Vintage Love

by Clarissa Ross

  “Those who witnessed the event said he took it very hard. He picked up Jennifer’s limp body and carried it in his arms the whole distance to the mainland. He was like a person demented, it was said.”

  “And then?”

  “After he recovered from his shock he claimed that Jennifer had vowed her love for him and had promised to leave her husband. She planned to leave Graham Woods within a few days and go away with him. He said their quarreling had come to a point where she could bear it no longer, and that Graham Woods, despite his excellence as a doctor, had been a cold, jealous husband. And he pointed out certain bruises on Jennifer’s throat to back up his story.”

  “And people accepted this as true?” she asked. “They must have been terribly shocked.”

  “Many of them accepted it,” he said. “In fact, it is regarded as the true account today. Frank Clay claimed that on the night of the hurricane Graham Woods and Jennifer had a final violent quarrel. The maid gave this story some credence by claiming she had heard her mistress scream out in fear during the storm.”

  “Didn’t she go to investigate?”

  “She claimed she was too frightened. She had heard them arguing before, but this was an especially violent battle between them. She pressed her hands over her ears, and finally managed to get to sleep.”

  “And no one wondered whether the girl was telling the truth?”

  “Apparently there was nothing against the girl. She was a simple soul, who afterward worked for the Clays on the island until her marriage, when she left the area.”

  “Wouldn’t you consider that strange that she went to work for Frank Clay and his mother?”

  “No,” Dr. Boyce said. “The house here was being closed up and there wouldn’t be too many jobs open in the area. I think Frank Clay hired her out of a desire to help her.”

  “What did he think had happened after the quarrel?”

  “His theory was that Graham Woods strangled Jennifer and then took her from the house and out into the storm to dispose of the body, his plan being to make it appear she’d wandered off in the storm, tried to reach the island in the boat, but instead lost her life when the boat overturned. By a quirk of fate part of the story came true when the boat with him and his dead wife’s body in it did capsize. And he was drowned.”

  There was a brief moment of silence in the shadowed room as the old doctor finished his grim account. She felt a cold chill of fear as she realized how likely this explanation was. It surely explained Jennifer’s unhappy ghost.

  She looked up at him solemnly. “Do you believe that is what happened?”

  “I was brought up on the story.”

  “So you accept it?”

  He frowned. “I think I must. I can’t account otherwise for Jennifer being in the boat with her husband in that awful storm.”

  “She might have gone to the boat in desperation, to reach Minister’s Island.”

  “And her husband followed her, you mean? In that case, why didn’t he make her get out of the boat and return to Moorgate? He knew no boat could live in that storm.”

  She gave a deep sigh. “Then the story has to be true.”

  “So it seems.”

  “And that is why Jennifer haunts this house?”

  The doctor spread his hands in a questioning gesture. “If she does.”

  Lucy gave him a troubled glance. “Oh, I’m sure she does. I have had proof enough to satisfy me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said, seating himself near her.

  She began from the moment of her arrival at Moorgate, starting with the phantom face in the window and continuing on to the cup which so mysteriously shattered without being in any way touched by her.

  When she finished, Dr. Boyce gave her a worried look. “Have you talked this over with Fred?”

  “Some of it. He seems to get angry. He doesn’t want to admit the house could be haunted.”

  “I suppose he’s gone to so much trouble,” the doctor said. “He’s spent a lot of time and money getting the place ready for you.”

  “You knew about the legend,” she said. “Why did you let him buy this place?”

  The old man shrugged. “I have never actually believed the house to be haunted, no matter what may have happened here.”

  “I say that it is.”

  “I won’t argue the point,” he said. “In any case, before I could discuss the house with Fred he’d already bought it from the Farleys.”

  Fear shadowed Lucy’s face. Quietly, she said, “You can be sure Shiela Farley wanted him to buy Moorgate.”

  “Why?”

  She gave him a meaningful glance. “Because she hoped that history would repeat itself. That the shadow of the house would settle over Fred and me. We’d quarrel and our marriage would be destroyed. It had to be that!”

  The old doctor seemed perturbed. “You could be doing the girl a great injustice. Like myself, she may not believe in ghosts.”

  “She has never lived here. Nor have you.”

  “That is true.”

  “I’m sure Jennifer’s unhappy spirit is here,” she said. “I’m as sure of it as I am of anything.”

  “What you’ve told me is disconcerting,” the doctor agreed. “But there may be logical explanations for all those things.”

  “That’s what Fred would like me to believe,” she said.

  “Can’t you try?”

  “Not after what has happened here,” she said. “Do you blame me?”

  “Not entirely,” he said. “But I’ll still cling to the hope you may come to terms with Moorgate.”

  “I don’t think it’s likely, but for Fred’s sake I’ll try.”

  The doctor nodded approvingly. “No one could expect more of you. I wanted you to know the stories about the house. You are entitled to that. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “If there is I’ll tell you,” she said.

  “Be sure that you do,” Dr. Boyce said, rising. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must be on my way. I have a few things that must be done.”

  She got to her feet. “I shouldn’t have taken so much of your time.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  She drew the folded message from her pocket. “What about this letter from Frank Clay to Jennifer?”

  The old doctor stared at it. “Keep it for a while. I may want to show it to the museum curator later. But not for the moment. It bears out that the two were exchanging messages.”

  “But not that they were lovers.”

  “It surely hints at it,” he pointed out.

  “I don’t agree,” Lucy said. “I wouldn’t want to be judged as Jennifer was by the same type of message. It seems to me there must be other evidence around which would explain many things, if only it could be found.”

  “Such as?”

  She considered. “I don’t know. Diaries or journals. As a doctor, Graham Woods must have kept one.”

  “We found it,” the old man said. “It was very unrevealing. As a matter of fact, it bore out Frank Clay’s contention that the doctor was a cold man. There was nothing but routine facts and figures in his journal. A record of cases and payments made.”

  “Couldn’t there have been other journals?” she wondered. “A more personal one?”

  “None has been found.”

  She indicated upstairs with a gesture. “The attic is full of stored items. The portraits are up there. Maybe there are other valuable records as well.”

  “I would expect the material has been sifted carefully over the years,” he said.

  “I’m left with the feeling the story isn’t complete,” Lucy maintained. For she did have that uneasy thought without understanding why.

  Dr. Boyce eyed her sympathetically. “If you find the house gets on your nerves too much you shouldn’t try to remain here after a reasonable period. But give it a chance. That’s my advice.”

  “I’ll take it,” she
said. “But I’m haunted by the story you’ve told me. What about Frank Clay?”

  “He lived on with his mother on the island.”

  “You say she died a few years after the drownings?”

  “Yes,” he said. “She’d been seriously ill for a long while, so her death came as no shock. It left Frank Clay completely alone. Most people expected he’d leave Minister’s island when she died, but he didn’t.”

  “He stayed on the island until his death?”

  “He lived there to old age as a recluse. In the end he never left the island even when the tide was low and the road exposed. A servant came to St. Andrews for provisions. And when he died he was buried there at his request.”

  “And then the house was shut up?”

  “Yes. Through his will it came into the hands of the Stevens family. They were cousins on his mother’s side. But none of them wanted to live there. They kept the property until recently, when Jim Stevens’ mother sold it to the Farleys.”

  “What a strange story,” Lucy said. “Frank Clay could never have recovered from the tragedy of Jennifer’s drowning.”

  “He never considered marriage. And from what has been passed down about him, he became a bitter old man.”

  “It sounds logical,” she said. “Have you ever been to the Clay house on the island?”

  “Many times.”

  “I’d like to visit it sometime,” she said.

  “No reason why you shouldn’t,” the doctor said. “If Fred hasn’t time to take you, let me know and I will do so. It’s a short drive when the tide is out.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll remember your offer.”

  She saw the old doctor to the door and waited as he drove away. She stood there in the damp, cold fog which had come up so suddenly. Then she turned and went back into the cool shadows of the old house. Standing in the living room, she glanced around her and tried to visualize the drama that must have taken place there long ago. Had there really been violence and murder between the two who had come to Moorgate as newly-weds, just as she and Fred had done?

  All the evidence seemed to point to it. The story Dr. Boyce had told of the husband taking his wife’s dead body out in the small boat in the raging storm presented a fearsome scene. Had Shiela Farley encouraged Fred to buy the house knowing its dark history and hoping it would in some way have an influence on them? Thinking that the tragedy of a century ago might repeat itself?

  But that was too ridiculous, she decided, as a tiny ripple of fear went through her. What problems could she and Fred have other than minor arguments about this house? There was no jealousy between them. And then she hesitated, realizing that conditions had changed. There was Shiela in the picture, and Lucy surely was normally jealous of the wealthy, dark girl. Could Shiela be the spark to ignite a fire of hatred between them? She mustn’t let it happen!

  With this determination she went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal for Fred’s return. Moving between the counter and stove she decided to keep too busy to worry. By the time Fred got home she wanted to have driven all thoughts of the tragedy and ghosts from her mind.

  By six o’clock she had an excellent dinner ready. Fred was fond of ham, and so she had baked some ham with pineapple, and also prepared a favorite milk dessert he’d commended her for when he came to her apartment in Boston for dinner. Despite the dull, foggy day and the gloom of the house itself, she’d managed to throw off some of her moody feelings.

  She went upstairs and had a quick shower and changed into another dress for the evening. Then, filled with pleasurable excitement, she came down to wait for Fred. She checked on the food in the kitchen and decided it would be all right as long as he arrived by six forty-five.

  She went to the window several times while she waited, but there was no sign of his car coming up the hill. The fog still lay over the countryside like a gray shroud. With a sigh she turned from the living-room window, and she was pacing nervously when the phone rang.

  It was Fred. “Sorry,” he said in a weary voice, “I’ve been held up in St. Stephen. When I get back I’ll have to go straight to my office for an hour or so.”

  She was dismayed. “But what about dinner?”

  “I’ll get a snack at one of the roadside stands,” he said.

  “But I’ve got a wonderful dinner here waiting for you,” she said in despair. “Surely you can take a little time for it.”

  “Sorry, darling, it would keep me too long,” he said. “You enjoy it yourself. I should be home by nine. I’ll explain everything then.”

  “Nine! That’s hours away!”

  “It will go fast enough,” he told her. “For me anyway.” And he hung up.

  She put down the phone and stood there in the dark hallway in a mood of complete depression. The tempting aroma of the food came from the kitchen to remind her of her high hopes. And all her work had gone for nothing. It was too much!

  She went out to the kitchen and turned off the warming oven. She debated whether to set a single place for herself and have dinner, and then decided against it. She simply wasn’t in the mood to eat yet. And she left the warm and pleasant kitchen for the gloom of the hallway.

  While she was standing there she heard a car coming up the driveway. Wondering who it might be, she opened the front door in time to see a boy jump out of the car and come running to the steps with an evening paper folded in his hand.

  “Paper, ma’am,” he said, handing it to her. He was about ten years old.

  She smiled at him. “Do you deliver it every night?”

  “No,” he said. “My brother has the paper route. I’m just doing it for him while he’s studying for his exams. He has a bike, but my dad is driving me around tonight.”

  Lucy said, “You’re lucky.”

  “I’d rather have a bike of my own,” the boy said as he rushed off to get in the car again.

  She took the paper and went inside. The headlines were of no interest to her, so she put it down on the hall table where Fred could find it when he came in. As she stood there alone in the silence of the big house she had a return of that strange feeling of melancholy. It came just as it had before, as if someone were taking her over. And for no reason she clearly understood she began to ascend the stairs slowly, her hand dragging along the railing.

  If the house had been silent before, it was surely a good deal more silent now. There didn’t seem to be a single sound. She mounted the stairs as if floating in space. And before she knew it she was at the attic level, with her hand on the knob of the storage room door.

  She turned the knob slowly and ventured into the shadowed storage room with its cobwebbed windows. The odor of age and decay was as strong as it had been before. Like a person in a dream whose pattern of movement had been ordained, she crossed the bare floor to the spot where the portraits were leaning against the wall.

  Continuing in the same dreamy mood, she touched the frame of the portrait of Graham Woods and turned it around so she could study it better in the small amount of light coming through the dirty window. As she closely examined the handsome face of the long dead young doctor, she had the feeling the painting had slightly changed expression. It was only a fleeting thing, but she felt that the stern lines of the portrait had softened a little so that he looked up at her from the canvas with almost a longing expression.

  It gave her a start. Then the painting took on its normal appearance again. She stared at it, thinking she must have gone a little mad. The portrait was a thing of paint and canvas, how could it change its expression? But it was almost as if the dead man had tried to communicate with her. Had tried to tell her something.

  A cold chill coursed down her spine as she raised herself from a study of the painting. What was she doing up here anyway? What had gotten into her to bring her up to this isolated room in the attic, a place she truly feared? It was as though some power outside herself had taken control of her and led her there.

  Her eyes wandered to the other p
ortrait. The painting of Jennifer which had given her such a start when she’d first seen it. For the face had not been strange to her. The features were the same as those she’d seen pressed against the windowpane of her bedroom. Fred refused to believe it had been anything more than the shadow of a tree branch. But she knew better!

  She took a deep breath and gazed at the trunks and boxes haphazardly piled about the room. Surely she should search through their contents some day. Who could tell what she might find in them? Secrets long hidden that could throw new light on the somber history of the old house. But others must have rummaged through the trunks; yet there was always the chance she might come on something they had missed.

  This thought was going through her mind when she heard a footstep directly behind her.

  Chapter Five

  Lucy gained enough control of herself to turn around slowly. There, standing in the shadows of the room behind her, was a male figure. For a moment she didn’t recognize who it was. Then he spoke.

  “I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion,” he said. The voice was at once familiar. It was Jim Stevens, the young lawyer whom she’d met at the welcoming party given her and Fred by Dr. Matthew Boyce.

  She drew a breath of relief. “You gave me a start,” she said.

  The pleasant Jim Stevens looked embarrassed. “I didn’t realize I might scare you.”

  “I didn’t hear you until you were right behind me,” she said.

  “I should have spoken sooner,” Jim admitted. “I came to see Fred and found the front door open. There was apparently no one around, no car in sight. I decided you might have gone away and left the door open by accident. Or that in your absence someone might have gotten in. I decided to investigate. Downstairs was empty, and then I heard you up here and came up.”

  She remembered. “I went out to get the evening paper from the delivery boy. I must have left the door ajar when I came in.”

  “It was open a couple of inches,” the young lawyer said.

  “You did right to come in and investigate,” she said. “I came up to look at these portraits. And I became so absorbed in what I was doing I didn’t hear you when you arrived.”