I said, “I take exception to that. You’ve no right to force your way in here.”
“No more right than you,” he said, stepping past me. “Were you upstairs when I rang?”
I said, “I’m going to call the police.”
He flapped his hand dismissively. “Be my guest. I’m going upstairs, right?”
Sheer panic inspired me to say, “If you do, you’ll be on film.”
“What?”
“The cameras are ready to roll,” I lied. “The place is riddled with mikes and tripwires.”
He said, “I don’t believe you,” but the tone of his voice said the opposite.
“This ghost is supposed to walk on Christmas Eve,” I told him. “I want to capture it on film.” I gave a special resonance to the word “capture.”
He said, “You’re round the twist.” And with as much dignity as he could muster he sidled back toward the door, which still stood open. Apparently he was leaving. “You ought to be locked up. You’re a nutcase.”
As he stepped out of the door I said, “Shall I tell the owners you called? What name shall I give?”
He swore and turned away. I closed the door and slid the bolts back into place. I was shaking. It had been an ugly, potentially dangerous incident. I’m not so capable of tackling an intruder as I once was and I was thankful that my powers of invention had served me so well.
I started up the stairs again and as I reached the top of the first flight, the young woman in white was waiting for me. She must have come down two floors to overhear what was being said. This area of the house was better illuminated than the attic stairs, so I got a better look at her. She appeared less ethereal now. Her dress was silk or satin, I observed. It was an evening gown. Her makeup was as pale as a mime artist’s, except for the black liner around her eyes.
She said, “How can I thank you enough?”
I answered flatly, “What I want from you, young lady, is an explanation.”
She crossed her arms, rubbing at her sleeves. “I feel shivery here. Do you mind if we go in there?”
As we moved into the drawing room I noticed that she made no attempt to switch on the light. She pointed to some cigarettes on the table. “Do you mind?”
I found some matches by the fireplace and gave her a light. “Who was that at the door?”
She inhaled hard. “Some guy I met at a party. I was supposed to be with someone else, but we got separated. You know how it is. Next thing I knew, this bloke in the leather jacket was chatting me up. He was all right at first. I didn’t know he was going to come on so strong. I mean I didn’t encourage him. I was trying to cool it. He offered me these tablets, but I refused. He said they would make me relax. By then I was really scared. I moved off fast. The stupid thing was that I moved upstairs. There were plenty of people about, and it seemed the easiest way to go. The bloke followed. He kept on following. I went right to the top of the house and shut myself in a room. I pushed a cupboard against the door. He was beating his fist on the door, saying what he was going to do to me. I was scared out of my skull. All I could think of doing was get through the window, so I did. I climbed out and found myself up there behind the little stone wall.”
“Of this building? The balustrade at the top?”
“Didn’t I make that clear? The party was in a house a couple of doors away from you. I ran along this narrow passageway between the roof and the wall, trying all the windows. The one upstairs was the first one I could shift.”
“The attic window. Now I understand.” The sudden draft was explained, and the gasp as she had caught her breath after the effort.
She said, “I’m really grateful.”
“Grateful?”
“Grateful to you for getting rid of him.”
I said, “It would be sensible now to call a taxi. Where do you live?”
“Not far. I can walk.”
“It wouldn’t be advisable, would it, after what happened? He’s persistent. He may be waiting.”
“I didn’t think.” She stubbed the cigarette into an ashtray. After a moment’s reflection she said, “All right. Where’s the phone?”
There was one in the study. While she was occupied, I gave some thought to what she had said. I didn’t believe a word of it, but I had something vastly more important on my mind.
She came back into the room. “Ten minutes, they reckon. Was it true what you said downstairs, about this house being haunted?”
“Mm?” I was still preoccupied.
“The spook. All that stuff about hidden cameras. Did you mean it?”
“There aren’t any cameras. I’m useless with machinery of any sort. I reckoned he’d think twice about coming in if he knew he was going to be on film. It was just a bluff.”
“And the bit about the ghost?”
“That was true.”
“Would you mind telling me about it?”
“Aren’t you afraid of the supernatural?”
“It’s scary, yes. Not so scary as what happened already. I want to know the story. Christmas Eve is a great night for a ghost story.”
I said, “It’s more than just a story.”
“Please.”
“On one condition. Before you get into that taxi, you tell me the truth about yourself—why you really came into this house tonight.”
She hesitated.
I said, “It needn’t go any further.”
“All right. Tell me about the ghost.” She reached for another cigarette and perched on the arm of a chair.
I crossed to the window and looked away over the lawn toward the trees silhouetted against the city lights. “It can be traced back, as all ghost stories can, to a story of death and an unquiet spirit. About a hundred and fifty years ago this house was owned by an army officer, a retired colonel by the name of Davenport. He had a daughter called Rosamund, and it was believed in the city that he doted on her. She was dressed fashionably and given a good education, which in those days was beyond the expectation of most young women. Rosamund was a lively, intelligent, and attractive girl. Her hair when she wore it long was very like yours, fine and extremely fair. Not surprisingly, she had admirers. The one she favored most was a young man from Bristol, Luke Robertson, who at that time was an architect. In the conventions of the time they formed an attachment which amounted to little more than a few chaperoned meetings, some letters, poems, and so on. They were lovers in a very old-fashioned sense that you may find difficult to credit. In physical terms it amounted to no more than a few stolen kisses, if that. Somewhere in this house there is supposed to be carved into woodwork the letters L and R linked. I can’t show you. I haven’t found it.”
Outside, a taxi trundled over the cobbles. I watched it draw up at a house some doors down. Two couples came out of the building, laughing, and climbed into the cab. It was obvious that they were leaving a party. The heavy beat of music carried up to me.
I said, “I wonder if it’s turned midnight. It might be Christmas Day already.”
She said, “Please go on with the story.”
“Colonel Davenport—the father of this girl—was a lonely man. His wife had died some years before. Lately he had become friendly with a neighbor, another resident of the Crescent, a widow approaching fifty years of age by the name of Mrs. Crandley, who lived in one of the houses at the far end of the building. She was a musician, a pianist, and she gave lessons. One of her pupils was Rosamund. So far as one can tell, Mrs. Crandley was a good teacher and the girl a promising pupil. Do you play?”
“What?”
I turned to face her. “I said, do you play the piano?”
“Oh. Just a bit,” said the girl.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. What happened between the colonel and Mrs. Crandley?”
“Their friendship blossomed. He wanted her to marry him. Mrs. Crandley was not unwilling. In fact, she agreed, subject to one condition. She had a son of twenty-seve
n called Justinian.”
“What was that?”
“Justinian. There was a vogue for calling your children after emperors. This Justinian was a dull fellow without much to recommend him. He was lazy and overweight. He rarely ventured out of the house. Mrs. Crandley despaired of him.”
“She wanted him off her hands?”
“That is what it amounted to. She wanted him married and she saw the perfect partner for him in Rosamund. Surely such a charming, talented girl would bring out some positive qualities in her lumpish son. Mrs. Crandley applied herself diligently to the plan, insisting that Justinian answered the doorbell each time Rosamund came for her music lesson. Then he would be told to sit in the room and listen to her playing. Everything Mrs. Crandley could do to promote the match was done. For his part, Justinian was content to go along with the plan. He was promised that if he married the girl he would be given his mother’s house, so the pattern of his life would alter little, except that a pretty wife would keep him company rather than a discontented, nagging mother. He began to eye Rosamund with increasing favor. So when the colonel proposed marriage to Mrs. Crandley, she assented on the understanding that Justinian would be married to Rosamund at the same time.”
“How about Rosamund? Was she given any choice?”
“You have to be aware that marriages were commonly arranged by the parents in those days.”
“But you said she already had a lover. He was perfectly respectable, wasn’t he?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. But Luke Robertson didn’t feature in Mrs. Crandley’s plan. He was ignored. Rosamund bowed under the pressure and became engaged to Justinian in the autumn of 1838. The double marriage was to take place in the Abbey on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, dear—I think I can guess the rest of the story.”
“It may not be quite as you expect. As the day of the wedding approached, Rosamund began to dread the prospect. She pleaded with her father to allow her to break off the engagement. He wouldn’t hear of it. He loved Mrs. Crandley and his thoughts were all of her. In despair, Rosamund sent the maidservant with a message to Luke, asking him to meet her secretly on the basement steps. She had a romantic notion that Luke would elope with her.”
My listener was enthralled. “And did he come?”
“He came. Rosamund poured out her story. Luke listened with sympathy, but he was cautious. He didn’t see elopement as the solution. Rather bravely, he volunteered to speak to the colonel and appeal to him to allow Rosamund to marry the man of her choice. If that failed, he would remind the colonel that Rosamund could not be forced to take the sacred vows. Her consent had to be freely given in church, and she was entitled to withhold it. So this uncomfortable interview took place a day or two later. The colonel, naturally, was outraged. Luke was banished from the house and forbidden to speak to Rosamund again. The unfortunate girl was summoned by her father and accused of wickedly consorting with her former lover when she was promised to another. The story of the secret note and the meeting on the stairs was dragged from her. She was told that she wished to destroy her father’s marriage. She was said to be selfish and disloyal. Worse, she might be taken to court by Justinian for breach of promise.”
“Poor little soul! Did it break her?”
“No. Amazingly, she stood her ground. Luke’s support had given her courage. She would not marry Justinian. It was the colonel who backed down. He went to see Mrs. Crandley. When he returned, it was to tell Rosamund that his marriage would not, after all, take place. Mrs. Crandley had insisted on a double wedding, or nothing.”
“I wouldn’t have been in Rosamund’s shoes for a million pounds.”
“She was told by her father that she had behaved no better than a servant, secretly meeting her lover on the basement steps and trifling with another man’s affections, so in future he would treat her as a servant. And he did. He dismissed the housemaid. He ordered Rosamund to move her things to the maid’s room in the attic, and he gave her a list of duties that kept her busy from five-thirty each morning until late at night.”
“Cruel.”
“All his bitterness was heaped on her.”
“Did she kill herself?”
“No,” I said with only the slightest pause. “She was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“On Christmas Eve, the day that the weddings would have taken place, she was suffocated in her bed.”
“Horrible!”
“A pillow was held against her face until she ceased to breathe. She was found dead in bed by the cook on Christmas morning after she failed to report for duty. The colonel was informed and the police were sent for.”
“Who killed her?”
“The inspector on the case, a local man without much experience of violent crimes, was in no doubt that Colonel Davenport was the murderer. He had a powerful motive. The animus he felt toward his daughter had been demonstrated by the way he treated her. It seemed that his anger had only increased as the days passed. On the date he was due to have married, it became insupportable.”
“Was it true? Did he confess to killing her?”
“He refused to make any statement. But the evidence against him was overwhelming. Three inches of snow fell on Christmas Eve. It stopped about eight-thirty that evening. The time of death was estimated at about eleven P.M. When the inspector and his men arrived next morning no footsteps were visible on the path leading to the front door except those of the cook, who had gone for the police. The only other person in the house was Colonel Davenport. So he was charged with murdering his own daughter. The trial was short, for he refused to plead. He remained silent to the end. He was found guilty and hanged at Bristol in February, 1839.”
She put out the cigarette. “Grim.”
“Yes.”
“There’s more to the story, isn’t there? The ghost. You said something about an unquiet spirit.”
I said, “There was a feeling of unease about the fact that the colonel wouldn’t admit to the crime. After he was convicted and condemned, they tried to persuade him to confess, to lay his sins before his Maker. A murderer often would confess in the last days remaining to him, even after protesting innocence all through the trial. They all did their utmost to persuade him—the prison governor, the warders, the priest, and the hangman himself. Those people had harrowing duties to perform. It would have helped them to know that the man going to the gallows was truly guilty of the crime. Not one word would that proud old man speak.”
“You sound almost sorry for him. There wasn’t really any doubt, was there?”
I said, “There’s a continuous history of supernatural happenings in this house for a century and a half. Think about it. Suppose, for example, someone else committed the murder.”
“But who else could have?”
“Justinian Crandley.”
“That’s impossible. He didn’t live here. His footprints would have shown up in the snow.”
“Not if he entered the house as you did tonight—along the roof and through the attic window. He could have murdered Rosamund and returned to his own house by the same route.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but why—what was his motive?”
“Revenge. He would have been master in his own house if the marriage had not been called off. Instead, he faced an indefinite future with his domineering and now embittered mother. He blamed Rosamund. He decided that if he was not to have her as his wife, no one else should.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“It is now,” said I.
“Why didn’t the colonel tell them he was innocent?”
“He blamed himself. He felt a deep sense of guilt for the way he had treated his own daughter. But for his selfishness the murder would never have taken place.”
“Do you think he knew the truth?”
“He must have worked it out. He loved Mrs. Crandley too much to cause her further unhappiness.”
There was an interval of silence, broken finally by the sou
nd of car tires on the cobbles below.
She stood up. “Tonight when you saw me at the attic door you thought I was Rosamund’s ghost.”
I said, “No. Rosamund doesn’t haunt this place. Her spirit is at rest. I didn’t take you for a real ghost any more than I believed your story of escaping from the fellow in the leather jacket.”
She walked to the window. “It is my taxi.”
I wasn’t going to let her leave without admitting the truth. “You went to the party two doors along with the idea of breaking into this house. You climbed out onto the roof and forced your way in upstairs, meaning to let your friend in by the front door. You were going to burgle the place.”
She gasped and swung around. “How did you know that?”
“When I opened the door he was expecting you. He said ‘What kept you?’ He knew which house to call at, so it must have been planned. If your story had been true, he wouldn’t have known where to come.”
She stared down at the waiting cab.
I said, “Until I suggested the taxi, you were quite prepared to go out into the street where this man who had allegedly threatened you was waiting.”
“I’m leaving.”
“And I noticed that you didn’t want the lights turned on.”
Her tone altered. “You’re not one of the fuzz, are you? You wouldn’t turn me in? Give me a break, will you? It’s the first time. I’ll never try it again.”
“How can I know that?”
“I’ll give you my name and address, if you want. Then you can check.”
It is sufficient to state here that she supplied the information. I shall keep it to myself. I’m no longer in the business of exposing petty criminals. I saw her to her taxi. She promised to stop seeing her boyfriend. Perhaps you think I let her off too lightly. Her misdemeanor was minor compared with the discovery I had made—and I owed that discovery to her.
It released me from my obligation, you see. I told you I was once a policeman. An inspector, actually. I made a fatal mistake. I have had a hundred and fifty years to search for the truth and now that I found it I can rest. The haunting of the Royal Crescent is at an end.
Mistletoe Mysteries Page 4
