by Allan Frost
Tim was powerless to do anything; he couldn’t move. His mouth dropped open. He desperately wanted to warn the others but the words just wouldn’t come.
‘Are you all right, Tim? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Cynthia.
Sarah scanned the direction in which Tim’s eyes were staring.
‘Oh, no!’ she gasped under her breath, holding a hand to her mouth to hide the shock.
‘What is it?’ asked George.
‘It’s Lady Elizabeth and Sir Augustus!’ exclaimed Cedric, joyfully. ‘How nice to see you again! How are you both?’
Tim recovered his wits.
‘How did you get here? I told you to keep out of sight!’ he hissed.
‘I’m afraid we were feeling unbearably claustrophobic,’ said Elizabeth, stretching her arms and stifling a yawn.
‘Good man, that,’ said Augustus, adjusting his sword with one hand and smoothing his moustache with the other.
‘Who?’ asked Tim.
‘The chap who came to collect the boxes from the Hall,’ replied Augustus.
‘Bert?’ said Sarah, incredulously. ‘How did you get him to bring your chest?’
‘Asked him. Mind you, we were already inside, waiting for the right moment. He didn’t see us,’ he added hastily.
‘Bloody good job,’ said Tim. ‘He might have run a mile. And you’d have ruined the party.’
‘Fret not, Sir Tim. All appears to have gone well.’
‘No thanks to you.’
‘And, if I remember correctly, you said it was only Lady Hilda who must not cast eyes upon us.’
‘That’s true,’ he admitted.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your guests?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Hilda could be back at any minute! You’ve got to hide!’
‘Ah! It’s that nice policeman, Mr Young,’ said Augustus. ‘You remember, Elizabeth. The gentleman who collected our bones from the Lodge.’
Elizabeth curtsied. ‘Very pleased to meet you again, Mr Young.’
‘Please call me George,’ said George. ‘Hilda’s my wife and God knows what she’ll do if she sees you! Please, please disappear, I implore you!’
But there was no rushing the formalities of introduction.
‘Sir Cedric Foot-Wart, how pleasant to meet you again,’ said Augustus, bowing as if acknowledging an equal. ‘Is this your good lady?’
‘It is, Augustus. May I introduce you to Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart?’
Cynthia held out her hand, feeling a cold draught as Augustus’s fingers passed through hers. It sent a shiver down her spine.
‘I’m afraid we are unable to fulfil everything required of good manners,’ apologised Elizabeth. ‘Ghosts, you see. We cannot touch those who are fortunate enough to still be alive.’
‘Oh, how delightful to meet you!’ enthused Cynthia. ‘Cedric, you never told me you were acquainted with such wonderful ex-people!’
‘Slipped my mind,’ Cedric muttered.
George was going frantic. His hands twitched, aching to stuff the phantoms back through their keyhole. It felt like an out-of-body experience, one over which he had absolutely no control. He could see himself getting a hernia while attempting to lift his wife after the inevitable swoon. Worse still, she might go hysterical and completely out of control. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. The others had absolutely no idea how terrified she was even at the thought of ghosts, let alone the real (or, more to the point, unreal) thing. And, to cap it all, here were two, hovering just above the ground like helium-filled balloons!
‘The music is very good,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Quite takes me back to when my father had travellers staying at the Priorton Arms. Used to get quite a few. You often joined in, didn’t you, Augustus? You had a tuneful voice and, if I recall, played one or two instruments quite expertly.’
‘Spent a lot of time in that hostelry,’ replied Augustus with a glint in his eye. ‘Can’t imagine what attracted me there in the first place. Probably went to get away from my father.’
‘Don’t be so unromantic!’ said Elizabeth, coyly. ‘You came to see me. You must have done. You hated the ale and only joined the minstrels to impress me. Didn’t you?’ she added, uncertainly.
‘Of course I did, my love! Ah! Happy days!’
This was getting George nowhere.
‘And how long have you been at Priorton?’ asked Cynthia. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Ooh, we’ve been here well over four hundred years,’ answered Elizabeth. ‘We still live, well, unlive, at Priorton Hall.’
‘With Sarah and Tim?’ said an incredulous Cynthia. ‘You never mentioned it,’ she accused them.
‘It’s not the sort of thing you advertise,’ said Sarah. ‘Might frighten folk off.’
‘And you knew about this, Cedric? How many other secrets do you have?’
‘None, as far as I’m aware, dear. In view of the unusual nature of the hearing last year, we thought it best to keep things quiet. No point in telling all and sundry.’
‘This is all very cosy,’ interrupted George. ‘But Hilda will be back in a minute!’ He heard the toilet flush. ‘Oh, God, she’s coming!’
‘Kindly do not blaspheme, sir,’ admonished Augustus, fixing him with a stare. ‘There’s no need for language like that and you never know if it will affect the judgement pronounced upon you at your demise.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He felt so helpless.
The Queen’s door opened and shut, casting a brief shaft of light towards the marquee.
‘Why don’t you do something, Tim? Sarah? Help!’
‘Back in the chest!’ ordered Tim.
‘Regretfully, there is insufficient time,’ said Augustus.
‘Quick!’ said Sarah. ‘Please, both of you! George isn’t joking! Go and stand behind the minstrels!’
‘Why?’
‘Just do as I say! With a bit of luck, Hilda won’t realise.’
The human party rushed back to their seats and quickly sat back as if nothing had happened.
‘That toilet’s lovely,’ commented Hilda, replacing her handbag on the back of her chair and the torch on the table. She took a sip of wine. ‘Very comfortable. Could have spent the night there!’
Tim didn’t know whether to be relieved or anxious. Hives must have been mistaken about seeing a ghost in the King but it still left the problem of Augustus and Elizabeth. He noticed George biting his nails. So did Hilda.
‘Don’t do that, George dear. Not becoming. There’s plenty of food left if you’re still hungry.’
‘I’ll fetch more wine,’ said Tim. He wanted to get out of the way before Hilda had a fit.
‘I’ll go, darling,’ said Sarah, who’d had the same idea. She almost ran into the catering marquee and returned with a tray of nibbles and a couple of bottles of wine. She placed them in the centre of the table. Everyone except Hilda reached for the bottles at the same time, desperate to take their eyes away from the minstrels.
‘Do you know Greensleeves?’ whispered Augustus to Ted.
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, not knowing who spoke and still plucking his lute. ‘Hear that, lads? Greensleeves after we’ve finished this tune.’
‘I recognise that song,’ said Hilda a few very long moments later. ‘Greensleeves, isn’t it? Didn’t know they could sing as well as play. One’s got a very high voice, though. Thought they were all men. Can’t tell, these days.’ She shuffled as if to turn to look at the players.
‘More wine, dear,’ said George quickly, trying to distract her. She took the bait.
‘Thank you, George. Sure I haven’t had too much?’
‘It’s a special occasion,’ he said. ‘Biscuit and cheese? Best if you slice your own, you know what a mess I make.’
While Hilda cut a generous slice of Shropshire Blue with a practiced hand, George took a quick look at the others, pleading silently for support. His heart sank when he saw their expressions: each was watching intently, waiting to witn
ess Hilda’s reaction when the inevitable happened. Everything unfolded in slow motion; the music seemed inexplicably distant. He watched, unable to move, as she turned again, nibbling a biscuit smothered with cheese, towards the musicians.
She looked into the dimly lit marquee for several minutes until the song finished.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ she exclaimed. ‘Would you mind singing it again? Reminds me of when George and I were courting.’
It’s going to happen and there’s nothing I can do, thought George.
‘They’ve got lovely voices,’ said Hilda. ‘Who are they? I don’t remember seeing that many of them earlier.’
‘Just arrived,’ said Tim.
They sat in absolute, uncomfortable, silence while the song was repeated, each wondering what would happen next. The song ended.
‘Could you perform something else?’ asked Hilda. ‘I do so love this sort of singing.’ She watched the lady whisper something to the musicians. Pity she and the man didn’t know how to stand still instead of bobbing up and down to the music. Obviously not professionals: but their voices were very clear, although a trifle amateurish, of course.
She sat back and closed her eyes as soon as the next song began. You can always hear things much better with your eyes closed.
George filled a glass, downed it with a single gulp and poured another. The others, still watching Hilda with mounting expectation, did the same but held onto their glasses tightly in readiness. Would she pass out quietly? Or scream and rush around like a demented banshee? The tension mounted.
The song finished. Hilda was about to speak when Elizabeth began another song without accompaniment. Augustus, recognising it, joined in after a few bars. The players took up the tune, extemporising as the chant developed.
‘Haven’t heard that before,’ said Ted when it finished. ‘Great tune. What’s it called?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘Do you know, Augustus?’
Augustus shook his head.
‘Sorry, Elizabeth, I’m afraid I do not. It was just one of those popular tunes you hear when you’re growing up.’
‘Don’t stop,’ called Hilda. ‘Can you sing another?’
‘Mind if we take a break, ma’am?’ asked Ted, propping his lute in a corner. ‘Need to stretch our legs and wet our whistles.’
‘Don’t be too long,’ Hilda said as the players made a beeline for the King. ‘Oh. Are you two staying?’ she added, seeing the two singers loitering behind the chairs.
George could almost hear the cogs churning inside Hilda’s brain. They clicked into position.
‘Elizabeth and Augustus? Such an unusual combination. Where’ve I heard those names before?’ George, can you remember?’
George couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘George, why are you looking at me like that? I’m not drunk, am I?’
‘Er, no, dear.’
‘Have I disgraced myself again?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Cynthia, coming to the rescue.
‘Well, they seem so lost, stuck on their own over there. Would you mind if I ask them to join us until the minstrels come back?’
She took the stunned silence which greeted her request as a unanimous yes.
‘Elizabeth, Augustus, would you care to join us?’ she called.
She fetched two spare chairs from the catering marquee. While rearranging her rear to make herself more comfortable, Hilda’s illustrious guests did their best to assume sitting positions opposite.
‘I was just saying to the others how well you sang,’ she said, trying to focus. Surely she hadn’t drunk so much that they seemed to shimmer in the dim light? ‘Although I must say your clothes aren’t of the right period. More Tudor than Middle Ages, if you don’t mind me saying. How long have you been practicing?’
‘A little over four hundred years,’ answered Elizabeth truthfully.
As long as that, thought Hilda. They should be much more accomplished after that length of time.
George could hear the cogs whizzing out of control.
‘Four hundred years?’ Hilda said, aghast. ‘You’re pulling my leg! If it’s really been that long, you must be . . .’
She didn’t want to complete the sentence.
‘Ghosts,’ confirmed Augustus.
XVII
George leapt to his feet, unable to decide upon which side to stand to break Hilda’s imminent fall. The others also prepared to act.
‘George!’ yelled Hilda. ‘How could you?’
Her husband mumbled something about being very sorry but—
‘You knew about this?’ she accused him. His guilt-ridden face confirmed an unspoken answer.
‘You could have warned me!’ she continued ‘I had no idea there were going to be other guests.’
She turned away.
‘We didn’t mean to alarm you,’ said Elizabeth, humbly.
‘Oh, you didn’t alarm me,’ Hilda said gracefully. ‘George can be so inconsiderate sometimes. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you said you were ghosts.’
She swooned and slid gracefully to the ground.
Tim gave George a hand to haul her back into her seat. Cynthia poured a glass of water. Hilda declined the offer and took another sip of wine, staring (rather rudely, in Elizabeth’s humble opinion), first at Elizabeth and then at Augustus for several tense moments.
‘So, you’re ghosts?’
They nodded.
‘Spooks.’
‘We prefer ghosts. Less provocative,’ offered Elizabeth.
Hilda, sipping more rapidly, considered the situation.
‘You’re not a bit like I expected,’ she said calmly. ‘I always thought ghosts threw things around and scared people.’
‘That’s poltergeists, dear,’ said George.
‘And you have such lovely voices,’ continued Hilda, ignoring him. ‘Quite civilised.’
Augustus smiled reassuringly. ‘How could one be anything other than civilised when in your graceful presence?’ Zounds, what gigantic proportions!
‘Oh, flatterer!’ Hilda blushed. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls!’
‘He’d better not,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Not if he knows what’s good for him.’
‘You sound as if you’re both married. To each other, I presume.’
‘We are,’ confirmed Elizabeth.
‘I won’t bother to ask how long,’ said Hilda. ‘But how did you get here? Do you live locally?’
For the next few minutes, Tim, Sarah, Cedric and George, with Augustus and Elizabeth adding additional snippets of relevant information, explained the circumstances under which Tim and Sarah had inherited Priorton Hall. Cynthia, as ignorant as Hilda of the story, sat spellbound as one revelation followed another.
‘Well, I never!’ said Hilda afterwards. ‘What a tale!’
George couldn’t believe how calm his wife was or how quickly she had recovered.
‘I can’t wait to tell the WI.’
‘Oh, but you mustn’t!’ said Sarah. ‘This has to be our secret. We don’t want to be overrun by ghost-hunters or the Press!’
Someone coughed politely.
‘Couldn’t help overhearing,’ said Ted. ‘Mr Eason, would you mind if we came back sometime to have a word with your . . . phantoms. We’re always searching for authentic tunes and they may be able to help.’
Elizabeth seemed quite pleased at the prospect.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Tim. ‘Provided you don’t tell anyone, not even your wife.’
‘Jolly good, sir. Shall we continue playing?’ Ted said, leading the consort back to their seats. ‘Oh, there’s a chap loitering near the toilets. Wants to speak to you.’
‘I’ll go straight away,’ said Tim. He left before anyone could ask awkward questions.
He went inside the King of Clubs and looked around. He couldn’t see anyone. He was on the verge of leaving when a voice spoke.
‘Are you the perpetrator of this unholy intrus
ion?’ it said in a tone which implied anger simmering beneath the surface.
Tim peered around until he spotted a face poking through the mirror on the wall. He stepped back in alarm. He’d seen ghosts before, obviously, but none had ever had such an abominable appearance.
The head had a tonsure around the crown and a rather bulbous red nose. Its eyes were bloodshot, the corners caked with dried puss. Something awful dribbled from the nostrils but the worst thing Tim noticed was the taut yellow skin; pock-marked and covered with suppurating sores, blisters and pimples, many of which had already erupted and the rest almost as ripe. Tim felt his stomach heave.
‘Answer me! Or are you deaf or stupid?’
Calm down, Tim. take a few deep breaths. Drink water from the tap. Take your time before answering. He could see the face becoming more and more apoplectic out of the corner of his eye. Good. The more out of control he became, the better. Just remember, ghosts can’t hurt you.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Tim calmly. ‘And who are you?’
‘The problem? Who am I?’ exclaimed the head. ‘The problem is that you are responsible for profane behaviour on sacred ground. And I am Brother Thomas, Prior of this House.’
The name rang a distant bell in Tim’s fact-cluttered mind. Prior Thomas . . . yes, he could recall the name but not much else.
‘Surely, because I own this property, I have the right to do with it as I wish,’ said Tim. ‘My name’s Tim Eason, by the way.’
‘Whether or not you own this property is debatable but its use is not. The land was donated for religious practices by our illustrious and most generous benefactor Richard de Belmeis, a most devout man. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Thank you. Is that the same Richard de Belmeis who took great pleasure in torturing innocent people and murdering countless others?’
‘That’s as may be but ends justify the means. I like to think he atoned for his misdeeds by funding religious houses such as ours.’
‘He paid for all this?’ asked Tim.