Ghost Rememberer

By Tyrus Buckley

In the summer of 1895, when Brenton Grey rolls into the industrious little town of Carmallow Crown, he knows not the sordid secrets that live there—nor what murderous mysteries fidget restlessly beneath its soil.



Haunted by a comical apparition, shocked by a vicious murder, and confounded by puzzles wrapped up in riddles, the unlikely detective finds himself on a hunt for not one, but three different killers. As he questions his own sanity, and wrestles ageless moral dilemmas, he is taken on an emotional journey that will change him forever.



In a time of horse carriages, pouffy dresses and class separations—at the dawn of electricity, the bowler hat, and the questioning of gender identity—a tale unfolds of forbidden lusts, dark deeds, and buried bones.



Brenton Grey must become a master manipulator, to bring justice, closure and peace, to an entire town—and to a flirty ghost, with a wicked sense of humour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyrus Buckley
• Release date: Jan 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839784422

Book preview

Contents

Copyright, Disclaimer, Credits

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part Two

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Dedication

About The Author

~~~~~~

Ghost Rememberer

by Tyrus Buckley

Copyright © 2021 Tyrus Buckley

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Image by Enrique Meseguer

https://pixabay.com/users/darksouls1-2189876/

Ghost Rememberer was planned, written and compiled using Novelist

https://www.novelist.app

~~~~~~

Part One

Chapter 1

It was night time, and the year was 1895.

The rhythmic chugging of the steam train had a lulling effect on the young man, who sat alone at the last of the tables-for-two. Across the aisle, ran a row of bigger tables, each with four chairs. But, those were all empty. The other travellers had long ago retired to their compartments, stuffed with fine food, and even finer wine—provided to Welton Rail's first-class passengers only.

Acutely appreciative of the certain intangible romance of roving by rail, Brenton Halithersis Grey immersed himself in the full symphonic experience. The gentle shushing of steam conducted them along iron tracks, with clinks and clunks setting the tempo of a calming mechanical sonata. The beautiful carriages and glimmering fixtures, shining like the brass section of a lively concerto, brought a kind of glamour to the scene—while the delightful smells, of clean upholstery and wood polish, completed the composition, singing soulfully of man's ingenuity and compulsion to advance.

All of it cultivated profound enjoyment, and delight, but the greatest contributor to Brenton's chirpy mood, was the dining car—a relatively recent innovation in train travel, but the most important, by his estimation. No more panicked dashes to buy stale biscuits, or to stock up on dirty water at each stop. Now, for the first time in history, man could truly travel in style.

Of course, if the orchestra of his emotional theatre had any inkling of what loomed ahead for the young man, there might have been a jarring discord played—to invoke suspense, and signal a great impending excitement. But, the train unfortunately had no knowledge of his future, and provided no dissonant warning of what lay farther down his track.

His spectacles slipped down his nose. He pushed them back up, squinting at the intricate pattern woven into the plush carpet, hardly noticing the approaching waiter—who was clad appropriately in black and white, beneath hair slicked to one side.

Would you like anything else, Sir?

Brenton pondered for a moment, while the dining car attendant waited patiently. Even as the last remaining diner, the wealthy patron was entirely oblivious to the veiled innuendo that it was time to sod off.

Actually, yes. I wonder if you have any of that Carmallow tinned meat stuff back there.

You mean Carmallow's Tinned Pork, Sir? the waiter said, eyes gradually widening. "We do, but that is usually only given to, er, workers on the train, Sir. I'm sure Sir might prefer something... more to his tastes, perhaps? Another sirloin, perhaps?"

Brenton slid his spectacles up his nose with his index finger, but they slipped back down a moment later.

Well, you see, it's just that my father has sent me to stay with the Carmallows—for business experience, you understand, business being what my father wants me to do—although, between you and I, I rather wanted to pursue other interests. Anyhow, I just thought, well, if I'm to meet them and live under their roof for a time, and learn from the great Bertrum Carmallow himself, that I should probably, at a minimum, be familiar with the product of their labours, because it would be a bit rude—would it not?—if I didn't even know what it tasted like, you understand.

The waiter opened his mouth, but couldn't wedge a word into the wee conversational gap.

"Especially since I'm on my way to Carmallow Crown right now, which is the very reason I'm on this train, obviously. Well, I suppose it's not obvious, because this line continues on to Epleworth, and beyond."

The attendant opened his mouth once more, but closed it again, when Brenton persisted.

Did you know, they were the first small town in the country to have electricity? Most other towns that size still don't. I mean Carmallow Crown, of course, not Epleworth. And, I happen to know what the Carmallows paid, to the Manson Illumination Company, to have their little coal electricity generator built—a staggering amount, that would knock your socks off.

I-

"Aren't they lucky, to have a whole town named after them? Not that I'm that vain, of course, and obviously I don't mean that they are either, but, I'm sure you know what I mean.

At any rate, I should like to try a tin, if you can spare one, that is. I certainly wouldn't want to deprive a hard worker, such as yourself, of their dinner.

Yes, Sir, the attendant said quickly, seizing the moment, of course, Sir. Just one moment.

When he'd gone off, Brenton looked out the window as the carriage trundled into a tunnel. Nothing to see but pitch black, he waited to emerge once more into moonlight.

A frightfully girlish whimper escaped his manly lips, as he cringed back into his seat. He blinked, and then blinked again.

For just a moment, he had been quite certain that a face stared back at him through the glass. Although only a flicker, he was sure it had been real, but now doubted his faculties.

I must be more tired than I thought, he said, under his breath.

The silhouettes of forest trees came into view once more, beneath an ensorcelling lunar glow. He lifted his glasses to rub his eyes—promising himself that he would refrain from staying up late to read detective stories, as he was wont to do. Peering out the window again, he saw his own ghostly reflection drifting in front of the trees, and adopted this apparition of glass and light as the likely explanation.

The likeness that stared back at him—donning a fashionably dark dinner jacket, waistcoat and bowtie—was an average person. Not thin, but not chubby. Not handsome, but not ugly either. He had one of those bland faces that was as memorable as a head of cauliflower, set under a mop of curly dark hair that seemed to explode from the top of his skull. He was slightly taller than average, but all in all, Brenton Grey was rather plain on the outside. The inside, though, was an entirely different matter, and—had anyone been able to observe the extent to which his brain tirelessly toiled—the appearance of an exploding top might be seen as merely an omen of the inevitable.

He wasn't naive enough to assume that travelling by rail was a delightful experience for everyone. He was well aware of the lower class carriages, that were anything but comfortable, and he was quite conscious of his family's money buying luxuries that other people couldn't afford—but, he also wasn't going to apologise for it.

Yet, unlike most in his family's circle of socialites, Brenton Grey did not believe that money made a person any better than anyone else. Everyone was created equal. Money only made you a lot more comfortable, while you were being equal.

He watched the dark shapes of the forest rushing by, before they gave way to open fields that spanned out ahead of hills in the distance. A small cloud drifted in front of the bright moon, giving its puffy oval shape a silvery luminescent edge.

It was the kind of evening often described in the detective novels he read religiously. Bright moon, shadowy woods, and spooky clouds. Clouds that took on whatever shape the subliminal mind projected—whether the result of buried memories, hidden desires, or supernatural harbingers of future events. The cloud he stared at now, looked oddly like the silver pot his grandmother had used to make fudge. It could mean there was a pot in his future, but it more likely warned of a broken tooth—if Granny Grey's fudge was anything to go by.

Here we are, Sir.

The attendant placed a gleaming white plate in front of him on the table. In its centre, was a mass of pinkish matter that resembled meat, in the loosest sense. It was coated with a gelatinous substance, that quivered and danced, in time with the train's mechanical vibrations.

Brenton grinned up at the waiter.

Delightful, he said, finger pushing his glasses up.

It looked anything but delightful. It didn't even look edible. Yet, Brenton Grey was a young man who somehow brought genuine optimism to every situation in life, and managed to ooze sincerity—even when life looked like a blob of pink, meaty medical waste, that someone somewhere might be very relieved to finally be rid of.

Enjoy, Sir, the attendant said, turning on his heel and sauntering back to the kitchen, with the utter certainty that the eager young patron would do no such thing.

Brenton poked it with his fork, still smiling beneath his spectacles. He pushed them up his nose again, before stabbing a chunk and lifting it to his face.

After peering closely at the thing for several seconds, he decided it unwise to examine it any further, in case he saw something he recognised.

You're an adventurer, he said to himself, closing his eyes, and shoving it into his mouth.

He chewed. An eyebrow lifted. The corners of his mouth drooped a little, as he tilted his head to one side, then to the other. He swallowed.

"Not the worst thing I've tasted," he said, with characteristic optimism, shovelling in another mouthful.

His eyes lifted to the ceiling while he chewed, as a look of indecision came across his face. He swallowed again.

No. Actually, it might be.

He awoke—when the train lurched to a halt at the station, with a hiss of steam—and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Outside on the platform, a few people waited to greet visiting relatives. But, most of the disembarking travellers would be natives of Carmallow Crown, returning home after a few days in the city. Not many people wanted to come here, unless they were connoisseurs of tinned pork, or had stumbled upon such hard times that they actually wanted to work at the tinning factory—and, to the best of Brenton's knowledge, the connoisseuring of tinned pork was yet to become a thing.

It was then, still staring out onto the small platform, when he saw the face again. This time it was not an apparition, but peered back at him through the glass.

It belonged to a young girl, with unusually bright copper-coloured hair that was tied in a high psyche knot, atop a pale-skinned face. Truth be told, she didn't look entirely well, even with the artificial rouge upon her cheeks and lips—which only made her skin appear more ashen. He glanced away to gather his things, but when he turned back, she was gone.

How odd, he said.

For a fleeting moment, he'd thought it to be the same visage he'd seen before. But, of course, he knew that couldn't be. The first must only have been a trick of light, sparking an overactive imagination, while the second was assuredly real—made more so by the earnest stare of her silvery-blue eyes.

Brenton did ponder briefly, how she might have looked into a window much higher from the ground than she had any business being. He had the sort of brain that liked to find answers to questions, even when—as his father had once put it—both question and answer were as pointless as a soft boiled egg. And that, by contrast, was something his analytical mind didn't grasp. He'd spent nearly an hour that day, gazing intently at a soft boiled egg, before realising that it didn't have any points on it.

In the case of the girl at the window, however, the answer was obvious. She had simply stood on a large piece of luggage, probably in an effort to locate a family member over the crowd. Even the most profound mysteries usually had a very simple answer.

Most of the travellers remained on the train—continuing to a destination further down the cross-country line—while Brenton, and about thirty others, disembarked. His foot was yet to settle on the platform, when he was met by a somewhat scary-looking man, who wordlessly took his luggage, and led him—with a pronounced limp and a jerk of his head—to a hansom cab, that stood directly outside the station entrance.

The carriage door, embossed in gold with the Carmallow family crest, closed quietly behind him, and the coachman climbed up to his perch at the rear.

The interior made a show of black velvet, leather, and rich polished wood—all immaculately spotless, and fixed in place by lambent bronze studs.

As they went, it was as if an invisible bubble of stillness surrounded them, with everything grinding to a complete standstill within its bounds. People stopped, moved entirely out of the way, and almost bowed their heads in reverence and respect—as the Carmallow carriage hurtled by, throwing up dust in their faces. Only when they'd passed, and the impalpable bubble had moved on, did life continue for those in their wake.

How extraordinary, Brenton said.

Cobbles were evidently a concept that had never gotten off the train at this particular stop. Every road of sandy dirt gave way to shabby buildings, without the benefit of any sort of pavement. The one they rattled along now, could only be considered a main street by virtue of it's wideness, in comparison to the narrow side roads and alleyways that branched off.

Much like the coachman's face, the man's driving of the vehicle invoked utter trepidation, as they ramped over stones, and charged blindly around corners. Larger carriages, with the box seat on top at the front, provided the comfort of not being able to see where you were going. In the hansom—speeding along as they were, with the driver out of sight behind, and an open view of the road over a horse's posterior—one felt considerably more vulnerable. To make matters worse, Brenton Grey had a frightening imagination. It presently conjured up images of the delicate surgical process that might be required, to remove his head from an equine anatomy, in the event of a sudden stop.

It didn't take long to reach the other side of the small town. He watched the humble townsfolk and derelict buildings go by, until there wasn't much left to see. But then, a little white church—the last building before the road curved, and disappeared into the forest ahead—popped into view. It was one of the few structures without peeling paint, and broken window panes. It even had a pretty garden, guarded by a white picket fence.

The oddness of this visual anomaly was only made more odd by the small figure of the same orange-haired girl, standing on the church's front path. Unlike everyone else, she didn't exude reverence, or respect, but glared straight at him until he was out of view.

How strange, he said, with just the slightest frown, that caused his spectacles to slide down his nose.

Chapter 2

Dirt, vegetation, and a horse's bottom—all poorly lit by the carriage's fresnel-lensed lanterns—were the scenic highlights of the short journey from town. But, having passed over a wide iron-and-wood bridge a minute before, the hansom now slowed, and turned.

The Carmallow family crest—a castle tower, atop two stylised pigs—adorned grand, black, metal gates. These swung open, after the gatekeeper had emerged from his little house, and the carriage rolled on.

Big old trees—overhanging, so as to give the illusion of a tunnel—lined the paved driveway, together with equally spaced electric lampposts. Although mediocre by the standards of the posh estates surrounding Manson, the grounds and buildings here still boasted loudly of the family's substantial wealth. They passed a cluster of structures off to the left, obscured by trees, as the roadway opened into a similarly paved forecourt. Here, an impressive portico protruded from the entrance, joining the mansion itself to a large circular pond, with a fountain at its centre.

As the carriage drew to a stop under the portico roof, Brenton admired the Solomonic columns—twisting spirals, decorated with sculpted flowers, and small likenesses of mythical creatures—that supported the structure.

Beyond, the statuesque fountain comprised three adolescent males, carved from marble, and standing back-to-back, urinating water into the pond. Brenton had seen others like it, depicting toddlers, and carrying an idea of innocent cuteness. This, by contrast, was as cute and innocent as the harlot of Babylon when her knickers were in the wash. But, he didn't allow the thought to linger.

The architecture of the building—while undeniably awe-inspiring—was a mix of styles, reflecting the numerous generations of the family who had lived here, each adding on bits to their own fancy. Overall, it might most accurately be described as Late Baroque. Yet, there were features, such as the reptant gargoyles perched high above, and the pointed arch windows of the upper floor, that insinuated an uncouth intermingling of Gothic influence, way past its time. It was as if someone had thought, halfway through its construction, that the place was beginning to look altogether too nice, and had stuck on the other bits to make it seem more menacing.

An elderly man, whose most striking features were his corvine repose and beak-like nose, stood upon the step with his hands behind his back. With a stature so needly as to preclude him from any hot air ballooning holidays, he had a black patch over his left eye. It engendered the image of a well-dressed, but undernourished pirate.

A younger footman, equally tall with fair hair, opened the carriage door.

Thank you, Brenton said, stepping out and climbing the steps.

Good evening, Sir. Welcome to Carmallow Court, the old pirate said, stern faced.

He looked as if his parrot had just died.

Wonderful, Brenton said, grinning beneath his spectacles, which had slipped down his nose. And what happened to your eye?

The old man regarded him without expression, and responded slowly, in a tone to suggest that the question had been inappropriate. Unfortunately, Brenton Grey was usually quite tone deaf.

An accident, when I was younger, Sir. My name is Oswald, and I am the Carmallows' butler.

Fabulous. Oswald, the butler. Got it.

The footman now held the front door open, waiting for him to enter.

And, what's your name? Brenton said, cheerfully.

The man looked uncertainly at Oswald, who answered on his behalf.

This is Michael, Sir.

The butler ushered him towards the door, but Brenton swivelled around to face the coachman.

And, you are?

His name is Jasper, Sir. He is, alas, a mute from birth, Oswald said, patiently.

The scary-looking coachman—largely on account of the horrid scar across one cheek—doffed his hat, and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

Brenton smiled politely, finally turning to pass over the threshold, where Oswald took his coat and bowler.

The vestibule, complete with grand marble stairways left and right, only added to the haphazard mix of decorative expression. A life-size sculpture—of a man in a toga—occupied a central place atop a pedestal on the floor, also marble. Several Roman busts could be seen in arched alcoves, opposite bronze balustrades along the stairs, and on the landing above.

The mishmash of styles made Brenton think of his late grandmother's trifle—everything jumbled up in colourful layers that didn't really belong in the same bowl.

Will the young master be requiring dinner, or would he prefer to retire directly to his suite? the pirate said.

Brenton was tempted to respond with 'Ay, me matey,' in his best pirate accent, but thought better of it.

Knowing that my arrival would be a late one, I dined on the train. His mind presented him with memories of the pink blob. Er, not much appetite right now. However, I should very much like to pay my respects to the gentleman and lady of the house, if possible.

Regrettably, Sir, Mr. Carmallow is attending a late meeting, and the lady of the house has already retired for the night. They have instructed me to provide for your needs, and will greet you personally over breakfast, tomorrow morning.

Ah. Alright. I suppose I'm bedward bound, then.

Very good, Sir, Oswald said.

The corner suite in the east wing was nothing to balk at. The spacious sitting room provided four comfortable leather armchairs at its centre, and a liquor cabinet in a discrete alcove between two inner doors. A writing desk—one that screamed of historical importance—sat against the north wall, between two matching high-backed chairs, each upholstered in a gold-pinstriped cream cotton fabric.

The first of the inner doors led to a modern bathing room. A copper tub with matching wash basin, and painted porcelain toilet—all encased in walnut cabinetry—had been among the more recent amenities introduced into the centuries-old building. Both hot and cold running water were available—a luxury that had only become commonplace in the big cities within the last decade.

Brenton splashed cold water on his face, and dabbed dry, using the towel that hung from a copper ring on the wall. Returning to the sitting room, he found Michael holding his luggage.

Where would you like it, Sir?

Just there is fine, thank you.

The footman placed the luggage down on the busily patterned carpet, offering a small bow as he began to retreat.

Michael? Brenton said, stopping him, I wonder... is it safe to walk the grounds at night, or are there wild beasties roaming about?

Quite safe, Sir. The wildest creatures on the estate are probably rabbits and owls. Although, you'll want to watch out for Halloween Harken, if you're still here then.

I beg your pardon?

Halloween Harken, Sir, Michael said, is something of a local legend. He attacks a single victim, on the night of Halloween each year.

The young Mr. Grey was not yet convinced that the servant was being entirely serious.

You're just trying to scare the new chap, aren't you? he said, wagging a finger. Someone told you when my birthday is, I bet.

Not at all, Sir, the straight-faced servant said. When is your birthday?

Well, Halloween of course.

Michael's eyebrow lifted, almost imperceptibly.

How unfortunate, Sir. Have a good night.

Brenton opened his mouth—about a million questions needing to rush out—but the footman had already bowed and departed. The newcomer was still staring at the door when there was a tap on it, only seconds after it had closed.

Brenton found himself confronted by a young man—he judged hardly more than a teenager, owing to a light scattering of pimples—too impeccably dressed to be a servant. There was a redness in his slightly glazed eyes, and a silly grin, that altogether suggested he might be just a little bit drunk.

Forgive the intrusion, Sir, the silly grin said, thrusting out an attached hand, Rodney Carmallow, rebellious whippersnapper and sole male heir to the empire of piggies.

Brenton shook the offered hand, thrown off balance by the remark.

Uh, hello. Pleased to meet you. I'm Brenton Grey. I've come-

"Oh, don't you worry, Mr. Grey. I know all about you and why you've come, probably even more than you do. Let's skip the pleasantries and have a drink," Rodney said, barging in enthusiastically without invitation.

I'm informed that your father has a meeting, so I shan't make his acquaintance until tomorrow, and that your mother has already retired for the night? Brenton said, closing the door.

Rodney made straight for the liquor cabinet. Yes, Mother always goes to bed early, mostly to avoid Father. And Daddy dearest is in another of his very important secretive meetings, in his very important private study. Doubtlessly plotting the betterment of mankind, in hushed tones, with the rodents who live in the walls. And, the ones who walk in the front door.

The flicker in the boy's eyes would have suggested an air of mystery about his father's activities—even if his words hadn't conveyed sarcasm blunt enough to club a bridge troll over the head with.

Brenton watched him turn up two crystal goblets on the tray, and pour brandy into each.

You seem to imply that there are reasons for my being here that I'm not aware of.

Rodney laughed as he thrust a glass into the newcomer's hand—sloshing brandy over it in the process—and threw himself into the nearest of the yellow armchairs.

"Nothing is ever what it seems in this haunted cesspit of sin. Let's just say, King Von Snort has his grubby trotters in all sorts of places they shouldn't be. I mean, what legitimate reason could he possibly have, to meet the town's top policeman this late at night?"

Um. I don't know, I suppose. King Von Snort?

Yes. Pigs. They snort. Get it?

Ah, Brenton said, taking the seat opposite.

But, I shouldn't mock, should I? After all, I must be the prince of pigs, must I not?

The outsider pondered how to break the awkward silence that followed. On the verge of passing a feeble comment about nice weather, he was relieved when Rodney spoke again.

I apologise, the teenager said, a little less boisterously, you must think me rude, mouthing off about my father. I just need to vent sometimes, I suppose. This big old house can get very stuffy, if you know what I mean.

He drained his glass.

I'm sure I can only imagine, Brenton said.

Rodney flexed his hands, and screwed up his face in frustration.

All the pompous pretence and pretending gets to me. You can only try to please other people up to a certain point, after which it becomes unbearable, and you simply have to admit defeat.

That sounds like awfully hard work.

But still, Rodney said, slapping his hands on the armrests, it isn't proper for me to barge in like this, and you must be tired from your journey. Please, forgive me.

It's quite alright. I slept on the train and, to be perfectly honest, I'm rather too excited at being here to sleep right now, in any case.

Ha! That'll wear off, soon enough. This is where excitement comes to shrivel and die, Rodney chuckled. "Yes, Daddy will dazzle you with his wealth and wisdom, but it's all bullshit really, in the grand scheme of life, isn't it? Money never bought me happiness, anyway. And, underneath all the pretty things, this glamorous old house is as much a pig sty as the farms over the hill."

Brenton was better at geometric puzzles than he was at emotional ones. Shapes fitted neatly together with clear boundaries, whereas feelings had fuzzy edges that overlapped. They were very untidy things that he'd learned to avoid as much as possible, mostly by following his own father's example.

I might not be able to help, but I am an astute listener, he said, smiling in what he hoped was a comforting way.

No, but thank you. I must confess, that wasn't my first drink, and I fear I have already consumed—and exhumed—rather too much. I bid you good night.

With that, Rodney Carmallow made his exit, which was much less lively than his entrance. In fact, he looked rather downcast.

Brenton stared at the brandy in his own glass, which he hadn't touched.

How odd, he said, putting it down on the table.

He carried his luggage into the bedroom.

Like the