The Far Traveller: A Ghostly Comedy

Manning Coles

Description

The Far Traveller is a light and frothy tale by the creator of British spy Tommy Hambledon. Manning Coles gives us the Graf van Grauhegel and his servant Franz who, after being dead nearly a century and haunting the castle in the interval, re-materialize in order to right an old wrong so they may finally rest in peace. In the meantime, they also manage to unmask a fraudulent medium...

This is a delightful ghostly romp–light on mystery, but full of fun and frolic. Coles gives the reader likeable characters who partake in crazy antics which are dazzlingly funny. Franz chasing housemaids while clanking about in armor; the Graf's display of swordsmanship; their ghostly escape from jail; the befuddlement of black marketeers and the unmasking of charlatans–this could easily have been made into a comedic action movie.

Sujets

• Ghost
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 05 février 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456636760
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Far Traveller: A Ghostly Comedy
by Manning Coles
Subjects: Fiction -- Fantasy; Ghosts; Mystery

First published in 1956
This edition published by Reading Essentials
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
The Far Traveller






MANNING COLES

EDITOR’S NOTE

A motley crowd lined the steep, twisting drive leadingto the castle above the Rhine. The film director turned;coming toward him were the perfect replacements for his ill-fatedactors. How strange—they were even in the appropriatecostume of a century ago!
So begin the delightful adventures of Graf Adhemar vonGrauhugel, a ghostly traveller. He had been dead someeighty years but still was full of enough life to raise havocwith a British film company—especially when the Britishwere filming the story of his own life.
“The third venture into the humorous ghost story byespionage writer Manning Coles is the best yet—a livelynarrative . . . high-spirited, light-hearted.”—New York Times Book Review .
1 SCREEN TESTS
The castle of Grauhugel stands upon the summit of the grey rocky hillfrom which it takes its name, one of the Siebengebirge, the Seven Hillsby the Rhine, though indeed there are many more than seven and themost famous of them all is Drachenfels. The whole district is closelydotted with small steep hills bearing romantic names such as Devil’s Rock,Lion’s Castle, The Hermit, the Greater and the Lesser Mount of Olivesand even, believe it or not, South View. Many of them have, or had,castles perched upon their tops; most of these are ruinous today, but inthe Middle Ages the Siebengebirge must have been a highly desirableresidential district closely populated with the nobility and gentry whowent out hunting together, married each other’s daughters, and quarrelledviolently over the dowries.
The castle of Grauhugel is not at all ruinous but very well preservedand, like a castle in a fairy story, lifts its pepperbox turrets and machicolatedbattlements above the tops of the trees which clothe the hill.Grauhugel village lies about the foot of the hill, black-and-white timberedhouses shouldering each other crookedly about the tiny square, anancient inn standing back behind its forecourt, and a still more ancientchurch knee-deep in close-packed tombstones. The only signs of present-daylife are a post office at the grocer’s, a petrol pump outside the blacksmith’s,and a tattered poster on a barn door advertising a cinema showat Ittenbach, only three miles away.
Very early on a fine June morning, so early that bright dewdrops stillglittered upon cobweb and tall grass in the level rays of the rising sun,a group of about twenty people were gathered upon a comparativelylevel space some halfway up the castle drive. They stood about undecidedlyand talked together in low tones, as people do who are waitingindefinitely for something to happen; all but five or six of them weredressed in the costume of the 1860s. The space where they stood was asmall green glade running back into the trees; the whole scene had an airof unreality as though set upon a stage.
The six men in modern dress were grouped about a van which wasdrawn up at the side of the drive; the van doors were open and displayedequipment such as is used in film-making. Among other things there wasa small dynamo fixed to the floor, and insulated cables led from this tolights upon long swivelling arms. One of the men was assembling a tallrod jointed like a fishing rod; it had a microphone hung from the top endand other wires led from this to the interior of the van. The man finishedhis task and stood back, holding his rod as though waiting to be toldwhere to cast; his eyes were upon the film director and he looked faintlyamused.
“Half an hour before we are due to start,” said the director in an angryvoice, “he does this. Half an hour!” He was a tall slim young man with amane of black hair; as he spoke he ran his fingers through it till it stoodup like the crest of an agitated cockatoo.
“What happened?”
“He came tittupping down that fantastic stone stairway in the mainhall as though he were Titania tripping through the buttercups, the sillyblithering idiot——”
“Titania?”
“No. Victor Beauregard, of course. Do you know what his real nameis? It’s a closely guarded secret, but I do. I was just going to yell to himto watch out, those stairs are worn, when he slipped or turned his ankleor something and came a most almighty purler right down the stairs intothe hall. I heard something crack; I hoped it was that damned ornatecigarette case he was blinding us all with last night, but it wasn’t. I rushedacross to him to help him up, but he yelled at me to leave him alone,he’d broken his leg. He had, too, above the knee.”
“Probably painful,” said the assistant director, lighting a cigarette.“What did you do?”
“I was so livid I just looked at him and of course everyone rushedround and Aurea screamed. Anyway, the ambulance has just come andnow what do I do?” He looked round at the costumed villagers strollingin the glade. “All the extras up and nothing to do with them!” Heattacked his hair again.
“Calm yourself, George. We must phone to London for someone else,that’s all.”
“And who else is there at liberty just now?”
“There’s so-and-so——” The assistant director mentioned a well-knownname.
“I’m making a romantic musical, not a custard-pie farce! There goesthe ambulance. You know, there’s a curse or something on this production.When that fellow who was playing the servant let me down at thelast moment, I was rather pleased than otherwise, can’t stand him, butVictor can act. Looks the part, too, the highborn Graf Adhemar Hildebrandvon Grauhugel to the life. Philip, what the hell am I to do? Theservant we can replace and there’s no such immediate urgency, but theGraf——”
Philip Denmead shook his head and there was a short silence brokenby the sound of footsteps as two men came up the drive. They wereboth young, in their early twenties, the first a fair-haired man of mediumheight who held himself upright and walked well; he had a pleasant faceand a certain air of authority. The other, who walked half a pace behind,was a stocky youth with a round face; he carried a heavy carpetbag ineach hand and was plainly a servant. Since they were both dressed in thestyle of the 1860s, George Whatmore took them to be two more of theextras who had been recruited in the village.
“Two more of your people just arrived,” he said irritably. “I thoughtyou said they were all here on time.”
“They were,” said Denmead. “I counted them.”
“Then you counted wrong.”
“Oh no, I didn’t. Besides, I’ve never seen these two before.”
The first of the newcomers came within view of the scene in the gladeand his eyebrows went up. He spoke over his shoulder to his servant.
“What is all this gathering, Franz?”
“I could not say, mein Herr.”
“The Kermesse, I suppose? I have forgotten the date.”
The young man walked on and noticed Whatmore and Denmeadlooking attentively at him. He in his turn looked them over as thoughhe found their appearance unusual; the tall lanky George Whatmore inwide corduroy trousers and a turtle-neck sweater with his hair standingon end, and the short rotund Philip Denmead in a violently patternedsports jacket, a shirt open at the neck, and shabby grey flannel trousers.The newcomers did not hesitate but came straight on; Whatmore, frustratedand irritated, strode up to them and addressed them in German.
“You are late, do you know that?”
The stranger looked bleak for a moment and suddenly smiled.
“Perhaps we are, perhaps we are. What is the date?”
“Date?” repeated Whatmore, staring. “You mean what time is it?”
“No, no. I mean what I said.” The young man spoke pleasantly, butthe air of authority, which was noticeable in his bearing, was equallyplain in his voice.
“The first of June, 1955, since you must put on an act, but you’ll findit cuts no ice with me.”
“Why not?” said Denmead softly, at his elbow, and Whatmore turnedsharply. “I mean,” added Denmead, “look at him.”
Whatmore did so, just as the newcomer turned to look over the villagepeople. His head went back, his chin came forward, and his eyelidsdrooped over his eyes; he had more the air of a farmer looking over aherd of valued cattle than of a present-day landowner looking at histenants. An air of ownership. There was also a resemblance to somethingor somebody——
“Here,” said Whatmore, “who are you?”
The young man’s eyebrows lifted a little, but he gave no other sign ofhaving heard the question, and Whatmore tried again.
“Excuse me. May I ask your name?”
“Certainly,” said the young man at once. “I am the Graf von Grauhugel.”
“The devil you are!”
“Why? You appear to be surprised.”
“Surprised. Well, yes. Tell me again who you are, both of you, do youmind?” said Whatmore, again raking up his ill-used hair. “I have hadone bad shock already this morning and perhaps I am not quite myself.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I am the Graf Adhemar von Grauhugel andthis is my servant, Franz. Now, if you will forgive me, I must go on. Ifyou are lodging in the neighbourhood, no doubt we shall meet again. Auf Wiedersehen. ”
He turned to walk on up the hill and the servant followed after; Whatmore,who appeared to be bereft of speech, merely gaped upon them andDenmead shook him by the arm.
“Stop them, stop them! There’s your Graf, whoever he is. Walks right,stands right, looks right—damn it, he’s the picture on the packet——”
“Stop!” cried Whatmore. “You, mein Herr, Herr Graf, or whatever itis, please!” He ran after them and the Graf stopped. “Excuse me. Canyou act?”
“You are a very strange young man,” said the