“My dear boy, I am merely twenty years of age and I need not tell you the things I have seen and done. You think I believe in ghosts? I don’t, but I believe in money.”
“One hundred guineas,” Roberts says for his pride is equally hurt.
“Then I wholeheartedly accept your preposterous harebrained challenge!” Warboys raises his flagon of ale into the air with a grin full of gusto.
They pay for their beers and stumble out into the street. The cold air hits them and Anderson realises quite how drunk he has become and wonders briefly whether this was a good idea after all.
They reach Berkeley Square as the lamps are being lit and find the house. It is tall and adjoined to those each side. The square is quite lovely and upmarket except for this house, this house has seen a much better day and is in good need of a clean and paint. Anderson shudders, not for the cold, but for the truth. Why else would no one want to buy and live in such a luxuriant square in the heart of London?
After knocking a man opens the door. He is a tall, thin man with greyish skin, but black, black hair.
“Are you the owner of this property?” Sir Robert asks. He has sobered up somewhat, but is still drunk enough to be belligerent. Even sober he is quite belligerent, but it has got him so far so young that he sees nothing to change.
“No, sir, I am but the landlord of the residence.”
“And no one lives here?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well then, I would like to sleep in your upper room for the night.”
“That is not a good idea, sir.”
“Why? Because it is haunted?” Warboys laughs.
“Because it is not a good idea,” the man merely replies.
“Come, let us go, this was a foolish idea,” Anderson tries.
“Hush,” replies Sir Robert. “Look, my good man, there is no such thing as ghosts and this is your chance to prove it. Maybe sell it on.
“Plus I will give you a nights rent and some pounds to do the place up, it is in a dreadful state.”
“Very well, sir, it is you not I that will be sleeping there,” the landlord says and steps aside.
They walk into the front room which is cosy enough and the landlord wanders off.
“Very well,” Roberts says. “If we are doing this then we will do it right. You will ring the service bell once if you see anything and we will come and see it as well. You will ring it twice if you need help.”
“This is nonsense; do not come on the first bell as you might scare the spirit off. But I will ring it if I see something, which I will not because I will be fast asleep.”
“Take this with you,” the Landlord says re-entering.
“What is this? A pistol? I need not a pistol for sleep, my good man.”
“There will be no staying up there tonight nor any night if you take it not.”
“Very well,” sighs Sir Robert and takes the pistol. “Good night, gentlemen.”
With that he and the landlord take to the stairs while Jeffery Anderson and Michael Roberts take chairs.
The landlord joins them and they talk about the area, about how London is growing and the price of properties. Until forty-five minutes past the stroke of twelve when they hear the tinkling of a service bell in the kitchen.
“He sees something,” Anderson jumps from his chair.
“Or he is jesting with us,” Roberts replies sleepily.
“Come let us look,” Anderson says and so the three walk out to the bottom of the stairs.
As they get there the service bell rings twice and then starts ringing continuously. The three men run up the stairs, (the bell falls silent) to the landing and up to the next floor. As they reach the third and top floor a gunshot rings out from the front room and they speed up, slamming the door wide open.
Sitting wedged into the corner of the room sits Sir Robert Warboys, gun in one hand, the bell pull, ripped from the ceiling, in the other. His lips are pulled back in a rictus of terror and eyes popped out so that they dangle upon his cheeks.
His friends run to him and the landlord looks across the room to see what he had fired at. There is merely a bullet lodged in the wall.
Sir Robert Warboys is quite dead.
Dead from terror.
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