The Haunting of Aldburn Park

by Amy Cross

  “Saw who?” I ask, even though I think I can imagine where this lurid tale is going.

  “They said it was only for a few seconds,” he says, his voice tight with excitement now, and his eyes wide with the enjoyment of the telling, “but they saw a woman's face at one of the windows, staring out at them from inside the house.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I made them swear,” he explains. “They're good boys. I made them swear they were telling the truth. Anyway, after seeing the face, they headed back to town, instead of going on with their original plan of going all the way up to the house. They just couldn't shake the feeling that they shouldn't go on, not at any cost, to the house itself. They had the right willies by the time they got home.”

  “And are your son and his friend always prone to make up nonsense stories,” I ask, “or was this the first time?”

  “My Tommy's no liar,” he says firmly.

  “Perhaps not,” I reply. “Perhaps, instead, he is merely a fantasist.”

  “They're not the only ones who reckon queer things have happened up here,” he says. “Or even nearby. Several people even claim to have heard screams.”

  “Foxes, no doubt.”

  “Do you seriously think that people round here don't know what foxes sound like?” he asks. “I've known half a dozen men who've left the pub and started to walk home, only to hear what they reckon was the cry of Catherine Fetchford.” He pauses for a moment, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “You see,” he continues, “people round here aren't sure that they believe the official version of events. About what happened to Lady Fetchford, I mean.”

  “There is no official version,” I reply through gritted teeth, irritated by the audacity of this commoner. “There is simply the fact of the matter.”

  “My son and his friend -”

  “And how did your son and his friend reach the house?” I ask, finally determined to nip this nonsense in the bud. “Through the woods, you said?”

  “Aye.”

  “Interesting. And I suppose they had to cross the little river that runs that way?”

  “Aye, they'd have had to.”

  “And for that purpose, they took the little wooden bridge? The one that used to be popular with courting couples?”

  “As a matter of fact, that's exactly how they got out here,” he replies. “Tommy even said that it was as they were crossing the bridge that they first began to feel queer.”

  “Interesting,” I say, clenching and then un-clenching my fists. “And you're sure of that?”

  “As God is my witness,” he replies, “they told me it was on that bridge that they first felt wrong.”

  “And this was, what, a few years ago now?”

  “About two years back.”

  “Well,” I reply, “how fascinating, considering that the little wooden bridge collapsed some ten years ago.”

  I wait for him to try to explain this fact away, but he merely stares at me with an expression of open-mouthed incredulity. Evidently he understands that the whole ridiculous story – about his son and another boy coming to the house, and about them seeing some kind of apparition – has now been exposed as a filthy lie.

  “So you see,” I continue, “your son and his companion could not possibly have crossed that bridge. In turn, it would seem that a lie has already been revealed, and a rather telling one at that. Would you like to press on with your claims, or can you now admit that the two boys manufactured their entire sorry claim?”

  “Well...”

  His voice trails off for a moment.

  “I suppose boys will be boys,” he says finally. “If the bridge is gone, then the bridge is gone, and they did tell me that they crossed over the bridge.”

  “Which would have been quite impossible.”

  He pauses, before nodding sadly.

  “And how many of these silly little stories have been going around in the nearby towns and villages?” I ask. “Do people really have nothing better to talk about?”

  “People just wonder, that's all.”

  “Ghost stories are so tiresome,” I remark. “And so cliched, don't you think? They're all effectively the same thing, over and over again. And one would think that if there were so much as a spot of truth to any of them, then we would all know this by now.” I wait, but it is clear now that he has accepted I am correct. “I think,” I continue, “it would be for the best if you got on with your job. I have to be somewhere soon, so if you could be finished within the hour, that would be very much appreciated.”

  “Aye,” he says with a nod.

  “And make sure you do it properly,” I tell him. “If there are any further problems, I shall expect you to come out and fix them for no further bill.”

  “Aye.”

  With that, I turn and walk away, heading through to the study and leaving the wretched yokel to get on with his job. There is a part of me that would like to stay and hammer my point home a little more firmly, but I suppose there is no need. Besides, as I check my pocket watch once more I realize that time is pressing, and that there are still some important tasks that I must complete before I go to the station and meet Mrs. Ferguson.

  ***

  A few minutes later, having made my way across the lawn and along the narrow path that runs through the forest, I stop at the side of the river and look along toward the remains of the old wooden bridge.

  For many years, the bridge was known as a popular site for courting couples. His Lordship would tolerate this tradition, so long as nobody ventured further and bothered him at the house. Young men from the local towns would bring their female friends to the bridge, and there they would get down on bended knee and propose marriage. Even His Lordship succumbed to this rather fanciful ritual when he proposed marriage to Catherine Walkinshaw – as she was known back then – one summer's day, many years ago.

  And now, just as I remembered, the bridge is indeed no more. I recall the day when it collapsed. Of course, the bridge had never been very sturdy to begin with, and its destruction was discovered a few days after a violent storm had swept through the area. His Lordship made vague mention of having the bridge repaired, but this work was never carried out. Her Ladyship was more troubled by the loss of the bridge, seeing it somehow as symbolic, although by that point she had already begun to crawl into the madness that would subsequently overwhelm her. The upshot is that the bridge was never repaired, and that since that day it has been impossible to cross the river at this point.

  So the story told by Mr. Jones, and related to him by his son and another boy, falls at the first hurdle. Another silly ghost story is disproved. As they all must be, in the end.

  Chapter Nine

  A Pleasant Arrival

  Millingham's railway station sits nestled in the most beautiful valley, surrounded by high green hills that are dotted in the distance by sheep. Truly, this has always been one of my favorite places in this part of England, and it lifts my heart just to be here again after so many years. Indeed, with the sun on my face and the pleasant sound of birdsong in my ears, I actually feel positively hopeful as I make my way through the little ticket office.

  I even stop for a moment and have a pleasant conversation with the station master, as we both await the arrival of the train from London. The station master is a friendly fellow, and it turns out that we have met before. We briefly discuss current affairs, and I am relieved that this man – unlike so many others in the area – does not stoop to common gossip and ask me about His Lordship or Her Ladyship. This is a man who understands his place in the world, and who does not seek to muddy the waters with uncouth speculation. I imagine he would have no truck with ghost stories. A sensible fellow, then.

  Finally I hear the train in the distance, and I must admit that I feel a slight tightening sensation in my chest. It will be good to see Mrs. Ferguson again, and I must admit that I finish my conversation with barely disguised haste and hurry out to see the train arriving. The locomotive is a rath
er striking black and red color, and as the train comes to a halt I see only one door opening, and then a familiar figure steps out with a suitcase in her hand. The tightening sensation becomes even stronger.

  “Mr. Lawrence,” Mrs. Ferguson says as I hurry along the railway station platform to meet her, “thank you for -”

  Stopping suddenly, she furrows her brow as she peers at my chin.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” she asks.

  “It's nothing,” I tell her, with a pleasant smile. I had anticipated that she might question the cut, although I did not think it would be the very first thing that she mentioned. “I trust that you have enjoyed a pleasant journey here today?”

  “It was quite adequate,” she replies, but there seems to be a little concern in her voice. “Only...”

  “And the girls?” I continue, looking past her but not seeing any sign of the two maids she was supposed to be bringing with her from the townhouse.

  As I wait for Mrs. Ferguson to answer, the train begins to pull out of the station, gradually gathering speed until the final carriage rattles past us.

  “I'm afraid,” Mrs. Ferguson says finally, “that I come here today alone, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Alone?” I reply. “How can that be? I gave strict instructions that you were to bring two girls from the house to help with arrangements.”

  “I know, Mr. Lawrence, but I'm afraid I ran into difficulties in that regard.”

  The sound of the train is now receding into the distance.

  “Difficulties, Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “The girls...” She pauses. “The girls wouldn't come, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “They refused.”

  “How can they have refused?” I reply, struggling to understand the situation. “They were given their orders, were they not?”

  “They were.”

  “And they understood why they were needed?”

  “They did.”

  “Then why are they not here with you now?”

  “They said that they...” Again she pauses, as if it is difficult for her to get the words out. “They said that they would rather seek employment elsewhere, instead of following their orders to accompany me. One said she had a long-standing offer to join the household of a Mr. Barrett in Carnaby Street, and the other said she would be going to stay with her sister for a while so that she could consider her options.” She swallows hard. “In the circumstances, Mr. Lawrence, I was powerless to compel them.”

  “Of course, but...”

  I stare at her for a moment, still shocked that two serving girls would refuse their orders in such a manner.

  The sound of the train has now faded entirely, and Mrs. Ferguson and I are left alone on the platform as the station master returns to his office.

  “I must say,” I continue finally, “that this is all rather a surprise. I do not mean to imply that you could have done anything differently, Mrs. Ferguson, but at the same time I find it hard to believe that these two girls would rather leave their positions of employment. Do they not take pride in working for a man such as His Lordship?”

  “I believe it was a difficult decision for them to make,” she replies.

  “I...”

  For a moment, I am utterly speechless.

  “Well,” Mrs. Ferguson says after a short period of silence, “I suppose we could stand here for a while longer, but that does seem rather silly.”

  “Of course,” I say. “The motor car is outside.”

  I turn to lead her, but after a few paces I realize that I neglected to offer to carry her suitcase. I turn back, and she almost bumps straight into me.

  “Please,” I say, reaching for the case, “I would be honored.”

  “I thought you'd never offer,” she says as she lets me take the case.

  I mumble an apology for my tardiness as I turn and we begin to make our way along the platform.

  “And how is His Lordship today?” I ask. “I trust you spoke to him before you left?”

  When she does not immediately reply, I glance at her.

  “Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “Do you want the honest answer?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  “I told you on the telephone last night that he had begun to weaken,” she replies, “and the night brought no respite. He still says that he sees Her Ladyship, that she's waiting for him. Nobody is able to persuade him that he is wrong. I had someone sit with him, and she reported that at times his breathing became very shallow. This morning, when I went to check on him, he was barely able to speak at all.”

  “I imagine he is saving his energy for the journey here.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Lawrence, you should speak to Doctor Farrier.”

  “I believe -”

  “Who would tell you,” she continues, “as he has told me, that His Lordship is in no fit state to make the journey to Aldburn. Indeed, in the unlikely event that His Lordship survives long enough to start that journey, the chances of him completing it are next to none at all.”

  “And what does His Lordship think about this suggestion?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know he's stubborn,” she replies. “He's almost as stubborn are you. He's been clinging for weeks to this hope that he can come back to the house and die in his family's ancestral home, but there comes a point when a man's body simply breaks down beneath him.”

  Reaching the path that leads to the front of the station, she stops and turns to me.

  “You're the only one he'll listen to, Mr. Lawrence. Not Doctor Farrier. Not his family. Certainly not me.” There are tears in her eyes now. “But he'll listen to you,” she adds, “and I believe it is your duty to tell him that this journey must be called off. In the name of all that's holy, Mr. Lawrence, I urge you to do what is right.”

  “If you feel so strongly,” I reply, “then why did you agree to come today?”

  “Because...” She sighs. “Because it is my job. Because I am not like the girls who refused. I know my duty.”

  “I am glad of that,” I tell her.

  “Will you not telephone His Lordship and tell him to stay in London?” she asks. “Even better, we can close the house up again and go back to London immediately. We can be there by nightfall and you can speak to him face-to-face. He'll listen to you, Mr. Lawrence, I know he will. You've served him so faithfully. Can't you just do this one final thing, to make sure that he dies with dignity?”

  I stare at her for a moment.

  “The motor car is right over there,” I say finally, nodding in the correct direction. “The journey to the house should take no more than ten or fifteen minutes, as well you know.”

  She meets my gaze, and for a few seconds she seems aghast. Then, slowly, she turns and begins to make her way over to the motor car. I cannot help but notice that, as she walks, she seems a little unsteady on her feet, almost as if she could topple over or faint at any moment.

  Relieved that this silliness is over, I carry the suitcase to the motor car's rear and stow it securely in the rear compartment, and then I walk around and open the door so that Mrs. Ferguson can climb inside. Instead, however, she hesitates and looks past me. For a moment, I do not understand what is wrong, but then I realize that – although she cannot see Aldburn Park from here – she is looking in that direction.

  “How did you sleep last night?” she asks, her voice frail with emotion.

  “Perfectly well, thank you.”

  “Nothing... happened?”

  “The night passed without incident,” I tell her, not wanting to rile her up by mentioning something as mundane as a few faulty light switches.

  She turns to me.

  “I suppose we should make haste, then,” she says. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  “Indeed we do.”

  She hesitates, and then she climbs into the car and takes her seat, and I gently close the door before starting to make my way around to the other side. For a moment, as birds twitte
r in the distant trees, and as an English sun shines down upon an English country scene, I find it rather difficult to imagine that anything could be wrong anywhere in the world. I know there is a lot going on elsewhere, of course, but for a few seconds I am at least filled with the firm belief that we are very lucky indeed to be here in this place at this time. Regardless of the circumstances.

  Once I am in the motor car, I start the engine and ease us out onto the road. Beside me, Mrs. Ferguson remains quiet, and I feel that she seems rather pensive. Perhaps I should try to cheer her up.

  “You are lucky not to have to stay in one of the area's public houses,” I tell her as we pootle along the country lane that leads toward Aldburn Park. “Why, I had a breakfast yesterday that was inadequate in every conceivable way. And the people I met were atrocious. One wonders, does one not, how such people are able to thrive? Really, they are so far removed from the likes of His Lordship, it is hard to believe that they are even the same species.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Summer House

  “Here we are then,” Mrs. Ferguson says a short while later, as she follows me into the hallway and stops to look around. “Back at Aldburn Park.”

  “Here we are indeed,” I reply cheerfully, as I set my driving gloves down and turn to see a rather astonished expression on Mrs. Ferguson's face.

  All the way here, I kept up an entirely one-sided conversation. Not that I blame Mrs. Ferguson for that, of course. It is entirely understandable that she feels rather emotional about coming back to Aldburn Park. After all, there was a time when none of us seriously entertained the notion that a return might be possible. It seemed, for a while, that Aldburn Park had been locked in the past, and that His Lordship would never permit any of us to come back. Perhaps that would have remained the case, were it not for the illness that has struck His Lordship down and rendered obsolete his future plans.

  “I have not opened up the entire house,” I explain, as Mrs. Ferguson wanders over to one of the tables. “There seemed no point, so I have left the Barlow and Sandford wings locked.”