I STARED at Oliver in amazement. Either he was the world’s greatest actor, or he was actually agreeing to help my Great-Aunt with her ‘ghosts’ without a trace of irony. I shook my head, feeling mortified. I just wanted to dismiss this whole bizarre thing as Aunty B’s latest obsession, especially as I had no wish to get caught up in some mad Scooby-Doo-style ghost hunt. I recalled some of Aunty B’s more recent fixations – before the Tarot cards there’d been crystal-ball gazing, astrology, runes, reincarnation, and six months in a Tibetan Buddhist monastery. Surely this was just more of the same?
But, between the Bishop’s apparent belief in the phenomenon and Oliver’s ready acceptance of it, a doubt rose in my mind and my conscience pricked me. Suddenly ashamed of my disloyalty, I turned to Aunty B to apologise and to promise my help with her ghost problem, only Mordaunt Froyle beat me to it.
‘Ghosts, you say? Need controlling, that’s what. Bloody pests, never give you a moment’s peace. Caught one in my room only yesterday. “Who gave you the right?” I said. “Coming in here and disturbing things when you should be resting peaceful-like in your grave.” I told her.’
Melford cackled. ‘Bring ’em on, that’s what I say. Be one meself soon enough.’
Even as he said it, Aunty B’s eyes grew wide and she stared past Melford with a fixed, unblinking gaze. She gestured urgently to the Bishop, who instantly rose from his desk, but before he’d gone two yards, Melford had already turned around.
‘Ghosts!’ boomed Mordaunt. ‘I’ll give you ghosts. Think they can come here and threaten me? I’ll show them who’s boss!’ He swished his walking stick, narrowly missing the Bishop’s head.
‘You tell ’em, Mordaunt,’ shouted Melford, grinning like a loon. He grabbed the bottle of sherry from the sideboard and, raising it like a club, shook it at some invisible foe. ‘Get ye gone,’ he bawled. ‘You’ll not frighten me, you spiritless spectres! You gangrenous ghouls! You—you—’ For a moment he appeared lost for words and then, in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, he roared, ‘You pack of pitiful, pathetic, paltry poltergeists! I—’ He broke off as the bottle was wrenched from his hand, hovered briefly in mid-air, then shot across the room and smashed against the wall.
We all froze. Then, as though compelled by some invisible force, we all turned and watched in awe as an enormous sword, once wielded by a famous Crusader, lifted from its support above the mantelpiece, floated across the room and came to a stop in front of Melford, its huge silver point only inches from his chest.
Melford raised a gnarled hand and shook a long trembling forefinger at the sword. ‘Now then… let’s not be hasty. Me and Mordaunt was just having a bit of fun. No need to take offence.’
The sword gave an odd little shake and rose into the air above Melford’s head. Everyone watched in fascinated horror as it suddenly whipped around behind him and smacked him firmly on the backside.
Melford yelped, but Mordaunt gave a crack of laughter. ‘Not been spanked since you was a lad, Melford!’ He slashed his stick through the air again. ‘You’d better not try that with me, you gormless ghosties.’ He glanced all around and, apparently seeing nothing, lowered his cane and slumped into the nearest chair in relief. A second later his chair gave a violent jerk and rose into the air.
‘Leave me be, ye cursed wights!’ shouted Mordaunt. But the chair only rose higher with the old man clinging on like a limpet and yelling fit to burst.
For about two seconds nobody moved, and then the room erupted into chaos.