Vintage Love

by Clarissa Ross

  She looked at him earnestly. “I am afraid of the ghosts, and then in a strange way I’m not. I feel that they are trying to tell me something. That they are sad rather than evil. That they seek me as a friend and interpreter.”

  “That could also be dangerous for you. Especially in view of your husband’s attitude.”

  “Dr. Boyce thinks I may be psychic. I’ve also seen a mysterious figure on Minister’s Island that I think may have been the phantom figure of Frank Clay. It looked like the bizarre old man they talk about in the ghost stories dealing with the island.”

  Henry Farley seemed impressed. “If you are psychic that house is no place for you. Better consider my offer. And if your husband won’t consider it you might be wise to think about leaving him and St. Andrews. It could be your only chance of survival.”

  His words startled her. She said, “Could it be you want to be rid of me? That you would like to see my husband and your daughter married?”

  The crippled man raised himself a little. “What gives you that idea?”

  “I know Shiela is in love with Fred,” Lucy said. “And I think he likes her. If he became convinced I’m a neurotic he might decide to let me go and turn to her.”

  Henry Farley sank back on the chaise longue. “If you think that is the plot I have against you, just ignore all I have said. You are a very alert young woman as well as a nervous one.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, told me if my guess is right,” she pointed out.

  The man beside her showed an expression of infinite weariness. “Who knows what our motivations sometimes are? I think I wanted to be absolutely fair to you. But I can’t deny that in the hidden recesses of my mind I am also anxious to see my daughter happy. I think, as Fred’s wife, Shiela would be happy.”

  “And I’m in the way,” she said bitterly.

  “It’s unfortunate,” the crippled man said. “That is why it might be wise for you to give up your husband and Moorgate. Get away from St. Andrews before any violence explodes. Stop that tragedy of long ago being repeated again.”

  “You think that might happen?”

  “Yes. If Moorgate is inhabited by evil spirits and they exert any powers over those living in the house, you and Fred could be condemned to live that story of jealousy and murder over again.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “I’m sympathetic to you, Mrs. Dorset,” he said earnestly. “I know all about unhappy marriages. I had one of my own. When my arthritis became crippling, Shiela’s mother chose to desert me for a younger man. It is something I have had to live with.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said.

  He made a gesture of dismissal with his thin, twisted hand. “I’m not looking for sympathy. I only wanted you to know that I understand. That I want to help.”

  She got up from the chair. “Thank you for being so frank.”

  “That is my policy,” the thin man said grimly. “Won’t you wait for Shiela? She should soon be here.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m going back.”

  “As you like,” the old man said, staring at her fixedly from behind the dark glasses. “Think over all I have said.”

  “I’m bound to,” she said in a forlorn voice.

  “The ghosts at Moorgate and on the island interest me,” he went on. “In spite of your husband’s opposition I think your idea of securing a ghost-hunter is a good one. You might learn the secret of the house.”

  “I know.”

  “At my age the prospect of another life is appealing,” Henry Farley said with dignity. “I would give a lot to know that there is something beyond that last breath. Maybe you will help solve the riddle for me.”

  Lucy said, “I wouldn’t count too much on it.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “Still I am interested. And if you need any financial assistance in your attempts to run down the ghosts, I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. And she turned to leave.

  “Come back again any time,” the cripple called after her.

  She made her way back along the wooded path with his words still ringing in her mind. The old millionaire was a person of strange contrasts. She still couldn’t be sure whether he was her enemy or her friend. He was wily enough to admit it would be to his liking if she would leave Fred and St. Andrews so his daughter could take her place. But at the same time she felt he was sympathetic to her plight in a purely objective way. It was a puzzle.

  When she returned to Moorgate she was still restless. She tried to reach Fred at the hospital and then at his office, but could get him at neither place. So she decided to go to the village and do some grocery shopping. It would save her from being alone and she did need some provisions.

  She drove into town and went to the familiar supermarket. She quickly did her errands and left without seeing anyone she knew. Then to fill in her time she drove by the big resort hotel and saw the guests strolling about the lovely lawns or seated on the verandahs. It was as she went by the hotel that she suddenly remembered about the cemetery. Jim Stevens had told her it was located only a few blocks from the Algonquin Hotel.

  She at once headed her car towards the town again, keeping her eyes open for a sign of the cemetery. She saw the gates as soon as she crossed the second intersection, and she parked her car by the side of the road and got out to investigate.

  It looked very old, and had a high, rusty iron fence surrounding it. The grass was high and indicated to her that it was not a cemetery presently in use. There were no new tombstones or fresh graves, and no flowers on the graves, as there would be in a cemetery where new burials were being made. It was a place of those long dead and forgotten. The gravestones were weathered and their lettering blurred. In some cases the stones had broken or toppled over.

  She walked slowly among the silent forest of tombstones and pathetic mounds. She was searching for the graves of Dr. Graham Woods and his wife. Jim had said they were off by themselves, as if the authorities in charge of the cemetery had grudgingly given them this small section of hallowed ground.

  To the right there was an ancient elm, and under it she saw a large, imposing monument with a kind of carved urn on top of it. She moved quickly towards the big column of gray marble with her heart beating more rapidly in expectation of making an important discovery. The name Woods in large capital letters stood out clearly. As she drew closer she was startled to see the carving of a lovely face thrusting up through waves. A face of death, obviously modeled on the features of the unfortunate Jennifer.

  She stared at the ornately carved tombstone and saw that the lettering under the carving was too worn to be read. But she knew it must tell of the two buried beneath the impressive monument, and the two sunken mounds told of the bodies there side by side.

  The wind rustled lightly through the elm tree’s branches and in the soft sighing sound it seemed as if she could hear her name said softly. She tried to dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but didn’t quite succeed. Her eyes were fixed on the graves, and again she speculated about these two who had lived at Moorgate and the secrets they had taken to the grave with them.

  All at once she was certain she heard someone walking towards her, and she turned quickly to see the familiar figure of a smiling Jim Stevens coming toward her.

  The young lawyer said, “I see you’ve found your way here.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You told me where the graves were.”

  Jim stood by her with an air of quiet respect. “I’ve often come in here. Some of these old stones tell you a lot about the history of the town. They all aren’t as blurred as this one.”

  “I can’t read any of it,” she complained.

  He studied the monument with the pathetic carving of the drowning girl on it. “I suppose you wondered why only Jennifer’s tragic drowning is depicted in the carving.”

  “I did think about it.”

  Jim’s smile was bitter. “The monument was erected by Frank Clay. He was bit
terly opposed to husband and wife being buried side by side. But he couldn’t prevent that. So he arranged to have this monument carved, and had it done his own way. He devoted it entirely to Jennifer, with only a one-line mention at the bottom that Graham Woods was also buried with his wife. The monument kept the scandal about the three alive.”

  “It wasn’t very discreet on Frank Clay’s part,” she said.

  “No. But it was impossible to stop him,” the young lawyer said. “And until he confined himself to the island he paid regular visits to this spot.”

  “I can understand that,” Lucy said.

  Jim Stevens gave her a knowing look. “And according to some, he still visits this graveyard on dark, stormy nights. There are many who claim to have seen his ghostly presence here.”

  Chapter Nine

  A chill of fear went down Lucy’s spine. She recalled all too vividly that strange figure she’d seen on the afternoon of her outing on Minister’s Island with Fred. She was sure it had been Frank Clay’s ghost she’d seen hovering among the bushes.

  In a small voice, she said, “I thought his ghost was seen only on the island.”

  “And here,” Jim Stevens informed her.

  “Just here? Never at Moorgate?”

  He smiled bleakly. “Never at Moorgate. The ghost tales about that old stone house always seem to feature Jennifer.”

  “I know,” she said, giving him a nervous glance. “She’s the one I think I’ve seen.”

  He frowned. “That worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “The legend claims it is bad luck to see her. That it means tragedy for those who do.”

  “Has it turned out to be that way?” she wanted to know.

  “I can’t say,” Jim said. “I only know the last owner, that gift-shop man, was anxious enough to sell the place. And if the Farleys hadn’t been willing to buy it I’m afraid he would have had to wait a long while for someone who wanted it.”

  “Moorgate has that evil a reputation?”

  “I’m afraid so. I mentioned it to Fred when I was looking after the transfer of the deed. But he seemed to resent my talking about it. He told me he wasn’t superstitious.”

  “He isn’t,” she said with a wry smile.

  “So you bear all the brunt of living there?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “You should get out as often as you can. The house is isolated up on that hill. With everything as it is, you could wind up becoming morbid.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” she said. She glanced at the monument again. “Seeing this makes me wonder more about Frank Clay. He must have been a person of very strong character.”

  “He surely had a mind of his own.”

  “Just erecting this monument must have made him the target of a lot of criticism.”

  “According to the stories passed down it did. But he was shameless in his love for Jennifer. And it was the tragedy of his life that she had somehow lost her life on her way to join him.”

  Lucy’s face shadowed. “It seems unfair that he should have blackened her husband’s name so, suggesting that he was a murderer, the murderer of his own wife, when the facts couldn’t be proven.”

  The young lawyer shrugged. “Most of the facts indicated that Graham Woods had throttled Jennifer and then taken her out in the boat. There were the arguments the maid heard, and the certain knowledge that he had been in the boat with Jennifer when it capsized. There was no logical reason why they should be in that boat in the storm unless he had taken her body out into the bay to dispose of it. It had to be the action of a desperate man.”

  “According to Frank Clay.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’d just like to know Graham Woods’s version of what happened that night.”

  Jim looked grimly resigned. “That’s not apt to be ever known.”

  “It seems unfortunate.”

  “I agree. But why be so concerned about the events of a hundred years ago? You’re a stranger here. Why should it bother you?”

  “Because I’m living at Moorgate.”

  “If you’re so upset by all this you should get out of Moorgate.”

  “I’ve been told that before.”

  “I mean it. The atmosphere of the old place is clearly unhealthy for you. And Fred has to leave you there alone too much.”

  Her eyes were on the graves and she was thinking of something else. In a quiet tone, she said, “I wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “If Graham Woods murdered his wife, why doesn’t his ghost roam the house and the cemetery?”

  Jim Stevens showed surprise at her question. “I’ve never heard of his ghost being seen.”

  “I consider that strange.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at the sensitive face of the young man with a solemn expression. “Because logically he should be the one with a guilty conscience.”

  He frowned. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” she insisted. “If he murdered his wife he should be the one to haunt Moorgate.”

  “An uneasy spirit.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Perhaps he does,” Jim Stevens said. “But people find it more romantic to claim the ghost they’ve seen is Jennifer’s.”

  “There’s something wrong!”

  Jim studied her in amazement. “You are really concerned.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “As I said before, it’s bad for you. You’re becoming morbidly obsessed with something that happened a hundred years ago. It’s not healthy.”

  She looked at him directly. “You think my mind might be affected?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “And I still think it significant that the ghost of the supposed murderer is never seen at Moorgate,” she said.

  “I must admit you’re making a good point. But it is not liable to change the legend.”

  She gave a bitter glance at the monument. “Frank Clay saw to that. I hope you’re not proud of your ancestor.”

  “A very distant one,” Jim Stevens said. “I must admit he’s more of an embarrassment than a credit. I’d like to have the legend die, but I doubt if it ever will.”

  “Perhaps when Moorgate and the house on Minister’s Island are torn down and forgotten that will be the end of it.”

  He nodded towards the monument. “There will always be this sentimental monstrosity to attract attention and raise questions. I’m afraid we’re saddled with the legend for all time.”

  She turned away. “One could only wish the legend were a happier one.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Jim Stevens said as they started out of the cemetery together. “If you find yourself lonely why don’t you drop by our house occasionally? Mother would be delighted to see you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that,” she said.

  “You know where we live.”

  “Your mother gave me the directions,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve not had the time thus far.”

  “Well, keep it in mind,” he said as they made their exit through the wrought-iron arch of the cemetery gate.

  They stood for a moment talking by the roadside. Jim seemed genuinely worried about her, and she found herself liking the young lawyer more and more. She wished that Fred had more of his sensitivity and understanding. They were about to part when a car came by and slowed a little. She at once recognized it as Fred’s car and waved to him. Her husband waved back, but went on without bringing the car to a halt. She stood looking after him, feeling shocked and embarrassed.

  In a puzzled voice Jim said, “Wasn’t that Fred?”

  Aware that her cheeks had gone crimson, she replied without turning to him, “Yes. I expect he’s in a hurry to get to his office.”

  “That’s likely it,” Jim agreed, but he sounded worried.

  “It’s been nice meeting you,” she said, “but I must be getting
on.”

  “So must I,” he said. “I was on my way to see a client, but I couldn’t resist talking with you and getting your reaction to the monument.”

  She managed a smile. “Well, now you have it. I still think Graham Woods was maligned by your ancestor.”

  “I can’t argue the point,” the young lawyer said with wry amusement. “When you see Fred tell him I think he might have at least stopped for a moment. I consider his behavior anti-social.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she promised.

  They parted and she drove home in a troubled state. She had briefly seen the expression on Fred’s face as he drove by, and she knew he had gotten the wrong idea about her chance meeting with Jim Stevens. Since he was jealous of Jim and considered him a ladies’ man, it would be hard to explain the situation to him.

  When she reached Moorgate she at once began preparations for the evening meal. She hoped that Fred would join her for it and she’d have a chance to explain things to him. But at five-thirty she had a call from Fred.

  “I’m at the office,” he told her. “I have to go to St. Stephen. An emergency case. Not likely I’ll get back until late.”

  “I’ve been preparing a special dinner for you,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he replied stiffly.

  “Why didn’t you stop the car for a moment this afternoon?” she asked.

  “I thought it might be awkward for you and your friend,” he said.

  “You must be joking,” she said.

  Her husband’s voice at the other end of the line was cold. “You and Jim Stevens seem to be getting together a lot.”

  “Our meeting today was purely accidental.”

  “I’m sure of it,” he said mockingly.

  “It’s true, and you only made yourself small by behaving the way you did,” she said.

  “I was in a hurry. There’s no law that said I must stop.”

  “It would have been polite.”

  “I’m obviously not as much up on etiquette as your lawyer friend,” Fred said. “At least I don’t have to worry about you being lonely when I’m away.” And with this he hung up.