The Haunting of Maddy Clare (15 page)

There was nothing in his eyes. He signaled for a barmaid. “I can’t wait for Matthew. I’m hungry.”

I waited until we had ordered, gathering my courage. Finally,
I plunged forward. “What is it about her?” I asked him. “About Mrs. Barry?”

He said nothing for a long time. In fact, our food had arrived before he spoke, and I thought he had resolved not to speak altogether. He dug into his ploughman’s lunch, his eyes still carefully averted from the other table. “Sometimes, Sarah, you are far too observant.”

“You can tell me,” I said, stung. “I’m not a child. Are you—are you two—”

“Cuckolding her husband?” His cheeks had gone red, and he set his fork down. “No. We’re not. Is that what you’d like to know?”

If you’ve bearded the lion in his cage,
I thought,
there’s nothing to do but show courage.
“Well, I didn’t—I didn’t mean that. It’s just that it seems there’s something going on.”

He picked up his fork again, pushed his food around on his plate, just as I was doing. “I met Evangeline at a New Year’s party in 1914, like she said. It was at a club in London. I danced with her twice, and I asked her to marry me.”

I couldn’t help a small sound of surprise.

He stabbed a potato. “I’ve never asked that of a woman before or since. It was stupid, but it was real. There was something between us, and nothing else in that moment, in any moment, made any sense. I simply didn’t want to let go of her. And then she told me she was already married.”

“Oh,” I said.

He lifted his eyes to mine. “There you go, Sarah. Now you know it. I went off to war and I didn’t see her again. I had no idea she lived in Waringstoke. I didn’t know anything about her, except that I could never have her. And then she came by the inn that morning, walking her dog.”

The pain in his eyes made my heart ache. I thought of the fear I’d heard in Evangeline Barry’s voice.
I told him I would only be a moment. He’ll follow me in here.
“Alistair,” I said, leaning toward him, wishing I could put my hand on his. “Alistair, I think perhaps—”

“Well, well.”

I looked up, my cheeks flaming. It was Mrs. Barry’s husband, approaching our table. His dark hair was slicked back, and he had blue eyes fringed with dark black lashes. “It’s the ghost hunters,” he said, as if delighted. “Here they are, in person. How lucky we all are!”

Alistair and I exchanged a look, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Mr. Barry merely continued. “I beg pardon,” he said smoothly. He placed a hand on the back of my chair and leaned down, his face uncomfortably close to mine. “I am Tom Barry.” He held out his other hand to me. “How do you do?”

Startled, I put my hand in his. “Sarah—Sarah Piper.”

“Miss Piper.” He squeezed my hand, held it a little too long, then turned to Alistair, his hand still on the back of my chair. “And you, sir?”

Alistair frowned. Neither man held out a hand to the other. “Alistair Gellis. Is there something we can help you with?”

“You’re ridding Waringstoke of its ghosts, are you not?” said Tom Barry, pulling up a chair and seating himself. He placed his hand on the back of my chair again. “I’d say that’s damned helpful. But I’m here to help
you
. And so you must let me buy you a drink.” He leaned in confidentially, lowering his voice so the other tables couldn’t hear. “I hear you’re from London. What a bloody relief! I lived there for a few years during the war, myself. Places like this, you know—” He shook his head, his glance indicating
the rest of the room, and presumably all of Waringstoke. “Well, let’s just say I’m overjoyed to have someone real to talk to.”

I turned to look at Evangeline at the table behind me. She was sitting watching us, her legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand propped by the elbow on the table, her pose relaxed. She caught my eye and gave me an amused smile, an ironic wave. I stared at her, trying to reconcile this woman with the frightened woman who had approached me in the change room not three-quarters of an hour ago.

Tom Barry had turned his gaze to follow mine. “My wife,” he said to me. “She’s quite shy, and so she’s staying exactly there, while the rest of us have drinks together.”

“Really, there is no need,” said Alistair.

“It’s already done,” said Tom Barry. “I’ve ordered us a bottle of whiskey. The finest this place has to offer. We’ll drink a few toasts. And maybe we’ll have a few ghost stories round the table.”

Whiskey! It was barely one o’clock. I tried to protest, but the barmaid placed the bottle on the table, along with three glasses. Barry reached for it immediately and began to pour. “I’m sorry I’m so forward,” he said, though his tone said he was not sorry at all. “I suppose it’s a little surprising to a Londoner. But we’re all friends here, you know, and I’m used to it. Besides”—here he lowered his voice again—“the villagers here are a little suspicious of you, if you don’t mind my saying so. Narrow minds, and all of that. So I thought I’d lead the way. Break the ice, you know.” He smiled at us; his smile was a little crooked, as if not drawn on his face quite right. He raised his glass, and used a voice that boomed through the rest of the room. “A toast!”

I didn’t want any whiskey. I’d never had it in my life, and the
thought of drinking down all that dark liquid—for Barry had filled our glasses quite full—made me slightly queasy. And yet, as I looked around the room, I saw that everyone was indeed looking at us, some of them directly, some with sideways glances. Even the bartender was watching us as he polished a glass. What if Barry was right? We needed these people, these villagers, to help us with the case of Maddy Clare. What if they looked to Tom Barry as something of a leader, as he’d implied? Nothing would get solved if no one would talk to us. Perhaps a little whiskey was a small sacrifice.

I caught Alistair’s eye. He put his hand on his glass. I did the same.

“That’s the spirit!” said Barry. “To our guests!” He drank his glass in one swallow.

I held my breath and tipped my glass to my lips, but the first swallow burned down my throat and I gasped. I put my glass down, coughing, my nose burning. I apologized, but Tom Barry was laughing.

“A virgin, eh?” he said. “We won’t get through the bottle very quickly if that’s how you drink. Give it another try.”

“It isn’t necessary,” said Alistair. I noticed his glass was empty; he could drink just as effortlessly as he did everything else. “Sarah, don’t worry about it.”

“Be a sport,” said Barry, with his crooked smile. “One more. Just one.”

“I really don’t—”

“She doesn’t want it.”

My heart stopped as I recognized the voice. Matthew stood by our table, his expression unreadable. He wore his cloth cap and was slouched easily into his corduroy jacket, his posture one of
relaxed strength, like that of a boxer out of the ring. He had one hand in his pocket, and in the other he held a glass of beer. He must have been served at the bar, then, and I wondered how long he had been standing there, watching us.

Tom Barry laughed again and looked at Alistair. “Who is this, then? Your man?”

“You’re in my chair,” said Matthew.

Barry looked at him for a tight beat of silence. “Go away, my boy. We’re having a drink here and you’re not invited.”

Alistair found his voice. “Matthew is a member of my team.”

Tom Barry looked from one to another of us, each in turn. “Well, then,” he said, as he read our faces. “I see.”

“You’ve proven your point,” Matthew said, nodding toward the whiskey bottle. “We have work to do here.”

“Matthew,” said Alistair.

“No, it’s quite all right.” Tom Barry stood. He looked at us with an expression that said we’d made an enemy. “I can see you don’t want my help. Well, good luck without it.” He brushed past Matthew and his eyes narrowed. “You think you’re a strong one, don’t you? I could take you on.”

“You’d lose,” said Matthew.

Barry motioned to Evangeline, who was watching the exchange with calm eyes. She put out her cigarette and stood. Without another glance at us, she followed her husband out the door.

Matthew took Tom Barry’s vacated chair, swiveled it with one large hand, and gracefully straddled it backward, his forearms across the top of the wooden back. He adjusted his cap on his head and looked at us. “Well, then?”

Alistair sighed. “Matthew, we were trying to be political here.”

“By making Sarah drink whiskey?”

I blushed and looked at the half-empty glass in front of me. The smell of it was unappealing, and I wished I could be rid of it.

“She didn’t drink much,” said Alistair. “He was willing to help us.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Matthew took a sip of his beer. “He was willing to help himself. And you know I’ve no use for politics.”

“A friendly gesture doesn’t hurt. Not that I’ve ever been able to get that into you.”

“You can’t take me anywhere.” Matthew’s tone was almost nasty. “I guess your hired help needs better manners.”

“That’s uncalled for. I told him he was out of line.”

“Funny, I didn’t hear it.”

“Stop arguing,” I broke in.

They both looked at me.

My cheeks burned, but I went on. “Alistair, you could have stood up to him. Matthew is right—he was bullying us. It was a show in front of the rest of the town, though I have no idea what for. You were too flustered because he’s Evangeline’s husband.”

“What?” said Matthew. He leaned back. “That was Evangeline?”

I watched the two of them exchange a look—so Matthew knew all about Evangeline, then. I pressed on. “And you,” I said to Matthew. “Whatever you think of Tom Barry, you could have remembered that we’re in public here, and we’re strangers to these people. You’ve just made a lovely story that will be all over Waringstoke, if it isn’t already. You yourself told me that we’re already news in a small town like this. Now you’ve made a very nice stir.”

I had never made a speech like it in my life before. For a second the three of us, including myself, sat surprised. Then Matthew spoke.

“I didn’t know that was Evangeline,” he said. He looked at Alistair. “Did you know she was in Waringstoke?”

“No.” Alistair sounded tired. “Not until I saw her when we arrived.”

“And now you’ve met her husband,” Matthew said with sympathy. “Lucky you.” He looked at me. “We should interview Evangeline.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think she’ll see us. She approached me in the dress shop. I don’t think she can get away from him except when she’s walking her dog.”

“She approached you in the dress shop?” Alistair rubbed his forehead. “Sarah, what are you saying? Do you think she is afraid of her husband?”

“I don’t—” I bit my lip. “I don’t know.” I couldn’t sort it out. Which had been the real Evangeline—the frightened wife, or the woman who had walked out with her husband? Had the scene in the dressing room been an act to get information from me?

“All right, then,” said Matthew. “That’s a dead end, at least for now. I’ve been doing some digging this morning. There are other avenues we could take to investigate.”

“Investigate?” said Alistair. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re ghost hunters, not detectives. I’ve no intention of doing an investigation.”

“You have to,” I told him. “You promised Mrs. Clare you’d try to get rid of Maddy. How are you going to do it if you don’t know why she’s here, or what she wants? Nothing about her story adds up. Where did she come from? What happened to her before she reached the Clares’? Why did she kill herself? Why does she haunt the barn?”

“Sarah,” said Alistair, “it could be nothing to do with any of
that. Do you understand? Maddy may just be a random phenomenon. Some ghosts are simply a concentration of energy, nothing more.”

“But some ghosts are more,” said Matthew.

Alistair looked from Matthew to me. “Ah, well.” He leaned back in his chair. “I know when I’m outvoted. Very well, we’ll try it your way and see.” He crooked an eyebrow at me. “Sarah, since it seems you are in charge—what do you propose we do next?”

I ignored the tease, and pondered the question. “I noticed the churchyard as we came into town,” I said at last. “I’d like to see her grave.”

“Do you know,” said Alistair as we entered the quiet, lonely churchyard, “I’m not even certain she’s buried here?”

“Where else would she be buried?” Matthew asked.

Alistair shrugged. “I never asked.” He slanted a look sideways at me. “It seems I should have let you run the interview.”

We had stopped partway down the path, and I glanced around, wondering where to start in the overgrown grass, where gravestones both new and old poked through next to the Queen Anne’s lace. A hot breeze blew against my legs and breathed across my sweaty neck. “I’m sorry about my outburst,” I said now, meaning it. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that. I also shouldn’t have pried about Mrs. Barry. I apologize.”

Alistair put his hands in his pockets and looked around along with me, while Matthew strode ahead of us down one of the paths and began to peer at stones. “You meant well,” he said softly. “I had no idea you were so emotional.”

“Neither did I,” I replied. I caught his eye and nodded toward
the church, where a figure was emerging from a side door and coming toward us. “Who is that?”