The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5)

by Harriet Smart

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” said Jacob.

  “Where the devil is my dressing-gown?” Felix said, looking about him.

  “Your sure you don’t want to dress first, sir?” said Jacob, handing it to him.

  Felix did not trouble himself to answer and went straight to her room, fastening his dressing gown as he went. He stopped at the door, realising only then, to his shame and horror, that his silhouette betrayed the contents of his fevered dreaming. He was forced to pace the landing for a few moments, thinking the grimmest thoughts, utterly mortified that Jacob should have seen everything.

  When he felt calm enough, he knocked at her door. The maid, Taylor, admitted him.

  He was relieved to see that she was not tossing in bed, bathed in a putrid fever. Rather she was sitting up, her breakfast on a tray in front of her.

  “Must I really have chicken broth for breakfast?” she said.

  “Is that all you wanted to ask?” he said. “You are not feeling unwell?”

  “I feel unwell when I have to drink chicken broth for breakfast,” she said. “You ordered this for me, I think.”

  “I did,” said Felix.

  “Drink it up now, Miss Eleanor,” said Taylor. “Her Ladyship would tell you that, I’m sure, and if the gentleman has ordered it –”

  “Her Ladyship is not here, Taylor,” said Miss Blanchfort. “I really detest the stuff, Mr Carswell. Must I have it?”

  “If you cannot stomach it, then I suppose there is no point,” Felix said.

  “Take it away Taylor. I would like toast and coffee.”

  “Coffee I cannot advise,” Felix said.

  “Then chocolate. Is that allowed?”

  “Yes, that will do well enough. In fact, would you be so kind as to bring some for me as well?”

  “Yes, certainly, sir.”

  “So you intend to take your breakfast with me?” she said, when the maid had gone.

  “To make sure you eat yours,” said Felix. “And to save time. I am going out with Major Vernon shortly. I need to check you over first. How did you sleep? Did you have much pain?” he said, taking her uninjured wrist and testing her pulse.

  “A little,” she said, “but I did not take anything to help me. But I slept, better than I imagined. In fact, I had the most interesting dreams.”

  “You did?” said Felix and found himself flushing.

  “I saw Papa again – but this time it was most definitely in a dream. And most comforting.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, touching her forehead and cheeks. “No feeling of fever at all?”

  She shook her head.

  “I am quite comfortable. And he is in Heaven,” she said. “I’m sure of it. And he spoke to me in this dream, and he said such interesting things.”

  Felix lifted her wrist from the sling and checked to see that the splints and bandages were still all in order.

  “Shall I tell you what he told me?” she went on. “I think you will find it interesting. After all, it does concern you.”

  Felix busied himself with rearranging her wrist in the sling, and then moved away from the bedside. If she did not have a fever, he certainly did. He went over to the window and opened the lattice.

  “Dreams don’t mean anything, you know,” he said.

  “Of course they do!” she said. “What are they for, then?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody does,” he said. “Whatever he might have seemed to have said, well, it was only your fancy. I have dreams like that all the time, in which the things I want occur. Or rather things I should not want.”

  “You do?” she said. “And you think it is not significant that you should? You think they should just be dismissed as fancies?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I cannot agree,” she said. “Tell me what you dreamed, Mr Carswell, tell me what you dreamed last night.”

  As she spoke she began to climb out of bed and, because of her arm, had to struggle and stumble to do so, forcing him to cross back to the bed to stop her falling. He found himself with his arms about her, her flimsy nightdress becoming disarranged and revealing rather too much, and he had to quickly yet gently disentangle himself from her. He grabbed a shawl from a chair, and handed it to her.

  “I would rather not. It is not –”

  “Decent?” she said, not wrapping herself in the shawl as he had intended, but instead, standing there looking very directly at him, her gown slipping lower and lower from her shoulder. He found himself trembling with desire, and from the boldness of her stare, he guessed that the nature of her dream had not been dissimilar to his own.

  “I dreamt,” she said, in a whisper, “that you were my husband. That is what my Papa wanted.”

  The door opened and Taylor came in with the breakfast tray. Miss Blanchfort mercifully enfolded herself in her shawl and Felix took his leave, abandoning his cup of chocolate.

  -o-

  They had limited themselves to one kiss. There was too much that was uncertain in their future to risk crossing the threshold into an intimacy between them that might yet prove impossible to sustain.

  In the first instance, she had to break with Edward and then they had to deal with all the disagreeable feelings that would naturally arise when the cause of the break was known.

  The business of actually terminating her engagement would be hard enough for her, and it was something she must, as she had pointed out, do entirely alone. He could have no hand in it. She must deliver the blow, and it would be a punishing one.

  As he walked back to his room, having pulled himself from her arms with such difficulty, Giles knew the pain it would cause. As her victorious lover, he knew keenly that to lose such a treasure to another man would be almost unbearable.

  Then, when the cause of the break became known, the Fforde family would surely be grossly offended. Lambert and Edward were devoted to each other, and no matter how highly Lambert might regard Giles, it was no small thing to have a blood brother slighted by a person who had been accepted and trusted as an intimate and an equal. Sally would surely side with her husband out of loyalty, no matter how much she might personally like the match – Giles could expect no less of her, and for her to go against Lambert in such a case would have shocked him. Their intention to marry would not be met with much rejoicing by anyone. Her son would not like it. Even if he had not already formed a partiality to Edward, he could not like it, when he saw how little in the way of material goods his prospective stepfather could offer his mother. He would seem a poor match in every respect.

  Yet for all this, he went to his bed a happy man, and the next morning, as he waited for Carswell outside the house, he found himself looking up at her window and smiling, content that the trouble would be worth it. If they were to be tested, then so be it, and let them prove to the world the worth of their affections.

  Then, as if to justify his confidence, she appeared at the window, opening the lattice and looking down at him as he stood there, the reins of his horse in his hand.

  “Oh, good morning, Major Vernon!” she said.

  “Good morning, ma’am!” he said.

  “We shall be gone before you are back, I think,” she said. “Any messages for Lord Rothborough?”

  “Nothing, I think,” said Giles, unable to stop himself grinning broadly now.

  “I hope it will not be long before we see you there,” she said.

  “I hope not.”

  He did not like secrets nor playing games, but this was a very innocent one and the pleasure of it in the mild morning sunshine was undeniable. He would have been a dead man not to enjoy seeing her smile down at him like that.

  At this moment Carswell came out of the house, saying, “I am very glad you have things for me to do, for –” and then he broke off, seeing Giles looking up at Emma’s window. “Oh, good morning!”

  “Good morning, Mr Carswell! I think the weather will hold for you today. The sky looks promising. Do you have any orders fo
r me?”

  “Orders, ma’am?” said Carswell, looking puzzled.

  “About your patient, Miss Blanchfort?”

  Carswell thought for a moment and said, “She ought to be made to rest as much as possible when you get to Holbroke, and if she will not take broth, try marrowbone or some such. Or even beef steak and porter.”

  “Are you quite serious?” she said.

  “No – well, a little, because she is fussy and she cannot afford to be with a fracture.”

  “I shall tell her that,” said Emma. “Good day, gentlemen!” she added, and closed the lattice.

  “Not that she will listen,” said Carswell, mounting up.

  Giles mounted his own horse and they set off down the avenue together.

  “Where are we going?” Carswell asked.

  “Marlingford, and then Hawksby. We have a few enquiries to make.”

  “What is at Marlingford?”

  “I am not entirely sure. Hopefully the answer to a puzzle. Is your patient causing problems?”

  “She is...” Carswell began. He hesitated and said, “I think it would do me good to talk of something else entirely. Tell me about your puzzle.”

  So Giles gave his account of what Emma Maitland had discovered about Miss Waites.

  “I am sure she is connected to Bickley, intimately perhaps.”

  “And you think she can help you bring him down? Surely she will not be privy to all his secrets?”

  “No, he’s too careful for that. But she is so fearful that she must know something. The fact she is working for nothing for them is significant.”

  “Perhaps they are using some indiscretion on her part as an excuse for that,” Carswell said.

  “That’s possible. She did stress her respectability.”

  “That will mean a foundling somewhere,” Carswell said. “Or some such.”

  The ride to Marlingford was accomplished without difficulty. The village, as he had observed to Mrs Maitland, was fast becoming a suburb of Northminster, due to its convenient position on the canal, with brickfields beyond. There were many recently thrown up terraces of small houses of the plainest sort, and the ancient village green was now a muddy midden, and home to a herd of miserable-looking dairy cows. There were several inns adjacent to the green, suggesting Marlingford had in the last century been a place of pleasant resort from Northminster. Now they looked wistful and run-down, especially The Blue Bell, which was an oversized edifice, with elaborate half-timbering, and a large yard in front. As they approached it was clear that this was now a piggery, and the inn itself had been divided into many dwellings. It reminded Giles of Miss Waites’ Northminster residence in Croft’s Building, with the addition of swine.

  An old woman in a red bonnet was sitting with her knitting on a bench under one of the windows, enjoying, it seemed, the spring sunshine and the company of the pigs who surrounded her like a guard of honour.

  “Fine animals, ma’am,” Giles said, necessarily in a loud voice, for they set up a bellowing as they approached. “Are they yours?”

  “Yes, sir, that they are,” she said. “Do you want to buy one? They make the best bacon in the county. I’ve a lovely crop of piglets. You came on the right day.”

  “I wish I could oblige you,” said Giles. “Perhaps another time. Have you lived here long?”

  “All my life, sir.”

  “In this house?”

  “On and off.”

  “Do you recall a family called Waites?”

  She considered for a moment, and then shook her head.

  “So who kept the inn here, when it was an inn?”

  “That was a very long time ago, sir,” she said. “I can’t say I recall who. Being old, you know, sir, I can’t remember such things.”

  This was rather artfully said, and Giles felt she probably knew a great deal about the building’s history and its occupants, but for some reason chose not to reveal it.

  “Let’s go and enquire at the church,” Giles murmured to Carswell, turning his horse.

  -o-

  The elderly verger leant on his broom and considered Major Vernon’s question.

  “The Blue Bell Inn, sir,” he said, “yes, well, that was kept by Mrs Waites for many a year. A widow she was, and a right fierce baggage I must say – not anyone you wanted to get on the wrong side of – just like her daughter, madam herself, that’s up at the Manor now. My old father, he had his run-ins with Mrs Waites, and now it seems it’s my turn.” He gave a great sigh and shook his head. “I’m to lose my place because of her!” And he pointed at the canopied box pew which presumably was occupied on Sundays by the family from this hall.

  “And her name is?” Major Vernon said.

  “Bickley,” he said. “Miss Bickley. She never married and never will, for what fellow would ever take on such a tartar, not for all her money and land!” he added, with some force.

  “Green!” a man’s voice called out from the back of the church. “I hope you are helping these gentlemen?”

  A young man in clerical dress came striding up the nave towards them. “I saw your horses outside, gentlemen. I am the Vicar here, Charles Mortlake. Can I assist you?”

  “We were admiring your beautiful church, Mr Mortlake,” said Major Vernon. “My name is Peters, and this is my associate, Mr Frazer.”

  Felix wondered why the Major thought it necessary to conceal their identity from the clergyman. Major Vernon continued, “I think we have an acquaintance in common – Miss Bickley? We were on our way to call on her at the Manor, but I can never resist an ancient church.”

  “Oh, you know Miss Bickley?” he said. “Such an excellent patron. My wife and I have not been here long, and she has been nothing but kindness. A very good Christian lady.”

  “When she’s not threatening to take away a man’s livelihood,” muttered Green as he departed with his broom. He stood a little distance away and began sweeping ineffectually.

  “Perhaps we should go into the chancel,” said Mr Mortlake. “There are some picturesque old family monuments, if you have a taste for such things. I believe they are highly regarded by local antiquarians.”

  They followed him into the chancel and the Vicar began what was obviously a well-rehearsed speech about the marble monuments, which in truth were very dull and nothing to compare with the mortuary chapel at Holbroke.

  “No Bickley tombs, though?” said Major Vernon, glancing around.

  “No, I believe Miss Bickley came quite lately to the Manor. But she has had a long association with the village. The old lady who lived there before left the property to her, out of fondness. She was her companion at one time. This is her monument – Miss Elizabeth Hickman. Paid for by Miss Bickley, of course.”

  “A handsome design,” said Major Vernon. “So the family at the Hall were called Hickman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this lady was the last of them?”

  “I believe so,” said Mr Mortlake. “This is the first of them here, this fine gentleman in the ruff: Sir Merriam Hickman.”

  Fortunately the Vicar had an appointment to get to, and Felix and Major Vernon were allowed to examine the crumbling old graves in the churchyard at their leisure.

  “Merriam Hickman,” said Major Vernon. “That’s quite a coincidence, whatever way you look at it. Both unusual names. Why would our Mr Hickman call his business Merriam’s if he did not have some connection with that family? What do you make of this story of Miss Bickley being left the property by Miss Hickman?”

  “I don’t know. It seems unlikely, if Miss Bickley is the sister of George Bickley, which I assume she is, since you have not said otherwise. Have you met her?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “As Mr Peters?”

  “Yes – I thought it wise not to show my hand. She is his brother. She was running that large song and supper room in Bank Street, The Horseshoe.”

  “And now she is here,” said Felix.

  “She is, if anything, more a
ssured than her brother. Well, you will see for yourself, for we shall have to call on her now.”

  “Isn’t that rather dangerous? What if Bickley is there as well?”

  “That’s a risk we shall have to take. What is certain is that Mr Mortlake will report on our appearance there and if we have not called, she will be very puzzled. But first I want to talk to Green again.”

  They found the discontented verger in the vestry, taking his ease with his pipe. He looked rather startled to be discovered so.

  “You won’t tell Mr Mortlake, will you, sir?” he said.

  “Don’t worry, please, Mr Green,” said Major Vernon sitting down beside him on the bench. “Now tell me all you know about The Blue Bell Inn, and the Bickleys and the Waites.”

  “But you won’t speak against me to her up at the Hall, will you?” said Green. “Being friends of hers.”

  Major Vernon shook his head.

  “Not exactly friends,” he said. “Now, Mr Green, tell me about Mr Bickley, Mrs Waites’ first husband. I saw his grave out there. Was he the landlord at The Blue Bell?”

  “Yes, and he was a fine a man as you’d hope to meet . A real gent he was. The trouble was in marrying Peg Diggory, and after he married her he was never the same. She had her hooks in him and that was that.”

  “And that is the Mrs Waites we were speaking off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did she come from? A Marlingford family?”

  “Aye, one of us, but a dirty, low, trouble-making family – the Diggorys – always have been, always will be. And when she nabbed Bickley – told him she was with child by him, of course – his poor mother took to her bed and died with the shock of it. Not what she wanted for her boy.”

  “So they ran the inn together?” Major Vernon said.

  “Yes, though she gave him a deal of trouble with his carrying on, always wanting bigger and better and never contented with her lot. And then he goes and dies, just like that, and well, it was talked about, that, for he was as fit and healthy as you and I, and suddenly he’s dead. And whether it was the will of our Good Lord or summat else less savoury...” Green shrugged and gave a long draw on his pipe.

  “And the widow Bickley remarried Mr Waites?”