Moved ....

...almost to distraction.
To be more precise - the ClockWork Peacock has moved to Wordpress: Steampifflers be warned, nonsense continues unabated, if somewhat staggered out time-wise (owing to unreliable staff, house parties descending out of the blue etc) but room there always is ....

(Exit peacock left ....)

Threadbare Castle

I only just discovered the next story quite by chance; I didn't make the connection with the peacock feathers until later. There is a copper urn on the main landing, I brush past it so often I often fail even to notice it - and it sports a collection of magnificent peacock feathers. It was only after a rather brief assay at cricket along the upper corridors with great-uncle Frederic on one of his visits, during which we managed to bat the ball into said urn, that I pulled the feathers out, and on turning the urn over,  was able not only to extract the ball, but the following story, which had been rolled up around the base of one of the feathers . . . tea stopped play I recall, after which I decided to give up cricket in favour of deciphering the Tale of Threadbare Castle . . .

‘I see him, I see him – there he comes!’ crowed Miss Lydia Pert, jiggling about in excitement.

‘Let me, let me!’ Her sister Miss Elvira took a masterful hold of the binoculars and peered through them.

‘Indeed it is! Hurrah, at last !’

‘Where is Worms ? And Jeremiah ?’ demanded Lord Octagonal.

‘I am here, milord,’ replied Worms ‘ – Jeremiah is waiting and ready at the door.’

‘Well, go and help them to their rooms first, man; we’ll await them in the Grove Chamber.’

‘Them ? Why‘them’, uncle ?’ chirruped both the Pert girls, now alert with curiosity.

‘Your cousin is bringing a friend of his along – now, put those binoculars down before you break them . . .’

Hooves crunched over mossy gravel, wheels squealed on their axes, the coachman pulled hard at the reins and finally, the reeling, shuddering carriage came to an uncertain halt. There were sounds from within as of a peacock in the final throes of death, and somebody fell out. Jeremiah the footman had run down the front steps only just in time to catch this unsteady passenger, whose top hat now fell off, revealing a mass of dark curls. The passenger stood up straight almost immediately, further revealing a bright purple cravat of ridiculous proportions, and fended off the attentions of the footman.

‘Perfectly all right, just relieved to be free of that Preposterous Vehicle,’ he commented, dusting himself down.

‘Not half you weren’t!’ chortled the other passenger, stepping out with easy calm.

‘Gets terrible travel sick, don’t yer, old chap ?’

‘A mild aversion to the low-hung suspension of certain machines, that is all,’ retorted his companion with dignity. He set his top hat on with aplomb and pointed to the interior of the carriage. ‘Ah, yes. In there. Thank you,’ he addressed the footman, who duly relieved the carriage of several boxes and a valise.

‘But uncle, who is he ?’ Miss Elvira and Miss Lydia were now agog with curiosity.

‘His name is Titus Gore. I believe he is an inventor – of sorts. And something of an explorer or similar . . your cousin Howard thinks he may be able to explain something about the crystals.’

‘Ooooh!’ chimed the sisters together and their gaze moved as one to a box on the table in the centre of the room.

The main entrance was huge and draughty. The stairs were solid stone, with thinning carpet, and the upper landing displayed crumbling plaster, cracked wooden panels and paintings in need of some cleaning. The House of Octagonal had seen better days. There was however a healthy fire in the bedroom hearth, the valise and boxes were already on the chest at the end of the four-poster bed and Howard’s valet was at hand. Titus sent him to fetch the day’s paper. As soon as the man was gone, Titus turned to his valise and opened it carefully, lifting out a tray with a frame for supporting a colourful range of silk cravats. These he proceed to hang one by one in the great wardrobe at the far end of the room. By the time the valet returned with the paper, he found Titus seated by the fire, in a magnificent flame coloured cravat, reading a book. The boxes had not been touched, and these Titus allowed the servant to unpack. Books, a hamster in its cage, a black mirror, a bicycle pump . . . the valet was a discreet man, but even he had difficulty in restraining his eyebrows when the other servants asked him later what he thought of Mr Gore.

‘A trifle eccentric . .’ was his rejoinder, his right eyebrow quivering as he spoke.

‘Ah, there you are, Howard,’ Lord Octagonal stretched out a glass to his son.

‘And you must be Mr Titus Gore – pleased to meet you, have you rested ? Room to your satisfaction ? We have another, overlooking the lake, but I fear it might be even colder than the one you have at present . . good, good. Now, what will you have ?’

 All reference to the box on the table was politely avoided until Titus himself drew attention to it, asking ‘And is that the article you were tellin’ me about, Howard ?’

‘Indeed it is, and you’ll see what I mean about them glowing . . .’ So saying,  Howard lifted the cover off the box, revealing a set of smallish globes, transparent as glass, yet giving off a light, yellowish glow. Titus stared at them, whisked out a lens and peered at them through it.

‘And that ain’t all –observe, when I go towards the fire –’ continued Howard, moving over to the hearth. Titus followed, and saw the glow increase – and the light change, from yellow through orange to pale purple. Titus frowned and took another lens from another pocket – a green one. He peered through this at some length, then took the box and moved over to the window. The colour of the glowing spheres now changed to green – almost of a green to match the lens. More, the colour grew dense, until it seemed solid malachite, without a hint of transparency about it.

‘And might I inquire as to where this item came from ?’ he asked, almost severely.

‘Well, that’s the queer thing,’ explained Howard, ‘– it’s been kicking about the place for generations – we only noticed the colour changing quite recently. Got any ideas about it ?’

‘From what you told me before we came here, I was expecting merely cleverly cut crystals. Now I see there is something more at hand here. Observe how the colour solidifies . . .’ they gathered round to look at it.

‘Bless me, it ain’t done that before !’ exclaimed Octagonal.

‘Have you observed anything untoward recently about the castle ?’ asked Titus.

‘Not that I am aware of – mind you, there is only a relatively small part of it that we can safely use. Cracks in walls and so on, you know.’ Octagonal was interrupted at this point by the entrance of more guests; the room was taken over by chatter, laughter and liveliness and little more was said of the crystals, except for Howard, who quietly suggested Titus keep the box for closer examination.

Worms straightened his cuffs, picked up the drumstick and rang the gong. A procession of chattering, lively guests made its way from the drawing room to the banquet hall. While much of the castle might be falling to bits, there was nothing much wrong with the kitchen fare, with roasts, pies and jellies spread across the long, uneven, linen-covered table. The banqueting hall was . . . huge. The ceiling arched off into shadows, what lighting there was came from oil lamps and candlesticks in niches and on sideboards. Money was not everything after all. There were such things as  . . . place. Time. Old blood . . . Titus discreetly observed more ragged tapestries which had not been moved from their moorings since the day they had been hung up, “ . . . somewhere between 1540 and 1560, I believe, in memory of the hunting parties held here . ..” he overheard Howard mention. The tapestries still contained considerable colour; even by the glimmering light of the lamps and candles, they looked remarkably fresh. Titus took out his green lens again and peered at them studiously.

‘Eh ? Found something waltzing among the tapestries ?’ Howard asked him, as Worms ladled soup into a paper thin bowl.

‘Possibly. They do look in mint condition,’ Titus replied, still concentrating on one tapestry in particular.

‘Why, I suppose they do. I’m not often in here of course, when it’s just us – but yes, they do look rather bright, don’t they.’

‘And that, I imagine, is the minstrel’s gallery ?’ Titus gestured at the further end of the hall, shrouded mainly in shadow, where only a hint of an upper balustrade lurked.

‘That’s right. Not in use now, sadly, in fact, the old Pater has placed it pretty much out of bounds.’

Titus gazed long and hard through the lens again at the gallery. What he saw did not seem to please him much, for his brow puckered.

A distant clock chimed the hour. Something fell from the ceiling and landed in the middle of a plate of kedgeree.

‘What the . . .’

‘Wretched plaster, I suspect, eh, Pater ?’

‘I shall send for another dish,’ apologised Lord Octagonal, but Titus was already spooning out the offending object and staring at it.

‘It is a crystal, Lord Octagonal,’ he said, and looked up at the ceiling. There was a complete lack of anything hanging there.

Another flash of something – and a second crystal fell onto the tablecloth where it rolled invitingly.

Titus picked it up and compared the two.

Another crystal droplet fell onto the table. With invisibly engineered precision it landed in the middle of the huge kedgeree and sat glittering, a large inhuman tear.

One of the paintings slipped its moorings and crashed to the floor.

And Howard broke a glass. This was rather more as an indirect result of the two previous incidents so should not counted – he maintains to this day however that it did not slip from his startled fingers but was snatched and flung against the wall behind him. General attention was distracted however by the continuing fall of crystals from above, bouncing, scattering across the floor – yet soundlessly, without shattering or even cracking.

Octagonal snorted and waved his napkin.

‘Explain ?’ It was as much a command as a query. Titus obliged.

‘Ah yes. Very simple. This place is, as laymen put it, haunted.’

‘Well, I know that,’ grated Octagonal.‘Thing is, what’s all the business with the glass thing, eh ?’ Changin’ colour an’ all that.’

‘Oh that, - just another metronome keeping time, so to speak – very high resonances though. Very high. Wouldn’t be surprised if a large amount of extra matasgorical manifestation took off later this evening – seems to be building up to something.’

‘Humph.’ Octagonal returned to his chair and proceeded to ladle more food onto his plate. ‘Last time this happened, Uncle Zebediah disappeared in the grotto.I er, don’t encourage people to go there. All very well, family members disappearing – can’t take on being responsible for other people as well.’

‘Even so, I suggest everyone take extra precautions this night – at least until I have established the exact cause. I shall need to explore the Minstrels’ Gallery.’

‘The Gallery ? Hardly anyone goes up there nowadays . . .’

‘Well, we did,’ cried out Miss Pert and giggled. Titus looked at her gravely.

‘But nothing happened. Just the sound of a violin . . .’ she turned to her friend who nodded vigorously.

‘We couldn’t see who was playing, or where- but it was simply lovely –’

Lord Octavian was most put out.

‘My dear girls, how could I face your mother again if anything were to happen ? I have told you before, the gallery is not fit for purpose – I am not even certain it is entirely stable.’

‘What is its history ?’ asked Titus.

‘Not an entirely happy one,’ continued his host, fiddling with his watch chain, ‘There was a grand occasion, some five or six hundred years ago, and a great banquet was held here. Minstrels performing up in the gallery, guests lined up behind the great table, waiting for the host to open proceedings. One of the musicians, through carelessness it seems, stood too close to the railing of the gallery and somehow fell over it to his death. Legend has it he might have been pushed – some intrigue or other with one of the daughters of the house, or other such nonsense. Since then, there have been those who claim to hear the sound of his viol or whatever it was, still playing the music he played shortly before his death. I suppose I need hardly mention the fact that to hear such sounds now is associated with some kind of imminent misfortune.’

Titus frowned, now much worried.

‘And the tapestries ?’ pursued Titus.

‘The tapestries ?’ Lord Octavian looked briefly surprised. ‘Why, nothing much, I believe – they do date from around the same time, that’s all I am aware of.’

‘That one over there – the hunting scene – if I am not mistaken, there appear to be musicians in it as well as huntsmen ?’

Lord Octavian turned and peered. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said after a while, ‘but I don’t recall hearing much about them.’

He turned to his nieces. ‘I am still most unhappy that you found your way up to the  gallery – I had thought the door to it was locked.’

‘Oh so did we – but as we approached, something went crick-crack! And the door just swung open – as if someone were welcoming us.’

‘Yes, and then the music you know . . . was so . .’

‘Yes, it was so …we just felt we had to follow it . . .’ Both the Miss Perts sighed.

Titus looked very serious indeed.

‘I suggest then that tonight you put corks in your ears,’ he advised and produced several from his pocket and handed some first to the sisters, then round the rest of the bemused company. They had barely taken them however when the music began. A slow, melancholy march, performed on an ancient vihuela, taken up by theorbes and flutes.

Enchanted, the guests stood listening. Only Titus had the foresight to plug his ears.

Slowly the others began to sway, and gradually moved together in a procession, weaving slowly and grandly in time to the music.

The candles flickered, the flames grew long, phantom torches flamed up unexpectedly in their rusty sockets high on the walls.

Another  banquet appeared on the table. Pages burst through the side door which had been locked for over a century, bearing suckling boars’ heads, a stuffed peacock, lozenges, other pages toured the table with wine jugs, replenishing the cups of the now eager guests, jostling elbows at this phantom feast. Silks and velvets, line and fur, such colours as had not been seen for five hundred years . . .

Titus meanwhile had left the room and was now climbing the stair up to the minstrels’ gallery; the sound was growing louder, even over and above the corks – it was both enchanting and deadly. His instinct was to stop and listen, to follow; common sense was yelling at him to stop it, somehow, anyhow, or just to get out like a bat from hell.

It was a battle. The closer he got, the louder, more insistent, more paralyzing it became.

‘Come, come, come,’ it said, ‘join us, stay with us, move not away  . . .’

‘What are you doing even listening to them!’ demanded Common Sense, trying to aim a boot somewhere painful.

‘Is it not pleasant, is it not quite the most divine sound ever heard . . .’ came the Music again.

‘Have you any brains at all ?’ screamed Common Sense, clutching its brow and quite beside itself.

Something sharp dug into Titus’s hip as he stepped forward, nudging him briefly out of his own, private spell. The little box. His fingers curled around it; he slipped it out and opened it.

The glasses lay there, glowing madly, all colours of the rainbow.

Titus blinked several times.

The tapestry was rippling and flapping against the stone wall, ‘wup,’ it went, and ‘wup’ again.

The scene rippled as well; hunters and huntresses, stepped across the burgeoning foliage, over fat acanthus leaves; they stopped to peer out at the gathered company now executing its stately dance.

The two sisters were now close to the rippling, flapping cloth. Heads and arms came out from it and the two sisters were grasped and escorted over the border of tapestry into the scene itself.

Several things happened at the same time.

A goblet hit the floor and rolled around.

The music stopped. The company stopped moving. The banquet froze.

Titus shouted down from the gallery : ‘The dress – grab hold of the dress – and pull !’

Octagonal was the first to snap from the stupor.

He rushed over to the tapestry and tugged at Elvira’s gown, still trailing over the edge of the tapestry; her sister was already well within the scene, between two of the hunters.

‘Elvira!’ shouted Titus, ‘get hold of Lydia and pull- don’t let go – pull !’

Whether Elvira heard in time or not, was never clearly understood. She seemed to struggle then fell backwards into the banquet hall.

The feast with its colourful servers vanished completely, Elvira let out a shriek, staring at the tapestry, which now hung as before, mute and immobile, only now an extra figure stood in it, with huge eyes and open mouth: Lydia.

Aghast, the horrified company helped Elvira over to a chair.

Titus had by now rushed back down from the minstrels’ gallery and over to the tapestry. Too late to do much else other than beat at the cloth, stamp his foot and bite his lip.

The figures in the wall-hanging stood, sat, hid in behind the trees, as if nothing had happened – save for that one extra figure, Lydia – and even she looked now perfectly at home there, woven into the fabric of the thing.

Elvira, still in a state of shock, was helped to her room.

‘We were lucky to get her back, at least,’ commented Octagonal finally, attempting to rally Titus who was staring at the ground. Titus shook his head and muttered something about corks. He stayed in the hall after the others had gone, pacing, chanting, cursing alternatively. Nothing worked. The only visible change was that the crystals which had fallen from the ceiling completely vanished. The chimes sounded ten, then eleven, then twelve - and still there he was.

‘I say, old chap,’ commented Howard, who came back in to find his friend seated with shoulders hunched, poring over the glasses in the box, ‘there really is nothing to be done, I don’t think. You’ll give yourself a headache to no purpose.’

‘I will not be beaten!’ declared Titus. He stood up. ‘I must talk to my Phantometer –see whether it can help.’

Some little while later, the sound of ceaseless whirring of a hamster wheel and a bicycle drifted across the hall. Howard was pedalling away, while Titus sat in front of a black mirror wrapped in steam, Lord Octagonal standing behind him. The clouds began to clear and a face appeared in the mirror. Lord Octagonal’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he gaped at the apparition.

‘Well?’ sighed the Phantometer.

‘Well, what ? Set to, and tell me what you see.’

The face in the mirror narrowed its sightless eyes. There was a pause. Followed by a silence. Followed by a gentle snore. Titus thumped at the mirror with the side of his fist. The face quivered and its lips opened in a wordless O.

‘Yes?’ it asked.

‘I told you to tell me what you see – it is urgent!’

‘It is always urgent with you.’ The face finished its yawn, and narrowed its eyes again. Titus gave it a warning look.

‘I see . . .’ began the Phantometer. ‘I see . . . energy. A lot of energy here, in this room.’

‘Where, in particular  ?’

There is a tapestry . . .and there is an upper floor. The energy moves between the two.’

‘Why is that ? Can you see ?’

‘Something going back a long time . . . a broken tryst, two spirits waiting to re-unite. That, I believe, has now happened. No danger here.’

‘But a young woman has been spirited away- how do we get her back ? Nothing I do makes the slightest difference !’

‘You cast the spell of Agorath and Osiris, and you invoked the powers of InPah and the Great Kah. More than this you cannot do, and it has served its purpose. She is only partly gone. Wait and see.’ The face gave another yawn . . . and faded.

Indeed, the following morning, when a sober company gathered in the breakfast room, they discovered Miss Lydia seated coolly at the table as if nothing in the least untoward had occurred the night before, munching toast and marmalade. On being questioned about the tapestry, her eyes took on a dreamy expression, and she requested more toast and tea, but answer gave she not. She disappeared again later that day, but Titus explained this was likely to be a regular occurrence. ‘It could have been worse,’ he said. ‘She might have been taken altogether – and we would not see her again at all.’

The house party trickled off in drips and drabs, hushed, embarrassed and not a little fearful, until only Lord Octagonal, his son, his remaining niece and Titus remained.

‘Although what I shall say to your mother, my dear, I cannot imagine,’ muttered Lord Octagonal unhappily. Elvira squeezed his hand and looked at Titus, who felt somehow compelled to offer some assistance when the time came.

 Mrs Pert however, when she came to hear of it all, was not in the least surprised.

‘Lydia was always rather a careless girl – and it’s her father’s fault for calling her Lydia in the first place.’

‘How so, Mrs Pert ? What had her name to do with it ?’ Titus was suddenly curious.

‘Why, the legend – the minstrel was murdered for carrying on with the daughter of the house, and her name was Lydia; I did try to warn him, but he was always rather headstrong. Ah well, no doubt she will turn up for tea, as usual ?’

‘I believe so, m’dear.’ Lord Octagonal pulled out his watch and checked the time. He nodded at the sound of a gentle footstep on the threshold. Lydia stepped quietly in and took her place at the tea table.

‘Well, shall I pour ?’ enquired Mrs Pert.

Lydia can still be seen walking the corridors of the castle on occasion.

She will make conversation (if you address her properly), play the harp or fortepiano and spend time on her needlework. But occasionally, she is not to be found. Only the very perspicacious (aside from her sister Elvira and Octagonal, who know where she goes) will notice the extra figure in the tapestry. She likes to spend time there, with the trees and fat acanthus leaves (and is often to be seen standing next to one hunter in particular).

As for the crystals in the little box, they are kept on display in a glass cabinet, with Titus Gore’s card lying next to it – Lord Octagonal knows what to do, should they ever start to glow strangely again.

Titus Gore and the Peacock Mask

Well, I was stumbling about, trying to find the crystal lens mentioned in the Case of the Phantom Horse, when I tripped over one of the footstools in the lumber room. It skittered across the floor at a rate of knots, while I sat up rubbing my head and elbow (the corners on that old sewing box are inconveniently hard . . . ). The footstool burst its stuffing and one of the feet came a little loose. I finally staggered over to pick it up – and the foot fell to the floor, thus adding a bruised foot to the list of injuries. The stuffing proved more interesting however : some absent-minded relative had used old, soft paper as interfacing for the cover – and had not, I believe, realised there was a manuscript tucked in between the sheets. I am confused though; if this story is not part of Great Uncle Sebastian’s treasure hunt, I had better not look for clues in it – but what if it is . . . .? Anyway, this all happened on Hallowe’en Eve, so it seemed apposite to add it . . . albeit a couple of days late . . .

The Peacock Mask

Who was she ?

The colours were . . . iridescent. Flowing in greens and purples, she glided and fluttered about the crowd, tall, elegant, a silver collar about her neck, the whole shimmering ensemble topped by a magnificent peacock mask, plumage of healthy tail feathers each sporting a splendid deep blue eye.

Everyone (or nearly everyone) who was anyone had elected to come in maschera – no fewer than fifteen dominos could be counted, followed closely by a dozen or so Laughing Cavaliers, several Medusas, one or two Anne Boleyns, escorted by their merry Henries.

Titus Gore had not condescended to dress up; considering it something of a vulgar occupation (when not related to detective work); besides which, he feared his cravat would have got crushed in the process. He had already made a grand concession in choosing the purple number embroidered with skulls in silver thread.

‘Mr Gore!’ purred Madame Houpelande, swathed in turban and silks and hardly trying at all to escape from a seraglio, ‘I swear you haff not touched a drop since you arrived, nor iffen attempted a round of cardz! Wot shall we do wiv you ?’

‘I am quite provided for, Madame Houpelande,; indeed, there is quite enough to keep me absorbed only by looking – for example, the lady over there –’ and he attempted to point out the wonderful creature in the Peacock Mask. But somehow she was just out of sight, or perhaps there were too many people – either way, Madame H quite failed to make her out.

Minutes later, a gentle applause came from the gaming table – young Count Adelhof had made a grand win. One of the other players staggered away; ruined.

‘Ah, that will be Lord Halesbury,’ murmured Madame H. ‘I had better zend zomeone to look ofter him, So many of these young men carry meanz of self-diztruction about their personne . . .’

It was to her credit, that, for she made sure the ruined man was accompanied by various people as far even as his front door well after midnight, much the worse for drink.

There, her duties as hostess surely ended; and sadly, although inevitably, they were not enough: three days later word came through that the man had indeed blown his brains out after  all.

Local society in the small Mediterranean resort was turned on its head by the news. Amidst all the furore, only Titus Gore recalled the emerald green figure with the Peacock Mask. He had observed her hover behind the hapless Halesbury but minutes before he had lost his fortune; he had seen her drift out to the terrace – and on following, was only in time to see her melt into the dark.

His suspicions were on the alert – but there was little to be done in this situation save leave the place for his cabin booked aboard the Maritanius.

There was a party held shortly after his return to London at Lady Cholmondeley’s; music, dance, chatter – and cards. A table was set up – admittedly, the stakes were a trifle lower, but still enough to cause acute private embarrassment to a few of the guests were they to lose. This however only added to the piquancy of the evening’s entertainment, and before long, the table was busy. The music flowed, couples danced in the ballroom.

Everything was at the height of gaiety, when suddenly . . . there she was again . . . gliding, brilliant, emerald gown sweeping, bright blue peacock feathers with staring purple eyes ringed in gold . . . stepping between the milling guests . . . seemingly aimless in her weaving walk . . . yet nobody save Titus appeared to observe or even see her.

Titus whipped out a small multi-coloured lens and peered at her through it. The immediate image of a carrion bird surrounded by sulphur alerted him to the possibility that not all was quite as it should be.

This time, he did not stop to ask anyone who she was; he followed her with his eyes – she was moving in discreet but determined purpose in the direction of . . . the gaming table.

Titus narrowed his eyes, set his shoulders, patted his cravat and  . . . leapt.

Tables, footmen, trays with drinks, trays with food, baronets, a dowager or two – all were sent flying as Titus hurled himself in the direction of the gamers and  . . . the Peacock. She had stepped behind a young baronet, one Geoffrey Tewsbury, just as he was about to play his hand.

Titus attempted to pull her away, but his hands met only air, and he bumped instead into the back of Tewsbury,

‘I say!’ was the general response, and ‘Fellow’s drunk! Damn him, what’s he been drinking ? I’ll have some of that !’

Stopping briefly with the merest of apologies, Titus dived over to the French windows where he could still catch a glimpse of the Peacock’s dress floating out - but by the time he got there, all he found was a frail, greyish peacock feather, lying on the terrace. He pulled a handkerchief out and wrapped the item up carefully before placing it in his pocket.

‘Well!’ declared  Lady C, as she absently picked up a rose from a broken vase on the floor, ‘that was fun.’

There was only a minor interruption to the game in question – but enough to give young Tewsbury time to think twice before showing his hand.

‘I say!’ he said afterwards to Titus in private, ‘lucky you kicked up such a fuss: I was in quite a daze; kept hearing this voice telling me to play them, play the cards. But then once you crashed into us, I was able to think clearly and held on to them. Just as well, or I would have lost the lot! Dashed bad show that would have been. Might have topped meself . . .’

Later, in the comfort and quiet of his own study at home, Titus sat frowning at a black mirror wreathed in mist. Steam issued from a nearby kettle, which in turn was sitting over a spirit stove. There was a gentle whirring sound: a hamster running its wheel. Not usually cause for comment in most respectable houses : only in this particular instance, the wheel happened to be connected to a bicycle pump and a mahogany box.

 A face finally appeared on the mirror; not a reflection:  nondescript, longish and oval. Another mask, of sorts.

‘There you are,’ said Titus, a trifle impatiently.

‘I am here. I was sleeping,’ replied the face in the mirror, tonelessly. ‘What is it ?’

‘You sleep ? Oh well, never mind that now – what do you  make of this ?’ And he held up the greyish peacock’s feather he had found at Lady C’s.

There was a silence, followed by an audible gasp from the mirror.

‘Where did you find this ?’ came the reply finally.

‘At a party. Does it matter where ?’

‘Destroy it. Destroy it, or she will return.’

‘But who is she ?’

‘Ask me not,’ and with that the face vanished, to return briefly a few seconds later.’But make sure you destroy it,’ it said again, and this time disappeared completely. Nothing he could do brought the phantom face back.

The fireplace had been flickering dully all evening. Titus stepped over to it, stoked up the embers and when the flames began to flicker, threw the feather into it.

A massive flame lashed out, seemingly at him – he lurched back, toppled over the bric-à-brac table, and next was lying full length on the floor. The flame rose out and into the room, taking on menacing proportions, yet curiously contained – indeed, not so much a flame as a flaming figure, serpentine, narrow, with a face – great heavens above, a face that darted at him out of the flame, jaws wide open, eyes like those of a peacock’s feather . . .

There was a sudden hiss, and the fire all but went out. Titus Gore peered up through half closed eyes.

Mrs Slatter stood over him with a now empty jug.

‘I suppose there is an explanation for the muddy boots in the hall ? And the soot coming out of the chimney ? The local bobby came to inform me. So I gathered there was something amiss up here. Another time you might think twice before igniting unknown combustibles.’ She bustled off.

There was a perfectly horrid smell of brimstone about the house for several days later, which Mrs Slattern complained about at length.

As for Titus Gore, he now rarely attends parties without quickly checking the whole room through his multi-coloured lens to assure himself that the Peacock Lady has not, after all, returned.

Titus Gore and the Phantom Horse of Hertmond House

‘Hardly the weather for walks by the lake, eh ? Never mind, never mind, let us pile up the logs . . .now, you sit there, Miss Carlyle, out of the way of the draught, and we’ll make space here for Mrs Burton here, plenty of cushions, now where’s the girl with the tray  . . .’ Their host pulled at the bell rope by the now raucous fire and stood before them, hands behind tails.

‘It is certainly wonderful land you have here, Mr Hadley,’ remarked Mrs Burton, settling herself and rearranging her shawl about her,‘if a little isolated.’

‘Isolated ? Why hardly, there’s the town barely half a mile away,  and with its own theatre – not bad stuff they put on, either –  why, we might make an evening of it, if you like,’ this with a nod at Miss Carlyle, who looked suitably enthusiastic. Rather pale and retiring, she had so far offered hardly a word since their arrival the day before but now she plucked up courage to ask after the other guests. ‘I believe there were new arrivals after lunch ?’

‘Indeed there were, and I am expectin’ them down any moment now – young Lord Huffam and Mr Gore.’

‘Would that be Mr Titus Gore ?’ asked Mrs Burton, ‘the Phantasmogrifier ?’

‘The Phanta – eh ? Oh, he may well be, I can’t keep up with all the new terms. Ghost-catcher I always call him, and he doesn’t mind, very entertaining chap, hope to draw him out over dinner – perhaps have some ghost tales afterwards by the fire ?’

‘Oh yes, very seasonable,’ agreed Mrs Burton with a restrained simper. Miss Carlyle even managed a nervous smile.

They spent a good part of the dinner listening mostly to Hadley and Lord Huffam exchanging their thoughts on enclosures and farming rights, when Mrs Burton was not administering advice on winter ailments. Mr Titus Gore was much taken with arranging his magnificent cravat. Occasionally he took out a round, flattish object from his waistcoat pocket that might have been mistaken for a watch, had it not been of solid crystal. Miss Carlyle showed a timid fascination for the object and he held it up for her to admire by the candlelight.

‘Interesting thing you have there, Gore – one of your ghost-catcher instruments, I’ll be bound,’ quipped Hadley when its gleam caught his eye.

‘Not quite – a memento thereof, rather; I take it with me everywhere – although it can prove handy at revealing things like tomorrow’s weather and the occasional quote from the classics.’

‘Eh? Quotes? What, engraved on it ?’

‘I doubt it. I have never seen a scratch on it.’

‘Well, how do you mean, then ?’

‘See for yourselves.’ And Mr Gore passed the crystal around.

Mrs Burton looked at it first. ‘Why goodness, what a pretty thing,’ she exclaimed, ‘how did they do it?’

‘Do what ?’ came the various voices.

‘Looks like a piece of fine writing paper embedded in it – with handwriting on it.’

‘What does the writing say ?’

Mrs Burton peered a little closer.

‘It says . . . “Brevity is . . the source . . of . . wit . . . ” Is that not the Bard?’

‘Think so,’ chuckled Hadley. Lord Huffam was next. ‘Don’t know why you thought it was parchment,’ he commented, amused. ‘Looks like writing carved out on a panel of wood.’

Mrs Burton was quite definite it had been parchment.

‘ And it don’t say anything about brevity, either,’ he added.

‘Well  what, then ?’

‘Music hath charms to sooth a savage breast. Ain’t that the Bard too ?’

‘Congreve, I rather think,’ suggested Miss Carlyle. Mr Gore gave a quick laugh and bowed in Miss Carlyle’s direction. ‘Pipped at the post, I was about to say the same.’

‘I say, but how do you do it ?’ asked Huffam of Gore.

‘I ? I do nothing. It is the crystal that does it all.’

Hadley had hold of it by now. ‘By Bacchus , it ain’t wood at all, ye know. Some sort of engraving. Most peculiar light . . “Something evil this way comes . .” Hmph.’

It was Miss Carlyle’s turn next. She blushed and hesitated. ‘Oh, I think it’s from Macbeth.’

‘Shall I read it out for you ?’ offered Huffam, seeing her unease. But on her passing it to him, he could make nothing of it. ‘Gone all misty. What does that mean ?’

‘You already read yours.  You had better pass it back to Miss Carlyle,’ advised Gore.

‘Well, now my curiosity is piqued, what was written ?’asked Mrs Burton.

Miss Carlyle was staring at the crystal now with more attention and not a little fear.

‘It is carved in stone . .. and it looks like . . a tomb stone,’ she quavered.

‘And the words?’ Everyone was leaning forward, Titus Gore was frowning a little.

‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls . .’she quavered, ‘ . . . it tolls for thee . . ‘ She placed the crystal on the table and clasped her hands together.

‘Humph. That’s a pretty toy you have there, Gore,’ grunted Hadley. ‘Don’t know that I should like to have it in my possession.’

‘Quite a good party trick though, eh ? Guess the quote – new parlour game, what ?’ Huffam thought his own witticism acute enough to chuckle at it. Nobody joined in, however.

‘In which case Miss Carlye loses the point she gained. It was not Macbeth she read, but John Donne,’ returned Gore, blithely. He held it up and looked at it.

‘Well ? See anything ?’

‘Hmmm . .. . a storm now.’ He quizzed them through it, then put it away.

Mrs Barton was concerned for the still nervous Miss Carlyle. ‘Come,come, my dear, you will surely not take it to heart ?’

‘It  looked so real . . . I thought it must be meant for me . . . ‘

Mr Gore frowned briefly. After dessert, it was generally decided the library with its cheering fire in the grate was the place to be. As they passed into the room a distant roll of thunder could be heard.

‘Ah, now, I had the fortepiano tuned in time, as I hear you, Miss Carlyle, are quite of concert level, and you did promise us a little taste of your prowess this evening, did you not?’

Huffam showed immediate enthusiasm and escorted Miss Carlyle who was not, it seemed, loath to distract herself from the business of the crystal. She and Mr Huffam did entertain the company for quite some time with their renditions of Ravenscroft, starting off merrily enough with ‘Tomorrow the fox,’ but growing increasingly funeste and melancholy with ‘There were three ravens’. But the mood was upon the whole party, and nothing would please but to try out ‘A Robyn, gentyl Robyn,’ in which all joined in (although Titus Gore states categorically that he had his ears fixed with corks at the time) with moving sentiment.

This was dissipated quite rudely by a hideous flash of lighting, cutting across the sky, making Miss Carlyle jump and lose her place.

‘By thunder, it’s a cracker all right,’ commented Hadley, crossing over to the window. The  sky was not yet quite dark, but the clouds were violet enough to add a dramatic contrast. Over to the west a sulky yellowish glow still remained, as if to remind the world that the sun had not yet quite decided to pull the covers over its head.

Strangely, it did not rain althought the sky continued to rumble threateningly.

The talk became lively and mention was made of winter tales of storms and shipwreck, ghouls and imps, banshees and spirits from the other world – as normally happens when a few guests are brought together during inclement weather by a healthy fire and after a satisfactory dinner. Huffam recalled someone talking to a figure in the street who then calmly walked through a wall. Mrs Burton remembered tales her nurse told her as a child of the Old Woman of Somesuch who came out at night to chase after naughty runaway children. Titus Gore sniffed at this.

‘But you must have so many tales to tell – come now, we were fairly promised that as well.’

‘Well, there is my latest case,’ he offered modestly.

‘Oh tell, do tell !’

‘It was nothing much. A place much like this, only they couldn’t live in it, because their resident phantom had a habit of walking through their dining room every evening.’

‘Was that all?’

‘Well, I should mention it walked through their dining table as well. Made the food rather chilly and rather took away their appetite. Turned out it was the ghost of an ancestor of theirs who had forgotten to tell them where the stocks and shares were kept and was trying to explain it to them. Not very successfully, it must be admitted, until I was able to communicate with him.’

‘Oh dear. Sounds rather mercenary,’ commented Mrs Burton.

‘It often is. Money or power I find to be the driving forces behind most beings, whether this side or the other. Now Mr Hadley on the other hand, has altogether a different kind of tale to tell, I think.’ He glanced enquiringly at his host who for the first time that evening looked a trifle uneasy. But the company was now eager to know and would allow him no escape.

‘Well, I am not certain it ain’t more of a legend than a ghost tale,’ he began, ‘to tell the truth I am not certain what to make of it as a story.

‘Tradition states that a phantom white horse visits here when one of the community is about to depart this life – there are other versions, suggesting that it is looking for one person in particular – but I am running ahead when I should tell it from the beginning. Very well.

‘It starts like this : originally this house belonged to a family from William’s time – Hertmonds was the name ; in fact, the foundations are supposed to date back to the 12th century or so. Well, there was a son of the family who went off to the Crusades, and came back with this magnificent white horse. Probably an Arabian mix or something – its speed, according to tradition, was phenomenal. People said it was bewitched, or a familiar of the Crusader – his name ? Something like John or Geoffrey – yes, Geoffrey, that was it. Not the most likeable of men  apparently – a trifle heavy handed with the people on his land – or so the story goes.  He did some injustice or other, had a young man hanged for supposed robbery or poaching. The boy’s mother was reputed to be a wise woman who laid a curse on Geoffrey. She came to his wedding day and pointed at him, saying ‘You’ll not find your wife this night nor any other night – how ever fast you ride that horse of yours – you’ll run the centuries long looking for her, as I and my son shall haunt this place, until justice is done.’

She may or may not have collapsed or died on the spot, I cannot remember. But the curse came true in one sense – for Geoffrey’s wife did indeed disappear later that same day, never to be seen again. Geoffrey went wild looking for her on his white horse, until he too disappeared and never came back.

‘So locals still say, when a white horse is seen in the neighbourhood, one of the community is to be carried away.

‘Of course, Geoffrey may have found his wife and moved to another part of the country. I have no idea. But the white horse . . . has been seen within living memory too.’

‘Indeed ?’ The ladies were most intrigued. ‘By whom ?’

‘My uncle. It was a night like this too -’ Hadley broke off at a particularly violent clap of thunder. This was followed by a startling bolt of lighning that illuminated the room almost as powerfully as a winter’s sun. Gasps and grunts from the guests as the ghostly scenery outdoors briefly showed up.

Far off in the distance in the brief lull that followed they all heard clearly the sound of a horse neighing.

‘Must be one of Bellingham’s got loose – I had better send stable-lad to see if it has strayed over . . .’ began Hadley, hurrying towards the door. He broke off as Miss Carlyle raised a hand and pointed at the long windows that opened onto the terrace.

They all followed the direction she was pointing in. Another flash of lightning and this time even Titus Gore could not refrain from letting out a hiss of surprise at the sight of a magnificent white horse outside.

The windows blew open, the horse came cantering up and jumped onto the terrace, and careered straight into the room. I t made for the sopha on which Miss Carlyle was seated and pounded in a circle around her. Miss Carlyle’s eyes fluttered and she fell sideways in a faint. The horse completed its circle  before leaping back out through the windows.

‘What the . . .’  was the inevitable response, followed by ‘After it !’ Too late, however, for the animal had vanished into thin air.   Mrs Burton meanwhile was attempting to bring Miss Carlyle round with smelling salts and Titus held her wrist between thumb and finger, frowning slightly.

‘It’s a very deep faint,’ he said after a whle. ‘The pulse is there, but very weak.’

‘What is to be done ?’

In the distance, they heard a horse whinnying and all turned to look through the windows.

Miss Carlyle stood up calmly and walked slowly  outside. The others followed her, mystified, and saw the outline of horse and rider approach.

A cry from Mrs Burton broke the spell. She was pointing at the sopha, where Miss Carlyle was still lying. Yet at the same time Miss Carlyle was standing by the horse, its rider now bending down to help her up.

‘Quick!’ yelled Titus to Huffam, ‘catch hold of her – and don’t let go!’

They rushed to the group, Huffam caught hold of the girl’s dress, Titus of the horse’s tail. A feeling of strong air movement, a sense of spacelessness that went on and on – and they vanished completely from sight, leaving Hadley and Mrs Burton with the still unconscious Miss Carlyle on the sopha.

Hadley ran out of the room, bawling out orders for the doctor to be sent for.

The doctor when he came was unable to offer much more help than Titus or Mrs Burton.

‘It is one of the more obstinate fainting fits I have yet come across,’ he commented in some puzzlement. ‘Make her comfortable here meanwhile, and have someone sit by her until she comes round,’ was all he could offer by way of treatment. He did however offer to visit early the next day.

Titus and Huffam meanwhile hung on for dear life, or death, until they felt grass under their feet again.

A glade, moonstruck and unearthly, filled with any number of people in the most unexpected costumes : ruffs jostled with coal-scuttle bonnets and coat-tails swept past mountainous wigs. The people themselves were also a strange assortment of the bizarre and the fascinating : swan necked, hump-backed, long-legged, four-legged, sometimes two-headed (although tose might have been masks). In the middle of it all sat one who was surely a queen – for one thing, she was the only person there with a train, one that required at least ten maidens to lift off the dewy grass. And to this queen was being led the spirit of Miss Cecily by the horse rider.

‘Ah,’ said the queen, extending a hand, ‘you have found me another handmaiden. Very good.’

She beckoned to Miss Carlyle who wandered obediently to her and knelt on the grass before her.

At last the horse rider spoke. ‘I have found you her – now let me see my wife.’

‘Your wife ? Why, she is here . . . somewhere . .. ‘ replied the queen carelessly, waving her hand vaguely about. A woman stepped forward, a dainty piece of porcelain who raised her eyes in a flash and droped them again.

‘There, you have seen her, now g0 and fetch me more, the last one faded away after a mere fortnight.’ And with a snap of her fingers, the queen sped the dainty piece of porcelain back into the shadows. The horse rider let out a groan, the saddest thing Huffam had yet heard in his sorry shallow life, but stood his ground.

‘Well, what is it ?’ replied the queen, raising an arrogant eyebrow. She caught sight of Titus and Huffam and clapped her hands, ‘why, you have brought me footmen as well, how clever of you . . . now let me see – why yes, you may observe your . .. wife . . .a little while longer.’

Lady Geoffrey drifted forward again from the shadows and hovered, her eyes gazing hollow at her husband.

‘Enough !’ snapped Titus. ‘Madam, we are not servants. We have come to reclaim that which you have stolen.’

The queen was too struck by surprise to speak. Then she smiled, which was most decidedly not pleasant to see, and raised both hands in a claw-like pose. Titus and Huffam rolled forward in the wet grass, their faces were rubbed harshly against the soil then they were jerked up and held invisibly, facing the queen, frozen and helpless.

‘I see, you are rebellious, ill-natured guests. I must see what can be done.’

Titus rolled his head briefly and muttered something indecipherable. Huffam watched in fascination as the queen’s face grew pale, sickly, fearful. Gradually she lowered her hands.

Titus stood up and Huffam found he was also able to do so.

‘Well ? What is it ?’she asked sulkily, not raising her eyes to looks at them.

‘You have taken one tonight who has no business here,’ replied Titus.

The queen snorted. ‘Nonsense!’ she cried, and lifted her hand. A thick veil of cobwebs fell in front of Titus and Huffam, sticky and clingy.

‘Don’t step forward,’ hissed Titus at Huffam, and scrabbled in a coat pocket for something.

‘All my servants come to me willingly,’ continued the queen proudly.

‘After you have hypnotised them, you mean,’ commented Titus. He drew out a small book and rifled through it. His lips moved silently – Huffam just faintly heard outlines of words, nothing more.

‘What is that you are saying?’ called out the queen sharply, and raised her hand again – but the cobweb was too thick for her to cast anything more.

Titus finished reciting whatever he was reading in the book.  ‘Not the most intelligent of beings, it is one small advantage,’ he murmured to Huffam.

‘Your Majesty,’ he addressed the queen, ‘You have at least two maids who are not there willingly – one you have stolen from life this very evening, the other from the shadows of time.’

The queen laughed. ‘Prove it !’

‘We can ask the king,’ he said and held up something green that glowed in the moonlight. Smoky patterns played across its surface.

‘NO!’ shouted the queen.

But too late; a figure materialised, walked across the glade and stood facing her.

‘Ill met again,’ it rumbled at her. ‘ becoming something of a habit, wouldn’t you say ?’

The queen fretted and mewed.

‘What have you been up to this time ?’ asked the king, more in weariness than anger.

‘I have not been up to anything – it is these intruders – they are attempting to steal my handmaids!’

‘Steal ? That is rich, coming from you – why, only the other day you walked off with my spare set of hunting horns – you never bring them back either, I always have to come and ask –’

‘I do not –’

‘You do –’

‘Do not.’

‘Do.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Do.’

‘Pshaw, they are a lot of children after all,’ whispered Titus.

While the couple quarrelled, he took hold of Lady Geoffrey’s hand; it was icy cold. He led her away. Huffam took hold of Miss Carlyle’s dress – they were moving away when they heard the shrewish squeals of the queen and a curse: ‘Titus ! Titus Gore – I have seen what you are doing – beware, I shall avenge me on thee !’

The king approached the queen and raised a hand; it held a garland of flowers that glowed eerily in the moonlight. The queen leapt to her feet and snarled: ‘You keep away with your potions and drops!’ But the king was too quick for her : the garland was already hanging around her neck. She swayed slightly, eyes flickering, then the light faded from them and she sat down again. She smiled dreamily and waved at one of her maids.

‘Bring me that toadstool over there,’ she murmured, ‘I have a desire to  pay homage to it.’

The king stepped behind her and sprinkled a handful of broken petals over head. He moved away and motioned Titus and the others towards the white horse. The rider helped his wife up, not once letting go of her; Titus, Huffam and Miss Carlyle all held onto the saddle, the bridle, the stirrups.

The horse lifted its head, stamped and vanished, taking them with it.

The maids watched the whole group disappear without a flicker and continued watching over the queen.

*

Miss Carlyle opened her eyes and sat up on the sopha.

Outside, the sound of hooves was fading into the distance. Around stood the company, Mrs Burton with her smelling salts at the ready, Titus Gore staring down at his crystal lens, Huffam gazing at Miss Carlyle steadily. Mr Hadley was pouring out brandy.

‘Well, that all went smoother than expected,’ commented Titus, putting away the lens. He stepped forward to take the glass Hadley offered him, and immediately over the rug.

Over the next few days, he had a series of similar accidents, tripping, knocking into things. His cravats likewise suffered somewhat mysteriously. No matter how meticulously ironed, they managed to crumple immediately and remained in a state of continual crumple for the rest of his visit.

The queen had taken some petty revenge after all – which only wore off after his return home. Hadley was careful to put away all fragile breakables for the duration of his visit.

The horse has not been heard since, nor has it paid any more visits.

Just occasionally Miss Carlyle (now Lady Huffam) is observed to go slightly transparent – this rarely lasts more than half an hour, and is only troublesome if she happens to be pouring out tea at the time. She never recalls anything of such incidents and nobody is so discourteous as to comment on it.

The queen does not lose her grip easily or lightly.

The Olbas will eventually run out, and the inventions of the aged relatives down in the cellar are unlikely to bring in the funds this crumbling pile so desperately needs . . . so it is back to the treasure hunt for me. Hidden within these walls lies Great Uncle Sebastian’s Fortune. So carefully hidden to avoid it falling into the wrong hands that nobody to date has been able to discover it.  

Great Uncle Sebastian was also an inventor. It runs in the family. Likewise an adventurer, a traveller, a historian and several other activities that I can’t at present remember. His inventions however made his name. He always maintained he owed much of what he knew to yet another of our many ancestors, a certain Titus Gore, who had also been an inventor of no little merit before him. In addition, this Titus Gore pursued the profession of Private Investigator. A most particular kind of Investigator, too : of Things Phantasmagorical. We still have some of his business cards lying about somewhere . . .

(Ah, there's one . . . )

Be that as it may, Great Uncle Sebastian took it into his head to collect all the adventures and anecdotes concerning  Titus Gore – more, he decided to use these tales to lay a trail of clues for the not entirely witless, leading to the Fortune. A veritable treasure hunt. I know this because of the last message he left behind :

‘Dear All, If you are reading this, I am up in the old Attic in the Sky, and will not have got around to telling you where all the jolly moulah is stashed. Well, there are any number of gold-hunters about, so to avoid nasty surprises, I have elected to hide it. You will find it once you start reading my account of Titus Gore. This account is spread about the house, but each tale will lead you, with a little perspicacity, onto the next tale – and the next clue.

‘I fear I have made this needlessly complicated. Too late now. ‘Tis done. Good luck anyway.

Toodle-pip.

Seb.’

Dear Great Uncle Seb. How would we pass the winter evenings otherwise . . . probably at the card tables of Paris, or the Ridotti of Venice. Ah well, to work. On with the search.

The first tale I found quite easily. Uncle Seb sealed his final letter with his own stamp : An S with the head of a serpent at one end and the head of a lion at the other.

What simpler than to go to the main hall, where those old carvings stand on a pedestal, the one of a lion, the other of a huge snake, with an urn lying between them. I felt about inside the urn and found a crackly roll of parchment which I drew out. It was the first tale of Titus Gore.

Titus Gore and the Case of the Undead Housekeeper

The fortunes of Gore and Nightingale are in a steep decline. But there is one flicker of hope. A treasure hunt laid by Great Uncle Sebastian. If we can only puzzle out the hints he left behind in his stories of Titus Gore. So far, one story has been found. Titus Gore and the Case of the Undead Housekeeper. Still trying to work out what clues it holds . . .

I narrowed it down in the end to the three items mentioned, the Crystal Eye, the Golden Feather and the Anubis statuette – there is a large, clear lump of what I imagined always to be glass, sitting in the centre of one of the curio tables. It caught the sunlight poking through the shabby shutters only the other day, and , drawn by it, I began looking over the objects strewn about it – almost immediately came upon a small statue of Anubis, carved out of some dark material. Very grimy and in need of a good clean. While I was handling it I noticed a seam, or hair-line crack around its middle. It seemed only a crack, yet was very regular and straight, so unlikely to be accidental; I applied a very little pressure, twisting it, and I felt it shift in a most intriguing way. One more twist . . and it separated – to reveal a rolled up piece of parchment nestling in its hollow.

I removed it carefully, and have spent all this time ironing it out.

The title running across the top of it reads :  Titus Gore and the Phantom Horse of Hertmond House

Titus Gore and the Phantom Horse of Hertmond House