Finished Off (A Bellehaven House Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

It creaked open with a loud groan, leaving a smear of rust on her white glove. Shuddering, she passed through and dutifully closed the gate behind her with her foot.

The bell, she discovered, hung over the massive door that guarded the entrance to the building. She pulled the bell rope, and heard the muffled echo of its mournful clanging inside.

She waited for some time before pulling the rope again, more forcefully and for a longer amount of time. Her reward came moments later with the grinding of heavy bolts being drawn back. The door swung open, to reveal a portly woman in a dull brown frock covered with a grubby apron.

Her tired eyes took in Meredith's appearance, and her bored expression changed to one of hopeful anticipation. "Yes, madam? What can I do for you?"

Meredith realized at once the reason for the woman's eagerness. Feeling guilty for raising false hopes in her, she said quietly, "My name is Mrs. Meredith Llewellyn. I've come to ask some questions about your orphans."

"You wanting to adopt?"

"I've been thinking about it, yes."

"Come in, come in!" She opened the door wider and Meredith stepped inside the dingy entrance, fervently hoping her lie justified the means.

"I'm Mrs. Philpot, the administrator of this establishment. Come with me." The woman led the way down a dark hall, dimly lit with flickering gas lamps on the wall. There were no windows to let in the light, and the place stank of antiseptic soap and stale cooking odors.

Mrs. Philpot paused in front of a door and pushed it open. "Please take a seat. I'll be with you in just a moment."

Reluctantly Meredith entered the office. The room was much smaller than her office in Bellehaven. A desk was crammed into one corner, and a tiny window afforded a view outside of unkempt bushes bordering a ragged lawn.

There were only two chairs, one behind the desk and one in front. Meredith brushed the seat with her gloved hand before seating herself.

Small piles of paper covered the desk. An inkwell sat on one corner and on the other corner perched a photograph of a group of children.

Eagerly, Meredith snatched up the tarnished silver frame and examined the picture. She studied each face
carefully, both the boys and girls, but to her intense disappointment she didn't recognize the face of her ghost among them.

Replacing the photograph, she leaned her back against the chair. She must have imagined the vision outside after all. She knew quite well that her connection between the ghost and the orphanage had been flimsy at best. She had been so anxious to grasp any flicker of hope that presented itself, she had mistaken the reflection of sunlight for her ghost. If the photograph represented every child in Chest House, her ghost wasn't one of them. She would have to remove herself from this situation with as much grace as possible.

The door opened behind her and Mrs. Philpot bustled in. "Now then," she said as she lowered her formidable bulk onto the chair, "I'm quite sure we'll be able to find a suitable child for you to adopt. We have many lovely children here who will make excellent family members. Were you looking for a boy or a girl?"

Meredith thought fast. "A girl, most definitely. Actually, I have rather specific requirements for the daughter I have in mind. I shall quite understand if you are unable to fulfill them."

"Ah." The other woman's face clouded. "Then this isn't the first orphanage you have visited."

"Actually, it is the first." Meredith leaned forward. "The child I am looking for would have golden curls, the palest blue eyes, and she would be about ten years old."

"Hmmm." Mrs. Philpot leaned her hands on the table and stared at them. "That's a tall order. I don't know if we have a child like that." She looked up. "We do have a seven-year-old. Not exactly golden-haired, but a sort of light brown. I'm sure you would love her if you saw her."

"Thank you, but I don't think—"

Mrs. Philpot stood up, cutting off Meredith's words. "Why don't you come with me and take a look at our orphans. Sometimes we don't really know what we are looking for until we see it."

How true, Meredith thought. That didn't help her find her ghost, however. "I really don't think—"

Once more the administrator interrupted her. "Just a peek. It won't take a minute, and it would be a shame if you missed the perfect child because you didn't take the proper time to look."

Hearing the hint of reproval in her voice, Meredith rose. It would be best to humor the woman. She could easily say she didn't see what she wanted and leave. At least she would have satisfied the administrator.

Out in the hall once more, Meredith reminded herself that no matter how much she might pity these poor children, she could not take them all home with her. She would simply have to brace herself for the ordeal, and hope she could put those mournful little faces out of her mind once she had left.

The children were in the schoolroom, Mrs. Philpot informed her, as she led the way down the dismal corridor to a pair of double doors at the end.

Meredith could hear the childish voices, reciting words she couldn't quite catch. As the administrator opened the door, the words became audible. Guided by a thin woman with spectacles, the children were reciting a verse from
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
.

Mrs. Philpot led the way to the front of the class, explaining to Meredith over her shoulder, "These are the older children, four years old and upward. The babies are in the nursery, but since you mentioned you wanted an older child, this is the best place to look."

Meredith was beginning to feel decidedly queasy. She had not thought all this through very carefully, and she now deeply regretted her rash decision to visit the orphanage.

She couldn't imagine what had possessed her to think that the vague and illusive gesturing of a ghost she still had trouble believing she could actually see could possibly lead her to this place. Her need to discover the identity of the dead child had addled her mind to the point where she was imagining things and grasping at straws.

Fragile straws at that. Now here she was, with dozens of eyes following her as she traipsed down the aisle, all praying that they would be the one to leave that dreadful place and find a new home.

How could she bring hope to these poor lost souls, only to snatch it away again? All on a ridiculous whim. How cruel. It would be many months, if ever, before she could forgive herself for this.

"Now, children," Mrs. Philpot announced, "this is Mrs. Llewellyn. I want each of you to stand up in turn, tell her your name and how old you are. Starting with you, Beth."

Miserably Meredith faced the children as, one by one, they stood and announced their names. Their clothes were ragged, their hair uncombed. Their ages ranged from about four to perhaps eleven, and although not one of them looked alike, they all shared the same haunted look in their eyes.

When they were finished, Meredith did her best to smile. "Thank you all very much. I enjoyed listening to your poem. I wish I could stay longer to hear more, but I'm afraid I have to leave." She hesitated, while the children stared at her with vacant expressions that gave no indication of what they might be thinking.

Unable to bear more, she nodded at the teacher, raised her hand in farewell, and quickly left the room.

Mrs. Philpot hurried after her, catching up with her halfway down the corridor. "I'm so sorry you didn't see what you wanted," she said, puffing as she struggled to keep up with Meredith's anxious stride. "Perhaps you could visit us again sometime. Most of the children who come in here are babies, though we do get older children from time to time."

Meredith made herself slow down. She reached the door and waited for the administrator to catch up with her. "I'm so sorry I wasted your time," she began, but Mrs. Philpot shook her head.

"Oh, no, I understand. You have a firm picture of what you want in your head, and nothing else will do. It's a
shame. These children so badly want a home and a family to love them, but I do understand."

"Well, thank you again for your time." Meredith reached for the door to open it.

"Shame, really. I hesitated to mention this earlier, but just two months ago we had a little girl brought in who looked exactly like what you described. Nine years old, she was. Beautiful golden hair, blue eyes, the sweetest face you ever saw . . . " She shook her head, her words ending on a sigh.

Meredith froze, one hand on the door handle. Carefully she let go and turned to the woman. "Really? What happened to her?"

Mrs. Philpot shrugged. "Died, didn't she. Pneumonia, the doctor said. That's why I didn't say anything earlier. I didn't want to upset you."

"Pneumonia? Are you sure?"

The administrator frowned. "That's what the doctor said it was. She was ill for a while before that. Shock of losing her family brought it on, so they say."

Meredith let go of the handle. Reggie would have to wait a bit longer. "She lost her family? How dreadful!"

"It was dreadful, Mrs. Llewellyn. Poor little mite." Mrs. Philpot shook her head. "Lost her mother, her father, and her little brother. George Lewis was the manager of the Melrose Bank in Witcheston. They all lived in that big house on Meadow Lane, just as you're going into town. Lovely family. It was such an awful thing to happen."

"So what happened to them?"

"Well, as far as I know, they were all asleep when their bedroom caught fire in the middle of the night. Smoking a pipe in bed, they said her father was. Must have fallen asleep with it in his hand. They all died."

"And the little girl?"

"Emma was sleeping in another room. The noise must have woken her up. She climbed out the window. They found her stuck in the branches of a tree."

Meredith clenched her hands into fists. "Oh, the poor child."

"She didn't have no one to take her in, so they brought her here. Never spoke one word from that day on. Doctor said it was the shock. She caught a cold about a month ago. Died just last week, she did. Just about broke our hearts."

It couldn't be her ghost, Meredith thought, struggling against her rising hope. The child had died of a disease. She wasn't murdered after all. "How long ago did you say the fire happened?"

"Like I said, about two months ago. It was one of them warm nights with a dry wind. They said it spread really fast."

"I think I read about it. I seem to remember the child being found. Wasn't there a picture in the newspaper?"

Mrs. Philpot nodded. "It were all on the front page of the
Post
. Just a picture of the house burning, that's all. I do have a picture of the Lewis family, though. I kept it with Emma's things, just in case some long-lost relative comes along to claim them. Not that she had much, of course, other than the clothes on her back and a shabby teddy bear."

"Can I see the picture?"

In her eagerness, she had spoken without thinking. Mrs. Philpot stared at her as if she'd asked to borrow money. "You want to see a picture of the Lewis family?"

Meredith smiled. "It's not just morbid curiosity, I promise you. I'd like to see a picture of the little girl, just to see if she looks like the kind of child I have in mind. Then you will know what to look for in the future."

The administrator still looked doubtful, but after a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "Very well. It's in my office. Wait here and I'll fetch it."

"Thank you." Hardly able to contain her excitement, Meredith paced back and forth while she waited for Mrs. Philpot's return. Emma had to be her ghost. She had recently died and she sounded just like the image that appeared in her room at night. And yet, why would the child need her help if there was no murder to solve? What else could she need that Meredith could give her?

It seemed an eternity until she heard the administrator's heavy footsteps thumping along the hallway. A moment later she appeared, a crumpled photograph in her hand. "Here it is." She thrust it at Meredith. "It's a bit creased and all but you can see the faces."

Taking it from her with a hand that shook, Meredith studied the photograph. It had been taken in a spacious living room, tastefully furnished. The family stood in front of a huge marble fireplace, graced on either side by an elegant Queen Anne chair.

A small pendulum clock sat on the mantelpiece, just to the left of the woman's head, and to the right of the gentleman's head stood a pair of statuettes—rearing horses with their hooves pawing the air.

"It was taken the very day they all died," Mrs. Philpot said. "Can you believe that? The photographer brought it by here a week later. He'd heard about Emma and that she couldn't talk. He thought the picture might help her." She sighed. "Nothing could help that little girl speak again."

Barely paying attention to her, Meredith went on studying the picture. The woman held a baby in her arms, but it was on the little girl standing in front of her that Meredith focused. There wasn't a single doubt in her mind. The dead child, Emma Lewis, was indeed the ghost who had been visiting her.

"So, does she look like what you're looking for?"

Mrs. Philpot's voice made her jump. "Yes, yes, she does," Meredith murmured. She tore her gaze away from the photograph. "May I keep this? Just for a few days. I promise to bring it back to you." The other woman's puzzled frown prompted her to add, "I'd just like it to show to other orphanages so they know what kind of child I'm looking for, if that's permissible?"

Mrs. Philpot shrugged. "I s'pose it's all right. Just make sure you do bring it back."

"I promise." Tucking the photograph into her handbag, Meredith turned back to the door.

"I must say," Mrs. Philpot said, reaching around her to
open the door for her, "I never saw anyone so particular about the kind of child they want to adopt. You know, looks and age and everything. Pardon me for asking, but did you by any chance lose a child like that?"

Meredith stepped outside, gulping down welcome breaths of fresh, clean air. Turning to the administrator, she said quietly, "I did lose a child, yes."

It wasn't a lie, she assured herself, and if it would satisfy the woman, then she felt justified in misleading her.