The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

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. Extravaganza was carving her way steadily through the calm and moonlit surface of the Atlantic. The thousand portholes in her steep sides blazed, and the air was sickly with the drone of saxophones. It was as though a portion of the new Park Lane had taken to the water.

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 Extravaganza’s special brown sherry.

“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.”

“Nonsense!” growled the Colonel. “A hot-headed young fool. Fairfax was the better soldier in every way.”

“I tell you—” the Professor began when he became aware of a presence at his elbow – a handsome young man in the clothes of a Cavalier.

“Frightfully sorry to interrupt,” said Tristram (for acquaintance with the young Mullions had kept his idiom level with the fashion), “but as a matter of fact I used to know Rupert and Fairfax pretty well, and you can take it from me they were a couple of insufferable bores. Rupert was a shockin’ hearty, always slappin’ you on the back, and Fairfax was a pompous old fool. As for Naseby, it was a hell of a mess.”

Professor Gupp hiccupped. “Young man,” he said reprovingly, “I am driven to conclude that you have been drinking to excess. It may interest you to know that I am the author of the standard monograph on Naseby.”

“It may interest you to know,” Tristram cried rather dramatically, “that I was killed there.” And he faded through the black glass wall of the refrigerator with such startling ease that neither Professor Gupp nor the Colonel could ever face Very Old Solera again . . .