Now You See It

Legend had it the ghost only appeared to one person at a time. Who would be next?

CHERYL reckoned Grasham Hall was going to be her last day out with this bunch of old codgers. Granted, she was nearly seventy herself, but she still had a bit of oomph. Unlike this lot.

Last month, they went to a china-painting demonstration. It was OK, but Cheryl felt that when you’d seen one sprig of lilac painted on a cup, you’d seen ’em all.

There were still one or two coach tours on the summer schedule, but Cheryl would probably skip them.

Today was yet another stately home. The coach rumbled its way through 30 miles of sheep and trees before coming to a halt in front of another black and white timbered house.

Cheryl sighed. There would be art (tedious), a priest hole (too dim to see) and scones (never enough clotted cream).

They were shown round by a woman who said she was the head guide.

“Got any badges?” Cheryl shouted, receiving a few irritated looks.

“You know, Girl Guides,” she added. “Hostess badge. Cookery.”

Cheryl prided herself on her good sense of humour. In the kitchens she pretended to bite into the plastic fruits and a wax kipper (once again, the others were unimpressed – the miserable so-and-sos).

They trooped along a dark passage between rooms.

“Apologies for the lack of light just here,” the guide said. “We’re currently rewiring. The floor is uneven, so please take care. We are very careful with the safety of our visitors.”

A woman beside Cheryl spoke softly to her friend.

“They had a member of staff die on them last year.” “No! Oh, my goodness!” “It was the electrics,” the first woman went on. “I read it in the ‘Argus’.” Cheryl tutted.

“Why did we come, then?” she muttered. “Ruddy death traps.”

Fortunately, nobody tripped over anything, and they arrived in a long hall with a vaulted ceiling. Portraits lined the walls.

“This is the mediaeval part of the house.” The guide pointed to a picture of a man in pantaloons. “Sir Giles Moffat, who built the house. He and his wife had nine daughters.” “Nice,” Cheryl stated. “Like most stately homes,” the guide said with a chuckle, “we have a ghost. Ours is unique.” Cheryl snorted.

“Sir Giles’s last child, Margaret, died at the height of the Black Death. She appeared to a member of the household after her death, a maid by the name of Jennet Carthy. Jennet was terrified. She –”

“Hang on,” Cheryl interrupted. “If this maid was the only one to see this supposed ghost, how did anyone know it was true?”

“Jennet died in childbirth some two years later,” the guide continued, unruffled.

“Her apparition was said to walk the house, but was seen only by a visiting member of the Grasham family, an unlucky young soldier who was killed in battle in 1580.” Cheryl snorted. “You’re going to tell us this is like a chain reaction thing,” she called out.

“Some people have called it that, yes. Each Grasham ghost – there have been thirteen over the centuries – appears only to one individual.” She paused. “That person, alas, will die soon afterwards.”

The guide smiled. “Your faces! These days most people don’t believe in ghosts. The last ghost was documented in 1824, though someone said they saw a figure on the second floor one night last spring.”

“Trying to revive the legend.” Cheryl sniffed.

The guide hesitated, then she shrugged.

“It’s all just a fun story.” She clapped her hands. “Now, there’s the diningroom to see, with its lovely stained glass, then I’ll hand you on to my colleagues in the shop and tea room.”

“Who will get as much cash off us as possible,” Cheryl muttered.

The teas looked OK, so Cheryl queued with the rest of the old codgers. They stood in the queue in twos or threes, chatting but Cheryl waited alone. It didn’t bother her –

she wasn’t looking to be buddies with this lot. Behind her stood a member of staff, a man wearing the house’s ID badge. He held a tray.

“Do you get a discount?” Cheryl asked.

“Yes, all the staff do,” the man said with a smile. “Nice,” she replied. The queue moved slowly. “I recommend the coffee and walnut,” the man said.

“I don’t eat nuts. I might be allergic.”

“Ah. Well, there are lots of other great cakes.”

“Something has to take you in the end,” Cheryl mused. “But me, I don’t plan to go via anaphylactic shock from a cake.”

“Does sound nasty,” he agreed. “Yes, something has to take you. A person rarely knows how or when.”

“Food poisoning waiting to happen,” Cheryl said, nodding at the chiller cabinet, which held some plated prawn salads. “I knew a man finished off by a dodgy pork chop once.”

“That must have been unpleasant.” He slid his tray along the chrome shelf.

“With me it was thirty milliamps and my silly wet feet.” He bent to look at the sandwiches. “The wiring box by the dairy. Not a great day.”

“Sorry?” Cheryl turned to him. “What did you say?” He shrugged.

“Mind you, I’d seen that young lady in blue, so I had to expect –” “What?”

Beyond the man stood the coach driver. She was frowning at Cheryl.

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” Cheryl said impatiently.

She looked at the man with the ID badge, who was examining a yogurt. “What did you say?” “I didn’t say anything,” the coach driver said. “Look, shall I get you a chair?”

The man with the ID wasn’t there any more.

Cheryl blinked several times.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice rising in panic.

“Who?” the coach driver replied. “Who do you think you’ve been talking to?” n