The Ghost of Christmas Past Read online

  “No, I have never seen him before.” For the first time, Elizabeth looked at the injured man properly. He was a man of middle age, portly, and with a fine set of whiskers. “But he just said a name. Lucinda.”

  The stranger glanced up at her, whilst tending to the stricken man. “Do you know a Lucinda?”

  “No, there is no one in Midchester of that name. At least not that I know of.”

  “I daresay that Midchester is the sort of town where everybody knows everybody else.” He spoke wryly.

  “Yes, it is rather. It’s strange but I was only wishing today for some excitement. Now…”

  “You would do better to wish for peaceful evenings and quiet nights, Miss…”

  “Dearheart.”

  “Dearheart?” He smiled, and she felt her heart flip. “That’s a very appropriate name for you. This poor man has been shot. I'm afraid the wound might be too near to the heart.”

  “Elizabeth!” She heard her brother’s voice behind her. “I’ve brought Doctor Wheston.”

  Doctor Wheston approached them then stopped suddenly. It was not at the injured man he looked, but at the stranger.

  “Hello, John,” said the stranger, standing up. “I warrant you did not expect to see your old friend Liam Doubleday here.”

  “Liam? Of course.” He held out his hand, and took Liam’s. Their greeting was full of intensity and unspoken words, making Elizabeth feel that she had arrived in the middle of a conversation. “You should have told us you were coming. Amelia will be … surprised. And absolutely delighted. What do we have here?”

  Whatever surprise Wheston might have felt on seeing his friend, his professionalism took over.

  “He’s been shot in the chest,” said Liam. “I’ve done what I can to stem the flow of blood, and thankfully the snow has helped, though whether his assailant thought of that is another matter. But we need to get him out of the cold so we can treat him properly. This young lady…” he looked at Elizabeth, “says that he mentioned the name Lucinda. Do you know of a Lucinda in this area?”

  Wheston appeared to think about it very carefully. When Wheston replied, he spoke guardedly. “No, there are no Lucindas here that I know of.”

  At this the man on the ground grasped Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her down to him. “If not Lucinda, then her ghost,” he said. His eyes closed, and he was dead.

  Chapter Two

  Over the next few days the news of the stranger’s death spread through Midchester faster than the snow, seeping under every door alongside the sharp winter winds. Some said he was a spice trader from the West Indies, involved in shady deals. Others said he was a government inspector who had been murdered to stop him from reporting farmers who were less than honest about their taxes.

  “It’s so exciting,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. Elizabeth had met the sisters on the way to her aunt’s. Despite the extreme cold, they loitered in the town square, desperate to discuss the murder with anyone, having gone over it between themselves so many times already. “A real life murder in Midchester.”

  “It’s actually very sad,” said Elizabeth. “It was a horrid way to die.”

  “Was it dear?” asked Miss Graves, her eyes hungry for details. “Of course we don’t know all the particulars, but is it true that he had been formed into a snowman, complete with a carrot for a nose?”

  “No, that is not true,” said Elizabeth. She spoke politely but firmly. “At least not the part about the carrot. I really don’t think I should talk about it. I told Constable Hounds everything.”

  “Oh, well I suppose that’s for the best,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, sighing with disappointment.

  “Do you have any idea who he might have been?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Why no, dear,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “As if we would have anything to do with a murdered man. The very thought is scandalous. If Mr. Chatterbucks were still alive, he would say the same thing. Once, when we were first married, a man we called friend was murdered by a vagabond. To think we invited him into our house, and that he ate at our table.” Despite her pretended horror, Mrs. Chatterbucks seemed to be relishing her connection with the dead man.

  “I hardly think it was the poor man’s fault he was murdered,” Elizabeth said, sternly.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Graves, gleefully. “Some people do rather bring death upon themselves.”

  “I should really be getting on,” said Elizabeth, with a sigh. Why the sisters should annoy her more than usual she did not know. It did not help that her thoughts kept going back to Doctor Doubleday. Her normal restlessness, which she managed to keep under control most of the time, had increased tenfold since she met him. “My aunt is expecting me.”

  “Do give our best regards to Lady Bedlington,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “Of course, we have never dined with her, but I hear she keeps a very good table.”

  The hint was a familiar one to Elizabeth. Bidding farewell to the sisters, she continued on to Bedlington Hall.

  #

  “Is that you, Elizabeth?” Her aunt lay in the centre of a large bed, in a darkened boudoir, surrounded by various bottles, from which she partook regularly. She said they were medicine, and that might have been true of some of them. Others smelled distinctly alcoholic, and her aunt had a tendency to call them embrocations. Elizabeth doubted they had ever been used as linaments.

  Lady Bedlington’s true age was a secret known only to herself. She looked ninety, but as it was often said she had been born middle aged, she might only be fifty. She was Elizabeth’s great aunt, the sister of her father’s mother.

  “It is, Aunt Arabella.”

  “You are late. I will not stand for lateness.”

  “I was talking to Mrs. Chatterbucks and Miss Graves.” Elizabeth unpacked the basket of food she had brought for her aunt. She did not apologise, believing that it only made her aunt feel more powerful.

  “Oh don’t mention those silly women to me. A couple of prattling idiots both of them. I daresay they’ve tried to get an invitation to Bedlington Hall again.”

  “Yes, actually, they did. It would mean an awful lot to them, Aunt Arabella.”

  “My nerves could not bear it. I have not your patience, Elizabeth. Now tell me, is it true what I hear? That there has been a murder.”

  Given her aunt’s hermit-like existence, it surprised Elizabeth that she knew anything at all. She told her aunt the details, including a description of the dead man.

  “That sounds like George Sanderson. Goodness knows what he’s doing, getting himself murdered. As if his family hasn’t enough problems.”

  It occurred to Elizabeth that the sisters and her aunt should get on rather well, given that they all had a tendency to blame misfortune on the victims. “You know him? Perhaps you should tell Constable Hounds.”

  “I most certainly will not. There will be no policeman in this house.”

  “Surely you want to see justice done.”

  “It has managed quite well without my interference for many years.”

  Elizabeth would have liked to disagree. All around her she saw injustices taking place, particularly to those who could not afford to pay for proper counsel.

  “Perhaps you could tell me about Mr. Sanderson,” said Elizabeth. Her idea was that she could go to Constable Hounds and tell him to check if Mr. Sanderson was the dead man.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, having finished unpacking the delicacies. She could have left them in the kitchen with the servants, but as her aunt didn’t trust servants not to eat the best food, she insisted on seeing anything brought to the house first. Elizabeth knew that when she left, Lady Bedlington would take out a little notebook and make a list of it all. Then she would tick everything off as it was served to her. It seemed to Elizabeth to be a sad way to live, always worried that someone would steal from you. And given that Lady Bedlington could afford enough food to feed the whole town for a year, it also seemed somewhat miserly. Why should the servants not share i
n some of the pork pie? Lady Bedlington had the appetite of a sparrow.

  “Why should you want to know? That is your trouble, Elizabeth. Too inquisitive. Of course, if your mother had been high born, you would know that it does not do to show one’s ignorance by asking too many questions. I did warn Philip. A Reverend needs a wife who can be a credit to him.”

  Elizabeth struggled to control the anger that rose within her. Her late mother, though from the lower classes, had been gentle, kind and intelligent, and beloved by her father’s parishioners. She had died giving birth to Samuel, having lost many children in between, leaving Elizabeth, at the age of fourteen, as foster mother to a baby boy. “My mother was a credit to father and to Midchester,” said Elizabeth firmly. “Now, please, Aunt Arabella. Tell me about Mr. Sanderson.” She was surprised by the command in her own voice. Especially when it appeared to have the desired affect.

  “He is, or was, an architect from Devon, and has often worked on our properties down there. A troublesome family, the Sandersons, but I daresay he does his work well enough. I called him up to discuss building an orangery onto Bedlington Hall. Now he is dead, I suppose I shall have to start all over again. It is most inconvenient.”

  “You said his family was troublesome. In what way?”

  “Insanity. It’s rife in that family. Mr. Sanderson’s mother became an imbecile soon after giving birth to Mr. Sanderson’s brother, Albert.” Elizabeth winced at her aunt’s callous words. Lady Bedlington continued, “Albert has been in a sanatorium for many years. Completely out of his mind. His young wife was so distraught, she took her own life.”

  “Albert Sanderson’s wife, you mean?”

  “Yes, that is what I meant. Pay attention! My husband, Lord Bedlington, knew the family well. His daughter from his first marriage … you remember my step-daughter Cassandra?” Elizabeth nodded, vaguely remembering a pale, slender woman with sad eyes. “She was in love with Albert Sanderson and they planned to marry, but your uncle forbade it because Sanderson was so clearly beneath her. Oh she is a tiresome girl. She never comes to see me. Lives on our Devon estate in a tiny cottage, and writes books. She is an old maid now of course. Thirty-three years old. She shall never marry. That’s what happens when one goes and falls for the lower classes. Men of breeding are more reluctant to offer marriage. It really was very clumsy of her.”

  “So she wasn’t the one who committed suicide.” Elizabeth was getting sorely confused.

  “Good Lord, no. Honestly child, you have met her, have you not? So she could hardly be dead. She may be tiresome, but Bedlingtons are made of stronger stock than that! It was Lucinda, Albert Sanderson's young bride, who took her own life.”

  “Lucinda! Mr. Sanderson said that name. He said he’d seen her.”

  “Nonsense. He can’t have. She’s dead. Now, can we please stop talking about such distressing subjects? Ah, Doctor Wheston, you’ve arrived.”

  Elizabeth spun around, to see Doctor Wheston, and his friend, Liam Doubleday. She wondered how long they had been standing at the boudoir door.

  “Miss Dearheart,” said Liam Doubleday, nodding his head in her direction. She bowed her own head and blushed a little.

  “Who is this?” asked Lady Bedlington.

  “This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Doubleday,” said Doctor Wheston. “I hope you don’t mind me asking him to accompany me, Lady Bedlington but he has a special interest in cases like yours.”

  “What I have is incurable,” said Lady Bedlington. “Doctors before you have tried and they have all failed to find the reason for my malady.”

  “I have no doubt you’re right,” said Liam. “You are beyond medical help.” There was something in the wry way he said it and the slight curve at the corners of his mouth that made Elizabeth want to laugh.

  “Well I am not in the mood to be poked and prodded by a stranger, Doctor Doubleday. I have had quite enough facing interrogation by my great niece this morning. Elizabeth, take Doctor Doubleday to the kitchen and offer him a hot drink, whilst Doctor Wheston and I attend to our business.”

  “Very well, Aunt Arabella.” Elizabeth looked at Liam apologetically, but it was clear he found her aunt amusing rather than offensive. She went to the door, and as she opened it her aunt called out,

  “You need not return to see me, Elizabeth. However, you may invite those prattling sisters to dinner at Bedlington Hall on Monday evening. Your father and brother too. Tell the constable I expect his presence.” Given what Lady Bedlington had said about having policemen in the house, Elizabeth was surprised, but she did not argue. Her aunt was known to be capricious. “Doctor Wheston,” said Lady Bedlington, “you, your wife and your colleague will join us.”

  The invitations were couched as a command rather than a request. Elizabeth began to suspect that like the sisters, her aunt had become enthralled with the recent murder and wanted to know more details. Especially as it now seemed she had known the man. “I believe you attended the murdered man yesterday, Doctor Wheston. You can tell me all about it on Monday night. At this moment in time I am more concerned about my own health.”

  Elizabeth led Liam Doubleday down to the kitchen. The servants were about other business, which meant they had the kitchen to themselves. He took a seat at the large table, whilst she boiled water for the coffee. “You must forgive my aunt,” she started to say.

  “You have no need to apologise, Miss Dearheart. I have met enough women like your aunt in the past to know how to deal with difficult personalities.”

  Despite the fact that his words were true, Elizabeth felt a sudden surge of loyalty to her aunt. “She has had to contend with much illness,” she said. “Genuine illness I mean. She had pneumonia at the age of fifteen from which her lungs have never truly recovered.”

  “And they never will if she insists on lying in bed all day,” said Liam.

  “I suppose you suggest vigorous walks, Doctor Doubleday.”

  “I suggest she at least walks as far as the drawing room and garden every day. I can hardly understand why she wants an orangery if she is not going to enjoy the benefit of it.”

  Elizabeth looked at him sharply. Just how long had he and Doctor Wheston been listening? They must have entered the house only a few moments after she did.

  “I must confess, Miss Dearheart,” said Liam, smiling, “that when I saw you walking towards Bedlington Hall and learned that John Wheston was visiting today, I asked to accompany him. So that I could see you again.” He looked abashed. “And now I have offended you. Let’s not talk of your aunt. Let’s talk of Midchester. Tell me about it. About its people.”

  “There’s not much to tell, Doctor Doubleday.”

  “Please, call me Liam.”

  “One thing I can tell you about Midchester is that one is seldom on first name terms with someone they only met a couple of days ago.”

  “Oh, yes, merry old England, where neighbours wait ten years before saying good morning. But, I must admit, I’m glad to hear it, as I rather like calling you Miss Dearheart.” He curled the word around his tongue in a way that was very sensual.

  “Would you like cream in your coffee?” Elizabeth wondered why it seemed she was offering him so much more.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sugar?”

  He shook his head, murmuring his thanks as she passed a steaming cup of black coffee to him. “You were telling me about Midchester.”

  “It is a quiet town. Nothing ever happens here. Or at least it didn’t until the other day. The trouble with nothing ever happening is that people have plenty of time to make things up. Reputations have been ruined through gossip, when people have nothing better to do.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” he said, darkly. “Talk can cost lives.” He appeared to be lost in some thoughts of his own.

  “But the people here are good people,” Elizabeth said quickly. She wondered why she felt the need to defend everything to him. Perhaps, she thought, it was because Midchester was so much
a part of her, and a slight against Midchester felt like a slight against her. And yet had she not longed to leave it, to seek out adventure elsewhere?

  “I’m sure they are, Miss Dearheart.” He took a sip of coffee. “This is wonderful. So few English people know how to make good coffee.”

  “You’ve travelled then, Doctor Doubleday?”

  “I left Ireland as a teenager, and have never returned. Tell me, do you know this Lucinda of whom the dead man spoke?”

  “No, as I already told you, there is no one in Midchester of that name.”

  “Are you sure? In a town where no one uses first names, it’s possible.”

  “But one knows anyway,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t know how we know, but we do. Anyway, it now seems that the poor man probably just saw someone who looked like his dead sister-in-law.”

  “Yet he was murdered, and he spoke her name as if it were important.”

  “He was delirious, I should think. They do say that sometimes when one is dying, they see their life flashing before them.” Elizabeth struggled to convince herself, for she too thought the name of Lucinda was important in some way. She could not help wondering why Liam Doubleday was so interested.

  She looked at him closely for the first time. He was very handsome, and had the last vestiges of a tan, which left him with a slightly pale and wan look. His eyes were deep, almost violet blue, rimmed with thick dark lashes. He had taken his hat off to reveal that whilst his short hair was black, there were fine silver streaks running through it. She wondered if she had misjudged his age, and that perhaps he was older. But his face was that of a young man. Something had sent him prematurely grey. Not that it was unattractive. The hint of silver gave him a distinguished air.

  He had arrived in Midchester from nowhere, the only other stranger in Midchester, apart from the dead man. And he had been in the vicinity of the pond. On the other hand, Doctor Wheston knew him, and Doubleday would hardly be likely to make himself known to his old friend, or even to be near the victim as he lay dying and still capable of speech if he had killed Sanderson. Assuming it was Sanderson.