by Amy Cross
“I trust Robert Desermes and his family checked out properly first?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“And has anybody been in touch yet, to ask whether they left?”
“A solicitor from London called,” he replies. “A Mr. Albraid, I believe. I simply told him that the four guests had left as scheduled, and that as far as I knew they should be back in London by now. He sounded a little worried, but as I pointed out, there was nothing I could tell him about the guests' exploits once they'd checked out. I mean, the guests are no longer our responsibility once they've turned their keys back in, are they?”
“Absolutely not,” I mutter, still watching the four bags as they rest in the cement. “Perhaps now things can get back to normal.”
Turning, I look back toward the hotel. The events of the past few twenty-four hours have emptied the place, with all the guests having departed. Even Sir Edward let a day early. Word has apparently spread to London that there were certain unusual occurrences here, and I'm resigned to the fact that it will likely take quite some time before the damage has been undone. But it shall be undone, because I refuse to accept any other eventuality. This fuss is a setback, but one that shall prove only temporary.
“I'll get this filled in,” Silas explains, heading over to the cement barrow. “Once the bodies are covered, the workmen can get on with building the pool.”
“Oh, I wouldn't worry too much,” I reply, going over to join him and taking a knife from one of the trestle tables. “I can manage from now on, Silas. You've served me well, but I'm not sure I can rely on you any longer. Not after your failure with regards to Mary Maywhistle.”
He turns to me. “What -”
Before he can get another word out, I drive the knife into his chest, quickly twisting the handle and forcing the blade to slice through his heart. He lets out a pained gasp, but then he seems almost to freeze, and it's no trouble at all to push him back and send him crashing down to join the bagged bodies in the cement. He struggles a little once he's landed, and I see some blood running from his mouth as he makes a deep choking sound, but all things considered I'm surprised by just how quickly and easily he slumps down into the gray sludge.
Turning, I look over at the shovels resting against a nearby wall. Fortunately, I've become rather accustomed of late to the idea of performing important tasks myself. I have relied upon Silas for many years, but everybody has their expiry date. If I am to complete my work at this hotel, I can only truly trust my own efforts.
***
“Where are you?” I shout, stumbling against the shoeshine machine but quickly steadying myself against the wall as I take another sip of whiskey. “Do you hear me, girl? Show yourself!”
I wait, but all I hear is silence. The entire hotel has fallen still, ever since the last of the guests departed in the wake of the Desermes debacle, and it seems I am unable to summon the ghost of Ruth Maywhistle. Evidently she is happy to come when she is summoned by a group of idiots and their foolish toys, but she hides in the shadows when her presence is demanded by a man of substance.
The ghost is scared of me.
Good.
That is how it should be.
Then again, perhaps she does not even exist.
“I wonder if you are real,” I mutter, stumbling along the corridor, bumping a little into the wall on the left and then a little into the wall on the right. “Do you hear that, child? I find myself wondering whether ghost sightings are, in fact, more than just the preserve of madmen and foolish women. I wonder whether your spirit is knocking about here somewhere, but I'm afraid I have news for you. If you think you're going to be allowed to haunt my hotel, you've got another thing coming. If you are real, we shall have to put a stop to that at once.”
Stopping at the top of the stairs, I look down toward the lobby. With all the guests having departed, and no more booked in for the next week, I sent the staff home, so I am the only soul left at the hotel. Well, the only living soul. I have spent several years building this place up, turning the Lakeforth into the epitome of style and class, and it has all been sent crashing down around me. A lesser man would give up and accept his failure, but fortunately I am made of sterner stuff. I count this experience as a lesson, and I shall learn from that lesson. And the Lakeforth is going to rise from the ashes. The likes of Robert Desermes will not win.
“This place will be teeming again!” I announce proudly, for the benefit of Ruth Maywhistle and any other ghosts who might be listening. “You'll see. I'll show them all. I'll make them all marvel at my efforts. And then Sir Edward Barringham and his blue-blooded friends will see that they were wrong about me!”
I stumble forward, only to trip on the top step. Tumbling down the stairs, I land hard at the bottom, dropping my bottle and sending it skidding across the marble floor until it slams into the wall. As for myself, I feel stiffness and pains in a few joints as I sit up, but I am otherwise unharmed. Perhaps it is true that, when inebriated, one tends to fall more softly.
Of course, I pinch myself on the arm, just to make sure that I have not joined the ranks of the ghosts.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, getting to my feet and heading over to retrieve the bottle. Some of the whiskey has spilled out, leaving just a dribble, but I have plenty more in the library. I stare down at the bottle for a moment, feeling a rush of anger in my chest, and finally I turn and throw the cursed thing at the far wall.
The bottle smashes, and shards of glass fall to the floor.
“I will not be denied!” I scream, so that every possible ghost will hear me, even those who might cower in the basement. “I am a great man and it is my destiny to make this the greatest hotel in England! And I -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that there is a figure standing at the top of the stairs, watching me. Even before I have looked up into her eyes, I know that it is Ruth Maywhistle. A faint smile crosses my lips.
So she is real, after all. In which case, perhaps I really did see my grandmother's dead body move all those years ago. If ghosts are real, then I must be particularly cursed when it comes to seeing them.
“Look at me,” I say, holding my hands out to my sides. “Marvel at me, child. No matter how the bastards try to bring me down, I always get back up.”
I wait, in case she might say something, but she merely continues to stare at me.
“I was not born into wealth,” I continue, feeling a hint of tears in my eyes. “I worked for it. I used my brain. Every man born into this world has the chances that I had, but how many take those chances? Almost none. Yet I, Jobard Nash, fought my way up from nothing. I always knew I would need a grand project, something to make those snobs in London pay attention, and that is when I conceived of this hotel. It began as a stepping stone, if you like, to greater riches, but now I believe it has become something more important. It has become the great foundation of my life.”
Again I wait, and again she says nothing.
“I shall not let ghosts stop me,” I mutter, turning and limping toward the double doors that lead into the library. “You'll fade, child. And if you do not, you'll be able to watch as I rebuild this place. The Desermes family tried to meddle, and I dealt with them. I have been quite methodical in my approach, and I have made certain that every enemy in my path has been brushed aside. I am unstoppable.”
Reaching the doorway, I stop for a moment before turning. To my surprise, I find that the ghostly figure of Ruth Maywhistle has silently made her way down the stairs and is only a few feet behind me, watching me with those dark, rotten little eyes.
I cannot help but chuckle at the sight of her.
“Do you doubt me?” I ask. “Do you think I shall fail? Do you think you, and perhaps some other ghosts, can drag this hotel down into the mire?”
I wait.
She does not reply.
“What's wrong?” I ask. “Cat got your tongue?”
Again, her lips do not move.
“For a ghost,” I
mutter, “you're not very lively, are you?”
Smiling, I look into her eyes and see a flickering sense of hatred. No doubt she blames me for everything that happened to her, but it is simply the way of the world that the strong should sweep aside the weak. Should I have done nothing when she and her family stood in my way? Perhaps I shall even enjoy her efforts to haunt me. They will provide amusement while I -
Suddenly she steps forward and screams, and her ear-piercing cry fills the air as her face fills with the plump, pus-filled tones of rotten flesh. The scream continues for several more seconds, its intensity increasing, until finally the poor child seems to understand that I am unmoved. She falls silent again, although still she stares at me with eyes that seem yellowish and slightly swollen.
In fact, I can't help but feel fascinated by the fact that her entire face appears rather rotten. I suspect that as the years go past, her spectral appearance is beginning to take on more and more of the features that mark her rotting physical body. The overall effect is quite fascinating, even if the sight of protruding bones poking out from beneath patches of gelatinous skin is a little discomforting.
If she could truly hurt me, however, I am sure she would have done so by now.
“Do your worst,” I tell her, taking hold of the handles at either side of the double doorway. “See if I care. I shall be too busy rebuilding my hotel to care. And when this place is full and busy again, nobody will pay any attention to the faded ghost of a sad little girl who lurks in the shadows.”
I give her a chance to scream again, but she merely stares at me.
“Do you doubt me?” I ask with a faint smile. “If you doubt me, then evidently you don't know me. And if you don't know me, then you can't haunt me.”
With that, I slide the doors shut, before turning and making my way over to the liquor cabinet. I need to plan my journey tomorrow, since there is one final obstacle that I must clear from my path.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The vast roar of London – the stinking mass of noise that erupts from the streets at every moment – remains one of the most dispiriting experiences any decent man can ever encounter. Even now, as I step down from the train carriage and wait for the porter to fetch my bags, I cannot help looking around at the vast station and feeling a shudder pass through my chest.
There is a reason I left London long ago, and that reason is the noise. I cannot imagine how any man can live in this place and not lose his mind, such is the violence of the shouting voices that assault one's person from every direction. Even now, on the concourse at Paddington Station, I feel as if I must brace myself for my journey through the city. As the porter finally gets my bags onto a trolley and beckons me to follow him, I feel a stir of nausea deep in my gut. I had hoped to never visit London again, not in all my life.
Now that I am here, however, I must simply get my work done as swiftly as possible, so that I might leave again.
***
“This is most generous,” the director stammers, his eyes almost popping from their sockets as he stares at the money order. “Mr. Nash, considering the size of this donation, I feel that perhaps we must rename one wing of the hospital in your honor.”
“I require no such aggrandizement,” I tell him. “I merely heard that the hospital was short of funds, and I felt that I could not visit without bringing a gift. The money is really no great loss for me, and I only hope that it helps you to continue your wonderful work here.”
I wait for a reply, but the bald, hunched little man seems too stunned to speak.
“Personally,” I continue, “I believe that it is the moral duty of great men to make a difference in the world. Anybody can accrue riches, but it takes a man of true character to use those riches in order to bring benefits where they are most needed. I'm sure that when news of my donation spreads through the higher echelons of London society, some heads will be turned. Especially after the hospital is named after me.”
“Well, a wing might -”
“The hospital, I feel. That would be more appropriate.”
“I don't mind admitting, Mr. Nash,” he stammers, “that this money will make the difference between a thriving hospital, and one that was going to have to close at the end of the year. You have saved us!”
“Wonderful news,” I reply with a faint smile. “But please, I'm afraid this charitable donation was not my sole reason for coming to visit this afternoon. I wish to visit a patient who I believe resides in one of your beds. She has been under the care of the Desermes family for some time. Her name is Mary Maywhistle, and I should very much like a moment or two alone with her.”
“I...”
He hesitates, and clearly he's a little uncertain.
“I hope this won't be a problem,” I continue. “I would have thought that, since I am now a benefactor, any rules concerning such visits might be stretched just a little. I have traveled up to London especially for this visit, and I should not like to leave before I have seen her.”
He looks down at the money order for a moment, as if lost in thought, and then he smiles at me again.
“Of course,” he stammers finally. “Why not, eh? It's not as if she's exactly swamped by visitors.”
***
Now that I am here in the girl's room, with the door shut and the orderly having left to get on with other work, I am finally free of the city's overwhelming noise. Standing in silence, I take a deep breath and try to compose my thoughts, and I am starting to feel a little more like myself again. In all honesty, I believe I am becoming less tolerant of excess noise as I get older.
A moment later, there's a faint rustling sound as the figure on the bed moves, disturbing its sheets slightly. Still, she hasn't looked at me. Not yet. Perhaps she doesn't even quite realize she has a visitor. Perhaps she is dull of mind.
“Mary?” I say finally. “Mary Maywhistle? Is that really you?”
I wait, and she shifts again, but still I cannot see her face.
“I had thought for so long that you were dead,” I continue, stepping over to the bed and wiping some dust from a wooden chair, before taking a seat. “Imagine my surprise when Mr. Robert Desermes informed me recently that you had crawled your way to safety, and that -”
Suddenly she rolls over and turns to look at me, and I'm startled to see her wretchedly scarred face. I remember how bloodied and raw she appeared while I had her in my basement, and she appears scarcely much better now. She is older, of course, and is now around her early twenties. The flesh on her face has knotted and healed to some extent, but the scars are thick and the skin around her left eye is particularly mottled. In fact, as I look at her features, I see that her left eye is malformed, as if the fire caused it to develop several bumps. Her right eye, however, is staring directly at me, and a moment later a faint whimpering sound emerges from her lips. Nothing too loud. Just a brief, almost animal-like gasp.
“Come now, Mary,” I say with a smile. “I mean you no harm. It has been a long time, has it not, since we last saw one another? Since I had my men save you from the fire that killed your parents.”
Her lips move slightly, but I cannot quite make out what she's trying to say.
“I cannot imagine the ordeal you went through,” I continue. “Dragging your burned body through the forest, and then along the road, you must have been in agony. And then, by some miracle, you were discovered. My understanding is that you have never managed to give a sensible account of your suffering, that your mind is considered too badly damaged, but that you can slip out the occasional word now and again. That is very commendable, Mary.”
She stammers something, and I think one of the words might be the name of her sister.
“Ruth?” I ask. “You want to know about Ruth? She is long dead, I am afraid. Did the Desermes family not inform you of that fact?”
She lets out a slow, whimpered groan, and her remaining good eye blinks furiously.
“It is said that her ghost still haunts my hotel,” I explain.
“Whether you believe in such things or not, I have no idea. I myself have seen some kind of apparition, and I am sufficiently open-minded to accept that such spirits might exist. Not that it matters much either way, of course.”
I wait, but now Mary is simply staring at me, as if she still can't quite believe that I'm really here.
“I would have come sooner,” I tell her, “had I known that you were here. Unfortunately, the members of the Desermes family saw fit to hide your survival from me. They seem to have come up with some strange theory about what happened to you before they found you on the side of the road. You know what some people are like, Mary. They love a chance to make themselves feel pious. I'm sure they greatly enjoyed looking after you. Perhaps they felt that God put you on that road and ensure that by pure chance, a member of their family happened to find you. Perhaps the whole thing made them feel more important.”
She tries to say something, but the flesh around her mouth seems too tight and damaged, and she sounds rather foolish. She certainly can't form proper words, although her efforts are rather amusing. A moment later, she reaches toward me with a clawed hand that is missing several fingers. I remember that same hand, back when I first met her. Evidently the doctors here have not been able to do too much to improve her condition.
“Are you in pain?” I ask.
She lets out a faint groan.
“What's that supposed to mean?” I continue. “Yes? No? Maybe?”
I can't help chuckling as she turns and looks toward the door. She starts moaning, and after a moment I realize that she seems to be trying to summon help. Her whole body is shuddering slightly, and it would appear that she fears being left alone with me.
“Nobody is going to come, you know,” I tell her. “I wouldn't expect much from the Desermes family, either. Quite soon, they're going to have a great deal of trouble on their hands, and I imagine they'll forget all about you. Sir Roderick Desermes will learn that his two sons, and their wives, never returned from Lakeforth Hotel. I'm sure he'll wish to determine what happened to them, but I'm afraid I've arranged for some unfortunate items to be discovered in one of his warehouses. He'll be far too busy dealing with the police. Perhaps he'll learn, too, that new money can fight as dirty as old.”