He sounded grim as he said it, and I didn’t know what to say. Was he pleased to be free from the fighting, or had he been disappointed in not getting the chance to go back?
From behind us, Matthew’s steps accelerated, bringing him closer. “Alistair. Remind me why we didn’t bring the motorcar?”
“Because it’s only twenty minutes,” Alistair teased, moving aside and letting Matthew come next to him. The twinkle returned to his eye. “You, my friend, are getting fat and lazy on inn food.”
“It’s bloody hot,” said Matthew.
He was right. The sun had burned through the morning mist, leaving a yellow heat that was wet and heavy. There was hardly a breeze to be had. Still, I was as glad of the walk as Alistair was. It was good to get away from the darkened old inn, from the shadow of Falmouth House.
We came to the heart of what Waringstoke called town—two streets in a simple X, lined with shops, a post office, a pub. Anchoring the end of the east–west lane was a church and churchyard, glinting gray stone set against the wet green of the grass. The churchyard looked overgrown. There was no one about, at least on the quiet streets. I thought of how different it was from shopping in London, at Harrods and the hundreds of large and small shops on every street, the windows filled with elaborate displays. I had so rarely had any money with which to buy anything, I was well acquainted with the window displays.
The night before, Matthew and I had quietly agreed that today would be a fact-finding mission about Maddy Clare. The locals must know something about her—she may have kept to herself, but she had lived at Falmouth House for seven years. Surely there was gossip about the mad girl who worked as the Clares’ maid and never left the house? Surely someone, somewhere, had told stories she shouldn’t have?
We split up, Matthew to his own business, Alistair and I to the few ladies’ shops to replenish my suitcase. Mere days ago, I would have been paralyzed with terror at the thought of shopping with a man. I was still a little shy, but it did not take me long to feel relaxed again. I had been nearly undressed in front of Matthew, after all. And I had faced worse fears than having a man help me pick out underthings.
It still bothered me, however, that Alistair was paying for everything. He seemed to sense this, and in the way of his good-natured soul, he did not push me. He let me pick out only the least expensive items; he let me choose only the clothes that were practical, sturdy, in the simplest of styles so they would not be out of fashion in a year. He argued with me when I insisted I needed only one pair of stockings. I maintained I had more at home in London and did not need him to buy me a second pair. Eventually, I made him give in.
I had replaced everything but my favorite shirtdress. Alistair left me to try on dresses, saying he must make a stop at the post office, as he had forwarded his mail to Waringstoke. I shopped alone.
I selected a few—simple and serviceable, of course, and suited to my figure—and proceeded to the back of the shop, as directed by the saleslady, to try them on. I pulled the curtain and stood in the tiny dressing area.
My dress—the one surviving dress from my previous wardrobe—had sleeves to the elbows. I slid the dress off and looked at the bandages Matthew had fastened last night, circling each upper arm. They glowed eerily white in the gloom. My arms still hurt. Did they hurt more or less than yesterday? Did I even know?
Should I remove the bandages to look?
I had promised Matthew I would. I had promised him that if my arms were worse today than they had been yesterday, I would tell Alistair. And yet, I didn’t want to. I simply didn’t want to know.
What if the problem was serious? What if I needed medical attention?
Could any doctor possibly treat what was wrong with me?
As I stood in indecision, I heard the click of heeled footsteps approaching. I assumed it to be the saleswoman until I glimpsed the shoes beneath the bottom of my curtain. They were new, glossy, high-fashion heels, with a sleek buckle at the ankle. No saleswoman in Waringstoke owned shoes like that.
“Miss Piper,” said a woman’s voice.
I closed my eyes. I knew exactly who it was, of course. I had known the second I saw the shoes.
“Mrs. Barry,” I said. The woman walking her dog the other morning. The tall, utterly beautiful woman who had shared a cigarette with Alistair.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in her strong, husky voice.
I stood in the gloom in my yellowed cotton slip, the bandages blazing from my arms, and wished more than anything that she would go away. Next to her glamour, I felt the day’s confidence draining away. “How do you do, Mrs. Barry?” I managed.
“Listen.” The shoes moved closer. I stared at them in envy; they had cost more than a month’s wages at the temporary agency. “I have to confess something—I followed you here,” she said, surprising me.
“What are you talking about?” I did not move closer to the curtain.
“It sounds horrible, I know. Crazy, in fact. But I have my reasons. Just listen a moment.”
I pictured the morning I had found her talking to Alistair, how small I had felt. How she had looked at him when she lit his cigarette. How there had been currents of something I could not see. “Mr. Gellis is at the post office, if you are looking for him,” I said smoothly.
“Please. Just listen.”
I paused, thinking. “All right.”
She sighed, and the shoes paced away. I pictured her in an exquisite dress, a matching hat, those soft suede gloves she had been wearing when I first met her. No. On second thought, she would be wearing a different pair of gloves, a pair for warmer weather. I had been so very intimidated by her when I had first met her; now I was merely repelled. I shifted my weight to one foot, waiting.
“I want to know something,” said Mrs. Barry. “This ghost. The maid. Is it true she talks to you?”
My jaw dropped. “What?”
“If it’s true, I need to know. I need to know it.” She sounded hurried, impatient, perhaps a little afraid.
“Mrs. Barry, perhaps you should tell me what you’ve been hearing.”
She sighed again. I heard her pace across the floor. “It’s all over town. That Al—that Mr. Gellis brought you here. That you are some sort of clairvoyant, called in particularly for your expertise in speaking to ghosts. That Agnes Clare let you into the barn to see the ghost. That you’ve been communing with that girl from the dead.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth. I did not know whether I wanted more to giggle—me, a ghost specialist brought in by Alistair!—or gasp. I thought quickly and decided not to disillusion her—I would not lie, but it might be to my benefit to maneuver a little. “What do you know about Maddy Clare?” I asked.
“Please.” Her footsteps came closer. “Have you been speaking to her? Truly?”
“She has spoken to me,” I said carefully. This was true; I left out the part about being nearly driven mad by the sound. “Did you know her in life?”
“Oh, God.” Mrs. Barry became still at the other side of the curtain. “What did she say? Was it about…”
“About what?” I prompted when she stopped.
“Miss Piper—did she have a message? Any kind of message? Please tell me.”
I was firm. “Not until you tell me what interest you have in a message from Maddy Clare.”
“I don’t have time,” she said hopelessly. “I have to go. I told Tom I would only be a moment, that I was looking at dresses. He’ll follow me in here. Listen—I’ll be walking my dog in the mornings. Every morning. There’s never any suspicion in that. If you can tell me—please. Please meet me and tell me.”
She sounded so very desperate. I wondered what was wrong, but I also knew I would not get it out of her. She was already turning to leave. “Please,” she said again, and was gone.
I stood in the quiet for a moment, wondering if she would return, but she did not. The maid, Mrs. Barry had said. You have been communing with that girl. She had been unable to sa
y Maddy’s name.
Ignoring my bandages, I pulled the dresses from their hangers and began to try them on.
Chapter Thirteen
Waringstoke’s pub was small and cozy. Except for the public room at the inn, it was the only place for the town locals to gather, so it wasn’t a surprise to see it relatively crowded at the lunch hour. As we took a table, Alistair, in the midst of grumbling about Matthew’s tardiness, froze midsentence at something over my shoulder.
“What?” I said. “What is it?”
He gained control of his expression and looked away. “Nothing.”
I wasn’t fooled. I angled myself inconspicuously in my chair and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Barry being seated at a nearby table with a man, presumably her husband. He was turned away from me, but I could see he was slender, dark-haired. I turned back to Alistair.
There was nothing in his eyes. He signaled for a barmaid. “I can’t wait for Matthew. I’m hungry.”
I waited until we had ordered, gathering my courage. Finally, I plunged forward. “What is it about her?” I asked him. “About Mrs. Barry?”
He said nothing for a long time. In fact, our food had arrived before he spoke, and I thought he had resolved not to speak altogether. He dug into his ploughman’s lunch, his eyes still carefully averted from the other table. “Sometimes, Sarah, you are far too observant.”
“You can tell me,” I said, stung. “I’m not a child. Are you—are you two—”
“Cuckolding her husband?” His cheeks had gone red, and he set his fork down. “No. We’re not. Is that what you’d like to know?”
If you’ve bearded the lion in his cage, I thought, there’s nothing to do but show courage. “Well, I didn’t—I didn’t mean that. It’s just that it seems there’s something going on.”
He picked up his fork again, pushed his food around on his plate, just as I was doing. “I met Evangeline at a New Year’s party in 1914, like she said. It was at a club in London. I danced with her twice, and I asked her to marry me.”
I couldn’t help a small sound of surprise.
He stabbed a potato. “I’ve never asked that of a woman before or since. It was stupid, but it was real. There was something between us, and nothing else in that moment, in any moment, made any sense. I simply didn’t want to let go of her. And then she told me she was already married.”
“Oh,” I said.
He lifted his eyes to mine. “There you go, Sarah. Now you know it. I went off to war and I didn’t see her again. I had no idea she lived in Waringstoke. I didn’t know anything about her, except that I could never have her. And then she came by the inn that morning, walking her dog.”
The pain in his eyes made my heart ache. I thought of the fear I’d heard in Evangeline Barry’s voice. I told him I would only be a moment. He’ll follow me in here. “Alistair,” I said, leaning toward him, wishing I could put my hand on his. “Alistair, I think perhaps—”
“Well, well.”
I looked up, my cheeks flaming. It was Mrs. Barry’s husband, approaching our table. His dark hair was slicked back, and he had blue eyes fringed with dark black lashes. “It’s the ghost hunters,” he said, as if delighted. “Here they are, in person. How lucky we all are!”
Alistair and I exchanged a look, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Mr. Barry merely continued. “I beg pardon,” he said smoothly. He placed a hand on the back of my chair and leaned down, his face uncomfortably close to mine. “I am Tom Barry.” He held out his other hand to me. “How do you do?”
Startled, I put my hand in his. “Sarah—Sarah Piper.”
“Miss Piper.” He squeezed my hand, held it a little too long, then turned to Alistair, his hand still on the back of my chair. “And you, sir?”
Alistair frowned. Neither man held out a hand to the other. “Alistair Gellis. Is there something we can help you with?”
“You’re ridding Waringstoke of its ghosts, are you not?” said Tom Barry, pulling up a chair and seating himself. He placed his hand on the back of my chair again. “I’d say that’s damned helpful. But I’m here to help you. And so you must let me buy you a drink.” He leaned in confidentially, lowering his voice so the other tables couldn’t hear. “I hear you’re from London. What a bloody relief! I lived there for a few years during the war, myself. Places like this, you know—” He shook his head, his glance indicating the rest of the room, and presumably all of Waringstoke. “Well, let’s just say I’m overjoyed to have someone real to talk to.”
I turned to look at Evangeline at the table behind me. She was sitting watching us, her legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand propped by the elbow on the table, her pose relaxed. She caught my eye and gave me an amused smile, an ironic wave. I stared at her, trying to reconcile this woman with the frightened woman who had approached me in the change room not three-quarters of an hour ago.
Tom Barry had turned his gaze to follow mine. “My wife,” he said to me. “She’s quite shy, and so she’s staying exactly there, while the rest of us have drinks together.”
“Really, there is no need,” said Alistair.
“It’s already done,” said Tom Barry. “I’ve ordered us a bottle of whiskey. The finest this place has to offer. We’ll drink a few toasts. And maybe we’ll have a few ghost stories round the table.”
Whiskey! It was barely one o’clock. I tried to protest, but the barmaid placed the bottle on the table, along with three glasses. Barry reached for it immediately and began to pour. “I’m sorry I’m so forward,” he said, though his tone said he was not sorry at all. “I suppose it’s a little surprising to a Londoner. But we’re all friends here, you know, and I’m used to it. Besides”—here he lowered his voice again—“the villagers here are a little suspicious of you, if you don’t mind my saying so. Narrow minds, and all of that. So I thought I’d lead the way. Break the ice, you know.” He smiled at us; his smile was a little crooked, as if not drawn on his face quite right. He raised his glass, and used a voice that boomed through the rest of the room. “A toast!”
I didn’t want any whiskey. I’d never had it in my life, and the thought of drinking down all that dark liquid—for Barry had filled our glasses quite full—made me slightly queasy. And yet, as I looked around the room, I saw that everyone was indeed looking at us, some of them directly, some with sideways glances. Even the bartender was watching us as he polished a glass. What if Barry was right? We needed these people, these villagers, to help us with the case of Maddy Clare. What if they looked to Tom Barry as something of a leader, as he’d implied? Nothing would get solved if no one would talk to us. Perhaps a little whiskey was a small sacrifice.
I caught Alistair’s eye. He put his hand on his glass. I did the same.
“That’s the spirit!” said Barry. “To our guests!” He drank his glass in one swallow.
I held my breath and tipped my glass to my lips, but the first swallow burned down my throat and I gasped. I put my glass down, coughing, my nose burning. I apologized, but Tom Barry was laughing.
“A virgin, eh?” he said. “We won’t get through the bottle very quickly if that’s how you drink. Give it another try.”
“It isn’t necessary,” said Alistair. I noticed his glass was empty; he could drink just as effortlessly as he did everything else. “Sarah, don’t worry about it.”
“Be a sport,” said Barry, with his crooked smile. “One more. Just one.”
“I really don’t—”
“She doesn’t want it.”
My heart stopped as I recognized the voice. Matthew stood by our table, his expression unreadable. He wore his cloth cap and was slouched easily into his corduroy jacket, his posture one of relaxed strength, like that of a boxer out of the ring. He had one hand in his pocket, and in the other he held a glass of beer. He must have been served at the bar, then, and I wondered how long he had been standing there, watching us.
Tom Barry laughed again and looked at Alistair. “Who is this, then? Your man?”
Barry looked at him for a tight beat of silence. “Go away, my boy. We’re having a drink here and you’re not invited.”
Alistair found his voice. “Matthew is a member of my team.”
Tom Barry looked from one to another of us, each in turn. “Well, then,” he said, as he read our faces. “I see.”
“You’ve proven your point,” Matthew said, nodding toward the whiskey bottle. “We have work to do here.”
“Matthew,” said Alistair.
“No, it’s quite all right.” Tom Barry stood. He looked at us with an expression that said we’d made an enemy. “I can see you don’t want my help. Well, good luck without it.” He brushed past Matthew and his eyes narrowed. “You think you’re a strong one, don’t you? I could take you on.”
“You’d lose,” said Matthew.
Barry motioned to Evangeline, who was watching the exchange with calm eyes. She put out her cigarette and stood. Without another glance at us, she followed her husband out the door.
Matthew took Tom Barry’s vacated chair, swiveled it with one large hand, and gracefully straddled it backward, his forearms across the top of the wooden back. He adjusted his cap on his head and looked at us. “Well, then?”
Alistair sighed. “Matthew, we were trying to be political here.”
“By making Sarah drink whiskey?”
I blushed and looked at the half-empty glass in front of me. The smell of it was unappealing, and I wished I could be rid of it.
The Haunting of Maddy Clare Page 10
