Mr Tiltman paid the taxicab and led Clara into the theatre, where he purchased two tickets for the circle.
‘So how shall we expose this fraud?’ he asked, as they made their way up the great staircase.
‘I told you. I do not believe Reverend Fallowfield to be a fraud,’ replied Clara.
‘Oh, Clara,’ said Mr Tiltman. ‘The world is full of men like him, preying on the gullible for his own financial benefit. They dwell in politics and in finance. Religion has its fair share. But this Fallowfield is more akin to the tricksters who stand on street corners with three cups and an unfindable penny.’
‘I disagree. The man with the three cups knows he is tricking his victims. Reverend Fallowfield believes in his own powers and I’m afraid so do I.’
‘So you think we will see a real ghost tonight?’
‘I have no doubt of it, and I believe I can prove it,’ said Clara.
Mr Tiltman clapped his hands together in delight. ‘I feel a wager coming on. Name your terms.’
‘If I am right we stay at Aysgarth House,’ said Clara.
Mr Tiltman smiled and shook his head. ‘Out of the question. The decision has been made. More reasonable terms, please.’
Clara had known this to be a long-shot. ‘Ten shillings, then,’ she said.
‘I will give you three shillings, the price of the ticket, if you can prove it.’
They shook on it and Clara felt a tingle of excitement at being out with her father, being treated like a grown-up, even if it was only for one night.
‘How do you propose to prove this claim, then?’ asked her father.
‘I’ll show you.’
Clara had already noticed that the man checking tickets on the door was the actor whom she had met on her previous visit.
‘Tickets, please,’ he said.
‘Excuse me,’ said Clara. ‘I have a question.’
‘If it’s why this great theatre is interrupting an excellent performance of Doctor Faustus for a novelty act, putting trained actors such as myself, Mr Edward Gliddon, on the doors, then I can’t help you.’
‘It’s about the ghost,’ said Clara. ‘The Man in Grey.’
‘Oh, him,’ said the actor, still not recognising her from their previous encounter.
Her father watched on, amused, but saying nothing, allowing his daughter to take the lead.
‘As someone who has seen the ghost and heard much about him, can you tell me his name?’ asked Clara.
‘I’ve never heard any mention of it. I don’t believe it’s known.’
‘You’re sure? No one knows his real name?’
‘That’s correct as far as I know.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned back to her father. ‘Let’s go in.’
Mr Tiltman handed the tickets to the disgruntled actor and they entered the theatre. ‘What does that prove?’ he asked.
‘No living person knows the name of this ghost,’ she said. ‘But I do. If Reverend Fallowfield reveals his name as David Kerby then I’m right and you owe me three shillings.’
‘This is your proof?’
‘The only way for me to cheat would be if I was in league with Fallowfield, and you have my word that I would not speak to the man again, let alone work with him.’
Mr Tiltman inwardly congratulated himself on his part in helping to produce such a clever and funny girl. He shook her hand again. ‘I agree to your terms,’ he said. ‘Although I have no idea how you might be sure of such a thing, if no one knows it.’
‘Maybe I have researched the theatre and found the name.’
‘Have you?’ enquired Mr Tiltman.
‘Or maybe I have a list of ghost names,’ continued Clara.
‘It is times like this when I wonder whether I was wrong to bring you up into such a progressive family. Dr Wyatt’s two daughters would never dare act so mysteriously with their father.’
‘Nor so interestingly,’ countered Clara.
‘True,’ admitted Mr Tiltman.
The theatre was far from full but it was a sizeable crowd that had turned up to see this spectacle. A hush fell as the lights were dimmed and the curtain was raised. No fanfare or puffs of smoke introduced Reverend Fallowfield as he stepped onto the stage. In fact, he looked a little like a man who had taken a wrong turning to find himself there.
‘Good evening,’ he mumbled.
‘Speak up,’ yelled a voice from the stalls, causing the whole theatre to collapse into laughter.
Reverend Fallowfield scowled back at the heckler then said, ‘I am here to reveal to you the devils who walk amongst us, the half-lives of the undead, the aberrations who stand in contempt of God’s almighty decree that the earth shall be for the living while the dead will be confined to hell or rewarded with heaven.’ As he spoke his voice grew louder and louder. ‘I am here to rid this house of one such unpaying tenant. I am here to reveal to you then vanquish from this place the ghoul known as the Man in Grey.’
‘Where is he, then?’ yelled a voice.
‘Did he have to pay three shillings a ticket too?’ added another.
‘He is amongst us. I can sense the putrid stench of his ghostly presence,’ said Reverend Fallowfield.
‘I think that’s the drains,’ cried someone, causing more raucous mirth.
‘You will not be laughing soon.’
‘I thought this was a comedy show,’ shouted another heckler.
‘This is no show at all,’ responded Reverend Fallowfield angrily. ‘No guile or trickery will be used. What you see here tonight is real. That is my guarantee to you.’
‘I want my money back,’ yelled another.
‘You can have your money back if you are not, at the end of the night, convinced that you have witnessed a genuine exorcism this evening. Now, let us commence.’
Reverend Fallowfield slowly raised his arms and muttered incantations. The hecklers shouted out, jeered or threw peanuts, but in his trance-like state he paid little heed.
‘Spirit, show yourself,’ cried Reverend Fallowfield.
A couple of drunken men in the front row repeated his words mockingly. But the laughter stopped when a woman seated in a box let out a piercing scream.
Clara nudged her father and pointed out the cloud of dust drifting down through the theatre, its particles catching in the dimmed gaslight. The dust gathered in front of Reverend Fallowfield on the stage.
‘Spirit, reveal your form,’ he commanded, holding his arms up dramatically.
The smoke took the form of a human body. A pair of shoes appeared. Yellow stockings materialised. Then, a grey coat took shape. Finally, was the face of an extremely surprised-looking gentleman wearing a large, tri-cornered hat. The audience gasped. Even the hecklers were silenced.
‘Tell us, cursed demon, are you the spirit known as the Man in Grey?’ asked Reverend Fallowfield.
‘Cursed demon?’ said the ghost. ‘How rude. But yes, that’s the name I’m known by, although, as you can see, it’s an entirely inaccurate epithet. These yellow stockings were not cheap. Although I can say this of dying in them – I certainly got my money’s worth.’
‘Silence.’ Reverend Fallowfield held up an open palm then turned to the audience. ‘Does anyone here have a question for this spirit?’ he asked.
‘What’s his name?’ bellowed Mr Tiltman.
‘What is your name?’ repeated Reverend Fallowfield.
‘I can hear, you know,’ said the ghost. ‘My name, sir, is Mr David Kerby.’
Mr Tiltman looked at his daughter with wide-eyed admiration. She smiled back. ‘Now I have two magic tricks to unravel,’ he whispered.
‘Who else has a question?’ asked Reverend Fallowfield.
More questions were asked and answered. The ghost told the audience of his life and of the circumstances around his death. He told them of all the great plays and actors he had seen over the years. He confirmed that yes, he had been on occasion been guilty of whispering lines to forgetful actors. Once he had got over
the initial shock of being visible, the Man in Grey began to enjoy his moment in the limelight.
Soon the audience grew doubtful that this was anything other than a visually spectacular trick. One vocal dissenter suggested that the appearance of transparency was achieved with the clever application of paint, lighting techniques and carefully arranged mirrors. In response Reverend Fallowfield invited two volunteers up onto the stage, including the man from the door, Edward Gliddon. Reverend Fallowfield held the Man in Grey in place, then instructed Mr Gliddon to walk through the ghost. As he did so the audience gasped and watched with unblinking fascination. The second volunteer was an especially vocal heckler. Having watched Mr Gliddon walk straight through, he decided to stop in the middle of the ghost. Mr Kerby objected strongly, but it got a great laugh from the crowd. When the man still refused to move, Mr Kerby announced that, looking inside his head, the gap between his ears was so cavernous it was a wonder he was able to put one foot in front of the other at all. This got the biggest laugh of the evening and finally the man moved.
Reverend Fallowfield asked the volunteers to remain on stage for the finale to ensure that no trickery took place. He also asked for the lights to come up and suggested that everyone in the auditorium make sure they had a good view of the stage. ‘I will only be able to expel this spirit from the theatre once,’ he announced.
‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ said the Man in Grey.
‘You have dwelt here too long,’ responded Reverend Fallowfield. ‘You will be exorcised.’
‘No!’ screamed Clara, suddenly on her feet.
‘Sit down,’ said a woman behind her.
‘He has done nothing wrong,’ said Clara.
‘He is something wrong,’ replied Reverend Fallowfield. ‘If you have not the stomach to watch this, little girl, then I suggest you leave.’
‘No.’ This time it was Mr Tiltman on his feet. ‘This so-called man of God came to my own home with his begging exorcism. My daughter is right. You should leave this ghost be. He has done no harm.’
Reverend Fallowfield peered up at them. ‘I will rid this city of every damnable spirit, every demon, every devil that infects it,’ he said.
‘You’re a bully,’ said Clara. ‘These ghosts deserve our sympathy, our pity, our charity. They did not choose to be as they are. Look at Mr Kerby in his silly yellow stockings. Imagine being stuck in those stockings for the rest of eternity.’
The audience tittered and many of them turned to get a better view of this new heckler.
‘You came here for an exorcism and that is what you’ll get,’ yelled Reverend Fallowfield.
‘That’s true,’ said a voice from the stalls.
‘Yeah, let him get on with it,’ said another.
‘No, this girl is right,’ said Edward Gliddon. ‘This ghost has been a part of this theatre for many years. Who are we to destroy it? And for what? The sake of one night’s entertainment?’
‘I paid good money for this,’ said the other man on stage.
‘Perhaps you should have saved your money for some real art,’ replied Mr Gliddon. ‘You ignoramus.’
‘Right, that’s it.’
The heckler landed a punch on the side of the actor’s face, sending him staggering back into Reverend Fallowfield. Knocked off his feet, Reverend Fallowfield was unable to retain his hold on the ghost. The Man in Grey vanished. The audience were, in equal measures, angered and amused by this new development and it wasn’t long before the fight on the stage had spread into the auditorium itself, the ripples of violence working their way through the stalls as more and more joined in the brawl. The last Clara saw of Reverend Fallowfield, before her father suggested they get out, was as he crawled towards the wings on all fours.
68
The Eleventh Hole
The Bureau was a remarkable feat of phantasmagorical engineering, one of the best examples of which was the eighteen-hole golf course on the sixty-third floor. General Colt had never played the game in life, considering it to be a colossal waste of time. In death, however, he had found himself with an endless supply of time and so he had taken up the hobby with gusto. To his surprise he took to it at once and, these days, played as often as he could.
He was in the middle of a game with Mr Wandle of Licensing and had just missed the eleventh hole after slicing his ball into the rough. General Colt was searching for it when he heard a voice whisper, ‘General . . . General.’
‘Who’s that?’ he demanded.
A cloud of Ether Dust settled into the shape of a ghost and Laspewood materialised in front of him.
‘My God, Clapwood, what are you doing here? I told you we can’t be seen together.’
‘Lapsewood, sir. We need to talk.’
‘Penhaligan has rushed through an emergency warrant for your arrest. You were supposed to go unnoticed.’
‘I had no choice. My investigation led me to him.’
‘To Penhaligan?’ barked General Colt.
‘It’s probably best to keep your voice down,’ whispered Lapsewood.
‘I already spoke to Penhaligan,’ continued General Colt. ‘He’s tabling a motion or some such bureaucratic clap trap that’s going to take years to get anywhere. That’s why I came to you in the first place. I put a lot at stake, slipping you that key.’
‘I understand that, sir. What I’m saying is that Penhaligan doesn’t want to stop it. He’s responsible for the Black Rot. He created the problem.’
‘Created it?’
‘Yes, he’s trying to get rid of Rogue ghosts.’
General Colt looked disbelievingly at Lapsewood. ‘Have you been at the spirit ale?’
‘No, sir. I swear it’s true. He gave a copy of the London Tenancy List to an exorcist by the name of Fallowfield. He means him to exorcise every last Resident in London.’
‘I can’t see how that would get rid of Rogue ghosts.’
‘It wouldn’t. Not in itself, but there’s something else. It’s a demon from the Void in the body of a spirit hound. It is prowling the streets as we speak, devouring anything that comes in its way.’
Through the trees, General Colt could see Mr Wandle, waiting patiently on the green. He ducked down and grabbed Lapsewood by the lapels, dragging him down with him.
‘Listen, Lambswool, this is serious.’
‘That’s what I’ve been saying, sir. What should we do?’
‘It’s a tricky one, I’ll give you that. Are you sure about all this?’
‘Penhaligan confessed the whole thing to me.’
‘And yet if it came to trial it would be the word of a respected member of upper management against that of an escaped convict with a history of consorting with Rogue elements.’
‘You could testify on my behalf,’ suggested Lapsewood.
‘Damn it, Larchwood, it’s not that easy,’ replied General Colt. ‘If I put my own neck on the line and we ended up both going down then there would be no one left to do the right thing.’
‘I suppose,’ admitted Lapsewood doubtfully. ‘But I was only a convict because you sent me to the Vault.’
‘Yes, I guess that was a little rash of me in hindsight, but right now we have to deal with the current situation.’
‘What are you saying, sir?’
‘You have to do this on your own.’
‘On my own?’ said Lapsewood. ‘Back at the Vault you said we’d shake up this stuffy old place.’
‘And so we will. I’m going to be there right behind you when you come back with proof of Penhaligan’s involvement.’
‘What kind of proof?’
‘Something that will stick. Then we can take that conceited colonel down a notch of two. They’d probably give me a promotion for something like this.’
‘You, sir?’
‘I mean we. Get me proof, then we’ll show them all. You and me, Lapsewood. You and me.’
It was the first time General Colt had got his name right.
‘But, sir,’ said Lapsew
ood. ‘Surely the most important thing is to stop the exorcist and prevent the hell hound from swallowing any more souls?’
‘Of course. Do that too. Hey look, my ball.’ General Colt picked up a golf ball from the undergrowth.
‘But, can’t you help?’ asked Lapsewood.
General Colt pulled off his large hat and scratched the bullet wound in the centre of his head. ‘There are some things a man must do on his own. This is one of them. Now, you’d better be off before Mr Wandle spots you. I’d better get back to my game. I really think I can claw it back and beat the old goat this time.’
‘But, sir—’ protested Lapsewood.
‘Good luck, Laxwood, let me know how you get on.’
General Colt turned and walked away, tossing and catching his golf ball, whistling to himself.
69
A Father’s Guilt
When Sam requested the morning off to go and visit Clara, Mr Constable suggested they take the train up together as he had no appointments and had been meaning to visit a supplier of coffin handles in Bloomsbury. Sam didn’t mind travelling with Mr Constable, but he was relieved that he didn’t ask him the reason for his trip. He wasn’t ready to tell anyone about Clara. Not even him.
Mr Constable and Sam found a train carriage to themselves. Sam had barely spoken to his father since their revelatory conversation about his mother so he was expecting one of Mr Constable’s well-intentioned conversations about the importance of family. Sure enough, as the train pulled away, Mr Constable said, ‘You’ve learnt a lot about your family these past few weeks. More perhaps than in those years which preceded them.’
‘I’ve learnt that my father stole as a child and, as an adult, was responsible for the murder of an innocent man,’ replied Sam.
‘Difficult things to learn at any age,’ said Mr Constable. ‘Your father has had to overcome a great many obstacles in his life, but he remains the most loyal, good-hearted man I have ever had the pleasure to meet.’
‘You have always taught me it is our actions that define us,’ said Sam.
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