He saw a ghost
on the stairs - a headless lady.”
“She certainly gets
around.”
“What?”
“The headless ghost must be
incredibly busy. I think she haunts the staircases of several
abbeys, castles, and inns.”
The lovely nymph nodded in
childish agreement as she came to a standstill and pushed open a
door set in a cruck frame. “Here we are. Please don’t break
anything. Crispin, I mean Mr Ffrench, gets really angry if anything
gets spilled or broken or moved out of place. I accidentally
knocked over one of his beakers the other day and he refused to
speak to me for hours. His aura is very murky. He’s very troubled.
I have to run. I can hear the musicians starting up. They’ll wonder
where I am.” She turned to go then spun back on tiptoe like a fairy
pirouetting on current of air. “I almost forgot, that ghost you
were after is now in Madame Moghra’s bedroom.”
“I’m not really interested in
the headless lady. When you’ve seen one headless ghost you’ve seen
them all.”
“Not the headless lady, the one
on the shroud.”
The Countess caught the young
woman by the sleeve. She was in two minds whether to slap the fairy
or kiss her.
“Where will I find Madame
Moghra’s bedroom?”
“It’s at the front of the
house, directly above the library, facing south onto the old sunken
garden. I have to run.”
Photography was the most
popular pastime in England. Most large country houses had their own
dark room and the Countess had visited enough dark rooms to know
her way around them blindfolded. She had almost lost her virginity
in one during a visit to Castle Coeur when Captain Longwyck offered
to give a demonstration of his box camera. Mmm, now there was man
who knew all about apertures!
This dark room was unlike any
she had previously seen. It was probably the old wash house, made
up of several small chambers. There was still a mangle in the
corner and a huge cauldron for boiling clothes. Suspended from the
ceiling were racks for drying bed-sheets and tablecloths and such.
A number of shrouds identical to one in the gallery, with exactly
the same image, were suspended from the racks. That did away with
the theory that the ghost shroud had been the burial shroud of a
Druidic priestess or even purloined from a cemetery. Someone was
mass producing them. A line of large buckets was giving off a
pungent odour that smelled like urine, most likely it was ammonia.
The Countess wondered if the cloths with the images had been dipped
in the ammonia buckets. Yes, they all had that same horrid wee
smell.
In an adjoining room, cloths
with no images were hanging up to dry. These had a different smell.
They hadn’t been dipped in ammonia. The Countess conducted a quick
search and in a corner, behind a line of shrouds, she found an old
copper bath full of silver sulphate.
Aware that time was of the
essence, she moved on, despite needing time to process it all. An
adjoining windowless room was being used as a proper dark room for
developing photographs. There were the usual trays of chemicals and
a Belfast sink. Another windowless room at the rear was being used
as a storeroom. There was another camera obscura on a tripod stand.
This one had a bi-unal lens. On a table were several Kodak box
cameras.
Ammonia? Silver sulphate?
Shrouds with images? Shrouds with no images? Cameras? She was sure
there had to be a link, a cause and effect, but it proved as
elusive as fairy dust. She returned to the first room with the
ghost shrouds smelling of ammonia, sat down on a creepie stool and
closed her eyes in an effort to block out extraneous thoughts.
Something the young woman said
began stirring vaguely in the back of the Countess’s mind, floating
in the ether of unconscious thought, shapeless, formless, out of
reach. Just as her thoughts began to take semblance she felt
something brush her leg and got such a fright she fell backwards,
landing inelegantly with her legs in the air. From the corner of
her eye she
on the stairs - a headless lady.”
“She certainly gets
around.”
“What?”
“The headless ghost must be
incredibly busy. I think she haunts the staircases of several
abbeys, castles, and inns.”
The lovely nymph nodded in
childish agreement as she came to a standstill and pushed open a
door set in a cruck frame. “Here we are. Please don’t break
anything. Crispin, I mean Mr Ffrench, gets really angry if anything
gets spilled or broken or moved out of place. I accidentally
knocked over one of his beakers the other day and he refused to
speak to me for hours. His aura is very murky. He’s very troubled.
I have to run. I can hear the musicians starting up. They’ll wonder
where I am.” She turned to go then spun back on tiptoe like a fairy
pirouetting on current of air. “I almost forgot, that ghost you
were after is now in Madame Moghra’s bedroom.”
“I’m not really interested in
the headless lady. When you’ve seen one headless ghost you’ve seen
them all.”
“Not the headless lady, the one
on the shroud.”
The Countess caught the young
woman by the sleeve. She was in two minds whether to slap the fairy
or kiss her.
“Where will I find Madame
Moghra’s bedroom?”
“It’s at the front of the
house, directly above the library, facing south onto the old sunken
garden. I have to run.”
Photography was the most
popular pastime in England. Most large country houses had their own
dark room and the Countess had visited enough dark rooms to know
her way around them blindfolded. She had almost lost her virginity
in one during a visit to Castle Coeur when Captain Longwyck offered
to give a demonstration of his box camera. Mmm, now there was man
who knew all about apertures!
This dark room was unlike any
she had previously seen. It was probably the old wash house, made
up of several small chambers. There was still a mangle in the
corner and a huge cauldron for boiling clothes. Suspended from the
ceiling were racks for drying bed-sheets and tablecloths and such.
A number of shrouds identical to one in the gallery, with exactly
the same image, were suspended from the racks. That did away with
the theory that the ghost shroud had been the burial shroud of a
Druidic priestess or even purloined from a cemetery. Someone was
mass producing them. A line of large buckets was giving off a
pungent odour that smelled like urine, most likely it was ammonia.
The Countess wondered if the cloths with the images had been dipped
in the ammonia buckets. Yes, they all had that same horrid wee
smell.
In an adjoining room, cloths
with no images were hanging up to dry. These had a different smell.
They hadn’t been dipped in ammonia. The Countess conducted a quick
search and in a corner, behind a line of shrouds, she found an old
copper bath full of silver sulphate.
Aware that time was of the
essence, she moved on, despite needing time to process it all. An
adjoining windowless room was being used as a proper dark room for
developing photographs. There were the usual trays of chemicals and
a Belfast sink. Another windowless room at the rear was being used
as a storeroom. There was another camera obscura on a tripod stand.
This one had a bi-unal lens. On a table were several Kodak box
cameras.
Ammonia? Silver sulphate?
Shrouds with images? Shrouds with no images? Cameras? She was sure
there had to be a link, a cause and effect, but it proved as
elusive as fairy dust. She returned to the first room with the
ghost shrouds smelling of ammonia, sat down on a creepie stool and
closed her eyes in an effort to block out extraneous thoughts.
Something the young woman said
began stirring vaguely in the back of the Countess’s mind, floating
in the ether of unconscious thought, shapeless, formless, out of
reach. Just as her thoughts began to take semblance she felt
something brush her leg and got such a fright she fell backwards,
landing inelegantly with her legs in the air. From the corner of
her eye she
Similar Books
