The Ghost of Christmas Present and Other Stories Read online

  He took a step towards Pendleton, who suddenly realized he’d been following much closer than he had thought. “Whitehall told me this is the first official excavation attempt for this place, so either you’ve been here illegally or you’re hiding something.”

  “No need to get violent, Mr. Shaw. I’ve been out here a time or two, and whether or not it was strictly legal is my business. I knew one of the young ladies that lived in the Manor, so you could say I’m the last person on earth with any connection to the place.”

  For a moment, Shaw pursed his lips, pondering the old man’s story.

  “Maybe you’re telling the truth, and maybe you’re not, so here’s how it’s going to play out.” He scowled at Carver, forming one fist into a ball. “If you lead us in circles today, you’ll never return from that forest. Understand me?”

  “Understood, but understand me, Mr. Shaw.” Pendleton leveled his gaze at the younger man, who was intimidating, certainly, but Satan himself wouldn’t change his mind on this one point.

  “There’s something on that property that’s mine, regardless of what Whitehall and Wellington say,” Carver continued. “Nobody takes a single item from the Manor without my say-so, or so help me, I’ll sue the lot of you for everything you’re worth.”

  Shaw looked him up and down, before cracking a wide grin. “Fair enough, old-timer. Call me Jim, by the way. My father was Mr. Shaw.”

  With that the younger man turned, and the two compatriots entered his tent in order to decide from where the hunt would begin.

  By the time the first golden rays of the sun hit the valley floor the next morning, the camp was silent and empty. The overnight snowfall had been light, but it had covered enough ground to show stark, muddy boot prints of a dozen men, who had disappeared into the forest beyond.

  Chapter V

  “This is madness. We’ve been out here for three days, and there’s nothing but trees and dirt and more trees.” The grumbled complaint was one of a dozen more that circled the campfire. “We turned east yesterday. He’s taking us in circles. What a way to spend the Christmas season.”

  Jim looked up from his stew just in time to see the men casting suspicious glances at Pendleton, who had chosen to sit away from the rest.

  “That’s enough bellyaching from you lads. Eat your stew and get some rest. There was never a guarantee we would find the mansion, let alone in the first few days of lookin’.” Jim narrowed his eyes, and the grumbling quieted.

  Seven years with the Chicago P.D. had given him a way with angry crowds, despite the fact that most of these men were several decades his senior. All the same, he should make sure their complaints weren’t founded. Picking up his bowl, he sauntered towards the hunched figure at the edge of camp.

  “Not hungry? It gets mighty cold without something warm to eat.” Jim offered him what was left of the stew.

  “No thanks. I’ve got plenty to think on without that poor excuse for food fogging my brain.” Carver muttered, pulling his worn canvas jacket tighter around him.

  “I’ll admit, Cook’s food is better suited for dogs than men, but it’s better than nothing.” Jim gave a sideways glance towards a stout figure stirring the pot of stew over the campfire.

  “All the same, I’ll take my chances without.” The old sailor maintained his position. “As I said, I’ve got things to think on – the pace for instance. We’re moving slower than elephants in a tar pit.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re hauling a lot of equipment,” Jim stated. “On foot, I might add and along nothing wider than a deer track. It’s not as easy as following an invisible map. Speaking of which, any ideas for tomorrow? We headed south for a while, and then we turned east yesterday.”

  “You call three days a while?” Carver asked. “I’ve been out here scouring this forest for decades, and I still haven’t laid eyes on the damn thing. The most I can tell you is where it’s not, which is just about everywhere but way south, and trust me, there’s more to worry about in these woods than getting lost.”

  “If it’s wildlife you’re concerned about.” Jim patted a .45 pistol, securely tucked under his jacket. “We’ve got that covered, and don’t think I don’t recognize that you just changed the subject.”

  “Do you now?” Pendleton burst into a fit of laughter, which sounded both sarcastic and a tiny bit frightened. “Well, aren’t you the smart one. You think your bullets will protect you?”

  Jim scoffed, “I’ve yet to come across anything that couldn’t be taken down by a well-placed shot between the eyes.”

  “That’s your problem, young fellow. Them that I’m talking about don’t have eyes.”

  Choosing its moment, a bitter wind swirled through the camp, bringing with it a deep mournful wail. Jim was on his feet in an instant, along with most of the other men.

  Pendleton remained huddled in his spot, aware he would’ve laughed at their jumpiness, if it weren’t for the fact that he knew their fear was justified.

  “What in all hell was that? Wolves?” Jim pulled his pistol from its holster, just in case.

  “Wolves are the least of our problems out here. That sound wasn’t made by any of God’s creatures. That much I know. You can put that thing away.” Pendleton nodded at the gun. “It won’t do you any good, if they come out this far.”

  “If what comes this far? What are you talking about?”

  “Ghosts, Jim. I’m talking about spirits.”

  Jim’s attention shifted to their supposed guide at his feet. Tucking his pistol away, he reached down and pulled the sailor up by his collar, his fists firmly twisted in Pendleton’s jacket.

  “Now you listen to me old man.” Shaw’s tone reflected his anger. “I warned you about playing games out here. I ain’t a superstitious man, but riling my men with some fool ghost story is enough to turn me into your worst nightmare.”

  Pendleton deftly brought his arms up through Jim’s hold and away, breaking free of his grasp. “Don’t you threaten me boy! I know what’s out here.

  “Why do you think I turned us east yesterday? I needed time to think! The mansion lies towards the center of the forest, of that I’m positive, but the ghosts reside there, too.”

  “You never said anything about hauntings, and neither did Whitehall,” a voice interrupted them from the main group. “Most of us only came for the easy money, but if there’s spirits in these woods, I’d just as soon leave ‘em be.”

  Jim looked up, only to realize that the entire camp had overheard their exchange.

  Cook, the stout, red-headed man who had been stirring the food earlier, was the bearer of doubt, but the rest of the men clearly had similar thoughts. Some even had their weapons at the ready, while others were discreetly packing their things away.

  “Come on, men.” Jim nodded firmly towards the darkness, despite the growing sense of unease settling in his chest. “You’re not buying this nonsense, are you? There’s nothing else in this woods but animals and us.”

  “Yes, there are, but I don’t think they’ll bother us,” Pendleton interjected. “At least, they’ve never harmed me.”

  Jim cast him a dangerous glare, recognizing an upstart when he saw one. “That’s enough,” he stated firmly. “Ghosts or no ghosts, we’ve a job to do, and there’s good money to be made here. It’s just the wind and the dark talking now. By morning, we’ll all feel a bit foolish and move on.”

  The group grew silent, and Jim thought for a moment that he had won them over.

  The fact that every single man had turned white as a sheet as they stared into the space behind him soon made him think otherwise, though.

  Chapter VI

  Whitehall smiled to himself as the last drop of bourbon burned its way down his throat. The glass had barely made contact with his polished oak writing desk, when the doors to his study burst open and a disheveled man stumbled to the floor.

  Middle-aged, about forty-five, and graying at the temples, the new arrival’s clothes were tattered
and covered in a mixture of blood and mud. Whitehall vaguely recognized him as one of Jim Shaw’s group.

  “I tried to stop him, sir, but he…“

  Whitehall raised a hand and interrupted his butler mid-sentence. It was obvious this man was desperate to deliver news of some kind. “That will be all, Thomas. I’ll take it from here.”

  The balding butler bowed at the waist, gave the panicked man a final glare, and pulled the study doors closed behind him.

  “You’ve upset my butler.” Whitehall crossed one leg over the other, resting his chin on his palm as he waited for the man to pick himself up and gather his wits. “I assume you have news.”

  “G-g-g-g-ghosts, sir, in the woods!” The man stammered, swaying as if he might fall back to his knees.

  “Care for some bourbon or whiskey?” Whitehall gestured towards his liquor cabinet on the opposite side of the study. “I’m sorry, but your name has escaped me.”

  “I… Didn’t you hear what I said? We’ve been attacked!”

  “Attacked? That’s grave news indeed. Sure you don’t want something to drink? You look as though you could use it.” Whitehall rose from his chair and casually made his way to the liquor cabinet, empty glass in hand.

  “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. I said unnatural spirits have attacked your men! I barely made it out alive! I have no idea what happened to the others. A few of us tried to use our guns. There was a lot of screaming and scrambling about…”

  Whitehall poured another bourbon, then opened a small drawer in the center of the cabinet. “Yes, and the uh…state of your clothes. I suppose that had nothing to do with running about in the forest at night?”

  “I had to run! I swear it was the devil himself, although it looked like a child! There weren’t no eyes or a mouth, just awful black holes where its face should’ve been.”

  “And it attacked you, did it?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? I heard the screaming and shooting! I don’t remember much more. I turned and got the hell out of there! Came straight here to tell you what happened. It’s likely I’m the only one left.” The man sounded grief stricken and was obviously terrified of what he had seen.

  “Indeed. I’m certainly glad you’ve come to me with this.”

  “Well, seeing how you put this whole thing together, I figured I’d come here first, so you could tell the authorities.” The man calmed down a bit as he explained. “Maybe get a search party together or something for the others. God knows what you’ll find, though. I’m certainly not setting foot back in those woods. That’s for sure.”

  “To say the least.” Whitehall turned, his glass of bourbon in one hand and a revolver in the other.

  “We tried guns.” The man eyed the gleaming weapon in the firelight. “No offense, but I don’t think that little thing will do the job.”

  “It’ll do the trick.” Whitehall smirked and raised the glass to his lips for a quick sip, before he put a hole through the man’s forehead.

  As the body slumped to the floor, Whitehall sighed, and taking a white handkerchief from his vest pocket, he began polishing the smoking weapon.

  “Was that really necessary?” Bernard’s voice sounded thin as he slunk from the shadows. “You probably could’ve bought him off.”

  “Of course, I could’ve, but I would have lost coin to this blubbering idiot, who would’ve only wasted it on tavern swill. Even so, I wouldn’t have quelled his inevitable re-telling of this ‘event.’ A shame about the floor, though. It’ll have to be replaced.”

  “Bugger the floor, we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands. If anyone else comes crawling out of that forest with similar stories, it’ll get to the police. Then we’ll be done for. The excavation, the deaths – all of it will go straight to Scotland Yard, and we’ll be front page news before we hang.” Bernard paced the floor in front of the fireplace as the light cast his wavering shadow across the wall.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Welly. Swinging isn’t part of my plan.”

  “How can you joke? Not only do we have racketeering, illegal excavation, document forgery, theft, and bribery on our hands, now we have murder. This is getting out of hand.”

  “I’m quite sure it’s gone well beyond ‘out of hand,’ but none of that matters.” Whitehall moved to his desk and pulled a leather bound book from a drawer, holding it up in the firelight before tossing it to his spindly partner.

  Bernard fumbled with the object before clutching it to his chest. Readjusting his glasses, he glared at his partner in crime. “Are you mad? You could’ve thrown this into the fire!”

  “So what? I have it memorized. Take a peek at the fifteenth entry.”

  Warily eyeing the spreading stain on the wooden floor, Bernard undid the worn leather binding and carefully moved through the aged pages, until he found the correct entry and began to read.

  “Out loud, Welly. I like a good story before bed.” Whitehall turned and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk, caressing the silver revolver as he stared through the glass at the night sky.

  “It says:

  James woke me before the rooster’s crow this morning, as he does every morning. I suspect he’s trying to drive me mad, the tosser.

  I didn’t really expect to find any presents under the tree, but it seems Mrs. Bower and, perhaps, Albert the gardener have gotten us some!

  We both received fresh fruit and a small bag of walnuts, but there were two gifts that were wrapped prettier than the rest. James opened his first. It was a marble chess set and a BB gun. Naturally, he took to pretending to shoot me with it. Then I opened my gift…”

  “This is my favorite part!” Whitehall rubbed his hands together, before waving Bernard on.

  “It’s the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen. The pendant is a golden cross with little white stones all around, and it certainly looks expensive. Mrs. Bower wouldn’t let me wear it or show it to the others. She said that it used to belong to her, and I should put it away for safekeeping. I…”

  “Yes, yes, the rest is boring.” Whitehall turned and leaned over the back of his desk chair, his hooded eyes gleaming in the firelight. “So, do you understand yet?”

  “Understand what? The girl got a pretty necklace. Fantastic, we’re saved?” Bernard shut the book with a snap.

  Whitehall shook his head. “You have such limited vision for someone who is supposedly smart.”

  “Whitehall, it’s a necklace.”

  “It’s the Portuguese Diamond Cross.”

  “The Portu… You must be joking. That’s a myth, a fable for treasure hunters. It’s not real.” Carefully stepping around the corpse in the middle of the floor, Bernard crossed the room and looked Whitehall in the eye. The man was mad, but was he that mad?

  “Oh no, no, no,” his partner insisted. “You see, before Mrs. Bower became the owner of our dear lost mansion, she worked at a tavern at the docks near Cardigan.

  “Eight years ago, I tracked down a man named Edward Reynolds, who had sailed with a man named Bartholomew C. Roberts. He claimed to have witnessed Roberts using that very cross to pay for his meal, being very drunk at the time, while at layover in Cardigan many years before. He also recalled a wench by the name of Abigail Bower being the chef for that night. Said the food was to die for.”

  Bernard studied his partner, unsure of whether or not to believe this outlandish tale.

  “Edward Reynolds claimed the cross was passed down to Roberts from an ancestor who bore the same name – John Roberts.”

  “So?”

  “Also known as Bartholomew Roberts. Also known as Black Bart, one of the most infamous pirates of his day. He stole the cross from a Portuguese vessel off the coast of Brazil in 1719.” Whitehall sipped his bourbon, gauging Bernard’s reaction.

  “To this day, it has been assumed that it was either spent or stolen by his mutinous second-in-command, Walter Kennedy,” Bernard recalled, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. “Now, you’re telli
ng me that Bart chose to keep it in the family? The cunning devil, if he did, but that’s preposterous! Is there any evidence other than the word of a drunken man and a young girl’s diary?”

  “That’s more than enough evidence for me, but if you insist, have a look at this.” Whitehall reached into the same desk drawer and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper, tied with a ribbon.

  Bernard took it carefully, his eyes growing wide as he read. “This is an official appraisal of the necklace!”

  “Indeed,” Whitehall confirmed. “According to the professionals, the necklace dates to the early 16th century. Just about right, don’t you think? A lovely little Christmas present for the two of us.

  “Roberts wisely had it appraised before he threw it away for a dockside meal, probably the most expensive custard he’s ever eaten.” He chuckled to himself, both at the poor man’s misfortune, and his brilliant luck at having stumbled across the treasure’s potential whereabouts. “I bribed the Records Department clerk for a copy of the written appraisal.”

  “Alright, let me get this straight.” Wellington held the other man’s gaze. “This was never about the mansion or solving the mystery of the disappearances, was it? It was all about finding the Portuguese cross.”

  “You’re as brilliant as you portend, my good man.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Whitehall. You still haven’t given me a reason for this poor sod’s death.” Bernard pointed behind him at the prone figure.

  “Haven’t I?” Whitehall’s right eyebrow rose slightly. “Really, Welly, you must keep up. If that idiot had managed to spread word of what we’re doing here, the police or the government one would’ve interfered, as they always do. They would’ve confiscated the diary, excavated the site or, worse, destroyed it.

  “It’s possible they would either have discovered the cross themselves or buried it further, and either way, we would’ve both been left up the creek without a prayer – a miserable Christmas indeed.”