jael retorted. “When and if you find Giuseppe, you may ask him yourself.”

  “Really, Mr. Crump!” protested Livvy. “It’s hardly surprising if Jael grew so weary of our company that she slipped away. I frequently wish to slip away myself. Are your investigations proceeding so poorly that you must come and badger us?”

  It was as the Runner was trying without success to disabuse Lady Dorset of this unfair notion that his superior entered the solar. With a jaundiced eye, Sir John took in the scene. “Socializing, Crump? How pleased I am to see that you’ve found time to amuse yourself.” Crump, convicted on circumstantial evidence, cup in one hand and sandwich in the other, barely managed to avoid drenching himself with scalding tea.

  Lady Bligh gathered up her knitting. “Even Bow Street Runners must occasionally take sustenance, John. I take it you have spoken with Mr. Crossthwaite?”

  The Chief Magistrate crossed the room to her. “Do I want to know how you learned that?”

  Dulcie rose. Sir John stopped mid-stride, staggered by the full effect of her shocking gown. He eyed the knitting needles. “What the deuce are you doing with those?”

  “Acting my age,” she told him. “Did you not tell me that I should? As to how I guessed you had spoken to Mr. Crossthwaite, it was obvious, once Sir Wesley’s solicitor put in an appearance, that you would seek him out. Will you tell us what you learned, or must I discover the contents of Sir Wesley’s will myself?”

  “The solicitor!” said Livvy. “He will be the one to prove or disprove Mrs. Halliday’s claim.”

  “Hush, Lavender. Sir John is about to make some fascinating disclosures.” Lady Bligh regarded that gentleman, and smiled. “Must I prompt you, my dear? Then I shall! I’ll warrant Sir Wesley made only nominal provision for the twins.”

  Sir John didn’t believe in auguries or portents, clairvoyance or the second sight. Nonetheless, try as he might, he had not yet come up with any adequate explanation of how Dulcie contrived to know the things she did. “Are you set on making Bow Street look ridiculous?” he asked.

  “Dear, dear John! To look ridiculous, Bow Street needs no help from me,” the Baroness replied.

  Cheeks aflame, Crump stared into his teacup. Jael laughed. Hastily, Livvy said, “What does this mean? Does Lady Halliday inherit? Why should Sir Wesley have favored her over his sons?”

  “It wasn’t Lady Halliday that Sir Wesley favored,” Sir John responded irritably, as he permitted his hostess to provide him with a cup of tea.

  “One deduces—” Dulcie surveyed the plate of delicacies and selected a watercress sandwich, “—that Sir Wesley believed Cade alive when that will was drawn up.”

  “But if not Lady Halliday, Connor or Cade, then who does inherit?” Livvy asked.

  Sir John surveyed his audience. Dulcie was nibbling on her sandwich while Jael did something arcane with a gaudy deck of cards. Crump was gazing into his teacup as if expecting to discover enlightenment amon
g the leaves.

  Livvy, at least, was giving him her full attention. Sir John blew out a puff of air. “The entire estate, save for the pittances provided Sir Wesley’s sons and his widow, goes to Janthina Halliday.” And Lord knew what that meant.

  The Lord and, perhaps, Jael. “Gajengi baxt,” she said.

  “Bad luck, indeed,” Dulcie murmured. “There’s a name I haven’t heard for a great many years.”

  Livvy glanced from one of them to the other. “Who is Janthina Halliday?”

  “Sir Wesley’s natural daughter,” Sir John told her. “On his wife’s abigail.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mr. Crump of Bow Street was not the only person in Greenwood embarked upon an investigation. Though he had no intention of engaging in conversations with tinkers or innkeepers or flirtatious lasses, and though he would never have compared his efforts with something so mundane as plucking a goose, Lord Dorset meant to discover an explanation for certain recent events.

  It was evening of the day following Sir John’s disclosures before Dickon found an opportunity to slip away from the Castle. He left the remainder of the house party deep in discussion of the festive activities scheduled two days hence — a Christmas pantomime featuring Harlequin and Mother Shipton; an enactment of The Rivals; a grand ball. All who attended this latter event would do so in fantastic dress, thus serving themselves up as admirable targets for Hubert’s maliciousness.

  In point of fact, the Honourable Hubert’s malice had been less in evidence of late, a circumstance that gave rise to considerable conjecture in the mind of one who had been subject to that malice since the gentleman was in leading-strings. Older than his cousin by a few years, Dickon had been privileged to hear Hubert’s first words: a denunciation of himself. As Humbug had begun, so had he gone on.

  That spitefulness had been, if not entirely absent, very absent-minded the past several days. When questioned on the matter, Hubert had professed himself grievously wounded by the suspicions of Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate. From this, Lord Dorset concluded he was to believe that Sir John suspected Hubert was somehow involved in Connor Halliday’s death.