The Ghost in the Night by Frank Howell Evans

Author:Frank Howell Evans
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2015-03-07T23:00:00+00:00

Darkness was fast approaching the next evening before we were installed in the grim structure, which at first sight looked more like a fortress than a residence. I found Mrs. Routledge to be an unhappy companion, and of very little assistance that evening. She seemed overcome by her memories. She visited the library where her former work was done, and also probably the location of her brief love affair. She returned with red eyes and trembling chin. She told Poiret that the book from which she was translating six weeks before had been left open on the library table, still exactly as she had placed it there before she had been forced to abandon her husband and the abbey. It seemed that no one had entered the library for all those weeks. I could not but feel sorry for the poor lady, as she revisited, looking almost herself like a ghost, the haunted scene of her short happiness. Though she proved a woebegone cook, Poiret was a treasure. Having lived most of his life in cities, first Paris, then London, and having rarely experienced more than a short glimpse of the country, he couldn’t do too long without the comforts big cities afforded him, the long journey and now this rambling old abbey in the midst of the forest would normally have sent him into a turmoil, but, maybe because of his sympathy for our companion, not one complaint passed his lips. He lit a fire in the stove, and bustling about the place, singing to himself in a high key, he cooked for us a very luxurious supper from the hamper his manservant Franz had sent in advance.

Shortly after supper Mrs. Routledge, exhausted as much by her emotions and memories as by the long journey of that day, retired to one of the bedrooms. After being left to ourselves Poiret and I smoked some cigarettes, and opened a bottle of superb wine. Poiret had found the wine cellar, and found its portal unlocked. The sight of shelf after shelf of dust-laden, cobwebbed bottles did more than anything else to rouse his spirits.

At midnight Poiret stood up and stretched himself.

“It is the time, mon ami,” he said.

Thus we began our investigation. We had taken the precaution to bring two electric torches and my service revolver before we left London. The great castle was almost painfully silent. Poiret took one of the torches, and we went to the foot of the grand staircase, where the wicked butler had met his death. There, as Mr. Cheverell had said, lay the silver tray, and nearby a silver kettle, a pair of spoons, a knife and fork, and scattered all around the fragments of broken plates, cups, and saucers. With an exclamation of surprise at the stupidity of the policemen, who had preceded him, Poiret suddenly ran up the stairs.

“Vite, Haven,” he whispered.

Running two steps at a time, I ran up the stairs, but then stopped as I didn’t know whether to go left

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