“Yes, I suppose so,” she said without enthusiasm.
“You must come and visit father soon,” Shiela said in parting. Then she left by the same path beyond the garden which she had used in coming to the house.
Lucy remained on the steps for a moment after the other girl had vanished in the mist. In the distance she could hear the sound of a foghorn. It added to the melancholy of the moment. And suddenly she had a feeling of being trapped.
She went back inside the house and stared around at its rather shabby elegance. The mental picture of that sad face of the long-dead Jennifer Woods continued to haunt her. Everywhere she looked in the high-ceilinged, shadowed rooms the face seemed to be there waiting for her. And she knew she had to learn more about the girl who had once lived in Moorgate and of the fate which had overtaken her.
Whom could she depend on to tell her the accurate history of the house and its people? And at once Dr. Matthew Boyce came to her mind. The old doctor had plainly shown he wanted to befriend her, and he had also promised he would give her a full account of Moorgate. Her tension was so strong she felt she had to get in touch with him. She couldn’t wait for him to call her.
She made her way to the telephone extension in the foyer, looked up his number, and gave it to the operator. She stood there in the gloom with a troubled expression on her face as she pressed the receiver to her ear and waited for the doctor’s phone to be answered.
When it finally was, the doctor’s own cheery voice came over the line. “Dr. Boyce here. What can I do for you?”
Relief surged through her. “It’s Lucy Dorset,” she said anxiously. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a problem.”
“I’m glad you chose to call me,” the doctor said.
“I wondered if you might be able to come over for a little,” she went on. “I’ve made an unhappy discovery and I need your advice.”
“Is it urgent?” he asked. “I have one or two things I should attend to this afternoon.”
Her hopes waned. In a small voice, she said, “I’m alone in the house. And I’ve just heard that it is haunted.”
There was a pause from the other end of the line. “I see,” the doctor said. “In that case I’ll put my own errands off and come around and see you right away.”
“You’re sure it won’t be too much trouble?”
“No. I understand,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be over in a short while.”
“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, unable to hide her feeling of relief. “It is good of you!”
While she waited for Dr. Boyce to arrive she tried to keep busy and calm her nerves. She moved from room to room in the downstairs area. In a small sewing room she found an old-fashioned sewing machine which seemed not to have been used for years. It was more an interesting antique than an article for practical purposes.
On the wall was a fairly large needlework design of the stone house, and the representation was excellent. Beneath it was the inscription “Bless This House” in Old English lettering. In the corner were the neatly sewn initials JW. The needlework had to be the product of Jennifer Woods’ hands.
She went on to the library and studied the titles of the old, leather-bound volumes. There were complete sets of Dickens, Scott, Hawthorne, and Thackeray. The library, like the attic room upstairs, had the odor of age and decay.
Lucy selected a volume of Shakespeare’s poems and took it from an upper shelf. Then she brought it to the roll-top desk which Fred had purchased for the room and sat down with the book. As she opened it a weird thing happened. She had opened it to a page to find a thin sheet of notepaper with a message on it. And as the sheet of thin paper was revealed, a breeze came to lift it from the book and deposit it on the carpet a little distance away.
She stared at the paper on the carpet in blank amazement. The only window in the room was shut tight. There was no hint of a breeze, or any place where it could have come from. Yet something had wafted the sheet of paper a distance away. It was as though a spectral hand had whisked it through the air.
Lucy frowned. She didn’t even know why she had selected this particular book. It was as if some compulsion had come over her. She stared at its yellowed pages and fancy type, and then at the sheet of paper on the carpet. She put the book down on the desk and hesitantly went over to pick up the sheet of notepaper and study its message.
She found her hand was trembling slightly as she went about reading it. The handwriting was clear and even, with stylish flourishes. The message was short and was addressed to Jennifer Woods. She read: “My Dearest Jennifer, I will see you at five if all goes well. I worry about you constantly and know that G. is determined you shall be unhappy. But we will find a way. Love, Frank.”
It seemed to be a love letter sent to the doctor’s wife by an admirer. Lucy was enthralled. It was as if it had been meant for her to find the message. Something had sent her to choose that particular book, and then the paper had been mysteriously wafted across the room, as if by a spirit. Perhaps it indeed had been.
She folded the sheet of paper carefully and placed it in a pocket of her jacket. She was about to look at the book again when she heard a car draw up outside the house. Hurrying from the library, she managed to get to the front door and open it before Dr. Boyce was more than out of his small foreign car.
The old man mounted the steps slowly. “I see you are on hand to greet me,” he said.
“Yes,” she said with a relieved sigh. “I was afraid you’d not get here.”
“No fear of that,” the bald little man said.
“Come into the living room,” she said.
He came in and removed his topcoat. Then he turned to study her closely. “What is all the trouble?”
“You know,” she said, facing him.
“You’ve discovered the house’s wicked reputation.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” the old doctor said in a placating manner.
Her eyes were worried as she said to him, “I believe I’ve been kept in the dark long enough about this place. And I know you are someone on whose word I can depend.”
“Thank you,” the doctor said. “Has Fred told you anything about Moorgate at all?”
“No. I just had some information from Shiela. Enough to make me worry.”
The old man looked grim. “She’d not refrain from that.” He took a deep breath. “This is going to take awhile. You’d best sit down.”
She took a high-backed chair near him. “What about you?” she asked.
He dismissed the idea with a gesture. “I don’t need to sit down. In a case like this I’ll manage better standing up.” He rubbed his chin. “You know that Dr. Graham Woods and his wife, Jennifer, lived in this house?”
“Everyone in St. Andrews seems to know that.”
“They were Moorgate’s most colorful inhabitants,” he told her. “And among its first.”
“I found this,” she said. And she gave him the sheet of notepaper.
His eyebrows lifted and he took it and scanned its message. Then he handed it back to her and said, “A love letter.”
“Yes.”
“From Frank Clay to Jennifer,” the old man mused with a speculative look on his round face. “You’ve met Jim Stevens and his mother?”
“Yesterday at your party.”
He nodded. “Frank Clay was an ancestor of Jim Stevens. Frank lived in that white house on the island with his invalid mother for years. It was only after his death that the island was sold.”
“Shiela Farley’s father owns it now, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Dr. Boyce said. “There’s not much in the town he doesn’t own. He has the money.”
“So I understand.”
Dr. Boyce’s expression was bitter. “I understand it was Shiela who told you this house was haunted?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” the old man said. “I have an
idea she isn’t anxious for you to stay here. She and Fred became pretty friendly before you two were married.”
Her eyes widened. “You think she wants to scare me away?”
“Why not? If you fail as Fred’s wife she may think she has a chance to take over.”
Lucy’s face crimsoned. “I have to know about this house before Fred comes back. For several reasons, one being that I think I’ve seen the ghost and had other revelations of it. The ghost of Jennifer.”
The doctor’s manner was solemn. “It is Jennifer who is said to haunt Moorgate. I won’t deny that. That note you’ve just discovered backs up a rumor that’s been going around the town for many years.”
“In what way?”
“There has always been speculation that Frank Clay and Jennifer Woods were having a love affair. But no one has had definite proof. That note is pretty strong evidence.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but might it not suggest nothing more than warm friendship,” she protested.
“I’d like to believe that,” Dr. Boyce said. “But all the circumstances would indicate the relationship was more serious than that.”
“Please go on,” she begged him.
“Dr. Graham Woods and Jennifer came to this house as two happy newly-weds,” he told her. “But they weren’t here long before things changed. Their relationship became shadowed by distrust and jealousy, and in the end it all turned out badly.”
“This Frank Clay who lived on the island intruded on their marriage?”
“That’s how the story went. Jennifer was a beautiful, high-strung girl. The accounts were that she and her doctor husband had many a quarrel about Frank Clay.”
“And it all ended in tragedy?”
He nodded soberly. “With the deaths of both Graham and Jennifer Woods.”
“They were drowned, weren’t they?”
Dr. Matthew Boyce looked grim. “They were. Or at least that’s one version of the story. The other is that he murdered his wife and then lost his own life while disposing of the body. That’s the basis of the ghost story.”
Chapter Four
The doctor’s words came as a shock to Lucy. None of the vague allusions offered her about Moorgate had given her any reason to believe there had been violence and murder there. She stared up at his troubled face in surprise.
“Jennifer was murdered?” she asked in awe.
“Many folks living here in that day suspected it,” Dr. Boyce said.
“Please tell me more.”
The elderly man placed his hands behind his back and began to pace up and down. He said, “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. I can’t vouch as to the truth of all or any of it. Facts become legends over the years, and legends are often not too reliable.”
She said, “I realize that.”
“Graham Woods came to this house when it was almost new. He was one of the first doctors to serve the community. Before that the people here had to depend on calling a doctor from St. Stephen. Since that is nearly twenty miles away it wasn’t satisfactory. Especially in that era of slow travel.”
“Was he married when he arrived?”
“Yes. He brought his wife with him. From all accounts they were a good-looking couple.”
“I’ve seen their portraits,” she said. “Shiela took me to the attic and showed them to me.”
The old man halted his pacing to gaze at her with interest. “She did? Then the portraits are still here?”
“Yes. They are in the first attic room at the head of the stairs.”
“There was talk of them being presented to the local museum,” Dr. Boyce said. “But they couldn’t have gotten around to it. They are excellent examples of primitive art.”
“They seemed excellent,” she agreed.
“The wandering artists of that day were as handy with a portrait or a landscape as they were with a sign,” the doctor said. “They’d travel from village to village taking on the commercial jobs first and then finding any art commissions they could.”
“Was it jealousy that caused the unhappiness between the young doctor and his wife?”
The old man’s round face showed a frown. “I think so. When Graham Woods and Jennifer came here everyone agreed they were a delightful pair of young people, and ideally suited. She had silver blonde hair, but you must have noticed that in the portrait.”
“I did,” Lucy said.
“At the county square dances they claim she was the gayest young woman of them all. She had a vivacious, sparkling disposition and made friends rapidly. Her husband was not all that outgoing, but he was respected for his ability as a doctor and for his kindness. The accounts claim that he often remained in the background at social events, while she was the center of attention.”
Lucy said, “That could cause trouble eventually.”
“I’m sure that it did,” Dr. Boyce said. “Over the months after their arrival it was said there was a change in their relationship. A coldness had come between them. And local gossip had it that Frank Clay, who lived with his mother on Minister’s Island, was the reason.”
“Jennifer had fallen in love with him?” Lucy wondered.
The old doctor frowned. “Let us say she at least was showing a definite interest in him. Perhaps it was only close friendship, as many claimed, or maybe it was a love affair, as Graham Woods seemed to suspect”
“What was Frank Clay like?”
“I’ve never seen a portrait of him,” Dr. Boyce told her. “I don’t think there are any. But from what I’ve read he was a thin young man of fair complexion, and even-featured. He had finished college in Boston, but returned here to live the life of a country gentleman and keep his mother company. The mother was an old woman then. Frank was the son of her late middle-age, and with her husband dead she had come to depend on Frank for everything. The opinion was that she had ruined his life with her possessiveness.
“When Jennifer arrived in St. Andrews it must have been a turning point in Frank Clay’s life. For the first time he showed an active interest in a young woman, despite his mother’s disapproval. And in this instance she had good grounds, since Jennifer was the doctor’s wife.
“But Frank, who had always heeded his mother before, seemed to have no intention of doing so in this case,” Dr. Boyce went on. “The flirtation between the doctor’s lively young wife and himself became the chief topic of scandal in the town.”
“How did Dr. Woods react to this?”
“He didn’t appear to be openly jealous, if the accounts are accurate,” Dr. Boyce said. “But there undoubtedly was strain behind the scenes. He and his wife ceased attending many of the dances and other social affairs. And it was claimed that the doctor’s jealousy was the cause.”
“Frank Clay lived in that white house on Minister’s Island?” Lucy asked.
“Yes,” the old doctor said. “He and his mother lived there. At the time of his romance with Jennifer his mother was extremely ill, and young Dr. Graham Woods was attending her.”
“That must have created a situation,” Lucy ventured.
The doctor turned to gaze out the living-room window that gave a view of Minister’s Island, but the view was completely obscured by the fog now. He said, “I’m sure that it must have.”
“And Frank Clay and Jennifer were seen a lot together?” she asked.
“They were. Frank, of course, had loads of free time and plenty of money. So while the doctor was busy with his calls, Frank devoted himself to winning his young wife’s affections. Or so people claimed.”
Lucy was listening with amazement. “You make it sound so immediate, and yet it all happened a century ago.”
“A hundred years passes quickly enough.”
“I suppose that is true.”
The doctor smiled. “My own years span three quarters of a century, and it doesn’t seem all that long.”
“You’re one of those ageless people,” Lucy said.
“There are days when I don’t feel that to be tru
e,” he said. “But to get back to Jennifer. The town was full of scandalous whispers about her love for Frank Clay. And it was noted there was a distinct coldness between her husband and Frank Clay. The two tried to avoid each other as much as possible.”
“And you believe the affair led to murder?”
“That’s the story we’re left with. A girl who worked at Moorgate as a maid claimed she had heard quarrels between Graham Woods and Jennifer over young Clay.”
“Was she considered a reliable witness?”
The old man shrugged. “She seemed a normal enough young woman, if all the accounts passed down are true.”
“What about the double drownings?” Lucy asked.
Dr. Boyce looked solemn. “They happened on a stormy October night. Hurricanes come down this coast every autumn, and it was on a night of one of the worst of such storms that the two met their tragic fate.”
“Where?”
“In the bay. Between the mainland and Minister’s Island. All that area, including the road, was submerged at the time of the hurricane. It was a wild expanse of great foam-flecked waves.”
“Why was Dr. Graham Woods out in his boat in the storm?” she wondered.
“No one really knows. He had patients in houses along the shore whom he often visited by boat. But no sensible man would set out on such an errand on the night of a hurricane. And there was no record of anyone having sent for him, it was learned afterward.
“Still he had gone out in the boat.”
“Yes.”
Lucy said, “And Jennifer was with him.”
“They were both drowned.”
“Were their bodies recovered?”
“When the storm ended and the tide went out their bodies, with the wreckage of the boat, were found on the sandy stretch of road leading to the island.”
She looked at him with troubled eyes. “What started the rumors of a murder?”
“Frank Clay was responsible for that,” the old doctor said. “He came to the mainland as soon as the storm quieted down,” he went on. “He led the searching party.”
“And found their bodies?”
“Yes.”
“What a moment it must have been for him, if he truly loved Jennifer,” she said sadly.
Vintage Love Page 185