Vintage Love (240 page)

She at once headed her car towards the town again, keeping her eyes open for a sign of the cemetery. She saw the gates as soon as she crossed the second intersection, and she parked her car by the side of the road and got out to investigate.

It looked very old, and had a high, rusty iron fence surrounding it. The grass was high and indicated to her that it was not a cemetery presently in use. There were no new tombstones or fresh graves, and no flowers on the graves, as there would be in a cemetery where new burials were being made. It was a place of those long dead and forgotten. The gravestones were weathered and their lettering blurred. In some cases the stones had broken or toppled over.

She walked slowly among the silent forest of tombstones and pathetic mounds. She was searching for the graves of Dr. Graham Woods and his wife. Jim had said they were off by themselves, as if the authorities in charge of the cemetery had grudgingly given them this small section of hallowed ground.

To the right there was an ancient elm, and under it she saw a large, imposing monument with a kind of carved urn on top of it. She moved quickly towards the big column of gray marble with her heart beating more rapidly in expectation of making an important discovery. The name Woods in large capital letters stood out clearly. As she drew closer she was startled to see the carving of a lovely face thrusting up through waves. A face of death, obviously modeled on the features of the unfortunate Jennifer.

She stared at the ornately carved tombstone and saw that the lettering under the carving was too worn to be read. But she knew it must tell of the two buried beneath the impressive monument, and the two sunken mounds told of the bodies there side by side.

The wind rustled lightly through the elm tree’s branches and in the soft sighing sound it seemed as if she could hear her name said softly. She tried to dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but didn’t quite succeed. Her eyes were fixed on the graves, and again she speculated about these two who had lived at Moorgate and the secrets they had taken to the grave with them.

All at once she was certain she heard someone walking towards her, and she turned quickly to see the familiar figure of a smiling Jim Stevens coming toward her.

The young lawyer said, “I see you’ve found your way here.”

“Yes,” she said. “You told me where the graves were.”

Jim stood by her with an air of quiet respect. “I’ve often come in here. Some of these old stones tell you a lot about the history of the town. They all aren’t as blurred as this one.”

“I can’t read any of it,” she complained.

He studied the monument with the pathetic carving of the drowning girl on it. “I suppose you wondered why only Jennifer’s tragic drowning is depicted in the carving.”

“I did think about it.”

Jim’s smile was bitter. “The monument was erected by Frank Clay. He was bitterly opposed to husband and wife being buried side by side. But he couldn’t prevent that. So he arranged to have this monument carved, and had it done his own way. He devoted it entirely to Jennifer, with only a one-line mention at the bottom that Graham Woods was also buried with his wife. The monument kept the scandal about the three alive.”

“It wasn’t very discreet on Frank Clay’s part,” she said.

“No. But it was impossible to stop him,” the young lawyer said. “And until he confined himself to the island he paid regular visits to this spot.”

“I can understand that,” Lucy said.

Jim Stevens gave her a knowing look. “And according to some, he still visits this graveyard on dark, stormy nights. There are many who claim to have seen his ghostly presence here.”

A chill of fear went down Lucy’s spine. She recalled all too vividly that strange figure she’d seen on the afternoon of her outing on Minister’s Island with Fred. She was sure it had been Frank Clay’s ghost she’d seen hovering among the bushes.

In a small voice, she said, “I thought his ghost was seen only on the island.”

“And here,” Jim Stevens informed her.

“Just here? Never at Moorgate?”

He smiled bleakly. “Never at Moorgate. The ghost tales about that old stone house always seem to feature Jennifer.”

“I know,” she said, giving him a nervous glance. “She’s the one I think I’ve seen.”

He frowned. “That worries me.”

“Why?”

“The legend claims it is bad luck to see her. That it means tragedy for those who do.”

“Has it turned out to be that way?” she wanted to know.

“I can’t say,” Jim said. “I only know the last owner, that gift-shop man, was anxious enough to sell the place. And if the Farleys hadn’t been willing to buy it I’m afraid he would have had to wait a long while for someone who wanted it.”

“Moorgate has that evil a reputation?”

“I’m afraid so. I mentioned it to Fred when I was looking after the transfer of the deed. But he seemed to resent my talking about it. He told me he wasn’t superstitious.”

“He isn’t,” she said with a wry smile.

“So you bear all the brunt of living there?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“You should get out as often as you can. The house is isolated up on that hill. With everything as it is, you could wind up becoming morbid.”

“I’ve thought of that,” she said. She glanced at the monument again. “Seeing this makes me wonder more about Frank Clay. He must have been a person of very strong character.”

“He surely had a mind of his own.”

“Just erecting this monument must have made him the target of a lot of criticism.”

“According to the stories passed down it did. But he was shameless in his love for Jennifer. And it was the tragedy of his life that she had somehow lost her life on her way to join him.”

Lucy’s face shadowed. “It seems unfair that he should have blackened her husband’s name so, suggesting that he was a murderer, the murderer of his own wife, when the facts couldn’t be proven.”

The young lawyer shrugged. “Most of the facts indicated that Graham Woods had throttled Jennifer and then taken her out in the boat. There were the arguments the maid heard, and the certain knowledge that he had been in the boat with Jennifer when it capsized. There was no logical reason why they should be in that boat in the storm unless he had taken her body out into the bay to dispose of it. It had to be the action of a desperate man.”

“According to Frank Clay.”

“You don’t agree?”

She took a deep breath. “I’d just like to know Graham Woods’s version of what happened that night.”

Jim looked grimly resigned. “That’s not apt to be ever known.”

“It seems unfortunate.”

“I agree. But why be so concerned about the events of a hundred years ago? You’re a stranger here. Why should it bother you?”

“Because I’m living at Moorgate.”

“If you’re so upset by all this you should get out of Moorgate.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“I mean it. The atmosphere of the old place is clearly unhealthy for you. And Fred has to leave you there alone too much.”

Her eyes were on the graves and she was thinking of something else. In a quiet tone, she said, “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“If Graham Woods murdered his wife, why doesn’t his ghost roam the house and the cemetery?”

Jim Stevens showed surprise at her question. “I’ve never heard of his ghost being seen.”

“I consider that strange.”

“Why?”

She looked at the sensitive face of the young man with a solemn expression. “Because logically he should be the one with a guilty conscience.”

He frowned. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” she insisted. “If he murdered his wife he should be the one to haunt Moorgate.”

“An uneasy spirit.”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps he does,” Jim Stevens said. “But people find it more romantic to claim the ghost they’ve seen is Jennifer’s.”

“There’s something wrong!”

Jim studied her in amazement. “You are really concerned.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“As I said before, it’s bad for you. You’re becoming morbidly obsessed with something that happened a hundred years ago. It’s not healthy.”

She looked at him directly. “You think my mind might be affected?”

“I don’t like it.”

“And I still think it significant that the ghost of the supposed murderer is never seen at Moorgate,” she said.

“I must admit you’re making a good point. But it is not liable to change the legend.”

She gave a bitter glance at the monument. “Frank Clay saw to that. I hope you’re not proud of your ancestor.”

“A very distant one,” Jim Stevens said. “I must admit he’s more of an embarrassment than a credit. I’d like to have the legend die, but I doubt if it ever will.”

“Perhaps when Moorgate and the house on Minister’s Island are torn down and forgotten that will be the end of it.”

He nodded towards the monument. “There will always be this sentimental monstrosity to attract attention and raise questions. I’m afraid we’re saddled with the legend for all time.”

She turned away. “One could only wish the legend were a happier one.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jim Stevens said as they started out of the cemetery together. “If you find yourself lonely why don’t you drop by our house occasionally? Mother would be delighted to see you.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that,” she said.

“You know where we live.”

“Your mother gave me the directions,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve not had the time thus far.”

“Well, keep it in mind,” he said as they made their exit through the wrought-iron arch of the cemetery gate.

They stood for a moment talking by the roadside. Jim seemed genuinely worried about her, and she found herself liking the young lawyer more and more. She wished that Fred had more of his sensitivity and understanding. They were about to part when a car came by and slowed a little. She at once recognized it as Fred’s car and waved to him. Her husband waved back, but went on without bringing the car to a halt. She stood looking after him, feeling shocked and embarrassed.

In a puzzled voice Jim said, “Wasn’t that Fred?”

Aware that her cheeks had gone crimson, she replied without turning to him, “Yes. I expect he’s in a hurry to get to his office.”

“That’s likely it,” Jim agreed, but he sounded worried.

“It’s been nice meeting you,” she said, “but I must be getting on.”

“So must I,” he said. “I was on my way to see a client, but I couldn’t resist talking with you and getting your reaction to the monument.”

She managed a smile. “Well, now you have it. I still think Graham Woods was maligned by your ancestor.”

“I can’t argue the point,” the young lawyer said with wry amusement. “When you see Fred tell him I think he might have at least stopped for a moment. I consider his behavior anti-social.”

“I’ll tell him,” she promised.

They parted and she drove home in a troubled state. She had briefly seen the expression on Fred’s face as he drove by, and she knew he had gotten the wrong idea about her chance meeting with Jim Stevens. Since he was jealous of Jim and considered him a ladies’ man, it would be hard to explain the situation to him.

When she reached Moorgate she at once began preparations for the evening meal. She hoped that Fred would join her for it and she’d have a chance to explain things to him. But at five-thirty she had a call from Fred.

“I’m at the office,” he told her. “I have to go to St. Stephen. An emergency case. Not likely I’ll get back until late.”

“I’ve been preparing a special dinner for you,” she said.

“Sorry,” he replied stiffly.

“Why didn’t you stop the car for a moment this afternoon?” she asked.

“I thought it might be awkward for you and your friend,” he said.

“You must be joking,” she said.

Her husband’s voice at the other end of the line was cold. “You and Jim Stevens seem to be getting together a lot.”

“Our meeting today was purely accidental.”

“I’m sure of it,” he said mockingly.

“It’s true, and you only made yourself small by behaving the way you did,” she said.

“I was in a hurry. There’s no law that said I must stop.”

“It would have been polite.”

“I’m obviously not as much up on etiquette as your lawyer friend,” Fred said. “At least I don’t have to worry about you being lonely when I’m away.” And with this he hung up.

She put the phone down with a feeling of complete despair. Why did Fred have to be jealous? And why was he especially jealous of Jim Stevens? It was too silly, and yet it could have serious consequences for them. She stood in the shadowed hall wondering if it was the evil influence of the old house which was causing her husband to behave in such an irrational fashion. Were they doomed by the curse hanging over Moorgate to quarrel and drift apart just as the young doctor and his wife had done long ago?

Dinner was an ordeal for her, seated at the table alone. She ate very little, and when she had finished she went to the living room with a book and tried to read. But her mind kept wandering. And then in the distance there was a rumble of thunder. A shadow of fear crossed her face as she heard it, and she put the book down in her lap. A few seconds later a flash of lightning showed in the French windows which opened onto the garden.

She was afraid of thunder storms, but she picked up the book again and tried to concentrate on it. The thunder came louder and the next flash of lightning was more frightening than the first one. Suddenly it began to pour.

She closed the book, knowing that she couldn’t read any more while the storm continued. She was seated on the divan near the double doorway which joined the living room with the entrance foyer. She didn’t know what to do. She was too terrified to move, and couldn’t think of any place to go in the old house where she could shut herself away from the storm. Perhaps the cellar, but hadn’t Mrs. Stevens warned her against going down to the cellar? Things had been seen there, the older woman had told her.

The thunder and lightning grew worse, and suddenly there was a great burst of wind and the French windows blew inward, the curtains billowing. She jumped up to rush across and fasten the doors, but as she reached them there was another flash of lightning and she saw the phantom female figure standing in the garden near the old well. In the fleeting second of vivid light she was able to recognize the ghost of Jennifer.