Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

You get the idea. But I persisted. The dry and wordy old
tomes full of fading ink had been hidden in the attic for a reason.

First, I learned from some old letters and journals that my
great-grandfather had been a philanderer before his marriage, and after his
wife’s death he became reclusive.
Peculiar.
Hostile even.
He saw ghosts and had visions—which he did his
best to ignore. But between what he saw in the garden, and what I was able to
gather from other sources, an idea began to form. Bit by bit, the story was
revealed until I had a general outline of what was billed as a case of
witchcraft, but which was actually a judicial murder, the law being used as a
weapon to rid a man of an embarrassment instead of for justice for a real crime.

I was satisfied, incensed, and frustrated all at once.

My quest hadn’t reached the level of true obsession, but it
might as well have because there was no way I could let the questions go, not
with the woman crying outside the window, demanding my help. I was in danger of
also becoming reclusive, peculiar, and even hostile, because I did nothing but
read and reread old books and take notes on ancient events. It had become very
important that she have a name—an identity so that she was not left labeled as “the
witch.” She had been murdered, which was bad enough, but they had even stolen
her name and stripped her of personhood, turned her into an evil icon, a
footnote in an obscure legend. Made it seem that she—the living, breathing
person—had never even existed.

Finally I had a light-bulb moment and I turned to the family
Bible, seeking an actual name in the one place where they would be listed. There,
after much interesting but pointless reading of the most villainous handwriting
on the planet, I hit pay dirt. One page had had a bit of parchment glued over a
space at the bottom. It pulled away revealing a large blot. I was making some assumptions
about the woman whose name had been blotted out at the bottom of the first page
and why—after all, there were many things a woman could do to get disowned. The
dates fit though, and the ink used to scratch out her existence was cheap and had
flaked away in places when I coaxed it. It wasn’t totally clear, but I had an
H
, a space and then two
n
’s
. I believe
that her name was Hannah.

If she was the woman who was hanged as a witch then she had
been nineteen when she died.
Was murdered.
The thing
about hanging is that it isn’t a fast death, not like they show in the movies.
It is only swift if the neck is broken and that rarely happens in an amateur
lynching, which hers had been. Sure, it beat burning alive as had originally
been suggested as punishment for her sins.
But not by much.

And what of her relatives?
I
wondered if she had been cast off from the family before the accusation of
witchcraft, or after. Had they done it to save themselves from public
anger,
or out of rage because she hadn’t wanted to accept
her role as sacrificial veal? Was that why she cried at the window? Had they
locked her out one stormy night after announcing she was dead to them?

Leaving the island was discouraged by the other islanders,
as my grandmother had discovered when she fled all those years ago. But so were
affairs with married men. Why had Hannah done it?
True love?
Because she had nowhere else to turn?
My guess was
that Hannah needed someone powerful to help her escape from the community that
wanted her trapped on the island and that was why she had chosen Sands to be
her lover. If anyone could arrange safe passage away from the islands, it was
the colonel.

Whatever her reason, it was a mistake. Though his position
was one of political power, Sands was a personal coward. For all his moralistic
rhetoric, he was the illegitimate progeny of the first God-fearing Puritans.
In other words, a politician and hypocrite.
Faced with the
possibility of public shame and loss of office for his adultery while assigned
to his distant post, and a lover that would not go away quietly once someone
had pointed a superstitious finger her way, he had used a charge of witchcraft
to murder his inconvenient mistress.

There was no legal proof that this was the woman in my
garden, of course, but I found emotional corroboration in the bed curtains I
had discovered in the attic that also had a handprint on them, a kind of scorch
mark that would not be brushed or washed away. I searched the trunks and crates
for some other sign of her, some artifact, a journal or maybe a likeness, but
if she had had her portrait painted, it was no longer among those stored in the
attic.

Nor was there any known portrait of Colonel Sands from that
era. I’d been researching the subject.
Quietly.
I
didn’t want to start any rumors. There is a library on Goose Haven, about the
size of a decent walk-in closet and open Monday through Friday, if they can
find a volunteer. I had better luck at the historical society, but even that
hadn’t offered me an obvious smoking gun. I thought about asking Harris, but I
hate to put him to the effort of lying and evading—and he would probably do
both if he thought the story was one I shouldn’t hear.

The other locals who would be in the know were just as bad
as Harris. Only Ben knew of my suspicions, and even he didn’t know that I had
started on my research because of the beseeching ghost who haunted my dreams
and perhaps my garden as she tried to get back into the house she’d been barred
from.
For the lock of her lover’s hair?
Or something else?
Did she just want peace, or out of her
cold, unmarked grave and into her old home? I hoped she didn’t want revenge
because the only remaining objects of her rage didn’t deserve her hatred.

I looked at Teddy Roosevelt, leaning back in his chair and
sipping a glass of port. I must have seemed unusually serious because he raised
a brow. Bryson has a keen sense of priorities and I was sure that I ranked
below his business dealings. But not a great deal below them. We had become
friends of sorts.

It took effort but I forced a small smile and shook my head.
It was Ben’s turn to talk and I could ask for no one more able to get the ghost
stories flowing. We would get to my ghost later. I’d know when the time was
right. And anyway I was in a bit of a quandary. What would Miss Manners say
about entertaining the descendants of someone who had killed an ancestress? Did
I try to make them comfortable by assuring them that it was nothing and to have
some more coffee? Did I point a finger in accusation and denounce them as spawn
of evildoers? Possibly she had never faced this dilemma. Certainly it seemed
better to hold my enemies close while I decided what to do, though it seemed
harsh to think of them as adversaries. The brothers were unaware that I knew of
their extracurricular activities and therefore had no reason to be wary of me.
Yet.

“The coffin lid was standing open and he drew near.” I tried
to pay attention to Ben’s story since I could hear in his voice that it was
nearing the climax, but it was no good. The ghost riding around in my head beat
his story haunt every time.

Eventually Mr. Benson’s work was done. The floor was
replaced and the hair, letter fragments, and hankie were locked in my
grandmother’s old jewelry box, which now felt like a crypt. The house is
riddled with secrets, but we had light on the hidden stairs that lead to a
secret cave and even in the Bluebeard’s cupboard built into the attic. I was
content in matters
illuminatory
and ready to take the
next step to succor Hannah, but by then it was Thanksgiving and snowing, and
leaving the island to do research was difficult. With the holiday came the
unpleasant knowledge that Christmas was looming and I felt tired and unfit for hosting
company with a ghost clinging close to my thoughts, like a second, unnatural
shadow that dimmed everything I did or thought. Though I had half promised to
entertain my neighbors as soon as I was settled, and I had a feeling that
gathering everyone in one place and talking about my ghost might be the only
way to discover the whole truth, I just couldn’t find the energy for a party.

I hesitated until it was too late to make any plans for
Christmas.

There were more holidays available during Yule, but I felt
incapable of pulling together anything for
New
Year’s
Eve either. Though I did not really believe the legends attached to the island
and the Wendover name, some of the other islanders did, so I set my eyes on
Twelfth Night and a costume revel where ghost stories would be told. I got out
the old writing case that opened with a small skeleton key, put aside Kelvin’s
unfinished letter to the editor of a Bangor newspaper, chastising the paper for
insufficient political perspective in their opinion column, and wrote out
invitations in rhyming verse borrowed from Herrick on my great-grandfather’s
lovely parchment stationary.

Now, now the mirth
comes,

With
the cake full of plums…

RSVPs had been swift and sent in writing.
Except
Ben’s.
He had walked up the hill to tell me that he would love to come
by and chew on some deer haunch and plum pudding.

Once I began planning the party my energy returned. The
ghost stopped visiting my dreams at night as soon as my invitations were out,
and New Year’s passed without a squall. No one drowned and the islands didn’t
sink into the ocean. I didn’t look out of my grandmother’s window at night and
was able to pretend that she wasn’t still there, crying in the garden.

Twelfth Night parties were easier to research than my poor
ancestress because of the Internet and the fact that the parties are not secret
and disgraceful. I compiled a list of traditional things for a festive dinner. Ben
was right about the deer haunch. I wasn’t able to find red deer hind to be
roasted by
needfire
, but Mrs.
Mickle
could order venison for my “coffin pies.” I also had to pretend that I was
using flour from the last wheat harvest because my reading assured me that this
would keep both ghosts and faeries away. We would have oysters and clear soup
and a fish course for
befores
.
After the venison pies I decided to skip the next half-dozen traditional meat courses
and head for dessert. We’d be stupefied if we actually ate the entire
traditional meal and I didn’t want to set up a
vomitorium
.
Fat, sugar, red meat, alcohol—not a meal for the
health-obsessed.
Fortunately none of my guests, excepting Brandy, was a
fan of anything
lite
.

The menu was challenging for a small kitchen, but I was
ready. My
mom had been known for committing acts of
gastronomic cruelty under the label of “kitchen creativity,” but my grandmother—bless
her—had made sure that this sin would not be visited on future generations and
insisted I learn how to cook. Armed with my ancestor’s cookbooks, I began
making notes and modifying recipes.

A call from Barbara—Brandy—and then from Jack on Christmas Day
suggesting they visit after the first of the year seemed at the time like
excellent omens. I phoned Mrs.
Mickle
and added
champagne and
Bissinger’s
chocolates to my grocery
order, since they were Jack’s favorites.

Feeling heartened that I would not be alone in this
difficult endeavor, I returned to the attic to hunt for a costume, using the
lovely electric light bulb in the ceiling, until I found an Edwardian ball gown
of faded pink lace in the trunk recommended by Kelvin. My great-grandfather’s
cat really is an uncanny creature.

If you aren’t familiar with it, Twelfth Night is an old
medieval celebration, popular in Europe, but perhaps best known to us because
of Shakespeare’s play and therefore people tend to think of it as being
Elizabethan. I tried to honor it by following the general outlines of the traditional
celebration. Of course, the only thing authentically Elizabethan in the house
was the menu I had cooked and the music I had downloaded. The costumes and
decorations tended toward the Victorian and even Edwardian eras because that
was what people had available in their attics. I thoroughly approved of the
anachronism. Elizabethan fashions were uncomfortable and would have looked
ridiculous on my guests—especially the ones who had traveled by boat in the
sleet, though Everett and Bryson had likely changed when they got to the
island. Everett was staying with Mary and Bryson was bunking with Ben. That was
good because even through the thickness of the walls I could hear and feel the
gale that was blowing. The brothers often went out in bad weather, but this
sounded particularly nasty. And there is an old saying—
The Ravenous
sea
, in winter takes three.
Unless a Wendover is in residence, but the Wendover blood had to be getting
pretty thin. I hadn’t even the cloak of the family name. If I were them, I
wouldn’t be running any unnecessary risks on a night like that one.

This wasn’t a new idea of course, that my family could
protect sailors and fishermen. It was why we had been all but marooned on the
island. The natives, and later Europeans put wise by the local tribe, would
stop at Little Goose and leave a coin or a fish or some other offering on the
low side of the island as a bribe to the local water deity once winter came.
Those who didn’t were said to have met with ill winds and violent seas.
Sometimes phantom lights would lure ships onto the rocks of the islands, and on
stormy nights, especially in December, voices could be heard screaming in the
waves. All scary stuff if you were a fisherman.
Or smuggler.
I have wondered, since reading about this tradition, if my ancestors collected
these gifts and used them to live on. It seems doubtful that anyone else would
take the offerings because the penalties for abstraction from the island were
great and my thrifty ancestors would hardly have let anything go to waste. Life
back then was too hard.