The Ghosts of Greenwood

by Maggie MacKeever

  Had she given the matter proper consideration, Livvy might have anticipated that her stepson would do that exact thing. She had no thought to spare for Austen, however; her mind was furiously engaged. Hubert suspected Jael of involvement in the recent events, but why? What was Jael’s relationship to the mysterious Giuseppe? Was Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate on the wrong track, whatever that might be? Conjectures buzzed like angry wasps in Livvy’s brain.

  She understood Sir John’s reasoning. Jael wouldn’t have found it difficult to persuade the tinkers to claim she’d been at the camp when in fact she had not.

  Livvy found Ned in the solar, seated in the old oak pew, a saucer on the table beside him, and a cigar in his hand. Bluebeard perched atop the gigantic sextant. Casanova crouched at its base, twitching his tail.

  Livvy bent awkwardly and scooped up the tomcat. “You wanted to speak with me, Ned?”

  Cautious of her condition, he put out his cigar. “I have given it every consideration, and conclude that I must.”

  Casanova was very large, and very heavy. Livvy collapsed on the backless sofa with the cat on her lap. “How serious you sound. Things cannot be so bad as all that, Ned.”

  “Can they not?” he said. “Of the armies that ravaged France, none was more cruel and vicious than her own. They burned and plundered and ravished indiscriminately even in defeat. They even sacked the chateau of the Emperor’s mother during the march from the Seine to the Marne.”

  Livvy liked her husband’s cousin — at this point in time, she liked her husband’s cousin considerably more than she liked her husband, liking not necessarily going hand-in-hand with love — and she regretted both Ned’s nightmare experiences and his tendency to share those experiences with the world.

  Definitely, she didn’t want him to share them at the moment. Her belly wouldn’t remain quiescent long, were it subjected to tales of blood and gore. “You might be less anxious if you put such matters out of your mind.”

  As if he had not tried to do so! Ned clenched his jaw. The great Wellington himself had said that nothing but a battle lost could be half as melancholy as a battle won.

  The Duke had said also that wise people learned when they could, and fools learned when they must. “It is not just in war that men act badly,” Ned pointed out.

  What was the best response to such a statement? Livvy didn’t know. From the perch to which he was now attached at an angle of forty-five degrees, Bluebeard offered a suggestion that some unknown individual should be hung from the yardarm. “What are you trying to tell me, Ned?”

  “Yesterday I went to the Hall.”

  “You saw Amanda? Is she in good health?” Casanova rolled over on his back, indicating that a display of affection would not come amiss.

  “One might assume so. I found her embracing a gentleman.”

  “You— Ah. Perhaps you mistook what you saw?”

  “I believe,” Ned retorted stiffly, “that I am capable of recognizing an embrace when I observe one, no matter how overheated my brain. That wasn’t all I recognized.”

  Livvy felt a pang of premonition. She should have stayed in bed. She wished she might return there, and pull the covers over her head.

  She had stopped petting Casanova. The cat nipped at her hand. Livvy shoved him off her lap. He thudded to the floor.

  The whole business of war, Ned reminded himself, consisted of a man finding out what he didn’t know by means of what he did. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Livvy, but there is no doubt—”

  “Then don’t tell me, because I shan’t believe you. Because if I did believe you, I would have to— Oh, blast!” Livvy sprang up and bent, retching, over a tall Oriental vase.

  Feeling helpless, Ned patted her back.

  Observed Bluebeard, “Gobble-cock.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christmas Day dawned cool and bright and festive. Farmhouses and cottages brimmed with mistletoe, holly, and good cheer. The younger members of the community busied themselves with the contents of their stockings; their elders prepared for the traditional feast of roast beef and plum pudding, mincemeat and roasted crab; the more adventurous found numerous reasons to pause beneath the kissing-bushes that hung from the rafters and anywhere else there was space. Later the Yule logs would be brought home, and tales told over possets and frumenty. Come evening, the carolers and string-choirs would set out on their rounds.

  Crump had set out on his rounds also. These had less to do with Yule logs and mistletoe than his desire to avoid being raked over the coals by Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate. He sat in the taproom at the Four Nuns, staring into his pint. Abel Bagshot had verified that the Honourable Hubert Humboldt had indeed demanded admittance to the inn on a certain morn, and at a shockingly early hour. If what the innkeeper said was true, and Crump had no real reason to believe it wasn’t, Hubert was absolved of any connection with Connor Halliday’s death. Even the enterprising Humbug would have found it difficult to simultaneously sample ale at the Four Nuns and lurk with murderous intention in a leafy copse several miles away.

  Crump hadn’t singled out Hubert. He suspected no one and everyone, including the occupants of both Castle and Hall. If Hubert seemed above suspicion, at least in the current matter, Crump hadn’t ruled out Lady Bligh’s other house guests. Young Austen was an unlikely candidate, being only nine years old. On the other hand, lads of his class were skilled riders at that age, and also familiar with firearms. Lady Dorset appeared even more unlikely, being enceinte, but Crump had previous, rather harrowing, experience with the fancies that populated a pregnant female’s brain. Lord Dorset and Sir John had joined the hunt together, but that didn’t mean his lordship couldn’t have slipped away unseen. For that matter, Sir John could have slipped away from the other hunters, and for no better reason than Dulcie had asked him to, not that that was likely either, Lady Bligh being more than capable of getting on a horse and riding out to shoot Connor Halliday herself.

  As for the occupants of the Hall, Lady Halliday was held to be a peabrain, while Rosamond Fellowes was not; both apparently had held Connor Halliday in no great regard, and neither had a satisfactory alibi for the time of the man’s death. Thus far the sole solid conclusion Crump had reached was that Abel Bagshot knew more than he was saying about recent events. When questioned about a horse that habitually cast off a shoe, the innkeeper launched into description of the contest that had been the highlight of the fair: two rustic gladiators stripped to the waist, delivering short chopping blows with their naked fists, dislodging teeth and beating each other’s noses flat, while blood spurted everywhere; the final blow, delivered to the jugular with the full force of the arm shot horizontally from the shoulder, knocking the recipient several inches off the ground. The victor didn’t emerge unscathed, one of his eyes having been torn from its socket during the melee.

  Having had his fill of village gossip, the Runner took his leave, aware that behind him his host drew a deep breath of relief.

  Crump proceeded to the stable, requested his usual nag, and mounted warily. Had the day been warmer, and the distance shorter, he would have traveled to Halliday Hall on foot.

  Even on horseback, his progress was not swift. Abel Bagshot had assigned him a docile hack. Still, better to travel at the pace of a tortoise than ride hell-for-leather, as had happened, and without his cooperation, in the past. Crump settled more comfortably in his saddle, lit his pipe, and returned to his thoughts.

  Connor Halliday had been a man held in universal loathing, except maybe by Lady Dorset, according to Sir John. Lord Dorset, to all appearances, had an unbreakable alibi. The disHonourable Hubert was equally blameless, according to Abel Bagshot. Lady Dorset had been with the Baroness; Ned Sutcliffe had been with Lady Halliday. All the Baroness’s houseguests were accounted for, except Jael.

  The tinkers swore that, on the morning of Connor’s death, Jael had been visiting their camp. Crump had spoken with Gypsy Joe’s woman, in his caravan, which was simply and neatly furn
ished, containing a berth-like bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs and a table that hung from hinges on the wall. He had recognized the woman at once as the sort of doxy who infested the Thames, lived in foul rookeries such as St. Giles, frequented resorts in the Haymarket where the worst characters in the city met to drink rotgut gin and concoct crime. The Runner knew how to deal with females of her sort. When she refused to alter her tale under threat of either gallows or imprisonment, Crump concluded that Jael had indeed been there.

  The local blacksmith had provided no additional enlightenment. Amazing, how no one could recall a horse that habitually cast off a shoe. Crump suspected that, when he located the animal, he’d also find Gypsy Joe. The tinker must surely still be in the neighborhood. He wouldn’t have gone off and left behind everything he owned.

  These ruminations, inconclusive as they were, brought him at last to Halliday Hall. Stiffly, Crump slid off his horse. He left the animal at the stable, followed the pathway to the house, rapped on the front door. The elderly butler stated in tones as cool as the weather that he would ascertain whether either Mrs. Halliday or Miss Fellowes were at home to Bow Street.

  “You do that, laddie,” Crump said genially. “And I’ll come on in and warm my toes by the fire.”

  Rosamond Fellowes wasn’t long in joining him in the morning room, a small chamber furnished with an abundance of bamboo and chintz. “You again,” she remarked in an unfriendly manner. “What do you want now?”

  Gypsy Joe’s doxy had had better manners. Crump tucked his thumbs in his waistcoat and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “All in good time. This being official business, as it were, do you think we might sit down?”

  With obvious reluctance, Rosamond gestured toward a couch. Crump seated himself instead on a bamboo-backed chair, withdrew his Occurrence Book and placed it on his knee. “First of all, I must tell you I’ve learned the contents of Sir Wesley’s will.”

  Rosamond glowered. “That ungrateful man! Had Margaret anticipated that he would behave so shabbily—”

  “Had she known, then what?”

  “Nothing. A mere figure of speech.”

  “What can you tell me about Janthina Halliday? I already know that she was Sir Wesley’s illegitimate daughter. Got on his wife’s abigail.”

  “We don’t speak of that!” Rosamond snapped. “Margaret was a saint to keep a servant’s bastard. I told her she’d regret it at the time.”

  The sainted Lady Margaret had been dead too many years to merit Crump’s attention. “The servant died in childbirth. Her daughter was raised at the Hall. Why did she leave?”

  “Bad blood will tell.”

  Better bad blood than no blood. This black-clad besom was as coldhearted a female as Crump had encountered for some time.

  Was she coldhearted enough to commit murder? Rosamond Fellowes was a noted horsewoman and familiar with the land. “That the girl was Sir Wesley’s daughter wasn’t common knowledge hereabouts?”

  “Common knowledge? I should hope not!” Rosamond sat down stiffly on the couch. “I warn you, Mr. Crump. I won’t have that old scandal dug up.”

  “ ‘Tisn’t me you should be warning,” Crump retorted. “And speaking of warnings, you shouldn’t go around threatening representatives of the law. As for this Janthina, the details of Sir Wesley’s estate will be common knowledge soon enough. You haven’t told me why the girl left Greenwood.”

  Rosamond said nothing. “She did leave?” Crump asked.

  “So we assumed at the time.” Rosamond leaned toward him. “If I confide in you, Mr. Crump, will you promise to keep the information to yourself?”

  Replied Crump, without the least intention of so doing, “If I can.”

  “I’ve long believed Connor and Janthina were behind Cade’s disappearance.” In case he’d missed her point, Rosamond added, “In other words, Mr. Crump, foul play.”

  “Ah, you’ll be having your little game with me,” Crump said genially. “The thing is, Miss Fellowes, this Janthina hasn’t been as forgotten as you’d like to think. There’s those that remember which of the brothers she favored, and it wasn’t Connor. So it doesn’t seem likely she’d suddenly do an about-face and help Connor do away with Cade.” He paused, but Rosamond didn’t comment. “Moreover, if Cade was murdered all those years ago, he’d hardly have a widow now.”

  “That brazen adventuress!” Hectic color stained Rosamond’s cheeks.

  Since this was the same opinion Rosamond held of Sir Wesley’s widow — in the process of avoiding certain topics, Abel Bagshot had been most forthcoming about others — Crump paid it little heed. “How does Mrs. Halliday say her husband died?”

  “In a boating-accident. Our solicitor has encountered some difficulty in verifying the tale. Meanwhile, we’re saddled with the creature. I’ll wager anything you like, Mr. Crump, that Madam Barbary isn’t what she claims.”

  Though Crump was not a betting man, he would have made a wager of his own: Rosamond was furious that Barbary Halliday was attempting to thrust her fingers into the family purse. It was a curious reaction from a woman who had no claim on the estate. Even more curious was the fact that, in spite of her years of service to Sir Wesley, Rosamond had been left not even a pittance in her brother-in-law’s will. “Who was the woman in London that Connor went to visit?” he asked.

  Rosamond sniffed. “You can’t expect me to keep track of Connor’s lightskirts.”

  Crump was briefly silent. Rosamond had favored Cade, yet she had no sympathy for his widow. Did she resent Barbary Halliday for breaking the news that her favorite was dead?

  “What happened in Lady Margaret’s Garden twenty years ago?” he asked. “What caused Sir Wesley to declare the place off-limits to everyone and banish his own son?”

  Rosamond pleated the fabric of her dark skirt. Crump would have given much to know what thoughts were scurrying about behind that furrowed brow.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said, at length. “But I don’t see what bearing it can have on the present, and you must repeat it to no one. Janthina and Cade were as thick as thieves. Sir Wesley thought nothing of their friendship until he caught them together in Lady Margaret’s Garden that night. In case you fail to take my meaning, they hadn’t just gone out for an evening stroll. I have always believed that Connor directed his father there.”

  Crump was startled out of his habitual calm. “Connor sent Sir Wesley to the garden, knowing what he would find?”

  “I didn’t immediately realize the implications, not learning until later that Sir Wesley believed Janthina to be his own blood.” Rosamond resumed plucking at her skirt. “For Sir Wesley to have slighted his sons is unconscionable, even if Janthina is his daughter, which I take leave to doubt. Not that it much matters. I don’t know where Janthina went, or what happened to her, but she doubtless met a bad end.”

  Crump considered withholding his next remark, then decided his hostess deserved to experience an upset. “Sir Wesley’s last will was drawn up recently. He would hardly have left things as he did, without provision for the estate in the event all his children were deceased, had he not believed both Cade and Janthina to be alive.”

  Rosamond turned white as the plaster ceiling. “Alive?”

  “Of course, it’s always possible Sir Wesley might have been mistaken. One more question, ma’am.” Crump removed a dueling pistol from the pocket of his coat. “Are you familiar with this gun?”

  “Is that—”

  “The pistol found beside Connor’s body? Aye. Have you seen it before?”

  Rosamond didn’t answer. She had fainted dead away.

  Chapter Twenty

  From Halliday Hall, Crump continued on to Greenwood Castle, where he was privileged to witness an enactment of The Rivals, with Lord Dorset as Falkland, Sir John as Captain Absolute, and the Honourable Hubert as a lady’s maid. If none of these gentlemen were particularly adept in his rôle, it hardly signified, for their audience was paying little heed to onstage events. Even y
oung Austen appeared preoccupied.

  Crump was curious about what had inspired all this introspection. Since none of his companions was likely to enlighten him, he settled back to enjoy the play.

  And enjoy it he did. Mrs. Malaprop and her misuse of the language: ‘He is the very pineapple of politeness’. Young Lydia, enraptured with the notion of eloping with a poor soldier: Crump hoped watching this didn’t give Ned Sutcliffe any foolish ideas, or maybe Lady Bligh meant it should, for she was a matchmaker of no little skill. A buffonish country gentleman; an impoverished Irish baronet; another gentleman who was forever fretting about the fidelity of his ladylove—

  Damned if the cast didn’t sound like the Baroness’s house guests. In which case, Crump asked himself, who was the buffoon?

  Love notes and gossip. Flowery speeches about true love. Multiple misunderstands, and a sword fight. The play ended with a party, as every good story should, and then came a pantomime.

  Crump, despite his enjoyment, did not forget the business that had brought him to the Castle. Harlequin’s antics recalled Lady Bligh’s efforts to assist Bow Street; the appearance of Mother Shipton, with her owl and her cock and her cat, put the Runner forcibly in mind of Lady Bligh’s position in the neighborhood. Plain Mr. Crump of Bow Street might be barred from conversation with Barbary Halliday, but among his acquaintances numbered one for whom all the doors in Greenwood stood ajar.

  Not until the appearance of the mummers did Crump find an opportunity to put forth this suggestion. The Baroness listened, at the same time watching King George and the Doctor and Turkey Snipe, bedecked with painted paper and floral headgear, thwack each other with wooden swords.

  She turned her dark gaze on him. “How kind of you to recall that, at my age, one must constantly seek ways to stimulate the brain.”

  If Crump’s brain was subject to any more stimulation, it might well explode. He smoothed his mustard-colored waistcoat, felt for and located his occurrence book — an item that had a habit of disappearing in the vicinity of Lady Bligh — and then took his leave, not having been invited to join the revelers at the Baroness’s fancy dress ball.