Now she slowly moved on to the library and to the roll-top desk used by Fred where she’d placed the note from Frank Clay to Jennifer which she’d found. When she’d searched for the note a while before it had vanished. Now her trembling fingers ransacked the pigeonholes of the old desk once more in an effort to find the thin folded piece of paper with its long-ago message.
And suddenly she came on it. She withdrew it from the rear of one of the many compartments, folded just as she’d left it. Why hadn’t she been able to discover it before? It had apparently gotten far back in the pigeonhole and she’d missed it. She had to tell herself that, or accept that it had temporarily been whisked away by ghostly hands.
She opened the paper again and read its faded message, the message which gave credence to the scandal of a hundred years ago. And she still refused to believe it meant that Jennifer had been an unfaithful wife. Surely the wistful blonde woman could have been a friend of Frank Clay’s without betraying her husband. And Frank Clay might have taken her friendship for something more serious. He must have been a narrow, proud man who clung to his opinions with the arrogance of an eccentric. So when she was drowned he reveled in spreading the story that she had meant to leave her husband for love of him. It didn’t have to be true. It might be only a malicious lie against the dead.
She was determined not to lose the note again. She went upstairs to the bedroom and locked it in her jewel case, then she carefully put the case away in the dresser drawer. After that she busied herself making the beds. And when she had finished she went to the open window to gaze out. The window at which she’d been so confident she’d seen Jennifer’s pale ghostly face.
From the window she had a marvelous view of the village below and the islands in the harbor beyond it. On Minister’s Island, directly across from Moorgate, the old white house gleamed in the sunlight, despite its worn paint. She was sure that Jennifer must have often stood in this window just as she was doing. That the long-dead girl must have often gazed at the distant house and thought about Frank Clay.
Why had it all ended in tragedy? What had happened on the night of that hurricane so many years ago? Her own conflicting attitudes were putting her mind in a turmoil. It was possible that all that Frank Clay had said in his near-demented state of sorrow was true. That Jennifer had been on the point of leaving her husband to join him, and that Graham Woods had killed his pretty young wife in rage, only to die himself as he tried to dispose of her body in a manner to take suspicion from him.
All the love between the young doctor and his wife, all the good times and the dancing at lively local parties had ended in the blasting wind and rain on the storm-tossed bay. Ended in grief and despairing anger. That was the legend which had come down through the years. And the ghosts in Moorgate appeared to bear it out. What further evidence could come to light now to change any of it? She might do well to accept it all and try to dismiss it from her mind.
Perhaps then she would have peace. The ghosts did not intrude on Fred because he didn’t believe in them. Perhaps if she adopted the same attitude she would also find peace. But she knew she couldn’t do that. She was too much involved in it all. Cynical, taunting Henry Farley knew that. The crippled millionaire had a keen mind. He knew that she’d fallen a victim to Moorgate, and he had been generous enough to offer to help her by buying back the house. Or had he been cleverly exposing her inability to cope with Moorgate in the hope she’d give up on the house and her marriage and leave the way open for Shiela?
It was very disconcerting. She suddenly felt alone. The dark mood grew to overwhelming proportions in her. She left the window and crossed the bedroom to the dark hallway. It was as if she were being guided by someone else. In this strange state she went to the stairs and made her way up to the attic and the storage room with which she had become so familiar. Going inside, she went to the portraits leaning against the wall.
She first brought out the portrait of Dr. Graham Woods. The sensitive, somber face of the man who had lived at Moorgate a hundred years ago and drowned in the bay that stormy night gazed at her with what struck her as an infinite sadness. And she determined that he and his wife would no longer languish in the shadows of the attic. Shiela had wondered why Fred had not hung the portraits downstairs, and Lucy found herself wondering the same thing. More than that, she was going to do something about it.
She took the doctor’s portrait down first and hung it in the living room where Fred had previously had a seascape. She took the seascape back to the attic and on her return trip downstairs brought the wistful blonde Jennifer’s portrait with her. This time she replaced a still life hanging in the hallway with Jennifer’s portrait. It meant that anyone entering the house would see the fine old painting at once. Lucy felt it deserved a place of honor.
When she had accomplished these changes she experienced a deep sense of satisfaction. A mood of near relaxation replaced her previously tense, confused one. She sat for a little while in the living room with her eyes fixed on the portrait of Graham Woods and again felt that the eyes in the painting came alive in some strange way, as if they were appealing to her, trying to give her some message.
She spoke aloud to the portrait, saying, “At least you’re not neglected any longer.”
It was not lost on her that Fred might resent what she had done and complain about the two portraits being hung so prominently downstairs. It seemed to bother him that Graham Woods and Jennifer had lived at Moorgate. He pretended not to care, but she felt that the tragic legend secretly troubled him. Otherwise why should he react so strongly to it?
She went out to the garden for a stroll. The warm sun brought out the scent of the trees, the flowers and ferns. She halted by the old well where she thought she’d heard her name whispered. And then she gazed into its depths. As she stared down at the shining black water far below she gave a small gasp. For the face reflected down there did not appear to be her own, but rather that of the blonde Jennifer!
As she continued to gaze into the well the illusion vanished and it was her own face which stared up at her. But for just a moment she had been certain she had seen that other ghostly face down there. Moving back from the well, she found herself shivering in spite of the warm sunshine. And she wondered why she so feared the ghost of Jennifer, if it had been her ghost she’d seen? Was it because she was slowly but surely becoming more identified with the lovely phantom? Was Jennifer gradually taking her over and controlling her thoughts and actions?
And if so, would the marriage between herself and Fred end in the same tragic fashion in which Jennifer’s had? She refused to believe it. And yet she knew she was even now not completely herself. She was doing things and thinking thoughts which were alien to her. What could explain that?
The feeling of fear drove her along the almost hidden path linking Moorgate with the Farleys’ estate. And she found herself walking through the heavily wooded area in a kind of daze. The woods were lazy with the hum of summer insects under the mid-day sun. Dry leaves and ends of branches crackled under her feet as she moved along with a blank expression in her lovely green eyes.
She emerged on the grounds of the great Tudor house. She found the crippled man stretched out on a chaise longue by the sparkling aqua and white swimming pool at the rear of the big house. A wide orange umbrella protected him from the sun. He wore a white robe over a bathing suit and dark glasses hid his alert eyes, but he greeted her in his usual crisp manner.
“What a pleasant surprise, Mrs. Dorset. I regret that Shiela isn’t here.”
She stood staring at him, still somewhat in a daze. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Of course not,” the tall, thin man said with a smile. He waved a twisted hand to indicate a chair near him. “Won’t you sit down and join me in a drink?”
“I’ll sit with you a moment,” she said. “But I don’t want a drink.”
“Just as you say,” Henry Farley replied agreeably. “I’m too grateful for your company to insist you do anything.”
Sitting opposite him, she said, “I don’t really know why I came here. A kind of impulse took over and made me do it.”
“Let’s not worry about it,” he said. He glanced at the pool. “The only athletic endeavor left to me is swimming. That is why the pool is such a blessing to me. Of course Shiela only spends a little time here. She enjoys riding and golf and so much else.”
“I’m sure she does,” Lucy said. And then giving the crippled man a questioning look, she asked, “Were you making cruel fun of me last night, Mr. Farley?”
The white-haired man smiled slightly. “Whatever made you think that?”
“Your talk about Moorgate and the ghosts.”
“If anything, I was being sympathetic,” Henry Farley said. “And I’m rarely that.”
“Then you think Moorgate is truly haunted?”
He nodded. “Judging from what I’ve heard and all that you’ve told me, I’d say yes.”
“And you were serious when you said you were willing to buy it back?”
“Never more serious.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. Then he said, “Because I’m fearful about what the house may do to you. It seems your husband isn’t daunted by the ghosts and has precious little patience for your terror of them. That is too bad. It could lead to a tragedy if you try to go on living there.”
She looked at him earnestly. “I am afraid of the ghosts, and then in a strange way I’m not. I feel that they are trying to tell me something. That they are sad rather than evil. That they seek me as a friend and interpreter.”
“That could also be dangerous for you. Especially in view of your husband’s attitude.”
“Dr. Boyce thinks I may be psychic. I’ve also seen a mysterious figure on Minister’s Island that I think may have been the phantom figure of Frank Clay. It looked like the bizarre old man they talk about in the ghost stories dealing with the island.”
Henry Farley seemed impressed. “If you are psychic that house is no place for you. Better consider my offer. And if your husband won’t consider it you might be wise to think about leaving him and St. Andrews. It could be your only chance of survival.”
His words startled her. She said, “Could it be you want to be rid of me? That you would like to see my husband and your daughter married?”
The crippled man raised himself a little. “What gives you that idea?”
“I know Shiela is in love with Fred,” Lucy said. “And I think he likes her. If he became convinced I’m a neurotic he might decide to let me go and turn to her.”
Henry Farley sank back on the chaise longue. “If you think that is the plot I have against you, just ignore all I have said. You are a very alert young woman as well as a nervous one.”
“You haven’t answered my question, told me if my guess is right,” she pointed out.
The man beside her showed an expression of infinite weariness. “Who knows what our motivations sometimes are? I think I wanted to be absolutely fair to you. But I can’t deny that in the hidden recesses of my mind I am also anxious to see my daughter happy. I think, as Fred’s wife, Shiela would be happy.”
“And I’m in the way,” she said bitterly.
“It’s unfortunate,” the crippled man said. “That is why it might be wise for you to give up your husband and Moorgate. Get away from St. Andrews before any violence explodes. Stop that tragedy of long ago being repeated again.”
“You think that might happen?”
“Yes. If Moorgate is inhabited by evil spirits and they exert any powers over those living in the house, you and Fred could be condemned to live that story of jealousy and murder over again.”
“I see,” she said.
“I’m sympathetic to you, Mrs. Dorset,” he said earnestly. “I know all about unhappy marriages. I had one of my own. When my arthritis became crippling, Shiela’s mother chose to desert me for a younger man. It is something I have had to live with.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said.
He made a gesture of dismissal with his thin, twisted hand. “I’m not looking for sympathy. I only wanted you to know that I understand. That I want to help.”
She got up from the chair. “Thank you for being so frank.”
“That is my policy,” the thin man said grimly. “Won’t you wait for Shiela? She should soon be here.”
“No,” she said. “I’m going back.”
“As you like,” the old man said, staring at her fixedly from behind the dark glasses. “Think over all I have said.”
“I’m bound to,” she said in a forlorn voice.
“The ghosts at Moorgate and on the island interest me,” he went on. “In spite of your husband’s opposition I think your idea of securing a ghost-hunter is a good one. You might learn the secret of the house.”
“I know.”
“At my age the prospect of another life is appealing,” Henry Farley said with dignity. “I would give a lot to know that there is something beyond that last breath. Maybe you will help solve the riddle for me.”
Lucy said, “I wouldn’t count too much on it.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Still I am interested. And if you need any financial assistance in your attempts to run down the ghosts, I’ll be glad to help you.”
“Thank you,” she said. And she turned to leave.
“Come back again any time,” the cripple called after her.
She made her way back along the wooded path with his words still ringing in her mind. The old millionaire was a person of strange contrasts. She still couldn’t be sure whether he was her enemy or her friend. He was wily enough to admit it would be to his liking if she would leave Fred and St. Andrews so his daughter could take her place. But at the same time she felt he was sympathetic to her plight in a purely objective way. It was a puzzle.
When she returned to Moorgate she was still restless. She tried to reach Fred at the hospital and then at his office, but could get him at neither place. So she decided to go to the village and do some grocery shopping. It would save her from being alone and she did need some provisions.
She drove into town and went to the familiar supermarket. She quickly did her errands and left without seeing anyone she knew. Then to fill in her time she drove by the big resort hotel and saw the guests strolling about the lovely lawns or seated on the verandahs. It was as she went by the hotel that she suddenly remembered about the cemetery. Jim Stevens had told her it was located only a few blocks from the Algonquin Hotel.