Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance (5 page)

“Oh they were,” said Basil. “But you see, apparently Freddy was a bit of a rascal. He had few friends in the village — at least among the men-folk …”

“Ah,” said Jack. “But ladies were a different story? So a lot of people were happy to see the back of him, huh?”

“Something like that,” said Basil. “Anyway, Colonel Allsop and his wife Emily — the owners of the house — moved out the very next day and never returned.”

“Not surprising,” said Sarah. “Who’d want to live in a place where a murder has been committed?”

“And the case just died away?” said Jack.

“Hard to get witnesses together. What with the staff all being dismissed. And then — strangest thing — the colonel’s wife died in a hunting accident …”

“This colonel,” said Jack. “That the guy in the painting on the stairs?”

“Bagging a Bengal tiger — yes, that’s him. Painted in India, I believe. A few years before he came home to settle down and marry.”

“So after the murder, that’s when the house became a hotel?” said Sarah.

“I believe so,” said Basil. “In those days Cherringham didn’t have a hotel. The place took off. And it seems the idea of a resident ghost was actually quite good for trade.”

“But not these days?” said Sarah.

“Oh, people like the idea over a few drinks, a dinner. Bit of fun. But they prefer not to confront the reality of our continuing life after death. More’s the pity.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Jack had bent down to look at the carefully folded — and staged — clothes in the bottom drawer. He then opened the others, all empty.

Sarah walked to the window, appropriately smeary, giving a blurry view of the hotel gardens and the High Street beyond.

Leaning forward, she could just see the clock tower of the village hall.

Who knows what happened to Freddy here a hundred years ago,
she thought.

But this was one creepy spot.

In fact, she wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

But Jack kept looking around, at the floor, the wardrobe, the unadorned wooden walls, the bed with its inches-thin mattress.

Then he looked at Basil, nodding.

A sure sign that Jack wasn't satisfied with something.

“All went normal up here. During the tour?”

Basil, in a reflex, brought two fingers up to the right handlebar of his moustache. “Er, during the tour. Absolutely. No sign — or premonition — of what would happen downstairs.”

Jack smiled.

“And before? When you were ‘setting the stage’. When you were up here …”

Jack took a step, and even Sarah felt a chill. “When you were up here alone.”

Basil’s fingers freed his moustache.

“Well, no. Some strange things
had
occurred. Well before the dinner, before the ceremony.”

Sarah wondered:
how did Jack know that?

Just a lucky shot? Something in this room? A detective's instincts?”

Basil still didn't seem too forthcoming.

Jack looked right at him, “What happened, Basil?”

And now Basil spoke, and Sarah instinctively crossed her arms as she felt the room chill.

An attic room. A late warm October sun outside.

Not really cold at all.

Still …
a chill
.

Now that was weird …

*

Basil had pointed to the single bulb overhead that he swore he had removed.

And then to the spot where the pitcher crashed to the floor for — supposedly — no reason.

Could the man simply be addled, the grey cells getting a little wobbly?

“What do you think happened?” she asked.

Sarah was anything but superstitious. The natural world was challenge enough for her without embracing the idea of a supernatural one.

But Basil turned to her, his eyes darting as if he was still trying to make sense of it.

“I don't
know
. That bulb. Someone had replaced it after I removed it. But who, why? And what made that pitcher crash to the floor?”

Jack tapped the glass pane of the filmy window. The sound startling.

“A breeze from outside?”

“Window was shut. Tight. It just happened.”

Jack nodded.

Basil looked from Jack to Sarah.

“I had only one thought later, when I was at the table. Someone must have done those things …”

“And who do you think that might be?” Jack asked.

Basil sniffed the air as if the answer — while disturbing — was obvious.

“Freddy.”

Jack waited until Basil had gone into his room and shut the door, still quite shaken from the trip to the attic, before he spoke to Sarah.

“So Ms. Edwards, this is your village, your people. What do you make of all of this?”

She nodded at that.

Sometimes when Jack asked a question like that she felt he was testing how well she took in the information.

Like a graduate class in solving mysteries.

She smiled in the gloomy hallway as they took a few steps away from Basil’s door.

“I know that ‘my people’ — as you say — can be a superstitious lot. All their talk of ghosts and legends. But it seems to me that someone was doing their best to upset the whole ‘haunting’ ceremony.”

Jack nodded. “Not only that, they did something that could have caused serious harm. If that chandelier had landed a little to the left or right, someone would have been sent to the hospital …”

“Or worse.”

“Right.”

“So we’re in? I mean, is this a case?”

Now Jack grinned at that. “I guess so. But we need to find out a lot more. Who would want something like that to happen? Why?”

“Freddy?” Sarah said laughing.

Jack shook his head, grinning. “Dunno. The old ghost hasn’t made a stink before.”

“Got a plan?”

“Not quite a plan. Let's say, a few things we need look into.”

“I could get all the legal documents related to the hotel.”

“Great. Perfect. Maybe check with Tony if he knows of any issues floating around The Bell.”

“And how about the guy that Lawrence mentioned …?”

“The ‘events manager/factotum’ Paddy Stover? Yeah, I think I’ll try to catch him down below. They should be gearing up for the lunch crowd …”

“I doubt there’ll be much of a crowd.”

“Or much of a lunch for that matter.”

“Want me to join you for that?”

Jack shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Two of us showing up. Well, if someone has something to hide, best we keep our profile as low as possible.”

“I did have another idea, Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“The chandelier. Most of the year it’s just an ordinary chandelier, using ordinary bulbs, electric current and so on.”

“Right, and?”

“It must have been installed, maintained by a proper electrician. If somebody did mess around with the fitting — if someone did something to trigger that crash — I bet Todd Robinson would spot it.”

“Brilliant. And I mean it, by the way — Todd’s a good electrician. He did the rewiring on the Goose last year for me. Boat was a death-trap he said. No wonder I got it so cheap.”

“I’ll ask him to drop by, take a look at the fittings, the wiring, the ceiling …”

“Good. And one more thing, since Freddy’s tale seems to be part of this … Why don’t you dig into the murder a bit?”

“You think that’s important?”

“Could be. Who knows — maybe there's a connection between the Freddy story and what happened here last night.”

Jack paused. “And we have to think … maybe it wasn't just about last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe there are more ‘surprises’ ahead.”

Jack wasn't smiling when he said that. Then, looking around the gloomy paintings lining the hallway, he walked to the great staircase down past the glowering Colonel Allsop to the slightly less dingy floor below.

*

Jack walked through the kitchen. A stout woman — with a white blouse and a gingham apron, hacking at a chicken — looked at Jack as he walked through the place.

She scowled but didn’t say anything.

Two other women were off by a sink area, washing and peeling potatoes as if they were part of the disgruntled scullery staff in one of Henry the VIII’s lesser castles.

It might be lunchtime, but judging by the kitchen staff, nobody seemed to have been told.

Jack spotted the small office at the back, door shut.

He walked up — and in the interest of surprises — twisted the knob.

The door opened, and Jack walked in.

Inside sat a man, mid-forties, hair thinned to mere wisps on top of his head, wearing an Arsenal T-shirt dotted here and there — Jack noted — with remnants of previous meals.

Feet extended on the desk, and a massive sandwich — bacon, it looked like — in front of him. Bag of jalapeno crisps.

A small TV showing a football game on a screen so tiny it had to be hard to follow the ball.

Paddy Stover, hard at work, Jack knew from the second he opened the door.

Barging in like he did had the desired effect. Stover's legs went flying to the floor and he nearly knocked over his mammoth mug.

Tea, or maybe an early bit of lager?

The mug sported a large red-nose face of a corpulent gentleman; the handle, his pudgy arm tipping to a top hat.

“Bloody
hell
, what do you think you’re doing?”

Stover shot to his feet, where he immediately saw that Jack had nearly 12 inches on him.

Jack smiled. One look at Paddy Stover showed why this hotel was in such dire and dingy straits.

“Your boss? Mr. Myrtle? He suggested I speak with you, Paddy.”

Jack extended his hand. “Jack Brennan.”

“Speak to me? Speak to me about
wot?”

Jack saw Stover wipe his hand on his t-shirt and withdrew the offer of a handshake, leaving Stover uncertain, his hand dangling.

“Mind if I sit?” said Jack, pulling an old dining room chair from the side of the office in front of the desk then making himself comfortable.

Jack smiled and nodded at the TV. “Sorry to interrupt your game.”

Stover was still standing and Jack imagined the loose wheels in his brain spinning, trying to connect.

“What do you want?” the man repeated.

“Do you mind?” said Jack, nodding to the TV, whose tinny commentary was loud in the small room.

Stover leaned across the desk and turned it off, then returned to his chair and squirmed back into it

“Appreciate that,” said Jack. “So, as I said, I’m working for Mr. Myrtle—”

“He didn’t tell me. Nobody’s told me.”

“And I’m trying to get to the bottom of the little accident last night.”

“What are you — some kind of cop?”

“Kind of,” said Jack. “A detective more like it. So where were you last night when it all happened?”

“I was down here — and what’s that got to do with
anything
?”

“Just trying to get things clear in my own mind,” said Jack. “Who was where. You know.”

“Looking for someone to blame, eh? Typical. Bloody typical.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good Mr. Stover,” said Jack, shaking his head seriously. “You mean this kind of thing has happened before?”

“Regular bloody event.”

“Accidents you mean?”

“Building’s falling apart! Held together with tape and filler.”

“I see.”

“I’m supposed to run the whole show and do the running repairs. It’s not possible. Pipes leaking, fuses blowing, plaster coming off.”

“And you get the blame when things go wrong, huh?”

“Tell me about it.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Too bloody right it is.”

Jack paused. Paddy Stover clearly liked an audience. And that suited Jack.

“So that chandelier — I guess you must have been mighty worried that it was going to come down any day, hmm?”

Jack saw Stover’s eyes swivel then narrow. His brow creased as it finally must have dawned on him that he was stepping into a trap.

“Well, no,” said Stover. “Didn’t say that, now did I? I have that checked every year. Safe as houses, it is. Was.”

“Not safe last night …”

“Listen — you could have swung off it like Tarzan if you wanted.”

“Really?”

“Rock solid.”

“Then how come it came down?”

“I don’t know—” said Stover, frowning.

“But you were there this morning. You cleared up. You must have asked yourself the same question?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

“Maybe Freddy did it,” said Jack. “You buy that? You believe in ghosts Mr. Stover?”

Stover’s mouth open, a reply forming.

Then Jack heard the door behind him open.

“Don’t give me bloody ghosts,” came a loud voice, and he spun round to see a tall man in his forties, dark suit, smart tie and shirt, his face hard.

“Who the hell are you?” said the man.

“He’s working for your dad,” Stover said quickly. “He just came in here, made me talk to him …”

Whoa,
thought Jack.
The guy’s shaken up, maybe even scared. What’s going on here?

“It’s okay, Paddy,” said the man, calmly. “Not your fault.”

Jack stood and held out his hand to the newcomer. “Jack Brennan,” he said. “And you must be Crispin?”

But Crispin Myrtle didn’t seem interested in shaking hands.

Instead, he turned back to Stover.

“Service has started for lunch and we’re short-handed. Help out, will you?”

“Course, course, no worries,” said Stover.

Jack watched and waited as the assistant manager wrapped up his sandwich in foil, grabbed his wrinkled jacket from the back of his chair and scurried out of the room.

“Nice to meet you, Paddy,” called Jack pleasantly. “Catch you later.”

He smiled at Crispin Myrtle, but the man didn’t smile back.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“We certainly do,” Jack said.

“Follow me.”

Crispin turned on his heels and went out.

Guess I could be here forever waiting for the word ‘please’,
thought Jack.

So he followed after.

Jack sat opposite Crispin Myrtle in the small office behind reception and waited while he finished an email.