He glanced at the portraits. “They are interesting.”
“You’re familiar with them?”
“Yes,” he said. “Shiela Farley showed them to me. We made a tour of the place after her father bought it. Moorgate has quite a history. And Dr. Woods and his wife played a major role in it.”
“Of course you know the story.”
“Anyone who lives in St. Andrews knows about Moorgate,” he said.
“Not being a native, it’s all new to me,” she said.
“Naturally,” Jim said. He glanced at the portrait of the blonde Jennifer and added quietly, “She was lovely, wasn’t she?”
“A beauty,” she agreed, studying the portrait again, feeling close to its subject.
“Legend has it that an ancestor of mine, Frank Clay, had a romance with her,” he said.
“So I’ve heard.”
Jim smiled at her. “I can’t say that I’d blame him. If I’d lived in that era and known her, I might have done the same thing.”
Lucy said, “I don’t believe there was a romance. Something tells me there wasn’t.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s interesting.”
“I can’t explain it. But it’s almost as if there were a whispered ‘no’ when I think about it.”
“Interesting,” Jim Stevens said again.
Lucy turned to the portrait of Dr. Graham Woods and studied the handsome, melancholy face. “I hate to think his ideal marriage with Jennifer turned out badly. I refuse to believe it. I’m sure they loved each other.”
“Then how do you explain the drownings? What were they doing out there in that storm unless he’d murdered Jennifer and was trying to get rid of her body?”
She gave a slight shudder as they stood there in the shadows. “It’s such an ugly story. I can’t accept that it happened to them. My inner voice speaks against it.”
The young lawyer looked wryly amused. “You’re a romantic.”
“I plead guilty.”
“Don’t feel bad about it,” he said. “We have far too few romantics left.”
“The twentieth century is a chilling climate for them,” she said.
“Undoubtedly. But then I believe that’s been true down through all the centuries,” he said. “Mind you, I’m no authority.”
“Nor am I.”
“I take it Fred isn’t at home?” he said.
“No. He was held up in St. Stephen and now he has to go straight to the office. He’ll be here about nine.”
“I see.”
“I haven’t had dinner yet,” Lucy told the young man. “I went to a lot of preparations for Fred, and now he isn’t coming. Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Then why not join me? I was so disappointed that I had lost my appetite.”
“It’s bad enough to intrude as I have, without staying for a meal,” the young lawyer said
Lucy smiled as she started out of the attic room. “I insist. You’ll be doing me a good turn. I get very jittery here alone.”
They went downstairs and within a short time she was serving dinner in the paneled dining room. She lit the candles she’d had ready for Fred’s arrival, and the dinner progressed in a pleasant atmosphere.
Jim Stevens looked up from his plate with an admiring smile. “The dinner is great. You’re not only a romantic but an excellent cook.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I never expected to feel relaxed and at home in Moorgate,” Jim confessed. “But this meal and the atmosphere you’ve created has worked miracles. I’ll make a prediction. You and Fred will be happy here.”
She paused with her fork in hand. “I wonder,” she said wistfully. “There seem to be forces in this old house I can’t understand. I’m afraid they may be evil. And I worry what effect they might have on two people living here.”
He said quietly, “You’re talking about the ghost?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen anything to make you feel this way?”
She nodded. “Several unexplainable things have happened since we arrived.”
The flickering flame of the candle cast a roseate reflection on his pleasant, intellectual face. He said, “I’m sure you’re aware that the ghost of Jennifer is supposed to roam through this house and the garden.”
“I’ve heard some stories about her ghost,” she agreed.
“Do you go along with them?”
“I think I’ve seen her ghost at least once,” Lucy said. “And there have been other manifestations.”
“If you disbelieve the murder theory, how do you account for the ghost?” Jim wanted to know. “Unless Jennifer was her husband’s unhappy victim, why should she haunt Moorgate?”
“Perhaps because of that ugly story,” Lucy suggested. “She may not be resting easy because she wants to dispel the evil rumors. Have you thought about that?”
Jim took a sip of his coffee. “Frankly, no.”
“You might do well to,” she said. “I think Jennifer haunts this house because the story that has been told about her and her husband and your ancestor, Frank Clay, is wrong. That she wants the truth to be known.”
“So her apparition continues to appear.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure no one knows what really happened. And unless it comes to light, Moorgate will always be under a curse. Jennifer’s unhappy spirit will never leave it.”
The young lawyer looked interested. “I’m amazed that you’ve been so caught up by the legend. That you have also formed your own opinion about the whys and wherefores of the events.”
She sat back in her chair with a resigned smile. “I warned you that I was a romantic.”
“I believe it,” he said. He drank the last of a glass of wine she had poured for him. Putting the glass down, he told her, “I’m almost grateful Fred was delayed. It gave me the opportunity of enjoying an excellent dinner and of getting to know you better.”
“I’m happy that you stayed,” she said. “Won’t your mother be expecting you home for dinner?”
“She’s out of town for the day,” he said. “Visiting with some of our relatives in Saint John. For her age she’s a very active woman.”
“And a nice one,” Lucy said. “She was the first to warn me to keep out of the attic and cellar here. That I might meet up with something I couldn’t fully understand. Of course I didn’t take her advice.”
“You might be wise to,” Jim said rather earnestly. “If you’re nervous about the house, those are areas in which you’re sure to feel the most uneasy.”
“Yet they present the most challenge if I’m to solve that long-ago mystery,” she reminded him.
Jim frowned. “I’m not sure there was any mystery. It’s easier to accept that Frank Clay and Jennifer Woods fell in love, and that Graham Woods discovered the romance and in a fit of rage throttled her.”
“I refuse the easy explanation.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
She considered. “I haven’t planned any precise campaign. Perhaps by just going on living here I’ll come to understand how things were. I feel this old house has a story to tell, if only I’m able to tune in on the right wave length and listen.”
The young man’s eyes were fixed on hers soberly. “Suppose, on the other hand, there is a lurking evil in the house as the result of the murder. What then?”
“I should find out about it.”
“I wonder,” he mused. “Isn’t it possible you could come under the malevolent spell of Moorgate without being aware of it?”
“I doubt that.”
“Think of it as a possible risk,” was his warning.
She stared at him through the shadows broken only by the candles on the table. “You’re saying that history may repeat itself?”
“I wonder.”
“That Fred and I might drift apart just as that doctor and his wife of another day are supposed to have done?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I doubt it.” But even as she denied the possibility it worried her a little.
“My ancestor, Frank Clay, swore that Jennifer had been throttled before she was drowned. And he was the first to find her body and carry it to the mainland.”
“I’ve heard the story,” she said.
“Surely he wouldn’t have lied about a thing like that,” Jim said. “He loved Jennifer.”
“Unless he was evil and made up his mind to spread that ugly rumor,” she said.
Jim Stevens smiled wryly. “Now you’re casting my ancestor as the villain.”
“Why not? And perhaps the evil spirit in Moorgate today is his, and not Jennifer’s at all.”
“You said you saw her ghost.”
“Oh, her ghost may be here,” Lucy replied quickly, “but only to fight the evil of Frank Clay.”
Jim laughed quietly. “Interesting.”
She rose from the table. “We should go into the living room. You may as well wait for Fred now. He should be here soon.”
They left the dining room for the larger and better lit living room on the other side of the house. She sat with him on a divan by the big stone fireplace that filled one end of the room.
They talked about the house some more, and he asked her, “If you’re so positive there are ghosts here aren’t you afraid to live here?”
“I am,” she admitted. “But because it’s what Fred wants and because I’d like to clear the reputation of the house and its people, I’m going to remain in it.”
“I wish you good luck,” Jim said. “I think Shiela Farley might have offered Fred some other property. She knew all about the evil name Moorgate had.”
Lucy smiled thinly. “Maybe she thought the house would scare me away.”
Jim Stevens’ eyes twinkled. “And leave the way open for her? I can tell you’ve been talking to my mother. She’s not one of Shiela’s admirers. She had a fit the few times I dated Shiela.”
“You aren’t dating her now?”
“Not regularly,” Jim said. “We may attend a party together now and then for convenience. When Fred came to town he became the big attraction for her. As his new bride, you’ve clipped her wings.”
“I wonder.”
“I’m sure of it,” Jim said. “Fred is devoted to you. Anyone can see that.”
“I wouldn’t expect Shiela to be one to give up easily,” she said.
“Whether she gives up or not, it won’t do her any good,” was the young lawyer’s assurance.
Wanting to change the subject, she said, “I’ve been told Frank Clay was buried on Minister’s Island at his request. What about Graham Woods and Jennifer? Where were they buried?”
“The old town cemetery,” Jim told her. “It’s a block or two down from the Algonquin Hotel on the corner. You’ll find their gravestones together in a corner of the cemetery away from the church. I have an idea the members of the church may have resented the idea of a murderer and his victim being buried in hallowed ground.”
“Thanks to the story your ancestor, Frank Clay, circulated,” she said. “I found a letter which must have been written by him and sent to Jennifer. It was in a volume of Shakespeare. When I opened the book it sort of wafted out onto the carpet. As if an invisible hand had left it there for me.”
“May I see it?” he asked, showing interest.
She felt it could do no harm. So she went to the desk in the library where she’d placed it in one of the pigeonholes after showing it to Dr. Boyce. She’d expected to find it right away, but after a few minutes of searching she was unable to locate it at all. She turned in chagrin to Jim Stevens, who was standing beside her, waiting to take the letter from her.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “It’s vanished!”
“Are you sure you had it?” he asked in a slightly mocking tone.
“Of course I am,” she declared indignantly. “I showed it to Dr. Boyce. He’ll verify it.”
“You must have misplaced it,” he suggested.
She studied the desk again with troubled eyes. “Yes, I must have,” she said, but she didn’t really believe it. She was coming to the point of thinking that the same spirit hand which had revealed the letter to her had also played a part in causing it to vanish from the desk.
The young lawyer now turned to look at the books on the library shelves, and gave his special attention to a framed map on the wall. “That’s a map of St. Croix Island and the river as Champlain knew it nearly four centuries ago. It was the first white settlement in this part of Canada.”
“I had no idea St. Andrews had such a history,” she said.
“That was the beginning, if you don’t count when the Micmac Indians lived here,” he said. “A Frenchman placed the cross of St. Andrew at the mouth of the St. Croix River and gave this area its name. The English traders came in 1770, and then the Loyalists emigrated from the New England States in 1783 after the Revolutionary War, to found the town. The majority of them embarked from New York, and there were Clays among them.”
She said, “The Clays are on your mother’s side of the family.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “The Stevenses didn’t come here until the early 1900’s, so by local standards they are practically newcomers.”
Lucy smiled. “And now you’re suffering another Yankee invasion in me.”
“We’re happy to have you here. At least I am,” he said with gallantry. He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s almost nine and Fred isn’t here yet. I won’t be able to wait any longer. But you can tell him I was here and ask him to phone me at my office.”
“You’re sure you can’t stay a little while?” she asked. “He’s bound to get here soon.”
“I’m afraid not,” Jim Stevens said. “Thank you for the delicious meal and the interesting company. I’m going to watch your progress here closely. It’s possible that you’re right about Jennifer. She may be a much maligned lady.”
“I still cling to that theory,” she told him.
She saw him to the front door and noted that it was still foggy. He got in his car and drove off down the road. She waited until the red tail lights vanished, then she reluctantly went inside. She’d been grateful for his company, and it had saved her dinner from being wasted. But now she was alone in the silent old house of shadows again.
She went to the dining room to straighten up the table and she’d just begun the task when she heard the sound of a car in the driveway. She recognized it as Fred’s car, and rushed to the door in time to meet him.
Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him warmly on the lips. “I’ve missed you so! I’m glad you’re finally here.”
“I’m sorry to be so late,” he said, with just a hint of restraint in his voice. And then he added, “Didn’t a car come out of the driveway a few minutes ago?”
In her delight at her husband’s return she’d forgotten about Jim Stevens having been there. She said, “That must have been Jim Stevens’s car.”
“Oh?” Fred didn’t look too pleased. “What was he doing here at this hour?”
“He came by to see you around seven and you weren’t home.”
“And he stayed until after nine?”
“Yes,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t be home and I’d prepared a special dinner, so I invited him to stay and share it with me.”
“Lucky for Jim,” her husband said with a note of tension in his voice.
She stared at him in surprise. “You sound as if you don’t approve?”
His reaction startled her. “I’m not sure that I do.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Jim has the reputation of being a ladies’ man. The fact that he came here when I was out and stayed a couple of hours could cause gossip. And that’s something we don’t want.”
She eyed him incredulously. “Gossip? Why? I asked him to stay for dinner because I was lonely. Because you disappointed me, and I was here in this grim old house alone.”
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p; “I have my professional duties to take care of,” Fred said self-righteously. “I couldn’t neglect them.”
“I’m willing to agree with that,” she told him. “But you ought to have some consideration for me.”
“I have. That’s why I worry about any scandal concerning you and Jim.”
“It’s too silly,” she protested.
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s drop any talk about it.”
“Just as long as you understand I did nothing I am ashamed of,” she told him.
Fred nodded wearily. “Of course I know that. I’m only thinking what others might say. It was indiscreet of Jim to accept your invitation. He knows how small-minded this town can be.”
“They’d have to be extremely small-minded to make anything of an innocent dinner invitation,” Lucy said.
“I’m going to the library,” her husband said in the same weary tone. “I have some prescriptions to phone to the local pharmacy and some calls to put through to patients. It will take a little while.” And medical bag in hand, he marched out of the room.
She went back to the dining room to clean up, feeling hurt by the things he’d said to her. It wasn’t until later as she prepared for bed that she realized they’d had their first slight quarrel. It hadn’t been important, but it had been a difference. And it had been over another man. All at once she realized the similarity of this three-cornered situation with the one that had existed a century before, with Jennifer in Lucy’s role. It was a worrisome thought.
She was in bed with all the lights turned off except the lamp on the table between their twin beds, when Fred finally joined her. She thought he looked even more tired than when he had first come home. Now he crossed over to her bed and sat on it for a moment.
“Forgive me, Lucy,” he said contritely, taking her hands in his. “I didn’t mean to be so unpleasant.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“But it does,” he said firmly. “I came home dragging all my troubles with me. And it annoyed me to think that Stevens had been enjoying both my dinner and your company.”
She looked up at him with a wistful smile. “You were jealous?”
“I’m afraid that’s what it amounts to.”
“I’ll look on it as a compliment.”
Vintage Love Page 187