Smiling, I looked down at the page and began to read.
‘Chapter Eight’, it read:
Richard William von Saxe-Krumpke, 15th Baron Krumpke of Sudgeley, Somerset (c. 1548 – 20 March 1592) was the nephew on his mother’s side of the English queen Jane Seymour, the third wife of King Henry VIII and mother of King Edward VI. He was the husband of Mary nee Parry. He is probably best known for his cultural influence at the court of Queen Elizabeth I for a number of years in the late 1580s.
Richard was the son of Baron John von Saxe-Krumpke and Dorothy Stafford. He grew up at Shiregate Hall, the von Saxe-Krumpke family home, in Somerset, a county in southwest England. The von Saxe-Krumpkes were a family of country gentry, with strong military connections. On his mother’s side, John von Saxe-Krumpke, like many holders of manorial rights, traced his ancestry to Norman origin, although his own grandfather’s background was Prussian – hence the military connections.
To his contemporaries, Richard was reckless, a risk-taker, and a notable womaniser. He was known to be devoted to his children, although less so of his wife, Mary. Detailed records suggest numerous affairs.
Sir Thomas Fitzwilliam, a lifelong friend of King Henry VIII, and neighbour of the Baron’s in Somerset described Richard von Saxe-Krumpke as "resilient, astute and generous ... ferocious of manner when the occasion warranted, but poetic of tongue and courtly in fashion, stately of person, and lyrical of voice. However, he was somewhat empty of matter, and occasionally lacking in morals."
Richard von Saxe-Krumpke had ambitions, but was largely overlooked at court, until he caught the eye of Queen Elizabeth with his wit, poetry and songs. Unfortunately, it appeared that the Baron’s ambitions had gotten the better of him, as the poems and songs were actually written by his Bard, Luppitt Smeatharpe, whom it is rumoured, he kept as a virtual prisoner at his seat in Somerset.
When Luppitt eventually attended court with the von Saxe-Krumpke family, the deception was uncovered. Courtiers became suspicious that the Baron’s songs were not all his own work as he claimed. The Queen bade Smeatharpe attend her and perform a concert of his works to date.
The Baron initially vigorously denied he had been performing works for the Queen that were not his own, which only made the Queen more furious. Richard was sent to the Tower of London to await trial for treason, at the Queen’s bequest in 1590, and died there in March 1592 after a long illness.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “There he is. Our Bard. And according to this he was the reason for Richard von Saxe-Krumpke falling out of favour with Queen Elizabeth.”
“You could see this as just desserts, perhaps? It sounds as though the von Saxe-Krumpkes were less than fair to poor Luppitt.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” I replied, flicking through the earlier parts of the book, wondering if the family had always been a bit dog-eat-dog with the people who worked for them. “I suppose that historically many rich folk—lords and ladies and royalty and the like—were a bit cutthroat and devil-may-care about people lower down on the social scale than themselves, weren’t they? Reading between the lines here, poor old Luppitt probably had it tough.”
“Which is not to say that the punishment fit the crime, by any means,” Mr Kephisto continued. “Isn’t that often the case? When you think of the similar punishments meted out to witches over the years.” He grimaced, and I shuddered, thinking of all those men and women who had been stoned to death, hung, drawn and quartered, drowned in local ponds and lakes, or burned at the stake or generally persecuted throughout the centuries, for simply being a little different to their neighbours.
“It certainly did you no good to cross the Tudors, did it?” I thought of Henry VIII and his poor wives and their relatives, and the numerous people he’d put to death one way or another.
“No, and perhaps we should be surprised that Queen Elizabeth spared the rest of Richard’s family and allowed the von Saxe-Krumpke line to go on.”
I turned to the back of The Rise and Fall of the von Saxe-Krumpke Family – from Antiquity to the Modern Day. “Do they exist through to this day?”
Mr Kephisto shook his head. “Difficult to say. This history was completed in 1888, and there isn’t a more up-to-date version. Many British families changed their name during the First World War if they had a surname that sounded even vaguely Germanic. You’d probably need a genealogist to trace the line through to present times. I expect the family exists in some form, somewhere.”
I pondered on that. It wasn’t a lead that would take us anywhere. “But it isn’t someone alive we’re looking for anyway - so that won’t help us. Whomever it is that keeps going after Luppitt, it has to be a ghost.” I explained to the old wizard what I had gathered about ghosts killing ghosts from Perdita.
“Is she proving useful?” Mr Kephisto asked. Perhaps he wanted me to review Perdita’s services, so he could update the information he held on her.
“That’s difficult to say.” I frowned, and my expression told its own story.
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m…” How to explain it? “I suppose I’m feeling pressure, perhaps self-imposed, to reconsider how many ghosts one inn can handle. According to Perdita there are over thirty-six ghosts at the inn. Do you think that’s too many?”
Mr Kephisto cocked his head with interest but didn’t respond. I knew what he was thinking. Only I could make that decision.
“I could ask a few dozen to move on, and I know they would. But…It’s a tough call,” I tried to explain. “I have to consider my guests.”
“Your guests are important. If that’s your primary consideration. Why is it such a difficult decision?”
“Where would the ghosts go?” I asked softly. “They have chosen the inn for one reason or another. Some of them because they lived or worked there. Some because they have found their way there. I don’t know what right I have to move them on.” I closed the book and placed it on the table between us, reaching instead for my tea, and gathering my thoughts.
“And that brings me back to Luppitt. I thought he was safe at the inn, but it turns out someone has found him. He was attacked just the other day, Mr Kephisto. Think what it must be like to be killed over and over again.”
“He died again?”
“Not this time, thank the goddess. But now I really understand what he’s going through.”
I tapped the book. “Thinking about it, perhaps this gives us all the information we need. Consider those who may have held a grudge against Luppitt at the time. The Baron himself. His son. Maybe even Queen Elizabeth! Perhaps Luppitt was on her list of people who had wronged her, and she never managed to get vengeance.”
“I can’t see her actually wielding a sword against anyone herself, though.” Mr Kephisto smiled.
“No, nor hoisting him up into a tree. You’re right. But what is it she said? I have the body of a woman—”
“I have the body of a weak, feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a King of England too,” Mr Kephisto replied with a grand flourish.
“Hmpf. There’s nothing weak and feeble about many of the women I know.”
“Nor me, Alfhild! I’ve known large numbers of extraordinary women.” Mr Kephisto chuckled. “I think you’re on to something. Someone held a grudge against Luppitt in life, and they’re carrying that with them, even after death.”
I replaced my cup and saucer on the table and made a move to stand. “I’m grateful to you for the information, Mr Kephisto. It’s not much but it’s certainly a start. Maybe I’ll try and track down Baron von Saxe-Krumpke’s family.” I paused. What was I thinking of? Surely, I had the wherewithal to do more than that? I was a ghost whisperer after all.
“Pfft. Maybe I’ll track down the Baron himself.”
9 am.
I stood nervously on the front step of the inn, having breakfasted, showered and tamed my wild mane of hair in preparation for the day ahead. I’d dressed, as I usually did, in black, but today I�
��d ensured I looked as smart as possible. There was no evidence of plaster dust or paint smears on my long skirt and button through blouse. I’d applied some make-up too, and hoped I looked sophisticated and experienced, as the owner of a soon-to-be top-class boutique-style inn really should.
I’d set the Wonky Inn Clean-up Crew to work in earnest, and now every nook and cranny of Whittle Inn had been swept and dusted to my satisfaction, every work surface washed clean, and every tile in both the kitchens and bathrooms sparkled. The inn was a long way from being decorated and ready to open, but at least I could see the wood for the trees at last.
All I needed now were the staff to help me raise my game, and that would start right now. I intended to have hired a chef by the end of the day.
With six chefs to see it promised to a be a long and interesting Thursday. I clutched a clipboard nervously to my chest and checked my watch for the hundredth time in five minutes. This was the first time I’d put my wonky inn on show, and it felt strangely personal.
As the first taxi rolled down the drive I swallowed nervously. A young man peered out at the inn and then at me. He said something to the driver who promptly sped up, scattering gravel and dust all over me. I coughed and waved the cloud of dust away, just in time to see the taxi disappearing back down the lane to Whittlecombe.
My stomach lurched and then dropped. Was something wrong? What had I done? What had my inn done?
I turned on my heel and headed into the kitchen for some of Florence’s restorative tea, before I could burst into tears and ruin my mascara.
Checking my mobile, I found I would have at least one more no-show. Based in Manchester in the north west, he’d sent a text that was both short and sweet and explained he had changed his mind about venturing as far afield as Devon. I had the dull thud of a headache beginning, but suitably fortified with fresh tea and a pep talk from Florence, I returned to my place on the step and welcomed three of the remaining four applicants in quick succession: Martin Toynbee, a 42-year-old head chef from Bracknell in Reading; Georgie Bodega, a 36-year-old private cook from Essex, and David Hawkesworth, a 59-year-old sous chef from somewhere remote in Yorkshire.
We waited a little while longer, making small talk in the main bar, but when it became apparent that applicant number six was never going to arrive I decided to give the ones I had succeeded in attracting, a guided tour of the inn. I started at the top, carefully neglecting to open the attic door, but showing them the bedroom I had put aside for the successful applicant. Situated under the eaves, it was a corner room, complete with a turret. Large enough for a bed and a small seating area, I thought it a lovely place to base oneself, but I noticed that my three potential employees grimaced a little. Perhaps it was the rough plastering on the wall, or the single glazed window.
“It’s a very old inn,” I explained. “I still have quite a bit of work to do. You kind of have to learn to live with its eccentricities. It does have a lot of character though.”
“There’s no denying that,” David replied, sitting down on the old bed and bouncing up and down on the mattress. He wasn’t a small man, at six foot one and around fifteen stone. The bed creaked alarmingly. Martin looked on, his face twisted with disapproval, whether at the room or David, I couldn’t tell and didn’t ask.
“Er, I can replace the bed, that’s no problem,” I said and quickly led them down to the next floor and showed them the guest bedrooms, all much of a muchness really, and all awaiting decoration. The chefs nodded in unison, and on the whole tried to look polite and interested. I noticed Georgie rubbing her arms. She was obviously feeling the cold. The inn could be cold if you weren’t used to it, and so far I hadn’t turned the radiators on in most of the guest rooms.
We skipped the last bedroom, but David paused outside and put his hand on the door knob.
“Not that one,” I said quickly.
“Oh I thought you said you didn’t have any guests at the moment?” David turned the handle.
I leapt forward, intent on getting between the chef and the door to prevent him entering, but I misjudged my footing, and whacked my knee against the door frame instead. I watched in dismay as David led Martin and Georgie inside, hoping that Luppitt was safely hidden away.
I caught a brief glimpse of Zephaniah, but he quickly slunk down behind the bed.
David stood in the middle of the room. “Now this is a nice room,” he said. “Great views.”
Is he anchoring for this room if he gets the job? I wondered. Impossible.
“Yes. I think this will be a prized guest room,” I emphasized. “Nice and spacious.”
“It’s absolutely freezing in here,” Georgie complained, and I swear her teeth chattered loud enough to hear.
“It is,” Martin agreed. “Unnaturally so.”
“Is the inn haunted?” David asked and guffawed loudly. For some reason I wanted to slap him on the top of his balding head.
I tried to laugh the question off, but I could see that Martin and Georgie were curious to hear what I had to say.
“Well, there have been some reports of ghostly happenings,” I said, and from his place behind the bed Zephaniah snorted.
“I wouldn’t pay them much attention,” I said and indicated the door, to get them all out of the room before Zephaniah gave them the opportunity to cotton on to his existence and give the game away completely.
“I’m very susceptible to supernatural happenings,” Georgie piped up, looking in the direction of Zephaniah’s sudden explosion of noise. “You can just tell this old place has plenty of spirit activity.”
“Is that right?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably at the direction the conversation was suddenly heading, and hoping Zephaniah could feel me glaring at him.
Martin was looking increasingly out of sorts. “I’m not used to old buildings,” he mumbled. “I’ve only really worked in modern builds.”
“Well, this will be a wonderful new experience for you!” I trilled. “Come, come! Let me take you downstairs and show you the business end of the inn.” Before anyone could respond, I slammed the bedroom door behind me and headed the opposite way down the corridor to the back stairs. Pointing to a door at the end of the corridor I said, “That’s where my quarters are if you ever need me.” With that I rushed down the stairs, taking the last two in one go, wrenching my ankle in the process. I cried out in pain and Perdita came out of The Nook to see what all the commotion was about, Chi at her heels, barking in excitement.
Nooooooooooo, I cried inwardly. I’d forgotten all about Perdita. I should have sent her off on a long walk in Speckled Wood with her dog.
“What’s going on?” she asked, and Chi barked along musically.
“Nothing, nothing,” I said with forced cheerfulness, resisting the urge to reach down and cradle my foot, now twinging in misery.
“What a cute little dog!” Georgie gushed behind me and I rolled my eyes.
“Oh hello.” Perdita beamed, as if only now spotting the three people who followed in my wake. “Are these your first guests, Alfhild?” she asked, shushing Chi. I glanced back in time to see David do a double-take as he observed Perdita’s halo of frizzy hair and thick glasses with bright pink rims, that matched her tights, but not her citrus orange coloured dress, or her neon yellow sandals.
“Ah no, not really,” I scowled at her. “I’m interviewing for position of head chef today.” And these unfortunate three are all that remains of a not particularly strong field, I could have added. “We should get on.”
“Ah of course, excellent.” Perdita didn’t wait for me to introduce her. “I’m Perdita Pugh. I’m only here temporarily, so I expect I’ll have left by the time you start.
“What do you do here?” asked Georgie, pushing past me so she could pet Chi.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, I mentally begged Perdita.
But of course, she did.
“I’m a ghost whisperer.”
“I knew it!” exploded Georgie and Mart
in turned a fetching shade of green.
“Ghosts?” David asked.
“I could sense something upstairs!” Georgie was triumphant. “In the last bedroom that we visited. The temperature had really dropped in that room. There was definitely something in there.”
“Which room?” Perdita enquired, glancing at me. Gritting my teeth, I said nothing.
Georgie spun around to get her bearings. “Oh let me see.” She pointed at far corner to the front of the inn.
“I can check,” Perdita said and disappeared into The Nook to consult her electro-endoquaero. I wanted to put my head in my hands. David looked at me quizzically and I forced a smile. Everything is normal here. Nothing to see.
“What do you have in there?” Georgie asked and made to go after Perdita.
“All manner of—”
“We really must get on,” I interjected. “I’m sure you understand Perdita.”
Georgie looked disappointed and I smiled at her. “If we have time later, I’m sure Perdita will be happy to show you what she’s up to.” I glared at Perdita, but she was oblivious. I waved my hands in the direction of the kitchen, hoping and praying that Florence had taken herself off to the attic as I’d instructed. Short of manhandling the chefs, gesticulating wildly was all I could do. I tried to usher them through, but Georgie was dragging her heels.
“Nice to have met you! Good luck!” sang Perdita. “And the answer to your question is fifty-six.”
Everyone stood stock still.
I laughed nervously into the sudden silence.
“Approximately.” I tried humour to dispel the awkwardness.
“No, no. That’s an exact figure. As it stands currently at any rate.” Perdita stood by her guns.
Martin stepped down off the stairs. He looked like a man on the edge of some sort of breakdown. His hair stood on end and his lips were drawn back in fear. “Well I think I’ve seen all I need to. Thank you for the opportunity, Miss Daemonne.” He held a shaky hand out, but before I had a chance to take it, he bolted towards the frosted door that led into the bar and was gone.
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Page 8
