It was all that a ghost hunter could wish. In the distance a Gothic heap rose against a dull gray sky. Mr. Wainwright gazed contentedly at pointed windows, finials, gargoyles, and a steeply canted roof. “There are the ravens,” he said, pointing to six bumps on the roof line. “At Longleat the departure of the swans will foretell the end of the family line. Here at Keefer Hall there is a legend that the ravens circle the house to foretell good luck.” The birds sat immobile as statues for as long as Charity looked at them. The surrounding park featured dank yews and dripping elms that cast long shadows on the grass. She feared the chimneys in such an old house would smoke; the rooms would be dark and dreary, and the inhabitants would discuss nothing but ghosts and gout. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they have an oubliette, complete with skeletons and clanking chains,” she said. “Such appurtenances are not necessary to a haunting,” her papa replied. “Though they do add a certain atmosphere, of course.
