The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [35]
‘Why, to be sure, we have our share of such legends –
what old house does not? But I have never done them the honour of giving them any credence. Nor do I wish to extend their lives.’
The Doctor and Signor Verconti were dining alone in the large dining-room, waited upon by an army of servants.
Louisa had been given leave to share a tray with Sarah, and 123
the angelic Miss Grinley was away on her annual visit to her native Yorkshire.
‘I have made a particular study of such things,’ said the Doctor, tucking into a veal cutlet, one of the half-dozen dishes of meat on offer, ‘both from the viewpoint of an historian and as a student of natural philosophy.’
‘Come now, Doctor,’ said the comfortably plump Barone, helping himself to a thick slice of pork, ‘one can hardly find an equivalence between the watching of birds and the hunting of ghosts. Such things are surely the stuff of the romantic rubbish with which foolish women and children like to “freeze their young blood”. Allow me to cut you a slice of this excellent pork. Or a plump songthrush, perhaps?’
The Doctor declined with a smile but helped himself to another glass of wine. ‘A remarkable wine, Signore. Your own?’
‘The last of the ’09, alas.’
Having, with an appreciative sip, paid silent respect to the passing of a noble vintage, the Doctor resumed his gentle attack. ‘You saw for yourself this very evening, sir, a phenomenon of nature which would be difficult to explain away as romantic rubbish.’
‘You have me, Doctor. I have thought the tales the servants have brought to me to be just that – tales. The tittle-124
tattle of the servants’ hall. Or at the most the pranks of some child. Though to be sure the most rigorous enquiry has not revealed a culprit. But after tonight…’ He chewed solemnly on his pork.
The Doctor waited.
‘Very well,’ said the Barone, putting down his knife and fork. ‘You carry the day. I strike my colours. A glass of wine with you, sir, to celebrate your victory.’
They replenished their glasses and solemnly toasted each other.
‘It is said, then,’ Verconti began, settling back into his chair, ‘that many years ago, two hundred or maybe even three, my ancestor, the Barone of the time, having lost his heir in the wars, was plagued by the importunities of a false claimant to the inheritance, his wife being no longer able for child-bearing…’
‘…but you see, Sarah dearest, he was not fit to be an heir, for he was a Mad Monk! And I think it probable that the true heir was not slain in battle at all, but murdered!
What say you, dear Sarah Jane, do you not think that must be true? Although, to be sure, Mrs Radcliffe… But I outrun my story!’
Sarah had found that the collation of cold meats and fruit brought to her bedside had more than restored her 125
spirits. Her headache – and the pain in her shoulder – had been reduced to a dull ache by the Doctor’s draught; and nobody could remain sad for long in Louisa’s company…
She laughed. ‘A murderer as well as a Mad Monk! He really was the villain of the piece.’
‘Well,’ continued Louisa, ‘the Monk was a sorcerer too, and was trying to raise the dead or Lucifer or the fiends of Hell or somebody like that. But his evil designs were foiled; for a good magician – I think it must have been Merlin, though that is not a part of the story – appeared at the stroke of midnight in a flash of heavenly fire and, to punish him for his wickedness, walled him up alive! Now, is that not charmingly horrid?’ And Louisa clapped her soft hands together in delight.
Charming indeed, thought Sarah. But what was more to the point – the whole story bore a strong resemblance to what the Doctor and she had seen for themselves. Except that the alchemist hadn’t been walled up or any of that stuff.
She must tell the Doctor as soon as she could.
But when he came, in his capacity of medical adviser (‘You’ll stay in bed tomorrow morning, young lady, and no arguments!’), he wouldn’t let her talk, but insisted on her