Elsinore Castle is the kind of place that Aunt Agatha likes to describe
with grave pauses, separated by single words: ‘Dignified’. ‘Noble’. ‘Grand’.
The affair at Elsinore was a proper jamboree! Peeves insisted that we leave quite early that morning—around 11-ish or thereabouts. The drive was pleasant enough—long and winding roads and all that. It was quite dark when we finally arrived, and I’ll say this: Elsinore Castle is the kind of place that my Aunt Agatha likes to describe with grave pauses, separated by single words: ‘Dignified’. ‘Noble’. ‘Grand’. Yes, indeed. Elsinore Castle had a grim presence.
“Look at those battlements and turrets and whatnots. This place is positively medieval, eh Peeves?”
“Indeed, sir. Elsinore Castle has a rich history dating back to the 15th century. It is said to be one of the most well-preserved castles in all of Europe.”
“Well-preserved? I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, but it’s not exactly the sort of joint where one would want to spend a jolly weekend, is it? Remind me, Peeves, why are we here?”
“You were invited by Lord Hamsalot. His Lordship’s is to be engaged to–”
“Of course. The Hamster. He’s been carrying a torch for Ophelia for years now. Would be a shame for him to let such a fine woman slip away.”
“Indeed, sir. However, one must remember that his Lordship is to be engaged to–”
“You know what they say, Peeves: ‘The heart wants what it wants’. And I suppose it’s time we met the Hamster and congratulated him.”
Peeves nodded. “Very good, sir. This way, sir.” I followed him, humming a song that was lodged in my memories from god-knows-where. Can’t seem to remember the words now. Lots of heidi-heidi-hoes and that sort of stuff. The Hamster wasn’t in his quarters when we entered. I heard some splashing from the next room, followed by a rather mournful voice: “Door’s open Pertie, come in. I’m trying to drown my sorrows but the blighters are doing the backstroke in the tub,” it said. I followed the voice, and Peeves followed me. We found the Hamster in the tub, staring at a little rubber ducky bobbing in front of him.
“This was Yorkie’s ducky. I adopted him after Yorkie bucketed the proverbial kick. He’s called Yorkie too, by the way.”
“Now, now Hamster. You really should bucket the kicking now. We all miss Yorkie…” The Hamster burst into tears. Yorkie the ducky bobbed furiously, dodging his tears.
“Alas, poor Yorkie,” he sobbed. “I knew him well. He was quite the jester, a fellow who could set the table on a roar with his witty quips and antics.” Being a rubber ducky made Yorkie rather incapable of conversation, and it said nothing in reply. But it did manage to give the Hamster a rather baleful stare, as if to say, ‘Cheer up old chap, it’s not all bad.’
I wonder if Aunt Agatha has a rubber duckie?
Sir, I believe she keeps an alligator.
“But where are your jokes now, Yorkie? Where are you when I need your help the most?” asked the Hamster. At this point, Yorkie managed to pull off an impressive eye-roll.
“You wouldn’t happen to know how a rubber ducky might pull off such a magnificent eye-roll, do you Peeves? I wonder if Aunt Agatha has a rubber ducky?
“Sir, I believe she keeps an alligator,” replied Peeves. “It pretends to be made of rubber when Lady Worplesdon uses the tub.”
“Anyway, I say, Hamster old chap. Why don’t we find something to cheer you up? How about a quick snifter then?”
“Tell me, Pertie. Is it nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them?”
“Personally, I’ve always found it better to simply ring for Peeves and let him take care of any troubles. Man’s a card-carrying genius.” I replied.
The Hamster’s eyes glazed over like a pair of poached eggs kept simmering for precisely four and a half semi-quavers… I knew that look. Cupid had peppered him with a proper artillery barrage; the man had more holes in him than a bagful of button-holes.
“Ophelia. My dear Ophelia…,” cried the Hamster, quite suddenly.
“Good old Ophie. What about her?”
“Alas! I lay down my dreams for her, and she stomps on them. I’m a sad, lonely gewürztraminer.”
I’ll be dashed if a polite chap is supposed to learn German now. We did win, after all. I looked at Peeves expectantly.”
“A delicate German grape, sir,” he murmured.
“Ah, well, squishing sausages, I can understand. But grapes, well, that’s too painful to imagine, even German ones,” I said cheerfully.
“Sausages? What on earth are you on about, Pertie? Are you going to help me or not?”
“You’re in luck Hamster. I’m sure we can think of something that will pole-vault you to the top of Ophie’s tower of love. These things take time and isn’t that the whole point of getting engaged?” The Hamster lobbed a mournful look at me; I edged it neatly to Peeves at first slip.
“May I remind you, sir, that Lord Hamsalot is to be engaged to Miss Brumblethwaite–” Peeves paused. The man knows when to pause for effect. “Tomorrow.”
Yes! Ophelia Brum–" I wasn’t pausing for effect. I was suddenly unsure. Peeves was not.
“Miss Hortensia Brumblethwaite, sir. I believe her twin sister, Ophelia, will also be in attendance.”
“Ah.” That was all I said, really. The Hamster’s tears. Sharing a bath with Yorkie’s rubber ducky. Now it all made sense. It was the old love triangle. Still, one cannot be absolutely sure in such matters. “I say Hamster. I—er—I take it you don’t at all fancy Hortensia, what?”
Hamster howled in reply. Yorkie’s left eye nearly popped out. The Hamster wasn’t hot for Hortensia, as far as I could tell.
“That’s that, then,” I said. Peeves didn’t seem to agree with me. His features assume a singular stance when he has something on his mind—an eyebrow that is poised to rise, but never does. It threatens to dance down the wicket but plays on the back foot. Clearly, Peeves did not think that that was that.
“Let’s put that that aside for a moment, shall we? Now, Peeves, be a good man and do something to—um— ?”
“Brighten the mood, sir? Raise the spirits?”
“Ah! Spirits! Jolly good. Brighten us up. A hint of soda with a large splash of Brasso For The Spirit. And another splash or two for good measure. That’s what we need.”
“Very good, sir,” said Peeves.
Brasso for the spirit, sir?
Later that evening, when our spirits were positively aglow and floating about the room, I decided to help the Hamster. He was my oldest chum, and never let it be said that we Woosters are not men of action, even if it’s action that we would rather avoid.
“You have to do something Pertie,” said the Hamster. Peeves’s elixir had calmed him down but it’s a sad sight to see a man—let alone a dear friend—in such a helpless state. I, on the other, was feeling unusually clear-headed. (I have told you that Peeves is a card-carrying genius, haven’t I?) I had thought that ’that was that’ but as I’d said earlier, it’s best to make sure.
“Peeves. You didn’t think that that was that. Did you?” Peeves paused before he answered.
“The relationship between the former that and the latter that is quite clear, sir. However, that of the latter to the former, respectively, is unknown.”
One has to imbibe Peeves’s stuff to understand it all, but it was clear as rain to me: “Hamster, old chap. I take it that Hortensia doesn’t—” The Hamster had run out of howls. “Yes. Yes, she does, Pertie. She follows me around like a lost puppy. But my love Ophelia ignores me. All she wants to do is play tennis and ride horses. I wish I was a tennis racquet. Or a horse—”
That was quite the image but I put it aside. Clearly, that was not that. Something had to be done and my first action, as is usually the case in situations such as this, was to ask Peeves to suggest something that might be done.
“It’s a delicate situation, sir. And we might not have enough time to remedy it.” The Hamster stared at his empty glass, quite ready to fill it up with a torrent of tears. But Peeves was ready with a refill of his spirit lifter-upper. He was right, of course. How could the Hamster leap from Hortensia’s ship into Ophelia’s lifeboat given that the former was holding him by the ankles, and the latter would not notice if he drowned?
“They’re twins, aren’t they? You could put a ring on one and never know the difference–” I thought out—quite aloud—as it were.
“Are you trying to trick me into an engagement with Hortensia?” moaned the Hamster. “They are nothing alike. They don’t look the same, and they have nothing in common except their parents. They’re fraternal twins, Pertie, and you’ve met both of them. Stop being such a clot.”
I let that pass without comment because he was upset and, honestly, I’ve always been a bit confused about twins. Peeves seemed to agree with the Hamster.
“I’m afraid that would only be possible in Shakespeare, sir.”
The Hamster jumped to his feet quite suddenly. “I think I need some fresh air, Pertie. I need to think,” he said as he staggered to the door. “I need to think about my life…” he moaned, and shut the door with enough vigour to abbreviate the ellipsis into a proper full stop.
“They do share a common interest, sir. I am given to believe that both the ladies Brumblethwaite—that is to say, Miss Ophelia and her sister Miss Hortensia—have quite a spiritual bent of mind,” said Peeves
“Spiritual? What do you mean Peeves?” I asked.
“Both have been known to attend, together, events where attempts are made to communicate with supernatural entities. "
“You mean they try to talk to ghosts? That’s absurd. Everyone knows that ghosts are mute. That’s why they make strange noises. ‘Woo’ and ‘Ooo’ and that sort of stuff.”
“What I was suggesting, sir, was that Elsinore Castle is said to be haunted by the spirits of all of Lord Hamsalot’s ancestors. Perhaps one of them might convey a suitable message to both of them. A message that would be perceived as counsel from the Wise who inhabit the Infinite.”
“Now look here, Peeves. How are we going to find a ghost who will tell Ophelia to love the Hamster, and Hortensia to stop? More importantly, how will they understand what’s being said with all the ‘woos’ and ‘oos’, and all that?
“We might not have to find the resident spirit, sir, merely manufacture one that might be amenable to our cause,” said Peeves thoughtfully.
The door to our room opened without warning. Aunt Agatha walked in… All the full stops in this paragraph shrieked and became ellipses again. She stared at me for a moment… Then, she stared at Peeves for a while longer… The full stops held their collective breaths…
I have been looking to find a suitable match
for you for quite some time now.
“Aunt Agatha. How nice to see you here,” I said as pleasantly as I could without slurring.
“Are you drunk, Pertie? I shudder at the thought. Now. As you are, no doubt, aware I have been looking to find a suitable match for you for quite some time now. As it happens, I have found one. After the ceremonies tomorrow, I intend to announce your engagement to Ophelia.
“But… But…
“You are a drone, Pertie. You need a queen bee to set you straight.”
“I say, Aunt Agatha. I say. I say.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say whatever it was I wanted to say—which was nothing, I imagine, which means I did say what I wanted to say! Aunt Agatha, having heard what I said, shot an inquisitorial glance at Peeves. Then, she left.
“Peeves, I say.”
I have a plan, sir.” Peeves paused. “It requires some planning. I shall set it in motion once all the pieces are in place. In the meantime, perhaps sir would like to charge his glass and his spirits?”
“I would like that very much, Peeves.”
***
The library at Elsinore Castle was a place where time seemed to have taken a permanent holiday. Heavy drapes hung like shrouds, their ancient fabric ready to disintegrate at the mere suggestion of a breeze. The bookshelves, carved from wood hewn from the very heart of a petrified forest, groaned under the weight of poets and philosophers who had been dead long before the Romans came, saw, and left. How Peeves convinced the sisters into this gloomy room, I’ll never know (the man’s a card-carrying genius!), but I’ll say this: if ghosts wanted to commune, they’d pick a room like this.
Ophelia and Hortensia sat at a round table, a single candle flickering between them. Its feeble light cast eerie shadows on the walls, making the room seem even more like a mausoleum. The candle itself looked as though it had been burning since the reign of some long-forgotten monarch, its wax dripping in slow, mournful tears.
“Are you sure this will work, Ophie? Does he love me, or does he not?” Hortensia asked, her voice a mix of scepticism and curiosity.
“Of course. The spirits of Elsinore are said to be quite communicative,” Ophelia replied, her eyes closed in concentration. “We must simply open our minds and listen.”
“Now would be the time to intervene, sir,” whispered Peeves. I hiccuped loudly in reply.
Ophelia and Hortensia gasped, their eyes widening in unison. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” Ophelia demanded.
It is I, the ghost of Elsinore Castle!
I, draped in a white sheet, stumbled into the dark room. The sheet, it must be said, was not cooperating. It tangled around my legs, causing me to lurch forward in a manner that was more like a tipsy uncle at a wedding dance than a spectral apparition.
“Oooooooh, Opheliaaaaaa!” I intoned, my voice wavering not from supernatural effort but from the effects of Peeves’s Brasso-for-the-spirit. (I must persuade the man to divulge its recipe.) “It is I, the ghost of Elsinore Castle!” I declared, trying to sound both spooky and authoritative, and failing at both.
“The ghost?” Hortensia’s eyes narrowed. “You mean there is more than one?”
“Ahem, yes, quite a lot of us in here. Packed tighter than a gentleman’s club on a rainy afternoon, you know. But I am the Chief Spectre of Elsinore. I am responsible for overseeing all hauntings, approving wails, and ensuring, every day, that all chains are properly rattled,” I declared with what I hoped was an air of spectral authority.
“Who are the others?” asked Ophelia.
“Well, there’s the Phantom Council. They debate the finer points of ethereal etiquette, such as the correct angle at which to float through walls, and so on… And then there’s a whole squadron of Apparition Apprentices, who are still learning the ropes (or chains, as it were). They deal with the more mundane aspects of haunting, such as ensuring that all candles flicker appropriately.” I thought I’d handled that rather well, though I could have sworn I heard Peeves groan behind me, possibly in admiration of my ghostly gravitas.
“What message do you bring us? Does my Hambie-wambie love me?” trilled Hortensia excitedly.
“Ahem. Yes! I bring a message of love! The Hamster, er, the Hambie-wambie, is deeply in love… But with Ophelia. His heart beats only for her.”
Hortensia’s face turned a shade of crimson that would have made a tomato envious. “What? That can’t be true! He loves me!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in pitch.
“Ah, but that is the curse of true love!” I waved my arms dramatically, nearly losing my balance and the sheet. “He is tormented by his feelings, unable to express them. But fear not, for I, the Chief Spectre of Elsinore, have seen into his heart. He loves Ophelia and no other.”
Ophelia’s expression hardened. “I thought he was a bit of clot when he came to visit last. But what of Hortensia? They are to be engaged tomorrow.” I attempted a ghostly chuckle, which, regrettably turned into a series of loud hiccups, each one involuntarily re-punctuating what was meant to be a dramatic monologue: “The Hamster’s heart belongs HIC to you alone. He dreams HIC of you, he HIC, speaks your name in his sleep…
Peeves thumped me on the back. The hiccups and my attempt at a dramatic monologue ended with a loud HIC.
Hortensia, now on the verge of tears, shook her head vehemently. “No, no, this can’t be! My darling Hambie-wambie loves me, I know it!” Something flew past her. She whirled around. With a thump and squeak, Yorkie landed in the middle of the table, spinning and bobbing slowly.
Yorkie!
“Yorkie!” squealed Hortensia.
“Who?” asked Ophelia, unsure.
“It’s Yorkie! He is my dear Hambie-wambie’s dearest companion, apart from that oaf Pertie…,” squeaked Hortensia.
“Now, now, I say,” I began to protest. At that moment, Yorkie decided to stop spinning around. He stopped, facing the general direction of Ophelia. “He loves you Ophie,” squealed Hortensia. “Oh, Hambie-wambie, why did you not tell me…”
Ophelia stared at Yorkie.
Peeves tugged at the sheet—my cue to exit. I attempted to float out of sight with dignity but managed only a rather unsteady stagger. I concealed myself with Peeves behind the curtains.
The library door opened and Aunt Agatha walked in. If there were any ghosts in Elsinore, they would have leapt through the walls and floor and ceiling. Aunt Agatha stared intently at the sisters who, in turn, stared at Yorkie.
“Now what is all this? Where’s Hamsalot? He was to meet me here.”
“He loves Ophelia,” said Hortensia. “Yorkie said so. Look…”
“And who in heaven’s name is Yorkie?”
The sisters pointed; I’m positively certain that Yorkie winked at Aunt Agatha because her features assumed a look that would have petrified a charging rhinoceros.
“I think our work here is done, sir,” whispered Peeves.
***
As we drove back to London, I couldn’t help but reflect on the whirlwind events at Elsinore. The engagement to Hortensia was called off, much to the relief of the Hamster, who is now happily engaged to Ophelia. Aunt Agatha, realizing that Hortensia was not quite the “queen bee” she hoped for, has decided to let me be—for now, at least.
“Well, Peeves, it seems we’ve managed to navigate another sticky wicket,” I said, leaning back in my seat.
“Indeed, sir. It appears that all parties involved have found a satisfactory resolution.”
“And I, Peeves, am once again a free man. No engagements, no impending nuptials. Just the open road and the promise of a peaceful life.”
“Quite so, sir. Shall I take the scenic route back to London?”
“As you like it, my dear Peeves. As you like it.”