Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn

nefarious!” I protested.
    “I don’t know what to think yet,” he temporised. “But for whatever reason these people have put their minds to creating an elaborate pretense of a haunted village for our benefit.”
    “Do you think they mean to drive us away? Perhaps they resent Londoners coming in, strangers who might upset the apple cart.”
    “No, I think it likelier they mean to keep us intrigued.” He smiled again. “Your reputation undoubtedly precedes you.”
    I bristled. “I am not
that
curious!”
    “You are curious as any cat, my love, and if you don’t mind, I think I’ll nap a bit before luncheon.”
    “Whatever for? Are you ailing?” I asked, a trifle anxiously. Brisbane had a robust sort of energy one usually associated with peasants or well-bred farm animals.
    “No, but I know my wife. And she will not let me sleep tonight when there are ghosts afoot on All Hallow’s Eve,” he said, dropping a kiss to my nose. And of course he was right.
    * * *
    I myself took a long nap after luncheon. I had not planned it, but between the excellence—and generous portions—of the meal, and a library stocked with my favourite titles and an exceedingly comfortable sofa, I whiled away the afternoon in slumber, rousing only for teatime. Mrs. Smith kept the household running so smoothly I had no need to lift the smallest of fingers. It left me free to write letters and read and play with Little Jack, and by the time we had dined and prepared ourselves for the evening’s entertainments, I was rested and relaxed as I had seldom been.
    “I could accustom myself quite easily to this life,” I mused as I descended the stairs, candle in hand. We had arranged to meet up after changing into our darkest clothes. We gathered in the hall, dousing our candles and putting out the fire so that only the light of a three days’ full moon provided us with any illumination. We sat in the darkness, straining our ears, and for the longest time all we heard was Plum’s occasional yawns. But at last, just as the clock on the stairs chimed midnight, it began.
    First there came the clattering of chains and the moaning we had heard the previous night. We rose to follow the sound, but just as we reached the stairs, Portia grabbed at my sleeve.
    “Look there!”
    “Where? I can’t see where you’re pointing,” I reminded her.
    She pushed me towards the window. “In the wood!”
    We peered through the rippled old glass into the darkened wood. “Ghost lights!” I cried, and with the others hard upon my heels, I raced to the door, stumbling over furniture in the dark.
    I wrenched open the door and we hurried across the garden, plunging into the Haunted Wood. The lights danced and bobbed, luring us on, but as soon as we entered the little copse, they vanished.
    “Where did they go?” I demanded.
    “I suspect they didn’t want to compete with that,” Brisbane said dryly. He pointed to the village road. Barrelling down at breakneck speed was a coach, all in black, the lanterns blazing with green light. It looked like something straight from hell, and as it tore past us, I noticed with a shudder that the coachman, sitting atop in perfect silence, had no face.
    “Good God!” Plum exclaimed.
    “It was a hood,” I said, suddenly understanding how it was done. “A black hood to mask his features and hide his face.”
    “It was effective,” Portia said, her voice faint.
    “And green glass in the lanterns,” Brisbane put in. “Nothing supernatural at all.”
    “And the ghost lights in the copse?” she asked.
    “Villagers with small lanterns. They would have blown them out as soon as we drew near. They know this wood. It is an easy thing for them to slip out with only the moon to guide them.”
    “Diabolical,” Portia said, but this time there was a note of admiration in her voice. She clapped her hands. “What’s next?”
    Brisbane considered. “I should think a large black dog—” he began, but before he could