A Gathering of Ghosts

by David Haynes

  Finally the many courses of tasteless and grey food were finished and Slee was pleased. He doubted very much whether he could manage another morsel of anything that tasted of leather. Lord Feltham appeared not to notice for each time a plate was removed and a fresh one put down, he would congratulate his man for the fine culinary efforts.

  “Are you a married man, Slee?” They remained at the dinner table but Feltham lit a cigar. Slee declined the offer. It was a habit he had not yet developed a taste for.

  “I am not. I am hoping to make my means a little more presentable before I seek out a wife.”

  “Most wise. An enterprising fellow such as yourself should have no problems on that score.”

  “And yourself, Lord Feltham?” The words were out before he had thought any more of it. Yet he regretted them instantly for it sounded impolite.

  Feltham allowed the smoke to drift slowly from his mouth; it snaked through his whiskers and his face became grave once more. “Lady Feltham and my children have gone.”

  Slee waited for more. The reply seemed incomplete.

  “They were taken by a cruel and wanton mistress. She has stalked the corridors of Stonegate Manor since my forbears built the house.”

  Slee gasped. “They were murdered, sir?”

  Feltham laughed but it was a desperate sound. “Murdered, Slee? No, nothing quite so exotic. The house was built on moorland bog and on some days, under the right conditions, a thin miasma walks through the house as if it were its own. For those unaccustomed, it can be quite a fright. But it carries with it something more serious than a scare. Within its poisonous shroud are a thousand years of death and decay and it was to that fume my family succumbed.”

  “I am truly sorry. I did not know for if I had then I would surely not have raised the matter.”

  Feltham poured another glass of wine which Slee did not want. His head was already spinning and he needed a clear head to finish his task by tomorrow.

  “Think nothing of it, for I raised the topic, not you.”

  In the hall the clock chimed eleven. “I do not wish to appear rude, Lord Feltham, but I am weary and if I hope to finish my work by tomorrow evening I must retire soon.”

  “Of course. I have kept you talking too long but seldom do I entertain and I have enjoyed your stories so very much.”

  Slee stood. “Well you must come to London and visit us. Mr Sutcliffe would be delighted to make your acquaintance, I am quite sure.”

  Feltham’s head drooped. “I am quite sure I will never visit London again.”

  *

  A fire had been lit and his bed turned down when Slee finally got back to his room. Feltham was an odd fellow and no mistake. He was animated one minute and quite desolate and dejected the next. It made him a difficult man to fathom.

  He undressed and climbed into bed. A lamp had been placed on the bedside table and he picked up his ledger to examine his work. He had catalogued nearly one hundred works and the value was already astounding.

  Rain thumped on the window and wind whistled down the chimney. He might finish the work tomorrow but whether he would be able to leave was another matter entirely. He turned off the lamp and closed his eyes. The Stonegate Collection would bring him everything he had ever desired, and more.

  Slee sat bolt upright and held his breath. A noise had jolted him abruptly from his sleep. The fire had gone out but as he peered into the gloom, he thought he saw something moving at the foot of his bed. He dared not move for whatever it was would surely come for him. The sound of his heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears.

  Again the noise resounded through the darkness and this time Slee leapt from his bed. “I’ll have you!” he shouted.

  He bounded across the floor and flung his arms about the shadow, sending them both to the floor.

  “Who is this scoundrel who seeks to murder me in the dead of night?” Slee raised his fist ready to strike the would-be assassin.

  “It is I, sir. Fletcher.”

  Their faces were evidently close together for Slee could feel the warm breath of the other man on his face.

  “Fletcher?”

  “Lord Feltham’s servant, sir. Please don’t hit me!”

  Slee stood and pulled the other man to his feet. “What do you mean by disturbing me like this?”

  “I was only bringing your luggage, Mr Slee. The driver delivered it, you see, and you seemed anxious to have it.”

  “Fletcher, you gave me quite a fright. You’re lucky I didn’t bash your head in.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I’m quite sure it could have waited until the morning but your dedication is admirable. Lord Feltham is lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

  Slee crept back into bed and closed his eyes. His heart was racing and sleep was impossible to come by. Tossing and turning for what was left of the night was not something he relished. He re-lit the lamp and slipped out of bed. His luggage looked none the worse for whatever trials it had undergone and it was a promising sign that the driver had managed to get through.

  The painting above the fireplace was nothing more than a dark shadow against the wall. He stared at it for a moment. Lord Feltham had not mentioned this particular painting at all, let alone forbidding any contact with it. A cursory check would do no harm.

  He inched the painting from its position and gently lowered it onto the bed. The lamp flickered in the draft and made dark swirling patterns on the canvas. It was a mesmerising display and for a moment Slee was held in a thrall by the beauty. What sat beneath the layers of dust and grime could scarcely have been any more alluring than what captivated him now.

  The flame settled and with it the painting became dull and lifeless again. The only indication that there was anything of merit here was the artist’s name.

  “I.T,” Slee whispered to himself.

  He placed his attaché beside the painting and opened it up. He was usually so meticulous with his work that it was a mystery why he had not started with this one in the first place.

  He removed the agents and brush from the case and set to work. The painting was larger than any of the others he had worked on so far, although the art in the dining room appeared to be of similar size, if not greater. It was also far more difficult to clean. It was almost as if mud and dirt had been smeared over the brush strokes by hand. Was the painting so repellent that someone had sought to conceal it completely? If that was the case then why not just burn it instead? Slee shook his head. The house and its master were a mystery, why should it be any different for the objects within it?

  Before long he had managed to reveal the first face on the portrait. It showed a young boy of perhaps four years, sitting unsmiling on a stool. The work was exquisite and the boy’s face had been painted with the touch of a loving artist.

  He moved on to the next face, that of an older sibling, and he too had been painted with delicate tenderness. His honey-coloured hair almost fluttered in the draft from the chimney. He had not revealed the entire painting by any means but already it was a conundrum why a father, albeit bereaved, should hide forever the faces of those he held most dear.

  Before long he had uncovered the family, such as it was. Lady Feltham was as striking a woman as he had ever seen in London but she looked sad and almost desperate in her eyes.

  Yet it was not the quality of the brush stroke, or the obvious love which characterised the work which was the most captivating aspect of the painting. It was the total, unending blackness of the background which held him in a trance. It was uncommon, if not rare, for an oil to be so dense as to allow no light at all to rebound from it. Without conscious effort he moved closer, closer still to the inky depths. Somewhere a delicate voice sang a dirge and it washed pleasantly across his ears. Tendrils of shadow drifted from the painting and caressed his neck with a lover’s touch. Slee was in rapture, glorious rapture and he wished for it not to end.

 
He touched the canvas and it moved beneath his fingers.

  “What is this devilment?” he whispered. Yet as he spoke, the blackness parted and the outline of something started to swim into view. The outline of a skull, nothing more, grew closer and closer as it travelled through the layers of paint.

  Slowly, so slowly, it took shape before his eyes. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, Slee screamed for this could not be real, and surely a scream would part him from his delirium.

  As he watched, transfixed, wisps of hair gathered from the shadows then flew about the exposed skull and fastened themselves to it. Faster and faster, shadows spun around the skull, darting this way and that in a merry dance. Yet no features could be discerned, none at all, for the skull faced away from Slee and into the darkness. It was as awful as it was bewitching and he was under a spell.

  “Please, release me.” He spoke to himself, for if he addressed the other then she may turn and respond to him and he did not wish for that. Her hair was long and as dark as the night, and it shifted in an unfelt breeze. But she must be beautiful for hair such as this could not belong to a harlot, it simply could not.

  Slee licked his lips for they were barren of moisture. His heart beat out a terrible rhythm that threatened to rise out of his chest if he did not cease.

  Slowly, so slowly, she began to turn as if she were displayed on a potter’s wheel. Slee felt the terrible pain in the base of his neck heighten one more turn.

  Slowly, so slowly, she turned.

  Slee whimpered. The sweet dirge, which had been so sweetly sung, stopped and gave way to a greedy cackle. Her face was finally exposed and Slee screamed for it was the face of a crone; a vile and base woman whose teeth were as black as the oils from which she had grown. Her cackle grew louder and louder and Slee felt his eardrums trying to push their way from his head.

  “Stop!” he screamed and pushed his hands against his ears. Her mouth grew wider and wider and her stench filled the room like rancid meat. Slee retched and covered his eyes.

  “Help me!” he wailed and felt the strength vanish from his legs. For once he was glad his body had failed him. He fell back against the fireplace and felt the mantle jab painfully into the base of his neck. Yet the pain was preferable to that of her malodorous breath and vile voice. As he drifted into the unconscious world, the sound of her terrible cackling and grotesque countenance filled his mind.

  *

  “Sir? Mr Slee? Wake up!”

  Slee heard the words and felt the sting of an open palm on his cheek.

  “Shall I send for a physician? Or Lord Feltham?”

  Slee opened his eyes slowly and was pleased to see Fletcher’s weathered face before him. “Neither. I am quite well enough to stand, thank you.”

  He rose slowly. Although it seemed the room would never be bathed in glorious sunshine, a weak daylight had at least replaced the terrible night.

  “Sir, you were collapsed beside your bed.”

  He noticed the painting was hanging on the wall once again and the portrait was obscured beneath a layer of filth.

  “Have you…” Slee paused. It would not look good for his prospects if he were to reveal what he had been up to last night.

  “I was exhausted, that and the knock I had the night previous must have caught up with me.” He looked at the painting again. “Was anything else out of place when you came in this morning?”

  “Out of place?”

  “Yes, were there any signs of…” Of what exactly? What exactly had happened last night? With the painting back where it belonged and still covered in dirt, had anything happened? “Were there any signs of disorder?”

  Fletcher frowned. “Disorder? No, sir, just you on the floor. Are you quite sure you are not injured?”

  Slee rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, thank you Fletcher. Tell me, what time is it?”

  “A little after eight.”

  Slee looked to the window. Spots of rain gathered and trickled down the glass in steady rivulets. “I should like to take some air before breakfast but I have come unprepared for such disagreeable weather. Would you have something suitable for me?”

  Fletcher looked over his shoulder at the window. “Of course, sir. The gardens are not what they used to be, I am sorry to say. Not since Lady Feltham passed has anyone tended to it. I am sure it will be overgrown and impassable, especially in this weather. Are you quite sure I cannot bring you some tea instead?”

  A vision of the crone flashed before his eyes sending an involuntary shiver of revulsion through his body. “No, I am sure I need the air, if only to gather my thoughts.”

  “As you wish.”

  It was on the tip of Slee’s tongue to ask Fletcher who I.T. was but he resisted the urge. Asking the question would reveal his actions and he still needed to take the Stonegate Collection back to London.

  A short while later, Fletcher delivered a set of ancient-looking walking clothes. In the city, Slee would not have been seen in such old-fashioned garments but here on the moors, they seemed most appropriate. He dressed quickly and left the house.

  He had not been outside since arriving and his entrance to the estate had been under a cloud of unconsciousness. He walked a few paces and turned back. So far all he had seen of the inside was his own narrow, dark corridor, the hallway and the dining room yet the exterior suggested something altogether more impressive, at least in size.

  A row of enormous windows ran along one wall. Slee recognised it immediately as the dining room for all the drapes remained drawn. Who was Lord Feltham preventing from looking in exactly? Or was it to stop someone looking out?

  He turned away and walked toward the side of the house. Fletcher had directed him to the most accessible part of the estate, at least the part he recalled as being accessible for it had been that long since he had ventured beyond the walls of the manor.

  Already the rain had soaked the tweed cap he had been given and water crawled down his neck and gathered at his collar. It was not the morning for a walk but it was the morning for attempting to make sense of what he had seen last night… what he had been shown.

  He followed a thin gravel path away from the house. The path dropped down onto a flat expanse of grass and ended abruptly. In former times it would undoubtedly have been a magnificent croquet lawn, but now the weeds were almost as numerous as the blades of grass. The wind gusted and blew the rain into his eyes but he was undaunted by the weather for he could not stand to spend another moment in his room.

  He knew what he had seen in the painting, yet how could it be? The painting had been replaced on its hook and his attempts at rudimentary restoration had been undone. So what exactly had happened?

  He looked up at the leaden sky. It had to be a dream; a nightmare perhaps, for the alternative was simply too loathsome to contemplate. He inhaled deeply and felt the stinging breath of the season flow through his body. A dream, a vile and disgusting dream, that was all it had been, and a spot of exercise would drive its terrible remnants from his mind.

  Up ahead he could see a small copse and although the rain was not too heavy, it was incessant and he was already starting to feel cold. The copse would provide a modicum of shelter from the elements, even if it was only for a few minutes. He walked with renewed purpose and within a matter of seconds he was once more in shadow; the shadow of oak and birch, of sycamore and ash.

  He paused and looked back at the manor once more. From this vantage it appeared even more impressive. Window after window filled the spaces not occupied by great sandstone blocks. The light was weak but had it been a summer’s morning, the sunlight could not have made the place look any less dreary and cold. Slee removed his cap and slapped it against the side of his leg. This trip would secure his reputation with Mr Sutcliffe but it had already taken its toll on him.

  He turned away and peered through the tree trunks. If there had ever been a path it had long been overrun by bramble and weed. It was not a particularly enticing view but then again neith
er was what lay behind him.

  He stepped into the copse and felt his spirits lift. It was a gloomy day and his passage was in shadow, but above him the occasional bird sang a sweet song and the smell of the saturated earth was delightful. He had not walked on anything other than cobble and asphalt for so long he had forgotten the joy of scrambling over fallen tree trunks and tripping on hidden brambles. He felt like a child again.

  He paused and stretched his back against a particularly wide trunk. He had neglected to bring his pocket watch with him and how much time had passed was a mystery. He tried to peer back along his route but the manor was no longer in view. He would have to turn back soon; he did not want to appear rude by being away so long.