The Ghosts of Greenwood

by Maggie MacKeever

  With extreme displeasure, Sir John recalled the recent rowdy-do. Between Giuseppe’s revelations and Hubert’s dramatics, no little time passed before he realized, first, that Jael had disappeared, and secondly that Dulcie was also nowhere to be found. “That damned tinker has a great deal to answer for.”

  Dulcie left off licking her fingers, to Sir John’s relief. “What additional points would you like clarified? Sir Wesley’s death brought Jael back to Greenwood. She is one to pay her debts, for good or ill. I found her in the temple because I suspected she had gone there in search of, as she thought, Cade. Connor, much as he disliked Amanda, found it difficult to believe his stepmother was clever enough to have engineered Sir Wesley’s death, so when he became aware of Janthina’s, or Jael’s, presence in Greenwood — Connor was keeping a close eye on Lady Margaret’s Garden; he saw Jael there with Giuseppe — she seemed a much more likely candidate. The rest you know.”

  Now, he knew it. Sir John looked around for his Runner, spied him standing in a small group of spectators alongside Hubert and Austen. They were watching Jael dance. Her steps were intricate, her costume highly unsuited to the weather. Bluebeard, on Austen’s shoulder, was bobbing in time with the music of Giuseppe’s chavora flute.

  It was little wonder that all efforts to track the missing Janthina had come to naught. No one would have thought to look for her in London’s rookeries.

  Dulcie bestowed the remainder of her pheasant upon a shaggy mongrel. “I grew suspicious when I heard of Amanda’s claim that Connor had accosted her, for I doubted Connor would do such a thing. I also suspected, due to those tales of droit de seigneur, that Cade sometimes returned to the neighborhood. Sir Wesley doubtless reached that same conclusion; hence the mention of Cade in his will. Then there was Abel Bagshot’s strange behavior, and this talk of ghosts, and Barbary’s odd reaction to the reappearance of a husband she claimed to dislike, not to mention his astonishment at finding her at the Hall. Voila! All was clear.”

  Clear to Lady Bligh, perhaps; Sir John was unable to add two and two and reach the sum of ten. “Why didn’t Connor simply come forward and explain that the body had been erroneously identified?”

  Dulcie pulled on her gloves. “Really, John. Consider Connor’s reputation, and his well-known sentiments regarding his brother. You would most likely have clapped him in gaol. Since Connor could hardly remain indefinitely in hiding, he reappeared as Cade, in hope of forcing the villain’s hand. He unintentionally aided Amanda no little bit with all the lies he told in an effort to divert your suspicions from Barbary and himself.”

  Jael’s dance had wound up to a finale so shockingly explicit that Crump turned the fascinated Austen forcibly away. “Are you tying up loose ends?” he asked as they joined the group by the campfire. “There are a couple points I don’t understand. Those two horses, for one.”

  “Oh, let me!” begged Austen. “The horse that threw a shoe belonged to Cade; the second, Lady Halliday rode from the Hall. It must have bolted when she shot Cade. She rode his horse back to Halliday land and then let it loose, and it went back to the inn because that’s where Cade always stabled it when he came to Greenwood.”

  “Pestilent brat,” remarked Dulcie, fondly. “Before you puff yourself up further, remember that you considered Lady Halliday a cabbage-head.”

  “What of it?” responded Austen, with unabated good humor. “I’m only nine years old.”

  “Scallywag,” crooned Bluebeard, into his ear.

  Crump could not so easily excuse his own confusion. “What about that Patent Warm-Air Stove?”

  Gracefully, Dulcie rose from her log. “A bribe in truth, dear Crump. I didn’t want you or John to become aware that Cade — or, as we all believed, Connor — had scarred Jael’s face. Abel was one of the few people who knew that old tale. Once you realized Jael was the missing Janthina, your suspicions would have focused on her and the real murderer would likely have gone free.”

  Hubert and Jael came up to the campfire, then, as Sir John also pushed himself erect. Hubert wore a heavy greatcoat. Jael had wrapped herself in a thick wool cloak. “Not Connor, but Cade; not Cade, but Connor,” she said huskily. “God’s bones, what a pair.”

  With a pained expression, Hubert regarded the dismembered pheasant. “I believe Sir John would prefer that you be a trifle less cryptic, my precious. Surely in light of your, er, previous association, you should have known the difference between the twins.”

  Jael dropped down on Dulcie’s abandoned tree trunk. “In the dark all cats are grey. Cade played Connor cleverly enough when he wished.”

  Hubert quirked an inquiring brow in her direction. “You and Cade had found that tunnel; Connor didn’t know of it. Therefore when you mentioned the tunnel to the man you believed to be Cade, and he betrayed his ignorance, you realized you were talking to Connor. And when you spoke to him of his illegitimacy, and he was startled, you knew that all those years ago you had encountered Cade. What admirable logic! You render me speechless.”

  Jael voiced a desire that someone might do so. “What’s meant for Giuseppe, Sir John? I suggest you leave him to me.”

  “An excellent solution!” said Dulcie, as the Chief Magistrate struggled to rouse from the bemusement attendant upon the fact that she was leaning against his arm. “Giuseppe meant no real harm, not even when he sent Sir Wesley to Lady Margaret’s Garden. He disapproved of Jael’s relationship with Cade and expected that, if cast off by the Hallidays, she would turn to her other family. As for the twins’ parentage, Sir Wesley learned of it not long after Jael’s departure. Jenks told him — you will remember the Halliday butler, Jael. Jenks had overheard an enlightening conversation between Lady Margaret and Rosamond years before, but didn’t think it was his place to be bearing tales. However, he was fond of you and didn’t think it right Sir Wesley should be left to believe something that wasn’t true. As for how Sir Wesley knew you were alive and well, I told him so. That tidies it all up neatly, I think. And now—” The Baroness shepherded her little party away from the caravan to a spot where a young boy performed the halay, a dance similar to a Scottish reel.

  Hubert did not follow, but stood looking down at Jael. “You are looking pensive, my treasure. I am feeling rather cross myself. All these years Dulcie has known exactly who you are.”

  “I came to the tinkers’ camp often as a child; as did the Baroness, to have her fortune told.” Warily, Jael stood. “You must realize that involving you in all this would just have made things worse.”

  “I realize that you don’t trust me. Consequently, I cannot help but wonder if you would care to end our relationship. I don’t much like the idea myself. But you must do as you think best.” When she didn’t answer, Hubert turned away.

  Jael contemplated Hubert’s back, his slender and deceptively foppish figure. When she spoke at last, it was in a gruff little voice.

  She had had much time to think while lying trussed up in the temple, waiting for a murderer, Jael explained. It had been a singularly unpleasant experience, and one that had led her to nourish doubts about the course upon which she had embarked. The idea of dying did not appeal to her. Even worse than the dread of being murdered was the fear that she might never see Hubert again.

  “And,” said Jael, screwing up her formidable courage, “I realized that I’d never told you how I feel about you, pireno.”

  Hubert, too, had been granted considerable time for contemplation during this unquiet country holiday, and the conclusion he arrived at was that he would be miserable without his touchy, treacherous companion. “And I you, pereni,” he said. He reached out and drew her close. “And now, my love, are we done at last with the ghosts of Greenwood?”

  “Please God.” Jael nudged him. “Look.”

  Together they watched the horseman riding down the road toward them. “Enter Uncle Max,” said Hubert, “now that all unpleasantness has ended, perfectly on cue.”

  The fifth Baron Bligh drew up his steed with a flourish.
They made a splendid pair, the deep-chested black Arabian stallion, the tall man with a face that would have done Lucifer proud. His skin was bronzed from exposure to the sun, his hair raven-black and streaked with grey. He wore tight-fitted buckskin breeches and superlatively shined top boots; a sapphire blue coat, buff-colored waistcoat and frilled shirt; a deep stiff cravat tied in an intricate design. Flung around his broad shoulders was a cloak lined with silk serge and trimmed with Russian lambskin.

  Over the camp fell a hush broken only by the soft notes of Giuseppe’s flute. All eyes were on the newcomer. All eyes, that was, except those of the woman on whom rested his own gaze.

  At last, Dulcie raised her head. Casually, she strolled toward her spouse. He reached down a strong arm and swung her up onto his lap, touched his heel to his horse’s flank. With his wife across his saddlebow, the fifth Baron Bligh rode off into the night.

  And so another adventure ended, thought Sir John, with mingled relief and regret. On the morn, he and Crump would depart for London. The Chief Magistrate pulled out his handkerchief and applied it briskly to his nose.