Old Lover's Ghost

by Joan Smith

  “Ye-e-e-s-s,” she agreed reluctantly. “But the table was overturned when the room was sealed and locked. Over the years there have been other occurrences in other houses we have visited. I keep an open mind.”

  “When I see a real ghost, then I shall open my mind a little. Meanwhile I am a disbeliever. In the interest of making your papa’s visit peaceful, however, I am willing to pretend to suspend my disbelief.”

  “A hypocrite, in fact,” she said, when he was only trying to be polite.

  Before he could retaliate, Lewis came pelting into the room. His face was paper-white. “I say, John! Did you not tell me you had put the jerkin and the helmet in that little chest?”

  “Yes, I put them there myself. Why—”

  “Because they are back on the table. And Bagot assures me no one went near the Armaments Room. Mr. Wainwright is upstairs in his chamber, so you cannot say he did it for a trick.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Merton exclaimed, and grabbed his walking stick to hoist himself out of his chair.

  Charity cocked her head at him. “Is your mind beginning to open a crack yet, Merton?” She laughed.

  They heard a crash from the Armaments Room as they hastened toward it. By the time they reached it, the yellow jerkin and the helmet had been flung to the floor once more.

  “I must tell Papa!” Charity exclaimed, and ran off after him.

  Merton stared at the offending articles. There was no point blaming Lewis for this. He might have removed the articles from the trunk and put them on the table. He had certainly not knocked them off. He had not been near the room when that happened.

  When Lewis went to pick the things up, Merton said, “Leave them there. We shall let Wainwright handle this. I am beginning to think there are more things on earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy.”

  “Very likely,” Lewis agreed, “since you never had any philosophy so far as I have seen.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Wainwright was chirping merry at lunch, with the exciting goings-on in the Armaments Room.

  “Now that I know the relationship between Knagg and Walter, I shall go through the papers in the library in an effort to prove what they told me. Actually it was Knagg who spoke to me. He is the stronger presence. He is three years older than Walter, who is the son by the second marriage, you see. Knagg’s father was a knight attached to Baron Merton—known as Baron Dechastelaine in those days. Walter’s papa was not so highly placed in society. There may be no mention of him in the documents, but with luck perhaps there will be a line somewhere of a knight’s lady remarrying upon the death of her husband. It is surprising the amount of detail that was written down in the old days.”

  Lady Merton listened to all this with impatience, then said, “You have not been to my chamber to investigate what happened last night, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “I have never heard of a soul returning in the form of a bird,” he said comprehensively. “I can only say that if it is so, then the fact that the bird is white suggests it is a shriven soul, an innocent and not a malign spirit. Would you not agree, St. John?”

  The vicar cleared his throat and replied, “Just so, but surely you are forgetting one ghost that comes in the form of a bird, Wainwright. I refer, of course, to the Holy Ghost, the third person of the Trinity who is usually symbolized as a white dove.”

  “Are you saying the Holy Ghost entered my room?” Lady Merton exclaimed, turning stark-white herself and trembling in fright.

  “My dear lady, nothing of the sort, I assure you,” St. John said. “A glass of wine for her ladyship,” he called to the footman, who hastened forward to fill her glass.

  Merton could take no more. “This is demmed nonsense!” he scoffed. “As if ghosts weren’t bad enough, now you are speaking of divine apparitions, the Holy Ghost flying about in the dark. It is a sacrilege.”

  St. John clasped his hands, as if about to pray. “That was an unfortunate misunderstanding, milord. I meant nothing of the sort. It was a mere academic discussion. To speak of ordinary ghosts as being a sacrilege, however, is inaccurate. Why, the ghost of Jesus Christ came to Doubting Thomas, if you will recall. To say nothing of Samuel, as I mentioned the other day. I have no doubt her ladyship was visited by a ghost, an innocent, harmless ghost.”

  Merton just glared. “I trust you will not preach this sort of balderdash from the pulpit, Reverend.”

  “I agree it is best not to excite uneducated minds by speaking of such things. They would surely misunderstand, but that is not to say that among ourselves we need ignore the obvious.”

  “It seems to me that is exactly what we are doing,” Merton said. “A pigeon got into Mama’s room—by some as yet undetermined means,” he added, staring at Miss Monteith, who ignored him.

  She seldom took any part in the conversation at table.

  Wainwright frowned. “You do not have a dovecote at the Hall, though. I have not seen any pigeons about at all. I daresay it is the ravens on the roof that keep them at bay. They can be pesky things, pigeons.”

  “There is no shortage of pigeons in the neighborhood. I mean to remove Mama to the west wing tonight and check her room carefully before she retires. I suggest you lock your door as well, Mama. We shall see if this pigeon is capable of passing through a locked door.”

  “I shall do it, just to prove to you that the bird is a ghost,” Lady Merton replied, with a stubborn thrust of her chin.

  Lewis chose that moment, when the matter seemed settled, to introduce his penny’s worth. “Seems to me a bird would be the perfect embodiment for a ghost. I mean to say, it could scoot right down from heaven, having wings and all. You ought to have your society look into it, Mr. Wainwright. And about there not being any other bird ghosts, I fear you are out there. You are forgetting Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner. What else was the albatross but a ghost, when you come down to it?”

  “It has been transmogrified from a symbol, has it?” Merton asked with a fierce stare.

  “I may have misread it. Coleridge is very deep. I shall have another glance at it after lunch.”

  “I suggest you leave off poetry,” Merton said. “There is such a thing as being overly imaginative.” He directed a scowl along the board to Miss Wainwright at this speech.

  Charity found lunch a positive ordeal. Merton did everything but call Miss Monteith a crook and St. John a quack. To compound the offense, he paid no attention whatever to herself except for that one scowl.

  Merton was aware that he was behaving atrociously, but he could not seem to stop himself. Try as he might, he could come up with no sane explanation for the activity in the Armaments Room. To suddenly have to consider the possibility that ghosts were real phenomena was enough to upset his equilibrium.

  Whatever of Knagg and Walter, he did not believe that the bird in his mama’s room had been a ghost any more than he believed the singing nun had serenaded him that night. There was more chicanery than haunting in the business, and he felt in his bones that his mama’s fortune was at the bottom of it. He was a man who liked to take charge, to handle things. Mama’s insistence on keeping Miss Monteith tied to her apron strings made it impossible, resulting in great frustration for him.

  He meant to pacify St. John before he left, however, and so invited him into his study to discuss the St. Alban’s fund.

  “Mama has told me of her notion of making over half her fortune to the fund,” he said. “I would like to know more of your plans for the money.”

  St. John regarded Merton suspiciously. “I consider it an emergency fund, milord, to assist the needy of the parish. Just this week I donated fifty pounds to the Halperins. They are not on your estate. Halperin is a clerk. He works in Eastleigh but lives in that little cottage near my vicarage. He needs his mount to get to work. It died last week, of old age. How could he support his family if he could not get to work? He has five children. It seemed the charitable thing to do.”

  “Of course.”

  “He knew a f
ellow who would sell him a decent nag for fifty pounds. The bank would not lend him the money, for his house is already mortgaged. There was another offer on the mount. It is such emergencies as this that make the fund so valuable. I might say necessary.”

  “I agree in principle, but five thousand pounds is a great deal of money to set aside for such trifling emergencies.”

  “It would be earning interest in the meanwhile. I am a strict watcher of pennies, milord. You need not fear I shall squander the money. I hope to use it for scholarships as well. Occasionally a bright child comes along. It seems a shame if he is not allowed to further his education, to be in a position to help his family, keep them off the dole,” he added, as this would naturally be of interest to a rate payer.

  “I, myself, received my education as a result of the late Lord Merton’s generosity. Had it not been for that, and your own generosity in giving me the living of St. Alban’s, I might have ended up a common laborer. I know better than most the value of charity, the difference a little money can make to a struggling youngster.”

  Merton soon lost interest; he had heard this tale before. He had no doubt of St. John’s honesty and sincerity. He rather felt some big project should be undertaken with such a large sum, but meanwhile he had other nagging concerns. Even as he sat there, listening to St. John prose on, Charity might be making some plans with Lewis, and he wished to include himself in them if possible.

  “We shall speak of it another time,” he said, rising from behind his desk. “Just one more word: I wish you would not encourage Mama in this ghost business.”

  St. John clapped a white hand to his forehead. “I could have bitten my tongue off when I realized how she misinterpreted my remark about the Holy Ghost! Most unfortunate. And about my sermons, you need have no fear that I mean to excite the common folks by any preaching of that sort. Indeed I do not belabor the point with her ladyship. I merely listen to her and offer such poor consolation as my reading of Holy Scripture suggests to me.”

  While St. John spoke, Merton nudged him toward the door. “Very good of you,” he said, opening the door and peering down the hall to look for Charity.

  The vicar left, and Merton limped after him toward the Blue Saloon. He found Lewis but not Charity.

  “Where is Miss Wainwright?” he asked.

  “She is with her papa in the library, going through old documents to look for a trace of Walter.”

  “As I am unable to ride, you might make a tour of the estate for me, Lewis, to see that all is going well.”

  “What am I to look for?” Lewis asked in confusion.

  “Sick sheep. Mildewed or withered or shrunken corn. Blight, undue water in the barley field. I fear I may have to have it tiled. These are the things you should be taking an interest in, not taking Miss Wainwright to visit poachers and hermits.”

  Lewis rose reluctantly. “Do you think Meg was murdered, John?” he asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But if there is no baby in the grave ...”

  “I cannot imagine why you choose to listen to the ravings of that drunken poacher. The child is buried with Meg. It was a boy named Roger. If necessary, I could have the grave dug up to prove it.”

  “Did you learn anything from St. John? Has he talked Mama out of my money?”

  “I fear you have lost five thousand. Console yourself that it will go for good causes. St. John tells me he gave fifty pounds to Halperin recently to buy a nag. There is no reason to doubt him.”

  “It is true. I heard Halperin’s nag had died of old age, and I saw him on that bay gelding Jim Henderson was trying to sell.” Lewis stood, frowning.

  “Then what troubles you?”

  “It is just that ... Well, I thought you was the treasurer of the fund. Can St. John sign checks without you knowing about it?”

  “He does not bother me with such trifling sums. Naturally I would be involved if any major expenditure were contemplated. St. John hasn’t the imagination to contemplate anything on a grand scale, however.”

  “Then I wonder why he is so eager to get his hands on my five thousand,” Lewis said, and left.

  In the library Wainwright had placed a wooden chest bound in brass on the table and was up to his elbows in dusty papers from the days of Cromwell. Charity spotted a small sheaf of papers consisting of yellowing pages, held together by faded blue ribbons. This suggested to her a lady’s diary or common book. She lifted it up to examine it. The ink was hardly darker than the discolored papers, but the writing was legible. “Diary of Margaret Dechastelaine” was written on the title page. Charity took it to the window for better light and began browsing through it, stumbling over the unaccustomed spellings and archaic words.

  The lady had written of her daily doings. Charity judged from the confused writing style that Margaret was a young girl. Such simple things as fashioning herself a new green mantle and gathering flowers in the meadow rested on the same page as preparing for the invasion of the Roundheads. She wrote of eating with tin forks, as the silverplate had been buried to keep it from the invaders. This did not prevent the family from entertaining guests at dinner, however. “Seventeen guests to dinner, none of them of much interest.”

  Halfway through the book, Margaret and several other local ladies had removed to a house identified only as Aunt Mary’s home, taking some of the family jewels, valuable paintings, and small statues. Among the ladies who made the move was a Dame Sydwell, widow, included despite her late husband’s and son’s desertions to Cromwell’s cause “for Dame Sydwell’s two brothers and her elder son, Knagg, are such brave Cavaliers, and much trusted by Papa.” The name Knagg leaped off the page.

  Charity read on eagerly. News of the invasion came secondhand to Aunt Mary’s from Keefer Hall. “Heavy losses suffered; twenty-nine of Papa’s men killed, eleven injured, but the estate still in our hands.” Wounded Cavaliers were brought to Aunt Mary’s for treatment. “The Duchene brothers both maimed, one lost an arm, the other an eye. Supplies are running low. The stench of blood and death in the great hall is intolerable. I did not get but three hours sleep last night, and that a nightmare. But I must not complain; Papa still lives.”

  Charity stopped reading to rest her eyes from the faded, spidery script. What an experience for a young girl! To be pitched from a life of luxury to such horrors as this. There was not even a doctor at the makeshift hospital. The care of the wounded fell entirely on the ladies. Charity read on. And in the midst of it all someone called Mrs. Littlemore was delivered of a child “at ten of the morning. She is to be called Mary, in honor of my aunt, who is a pillar of strength to us all, despite her years.”

  Such heroism as the ladies practiced deserved more renown than a passing mention in a forgotten diary. What age was this Aunt Mary? Who was she? No last name was given. On the next page poor Dame Sydwell had lost both sons. “Charlie, who now calls himself Walter, for he will not wear the king’s name, was only sixteen. We heard that Knagg was determined his half brother should not be buried in Cromwell’s uniform and ripped off his jerkin and helmet, exchanging them for the Cavalier’s outfit. I doubt it is true.” The yellow jerkin and the helmet had been under dispute between them through the centuries ever since! “Knagg died a hero’s death, defending Papa.”

  Charity lowered the book and dabbed at her moist eyes. “Papa, you will want to look at this,” she said, and handed him the little diary.

  Wainwright snatched it eagerly from her fingers. Strangely, he did not begin at the beginning, but turned toward the back of the book—almost as if he knew where the significant passage was located. Had he read it before? Before he came up with the ghosts’ names and relationship? The diary had been sitting enticingly at the top of the trunk, attracting her by those blue ribbons that often indicated a lady’s diary. Papa knew she liked to read the ladies’ writings. Was papa a fraud?

  Yet he had stated categorically there was no ghost in Lady Merton’s room, and of course there was not. If he wer
e a mere charlatan, self interest would suggest he would invent one, to please his patroness.

  “Most interesting!” he exclaimed, his wicked black eyebrows rising, to give him the look of a satyr. “I shall show this to Lady Merton. I must have a copy of it, Charity. Merton will not want it to leave the premises. I have ample witnesses that I had identified the ghosts before this confirmation was discovered. If I finish up here soon, I shall be able to have an article ready for the Society’s quarterly magazine by June. Unfortunately not in time for the June issue—that is already being printed— but certainly for the September one.

  “Now if I could identify the singing nun, I would certainly be elected president of the Society come January—provided Houseman does not get invited to Longleat in the meanwhile. I wonder if Lady Merton would care to write a word to Lady Bath. The Green Lady that haunts the top story of Longleat has been tentatively identified as Lady Louisa Carteret, of course, wife of the second Viscount Weymouth. But the legend does not satisfy me. It is incomplete. If Lady Louisa’s lover was murdered, why does his ghost not walk? I daresay I could find it.”

  He just glanced at the diary before darting off to Lady Merton. Charity decided he had certainly read it before. Now that he had discovered the story of Knagg, he would get to work on the singing nun, and make equally swift work of it. They would be gone by early next week—interrupting another romance before she could bring it to a successful conclusion. It was always the same, but this time she felt it more deeply, not only in her head, but in her heart. Her heart felt heavy to think of leaving Keefer Hall, and John. Surely he cared for her, at least a little. There must be something she could do.