Page 48 of A Spell of Midlife Mayhem

I bristled. ‘I’m not a maid. You need to leave. How did you get in, anyway?’

He ignored me.

I debated with myself about what to do. I couldn’t grab him by the arm and drag him out. That would be assault, and there was a risk he would fall. An ancient walking cane leaned against the armchair, suggesting he had mobility issues. How had he made it up the stairs? I could call the police, but would they respond to a report of a septuagenarian burglar? Besides, he had taken nothing as far as I could see.

‘At least put your pipe out,’ I said lamely. Maybe it would be best to wait for Lydia so she could sort this out. She was the head guide, after all, and this old guy might be a regular visitor who had his own key.

‘’Tis already done,’ grumbled the old man. ‘Leave me in peace.’

I stepped closer and peered into it. He was telling the truth. It wasn’t lit. I examined the unusual pipe closely. It had a thin stalk and was made of white clay with a small bowl. I’d never seen a pipe like it.

The elderly gentleman was vaguely familiar. Had I seen him around town when I was shopping?

No, that wasn’t it.

I scurried through the house as fast as I could, hunting for the portrait in my mind. I couldn’t remember where it was, but if I was right...

It hung on the wall on the stairway. A large oil painting of an elderly gentleman sitting by a fire, smoking a pipe. Thomas Deaville, Earl Chirtle. I stared at it for a minute, then climbed back upstairs, out of breath. Damn that operation. Damn this lack of fitness.

Back in the library, the figure was still there, staring into space.

‘You’re Earl Chirtle,’ I said. ‘You died in 1648 when you were seventy-two.’

‘And not a moment too soon, I daresay. I hadst wearied of the toils of life. But, I welcome the respite that death tenders.’ He looked up with a bewildered expression. ‘Thee can perceive me. How queer! Thee wouldst be the fresh one that Mistress Chirtle spake on to me about.’

‘I’m a new guide here, yes.’ He seemed to have mellowed a little now that I wasn’t demanding he leave. He was a house ghost; I wouldn’t try to turf him out of his own property. ‘So, you talked to the countess, did you?’

‘Verily, I endeavour not to. After four hundred and twenty-three years of matrimony, ’tis tiring thoroughly.’

‘Don’t you get on with your wife?’ I shivered at the disturbing thought of living with Terry for over four hundred years. If that was my fate after my death, I needed immortality.

‘Nay, ’tis not that. I cherish my wife dearly. ’Tis only that the lady prattles overly much. As do thee, evidently. A sir needs his solitude from time to time.’

‘Sorry.’ Yet again, I was apologising to a ghost.

The spectral earl went back to his staring pose. I turned to see if he was looking at anything in particular—perhaps a certain book. It was hard to make out which one it could be. Several dusty old histories and a silver candlestick lined the shelf he was gazing at.

Should I offer to read to him?

Maybe another time.

***

I ABANDONED MY ATTEMPT to browse the library and went downstairs. I hadn’t long to wait until Lydia, Penny and Melissa arrived. I studied the artwork while I waited for them.

Fifteen minutes later, Lydia came in first. ‘Oh, Heather, you’re here already. You’re super keen.’

‘I woke early,’ I said. ‘Besides, I love working here. It’s the most beautiful and amazing house.’

‘A house with its own ghosts.’ Lydia scrutinised me.

Did she suspect that I’d seen them? I chose my words carefully. ‘You said there were several stories. Do you know anyone who’s seen ghosts here? I mean, someone you trust.’

Lydia nodded. As she opened her mouth to speak, Melissa arrived, and a half minute later, Penny came in. Lydia sent me a meaningful glance.

Yes, we’d have this conversation later.

We shared the morning’s pastries and chatted.

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