The Singular Case of the Ghost at Carrington Hall.

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From the files of Dr. Raymond Graylock, M.D.

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For many years it has fallen my lot to chronicle the detection of various crimes by my good friend , Dr. Dockerty Grimes. That he has seen fit to take me into his confidence I count as one of the most wonderful privileges that has befallen me.

His illustrious career has spanned something like thirty years. His powers of detection have become known far and wide … although I must confess to a small part in this due to my literary efforts.

But for some time I have declined to release to the reading public the narrative that follows. I have called it “The Singular Case of the Ghost at Carrington Hall.”

Singular … because Dr. Grimes never leaves his rooms at 22A Baker Street, and singular because the solution was so simple, in spite of being so puzzling to the bumptious inhabitant of the Hall in question.

I might add that I also hesitated to publish this story for it contains none of the excitement and danger encountered in many of our previous investigations. I say “our investigations” for, as the reader will recall, I was there, albeit in a very minor capacity.

But there are no ferocious hounds baying at our heels, no savage witch doctors casting anathemas at our souls, nor poisonous vipers with their deadly venom, confronting us.

So I hesitated. But realising this strange affair concerning the Ghost at Carrington Hall does reveal something of my companion’s deductive powers in a manner seldom recorded, I now send it forth. And for that reason I beg the readers’ forgiveness for my delay in doing so.

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It was September 23, in the year of our Lord, 1877.

Dr. Grimes was seated in his favourite chair gazing forth through a sleet stained window at a very murky London. His favourite pipe was clenched firmly between his rather well kept teeth and his favourite reading matter, the Strand newspaper, lay in scattered disarray upon the floor. Tidiness was not one of his virtues, except, of course, tidiness of mind where every subject seemed to be perfectly compartmentalised.

I knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an invitation to do so. Such had been my regular morning custom for the previous three years.

Grimes did not even turn to face me.

“Graylock,” he said, “you really will have to refrain from walking through Tussard Park on a morning like this. Catch a cab, man, catch a cab or you will catch a death of cold instead.”

“And how, prithee, how did you know I came by way of Tussard park ?” I said removing my greatcoat.

“Elementary,” he replied without turning to face me. “I heard you rubbing your shoes on the mat outside to rid them of the mud you had acquired, I now hear you shaking your coat to rid it of the sleet that has fallen upon it. I heard the umbrella being closed just outside my door and left in the hallway … and, my dear Graylock, … I even watched you wandering across Tussard Park from my window.”

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I picked up the Strand, sorted it into its appropriate order, and reclined on the divan to read the day’s news. But before I turned to page two Mrs. McAnley, Grime’s bustling landlady, announced that there was a gentleman to see him.

No sooner had she said so that a red-faced, short and stout gentleman …if that is the word … burst through the open door.

“Which one of you is Grimes ?” he demanded in a rather rude manner.

“Good morning, Colonel Carrington. Do be seated,” Grimes said quietly, “I’m the one you wish to see. This …” (he waved a hand in my direction) “… is my good friend, Dr. Graylock. And what is it I can I do for you?” He continued to look out of the window at the bleakness of the weather.

“I want you to come to Carrington Hall and get rid of a confounded ghost. I tell you, two of the servants have left already. Money is no object. Just come!!” His stentorian tone of voice was most off-putting.

Grimes took a few more puffs from his pipe before answering.

Then, quite casually I thought, he required of the Colonel to tell him the whole chain of events that led to this request.

“My name” our visitor began, “ … though you seem to know that already … is Carrington. Colonel Carrington. Recently retired from the British Fusiliers, third Division … spent five years in India, you know. Then I return to England, buy a home … I guess some would call it a mansion … in Sussex … and settle in with my wife.”

“And that was a year ago.” Grimes added.

I was amazed. How did my friend know so much about this fellow?

Without turning in my direction, Grimes decided to explain. “I could tell by the way our visitor strode into the room that he was an Army man and his voice indicated that he had been used to commanding soldiers. His rather belligerent attitude also revealed as much. As for the wound in the left leg … an Indian sniper I believe it was. There was a write-up about it in the Strand a year ago. This morning’s strand also had reference to the fact that he was advertising for servants … and I realised something was amiss at the Hall. Pray, continue, please Colonel …”

The red faced visitor took a deep breath and commenced his intriguing story. At least, I found it to be so.

“I tell you, Grimes,” he said, “There is ghost at Carrington Hall. For the last week there have been curious noises in the attic, sounds of footsteps, even a low kind of wailing sound. The last couple of nights I jumped out of bed as soon as I heard it,

grabbed my revolver and was up the stairs in a flash. Believe me, … the attic was empty. Empty, I tell you.”

Grimes moved his chair to face the Colonel. I could tell he was becoming interested.

He spoke. “Do these sounds only emanate from the attic?” he asked. “Nowhere else in the house?”

“Only the attic,”replied Colonel Carrington.

“And who else is living at the Hall?”
”My wife lives there with me, of course. But she has been in Birmingham for the last ten days or so. Her mother is quite ill. Quite ill.”
“And the servants?”

“They live some distant from the actual Hall. On the property of course but not in the Hall itself. There are a couple of houses on the grounds. One was occupied by three maidservants … two of which as you know have left me. And the other by the gardener and his family. Benson. Good chap. But his two lads are something else. Caught ‘em playing ball near my rose garden a week ago. No respect for another’s property, that’s what I say. I told ‘em to get home before I set the dogs on ‘em.”

Grimes sucked his pipe. “I see,” he murmured reflectively.

Carrington continued. “I want you to come to Sussex and get to the bottom of this, Grimes,” he barked it out as if still ordering his battalion on the parade ground. “I won’t have my wife coming home to this state of affairs. As I said, money is no object.”

“You have already told me two things of utmost importance … things that I’m sure will reveal the source of your ghostly visitor … and put an end to him. Or perhaps I should say, ‘them’.”

He paused. The Colonel and I looked at each other.

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“You said that this ghost, so-called, commenced his mischief a week ago. And you just told me that you remonstrated with the gardener’s lads … a week ago. Now doesn’t that suggest something to you? Boys will be boys, you know. And I suggest you have a talk to them quietly; warn them … gently, mind you, that you will speak to their mother unless the noises and footfalls and moanings cease. And if that does not solve the problem, I will be very surprised.”

“But how did they get out of the attic without being seen?”

“I suggest to you, sir, that they were never in the attic. On a ladder outside, maybe. Or perhaps they had climbed on the roof. But your mind played funny tricks as minds are wont to do. The noises these young rascals made on the outside of the attic wall sounded to you as if it was inside. I’m sure, if you take my advice, the ‘ghost’ will be laid. And one more thing. I don’t think you are a religious man, Colonel, but it would do you well to get out your family Bible, dust it off, and ponder what it says in the Book of Proverbs, chapter fifteen and the first verse.”

“I’ll take your advice, Mr Grimes,” said Colonel Carrington rising from his chair.

He shook hands with the detective, assured him that a cheque would arrive in due time if the deductions proved correct (which I might add, they did,) put on his greatcoat and hat and Mrs McAnley showed him out.

“Grimes,” I said, “that was marvellous. I hope he remembers to speak kindly to those lads. And that he looks up that text you mentioned.”

I reached for the well-worn Bible on Grime’s desk. “Mmm, … Proverbs chapter fifteen, verse one.” I muttered to myself as I flicked through the pages. “Here it is ... ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath.’ Ha! If Colonel Carrington had acted upon that a week ago the ghost would never have haunted him.”

Grimes smiled. “Elementary my dear Graylock … elementary.”
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The Return of Dockerty Grimes …Agent 008 !

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“ Good morning, sir,” I said as I entered the plush office. “I believe you wanted to see me. Grimes is the name … Dockerty Grimes.”

‘Q’ looked up from behind his enormous paper strewn desk and through a cloud of cigar smoke.

He was Director of the British Secret, Secret Service … so secret that even the Secret Service was ignorant of its existence. Hence the two ‘Secrets’.

“I’ve been looking over your record, Grimes, and I feel you are just the man for a job I have in mind.” Another puff ... then he wheezed and coughed. “Mind you, Grimes, its dangerous,” he continued. “It brought your predecessor’s career to a sticky end. But that Bond fellow was always getting mixed up with women during his assignments.” Another puff ... and the haze almost obliterated his features.

“What happened to him, sir ?” I asked.

“Knife in the back. Got to watch your back, you know. A woman did it …”

“So where do you want me to go ?” I enquired anxiously. I was always ready to serve King and country, no matter the personal risks.

“Grimes,” he said most seriously, “I want you to go to Morocco … there’s an Arab drug runner there named Ali Fazeed. “ He opened a drawer and produced a photo of the wanted man.

“He smuggles the stuff into England by the ton,” he continued. “Must be stopped. You’ll find him at a joint called the Klub Kasbah … it’s a seedy nightclub by the Mediterranean. And you’ll be contacted by our agents in the area . They are working undercover.” He chuckled at his own joke, the import of which escaped me at the time.

“I’m ready to go, sir,” I said.

“Good man ! And remember to watch your back … especially if there are women around.”

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Morocco .. land of mystery, danger … and smells.

A taxi took me to the Klub Kasbah … ‘Q’s description had been generous. Inside half a dozen patrons sat in a stupefying daze, filling the room with smoke. Another four Arabs sat around a table examining papers from an important looking brief case. One of them was my quarry … Ali Fazeed !

The bartender asked me what I was drinking.

‘Milk’ I said, little realising it would be a day or two old goat’s milk. Not that the goat was a day or two old but the milk was. But when one needed all one’s wits about one … milk was a far more sensible drink than any other brew that was available. I leaned on the counter but eyed the occupants of this night-club as they were reflected in the mirror on the wall facing me.

Then came the announcement from the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen !!! For your entertainment and at great expense to the management, we present the MacStanley Sisters with their exotic Dance of the Seven Veils !” There was no applause. But a three-piece band began to play and the MacStanley Sisters , swathed in silken, coloured veils, appeared from the wings.

The patrons continued to puff on their hookahs. The four dangerous looking men behind me continued discussing the papers before them.

It wasn’t until the fourth veil was discarded anyone seemed to take much notice of the performance on the stage.

The MacStanley Sisters gyrated and swirled, swivelled their hips and wiggled their fingers. And disposed of another veil. It was pseudo-oriental ! But when the sixth veil went a- fluttering onto the floor the interest of the customers began to rise.

Even I, watching this amateurish manoeuvring in the mirror, was temporarily distracted. Not watching my back !!

There was a cry … from whence it came I knew not … but a husky voice yelled, “Look out !!”

Instinctively I ducked and dodged to one side. Whether the warning had been for me or not, I knew not. But I soon realised that someone had saved my life. The knife … meant for my back, now quivered in the shattered mirror. It had missed me by inches.

I turned. Ali Fazeed and his three co-conspirators all stood facing me, three of them brandishing evil-looking throwing knives in their hand. The fourth held a scimitar … and displayed a body language that revealed he was about to relish the thought of slicing me into small pieces. It was something he had obviously accomplished … on others … more than once.

Reaching for the gun in my shoulder holster was out of the question. There was no time.

Nor would my years of mastering Kung-fu be of any avail .

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“Goodbye, Mr. Grimes.” Said Ali Fazeed.

All three knives were raised ready to throw and the scimitar was whirling ready to do its deadly work. Suddenly four shots rang out. On the stage the MacStanley Sisters stood with a gun in each hand. Tho’ where they had concealed them beneath their seventh veil I never discovered …

The drug cartel lay dead, one of them sprawled on the table, the others on the floor.

The MacStanley Sisters kept their weapons levelled at everyone else in the room whilst I scooped the papers from Fazeed’s table … shoved them quickly into the brief case … and tucked it under my arm.

“Follow me,” said the one with the husky voice.

I did.

In the back alley a motor bike awaited us.

It was a tight squeeze but I didn’t complain. Sandwiched between the MacStanley Sisters as we careered down Morocco’s narrow streets was an experience not to be forgotten. I hung on to the driver whilst Miss Husky-voice, balancing precariously behind, hung on to me.

Veil number seven was blowing in my face.

“Where,” I asked, “ are we going ?”

“ An airfield about ten minutes away,” came the surprising reply.

“ An airfield !!!” I echoed.

“There’s a Cessna waiting for us to get us back to England.”

The ‘light’ broke upon me. “ You two are my contacts,” I said, somewhat shocked.

“ That’s right …”

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An hour later we had flown across the Channel to a military airbase and been taken by jeep to ‘Q’s office. I handed him the brief case crammed with the incriminating papers.

He puffed his cigar … “ Well done, Grimes ! I see you’ve met Sharee (Agent 009 ) and Rosie ( Agent 666) And now,” he added, casting an eye at the two young ladies still clad only in their seventh veils, “now you know why I said they were working undercover.”

“Definitely a slight exaggeration, sir, “ I commented.

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