In Defense of Libraries

 

I don't post much these days, but this week is National Library Week, and in view of current events, I felt the need to say something in defense of our public libraries.

First, a little history. I suppose libraries, in one form or another, have been around since people first began to write things down, but here in America we owe most of our public libraries to one man: Andrew Carnegie. Carnegie, a Scottish immigrant, amassed a fortune in the steel industry in the late 19th century. A philanthropist who believed in giving away most of his money to good causes, he used much of it to establish public libraries.

I have always been an avid reader, so I have always had a close relationship with libraries. When I walk into one, it's like walking into a time machine. The hushed atmosphere and the smell of old books takes me back in time...

…to 1958. I'm three years old. My parents have just moved from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to the nearby town of Warsaw. I'm walking with my mother from the apartment house where we are temporarily living to the old Carnegie library in the next block. The building is not large, but to me it seems a vast palace of high ceilings, tall windows, and shelf after shelf of books. My mother tells me I can pick out a children's book to borrow. I choose The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, by Dr. Seuss.

…to 1968. We now live in Goshen, Indiana, and they've just opened the new library right across the street from our house. I just have to walk a couple of dozen steps from our door to be in this beautiful new steel and glass palace of—not just books, but record albums and movies. There is even a row of state of the art turntables with headphones, where I can listen to record albums in glorious stereophonic sound. (I still sometimes dream of that place!)

…to the late seventies. I'm with my father at the Allen County Public Library in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It's the biggest, most glorious library I've ever seen, and it still doesn't have enough space to display all of the books. Many of them are in storage: you go to the card catalog, look up the Dewey Decimal Number, write it on a small sheet of paper, and give it to the librarian, who has the book sent up from the basement. But this time we're here to visit the library's genealogy department, where Dad is pursuing his hobby of researching our family tree. Genealogy doesn't particularly interest me, so I wander off and discover a rack of EC comic book reprints. I'm in heaven.

…to the early 90's. Loretta and I have been married for just a few years. We've just purchased our first home in North Tonawanda, NY, and we can barely afford the mortgage payments. We have no money for books, but luckily we live just a couple of miles from the public library. When the weather is nice, we ride our bicycles there. I've checked out Stephen King's latest, The Dark Half, and I can't wait to read it.

…to November of 2002. Loretta and I are visiting her Aunt Jean Carol, who volunteers at the Riverside Public Library. Knowing I'm a fan, she's invited us to attend "An Afternoon with Ray Bradbury." Bradbury, a passionate supporter of public libraries, has done scores of such events, donating all proceeds to the library, which he deems "the center of our lives." When he signs my copy of The Martian Chronicles, I want to tell him how much his books and his support of libraries mean to me, but all I can get out is, "Thank you."

…to a few months ago. Our power has been shut off for two days, a precaution the electric company has taken to prevent fires due to the fiercest Santa Ana winds we've seen in our thirty years in California. Following a neighbor's suggestion, we go to the Moorpark Public Library to charge our phones. A friendly librarian directs us to a table in the fiction section, with comfortable chairs and multiple outlets. We sit down, plug in our phones, and relax. The light, the warmth, the quiet, the smell of the books, are all comforting. It feels more like home than our home, which is presently a cold, dark, cheerless place. After reading for a while, I get up and explore. There are books, audio books, music CDs, DVDs. There are a few other people. Perhaps some, like us, are without power, and are looking for light and warmth. Perhaps some are without homes. At the end of a shelf, I see a poster with a list of "Tough Topics"—abuse, pregnancy, drugs, etc.—and their respective Dewey Decimal Numbers. At the bottom is the message, "Librarians are here to help, not judge."

Libraries are funded by tax dollars, which means that some people think that, as taxpayers, they should be allowed to determine which books go into the library and which people can take them out. Other people resent any of their tax dollars going to fund any library at all.

This is absurd. We need libraries for so many reasons. Of course they're places where people who can't afford to buy books can borrow them. But they're also places where people who don't have access to the internet can go for information, where people can find light and warmth, where people can charge their phones, where people can go for help and not be judged.

To quote Ray Bradbury, “Without libraries what have we? We have no past and no future.”

 

It's the Spook, Spookiest Season of All

 

Seasons greetings to one and all! It's that “most wonderful time of the year” when Andy Williams promises us, among other things, that there will be "scary ghost stories.” Ha! The only ghost story you are likely to encounter this Christmas is that over-roasted chestnut by Charles Dickens, in one of a myriad different adaptations currently streaming and/or running on one of the cable channels. But believe it or not, long before Jim Carey, the Muppets, Mickey Mouse, Mister Magoo, or even Alistair Sim, ghost stories—truly scary ghost stories—were as much a part of Christmas as Hallmark movies are today.

I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? It is the darkest time of the year.

I've been trying to revive the Christmas ghost story tradition for almost a decade, having now posted seventeen examples of the genre on this blog. This year I'm happy to report that I'm not the only one who has shown an interest in reviving the tradition. I'm currently reading a brand new collection of contemporary horror stories: Christmas and Other Horrors, edited by Ellen Datlow. It includes a deliciously chilling ghost story by Nadia Bulkin, the climax of which occurs during the traditional “airing of grievances” at a Festivus party.

I wish I could post that story; it's better than the one that follows. This one isn't bad, though, and it has the distinct advantage of being in the public domain. It was written by Hugh Walpole, who had a successful career in the early 20th century as a writer of novels, short stories, and plays. However, soon after his death his writing was considered old-fashioned, and his works have been largely forgotten.

The Snow
by Hugh Walpole (1929)

The second Mrs. Ryder was a young woman not easily frightened, but now she stood in the dusk of the passage leaning back against the wall, her hand on her heart, looking at the grey-faced window beyond which the snow was steadily falling against the lamplight.

The passage where she was led from the study to the dining-room, and the window looked out on to the little paved path that ran at the edge of the Cathedral green. As she stared down the passage she couldn’t be sure whether the woman were there or no. How absurd of her! She knew the woman was not there. But if the woman was not, how was it that she could discern so clearly the old-fashioned grey cloak, the untidy grey hair and the sharp outline of the pale cheek and pointed chin? Yes, and more than that, the long sweep of the grey dress, falling in folds to the ground, the flash of a gold ring on the white hand. No. No. NO. This was madness. There was no one and nothing there. Hallucination …

Very faintly a voice seemed to come to her: ‘I warned you. This is for the last time… .’

The nonsense! How far now was her imagination to carry her? Tiny sounds about the house, the running of a tap somewhere, a faint voice from the kitchen, these and something more had translated themselves into an imagined voice. ‘The last time …’

But her terror was real. She was not normally frightened by anything. She was young and healthy and bold, fond of sport, hunting, shooting, taking any risk. Now she was truly stiffened with terror—she could not move, could not advance down the passage as she wanted to and find light, warmth, safety in the dining-room. All the time the snow fell steadily, stealthily, with its own secret purpose, maliciously, beyond the window in the pale glow of the lamplight.

Then unexpectedly there was noise from the hall, opening of doors, a rush of feet, a pause and then in clear beautiful voices the well-known strains of ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ It was the Cathedral choir boys on their regular Christmas round. This was Christmas Eve. They always came just at this hour on Christmas Eve.

With an intense, almost incredible relief she turned back into the hall. At the same moment her husband came out of the study. They stood together smiling at the little group of mufflered, becoated boys who were singing, heart and soul in the job, so that the old house simply rang with their melody.

Reassured by the warmth and human company, she lost her terror. It had been her imagination. Of late she had been none too well. That was why she had been so irritable. Old Doctor Bernard was no good: he didn’t understand her case at all. After Christmas she would go to London and have the very best advice …

Had she been well she could not, half an hour ago, have shown such miserable temper over nothing. She knew that it was over nothing and yet that knowledge did not make it any easier for her to restrain herself. After every bout of temper she told herself that there should never be another—and then Herbert said something irritating, one of his silly muddle-headed stupidities, and she was off again!

She could see now as she stood beside him at the bottom of the staircase, that he was still feeling it. She had certainly half an hour ago said some abominably rude personal things—things that she had not at all meant—and he had taken them in his meek, quiet way. Were he not so meek and quiet, did he only pay her back in her own coin, she would never lose her temper. Of that she was sure. But who wouldn’t be irritated by that meekness and by the only reproachful thing that he ever said to her: ‘Elinor understood me better, my dear?’ To throw the first wife up against the second! Wasn’t that the most tactless thing that a man could possibly do? And Elinor, that worn elderly woman, the very opposite of her own gay, bright, amusing self? That was why Herbert had loved her, because she was gay and bright and young. It was true that Elinor had been devoted, that she had been so utterly wrapped up in Herbert that she lived only for him. People were always recalling her devotion, which was sufficiently rude and tactless of them.

Well, she could not give anyone that kind of old-fashioned sugary devotion; it wasn’t in her, and Herbert knew it by this time.

Nevertheless she loved Herbert in her own way, as he must know, know it so well that he ought to pay no attention to the bursts of temper. She wasn’t well. She would see a doctor in London …

The little boys finished their carols, were properly rewarded, and tumbled like feathery birds out into the snow again. They went into the study, the two of them, and stood beside the big open log-fire. She put her hand up and stroked his thin beautiful cheek.

‘I’m so sorry to have been cross just now, Bertie. I didn’t mean half I said, you know.’

But he didn’t, as he usually did, kiss her and tell her that it didn’t matter. Looking straight in front of him, he answered:

‘Well, Alice, I do wish you wouldn’t. It hurts, horribly. It upsets me more than you think. And it’s growing on you. You make me miserable. I don’t know what to do about it. And it’s all about nothing.’

Irritated at not receiving the usual commendation for her sweetness in making it up again, she withdrew a little and answered:

‘Oh, all right. I’ve said I’m sorry. I can’t do any more.’

‘But tell me,’ he insisted, ‘I want to know. What makes you so angry, so suddenly?—and about nothing at all.’

She was about to let her anger rise, her anger at his obtuseness, obstinacy, when some fear checked her, a strange unanalysed fear, as though someone had whispered to her, ‘Look out! This is the last time!’

‘It’s not altogether my own fault,’ she answered, and left the room.

She stood in the cold hall, wondering where to go. She could feel the snow falling outside the house and shivered. She hated the snow, she hated the winter, this beastly, cold dark English winter that went on and on, only at last to change into a damp, soggy English spring.

It had been snowing all day. In Polchester it was unusual to have so heavy a snowfall. This was the hardest winter that they had known for many years.

When she urged Herbert to winter abroad—which he could quite easily do—he answered her impatiently; he had the strongest affection for this poky dead-and-alive Cathedral town. The Cathedral seemed to be precious to him; he wasn’t happy if he didn’t go and see it every day! She wouldn’t wonder if he didn’t think more of the Cathedral than he did of herself. Elinor had been the same; she had even written a little book about the Cathedral, about the Black Bishop’s Tomb and the stained glass and the rest …

What was the Cathedral after all? Only a building!

She was standing in the drawing-room looking out over the dusky ghostly snow to the great hulk of the Cathedral that Herbert said was like a flying ship, but to herself was more like a crouching beast licking its lips over the miserable sinners that it was for ever devouring.

As she looked and shivered, feeling that in spite of herself her temper and misery were rising so that they threatened to choke her, it seemed to her that her bright and cheerful fire-lit drawing-room was suddenly open to the snow. It was exactly as though cracks had appeared everywhere, in the ceiling, the walls, the windows, and that through these cracks the snow was filtering, dribbling in little tracks of wet down the walls, already perhaps making pools of water on the carpet.

This was of course imagination, but it was a fact that the room was most dreadfully cold although a great fire was burning and it was the cosiest room in the house.

Then, turning, she saw the figure standing by the door. This time there could be no mistake. It was a grey shadow, and yet a shadow with form and outline—the untidy grey hair, the pale face like a moon-lit leaf, the long grey clothes, and something obstinate, vindictive, terribly menacing in its pose.

She moved and the figure was gone; there was nothing there and the room was warm again, quite hot in fact. But young Mrs. Ryder, who had never feared anything in all her life save the vanishing of her youth, was trembling so that she had to sit down, and even then her trembling did not cease. Her hand shook on the arm of her chair.

She had created this thing out of her imagination of Elinor’s hatred of her and her own hatred of Elinor. It was true that they had never met, but who knew but that the spiritualists were right, and Elinor’s spirit, jealous of Herbert’s love for her, had been there driving them apart, forcing her to lose her temper and then hating her for losing it? Such things might be! But she had not much time for speculation. She was preoccupied with her fear. It was a definite, positive fear, the kind of fear that one has just before one goes under an operation. Someone or something was threatening her. She clung to her chair as though to leave it were to plunge into disaster. She looked around her everywhere; all the familiar things, the pictures, the books, the little tables, the piano were different now, isolated, strange, hostile, as though they had been won over by some enemy power.

She longed for Herbert to come and protect her; she felt most kindly to him. She would never lose her temper with him again—and at that same moment some cold voice seemed to whisper in her ear: ‘You had better not. It will be for the last time.’

At length she found courage to rise, cross the room and go up to dress for dinner. In her bedroom courage came to her once more. It was certainly very cold, and the snow, as she could see when she looked between her curtains, was falling more heavily than ever, but she had a warm bath, sat in front of her fire and was sensible again.

For many months this odd sense that she was watched and accompanied by someone hostile to her had been growing. It was the stronger perhaps because of the things that Herbert told her about Elinor; she was the kind of woman, he said, who, once she loved anyone, would never relinquish her grasp; she was utterly faithful. He implied that her tenacious fidelity had been at times a little difficult.

‘She always said,’ he added once, ‘that she would watch over me until I rejoined her in the next world. Poor Elinor!’ he sighed. ‘She had a fine religious faith, stronger than mine, I fear.’

It was always after one of her tantrums that young Mrs. Ryder had been most conscious of this hallucination, this dreadful discomfort of feeling that someone was near you who hated you—but it was only during the last week that she began to fancy that she actually saw anyone, and with every day her sense of this figure had grown stronger.

It was, of course, only nerves, but it was one of those nervous afflictions that became tiresome indeed if you did not rid yourself of it. Mrs. Ryder, secure now in the warmth and intimacy of her bedroom, determined that henceforth everything should be sweetness and light. No more tempers! Those were the things that did her harm.

Even though Herbert were a little trying, was not that the case with every husband in the world? And was it not Christmas time? Peace and Good Will to men! Peace and Good Will to Herbert!

They sat down opposite to one another in the pretty little dining-room hung with Chinese woodcuts, the table gleaming and the amber curtains richly dark in the firelight.

But Herbert was not himself. He was still brooding, she supposed, over their quarrel of the afternoon. Weren’t men children? Incredible the children that they were!

So when the maid was out of the room she went over to him, bent down and kissed his forehead.

‘Darling … you’re still cross, I can see you are. You mustn’t be. Really you mustn’t. It’s Christmas time and, if I forgive you, you must forgive me.’

‘You forgive me?’ he asked, looking at her in his most aggravating way. ‘What have you to forgive me for?’

Well, that was really too much. When she had taken all the steps, humbled her pride.

She went back to her seat, but for a while could not answer him because the maid was there. When they were alone again she said, summoning all her patience:

‘Bertie dear, do you really think that there’s anything to be gained by sulking like this? It isn’t worthy of you. It isn’t really.’

He answered her quietly.

‘Sulking? No, that’s not the right word. But I’ve got to keep quiet. If I don’t I shall say something I’m sorry for.’ Then, after a pause, in a low voice, as though to himself: ‘These constant rows are awful.’

Her temper was rising again; another self that had nothing to do with her real self, a stranger to her and yet a very old familiar friend.

‘Don’t be so self-righteous,’ she answered, her voice trembling a little. ‘These quarrels are entirely my own fault, aren’t they?’

‘Elinor and I never quarrelled,’ he said, so softly that she scarcely heard him.

‘No! Because Elinor thought you perfect. She adored you. You’ve often told me. I don’t think you perfect. I’m not perfect either. But we’ve both got faults. I’m not the only one to blame.’

‘We’d better separate,’ he said, suddenly looking up. ‘We don’t get on now. We used to. I don’t know what’s changed everything. But, as things are, we’d better separate.’

She looked at him and knew that she loved him more than ever, but because she loved him so much she wanted to hurt him, and because he had said that he thought he could get on without her she was so angry that she forgot all caution. Her love and her anger helped one another. The more angry she became the more she loved him.

‘I know why you want to separate,’ she said. ‘It’s because you’re in love with someone else. (‘How funny,’ something inside her said. ‘You don’t mean a word of this.’) You’ve treated me as you have, and then you leave me.’

‘I’m not in love with anyone else,’ he answered her steadily, ‘and you know it. But we are so unhappy together that it’s silly to go on … silly… . The whole thing has failed.’

There was so much unhappiness, so much bitterness, in his voice that she realised that at last she had truly gone too far. She had lost him.

She had not meant this. She was frightened and her fear made her so angry that she went across to him.

‘Very well then … I’ll tell everyone … what you’ve been. How you’ve treated me.’

‘Not another scene,’ he answered wearily. ‘I can’t stand any more. Let’s wait. Tomorrow is Christmas Day …’

He was so unhappy that her anger with herself maddened her. She couldn’t bear his sad, hopeless disappointment with herself, their life together, everything.

In a fury of blind temper she struck him; it was as though she were striking herself. He got up and without a word left the room. There was a pause, and then she heard the hall door close. He had left the house.

She stood there, slowly coming to her control again. When she lost her temper it was as though she sank under water. When it was all over she came once more to the surface of life, wondering where she’d been and what she had been doing. Now she stood there, bewildered, and then at once she was aware of two things, one that the room was bitterly cold and the other that someone was in the room with her.

This time she did not need to look around her. She did not turn at all, but only stared straight at the curtained windows, seeing them very carefully, as though she were summing them up for some future analysis, with their thick amber folds, gold rod, white lines—and beyond them the snow was falling.

She did not need to turn, but, with a shiver of terror, she was aware that that grey figure who had, all these last weeks, been approaching ever more closely, was almost at her very elbow. She heard quite clearly: ‘I warned you. That was the last time.’

At the same moment Onslow the butler came in. Onslow was broad, fat and rubicund—a good faithful butler with a passion for church music. He was a bachelor and, it was said, disappointed of women. He had an old mother in Liverpool to whom he was greatly attached.

In a flash of consciousness she thought of all these things when he came in. She expected him also to see the grey figure at her side. But he was undisturbed, his ceremonial complacency clothed him securely.

‘Mr. Fairfax has gone out,’ she said firmly. Oh, surely he must see something, feel something.

‘Yes, Madam!’ Then, smiling rather grandly: ‘It’s snowing hard. Never seen it harder here. Shall I build up the fire in the drawing-room, Madam?’

‘No, thank you. But Mr. Fairfax’s study …’

‘Yes, Madam. I only thought that as this room was so warm you might find it chilly in the drawing-room.’

This room warm, when she was shivering from head to foot; but holding herself lest he should see … She longed to keep him there, to implore him to remain; but in a moment he was gone, softly closing the door behind him.

Then a mad longing for flight seized her, and she could not move. She was rooted there to the floor, and even as, wildly trying to cry, to scream, to shriek the house down, she found that only a little whisper would come, she felt the cold touch of a hand on hers.

She did not turn her head: her whole personality, all her past life, her poor little courage, her miserable fortitude were summoned to meet this sense of approaching death which was as unmistakable as a certain smell, or the familiar ringing of a gong. She had dreamt in nightmares of approaching death and it had always been like this, a fearful constriction of the heart, a paralysis of the limbs, a choking sense of disaster like an anaesthetic.

‘You were warned,’ something said to her again.

She knew that if she turned she would see Elinor’s face, set, white, remorseless. The woman had always hated her, been vilely jealous of her, protecting her wretched Herbert.

A certain vindictiveness seemed to release her. She found that she could move, her limbs were free.

She passed to the door, ran down the passage, into the hall. Where would she be safe? She thought of the Cathedral, where to-night there was a carol service. She opened the hall door and just as she was, meeting the thick, involving, muffling snow, she ran out.

She started across the green towards the Cathedral door. Her thin black slippers sank in the snow. Snow was everywhere—in her hair, her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth, on her bare neck, between her breasts.

‘Help! Help! Help!’ she wanted to cry, but the snow choked her. Lights whirled about her. The Cathedral rose like a huge black eagle and flew towards her.

She fell forward, and even as she fell a hand, far colder than the snow, caught her neck. She lay struggling in the snow and as she struggled there two hands of an icy fleshless chill closed about her throat.

Her last knowledge was of the hard outline of a ring pressing into her neck. Then she lay still, her face in the snow, and the flakes eagerly, savagely, covered her.

AI Image Generated by Google Gemini

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love AI

Several years ago I submitted an entry for a one-act play competition which called for “a comedic take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery.” I never heard back from the organizers of the competition, and my script just sat gathering dust (figuratively speaking, of course—a computer file can’t literally gather dust), with no hope of ever being staged.

About a year ago, I decided I would try to convert the script to a short story, which I could at least publish here on my blog. This is not nearly as easy as it sounds. You have to add quotation marks and scores of ‘he said’s, ‘she said’s, and so forth—not to mention all the descriptions and interpretations that, in a play, are generally left up to the director and actors. After a few paragraphs, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Then, after a Windows update, a new icon appeared on my computer taskbar, with the mysterious label “Copilot.” When I clicked on it, I discovered it was Microsoft’s new “AI companion.” I had heard of AI, of course, but I had never tried it. Might my script conversion be something it could help me with?

I asked Copilot, and it replied that indeed this was something it could do, and that it was delighted to help. The script was too big for it to swallow in one chunk, but I was able to feed it in in bites. The result blew me away. Oh, it wasn’t perfect, by any means. It was certainly not written in my style—Copilot used a bit too much elegant variation for my taste (“Patricia observed,” “Patricia ordered,” “Patricia snapped,” “Patricia mused,” etc.). But all of my dialogue and stage directions were there, converted into narrative form. With a little editing, I was quite happy with the result, which I’ve included below.

(Note: For comparison I also tried ChatGPT and Gemini, but they came up short—literally. Both offered much briefer stories that omitted much of my dialogue and plot elements. I did, however, use Gemini to generate the illustration.)

The Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling
By John R. Logue

Lizzie Brown bopped into the sitting room from the kitchen, singing off-key as she listened through bright orange headphones to the tape player she always carried on her belt. The year was 1984, and the song that was playing was the latest hit from her favorite group, Wham!

“Wake me up before you go-go. Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo. Wake me up before you go-go. I don’t want to miss it when you hit that high…”

She pictured George Michael’s luscious bum as she placed a plate of almond biscuits on the tea table and, with a final shimmy, disappeared back into the kitchen.

A few moments later, Patricia Townsend, self-appointed matriarch of the village of Little Piddling, entered from the front hall. She surveyed the tea table critically. Picking up the teapot with one hand, she tested its weight, then gingerly touched it to check the temperature.

“Stupid girl,” she muttered under her breath. She picked up a small bell and rang it. No response. She rang again—still nothing. Impatiently, she called towards the kitchen, “Lizzie!” No reply. “Lizzie!” she called again, more loudly this time. Still no answer.

She took a deep breath and, at the top of her lungs, bellowed, “Elizabeth Ann Brown!”

Finally, the girl emerged from the kitchen, looking perplexed. “Did you call me, ma’am?”

“Yes, I called you,” Patricia snapped. “I called you repeatedly. I shouted loudly enough to be heard in the next parish. I also—” She shook the bell in Lizzie’s face. “Rang the bell. Are you deaf, girl?”

“Sorry,” Lizzie mumbled, “I was wearing my headphones.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “Lizzie, how many times have I told you not to listen to your music while you’re working?”

Lizzie thought for a moment. “Two. Three if you count this.”

“It was a rhetorical question, Lizzie. I didn’t need an actual number. Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, turning to leave.

“Just a moment, Lizzie,” Patricia called out, stopping Lizzie in her tracks. “Don’t you wonder why I called you?”

Lizzie turned around. “Oh. Sorry. Why did you call me?”

“When did you make the tea?” Patricia asked.

“About half an hour ago?”

“No wonder the pot is cold. You should have waited until the guests arrived.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Should I make a fresh pot?”

“Obviously,” Patricia replied, handing Lizzie the teapot.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But not until the guests arrive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doorbell rang. “And here they are,” Patricia said.

“Then I should make the tea now?” Lizzie asked.

“Of course, you stupid girl!” Patricia snapped.

Lizzie turned and headed towards the kitchen.

“Stop!”

Lizzie stopped.

“Answer the door first,” Patricia ordered.

Lizzie turned and headed for the front door.

“Stop!”

Lizzie stopped.

“The teapot,” Patricia said impatiently, holding out her hand.

Lizzie looked at the teapot in her hand. “Oh,” she said. She returned and handed it to Patricia.

“Well? Answer the door!” Patricia commanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, finally exiting to the hall.

“Stupid girl!” Patricia muttered.

Patricia put the teapot down, adjusted the table setting, and turned just as a tall, stylish redhead swept into the room, followed by Lizzie.

“Natalie, dear!” Patricia said, greeting her guest warmly.

“Hello, Pats!” Natalie replied.

“Mrs. Whitlow, ma’am,” Lizzie announced.

“Yes, yes. I can see it’s Mrs. Whitlow,” Patricia said impatiently. “And what is it you’re supposed to do when the guests arrive?”

“Make the tea, ma’am?”

“Well? Go and do it!” Patricia snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lizzie turned to leave.

“Just a moment, Lizzie. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Patricia asked.

“Ma’am?”

“The teapot, you fool! The teapot!”

“Oh! Sorry, ma’am.” As Lizzie picked up the teapot, the doorbell rang. Once again, she set off for the front hall with teapot in hand.

“Lizzie!” Patricia called.

Lizzie returned. Patricia spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Take the teapot back to the kitchen. Then answer the door. Then go and make the tea.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, exiting to the kitchen.

“Stupid girl!” Patricia muttered.

“Honestly, Pats,” Natalie said, “I don’t know how you put up with her. The girl would try the patience of Job. I’d have given her the sack long ago.”

“Believe me, Nat, I know. She’s utterly hopeless. But after her parents—well, you know. It’s the least I can do.”

“You are a good person.”

“I try to be,” Patricia replied with a faint smile.

Patricia picked up the plate of almond biscuits and offered it to Natalie. “Here, have one of these biscuits. I’m trying out a new recipe.”

Natalie took a biscuit from the plate and bit into it. “Yummy! Aren’t these the same sort of almond biscuits Louisa makes? The ones she refuses to give out the recipe for?”

Patricia grinned. “I’ve been trying to duplicate the recipe for years.”

“Well, congratulations, darling. You’ve succeeded. These are better than Louisa’s. She’ll be livid.”

“Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Parsons, ma’am,” Lizzie announced, ushering in two more guests.

“Thank you, Lizzie. You may make the tea now,” Patricia said.

As Lizzie returned to the kitchen, Patricia greeted the newcomers: plump, good-natured Helen Barnes, and slender, grey-haired Louisa Parsons, the senior member of their little group. “Helen, Louisa, welcome!” Patricia gestured to the plate held by the latter. “Louisa, dear, what’s this?”

Louisa offered her gift proudly. “I’ve brought you some of my famous almond biscuits.”

“How nice! But really, you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Louisa assured.

“No, I mean you shouldn’t have,” Patricia said firmly, gesturing to the plate of biscuits on the table. “I have biscuits, as you can see.”

“Yes, but these are homemade,” Louisa insisted.

“So are mine. And as you can see, mine aren’t burnt.”

“Mine aren’t burnt,” Louisa said with a hurt tone. “Perhaps a bit overdone, but definitely not burnt.”

“Well, we’ll let the public decide, shall we?” Patricia said, uncovering Louisa’s plate and placing it beside her own on the tea table. “Come and sit down, everyone. Tea will be ready shortly. In the meantime, there are sandwiches: the white are egg, the brown are chicken.”

Patricia handed out plates and napkins, and the sandwiches were passed around. Holding up one of each, Helen queried, “Which came first?”

“I beg your pardon?” Patricia asked, puzzled.

“You know. The old joke?” Helen prodded.

“What old joke?”

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” Helen laughed, though the others did not.

“That’s not a joke, dear. It’s a riddle,” Louisa corrected.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose it is,” Helen said, deflated.

“What’s the answer?” Patricia asked.

“Eh?” replied Louisa.

“What’s the answer to the riddle?” Patricia repeated.

Helen sighed. “Oh. Um. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Lizzie re-entered with the teapot. “Ah, here’s the tea,” Patricia announced, as Lizzie put the teapot on the table and returned to the kitchen.

“Have all of you met the new vicar?” Patricia asked, as she began pouring tea.

Natalie grinned lasciviously. “You mean Little Piddling’s most eligible bachelor? Rowr!”

Helen took one of Patricia’s biscuits. “He is handsome, isn’t he?” She took a bite and smiled. “Mmm! Louisa, you must try these. I believe they’re as good as yours.”

Louisa, visibly annoyed, tried one of Patricia’s biscuits. “Not quite the same as mine, but not a bad effort,” she conceded grudgingly, then changed the subject back to the new vicar. “As a matter of fact, I introduced myself to Mr. Ambrose after last Sunday’s sermon. He told me he’d be calling on me this week to discuss one or two concerns he has regarding our community.”

“What a coincidence,” Patricia remarked casually. “Dear Edward told me he wanted to discuss one or two concerns with me as well. As a matter of fact, he’ll be dropping by this afternoon. A charming man—it will be a pleasure to introduce all of you.”

“No need,” Louisa said curtly. “As I just told you, I’ve met him.”

Patricia clapped her hands. “Shall we begin the meeting?” There were murmurs of assent. “Very well, then. The Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling is hereby called to order. I believe at our last meeting we were still discussing poisons?”

Louisa made a face. “Ugh! I’m tired of poisons. When are we going to talk about guns?”

Helen chimed in, “What about blunt weapons? If you do it right, it looks just like an accident.”

Natalie shuddered. “Oh, but my dear! The blood!”

Helen shrugged. “No problem at all if you do it in the bath. If there’s any blood, it just washes away down the drain. Did you know that one of the most common causes of death is falling in the bathtub?”

“Yes, dear. You’ve told us that before,” Patricia said with a sigh.

“On several occasions,” Louisa added dryly.

Patricia continued, quoting their literary idol, “Well, we all know Dame Agatha’s opinion on the subject: ‘Poison has not the crudeness of the revolver bullet or the blunt weapon.’”

Natalie nodded in agreement. “But poison is so much more difficult now than it was back in Dame Agatha’s day. Back then, you could walk into any chemist’s, slap down a fiver, and walk out with enough strychnine to poison the entire village, no questions asked. Now you can’t even buy cold medicine without a prescription. Not to mention the advances in forensic pathology that make it easier to trace.”

Louisa sighed again. “Yes, and thanks to mystery writers, everyone knows the properties of all the popular ones. For instance, how are you ever supposed to use cyanide when everyone in the world knows that it smells like burnt almonds?”

Patricia picked up one of Louisa’s biscuits and sniffed it. “You could put it in your biscuits, Louisa. They’re the perfect camouflage. They already smell of burnt almonds.” Everyone laughed except Louisa, who was clearly offended.

“They are not burnt,” she insisted.

Helen spoke up. “Arsenic has no taste or smell. Have any of you tried it?”

The others reacted with shock and disbelief. “You can’t be serious!” Patricia exclaimed. Louisa and Natalie chimed in with their disapproval.

Helen continued, undeterred. “Remember the Dorothy L. Sayers story where the murderer eats the same poisoned food as the victim, but it doesn’t kill him because he’s been taking arsenic over time to build up a resistance to it?”

Natalie nodded. “Strong Poison. The first Harriet Vane story.”

Helen smiled. “Yes. Well, I had some rat poison on hand…”

Natalie interrupted with a laugh. “Don’t we all?” The group chuckled in agreement.

Helen resumed, “Anyway, I thought I’d try a bit of it in an omelet, just as the murderer served it in the story, to see what it’s like.”

Louisa looked horrified. “That was rather reckless of you.”

Helen shrugged. “I suppose so, but it didn’t do me any harm. Although it did numb my tongue for a time.”

“I just read a recent book by an American author where the murderer used a common plant, something that’s found everywhere in California,” said Louisa. “What was it called? Coriander, I think.”

“Coriander isn’t poisonous, dear. It’s a spice. I use it all the time,” Patricia corrected.

“Well, it was something like coriander,” Louisa insisted. “Anyway, she substituted it for something that was in the victim’s allergy capsules. She was miles away when he took them, so she had the perfect alibi.”

Patricia nodded. “There is much to be said for making use of something from one’s own garden. There is no paper trail, as there is when you purchase it from the chemist. And depending on the botanical, it can be difficult to trace. For instance, did you know that the foxglove in my garden contains a chemical that is commonly used in heart medications? It slows the heartbeat; taken in a sufficient quantity, it will stop the heart entirely. Cardiac arrest: death by natural causes.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Ah, that will be the vicar,” Patricia said.

Louisa’s face lit up with a sudden recollection. “Orlando!”

“What’s that, dear?” Patricia asked.

“That’s what she used. Not coriander. Orlando,” Louisa explained.

Helen was confused. “Isn’t Orlando a city in California?”

“Florida,” Natalie corrected.

“Are you sure? I thought Disneyland was there,” Helen persisted.

“Disney World, dear,” Natalie clarified.

“Oh,” Helen said, still puzzled.

Lizzie entered with Edward. The ladies stood as she announced, “Mr. Ambrose, ma’am.”

Patricia stepped forward to greet him. “Welcome, dear Vicar. Delighted to see you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Townsend,” Edward replied.

“Please, call me Patricia,” she insisted.

“Thank you, Patricia. I fear I’ve come at a bad time. I see you have guests,” Edward observed.

“Not at all. Just the monthly meeting of the ACASLP—the Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling. Allow me to introduce the other members of our group: Natalie Whitlow...”

Natalie stepped forward and offered her hand, a twinkle in her eye. “How do you do, Vicar.”

“Mrs. Whitlow,” Edward greeted formally.

“My friends call me Natalie, and I do hope we shall be friends,” she said flirtatiously.

Edward looked flustered. “Yes. Well. ‘Natalie’ it is, then.”

“And I shall call you ‘Edward.’ Tell us, Edward, are you a fan of Agatha Christie?” Natalie asked.

“Aren’t we all?” Edward responded.

“Which book is your favorite?” she pressed.

Edward thought for a moment. “Well, I love all the Miss Marple stories, but I suppose if I had to narrow it down to one, it would be—“

Natalie couldn’t resist. “Let me guess. Murder at the Vicarage?”

Edward chuckled. “Why, yes!”

Helen laughed, then abruptly stopped, embarrassed. “Natalie, how on earth did you—? Oh! Because he’s a vicar!”

“Vicar, may I introduce Helen Barnes,” said Patricia.

Helen, nervously stepping forward to shake his hand, stammered, “How do you do, Mr. Handsome—I mean, Mr. Vicar—I mean...”

“Let’s just make it ‘Edward,’ shall we?” said Edward.

Helen giggled girlishly. “Very well—Edward.”

Patricia continued, “And I understand you’ve already met our Louisa.”

Louisa stepped forward, offering her hand. Edward took it, looking slightly puzzled. “Have I?”

“Surely you remember. Last Sunday? After church?” Louisa prompted.

“Oh, yes! Mrs.—er—“

“Parsons. But please, call me Louisa.”

“Of course! Delighted to see you again, Louise.”

“Louisa,” she corrected firmly.

Edward smiled apologetically. “Louisa. Sorry.”

“Sit down, Vicar,” Patricia invited. “Have a biscuit. I’m afraid mine are all gone, but there are plenty of Louisa’s left. How do you take your tea?”

Edward shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t stay long. Lots of calls to make, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re all here together. It will save me some time, as the four of you were at the top of my list.”

“Oh? What list is that?” Patricia asked.

“A list of Little Piddling’s most marriageable widows, perhaps?” Natalie chimed in.

Edward managed a smile. “Not exactly. Look, perhaps I should start at the beginning. My predecessor, Mr. Bledsoe, left behind a notebook.”

Patricia’s curiosity was piqued. “Did he? What sort of notebook?”

“It contains notes regarding an investigation with which he was assisting Constable Brown. The two of them had become curious about some of the deaths that have occurred lately in this parish.”

“Oh? And what was so curious about these deaths?” Patricia asked.

“Well, to begin with, there have been an unusual number of them,” Edward replied.

Patricia frowned. “Surely not more than the national average?”

Edward’s tone turned serious. “As a matter of fact, quite a bit more than the national average. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, considering the fact that all four of you lost your husbands within the span of a few months.”

“It was a very bad flu season last year, if you will recall,” Patricia said defensively.

“I was given to understand that Mr. Barnes died from a fall in the bath,” Edward pointed out.

“I’m sure the poor dear wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been so weakened by a terrible bout of flu,” Helen said.

Edward continued, “Yes, well, there was also the shopkeeper, Mr. Thomas...”

Louisa interrupted, “Ugh! I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, Vicar, but Mr. Thomas was not a nice man.”

“And your neighbor, Miss Watson...”

“Very sad, but she was quite elderly,” Patricia commented.

Edward nodded. “And most recently, the deaths of Constable and Mrs. Brown—and Mr. Bledsoe.”

“A tragic accident involving a faulty gas cooker, I believe,” Patricia said, shaking her head.

Helen added, “Gas can be so dangerous, can’t it? That’s why I only use an electric cooker.”

Patricia was getting impatient. “But what has all of this to do with us?”

“Apart from the unfortunate loss of our husbands, of course,” Natalie pointed out.

“Yes. Apart from that,” Patricia agreed.

“I was getting to that,” Edward said. “The last entry in Mr. Bledsoe’s notebook was a list of your names, followed by the letters ‘ACASLP’ and a question mark. You answered my first question already, which was what those letters stand for. My second question is, can any of you think what might have drawn Mr. Bledsoe’s attention to your organization?”

The four ladies exchanged nervous glances.

“Shall I tell you what I think?” Edward asked.

“Please do,” Patricia said apprehensively.

“Well, it seems to me that it would be natural for Mr. Bledsoe and Constable Brown to think of the ACASLP in these circumstances,” Edward began.

“And why is that?” Patricia pressed.

Edward looked around the room. “Come, Mrs. Townsend...”

“Patricia,” she corrected.

“Come, Patricia! Don’t be coy. The reason should be obvious, especially to you four ladies.”

“Should it?” Patricia asked.

“But don’t you see? Mr. Bledsoe and Constable Brown were planning to enlist your aid in their investigation!” Edward exclaimed.

“Ah! I see what you mean,” said Patricia. “No doubt you are right.”

“Of course I am! Ladies, I intend to carry on Mr. Bledsoe’s work. I have a meeting with the new constable tomorrow. I was going to show him the notebook, but I wanted to talk to you first. I wanted to be able to tell him that you will assist us in our investigation. Please say you will.”

Patricia hesitated. “We will take it under consideration.”

“Please do—and remember Dame Agatha’s words in Murder at the Vicarage: ‘There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.’ Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Good afternoon, Vicar,” Patricia replied.

“Not very bright, is he?” Louisa remarked, once they had heard the front door close behind him.

“‘Spinster lady of uncertain age’ indeed!” Natalie huffed. “I'm barely thirty-nine!”

“You’ve been ‘barely thirty-nine’ since the Queen’s Silver Jubilee,” muttered Louisa.

Patricia interrupted before Natalie could respond. “Ladies, it seems Little Piddling will soon be in need of a new vicar.”

“We can’t very well have another gas cooker accident, can we? People will get suspicious,” Louisa said.

“What about an accident in the bath?” Helen suggested.

“Not a bad idea, that. I wouldn’t mind seeing him in the bath. Rowr!” Natalie added.

“Don’t be vulgar, Nat,” Patricia chided. “No, I have just the thing for our nosy new vicar. It’s a new recipe I’ve been perfecting.” She picked up the bell and rang it.

“It’s a shame, you know. He is—was—handsome,” Helen said, staggering a little. “Oh my. I feel a bit woozy.”

“Come, dear. Let’s all sit down,” Louisa urged, guiding Helen back to her seat. She too felt a bit unsteady.

“It’s the emotional strain. We could all do with another cup of tea,” Patricia said, pouring out the remaining tea. Lizzie entered from the kitchen.

“You rang, ma’am?” she asked.

“Now listen to me very carefully, Lizzie,” Patricia said, patiently. “On the top shelf of the pantry you’ll find a tin of my special biscuits. I want you to go and get them and run them out to the vicar with our compliments. He can’t have got far. If you hurry, you should be able to catch him.”

Lizzie looked puzzled. “The special biscuits?”

“Yes. Now, go. Go, go, go!” Patricia said, making shooing motions towards the door.

Lizzie didn’t move. “You mean these biscuits, ma’am?” she asked, pointing to the empty plate on the tea table.

“No, you fool. I mean the special biscuits,” Patricia snapped. “The ones on the top shelf of the pantry.”

“But these are the special biscuits, ma’am—or rather, they were. It looks as though you’ve eaten them all.”

Patricia’s face paled as realization dawned. “What do you mean? Oh, you stupid girl. What have you done?”

“What is it? What’s happened?” Louisa demanded.

Patricia’s voice trembled. “Ladies, I—I’m afraid there’s been a mixup with the biscuits.”

Natalie cursed under her breath. “Oh, bugger. It’s the foxglove, isn’t it?”

Patricia nodded grimly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Ah! So this is what cardiac arrest feels like,” Helen said, her speech beginning to slur. “My tongue dothn’t theem to be working right.”

“I’m so sorry. But don’t worry. There should still be time. I’ll call for an ambulance.” Patricia struggled to get up but was unable to. “Oh, dear. I can’t seem to move. Lizzie, call for an ambulance at once.”

“Better make it two ambulances,” Louisa added. “I don’t think we’ll all fit in one.”

“Lizzie, call for two ambulances,” Patricia ordered.

“No,” Lizzie replied firmly.

“What?” Patricia’s voice was incredulous.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be calling for any number of ambulances,” Lizzie said.

Natalie’s voice was faint. “What has gotten into the girl? Lizzie, do you honestly want to be responsible for four deaths?”

Lizzie’s voice turned cold. “And how many deaths have you lot been responsible for, including my parents? More than twice that, I’ll wager.”

Patricia sighed. “I see. That’s what this is about.”

“Yes, that’s what this is about. So who’s the stupid girl now?” Lizzie retorted.

Patricia tried a different approach. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I misjudged you. How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions from the start. That’s why I took this job. And when you wear headphones and pretend to be stupid, it's amazing the things you can learn—such as how to sabotage a gas cooker, or where the poisoned biscuits are kept.”

Patricia’s tone turned conciliatory. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry. Your father’s and Mr. Bledsoe’s deaths were unfortunate, but necessary. It was self-preservation; they were on to us, you see. Your mother’s death, on the other hand, was regrettable.”

“‘Collateral damage,’ I suppose,” Lizzie said bitterly.

“You could call it that. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Patricia admitted.

“As I would have been, had I been home. What about all the others?” Lizzie demanded.

Patricia’s tone hardened. “The others all deserved what they got. They’re the sort we’re really after. Our husbands, for instance. That’s how it all started. They were making our lives miserable, with their lies and philandering...”

“Drinking and gambling...” Louisa added.

“Moshunal an’ phythical abuth...” Helen murmured.

“To be fair, mine was just mind-numbingly boring,” said Natalie.

“And as for Mr. Thomas—well, surely you remember how horrible he was,” Patricia continued.

Lizzie shuddered. “Ugh! He was horrible. Every time we went into his shop, he made the most disgusting comments. It got so we had to do our shopping in the next village.”

“And Miss Watson was a terrible gossip,” Patricia added.

“You should have heard some of the things she said about you, Lizzie,” Natalie remarked.

“The point is, Little Piddling is a much nicer place without them. If you think about it, we’ve been providing a public service,” Patricia declared.

“Weeding the garden, so to speak,” Louisa said.

“Lully methafor, Louitha,” Helen mumbled.

“Thank you, Helen. I thought it was apt,” Louisa replied.

“Vurry apth intheed,” Helen agreed.

Patricia interrupted sharply. “Ladies, there isn’t time!” She turned to Lizzie, her tone pleading. “Lizzie, we deeply regret what happened to your mother and father—and to you. Losing both your parents like that—it must have been terrible.”

Lizzie’s voice was icy. “To return from an evening out and find your home in ruins and your family dead? To lose everything in the blink of an eye? You can’t imagine—or maybe you can, now. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“Not at all well. I can’t seem to feel my legs,” Patricia admitted.

“Tongue numb, like wi’ arsnic,” Helen mumbled.

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” Louisa murmured.

“Cold. So cold,” Natalie whispered.

“Good! They say revenge is a dish best served cold,” Lizzie said with satisfaction.

Patricia’s tone turned curious. “And how do you feel, Lizzie?”

Lizzie considered for a moment. “Empowered.”

“It is a good feeling, isn’t it? Meting out justice?” Patricia asked.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is,” Lizzie agreed.

“How would you like to feel that way all the time?” Patricia offered.

Lizzie was wary. “What do you mean?”

“Join us, Lizzie!” Patricia urged.

“Join you?” Lizzie asked, skeptical.

“Join the ACASLP. Help us make Little Piddling a better place,” Patricia explained.

“Help us weed the garden, so to speak,” Louisa added.

“We could use a clever girl like you,” said Natalie.

“Cawfawah awmahlawth,” said Helen.

“What did you say?” Lizzie asked.

Helen tried again. “Caw faw ah awm ah lawth.”

“I believe she said, ‘Call for an ambulance,’” Louisa interpreted. “I wholeheartedly second the motion. All in favor?”

The four women feebly raised their hands.

“Think about our offer, Lizzie. But don’t take long. I fear our time is running out,” Patricia urged.

Lizzie watched as, one by one, the women lost consciousness. She crossed to the telephone table, singing softly to herself, “Wake me up before you go-go. Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo...”

She picked up the receiver. She hesitated...

 

An Agent of KAOS

 

If you're as old as I am, you will remember the 1960s TV sitcom Get Smart, created by Mel Brooks and Buck Henry. (If you're too young to have seen it, you might have seen the 2008 film that was based on it—although probably not; it was a pretty big flop.) The series was a parody of another popular TV series, The Man From U.N.C.L.E., which itself capitalized on the popularity of the James Bond franchise. Don Adams and Barbara Feldon played agents 86 and 99 of the secret government agency CONTROL. They were the good guys. Their chief adversary was Siegfried, an agent of KAOS.

His supporters think Donald Trump is one of the good guys—an agent of CONTROL, if you will. He certainly seemed to be in control on July 13th, when a would-be assassin's bullet took off the tip of his ear and he had the presence of mind to pause for a photo op before the secret service hustled him offstage.

But Trump is obviously an agent of KAOS.

His speeches are insane, incoherent rambles on windmills, toilets, sharks, Hannibal Lecter, Arnold Palmer's... you know. (He calls it "the weave," but a more common term is "dementia.") And have you forgotten his presidency? Apparently half the country has. They claim they were better off four years ago. Apparently they completely forgot about COVID-19. It's been estimated that his reckless handling of the pandemic caused hundreds of thousands of unnecessary deaths. Remember the constant turnover in the west wing? It seemed that every day someone was being fired or resigning in frustration, something he was apparently proud of. ("I like turnover. I like chaos.") As expected, his Supreme Court nominees voted to overturn Roe v. Wade, turning the country into a chaotic crazy quilt of conflicting abortion laws.

And how can anyone forgot the chaos of January 6, 2021, when he became the first president in our history to refuse to peacefully transfer the reins of power, instead opting to incite a violent insurrection?

In a couple of months, our country will once again be thrown into Donald Trump's chaos, and this time it will be even worse. Last time, there were people who were able to control his craziest impulses. (Drop a nuclear bomb into a hurricane?!) This time, there will be no guard rails. He will surround himself with sycophants who will serve without question. The judicial branch won't control him; the Supreme Court has granted him immunity. And if the Christofascist Heritage Foundation has its way, Project 2025 will undermine the legislative branch. The checks and balances carefully put in place by our founding fathers will effectively be removed, turning our country into a fascist autocracy.

Republicans I have admired—Lincoln, Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Ford—would never have stood for this. Even the ones I don't have much use for wouldn't. (We live just a few miles from where Reagan is buried; lately, I sometimes imagine I hear him spinning in his grave.) They would be appalled that their party elected a corrupt, pathologically dishonest demagogue like Trump, much less enabled him, with the aid of the Heritage Foundation, to systematically dismantle our government. But the Republican Party no longer exists. There is only the party of Trump, the party of chaos.

I could cry, but as Siegfried would say, "This is KAOS. We don't cry here."

Bernie Kopell as Siegfried

Is Anybody There?

 

It's been well over a year since my last post. Is anybody there? Does anybody care? Does anybody read blogs anymore? Does anybody write them? It seems to me that the blog is becoming as much a thing of the past as the Christmas ghost story. Speaking of which...

(Speaking of which, have you noticed that nobody says "Speaking of which" anymore? Now it's just "Speaking of." What happened to the "which?" But I digress. As I was saying...)

When I started this blog, I vowed to write a post every week. My weekly posts dwindled to the point where I was only posting once or twice a year—generally at Christmastime and generally ghost stories, because I've always been intrigued by ghost stories, and because I'd read several articles about reviving the tradition of sharing them at Christmas.

Last Christmas I was unable to post anything, and for a very good reason. (It's a long story; maybe someday I'll share it.) Now I'll go back to posting a Christmas ghost story or two each year for as long as I am able (whether anyone reads them or not).

The following is the most recent example I've come across; it’s only a couple of years older than I am. It was written by Rosemary Timperley. Ever hear of her? Neither have I. In fact, an article I found referred to her as “The Greatest Horror Writer You’ve Never Heard Of.” I don't know about that; since I started this project, I've come across a number of excellent horror writers I'd never heard of. However, I did thoroughly enjoy this little story, and I think you will too.

Merry Christmas!

Christmas Meeting
by Rosemary Timperley (1952)

I have never spent Christmas alone before.

It gives me an uncanny feeling, sitting alone in my “furnished room,” with my head full of ghosts, and the room full of voices of the past. It’s a drowning feeling – all the Christmases of the past coming back in a mad jumble: the childish Christmas, with a house full of relations, a tree in the window, sixpences in the pudding, and the delicious, crinckly stocking in the dark morning; the adolescent Christmas, with mother and father, the war and the bitter cold, and the letters from abroad; the first really grown-up Christmas, with a lover - the snow and the enchantment, red wine and kisses, and the walk in the dark before midnight, with the grounds so white, and the stars diamond bright in a black sky - so many Christmases through the years.

And, now the first Christmas alone.

But not quite loneliness. A feeling of companionship with all the other people who are spending Christmas alone - millions of them - past and present.

A feeling that if I close my eyes, there will be no past or future, only an endless present which is time, because it is all we ever have.

Yes, however cynical you are, however irreligious, it makes you feel queer to be alone at Christmas time.

So I’m absurdly relieved when the young man walks in. There’s nothing romantic about it - I’m a woman of nearly fifty, a spinster schoolma’am with grim, dark hair, and myopic eyes that once were beautiful, and he’s a kid of twenty, rather unconventionally dressed with a flowing wine-colored tie and black velvet jacket, and brown curls which could do with a taste of the barber’s scissors. The effeminacy of his dress is belied by his features - narrow, piercing, blue eyes, and arrogant, jutting nose and chin.

Not that he looks strong. The skin is fine-drawn over the prominent features, and he is very white.

He bursts in without knocking, then pauses, says: “I’m sorry. I thought this was my room.” He begins to go out, then hesitates and says: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s - queer, being alone at Christmas, isn’t it? May I stay and talk?”

“I’d be glad if you would.”

He comes right in, and sits down by the fire.

“I hope you don’t think I came in here on purpose. I really did think it was my room,” he explains.

“I’m glad you made the mistake. But you’re a very young person to be alone at Christmas time.”

“I wouldn’t go back to the country to my family. It would hold up my work. I’m a writer.”

“I see.” I can’t help smiling a little. That explains his rather unusual dress. And he takes himself so seriously, this young man! “Of course, you mustn’t waste a precious moment of writing,” I say with a twinkle.

“No, not a moment! That’s what my family won’t see. They don’t appreciate urgency.”

“Families are never appreciative of the artistic nature.”

“No, they aren’t,” he agrees seriously.

“What are you writing?”

“Poetry and a diary combined. It’s called ‘My poems and I,’ by Francis Randel. That’s my name. My family say there’s no point in my writing, that I’m too young. But I don’t feel young. Sometimes I feel like an old man, with too much to do before he dies.”

“Revolving faster and faster on the wheel of creativeness.”

“Yes! Yes, exactly! You understand! You must read my work some time. Please read my work! Read my work!” A note of desperation in his voice, a look of fear in his eyes makes me say:

“We’re both getting much too solemn for Christmas Day. I’m going to make you some coffee. And I have plum cake.”

I move about, clattering cups, spooning coffee into my percolator. But I must have offended him, for, when I look around, I found he has left me. I am absurdly disappointed.

I finish making coffee, however, then turn to the bookshelf in the room. It is piled high with volumes, for which the landlady has apologized profusely: “Hope you don’t mind the books, Miss, but my husband won’t part with them, and there’s nowhere to put them. We charge a bit less for the room for that reason.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “Books are good friends.”

But these aren’t very friendly-looking books. I take one at random. Or does some strange fate guide my hand?

Sipping my coffee, inhaling my cigarette smoke, I begin to read the battered little book, published, I see, in Spring, 1852. It’s mainly poetry - immature stuff, but vivid. Then there’s a kind of diary. More realistic, less affected. Out of curiosity, to see if there are any amusing comparisons, I turn to the entry for Christmas Day, 1851. I read:

“My first Christmas alone. I had rather an odd experience. When I went back to my lodgings after a walk, there was a middle-aged woman in my room. I thought, at first, I’d walked into the wrong room, but this was not so, and after a pleasant talk, she disappeared. I suppose she was a ghost. But I wasn’t frightened. I liked her. But I do not feel well tonight. Not at all well. I have never felt ill at Christmas before.”

A publisher’s note followed the last entry: Francis Randel died from a sudden heart attack on the night of Christmas Day 1851. The woman mentioned in this final entry in his diary was the last person to see him alive. In spite of requests for her to come forward, she never did so. Her identity remains a mystery.

 

Drama in the ER

You can count my visits to the emergency room on one hand. Literally. There have been exactly five—three of which were due to chest pain. All three of those turned out to be false alarms, but when it comes to chest pain, they say you can never be too careful.

The latest false alarm was Tuesday night. I started experiencing the pain just as I was about to go to sleep, and it steadily got worse. Loretta drove me to the hospital. By the time we arrived at the ER the pain was gone, but I figured I should probably get checked out anyway.

The ER was busy, but when it comes to chest pain, they don't mess around. Within the first half hour, they had taken an EKG, chest x-ray, and several vials of my blood. After that I spent about a half hour in the waiting room before the doctor told me that everything looked good, but that they would have to do another EKG and blood work in a couple of hours. He said they would put me in a bed as soon as one was available. I sent Loretta home and told her I would call when I was done. I regretted not bringing my Kindle, but as it turned out, there was no shortage of entertainment. I now know why so many movies and television shows are set in hospitals, and especially in emergency rooms.

The majority of the patients were children, all accompanied by exhausted-looking mothers. One mother fretted to her husband on the phone over how they would be able to afford the copay. Another wondered how she would have the energy to go to work in the morning. Her son, Coby, seemed like a happy, normal child; it was hard to believe he was sick. But I overheard Coby's mother tell a nurse that he had EoE and had been vomiting all day. I had never heard of EoE, so I used my phone to Google it:

Eosinophilic (e-o-sin-o-FILL-ik) esophagitis (EoE) is a recognized chronic allergic/immune condition of the esophagus.

The doctor had given Coby anti-nausea medication, and he seemed to be fine now. He chattered away non-stop to his mother and, at one point, to his father on the phone. About all I could understand were the words "Mommy" and "Daddy," until he loudly and proudly announced, “I have to poop.”

When they finally got me into a bed surrounded by a curtain, I could still hear everything going on around me. In the bed next to mine, a succession of nurses unsuccessfully attempted to insert a catheter into a man's—well, you know: "This time we’ll try the smallest one we have, and first we'll numb you with lidocaine. It's the same stuff your dentist uses.” (I bet he never used it there.) I cringed every time I heard the man yelp in pain. On the other side, a woman who thought she might have swallowed too many pills was being asked if she had ever had thoughts of suicide. Across the room, someone's groans called to mind Disney's Haunted Mansion.

Later, I heard the friendly young tech who had just administered my second EKG being reprimanded by his supervisor: “You take too much time, and you’re too familiar with the patients. It took you twelve minutes to put on that knee immobilizer. That’s much too long. And when the patient said his leg was too short, you said something about other parts being longer. You can’t say things like that.”

But the main event of the evening occurred while I was still in the waiting room. Just outside the door, in the hallway, we could hear sheriff's deputies talking to a man who was under arrest. "Why?" he complained. "I didn't do anything. My brother's the violent one. He punched me in the nose. You should be arresting him, not a seventy-one year-old with a heart condition. This is the worst day of my life!”

The deputies patiently explained, again and again, that he had to come with them to jail. After several minutes of this, the prisoner cursed under his breath. There were sounds of a scuffle, followed by the prisoner crying out in pain and shouting, "You broke my arm!"

"You're lucky I didn't knock your teeth out," the deputy growled. "What were you thinking, grabbing for my gun? Were you planning to shoot me or yourself?"

"I just wanted to end it all," the prisoner whined.

A few minutes later, I saw the deputies march him past the door in handcuffs: a dejected, disheveled old man, half the size of the deputy he had attacked. A doctor accompanied them, to examine his "broken arm." I never saw them again, so I don't know if the arm was truly broken. I suspected he was faking it, until I later overheard a witness tell another deputy that during the scuffle he had heard a "pop."

As I said, my chest pain turned out to be a false alarm. It was probably a muscle spasm—either that, or gas. It was nearly 3:00 AM when the doctor released me. I didn't want to disturb Loretta, so I asked the receptionist to call me an Uber. She called, but she told me it would be a while before one was available. A man sitting next to me in the reception area kindly offered to take me home. I politely refused his offer, but he pointed out that I was unlikely to get an Uber at that hour, and that for him it was better than just sitting there, waiting to hear about his mother, who had suffered a stroke. So I took him up on his offer.

An exciting night, and through all the drama, the staff maintained their composure, compassion, and professionalism. As far as I know they only lost one patient: that woman who took too many pills.

She didn't die—at least not that I know of. She just wandered off. They were still looking for her when I left.

The Crown Derby Plate

Six years ago, after reading an article about "the great English tradition of Christmas ghost stories," I began posting one or two examples of the genre every year. You could say that collecting Christmas ghost stories became something of an obsession with me.

As obsessions go, mine is a relatively safe one. Not so with the obsession of the protagonist of The Crown Derby Plate. The title refers to a piece of china, which Martha Pym will risk just about anything—even a "fearful," "indescribable smell"—to possess.

c1880 /1900's Royal Crown Derby Bone China Scalloped Plate

Margaret Gabrielle Vere Long was a 20th century English writer of history, historical fiction, and horror who wrote prolifically under several pen names, including Marjorie Bowen. One reviewer described her as "one of the great supernatural writers of this century." After reading The Crown Derby Plate, I'm sure you'll agree.

Merry Christmas!

The Crown Derby Plate
by Marjorie Bowen (1933)

Martha Pym said that she had never seen a ghost and that she would very much like to do so, “particularly at Christmas, for you can laugh as you like, that is the correct time to see a ghost.”

“I don’t suppose you ever will,” replied her cousin Mabel comfortably, while her cousin Clara shuddered and said that she hoped they would change the subject for she disliked even to think of such things.

The three elderly, cheerful women sat round a big fire, cosy and content after a day of pleasant activities; Martha was the guest of the other two, who owned the handsome, convenient country house; she always came to spend her Christmas with the Wyntons and found the leisurely country life delightful after the bustling round of London, for Martha managed an antique shop of the better sort and worked extremely hard. She was, however, still full of zest for work or pleasure, though sixty years old, and looked backwards and forwards to a succession of delightful days.

The other two, Mabel and Clara, led quieter but none the less agreeable lives; they had more money and fewer interests, but nevertheless enjoyed themselves very well.

“Talking of ghosts,” said Mabel, “I wonder how that old woman at ‘Hartleys’ is getting on, for ‘Hartleys,’ you know, is supposed to be haunted.”

“Yes, I know,” smiled Miss Pym, “but all the years that we have known of the place we have never heard anything definite, have we?”

“No,” put in Clara; “but there is that persistent rumour that the House is uncanny, and for myself, nothing would induce me to live there!”

“It is certainly very lonely and dreary down there on the marshes,” conceded Mabel. “But as for the ghost—you never hear what it is supposed to be even.”

“Who has taken it?” asked Miss Pym, remembering “Hartleys” as very desolate indeed, and long shut up.

“A Miss Lefain, an eccentric old creature—I think you met her here once, two years ago——”

“I believe that I did, but I don’t recall her at all.”

“We have not seen her since, ‘Hartleys’ is so un-get-at-able and she didn’t seem to want visitors. She collects china, Martha, so really you ought to go and see her and talk ‘shop.’”

With the word “china” some curious associations came into the mind of Martha Pym; she was silent while she strove to put them together, and after a second or two they all fitted together into a very clear picture.

She remembered that thirty years ago—yes, it must be thirty years ago, when, as a young woman, she had put all her capital into the antique business, and had been staying with her cousins (her aunt had then been alive) that she had driven across the marsh to “Hartleys,” where there was an auction sale; all the details of this she had completely forgotten, but she could recall quite clearly purchasing a set of gorgeous china which was still one of her proud delights, a perfect set of Crown Derby save that one plate was missing.

“How odd,” she remarked, “that this Miss Lefain should collect china too, for it was at ‘Hartleys’ that I purchased my dear old Derby service—I’ve never been able to match that plate——”

“A plate was missing? I seem to remember,” said Clara. “Didn’t they say that it must be in the house somewhere and that it should be looked for?”

“I believe they did, but of course I never heard any more and that missing plate has annoyed me ever since. Who had ‘Hartleys’?”

“An old connoisseur, Sir James Sewell; I believe he was some relation to this Miss Lefain, but I don’t know——”

“I wonder if she has found the plate,” mused Miss Pym. “I expect she has turned out and ransacked the whole place——”

“Why not trot over and ask?” suggested Mabel. “It’s not much use to her, if she has found it, one odd plate.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Clara. “Fancy going over the marshes, this weather, to ask about a plate missed all those years ago. I’m sure Martha wouldn’t think of it——”

But Martha did think of it; she was rather fascinated by the idea; how queer and pleasant it would be if, after all these years, nearly a lifetime, she should find the Crown Derby plate, the loss of which had always irked her! And this hope did not seem so altogether fantastical, it was quite likely that old Miss Lefain, poking about in the ancient house, had found the missing piece.

And, of course, if she had, being a fellow-collector, she would be quite willing to part with it to complete the set.

Her cousin endeavoured to dissuade her; Miss Lefain, she declared, was a recluse, an odd creature who might greatly resent such a visit and such a request.

“Well, if she does I can but come away again,” smiled Miss Pym. “I suppose she can’t bite my head off, and I rather like meeting these curious types—we’ve got a love for old china in common, anyhow.”

“It seems so silly to think of it—after all these years—a plate!”

“A Crown Derby plate,” corrected Miss Pym. “It is certainly strange that I didn’t think of it before, but now that I have got it into my head I can’t get it out. Besides,” she added hopefully, “I might see the ghost.”

So full, however, were the days with pleasant local engagements that Miss Pym had no immediate chance of putting her scheme into practice; but she did not relinquish it, and she asked several different people what they knew about “Hartleys” and Miss Lefain.

And no one knew anything save that the house was supposed to be haunted and the owner “cracky.”

“Is there a story?” asked Miss Pym, who associated ghosts with neat tales into which they fitted as exactly as nuts into shells.

But she was always told: “Oh, no, there isn’t a story, no one knows anything about the place, don’t know how the idea got about; old Sewell was half-crazy, I believe, he was buried in the garden and that gives a house a nasty name——”

“Very unpleasant,” said Martha Pym, undisturbed.

This ghost seemed too elusive for her to track down; she would have to be content if she could recover the Crown Derby plate; for that at least she was determined to make a try and also to satisfy that faint tingling of curiosity roused in her by this talk about “Hartleys” and the remembrance of that day, so long ago, when she had gone to the auction sale at the lonely old house.

So the first free afternoon, while Mabel and Clara were comfortably taking their afternoon repose, Martha Pym, who was of a more lively habit, got out her little governess cart and dashed away across the Essex flats.

She had taken minute directions with her, but she had soon lost her way.

Under the wintry sky, which looked as grey and hard as metal, the marshes stretched bleakly to the horizon, the olive-brown broken reeds were harsh as scars on the saffron-tinted bogs, where the sluggish waters that rose so high in winter were filmed over with the first stillness of a frost; the air was cold but not keen, everything was damp; faintest of mists blurred the black outlines of trees that rose stark from the ridges above the stagnant dykes; the flooded fields were haunted by black birds and white birds, gulls and crows, whining above the long ditch grass and wintry wastes.

Miss Pym stopped the little horse and surveyed this spectral scene, which had a certain relish about it to one sure to return to a homely village, a cheerful house and good company.

A withered and bleached old man, in colour like the dun landscape, came along the road between the sparse alders.

Miss Pym, buttoning up her coat, asked the way to “Hartleys” as he passed her; he told her, straight on, and she proceeded, straight indeed across the road that went with undeviating length across the marshes.

“Of course,” thought Miss Pym, “if you live in a place like this, you are bound to invent ghosts.”

The house sprang up suddenly on a knoll ringed with rotting trees, encompassed by an old brick wall that the perpetual damp had overrun with lichen, blue, green, white colours of decay.

“Hartleys,” no doubt, there was no other residence of human being in sight in all the wide expanse; besides, she could remember it, surely, after all this time, the sharp rising out of the marsh, the colony of tall trees, but then fields and trees had been green and bright—there had been no water on the flats, it had been summer-time.

“She certainly,” thought Miss Pym, “must be crazy to live here. And I rather doubt if I shall get my plate.”

She fastened up the good little horse by the garden gate which stood negligently ajar and entered; the garden itself was so neglected that it was quite surprising to see a trim appearance in the house, curtains at the window and a polish on the brass door knocker, which must have been recently rubbed there, considering the taint in the sea damp which rusted and rotted everything.

It was a square-built, substantial house with “nothing wrong with it but the situation,” Miss Pym decided, though it was not very attractive, being built of that drab plastered stone so popular a hundred years ago, with flat windows and door, while one side was gloomily shaded by a large evergreen tree of the cypress variety which gave a blackish tinge to that portion of the garden.

There was no pretence at flower-beds nor any manner of cultivation in this garden where a few rank weeds and straggling bushes matted together above the dead grass; on the enclosing wall which appeared to have been built high as protection against the ceaseless winds that swung along the flats were the remains of fruit trees; their crucified branches, rotting under the great nails that held them up, looked like the skeletons of those who had died in torment.

Miss Pym took in these noxious details as she knocked firmly at the door; they did not depress her; she merely felt extremely sorry for anyone who could live in such a place.

She noticed, at the far end of the garden, in the corner of the wall, a headstone showing above the sodden colourless grass, and remembered what she had been told about the old antiquary being buried there, in the grounds of “Hartleys.”

As the knock had no effect she stepped back and looked at the house; it was certainly inhabited—with those neat windows, white curtains and drab blinds all pulled to precisely the same level.

And when she brought her glance back to the door she saw that it had been opened and that someone, considerably obscured by the darkness of the passage, was looking at her intently.

“Good afternoon,” said Miss Pym cheerfully. “I just thought that I would call to see Miss Lefain—it is Miss Lefain, isn’t it?”

“It’s my house,” was the querulous reply.

Martha Pym had hardly expected to find any servants here, though the old lady must, she thought, work pretty hard to keep the house so clean and tidy as it appeared to be.

“Of course,” she replied. “May I come in? I’m Martha Pym, staying with the Wyntons, I met you there——”

“Do come in,” was the faint reply. “I get so few people to visit me, I’m really very lonely.”

“I don’t wonder,” thought Miss Pym; but she had resolved to take no notice of any eccentricity on the part of her hostess, and so she entered the house with her usual agreeable candour and courtesy.

The passage was badly lit, but she was able to get a fair idea of Miss Lefain; her first impression was that this poor creature was most dreadfully old, older than any human being had the right to be, why, she felt young in comparison—so faded, feeble, and pallid was Miss Lefain.

She was also monstrously fat; her gross, flaccid figure was shapeless and she wore a badly cut, full dress of no colour at all, but stained with earth and damp where Miss Pym supposed she had been doing futile gardening; this gown was doubtless designed to disguise her stoutness, but had been so carelessly pulled about that it only added to it, being rucked and rolled “all over the place” as Miss Pym put it to herself.

Another ridiculous touch about the appearance of the poor old lady was her short hair; decrepit as she was, and lonely as she lived she had actually had her scanty relics of white hair cropped round her shaking head.

“Dear me, dear me,” she said in her thin treble voice. “How very kind of you to come. I suppose you prefer the parlour? I generally sit in the garden.”

“The garden? But not in this weather?”

“I get used to the weather. You’ve no idea how used one gets to the weather.”

“I suppose so,” conceded Miss Pym doubtfully. “You don’t live here quite alone, do you?”

“Quite alone, lately. I had a little company, but she was taken away, I’m sure I don’t know where. I haven’t been able to find a trace of her anywhere,” replied the old lady peevishly.

“Some wretched companion that couldn’t stick it, I suppose,” thought Miss Pym. “Well, I don’t wonder—but someone ought to be here to look after her.”

They went into the parlour, which, the visitor was dismayed to see, was without a fire but otherwise well kept.

And there, on dozens of shelves was a choice array of china at which Martha Pym’s eyes glistened.

“Aha!” cried Miss Lefain. “I see you’ve noticed my treasures! Don’t you envy me? Don’t you wish that you had some of those pieces?”

Martha Pym certainly did and she looked eagerly and greedily round the walls, tables, and cabinets while the old woman followed her with little thin squeals of pleasure.

It was a beautiful little collection, most choicely and elegantly arranged, and Martha thought it marvellous that this feeble ancient creature should be able to keep it in such precise order as well as doing her own housework.

“Do you really do everything yourself here and live quite alone?” she asked, and she shivered even in her thick coat and wished that Miss Lefain’s energy had risen to a fire, but then probably she lived in the kitchen, as these lonely eccentrics often did.

“There was someone,” answered Miss Lefain cunningly, “but I had to send her away. I told you she’s gone, I can’t find her, and I am so glad. Of course,” she added wistfully, “it leaves me very lonely, but then I couldn’t stand her impertinence any longer. She used to say that it was her house and her collection of china! Would you believe it? She used to try to chase me away from looking at my own things!”

“How very disagreeable,” said Miss Pym, wondering which of the two women had been crazy. “But hadn’t you better get someone else?”

“Oh, no,” was the jealous answer. “I would rather be alone with my things, I daren’t leave the house for fear someone takes them away—there was a dreadful time once when an auction sale was held here——”

“Were you here then?” asked Miss Pym; but indeed she looked old enough to have been anywhere.

“Yes, of course,” Miss Lefain replied rather peevishly and Miss Pym decided that she must be a relation of old Sir James Sewell. Clara and Mabel had been very foggy about it all. “I was very busy hiding all the china—but one set they got—a Crown Derby tea service——”

“With one plate missing!” cried Martha Pym. “I bought it, and do you know, I was wondering if you’d found it——”

“I hid it,” piped Miss Lefain.

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, that’s rather funny behaviour. Why did you hide the stuff away instead of buying it?”

“How could I buy what was mine?”

“Old Sir James left it to you, then?” asked Martha Pym, feeling very muddled.

“She bought a lot more,” squeaked Miss Lefain, but Martha Pym tried to keep her to the point.

“If you’ve got the plate,” she insisted, “you might let me have it—I’ll pay quite handsomely, it would be so pleasant to have it after all these years.”

“Money is no use to me,” said Miss Lefain mournfully. “Not a bit of use. I can’t leave the house or the garden.”

“Well, you have to live, I suppose,” replied Martha Pym cheerfully. “And, do you know, I’m afraid you are getting rather morbid and dull, living here all alone—you really ought to have a fire—why, it’s just on Christmas and very damp.”

“I haven’t felt the cold for a long time,” replied the other; she seated herself with a sigh on one of the horsehair chairs and Miss Pym noticed with a start that her feet were covered only by a pair of white stockings; “one of those nasty health fiends,” thought Miss Pym, “but she doesn’t look too well for all that.”

“So you don’t think that you could let me have the plate?” she asked briskly, walking up and down, for the dark, neat, clean parlour was very cold indeed, and she thought that she couldn’t stand this much longer; as there seemed no sign of tea or anything pleasant and comfortable she had really better go.

“I might let you have it,” sighed Miss Lefain, “since you’ve been so kind as to pay me a visit. After all, one plate isn’t much use, is it?”

“Of course not, I wonder you troubled to hide it——”

“I couldn’t bear,” wailed the other, “to see the things going out of the house!”

Martha Pym couldn’t stop to go into all this; it was quite clear that the old lady was very eccentric indeed and that nothing very much could be done with her; no wonder that she had “dropped out” of everything and that no one ever saw her or knew anything about her, though Miss Pym felt that some effort ought really to be made to save her from herself.

“Wouldn’t you like a run in my little governess cart?” she suggested. “We might go to tea with the Wyntons on the way back, they’d be delighted to see you, and I really think that you do want taking out of yourself.”

“I was taken out of myself some time ago,” replied Miss Lefain. “I really was, and I couldn’t leave my things—though,” she added with pathetic gratitude, “it is very, very kind of you——”

“Your things would be quite safe, I’m sure,” said Martha Pym, humouring her. “Who ever would come up here, this hour of a winter’s day?”

“They do, oh, they do! And she might come back, prying and nosing and saying that it was all hers, all my beautiful china, hers!”

Miss Lefain squealed in her agitation and rising up, ran round the wall fingering with flaccid yellow hands the brilliant glossy pieces on the shelves.

“Well, then, I’m afraid that I must go, they’ll be expecting me, and it’s quite a long ride; perhaps some other time you’ll come and see us?”

“Oh, must you go?” quavered Miss Lefain dolefully. “I do like a little company now and then and I trusted you from the first—the others, when they do come, are always after my things and I have to frighten them away!”

“Frighten them away!” replied Martha Pym. “However do you do that?”

“It doesn’t seem difficult, people are so easily frightened, aren’t they?”

Miss Pym suddenly remembered that “Hartleys” had the reputation of being haunted—perhaps the queer old thing played on that; the lonely house with the grave in the garden was dreary enough around which to create a legend.

“I suppose you’ve never seen a ghost?” she asked pleasantly. “I’d rather like to see one, you know——”

“There is no one here but myself,” said Miss Lefain.

“So you’ve never seen anything? I thought it must be all nonsense. Still, I do think it rather melancholy for you to live here all alone——”

Miss Lefain sighed:

“Yes, it’s very lonely. Do stay and talk to me a little longer.” Her whistling voice dropped cunningly. “And I’ll give you the Crown Derby plate!”

“Are you sure you’ve really got it?” Miss Pym asked.

“I’ll show you.”

Fat and waddling as she was, she seemed to move very lightly as she slipped in front of Miss Pym and conducted her from the room, going slowly up the stairs—such a gross odd figure in that clumsy dress with the fringe of white hair hanging on to her shoulders.

The upstairs of the house was as neat as the parlour, everything well in its place; but there was no sign of occupancy; the beds were covered with dust sheets, there were no lamps or fires set ready. “I suppose,” said Miss Pym to herself, “she doesn’t care to show me where she really lives.”

But as they passed from one room to another, she could not help saying:

“Where do you live, Miss Lefain?”

“Mostly in the garden,” said the other.

Miss Pym thought of those horrible health huts that some people indulged in.

“Well, sooner you than I,” she replied cheerfully.

In the most distant room of all, a dark, tiny closet, Miss Lefain opened a deep cupboard and brought out a Crown Derby plate which her guest received with a spasm of joy, for it was actually that missing from her cherished set.

“It’s very good of you,” she said in delight. “Won’t you take something for it, or let me do something for you?”

“You might come and see me again,” replied Miss Lefain wistfully.

“Oh, yes, of course I should like to come and see you again.”

But now that she had got what she had really come for, the plate, Martha Pym wanted to be gone; it was really very dismal and depressing in the house and she began to notice a fearful smell—the place had been shut up too long, there was something damp rotting somewhere, in this horrid little dark closet no doubt.

“I really must be going,” she said hurriedly.

Miss Lefain turned as if to cling to her, but Martha Pym moved quickly away.

“Dear me,” wailed the old lady. “Why are you in such haste?”

“There’s—a smell,” murmured Miss Pym rather faintly.

She found herself hastening down the stairs, with Miss Lefain complaining behind her.

“How peculiar people are—she used to talk of a smell——”

“Well, you must notice it yourself.”

Miss Pym was in the hall; the old woman had not followed her, but stood in the semi-darkness at the head of the stairs, a pale shapeless figure.

Martha Pym hated to be rude and ungrateful but she could not stay another moment; she hurried away and was in her cart in a moment—really—that smell——

“Good-bye!” she called out with false cheerfulness, “and thank you so much!”

There was no answer from the house.

Miss Pym drove on; she was rather upset and took another way than that by which she had come, a way that led past a little house raised above the marsh; she was glad to think that the poor old creature at “Hartleys” had such near neighbours, and she reined up the horse, dubious as to whether she should call someone and tell them that poor old Miss Lefain really wanted a little looking after, alone in a house like that, and plainly not quite right in her head.

A young woman, attracted by the sound of the governess cart, came to the door of the house and seeing Miss Pym called out, asking if she wanted the keys of the house?

“What house?” asked Miss Pym.

“‘Hartleys,’ mum, they don’t put a board out, as no one is likely to pass, but it’s to be sold. Miss Lefain wants to sell or let it——”

“I’ve just been up to see her——”

“Oh, no, mum—she’s been away a year, abroad somewhere, couldn’t stand the place, it’s been empty since then, I just run in every day and keep things tidy——”

Loquacious and curious the young woman had come to the fence; Miss Pym had stopped her horse.

“Miss Lefain is there now,” she said. “She must have just come back——”

“She wasn’t there this morning, mum, ‘tisn’t likely she’d come, either—fair scared she was, mum, fair chased away, didn’t dare move her china. Can’t say I’ve noticed anything myself, but I never stay long—and there’s a smell——”

“Yes,” murmured Martha Pym faintly, “there’s a smell. What—what—chased her away?”

The young woman, even in that lonely place, lowered her voice.

“Well, as you aren’t thinking of taking the place, she got an idea in her head that old Sir James—well, he couldn’t bear to leave ‘Hartleys,’ mum, he’s buried in the garden, and she thought he was after her, chasing round them bits of china——”

“Oh!” cried Miss Pym.

“Some of it used to be his, she found a lot stuffed away, he said they were to be left in ‘Hartleys,’ but Miss Lefain would have the things sold, I believe—that’s years ago——”

“Yes, yes,” said Miss Pym with a sick look. “You don’t know what he was like, do you?”

“No, mum—but I’ve heard tell he was very stout and very old—I wonder who it was you saw up at ‘Hartleys’?”

Miss Pym took a Crown Derby plate from her bag.

“You might take that back when you go,” she whispered. “I shan’t want it, after all——”

Before the astonished young woman could answer Miss Pym had darted off across the marsh; that short hair, that earth-stained robe, the white socks, “I generally live in the garden——”

Miss Pym drove away, breakneck speed, frantically resolving to mention to no one that she had paid a visit to “Hartleys,” nor lightly again to bring up the subject of ghosts.

She shook and shuddered in the damp, trying to get out of her clothes and her nostrils—that indescribable smell.