The Widow of Larkspur Inn (43 page)

Even though the scores had already been announced, Philip did not relax in his desk until he held his test paper in his hand. He thought he would have kissed it had he been alone. It was tangible proof that he was still the head student. History and composition scores could often be subjective—after all, the headmaster was a human being, prone to be influenced by certain answers that struck his fancy. But mathematics was mathematics … one plus one had equaled two since the beginning of time and would continue to do so forever.

While pretending to study the clock on the wall to his right, he glanced over at Laurel. She was staring down at her paper with a look of stunned disbelief.
Serves her right for being so conceited,
he told himself but was immediately ashamed of the thought, for he had never heard her boast about the history examination or composition paper. And how could he fault her for wishing to perform her best at school? By dismissal time he was feeling so generous of spirit that he decided England would still rule the world if all of her students applied themselves as diligently to their studies as did Laurel Phelps and he.

But she’s not going to take that trophy from me
.

Chapter 25

Saturday afternoon found Ambrose in front of his open window, allowing the cool September breezes to bathe his face. This latest despondency had held him in a tight grip for the past three days, but he’d been able to sleep relatively well last night. He was beginning to feel the positive effects of the morning walks with Mrs. Kingston—the bouts with insomnia had lessened somewhat, and his appetite had increased. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he leaned forward to peer at the cottages lining Market Lane. How many villagers had happened to peek from their windows at the two of them last Saturday, he wondered, sloshing purposely up Market Lane through a torrential rainstorm?

“Can’t we put it off until this afternoon?” Ambrose had asked the elderly woman when she showed up at his door bearing two umbrellas. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

She simply gazed down at him with her commanding blue eyes. “Exceptions are dangerous, Mr. Clay. Give them a foothold and they turn into habits.”

He could do nothing but follow, shaking his head at her iron will but not daring to argue further. The three miles had turned out to be quite invigorating, with the scent of rain pleasant about them. And today, his usual midafternoon lethargy seemed to be avoiding him, so much so that he decided not to nap in the hopes of sleeping even better tonight.

Bless you, Miss O’Shea,
he thought sadly just as a soft knock sounded upon his door. He got up to answer it, hoping in a nice stroke of coincidence that she would be standing there. “It was all a joke,” he imagined her saying with a little smile. “I’m not really married. Why do you think I’m called miss?”

But pessimism was another feature of his despondency, so that he was not surprised when it turned out to be Philip Hollis on the threshold instead. Yet his heart still managed to give a little lurch.

“Yes?” Ambrose said politely.

The boy gave him an apologetic look. “I hope I didn’t wake you, Mr. Clay.”

“Not at all, Mr. Hollis.”

After a furtive glance in both directions down the corridor, he asked, “May I come in?”

“Certainly.” Ambrose stepped back and watched the boy close the door. “What may I do for you?”

“I just wanted to tell you that my friends Ben and Jeremiah have gotten permission to stay over tonight.”

“How nice.”

Panic washed across the young face. “But today is Saturday. Don’t you remember?”

“That today is Saturday?” As fond as Ambrose was of all the Hollis children, he was beginning to grow just a bit annoyed. Perhaps he would take that nap after all, he thought. “It was kind of you to remind me. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

The boy looked stunned but allowed himself to be shepherded back to the door. He turned back around before going through it, however.

“Mr. Clay, don’t you remember the plans we made for tonight? The Keegans?”

“What are Keegans?”

“The Irish family. You wanted to help them.”

“Indeed?” Ambrose ran a hand through his thick hair while his memory dredged up a conversation in the kitchen having to do with basket weavers. He blew out his cheeks when the plan he had outlined to Philip and his friend came back to him. “Sorry, my young friend, but I don’t think I’m up to it today. Let’s have a go at it next Saturday.”

Disappointment lengthened the young face. “But Ben and Jeremiah probably won’t be allowed to sleep over then. Please, Mr. Clay. It’s such a splendid plan.”

Ambrose sighed again and recalled the satisfaction he’d felt upon crafting his plan. Obviously it had been during one of his good days.

Then he remembered how distressed Miss O’Shea had been over the torment the Irish family was having to endure. Even if he had no hope of a future with her, he liked the idea of doing something that would make her happy.

But just the thought of carrying out all of the steps necessary was exhausting.
You manage to walk three miles every morning,
he reminded himself. With a twisted little smile he thought,
Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Kingston along to motivate you
.

“Mr. Clay?”

The boy was watching him expectantly, and Ambrose found he had not the heart to disappoint him. “Very well,” he said with a reluctant nod. “But we’ll have to wait until the others are abed. Meet me in the courtyard at half past ten.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clay!”

“You’re welcome,” Ambrose said, shooing his young visitor out of the room and closing the door behind him. As he settled back into his chair, he found himself smiling inexplicably. It
was
a splendid plan indeed.

By ten o’clock, Philip was so riddled with anticipation that he could do nothing but pace his room. “You’ll wake your mother,” Ben warned from the corner in which he sat cross-legged on the floor. A single candle on the bedside table gave the only light. They dared not use the lamp for fear of Philip’s mother noticing the glow under the door, should she happen to wake and enter the corridor.

“Then let’s go on outside,” Philip said.

Jeremiah, seated on the foot of the bed, brightened. “Yes, let’s. We can play hide-and-seek while we wait.”

But both Philip and Ben shook their heads at that less-than-quiet idea. After creeping through the house, they sat outside on the benches and stared back at the courtyard door like cats watching a butcher’s cart. The time seemed to stretch out forever, and Philip began to wonder if Mr. Clay had changed his mind. He was obviously going through one of his dark moods. Perhaps they would have to try again next week after all.

Just as he was opening his mouth to convey his fears to Ben and Jeremiah, the courtyard door opened and a figure emerged. He was clad in tights and a knee-length robe, and in the moonlight that shone through the oak branches, he appeared as gray as a monument from head to foot. As he approached the benches, the color took on a faint unearthly glow.

Even though Philip knew it to be Mr. Clay, he still jumped when the apparition spoke.

“Well, I’m glad to see so many stars out.”

Jeremiah leapt to his feet and exclaimed, “You look just like a ghost!” before being hushed by Philip.

“Where did you find such a getup?” Ben asked with awe in his voice.

Mr. Clay brushed a fold from the hem of his robe. “I played the ghost of Hamlet’s father in my earlier days onstage. I never could bring myself to discard a costume.”

“What makes it glow?”

“Phosphorescent greasepaint on my skin, powder in my hair. And the fabric was soaked in a similar solution. You should see this under stage lights.” An arm, swathed in gray cloth, lifted to point out in the direction of the darkened outbuildings.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is,

But this most foul, strange and unnatural …

The low mournful voice sent shivers down Philip’s spine.
Please don’t let the Sanders be there yet
, he prayed under his breath. This was too good to waste. “Shouldn’t I fetch something to cover you? What if someone sees you on the way?”

Mr. Clay shook his head. “I don’t care to get greasepaint on my cloak, and it’s doubtful your mother would react too favorably to my ruining a blanket. I’ll just have to duck behind a tree if we hear someone coming.”

The four of them started up Market Lane and were fortunate that Gresham seemed to be settled in for the night. Patches of moonlight between trees illuminated Mr. Clay as he stepped into them. He took the occasions to glower menacingly at Philip and his friends, causing them to cover their mouths with their hands to keep from laughing out loud. As they passed one cottage, a small mongrel dog raced out of the yard to yip at them—it slunk away like a pariah when Jeremiah brandished a stick.

They slowed their steps and moved to the far side of Worton Lane while passing Ben’s house. At the end of the lane, the Keegans’ cottage windows were dark, and their wagon and two mules absent. Only the incessant chirping of crickets and an occasional low croak of a frog reminded them that they weren’t the only living beings stirring on the property. Philip was relieved to see the shed still upright. It was obvious why the Sanders brothers had chosen this particular outbuilding to tip, because it was the only one not constructed of the same weathered stone as the cottage. Mr. Clay looked thoughtfully about the place, then motioned toward the birch Mr. Keegan had been sitting under the day Philip and his friends had brought the fish.

“Do you think the bridge can be seen from the top of that tree?”

Ben squinted back in the direction of the bridge and answered, “I would think so. And Jeremiah’s the best climber.”

Jeremiah looked pleased at the compliment, even while cuffing Philip on the arm for adding, “He’s a regular ape, he is.”

“Then climb on up there and keep a lookout,” said Mr. Clay. “I don’t care to crouch behind a bush all night, so give us a signal when you see the boys coming.”

“What kind of signal?” asked Jeremiah.

“I don’t know—any signal will do. An owl?”

“Try it out now before you climb,” Ben suggested.

Jeremiah nodded and cupped his hands to his lips. “Who-o-?” he called, but the sound that issued was more human than fowl-like. After another attempt proved futile, he hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, old chap,” Mr. Clay assured him. “Just call down to us as softly as you can. I’m sure you won’t be heard.”

Jeremiah took a step toward Mr. Keegan’s bench underneath the lowest limb. He turned before reaching it, though, his expression considerably brighter. “I can do a goldfinch.”

After a puzzled ghostly look, Mr. Clay replied, “You mean, you can make the sound of a goldfinch?”

“Yes, sir.” Cupping his hands on both sides of his mouth, he closed his eyes in concentration. Five or six seconds passed, then Jeremiah whistled a fluid, perfectly finchlike
switt-witt-witt-witt!

Even the crickets joined in the awestruck silence that followed, which was finally broken by Ben. “That was perfect, Jeremiah.”

“Better than perfect,” Philip agreed.

“Well now, there you have it,” Mr. Clay said to Jeremiah. “Let’s scramble on up there, shall we?”

“Yes, sir!” The boy jumped up on Mr. Keegan’s work bench, wrapped both arms around the closest limb, and was swallowed up by the dark foliage within seconds. Philip, Mr. Clay, and Ben took a few steps back and stared up, unable to see the boy, but hearing the rustle of leaves and branches.

Mr. Clay’s ghostly face assumed a concerned expression. “I didn’t realize it would be so dark up there. Do you think he’ll be safe?”

“Don’t worry,” Ben assured him. “He could climb a tree blindfolded. It’s the only way he has any privacy at home.”

“He has two younger brothers,” Philip explained.

Some five minutes later, Jeremiah called down in a low voice, “I can see the bridge now! The lane too.”

“Can you see anyone coming?” Mr. Clay called back.

“Not yet.”

“Good lad! Latch on to something sturdy and remember the signal.”

With the lookout established, Mr. Clay stepped back over to the bench, brushed away the twigs that had fallen, and sat down. His shoulders sagged as he closed his eyes and propped his back against the tree trunk. Aware that Mr. Clay tired easily when the dark moods took hold of him, Philip felt a renewed appreciation for the effort the actor was putting forth tonight. He put a finger up to his lips when Ben looked on the verge of asking a question. They stood there and listened to the night sounds for what seemed like half an hour. Finally Ben could stand it no longer.