The Ghost of Christmas Past

by Sally Quilford

  There was definitely something mysterious about Liam Doubleday. She tried to remember something else that had seemed odd to her at the time, but it floated just out of her reach, before bursting like a lone balloon.

  After Doctor Wheston had finished treating her aunt, and taken some coffee himself, Elizabeth said farewell to the two men at the gates of Bedlington Hall. She made her way to the Constable’s house, where she informed Constable Hounds about the possible identity of the dead man. The constable lived in a small cottage on the edge of the village. Given the lack of any real crime in Midchester, Hounds earned his real living as a blacksmith. His forge was next door to the cottage.

  “Yes, I reckon you’re right, Miss Dearheart,” said Hounds. “I shouldn't need to bother Her Ladyship over this. My own investigations point to it being Sanderson. A gentleman by that name had booked into the Bear Inn on Friday night, I reckon to go and see your aunt. He has not returned since Sunday morning, when he mentioned to the landlord that he had to go out and meet someone. He left all his stuff there. The landlord is out today, visiting the brewery, but when he returns I'll ask him to identify the dead man. That's not all. There's more news, which will solve the case for us.”

  “What news?” asked Elizabeth.

  “His brother, Albert Sanderson has been in a mental institution for some time. He escaped a few months ago and is still at large. So it is likely that Mr. Sanderson died at the hands of his own brother.”

  “How does that follow?” asked Elizabeth.

  “His brother is a madman, and on the run from a mad house to which our victim sent him. Surely that is enough evidence.”

  “Just because his brother has mental problems does not make him a murderer,” said Elizabeth.

  “Well that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Dearheart. You see, there are rumours that Mr. Albert Sanderson murdered one of his clients to get the man’s money. That’s why he ended up in the institution.”

  “My aunt never mentioned that.”

  “She happen doesn't know. It was all hushed up. They’ve got money you see. Rich people can easily avoid scandal. But everyone knew he’d done it. Scotland Yard are sending me a picture of him. Meanwhile, I will have to put up a poster, with a description.”

  “But if the Sandersons had money, why would Albert need to steal it from a client?”

  “Men get greedy, Miss. And he's not quite right in the head.”

  “What does he look like?” asked Elizabeth. “So we can all be on the lookout for him.”

  Hounds read from the sheet of paper in front of him. “He's thirty-five years old, about six feet tall. Got blue eyes and dark hair.”

  “What?” Elizabeth felt the room sway around her.

  “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.”

  Elizabeth was shocked by such language. Albert Sanderson must have a strange power over women if they were willing, because he was handsome and had that hint of darkness behind his eyes, to defend him even when he had killed. She vowed to arm herself against such feelings. She did not want to be like Lady Clarissa in fifteen years time. Bitter and unhappy over a man who she would no doubt be sensible to avoid.

  “I am just going to visit the Hardacres,” said Elizabeth. “But if you would like to stay with us I can return home and make the arrangements.”

  “Thank you, but no, Miss Dearheart. You are a good, kind soul. Unfortunately some journeys are m
eant to be taken alone.”

  Wondering exactly what Lady Clarissa meant by that, Elizabeth went on to the Hardacre’s rented manor house, Mr. Hardacre had bad news for her.

  “I am afraid my sister has taken a turn for the worse, Miss Dearheart. She is unable to go walking after all and has gone back to bed. But she is eager to see you and hear all the gossip. Would it be too much trouble for you to sit with her for a while, so that I can attend to the household accounts?”

  “Not at all. I would be delighted to.”

  “You are an angel sent from above. One day perhaps I won't have to deal with those awful accounts alone. My dream is that I will find my own angel to help me.” His words were so full of meaning, Elizabeth blushed. Yet something about Mr. Hardacre had changed. Elizabeth did not know what. He was as handsome and attentive as ever. Yet the attraction she previously felt towards him had dimmed. When she looked at him, all she could see was Liam Doubleday. She began to wonder if madness was indeed infectious as many people feared.

  When she entered Dora Hardacre’s boudoir, she was struck by the difference between that and Lady Bedlington's. Whereas her great aunt’s room was dark and dreary, Dora’s room, though dark because of the weather, was cosy. A big fire burned in the great, and candles lit up the dark corners.

  Dora lay back on a chaise longue, dressed in a luscious red velvet housecoat. She was about thirty-two years old. Large cornflower blue eyes, golden hair and rounded cheeks made her look years younger. She really was the prettiest woman Elizabeth had ever seen.

  “Miss Dearheart, how kind of you to come,” said Dora. She pulled herself up to a sitting position. “I do apologise. I was so looking forward to our walk.”

  “Please, there is nothing to apologise for,” said Elizabeth. She reached out and took Dora’s hand. “Oh, you’re freezing cold. Can I get you anything? A hot water bottle, or a warm drink?”

  “No, I will be fine. It is bad circulation. I am sure that if I could get up and about I would be much better, but sadly my brother insists I rest. He is the kindest, most attentive brother one could have.” Dora smiled, showing dimpled cheeks. “And he is most taken with you.” Her already large eyes widened and were filled with laughter. “All day, he sings your praises. If I were not so taken with you myself, I should be most jealous of all the attention he pays you.”