by Alex Shearer
3) Ghosts, like vampires, do not cast reflections if viewed in mirrors. However, ghosts, unlike vampires, have no dislike of garlic, which is ineffective against them. Ghosts also cast no shadows, although they can often be of very solid appearance. It is a mistake to think that all ghosts are waif-like, transparent things. Some ghosts may be very robust, and may differ little from their appearance when living.
4) Ghosts are individuals. They differ in temperament just as the living do. Thus, while soft, sweet music may lure and entrap one kind of ghost, another will flee at the mere sound. And yet each ghost will have its weak spot, its Achilles’ heel, just as do the living. For as in life, so in death and in the world beyond.
‘Well, it’s all very interesting,’ Thruppence said. ‘But I don’t actually see that it helps.’
‘We haven’t tried music yet, for catching ghosts,’ Tim said.
‘Okay, we’ll give it a go. But let’s get this jar sorted out. How can we get smoke in a jar? That is, get it to stay there?’
‘We’ll have to use something else.’
‘It has to be convincing. I mean, what does a ghost in a jar look like?’
‘If it’s invisible, it doesn’t look like anything.’
‘We just need a touch of authenticity, that’s all. Just a touch.’
20
Deadline
It was three months to the day. The hard-faced and soberly dressed Mr Franklin Beeston, OBE, MSc and member of the Civil Service Squash and Tennis Club, hopped down from the bus at its termination point and headed with firm, deliberate steps towards Bric-a-Brac Street.
He noted with some small satisfaction the gleam upon the formerly shabby brass nameplate, and he saw that the handle of the knocker was brighter than before – yet not as if polished by a cloth, so much as by use.
At least they’ve sharpened the place up a bit, Mr Beeston thought.
He took the door knocker and applied it to the wood with his usual firmness.
The door swung open and Mrs Scant invited him in. ‘Mr Copperstone is expecting you, sir.’
‘So he should be.’
‘Shall I see you up, or … ?’
‘No need. I know the way.’
Up Mr Beeston went, past the dull portraits and the mahogany tables, past old mirrors, with their silvering blemished and peeling away behind. As he went, the grandfather clock drummed him up the stairs, beating time, like a bandsman at a military funeral.
‘Mr Beeston! Please! Take a seat.’
‘Copperstone!’ Beeston said, not bothering with the formalities.
‘So how was your journey? It’s rather a fine day today, is it not? The sunshine always seems –’
‘Cut the time wasting, Copperstone. You know why I’m here. So let’s see it. Let’s see this ghost. Or maybe you haven’t been able to find one – as I suspect will be the case. Looking for a ghost for over two hundred years, this Ministry. And have you found so much as a tiny little spook? It’s a disgrace! A burden on the taxpayer. And it’s high time that –’
‘No, no, Mr Beeston. I am pleased to say that we have a ghost for you, right here.’
Mr Copperstone pointed to an object on his desk, which looked rather like a small bird cage with a cover over it.
Mr Beeston looked as if he was about to keel over. ‘You’ve found one?’
‘Indeed we have.’
‘A ghost? A real one? A real ghost?’
‘That is what I said.’
‘How? How did you catch it?’
‘We outsourced the task to independent ghost hunters.’
‘You what?’
‘Having had no success for ourselves, we thought it best to employ independent ghost hunters, of a kind more likely to be attuned to the supernatural.’
‘And why didn’t you think of this before?’
‘Eh, well … ’
‘Because you couldn’t be bothered before. Because you needed a firework underneath you before you’d bother to do anything.’
‘We must agree to differ on that, Mr Beeston, but here is your ghost right here.’
Mr Beeston looked at the covered object on the desk. ‘It’s in there?’
‘It is.’
‘Won’t it escape if I take the cover off?’
‘No, it is trapped inside a glass container. The cover is merely to keep it in the dark and to prevent it from growing agitated.’
‘Then let’s have a look at it. You’re sure it’s safe?’
‘It couldn’t harm a wasp.’
‘What about a fly?’
‘Nor a fly either. It’s securely imprisoned in the jar.’
Mr Beeston reached forward and slowly pulled the cover from the jar. The cover was lifted to reveal an object made of thick, blue-green glass, with a heavy glass stopper screwed in tight to its top.
But inside the jar … inside …
‘Here! Hang about! There’s nothing in there!’
‘My dear Mr Beeston, the jar is full to the brim with ghost!’
‘Where?’
‘Right there.’
‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘It’s empty! That jar’s flipping empty. There’s nothing in there at all!’
‘Well, plainly one needs a certain degree of insight and intelligence –’
‘Are you calling me stupid?’
‘Absolutely not. Certainly not, sir. Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream –’
‘Oh, hang on … I maybe see something now. What’s that … that kind of oily stuff there, sort of smeared around the inside?’
‘That is no doubt the residue that you can see, Mr Beeston. That is residue of ghost.’
‘Residue of ghost?’
‘I would imagine so. You trap a ghost in a confined space and it sort of … condenses out a little and leaves … a residue. In a confined space it is condensed and invisible, you see. Whereas with room to expand, you can see it whole.’
‘Oh. So this is a ghost, is it? In here? This here is a ghost?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Well, our ghost hunters found it for us. I think they got it outside the local school.’
‘School?’
‘Apparently it was haunting the bicycle shed.’
‘The bicycle shed?’
‘Looking for its long-lost bike.’
‘Looking for its long-lost bike? A ghost? Down at the bicycle shed? Looking for its bike?’
‘They managed to trap it by sucking it up a bicycle pump, and then pumping it out into that jar, then clamping the stopper tight before it could escape.’
‘Sucked it up a bicycle pump?’
‘It’s one of the tried and tested methods they use.’
Mr Beeston was lost for words. He sat, staring at the jar and shaking his head. Was this genuine? Was he being taken for a fool? Was someone having a laugh at his expense?
He regained the power of speech.
‘Now look, Copperstone. I’m not satisfied with this. You could be fobbing me off with an empty jar here for all I know. I’m going to have to send this off for analysis. And then we’ll know the truth.’
But Mr Copperstone raised his hands in protest.
‘My dear sir,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t do that. If you send it away for analysis, then someone will have to open the jar. And if you open the jar, the ghost will immediately . . . whoosh!’
‘Whoosh?’
‘Yes, whoosh! The ghost will be off, like greased lightning! Never to be seen again. Or, possibly, off to the nearest bicycle shed, to resume searching for its bike.’
Mr Beeston glared at Mr Copperstone with the beadiest of eyes.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘So you’re telling me that there is a ghost in this jar. But if I try to check that there is a ghost in this jar, then the ghost will escape from the jar, and I will no longer be able to check it?’
‘It is a bit of a problem,’ Mr Copperstone s
aid. ‘And I do see the dilemma. But nobody said ghosts were easy.’
‘All right,’ Mr Beeston said. ‘You might think you’re pretty canny here, Copperstone. But here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to send this jar to the Medical Research Laboratories.’
‘Oh yes?’ Mr Copperstone said casually, but feeling uneasy.
‘You know what they have there? They have an isolation room. You know what that room is made of?’
‘Not glass, by any chance?’
‘Glass! Glass walls, floor, ceiling, and a secure glass door. And I am going to send this jar there and have it opened. And when the ghost comes out, it won’t be going anywhere, as it will be trapped in the glass room. And as it will have expanded, they will be able to see it. And if they don’t see it … ’
‘If they don’t see it?’
‘I will then know for certain, Mr Copperstone, that you have been trying to pull a fast one. And if my suspicions are confirmed, and such proves to be the case, then I shall be back. And when I return, I shall come down upon this useless Ministry like a ton of bricks!’
‘Bricks? Really? A ton of them? That’s a lot.’
‘You’d better believe it. And heads will roll, Mr Copperstone. Heads will most certainly roll. And may I inform you that your head will be among the first to start the rolling.’
Mr Copperstone gulped, but he endeavoured to keep an outer appearance of calm.
‘Well, all I can tell you, sir,’ he said, ‘is that my ghost hunters assure me there is a ghost in that jar. Beyond that, I know no more than you do.’
‘Then we shall see,’ Mr Beeston said. ‘We shall see.’ He re-covered the jar with the cloth bag.
‘You’ll be careful not to drop –’
‘Don’t worry. And you may have got yourself a bit of a reprieve here, Copperstone, but not for long. I’ll have this uncorked within the week. One week’s grace. That’s all you’ve got. I’ll be back. Have no fear of that. I’ll be back.’
But Beeston’s return was just what Mr Copperstone did fear.
As Mr Beeston turned to go on his way, Mrs Scant appeared at the office door and politely enquired,
‘Will you and your visitor be requiring a cup of tea, Mr Copperstone?’
‘Tea!’ Beeston snarled, grasping the covered jar with the alleged ghost in it and heading for the stairs. ‘I haven’t got time for tea. I can’t sit about drinking tea all day. Not like some.’
And away he went.
‘How much are we paying these people?’ Mr Beeston said, as soon as he was back at the Department of Economies, with his jarful of ghost under his arm. ‘These layabouts at this Ministry of Ghosts?’
‘I still haven’t been able to find out yet, sir,’ Mrs Peeve said. ‘The Human Resources Office says it can’t put hands on their records.’
‘Then what have they done with them?’
‘They think they might have been accidentally filed away in the archives when they moved premises last year.’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Mr Beeston said (meaning, of course, quite the opposite). ‘So what about employment records and past occupations? They’ve all been misfiled in the archives too, have they?’
‘That’s what they seem to be saying, sir.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Mr Beeston said. ‘Does anyone do any proper work here, apart from me … and your good self too, of course, Mrs Peeve?’
‘Well … ’
‘Never mind that for now. Let me have the files as soon as they turn up, and meantime, send this jar to the Medical Research Laboratories, will you? But tell them they’ll need to examine it in the isolation room – the glass one, with the glass walls, floor and ceiling.’
Mrs Peeve looked at the jar. ‘So what is in here, sir?’
‘A ghost, Mrs Peeve. A ghost.’
Mrs Peeve took an abrupt step backwards. ‘A ghost?’
‘Allegedly a ghost. But I wouldn’t be afraid of it. Because you know what I really think is in there, Mrs Peeve?’
‘What, sir?’
‘Nothing! There’s a big load of nothing in there, and those people round at the Ministry of Ghosts are trying it on. But, just to be on the safe side, this jar shall only be opened in controlled conditions.’
‘Conditions are always best when they’re controlled,’ Mrs Peeve agreed. She peered into the jar to see if she could make the ghost out.
‘There seems to be something visible, Mr Beeston, some sort of … smear of liquid … oily looking, perhaps.’
‘Condensed ghost, so I am told, Mrs Peeve.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ve heard of condensed milk, but never –’
‘No. And you are not alone. A jar of condensed ghost is also a new one on me. But we shall see, Mrs Peeve. I shall have this examined as soon as possible. And if there isn’t a ghost in there, then that Ministry is for the chop. Meanwhile, any chance of a cup of tea, Mrs Peeve?’
There was. And unlike Mrs Scant’s tea, Mrs Peeve’s tea actually turned up. Then she rang the Medical Research Laboratories.
‘They say the isolation room won’t be ready for a few days, Mr Beeston. They’ve got someone in there at the moment, suffering from something contagious.’
‘And what disease is that exactly?’
‘Not quite sure, sir. I didn’t catch what they said.’
‘Can’t be that contagious then.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. All right, this jar of ghost can do as a paperweight for now,’ Mr Beeston said, and he moved it to sit on top of some files on his desk.
Mrs Peeve stared at the jar again.
‘I thought I saw something move just then,’ she said.
‘Did you? Are you sure? Did you really?’
‘Or, then again … maybe I didn’t.’
21
The (Awful) Truth
Thruppence Coddley and Tim Legge tried everything. Whatever efforts they had made before, they now doubled them. It was only a matter of days, they knew, before that ruthless Mr Beeston would be back, probably in a bad temper at having been deceived and fobbed off with an empty jar, containing no more than a squirt of fish oil. And this time he would close the Ministry down forever, without hope of reprieve.
So they spent every free minute on their hunt for ghosts. Armed with trapping equipment, with incantations and spells, with candles and potions and small tinkling bells and other such lures, they tried to catch one.
They went back to St Bindle’s Church graveyard; they sounded out the crypt; they were nearly interrupted again by the Reverend Reggie Mangle, but again they eluded him. They wandered down to the pet cemetery, and had a go there, for a ghost is a ghost, after all, whether human or animal.
They went round to the undertaker’s, and waited until a hearse came along.
‘It’ll still be fresh,’ Tim said. ‘So we’ll have a good chance of nabbing it.’
And while the deceased was being unloaded, they hid in a doorway and muttered their spells, taken verbatim from Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting. Yet, though they didn’t put a foot wrong, or say a word out of place, no ghost appeared.
‘It’s hopeless,’ Tim then said. ‘Where have they all gone? Where are all the ghosts?’
‘I don’t know,’ Thruppence said. ‘But wherever they are, they’re not round here.’
So they caught a bus and tried elsewhere, and odd looks they got too from the bus driver and from their fellow passengers, when they climbed aboard the number twenty-three with their rucksacks full of ghost hunting equipment, with their bell, their books, their candles, and another large glass jar with a special stopper.
They went to distant cemeteries, to places reputed to be haunted, to old battlefields, to famous spots where unhappy lovers had leapt to their unfortunate ends, to the sites of ancient disasters, to any likely place where spirits might choose to dwell. But nothing. Not one small ghost to show for all their pains.
Heavy-hearted and weary of foot, they returned home empty-handed and
with an empty jar, yet again.
‘It’s no good,’ Tim said. ‘We’re just going to have to tell them that we can’t find anything. But we’ve done our best, and you can’t do more than that, can you?’
‘No, but it’s such a shame. I’ve quite got to like them all,’ Thruppence said. ‘I’d feel terrible if they lost their jobs and the Ministry got closed down.’
‘Well, that inspector bloke’s going to find out what’s really in that jar, sooner or later.’
‘Okay. Let’s go round and see them tomorrow afternoon, and tell them that we’ve tried our utmost, but it’s not going to work. At least it’ll give them a chance to prepare for the worst.’
So home they went: Tim to The Legge Works, and Thruppence to Good Coddley’s Fish Shop.
‘And not a word to anyone, Tim,’ Thruppence warned, as they parted. But the warning was unnecessary. They had come so far and had not told a soul the secret of what they were doing.
They entered their houses, and went up to their rooms, as silent and as stealthy … as ghosts.
It was on the following afternoon that the whole thing unravelled – the great pity and, in some ways, the huge horror of it became clear. The dreadful facts revealed themselves, in all their bitter pathos and desperation.
But, for now, Tim Legge slept peacefully in his bed, and Thruppence Coddley slept soundly in hers, and neither of them dreamed that tomorrow they would meet a ghost – many ghosts, ghosts aplenty.
More ghosts than any reasonable person would care to see ever.
And these ghosts would come to haunt them for the rest of their lives.
It was Thruppence who realised. She and Tim were in Mr Copperstone’s office, on the following afternoon. They had gone there immediately after school.
‘Maybe we should give them back all the money that they’ve paid us,’ Thruppence said as they went. ‘I haven’t spent any of mine yet. Have you?’
‘No,’ Tim said. ‘Funnily enough, I haven’t. I thought when we first got these jobs that I’d be hitting the shops big time, but I just haven’t bothered somehow. I think the job’s been better than the money, if you know what I mean.’