The Ghost It Was Read online

  The Ghost It Was

  Richard Hull

  About the Author

  Richard Hull was born Richard Henry Sampson in London on 6 September 1896 to Nina Hull and SA Sampson, and attended Rugby School, Warwickshire. When the First World War broke out, his uncle helped him secure a commission in the Queen Victoria’s Rifles. At the end of the war, after three years in France, he returned to England and worked as an accountant.

  His first book, The Murder of My Aunt, written under the pseudonym Richard Hull, was published in 1934. The novel, set in Dysserth, Welshpool, is known for its humour, narrative charm, and unexpected twists. Hull moved to writing full-time in 1934 and wrote a further fourteen novels over the span of his career.

  During the Second World War, he became an auditor with the Admiralty in London — a position he retained for eighteen years until he retired in 1958. While he stopped writing detective fiction after 1953, Hull continued to take an interest in the affairs of the Detection Club, assisting Agatha Christie with her duties as President. He died in 1973.

  Also By Richard Hull

  The Murder of My Aunt

  Keep It Quiet

  Murder Isn’t Easy

  The Ghost It Was

  The Murderers of Monty

  Excellent Intentions/Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  And Death Came Too

  My Own Murderer

  The Unfortunate Murderer

  Left Handed Death

  Last First

  Until She Was Dead

  A Matter of Nerves

  Invitation to an Inquest

  The Martineau Murders

  This edition published in 2018 by Agora Books

  Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd

  Originally published in Great Britain in 1936 by Penguin Books

  55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS

  Copyright © Richard Hull, 1936

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  1

  The Start of an Idea

  Linnell, deputy sub-assistant editor (or thereabouts) of The New Light, regarded Gregory Spring-Benson with annoyance.

  At the age of thirty — which is what he accurately estimated Gregory to be — in his opinion any man ought to have decided on what he wanted to be, not be trying to start in yet another new profession. Also, a man of thirty ought to have got over the youthful habit of regarding other people as being fools and of telling them that the work they did was so easy that anyone else could immediately do it (and do it well) without previous training.

  ‘And have you any reasons,’ he asked, ‘for thinking that you will make a good journalist? Or that you are in any way particularly suited to The New Light?’

  Actually, Gregory had none, but he was naturally not going to admit it.

  ‘I think, you know,’ he suggested blandly, ‘that the very fact that I am seeing you is in itself some sort of proof that I might be some use. After all, the obtaining of interviews with the right people is one of the most difficult things that one has to do.’ He stopped and politely offered Linnell a cigarette, and parenthetically expressed surprise that smoking was not allowed in that particular part of the office. ‘I’m not suggesting,’ he went on, ‘that I should write leaders for you or control the policy of the paper—’

  ‘Thank you.’ Linnell put the tips of his fingers together and waited with more than his usual patience.

  ‘—but only that I should be a reporter. Of course, it’s not the sort of job I ought to take, but one must start at the bottom before working up and having a decent appearance’ — he surveyed as much as he could see of his well-cut grey suit and admirably polished brown shoes with complete satisfaction — ‘does help to get one received.’

  ‘You really regard having obtained an interview with me as some sort of proof that you have abilities of a kind as a reporter? I suppose you must realise that I am only seeing you because I have the greatest respect for the man from whom you brought an introduction?’

  ‘Precisely. If you knew how very much he disliked giving that introduction, you would see at once what I mean. At one time I thought I should have to write it myself.’

  Linnell stirred uneasily. It was rather a point to Gregory, but he was not going to admit it.

  ‘So, you include forgery in your accomplishments?’ he asked casually.

  But Gregory Spring-Benson was quite unmoved by that type of remark.

  ‘Would that be a useful accomplishment? I suppose one could learn it, like typewriting.’

  ‘Which you can do, by the way?’

  ‘Adequately, to tell a story. No more.’

  ‘Shorthand?’

  ‘Oh dear, no.’ Gregory airily waved the suggestion aside.

  ‘Pardon my mentioning it, but you wouldn’t be a very good person to send to report, say, a political meeting.’

  ‘On the contrary. I should ask the speaker to give me a copy of his speech before he started, and I should get it. That’s the point, I should get it.’

  ‘You mean you have unlimited effrontery?’ Linnell was beginning to think that only direct methods were of any use.

  ‘Undoubtedly. Unbounded cheek and impertinence, if you prefer the phrase. And, after all, isn’t that the principal requirement of any journalist?’ Before Linnell had time to reply, Gregory went on casually: ‘But as a matter of fact, you’ve not quite got the idea. I did not propose that I should do just simple hack journalism. You must have plenty of people who can do that sort of thing, and who are quite prepared to work long, regular hours every day for a most inadequate salary. I am content neither with the long hours nor the inadequate salary. I thought of giving you the opportunity to use me on more interesting work where initiative, resource and intelligence are wanted. Where, as you so well put it, only someone with my unlimited effrontery would be able to get you the story at all.’

  ‘And what sort of “story” do you propose to exercise your talents upon?’

  ‘Oh, society gossip, crime, provided it is of an original or humorous nature, special interviews with important people in any walk of life, I mean you can see that I don’t mind whom I talk to or anything really off the beaten track. Some absolutely fresh stunt, out of the usual common rut of journalism with which all the papers are so invariably full. The fresh mind, you know, not destroyed by years of routine working for the Press.’

  But Linnell had had enough.

  ‘Really, Mr Spring-Benson, if you are going to be as tactful with those whom you airily propose to interview as you are being with me, I do not think that The New Light would care to employ you. We have, after all, as one of the most important London morning newspapers, in many ways the most important — a considerable reputation to keep up, not only as to what we publish, but even as to the conduct of our staff, and there is no need for you to smile superciliously at such a reflection. Consequently, although I have listened very patiently and for a very long while to what you had to say on account of the introduction which you brought, I can offer you absolutely no hope of any employment on the staff of The New Light. Good morning.’

  Gregory got up slowly. He never really had expected anything else, but it had been worth trying. It only remained to beat a retreat, with dignity, of course — he could always do that — but if possible with something more than that. He got up in as
leisured a manner as he could and adjusted an already quite perfectly tied tie in a mirror over the fireplace.

  ‘A pity,’ he remarked. ‘I had several ideas floating vaguely in my mind. But no doubt I can find a use for them — elsewhere.’

  It was not very original, but it served its purpose. He had only gone a few yards down the passage when Linnell’s door opened again.

  ‘If you really have any ideas, send them in to me — personally. I’ll see that they are read.’ The door shut again and Linnell returned to his desk. It was very improbable, he thought, that he would ever hear from Gregory Spring-Benson again, but if that definitely irritating young man had anything, the door had been left open for The New Light to get it. Once before it had been shut too firmly and their rivals had profited, and Linnell had got into considerable trouble over the matter. At any rate he had done his best.

  As he found his way out of the offices of The New Light, Gregory smiled. He was very satisfied with himself. He had achieved much more than he had expected to do, and he put it all down to the way he had conducted himself. A certain debonair frankness, combined with a pose of specious honesty, he believed suited him. At the worst it allowed him to say what he liked without anyone taking it very ill. And today he had exaggerated it deliberately until it had passed the limits which he usually imposed on himself; but then, he reflected, that kind of thing was necessary with anyone connected with a newspaper. In Gregory’s opinion a man would not become a common or garden journalist unless he was naturally vulgar and ostentatious, and contact with a newspaper would inevitably increase such characteristics. Sooner or later any newspaper man was bound to become so thick-skinned that half measures would always be quite useless.

  Yes, on the whole he thought he had done well. He had not of course got a job, but then he could hardly have expected to do so. But he had made certain that if any opportunity came his way, he could make use of it. It was a pity of course that he had not got a vestige of an idea in his head and that his final remark to Linnell had been the idlest bluff. Still, as it had come off, he would somehow or other turn it into a reality.

  For something had to be done about it. There were far too many bills outstanding for him to allow even so evanescent an opportunity to pass, and he had lost far too many jobs in the past for him to have the slightest illusion that he would remain long in any other what he might get, or that any of his previous employers would give him an exactly perfect reference. In fact, the last sufferer from his assistance had told him bluntly that he considered perfect idleness and sarcasm to his superiors an inadequate substitute for more humdrum but useful qualifications, and indicated that if he was applied to, he would reply in much those terms.

  Consequently, there seemed little chance of the bills being met, or of Gregory’s exclusive and expensive tastes, particularly in claret, being catered for. Unless of course Uncle James adopted him — a highly improbable event.

  Well, the first thing to do seemed to be to see what type of paper The New Light really was. Except for its headlines, Gregory did not think that he had ever read a word of it. Certainly, he had not looked at it seriously. He bought a copy and took a taxi to the Savoy. After all, one must lunch somewhere, and one must get back from the East End slums behind Fleet Street, and the amount spent would really make very little difference to his creditors. It was only a drop in the ocean. As for the penny for the paper, it was positively a business expense. He almost felt as if he had begun to buy the foundations of a fortune. A chateau-bottled wine was necessary to make up for the effort expended.

  Toying with half a lobster — an infelicitous combination as he realised after he had ordered it — in fact the mésalliance was a proof that he was overtired — he glanced at The New Light. He even read part of its leading article and some of its political and foreign news. On the whole, he felt disgusted. They were neither of them subjects which interested him in the least, but, so far as he could make out, The New Light was either reckless of consequences or merely anxious to be mischievous. They only seemed to wish to turn the events of the day into startling and sensational news. If anyone took them seriously, they might well bring down the government or disturb that light sleeper, the Peace of Europe.

  But then no one — except perhaps the principal owner of the paper — did take them seriously. Their foreign news was only the pendant to the matters that really interested their readers, and which could be certainly found more entertainingly written in The New Light than elsewhere. Gregory read the account of a murder trial, and even with his complacency, decided that he would be up against very capable competition — that is, if he tried to compete.

  He turned over the page, and towards the bottom of a column, read the headline ‘Haunted House Inhabited’.

  ‘The little village of Amberhurst,’ he read, ‘is greatly interested in the arrival of the new tenant of Amberhurst Place, a house which has remained unoccupied for years owing to a legend that the mansion is haunted.

  ‘Recently, however, the property was sold privately, but it was only yesterday that the name of the purchaser was known in the village whose prosperity, the district being remote and thinly populated, depends to some extent on the Place.

  ‘It is now revealed that the purchaser is Mr James Warrenton, the well-known international financier—’

  Gregory — to do him justice — shuddered at the last phrase. It was to his mind an oppressive cliché, and if it had ended with the alternative word ‘crook’, he thought it would not be out of place. But what was Uncle James doing at Amberhurst?

  One reason at least was not hard to guess. Jude Warrenton, Gregory’s grandfather, had been of no importance when he left Amberhurst as a young man in order to try (with only moderate success) to earn a fortune in London, but the family had never forgotten the village from which they had come. Indeed, Gregory’s widowed Aunt Julia, he believed, still lived there with her two sons, Arthur and Christopher Vaughan, although it was some years now since he had even returned his aunt’s Christmas wishes.

  So, then, Uncle James had probably returned there and bought the big house of the district in order to triumph over all those who remembered his father, and to show publicly to all his relations how much he had risen in the world, financially, at any rate.

  A strange old man, Jude Warrenton, from all accounts — cantankerous and full of fads, a characteristic which he had transmitted to most of his descendants. One of his minor idiosyncrasies had been that all his children should have the same initials, but with a less unusual name than his own. Consequently, his first four children had been christened Jane (Gregory’s mother), John, Julia and James.

  The arrival of another daughter had presented a difficulty, so the family tradition ran. Jude had refused to contemplate ‘Judith’ as being too like his own name, and he had had a dislike for ‘Jill’. Finally, it was alleged, some flippant friend, looking at the golden-haired baby, had suggested that she should be called Jerusalem, and fed entirely on milk and honey, with the result that in a moment of fancy the girl was called Jacynth, ‘which’, old Jude was supposed to have said, ‘comes out of the Apocrypha too’. It was believed that he was vaguely thinking of the Book of Revelations.

  It appeared to have been too much for the child. Anyhow, she was never really a success. She had managed to grow up, and even to marry, Gregory believed; but he had lost touch with her children if she had any, and anyhow she was dead now. In fact, only James and Julia survived, since his Uncle John was dead too, leaving (inconsiderately) a daughter. Gregory had been annoyed about that at first, as it had meant that the last vague hope of there being a legacy for him from Uncle John had disappeared. Then he had heard that there had been no money anyhow and had forgiven his unknown cousin for her existence.

  Gregory turned back to his paper and finished reading the few more sentences which completed the notice of Amberhurst Place. They were devoted to a short account of the ghost which was alleged to haunt it. He gathered that it was not a ver
y nice ghost, but the description of its activities was brief and bald, and concerned more with its appearance than its actions. Apparently, it became visible mainly to exhibit a red feather sticking up from a conical hat, and the fact that it was red seemed to the writer to be of importance, though why, he did not say.

  It suddenly struck Gregory that the whole paragraph was greatly inferior to the general standard of The New Light. If he had not been interested in Amberhurst, he would never have read it. The style in which it was written was unenterprising and dull; in fact, the incident itself was unworthy of being chronicled.

  The more he looked at it, the more he was surprised that it was there at all. He would very much like to have asked Linnell about it. Moreover, he was by no means certain that he had entirely probed all his uncle’s reasons for buying the house. He had always been told that the reason why Amberhurst Place had remained untenanted for so long was not only that it possessed the inconvenience of having a private ghost, but that it possessed, as well, every other inconvenience, and, though Uncle James might be a crank, he liked comfort.

  Rather thoughtfully Gregory tore the paragraph out of the paper and finished his lunch, the paying for which left him with rather less money than he had hoped that he had. Then he went back to his small flat, on the way unexpectedly buying a second copy of The New Light. From this he carefully cut out the paragraph and put it in an envelope with a note to Linnell.

  ‘This,’ he wrote, ‘is the sort of thing which I could do better. There appears to be nothing of interest from your correspondent’s account. But my instinct tells me that, behind it, there is something which may be worthwhile. At any rate, I am going down to Amberhurst, and I hope to prove to you that my instincts are worth your while to back.’