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  If Butterfield’s ghost could have shaken Dickens’ hand he would have, if for nothing else than for telling Butterfield to shut up.

  Charles Dickens’ ghost turned and faced the bench. “My lord, the defense would like to call its first witness.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi, who was engaged lighting up one of his cigars, paused for a moment and then nodded his ascent.

  “The defense calls the ghost of Inspector Charles Frederick Field to the witness stand.”

  Strobe-like flashes of blue preceded the materialization of the celebrated Victorian detective. He stood before the bench and looked about quizzically.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Reverend Poda-Pirudi apologized. “It was silly of me. I didn’t anticipate that we were going to have a need for a witness stand and failed to provide one,” the Reverend said as he glanced at Charles Dickens’ ghost. “Inspector, do you mind standing while you give your testimony? I’m sure you won’t be needed too long.”

  “Oh no, me lord. Being dead I don’t have any pressing plans.”

  The Reverend chuckled. “Good. Good. But I promise we won’t detain you long. Will we, Mr. Dickens?”

  “Oh no, your lordship, perish the thought. I’ll be very brief. Let me start. Inspector Field, you were present with the other members of the constabulary’s Division L of the Woolwich Dockyard at Cleopatra’s Needle when this crime allegedly took place?”

  “Why, of course, Charlie. Why do you think I’m here?”

  “Well, could you tell us if, during this time, you made any observations that would lead you to believe that my client was an active participant in this crime?”

  “That would have been hard to. He was all buggered up in tape.”

  “So, there was no evidence at the time to show any complicity?”

  “Complicity? “

  “I mean, is there any reason for you to have formulated an opinion that the defendant is guilty of the crimes that he’s been charged with?”

  “Why no, none; that is, beyond the fact that he is guilty.”

  The Reverend cleared his throat and again glanced hard and long at Dickens.

  Dickens understood well enough the implied threat behind the throat clearing. “My lord.” He hastened. “I think we have had all of the testimony that we need upon this matter and the defense now rests.”

  “Very good, Mr. Dickens. Inspector Field you are excused and again my apologies for the inconvenience. It is time for the jury to consider a verdict.”

  He turned to the assemblage of monarchs whom he had appointed as jurors. “Do we need any time to consider the facts?”

  The ghost of Queen Elizabeth I stood. “My lord, Reverend, I believe we are all sufficiently acquainted with the qualities of this case and can speak honestly to the charge. The defendant is most guilty.”

  “Aye!” thundered the other jurors.

  “Then guilty he is,” declared Reverend Poda-Pirudi.

  With this pronouncement, Butterfield began to wriggle out of the grip of Newton and Darwin, but was once again subdued.

  “Apparently,” the Reverend announced, “I’ve got a lot of sentencing to do. Let’s start with those fortunates who pleaded guilty. All of the members of WITCH who are in our custody, approach the bench.”

  Under the guidance of the boys from Division L, the coven was herded in front of the Reverend.

  The Reverend summoned up his deepest and most magisterial voice. “For the living to go about tampering with the affairs of the dead is a very serious matter. The two species are distinct and must remain so. To have it otherwise would disrupt the patterns of nature and disturb the forces of being. My word, next you’d want to marry. Won’t do, you know. However, that being said, I do feel that there is some mitigation caused by your peculiar state. You are not quite normal — sort of an unpleasant admixture of the living and the dead. So to this end, I’ve decided to be lenient with you — that is, all of you but for Hecuba.”

  Hecuba groaned.

  “For all of you, except Hecuba, I sentence you to five years as laborers in the village of Val-de-Travers in Switzerland. You may know that that was where absinthe was first distilled. Several sympathetic wormwood growers have consented to take you in. My advice to you is that you seize upon this opportunity to reform yourselves from those nasty occult habits that you’ve taken on. Work hard and stay drunk.”

  There were several exclamations of joy and thanks, as the constables of Division L led out the crowd of women to an awaiting double decker bus.

  “Ah yes … Hecuba get over here.”

  Hecuba ran to the bench and stood before the Reverend visibly shaken.

  “You madam are evil. Evil, pure and simple. But still I feel that to be too hard on you would be like beating a blind man because he can’t see. Perhaps it’s a sign of the times, but I’ve again chosen to be merciful. Hecuba, you are sentenced to transportation to our prison colony in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. There you shall remain for the rest of your life within the confines of the Township of Salem. I think I shall place you there around 1692. Perhaps Sir Isaac might give you some advice on your travel plans. It’s his century, you know.”

  Hecuba shrieked, “That’s a death sentence! Reverend, please, not during the Salem witch hysteria. Have mercy!”

  “Oh well, okay. I always like to see those that I convict leave happy. How about we say contemporary Salem, Massachusetts? That way you’ll become a tourist attraction and a boon to the local economy. I’d suggest you make a go of it reading palms, selling travel bags, mugs, T-shirts, and herbal teas, that sort of thing. But listen, if you ever attempt to leave the town you will find yourself back in 1692. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Oh yes, Reverend. Never will you have a problem with Hecuba again.”

  “Of that I’m sure. One of the constables will see you to Heathrow Airport. I’ve got you all booked, economy class, of course. Now off with you.”

  Hecuba was led away from the bench.

  “Oh we have just a few more to go. Mr. Crowley’s ghost would you mind approaching the bench?”

  The blue specter of the Aleister Crowley crawled across the Cosmati Pavement on his hands and knees. Once he was in front of the table on the high altar, Crowley’s ghost placed his head upon the stone floor. Sobbing, he beseeched the Reverend for forgiveness.

  “Oh master, this poor erring spirit begs you for mercy. I did not know that you had any interest in this matter. If I had, I would have stayed far, far away from those accursed WITCHes. Oh, please let me redeem myself in your eyes. I promise you that I shall devote the eternity of my existence to your instruction and command.”

  “Indeed you will,” interrupted the Reverend. “Mr. Crowley, you don’t mind that I’m not using your many titles, do you?”

  “Oh no. Oh no, Great Phantasm, Spirit of Spirits, Shepherd of Shadows.”

  “Honestly, Reverend will do. But let’s move along, shall we? Mr. Crowley, have you ever stayed at the Hotel Cecil?”

  “Why, why, yes Reverend. Capital place you know. One of the best grand hotels I ever stayed in. Over eight hundred rooms, you know. I used to live there. Of course, it’s all gone now.”

  “I can imagine it. Highly ornate, very posh, no doubt catered to every one of your needs. And I’m sure somebody like you had varied and highly unique needs.”

  “Yes. Quite. Wonderful place. Why do you ask?”

  “Mr. Crowley, where are you from?”

  “Well, I was born in the Royal Leamington Spa in Warwickshire.”

  “No. No. That’s not what I meant. I want to know where you were buried.”

  “Oh, I was cremated and my ashes were scattered under a tree in Hampton, New Jersey.”

  “Excellent! Well here’s your sentence. You will return to that tree. There you
shall secrete your soul in the root of your choice and remain there for the eternity of your existence. If you move even a centimeter from it, you’ll find that the time spent within that root was like your stay at the Cecil, that is, when you compare it with what I will have in store for you. Do you understand me?”

  Crowley’s ghost nodded his head up and down in terror.

  “Good. You now have less than a half a second to get there.”

  Poof! Aleister Crowley’s ghost disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke.

  “Does anyone find that the air is appreciably better around here?” The entire congregation of ghosts shouted their agreement. “Good. That’s taken care of. Moving on, bring the ghost of Mr. Wallace Butterfield to me.”

  The ghosts of Sir Isaac and Charles Darwin once again snatched Wallace from his seat and dragged him before the Reverend.

  “Why is he still blinking at me? I’ve told you that this court does not recognize blink. You had your chance to confess to your crime a while back. It is too late now.”

  The Reverend reached down and lifted up the black cap of sentencing the condemned. As he placed it upon his head, Butterfield began to protest.

  “This isn’t fair! How can you punish my ghost and not harm me?”

  Placing a finger over his lips, the Reverend shushed him and proceeded with the sentencing.

  “Unborn ghost of Wallace Butterfield, you have been found guilty of attempted murder and treason against your host, a creature that has nurtured and sheltered you during your development. During my 27,711 years of existence I have never seen a case wherein a spirit has attempted to destroy the womb from which it will spring. There can be but one sentence for such a heinous deed and that is death. It is a sentence I do not impose lightly. I have never required that a ghost give up its existence before, but I do so require it now. Ghost of Wallace Butterfield you are to be immediately executed, here and on that spot.”

  The Reverend pointed to the central roundel of the Cosmati Pavement, which was just in front of the ornately carved chair that Wallace had been seated in during the trial. To Butterfield’s horror, a ghostly headsman was now standing there with an axe in his hands and wooden block at his feet.

  “Well now, it’s the ghost of Jack Ketch, isn’t it?” exclaimed Reverend Poda-Pirudi. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. What have you been up to?”

  “Oh not much my lord, Reverend, just the Mrs. and me, if you pardon the pun, just hanging about Saint James’s Burying Ground. That’s in Clerkenwell, you know?”

  The Reverend smiled broadly; he loved listening to the puns of the ghost of Jack Ketch.

  “No, I didn’t know. Well, how wonderful for the two of you. You had such a busy life with all of those executions, Lord Russell, the Duke of Monmouth and all those others. Quite a strain I imagine, hanging people up by their necks, then chopping off heads and limbs, all that disemboweling, and, I imagine, frying up the livers of screaming victims — I mean prisoners, It must have gotten on your nerves a bit?”

  “Yes Reverend it did. I know most people hold it against me and my host, old Jack Ketch, that it took us several attempts to lop off the head of Lord Russell. We did send out a printed apology about botching the job. Still people felt poorly about the whole thing. It didn’t help any that we had a couple of bad swings trying to take off the Duke of Monmouth’s head. We used a butcher’s knife to finish that job. And the Duke being so kind as to provide a handsome tip for a good beheading beforehand. He said to us, ‘Here are six guineas for you. Do not hack me as you did my Lord Russell. I have heard that you struck him three or four times. My servant will give you some more gold if you do the work well.’ And it takes me host more than five chops and a slice with a knife to do him in. Embarrassing it was.”

  “I dare say. Your job was over after that as I recall.”

  “Aye! Off to prison it was and they gave our job to the assistant executioner. But he was caught embezzling, so they needed him to be hanged up at Tyburn. So, all was forgiven then. And me and me host got the chance — again, pardon the pun, Reverend — to teach that miserable upstart the ropes.”

  The Reverend snickered. “Oh quite. Well I can see how all of that could lead to a lot of stress. I’m so glad that you are taking it easy these days. But I’ve called you out of retirement — well, pardon my pun, Mr. Ketch — to get Butterfield here to give up the ghost. I must warn you that Wally is a particularly good friend of mine. I want a clean chop right through the vertebrae. Well, two or three at the most.”

  “Oh, I wished you hadn’t said that, Reverend. I’ll do my best … just feeling a bit out of practice. It’s been over three hundred years since the last beheading.”

  “Of course. Can’t expect too much under these circumstances. Do your best that’s all.”

  Between screams, Wallace Butterfield had picked up most of this conversation. Oddly enough, his ghost was screaming in concert with him. Nobody buried in the Abbey had ever heard an unborn ghost make any sound before.

  “Mercy, Reverend. Please have mercy, Reverend,” Butterfield sobbed as the ghosts of Sir Isaac and Charles Darwin dragged him to the block and positioned his head on the chopping block.

  “Come, come, Wally you are sounding like Aleister Crowley’s ghost. Buck up and this will all be over soon enough. Mr. Ketch would you position yourself and take a couple of practice strokes.”

  “Right you are, Reverend. Now Mr. Butterfield, if all goes well I’ll have your head off on the count of three.”

  “One!” The axe came down gently but was a bit off course and just kissed the side of Wallace’s neck.

  “Two!” The axe came down squarely and lightly tapped the nape of Butterfield’s neck.

  “Oh, I think I got the swing of things. Sorry, me and me puns. Here we go — THREE!”

  The cacophony created by the screaming of both Butterfield and his ghost was deafening. And then there was an abrupt popping noise, like a champagne cork taking flight. Butterfield’s ghost shot out of Wallace’s body and headed upward toward the vaulted ceiling of the Abbey.

  “Get him!” cried the Reverend as he pointed out the flight of Butterfield’s ghost.

  The entire congregation lifted off their seats and into the air. The assembly of over three thousand spirits began the chase. Through the South Transept, Poet’s Corner, and Henry VII’s Chapel they pursued him, while he screamed the entire time.

  As Butterfield’s ghost rounded a corner and fled back into the South Transept, John Bradshaw’s ghost handed Reverend Poda-Pirudi a purple egg-shaped bottle embossed with the words, “W. O. Smith Chemist, Titchfield.”

  “Why thank you Johnny … oh I remember this one … a poison bottle from an old bottle dump in Devon. Right?”

  “Why yes, Reverend. Right as always.”

  “Of course, it’s coming to me — Mary Ann Cotton’s arsenic bottle! She poisoned all four of her husbands with this and cleaned up on the insurance money. That is, till they hanged her. Is the ghost of Mary Ann Cotton about? No, she wouldn’t be. Now what did I do with her? Oh well, I’ll figure that out later.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi uncorked the bottle. Holding it above his head with his left hand, he placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

  It was as if thousands of border collies had responded to his command and began to herd what was the equivalent of one sheep toward its enclosure. Butterfield’s ghost couldn’t move, but forward. In a panic, his ghost flew straight down and into the Reverend’s purple poison bottle, which the Reverend secured with a cork.

  “Well done! Thank you all!” the Reverend exclaimed. “Now how’s poor Wally doing?”

  The ghost of the sainted king, Edward the Confessor, had evidently been tending to Wallace during all of this commotion and had managed to get him back into the chair that he had been sitting in during the course of t
he trial.

  “I beg pardon. It is an ill-fitting throne but still it has served this country well for almost eight hundred years.” King Edward’s ghost said as he knelt before Wallace Butterfield. And with this, the entire congregation also went to their knees.

  Half dazed, Wallace Butterfield looked about Westminster Abbey. The interior had become resplendent with strange and beautiful flags, pennants and bunting. A hymn started in the back pews and was carried forward. Everyone began singing, “Oh Protect and Guide Us Old Soul.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi walked up to Butterfield, mopping some sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. He plopped himself onto the Cosmati Pavement, taking a seat on the floor right next to where Butterfield was sitting.

  “Wally, I know this has been an awful ordeal for you, but it had to be done this way. I tell you that I’ve never appreciated a midwife’s skills as much as I do now.”

  A long line now formed before King Edward’s coronation chair. One by one, dead monarchs, dignitaries, and notables approached the throne and made their bow or courtesy to Butterfield. And he was no longer afraid of them. Somehow, this all seemed to be natural and not in the least frighteningly supernatural.

  Three thousand three hundred and twenty-nine disembodied spirits presented themselves to him. Butterfield didn’t know how he knew what the exact number was, but somehow he did.

  “Your flock,” the Reverend explained, as though he had picked up on Wallace’s thought. You’ll always know their number. Here and everywhere else in the world. But we shall talk about that later. However, I would like to formally present to you Sir Isaac Newton and Mr. Charles Darwin. I know that you’ve recently had their acquaintance, and can imagine that they left you with rather a negative impression of their characters.” The Reverend scowled at them and added, “That can happen.”

  Charles Darwin moved respectfully forward and started to address Butterfield. “I hope that you understand…”, but then was cut off in midsentence by an emphatic Sir Isaac Newton.