Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance (3 page)

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 that?” 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.

“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 — had 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 …”

“Like a chandelier crashing on top of guests?” Jack said.

“Yes, that they can’t pursue any legal remedies.”

Jack looked at Sarah. “That’s a handy clause. Though I’m guessing if someone had really been hurt, it wouldn't mean anything.”

“Oh god ….”

“Could it have just been an accident?” Sarah asked.

Lawrence’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. I mean, I suppose so. But each year we check all the fixtures, the mountings for the large murals on the stairway gallery, the mirror on the main dining room. And
especially
the chandelier.”

He looked away.

“How could it just … fall down?”

Jack looked around the room. Sarah wondered if he doubted that so-called yearly inspections could keep all sorts of suspended and hanging things safe.

Then he turned back to Lawrence.

“How indeed. I think –” a glance to Sarah — “my friend and I should look around a bit. Speak to people. If that might be helpful?”

“Would you?” Lawrence said clapping his hands together. “That would be
ever
so … generous of you.”

Sarah wondered if this should be one of the clients they ‘bill’, passing the money onto some worthy village cause.

But Lawrence Myrtle, in his threadbare sport coat, and scuffed brogues, sitting amidst the lumpy, faded furniture … Sarah guessed this should be, as most of their work was,
pro bono.

Besides, she thought — as someone who didn't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural — diving into this place and its haunted ghost could be quite fun.

At least that’s what she first thought …

Lawrence led Sarah and Jack to the private dining room.

Jack immediately saw the remains of the chandelier resting atop the dining room table like a glittering ocean liner that had crashed into the dark mahogany.

“That’s quite something,” said Jack. “Looks pretty old.”

“It is,” said Lawrence. “Goes right back to the time when this place was a private house.”

“Worth a few bob, then,” said Sarah, catching Jack’s eye for a second.

“Oh yes,” said Lawrence. “It’s a terrible shame. But repairable — I’m sure …”

“Was it insured?” said Jack.

Lawrence shrugged. “Suppose so. I’ll have to check …”

Jack looked up at the ceiling where a gaping hole in the plaster — a good ten feet across — revealed where the chandelier had been attached. An electric cable, its ends taped, hung limply down from the dark void.

But other than that Jack couldn’t see any signs of the mayhem from the night before.

“Lawrence, all the glass? Where is it?”

“Oh yes. I had Paddy clean it up?”

“Paddy?” Sarah asked.

“Paddy Stover — sort of events manager and general, er, factotum around here. Got some of the kitchen crew to help sweep up all the broken bits and bin it.”

“Removing a lot of evidence …”

Jack looked at Sarah. He wasn't sure if there was anything here that warranted their involvement.

“Oh, sorry! Hadn't thought about all the debris quite like that. I do have the shards. I think they’re just in the bins at the back, we could—”

Jack put up his hand.

“No. Just would have been interesting to see where they fell. Who they endangered …”

And who they didn’t.

It always seemed that — in Cherringham at least — events never revealed their truth until he and Sarah started nosing around.