“Is the picture here?” Ellen asked. “Could I see it?”
Mr. Clayton directed her to open the bottom drawer of his dresser and take out a small metal box. When she gave it to him, he opened it and looked through the contents for a minute. He selected a yellowed photograph and handed it to Ellen.
The smiling young woman in the picture held an infant. She looked so happy that for a moment it did not seem possible that she was the sad-eyed ghost. But the hair was the same and the face and—Ellen realized with a start—even the white nightgown with lace at the throat. Ellen turned the picture over. On the back it said, “Lydia and Josiah.”
Ellen had felt all along that the apparition she saw was the ghost of Lydia Clayton. The picture proved she was right.
Grandma came to the door then and told Ellen it was time to leave. Ellen introduced her to Mr. Clayton.
“Thank you for coming,” he told Ellen, as she put the metal box back in the drawer. “Except for my attorney, you’re the first visitor I’ve had.”
“Don’t your friends ever come?”
He shook his head sadly. “That’s the bad part about living to be eighty-one,” he said. “Most of my friends have already died.”
“I’ll come again,” Ellen promised. She liked hearing Mr. Clayton’s stories of when he was young and it had felt good to talk about Lydia with someone who understood. Most of all it was a relief to know that he, too, had seen the ghost. Impulsively, she asked, “Do you want me to bring you anything next time?”
“Blueberry muffins.” He answered so quickly that Ellen giggled. “The food here isn’t bad,” he explained, “but they never serve blueberry muffins. They were always my favorite.”
“I’ll make some myself,” Ellen told him. “I can’t come tomorrow, because tomorrow is Halloween and the haunted house opens early, but I’ll try to come on Saturday.”
“Next time, Ellen Streater,” he said, “I’ll know your name.”
As Grandma drove Ellen home, she said, “All the money in the world and the only thing he wants is a blueberry muffin. How nice that you thought to ask him.”
Ellen did not answer. She was planning what she would do at the haunted house that night. She would look inside the oldest piece of Wedgwood, the big black urn. She would see if the remains of Josiah Clayton had been disturbed.
Chapter
11
She wasn’t afraid anymore. Mr. Clayton said Lydia had never hurt anyone and she believed him. Besides, the photograph of the happy young mother with her baby had made Ellen want to help the ghost if she could. She’s a troubled spirit, Ellen decided, and for some reason she thinks I’m the one who can help her. Well, perhaps she’s right; maybe I can help. I’m going to try.
Once, on a vacation, the Streaters had wandered through an old graveyard in a small town, reading the headstones. Ellen remembered asking her parents why so many of them said, Rest in Peace. Mom explained that many people believe unhappy souls become ghosts and wander the earth. Those who are happy have a peaceful eternal sleep.
Lydia was clearly an unhappy soul and Ellen wanted to help her. She felt sorry for anyone, even a ghost, who was in such anguish.
Besides, if she could solve Lydia’s problem, whatever it was, Lydia would quit haunting her. Even though she was no longer afraid of the ghost, she did not relish the idea of being awakened again in the middle of the night by an ice-cold hand on her neck. Or of always wondering if Lydia, unseen and unnoticed, was standing beside her.
All she had to do was figure out what Lydia wanted her to know. If the ghost was only worried about the remains in the urn, why did she urge Ellen toward the Fairylustre?
Lydia always repeated the same word, a moaning sound with “end” as the last syllable. Ellen started going through the alphabet, thinking of words that ended with end. Amend, attend, bend, blend, commend, defend, dividend, fend, friend.
She stopped. Could it be “friend?” Was Lydia trying to tell her that she meant no harm, that she was Ellen’s friend?
She continued through the alphabet—intend, lend, mend, offend, pretend, recommend, send, spend, tend, trend, upend. None of the others made any sense in connection with the ghost. Friend did.
That night, Ellen walked through the great hall with a sense of anticipation. If Lydia appeared, she planned to ask her if that’s what she meant. Surely the ghost would be able to give some sign if Ellen was right.
After she slipped into her Joan of Arc robe and removed her shoes and socks, she still had a few minutes to spare before it was time for Agnes to tie her, so she hurried into the dining room. The octagonal Fairylustre bowl was back in its usual place. Ellen ducked under the rope to get a closer look. She wondered if she might be able to see where Agnes had repaired the chip.
The bowl looked the same as it always had. Carefully, she picked it up, turning it around and around in her hands. She saw no hairline cracks nor any evidence of glue. She ran one finger around the rim of the bowl, feeling to see if it was smooth or uneven. She could detect no place that felt like a repair.
She turned the bowl again, to admire her favorite scene, and then stopped. The shoes of the fairy flying over the bridge were slightly different than they had been. Before, the toes of the shoes pointed up, with tiny gold balls on the tips. Now, one of the fairy’s shoes went straight ahead, instead of up. Ellen examined the shoes carefully. The balls on the tips of the toes seemed slightly bigger, too.
How odd that Agnes would make such a change. Ellen wondered if she should say something about it. Probably Agnes would want to correct the mistake, if she knew. The whole point of restoration was to put a piece back exactly like it was originally.
She also wondered how the bowl got damaged. There wasn’t any chip that first day, when Mrs. Whittacker showed her the Fairylustre. If there had been, surely one of them would have noticed it.
Ellen put the octagonal bowl back on the shelf. She would be glad when the new lights were installed. Even the shimmery Fairylustre seemed dull tonight, as if it needed to be dusted.
She went to the other end of the display, wondering if she dared peek inside the black urn to see if it contained fragments of human bones. As she approached the urn, Lydia appeared.
There were no preliminaries this time. No cold wind or running footsteps. No icy hands. She was just there, suddenly and completely. As usual, she motioned for Ellen to come closer.
“Ooohhh . . . end.”
Behind her, through her, Ellen could see the shelves of Wedgwood.
Ellen spoke softly. “Lydia, are you trying to tell me that you want to be my friend?”
Lydia moved closer.
Ellen stayed where she was, hoping that she had guessed correctly about the word, friend.
“Ooohhend.”
“Friend?” Ellen asked again, enunciating carefully: “You are my friend?”
The ghost stopped moving. The terrified expression in her eyes disappeared. “Foohhend,” she whispered.
“Yes, I understand. You want to be my friend.”
The ghost nodded her head.
“Friend,” Ellen repeated.
The ghost quickly reached out and Ellen felt the cold hand on her arm.
Ellen gulped but did not flinch. “I want to be your friend,” she said. “I’ll help you, if I can.”
Lydia spun Ellen around, pushing her back toward the Fairylustre.
“I saw the bowl,” Ellen said. “I found the mistake Agnes made, when she repaired the chip. Is that what you’re trying to show me?”
Lydia did not answer. She moved in front of Ellen, pulling her closer to the Fairylustre.
“I’ll tell Agnes about the mistake,” Ellen said. “I’m sure she’ll be able to correct it.”
Lydia tugged harder. Ellen sensed an urgency, as if the ghost feared that Ellen would not act quickly enough. Maybe, she thought, it isn’t the repair job that’s bothering Lydia. Maybe it’s something more personal.
“I know about the blac
k urn,” Ellen said. “Mr. Clayton told me. Is that what’s troubling you? Are you afraid someone will disturb what’s in it? Are you worried about your—about the remains of your baby’s body?”
As soon as Ellen said the remains of your baby’s body, Lydia screamed. It was not a low moan, like before, but a horrible, wrenching shriek, a blending of a woman’s voice with some unearthly cry. It was a sound unlike anything Ellen had ever heard.
She jumped and felt gooseflesh rising all over her body. As the sound died away, Lydia disappeared. Realizing such a scream was sure to attract attention, Ellen quickly moved away from the shelves and back to the public viewing area. She couldn’t let Agnes catch her examining the Wedgwood.
To Ellen’s surprise, no one came into the dining room. She thought surely Corey would want to know who had uttered such a scream but neither her brother nor anyone else approached. Was Ellen the only person who had heard that awful cry?
It wasn’t going to be easy to help Lydia. Ellen wasn’t at all sure what to do next.
It was almost seven o’clock, so Ellen returned to the parlor to wait for Agnes. She wondered how to tell Agnes about her mistake on the Fairylustre bowl without making her angry. She supposed she could tell Mrs. Whittacker instead but that seemed like a mean trick on Agnes, since Mrs. Whittacker was Agnes’s boss.
As it turned out, she didn’t have a chance to tell Agnes anything before the haunted house opened. Agnes dashed in at one minute to seven, quickly tied Ellen to the stake, started the special effects and left again.
While she pretended to be Saint Joan, Ellen thought back over everything that had happened so far. Lydia seemed to want to show her something about the Fairylustre bowl but for the life of her, Ellen couldn’t figure out what. It had not been the fact that the bowl was missing. Apparently, it was not the poor repair job, either. What, then? What did Lydia see that Ellen did not?
At ten, when the haunted house closed, Agnes failed to come and untie Ellen. She tried to wriggle loose but the rope was too tight. Fortunately, she spied Corey and Mighty Mike as they passed the doorway on their way out.
“Corey!” she called. “Agnes forgot to untie me.”
Mighty Mike quickly loosened the knots and the rope fell to the ground. “Thanks,” Ellen said. She bent down to put on her shoes and socks.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Corey said. “I want to walk with Mighty Mike.”
“I’ll be a couple of minutes,” Ellen said. “I have to talk to Agnes.” She had decided the best approach would be to tell Agnes privately about the mistake. That way, Agnes could correct it without embarrassment.
Ellen went through the doorway at the far end of the dining room and crossed the kitchen to the pantry which had been converted to an office for Mrs. Whittacker and Agnes. As she approached, she heard Agnes’s voice. Ellen realized she was talking to someone.
The office door was partway open. Ellen peered in. Agnes sat behind the desk, smoking a cigarette, with her back to the door. “This is my last night,” Agnes said. “No more Clayton House.”
Ellen stopped. What did she mean? Was Agnes quitting?
“I had a bit of a scare last night,” Agnes said. “Mrs. Whittacker noticed that one of the bowls was missing. I had taken it home with me on Saturday, after everyone left, because I couldn’t tell from my photograph if I had done one of the fairies exactly right. Then I got sick and couldn’t work on the bowl and couldn’t return the original, either. Just my luck, she noticed it was missing and called me. I made up a story about repairing a chip and she bought it with no question. I never did get to compare the original bowl to mine.”
Ellen’s heart began to thud against her ribs. She couldn’t see who Agnes was talking to.
“I’ve switched all but two pieces,” Agnes continued, “and I’ll do those two tonight, as soon as everyone’s cleared out of here.”
Agnes started to swivel around on the chair. Ellen flattened herself against the wall, behind the door, where Agnes couldn’t see her.
Agnes kept talking. “Some of mine have been on the shelves for two weeks now and nobody can tell the difference. I told you I was good, Harry, and this proves it.”
Ellen sidled away from the office door. She tiptoed back through the kitchen and into the dining room. She ducked under the rope and went straight toward the octagonal bowl. She picked it up and rubbed it carefully across her sleeve, to remove any dust. Then she looked at it closely.
It wasn’t the lighting that made it seem duller tonight. It was duller. It was duller and the fairy’s shoes were wrong and Ellen knew it was neither old nor valuable. She was not holding a piece of Wedgwood Fairylustre.
She was holding a fake.
Chapter
12
At last, Ellen knew what Lydia wanted her to see.
Why didn’t I notice sooner? she wondered. How could I have been so dense?
She put the bowl back on the shelf and walked slowly past the other pieces. One of the Fairylustre vases didn’t seem quite right to her, but she wasn’t sure exactly why. She could not tell if the blue and white pieces were authentic or not. She couldn’t tell the creamware, either, or any of the other pieces.
She stared for a long moment at the big black urn. Was it the same urn she had looked at that first day? Or was it a reproduction?
Even though she had studied the Wedgwood frequently in the last week, she could not tell which pieces were original and which were copies. Except for the Fairylustre bowl. That was a reproduction, for sure.
Agnes said she switched all but two pieces. If all of these are imitations, Ellen thought, where are the originals? What has happened to the Wedgwood collection? Where are Josiah Clayton’s remains?
Probably Lydia kept urging Ellen to look at the Fairylustre because that’s what Ellen most admired. If she was going to realize a copy had been substituted for the real piece, it would most likely happen when she was looking at the Fairylustre.
Ellen felt stunned, short of breath, the way she had once when she was playing basketball and got the wind knocked out of her. She also felt angry. What right did Agnes have to steal these treasures? Ellen supposed Agnes planned to sell the real pieces. Maybe she already had. They might be gone, welcomed into private collections, anywhere in the world. They might never be recovered, might never again stand on the shelves of Clayton House.
Ellen thought of Mr. Clayton, lying in his bed at Sheltering Arms, giving his home and his treasured works of art to the city so that people like Ellen could enjoy them. How was he going to feel when he learned that the curator of the museum had stolen his beloved Wedgwood?
Well, she isn’t going to get away with it, Ellen thought. Maybe the real pieces haven’t been sold yet. Maybe there’s still time to get them back.
She turned and ran across the dining room and down the stairs. She would tell her parents everything and they would call Mrs. Whittacker. Better yet, they could call the police. Maybe the police would come to Clayton House and catch Agnes yet tonight. She said she still had two pieces to switch.
Ellen rushed across the great hall. Corey was not standing by the door, where they usually met. No doubt he got tired of waiting for her and was already out in the car with whichever of their parents had come to pick them up, babbling about how good he had screamed tonight or telling yet another Mighty Mike tale.
She grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. She pulled again. With a sinking feeling, Ellen realized the door was already locked. Mrs. Whittacker must have thought all the volunteers had left; she had gone out and locked the door behind her.
Ellen knew it took a key to unlock it, even from the inside. She did not like the idea of going back to the office and admitting to Agnes that she was locked in. She didn’t particularly want to talk to Agnes at all—not until she’d been to the police with her discovery.
Before long, her parents would try to get in and would realize what had happened. But it might take a long time before they cou
ld reach Mrs. Whittacker or someone else who had a key.
Ellen would have to go and find Agnes, in order to get out. She went back upstairs and down the hall toward the dining room. Agnes was probably still in her office, talking to her friend.
As she walked, Ellen made up a story to explain why she had stayed in the mansion. She would tell Agnes that she thought Corey was still inside and she had gone to look for him. By the time she realized he had left without her, the door was locked. Unlike her brother, she was not used to making up stories but she certainly could not tell Agnes the real reason why she lingered so long after closing.
Her mind was on what she would say to Agnes as she entered the dining room and headed for the door to the kitchen. She didn’t see Agnes crouched beside the bottom shelf of Wedgwood.
Ellen was nearly to the kitchen door when she was hit by an icy blast of air so strong that she was forced to stop walking.
“Not now, Lydia,” she said.
The moment she spoke, she heard a gasp behind her. Whirling around, she saw Agnes, still crouched beside the collection. On the floor beside her was a cardboard box. A piece of Fairylustre was in her hand. She stood up, quickly putting the Fairylustre on a shelf.
“Why are you still here?” Agnes said.
“I got locked in.”
“What were you doing for so long?”
Ellen opened her mouth to give the story she had made up but before she could begin, Agnes said, “You were in here again, weren’t you? You’re the one who rearranged all the Wedgwood.”
“No.”
“I suppose you thought it was funny to put the newer pieces down at that end, where the dates are in the eighteen hundreds and put the old creamware up here.”
“I didn’t do that,” Ellen said.
“I was in here personally while the public was here, to be sure that nobody got too close. The collection was in the proper sequence then. Someone rearranged it after the haunted house closed.”
“It wasn’t me.”