On going to my bedroom I could not sleep. The tale told by Frank Ringan haunted my fancy, and the idea of Percy sleeping in that ill-omened room made me nervous. I did not believe in ghosts myself, nor, so far as I knew, did Percy, but the little man suffered from heart disease—he was strung up to a high nervous pitch by our ghost stories— and if anything out of the common—even from natural causes— happened in that room, the shock might be fatal to its occupant.
I knew well enough that Percy, out of pride, would refuse to give up the room, yet I was determined that he should not sleep in it; so, failing persuasion, I employed stratagem. I had my medicine chest with me, and taking it from my portmanteau I prepared a powerful narcotic. I left this on the table and went along to the Blue Room, which, as I have said before, was not very far from mine.
A knock brought Percy to the door, clothed in pyjamas, and at a glance I could see that the ghostly atmosphere of the place was already telling on his nerves. He looked pale and disturbed, but his mouth was firmly set with an obstinate expression likely to resist my proposals. However, out of diplomacy, I made none, but blandly stated my errand, with more roughness, indeed, than was necessary.
‘Come to my room, Percy,’ I said, when he appeared, ‘and let me give you something to calm your nerves.’
‘I’m not afraid!’ he said, defiantly.
‘Who said you were?’ I rejoined, tardy. ‘You believe in ghosts no more than I do, so why should you be afraid? But after the alarm of fire your nerves are upset, and I want to give you something to put them right. Otherwise, you’ll get no sleep.’
‘I shouldn’t mind a composing draught, certainly,’ said the little man. ‘Have you it here?’
‘No, it’s in my room, a few yards off. Come along.’
Quite deluded by my speech and manner, Percy followed me into my bedroom, and obediently enough swallowed the medicine. Then I made him sit down in a comfortable armchair, on the plea that he must not walk immediately after the draught. The result of my experiment was justified, for in less than ten minutes the poor little man was fast asleep under the influence of the narcotic. When thus helpless, I placed him on my bed, quite satisfied that he would not awaken until late the next day. My task accomplished, I extinguished the light, and went off myself to the Blue Room, intending to remain there for the night.
It may be asked why I did so, as I could easily have taken my rest on the sofa in my own room; but the fact is, I was anxious to sleep in a haunted chamber. I did not believe in ghosts, as I had never seen one, but as there was a chance of meeting here with an authentic phantom I did not wish to lose the opportunity.
Therefore when I saw that Percy was safe for the night, I took up my quarters in the ghostly territory, with much curiosity, but—as I can safely aver—no fear. All the same, in case of practical jokes on the part of the feather-headed young men in the house, I took my revolver with me. Thus prepared, I locked the door of the Blue Room and slipped into bed, leaving the light burning. The revolver I kept under my pillow ready to my hand in case of necessity.
‘Now,’ said I grimly, as I made myself comfortable, ‘I’m ready for ghosts, or goblins, or practical jokers.’
I lay awake for a long time, staring at the queer figures on the blue draperies of the apartment. In the pale flame of the candle they looked ghostly enough to disturb the nerves of anyone: and when the draught fluttered the tapestries the figures seemed to move as though alive. For this sight alone I was glad that Percy had not slept in that room. I could fancy the poor man lying in that vast bed with blanched face and beating heart, listening to every creak, and watching the fantastic embroideries waving on the walls. Brave as he was, I am sure the sounds and sights of that room would have shaken his nerves, I did not feel very comfortable myself, sceptic as I was.
When the candle had burned down pretty low I fell asleep. How long I slumbered I know not: but I woke up with the impression that something or someone was in the room. The candle had wasted nearly to the socket and the flame was flickering and leaping fitfully, so as to display the room one moment and leave it almost in darkness the next. I heard a soft step crossing the room, and as it drew near a sudden spurt of flame from the candle showed me a little woman standing by the side of the bed. She was dressed in a gown of flowered brocade, and wore the towering head dress of the Queen Anne epoch. Her face I could scarcely see, as the flash of flame was only momentary: but I felt what the Scotch call a deadly grue as I realized that this was the veritable phantom of Lady Joan.
For the moment the natural dread of the supernatural quite overpowered me, and with my hands and arms lying outside the counterpane I rested inert and chilled with fear. This sensation of helplessness in the presence of evil, was like what one experiences in a nightmare of the worst kind.
When again the flame of the expiring candle shot up, I beheld the ghost close at hand, and—as I felt rather than saw—knew that it was bending over me. A faint odour of musk was in the air, and I heard the soft rustle of the brocaded skirts echo through the semi-darkness. The next moment I felt my right wrist gripped in a burning grasp, and the sudden pain roused my nerves from their paralysis.
With a yell I rolled over, away from the ghost, wrenching my wrist from that horrible clasp, and, almost mad with pain I groped with my left hand for the revolver. As I seized it the candle flared up for the last time, and I saw the ghost gliding back towards the tapestries. In a second I raised the revolver and fired. The next moment there was a wild cry of terror and agony, the fall of a heavy body on the floor, and almost before I knew where I was I found myself outside the door of the haunted room. To attract attention I fired another shot from my revolver, while the Thing on the floor moaned in the darkness most horribly.
In a few moments guests and servants, all in various stages of undress, came rushing along the passage bearing lights. A babel of voices arose, and I managed to babble some incoherent explanation, and led the way into the room. There on the floor lay the ghost, and we lowered the candles to look at its face. I sprang up with a cry on recognizing who it was.
‘Frank Ringan!’
It was indeed Frank Ringan disguised as a woman in wig and brocades. He looked at me with a ghostly face, his mouth working nervously. With an effort he raised himself on his hands and tried to speak—whether in confession or exculpation, I know not. But the attempt was too much for him, a choking cry escaped his lips, a jet of blood burst from his mouth, and he fell back dead.
Over the rest of the events of that terrible night I draw a veil. There are some things it is as well not to speak of. Only I may state that all through the horror and confusion Percy Ringan, thanks to my strong sleeping draught, slumbered as peacefully as a child, thereby saving his life.
With the morning’s light came discoveries and explanations. We found one of the panels behind the tapestry of the Blue Room open, and it gave admittance into a passage which on examination proved to lead into Frank Ringan’s bedroom. On the floor we discovered a delicate hand formed of steel, and which bore marks of having been in the fire. On my right wrist were three distinct burns, which I have no hesitation in declaring, were caused by the mechanical hand which we picked up near the dead man. And the explanation of these things came from Miss Laura, who was wild with terror at the death of her master, and said in her first outburst of grief and fear, what I am sure she regretted in her calmer moments.
‘It’s all Frank’s fault,’ she wept. ‘He was poor and wished to be rich. He got Percy to make his will in his favour, and wanted to kill him by a shock. He knew that Percy had heart disease and that a shock might prove fatal; so he contrived that his cousin should sleep in the Blue Room on Christmas Eve; and he himself played the ghost of Lady Joan with the burning hand. It was a steel hand, which he heated in his own room so as to mark with a scar those it touched.’
‘Whose idea was this?’ I asked, horrified by the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.
‘Frank’s!’ said Miss Laura, c
andidly. ‘He promised to marry me if I helped him to get the money by Percy’s death. We found that there was a secret passage leading to the Blue Room; so some years ago we invented the story that it was haunted.’
‘Why, in God’s name?’
‘Because Frank was always poor. He knew that his cousin in Australia had heart disease, and invited him home to kill him with fright. To make things safe he was always talking about the haunted room and telling the story so that everything should be ready for Percy on his arrival. Our plans were all carried out. Percy arrived and Frank got him to make the will in his favour. Then he was told the story of Lady Joan and her hand, and by setting fire to Percy’s room last night I got him to sleep in the Blue Chamber without any suspicion being aroused.’
‘You wicked woman!’ I cried. ‘Did you fire Percy’s room on purpose?’
‘Yes. Frank promised to marry me if I helped him. We had to get Percy to sleep in the Blue Chamber, and I managed it by setting fire to his bedroom. He would have died with fright when Frank, as Lady Joan, touched him with the steel hand, and no one would have been the wiser. Your sleeping in that haunted room saved Percy’s life, Dr Lascelles: yet Frank invited you down as part of his scheme, that you might examine the body: and declare the death to be a natural one.’
‘Was it Frank who burnt the wrist of Herbert Spencer some years ago?’ I asked.
‘Yes!’ replied Miss Laura, wiping her red eyes. ‘We thought if the ghost appeared to a few other people, that Percy’s death might seem more natural. It was a mere coincidence that Mr Spencer died three months after the ghost touched him.’
‘Do you know you are a very wicked woman, Miss Laura?’
‘I am a very unhappy one,’ she retorted. ‘I have lost the only man I ever loved; and his miserable cousin survives to step into his shoes as the master of Ringshaw Grange.’
That was the sole conversation I had with the wretched woman, for shortly afterwards she disappeared, and I fancy must have gone abroad, as she was never more heard of. At the inquest held on the body of Frank the whole strange story came out, and was reported at full length by the London press to the dismay of ghost-seers: for the fame of Ringshaw Grange as a haunted mansion had been great in the land.
I was afraid lest the jury should bring in a verdict of manslaughter against me, but the peculiar features of the case being taken into consideration I was acquitted of blame, and shortly afterwards returned to India with an unblemished character. Percy Ringan was terribly distressed on hearing of his cousin’s death, and shocked by the discovery of his treachery. However, he was consoled by becoming the head of the family, and as he lives a quiet life at Ringshaw Grange there is not much chance of his early death from heart disease—at all events from a ghostly point of view.
The Blue Chamber is shut up, for it is haunted now by a worse spectre than that of Lady Joan, whose legend (purely fictitious) was so ingeniously set forth by Frank. It is haunted by the ghost of the coldblooded scoundrel who fell into his own trap; and who met with his death in the very moment he was contriving that of another man. As to myself, I have given up ghost-hunting and sleeping in haunted rooms. Nothing will ever tempt me to experiment in that way again. One adventure of that sort is enough to last me a lifetime.
THE GROTTO - Pamela Sewell
Pamela Sewell (b. 1966) has contributed several fine short stories to magazines and anthologies. The following seasonal tale is published here for the first time.
It had been a shock to everyone: and everyone agreed that it was a thoroughly nasty affair. Mr Jones of accounts was the last person they’d have expected to do that sort of thing. He’d worked for Debridge’s department store for nearly thirty years, starting as a clerk when he left school, and gradually becoming head of accounts. Everyone thought of the gentle, mild-mannered man as the rock of the firm, the last person to see it cheated...
It had been old Debridge’s nephew, Matthew, who’d discovered it. Old Debridge was a crusty old so-and-so, it was rumoured—hardly anyone had seen him. The younger members of the firm occasionally wondered if he even existed. But he certainly did: his nephew was living proof of that.
Old Debridge was one of the old school, believing that you should start from the bottom and work your way up. Which was precisely what young Matthew Debridge had done. First as office junior, sorting the post and making tea; then into accounts, finally becoming Mr Jones’s assistant.
Matthew had been working with Jones for nearly ten months when it happened. And had he not discovered the discrepancies himself, figures shifted craftily from various accounts to one steadily increasing one, the finger might have been pointed at him, too.
All in all, the whole affair left a nasty taste in the mouth. Matthew had been embarrassed, not wanting to be there when his uncle called Jones into his office, but knowing that his duty was to the firm. Jones had broken down when he’d been confronted, said that it wasn’t true, that he would never cheat his employer. But the facts were against him. Entries made in his own handwriting, the bank clerk’s description of the slight, greying man... What else could Jones do but resign? The fact that he’d hanged himself three weeks later, on Christmas Eve, made it somewhat worse.
Everyone had felt uncomfortable at the store. It simply didn’t feel right. The first year for twenty years that Jones hadn’t been Father Christmas. Of course, young Matthew was as helpful as ever, ready to do anything for the firm. Just like old Mr Debridge was, so some said. He simply stepped into the breach, said that he’d be Father Christmas that year. You couldn’t disappoint all the kiddies, could you? was his answer, when the perfume salesgirls declared that they couldn’t step into Mr Jones’s place, not if old Debridge paid them double.
Matthew had risen steadily through the ranks since then. In fact, he wasn’t far from taking Mr Jones’s place: old Debridge was beginning to reward his nephew’s hard work. And it was Matthew’s third time as Father Christmas: most began to think of him as the traditional Santa, rather than Mr Jones.
It has to be said that some had their doubts about Matthew. At times, there was a certain look in his eyes, as if he had some secret... But then he’d smile in his charming way, and the doubts would dissolve. Of course not. Young Debridge, as he was beginning to be known, was always a model of perfect behaviour. Even checked round the store, last thing at night, before he went home, the way his uncle had once done...
Matthew hummed to himself as he walked through the grotto. Things were going well. Since the Jones business, he could do no wrong. Especially in his uncle’s eyes. He began to smile. Matthew’s various bank accounts were beginning to look decidedly healthy. Even more so than Jeannie, the girl in the bank who’d described old Jones, dared dream. Or the various other girls, whose existence Jeannie never even suspected, but who kept Matthew pleasurably occupied when Jeannie wasn’t available.
It had been his master stroke, setting up old Jones. Matthew had always been good at drawing, had easily managed to copy the old man’s writing. That, and his knowledge of the accounts, had made it all too easy to transfer money into other accounts. Most of which didn’t link up: just the ones he used for Jones, when he thought the old man was on to him. Jeannie was devoted to Matthew; she had agreed to describe Jones, when asked about the mystery account-holder, thinking that it would win her Matthew’s love.
Matthew had felt slightly guilty when Jones hanged himself. He hadn’t expected that. But it wasn’t his fault that the old man had been unbalanced, was it?
He swallowed. The grotto made him feel uneasy. Still, he had his duty to perform, until he’d amassed enough to keep him for the rest of his life. Probably another year or two. Then he’d arrange his disappearance. France, Spain, somewhere where he couldn’t be traced. Somewhere warm, where he and Jeannie could spend the money the old man had been too mean to give him, the money he’d earned with his brilliant schemes.
He shivered. It shouldn’t be this cold in the grotto. Not this early in the evening. And hi
s sense of unease had grown. He felt as if someone were watching him from the shadows. Almost superstitiously, he switched the lights full on. Nothing. Just the empty grotto, Matthew, and the red suit. He was being stupid. Of course nothing was wrong. Everything was going according to plan, wasn’t it?
Shrugging, he picked up the Father Christmas costume and slipped it on. Luckily it fitted him exactly: he was about the same size as Jones had been, all those years ago, when his sister first made the costume. The red material was wearing thin; he noticed that his jacket showed through in places. And the beard was growing tatty; he walked over to the mirror, stared at himself. His face showed far too much. He made a mental note to speak to his uncle about it, and turned away.
As he walked down the grotto, he began to feel dizzy. The beard was suddenly far too heavy, too much. He reached to pull it off, breathe more air, and found to his horror that he couldn’t remove it. It was stuck fast. His arms flailed as he tried desperately to breathe. The thing was choking him, smothering him—almost in the way that Jones had choked to his death on the end of a rope...
The doctor shook his head. ‘A good twenty-four hours, I should think.’
Mrs Bates stared at him. ‘It’s impossible. He was here this morning, in the costume. I spoke to him myself, asked him if he was feeling all right— he had the flu last week, and I thought he didn’t look too well.’
‘Are you sure?’
She glared at him, stiffening. The cheek of doctors nowadays. Daring to doubt her word, almost calling her a liar. Her voice was frosty. ‘I can tell you, doctor, he was here. Had a whole line of kiddies, today: didn’t even stop for lunch. His voice was muffled a bit by the beard, but he was adamant. Can’t let the kiddies down, he said.’ Her face twisted. ‘He sounded just like old Mr Jones, the way he would always be Father Christmas, even the year he had the flu. He liked to see their happy little faces. Funny, Matthew’s eyes looked almost like his, the way they’d glow before he gave the first child its present.’
Richard Dalby (ed) Page 18
