Someone in the House (18 page)

“When I came here, twenty years ago, Miss Marion was already elderly. She was punctilious about her religious obligations, never missing a service, and she treated me with a respect and regard that was, I’m sure, due to my office rather than my personal gifts. I was a rather callow, pompous young man, as I recall.

“At any rate, the years passed, and Miss Marion stopped coming to church. I didn’t think too much of it; I assumed her infirmities prevented her from going out. Her elderly chauffeur had died, and she had few friends in the neighborhood—by her own choice, I might add. I was the only person she saw regularly, and when she no longer attended services, I tried to increase the frequency of my visits. But I didn’t go as often as I should have done. I usually telephoned before I called on her. That was a mistake, too, though I didn’t realize it; it gave her time to prepare a gracious welcome, tea ready in the drawing room, the silver polished till it shone. Oh, she did her best to keep me in ignorance, but I ought to have been more observant. A woman would have noticed that her clothing was shabby and out of fashion; a psychiatrist might have seen other signs. I did remonstrate with her, after the last of her servants left, about the inadvisability of living alone in such a big, empty house. She replied, with a toss of her head—she must have been a handsome girl, high-spirited, as they used to say—that she was quite capable of managing, and that the kindest thing anyone could do for her was to allow her to die as she had lived, in her own home. When she spoke of the ignominy of nursing homes and hospitals, her face showed the first sign of distress I had ever seen her display.”

Father Stephen’s pipe had gone out. He sat cradling it in his hands, his face drawn.

“I have never ceased to blame myself,” he said quietly. “If I had acted sooner, I might have been able to forestall what happened. But”—he gestured with his pipe—“I’m not going to wallow in self-contempt. Believe me, I’ve done enough of that already.

“I will never forget the day I learned the truth. It was a bleak winter afternoon; the temperature had been below freezing for weeks, and the snow lay icy on the ground. I had an errand in this neighborhood and decided I would stop and call on Miss Marion. I had not seen her for some time.

“When she opened the door she had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders—a gray wool shawl. I can still see it, with its carefully mended rents and tears. She didn’t appear pleased to see me, but she led me into the small parlor downstairs—the one that, I believe, Mr. and Mrs. Blacklock have converted into a breakfast room. By comparison to the bleak chill of the rest of the house, it was warm; in fact, the air was unbearably close. The cracks in the windows had been stuffed with rags. Blankets, piled neatly on a sofa, told me where Miss Marion had been sleeping. She was living in this room to conserve heat. A fire smoldered on the hearth. Beside it was a basketful of twigs and small branches—the gleanings of the woods. I had a vision of her hobbling along, stooping painfully to pick up fallen branches. I was sick at heart when I took the chair she offered me.

“But the worst was yet to come. She was troubled. She talked at random for a time, in a hurried and incoherent manner. My own distress was so great I hardly noticed hers. It was as if scales had fallen from my eyes; every object I saw in that room, including its mistress, was further evidence of poverty and discomfort.

“Finally she said suddenly, ‘There is something on my conscience, Father. I am trying to gain courage enough to tell you about it.’ I asked her if she wished to make a confession, but she shook her head vigorously. ‘I don’t want absolution, Father. In order to gain that, I would have to promise to refrain from sinning again, wouldn’t I? Well, I don’t intend to refrain.’

“Paradoxical as it may sound, this speech heartened me. Physically she was in remarkable condition for her age; and the grim humor that twisted her mouth when she spoke reassured me as to her mental state.

“How wrong I was! I did not know how wrong till she began her story. You can imagine my consternation when, in the coolest manner imaginable, she informed me that for ten years she had been sharing the house with a…she called it ‘my spirit friend.’ This companion was the consolation of her old age, affectionate, amusing, helpful. My blood ran cold as she described how they made music together, played card games, talked, told stories. The culmination came when she told me of the source of her guilt. In her need, was she keeping her companion from the heavenly bliss it surely deserved? Or might she consider it a guardian angel taken visible form, a kindness of God?

“I have not the faintest recollection of how I got out of the house. I came to my senses when I got into the car, and I sat there for a long time, unaware of the freezing cold, while I wrestled with my duty. Suffice it to say that the necessary arrangements took far too long. She was the last of her family; it was necessary to go through painful and prolonged legal struggles before I could be appointed guardian. The most terrible memories of my life are the final interviews I had with her, before and after she was admitted to the excellent nursing home I and the court-appointed lawyer selected. She…she cursed me. I had no idea she knew such words; though, I admit, most of them came from the Bible. The Old Testament, of course.”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his face. “She lived only a few weeks,” he said. “I felt a cowardly relief when they called to tell me she had died in her sleep.”

“You couldn’t have done anything else,” Bea said, reaching out to touch his hand.

“Oh, yes, he could,” said Roger. “Don’t get me wrong, Steve; I know you did more than most people would have done, and with the best of intentions. If she was so poor, who paid for the expensive nursing home? But now—our experience sheds a rather different light on Miss Marion’s delusions, doesn’t it?”

“It proves I was right,” Bea said triumphantly. “Another independent witness saw the ghost; none of us had heard of Miss Marion’s experience, so we can’t be accused of being affected by it. I’m convinced that the spirit is a kindly one—a sweet young girl, who died an untimely death.”

Father Stephen cleared his throat. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Did I never say?…Now that certainly is an example of my subconscious suppressing the facts. Miss Marion’s ‘companion’ was not female, Bea. It was a young—er—a handsome young man.”

8

ITHOUGHT BEAwas going to hit Roger with the cookie plate. “Ribald” is the only word for the tone of his laughter.

Once he had gotten his amusement out of his system, he apologized profusely. “It’s a very pathetic and tragic story,” he said. “Steve, stop flagellating yourself, you did the only thing you could have done—being the man you are—and you did it handsomely. And the old lady had many years of…” The corners of his mouth twitched violently, but he got himself under control and went on, “…of comfort. She was long overdue. Don’t you see that your story confirms my theory, not Bea’s? Kevin sees a pretty girl, Miss Marion saw a man.”

“Not necessarily.” Father Stephen’s face was still grave, but he seemed to have found relief in telling the story. “A house this old may have known many tragedies, Roger. We know so little; perhaps there is an atmosphere here peculiarly conducive to—”

He groped for words. Bea nodded. “I know what you mean, Father. There is an atmosphere of peace here. We have all felt it; that may be why we are able to live with what is happening instead of running away. Why shouldn’t some of the former inhabitants feel the same way?”

Father Stephen looked distressed. That was not how he would have expressed it. He might have expostulated against a viewpoint that was, to say the least, unorthodox, if Roger had not put it less tactfully.

“Honest to God, Bea, I don’t know how an otherwise intelligent woman can believe such junk.”

Bea flushed. The pastor’s presence restrained her from retorting as she would like to have done, so I did it for her.

“Junk yourself. There are several points that support Bea’s theory.”

“What?”

I counted them on my fingers. “One: Kevin’s companion is female, at least to him. Two: I saw the form of a girl with golden hair. Three: Bea and I both heard a woman’s voice. Four—and this is what I find most convincing—the portrait in Kevin’s room is that of a girl with golden hair. Wait a minute, I know the painting is late in date. That’s my point. What if it was painted by someone a century ago, who saw the same thing Kevin sees?”

The reaction was gratifying. Bea clapped her hands in applause; Father Stephen nodded thoughtfully; even Roger looked taken aback.

“Touché,” he said. “I hadn’t considered that. All the same—”

“Quiet.” Bea held up a warning hand. “Someone is coming.”

It was Kevin. “So there you are,” he said, after Bea had replied to his knock. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Didn’t know we had company.”

As always, my mind went through one of those sickening roller-coaster swoops of disbelief to see him behaving and looking so normal.

“I call this selfish,” he went on cheerfully. “Hiding up here, eating all the food. I bet it was Roger who finished the cookies. I’m starved.”

“There are more in the kitchen,” Bea said. “Why don’t you bring them up? I’ll make fresh tea.”

“Okay.” Kevin vanished, leaving the door open.

“It is hard to believe,” Roger murmured, staring after him. “He looks so…”

“So did Miss Marion,” Father Stephen said. “Unlike her, he seems to have no conscious memory of what he has experienced.”

“Maybe it was like that for her when it began,” I said, shivering.

“I’m going to tell him,” Bea said abruptly.

“Are you crazy?” Roger shouted. She stilled him with an imperious gesture.

“Not about his—er—dreams, that would be bad, I agree. I’ll put it tactfully, don’t worry; but I feel we ought to find out whether he has had any conscious experiences. It might be useful.”

There was no time to argue the point, if anyone had wanted to—and from Roger’s mutinous expression I gathered he did want to. Bea’s mouth was set just as stubbornly as his. There was an iron core under her seeming softness, as I had already observed.

Kevin was back in a few minutes. “We ought to do this more often,” he said, putting the plate of cookies on the table. “Roger, you look sort of peculiar. Did I interrupt something? What were you talking about?”

“Ghosts,” said Bea.

Roger choked on the cookie he had bitten into. I thought that if this was Bea’s idea of tact…But Kevin only looked amused and interested.

“In general or in particular?” he asked.

“I was speculating,” said Bea, “as to whether this house might be haunted.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Kevin said lightly. “What would a place like this be without a ghost? You haven’t seen anything, have you, Aunt Bea?”

There was not an actor alive, on stage, screen, or television, who could have asked that question as guilelessly. By contrast, Bea’s response was obviously false.

“I wondered,” she said. “Once or twice—but I assumed I was dreaming. It happened just as I was dropping off to sleep.”

“What did you see?” Kevin asked.

“Not see. I thought I heard a voice—a girl’s voice.”

“Really? That’s fascinating.” Kevin put his cup on the table and beamed at his aunt. “It must be Ethelfleda.”

II

I tripped twice on the narrow cellar stairs. If Roger hadn’t been holding my elbow I would have fallen.

Kevin was taking us to see Ethelfleda’s tombstone. If that statement doesn’t excuse my uncoordinated condition, I don’t know what would.

Kevin had explained that Ethelfleda was the woman in the portrait in his room. When Roger asked how he knew the lady’s identity, he said simply, “Her name is written on the canvas.” Roger’s chagrin was almost funny. None of us had noticed, or thought of looking for, an inscription. Kevin went on to explain that he had become curious about the woman after noting the discrepancy between her costume and the date when the picture must have been painted.

“The name made it probable that she was a real person, not just some imaginary medieval damsel. So I figured she might be one of the former inhabitants. I started to look through the records.”

“You never said anything about it,” I stuttered.

“To you?” Kevin shrugged. “I was already feeling guilty about abandoning the book; should I admit I was wasting time on idle antiquarian research? But I have a minor in medieval history; the period has always interested me. So after a while it occurred to me that one of those tombstones in the crypt might be hers. I looked—and there it was. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He was right. There it was.

Stiff and elegant in her high headdress and graceful robes, she lay with hands folded at her breast. The face was an idealized version of youthful beauty, without individuality. It glowed softly golden in the light, as did the whole figure; the tablet was not stone but metal, an ornamental brass beautifully engraved. The plate was about four feet long and two feet wide, set into a low rim of stone. At first I couldn’t imagine how I had missed seeing it on our first trip to the cellar. Then I realized we had not visited this room; it must adjoin the other chamber where I had first noticed that the paving stones were inscribed. Long ago the two rooms must have been one. The rounded arches, supported by stubby columns, to the left of the door, might have run down the center of the original room. The spaces between the columns had been filled in with brick and mortar. Bea dropped to her knees, cooing with delight.