What a Ghoul Wants

by Victoria Laurie

  Heath and I exchanged another look, and I could tell he was about out of patience with this whole mysterious meeting business. “Earlier this evening, Miss Holliday, you saw the ghost of my brother. What can you tell me about him?” the inspector asked abruptly.

  For a moment I was so taken aback by the question that I found it hard to gather my thoughts and answer him. “Well. . . I don’t know that I can tell you much more than that I thought I was looking at you, and that his spirit has unfortunately become chained to the Widow.”

  The inspector paused almost imperceptibly as he was loading the fireplace with logs, but he kept his tone conversational when he asked his next question. “You’ve said that he didn’t speak, but did he gesture to you, or signal in any way that might lead you to believe he was trying to communicate some message?”

  “Not really, sir. But that may have been because he didn’t really have a chance. I only saw him for a few moments. . . seconds even, and in that time he only held his arms out to me, as if he was pleading with me to help him.”

  The inspector stiffened again, and it was a moment before he relaxed the set of his shoulders and stuffed some newspaper under the logs before reaching for a match. Lighting it, he said, “Did you see the Widow along with my brother?”

  “No, but I think she was under the drawbridge at that moment.” I was recalling how Heath and I had been tortured across the planks by something pounding from the underside of the bridge.

  The fire caught and Lumley stood. For several long moments he did nothing more than stare at the flames with his back to us.

  “Inspector?” Heath said. “Will you please tell us why you brought us here?”

  Lumley lifted his chin and reached for a photo on the mantel. Bringing it over to us, he handed it to Heath and said, “My brother, Oliver.”

  I peered at the image and was struck again by how similar Oliver was to the inspector. What also struck me was that Oliver was wearing a policeman’s uniform. “He was a cop?” Heath asked.

  Lumley took his seat across from us, his eyes betraying the pain he felt over the loss of his brother. “Yes. At the time of his death three years ago, Ollie was an inspector here in Penbigh.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “That must have been awful for you and for the community.”

  “Yes,” said Lumley as if the admission left a particularly bad taste in his mouth. “Of course, I wasn’t here at the time.”

  “Were you away on holiday?” I asked.

  A sardonic smile played briefly across the inspector’s lips. “No. Not quite. I was at Met Pol.”

  “Met Pol?” Heath and I asked together.

  “The Metropolitan Police Service,” he explained. “At their headquarters in London. You Yanks might know it best by its nickname, Scotland Yard.”

  “You were with Scotland Yard?” Heath asked, and I could tell he was impressed.

  “I was,” said Lumley with a note of pride. “I’d tried at one time to convince my brother to apply to a post in London, but he preferred the country. My mother’s family is from this region, you see, and we used to visit Wales quite a lot when we were young. I suppose Ollie preferred the tranquillity of a small village over the hustle and bustle of London. He settled here, and I settled there to pursue a prestigious career and look after Mother, but we remained close, as twins usually are.”

  I looked back at the photo of Lumley’s brother. “Were you two identical?”

  “Not quite,” Lumley said. “Oliver was an inch shorter and his eyes were green rather than the brown of my eyes. Other than that, however, most people were hard pressed to tell us apart.”

  “Is that why you ended up here?” I asked. “You wanted to be closer to your brother’s spirit?”

  “No,” the inspector admitted. “Not really. What I mean is that the driving force behind my leaving Met Pol and taking up the position here of inspector—vacated by my brother—was to investigate his death. I never believed for a moment that he drowned accidentally. Oliver was a very good swimmer, but the even bigger mystery was to ask, what the devil would he be doing swimming in a moat in the dead of night? He was a smart chap, my brother. He’d never do something so ridiculously reckless.”

  “I take it there were no prominent signs of foul play like you discovered on the two men found dead in the past few days, and like you discovered on Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  “None. But then, my brother’s body was in the moat for three days before it was discovered. By then the elements had done their worst, I’m afraid.”

  “Three days?” Heath repeated. “How come nobody noticed?”

  “According to the official police report, filed by a man that I later fired for incompetence, Oliver’s body must have become submerged, and only surfaced when a heavy rainfall came through to stir up the currents.”

  I made a face. I get squeamish around stuff like that.

  The inspector must have noticed because he apologized. “I’m so sorry to elaborate on the grim details,” he said. “I forget how upsetting these things can be for you laypersons.”

  “It’s fine,” I assured him. “But I’m still not quite sure why you wanted to speak to Heath and me privately.”

  The inspector picked at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. “As you no doubt know, Kidwellah has a rather unscrupulous past. I’ve always believed in the ghost stories originating from the castle. Ollie and I would play near the moat as children, and the both of us would see things in some of the castle’s windows that we couldn’t readily explain.

  “And while I was put off by such things, Ollie became fascinated. He would comb the library shelves for information about the castle and its most famous residents, and he knew all about the Grim Widow and her murderous past. I believe it was those summer holidays spent here that he fell in love with Penbigh and wanted to serve it in some way.

  “After university he did the most unexpected thing; he applied to the Penbigh police department and was accepted. Mother of course was most upset—”

  “She was afraid for his safety?” Heath asked.

  Lumley shook his head and chuckled softly. “Oh, no. Not that. She expected Ollie to be an accountant, engineer, or perhaps even a solicitor. Something respectable, but he felt a calling to law enforcement, and to my mother’s great dismay, after hearing my brother speak so enthusiastically about his new post, I applied to Met Pol and was accepted.”

  “What’d your dad say?” I asked.

  Lumley looked at me oddly. “Nothing.”

  “He’s the silent type, huh?”

  “If my father has anything to say, Miss Holliday, it would likely be to you, not to me.”

  Heath said, “Your father passed away?”

  “Yes. At least that’s what we believe. You see, he left my mother when we were very small, barely three, and no one in his family ever saw him again. Mother finally won a decree declaring him dead when Ollie and I were ten. Mother claims that my father became involved with some unscrupulous characters, and they were the cause of his disappearance.”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” I said, and the inspector merely shrugged as if he’d had all these years to deal with it and it no longer bothered him. “Do you remember him?”

  “No. But from what my mother told us, he was a wretched husband and father. His one contribution to the family was a sizable trust established for me and my brother when we were born, which allowed us all to live in relative comfort and attend some of the best schools.”

  I studied the ether around Inspector Lumley. Normally, when someone mentions a deceased relative, I’ll feel a slight knocking sensation, almost like the spirit has been waiting to be asked to join the conversation and, immediately upon hearing his or her name, is all over my energy, but I didn’t get any sense of the inspector’s father.<
br />
  I snuck a look at Heath to see if maybe he felt the man, but Heath looked at me and shook his head. “He’s not around,” he mouthed.

  I thought that Lumley must be right; his dad really was a jerk not to want to make contact through one of us to talk to his son.

  “We still don’t understand why you asked us here,” Heath said next.

  Lumley loosened his tie. “Yes, quite right. You see, my brother’s death was just one of several that have taken place at the castle in the past forty years.”

  “One of several?” I repeated. “How many are we talking about, Inspector?”

  “Not including the three most recent victims, a total of nine, Miss Holliday. All of them ruled accidental, and all of them found drowned in the moat.”

  Nine deaths over forty years? That was quite a lot for one remote castle in the north of Wales. And now there were three more to add.

  “You’re suspicious of the number and manner of deaths,” I guessed.

  “Most suspicious,” he said. “Especially of my brother’s drowning. And my brother was suspicious too. As I said, he always found Kidwellah fascinating. He was drawn to it in a way I couldn’t always understand, and I believe he discovered the great coincidence between these victims, namely, that they were all on holiday at the castle, all male, and all drowned at night. I believe it was the discovery of this similarity among the victims that caused him to open an investigation, and that is what led to his death.”

  “In other words, you may have a sixty-year-old serial killer on your hands,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” he replied with a shrug. “Or it may be a father-and-son team. I can’t rule any theory out, no matter how implausible.”

  “So you don’t believe the Grim Widow is solely responsible,” Heath said. “Even though she attacked and nearly drowned me.”

  The inspector stared at Heath for a long time without answering, and when he finally did, he was careful to be as tactful as possible. “I do believe you when you say the Widow attacked you, Mr. Whitefeather. Miss Holliday and my own constable verify your account, but I cannot believe that all nine of these victims died as a result of some ghost. And certainly Merrick Brown and André Lefebvre were helped along in their demise. No, something else is at the root of these deaths, and I mean to discover what that is.”

  “How do we play into this?” I asked, and when the inspector’s eyes swiveled to me, I added, “I’m assuming this is why you asked us here, Inspector, to discuss how we may be able to help you in your investigations?”

  The inspector’s mouth quirked at the edges. “You’re a most insightful woman, Miss Holliday. And you are correct. I do need your help. As you’ve personally had several spiritual encounters with the most recent victims, I’m hoping that you might encourage one of them to tell you who is the person responsible for their deaths. The Widow aside of course.”

  “That’s a bit of a tall order, sir,” Heath said, and explained several of the issues involved, including the fact that ghosts didn’t always remember their own deaths, and the fact that the Widow seemed to be controlling their appearances to us.

  “Still,” the inspector pressed, “I would appreciate any assistance I might prevail upon you and your special abilities to offer.”

  “I have a question,” I said, thinking suddenly of something that should have been obvious.

  “Yes?” Lumley asked.

  “How is it that the castle is still open? I mean, you’d think that at least one of the victims’ families would have sued the owner of the castle into ruin by now.”

  The inspector actually laughed.

  “You Americans,” he said. “So ready to take up the legal battle! We Brits are far less litigious. Our courts aren’t nearly so inviting of such things. But I do in part agree with you; it is curious that not one of the families has sought a claim against the dowager.”

  “The dowager?” I asked. “Who’s that?”

  “Lady Lydia Hathaway,” the inspector said. “Kidwellah has belonged to her family for the past several centuries. Her father, Sir Robert Mortimer, fell into some financial difficulty after the war and nearly lost the place to creditors. He was the one who turned it into a hotel and left it for his daughter as part of her dowry.”

  “They still have that?” Heath asked.

  “Indeed,” the inspector told him. “Lady Lydia has ruled over Kidwellah and most of Penbigh ever since her husband’s fatal hunting accident some fifty years ago.”

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  “Well into her seventies by now,” the inspector said.

  “It seems like Kidwellah is a hazard,” I said next. “Why not shut it down?”

  The inspector sighed. “I’ve spoken to the dowager several times about draining the moat or closing Kidwellah’s doors in light of these ‘accidents,’” he said, using air quotes, “but she steadfastly refuses, claiming that would be far too costly for her, as she depends on the income from Kidwellah to pay her taxes. And, as long as she wields the power in Penbigh, I’m afraid Kidwellah will continue to host the unsuspecting tourist.”

  “But in light of these most recent deaths, how can she ignore the obvious?” I pressed.

  “You would be quite surprised what the landed gentry can ignore, Miss Holliday,” he replied with a frown. “Especially when it comes to money.”

  From upstairs there was a thump, like a chair toppling over and hitting the floor, and we all jumped. Lumley was on his feet in an instant.

  “Jasper!” came a croaky female voice. “Jasper!”

  “Excuse me,” Lumley said, darting off toward the stairs.

  He made it up about five steps when we saw something small come hurtling down the stairs and Lumley had to duck to the side. “Where is my cocktail!” that croaky voice demanded.

  “Mother,” Lumley said firmly. “You’ve had quite enough and it’s time for bed.”

  “I want my cocktail!” she yelled at him. Heath and I were both leaning way out in our seats looking toward the stairs, but all we could see was Lumley from the waist down. “You had no right to take it from me!”

  “Mother,” Lumley said, climbing to the top of the staircase, where it sounded like a slight struggle took place.

  “Get your hands off me, young man!” she cried. “And give me back my gin! It was mine! Bought with my own money and you’ve no right to it!”

  Her words were slurred and her voice ragged, as if she’d been yelling quite a bit recently. “Come along, Mother,” Lumley coaxed, his own voice strained.

  “You’re just like your father!” she spat. “He took my things too! And look where it got him!”

  She said that last part with an evil laugh and I turned my head to Heath and mouthed, “Wow!”

  He nodded. For the record, we both have screwed-up family histories, but not that screwed-up.

  The struggle at the top of the stairs continued and finally moved off to another part of the second story, where more things sounded like they were being thrown about. I wanted to be anywhere but there, and judging by the look on Heath’s face, he did too.

  “Should we go?” I asked him.

  “Lumley drove,” he reminded me.

  “Yeah, but the castle’s not far from here. If we stick to the road it’d only take us an hour at most to get back to the castle.”

  He didn’t have time to reply because in the next moment a door slammed and Lumley came hurrying back down the stairs. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, his face red with embarrassment.

  “It’s fine,” I assured him, hoping I sounded sincere.

  “Mother has been doing so well lately, but tonight somehow she laid her hands on a bottle of gin.”

  “It’s really okay,” I repeated, and now I fel
t bad for wanting to run out on him. “Lots of families struggle with addiction.”

  “I’ve called you a taxi,” Lumley said next, avoiding looking directly at us. “I must apologize for not being able to take you back to the castle myself, but I think I should stay here with Mother.”

  “Of course,” I said, and next to me Heath nodded. And then we all fell into an uncomfortable silence until the cab came.

  “We’ll let you know if we get anything from any of the ghosts we encounter,” Heath promised on our way out. He was probably also feeling bad about being there to witness the poor inspector deal with his alcoholic mother.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning Heath and I were up early. We had breakfast in the dining hall, which was practically empty except for Franco, the model I’d seen kissing Mr. Lefebvre. I wondered if Gilley had taken my advice and showed Inspector Lumley the calls to Lefebvre that Franco made on Gil’s cell phone. That would explain why he was still here, as all the other models had long since departed once they learned of the fashion designer’s demise. As I was wondering about all of this, Inspector Lumley walked in with Constable Bancroft, and they motioned for Franco to follow them.

  “Wonder what that was about?” Heath said.

  We learned just a short time later when both Gilley and Michel came hurrying into the dining room to tell us that Franco had been arrested for Mr. Lefebvre’s murder.

  Heath and I both sat forward with interest.

  “I showed Lumley the calls Franco made from my phone,” Gil said, clearly a little guilt-ridden about that. “It didn’t help that he had absolutely no alibi beyond midnight,” Gil added. “And he admitted to Lumley that he called André, asking to meet, but he claims that André never showed. and Franco fell asleep waiting for him.”

  “How do you know all that?” I asked.

  Gil lightly tapped the floor with his toe. “We overheard him talking to Lumley in the parlor.”