‘You will protect me?’ she whispered, staring up at him. ‘You will not let it hurt me?’
‘Of course not,’ Smythe said. ‘Now hurry, do. You know how angry his Excellency gets when he is kept from his food.’
Helena tottered along, clinging to his arm. She was not my type, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her; I would have pitied anyone who was in such a blue funk of fear.
‘What are you so afraid of?’ I asked.
‘That’s a good question,’ Smythe agreed. ‘Perhaps I ought to know what I have naïvely promised to protect you from. My talents, though enormous, are limited; anything along the lines of King Kong or the Loch Ness monster – ’
‘It is a monster,’ Helena muttered. ‘A phantom. The ghost of the Caravaggios.’
‘A ghost,’ I said. ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’
‘No, it is not funny,’ Helena said. ‘It is terrible! All in black, hooded like a monk, but the face . . . The face is . . .’
She made a gurgling sound, like a blocked-up sink. It was a very effective performance. I could feel my flesh creep, even in the warm noontide.
‘The face,’ I said impatiently. ‘What about it? No, let me guess. A melting, dissolving, phosphorescent horror . . .’
‘A rotting, mummified, withered, brown, noseless horror,’ Smythe contributed.
‘A skull!’ Helena shrieked. I heard a thud behind us, and turned. The chauffeur, following with the baggage, had dropped a suitcase. He was staring at Helena with horrifled eyes.
‘Oh, a skull,’ Smythe said, yawning. ‘That’s a bit old hat, don’t you think? I liked my rotting mummy better.’
‘You laugh? It will laugh with you – a great soundless laugh like a scream of horror. I saw its teeth, two rows of blackened teeth . . . It walks the gardens by night, but who knows whether it will not soon enter the house? I have seen it once, a face of silver bone shining in the moonlight, laughing . . .’
She wasn’t pretending. The plump arm that brushed mine was icy cold.
Of course that didn’t mean that the phantom was real. It only meant that somebody had scared poor old Helena out of her socks. If something walked the grounds of the villa by night, disguised from casual strollers, there must be a reason for concealment.
Smythe seemed to be as surprised and impressed by the story as I was. I had to remind myself that the man was an accomplished actor, and as untrustworthy as a polecat.
‘It sounds perfectly dreadful,’ he said sympathetically. ‘But I shouldn’t worry, Helena; spectres of that type never come inside a building.’
‘È vero?’ Helena asked hopefully.
‘Assolutamente,’ Smythe said firmly. ‘I know something about ghosts. My ancestral home is absolutely littered with the creatures. Frightful nuisances; rattling chains all night, spotting up the floor with bloodstains that can’t be removed . . . Furthermore, you’re in luck, Helena, old thing. I’ll wager you didn’t know that Doctor Bliss here is a real expert on spooks. You tell her all about it and she’ll tell you how to deal with it. Right, Vicky?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, glowering at him. That might have been a hit in the dark, but I didn’t think so.
‘There, you see?’ Smythe patted Helena on one of the more rounded portions of her anatomy. She revived enough to wriggle and giggle at him.
The villa was a beautiful place, magnificently furnished with antiques, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate its wonders. I passed through the great hall with scarcely a glance and followed one of the maids up the stairs to my room. Smythe left us on the second floor, with a murmured apology, but Helena stuck to me like a burr. My room was a grandiose chamber, like the throne room of a doge’s palace, with a balcony overlooking the gardens and the ‘Fountain of the Baboons.’ Helena threw herself down on the bed and peered at me through her sunglasses.
‘Do you really know all about ghosts?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, sure,’ I said.
‘Then you must tell me what to do, to be safe.’
‘First you had better tell me what you saw,’ I said, sitting down beside her.
She hadn’t much to add to her original description. She had only seen the apparition once – one night in April, the last time they had visited the villa. She had had a fight with Pietro and had gone for a walk, in order to calm herself, as she put it. The vision had sent her screaming back to Pietro’s willing arms, and at her insistence they had returned to Rome the following day. She had not wanted to come back to the villa.
‘But he no longer cares for my feelings,’ she whined. ‘He forced me to come. I think he does not believe me, about the phantom. I swear to you – ’
‘Oh, I believe you. But I’m surprised at Pietro. Isn’t there a family tradition about the ghost? Many old families have such stories.’
‘He says not. But he lies, perhaps; he is a great liar, Pietro. Now tell me what to do to be safe. And,’ she added firmly, ‘do not tell me to leave this place. If I go, I will lose him. And that I cannot afford to do just yet.’
I thought she meant ‘afford’ in the most literal sense. Well, that was her business, and I do mean business. It didn’t concern me. On the whole, I preferred to have her stick around; she would distract Pietro, and I didn’t want him following me everywhere I went. I dipped into my childhood memories of horror movies.
‘You ought to have a crucifix,’ I said.
‘But I have them – many of them.’ She plucked at a chain that hung around her neck and drew out a cross. It was a handsome thing, made of platinum set with diamonds.
‘Ah, but has it been blessed by the Pope?’ I inquired seriously.
‘No . . .’ Helena took off her sunglasses, frowning. ‘But I have some that were.’
‘Wear one of them, then, all the time. You should be perfectly safe then.’
‘That is all?’ She sounded disappointed.
‘You weren’t wearing it when you saw the ghost, were you?’ I assumed she hadn’t been wearing it, or much else; the quarrel had occurred late at night. ‘Oh, well. To be perfectly sure, what you should do is hang some garlic at every window and door. And over the fireplace, if there is one. Iron is good, too. Something made of iron over each opening – door, windows – ’
‘What else?’ She sat up, hands on her knees, eyes bright.
‘Well,’ I said, getting into my stride, ‘holy water. Can you get some?’
‘Sì’, sì’. I sprinkle it on me, eh? That is good. And perhaps garlic too, on a chain with the crucifix?’
I was about to agree when I realized that Pietro might balk at embracing the lady if she were reeking of garlic. I didn’t want to break up that romance; it would keep him out of my hair.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘The crucifix and the garlic don’t go together. They cancel each other, capisce?’
‘Ah, sì. It is sensible.’
‘That should do it. Stay in at night, of course. Ghosts do not walk by day. And,’ I added cunningly, ‘you are perfectly safe when you are with Pietro. He is the lord of the manor. It is his ghost; it won’t bother him.’
‘Sì’, sì’; how clever you are, Vicky!’ She beamed at me. Like most simple souls, she was easily convinced. She hoisted herself to her feet. ‘I will dress now. It is time for lunch.’
I had suspected it might be. Somewhere in the depths of the villa someone was banging on a gong, and had been doing so for some time.
I ran a comb through my hair and followed the sound of the gong, which had assumed a slightly hysterical resonance. The closer I got, the more outrageous the noise became; I had my hands over my ears when I came upon it – a mammoth structure as big as the one that is banged in old Arthur Rank movies. Pietro was swatting it with a huge mallet. His tie was up under his left ear and his face was bright red with anger and exertion. When he saw me he dropped the mallet. The gong shivered and echoed and died, and I took my fingers out of my ears.