Vintage Love (237 page)

She found her way in the shadows, and with a gulp of fear half-stumbled the rest of the way down. By that time she had a measure of control of herself. She knew there wasn’t any use telling Shiela or Fred about her weird discovery. They would laugh at her and use it against her. As she joined the two in the lower hallway they turned to stare at her.

Her husband said, “You look very pale. Is anything wrong?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Shiela looked at her questioningly. “Perhaps you don’t feel like going out?”

“No,” she managed, “I’m quite all right. Just a little tired. It will do me good to get out. And I’d like to meet your father.”

“He’s been asking to meet you,” Shiela said.

“We’d better get started,” Fred said brusquely. “It’s getting late.”

The three of them left the house together and took the path through the woods to the adjoining estate. Shiela led the way with a flashlight and Lucy and Fred followed. With darkness the air had become cold, and Lucy shivered a little as she walked along the narrow path at her husband’s side.

His arm was linked with hers, and as he became aware of her trembling he asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just the cold,” she said. “Maybe I have a chill.” She realized that part of her condition was due to the experience she’d just had. Finding the roses in the Storage room had given her a severe shock, and having to hide this only made it harder on her.

At last they came in sight of the English Tudor mansion of the Farleys. The grounds were illuminated by many spotlights set under the eaves of the imposing house, and coach lamps decorated its front steps and hung over the entrance.

They moved on across the broad, well-kept lawns towards the front door. Shiela turned to them with a wry smile. “You may find my father a bit difficult, but I’m sure you’ll understand he suffers a great deal from his arthritis.”

Fred said, “I’ve always found him easy enough to get along with.”

Shiela flashed him a smile. “Dad is especially fond of you. I’m just warning Lucy, since she’s a stranger to him.”

Lucy said, “Thank you. But I’m sure I’ll like him.”

She began to have some doubts of this when they entered the elegant mansion and went to the large study at the rear of the house where the elderly Henry Farley held court from a chaise longue. He was an unusually tall man and very thin. He had a stern, craggy face with heavy black eyebrows that made a startling contrast with his pure white hair. There were deep lines at his mouth and furrows between his eyebrows. His eyes were black and had a penetrating quality.

But it was his hands Lucy noticed first. The slender hands were twisted into tormented claws. He kept them close to his body as if in an attempt to conceal them. He greeted them in a business-like manner, but showed a special interest in Lucy.

As soon as she was seated he said, “So you are Fred’s wife. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

She managed a faint smile. “I hope it was favorable.”

“I’d say so,” he replied. “I can imagine being mistress of Moorgate is not the easiest of tasks. It’s a formidable old house. I hesitated in selling it to Fred.”

Fred, who had remained standing by Lucy’s chair, smiled at the man on the chaise longue. “I’d have been very disappointed if you hadn’t let me have the place.”

Henry Farley eyed him bleakly. “Why were you so interested in Moorgate?”

“Its location is ideal for my practice,” Fred said. “And I like the house itself.”

Henry Farley’s sharp eyes were fixed on Fred. “And the history of the place didn’t worry you at all?”

Fred looked uncomfortable. “No, I can’t say that it did.”

“It would have worried me if I’d been taking my bride there,” the old man said with grim emphasis. He turned to Lucy. “How do you feel about Moorgate, Mrs. Dorset?”

She found herself pausing before replying, and the silence that came over the room was an awkward one. Then she said, “I’m not altogether happy in the house. I’m a nervous type and I’m there a lot alone. High on the hill as it is, away from the road, it’s rather isolated.”

“I agree,” Henry Farley said. “You say you’re a nervous type. Has the house made you any more nervous?”

Fred looked upset. “Why should the house make her more nervous?”

Henry Farley lifted one of his arthritic hands to silence him. “Let your wife answer,” he said.

Lucy said, “I think Moorgate is making me more nervous.”

“You see?” the invalid said to her husband triumphantly. And to her, he added, “The history of Moorgate is a tragic one. And as you know, the general feeling in the town is that the house is haunted.”

Shiela came into the room with a tray of drinks for them in time to hear this. As she passed the drinks, beginning with Lucy, she gave her father a warning glance. “Don’t go on with that nonsense about Moorgate being haunted.”

Her father smiled wryly. “You believe it. I’ve heard you say so.”

Shiela, having completed her rounds, stood with her own glass in hand. “I can’t remember ever saying such a thing!”

“You did,” he told her.

“I don’t think it’s a subject for social conversation,” the girl said impatiently.

“I disagree,” Henry Farley said. “I want to find out whether Mrs. Dorset has seen the ghost of Jennifer Woods. You know she’s the one who is supposed to haunt Moorgate. You’ve heard the legend of her supposed murder and the drowning of her and her husband?”

“Yes,” Lucy said in a small voice. She was thinking of that attic room and the odor of roses. And of the pale, wistful face she’d seen so briefly at the bedroom window when she’d first arrived at Moorgate.

The thin man’s stern face showed great interest in her as he asked, “Well, have you seen Jennifer’s ghost?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I think I have.”

“More than once?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said in a near whisper, her hands clasped in her lap and working uneasily.

Fred Dorset spoke up, his handsome young face crimson with annoyance. “Really, sir, I wish you’d stop this line of questioning. I don’t think it is good for my wife.”

The black-haired Shiela took a step towards the chaise longue and said, “I agree. You’re spoiling our evening, Dad.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m trying to put Mrs. Dorset’s mind at rest. It doesn’t do any good to bottle up such fears. The doctor ought to know that.”

“My wife is extremely nervous, as she told you,” Fred said stiffly. “That does make a difference. I think we should talk of something else.”

“In a minute,” Henry Farley said with a look of grim amusement. It was evident that he was enjoying this diversion. He asked Lucy, “Have things happened at Moorgate which you find hard to explain?”

“Yes. Many things,” Lucy found herself saying.

The elderly man said, “Then I assume you agree with me that it’s not a suitable home for you. You needn’t be afraid to say it. I’ll be happy to take it back and return your husband the money he’s paid down.”

A great tension had taken over in the study, and Lucy was surprised to find herself replying, “I’m not sure I want my husband to sell Moorgate.”

The black eyebrows lifted. “Why not? You say you’re not happy in the house. That you’re actually terrified. That many odd things have happened there, and that you’ve seen Jennifer’s ghost. Why would you want to remain there?”

Lucy felt they were all watching her. Uneasily, she said, “Perhaps I’ve come to care for the house more than I’ve realized. I have a feeling I want to do something to change things there. To help rid it of its unhappy ghosts.”

Henry Farley’s smile was mocking. “And how would you propose to do that?”

“I’m not sure,” she faltered. “I believe there are professional consultants who give advice in such matters. That it is often possible to rid a building of spirits.”

Fred was looking down at her in shocked anger. “I’m amazed to hear you say what you have,” he told her. “As far as I’m concerned, there are no ghosts in Moorgate, and I’ll never allow any ghost-hunter to enter the house. I can do without that kind of notoriety.”

Henry Farley chuckled. “You seem more concerned with your reputation than with your wife’s happiness.”

“That’s not a fair comment,” Fred protested.

Shiela spoke up again. “All the talk about Moorgate being haunted is pure gossip. The idea of having a ghost-hunter rid the house of its ghosts is ridiculous. There are no ghosts.”

“You’re wrong.” Lucy felt compelled to dispute her, and she spoke in a calm voice.

Shiela looked uneasy. “I’m only speaking from my own experience, of course.”

Her father told her, “You have no right to dispute Mrs. Dorset, who lives in Moorgate. She must know more about that old stone house than you do.”

Shiela shrugged and gave Fred a despairing glance. The two stood in silence a distance from Lucy. She was learning that Henry Farley was a strong-willed man who said what he pleased with no regard for his daughter or her friends. He apparently had his own opinions about Moorgate and wasn’t going to be silenced concerning them.

Fred spoke up then. “It may be that I will have to move from Moorgate. It will all depend on my wife. But I can’t see that this discussion is making things at all easier for any of us.”

The thin man on the chaise longue said, “I merely wanted to find out whether Mrs. Dorset is happy in the house or not. Apparently she’s not, and I wish to see her happy. That’s why I’m willing to take the property back from you.”

Lucy said, “I thought I made it clear. I don’t want to leave Moorgate. I’d prefer to drive the spirits from there by one means or another.”

Henry Farley looked pleased. “I’m interested in hearing you say that. Perhaps we do need a ghost-hunter in St. Andrews. I have more than one haunted property, you know. There’s the Clay house on Minister’s Island. Frank Clay is the phantom there.”

“I’ve been out there,” Lucy said.

Fred looked as if he feared there might be other embarrassing revelations. He glanced at his wristwatch and said, “I have an early morning tomorrow. We’ll have to be on our way.”

The older man raised himself up on an elbow. “Just when we’re beginning to enjoy ourselves?”

His daughter gave him a harsh look, her black eyes shining with annoyance. “We may not all be having as good a time as you, Father.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Dorset doesn’t resent what I’ve said, do you, Mrs. Dorset?” he asked.

She sighed. “No, I guess not.”

“After all, if you’ve seen ghosts at Moorgate, my mentioning them isn’t making it any more unpleasant for you, is it? Bringing things into the open is always healthy.”

Lucy nodded. “I think so.”

Henry Farley’s lean face showed approval. “I think you’re a very sensible young woman. And if you find yourself a responsible ghost-hunter let me know. I may want to use his services.”

Fred smiled sourly. “I can’t say I appreciate that, sir. I’ve already made it clear to my wife that I won’t have any such people in the house.”

The invalid’s eyes twinkled. “You’d prefer the ghosts?”

Fred’s face flushed. “I don’t acknowledge that there are such things at Moorgate.”

“So it appears you are in the minority,” Henry Farley said. “All this furor regarding phantoms is most interesting to me. I’ve led a very full life, and now that I’m retired and here in this quiet backwater I find that I’m asking a lot of questions of myself and I’m not able to answer many of them. Among the things puzzling me is the question of life after death. As one grows older one speculates on this. Who knows? We may find the answer at Moorgate.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Dad,” Shiela said.

He smiled at her. “Well, at least it gives me a new interest. And I’m prepared to follow it up with all the energy left me. I’m sick of merely gobbling up property and counting bond coupons. I want a bizarre adventure before my life ends. And why can’t this be it?”

Fred looked at his watch again. “Lucy and I do really have to go,” he said. “We’ve enjoyed our visit, sir.”

Henry Farley nodded, and then asked Lucy, “Do you feel the same way?”

“Meeting you has been an experience,” she said.

“Cautiously expressed,” the thin man chuckled. “We must see each other soon again.”

Shiela saw them out and gave Fred her flashlight to light them along the path home. She seemed embarrassed by her father’s behavior and was aloof, though polite, in saying good night to them. Within a few minutes they were on their way through the woods.

Fred finally spoke as they walked along the narrow path. “I’ve never heard Henry Farley go on like that before.”

“He’s an eccentric,” she said.

“I’m beginning to think his mind is going,” her husband said in a harsh voice. “All that nonsense he said about Moorgate.”

“Not all of it nonsense,” she replied quietly.

The flashlight cast an eerie glow in the woods ahead of them. Fred said, “He was playing a game with you. He practically admitted it. He is bored and he amused himself by trying to upset your nerves. It was cruel of him.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“I did,” Fred said angrily.

She gave him a timid side glance. “He was telling the truth. I have seen things at Moorgate.”

“Don’t start that again!”

“But I have.”

“You’ll never convince me,” he said.

“Because you’re not willing to accept facts,” she said.

“I don’t want to go on with the discussion,” he said unhappily.

They walked on in silence. Lucy’s mind was troubled. It was true that Henry Farley had stirred her up. All the strange incidents that had gone on around her returned in memory to plague her. What she couldn’t understand was why Fred was so unware of it all. So untouched.

They emerged from the woods to the gardens of Moorgate. Fred’s face still showed a grim expression. They reached the house and mounted the stone steps to the door. And again the heavy cloak of melancholy descended on Lucy.

Inside, she turned to him and said, “Fred, I’d like to show you something if you’ll let me.”

His young face looked impatient. “It’s time for sleep. I’m going straight to bed.”

“Let me show you this one thing first,” she begged. “It has to do with what we were talking about. And I think it may help you see my point of view. You’ve never been unthinking towards me. Please don’t be now.”