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GHOSTS 2/16/2013 6:16:36 AM
I recently received an email from my brother-in-law informing his wife was going to attend her 30+ year high school reunion. He asked if I knew of any cheap hotels in Toronto (the reunion was in Rochester, but he had business in Canada).
I replied that I did not; in my hay day I usually stayed at 5-star hotels on the company’s nickel, and the only time I recall paying for accommodations was at an EconoLodge in Virginia (it was a bug-and-rust infected disaster).
Normally, I took along a tuxedo or two, and my wife had a wardrobe of long evening gowns; we often “dressed” for dinner (I know, it is a bit pretentious, but that is how we are. Or were.)
Anyway, we always had suites on cruise ships such as the Queen Elizabeth II and the Oceanic, and we normally stayed at the Four Seasons, the Inn on the Park, Hotel Toronto, or the Royal York when in Canada. Once for an anniversary, I treated my wife to a day at Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door Spa, while I had a delightful time with Donald Sutherland at the Four Seasons in Yorkville (I had no idea he was such a tall bloke!)
Obviously, I was of little help to my brother-in-law. I did suggest that if he planned on driving north rather than flying, he and his wife stay at Niagara-on-the-Lake and enjoy the theater there. During the times we did not vacation abroad or in Bermuda, or with my in-laws in Latin America, we often stayed at either the Angel Inn or the Prince of Wales in Niagara-on-the-Lake — or planned a theater marathon in Stratford, Ontario.
All of this occurred prior to the arrival of our youngest daughter, Alexandra, who by the way celebrated her 28th birthday on February 20! We, of course, were in Birmingham for that occasion — along with celebration of our grandson, Hutson. Feb 26 marked his second B-Day!
But forgive me, I digress. In N-O-T-L that year, we were particularly fond of the Angel Inn. It was its first season, newly opened and under the diligent proprietorship of Mrs. Hermoine LaDue, a Canadian of stout and resolute purpose. Her son, Meurice LaDue, was the head chef in the pub’s kitchen, and her other son, Phillipe, waited table and did general maintenance. His wife, Margot, was in charge of housekeeping.
“This place is haunted, you know,” Mrs. LaDue told me, as we were checking in.
“I didn’t know that,” I confided, showing minimal interest.
“Oh, yes. During the War of 1812, this was a British POW facility. Many Americans were imprisoned and tortured here. In fact, a Yankee musician, Leftenant Andrew Thorpe, was kept in Cell Number 14 with his harp and sheet music. He often wanders about and plays at night — if the spirit moves him.”
I needed to know: “What room are we in?”
“Number 14, of course. You are Americans, are you not?”
I must admit, apprehensions aside, the accommodations were superb, and the canopied bed a treasure — even the old harp was still there, string less, but displayed in an alcove by the window, atop an ancient Army footlocker.
That night, at about three-thirty, I heard someone da-da-ling-linging on the harp. I sat upright in bed.
“Did you hear that?” I asked my petrified wife.
“Yes!” Her eyes, even in the dark, were like banjos. “Do think it’s Thorpe?”
“Who else?” I rolled over and went back to sleep.
The next day, in the Angel Inn’s pub, we had the most delicious shepard’s pie ever concocted, and that afternoon we guffawed over The Importance of Being Ernest at the Court House Theatre.
That evening Mrs. LaDue regaled us further with chilling ghost stories about sundry former prisoner who still wandered the corridors of the inn. Needless to point out, my young bride barely slept that night — especially when the stringless harp began to ding-aling before dawn.
A few days later we checked out, but Mrs. LaDue said there was no bill — not even for the shepard’s pie and countless Drambuies I had consumed.
“I don’t understand!” I protested, mildly.
“I cannot give you a bill,” she explained. “You’re the first people to ever stay the night in Room 14 — not to mention a full stay. Thanks to you my daughter-in-law Margot had a premonition as she cleaned the room.
“She found a secret passageway in the alcove, and while examining it, she accidentally opened the footlocker under that old harp. In it were 12 twenty-seven pound gold bars. Finders keepers. Let’s call it even.”
