‘On the nightstand, m’dear.’
‘Ah, yes, so it is. Well, I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable. Let’s just hope our ghost puts in an appearance.’
‘Yes,’ said Joe, doubtfully. ‘Let’s just hope.’ He turned to go. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled, then, m’dear, but I’ll be back in two shakes with that brandy.’
He left, shutting the door behind him.
I sat on the bed and pondered my plan. Or, rather, pondered the sudden realization that I had no plan whatsoever. Why was I spending the night “away from home”, less than a mile from home? What was I intending to do? Should I try to stay awake all night, listening for ghosts? What was I going to do if I heard one? Was I there to observe? Or to attempt to deal with the situation? How does one “deal with” a ghost anyway?
I was still sitting there in bewildered contemplation when there was a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’ I said, loudly.
‘It’s me, miss,’ said Joe.
‘Come on in, Joe,’ I said,
The door opened and in came Joe with a tray bearing a large glass of brandy and one of his celebrated doorstop sandwiches.
‘Thought you might like a little somethin’ to eat, miss,’ he said, setting the tray down on the nightstand.
‘You’re very kind, Joe. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, miss,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it now, then. You just come up and get I if you needs anything.’
‘Thank you, I shall.’
He left again and after a few moments more thought, I made up my mind what to do. There was no point in exhausting myself in an attempt to remain awake for a ghost that might never come, so the best course was surely to get ready for bed, settle down with a book, nod off to sleep when I needed to and then to “deal with” whatever situation might arise if it happened to awaken me. And if it didn’t, at least I’d be one of the first on the spot in the morning to see the results first hand.
And so I did just that. With the door locked and the key returned to the nightstand, the lamp extinguished and a candle lit in its stead, I changed into my night gown and crept under the covers with “The Man Who Was Thursday”. I munched a little of the surprisingly pleasant cheese sandwich and sipped at the indifferent but no less welcome brandy as I read, and it wasn’t long before the words began to swim on the page and I found myself reading things that Chesterton had never written, so I snuffed out the candle and settled down to sleep.
I didn’t own a watch in those days and there was no clock in the room, so I had no idea what time I was awoken by a metallic click and the creak of a floorboard, but whatever the hour, I was awake at once. I wrapped a shawl around me and picked up the key from the nightstand, making my way as silently as I could manage towards the door. I pushed the key into the lock. Or I tried, at least; something was blocking the keyhole. I got to my knees and tried to look through it, but I could see nothing in the gloom. I was shut in.
Closing my eyes and concentrating hard, I could hear sounds of movement downstairs in the bar. I heard chairs fall and the scrape of table legs on the flagstone floor. There was a crash as a bottle or jug broke, and then silence.
I moved back towards the bed and hunted around in the darkness for the matches so that I could light the candle. With it finally lit, I examined the keyhole once more and thought I could see something glint within it. It appeared that someone had put a key in the lock from the other side. I briefly considered hammering on the door and calling for help, but I couldn’t see that that would accomplish very much. Any miscreant, spectral or human, would hear the commotion and flee, either back to the other realm or out into the night, never to be seen again.
Instead, I dressed as quickly and quietly as I could, concentrating all the while for sounds from below. I thought I could hear movement, but The Dog and Duck was a substantial old building with thick walls and heavy oaken floors, and I couldn’t be sure. What sounds I could hear were soon entirely masked by the clomping of boots on stairs as Joe came down from his attic rooms. The sound seemed to have woken Madame Eugénie, too, and I heard her door open just as Joe clumped through the door to the stairs and onto the landing.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ he said, blearily.
‘Quite all right, Mr Arnold, thank you,’ said Madame Eugénie in her dreamy, breathy voice. ‘I became aware of a strong spiritual presence in this place. I wondered if I might be able to help in some way.’
‘P’raps you might, ma’am,’ said Joe. ‘I’d quite like Miss Armstrong to come with us, too, if you don’t mind. I’d like her opinion of things.’
There was a pause. ‘If you think that’s wise,’ she said, dubiously.
‘Ar,’ he said. There was a knock on my door. ‘Miss Armstrong?’ he said in a louder voice. ‘Miss Armstrong? Are you awake?’
‘Awake and dressed, Joe,’ I said. ‘But I can’t get out. There’s something in the lock.’
I heard the sound of a key being rattled in the lock. ‘So there is, miss,’ he said. ‘Looks like… looks like the key from the bathroom door. Can you unlock yourself now?’
I tried my key in the lock, which opened at once. I lifted the latch and opened the door to find Joe and Madame Eugénie on the landing, each in their night attire and holding a candle. Joe’s long nightshirt was set off most entertainingly by a pair of large, unlaced boots.
I nodded a greeting to Madam Eugénie. ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Shall we go down?’
‘I shall lead the way,’ she said. ‘I know how to deal with unquiet spirits.’
‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘Joe, was anyone else up here after I retired?’
We made our way down the stairs.
‘No so far as I knows, miss,’ he said.
‘Hmmm,’ I said as Madame Eugénie opened the door into the snug. ‘Then I wonder how that key came to be placed in my door.’
Madame Eugénie stopped and turned, her face illuminated by her candle. ‘I’m certain it was the ghost, my dear,’ she said. ‘They can be quite ingenious.’
‘Can they, indeed?’ I said. To be truthful, for all my belief in the mysteries of the supernatural, jamming a key into a lock and turning it so that it couldn’t easily be pushed out from the other side seemed altogether too human an action for blame to fall upon the ghost of Emmanuel Bean. I held my peace for the moment, though.
‘This way,’ said Madame Eugénie, leading us through the snug, past the obvious signs of disruption and into the public bar. She went straight to the skittle alley and held her candle up to the score board. There was a new message.
“Strongbox. Old Barn. Long Lane Farm. I will be avenged. Manny Bean.”
‘Another message,’ said Madame Eugénie.
‘So it would appear,’ I said. ‘Do you know Long Lane Farm, Joe?’
‘Not round here, m’dear. Could be up Gloucester way, maybe?
‘Could be. Does it mean anything to you, Madame Eugénie?’