At ten o'clock that evening I awakened Charles from his brief slumbers. Bundled up in warm clothing, we carried shielded lanterns as we went through one of the secret passages to the North Tower. The tower was built into the rise on which The Abbey stood. Perhaps at one time, it had indeed towered over the castle that had been here, but very little of the castle remained. Now the only apparent entrance to the tower was near the top of what remained of it— the tower was more akin to a well than a tower: more of it was reached by descending a staircase than by climbing. It was dank, musty smelling, and of no practical use.
I knew of no Rolingbroke who would dream of tearing it down.
After the treasure story had been spread about, Fibbens, several footmen, and other servants had taken turns keeping an eye on the Banes. None of them had yet been seen at the only tower entrance— the only entrance they would know of.
In addition to that entrance, there were two means of reaching the tower by secret passage. The one we were in ended on a sturdy, wide, stone platform, about halfway up (or down, as it seemed) the tower. Above us a relatively new wooden staircase led to the usual tower entrance, off one of The Abbey hallways. Below us, at the foot of a crumbling stone staircase, was the other secret passage. As boys, Lucien and I had explored it, half-hoping, half-dreading we'd encounter the Headless Abbot. We found damp stones and little else.
Charles and I waited in relative comfort, hidden from view, our lantern shielded. We soon knew who the first of our arrivals would most likely be— Lucien came to report that within a few minutes of one another Henry and Fanny had each softly knocked at the door to my room and peered inside. They had then hurried back to their own rooms.
But it was William who opened the door at the top of the stairs, carrying a candle. He was halfway down the stairs when the door opened a second time. He turned to see Fanny. "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked her.
"I might ask the same of you."
"I'm looking for Henry. Do you know where he is?"
"I haven't the vaguest. Where are Edward and the brat?"
In the darkness of our hiding place I laid a finger to Charles's lips. He nodded his understanding.
"How should I know?"
"I should have known it was all a Banbury tale," she said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't try to gammon me, dear brother. You're here looking for the treasure, too!"
"I'm not worried about any treasure—"
"Not worried about any treasure! That's a loud one! You who've been punting on River Tick for I don't know how long!"
"If Mama could hear you using such terms—"
"Mama is sound asleep. Go on, deny that you're one step ahead of the bailiff."
"All right, I deny it. I'm not in debt. I've come about— thanks to Cousin Lucien."
"What!"
"I never told you or Henry, but it's true. He helped me, Fanny."
"Why you?"
"Because he cared about the family, bacon-brain! Wasn't just the money— he talked to me. Made me think, I tell you. So anyone planning further mischief around here will have to come through me. I was too late for Lucien, and last night I was sure I was too late to help Charles. But now I've caught you, and I tell you I won't allow it!"
"Help Charles? Mischief? What on earth are you talking about?"
"My horse is in the stall next to Fine Lad. I think you know what that means."
"That he's eating his head off at his lordship's expense."
"Fanny!"
She eyed him malevolently.
"Enough of your nonsense, William. Let me by. Edward and the brat will be here any minute— probably working their way through the secret passage now."
"Secret passage!" William said. "What secret passage?"
"The place is full of them. Don't you remember my telling you so when we were down here that last Christmas?"
William frowned. "No."
"Well, maybe I told Henry, then. Which is of no importance in any case! Move off this staircase before I have to shove you off!"
"Touch me, and I'll tell Mama that nothing pleases her spinster daughter so much as to dress up like a man and ride astride!"
"Oh! You won't be alive to tell her! They'll burying you next to Lucien!"
"Now!"
I heard Lucien say, and I pulled the shield off the lantern.
The sudden light caught the attention of the two Banes. But it was Lucien who caused William to give out a bloodcurdling scream.
Charles clung to me, apparently more frightened by the scream than anything that had gone before.
"Lord Almighty!" Fanny said. "You frightened the life right out of me. What's gotten into you! You'll bring the whole house down on us!"
William, the color gone from his face, pointed a shaking hand toward Lucien.
"What?" Fanny said. "Speak up, now!"
"The Headless Abbot."
"Headless Abbot! I don't see any Headless Abbot! It's just a light coming from one of those passages I told you about."
"Don't you see him?" William cried. "In riding clothes!"
"Are you back to giving me trouble over that? What's it to you if I find men's clothes more sensible for riding?"
Lucien tried moving closer to her. But while William swayed on his feet, Fanny was oblivious to him.
"William?" she said. "Are you feeling quite the thing?"
In frustration Lucien materialized completely.
"Lucien!" William said and fainted. Unfortunately, he was still on the stairs when this happened. Lucien tried to make a grab for him, but William fell right through him, tumbling down to the ledge.
Now Fanny screamed, but obviously she still could not see my brother.
"Fibbens, please take his lordship to safety," I said over Charles's protests. "Ask Bogsley to bring some men with a litter to me." And picking up a lantern, I limped out as quickly as I could to the landing, where William lay in a heap.
"Edward!" Fanny called, hurrying down the stairs and straight through Lucien without so much as a blink, "Oh, help him, Edward!"
She stood nervously watching me. William made a groaning sound and opened his eyes. "Edward?" he said dazedly. "Was it you all along?"
He then caught sight of Lucien standing behind me, though, and fainted once again.
I did my best to make him more comfortable. "Help will be here soon, Fanny," I said.
"He's broken his arm," Lucien said, "but I don't think he has any more serious injuries. Why do you suppose he could see me but she can't?"
"I don't understand it," I said.
Fanny, thinking I spoke to her, said, "Well! I understand it! It's all because of Lucien's stupid story about the monk. He thought he saw the ghost. Just your lantern light, I daresay."
We heard a sound then, a faint cracking noise from below.
Fanny's face grew pale. "The abbot!" she said weakly.
"Henry," I called, "are you down there in the dark eating walnuts?"
A long laugh echoed up the tower.
"Henry!" Fanny exclaimed.
"Get help," I said to Lucien.
"I'll stay here, thank you," Fanny replied. "Besides, you said help is already on the way."
"Oh, it is, dear Fanny, it is!" Henry said, lighting a lantern. He started up the stone stairs. "Where's Charles?"
Lucien made a wild banshee sound and swooped toward Henry. Nothing.
"Never mind the brat," Fanny said impatiently. "Here's your brother broken to bits!"
"I wouldn't trouble yourself too much over William, Fanny," Henry said. "He discovered my little plan, so I think it's best if the next accident concerning an earl has something to do with trying to save my brother. Edward and Charles make a valiant, combined effort. Alas, it will be unsuccessful."
"Will no one talk sense to me?" Fanny asked.
"Your brother Henry wants to be an earl," I said. "So he murdered Lucien— right, Lucien?"
"Right."
But Henry laughed and said, "Don't tell me you think you can try that ghost business on me at this age, Edward! Now where's that treasure? I warn you, I'm armed."
"You'll never own The Abbey's treasure," I said. "The Abbey's treasure then, as it is now, was in the good men who have lived here— Lucien and his father and Charles."
"Henry," Fanny said, "tell me you didn't harm Lucien!"
"Lucien? Oh, not just Lucien. Don't forget his father and his ninnyhammer of a stepmother— you didn't think that carriage overturned by chance?" I heard the sound of rock falling, and Henry said, "When I am earl, I shall have these steps repaired."
"You'll never be earl!" Lucien vowed.
I heard a commotion in the passageway. Fibbens' voice was calling desperately, "Your lordship, no!"
Suddenly a white, headless figure with a bloodstained cassock came barreling onto the landing. Fanny, who did not see me grab hold of the small boy who carried it, let out the fourth scream to assault my ears in nearly as many minutes.
Lucien grabbed the pillow ghost, and went flying off the landing. Literally. Previously unable to support it, this time— perhaps somehow strengthened by his need to protect Charles— he was able to make the Headless Abbot billow impressively and to aim it directly at Henry Bane. Henry fired his pistol at it, but the stuffed costume came at him inexorably and knocked him from the stone stairs. His fall was harder than William's, and fatal.
I called to Lucien, but he had disappeared.
Two weeks later, William, recovered enough to be moved, left with his sister and the much quieter dowager for Bane House. They wanted to be home in time for Christmas, which was drawing near. William and his sister were getting along fairly well by then— as we all were— and none of us told the dowager about her daughter's clothing preferences. Although a scandal of a far more serious nature had been avoided, both Henry's duplicity and his death had left Lady Bane shaken.
But even with the Banes gone and the immediate crisis over, I was feeling dismal, as was Charles. One night he came to the library at midnight, upset— not because he saw a ghost, but because it had been so long since he
had
seen one. I tried to explain his father's traveling coach analogy, but Charles wanted that coach to return. "At least for visits," he said tearfully.
I took out the packet of letters again, and read to him— this time, the letter Lucien had written to me on the death of his wife.
"I used to be able to picture her so clearly after she was gone," a familiar voice said. "To feel her watching over Charles and me, sharing our joys. Do you know, I believe I now know why Fanny and Henry couldn't see me but you who've loved me can?"
"Papa!" Charles cried out.
"Yes, my boy, I'm back— for a visit."
* * *
Gradually, over the years, we saw less and less of him. By the time Charles had grown into a man, it was no longer necessary to trouble Lucien to be our ghost. By then we knew how to recall his spirit in other ways— through fond remembrance, and the knowledge that we can never be truly parted from those we love.
And that, I've come to believe, is the true spirit of Christmas.
Doug Allyn
The Country of the Blind
DOUG ALLYN
is not only one of our most prolific short story writers but one of our best, as his Edgar Award for best short story of 1994 with "The Dancing Bear" and several Edgar nominations demonstrate. He is also a first-rate novelist, with books such as
Motown Underground
and
Icewater Mansions
proving that the dazzle of his short stories can also be found in his longer works. His series character, the bard Tallifer, makes another welcome appearance in our year-end collection in "The Country of the Blind," solving a tale of children lost and hope regained in the Scottish Highlands in the Middle Ages. This story first appeared in
Murder Most Medieval
.
The Country of the Blind
Doug Allyn
I'
ve never much cared for my own singing. Oh, I carry a tune well enough, and my tenor won't scare hogs from a trough, but as a minstrel, I would rate my talent as slightly above adequate. Which is a pity, since I sing for my living nowadays.
As a young soldier I sang for fun, bellowing ballads with my mates on battlements or around war fires, amusing each other and showing our bravery, though I usually sang loudest when I was most afraid.
The minstrel who taught me the finer points of the singer's art had a truly fine voice, dark and rich as brown ale. Arnim O'Beck was no barracks room balladeer; he was a Meistersinger, honored with a medallion by the Minstrel Guild at York.
