Nocebo

Winston Featherwell hated the Christmas season. He was repulsed by the commercialism, the fake jollity, and the vapid displays of bows, presents, and evergreens. When others wished him, “Merry Christmas,” it was all he could do to refrain from replying, “Nonsense!” It did not help that he lived in Kensington near the park. Carolers haunted his neighborhood, knocking on doors and singing from sundown until ten o’clock at night each of the twelve days. In the run-up to the season, he braced himself. During the critical days, he did a lot of drinking. After the New Year’s Day festivities, it took him almost a week to settle back into his curmudgeonly routine. This Christmas was going to be no exception.

Sondra Islington took Featherwell to task for kvetching about the holiday. She was, in his view, inordinately cheerful, one of those born with the “happy gene.” She smiled at everyone, whether she knew them or not. During the Christmas season, she burst in on those who hid their souls under leaden bushels with a glee that, she thought, would raise the dead. If there was an opposite of Featherwell, Islington was the operational prototype. Attracted to Featherwell like a magnet, she decided to make him happy this Christmas in spite of him. She made it a protracted campaign. Her plan might not have had a chance at success, except that she had the same shift as he on the same floor of the Druid’s Curse department store two blocks from Harrods.

Druid’s was an unlikely venue for Christmas displays. It was situated in a venerable, dreary stone building with expressive gargoyles looming from each level above the first floor. Rumor had it that Druid’s was under a curse—hence the name Druid’s Curse. One Christmas Eve, a grisly murder had been committed on the top floor of the building. The ghost of the victim haunted the building, complaining it would remain excluded from the afterlife until the murderers were found and punished. Many employees at Druid’s had strong opinions about the ghost. Only high wages and bonuses, as well as job scarcity, kept them on the job. Throughout all of London in the 1830s, life was hard and meaningful jobs required references. From the eligible maiden’s point of view, the vetting was an advantage. Islington had no fear that Featherwell was a truly evil man because he had passed muster in the hiring process. He dressed as a gentleman should and was distantly polite. Featherwell’s only problem was his con-stant whining around Christmas time.

At Druid’s, the change of tone in décor occurred on December 8th. Autumnal displays with their berries were taken down in a single night and boxed. Then, from the top floor, the Christmas things were fetched, and evergreens were set up to transform the dreary interior into a fairyland of highly decorated trees and wreaths. Ironically, Featherwell and Islington were tasked with distributing the Christmas decorations to every floor. They oversaw the staff unpacking and setting out the ornaments and displays.

Under his breath, Featherwell huffed out, “Nonsense!” while each time Islington answered, “Merry Christmas to you too!” in her sweetest voice. He knew she was baiting him, so he ignored her. She was emboldened by his detachment.

Standing in front of him like a human-sized egg cup with a broad skirt below and an enormous bust above her crossed arms, red-cheeked, beady-eyed Islington asked, “Mr. Featherwell, do you have a family to share the Christmas season with you?”

The mustached man, standing on tiptoe in his three-piece suit with cravat and pin, sighed in exasperation and pulled at the two tufts of hair that stood out on either side of his round head. “No, Miss Islington, I do not. And if I did have a family remaining, I wouldn’t celebrate Christmas with them. Do you have to be so confoundedly cheerful at the prospect?”

She was happy to have any response at all from the misanthrope. “It’s the season of joy for the whole world!”

He frowned. “Miss Islington, are you aware of what happened in this very storage closet where we’re sorting out the flighty baubles of the season?”

“Mr. Featherwell, whatever do you mean?” She eyed him warily and rocked back, searching his brown eyes for any sign of human sympathy.

He shook his head as if he was reluctant to impart an evil vision and stated, “I mean a man was not only brutally killed in this place, but his disembowelment left his intestines strung like the decorations of a Christmas tree on hooks that the murderer affixed to the walls. The killer was never found. The ghost haunts the place even now.” As he said this, Featherwell lifted festoons out of a box and weighted them between his extended hands as an example of how the guts had been hung from point to point with the entrails hanging down between the points.

She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. “I’ve heard the sad, gruesome stories.” Then she had an inspiration and asked him, “Have you actually seen the ghost?”

“I have, indeed, seen the ghost—in fact, more than once. I saw it last Christmas in this very room.” His eyes scanned the large floor as if looking for a sign of the ghost. Then, to add a vivid proof of what he had seen, he said, “It looks like a white flame the size of a man. When it speaks, it glows.” His hands moved inward and outward in front of him as if representing the resonance of the glow.

“The way you say it, a chill runs up my spine. What did the ghost say?”

“First it moaned as if it was suffering great pain. Then it said it was trapped in this building until its murderers had been found and punished. The Bobbies long ago abandoned the heinous case as unsolvable, so the ghost will never be freed, I suppose.”

“It must be horrible for the ghost to know it’ll never be able to get on with things until others do what can’t be done. All the same, we can’t help. So, we might as well be cheerful about what we’re doing.” She lifted a box of blue and silver ornaments and carried them to the lift. He carried a large box of festoons in her wake. Down they descended to the ground floor so the staff could integrate the decorations into their growing displays arranged tastefully throughout the space.

When the two returned to the top floor, they searched for the box of candles. Featherstone replaced the white working candles on the floor with huge red decorative candles. Islington looked on approvingly. “That’s the spirit.”

Featherstone looked doubtful. “See how the red glows and casts gules of red like blood? What can be cheerful about that?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Featherwell, it happens I brought a small bottle of cheer. Maybe a drink will lift your soul from its doldrums.” She uncorked and took a swig from her bottle. She handed it to him, and he drank too.

“We’d best be careful to not drink too much, Miss. Mr. Oldface will sack us, to be sure, if he catches us drinking on the job. I, for one, would not like to lose my job during the Christmas season.” He frowned.

Islington blushed and put the bottle back under her skirt. She had another idea and said, “Mr. Featherwell, why are you always so glum? We’re helping remake this store from a dour and hopeless venue into a bright and cheerful customer haven.”

He hesitated, considering how to answer her highly personal question. “If you must know, it’s because I’ve known such tragedy that my heart can’t rejoice as yours evidently does without great effort.”

“Will you tell me about your troubles?” She leaned towards him as she sorted through a chest of nutcrackers of all sizes. She smiled a crooked smile and cocked her head to indicate she would need help lifting the chest. “Take your time and think about it. We’ve got a lot yet to take down to the floors. Here, pick up the other end of the chest. Let’s move it to the elevator.”

He dutifully did as she requested. They lugged the chest to the elevator. Then he walked back to fetch the box of candles. They descended to the first floor and offloaded the containers so the staff could use their contents. As they ascended in the elevator again, Featherwell began to tell Islington his story.

“Since you asked, I lost my parents when I was only three. My two siblings and I became wards of the state. As orphans, we were starved and beaten for no reason. The worst season at the orphanage was winter. We nearly froze to death. Christmas was our time of want and acrimony. We received no presents. There was no cheer. We stood outside in the cold in rags to beg for alms. When we returned empty-handed as we often did, we were beaten and sent to bed without supper. My sister lasted two years and died from consumption. My elder brother fell down the stairs and broke both his legs. He’s now a hopeless cripple and beggar in Highgate. I was the luckiest of the three. I graduated from the workhouse, and here you see me.” He extended his arms as if to say, “Behold!”

They heard a loud moan. Islington jumped and looked around.

He told her, “That will be the ghost of Abraham Cohen, the murdered man. He’s likely to appear anytime. Let’s hurry and get the last of the trimmings down to the other levels. She took stock of what they still had to transport. She carried the boxes to the elevator one by one. He followed behind her doing the same. When the elevator was full, the ghost appeared before them.

As Featherwell foretold, the ghost was like a large white specter or flame as tall as a man.

“You who disturb my rest, why do you come?”

Though she was shivering from fright at the apparition, Islington screwed up her courage and replied in a quavering voice, “We’ve come for the Christmas decorations. We do that every year.” The ghost might not have heard her.

In a deep voice, the spirit said, “I was killed in this very room on Christmas Eve. I came up the elevator and discovered creatures waiting for me as I stepped out. They had come to feast on my body, but they didn’t care I was still alive while they parsed and ate the gobbets. They took delight in decorating this room with my innards. Only when I saw their cruel parody of Christmas did I faint and expire. Now I’m bound here forever or until my murderers are discovered and punished.” The figure moaned frightfully as if in great pain.

“Can you describe the creatures that killed you?” Featherwell asked the ghost.

“They’re in stone form along the sides of this building on the outside facing the street. They climbed the exterior walls and came down the chimney over there.”

The ghost extended one arm towards the fireplace. It continued, “There was no resisting them.”

“As humans did not kill you, how do you think your murderers can be overcome and punished?” Islington asked this sensible question.

The ghost let out a cry of pitiable anguish that pierced her to the soul.

The ghost hesitated, and then said, “If on Christmas Eve, two came to this place and confronted the gargoyles, they might be overcome. They are the very embodiment of evil. As I was not a perfect man, I was easy prey for them. One of the two who come against them must be without blame. The other must know how to deal with weapons. With a diversion, the beasts will be defeated. Make no mistake, though, they must be killed no matter what forms they take when you attack them.”

Featherwell shook his head. “If we should do as you wish, would you then be free to leave this place?”

“Yes, I would. Then I could go to Sheol where I belong. Will you do this great favor for me?” The ghost said this with such longing, Islington could not resist.

“I’ll come, but who among us is blameless?” She wondered how to cut the Gordian knot of the ghost’s conditions.

The ghost answered her at once in his deep voice, “The two of you are the perfect couple to achieve what must be done. He is blameless though a complainer. You are ruthless in the face of evil and will destroy the monsters.”

Featherwell laughed. “I, blameless? I don’t think so. I’ve thought evil thoughts. I’ve alienated myself from others. I rarely do good deeds. I spoil others’ fun.”

The ghost seemed to nod. “Yet you have never intentionally done anyone wrong. You are without sin. You’ll do perfectly when the monsters come.”

Now Islington stepped forward to object, “I’m not a killer by nature or training.”

The ghost shook its head. “Yet you hate evil in your heart. You have it in you to destroy evil beings if you decide you must do it.”

Featherwell was about to ask the ghost practical questions, but the apparition disappeared. Just before it vanished entirely, it said, “Avenge me. Set me free.”

Their hair standing on end, Featherwell and Islington descended to distribute the remaining boxes to the second and third floors. They spent the rest of the evening orchestrating the work of the Druid’s staff, going up and down the floors to be sure that everything was in order for tomorrow’s opening. After their last inspection, which started on the ground floor and proceeded level by level until they reached the top floor, Islington brought out her bottle again. She took a drink and handed the bottle to Featherwell. He took a swig and passed it back to her. She followed him in doing the same before she corked the bottle and put it back under her dress.

Islington said, “We’ve completed our proximate task. The store is ready for our customers to come first thing tomorrow morning. Now we have to shift our focus to our next task—freeing the ghost of Abraham Cohen.”

At the mention of the slain man’s name, the ghost moaned horribly. Islington put out the candles, except for ones she and Featherwell were carrying. They took the elevator to the first floor and shut up the building for the night, careful to lock the chain on the exterior door. Afterward, they stood on the street looking up the side of the building. The gargoyles were hanging over them and peering down with menacing looks. Featherwell thought he saw gleams of hatred in their eyes.

He volunteered, “Miss Islington, permit me to escort you home.”

She curtsied, but demurred, “It’s not far, Mr. Featherwell. I can manage. I’ll be all right. Good night, then. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” With that, she strode off determinedly into the darkness. He shrugged and walked in the opposite direction toward his apartment.

That night, Featherwell had nightmares about the meeting the ghost. He envisioned the gargoyles coming to life and crawling up the sides of Druid’s to the roof then down the chimney. He saw them attack, eat, and kill a human. He awakened in a cold sweat at the thought of a human’s guts festooned against the walls of the top floor. He was confused because in his dream the guts were his own.

Islington also had nightmares about the meeting with the ghost. She saw the evil that the gargoyles represented. They came at her like the hideous, threatening spirits that came to St. Augustine in the desert. They surrounded her as if to torment and then devour her alive. She awoke abruptly in terror with her sheet in her hand as if it were a knife. She knew at that moment she could kill the evil figures with the right weapon.

After work the next day, Featherwell and Islington went to a small restaurant for tea and crumpets to compare notes. They shared what they had seen in their nightmares and agreed they could do what was required to free the ghost from his snare. She told him she needed the right weapon. He volunteered his own long knife for the purpose, as he had honed it to the sharpest edge. He told her he would bring the weapon to work the next day so she could hide it until Christmas Eve.

Featherwell had an inspiration. “Miss Islington, it’s high time the gargoyles were removed from Druid’s. We still have two weeks before Christmas Eve. Why don’t we ask Mr. Oldface to remove them as part of our Christmas theme?”

She highly approved of his suggestion. The two approached Mr. Oldface about the matter. He had a strong opinion.

“Druid’s could not possibly remove the gargoyles. They are our heritage. They set us apart from places like Harrods. Our customers look forward to coming where the gargoyles are. We’ve been through fifty Christmases with them. I look forward to our having another fifty ahead. So the answer is, categorically, No! I’ve been meaning to invite you to my annual Christmas party in my home. It will be three days before Christmas. I hope you’ll come. A Yule Log will burn. We’ll drink punch and tell stories. Fruitcake and plum pudding with whipped cream will be served.”

The two employees could not refuse to attend their boss’s party. Islington saw it as an opportunity to get close to Featherwell in a convivial setting. He saw it as an opportunity to drink and keep his job by doing what his employer wanted.

The night of the party was icy and snowy. Featherwell wore his great coat, hat, and scarf. He stumbled and fell four times walking to Mr. Oldface’s home, a free-standing structure off the park. Islington had already arrived. She came to greet him at the door, grabbing his arm and helping him take off his outer winter clothing. She handed him a glass of hot rum toddy and escorted him around the room to meet the others. Mrs. Oldface, an enormous woman with fierce eyes and small, grasping hands, handed each a plate with fruit cake and plum pudding slices, covered with whipped cream. They ate and drank by the fireplace where the Yule Log burned.

Over the fireplace was a large engraving of Druid’s Curse on the day of the building’s completion. Mr. Oldface, seeing the couple was staring at the artwork, walked over to tell them its story. He made a point of the gargoyles, which had been carved by his uncle, a master stone mason. The engraving had been done by his father, who also designed and built the structure.

“Do you understand why we cannot remove them?”

Miss Islington nodded and seized the chance to ask, “Where did the name Druid’s Curse come from?”

Oldface squinted for a moment. Then he shifted his footing and said, “On my mother’s side, I’m Welsh like Henry V. My ancestors were poets and priests. You may remember the name Owen Glendower from the history books. Well, the English never conquered the Welsh. The reason for that was the druid’s curse that all attempts at conquest would fail. When my father built the structure, he wanted it to have the same protection as the Welsh territory. Hence the name. So far, it’s worked like a charm. I hope you’ll excuse me now. I’ve got to make the rounds of my other guests.”

Mr. Oldface bobbed off with arms open wide to hug and kiss his guests by ones and twos. Servants came to refill everyone’s glass and collect their dessert plates. An old man bowed over a cane came to the fireplace with a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m the designer, builder, and engraver. I see you’ve been admiring my engraving. Ask me anything about the building. Anything at all.”

Featherwell asked, “Where did you find the gargoyle designs you integrated into the building?”

“Those are taken from models on churches in the Palatinate, done after the Battle of White Mountain as the Catholics’ way of fending off the Protestants whom they’d defeated. They’re magical and linked to the curse in the title of the building.” The old man looked at the gargoyles with a proprietary air. “Each gargoyle is unique. Somewhere, I’ve got the sketches I did for those. If you’d like to see them, I can arrange it.”

Islington asked, “Do you know about the death of Abraham Cohen on the top floor of your building and his ghost?”

The old man looked up at his inquisitor to gauge where she was going with her question. He nodded and said, “Old Abraham Cohen was my rival for ownership of the land on which the building sits. He was immensely wealthy and came from Prague originally, where his family is buried in the Jewish burial ground with headstones going every which way in the pale. Cohen was not a very nice person. He threatened my family and me on many occasions. He initiated lawsuits to seize my property. On the night he was murdered, he was plotting to do something—I don’t know what. Perhaps he planned to burn the building to the ground. So, on Christmas Eve he was torn apart horribly. The murderer or murderers were never found. I’ve always thought his death was vengeance for his evil ways.”

“Have you encountered his ghost?” She continued.

“I’ve heard about the old man’s ghost. I’ve not been on the top floor where it’s supposed to reside. I don’t want to speculate about it. I’ve got to run along now. Another glass of rum and they’ll have to wheel me home. Enjoy the rest of the party. And thank you for being part of the Druid’s Curse family.”

The old man hobbled along on his cane towards the drinks table and asked for another rum toddy. He laughed when he spoke with Mrs. Oldface, but she got a sour look. At her next opportunity, she came to the fireplace to talk with Miss Islington.

“My father in law told me you were interested in the gargoyles and the ghost of Abraham Cohen. I thought I’d let you know that the police investigated the unfortunate murder thoroughly but found no suspects. Further, the myth of the ghost is pure rubbish, the invention of fertile minds with too little work to do. If you intend to remain with Druid’s Curse, you’d best not worry yourself about folktales. Our business is selling merchandise, not ghost stories.” The woman’s hard eyes bore into Islington’s, so the latter looked away.

Featherwell asked, “Miss Islington, shall we have one last drink and depart? While I walk you home through the weather, we should discuss what we’ve learned tonight.”

She agreed to have a rhyton of rum. Then the two circulated to say their goodnights. They lingered for a moment with Mr. Oldface, the son, to thank him for his hospitality. Then, they wrapped themselves in their thick outer garments and braved the elements.

With snow and sleet falling, she held his arm for balance as they half walked and half skated through the cobblestone streets. They were feeling warm from the liquor, but their cheeks were red as cherries. She was delighted his spirits seemed to be better than she had ever seen. She was therefore surprised at what he had to say. It was not cheery in the least.

“The plot, Miss Islington, thickens. I fear our ghost may be playing tricks on us on the one side. The Oldface family is playing another form of tricks on the other. We have tonight discovered a clear motive for murder, but humans had the motive, not gargoyles.”

She mused on this observation. Then she shook her head. “Yet the gargoyles were the murderers in the ghost’s account and both our dreams.”

“I’ve been brooding on the look in Mr. Oldface’s father’s eyes. He clearly looked like a man who had bested his opponent. He showed no remorse for Cohen’s death. Further, the way his daughter in law scurried up to us when she learned about our interest, is eloquent of both sin and defensiveness to cover it up. She has no interest in reopening an old, cold case. In fact, she actually threatened you about pursuing your line of investigation further.”

Islington laughed. “Do I detect under your dour exterior, a mind of ratiocination like the American writer Edgar Allan Poe?”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Miss Islington.” As if to illustrate this, he slipped and fell on his posterior. He quickly recovered and took her arm again being careful to keep his balance as they traversed an icy patch.

“Mr. Featherwell, do go on with your reasoning. Where does our new knowledge lead us?”

“Miss Islington, I suspect the ghost is setting a trap not only for us but also for the Oldface family.”

She stopped for a moment to consider this possibility. “I understand what you’re saying, but I need to know what it means. In two nights, we’re likely to be on the top floor of Druid’s Curse. How does your theory impact our intentions?”

Featherwell took off his gloves and shook out his handkerchief. He blew a loud honk of his nose and wiped his face.

“I think we might be well advised to invite a Bobby to join us on the top floor at midnight on Christmas Eve. Do you think we can arrange that?”

“All we’ll need is five quid and my bottle of liquor.” Her eyes were wide, and her smile went from ear to ear. “Mr. Featherwell, you are a schemer. I catch your drift and agree we shouldn’t get caught in a snare not meant for us.”

Featherwell left Miss Islington at her door. When she unlocked her door, he tipped his hat and began his slow way home. The weather was worsening, but the sleet had turned to fluffy snow. When he fell repeatedly, the snow cushioned his falls.

That night, he had different dreams than he had before. He envisioned Mrs. Oldface butchering Cohen and cutting out his tripes. The glint in her eye showed him a murderess. He had no proof, but in his heart, he was convicted. He formed a plan using the policeman. Though he was not yet in the proper Christmas spirit, Featherwell was deflected from his “Bah, Humbug” mentality because he was chasing a mystery. The excitement of the chase trumped his desire to belittle the season. Mentally, he was back in the orphanage looking for a way to survive against the odds.

Druid’s Curse did a landmark Christmas business the next day. Merchandise flew off the shelves giving the store its best seasonal performance in memory. Featherwell and Islington worked so hard wrapping gifts and making change, that they were exhausted by the time they arrived at the restaurant for tea and conversation.

“I’ve formed a new idea. Our friend, the Bobbie, is critical in my plan. I want to fashion a hiding place for him on the top floor. He must be able to see and hear what happens. At just the right moment, he must come forth and do what he thinks necessary. My plan also involves you telling Mr. Oldface that you and I will meet on the top floor at precisely midnight on Christmas Eve. Tell him we are superstitious. Tell him anything. But be sure he knows we’ll be there then.”

“Your eyes are glittering with excitement, Mr. Featherwell.” She was intrigued. “I’ll do as you ask. Am I still to play my role with the knife?”

“Hide the knife where you hide your bottle. You’ll have to judge whether you need to reveal the one or the other.” He arched his brow and shrugged.

“I take it you don’t know what’s really going to happen.”

“That’s right. We’ll be feeling our way through the night’s action. If we must fight gargoyles, so be it. I think, however, we’ll be combating humans.”

Islington did as she was told. At first, Mr. Oldface objected to the idea. Then, he abruptly changed his mind. His only caveat was for the couple to lock up after they had accomplished their aim. From the way he leered when he said this, she thought he must have decided a tryst was being planned under the guise of a ghost hunt.

Since there was nothing left except to design the Bobby’s hide, Featherwell went to work early enough on Christmas Eve to be the first on the elevator to the top floor. He created the hide for the Bobbie out of available parts. It would, he thought, be a little cramped, but it would serve the purpose. When he took the elevator to the first floor, he buried himself in the last-minute rush, keeping an eye on Mr. Oldface when he could.

At the close of business, much remained for the staff to accomplish. It was eight o’clock before Mr. Oldface told everyone to go home and have a great Christmas Eve and Christmas Day as well. Featherwell and Islington disappeared upstairs while the floors cleared and the staff departed. Mr. Oldface disappeared as well. Finally, they thought they were alone in the building; they awaited the arrival of their Bobbie.

Officer Hound arrived at precisely ten o’clock, ready for action. A young bachelor who needed the five quid for a last-minute gift for his girlfriend, Sarah, Hound was delighted to be given a bottle of rum and ensconced in the hide on the top floor. Featherwell heard the man chuckle as he tippled behind the arras that had been created for him. Featherwell and Islington with a bottle of their own sat on a couple of old steamer trunks to wait for the witching hour.

At a quarter to twelve o’clock, a loud moaning filled the space. The apparition appeared. It came toward the place where the couple was seated and stood five paces away.

In a deep voice, the ghost asked, “Have you come to right the wrong done against me when I lived?”

Featherwell stood and asked the ghost, “Is it true you threatened the Oldface family and tried to take their property away?”

The ghost stood silent while it considered what had been said. “The property was mine. The Oldface family stole it from me.”

From the trunk on which Featherwell had been sitting, sprang Mr. Oldface, red in the face and pointing his finger at the ghost.

“You lie, Abraham Cohen. In life, you plagued my family and me. You continue to do the same in death. Be gone!”

The ghost pulsated without speaking. From both sides of the apparition appeared gargoyles with fangs bared. They moved toward Mr. Oldface and Miss Islington.

The elevator door slid open and out stepped Mrs. Oldface, her face contorted into a vicious mask. She held a drawn knife and moved rapidly in front of her husband and toward the gargoyles. She slashed her knife to the left and right. Seeing this, Miss Islington imitated her actions. Neither woman struck at the ghost. They sliced at the gargoyles only. The gargoyles fell on the floor and vanished.

Now hearing the scuffling, the Bobbie emerged from behind his arras, his club in one hand and his bottle of rum in the other. He saw the women slashing the air with knives. He saw the apparition turning from white to black. When he blinked, the ghost was gone.

“What ho. What’s going on here?” He asked.

Mr. Oldface answered, “Officer, you see before you an ancient ritual of Christmas Eve. The evil spirits of the time are dispelled with the slashing of knives. Ghosts and goblins disappear. This happens so Christmas Day will be happy and peaceful. Welcome to our ceremony.”

The women stopped their slashing, exhausted. They sheathed their knives. Featherwell slipped the Bobbie his five quid and winked. He extended his arm to Miss Islington and proceeded to the elevator with her. The Bobbie, knowing where his patronage lay, went with them. They took the elevator to the first floor, let Officer Hound out of the building, and waited for the Oldface couple to descend.

They watched the elevator dial go to the top floor, hesitate, and then descend to the first floor again. The Oldfaces exited arm in arm. Mr. Oldface told the women to get their coats and scarves on then wait outside while he conferred with Mr. Featherwell.

“Mr. Featherwell, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Thank you. Your initiative has allowed us to rid ourselves of the ghost of Abraham Cohen. Of course, it never happened.” He said this with a knowing wink.

“No, Sir. It never happened. Officer Hound only knew he got a bottle of rum and five quid for watching a knife slashing ritual. The women know what happened, but they’d never be believed. As for me, I only did my duty.”

“I have another apology for you. My wife and I suspected you and Miss Islington were going to have a romantic assignation on the top floor. That would never have done. Even the imputation would be a blemish on Druid’s Curse. You clearly had no such intention.” He extended his hand. “There will be an extra bonus for you and Miss Islington, payable here on the New Year’s Day.”

Featherwell shook his hand. He then said, “Sir, I have two remaining questions. If you would be so kind to answer them, my Christmas would be complete.”

“Ask away.”

“The gargoyles seem to have been harmed in the fray. Will their power to protect Druid’s be impacted by tonight’s actions?”

“We’ll have to see. I just don’t know. It’s worth their loss to have the ghost gone.”

“My second question is this. Did you know that your wife was in the elevator with a knife?”

“If I answer, will you swear never to tell the truth to anyone?” Mr. Oldface’s visage became deadly serious.

“Of course.”

“Mrs. Oldface suspected that the romantic assignation on the top floor might involve Miss Islington and myself. She is insanely jealous. Her knife was meant for your partner. When she saw the real state of affairs, she turned the knife where it would do the most good. I chalk that up to Providence. Do you have any other questions tonight? If not, let’s pull on our outer clothing and get home. It’s past midnight now, and Christmas Day is here.”

After well-wishing and hugging all around, the Oldfaces walked home in one direction while Featherwell and Islington went in the other direction toward her place. The snow had stopped falling, and a ghostly silence had descended on the mighty, sleeping city.

“You are a genius, Mr. Featherwell,” Miss Islington complimented him.

“You fight like a termagant, Miss Islington,” he said in kind.

They laughed. It was their first laugh together. He recovered his gravitas almost immediately, looking around to see whether anyone besides her had witnessed his sign of happiness. He smiled. She patted him on the arm.

“I’ll never tell,” she told him, snuggling close, her breath white in the black winter air.

“Then I’ll compound my mortification by wishing you a very Merry Christmas.” He looked straight ahead as he said this, but his face was smiling broadly.

“This just keeps getting better and better.” She looked up to see him in the darkness, a smile on her face as well.

They made their way to her doorway. She unlocked the door. He kissed her gently on the cheek and said goodnight. Then she was safely inside, and he was quietly whistling “Silent Night.”