One late afternoon in October Leithen and I climbed the hill above the stream and came in sight of the house. It had been a beautiful, misty morning, but now the mist had cleared. The warm sunshine of autumn shone on the fields, and on the trees the leaves were red and gold. We were looking down into a little valley like a green cup in the hills. It was a beautiful place. There was an old stone wall, and a little wood. Then there was smooth green grass, and a tiny lake. And at the heart of it all, like a jewel in a ring, stood the house. It was very small, but everything about it was quite perfect. It was old − perhaps seventeenth century − with large, light windows and pale stone walls. Leithen looked at me. `Isn't it fine?' he said to me. `It was built by the great Sir Christopher Wren. You know − the man who built St Paul's Cathedral in London. The house has a most unusual name too. It is called Fullcircle. Don't you think that name suits it rather well?' He told me the story of the house. `It was built about 1660 by Lord Cameron. He didn't like the bright lights of the city. He was a sensitive and well−educated man and wrote some fine books in English and Latin. He loved beautiful things, and he employed the best builders and gardeners in England to work on Fullcircle. The result was a wonderful success for Wren, for the garden planners and for Carteron himself − a triumph, in fact. When the house was finished, he hid himself away for months at a time, with only a few good friends and his beloved books and garden. Rather a selfish man, really. He didn't do much for his king or his country. But he certainly had style. He knew how to enjoy life. He knew how to live well. He did only one foolish thing in his whole life. He became a Catholic. That was a dangerous thing to do in those days. Catholics were not popular then. Fortunately nobody punished him for it.' `What happened to the house after Lord Carteron died?' I asked. `He had no children, so some cousins moved into the house. Then in the eighteenth century the Applebys bought Fullcircle. They were country gentlemen, and very fond of hunting and shooting. They didn't take very good care of the library. But they enjoyed life too, in their own way. Old John Appleby was a friend of mine. Something went wrong with his stomach when he was about seventy. The doctor decided to forbid him to drink whisky. Poor old John, he had never drunk really heavily, although he always enjoyed a drink. "Do you know, Leithen," he told me. "Since I stopped drinking whisky I've realized something. I've lived a long life − a useful one too, I hope. But in all that time I've never been completely sober." Anyway, he died last year. He was a good old man, and I still miss him. The house went to a distant cousin called Giffen.' He laughed. `Julian and Ursula Giffen . . . perhaps you've heard of them. People like the Giffens always go about in pairs. They write books about society and personal relationships − books called `The New Something', or `Towards Something Else', or `An Examination of Something Completely Different'. You know the sort of thing . . . Good, kind people, but extraordinarily silly. I first met them at a trial. The criminal was certainly guilty, but the police couldn't prove it. The Giffens were involved, of course. They felt sorry for the poor criminal . . . Well, I went two or three times to their house in north London. Dear God! What a place! No comfortable chairs, and the ugliest curtains I've ever seen. No style, you see. They didn't know how to live well.' `I'm surprised that you are so friendly with them,' I said. `They don't sound your kind of couple at all.' `Oh, I like human beings. Lawyers like me have to study people; it's part of our job. And really the Giffens have hearts of gold. They are sensitive and kind, and somehow very innocent. 'They know so little about life . . . I wonder how they will like living in Fullcircle.'
Ghost Stories
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Just then we heard the sound of bicycle wheels on the road. The rider saw Leithen and got off his bike. He was quite tall, perhaps forty years old. A big brown beard covered the lower half of his thin, pale, serious face. Thick glasses covered his short−sighted eyes. He wore short brown trousers and a rather ugly green shirt. `This is Julian Giffen,' said Leithen to me. `Julian, this is Harry Peck. He's staying with me. We stopped to look at your house. Could we possibly have a quick look inside? I want Peck to see the staircase.' `Of course,' said Mr Giffen. `I've just been into the village to post a letter. I hope you'll stay to tea. Some very interesting people are coming for the weekend.' He was gentle and polite, and clearly he loved talking. He led us through a gate and into a perfect little rose garden. Then we stood in front of the doorway, with Carpe Diem above the door. I hav