The Ghost of Winn Peterson

30. Winn

5 December

Following Atticus' grim story and departure, Evie took the opportunity to talk with me, albeit around the wintry grounds. Why she wished to walk about in the frost and freezing wind, I didn't know. Perhaps she longed for peace from the ever-listening ears of the old maid that lurked just out of sight. It was not merely the maid that we were suspicious of - the entire house seemed to be listening, every footstep recorded for later perusal by the doctor. Did he not know at once of our journey to the Lord De Court's estates? Regardless, we were soon roaming around the garden, moving slowly towards the dead orchard that circled the edge of the property. It was most curious to myself, how a house from the front could blend so well with the idea of a town filled with industrial homes, but from the back look so wild and natural. 

The peculiar cracking of the river aided us on our walk. It had not quite frozen over yet, but was covered in a thin sheet of ice that was in constant strain with the waters beneath. It was not unlike my friend, I noticed sadly. Sparing whatever sideways glimpses of her that I could, it was plain to see that Evie was filled with a melancholy worse than her most contemplative days in Dorset. Her eyes were always half-lidded now, as if she couldn't bear to see what her world had become with full eyes. The colour of her cheeks, once bright and strong with the flush of life, had been reduced to a pale sort of grey, a look that granted her the image of being nearly dead. Even her hair had lost its vigour, hanging limply in a thin braid down her back. I sighed in remembrance of the freed locks that escaped their restraints, wild and loosened from a long walk around town. 

I missed the old Evelyn Thomas dearly. 

Once we had drawn close enough to the orchard that eavesdropping on us was impossible, Evie drew me towards a tree severed at the trunk and gestured for me to sit. "I want you to tell me what it is you and Atticus have been gossiping about," she said, without an ounce of pretence. 

"I - did I not share this with you just upstairs?" 

"You told me only a small part. What is it you two chatter about when you think nobody is home?" I opened my mouth to argue or even deny the chattering, but I looked up at her face and saw a flash of longing, and quickly realised she was simply lonely. What a profound statement! I wanted to kick myself for being so stupid, for not trying to reach out to her sooner. Was she not the most disadvantaged of her, myself, and Atticus? Her mother had died, and rather than grieve and mourn with her own family, she'd been forced to marry a stranger and move so far that daily or even weekly visits were impossible. I could only shudder at the idea of her being forced to bed her new and awful husband. What exactly the doctor had done to be so condemned in our eyes was loosely impolite, completely understandable from an outsider's perspective, but something utterly loathsome lurked in his eyes and voice and countenance. Hearing of Atticus' story only increased my disdain for Igor Radcliffe, and that was all without the benefit of being married to him!

Turning to face her, trying somewhat to unslouch my shoulders in an attempt to appear more serious, I divulged the majority of my talks with the chef's son. "The letters we found in my attic, I felt he needed to know of them. He knows more of the doctor and this horrible town than we do. Is it not wise to ask him what he does know?"

Evie gave me a hard look before making a noise in the back of her throat. "You aren't wrong. What else?" She was nothing if not determined! I swallowed the nervousness down and tried not to think of her questions as an interrogation. I have never been terribly adept at holding fast in the face of steady questions!

"Writing," I stammered, unsure why I was still nervous. Perhaps some of the doctor's fearsome presence had transferred over to her. She either didn't notice my discomfort or assumed it was the cold, as she raised her eyebrows as high as they would go and gestured for me to continue. "Well... he didn't know his letters or how to write them. I... I haven't said this to him yet, but..." I found myself overcome with nerves. At any moment, I feared the doctor would appear from behind a tree and descend upon me with the same irritated fury that he did whenever he found me outside of my room.