Clara was standing outside a pub called the Boar’s Head. It was the address on her list that was nearest to Aysgarth House. In the second column was the name Paddy O’Twain. If it really was a list of haunted houses then Mr O’Twain was the name of its resident ghost. Clara had never been inside a pub and had to summon up the courage to enter.
For some reason her thoughts drifted back to school, when she used to play a game with the other girls called What If, in which they would try to answer questions they dreamt up. Most of her friends came up with questions like What if a prince wanted to marry you? or What if you could buy any dress in the world? But it was always Clara’s questions that had them all in fits of giggles. What if you were kidnapped by pirates? What if your parents were eaten by baboons? What if you could travel to the moon? She thought about that game now as she wondered, What if you found a list of haunted houses?
The answer, she felt, was that you would go and investigate them.
Clara pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The pub smelt of tobacco, beer and sweat, but the atmosphere was convivial and not as intimidating as she had expected. Businessmen and tradesmen chatted and laughed amongst themselves. The large Irish landlady behind the bar with her red hair tied up over her head asked, ‘What can I get you, lovey?’ whilst pulling a pint with one hand and pouring a spirit with the others.
‘I’m not here for a drink,’ replied Clara.
‘You say you want a gin?’ replied the lady, who was only half listening.
‘No, I don’t want a drink,’ repeated Clara.
The landlady handed a customer the pint, winked at him and said, more for his benefit than Clara’s, ‘That’s a shame, because it’s only drinks we sell here.’
The customer laughed.
‘I’m looking for a Paddy O’Twain,’ said Clara.
‘I’m afraid we’re all out of those too,’ replied the woman, earning another laugh.
‘I think he used to work here,’ said Clara.
‘Now, there’s a debatable point if I ever heard one. Paddy was my husband. I’m Mrs O’Twain. And, well, let’s just say that work was never a strong point of Paddy’s.’ With all the customers served, the woman turned her full attention to Clara. ‘Now, why would a pretty young thing come here asking after my dead husband? You’re no debt-collector. So what is it? And please don’t tell me you’re a long-lost daughter come in search of her father, because I’d suspect you of reading too many novels. Besides, I’m afraid all you’d be set to inherit would be a house full of drunkards and a bundle of debts.’
‘I’m not,’ said Clara. ‘May I ask how long ago he died?’
Mrs O’Twain grabbed a cloth and wiped down the bar. ‘It’s getting on for six years now, but debt collectors still come crawling out of the woodwork occasionally. I mean, I knew he was a useless old so and so, but it was only after he died that I discovered he owed money to half of London.’
‘I’m not here about his debts,’ said Clara. ‘I wonder whether you ever have a feeling that your husband is still with you,’ she said. She had rehearsed the sentence beforehand.
‘Thank the good lord, no,’ replied Mrs O’Twain.
‘Not his ghost?’
‘Ghost?’ she exclaimed with a sudden hoot of laughter. ‘The only spirits you’ll find in this place are lined up against this wall.’
A few of the customers at the bar were listening by now. They laughed heartily at this joke.
‘Where did he die?’ asked Clara, her confidence boosted by Mrs O’Twain’s levity.
‘That very chair over by the window,’ said the landlady. ‘I was back in the old country visiting my poor ma, God rest her soul. Paddy was supposed to be minding the place but was instead doing his best to drink our profits. When I returned I found him dead to the world, lying back, mouth open. But no snoring. That was strange. That’s when I realised how dead to the world he was. Poor old thing. Still, at least he went doing what he enjoyed. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’
Next on the list was an address in Eastcheap. Enquiries with the shopkeeper below revealed that the room above had indeed been leased to a man with the same name as that upon Clara’s list. The shopkeeper described him as a pale-skinned poet, whose death from consumption had come as no surprise, and seemed fitting for the type of man he was. However, he was not aware of any ghostly presence either.
Clara continued her ghoulish trail across London, finding none who would corroborate the existence of a ghost, until she reached Drury Lane Theatre. There, when she explained the reason for her visit, the doorman instantly said, ‘Oh, you mean the Man in Grey.’
‘Does he know about the ghost?’ she asked.
The doorman laughed. ‘He is the ghost.’
‘He’s David Kerby?’
‘I’ve never heard mention of his actual name,’ said the doorman. ‘I suppose the Man in Grey has a more dramatic sound to it, and since it’s mostly the actors who see him, they prefer it.’
‘Have you ever seen him?’
‘Never myself, but then I’m always stuck out here.’
‘Can I speak to one who has?’
‘I daresay you can,’ replied the doorman. ‘Let’s ask this one. Eddie, ever seen the ghost?’
Walking up the steps was a young, good-looking man wearing a flamboyantly patterned coat. ‘Seen him? I think you’ll find I’m playing him. Amongst a number of other roles, of course.’
The doorman chuckled. ‘That’s actors for you,’ he said, with a wink at Clara. ‘Always think you’re talking about them. I’m talking about the Man in Grey.’
‘Oh, him,’ replied the actor. ‘Yes, the spirit who paces the theatre. I have caught a glimpse of that spectre a couple of times.’
‘What do you know about him?’ said Clara.
‘Not much. I don’t think he’s an unpleasant sort of spirit. Some of the older actors say that he learns the lines of each play and that he will whisper them to you if you forget them. I’ve never forgotten my lines, so I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘You don’t get enough to warrant forgetting,’ said the doorman.
The actor smiled, taking the joke in good spirit. ‘It won’t be long before I stride that stage, not as the wailing ghost of Hamlet’s father but as the great Dane himself.’
‘As a dog?’ said the doorman with a loud guffaw.
The actor turned to Clara and said, ‘Some theatres save their clowns and jesters for the pantomimes. As you can see, at Drury Lane we keep ours on the door.’
Back at home, sitting on her bed, Clara thought about Lady Aysgarth. She wished she had tried to speak to her before that awful day. It was too late now. Her ghost had gone.
Staring at her curtains, Clara had a strange feeling, as though there was a presence in the house. It was almost as if something was watching her. If not Lady Aysgarth’s ghost, then what? Something with a darker demeanour than Her Ladyship. There was a coldness to the house since her departure. Clara felt a shiver run down her back.
‘Who’s there?’ she said. ‘Who’s there?’
The door handle turned and the door swung open.
‘Clara? Are you all right?’
Her father stepped into the room. Clara ran to his arms and hugged him, breathing hard.
‘I’m fine, Father,’ she said, gathering herself before pulling away.