The Haunting of Maddy Clare

by St. James, Simone

  “Please,” I said to them both, trying to keep my voice soothing.

  “You are pushing things, my boy,” said Constable Moores, his voice leveled at Matthew in a growl. “This is a small town, with good people. And there has been nothing but trouble since you and your friends arrived.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matthew growled back.

  “Please,” I said again. Something about the animosity in Constable Moores’ stare made the back of my neck prickle. “What did you want to see us about, Constable?”

  He cut a glance at me. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “In fact, I’ll ask a question. Where were you last night?”

  For a second I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. My face must have shown it, but luckily the constable had looked away and was glaring at Matthew again. How could he know about the woods? “What are you talking about?” I managed.

  “It’s very simple,” said Moores. “Last night. Where were you?”

  “At the inn,” I stumbled, a semblance of my composure returning. “In bed.” No one at the inn could have seen anything—there had been no servants about in the middle of the night. Had someone been out there? Or had someone seen me from a window?

  “All night?” the constable shot at me. “Alone?” He glanced at Matthew. “Both of you?”

  “Now, look here,” said Matthew. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “An honest one that deserves an honest answer. Can anyone vouch for either of you all night?”

  “But why?” I asked.

  “Because Bill Jarvis didn’t show up for work this morning,” the constable snapped, “and now we find he’s gone missing. And then I hear you were at his house none other than yesterday, both of you. That’s why.”

  There was a long silence. Finally Matthew spoke. “Missing?”

  “Missing,” said Moores. “Sometime in the night, I think. His bed was rumpled. Hard to tell if any clothes were gone, but I don’t think so. His wallet and money are still sitting on his bedside table, and his front door is unlocked.” He looked back and forth between Matthew and me. “What did you talk to him about, when you paid him that little visit yesterday?”

  Matthew glowered into his beer, so I spoke. There seemed no reason not to tell the truth.

  “We talked about Maddy Clare,” I said.

  Constable Moores’ complexion darkened. “That ghost stuff of yours.”

  “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” I said. I kept my voice light, but I raised my gaze and looked him in the eye. “You may not believe in any of it, Constable, but Maddy’s ghost is real. We had information that we wanted to ask Mr. Jarvis about.”

  He let my statements pass. “What information?”

  “We had heard—that perhaps Maddy was not in the grave Mr. Jarvis dug in the churchyard. That she may have been buried somewhere else.”

  He seemed to pale. “That’s balderdash.”

  I pressed my advantage. “I suppose we could have just asked you.”

  “I don’t see why,” Moores grunted. “I’ll just bet Bill was happy to have a visit from you on a Sunday, accusing him of burying an empty coffin.”

  “In fact,” said Matthew with tight calm, “he told us to ask you.”

  The constable sighed in frustration and looked away.

  “Is it true?” I asked softly. “Did you cut Maddy down the day she hanged herself?”

  Constable Moores was quiet for a long moment. The fight seemed to seep slowly out of him. “We don’t get many suicides around here. It was a horrible day.”

  “You didn’t mention it,” said Matthew.

  “No.”

  “Did you know her?”

  Moores shook his head. “No, of course not. No one did, from what I hear.”

  “But you know she’s buried in the churchyard, don’t you? You saw her in that coffin.”

  “Yes. I suppose I did.” He turned back to us and glared at us again, though this time the glare was weary. “It was a sad case, and I don’t deny I don’t like to think about it. I don’t deny I wonder what happened and where that girl came from. But that doesn’t mean I think she came back from the dead, or that she haunted the Falmouth House barn. I don’t believe in ghosts, or devils, or whatever it is you’re looking for.”

  His voice had risen, and I looked around. We were getting stares from the other patrons of the inn. It truly hit me that we were outsiders—seen by all these people as crazy, and likely charlatans. Aside from Mrs. Clare, everyone in Waringstoke saw us as more than slightly sinister. The public disagreement with Tom Barry had not helped. Even Evangeline Barry had never said she truly believed in Maddy’s ghost; she had only worried about the possibility, and what it might mean to her, for reasons I had yet to discern. We had no allies here. We were on our own.

  “Constable,” said Matthew, rubbing a hand through his hair, “you might not believe as we do, but that doesn’t mean we’ve come to Waringstoke to abduct the inhabitants. You said yourself you can’t be certain whether any of his clothing is missing or not. What makes you think he didn’t just go for a walk and injure himself in the woods?”

  “Because he took his shotgun with him,” said Moores. “We found it loaded and primed, in a thicket of weeds less than half a mile from the house, near the edge of the woods.” He leaned back and looked from Matthew to me, gauging our reactions. “I cannot tell you,” he said slowly, “how much that shotgun bothers me. Bill Jarvis kept that gun in prime condition. He used it only for hunting. I am deeply disturbed to think of what would make him take it out of its cabinet and prime it, ready to shoot. Even worse, I cannot imagine what would make Bill drop that prized gun in a damp pile of weeds and walk away. It eats at me. Something made him prime it—and something made him drop it.”

  I felt cold. Suddenly I remembered the crows we’d seen in the trees when we’d left the house.

  It was too easy to picture. Maddy, outside Bill Jarvis’ door, as she had been outside mine; the chill of her, the scuffling sound. Had he seen her, or only heard her? Had the birds covered his roof, as they’d covered the barn? Had he chased her outside, thinking her an intruder? If so, what had made him drop the gun? And where was he now?

  Or was it nothing to do with Maddy, and something else entirely? Something perpetrated by one of the living people of Waringstoke?

  “So we’re suspects,” said Matthew, “though you have yet to find proof of a crime.” If he was thinking along the same lines I was, he was hiding it admirably.

  Constable Moores would not rise to the bait. “At this point, you are the last people who saw Bill Jarvis alive. Until he walks back through his front door and declares it all a misunderstanding, he is a person missing under suspicious circumstances. And yes, you two are suspects. I ask that you don’t leave town for a few days.”

  “You already asked us that,” said Matthew. “After the Clare barn burned down.”

  “Then I rest my case.” Constable Moores pushed back his chair and stood. “Trouble seems to follow you two wherever you go, and don’t think I don’t notice it. I suggest you go back to the inn and sit quietly with your friend until we have everything sorted out. If anything else happens, I can’t answer for the consequences. I may have to take you in.”

  Cold sweat prickled the back of my neck. “We understand,” I said.

  “Enjoy your luncheon.” He turned and left.

  “Well,” I said quietly after a long moment, as Matthew took a deep, angry drink from his beer. “Are we going to reconsider our plans for tonight?”

  He set down his glass with a soft click. “I don’t know. Are we?”

  We looked at each other for a long moment. His dark eyes were unafraid. “We can’t help Alistair if we’re arrested,” I said.

  “Then let’s finish this without getting arrested,” he replied.

  I took a breath. He was right. We needed to find Maddy’s burial place, constable or no constable. We just needed to be careful.<
br />
  “Are you in?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “Good,” he said. “We start after dark.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  At nearly midnight that night, I stood on the edge of a rise, the woods behind me, disheartened and swaying with exhaustion.

  “So, that’s it, then,” said Matthew beside me, putting his hands in his pockets.

  Before us, across the manicured green and placed with care on the curve of the slope, stood a tall, elegant gray house. The Barry home was an old structure, expertly built over, expanded, and painted; no doubt all modern conveniences had been installed inside, the old barn and outhouses taken down and carted away. The building that stood now was admirable in every way, and it was most certainly high enough to be seen through the tops of the trees.

  The chimney, now cold, was of dark slate gray.

  “I suppose we should be grateful,” said Matthew.

  Relief mingled with disappointment in my tired brain. Maddy had not been buried here; Evangeline had not been involved. Wherever the place Maddy insisted on showing me was located, it had nothing to do with Evangeline.

  But we were back to the beginning. We were wandering in the dark, no closer to finding out what had happened to Maddy, how to give her what she wanted. Another day would come in which she took Alistair deeper and deeper.

  The thought of Alistair had me turning away, walking back to the woods. There were no lights in the windows, but there was no way of knowing if anyone was inside. “We should go before they see us.”

  “Still angry with me?” said Matthew, as he followed me.

  I only shook my head, unable to think of what to say.

  “Sarah,” he said. “You have to see it’s the only way.”

  I kept walking. We had taken a roundabout route to the Barry house, so we would not be seen by anyone in Waringstoke. The path took us along the edge of the woods, and I tried not to think of my dream. I wiped my damp palms on my skirt and watched the ground.

  Matthew had contacted a former colonel he’d known in the army, who now helped at a charitable veterans’ association. They ran a small hospital for the poorest shell-shocked patients. They had agreed to arrange a room for Alistair. He would be taken the next day.

  I was furious at the idea of it, and we had argued for the entire journey, revolving the problem around and around, until we had arrived at the Barry house and reluctantly dropped it.

  “A charity case,” I said now.

  Matthew knew I was taking up the argument where we’d left off. “Until I can figure out a legal way to use his funds, he is a charity case. At least for now.”

  “I’m a charity case. Alistair isn’t. He should have more than a charity hospital. What can they do for him? They’ll leave him alone in a room and hope he gets better, with no one to care for him. How will we see him? How will we know what sort of care he’s getting? How will we know if they’re mistreating him? How can we—how can we solve this problem, if Alistair is not even in Waringstoke? Maddy is tied to him—she comes and goes….”

  “Sarah, the innkeeper was going to call the constable and have him turned out. He said he can’t have a madman at the inn. What would you have me do?”

  “He isn’t mad!” I said, forcing back tears. “He isn’t shell-shocked either. He’s haunted, and the only ones who can help him are you and I.”

  “If we don’t get any food or water into him, he’ll die before we can. We need help, Sarah.”

  We said no more until we reached the inn. It was nearly one o’clock now, and we entered the sleeping building silently, not wanting to alert anyone that we had been out. We padded in stealthy single file up the stairs to the door of Alistair’s room. There was a small, muffled sound from inside. Matthew glanced at me and opened the door.

  Alistair lay on his narrow bed, unshaven, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Sweat covered him and soaked his clothes. As we watched, he moaned softly, the low sound of a man in the grip of unendurable pain.

  Matthew moved to the bed, talking gently. Alistair shook his head. Matthew poured some water from the basin and tried to get Alistair to take some; but Alistair lay rigid, his jaw clenched, his hands shaking at his sides, until he tried to smash the cup to the floor. “Don’t touch me,” he moaned at someone we couldn’t see, as Matthew tried to quiet him. “I killed you. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me—”

  When he had done all he could, Matthew turned and looked at me where I stood in the doorway. “Sarah,” he said. “You’re crying.”

  I nodded. I knew I was; I could feel the moisture on my cheeks. I looked away before I could detect the contempt for my weakness in Matthew’s eyes. “If only we had more time,” I said. “One more day. If only I had more time.” I rubbed the back of my hand over my tears. “I’m going to bed.”

  I was sitting on the edge of my bed, in my robe, wondering if I could stop weeping, contemplating the nightdress I had muddied the night before and wondering what to wear to sleep, when a soft knock came to my door. “It’s me,” came his voice.

  I dropped the nightdress on the bed and crossed to the door. He was standing there, looking at me with those dark eyes. I did not see contempt there, but I saw something else I recognized.

  “No,” I said, and made to push the door closed.

  He stopped it with one hand. “Sarah.”

  “No,” I said.

  “I just want to talk to you.” His voice was gentle.

  I hesitated, then took a step back, cursing myself for a fool. I could not resist Matthew when he gentled his voice like that. “Then talk,” I said, trying to sound harsh.

  He sighed and closed the door behind him. “He wouldn’t want the hospital. Do you think I don’t know that?”

  I tried not to feel any sympathy, any understanding of what Matthew’s position must be like. “You said it yourself—he’s had too much of hospitals.”

  “I can’t consider what he wants. I have to consider how to keep him alive.”

  I had stopped crying. I was tired of arguing. “We were supposed to find it tonight. We’ve failed him, Matthew. We’ve failed.”

  “We haven’t failed,” he said quietly, taking a step toward me. “There is still time.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “I’ll make time,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call the colonel and tell him to wait another day before coming.” He touched my chin. “It’s all we can afford. Will that be better?”

  I sighed. “Stop it. I can’t take it when you’re gentle.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  I looked up at him. The cynicism was gone from his eyes, the aloof twist gone from his mouth. He was looking at me with naked hunger that made my blood burn in my veins.

  “And as for the other…,” he said.

  I took a breath.

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead his hands came to my shoulders, slid up my neck, cupped my jaw. I leaned forward, into his grip. I wanted to rub my cheek against his hand like a cat. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones as his eyes darkened. I laid my hands against his chest. Still he hovered; still he wouldn’t kiss me. I wanted to scream with frustration, with the agony of looking at him for the last two days, watching him, the way he moved and sounded, the way he sometimes ignored and dismissed me.

  But other times…

  He kissed me then. I thought it would be rough and thoughtless, like the other night, but it was not; it was urgent, but it was soft and warm. His tongue met mine, and I opened my mouth. He gently slid my lower lip between his teeth, and just like that, I was melted against him, hot and feverish, sliding my arms around his neck, trying to get him closer. His hands moved down my back, squeezed the curve of my waist and my hips. His mouth traveled down my neck, his breath husky on my skin. I closed my eyes and gasped.

  Something pressed against the backs of my knees, and I dimly realized we had moved and I was pressed b
ack against the bed. I braced myself on Matthew’s shoulders and bent one leg, then the other, until I was kneeling on the edge of the bed, kissing him as he was still standing. I was level with his height now. I tangled my hands in his hair and kissed him again.

  When he pulled away, his eyes were alight with dark fire. He pulled at my robe. I pulled the shirt from his waist and tugged it upward, but he pushed my hands away.

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, tugging his shirt again. God, did he think I cared about a few burn scars? I was mad to touch him. But he pushed my hands away again.

  “Jesus. No. Don’t do that.”

  I nipped his neck, tasting his skin with my tongue, and he groaned. “I want to,” I said.

  He was distracted and he let me get the shirt halfway up his abdomen—which was as tightly muscled as I had imagined—before he pushed my hands again. “I don’t want my shirt off.”

  “I do,” I said, but when he pushed my hands yet again, I pulled away. Even when we were mad with desire for each other, we couldn’t seem to stop arguing. I took a breath, knowing my face was flushed and my lips red from kissing him. “Fine, then. You can leave your shirt on, but I won’t undo this robe.”

  He had managed to untie the robe’s sash, but it stayed closed, the two sides hanging loosely together. Even through the narrow gap he would be able to tell I wore nothing underneath. I saw his eyes travel down. “Sarah,” he said.

  “No.” I pulled the two halves of the robe together as he watched, crossed them one over the other, made as if to retie the sash.

  “Sarah.” He turned his glare on me. He was breathing heavily, like a bull. “Take off the goddamned robe.”

  I stared him down. “Only if you remove your shirt.”

  He closed his eyes. He seemed to be having an argument with himself, deep down, over something I could not hear. “It’s disgusting,” he said at last, self-loathing in his voice.

  “You forget I’ve already seen it,” I replied. And because I could not stand to hear that loathing, I slid my palms up under his shirt, over his stomach, over the wiry hairs of his chest. “Take it off,” I whispered in his ear. I nipped his earlobe, unable to stop myself from tasting him. “Please.”