Bonfire Night

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He leaned closer, his posture one of intimacy, and I caught a whiff of expensive scent, a masculine concoction of bay rum and leather. It was deliciously heady stuff, and I very nearly asked him what it was so I could buy Brisbane a bottle. “Well, there are folk who say the wood is haunted by ghostly lights—the spirits of witches who used to hold their pagan rites within the shelter of those very trees before they were driven out and hanged on the village green.”

  Something about his familiarity grated in spite of his good looks.

  “Lights? Is that all?” I smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid your local ghosts will have to do a good deal better than that if they mean to frighten us.”

  I turned to Mrs. Ninch and inclined my head. “Good day, Mrs. Ninch. Vicar.” I gave him a quick nod as well and emerged from the post office into the warm autumn sunshine. And behind me, the vicar laughed.

  * * *

  Portia caught me up just as I stepped away from the post office. “Was that the vicar I saw you chatting with?” she asked. “Did he tell you about the plague cottages?”

  “Plague cottages? No, he said the Haunted Wood is home to ghostly lights—the remnants of witches hanged on the village green. What plague cottages?”

  Portia pointed to a narrow row of cottages at the edge of the village, hovering just at the end of the path through the wood. “Those. Haunted by the ghosts of folk who died of the plague. When they first fell ill, the rest of the villagers boarded them in without food or medical care to keep the contagion from spreading. They were too ill to break their way out and when the villagers eventually removed the boards, they found scratches on them where the victims had tried to claw their way free.”

  I shuddered. “I should haunt them too if they did such to me. So, you have plague cottages and I have ghostly lights. I wonder what tales our menfolk have collected?”

  As it happened, we did not have long to find out. Brisbane emerged from the smithy with a story about a phantom phaeton that drove across the village green with its lanterns hanging ghostly green fire, and Plum related from the publican the story of an enormous black dog that roamed the neighbourhood to presage an untimely death.

  “Mad as hatters,” Plum pronounced.

  “It isn’t a bad strategy,” Brisbane mused. “Folk love a good ghost story. This village is off the beaten path by miles. It might have been prosperous once, but the railway is the other side of the valley. The smith told me this village used to be called simply Wibberley and its twin across the valley was East Wibberley. When they came through to survey for the railway, they discovered this bit was simply too narrow, so they built on the other side, and East Wibberley began to grow so much they started calling themselves Greater Wibberley. The whole affair must have been a blow to this place,” he said, glancing around. “Look at the church. It’s entirely too large and too costly for the number of people who live here now. Fortunes have declined, and if the last owner of the manor was a reclusive old gentleman who entertained only a little, even their dependence on the manor would have left them in want. So they stir up their phantom stories in hopes word will get around and people will come and spend a coin or two. I cannot blame them,” he finished.

  “Nor can I,” I said firmly. “We must do whatever we can to help them. Perhaps after we’ve spent a haunted season here, we can spread the word amongst our fashionable friends. Surely we know someone interested in supernatural phenomena. We might get some Spiritualists down here, that sort of thing,” I said, warming to my theme.

  “Yes, and the first thing you ought to ask them is where did all the people go?” Plum put in. I looked about the village and realised he was entirely correct. Everyone in Narrow Wibberley had vanished.

  * * *

  We made our way back to the manor to change for luncheon, but instead we encountered our next bit of “spiritual” phenomena. In our bedchamber, the enormous four-poster Tudor bed had been moved across the room. I rang for Mrs. Smith.

  “Ghosts,” she pronounced smartly.

  “Ghosts,” I echoed. “You don’t think spirits would have anything better to do with their time than rearrange our furniture?”

  “The ways of the dead are mysterious,” she said. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be getting on with overseeing the preparations for luncheon.”

  She left and I looked to Brisbane, spreading my hands. “What do you make of that?”

  He shrugged. “Clearly it wasn’t ghosts who shifted the bed. There’s the mark of a footprint—a rather enormous boot by the look of it,” he noted, pointing to a gouge in the high polish of the floorboards.

  “So, someone came in and moved our bed for their own amusement?”

  “It’s the country,” he pointed out. “Country people have curious pastimes.”

  Before I could remonstrate with him, he grinned. “Julia, it’s clearly a scheme of some sort. They fill our heads with ludicrous tales of phantoms and wraiths. They move things about to make us think we’re being haunted.”

  I blinked. “You think they’re all doing it?”

  “Well, it would certainly take more than Mrs. Smith to shift that bed,” he said reasonably. “And four different villagers talked to us of spectral happenings. I should think half the neighbourhood is involved, if not more.”

  I tipped my head thoughtfully. “I wonder if the lads from the village green disappeared because they knew we were away from the manor and it seemed a good time to move our bed?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder if they did.”

  I considered a moment. “If you think of it like that, there’s something almost endearing about it—everyone contributing a bit to haunting us. It’s quite sweet, really.”

  He grimaced. “Depending upon the motive.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect something nefarious!” I protested.

  “I don’t know what to think yet,” he temporised. “But for whatever reason these people have put their minds to creating an elaborate pretense of a haunted village for our benefit.”

  “Do you think they mean to drive us away? Perhaps they resent Londoners coming in, strangers who might upset the apple cart.”

  “No, I think it likelier they mean to keep us intrigued.” He smiled again. “Your reputation undoubtedly precedes you.”

  I bristled. “I am not that curious!”

  “You are curious as any cat, my love, and if you don’t mind, I think I’ll nap a bit before luncheon.”

  “Whatever for? Are you ailing?” I asked, a trifle anxiously. Brisbane had a robust sort of energy one usually associated with peasants or well-bred farm animals.

  “No, but I know my wife. And she will not let me sleep tonight when there are ghosts afoot on All Hallow’s Eve,” he said, dropping a kiss to my nose. And of course he was right.

  * * *

  I myself took a long nap after luncheon. I had not planned it, but between the excellence—and generous portions—of the meal, and a library stocked with my favourite titles and an exceedingly comfortable sofa, I whiled away the afternoon in slumber, rousing only for teatime. Mrs. Smith kept the household running so smoothly I had no need to lift the smallest of fingers. It left me free to write letters and read and play with Little Jack, and by the time we had dined and prepared ourselves for the evening’s entertainments, I was rested and relaxed as I had seldom been.

  “I could accustom myself quite easily to this life,” I mused as I descended the stairs, candle in hand. We had arranged to meet up after changing into our darkest clothes. We gathered in the hall, dousing our candles and putting out the fire so that only the light of a three days’ full moon provided us with any illumination. We sat in the darkness, straining our ears, and for the longest time all we heard was Plum’s occasional yawns. But at last, just as the clock on the stairs chimed midnight, it began.

  First ther
e came the clattering of chains and the moaning we had heard the previous night. We rose to follow the sound, but just as we reached the stairs, Portia grabbed at my sleeve.

  “Look there!”

  “Where? I can’t see where you’re pointing,” I reminded her.

  She pushed me towards the window. “In the wood!”

  We peered through the rippled old glass into the darkened wood. “Ghost lights!” I cried, and with the others hard upon my heels, I raced to the door, stumbling over furniture in the dark.

  I wrenched open the door and we hurried across the garden, plunging into the Haunted Wood. The lights danced and bobbed, luring us on, but as soon as we entered the little copse, they vanished.

  “Where did they go?” I demanded.

  “I suspect they didn’t want to compete with that,” Brisbane said dryly. He pointed to the village road. Barrelling down at breakneck speed was a coach, all in black, the lanterns blazing with green light. It looked like something straight from hell, and as it tore past us, I noticed with a shudder that the coachman, sitting atop in perfect silence, had no face.

  “Good God!” Plum exclaimed.

  “It was a hood,” I said, suddenly understanding how it was done. “A black hood to mask his features and hide his face.”

  “It was effective,” Portia said, her voice faint.

  “And green glass in the lanterns,” Brisbane put in. “Nothing supernatural at all.”

  “And the ghost lights in the copse?” she asked.

  “Villagers with small lanterns. They would have blown them out as soon as we drew near. They know this wood. It is an easy thing for them to slip out with only the moon to guide them.”

  “Diabolical,” Portia said, but this time there was a note of admiration in her voice. She clapped her hands. “What’s next?”

  Brisbane considered. “I should think a large black dog—” he began, but before he could finish the sentence, a single note from a hunting horn split the night, and an enormous dog, black as a shadow, bounded past. “They haven’t missed a trick, have they?” he asked.

  “Well, we haven’t visited the plague cottages,” I pointed out.

  “And we shall not,” Portia said firmly. “I’ve had quite enough haunting for one night.”

  But of course, that was not the end. We made our way back to the hall, where we sat through another two hours of wailing and rattling chains and lights bobbing about in the garden and the coach tearing down the village road until Brisbane ventured a thought.

  “Do you suppose they’re waiting for us to go to bed to put an end to this?”

  “Dear me,” I replied. “I hope not. How awkward of us.”

  “I think Brisbane has a point,” Plum put in. “The last run of the coach seemed decidedly slower than the rest, and the wailing lady is quite hoarse now.”

  “She does sound as if she could do with a bit of salt water to gargle,” I agreed.

  We retired, and as soon as our doors were firmly barred, the haunting stopped. The ghostly lights disappeared from the wood, the coach rode no more, and the weeping lady gave up her moaning with something that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Five

  Curiously enough, the next five days were somehow idyllic. The weather was fair with crisp mornings and a bit of unexpected sunshine to warm the noon hour. We spent the days in playing with Little Jack and taking the children for walks into Narrow Wibberley, where they were much admired, and we spent freely to encourage goodwill.

  But our smiles and our coins also bought us opportunities to investigate. Brisbane, taking a leisurely stroll about the village—which in itself would have alarmed the neighbourhood had they known that Brisbane never did anything entirely for leisure—discovered a black coach discreetly parked behind the smithy. The lanterns were fitted with green glass, and if that were not proof enough, a quick glance into the coach revealed a coachman’s livery of unrelieved black as well as a hood.

  Likewise, on his visit to the pub, Plum made the acquaintance of an enormous black mastiff, clearly our spectral hound of death. Portia herself unearthed a cache of small, old-fashioned lanterns behind one of the plague cottages, while I met the postmistress’ son, a truly strapping lad who seemed to be suffering from a strained back, the result—or so he claimed—of a sporting injury. It was not difficult to imagine he might have sustained it instead in moving an enormous Tudor bed across our bedchamber, I reflected with a sympathetic smile.

  The villagers were clearly behind our haunting, and to our amusement, they continued with them, doggedly rattling their chains and lighting their lanterns every night between midnight and two. We sat up and watched them, warming ourselves with an excellent supply of single malt provided by Mrs. Smith. It was merely the latest in a string of that lady’s successes. Every meal was a triumph, and no sooner did any of our party express a wish for a particular book or set of paints or bit of sheet music than she somehow produced it. I might have wondered if she practised witchcraft, so intuitive were her services, and we were deeply content as we played with the children on the lawn just after breakfast on Guy Fawkes Day.

  The morning post had come, and Brisbane was perusing his letters while the nannies hovered just out of reach in case we had need of them. Mrs. Smith was bustling about with cushions and rugs to make certain we were warm enough, but the late-autumn sunshine was particularly brilliant that morning, and the babies gurgled happily as they played together.

  Jane the Younger was in especially rare form as she shrieked at Little Jack for his stuffed rabbit.

  “No, Jack,” Portia said patiently, “you must learn to share your toys.” She plucked the rabbit from his grasp and handed it to her offspring.

  If she hoped to quiet the little beast, she was entirely disappointed. Jane the Younger crowed her triumph as Little Jack’s face darkened murderously. I retrieved the rabbit.

  “No, Jane, you must learn to wait your turn,” I said, eyeing my sister sternly.

  Before she could respond, Mrs. Smith appeared wreathed in smiles. “I do hope the fresh air gives you all an appetite. There’s roasted apples with fresh cream after luncheon, and I’ve plucked pheasants for tonight’s dinner in honour of the occasion.”

  “The occasion?” Plum asked, rousing himself from a quick sketch of the manor, a streak of charcoal across one cheekbone giving him a dashing air.

  “The occasion? Bless me, sir! It’s Bonfire Night. The lads will spend the day building the bonfire on the village green and come tonight they’ll light it up as grand as any bonfire you’ll see. The babes will long be abed, but the four grown folk will certainly want to see it. And you must not forget about Guy Fawkes’ ghost!”

  Brisbane replaced a letter he had been reading in its envelope. “Three, I’m afraid, Mrs. Smith. I am to London on the afternoon train.”

  I glanced at the letter. “Trouble, dearest?”

  He gave me a significant look. “It’s from Monk. He’s learnt something about our friend in London.” I knew he meant Mr. Sanderson, the solicitor who had brought us the news about Thorncross, and before Brisbane said another word, I understood.

  “He is not what he presented himself to be?” I asked carefully.

  “He is not.”

  “Oh, but you can’t go!” Mrs. Smith said, suddenly sounding rather frantic. “It’s Bonfire Night! You must stay or the house is forfeit.”

  Brisbane slanted her a curious look. “So you know the terms of my inheritance?”

  She smoothed her skirts in an attempt to gather her wits, no doubt. “Everyone does,” she said easily. “You’ll not want to forfeit such a lovely house, not when we’ve all gone to such pains to make it so comfortable,” she pleaded.

  The babies began to squabble again and the nannies swooped in to pick them up and consol
e their charges. I noticed Jane the Younger was once more in possession of the rabbit, but Morag soon put an end to that, removing it decisively with an expression of such ferocity that even Jane the Younger did not dare oppose her.

  I turned my attention to Mrs. Smith. “I’m afraid if my husband says he must return to London, he must,” I told her, then looked to Brisbane. “But perhaps I should go with you?”

  “No!” Mrs. Smith interjected.

  We looked as one to her, our expressions varying only in degrees of surprise that the housekeeper should raise her voice so adamantly, but she did not temper her insistence. “You cannot go, my lady. Not you, as well. Wait until tomorrow, Mr. Brisbane,” she pleaded. “Just until tomorrow and you can all go.”

  Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so important about tomorrow?”

  “Nothing,” she said, twisting her hands, her expression one of frank desperation. Suddenly, a look of animal cunning came into her eyes. “But it would be very unkind to leave without making an effort to find what’s become of her ladyship’s maid.”

  She flicked me a glance, and I looked around in astonishment. “My maid? Whatever do you mean? What’s happened to Liddell?”

  “Only that she’s gone missing.” Her manner was smugly triumphant now as pandemonium broke out and the four of us began to question her at once. Finally, Brisbane raised a hand.

  “Mrs. Smith, explain,” he ordered.

  “Well,” she began slowly, gathering speed as she grew more confident, “she never came to breakfast this morning. After she dressed her ladyship,” she said with a nod to me, “she went for a walk and never came back. She could be anywhere. Why, she could be in the Haunted Wood with a broken leg or fallen down a well or—”

  Brisbane held up a hand. “Yes, Mrs. Smith. There is no need for every ghoulish possibility. What has been done to recover her?”

  She shrugged. “Well, that’s not for me to say, is it? She’s no housemaid, so she isn’t under my supervision. She’s her ladyship’s responsibility,” she added slyly.