Joan Smith Page 17

  It was time to grill Dr. Hill. “Yes, to visit an exhibition of new farm equipment. Blaxhall he is going to. I have never been there. I hear it is not spectacularly beautiful. But then I am spoiled, being from Kent. Have you been to Kent, Dr. Hill?”

  “I certainly have. I admire it. It is justly called the Garden of England. A delightful spot.”

  “How does it compare with Suffolk? Or have you been there at all?”

  “My wife was from Suffolk,” he admitted readily. “She was a Fowler. I have often visited her folks. I still go once a year. Her parents are dead, but her sister and brother are alive. You know the Fowlers, Lady Sinclair. You met them once at my place, if memory serves.”

  “Yes, Elizabeth sets a beautiful stitch. She promised me a pattern for a cushion cover, but never sent it. Hit her up for it next time you visit her, Walter. My eyes are beyond stitching, but Miss Brendan in the village could do it for me.”

  “Do you happen to know the Sedgelys at all?” Welland asked, his face never lifting up from his plate to indicate any particular interest.

  “I was well acquainted with Alice, Sir Edward’s first wife. I do not visit the family, but I know them, due to my own wife’s connection with them.” This readiness to trot out the kinship was disappointing. It would have been more interesting had he denied it, but he could hardly do so with Auntie at his elbow. The elders went on for a disconcertingly long time discussing past events and memories that meant nothing to the rest of us.

  When she tired of this topic, Aunt Loo said, “We must have another séance one of these evenings.”

  “The Franconis are going away on a holiday, are they not?” Hill asked.

  “They did not say a word to me!” Loo objected.

  “I heard nothing of it either,” Welland added.

  “They mentioned it when I drove them home the other evening,” Hill went on. “They do not usually stay long in one place. Outside of us and Lady Morgan, I don’t believe they get much business here. I fancy they are scouting out new headquarters.”

  “That is a great pity,” Welland said sadly. “Madame is so very talented. She never did expand on that curious statement about justice for the lady, did she, Lady Sinclair?”

  “Indeed she did. That is all taken care of,” Loo said quickly, then she looked up with a conscious start and began praising the strawberries. “Such a treat. We had a lovely crop, but forgot to cover them, and the birds ate them all up.”

  “I expect we have overrated Madame’s talents,” Dr. Hill said, setting down his dessert spoon. “I for one am not particularly sorry to see them go. One can become obsessed with this spiritualism business. I find myself peeping behind doors and under tables for ghosts. When medical men reach such a state, it is time to leave off playing with the spirit world.”

  “I would like to have one last séance,” Welland persisted. “Madame felt my mother was on the very verge of contacting me, through Anastasia, you know. I would be very interested to hear what she might have to say.”

  “Stick with your literary ghosts, Mr. Sinclair,” Hill advised. “I was wondering if you had included the recent literary spirits in your treatise. Otranto, for instance ...”

  “Yes, I included Walpole’s novel. What I mean to do next is a tract on the ghostly legends of England. The Green Lady’s Walk at Longleat, Beaulieu positively haunted to death, the ringing bells and the dark monk of Burford Priory, our own armless ghost at Tanglewood, the knight who lost his limbs in battle. The spirits that return are generally those who died a violent death, who have revenge, a demand for justice weighing on their minds. Murder victims, blighted lovers, that sort of thing. Do you have any such ghosts at Troy Fenners, Lady Sinclair?”

  “Edward was used to speak of a ghost in the oubliette, but it turned out to be a cat. It got locked down there somehow and lived on mice and drank from the puddles of water. It went quite mad. He had a ghost hunter in once, a fellow named Gerard. He thought there was a presence in the feather room, but nothing came of it. You were there that weekend, Walter. You remember Gerard?”

  “The fellow was a jackanapes,” was Hill’s opinion.

  “Has anyone in the place’s history met a violent end?” Welland continued.

  “Edward’s great grandfather fell off a gargoyle when he was trying to do a sketch of it close up,” was the best she could come up with.

  “Alice Sedgely—she met a sudden and tragic end. It is possible she might return,” Welland suggested, looking around the table.

  “Oh, no, that is impossible!” Loo said at once.

  “I would not encourage Lady Sinclair to dwell on such a disturbing possibility,” Hill said, drawing his shaggy brows together in disapproval. “A highly imaginative woman, spending a great deal of time alone—the worst thing for her.”

  Welland heard him out, then turned to Loo. “Why is it impossible, ma’am?”

  She blinked her eyes, but before she could reply, Hill intervened. “Because she drowned at sea. She did not die at Troy Fenners. Now we must have a toast to Miss Ford for that jump she made this morning. I wish I had been here to see it. You did not use Nancy after all, your aunt tells me,” he said, speaking in a large voice. He continued talking to include Welland in the toast, then went on to give a history of Nancy’s first jump.

  As the subject was allowed to be changed, I judged Welland had heard what he wished to hear. As he drew out my chair at the meal’s end, however, he said in a low voice, that I should “see if I could find out anything from Loo” while we waited for the gentlemen in the saloon.

  When I made an effort to do so, I came up against a wall of vagueness. “Why should I be afraid of Alice Sedgely’s ghost? I never did her any harm.”

  Similar comments were made, quite a few of them, but my aunt’s heart was not in it. She had her Tenebrous Shadows look in her eyes. I feared to hear what new challenge I must face, but it turned out to be a matter that did not require my large size. She was dickering with the notion of introducing a ghost into her novel.

  As we drove home a few hours later, I with Aunt Loo and Hill, for Welland and Pierre wished to have a chat, I could not but wonder why that dinner party had been arranged. It had not accomplished much. The only new element introduced was the idea of ghosts. Was Welland hinting there had been a murder at Troy Fenners, with his talk of violent ends and revenge? He had mentioned Alice Sedgely Sinclair in that context, but she had died on the Princess Frederica, hadn’t she?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sleep was difficult for me that night. I don’t really know why, because I had had a very tiring day, jumping Diablo over the tollbooth, fighting with Welland, and attending a dinner party in the evening. I was by no means despondent that my theft of Miss Milne’s fiancé was going so poorly. I still had six days left to steal him away from her. The idea was already in his head, and the morality of it occurred only to be dismissed. Every sport has its rules. A good hunter does not kill a fox in covert, a good bruiser does not kick his opponent when he is down, and a good husband-hunter catches her own husband.

  To sit at home and have a match “arranged” by an outsider is not playing fair. Prizes won in such a fashion are still fair game in my opinion. I would never go after a man won fair and square by some enterprising female. “Fair” is the idea I wish to present, in case three repetitions slipped by unnoticed. It is the sportsman’s code, which I have adopted for my own. A marriage of convenience is not a real marriage at all. Had Welland loved her, perhaps that would make a difference, but if he loved her, he would not be capable of being stolen away. With Pierre around to incite him to jealousy, the thing was by no means hopeless.

  With this settled, I turned to ponder what my two suitors had been up to that day. They had set out for Southampton, to check up on Hill and the sanatorium obviously. Hill had known Alice Sedgely, and we had deduced, or at least decided, that Alice was the mysterious lady whose case demanded justice. It is difficult to do justice to a corpse, and Alice was de
ad. Who, then, was at the sanatorium? Alice had no children. A legitimate one would have been announced in the normal way, and if Arundel had pulled such a stunt on her, there would be no “justice” at question. Alice would be the deceiver. Again then, who was still alive to require justice, and Auntie’s money?

  After a futile hour of this puzzling, I was wishing I had taken a draft of laudanum, like Loo. Hill thought it a good idea, lest she be bothered by thoughts of ghosts, after Sinclair’s foolish talk. As my eyelids became heavy at last, I decided I had been correct all along, and it was the Franconis who had been relieving Auntie of her fortune. I was glad they were leaving. Was not it odd they had told no one but Dr. Hill of their departure? I wondered if he had not hinted them away because Loo was becoming too much taken up with ghosts. He had a protective way in his dealings with her. Was it possible his trips to Southampton! were directed to the same end? Who could he be keeping there, not wanting her to know about it?

  This intriguing idea had the unwished-for effect of rousing me from any thought of sleep. Doctors tended births and deaths and accidents and illness. Had he delivered a child? Alice had none, but if Edward had sired an illegitimate child on some female and never acknowledged it...

  Yes, this was more like it! My aunt had spoken angrily of his “stunt,” said if he were alive she would kill him, or something of the sort. Either the child or mother might be at that sanatorium, and that could be the lady for whom the Franconis demanded justice. Some justice was due, but with an income of ten thousand a year, it ought not to have bankrupted her. A couple of hundred annually was the usual maintenance fee. More than one child, then? The Duke of York with his dozen or so illegitimate offspring popped into my mind. How was it possible Edward could have populated a whole orphanage, and my aunt not know of it before now? He had been dead for a decade. Loo had spoken of debts he left when he died.

  Or was it a death and not a birth the good doctor was involved in? Some violent death, perhaps even murder, that Hill had covered up for his good friend, Sir Edward? The body buried in the oubliette, the bones removed—she had mentioned that! If someone had discovered the fact, Hill would be wide open to blackmail, and as it was Sir Edward who was responsible, he must turn to Loo for the money. He hadn’t any to spare. So who had Edward killed, a man, or a woman? An irate husband probably. The Sinclairs were philanderers, and the woman requiring justice was the widow. For what earthly reason would she have waited so long to demand her justice?

  It is impossible to solve anything in bed at night. By yourself, I mean, for I fancy many a marriage squabble has been settled there very satisfactorily. I would ask Welland point-blank tomorrow what he was looking for at the sanatorium, and insist he accept my help in the affair. It was my mystery too. She was my aunt. I counted one hundred and eighty-seven fat-bellied sheep jumping over a fence, but they were no more than sheep that passed in the night. I could not sleep.

  Another hour, perhaps as much two, passed before I dozed off, only to be awakened by an ear-splitting scream. It came from the direction of Loo’s chamber. Without waiting to don a dressing gown, slippers, pick up a candle, or do anything but throw back the covers, I went careening down the hallway.

  It was pitch black, with only a rectangle of paler darkness where an open curtained window at the far end of the hall threw the window’s shape on the floor. It was enough to allow me to pick out my aunt’s doorway. It had crystal knobs, that emitted a sliver of light. Throwing open her door, I was greeted by the horrible vision of my aunt sitting bolt upright under the canopy of her four-poster with her hair done up in papers, her eyes popping in terror, her chins sagging, and her mouth hanging open. She had lit a single taper, which she held so close to her chin I was afraid she would cook her own flesh with it. The shadows lent her face the appearance of a gargoyle. She was gibbering, clutching at the counterpane.

  “What’s the matter? What is it?” I demanded, looking to the far corners of the room for signs of an attacker.

  She relaxed a little to see me. She began flapping the ends of the counterpane against her chest as she babbled quite incoherently. “Nightmare. I had the most wretched dream,” she gasped.

  “Is that all? You frightened the wits out of me. Let us have more lights.” I lit two lamps. She was too overwrought to hold the tinderbox. The room sprang into its usual state of ugliness, the old Chinese wallpaper dim and fading, the cluttered dressing table holding some remnants of her evening’s toilet. She needed a Pinny herself. “What was your nightmare about?” I asked.

  “Alice. I dreamed she walked right into my room and demanded ...”

  I kept silent, hoping she would meander over the edge of revelation, but she only began fanning herself with the tip of the counterpane. “Yes, demanding what?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Demanding Edward back,” she said, laughing in giddy consternation.

  “An odd dream. She must have him back now.”

  “Yes, it was very odd. I am all right now, Valerie. Sorry I disturbed you. It is the laudanum. It puts you to sleep quickly, but gives dreadful dreams, and you don’t sleep through the night either, unless you take a great dose that leaves you weak the next day. I shan’t take it again. Walter tries to be helpful, but I shan’t accept any more laudanum.”

  “Does he urge it on you?” I asked, frowning, for at home Mama is a stern foe of the stuff.

  “Not urge, exactly, he only suggests it. Would you mind closing the curtains, my dear. I was so groggy I forgot to have it done before I went to bed. My woman don’t know enough to hang up a gown unless I tell her. How is Pinny working out?”

  “She’s a wizard,” I said, as I went to pull the curtains together, just glancing to the lawn below, where the pale moonlight etched the tops of elms and oaks against the gray sky. Vision was not at all good, but good enough to pick up the outlines of a man darting like a hare down the slope toward the gatehouse.

  “Are you sure there was no one here?” I asked in alarm.

  “It was only a dream. So foolish, Alice crawling out of the cubbyhole where the secret passage opens.”

  I looked to the cubbyhole door, to see it standing ajar. A shiver started at my heels and inched its way up my legs to my spine, increasing in intensity as it climbed, till I felt my hair might stand on end by the time it wiggled up my neck. She noticed where I looked, saw the fear on my face.

  “Good gracious, how did that get open?”

  “Was it closed when you went to bed?”

  “It is always closed. No one wants to look at an ugly black hole. You don’t think ...”

  I went to the door, bent down, and opened it wide to look inside. There was only the darkness. I was not in a mood to investigate further alone. “I’m going to rouse Pierre to help me look,” I said.

  His room had wisely been put at the far end of the hallway from my own. I picked up my aunt’s peignoir, a lamp, and hastened to his room. A sharp rap did not rouse him. I opened the door and started in, only to see his counterpane had not been disturbed. He was nowhere about.

  I could not like to disturb Loo more than she already was. “He’s sleeping so soundly I cannot waken him,” I told her. “Would you mind if I slept with you tonight? I’m frightened to go to my own room alone.” My real fear was to leave her unguarded.

  “A good idea. I’ll sleep better knowing you are here.”

  I extinguished the lights, removed her peignoir, and climbed in beside her. After a few weary sighs, she settled down. Just as she was about to doze off she said, “Imagine Alice creeping out at me from the secret passage, and then the door being open.” On that disturbing statement she settled into a good snooze, leaving me with saucer eyes to contemplate this matter.

  On the edge of awakening, she had heard the door open, and her dream had adjusted to take the matter into account. Just so had I dreamed I was jumping into the lake when Elleri poured a glass of cold water on me one day, when I had dozed off in her room. Someone had come creeping
through the passage, planning to enter this chamber, and been frightened off by her screams. Was it her jewelry, or her life the scoundrel was after? I must urge her to either hammer up the secret passage, or change her room. The former, in fact. The jewels would be all the more vulnerable without her sleeping here, and they were not all paste. The tiara and some of the others were genuine.

  As sleep was out of the question, I lay there wondering who had been at the cubbyhole door. Hill had prescribed laudanum for her, which was suspicious, but then he often did that. Welland knew the passage opened here, possibly Pierre knew it as well, though I had not told him so.

  Was it Pierre I had seen darting across the lawn to the gatehouse? The form had not moved with his customary sloth, was not low set like a badger. The shadow had moved with more speed and agility, more like Welland Sinclair is what I mean. The two of them? They had been together, and Pierre was not in his room. Before many more minutes I heard a creaking along the hall—Pierre going to his room. I thought he had been with Welland in the passage, gone downstairs with him, then waited till silence reigned above, before he came up, while Welland ran home.

  What could they have been doing? Was it possible Alice had been not a nightmare, but a calico sheet danced across the room? I would investigate the passage in the morning for any signs they may have left behind in their haste.

  Despite my poor night’s sleep, I was awake early in the morning. I have an internal bell in my head that awakens me whenever I wish. I set it for seven-thirty that I might get into the secret passageway before Pierre or Welland went to check for any telltale clues left behind. Pinny was completely mystified by my absence from my own bed. She stood in the room staring at an empty bed when I entered. I told her I had slept with my aunt, since she was having bad dreams.

  “I thought I heard something in the night myself, miss, and was afraid her ladyship had got the doctor to give her another black drop. She howled like a banshee for two days straight when she took that, with Dr. Hill sitting by her side the whole time, feeling guilty he’d let her talk him into it. He wouldn’t want another scandal on his hands.”