Authors: Christianna Brand
‘A Rome-ish practice,’ said Honoria. ‘I did not think we could stoop to it.’
‘But then Adelaide suggested that the poor ghost would get wet; and I replied to her that one only sprinkled the water. And Honoria became thoughtful, did you not, Honoria?—and said that such a man as the Fifth Earl would need something more than a sprinkling; and she went to the—the priest—’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Great Aunt Honoria, firmly; but it had cost her something, you could see that, to deal even so remotely with the Scarlet Woman of Rome.
‘—and that night we each had a whole ewer of the water and stood in our bedroom doorways…’
For quite some days after that, it seemed, the house had been extraordinarily peaceful. The Holy Water apparently kept the ghost at bay; and even Cousin William was not there to talk to Emmeline across the Aunts in that mocking, double-meaning, teasing way of his: for Cousin William was confined to his bed with a bad sore throat.
But soon the haunting began again and Emmeline acknowledged that the apparition had come to her room once more and stood, hand on bedpost, gazing down at her. For how long, she never could say: between waking and dreaming one couldn’t be sure. To the Aunts, sometimes catching a glimpse of him going one way, sometimes coming back—it seemed really a very long time. Once or twice they went to her room in the hope of surprising him there; but Emmeline nowadays kept her door locked and by the time she opened it to them, if any ghost had been there, it had vanished. The fact that it apparently took no account of locks and bolts suggested that she might as well leave the door open and give them a better chance of confronting it; but no—she felt happier with it locked, she said, and begged the Aunts most earnestly not to go to all this trouble. After all, she said demurely, the ghost never did anything she didn’t like. Cousin William choked into his cup of tea.
And then one night Nanny saw the ghost, and Nanny told Cook and Cook peeked over the banister from the top storey and she also saw the crown of the powdered head; and soon the tongues of the neighbourhood would begin to wag. And what interpretation the incredulous would put upon these events, the Aunts did not care to think. Something very positive would have to be done to stop the visitations: and soon.
‘We must talk to the naughty ghost and ask him not to come,’ said Adelaide; and next night she called out to him as he passed her door. But he only turned his wicked white face towards her and stalked silently by and went on up the curving stair. ‘If we could somehow—barricade him in up there?’ suggested Felicity. ‘Put an obstruction of some kind across the stairs—’
Honoria looked at her and once again grew thoughtful. ‘If a locked door won’t keep him out—’ began Felicity, but Honoria interrupted her. ‘The Holy Water kept him at bay for some days,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if we tied something across the stairs as Adelaide suggests—a scarf or sash, something soft—and soaked it well with Holy Water, he would be unable to pass that. We could renew it each day.’ And she made a second excursion to the Scarlet Woman. ‘There, Adelaide—as it was you who thought of the idea—you shall be the one to tie it across the stairs, from banister to banister.’ And she sent Addie off with a soft black silk scarf soaked with the Holy Water…
Vi-vi’s bright enamelled nails dug themselves into the palms of her hands as she listened to this recital. ‘Great Aunt Honoria—you
did
n’t?’
‘How was one to know that she would tie it so low down, poor, foolish creature, as to trip anyone up? And anyway—what did it matter to a ghost where she tied it?’
‘You didn’t really still believe that it was a ghost?’
‘Certainly it was a ghost,’ said Great Aunt Honoria, looking back at Vi-vi with a steady eye.
‘So you… So you sent Aunt Adelaide to tie the thing across; and that night Cousin William tripped over it and fell down those steep, curving stairs, and broke his neck?’
‘Such an unfortunate accident!’ said Felicity. ‘Poor man!’ And on the very night, she added when he had made such elaborate preparations himself, to lay the ghost.
‘Preparations?’
‘Why, yes, my dear. He had actually been to a costumier’s and hired eighteenth-century costume, just like the clothes in the picture. The plum-coloured coat, you know, gold-embroidered waistcoat, the wig and the tasselled cane. To confront the ghost, you see, in its very own image. Or so dear Emmeline explained to us when she had recovered sufficiently from shock to do so. She was very much upset: young, of course and impressionable. She felt it was on her account—to lay the ghost because it might be troubling her—that all these arrangements had been made and the accident had happened.’
Vi-vi sat, cold, frightened, filled with dread, looking into the two old faces, the heavy square old face of Great Aunt Honoria, the pinched pink face of Great Aunt Felicity with its prominent thin white nose. ‘You put the scarf there—tied it across the banisters: and your cousin was
killed
?’ But hadn’t there been a fuss, she asked; an enquiry, an inquest…?
‘An inquest, yes. There always has to be it appears, in a case of sudden death; who ever may be the parties concerned. We spoke to the Chief Constable, of course—a gentleman still, my dear, even ten years ago: not one of these upstarts risen from the ranks that they have now. But he couldn’t prevent an inquest, not even he. However, he kindly arranged for a verdict of Accidental Death with nothing to suggest what had caused the fall. We had removed the scarf of course, by his advice, and he saw to it that the costume was not mentioned. Indeed, we arranged a story between us that William had always been careless with the tie of his dressing-gown, leaving it trailing, and must have been coming down to the—er, the bathroom: there was some temporary fault with the cistern upstairs…’
‘You mean to say that the Chief Constable himself hushed the whole thing up?’
‘There are advantages to being a Fitzmerrian, my child, as you will find. And then when we told him it was poor Adelaide who had put the scarf there—well, he knew her, you see, he understood that she could never be held responsible.’
She sat for a long time, silent, staring at them and found to her amazement that her hands were actually trembling. Many months more, she had to live on with these three old ladies, until her husband came home; and even then, was bound by a promise never to confide in him. But she would: she was never coming to Fitzmerrian again. ‘You will remember your undertaking,’ said Great Aunt Honoria, into her thoughts, ‘not to mention this to anyone? Not of course that they would believe it. Edward, as I said earlier, was a boy then; he, like everyone else, accepted the Coroner’s verdict. But should you break your promise…’ She lifted her head and listened. ‘There goes the stable clock, Felicity; ten o’clock. I hope that wretched groom is back from his evening off and not making more trouble in the village.’
A hint? A threat? Could it be that they
knew…
? ‘You could never get away with it now,’ said Vi-vi. ‘As you say, even Chief Constables have changed, these days.’
‘“Get away with it?” Get away with what?’
‘Get away with murder,’ said Vi-vi.
‘With murder? My dear child, you are hysterical, this unfortunate story has unhinged you.’ She sat there, square and stolid, her heavy hands folded in her lap. ‘How could it be murder? Cousin William had so thoroughly convinced us—hadn’t he, he and Emmeline together?—that we were dealing with a ghost.’ But there, repeated Great Aunt Honoria, the young were so impressionable. Poor Emmeline, for instance—she had never seemed quite the same after Cousin William’s accident: had she, Felicity? Never again the frisky young foal, kicking up its heels wherever the grass grew green. Very sad it had been when she and dear Hubert were killed: she had been shaping into quite an admirable member of the family. And Elizabeth too and dear little Virginia—they both had started off a little—skittishly; but now, though they unfortunately seldom came as they had done, to stay at Fitzmerrian, they did both seem to have settled down a lot better. ‘As you will also, my dear, I’m sure. The Family—young people don’t quite understand at first but, as you yourself will find out, it is a very real thing. The sense of family—the honour of one’s family: there is nothing really one should stop at, to preserve it.’
‘Not even murder?’ said Vi-vi.
‘Nothing,’
said Great Aunt Honoria.
And the stable clock struck the quarter and she got up and left them, creeping away, very, very thoughtful—lovely Vi-vi Fitzmerrian, who henceforth would guard her husband’s honour and play with fire no more. Aunt Felicity watched her go. She said: ‘Do you think she believes it?’
‘She’ll never be quite sure,’ said Honoria. She added: ‘As you say, it does always seem rather unfair on those who are not here to defend themselves. Dear William!—and dear, good little Emmeline!’
‘And that poor dear Chief Constable!’ said Felicity, laughing.
‘But they both had a great sense of family: Cousin Willie, I mean, and Emmeline. And a sense of humour, too. I think they’d be more—amused—than resentful?’
‘If she were to tell Edward—?’
‘She won’t,’ said Honoria. ‘The others didn’t. The coroner’s verdict was of Accidental Death, due to the fall over the dressing-gown cord. She knows that Edward would ask himself why we should tell her such a tarradiddle.’
‘Poor darling Willie! How often we’ve warned him, “Willie, dear, you’ll trip over that cord one day and break your neck!”’ Aunt Felicity rose to her feet. ‘I shall go to bed myself, Honoria. Your imagination is more vivid than mine; I do find these recitals very exhausting.’ In some ways, she added, wouldn’t it be simpler just to get rid of Mario?
‘Oh, we couldn’t do that,’ said Great Aunt Honoria. ‘Grooms are so hard to find these days; and Mario really is an angel with the carriage horses.’
B
UZZARDS YOU MIGHT SEE
a-plenty; but the kite, the majestic kite—he was rare; and being rare, was precious. Perhaps a dozen pairs left in the whole of Great Britain, no more; and she, Miss Bellingham, had actually had a pair nesting on her land.
If a pair of kites nested on your land and reared their young, you were awarded a Bounty; and Miss Bellingham duly received her Bounty. Not that she needed an odd few pounds; she was well enough off and if she chose to live in a cottage in the deep heart of Wales, had made it as comfortable as a rather stout, elderly lady could require, and lived there solely because she preferred to. No, it was not the money: it was the pride—the pride and the feeling that from now on this kite belonged to
her.
She took to keeping account of his movements, sending off innumerable postcards to the guardians of the kite, full of information, and confirmation or denial of information, already perfectly well known to them. The guardians threw the postcards into the waste paper-basket: all they required of Miss Bellingham was that she should protect the nest.
And she protected it. Not a soul was allowed near the cottage or surrounding woods; in sunshine or in rain she patrolled her few acres and drove away all who might disturb the great one and his queen. Not that visitors were many—the cottage was too remotely situated to be troubled by more than an occasional motoring tourist, probing into the lonely valleys in search of even more scenic delights; but the kindly farmers would every now and again jog over in their vans and Land-rovers, up Miss Bellingham’s rutty lane ‘just to see that the old lady’s all right’—and by no means appreciated being turned back with brusque assurances that she lacked for nothing and would have to say goodbye now as she was very busy… For of course she said nothing of the nesting kites: above all, one must keep them secret against the curious, the predatory, the undisciplined ignorant: from the irreverent.
The years passed, the kites moved elsewhere to nest; but his lordship still visited Miss Bellingham’s land—sailing over, high, serene, majestical, when the whim seized him, and always to Miss Bellingham’s delight. ‘Kite visited today, twelve noon,’ she would write on a postcard to the kite guardians, perhaps once a week; in a life almost totally devoid of other incident, this was a red letter day. Others must watch for the long forked tail, for the glint of russet, for the crook of the wing-tips, to distinguish him from the blunt-tailed buzzards: but not Miss Bellingham. She knew him for himself—for his lazy sweep of the air he owned, for the swift, controlled swoop, the calm, unhurried return, slowly upward circling, into the blue remoteness of his kingdom. The buzzard might be hustled and harried by raven flocks; the lord of the air sailed on through the scruffy ranks, unruffled, and the foe fell back…
The seasons came and went and a new spring arrived; and in February, surprisingly in those parts where, even in the heart of winter a bitter cold is unusual—came the snow. At the first sign of it, while the country was still but an exquisite pearly green, not yet blotted out with white, came the farmers, bucketing and sliding up and down the steep hills with chains on their wheels. ‘Better get out, Miss Bellingham, while you can. You know what it’s like here when the snow drifts: this road will be impassable, it always is. And who knows how long it will last? Better get out.’
Miss Bellingham had no intention of getting out. Every winter her relatives came and forced her away, took her to homes where, long used to her solitudes, she felt cramped and harassed, ill at ease. But they would not discover before it was too late to reach her, the news of February snow in these faraway valleys: she would escape them this time. On the other hand, she could not have the farmers struggling over—she had no telephone—fighting their way through to her, just because she chose to be obstinate and remain. ‘It’s all arranged for,’ she lied. ‘My nephew will be coming for me later today. You know they never leave me here in hard weather. He’s coming today.’
They went away, thankful, and passed the word round the tiny community. No need to worry about Miss Bellingham: her friends were taking her to safety till the snow was gone. Miss Bellingham sighed happily and settled down to her self-created besiegement.