“I’ll say he does,” said Joe.
The cops were reluctant to leave without getting their hands on somebody besides grandfather; the night had been distinctly a defeat for them. Furthermore, they obviously didn’t like the “layout”; something looked – and I can see their viewpoint – phony. They began to poke into things again. A reporter, a thin-faced, wispy man, came up to me. I had put on one of mother’s blouses, not being able to find anything else. The reporter looked at me with mingled suspicion and interest. “Just what the hell is the real lowdown here, Bud?” he asked. I decided to be frank with him. “We had ghosts,” I said. He gazed at me a long time as if I were a slot machine into which he had, without results, dropped a nickel. Then he walked away. The cops followed him, the one grandfather shot holding his now-bandaged arm, cursing and blaspheming. “I’m gonna get my gun back from that old bird,” said the zither- cop. “Yeh,” said Joe. “You – and who else?” I told them I would bring it to the station house the next day.
“What was the matter with that one policeman?” mother asked, after they had gone. “Grandfather shot him,” I said. “What for?” she demanded. I told her he was a deserter. “Of all things!” said mother. “He was such a nice- looking young man.”
Grandfather was fresh as a daisy and full of jokes at breakfast next morning. We thought at first he had forgotten all about what had happened, but he hadn’t. Over his third cup of coffee, he glared at Herman and me. “What was the idee of all them cops tarryhootin’ round the house last night?” he demanded. He had us there.
Sir Tristram Goes West
Eric Keown
Location: Ararat, Florida, USA.
Time: Autumn, 1934.
Eyewitness Description:
Author: Eric Oliver Dilworth Keown (1860–1963) was born in Mobile, Alabama, where his family were involved in the oil industry. After majoring in literature at Alabama University, he began writing humorous stories and sketches for American magazines. At the turn of the century Keown moved to Britain, settled in the pretty Surrey village of Worplesdon and became a regular contributor to
Three men sat and talked at the long table in the library of Moat Place. Many dramatic conversations had occurred in that mellow and celebrated room, some of them radically affecting whole pages of English history; but none so vital as this to the old house itself. For its passport was being vised to the United States.
Lord Mullion sighed gently. He was wondering whether, if a vote could be taken amongst his ancestors – most of whose florid portraits had already crossed the Atlantic – they would condemn or approve his action. Old Red Roger, his grandfather, would have burnt the place round him rather than sell an inch of it. But then Red Roger had never been up against an economic crisis. And at that moment, the afternoon sun flooding suddenly the great oriel window, a vivid shaft of light stabbed the air like a rapier and illuminated Mr Julius Plugg’s chequebook, which was lying militantly on the table.
“Would you go to forty thousand?” asked Lord Mullion.
Mr Plugg’s bushy eyebrows climbed a good half-inch. When they rose further a tremor was usually discernible in Wall Street.
“I’ll say it’s a tall price for an old joint,” he said. “Well – I might.”
Lord Mullion turned to the Eminent Architect. “You’re absolutely certain that the house can be successfully replanted in Mr Plugg’s back garden, like a damned azalea?”
The Eminent Architect, whose passion happened to be Moat Place, also sighed. “Bigger houses than this have been moved. It’ll be a cracking job, but there’s no real snag. I recommend that for greater safety the library be sent by liner. The main structure can go by cargo-boat.”
The shaft of sunlight was still playing suggestively on the golden cover of the chequebook. Sadly Lord Mullion inclined his head.
“Very well, Mr Plugg. It’s yours,” he said.
A gasp of childish delight escaped the Pokerface of American finance. “That’s well,” he cried, “that’s dandy! And, now it’s fixed, would you give me the the low-down on a yarn I’ve heard about a family spook? Bunk?”
“On the contrary,” said Lord Mullion, “he’s quite the most amusing ghost in this part of the country. But I shouldn’t think he’ll bother you.”
“Anyone ever seen him?”
“I saw him yesterday, sitting over there by the window.”
Mr Plugg sprang round apprehensively. “Doing what?” he demanded.
“Just dreaming. He was a poet, you know.”
“A poet? Hey, Earl, are you getting funny?”
“Not a bit. We know all about him. Sir Tristram Mullion, laid out by a Roundhead pike at Naseby. He must have been pretty absent-minded; probably he forgot about the battle until somebody hit him, and then it was too late. The story goes that his father, a fire-eating old Royalist, got so bored at always finding his eldest son mooning about the library when he might have been out trailing Cromwell that when he was dying he laid a curse on Tristram which could only be expunged by a single-handed act of valour. Tristram rode straight off to Naseby and got it in the neck in the first minute. So he’s still here, wandering about this library, never getting a chance to do anything more heroic than a couplet. And he wasn’t even a particularly good poet.”
Mr Plugg had regained command of himself. “I seem to have read somewhere of a ghost crossing the Atlantic with a shack,” he said, “but that won’t rattle a tough baby like me, and I doubt if your spook and I’d have much in common. How about having the lawyers in and signing things up?”
The S.S.
Down in the dim light of No. 3 Hold a notable event had just taken place. Sir Tristram Mullion had emerged from nowhere and was standing there, very nearly opaque with surprise and irritation. His activities had been confined to the Moat Place library for so long that he could think of no good reason why he should suddenly materialize in this strange dungeon. That it was a dungeon he had little doubt. Its sole furniture was a number of large packing-cases marked “JULIUS PLUGG, ARARAT, USA”, and they were too high for even a ghost to sit upon with comfort. Tristram decided to explore.
The first person he encountered in the upper reaches of the ship was Alfred Bimsting, a young steward, who cried, “The Fancy Dress ain’t on till tomorrow, Sir,” and then pardonably fainted as he saw Tristram pass clean through a steel partition . . .
Sitting up on high stools at the bar, Professor Gupp, the historian, and an unknown Colonel were getting all argumentative over the
“My dear fellow,” the Professor was saying, “whatever you may say about Marston Moor, Naseby showed Rupert to be a very great cavalry leader. Very great indeed.”
