Old Lover's Ghost

by Joan Smith

  She went to the window, vaguely wondering if there was any way she could prolong this visit. She noticed St. John coming along the path from the woods. Perhaps he had been visiting the hermit, old Ned. The two holy men probably met from time to time. Yet it was odd that St. John was behaving in a stealthy manner, peering about to see if anyone was watching, before darting to the stable for his rig.

  She soon forgot the minor incident. The diary she had to copy was not large; if she worked quickly, she would have it finished by dinner time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lady Merton took only a minimal interest in the history of Knagg and Walter.

  “How interesting, Mr. Wainwright. Yes, of course your daughter may copy the diary, but do tell her to be careful. I can see the paper is fragile.” She had barely glanced at the pertinent pages confirming Wainwright’s hypothesis about the relationship between the half brothers.

  She was busy having her material comforts removed to the Arras Room, a gloomy chamber hung with ancient Flemish tapestries, chosen for her by Merton because of its hermetical qualities. It had only one window and that was inaccessible by man. The lock on its door did not open with the big brass key that opened most of the other bedroom doors. Best of all, it was directly across the hall from Merton’s room. If any pranks were attempted, he would soon discover the perpetrator.

  “Very kind of you, milady,” Wainwright said. “I shall ask my daughter to set about making the copy at once.”

  Upon hearing this, Merton saw his hope of Charity’s company fly out the window. He made a thorough search of the Arras Room, going through every drawer and cupboard to ensure that Miss Monteith had not sneaked a drugged pigeon in while his back was turned, to awaken from its chemically induced sleep in the middle of the night and fly about the room. After the room was searched, he locked the door and put the only existing key in his own pocket. He would give it to his mama when she retired, and he would stand outside her door until he heard the key turn in the lock. Miss Monteith was to spend the night in her own room in the east wing.

  She bore this, as she bore all of Merton’s insults, with modest acquiescence, but with spite gleaming in her faded blue eyes.

  This done, Merton hobbled down to his study and spent the afternoon frowning over his account ledgers. He was still not entirely happy with that five thousand pounds leaving the family. At the very least, it ought to be used for some good cause that would bear his mama’s name. The Lady Merton Scholarship Fund had a fine ring to it, and was certainly useful. He would mention establishing such a fund to St. John.

  And perhaps he should just take a look at those papers he had signed when he was made treasurer of the St. Alban’s Trust Fund. If St. John alone was, in fact, allowed to sign a check of any denomination, it could be dangerous. Not that St. John himself would try anything—he was family after all—but the next incumbent might be less trustworthy. Merton searched through his documents but could not find a copy of the agreement. Demmed odd. He was sure St. John had given him a copy. No matter. He would have a look at St. John’s the next time he was at the vicarage. It was not urgent. St. John had a good many years in him yet.

  Charity took pains with her toilette for dinner. She felt her pomona-green gown was a trifle too décolleté for a simple country evening at home, but her shawl would modify its dashing style. She looked around for her paisley shawl but could not find it. Surely she had brought it back upstairs last night? She had not worn it today. If it was not downstairs, then a servant must have stolen it. This was always a troublesome situation. She disliked to report it, yet for the hostess to go on harboring a thieving servant was worse. She would wear her white shawl and just casually mention to Lady Merton that she had misplaced her paisley one. If it failed to turn up, Lady Merton would deal with it.

  Merton made the effort to be not only civil but ingratiating to his guests at dinner, to make up for the awful luncheon. He enthused over the little diary that confirmed Wainwright’s intuitions. Like Charity, he thought, but did not say, that the fellow had read the book before announcing that Knagg and Walter were half brothers.

  “Amazing!” he declared. “You have certainly acquired the knack for ghost hunting, Mr. Wainwright. I shall be sure to recommend you to anyone who is being troubled.”

  “You would know the Marquess of Bath, I fancy?” Wainwright asked eagerly.

  “Certainly I do. I daresay you have been to Longleat, to have a look at the Green Lady?”

  “That I have not, but I am highly desirous of going. You might mention my visit here when next you write to Lord Bath.”

  “We do not actually correspond. No doubt I shall meet him in the House come autumn. I shall be sure to mention your work here.”

  Wainwright frowned. “Perhaps a line before that time would not go amiss. I am at liberty next week, for no doubt the mystery of the singing nun will be cleared up by then. Tell him I shall be available late next week. Say Thursday, for I must write up an extract on our doings here at Keefer Hall while it is fresh in my mind.”

  “What about the mystery of my haunting?” Lady Merton asked.

  Wainwright just shook his head. He could not like to offend the lady by informing her once again that she had no ghost, only a lively imagination.

  The ladies retired to the Blue Saloon after dinner. Charity expected that Lady Merton would leave when the gentlemen arrived, but she sat on. Perhaps she did not look forward to retiring to the Arras Room, where gloomy scenes of battle, worked in thread, awaited her.

  “Would you care for a hand of whist, Mr. Wainwright?” she suggested. “We can set up one table and still leave Lewis to entertain your daughter.”

  “I would enjoy it very much,” he replied at once.

  Merton noticed that he was to provide one of the four bodies at the table. Miss Monteith and his mama would play, of course. They were both demons for cards. He shot one quick, questioning glance at Charity, who carefully concealed her disappointment behind a bland smile.

  “I do not feel like cards this evening, Mama,” Merton said. “This ankle ...”

  “Why, it will not hurt your ankle to sit at the card table. We shall get a footstool for it. Lewis, speak to Bagot.”

  Merton made one more attempt to escape. “Perhaps Lewis would like to play this evening.”

  Lewis soon disabused him of that idea. “I hate whist. Now if you would like to set up a faro table!”

  “Get the cards, dear, and speak to Bagot about the footstool for John,” Lady Merton said to her younger son.

  It seemed rude to continue arguing when Wainwright had expressed approval of a game. Merton wanted Wainwright’s good opinion for a certain scheme he was hatching.

  Miss Monteith oversaw the placement of chairs at the card table. “Move the table a little closer to the grate, Bagot. Her ladyship will want the heat at her back. I shall get her favorite pillow.”

  When the necessary arrangements had been made, Merton went to the card table while Lewis moved to the sofa to entertain Charity. When Lewis expressed an interest in his ancestor’s diary, Charity brought him her copy to read, to protect the fragile original. They were soon discussing it, their heads together over the pages, while Merton played a very inferior hand of whist.

  It was Lady Merton who discovered the ghostly apparition hovering at the window. She glanced up from her cards, wordlessly pointed to the window, and turned a ghastly shade of gray just before she fainted dead away. In the ensuing excitement Miss Monteith urged in vain for the gentlemen’s assistance in getting Lady Merton to a sofa. They had all darted to the window for a closer look at the ghost, even Merton, who did not wait to retrieve his walking stick but hopped on one foot, leaving Charity to run to her hostess’s aid.

  She could not resist one quick glance out the window, where she saw what had caused the lady’s swoon. A woman, wearing a light gown and cradling an infant in her arms, hovered a moment, then just disappeared in some magical manner.

  “Help
us! Oh, Lord Merton, do come and give me a hand with her ladyship!” Miss Monteith called.

  Merton turned impatiently toward the card table. He saw his mama was recovering. Charity and Miss Monteith were attending her. “Lewis, give the ladies a hand,” he said. “I am going after that .. . ghost. Toss me my walking stick.”

  “I shall go with you, milord,” Wainwright said at once. This was an activity much to his liking. He wished he had his satin-lined cape at hand but could not like to let Merton get a step ahead of him. They went out together, Merton hobbling at a good speed with the help of his thorn walking stick.

  Lewis said, “Mama is all right, is she not? Of course she is. Get the hartshorn, Miss Monteith, and a feather.” His duty done, he pelted off after the others.

  Miss Monteith produced a bottle of hartshorn from her pocket while Charity poured Lady Merton a glass of wine. “It was Meg! I know it was Meg,” Lady Merton moaned. “This is what comes of John making me leave my own room.”

  “I am sure he meant it for the best,” Miss Monteith said with a sharp look at Charity. Make what you can of that, miss! her look said.

  “Call Bagot. I must get to bed at once,” Lady Merton whispered.

  “Lord Merton has the key in his pocket,” Miss Monteith announced triumphantly.

  “My own room, Miss Monteith. I must lie down. I feel shaken to the bone. Miss Wainwright, you will make my excuses to your papa. I am sorry to leave you so much to your own devices, but really ...”

  “I quite understand, ma’am. I shall call Bagot.”

  Charity went into the hallway, where Bagot stood at the open door looking into the distance. “They have gone chasing the ghost,” he said. “I hope his lordship is careful of that ankle.”

  “Lady Merton needs you,” Charity told him, and darted out into the blackness.

  She met her father returning from the chase. “I could not keep up with those young bucks,” he confessed. “Even Merton, with his game ankle, got ahead of me. They have gone haring off, but they will not find anything. It is well nigh impossible to pick up the trace in the open air, and with a fairly stiff breeze blowing, too, to dissipate the ether. We shall go back indoors, Charity. How is poor Lady Merton?”

  “She has retired, Papa. She asked me to make her apologies.”

  “Not necessary. I understand. Let us go in. A glass of wine would not go amiss. I shall take it to the library, to jot down an account of this latest apparition.”

  “I—I shall just wait out here a moment, Papa, until the gentlemen return.”

  “Suit yourself, but do not stray from the house.”

  He left the front door open to give Charity a bit of light. She immediately ran off after Merton and Lewis. Within two minutes they appeared around the side of the house. She could hear their raised voices before she saw them.

  “Do be sensible, John,” Lewis said. “Of course it was not Charity.”

  Charity stopped and listened, wondering how she had become involved in the business.

  “She was wearing this shawl yesterday,” Merton said grimly. “She is helping Wainwright, for what purpose one can easily imagine. They want an invitation to Longleat. I have not the least doubt they both read that diary before Wainwright announced the relationship between Knagg and Walter.”

  Charity’s breast rose and fell angrily. So that was what he thought of her!

  “I think the ghost was Meg,” Lewis said firmly.

  “Don’t be an ass. It was no ghost. We heard the footfalls hitting the ground as we chased after her. If it were not for this demmed busted ankle I would have caught her. Whoever heard of a ghost carrying a lantern?”

  “I did not see any lantern,” Lewis objected.

  “What else could account for that shaft of light shining on the baby in the woman’s arms? And it suddenly disappeared, as soon as she spotted us at the window. It was a dark lantern. She lowered the door that cuts off the light.”

  Merton spotted Charity and limped toward her. “I believe this shawl is yours, ma’am?” he said, handing her her missing paisley shawl.

  “Yes, the one that was stolen from my bedroom,” she replied icily. “Where did you find it?”

  “The ghost dropped it. Perhaps you would oblige me by telling me how it came into the hands of the chit who was impersonating Meg this evening?”

  “I have not the slightest idea. It was missing from my room when I looked for it before dinner.”

  “When a guest has items stolen, it is the custom to report it to her hostess to obviate further trouble. Why did you not tell Mama?”

  “Because I did not want to upset her further in her delicate condition. I did mention I could not find it. She paid no heed.”

  “Well, it has been found now, under extremely suspicious circumstances.”

  “Circumstances that have nothing to do with me!”

  “Told you Miss Wainwright had nothing to do with it,” Lewis said.

  Merton studied her closely.

  “Merton! You cannot truly believe I am involved in this horrid business!” she said angrily.

  “Of course not,” he said curtly. His anger was at the theft, but he did not trouble to make this clear. “How is Mama?” he asked, to be done with the vexing matter.

  “She has recovered somewhat. Miss Monteith took her up to her room. Her old room, as you have the key to the Arras Room.”

  “By God! That is why Monteith arranged this ‘ghost.’ She wanted to get Mama back into her old room, to pull more stunts on her. I shall certainly move her to the Arras Room.”

  “But why did she take my shawl?” Charity asked. “Why is she trying to involve me?”

  “Pretty plain why,” Lewis said. “It is because Mr. Wainwright refuses to find a ghost in Mama’s room. Monteith don’t want an expert denying the existence of the ghost when she is at such pains to con Mama into thinking Meg is after her. She is trying to discredit you Wainwrights.”

  “That is possible,” Merton admitted. He was not too hard to convince that Charity was innocent.

  “That is the answer certainly,” Charity said. “Your mama is quite convinced it was Meg.”

  “I wonder who it was.” He turned to his brother. “Lewis, you did not arrange this caper with the Dawson chit?”

  “On my honor, I did not. But you are certain about that lantern?”

  “I am demmed certain it was not a ghost. What else could it have been?”

  “Well, if it was not a ghost, the girl ran into the woods,” Lewis said. “There is no hope of finding her. She was a blonde, definitely. I could see her hair flowing out when the mantle fell down. Where could she be running to? There is nothing in the woods but Old Ned’s grotto.”

  Charity felt a tingling along the back of her neck. “How old is Old Ned?” she asked.

  “Eh?” Lewis asked, frowning at this irrelevancy. “He is ancient. Why do you ask?”

  “He is not ancient. He is fiftyish,” Merton said with a speculative look at Charity. “And a spry fiftyish at that. I have seen him darting through the woods like a hare.”

  “His white hair is long,” Charity said. “It would look blond by moonlight. And he is a small man. In that flowing gown he would look like a woman.”

  Lewis gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Next you will be saying he has a kid sequestered in his shack.”

  “No one actually saw the baby,” Merton said. “What we saw was a person of indeterminate sex holding a blanket—or Charity’s shawl. Imagination did the rest. I believe I shall call on Old Ned.”

  “But why would he involve himself in this sort of carry-on?” Charity asked.

  “He is mixed up in it somehow,” Lewis said vaguely. “He was Meg’s fellow, remember, before Papa lured her away from him. P’raps he bears us a grudge.”

  “We shall soon know,” Merton said. “We are going to his grotto, Lewis, as soon as we have seen Charity safely into the house. I see Bagot has left the door wide open,” he added with an annoyed tsk
as they drew nearer.

  “That was my fault,” Charity said. “Papa left it open to give me a little light.”

  Merton suddenly realized that Charity had been out alone in the darkness and was diverted from the open door to a reminder that this was unwise of her.

  “I did not go far,” she assured him. “And with both you and Lewis for protection, I feel there would be no harm in my accompanying you to Old Ned’s house.”

  “Definitely not!” Merton said, and took her elbow to lead her to the open door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What can happen to Miss Wainwright when you and I are here to protect her?” Lewis demanded. “You are becoming as bad as Papa, John, never wanting anyone to do anything.”

  “What is there to be frightened of?” Charity said, adding her plea to Lewis’s.

  Merton was soon talked around, for he did not want to appear stuffy in front of her. It was frightening enough, walking through the black forest with only small fragments of sky visible between the towering oaks. Leaves whispered ominous secrets to the wind. Night creatures stirred, disturbed by the incursion of human beings into their private domain. Charity began by offering her arm to Merton to aid his halting walk but ended up clutching his sleeve for protection from the encroaching shadows.

  Lewis led the way. “Old Ned’s place is just around the bend,” he whispered. “I can hear the stream gurgling. We shall creep up on him.”

  A lighter-colored square set against the dark hillside told them they had reached Ned’s domain. It was in perfect darkness: not a window lit, not a puff of smoke from the chimney. They crept up quietly.

  “He is in bed,” Lewis said. “So much for his burning the midnight oil. I daresay you are right, Charity. He does drink more than he ought.”

  “Knock on the door,” Merton said. Lewis tapped lightly.

  “He’ll not hear that if he is sleeping,” Merton said, and banged loudly with his walking stick. When there was still no reply, he lifted the stick and unceremoniously broke a window. The crash of breaking glass shattered the eerie forest silence.