The Ghost It Was

by Richard Hull

  ‘Then Arthur got it right,’ Christopher commented. ‘But the daggers at AP are all wrong.’

  ‘You’ve missed the point,’ Julia put in.

  Fenby smiled at her. He had been quite sure, even on short acquaintance, that she would not. ‘Precisely. I wrote and queried one or two details, which was impertinent, but they remained perfectly civil and kindly, to their great credit. They suggested that I should consult’ — he looked at another letter — ‘Kelly & Schwabe’s Historic Costume, Second Edition, Plate 10; or the same author’s Short History of Costume and Armour which has as frontispiece to Volume Two a reproduction of a painting known as “Gentleman in Red”, to be seen at Hampton Court. Only their modesty prevented them from pointing out that they were really the best authority themselves, and, actually, I believed that all the time. I have a faith in museums which is almost touching.’

  Feeling that he was leaving the point, Julia put in: ‘And what did they say about the other hat?’

  Not being quite used to her methods, Fenby went back a bit. ‘I wrote to them about that and asked them whether anyone who died in 1535 could have worn a high conical hat. Very definitely they say “No”. People, they say, do not often make this mistake because Holbein’s portraits of the head and shoulders are familiar. They usually go wrong in the legs and give them rosettes on their shoes or large garters below the knee. But high stiff hats were not worn until the time of Queen Elizabeth and then daggers were not.’

  Fenby paused and then, seeing that Christopher’s mind was still working a little slowly, summed up: ‘So you see it is quite certain that the figure which was seen to menace your brother was not a ghost — at least unless you are prepared to believe that ghosts wear the clothes that came into fashion fifty years after their death.’

  The needle which Julia threaded remained perfectly still. ‘When James gave us the story at dinner that night. I think he gave it to us quite correctly.’

  ‘Yes. But anyhow we had all heard it before and might not notice the details,’ Christopher added. ‘But where then did this idea of a conical hat come from?’

  ‘No mystery about that.’ Fenby produced the paragraph in The New Light which described James’ arrival at Amberhurst. ‘I should rather like to know who put that in, but The New Light people seem very vague about it.’

  ‘Funnily enough, I have a very strong suspicion that Arthur put it in himself. Perhaps he got it wrong originally, and, when Uncle James gave the description, he checked it up. My brother was rather a thorough person.’

  ‘That may be. In that case it knocks out one line of inquiry. I rather thought that whoever put in the paragraph might have that mistake firmly fixed in his head.’

  ‘I think that I might be able to confirm Arthur’s part in it, if you would like me to.’

  ‘Please. But, leaving that side, with these letters Mr Warrenton will have to let me examine things more fully. Of course, writing to the Victoria and Albert instead of going to see them has wasted time, but I wanted to have the proof in black and white, and I wanted to watch people when they were off their guard, so I didn’t hurry as much as I might.’

  ‘How did he do it?’ Julia went on to the next point.

  ‘Here I’m only guessing,’ Fenby admitted. ‘But have you noticed how everyone has called attention to the right hand, prominently displayed, threatening and a yard away from Mr Vaughan? Nobody seems to have looked at the left hand of the figure. Supposing — just supposing — there was something in that hand, say a pole, couldn’t the push be given with that?’

  ‘If someone were to do that to you, wouldn’t your natural tendency be to grip it, whatever it was?’

  ‘But supposing that pole was greasy? Wouldn’t it slip through your hands, and then wouldn’t the grease make it harder for you to hold on to anything else, the parapet of a wall, for instance?’

  ‘So that was why Young found that Arthur’s hands were greasy.’

  ‘Precisely. It’s only a guess, but despite my dislike of assuming guesses to be the only possible truth, it does fit everything.’

  ‘More than a guess,’ Julia unexpectedly confirmed him. ‘I’ve just remembered that Emily said something about her cook worrying about some missing lard or fat of some sort. I ought to have told you. Fool that I am.’

  Fenby was very far from regarding her as anything of the sort, but he contented himself with saying that it was very likely that it had been lard with which the pole had been greased. Julia nodded. ‘So that only leaves “who” unanswered.’

  ‘Yes. But unfortunately, “who” matters most. I’m inclined also to put in another question first, namely, “why?”. Mrs Vaughan, I know you won’t mind my asking you — but who had any reason to murder your son?’

  For once Julia seemed at a loss for an answer. ‘Actually to do it, I know no one,’ she said rather slowly. ‘I can understand people wanting to — he’s annoyed both Christopher and myself unbearably at times. But there’s a big difference between feeling that you would like to do something, and actually going so far as to do it. Especially when it’s a question of murder. And of the people who might have done it — one of whom in fact did do it — none of them had any real reason. True, Arthur got on fairly well with my brother, but it wasn’t as if he was a very great favourite or if he were the only relation James had.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to make sense to me,’ Christopher went on at the end of his mother’s unusually long remarks. ‘I’m quite prepared to admit honestly that life for my mother and me goes on better without Arthur, but, all the same, getting rid of him wouldn’t have been worth the risk.’

  The directness of the Vaughan family somewhat took Fenby’s breath away, but outwardly he took it all quite calmly. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you happened to notice two words in the jury’s verdict, namely “Accidental Murder”?’

  ‘I did,’ Christopher answered, ‘and I don’t believe it’s even good law. It certainly isn’t sense. But, even in law, isn’t that manslaughter? To make it murder, mustn’t you have intent?’

  ‘Mr Fenby means that it is sense, I believe. Don’t you?’ The question was asked almost abruptly.

  ‘I think it may be. I am by no means certain that the push was meant to be fatal. In fact, I think that it was given a little harder than was intended; that the man in the conical hat meant to expose Arthur completely and, after making off unobserved himself, turn the joke against Mr Warrenton later on for believing that there was any ghost at all. For that purpose, he had to get away without anybody knowing who it was. Consequently, he wanted Mr Vaughan to be fully occupied in keeping his balance, and he had to make certain that the pole, or whatever it was, was not gripped tightly. You see, he did not even want to leave it behind him — perhaps it was something that could be identified. But he forgot that the grease might prevent the man whom he had pushed from gripping the parapet, and so what was intended to be a scare turned into something more serious.’

  ‘I see.’ Christopher turned the matter over in his mind.

  ‘Not a murder at all then, but just an accident?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Fenby answered.

  Christopher went on thinking. ‘But if he was to get away — how could he with Malcolm at the foot of the tower? — unless it was Henry — and you know he didn’t break down at all this afternoon.’

  ‘No, but he didn’t — he couldn’t — clear himself. If it was Mr Malcolm, there is no mystery about how he went away. But suppose it was someone else, and that that someone else hears your cousin move just in time to prevent him giving himself away by trying to walk down the stairs, then there are still two possibilities. He might have hidden for a few minutes until the way down was clear. Or it is just possible that there is some other way of reaching and leaving the top of the tower. That’s what I’m going to look for tomorrow.’

  ‘I see what you mean, and what the possible way was, of course. Then it must have been—’ But before Julia Vaughan had begun to speak, the telephon
e bell rang, and her words died away as Christopher picked up the receiver.

  ‘Yes. Do you want him?’ she heard him say.

  19

  From Emily’s Window

  For some time after her uncle had so abruptly and so oddly ordered her to bed, Emily wandered round her room, ineffectually tidying it by picking things up from one place and putting them down in another. Although she never stayed up late if she could help it, it was too early even for her. Besides, outside the thunder was still crashing, and though the thick curtains would keep out any signs of the lightning, she knew that if she tried to go to sleep, the fear of the storm would only allow her to toss about restlessly.

  Half-heartedly she took up a book, but she was quite aware that she would be unable to concentrate upon it, and that it would serve only to help her to think over the events of the day. Of one thing she was quite sure; her conscience was perfectly clear. She was certain that she had been right in insisting on Christopher calling in the police; indeed, she was more than ever sure that there was still danger hovering over Amberhurst Place. She had never liked the house, the miscellaneous books in the library, the preposterous pretences of feudalism represented by the armour in the dining room, the inartistic mixing of the old heavy furniture bought from its former owners with new chairs and fittings brought from their previous home or picked up anywhere, regardless alike of the clash of style and of colour; all those jarring notes made her feel thoroughly ill at ease. Above all, that tower which stood at the other end of the house, but visible from her window, haunted her at all times.

  Her mind went back to the way Arthur Vaughan had died. Yes, it had been abundantly necessary for her to have acted, and, whatever her uncle might say or do to her, she would always be glad that she had. That in the process there might have been danger for her had not really occurred to her; nor if it had, to give her the credit which is certainly due to her, would she have let the fact interfere with her actions.

  Now, however, she saw that whoever it was who had killed her cousin had had reason to wish to prevent her giving evidence. It was an idea which, now that she had thought of it, made her shiver. Still, that was over now, and her evidence was given, and if it had annoyed her uncle she could not help it. She had had to speak the truth. But if only she had been able to be more definite! If she could even recall more clearly and exactly what she had seen, especially as to how the figure in the conical hat had disappeared!

  Deliberately Emily put down her book and came to a brave resolution. Up to now she had shrunk from bringing back to her own memory the recollection of that night, but now she decided to go out of her way to do so. She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate. There, vividly before her, was the figure with the menacing hand, and then Arthur, turning round, apparently clutching at something, she remembered now. Yes, the effort of memory had now brought back that detail more clearly, though she was not aware of its significance nor could she imagine what it was at which he was trying to grasp. Then she seemed to see him beginning to fall backwards, gripping the parapet, and slipping, slipping. Emily shuddered.

  But what of the other figure? Here she could remember no more, and she very nearly gave up the attempt. A few weeks ago, she would have been incapable of subjecting her nerves to so great a strain as she had voluntarily imposed on them in the last twenty minutes; but recent events had been gradually strengthening her character, and now she decided to make one more effort, and, to help her memory, she must actually look at the tower.

  She would not of course get exactly the same view as she had done from the library window, since, apart from being a floor higher up, she was farther to the right, her room being not even next to Henry’s bedroom which was over the library but separated from it by her uncle’s. Still, it did look out in the same direction. It was so like Amberhurst Place that all the best bedrooms should face due North and that the east front, which faced over the Great Water, should be practically useless! Having come to the decision to try the experiment of concentrating on the appearance of the tower, she wasted no time. Turning out the lights in her room, she drew back the curtains, just as another vivid flame of lightning flashed across the sky.

  It was very nearly enough to make her abandon the experiment, but, just as she started to draw the curtains again, she became aware of the fact that she was possibly not alone in looking out at the storm. At any rate, the lawn and the flower beds on the other side were partly visible in the light which came from the library window. Her uncle, she supposed, was there. What, she wondered, was he thinking of? She hoped sincerely that he was getting less agitated, and suddenly it occurred to her that she had not really considered what was going to become of her. Not that she felt it was necessary as yet to think. Somehow, she was convinced that her own future and the solution of what had been happening were bound up together. She would not feel angry with Uncle James, whatever he did to her. With all his bluster he was such a child really, she felt, and so completely unable to look after himself. Probably in all the world, Emily was the only person who had any spark of affection for James Warrenton, and though she had little reason for gratitude, nevertheless she was probably right. At least there was a good deal to be said for James, only he would be certain to contradict you.

  ‘Poor Uncle,’ she murmured, ‘I do hope he isn’t going to get worse. Really, he hasn’t been very reasonable tonight, and I do wish he wouldn’t shout so, but all the same—’ Resolutely she turned her attention from her uncle to the tower.

  The summer night was not so dark as it might have been.

  From where she stood she could see more of the odd chimney that came up so unexpectedly at the end of the platform nearest to the house. The whole house was a jumble of confused additions, done long ago by a singularly unskilful architect. It did make an ugly outline! She supposed that the chimney must have been brought forward from the main part of the house to combine with one in the tower, the lower half of which had once been used. She could see right behind the stack here, and her gaze on it became so fixed that, as things will when you stare at them too hard, it seemed to move, just as a flash of lightning showed up its silhouette. She shook her head and turned her eyes away and waited for the next flash. When it came, the outline of the tower and of the chimney were perfectly normal. Emily pulled herself together and, remarking to herself that this would never do, tried once more to remember what had happened to the figure that had not been her cousin Arthur’s, and which she was as sure as Inspector Fenby, though without his reason, was no ghost.

  She felt that it must have moved back to where the steps of the tower came out on to the flat roof, and, yes, now she thought of it, she was almost sure it had gone beyond that to a spot which it was difficult to place correctly on this dark night, but which she thought was where she now seemed to see, unexpectedly, some sort of a faint glow. She looked again — yes, there was certainly something. But what could it be? Something which moved horizontally backwards and forwards, which gleamed even in the darkness.

  All at once Emily realised what it was. It was a knife of some sort, a dagger perhaps. She remembered the old legend of the house, that the younger brother had been found kneeling on that very place with a dagger which it was assumed that he had run into his own breast.

  The whole world seemed to spin round Emily. Had she been wrong all the time? Was it possible that the house was really haunted? In that case had Arthur not been murdered at all! Now a flash of lightning might help her to see more clearly, but, infuriatingly, there was none. If only she could get out of the bedroom and investigate! So anxious was she, that it was at this moment that she first began to think of running the risk of lowering herself out of the window somehow. But just as she was turning round wondering what she could make into a rope and to what she could attach it, she became aware of the fact that she was not alone in having seen the dagger shining so unexpectedly.

  On the lawn below, the figure of her uncle appeared in the light shining from the library and h
urried bareheaded and regardless of the rain round the corner of the tower. Clearly James Warrenton was carrying out his previously expressed intention of going as fast as he could to the tower, to investigate on the spot.

  The minute or so that elapsed while James hurried up the stairs seemed to Emily an eternity, and suddenly a new terror was added, for the gleaming dagger had ceased to move aimlessly. It was now moving less frequently, but, when it did, it moved fast, and it was so placed that the point would be facing anyone coming out of the turret steps.

  She hardly saw James come out on to the roof, but, as he did, the dagger seemed to gather increased fury and plunge forward towards him. She thought she saw his hands try to push aside the point, and then close on the hilt. Then he seemed to fall forward on to his knees. Only the hilt of the gleaming dagger was now visible. As James sank lower, it went down with him, but, to Emily’s eyes, there was a moment when the hilt was tilted upwards and then sank down as if it had been released, but it was hard for her to see; only the gleaming dagger and the general outline were really visible. At last, however, came another flash, and by this she could clearly see the figure kneeling at the top of the turret steps where she had been told the younger brother was supposed to kneel. But the lightning revealed no other human figure on the roof.

  Now, however, she had no doubt but that some action must be taken. To ring the bell and try to summon assistance, she thought, was probably useless, since all the staff but Rushton always went to bed long before this. She did indeed ring it, but with no hope of it being answered. She tried, too, to shout to Henry, but while she screamed, she was busily engaged in cutting the sheets into lengths and tying them together. It was not long before she had improvised a rope and tied it on to the end of the heavy bed, which she managed to drag towards the window. Forgetting in her excitement her normal timidity, she somehow managed to reach the ground.