by Morgana Best
Sad to say, I couldn’t see any ghosts, not that I really expected to, but I’m an optimist.
Douglas herded me into Saint Bartholomew’s, the old Norman church. I was in awe. In Australia, European culture is only just over two hundred years old, although of course the original custodians of the land have been there for centuries. If Aussies see a hundred year old building, we get excited, but this building was something else.
Douglas seemed to read my mind. “It’s eight hundred years old.”
I had never seen such an old building.
Douglas fell into tour guide mode. “See, those surrounding walls are brick and flint. You’ll see flint as a popular building material in these parts, particularly when we get to West Wycombe.” He pointed upward. “See those twin spires? That’s pretty rare. They think there’s only one other building like it.”
With that, he ushered me inside the church. It smelt musty and was far smaller than I had imagined it to be.
I was busy staring up at the ancient woodwork in the nave, so was surprised to hear a thump, then a child crying. A small boy had tripped over on the rough floor and cut his knee. His mother was soothing him. I turned to Douglas to remark that I hadn’t noticed the other tourists come in, but my comment was prevented by Douglas’s face, which had turned white. He all but ran out of the building. What the? I hurried after him.
I found him bending over the car door, trying to catch his breath. I avoid the gym as much as I can, but even I wouldn’t have been so breathless if I’d only run that short distance. “Douglas, are you all right?”
Douglas turned to me and I saw that the colour had drained out of his face. He looked shocked, but only for an instant, and then his usual composure was back. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question, young man,” Aunty June said. “I assume Misty is referring to the fact that you ran out of the church!”
Douglas shrugged and then opened the car door wider. “I just remembered I had an appointment later today, but I’d forgotten about it until now. Are you two ladies tired?”
I doubted he was telling the truth, but who was I to press him about something he didn’t want to answer? “I am a little tired,” I admitted. “I’m still jet lagged to a degree.”
“How about I drop you home now and pick you up the day after tomorrow at say, ten, and we’ll head off to West Wycombe Park?”
I smiled at him. “That would be wonderful, but do you have time? I really don’t want to impose.”
“Yes of course, your aunt would have wanted it.”
Douglas drove even faster on the way back and didn’t speak. He drove Aunty June to her motel first at her request, and then took me back to Aunt Beth’s.
He left the engine running when he dropped me back at the house, and simply said, “See you at ten,” before revving up and heading off.
He had certainly acted weirdly at the sight of blood. In fact, his personality had switched instantly. Was he a vampire?
I was starving, so I searched the fridge. To my delight, there was an unopened tub of salted caramel ice cream. I ate it all before calling a taxi.
I was keen to get to Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium. I pulled out my phone and searched for the address, but to my surprise there was not a single mention of Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium on the internet. I thought that rather strange, but then again, perhaps it was owned by vampires after all. At least I had noted the name of the café on the corner of the road.
The taxi deposited me at the café. The tantalising aroma of good coffee called to me, but I resisted and walked up the street a little way until I was standing outside the green sign proclaiming Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium. This shop looked pretty much like the one back in Australia. I peeped through the window. As the glass appeared to be frosted to some degree, it was hard to see inside. I peeked through the window and gasped.
Surely that could not be John Smith standing in front of the counter?
I at once went to the door and pushed it open, jumping a little as the chime over the door sounded. I hurried over to the counter, but there was no sign of John Smith or anyone. In this store too, the books were all stacked on shelves behind the counter. A short man poked his head around the door behind the counter. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked me.
“Where’s the man who was just in here?”
He walked out and sat down behind the counter. “Man? There was no man. You’re the first customer I’ve had all day.”
I shook my head. “No, I saw John Smith, or someone who looks like him,” I said. “He was standing at the counter where I’m standing now.”
“I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” the man said. “Are you after any book in particular?” His eyes went to the pendant at my neck and then at once his manner changed. “What’s your name?”
“Misty Friday.”
The man smiled warmly. “Welcome to England.”
“How do you know I don’t live here?” I said.
“By your Australian accent, of course.”
I narrowed my eyes. I’m sure plenty of Australians lived in England and had been there for years. Did this man know I had just arrived in the country? It seemed he did.
“A man at Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium on Whitehaven Island told me I could call in at any Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium over the world for help.”
He nodded vigorously. “That’s right, that’s right. We can’t interfere, mind you, but we do the best we can to help. How may I be of assistance?”
“I only just arrived in England yesterday and I found my aunt dead.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear about your aunt,” he said.
I regarded him for a moment. He sounded as if he had known her. “Did you know her?”
“You want to ask me about a book?” he countered.
“Well, my aunt sent me a letter and asked me to come over and collect something from her.” As soon as I said the words, I noticed his shoulders tense. I pushed on. “When I arrived at her house, I discovered her body. The police say it was natural courses, but I’m not so sure. Everyone seems interested in a book.”
“Who’s everyone?” he said.
“The doctor of all people asked me about a book, and then a friend of hers did too. Well, he seemed more interested in a missing piece of paper. My aunt donated a book to the Cambridge University Library. It was called the Exposition of the Hieroglyphical Figures and was by Nicholas Flamel. Apparently, my aunt was upset that a newspaper ran an article on it.”
“That volume is useless to those who would seek deep matters of dark arts,” the man said. “I’m sure that’s why your aunt did not mind parting with the book. It is the companion volume that people would be seeking.”
“There’s a companion volume?” I asked.
He nodded. “The Exposition of the Hieroglyphical Figures is a much later copy of the 1624 original. That book was altered to hide matters that should be kept hidden. However, the companion volume is the correct copy of the 1624 original written by Nicholas Flamel. If there is a missing page, I can assure you it is from the companion volume.”
I was doing my best to take it all in. I was under-caffeinated, jet lagged, and confused. What’s more, I was hallucinating. I could have sworn I saw John Smith, but he had vanished into thin air.
I realised the man was still speaking. “Your aunt must have hidden the companion volume and that’s why people are looking for it. Trust no one.”
“What no one? No one at all?”
He nodded. “Things are not as they seem, Misty Friday.”
Chapter 6
My boss had arranged for a pay-as-you-go mobile broadband dongle to be delivered to Aunt Beth’s address before my arrival, and the package was sitting on the round antique table on top of a hideously large, crocheted lace doily in the living room. The package had been opened, but everything seemed to be there. I thought I had better get to work and write the article on the Green Man of Fingest and ema
il it to Keith while it was all fresh in my mind. That would take my mind off the stomach-churning feeling.
I set up my laptop at the small desk in the corner of my bedroom. The only alternative was in the living room, a room I was going to do my best to avoid.
The chair was comfortable, but was orange plastic. Perhaps Aunt Beth had been colour-blind. I was surprised that the mobile broadband installed rather easily and with the minimum of frustration. Technology doesn’t usually run that smoothly for me. The converter plug I’d bought back in Australia was the right one, so maybe my luck with computers had changed for the better.
Merlin jumped up on my lap and purred, causing her whole body to vibrate. I carefully tried to type over the top of her, worried if she would scratch me, but she seemed content just to sit there, although I had to be careful not to shift my weight. Doing so made her meow, which I had learned the hard way was a precursor to a swipe and a scratch.
After I attached the photos I had taken, I emailed the article. One of the photos was the one I had taken of the outside of Saint Bartholomew’s, and one was a depiction of the Green Man I had found in Aunt Beth’s living room on an enormous and bizarre piece of antique pottery, which I recognised as Majolica ware. I was starting to notice images of the Green Man everywhere.
My stomach growled a few times, but I wasn’t hungry. I figured I’d go downstairs to look for the missing page. Perhaps that’s why Aunt Beth’s office was so messy. In desperation, maybe she had pulled everything out searching for the page. I had barely stacked up one large pile of papers when the phone rang.
I carefully reached for the phone so as not to upset Merlin and checked the caller I.D.
“Hi Cordelia. Has Skinny gone out?”
“Yes, Skinny and Keith have both gone out. What are you doing?”
“I lodged a story on the Green Man of Fingest. Anyway, Cordelia, you know that article you did a while back on poltergeists?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well, at first I thought it was my imagination, but now I’m sure that things are moving around.”
“Like what, through the air?”
“No, I mean like I see something in a cupboard, then I leave the room and when I come back, it’s out of the cupboard and somewhere else. My reading glasses seem to be in a different place all the time, but I always leave them next to my laptop.”
“Is anything else happening?”
I nodded. “Dreams, I’m having funny dreams.”
“Do you dream about one person in particular?”
I shuddered. “Yes. I don’t see him close up but it’s definitely a man. I’ve also heard him speak, I think.”
Cordelia’s voice was firm. “Then you have a ghost. That house is haunted.”
“Haunted! Do you think I should leave?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realised there was no chance that Keith would pay for me to go to a hotel.
“Leave? Are you crazy? This is good material for another story.”
I groaned. “Anyway, this is the most important thing I have to tell you. I’m beginning to think that Aunt Beth was murdered.”
I expected Cordelia to scream down the phone as she usually did when excited, but she merely asked, “On the basis of what evidence?”
I counted it off on my fingers. “One, when I arrived, a man ran out of her house and nearly knocked me down. Two, there was a big note on the wall with a doctor’s name and number. He came and said there was no need to call the police. Three, her own doctor had no knowledge that she’d died. Four, the note with the doctor’s name on it vanished from the house.”
Cordelia didn’t answer, so I said, “Cordelia?”
“Oh sorry, I was thinking. Come straight back home! You could be in danger.”
I was exasperated. “But you told me to stay here and get my stories.”
“That was before you told me all that.” Cordelia sounded worried.
“So you think Aunt Beth was murdered too?”
“I don’t know, but it sure sounds suspicious. Her own doctor didn’t attend? And had no knowledge of her death? And her own doctor still held her medical records?”
“Yes, yes, and no. Oh I mean, no, no and yes. Her own doctor knew nothing of the doctor who came. His name and number were on the notice board above the phone, then the note went missing pretty much straight after. But who would want to murder an elderly woman?”
“I don’t know.” Cordelia’s tone was firm. “But something doesn’t add up.”
I knew what Cordelia was going to say next so I said equally firmly, “I’m going to stay here and solve her murder.”
I thought Cordelia would try to talk me into coming back, but I was wrong. “Well, be careful. You don’t know what she could have been involved in. Have you seen The Bourne Legacy?”
I thought hard, but couldn’t remember any elderly ladies playing a part in that movie. I had actually seen the movie about ten times as my former flat mate, Fiona, had a crush on Matt Damon. “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“It was about the government killing off their agents. I mean, you are in England and she might have been a retired spy for all you know. England’s full of retired spies. She might have known too much.”
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled a face. “I suppose anything’s possible.”
After our phone call finished, I realised that I hadn’t told Cordelia about Douglas.
I was looking forward to my nightly bubble bath, but when I walked to the bathroom, I saw that the previously locked room was now no longer locked. I would have walked straight past, but I noticed that the door wasn’t quite shut properly.
I had tried that door several times and it had definitely been locked; now it wasn’t. I pushed the door and turned on the light.
This room, like the office, was in a state of chaos. I no longer thought Aunt Beth was messy; clearly someone had been searching for something. I debated calling the police, but was sure they wouldn’t do anything. I thought I should call in on them after the funeral and at least make a report, for whatever good that would do.
I was also quite shocked that my suspicions were now confirmed: Aunt Beth had certainly been into something paranormal. Piles of incense were strewn all over the floor, dragon’s blood, frankincense, myrrh, and sandalwood. Candles were everywhere. I saw a beautiful silver wand with an amethyst at the end, and a golden ritual dagger. The bookcase over the far side of the room held a huge array of herbs in bottles, the ones still standing all clearly labelled. There were masses of various crystals, but most of these had been knocked to the floor.
That night the weird dreams came again.
I dreamt I was standing in a ritual chamber. Arcane symbols were laid out on the floor. Ahead of me was the disturbing image of a phantom, a man with the number thirteen written on his forehead. I looked down and saw I was standing in a circle.
The spectral figure was raised on a low platform, and suddenly, right behind him, two giant cards popped up. I recognised them as Tarot cards. On the left was the Queen of Wands and on the right, the King of Cups. Just as a cold breeze passed right through me, the cards morphed into human figures, figures who looked familiar. At their appearance, the phantom man uttered a horrible cry of anguish and despair, and just the one word, “Help.”
I awoke in a cold sweat, clutching the sheets up to my neck. Alone and terrified, I heard the words whispered again and again in the dark: The page, the page. The page, the page.
Chapter 7
I had seen plenty of photos online of cute little English churches, but of course photographs don’t convey scents. This church not only looked old, it smelt old. What’s more, it possessed an ancient atmosphere.
Aunty June and I took our seats at the front of the church with Cassandra. “Who are all these people?” I asked Cassandra after no one made any move to speak to us.
“I don’t have a clue,” she said.
The minister must have overheard
us because he walked over and introduced himself. “Misty Friday, I presume?” After a round of introductions, we all shook hands.
“Your aunt paid for her funeral in advance,” he explained. “When someone who doesn’t have many friends or relatives passes on to the great hereafter—or maybe down below to the infernal fires of hell—we always make sure the church is filled with members of the parish.”
I looked around at said members of the parish. For some reason they all looked to me like MI5 agents. They were dressed crisply in black, the women in black dresses and the men in black suits. They did not look like random people from a town but rather government officials. It made me quite uneasy. Still, both Cassandra and Aunty June appeared unperturbed.
“It’s a thing, you know,” Aunty June told us in low tones.
“What is?” Cassandra asked her.
“The rent-a-crowd for the funeral,” she replied.
I felt bad at the lack of attendees. “Cassandra, there’s just us—apart from the fake mourners. I mean, I know she had no relatives in the UK, but didn’t she have any friends?”
“She kept to herself, dear.” Cassandra patted my hand. “If the service had been later, people could have read a notice in the paper, but as it’s so soon, no one else would know. Don’t worry. I rarely saw anyone going into her house. She kept to herself,” she said again.
The minister led everyone in singing a mournful hymn, accompanied by organ music. It sounded like something out of an old horror movie. It made me feel thoroughly depressed, but then again it was a funeral. After another depressing hymn all about sinners and hellfire, the minister commenced his sermon.
Although his subject matter was colourful, all about burning for eternity, his tone was monotonous and wearisome. I was nodding off to sleep when Aunty June elbowed me in the ribs. “Misty, it’s rude to fall asleep in a funeral.”
I found I had slumped down in my seat, and sat upright. “Sorry,” I murmured. “Did I miss anything?”
“Yes,” she whispered back. “Everyone in this room is going to hell. There’s no escape.”
