“There is one ghost on the island whom you’d be well advised to avoid,” said Miss Calder.
“Really?” said Reggie. “I imagined that, with the exception of the Mad Parson, they’re all fairly harmless.”
Reggie and Tenzin were sitting with Miss Calder in the gloomy office that the ghostly administrator of the Pallid Rock Orphanage called home.
“It’s Clarissa Cockadilly. She haunts the swamp at the end of the lane known as Forty Second Street,” she said.
“Why Forty Second Street?” Reggie couldn’t disguise the puzzlement in his voice.
“I’ll tell you her story, and then you’ll understand,” said Miss Calder, settling back in her chair.
“Clarissa Cockadilly lived about two hundred years ago, when the founding families were still comparatively new to the island. She was related to the O’Stoats, although I believe the Cockadilly line itself has long since died out.
On the last evening of April, Clarissa celebrated her twenty-first birthday. It was May Day Eve and, unfortunately for her, a Saturday. In those days the Sabbath was observed rather more strictly than it is now. Dancing, drinking and enjoying oneself after midnight were considered by certain people to be grievous sins.”
“Sounds dashed inconvenient,” said Reggie.
“Indeed. Nevertheless, Clarissa and her friends held a party. There was food, moonshine liquor and dancing, with a fiddler providing the music. At midnight he stopped, and told them that he would play no more, saying that it would be a sin to do so on the Sabbath. Clarissa apparently declared that if innocent pleasure was sinful, she didn’t care if she went to Hell.”
Miss Calder paused.
“That was subsequently regarded as an unfortunate choice of words.”
“I can imagine,” said Tenzin.
“The fiddler left, threatening to report them to a man called Preacher Chevin. According to the story usually told afterwards, however, another fiddler appeared almost immediately. This one was rather more accommodating.”
“Don’t tell me it was the Devil,” exclaimed Reggie.
“So the legend says. Horns, cloven hooves, sparks flying from his violin – all the usual embellishments. Apparently nobody noticed any of these things until it was too late.
The stranger began to play and Clarissa and her companions began to dance. The music grew faster and faster until the dancers were led away from the party ground and towards the swamp. As each became exhausted, he or she was turned to stone. If you walk the old road today, you will see a line of large stones on either side. Those are supposedly the unfortunate dancers.”
“And Clarissa?”
“She kept going. She danced all the way along the causeway through the swamp. It is exactly one hundred and seventy-six yards long – one tenth of a mile – and, according to the story, she covered it in precisely forty seconds. She reached the other side, lost her footing and fell into the swamp, where she drowned.”
Reggie frowned.
“And you don’t believe a word of it.”
“Very little,” said Miss Calder.
She was silent for a moment before continuing.
“There is another version of the story. The O’Stoats have preserved it for generations, and it is considerably less picturesque.
When the original fiddler left the party, he did exactly what he had threatened to do. He went to Preacher Chevin and told him that Clarissa Cockadilly and her friends were drinking, dancing and blaspheming on the Sabbath. Chevin already disliked the O’Stoats and their relatives. He gathered together several men who shared his particular conception of Christian charity and went to confront them.”
“What happened?” asked Tenzin.
“No one knows for certain. There was a fight. Clarissa and her companions had been drinking; Chevin and his followers were filled with righteous indignation, which can sometimes be considerably more intoxicating. By morning, every one of the partygoers had disappeared.”
Reggie had stopped making notes.
“The swamp?” he said.
“That is what the O’Stoats believe. Clarissa and the others were murdered and their bodies thrown into it. The stones appeared beside the road shortly afterwards. The story about the Devil, the fiddle and the petrified dancers then began to circulate.”
“A cover-up, started by Chevin?”
“Almost certainly, according to the O’Stoats. A useful story, wouldn’t you say? It concealed a murder and provided a cautionary tale about the consequences of breaking the Sabbath at the same time.”
“Efficient devil,” muttered Reggie. “Getting blamed for crimes he didn’t even have to commit.”
Miss Calder gave him the faintest suggestion of a smile.
“There are occasions, Brigadier, when people have very little need of supernatural assistance.”
She folded her hands upon the desk.
“Whatever happened that night, Clarissa never left the swamp. Her ghost has been seen there ever since. Anyone wishing to cross the causeway is advised to cover the entire distance in forty seconds.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Clarissa rises from the swamp and asks them to dance.”
“That doesn’t sound too dreadful.”
“If you dance well, she thanks you and lets you go.”
“And if you dance badly?”
“She drags you beneath the water.”
Reggie frowned.
“That’s a tad severe.
“Refuse to dance and the result is apparently much the same.”
Tenzin grinned.
“Can you dance?”
“My dear boy, in my younger days I was considered a perfectly adequate performer.”
“I wouldn’t rely upon Clarissa sharing your assessment,” said Miss Calder.
Reggie ignored her and did a rapid calculation in the margin of his notebook.
“One hundred and seventy-six yards in forty seconds. That’s…”
He calculated again.
“Six and two-thirds miles an hour.”
Miss Calder raised an eyebrow.
“Six point six recurring,” said Tenzin.
Reggie stared at the figures.
“Good Lord.
“What?”
“Nothing. Merely an unfortunate number.”
He closed the notebook.
“Still, that’s hardly an impossible speed.”
“On foot?” asked Tenzin.
Reggie looked offended.
“I had something rather more dignified in mind.”
To be continued…