The Silver Ghost

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Appie is enjoying herself. I myself saw no reason to bother about a costume. The dress I have on is middle-aged enough as it is, and so am I. Have you seen Drusilla Gaheris around anywhere, Sarah?”

  “I’m afraid I shouldn’t know her if I did.”

  “Not unless you were introduced today. There was that possibility. Drusilla is almost certainly here, since she’s Abigail’s house guest. I do realize, however, that you and Mr. Bittersohn—”

  “Do call him Max.”

  “Very well, if you wish me to,” Boadicea conceded. “That you and Max, as I was about to say, had not been acquainted with the Billingsgates and their circle before that unfortunate business with Wouter, Tolbathy.** I grant you Wouter was always an odd duck, but so many inventors are, don’t you think? Too bad he was never able to adapt his undoubted genius to any useful purpose. Ah, here comes Drusilla now, with Hester Tolbathy.”

  “Oh, good,” said Sarah. “I do like Hester so much.”

  “It’s quite likely you’ll enjoy Drusilla, too.”

  Sarah thought it possible. Mrs. Gaheris looked sensible enough, anyway, in a drab-colored costume with a lighter coif. Sarah thought at first Aunt Bodie’s friend had come as a nun, then she remembered the habits worn by religious orders until recent years were in fact survivals of middle-class sixteenth-century housewives’ daily garb.

  Hester, on the other hand, had flung herself headlong into the festival spirit. Her gown was of purple satin over a wide-spreading farthingale, with a gold embroidered stomacher and a stiffened lace collar that must have been hell to wear. Her abundant white hair was dressed high with artificial roses and a chain of real amethysts. Rings flashed on thumbs and finger joints as she held out both hands to Sarah.

  “The little mother! How lovely you look, Sarah dear. Did you bring your baby with you?”

  “No, Davy’s not quite ready for grown-up parties yet. He’s back at Ireson’s Landing with his aunt and his grandma.”

  “Being gloriously spoiled, no doubt. But he’s thriving?”

  “He was fine the last I heard.”

  “Which was?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago,” Sarah confessed. “Max teases me about being overanxious, but if I don’t keep checking, he reminds me.”

  “That wears off after the first one,” Hester assured her. “And you really like living year-round at Ireson’s Landing? You don’t miss Boston at all?”

  “Not a bit. We love our new house and it’s marvelous being so close to the ocean and to Max’s family. He grew up on the North Shore, you know, and I’ve spent so many summers there that we felt at home from the very first day. Anyway, we do still have the Beacon Hill house. My cousin Brooks and his wife live there; but we keep a couple of rooms upstairs for ourselves to use whenever we decide to stay in town.”

  “That sounds like an ideal arrangement. Bodie, how good to see you. Did you drive all the way from Wenham by yourself? Drusilla Gaheris, do you know Bodie’s niece, Sarah Bittersohn? She was Walter Kelling’s daughter.”

  “Then you must be Lionel’s cousin,” said Mrs. Gaheris. “How do you do, Sarah? Lionel married my niece, Varine.”

  “Oh, Vare, of course. She mentioned an aunt who lived abroad.”

  “Yes, my husband was with the State Department. He died in Switzerland this past year and I decided I didn’t want to stay over there by myself. I must say it’s lovely to be among my own connections again, and to be meeting so many new ones. I missed both Vare’s and Lorista’s weddings, along with far too many other family functions, though I’d known both Lionel and Dorkie as little boys. They’re quite good, don’t you think?”

  The morris dancers were still leaping and kicking, still in perfect unison, still with no sign of flagging. With their ribbons and bells, they made a merry sight to watch, even though their faces were grim enough. Like true Yankees, they were determined to have a good time if it killed them all. Even the wheezings and creakings of Lorista’s consort didn’t sound too bad in the open air. Village bands of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries probably wouldn’t have been any better, Sarah told herself.

  Soon, though, Lorista raised her recorder high and brought it down with a savage slash, narrowly missing the cor anglais. Music and dancers came smartly to a halt. Onlookers clapped. Potboys bustled up with fistfuls of flagons. Lionel stuck his batons into the belt of his doublet and walked over to where the four women were standing.

  “Well, Aunt Bodie, Aunt Drusilla. Good to see you, Mrs. Tolbathy. Where’s Max, Sarah?”

  “Around somewhere.”

  “Ungh. Seen Mother?”

  “Appie was with us a little while ago,” said Boadicea. “I believe she may have gone into the pavilion. Allow me to compliment you on your dancing, Lionel. The morris dance is of ancient origin, is it not?”

  “That depends on what you call ancient,” was his gracious reply.

  “I call myself ancient,” said Hester Tolbathy, “and my feet are going to start aching in about one minute if I don’t find a place to sit down.”

  “What about that bench under the tree?” Sarah suggested.

  “It looks as if the birds have been there first,” Mrs. Gaheris objected. “Isn’t there someplace cleaner, and softer?”

  “We could go into the pavilion,” said Hester.

  “Or up to the car shed,” said Boadicea. “I must confess that when the reveling gets a bit too much for me, I always slip off and sit in one of Bill’s Rolls Royces.”

  Drusilla Gaheris raised her eyebrows as far as her starched coif would allow. “I know Abigail and Bill each drive a Rolls. Don’t tell me there are more?”

  “Nine in all, I believe.”

  “No, ten,” Hester Tolbathy corrected. “Bill gave Abigail a 1927 Silver Cloud for Christmas this past year. They’re all antiques, Drusilla. Heaven only knows what they’re worth by now.”

  “Oh, but we mustn’t give Drusilla the idea Bill simply went out and squandered a lot of money on them,” cried Boadicea. “How it started, Drusilla, was that Bill’s grandfather bought one of the early models in 1908, I believe it was. Then of course the cars kept getting better, so he bought another in 1916. Then Bill’s father was given one for his graduation from Harvard in 1924 and his sister Eglantine got hers as a wedding present.”

  “And then the Depression came along and people were selling off their Rollses for whatever they could get,” Hester went on, “so the Billingsgates picked up a couple more for Bill and his brother Ralph to drive when they got old enough. Naturally one doesn’t trundle a Rolls off to the junkyard and I suppose it seemed rather vulgar to turn them in, so they simply accumulated. After a while, the Rollses became something of a family joke. Bill’s parents gave him and Abigail a 1945 Sedanca de ville to go honeymooning in, and so it went. It’s got so that whenever Bill sees an old Rolls going at a bargain, he just buys the car and stuffs it in with the rest of them.”

  “What a fascinating hobby,” said Mrs. Gaheris. “Do they all work?”

  “Oh yes,” Hester assured her. “I’m sure you’ll be dragged off to a rally as soon as we’ve recovered from the revel. We go in a bunch: Tom and I and the Dorks and the Whets and our various offspring and their wives. Or husbands, as the case may be. And Bill and Abigail, needless to say. I expect you’ll get to drive the New Phantom.”

  “Me? I’d be scared to touch it.”

  “When were you ever scared of anything? Remember how we used to pile into that Chevy roadster of yours with the rumble seat and go whooping around like a pack of Zelda Fitzgeralds? Ah, those were the days and aren’t you glad we don’t have to live them over? Come on, Drusilla, let’s go see the cars.”

  But they couldn’t. Sarah wondered whether or not she should be the one to break the news that the car shed had been declared out of bounds for the day. She didn’t particularly mind sending Aunt Bodie on a wild goose chase, but it did seem a shame for Hester Tolbathy to drag her farthingale all the way up there for nothing.
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  Luckily, the matter was taken out of her hands. Two of the musicians, now carrying brass trumpets fully a yard long and wearing tabards emblazoned with what was presumably the Billingsgate coat of arms, a bee volant on a field semé, marched to the front of the pavilion and began creating a terrible din. The banquet was announced.

  And a banquet in sooth it was. Renaissance revelers had evidently been hearty feeders, when they got the chance, and the Billingsgates weren’t about to dishonor the tradition. Even Max was impressed.

  “My God, this looks like a Newton bar mitzvah. What is all that stuff, anyway?”

  There’d been some fudging of recipes to suit modern tastes, and a few pardonable subterfuges. The peacock pies, for instance, were only turkey under borrowed plumage and the swans but geese. The baron of beef, the larded capons, and the sallets of herbs were authentic as could be. So, no doubt, was the huge silver bowl full of something gruelish that sat square in the middle of the laden trestle. Even Sarah couldn’t guess what it might be.

  “Frumenty,” said Marcia Whet, who happened to be standing beside them. “Just whole wheat boiled in milk and spices, actually. Abigail always sets it out because she feels it’s the thing to do, but she doesn’t really expect us to eat any. Take half a spoonful for manners and leave it on your plate, that’s what I always do.”

  As she spoke, Marcia gave herself a generous helping without seeming to notice she was doing so. Max decided to pass up the frumenty, then shrugged and helped both himself and Sarah to a dollop.

  “Ess, ess, mein Kind. It’s probably good for you.”

  “It must have some redeeming feature. Enjoy your dinner, dear. I’m going to mingle some more.”

  Sarah took her plate over to one of the long tables and sat down. There was no printed menu; she supposed not all the lords or ladies of the period would have been able to read one. At least everybody got his own knife and fork, although it appeared the forks were anachronistic. The gentry hadn’t started introducing them to their tables until sometime in the seventeenth century, and even then many considered them a silly affectation.

  She knew all this because Professor Ufford told her so. She’d picked a seat next to old Tom Tolbathy, whom she liked very much, assuming she’d be able to have a comfortable chat with him about who was who and why. Tom would have been only too glad to oblige, but Ufford had zeroed in on the empty seat at her right. Since then, neither of them had been able to get a word in edgewise. Her neighbors across the table, Buck Tolbathy and Young Dork, were no help. They were deep in a low-voiced conversation about the finer points of morris dancing, and eating frumenty almost as if they liked it.

  Well, it probably didn’t matter that she wasn’t accomplishing anything here. Marcia Whet and Hester Tolbathy had Max cozily tucked between them at the next table; no doubt he was gleaning plenty from them. Sarah tried to tune out the professor’s drone and concentrate on her dinner and the charming Renaissance music being piped in from Station XBIL. Pretty soon she’d find an excuse to change her seat.

  That wouldn’t be hard to do, plenty of people were table-hopping. Though any number of potboys and serving wenches were rushing about with trays and plates, and Melisande Purbody’s five Afghan hounds were foraging among the rushes that covered the floor of the pavilion, service was mostly do-it-yourself. Somebody would get up, wearing his napkin around his neck and carrying his cutlery as well as his plate, collect another helping of peacock pie and frumenty from the buffet, then plop himself down beside some other reveler he hadn’t yet got to revel with.

  Even after the surfeit stage ought to have been reached, Sarah couldn’t notice much thinning around the boards. The pavilion was more inviting now than the lawn. As so often happens on a May day in Massachusetts, a stiffish east wind had sprung up. The sky that had been so azure or perhaps cerulean an hour before had become overcast with the darkish gray clouds that foretold a shower.

  Sarah herself was comfortable enough in her silken gown and heavy brocade houppelande, but Abigail was sending a couple of the serving wenches who also happened to be her granddaughters into the house for extra wraps to protect the more thinly garbed. Apollonia Kelling, sitting over beyond Young Dork, was accepting a shawl with loud cries of gratitude.

  “Just what the old bones needed. Bodie ought to have one, too. Her rheumatics always kick up if she gets a chill.”

  “I’ll take it to her,” Sarah heard one of the young Purbodys offer. “Where is she?”

  “Let’s see. There—no, that’s Henry the Eighth. Or is it the seventh? Anyway, not Bodie.”

  Appie started prowling up and down between tables, turning the Kelling nose this way and that like a particularly undecided weathercock. “I can’t seem to see her. How odd. Sarah, have you seen Bodie?”

  There’d be no rest for her until she responded. Sarah murmured “excuse me” to Tom Tolbathy, who was working his way through an extra helping of frumenty with a somewhat bemused expression on his face. “I’m coming, Aunt Appie.”

  Sarah scanned the tables in her turn, but Boadicea Kelling’s well-ordered countenance appeared nowhere. “Sorry, Aunt Appie. Aunt Bodie did mention that she wasn’t going to eat much at the banquet, as you may remember. I expect she’s doing her four miles around the clover fields, or something of that sort. Here, give me the shawl and finish your dinner. I’ll go find her.”

  She was passing the buffet table, noticing to her surprise that the frumenty bowl had been scraped clean as a whistle, when she spied Professor Ufford. He was heading her way, and the smile on his face was not professorial. Sarah flipped her train into reverse and made a beeline for Max.

  “Darling, I’m sorry to break up so attractive a threesome, but could you come and help me find Aunt Bodie? She’s somewhere out in the grounds and Aunt Appie’s afraid she’ll get cold without a wrap.”

  “Sure. See you later, ladies.”

  Max climbed over the bench and took his wife’s arm, leaving Hester and Marcia to exchange comments, no doubt, about what a charmer he was; and Professor Ufford to seek what consolation he could find among the Afghan hounds.

  *Cleveland Amory in The Proper Bostonians described a similar adjectival effort’s having been expended over a period of years on the white gown of a Boston lady. If either wearer ever noticed, she was probably mildly amused.

  **The Convivial Codfish

  3

  “WHAT’S SO URGENT ABOUT finding your aunt?” Max wanted to know when they’d got clear of the pavilion.

  “Nothing, really, I don’t suppose,” Sarah answered. “It’s just that Aunt Bodie was talking before we went in to dinner about going to sit in the Rolls Royces. She’s a bit of an antique car buff herself. As far as I know, she’s still driving a beige and gray Daimler her mother bought in 1946.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m hoping she hasn’t got into trouble with whoever’s guarding the Billingsgates’ cars, that’s all. Aunt Bodie can be pretty sniffy when somebody tries to keep her from doing whatever she’s set her mind on. Where’s the car shed?”

  “This way, if I’m not mistaken.”

  They picked their steps down a picturesque but rather damp path through a bosky dell that lay to the right of the terrace, and over a quaint stone bridge that spanned what had probably been laid out to represent the castle fishpond.

  “It’s too Horace Walpole for words, don’t you think?” Sarah observed. “Where’s the fern’d grot, I wonder?”

  “I wot not of the grot,” Max replied, “but the car shed’s just over the hill.”

  “It would be.”

  Sarah’s pink slippers hadn’t been designed for climbing hills. She was glad of Max’s helping hand as they navigated another rise of closely mown greensward on the other side of the bridge. “How do they get the cars out to the road, for goodness’ sake?”

  “You’ll see. Remember how we drove into that big graveled circle down behind the house?”

  “Where you parked the car, yes. Th
en we walked through that long hallway and out over the drawbridge.”

  “That’s right. Abigail told me Bill’s grandfather didn’t want carriages and automobiles driving up to the front of the house because he thought they’d spoil the effect of the portcullis. It’s a stupid arrangement, but anyway there’s another drive that leads from the circle up to the car shed, which is behind that stone wall up ahead of us.”

  The wall was of undressed granite chunks, about seven feet high surmounted by a spiked iron fence. As they got closer, Sarah could see a beautifully raked gravel drive. It snaked up from among some tall hemlocks that masked the house from view, and ran at last between iron gates that were set into the wall, these were heavily padlocked; beside them stood a dapper little wooden sentry box with a peaked red roof. Inside, Sarah could see only a wide gravel turnaround and a large, utilitarian, one-story building of unromantic concrete blocks roughed up to look like stone but not succeeding. Like the gates, the building appeared to be locked up tight.

  “I don’t see any sign of Aunt Bodie,” she said.

  “I don’t see the watchman, either.” Max was not happy. “He ought to have challenged us by now.”

  “Might he have gone to get something to eat?”

  “He’s not supposed to. He got a lunch break at noon and a coffee break at three o’clock. He’s not due for another till six. One of the potboys is supposed to come by every hour on the hour to see if he needs a quick relief, and stay till he gets back. Bill left strict orders that the gate’s not to be left unguarded for a single minute. Besides, Rufus—that’s his name—is part of the entertainment. He’s in mediaeval peasant costume and carries a Totschläger.”

  “What’s that, some kind of war club?”

  “A flail, actually; a hollow handle with a ball of iron attached to the tip by a short chain. They were designed for bashing holes in an opponent’s armor and came in a great many variations, jocosely referred to en masse as holy water sprinklers. Those mediaeval knights were a barrel of laughs. They had one that had a big ball studded with long iron spikes. It was called a Morgenstern, which of course means morning star. Totschläger just means dead-whacker or something of the sort, so Bill’s great-grandfather probably got the name wrong. Not that it matters. This whole revel’s about as authentically Renaissance as a Cranach painted on Masonite, as you must have realized by now.”