Vintage Love

by Clarissa Ross

  “I didn’t stumble,” she protested. “Something shoved me.”

  “You may have a difficult job proving that to Fred, or to anyone else for that matter,” the doctor said.

  She gave him a despairing look. “What about Jim? He’ll never forgive me for losing that letter. It was a prized possession of his mother’s.”

  “If he wants it badly enough, the floor could be lifted in that area. You seem sure it slid between the cracks of the boards.”

  “It must have. But that doesn’t say it will be easily found.”

  Dr. Boyce sighed. “And you say you and Fred had an argument about Jim visiting you with the letter?”

  “Yes. Of course Shiela was responsible for that.”

  “She’s trying to make a rift between you two,” the old doctor said. “I know I pointed this out before.”

  “You did,” she agreed. “I’ve always suspected it. Now I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, there’s not much you can do. Just hope that Fred will realize he’s being unfair, and will come to himself again.”

  “These quarrels are happening too often,” she said. “In many ways I blame them on the evil influence of Moorgate. We had no such misunderstandings before we lived there.”

  “But you were not married until you lived there,” the old man said. “Not until you settled in Moorgate did you truly get to know each other.”

  “That is true.”

  “It could be that you are not as well-suited as you believed. This happens with many people. It doesn’t have to be the result of ghostly influence. Perhaps Fred has simply discovered that he prefers Shiela to you. I hate to put it so bluntly, but isn’t it possible?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t want to believe it,” he said. “And I can’t blame you. But you must consider the possibility.”

  “I will, but I’m sure there’s something else. An outside power, making us behave differently from what we otherwise would. I have felt it working in me.”

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. “You think you’ve been made to do things against your will by the influence of these spirits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you’ve not been harmed in any way. Nor has Fred.”

  She gave him a grim look. “I think it’s slowly leading to violence. The evil spirits of that other day are trying to make us relive the pattern of their lives. If they have their way it could end with Fred throttling me.”

  Dr. Boyce showed his astonishment. “That’s a most remarkable statement!”

  “I believe it to be true,” Lucy insisted. “There will be violence unless something is done to prevent it.”

  “I have talked to Fred,” the old doctor said, “but he doesn’t want to listen.”

  “I know.”

  “It was as if I’d said nothing,” he said. “He has his own ideas, and he refuses to hear the opinions of others.”

  “Because he is under the power of Moorgate’s evil.”

  The old doctor studied her with troubled eyes. “Do you still contend that Graham Woods was innocent of the slaying of his wife?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And that is why the evil spirit of Frank Clay is at work. And why Jennifer can’t rest in her grave. Frank Clay is trying to influence us from the other side of the grave so the slaying of a true wife will take place today. He wants it to happen to bolster the false story he wickedly spread a century ago.”

  “If I accept your theory of ghostly pressure, then I must disagree with you as to the facts,” the old doctor said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You assume Graham Woods didn’t kill Jennifer. It seems to me he did. And the letter you received from Jim shows this to be true. Also the manner in which it was made to vanish.”

  She frowned. “What has that to do with it?”

  “Everything. You have always claimed that Graham Woods’ spirit has never shown itself.”

  “Nor has it.”

  “I say you’re wrong,” the veteran doctor said calmly. “I say that it was his evil spirit, not Frank Clay’s, who attacked you in the cellar today. Since it was only to his advantage to destroy the letter.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy heard the elderly doctor’s pronouncement with a feeling of complete despair. She realized the truth of his words, and felt that it did seem likely the young doctor who had lived a century ago had been guilty of the murder of Jennifer. No matter how she tried to whitewash the wife-killer, the truth could not be concealed.

  In a small voice, she said, “So you think I’m wrong about the innocence of Graham Woods.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “So he did kill Jennifer, and that was why he schemed to take the letter from me. He wanted to remove the evidence against him.”

  “If your ghost story is true that seems very likely,” the old doctor agreed.

  “It saddens me.”

  “I understand,” he said. “You are a romantic by nature. You would have wished it to be otherwise.”

  “I wish I had never seen Moorgate,” she said bitterly. “It has brought nothing but misery to Fred and me.”

  Dr. Boyce nodded. “I doubt if anyone but your husband or some other unwary stranger would have rented the house with its dark history of tragedy.”

  “Henry Farley let us have it because he wanted to use us,” she said with anger in her voice. “It was part of an experiment he’s been making about the supernatural. We arrived at a convenient time.”

  “Shiela suggested the house to Fred, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but no doubt at her father’s bidding. He has the final say in all things.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” the doctor agreed. “Now what?”

  “I hardly know which way to turn,” she said bleakly. “I’ve become so involved in all that business of a century ago.”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. I’m positive I am a psychic,” she said. “And the moment I set foot inside Moorgate I was bound to be involved. From the start I was convinced I’d seen only the ghosts of Jennifer and Frank Clay. I came to the conclusion that they were in desperate combat, she trying to defend her husband’s name and he trying to blacken it, as he had in life. But it seems I had it all wrong.”

  “There was the third ghost, that of Dr. Graham Woods to contend with.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And now it appears he has been trying to confuse me. To make me believe him innocent when it is not true. So all my earlier conclusions are useless.”

  “It was a natural error.”

  “I don’t know how I could be so wrong,” she said. “I’ve tried to find some new evidence to tell what really happened with those three. But Moorgate has yielded nothing. And now I’ve lost the only other document of importance which has come to light.”

  Dr. Boyce said, “But through the circumstances of the loss you have learned a great deal. It now appears that Graham Woods was indeed the dark character Frank Clay depicted him as being.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Why not let it go at that?”

  “I wish I could,” she sighed.

  “There’s no sane reason why you shouldn’t leave Moorgate and forget all this. I’ll have another talk with Fred. I’ll make him listen to me this time. Perhaps he should take you away from St. Andrews altogether.”

  She gave him a wistful glance. “Then I would always be haunted by the memory of Jennifer.”

  “She has come to mean that much to you.”

  Lucy nodded. “She and the others have come to be like living people whom I’ve known.”

  “It’s a strange business,” the old man worried. “Could it be that the true key to the puzzle might be on Minister’s Island?”

  “You mean in Frank Clay’s house?”

  “Yes. The old house still stands, and it is not unlikely that somewhere in it there are letters or other papers which would fill in the missing infor
mation about the true events of that stormy night a century ago.”

  “Jim Stevens claims the house has been thoroughly searched.”

  The doctor said, “Yet there could still be evidence hidden there which their searching did not reveal.”

  “I wish it were so.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything you should concern yourself with personally,” the old man said hastily. “But you might discuss it with Jim and have him start another search.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “I should think it worth a try,” Dr. Boyce said with a serious expression on his round face. “It might be the one way to settle the ghosts of that unhappy trio for all time.”

  She got up. “I’ve stayed too long, as usual.”

  “Not at all,” he said, rising. “I’m fascinated by all that you’ve told me. I’m as anxious to see the mystery solved as you are.”

  Lucy smiled. “You’ve been a great help to me.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “You’ve been wonderful,” she assured him. “I suppose I’m being silly about Frank Clay. But he somehow doesn’t appeal to me. I sense evil in the mention of his name.”

  “Yet you have probably been wrong about him.”

  “It looks that way now,” she admitted.

  The old man saw her to the door, and before she left he urged her, “Try to settle your differences with Fred. That is your most important problem and you mustn’t lose sight of it There is no reason why you two should not be a happy married couple again.”

  She gave him a meaningful glance. “No living reason.”

  The doctor looked worried. “That is something I’m ill-equipped to decide.”

  Lucy drove away from the doctor’s cottage with the knowledge that nothing much had been accomplished. The fog had lifted a little, but there was now a drizzling rain. She drove by the hotel and saw the grounds were deserted. It was the kind of wet, cold afternoon most people like to spend by the fireside.

  She left the town behind and was on her way to Moorgate when another of those strong compulsions hit her. And she suddenly slowed the car and turned into the side road which led to the road joining the island with the mainland.

  When she reached the end of the road she saw that the tide was out. Though the fog almost obscured the island and its house from view she could see the sandy road plainly enough, and without hesitation she began driving over it. She had no idea what time the tide had gone out or when it would return, but the road was surely well above the water now.

  Reaching the other side, she parked her car by the gate shutting off the rest of the road to motorists. She slipped under the gate and walked up the hill to the old white house which had been occupied by Frank Clay. She found that the island was more foggy than the mainland.

  When she reached the house she studied it from the front, and saw that the door was padlocked and the windows shuttered against intruders. Then she made her way around to the back. She still didn’t know what impulse had sent her to this lonely spot by herself. Dr. Boyce had warned her against it only a short while ago, yet here she was on the island.

  There was a back stoop, and a door which was padlocked. She moved on, inspecting the old house in which Frank Clay had lived so long. She wondered what it had been like in happier days, when he had still hoped to make Jennifer his wife. She halted before the only window which was without shutters.

  She saw that an upturned wooden bucket below the window made an excellent temporary step up to it. She got up on the bucket and tried the window sash. It glided up easily. So easily that it made her suspicious. It struck her that it might have been used recently, and perhaps often. But the means of entry to the house made her cast aside all caution.

  The window had a weighted sash so that it remained in position at whatever point to which it was lifted. Now she opened it wide and, using the bucket as a springboard, scrambled through it. She found herself in a pantry through whose open door she could see the large kitchen with its giant cast-iron stove and a wide fireplace.

  Brushing the dust and cobwebs from her, she proceeded slowly through the doorway into the kitchen. The room was filled with ominous shadows and she began to feel uneasy. She’d taken a terrible risk in coming to this place on her own. She had seen the ghost of the elderly Frank Clay in the bushes that other time. Suppose he should show himself again and decide to attack her?

  But the urge to learn the truth about him and those long-ago days was too strong to be dismissed. And she moved on through the eerie quiet of the dark old house.

  She came to the living room and saw that the walls were bare of pictures, and the furniture was covered by phantom-like white cloths. Then she went on to the library. Its walls were book-lined on two sides, and rich wood paneling covered the end walls of the narrow room. At one end there was a closed roll-top desk of the same type Fred had purchased for Moorgate. She stood in the middle of the room staring at the old desk.

  And then, all at once, she knew she wasn’t alone. There was another presence in the shadowed room with her. She heard the creaking of the floor boards and something like a clammy, cool breath of wind brushed her face.

  Before she could escape, the intruder came up behind her and her throat was seized in powerful hands. She screamed and tried to free herself. While the struggle went on she had no glimpse of her attacker. The hands which were crushing her throat might have been ghostly hands. Gradually she weakened and could struggle no more. She felt a dark curtain close on her mind.

  When she finally stirred and opened her eyes, the room was darker than it had been. And as she regained consciousness she became aware of a shadowy figure standing in the doorway. The phantom creature had long hair and an unkept beard. Its head was slightly bent and it seemed to be watching her.

  Lucy raised herself on an elbow and uttered a scream of protest against the phantom. “No!” she cried.

  As she spoke, the apparition vanished. There was no one in the doorway, but she was certain something had been there. Miserably she struggled to her feet. Her first thought was to escape the old house and the island. It was no place for her to explore on her own. Her next thought was of the roadway and whether in the time that had elapsed the waters of the bay might have risen over it. At the thought of this she panicked. It would mean she might be a prisoner on the island.

  Hastily she left the library and made her way to the one avenue of escape, the unshuttered window. Every moment she was fearful of another attack by the ghostly creature who inhabited the house. But she managed to get to the window and out into the cold and fog without being intercepted. At least she was outside. But she knew that the phantom also lurked out here. She had once seen the spectre of the elderly Frank Clay in his beaver hat and long coat in the bushes, and it had been seen by others as well. So there was no safety while she remained on the island.

  A strange kind of wind had come up, and was blowing strong. When she reached the hill above the shore she saw that the waves were angry and foam-flecked. And she also saw something else which brought her to a halt.

  As she feared, the road from the mainland was entirely under water!

  The tide had raced back in to make her a captive of the island. The water was now deep over the roadway and as angry as the rest of the bay. She would have to remain here until the next ebb tide. Despairingly she stumbled down the path to where her car was parked.

  Now there was only a distance of about thirty feet between where her car was and the angry waters of the bay. She stood there shivering in the drizzle and high, cold wind. The fog was still too heavy for her to have even a glimpse of the mainland.

  What to do? She glanced back towards the old white house fearfully. There was surely no refuge for her there. Not after what had happened to her and what she had seen. Her only hope was to sit the hours out in the car until the tide changed and she would be free to drive back to the mainland.

  This decision reached, she made her way to the car and
got in. She sat huddled dejectedly behind the wheel. What would Fred think when he came home? He would have no idea where she had gone.

  She gazed out the car windows with frightened eyes. At any moment she expected the phantom to appear. And she felt she was not really safe in the car. It wouldn’t offer any barrier to a revengeful spirit. And she was sure the evil spirit of Frank Clay had tried to throttle her. Or had it been Dr. Graham Woods? She was too confused to decide.

  Now it began to rain more heavily, and the wind was blowing with an almost hurricane force. She turned on the car motor for some heat and at the same time tried the radio. She managed to catch the end of a weather broadcast and heard the words, “While the area will experience no true hurricane winds the remnants of the tropical storm, Alice, will cross the district tonight, causing heavy rains and high winds.”

  As a loud clamor of music followed the announcement she turned the radio off. The news she’d heard had not been good. This was no normal storm, but the dregs of a hurricane. Probably the same sort of hurricane winds and rain in which Dr. Graham Woods and Jennifer had been drowned a hundred years ago. Though Jennifer must have already been dead when her husband put her in the boat. That was the story Frank Clay had circulated so successfully that it had been handed down for a century.

  She had locked all the car doors in a desperate bid for safety. But she had no illusions about her enemy. The phantom could easily seize her if he so decided. She felt cold again and as the wind moaned, rattling and shaking the car, she leaned her head on her arms on the wheel. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the horror of her predicament.

  Her head was still on her arms and she’d almost fallen into a troubled sleep when she became dully aware of the pounding on the car window. With a cry of fear she raised up to see a ghostly face outside and a hand banging against the glass of the window.

  “Let me be!” she cried in a panic, and drew away from the window.

  “Lucy!” She heard her name called, though most of the voice was lost in the wind.

  It made her take a closer look and she realized that the figure outside was that of her husband. With a small sound of relief she leaned across and opened the door to him.