Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

Lips pursed, she nodded primly, indicating that she understood and would cooperate.

Sir Simon Grenville, on the other hand, seemed to take no notice of the breach of etiquette. He smiled blandly at Clarissa and shrugged rather grandly. ”The truth is, alas, I know not much to tell. It, or perhaps he, is said to be the ghost of the first Grenville Baronet, who would have been-let me see now-my great-grandfather, no less.”

“And how does this restless spirit make himself known?” asked Sir John.

“Oh, by rambling about the house, making a good deal of noise and generally creating havoc.”

“Havoc, is it? And how does he do that?”

“Why, by allowing himself to be seen from time to time. He looks rather different from me. His is a face that seems to run in the family. My father was quite like him. We’ve a portrait of him in the library. He appears in these visible visitations in dress of the last century, and there does seem to be something-though I risk his wrath to say it-rather evil about him, his expression, the look in his eyes, the rather frightening smile he offers the viewer.”

“I can only gather,” said Sir John, ”that you yourself have seen this apparition on at least one occasion.”

“Yes,” said he, ”I have, and on more than one occasion.” Sir Simon had grown most serious of a sudden. Any hint of jocularity had vanished from his manner. ”And each time I have counted myself lucky to survive unscathed.”

“Why so? Is this spirit so dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough. His appearance, which is to say, his visible manifestation, usually means that someone in or around this house … will die, and die most horribly, within the next week or so.”

There was a sudden and quite audible intake of breath next me. It was Clarissa, of course, so overcome by Sir Simon’s lurid tale that she could but gasp for air; indeed she was truly afrighted.

Yet Sir John, having listened, primed his host with questions and comments through the recital, and in short, done all that a good guest might be expected to do, had finally had quite enough of ghosts, spirits, and apparitions.

“If you will forgive me, Sir Simon,” said he, ”I find all such tales naught but poppycock. Naturally, they frighten children like Clarissa, who deep down rather likes to be frightened. But frankly, it would take a great deal to convince me of their validity.”

“What, specifically, would it take?”

“Well, since I am incapable of accepting the proof offered me by my eyes, I would have to be convinced by one or more of the other four senses.”

“Did I mention the smell which comes with his appearance?”

“No sir, you did not.”

“When he appears, and sometimes only when he is about and wishes to make his presence known, there is a rather overpowering smell of brimstone about.”

“Brimstone?” Sir John puzzled that about in his head for a moment or two. ”You mean sulphur?”

“That is what some call it today, yes.”

“It is sulphur, is it not, which gives off the foul odor of rotting eggs? It can be quite overwhelming.”

“Yes, that’s it!” said Sir Simon in sudden excitement. ”Rotting eggs-a terrible smell! That’s it exactly!”

Sir John began laughing quite abruptly. He threw back his head and let it peal forth from him in great waves of merriment. I had not the slightest notion what had, of a sudden, struck him as so terribly funny.

Nor was I the only one. Sir Simon Grenville recoiled slightly from his guest as he looked upon him in utter bafflement. Then did the baffled expression turn to one of slight though open annoyance. At last, when Sir John’s laughter had subsided, he risked a query.

“What, praytell, did strike you as so amusing, sir?”

‘“Twas but a passing thought which tickled my fancy.” And having gone only so far, he began snickering again. ”It came to me that yours may be the only house in the realm that is haunted by a farting ghost.” Then, having said it, he was once again beset by a laughing fit of a length and intensity quite like the last.

Thereafter the table remained rather quiet for quite some time.

For one unused to drinking wine of any kind, Clarissa did rather well drinking wines of every kind. In her own way, she kept up until the dessert course. It was not the piece of gateau , dripping with sweet sauce, that did her in. No, it was the accompanying sweet white wine from faraway Hungary which did finally seal her fate. She sipped it once in a manner most ladylike, then took nearly half a glass in a gulp. She replaced the glass upon the table, rested her chin upon her chest, and began snoring quite loudly.

It continued thus for less than a minute. Sir John did then become uncomfortably aware of the persistent drone.

“My ears tell me,” said he, ”that Clarissa has been summoned off to sleep. The poor child must be terribly weary. Perhaps we had best cut the evening a bit short and take her up to bed.”

“Oh, do stay a bit longer, Sir John,” urged the host. ”We’ve matters to discuss, those which brought you here, matters that we have not even touched upon.”

Sir John sighed. ”Indeed, sir, you’re right.” He hesitated but a moment, then turned to me. ”Jeremy, will you take Clarissa upstairs to her room?”

“Certainly I will, Sir John.”

“Can you find her room? As I recall, it is directly across from ours.”

I assured him I had the location of both firmly in mind and would bring her safely to her own.

“I could wake one of the staff,” Sir Simon offered. (One by one they had disappeared.)

“No, Jeremy is quite capable.”

By the time the discussion of my ability to deal with the situation had gone thus far, I had already persuaded Clarissa out of her chair, taken her firmly by the arm, and was marching her out of the grand dining room.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I called out quietly to them.

Yet I must have called loudly enough to bring her further awake, for she pulled herself up a bit and began to walk a bit more firmly.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Why, upstairs to your room, to put you to bed.”

“Mmmm. That should be interesting.” She had been making far too many such remarks of late to suit me-not quite lewd but of a sort which might be understood in a number of different ways. It had been so with her ever since that evening when we two had been trapped briefly in the darkened cellar of Number 4 Bow Street. I made no response to her sally but started her up the great stairway.

“Did I disgrace myself?”

“No,” said I, ”nothing of the kind.”

“That’s gratifying.”

We continued to climb the stairs until, quite near the top, she spoke up again.

“What if the ghost should suddenly appear at my door?”

“Ghost indeed,” said I with a sniff. ”If he should be so unwise as to hang about your door, I should simply tell him to be gone. I should say to him, ‘Here you, get back to your grave, if you know what’s good for you. And none of your smelly farts.’”

At that she giggled, and she continued giggling all the way to her room. I opened the door and glanced inside: a candle was burning on the bedside table, and her bed had been turned back.

“Would you truly address the ghost so rudely?”

“I would! You must be firm with his kind.”

“Then you are my hero and my champion, and I shall reward you by permitting you to kiss me good night.”

“Ah well,” said I, not wishing to kiss her but also not wishing to offend her, ”perhaps another time.”

“No,” said she insistently, ”now. I’m prepared to wait right here until you do-all night, if need be.”

Well, why not? It would be the quickest way to be gone, would it not? I leaned toward her and chose a spot high on her left cheek just below her eye.