Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [44]
Looking closer I saw that the wedding couple was a rather unpleasant-looking man with huge side whiskers and a deathly pale woman who seemed too ill to stand, and who sat smiling weakly. There was a strange smudge nearby - some sort of stain on the photograph. I looked back at my uncle.
'Weddings, Edgar,.' he said. 'They are grisly affairs, are they not?'
I had to agree, having suffered some interminable examples myself, during which I was forced to talk for hours to dreary aunts and uncles.
'Give me a funeral over a wedding any day,.' said Uncle Montague with a sigh. 'The conversation is almost always superior.'
'Are they relatives, sir?' I asked.
'Not of mine,.' he said. 'Or yours for that matter.'
'Friends perhaps, sir?' I ventured.
Uncle Montague shook his head.
'No, Edgar. I do not keep the photograph for sentimental reasons, I'm afraid, if that is what you were hoping. GO AWAY!'
I recoiled as if from a gunshot. There was a confusion of scuffling noises on the ceiling followed by retreating footsteps. The echoing of the old house gave the illusion of several pairs of feet running away at great speed. Once I had recovered from the shock I smiled to myself at the thought of Franz's panic.
'You may not be surprised to hear that there is a story attached to the photograph, Edgar.'
'May I hear it, sir?' I asked.
'Of course, dear boy,.' he said. 'Of course.'
Victoria Harcourt stood on the lawn, spread out like the green baize of a billiard table. She was the unenthusiastic guest at a wedding between distant cousins. It was a sultry August day, the air thick and heavy like an invisible eiderdown. The lake beyond the lawn was still and dark.
The service had been a dreadful bore and the reception was no improvement. Victoria's parents inhabited the less wealthy branches of the Harcourt family tree and were always keen to mix with their more affluent relatives. Victoria stood self-consciously in her tired, unfashionable clothes and hated every second.
The wedding guests milled about beside a marquee while their children inhabited the garden. Her mother gave her encouraging nods in the direction of the other girls - cousins she had encountered all too often at similar events.
Victoria sighed and stomped towards the huddle of girls, all dressed in white and looking like a spray of carnations. An older cousin she particularly loathed, called Emily, was at the centre of the group, speaking in intense hushed tones. Victoria craned forward to hear.
'You know this place is haunted?' she whispered. The smaller girls in the group gazed open-eyed and looked to their older sisters for comfort. Emily let the effect of her words spread through the group and then continued.
'A famous murderer lived here,.' she said. 'They hanged him and everything.'
'Gosh, Em,.' said one of the girls. 'Is that true?'
'Of course it's true,.' hissed Emily. 'Are you calling me a liar, Annabel?'
'No, Em, I . . .'
'Well, then,.' she continued. 'It is true. You ask anybody. Bartholomew Garnet, his name was. He was evil, they say - pure evil. They hanged him at Newgate in London. Papa told me all about it.'
'And the house is really haunted?' asked one of the smaller girls tremulously.
Emily nodded. 'As true as I'm standing here.'
'Have you seen the ghost, Em?'
'No,.' she said. 'But lots of people -'
Suddenly there was flash of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. The storyteller nearly jumped off the ground in panic and Victoria giggled. Emily glared at her. Rain began to fall in big, lazy drops, and then in a torrent that sent the ladies shrieking into the marquee, holding on to their hats.
'I say,.' said Emily, recovering her demeanour and exchanging a sly look with her sister. 'Let's play hide-and-seek in the house.' Emily's sister grinned.
'But what about the ghost?' asked one of the girls.
'That will just make it all the more exciting!' said Emily. 'We'll play in teams of two,.' she added