‘Anyone for tea?’ Mabel said, and the lounge became a place of animated conversation once more, dissolving the crisis, at least for the time being.
The return of Victor with a jeroboam of champagne paved the way for glasses to be introduced, filled and “clinked” together as friendships were renewed or, more aptly, as when, in days gone by, sworn enemies crossed swords as a prelude to a deadly duel!
Conviviality camouflaged the undercurrent of deception that The Prof sensed was still there in the room and he secretly looked forward to the arrival of his racing friend later that evening. He would then have at least one ally, perhaps two, if he could count on Laura!
Lights were turned on, the fire stoked and glasses replenished as daylight turned to dusk and then darkness. Whether it was the thought of the imminent arrival of Freddie, who would be well on his way to Maskelyne Hall by now, or the analgesic effect of the champagne, The Prof really couldn’t care less: the pain in his head had gone; it had disappeared like the “thing in the cellar” that afternoon!
Dinner at Maskelyne Hall was a lively affair that evening. There were nine seated at the table, the largest number for some time, the lamb was cooked to perfection and Freddie Oldsworth was greeted with the same enthusiastic appetite.
Having arrived in his five-year-old Triumph Spitfire, just in time to freshen up and come down to join the others in the dining room, Freddie was inundated with a chorus of questions before Isabella Ramsden called on everyone to “Please let Mr. Oldsworth catch his breath!”
‘Call me Freddie, if you don’t mind! You’ve already made me feel at home. I’d hate it if you stopped now!’
All through the main course at dinner, The Prof gave each and every one at the table a mental examination. Victor, whose accusation at tea had been blunt but irritatingly accurate, had hit the nail on the head. The Prof was here as a guest; but the real purpose of his visit was indeed to try and prove murder and, if murder were proven; there was a good chance that the murderer was sitting at the dinner table. Unless, of course, he or she was enjoying the same meal, as man and wife, in the quiet cosiness of the kitchen at Maskelyne Hall! He had no option but to include Mr. and Mrs. Gardner amongst his final list of suspects. All of them had been there at Maskelyne Hall on the night that Jack had been fatally shot in mysterious circumstances, and he would have to interview everyone and look at possible motives before he could solve this complex puzzle.
Isabella Ramsden seemed to be toying with her food, at the same time keeping her thoughts very much to herself whilst her only daughter, Laura, was monopolising Freddie in conversation, no doubt comparing notes about their respective sports cars or their mutual love of racing.
‘Listen to this, everyone!’ Laura banged the table. ‘You know how we were all deep into a discussion about coincidence last night...that is except Edgar and Sally as they weren’t here. Well I’ve got another one for you! I’ve just been asking Freddie about his visit to Stockton racecourse, I was wondering “why Stockton” when there were other meetings on today? I’ll let Freddie take up the story!’
’I’ve had a fascination with Stockton ever since I became interested in The Sport of Kings...’ Freddie glanced at the frowning Giles before continuing, ‘.mainly because of a man who was a genius, a brilliant mathematician and a punters’ friend, all rolled into one! He was the brain behind the introduction of a wonderful system of evaluating racehorses and their performances and, in 1944 it was his shrewd judgement about one horse in particular...the name of which I’ll omit for the moment...that led him to stake his reputation, as well as a small fortune, on this animal for the following season’s classic races. The horse in question started his two-year-old career at Stockton and was never beaten at the course. He went on to win The Derby in 1945 run at Newmarket because of the war. That man, who made a note of the great potential of this horse and who had “put his money where his mouth was", influenced my life and virtually made me what I am today!’
‘A racecourse reprobate!’ interjected The Prof. ‘But do carry on, Freddie!’
‘As I also understood that this was to be the last day of racing at Stockton because of a change of name there really was no contest between it and the others; it had to be Stockton! From next March I believe the course will be known as Teesside Park, and they call that progress!’
‘And,’ said Laura, with a questioning look at Freddie, ‘what was the name of that horse? You know, The Derby winner that never lost a race at Stockton, Mr. Oldsworth?’
‘Curiously enough, the name of that horse is inextricably linked with magic and illusion! It was...Dante! I’ll leave, Giles, our historian, to add a footnote.’
‘Dante, real name August Harry Jansen, was born in Copenhagen in 1883, I think, and moved to St.Paul, Minnesota, U.S.A with his parents when he was six. The name Dante was suggested to him by one of the leading American Illusionists, Howard Franklin Thurston, with whom he toured before branching out on his own. He specialised in illusions involving transformations, and I believe it was just such an illusion that Jack wished to perform, in the library, when he unfortunately made his final exit!’
‘So you see,’ said Laura, ‘there are several coincidences in all of this to make it more than interesting. But that’s not quite the end of the story; for, when Freddie told me the name of the jockey who rode Dante, in 1944 and 1945, I couldn’t believe it! It was Billy Nevett; the same person who rode Good Taste in Mother’s prediction race in 1951!’
‘Decidedly Spooky, as Mabel would say!’ Isabella Ramsden was almost purring as she spoke. ‘I hope we can continue to explore this subject afterwards over coffee in the lounge, but there’s one question I would like Giles to answer. The question is the same one that Victor asked him before going for the champagne at teatime. He didn’t give him enough time to answer so perhaps he would give us his answer now. Do you believe in ghosts, professor?’
‘Yes, I do! At least.’ he paused, put a finger to the area of bruising on his brow and his eyes took on that faraway look. Several seconds passed before he continued speaking. ’...I don’t disbelieve in them! But I’ll expand on that at some future time. In the meantime....’
He didn’t finish; all the lights in the dining room went out and the place was plunged into darkness.
Chapter 7
A-HAUNTING WE WILL GO
Total darkness is something the human eye can cope with, given time; eyes adjust to the lack of light with reasonable speed, like a camera lens, and in a lifetime a complete blackout can be both necessary and comforting.
Take the womb, prior to birth; in Laura’s riddle, “the room we leave without entering". In this, darkness is unquestionably essential and comforting to the unborn child. Darkness was also essential and comforting for the Magic Lantern show of the early years, and the transformation into the cinema and theatre. But different people respond and react to darkness in different ways. And so it was when the lights went out at Maskelyne Hall that night.
Since darkness can be more intense immediately after lights have just gone out, inky blackness can cause disorientation, unease, fear, panic, and fright of horrifying proportions, much of it to do with previous experience, auto suggestion or the vivid workings of the imagination. Freud would have something to say on that subject.
When Conrad struck the match that produced the brief flicker of light in that darkened room The Prof looked around at the mixed expressions on the faces of those present. All appeared either slightly bemused or cheerfully entertained; all, that is, except.!
Darkness returned together with a yelp of pain from Conrad, who had burned his fingers; someone knocked over a chair and that was followed by a muffled curse, giggles of laughter, then silence. That was when everyone heard the knock at the door!
A hushed intake of breath was followed by a second knock. Then, as the door opened, a shimmer of light from a wavering candle illuminated the concerned features of “old” George.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Ma’a
m, but something’s gone wrong at the main fuse. I’ll get everything sorted out as soon as possible!’
‘That’s all right, George. Perhaps it’s because of the ghosts!’
‘Beg your pardon, Ma’am?’
‘Just my little joke, George! You see the lights went out just as The Prof was talking about ghosts; his timing was impeccable!’
‘Is that so? Ah, well! I’ll leave this candle for you until you can find others. Meanwhile I’ll have a look at those fuses before the ghosts do any more damage; you see I thought I heard them in the cellar this afternoon when I was checking the heating!’
He lit a second candle and placed it on the table. As he did so The Prof made a mental note of that last remark. The little white-haired man turned to Laura.
‘Did I hear you say that you and Giles were thinking of going riding in the morning?’
‘Yes, George, that’s if I can persuade him to get up in time and I can find some of Daddy’s clothes to fit him!’
‘That’s fine then. I’ll have the horses ready at the usual time! Oh! And remember the clocks go back one hour tonight!’
George Gardner turned and was about to leave the room when he said ‘I’ll let Doreen know that you’re almost ready for coffee.’
‘Thank you Gee Gee!’ Laura’s wink was not lost on the Family retainer. ‘It looks as if we’ll be having the coffee black tonight!’
That remark brought a creased smile, distorted in the upward glow from the candle in the little man’s hand. To the watchful Giles the candlelit face was reminiscent of Bela Lugosi, the definitive Hollywood portrayer of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. He half expected George to turn into a bat as he left the room and closed the door.
Edgar lifted the upturned chair and placed it back at the table.
The Prof studied him, very closely; looking for the signs that were unmistakable when Conrad struck his match a few moments ago; for it was Edgar who had been reacting to the darkness very differently from the others in the room. Something about the look was familiar: he’d seen it before, but he wasn’t sure where!
It was significant! It had to be! And, if he could only remember where...and when, he was certain it would help to answer some questions that were puzzling him. That look on Edgar’s face had been fear! It was still there but not nearly so marked. He had it under control. Edgar had a fear of the dark and he’d had it long ago when Giles knew him as a boy. But why should he be afraid? Many small boys were afraid of the dark but Edgar was no longer a small boy. It had to do with something in Edgar’s past. He was sure of it.
‘Why don’t we go through to the lounge, light a few more candles and create the atmosphere for some proper ghost stories?’
Victor’s suggestion was met with general approval and everyone traipsed, in the semi-darkness, through the connecting door to the lounge and the comfort of the log fire.
‘A-haunting we will go, a-haunting we will go....’ Mabel sang the words to the strains of “The Farmer’s In His Den” and everyone joined in a garbled chorus of “...Ee-o My Daddy-o...! But that soon spluttered into an embarrassing silence as the revellers became conscious of what they were saying in the presence of the widow of Maskelyne Hall.
It was Giles who relieved the tension.
‘Now, isn’t that a coincidence?’ he said. ‘The words Mabel was singing, “A-Haunting We Will Go", was the title of the Laurel and Hardy film early in the war but there was someone in that film that we’ve just been talking about tonight! And that someone was Dante the magician!’
‘That is interesting; do you think Mabel could be psychic, Giles?’
‘I’m not sure, Mrs. Ramsden, but there’s no harm in trying to find out.’
Giles acknowledged the reproachful look he received from the lady of the house but tried to signal to her that he had not forgotten to use her Christian name but had rather wanted to keep their pact as a secret.
‘One person we haven’t heard from on the question of premonitions is our new guest, Mr. Oldsworth. I do believe that racing people are superstitious and it would be interesting to know if you have had any experiences that altered your decision-making on the racecourse.’
’If you mean like the one your daughter told me about at dinner! The incident about Good Taste and the November Handicap! I rather doubt it. I’m afraid I rely almost entirely on mathematical science and the probability factor especially when it means backing my judgement with hard cash. That doesn’t mean I would completely ignore gypsies warnings or such predictions. On the contrary, I might be inclined to allow them to strengthen my own calculations. You see I am all too aware that signs and signals, most of which are totally ignored, are constantly bombarding us and on the occasions when a prediction does come true we remember that and only that and choose to forget all the others.’
‘So, can we take it that you don’t believe in coincidence? And does that also apply to extrasensory perception?’ The sneeringly sceptical sound of Victor’s words metaphorically prodded Freddie for a reply.
‘No, I didn’t say that and I hope I didn’t imply that either. The difficulty is making the distinction between the mundane coincidences that many of us experience, from time to time, and that extraordinary “bolt from the blue” that can unexpectedly make such an impact as to alter the course of events.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow you.’ declared Mabel making herself comfortable by squatting on the rug in front of the fire.
Freddie looked at her and nodded in agreement. ‘I can’t say I blame you,’ he said, ‘the paranormal practice of spiritualism has, for want of a better word, attracted many prominent people in investigative attempts to substantiate or denounce mediums who conducted seances and the happenings at such meetings. But that can wait. We can explore that subject at some other time.’
He looked across to Mabel for some sign that she accepted what he’d said and her smile seemed to confirm that he should continue.
‘In my own field of horseracing I totally ignore racecourse gossip, tipsters and those supposed “good things” spotted by early morning watchers on the training gallops.’
‘Why do that?’ The interruption came from Conrad. ‘Surely someone using binoculars and seeing by how much one animal beats another and the way it’s done has already accumulated enough evidence to make a sizeable bet!’
’Sorry to disappoint you but it’s not as simple as that. You see the person with the binoculars has missed one important piece of information without which a valid judgement cannot be made.’
‘Put me out of my misery! What piece of information is missing?’
‘Why, the actual weight each horse carries on its back, of course. Without knowing that the result of the gallop is meaningless. Just think about it!’
Conrad nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Never thought about it like that!’
‘Most people don’t. They see something happening, believe what they see without knowing essential facts and jump to the wrong conclusion.’
‘Just like the reader of a good murder mystery,’ declared Sally, with a hint of frustration. ‘I always seem to pick out the wrong character when the detective is about to expose the murderer at the end of the novel!’
‘Well you’re not alone in that!’ agreed her husband. ‘But, to get back to what Freddie was telling us, could we hear how he goes about picking a likely winner at the races.’
‘Certainly! I rely on past performance, genetics, the “going and distance” requirements plus the mathematics of speed and time to arrive at a potential winner and, when I have narrowed the possibilities down to a small few, I check the odds to find the one that presents the best value. Come to think of it, much the same, as we should do when reading the detective story! And not a bad idea for solving a real life murder either!’
Isabella Ramsden half-turned in her chair and fixed Freddie with a penetrating gaze. ‘Have you, at anytime, been tempted to alter your chosen selection for a race because of some unexpected coinc
idence similar to my Good Taste incident?’
Freddie took a moment or two before answering. ‘That’s a good question, and the answer would have to be no. I will, however, qualify that by telling you of an incident that I considered as an omen that tempted me to increase my bet on a particular horse. It doesn’t rank alongside your tale, Mrs. Ramsden, but I have to admit that for someone, like me, who is never put off a decision once made, I found the experience curiously funny.’
’Would that be funny, peculiar or funny, ha-ha?’
There was a titter of laughter that brought a smile to the narrator’s face.
‘Both, I think! On the eve of the 1959 Grand National I’d done my homework and, although it wasn’t a race that I got heavily involved in financially, I finally settled on a horse named Oxo. Later that evening I walked to a local store. It was dark and, as I approached the place, a neon advertisement suddenly flashed in my face. I had never before seen that sign and learned later that it had only been installed that same day. The flashing sign was, believe it or not, advertising Oxo, the extract of beef stock used in cooking and some beverages. I doubled my bet and the horse won at 8/1.’
Freddie paused with a look of self satisfaction on his face before continuing.
‘I suppose my subconscious took special notice of this coincidence simply because it supported my own findings. Had I chosen a horse with a different name I would certainly have ignored the sign, at least for betting purposes, though no doubt it would have registered with my subconscious. That’s where the doubt creeps into the equation. Whenever you have a strong belief in something be it picking the winner of a race or convincing yourself of the existence of ghosts you search for anything that will substantiate your belief and give no credence to factors that contradict your thoughts, no matter how strong those opposing factors are.’
Victor threw his head back and laughed.
‘I can just hear Father say, “What the bloody hell has all this got to do with ghosts?” If his spirit was in this room now he’d be laughing fit to kill himself!’
The Statue of Three Lies Page 8
