Public interest in the strange happenings continued to draw a steady trickle of customers, but scarcely enough to justify keeping the tavern doors open. Millard also worried that if there truly was something unnatural going on, someone would end up hurt or worse. Beyond that, the Green House had become his home and what man wishes turmoil in his home? He confided in me that he had sunk every penny he owned into the place and could not afford to lose it as either business or lodging. This raised the question of how he had intended to make my visit “worthwhile” as he’d put it in his letter, but as I have said, I am not in my field for profit, making this moot. If it came to it, I would gladly provide my services at no cost.
I had listened to Millard’s recitation silently, allowing the man to get it all off of his chest, but as he wound down to a close, he took his eyes from the road and threw me an expectant look. Any individual item of Millard’s list I could have dismissed out of hand, but put together it did build a case for something unusual occurring in the place.
I clapped a hand on Millard’s shoulder companionably and presented him a little smile that I hoped was reassuring. “All of it’s strange, true, but I’ve heard and seen far worse in my day. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I’m sure of it.”
Millard gave me a lopsided sort of half-smile as we turned the final bend in the road and came upon the Green House, at last. I understood immediately how it came by its name.
The house was set back from the road on a small hill and surrounded by many acres of flowering trees and bushes of all kinds, as well as brilliantly-green grass. The grounds were extraordinarily lush for that part of the country and yet the greenery all appeared to be neatly-trimmed and well-maintained, without a hint of anything out of place. I wondered at how the Millards had the time to run their business and keep the grounds in such beautiful shape. It was quite a good trick, and I was suitably impressed.
The house itself was a Georgian manor consisting of a main structure and two additional wings. The building’s two and a half floors were crowned by a tower so miniscule it gave the place the impression of having a bump on its head and the entire structure was painted in shades of green that, against the bright blue sky, almost made it appear to be part of the verdant hill.
Millard gestured proudly towards his home as he pulled the auto up the wide, dusty drive and asked, “Beauty, ain’t it?” I nodded my agreement, still engrossed in studying the exterior.
We were met in front of the building by a man of middle years and stature, wearing dungarees in the American fashion and heavy work boots. He tossed a little wave at Millard as we pulled up and called, “Welcome home, boss!” in tones that spoke of his Southeast origins.
Millard hopped down from the vehicle, gestured towards his employee then jabbed a thumb in my direction and said, “Mr. Carnacki, this is my sidekick, Liam. Liam, Mr. Carnacki.”
I climbed from the auto and grasped Liam’s proffered hand. As we exchanged greetings, I wondered how the man felt being described by Millard’s Americanism, but he seemed unperturbed and indeed, quite cheerful. At Millard’s direction, Liam hefted my luggage from the back of the automobile and the two of us followed my host into the building.
We entered a great, wide hall, its walls lined with chairs in several rustic styles and adorned with an eclectic mixture of artwork, some of which I imagined had come part and parcel with the house and some surely brought in more recently. At the north end, directly opposite the main entrance, was a grand staircase leading, presumably, to the guest rooms. Off to the right, the eastern wing of the manor, was an open doorway through which I saw another hall lined alternately with artwork and doors. I later learned these were a series of studies, sitting rooms and the library, mostly-untouched since the Millards arrival, neither of them being particular readers. To the left was an entryway from which the door had been removed and over which was a sign that read “Taproom & Dining”. In my explorations to come, I found the wing contained the old ballroom, a large formal dining room that served as the main part of the tavern, as well as the kitchens and various storage areas. The western hallway, I could see, was lined on the south side by rows of tall windows looking out over the property and letting in a wonderful amount of natural light.
Before we had taken more than two steps into the house, a booming female alto called out, “Jim! Is this him, then?” From somewhere deeper in the home came a young woman of about twenty-five or so, pleasant-faced and slightly plump, wearing a simple dress beneath a kitchen apron. She embraced Millard and kissed his cheek; it didn’t take a detective to guess this was Willa Millard.
The pair turned towards me, Millard gesturing to his wife with a slight movement of the head. He said, “Yes, love, this is Mr. Carnacki. Mr. Carnacki—”
Before the young man could finish, Mrs. Millard took my hand in both of hers and pumped enthusiastically, giving me a brilliant smile and proclaiming, “Oh, I knew you’d help! I told Jimmy, ‘This is a man who can sort it all out like he did for those other folks!’ And now, here you are. And so fast, too! We appreciate this, Mr. Carnacki, we surely do.”
I could feel the color rising to my cheeks during Mrs. Millard’s performance, as I was unaccustomed to such behavior or enthusiasm, though I could do nothing but smile and mumble pleasantries.
After a moment, Millard rescued me from his wife’s grip, placing an arm around her shoulders and stepping back a pace or two, while sporting an embarrassed smile of his own. “Yep,” he added. “Willa heard about you from one of the guests not long after all this unpleasantness started, then went into town and read everything she could find at the newsagent’s about you. After that she wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace until I agreed to write you.”
Willa Millard gave her husband a look I couldn’t interpret and turned back to me, saying, “Well, there wasn’t much to find, truth be told, but I read enough to know you were the only one we could turn to.”
“Ah,” I answered uncertainly, looking to Millard for an escape. I appreciated the good lady’s confidence in me, but, as they say, enough was enough. You can understand, I trust?
Millard put a hand on her arm, forestalling a fresh torrent of adulation, and said to me, “Well, Carnacki, let’s find you a place to bunk down, shall we?” and lead the way towards the stairs, with myself and Liam in tow. He called back to his wife, “Let me get Mr. Carnacki settled, dear, and we’ll all get back together at dinner, eh?”
I didn’t see her reaction, but the sound of stomping feet told me that Mrs. Millard was as unaccustomed to being dismissed as I was to being adored. I put it out of my mind as Millard asked, “Would you like to stay in room number nine, Carnacki? That’s where the most ‘action’ is and I suspect you’ll want to see it firsthand.”
I declined and explained that I would likely be spending a great deal of time in room nine if, indeed, there was strong ‘activity’ there, but that I would need a secure ‘base’ from which to operate, a place where I could rest when necessary and be reasonably assured of the safety of my apparatuses and so forth.
“Makes sense,” Millard said and added, “Finding a quiet room won’t be a problem. We cleared out the whole place of guests so you could have the run of the joint.”
“I appreciate that,” I replied. “It should make the investigation go much more smoothly without the chance of random interruptions.”
Millard apologized then, and stated that while he was renting no rooms for the duration of my investigation, he simply could not afford to remain closed for the dinner hours. “I hope that’s okay, Mr. Carnacki. I don’t want to interfere with your work, but you know…” He trailed off, but I understood his meaning and waved away his concerns. I told him I completely understood and that it would not be an issue. At this, he seemed much relieved and we continued upstairs.
At the end of the eastern hallway on the second floor, we arrived at a door marked “three”. Liam entered first, carrying my luggage, and Millard said, “This should do you nicely
, Mr. Carnacki. Room nine’s down that way,” He pointed towards the western end of the hallway. “In fact, if you wanted to get started, we’ll get out of your way.”
I nodded to my host. “Of course. Just let me gather a few things.”
Millard offered his hand for a shake. “Sure thing, Mr. Carnacki. Oh, and ain’t none of the doors locked, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting around. Just let me or Liam know if you need something.” Liam exited the room, giving me a jaunty little salute as he passed, heading back towards the stairs. Millard resumed, “We really do appreciate you coming and I hope you can get to the bottom of all this.”
I clasped Millard’s hand in mine. “Well, I best get to work then, eh?” And with that, he left me to my own devices.
I unpacked a small selection of my accoutrements: my electric flashlight, some devices for taking measurements, and a few, more esoteric, items besides. So equipped, I made my way to the opposite end of the hallway to room number nine.
Before entering, I made a brief examination of the door, as Millard had stated one of the chief goings-on was the unaided opening and closing of various portals within the huge house. On a previous case, I’d heard similar claims only to find that the doors in question had been rigged with a rather clumsy, though effective, spring-mechanism that, combined with long-standing rumors about the place in question, had thoroughly convinced its occupants of a haunting. Funny how such little things can be so compelling when aided by the victims’ own prejudices. At any rate, I found nothing out of the ordinary and so headed in.
The room, like the house itself, was very large and was furnished in a style that befitted a lady who had tried to pattern her life after the romantic fictions she’d loved. The place was a confection of lacey curtains and wall-hangings, delicate-looking antique furniture and works of art showing various scenes of lovers of all ages and stripes, though nothing too risqué. Directly across from the doorway was a massive, four-poster bed—the most solid piece of furniture in the room by far—with a light green canopy and bordered on either side by windows that presented views of the grounds and provided adequate, though not exceptional, natural light. Off to the left of the doorway was a large, ornate wardrobe flanked on one side by a small writing desk and a comfortable-looking chair on the other. To the right were another pair of chairs, appearing to be more decorative than functional so flimsy were they, in front of a huge fireplace over which lay an elaborately-carved granite mantelpiece decorated liberally with pieces of ceramic bric-a-brac. The whole effect was that a lady of class and money lived there still.
I spent the next three hours fruitlessly, searching every square inch of the room without result of any kind. As you men know, I take extreme care to look at every aspect of a place in the early stages of an investigation, as I’ve solved many a so-called ‘haunting’ simply by attention to details that others would overlook while keeping my mind open and not just assuming that unusual events are caused by the supernatural. In this instance, however, I came up quite empty-handed. I could find no evidence of any tampering with the structure of the room that might allow an intruder to come and go at will and thought it unlikely that the second-story windows could have been used as an entrance without that being obvious to both Millard and his guest who’d seen the white-haired woman. Nor could I find physical signs of or detect any psychic vibrations from any Aeiirii manifestations, such as is the case with most true hauntings of the ‘residual’ style. Based on what had been described to me regarding the place’s history and what its residents were experiencing, such a haunting would have been the most-likely kind of supernatural activity at the Green House—but that, too, was a dead-end.
Still, I was far from done with my investigations and even further from being ‘licked’, as Millard might have said. In preparation for later experiments and observations I planned to take in the room, I ensured the fireplace’s flue was closed and then proceeded to seal each of the windows, the fireplace and, for good measure, the wardrobe door, with lengths of baby ribbon and drops of a certain rare oil—further strengthening each barrier against any denizen of ‘the Outside’ with a few words from a relevant passage in the Sigsand MS. That done, I then crossed to the desk and removed several sheets of loose writing paper, glad that the Millards had left such available for their guests, and set them flat on the floor in a rough semi-circle around the bed. After a brief survey, I was satisfied that all was as I wished it and exited the room to apply red sealing wax to all four sides of the doorframe, thus ensuring it would remain closed or make any tampering obvious at a glance.
As I was finishing up my ministrations, I turned to find Millard approaching from the direction of the stairs. I greeted him with a little wave and a smile, which he returned somewhat nervously before hooking a thumb over his shoulder and asking, “You ready for some lunch, Mr. Carnacki? You been up here a few hours now without a peep and I was starting to worry a little.”
I told him, “Nothing to fear at the moment, I don’t believe. I have seen many strange things in my time, but only rarely during the light of day.” Millard, however, did not seem to take heart from this.
We were met in the foyer by Mrs. Millard, who eagerly questioned me as to my findings. Before I could say a word, however, Millard interjected. “Hush up with that now, Willa. Mr. Carnacki ain’t been here but a few hours and I’m sure he’d tell us if he’d found something already.” He turned a questioning look my way. “Ain’t that right?” I allowed that it was.
We arrived in the spacious, well-equipped kitchen where I was introduced to the Green House Tavern’s cook—a stout, pleasant woman named Mrs. Brown. She ordered all three of us to “sit, sit, sit” when Willa Millard offered to help serve and we did so, joined momentarily by Liam and a pair of young women I’d not met before. Millard stood, I did the same, and he introduced the newcomers as Claire and Lizzy, the serving girls. I gave each a small bow to which they blushed and giggled and reciprocated with awkward curtsies. Afterwards, they whispered to each other about how courteous Londoners were and I smiled, but otherwise kept my amusement to myself.
Over a simple, but delicious, meal of stew and fresh-baked bread, we all chatted amiably, though the conversation inevitably turned to my reason for being at the Green House. It seemed that each member of the household had had some experience of their own, multiple in the case of Mrs. Brown and each of the Millards. Curiously, each event related had occurred strictly within the walls of the Green House. Nothing out of the ordinary had been seen or heard on the grounds or in any of the outbuildings by the group’s accounts and in comparing notes, as it were, they came to this conclusion just as I was doing so. Liam, in fact, had taken refuge in the carriage house on several nights when there had been activity within the main building and he vouched that the atmosphere there was “the same as it ever was.” Mrs. Brown remarked that it seemed a curious thing for the haunting to be confined to the house and I agreed, though I made mention that each case is unique and that it did not necessarily mean anything in and of itself.
In addition to experiences, each member of the household also had their own theory regarding the source of the trouble, save Millard who remained mostly quiet during the latter discussion, brooding and projecting a palpable air of quiet frustration. Whether the result of his own inability to solve the dilemma his household faced or simple dislike of speaking of it so openly, all this talk of the ‘haunting’ was clearly upsetting the poor fellow and my sympathy went out to him. You chaps know how I can be when beset by an intractable problem and in that much, Millard and I are much alike.
Mrs. Brown insisted that Lady Dane had somehow made good her promise to spend all of eternity in the home that she had built while Liam countered that it was the ghost of someone she had wronged, roaming the place seeking vengeance on the Green House’s former mistress. After all, it was well-known that Lady Dane had any number of secrets, particularly concerning her income after her husband’s passing. Willa Millard, however, swo
re the place was inhabited by both of the Danes; their love was so great that Sir Martin had never passed from this world and that his beloved had remained here to be close to him. With her own passing, they were reunited in the home they’d shared in life, now and forever. At this, the two serving girls sighed and cooed and declared it the most romantic thing they’d ever heard. Claire allowed that it was much more interesting than her idea about the ghost being that of the missing Geoffrey Parker; Lizzy dismissed Claire’s theory outright, but didn’t offer her own.
I listened to all of this, nodding politely when expected to react, but added few of my own thoughts. While each theory was certainly a possible explanation, I didn’t think any very likely. When, finally, the master of the place spoke up to ask my opinion directly, I answered honestly: “I don’t know, Mr. Millard. I like to keep an open mind and I’ve yet to find any evidence on which to base a theory.” This apparently satisfied him a great deal, for he smiled and said something about “a man of science!”
After our meal, I made a somewhat cursory and general inspection of the entire building, taking mental notes as to which areas I would first make more detailed scrutiny of. Again, however, I found nothing and began to wonder if there was some clue I was missing. I determined that first thing in the morning I would begin a top-to-bottom examination of every square inch of the place.
As afternoon wore into evening, locals began to trickle into the tavern for supper and drinks. Despite the size of the Green House, I could faintly hear the echoes of conversation and the clatter of cups and cutlery. Just before full dark, Millard sought me out in the east wing, where I was having a look around some of the unused chambers, and invited me to dinner. I was too glad to break from my dusty, gainless work and happily accepted.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 7
