Murder by Twilight

by Blythe Baker

  “Incapable of speaking?” I asked. “I don’t understand what that has to do with her being able to leave her room, Charles. None of this is making any sense to me. What is going on?”

  “Confused,” he said, setting down his pen and standing up. “Catherine is confused and it is hard to see her that way. So, Nurse Gray is tending to her in private.”

  I tried to argue, but Charles ushered me from the room under the pretense of writing an important letter and did not open the door again until it was time to leave for dinner.

  Camellia met us in the entryway, holding out a hat for Charles as we neared the door. “Enjoy your time.”

  “You know we won’t,” Charles said with a smile.

  Camellia wrinkled her nose and then turned to me, her smile slipping into a frown. I had not received a warm welcome from Hazel’s other aunt, and I did not think her feelings would change anytime soon. “Steer clear of the tea.”

  “Thank you for the warning.”

  With that, we climbed into the car and set off for the home of Margaret and Abigail Wilds.

  The conversation from dinner the night before had prepared me slightly for what to expect, but I wasn’t sure any description could have done the Wilds sisters justice. Despite having the time and leisure all day to imagine what they would be like, I hadn’t even come close to the bizarre reality.

  The ladies, it appeared, were doing their very best to live up to their name.

  The house, a crumbling two-story brick home, must have been impressive once but now it looked ancient and neglected. Vines wove themselves between the bricks, leaving long cracks in the foundation of the home, some of which stretched nearly from the ground to the roof line. It appeared to me that one strong wind would blow the entire place over.

  Pulling up to Catherine and Charles’ home the day before, I’d wondered whether they had a grounds person to keep up with the weeds and flower beds. I did not have to wonder such a thing with the Wilds’ home. It was quite apparent no one kept up with the grounds at all. The inhabitants’ method was to allow nature to reclaim what had always belonged to it. In a matter of years, the house would disappear into the moors.

  “The inside is better,” Charles said, answering my unspoken question. “The Wilds live a contrary life, but they are nice people.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, not sure of anything at all. “Shall we go in?”

  Charles parked the car in the middle of the garden because there was no obvious driveway. He said the women didn’t own a car because they did not need one. I didn’t know how that could be possible, but before I could ask, the front door of the house opened.

  For a second, there was only the dark doorway—the interior of the house plunged deep into shadow. Then, a woman stepped forward.

  Followed by another.

  The two women could have been mirror images of one another. They were both tall and thin, their frames draped in layers of fabric that had been patched and stitched together with an untrained hand. Having spent very little time practicing my embroidery skills, I still felt I could have done a much better job with the garments. Though, the uneven stitches were hardly the most important thing I noticed.

  The women wore no shoes.

  Or stockings.

  They greeted us outside in their bare feet, and I looked down several times to confirm I was truly seeing what I thought I was seeing.

  “Alice?” One of the women asked, dispelling my brief impression that the pair might be servants, rather than the ladies of the house. The speaker’s face split into a wide smile. She had tanned skin with wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but she looked younger than I expected. Closer to my mother’s age, whereas I thought they would be elderly women. “Charles said you would be coming to visit. We are so glad to finally meet you.”

  “You look nothing like your sister.” The second woman stepped forward, her mouth pulled into a flat line.

  “What Abigail means,” the first woman said, narrowing her eyes at her sister, “is that it is rare for sisters to look so different from one another, yet be extraordinarily beautiful in their own ways.”

  “That makes you Margaret?” I asked with a smile.

  The woman nodded, her curly white hair bouncing. Wooden clips held her hair down in the front, but the strands sprang back up immediately, creating a halo of hair around her head. Both sisters had the same hair. And the same clothes. And the same bare feet.

  “Yes, forgive me.” Charles jumped forward, took Margaret’s hand and bowed slightly. “This is Margaret Wilds and Abigail Wilds,” he said, pointing to the more serious sister standing closer to the doorway. “Our favorite neighbors.”

  “Their only neighbors,” Margaret said. She stepped aside and waved us in. I didn’t even bother looking around anymore for a housemaid.

  Life on the moors was much different than I expected it would be.

  The rooms were clean, but cluttered. Pieces of painted wood and pictures covered the walls, piles of rocks filled the shelves and decorated the centers of tables, and hand-woven rugs covered the floors, creating a patchwork of colors and materials and patterns. A large fire roared in the stone fireplace, but it had a utilitarian purpose, as well. A large pot hung over the flame, and I could hear something inside of it bubbling.

  “Welcome to our home,” Margaret said, coming from the dining room with a tarnished silver tray in her hands. A tea kettle and four mugs rattled on it. “I’m sure Charles prepared you for what it would be like to join us for dinner, but we hope you aren’t overwhelmed by our customs. My sister and I like to live simply and do things the old ways.”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. Charles mentioned that you run your home differently, but he had only the best things to say about you.”

  She set the tea on a low table in front of a sofa covered in blankets and throws, and Charles’ leg brushed against mine as he sat down. When I looked over, he was smiling and gladly accepting a cup of tea, but I could see the tension at the corners of his mouth. It had been a warning. Or rather, a reminder. Steer clear of the tea.

  I accepted my cup and then took a cue from Charles who kept his cup in his lap, never once taking a drink.

  “Others are not as kind to myself and my sister,” Abigail said, taking a long, loud sip of her tea. “We have been ostracized from our nearest neighbors for years.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be unpleasant.”

  “Not especially,” Abigail said. “I quite like the quiet.”

  Margaret chuckled. “My sister tends towards reclusiveness, but I like company. We were delighted when Catherine and Charles first came to see us. So delighted I’m afraid we frightened Catherine away. She never has come back for a visit.”

  “Not at all,” Charles said. “Catherine tends towards reclusiveness, as well. When I come to visit you both, it leaves her time to be alone in the house. Anyway, the pregnancy and the baby…it is a lot for her to manage.”

  I tried to school my features into a neutral expression, but it was difficult when everything Charles was saying was patently false.

  Catherine loved company. She enjoyed conversation, and even though the Wilds would no doubt disturb Catherine with their style of living, she would find it fascinating enough to come back and experience again and again. I’d only been there fifteen minutes and was already anxious for my next visit.

  Also, Catherine hadn’t been busy with Hazel at all. Not since Camellia Cresswell had arrived, anyway.

  “Is Camellia still staying with you?” Abigail asked, as if reading my mind. There was something strange about the way she said the woman’s name—a subtle sharpness to her voice that made me wonder whether she had noticed the same overbearing tendencies I had in my short time spent with the family thus far.

  Charles feigned a drink of his tea, the murky liquid never slipping over the rim of his cup, and nodded. “Yes. I suspect she will be with us for some time.”

  “Sad story.” Margaret shook her head and then
released a long sigh. She picked up the conversation again before I could guess at what she meant. “Be sure to tell Catherine we would be delighted to have her as our guest again as soon as she feels up to it.”

  “She feels fine,” Charles said quickly. “But I will pass the message along.”

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed on Charles for a moment before she rose to her feet and went to stir the bubbling liquid in the pot.

  “My sister and I were lucky enough to trap two rabbits yesterday afternoon. That meat paired with mushrooms and herbs from our garden made the stew for our dinner.” She wafted the steam from the pot up to her nose and smiled. “It should be ready shortly.”

  “I made bread.” Abigail pointed to a wooden cutting board sitting on the side table. A dense loaf of bread with several slices sawed away sat on top of it.

  “You are both very…resourceful,” I said, finally landing on the correct word.

  “People have done for themselves for centuries, and my sister and I see no need to rely on anyone else now,” Margaret said, reclaiming her seat on the chair to my right. She crossed her ankles, and if it hadn’t been for the wild state of her hair and dress, she would have looked like a proper lady. Her spine was tall and straight, shoulders pushed back and broad, chin lifted. She had enviable posture that even I couldn’t emulate most of the time.

  “I think it is admirable,” Charles said. “Living from the land is a lost art.”

  I wasn’t the only one who raised an eyebrow at my brother-in-law. As a recent transplant to the country life, he still looked much more suited to the fast-paced life of the city than one of working the land. Though he may have genuinely admired the Wilds—I suspected he didn’t admire them as much as he claimed—I could not imagine Charles Cresswell fending for himself.

  “You don’t go into town for any supplies?” I asked.

  Abigail shook her head, her jaw set. “Rarely. Between the vegetable garden and our foraging, we have everything we need.”

  “We also have several people kind enough to give us discarded items that we can repurpose,” Margaret explained. “Charles and Catherine are two such people.”

  “Our house was full of the previous owner’s belongings,” Charles explained. “It was nothing to give them to you for whatever you may need. Truly, it was a favor to us. You saved me having to dispose of them myself.”

  “No, it was very kind,” Margaret insisted. “After waiting a few days so we could perform a cleansing ceremony under the full moon, we’ve used the tea cups every day since.”

  Margaret lifted her teacup into the air to show it off, but I couldn’t pay any attention to the painted flowers around the rim of the cup. My mind had caught on another detail.

  “Cleansing ceremony?” I asked, looking from the Wilds to Charles.

  Charles pressed his lips together, his nostrils flaring in barely disguised frustration. Otherwise, he didn’t move.

  Margaret and Abigail, however, moved in closer. Each of the sisters sat up in their chairs and leaned in.

  Margaret said, “The previous owner died in the house, so the items had to be cleansed. We have enough ghosts of our own without bringing in another.”

  Abigail nodded, clearly in agreement with her sister’s every word.

  “You believe in ghosts?” There didn’t seem to be any way to ask the question without it sounding insulting, but it had to be asked. I needed a definitive answer.

  Margaret set her cup down on the saucer and looked me in the eyes. “Absolutely, don’t you?”

  At that, I turned to Charles. He was sitting perfectly still, refusing to look towards me and meet my gaze, and I knew why.

  His wife was currently locked away in her room at their house because she thought she’d seen a ghost. She was being forced to sleep multiple times a day and secluded because she believed she’d been attacked. All the while, he was visiting his eccentric neighbors for dinner who, it so happened, also believed in ghosts.

  The irony could not be downplayed, and I felt my face growing hot with anger.

  Whether Catherine truly was insane or not no longer mattered because, worse than being insane, Charles Cresswell was a hypocrite.

  The stew began to bubble in earnest, and Margaret left to tend to it. Abigail went to slice more bread, grunting as her knife slowly worked through the loaf.

  Charles and I were momentarily alone.

  “They believe in ghosts,” I whispered.

  “It isn’t the same thing, Alice,” Charles hissed back. “They are old superstitious women. They live on the moors alone and have survived this way for decades. You and I both know Catherine is not like them.”

  “So you think they are mad, too?” I asked, shifting towards him, eyes narrowed. “If so, I’m not sure why we are here. Catherine has been deemed too dangerous to even be near her child.”

  His cheeks went red. “No one has said that. Catherine can see Hazel whenever she wishes.”

  “Whenever your sister allows it.”

  Finally, Charles looked at me, and I flinched away from the anger in his eyes. “Do not judge me, Alice. You’ve only been here one day. You don’t know what it has been like. I allowed Catherine to invite you here because I thought you would help, but if you make things worse for Catherine and upset her, I’ll happily take you back to the train station and send you home.”

  “You allowed Catherine to invite me here?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did Catherine allow you to invite Camellia or did you make that decision yourself?”

  “You don’t understand that situation, either.”

  Abigail shifted slightly and looked back at us over her shoulder. Charles smiled at her, though it was obviously forced, and then leaned in closer to me, his voice low. “We can talk about this another time.”

  “We will,” I assured him.

  Dinner was so much worse than I expected.

  I’d eaten rabbit meat plenty of times before, but I didn’t recognize the meat in Margaret’s stew as belonging to a rabbit. Or any other earthly creature, for that matter.

  Biting into it felt like taking a bite out of a brick, and swallowing it was even worse. The meat was so dry it leeched moisture from my throat. I became so desperate for liquid that I took a sip of the tea Camellia had warned me against just to try and force the meat down my throat.

  Unfortunately, her warnings were not for nothing.

  The sludge inside of my teacup could barely be called tea. On first look, it sloshed around the cup like liquid, but once I tipped it into my mouth, the sediment at the bottom of the cup revealed itself and a thick brown slime dripped down my throat. I had to disguise my gag as a cough.

  Despite our earlier argument, Charles reached over and patted me on the back.

  “Are you all right, Miss Beckingham?” Margaret asked.

  “Eating too quickly,” I choked out. “The stew is wonderful.”

  Margaret smiled in a self-satisfied way, and I knew without a doubt that she believed my compliment to be sincere. If believing ghosts could haunt teacups was not a sign of insanity, then believing this stew to not only be edible, but delicious, certainly was.

  I forced down a few spoonfuls of broth and a few cuts of crunchy carrot before I sat away from the table, hands over my stomach to show how full I was. In reality, I hoped the sound of my stomach growling wouldn’t catch their attention.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, I’d like to know more about the ghosts you mentioned before.”

  Charles stiffened next to me, but I ignored him. I cared little about his opinion now.

  “Oh, you are in no danger of being haunted, Alice. My sister and I routinely cleanse the house.” Abigail’s eyes were wide and sincere. The woman was much more subdued than her sister—more solemn—but I could tell she did care about my comfort. She didn’t want me to be frightened. Of her or the ghosts.

  “I believe you,” I assured her. “But you mentioned that you both have enough spirits already without adding more.
What did you mean by that? If you cleanse the house, then how do any spirits remain here?”

  Abigail and Margaret shared a look—one I recognized as saying more than Charles or I was aware of—and then Margaret laid down her spoon and smiled at me. “There are some spirits we don’t wish to be rid of.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Family,” Abigail explained. “Members of our family who lived on this land before us. This property has been passed through the Wilds family for over a century, and my sister and I feel that it is no place of ours to expel our relatives from their home.”

  “If this is where they wish to make their eternal rest, then we will cohabitate with them.” Margaret lifted her arms into the air, gesturing around the room as though I should be able to look around and see her family members sitting amongst us.

  There was, of course, no one but the four of us.

  “How exactly do you cleanse spirits that are not members of your family? And how do other spirits come to live here?”

  Abigail folded her hands in front of her, and I noticed how calloused and scarred they were. She had spent much of her life using them for manual labor. Whatever I thought about their life out here on the moors, they were devoted to it.

  “Sometimes spirits come with a person,” she said. “Like Nurse Gray. She only stayed with us for a brief time, but she came with a whole host of spirits. I suppose it can be expected, working in the field of medicine.”

  “Nurse Gray stayed with you?”

  “Margaret and Abigail recommended Nurse Gray to me when Catherine…” Charles’ voice tapered off before picking back up again. “When we needed the assistance.”

  Margaret tipped her head at Charles in acknowledgement and turned back to me. “Sometimes we see Nurse Gray on her daily walks when we are out as well to gather bones.”

  I turned towards Abigail. “Excuse me?”

  “On the moors,” Margaret continued. “We walk the trails and scavenge for animal remains and ancient human remains. They are a direct link to the spirit of each creature and they allow us to connect with them.”