Page 5 of A Strange Christmas Game

“Yes.” Mr. Lester did not elaborate.

“And yet… Mr. Mason lived there?” said Nigel. He leaned forward in his chair, his hat balanced precariously on its arm.

“He did. But I must confess that the rumors redoubled after he passed.”

Charles swallowed and let the tea warm him. He thought of what he’d seen of Ullinn House through the rain and past the closed gate. It certainly loomed like a haunted thing. Though not enormous by theton’smeasure—Lord Valencourt’s townhouse was far larger—it signified some means.

“I think,” said Charles, “that I can see how they might have taken hold.” He did not say that the smaller the village, the more likely it was that someone would begin saying something ludicrous. The rest would follow.

He was still trying to reconcile with the thought that he’d apparently been there already.

“But,” said Mr. Lester, “the most troubling thing is the crying.”

“The crying?” Mason’s skin bristled with goosebumps. As much as he tried to tell himself that ghost stories were for the gullible, he almost always believed them. He would rather take his chances with men than wraiths. Nigel was less apt to believe but had a history of becoming engrossed in stories.

“I would not believe it if I had not heard it myself.”

“Crying comes from within the house,” said Nigel. It was half-question, half-statement.

“I do not think you would hear it on a night like tonight, but within the last fortnight, there have been…” Mr. Lester searched for a word. “Sobs. Faint ones, but unmistakable on the wind.”

“Perhaps it is just the wind,” said Charles.

“Perhaps.”

“Is there anything else underfoot?” Nigel said.

“Lights,” said Mr. Lester.

“Lights?” said Nigel, after a blink.

He nodded. “Fleeting, like foxfire or marsh lights. They are there one moment, then gone, flaring in the windows.”

Charles said, “The crying… is it a woman’s?”

Mr. Lester nodded again. “I would say so, but it is very faint.”

Had they been in London, Charles was sure someone would have demanded they be allowed to inspect the house.

“And no one… no one has been inside to see?”

“There are few of us left here, Mr. Mason. Most of us are getting on in years, and we have better things to do than break into an empty house.” Mr. Lester drank his black tea. “Besides, it would be disrespectful were anyone but you to do it.” It seemed that he did not wish to admit how deeply the villagers might have wanted to avoid a ghost. His hands trembled enough to belie nerves.

Charles said, “But you said—well, insinuated—that the reason why no one has gone in is that Ullinn House is haunted. Not that people respected my father.”

A gale juddered the windows. Mr. Lester tongued his upper teeth. “It seems you really know little of your father’s people.”

“I know nothing of them, except for he left my mother with a young boy. Were it not for Mr. Maclean’s father…” he trailed off.

Nigel sighed.

“It is both reasons,” said Mr. Lester. “We did respect Mr. Mason. He kept to himself. However, as I said, some of us also believe the house hasbeenhaunted.”

Grappling for patience, which was not often a state he found himself in, Charles said, “Then… please tell me… more.” It was not the most effective request.

He just dearly wished to know more of what this stranger knew about his past.

Or if nothispast, then that of the man who’d shaped it.

“Your father, you see, managed to kill your uncle in a duel. Years ago, just before Christmas.”

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