Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2) (8 page)

“It’s quiet out there, just the waves on the rocks and they
were being polite.
Nothing to do but polish the brass
fittings and take tea to James who finally stopped vomiting and fell asleep.
I was nodding off over a book, some verse by T.S. Eliot about how houses live
and die and how the wind would carry them away. Kind of sad reading really and
not what I’d have thought Gus or James would choose, but you just never know.
Anyhow, I was enjoying the fire and getting sleepy enough to give in and nap, when
a strange thing happened.

“I heard voices, singing.
Outside.
I put the book down and forced my eyes open, but could see very little because
of the mist pressing against the glass. But after a moment, the fog parted and
I could make out an old-style ship, two-master with square rigging. I think a
Balner
,” Bryson added to Ben, perhaps knowing that he was
the only one who would care. “It was headed for the island at a fair clip and I
started up, but barely had time to blink when it was gone again along with the
voices. I was just starting to think about phantom ships and the like when behind
me I heard clattering footsteps and then a voice—not James’s voice—said, ‘Fog’s
rollin
’ in.
Time to put on the
foghorn.’

“I was startled. The voice belonged to old Frederick. Died
when I was only five—fell down those damned spiral stairs one night in a big
storm—but I knew his voice all the same. I smelled his pipe too. He was always
smoking sweet tobacco in that old clay pipe. Of a sudden I was cold and
frightened, but I turned around anyway to see if he was there. And for a second
I swear he was.”

Bryson paused and then added matter-of-factly: “The Welsh
have a name for it. It’s called a
thought
body
. Usually a person isn’t dead when it happens, but an image of them can
appear someplace when they think hard enough on a particular location. I reckon
Frederick was still on the job, keeping an eye because he knew I wasn’t fit.

“Anyhow, he was right. The fog was rolling in.
Had to wake James so he could tell me how to put on the horn.
The lights were on a timer, but the foghorn was manual. It worked out fine.
There were no accidents that night.”

Bryson smiled, pleased with himself.

“My dog, Spice, she visits me sometimes,” Everett said
suddenly. “But only when I’m walking alone on the shore. There’s
nothin
’ scary about it either. So what if she’s dead. Not
all ghosts are bad. You’re just
spookin
’ yourselves.”

This was said defiantly and I recalled one of my grandma’s
favorite sayings—a clear conscience is a sign of selective memory. If he really
did see his dead dog, I’m betting he
peed
his pants
the first time it happened. Or maybe he was lying about being
creeped
out to make some other point.

Regardless, things were not going my way. I didn’t want any
more happy ghost stories. People needed to stay frightened and happy dog tales
ventilated the accumulating horror.

I got up, excusing myself and saying something about coffee
before we all nodded off. Jack followed to help.

I left him to it and visited the bathroom, needing a moment
to myself. I looked in the mirror, half expecting to see the crying shade
standing at my shoulder, so close did she feel, but it was only me looking
back.
Pale and with an unattractive crease between my brows,
but still only me.

Jack picked up a tray of decorated cookies and I brought in
the coffee pot, a bottle of whisky, and whipped cream, because some situations
call for more than decaf, non-fat, sugar-free liquid support. The ghost, though
she was incorporeal, weighed heavily on me as I arranged cups.

Lightning crackled as I poured and passed teacups. I looked
out the window as I passed the last saucer and saw her, a figure that bent
light around her but cast no shadow and she had no form. Hannah.
Crying.
Waiting.

I was moved to pity. The story had to be told, whether they
believed me or not—though I would insist with every ounce of being that they
believe and help me find a way to put her to rest. And if they did not believe
me … well, I would look wider for help. My family’s relationship with the islanders
is complicated. We have been revered and resented—probably pitied. Many of the
current generation scoff on the surface about the legends, but never mention
the curse to outsiders, and are happier deep down inside when one of us is on
the island. Because no one is really anxious to try out the old jinx and find
out if the three islands really will disappear into the sea if New Year’s comes
and a Wendover isn’t here to appease the bane.

This is also a place where the sins of the fathers get
visited on their children, a kind of cosmic inheritance tax. The Sands had to
know and accept this even if they didn’t like it.

I was in no hurry to leave the island, nor did I mind nonhuman
company in the form of a mysterious cat—but I didn’t want to spend the remainder
of my life with an unhappy ghost.

“So,” Ben began, always ready to rush in where angels would
fear to tread. “What’s your story, Tess? You have one don’t you? I very much
want to hear it.”

Ben isn’t stupid, and he had probably assembled some theories
about why I had been investigating the story of Colonel Sands.

I finished pouring my own cup and added a splash of whisky. Quiet
settled on the room as my other guests realized that we were reaching the
zenith of the evening.

“Yes, I have one to share. My story is both a little more
ancient and a little more recent. And it’s definitely closer to home,” I began
and saw Harris stiffen. “It concerns a relative of mine, Hannah Wendover. I
think most of you know her story if not her name. But for those who don’t know,
I will tell her tale.”

I glanced at Bryson and could see the brothers draw
together, as though anticipating what I was going to say and bracing themselves
for the worst. Bryson was still after the first twitch but Everett seemed to be
having mental fidgets and looked guilty. Perhaps familial remorse was a foreign
experience. Or maybe he wanted to glare me into silence, as if leaving the
matter unmentioned would keep the ghost away. Maybe my great-grandfather
had
told them that she was there and they
didn’t want to deal with her. Whatever the cause, I had never liked him less.
Where was his compassion?

I knew, as does anyone who ever watched the news, that there
are people who will stomp out a human life as easily as stomping a shrub. But I
hadn’t bumped into it firsthand before and the experience had offended me all
the way to my soul. Hannah’s rage and sorrow had become my own.

“They hanged her when she was nineteen because she was
charged with witchcraft. Her lover could have cleared her name by alibiing her but
didn’t. It was more convenient to claim to have been
bespelled
into adultery and to let her die.”

Another of those foreign memories washed over me. Those
moments were as hard to accept as real as they were impossible to deny. Instead
of fighting it further, I gave in to the overshadowing and began speaking about
what I saw.

“Hannah was bound and gagged with a blindfold over her eyes.
She didn’t know that her lover rode near the cart that carried her, but she
suspected it.…”

*
 
*
 
*

She was bound and gagged with a blindfold over her eyes. She
didn’t know that her lover rode near the cart that carried her, but she
suspected it.

Hope was all but gone. All that was left was the tiniest
dying ember that said he would surely intervene at the last moment and save her
somehow. It could happen if he recanted, if he admitted that she had not
bespelled
him. They could banish her instead.

One hand throbbed where the fingers were broken and she was
cold—chilled to the very heart. Either way, she thought, let it be over soon.
Either let her be
saved,
or let Death reach out with
his scythe and take her quickly. Her mind and heart and body could stand no
more misery.

Sounds plagued her though. Because her eyes and mouth were
covered and her flesh chilled to numbness, all her being was in her ears. She
heard whispers and footsteps and the wind strengthening in the trees. Who
walked beside her? Who, among the people she knew, had come to watch her die?
Were they glad she was gagged and without sight? Did they truly fear that she
would lay hurtful spells upon them? Or were they just experiencing secret
pleasure at seeing someone suffer? She thought that the women especially liked
to see her punished because she reminded them that they were all slaves, and
somewhere inside they all wished that they could escape if they had the courage.

It didn’t matter who was there for no one would save her. She
was glad she couldn’t see them—didn’t know who among those she had thought of
as friends were there watching her undergo her pain and humiliation. And she
didn’t need to see the trees now. She had seen them so much in the summer when
she had lain beneath the colonel and dreamed of freedom as she gazed into the
green shade.

They were going up the hill now through the belt of haunted
wood. The path was unkind to women and horses alike, steep and uneven so she
slid on the rough planks which forced slivers into her skin. The wheels creaked
and she could smell the horse’s sweat as he labored to drag her to the gallows.
She was small, but he breathed as if his burden were heavy—perhaps with guilt.

The cart finally stopped and fear speared through her. Her
blindness was intolerable. She needed to see Death as he approached. She rubbed
her face against her arm and the blindfold slipped. She saw him then, as he
dismounted—Death in the guise of her lover. He wore riding boots and
embroidered gauntlets. The only mark of stress upon him was the faint crease
between his brows and the fact that he wouldn’t look at her.

At once she was aware of her unhygienic state and was, for
the first time, filled with shame at the filth on her dress and the mats in her
hair that made her so much his lesser.

He had to be the devil himself. Could he not have just
smothered her in her sleep one day after they had made love? The time they had
spent together—it meant nothing. The gentle words, the promise of aid—lies! All
lies! Her knees shook and she could barely stand.

A voice jeered at her.
Nehemiah Stoddard.
Rage began to replace fear and shame. Her back straightened. Her legs firmed.

She would be dead by nightfall and he would go home and dine
on capon and pastry before a warm fire, thinking
thus God disposes of sinful women
.

But what of his sin?
Would he think
on that? Would he fear for his soul? Was it not the greater because he had a
wife? Should his punishment not be as harsh or harsher?

Her eyes raked the crowd now, noting who was there. Some of
the faces she had expected but was repelled by the expressions of gloating. One
surprised her though: Matthew Ladd. Matthew had said that he loved her and
wished to take her to wife, that he would even come to share her island prison.
Had her refusal turned his love to hate—a hate so strong that he wanted to see
her die? Why then were there tears in his eyes?

The gag was intolerable. She again rubbed her face against
her shoulder, not caring if she bruised the flesh as she dislodged her rag.
What did it matter? She would not have to bear it for much longer. It was clear
that Jonathan Sands would not save her. And she had something that she needed
to say.

Rough hands dragged her from the cart. Her ragged dress
caught on a rail and tore.
Her skin too.
The blood was
warm as it trickled down her side. They dragged her forward, not giving her dead
legs time to regain their feeling.

The gallows tree waited, tall and twisted with sturdy limbs
that would not break.

Hate rushed up from her heart. Perhaps her last moments
should have been spent in appealing to God to be forgiven her trespasses,
asking Him to help her also forgive—but God was not feeling merciful and would
not save her. Her sins were known. Either He would take her to His bosom or He
would not. But perhaps, though showing no mercy, He would be willing to answer
an appeal for justice. Was He not a righteous God? Then let Death set us his
sacrificial altar and dress it with every horror for her neighbors to witness.
Let them be the happier for her death—she would still have her say!

Her voice cracked and her mouth was very dry, but she forced
the words out, raising her voice to be heard above the rising wind and the
distant howl of the wolves, who would probably dine on her
body
did they not take parts of it for souvenirs. There would be no place for her in
the churchyard.

For this—for his cowardice and betrayal—she hated Jonathan
Sands. Let her words etch the air and very brains of those who stood witness.

“Jonathan Sands, listen to these words, the last my mouth
shall utter. In the spirit of the only true and living God I speak thee.
Tremble, for you will soon die. Over your grave they will erect a stone that
all may know where the bones of the cowardly Jonathan Sands are moldering. But
listen, all ye people, that your descendants may know the truth. Upon that
stone will appear the imprint of my raised hand, and for an eternity after your
accursed names have perished from the earth, the people will come from afar to
view the fulfillment of this prophecy and will say: ‘There lies the man who
murdered an innocent woman.’ Remember these words well, Jonathan Sands, remember
me.”

And then terrified Aaron Merrick pulled the gag back into
place and a rough rope was tied around her neck.