People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by John E. Conley

  “That we are,” Charles answered. “Lovely little village and the kindest people.”

  “Ah, but if you only knew,” the woman said, shaking her head and furrowing her brow. “Lived here all my life, I have, and things aren’t always what they appear on the surface. You’re a gentleman from Yorkshire I’ve been told. Is that correct?”

  “Lord Charles Stewart, madam. This is Miss Mary Hastings and my man Bingham,” he said.

  “Glad to make your acquaintance. My name’s Dorothy Dunne. Been a teacher here for too many years to count,” Dorothy said. Then she looked around them in every direction and said softly, “Let me give you some advice.”

  Satisfied that she had their attention, she said, “Beware of a particular resident of Alnmouth that can’t be trusted an inch. It’s Irene Hall I’m referrin’ to, now. Wicked, she is. And her husband, too. Thinks they’re too good for the rest of us, they do. Don’t let her good looks and money fool you. Dorothy Dunne knows evil when she sees it and the Halls are all of that, I say.

  “Irene Hall didn’t use to be rich. No, far from it. She was a housekeeper at the Brampton, don’t ye know, before meeting that man she married. She was a housekeeper. Now she acts as if she owns the village and the truth is…well, near everybody wonders whose best interest they have in mind, her and that man. You being rich, sir, might be a target for them. Beware, I tell ye.”

  “I appreciate the advice, madam,” Charles told her. “I will keep it in mind. Now tell me about the Brampton. It seems everybody has an opinion on the old place.”

  “Aye, the Brampton,” Dorothy said with a wry grin. “It’s haunted, as sure as I’m standin’ here, the Brampton is. I seen things and heard things that convince me of it. If that building could speak you’d nye believe the tales it would tell.”

  Charles said, “You’ll have to tell us over tea someday, Miss Dunne. I just love a good ghost story.”

  “These aren’t mere stories made up to entertain a child,” Dorothy replied seriously. Then she glanced at Mary and said, “Oh, I don’t mean to scare the young lady, now. But history don’t lie.”

  Mary grinned, saying, “I don’t scare easily, Miss Dunne.”

  The Headmaster

  John Clarke was a good listener. The unassuming, introverted man was not the one you would rely on to keep up the conversation in a group, but he was a good listener. People in Alnmouth had realized that from the first day he arrived. They perceived him as intellectual and thoughtful and he did nothing to change their opinion in the short time he had been headmaster.

  John regularly walked the short distance from his small house, or the school, to the center of the village for the sole purpose of meeting and greeting people, gathering as much information as he could about his new home. Lifelong residents of the village considered that a vital trait for newcomers. Otherwise, they would forever view you as an outsider, not worthy of their trust.

  Storms still threatened to dampen the afternoon, but the headmaster was in a jovial mood as he strolled down the tree-lined Northumberland Street. The school term recently ended and children seemed to be everywhere in their new-found freedom. Only a few acknowledged John when he was recognized; most were too engaged in their games of football or leapfrog. He entered a few of his favorite shops along the way if only to chat with the owners. Or, more likely, just listen to the latest gossip. Little of what Londoners called news ever happened in the villages of Northumberland. Therefore, much of what John heard concerned the latest doings of the citizenry, and that was fine with him.

  He approached the small, open area that passed as the village’s only park when he noticed three people sitting on two benches facing each other under an oak tree. He would not normally have been drawn to them except for the fact that the sole female in the group was Mary Hastings.

  They were deep in conversation and barely noticed John until he was upon them.

  “Hello, Miss Hastings. So good to see you again so soon,” John said with a small bow.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Clarke,” she replied. “Let me introduce Lord Charles Stewart and his butler Bingham.”

  Handshakes were exchanged among the men and Charles insisted that John occupy the seat on the bench next to Bingham.

  “John’s the headmaster I told you about this morning,” Mary said. “He’s so good with Anna. She evidently only trusts a smattering of people and he’s clearly one of them. It’s not an easy task for a girl with her mentality.”

  John grinned and shyly nodded his acceptance of Mary’s compliment, saying, “She’s a good girl inside. Just quite slow, of course.”

  “And have you been in Alnmouth long, Mr. Clarke?” Charles asked, offering both Clarke and Bingham cigarettes that they accepted.

  After lighting his, John replied, “No, not very. I feel like I’m still trying to learn everything about the place. Odd how such a little village can have so many…what shall we call it…idiosyncrasies about it.”

  “In what way, John?” Mary asked.

  John’s eyes did a quick scan of the park and then he said, “Perhaps it’s the proximity of everybody here and the fact they all know each other so well, but there’s a dreadful amount of angst among the people. Petty jealousies all the way to true hatred. Mostly among the women, but the men aren’t completely innocent, I must say.”

  “We’ve been here a day and I believe we might know of what you speak,” Charles acknowledged. “Do you take it seriously, Mr. Clarke?”

  The headmaster chuckled. “Well, no one has killed anybody…yet. I came from Ireland before settling here and I saw some of the same thing there, but not to this extent. Times are hard right now, I suppose, and many people are finding work hard to get. I’m lucky and I count my blessings every day.”

  Bingham asked, “What did you do in Ireland, sir?”

  “The same as here,” John said. “Small school in a rural area. Armagh, to be exact. I just needed a change of scenery after a while. I’m not one to stay in one place my entire life. I don’t have a family and that gives me freedom to move about.”

  The wind picked up enough to rustle the leaves in the tree above the benches and Mary was glad she had convinced them all to wear coats. Still, no one in the group seemed eager to end the conversation. John learned about how Charles and Bingham met in the war and how Mary met them both during Charles’ involvement in the Humphries and Levering case.

  Charles was more than happy to discuss police-related work with someone who seemed honestly interested and it was nearly an hour before John told them he had more errands to run. The truth was that he did not want to miss his opportunity to talk to Abigail Harker, the one woman in Alnmouth that had caught the single man’s eye from his first day in the village.

  Abigail was a thirty-five-year-old widow of a fisherman who never returned from an ill-fated attempt to make one more excursion into the North Sea before a storm hit. Witnesses on other ships returning to port said they saw William Harker’s small boat disappear behind the wall of a huge wave, never to be seen again.

  The widow was an Irish girl with thick, long reddish hair and freckles. Having just come from a land filled with them, John found himself naturally attracted to the woman. She was quick-witted and playful when not busy managing her two teenage sons and she and John struck up a friendship quickly. Dorothy Dunne, for one, not so secretly hoped the two would marry, but the relationship was far too new for such talk.

  Abigail worked part-time at Edward Williams’ shop and John knew she would be home with the boys now, unless they had snuck off to offer themselves as help on a fishing boat that was short on men. Abigail pleaded with them to the point of tears not to end up like their father, but the boys earned a few pence each trip they made and nothing she said could sway them.

  Abigail would have been pleased to know that her sons Frank and Henry were not on a ship that afternoon. Instead, they were seated along the riverbank plotting more mischief to play on Anna Walker. The girl was a constant ta
rget of their stunts—most of which were harmless—and with no father to impose punishment if caught, they had free rein to act.

  Their mother peered out the window of her cottage at the horizon over the sea to judge the intensity of impending weather when she saw John walking quickly down the path from the center of Alnmouth. Abigail rushed into the bedroom and grabbed a hairbrush, running it through her thick locks in front of a mirror. She had not time to worry about makeup and rushed back out into the kitchen just as she heard John’s knock on the door.

  Abigail opened the door with a look of pleasant surprise and stepped aside to let him in before he could finish his inquiry if he could enter. She took his hat and coat and they took their customary places in the tiny living room.

  “I don’t hear the boys,” John said.

  “I couldn’t keep them from going again,” Abigail sighed. “I’m not sure if they found a boat or not. Time will tell. Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Clarke?”

  John was accustomed to his friend’s formality and his one attempt early on to correct her failed. He now considered it simply one of her charming traits.

  “No, thank you, Abigail. I’m fine.”

  After a pause, he continued, “By the way, have you met the three guests staying at the Brampton, yet?”

  “I have not,” Abigail said, her eyes portraying the delight of hearing that something potentially interesting had happened in the village. “I’ve only been to the market briefly in the past couple days. Who are they?”

  “One’s a gentleman. A seemingly nice enough chap, although a little quiet,” John told her. “His butler looks like a more interesting fellow. And a young woman is with them, apparently a friend of Lord Stewart’s.”

  Abigail gazed across the room at John and said, “Is she attractive, then?”

  John smiled. “I’m not sure that is a requirement of being a friend of a Lord, Abigail. Actually, she is not overly attractive. Very nice, though. She has already made a friend of Anna and came with her to the school.”

  “I will have to see for myself just how accurate your description is,” Abigail said. “She must be single and, therefore, a woman you undoubtedly will take an interest in. Am I wrong, Mr. Clarke?”

  John heard Abigail’s tone exactly the way it was intended and he answered with a grin, “They are visiting. Mary has no time to pry me away from you, my dear.”

  “So, Mary is it? Mr. Clarke, it took you three weeks to call me by my first name.”

  The Brampton Hotel

  It was approaching ten o’clock when the sun set below the horizon and temperatures dipped dramatically in Alnmouth. Charles and Mary sat in the Brampton Hotel’s lounge, having settled into separate chairs around a small, round table holding Charles’ cigars and brandy. She, especially, enjoyed this quiet time together and some of their best conversations took place in a similar setting in Balfron Manor. At times, the conversations turned into debates and, if their moods allowed, near arguments. Yet, no feelings were ever hurt and the pair continued on as if nothing ever happened.

  The lounge was no different from the entirety of what they had already seen of the hotel: dark and foreboding. Add to that the smoke from Charles’ cigar and Mary found herself inching her chair closer and closer to the table as if it offered protection of some type.

  There were no debates this evening as they discussed the occurrences of the day. Mary seemed singularly absorbed in Anna and John, while Charles drifted more towards the hotel itself, Dorothy Dunne, and, of course, Irene Hall.

  After nearly half an hour, a figure entered the haze through the door behind Charles’ chair. The light from the hallway to his rear, combined with the smoke, provided Mary with only an outline of the tall, thin man. Slowly, his form and face came into focus as he stood next to Charles.

  “I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Lord Stewart,” he said. “And the lady, as well. My name is Clive Witherspoon and I manage the Brampton.”

  Charles rose from his seat, faced the manager and quickly thought Witherspoon’s methodical, hoarse voice was fit more for the House of Lords than the Brampton Hotel lounge.

  “Good evening, sir. May I introduce Miss Mary Hastings of Scarborough,” Charles replied.

  Witherspoon bowed gracefully and accepted Charles’ invitation to join them, pulling over a chair to make a triangle around the table. He declined a cigar, much to Mary’s delight.

  “As you may know, Lord Stewart, we don’t get many guests at the Brampton and certainly few of your prominence,” the manager said. “It is our goal to make your stay as pleasant as possible, so please do inform me personally of anything that is not to your satisfaction.”

  Charles nodded affirmatively and said, “So far everything has been more than satisfactory and Mary just loves the décor.”

  She smiled at the appreciative manager, already plotting her revenge on Charles.

  He continued: “We hope to see the entire building at some time during our stay, especially the upper floor. I love these historic, old structures. So much charm.”

  Charles watched for and saw the reaction on Witherspoon’s face when he mentioned the third floor. The manager crossed his legs, seemed to think for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, of course. The hotel is yours to peruse at any time. I…I take it you do not know the history of the hotel, Lord Stewart?”

  “I do not. Do tell.”

  Witherspoon cleared his throat and said, “Well, sir, the Brampton first opened in the seventeenth century. It reportedly has welcomed leaders of nations, as well as leaders of literature and other fine arts. It has withstood every storm the North Sea could throw at her without flinching. Indeed, the only blemish came from within, and not without.”

  He paused, seemingly for effect. Charles and Mary waited patiently for the history lesson to continue.

  “Yes, it was a sad day at the Brampton some twenty years ago when the worst of all calamities occurred,” Witherspoon told them. “Death came to Alnmouth overnight and in the most dreadful of manners. You see, a man was found dead on the third floor. Murdered.”

  Mary saw Charles nearly come out of his seat at the mention of the word.

  “Murdered, you say,” Charles said eagerly. “That must have been quite an unpleasantness for the hotel, not to mention those involved.”

  “Quite, indeed,” Witherspoon replied. “It was the first murder in Alnmouth in anyone’s memory. So, of course, many theories abounded, most of which centered on the belief that…well, let me give you some more history as a preface.

  “For years prior to the murder, rumors persisted that the hotel was haunted,” Witherspoon said.

  Now Charles was leaning forward in his seat, enthralled in the unexpected direction taken by the conversation with the otherwise dreary manager.

  Witherspoon continued: “Yes, haunted. Of course, the murder only exacerbated those beliefs and to this day people will tell you that ghosts roam the halls of that floor. Fortunately, I do not believe in such things.”

  Charles said, “I understand as manager it might be in your best interest to reject the ghost stories, Mr. Witherspoon. But tell me, in the shoes of an unbiased observer, what do you really believe?”

  Witherspoon looked over his shoulder at the door, leaned forward, and said in a low voice, “Oh, this place is unquestionably haunted, sir.”

  Mary unsuccessfully tried to hide her chuckle by turning it into a cough. Both men glanced at her and then looked at each other.

  Charles said, “And the murder, Mr. Witherspoon. Tell me what you know of that.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much, Lord Stewart. I wasn’t here, you understand. As I’m told, the bank manager at the time was stabbed by a young woman who was later hanged for the crime. There was little doubt of her guilt, by all accounts.”

  “I see,” Charles said, finally leaning back and looking over at Mary. “What do you think now, my dear?”

  “I’m amazed she could see well enough to s
tab the man,” she said calmly.

  To both Charles’ and Mary’s surprise, it was Witherspoon who quickly said, “Oh, if you are referring to the softness of the lighting, Miss Hastings, that has remained a sort of tradition here at the Brampton. People expect it.”

  He coughed and added, “We still have a few guests who come only because of the reported haunted nature of the place. It’s our small way of accommodating them.”

  Mary grinned and allowed Charles to pursue the conversation if he wished; which he did.

  “What is the general feeling among the people of Alnmouth regarding the ghosts, Mr. Witherspoon?” Charles asked.

  “Mixed, I would say. The majority probably doesn’t put much weight behind it, but others are very convinced. Dorothy Dunne, for instance,” Witherspoon offered, “although you may not have met her yet. She comes in fairly regularly to spend long hours on the third floor at night to investigate. There’s no doubt she believes in them.”

  “In fact, we have met Miss Dunne and I’m anxious to talk to her about her findings,” Charles said.

  “You’ll get an earful,” Witherspoon warned. “Anna Walker visits the floor at all times of the day and night, but wouldn’t understand the concept of ghosts, I suppose.”

  Within minutes after the manager left Charles and Mary alone in the lounge, the pair had agreed to explore the hotel’s upper floor. In a village ostensibly void of excitement beyond dramatic changes in weather, the prospect of hunting ghosts at the scene of a long-past murder was far more than they could have hoped for. The sound of their shoes on the winding stairs was all that could be heard in the late evening stillness as Charles led the way. Quickly, they reached the uppermost hallway, which was even more dimly lit than their own.

  They were near the center of the hallway and, after looking both ways, Charles suggested, “Let’s go this way first.”

  He turned to the left and both of them glanced down at the recognition that they were treading on a good coating of dust.