Ghosts of Mayfield Court Read Online Free Page A

own devices, I bade Mr Bottomley follow me into the kitchen, where I told him of my three encounters with the spirit-child. He listened with what I can only describe as becoming gravity. It was a novelty, as I was accustomed to all my accounts of ghosts and spirits being met with derision.
    â€˜A very interesting account, miss,’ said Mr Bottomley, when I had finished. ‘The Pale Child of Mayfield. Would you care to show me the room where you saw this phantom?’
    The first-floor bedroom was just as I had seen it when the spirit called Helen had appeared to me. I watched as Mr Bottomley leant down, his hands on his knees, and peered at the uneven floorboards. He made an inarticulate sound of satisfaction, and then moved slowly around the room. When he reached the corner where the drawers from the chest had been placed, he carefully moved them aside, and it seemed that he looked at the wall in the dark corner for minutes before straightening up and treating me to a gentle smile.
    â€˜I don’t suppose you like it here much, do you, miss?’ he said. ‘You’d rather be back in Birmingham, I expect.’
    â€˜Not Birmingham, Mr Bottomley,’ I corrected him. ‘Uncle and I are from London.’
    â€˜Oh, London,’ he said, the suggestion of a smile playing about his lips. ‘London. I see. So you won’t like it out here much, will you? Here in the parish of Mayfield, in the hundred of Yeadon Vale, and in the county of Warwick, within walking distance of the hamlet of the same name?’
    â€˜What a strange man you are, Sergeant!’ I laughed in spite of myself, and realized that it was the first time I had done so since the pathetic little haunting had begun. ‘Why won’t you go out to see the skeleton?’
    â€˜I will, miss, cross my heart; but the skeleton will stay where it is until I come, whereas ghosts and suchlike lead us a lively dance – or a deathly dance, I should say. When the spirit-child, this Helen, put her finger to her lips, did she do it like this?’
    He placed the edge of his index finger to his lips, and held the pose until I became aware that Helen’s action had been different. Mr Bottomley read this realization in my eyes, and slowly turned his finger until the front of it touched his lips. I could see his fingernail gleaming in the morning light. It had been the same with Helen.
    â€˜That’s right, Sergeant!’ I cried. ‘That’s how Helen did it. But how did you know? Have you, too, seen her?’
    â€˜Oh, no, Miss Catherine,’ said Mr Bottomley. ‘I’ve heard tell of her, but I’ve never seen her. But now that I know how she held her finger to her lips, I reckon I know all about her. So it’s time for me to examine the skeleton.’
    The amiable half-smile suddenly faded from his homely face, to be replaced by an expression approaching bleak despair. I suddenly felt in awe of this man, who looked like a farm labourer, but who was, in fact, a police detective.
    â€˜I will examine the skeleton alone, miss,’ he said, ‘but there’dbe no harm in Mr Paget and yourself watching me from one of the windows on the garden side of the house. As soon as I’ve finished my examination, I’ll come back and tell you both what my conclusions are.’

    From a window on the first-floor landing I watched Sergeant Bottomley as he went to work. Uncle Max had refused to join me, pleading more work on examining the bundles of letters. I suspected that he had no stomach for the macabre.
    I saw Mr Bottomley, still wielding his riding-crop, thresh his way through the wilderness of the rear garden until he reached the crumbling wall where I had found the ghastly remains. Once again, this rural detective did not behave predictably. He stood for a while staring fixedly up at the wooded hill that rose above the unseen hamlet. Then he turned slowly towards the south, and seemed to sniff the