by Alex Shearer
‘Please go and look in the mirror,’ Thruppence said. ‘You don’t have reflections. None of you. If you look, there’s nothing there.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve ever read 101 Things You Never Knew About the Paranormal,’ Tim said. ‘It’s in your library. And it says in there … ’
But they weren’t listening. They were clustered around the mirror, all four of them peering into it, as if the mysteries of the universe would be revealed in its silvery depths.
‘She’s right,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘She’s quite correct. I’m not there, am I? I’m not there. I’m nowhere to be seen. Oh dear. What a situation. I shall have to sit down. Oh dear, oh dear.’
Why Mr Copperstone needed to sit down, when he was a ghost that – though solid-looking – had no weight at all, was hard to understand. Even he didn’t really know why he needed to sit down. But it was what he did.
‘H-how long have we been like this?’ Mr Gibbings asked. ‘Do you happen to know?’
‘About a hundred years. Round about that,’ Thruppence said. ‘You’re all buried down at St Bindle’s, in the graveyard.’
‘Are we?’ Mrs Scant said. ‘All of us together? How friendly. That’s nice.’
‘Didn’t any of you realise?’ Thruppence said. ‘Didn’t you suspect? Didn’t you know? I mean, what do you do here? When evening comes? When the working day is over and you can’t really go on pretending any more. What do you do?’
‘Do?’ Mr Copperstone looked confused. ‘Well, I … that is … when half-past five comes … I go … well, home … I thought … or maybe … but then I’m always here again, first thing in the morning, sitting at my desk and ready to get on with things … ’
‘And I come in then, don’t I, Mr Copperstone, and I say: “Cup of tea for you, sir?”’
‘Indeed you do, Mrs Scant. And very grateful I am for it, and very appreciative too. For no one makes a cup of tea like Mrs Scant, only –’
‘I know. The tea never comes any more, does it, sir.’
‘I couldn’t drink it, even if it did, Mrs Scant … ’
‘No more than I could, Mr Copperstone. Nor could I. Our tea-drinking days are long gone.’
‘But the thought’s still there, Mrs Scant.’
‘Yes, sir. The thought is always there.’
Silence again. Sad, horrible silence.
Thruppence broke it by reaching into her pocket and taking out and unfolding a piece of paper.
‘I wrote down all your dates,’ she said. ‘You died first, Mr Copperstone. Why did you come back? Why didn’t you just move on to wherever it is that people go to when they die?’
Mr Copperstone’s sad face suddenly brightened.
‘Why did I come back? For Mrs Scant, of course. No other reason. So I could see her every day, and be here in the same building. How could I move on when Mrs Scant was here? My own marriage was not a good one, but I grew so fond of Mrs Scant.’
‘Oh, Mr Copperstone,’ she said. ‘I never knew it was mutual. I never knew you cared for me the way I do for you.’
‘Of course I care, Mrs Scant. Of course I do.’
‘Then you should have said. Because when Mr Scant died, I never wanted to see him again, horrible man that he was. But once a widow, I always hoped that you might, perhaps … ’
‘But then you died, Mrs Scant, some three years after Mr Copperstone,’ Thruppence said.
‘And I came back here looking for him, and here he was, still at his desk. So I just carried on as normal. I mean, the place had been closed down really. But … well … it didn’t seem to make any difference.’
‘And you, Miss Rolly? You died very young,’ Thruppence said.
‘I was a suffragette,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘One weekend I went on a demonstration – fighting for women’s votes. I was arrested. So I went on hunger strike and –’
‘She was so brave,’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘So steely minded, and so tremendously brave … ’
‘So I had to come back,’ Miss Rolly said, ‘to carry on the fight.’
‘No need, Miss Rolly,’ Thruppence said. ‘We’ve got the vote. We’ve had it for years and years and years.’
‘Yes, well, to be honest, that wasn’t the only reason … ’
Mr Gibbings spoke up.
‘I flatter myself that perhaps Miss Rolly … maybe came back … for me.’
‘Oh, Arnold!’ Miss Rolly exclaimed. ‘You knew?’
‘Just as I came back for her,’ he said. ‘For when she went on hunger strike and died for the cause, well, it hit me bad, Miss Rolly, it hit me bad.’
‘It did?’
‘I just went into decline. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I could only think of you. It broke my heart, Miss Rolly, that you were gone. And a broken heart is a thing you can die of. And that was why I came back to haunt the Ministry, so as to mend my broken heart.’
‘And is it … is it mended, Arnold?’ Miss Rolly asked.
‘It is, Virginia,’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘As long as you are here.’
Thruppence Coddley got abruptly to her feet.
‘Now stop it!’ she snapped. ‘Just stop it! Stop it, all of you. Because if you don’t stop it … if you don’t stop all this right now … I shall probably … start to cry.’
Tim Legge looked up at her and he reached to his pocket for a tissue. ‘I’m crying already,’ he said. ‘It’s worse than Bambi. Will you give me a hug, Thruppence?’ he said. ‘I know we said no hugs ever, but in the circumstances … ’
‘Of course I will, Tim,’ she said. ‘Gladly. But you’ll have to give me one too.’
The ghosts looked at the living, and the living looked at the ghosts. But it wasn’t as if they were different beings, more that they were all part of the one, same thing, of life, and of losing it, and of the feelings everyone must have, and the happinesses and sadnesses that all must go through.
‘Oh dear,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Oh dear. What to do, eh? What to do? What is a ghost to do? We could have gone on forever here, if it hadn’t been for that awful man, that horrible Beeston fellow. If only he had just left us in peace. If only he had never been born.’
But Mr Beeston had been born. He had started off as a baby, and he had developed into the hatchet man at the Department of Economies.
And right now he was standing at the front door of the Ministry of Ghosts, and he held the door knocker in his strong right hand.
He bashed it hard against the door.
24
Mr Beeston’s Last Visit
Mr Beeston was rather surprised to see who opened the door to him. It quite took the wind from his wrath-filled sails. He had been ready to go on the attack from the first creak of the hinges. But not only was there no creak, there was no one to shout at. There were just these two, well, children. And what were they doing there, at the Ministry of Ghosts, at that hour of the morning? Surely they should have been at … well … school, for example?
Mr Beeston was not to know that it was an in-service day. But even if he had known, it would not have fully relieved his perplexity. What were two children, a boy with hair sticking up everywhere and a girl who smelled of fresh strawberries, doing behind the counter (so to speak) of a government department?
Children and the civil service did not mix. The civil service was a serious business, whereas children, alas, as Mr Beeston knew from harsh experience, could be inclined to frivolity.
Mr Beeston shifted the big glass jar that he was carrying under his arm into a more comfortable position. The glass jar had a Post-it note stuck to it. Written on the note was: ‘Exhibit one’. There appeared to be no exhibit two.
He cleared his throat and he came straight to the point. ‘Who the heck are you?’ he said.
‘Thruppence Coddley,’ Tim Legge said, indicating his companion.
‘And Timothy Legge, my colleague,’ Thruppence said, pointing at Tim. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
Mr Beeston was far from charmed. He was more along the
lines of perplexed.
‘And what are you two doing here? This is a government department. Why aren’t you at school?’
‘In-service day. And we work here, on a part-time basis,’ Thruppence said.
‘Doing what?’
‘Ghost hunting,’ she smiled.
Mr Beeston went a very strange colour: it was sort of grey, but kind of red too, with hints of purple.
‘I wish to see Mr Copperstone,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
‘He asked us to show you in and to take you up,’ Thruppence said. ‘Please – this way.’
With a pleasant expression, she invited Mr Beeston to enter. Once in, Tim closed the door behind him.
‘Would you care to put your big jam jar down?’ Thruppence said. ‘It looks rather heavy.’
‘Jam jar! This happens to be a ghost jar. And I am holding onto it. It is exhibit number one in the Ministry of Ghosts Hall of Shame!’
‘Oh dear,’ Thruppence said. ‘That sounds serious.’
‘There was supposed to be a condensed ghost in here!’ Mr Beeston said. ‘But all that’s really in here is oil of kippers.’
‘I can’t think where that could have come from,’ Tim said, with an admirably straight face and a wink in Thruppence’s direction.
‘I’m sure Mr Copperstone will be able to explain everything. Please. This way,’ Thruppence said again. ‘Oh, and by the way, may I ask who’s calling?’
Mr Beeston’s appearance went further along the colour chart in the direction of puce.
‘Who’s calling? Me! I am! That’s who’s calling. Me, standing here. You just tell ’em it’s Beeston and that’ll be all they need to know. It’ll have them quaking in their shoes!’
‘Someone’s certainly going to be quaking in their shoes . . .’ Tim whispered to Thruppence. Mr Beeston did not hear him.
Up they went to Mr Copperstone’s office. Thruppence tapped lightly on the door.
‘Do come in. We’re all here.’
In they went. And there they were. Old Mr Copperstone; not quite so old, but not really young Mrs Scant; eternally young and fiery Miss Rolly; and youngish and slightly sad Mr Gibbings.
‘Ah. You’re all here,’ Mr Beeston correctly observed. ‘A good job too. Because I’ve got news for you. You won’t be in a job much longer. Not a cushy one like you’ve had for years.’
‘Mr Beeston,’ Mr Copperstone said graciously, ‘to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? Please, do take a seat.’
Beeston did. He sat straight-backed, with the big jar on his knee.
‘Now then, Copperstone,’ he said. ‘First off, what are these two doing here?’ He indicated Tim and Thruppence.
‘They are employed by the Ministry on a freelance, part-time basis,’ Mr Copperstone said, ‘to hunt ghosts. It is well known – I refer you, if you have any doubts, to Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting – that children have a peculiar sensitivity to and attraction for ghosts. I think it is on pages one-seven-five to one-seven-eight.’
‘Spare me the academic references,’ Beeston said. ‘The fact is they’re too young to be working.’
‘Not at all,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Why, my own brother was out to work at the age of seven. He had a job with the local coalman. He used to look after his horse.’
Mr Beeston held a hand up for silence.
‘Enough!’ he said. ‘That’s all irrelevant anyway. It’s all of no consequence. Not seeing that this Ministry is for the chop!’
‘The chop?’ Mr Copperstone said.
‘The chop?’ Mrs Scant repeated.
‘The chop?’ Miss Rolly said.
‘The chips?’ Mr Gibbings said.
‘No, the chop!’ Mr Beeston snapped.
‘Sorry,’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘I misheard.’
‘Now look, Copperstone. You had three months to find a ghost. You told me you’d got one. In this jar, you said. Well, I had it opened up in laboratory conditions – in a laboratory.’
‘Is that so?’ Mr Copperstone said.
‘There was never any ghost in here. Never. All that’s in here is some kipper oil.’
‘Kipper oil?’
‘Oil of kippers, smeared round the inside to make it look like there was a ghost present.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Well, I’m not fooled by it. Not for a moment. In fact, you know what I think all this kipper oil is, Copperstone? It’s a red herring!’
‘A red herring? So you believe that a kipper is nothing but a red herring?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Copperstone. You had three months to justify the existence of this Ministry. You’ve had years and years before that in which to produce a ghost. Decades. Ages. Centuries. This place hasn’t come up with one single ghost since it was founded in 1792! Well, enough already. The end has come, Copperstone. And by the powers vested in me, I now declare –’
‘Excuse me … ’
Mr Beeston stopped in mid-flight. He glared at the girl who had interrupted him.
‘What?’
‘We have found some ghosts.’
Mr Beeston sneered and laughed in a rather horrible way.
‘Oh yes. More empty jars, is it? All smeared up with kippers? Oh no. Once bitten, twice shy. You don’t fool Beeston twice. Not with that same old trick.’
‘It’s not a trick at all,’ Thruppence said. ‘Mr Copperstone, please, if you would. If you’d care to give a demonstration?’
‘Of course, my dear. My pleasure.’
Mr Copperstone stood up behind his desk. He smiled. He stepped forward, heading for the side of the room. He kept on walking. He came to the wall. He continued walking. The wall did not stop him. He walked right through it. He vanished completely from sight. Then he reappeared, through one of the other walls.
‘There, you see,’ he said to Mr Beeston. ‘How was that?’
Mr Beeston did not answer. He just sat on his chair, his lower lip hanging open and twitching slightly. Before the ability to speak returned to him, Mr Gibbings stood up to show what he could do, and said,
‘How about this one too?’
He jumped on the spot. And when he landed, he went straight through the floor, and disappeared. He reappeared a moment later, coming out from behind a picture.
Mr Beeston had started to tremble.
‘May I have a go too?’ Mrs Scant said. ‘It looks like such fun.’
She stood and walked up the wall, walked upside down along the ceiling, tightly gripping her skirts for modesty, dangled a while from the light fittings, and then scampered back down the wall on the other side.
Mr Beeston was by this time clutching at his chest.
‘Oh, me too!’ Miss Rolly said. ‘I want to have a go as well.’
Not to be outdone by the others, she stretched herself out in all directions until she was about twelve feet tall and nine feet wide, and then she exploded into lots of different bits, and the bits splattered all around the room, as if a can of paint had erupted. There were pieces of Miss Rolly everywhere, including on Mr Beeston.
‘Eeeech!’ he yelled. ‘Get it off!’
Which she immediately did, and all the pieces reassembled, and there was Miss Rolly again, as trim and prim as ever.
‘I don’t know why I never did that before,’ she said. ‘There’s something about exploding that really cheers you up.’
The expression upon Mr Beeston’s face was now one of unmistakeable horror. This, his eyes seemed to say, was the road to madness; this way insanity lay.
‘There are plenty of other tricks we could probably manage,’ Mr Copperstone magnanimously offered. ‘Would you care to see me get inside the inkwell?’
‘Or I could turn myself into a spoon,’ Mrs Scant said.
‘How about I start levitating that chair you’re sitting on?’ Miss Rolly said. Mr Beeston’s chair began to rise, with him on it.
‘No! Put me down!’
The chair bumped back to the floor.
‘How about I turn myself into a pair of bagpipes?’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘It’s absolutely no trouble. I can probably do all the noises as well.’
Mr Beeston did not take up his offer. He just sat, and stared, and tried his best to keep breathing.
‘If you like, we could take possession of you for a couple of minutes. I’m sure it will be an experience,’ Mr Copperstone offered.
Before Mr Beeston could refuse, Mr Copperstone took possession of one of his legs, Mr Gibbings took the other, while Miss Rolly and Mrs Scant had an arm each.
It was a very odd feeling, having somebody else in your body, fighting for control of your limbs. Mr Beeston did not like it at all.
‘Shove off,’ Mr Beeston told them. ‘It’s my body!’ he yelled. ‘Get out of it!’
‘Come now, don’t be selfish,’ Mrs Scant told him. ‘Room inside for a small one.’
‘You’re anything but a small one.’
‘Bit bony, this elbow,’ she said.
They ran him round the office, down the stairs, into the basement, up to the attic, around the landing, and back into the office again. They made him do handstands, somersaults and several backflips. Then they dumped him down onto his chair again and made him bash himself lightly on his head with both hands, as though he were playing the bongos.
Finally, the ghosts left him and resumed their shapes and their seats.
‘So there you are,’ Thruppence said, as Mr Beeston tried to understand what was happening to him. ‘You can’t close the Ministry of Ghosts down now, can you? Not for lack of ghosts. You’ve just seen four of them –’
Suddenly a ghostly cat appeared, and it sat on Mr Beeston’s head.
‘Better make that five,’ Tim said.
‘Get it off me!’ Mr Beeston screamed.
‘Boddington. Come down from there,’ Mrs Scant commanded. ‘Bad cat.’
The cat hopped down. Mr Beeston stood. The heavy glass jar he had brought was knocked over and rolled to the carpet. It rolled on across the floor and came to rest by the leg of Mr Copperstone’s desk. The power of speech had all but gone from Mr Beeston. Yet he managed to raise a hand, and he pointed at the adults in the room.
