The Ghosts of Greenwood

by Maggie MacKeever

  “I’m not in the witness-box yet,” Cade growled. “You may save your questions until I am.”

  Crump had not been so optimistic as to hope that he’d be presented with his villain on a silver platter, neatly bound with rope. He was sufficiently optimistic, however, as to believe that he was treading close on that villain’s heels. “Not a single one of you,” he said sternly, “is being as helpful as you might. The law is not kindly disposed toward those who obstruct justice. It might go easier if one was to surrender himself — or herself — as King’s evidence.”

  Cade looked bored, Amanda bewildered, and Barbary dismayed. Rosamond huffed, “What an extraordinary remark.”

  “That brings me to another point,” continued Crump. “It’s come to my attention that Connor Halliday wasn’t the only one who rode his horse.”

  Amanda stiffened. “So now you are suspicious because I sometimes borrow Connor’s horse? It is the best horse in the stable, and I don’t see why I should not.”

  “Since Connor was riding his own horse on the morning of his murder,” put in Rosamond, “it hardly signifies whether you borrowed it or not. And no, Mr. Crump, I do not ride Connor’s horse, having a perfectly good mount of my own. So many pointless questions! This seems to me an odd way of chasing down a murderer, but you must know your own business best.”

  “Aye.” Here was another oddity, Rosamond coming to Amanda’s defense. “Tell me, how close was the resemblance between Connor and Cade?”

  Rosamond replied, “As close as could be. Few could tell them apart, especially when Cade didn’t want the difference remarked. Impersonating his brother was one of Cade’s favorite tricks, although why he should have pretended to be a scoundrel, I could never understand.”

  Rosamond Fellowes had truly disliked Connor, realized Crump. She couldn’t bring herself to speak kindly of the man, even after his death.

  “About this pistol,” he said to Cade, as he removed that article from his waistband. “I believe it’s one of a pair you owned.”

  Cade rose to inspect the firearm. Behind him, Barbary murmured, “I told him that I believed you sold them in Town some years ago.”

  “So I did.” Cade named a London pawnshop. “I don’t know if it would be possible to discover who bought the thing.”

  “Queer, isn’t it, that the pistol should find its way home to Greenwood?” marveled Crump. “I don’t suppose anyone would care to offer an explanation of that circumstance.”

  Crump was correct. No one did. He tucked away the dueling pistol. “Should any of you change your mind, or happen to recall what’s been conveniently forgot, you may find me at the Four Nuns.”

  Amanda followed him to the door. “I’ll see you out, Mr. Crump.”

  “Is there anything more you might want to tell me, lass?” he asked, as they walked down the hall.

  On Amanda’s pretty face, even a frown sat nicely. “Not tell you, really, because I honestly don’t know. But it seems to me that Cade may be trying to bamboozle us with all this talk about Janthina. Sometimes I don’t think he knows any more about her than the rest of us do.”

  Crump was pleased to discover that Lady Halliday was capable, on occasion, of relatively clear thinking. He too sensed that Cade was deliberately attempting to muddle matters. Did Mr. Halliday envision some manner in which he might yet feather his nest?

  And did he need to do so? The man’s clothing was superbly tailored, his coat by no less than Weston, unless Crump missed his guess. He supposed Cade might have been living on his expectations, in which case Sir Wesley’s startling will would have left him at point non plus

  Connor Halliday had cause to think he would benefit from his father’s death. Had he anticipated the event? But in that case, who had hastened his own? Connor Halliday’s death benefitted no one at all.

  At least, no one that Crump had discovered yet.

  He had gathered several new pieces of the puzzle. Unfortunately he had not yet been able to make them fit.

  Amanda’s voice trailed off. The Runner wasn’t listening. Amazing, how many people failed to listen to her these days. A person might start thinking she had nothing to say, which wasn’t at all the case, but there was little point in sharing speculations with people turned deaf as a post. Silently, she accompanied Crump into the front hall. They arrived in time to see the footman open the front door.

  On the threshold stood Lord Dorset and the Honourable Hubert Humboldt. The men were arguing. Lord Dorset snapped, “I’ll thank you to keep out of my affairs.”

  “If only I could!” Hubert responded. “This business is as repugnant to my feelings as it is to your own. Moreover— Ah, Crump. Just the man we need. Ned has given us the slip.”

  “God in heaven,” snarled Lord Dorset, before Crump could speak. “Is the man entitled to no privacy?”

  Amanda clutched Crump’s arm. “Ned is missing? What can this mean?”

  “We had thought it might mean an elopement,” said Hubert. “Love’s young dream and all that. Obviously, since you are here, Ned isn’t en route to Gretna Green.”

  “Gretna Green?” Amanda scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. Even if I would elope — and I probably would, did he but ask me — I haven’t seen Ned since yesterday. We quarreled, and I wish we hadn’t, but that doesn’t matter now. Maybe he’s gone to Lady Margaret’s Garden, although it’s odd he didn’t send a note. But he wouldn’t, would he, if he was cross? Or maybe he did send a note and it was intercepted, which I wouldn’t put past Rosamond.”

  Crump detached her fingers from his sleeve. “I’ve a fancy to view this Garden for myself.”

  “You haven’t yet done so?” chided Hubert. “The scene of our ghostly manifestations? Shame, Mr. Crump!”

  “No, shame to you, laddie,” Crump retorted. “For trying to take a rise out of Bow Street.”

  They set out for Lady Margaret’s Garden, Amanda in the fore accompanied by Crump, Lord Dorset and Hubert Humboldt bringing up the rear.

  Dickon scowled at his cousin. “Explain to me your tete-a-tete with my wife, if you please.”

  “Zounds!” remarked Hubert. “Deuced if I see how you came to be so successful in the petticoat-line, coz. Hopefully, your outburst when you discovered Ned unaccountably missing may have convinced Livvy that you have little interest in Lady Halliday. Of course, it may have done the opposite. She may think you wished to elope with Amanda yourself.”

  “Damnation,” groaned Dickon. “If I’d know what queer ideas Livvy’s condition would put in her head—”

  Hubert refrained from comment. To say the truth, which generally he didn’t, Hubert sympathized with Dickon’s plight. Hubert’s own heart’s delight was behaving badly. Jael had slipped away from the castle the previous night, wearing, to its detriment, a suit of his own clothing. Hubert was strongly tempted to prevent further midnight excursions by locking her in the Castle dungeons, and pocketing the key.

  Crump also was pondering, not ladyloves but horseflesh. Gypsy Joe’s woman had identified the steed housed in Abel Bagshot’s stable as having been sold a couple years before to one of the Halliday twins. She claimed to have seen the man with her own two eyes. Gypsy Joe had told her the buyer was Cade.

  So deep were the gentlemen in their ruminations that Lady Halliday passed almost out of their sight. Crump became aware of his surroundings barely in time to avoid colliding with a tall rhododendron plant. City-bred and born, the Runner wasn’t certain he approved of so much vegetation. He preferred his posies by the dozen, purchased from some pretty flower-girl. They passed by Sir Wesley’s hothouse. Amanda was waiting by the garden gate.

  She gestured for Crump to precede her along the narrow pathway. He noted with sympathy that she was very pale.

  In single file, they entered the garden. Where Crump had found the more orderly vegetation behind them distasteful, this unfettered disarray struck him as obscene. He eyed the toppled statue, the freely flowing fountain, the overgrown vegetation, and felt an eerie chill c
reep along his spine.

  Hubert contemplated the grotesque, misshapen dwarf plants with artistic appreciation. “If this place isn’t haunted, it should be. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find a headless specter lurking in the shrubbery.”

  Amanda shuddered. “I don’t know why everyone must go on about ghosts! At any rate, I see no sign of Ned.”

  “Since we’ve come this far we might as well make certain.” Lord Dorset inspected the pristine fountain as if he expected to find his cousin hiding there. Since he was fascinated by the fountain, and Hubert equally fascinated by the hideous dwarf plants; and since Lady Halliday had collapsed onto a cracked marble bench, further investigations were left to Crump.

  He followed the winding gravel pathway to the little temple that stood at the garden’s far end. The door opened easily at his touch. Crump paused as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Overturned furniture, smashed windows— Even the tall wall mirrors were shattered, shards of tarnished glass still hanging in the frames. Debris crunched underfoot.

  One of the mirrors caught his attention. The frame seemed to be hanging slightly ajar. Crump moved closer, raised his hand to the cracked glass. The mirror swung away from the wall, revealing a dark passageway.

  Cautiously, Crump stepped across the threshold — and almost tripped over a body, sprawled on the floor. Coagulated blood smeared Ned’s face, his jacket. A dueling pistol lay beneath his out-flung hand.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A somber group had gathered in the Castle’s Great Hall. Amanda sat on the stately settee, with Livvy by her side; Hubert leaned against the antique French commode. Crump stood, thumbs tucked in his waistcoat, contemplating the assorted weaponry on the walls.

  “Oh!” sobbed Amanda. “This is all my fault. But I feared Ned was playing fast and loose with my affections, and said the most dreadful things. I will never forgive myself.”

  “Nonsense.” Livvy patted her hand. “You couldn’t have known—”

  “But I should have known. When I think of all the things he said to me about those dreadful battles— Had I been more understanding, Ned might not have shot himself!” Amanda buried her face in her handkerchief. Livvy and Crump exchanged a helpless glance.

  “May I point out that we don’t know that Ned did shoot himself?” drawled Hubert. “I suggest we wait to hear what he has to say.”

  Amanda revealed one watery eye. “Do you think we might? The physician held out so little hope that he permitted Ned to be brought here to the Castle instead of being taken to the Hall. Even though I would have nursed him as ably as anyone!”

  “No one doubts that,” soothed Livvy. “But Ned will feel more comfortable among his family. You are welcome to visit whenever you wish.”

  “May I? You are too kind.” Amanda lowered the handkerchief further, but then teared up again when her gaze lit on Crump. “But Bow Street will take my poor Ned away as soon as he shows signs of coming to himself. They are set on arresting someone even if they shouldn’t, and then I will never see him again. If I was Ned, I might prefer not to make a recover if all that was left to me was gaol!”

  High flights! thought Crump. Bow Street wasn’t generally so quick off the mark. In point of fact, Crump wasn’t convinced that Ned was his guilty party. Nor was he convinced that Ned was not. Ned had been in possession of the second dueling pistol. Or so they were meant to think.

  Lady Bligh entered the room. She looked exhausted, but that may have merely been the effect of green hair combined with a jonquil gown. The parrot perched on her forearm. Weaving round her ankles was the orange tomcat.

  Behind her trailed Sir John and Dickon. Young Austen brought up the rear. He was the sole member of the party who looked his normal cheerful self.

  “What news?” Livvy asked.

  Dulcie sat down on a tall carved chair. “Very little, alas. It grows late, Lady Halliday. Your family will be wondering if you have come to harm.”

  “My family,” responded Amanda, “will be wishing that I had! Pray don’t keep us in suspense. What did the doctor say?”

  “Ned’s wound is serious. That, combined with exposure— Time alone will tell.” Dulcie raised her arm. Bluebeard muttered and hopped to the back of her chair.

  Amanda’s pretty face crumpled. Crump moved to her side. “You’ll do neither Lieutenant Sutcliffe or yourself any good going on like this, my lady. I’ll see you safely back to Halliday Hall.”

  “Safely!” hiccoughed Amanda. “As if I cared for that. Why can’t I stay with Ned? Then, when he awakens, I could be at his bedside.”

  “If he awakens,” Lord Dorset said, harshly. “The medic is uncertain whether Ned will waken at all, let alone today.”

  Unsteadily, Amanda rose to her feet. Dulcie added, more kindly, “My dear, there’s nothing to be done. Go home and get some rest. I promise we will let you know as soon as there is any change.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Amanda. She allowed Crump to take her arm and lead her from the room.

  Livvy studied her clenched hands, and forced them to relax. Then she stole a glance at her husband, whose expression was grim. He had not during the past moments displayed any special kindness to Lady Halliday. If anything he had been unnecessarily severe.

  Alas, liking had little to do with anything when a man took an itch to toss up a woman’s skirts. Dickon knew a great deal about women’s skirts and the tossing up thereof. “Poor Amanda,” Livvy ventured, “seemed at her wit’s end.”

  “She hadn’t far to go,” said Austen, leaning against his great-aunt’s chair.

  “That is quite enough, young man.” Dulcie pinched his arm. “Go and sit with Ned.”

  Austen hesitated. Bluebeard cocked his bright head. “Hoist the mizzen?” he inquired.

  “Be off with the pair of you!” Dulcie repeated. Austen extended his arm. Bluebeard hopped on and climbed up to his shoulder. In the doorway, they passed Jael, whose somber expression was in marked contrast with her scarlet skirts and bright, multicolored shawl.

  Sir John chose the chair nearest Dulcie, and sank into it with a sigh. The sigh turned into a sneeze. The sneeze turned into several. “A hot posset for you, I think,” said Dulcie, regarding him with a critical eye. Dickon moved to stand in front of one ornately carved fireplace. Casanova rubbed against Livvy’s ankles; then, when she ignored this invitation, stretched out on her feet.

  “Now that our little pitcher has left us—” Hubert watched Jael wander around the room. “I assume Austen has left and is not lurking in the corridor? I will take your word for it, dear aunt — I hope we are going to discuss the matter uppermost in all our minds. Did Ned shoot himself, or did someone do it for him? And why should Lady Halliday hold herself to blame?”

  Dickon turned away from the fireplace, his handsome features grave. “That last question, at least, is easily enough answered. Contrary to what we were led to believe, Ned wasn’t with Lady Halliday on the morning Connor died. Also, he knew, because she told him, that Connor had made an attempt on her virtue.”

  “Fascinating!” breathed Hubert. “I see I have vastly underrated the richness of village life. One almost hesitates to ask, coz, but how did you learn this?”

  “She told me, though she didn’t mean to.” Dickon’s gaze rested on his wife, who refused to meet his eyes. “I called at the Hall; she mistook me for my cousin and let the cat out of the bag. I suppose Ned could have shot Connor and then, deep in remorse, himself. Although how he came into possession of pistols that once belonged to Cade, I can’t begin to guess.”

  Jael glanced up from the Minoan snake goddess with which she had paused to commune. “Lady Halliday and Ned had a rare set-to last night. I don’t know what was said, but she flew into the boughs. After she left, he went into Lady Margaret’s Garden. I didn’t wait to see him leave.”

  Dulcie reached for her bag of knitting. “A pity you didn’t go after him.”

  Jael said softly, “So it is.”

  Hubert strolled ac
ross the stone floor toward his inamorata. “That brings me to my next question. Ned was a crack shot. Why then did he make a shambles of shooting himself?”

  “Under the circumstances a man’s hand might be none too steady,” Jael retorted. “Would yours be, do you think, were you bent on blowing off your own head?”

  “Ah, my treasure, I am not so irresolute.” Hubert grasped her wrist. “Nor, I think, are you.”

  “God’s bones! You think—”

  “I think,” Livvy interrupted, “that it is unconscionable for you to engage in speculation while poor Ned lies upstairs. What does it matter if he did or didn’t kill Connor Halliday, or even if he shot himself? We don’t know whether he will survive.”

  “It matters a great deal,” Dulcie responded dryly. “The difference between imprisonment and freedom, as Lady Halliday so rightly pointed out. Pray don’t do yourself a damage, Lavender. Ned is not in the best of health, but neither is he at death’s door.”

  “But you said—”

  “What would you have had me say? If Ned didn’t shoot himself, then someone wished him dead. Does that someone learn his effort failed, he may try again. And we already know that Lady Halliday can’t be trusted to keep a quiet tongue in her head.”

  Livvy stared at the Baroness, bewildered. “Why would someone wish to harm Ned?”

  Dulcie retrieved her knitting needles. “We may assume that Ned knows or saw something he should not. He wasn’t with Amanda at the Hall when Connor died, remember; we don’t know where he was. If Ned had witnessed murder done, he would hardly have kept silent, so it can’t be that.”

  Manfully, Sir John struggled to stifle a sneeze. “And you accused me of clutching at straws! Dulcie, it won’t wash.”

  “No?” Lady Bligh attached another skein of scarlet yarn. “Have you already forgotten the information with which you were presented this morning, John? Due to the efforts of my nephews, I might add.”