by Amy Cross
“He backed away, unable to help himself, but suddenly the bloodied man stumbled toward him. He backed away again, still not wanting to appear too terrified yet also determined to get away.
“He told the man to wait right there, to stay by the cart full of body parts until a doctor could be summoned, but the man merely let out an anguished gurgle and lunged at him.
“It was at this point, Mr. Growley admitted, that sheer panic overtook him. He turned and ran, struggling through the mud until he reached a small storage building. He pushed the door open and hurried inside, then he turned and slammed the door shut just before the terrifying man could reach him. He held the door shut, and a moment later he heard and felt a loud thud on the other side.
“And then nothing.
“He waited, shivering in the dark, but now all he heard was the sound of his own teeth chattering. I do not recall how long he said he waited in there, but eventually he summoned the courage to emerge, and he found to his immense relief that the man was gone. He looked around, worried that the man might return, and then he made his way swiftly back to his bunk, preferring to at least be in the company of other men for the rest of the night. He told me he did not sleep at all, that he merely lay awake and waited for the light to come. The next morning, there was no sign of the strange man, so he decided to keep quiet, lest he raise concerns about his own sanity.
“But that is not where Mr. Growley's story ended. For he told me that as the next day wore on, he and his fellow soldiers had the grisly task of taking the cart of body parts to a grave, where they could be buried. Anything that could not be identified, that is. And as they were conducting this task, Mr. Growley happened to spot a silver ring on one finger of a severed hand. For some reason, this ring caught his attention and he went to the trouble of slipping it off the finger, and he wiped it clean of blood, and that was when he saw that the ring bore an inscription. I don't remember exactly what it said, but I know the name Millicent – or Milly – was mentioned.
“When he told me this part of the story, Mr. Growley's tone changed. He explained that he still did not want to tell anyone about his encounter during the previous night. Nonetheless, he asked around, and eventually he heard of a soldier who had indeed been engaged to a young woman named Milly, who he intended to marry upon his return from the war. Mr. Growley determined that this man was considered lost and most likely dead, so he obtained the details and kept hold of the ring. He was a good Christian man, Mr. Lawrence, and he had a very strong sense of what was right and what was wrong. Even after a priest gave a blessing to the burial of those body parts, Mr. Growley had the ring in his pocket, and he had a plan.
“It took him quite some time to get home, after the war ended. Once he was back in London, he found the time to look for the woman who had been engaged to the dead soldier, and as luck would have it he was able to locate her in, I believe, Hackney. So he went there, with the ring, hoping to at least give her some peace. He told me that he agonized for some time outside the lodgings where he expected to find this woman, that he almost turned around. Did she really want to know the truth about her beloved? Eventually he knocked on the door, and the landlady led him into a room and said she would fetch the girl in question. And then, when the girl came down, she was laughing and giggling, and she seemed not to have a care in the world.
“Mr. Growley explained himself, and at this point the girl became more serious. She confirmed that she had been engaged to the soldier in question, but she admitted – before Mr. Growley could say much more – that she had long since accepted that he was dead, and now she was engaged to another man. I think Mr. Growley felt that this haste was a little indecent, but of course he would not have said that. He gave her the ring, and he felt that she would rather not have seen it again Indeed, he said she looked positively disgusted by the sight of the thing. At this point, Mr. Growley felt that it would be better to leave, but he then asked one final thing. He queried whether the girl might have a photograph of the dead soldier. She protested that she was not sure, but he asked her to check, and eventually she came back down from her room with a small picture. As you have no doubt guessed by now, it was the same man that Mr. Growley had encountered back in France, whispering to himself next to the cart.
“There is one final thing, Mr. Lawrence. As a matter of routine, Mr. Growley left his details with the girl, offering to help if she needed anything. He did this as a matter of duty, you will understand. Then he thought no more of it, until around six months later when he received a telephone call at his lodgings. It was the girl, sobbing and sounding utterly distraught, asking him what she could do. She said the soldier was coming to her at night, asking her why she had not remained faithful, why she had become engaged to another man almost as soon as this soldier had left for the war. She said he wanted the ring back, but that she had long since thrown it away.
“Even the great, honorable Mr. Growley knew of nothing he could do to help the girl. The next day, I believe, he left for his new appointment with Lord and Lady Harpingdon. What became of the haunted girl, he never knew.”
Chapter Thirteen
A Conversation About Curiosity
I wait, but Mrs. Ferguson has fallen silent now and I start to believe that finally her ghost story has come to an end. I do not want to be unduly hasty here, but I remained quiet and did not interrupt for the duration of the second story, and now I rather feel that enough time has been wasted.
“Tell me, then, Mr. Lawrence,” she says finally. “Do you still not believe in such things?”
“Well,” I reply, trying to sound positive, “I think it is time that I went and put the kettle on. Indeed, I should very much like to -”
“Still no?” she says. “Is it impossible for you to conceive of ghosts?”
Realizing that she is in no mood to let the matter drop, I pause for a moment, trying to think of the right choice of words.
“I believe it is rather revealing,” I say after due consideration, “that such stories become more lurid, the further one is from the teller. In the case of your tale there about Mr. Growley, whom I respect very much, the story about the ghostly soldier really comes, at the end, through several filters. It is your recollection of what Mr. Growley told you, and indeed of what the girl in question allegedly told him at the end about being haunted by this spirit. There is plenty of room there for innocent exaggeration.”
“But Mr. Growley -”
“Even the finest of men can be seduced by such stories,” I add, hoping that in so doing I am not in any way denigrating such a respectable individual. “I am sure that Mr. Growley had his reasons for saying what he did to you.”
“And what about Lady Harpingdon?” she asks. “I saw her, with my own eyes, after her death.”
“You think you did,” I point out, “but in reality, that is impossible. You were an impressionable girl, Mrs. Ferguson, and your eyes deceived you.”
She shakes her head.
“I think you know that, deep down,” I continue. “Please, try to at least keep a clear mind when it comes to such matters. It does one no good to descend into fantasy and self-deception.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but then she sighs and turns away. In this moment, I perceive, she seems to have accepted that I am entirely correct. Indeed, I have not said as much to her, but deep down I am a little surprised that Frank Growley would have told anyone such a lurid story and would have presented the tale as fact. I believe there must be some mistake somewhere in the telling, else Mr. Growley demonstrated a propensity toward the absurd that I never thought he possessed. He is a strong, honest man with principles, and I simply do not believe that he told the story that Mrs. Ferguson has attributed to him. She would not lie, but obviously there has been a misunderstanding somewhere along the line.
I take a moment to straighten a few small creases in my uniform.
“Do you remember when His Lordship used to play at that piano?” she asks suddenly.
“Of course,” I say cautiously. I pause, wanting to go and get on with some work, but then I take a step forward and now my gaze is also fixed on the piano. “He certainly put in endless hours of practice.”
“He certainly did,” she replies. “Not that he was ever much good on the bloomin' thing.”
I turn to her.
“Well, he wasn't,” she says with a slightly mischievous grin. “There was that time he tried to serenade Lady Catherine, after they were engaged to be married. Oh, the look on her face. That woman might not have been perfect, but she certainly indulged His Lordship. She sat and listened dutifully, and she clapped when he was done, and she acted as if she'd just heard the most wonderful performance.”
“His Lordship might not have been a concert pianist,” I reply, hoping to restore the proper tone to this conversation, “but he was a perfectly fine social player.” I pause, as I realize my error. “I mean, he is a perfectly fine social player.”
“He never played so much as a single note after we all left Aldburn Park,” she points out, turning back to the piano and now seeming a little sad. “He had that upright in the townhouse, but he never touched it.”
“His Lordship had other matters to deal with,” I remind her. “He has always been a very busy man.”
“I think he associated the piano with her,” she replies. “I always thought he only really took it up because he wanted to impress her. And then after she was gone...”
Her voice trails off.
“His Lordship's motives for starting, and indeed also stopping, his piano playing are really not any of our concern,” I point out, “and it might be considered indelicate for us to speculate. I certainly don't pretend that I have any right to question the decisions of such a great man.”
“You don't have the right?” she replies, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “To wonder? To be curious? Not even in private?”
“I fail to see the purpose.”
“Well,” she says, fixing me with a most unusual stare, “you do surprise me sometimes, Mr. Lawrence. I knew you had His Lordship up on a pedestal, but this is something else.” She turns and looks across the room, and then she glances at me again. “I hope enjoyed your soup.”
“I did,” I reply, before getting to my feet, “but now, if you will excuse me, I must go and work in His Lordship's bedroom some more. There is a great deal of work that is necessary, before it is fit for habitation.”
She nods and returns her gaze to her bowl.
I make my way out of the room, although I loiter for a moment in the doorway. I am so accustomed to Mrs. Ferguson calling me back in such circumstances, that I am rather surprised that she now stays silent. I turn to her and see that she seems lost in thought, as if she is not even aware that I am still here. Watching her, I cannot shake the feeling that she seems deeply troubled by something. What that might be, I cannot begin to imagine.
“Can you turn off the lights once you are done?” I ask. “As soon as I am finished in the bedroom, I shall retire for the night.”
“What?” She turns to me. “Oh, yes. Of course. As shall I. Good night.”
“Do you need a fire starting in your room?” I ask.
Even this simple question seems to perplex her for a moment, before finally she shakes her head.
“There are blankets in the cupboards,” I remind her. “I believe the moths did not get to those. And in the -”
“I am aware, Mr. Lawrence,” she replies, with a hint of fear in her eyes. “Thank you, and good night. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, turning to leave. “Good night.”
Chapter Fourteen
A Trip Downstairs
Opening my eyes, I stare up at the dark bedroom ceiling and for a moment I forget where I am. And then, in an instant, I realize that I have forgotten before. I know that I should still be at His Lordship's townhouse in Mayfair, but something seems wrong and it takes a few seconds before I recall once more that I am at Aldburn Park.
It is interesting, how the mind can play tricks.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes again and prepare to return to my slumber. Before I can do so, however, I hear a very faint bumping sound somewhere very far off, and I open my eyes again.
I listen.
A moment later, far off in the darkness of the house, I hear the sound again.
I sit up.
Shivering slightly in the cold, with the blankets having partially fallen away from my upper body, I wait to hear the sound again. I tell myself that I shall not, that it was nothing at all, but then a few seconds later I hear a distant bumping sound, as if a door was just opened somewhere down on the ground floor. My first thought is that perhaps Mrs. Ferguson is still at work, but I distinctly recall hearing her retiring to her room and – besides – it is well past midnight and nobody would be at work at such an hour.
Also, there is no hint of light beneath my bedroom door, and Mrs. Ferguson would certainly not be attempting to work in the dark.
A moment later, as if to confirm my concerns, I hear another, slightly different bump, this time seemingly coming from His Lordship's study, which is directly beneath the room in which I now sit and listen.
I wait a few seconds longer, but deep down I already know that I shall have to go and investigate. I climb out of bed and fumble in the darkness for my dressing gown, then I make my way across the room and very slowly, very carefully ease my door open to reveal the pitch-black landing. Indeed, the house is so dark, I can barely even see the top of the staircase.
I listen.
Silence now.
Is there really any need to go downstairs? Perhaps the sound, whatever it was, is over now. I told Mrs. Ferguson earlier that the house might be settling now that it is once again being inhabited, and that explanation would seem to suffice. I look along to her room and see that the door is shut. So long as she is not disturbed by any sounds, and does not come rushing to me for assistance, I think that perhaps I should simply return to my bed and try to get a little more sleep. I linger for a few seconds longer, and then I turn to retire once more.
Almost immediately, I hear a sudden knocking sound that rings out four times in the space of as many seconds. This sound seems different to the others, in that it sounds almost calculated to attract one's attention.
I look at the top of the stairs, and now I know that I shall surely not sleep until I have investigated the cause of this commotion. I glance at Mrs. Ferguson's door, to make sure that she is still not up, and then I pull my own door shut before walking calmly to the top of the stairs and then making my way down to the hallway below. As I walk, I cannot help but notice that the air feels preternaturally cold, and I make a mental note to get the house nice and warm in advance of His Lordship's arrival in a few days' time. By the time I get down to the hallway, the house seems completely silent and I am already starting to think that this little trip might turn out to be a wild goose chase.
I stop and listen for a moment.
Silence.
And then, coming from somewhere off around the kitchen, there is another faint bumping sound.
I look along the corridor. Although I know that such things are impossible, and are likely tricks of the mind, I cannot help but feel as if these bumps seem timed to attract my attention. Every time I am on the verge of dismissing the whole thing, another little sound emerges to draw me back in.
Still, it is now abundantly clear that something is making a noise down here.
A mouse, perhaps?
Aldburn Park has never been troubled by vermin, but the house was shut for quite some time and it is conceivable that such creatures could have found a way inside.
I open my mouth to call out, but then I realize that to do so would be to invite Mrs. Ferguson's involvement. She is a fine woman, but she would perhaps not be the most helpful person to have around when one is investigating strange noises in
the night.
I make my way to the corridor and, once there, I reach out and switch on the electric light.
The bulb flickers to life, but all I see are the green-painted walls stretching ahead with several doors on either side. There is certainly no indication of anybody or anything being nearby.
I glance over my shoulder, to make sure that Mrs. Ferguson is still not up, and then I make my way cautiously along the corridor. As I pass each door, I make a cursory check of the various rooms, just to be sure that nothing is amiss. There is no sign of disorder anywhere, however, and by the time I reach the kitchen I am once again beginning to think that this whole endeavor has been a waste of time. I stop for a moment and switch on the electric light here too, and then I look around and see that everything appears to be in perfect order.
And then, quite suddenly, I hear footsteps in the next room.
Realizing that Mrs. Ferguson must have come downstairs, I sigh and go through to greet her. The footsteps are right on the other side of the next door, so I stop and wait for a moment. Then, when the footsteps stop and the door remains shut, I reach out and turn the handle.
The door swings open, but of Mrs. Ferguson there is no sign.
“Mrs. Ferguson?” I say, staring into the darkened study. “Is that you?”
I wait.
There is no reply.
“Mrs. Ferguson,” I say again, supposing that perhaps she is fearful. “It is me, Mr. Lawrence.”
Again, I wait.
Still hearing no response, I step forward and look through into the room. I reach around and flick the light switch, but the electric light does not come to life. I try a few more times, before realizing that perhaps the bulb has failed. I must add that to the list of tasks I shall give to an electrician tomorrow.
After watching the dark study for a moment, I start to realize that Mrs. Ferguson might have gone around the other way, in which case she will undoubtedly be approaching the kitchen from the opposite direction. Worried about startling her, I turn to go and intercept her. Then, feeling a faint breeze against the side of my face, I turn and see that the double doors have been left open, and that one of those doors is even now starting to swing gently back. Sure enough, after a moment this door bumps against the frame, before the wind pulls it back out.