The Ghost of Christmas Past

by Sally Quilford

  Not for the first time that day, Elizabeth felt herself blushing. “I am sure that is not so,” she said. “I’m such a dull little thing.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret. My brother has travelled the world in search of adventure, but what he really wants is to settle in a place like Midchester, in a tiny cottage, with a pretty wife.”

  “Have you both travelled widely?” asked Elizabeth. “Do tell me about it. I would love to travel.”

  “We have seen the world. America, China, India, Africa. But there is no place like home, as I'm sure you know, and Midchester would be a wonderful place to settle. If only my brother were not forced to earn a living...”

  Despite her admiration for Dora Hardacre, Elizabeth felt herself bristle. Why did people keep urging her not to seek excitement and adventure? Especially when they themselves had travelled widely. Were the wonders of the world some secret they wished to keep to themselves? Did she have to join a special club in order to be deemed suitable? Every time she mentioned the world outside Midchester, she was reminded of its virtues. It was most irritating.

  She suddenly realised that Dora had been talking during her reverie. “I’m sorry, Miss Hardacre, I was miles away.” Or at least I wish I was, she thought.

  “I was saying if my brother were not forced to earn a living, we could stay. It is outrageous that a gentleman of his standing must get his hands dirty – albeit in an office rather than in a coalmine – but there it is. I would help, but I am a mere woman, and have no skills. So our choices are made for us...”

  “You’re leaving Midchester?”

  “Yes, my brother’s business interests are calling him elsewhere.”

  “Oh no,” said Elizabeth. “We will be sorry to lose you.”

  “Well, it does not have to happen yet. Now, you must tell me all about this murder. How exciting it must have been for you to be ‘at the scene of the crime’ as they say.”

  Elizabeth hesitated to use the word exciting for fear it might make her sound like the sisters, but she had to admit that the murder had brought a strange sense of adventure into her life. Perhaps all what awaited her in Midchester was the chance of turning into Mrs. Chatterbucks or Miss Graves, revelling in others' misfortune. She shuddered at the thought, remembering with shame how she had said things to Lady Clarissa, just to gauge her reaction. In the end, she comforted herself in the knowledge that all she had was a healthy interest in finding the guilty.

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Chatterbucks and Miss Graves were right in that Lady Bedlington knew how to keep a good table, but it was the first time they had been allowed to see it. Despite her earlier impatience, Elizabeth felt a strange affection for them, as they sat amidst the candlelight with a table that groaned with more food than they would see in a month.

  Dressed in black lace gowns that had been fashionable some thirty years previously, the sisters were initially on their best behaviour, mindful of the fact they were in the presence of a great personality. Lady Bedlington, also dressed in black lace, but in a gown recently ordered from Paris, sat in a bath chair at the head of the table, smiling benignly at the other guests. She reminded Elizabeth of an aged panther waiting to pounce. The guests, apart from the sisters, were Elizabeth's father, Doctor and Mrs. Wheston, Constable Hounds, The magistrate, Mr. Jenkins and his wife, Mr. Hardacre; and perusing the scene with an air of detached amusement, Liam Doubleday.

  Seeing Hardacre and Doubleday in the same room together, it was hard for Elizabeth to decide who was the most attractive. They each had their own charm, but whereas Hardacre was the typical English gentleman, with fine whiskers, and a proud bearing, Doubleday had a wilder air altogether. It was not that he lacked proper manners. Far from it. He was clearly a gentleman and most charming to everyone, but like her aunt's panther-like stance, there was a sense that Liam Doubleday might just pounce. His eyes were like flames directed at her heart. Was it that same fire in Liam's eyes that attracted the otherwise cold Lady Clarissa?

  “Tell me, Constable,” said Lady Bedlington. “Are you any closer to catching the man's killer?”

  “I ham hafraid not, Your Grace,” said Hounds, sounding quite unlike Elizabeth had ever heard him. Her heart went out to him, and she wished he could relax a little in her aunt's presence.

  “I'm a lady, not a duchess, though the mistake is forgivable. After all, if I had not settled for Lord Bedlington and this dreadful pile,” she looked around the dining room, which would hold the constable's cottage twice with room to spare, “I might have married the Duke of Devonshire. Go on.”

  “We har, hof course, trying to track down 'is brother, Halbert Sanderson.”

  “Halibut?”

  “Albert,” Elizabeth offered, to save Hounds from any more embarrassment. She noticed Liam looking at her then at Hounds. His eyes were still amused, but they held something else. She took it to be the same sympathy she felt for the constable. “But,” Elizabeth continued, “I don't believe that just because a man suffers from a nervous disease it automatically makes him a killer. I hear that his brother, Mr. George Sanderson, was a kind gentle, man, who did his best to help Albert during his troubles.”

  “Even a good dog will bite you eventually,” said Lady Bedlington, sagely.

  “Oh yes,” said Miss Graves, fortified by a glass of wine. “Remember that old collie, Hector, we had as children, Georgiana? It bit the stable boy, and the poor lad had to have his leg chopped off. It proves that in the midst of life we are in death.”

  “But surely it was only the stable boy’s leg that died,” said Liam. Elizabeth almost choked on her wine.

  “Well, funnily enough,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, “he did insist on giving it a full Christian burial. Said he didn't want to be without it when he got to heaven. Then there was the time that the butler got bitten by our Labrador. Took the end of his finger off. Had to be put down.”

  Elizabeth suspected the stories were less about the butler's misfortune and more about Mrs. Chatterbuck's wanting Lady Bedlington to know that they too had come from landed gentry. The sisters had been the youngest siblings of three older sisters, and two older brothers, all of whom died before they were thirty. It was hardly surprising that they had such a fixation with death. By the time it came the turn to make their entrance into society, the estate had been entailed away to a male cousin who had no intentions of doing the decent thing by marrying one of them.

  “The butler had to be put down?” said Doctor Wheston. Mrs. Wheston exchanged glances with Elizabeth then stared resolutely at her food, whilst struggling to keep her face straight.

  “No, the dog, of course.”

  “That is a relief,” said Lady Bedlington. “It is hard enough to get a decent butler.”

  “I do hope the butler's finger was given a decent burial,” said Liam. Elizabeth dare not catch his eye.

  “Well in a manner of speaking,” said Miss Graves. “It was inside the dog, you see.”

  “Anyway, back to the recent murder,” said the Reverend Dearheart, as the guests began to splutter into their soup. “It is a sad day for Midchester when a man loses his life. Having said that, I have never seen the town so invigorated.”

  “Really, Philip, one would think you approve,” said Lady Bedlington. “Of course, when one marries beneath one's class...”

  “One is happier than one has ever been in one's life,” said Philip Dearheart firmly, smiling at his daughter. “Surely as a possible consort for a duke who gave him up to marry a mere lord you would understand that, Arabella.”

  Lady Bedlington scowled at the Reverend, and then pointedly started talking about other matters.

  “I like your father very much, Miss Dearheart” said Liam later, when the men had joined the women in the drawing room for after dinner coffee. She stood by the window, looking out at the falling snow, letting the draft through the panes cool her flushed cheeks. The fact that he stood so close to her did not help.

  “I'm really rather fond of him
myself,” said Elizabeth. Liam did not know it, but he had just paid her the highest compliment he could.

  “And have you inherited his fearlessness?”

  “Oh no, I'm afraid of everything.”

  “I don't believe that. There's been a murder, talk of ghosts, people seeing things that aren't there, and yet you still stride through Midchester, helping others, and bringing light in the darkness.”

  “I suppose I believe, perhaps a trifle arrogantly, that Midchester belongs to me, and I refuse to let any murderers or ghosts steal it from me. Besides, most murderers only kill once, I believe. Whatever reason poor Mr. Sanderson was struck down, I think that reason probably died with him. Don't you?” She looked at him intently, trying to read his mind.

  “I hope so, Miss Dearheart. I … I would hate to see any more trouble brought to this wonderful town of yours. Midchester is like a haven in the storm. All around us there is an industrial revolution taking place. Railways, factories, and one day they say man will take to the skies. Yet this town remains oblivious to all that.”

  “And you think that's a good thing, refusing to move with the times?”

  “I always think it's better to let the times come to you, Miss Dearheart, not to chase after them. I did too much of that. I wanted to be a pioneering doctor. I travelled the world in pursuit of that, learning from the best. But do you know what being a real doctor is?”

  “What?”

  “It's doing what John Wheston does. Sitting at peoples' bedsides, listening to their worries, assuring them they're going to pull through. A man loses that when he chases after the glittering prizes. He forgets that there are human beings at the end of those pioneering treatments.”

  “But surely if there were no pioneering treatments, they would not have found the cure for smallpox.”

  “It wasn't the medical men who found that cure, Miss Dearheart. Oh they took credit for it. But it was the milkmaids and dairy farmers who first discovered it. Simply by being among cows that had cowpox and realising that unlike their neighbours, they were free from the disease. It is that quiet discovery, a realisation formed over decades, which really matters. Not the big 'let's rush this through and make a lot of money out of it' discoveries of the men of science.”

  Elizabeth felt confused. As far as she was aware, Albert Sanderson had no medical training, yet Liam spoke like a man who knew what he was talking about. On the other hand, she had learned about the discovery of the smallpox vaccine by reading books and newspapers. Was it not just as likely that Albert Sanderson read the same books? Or even more likely that being in a sanatorium would put him in the way of much medical talk.

  “It is a pity that Lady Clarissa could not join us,” said Elizabeth, watching him closely.

  “Lady Clarissa?”

  “My aunt's step-daughter.”

  “What?” Lady Bedlington's voice rang out imperiously across the room. She was involved in a game of bridge with the sisters and Mr. Jenkins. “What was that about Clarissa?”

  “I said it was a shame she could not be here.”

  “She's down on our estate in Devonshire, I should imagine.”

  “Oh no,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, who sat by the fire, her eyes gleaming, either from the heat or the glass of port she had just finished. “I saw her in town only this morning. She is staying at the Blue Peacock Inn, I believe.”

  “Why has no one told me this? Really,” said Lady Bedlington, “it is coming to something when a girl does not come to see her dear step-mama.”

  Though it was well known that Lady Clarissa and Lady Bedlington had never been dear to each other, no one contradicted Her Ladyship.

  “Is it true that she was once engaged to the dead man's brother?” asked Mr. Jenkins.

  “Yes, many years ago,” said Lady Bedlington. “It was a bad match, and my dear husband would not permit it.”

  “It's sad when two people who should be together are kept apart,” said the Reverend.

  “Nonsense Philip, it was just as well. He drove his wife to suicide.”

  “What is it with these dreadful men?” asked Miss Graves, her eyes shining in the candlelight. “First the Sanderson man, and now the Demon Doctor of Delhi.”

  “The Demon Doctor of Delhi?” said Mr. Hardacre. He had been very quiet all evening, though Elizabeth had been aware of him watching her as she talked to Liam. “What is that all about?”

  “Oh, did you not see the newspaper?” said Miss Graves. “A Doctor Bradbourne based in India. Embezzled money from a rich patient, then killed the poor man. Then Mrs. Bradbourne took her own life. They never found her body, so they think she was probably eaten by a crocodile.”

  “That is unlikely,” said Liam. “There are no crocodiles in the Ganges. There are only gharials, which are much smaller, albeit similar creatures. But they're not man eaters.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it, Doctor Doubleday,” said Mr. Hardacre. Liam did not answer.

  The atmosphere became thicker, but Elizabeth could not put her finger on why.

  “Men are beasts,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “Of course, my Herbert was not. Goodness, he was asleep by eight o'clock most evenings.” Elizabeth detected a hint of disappointment.

  “Yes, I always found a sleeping draught useful for that,” said Lady Bedlington. “In his lordship's cocoa. It dispenses with most night-time unpleasantness where men are concerned.”

  “Does it?” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “Well, I'm sure I never gave Herbert a sleeping draught.”

  “No, but I'll hazard a guess he took a few himself,” muttered Constable Hounds who was standing near to Elizabeth.

  “What was that, constable?”

  “I said, I'd better be getting myself off. With your leave, Lady Bedlington.” Elizabeth was glad to see that the constable had dispensed with his earlier attempts at speaking in what he believed was an upper class accent.

  “No, not yet. We were interrupted at dinner. All the talk of legs and dogs.” She cast a murderous glance at the sisters. Luckily they were so overwhelmed to be breathing the same air as Her Ladyship they did not notice the insult. “I believe Sanderson saw someone he knew in the village, did he not?”

  “Yes, that's right, Your Ladyship. He did not say who, but he told the landlord at the Inn that he was going to meet someone. The landlord got the feeling it was a lady.”

  “Lucinda?” said Elizabeth.

  “There's no one around here of that name,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “We've asked, haven't we, Henrietta?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Miss Graves. “My sister and I have been doing a fair bit of sleuthing.”

  “You really should be careful, ladies,” said the constable. “And tell your Samuel to be careful too, Reverend. I know he and Johnny Fletcher – begging your pardon Mr. Fletcher – have been looking for clues, but it's a bit dangerous out there. Young Johnny swears he saw someone building the snowman around Mr. Sanderson, so has been out and about looking at everyone to see if he recognises them as the man's assailant.”

  “I'll have a word,” said the Reverend. “Though one would hope this is the only murder we'll ever have in Midchester.”

  “Oh, I don't know about the only one, Reverend,” said Constable Hounds. “It was before this here young lady,” he gestured to Elizabeth, “was born and before you took over the parish church. A man murdered his business associate. Funnily enough his young wife killed herself too. And her two children. Tragic case.”

  “The children too?” said Elizabeth. “That's dreadful.”

  “Their bodies was never found,” said Constable Hounds, “but their clothes was found near the river. Chances are they were swept into the estuary and out to sea.”

  “Oh, I'd heard about that,” said Miss Graves. Her voice held a note of regret, about it being something she'd only heard about. “What a pity it happened before most of us came here.”

  “Let me see,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “They said she was quite a common thing. Not well born
at all. But had a way with her. What was her name?”

  “Lucinda Hargreaves,” said the constable. “I remember because I thought about her when I heard Mr. Sanderson had said the name Lucinda.”

  “Is it possible he knew her?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I suppose it is. He's been doing business in this area for a long time.”

  “Then he could have seen her!” For some reason Elizabeth felt relieved. Because if it was Lucinda Hargreaves then it was more likely she who had killed George Sanderson, not Liam (or Albert Sanderson, if that was his real name). Not that it altered the fact that Albert Sanderson – or Liam – was involved with Lady Clarissa. That tore at Elizabeth's heart. She tried to tell herself she was being stupid. She had only known Liam for just over a week, and for a lot of that time she had suspected him of murder.

  Mr. Hardacre yawned. “This is all fascinating, really, but I must get back to my sister.”

  “Of course,” said Elizabeth. “I am sorry she could not be here tonight.”

  “As was she,” said Mr. Hardacre. “Hopefully she will be able to see you all again before we leave.”

  “Then it is certain you are leaving?” said Elizabeth.

  “Yes.”

  “But you will stay until after Christmas, I hope. Father and I had hoped to invite you both to the vicarage for Christmas luncheon.”

  “Humph,” said Lady Bedlington. “It is something when outsiders are invited before family.”

  “We did invite you, Arabella,” said the Reverend. “You refused, as you always do.”

  “I am quite sure you did not, but as I am not one to bear a grudge, I will come. I suppose these two will be there.” She gestured to the sisters.

  “Certainly,” said Elizabeth emphatically. She had no intentions of letting her aunt decide on the guest list. A glance from her father told her that he understood and approved of her decision.