by Jack Murray
Mary made a face towards Esther, who merely shrugged then grinned.
‘I must add that I do this under mild duress. It’s been a while since I’ve told one of these. I’m somewhat out of practice.’
‘Objection noted,’ said Esther without sympathy, ‘Please proceed.’
Mary rolled her eyes once more. Although clearly reluctant, she began her tale.
‘This story is entitled,’ she paused for dramatic effect, but also to think up a suitably macabre title, ‘The Curse of Cavendish Hall.’
Chapter 10
The Curse of Cavendish Hall – A Ghost Story
It was, as far I can ascertain, Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord 1810. On a night such as this, a wintry wind blew, and snow fell heavily leaving all of the Lincolnshire countryside draped in white. It was so cold nobody from the village of Little Gloston dared show their face outside lest they suffer a very real danger of frostbite.
On this night, an old man, a tramp for over half his life, walked along the trail leading towards the village. Lights were visible not half a mile away. He trudged with difficulty through the thick snow. His feet were cold and wet; ill-protected by the old boots that had seen better days.
The intense cold burned through his meagre clothing and made tenancy in his bones. Worse was his hunger. It made him weak and ensured progress to the village was slow. Without access to heat and some food, he knew he was in serious risk of dying. This was no weather for a man, such as he, of over three score and ten years.
On and on he trekked stumbling often. Each time he dragged himself up, it sapped a little bit more of his spirit. But give in he would not. With the last of his strength, he made it to the village.
Little Gloston has barely changed in the last two hundred years. Then, as now, it comprised no more than a dozen or two small dwellings, a public house, a village post office, and store. This is what the man encountered as he entered the village. He made his way to the public house praying it was open.
It was not. The doors were locked and, looking inside the front window, there was only darkness. Perchance he perceived a light in the village store. The door was locked but he knocked. For a few minutes he rapped at the door until he heard the noise of a man with keys grumbling on the other side, ‘Who is it?’
‘A traveller, please, help me.’
‘What are you doing out on a night like this?’
The traveller was too tired to answer. Unable to stand any longer he collapsed against the door. However, his spirit rose as he heard the sound of the keys in the door. It opened whereupon he was met by the aggravated appearance of the shopkeeper Isaac Nettlestone.
‘What do you think you’re about then?’ said the shopkeeper gruffly.
‘I’m sorry sir. I’m lost and desperately in need of some hot food and a place to sleep. Could I trouble you for a little food?’ said the old man.
Nettlestone was a crotchety man just past fifty years. However, he was not a bad sort and took pity on the plight of the old stranger. Helping him up, he brought him inside and gave him a seat.
‘Wait here,’ said Nettlestone. ‘Mrs Nettlestone, we have a visitor.’
‘A what?’
‘You heard me Mrs Nettlestone. A visitor. Don’t ask me what he’s doing out on this night.’
Mrs Becky Nettlestone arrived to take charge of the situation. She was a formidable lady. Short but plump, she contrasted with the tall, lean figure of her husband. She looked at the stranger and then at her husband. Nothing on her face suggested the sight of either of them gave her any pleasure.
‘So, what do you want me to do?’ she asked both.
‘A little food madam, and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Where?’ asked Mrs Nettlestone.
‘Can you recommend anywhere I can stay? I have no money.’
‘Well, there isn’t any room at the inn, that’s for sure,’ laughed Nettlestone. ‘Where do you think he could go, Mrs Nettlestone?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, but we have no room here,’ she emphasized, before leaving the front of the shop and going into the back. ‘I’ll bring you hot soup in a moment.’
Nettlestone raised his eyes in the universal way men do when they want to indicate how the distaff side has neither sense nor rationality when clearly the opposite is true.
‘You’re very kind,’ said the man. ‘I can never repay your kindness…’
‘I know, but let’s put our minds to where you can stay.’ He eyed the stranger’s attire. Clearly, he was at risk from exposure. A thought occurred to him. He had an old coat he had thought to throw away. It was not without holes, but it looked distinctly warmer than what the stranger was wearing. It would serve to be worn over the other coat allowing an extra layer of protection. He went to retrieve the coat from a wardrobe.
When he returned, the stranger was greedily partaking of a bowl of steaming soup. Liquid clung to his beard. It was clear he had not eaten ere a long time. He consumed the soup in a matter of seconds, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, began to offer thanks to Nettlestone and then to his wife. Nettlestone waved him away, graciously.
‘So, do we have a solution to this problem?’ asked Mrs Nettlestone, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide the edge in her voice. Her foolish husband needed to understand something that was quite plain to her: the old man was unwelcome, had chosen the life he led and needed to be on his way.
‘What about the old stable at Cavendish Hall?’ suggested Nettlestone, slapping the table as he was wont to do when Mother Nature gifted him one of his, all-too-rare, good ideas. ‘It’s hardly a quarter of a mile up the road. Best of all, it will shelter him from the snow, and it has plenty of hay to keep him warm.’
‘Mr Nettlestone!’ exclaimed his wife, ‘You have arrived at an excellent solution.’
Her face beamed with delight, or was it relief? Excellent because it took away the problem of the stranger, thought Nettlestone, but he remained silent. The old man stood up and tried on the coat. It fitted snugly over his other coat. Nettlestone had also managed to find a hat. With expressions of gratitude from the old man, the couple waved him goodbye, wishing him a happy Christmas, with no sense of irony.
The old man felt refreshed, warmer if not quite full following his repast. He set off in the direction they had suggested. He tramped through the snow towards a large wooden building, a few hundred yards ahead. It had stopped snowing and the wind had dropped. However, it remained bitterly cold. There were no windows in the stable; protection against the cold would be a limited affair. As he neared the building, he could see, with some relief, there was a lot of straw. This would offer some protection and he gave thanks to the Almighty for this small mercy.
A few minutes later he spied, further ahead, Cavendish Hall. In the purple gloom he could make out the large silhouette against the sky and the luminosity of the snow. All of a sudden, he detected a light in a downstairs window. A part of him was surprised but he could not explain why.
Reinvigorated by the temporary stop with Nettlestone, he resolved to continue his progress up to the Hall with the intention of going to the back door and attracting the attention of the domestic staff. They might be able to find a warmer situation for him than the stable. Perhaps, dare he hope, there might even a bed in the staff’s quarters. They may even find some food. His mouth watered at the prospect.
He turned and began to walk towards the large house. The wind rose and blew into his face. It was as if it was trying to prevent him reaching his destination. The cold had made it icy underfoot. At one point he fell. There was a stab of pain in his leg so strong it caused him to pass out.
How long he had been unconscious he knew not. Ahead the light was still on in the house. It seemed to sparkle. Rising with great care, he hobbled the last hundred yards; each step caused renewed pain in his leg. As he picked his way carefully towards the house, there was hardly a sound apart from his footsteps crunching through the snow. It seemed deserted, but his eyes had not dece
ived him; there was a light at the window. He crept up to the window and peered in. It looked like a drawing room. A fire burned, and two candles added additional light. Just as he was about to set off for the back of the house, he heard a door open.
Glancing to his left, he could see the front door was ajar. He was uncertain what to do. There was no one there. This was strange. He frowned and looked more closely. There was no mistake. Who could have opened it? Should he climb up the steps and attempt to attract someone’s attention? He did not want to wake the household for fear of angering the inhabitants. Also, he did not want to be mistaken for a burglar. A life spent on the open roads meant he was used to sleeping in farm buildings, but he had never broken into a house.
A sudden gust of wind chilled him to the bone. The cold air seemed to find every hole in his clothing and attack his skin. This made him decided on his course of action. He walked up the front steps and peeked his head through the door. The hallway was empty. Someone had to have opened the door because he had noted it was shut on his approach. Peeking his head through the door, he called out, ‘Hullo? Is someone there?’
No one answered.
The wind seemed to grow in intensity, as if it was forcing him inside. There seemed no choice, he hobbled into the hallway. As he did so the door shut behind him with a loud bang. He spun around and tried to open the door.
It was locked.
‘Who are you?’ said a frail, high-pitched male voice behind him.
The old man gave a half cry in terror and twirled around to find an old man, like himself, standing not two feet away from him, holding a candle. He recoiled in terror. The old man was very thin, almost like a skeleton. He could have been one hundred years old. His skin was a deathly pallor and drawn taught over his face. In the candlelight, his face seemed like a skull.
‘I’m sorry sir, I saw the door was open. I was hoping to speak to the staff,’ explained the stranger, perhaps shivering from something more than just exposure to the cold.
‘I see,’ said the old man. ‘There is no staff here anymore. Just me.’ The old man offered no introduction or explanation of the peculiar state of affairs. Instead, he stood staring at the stranger who had entered his home uninvited.
‘I’m sorry, it was so cold, I wanted permission to lie down somewhere. Just for tonight,’ added the stranger by way of explanation.
The old man of the house regarded him for a moment and then said, ‘Follow me.’
He did as he was bid, and they entered into the drawing room. ‘Sit down,’ said the host. Without any further words, the old man then left him alone.
His seat was in front of the fire. Flickering shadows were cast by the fire burning in the hearth. The old man looked at the shadows when all of a sudden, he saw the shadow of a human figure rise up larger and larger. When he turned around, he saw that no one else was in the room. He gasped moments later as he looked at a table just behind him. On it was a glass with brandy and some cold meat. It had not been there when he had come into the room, of this he was certain.
Hungrily, he ate the meat and drank the brandy. All at once he felt warm from the inside. A newspaper lay nearby. He picked it up. It was nearly two years old and had a light coating of dust. It was too difficult to read but, in any event, he was beginning to feel drowsy. The sound of cries could be heard in the night. Perhaps it was an animal or perhaps the wind. He slept more soundly than he had ever before.
-
The next morning, Mr Nettlestone was at the front of the shop watching the villagers make their way to the church service. It was Christmas Day and trade had been good. They would soon shut and settle down to enjoy a Christmas dinner. Mrs Nettlestone had already begun to prepare a veritable banquet, or so he joked with her. She did this every year without fail. How Nettlestone laughed.
As he was about to go inside again, he saw the old stranger shuffling into the village. He waved to the old man, ‘Sir? Sir? How are you this Christmas morn? You are limping.’
‘Indeed, I tripped on my way to the shelter you recommended and hurt my leg, but I can still manage as you see,’ responded the old man.
‘Did you find the shelter?’ asked Nettlestone.
‘Indeed, I did good sir, but not the one you recommended.’
‘Really you must tell me.’
The old man limped up to Nettlestone and joined him at the door of the shop. Mrs Nettlestone, having heard her husband in conversation, came out to see what was happening.
‘Look who it is Mrs Nettlestone. ‘Tis the gentleman from last night. He was just telling me that he found a place to stay.’
Mrs Nettlestone did not appear very pleased at seeing the stranger again. She was fearful that her weak fool of a husband might invite him for Christmas dinner. Looking around the shop, she could not find anything she could throw at him to attract his attention. She walked to his side in order to head off any unnecessary Christmas kindness from Mr Nettlestone. The old man began to speak.
‘Yes, I went towards the stable as you had instructed me. However, I spied a light on in the big manor house.’
Both Nettlestone’s looked at one another in astonishment but remained silent as the old man continued, oblivious to the reaction of the couple, ‘I thought that it may be possible to ask the domestic staff for a warmer situation. The worst that could happen is they would say no.’
The old man proceeded to relate all that had happened. The next morning, sitting by his chair was a glass of milk, biscuits, and more cold meat. Thus, he had breakfasted well. However, when he went to search for someone to thank, he found the house empty. Of course, he had not gone upstairs for fear of disturbing the family. Instead, he had left the house from the back door and made his way back to the village.
Neither Nettlestone wished to continue the encounter and quickly bade the stranger a Merry Christmas and sent him on his way. If the old man had been more observant, he would have detected a look of fear in their eyes.
‘How can this be Mr Nettlestone? Cavendish Hall has been unoccupied this last two years since his lordship died and the young lord went to fight Napoleon. Who did he meet?’
‘I do not wish to think about who it might have been, Mrs Nettlestone. Some things are beyond our reckoning.’
‘I’m scared Mr Nettlestone.’
‘Hush now Becky. Let’s go inside.’
As they turned to go inside, they heard a noise in the street. Nettlestone went to the door and saw Barney Brocklehurst, the coffin maker, riding his cart into town. The air was cold, and it looked like snow was imminent. Barney had a blanket draped over his back and a hat covered his head. Examining the back of the cart more closely, Nettlestone thought he saw a body wrapped up in an old piece of canvas. He called out to Brocklehurst, ‘Christmas greetings Barney. Why would you be working on Christmas morn?’
‘Isaac, it don’t matter what day of the week it be, when the Lord calls, ye must be ready. They found an old man dead this morning on the road out to Cavendish Hall. He must have tripped and fell for his leg was broken bad. It looks like he couldn’t move any further, poor beggar. He died of exposure.’
Nettlestone turned to his wife who was at the counter. She had heard every word. Turning pale she began to whimper. Nettlestone quickly shut the door; fear gripped his heart. He strode over to Mrs Nettlestone and they comforted one another.
‘There, there my dear,’ said Nettlestone.
‘Who was this man Mr Nettlestone?’
Nettlestone shook his head in denial of the fear enveloping him.
‘I don’t know my dear, let’s talk of it not.’
They stood there for another few minutes, finding solace in their embrace. Then Mr Nettlestone chanced to look out of the shop window. There, staring back at him was the old man. His face was blue and stamped with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. Nettlestone gasped and tore his eyes away.
‘What is it Mr Nettlestone?’
‘The window. I saw him.’
; Mrs Nettlestone forced herself to look at the window. No one was there. Outside the street was empty and snowflakes were sailing crazily in the wind. All of a sudden, the wind caused a slow whistle to creep through the house, chilling the husband and wife to the marrow. They slowly walked into the back of the shop. Their living quarters was warm, safe, and lit by a roaring fire. The table was set for two. The smell of broth filled the air. It was snug and safe.
Neither spoke of their experience with the old man again.
Neither spoke of the guilt they felt.
Neither spoke of the nights in the future when they heard the cries of pain from all manner of animals, despairing wanderers and unseen people borne on the restless wind.
Chapter 11
Cavendish Hall: Christmas Eve 1919
A round of applause and many ‘Brava’ comments broke out as Mary finished the story. This prompted her to stand up and perform a mock curtsey topped off by an exaggerated bow. She sat down and received a warm hug from her sister who giggled with pleasure at the performance. Cavendish looked on with grandfatherly pride.
‘Just one question, about your wonderful tale,’ said Kit.
‘Yes?’ smiled Mary.
‘What exactly is the curse, you refer to, of Cavendish Hall? I couldn’t quite work that one out.’
‘Me neither, actually, but capital story all the same, old girl,’ added Strangerson.
Mary laughed and said, ‘Well perhaps this was a little bit of artistic license on my part. I probably have a dozen stories like this. They could all be entitled, “the Curse of Cavendish Hall”, or not, as the case may be.’
‘I must say my good friend Monty would’ve been most impressed by this ghostly tale,’ said Kit.
Mary sat up and looked at Kit, ‘Monty? As in Montague Rhodes James?’
‘Yes, the very same,’ said Kit grinning.
This clearly surprised Mary. ‘You know, M R James? My goodness. Now you’ve impressed me. I’ve read everything. I’d love to meet him.’