Christmas 2025 - Slay Bells Ring... Are You Listening?

How time flies - another year has passed and it is time for another Christmas Ghost Story. 

If you are new to us - Welcome - and if you have followed us for a while - you are very welcome back. We have a first for you this year because this year's tale is an original - never seen or heard - or indeed read until now. It also includes original music from my nephew - Sam.  

Set in that narrow hour before midnight, when bells wait in their towers and houses hold their breath. It is a story of echoes rather than apparitions, of something unfinished, and of a presence that does not return to haunt — but to be heard. 

The Bells of Marlowe House is told in the best Victorian traditions - with music composed and recorded by my amazing nephew - Sam Gold - who you can find here: @samgold_music.

Jon Briggs is a journalist,  broadcaster and voice over. You may know him better as the original voice of Siri in the UK ("Daniel" on all Apple devices) or the BBC's Weakest Link quiz show. 

We think we are the only annual podcast in the world - publishing every Christmas Eve - so thank you for your support and coming back every year. To follow Jon on social media just look for @voiceofsiri or @voiceofsiruk. You can contact him via http://www.jonbriggs.com

Transcript

Speaker 1: 1:05

Good evening and welcome once again to our Christmas gathering in the half-light. I am so delighted that you have chosen to return. Outside, the streets may be strung with tinsel and electric cheer, but here, for a little while, we're going back to an older kind of Christmas. The Christmas of flickering candle flames, long shadows, and stories told in low voices when the clock is edging towards midnight. Tonight's tale is a Victorian ghost story of the old school, a house in the country, a melancholy widow, a snowbound church, and a set of bells that do not always wait for mortal hands. It is a story of conscience and consequence, of a father who loved too late, and of a child whose voice lingers in the metal of the bells. So, wherever you are listening, dim the lights if you can, draw the curtains against the dark, and settle yourself by whatever passes for a fireside in your world. This is a truly original tale. The Bells of Marlowe House. Are you sitting uncomfortably? Then we shall begin. You must imagine, if you please, the smoking room of the Paragon Club, a comfortable chamber on the first floor, with long windows looking down into Pal Mall. A fire that glows like the heart of some satisfied dragon, and more leather armchairs than there are reputable reasons for remaining in town at Christmas. It was there, one raw December evening, that the talk, as it will, fell upon ghosts. Graham of the Foreign Office assured us that no respectable spectre would deign to appear in the 19th century, the age of steam and sanitation. Our Buthnot, who had served in India, spoke of native superstitions with the lofty incredulity of a man who seemed too much to believe anything. Someone mentioned the old Christmas numbers of the magazines, and the fashion our fathers had for a ghostly tale between the pudding and the punch. And you, Marsh, said Graham, turning his owl-like gaze upon me. You have kept counsel all evening. Do not tell me that in the whole of your practice as a solicitor, you have never encountered anything that looks beyond the probate court. I hesitated. The port in my glass had left a dark comet upon the linen at my elbow. The fire gave a small sigh and settled itself. I have encountered, I said, one thing which I do not pretend to explain. Whether you style it ghost, hallucination or judgment, I leave to your several consciences. But it befell at Christmas, and in a house that came very close to being mine, in a way I had never desired. There was a little murmur of approval. Someone rang for more coals. Outside, beyond the curtains, a hansom rattled away, hooves striking sparks from the wet road. Very well, I said. If you have the patience for an old man's recollections, I will tell you of the bells of Marlowe House. Newly taken into partnership in the modest city firm of Denim and Marsh. My senior partner was one of those redoubtable gentlemen who appeared to have been born in black broadcloth, and whose souls, if they might be seen, would surely bear some resemblance to a well-kept ledger. It was three days before Christmas when he summoned me into his private room. Marsh, he said, peering at me over his spectacles, how do you feel about spending Christmas in the country? Well, as a rule, sir, I replied, I look upon it with favour. Hmm, very good.

Speaker: 6:32

Then you shall do this year in the service of the firm. Sit down, sit down, sit down. I have a client in Sussex, a certain Mrs.

Speaker 1: 6:41

Eleanor Marlowe, widow of the late Jonathan Marlowe who died this past September. You may recall the affair. Marlowe and Coe, ironmongers and Warehousemen, considerable fortune, no direct heirs. I murmured that I remembered something of it. Precisely. Now, before his decease, Mr.

Speaker: 7:00

Marlowe made what I can only describe as a peculiar codecil to his will, which I prepared at his insistence. It provides that should certain circumstances arise on the Christmas Eve immediately following his death, the dispositions of the estate are to be altered in a manner highly improbable and in my view absurd. Nevertheless, the document is properly executed, and it falls to us to ascertain whether these circumstances have in fact occurred. You will travel down to Marlowe House on the afternoon train on the twenty fourth, and you will remain there until Christmas morning.

Speaker 1: 7:40

You speak in riddles, sir, I said. What circumstances? Denham pushed his spectacles higher and looked, if possible, still grimmer. The codicil stipulates, he said, each word dropped like an iron weight, that if between the stroke of eleven and the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, the bells of St. Michael's Marlowe Parva shall ring out the tune of the hymn There is a land of pure delight, without the intervention of any visible ringer, then the estate of the deceased shall pass not, as in the principal will, to his sister, Mrs. Gwendolyn Hart, but to one Thomas Finch, sometime clerk in the employee of Marlowe and Go, and now an inmate of the Shoreditch workhouse. That is unusual, I said. Grotesque, said Denham shortly. The man Finch was dismissed years ago for suspected dishonesty. Nevertheless, the testator would have it so. You will understand that Mrs. Hart is not aware of this codicil. The widow Mrs. Marlowe is. She was present when it was executed, and regards it as a piece of what she terms nonsense.

Speaker: 9:01

She has written expressing the hope that the firm will send a representative, if only, she says, to set poor Jonathan's mind at rest in whatever world he now inhabits.

Speaker 1: 9:13

You will be that representative. You expect, sir, that nothing will occur.

Speaker: 9:20

I expect, he said, that you will pass a quiet evening. Note that the bells have remained decorously silent, and return the next day by the morning train. You will then witness the formal reading of the will. In the highly improbable event that anything untoward should happen, you will exercise your judgment and report to me.

Speaker 1: 9:41

That is all. He shuffled a packet of papers towards me. Among them, neatly folded and sealed with the late Mr Marlowe's crest, was the codecil itself. You will take these with you, said Denham. And Marsh? Yes, sir. You are a sensible young man. Do not allow the country air nor any sentimental associations of the season to disturb that sensibility. Ghosts do not alter the disposition of estates. I shall remember it, I said. The journey down to Sussex was uneventful, save for a delay outside Croydon that allowed the carriage to grow fogged and intimate. My fellow passengers were a young curate, who slept open-mouthed, a stout lady with a basket of holly and an ungovernable lapdog, and an elderly man in a threadbare great coat, whose restless eyes and heavily veined hands suggested the last stages of some long anxiety. He stared once or twice at the papers on my knee, as if he might read the names upon them, but said nothing. When I alighted at Marlowe Halt, he remained motionless, as though the journey were not yet over for him. It was already late afternoon. The sky was of that pale, exhausted grey that belongs only to the last days of the year, where even the daylight seems to have grown thin with age. A light snow, no more than a dusting of powdered glass, drifted about the platform. The porter, who also appeared to be station master, signalman, and whole board of directors combined, touched his cap and directed me to a waiting pony trap. You'll be for the house, sir, he said. Marlowe house, Mrs. Marshall's man is here for you. Marlowe, corrected the driver, in a local burr that turned the word to marr. Evening, sir. I climbed up beside him, and we set off along a lane where the hedges were already whitening at the tips. A busy time for you, I imagine, I said, by way of civility. Ah, church for his nig tomorrow, he replied. Though not like when the old master were alive. He'd have the bells going off the night Christmas Eve. Fair shook the snow off the roofs, he did. You'll hear 'em well enough up at the house if you stain over. I am, I said. Tell me, do they ring for practice on Christmas Eve? He gave me a sidelong glance, his breath a faint cloud in the chill air. Not since it happened, he said, in a lower tone. Since what happened? He flicked the pony's ear, as if he regretted having spoken so freely. Begging your pardon, sir. Local talk you'd best ask at the house. Before I could press him further, we turned a corner, and Marlowe House came into view. It stood upon a slight rise, a square Georgian building of dark red brick, its windows catching what little remained of the light. Behind it a fringe of bare elms and beeches marked the boundary of the estate. To the left, half hidden by trees, rose the square tower of a small church, its stone pale against the encroaching dusk. The pony's hooves crunched on the gravel as we drew up. A butler of funereal aspect admitted me, relieved me of my case, and ushered me into a hall that smelt faintly of beeswax and Christmas greenery. A large painting of the late Mr. Marlowe glowered down from above the fireplace. A bearded man of about sixty, with heavy brows, and a mouth that suggested more resolution than tenderness. A moment later his widow entered. Mr Marsh, she said, extending a hand in which the bones were very prominent, you are kind to come. I feared your Mr Denham might send some raw clerk. You are at least of an age to have known sorrow. I bowed and murmured the usual condolences. Mrs. Eleanor Marlowe was perhaps five and forty, still handsome in a severe fashion, with dark hair drawn back plainly from a face that might have been carved from pale, fine marble. She wore no black, only a gown of deep morning grey, and at her throat a small cross of jet. You will be tired, she said. I shall not trouble you unduly this afternoon. You will take some tea, and afterwards I will show you the room that has been prepared. We dine at seven. My sister in law, Mrs. Hart, has not yet arrived from London. I doubt she will welcome your presence, but that cannot be helped. She is practical to a fault. I am here merely as an observer, I said. Such are my instructions. Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile. Of what, I wonder, she said. Come, let us have tea first. Ghosts sit more easily on a man when his fingers are round a warm cup. It was during that same tea, taken in a small parlour, that looked out over a sweep of frosted lawn towards the church, that I first heard the story of the bells. You must understand, said Mrs. Marlowe, watching me over the fragile rim of her cup, that my husband was not a man given to foolishness. He had no taste for table wrapping nor for the public exposure of private grief. When our well when our loss occurred, he bore it as such men do in silence, and with a kind of stern justification directed against himself. Yet from that night he believed with an intensity that nothing could shake, that there was one hour in the year when the next world touched this, and one sign appointed for him in particular. What loss do you speak of, ma'am? I asked gently. She turned her gaze for a moment towards the window, where the garden lay like some faded tapestry under the lid of the sky. You will have observed the church, she said. St. Michael's. My husband had been church warden for ten years when our son Peter was born, and it was his pride that the boy should ring the bells with him on Christmas Eve when he was old enough to pull a rope. He was not a strong child, our Peter, but he had a light in him. You have seen such children who seemed to be already half citizens of another realm. Well, he had a way with the bells. He could set them speaking in a fashion that made the old women cross themselves in their pews, and the boys stand with their mouths open in the street. On the Christmas Eve that he was twelve years old, there was a fall of snow, finer and thicker than this, and a frost that set the water in the pump like glass. The men who were to ring the bells that night were late coming from the inn, and Peter, who could not bear to be kept indoors when the bells were silent, slipped out by himself, thinking to set them swinging with the help of one of the farmhands until the ringers arrived. They found him at the foot of the tower steps. Defrost had laid a film of ice on the stone, and he had fallen. His neck was broken. She set down her cup without noise, but her hand trembled slightly. Forgive me, I said. I did not mean to cause you pain. It is an old wound, she replied. There is no Christmas on which it does not make itself felt. My husband, he went a little mad that winter. He would sit in the church half the night, to be near the place where the boy lay, and as I have since learned, he would go at times up into the tower and lay his hands upon the bells, as if he would wring some confession from them. It was in the March following that he first heard the tune. There was no one in the tower. The vicar and sexton swore to it. The bells rang of themselves, Mr. Marsh, and they rang that hymn which the boy had been so fond of playing on the parlor piano. There is a land of pure delight where saints immortal reign. You know it? I know it, I said. And your husband was alone when he heard this. He and our old housekeeper, Mrs. Bragg, she had gone to the kitchen window to shake out crumbs for the birds. She said afterwards that the sound came floating over the snow like the voice of a child singing in a dream. Others in the village heard it too. From that time forth Jonathan was convinced that every Christmas Eve, if he sat in the church between eleven and midnight, the bells would ring again, and that it was our son calling to him from a place where there are no accidents and no grief. And did they? Twice, she said, and her voice had in it a note that I could not quite decipher. The first year after his death, and again the next. After that there was silence. My husband grew more withdrawn. He felt, I think, that he had been judged unworthy of his son's grace. When he came to make his last will, he added that codicil of which Mr. Denham has informed you, setting the ringing of the bells as a sign, not of his salvation, but of the distribution of his worldly goods. Why? I asked. Why should he choose as his beneficiary this man Finch, against whom he once held suspicion? She regarded me with a curious expression. That, she said slowly, is a question you must put to himself if he chooses to answer it. He left no explanation with me. Only this that if the bell should ring again as they did before, he would see it as proof that there is mercy beyond the grave, and that mercy should then be shown to one whom he had judged too harshly in life. Abruptly. But I keep you with tales when you are cold from your journey. You will wish to see your room, and later, if you have leisure, I will show you the path to the church. It is but a few minutes from the house. My room was on the first floor at the corner of the house, with one window facing the front and one commanding the view of the church. As I stood there, unpacked, and made such small arrangements as a bachelor traveller makes, I heard the distant rumble of carriage wheels and the shrill, commanding tones of a woman of a certain age. Mrs. Hart had arrived. She presented herself at dinner, a stout lady of fifty, with sharp black eyes, a hatchet of her nose, and a manner that would have overruled a committee of the house. She surveyed me with the air of one taking stock of an unwanted heirloom. So you are the lawyer, she said, when we were introduced. I trust you have not come to complicate matters, Mr Marsh. My brother's affairs are, I understand, in good order. Entirely so, I said. I am here merely to discharge a formal duty. Formal nonsense, she sniffed. Eleanor, I do not know why you encourage such things. Bless my soul, we are none of us children to go running after phantom bells. Jonathan was a good man, but he had his whims. We humour the dead when we bury them decently and say our prayers. Anything more is superstition. You are at liberty to remain by the fire, Gwendolyn, said Mrs. Marlowe, with a quiet firmness that surprised me. No one compels you to attend the church tonight. Mr Marsh, you have eaten nothing. Is Cook's roast goose not to your liking? On the contrary, the dinner was excellent and I did justice to it. Yet under the warm lamplight, with the smell of cloves and roasted chestnuts drifting in from the kitchen, I confess my thoughts strayed more than once to the low square tower of St. Michael's, now a darker shape against the sky. At the end of the meal, when the pudding had appeared in its brave, plumaged blaze, and been consumed, Mrs. Marlowe rose. It is half past ten, she said. Mr. Marsh, if you still wish to undertake your well, what shall we call it, your professional vigil, I am ready to accompany you as far as the churchyard gate. Mrs. Hart will remain with the fire and the decanter. I shall do no such thing, retorted that lady. If you choose to traips about in the cold, Eleanor, with this young messenger of the law, you must not expect me to follow you. I have no intention of catching my death in order to listen for a sound that will not come. As you please, said her sister-in-law, we shall bid you good night here then. Mr. Marsh. I took my great coat and we stepped out into the night. It was one of those dry, close frosts that sharpen every outline and carry sound over long distances. The snow had ceased. The sky was a depthless black, hung low with stars that looked like the heads of small nails driven into a lid. Our breath smoked on the air as we walked. The path ran from the back of the house through a small shrubbery, under a leafless arch of climbing roses, and across a meadow that now glimmered faintly like the skin of some sleeping creature. St. Michael stood upon a slight knoll, its gravestones emerging here and there from the snow like the teeth of a comb. A single lantern burned in the porch. At the Lichgate Mrs. Marlowe stopped. I shall not come further, she said. My presence can make no difference. The vicar is expecting you. He's a nervous man and will be glad of company. You will be careful on the tower steps. They should have been mended years ago. I could not persuade Jonathan. And you, ma'am? I asked. Will you be alone? She smiled faintly. I am never wholly alone on Christmas Eve, she said. But Mrs. Bragg will sit up with me in the parlour, and if anything occurs, if you should need help, I will come straight to the house, I said. You have my word. Then I wish you a fruitful vigil, Mr Marsh. Remember, whatever you hear or do not hear, you are dealing with a man's conscience, not with magic. Good night. The snow creaked under her boots as she turned away. For a moment her tall figure, wrapped in a dark cloak, moved like a shadow against the paler ground. Then she was gone among the trees, and I stood alone. The church door opened at my approach, and the Reverend Mr. Larkin, a small clergyman with spectacles and an anxious Adam's apple, emerged with the lantern. Mr Marsh? Yes, yes. Denim and Marsh, I think, Mrs. Marlowe said. Very good, very proper. He extended a hand that was quite cold. You find us in a state of low, low temperature but high expectation. Come in, pray, pray, pray, come in. The sexton is in the vestry. The interior of St. Michael's was very plain. Bare stone walls, dark pews, a chilly expanse of flagstone, and at the east end a simple altar with evergreen boughs arranged about across. The air smelt of damp stone and old sermons. Somewhere a mouse rustled. The lantern's glow barely reached the edges of the shadows. I do not say that I expect anything, said Mr. Larkin hurriedly, as we proceeded up the aisle. Indeed I should be a poor shepherd of souls if I allowed my flock to attribute such powers to mere metal and wood yet, yet yet it would be ungracious perhaps not to acknowledge, well, that strange things have occurred here before on this night, and in connection with those bells yes, well, strange, and not to be accounted for by draughts or rodents. The bells rang without any ringer, I said. They they rang, he replied, with such sweetness and precision as might have satisfied a professional campanologist, yet well yet there was no one in the tower, and the ropes hung motionless. They seemed, well, the sound seemed, to come from above, from the bells themselves, as if some invisible hand had set them going. The sexton and I have both heard it, so so too, I regret to say, has Mrs. Marlowe. And what of this evening? I asked. Have you any reason to suppose no, no, no, no, no, he interrupted quickly. None, none at all, and yet yet you will forgive me, Mr Marsh, but I have taken the liberty of locking the Bellsview door and placing the key in my own pocket.

Speaker: 27:53

It is a purely practical measure. You do understand? There are lads in the village who might in a spirit of mischief seek to play some some some trick tonight, knowing of your presence and of the late Mr Marlowe's peculiar provision.

Speaker 1: 28:05

You have done quite right, I said. The sexton, a leathery man whose age might be anywhere between fifty and a hundred, emerged from the vestry to inform us with expressionless relish that it was fifteen minutes to eleven. He had placed a chair for me near the front of the nave, from which I could see the tower arch where the bell ropes hung like a cluster of pale snakes in the gloom. Mr. Larkin proposed that we should remain together in the body of the church, and I readily agreed. So we waited. The silence within was so complete that after a time I began to distinguish the several notes in it. The faint hum of the lantern, the almost imperceptible settling and cracking of old timbers, the soft tick of the vicar's watch as he consulted it nervously every few minutes. Outside, the world was narrowed to an occasional far-off bark or the muffled report of a door closing somewhere in the village.

Speaker: 29:10

It is a curious thing, whispered Mr.

Speaker 1: 29:13

Larkin once.

Speaker: 29:14

How expectation can magnify the simplest sound. You will smile, Mr. Marsh, but I find myself apprehending a sermon from each creak of the pews.

Speaker 1: 29:26

I confess that I too began to start at trifles. Once, when a faint draught stirred the hair at the nape of my neck, I turned sharply, almost expecting to see someone standing behind me. Of course, there was no one. The church remained as empty and indifferent as a stone box. At length, the vicar's watch murmured that it was five minutes to eleven.

Speaker: 29:52

You are sure, I whispered, that the bells have never rung on any night but Christmas Eve. It never, he said. And and not every Christmas Eve at that. We must not um well we must not demand miracles on a schedule.

Speaker 1: 30:10

He coughed apologetically into his handkerchief, and then with a visible effort, composed himself. The sexton, who had remained stolidly in his corner by the vestry, shifted his weight, and the boards creaked underfoot like an old man's joints. The first stroke of eleven sounded thinly from the small clock on the west wall. One, two, three. The sound spread out through the church like ripples on a black pond, and died away. Whatever occurs, said Mr.

Speaker: 30:47

Larkin very low, we will bear in mind that we are in a place dedicated to God, and that nothing can happen here beyond his permission.

Speaker 1: 30:59

I think he spoke as much for his own comfort as for mine. The minutes crawled. It is astonishing how long sixty seconds can appear when one is listening for an event that may or may not occur. I found myself counting my own heartbeats in the intervals, as if they might fill the silence with some less oppressive measure. At one point a little shiver went through the air, a passing vibration, like the stir of a thread in an invisible web. I glanced at the bell ropes. They hung as still as ever. Ten minutes passed. A quarter past. Twenty past. My mind began to wander in spite of itself. I thought of Mrs. Hart dozing by the fire with a glass of port at her elbow. Of Mrs. Marlowe and the old housekeeper, sitting in the parlour, with the curtains drawn, listening. I thought of the man Thomas Finch in his workhouse bed in London, quite ignorant that his fortunes might even now be hanging upon the silence of country bells. It was, I think, at twenty five minutes to twelve that the first change occurred. It was not a sound at first, but a sensation, a tightening of the air, as when a storm is gathering. The hair on my arms prickled beneath my coat. Mr. Larkin drew in his breath with a faint hiss.

Speaker: 32:40

Do you feel that?

Speaker 1: 32:42

He whispered. I nodded. A moment later from above our heads, there came the softest of metallic tremors. A faint, questioning jingle, as if someone far away had touched a glass with a nail. The sexton straightened, his face suddenly alert. The vicar half rose from his chair. Stay where you are, I said more sharply than I intended. You said yourself, the door is locked. He sat, clutching the arms of his seat. The tremor came again a little stronger, resolving itself now into something that could be called a note, and then another, and then a third. They were hesitant at first, like the fumbling of a child's fingers upon keys. Good Lord preserve us, whispered the sexton. The sound swelled. The empty air above us began to vibrate with it. Slowly, as if some unseen hand were drawing back a veil between one world and another, the notes gathered into a phrase. I knew that phrase. I had sung it as a boy in a dozen parishes. There is a land of pure delight. It was played imperfectly, with little catches and falterings that were not the fault of any human ringer. The very metal seemed to struggle with itself as if remembering a tune long unattempted. Yet as the line unfolded, gaining confidence, it became unmistakable. There, under the stone vault of St. Michael's, with no hand upon the ropes and no mortal ringer in the tower, the bells of Marlowe were playing their dead child's favorite hymn. I do not know how long it lasted. It may have been a minute or five or ten. Time had ceased to move in the ordinary fashion. The sound filled not only the church, but my whole being, so that I felt myself to be no more than a hollow vessel through which these notes were passing on their way to some further destination. At length, as gently as it had begun, the music dwindled. The notes grew lighter, more remote as if the hand that guided them were withdrawing. The last phrase trembled on the air, and faded into a silence that seemed by contrast almost deafening. For a long moment none of us moved. Then the sexton, with the jerkiness of a man waking from a dream, lurched to his feet. Not I, he said hoarsely, as if answering some unspoken accusation. Not I keys in the vicar's pocket. I never touched them. No one has touched them, said Mr Larkin, looking down at his own hand where the keys lay cold and heavy. That much is certain, Mr Marsh. You heard it? I heard it, I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

Speaker: 36:46

Then, he said slowly, in so far as the law of England acknowledges what has just occurred, you must be the law's witness.

Speaker 1: 37:04

I rose, not without an effort. My legs tingled as if I'd been sitting for hours. I will discharge my duty, I said, but before I do so, I should like, if you have no objection, to see the bells themselves. The sexton made a small sound, half protest, half superstition. The steps is bad, he muttered. Slippery this weather. Twas there the boy fell. All the more reason that we should take care, I said. Bring the lantern, Mr. Larkin, if you please. He hesitated only a second, and then nodded with the courage of a man who has faced smaller fears in the pulpit, and will not be outdone by larger ones in his own church. Very well, he said, we will go together. The door to the tower stood at the foot of a narrow arch on the north side of the nave. The vicar drew from his pocket a large iron key, fumbled it once at the lock, then steadied his hand and turned it. The door creaked open upon a darkness that smelt of dust, old wood, and more recent tang of winter air. The steps were indeed treacherous, worn stone with a thin glaze of rhyme in the places where the frost had crept in. Mr. Larkin went first with the lantern. I followed, and the sexton brought up the rear, muttering something that may have been a prayer or an imprecation. The ascent seemed longer than the tower looked from without. At one point the stair curved round a narrow window, smudged with the breath of the night. I glimpsed through its crusted glass the faint outline of Marlowe House, a pattern of yellow squares in the dark. At last we reached the ringing chamber, a bare circular room lit only by the lantern and pierced by the dark openings of the bell hatches above. The ropes hung down in a cluster, their tawny strands pale in the lantern light, their sally grips worn smooth by generations of hands. They were quite motionless. There now, said the sexton stubbornly, I told you no mortal had had hold of them. I laid my hand upon one rope. It felt only like old hemp, cold and fibrous. There was no lingering vibration in it. Mr Larkin, holding the lantern higher, peered up into the gloom. Nothing, he said. Nothing at all unless he faltered. Unless what? I asked. And and unless you count that. He lifted the lantern yet higher, so that its light fell into the darkest angle of the room where the wall met the stair. There, in a little drifted corner of dust, I saw something that made my heart give an unreasonable leap. It was no more than a print, a mark in the dust. No larger than the impression of a child's bare foot. I bent down to examine it. It was not precise, as prints made in sand or mud might be, but there was no mistaking the shape. The rounded heel, the slight arch, the delicate spread of the toes. Beside it was another, as if a second step had been taken, and then nothing. There's no child goes up here, muttered the sexton. Not these ten years. Tisn' safe. No barefoot churter in church neither this weather. Rats, said Mr Larkin abruptly, his voice pitched a shade too high. Oh some trick of the dust, Mr Marsh.

Speaker: 41:21

We must not allow fancy to embellish what we've what we've already witnessed. The bells have rung.

Speaker 1: 41:29

That is fact enough for one night. You're right, I said. We will not give the newspapers more than they can digest. Shall we go down? We descended in silence. At the foot of the tower the vicar locked the door yet again and pocketed the key, as if he feared the bells might be tempted to some further liberty. It wants but five minutes of midnight, he said, consulting his watch once more. You have heard what you came to hear, Mr Marsh. Will you return now to the house? I will, I said, and thank you, Mr. Larkin, for your assistance. You have been a most scrupulous witness. He nodded gravely. I shall make a note in the parish register, he murmured, that on this night the bells rang of themselves. Not as a matter of doctrine, you understand, but as a matter of history. Good night, Mr. Marsh, and God be with you. And with you, I replied. The sexton let me out by the south door. The cold struck my face like a hand. The stars had wheeled a little lower, and a faint paling in the east suggested that dawn was already somewhere preparing its papers. In the direction of the house I could see one lighted window on the ground floor. I guessed it to be the parlor. As I crossed the meadow, the snow squeaked under my boots. The tune of the hymn still rang somewhere at the back of my mind, as if it had been etched not only upon my hearing but on the very substance of thought. There everlasting spring abides. Suddenly, I became aware that I was not alone in the field. A figure was walking a little way ahead of me towards the house. It was small, scarcely reaching my chest in height, and dressed all in white or so it appeared against the snow. The head was bare. Dark hair lay close against the neck. The figure walked lightly, leaving a trail of small footprints that pitted the surface of the snow like the pattern of a bird. Hello? I called, more to assure myself of my own courage than from any expectation of an answer. Who goes there? The figure did not turn. It continued to move towards the house with the same steady, unhurried pace. A strong, irrational impulse to overtake it seized me. I quickened my steps, then broke into a run, and the distance between us narrowed. The footprints were quite clear now, small, bare, and unmistakably human. Child, I cried, you will freeze in this cold. Who are you? I was within arm's reach. I put out my hand, and in that instance, without any transition that I can describe, the figure was no longer there. There was no flurry, no vanishing in a cloud of vapor. One moment I was stretching out my hand towards what I thought to be a solid form, the next my fingers closed on empty air. The snow before me lay smooth and unprinted, as if no foot had ever walked there. Behind me, when I turned, my own tracks stood out as the only disturbance on that white surface. I stood quite still, my breath coming fast. Then from the direction of the house there came the faint sound of a door opening. A voice called my name, Mr. Marsh, is that you? It was Mrs. Marlowe. She was standing on the step of the side door, wrapped in a shawl, an oil lamp in her hand, and its light made a small circle of humanity in the wintry dark. You've been gone a long time, she said. I feared forgive me, these nights are hard for an old woman's fancies. Did the bells? They rang, I said. She closed her eyes briefly, as if against some sharp inward sensation. I thought they might, she murmured. Mrs. Bragg said the air had a sound in it. She always did have the ears of a cat. Come in, Mr Marsh, you are white to the lips. You must have brandy. I followed her into the warmth. The parlour smelt of apples baked in sugar and spice. An old woman, whom I supposed to be Mrs. Bragg, rose from a nursing chair by the fire and bobbed a curtsy. You heard him, ma'am, she said to her mistress. Yes, Bragg, Mr Marsh will tell us presently. Go to your bed now, there is nothing more to be done tonight. The housekeeper cast one long, shrewd glance at me, as if measuring what I had seen, and then withdrew. Mrs Marlowe motioned me to an armchair and poured brandy into a glass with a hand that was not altogether steady. Now, she said, tell me. I told her as plainly as I could of the bells themselves, the untouched ropes, and even after a moment's hesitation of the faint marks in the dust of the ringing chamber. I did not for the present speak of the figure in the snow. I had not yet digested that sight for myself. When I had finished, she nodded. As before, she said simply, he is not constant, our Peter, but when he comes, he comes with sweetness. You believe, then, I said, that it is indeed your son's hand on the bells. Who else? she replied with a touch of impatience. No one in the village plays that tune as he did. Jonathan used to say that the bells were only silent metal until Peter set them singing. He said they were his boy's voice turned to bronze. It seems he was not altogether wrong. She looked at me steadily. You are a man of the world, Mr. Marsh. You will do what you must in the matter of the will. I will not seek to influence you. Only tell me this. When you heard the bells tonight, did you feel fear? I considered. I felt awe, I said slowly. And something like sorrow, but not fear precisely. Then you have understood something of my husband, she said. He feared not the sound but its absence. When the bells were silent those two years, he believed himself cut off. Tonight, perhaps he has had his sign at last. You will see to it that his wishes are carried out. Mrs. Marlowe, I said, it is my professional duty to report that the condition of the Codicil has been fulfilled. The bells have rung the specified hymn within the appointed hour without any visible agency. It will then fall to Mr Denham to pronounce upon the legal effect, for myself, if you will allow me to speak as a man, rather than a lawyer, I cannot but feel that something has been set right. She rose, and for the first time since I had met her, the severity of her face softened into something like gratitude. Then I shall not begrudge Finch his windfall, she said quietly. He was fond of the boy, I remember now. He used to lift him to look at the ledges when he was a little fellow. Jonathan thought him presumptuous. Perhaps he was. Perhaps we all were. Good night, Mr Marsh. Sleep if you can. The house will be quieter than usual, now the bells have had their say. And she left me to my thoughts. You may suppose that after such an evening, sleep would be a stranger to me. Yet when at last I lay down in the bed allotted to me, with the curtains drawn back a little, so that I might see the pale rectangle of the church tower against the sky, an immense fatigue settled on my limbs. The tune of the hymn hummed faintly somewhere at the back of my consciousness, but it was like a lullaby now, not a summons. I had not been long in that condition of half-sleep, where the mind floats between waking and dreams, when I became aware of a soft sound at the very end of the passage. It was like the tread of small bare feet on the boards. Very light, very steady. Tap, tap, tap. It came a little nearer, paused, and then moved away again. There was nothing menacing in it, only a sort of purposeful quietness, as of a child who has some important task and does not want to wish to disturb the grown-ups. For a while I lay listening, telling myself that it was nothing more than the old house contracting in the frost. The sound came twice more, at intervals, each time pausing outside my door as if in consideration, and then passing on. The third time, the curiosity that is the bane of mankind overcame any reluctance I might have had. So I rose, I put on my dressing gown and opened the door. The corridor was dimly lit by a lamp burning low at the far end. The carpet, worn in the centre, was patterned with a design of faded roses. There was, of course, no one in sight. Yet upon the carpet between my door and the next there was a faint track, a darker shade, where the pile had been pressed by small, bare soles. The air too had changed. It was not colder, as one might expect, but carried a faint scent that I remember suddenly from my own childhood. The soap my mother had used to wash us on Saturday nights, something plain and old fashioned, with a hint of lavender and lye. The track led along the passage towards the staircase. I hesitated only a moment and then followed. The house was very quiet. From below came the distant, regular tick of a long case clock in the hall. I descended the stairs, my hand upon the cold banister, and saw at the foot the small figure that I had glimpsed earlier in the field. He stood with one hand resting on the newle post, as a child might steady himself before venturing into a darkened room. He was dressed in some simple white garment, little more than a nightshirt, that fell to his knees. His legs and feet were bare, blue white against the darker stare. His hair was dark, untidy, falling over his forehead. He appeared to be about twelve years of age. He turned his head slightly as if he had heard me, but he did not look fully around. I had only a partial view of his face, the curve of one cheek, the line of his jaw. Yet in that instant, a conviction seized me, as strong as any I have felt in business or in church. This was the boy Peter Marlowe. Peter, I said, before I could stop myself. The name left my lips as naturally as if I had known him all his life. He didn't start, he didn't vanish as he had done in the field. Instead, with the utmost gravity of movement, he lifted one hand and placed a finger gently upon his lips, in the universal gesture for silence. Then he inclined his head towards the drawing room door, which stood a little ajar. A faint light shone from within. He took a single step towards it, then looked back at me, a question in that turned head. It was the most extraordinary thing. I had the distinct impression of a request, though no word was spoken. He was asking for my company or my courage or both. Very well, I whispered. I'm coming. He seemed to accept this, for he moved on, his bare feet making no sound upon the polished boards of the hall. I followed, my own souls whispering just audibly. And when I reached the drawing room door, he had already slipped through the gap. I pushed it open. The room was lit only by the glow of the fire in the grate. The curtains were drawn, the long shapes of furniture loomed in the half-light, the gleam of a piano lid, the pale rectangles of pictures on the walls, the humped outline of a sofa. And there, by the far wall, stood the tall, dark figure of a man. He was turned three-quarters away from me, his right shoulder towards the hearth. His head was slightly bent, as if he were reading something in his hand, or perhaps listening to someone speaking at his side. He wore a black coat, old-fashioned in cut, and his hair, where it showed above his collar, was iron grey. There was about him an air of intense concentration. Somehow, although I had never seen him in life, I knew this to be Jonathan Marlowe. For a moment the scene remained quite steady. Then, very slowly, he raised his head and turned it in my direction. His face was pale, the features strongly marked, the mouth firm. The eyes, when they met mine, were not the empty holes I had half feared, but fully present, dark and piercing. They rested on me with a kind of harrowed curiosity, as if I were the ghost, and he the inhabitant of solid earth. We regarded one another in silence. Sir, I said at last, because it seemed to me that we were both men and that courtesy was still owed, I am Edward Marsh of Deniman Marsh, your solicitors. I have witnessed the ringing of the bells according to your direction. A flicker passed over his face. It might have been relief, it might have been something like gratitude. He moved his right hand slightly, the one that had been holding something, and I saw now that it grasped a folded paper sealed with red wax. His left hand rested lightly upon the shoulder of the boy, who stood beside him, half in shadow. The boy in the white garment, the bare feet, the dark hair. Peter. The child looked up at his father, then at me, and there was in his gaze such clear, unclouded expectation that my throat tightened. You wish me to? I began. Jonathan Marlowe inclined his head once in a deliberate gesture. Then he extended the hand that held the paper, as if offering it. I took a step forward. The air between us felt oddly thick as if I were moving underwater. The firelight gave a small crackle. I reached out my own hand. My fingers closed upon the paper. It was real. It had weight and texture. I felt the sticky roughness of the wax under my thumb. The faint odor of tobacco and something more elusive, like the lingering echo of an old grief, rose from it. I looked up. The room was empty. The fire burned low. The curtains hung motionless. The shadows lay in their customary places. There was no tall figure by the wall, no child by his side. My own breathing sounded loud in my ears. In my hand, however, there remained the folded paper. For a long moment I stood quite still, scarcely daring to move, and then, with the curious practicality that the human mind adopts in the presence of the inexplicable, I went to the lamp, lit it, and examined what I held. It was a letter addressed in a firm hand, to be placed in the keeping of my solicitors, and opened only if the bells of St. Michael's shall ring of their own accord on Christmas Eve. J. Marlowe. I sat in the chair in my room, the letter upon the table before me, until the first graying of the sky announced that Christmas morning had come. Somewhere a cockerel crowed. Incongruously cheerful. The church bells, this time rung by mortal hands, began to peal for the early service. At eight o'clock, a maid knocked on my door with hot water. At nine, I presented myself in the breakfast room, where Mrs. Hart was already embarked upon a plate of ham and eggs. And Mrs. Marlowe sat with her hands folded upon the table, untouched toast at her elbow. You look pale, Mr. Marsh, said. Mrs. Hart, brusquely. You see, Eleanor, what comes of encouraging young men to gad about churches at unreasonable hours? I trust at least you have satisfied yourself that nothing untoward occurred. On the contrary, ma'am, I said. The bells rang, and I have further business which I must lay before you both at once. Mrs. Hart snorted. Rang, did they? I suspect our good vicar had a hand in that, whatever he may say. Well, well, well, I do not suppose it will affect the will in any case. Jonathan was particular, but not mad. Pass me the salt, Eleanor. The bells did ring, Gwendolyn, said Mrs. Marlowe quietly. I heard them also. Mr Marsh is not a man to be lightly accused of falsehood. What further business is this, sir? I placed the letter upon the table in front of them. You will see, I said, that the superscription is in Mr Marlowe's hand. It appears that he prepared, some time before his death, an instruction to be opened only in the event which has now occurred. As his solicitor's representative, I am bound to read it in your presence. Mrs. Hart's eyes narrowed. A posthumous theatricality, she said. Very well, read and let us be done. I broke the seal. The letter within was short. I reproduce it here from memory, but I believe the words to be exact. To my executors and to whom it may concern. If you are reading this, then the bells of St. Michael's have rung on Christmas Eve without mortal hand, as they did in the years following the death of my son. I take this as a sign that there is yet mercy for me, and that an injustice I did in life may be repaired in death. Some years since I dismissed from my employee one Thomas Finch on suspicion of theft. I did so in anger and without sufficient proof. Later I learned that the loss which I had laid to his account was the work of another clerk, who fled and was not taken. Pride prevented me from confessing this to Finch or restoring him to his post. When my boy died, I came to see that hardness of heart as part of the same sin which had cost me my child. I cannot bring back the dead, but I can make what amends lie in my power to the living. Therefore I have caused a codicil to my will to be drawn up, by which, if the sign of the bell shall be given once more at the Christmas following my death, the residue of my estate shall pass to the said Finch, in the hope that he may find his latter years more easy than his former, and that he may know I believed him innocent. If, on the other hand, the bell shall not ring, then I take it that my debt is not yet discharged, and the dispositions of my principal will shall stand. I commend my soul to God, my boy to his keeping, and my folly to your charity. Jonathan Marlowe. When I had finished, there was silence. Mrs. Hart's face had grown very red. She drummed her fingers upon the tablecloth. So, she said at last, so my brother chooses from the grave to indulge in an act of quicksottery at my expense and that of his widow. A workhouse fellow, no doubt a malingerer and a rogue is to be enriched, because Jonathan had a fit of conscience. Gwendolyn, said Mrs. Marlowe quietly, did you not hear what he wrote? He wronged the man. He admits it. People wrong one another every day, snapped Mrs. Hart. If we were all to beggar ourselves to write every harsh word, we should be back in skins and leaves. Mr Marsh, you cannot tell me that such a whim has the force of the law. I can tell you, ma'am, I said, that the codicil is properly drawn and witnessed. The condition upon which it depended has been fulfilled by testimony not only of myself, but of the vicar and the sexton. In the absence of any other legal impediment, the law will uphold Mr Marlowe's disposition. And what of us? she cried. You, I said, will receive the specific legacies allotted to you in the principal will. The estate, it is true, passes to Finch. I am aware that this is a disappointment. But I must remind you that an estate is not a right but a gift. Mr Marlowe chose to bestow that gift where he felt it would best repair his own past fault. She made a noise of disgust and pushed back her chair. You will do as you please, both of you, she said, snatching up her napkin. I have no mind to spend Christmas in a house where the dead are given more consideration than the living. I shall return to London by the noon train, Eleanor. I hope your ghosts keep you warm. Mr Marsh, you will hear from my own solicitor in due time. She swept from the room in a flurry of offended bombersine, and when she'd gone, Mrs. Marlowe let out a breath that she seemed to have been holding for some time. She is not a bad woman, she said, only one who has never been poor. I have been poor, and I know the sound of a thin purse in a cold grate. I will not begrudge Finch his share of Jonathan's repentance. Will you arrange it, Mr. Marsh? Will you see that he is told gently? I will, I said. She rose. Then there is one more thing, she said. You have been honest with me, sir, so be so again. Last night, between the church and the house, did you see anything more? I hesitated. I saw, I said slowly, a small figure walking ahead of me in the snow. And later in the night I saw that same figure in the house. I spoke with him. He did not answer, but he led me to the drawing room where I saw I broke off. Where you saw my husband, she finished, with a calm that startled me. Yes, I thought as much. The drawing room door was unlatched this morning, though I had closed it myself last night. And Mrs. Bragg found upon sweeping the carpet a little mark of bare toes by the fender. She said nothing. She has the discretion of those who have seen more than one world. I'm glad that Jonathan chose to show himself to you. It will make your account to your Mr. Denham more difficult, but your soul perhaps a little lighter. You believe, then, that he was permitted one more Christmas Eve under his own roof, she said simply. To see that his wish was carried out, to stand once more with our boy at his side in the house they both loved. Now after this I think the bells will be silent. Their work is done. She held out her hand. Thank you, Mr. Marsh, she said. You have brought justice into my house at Christmas. There are worse gifts. Go back to your world of legislation and laws, and remember sometimes that there is another court and another kind of reckoning. I kissed her hand as a sun might, and took my leave. The locating of Thomas Finch in Shoreditch, and the effect upon that poor man of learning that he was not, after all, considered a thief in the eyes of his old master, and that he might now end his days in comfort. He cried, I remember, and insisted on giving half his first quarterly income to the church at Marlowe Parva for the upkeep of the bells. Denham, to his credit, when faced with the facts, as attested by Vicar, Sexton, and Solicitor, suppressed whatever scepticism he may have felt, and discharged his duty with the same punctilious care as if the matter had been the most ordinary conveyance. Only once did he permit himself a private comment. Marsh, he said dryly, when all was done, I have always considered that Providence, if it exists, minds its own business and leaves chancery to mind hers. It appears on this occasion that the two have cooperated. See that it does not become a habit. As for me, I have never returned to Marlowe House. I hear that Mrs. Marlowe lived there quietly for some years, then removed to a smaller dwelling near her sister in town. The house itself has, I am told, passed into other hands. Perhaps the present owners do not even know, when they hear St. Michael's bells on a frosty evening, what work of mercy they once performed. I have only one relic of that night, the letter of Jonathan Marlowe, which Mrs. Marlowe pressed upon me when all was concluded. Keep it, she said. You were witness not only to the law, but to my husband's repentance. It may remind you when you are old, that even a hard man may find his way home at last. She was right. I am old now, my hair is thin, my hand shakes a little when I lift my glass. I have seen many Christmases come and go, and heard many bells ring out across city and countryside. But when, on Christmas Eve, the clocks of London begin their clamour, and the carols rise from the churches, it is not their music that I hear most clearly. It is the thin, pure, wavering tune of a child's hymn played upon far-off bells, the sound of a boy's love and a father's regret braided together and sent like a message across the snow between worlds. There is a land of pure delight. So when men like Graham at the paragon laugh and tell me that ghosts are for the credulous and the nursery, I smile and refill my glass. I will not argue with you, I say, perhaps you are right, and I am but an old fool with a weak heart. Yet if you should ever find yourself on a winter's night, listening for a sound that may or may not come, I wish you the comfort of knowing that sometimes, just sometimes, the dead ring bells not to frighten us, but to set a crooked thing straight. And that, gentlemen, is my Christmas ghost story. Leaving us with the faintest echo of that hymn and the thought that sometimes the dead knock only when they want to set something right. At Christmas, we like to pretend that the past stays tidily in its own drawer. But stories like this remind us that old debts, old loves, and old regrets have very long lives and very good ears. And if you've been listening in the small hours, well, I hope the only bells you hear tonight are friendly ones. But if, just as you are drifting off, a tune you half remember seems to ring out from nowhere, well, perhaps it's only your imagination. Perhaps. Thank you for keeping me company in the dark until our next Christmas ghost story. Sleep lightly and listen carefully.