Old Lover's Ghost

by Joan Smith

  “Merton!” Charity exclaimed. “Surely that was not necessary.”

  “How else are we to get in? Lewis, kick out the rest of that glass and climb in the window. Open the front door for us.”

  “Seems a bit ... I mean to say ... Not quite the thing. A man’s house is his castle and all that.”

  “This was still my house, the last I heard.”

  Lewis picked up a rock to clear away the shards of glass before climbing in. They heard his uncertain call through the window. “Ned? I say, Ned. Are you home?” Next his head appeared through the gaping window frame. “He don’t seem to be home. I shall open the door.”

  Soon the door opened. “Let us find a lamp,” Merton said, and began feeling around the dark chamber.

  “Here, I’ve got one,” Lewis called from the other side of the room. “Now if I can find a tinderbox. Ah, here we are.”

  He worked the flint, lit the lamp, and a chamber of baroque splendor sprang to life before their eyes. The windows, which appeared to be hung in simple cotton from the outside, revealed brocade drapes within, their grandeur hidden from prying eyes by a cotton lining that faced out. Elegant furnishings were ranged around the room. A striped satin sofa was placed beneath the window, with a bottle of Merton’s best claret and a glass on the sofa table before it. An opened magazine lay beside the glass. There was a Persian carpet on the floor, lamps on the tabletops, paintings on the walls. The paintings teased Merton’s memory.

  “That Canaletto is from our gold guest suite!” he exclaimed.

  Lewis picked up a Wedgwood vase. “This used to be in my room. Mama told me the servants had broken it!”

  Merton limped across the room to the other chamber, drawing Charity by the arm with him. The bedchamber was also done up in the first style of elegance, with a canopied bed, more brocade curtains, a desk and toilet table, and all the appurtenances of a gentleman’s bedchamber.

  “He has got Papa’s silver brush set! Really, this is the outside of enough!” Lewis exclaimed. “I am taking these home with me.” So saying, he gathered up the two brushes and matching comb and shoved them into his pockets.

  “I fail to see how this could have been arranged without Mama’s contrivance,” Merton said. His eyes moved to the corner of the room, where a case of his best claret stood. There was an empty bottle on the bedside table. His lips tightened in an angry line. “Bagot has had a hand in this. Other than myself, he is the only one with a key to my wine cellar.”

  “If this is how a hermit lives, I shall take up the role myself,” Lewis said. “Not a sign of a hair shirt or a prie-dieu or a crucifix or any holy pictures. The fellow lives in the lap of luxury, having his meals sent down by Cook. I wonder who does his cleaning up.”

  “No one, from the looks of it,” Charity replied. Her sharp eyes had noticed the dusty surfaces and unswept carpet.

  Lewis picked up a tome that lay on the dresser. “And no holy books either, by Jove, not even a Bible. The old fraud. He is reading Shakespeare. Fancy Old Ned liking Shakespeare.”

  “I told you he quoted Shakespeare at us,” Charity reminded him.

  “The question is,” Merton said, “where the deuce is he, in the middle of the night?”

  Charity said, “If he was acting the role of Meg, then perhaps he has gone to report to whomever put him up to it. He is obviously not in this alone.”

  “Miss Monteith!” Lewis growled.

  Charity frowned. “Do you remember, when the card table was being set up, Miss Monteith arranged your mama’s chair? She said she would want the heat at her back, but it also gave her an excellent view of the window where the ghost appeared.”

  “Give her credit, Monteith is awake on all suits,” Lewis murmured.

  “And I remember something else, too,” Charity continued. “I noticed St. John coming out of the woods today after he left the Hall. Perhaps he is in on it, too, Merton.”

  Lewis said, “St. John does visit Ned from time to time. I don’t see that Monteith needed any help. She and Ned between them arranged it. What a set of fools we are. Ned and Monteith are getting their heads together, plotting more mischief, while we come scrambling here busting windows. He will come back sooner or later. We shall wait him out.”

  “I have seen enough. I shall deal with Old Ned tomorrow,” Merton said grimly.

  “Let us keep an eye peeled on our way home. We might very well run into him,” Lewis suggested.

  They extinguished the lamp and left. As a final act of defiance, Lewis took two bottles of the good claret. “He may count himself fortunate if he does not get one of these over the head.”

  It was impossible for three adults, one of them limping, another weighted down with brushes and bottles, to proceed with much silence. They did not intercept, nor could they discover any trace, of Ned lurking about the Hall. As soon as they were home, Merton went limping upstairs. When he returned below, he said, “I have seen Mama locked into the Arras Room. Monteith is wearing her usual shifty eye. As she has been sitting with Mama since the alleged ghost appeared, she cannot have been in touch with Old Ned yet.”

  “Then we shall stick around until he comes,” Lewis said. He set down the bottles of claret and began unloading the brushes from his pockets.

  “She will have to come downstairs to admit him,” Merton said.

  Charity added, “She may just speak to him from her bedchamber window. Someone ought to spy from outside.”

  “That is true,” Merton agreed. They both looked at Lewis.

  “I see I am to be stuck with the dirty work as usual,” he complained. He went to the table, drew the cork from one of the bottles of claret and said, “I am off. You won’t forget to let me know if he shows up at the front door, John? It will be demmed uncomfortable, squatting out in the bushes.”

  “Take a blanket,” Charity said.

  “No thank you, but I shall take this for a chair.” So saying, he stuck the opened wine bottle in his pocket and took up Merton’s footstool. Charity held the door for him, then returned to Merton.

  She said, “We can see the bottom of the staircase from the sofa in the corner. With all the lights out, Miss Monteith will not see us hiding.”

  “There is no need for you to miss your sleep,” he said politely, although he liked the notion of sitting in the dark with Charity for an hour or so.

  “I could not possibly sleep with all these mysterious goings-on. I shall just wrap myself up in this shawl—which I did not give to Ned—and make myself comfortable.”

  “You now have two sticks with which to beat me over the head. Once more, I apologize.” Merton drew the cork on the other bottle of claret and they were soon privately ensconced on the sofa. “Should we not put out the lamps?” Charity said.

  “The hall is still lit. Bagot has not locked up yet. Monteith will wait until everyone is asleep. Ah, there is Bagot now. I shall have a word with him. Bagot, if you have a moment, please.” Bagot hastened forward.

  “I have just returned from Old Ned’s castle, where I found a case of this,” Merton said, pointing to the wine bottle. “Only you and I have the key to the cellar, Bagot. I most assuredly did not give him the wine. Perhaps you can explain this mystery to me.”

  Bagot blinked in confusion. “Why, we have always supplied the hermit with the necessities of life, milord. Since your late papa’s time.”

  “I consider this excellent wine one of life’s luxuries, not necessities. Surely a hermit, devoted to a life of prayer and self-effacement, can do without a Canaletto painting, and the final straw—Papa’s dresser set. Really, this is going a good deal too far.”

  “His lordship’s orders were to give him whatever he asked for, within reason.”

  “It has gone beyond reason!” Bagot looked uncomfortable. “I did tell her ladyship you would miss the Canaletto—although you did not miss it for three years.”

  Merton ignored Charity’s little explosion of laughter. “Then Mama is aware of all the depredations Ned is
making on my estate?” he asked haughtily.

  “I would never undertake to supply him so lavishly on my own recognizance, milord!”

  “I see. Have you ever seen Ned lurking about the house, perhaps talking to someone?”

  “He never leaves the woods. The way we handle it, milord, young Jamie, the footboy, takes down the meals and brings Ned’s written orders to me.”

  “Orders! Who the devil does he think he is?”

  “I should have said requests. If the request is for something unusual, I discuss it with her ladyship. A good many books have been leaving the library over the years, for instance. Old Ned is a great reader. Mind you, he always sends the books back after a few weeks.”

  Charity listened eagerly. When Bagot had finished, she said, “Did he actually have the nerve to ask for the late Lord Merton’s dresser set?”

  “Ah, no, that was a gift from her ladyship. Old Ned did hint for a keepsake. I think, myself, it was his lordship’s watch he was after, but your lordship”—he bowed to Merton—”had already taken that.”

  “And a fine timepiece it is, too.” Merton grinned, drawing his papa’s old Grebuet watch from his pocket.

  “So the upshot is, Old Ned has been living high on the hog all these years at no expense, without doing a hand’s turn of work,” Charity said. “He made a better deal selling Meg than if he had married her. It hardly seems fair.”

  “It ain’t,” Merton agreed, “but in the future Old Ned’s perquisites will be limited to the same food and wine the servants drink. He may have what he requires for modest comfort. His days of living like a lord are over.”

  “You mean you are going to let him stay on!” Charity gasped.

  Merton blinked in astonishment. “It was Papa’s order. He made a bargain with Old Ned. He kept it, and naturally I, as his heir, shall do the same. Old Ned has always been with us, for as long as I can remember.”

  “Naturally. That explains it,” she said resignedly.

  “Was there anything else, milord?” Bagot asked.

  “Yes, I think Miss Wainwright would like some tea and perhaps a sandwich.”

  Bagot bowed and left.

  “Your mama is very generous, to treat Old Ned so lavishly,” Charity said. “It is her guilty conscience that accounts for it, of course.”

  “I should think so. And it is her easy capitulation to all of Old Ned’s extravagant requests that has given him the idea she is easy plucking. My only question is why Ned risked such a good thing. Perhaps he just became bored.”

  “I daresay Miss Monteith put him up to it. She was not on to such a good thing, was she? You mentioned she was only an upstairs maid before your mama took her on as her companion.”

  “That is true, but she is on to a much better thing now. What does she actually gain from all this ghost business? A firmer grip on Mama,” he said doubtfully. “Perhaps a little something in Mama’s will.”

  “Surely she is older than Lady Merton? Why should she live longer—unless ...” She gazed at Merton while he puzzled out her meaning.

  “Good God! Are you suggesting she is trying to get herself written into Mama’s will and will then make sure Mama dies before her?”

  “It is possible. And Lady Merton spoke to Penley only the other day. Merton, is it possible she changed her will?”

  Merton slowly set down his glass, strode from the room and up the staircase, and pounded on his mother’s door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Miss Monteith, is that you?” Lady Merton called through the door.

  “It is John. Let me in, Mama.”

  Lady Merton rose from her bed, where she had been seeking consolation in a perusal of the Psalms, and unlocked the door. “No white birds—so far,” she said, trying to smile, but her dark eyes were troubled and her face was pinched with fatigue or fear.

  Merton felt a stab of pity, followed by a burning anger against whoever was doing this to his mother. He spoke calmly as he led her back to her bed. “That is good news,” he said, tucking her in. Then he drew a chair up to her bedside. “Mama, I must know. Did you change your will the other day at Eastleigh?”

  “No, dear. I told you, I discussed giving St. John five thousand for his fund. My will does not come into it. You know Lewis gets my entire estate. If the five thousand has been taken out of the estate before I die, then he gets the remainder. Why do you ask?”

  “You must not leave Miss Monteith anything. Not a sou, not a hairpin.”

  Lady Merton smiled fondly. “What would be the point, dear? She is five years older than I. Barring any unforeseen ill luck on my part, I should outlive her.”

  It was that ill luck on her part that concerned him. “You will not change your will. Promise!”

  Lady Merton’s mind was not on murder. She did not leap to the conclusion that someone was trying to kill her, only that Merton feared she meant to give away his brother’s inheritance. “I promise.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Now for number two. About Old Ned, Mama. It is folly the way you pamper him.”

  “Old Ned prays for me. And you know it was your papa’s wish that I look after him.”

  “Shall I tell you how he repays your kindness? Yes, I think you deserve to know. It was Old Ned who was masquerading as Meg tonight outside the window, frightening the life out of you.”

  “Don’t be absurd! Ned never leaves the forest. And why would he do such a thing? He is very happy with his books and leisure to study and pray. Very likely rumors of our hauntings have reached the village and some youngsters were playing a prank on us. The ghost did not look much like Meg, now you mention it. When she comes to my window, she is a more ghostly form, rather loose and weaving, you know.”

  More like a stuffed dummy on a stick or rope, Merton interpreted, but he knew there was no point in saying so.

  “He does leave the forest,” Merton said. “He was not at home this evening when I... visited him after the so-called ghost disappeared into the woods. I believe it was Ned.”

  Lady Merton just smiled indulgently. “I know you do not believe in ghosts, John. If you had had my experiences, you would not be so certain.”

  “Your experiences or your guilty conscience, Mama?” he asked gently.

  “Both. Truth to tell, I do feel very guilty about—oh, so many things.”

  “You are referring to Meg specifically, I think.”

  “It is mostly Meg who bedevils my conscience, of course. That episode was so horrid a part of my life that I try to forget it, but lately it has all been coming back. You have no idea what it was like—a nightmare is nothing to it, and believe me I have had considerable experience of them as well. You know your papa and I were not getting along. I saw him kissing Meg—and she was so very pretty. One of those blond, dimpled lasses, you know. Even with a child on the way, she was still beautiful. I told him, It is Meg or me. Of course he had no choice but to turn her off. She was not due for two months, but with the commotion of my hysterics and her being turned out of the house, she delivered her child that very night—alone in a ditch. You might as well say I killed her and the child— your papa’s child, for that is what happened to them both.”

  “You are mistaken there, Mama. She was not alone. She only went to the dower house. The doctor was called. You must not blame yourself for all that.”

  “No, no, you have got it all wrong. There was a birth in the dower house around that time, but it was not Meg’s child. I told you cousin Algernon and his wife were there. That was not quite true; the lady was not his wife but another lady who had been widowed for a year. Her family sent her to Scotland to hide her shame, but she wanted to have her accouchement in England, and Algernon arranged with your papa to bring her here so that his wife would not find out. It was Algernon’s friend who had a child at the dower house. I never met the lady. Your papa felt it would not be proper for me to visit her. She gave the child up for adoption and returned to London. The child was St. John. Your papa arranged it al
l very discreetly. The St. Johns were a childless couple, getting on in years. Your papa was fond of the lad and paid for his education and so on. I have always kept an eye on him, which is why I asked you to give him the living here.”

  “You mean St. John is actually a blood relation? Why was I never told this?”

  “I try never to think or speak of that period of my life. And St. John, who knows, of course, is rather sensitive of his illegitimacy. He feels that for a minister it is better to have been a poor but legitimate orphan than a noble bastard. We set about the story that he was left on our doorstep in a basket.”

  Merton sat, deep in thought. “This occurred around the time you sent Meg off?”

  “A while later, dear. About two weeks later, I think. I had no idea, at the time, that Meg was dead. Your papa did not tell me; we never spoke of her again once she left. I eventually heard rumors from the servants, years later. I did not believe them. They always made a Cheltenham tragedy out of trifles. I scarcely listened to them—so selfish. I was enceinte myself with you by then, and your papa was happy. Then all these years later when the ghost began to appear, I decided I must take myself by the scruff of the neck and atone for my past sins. I asked Miss Monteith if it was true, about Meg and the child dying. She confirmed it—reluctantly. She does not blame me in the least, dear. You are quite mistaken to think she holds any grudge.”

  Merton listened to this with a doubting ear. Those ghostly apparitions did not suggest innocence on Monteith’s part.

  “I do not know what I should have done without her these few months,” his mama continued. “She and St. John have been my strength, John, for I do not like to trouble you with my problems. You have enough in your dish. Five thousand is a small price to pay for peace of mind. Not that money can buy forgiveness, but as St. John says, charity covers a multitude of sins. Perhaps the St. Alban’s fund will save the lives of a mother and a child, to atone for Meg and her infant. That is my little consolation.”

  “I daresay St. John will use the money wisely.”