My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(72)

The house in question was a modest dwelling not far from the heart of London, on a tree-lined street filled with children playing and flowers blooming. It was quite lovely, if one didn’t know there was a rude ghost in residence.

Alexander approached the house with caution, taking stock of the exits, the number of people around, and even the angle of the sun relative to the windows, so that if the ghost tried to fight him, he wouldn’t risk being blinded by sunlight with the wrong move.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, rolled his shoulders, and after a few deep breaths, he marched into the house.

The ghost was sitting on the sheet-covered sofa, waiting for him.

“Hello.” He was a mousy chap, with limp brown hair and a permanent squint, and with trousers that didn’t quite reach long enough down his legs, and jacket sleeves that didn’t fit down his arms. . . . It wasn’t even that he was a large man; rather, it was simply because he hadn’t known how to dress himself well in life, and so he was trapped like this until the end of his afterlife.

Though he was the most unassuming ghost to cause such a ruckus, that was hardly the most surprising thing about him.

No, the most interesting part of all this was that Alexander knew this ghost. “David Mitten?”

The ghost nodded. “How are you, dear boy? You look well. Just like your father.”

“You’re a ghost.”

Mr. Mitten nodded again. “Quite put out about it, as you can imagine.”

“You seem to be handling it well.” Alexander took the ring in his gloved hand.

“Surely you’ve heard the noise complaints,” said Mr. Mitten. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

Alexander shrugged. “Mr. Mitten, why are you a ghost?”

“Because I died.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“How?”

“Slipped and hit my head.”

Alexander scowled. “That seems unlike you, sir.”

Mr. Mitten shrugged, and behind him, some sort of green sludge slid down the wall.

“What’s that?” Alexander asked.

“What’s what?”

“That slime behind you.”

“There’s no slime behind me.” Mr. Mitten didn’t even turn around. “What’s that slime behind you?”

Alexander looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the green goop dripped over the door. It was everywhere now. How unsanitary.

All right. So David Mitten was the ghost he was supposed to bring in. And Mr. Mitten was in a chatty mood. But this raised even more questions than before, because Mr. Mitten worked for the Society . . . and the king. He had been, in fact, the liaison and the king’s secretary, which explained (maybe) his connection with the signet ring. He’d probably handled the thing more than the king himself.

So that meant the king might have given the ring to the Society, but wouldn’t he expect it back? How would that work, what with a ghost trapped in it?

And why hadn’t Wellington said it was only Mr. Mitten?

And why was Mr. Mitten behaving so badly (allegedly)?

And what was the deal with the slime?

“Well,” said Mr. Mitten. “Get on with it. I’m ready.”

“To go in here?” Alexander held the ring between his index finger and thumb.

Mr. Mitten nodded transparently.

“All right.” But Alexander hesitated, because this was all so strange and he’d really have liked answers, but the clock chimed six and he knew Wellington was surely waiting. Plus, the slime was gross. “Well,” Alexander said. “Hold still.”

Cautiously, he approached the ghost, half expecting some sort of fight. But Mr. Mitten held perfectly still while Alexander tapped the signet ring on his head.

Immediately, the ghost was sucked in. The gold trembled and glowed, and that was that. David Mitten was trapped in the ring, ready to deliver to Wellington.

“Good work, as always.” The duke placed the signet ring on his desk, then put the handkerchief he’d used while inspecting the ring back into his pocket. “You’ve done England a great service.”

It had hardly seemed like anything at all. Capturing Mr. Mitten had been easy. “You didn’t tell me it was Mr. Mitten, sir.”

Wellington gasped. “Mr. Mitten. Dead.” He shook his head, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t aware of the ghost’s identity. If I’d known, I would have told you. Of course, I’m as sorry to hear about David Mitten’s demise as anyone. It’s a real tragedy what happened to him.”

“He said he slipped and fell.”

“It’s just awful, isn’t it? Life is so brief. It can end in an instant. You never know when your time is up, I suppose.”

“I suppose.” Alexander frowned. Members of the Society were dropping at an alarming rate. “What about the king?”

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t give the ring back to the king. Not with Mr. Mitten trapped inside it.

“You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t be safe. The king is aware of the issue, and he’s already commissioned a new ring. It should be ready by Thursday.”

“How nice that His Majesty could put aside his dislike of the Society to help us with Mr. Mitten,” Alexander said. Maybe the king did (sort of) believe in ghosts after all? Or, more likely, he didn’t want to cause a huge public fuss with the Society, figuring it would be on its way out shortly and this was as good an excuse as any to get a new ring.