Ghosts of Mayfield Court

by Russell, Norman

  I was moving away into the conservatory when I was conscious once again of that mysterious, unheard voice addressing me, desperately trying to pierce the veil between this world and what lay beyond it…. Whose was that soundless voice, and what was it trying to tell me? And then, as always, it stopped, as though giving up in despair. These things never frightened me – I have always had some psychic awareness – but it was unsettling, nonetheless.

  In the afternoon I lay down for an hour, and once more woke abruptly, this time because a certain expression had suddenly obtruded itself on my consciousness. ‘Deed of Release.’ Surely Uncle Max had mentioned such a document in the anguished letter that he had left for me to read after his death? It was the very document for which he had been searching at Mayfield Court, a document drawn up by Gabriel Forshaw’s solicitor all those decades ago. I wondered then whether Uncle Max had obtruded those words into my sleeping mind….

  I remained very uneasy for the rest of the afternoon, but when Michael reappeared at tea time, I felt reassured. As on the previous day, afternoon tea was served by the little maid in the drawing room. Michael lavished attention upon me, and began to talk about what we would both do after we were married. I thought that he was a little embarrassed at the attention that he had been showing to Lady Carteret, for he virtually ignored her. She, for her part, seemed to be fully engaged with her husband and his affairs. The two of them talked in low tones for a while, and then Lady Carteret turned to speak to Michael and me.

  ‘It’s a great nuisance,’ she said, ‘but Sir Leopold must leave for London immediately after tea. There’s some business there that cannot be left to others, as his signature is required on certain documents lodged with our London solicitors.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Paget, and – er – Dr Danvers,’ said Sir Leopold, ‘it has been most interesting to have you here as our guests, but I can assure you that Lady Carteret will see that the remaining part of your stay is interesting and enjoyable. Goodbye, Miss Paget. It has been delightful to make your acquaintance. And it was a school for girls, you say? Most interesting.’

  Sir Leopold left soon after five, and with his departure a certain stability and normality appeared to have gone with him. Lady Carteret seemed preoccupied, scarcely replying to any questions put to her. She would glance sharply into dim corners of the room, and occasionally shudder. I remembered that she had passed a bad night, and wondered whether she was afflicted, too, in the daylight hours.

  Michael, too, seemed to be holding some nebulous but strong emotion in check. I saw him glance at our hostess with something approaching dislike, not unmixed with fear. After the tea things were removed, the three of us sat on in the drawing room, seemingly unable, or unwilling, to get up and pursue some useful occupation.

  The fine weather of the morning had given way to a sultry dullness, with a promise of summer thunder in the air. By six o’clock it had darkened perceptibly, and the first great thunderspots began to fall. I felt a sudden yearning for my own town house in Saxony Square.

  We threw off our lethargy when the footmen came in to light the candles. One drew down the great crystal chandelier, and lit the candles nestling among their brilliants before gently pushing it back upward on its pulleys. The other attended to the candle sconces on the panelled walls. The room was flooded with welcome light, and my own personal gloom was dissipated.

  That evening, we were joined by the rector, the Reverend Mr Bold, and his wife, and a cheerful young couple called Rivington, and we enjoyed a very appetizing dinner of pea soup, a delicate sole, and roast rack of lamb, followed by lemon water ices. Michael seemed to be his old self, though at times I saw him glance at Lady Carteret with that look of distaste mingled with fear that I had noticed earlier. I wondered what it meant.

  I slept well, and Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. Lady Carteret had come down to breakfast, though I thought she looked quite ill, and a certain redness about her eyes convinced me that she had been weeping. Michael seemed not to notice.

  ‘My dears,’ said Lady Carteret, ‘I propose that we go on a picnic today to Bodley Castle ruins. We’ll take the small phaeton, and Andrews will drive. Had my husband been here, he would have driven himself. What do you think?’

  I thought it sounded a very good idea. It would be a relief to get away from the confines of Providence Hall and out into the fresh air. By ten o’clock, all was ready, and a substantial wicker hamper was put into the carriage before we set off at a brisk pace along the road that wound through the deer park and out on to the village street. We travelled for an hour through pleasant countryside, passing through a number of small hamlets and one substantial village with its own lichen-covered church. ‘This is a pretty place,’ I observed. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘This is Walton Carteret.

  There are several villages in this part of the county named after my husband’s family.’

  I heard the pride in Lady Carteret’s voice as she said these words.

  Eventually we entered a small wood, and in a few minutes emerged into a clearing where we could see the ruins of Bodley Castle rising above us. It was a very pleasant spot, and Andrews the coachman busied himself with setting out the picnic. From the box behind the carriage he produced a set of folding chairs and a table to match. Lady Carteret herself set out the contents of the hamper. There was a great pie, ham and chicken sandwiches, and a selection of pastries. To complement these good things, there were two bottles of white wine, secured in a small ice-box.

  While Andrews stood guard, we explored the ruins of the old castle. Lady Carteret told us that it had been slighted during the Civil War, and had subsequently fallen into ruin. It was a romantic spot, conjuring up all kinds of dramatic scenes in my mind, but as I walked through the various rooms, all roofless and with springy turf for flooring, I was jealously conscious of the fact that Michael, my fiancé, walked with Lady Carteret, and not with me.

  It was midday when we sat down to enjoy the picnic, and I must confess that, despite my uneasiness of the past day, I thoroughly enjoyed the repast. Eating in this way, al fresco, seemed to enhance my appetite, and I sampled a little of everything that was set before me. The coachman had led his vehicle a little apart, and we could see him sitting on an ivy-clad bank, lighting his clay pipe.

  The wine was a delicate hock, still well chilled, and I finished my meal with two glasses in succession. I began to feel very charitable to my neighbours, and remembered a warning that my old uncle had once given me: ‘If you must drink wine, Catherine, drink it slowly – sip your way to sobriety.’ I contemplated a third glass, but a questioning look from Michael restrained me.

  It was when we were halfway home that I began to feel strange. I was not inebriated, and I was not feeling sick; but I seemed to be inhabiting a kind of trance-world. Sounds, even the voices of my companions, appeared to be coming from afar, and colours were brighter than I had remembered them. I said nothing, because I was not ill, but it was disquieting, to say the least.

  When we returned to Providence Hall, I excused myself, and retired to my room. I lay on the bed, wondering what could have caused this altered state of consciousness. I closed my eyes, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  I dreamed of Uncle Max, alive, and frantically searching through the masses of ancient paper at Mayfield Court; I saw the forlorn little ghost again, dumbly pointing to the bed, and experienced the same frozen fear that I had felt when I had first seen her; curiously, I did not identify her with the little gypsy girl who had shown me how my belief in ghosts had been foolishness. And I dreamed of Sergeant Bottomley, the man who had, I believed, appointed himself my protector.

  I had no idea how long I had slept, but at one stage I imagined that the door had quietly opened, and a shadowy figure had crossed the room, temporarily blocking out the light. It may have been so; but when I forced open my eyes for a second, I saw that there was nobody there.

  I dreamed that Lady Carteret and Michael
came into the room, and stood by the bed. My eyes were closed, and I was still in a kind of lethargic trance, but I imagined that it was they. ‘Tonight should see the end of it,’ said a voice, and another voice answered, ‘Yes. You were right. It will have to be tonight.’

  When I awoke, I found it was nearly time for dinner, and the sky was beginning to darken. It had been just on two o’clock when we returned from the picnic; a glance at my watch showed me that if was now nearly six.

  The heavy, trance-like state had not left me, and I stumbled about as best I could, changing from day clothes into my evening gown. When the gong sounded, I went down to dinner, clutching the banister to make sure that I did not fall.

  The dining room was cheerfully lit, but the candelabra on the table – two great, silver-gilt affairs – seemed to be aslant, and the light they shed was fractured into the many colours of the spectrum. Lady Carteret and Michael seemed not to notice my peculiar state, but a kind of silly, youthful pride prevented my telling them how strange I felt.

  I cannot now remember what I ate or drank at that meal, but I was glad when we all rose and retired, not to the drawing room, but to the great, dim library, with its forbidding shelves of calf-bound books and old periodicals. I saw that coffee had already been brought in. I sank gratefully into a leather armchair, and Michael brought me a cup of steaming coffee.

  I drank it gratefully, and looked at my hostess and my fiancé. They sat facing me, but neither seemed to look at me, or, indeed, at each other. I realized that they were waiting for something to happen. Why did they shimmer, and why were they encircled by iridescent haloes? Michael seemed frozen where he sat. Lady Carteret looked affronted by something that I could not fathom.

  ‘I hate this hellish room,’ said Lady Carteret to Michael. ‘I’ve had some frightful nightmares connected with it.’

  I tried to reach out to place my empty coffee cup on a small table standing beside my chair, but found that I could not move a muscle. Alarmed, I tried to cry out, but realized with horror that I could not move my lips. I was, to all intents and purposes, paralysed.

  A door in the panelling opened, and Marguerite, my friend and Michael’s sister, came into the room. She merely glanced at me, and then sat down beside Lady Carteret, who gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Mama,’ said Marguerite, ‘is tonight really going to see the end of it? And after that, can Michael and I start to live ordinary lives?’

  ‘I’d prefer you to live extraordinary lives, if that’s possible,’ said Lady Carteret. ‘But that must be your choice. And yes, this night will see the end of it. Miss Paget is the last of the Paget clan, and while she’s alive, that cursed open clause of the Deed of Release still applies. Her uncle was content to relinquish all interest in the matter—’

  ‘But that didn’t prevent you from poisoning him, Mother,’ said Michael, ‘leaving me to continue dancing attendance on that dreary girl, there.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Michael’s mother replied. Marguerite laughed.

  I was, of course, drugged almost to the point of death, and one appalling symptom of that particular narcotic, which must have been administered to me in the coffee, was that I accepted all that was happening as though it were normal. I felt some fear, but no indignation, even though that part of my brain that governed understanding still made me aware that it was Michael Danvers – what was his real surname? – who had handed me the poisoned coffee, and described me as a dreary girl.

  I accepted, almost without demur, that I had from the very outset been the victim of a coldly planned conspiracy. Michael and Marguerite were the children of the woman now known as Lady Carteret, so that my first meeting with Michael must have been carefully contrived. I recalled that meeting, in the Army and Navy Stores, when Michael had tripped and fallen against me, sending my collection of small parcels to the floor. It had been so easy for him and his sister to lure me into their company. What a little fool I had been!

  I made an effort to rise from my chair, but was quite unable to move.

  Lady Carteret stood up.

  ‘Well, let’s get it over with. I brought her here because we can carry her up to her room from this part of the house without the servants seeing us. My late second husband, Hector – not your dear father – preferred to hire professional assailants to get rid of unwanted people, which is what he did in the matter of Gabriel Forshaw. I prefer poison, followed by suffocation. That’s what I did with little Helen. Hector was far too squeamish to murder a child.’

  Marguerite tittered. I had sometimes wondered whether she was weak-minded, which would account for her girlishness, which sat ill on a woman in her thirties. Now I knew that I had been right.

  ‘Control yourself, Marguerite,’ said her mother, giving her a glance of distaste. ‘Come, now, Michael, pick her up, and follow us up to her room. Why are you hesitating? Have you really fallen for her youthful charms? Be careful where you place your feet: these back stairs behind the panelling are very narrow. We can’t afford to drop her. Bruising would look suspicious when she’s found dead in bed, tomorrow morning. I’ll get Susan to take her hot water up tomorrow. She’s not a screamer, so there’ll be no fuss.’

  Lady Carteret suddenly walked over to me where I sat, paralysed, in my chair. She bent low to look at me, putting her hands on her knees.

  ‘What a silly girl you were, to walk right into my trap! Yes, I killed your uncle, but I would have been content for Michael to marry you if that Deed of Release had not opened the way for you to contest the Forshaw fortune had you suddenly decided to do so. But that would have been the end of my son and me. So, my dear, you must go along that path that little Helen trod, thirty years ago.’

  Michael, who was a strong young man, picked me up, though my body was so numb that I could not feel his hands supporting me.

  Lady Carteret opened the door in the panelling – and Sergeant Bottomley burst into the room.

  ‘We have heard all,’ he said in a low voice, ‘and you are condemned out of your own mouth.’

  She screamed – an appalling, animal sound – and ran frantically the length of the library, seeking escape. But when she reached the door that led into the conservatory, her way was blocked by the stolid figure of Inspector Jackson, who was flanked by two uniformed constables. Like me, Lady Carteret had walked into a trap, but it was one from which she would never escape.

  She knew, then, that she had failed. I could hear Mr Jackson speaking, and assumed that he was making his formal arrest. Lady Carteret had fallen quiet, and allowed herself to be manacled without making an undignified fuss. Inspector Jackson and the two constables led her away.

  The house was stirring, and a few weeping servants had made their appearance in the library, wondering what had happened to disturb the aristocratic tranquillity of Providence Hall.

  I watched all this, paralysed and immobile, from the floor, where Michael had unceremoniously dropped me when Mr Bottomley had suddenly appeared. I wondered what Michael would do. He looked down at me, his face as white as parchment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cath,’ he whispered, ‘but you must see that I had no choice. Mother was so strong—’

  He was given no chance to say more, for Sergeant Bottomley, his face convulsed with rage, felled him with one blow of his large fist. He roughly turned my unconscious fiancé over, pulled his arms behind him, and secured him with handcuffs. Then he picked me up effortlessly from the floor, and I saw the look of tender concern that dissipated the anger which he had saved up for Michael.

  ‘All will be well, my dear,’ said Mr Bottomley, ‘asking pardon for being so familiar. They drugged you in that coffee, but the effects will wear off very soon. I’m going to take you right away from here to a place of safety nearby, and you can stay there until you’re better.’

  I could already feel some sensation returning to my limbs. My rescuer sensed this, and laid me down gently on a chaise-longue which stood against one of the walls. He rubbed the
sleeve of his coat roughly across his eyes, and said, ‘I blame myself for this. I advised you to confide in that villain – that apology for a man – when I met you at Mayfield Court. “Tell your Michael all about it”, I said. And in saying that, I delivered you into the hands of your enemies.’

  It was, I think, the tears that sprang to the sergeant’s eyes that unloosed my tongue. I managed to whisper, ‘It was not your fault, dear Mr Bottomley. You have been my guardian all this time, and now, today, you have delivered me from the jaws of death!’

  I can still recall with pleasure the feeling of relief when Sergeant Bottomley, accompanied by one of the two constables, conveyed me away from Providence Hall. They had summoned the little maid who had served us tea, and she had packed my things – I was still too weak to do this myself. Then they took me down to the forecourt, where a closed carriage was waiting, its lamps gleaming in the dark. I learned later that it belonged to Mr Bold, the rector of the parish, whom I had met at dinner: Inspector Jackson knew him, and had prevailed upon him to lend his carriage for the occasion.

  ‘Were you in the house all along?’ I asked.

  ‘I came into the house this afternoon,’ said Mr Bottomley. ‘No one saw me, of course, because it’s part of my work to get into places unseen. I located the bedroom where you were lying down, and when that precious mother and son came in to look at you, and gloat over what they were going to do, I hid at the side of the wardrobe until they’d gone out again—’

  ‘So it wasn’t a dream! I heard you cross the room, and then thought I’d dreamed of those two talking about me as they leaned over the bed. What did you do then?’

  ‘When they left your room, I followed them without being seen, and heard them plan to take you into the library after dinner, and spirit you away through a staircase behind the panelling. I left them then, searched out that hidden staircase, and took up my position behind the door in the panelling. I heard every word that they spoke.’