he whispered.
‘Through there,’ Mina replied at her normal volume, gesturing to one of the gated apertures in the far wall. Hamish examined it in awe.
‘It’s pitch black— I can’t see anything inside,’ he said, approaching the bars. ‘Elizabeth?’ he croaked. ‘Are you in there?’
‘She won’t answer you,’ Mina intervened. ‘I’ve been trying all day.’
‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth!’ he attempted nevertheless, a little louder. ‘Can you hear me? What are you doing?’
The absolute silence of the crypt seemed to stun and kill his words. He glanced querulously around at Mina.
‘Why’s she doing this? What does it mean?’
Mina set down her candle beside, of all incongruous objects, a guitar, which was resting against the casket. Max regarded it with amused disbelief.
‘You know the story of the Green Lady?’ asked Mina.
Hamish dragged his fingers through his blond forelocks in exasperation. ‘Mina, this is no time for ghost stories! What’s the Green Lady got to do with it?’
‘Oh, I don’t think we can omit the ghost story,’ said Max, ‘after such a fine build-up.’
‘She has everything to with it,’ Mina insisted. ‘I think that— well, that Elizabeth imagines she is the Green Lady.’
‘What! That’s ridiculous!’ blustered Hamish.
‘Yes, but ridiculous is rather the ongoing theme of the evening, don’t you find?’ suggested Max. ‘Now, Mino, introduce me to the Green Lady.’
‘You’ll soon understand me, Hamish,’ she told the incredulous spouse. ‘The Green Lady was once one Geraldine Hargrave, who lived and died in the seventeenth century. She married Henry Hargrave, and was installed happily enough here at the castle, until she happened to make the rather rash move of criticising her husband for keeping so many mistresses. Criticising a husband was not the done thing in those days, I understand, so in the usual manner, he had her incarcerated in one of the towers.’
‘A fit fate for a critical wife, I’d say,’ Max put in.
‘I knew you’d approve. Well, after being cooped up for a couple of decades, poor Geraldine went mad, and used to shriek and gibber so noisily that nobody could get any rest. Only music soothed her, and Henry would have musicians and singers posted outside her locked chamber door, to keep her quiet while he entertained his latest lovely.’
‘How thoughtful of him to keep his locked-up wife abreast of the latest tunes,’ commended Max. ‘A moving and sober historical account altogether, Mino, but there are no ghosts in it.’
‘The ghost always comes in at the end,’ returned Mina. ‘Henry Hargrave died some debauched death or other —I’m sure you can imagine one of those, Max— and the castle was shut up for many years. Unfortunately for Geraldine, she was shut up with it, and starved to death. Ever since, whenever music is played in the castle, her forlorn figure is said to appear, dressed in a green shroud. There’s your ghost.’
‘But what’s this got to do with my wife?’ demanded Hamish.
‘Yes, Mino, answer the charge! Why should Bessy think she’s the girl in green?’
‘I don’t know why she should think it,’ she confessed then, ‘but I’m pretty certain she does. My suspicions were first aroused when she put on the green satin gown she wore to last year’s costume ball in town —you may remember she went as the Green Lady. And then when she started to insist on being called Geraldine, I was almost convinced.’
‘Such deduction, Mino!’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘And now, you see, she’s hidden herself in that tomb, where Geraldine’s bones lie. I’m quite sure she thinks she’s the Green Lady herself.’
Hamish had become pale. ‘Do you really think so? I mean— really? Is it— well, is it my fault? I mean— am I Henry Hargrave?’
‘God, don’t you catch the bug!’ laughed Max. ‘You’re Hamish Evering, do you hear? Hamish Evering!’
He shook his head balefully. ‘No, what I mean is, am I to blame for driving Elizabeth out of her mind? I remember she said to me on our wedding night— she looked at me so earnestly, and said that marriage was to be a new start for us, that if I broke her heart again, she’d never survive it! I’m sure she said something of the kind!’
‘Hum! So then, Mino: is he to blame for driving Elizabeth out of her mind? I’m sure you’ve written the moral of the story already.’
‘Me, Max?’ she protested, without, however, being able to subdue another smile. ‘You know I’d never do any such thing. No, Hamish, as I said before, I’m certain you’re just the man to bring poor Elizabeth to her senses again. If you talk to her, and soothe her, I’ve no doubt she’ll come round eventually.’
‘Oh, what have I done?’ Hamish intoned, with his head in his hands. ‘But what can I do, what can I say? She won’t even answer me!’
He rushed to the gate again, and called: ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth!’ into the void beyond. His anguish gained no more response than before.
‘Try “Geraldine”,’ suggested Max. This expedient was taken up and tested; still there was no sound from within the tomb.
Now Mina stooped to pick up the guitar. ‘Well, perhaps this will work,’ she said. ‘I’ve already been Geraldine-ing until I’m hoarse, but then it occurred to me that the Green Lady only appears when music is played, so I brought this down.’
‘Did you try it? Did it work?’ asked Hamish.
‘Not exactly— not at all, in fact. But then, I can only play two chords, and you know I sing like a rook with a heavy cold. That’s why I asked you to bring Max.’
‘Me!’ —his face was all suspicious alarm.
‘Yes! Max! Of course!’ enthused Hamish then, taking the instrument and thrusting it at him. ‘You’ve a fine singing voice— and you can play anything with a string!’
Mina bit her lip rather than make some comment to Max’s detriment.
‘Play something to make her come out,’ Hamish persisted. ‘Please, anything’s worth a try!’
Max held off the guitar. ‘Oh! No— I didn’t come here to serenade anybody, alive or dead!’
‘Max, you must, for my sake, for Elizabeth’s sake— what if she’s trying to starve herself to death in there, like her ancestor?’
‘Then you’ll have two ghosts in the family. This is nonsense! Just go into the tomb and pull her out!’
‘But she’s insane, Max, she thinks she’s a ghost —who knows what she’ll do? She’s a big woman, bigger than me— what if she has a fit? What if she goes wild? What if she’s violent! Music’s a gentle way of luring her— they say it soothes the savage beast, and all that.’
‘To my mind, it serves you right for marrying a savage beast in the first place, Hamish. What you need’s a medium with a harmonica— or a paramedic with a tranquilliser gun!’
‘Max, I’m begging you, as a friend, play something! It might just work— and what can it cost you?’
‘Exactly, Max,’ Mina joined in then, ‘and what’s dignity, after all, to a good looking man like you? Handsome people never need dignity half so much as plain ones.’
Max studied her witheringly. ‘It’s amazing you couldn’t find a torch, Mino, but you could find a guitar.’
Hamish hurried up to the gate and cooed: ‘Max is going to play something, sweetheart, so you’ll come out, do you hear me?’ —and he turned expectantly to his friend.
Max, with a heavy sigh of discontent, held up the guitar and gave three resounding strums, before starting into a loud and raucous rendition of
Oh me darlin’, oh me darlin’
Oh me darlin’ Clementine!
—though Geraldine was substituted for Clementine throughout. Hamish seemed to expect great things of this carousing number, and was even a little disappointed when Mina, barely containing her laughter, implored the troubadour to stop.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Max announced at once. ‘No joy, she hasn’t put in an appearance. Let’s get a drink, for God’s sake!’
Hamish seemed rather bewildered, and looked to Mina in desperation; but she only shrugged. At that moment, however, they were all frozen by the faintest sound of a scrape. They exchanged querying glances, and listened.
A shuffle echoed in the vault, and something like a step. The candle flames guttered suddenly, and an iron creak was heard. Long, white fingers emerged between the bars of the relevant gate, and slowly pushed it open. Everybody held their breath. A tall figure emerged from the pitchy shadows, a shimmer of dark, bottle green showing from a sweeping silken gown. A chemise-fringe of stark white satin glowed out of the darkness, framing an extremely ample bosom, and, at last, the Green Lady emerged from the tomb, her black hair loose and untamed, her red lips parted and voluptuous, her staring eyes wide and restless.
Elizabeth Hargrave was a tall, beautiful, stout and buxom creature, and this magnificent entrance added a tragic grandeur to her stature, which silenced her audience. She took several steps forward, appearing not to notice them, and surveyed the gloomy crypt. A single, rending, ‘Ah!’ escaped her, as she shuffled something in her hand.
Hamish, stage-struck by her appearance, seemed unable to speak at first, but at last squeaked: ‘Baby?’
‘Geraldine,’ Mina whispered to him, with a nod.
‘Geraldine, baby?’ he tried, but the vision in green was impervious to him.
She sighed, as though in wracking agony, and spoke in a hollow, sepulchral tone: ‘Ah, whose coffin is this? It cannot be mine— the box they laid me in is dust and splinters now. Will you bury me again, Henry?’ (this to nobody