The Case of the Green-Dressed Ghost

by Lucy Banks

  The reason for my incarceration is that Margery and I tried to make our escape. Early this morning, long before the sun had risen, we gathered some belongings with the intention of hiring a hansom cab to take us to Totnes. I will admit that I stole some money from my husband, a fact which, upon discovery, he was most enraged by. However, it was in desperate circumstances! Never would I normally commit such a crime! I begged my innocence, but he refused to listen. He grasped me by the arm, so firmly that I cried out, and dragged me upstairs, throwing me down upon the bed.

  Never had I seen him so angry. His face was lit as though by fire, and he pointed at me with a most devilish, venomous rage. He told me that I had “brought shame” on his house, and that I was “quite insane” and “an intolerable burden.” I believe I may have laughed at this point. In truth, I did feel most unhinged and quite unable to control myself. I told him that he had fallen in love with a painting, and he sneered at me most cruelly. He said that “at least the lady in the painting had probably been perfectly sane in real life,” and that she had “probably been able to produce children too.”

  Oh, how that last comment wounded me, like a dagger to my heart. It is not my fault that the baby was lost. Can he not see my pain over it? I think of my child every day, what might have been, had it lived. He does not, cannot, understand how dreadful that day was. And it was the Green Lady’s fault, of that I swear. She has not ceased in her haunting of me, not since that terrible day I first discovered her in the attic. She wants to kill me. I can feel it. She will not rest until I am no longer alive.

  8th June, 1892

  I am frightened. So terribly, terribly frightened. I fear I may not be able to write for much longer. Last night, while I was in bed, Algie came to me. But his eyes were hers. The Green Lady’s, I mean. They glowed with the ferocity of a devil unleashed upon the world. I thought at first that he planned to embrace me. He leaned closer, a silhouette over my bed, and I thought he would try to kiss me, all the time impaling me with that horrible hot glare.

  Instead, he tried to throttle me. Good Lord, it pains me to write it down! He placed his hands around my neck and began to squeeze, and all the while, his eyes glowed in the darkness.

  She was in him. The Lady in Green was inside him, possessing him, making him perform this unspeakable act against me. I could see her within him, triumphant, delighting in my misery and distress. I kicked out at him, and he fell to the ground, groaning. Then I screamed. I screamed as loudly as I could. Margery came running. I told her what he had done. Algie said I was mad and that I had fabricated it all, but I could see that she believed me. She nodded, ever so slightly, to let me know she did not doubt my tale. Only Margery knows how dark things have become in this house.

  How long can I bear this? He threatens me with the lunatic asylum. It would be preferable to the madness I endure each day that I am here. I cannot remain locked in this room much longer. I must break free. I must escape from her.

  Chapter 7: Meeting the Green Lady

  “Nice house,” Mike said, taking in the pillars, the sash windows, and the neoclassical brickwork. “Bit of class, that is.” Across the road from the house, the River Exe shimmered in the morning sunlight, the people on the iron footbridge just about visible from their elevated viewpoint.

  “Dream on,” Serena said, surveying her red nails. “Out of your league.”

  “Certainly on what he’s paying me,” Mike grumbled, scooping up the kit bag. “If I’d have gone to Infinite Enterprises, who knows what I’d bloody be on now.”

  “Nothing stopping you.”

  Mike snorted, glowering from underneath his Legoland cap.

  “So, is this really the same house that was written about in Emmeline’s diary?” Kester asked. By the look of the sombre granite stones, the imposing black door, and the broken pediments flanking each window like frowning eyes, he could well believe it. It was an expensive-looking property, but it definitely had a touch of hostility about it.

  “Yes, the exact same house, right?” Dr Ribero said, striding up to the door. He seized the brass knocker and issued a succession of deafening raps. “I have been told that the painting is in the lounge, so we will go straight there and assess the situation.”

  “I’m a bit nervous,” Kester admitted, looking around at the rest of the group.

  “Oh, a haunted painting isn’t going to do you any harm,” Serena tutted. She tapped the pavement impatiently with one pointy, high-heeled toe, eyeing the house with irritation. “You’ve read Emmeline’s diary. What’s the worst that can happen? Some old bag in a green dress is going to look at you a bit funny?”

  “Well, it sounded a lot worse than that,” Kester said defensively. “I didn’t like what she wrote at all. It sounded very unpleasant.” He glanced at the dark window, half-expecting to see a furious spirit leering out at them at that very moment.

  “Remember that people often get very scared by the supernatural,” Miss Wellbeloved explained. “For normal folk, it’s common to overreact to these sorts of things.”

  “Or pass out, like you did the other day with the banshee,” Serena added. “That was about as big an overreaction as I’ve ever seen, actually. Apart from soiling yourself. Which you might well have done, for all I know.”

  “I didn’t soil myself,” Kester clarified.

  “That’s what you say.”

  “They’re taking a long time to answer the door, aren’t they?” Pamela said, peering into the nearest window. “Do you think they’ve forgotten we’re coming today?”

  “I very much hope not,” Dr Ribero said, twirling his moustache between his fingers. “They were insistent that we must address the situation as fast as possible, yes? I have cleared time in our diary especially. I will not be happy if they have messed us around, I will not.”

  “Ah, come on boss,” Mike said, leaning against the railing. “It’s not like we’re swamped with work at the moment.”

  As though responding to his comment, the front door swung inward with a shrill creak. A pale face peered out, round and flaccid as an orangutan.

  “Are you the ghost crew?” she croaked. Each line in her aged face was so caked in powder that it looked as though a forensics team had dusted her down for fingerprints.

  “Er, well, we are the supernatural agency,” Dr Ribero said, looking at the others.

  “Yeah, ghosts and all that, right?” the old woman said. “Things that go bump in the night?”

  “Indeed,” Dr Ribero confirmed, pursing his lips together. “May we come in?”

  “Hang on, let me get my daughter,” the woman mumbled. Without warning, she swung round with the momentum of a wrecking ball and bellowed at the top of her voice. “Isabelle? Izzie? Them people are here! The ones who want to look at your painting!” She turned back round to them, grinning. “Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll make you all a nice cup of tea.”

  “So, you are Mrs Diderot’s mother?” Dr Ribero asked politely, stepping into the hallway.

  “Yep. Izzie’s not been having too good a time of it recently, as you know. So I’ve come down to keep her company. Didn’t have much else on, it weren’t a problem really.”

  Kester hovered by the coat stand, unsure where to put himself. A mottled mirror hanging by the door revealed how at odds he looked with the rest of the group, his paunch hanging over his belt like a toad’s burlap. I really must do something about that, he thought, noticing Dr Ribero’s wiry torso and Mike’s solidly built stomach, and comparing himself unfavourably to both.

  A sound diverted his attention. He looked up to see a woman standing at the top of the stairs. By the look of her, he guessed that she was around forty, though her haggard expression aged her considerably. Her mouse-brown hair was scraped into a hasty bun, pulled back from her face, which, with its high cheekbones and delicate jaw, would have been attractive in different circumstances. She floa
ted down the stairs like a wraith, clutching the bannister for support.

  “I am so relieved you’re here,” she said, without preamble. Up close, the hollows of her eyes indicated that she hadn’t slept in days, weeks perhaps.

  “Ah, Mrs Diderot,” Dr Ribero said, offering his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Isabelle, please,” she said, extending her own thin hand to meet his. “And this is my mother, Jane.” She had a hint of her mother’s east-London drawl to her voice, but clearly marriage or education had refined it, polishing it to a more neutral accent.

  “Is your husband here?” Dr Ribero asked.

  “No, François is away,” she answered. “I think that’s what’s made it all so difficult to cope with. He’s away so often, and I’m left here alone, you see.”

  “Don’t you have any children?” Pamela asked, looking around for signs of younger inhabitants.

  Isabelle shook her head. “No,” she stated, without further explanation. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, we’ve read through the diary carefully,” Miss Wellbeloved said, taking charge of the situation. “Thank you for sending it to us in the post, it’s been most informative. A fascinating case.”

  “I’m not sure fascinating is the word I would use,” Isabelle said, looking down at the floor. “It’s been horrendous. When I read that diary, I realised that I was experiencing exactly what that poor woman had gone through. Ever since we found that painting, it’s been a nightmare.”

  “Ah, try not to worry too much about it,” Mike said, with a grin. “It sounds like a pretty basic haunting to me. Only thing is, this one’s managed to get itself well and truly welded into an object, which can make them a little tricky to package off to the spirit world. However,” he added, shaking his shoulder bag in her direction, “I’ve been working on a piece of equipment that I believe might do the trick. It’s not been road-tested thoroughly yet, but—”

  “Yes, thank you Mike,” Dr Ribero interrupted. He leant towards Isabelle, giving her the full extent of his Argentinian charm. “Don’t worry, we will get this sorted for you. You have my many words.”

  “Just one word. You have my word,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected quietly. Ribero’s jaw tightened.

  “That’s good to know,” Isabelle murmured. She looked over at her mother. “Are you going to make the tea, mum?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll go and do that now,” her mother said reluctantly. She was obviously fascinated by them all, and wanted to make sure she didn’t miss a thing.

  Pamela suddenly looked upwards, as though she had just detected a bad smell emanating from the ceiling. She opened her mouth, about to say something, then shut it again, shaking her head.

  “Picking up anything?” Dr Ribero asked.

  Pamela nodded. “Oh yes,” she said. “Yes. It’s a particularly bad energy actually. Most unpleasant. I think we’ve got a rotter on our hands here.”

  “Oh no, really?” Mike groaned, dropping the bag unceremoniously to the floor. Whatever was inside made a dull metallic clang as it hit the Victorian tiles, echoing through the long hallway. “I’m really not in the mood for a tricky one today. I had a bit of a late one last night.”

  “Well, we suspected this wouldn’t be an easy case,” Miss Wellbeloved said. She turned to Mrs Diderot, whose eyes were widening with every word. “It might be best if you went elsewhere while we take a look at it. Where do you find the most comfortable place to be in the house? Your bedroom? The kitchen?”

  “The kitchen isn’t so bad,” Isabelle replied, scanning the ceiling to see what Pamela had been looking at. She rolled her hands into a fretful ball. “I’ll go and help mother with the tea. Would anyone like some biscuits?”

  “Yes please, I wouldn’t say no,” Mike said enthusiastically. “Have you got any chocolate ones?”

  “Mike, do you ever stop thinking about your stomach?” Serena asked.

  “Never. It’s my very favourite organ,” Mike replied.

  “Could have fooled me,” Serena muttered.

  “I’ve got some digestives?” Isabella offered, moving backwards down the hallway.

  “Chocolate covered ones?”

  “No, just the normal ones I’m afraid. I could make you a hot chocolate to dip them into if you like?”

  Mike beamed. “That’d be smashing. Ta very much.”

  “Right, now we have addressed the important issue of Mike’s stomach, shall we continue work?” Ribero barked. Isabelle gave a weak smile and scuttled off to the kitchen, her satin slippers hissing on the polished floor.

  “I have to say, the energy in this house is horrendous,” Pamela said in a low voice, checking that Mrs Diderot was no longer in earshot. “It’s really dense, heavy stuff. Far worse than I expected.”

  “Well, we knew we were dealing with a hostile spirit, just from talking to Mrs Diderot on the phone. Not to mention the contents of the diary,” Mrs Wellbeloved replied, craning her neck to peer inside the lounge. “Let’s go and see what we’re up against, shall we?”

  They trooped into the lounge, then stopped, silent.

  The room was impressive in a classically Georgian way. It had high ceilings, a magnificent marble fireplace, and huge leather sofas. However, it wasn’t the room that had rendered them speechless. It was the painting that hung directly above the fireplace, taking up a good deal of the available wall space.

  “Wow,” Pamela breathed quietly.

  “It’s a lot bigger than I expected,” Serena whispered, momentarily stunned out of sarcasm.

  Kester stared at the painting. He’d been anticipating something more awful than could be imagined, complete with rabid red eyes and terrifying expression. Instead, all he saw was an elegant oil painting of a young woman, dressed in a rich emerald-green dress. A smart little hat rested upon her bright red hair, and she gazed out of the canvas with a face that was neither frightening nor hostile. It wasn’t what he had been expecting at all, and it took him by surprise.

  “Is that it?” he said, staring at the others. “That’s not scary at all!”

  Pamela grimaced. “Can’t you feel it?” she asked.

  “I certainly can,” Serena said, frowning. “She’s got a face on her, that one, hasn’t she?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Kester exclaimed. “I think she’s got a very nice face.”

  Miss Wellbeloved pitched a perfectly raised eyebrow in his direction. “That’s interesting,” she said. “Julio, Mike, what do you think?”

  “I think that she is very pretty,” Dr Ribero drawled, studying the painting with a little bit too much enthusiasm.

  “I’ll say. I think she’s a bit of a scorcher myself, very nice looking,” Mike added.

  “As I thought,” Miss Wellbeloved concluded, placing her hands on her narrow hips. “We’ve got ourselves a woman-hater.”

  “A woman-hater?” Kester echoed. “Why do you say that? She doesn’t look as though she’s doing anything particularly hateful to me.”

  “Pamela, myself, and Serena can all clearly see her hostility,” Miss Wellbeloved explained. “Yet you men can only see her beauty. For some reason, this Green Lady doesn’t like women. That’s most interesting. However, it will only make our job harder.”

  “Yes, if she’s got issues with half our team, it’s going to throw a real spanner in the works,” Pamela said, studying the painting with dislike. “She’ll try extra hard to work against us.”

  “But I don’t understand how you can think she’s hostile!” Kester exclaimed. He examined the portrait more closely, taking in the fine brushwork and the rich details. Whoever had painted her was clearly a skilled artist. Her dress seemed to glow with an inner light, making her seem like an angel, and her delicate face was quite the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. I wish I owned this painting, he thought, following the undulating brushst
rokes and splashes of colour. I wonder if they’d consider giving it to me? After all, the owners of the house obviously don’t want it. He could imagine it now, sitting in his lounge above the dining table. It would look perfect there. And then, he could look at it while he was eating.

  “Hey,” Serena snapped, clicking her fingers in front of Kester’s eyes. She did the same to Mike. “Wakey wakey you two. You both look like you’ve gone into a trance.”

  “I’m not sure having Kester or Mike here is such a good idea,” Pamela said, biting her lip.

  “Why do you think that?” Dr Ribero asked, eyes still fixed upon the painting.

  Pamela rolled her eyes. “Because you’re all becoming infatuated with her after only being in the room five minutes! Look at you! Your tongue is practically hanging out to the floor.”

  “Ah,” Dr Ribero grunted, pulling himself up to his full height. “You think because I am looking long and hard at this painting that I am falling under her spell, yes?”

  Pamela, Miss Wellbeloved, and Serena nodded in unison.

  “No,” he continued, thrusting a finger into the air. “Remember, I see the things that the spirits do not want me to see. And I can see this spirit, hiding in the brushstrokes. I think she is old. Very old. An old, malicious thing, concealed behind a very pretty painting.”

  “What do you mean, you see things that the spirits don’t want you to see?” Kester asked. He was still staring upwards, reluctant to take his eyes off the Green Lady. It was as though the rest of the room had dimmed, leaving just himself and her, all alone. Plus, he could have sworn her mouth had turned up a little at the corners, as though pleased to see him. I never want to leave this room, he thought euphorically. If that is a spirit, it’s the kindest, sweetest spirit I’ve ever seen. Now that’s the sort of ghost I like.

  “Kester? Kester, I will tell you, if you look at me,” Dr Ribero said. His voice was little more than a distant buzz in his ear, as minor a distraction as a passing bluebottle. He moved away, straining to see the painting over Ribero’s shoulder. Suddenly, he felt hands grasp his shoulders and shake him. Ribero spun him round with the ease of a ballet dancer, so he was facing the opposite direction.