Aunt Toffy and the Ghost Read online

  Adorna swallowed her retort. So the truth had surfaced—Mrs. Malone did not wish to be inconvenienced on her trip. Toffy narrowed her eyes and went up stairs. She returned quickly, quite transformed.

  Adorna was amazed at Toffy’s ability for theater and the dramatic. She had wrapped a black shawl with long fringe around her shoulders, put on a dark lace cap. Now she moved about the parlor, blowing out all but two candles. The rain was falling harder now, and it cloaked the room in a dim ambience. Toffy’s old fashioned lace cap was not a turban, but her gestures and costume made you almost believe she had some manner of gypsy second sight.

  “Oh, Meridius, you venerable General of the Roman Army, we beseech you, come to us now. Help us find a treasure of great value.”

  Adorna didn’t know Meridius was a general. Or was Toffy embellishing even more for Mrs. Malone’s benefit?

  Mrs. Malone was perched on the edge of the settee, her eyes sharp with interest.

  “Please describe the item,” Toffy commanded with a quick glance at the woman. “Meridius must get a picture of it, if he is to search the earthly plane. Concentrate—see it with your mind’s eye.”

  “It is black, about the size of a goose egg, a carved profile of a lady done in Italian shell, surrounded with diamonds and amethysts, some seed pearls, a mourning piece, given to me on the death of my grandmother. It has great monetary but even greater sentimental value.”

  “Oh, Meridius, please help us now.” Toffy moaned, moving to and fro as if she were buffeted by a strong wind. “Meridius! Meridius Wiggus!”

  Adorna was taken by the performance. She was actually holding her breath when suddenly one solitary candle went out. A cold gust of wind blew through the room, chilling her to the bone. Long shadows danced up the wall from the single remaining candle which was now burning brighter, the flame growing taller, reaching toward the ceiling. The flame did look like ghostly fingers reaching upward.

  “Oh! He is here!! The ghost is here! I can feel him among us.” Mrs. Malone keened. Her face was round with awe.

  Toffy nodded, her expression solemn. “Meridius has seen the jeweled piece you search for. He says you must look in the needles and thread. That is where it will be found. In the needles and threads among the gloves…among the gloves…seek among the gloves,” Toffy said in a high hollow voice as the chilly wind whipped around the room.

  ****

  A day later word came from the Malone house that a pair of kidskin gloves in need of mending, had been found balled up in a sewing basket in one of the downstairs maid’s room. Caught by a snag of thread, overlooked and only misplaced, was the missing broach. Evidently it had been scooped up with the sewing. No intent of theft—only an accident. Peace had been restored to the household, and Mrs. and Mrs. Malone, a young reporter named Todd Hull, and Molly Malone left Edinburgh for Dullinmuth with servants and maids aplenty the very same day.

  Along with that written explanation had been a small, neatly wrapped parcel for Toffy. She opened it and inside found a plump stack of sterling notes.

  “Oh my!” Adorna stood beside her, shocked by the amount.

  Toffy counted them twice. “Little enough to my way of thinking. Twice as much would have been too little,” she muttered. “The woman fair ruined your business. But it is a start—it is a start.”

  “What are you talking about?” Adorna was struck by the mercenary bent her aunt was displaying.

  “Mrs. Malone was as good as her word.” Toffy smiled impishly, waving the notes. “No less than she should’ve been.”

  “What exactly did you ask for in payment for Meridius’s help?”

  “I told her to let her conscience, and the spirit world, guide her. Good intent is a fine thing, but cold coin spends better. Meridius and I have decided this is just the first.”

  “Toffy!!” Adorna laughed in spite of herself. Her aunt had become an extortionist with the help of a spirit. Toffy and the ghost were a formidable duo—Edinburgh should beware.

  ****

  Dullinmuth was alive with activity. Basil was beside himself with joy. Servants dressed smartly in the Dullinmuth plaid were rushing about polishing furniture, laying fires in seldom used rooms, catching hens for the pot.

  The old hall had a good cleaning, the central fireplace in the great hall was blazing to drive away the damp. He had a cask of whisky brought up from the cellar, and a barrel of wine was to be tapped. Soon the long table would be groaning with food.

  Rawly and Basil stood aside and watched as a hive of activity brought the ancient place to life. Basil clapped a hand to Rawly’s shoulder.

  “I am beyond happy lad. ’Tis good to see you have come round to my way of thinking about finding a wife.” Basil was openly proud of himself for finding a solution to his perceived problem.

  “Here Grandfather, allow me to make an adjustment.” Rawly bent at the waist to help his grandfather with the leather bindings on his sporran. As a finishing touch, he had put on the Rawlings pin at the front of the kilt—it too needed a bit of straightening. He looked resplendent in his tartan, and the old lace at his throat and cuffs had a faded elegance that complimented his silver hair. He was definitely a man out of his time. He was of old Scotland—lairds and pipers—the fiery cross being carried across the heather and glens—fierce men and valiant women. Their like would not be seen again.

  Rawly had chosen to wear trousers cut from Dullinmuth plaid. He wore leather shoes with pewter buckles and his neck cloth had been tied elaborately. He pulled on his coat of black and sighed.

  “’Tis it so bad?” Basil asked.

  “I want to see you happy, sir.” Rawly both answered and evaded the question.

  “A wedding will make me happy. A bairn will make me happier yet.” The old gent patted his grandson’s shoulder affectionately. “Enough digging around worrying the past like a ratter with a bone. ’Tis the future we are setting our eyes to now, eh? When will you be asking the lass?”

  “I received a letter from Tobias.” Rawly changed the topic—once again not answering.

  Basil held up a hand. “Nay, do not ruin my mood. I want to hear naught he has to say. He has made his bed, now he must lie in it.” He ran his fingers through his white hair causing it to stand wildly in spots.

  Rawly sighed and nodded his assent. He had no wish to see his grandfather upset. He hoped his plan tonight bore fruit. He had made a promise to Mrs. Miggins, and he intended to keep it.

  One way or the other.

  ****

  The sun dipped behind the tall Caledonian pines and washed the countryside in a mauve glow. As summer approached, night moved farther away each evening. This was the time when Dullinmuth looked her best—in the gloaming. The hewn stones basked in the soft wash of color in that magical time between dusk and night.

  Rawly felt a rush of pride when he turned and looked back at Dullinmuth. Her tall towers were straight and haughty. Age only improved on her beauty.

  He had walked far into the glen, enjoying the quiet, watching the hawks swoop and dive as they snatched hares from the heather.

  “Who wouldn’t wish to be master of this manor?” he asked the nightbird that flew overhead. But he knew the answer.

  He did not wish to be laird. He was content being the second son. There were things he had planned for the path of his life, and they did not include settling down with a fresh faced lass to raise fat children and fatter sheep.

  He had screwed up his courage and was about to go and confront Basil when the strains of the Dullinmuth hunting horn sounded through the glen. Tradition said the laird called his taskmen and all of his blood when there was an event of import to be witnessed.

  Rawly shuddered to think what that might be. He had not asked Miss Molly Malone for her hand—and if the fates were kind he would not have to. Mrs. Malone had sent word there was a delay in leaving Edinburgh. He hoped it would be a long one.

  As he walked back toward the hall, his mind was at work. A delay was only a temporary r
eprieve. How to escape the marital noose permanently?

  Rawly entered to find the guests and Basil standing before the great blazing hearth. They all held drams of amber liquid and the young man, introduced as Todd Hull, shoved one into Rawly’s hand as well.

  “A toast!” Basil roared.

  “Aye, but what are we toasting?” Mrs. Malone said with a sly smile, casting her gaze from her daughter Molly, dressed in pale blue silk, to Rawly, and back again.

  Rawly opened his mouth to put an end to this farce when the clock began to chime. And with the first chime of eight o’clock the skirl began.

  All conversation stopped. Basil frowned darkly and clenched his jaw. He tapped his shoe on the ancient stones in a gesture of impatience.

  The tune grew louder. The guests turned toward the sound at the top of the stair.

  And just as he had done for several hundred years, the Piper of Dullinmuth materialized becoming as solid as the walls themselves.

  He was a young man—braw with pale hair—well favored of face and limb.

  With slow, measured steps and the mournful Highland song, he began his solemn march down the curving stair.

  If one listened very close, they could actually hear the tap and scrape of his boot on the steps. An unseen wind blew the plaid he had draped over his shoulder and ruffled the long locks of hair beneath his jaunty cap.

  There was a feather in that cap, and it fluttered in that haunting breeze.

  His plaintive pipes seeped through the walls and the very marrow of each person’s bones. Todd Hull shivered. Mick Malone swallowed hard. Molly gripped her father’s arm.

  Rawly had seen the effect it had on people many times, but Mrs. Malone was moved more than most.

  “Mr. Malone—do you see it too?” She clutched at her husband’s free arm. A single tear snaked down her cheek.

  “Yes, I see it—I’m not sure I believe it, but I do see it.”

  “Mama, the ghost. We could write another story—I could write a story—”

  “Hush child. That is not important. This—this materialization is important—no! It is monumental.” She whirled to Basil. “Does it happen often?”

  He looked thoroughly bored as he nodded. “Eight of the clock, rain or shine, every day of the year. I should have taken it into account. I should’ve gathered everyone earlier. But we can continue with the announcement—”

  “Nonsense! There is no announcement to make. This is far more important. Mr. Malone, instruct Mr. Hull take out his notebook and record every detail. You must write an article—no—more than an article. You must do another series of stories. Haunted Scotland! We will be the talk of the spiritualists all over the world. A materialization that is regular as the clock. Solid as you or I. Ohh! Look he just walked through the wall.”

  “But Mama, what about the wedding?” Molly whined, but Rawly noticed that she had a small smile playing about her lips. Could it be the young miss was not so marriage minded?

  “Wedding? We cannot be bothered with a wedding at a time like this! This is history—destiny—we must return to Edinburgh at once. There is much to be done. Call for the carriage.” Mrs. Malone dashed toward the front door shouting orders, asking questions, demanding to know where the ghost went after he walked through the solid wall.

  Rawly could only stand and silently thank the piper for being so prompt. He had surely been snatched from the jaws of matrimony—and he hoped the Scottish shade had also solved Mrs. Miggins’ problem as well.

  ****

  Crosbie brought in the newspaper wearing a very familiar frown.

  “What now?” She was enjoying an unusual second cup of tea, made possible by Toffy’s extortion of Mrs. Malone and the restocking of the pantry. They had enough in their larder to last for a fortnight and her relief was palpable.

  “You will be interested in the news item on the front,” Crosbie said.

  She looked at the paper and was stunned by the bold print, as well as the elegant woodcut of a spectral piper. “Haunted Scotland? What is this about?”

  “Read it aloud, Adorna, my eyes are not what they once were,” Toffy asked.

  “Very well. Haunted Scotland is now fact. Seen by a gathering of august individuals including Edinburgh publisher Mick Malone and his wife, a heroic piper appeared in solid form as well as piped as prettily as any highland lad living.” Adorna looked up from the paper. “How extraordinary. It goes on. A group visiting Dullinmuth Castle was entertained by the apparition who piped a funeral dirge while descending a long curving staircase. The event was memorable because Mrs. Malone had been privy to a ghostly intervention recently in Edinburgh whereby a missing valuable was restored to her by a spirit who inhabits the home of Mrs. Miggins near Grassmarket and Grayfriars.”

  She let the newspaper drop into her lap. “Well then, that’s done it. We will never have another lodger. I had hoped she was done with us, but once again the lodging house’s reputation is being dragged through the muck.”

  “Read the rest, ma’m,” Crosbie said.

  “Very well. It seems that Edinburgh can now be called, with factual evidence, the most haunted city in Scotland. Mrs. Malone reports that her society is planning on making requests to revisit both locations.”

  “That sounds promising.” Toffy chuckled.

  “Aunt, are you planning on wrangling more money from the so-called visitors?” Adorna asked with a lifted brow.

  “Why not?” she quipped. “Meridius has said he will help; it might get sorted easily enough.”

  “If all they wish to do is stand in the street and gawp, I see no way to turn this to our advantage. We are ruined. Ruined. Nobody respectable will ever wish to lodge with us again. We will be turned out into the street to beg on the corner. Debtors prison is in our future.”

  Adorna felt one hot tear trickle down her cheek. Among her feelings of despair was also the disappointment that Rawly had not kept his promise to help her—she called herself fool for thinking he would.

  ****

  Adorna walked among the headstones with her cloak hood pulled up high over her head just after dawn. She didn’t wish to see anyone or converse with anyone living or dead.

  There had been a time when she felt comforted when she stood by her husband’s stone and poured out her heart. But it didn’t seem to help anymore. Could Toffy’s imaginary ghost have the right of it? Could Henry have moved on? Is that why she no longer felt comforted? And if that were the case, had he really asked the Roman spirit to watch over them?

  “He is doing a poor job of it,” she whispered to the dawn. She had just turned to find the path and go home when she felt a freezing chill that halted her. She pulled her cloak tighter and caught movement from the corner of her eye.

  In the early morning mist she saw a man—or was it? He was dressed in a strange manner. Almost as if he had wrapped himself in a bed sheet. In a moment of clarity, she realized he was a Roman. He raised a hand and she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes.

  “Meridius?”

  He smiled.

  “Are you going to watch over Toffy and I? Are you keeping a promise to Henry Miggins?”

  He nodded and waved. And then he faded back into the mist as if he were never there.

  Chapter Eight

  When Adorna returned to her house, she found a den of activity. Cook and Meg were busy laying the table and the smells of roasting meat and baking bread wafted up the stairs from the kitchen.

  Toffy appeared wearing a wide smile. Her finest lace cap was on her white hair. She wore her Sunday best frock, a dark blue watered silk with small silk roses along the bodice and at the top of the full sleeves.

  “What is all this?” Adorna hung her cloak on the peg by the entry. “’Tis so early—what is all this?”

  “A lot has happened while you were out. We have our first paying custom today.” Toffy said, rocking on her heels like a proud publican. She held up a handful of calling cards.

  “New lodgers?” Adorna hear
d the stark disbelief in her voice. After reading the paper, she was convinced they would have no custom.

  “Nay, not lodgers.” Toffy grinned wider, a bit like a fox preparing to enter the dovecote.

  “Then what, pray tell are they paying for? Are we now serving breakfast like a pub?”

  “We are hosting a breakfast tea. Everyone attending will give a small gratuity, then they can present their question.”

  “I’m almost feared to ask—whom will they be questioning?”

  “Meridius, of course. He has consented to do one spiritual meeting per day. It is the answer to all our woes, Adorna. Thanks to the newspaper and Mrs. Malone’s spiritual society, we will never lack for guests. I have a waiting list stretching to Hogmanay! We will be rich as Edinburgh wool merchants! Now tidy your hair and prepare to pour out. They will be here any moment.”

  ****

  “It is my favorite dog!” The young man had a fresh shaven face, but Adorna doubted there was little more than peach fuzz for his valet to shave each day. He was dressed in the height of fashion, down to his pointed shoes with lavish silver buckles. His waistcoat was silk, well tailored, the color of fresh churned butter. He had pulled out a fat purse that jingled. He plunged his hand in. When it came out bulging, he pressed the coins into Crosbie’s waiting palm. He turned sad eyes to Toffy.

  “Prithee have your ghost find Clarabella.”

  His was the first, but not the last request that day.

  Each person came seeking something—a dog, a cat a lost lover in one instance, and Toffy, bless her, always had an answer, supplied she said by Meridius the Roman ghost.

  As each person left, some in tears, some in smiles, Crosbie’s expression grew ever more bemused. He was wearing his best clothing and had stood silent and stern beside Toffy, collecting fees, taking cloaks, hats, gloves, doing whatever was required without comment or expression.

  He was a wonder.

  When at last the door was shut and Adorna leaned tiredly against the door jamb. She looked up to see Crosbie smiling widely.