The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,45

was a sailor on a merchant ship. He was also a smuggler, though one clever enough to know how dangerous—and short—a life that was. When he saw the map in his grandfather’s journal, he thought of Spanish doubloons and colonial emeralds, though the Florencia was a ship fitted for invasion, not one sailing back rich from conquest. He showed the map to his crew one winter night, at midnight in the pub—though it was called the King’s Arms, then—and they made a plan to sail out and search the wreck for treasure.

“The only other person there that dark night was the barkeeper’s daughter, Molly, Jack’s betrothed. She begged him not to go—said it was too risky, the shoreline rocky and treacherous with currents and shifting sandbars. Especially in wintertime, when the sea was murderous cold.

“Jack only laughed, and promised he’d be at her side again by Christmas. He and his eight—or six, or eleven companions, depending on who you ask—set out the next morning. They found the spot on the map, and Jack went down in the diving bell. When he came up, he swore he’d found the wreck, and it would make all of them and their wives and children rich.

“But a storm came up, and dashed their boat against the rocks. Cold water and the sea floor below them and a storm above . . . not a single man survived.”

Even in the warmth of the room, Agatha shivered.

Flood’s hand brushed her elbow, then away.

Agatha caught her breath.

Mrs. Turner’s eyes glinted as she continued her tale. “All the Melliton families grieved the loss of their sons. Molly’s father hung black bunting from the walls and closed the tavern on Christmas Eve. But just as he and Molly were heading up to bed—or in other versions, just as St. Ambrose’s bell struck midnight—someone knocked three times at the door. One—two—three.”

Agatha jumped, as Flood’s knuckles rapped the table at each count. Flood, troublemaker that she was, only grinned.

Mrs. Turner leaned in, voice low and urgent. “Molly opened the door, ready to shout down whoever was disturbing their mourning. And there was Jack—laughing, prideful, handsome Jack, with a spectral greenish glow about him. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’d be back by Christmas?’ he asked, and strode into the tavern. All his men trooped in after, ghostly green, their clothing ragged, their salt-roughened voices calling for meat and ale and pudding. Trembling, Molly and her father brought out everything they’d saved for their own Christmas dinner. They spread the table as well as they could, and then hurried up the stairs and didn’t come down until morning. But when they did . . . they found the room swept and the kitchen scrubbed, as if the feast had never happened. And in the center of the table was a gleaming, golden stack of Spanish doubloons.”

“Nine or seven or twelve of them, depending on how many ghosts,” Flood added.

“I like nine,” said Mrs. Turner. “A proper folklorish number, is nine.”

“And that’s why the Four Swallows is always closed the night before Christmas,” Flood finished.

Mrs. Turner nodded to confirm. “Molly married and she and her husband ran the pub after her father passed, and so on down through the family until Mr. Biswas married Molly’s great-great-great-granddaughter, and they renamed the tavern the Four Swallows.”

“There are people living today,” said Flood, “who will swear they’ve seen an eldritch green glow about the place on Christmas Eve—and heard the sound of ghostly voices singing.”

Mrs. Turner let out a skeptical snort. “People enjoy frightening their neighbors, Mrs. Flood.”

Flood pursed her lips and tilted her head primly. “Jack Calbert’s ghost is more benevolent than frightening, I always think . . .” Flood caught Agatha’s eye and popped to her feet. “And now there are other hives we must see to—good afternoon, Nell.”

Agatha murmured her own farewell, and they left Mrs. Turner shaking her head with a wry smile on her lips.

Flood led them eastward, along the fenced field. Wheat stalks swayed in the breeze, protective spikes at the top gleaming like strands of silk. “The Turners used to farm here, when this was all commons,” Flood explained, waving her hand at the acres and acres of future harvest. “But Squire Theydon—he’s the other magistrate, along with Mr. Oliver—bought this whole piece up during enclosure. And Mr. Turner had to look elsewhere for employment. Mr. Oliver was all for sending him to the workhouse at St. Sepulchre’s, but Miss Coningsby knew someone at Birkett’s so Mr. Turner ended up