The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Ah yes. I spent a pleasant weekend there myself years ago.” She ate the last fairy cake. “Now, you wanted to hear about the ghosts?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She rang for Irma. “I think it would be best if we went up to the attic room. Then I can describe the various sightings.”

  “Wonderful!” Rancor leapt to his feet. “Oh…but how will you get up there?”

  “I had a small elevator installed when I bought the house. You two take the stairs. I’ll meet you there.”

  When they arrived at the top floor—Charity a trifle out of breath since Rancor had dragged her up the last flight—Beatrice sat in her wheelchair by the garret door. She produced a key. “I haven’t been up here since I first moved in. I confess my curiosity is piqued.”

  The small door opened into a rather dingy room. Its ceiling slanted at a severe angle, and Rancor had to stoop to enter. A small dresser took up one corner, an enameled water pitcher on it. In the other corner stood a single iron bed, its blanket and sheets full of holes. A large steamer trunk sat by the door.

  Beatrice rolled to a small window in the dormer. “Here’s where the young lady fell to her death trying to escape her cruel stepfather. Witnesses swear they have seen her dangling from the windowsill.”

  Charity pulled at the latch. “Doesn’t it open?”

  “No.” She tapped the pane. “Over the years, several people tried to spend the night here on a dare, hoping to confront the wraiths. One young and foolish man ended up jumping out the window and impaling himself on the iron fence below. The previous owners had the window painted shut.”

  Rancor moved to the wall and stuck his finger in a hole. “What’s this?”

  “Ah, that’s the bullet hole. Another muttonheaded bloke, as my husband would say. They found him dead of fright with a smoking gun in his hand.”

  “There seem to be more deaths attributed to encountering the ghosts than there are ghosts.”

  Charity giggled. “I guess it only takes one to scare a lot of people.”

  “Oh no, we have two, maybe three—the young woman, a little girl…now who was the third?” She tapped her nose. “Ah, yes, the youth imprisoned here until he went insane and died.”

  “Righto. He’s the one you told me about. Froths at the mouth.”

  “Yes, although it’s rare to see the actual figures. Some have glimpsed the little girl crying, but otherwise the apparition usually consists of a formless white cloud or a kind of brownish mist that floats around.” She moved toward the door. “A distinctive odor has also been reported.”

  “The smell of decay? Something rotten in the state of Denmark?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “ ‘I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood.’ Hark! Do I hear someone calling from the other side?” He held a hand to his ear.

  “I think Rancor is making a little joke.”

  The old lady pursed her lips. “It was not a laughing matter to the victims driven mad by fear.”

  Charity pointed at the trunk. “Is that the one Mistinguett took?”

  “Indeed it is. When I arrived, I found it in the front hall. I had the gardener bring it up here—but not before I sifted through it.”

  “Were the costumes still there?”

  “A few. A feather boa or two, a peacock headdress, a pair of dancing shoes.” A shadow passed behind her eyes. “Tiny little things. Amazing what small feet they had in those days.”

  “Did you save them?”

  She roused herself. “Oh yes. Together with the packet of letters.”

  Rancor froze. “Letters? What kind of letters?”

  “Now they were the find of a lifetime.” Beatrice smoothed her skirt. “My grandmother must have forgotten she’d put them in the trunk. They were mainly love letters. Some from Maurice Chevalier, others from a range of admirers.”

  “You know, they could be quite valuable.”

  Beatrice looked shocked. “I would never make such things public.” Her eyes danced. “However, they do make stimulating reading. Would you like to see them?”

  Charity, entranced, cried, “Oh yes, please.”

  “I keep them down in the library.”

  Rancor and Charity took the stairs to the main floor and followed Beatrice to a small room off the parlor. The furniture consisted of a delicate mahogany secretary, two leather chairs, and a sofa. The walls were lined with books. “My husband spent his time in here. It’s too dark for me.”

  She went to the desk and picked up a small box lacquered in red. Taking a brass key from a mesh bag attached to her chatelaine, she unlocked it. The others could see a pile of envelopes. “Each is addressed to Mademoiselle Mistinguett, 30 rue des Saints-Pères, 6e, Paris.”

  “Sixième? What’s that?”

  Rancor explained. “Refers to the arrondissement. Paris is divided into twenty districts or arrondissements. The sixth covers St. Germain des Prés, the bohemian heart of 1920s Paris. L’Hôtel Paris is in the sixth.”

  Beatrice set the pile on a table. Rancor divided it between letters in English and those in French and handed the former to Charity. He grinned at her. “Go for it.”

  The top one on her pile was from the Prince of Wales, written on watermarked linen, the ink faded but in a clearly florid hand. “My, he’s quite taken with her, isn’t he? Such flowery language—‘rosebud lips, a pert nose, and extraordinary stamina.’ ”

  “Actually, he used precisely those phrases in letters to twenty other women.” Beatrice clearly disapproved.

  “Oh.” Charity picked up another one. “This is from a Prince Michael Orlov. He says he’s named a dish after her, and it has been a great hit in his restaurant.”

  Rancor laughed. “Let me guess. Sweetbreads? No…haunch of milk-fed calf? How about—”

  “That’s quite enough, Rancor.”

  “Fine, fine.” He picked one from his pile. “Here’s one from the master entertainer himself.”

  “Chevalier.”

  “Mais oui. The quintessential song-and-dance man. I’ll translate. ‘My dearest, most beloved, celestial daughter of the night. How I cherish my moments with you. Last night will always be precious to me. When you ran your soft fingers over my—’ ” He ceased abruptly. “They didn’t mince words then, did they?”

  Beatrice smiled serenely. “It was a much more honest age.”

  Charity had been skimming her pile when she came across a letter in very feminine handwriting. She opened it. “It’s from Hedda.” She looked at Rancor. “Do you suppose it’s Hedda Ringling?”

  Beatrice took the letter from her. “It is. They were quite close. My grandmother often spoke of the Ringlings. According to her, John was a bit of a cold fish, but she and Hedda—the second wife—hit it off. They corresponded for several years, although Hedda broke off communications after her divorce.” She sighed. “It hurt my grandmother’s feelings, but what could she do?”

  “The Ringlings were divorced in 1936, I believe?”

  “Yes. Hedda rather faded into obscurity after that. I remember Grandmama saying she wished she would hear from her, especially after her last letter.”

  “Really? What was in it?”

  “It’s rather unclear. Let me find it.” Beatrice took a sheet of lavender paper out of another envelope. “Yes, here it is—it’s dated 1934. Rancor? Will you do the honors? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  He took the paper from her.

  Dearest Misty,

  I hope you are well, and that your latest spectacle is a great success. I received a note from Emily Haag Buck who said you were garnering rave reviews. How I wish Mr. Ringling and I could be there! However, I fear I shall never have the pleasure of your company again. I have some bad news. John has served me with divorce papers. I am devastated. I thought we were so happy. I’m sure it can’t be about the “incident.” We took great care with the evidence, and there’s been no news of it. That man—the one I tol
d you about? He is long gone. So it must be that my dear husband is simply unhappy with me. At any rate, I will be out of touch for a while. I wish you all the best…and give my love to Maurice.

  Your loving friend,

  Hedda

  After a minute, Rancor spoke. “I seem to recall that Ringling was virtually penniless when he died.”

  “Possibly due to Hedda’s extravagances?”

  “It’s something to look into.”

  “After we finish the ghost book, okay?”

  “Or I get a certain someone to give me back my property.”

  Beatrice looked from Rancor to Charity. By silent consent, neither clarified. The old lady stifled a genteel yawn. “Your visit has been delightful, but I must take some rest. Doctor’s orders. Irma will show you out.” She took Rancor’s hand. “I do hope to see you again.”

  He stood. “Do you mind if I do one more thing while I’m here?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’d like to take a couple of photographs of the attic room. For my book.”

  For a second, it looked as though Beatrice would refuse. The wrinkles on her face deepened, and her faded eyes blinked. Then she rallied. “Certainly. Go ahead. If you don’t mind, I shall stay here.”

  Charity patted her arm. “I’ll keep you company.” She looked at Rancor. “Do hurry. Mrs. Abernethy is very tired.”

  “Back in a flash.” Rancor picked up his camera and skipped out the door.

  The two women waited. “Would you like another cup of tea, my dear?”

  “No, thanks. Perhaps I could have a look at a few more of the letters.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Charity laid aside the one from Ringling’s wife and pulled out a note covered in doodled hearts from Maurice Chevalier. The florid French flowed, and she was soon lost in unfamiliar words of romance. As she reached for another they heard a yell. She dropped the paper. “Where did that come from?”

  Beatrice pointed a finger. “Upstairs.”

  “I’ll go.” Charity ran out of the parlor and took the stairs three at a time. “Rancor! Was that you?”

  For answer, she heard a crash. When she reached the attic room, the door stood open. She switched on the light to find Rancor face down on the dusty floor. A horrible smell pervaded the room. Gagging, she took her sweater off and held it to her nose. As she bent down to the prostrate man, Irma appeared in the doorway. “Is everything all right?” She hacked. “Oh my, what a stink!”

  “See if you can pry open the window.”

  The maid started toward the window but stopped. “It’s already open.”

  Charity didn’t have time to wonder why. “He’s unconscious. Help me turn him over, will you?”

  Together, they rolled Rancor onto his back. Irma put a finger to his wrist.

  “Pulse is fine. I wonder what happened?”

  Charity checked for wounds or bruises. “Nothing visible.” She held her breath. “You don’t suppose…”

  Irma stood up and backed toward the door. “I’m going to fetch the gardener. He can carry him downstairs.”

  Charity felt a rush of fear. “I…I don’t want to stay here alone. Let’s drag him out to the hall at least.”

  They did, and Irma ran down the stairs, shouting, “Frederick! Frederick!”

  Charity sat on the floor beside Rancor. His breathing—which had been shallow and quick—had slowed. He seemed to have dropped off to sleep. As booted feet pounded up the stairs, he stirred.

  “Wha—” He sat up, his eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

  A head with a shock of red hair rose up above the last step. “Here, here, what have we got?” Frederick, a beefy man in dungarees, asked no more questions but hoisted Rancor over his shoulder and carried him back down the stairs. To Charity’s surprise, Rancor let him.

  When they arrived in the parlor, Beatrice was clasping the box of letters to her breast. Frederick plumped his charge down in a chair and left without another word.

  Irma shouldered past the gardener into the room. “Oh, Mr. Bass, are you all right?” She wiped his forehead with a napkin.

  Charity sat down next to him, clutching his hand tightly.

  He grimaced and touched his head. “Something hit me from behind. I must have blacked out.”

  “Was that you who called?”

  “Yes. I’d forgotten the key, but when I got to the door I saw it was ajar.”

  “We didn’t know if something had happened, so I ran after you. When I got halfway up, I heard a thump.”

  He winked. “Did it sound like this?” He rapped under the coffee table.

  “No, and this is no time for frivolity. Someone hit you.”

  “True.”

  “And there was a sickening smell in the room.”

  “I did not, I repeat, did not, fart.”

  Irma spoke up. “Not that kind of smell. More like…rotten eggs.”

  “Sulfur.” He gazed over their heads. “I believe flatulence is produced by a buildup of methane gas in the bowels, which smells like sulfur.”

  Charity broke the uncomfortable silence. “Whatever. So what should we do now?”

  Beatrice said firmly, “We call the police.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “Tell them what happened. They can investigate.”

  “All right.”

  An hour later, Charity and Rancor walked out of the hospital. The rain had stopped, but vapor hung in the air, draping them with moisture. “I propose we get some food.”

  “But what about your head? The nurse told you to go home and rest.”

  “The doctor said it was only a slight contusion. Likely from something rather soft—maybe one of those bags thugs use…now, what are they called?”

  “I don’t know.” Charity saw a pub on the corner. “Let’s eat.”

  They ordered at the bar and took their plates to a small table. “Is Beatrice going to call us when the police finish their investigation?”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his chin. “Awfully bizarre occurrence right on the heels of our interview. Coincidence?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He stood up. “I think a stroll in the night air would do us good. Get my libido back in shape for tonight’s exploits.”

  Charity said, “Exploits?” although she didn’t really expect an answer. Nor did she expect to argue.

  Later that evening, as they both lay panting from delicious exertion, the telephone rang. Rancor picked it up. “Yes? Oh, hello.”

  He listened, said “Thank you,” and hung up. He turned to Charity and stroked a stray ringlet. “That was Beatrice. She says they found the ghosts.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Lovely Isabella

  “Who caught them? The police?”

  “No, the London wing of the Ghostbusters. Of course the police.”

  “Well, they must have special equipment then.”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow. She’s invited us over for the unveiling, or whatever you’d call it.”

  “Exposé?”

  He flicked her nipple. “It couldn’t be any more fun than the present exposure.”

  She pushed his hand away. “I need some sleep. And I want a full English breakfast tomorrow before we head over.”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  ****

  They reached Berkeley Square just as a patrol car left. Charity wasn’t sure if its bright blue and yellow checkerboard markings were some sort of gag—to foster good police-community relations?—so she said nothing. Beatrice sat in her wheelchair on the top step. Irma held an umbrella over her head to ward off the steady drizzle.

  Rancor paid off the taxi and handed Charity out. “Are we too late?”

  “You just missed them. Come in and have some coffee.”

  They followed her into the parlor. Irma filled cups and handed them around, but instead of retiring, she stood by the door, a grin tilting her mouth.

  Rancor put his cup down. “Well?”


  “Our ghosts turned out to be quite warm and fleshy, if not friendly.”

  Irma burst out, “It was Lindsay and Sylvester Taylor, the little scalawags.” She tittered.

  Beatrice glared at her. “There was nothing humorous in their prank, Irma. Mr. Bass here could have been seriously hurt.”

  “It was only Lindsay’s duffel. He didn’t even have books in it.”

  Rancor looked from one to the other. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll tell it, Irma.” Beatrice composed her hands in her lap. “A young family has moved into the house next door. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are quite nice, but unfortunately they have no control over their two boys. Lindsay is eleven, and his brother Sylvester is nine.”

  Irma interjected, “They come from Tunbridge Wells—my home town.”

  Beatrice raised her voice. “At any rate, the children at school must have told them about the attic inhabitants, and they determined to roust them out. So yesterday afternoon, while we were in the library, they scaled the outside of the house—”

  “There’s a thick vine that climbs up almost to the roof. Strong enough to hold a small boy.” Irma seemed quite tickled.

  “I told Frederick to cut that thing down a month ago. It’s been nothing but trouble.” Beatrice turned to the bemused couple before her. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. First Lindsay, then Sylvester climbed up to the attic and opened the window.”

  “Ah ha.” Rancor nodded. “I noticed a breeze when I walked in.”

  “Yes, they broke one of the panes. I’ll have to get Frederick on that right away. When I consider how much heat is escaping through the hole. Irma—”

  “Beatrice? The boys?”

  She took a breath. “Their plan was to set off a stink bomb, assuming that would draw the attention of the spirits.”

  “Stink bomb? Aha! That puts me in the clear, so to speak.” Rancor looked pleased.

  “But…” Beatrice held up a beringed hand. “When they heard Rancor coming up the stairs, they panicked. Sylvester tossed the bomb into the room and scampered down the vine. Lindsay was about to follow when he realized he’d left his backpack on the floor. He turned back just as Mr. Bass entered.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “No, because the light was off, and it was pitch dark in there.”