Free Escapade by Walter Satterthwait Page B

ghost—
    Yes, the ghost. A real ghost, or so he seemed at the time, slathering and foaming and hissing obscenities. Those wild eyes, that leering mouth, and that monstrous thing of his rampant and red!
    But now, as the light of dawn begins to sift through the window, pale and cold and relentless, I begin to suspect that I must have suffered some attack of mania.
    I’ve returned to my own room. The ghost is gone, if indeed he was ever present. In the room beyond, which reeks of her mint bonbons, the Allardyce sleeps, as always, the sleep of the just. One of the other guests, Mrs Corneille, was kind enough to offer me a brandy and, had I wanted it, the extra room of her suite. She’s a wonderful woman, but I knew that wherever I might be I shouldn’t sleep at all tonight, and so I returned here, determined to write to you and describe this fantasy that terrified me so. For a fantasy it must have been.
    And yet, Evy, he seemed so very real ! I can still hear his beastly cackle and the dreadful, filthy things he said. I can still taste the fear in my mouth, stale and slippery and bitter, like old pennies.
    I’m babbling again. I shall do this properly.
    Ah well. I’m afraid the ghost must wait. I hear something
    stirring next door. Either the Allardyce is awakening or a hippopotamus has wandered into her room in search of a place to wallow. If he spies the Allardyce, he will no doubt attempt to breed; the clamour will unnerve the entire household. In any event, I must go. I shall get this in the morning post, and I shall send its continuation to you this afternoon.
    All my love, Jane

Chapter Seven

    WHEN I AWOKE the next morning, a bright bolt of sunlight lay across the room. Tiny motes of dust floated slowly through it like microscopic creatures drifting in a golden shaft of sea.
    It was the first sunshine I had seen since we left Paris. I had started to think that I would never see it again.
    I picked up my watch from the night table. A quarter to nine. Late.
    I eased out of bed, climbed into my robe, padded to the Great Man’s door and knocked.
    “Come in,” he called out.
    He was wearing his gray socks and his gray pants, a shirt and a tie, an opened gray vest. He was sitting on top of the bedspread, his back against the tall dark wood headboard. There was a pen in his hand and a notebook on his lap.
    “Good morning, Phil,” he said cheerfully.
    “Morning, Harry. Why aren’t you downstairs?”
    He smiled. It was an innocent smile, and his innocent smiles always made me nervous. “But, Phil,” he said. I am under orders not to leave without you, am I not?”
    “Being under orders isn’t the same as taking them.”
    “But for me it is, Phil. I gave my word.” He changed the subject. “Did you sleep well?”
    “When I slept,” I said.
    His face became thoughtful. “Do you know, I must have actually slept myself last night—for a time, at any rate—because I had a dream. It was a most curious dream. You were in it and you were wearing a pair of handcuffs. You asked me to remove them for you.
    “That was no dream, Harry. That was my life.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You weren’t dreaming. I was wearing a pair of handcuffs last night, and I asked you to take them off.”
    “They were made by Mueller and Kohl?”
    “According to you. Spring-loaded, you said.”
    “Amazing. Where did you get them?”
    “They were a gift. From Cecily Fitzwilliam.”
    “A gift? Why would Miss Fitzwilliam give you a gift? And why a pair of handcuffs?”
    “They weren’t really for me. They were for you. Mind if I sit down?”
    “No, no,” he said, and waved a hand toward the seat by the writing desk. “For me? What do you mean?”
    I sat down. “Well, Harry, it looks to me like Miss Fitzwilliam is smitten.”
    He frowned, puzzled. “Smitten? What are you saying, Phil?” 
    “She wanted to get to know you better. So she came to the room. She got me instead.”
    “Better?” Suddenly he blushed. “You mean .