“Yes, Dottie.”
“I hope so. There is also a letter in the holder to go directly to my solicitor and not into any other hands.”
I left the room, collected the letters, and went to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Bennett how to go about ordering the motorcar and driver.
Once in the car, I sat in the back, watching the trees go by on the way to town. She is buried in the churchyard, if you want to see her. As with everything with Dottie, it was not a casual suggestion; it was an order, deep with meaning I could not yet discern. And as we came closer to town, I began to wonder what it was she wanted me to see.
CHAPTER SIX
The village was called Anningley, and it was a brisk little place, pretty and polite, cradled in the palm of a cup of land. I had the driver drop me near the edge of town and instructed him to wait; he gave me a succinct nod and sat back in the driver’s seat, likely hoping for me to leave so he could light a cigarette. I walked into town on foot, taking in the fresh smell of the air and the scent of the sea, somewhere over the rises to the south.
High Street held a few ladies shopping, servants gossiping at the butcher’s as they waited for the day’s cuts of meat, nannies from the nearby homes walking with small children. Shopkeepers nodded at me as I passed. I immediately felt like a stranger, dark-haired and wild-eyed after my sleepless night and unpleasant morning at Wych Elm House, lacking a husband or a child or even a pleasant routine of shopping and talk. I already felt painfully visible, so I took Dottie’s letters to the post office first and let the postmistress have at me.
The postmistress was a woman of about forty, immensely large, her flesh so soft and ruddy that I briefly wondered if she’d just had a late baby. She looked at the letters, but when she raised her gaze to me, there was no smile. “Wych Elm House,” she said. “I’d heard the family was in residence again.”
I shifted, remembering Dottie’s instructions. “Yes, they are.”
She took the letters and tucked them away. “They’ve been away for a long time.”
“They had their reasons,” I allowed.
“Perhaps.” The postmistress turned back to me. “I’m Mrs. Baines. And who might you be? Are you a member of the family?”
I stared at her. This woman, standing in her tidy rural post office with the sun shining outside, was giving me a sour expression that made me feel like an unwelcome intruder. It was a chilly interrogation, not cheerful gossip. “I was married to Mrs. Forsyth’s nephew, Alex Manders.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Mrs. Baines said. My husband’s existence, it seemed, was now verified by the village authority. “A decent man, as far as the Forsyths go, though I hear he kept to himself. I also hear that Mr. Martin is coming home.”
Of course she had. “This morning,” I said. “We expect him shortly.”
“That’s as well, then.” Mrs. Baines turned away from me and ran her gaze over the shelves of letters on her left. “I don’t know Mr. Martin myself. No one saw him much before he went to war. I hear he’s been in a hospital since.”
I tapped my fingers on the counter. No wonder Dottie had no desire to come into town herself, but had sent her lackey instead. “You seem to hear quite a few rumors about the Forsyths.”
“I do, but rumors are all there is to hear about the Forsyths, you must understand.” Mrs. Baines turned to look at me again. “They never come to town, and when it’s time to hire servants, they always hire from away. The only local girl who’s worked for them is Petra Jennings, and she was dismissed when the girl died. They must have threatened her with something, because she doesn’t speak of them.”
I understood some of her hostility then. A wealthy family like the Forsyths would be expected to provide work for the locals, not for people from away. Trust Dottie to be obtuse about something so simple. “I can speak to Mrs. Forsyth about it,” I said, “though I can’t promise anything.”
Mrs. Baines only shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll find anyone from here willing to work at Wych Elm House. Not now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The woods,” Mrs. Baines said. She gestured behind her with a beefy arm, in the vague direction of the trees two miles away. Her expression was almost angry. “That mad girl haunts them. None of the children will go in—mine certainly won’t. They’re too afraid to play in there.”
I tapped my fingers on the counter again. “You can’t hold the Forsyth family responsible for the fact that your children are afraid to play in the woods.”
“I can, and I will. It’s easy for them—they closed up the house and left. It’s us who have had to live with the ghost these three years. That girl was kept in chains, I hear. She was a beast.”
“She wasn’t a beast,” came a voice from the doorway behind her. “She had a beast, my dear. That’s a different thing.”
The man who had spoken leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. He was a year or two older than she, in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, a cloth cap on his head. He gave me a brief nod of greeting. “Good afternoon, madam. I’m Mr. Baines.”
“Good afternoon,” I replied. “What do you mean, she had a beast?”
“Please excuse my wife,” Mr. Baines replied, eyeing me levelly. “The topic of the Forsyths upsets her. I only mean that young Miss Frances Forsyth had a dog, that’s all.”
“They’re not good people,” Mrs. Baines protested, hurt. “My sister has been in service for ten years, and they wouldn’t even talk to her. And that thing was not a dog, not from what I hear.”
“Did you ever see it?” Mr. Baines asked his wife. When she was quiet, he turned back to me. “You see how upset she gets. As a stranger you may not know this, Mrs. Manders, but the Forsyths are not popular in this part of the world.”
“I see.” Dottie had warned me, if obliquely, of the attitude in the village, and she’d been correct. “What do you mean about a dog?”
“Only that Miss Frances had one,” Mr. Baines replied. “A big, angry beast. Kept outdoors, in the woods. It’s gone wild since she died and the family left the house, I’m afraid. The children say it roams the woods, vicious. That’s why they won’t go in, especially after the sun has gone down.”
I frowned. “Could that be the animal that killed the stranger on the day Frances died?”
“That’s the opinion of some,” Mr. Baines said. His wife had subsided to a chair, sullen, leaving him to take over the conversation. “No one knows who the dead man was. A vagrant meets a wild dog in the woods—who knows what happened? A simple conclusion, really. However, Mrs. Forsyth herself testified at the inquest that her daughter owned no dog at all.”
“She testified at the inquest?”
“Certainly she did. There had to be an inquest, to determine how the man had died—whether it was murder. The man was torn to pieces. Many had the theory that Miss Frances’s dog was responsible, but Mrs. Forsyth swore on a Bible that no such animal existed. And it came out that no one had seen the dog with their own eyes; nor could they produce it.” He shrugged. His gaze on me was flat, and I realized he did not feel quite as friendly as he was pretending.
“It’s her that was the beast,” Mrs. Baines said. “It’s her that haunts the woods. That’s what the children say.”
“It’s an outlandish story,” I said, trying not to think of the girl I’d seen in the small parlor at Wych Elm House.
“It is that,” Mr. Baines agreed. “We also have stories of boggarts and wood sprites here, if you care to hear them. Myself, I am a logical man.”
I regarded him curiously. He spoke with such confidence, as if well versed in the topic of the Forsyths, his tone not hostile like his wife’s but more disdainful. “And what do you think?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Mr. Baines straightened from the doorjamb and took a step forward, uncrossing his arms. “Me? Oh, I think that Miss Frances Forsyth was mad,�
�� he said. “There’s no doubt of that. The children who encountered her in the woods said that she wandered alone, talking to herself, pale and thin. Nothing sets people off like madness, does it? You can imagine any kind of tale.” He took another step forward, his eyes still on me. “And yes, despite her mother’s lies, I think Miss Frances had a dog. I think the dog killed that man—perhaps the man threatened his mistress somehow, or the dog was bad-tempered, as some dogs are. To avoid responsibility, Mrs. Forsyth did away with the dog, then lied about it. And it worked—because the man in the woods was nobody, and to such as the Forsyths, his death meant nothing. That’s what I think.”
I stood staring at him, unable to think of what to say.
Mr. Baines nodded toward my hand. “I also think you have another letter there that you did not give to my wife to post.”
“This?” I said. I blinked down at the letter in my hand. “I’m to take this to Mrs. Forsyth’s man of business. His name is Mr. David Wilde.”
The Baineses exchanged a look I could not read.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Baines. “You’ll find his offices two streets over, in the white house with the green shutters. If your business is with him, then you’ve no more business here today.”
“What?” I said. “What is it?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Manders,” Mr. Baines said, and though the words were kind, his tone was not. “You’ll see for yourself. I wish you good day.”
• • •
I wasn’t very keen to knock at the door of the white house with the green shutters, but I didn’t have much choice. Perhaps Mr. David Wilde was a crotchety old man, or perhaps he liked to abuse unsuspecting ladies’ companions. In either case, I was to deliver Dottie’s note to his hands only, so there was nothing for it. I knocked.
The door was answered by a man of about forty-five, with large gray eyes and premature silver in his hair. He wore a shirt and waistcoat, immaculate and expensive. It would be a challenge to tailor a shirt so well for such a man, I noticed, because his left arm was irregular, withered, the folded hand encased in a gray glove and hooked like a question mark. I blinked at it in surprise.
The man regarded me politely. “Yes?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. David Wilde. I’m—I’m Mrs. Forsyth’s paid companion, Jo Manders.”
Recognition warmed his eyes, and I knew then that he was not a servant. “Ah,” he said. “I’m Mr. Wilde.”
I pulled the note from my pocket and held it out. “Then this is for you, Mr. Wilde.”
He reached for the envelope with his good hand, while I most determinedly did not look at the other one. “How thoughtful,” he said, but when he spoke, his eyes were on my face. “I was just about to have a cup of tea. Would you like to come in?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “There’s no need.”
“But there is,” Mr. David Wilde said with gentle persuasiveness. “I may need to send a reply.”
Of course. How could I forget I was Dottie’s paid letter-delivery girl? “Very well, then,” I conceded. “Thank you.”
I followed him into the house, which was decorated in dark colors—dark wood floors, dark wainscoting, pale gray wallpaper. Even the electric lamps were of dark metal, their shades dim and obscure. Still, the house smelled of wood polish and the flowered rugs on the floors were clean and tidy. He led me to an office off of the main hall and tossed Dottie’s letter to the desk. “Have a seat,” he offered, motioning to a chair.
A tea set was laid out on a sideboard. I opened my mouth and came half out of my chair as he walked over to it, but his back was to me, and I could see he planned on pouring the tea himself. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Manders,” he said, picking up the teapot with his good hand as his other dangled, useless, in its glove. “Mrs. Forsyth was in need of a companion.”
“She told you about me?” I asked.
“Of course.” Mr. Wilde glanced over his shoulder at me and raised a brow. “I handle the money.”
I sorted through my memory. If Dottie had ever mentioned a man of business, I didn’t recall it. She gave the impression of being an entire civilization contained in one woman.
Mr. Wilde’s hand was deft, and in moments he was handing me a cup of tea on a saucer. “Mrs. Forsyth speaks quite highly of you,” he said.
I took the cup. It isn’t hard, Manders, I heard Dottie say. Just try not to spill it. If a one-handed man could pour tea, then I supposed I could as well. Was this what the Baineses had been so suspicious of? A man with a withered hand? “I doubt that very much,” I told him.
Mr. Wilde gave a small laugh as he poured his own cup. “She says you’re not entirely stupid,” he amended. “From her, that’s high praise. I know you were the wife of Alex Manders. I must say how sorry I was to hear he died in the war.”
“Thank you,” I managed. He must know of Alex through Dottie, I thought, since he was her man of business. There was no way he could have known Alex in person.
“I could not fight, myself,” Mr. Wilde said. He set his teacup gracefully on the desk and sat in his large desk chair. He raised his withered arm slightly, letting the gloved hand dangle. The upper arm, I saw, was as thick and strong as its mate, but below the elbow the arm seemed to nearly vanish, pinned into the tailored sleeve. He did not take his eyes from me. “A defect from birth. I tried to enlist, of course, but they told me I could not fire a gun. I asked how they could be sure, since I’d never tried, but they would not be convinced.”
I held my cup and saucer in my lap and looked back at him. His eyes were kind, his expression intelligent, but there was something about him I did not like, something that resided behind his gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“My wife is not,” he replied, lowering the arm. He let the silence stretch out, comfortable in it, seeming in no hurry to open Dottie’s note and reply to it. I took a reluctant sip of tea.
He leaned back in his chair, the withered arm resting at his side. “Tell me, Mrs. Manders,” he said, “does Mrs. Forsyth have you doing errands for her all day?”
“It’s my job, Mr. Wilde,” I said, putting my cup down again.
“It seems somewhat beneath your station as Alex’s wife.”
“I’m his widow. And there are girls with worse jobs than this.”
“Quite true,” he agreed. He watched my face, and I felt certain he guessed at how desperate I was for money, the exact reason I’d taken the job. He reached out and touched the edge of Dottie’s letter on the desk, tracing it slowly with his fingertip, his gaze turning thoughtful. “May I ask you something?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He gave me a smile at that. “I apologize. I’m a lawyer, and we like to ask questions. My days are usually very quiet. You are quite the most exciting thing to cross my threshold all week.”
The words hung in the air, suspended. My tea seemed to have congealed to paste in my stomach. I wondered if Dottie would dismiss me if I stood and left.
“You mustn’t worry,” Mr. Wilde said into the silence. “My questions are not so very personal. I simply wondered if you plan to be a ladies’ companion forever.”
“Forever?” I could not keep the dismay from my voice.
“Yes.” Mr. Wilde picked up the envelope with his good hand, stood it idly on end. “You’ve never thought of it? You’re an intelligent girl. Mrs. Forsyth is in the prime of health, but she will not live forever.”
I leaned over and set my teacup on a side table. “Are you asking,” I said slowly, “whether I expect Dottie to leave me something in her will?”
He did not answer that. “My job,” he said with a lawyer’s evasiveness, “is to look after the family. To protect it from harm.”
“Is it?” I said. I was being impertinent, I knew, but I was stung and I could not help myself. “It seems to me the
harm to the family has already been done.”
“Ah,” Mr. Wilde said. “I believe you’re referring to Frances.”
“There are rumors in town.”
That made him smile. “Oh, yes. Mad girls in chains, killer hounds, ghosts. It’s quite ‘The Fall of the House of Usher,’ is it not? Such is the imagination of the English countryman. I admire the locals their creativity, but don’t believe everything you hear. I’m part of the rumor, myself—I believe I play the role of Mrs. Forsyth’s evil accomplice, helping to keep Frances in chains and cover up her murders at the inquest. I don’t suppose you heard that part?”
It was the easy superiority, the cold condescension in his tone, that gave me a chill when he spoke to me. “No,” I said.
He nodded. “A man with a withered arm is born to play the villain, you see. But since you’re attached to the family now, would you like to know the truth?”
“I don’t—”
“Frances was a sweet girl,” Mr. Wilde said. He looked at my expression and smiled. “Does that surprise you, after what you’ve heard? She was certainly intelligent, and I believe she never meant harm to anyone.”
“Yet she was mad,” I said.
He finally took up Dottie’s letter and slid his finger under the flap, opening it. “She was . . . afflicted. There is no other way to describe it.” His gaze stayed on me and not on the letter in his hand. “The spells started in childhood. That was before my time with the family, but by the time Mrs. Forsyth engaged me as her man of business, Frances’s spells had progressed.”
“What type of spells?” I asked.
“Hallucinations,” he replied. “She saw things that weren’t there, spoke to people who weren’t present. I witnessed it myself any number of times, and I questioned Frances—when she was capable of it—as well as the doctors Dottie had called in to treat her. Some of the things Frances thought she saw were benign, and some of them were terrible. But by the time she was thirteen, the hallucinations were pervasive and incredibly real to her. She claimed there was a door that the visions came through. She could describe it to the finest detail if you asked.” He gave me a small smile that was entirely sad. “It took some questioning before she trusted me enough to explain, but I finally understood that the things she saw coming through that imaginary door were dead.”
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