Towards Sunset (third edition)

by Peter D Wilson

A screenplay based on this story may be found at:

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  THE GHOSTS OF ERIN

  “What have you got there?”

  “I found this in the attic,” Diana replied. She and her friend John were clearing her father’s house after the funeral: John’s six-foot-plus stature was awkward under the low roof, and Diana’s slender five-foot-four with a more substantial padding of hair was in less peril up there. “There are some interesting-looking notebooks.”

  “Time for a coffee, then, I think,” John said. “Put the box down there and I’ll brew up.”

  “I’ll blow the dust off outside first.”

  John wondered why she bothered, as it would hardly matter, but didn’t comment. When she had returned and taken a first sip of the coffee, she started on the box. The topmost book proved to be merely a set of accounts, but under it was a folded poster. “Look at this, John.”

  “What is it?”

  “‘Ghosts of Erin Tour’. That’s what it says.”

  “I can see that. Not very informative. What about the small print?”

  Diana read. “Did you know that every ancient castle in Ireland is reputedly haunted? You may not see anything directly, but new developments in paranormal research have enabled us to make visible the ghostly residue of battles, murders and mayhem in the past. Ballycastle Holidays offer this unprecedented opportunity to see for yourself what may be revealed.”

  “In every bally castle? Who would believe such rubbish?”

  “They say one’s born every minute.”

  “But what on earth is that doing here?”

  “Dad did have some business in Ireland in the eighties, about a year after Mummy died. That’s when those accounts are dated. There was something …”

  “What?”

  “Damn, it’s slipped away.”

  “Have your coffee and maybe it’ll come back. Memories are best chased sideways. I got nowhere with the crossword this morning so I brought it along just in case; see if you can make anything of it.”

  Diana studied it for a minute or two. “How about this: ‘Path to legal peril’; five letters, fourth A. How about Trail, leading to Trial?”

  “Looks like it. Well done. Any more?”

  “Mmm … Here’s one: ‘Criminal investigation of Spanish hero: two and three. “El Cid.”

  “Of course. Why didn’t I see it?”

  “Probably looking for something more obscure. Oh – that’s it!”

  “That’s what?”

  “CID. Dad had taken early retirement from it, but was asked to look into a complaint of false pretences in an Irish tour company.”

  “Ghosts of Erin?”

  “Probably. As far as I can remember, the Irish authorities apparently thought that anyone daft enough to believe that sort of advertisement deserved all she got and wouldn’t do anything about it, but the woman had influential connections over here and was threatening to cause trouble at a politically sensitive time, so our people – I don’t remember which department – commissioned Dad to check it unofficially.”

  “I’d have thought that the last thing to do at a tricky time – bound to tread on someone’s toes.”

  “That’s why it had to be completely unofficial. I thought it had just fizzled out as you might expect, but this next notebook is labelled ‘Ballycastle investigation’. Perhaps that throws some light on it.”

  Attic clearance was put on hold for a while.

  Evidently Cedric (Diana’s father) had written to the address given on the poster, requesting a brochure and then booking himself on to the next tour, receiving the usual kind of package with directions to the company’s headquarters. These were not on a public transport route, but anyone without a car could be picked up by arrangement from a travel agency in a nearby town; not in fact either of the Ballycastles that he had been able to identify, but far to the south in County Cork.

  He had wondered with some apprehension what kind of people he would be meeting, but apart from one or two who might have been a little fey they seemed reassuringly normal. The party was predominantly transatlantic, a little boisterous perhaps but as far as he could tell amiable enough and certainly not the kind of crank he had feared.

  The headquarters proved to be in a large old house, rather the worse for wear but clean and tidy, with what appeared to have been a music room in its days of prosperity. It now served for an introductory spiel from the tour guide who announced himself as Paddy, maybe (Cedric suspected) not as christened but easily remembered. The joining instructions, besides the usual guff, had required everyone to bring a camera and adequate stocks of film, each box unopened or sealed with name and a distinctive mark easily recognised. This was because they had to be put through a sensitisation process that would be done in bulk (for reasons of confidentiality, regrettably, no technical details could be given) while on more serious grounds than personal preference, it was important that everyone should get the right ones back. “We don’t want any suggestion of substitution, do we?”

  The sensitisation took about half an hour, during which coffee and alternatives were served with biscuits of which Cedric thoroughly approved. One of the Americans then stood up with what was evidently a prepared speech and introduced himself as Sam Whittaker who had organised their party with his wife Iris. “Although we’ve come as a group we hope the rest of you won’t feel frozen out. Part of the fun in coming away is meeting new people, and although I’m afraid you Brits have something of a reputation for stand-offishness with strangers – I’ve never found that true, by the way – please don’t be afraid to mix with us.”

  Then a film of the places to be visited was shown, including the hotels where they were to stay: all very impressive. However, one of the Americans asked how they could be expected to find any ghosts if the nights were to be spent in hotels.

  “Oh, that’s a common misapprehension,” said Paddy. “Ghosts aren’t limited to the night time. The only one I’ve seen with me own eyes was in broad daylight.”

  “You’ve actually seen one?”

  “To be sure, I have, and more than once. A military gentleman who’d owned the house (not this one) a hundred years or so before. It needed a lot doing to it, as you might expect, and he’d always come along to see the alterations.”

  “Did he object?”

  “Only once. In one place we’d found a discrepancy between the inside and outside measurements, and re-opened a bricked-up doorway into a closet of sorts. The colonel made such a fuss, throwing things around at night, that we closed it off again.”

  “What was in the closet?”

  “Nothing of any interest, as far as we could see. And we didn’t need the space, so the old man might as well have his own way. Maybe he was afraid we’d disturb some malignant presence, but in any case I suppose a ghost is entitled to his fads as much as anyone else.”

  “Could it have been the malignant spirit throwing things around, rather than the colonel? It doesn’t sound very military.”

  “I dare say that’s possible, if there was one. It hadn’t occurred to me. But here are your films back again. They’ve all been treated together, so I’m afraid you’ll have to sort them out yourselves; that’s why we asked you to identify them clearly.”

  Cedric was surprised to notice while the Americans were loading their cameras that their equipment was remarkably modest; in his experience they usually had the latest and flashiest. Later, at the first castle, they produced models more in line with his expectation and duplicated every scenic shot with those. He commented to Sam that he’d have expected them to use their best kit for the “ghost” shots.

  “Oh, that. Don’t believe all you hear about gullible Americans. As far as I’m concerned all the stuff about haunted castles is a load of utter bu…, er, baloney.”

  “Why did you come, then?”

  “We liked the itinerary. The price seemed reasonable. And the ghost nonsense just added a bit of spice to talk about back h
ome.”

  “Then aren’t you wasting rather a lot of film?”

  “That’s just some outdated stock that our dealer found forgotten at the back of his store and let us have for next to nothing. Good enough for a show of joining in the spirit of the game, as you might say. I doubt if we’ll even have it processed; probably dump most of it before we go home.”

  “Better make sure to dump the right ones.”

  “Well, they could hardly be more clearly marked, could they?”

  “Provided you put them back in the right boxes!”

  “Good point. Perhaps I’d better remind everyone.”

  Cedric had realised that if (per impossibile) the films were to show any genuine image, it should appear similarly in shots taken at the same time, so he looked for someone with whom he might reasonably associate throughout the tour and compare results once the films were processed. Most of the party were in pairs, but one lady of his own generation appeared single, and he found occasion to speak to her briefly from time to time during the first afternoon. When on arriving slightly late for dinner he saw her sitting alone, it was natural to ask if she minded his joining her, and she was willing enough, introducing herself as Anne Webster.

  During the meal, he noticed some of the more mature American ladies looking surreptitiously at them and exchanging knowing glances, as he discreetly pointed out to Anne. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. I’m sure it’s kindly meant.”

  “Then shall we play along with it – just for amusement?”

  “Why not? – as long as you’re sure it really is just play-acting.”

  “Of course.”

  That fitted in well with his own plans, so there were plenty of opportunities for parallel photographs during the following days. Cedric found Anne’s company increasingly agreeable as the week progressed and began to feel that he would miss it rather badly afterwards. At least he had a reason for meeting again at least once, but hesitated to mention it and so risk giving away the ulterior motive in introducing himself.

  The last full day of the tour ended with a fairly formal dinner, followed by a dance, music supplied by a reasonably competent trio from the town and closing of course with the “Haunted Ballroom” waltz. Cedric suggested to Anne that for the benefit of the American matrons they should make it a real smooch.

  “All right. But don’t get carried away!”

  Nevertheless Cedric had rather interesting dreams that night.

  The next day, before the party broke up, Anne was quite happy to arrange a meeting to compare photographic results, supposing that there was anything to compare. The comparison indeed proved interesting. Some of the films had vague grey shapes that with a lot of imagination might be related to human forms, but not always in the supposedly haunted locations. Moreover, the more distinctive shapes were occasionally similar in the two sets though with a different alignment and in quite different settings.

  “Right, that’s good enough for me,” said Anne. She explained having been commissioned by the Society for Psychical Research to investigate, and was satisfied that the whole scheme was as fraudulent as might have been expected were she not committed to an open mind; Cedric could report similarly to his contact, who as a good-will gesture passed a copy (off the record) to the Irish Tourist Board. Whether it chose to take any notice, with or without further pestering from the original complainant who was not actually party to Cedric’s instructions, was its own business.

  In fact, it did. Those of the tour party who could be traced were informed that they could make a claim against the company, but the “compensation culture” was yet to get seriously under way and few replied. The most substantial response was Sam Whittaker’s, on behalf of his group, that from the start they had expected the whole ghost business to be a mere advertising gimmick, the tour was thoroughly enjoyable without being unduly expensive and the escort marvellously entertaining, whether or not his commentary bore any relation to literal truth. If there was any kind of scam they only wondered how it had been worked as there had been no sign of tampering with the individual films, nor for that matter enough time for it.

  Nevertheless the case was referred to the Gardai, who had far more important things to deal with but were unconcerned if Cedric chose to look into it himself, and might be willing to provide a measure of unofficial assistance should circumstances permit. The key evidently lay in the so-called sensitisation process, which could obviously have been performed only at the company headquarters.

  Cedric thought it wise, and indeed demanded by simple courtesy if for no other reason, to explain his mission to the local Garda, who was intrigued enough to offer an hour or two of off-duty time to back him up. The temporary clerk on reception knew nothing about the technicalities but made no difficulty about showing his visitors where the “sensitisation” occurred: a shed behind the main building linked to another fifty yards away by a narrow-gauge rail track on which stood a sturdy trolley that could be moved between the two by a simple rope and pulley system. In the base of the trolley was a kind of turntable geared to one of the axles. On the wall of the far shed was a large sign, “RADIATION DANGER KEEP OUT” with the usual symbol.

  Whether truthful or not, that was enough to convince the Garda not only that something seriously illegal was going on, but that looking into it was a task far beyond his inclination or capability. A team of specialists, who puzzled and muttered over the set-up and kit associated with it for the best part of a week, decided with due regard to the circumstances that it had probably been used to expose films randomly to very fine beams of radiation, delivering doses sufficient to cause small patches of fogging, from a discarded radiographic source known to have been lost a year or two before and now installed in the more distant shed. Mere possession of it was enough to bring down the law like a ton of bricks.

  The big question for Cedric was why on earth Ballycastle Holidays had gone to what must have been extraordinary trouble and expense, not to mention the risks, simply to bamboozle customers into taking a purportedly ghost-hunting tour that as Whittaker had said would have been quite attractive enough without that particular inducement. Allegedly it had been on the insistence of the major shareholder, a native of Ballycastle, whence the name. He took some tracing, and was not readily accessible. However, when eventually allowed an interview, Cedric found the man utterly convinced of the supposed haunting and the need for measures by the appropriate authorities to release the unquiet dead; his only regret over the expenditure – his own, not that of the firm – was that the ruse had not achieved his purpose. Surprisingly, Cedric rather took to the fellow and hoped that the rest of his indefinite stay in the institution would remain as congenial as the staff were evidently making it.

  The notebook account of all this was of course purely factual, but inside the back cover was a single sheet of notepaper written in what a detective story would probably describe as a feminine hand. “Dear Cedric, I was deeply moved by your letter and flattered by your proposal. In other circumstances I should have been very much more than flattered. As they are, however, with great regret I must refuse. I’m very sorry indeed to disappoint you, and truly hope that you will find happiness elsewhere. Yours affectionately, Anne.”

  “And did he?” John asked.

  “Not really: not that way, at any rate. Resignation, perhaps. But I rather think he was haunted by Anne for the rest of his life.”