by Joan Smith
“I daresay there are bats in the secret passage.”
Charity felt a frisson down her spine. “You are trying to frighten me! I do not mind spiders. One can always step on them, but bats! Ugh!”
“Here we are,” he said, setting down his lamp and pulling back an edge of carpet in the corner of the morning parlor. “The priest’s hole. In the old days it had a cabinet over it, to hide the trapdoor. The cabinet moved aside to let the guilty party slip into the hole. The cabinet was then replaced until whoever was looking for him left. An excellent place for a ghost! All it would require is for someone to forget to remove the cabinet and the poor soul would be there until he died.”
He slid his fingers into the hollowed-out groove and lifted the door. There was a little cube not more than five feet all around, with a bench built into the side of it. Unless he was shorter than five feet, the person who was hiding had to sit down.
Charity looked in at a dusty floor with a tin soldier in one corner. “Lord Winton has been here,” she said. “This is a very inferior priest’s hole, milord. At Radley Hall they had spiders and black beetles, to say nothing of cobwebs.”
Merton frowned at a little pile of what looked like sawdust on the floor. “If you look very hard, you might find termites,” he said. “Demme, I must have this sprayed with chlorine to kill the beetles. Shall we move along to the pièce de résistance?”
“Yes, please.”
Merton lowered the door, replaced the carpet, then he took up his lamp and they returned to the Blue Saloon. “Why did we not begin here, as we were in this room?” Charity asked.
“Foolish question. One does not begin with the pièce de résistance. It is always kept for the last. We Spartans eat the cake before the icing—but we do get around to the choice bits eventually.” His eyes moved slowly over her face as he spoke, lingering on her lips.
“I wish you would not stare at me like that! It makes me feel as if I were the cake.”
“No, the icing,” he murmured provocatively.
A blush rose up from her collar. “You are wondering whether propriety demands a setdown. It don’t,” he said.
“You are behaving most improperly, Lord Merton,” she said primly.
“No, no. Not most improperly. That will come later, after we have enjoyed the cake.”
After this leading speech, he went directly to a far corner, clothed in shadows, and began examining a cupboard built into the wall. He opened the lower doors of the cupboard, knelt down, and removed some dusty bowls and books. “You have to get on your hands and knees to get in,” he explained. Charity frowned at her gown. “No doubt things were better organized at Radley Hall,” Merton said. He began poking around the now empty cavity of the cupboard. “How the devil does this thing work?” he asked, presumably of himself.
“You mean you don’t know? Upon my word, you treat your architectural treasures in a very cavalier manner.”
“I come from a long line of Cavaliers,” he replied.
Charity gave him a blighting stare for this poor pun. “There is a drawer above the bottom doors. Would the drawer be the key to getting into the passage?”
“Yank it out,” he said.
When she pulled out the drawer, Merton hollered. “Wait until I get my fingers out!”
“You told me to open it!”
She removed the drawer while Merton massaged his crushed fingers. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “The passage has opened. It slides open as the drawer is pulled out. I remember now.”
“I do not see how you could have forgotten,” she said, crouching down to examine the open passage. “I shall ruin my gown. Look at the dust!”
“What, no dust at Radley Hall?” He was already crawling through the opening, into a small chamber with stairs leading up. When Charity handed him the lamp, he looked around. “It is as well you are not frightened of spiders” was all he said.
Charity climbed through the opening. “Where does this lead?” she asked, looking at the staircase.
“To the attic.”
“That is all? Just to the attic? I thought it would lead to a bedchamber. The old lords frequently had such a contraption to allow them to visit ladies—ladies other than their wives, I mean,” she added.
Merton grinned. “We Dechastelaines do not go in for that sort of thing.”
She peered at him askance. “Lewis mentioned a cousin Algernon ...”
“Cousin Algernon was the exception that proves the rule. Actually, the family has quite a few exceptions that prove the rule. Like French grammar, in fact. More exceptions than rules.”
“It certainly sounds very French.”
They began climbing up the stairs, Merton leading the way with his lamp held high.
“I cannot believe there is not a secret door into one of the bedchambers,” Charity said, stopping at the first landing to examine the walls. She could find no suspicious woodwork, however. The walls appeared to be solid enough.
“This leads only to the attic, and an unfinished part of the attic at that. There are no floors, just the cross members, with the ceiling of the bedroom below, made of lathe and plaster. Not strong enough to take a person’s weight, as I discovered in my youth.”
“What is the point of such a secret passage?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps the passage was never completed, or perhaps it was only used for concealing treasure. I understand the silverplate and some paintings and gold were concealed here during Cromwell’s rampage. That makes the passage worthwhile, does it not?”
“In a purely rational way I daresay it does—that would be reason enough for you. There is not much food here for the emotions. No frisson scuttles up the spine, no hair stands on end.”
Merton noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He said, “If you really want your hair standing on end, I think I can provide that as well. There is—”
Charity saw where he was looking and glanced up to see three small bats hanging from the rafters. A shriek split the air. “Bats!” she exclaimed, and threw her hand over her head to protect her hair. Her shout roused one of them from its sleep. It spread its wings slowly. As she shrieked and tried to hide behind Merton, he swept her protectively to his chest and began looking around for a shelf to hold the lamp, so he could put this interlude to full use. Charity clutched at his waist, burrowing her head into his shoulder.
“Quiet!” he cautioned. “They were asleep. It is your shouting that is waking them. Demme, one of them is coming toward us,” he lied, chewing back a grin.
“Stop him! Oh, but don’t kill him! Let us go!”
She looked up and saw the laughter in his eyes. She looked up at the dark corner and discerned the three inert forms. In the close shadows of the little landing, she was suddenly very aware that she was still clutching at Merton’s waist. Strangely, she forgot all about the bats. His face was close to hers. His free arm encircled her protectively, while the lamp in his other hand cast flickering shadows around them. She felt his breath fan her cheek. They stood for a moment, each very conscious of the other’s proximity. When Merton’s arm began to tighten around her, Charity became aware of the impropriety of her situation and dropped her arms. “They seem to have settled down,” she said.
“Pity. You rob me of the heroic role of bat slayer. Shall we have a nice argument about the unnecessary killing of bats, or would you rather go on up to the attic?”
Charity cleared her throat uneasily. “I really should see if Papa needs me.”
“I shall never understand you, Miss Wainwright,” Merton said, shaking his head. “How can you take ghosts in your stride and be frightened of a little bat?”
“You are talking about two completely different things. You ignore the very possibility of ghosts, when hundreds of people say they have seen them. You have no imagination. Perhaps I have too much. I could almost imagine that bat was clawing into my hair.”
“That is superstition. Bats do not nest in ladies’ hair.”<
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“Of course they do. Everyone knows that.”
“I do not know it. I know! I am not everyone,” he added hastily.
“I was going to say they are nasty, dirty things, whether they nest in one’s hair or not,” she said, and ran quickly down the staircase, where she scrambled out of the cupboard as fast as her legs could carry her.
While Merton returned the dusty bowls and books, Charity complained of her gown. “I knew I would get my gown dusty.”
“The servants will clean it for you.”
She went up to her room at once. While she changed her gown, she discovered she had to reassess Lord Merton. He was not entirely given over to work by any means. In fact, he was nothing short of a delightful flirt. But what were his intentions?
This visit was turning out to be more interesting than she had anticipated. As no one was about when she came down, she went in search of her papa and was told by Bagot that he had gone to investigate the cloisters. She eventually found him at the rear of the house, strolling through a covered archway that surrounded a paved quadrangle. A series of ten graceful stone arches in the Norman style formed the outer wall.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, smiling, when he saw her. “A marvelous place. The singing nun is at home here. She is the same lady who was stabbed in Lord Merton’s room. I have been trying to get a grasp of why it happened. I am beginning to wonder if there is a link between her and Knagg and the Cromwellian ghost. A lovers’ triangle, as it were. That would heighten the animosity between Knagg and the other ghost. His name is Charles, by the by, but he calls himself Walter. He did not want to have the same name as the king, whom he despised.”
“Did you find any confirmation of this in the library?” she asked. It darted into her head that he may have found the story there and put it forth as his own, to be “confirmed” at a later date. Such little ruses were not beneath him.
“No, but I shall keep on digging. I would like to visit Lord Merton’s bedchamber again. Lady Merton told me to make myself at home.”
“I would ask Merton first, Papa,” Charity said.
“I saw him ride off a while ago. I hailed him, but he did not hear me. I shall just run up and have a quick look. There can be no harm in it. I was in there last night.”
“I wish you would wait until he returns.”
“What is the harm in it? I shan’t touch anything. Come along, Charity. I want you to take notes for me. I sometimes forget the exact words of the speaker. I want an accurate record.”
Charity tried again to dissuade him, but when he became sharp with her, she went along. Knowing that Merton had ridden out, it seemed superfluous to knock at the door. Mr. Wainwright just opened it and barged in, with Charity behind him. They both found themselves staring at a very surprised Lord Merton, caught in the act of undressing. His shirt was off, revealing a handsome set of shoulders and a patch of dark hair on his broad chest. His valet was handing him a clean shirt.
“What is the meaning of this?” Merton exclaimed angrily.
“I was sure you had left, milord,” Wainwright said. “I saw you—well, it must have been Lord Winton, I daresay.”
Charity beat a hasty retreat. From a few yards down the hall she heard Merton’s angry tirade. “And you came snooping about my room the moment I was gone! This is intolerable!”
“I was just looking for the singing nun,” Mr. Wainwright said apologetically, backing from the doorway. “Another time.”
“This room is out of bounds for your witch hunting, sir, at any time!”
“Ghost hunting, milord!” Wainwright said.
“Get out!”
Wainwright closed the door and joined his daughter.
“I told you you should ask him,” Charity said. Shame turned her cheeks as red as boiled beets. She feared this would be the end of Lord Merton’s interest in her. He thought she and her papa were a pair of nosy, snooping commoners—if not worse. First Papa had failed to find Lady Merton’s ghost; now he had given Lord Merton a disgust of them. They must certainly leave at once, before they were requested to go. She gave a hint of her feelings.
“No, he does not want us to leave,” Wainwright said. “Lord Merton is hot at hand; he was surprised but not really angry.”
“He told you to get out!”
“Aye, but I sensed he regretted it almost before the words were out. I shall explain, but I shall not apologize. That is for Merton to do. Now, the Armaments Room requires more work.”
Bagot, his long legs moving like pistons, came running to meet them as they descended the stairs. “Mr. Wainwright! Mr. Wainwright, come! The Armaments Room is a shambles. I heard a great crashing sound and went to investigate. The table holding the yellow jerkin and the helmet has been overturned by Knagg. There was no one in the room when it happened.”
“Come!” Wainwright shouted gleefully, and darted off to the Armaments Room, with Charity in hot pursuit.
Chapter Seven
The scene in the Armaments Room was as Bagot had described it. The small table holding the antique pistols, the round helmet, and the jerkin had been overturned, its contents scattered about the floor.
“Can you not feel it?” Wainwright exclaimed. “The anger of those two blood relatives! It is overwhelming. I must ask you to leave, Charity. You might be harmed. Bagot, you will speak to the servants and determine that no one was in this room when the table was toppled. Leave me now. It is time for communication with the spirits.” He closed his eyes and went into what looked like a trance.
Bagot ran off to do as he was bid, while Charity found herself at loose ends. She did not even want to be in the house when Merton came down. To escape, she went out to the cloisters to think. Merton would not be so uncivil as to ask them to leave before morning. She hoped her riding habit had arrived by then, so she could take it home with her; otherwise she would be without it for a few days in London and she wanted to ride. In London riding was restricted to the slow pace of Rotten Row. She had been looking forward to a good run in the country with Merton. How he must despise her now!
She gazed out at the countryside she would not be riding through. Terraced gardens led down from the cloisters, with the land of Reefer Hall spreading away in the distance. There were patches of light and dark green fields, where the various crops were growing under the spring sun. In the farther distance she spied what must be sheep in a meadow, although they did not look like sheep from this distance, perhaps because they had just been sheared. They looked like little pink rocks, except that some of them were moving. A man on a bay mount was riding along the western edge of the field. As he drew closer, she recognized Lord Winton.
Despite the physical resemblance, he was an altogether different sort of person from his elder brother. One would never have to tell him to enjoy himself. He took life very lightly—too lightly, really. Merton was always jawing at him. It was strange that the two brothers were so different. More like father and son than brothers. The Peerage had indicated that their father had died some twelve years before, when the present Lord Merton was eighteen, younger than Lewis was now. Merton had had to assume the mantle of responsibility at a youthful age. Perhaps that accounted for his arrogant manner.
In a short while Lewis came out of the stable on foot and discovered Charity. He was not tardy in joining her.
“What a wretched host my brother is, leaving you moping alone,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought he was going to show you the secret passage.”
“He did. I am not moping.”
“You look as sour as a Methodist. What has happened?”
“Your brother and my papa have come to cuffs,” she said, and explained about the trip to Merton’s room.
“Well, if that ain’t just like John, to go making a mountain out of a molehill. I shall have a word with him.”
“No, I wish you will not. It is his not believing in ghosts, I think, that makes him impatient with this visit.”
“Dash it, the house is al
ive with ghosts. How can he not believe? I have a good mind to prove it to him”
“Perhaps Knagg’s latest visit in the Armaments Room will convince him,” she said, but she did not believe it.
Lewis was on his feet. “Eh? Knagg paid us another visit?”
“Yes, he was very violent this time. He threw the table over.”
“By gad! Let us go and have a look!” He grabbed her hand, urging her to a faster pace as they returned to the house.
Wainwright had finished his communication with the ghosts. Lord Merton had joined him in the Armaments Room. Bagot was there as well. Charity glanced fearfully at Merton, expecting scowls and sneers. To her considerable astonishment he was smiling and speaking civilly to her papa.
“If Bagot says none of the servants was here, then it must have been Knagg cutting up a lark,” he said in a hearty voice. He spotted Charity and Lewis as they entered. She discerned a trace of embarrassment in his manner when he looked at her. It was there, in his uncertain smile and proud head, which was held a fraction lower than usual.
“Ah, Lewis, you will want to have a look at this. Mr. Wainwright has suggested we leave the table and items on the floor as they are for the nonce, to see if the ghosts separate the items. You will see the yellow jerkin is resting on a Cavalier’s pistol. Mr. Wainwright thinks Knagg will move it. He plans to lock the room to ensure that no one—no living person, I mean—interferes. That would certainly convince me that we have ghosts.” He did not dare to look at Charity as he uttered this plumper, but he was acutely aware that she was staring at him.
“The windows must be secured as well,” Wainwright explained. Merton looked doubtful at this. He was repentant, but he did not intend to have his window frames fitted out with locks to keep out nonexistent ghosts. “Putty,” Wainwright explained. “It can be removed without leaving a trace.”
Merton said, “Just so. Bagot, you will see to it.”
“Certainly, your lordship.” Bagot left reluctantly.
“Well, this is certainly an amazing example of ghostly work, is it not, Mr. Wainwright?” Merton continued. “You will want to write this up for the Ghost Society, I wager.”