Late Saturday night, October 7, 1950
The Rutherford house
Skip entered his room, closing the door as he switched on the bedside light. Once he had used the bathroom, undressed, and packed away his clothes, he slipped into bed and picked up his book. He read several chapters but found he had difficulty concentrating. There was a decided chill, and he wished he’d packed heavier pajamas. He drew the quilt higher up and snuggled down under the covers with a shiver, setting the book on the nightstand. His eyes were feeling heavy, and he was about to turn out the light when a soft rap at the door brought them fully open. A glance at the clock told him it was six minutes to eleven. It had to be Henry, Skip thought, definitely incorrigible.
The rap came again, slightly louder and longer this time, and he realized it wasn’t coming from the connecting door but rather the hall, so he threw back the covers and got out of bed, the wood floor feeling like ice against his bare feet as he stepped off the area rug. He cursed not bringing along slippers, but at least he had the robe, which he quickly put on and wrapped around himself. He fully expected to see Henry standing in the hall, perhaps holding glasses and a bottle of purloined champagne from Mr. Rutherford’s private stock, but instead, it was Mr. Rutherford himself, still fully dressed and looking sheepish.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Mr. Valentine, but I saw your light on under the door and assumed you must still be awake.”
“A valid assumption, Mr. Rutherford, though I was just about to turn the lamp off. Did you need something?”
“It’s my mother, I’m afraid. She’s having trouble sleeping, and she’s in a state. I went to check on her before I retired for the evening and found her quite distressed. She had calmed down earlier, but something’s riled her up again.”
Skip drew his robe closer about him and crossed his arms. “I’m sorry to hear that, but isn’t Sister Barnabas’s job to quiet and calm her? To take care of her?”
“Yes, of course. But she’s gone to bed already, and well, to be honest, Mother doesn’t seem to care for the sister very much. She does, however, seem to like you, so I wondered if perhaps you would be kind enough to sit with her until she feels drowsy. I gave her a glass of milk a short while ago with a sleeping draught in it.”
“Well, I’m not certain I’ll be of any help, but I can try, I suppose,” Skip said doubtfully. “And I wouldn’t exactly say she likes me.”
“Oh, she spoke highly of you to me just this afternoon.”
“I’m sincerely surprised to hear that, Mr. Rutherford. You certainly don’t seem to care for me.”
Mr. Rutherford looked sheepish. “Oh, yes, about that. I apologize. My behavior was uncalled for, and I was out of line. Sister Barnabas chastised me when I told her about our discussion. I’m sure you’re a fine young man, and it’s not for me to judge what you may or may not be.”
“Hmm.” Skip studied him, trying to decide if he was sincere or just wanted his assistance, but he couldn’t tell. Still, he figured, it might help Henry if he and Ambrose got along. “Well, all right, I guess I can visit with her for a few moments.”
Mr. Rutherford smiled. “Thank you, you are too kind. Her room is opposite yours.”
“Yes, I know,” Skip said. He followed Mr. Rutherford across the wide hall. When they reached her door, Mr. Rutherford knocked gently and turned the knob. “Oh dear, she’s locked it. It was unlocked before.” He knocked again.
“Perhaps she’s fallen asleep after all,” Skip said drowsily, wishing he could do the same.
“Yes, maybe so,” Mr. Rutherford said. “I guess I’ll check on her in the morning. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“It’s all right, I understand. Have a good night.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you and Henry at breakfast. Sleep well.”
As Mr. Rutherford spoke, a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass came from behind his mother’s door, and the two men looked at each other, both alarmed and startled.
Mr. Rutherford futilely jiggled the door handle. “Mother! Mother, what’s happened? Are you all right?” He looked at Skip. “I can access her room through the connecting door in mine. Stay here.” Before Skip could respond, he had hurried into his own bedroom. Shortly after that, the locked hall door of his mother’s room opened. “Come in,” he said, standing aside. Skip entered, noticing at once the broken window, the cold night wind billowing the lace curtains. Mrs. Rutherford was standing unsteadily next to her bed, looking dazed and confused.
Mr. Rutherford went to her. “Mother, what happened? Why did you break the window?”
She stared up at him, her arms limp at her sides. “I was asleep. I heard a noise. I didn’t break the window.”
“Then who did? The hall door was locked, and there was no one in my room just now.” He strode over to the connecting door to Sister Barnabas’s room. “And this is locked, too. Unless there’s someone hiding in here…” He made a show of checking her closet, beneath her bed, and behind the dressing screen. “No, no one here, my dear.”
“Someone threw a rock from the yard, perhaps,” Mrs. Rutherford said, shivering. “Someone wanted to hurt me. It’s so cold in here.”
He walked to the window overlooking the carriage house, pulling his coat closed against the chill night air. “I can see the broken glass on the lawn below, and there’s none in here, and no rock.” He leaned carefully out. “And it appears one of your brass bookends from your dresser is down there, too. Someone must have thrown it from inside your room.”
“Who?” she said, her voice full of suspicion as she glanced about. “Did you do it?” she said, her voice rising. “Or you?” She pointed a crooked finger at Skip.
Mr. Rutherford walked back to her side. “Honestly, Mother. It had to be you, there’s no one else. I checked everywhere. Why did you break your window?”
“No! It was the ghost, Bitters. He’s here now, I saw him before, his shadow. He’s angry. I’m afraid of him.” She looked wildly about the room.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mother. There’s no ghost here.”
She scowled, her voice shrill. “You would say that. You never believe me. You don’t believe in spirits, but they’re real, they are! I’ve talked to them.”
“Whatever you say,” he said, surprisingly calm.
“Arthur believed in spirits. He believed me.”
“Arthur was five years old when he died. He probably still believed in the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, and the Easter bunny, too,” Mr. Rutherford said, less calmly this time, and Skip felt a pang of guilt at knowing the truth about Arthur.
“Go away, leave me alone. Joe Bitters’s ghost broke my window. I saw him.”
“What did he look like, Mrs. Rutherford?” Skip said.
“It was dark, I couldn’t see very well. I tried to turn my light on, but it wouldn’t work.”
“The light on your nightstand?” Skip said.
“I was in bed. I tried to turn it on, but I couldn’t. Joe wouldn’t let me.”
“Mother, it’s too late for this codswallop.”
Skip walked over and tried turning on the lamp. “She’s right, it doesn’t work.”
“What did you do to the light, Mother?”
“It was Joe! He broke the window and the lamp.”
“Actually,” Skip said, bending down, “it’s just unplugged.”
“The ghost did it, playing tricks on me.”
“Okay, Mother. Joe broke your window and unplugged your lamp. I’m glad you drank your milk, because you need to calm down and get some sleep. But you can’t stay in here with the window broken, it’s too cold. You can sleep in my bed tonight until we can make at least a temporary repair tomorrow. I’ll sleep on the sofa in the library.”
“Joe’s gone now, but he’ll be back.”
“Then let’s go next door to my room where you’ll be safe.” He took her in his arms, almost carrying her through the connecting door, where he tucked her into his bed like a little child. Surprisingly, Mrs. Rutherford resisted very little. Skip followed behind them, turning out the overhead light in Mrs. Rutherford’s room.
“There, now you can sleep more comfortably. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me,” Mr. Rutherford said. He walked over to the bureau and extracted a pair of pajamas.
“Why are you taking my things?”
“These are my pajamas, Mother, and this is my room. I’m going to sleep on the sofa in the yellow drawing room so you can stay here.”
“Isn’t that nice of him?” Skip said.
“Who are you? Do I know you?” Mrs. Rutherford said, staring at Skip.
“I’m Skip Valentine. We met before. I’m here from Chicago with Henry Finch,” Skip said gently.
“Oh,” Mrs. Rutherford said, softer this time. “Oh, that’s right. The well-mannered one. You’re a handsome young man. You remind me of Arthur. He had red hair, too. I was pretty once, you know.”
“You still are,” Skip said softly.
“Thank you,” the old woman said, and she gave Skip a toothless smile. “Will you stay with me for a bit?”
Mr. Rutherford looked over at Skip. “Would you mind, Mr. Valentine?” he said. “She’ll fall asleep soon, and then you can go back to bed.”
“Certainly, for a little while…”
“Splendid, thank you. I shall see you in the morning.”
“All right, good night,” Skip said.
When Mr. Rutherford had gone, Skip walked over to the oversized bed, taking a chair next to it.
“I’m tired,” the old woman said softly.
“It’s late, go to sleep,” Skip said. He switched out the light, feeling rather silly sitting there with this woman he barely knew, in a strange man’s room in the dark, late at night, barefoot and wearing nothing but his robe and pajamas.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Rutherford said, cooing. She gurgled once or twice, and then stilled. But just when Skip thought she was finally asleep, she called out, “It’s so dark. I don’t like the dark, not when I’m afraid.”
Skip reached over and raised the window shade over the bed, the full moon outside illuminating the room and shining soft light onto the old woman’s face. “There, is that better?”
“Yes, that’s better, much better.” Mrs. Rutherford settled back into the goose down pillow and closed her eyes. In a few minutes, she was snoring softly, and Skip snuck out the hall door and across to his room. He glanced at the clock before turning out the light and noted it was almost midnight. He yawned, his eyelids heavy, as he snuggled once more beneath the quilt and fell quickly asleep.
A couple of hours later, Skip awoke with a start and sat up, his heart racing as he fumbled with the light next to his bed. “The ghostly barking and pounding again,” he said to himself. He stumbled to his feet, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the clock, which told him it was two thirty in the morning. Rather than bother Henry, he went directly out into the hall, but the noises stopped as quickly as they had started. Tentatively he took a few steps toward the stairs, but it was dark, he was cold, and he didn’t know where exactly the noises had come from, so he retreated to his bedroom once more, where he could hear three knocks coming from the connecting door to Henry’s room. He walked over and knocked twice in reply.
“Well, it’s about time. Did you hear the barking and pounding again?” Henry said.
“Yes, I did. They woke me from a rather lovely dream about Cary Grant. All quiet now, though.”
“Yeah. Ugh, it’s practically morning already. Let’s try to get a little more sleep.”
“Sounds good to me, Henry.”