Old Lover's Ghost

by Joan Smith

  “He is a wonderful man. Such a consolation to me. If there is nothing else, dear, I think I can sleep now. Talking about it helps.”

  “I shall lock the door when I leave.”

  She gave him an indulgent smile, as if humoring a lunatic, but she listened closely to hear the door lock behind him. When he returned below, Merton was disappointed to see Wainwright sitting with his daughter.

  “I have been telling Papa all about the strange goings-on here, Merton,” she said. “I hope you do not mind? Papa is the soul of discretion. What had Lady Merton to say?”

  “She has not changed her will and has promised not to do so,” he said.

  Wainwright sipped his excellent claret and prepared to pontificate on the matter. “This is not my field of expertise,” he admitted. That never stopped him from delivering an opinion, however, and he continued, “But I feel obliquely involved as your pranksters are employing sham ghosts. Such things give ghosts a bad name.”

  “Just so,” Merton agreed politely.

  “Tell him what you said, Papa,” Charity urged.

  “Not that it is my concern—nor yours either, young lady. I do not approve of your capering about dark forests at night visiting hermits. However, as Lord Merton wants my opinion, it is as follows.

  “Number one, you have this hermit fellow with the world at his fingertips. Why should he rock the boat? The Monteith woman has got herself a pretty soft berth as well. The only one who stands to get any money out of the scheme is St. John. I refer, of course, to the money in the St. Alban’s fund. A scheme of this sort is bound to have money at the root. What do you know of him? He would not be the first scoundrel to hide behind the cloth.”

  “He is my cousin,” Merton said, and explained with a blush his cousin Algernon’s part in the matter.

  Wainwright did him the courtesy of listening without interruption. The excellence of the claret made it an agreeable pastime. When Merton had finished, Wainwright resumed the center of the stage, his favorite spot.

  “So what you have is two births at about the same time. Lady Merton heard nothing of Meg or her infant dying at the time. Who is to say they did die?”

  “There is a grave in the graveyard bearing the proper names and date,” Merton pointed out.

  “Ah, just so. The grave. But there seems to be some suspicion that the grave does not contain the body of the child. Perhaps the child did not die. What I am getting at is that your late papa came up with this ruse of his cousin’s lady friend at the dower house to keep from his good wife that he had Meg installed there. He wanted a son—if he could not have a legitimate one—well, he could have t’other sort at least. Better than nothing. You mentioned a two-week lapse between Meg’s departure from Keefer Hall and your cousin’s arrival at the dower house with the enceinte lady in tow. It is possible Meg was kept there during that time awaiting the birth. When Meg delivered and died, your papa set about the story that the baby had died as well—both of them buried together. He had these St. Johns adopt his son. St. John, the vicar, discovered it somehow and decided to cut himself in on the family fortune.”

  Merton disliked to admit that the man could be right, but as he thought over that dim and murky past, he thought it was possible. There was that strange rumor about Meg being alone in her grave.

  “How could St. John have discovered all this?” he asked. “Mama says he believes he is cousin Algernon’s by-blow.”

  “Who else but Meg’s sister could have told him?” Wainwright asked. “You may be sure she knows the ins and outs of it. I would not be surprised if she was sent to the dower house to keep her sister company during her confinement. Mind you, she is not likely to admit it.”

  “Bagot would know,” Merton said, and went into the hallway to speak to the butler.

  He wore an eager look when he returned. “You were quite right, Mr. Wainwright. Miss Monteith did accompany her sister. Bagot says Algernon and his lady friend were at the dower house at the same time that Meg was there. Miss Monteith assisted at the lady’s confinement. An even stranger twist has been added to the story. The midwife set about the tale that the lady had been wearing a mask during her confinement. The midwife never got a look at her face. It was supposed at the time that this was to conceal the lady’s identify, but it is hardly likely the midwife would have recognized some dashing London lady.”

  “Aha!” Wainwright exclaimed. “But she would have recognized Meg Monteith fast enough.”

  Charity sat, struck momentarily silent by the bizarre and gruesome image of a masked woman giving birth. “But did Bagot say the masked woman died during childbirth?” she asked.

  “No,” Merton said. “It was described as a very difficult labor. Perhaps Meg died after the midwife had left.”

  “So that is how it was worked,” Wainwright said with a sapient look. “Meg’s child was not born the night your mama put her out. She went to the dower house and stayed until her time was due. Your papa hired Algernon and his lady friend for his little charade. That would give him an unexceptionable excuse to visit Meg. It was a pretext to fool Lady Merton. Algernon’s widowed lady was not enceinte at all. Meg died after the midwife left, but the much-wanted boy child survived and was kept under wraps at the dower house, posing as Algernon’s by-blow. Your papa next arranged with a compliant undertaker to say there was a babe in the coffin with this Meg, and the thing was done. The servants would not be slow to come up with this lurid tale about Meg dying in the ditch. They like a touch of melodrama. Someone involved was indiscreet and let out that there was no child buried with Meg. We shall never discover at this late date who did so, but there would have been a few servants involved in the charade.”

  “That is a very interesting hypothesis, Mr. Wainwright. I shall sleep on it,” Merton said with a new air of respect in his manner.

  “It is time for us to hit the feather tick as well, Charity. I shall just run along to the Armaments Room to see that all is quiet there. I will not be long.”

  Merton welcomed the moment alone with Charity. “Your papa has a wise head on his shoulders, when he puts it to some better use than looking for ghosts.”

  “Do you think he might be right?”

  “There is one way to find out.”

  “You mean to confront Miss Monteith?”

  “No, I mean to dig up Meg’s coffin and see just who—or what—besides herself is buried in it.”

  “That will require permission from the authorities, will it not?”

  “Indeed it will. I mean to make the thing entirely public. Unfortunately, it is too late to question cousin Algernon; he is dead, and Mama does not have the lady’s name. I daresay she was a London actress. Algernon would have been familiar with the profession.”

  Charity drew a frowning sigh. “Your poor mama. It must have been horrid to be married to Lord Merton.”

  Merton gave her a worried glance. “All that was long ago. We have improved since those days. But the ghosts come back to haunt us.”

  “It is a good thing you have Papa here to handle them for you. We shall make a believer of you yet, Merton.”

  “It is your father’s common sense that impresses me more. He wove the strands of the story together with commendable promptness and ingenuity. He might even be right.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching the door. “All is quiet in the Armaments Room,” Wainwright announced. “Come along, Charity. We do not want to keep Merton up so late.”

  Merton looked more frustrated than pleased at the interruption, but he said good night to his guests with a polite face, and they parted.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lord Merton met with his colleagues over breakfast the next morning to discuss the fruits of his night’s pondering and their strategy for the job ahead. He had already talked it over with Wainwright the evening before when he went to his room to speak of other matters. He assumed Wainwright had told the others. He noticed that Lewis and Charity were sitting with t
heir heads together when he entered the breakfast room. They drew apart hastily, with guilty looks, just before she gave him a heavy frown. She was not happy to be excluded from active participation in the affair.

  “You have told them?” he asked Wainwright.

  “That I have. They agree it is a fine plan. Hoist by his own petard!” Wainwright laughed. “Set a ghost to catch a ghost. I will be happy to participate. Smoke, I think, in lieu of steam. You will want a damp fire, to cause the greatest amount of smoke and the least light. The open air will dissipate the smell.”

  “I doubt he will be close enough to catch the scent,” Merton said. “We shall light the fire when we see him come out of the vicarage. With luck it will not be necessary to open Meg’s grave, but I shall arrange the formalities, in case it comes to that.”

  After breakfast Charity followed Merton to his office. “I want to be Meg,” she said.

  “It is out of the question. Lewis will be Meg.”

  “But he is too big! No one would believe he is a woman.”

  “It will be dark, and they will not see him at close range.”

  “I can talk Papa around, if that is what concerns you. He will not really mind.”

  “I will mind. We don’t know what will happen. There might be trouble. This is for me to handle as I see fit,” he said more sternly than he wanted to, but it would be unthinkable to put an innocent young lady at risk. If anything should happen to Charity ... “You shall remain at Keefer Hall.”

  “Merton! You could not be so mean! At least let me go to the graveyard!” His harsh scowl softened to a reluctant smile. She saw it and knew he was wavering. “Please! Pretty please.”

  “Very well, but you must stay well out of the fray. I would not want anything to happen to you.”

  She gave a saucy look. “This is the first nice thing you have ever said to me, Merton.”

  “Indeed!”

  “I shall leave now, before you change your mind—and decide to let me be Meg. I don’t think I would really enjoy that.”

  “You only came here to get yourself included in the outing!”

  “Yes, one learns how to manage recalcitrant gentlemen, with practice. Winton suggested the way to achieve my aim was to ask for more than I wanted.”

  “I take leave to tell you, you are a managing female, Miss Wainwright.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said, dropping a curtsy and darting out the door.

  Merton watched her leave. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. So she was on terms of some intimacy with Lewis. That might be a problem.

  At ten Merton rode off to Eastleigh to set in motion the necessary formalities for the exhumation of the mortal remains of Meg Monteith and her infant son, Roger. By noon all the concerned parties were aware of the fact when they gathered in the Blue Saloon. Lady Merton had been informed of the charade and was in the boughs. She immediately sent off to the vicarage for St. John, who came scrambling to Keefer Hall to inveigh against the scheme.

  “Can you not speak sense to Merton, Mr. Wainwright?” he said, choosing this unlikely ally to buttress his objections to the plan. “God only knows what new ghosts might be unleashed.”

  “Hardly new ghosts,” Wainwright said thoughtfully. “Meg and her son already haunt the house, do they not, despite my being unable to make contact? Perhaps it will lay their ghosts to rest. It will all be done discreetly, Vicar, never fear.”

  “Yes, certainly,” Merton said. “It will take a couple of days to get the exhumation order in place. I shall arrange for men to open the grave tomorrow night after darkness falls, when everyone is in bed. Around midnight.”

  “It sounds like jolly good sport. I would not miss it for a monkey,” Lewis said, smiling.

  “This is not a public entertainment, Lewis,” his brother chided. “There will be no one there but the grave diggers, myself, and an impartial witness appointed by the magistrate. I have suggested Mr. Wainwright. The magistrate has agreed.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Wainwright said with a nod. “There is no saying; some supernatural occurrence may take place. A disturbed grave is no light matter. Perhaps a vicar would be useful as well,” he suggested, looking at St. John.

  “I will not show approval of this outrageous scheme by taking any part in it,” St. John replied. “I want it firmly understood that I disapprove. Really, Merton, you might have a little respect for your mama’s wishes.”

  Merton just smiled a lazy smile. “Mama wishes for peace from the past. I am endeavoring to accomplish that for her.”

  “What will it accomplish, even if the child is not in the grave?” St. John demanded. “It only proves the child is buried elsewhere. I hope you do not plan to dig up the entire graveyard?”

  “I disagree,” Merton said. “The gravestone says the child is buried in Meg’s grave. If the child is not there, then it indicates he was not buried. One assumes a corpse was not left aboveground. In short, Vicar, I feel it will go some way toward proving that Meg’s son did not die.”

  “Of course he died!” Miss Monteith exclaimed. “I was there. I held the poor wee thing in my arms as it gasped its last breath. I found Meg in the meadow, all alone,” she added hastily.

  “If it is in the grave,” Merton said blandly, “then both mother and child will be reburied and that will be the end of it.”

  “But what if it is not?” Lady Merton asked.

  “Then I shall have to take steps, Mama.” He looked for a moment at the vicar, then turned his dark eyes to Miss Monteith, before continuing to speak to his mother. “But pray do not concern yourself. And now if you will excuse me, I must go and speak to my workmen, to see which of them will be free tomorrow night. Come along, Lewis.” They rose, bowed and left the room together.

  When they were beyond the door, Lewis said, “I shall get my mount and hide behind the stable to follow St. John when he leaves.”

  “No, go on foot,” Merton said. “And if he does not go directly to Old Ned, see where he goes, then return to keep an eye on Ned. I must know if they meet or if a message is sent.”

  “Do I stop St. John or just watch?”

  “Just watch. I do not want their messages intercepted, but only to confirm that they are in touch. And, Lewis, I understand you have been instructing Miss Wainwright how to manage me.” He regarded his brother with a fiery eye.

  “Really, John. Why should she not come along? You never want her to do anything. You ought to watch that managing streak. You are becoming just like Papa.”

  “Papa would have boxed your ears for this impertinence. Run along, wretch.”

  Wainwright soon left the saloon as well, taking his daughter with him. “Lord Merton has allowed me to visit his room this morning, in hopes of speaking to the singing nun,” he explained to the others.

  He and Charity did not go abovestairs immediately, but nipped smartly into Bagot’s little room. Bagot, too, had been pressed into service in the post of watchman. As they suspected, Lady Merton left the saloon alone a moment later and went upstairs. Miss Monteith remained behind to have a word with St. John. All was going according to plan.

  “Do you think it will work?” Charity asked her father.

  “If we are on the right track, it cannot fail. What would you do if confronted with this debacle? Get a skeleton of a child into that grave, right?”

  “But how? Where will they find one?”

  “It will be difficult but not impossible. There must be infants buried nearby.”

  Bagot cleared his throat and said, “Or perhaps they will use animal bones. There are dozens of dogs buried on the estate. In the darkness of night all that would be seen is a parcel of bones swaddled in some decaying cloth. No one will be eager to handle the remains.”

  “It sounds horrid!” Charity exclaimed.

  “Aye,” her father said, “but not so horrid as what is being done to that poor lady. I knew all along there was no ghost in her room; this will prove it. My reputation is at stake. I shall write up a monog
raph for the Society, to make them aware of such stunts in the future.”

  Charity said, “I shall go abovestairs and begin to make up the wig. I fear I must sacrifice my round bonnet to the cause. I shall need something head-shaped to attach the wool to. Merton said you would provide me with the yellow wool, Bagot?”

  He handed her a ball of wool, artfully concealed in a teapot. “You might find a doll in the nursery to use for the child,” he added.

  “Be sure you lock your door, Charity,” Wainwright cautioned. “We do not want Miss Monteith sniffing out our little secret. She must be on needles this morning, poor woman. Let it be a lesson to her. And now I believe I shall go to visit the singing nun.” Charity gave him a sharp look. “I do have Merton’s permission, my dear. He was very civil about it.”

  They went upstairs together, still discussing their scheme. As expected, Mr. Wainwright did not utter any serious objections to Charity’s participating.

  “If Merton thinks it is safe, then you may come along,” he said with very little interest.

  Miss Monteith’s presence at lunch made any private discussion impossible, but after lunch the Wainwrights and the Dechastelaine brothers used a tour of the gardens as an excuse for more planning.

  They went out into the spring sunshine to stroll along the paths and down the steps of the parterre. An allee guarded by a double row of poplars led to a fountain as the focal point of the allee.

  “St. John did not go directly to visit Old Ned, John,” Lewis said. “He drove off toward home in his gig, but he came back on foot later. They were closeted together for the better part of an hour.”

  Merton said, “I spotted St. John making a tour of the graveyard—no doubt looking for an infant grave he could plunder. I doubt he will sink to that. It would be too noticeable.”

  Wainwright listened, then spoke. “What do you suppose they will do after you have exposed them, Merton?”

  “St. John will have to change careers. He is certainly unfit to be a man of the cloth. With his education he will soon find work elsewhere—teaching perhaps. It will be for Mama to decide Miss Monteith’s fate, but I will not have her under my roof.”