The Haunting of Maddy Clare (5 page)

He was in the taproom. He had not, like me, gone to his room, and he was sipping a beer, making quiet notes in a notebook, his golden brown head bent to his work.

He smiled up at me when he saw me, a smile that was so easy and handsome it made my heart flutter in my chest. “There you are,” he said. “Fresh as a daisy. Have a seat, and order some supper. We need to go over some details for tomorrow.”

I sat. I had to admit I was very hungry, but pride still held me back. “This doesn’t seem right, your paying for all of my meals. Shouldn’t you insist I pay for myself?”

He lifted a brow. “Of course not. You are here on my assignment, as my employee. You’re my responsibility. Besides, what kind of a gentleman lets a lady pay for her own supper?”

“I am a modern girl, you know.” I felt myself smile. I could not quite believe he was flirting with me. Even less could I believe I was flirting back.

“So I’ve noticed.” He smiled again. “You may be entirely too modern for Waringstoke. Everyone in the room has noticed you. I believe they expect you to begin smoking cigarettes and dancing on the tables at any moment.”

I, too, had seen the glances from all the others in the taproom—the innkeeper, Mr. Ahearn, darting looks at us as he bustled about his business; the barkeep bending his head to whisper with his patrons as they talked in low voices; the glances from the men at tables in all corners of the room. But the tension had already been present when I entered, so it was foolish to think any of it was caused by me. “It isn’t me they are looking at. It’s you.”

He leaned closer to me and spoke confidentially. “You must get used to it here. We’re far from London, you know. This is a small community. Everyone knows everyone, and most know everyone’s parents and grandparents as well. I’ve found that outsiders are not well received in most of the villages and towns I’ve been to in my line of work.”

“I noticed the innkeeper was not particularly welcoming.”

“Ah, you’re perceptive, then. I did try to put a few questions to him while you were upstairs. I believe there’s a statue of Wellington in my garden at home that is more forthcoming.”

We were nearly whispering. I was listening closely, leaning forward. I caught sight of an aged man in a dark blue coat from the corner of my eye. He sat on a stool at the bar, tankard of beer in hand, and looked at me with an unmistakable expression of knowing disapproval. As I glanced at him, he met my gaze squarely and did not look away. I realized how it looked—Mr. Gellis and I, sitting intimately at our table, leaning toward each other. To any onlooker, we looked exactly like lovers. I reddened slightly and the man in the blue coat changed his expression to a sort of small, petty triumph. I looked away.

Mr. Gellis leaned back in his chair and signaled to someone behind me. A waiter—the bar’s only one—approached and Mr. Gellis ordered my supper for me along with his own, with hardly
a look in my direction. Beef, potatoes, stewed vegetables. As the waiter disappeared, Mr. Gellis looked at me a little apologetically.

“I realize we just agreed that you’re modern,” he said, “but it doesn’t hurt to appear a little old-fashioned here.”

As my surprise faded, I supposed I could see his point. Ordering my meal for me had been a display, meant for everyone but him and me. Still, I had been living by myself for some time and I wasn’t used to having a man do anything for me. “I understand—but if you’re going to make it a habit, I’ll have to protest.”

He smiled at me, easy again. “Clever girl. Now, let’s go over our plans for tomorrow.”

We spent the next hour or so talking of what would happen the next day. My supper arrived, and though it was the largest portion of food I had ever seen, I found I was hungry enough to make respectable work of it, causing Mr. Gellis to tease me about the effects of “fresh country air.” He even persuaded me to have a small glass of beer. Our plans were relatively simple: Mr. Gellis had already sent a message to Falmouth House, and received a reply that we were expected tomorrow morning. We would interview Mrs. Clare and the old housekeeper about their deceased servant, Maddy. And then, if all went well, I would take the camera and recording equipment, go to the haunted barn, and see if Maddy would show herself.

The prospect was so strange, so unlike any job I had ever thought to have, that I could hardly fathom it. The excitement I had felt on leaving my flat possessed me again, mixed with not a little fear. At some moments it seemed as if ghost viewing would be like a scary parlor game, creating a chill but still merely amusing. At other times I remembered that I would be in the presence, supposedly, of someone from beyond the grave.

And in the back of my mind, worry scrabbled. What if I saw nothing? What if there was nothing to see? I’d be sent home, and this all would be over. Could I really be hoping to see a ghost?

Mr. Gellis and I made a continued stir by sitting so long at our table. I should be embarrassed; everyone, by now, must assume we were a couple. And yet I could not feel as I was supposed to. I had to admit a shallow trickle of selfish pride, that anyone would think a man as handsome and obviously blessed as Mr. Gellis would choose me for a partner. So what if he had found me at random through a temporary agency? So what if he thought of me as nothing but a simple employee? No one in the room knew that, at least not yet. And besides, did stranger things not happen every day? Was it such a complete impossibility, given how closely we were to work together? I was unattached, and Mr. Gellis wore no ring, and mentioned no wife. But this was getting ahead of myself. I made myself put such thoughts away.

But later, as I climbed the steps to my room, exhausted, I admit that for the first time in years—perhaps since my parents had died—I abandoned good sense and let silly, girlish fantasies take full rein in my mind. He seemed to like me, and we would be alone together very much, after all. When I look back on it, it is amazing that such silly, frivolous ideas were foremost in my thoughts. I wasn’t a normal girl, but I was a girl, after all; and I would spin pretty romantic stories, for the last time, unaware of the hell that was about to descend upon me.

T
he next morning dawned dreary and wet; the sun disappeared. From the window of my room I saw a thin mist clinging to the ground, damp and silent. It seemed appropriate weather for ghost hunting.

I dressed quickly—despite the wet weather, the room in this tiny inn was cozy, and my stockings had already dried—and went downstairs to the taproom. I did not see Mr. Gellis. The innkeeper, Mr. Ahearn, approached me with a cup of tea.

“Morning.” He nodded curtly. “Your fellow’s already been. He’s out front.”

“Thank you.” I would have preferred coffee, but I did not want to argue. I drank the tea as quickly as I could, and found my way to the front vestibule, where I took a moment to take my coat from over my arm and slide it on. I also put on my favorite dark brown felt hat.

I tugged the hat down over my ears and paused. Through the pane on the front door I could see Mr. Gellis, standing in the
courtyard, the large suitcase that signaled the recording equipment on the ground at his feet. He wore his olive green coat, his hands shoved in the pockets, as he had looked the day we met. And he was talking to a woman.

She was tall and stylish, with the slim figure and long, slender legs that were the raging fashion of the time. She wore an expensive wrap, a perfectly vogue hat on her head, and looped in one slender hand was the lead of a small dog, who sat patiently by her ankles. As I watched, she handed Mr. Gellis a cigarette, then leaned forward to light it for him; her eyes, as they met his, were alight with intimate humor. She straightened and lit a cigarette for herself, still looking steadily at Mr. Gellis.

I felt my stomach twist, but I knew the innkeeper was watching me, so I could not stand there forever. I pulled on my gloves and stumbled out the front door to the courtyard.

Mr. Gellis turned as I approached. He had put on a cloth cap in the wet weather, and it only served to emphasize the squareness of his jaw, and the perfect set of his dark-lashed gray eyes under the brim. “Ah. Miss Piper.”

“Good morning,” I managed.

There was a brief, awkward pause. Mr. Gellis turned back to the woman, and for the first time he did not seem at ease. “This is my assistant,” he said.

I blinked, stung, but did not move. I felt the warmth of my cheeks against the mist in the air, and hoped the low brim of my hat would hide the miserable look I knew was on my face. The woman regarded me with calm, and I saw she had a face that was nothing short of ravishing, her skin flawless white, her lips lush and beautiful, and her eyes heavy-lidded with the sort of sensuality Greta Garbo exuded, a world-weary, carnal knowingness
that attracted men like flies. The dark hair visible from under the hat was crisply marcelled and complemented her creamy complexion. She held herself with careless confidence, her shoulders down, one hand lightly placed in the pocket of her wrap, so one could see the delicate suede cuff of her glove against the perfect whiteness of her wrist as it disappeared into her sleeve. Her other hand held the dog’s leash and the newly lit cigarette. She gave me a desultory smile.

“I see,” she said, speaking not to me but to Mr. Gellis. “I didn’t know ghost hunters had assistants.”

Was she making fun of him? Of us? With her dry tone, it was impossible to tell. Mr. Gellis looked at her and looked away. “In this case, yes. Miss Piper, this is Mrs. Barry—one of the local residents.”

“How do you do,” the lady said smoothly.

I had interrupted something; I could feel it. Mr. Gellis stared out into the drizzling rain, his body hunched with tension, his cigarette clutched between the curled second and third knuckles of his hand. I had not known he smoked. He certainly had not smoked at all during our long trip yesterday. It seemed I had not known anything. I looked at Mrs. Barry and thought of my stupid fantasies of the night before, and knew that in a world with such women, girls like me simply did not exist. I had always known it—why had I forgotten? I would never be such an idiot again.

I found my voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t aware that you knew the residents here.”

Mr. Gellis did not turn his head, so Mrs. Barry answered me herself. “It is purest luck,” she said, tugging the leash gently as her little dog tried to walk away. “We met many years ago. Before the war.” She turned to Alistair. “New Year’s in ’fourteen, was it not?”

Her tone was airy, but I saw her take him in, her eyes traveling his shoulders and the line of his profile, and I knew she knew the answer very well.

“Yes,” he said, giving her only the briefest of glances before looking away again. “New Year’s in ’fourteen.”

“And not again until I passed by this morning. Imagine my surprise.” She turned back to me, took a slow drag on her cigarette, and gave a smile with the corner of her flawless lip. “Life has such strange coincidences, doesn’t it?”

Some sort of wrenching unhappiness flashed across Mr. Gellis’ face. He buried it quickly before turning back to us, but I had not missed it. “We should be on our way,” he said.

“I wish you both luck,” Mrs. Barry said, her tone almost as neutral as if she were talking to the postman. “It’s nice to see you again, Alistair.”

He nodded and walked away, plunging ahead into the mist as if setting off to sea. I hurried to keep up with him. Mrs. Barry soon disappeared in the white threads behind us.

My misery was acute. I tried an awkward attempt to cover it. “I thought you said the locals would not be friendly,” I said, my voice a rasp.

He was quiet for a long moment as we walked, the wet mist creating damp goose bumps on my shins through my stockings. Finally he dropped his cigarette and looked at me, surprised, as if he had forgotten I was there. “Pardon? What’s that?”

I looked away. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

Falmouth House loomed in the fog before us soon enough. It stood in a small hollow, as if cupped in the palm of a hand,
surrounded by tall oaks and a few poplar trees that broke upward out of the mist. It was white clapboard from the past century, its shutters painted glossy black. I noticed, as we approached more closely, that the heavy water in the air condensed and rolled down the lacquered shutters, as if they were weeping.