by Rick Kennett
When the Earl of Woodthorpe cut down a gum tree in his Manor grounds and air-freighted it out to Australia, most people assumed his mind had thrown a rod. I knew otherwise.
I’d always thought of doing the rounds of the haunts of England, so when the Antarctic winds of June hit town I decided to do more than just think about it. Stowing my bike in cold storage, I packed a few necessities like
I landed on my feet in London by finding a rent-a-bike place that had me thumping up the A 40 motorway toward Buckinghamshire on a 750 Norton that afternoon. Over the following week I toured sites of supernatural interest: hotels, cottages, stately homes, wishing wells. My camera clicked like a mad cicada, though never once getting a phantom in the view finder.
Undeterred, I continued my tour, and somewhere between Devon and Dorset I ran into the Earl of Woodthorpe—at about 90 KPH.
It was seven o’clock on a straight road. The sun was low in the west, and suddenly there was this long, silver car pulling out from a gateway to my right. There was no time for brakes, to throttle back, or to even have an articulate thought. The car’s bumper smacked my front wheel. The world twisted into a blur as the Norton and I went sprawling.
Shock’s a crazy place.
Somewhere in its shattered time sense a middle-aged woman said, “I’ll fetch a blanket,” as I lay bundled on a couch, shivering. “I… I swear, I didn’t see him, My Lord,” said a younger man’s voice as I lay facedown on the road.
There was the smell of leather upholstery.
The sound of tires.
The feeling of movement.
And somewhere in all of this the woman kept fluttering about, sounding apologetic, feeding me broth.
“Best call Dr. Rutherford, Mrs. Winton,” said a tall bloke with an aristocratic look.
“No, just let me rest,” I heard myself say. Nothing was broken or missing; and I hate fuss, especially when I’m dying, or think I am.
I remembered being partly ushered, partly led, partly helped along corridors lined with paintings, and up an oak staircase as a clock somewhere chimed eight.
I woke up in a bed the likes of which I’d only seen in period costume movies. The room, with its paneled walls, ornate ceiling, and heavy furniture of another time, had a beautiful view over the morning. Whoever owned this place had a backyard that wouldn’t stop. It was all lawns and trees and hedgerows, stone outbuildings, ponds, paths, hillocks and dips.
A knock on the door. A voice I’d heard before said, “Breakfast, Mr. Pine.”
Having already dressed, I opened the door to allow the broth pusher of the night before—Mrs. Winton—to enter with a clatter of cup, saucer, and tray, and with the welcome smell of bacon and eggs.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, sir. How have you mended?”
“I’ll survive. Look, er… sorry if I asked this last night, but, ah, exactly where am I?”
“Woodthorpe Manor, sir. The country estate of the Seventeenth Earl of Woodthorpe.” She placed the tray on the table by the window with practiced neatness. “I hope you like orange juice.”
“Yes. Thank you. Is His Earlship about at the moment?”
“His Lordship,” Mrs. Winton replied without emphasis, “left for the Continent last night. He asked me to pass on his most sincere apologies—once again—and to assure you that all expenses in respect of your motorcycle will be met.”
I fumbled a chair out from the window table, feeling awkward under her eyes. “Where’s the bike now?”
“Keenen, the head gardener, has taken it to the village garage: Scudamore’s. They’ll have it mended in a couple of days, sir.” She hesitated, then added, “Until then you may stay here as His Lordship’s guest.”
I was going to say, “That’s nice of him,” but instead I said, “Are my bags here?”
“Still downstairs, sir. I’m afraid the one containing your books burst in the accident.”
“Hey?”
“Nothing to worry about, sir. Duncan, His Lordship’s chauffeur, picked them all up.”
“Good old Duncan,” I muttered.
I started in on my eggs, but barely had the yoke running when I felt her eyes again. I looked up and Mrs. Winton cleared her throat.
“Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you Australian?”
“Guilty. What gave me away? My accent or the jars of Vegemite in my other bag?”
Mrs. Winton said nothing, only stood there as if wanting to say more but not knowing how to start. I already felt out of place here, and this wasn’t helping. I tapped the cosy on the teapot. “Sit down and pour yourself a cuppa. I won’t tell His Earlship.”
I was half surprised when she
I stared at her for a good five seconds, then remembered she’d seen my books. “Well, I have done what I like to call ‘ghost hunting’ in the past, but…”
“Is that why you’ve come to England?”
She said it as if I’d come to extradite some fugitive antipodean apparition. I said, “Not exactly. I’m just doing the spooky tour of England, the places I’ve only read about: Borley, Cloud’s Hill, Raynham Hall, 50 Berkeley Square. You know, places like that. I am interested in the supernatural, but… no, no more ghost hunting. I’ve found out the hard way that the occult is too unpleasant at close quarters.”
“But it must be a real experience to hunt a ghost.”
“It is. That is if that’s what you call trying to shove a cranky water elemental into a crystal geode, or facing up to a demon with all your runes round the wrong way, or nearly being strangled by a book illustration. No, no more ghost hunting for me, Mrs. Winton. Not even if you threatened me with money. From now on I’m strictly a tourist.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed. Do you have a ghost in the house?” I got ready to run in case she said yes.
“There are no ghosts under His Lordship’s roof, sir, and that’s the plain and simple truth. It may make us look a bit out of step, what with every Manor and Lodge hereabouts sporting a haunted bedroom or a ghost’s gallery, some of which I dare say are trumped up for the tourist pound. Not that I’m a scoffer, sir. I’ve been in service since I was a lass, and know a lot more than most about the quality homes; and I can tell you, sir, that some of the best have things walking in them that aren’t right things, if you follow my meaning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I best be about my duties. Even with the family away there’s still a lot to be done.”
Mrs. Winton left me then to my own memories of things that walked that weren’t right things. It really spoiled my breakfast.
I got lost trying to find the front door.
There was a North Wing and a South Wing, an East Front and a West Front. There were wide corridors of thick carpet and polished oak paneling, and a long gallery of ancestral portraits that glared after me as I tiptoed past.
Once through the massive columns of the East Front I struck out on the first path I found, letting it take me where it would.
At first it wound its way through the trees scattered about the southeast lawn, at one point passing a scraggly palm looking decidedly unimpressed by the English climate. On the side of a hillock was a square of trees that looked very familiar. I’m no treeologist, but these looked like fair dinkum Australian gums—the smooth, light
