The Ghost of Christmas Past
© Sally Quilford 2011 – All Rights Reserved
Image © Raisa Kanareva | Dreamstime.com
The Ghost Of Christmas Past
Chapter One
By the time Reverend Dearheart finished his sermon, the snow had covered the ground in a blanket of crystal white. The worshippers left the relative warmth of the church, and stepped out into a crisp winter landscape.
“How wonderful. A white Christmas,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. She was a large buxom woman, accompanied by her sister, Miss Graves, who was as slender as her sister was round. “I do so love a white Christmas, don’t you, Miss Dearheart?”
Elizabeth Dearheart smiled. “Yes I do. And so does Sam, don’t you, dearest?” Elizabeth was a girl of quiet beauty, with almond shaped brown eyes and fair curls, which despite her best efforts to keep them tidy, peeked out from under her bonnet. Her clothes, whilst not the height of fashion, accentuated her petite frame. She wore a thick blue coat over a modest pin-striped crinoline.
Her ten year old brother, Samuel, nodded eagerly. “Can we make a snowman, Elizabeth?”
“I think we need a little more snow first.” Elizabeth turned her attention to the sisters. “Mrs. Chatterbucks, Miss Graves. If you have no plans for the afternoon, you would be welcome to join us for luncheon. Father would be so grateful for the extra company. He always says the vicarage is far too quiet.”
The invitation was always couched in such terms, so that the impoverished sisters were not offended by the hint of charity. “I daresay we can save our food for another day,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “What says you, Henrietta?”
Henrietta Graves nodded her assent. “Yes, Georgiana dear, I’m sure we may.”
“It just so happens,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, “that I forgot to put the roast in the oven before we left. One gets so absent-minded at my age.”
Elizabeth guessed there was no roast, and that the sisters would have probably dined on bread and cheese, but she said nothing.
“Ah, here are Doctor Wheston and his wife,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “Good morning, Doctor.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Chatterbucks. Miss Graves.” He raised his hat, and his wife, a pretty young woman some years younger than he, smiled and nodded her head. “Tell your father we very much enjoyed his sermon, Miss Dearheart.”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “He’ll be pleased to hear it. I hope you’re both settling in.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Mrs. Wheston. “Midchester is a charming village.”
“We think so,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps you could come to dinner one night. And of course,” she added, seeing Mrs. Chatterbuck’s keen expression, “you and Miss Graves would be most welcome too.”
“Well yes, we would,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “The thing is, Doctor Wheston, we’ve been reading all about the Demon Doctor of Delhi. And I said to Henrietta that if anyone would know how he managed to dispose of the body, then Doctor Wheston would. There are probably ways, known only to doctors.”
Elizabeth looked at her brother, Samuel, who was listening avidly. “I don’t think…” she started to say.
“And now,” interrupted Miss Graves with grim relish, “they say he has escaped. We could all be murdered in our beds.”
“That is hardly likely, considering he is in India, and we are in a small town in Shropshire,” said Doctor Wheston. His lips had set in a thin line, and Elizabeth noticed that his wife clung to his arm so hard that her knuckles had turned white.
“Are you well, Mrs. Wheston?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“No, I’m afraid I am not,” said Mrs. Wheston. “Such talk distresses me.”
“Oh do forgive us, Mrs. Wheston,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “My sister and I take great pleasure in reading about famous murder cases.”
“I hardly consider murder a pleasurable pursuit,” said Doctor Wheston. “If you’ll excuse me, I must take my wife home.”
Elizabeth watched with concerned eyes as they left the churchyard. “Well really,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “I would not have expected a man of medicine to be so sensitive.”
“Dearest,” said Miss Graves, her eyes gleaming. “You don’t suppose that Doctor Wheston is he, do you? I mean, he is new to Midchester and …”
“Considering that the Demon Doctor of Delhi's wife is supposed to have taken her own life after his incarceration, it is unlikely,” said Elizabeth. She spoke lightly, so as not to sound too judgemental. “Mrs. Wheston looks very much alive to me.” It wasn’t that Elizabeth was against a bit of gossip. Mrs. Chatterbucks was right in that living in such a quiet town, one looked to the outer world for excitement, but even she understood how serious it would be if they began a whispering campaign against Doctor Wheston. Gossip spread through a small town like an untended fire, destroying innocent people in its wake. “Besides, Father has known him for many years, and it was he who suggested Doctor Wheston take up the post here.”
“Oh yes,” said Miss Graves. “I had forgotten that. But still, it’s strange that he should be married to such a young woman.”
“He’s a fine looking man,” said Elizabeth. “Why should he not have a younger wife? My dear mother was fifteen years younger than my father.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, “Henrietta has never married, nor been in love, so she little understands how attractive an older man can be, Miss Dearheart. Take my Herbert. He was twenty years older than I, but a more appealing man you never did see.”
Having seen the late Herbert Chatterbucks, Elizabeth could not see the appeal herself, but she had heard that love was blind.
“And now here’s another fine looking man,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks as Mr. Charles Hardacre left the church, deep in conversation with the Reverend Dearheart. “Good morning, Mr. Hardacre. I see Miss Clara is not with you this morning.”
Mr. Hardacre raised his hat, and saved his most charming smile for Elizabeth. He was tall, and considered very handsome by the women of Midchester for whom there were few choices of eligible men. “Sadly no, Mrs. Chatterbucks. My sister is unwell today, and has taken to her bed.”
“Oh the best place for her,” said Miss Graves. “One cannot risk catching a chill in this weather. Why only the other week the butcher’s wife died from a fever.”
“Yes, and the week before that, I heard that a woman over in Clun died of pneumonia,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks.
“Yes, well, I’m sure Miss Clara isn’t that bad,” said Elizabeth, quickly. She looked at Mr. Hardacre with an apology in her eyes. “At least I hope not.”
“No, most certainly not. But as you so rightly say, Miss Graves,” he said, “one must be careful.”
“I’ve just asked Mr. Hardacre to join us for luncheon,” said Reverend Dearheart.
“Oh yes, how wonderful that would be. I’m sure Miss Dearheart thinks so,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. She and her sister exchanged conspiratorial smiles.
“Alas, I must refuse your charming company and return home to my sister,” said Mr. Hardacre.
“What a wonderful, attentive brother he is,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, as they all walked to the vicarage. “And a good catch for the right young lady.” She glanced across to Elizabeth.
“Yes indeed,” said Miss Graves. “After all, one cannot leave these things too long, for life is very short.” She also gave Elizabeth a meaningful look. Elizabeth ignored them both. “One never knows when the Good Lord will take us.”
“I hope He will at least allow us time to enjoy our luncheon,” said Reverend Dearheart as they reached the vicarage door. “Now, tell me ladies, what new murders have you been reading about lately?”
“
Father, I don’t think Samuel needs to know, do you?” Elizabeth muttered, whilst the sisters were busy divesting themselves of their outdoor clothing.
“Oh I don’t mind,” said Samuel. “I find murder most interesting.”
“That’s because you only know about it from afar, dearest,” said Elizabeth, taking off her own bonnet. “It would be quite different if someone close to you were murdered.”
“I don’t think anything like that will ever happen in Midchester,” said Miss Graves. She sounded more disappointed than seemed proper.
Elizabeth showed the ladies into the pretty parlour, where they immediately stood by the roaring fire, warming their cold hands. She thought of the tiny cottage they lived in, full of drafts and with a leaky roof, and tried to feel kinder towards them. Their life was a hard one.
During luncheon, they regaled Samuel and the Reverend with more tales of murder and early death, though the Demon Doctor of Delhi was clearly their biggest interest.
“They say he embezzled a patient's money,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “An Anglo-Indian major who was a man of good standing and great honesty. Sadly he had become senile. Then when the doctor feared his crimes would be discovered, he...”
“Oh do let me tell this part, dear,” said Miss Graves, her eyes glowing with relish. “He murdered the major with an overdose of sleeping draught.”
After luncheon, the ladies dozed a little over coffee in the parlour, whilst Elizabeth and her father helped their maid, Abigail, with the clearing up.
“Really, Miss Dearheart, Reverend, it isn't right you should have to do this,” said Abigail. “I'm the servant. Really, sir, a gentleman should not have to dry his own dishes”
“You're a servant who's severely overworked,” said the Reverend. “We don't know where we'd be without you, Abigail.”
“I don't say that isn't true,” said Abigail, smiling. “But you really should sit and rest. Both of you. Leave this to me.” Neither Elizabeth nor the Reverend listened to Abigail. They knew she liked the company, and to hear the latest gossip.
“I do wish the sisters were not so bloodthirsty,” Elizabeth said to the Reverend, handing him a plate to dry. “It isn’t good for Samuel to hear it all. And you should not encourage them.” She smiled. It was hard for her to be angry with her father.
“Samuel is a very sensible young man,” said the Reverend. “As for the sisters, I believe their relish is more to do with relief than pleasure in other’s misfortune.”
“Relief?” Elizabeth frowned and raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, they’re old and poor, and wear threadbare clothes, but every year they survive whilst others around them die. Their prolonged life is their only wealth. All they can do is relish their own survival. Besides, my dear, I’ve seen you reading Wilkie Collins’ stories. What’s the latest one? The Woman In White?”
Elizabeth grinned. “Yes, alright, I admit to enjoying a good mystery, but at least that isn’t real.”
“But the murders which the sisters read about aren’t real either. Yes, I know, they are.” He held up his hand to halt Elizabeth’s protestation. “I understand that someone really dies, but the fact that it’s there, in black ink on white paper, much as novels are, makes it seem unreal to them. Just words on a page.”
“So you don’t think it’s wrong of them?”
“How could I? After all, what is the Bible if not a collection of stories about murder and betrayal?” The Reverend raised a finely arched eyebrow.
“Touché,” said Elizabeth.
When the sisters had woken from their nap, Elizabeth and Samuel offered to escort them back to their cottage. “Abigail appears to have made too many pork pies for Christmas,” said Elizabeth, as they were putting on their coats. “We shall never eat them all. Would you be kind enough to take a couple off our hands?”
The sisters accepted magnanimously, and left the vicarage clutching one pork pie each.
The snow had been falling fast, and they walked out into a winter wonderland. It made the world seem silent. Somewhere in the distance they heard a shotgun blast then a piercing cry. “What was that?” said Samuel.
“It was probably a bird,” said Elizabeth, yet despite her assurance to Samuel, the otherworldly cry made her shiver. She put it down to the snow, and the changes it made in the atmosphere.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“When we’ve shown Mrs. Chatterbucks and Miss Graves to their door, can we go and see if the pond is frozen? Then tomorrow me and Johnny Fletcher can go skating.”
With a promise that they could, Samuel skipped on ahead, picking up snowballs as he went and throwing them without aim at various walls and trees, whilst Elizabeth and the sisters followed at a more sedate pace.
“Do you think it was a bird?” asked Miss Graves, for once waiting until Samuel was out of earshot. “It sounded very much like a man screaming. Perhaps he was being murdered.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I’m sure Midchester is the last place in which to find a murderer, Miss Graves. Nothing exciting ever happens here.” It was only as she said it that Elizabeth realised that she wished something exciting would happen. She was happy enough in her life, but … well, she had to admit that sometimes she wished for more than the daily chores at the vicarage and the inevitable Sunday afternoons in the company of the sisters. She thought of Charles Hardacre and his sister, Dora. They at least brought some glamour to Midchester. It was said they were the nephew and niece of a famous Duke, though they were far too discreet and principled to drop his name into conversations.
“Here we are,” she said, with more relief than she intended. They had reached the door of the sisters’ cottage. “Thank you for joining us today. Perhaps if you are not too busy next Sunday, you could join us again.”
“We will have to see, Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “One gets so many invitations…” She left the rest unsaid, perhaps because it might have turned into an even bigger lie. “But of course, you and the dear Reverend will always come first with us.”
“Come along, Samuel,” said Elizabeth, after she had said goodbye to the sisters. “It will be dark soon, and we don’t want to be out too late.”
“Can we go home past the pond, Elizabeth?”
She was hoping he would forget. Despite her earlier wish for excitement, she suddenly felt the urge to sit in front of the fire with a good book and a warm blanket over her knees. Something made her feel uneasy. She could only link it back to the dreadful scream they had heard. She pushed the thought away. They lived in the countryside, where there were always sounds of animals and birds, not to mention the occasional shotgun blast from poachers and gamekeepers. Why today's noise should make her feel any different, she did not know.
“Very well, but quickly, darling. It’s terribly cold out and you don’t want to catch a chill.”
“No,” said Samuel, affecting Miss Grave’s voice, “for then I might get ill and go to my grave early. For one never knows when He will call you.”
Elizabeth wanted to laugh, but a sudden and terrible sense of foreboding stopped her. “Please don’t joke about such things, Sam.”
It was only as they got nearer the pond, which was on the outskirts of the town, just below a wooded copse, that she realised why she felt afraid. That was the direction from which the scream had come. The sky was beginning to darken, and the snow still fell. Her instinct was to turn back, but they had reached the point whereby it was quicker to go home past the pond than it was to turn back and take the other route.
“Oh look,” said Samuel. “I think someone has built a snowman. I bet Johnny Fletcher has already been out. Oh it is too bad. He might have asked me to join in.”
Sure enough, ahead of them was a man made of snow, standing some three feet off the ground. “It certainly looks like he beat you to it, dearest,” said Elizabeth. But all the same something about the snowman unnerved her. He appeared to be in a kneeling position, with his legs beneath him. She
had never seen a snowman built in such a way.
“Wait there a moment,” she said to Samuel, putting her arm on his shoulder. “Don’t go any nearer.” She moved towards the snowman and crouched down next to him. A thick dark patch had seeped through the snow near to the snowman’s chest. Tentatively, she put her gloved hand on the snowman’s leg, and pressed down. As she did so she heard him groan.
“Samuel,” she said, as calmly as she could, though her heart hammered in her chest and she could see her quickened breath escaping from her mouth in clouds of steam. “I want you to run and get Father. No, go to Doctor Wheston, then to Father. Oh hurry, dearest.”
Samuel stared for a moment, and then ran as if he had the hounds of hell chasing him.
She brushed the snow from the man’s head, and he opened his eyes briefly. “Lucinda,” he whispered.
“Please, try not to speak, the doctor will be here soon.” She took off her coat, and put it on the ground behind him, before helping him to lie down.
On hearing footsteps in the snow, she looked up and saw a man approaching them. He was dressed in a thick dark coat, and wore a wide-brimmed hat, so that in the dim light she could not see his face properly. All she could make out was that he was very tall, well over six feet, and had broad shoulders. There was something about him that unnerved her, yet she had to admit that it was not an unpleasant feeling.
“What is it?” the man asked. “What has happened?”
“This man has been hurt,” said Elizabeth. “I think … I think he has been shot. Then someone covered him with snow. I can hardly believe anyone would do such a dreadful thing.”
“Let me look at him.” His deep voice held the hint of an Irish accent. It was most attractive.
“My brother is fetching Doctor Wheston. He should be here soon.”
“I am a doctor,” he said in calm, professional tones. “Let me see.” The stranger crouched down on the other side of the stricken man. “Do you know this man?” She could see the doctor’s face more clearly. She guessed that he was in his early thirties, and unlike many of the men she knew, was clean shaven, with short, dark hair.
The Ghost of Christmas Past Page 1
