Vintage Love (236 page)

Fred didn’t seem to notice her tense state. He glanced at the roses in her hands and said, “That’s a lovely bouquet.”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking at the roses. “There are so many of them here it seemed a shame to allow them to go to waste.”

“Time to drive back,” he said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“It’s been a lovely afternoon,” she said, forcing a smile.

He looked at the house again. “You wanted to see the old place.”

“I did.”

He gave her a look of tolerant amusement. “And I try to indulge your whims.” He had seemingly returned to a better mood.

“I’ve been impressed by the island,” she said.

He said, “I’ll carry the roses for you,” and they started back.

She spoke little on the drive to the mainland. But the horror of that apparition standing gazing at her from the bushes was still very much with her. She longed to discuss the incident with someone, and decided to try to get in touch with Dr. Boyce at the first opportunity. The old doctor had almost automatically become her father confessor.

Fred had office hours that evening and he left Moorgate right after dinner. She fussed with the roses, cutting their stems and finally placing them in a tall china vase. They looked lovely on the table where she put them, and their fragrance soon filled the big room.

Once again she felt uneasy in the old house. She supposed it was the result of her experience on the island, and not being able to talk to Fred about it. After a short stroll in the garden she got into her car and drove down the steep road to the main highway. The village was having its share of summer tourists, and she found the traffic heavy as she neared the main street.

She at once drove by the stately Algonquin Hotel to the white cottage where the elderly doctor lived. She was delighted to see him out working in his garden as she parked the car by his gate. She got out and went into the garden to join him.

He was on his knees by some potato plants when she joined him, and he got up with a smile of greeting. “Time to battle the potato bugs,” he said. “I work day and night at it.”

“I hope I haven’t come at an awkward time,” she said.

The old man shook his head. “Not at all.” In his blue work clothes he looked more like a farmer than a retired professional man. “I was just about to quit for the evening. Come and sit on the verandah with me. I’m all alone. My wife is out visiting friends.”

Lucy was heartened by this news. She urgently wanted to talk to the doctor alone. She followed him up the wooden steps to the verandah. He went inside and appeared with a tray of glasses and a large glass pitcher of liquid.

“I hope you don’t object to a cool lemonade?” he said as he placed the tray on a wicker table.

“I’d enjoy it,” she said. She was seated in one of the several wicker chairs on the sheltered verandah. “I love verandahs,” she went on. “I wish Moorgate had one.”

He poured out her drink and handed it to her, then poured one for himself and sat down opposite her. “The reward for my work. I agree, I also like verandahs. They were out of style for a good many years. Now they are coming back in a modern version. Of course a house like Moorgate was never designed to have one.”

She took a sip of her lemonade. “I know. I sometimes think it was planned by someone with a very gloomy type of mind. It’s like a square old fortress.”

“Built to endure.”

“And it has.”

The old man smiled. “Where is Fred?”

“It’s one of his nights to have office hours.”

“I keep forgetting,” Dr. Boyce said. “Not too long ago I was having the same hours. Now I just take care of my garden and see an occasional old patient. They call it the enjoyment of the sunset years, I believe, and it suits me fine.”

She said, “I feel I must be an awful nuisance to you.”

His old eyes showed a twinkle. “Having a pretty girl around has never bothered me.”

“Thank you.”

“You seem nerved-up,” he said, using a favorite term. “Is anything wrong at Moorgate?”

“Not at Moorgate,” she said, suddenly not knowing how to begin her story, fearing he would also laugh at what he might consider her childish alarm.

“Well, then?”

“Fred took the afternoon off today. He drove me over to Minister’s Island to see the Clay house.”

Dr. Boyce showed interest. “Did he? You would surely want to see the island and the house.”

“Yes. I’ve wanted to go over ever since I arrived.”

“Did you have a nice afternoon?”

“In a way. I urged Fred to tell me about the house, and he did. I mean about its being haunted.”

Dr. Boyce raised his graying eyebrows. “Indeed.”

“He didn’t want to tell me at first, but I insisted,” she explained. “He warned me it would only upset me.”

“Did it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh?”

She hesitated. “He described the ghost and where it had been seen. A little later on I went off by myself to pick some roses, and I saw the ghost.”

There was a long moment of silence between them before he replied. He gazed at her with earnest eyes, then he said, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said tautly.

“Did you tell Fred?”

“I couldn’t! He had just predicted that I’d start seeing the ghost because he’d told me about it. He would have made cruel fun of me!”

The doctor said, “That’s likely so.”

“I know it.”

“Where did you see this ghost?”

“In the bushes by a circular summer house. I saw the figure for just a moment. Very briefly. Then it vanished.”

“It could have been an illusion.”

“It could have been, but I don’t think it was.”

He frowned at his filled glass of lemonade and put it aside on the table. Then he gave his full attention to her. “You’ve gone through a lot since you’ve come to St. Andrews. It may be that your nerves are playing tricks on you.”

Lucy looked at him despairingly. “I counted on you. I was so sure you’d understand.”

“I want to help you,” he said. “At the same time I don’t want to encourage any neurotic feelings in you.”

“I did see something in the bushes. A figure like the one Fred described to me.”

The old man sat back in his chair. “Perhaps you did. I have heard stories before about Frank Clay’s ghost. And oddly enough one of the stories had the ghost appearing in the summer house. Standing alone in it with a look of utter desolation on his withered face.”

She said excitedly, “Then I must have seen the same apparition.”

“I’d guess that’s so,” the doctor admitted. “But few people are apt to believe you. And certainly Fred won’t.”

“That’s what makes it so awful,” she complained. “Having to keep it all locked up inside me.”

“I understand,” Dr. Boyce said sympathetically. “It isn’t because Fred wants to be harsh with you. He doesn’t have your sensitivity in this area.”

“You mean I’m better able to see ghosts than he is?”

“Exactly. In my long years as a doctor I’ve come to believe that some people are much more psychic than others. I could tell you of a dozen cases where someone made a prediction or saw something which was beyond any sort of logical explanation.”

“There are ghosts at Moorgate,” she said. “I can feel them around me. So many things have happened. Like that cup breaking without anyone being near it.”

“Manifestations familiar to most spiritualists,” the old doctor said gravely. “It may be that you’ll have to call on the services of a professional ghost hunter. Sometimes they are able to rid a house of unhappy phantoms.”

“Fred would never agree to it,” she said unhappily. “And yet odd things go on taking place in that old house which are terrifying me.”

“I’ll talk to Fred,” Dr. Boyce promised her.

“He won’t listen.”

“I think he may if I approach him in the right way,” the veteran doctor said. “Meanwhile I wouldn’t mention anything to him about seeing the apparition on the island. I feel it would only weaken our case.”

She stood up. “I had to tell someone.”

He smiled warmly. “And you were right to come to me. I’ve told you before you can call on me at any time.”

He saw her to the car and waved to her as she drove off. She headed for Moorgate in the dusk, feeling somewhat more hopeful. She had great confidence in the old doctor and felt sure he’d help her if it was humanly possible. But then it mightn’t be. That was the awful fact she must face. If anyone could reason with Fred it would be Dr. Matthew Boyce. If he failed, there could be no solving her dilemma.

She turned on her headlights as the dusk took over. Soon she was driving up the narrow private road to Moorgate. She hoped that Fred would have returned from the office, as she didn’t want to be in the house alone. The old doctor had hit on a truth when he suggested that she was extremely psychic. This explained why she was able to see the apparitions when no one else around her could. And why she was so bothered by the happenings that didn’t disturb Fred at all. As she came to the driveway in front of the house she saw Fred’s car parked there and she felt a deep sense of relief.

Hastily she brought her own car to a halt and got out. The first thing which struck her as odd was that though Fred’s car was in the driveway there were no lights on in the house. She stood there concerned, when she heard voices and a laugh from the garden. A feminine laugh!

A chill surged through her, and then she saw two figures strolling towards her. Fred called out, “We’ve been in the garden.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice taut, as she joined the two and saw that it was Shiela standing by her husband’s side.

Shiela spoke up, “I came over by the path to invite you two to come over to our place. Father wants to meet you, Lucy. When I got here there was no one in the house. I was about to start back when Fred came.”

“And we were chatting in the garden when you arrived,” Lucy’s husband told her. “Where were you?”

“In the village.”

“You didn’t say you were going there.” His tone was almost one of reprimand, which she felt wasn’t called for under the circumstances.

“I decided to take a drive. I stopped by Dr. Boyce’s place and chatted with him for a little.”

“I see,” Fred said, almost as if he mightn’t be believing her. “Are you ready to go over to Shiela’s place?”

“I’d like to freshen up first,” she said, “and put on another dress.”

They went inside and she turned on the lights. The fragrance of the rose bouquet was strong in the air. Fred asked her, “Where did you put the roses? The scent is strong here in the hall.”

“In the living room,” Lucy said, as she started for the stairs. “Near the hall end.”

Fred, with Shiela at his side, was looking in through the double doorway into the living room. “I don’t see them!”

She turned and came down the steps. “They’re right here on this table,” she said, going into the room. Then she stopped. For though the scent of the roses remained strong in that spot, the vase was empty!

Fred was at her side with a perplexed expression on his face. “I don’t see anything but an empty vase,” he said.

She turned to him slowly. “I don’t understand. I put them there. You can still smell them.”

Shiela was standing a few feet behind Fred in the doorway. A wise smile showed on the dark girl’s face. “You probably moved them and then forgot about it.”

Lucy stared at her with mixed feelings of fear and astonishment. It occurred to her that Shiela must have been at the house before either her or Fred. It was quite possible that the dark girl had moved them to upset her and was now pretending innocence.

She said, “I know I left them here in that vase.”

Fred eyed her strangely. “Well, they’re certainly not there now.”

“I know that,” she said.

“How do you explain it?” her husband asked.

“I can’t,” she said.

Shiela came forward to Fred’s side and told them, “It isn’t of all that importance, in any case. I don’t think you should worry about it. I’d like to leave as soon as I can. Dad is waiting to meet you, Lucy.”

Lucy took a deep breath. She was thoroughly confused. She said, “I’ll have to go up to my bedroom and freshen up before we leave.”

“Don’t take too long,” Fred said, looking slightly annoyed.

“I won’t,” she promised as she went upstairs, leaving Fred and Shiela together. As she reached the first landing she could hear their voices from below in guarded tones. And again she felt that strong sweep of melancholy flow over her. She felt they might well be plotting against her.

She went to her bedroom and turned on the light. It took her a few minutes to get ready for the visit to the Farleys. And all the while she racked her brain about what could have happened to the roses.

Leaving her bedroom, she went down the shadowed hallway to the landing. As she touched her hand to the railing to descend the stairs she was seized by one of those strange impulses which had dictated her actions since she’d come to live at Moorgate. Instead of going downstairs, she turned and crossed the landing to the second flight of stairs and went up them.

She went all the way to the attic level and paused at the door of the storage room where the portraits of Dr. Graham Woods and his wife, Jennifer, were. Hesitantly she opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the storeroom. The odor of roses was as strong in there as downstairs. She groped her way across the room until she came upon the roses strewn over the portraits. The discovery sent a chill through her.

All at once she had the feeling that she was not alone in the attic room, that the spirits of those two long-dead people were in there with her. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh, and with a sensation of panic she turned and ran for the door. She didn’t stop her flight until she reached the lower stairs and was again able to hear the voices of her husband and Shiela.

She halted midway on the stairs with her head reeling. There was no logical explanation for what had happened unless Shiela had deliberately perpetrated this macabre prank to terrify her, and she doubted if the girl had enough imagination to carry out such a thing. There was only one answer. It had to be the ghost of Jennifer who had taken the roses from the living room up to the attic to decorate the portraits.