Murder by Twilight

by Blythe Baker

  Charles sighed next to me, drawing Abigail’s attention. Once he knew he had one of the Wilds’ eyes on him, he took a hasty spoonful of soup and smacked his lips together, feigning enjoyment.

  “It is a hobby more than a necessity, but we enjoy it,” Margaret said.

  Soon after this conversation, Charles stood up, thanked our hosts for having us, and insisted we had to get home before dessert could be served. I, for one, was quite curious what would constitute a dessert in the Wilds home, but they did not press us to stay.

  Margaret, however, did stop me at the door.

  “Please come back again and see us before you leave,” she said, grabbing my arm. “We would love the company. It isn’t often we meet people who are curious about our life and ways.”

  I laid my hand over hers. “Gladly. I’ll come so often you’ll be weary of me.”

  I couldn’t explain my fondness for the strange women. They should have frightened me. Their way of living and interests were bizarre and unsettling. But Margaret and Abigail Wilds were authentic. They were truly themselves despite it all, and being around them felt refreshing. It held a larger appeal than remaining in my sister’s home where everyone seemed to have some kind of ulterior motive.

  Charles didn’t speak to me until we were at the end of the drive and turning onto the road back to his own home, almost as though he thought the Wilds had the ability to hear him wherever he was on their property.

  “What the Wilds do is different, Alice.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t see how.”

  “They are old ladies living in an isolated area who cure their loneliness with spirits. I allow them onto our property for daily walks. They say they are coming to look for bones, but I know they like being near other people after a lifetime spent alone in that crumbling house.” Charles shook his head. “All of their claims of ghosts and spirits come back to one thing: they want for human connection. Catherine already has that.”

  I turned to my brother-in-law. His face was tinged with color from the headlights, but otherwise, he was in the dark. I could see that he believed what he was saying. It showed in the set of his jaw and the press of his lips.

  But I could also see the tiny flicker of doubt in his eyes, and I hoped to fan that flicker into a flame.

  “Do you truly believe that, Charles?” I asked quietly. “Alone in that room, sleeping her days away. Does she really? Because I don’t think so.”

  7

  When I came down to breakfast the next morning and saw Catherine at the table, I hoped my conversation with Charles the night before had been effective. I hoped he’d seen the error of his ways and decided to allow his wife more freedoms. It wasn’t fair that Catherine should be locked away for the same reasons the Wilds were interesting neighbors. I hadn’t seen her do anything dangerous since my arrival, and if anything, being around people would only improve her condition.

  As soon as Charles walked into the room, however, my hopes were dashed.

  His eyes widened at the sight of Catherine sitting to the right of the head chair, and he crossed the room briskly, never letting his eyes waver from her.

  “Did Nurse Gray permit you to come down to breakfast?” he asked quietly, a hand on her shoulder.

  Catherine’s cheeks heated with embarrassment, but she smiled through it. “I do not need permission to eat breakfast in my own home, Charles. I came down by my own choice. As you can see, I’m fine.”

  Unlike the first day I’d arrived, Catherine had changed out of her nightgown. She wore a cotton dress that hugged her wider hips, and her long hair was twisted back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She didn’t look exactly like the sister I remembered, but she looked more like her than she had two days ago, and that seemed like something to celebrate.

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “You look wonderful this morning, Catherine. Perhaps we should take another walk. It seemed to do you good the other day.”

  Catherine gave me a warm smile in appreciation, but it faded away just as Camellia Cresswell entered the room with a gasp.

  “Catherine,” she said, placing a hand over her chest in feigned shock. “I didn’t expect you to join us this morning.”

  “It is my house,” Catherine reminded her coolly. “I’m not sure why everyone is so shocked.”

  I couldn’t remember Catherine talking much about her feelings towards Camellia. She’d mentioned that Camellia was the one who suggested keeping Catherine from Hazel until they could be certain she wouldn’t be a danger to her own baby, but most of her frustration had seemed to be aimed at Charles and Nurse Gray. Now, however, I could see the anger.

  Catherine felt threatened by Camellia, and I didn’t think her feelings were misplaced. Camellia needed to be set straight. She, like myself, was a guest in Catherine’s home, and it couldn’t hurt to remind her of that.

  “Regardless, it is lovely to have you.” Camellia smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, the emotion not reaching her eyes. As she took her seat opposite Catherine—but still next to Charles—she waved to the maid.

  The young woman had been going back and forth to the kitchen all morning bringing in the food one item at a time. Usually, the kitchen staff would have brought out the food all at once, but it seemed the girl was working alone. I was so uncomfortable waiting for her to pour everyone a glass of juice that I considered offering to help.

  Camellia made a motion to her.

  “Yes?” The maid’s eyes flicked to Catherine’s briefly as she lowered her head. Even the staff sensed the shifting of the power dynamic.

  “Be sure to take something up to the nanny,” Camellia instructed, sweeping a hand across her forehead, her eyes fluttering closed dramatically. “Hazel was awake most of the night, and the poor woman could use something to revive her. I know I certainly could.”

  Catherine’s brows knit together, and she turned to Charles. “Is Hazel all right? Why wasn’t I told?”

  Camellia waved away Catherine’s concern with a laugh. “It is just her age. She needs to be soothed several times a night, and she is so hungry. Growing every day.”

  At that, I frowned. Hazel was young enough that she should be eating only from her mother. Was Camellia feeding her something else? Since Catherine was taking medicine and spent so much of her time napping in her room, perhaps they had made other arrangements?

  It looked as though Catherine wanted to ask something, as well, but doing so would be admitting that she didn’t have a say in the parenting of her own child. As much as I wanted to know the answer, I understood her silence on the subject.

  “Did you drink the tea?” Camellia asked, looking up at me from beneath her dark brows.

  For a moment, I didn’t know what she was referring to. Then, I remembered the Wilds. “Oh, yes. Unfortunately. Only to help me swallow the stew.”

  “Oh no. They served the stew?” Camellia wrinkled her nose and grabbed her brother’s wrist. “Did you eat it, too, Charles?”

  “Only the broth when they were looking directly at me. It was rabbit again.”

  “You went to visit Margaret and Abigail?” Catherine asked.

  Charles looked up for only a second, barely catching her eye. “Alice and I went last night.”

  My sister turned to me, a look of betrayal on her face.

  I would have spoken to Catherine about it directly if it hadn’t been for Nurse Gray’s rules. I hadn’t been able to see my sister the entire day before the dinner, and Charles led me to believe Catherine knew about it.

  In turn, I looked at my brother-in-law with the same expression. Wisely, Charles kept his head down, avoiding my ire.

  “Margaret and Abigail both had favorable things to say about you, Cat.” I forced a smile. “They told me to visit them again. Perhaps you could come with me and—”

  “No.” Catherine lifted her chin and cut into the berries on her plate, bright red and purple juices spreading across the china, soaking into the bread.

>   I waited for more of an explanation, but none came. Finally, I pressed. “If it is because of the distance, the drive there is quite short. I’m sure Charles wouldn’t mind escorting us, and—”

  “No thank you, Alice. You go on ahead.”

  “Catherine,” I argued. “The tea truly is horrible, but the women are lovely, and I think it could be good for you to—”

  “No!” Catherine’s fork slipped from her grip, clattering against her plate and falling to the floor.

  Camellia gasped, a melodramatic hand flying over her mouth, and Charles stilled. He became an immovable statue, neither addressing his wife’s outburst or carrying on as though it hadn’t happened. Instead, he stayed fixed in that moment, staring down at his place, fork hovering over a pile of scrambled eggs.

  Catherine smoothed her hands down the front of her dress and scooted her chair away from the table to retrieve her fork. When she sat back up, her face was pale.

  “Perhaps I do need to rest,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  She got up to leave and tripped over the leg of a chair, catching herself on the back of my chair to keep from falling.

  “Catherine, I’m sorry,” I started. “Do you want me to help you—”

  “I’m fine, Alice.” She laid her hand on my shoulder, and her fingers were cold. The chill seeped beneath my blouse and sunk into my skin. She summoned a small smile on her way out of the room. “Perhaps we can go on that walk later. I would like that.”

  “All right, Cat.”

  I didn’t know what happened, and when Catherine left, no one seemed keen to discuss it. Camellia went on about Hazel’s night-time habits and how big she was growing, and Charles just nodded along absently.

  I wondered if he was worried about his wife. It seemed like he was, but his actions didn’t show it. More than anything, it seemed like Charles wanted someone else to solve his problems.

  Unfortunately, it seemed as though that person would have to be me.

  When I went up to see Catherine later in the afternoon, Nurse Gray opened the door.

  She had on the same dark dress as the day before—or, if not the same one, then one very similar—and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She folded her hands behind her back, blocking the door.

  “Mrs. Cresswell is sleeping.”

  I angled myself to look around her, trying to see my sister, but Nurse Gray pulled the door partway closed. “She is tired and needs her rest.”

  “She told me she wanted to go on a walk this afternoon,” I said. “She requested that I come find her when I was ready to go.”

  This wasn’t entirely true, but I hoped, if nothing else, Catherine’s own wishes would sway Nurse Gray’s iron will.

  Unfortunately, they did nothing to sway the nurse.

  “I’m sorry, but today has been tiring for her. Perhaps, you can try again tomorrow.”

  Before I could formulate a better argument or desperately shout into the room to try and rouse Catherine from her unnatural sleep, the door closed, and I was alone in the hallway.

  Camellia had, once again, been in the nursery with Hazel all morning, and Charles had gone into town.

  The house was quiet and eerie, and I couldn’t stay inside for another minute. So, I pulled on a coat and set off on a walk.

  Not wanting to trudge through the bogs along the trails or be submerged in shadow under the trees, I walked down the driveway towards the road rather than following the paths behind the house. Once I reached the road, I turned left, and it was only when I turned left again on the Wilds’ property that I realized where my feet were actually carrying me.

  Margaret and Abigail must have seen me coming because they were in the yard when I crested the final hill in front of their house.

  Abigail had a hand raised to her eyes, squinting against the gray light in the overcast sky, and Margaret was plucking handfuls of weeds from the garden in front of their house. They’d built wire cages around the produce, probably to keep smaller animals from getting to the food. On a hook near the corner of the house, I noticed one such small animal hanging by its foot. Its lifeless body swayed in the wind.

  If the women offered me stew today, I would decline. I did not want rabbit again.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming by unannounced,” I called once I was close enough.

  “Of course, not,” Margaret responded, wiping her dirty hands on the sides of her dress, leaving streaks of dirt on the brown fabric. “Like we said, you are always welcome at our home.”

  My mother would have been horrified by my lack of manners, but she also would have been horrified by Margaret and Abigail Wilds, so I didn’t think it mattered much. Besides, if what Charles had said the night before was true—that the Wilds were lonely—then they really wouldn’t mind my surprise visit.

  “We are making preserves today. If you don’t mind helping, then you can stay as long as you like.” Abigail held out a cloth sack full of bruised apples.

  “She doesn’t have to help.” Margaret chastised her sister and then turned to me, shaking her head. “You don’t have to help, Alice. We are just happy for the company.”

  I didn’t mind the work. It was much better than staying in my sister’s quiet home. Besides, even though I hadn’t consciously planned to come visit the Wilds, I was glad for the opportunity to talk with them without Charles present. I had some questions.

  The women had at least six apple trees behind their house. As we picked up the apples from the ground, Margaret told me they had been a gift to their father when they were only girls.

  “He helped the previous owner of your sister’s home deliver a newborn calf. The man was poor, but he had a hearty garden, and he uprooted several of his own trees and strapped them to his horse, hauling them here one by one. Father didn’t think they would last the season, but sixty years later, here they are.”

  “I propogated the three in the back from the one on the right,” Abigail said. “That was almost twenty years ago now. The children grow sweeter apples than their mother.”

  “But the mother’s are the best for pie,” Margaret said.

  Abigail nodded in agreement. “Tart apples make the best pie.”

  The trees all looked identical to me, but the women knew them all intimately. It made sense. If they had as few visitors as they claimed, then this land—these trees and this garden—were their entire life. These trees were a kind of family to them.

  “We lost one tree during a particularly dry spring and a harsh summer. It became diseased, and we had to pull it up by the root to keep it from infecting the others.” Abigail turned towards the house and pointed at a large stone with an apple carved into it. The stone had a wide bottom and came to a narrow point at the top, much like the stone Charles had laid at the base of the pathway behind his house. “We buried it there.”

  “You buried the tree?”

  Margaret hummed in assent. “We burned the wood in the fireplace and scraped out the ashes. The tree’s ashes deserved to be back in the ground.”

  “So, you gave it a funeral?”

  “Exactly.” Margaret smiled. “Every living thing deserves to be celebrated.”

  “And if we didn’t, there was a chance the other trees would fall to the same illness,” Abigail added.

  If anyone else had made that claim, I would have assumed it had something to do with the disease and the proximity to the other trees—something scientific. But with the Wilds, I suspected the women were worried about a curse from a vengeful tree spirit.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask—”

  “Ask us anything.” Margaret smiled.

  I dropped several more apples into my bag and then let it slide from my shoulder to the ground. My arms ached from the work. Unlike Margaret and Abigail, I wasn’t accustomed to physical labor. I rolled my shoulder and took a deep breath. “You said people can carry spirits with them…so, I wonder whether…well, if you’ve noticed an
y spirits attached to me?”

  Margaret set her apple bag on the ground. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and she rubbed her hands together to spread some warmth in them. “Are you worried about that, Alice? Because if so, I can tell you there is nothing malicious around you at all. If there had been, we wouldn’t have let you into the house.”

  “Or onto the property,” Abigail said over her shoulder, still picking up fallen apples. “We don’t allow evil spirits into our home if we can stop them.”

  “I’m not afraid. Only curious.” The breeze picked up and a chill slid down my spine, spreading goosebumps across my arms. “I’ve…experienced death before. I just wonder—”

  “Catherine told us about your brother.”

  I snapped my attention up to Margaret and frowned. “She did?”

  The woman nodded. Her white hair blew freely in the wind, and she looked more like a spirit herself than a human being. True to their surname, there was something wild about the two sisters. Something untethered.

  After the way Catherine had reacted to my offer of joining me to visit the women, I was surprised to learn she’d divulged anything personal to them at all.

  “When she first came to visit, I told her I sensed a ghost following her,” Abigail said, walking over to stand behind her own sister, a bag of apples hanging from each elbow. “She seemed uncomfortable, and I’m afraid we may have frightened her with such talk.”

  Last night I would have assured the women that wasn’t the case. But after the way Catherine became so upset this morning, I couldn’t be sure.

  Once all of the apples were gathered, we took the bags inside and dropped them on the kitchen table. The same pot from the night before was boiling in the fireplace, and I was worried I’d have to try and stomach more of Margaret’s stew, but when I walked over to the fire to warm up, I could smell the sweetness. It was sugar syrup for the apples. One of the cooks we had growing up had let me help her preserve fruits once before. I couldn’t remember her name, but I remembered stealing bites of the fruit when the woman’s back was turned.