The Ghost of Christmas Past (3 page)

“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.

There
was definitely something mysterious about Liam Doubleday. She tried to remember
something else that had seemed odd to her at the time, but it floated just out
of her reach, before bursting like a lone balloon.

After
Doctor Wheston had finished treating her aunt, and taken some coffee himself,
Elizabeth said farewell to the two men at the gates of Bedlington Hall. She
made her way to the Constable’s house, where she informed Constable Hounds
about the possible identity of the dead man. The constable lived in a small
cottage on the edge of the village. Given the lack of any real crime in Midchester,
Hounds earned his real living as a blacksmith. His forge was next door to the
cottage.

“Yes,
I reckon you’re right, Miss Dearheart,” said Hounds. “I shouldn't need to
bother Her Ladyship over this. My own investigations point to it being Sanderson.
A gentleman by that name had booked into the Bear Inn on Friday night, I reckon
to go and see your aunt. He has not returned since Sunday morning, when he
mentioned to the landlord that he had to go out and meet someone. He left all
his stuff there. The landlord is out today, visiting the brewery, but when he
returns I'll ask him to identify the dead man. That's not all. There's more
news, which will solve the case for us.”

“What
news?” asked Elizabeth.

“His
brother, Albert Sanderson has been in a mental institution for some time. He
escaped a few months ago and is still at large. So it is likely that Mr.
Sanderson died at the hands of his own brother.”

“How
does that follow?” asked Elizabeth.

“His
brother is a madman, and on the run from a mad house to which our victim sent
him. Surely that is enough evidence.”

“Just
because his brother has mental problems does not make him a murderer,” said
Elizabeth.

“Well
that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Dearheart. You see, there are rumours that Mr.
Albert Sanderson murdered one of his clients to get the man’s money. That’s why
he ended up in the institution.”

“My
aunt never mentioned that.”

“She
happen doesn't know. It was all hushed up. They’ve got money you see. Rich
people can easily avoid scandal. But everyone knew he’d done it. Scotland Yard
are sending me a picture of him. Meanwhile, I will have to put up a poster,
with a description.”

“But
if the Sandersons had money, why would Albert need to steal it from a client?”

“Men
get greedy, Miss. And he's not quite right in the head.”

“What
does he look like?” asked Elizabeth. “So we can all be on the lookout for him.”

Hounds
read from the sheet of paper in front of him. “He's thirty-five years old, about
six feet tall. Got blue eyes and dark hair.”

“What?”
Elizabeth felt the room sway around her.