ghost entered her room; quite silently, since the door was partly ajar. Her bundle of curly hair, lying across the pillow, was tangled and slightly damp in the heat. She was wearing a white cotton nightie, slightly ragged like most of her clothes. There were no fastenings: the ghost could see her small breasts, with their tiny puckered nipples. Nell Meredith dreaming had a certain beguiling sensuality, a young girl painted by Balthus perhaps, or her slightly older sister. Sleep had ironed out the sadness or petulance from her pointed little face and replaced it with something more innocently open.
But the ghost was not interested in sensual experiences—as ghosts should not be. The Decimus Ghost had a mission, a proper ghost's mission. You could call it a mission to frighten. The Decimus Ghost, in short, wanted to make quite sure that there would be no repetition of Nell Meredith's inconvenient behaviour following the butler's death. Some thought had been addressed to the subject of making quite sure. Perhaps that hysterical babbling to the sympathetic young woman who turned out to be a journalist from the Daily Exclusive had been a natural reaction to shock. Certainly it was a maddening coincidence that Nell of all people should arrive in the chapel garden just after the girl gardener had discovered the body. The girl gardener alone—no connection to the family—would have created far less trouble. Natural reaction to shock, maybe—for all that, the ghost suspected that Nell had thoroughly enjoyed the attention following her revelations.
What was that new government policy towards young offenders called, a while back.7 There had been a lot of fuss about it; then the fuss had died down as fusses of this sort usually did, in favour of the next fuss. A short sharp shock—that was it. The perfect phrase, whatever the demerits of the policy. The Decimus Ghost intended to give Little Nell Meredith a short sharp shock. The ghost extended a hand. The deep lace cuff which fell back from the black glove did not rob the glove itself of its air of menace, as, casting a faint shadow in the greyish light from the window, it hovered over the face of the sleeping girl.
At that moment Nell Meredith opened both her eyes, wide. For one instant she stared up without blinking at the shape looming above her, the outline of the plumed hat just discernible against the window, 'hen she shut her eyes again.
Throughout this time—which seemed like eternity to the intruder ut could not in fact have lasted longer than two or three seconds—the Decimus Ghost remained arrested over the girl, quite motionless, hand still outstretched. For a moment too there was not even the sound of breathing in the bedroom. Then, as the ghost drew back the gloved hand and backed silently away, there was a sound of exhalation. Nell at least was breathing again. After a while, as the ghost stood at the doorway, her breathing became soft and regular. If you had entered the room for the first time at this point, you would have confidently imagined the girl to have been fast asleep.
But the Decimus Ghost was not under any such comforting illusion. Nell was merely pretending to be asleep, that was unpleasantly clear. By faking sleep now, she was trying to establish, ostrich-fashion, that she had never been awake, that the fatal—as it might prove—clear upward glance of her wide apart brown eyes in the direction of the ghost had never taken place.
The question was: what had she seen? Or rather, what would she make of what she had seen? The information could prove rather important for the lifespan of the Decimus Ghost (if a ghost could have a lifespan, maybe timespan was a better word) or even, to put it another grimmer way, for the lifespan of Little Nell. But the ghost did not want to put it like that. In fact, would not dream of putting it like that. That sort of thought was absolutely out of the question. The whole Decimus plan was working out so well,
But the ghost was not interested in sensual experiences—as ghosts should not be. The Decimus Ghost had a mission, a proper ghost's mission. You could call it a mission to frighten. The Decimus Ghost, in short, wanted to make quite sure that there would be no repetition of Nell Meredith's inconvenient behaviour following the butler's death. Some thought had been addressed to the subject of making quite sure. Perhaps that hysterical babbling to the sympathetic young woman who turned out to be a journalist from the Daily Exclusive had been a natural reaction to shock. Certainly it was a maddening coincidence that Nell of all people should arrive in the chapel garden just after the girl gardener had discovered the body. The girl gardener alone—no connection to the family—would have created far less trouble. Natural reaction to shock, maybe—for all that, the ghost suspected that Nell had thoroughly enjoyed the attention following her revelations.
What was that new government policy towards young offenders called, a while back.7 There had been a lot of fuss about it; then the fuss had died down as fusses of this sort usually did, in favour of the next fuss. A short sharp shock—that was it. The perfect phrase, whatever the demerits of the policy. The Decimus Ghost intended to give Little Nell Meredith a short sharp shock. The ghost extended a hand. The deep lace cuff which fell back from the black glove did not rob the glove itself of its air of menace, as, casting a faint shadow in the greyish light from the window, it hovered over the face of the sleeping girl.
At that moment Nell Meredith opened both her eyes, wide. For one instant she stared up without blinking at the shape looming above her, the outline of the plumed hat just discernible against the window, 'hen she shut her eyes again.
Throughout this time—which seemed like eternity to the intruder ut could not in fact have lasted longer than two or three seconds—the Decimus Ghost remained arrested over the girl, quite motionless, hand still outstretched. For a moment too there was not even the sound of breathing in the bedroom. Then, as the ghost drew back the gloved hand and backed silently away, there was a sound of exhalation. Nell at least was breathing again. After a while, as the ghost stood at the doorway, her breathing became soft and regular. If you had entered the room for the first time at this point, you would have confidently imagined the girl to have been fast asleep.
But the Decimus Ghost was not under any such comforting illusion. Nell was merely pretending to be asleep, that was unpleasantly clear. By faking sleep now, she was trying to establish, ostrich-fashion, that she had never been awake, that the fatal—as it might prove—clear upward glance of her wide apart brown eyes in the direction of the ghost had never taken place.
The question was: what had she seen? Or rather, what would she make of what she had seen? The information could prove rather important for the lifespan of the Decimus Ghost (if a ghost could have a lifespan, maybe timespan was a better word) or even, to put it another grimmer way, for the lifespan of Little Nell. But the ghost did not want to put it like that. In fact, would not dream of putting it like that. That sort of thought was absolutely out of the question. The whole Decimus plan was working out so well,
Similar Books
