The rasping voice of Lady Prague suddenly broke in upon them, causing Albert and Mr Buggins to leap to their feet.
‘Who is supposed to walk when the moon is full?’
Mr Buggins told her the story rather shortly.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘and I suppose you believe that sort of balderdash. Tosh – bosh and nonsense! Personally, I shall believe in ghosts when I have seen one, and not before. Surely you must have noticed by now that everyone knows somebody else who has seen a ghost, but they’ve never seen one themselves.’
‘But Craig has seen the Lady Muscatel.’
‘Craig! Silly old man, he’d see anything. I expect it was really a housemaid, if you ask me.’
She blew her nose and went towards the castle.
‘Such a golden nature,’ said Albert pensively. ‘One would hardly credit her with second sight, but still one never knows: the most unlikely people see ghosts – sometimes.’
That night Lady Prague took her bath, as she always did, before going to bed. She lay in the water for some time without washing very much; then dried herself briskly and put on a linen night-dress trimmed with crochet-lace, a pair of quilted slippers and a Chinese kimono with storks and fir-trees embroidered all over it. Thus attired, with her hair screwed into a small lump on the top of her head, and a towel and a pair of combinations over one arm, she sallied forth into the great corridor. As she did so she noticed that the lights, by some mistake, had all been put out; but she was easily able to see her way because a curtain at the other end of the corridor was drawn back and a great shaft of moonlight fell through the window on to the carpet.
Lady Prague shuffled along until she had nearly reached her bedroom door, when suddenly she stood still, rooted to the ground with terror. A female form, immensely tall and unnatural-looking, had stepped into the shaft of moonlight. In its hand was a sort of round parcel which it held out towards the paralysed peeress; then, emitting a soft but terrifying wail, vanished into the shadows. The sound of this wail seemed to unloosen Lady Prague’s own tongue, and shriek upon piercing shriek resounded through the house.
Bedroom doors on every side now flew open and startled guests rushed out to the assistance of the fainting baroness. Albert, one of the first to be on the spot, quickly helped the poor lady to a chair, where she sat and rocked herself to and fro, moaning and sobbing in a distracted manner.
‘What is the matter, Lady Prague?’ said Albert sharply. ‘Come, come, now, you must try and pull yourself together: you are hysterical, you know. What is it? Are you ill?’
‘Oh, oh! oh!’ said Lady Prague in a sort of moaning sing-song. ‘I saw her! I saw her! I saw her!’
‘Whom did you see?’
‘Oh! oh! oh! I saw her! … Lady Muscatel! She was over by that window … Oh! oh! oh!’
‘Fetch some water, Jane dear, will you?’ said Albert. ‘Now, Lady Prague, you are quite safe, you know, with us.’
‘Let her talk about it,’ said Mr Buggins in an undertone, ‘it will do her good. How I envy you, Lady Prague: it has been the dream of my life to see someone from another world and, of all people, Muscatel. How did she look?’
‘Oh! oh! oh! … Dreadful! … All in grey, with a wimple snood …’
‘Nonsense!’ said Albert, but nobody heard him.
‘And she was holding a sort of parcel … Oh! oh! oh!’
‘The heid, no doubt, “wropped oop i’ sae.” How I do envy you! She didn’t speak, I suppose?’
‘Oh! oh! oh! … Yes, she did. She did: “Ronnie! Ronnie! mine ane Ronnie!”’
‘Oh, you old liar!’ said Albert, under his breath.
Jane, on her way back with a glass of water, nearly tripped up over something outside Albert’s bedroom. It proved on investigation to be a large bath sponge wrapped up in a silk handkerchief. Suspicions that she had already entertained as to the true identity of the Lady Muscatel now crystallized into certainty. She put the sponge into Albert’s bed; then, controlling her laughter, she rejoined the others and gave the water to Lady Prague, who drank it gratefully. She appeared to be partially restored and was describing her experience in some detail, looking searchingly at Albert as she did so.
‘The worst part,’ she said, ‘of the whole thing was the creature’s face, which I saw quite plainly in the moonlight. It was not so much mad as foolish and idiotic. Really, I assure you, the stupidest face I ever saw.’
‘She has guessed,’ thought Jane.
‘Come, Lady Prague,’ said Albert, ‘not as bad as all that surely; not idiotic?’
‘Perhaps wanting, more than idiotic, and hideous beyond belief.’
Later, when they were all returning to their rooms, and peace had descended upon the house, Jane said to Albert:
‘You know, my dear, she scored in the end.’
‘I’m afraid,’ he replied, ‘that she did.’
11
‘Suddenly, just in time, I realized that he was a filthy Hun, so of course I turned my back on him and refused to shake hands. I think he noticed; anyway, I hope so. I hope he felt his position.’
General Murgatroyd looked round triumphantly. It was the end of dinner. The women had left the dining-room, and the general who had been shooting that day with the son of an old friend who had taken a neighbouring moor, was telling his experiences.
‘Quite right, Murgatroyd. That’s the way
