TWENTY-FIVE

P atricia and Parker arrived back at the estate as the storm broke and the sun’s rays flooded in from the east. They climbed the massive grey steps to the terrace and entered Pemberley House through a set of tall French windows letting into an eastern-facing sitting room.

The old Duchess reposed on a settee, one twisted hand clutching at the arm of the settee, the other clawing at her heart.

Edith, Duchess of Greystoke, was dead, an expression of horror on her face, and Patricia saw a white apparition fading away.

Patricia swore that Bess must have appeared to the Duchess and the old lacy had died of fright, but Parker laughed. He went to the next room to find a phone and call the police.

Neither of them, of course, was terribly upset over the old lady’s death, not, at least, at the moment. But that probably made sense given all the death and violence they had seen this morning.

Besides, she had been an unlikable bitch.

Patricia continued to ruminate on Bess’ appearance to the Duchess. It made sense the Duchess had been fearful of Bess’ hauntings, since she was in the actual line of descent from the d’Arcys, as Patricia had learned from the Saxon Blake tale. But Bess only appeared at midnight on the appointed nights. Had Bess come to her, Patricia, last night and then also to the Duchess? If that was the case, then why was old crone dead of fright downstairs in the sitting room instead of upstairs in her bedroom, where she should have been at the midnight hour?

Patricia came to agree with Parker that Bess had not frightened the old Dowager to death, although she didn’t see eye to eye with him on whether or not Bess existed. After all, if it hadn’t been Carla in her room every night at midnight, then who, or what rather, had it been?

Of course, Carla could have been lying, to the very end.

But if Bess had not frightened the Dowager to death, then the only explanation was that the old lady had heard the shooting outside in the early morning, had come downstairs to find the great house empty, everyone gone, and her heart gave out from the anxiety and worry.

Then Patricia realized what was strange about the ghost, the apparition, she had just seen; it was the Duchess herself, not Bess.

And so Pemberley House had a new ghost.

The police and coroner had come and gone, clearing away all the corpses and the Robbery treasure.

Parker was not what he appeared to be, either. No one in Pemberley House was, it seemed, although, at least, this revelation was a positive one.

Parker explained to Patricia that he was a policeman, planted at the vast estate to keep an eye on the poaching situation. While real poachers were always a concern, the police had also suspected Austin played a part in the Great Train Robbery, and once Doctor Moran had hired him on as the Duchess’ chauffer, the police placed Parker at Pemberley as a spy.

It turned out that police work and detection were in Parker’s blood. His father had been a Scotland Yard inspector, and his maternal uncle, after whom he was named and who called him by the nickname “Peterkin” when he was a very young boy, was an amateur sleuth of some note and fame in the 1920s and ’30s. His father’s uncle had acted as the amanuensis and partner of a noted consulting detective named Pons.

“I also have a slight confession,” he said.

At Patricia’s raised brows, he reassured her. “No, nothing untoward, at least, I don’t think so. But when I was first assigned to go undercover here, the family names rung a bell and I did a little research. Turns out my mother and uncle’s grandmother was Joane Clayton, who was the sister of both the fifth and sixth Dukes of Greystoke.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“It’s true,” he said. “Could I really make this up?”

“You mean to tell me that my great-grandfather and your great-grandmother were brother and sister? That we have the same great-great-grandparents? What does that make us?

“Hell if I know.” He grinned. “But distant enough that it doesn’t make a difference.”

But Patricia wasn’t thinking about sex, at least, not at the moment. “Does this mean Pemberley goes to you?”

“No, no, not as I understand it. My descent from the fourth Duke of Greystoke, our great-great-grandfather, was through a female line. The Duchy and estate would not pass through that lineage.”

“I need to call Mr. Newell...”

“By all means, but let me reassure you. Since you’re descended directly from the sixth Duke through a lineage of male heirs, even an illegitimate one—”

“Yes, Mr. Newell said the estate was mine, but that I’d have to apply for a special grant, since the peerage is extinguished, to bestow to me the title Duchess of Greystoke with new letters patent.”

“That sounds right. Anyway, call Newell tomorrow and I’m sure he can clear everything up.”

“How do you know so much about this, anyway?”

“Ah, in my youth, I dabbled in a bit of writing, and my researches took me on many and varied paths.”

In fact, Parker told Patricia, he had been intent on becoming an adventure and crime novelist. Then, almost fifteen years before, he had joined up with an agency called Knight Errant Limited, as an investigator and information-gatherer on-the-scene, in order to gain life experience for writing his novels. Knight Errant had been dedicated to helping those in need, those who had problems the police or ordinary detectives couldn’t solve, much like Doc Wildman’s and Benson’s organizations in the 1930s and ’40s. When the firm folded, Parker had missed the excitement and joined the Yard like his father before him.

“Pete,” Patricia said the next day, “if you still have a taste for stories, then you’ll want to read this one. Maybe then you’ll believe me about the ghost of Bess and the curse.”

“Why would a story make me believe in ghosts?”

“Because it’s not just a story. Every other detail is accurate. The Duchess. Moran. This house. The sixth Duke. My father, even. And although Richard was a bastard and a liar, I think he was telling me the true legend of the Pemberley Curse, even if he didn’t really believe it himself and was only trying to frighten me off. What he told me is exactly what’s in this story, in a magazine from the 1920s.”

“All right, all right, I’ll read it, if only to satisfy you. Where is it?”

She told him of the mystery of the wandering pulp magazine, which had never been satisfactorily explained, and that the prior evening she had found the itinerant periodical and the rest of her missing reading materials neatly stacked on a shelf in the library.

Parker sat on the leather sofa to read the story, and when he got near the end, she joined in reading where she had left off a few days before, when the magazine had disappeared from her room:

“Ardan [they read]  must... make love to the ghost when she appears.”

“Excuse me?” Ardan asked, not sure he had heard correctly.

Blake repeated himself.

Ardan had heard him correctly.

He pondered this for a little while, then asked, “Literally or figuratively?”

“Literally.”

“That’s it.” Francis Ardan stood up abruptly. “Your Grace, I apologize. I can’t help you, after all. I take my leave of you.” He turned to Blake. “I accompanied you on Holmes’ word. I can see now I was mistaken to do so. I have seen a few strange things in my time, Mr. Blake, but you’re crazy,” he said simply, and left.

“Well, Mr. Blake, I tend to agree with my husband’s grandson,” said the Duchess. “I hope you’re satisfied with this latest disruption. I, for one, am quite relived he is gone; the reminder of my late husband’s illegitimate son was most painful. You have done your damage for the day, now please leave.”

“Certainly, Your Grace, my apologies,” Blake said, although he privately reflected on her hypocrisy. A quick call to one of Blake’s operatives on the Continent, Baron St. John-Orsini, had dug up the Duchess’ affair with the self-styled “Comte de Guy” and resulting birth of a child in 1909, during another period of estrangement from her husband; the “adopted” Carlo Deguy was doubtlessly her illegitimate son.

Carlo Deguy also would be subject to the curse if he was present at Pemberley. Loathe to further incur the Dowager’s wrath, Blake rejected the option of bringing Deguy to Pemberley House. He knew the old lady would only deny that Deguy was her natural son, and so raising the issue was pointless.

Holmes had also provided further information on the Duchess, most of which was not of immediate bearing, but might prove useful later. All in all, she was not a pleasant sort.

So why, then, was he going out of his way to continue helping this high-handed woman who so clearly did not want his assistance? Well, he reflected, he still had her retainer. That obligated him to earn the whole fee. Besides, the case did have its distinctive touches.

Blake and Topper made haste to depart, and then Blake turned back. “I don’t suppose I could use your telephone? No? Then do you know if the Fighting Cock Inn down the road has a public ’phone?”

“Enough!” The Duchess stormed out of the hothouse, then turned back and pointed a clawed finger at her secretary. “Moran, see that they leave. Throw them out, if you have to. Now!”

“Yes, Duchess,” Moran replied with a self-satisfied grin, and produced a small, black semi-automatic pistol.

“Oh, we’re leaving, put that thing away before you hurt yourself, old boy,” said Blake, swatting at Moran’s arm and sending the gun flying into a potted palm.

“Guv’nor!”

“Relax, Topper, the hammer wasn’t cocked; our Mr. Moran’s not a very experienced thug. C’mon, we’ll show ourselves out.”

Topper looked back at Moran, who was rubbing his arm where Blake had hit him, then shrugged and ambled after his mentor.

Over twenty-four hours later, darkness hung over Pemberley House as the midnight hour approached. It was the first night of the three-night cycle which marked the anniversary of Bess d’Arcy’s murder at the hands of her husband, over 350 years ago.

Three shadowy figures clad entirely in black silently crossed the gardens, skirted the lake, and approached the massive manor house. Two of the men climbed up to a dark first-story window, while the third stood guard below. Cutting tools and suction cups were pulled from black kits; glass was cut and quietly set on the ledge. A black-gloved hand reached inside through the hole and loosened the latch. One of the men entered the great house, while the other remained at the window.

Midnight came and went.

An hour or so later, the third dark figure emerged from house, and both men climbed down from the ledge, joining their companion on the ground.

The three stole away silently.

Several days later, after the three-night cycle had passed, Saxon Blake presented himself at Pemberley House once more and requested one final audience with Edith, Duchess of Holdernesse.

“Her Grace will see you,” Mr. Moran said smugly, as they walked once more down the Great Hall, “but I warn you, she’ll not suffer your insolence gladly. She has completely recovered from this ghost story foolishness and there can be no further business between you.”

Blake shrugged and said nothing.

When they arrived in the hothouse, Blake immediately requested privacy.

“Duchess, please—!” protested Moran, but she cut him short, responding to a hard glint in Blake’s eyes.

“No, Augustus, I think in this case we shall humor Mr. Blake. It shall be the last time, I assure you.”

Moran left, clearly reluctant, and Blake sat at a gesture from the Duchess. “I’ll come straight to the point. Did the ghost of Bess d’Arcy appeared to you on any of the three nights?”

“No. We did have a break-in several nights ago.”

“How unfortunate. Nothing was taken, I trust?”

“Nothing. In any event, the matter of the ghost is closed. I’ll never tell Augustus, of course, but he was right. There is no ghost. An old lady’s folly. I’m sorry I ever called upon you, but please leave, and return no more. You plague me more than Bess ever did.”

Blake smiled at that. “But Your Grace, I never returned your retainer and I’ve earned my fee. You hired me to solve your ghost problem, and it is solved.”

“Impudent man!”

“You’ll receive my bill for services rendered next week. Unless you’d care to settle up now...?”

“I won’t pay you, I swear,” she said, with venom. “Why should I?”

He shrugged. “Threat of legal action?”

“There’s not a court in the land that’ll believe you and your absurd ghost stories. I warn you, those who undertake to intimidate me come to no good end.”

“Yes,” Blake replied, “perchance I am taking my life in my hands. I know what happens to people who blackmail you.”

The Duchess’ eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

“However, you leave me with little other choice,” the detective continued. “Perhaps you recall the circumstances of the infamous blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton? He was murdered, shot to death, in his home in Appledore Towers in Hampstead, some 28 years ago. His murderer was never identified, although doubtless it was one of the many victims of his pernicious schemes.”

A long silence settled over the room.

Then she buzzed for Moran, instructed him to bring her pocketbook, wrote out a cheque for a princely sum, and handed it to Blake.

The sleuth rejoined the faithful Topper in a waiting taxicab parked outside Pemberley, and the two men headed back for the Castle Hill train station just east of Lambton.

As they departed, Topper asked Blake if he thought the ghost was really gone.

“Of course,” Blake replied, “why not?”

“Well,” said his plucky apprentice, “we only went to the Pemberley estate one night. The legend has the ghost supposedly appearing for three nights running. Are you sure we shouldn’t have gone all three nights to make sure the ghost was well and truly gone?”

“No,” said the detective, “the Dowager didn’t see the ghost any of the three nights. Old Bess is gone, that’s for sure. Cheer up, Topper, we solved the case! Now, it’s back to Baker Street for us. New clients and cases are already waiting, right? There’s a good lad.”

Topper nodded earnestly at his mentor, and settled himself in for the short trip to Lambton, and the longer train ride back to London, and home.

But he wasn’t entirely assured.

Epilogue

Doctor Francis Ardan—otherwise known as Doctor James Clarke Wildman, Jr.—sat in the cockpit of his modified Ford tri-motor at Croydon Aerodrome, making final checks and cross-checks in preparation for his expedition to the mysterious East, when his superhuman hearing picked up a slight rustle behind him.

Whirling around faster than any normal man had a right to, Ardan confronted the intruder.

“Dad!”

The man formerly called James Wildman came in and seated himself beside his son. “Easy, my boy, easy,” he said, holding up a hand. “Your reaction time never fails to astonish me. All the physical, mental, and scientific training I’ve invested in you has certainly paid off. And will perhaps compensate in some small way for my past wrongs,” he added somberly.

“Father,” said Ardan, instantly reverting to his usual impassive demeanor, “I didn’t know you were in England. For that matter, I thought you could never set foot in England again.”

“Yes, son, all too true. However, I was called here on very short notice. Emergency business. My presence here in England is a secret, and I do need to depart immediately before I’m discovered.”

The younger man nodded, aware that any further inquiries would be typically stonewalled. Such had it always been between father and son.

“However,” the elder man continued, “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see my son off on this historic expedition. I’m very proud of you, my boy.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ardan, nonplussed at this display. “May I at least ask if your business was concluded successfully?”

“Yes,” his father replied with an uncharacteristic grin, “yes it was, indeed.”

THE END

“You see?” Patricia asked Pete. “Everything fits. The story matches up with the family history, the local geography, Pemberley House, in every way. The legend said if someone can show Bess’ ghost love, instead of terror, she will go away. Blake deduced that meant actual physical... affection. My grandfather did it, and the ghost went away.”

“But not entirely, according to your own assertions right now, Patricia,” Pete responded.

“That’s because Blake made a mistake. He only had my grandfather come to Pemberley one night, instead of all three.”

“How inconvenient.”

“Look, Carla denied entering my room and posing as Bess, and I, in my drugged state, made love to whoever did come to my room at midnight. It could only be the ghost, and besides, she haunts no more.”

“Well, I’m still skeptical, Patricia. After all, even if there was a ghost, there’s no proof she haunts no more. There won’t be until the anniversary next year. And even then, lack of evidence on next year’s anniversary won’t constitute proof positive that Bess was here this year.”

“You’re twisting—”

“On top of that, you told me yourself that you only got, as you put it, affectionate with Bess, or whoever it was, on nights two and three. So by your own theory, the ghost will be back, if not next year, then some time.”

“But—”

“Also, I have to point out that as the great-great-grandson of the fourth Duke of Greystoke, I’m also lineally descended from the d’Arcys; if I was also subject to this supposed curse, how come I never saw Bess?”

“That’s easy. You only joined the household a few weeks ago, and didn’t sleep in the main house where Bess appeared. You were never in the house at midnight.”

“Well, I was that one night when Miss Neston called me to come see if you were all right.”

“That was after midnight, Pete.”

“Fine,” he said, “we’ll let that one go. But here’s another point. If Carla and Richard were really the biological grandchildren of the Duchess, and the Duchess really was a descendant of the d’Arcys, like the Blake story says, then why weren’t they ever visited by Bess?”

“Perhaps it’s a matter of belief in, or, at least, openness to believing in, the legend? If Richard and Carla never really believed it...”

“Aha! I agree they didn’t believe in it, though I don’t agree disbelief prevented them from seeing Bess. Now, here’s how I see it. Someone close to the family, maybe Moran himself, shared all sorts of private details with some pulp writer, who turned it into a ghost story, a potboiler. It makes more sense that Richard and Carla and Moran used the story to create and hatch their plot to scare you off. And of course it was Carla making the midnight visits to your room, using the secret passageways. You’ve admitted you were drugged, and she was happy to come shag you; it was obvious how hot she was for you.”

“Then why was the Duchess scared of Bess? Why did she believe in the curse?”

“Because the ghost story, that fictional Saxon Blake story, was bandied about by Moran and the twins so much she started to believe it herself. Perhaps she had dementia in her old age.”

“She was volatile and mercurial, but she was sharp as a tack. But since you have an answer for everything, what about this?”

Patricia retrieved Excessively Diverted, Or, Leaving Pemberley from its shelf and showed it to Parker. “This is an account by Delhi Darcy, the daughter of Fitzwilliam Bennet Darcy. In it, she complains that the reason her father sold Pemberley to Sir Gawain wasn’t financial reverses; in fact, the family continued to live in great comfort—just not at Pemberley. Delhi’s mother Agatha, however, insisted they vacate the house when her father began to anticipate with too much pleasure the annual visits of a certain ghost.”

“The fantasies of a teenager,” Parker responded, “upset at being uprooted from the only home she’s ever known. In fact, Delhi’s little ghost fantasy probably gave Moran the idea to devise the Blake tale. Patricia, there are no such things as ghosts.”

“Then why did this... this person who came to me in my room so dramatically resemble the portrait of Bess that’s hanging in the Great Hall?”

“Again, you were drugged, and suggestible. And you yourself have remarked on Carla’s resemblance to the portrait, which makes sense if she was a distant descendant of the d’Arcys. A change of hair and some makeup was all that was needed.”

“Damn it, Pete, I know what I saw, and felt, and the ghost of Bess was real. You’re impossible, a rationalist, just like my father.”

Parker smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Besides, if I’m to write mysteries, I’d better be able to solve them.”

“Write mysteries? I thought you were focused on real, not fictional, police work now.”

“You inspire me, Patricia. Perhaps I’ll take up the pen again.” He pulled her toward him and kissed her.

Patricia responded, and the two silently agreed to table the discussion of Bess’ ghost.

They moved to the Kodiak bear rug on the floor in front of the fireplace and made love, and Patricia didn’t think of her father once.