A faint smile appeared on Alfred Dunham’s face as he heard the outer door of the Sleepyside Art Museum close on Friday afternoon. The tap of Janet Gray’s high heels announced her imminent arrival, so he bent his head to his pretended task.

“The last visitor has left,” she told him, from the doorway to his office.

“Thank you, Janet,” he replied, glancing up at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He heard her quick steps cross to the room where she kept her handbag, then back to the entrance, where the guard let her out. His heavier steps entered the outer office and stopped in the doorway.

“All clear, Mr. Dunham, except you and me,” Charlie announced.

“Very good.” He pretended to look at his watch. “Oh! Is that the time? You can leave, if you like, and I’ll lock up.”

An uncertain expression appeared on the guard’s face. “Are you sure that’s wise? Considering the problem we had last year…”

Dunham began rearranging his papers. “Nonsense. I’ll only be a few minutes. I have a party to attend and this cake will certainly be missed if I don’t arrive. I just want a minute or two of quiet to make sure that these are correct. I’ll probably see you in the parking lot.”

“If you’re sure, Mr. Dunham…”

He nodded. “I’m sure. Just make sure the outer door is locked. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Charlie Burnside nodded, still looking uncertain, and left the building.

The moment the outer door closed, Dunham got to his feet. He slid the papers he had been pretending to examine into a folder. He picked up the cake box and walked through to the Oriental Room, placing the box on the floor next to one of the display cases. Drawing his keyring from his pocket, he found the small key to that case and opened it.

His smile widened as he reached out to touch the figurine inside the case. One finger gently caressed the smooth, green jade, before he lifted her out of the case. Kneeling on the floor, he opened the cake box and removed what looked remarkably like a large cake. It opened to reveal an identical figure to the one which now sat beside him on the floor. In moments, the original nestled inside the fake cake in its box and the copy took pride of place in the case. He locked it up again, picked up the cake box and sauntered off to the door.

Making sure to regain his serious, somewhat distracted expression before he stepped outside, he engaged the alarm system and locked the door. As he had expected, the guard was waiting for him.

“Good night,” he called, as he got into his car.

“I’m sorry I have to do this, Mr. Dunham, but I think you’d better show me what’s in the box,” Charlie answered. “For your own protection, you understand.”

“Of course. Be my guest.”

The guard opened the box and took a cursory look. “That all seems to be in order. Have a good time at the party.”

“I certainly will,” Dunham answered, placing the box beside him on the passenger seat. “Good night.”

Each of them got back into his own car and drove away.

Dunham nearly laughed aloud, but pushed the urge down. That had been so easy! The easiest one yet. Lien-Ting would fetch a pretty price and that fool, Lynch, would never know the difference. And this was not the only iron in his fire. Oh, no. Alfred had a number of other valuables in his sights.

“And the next,” he murmured to himself, “is going to be that Ming.”

He drove home and stowed the cake box in his safe, then got back in the car. A short drive later, he arrived at the place he had chosen to hide the vehicle. He walked the shadowy path through the woods that led to the old barn, relying only on the last rays of the sinking sun, and entered it. The horse, Midnight, shifted in the gloom and made a soft sound. Alfred set down a small, battery-powered lantern and switched it on.

“Are you ready for a ride?” he asked the gelding, as he crossed to the place he had stashed the saddle, tack and grooming implements. “We’ve got some work to do this evening.”

Soon, the horse was ready. He climbed into his headless horseman rig and swung into the saddle, taking care not to overbalance. Midnight stood stock still, just as he always did. Alfred smiled inwardly. It had to be admitted that his brother was a good horse trainer. And it didn’t hurt that he was willing to lend a horse, no questions asked, and could be trusted to hold his tongue.

They set off into the night, leaving the lantern on to light the way on their return.

The ride to Sleepyside Hollow passed in only a few minutes. Just as he suspected, the silly, old woman had returned. Lights shone in all the windows of the old house. He positioned himself in a patch of light and settled to wait.

But then, a noise caught his attention. Alfred stiffened. Was someone else here? Slowly and ever-so-carefully, he turned his body to face away from the house. He peered through the eye-holes, then bit back a curse. Two teenage girls on bicycles. Both of them staring at him in horror.

There was only one thing to do. Alfred turned the horse and headed for the darkest shadow he could find, hoping that he would be able to find the path again to get away. The rags on Midnight’s hooves muffled the sound of his steps, but would that be enough to fool two young sets of eyes? He didn’t know.

The sound of low conversation carried to him and he thought he heard the word ‘disappeared’. At the same moment, he found the path. A silent sigh of relief puffed between his lips. He urged Midnight into a trot – the fastest pace he dared to take on this narrow path, with two potential witnesses so close – and returned to the barn.

Swinging down from the saddle, he fastened the door behind them, stowed his costume, and made short work of grooming the horse. He fed the animal and checked his water. Then he stood for a few minutes, considering. Should he return the horse in the morning? Or try again tomorrow night?

He shook his head. There would be time to consider that later. Alfred stepped out into the night and walked back to his car.

About fifteen minutes later, he entered his own home. He made his way to the study. The heavy drapes at the sole window did not allow any light to escape, nor did they allow any view of the room. He locked the door behind himself and drew the bolt.

Next, he opened the liquor cabinet and considered the options. From the back corner, he drew out an expensive bottle of cherry brandy which he kept for special occasions and poured himself a small glass. He breathed in its aroma and carried the sparkling crystal glass over to his desk and its comfortable chair.

Opening the safe, he withdrew the cake box and set it on the desk next to his glass. From the small corner closet, he retrieved a plain box the same size as the fake cake. He set the figurine on the desk and transferred the custom-fitted packing from the cake to the plain box.

Alfred reached out his hand to pack the jade figure away, but stopped short. Instead, he picked up his glass and took a sip, contemplating her. He raised his glass to Lien-Ting.

“In less than two weeks’ time, you’ll make me a fortune,” he told her. “And I’ll drink this brandy again that night to celebrate.”

He thought of the Ming vase, and of the Gainsborough painting he had his eye on, as well as one or two other choice selections. If all went well tomorrow, he would be well on his way to acquiring the painting. And perhaps, if he could just scare away that old woman and have a proper look, the vase could be his by then as well.

“I may have more than one thing to celebrate,” he murmured with a soft smile.

On Halloween night, Alfred Dunham sat and contemplated the contents of his glass with a scowl. His plans had – to put it mildly – gone awry. First, he had seen the knowledge bloom on young Miss Lynch’s face that the Lien-Ting in the art museum was not the Lien-Ting who should be there. That had been a blow. But he had been prepared to snatch the Ming vase and cut his losses on the rest. Parkinson, after all, had stood firm and refused to lend the Gainsborough. The bigger problem had occurred while he tried to pick up the vase. His capture and subsequent legal entanglements had led directly to his current situation.

As well as the eye-watering sum he’d had to raise as bail, this last little snatch of freedom had come with a number of conditions. He was required to reside not in his own luxurious house, but here, in the dowdy and uncomfortable residence of his father’s straight-laced sister on the outskirts of a dying town. His passport had been surrendered. Most of his remaining assets were frozen. And now, at the exact time he should have been selling Lien-Ting, he was required to perform a different task.

Alfred took a small sip from the plain, cheap glass and almost spat the liquid back out again. It tasted rather like cough syrup. In the choice between cherry cordial and water, he should have chosen the water. No tea, no coffee, no soda, no alcohol. Those were his aunt’s rules.

“I should be drinking cherry brandy,” he muttered to himself. “Not this filthy stuff.”

The doorbell rang and he heaved himself to his feet. His aunt had retired to her room for the night and left him to deal with the neighbourhood imps. On the doorstep, he found a trio of trick-or-treaters. He handed each an apple from the basket by the door, which left all three looking singularly unimpressed.

“That’s all you’re getting,” he snapped at them, then closed the door.

As he returned to his hard, wooden chair, he heard the impact of one the apples against the front door, but he did nothing about it. His aunt did not believe in candy, either, and she should know by now the consequences of handing out apples.

Consequences. He frowned more deeply. What would be the consequences if he disappeared into the night? He would lose his bail money, of course. But it was as good as lost, anyway. Once the forensic accountants were finished with his financials, the prosecutors were going to have a field day. Practically none of his money had been honestly gained. And Alfred had no illusions about getting away with the things he had done. Once his day in court arrived, he would be penniless and imprisoned, with no chance of getting away, or starting again. At his age, he could probably expect to die in jail.

Getting away.

“There’s some merit in that thought,” he decided, aloud.

In his mind, he began to arrange the different elements he would need. Some transportation, first. His aunt did not have a car and his own had been impounded. His brother was too far away, but there was a field not too far from here where some horses lived. His costume had been taken as evidence, but he thought he could rig something up. He had a small amount of money, enough to get him as far as New York City. Once there, he could retrieve a few items he had squirrelled away in a safe deposit box under another name. He’d then convert them to a tidy sum of cash, which would provide him with plane tickets and a new bottle of cherry brandy. As for his passport… well, it was just as well that he had hidden his fake one away well enough.

A slow smile spread across Dunham’s face. Tonight, the Headless Horseman would ride again. Tomorrow, Alfred Dunham would be nothing but a memory and Edgar Dunkley would move to London. He foresaw an illustrious and profitable career for him.

Alfred got straight into action. He dumped the basket of apples outside the door and headed for the attic. There he found the elements of his make-shift costume: an old, black cloak, a loose-woven cane waste-paper basket and a few wooden coat-hangers. Returning to his room, he packed the few belongings he actually wanted to keep into his special backpack and slipped out into the night.

His first task, catching the horse, took longer than anticipated. The field was larger than he had remembered and only one of the horses, a chestnut mare, met his requirements. By the time he actually had custody of her, he had begun mentally classifying her as ‘recalcitrant’. Not trusting her to stand still, especially since he would have to ride bareback, he balanced his cape on the fence while he mounted. The horse pranced away, but he kept his seat and guided her back to retrieve his belongings.

“I grew up in the saddle,” he told the animal. “And I’ve ridden wilder horseflesh than you, in my time.”

With some little difficulty, he arranged the costume. The mare tossed her head and tried to go sideways, but Alfred kept his balance. Once satisfied that the cloak was secure, he urged the horse into a walk.

“At this rate, it might have been quicker to do the walking myself,” he mused, aloud.

But deep down, he knew that this was the right choice. Someone would be sure to challenge him if he went on foot – the whole town knew who he was and that he was not supposed to be out. But who would think to stop a headless horseman on Halloween night? And once he had passed through the town, he could dump the costume somewhere and see what this mare could do.

He passed his aunt’s house and continued towards the middle of town, past houses decked out with twinkling jack-o-lanterns, fake spider-webs and other cheap gimmicks. Clusters of costumed people stopped to stare as he passed. Children gasped to see him and adults wondered to each other just which of their neighbours hid under the cloak. Outside the house with the most tasteless decorations, he heard some muttering about the ownership of the horse and kept a steady pace, just in case someone got an idea.

Soon, the houses dwindled on the far side of town. The chattering, boisterous children did not bother to walk this far, leaving the street deserted. Even their rowdy voices faded into the background. Alfred began looking for a likely spot. He noticed an abandoned house and paused for a moment in front of it, pulling off the cloak and dropping it over the wall into the overgrown garden beyond. Satisfied, he set off once more, this time at a much faster rate.

Alfred held tight to the mare’s mane and gripped her with his knees as they cantered along the wide, grassy verge, heading for the next town and its railway station. The mare now seemed to be enjoying her night-time adventure. He could see the lights of the next town and was just wondering where he should get off and walk the rest of the way, when a black shape burst out of the shadows a short distance in front of him.

The mare reared and Alfred fell. His head spun, but he rolled out of the way of the flailing hoofs. The horse turned and fled in the opposite direction, shoes raising sparks as she ran on the hard surface of the road.

For a moment, Alfred just lay on the ground, taking stock. Something in the backpack had broken and a sharp object stabbed into the small of his back. Various parts of his body ached, but no bones seemed to be broken.

Then, it began to dawn on him that the thing which had frightened the horse was still there. He peered into the darkness. A tree overhung the road just ahead, making it hard to discern the shape.

“Who’s there?” he called.

No answer. Was it an animal of some kind? Or was he just imagining it?

Silently, the shape moved forward. He could make out the figure of a rider, now. A rider, it turned out, who had no head.

“Oh, I see,” Alfred murmured, from his place on the ground.

Then everything went black.

He awoke in a bed. After a moment’s reflection, still with his eyes closed, he came to the conclusion that it was most likely the hard, narrow bed in his aunt’s home for which she seemed to think he should be grateful.

Alfred frowned. Had he dreamed the ride through the town in his headless horseman costume? But, if it was only a dream, why did his body ache like it would if he’d fallen from a horse?

“You’re awake,” a voice next to him noted. A male voice.

He opened his eyes and almost swore aloud.

“It’s lucky I found you,” the man beside him commented. “You could have been in all kinds of trouble if anyone found out that you’d left the house.”

“The backpack. Where is it?” Alfred whispered.

“What backpack?” The man bent down. “You mean, this?”

Alfred stared at the bag the man held. The nearly-identical bag to his own. He slowly reached for it. His fingers found the secret compartment, just in the same place as his, and withdrew the passport he found there. But he felt sure, even before he opened it, that it was not the forged passport that he had hidden. A quick glance told him all he needed to know: this document held his photograph, but it would never let him cross an international border.

A nasty expression formed on the other man’s face. “It seems to me that you were thinking of leaving.”

“I hadn’t forgotten my debt to you,” Alfred answered. “But I haven’t got access to the funds here. I thought I would go and arrange matters so that I could pay you tomorrow, as arranged.”

“That’s what they all say.” The other man laughed, but still looked menacing. “I’ll see my own way out.”

Dunham watched him go with a feeling of deep foreboding. Naturally, his backpack would hold no secrets for the man who had made it… the man who made all of his substitute items.

From outside the room he heard the man say, “He’s awake now, Miss. I think he’ll be all right.”

“Thank you very much for your help, sir,” his aunt answered.

“It was nothing. I couldn’t leave him lying on the front lawn like that, now, could I?”

The voices faded away and Alfred turned to the backpack. His hands ran feverishly over its other secret hiding-places. The key to the safe-deposit box was there, but it looked and felt wrong; he was sure that was the wrong number on its tag. The cash pocket was empty. And, in the main compartment, everything of any value had disappeared.

His aunt’s footsteps approached and he stashed the bag under the covers, holding his arm in such a way that the bulge was not noticeable.

“Oh, so you’re awake, are you?” she grumbled. “It’s about time. What were you even doing out there, anyway?”

“I have no idea,” he replied.

“You’ve missed breakfast,” she continued. “I want you to stay out of the kitchen. I’m making a new batch of cherry cordial, since you like it so much.”

“But cherries aren’t in season,” he answered, faintly.

She shrugged and turned away. “It doesn’t matter. I get them out of a jar. It’s cheaper, that way.”

Alfred shuddered in revulsion.

The End

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