Christmas was a time to look forward to. We would go into the woods and bring in the holly and the ivy. We would decorate the hall; the carol singers and mummers would come; there would be hot punch and great joints of roasting meat; there would be gifts for each other—wonderful surprises and a few disappointments; there would be dancing, games and hide-and-seek all over the house. Christabel would be with us … and Edwin and Leigh.

I wished my mother were home and yet in one way I was glad that she was not. I feared that if she were here, matters would come to a head. Perhaps Christabel would be sent away. Where? Back to that cheerless rectory? She had made me see it so clearly; I had shivered when she had talked of it and actually felt the goose pimples on my arms. I had tasted the tasteless stews; I had felt the soreness of knees which had touched the floor so often in prayer. I had really become deeply involved with Christabel. And now I feared she might be hurt again.

As I walked in the gardens, thinking of all this, my steps took me to the haunted flowerbed. A gloomy place—but only because of its associations. It was really beautiful. A few late roses were blooming still, desperately holding on to life, which the frosts and cold winds of winter would soon be snatching from them. Beyond the rosebushes was a shrubbery, and it occurred to me that it was this which preserved the legend of the flowerbed’s being haunted. It looked eerie in the shifting moonlight, and one could imagine ghosts lurking there, hidden from sight by the short, stubby firs.

I stood there among the red rose trees, looking back at the house, and thought of Edwin’s father being murdered on this spot. I did not know the details, of course, but I should learn them in due course when I was allowed to read the journals. That would be in two years’ time when I was sixteen.

And then as I stood there I was aware of a sound in the shrubbery, a rustle of leaves, a crackle of a branch. It could have been a rabbit strayed some distance from his burrow; yet somehow I knew it was not so. I could feel my heart thumping against my side. There was something in the shrubbery.

My first thoughts were that it was true the place was haunted. There was something here, and because I had thoughtlessly strayed out and come to this spot after dark, I was being made aware of it.

My first impulse was to turn and run back to the house, but my curiosity was greater than my fear and I remained still, staring at the shrubbery, my ears strained to catch every sound.

Silence … The darkness of the trees was hiding … what? The clouds had now almost completely obscured the face of the moon. I had a sudden fear that supernatural powers were at work. There would be utter darkness and mysterious hands would reach out to draw me into the shrubbery.

There it was again—that cautious movement. I felt that someone was watching me.

I called out: “Who is there?”

There was no answer.

“I know you’re there,” I shouted. “Come out. If you don’t I will bring out the dogs.”

I thought of our dogs—Castor and Pollux—two red setters who loved everybody and only barked and pretended to be fierce when they were playing with bones.

Then a voice said: “I must speak to Lord Eversleigh.”

I felt a great relief. It was a man after all, not a ghost.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Please ask Lord Eversleigh to come here. He is in residence, I know.”

“If you want to see him why do you not come to the house?” I asked.

“Are you his sister … Priscilla?”

This was clearly someone who knew the family and there was something pleasant about his voice.

“I am Priscilla Eversleigh,” I answered. “Who are you? Come out and show yourself.”

“This is dangerous,” he said. “Please talk in a low voice, and please, please bring Lord Eversleigh to me.”

I approached the shrubbery. Perhaps he was a robber; perhaps he was a murderer; perhaps he was a ghost; but I was always reckless and never thought of the clever thing to do until I had done that which was foolish.

I heard his voice then urgent and insistent. “Yes, please come into the shelter of the trees. It will be safer.”

I stepped into the path among the trees and he came to meet me. He was wearing a cloak and a black felt hat over the kind of short periwig which most men had started to wear when the King’s brother set the fashion. The moon had escaped from the clouds which had shielded it and shone on the shubery.

“I am Jocelyn Frinton,” he said.

In such moments I suppose one should feel something intense, some premonition. I did feel an excitement which made me tremble, but that was because I remembered I had heard the name before and I realized that the events of which we had talked over dinner had moved nearer and that, remote in the country though I was, I was now being drawn into intrigue.

“I’ve heard of you,” I said.

“They murdered my father. They are after me. Please … Eversleigh is here, I know. He’ll help. I know he will. Go and tell him. Remember … only tell Eversleigh … or perhaps Leigh Main if he is there, too. Tell him. Either one of them. But tell no one else. It’s dangerous … a matter of life and death. If they get me …”

“I understand,” I told him. “You’ll be safe here until the morning. No one comes here. They think it is haunted. My brother should be back by now. I’ll tell him at once.”

He smiled and I noticed how handsome he was. In fact I thought I had never seen anyone so handsome, and I felt a great desire to help him.

I went back to the house to find that the others had returned.

“Where did you get to?” demanded Leigh. “Why, what’s the matter? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

I said: “Come inside. I want to talk to you. It’s very important. I’ve seen … something.”

Leigh put his arm about me affectionately. “I knew it was a ghost,” he said.

“More dangerous than that,” I whispered.

We went to the schoolroom—Edwin, Leigh, Christabel and I. As soon as the door was shut I blurted out: “Jocelyn Frinton is in the shrubbery.”

“What!” cried Leigh.

“He’s dead,” said Edwin.

“No. It’s the son of that one. He’s being hunted. I went down there when I came in and I heard someone there. I shouted for him to come out and I threatened him with the dogs. Then he spoke to me and told me that he must see you, Edwin … or Leigh … because he wants you to help him. They murdered his father, he said, and they would do the same to him if they caught him.”

“God help us!” cried Leigh. “It is this monster, Titus Oates.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Christabel.

“We’ve got to help him of course,” replied Leigh.

“How?” asked Edwin.

“Give him food for one thing and find him a hiding place for another.”

“You can’t keep him hidden long in the shrubbery,” I pointed out.

“No,” replied Edwin, “but this madness is going to be over sooner or later. Oates is beginning to show up in his true colours. People will turn against him in time, I’m sure of it.”

“It could be a year … two years,” said Christabel.

“Nevertheless,” said Leigh, who had always been the man of action, “the first thing to do is to get him to a place of safety.”

“There is the secret compartment in the library where my father hid our treasures during the war and saved them from the Roundheads,” I said.

Edwin was thoughtful. “If he were discovered that would bring the family into it.”

“My father hates the Papists,” I said.

“There you have it,” replied Edwin. “The country is being divided. That is what happens when there is an affair like this. Before Oates reared his ugly head people did not greatly care how others worshiped. It is because of this anxiety about the succession and rumours about the King’s brother’s religion …”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Leigh impatiently, “but in the meantime we have to do something about Jocelyn Frinton. If he is caught it will be the end of him. Where can we put him?”

“We shall have to be careful,” I cautioned. “We have a fanatic in Jasper. He would soon discover him if he remained in the shrubbery and there is no doubt what his reaction would be. He thinks Catholics are agents of the devil and talks often of the Whore of Babylon. He is a bigoted old man and a dangerous one.”

“Then it can’t be the garden and it can’t be the house,” said Leigh.

“I know a place!” I cried. “It would do for a while anyway. Your father was there, Edwin, when he came to England during the Commonwealth. I remember my mother’s showing it to me. She came with your father. It was just before he was murdered.”

“All right. All right,” said Leigh. “Where is this place?”

“It’s White Cliff Cave on a lonely part of the shore. Few people ever go there. It would be a good hiding place.”

“It’s the best suggestion so far,” said Leigh approvingly. “Now we have to get to work quickly.”

He was silent suddenly, putting his finger to his lips. He was clearly listening. Then he went quietly to the door and opened it suddenly. Carl almost fell into the room.

He grinned at us. “There’s a beef pie in the larder,” he said. “I’ll get a great hunk of that for him. And some ale, too. I’ll take it from the back and they won’t know it’s gone.”

We were all astounded and realized how careless we had been. It might have been one of the servants—perhaps Jasper—instead of Carl.

Leigh gave him an affectionate push.

“Do you know what happens to people who listen at doors?” he asked.

“Yes,” retorted Carl, “they come in and join in the fun.”

It was not difficult to get Jocelyn Frinton to the cave. Leigh and Edwin rode off with him that night after the household was asleep. If it was discovered that they had been out, the servants would shrug their shoulders and would believe that they had been in pursuit of those adventures which were characteristic of men in a lax society. Jasper would shake his head and prophesy hell fire, but no one else would take much notice.

Carl had been useful prowling round the kitchen; he was known to have a voracious appetite and if he were caught making off with food no one would have been very surprised. Christabel and I gathered up some blankets which they had taken with them.

A seriousness had settled on us all, for we knew—even Carl—that this was an adventure which could result in death.

It was midnight when Edwin and Leigh returned, for it was about three miles to White Cliff Cave. Christabel and I were waiting up and had been watching from my bedroom window. We had prevailed on Carl to go to bed, promising him that when Edwin and Leigh came up, we would let him know if he were still awake.

“Of course I’ll be awake,” he said; but I had looked in on him at about eleven o’clock and he was fast asleep.

He was very excited about the adventure and could be useful, but I would rather he had not been concerned in it.

“My father, who is quite tolerant about some matters, is fiercely against Catholics,” I told Christabel. “He dislikes the Duke of York. More than that he feels it would be a disaster if he ever came to the throne. He says the people won’t allow it and there’ll be a revolution. He is all for putting Monmouth up as the heir.”

“What would he have done if he had found Jocelyn Frinton in the grounds?”

“I don’t know. He knew his father and he must have been aware that they were a Catholic family. But a little while ago no one thought very much about that. It is only since Titus Oates came along with his Popish Plot that people started to worry. I know that if there was a conflict my father would be on the side of Monmouth rather than that of the King’s brother. But that’s politics. I know religion comes into it, but my father is not a religious man.”

“No,” said Christabel, “that seems to be clear at any rate.”

“I don’t know whether he would give him up, but I don’t think he would help him or want us to. What Edwin does is his own affair because Edwin is a man and my father is not his father. What my mother would think I don’t know. She would be alarmed because we might be putting ourselves in danger. But there’s Carl, you see. My father dotes on Carl and Carl has insisted on becoming involved.”

“He enjoys it. It’s a wonderful adventure to him and I notice that he likes to be in everything.”

“I should imagine my father must have been just like that when he was young.”