“Since Mr. Radcliffe insists that a tenant keep his grandfather’s likeness prominently displayed, it shouldn’t be surprising that a similar painting hangs in his own home,” Lady Sara said.
Mr. Cecil Radcliffe entered the room so quietly that he seemed almost ghostlike himself. He had the air and appearance of a man who rarely entertained visitors before noon, and it perfectly suited his aristocratic manner. He was of medium height but looked taller because of his slender frame. He was clean-shaven when he bothered to shave, but on that day he hadn’t. Neither had he got around to combing his thick head of greying hair. His elaborate dressing gown had an Oriental look to it that severely clashed with the sedate surroundings. I would have guessed his age as anywhere between fifty and seventy.
Lady Sara and I rose when we became aware of his presence. He came close enough to us to touch my hand when Lady Sara introduced me. Then, inviting us to sit down again, he arranged himself in an elaborate imported bentwood rocking chair of a type that had been the rage in England fifty years before. It suddenly dawned on me that the whole house was fifty years out of date. So was Mr. Cecil Radcliffe.
“Oh dear,” he said with a sigh.
Lady Sara wagged her finger at him. “Naughty, naughty,” she said in a matter-of-fact way.
He shook his head. “No. Stupid, stupid.”
“We heard Mr. Uppington’s version earlier this morning,” Lady Sara said.
“Did you!”
“And now we would like to hear yours. But before you begin, my assistant should know the background.” She turned to me. “Semidetached houses like these are normally separated by a party wall, a wall common to both dwellings. That is the case with the upper stories of these two residences. With the lower stories, for reasons now long forgotten, the dwellings were separated by two walls with a dead space of about a yard between them.”
“It may have been conceived of as a noise barrier,” Mr. Radcliffe said. “I know of two other dwellings designed by the same architect that have a similar barrier, though, with less space separating the walls. One is in Mayfair and the other in Lambeth.”
“But neither of those residences has displayed such a spectacular tendency for attracting ghosts,” Lady Sara said pointedly. Mr. Radcliffe subsided.
“Fifteen years ago,” Lady Sara continued, “the residence next door became severely troubled by ghosts. Several tenants complained about them. They were discreet ghosts, materializing only for a short time and then vanishing in a haze of something that smelled remarkably like smoke. They rarely appeared to more than one or two people at a time and then only to people who were some distance away. Despite that, the tenants were severely troubled by them. The smoke tended to linger, and sometimes the house had to be fumigated. One tenant had a priest in to perform an exorcism ceremony. At least two tenants that I know of gave up their leases — though I must say Mr. Radcliffe was most considerate and refused to impose the financial penalties that the law would have allowed him. Finally, a tenant with a more practical turn of mind decided there was nothing ghostlike about an apparition that left so much genuine smoke, and he called in a detective — me. And instead of running in alarm when the ghost appeared, I watched it carefully and detected the secret panel trick.
“Whereupon I called Mr. Radcliffe to account and obtained his solemn promise—”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Radcliffe moaned.
“—solemn promise that in return for my keeping my discovery confidential, the ghosts would be laid to rest permanently. I should add that Mr. Radcliffe was an amateur actor of some distinction in his youth, and he still associates himself with an occasional theatrical production. He is, in fact, a dabbler — his wealth relieved him of the burden of pursuing a profession, so he has dabbled in a great many things other than the theatre. Chemistry, certainly. Probably carpentry and cabinet making. The panels are most ingeniously contrived.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Radcliffe moaned again.
“All of this was fifteen years ago. Though Mr. Radcliffe gave me his solemn promise, for some reason he has yielded to temptation and permitted the ghost to reappear. This time it isn’t merely a question of distressing and alarming a neighbour. Somewhere, somehow, he has bungled badly, and he is in far deeper trouble than he is aware of.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Radcliffe moaned.
“We will take that as read,” Lady Sara said. “Now let’s hear your story.”
“Oh dear. Did you say you knew Vincent Uppington?”
“I said I had met him.”
“Not the same thing.” Mr. Radcliffe shook his head gloomily. “Not the same thing at all. He is such a stuffed shirt — a stuffed shirt with nothing of substance to stuff it with, which is the worst kind. Piously stopping by to make certain his parties weren’t bothering me. It never occurred to him to invite me to one.” He suddenly laughed resoundingly. “But I attended them anyway! I attended all of them!”
“You didn’t!” Lady Sara exclaimed.
“But I did. Only the large ones, of course. It was a simple matter to disguise myself in an anonymous way. I would slip in when the way was clear, drift about, sample the food, quickly find out that the affair was as boring as I expected it to be, and make my exit when an opportunity came.”
“No ghost, no smoke?” Lady Sara demanded.
“None. I simply attended the parties as an uninvited guest, and with so many people about, no one knew everyone, so no one noticed. I assure you — I kept myself completely inconspicuous except for one thing. My manners are impeccable, I can’t help that, it’s a matter of upbringing, and those of most of Uppington’s guests aren’t.
“And then, one day when I was shaving — I still prefer to shave myself — I chanced to raise my hand in a way somewhat similar to the pose my grandfather assumes in that portrait.” He nodded at the painting we had already noticed. “I saw, to my amazement, that in my old age I had become very similar to my grandfather in appearance. Having made that discovery, I simply had to make use of it. All of the ghosting props I used in my haunting days were disposed of years ago, so I had to acquire new ones. I lavished a great deal of time and expense planning what was to be my last — and most momentous — appearance.”
“It certainly was momentous,” Lady Sara said dryly.
“Perhaps I should describe my props. My shoes are made to order to my own design. Making them is a ticklish business — the first two pairs didn’t work properly, and it wasn’t until the third that I successfully produced the smoke I had to have. When I rocked back on my heels, they generated the smoke, which issued through vents in the heels and soles. Just in case I might have to disguise myself further either before or after my prank, I had a frock coat made to match the one in my grandfather’s portraits, but my coat is reversible. I can quickly turn it inside out and it becomes a very different garment — blue rather than black and a different style of coat entirely, with just a suggestion of the threadbare and old fashioned about it. For the final touches, I carefully selected a white beard and a black wig that would match my grandfather’s. His beard was his own, but he wore that black wig all his life, even after his beard turned white. I should add that the firm that custom-made my props is well aware of my theatrical interests. Its employees thought I was ordering stage props.
“I waited for an unusually large party — the great performance I planned deserved a large audience — and when one finally arrived, I joined the crowd through one of two concealed panels, this one at the back of the room. Wearing my special clothing and the smoke-generating shoes, I circulated among the guests for a short time and then drifted away unnoticed to the fireplace where the painting of my grandfather is displayed. I stood with my back to the other guests as though admiring the painting — though I was confident that no one was paying the slightest attention to me — and I quickly donned the false beard and the wig and applied makeup to lend a ghostly aspect to my face. Then I turned and struck my grandfather’s pose. When I had everyone’s attention, I tripped the smoke mechanism. My plan was to slip away when the smoke was thick enough to conceal me and make my escape through the concealed panel near the fireplace. I had checked in advance to make certain it wasn’t fastened.