by M C Beaton
“Oh, very well,” sighed Alice.
At that moment, Miss Fadden espied the sharp features of Harry Russell peering from behind a dingy curtain on the ground-floor window to the right of the door. She recognized him as Webb’s friend who always seemed to be spying on Alice.
Her fears crystallized and, seizing Alice’s hand, she cried, “Run, my lady. ’Tis a trap!”
Mr. Funk leaped in front of them and Miss Fadden drove her fist straight into his nose and sent him reeling.
“Stop!” cried a loud, compelling voice from the door and a shot was fired over both women’s heads.
Shaking with fear, they turned about.
Mr. Bessant stood on the doorstep with a brace of horse pistols leveled at them.
“Better do as he says,” whispered Miss Fadden urgently, “else he’ll kill us.” For in truth, cold murder peeped out of the Groom of the Chamber’s deep-set eyes.
They walked slowly toward him and Alice let out a cry of fear as he was joined by Mr. Harry Russell and Lord Harold Webb.
The coach, which was pulled over to one side of the building, wobbled slightly as the escaping Mr. Funk heaved his large bulk into it.
“Come in, Alice,” sneered Webb, “and meet your trial, your judge, your jury and your conviction.”
As they entered the house they heard the coach rumbling off down the drive. “Mr. Funk,” said Alice, “he will tell everyone.”
“Oh, no he won’t,” said Harry Russell practicing a villainous sneer and feeling quite like Kean. “He doesn’t want the world and his wife to know that the great merchant, Mr. Funk, was thinking of tying himself up with a scullery maid.”
“Yes,” said Webb, more pompous than ever, “Not only a scullery maid but an imposter and a jewel thief.”
“I am no thief!” cried Alice.
“You stole the old Duchess’s jewels,” said Bessant.
“I did not steal them. You must believe me. They were given to me by someone who had a right to them.”
“Don’t try that ghost story on me again,” laughed Bessant. “That was no ghost. That was your lover pretending to be the Eighth Duke of Haversham.” Miss Fadden’s dazed mind seemed to grasp onto one thing. Ghost! Of course!
Alice looked about her wildly. The house was empty and deserted. No furniture. No servants. Miles from anywhere. But she had so much to live for. Her life, her love.
She made a wild dash for the door but found her way blocked by the grinning Bessant who had nipped quickly in her path. She threw herself upon him, raking his face with her nails while Miss Fadden lashed out wildly at the other two. Bessant swore and, raising the horse pistol, brought it crashing down on Alice’s head so that she fell like a stone.
“Pity,” he muttered, looking down at the unconscious girl. “Now I won’t be able to get the whereabouts of that so-called uncle out of her till she comes to.”
Webb and Harry Russell had succeeded in subduing the ranting, raving and cursing Miss Fadden, but not before she had kicked Harry Russell in both shins and blacked Lord Harold’s eyes.
“What language!” exclaimed Webb, quite shocked. “Sounds like a sailor, don’t she? Better gag her as well.”
“Now what do we do?” asked Harry Russell gloomily. “Can’t have any fun till she wakes up.”
To tell the truth both Mr. Russell and Webb had felt rather squeamish at the idea of helping Bessant carry out his revenge but now that the thing had actually been set in motion in this house so far from anywhere, it had aroused nasty age-old instincts and they were only too anxious to begin.
Mr. Bessant smiled obsequiously, reverting to the servant as was his habit when he was not actually taking any action. “I took the liberty of bringing a cold supper and some very good claret, gentlemen. You will find it in the next room.”
“Splendid chap,” said Webb. “What about Alice? What if the girl recovers her wits while we are dining?”
“Tie her up too,” said Bessant, touching Alice’s still body with the toe of his boot. “She can wait.”
The Eighth Duke of Haversham smiled dreamily at his reflection in the looking glass. He had dressed in the clothes he had worn when he first saw Alice. It was a romantic gesture and he felt he had never been romantic before.
He was bejeweled and scented and patched and powdered. He found it rather awkward to walk about in his red high-heeled shoes for he had become accustomed to wearing Hessian boots most of the time.
It was just at that point that some awful, harsh, grating voice seemed to shriek inside his head. “Help, sir!” it cried. “Your niece is in danger. Help! We are somewhere in Surrey. Outside Richmond, I think. Oh, help! They’ll murder us.”
He put his hands to his ears but the voice cried on and on.
Paralyzed with fear, he stood motionless, listening to the terrified voice ringing inside his head.
And then all at once he was off and out of the Hall, out under the black sky and flying over the silent fields, flying faster than he had ever done before, pulled always by the harsh crying of that frightened voice.
Alice let out a faint moan and tried to sit up. She found she could not, for her arms and legs were tied. The bare room was lit by a single tallow candle and in its flickering light, as she twisted over on her side, she could see the bound and gagged figure of her companion. Miss Fadden’s eyes were staring at Alice in mute appeal, trying to convey some desperately important message and all at once Alice thought she understood what the companion was trying to say.
The room swayed and whirled as Alice was overcome by a sick feeling of dizziness, but she fought against it and concentrated with the whole of her mind on the Duke. What if he heard her but did not come? What if he did not love her? What if the grave had reclaimed him? And what if he had only been philandering? But after a few moments, the effort of concentration was too much for her. Her head hurt so much that she let out a cry and immediately afterward, realized her mistake.
The sound of voices in the next room abruptly ceased and then there was the sound of approaching footsteps.
The door opened and her three kidnappers walked in.
“Now,” said Mr. Bessant, smiling down into Alice’s wide and terrified eyes, “we shall have some fun with you. Tell us first where your so-called uncle is, and perhaps we will not be quite so hard on you.”
“I don’t know,” whispered Alice. “I wish to God that I did.”
“Then if you must do things the hard way…” began Bessant.
“Oh, no need for that, dear chap,” said a light, mocking voice. “Do them the easy way and look this way. I am here!”
Alice gulped with relief. Miss Fadden closed her eyes in gratitude that her prayers had been answered.
The three men looked wildly about the room, but apart from themselves and the two women, it was empty.
“The wind,” said Mr. Bessant. “We’re hearing things.”
“Look outside the door,” urged Harry Russell.
Bessant, who had shut the door behind them when they had entered the room, turned the doorknob and then looked over his shoulder at the other two. “It’s locked,” he said in a flat voice.
“Of course it’s locked, my angels,” said that mocking voice again. “Now we can be cozy.”
The fireplace had been piled high with dry kindling. Now it miraculously burst into flame. The three men backed closer together.
“That’s better,” went on the voice. “Now you will release these ladies immediately.”
Mr. Russell made a move but the more courageous Mr. Bessant held him back. “I’ll see you in hell first,” said Mr. Bessant.
“Then I shall take you there,” laughed that maddening voice and then to their horror a figure began to glimmer and glow in front of the fire.
White and shaking, the three men clutched onto each other.
The figure shimmered and changed in the flickering firelight and all at once seemed to solidify.
Magnificent in his gold brocade coat,
knee breeches and powdered wig, the Eighth Duke of Haversham made his bow.
“Gervase!” sobbed Alice. “I love you.”
“My sweeting,” said the ghost severely. “This is neither the time nor the place to unbosom yourself. La! But I must play the gentleman. You force me to blush in front of these low types and tell you that I love thee with all my heart, my Alice.”
He walked over to her as he spoke and drawing his sword, quickly cut her bonds.
“Now Mr. Bessant,” he said, turning on that gentleman, who was making moaning sounds of fear. “I believe you wish to go to hell. Come!”
He caught hold of the terrified Mr. Bessant and started to drag him toward the fire.
“Look out!” cried Alice.
Mr. Bessant had raised a horse pistol and was pointing it straight at the Duke.
There was a deafening report and then Mr. Bessant began to scream with terror. For all at once there was no Duke. Nothing but the empty air and the wild screaming following the report, and the harsh sobbing of Mr. Russell.
“I… I… hem…” said Webb and collapsed in a dead faint.
“I am tired of this,” said the Duke’s mocking voice as he suddenly materialized again.
“Come, Alice. Take my hand. Miss Fadden, hold tightly to my other hand.”
Miss Fadden went to him in a daze, wondering why she did not feel in the least frightened. Would his hand be as cold as the grave? But it was reassuringly warm and human and she clutched it tightly.
Alice held onto the other, white and shaken from the blow on her head but feeling happier than she had ever felt in her life before.
He had said he loved her.
Webb came out of his swoon with a groan. In front of his staring eyes, the Duke, flanked on either side by Alice and Miss Fadden, was backing slowly toward the outer wall. Harry Russell was sitting on the floor with his face buried in his hands and so was the only one of the villainous three who did not see the last of the ghost.
But to Mr. Bessant and Webb it was the horror of horrors. The three melted right through the wall, stood for a moment outside the window, looking in, and then slowly began to rise up.
There was a thud and a crash.
Webb had fainted again.
It was midnight. The Duke, Alice and Miss Fadden sat in the drawing room in Manchester Square, silent at last Alice had recovered quickly from the blow on her head although she was still looking white and ill. Miss Fadden’s busy hands were idle at last. The Duke was wondering what to do.
He felt sure that none of those villains would dare to start babbling about ghosts in case they ended in Bedlam, but on the other hand he did not want to leave Alice unprotected again.
“I have a confession to make,” said little Miss Fadden, suddenly breaking the silence. “I am not what I seem to be, Your Grace.”
The Duke surveyed her with a marked lack of interest. “None of us is,” he said dryly.
“But you don’t understand,” said Miss Fadden. “I am not a lady. I was nothing more than a housemaid who was being turned out into the street because I was too old. I…
I… stole… a little money from my employers and… and… some of my mistress’s clothes.”
“Then you had better stay with us,” said the Duke, rudely interrupting this painful confession. “I am a ghost, Alice is a scullery maid and we will all have to discuss our future.” His voice softened as he saw the companion’s distress. “Do not worry, Miss Fadden, I shall take care of you as well.”
“I have a confession to make as well,” said Alice in a low voice.
“I am sure it is nothing so terrible, my love,” said the Duke, “that it cannot wait until you are rested.”
“I must tell you now,” said Alice wretchedly. “I have spent nearly all the money from the jewels. Mr. Bower advised me long ago to invest the money in stocks and shares but I did not think it mattered until too late. Now there is a certain return, but very little. And… and… there is worse.”
“My sweeting,” said the Duke, “was that why you wanted to marry the terrible Mr. Funk?”
Alice nodded. “And… and… I lent money to Sir Peregrine. Such a lot. And he never paid it back.”
“You were silly,” said the Duke, “but understandably so. My child, I have all my own jewels. I was a great peacock in my day and had so many to leave to my heir that a sentimental aunt insisted that quite a number of them were buried with me. It’s a miracle the resurrectionists did not try to dig me up. I shall deal with Sir Peregrine in my own way. This is all trivia. My worry, is, what is our future? You are young and beautiful, Alice. You do not wish to be tied for life to this old phantom.”
Alice stood up and went over and knelt beside his chair, taking his hands in hers and looking up at him. Miss Fadden scampered from the room with surprising speed.
“I love you,” said Alice simply. “There must be some way we can spend our life together. I cannot live with anyone else but you, my very dear ghost.”
He held her hands tightly and at last the old mocking smile lit up his mouth.
“Then so be it, my Alice,” he said, drawing her up onto his knee. “We shall celebrate the nights together. We will remove ourselves to some place where our strange behavior will not occasion comment. Now get thee to bed, my child. There are things I must do before we leave London…”
Late the following afternoon, just as the light began to fade, Mr. Funk sat in front of the fire at his club in Lombard Street in the City and stared into the flames.
It was the silence that was unnerving, he decided. No word from Lord Harold Webb. He had sent a footman to the gentleman’s residence only to receive the reply that Webb had gone out of town.
He still smarted over the idea that Alice was only a scullery maid. Somewhere in his fat heart, he viciously hoped they gave her a hard time. In retrospect he thought he could remember all sorts of common qualities about the girl. But the late nights he had spent worrying over the silence from the three conspirators plus the heat from the fire and the effects of a heavy lunch, began to take its toll. His head nodded and in no time at all, he was asleep. His last thought before he dropped off was a certain gratitude to Webb for having saved him from ridicule.
So fast asleep was he that he did not feel the light flick of a paintbrush over his face.
He awoke with a start some two hours later and glanced at the clock in alarm. The Lord Mayor’s banquet! If he did not hurry, he would be late.
It was only a step to the Mansion House. He would walk. The club room was empty. In his hurry, he did not even feel the nimble fingers pinning a notice on his back.
It was the talk of the City coffeehouses for ever afterward… the night that Mr. Funk walked straight into the Lord Mayor’s banquet, his face painted a bright, bright blue and with a placard on his back bearing the legend, “I am in a Blue Funk.”
How they roared with laughter and clasped their sides and fell about, those City men. Mr. Funk had long been detested for his pomposity.
So, thanks to the ghost, the merchant did not escape ridicule after all.
Sir Peregrine Dunster had his hands on a fortune… literally. He had his hands tightly on the waist of Miss Hetty Withers who had just accepted his hand in marriage. She was a considerable heiress, newly in town, and for once Sir Peregrine had moved briskly into the attack before anyone else had had the chance.
Miss Withers was an ironmaster’s daughter and the ironmaster, Mr. Adam Withers, was bedazzled with the idea of his daughter becoming a lady and had allowed Sir Peregrine to pay his addresses without inquiring into his character.
“Oh, Sir Peregrine,” sighed Miss Withers, “you make me the happiest of girls.”
He smiled adoringly into her myopic eyes, ignoring her bad teeth and rabbity mouth. He did not want to kiss her. Delay it. “Why don’t you call your papa in and we’ll tell him the good news,” he laughed.
But her parents burst into the room as if they had been leaning on the outsi
de of the door, which in fact they had.
As a beaming Sir Peregrine turned to face them, he suddenly felt himself go cold all over and then to his horror his mouth opened, or rather it felt as if it had been prized open, and a voice, not his own, came out. It said, “I hope you know I’m only marrying your Friday-faced chit for her money.”
The Withers gasped in unison.
Sir Peregrine clamped a hand to his mouth and to his horror a ghostly hand seemed to drag it away.
Too terrified to do anything other than stand and stare, Sir Peregrine heard that horrible voice issuing from between his now white lips.
