A Most Transparent Gentleman

illustration: Alix Verity
 

“You found it,” he said, as the door creaked shut behind me. It was quiet, busier than I had imagined, but quiet still. A bar, a hovel of rickety bench chairs and tables scattered against the unnerving slope of a tumble-down ceiling, framing a stumpy wooden bar. There was a man stood behind it, shuffling to the sounds of clinking glasses, the quiet roars of secret talk and laughter.

“Yes,” I replied, shaking the droplets of rainfall from my coat as the man gestured towards the free chair opposite him. “I must admit, I had no idea this place was here.”

“I hope my directions were helpful,” said the man, Mr Carter. “It is a well-kept secret, that’s its charm.”

“It’s… quaint,” I hesitated, looking around the room once more, studying the pictures on the walls: faded drawings of landscapes and town scenes, some so browned, cracked and weathered with age that they almost faded into the walls themselves. “You’re quite welcome,” Mr Carter’s eyes gestured across to the bar, his face never moving. I took this as an opportunity to order a drink before the interview commenced.

I stood at the bar for a short time, careful to make little eye contact with the barman or the other people at the tables. There was discomfort in the air, something that tugged at the bottom of my skirt and twisted in the loose curls of my hair. I felt out of place here, not used to my surroundings. I wanted to get the interview over with and get out of there.

Whoever had heard of a bar like this? Hidden from the streams of bustling crowds in the city – the ghosts whose footsteps echoed above my head – I drank in the stale atmosphere of the secret parlour. I had near enough fallen into the concealed entrance, had it not been for the gentleman who had caught my arm as I slipped. I returned to my seat, a cool tumbler of gin in my hand, holding his memory as the glass’ condensation formed small pools in the creases of my hand.

Mr Carter sat transfixed on a spot by the front door, a small window beside a cracked coat stand. His gaze was severe, his eyes glazed and widened in terror. I stopped short at the sight of a strange man, a stranger man than I had at first, perhaps, judged. “Are you alright, Mr Carter?” I asked, being careful not to raise my voice. “Quite, quite,” he said, his body shuddering, his eyes darting back towards me as he regained himself. “I do apologise. A memory, I think.”

“A memory of what?” Intrigued, I pressed him further. “My dear girl,” he relaxed a little, readjusting his balance on the bench. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I don’t imagine you believe in ghosts, do you?”

I thought for a while, conjuring an answer that most suited my undecided nature towards these things. I had always given bumps in the night and ghoulish tales such little of my time and interest, being at one with the solid world around me. “I wouldn’t say I don’t believe, Mr Carter,” I began. “But I can’t say I have ever experienced anything to raise the question of belief.”

“They exist, Miss Savage, of that I am certain,” Mr Carter leaned in closer. “They say he haunts this place, the street above us. The previous owner. I knew of him a little. A very proud man, handsome and tall, friendly and forgiving. He died in a car accident some years back. And I had never really thought of him, until…”

“Until what, Mr Carter?” I pressed again.

“Until I saw his face appear in the window, just behind you.” I jumped as his eyes darted behind me.

“Impossible,” I scoffed, ignoring the sense of fear rising in my stomach.

illustration: Alix Verity
 

“It is my belief, Miss Savage, that logic cannot always provide a suitable explanation,” his face dropped into a crooked smile. “Say, how did you manage to find this place, in the end?” A swift subject change. I set my drink down on the table and readjusted myself on the small stool. Wary of others listening in on our conversation, I began to tell Mr Carter the story of the man who had pulled me up after my fall in the busy street, who had led me to the hidden front door, the gateway to this strange place.

“He was charming,” I started my tale, save for the memory of the cold chill that blew from the gentleman’s mouth as he spoke in my direction, as if winter itself was encased between his lips. “You see, Mr Carter, I make little habit of coming out to meet strangers of an evening. I do not get tangled with the crowds, it is these busy times I cannot abide, the hustle as everyone fights to get out of this cold, wet weather.”

“Do go on, Miss Savage,” Mr Carter’s tone held a tinge of annoyance.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, rubbing my hands along my dress, laughing nervously. “Well, I suppose. What I was trying to say was that I felt lost. Lost and overwhelmed by the rain, the bundles of people making their own short, sharp ways home, the directions you had been so kind to write down for me. I tripped on the hem of my dress. A piece of lace trim that had been snagging for days had caught under the heel of my boot, causing me to lurch forwards, against the stride of the crowds, almost losing my footing completely on the unfamiliar steps.

I had little time to catch my breath before a gloved hand reached out to mine, pulling me to safety. I felt the soft hide of black leather, the momentary glide as he pulled me up, before I took any notice of him. The stranger. I fell close against his chest, my hands splaying into his woollen overcoat, my eyes darting to focus on this silhouette of his top hat as I caught my breath. The world melted away from us for just a moment as my eyes fell upon his face. A most handsome face, his smile was crooked, revealing the faint lines of yellowing teeth as he loosened his grip on my hand.

I immediately apologised for my error, thanking him for his efforts, brushing my dress down with nerves as I turned to walk away. ‘You are lost,’ the stranger said. ‘No, no,’ I replied as I turned to face him. ‘No, I’m… well… yes, I’m looking for The Cellar Door, I’m meeting someone there.’

The stranger laughed, his smile widening across his face as his soft, gloved hand pointed towards the stone steps that I’d almost tripped over. I followed the point of his slender, coated arm, the long fingers encased in his glove, he smiled at me as he proffered his other hand to guide me down the stairs. He muttered as he led me – nothing I could remember. Sentences or questions, they could have been either. The last thing I remember was turning to thank the man who had been so courteous to escort me to my destination, to find he had vanished, disappeared into the night. Leaving nothing but the feel of creeping strangeness as I made my way into the secret parlour, to you.”

“An interesting story, Miss Savage,” Mr Carter sounded somewhere in between bemused and afraid. “But you seem to be troubled by this stranger?”

“Perhaps, Mr Carter,” I replied, replaying the moment my strange gentleman vanished from sight. “Confused, more. I remember he was ice cold, darting out of nowhere to save me as I tripped, it seemed almost intentional.”

“Those that linger in your mind, linger on this earth longer than they should, Miss Savage.” Mr Carter was cryptic, which prompted me to check my watch, conscious that I had not even begun the interview yet. “I don’t think I follow you,” I replied, flashing a half smile, as Mr Carter sat forward, his voice quietening.

“A most transparent gentleman, a handsome face, a kind and mysterious demeanour?” Mr Carter began. “Your character sounds familiar, Miss Savage. Tell me, has it occurred to you, through the course of this meeting, that your man and my ghost were made of the same stuff?”

“The face you saw?” I replied, eyes widened in terror as my skin crawled at the memory of his wintry presence. “The man who died in the accident?”

“Oh yes, Miss Savage,” the wind blew around Mr Carter as another shadowy guest entered the building, slamming the door behind them. “I do believe you have met your first ghost – the Gentleman of Bridlesmith.”

Emma Berry is a freelance writer and make-up artist based in Nottingham.

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