Twelve Great Black Cats Read online

  Yet, soon after the old Laird’s death, it became apparent that the old man’s spirit had not found the rest and peace that were his due.

  The first word of it came on a cold damp evening about six weeks or so after the old Laird’s funeral. The folk of Balnacairn village, alarmed at hearing the sounds of horses’ hoofs pounding and the rumble of the wheels of a heavy cart, coming down the road that led into the town, ran to their doors to find out what could be the matter.

  Presently, two horses and the wagon they hauled loomed out of the misty drizzle and stopped before the inn. The villagers crowded about the wagon and found the driver, Lang Tammas the carter, lying against the wooden back of the seat, and shaking like a man in a palsy. He stared at them with wide open eyes, and his face was as white as bolted flour. It was a while before they could get any words out of him that made sense. Something had certainly given the man a terrible shock. They helped him down from the cart and took him into the inn, where the innkeeper brought him a wee glass of brandy to soothe his nerves, and after a while he began to come to himself again. But when he could talk what he said didn’t have much sense in it at all.

  Lang Tammas had gone over to the mill which stood a few miles beyond Thistleton Manor to take some sacks of corn to be ground for the minister of Balnacairn. It was when he was coming back that he got the terrible fright. As he came up to the gates of Thistleton Manor he saw a man standing in the middle of the drive between the stone gateposts. The mist was rising heavier there because of the burn that ran along beside the road, so he couldn’t see the man distinctly at first, but he looked familiar to Lang Tammas. It wasn’t until the carter drove right up close that he got a good look at the man. It was then that Tammas saw that it was the old Laird of Thistleton himself!

  “The old Laird, it was, and he stepping out toward the cart, I’m telling you,” said Tammas. “He had a big brass lantern in his hand. It was not lit, and he held it up and shook it at me. Then he called me by name, he did. ‘Look ye here, Lang Tammas!’ said he, and made to come closer, but I was in no mind to wait to hear what he would say. I whipped up the horses and hastened away at a gallop, and left him by the gate there!”

  Well, that was the tale Lang Tammas told, and there were some who believed him but there were more who did not, and the latter said that Lang Tammas had a wee bit too much to drink with the miller, while waiting for the minister’s corn to be ground.

  No doubt the matter would have been forgotten after a while if nothing else had happened, but a month later the old Laird appeared again, and not in the dusk of a misty evening but in the clear light of day.

  It was Jamie the Post who got sight of the Laird this time, while Jamie was bringing the post bags from the railway station at Balquidder to the post mistress at Balnacairn. Jamie was ambling along in the post cart at an easy pace, it not being his way to hurry himself at any time. When he was passing the gates of Thistle-ton Manor he gave a careless glance up the drive and there in the doorway of the gatehouse, just inside the manor gates, he saw the old Laird of Thistleton standing, with the big brass lantern in his hand. The Laird waved the lantern at Jamie, but Jamie did not wait to see if the Laird would come nearer, or to hear if he called Jamie by name. Jamie whipped up the pony that drew the post cart, and they dashed madly down the road and into the village of Balnacairn, and folk there said his speed was an achievement that Jamie never equalled before or after.

  No one could blame what Jamie saw on his having had a drink or two too many, for it was well known that Jamie was a strong temperance man and had never in his life taken a drink. Maybe there was something in it after all, folk told each other. Nobody cared to talk much about it, now that the Laird had been seen twice. Such things don’t bear talking about that happen so close to home. But nobody, if he could help it, went anywhere near Thistleton Manor after the day the old Laird was seen for the second time.

  Well, the old Laird’s estate was settled at last, and as he had neither wife nor bairns of his own, he left all he had to his nephew, the only son of a brother who had gone to Australia and settled there. The title went to the nephew, too, so now there was a new Laird of Thistleton, as well as the old Laird, who seemed to be still lingering about the place.

  Folk began to wonder how the old Laird would get along when the new Laird came to take over the estate.

  The new Laird did not come home to Thistleton Manor at once. He had established a business where he lived and needed time to dispose of it profitably. Besides, the sea journey was long and the time of year was not the best for traveling. The new Laird and his wife had a very young bairn and thought they’d rather wait until the child was older and the conditions of weather better before making so long a journey with him. So the estate was put into the hands of an estate agent in Edinburgh, who was to see to the managing of the lands and the farms and the tenants, until the new Laird came home. As for the manor house itself, the agent was to find a tenant for it, with a short lease of no more than a year, if he could.

  The agent had no trouble in finding a tenant. It was a desirable property, as the notice in the papers said, and the house was nicely furnished and well kept up. The agent found not only one tenant, but three. One after another they came—and left—all driven out, one after another, because they could not bear the sight of the old Laird with the big brass lantern in his hand.

  After the third tenant left, in a high state of indignation, there were no more tenants, because by that time the word had gone around that the place was haunted, and as the estate agent said, “Who in the world would ever want to rent a haunted house?”

  That was the way matters stood when the new Laird of Thistleton finally came over the seas to take up his estates. He did not go immediately to Thistleton Manor, but stopped in Edinburgh to talk to the agent whom he had put in charge of his affairs.

  He settled his wife and bairn at a comfortable hotel and went to the office of the agent. He had never been in Scotland before and knew very little about his inheritance. He found the agent in his office, and the minute he laid eyes on the man the new Laird knew that something was amiss. He knew, too, that the agent did not want to tell him what it was. The new Laird could not lay his finger on the trouble. The agent seemed ready enough to talk about the estate. He brought out a map with the demesne marked upon it: the mill, the farms, the church, the village, the manor and all in their places, with the names of the tenants beside them. He brought out the accounts and they were all in order. No trouble about anything there, as the new Laird could see for himself. Yet the agent seemed to be uneasy about something. What on earth could it be?

  The new Laird picked up the accounts and looked at them again, and something caught his eye that he had not noticed before.

  “I’m a plain man, and I’ll ask you a plain question,” he told the agent. “What is wrong with the manor house?”

  “Nothing at all!” the agent answered quickly. Too quickly, the new Laird said to himself.

  “The house is in fine shape. Well-cared for, and nicely furnished. You could not ask for a better-kept house.”

  “If that is so,” the new Laird said. “Why is it that in the first six months after my uncle’s death three tenants, one after another, signed up for the house, expecting to stay for a year, and every one of them cleared out before the end of a month? And since the last one left, no one has taken the manor house at all? What is wrong with the place?”

  “Well,” said the agent reluctantly. “They say it’s haunted!”

  The new Laird of Thistleton looked at the agent in disbelief. “Haunted!” he exclaimed. “It could not be. My father loved the place and never tired of talking of it. He’d have taken delight in an old family ghost, and I’m sure we’d have heard about it if there had been one there.”

  “It is not an old family ghost that was seen,” the agent said. “At any rate, not a very old ghost. In fact, it is the ghost of your late uncle, as I understand. They say he carries a great brass lanter
n and shakes it in their faces. Most alarming, I am sure.”

  The new Laird looked at the agent in silence for a while. Then he got up to take his leave. “I’ll look into it,” he promised, and went his way.

  The new Laird of Thistleton went back to his hotel and told his wife what the agent had said.

  “My goodness!” said she. “Poor Uncle Andrew! He must find it very uncomfortable to be a ghost. I wonder what makes him do it?”

  “So do I,” said the new Laird. “And what’s more, I mean to find out.”

  They decided to go, not to Thistleton Manor, but to the village of Balnacairn. The village was only six miles from the manor, which was no distance at all, and the agent had said there was a very good inn where they would be able to stay. They felt that the inn would be the best place to carry on their investigations from, and besides, the new Laird’s wife was not sure it would be a good thing for the baby if they went to stay at Thistleton Manor and Uncle Andrew were to appear and shake his big brass lantern at him.

  Fortunately, they were able to find lodging at the inn, and the landlady was pleased when she learned that it was the new Laird and his family who were sheltering under her roof. Perhaps it was the pleasure that the honor thus paid gave her that loosened her tongue. At any rate, before a day had passed, she had told the new Laird and his wife all about the way the old Laird’s ghost had appeared to Lang Tammas the carter and to Jamie the Post, and as the tenants had fled to the inn from Thistleton Manor, she could tell about their experiences too.

  The new Laird and his wife were pleasant folk and friendly, and not the sort to set themselves up above others, as folk said, so the tenantry accepted them at once. It wasn’t that they had anything against the old Laird, you understand, but they could see that this new man would make a very good laird. So nobody minded at all answering any questions the new Laird and his lady asked.

  What the new Laird and his wife wanted to find out was, what kept the old Laird from resting quietly in his grave? What sort of man had he been when he was alive?

  Well, folk said, he was a crabbed old creature, so he was, but he was just.

  He worked his men hard, but then he was a hard worker himself. And he was honest. He always gave an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work. He had a terrible temper and would fly into a sudden rage if anyone crossed him, but to tell the truth, he never was angry without a good reason. He couldn’t abide dishonesty, being an honest man himself. He could stretch a penny farther than any other man, but a man could count on getting what was due him, although probably he’d get no more. He was an honest man, the old Laird was.

  The minister, who had been the old man’s only close friend, smiled when he was asked what the old Laird was like. “Not so bad as he liked to make out,” he said. “He was a bit crusty and short-tempered at times, but he was more honest than any other man I know. It would have been as impossible for the Laird to lie, or cheat, or steal, as for him to pick up Ben Nevis and hold it in one hand.”

  Everybody did feel sorry for the new Laird and his lady, with them coming such a long distance only to find that the manor house was not habitable on account of the ghost. They would have helped gladly, but though they racked their brains, they could not say what was troubling the old Laird so that he could not rest in his grave.

  The new Laird and his wife put their heads together and compared notes on everything they had been told.

  “The old Laird was a terrible old curmudgeon,” said the new Laird.

  “But he was honest,” said his wife.

  “He was a penny pincher,” said the new Laird.

  “But he was honest,” said his wife.

  “He had a way at times of flying into a terrible rage,” said the new Laird.

  “But he was honest,” said the Laird’s wife. “No matter what anyone said about him, every single one of them said that he was honest. I don’t think that a man as honest as your Uncle Andrew would be haunting Thistleton Manor just to keep you away. Not after he’d left it to you in his will!”

  “I think you are right,” her husband said. “There’s no doubt about his honesty. Everybody speaks of it.”

  His wife said nothing for a while, then she said slowly, “There is something else about your uncle that everybody mentions. When they speak about his ghost, I mean. The tenants told the agent, Lang Tammas the carter and Jamie the Post told the folk here at Balnacairn. When anyone ever says anything about the ghost they say and he shook his big brass lantern in his face!’ Everyone says it.”

  They looked at each other for a minute in silence. Then, “Tomorrow,” said the new Laird, “we will go to Thistleton Manor.”

  “And see if there is a big brass lantern there,” said his wife.

  So the next day they left the baby with the landlady at the inn and borrowed a pony and cart from the landlord, and off they went.

  They went up the drive and got out of the cart, and the young Laird opened the door with the key the agent had given him. They went into the house and searched from room to room, upstairs and down. Not a sign of a big brass lantern did they see—nor of the old Laird’s ghost, for that matter.

  “Uncle Andrew’s lantern must be the ghost of a lantern,” the new Laird said, as they came down to the hall again.

  His wife had gone to the other end of the passage and was standing before a door. “What door is this?” she asked, trying the knob. “It’s locked. Where does it lead to?”

  “Probably into the garden,” said the new Laird.

  “I don’t think it does,” said his wife. “The rooms on either side go back farther. I think it’s a room—a small one.”

  “Of course it is!” the new Laird said. “I know what it is. It’s my uncle’s estate office. The agent told me about it. He locked it up when he took charge of the estate, because there were private papers here and he wanted them to be kept safe. Wait a minute! I think he gave me the key.”

  The key was found and the door was opened. The first thing they saw was the big brass lantern, standing alone on the shelf above the old Laird’s desk.

  The new Laird’s wife took down the lantern. “Look,” she said. There was a tag tied by a string to the ring at the top. They saw that there were words written carefully on the tag. “The minister’s lantern. Balnacairn,” they read. They looked at each other.

  “Poor Uncle Andrew!” the new Laird’s wife said. “All he wanted was for someone to take the lantern back to its rightful owner. It didn’t belong to him, and he couldn’t rest in his grave knowing it hadn’t been returned.”

  They took the lantern back to the minister that very day. He took it in his hands. “Why, I’d forgotten he had it,” the minister said. “I remember now. He borrowed it the last time he was here, before he died. He had stayed late, for we got to talking and never noticed the time, and it was dark when he started out for home. So I let him take the lantern to light him home.”

  The next day the Laird and his wife and his bairn packed up and moved into Thistleton Manor. They were quite sure the old Laird’s ghost was at rest, now that the lantern was back where it belonged. And they were right.

  Folk kept a close watch for a while, but everything at the manor seemed to be going on very well, and as far as anybody could tell the ghost was gone for good. So Lang Tammas the carter began to haul his corn to the mill, and Jamie the Post to carry the post bags along the road past Thistleton Manor again, instead of taking the longer road the way they’d been going since they met the old Laird’s ghost.

  The new Laird and his wife called their second son Andrew after the old Laird, and he was very like him in temperament, for he was given to spells of being crabbed and crusty, often flying into a rage. But his mother said she did not mind, as long as he grew up to be as honest as the old Laird, because the old Laird, as everyone always said, was a very honest man.

  The Ghost of Hamish MacDonald,

  The Fool of the Family

  THERE once was a time when the Ma
cLeods and the MacDonalds got into an argument about something or other, and what it was nobody remembers to this day. It was on a lonely moor over the hills it started, some distance from the homes of either party, and the lot of them should have had more sense than to make trouble there, since they were on territory belonging to some other clan. Well, the argument became a quarrel, and the quarrel led to a fight, and before anybody knew what was happening, the two clans were lined up on the moor facing each other, ready to do battle, with every man panting with eagerness to prove his side was in the right.

  The opposing clans were pretty well matched. There were one hundred and twenty MacLeods and one hundred and twenty-one MacDonalds, but the extra MacDonald did not matter at all, because although he was a very hale and hearty lad and able to fight well enough if he put his mind to it, he was the fool of the family and bound to do everything amiss.

  Now it was the custom of the MacDonalds, when they made ready for battle, that each man of the clan would find himself a big stone and carry it in his hand to a place that was judged to be well out of the line of battle, which place was decided upon beforehand. There each warrior laid down his stone to make a cairn. After the fighting was over, each man who survived the battle went, then, to the cairn and took up his stone again. By counting the stones that remained upon the ground they could find out the number of their companions who had perished in the fray that day.

  One by one, the MacDonalds laid down their stones, and Hamish, the fool of the family, laid his on the cairn with the rest. Then they all cast their kilts and their plaids aside, and taking their swords in their hands, they hurled themselves, barelegged and bare-armed, against the MacLeods with a great shouting of the MacDonald slogan, “Dh’aindeòin co theireadh e” (Gainsay me who dare).