Old Lover's Ghost (17 page)

“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 all 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.”

“He is a wonderful man. Such a consolation to me. If there is nothing else, dear, I think I can sleep now. Talking about it helps.”

“I shall lock the door when I leave.”

She gave him an indulgent smile, as if humoring a lunatic, but she listened closely to hear the door lock behind him. When he returned below, Merton was disappointed to see Wainwright sitting with his daughter.

“I have been telling Papa all about the strange goings-on here, Merton,” she said. “I hope you do not mind? Papa is the soul of discretion. What had Lady Merton to say?”

“She has not changed her will and has promised not to do so,” he said.

Wainwright sipped his excellent claret and prepared to pontificate on the matter. “This is not my field of expertise,” he admitted. That never stopped him from delivering an opinion, however, and he continued, “But I feel obliquely involved as your pranksters are employing sham ghosts. Such things give ghosts a bad name.”

“Just so,” Merton agreed politely.

“Tell him what you said, Papa,” Charity urged.

“Not that it is my concern—nor yours either, young lady. I do not approve of your capering about dark forests at night visiting hermits. However, as Lord Merton wants my opinion, it is as follows.

“Number one, you have this hermit fellow with the world at his fingertips. Why should he rock the boat? The Monteith woman has got herself a pretty soft berth as well. The only one who stands to get any money out of the scheme is St. John. I refer, of course, to the money in the St. Alban’s fund. A scheme of this sort is bound to have money at the root. What do you know of him? He would not be the first scoundrel to hide behind the cloth.”

“He is my cousin,” Merton said, and explained with a blush his cousin Algernon’s part in the matter.

Wainwright did him the courtesy of listening without interruption. The excellence of the claret made it an agreeable pastime. When Merton had finished, Wainwright resumed the center of the stage, his favorite spot.

“So what you have is two births at about the same time. Lady Merton heard nothing of Meg or her infant dying at the time. Who is to say they did die?”

“There is a grave in the graveyard bearing the proper names and date,” Merton pointed out.

“Ah, just so. The grave. But there seems to be some suspicion that the grave does not contain the body of the child. Perhaps the child did not die. What I am getting at is that your late papa came up with this ruse of his cousin’s lady friend at the dower house to keep from his good wife that he had Meg installed there. He wanted a son—if he could not have a legitimate one—well, he could have t’other sort at least. Better than nothing. You mentioned a two-week lapse between Meg’s departure from Keefer Hall and your cousin’s arrival at the dower house with the enceinte lady in tow. It is possible Meg was kept there during that time awaiting the birth. When Meg delivered and died, your papa set about the story that the baby had died as well—both of them buried together. He had these St. Johns adopt his son. St. John, the vicar, discovered it somehow and decided to cut himself in on the family fortune.”

Merton disliked to admit that the man could be right, but as he thought over that dim and murky past, he thought it was possible. There was that strange rumor about Meg being alone in her grave.

“How could St. John have discovered all this?” he asked. “Mama says he believes he is cousin Algernon’s by-blow.”

“Who else but Meg’s sister could have told him?” Wainwright asked. “You may be sure she knows the ins and outs of it. I would not be surprised if she was sent to the dower house to keep her sister company during her confinement. Mind you, she is not likely to admit it.”

“Bagot would know,” Merton said, and went into the hallway to speak to the butler.

He wore an eager look when he returned. “You were quite right, Mr. Wainwright. Miss Monteith did accompany her sister. Bagot says Algernon and his lady friend were at the dower house at the same time that Meg was there. Miss Monteith assisted at the lady’s confinement. An even stranger twist has been added to the story. The midwife set about the tale that the lady had been wearing a mask during her confinement. The midwife never got a look at her face. It was supposed at the time that this was to conceal the lady’s identify, but it is hardly likely the midwife would have recognized some dashing London lady.”

“Aha!” Wainwright exclaimed. “But she would have recognized Meg Monteith fast enough.”

Charity sat, struck momentarily silent by the bizarre and gruesome image of a masked woman giving birth. “But did Bagot say the masked woman died during childbirth?” she asked.

“No,” Merton said. “It was described as a very difficult labor. Perhaps Meg died after the midwife had left.”

“So that is how it was worked,” Wainwright said with a sapient look. “Meg’s child was not born the night your mama put her out. She went to the dower house and stayed until her time was due. Your papa hired Algernon and his lady friend for his little charade. That would give him an unexceptionable excuse to visit Meg. It was a pretext to fool Lady Merton. Algernon’s widowed lady was not enceinte at all. Meg died after the midwife left, but the much-wanted boy child survived and was kept under wraps at the dower house, posing as Algernon’s by-blow. Your papa next arranged with a compliant undertaker to say there was a babe in the coffin with this Meg, and the thing was done. The servants would not be slow to come up with this lurid tale about Meg dying in the ditch. They like a touch of melodrama. Someone involved was indiscreet and let out that there was no child buried with Meg. We shall never discover at this late date who did so, but there would have been a few servants involved in the charade.”

“That is a very interesting hypothesis, Mr. Wainwright. I shall sleep on it,” Merton said with a new air of respect in his manner.

“It is time for us to hit the feather tick as well, Charity. I shall just run along to the Armaments Room to see that all is quiet there. I will not be long.”

Merton welcomed the moment alone with Charity. “Your papa has a wise head on his shoulders, when he puts it to some better use than looking for ghosts.”

“Do you think he might be right?”

“There is one way to find out.”

“You mean to confront Miss Monteith?”

“No, I mean to dig up Meg’s coffin and see just who—or what—besides herself is buried in it.”

“That will require permission from the authorities, will it not?”

“Indeed it will. I mean to make the thing entirely public. Unfortunately, it is too late to question cousin Algernon; he is dead, and Mama does not have the lady’s name. I daresay she was a London actress. Algernon would have been familiar with the profession.”

Charity drew a frowning sigh. “Your poor mama. It must have been horrid to be married to Lord Merton.”

Merton gave her a worried glance. “All that was long ago. We have improved since those days. But the ghosts come back to haunt us.”

“It is a good thing you have Papa here to handle them for you. We shall make a believer of you yet, Merton.”

“It is your father’s common sense that impresses me more. He wove the strands of the story together with commendable promptness and ingenuity. He might even be right.”