Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page B

emerged from the smithy with a story about a phantom phaeton that drove across the village green with its lanterns hanging ghostly green fire, and Plum related from the publican the story of an enormous black dog that roamed the neighbourhood to presage an untimely death.
    “Mad as hatters,” Plum pronounced.
    “It isn’t a bad strategy,” Brisbane mused. “Folk love a good ghost story. This village is off the beaten path by miles. It might have been prosperous once, but the railway is the other side of the valley. The smith told me this village used to be called simply Wibberley and its twin across the valley was East Wibberley. When they came through to survey for the railway, they discovered this bit was simply too narrow, so they built on the other side, and East Wibberley began to grow so much they started calling themselves Greater Wibberley. The whole affair must have been a blow to this place,” he said, glancing around. “Look at the church. It’s entirely too large and too costly for the number of people who live here now. Fortunes have declined, and if the last owner of the manor was a reclusive old gentleman who entertained only a little, even their dependence on the manor would have left them in want. So they stir up their phantom stories in hopes word will get around and people will come and spend a coin or two. I cannot blame them,” he finished.
    “Nor can I,” I said firmly. “We must do whatever we can to help them. Perhaps after we’ve spent a haunted season here, we can spread the word amongst our fashionable friends. Surely we know someone interested in supernatural phenomena. We might get some Spiritualists down here, that sort of thing,” I said, warming to my theme.
    “Yes, and the first thing you ought to ask them is where did all the people go?” Plum put in. I looked about the village and realised he was entirely correct. Everyone in Narrow Wibberley had vanished.
    * * *
    We made our way back to the manor to change for luncheon, but instead we encountered our next bit of “spiritual” phenomena. In our bedchamber, the enormous four-poster Tudor bed had been moved across the room. I rang for Mrs. Smith.
    “Ghosts,” she pronounced smartly.
    “Ghosts,” I echoed. “You don’t think spirits would have anything better to do with their time than rearrange our furniture?”
    “The ways of the dead are mysterious,” she said. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be getting on with overseeing the preparations for luncheon.”
    She left and I looked to Brisbane, spreading my hands. “What do you make of that?”
    He shrugged. “Clearly it wasn’t ghosts who shifted the bed. There’s the mark of a footprint—a rather enormous boot by the look of it,” he noted, pointing to a gouge in the high polish of the floorboards.
    “So, someone came in and moved our bed for their own amusement?”
    “It’s the country,” he pointed out. “Country people have curious pastimes.”
    Before I could remonstrate with him, he grinned. “Julia, it’s clearly a scheme of some sort. They fill our heads with ludicrous tales of phantoms and wraiths. They move things about to make us think we’re being haunted.”
    I blinked. “You think they’re all doing it?”
    “Well, it would certainly take more than Mrs. Smith to shift that bed,” he said reasonably. “And four different villagers talked to us of spectral happenings. I should think half the neighbourhood is involved, if not more.”
    I tipped my head thoughtfully. “I wonder if the lads from the village green disappeared because they knew we were away from the manor and it seemed a good time to move our bed?”
    “I shouldn’t wonder if they did.”
    I considered a moment. “If you think of it like that, there’s something almost endearing about it—everyone contributing a bit to haunting us. It’s quite sweet, really.”
    He grimaced. “Depending upon the motive.”
    “Surely you don’t suspect something