There is nowhere on Earth quite like Lumbridge, north of York. Since the 1700s, it has been a hotspot for folklore and occult legends. Despite its colourful history, Lumbridge remains a seemingly quiet English country town. Over the summer I studied abroad at the University of York, I found it hard to believe that such a place existed which could hold so much mystery in modern times. 

Take the local legend of Lord Leopold Kingsley, known as the Gentleman Detective. The man was an oddity wrapped in perplexity amongst a town rampant with ghosts, ghouls and extra-terrestrial robots. Lord Kingsley supposedly hailed from the year 1895, when a freak accident with a time machine brought him to modern times. My journalistic instincts told me that, while he was probably full of it, I would be hard-pressed to find someone more unique to study.

Lord Kingsley lived at Lake House, an old Georgian mansion which was a half-hour walk from Lumbridge, and an hour’s drive from the nearest lake. Lumbridge’s only public transport was an inconsistent shuttle-bus on York’s route. As an inner-city Melbournite who couldn’t drive, I was stuck using a second-hand bike to get around. As my only means of reaching Lake House, I buckled my helmet and set forth. 

Upon entering the grounds of Lake House, I was overcome by its splendour. It was a three-story manor with a magnificent front garden filled with vibrant flowers and delicate birdlife. After locking my bike on a garden gate, this pleasant atmosphere shattered. There was a roaring bark, and I was knocked down by a barrage of paws as suddenly a greyhound pounced on me. Through shut eyes, I felt the slimy contours of the beast’s tongue slapping about my face. 

“Down, Stella,” spoke a refined English voice from around the corner. Stella—apparently the name of this beast—settled down, licking me a few more times for good measure before backing off. Sufficiently slobbered, I found myself looking up into the eyes of a handsome middle-aged man with a twirly moustache, top-hat and tweed suit.

“My apologies, she’s an adopted mutt who hasn’t come to civilised sensibilities,” he said to me. “Yet, who could blame her? They are so tedious.”

The man offered his hand to help me up. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Hannah.” I said, brushing myself off. “Hannah Nguyen.” 

“Greetings, Ms. Nguyen. I am Lord Leopold Kingsley. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

I hadn’t exactly thought about how I was going to explain myself entering his property uninvited. I began the regular pleasantries one gets used to when travelling abroad, and told him I was on exchange in York from Melbourne, Australia. 

“How dreadful! What crime did you commit?” he asked, prompting an explanation of modern Australia—which you only realise the importance of learning when speaking to a man who says he’s from 1895. 

Partway through my story, Lord Kingsley interrupted. “Fascinating as you are, the ride here was doubtless an exhausting one. You simply must sit for a moment. Come inside, my butler will prepare us tea.”

I proceeded with Lord Kingsley into Lake House, which was gorgeous. Olive-green walls were lined with baroque still life paintings and candelabras illuminated the red velvet carpet. We reached the drawing room where the butler, Otto, prepared us camomile tea in charmingly ornate china cups. 

“This world has changed in many ways, but I am glad that tea retains its importance today,” said Lord Kingsley. “It appears to be one of the few things of my era that is not deeply shameful upon reflection.” 

While he spoke like a man of a bygone era, he hardly exhibited the associated mentality. He appeared to have a full grasp of multiculturalism, and took well to modern ideas. If you ignored his fantastic time travel story, he would have seemed like a perfectly reasonable—if eccentric—Brit. 

Despite my intention to investigate Kingsley, I spent most of the time telling him about life growing up in Australia. He had a way of conversation that made you trust his gentility. After around two hours, I remembered my purpose. I managed to change the subject and finally ask about his time travel story and appearance in Lumbridge. 

“Yes, I understand the incredulity one might hold against my claims,” he said softly. “I, too, would treat it as suspect were I not intimately involved in the affair. Should you wish to learn about Lumbridge, I would not look to your current understanding of reality as a frame of reference. Lumbridge is a town of bizarre oddities. Possibility here is impossibility out there.” 

There was then a knock at the door. After a sing-song-y grunt from Kingsley, the butler entered. “Lord Kingsley, there is an urgent call for you. It’s the police. They say there’s this ghost of a little girl in the town square. Blue, translucent, about yea high,”—which did not accompany any visual indicator whatsoever—“and causing general distress for locals.”

“Nonsense,” Leopold stated outright. “That’s impossible.” 

I scoffed, “I thought you said Lumbridge was a town of bizarre oddities and impossibilities? Are ghosts not included?” 

“They are,” he replied, “but ghosts are not blue, and certainly not translucent.” 

Leopold stood up from his couch, grabbing a mahogany cane and stamping it on the floor. “Come, now. You wish to learn more? Let us solve a Lumbridge mystery.” 

And so I was off to assist the Gentleman Detective on one of his notorious cases. 

*** 

The sun was setting when we reached the town square. Lord Kingsley had insisted on walking from Lake House. My feet ached in my Docs, yet I could not turn down his infectious enthusiasm. 

The town square was a peculiar area, housing the Lumbridge bank, museum and courthouse around an elaborate garden block. We found the point of the ghost sighting, a zebra crossing between the garden and the bank, with no signs of suspicious activity. I noted a CCTV camera facing the path which could provide us with some clues. 

“It’s a false camera,” Kingsley said, “mere set dressing to create an illusion of security. The machine is non-operational.” 

A church bell rang six. Lord Kingsley noticed the local bank teller was closing up for the night and leapt forth, gingerly approaching the teller with a tap of his cane to the ground. “Excuse me, good sir! No, be not afraid. It is I, Lord Kingsley. Do you know anything about a blue spectre appearing around these parts?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Lord Kingsley,” replied the stout bank teller. “Cleaner’s reported it several times past few nights she’s worked. Says the ghost appears around there.” The bank teller pointed towards the zebra crossing, where I noticed a manhole at its centre. 

“She says the ghost is perpetually crossing the road. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, Mr. Lord Kingsley, but a little girl once died on this street. Got hit crossing the road. That ghost is her spirit, still trying to cross the road to this day!”

“Thank you, sir. You may go on with your evening,” replied Lord Kingsley. The bank teller nodded, locking the door behind him before hustling away. 

“Come,” Lord Kingsley said. “The sun is descending. I am sure we will meet this spectre before long.”

We sat at a nearby park bench for a while. Kingsley had no qualms about silence for several hours. I did. I caught up on my online lectures at two-times speed.

After nearly five weeks worth of lectures, it happened. Smoke filled the air, and eventually I could make out the blurry image of a translucent, blue little girl standing over the zebra crossing. I leapt up in shock. The little girl reached her hand out towards me as if begging for mercy. I pitied her, who died so tragically, and trembled in her presence. What do you do when facing the ghost of a dead child?

For the Gentleman Detective, it was easy. He stood and casually approached the ghost, twirling his cane in the air. There was a slight flicker as the ghost disappeared for but an instant. 

“Run awayyyyy…” Cried a disembodied voice from the smoke surrounding her.

“Hello, ghost. Might I say, you are ingenious! Quite pungent, too. Ms. Nguyen, whatever is that smell?” Lord Kingsley asked.

I’d hardly had the chance to think about what it smelled like in my fear, but something in Kingsley’s confidence intrigued me. So, I started to sniff. It smelt almost exactly like… “Weed. It’s… weed?”

“By ‘weed’, I presume you insinuate Marijuana as opposed to the quality of hedgings—pitiful as they are. Regardless, the olfactory presence is intriguing,” the Detective said, raising his hand in front of the ghost. She began to disappear in the shadow of his hand, then disappeared completely! Only the smoke lingered. I looked towards Lord Kingsley, wondering how he bested such a creature. 

“You won’t be getting away that easily,” stated Lord Kingsley, louder as if to address multiple people. He then used his cane to lift the manhole cover and place it to the side. “Come up here,” He called down the hole. “I mean no harm.”

It was then that three red-eyed teenagers began to climb out of the manhole. They wore old hoodies and ragged jeans, and one of them on the right—blue-haired—had that look of not knowing what planet they’re even on in the first place. Another of the three fidgeted with her necklace and was visibly distressed as her eyes darted anxiously between Kingsley and I. 

“Now, where can I find the origin of the projection?” he asked.

The boy in the middle, the most cognisant of the trio, pointed towards the dummy security camera. A small red light emitted from it. 

“I see. Well, your work was superb. However, the installation of that projector on public property does constitute vandalism. I ask that you take it down posthaste. Furthermore, should you really need a place to smoke, my Lake House estate will serve you much better without drawing the ire of the general public. You will be much better accommodated there, and need not resort to such trickery. Before you go, do consider backstage theatre. You’d have a bright future ahead there.”

The teens nodded before running off. I saw the girl with the necklace breath a sigh of relief before guiding the blue haired one away from the manhole. I stood there, dumbstruck. Lord Kingsley turned back to face me. “Is something the matter?”

“I don’t get it.” I said, stumped, “What happened? What about the ghost?”

“It was a matter of illusion. You learn in a field like mine that ghosts are real, but possess unique traits and characteristics that are not in line with our spectre. I sensed trickery! The effect is simple, you see. It’s called ‘Pepper’s Ghost’, and it is one I remember well from my time with the Royal Ballet Company. It is a matter of shining light from a reflected image onto a mostly translucent surface, giving the appearance of translucence. Back then, it was glass on set that reflected well-lit actors below stage to appear as spectres haunting Ebeneezer Scrooge. In our case it was a projection displayed on the gas escaping the manhole to depict the little girl.”

“But why fake this ghost?” I asked, “It would draw so much unnecessary attention.”

“Beneath Lumbridge,” he answered, “are vast intricate underground tunnels designed by the town’s founders in the event of French invasion. A series of closing doors were installed to obfuscate chase. These young boys were using a section located directly under this crossing as a means of getting high by filling the air of the room with marijuana smoke.”

“They hotboxed an underground tunnel?” 

“Quite right,” he replied. I was surprised he knew about hotboxing. 

“Regardless,” he continued, “at some point the smoke in these tunnels must be vented to prevent suffocation, hence the manhole above. But what of the disposed smoke? Seeing an unknown gas in the middle of Lumbridge would cause great concern to locals and prompt immediate investigation, while a ghost sighting is par for the course — only the concern of an esoteric investigator like myself. You see, Ms. Nguyen, the people of Lumbridge are taught to avoid ghosts lest they be roped into riddles or a strange quest of vengeance. It appears these teens took advantage of that cultural instinct while they could, and implemented the unused security installation to project an apparition that would scare off intrusion. Their flaw was their misunderstanding of ghost fundamentals, for it gave away an otherwise ingenious operation.”

***

From then on, the blue ghost never returned. The teens made use of Lake House’s rich gardens for their seshes without disruption or general concern. The case was solved in such a manner which only makes sense to one familiar with the bizarre happenings of Lumbridge, north of York. It’s a town of perplexity, where ghosts and ghouls are commonplace and citizens understand them as fact. I was fascinated and concerned by what I saw, and knew I had to know more. This was my first foray into the strange world of Lumbridge and the Gentleman Detective, yet it was far from my last.