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Authors: Bruce Alexander
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”Oooh! Tell us about it.” And then: ”
Ow
—Jeremy!”
That last was her response to the kick I gave her in the ankle. As I administered it, I leaned close and whispered, ”Do you wish to have us eating with the servants?”
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 theghost 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 frightenchildren 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,
Ow
—Jeremy!”
That last was her response to the kick I gave her in the ankle. As I administered it, I leaned close and whispered, ”Do you wish to have us eating with the servants?”
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 theghost 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 frightenchildren 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,
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