The Ghost of Christmas Present
and
Other Stories
By
Angel Nichols
©2014 Angel Nichols
angelwingsdesigner.com
Cover Art by Angel Nichols
[email protected]
http://www.angelwingsdesigner.com/bookcovers.htm
The story, The Ghost of Christmas Present and Other Stories, is a work of fiction as are Christmas in the Mojave, Christmas Love Exchange, and Jolly Old Spook. Any resemblance to real people or events is completely accidental. A few literary liberties may have been taken in the interest of creating great literature.
The Ghost of a Christmas Present
A Word from The Pale
Hello, my name is Meredith Pale, and if you’re reading this, chances are you’ve found my journal. This is my sixteenth entry, and it will be my last.
I had intended to become a journalist one day, but that will never happen. My only hope now is that the true story of what’s happened here will be found out.
I am thirteen years old and a ward of Bower Manor, formerly Lord Devon Williamson’s estate, and it is Christmas, 1917. I believe this Christmas has been the best and the worst of my life.
Mrs. Bower has given me the most wonderfully exquisite gift, but she’s asked me to keep it hidden. I suspected that she had stolen it. Now I see that she suspects someone else in the Manor of trying to do the same, and she is right.
He’s completely mad – insane, off his nut.
Last night he argued with Mrs. Bower over the gift she gave me. They still don’t realize that I can hear them through the vents.
At first, I thought it was a bit funny, since she’s usually the one doing the shouting, but then she screamed and things went awfully quiet. I think he may have killed her.
He seemed so nice when I first arrived here, but ever since Lord Williamson died last winter, things have been so tense. The Council is occupied with the war, as they should be, and I fear the Manor has slipped their minds.
We are somewhat out of the way here in the middle of nowhere.
Mrs. Bower has kept everything in order, which is why I’ve taken to calling it Bower Manor, and I think it may be catching on. I never thought it would breed so much jealousy from the other staff, though, and it seems now that things may end quite badly for us all.
Of course, that could just be my imagination, but greed does strange things to people.
Oh, dear, I think I hear him coming up the stairs. I must hide this.
P.S. If there isn’t another entry in the journal, then I’ve been murdered. I can only hope my spirit lingers to find the justice it deserves.
Chapter I
“Meredith Eloise Pale, is that your light I see upstairs? You’d better be in bed young lady, and I mean now!” The screeching voice of Mrs. Bower could be heard over the English hills from Sunderland to Brighton on a clear day.
The old crone had a temper that could light a candle in high winds, but her custard tarts could make a grown man weep with joy. They had won every pie contest from London to Manchester and back again, with good reason.
Mrs. Bower had begun her career as a bar maid in a backwater pub near Cardigan. Nights of serving watery swill to drunken deck hands and crate loaders had all but driven the light out of her soul, until the evening the cook took ill and left the pub in dire straights without a way to feed its patrons.
The owner of the establishment, with little left to lose, put the kitchen in the hands of his one and only barmaid, who surprised everyone with her natural ability to wield a sharp kitchen knife and a hot frying pan.
That night, the pub broke every earnings record they’d ever had, some customers even stooping to offer up trinkets, family heirlooms, and fine jewelry to pay for their delicious meals.
Mrs. Bower took her share that night and got as far away from Cardigan as she could, which is to say the county line of Gloucestershire, where she found work as a maid at the estate of the elderly Lord Devon Williamson. Here, she worked her way up for the next forty years, all the way to Caretaker, a position she held in the highest regard.
Mrs. Bower could hardly have been more proud of her accomplishments and made no effort to disguise that fact, mostly by showing her authority in a manner most brash to Lord Williamson’s two charges – Meredith Eloise Pale and Williamson’s own grandson, James Alexander.
Meredith was an evacuee from London, who had been taken in as a charge by the reclusive old gentleman. Generous to a fault, the elderly man felt his estate was spacious enough for two children to stay in, while the German Zeppelins filled the hearts of Londoners with fear, and so he had opened his mansion’s heavy, wooden doors to the two youngsters.
In an unfortunate twist of fate, Williamson died of a heart attack only two days after Meredith’s arrival, and thus, Mrs. Bower was left in charge of the Mansion until someone wealthier came along to purchase it.
Another war-filled year passed, and the townsfolk became so accustomed to Mrs. Bower’s presence as the interim owner of Williamson’s estate that they took to calling the home she now lorded over Bower Manor.
One misty December morning, a sailor by the name of Carver Pendleton came a-calling, his business unknown to those whose paths he crossed. Upon his arrival to the mansion’s grounds, though, he found nothing but an empty ruin in the middle of a misty forest.
Pendleton searched for hours, hoping to find anyone alive or dead, but he was unsuccessful. Investigations were issued, but nothing ever came of them.
Clothes still in their drawers, food on the table, and torn present wrappings under the Christmas pine – all remained under a thin layer of dust, as if everyone in the house had simply vanished.
There was even a spot in the garden where the soil had been tilled for a fresh planting of roses, the bushes now leafless and twisted as they waited in pots next to a rusted spade.
Naturally, rumors circulated of murders and kidnappings and ghosts, but evidence of such things remained in short supply. The war effort removed attention from the Manor, which was awarded to the city by default, and Mr. Pendleton had no choice but to leave his mysterious business unfinished.
Three plus decades passed, and nothing was left of the old myth, except for one old man named Carver Pendleton – a graying drunkard, who sat in a bar every night and told his tale to anyone who would listen.
Chapter II
“I’m telling you, son, it’s a bloody waste of time. I swear that forest has swallowed it up!” Pendleton lifted his mug for emphasis, amber ale splashing its way across the wooden tabletop.
“You’ve said that before, but what I asked is do you have a map? Of the woods, I mean, around Bower Manor? As many times as you’ve been out there, surely you must have made a map?”
The old sailor glared across the table at the spindly newcomer, who looked to be about thirty years old, had the air of an educated man, and reminded Pendleton a bit of a weasel, if weasels had been in the habit of combing their hair and wearing glasses.
The young fellow wore a bowler hat that sat perfectly atop his head. Circular reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of his thin, hooked nose, magnifying beady brown eyes. He was clean-shaven and wore a dark suit that stuck out in the roguish atmosphere of the tavern, like a black spot on a white dog.
“And what would you be wanting with a map…Bernard, was it? You don’t look like the adventuring type.” Pendleton chuckled into his ale.
“No, of course not. I’ve come on behalf of my sponsor, as I said earlier. Mr. Whitehall has hired a team to excavate the site, but first we need a sta
rting point. The locals told me you were the man to get us there. Were they mistaken?”
Bernard steepled his fingers, cocking his head in a gesture of curiosity.
Pendleton didn’t like being manipulated, but he’d been around long enough to know that two could play this game.
“Maybe they were, and maybe they weren’t. What’s it worth to your ‘Mr. Whitehall,’ eh?”
“One hundred pounds, guaranteed.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place, mate.” The old sailor shook his head. “One hundred pounds is hardly worth the telling of my story, let alone a map. Five hundred pounds, and not a tuppence less.”
“Pendleton, sir, you’ve confused us with the Bank of England. This is a simple hunt for a lost mansion, not an excavation of the Great Pyramids. One hundred pounds.”
“And what exactly is Mr. Whitehall planning to do once he’s found Bower Manor, eh? Dust off the old furniture? Turn it into a museum?”
“Our interests are our own.” Bernard pursed his lips. “Suffice it to say much history and mystery surrounds the Manor. It would be the find of a lifetime, if we discovered it intact. Now, one hundred pounds is all that I can offer.”
Pendleton sighed, absently watching the last drops of alcohol swirl around at the bottom of his mug. He knew these rich pricks all too well.
“Then I’m afraid our business is concluded,” he stated. “I’ve run dry of ale to say nothing of patience. Bid Mr. Whitehall a fair journey for me. I’m off.”
With that the old man stood, dropping his payment on the wooden table and brushing past the rigid figure, whose cheeks now held a satisfyingly red tinge.
“Three hundred pounds, Pendleton, and that’s my final offer.”
The old sailor stopped just shy of the door. Without turning around, he lowered his head and pulled a driving cap on with one hand. “Three-fifty, and I‘m on the ground team for the expedition.”
“That’s not my call, but I can ask.”
“No.” Pendleton turned, a dangerous gleam in his crinkled blue eyes. “Three-fifty, and I go along. I’m the only man alive who’s ever laid eyes on that cursed place, let alone knows their way through the forest around it. You seem a smart young fellow, and smart folks know when they only have one option.”
With that, the old man pulled the tavern door open and stepped into the frosty night air.
Pausing at the too-familiar, wooden sign at the edge of the lot, he tipped his cap at it.
“This is the last night I spend reminiscing of lost fortunes in this hell-hole. My time has finally come,” he stated to the blowing wind.
Chapter III
“I don’t like this. He’s not supposed to be here.”
“Relax, Welly, it’s not the end of the world.” Alex Whitehall cast a bemused glance at his uptight business partner, Bernard Wellington, who had returned from his meeting with Carver Pendleton in a state of disgust. “Here, have some whiskey.”
“Whiskey,” Bernard wrinkled his nose in further disgust. “No, thank you. I’d prefer a strong cup of tea. Whiskey and coffee are for men like Shaw and his group of American ruffians, and call me Bernard. Pet names are so distasteful.”
“Ruffians or no, Jim Shaw and his band of merry men will lead us to the find of a lifetime,” Alex stated. “You and I’ll go down in history before the new year comes in, and if that means we have to put up with the presence of a has-been, old miser like Pendleton, then so be it.”
Whitehall took a sip of his whiskey before casting the rest of it into the fire, causing flames to leap forward, hissing and snarling like angry beasts.
“You see that, Welly? That’s what it’s like in my chest, when I think about the possibility we have in front of us. It’s called ambition. You should try it sometime. It would do wonders for your complexion.”
Bernard absently rubbed his face, as he thought of a scathing reply, but noting the large silhouette of the man in front of him, he thought better of it.
Whitehall was well into his fifties, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. Towering over most men at six foot three, he was broad shouldered and fit, but that wasn’t what Bernard was afraid of. After all, he’d spent most of his life dealing with bigger, taller, meaner men.
No, it was the psychotic edge to Whitehall’s personality and the fact that the man was richer than God that frightened him. It was also what had drawn him into this. Whitehall had the money, but he had the brains.
“Ambition, indeed.” Bernard persevered. “You do realize that Pendleton could be a real problem, if he realizes what we’re after, don’t you? He won’t take kindly to our poaching its discovery, so you’d better be sure about what’s in that journal you stumbled across.”
“The only sure things in life are death and taxes,” the other man reminded him. “The journal may be nothing more than the random musings of a teenage girl, but then it may unlock the mystery of Bower Manor.
“Imagine it, Welly. A fifty-year-old murder mystery solved by Alex Whitehall and you, of course. We’ll be famous, and then, of course, there’s the treasure.”
“Let’s hope so. If this little group we’ve cobbled together discovers that we don’t have the proper legal documents for this excavation, then all goes up in smoke, and we’ll be famous for an entirely different reason.” Bernard pushed his glasses back up his nose, before whirling around and stalking to the foyer doors. “And don’t call me Welly.”
Whitehall didn’t even look up, his gaze firmly fixed on the flames. “If it comes to that, Bernard, we’ll just get rid of the evidence.”
Chapter IV
Dawn on December twenty-first came with sounds of shouting and the thud of fists on flesh from the excavation encampment on the southern edge of what had once been Bower Manor’s property line.
Over the thirty-six hundred acre area, a vast conifer forest, now glittering with a dusting of snow, lay just beyond the camp.
Anxious, rowdy, and cold, the excavation crew had found ways to entertain themselves, while they waited for the green light from Whitehall to begin their journey to the excavation site. Most of the time, that had meant drinking, poker games or, in this case, fighting.
Booing and shouts of victory eventually woke Carver Pendleton from a fitful sleep that he had fallen into once he had made his way to the camp by way of hitchhiking and a stolen donkey.
Rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he stumbled from his makeshift tent to see what the commotion was about. Pushing his way through the throng of brawlers, he laid eyes on the spectacle that held them so enthralled.
Dressed in nothing but a pair of faded jeans and workman’s boots, a man of thirty or so had another fellow, about ten years his junior, in a chokehold. Their ruffled hair and bloody noses gave them away as the main attraction, but it was clear that the first man had the upper hand at this point.
“Teach him a lesson, Jim.” One of the workers yelled from the sidelines, amid the hoots and hollers of his fellows. “Show him how it’s done!”
Carver shook his head at the spectacle. The youngster was obviously outmatched by his opponent.
Finally, the lad decided he’d had enough and held his hands up in surrender.
Jim immediately let his quarry fall face first into the muddy slush that covered the campground.
“Let that be a lesson to all of you slobs!” He wiped the blood off his face. “Stealing will NOT be tolerated in this camp. Unless, of course, it’s done mostly fair and square in a good game of poker.”
The rest of the men laughed their approval of his terms as they dispersed, leaving the groggy youngster to ponder his mistake in the mud.
“Problems, Mr. Shaw?”
Carver turned to the familiar voice, recognizing the slender frame of Bernard Wellington who stood straight and tall as he could, entirely out of place as usual.
“No, sir, Mr. Wellington.” Jim brushed his right hand on his pants before extending it to the prickly overseer. “Just a little display to keep my men in lin
e. Caught one of the youngsters with his hand in the cookie jar, so-to-speak. It’s been handled.”
“I do hope so, Mr. Shaw.” Bernard sneered at the outstretched hand. “Goodness knows we need most of your crew with their brains inside their heads, assuming that ever was a possibility.”
Turning slightly, he appeared ready to head towards a paved road at the top of the hill, where a spotless black Mercedes awaited him.
“Did you just come here to insult my men, Wellington, or did you have something you wanted to say?” Jim clenched his jaw in an attempt to stem any more words from coming forth.
“Indeed.” Bernard motioned towards the old sailor, who had been quietly watching the exchange. “This is Carver Pendleton. He’ll accompany you on your expedition today.”
“No offense, but we don’t need more hands.” Jim eyed the old man suspiciously. “He’d only get in the way.”
“None taken.” Bernard shrugged. “After all, you have no choice in the matter. Mr. Pendleton is the reason your band of misfits will no longer need to be entertained. He has the map you’ve been promised.”
And with that, Wellington strolled to his waiting car and drove off, leaving Pendleton and Shaw standing face-to-face, eyeing one another.
“So, you’ve got a map? Let’s see it.” Jim brushed past Carver on his way towards his tent.
“I imagine you’d like that.” Pendleton followed, just out of arms reach, not wanting to end up like the younger fellow. “Good thing for me, it’s in a safe place.”
“I don’t have time for games, Mr… What was it, Carson?”
“Carver, and I’m not much for games myself, with the exception of a round of billiards. What I mean to say is that there is no written map. I’ve got it all in my head.”
Jim stopped in his tracks, slowly turned, and narrowed his dark eyes at the newcomer. “Listen here, I know for a fact that pencil-necked, stuffed-shirted prick wouldn’t have come here and dirtied his pretty little shoes just to bring me a crazy old man, who craves a little treasure hunting.”
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