The Silver Ghost

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Where are they? In the castle?” Max asked him.

  “No, in the gatekeeper’s lodge. Silly name, but that’s what it’s always been called. You may have noticed a small house to your right as you entered the main drive from the road. We do have gates down there, though we almost never shut them. I think my great-grandfather’s fancy was to keep a rosy-cheeked old lady in the lodge who’d pop out and bob a curtsey as the gentry drove up, but I’m sure it never happened. Anyway, Rufe was born in the lodge. Lately he’s been sharing the place with our cook and her husband, who’s the Bob I mentioned. Bob gardens for us and some other people around town.”

  “Where is he now?” Sarah asked.

  “Off to one of his other customers, Eric Hohnser, who lives about a mile up the road.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Yes, Hohnser made rather a thing of Bob’s working today because he’d missed one day last week when it rained. Bob didn’t mind. He was afraid that if he stuck around for the revel, we’d put him into velvet pantaloons like Rufe. Which we would have, I expect. What fools we mortals be. I’m babbling.”

  Bill took a few deep breaths. “Anyway, if the Ghost was driven away, then the drive must have been raked by hand afterward. But if the thief was in such a desperate rush that he couldn’t even spend a minute or two to knock Rufe out and drag him in here instead of—you do see what I’m getting at?”

  “We see it, Bill but we can’t get around the fact that Rufus is dead and the car’s gone. Perhaps he wasn’t killed to save time but because he recognized the thief.”

  “Then you’re suggesting one of our guests did it. But that’s unthinkable. They’re all our friends.”

  “Or friends of friends,” Max suggested. “Or business acquaintances, or neighbors you didn’t want to slight even if you don’t know them all that well?”

  “All right, Max, you’ve made your point. I realize this is no time to piddle around with the amenities. I suppose this is when we call the police.”

  There was a telephone in the car shed. Most unhappily, Nehemiah Billingsgate used it.

  “They said they’d be right along. Wretch that I am, I wish we could have waited until the guests leave.”

  “Why don’t you walk down to the front gate and intercept them?” Sarah suggested. “At least you can keep them away from the front of the house. Max, you don’t mind staying with the—evidence, do you? I think I’d better keep looking for Aunt Bodie.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To head her off, dear. If she happens along while the police are here, she’ll start giving helpful advice and land the whole party in jail. Don’t worry, I’ll stay within screaming distance.”

  She went out the gate and struck off across the crest of the hill. There were tall hedges of lilac to skirt before she could get a good view of the bee fields, but they didn’t worry her much. It was most unlikely whoever had killed Rufus and stolen the Silver Ghost was lurking around to accost straying women. Max didn’t think so; or he’d have put up more than a routine husbandly protest about her wandering off on her own.

  Most of the revelers must be dancing by now; she could hear what sounded like a minuet, muffled and sweetened by the distance between her and the pavilion. Sarah had rather looked forward to trying the ancient dances herself. What a burning shame the party into which the Billingsgates had put so much time and love had ended like this. Remembering those two feet dangling high in the horse chestnut tree, Sarah shuddered in spite of her houppelande.

  “How adorable you look.”

  The voice came out of the lilacs. Sarah drew breath for a good, loud mediaeval scream. Then the speaker emerged and she snarled instead.

  “Professor Ufford! Why aren’t you dancing?”

  “Because I promised myself a beautiful partner and wasn’t able to find her.”

  “Then your standards must be incredibly high.” He was no Adonis himself, the old goat.

  “Indeed they are, Mrs. Bittersohn. That’s why I came looking for you. Do say you’ll give me the honor of your company for the galliard and the volta.”

  “Sorry, but I’ve never even heard of either one. You’ll do far better to ask Lorista Dork. I’m sure she knows them all.”

  “Ah, Lorista.” The kind of smile that accompanied those two short words could have made Ufford a fortune in the movies back when sophisticated rotters were in vogue. “Come now, don’t be shy of me. You and I have so much in common.”

  “I can’t imagine what you think it is, Professor Ufford.”

  “Enchanting Sarah, do call me Vercingetorix.”

  “Whatever for? Excuse me, I must get back to my husband.”

  He appeared ready to commit some more audacious familiarity, but the one really useful thing Sarah had learned from Aunt Bodie was the art of quelling an encroacher with a look. Her look wasn’t quite up to Boadicea Kelling’s look, but it packed enough wallop to wipe the leer off Ufford’s unlovely visage. She sketched him the ghost of a curtsey and sailed back to the car shed with her houppelande billowing out behind her like a spinnaker in reverse.

  Max must have locked the gate. He was sitting outside in the sentry box with his eyes shut. Asleep, she thought fondly. He’d acquired the useful knack of snatching quick naps under the most unlikely circumstances.

  “Wake up and rescue me, sluggard!” she ordered.

  “Huh? What’s the matter?”

  “Vercingetorix is after me.”

  “Come to papa, I’ll protect you.”

  Max spent a few protective moments to the satisfaction of both before he got around to inquiring, “Vercingetorix who?”

  “Ufford. That old prune in the Arnolfini getup. He says we have a lot in common.”

  “The insufferable cad!”

  “He asked me to dance the volta with him.”

  “I’ll punch his ugly face in.”

  “By all means do, if you feel the urge,” Sarah agreed. “What’s a volta, anyway?”

  “A lot of hopping and leaping, then the guy grabs the girl by the upper thighs or the corset cover, whichever turns him on, and waves her around his head. Which way did the bastard go?”

  “Darling, don’t be mediaeval. He’s old enough to be your father. But nowhere near good-looking enough,” Sarah qualified. “Aunt Bodie was nowhere in sight.”

  “Why the hell wasn’t she?” her husband demanded. “Where were you?”

  “Heading for the clover fields. I thought she might have gone to get stung for her arthritis.”

  “Sarah!”

  She gazed at him in cool wonderment. “You do get upset over the oddest things, dear. Don’t you know bee stings are supposed to be beneficial in certain cases? It would be quite like Aunt Bodie to try, if she could find a suitable bee.”

  “How’d she know which bee was suitable?”

  “She’d know,” Sarah replied confidently. “I gather the police aren’t here yet?”

  “No, Bill’s still waiting. Why the hell do these people do it?” Max wondered. “He’s already lost one Rolls Royce, so he throws a big wingding for all the people who common sense ought to have told him are his prime suspects.”

  “I know, dear. So does Bill, or he’d have called the police instead of us in the first place. But what else could they have done? Short of a death in the family, they couldn’t have called the revel off at the last minute. Abigail’s the one I feel for, having to go on playing the perfect hostess when she must be having fits about what’s happened to Rufus.”

  “She’ll know soon enough,” Max said grimly. “Bill says things will be winding down soon. People generally begin drifting off once they’ve trodden a measure or two.”

  “But will the police let them go?”

  “Probably. That’s why it might not be a bad idea for you to nip back down there and find out whatever you can while they’re still around. If your aunt shows up, I’ll give her a look. And if Ufford comes along, I’ll rip him to shreds and stamp on the pieces.”


  “What a splendid idea,” said Sarah. “I think I’ll go back by the drive, just in case. I do hate being jumped out at.”

  But nobody jumped. Sarah didn’t meet a soul until she was through the long corridor and back out on the front terrace. Then she headed straight for Abigail.

  “Did you find Rufe?”

  Sarah had expected the question, and managed to answer without flinching. “Yes, we found him. Don’t worry, Abigail. Max and Bill are back there with him.”

  She turned away before Abigail could ask any more. Cousin Lionel was her next target, she’d decided. Those sharp gooseberry eyes of his didn’t miss much, and getting him into one of those prolonged bickerings that often passed for conversation among the Kelling clan was no trick at all. Sarah had only to offer flat statements and wait for him to contradict her. He’d be right more often than not and he wouldn’t gloss over the rough spots. Cousin Lionel had no scruples against speaking ill of his neighbor.

  “I hadn’t realized Young Dork and Tick Purbody work for the Billingsgates’ radio stations,” was her opening gambit.

  “That’s because they don’t,” Lionel was only too happy to reply. “Young Dork works for his father; and Tick Purbody, in my candid opinion, works for Tick Purbody. That’s not to say Tick won’t want to hire Young Dork as soon as he manages to snatch the reins from his father-in-law. Those two have been thick as thieves all their lives.”

  “But you say Young Dork is in his own family’s firm.”

  “Who knows for how long?” Lionel could sneer almost as well as Professor Ufford. “At the rate small businesses are being gobbled up by the conglomerates, it’s only a matter of time before he’s among the unemployed, like me.”

  Sarah wasn’t about to waste any tears on Lionel. Helping his mother cash her dividend checks and wheedling her out of the proceeds kept him well enough occupied.

  “But if the Dorks get gobbled up, why shouldn’t the Billingsgates?” she argued. “They’re not exactly the National Broadcasting Company, are they?”

  “No, but Tick’s a damn sight smarter than Young Dork. Once he takes hold, you’re going to see some big changes, believe me.”

  “Why do you say that? Has Tick talked to you about his plans?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t.”

  She’d hit a nerve. Naturally none of his friends ever told Lionel anything, for fear he’d spill it to Aunt Appie. Sarah decided she’d better change the subject. She made a deliberately erroneous observation about whom Melisande had been sitting with at the banquet, which he promptly corrected, and they went on to wrangle mildly about who else had been sitting with whom. Lionel’s memory was as good as Sarah’s, since all Kellings were conditioned from the cradle to keep track of their multifarious tribal connections.

  The only details on which he didn’t pick her up and run her down involved the early minutes of the banquet. He didn’t say he’d been late entering the pavilion, but neither did he say he hadn’t. When Sarah commented on the fact that some guests had straggled in long after the rest had begun to eat, and that his mother had been among the stragglers when in fact she’d been among the first, Lionel only grunted.

  Probably he’d taken time out to freshen up after his strenuous workout with the morris dancers, but why couldn’t he have said so? Lionel wasn’t much for repressing, as a rule. Sarah gave up on him with a vague feeling of unease and went on to Hester Tolbathy.

  “Why aren’t you dancing?” was Hester’s greeting.

  “I’m a fugitive from Professor Ufford. He asked me to be his partner and I’m afraid I cut him rather short.”

  “How in the world did you manage that? Everyone else has been trying for years. What a pity I missed it. Where were you at the time?”

  “Up on the hill. I’d gone to look for Aunt Bodie.” Sarah explained about the bee in case Hester might possibly have a suspicion that needed lulling.

  “That would be quite like Bodie,” Hester agreed in all solemnity. “Perhaps she’s still looking for the right bee. I haven’t seen her around for quite some time, now that I think of it. But what was Versey doing out in the fields with nobody to talk to?”

  “He claimed he’d come looking for me, which is absurd.”

  Hester had a genuine sterling silver chuckle. “You underrate yourself, my dear. Every man at the revel would be ravening after you if you didn’t have that big, handsome husband along. Where is Max now?”

  “Off talking antique cars with Bill, the last I saw of him,” Sarah fudged.

  “The rogue! I’ll bet you anything he’s wheedled his way into the car shed, which has been declared off bounds to the rest of us, though I can’t think why. We’ve never been kept out before. Anyway, Dorothy Dork strolled up there a while back, but the gate was locked and that old handyman of the Billingsgates’ was standing in front of it got up like the Lord High Executioner. Dorothy asked him to let her in, but he only growled and shook his mace at her. She thinks it was a mace. Something large and formidable, anyway.”

  “Really? When was this?”

  “Shortly after the banquet started. Dorothy ate a big helping of frumenty right off the bat, for some odd reason, and it landed in her stomach like a ton of bricks. She said she thought she’d better joggle it down before she tackled the rest of the meal.”

  “How long did Dorothy stay?” Sarah wanted to know.

  “She didn’t stay at all,” Hester replied. “Just turned around and came back. She didn’t want to miss out on the peacock pie.”

  “Was she all right afterward?”

  “I assume so. There she is now, dancing the gigue with Tom. He’ll be lame tomorrow, the old roisterer.”

  “Dorothy was sitting with Drusilla Gaheris, wasn’t she?”

  “Some of the time, anyway. You know how it was, we were all flitting from table to table.”

  “Whom did you flit with? Aside from my handsome husband, that is?”

  “Well, you had mine.”

  5

  THEY LAUGHED AND COMPARED notes for a while. “But where was Aunt Bodie all this time?” Sarah asked finally. “I’m surprised she wasn’t with you.”

  Hester shook her amethyst-starred head. “Oh no, our crowd is far too light-minded for Bodie. She never could stand my brother-in-law, and of course we all adored Wouter. And she considers Marcia Whet flighty, and you know Marcia’s my absolutely dearest friend in all the world. I don’t know what Bodie thinks of me and I’m not about to ask. I assume she was with Drusilla. They always chummed around together at school. The lot of us were at Miss Chalmers’s, you know, or perhaps you didn’t. That was rather before your time.”

  The older woman laughed. “Anyway, Bodie kept in touch with Drusilla over the years far more than the rest of us did, so naturally they’d want a chance to visit now. Why don’t you ask Drusilla? She’s Abigail’s house guest, so she’s sure to be around. I’ve got to drag that wretched man off the dance floor and get him home while he can still walk. The air’s really cold now that the sun’s gone down, and we’re both just over the sniffles. It’s been so good to see you again, Sarah dear. Do visit us soon, and bring the baby.”

  “You must come to us,” Sarah replied. “We’re planning a housewarming as soon as we’re a bit more put together.”

  They rubbed cheeks, then Hester gathered her purple satin furbelows about her and went to collect her husband and find her hostess. She’d provided one important piece of information anyway. If Dorothy Dork could remember exactly when she’d gone for her walk, they’d be able to limit further the span of time during which Rufus had been killed.

  Mrs. Dork could remember. She’d conscientiously tried not to nibble before the banquet, so she’d lost no time getting to the buffet. She’d taken some frumenty because she knew nobody else would and she didn’t want dear Abigail’s feelings to be hurt. She’d eaten it and wished she hadn’t, then tried to walk it off before everybody got settled so that her coming and going would
n’t be noticed. She was sure she hadn’t been gone from the pavilion more than ten minutes in all.

  So she was most likely back by a quarter to four, Sarah decided. The revel had begun at high noon, there’d been the jugglers and jesters, the madrigal singing and the morris dancing, the heralds had sounded their trumpets at half-past three. An odd time to be dining according to modern custom perhaps, but a good time for Renaissance revelers, according to Professor Ufford. People who could afford two meals a day would have breakfasted shortly after sunup on meat and ale, then sat down in the latter part of the afternoon and gorged as long as the food and drink held out.

  Thinking of food and drink reminded Sarah that she hadn’t yet talked to the cook. She walked over the drawbridge, through the massive front door that had been left wide open, and followed a potboy with a load of used flagons out to the kitchen. She didn’t think there’d be much use questioning him or any of the other servers. As far as she could see, they’d been paying more attention to their duties and to each other’s jokes than to the company. Anyway, she didn’t see how she could start grilling one without starting the lot of them wondering what was going on.

  Talking to the cook was another matter. It was entirely in order for a guest to pay homage to the creator of so bounteous a feast. Cook received Sarah’s compliments with lofty dignity, and Sarah’s apology for not knowing her name with tolerant grace.

  “Cook is my title, and Cook is the manner in which I prefer to be addressed.”

  She was seated in a rocking chair that must have been built to her measurements. It was at least half again the regular size. She’d made no move to rise when Sarah came in, nor would Sarah have expected her to. Getting up would be a procedure not to be approached in haste by a woman of her dimensions.

  “I suppose you’ve had a good many visitors, Cook,” Sarah ventured.

  “No doubt I have. On revel day, however, I concentrate so ferociously on the infinitude of details concerning the banquet that I find I retain no memory of those who come and go. Suffice it to me that they come when they’re needed and go with whatever they’re supposed to be taking outside. I refer of course to the potboys and wenches. As for visitors like yourself, I frankly discourage them as most of the regulars know. Not to be uncivil, Mrs. Bittersohn. You wouldn’t have known, being new, and it doesn’t matter now anyway because my work is over. The scullions will handle the cleanup. I myself am far spent.”