Dark Detectives

by Stephen Jones

  They stared at him openmouthed, half convinced, on the verge of full belief.

  “You mean …” Jennifer Halliday was the first to speak. “There’s a ghost—here?”

  Francis raised a slim eyebrow.

  “Yes, indeed, there is a ghost. Fred sensed it in the dining-room. The ghost of someone recently murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Roland Taylor looked helplessly round the room. “No one has been murdered here.”

  “But you’re wrong.” Francis nodded several times. “Someone has certainly been murdered. One of you has had the life force—the essential essence—the soul if you will, driven from his or her body, and you are now possessed by an entity from the past. Or, to put it another way, one of you is dead. The question is—which one?”

  *

  They went back to their rooms, where doubtlessly they conjectured, denied, toyed with their fears, and Fred and Francis were left alone.

  “Can you contact the late departed?” Francis asked. “A simple communication, a materialization, and our problem would be solved.”

  “I doubt it,” Fred shook her head. “You know what the newly departed are like. Frightened, not sure what has happened. They shy away from psychic contact like a tee-totaller from whisky. But I can try.”

  “Do that.” Francis guided her to a chair. “Put out feelers and see if he or she is around. Then we’ll take it from there.”

  Fred seated herself and closed her eyes. Francis stood behind her and gently stroked the smooth forehead.

  “Relax,” he instructed in a low voice, “but be careful. You never know what might be prowling around. Now, search this room. Is there anything at all?”

  “No,” Fred said softly, “nothing at all.”

  “Right. Now the hall. Put out feelers into the hall, but slowly—take it easy—is there anything in the hall?”

  Fred did not answer for some time; there was an expression denoting great mental effort on her pale face. Then she whispered: “I can feel something. Wait a minute … Yes … fear … bewilderment … almost total darkness …”

  “Can you make contact?” Francis asked. “Try to bring it nearer. Bring it in.”

  “Hold your horses, this is bloody hard work. Every time I make contact it shies away like a virgin from a …” She sat up and faced the closed doorway with tight-shut eyes. “All right now … don’t panic … we want to help. Get it? Help … friends … we’re friends … don’t get your knickers in a twist … come nearer … that’s the ticket … nearer … keep your cool …”

  “Keep it up,” Francis rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Keep going, you’re doing fine.”

  “Through the door, ducky.” Fred was leaning forward, her eyes still closed. “Come on … wood don’t mean a thing to you now. Follow the blue light, all trains go to Waterloo … What the hell …?”

  “What’s wrong, Fred?” The eager smile died and he watched the girl with growing anxiety. “Snap out of it. What’s the trouble?”

  “Interference. Fear … terror … the bastard is on to us. Oh, my God!”

  She began to jerk violently, writhing from side to side, and her voice rose to a scream. “The pain … get if off …!”

  “Break contact!” Francis shouted. “Let go, clear your mind, it’s only auto suggestion. Break contact, you silly cow.”

  Suddenly the girl went limp and flopped back in her chair; two tears crept from under her closed eyelids and trickled down her pale cheeks. Francis rubbed her hands, then gently shook her.

  “Okay. It’s all over. Wake up, there’s a good girl.”

  Fred opened her eyes and for a while she stared up into the lean, anxious face. Francis kissed her, then straightened up.

  “All right now?”

  “Yes. I made a bit of a fool of myself, didn’t I?” She shuddered. “I was caught off guard. The sudden flash of cold terror—and the pain. It was as though I was being flogged.”

  “Possible.” Francis nodded. “Our tall friend would be accustomed to dealing out such treatment. Go on.”

  “Well, that’s all. When I broke contact, I passed out. I fear we will never find the newly departed again. My own discomfort was only a reflection of what he or she must have gone through.”

  “Well, one thing is certain,” Francis said, taking out his cigarette case and putting a cigarette between the girl’s lips. “We have to make it the hard way. Watch every one of them, and wait for the anchor man to slip up.”

  “Nina has a psychic potential.” Fred puffed at her cigarette. “She could have been the magnet that attracted them in the first place. There again, Roland Taylor is always protesting, and he seems to have been against you being called in. I think he’s a prime suspect.”

  “There’s no more we can do tonight.” Francis yawned. “So to bed. Tomorrow we must wrap the case up or call it a day, for I doubt if we can hold them here for longer than twenty-four hours. When the big fellow comes into this room, they’ll forget their investment and be off.”

  *

  Three men and three women sat in a rough half-circle; each face wore a suitably grave expression and returned Francis’s searching glance with disarming innocence. The psychic detective took up his favourite position on the hearthrug, with Fred standing to his left.

  The girl was wearing the bizarre costume in which she had arrived, the white letters E.V. standing out over her right breast.

  “I’ve gathered you together,” Francis began, “to report progress and in military jargon, to put you fully in the picture. Today, I did some research in the local library and was fortunate enough to find this.” He took a fat volume from the mantelpiece. Pilbeam’s History of Clarence and Surrounding Districts. There’s an entire chapter devoted to Clarence Grange. It seems there was a prison on this site. It was built in 1629 and demolished in 1830. Now I don’t have to tell you that a 17th-century prison was not the best place in the world to land up in, and if the wrong man was in charge, almost anything could happen. This brings me to the year 1742, for it was then, according to contemporary records, that a Mr. Royston Wentworth was appointed governor. There’s little doubt he bought the post. Let me quote.”

  He opened the book and began to read, but occasionally raised his eyes, as thought to observe the expressions on the faces of his audience.

  “‘Royston Wentworth was a man of goodly proportions and was well versed in the arts that pertain to a scholar and a gentleman. But he did not follow the path of the godly, but did pursue the hound of dark knowledge so that righteous men shunned his presence.

  “‘When in the year of Our Lord 1742 he did take up the appointment of Governor of His Majesty’s Prison at Clarence, he did make one Christopher Wyatt his chief officer and certain other men of ill-repute were installed as turnkeys … By 1743, all the former staff had been turned away and only Governor Wentworth’s men were to be found in authority, and there was much talk of evil deeds performed behind those grim walls …

  “‘… At his trial, one prisoner: a forger and by name of Jeremiah Watts, did testify that Governor Wentworth and the aforesaid Christopher Wyatt did cause a wall to disappear and beyond did he see things that made his bowels move with fear …

  “‘He did see a room where lights burned without flame and a glass-fronted box in which tiny images moved …

  “‘… Many of the inmates had become lunatics and one was so bewitched, he swore upon Holy Writ he was not of this time, but had been born in a century yet to come.’”

  Francis closed the book and carefully replaced it on the mantelpiece. When he spoke his voice was low, like an accomplished preacher preparing to enjoy himself.

  “He swore upon Holy Writ that he was not of this time, but had been born in a century yet to come.” Francis paused, then raised his voice. “Which one of you was—or will be—he or she? Do not dismiss the idea of time transportation lightly. Many people have claimed to have been switched from one age to another, and when they have tried to explain their predic
ament to the authorities, have been treated as madmen. Remember, ten to fifteen thousand people disappear every year in Great Britain alone, and are never seen again. Who is to say they are not wandering about the streets of medieval London, or rotting in some 17th-century madhouse?”

  Jennifer Halliday raised her hand, rather like a schoolgirl who wishes to ask Teacher a question.

  “Please, if what you say is true and these—people—succeed in making their bridge, what will happen? Will they kidnap us?”

  “There is one present who can answer that question better than I,” Francis answered dryly. “But I’d say the transfer will be one of souls, not bodies. Royston Wentworth was looking—or is looking—for an escape. He must have known his activities would sooner or later lead him to the gallows. By swapping personalities with someone in a far-off age, he would be safe. It would seem he intends to bring his staff with him.”

  “It’s unbelievable.” Roland Taylor shook his head. “Too far fetched.”

  “Really!” St. Clare raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you of all people would have found the situation most plausible.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It is supposed to mean this.” Francis suddenly pointed a forefinger at the large, red-faced man. “I believe you are the anchorman. The one they sent over to take possession of the real Roland Taylor’s body. The bridge isn’t complete yet, so the ghost of the poor wretch is still trying to make itself felt. Only you scared it off. That’s why you did not want me called in. That’s why you have poured cold water on the very idea from the start, that’s why …”

  “You’re bloody mad.” Taylor got up, his face congested with rage. “You poor fool, your theory is full of holes. I can sink it with a few words. Firstly, if I, or, for that matter, anyone here, is a refugee from the 18th century, how is it we all talk 20th-century English? Eh? If you wish, I’ll take that television set to pieces and put it together again. Want to know who my mother and father were? When they were born and when they died? Shall I give you a rundown on the history of the last thirty years? Care to watch me drive a car? Go and lock yourself up in the nearest loony bin.”

  “How about that?” Reggie Smith smiled. “I can drive a car, name the Prime Minister of England from 1920 upwards. That puts me in the clear.”

  “I can type,” Betty Smith said demurely. “Sixty words a minute.”

  “I can ride a bicycle,” Nina Taylor announced, “type, do shorthand, use a telephone and an adding machine—and I saw Gone with the Wind three times.”

  “I,” Jennifer Halliday said, ticking off the list of her accomplishments on the fingers of her left hand, “can type, do shorthand so long as it’s not too fast, tell you the entire plot of Love Story …”

  “All right.” Francis raised his hand. “So, you are all clever boys and girls. Doesn’t mean a thing. Messrs. Wentworth and Co. were brilliant men. Far ahead of their time. They might not be able to type or take a television to pieces, but they knew the human mind. They had to for this little caper to work. When our unknown anchorman took over a contemporary body, he also inherited a 20th-century brain. A fully-active computer, with a first-class memory bank. No doubt he was scared stiff when his new body entered a car, but so long as he did not interfere, the memory bank would instruct the brain on what must be done. Sorry, Mr. Taylor, but you can recite the Encyclopaedia Britannica backwards, and I’ll still not be convinced you’re not an 18th-century black magician on the rampage.”

  “Come to think if it,” Jennifer Halliday said shyly, “Mr. Taylor was never particularly frightened when the—er—phenomenon took place. I often wondered why. I know I was.”

  “Because I didn’t run round like a headless chicken, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared.” Taylor glared at the girl, then turned to Francis. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, St. Clare. Before you came we were scared of ghosts, now we’re terrified of each other.”

  “True.” Francis nodded. “And with just cause. One of you is an alien, a forerunner of a diabolical invasion. And don’t think Mr. Taylor is my only suspect. For example, Mrs. Taylor could well be our—forgive me—our man. She has a certain latent psychic power which could well have drawn the alien to her.”

  Nina Taylor started as though she had been struck.

  “I find that remark to be insulting, Mr. St. Clare. If you think I would allow the spirit of some strange man to take possession of my body, you must be madder even than my husband believes. Really!”

  Just then Gertrude put in an appearance and announced: “Denner is sarved,” and they all trooped into the dining-room, where they sat round the table in complete silence. Once, when Reggie Smith coughed, everyone jumped and stared at the offender as though he had suddenly sprouted horns. The rattle of cutlery on plates, the murmured request that someone pass the salt, the flopping of Gertrude’s slippered feet as she moved round the room—all contributed to an atmosphere so sinister, it could almost be tasted. Francis noted that Roland Taylor put down his knife and fork after a few mouthfuls and stared glumly at the opposite wall.

  “Francis,” Fred said suddenly, “you might be interested to know our wandering recently departed is back.”

  “Really?” Francis registered faint surprise. “Surely you don’t mean that the ghost of the newly dead is in this room?”

  Gertrude screamed, dropped a tray of sherry trifle, and ran from the room.

  “I didn’t mean your grandmother had dropped in for high tea,” Fred retorted indignantly. “The poor coot is hovering behind our Roland’s chair.”

  “Damnation!” Roland Taylor pushed back his chair and crashed a clenched fist down upon the table. “What game are you playing, St. Clare? You’ve scared that wretched girl out of the few wits she has, and frightened the rest of us into the bargain.”

  “I’d better go and see if she’s all right.” Betty Smith rose. “I don’t want to lose her, help is hard to find.”

  “You scared, Taylor?” Francis enquired. “In a tizzy, are you?”

  “Of course I’m scared,” Taylor roared, “I’ve never pretended to be anything else.”

  “Then why don’t you go away? I don’t mean for ever, just until this matter is cleared up.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Francis turned his attention to the others. “Why not all of you? Get into your cars and drive to a hotel for the night. Tomorrow, I might have some good news for you. Well, how about it?”

  Before anyone could answer, Betty Smith returned and resumed her seat at the foot of the table.

  “I think Gertrude will come in tomorrow, but she’s in a hell of a blue funk at the moment. We really must be careful what we say when she is present.”

  “St. Clare wants us to move out,” Taylor said, “pack our bags and spend the night at a hotel.”

  “Is that necessary?” Betty asked. “I mean, up to now we’ve been perfectly safe upstairs.”

  “Up to now, I agree,” Francis nodded, “but if Charlie-boy succeeds in completing the bridge, I’ll not be responsible for your safety.”

  Nina shivered. “I say, let’s go. I keep imagining that great brute lumbering up the stairs.”

  “I don’t see why we have to leave our house because some blighter from the past sees fit to strut along a nonexistent passage,” Roland Taylor grumbled. “Besides, think of the expense.”

  “Your bank account won’t be of much use when you’ve changed places with Royston Wentworth and friends,” Francis retorted grimly. “But the main point is, with you out of the way, Fred and I will only have ourselves to worry about.”

  “I suppose we could ring up the Green Boy,” Betty suggested. “I mean, they could be full up.”

  “They aren’t.” Francis grinned. “I took the liberty of making three reservations.”

  “Bloody cheek,” Roland growled.

  “Of course,” Francis shrugged. “I expected one of you to object. I would imagine that Master Wentwort
h will be livid when he finds his anchorman is not at his post.”

  Half an hour later three cars went roaring down the drive and a heavy silence descended on the house.

  *

  “Are you sure it’s going to work?” Fred asked for the third time.

  “Nothing is certain in this world.” Francis drew the curtains, then opened the sitting-room door. “But I’d say one of them will find his or her way back. A lot depends on the anchorman being present between nine and midnight. He might be able to operate from a distance, but I doubt it. It’s the atmosphere in this place which is their greatest asset. No, the intruder, the possessed, must come back or the bridge will begin to crumble. What time is it?”

  “Eight fifty-five.” Fred consulted her wristwatch.

  “Any minute now. Might as well make ourselves comfy. No need to take precautions—they wouldn’t help us anyway.”

  Fred sank down into an armchair while Francis helped himself to a stiff drink from the sideboard.

  “What about me?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “A sniff from the cork and you’re away. I want your precious sixth sense fully alert.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “Yes, I know. People have remarked on my swinish aspect before.”

  “By the way, have you considered what our palsy-walsy from the other side will do when he finds his anchorman is missing?”

  Fred shrugged. “I don’t know. Belt for the nearest church and demand sanctuary?”

  “Not on your nelly. A high master of the black art wouldn’t find much sanctuary in a church. No, he’ll send another man over, who’ll make a beeline for the nearest psychic medium to hand.”

  “You don’t say?” Fred considered this possibility for a few moments, then an expression of alarm widened her eyes. “Eh, wait a minute. That’s me.”

  Francis nodded. “You have keen perception.”

  “But … if he succeeds … then it’s the same as if I was killed.”