by Jane Ashford
Alan was never sure afterward whether there had actually been a sound. But the girl exclaimed, pointed, and darted off to the left. After an instant’s hesitation, he went after her.
The light from downstairs barely penetrated into this upper corridor, and the little there was cast disorienting shadows along the floor and walls. Alan could just see the girl blundering along ahead of him toward a half-open door, which seemed to still be swinging.
The girl reached the door, pulled it open, and went through. Alan, directly behind her by this time, followed at top speed. Then, in one confusing instant, he careened into her with stunning force, the door slammed shut, and there was the unmistakable click of a key turning in a lock outside. A spurt of eerie laughter was capped by total, black silence.
A moment ticked by. Though he was jammed into a tiny space, Alan managed to reach behind his back and grip the doorknob. As he had expected, it did not turn.
He heard a muffled sound, between a sob and a sigh. “She didn’t wait for me,” murmured the girl, so softly he barely heard.
“You mean the so-called ghost?” he replied sharply. “Why should it?”
“You frightened her off,” she accused. “She would have stayed for me.”
“If you hadn’t gotten in my way, I would have caught it,” he retorted. “What is your connection with this affair?”
There was a silence.
“Could you move, please?” the girl asked. “You’re crushing me.”
“I am directly against the door,” he answered. “There is no room to move. I insist upon knowing—”
“We’re in some sort of cupboard, then. I’m mashed into a corner. Can’t you open the door?”
“It’s locked,” Alan replied with what he thought was admirable restraint.
“You mean, the ghost locked us in?” she said incredulously.
“Someone pretending to be a ghost appears to have done so,” he amended. “To prevent discovery of the hoax.”
There was another silence. Alan cursed the darkness, wanting very much to see his companion’s face.
“You don’t think it’s really Bess Harding’s ghost?” she asked finally.
“There are no ghosts,” Alan pronounced with utter certainty. “That is a ridiculous superstition, rejected by all sensible people.”
“Sensible,” she echoed very quietly. “I suppose you’re right.” She sighed.
For some reason, that tiny movement made him acutely aware of the fact that their bodies were pressed together along their entire lengths. He could feel the soft curve of her breasts at his ribs, and her hip cradled by his thigh. He moved slightly, trying to disengage, but this only intensified the sensations. She had a heady, flowery scent, too, he realized. It was intoxicating in these confined quarters. “We should make some sound, so that the prince’s servants can release us,” he said tightly. Following his own advice, he kicked backward with one foot and produced a satisfying thud on the door panels.
“Who are you?” Alan said, personal curiosity as strong as his investigative instincts.
“Who are you?” she retorted with the same spirit she had shown downstairs.
“Alan Gresham,” he answered.
“One of the prince’s friends.” Her tone made it clear that she didn’t think much of the Carlton House set.
He found he didn’t want her to draw this conclusion. “No,” he said. “The prince summoned me here to…” Alan hesitated. The prince had made it clear that he didn’t want his uneasiness about the ghost mentioned.
“To rid him of the ghost,” the girl concluded, taking the matter out of his hands. “Just like him. Let someone else clean up the mess. Make no effort to really settle the matter.”
“You are acquainted with the prince?”
“My mother was.”
“Indeed.” From her tone, and the prince’s notorious romantic history, Alan concluded that the connection had been intimate.
“My mother, the ghost,” she added bitterly.
“Bess Harding was your…?”
“Yes,” was the bald reply.
Matters became clearer to Alan. “So you came here tonight—”
“I had to see her!” the girl exclaimed. “She can’t be just…gone. I came as fast as I could from school, but by the time I reached London, everything was over. They’d buried her and…” Her voice caught, and there was a pause. “I heard about this…haunting. So I came.” She sounded defiant now. “I know it isn’t the thing, but no one asked me for an invitation, and I was sure she would appear tonight, so I—”
“Why?” interrupted Alan sharply. “Why tonight?”
“I was told it is the largest, most important party the prince has given in weeks,” she answered. “Mama wouldn’t miss something like that.”
“But, Miss Harding—”
“Ariel,” she cut in. “You may as well know my name is Ariel Harding. She named me from The Tempest.” When he said nothing, she added, “Shakespeare, you know.”
“I believe I’ve heard of it,” he responded dryly.
“Umm. Well, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist such an occasion. So I came.” There was a pause, then she moved slightly. “You don’t think it’s really my mother?” she asked again.
It was a moment before Alan could reply. Her small movement against him had sent a jolt through his entire body. This was entirely unacceptable, he told himself. He was a man of science. He was not subject to random physical attractions. “I do not,” he said more harshly than he might have under other circumstances.
“But who can it be then?” she wondered, brushing against him once again.
“Someone who expects to gain from the situation,” he answered curtly. “We really must get out of here.” He began to kick the door again, much more forcefully this time.
“Gain, how?”
“Possibly a political opponent of the prince who wishes to discredit him,” said Alan through gritted teeth. “Perhaps someone looking for personal revenge.” He kicked again, hard. “Halloo,” he called. “Is anyone there?”
He was rewarded by the sound of cautious footsteps in the corridor outside. “Hello?” said a tentative voice.
“It’s Alan Gresham,” he replied loudly. “I’m locked in this cupboard. Open the door!”
The footsteps advanced a bit farther. “How do I know it’s Lord Alan?” the voice inquired. “You might be a demon from the depths trying to deceive me.”
“If I were, I should burst through this door and drag you down to hell,” roared Alan. “Now, let us out!”
But the footsteps were already pounding away.
“Well, you might have known that would frighten him,” Ariel Harding said. “When someone is coming after a ghost, you do not threaten to drag him down to—”
“Be quiet.” The feel of her against him was becoming intense. He refused to give in to it. It was irrational; it was meaningless; it was the consequence of simple physical reflex and extremely awkward circumstances.
“Are you really a lord?” asked Ariel. “What sort of lord?”
“A courtesy lord,” he replied in clipped accents. “I am the sixth son of the Duke of Langford, and thus am technically Lord Alan.”
“Sixth?” murmured Ariel. “Good heavens. Do you have sisters as well?”
“I do not. And I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Alan?” put in a voice from outside.
“Father,” he replied with great relief. “Can you get someone to unlock this door?”
“Unfortunately not,” was the reply. “There seems to be a problem about the key.”
“The numskulls have lost it,” declared another voice. “But don’t worry, I have them fetching an ax. We’ll have you out of there in no time.”
“Your Majesty! This is a cupboard. My back is right up against the door.”
“Useless blunderers,” said the prince. “Someone will be sacked over this.”
“Your Majesty!” ca
lled Alan again.
“I heard you,” answered his father. “Don’t worry.”
“This is like one of the French farces my mother used to act in,” commented Ariel.
“I’m glad you are amused,” replied Alan tightly.
“Why did the prince choose you?” asked Ariel.
“What?”
“Why did he choose you to unmask the ghost? Because you are the son of a duke? That doesn’t seem like a very good reason.”
“He didn’t have a very good reason,” muttered Alan, remembering the conversation he had had with the prince five days ago.
He had been summoned to London without warning, ordered to wait upon the regent at Carlton House. And wait he had, thought Alan bitterly. Prinny kept him kicking up his heels in a gaudy parlor for two hours before a liveried footman appeared and indicated that he should follow.
Finally, they had passed through a pair of carved and gilded double doors and into a large reception parlor that at first seemed to him crowded with people. In the center of the chamber was a small circle of what appeared to be government officials. Most of them carried sheaves of papers, and all of them looked impatient. At the far end was a huge desk with a few armchairs scattered around it. Two young men sat at the corners of the desk bent over pen and paper, busily recording the pronouncements of the man occupying the main chair, and the center of attention.
Alan’s eyes followed all the others toward George Augustus Frederick, Prince Regent of England and Ireland due to his father the king’s distressing illness, and found little trace of the handsome, laughing youth of an early portrait he had once seen. The prince was fat. His high starched neckcloth hid several extra chins. His extremely fashionable clothes couldn’t disguise his girth. He didn’t look very happy either, Alan thought. Of course, with workmen smashing power looms around the country and people marching in the streets of London to express their disgust of the ruler’s treatment of his wife, he had little to be happy about.
Receiving a signal, Alan walked down the long room and made his bow before the controversial man who ruled his country.
“Langford’s youngest, eh?” the prince said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The prince waved a pudgy, beringed hand. “No need to be formal. Your father’s a friend of mine, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Alan.
“That’s why I sent for you. Sit down, sit down.”
A servant appeared at his elbow with a tray, and Alan accepted a glass of wine that he did not want.
“Never see you about London,” the prince commented, sipping his own wine with obvious relish.
“No, sir. I visit very rarely.”
“Not like your brothers, eh?”
“No, sir.” When his host seemed to be waiting for more, Alan added, “As a sixth son, I have felt able to go my own way.”
“Sixth.” The prince shook his head, then eyed his visitor with surprising shrewdness. “Up at Oxford, are you? Studying new inventions and the like?”
“I am a man of science, sir, a fellow of Balliol College.”
“Right, right.” The prince rubbed his hands together. “Just what I need. I take it you haven’t heard about my little…problem?”
Alan had heard of a variety of problems, from the vilifications of the Whigs to scandals involving various women to rumors of unattractive physical ailments.
“The ghost,” prompted the prince.
Alan simply stared at him.
“Glad to see the story hasn’t spread outside London,” was the response to his bewildered look. “It’s embarrassing. A dashed nuisance, too.”
“Did you say ghost, sir?” Alan asked.
“Bess Harding,” came the morose reply. “The actress?” Seeing Alan’s blank look, he added, “She was one of the great ladies of the stage. Gorgeous creature. Why, ten years ago, we…” He cleared his throat. “Never mind that. The thing is, Bess, er, died three weeks ago, and now she’s haunting Carlton House!”
“Haunting,” Alan repeated carefully.
“It’s outrageous,” complained the prince. “We were good friends. No reason for this at all.” He looked at Alan as if for confirmation, and Alan found himself too bemused even to nod. “Makes it look as if I had something to do with her death, don’t you see?” the prince elaborated.
When Alan remained uncomprehending, the regent added, “She killed herself.” His voice and look grew briefly solemn. “Terrible thing. Took a razor to her wrists. I’ve never been more shocked. But it had nothing to do with me.”
“You are asking me to—”
“Man of science,” interrupted the monarch. “Just the ticket. I won’t have some interfering priest in here with bells and books and mumbo jumbo. This ain’t a theater, by God, it’s my home. That’s why you’re the perfect man for the job.”
“Sir, I don’t think—”
“You’ll know how to go on at Carlton House, fit right in,” the prince continued, ignoring Alan’s growing desperation. “I won’t have a pack of commoners wandering about the place, sticking their noses into things they won’t understand.”
“But, sir, I—”
“She keeps appearing at evening parties,” the prince told him in a deeply aggrieved tone. “Don’t see how she could do this to me.”
“Sir, surely you don’t believe that this is actually, er, the dead woman.”
“Bess,” supplied the prince. “Don’t know what to believe. Looks devilishly like her.”
“But, sir, ghosts do not exist.”
“Splendid. You come along and tell her so.”
“I—”
“I’ve ordered rooms prepared for you here. Best to be on the scene, eh? You can attend meals and all my entertainments.”
“Sir, I have important work in Oxford which I cannot—”
“More important than a request from your sovereign?” was the suddenly haughty reply.
Alan thought with despair of the various experiments he had in train, and of the meticulous plans he had made for the next few weeks. “Of course not, Your Majesty,” he answered in a heavy voice.
Now days later all he had to show for his efforts was the embarrassment of getting locked in a cupboard. Something struck Alan sharply in the ribs. “Are you subject to fits?” demanded Ariel Harding out of the darkness. “What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” retorted Alan, acutely conscious of his surroundings once more.
“Oh? Do you often drift off in the middle of a conversation? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone in this house seems to be”—she appeared to search for a suitable word—“preoccupied with themselves.”
“I am not part of the Carlton House set,” repeated Alan, revolted. He despised those who hung about the fringes of the court waiting to offer the jaded monarch some new dissipation.
“Well…?” said Ariel impatiently.
“What?”
“You were going to tell me why the prince chose you to hunt down my mother?”
“It is not your—”
“Or whoever it is!” interrupted the girl. “You don’t seem to me like a very good choice. You can’t seem to keep a train of thought in your head for more than a minute.”
It took Alan a moment to gather the shreds of his temper. “I am a man of science,” he answered through clenched teeth. “I am affiliated with the university at Oxford. I am conducting a series of important experiments into the nature and properties of light.”
“Light?” She sounded astonished. “You mean sunlight or lamplight?”
“All types of light.”
“But what is there to—”
“You wouldn’t understand. The prince chose me because of my scientific interests and education. He thought that my training in the principles of investigation would allow me to uncover the hoax quickly and efficiently.” That was putting the best possible face on it, he thought bitterly. No need to mention that their ruler thought he was enduring a su
pernatural visitation, which had nothing whatever to do with science.
“Well, it all sounds very odd to me,” declared Ariel. “I thought lords spent their time hunting and going to balls and that sort of thing. Why would the son of a duke, who can do as he pleases, choose to stay in school forever?”
She pronounced the word “school” with deep repugnance. “My work has absolutely no relation to the pap they offer in girls’ schools,” he replied curtly. “And since you are constitutionally incapable of understanding anything about it, perhaps we should concentrate our energies on getting out of this damnable cupboard!”
“No wonder it is so crowded in here,” Ariel said. “Your giant intellect must take up more than half the space all by itself.”
There was a sharp sound at his back, as some sort of tool was inserted between the door and jamb. A splintering noise from near the keyhole heralded a crack of light that wavered, and then quickly expanded as the lock was broken and the door pried open, finally flying back to crash against the corridor wall.
Alan felt an odd moment of regret as he took a step back and turned toward their rescuers. Ariel Harding had roused his always active curiosity, he realized. He would be rather sorry to see the last of her.
As he’d feared, the hall was full of people. Around his father and the prince stood a crowd of servants and guests all peering avidly in his direction and trying to discover what was going on.
“All right?” murmured the duke.
Alan nodded, taking another step and thus revealing Ariel to the onlookers.
“Hallo?” said the prince. “What’s this, then?” He moved closer, holding up a beribboned quizzing glass for a better look and casting an experienced eye over Ariel’s rounded figure. He appeared to find much to admire, taking his time to savor the glowing skin of her neck and shoulders and the voluptuous shape of her lips. “Thought you were chasin’ the ghost,” he admonished Alan without shifting his gaze. “Not that anyone wouldn’t rather be shut in a cupboard with this—”
“We were both chasing it,” broke in Ariel. “And I, at least, intend to find out the truth about Bess Harding’s death.”
“Eh?” sputtered the prince, looking uneasily aware of the crowd around him. “Truth? Everyone knows the truth. Fit of despair. Took her own life. Always a moody creature, was Bess. Terrible thing. But nothing to do with—”