Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2)

by Jackson, Melanie

  “It’s quiet out there, just the waves on the rocks and they were being polite. Nothing to do but polish the brass fittings and take tea to James who finally stopped vomiting and fell asleep. I was nodding off over a book, some verse by T.S. Eliot about how houses live and die and how the wind would carry them away. Kind of sad reading really and not what I’d have thought Gus or James would choose, but you just never know. Anyhow, I was enjoying the fire and getting sleepy enough to give in and nap, when a strange thing happened.

  “I heard voices, singing. Outside. I put the book down and forced my eyes open, but could see very little because of the mist pressing against the glass. But after a moment, the fog parted and I could make out an old-style ship, two-master with square rigging. I think a Balner,” Bryson added to Ben, perhaps knowing that he was the only one who would care. “It was headed for the island at a fair clip and I started up, but barely had time to blink when it was gone again along with the voices. I was just starting to think about phantom ships and the like when behind me I heard clattering footsteps and then a voice—not James’s voice—said, ‘Fog’s rollin’ in. Time to put on the foghorn.’

  “I was startled. The voice belonged to old Frederick. Died when I was only five—fell down those damned spiral stairs one night in a big storm—but I knew his voice all the same. I smelled his pipe too. He was always smoking sweet tobacco in that old clay pipe. Of a sudden I was cold and frightened, but I turned around anyway to see if he was there. And for a second I swear he was.”

  Bryson paused and then added matter-of-factly: “The Welsh have a name for it. It’s called a thought body. Usually a person isn’t dead when it happens, but an image of them can appear someplace when they think hard enough on a particular location. I reckon Frederick was still on the job, keeping an eye because he knew I wasn’t fit.

  “Anyhow, he was right. The fog was rolling in. Had to wake James so he could tell me how to put on the horn. The lights were on a timer, but the foghorn was manual. It worked out fine. There were no accidents that night.”

  Bryson smiled, pleased with himself.

  “My dog, Spice, she visits me sometimes,” Everett said suddenly. “But only when I’m walking alone on the shore. There’s nothin’ scary about it either. So what if she’s dead. Not all ghosts are bad. You’re just spookin’ yourselves.”

  This was said defiantly and I recalled one of my grandma’s favorite sayings—a clear conscience is a sign of selective memory. If he really did see his dead dog, I’m betting he peed his pants the first time it happened. Or maybe he was lying about being creeped out to make some other point.

  Regardless, things were not going my way. I didn’t want any more happy ghost stories. People needed to stay frightened and happy dog tales ventilated the accumulating horror.

  I got up, excusing myself and saying something about coffee before we all nodded off. Jack followed to help.

  I left him to it and visited the bathroom, needing a moment to myself. I looked in the mirror, half expecting to see the crying shade standing at my shoulder, so close did she feel, but it was only me looking back. Pale and with an unattractive crease between my brows, but still only me.

  Jack picked up a tray of decorated cookies and I brought in the coffee pot, a bottle of whisky, and whipped cream, because some situations call for more than decaf, non-fat, sugar-free liquid support. The ghost, though she was incorporeal, weighed heavily on me as I arranged cups.

  Lightning crackled as I poured and passed teacups. I looked out the window as I passed the last saucer and saw her, a figure that bent light around her but cast no shadow and she had no form. Hannah. Crying. Waiting.

  I was moved to pity. The story had to be told, whether they believed me or not—though I would insist with every ounce of being that they believe and help me find a way to put her to rest. And if they did not believe me … well, I would look wider for help. My family’s relationship with the islanders is complicated. We have been revered and resented—probably pitied. Many of the current generation scoff on the surface about the legends, but never mention the curse to outsiders, and are happier deep down inside when one of us is on the island. Because no one is really anxious to try out the old jinx and find out if the three islands really will disappear into the sea if New Year’s comes and a Wendover isn’t here to appease the bane.

  This is also a place where the sins of the fathers get visited on their children, a kind of cosmic inheritance tax. The Sands had to know and accept this even if they didn’t like it.

  I was in no hurry to leave the island, nor did I mind nonhuman company in the form of a mysterious cat—but I didn’t want to spend the remainder of my life with an unhappy ghost.

  “So,” Ben began, always ready to rush in where angels would fear to tread. “What’s your story, Tess? You have one don’t you? I very much want to hear it.”

  Ben isn’t stupid, and he had probably assembled some theories about why I had been investigating the story of Colonel Sands.

  I finished pouring my own cup and added a splash of whisky. Quiet settled on the room as my other guests realized that we were reaching the zenith of the evening.

  “Yes, I have one to share. My story is both a little more ancient and a little more recent. And it’s definitely closer to home,” I began and saw Harris stiffen. “It concerns a relative of mine, Hannah Wendover. I think most of you know her story if not her name. But for those who don’t know, I will tell her tale.”

  I glanced at Bryson and could see the brothers draw together, as though anticipating what I was going to say and bracing themselves for the worst. Bryson was still after the first twitch but Everett seemed to be having mental fidgets and looked guilty. Perhaps familial remorse was a foreign experience. Or maybe he wanted to glare me into silence, as if leaving the matter unmentioned would keep the ghost away. Maybe my great-grandfather had told them that she was there and they didn’t want to deal with her. Whatever the cause, I had never liked him less. Where was his compassion?

  I knew, as does anyone who ever watched the news, that there are people who will stomp out a human life as easily as stomping a shrub. But I hadn’t bumped into it firsthand before and the experience had offended me all the way to my soul. Hannah’s rage and sorrow had become my own.

  “They hanged her when she was nineteen because she was charged with witchcraft. Her lover could have cleared her name by alibiing her but didn’t. It was more convenient to claim to have been bespelled into adultery and to let her die.”

  Another of those foreign memories washed over me. Those moments were as hard to accept as real as they were impossible to deny. Instead of fighting it further, I gave in to the overshadowing and began speaking about what I saw.

  “Hannah was bound and gagged with a blindfold over her eyes. She didn’t know that her lover rode near the cart that carried her, but she suspected it.…”

  * * *

  She was bound and gagged with a blindfold over her eyes. She didn’t know that her lover rode near the cart that carried her, but she suspected it.

  Hope was all but gone. All that was left was the tiniest dying ember that said he would surely intervene at the last moment and save her somehow. It could happen if he recanted, if he admitted that she had not bespelled him. They could banish her instead.

  One hand throbbed where the fingers were broken and she was cold—chilled to the very heart. Either way, she thought, let it be over soon. Either let her be saved, or let Death reach out with his scythe and take her quickly. Her mind and heart and body could stand no more misery.

  Sounds plagued her though. Because her eyes and mouth were covered and her flesh chilled to numbness, all her being was in her ears. She heard whispers and footsteps and the wind strengthening in the trees. Who walked beside her? Who, among the people she knew, had come to watch her die? Were they glad she was gagged and without sight? Did they truly fear that she would lay hurtful spells upon them? Or were they just experiencing secret pleasure at see
ing someone suffer? She thought that the women especially liked to see her punished because she reminded them that they were all slaves, and somewhere inside they all wished that they could escape if they had the courage.

  It didn’t matter who was there for no one would save her. She was glad she couldn’t see them—didn’t know who among those she had thought of as friends were there watching her undergo her pain and humiliation. And she didn’t need to see the trees now. She had seen them so much in the summer when she had lain beneath the colonel and dreamed of freedom as she gazed into the green shade.

  They were going up the hill now through the belt of haunted wood. The path was unkind to women and horses alike, steep and uneven so she slid on the rough planks which forced slivers into her skin. The wheels creaked and she could smell the horse’s sweat as he labored to drag her to the gallows. She was small, but he breathed as if his burden were heavy—perhaps with guilt.

  The cart finally stopped and fear speared through her. Her blindness was intolerable. She needed to see Death as he approached. She rubbed her face against her arm and the blindfold slipped. She saw him then, as he dismounted—Death in the guise of her lover. He wore riding boots and embroidered gauntlets. The only mark of stress upon him was the faint crease between his brows and the fact that he wouldn’t look at her.

  At once she was aware of her unhygienic state and was, for the first time, filled with shame at the filth on her dress and the mats in her hair that made her so much his lesser.

  He had to be the devil himself. Could he not have just smothered her in her sleep one day after they had made love? The time they had spent together—it meant nothing. The gentle words, the promise of aid—lies! All lies! Her knees shook and she could barely stand.

  A voice jeered at her. Nehemiah Stoddard. Rage began to replace fear and shame. Her back straightened. Her legs firmed.

  She would be dead by nightfall and he would go home and dine on capon and pastry before a warm fire, thinking thus God disposes of sinful women.

  But what of his sin? Would he think on that? Would he fear for his soul? Was it not the greater because he had a wife? Should his punishment not be as harsh or harsher?

  Her eyes raked the crowd now, noting who was there. Some of the faces she had expected but was repelled by the expressions of gloating. One surprised her though: Matthew Ladd. Matthew had said that he loved her and wished to take her to wife, that he would even come to share her island prison. Had her refusal turned his love to hate—a hate so strong that he wanted to see her die? Why then were there tears in his eyes?

  The gag was intolerable. She again rubbed her face against her shoulder, not caring if she bruised the flesh as she dislodged her rag. What did it matter? She would not have to bear it for much longer. It was clear that Jonathan Sands would not save her. And she had something that she needed to say.

  Rough hands dragged her from the cart. Her ragged dress caught on a rail and tore. Her skin too. The blood was warm as it trickled down her side. They dragged her forward, not giving her dead legs time to regain their feeling.

  The gallows tree waited, tall and twisted with sturdy limbs that would not break.

  Hate rushed up from her heart. Perhaps her last moments should have been spent in appealing to God to be forgiven her trespasses, asking Him to help her also forgive—but God was not feeling merciful and would not save her. Her sins were known. Either He would take her to His bosom or He would not. But perhaps, though showing no mercy, He would be willing to answer an appeal for justice. Was He not a righteous God? Then let Death set us his sacrificial altar and dress it with every horror for her neighbors to witness. Let them be the happier for her death—she would still have her say!

  Her voice cracked and her mouth was very dry, but she forced the words out, raising her voice to be heard above the rising wind and the distant howl of the wolves, who would probably dine on her body did they not take parts of it for souvenirs. There would be no place for her in the churchyard.

  For this—for his cowardice and betrayal—she hated Jonathan Sands. Let her words etch the air and very brains of those who stood witness.

  “Jonathan Sands, listen to these words, the last my mouth shall utter. In the spirit of the only true and living God I speak thee. Tremble, for you will soon die. Over your grave they will erect a stone that all may know where the bones of the cowardly Jonathan Sands are moldering. But listen, all ye people, that your descendants may know the truth. Upon that stone will appear the imprint of my raised hand, and for an eternity after your accursed names have perished from the earth, the people will come from afar to view the fulfillment of this prophecy and will say: ‘There lies the man who murdered an innocent woman.’ Remember these words well, Jonathan Sands, remember me.”

  And then terrified Aaron Merrick pulled the gag back into place and a rough rope was tied around her neck.

  Hannah looked to the west and the blood red sun.

  It was almost done.

  * * *

  It took a while for the present to reassert itself, pushing back the horrible other reality of Hannah’s death. I had to blot away the sweat and tears from my cheeks.

  For one moment I had actually wished that Sands was burning in Hell. But only for a moment. Now that I assumed there could be some kind of spirit survival and that Hell seemed like a real possibility for those who believed in it, I found that I couldn’t actually wish anyone there.

  No one spoke. In fact they averted their eyes while I restored minimal order to my makeup. Thank goodness for waterproof mascara.

  After I was calm enough, I recounted my research, not that anyone was asking for proof.

  “Why the handprint?” Jack asked when I was done speaking. No one expressed disbelief at what I had said. Perhaps the sharing of all the ghost stories had softened them up to the idea that maybe there was something beyond the veil.

  Neither brother answered, but I don’t think it was because of ignorance. Bryson looked a little bit ashamed and sad. Everett was shut down but there was still an angry and perhaps fearful shimmer at the back of his eyes. If it had just been me asking out of curiosity he wouldn’t have answered, but it wasn’t just me. And like others in the islands, he believed in ghosts. And he knew his family’s sin.

  A distressed Harris finally answered for them.

  “It was part of the questioning,” he said softly. “They broke the bones of her hand to force a confession—which Sands stopped when he knew it was happening. He wasn’t the one who brought the charge of witchcraft either.”

  “But he didn’t repudiate it either.” The suspicion lingered that he might even have suggested to some minion that they bring the charge. Kind of like Henry II and his “Can no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”

  “I’m so sorry, my dear. I didn’t know that you had been troubled by her.”

  I felt ill. So Harris at least had known about her.

  “Go on. Finish it. Was I right about what happened?”

  “Well, it was that hand that she raised to God to swear her innocence when she faced the gallows. I think some in the crowd believed her then, but others felt that she had endangered them by leaving the island and deserved to be punished, and still others thought all Wendovers were devil spawn and had earned whatever happened. They also wanted to hurry the execution because the woods were growing dark and they feared the wolves. They were plentiful at that time.” Harris looked as grim as a one-man wake as he related the details I hadn’t known—that she hadn’t known—about the judicial murder.

  … and he ordered that she be putt to death, the executione to be no later than fyve of the clock. There being no road in this extremity of the wood, it was a deed witnessed only by those who came on foott…

  “What happened to her body?” I asked, wanting to hear no more of what had been done to her. Thunder shook the house. “Did they cast her into the sea? Leave her to the wild animals?”

  “No, but … a witch cannot be buried in consecrat
ed ground….”

  “But she wasn’t a witch—just a scorned lover. And a Wendover. So what did they do? Bury her face down at the crossroads?”

  Harris made a placating gesture.

  “The colonel was an outsider and a mainlander. He didn’t understand about the Wendovers and the island. After she was dead the island folk in the crowd began to fear that her family might leave the island forever because of the insult to their daughter, even though they had themselves cast her off. When the others had gone they took the body under cover of darkness and brought her home to the family. They had to row the whole way because the sea was flat and there was no wind for the sails. They were all terrified—and this was the last time anyone from the islands harmed a Wendover.”

  Anyone from the islands.

  Anyone human.

  Harris swallowed. I had never seen him look so ill at ease and I was willing to bet that his ancestors had been among those who crossed the still ocean to bring the body home.

  “They buried her in the garden somewhere, or so the story goes,” Bryson said at last, relieving Harris of the task of filling in the blanks. “They hadn’t much choice, the island being made of stone. It was the only earth soft enough for a grave. No one knows exactly where though. There wasn’t any tombstone.”

  I thought of the fallen statue that my great-grandfather had never cleared away and Kelvin’s frequent vigils there. It was where my ghost stood, weeping. There had been a stone to mark her grave, just not one with writing.

  “I think I know where she is.” I looked from Harris to Bryson and back again. But what next? How the hell did we undo an ancient wrong? Can reparation be made to the dead?

  “What do you want us to do, Tess?”

  “She is going to have a funeral, a proper one. We won’t dig her up.” Unless we had to, but I really didn’t want the scandal of moving the remains of a body to the churchyard—assuming there were any—and there might well be all kinds of red tape and publicity of a morbid kind. “But I want words read over her grave and a memento I’ve found in the house added to her grave. It is the least we can do.”