The Ghost of Christmas Past

The
Ghost of Christmas Past

©
Sally Quilford 2011 – All Rights Reserved

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© Raisa Kanareva | Dreamstime.com

The
Ghost Of Christmas Past

Chapter
One

By
the time Reverend Dearheart finished his sermon, the snow had covered the
ground in a blanket of crystal white. The worshippers left the relative warmth
of the church, and stepped out into a crisp winter landscape.

“How
wonderful. A white Christmas,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. She was a large buxom
woman, accompanied by her sister, Miss Graves, who was as slender as her sister
was round. “I do so love a white Christmas, don’t you, Miss Dearheart?”

Elizabeth
Dearheart smiled. “Yes I do. And so does Sam, don’t you, dearest?” Elizabeth was
a girl of quiet beauty, with almond shaped brown eyes and fair curls, which
despite her best efforts to keep them tidy, peeked out from under her bonnet.
Her clothes, whilst not the height of fashion, accentuated her petite frame.
She wore a thick blue coat over a modest pin-striped crinoline.

Her
ten year old brother, Samuel, nodded eagerly. “Can we make a snowman,
Elizabeth?”

“I
think we need a little more snow first.” Elizabeth turned her attention to the
sisters. “Mrs. Chatterbucks, Miss Graves. If you have no plans for the
afternoon, you would be welcome to join us for luncheon. Father would be so
grateful for the extra company. He always says the vicarage is far too quiet.”

The
invitation was always couched in such terms, so that the impoverished sisters
were not offended by the hint of charity. “I daresay we can save our food for
another day,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “What says you, Henrietta?”

Henrietta
Graves nodded her assent. “Yes, Georgiana dear, I’m sure we may.”

“It
just so happens,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, “that I forgot to put the roast in
the oven before we left. One gets so absent-minded at my age.”

Elizabeth
guessed there was no roast, and that the sisters would have probably dined on
bread and cheese, but she said nothing.

“Ah,
here are Doctor Wheston and his wife,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “Good morning,
Doctor.”

“Good
morning, Mrs. Chatterbucks. Miss Graves.” He raised his hat, and his wife, a
pretty young woman some years younger than he, smiled and nodded her head.
“Tell your father we very much enjoyed his sermon, Miss Dearheart.”

“Thank
you,” said Elizabeth. “He’ll be pleased to hear it. I hope you’re both settling
in.”

“Yes,
thank you,” said Mrs. Wheston. “Midchester is a charming village.”

“We
think so,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps you could come to dinner one night. And of
course,” she added, seeing Mrs. Chatterbuck’s keen expression, “you and Miss
Graves would be most welcome too.”

“Well
yes, we would,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “The thing is, Doctor Wheston, we’ve
been reading all about the Demon Doctor of Delhi. And I said to Henrietta that
if anyone would know how he managed to dispose of the body, then Doctor Wheston
would. There are probably ways, known only to doctors.”

Elizabeth
looked at her brother, Samuel, who was listening avidly. “I don’t think…” she
started to say.

“And
now,” interrupted Miss Graves with grim relish, “they say he has escaped. We
could all be murdered in our beds.”

“That
is hardly likely, considering he is in India, and we are in a small town in
Shropshire,” said Doctor Wheston. His lips had set in a thin line, and
Elizabeth noticed that his wife clung to his arm so hard that her knuckles had
turned white.

“Are
you well, Mrs. Wheston?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

“No,
I’m afraid I am not,” said Mrs. Wheston. “Such talk distresses me.”

“Oh
do forgive us, Mrs. Wheston,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “My sister and I take
great pleasure in reading about famous murder cases.”

“I
hardly consider murder a pleasurable pursuit,” said Doctor Wheston. “If you’ll
excuse me, I must take my wife home.”

Elizabeth
watched with concerned eyes as they left the churchyard. “Well really,” said Mrs.
Chatterbucks. “I would not have expected a man of medicine to be so sensitive.”

“Dearest,”
said Miss Graves, her eyes gleaming. “You don’t suppose that Doctor Wheston is
he, do you? I mean, he is new to Midchester and …”

“Considering
that the Demon Doctor of Delhi's wife is supposed to have taken her own life
after his incarceration, it is unlikely,” said Elizabeth. She spoke lightly, so
as not to sound too judgemental. “Mrs. Wheston looks very much alive to me.” It
wasn’t that Elizabeth was against a bit of gossip. Mrs. Chatterbucks was right
in that living in such a quiet town, one looked to the outer world for
excitement, but even she understood how serious it would be if they began a
whispering campaign against Doctor Wheston. Gossip spread through a small town
like an untended fire, destroying innocent people in its wake. “Besides, Father
has known him for many years, and it was he who suggested Doctor Wheston take
up the post here.”

“Oh
yes,” said Miss Graves. “I had forgotten that. But still, it’s strange that he
should be married to such a young woman.”

“He’s
a fine looking man,” said Elizabeth. “Why should he not have a younger wife? My
dear mother was fifteen years younger than my father.”

“Of
course,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, “Henrietta has never married, nor been in
love, so she little understands how attractive an older man can be, Miss
Dearheart. Take my Herbert. He was twenty years older than I, but a more
appealing man you never did see.”

Having
seen the late Herbert Chatterbucks, Elizabeth could not see the appeal herself,
but she had heard that love was blind.

“And
now here’s another fine looking man,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks as Mr. Charles
Hardacre left the church, deep in conversation with the Reverend Dearheart.
“Good morning, Mr. Hardacre. I see Miss Clara is not with you this morning.”

Mr.
Hardacre raised his hat, and saved his most charming smile for Elizabeth. He
was tall, and considered very handsome by the women of Midchester for whom
there were few choices of eligible men. “Sadly no, Mrs. Chatterbucks. My sister
is unwell today, and has taken to her bed.”

“Oh
the best place for her,” said Miss Graves. “One cannot risk catching a chill in
this weather. Why only the other week the butcher’s wife died from a fever.”

“Yes,
and the week before that, I heard that a woman over in Clun died of pneumonia,”
said Mrs. Chatterbucks.

“Yes,
well, I’m sure Miss Clara isn’t that bad,” said Elizabeth, quickly. She looked
at Mr. Hardacre with an apology in her eyes. “At least I hope not.”

“No,
most certainly not. But as you so rightly say, Miss Graves,” he said, “one must
be careful.”

“I’ve
just asked Mr. Hardacre to join us for luncheon,” said Reverend Dearheart.

“Oh
yes, how wonderful that would be. I’m sure Miss Dearheart thinks so,” said Mrs.
Chatterbucks. She and her sister exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

“Alas,
I must refuse your charming company and return home to my sister,” said Mr.
Hardacre.

“What
a wonderful, attentive brother he is,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks, as they all walked
to the vicarage. “And a good catch for the right young lady.” She glanced
across to Elizabeth.

“Yes
indeed,” said Miss Graves. “After all, one cannot leave these things too long,
for life is very short.” She also gave Elizabeth a meaningful look. Elizabeth
ignored them both. “One never knows when the Good Lord will take us.”

“I
hope He will at least allow us time to enjoy our luncheon,” said Reverend
Dearheart as they reached the vicarage door. “Now, tell me ladies, what new
murders have you been reading about lately?”

“Father,
I don’t think Samuel needs to know, do you?” Elizabeth muttered, whilst the
sisters were busy divesting themselves of their outdoor clothing.

“Oh I
don’t mind,” said Samuel. “I find murder most interesting.”

“That’s
because you only know about it from afar, dearest,” said Elizabeth, taking off
her own bonnet. “It would be quite different if someone close to you were
murdered.”

“I
don’t think anything like that will ever happen in Midchester,” said Miss
Graves. She sounded more disappointed than seemed proper.

Elizabeth
showed the ladies into the pretty parlour, where they immediately stood by the
roaring fire, warming their cold hands. She thought of the tiny cottage they
lived in, full of drafts and with a leaky roof, and tried to feel kinder
towards them. Their life was a hard one.

During
luncheon, they regaled Samuel and the Reverend with more tales of murder and
early death, though the Demon Doctor of Delhi was clearly their biggest
interest.

“They
say he embezzled a patient's money,” said Mrs. Chatterbucks. “An Anglo-Indian
major who was a man of good standing and great honesty. Sadly he had become
senile. Then when the doctor feared his crimes would be discovered, he...”

“Oh
do let me tell this part, dear,” said Miss Graves, her eyes glowing with
relish. “He murdered the major with an overdose of sleeping draught.”

After
luncheon, the ladies dozed a little over coffee in the parlour, whilst
Elizabeth and her father helped their maid, Abigail, with the clearing up.

“Really,
Miss Dearheart, Reverend, it isn't right you should have to do this,” said
Abigail. “I'm the servant. Really, sir, a gentleman should not have to dry his
own dishes”

“You're
a servant who's severely overworked,” said the Reverend. “We don't know where
we'd be without you, Abigail.”

“I
don't say that isn't true,” said Abigail, smiling. “But you really should sit
and rest. Both of you. Leave this to me.” Neither Elizabeth nor the Reverend
listened to Abigail. They knew she liked the company, and to hear the latest
gossip.

“I do
wish the sisters were not so bloodthirsty,” Elizabeth said to the Reverend,
handing him a plate to dry. “It isn’t good for Samuel to hear it all. And you
should not encourage them.” She smiled. It was hard for her to be angry with
her father.

“Samuel
is a very sensible young man,” said the Reverend. “As for the sisters, I
believe their relish is more to do with relief than pleasure in other’s
misfortune.”

“Relief?”
Elizabeth frowned and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,
they’re old and poor, and wear threadbare clothes, but every year they survive
whilst others around them die. Their prolonged life is their only wealth. All
they can do is relish their own survival. Besides, my dear, I’ve seen you
reading Wilkie Collins’ stories. What’s the latest one? The Woman In White?”

Elizabeth
grinned. “Yes, alright, I admit to enjoying a good mystery, but at least that
isn’t real.”

“But
the murders which the sisters read about aren’t real either. Yes, I know, they
are.” He held up his hand to halt Elizabeth’s protestation. “I understand that
someone really dies, but the fact that it’s there, in black ink on white paper,
much as novels are, makes it seem unreal to them. Just words on a page.”

“So
you don’t think it’s wrong of them?”

“How
could I? After all, what is the Bible if not a collection of stories about
murder and betrayal?” The Reverend raised a finely arched eyebrow.

“Touché,”
said Elizabeth.

When
the sisters had woken from their nap, Elizabeth and Samuel offered to escort
them back to their cottage. “Abigail appears to have made too many pork pies
for Christmas,” said Elizabeth, as they were putting on their coats. “We shall
never eat them all. Would you be kind enough to take a couple off our hands?”

The
sisters accepted magnanimously, and left the vicarage clutching one pork pie
each.

The
snow had been falling fast, and they walked out into a winter wonderland. It
made the world seem silent. Somewhere in the distance they heard a shotgun
blast then a piercing cry. “What was that?” said Samuel.

“It
was probably a bird,” said Elizabeth, yet despite her assurance to Samuel, the
otherworldly cry made her shiver.  She put it down to the snow, and the changes
it made in the atmosphere.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes,
Sam?”

“When
we’ve shown Mrs. Chatterbucks and Miss Graves to their door, can we go and see
if the pond is frozen? Then tomorrow me and Johnny Fletcher can go skating.”

With
a promise that they could, Samuel skipped on ahead, picking up snowballs as he
went and throwing them without aim at various walls and trees, whilst Elizabeth
and the sisters followed at a more sedate pace.

“Do
you think it was a bird?” asked Miss Graves, for once waiting until Samuel was
out of earshot. “It sounded very much like a man screaming. Perhaps he was
being murdered.”