Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance Page 2

  He stopped. Turned.

  Odd.

  Maybe I didn’t shut the window properly, he thought.

  He went back to the door.

  “Sorry Freddy, just got to check something, if it’s all right with you.”

  Basil opened the door, reached around to the switch and, turned the light on again.

  He walked across the room, opened the shutters, and checked the window.

  It was closed.

  Whatever the noise had been — it certainly couldn’t have been a draught from the window.

  Maybe I imagined it? he thought. His hearing had become a tad wobbly these days. Someone downstairs perhaps, in a bedroom below?

  He drew the shutters across and headed back to the door.

  That must be it. The noise had come from downstairs.

  He put his hand up to the light switch again, flicked the light off, and turned to go out.

  Then he remembered.

  And with that thought came another jolt to his heart, and a dizzying sense that he was losing control …

  I took the bulb out.

  Didn’t I …?

  He turned and looked at the chest of drawers, clearly visible now in the shaft of light from the doorway.

  The bulb wasn’t there.

  His heart began to race as he moved his eyes from the chest …

  … to the ceiling …

  The bulb was back in the light socket — hanging from the ceiling on a bare wire.

  A wire that was gently swinging …

  The movement barely visible.

  But swinging nevertheless.

  Basil Whistlethwaite swallowed, backed slowly to the doorway and then went out and shut the door behind him.

  He looked down the landing to the staircase and then back to the door.

  Memory must be going, he thought. Must have imagined taking that bulb out.

  Bit of the old dementia creeping in. That’s what it is.

  But before he went down the stairs, he turned, and spoke.

  Just in case.

  “Sorry, Freddy,” he said, softly. “If I disturbed you. But I’ve got to earn a crust. And I, I don’t know any other way.”

  Then he went down to finish his preparations for The Bell’s annual Victorian Halloween Dinner.

  3. A Bump in the Night

  Joan Buckland poured herself another glass of the rather nice Rioja, and tapped her sister brusquely on the arm.

  “Well, I’m definitely not driving,” she said. “Not after this one. How about you?”

  She watched Jen as she reached out to her own glass and drained it in one go.

  “You know, this Spanish stuff isn’t half bad,” said Jen, reaching for the bottle and topping her own glass up. “Dry, not fruity at all!”

  “Even better when you know it’s free.”

  “Not quite free.”

  “Thrown in, then.”

  “Poured in, more like!”

  Joan laughed and her twin sister joined in. Though they worked all day together in the family business — the Cherringham Bridge Toll — Joan loved that they still socialised together.

  Nobody else in this darned village is quite as funny as us, thought Joan. Or as clever.

  “Taxi it is then,” she said. “Hang the expense!”

  “And a lie in tomorrow,” said Jen.

  “Tea and toast — in bed!”

  “Sunday papers!”

  “Bliss!”

  Joan held up her glass and clinked it with Jen’s.

  “Bottoms up!” they said together and laughed again.

  Joan gazed around the room.

  How splendid it all looked.

  The table sparkled in the warm candlelight. The fire roared. The conversation was loud and good-natured. The flickering candles in the chandelier above their heads looked dazzling.

  Every guest had dressed for the part: the gentlemen in white tie and tails, the ladies in full evening gowns.

  And she and Jen were no exception, in matching velvet numbers with some jolly fine costume jewellery that they’d pulled out of the old dressing-up box.

  Feather whatjamacallits in their hair too!

  Matching full-length gloves!

  Proper Victorian ladies!

  So far, without a doubt, the Ghostly Halloween Dinner had completely surpassed her expectations.

  Coming here had been against her better judgement. When Jen had first shown her the advert for the Halloween Dinner in the Cherringham Gazette she’d had visions of those perfectly awful television programmes with over-excited young men wandering around basements pointing infra-red cameras everywhere and pretending to be in touch with ‘the departed’.

  So much balderdash and hokum!

  But this had been altogether a much more genteel occasion. The Ghost Hunter himself — Whistlethwaite — was clearly an old ham, of course.

  Still, he brought just the right amount of irony to the whole thing, so you knew that he knew that you knew it was all smoke and mirrors.

  Rather more than smoke and mirrors, in fact.

  Joan and Jen had spent the first half of the evening quietly dissecting his technique and speculating on the exact nature of the old showman’s devices and trickery.

  Most were pretty obvious to their practised and suspicious eyes.

  She and her sister were devotees of the crime novel — and between them they knew every trick in the book. Mechanical, digital, psychological …

  And they had to agree: Whistlethwaite was good — very good.

  And quite the story-teller.

  Over the smoked salmon, he’d told them the grisly tale of poor Freddy Rose, found murdered one windy Halloween night a hundred years past, a knife between his ribs and an indecipherable message daubed in blood on the bare floorboards.

  Delicious!

  The whole table had fallen silent, transported back to that terrible Victorian evening as if the years had just dissolved away.

  Whistlethwaite had walked the room, gliding behind them, now crouching and leaning in to whisper in an ear, now slamming his hand down on the table, setting the scene, poor Freddy Rose, the clock chiming –

  “Yes, ladies and gentleman, this very clock which you see on the mantelpiece …”

  And then, as he reached the climax of his tale — a window had suddenly blown open, extinguishing most of the candles, and a ghostly moan had been heard from the sudden darkness.

  What perfect timing!

  The sisters had smiled as all the other ladies shrieked. Soon enough the candles were relit and the sounds of so much babble and laughter had returned.

  Then, before the main course was served, they’d all been led giggling down into the basement, where a ghostly apparition had been seen by some, darting away from the light.

  Cue more screams and histrionics.

  Very clever!

  When the puddings emerged, and Whistlethwaite had told of the failed investigation — and the famous sightings of Freddy over the years, a lone invisible violin had played, seeming, mysteriously to actually move around the dining room.

  That … was classic.

  A chill had passed across and under the table, giving Joan and her sister goosebumps.

  More squeals and laughter.

  Wonderful!

  Then they had trooped in single file up into the old attic rooms, the servant’s quarters, to see the murder scene itself.

  One old boy had nearly had a heart attack when they’d opened the creaking door to Freddy’s room — he’d mistaken his own form in a mirror for the ghost itself!

  Whistlethwaite had apologised to Freddy for disturbing him and some of the guests swore they had heard Freddy answer.

  Then, as they’d all walked out of the bedroom and into the corridor they’d heard an almighty smash from within the room.

  Whistlethwaite had gone back and opened up the door — to reveal the Victorian pitcher smashed to smithereens on the floor.

  “How did he do tha
t?” Joan mouthed to Jen, but her sister only shrugged. And for the first time in the evening mouthed back “I don’t know.”

  Ham he might be, but at that moment Joan almost believed the old magician — for that had surely been his profession once upon a time — was genuinely scared.

  He’d started to clear up the mess, then changed his mind and shooed them away from the door, shutting it tight behind him.

  Back in the private dining room, as they all tucked into cheese, grapes, port, brandy and coffee, their host seemed to have regained his colour. Joan watched as he moved confidently around the table, chatting, laughing, playing the amiable host.

  Chap must be on a cut of the bar bill, she thought. Got to be.

  “Here comes the port Joan, old girl,” said Jen, and Joan turned to her sister to take the bottle.

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Can’t think of a reason why not, can you?” said Jen.

  And Joan couldn’t.

  She poured herself another glass and passed the port to her left.

  *

  Basil Whistlethwaite lowered his arm below the table and discretely checked the time on his watch.

  Five minutes to midnight.

  Perfect.

  He looked around the table and felt a glow of pleasure. His guests were still chattering away, and the scores of empty glasses in front of them were testimony to the success of the evening.

  And a promise of rather a nice bonus too, he thought.

  Every single one of his ‘devices’ had behaved themselves: his little group had shrieked and laughed in all the right places.

  Only one hiccup — that damned bowl that had smashed up in the bedroom.

  How on earth …?

  Perhaps one of the guests had moved it without him knowing and the draught from closing the door had just been enough to tip it off the chest of drawers?

  Hmm, not very likely.

  But there was no other explanation — was there?

  He’d have a quiet word with Lawrence over that whisky he was looking forward to. The pitcher probably cost a few bob. Might have to be an insurance claim. Unless Lawrence would let him off …

  Maybe not mention that to Crispin. No need for him to know. Anyway. He checked his watch again. Two minutes to twelve.

  Time for the ritual.

  The final ‘special effect’ would have them gasping in fright — and then laughing all the way to their cars and taxis. Or bedrooms if they were brave enough to have booked a room for the night in the ‘haunted hotel’.

  He stood up and tapped on a glass with his knife to get everyone to quiet down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! My good friends! My dear … partners in the spirit world!”

  The conversation dipped, then there was laughter — all were quite tipsy. And finally attentive silence.

  He looked around the room.

  He had everyone’s attention.

  Time to deliver the coup de théâtre …

  “As you know, dear ladies and gentlemen, we would not be here if it were not for poor Freddy Rose, departed all those years ago on a dark Halloween night not unlike this. The victim of a monstrous assassin who never paid the price for his heinous crime …”

  Basil waited and sure enough there was the expected pantomime hiss from around the table.

  “Yes, well might you voice your disapproval. For murder is a dark and devilish thing. And a murderer unpunished is an affront to all those souls who walk the midnight hour, demanding justice.”

  On cue, the sound of wind howling outside the window.

  What timing! thought Basil and he could see a wave of fear ripple across the table, some of the diners actually shivering!

  “The midnight hour indeed,” he continued. “For it was on the stroke of midnight, on that dreadful night all those years ago, that Freddy’s scream was heard to rend the air of this peaceful hostelry. Midnight it was that Freddy’s soul departed — but not to heaven, nor to that … other place …”

  He heard a little ripple of laughter — just what he wanted …

  “No. Freddy’s soul was left in anguish. In limbo. Left wandering the rooms, forlorn, lost, a ghostly presence, waiting, waiting — nay demanding — that his murderer be unmasked so that he might pay for his crime!”

  Some gentle boos from the audience.

  And then the clock started its musical chime.

  “Midnight! The hour is nearly upon us!! Pray charge your glasses for our final toast!”

  He watched as they raced to fill the wine glasses, and quickly checked his watch again — the second hand clicking down to midnight with each chime of the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Ten seconds left.

  He could see they were ready.

  This thing has to be spot on to the second; you can’t argue with these damned digital timers …

  The climax to the whole evening!

  The toast to Freddy — and every candle in the place would be simultaneously blown out in an instant, leaving the most terrifying, total darkness.

  He ran down the seconds in his head.

  Five, four, three …

  “To Freddy!” he said, raising his glass high above his head, high towards the great chandelier.

  “To Freddy” called the guests, raising high their glasses too.

  Basil watched them tip back the wine.

  But as he did …

  Instead of the candles all blowing out — as they were supposed to — there came a dreadful tearing, creaking, groaning sound, right above their heads, a horrible sound, Basil thought …

  Like the jaws of hell themselves opening up …

  … and Basil watched as the chandelier — its hundreds of heavy, glass drops shimmering and sparkling in the light — fell from the ceiling and exploded on the table, shooting glass shards in all directions and scattering the horrified guests to the four corners of the room.

  4. Express Checkout

  “Did Joan Buckland tell you what this was all about?”

  Jack smiled at Sarah and shook his head.

  “I'm afraid not. Just said it was ‘a mysterious, dangerous bit of business’. And that the owner of The Bell could use our services.”

  “Really? That’s all?” she said.

  Sarah liked the Bucklands — but they were certainly the epitome of village odd birds.

  One thing not so odd about them: they liked and respected Jack so much.

  “That’s it. She said something about a job for detectives and seeing things with fresh eyes.”

  “So, while the two of them might have their own theories on whatever happened, they would not, um, colour your perception?”

  Jack laughed. “Kinda like that. Must have been something they picked up from one of their favorite mystery series. I — for one — would have liked a heads- up.”

  They had told the receptionist at the desk of The Bell Hotel that they were here to meet Lawrence Myrtle, at his request.

  She invited them to take a seat near the fire. The chairs may be old, Sarah thought, but quite comfy. And with the fire crackling nearby on a chilly autumn afternoon, a good place for a read …

  Or — more likely with The Bell's clientele — a snooze.

  “Doesn't bother me much,” Jack said. “We’ll know soon enough and—”

  At that moment Sarah saw Myrtle, rather spry considering his age, bustle into the lobby area, speak to the receptionist, and then turn quickly to Jack and Sarah.

  “Mr. Brennan, Ms. Edwards, I can't thank you enough!”

  “Jack and Sarah,” Jack said standing up, extending a hand. Sarah followed suit.

  “Lawrence, please! The Bucklands had nothing but high praise for the two of you. For your abilities to ‘solve the unsolvable’ is how they put it.”

  Jack shot a look at Sarah.

  “They really say that? Well, every mystery has a solution,” Jack said. “Just need to gather all the pieces.”

  That word — Sarah could see — ha
d Lawrence looking away.

  Zoning out?

  Then he turned back to them. “Pieces, hmm. I assume the Bucklands told you what happened?”

  “Not at all,” Jack said.

  Lawrence’s eyes went wide with surprise.

  He then gestured to the chairs they had been sitting in while he went to a claw-footed sofa that faced them.

  “Well. Let me explain, shall I? It was last night. During our yearly “Victorian Halloween Dinner …”

  And Sarah listened as Lawrence Myrtle described the evening — all harmless scares and fun.

  Until the very end, when something that could have been lethal occurred.

  She noticed that Lawrence’s hands shook as he spoke.

  The owner is definitely rattled.

  And when he finished …

  “So. There we have it. What do you make of it?”

  Jack took a breath.

  Ghosts, voices, plenty of vino and all of it ending in a calamity. What would one make of it?

  And her first thought: there’s no “mystery” here.

  But she’d let Jack be the judge of that.

  *

  Surprisingly, Jack — hearing the description of all that went on the night before — nodded throughout but said nothing.

  Processing, she thought.

  To fill that gap, she started with questions.

  “Has Basil Whistlethwaite, the man running the event, left the hotel?”

  “Oh no. He was so shaken. He had a few bits of broken glass hit him in the face. Nothing major. But I insisted he rest here for a few days — on the house.”

  “Good idea,” Jack said.

  Right, Sarah thought. It will be much easier asking him questions if he’s here.

  “And the guests, the people who attended last night … like the Bucklands?”

  “None too happy, I can tell you. Scared the wits out of them. No major injuries. A little nick here or there, that's it.”

  “No mention … ” she looked at Jack, not sure if this was a good question or the right time to ask it, “of any legal action?”

  Lawrence took in a giant breath, then shook his head. “God, I hope not. Not yet. That's one good thing Crispin did—”

  “Crispin?”

  “Oh, my son; helps me run things here. He insisted that for this event there should be an ‘indemnification clause’ — that’s what he calls it. Means that if something bad happens …”