Page 7 of The Right to Remain Single

“Romantic folderol,” Mr. Warren said dismissively. “The opposite of commonsense.”

Something in the way Thomasina Warren pursed her lips at this made James add, “Some of the poems are quite good, but I prefer Latin poetry.” He was translating Ovid’s erotic poems for the fun of it, but could hardly mention that here.

“Good God,” Mr. Warren said. “You’re a scholar, are you? And what does your father say to that?”

“That it’s a waste of time.” James was a disappointment to his father in more than just his unwillingness to marry. No matter how he excelled at various manly sports, such as shooting, fencing, cricket, and so on, his scholarly bent made him a lesser man.

“Maybe not, if you want to banish a Roman ghost.” Mr. Warren laughed so hard that he burst into a fit of coughing, turned purple, and finally regained his breath. “So if you’re not an exorcist, how do you propose to rid us of our ghost?”

“By speaking with him,” James said. “Ghosts appreciate courtesy.”

“Not this one,” Walt said. “Tommie, you’ll accompany him, and this time, make damned sure the ghost knows he’s welcome. Say, amicus. Or amice, I forget which. It means friend.”

James pondered explaining which to use, but decided not to. It would sound pedantic, and the ghost would understand; one doesn’t expect foreigners to be fluent in one’s own language.

“I’ve told you this before, so don’t pretend you’ve forgotten,” Walt said.

The annoyance deepened on Thomasina’s face.

Walt turned to James again. “So you speak to him. Then what?”

“I hope to persuade him to leave,” James said.

The moment Thomasina Warren opened her mouth, her father turned on her. “Don’t start spouting that namby-pamby nonsense about hurting the ghost’s feelings! Your future is more important than any ghost. He’s a blasted nuisance, and he has to go.”

“This is his home,” she said. “He has been here for hundreds of years. It’s cruel to make him go away.”

The old man banged his fist on the table, rattling the coffee cups. “The ghost is scaring off an excellent suitor for your hand.” He scowled at his daughter. “He’s dead, girl. He should be in Hades. And he’s a murderer—thrice over, apart from whatever he must have done during his life.” He turned to James. “We have three death masks to prove it.”

“So Colin told me. I’d like to see them.”

“I can’t get up those stairs anymore,” her father grunted. “My daughter will show you.”

Surprised, James turned to Miss Warren. Surely such a sight was inappropriate for a lady.

“I’ll take you up to the tower,” she said.

Chapter Three

“He hasn’t killed anyone in over fifty years.” Thomasina led Mr. Blakely through the Great Hall and up the winding stone stairs of the central tower where the death masks were kept. “This may mean that he is due for another murderous rage. He tends to be rather more rumbustious during the Christmas season.”

“Perhaps to celebrate Saturnalia,” Mr. Blakely said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Roman festival which took place at this time of year. Some Christmas customs originated with Saturnalia.”

This might explain the fact that Max sang and sometimes even danced a little at this season—but discussing the fun-loving aspect of the ghost wouldn’t help get rid of Mr. Blakely.

She reverted to the prepared speech she gave every visitor to the tower. “However, if one remains in one’s bedchamber at night, one is perfectly safe.” She paused. “It can be a bit unnerving going upstairs after dinner, but as long as one doesn’t let his shouts and marching about bother one, it’s not a problem. The noise may disturb one’s sleep, but only for a few months, until one becomes accustomed.” This was nonsense; Max patrolled outdoors most of the time, didn’t shout without good reason, and rarely kept one awake.

“It’s deuced cold up here,” Mr. Blakely said mildly.

“The death masks don’t mind.” She took the massive key from its nail and pushed it into the lock of the tower room door. She struggled to turn it. What a pity she’d forgotten to wear gloves, for her freezing fingers wouldn’t grip. It was her own fault; she shouldn’t let Papa’s antiquated notions upset her.

Nor Mr. Blakely’s affable manners and charming smile. He had charmed her years before, but it had meant nothing then and meant nothing now.

“Allow me.” He turned the key easily and pushed the door open. The hinges hadn’t been oiled for ages, so it gave way with a spooky groan.