his intercession rather saved us from much further unpleasantness.’
I began to feel rather cheerfully reassured, and could not help a certain admiration for the way in which a strongly felt emotion had survived corporeal death in order to work its influence even centuries later.
And I was present later when Ralph Tyler endeavoured to explain to our ‘client’ the exact nature of the problem. After recounting most of the foregoing to Mrs Arrowden, and her sleek, cynical, business manager, Ralph placed before them the relevant books and documents from the library, and added:
‘I have done as you asked. I have established the cause of the “difficulties” connected with the old lodge, or menagerie as it ought properly to be called. I earnestly recommend that no person who has been recently involved in the killing of animals, whether for so-called sport or any other purpose, should be allowed to stay in the building. I would add that I cannot guarantee that anywhere within the grounds is truly safe. For it is quite likely that disturbed impulses such as this may wax and wane in strength at erratic intervals. There is no telling when it might extend its influence and workings.’
‘Are you saying,’ burst out the estate adviser, ‘That we must abandon a project which has occupied a considerable amount of time, energy and resources, merely because of your ludicrous and unsubstantiated theory about an unfortunate but no doubt entirely natural epidemic of pests?’
Ralph gazed at him coolly.
‘Do you hunt or shoot yourself?’ he enquired, pleasantly.
‘On occasions,’ was the impatient reply.
‘Well, then, sir,’ continued Ralph, with ironic respectfulness, ‘You are welcome to test my account yourself by occupying the menagerie for a few days—and nights.’
There was a pause.
‘That won’t be necessary.’
Ralph’s account had clearly been sufficiently vivid after all.
‘But,’ put in Mrs Arrowden, ‘could I not call an exorcist or a similar expert? Perhaps the rector . . .’
My friend looked askance.
‘I very much doubt that the coagulation of primitive forces which possesses the Folly will respond to any Christian conjurations, no matter how profound. And there is the added danger that all those sombre trappings might well banish Toby Mangrave, leaving the rest to rage unchecked. It would not be wise.’
We were grudgingly given the promised fee and expenses, and our departure was rather less cordial than had been our arrival. The money was divided between our own use in subsequent researches, and in donations to relevant animal rights groups.
For some time after, we watched eagerly for any further news about the extraordinary double hauntings at Langborough Hall, and one or two incidents seemed to hint at some connection: but more notable was that the plan to turn the Hall into ‘a major country sports venue’ never did seem to materialise, and that the more conventional ‘guided tour around a stately home’ format would appear to have been adopted instead.
Madberry Hill
The gradual process of breakfast which I like to adopt at weekends, to compensate for the clamour of working days, was disturbed on a Saturday in early Autumn by a terse telephone call from Ralph Tyler.
‘I have a guest,’ he remarked, ‘with an experience he wishes to relate. How soon can you join us?’
Setting aside my pleasurable lethargy, I promised to go to them straightaway. When I arrived, a lean, slightly stooping gentleman, with trim greying hair, was pacing the faded carpet of my friend’s flat with evident unrest. No sooner had the formalities of introduction—from which I learned that the visitor’s name was Frederick Bentley—been concluded, than he commenced a long monologue, the substance of which he had obviously devised mentally beforehand.
‘I come to you, Mr Tyler, because your activities have been talked about, and I believe I can rely upon you to advise me with discretion upon a most
I began to feel rather cheerfully reassured, and could not help a certain admiration for the way in which a strongly felt emotion had survived corporeal death in order to work its influence even centuries later.
And I was present later when Ralph Tyler endeavoured to explain to our ‘client’ the exact nature of the problem. After recounting most of the foregoing to Mrs Arrowden, and her sleek, cynical, business manager, Ralph placed before them the relevant books and documents from the library, and added:
‘I have done as you asked. I have established the cause of the “difficulties” connected with the old lodge, or menagerie as it ought properly to be called. I earnestly recommend that no person who has been recently involved in the killing of animals, whether for so-called sport or any other purpose, should be allowed to stay in the building. I would add that I cannot guarantee that anywhere within the grounds is truly safe. For it is quite likely that disturbed impulses such as this may wax and wane in strength at erratic intervals. There is no telling when it might extend its influence and workings.’
‘Are you saying,’ burst out the estate adviser, ‘That we must abandon a project which has occupied a considerable amount of time, energy and resources, merely because of your ludicrous and unsubstantiated theory about an unfortunate but no doubt entirely natural epidemic of pests?’
Ralph gazed at him coolly.
‘Do you hunt or shoot yourself?’ he enquired, pleasantly.
‘On occasions,’ was the impatient reply.
‘Well, then, sir,’ continued Ralph, with ironic respectfulness, ‘You are welcome to test my account yourself by occupying the menagerie for a few days—and nights.’
There was a pause.
‘That won’t be necessary.’
Ralph’s account had clearly been sufficiently vivid after all.
‘But,’ put in Mrs Arrowden, ‘could I not call an exorcist or a similar expert? Perhaps the rector . . .’
My friend looked askance.
‘I very much doubt that the coagulation of primitive forces which possesses the Folly will respond to any Christian conjurations, no matter how profound. And there is the added danger that all those sombre trappings might well banish Toby Mangrave, leaving the rest to rage unchecked. It would not be wise.’
We were grudgingly given the promised fee and expenses, and our departure was rather less cordial than had been our arrival. The money was divided between our own use in subsequent researches, and in donations to relevant animal rights groups.
For some time after, we watched eagerly for any further news about the extraordinary double hauntings at Langborough Hall, and one or two incidents seemed to hint at some connection: but more notable was that the plan to turn the Hall into ‘a major country sports venue’ never did seem to materialise, and that the more conventional ‘guided tour around a stately home’ format would appear to have been adopted instead.
Madberry Hill
The gradual process of breakfast which I like to adopt at weekends, to compensate for the clamour of working days, was disturbed on a Saturday in early Autumn by a terse telephone call from Ralph Tyler.
‘I have a guest,’ he remarked, ‘with an experience he wishes to relate. How soon can you join us?’
Setting aside my pleasurable lethargy, I promised to go to them straightaway. When I arrived, a lean, slightly stooping gentleman, with trim greying hair, was pacing the faded carpet of my friend’s flat with evident unrest. No sooner had the formalities of introduction—from which I learned that the visitor’s name was Frederick Bentley—been concluded, than he commenced a long monologue, the substance of which he had obviously devised mentally beforehand.
‘I come to you, Mr Tyler, because your activities have been talked about, and I believe I can rely upon you to advise me with discretion upon a most
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