The Ghost of Christmas Past (4 page)

“Are
you alright, Miss?”

“Yes,
I'm just a little … isn't it strange, how normal his description seems? He
could be anyone, couldn't he?”

“Yes,
that's true. Be on your guard, Miss Dearheart. Mad men can seem very sane when
they want to be.”

Chapter
Three

Elizabeth
knew that she should tell Constable Hounds about Liam Doubleday. He was a
stranger to Midchester, and it seemed to her that it was quite possible that
Doctor Wheston was not really a friend, but had treated Liam in a medical
capacity. But if that were the case, and Liam was the escaped man, why was
Doctor Wheston introducing him as a colleague? Unless Wheston was afraid of
something. Surely if Liam was on the run from the madhouse, he would not risk
being seen in public.

She
thought again about the moment the two men had met near the pond. What had Liam
said? Something about ‘I bet you’re surprised to see your old friend, Liam
Doubleday’. Something about that greeting niggled her, but she could not put
her finger on it.

Silently
chastising herself for being nearly as obsessed with crime as Miss Graves and
Mrs. Chatterbucks, she said good day to Constable Hounds and returned home. On
the way she met Mr. Hardacre. He strode through the village, looking every inch
the local squire, and drawing admiring glances from the ladies who were out
doing their Christmas shopping.

“Good
day, Miss Dearheart.” He raised his hat.

“Good
day, Mr. Hardacre. How is Miss Hardacre this morning?”

“She
is well, and will soon be able to leave the house. In fact she is thinking of
taking a walk this afternoon if the weather picks up. She does love the snow.”

“If
it is not an imposition, perhaps I could join her,” said Elizabeth. “I have
missed her company these past couple of days.”

“I am
sure she will be delighted. I may even come with you both.”

“That
would be delightful. And perhaps as well, with a madman on the loose.”

“What
is that you say about a madman?”

Elizabeth
explained what Constable Hounds had told her about Albert Sanderson. “Perhaps I
am not supposed to say,” she said, “as he has not made it common knowledge yet.
But I am sure I can trust you with the information.”

“Well,
I hope they catch this madman soon. It is a sad day in England when a man out
walking can be struck down and left in such dire circumstances,” said Hardacre.
“Perhaps I should walk you home, Miss Dearheart.”

Elizabeth
laughed. “Thank you, but I hardly think anything will befall me at this time of
day.” She forgot that Mr. Sanderson had died on Sunday morning.

“Still,
we must all take care of Midchester’s favourite daughter.” He bowed as he said
it, whilst Elizabeth’s already rosy cheeks burned a little redder.

She
composed herself and walked away saying, “I shall be perfectly all right, Mr.
Hardacre. Please, tell your dear sister I will call on her after luncheon.” It
seemed odd to her, but a week before she might have been thrilled by the offer
of Mr. Hardacre walking her home. Now she was surprised with how little she
cared.

Elizabeth
returned home and ate lunch with her father and brother, then once again set
out. Her brother, Samuel walked part of the way with her. “I’m going to look
for clues,” he said. She had not had chance to tell her father about Albert
Sanderson, as she did not want to speak in front of Samuel. It would not do for
to frighten a child with such details.

“Dearest,
I wish you would not. Leave it to Constable Hounds to deal with. You may get
into difficulties.”

“Oh I
shall be alright, Lizzie,” Samuel said, airily. “I’m going to call on Johnny Fletcher
and ask if he’ll go with me.”

Thinking
there was safety in numbers, Elizabeth agreed. Johnny Fletcher was the eleven
year old son of the local magistrate. As the only boy in Midchester near to
Samuel’s age, Johnny and Samuel spent a lot of time playing together. This
would be an adventure for them, and tire Samuel out nicely for bedtime. She
doubted the boys would find anything very important. The falling snow would
have destroyed much of the evidence, including any footprints.

“Just
be careful near to the pond, Samuel,” she warned him. “It looks frozen solid,
but the ice can easily crack.”

“Yes,
alright,” said Samuel in sing song tones. “I’m going to call for Johnny first
anyway so we shall be together.”

She
waved to her brother and continued towards the manor house that Mr. Hardacre
and his sister rented. It was on the other side of the copse. It could be
reached by the main Midchester Road, but it was much easier to go around the
edge of the pond, which cut off an entire corner of the woods and an adjacent
field.

She
was about one hundred yards from the pond when Liam Doubleday approached her at
great speed.

“Did
you see her?” he asked, his eyes wild. “Did you see her?”

“See
who?” asked Elizabeth. She looked towards the pond and the surrounding area,
and saw nothing but snow and ice.

“She
was here. I saw her.” He gripped Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Tell me you saw her
too.”

“No,
I saw no one. Only you.” And that scared Elizabeth, because he was quite
clearly in a deranged state but there was no one to help her if he turned
murderous.

Liam
calmed down immediately, leaving Elizabeth feeling even more unsettled. For was
that not the mark of a madman? A sudden change from insanity to sanity? “I
apologise for frightening you like that, Miss Dearheart.”

“You
looked as if you’d seen a ghost,” said Elizabeth, struggling to keep her voice
even. It was said that one should not upset a mad man, but to humour them as
much as possible.

“Perhaps
she was, except…”

“Mr.
Sanderson saw the same ghost,” said Elizabeth. He did not answer that. “I
sometimes think I see my mother,” she said. “In the crowds during market day.
It can be quite alarming. Especially when the person turns around and looks
nothing like my mother. Then I’m torn between relief that my mother has not returned
as a haunted spirit … and sadness that she has not come back to me.”

“There
are no crowds here to facilitate that mistake, Miss Dearheart.”

“No,
of course not. It is just hard, if we lose someone we love… sometimes we think
we see them everywhere. In crowds, on a distant hill.” And, she supposed, if
one was a murderer, the likelihood of being haunted for the rest of one's life
was stronger. Not that she said that to him.

“Love?”
To her surprise, he laughed bitterly. “Yes, I suppose one can start off that
way. In love. But that soon changes when one realises one has staked one’s heart
on a snake in the grass.” He immediately seemed shocked by his own words. “I
apologise, Miss Dearheart. I did not mean to burden you with my own nightmares.
You are so … so fresh and sweet. It’s easy to see you’ve never known darkness.”

“I
have already told you that I’ve lost my mother,” said Elizabeth. She wanted to
tell him that whilst Midchester might seem a quiet, safe place to live,
tragedies still happened. People lived, loved and died in much the way they did
elsewhere in the world, and every family had known the pain of grief at some
time. But in Midchester people survived the ache of death and disease. Mainly
because they had to. Life in a rural community which relied on the seasons to
survive was sometimes hard, and you either toughened up, or caved in and let
the darkness take you.

“Yes,
you did, and I am sorry for you. But you are loved, are you not? By your father
and brother. And by the people here in Midchester. Or so John Wheston tells me.
Hold onto that love, Miss Dearheart. Be happy with your lot and don’t try to
aim for more than you already have. By the time you realise that the love you
have now is the only thing worth having, it will be too late. You will already
have lost everything.”

As
Elizabeth watched him walk away, she frowned. His voice had been laden with
pain and anguish. It would be the right thing to tell the constable about him,
but her heart and the deep sense of sympathy she felt for Liam stopped her. She
almost began to tell herself that if he had murdered his client, then he must
have had good reason. Her innate common sense soon overtook that opinion. She
knew that there could be no excuse for taking another’s life.

No,
what unnerved her about Liam Doubleday is that he appeared to have seen into
her soul. He had sensed her longing to escape Midchester, even whilst she was
tied to it by the bonds of love and duty.

Why
should she not escape, she asked herself as she walked to the Hardacre’s house.
Why should she not know excitement and adventure? She was all too aware that
her gender answered that question. Women in the eighteen hundreds did not have
the option of living adventurous lives. She supposed some did, but that came at
a price. The loss of reputation and, in many cases, the loss of family. Perhaps
that was what he had meant.

Sighing,
she put all the dark thoughts out of her head and, despite the snow, walked
with a little more vigour. As she neared the Hardacre’s, she saw a figure in the
distance. It was a woman standing at the Midchester milestone, as if waiting
for the coach, but she had no baggage. Could this be the Lucinda that Liam and Mr.
Sanderson saw?

As
she grew nearer, the woman turned, as if she had sensed Elizabeth’s presence.

“Lady
Clarissa?” said Elizabeth.

“Miss
Dearheart, is it not?”

“Yes.
I had no idea you were expected in Midchester.”

“Nor
had I,” said Lady Clarissa Bedlington, mysteriously. Despite being in her
mid-thirties, she was still a very attractive woman. Not beautiful, but
striking. Her grey eyes had always seemed to Elizabeth to be rather sad,
reminiscent of a cloudy day, even when the sun shone.

“Are
you waiting for the coach?” asked Elizabeth, simply for something to say.

“No …
no. I came here in the hopes of finding someone … it's odd but I thought I saw
someone I knew in the distance. Only when I approached them, they disappeared
amongst the trees. But it couldn't have been…”

“Who
might that be?” Elizabeth believed she already knew the answer, but asked the
question anyway. For some reason it made her heart ache to think of it.

“It
is of no matter. I suppose I had better go and arrange some lodgings at the
Inn.”

“You
are not staying with my aunt … your stepmother?”

Lady
Clarissa’s lips curled. “I can think of nothing I would like less.” She paused
for a moment. “Forgive me, Miss Dearheart. I forget that you are my
stepmother’s kin. You have so much kindness within you, is hard to remember the
same blood flows through your veins.”

“I am
sorry you are so unhappy,” said Elizabeth. It seemed the only thing she could
say to a woman who looked as though her world had fallen apart. “Perhaps you
would like to stay with us. Our home is perhaps not what you are used to, but I
am sure father would be glad to welcome you.” It occurred to Elizabeth that she
was overstepping many class boundaries in asking, but there was something so
lost and lonely about Lady Clarissa that for the moment, none of that seemed to
matter.

Clarissa
appeared to think about it for a moment, before shaking her head. “Thank you.
It is a kind and gracious offer. But there are some things in which I would not
want to involve you.”

“Did
you know that Mr. Sanderson was dead?” The words were out before Elizabeth
could stop herself.

At
those words, it seemed that Clarissa’s legs buckled beneath her. Elizabeth
stepped forward to catch her arm, and within seconds Clarissa regained her
equilibrium. “Mr. Sanderson?”

“Mr.
George Sanderson,” said Elizabeth, remembering Lady Clarissa's attachment with
the dead man's brother. “Albert Sanderson’s brother.”

“When
did this happen?” Clarissa composed herself, her initial shock having passed.

Elizabeth
explained as tactfully as she could the details surrounding George Sanderson’s
death, but left out the part about the ghost of Lucinda.

“He
was a kind, sympathetic man,” said Clarissa. “I am sorry that he has died in
such a dreadful way.”

“Did
you know also,” said Elizabeth, watching Clarissa closely, “that his brother
has escaped from the …” She almost said madhouse, but out of deference for Lady
Clarissa’s feelings changed it at the last moment to, “sanatorium?”

“I
suppose that Constable Hounds has already decided that he must be guilty of his
brother’s murder?” Clarissa sounded bitter but not at all surprised by the news.

“Yes,
I am afraid that is the case.”

“Bertie
would never hurt anyone, regardless of what they say,” said Clarissa. “That
vixen bewitched him, and then treated him abominably, but he would not have
killed anyone. He was … troubled… but that does not make him a killer, or
responsible for her death. She deserved to die.”