by Mark Hodder
“Take care, young lady! Have some discipline!” Colonel Lushington snapped. “An accident, I should think. Never mind. Go and fetch a fresh spoon, there's a good girl.”
“Wait!” Burton interrupted. “What's your name, miss?”
The maid turned beetroot red, curtseyed, and answered: “Christina Flowers, sir.”
“Have you seen the spectre, too, Miss Flowers?”
She swallowed, licked her lips, and looked anxiously at each of the men.
“I-I-”
“You can speak freely,” Lushington advised. “I'm sorry I barked at you that way. Military training. What is it you've seen?”
The girl sniffed and said: “Beggin’ your pardon, sirs, it-it were in the ’allway leading to the kitchen. Two nights past-in the early hours of the mornin’. I couldn't sleep an’ I wanted a drink o’ water. As I came along the ‘all, I ‘eard a knock-knock-knockin’ an’ I thought Mrs. Picklethorpe must be up and about.”
“Mrs. Picklethorpe is the cook,” Lushington explained to Burton and Swinburne. “So it wasn't mice, as I thought. Although I didn't. Think, that is.”
“Aye, sir, the cook. So I goes toward the kitchen to see if anythin’ was amiss and there-there in the ‘allway-there was-was-”
The girl began to tremble violently and put her hands to her face.
“Oooh!” she moaned.
“What was it, Miss Flowers?” Burton asked gently.
She looked up. Her face had gone from red to stark white.
“It were like a mist, sir, but in the shape of a woman. She were a-knockin’ on the walls, then she turned ‘er ‘ead an’ looked straight at me.”
“You could see her eyes?”
“Yes! Oh lor’, terrible they were! Like black pebbles a-floatin’ in the cloud. She stared at me all wicked, then disappeared. Just blew away, she did, like smoke in the wind.”
“Yes!” Sir Alfred cried. “Those eyes! God in heaven, they're frightful!”
“Thank you, Miss-what-was-it?” said Lushington.
“Flowers, sir.”
“Ah yes, very pretty name. Reminds me of-um-um-um-flowers. Well, continue with your duties, please.”
The maid bobbed and ran out of the room.
Swinburne looked at Burton and raised an eyebrow.
Burton gave a slight shrug and turned to Tichborne: “And you, Sir Alfred-you saw the same?”
“Yes! I've been hearing that damnable knocking around the house for nigh on a month, always at night.”
“A month? So it started around the same time as all the clocks stopped?”
“Ah, why yes, that's right. Each time I've heard the noise, I've gone to investigate only to have it fall silent as I approached. I didn't see anything until two weeks ago. It was, I'd guess, about three in the morning, and I was unable to sleep, so I went down to the library, smoked a few cigars, and read awhile. I was in one of the high-backed armchairs facing the fireplace. If you sit there and someone enters, they can't see you, but it works the other way, too, and unknown to me, someone did enter.”
He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, staring down at the food on his plate. He hadn't yet touched it. His companions weren't paying much attention to their supper either.
“A sudden knocking from the other side of the room made me jump out of my skin. It was the sound of knuckles on the wooden panelling of the far wall. Knock-knock. Knock-knock. Over and over, progressing across the wall. I leaned over the side of my chair, looked back, and saw the ghost.”
“The same as Miss Flowers described?”
“In every respect. She was drifting alongside the wall, with an arm raised, banging on the panels. I watched, and I don't mind admitting that I was paralysed with fear. Perhaps half a minute passed, then something-I don't know what-alerted the phantom to my presence. She suddenly swirled around and a pair of ghastly eyes, blacker than pitch, glared at me with such malevolence that I screamed in terror. The thing then vanished, just as the maid said, as if blown away by a wind.”
Sir Alfred looked up at the portrait of his ancestor.
“It was Lady Mabella,” he whispered.
“What makes you think so?”
“The eyes were hers.”
“But Mabella de Tichborne lived hundreds of years ago, man! How do you know what her eyes were like?”
Tichborne stood. “Wait,” he said. “I'm going to get something.”
He left the room.
“What do you think?” Lushington asked Burton, in a low voice.
“Were it only Sir Alfred who saw the apparition, I might consider him mentally disturbed,” Burton answered. “But we have the girl's account, too. And you yourself have heard the knocking.”
“I haven't heard a thing,” Doctor Jankyn said, “and I'm a light sleeper, what!”
“I shall sit up tonight!” Swinburne declared. “I want to see this mysterious phantom for myself!”
“We can't discount the clocks, either,” Burton added. “They provide empirical evidence that something very peculiar is happening in this house.”
“In that case, you'd better add the gunroom to your list,” said Lushington.
“What? Why?”
“All the guns have jammed. No explanation. In fact, the only shooters on the estate that work are those the groundsman keeps in his lodge.”
“That's extraordinary! Would I be right to suppose that they stopped working at the same time as the clocks?”
“Not sure, but probably, yes.”
The men gave their attention to the meal until, a few minutes later, Sir Alfred returned, holding a sheet of parchment. He sat and said: “Listen to this. It's been in the family for generations. A poem. No one knows what it signifies.”
He began to read: “Hell's bane black, lamenting ‘neath tears,
That weep within My Lady's round,
Under the weight of cursed years,
By her damned charity bound. “One curse here enfolds another,
Vexations in the poor enables,
Consume if thou wouldst uncover
Eye blacker than Lady Mabella's.”
“My Aunt Agatha's blue feather hat!” Swinburne screeched. “But that's awful! Hideous doggerel! Who wrote it? A simpleton?”
Sir Alfred Tichborne cleared his throat and said: “According to family legend, it was written by Roger de Tichborne himself. It was passed to my father by my grandfather, just as it had been passed to him by his.” He handed the parchment to Burton. “As you can see, it clearly suggests that the Lady Mabella had notably black eyes.”
Burton looked at the paper, nodded, and said: “Could I borrow this? I'd like to examine it more closely.”
“Be my guest.”
“I say, Richard!” Swinburne said, excitedly. “That seems rather-”
He stopped, brought up short by a fierce glance from his friend.
Burton turned back to Tichborne. “Your second and third sightings of the ghost-what happened?”
“The second was three nights later. I was woken in the night by the knocking, which was coming from the upper landing at the top of the stairs. I left my bed and went to investigate. Lady Mabella was there, moving-floating, really-from the top of the staircase toward the bottom, rapping on the wall as she went. The instant I saw her, she turned, cut me through with those dreadful eyes, and vanished.
“Two nights ago, I saw her again. This time it was in the corridor that leads from the main drawing room to the billiard room. I'd come down to fetch my cigars. It was about half-past two in the morning.”
“Another sleepless night?”
“Yes. I've been having a lot of them since this blasted Claimant affair began. Anyway, I was walking along the corridor when, all of a sudden, the air in front of me thickened, a mist formed, and it took the shape of Lady Mabella. She seemed to be facing the other way, for when I took a step backward, a board creaked beneath my feet and the mist whirled, bringing her eyes around to face me. They pierced me throug
h, then suddenly the ghost rushed forward and wrapped me in such an intense chill that I passed out on the spot. When I awoke, perhaps thirty minutes later, I returned to my room, collapsed onto my bed, and passed out again. In the morning, I found that my hair had turned entirely white.”
“Good lord!” Burton exclaimed. “You mean to say it turned white overnight?”
“Jankyn and the colonel will attest to it. The day before yesterday, my hair was dark brown in colour.”
Burton looked at Jankyn and Lushington. They both nodded.
For a few moments, the men ate in silence. The maids had withdrawn, and only Bogle moved about the table, keeping the diners well supplied with wine and water.
“May I ask you about another matter?” Burton enquired of Tichborne.
“Of course, Sir Richard. Anything.”
“Would you tell me about the family legend-the one concerning a fabulous diamond?”
“My goodness, how do you know about that?”
“Henry Arundell mentioned it. What's the story?”
“Oh, there's nothing much to it. It's whispered that my grandfather found a large black diamond in South America. It's utter nonsense.”
“But how did it arise?”
“From idle gossip. When Sir Henry returned from his travels, he stopped the dole and became something of a hermit, banning everyone from the estate. In an attempt to explain this behaviour, the locals came up with idea that he'd brought a fabulous jewel back with him and was scared to let anyone near it. Utter bunkum, of course. There's no such diamond, of that I'm certain.”
“Then how do you account for his actions?”
“It's all very prosaic, I'm afraid. The annual gift of free flour was attracting hordes of beggars to the area, which is why he stopped it. As for keeping people off the land, that's not entirely accurate, for he had a gang of builders coming back and forth. The truth is, the old house was falling down so he had it demolished and replaced with this one. Banning people from the estate was simply a safety precaution while the construction took place.”
“Ah. I see. As you say, very humdrum.”
“Yet by stopping the Dole,” Swinburne commented, “he invoked the witch's curse.”
“Yes, the old fool!”
After supper, they spent the rest of the evening in the main parlour, where they smoked, drank, and made plans. It was decided that Burton would patrol the house from midnight until three in the morning. Swinburne would then take over and patrol until dawn.
By ten o'clock, Sir Alfred, who'd been drinking without cease, was nodding off.
“I haven't slept well for days,” he slurred. “Perhaps tonight the bloody spook will give me some peace!”
He made his apologies and stumbled off to bed.
At eleven, Bogle showed the two guests upstairs to their bedchambers, which faced each other across a narrow hallway. The king's agent and his assistant then convened for an hour in Burton's room.
Laying the Tichborne poem on a table, Burton took an eyeglass such as jewellers use from his pocket and peered through the lens at the parchment.
“As I suspected.”
“It's not genuine, is it?”
“It certainly hasn't been handed down through generations of Tichbornes, Algy. As I'm sure you recognised, the language is entirely wrong for anything predating the current century. I can confirm that the paper and the ink are more recent than Sir Alfred thinks, too. In fact, I'd lay money on this having been written by his grandfather, Sir Henry.”
“He should have been horsewhipped,” Swinburne opined. “Such doggerel is a terrible crime.”
“I can't disagree.” Burton put aside the parchment and looked at his assistant. “Sir Alfred believes this poem is about the Lady Mabella, but it's obvious to you and me that it actually concerns the South American diamond. No matter how vociferously our host denies its existence, the Eye of Naga is real. I suspect that when his grandfather stopped the dole and cut off the estate, it wasn't just to rebuild the house-it was to construct a hiding place.”
He held up the parchment.
“And this is a treasure map!”
S ir Richard Francis Burton, with a clockwork lantern in his hand, walked quietly through the chambers and passageways of Tichborne House, his ears alert for any sound, his eyes scanning every shadowy corner, nook, and cranny.
Having just inspected the smoking room, he entered a corridor and moved toward the ballroom.
He pondered the facts of the case. He was thinking about Sir Alfred's claim that he'd been hearing the knocking around the house for “nigh on a month.” That meant the haunting began soon after the Francois Garnier Choir Stones vanished from Brundleweed's safe, and both those events occurred mere days before the emergence of the Tichborne Claimant.
He looked at his pocket watch. It was half-past two in the morning.
“Coincidences?” he muttered. “I wonder.”
The ballroom was a big, empty, gloomy space, and his footsteps echoed as he crossed it and passed beneath a heavy chandelier. He opened an ornate double door and stepped into another hallway. It took him to the rear part of the house and the gunroom, which he examined with an ill-suppressed shudder, unnerved by the glass-eyed gazes of its wall-mounted trophies. There were stags, deer, and boar in profusion, a tiger and two lions, and above a row of gun cases, the massive head of a rhinoceros.
It occurred to Burton that John Speke would be in his element here.
A thick curtain hung over a glass-panelled door in the opposite wall. He went over, pushed it aside, and peered out past a paved patio to the lawn beyond. Beneath the light of a full moon, a white mist was flowing around the house and down the slope, clinging closely to the grass and accumulating in the lake's basin. The willow trees beside the water humped grotesquely out of it like shrouded monks huddled together in malignant contemplation. There was, thought Burton, something horribly sentient about them.
He sneered contemptuously. Idiot! They're just trees!
He turned away and traversed the length of the chamber to a door at its end. The portal creaked open onto a small parlour, through which he passed to the music room. This was long and rectangular in shape and, like the hunting room, had a curtained door that gave access to the patio.
As Burton entered, his lantern wound down and its light stuttered and died. Thankfully, he was not plunged into pitch darkness, for, through a chink in the curtains, a ray of moonlight angled across the chamber. Vaguely, in the faint radiance on either side of the bright shaft, Burton detected the outlines of violins, mandolins, and guitars hanging on the walls. A cello stood on a stand in one corner and, in the middle of the floor, there was a grand piano with a cloth draped over it and an elegant candelabrum on top. Jacobean armchairs stood around the sides of the room.
He rewound his lantern. Its glare threw everything into stark relief, the light somehow feeling like a terrible intrusion.
A full-length portrait of Sir Henry Tichborne hung over the wide fireplace. He was pictured with three hunting dogs at his feet, a riding crop in one hand, and a tricorn hat in the other. He wore a long beard and a severe and haughty expression.
Burton raised the lantern higher, looked at the hard, cold face, and stepped back.
Sir Henry's disapproving eyes seemed to follow him and the king's agent felt himself gripped by a curious sense of disquietude.
The back of his neck prickled.
“What events did you set in motion, you old goat?” he asked softly.
A reply came from behind: a low, quiet note from the piano, as if a string had been gently plucked.
Burton froze. The chord lingered in the air. Chill fingers tickled his spine as the sound faded with dreadful slowness.
He twisted to face the instrument and saw that he was alone in the room.
He breathed out. The expelled air clouded in front of his face.
To his left, there was a closed door. Something-he knew not what-drew his attention to it, and as
he looked, he jumped, and his lantern swayed, causing shadows to jerk over the walls and ceiling. Nothing material had jolted him-just the sudden sense of a presence behind that door.
Sir Richard Francis Burton was undoubtedly a brave man but he was also superstitious and possessed a dread of darkness and the supernatural. Patrolling the gloomy house had, for him, been unsettling enough. Now, although he was faced with nothing tangible, he found himself trembling and the hairs on his head stood on end.
Taking a deep breath, suppressing the instinctive urge to run, he crept to the door and put his fingers around the brass handle. He pressed his ear against the wood. It was cold.
He could hear no movement from the other side, yet the idea that the room was occupied persisted. With great care, he squeezed the handle and began to turn it. Clenching his jaw, he braced himself and applied his shoulder to the door.
He stopped.
What was that?
Had he heard something? A voice?
“Help! Help!”
Cries from outside the house! Again they came: “Help! Help!”
The voice was familiar. Surely that was Herbert Spencer!
Releasing the handle, Burton turned away and strode rapidly across to the patio door, drew the curtain aside, opened the portal, and stepped out of the house into the still air of a clear-skied night.
Herbert was running up the slope, thick milky mist swirling around his calves.
“Is that you, Boss? Help me!”
Burton hurried forward. “Herbert! What is it? What's wrong?”
The vagrant philosopher reached him and clutched his arm. His eyes were round, his lips drawn tightly over his teeth. He was plainly terrified.
“There!” he cried, pointing back at the lake.
Burton looked and saw the vapour, glaringly white beneath the rays of the moon, crawling languidly between the boles of the hunched willows like a living, amoebic creature.
“There's nothing there!” he exclaimed. “Herbert, why-?”
“Can't you see ’em?”
“Them? Who? What?”
“There-there was figures,” the philosopher stammered. “Not in the mist, but of the mist!”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“They was wraiths!” Spencer whispered, his voice quavering.