The Great Ghost Rescue

After a while however he cheered up and the reason was this: at the hotel where they had spent the night, Lord Bullhaven had ordered everyone’s thermos flask to be filled with coffee so as to keep them awake. But the hotel kitchen-maid, who was very overworked, had made a mistake and mixed up Mr Hoare-Croakkigton’s flask with the flask of someone called General Arkwheeler who always ordered his thermos to be filled with neat whisky.

So every time Mr Hoare-Croakington took a little sip, things got more and more cheerful and more and more muddled up.

Curse (hic) and Plague (hic) and Bell and Book

Drive away (hic, hic) this ghostly Spook,

sang Mr Hoare-Croakington. And then: ‘Bang, bang,’ he said. And again: ‘BANG!’

‘No,’ said Barbara, appearing quite suddenly out of the waist-high bracken.

‘No?’ said Mr Hoare-Croakington, very surprised to see her. ‘No bang-bang?’

Barbara shook her head. ‘Well, there’s nothing to bang bang, is there?’ she pointed out, gently easing the ghost-laying book off the old man’s knees.

‘Grouse?’ said Mr Hoare-Croakington hopefully.

‘No grouse here,’ said Barbara firmly, scuffing Mr Hoare-Croakington’s rather grotty pentacle aside with her shoe. ‘But I know where there are some lovely, lovely grouse. If you come with me. Big, FAT grouse with huge plump chests....’

Mr Hoare-Croakington liked the sound of that.

‘Huge, plump chests....’ he murmured happily.

And very quietly and meekly he let Barbara lead him away by the ends of his woollen muffler towards Lord Bullhaven’s big, black car which was parked on the far side of the causeway.

Rick wasn’t normally much of a boy for fighting. He preferred to think things out. But on his way to tackle Professor Brassnose, he passed the ruined chapel. And when he’d seen what was inside – the Mad Monk writhing in agony on a sea of pus made from his own boils – Rick wasn’t interested any longer in thought.

Professor Brassnose was sitting on his chair beside the well, clashing his brass cymbals together and gabbling a spell from the book on his knees. A bottle of iron filings and vinegar was propped against his chair and the rest of his ghost-laying paraphernalia spilled out of a big carpetbag nearby.

At least that was how it was one minute. The next minute the contents of the hold-all were scattered to the winds, the ghost-laying book had been snatched from his hands and the pages ripped to shreds, and the bottle of vinegar and iron filings lay smashed to pieces against a stone.

‘Stop it,’ squeaked Professor Brassnose, waving his arms. ‘Stop it at—’

‘Don’t you dare to speak to me, you filthy, murdering swine,’ said Rick managing to kick the Professor’s chair, his shins and his stone pentacle all at once.

‘Help!’ screamed the Professor, who was definitely not a fighting man. ‘Lord Bullhaven! Help! Help! There’s a bad moy down here. I mean a mad boy. Help! Help!’

Lord Bullhaven was in an evil mood. He had just come across a green, slime-covered cursing THING which turned out to be Mr Heap, stumbling towards the car and refusing absolutely to return to his post. Then he had gone up to the rocket site and found Mr Hoare-Croakington’s chair empty. And now that idiot, Brassnose....

‘Coming,’ shouted Lord Bullhaven and started lumbering downhill towards the chapel, slashing about with his rowan switch as he came. When he saw Rick his sludge coloured eyes widened like dustbin lids. ‘You!’ he thundered.

Rick stood still and faced him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Me. The boy to whom you promised sanctuary for his ghosts.’

Lord Bullhaven’s face had turned purple. ‘Get off my land,’ he screamed. ‘Get off it and stay off it.’

For answer, Rick pulled over Professor Brassnose’s chair, tipping the squealing Professor out on to the grass and hurled the cymbals into the well.

Lord Bullhaven now seemed to lose the last scrap of his reason. He ran at Rick and started hitting him viciously with his rowan stick. ‘It’s your fault, you young devil, you’ve spoilt my plans. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to—’

‘No,’ said a quiet voice, ‘I think not.’ It was Mr Wallace, the nice clergyman with the nine children, who had heard the shouting and come to see what was up. ‘You’re hurting the boy,’ Mr Wallace went on, still in a quiet, level voice. ‘Let him go.’

Lord Bullhaven gave Rick a last blow across the shoulders and turned on Mr Wallace. ‘You’re on their side,’ he screamed. ‘You’re in with the spooks. You’re a paid agent, you’re a witch lover. I’ll have you flogged if you don’t go back, I’ll have you hanged—’

He put down his head, ready to charge at Mr Wallace. Mr Wallace, who had been Boxing Champion at his Theological College, just had time to ask God, very quickly, to forgive him. Then he bunched up his fists – and that was that.

They were dragging the unconscious Lord Bullhaven towards the car, when the most dreadful, desolate and shuddering scream came from the castle.

Rick turned white and began to shiver. ‘It’s the Hag,’ he said, ‘I recognize her voice.’