Dial a Ghost

Oliver fairly skipped along the corridor that night on his way to bed – and when he got to his room he had a surprise. While he was out with Adopta the others had done out his room. The man stuck full of arrows was gone, and so was the deer having its throat cut, and the rearing horses. Instead Aunt Maud had brought in some dried grasses and put them in a vase, and they’d hung up a cheerful picture of a garden they’d found in one of the other rooms.

And Oliver’s inhaler was once again beside his bed.

‘You won’t need it,’ said Uncle Henry. ‘The air here is excellent and anyway asthma’s something you grow out of. But it might as well be there.’

Although ghosts usually haunt by night and sleep by day, they had decided to keep the same hours as Oliver, but when everyone had settled down, Oliver still sat up in bed with his arms round his knees.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Adopta sleepily.

‘I was thinking about how much there is to find out. About ghosts and ectoplasm and why some people become them and others not, and why some people see them and others don’t . . . I mean, if you eat carrots you’re supposed to see better in the dark, so perhaps there’s a sort of carrot for making you see ghosts? And if you really knew about ectoplasm, maybe you could change the things that ghosts are wearing. I bet it’s the flag that’s bothering your Aunt Trixie. Imagine if you called her and she could immediately put on a raincoat or a dressing gown. And wouldn’t it be marvellous if people could decide whether to become ghosts or not.’

‘And decide for their pets,’ said Addie. It was always the animals that mattered to her.

Oliver nodded. ‘I tell you, someone ought to start a proper research institute to study all this.’

‘Not one of those places where they try to find out whether we exist or not. Ghost hunting and all that. Tying black thread over the staircase and sellotaping the windows. So rude.’

‘No. This would be ghosts and people working side by side.’

Oliver’s mind was racing. He hadn’t wanted Helton, he was going to try and give it away. But now...Why not a research institute here – there was room enough.

‘I wonder if I’ve got any money?’ he said. ‘I mean serious money for labs and people to work in them.’

‘Why don’t you write to your guardian? He seems a nice man, exploring places and trying to find the golden toads. I expect the lawyer’s got his address.’

Oliver thought this was a good idea, but thinking about letters made him remember the one thing that still troubled him.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Addie, seeing the change in his face.

Oliver shrugged. ‘It’s silly to fuss when everything’s turning out so well, but I had these friends in the Home...’

He explained what had happened and Addie frowned. ‘Was it always Fulton who posted the letters for you?’

‘Yes. He used to take everything down to Helton Post Office. He said it would be safer.’

‘Hm.’ Addie had never liked the sound of Fulton. ‘Why don’t you try once more when you write to your guardian and we’ll take the letters to the box at Troughton?’

Oliver nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That sounds sensible. That’s what we’ll do.’

Chapter Twelve

The ghosts whom the kind nuns had adopted had been at Larchford Abbey for several days and the nuns were just a little bit disappointed and hurt. They knew that people needed time to settle in to a new place and they had made it clear to the ladies at the agency that they wouldn’t bother the ghosts and that they didn’t expect the ghosts to bother them.

All the same, a little friendliness would have been nice. They had looked forward to a glimpse of the child in her nightdress playing merrily in the bell tower or the old lady floating about in the rose garden, and having heard that Mr Wilkinson was fond of fishing, they had half expected to see him by the river, casting with a fly or tickling trout.

But there had been absolutely no sign of the family. Not one wisp of ectoplasm in the orchard, not a trace of a voice singing to itself in the dusk.

The ghosts were there all right. Oh yes, they were definitely there. Blood had oozed through the old abbey floor and they had found several sets of footprints with three toes. From time to time, too, there came the smell of frying meat – rather strong meat which did not seem to be absolutely fresh – and now and again they heard a gurgling moan, but no one had come forward to introduce themselves or to thank the nuns for giving them a home.

‘One must do good without thinking of the reward. One should not need to be thanked,’ said Mother Margaret.

‘Do you think we ought to write to the agency?’ asked Sister Phyllida. ‘I mean, there may be some little thing they are too shy to mention. Something we could put right?’

But Mother Margaret thought they had better wait a bit longer. ‘After all, we don’t know very much about... ectoplasm and that sort of thing. Perhaps there are changes when people travel, which have to right themselves.’