Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance (2 page)

A fire was already lit in the grand fireplace, and candles had been set in every alcove around the walls.

Above the fireplace an imposing gilt mirror, big enough for a ballroom.

Basil took in the long table in the centre of the room, with its places already set, serried ranks of heavy Victorian cutlery, a line of candelabra and bowls of lilies.

A massive crystal chandelier hung above the table: even now its drops sparkled in the electric light. Basil could see it had been filled with candles to be lit before dinner commenced: as usual, it would provide the perfect historical touch!

“Done me proud again,” said Basil. “It’s like travelling in time …”

“The 31
st
of October, 1900, to be precise,” said Lawrence.

“The night dear Freddy died. Or should I say … was murdered …”

“Sends a shiver through the bones, eh?”

“That’s the idea,” said Basil. “And wait till I get ’em properly spooked — they’ll be necking that wine like there’s no tomorrow!”

“Can’t wait, Basil, old boy. Let the tills ring out with joyous coins!”

Basil walked around the room, inspecting the fireplace, looking under the table, working out his sightlines.

Some of his ghostly apparitions were fiendishly difficult to set up …

“Anything I can get you?” said Lawrence who stood with his back to the fire.

“Brought everything I need with me,” said Basil. “Just make sure I have the room to myself for the hour before dinner, if you can Lawrence. Tell Mr. Stover not to disturb me?”

Basil was no fan of Lawrence’s long-serving ‘number two’.

Uncouth? Lout?
Basil wasn't sure how to describe Stover.

“And no serving staff, no interruptions, usual thing.”

“Trade secrets, eh?”

“Something like that,” said Basil. “You joining us for the show this year?”

“Love to, old chap,” said Lawrence. “But with Crispin away I’m back in charge until the night porter gets here. Got to stay off the old sauce, know what I mean?”

“Shame,” said Basil, joining him by the fireplace. “Perhaps we can grab a crafty snifter together when they’ve all gone to bed?”

“Why not?” said Lawrence. “Be just like old times, eh?”

Basil sensed a note of sadness in the old man’s voice.

“It certainly will,” he said.

The ancient clock on the mantelpiece started to chime and Basil waited for it to finish.

“Six o’clock,” he said. “I’d better get cracking.”

And he headed back towards reception, leaving Lawrence staring into the flames.

“Freddy? You there, old boy?”

Basil tapped on the dusty door that led to the attic bedroom and waited.

He went through this little ritual every time he came to The Bell. Had done for years.

He wasn’t sure if it was superstition — or just common sense. His whole act here — the
soirée
as he liked to call it — was built upon the tragic story of Freddy Rose.

This had been Freddy’s bedroom all those years ago.

And where they’d found his body.

So Basil felt it was only courteous to include the long-dead servant in the event.

After all, one thing he’d learned from bitter experience over the years …
You can’t be too careful with ghosts.

About that — he was deadly serious.

He tapped again.

“Coming in now, if that’s okay with you Freddy. It’s just me. Basil.”

But I expect you know that,
he thought.

If you’re really there.

He took a deep breath, then gently pushed open the attic door. Light from the bare bulb in the landing carved into the darkness of the old servant’s bedroom.

Basil reached around the doorframe until his hand found the switch and he turned the light on.

“Good God!”

He jolted back, his heart lurching, his legs nearly giving way.

A man stood facing him, his arm outstretched.

Then Basil realised who it was …

A full-length mirror stood opposite the door, leaning against the wall.

His own reflection had nearly given him a heart attack!

You idiot, Whistlethwaite! You’re the one supposed to be doing the scaring!

He caught his breath again, then pushed the door open wider, and headed into the room for a look around.

Perfect.
The place had hardly been touched since last year — apart from the mirror, of course. But Basil was already thinking how he could use that in his ghostly tour of the upper rooms. If it scared him, then it would surely scare the life out of the punters.

Just got to set it up right.

He went over to the tiny window and pulled back the shutters. They creaked and groaned like something out of a Hammer Horror film.

Very nice,
thought Basil.

The window seemed to be jammed shut, but after a shove with the heel of his hand he managed to get it open.

A blast of cold air rushed in.

Basil rocked the old window back and forth a couple of times to loosen it, then closed it, and pulled the shutters to.

Then he turned and carefully examined the room.

The single bed, in an old iron frame. The chest of drawers. The big wardrobe, taking up almost a whole wall. A Victorian water pitcher and bowl. A small candleholder.

Oh yes — this would all do very nicely.

Then he looked at the bare bulb hanging down, which lit the room.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, reached up to the bulb and unscrewed it.

The room was plunged into near darkness again, the only light now coming from the landing.

Perfect.

All he had to do now was come back up here with his little bag of tricks and set the room up.

The punters always wanted to see Freddy’s bedroom.

Where the deadly deed took place!

And Basil knew all the little traps to set that would have them jumping out of their socks — then shrieking with embarrassed laughter.

He put the bulb carefully down on the chest of drawers, turned, and headed for the door.

Then he pulled the door closed gently behind him.

Hmm, hinges could do with a bit more of a squeak there — must remember to sort that.

Otherwise — it would all do nicely. Very nicely.

He turned and stepped away from the door, started to walk down the bare landing towards the narrow staircase that led down from the servant’s quarters. Then he heard a noise from behind him.

From within Freddy’s room.

A groan.

A moan of pain.

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.

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!