I watched Luppitt as he made it into the room and caught site of the musicians. Watching him was a joy. The cloak that had been covering his face was lifted, his eyes transformed from dark and scared to bright and shining. A great weight lifted from his shoulders and he opened his mouth and raised his hands as though to embrace his brothers from a distance. He fell to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks once more. This time though, I could see they were tears of genuine joy and happiness. The music was interrupted, and then I lost sight of Luppitt as he was mobbed by the Devonshire Fellows.
“Tell me all,” I said a little later when calm had been restored, and tears dried. The brandy lent me a warm buzz, a feeling of contentment, and I wanted to hear the whole of Luppitt’s story.
Luppitt thought hard, rubbing the side of his head as I’d often seen him do, but this time, he could begin to recall his story, and he told it, faltering every now and again, and looking to his brothers for support.
“I was called to the Court. I gave the performance of my life and it was magnificent, but the Queen was furious,” Luppitt began. “It had all been a terrible mistake. An error of judgement on the Baron’s part to fool her into thinking he wrote the songs and poems. He’d demanded the poems of me, and the songs, and the witty verse, and I had obliged him. How could I not? He was my master.” Luppitt shook his head.
“I could not deny him. I was afraid to. And then when we had done it the first time, and the Queen demanded more, how could we refuse her without giving away the deception?”
“An impossible situation.” William Wait nodded.
“We’d surely all have acted in the same way,” Napier said.
“The Baron was arrested, dragged away. I watched from a hiding place in his rooms. Her men did not find me. I heard rumours that the Queen was sending men after me, but I didn’t know whether that was true or not. All I knew was that I had to get away. I borrowed a horse from the Baron’s stable, which in itself was risky, for I might have been hung as a horse thief as much as a swindler, but I rode hard, and I made it to the Saxe-Krumpke seat in Somerset and left the exhausted horse in the stable there in the dead of night.”
“Stealthy,” approved Robert, and the other Fellows nodded their agreement.
“Honest,” whispered Napier, his face shining proudly, like a father to his son.
“I considered going back to my own family, but I’d had nothing to do with them in nearly ten years and besides, if I was the person hunting me, that’s exactly where I would have looked first.”
“Clever thinking, that,” interjected Robert again, and this time even I joined in with the nodding. It was infectious.
“I kept walking. I journeyed past my old house while my father and sisters slept inside, and then I kept on going until I crossed into Devon, and I walked some more. All I had with me were the clothes on my back, a small bundle of belongings, and my beloved lute.”
Napier scuttled backwards to where the Fellows had deposited their possessions when they first entered the room. He carefully extracted one of the instruments and brought it forward holding it up, offering it in reverence, to Luppitt.
Luppitt reached over and gently took the instrument, light coloured wood shining in the firelight. “Can it be?” he breathed.
“It is,” Napier returned. “We’ve carried it with us through all of time.”
Luppitt strummed the strings, and in that one reverberating note, I heard the beauty of sound that only a true magickal and musical genius can conjure. He picked a few more notes and then a chord, then placed it lovingly in his lap.
“Then I met these wonderful musicians and we began to travel around. It was difficult at first.”
Robert carried on, explaining to me, “You have to remember that these were the years of plague, and many people were suspicious of travellers and strangers, so we tended to stay for a while with a community, and ingratiate ourselves with the locals, play at taverns and inns for a week or more at a time, and then move to the next one. We mainly stayed put in Devon, occasionally venturing across into one of the neighbouring counties if we were asked to.”
“I was always worried my past was going to catch up with me,” Luppitt said.
“And then one dreadful day, it did,” Napier mourned.
“We were attacked outside Exeter,” William said in indignation.
“Only two men, but they were well-armed,” Robert added. “We tried to fight them off, but before we could do so, they struck a fatal blow to the side of Luppitt’s head with a huge hammer. We tried to save him, but he died in my arms.”
“We had made our vows though,” William said. “We knew we would be reunited in death.”
“And we were,” Luppitt carried on. “As the years passed, they met up with me as we travelled the circuit around Devon as we always had, playing where we always did.”
“But countless number of times, every time we reached the outskirts of Exeter, we would be set upon by a pair of scoundrels, and we’d have to watch Luppitt die all over again.” Napier’s face had filled with woe.
“So we altered where we’d go and when,” Robert carried on, “but it made no difference. They started to find us wherever we were, although the means by which they killed Luppitt varied.”
“Drowning, hanging, burning, crushing, beating, shooting, you name it…” Napier grimaced.
“They must have been ghosts too?” I asked, and Luppitt nodded.
“Yes. The first time, when they killed me, they were mortal themselves. I believe good Robert here drew the blood of one of them.”
Robert nodded, his face fierce. “I’d do it again if I could.”
“But after that, there was a gap of a few years before they came after me again.”
“They hadn’t passed completely over, perhaps because you hadn’t,” I suggested.
“I couldn’t,” Luppitt said and softly strummed the lute in his lap.
“Because of your vows.” I understood. “And they’ve been trying to kill you over and over ever since. We have to call them off. I wonder who could have sent these men?”
“Oh we know who sent them alright,” Robert said, and I could hear the anger in his voice.
“Who?”
“Baron Cecil von Saxe-Krumpke.”
“The Baron’s son?” It couldn’t be so.
“The same.”
“How do you know that?” As much as I loved these guys, I was unwilling to jump to conclusions if the evidence was unsubstantiated.
“Because as they struck the fatal blow against Luppitt, when he was already lying on the ground unable to defend himself, they told him they were doing it in his name.” Robert said. I looked around at the rest of the Devonshire Fellows and they all nodded, faces grim. “Baron Cecil von Saxe-Krumpke sends his regards and hopes you rot in hell for what you did to his noble father, are the exact words the rogue used.”
That appeared pretty conclusive to me.
“So now that we know,” said Luppitt, his face shining with hope. “We can call them off, can’t we? Maybe talk to the Baron’s son? You can do that, my lady?”
“No, I can’t,” I said, the realisation punching me in the stomach where brandy was fighting the fruit juice I’d drunk earlier. “I can’t … because according to his father, Baron Richard, Baron Cecil passed completely over when he died. I can’t reach him in the beyond.”
“But if the hoodlums he hired received orders and have been carrying them out ever since…” Robert said.
“Then they’re stuck in a loop and will continue to do it forever,” I finished.
Luppitt wasn’t safe yet.
The Devonshire Fellows, complete with Luppitt played long into the night to the delight of all the ghosts in the inn, including Gwyn, who tapped her feet and jigged along with the rest of us.
When I finally turfed everyone out of my rooms, insomnia kept me company for the rest of the night. When dawn broke over the horizon, bright and fiery and promising another fin
e and mild day for the time of year, I dragged myself out of bed to find breakfast.
“Morning, Miss,” Florence said when I joined her in the kitchen. “You look a little peaky.”
“Probably the brandy,” I muttered, my voice deeper than it normally was. I thought I saw Florence hide a smile.
I forced myself to eat some toast and drank two mugs full of coffee, before meandering out into the bar area. Perdita and Chi were gathering their belongings together by the front door.
I frowned in confusion, concerned it had been my driving that was sending Perdita running for cover, but I needn’t have worried. She beamed her big smile at me and led me into The Nook.
“I’ve completed all my research and collated it all here for you in these folders.” Perdita ran a bright red nail across four files, each in a different primary colour. “Everything you need is in here somewhere, and I’ve taken the liberty to index everything.” She flipped one folder to show me. “As I explained yesterday, there’s data for every one of the ghosts – including their trails, and anything else we know about them. Some you know a great deal about – such as your father for example, or Florence or your great grandmother, and others you know nothing of. It’s entirely up to you what you do with the data. Add to it. Use it. Track the ghosts down and ask them to leave. Whatever.” She closed the folder and placed it neatly on the desk.
“I’ve also taken the liberty of summarising some interesting information that may be of use to you. My research can’t really uncover the age of the ghost, as I’ve said. That involves actually challenging them.”
“That’s the ghost whispering bit.”
“Indeed. If you want to know who they are, where they’ve come from and why they’re at the inn, then you’ll need to have a chat.”
“Okay.”
“As we’ve seen, some of the trails are wide ranging, Arthur Grubbe’s is a case in point, and your father’s is another example. Other ghosts tend remain in a single room, like Luppitt in the bedroom, or a few in the attic.”
“Right.”
“Most of the ghosts inhabit the house or gardens. A few in the woods, and one, sometimes two in an outbuilding.” Perdita selected the yellow folder. “See this?” Perdita ran her finger down one page, and I could see how the numbers grouped together—forming circles in the shape of trees. She flipped the page and I vaguely recognised a trail across the grounds towards a large shed in the back garden, where the ride on lawnmower was kept, with an adjoining wood and coal store.
“There are a couple of ghosts who come and go in that area, and one who is there often. Interesting because he wasn’t there when I first began to take readings, see…” She showed me the earliest versions of the data. “There was no ghost habitually in situ at that time. And…” She followed a line of numbers in orange, frowning. “This is a complete disparity in the reading. At some stage there was a visitor to the inn, who went out to this area. It’s not you, because you’re tracked in red, and it’s not me, because I’m tracked in purple.”
“Oh,” I said thoughtfully, but not particularly worried because I often received deliveries. It might have been someone dropping off wood direct to the store, but it would be worth having a look at later, in case it was anything to do with Luppitt’s situation. “I’ll check that out,” I said. “Thanks. You’ve done a huge amount of work.”
“Oh it’s been my absolute pleasure. If you ever need any help chatting with your ghosts, or you want some extra assistance moving them on, do let me know.”
“I will,” I said and walked Perdita and Chi out to the front of the inn where a large taxi was waiting for her. I helped gather all her things, including the precious electro-endoquaero, and the taxi driver, with a valiant effort, stowed everything away safely, while I hugged first Perdita and then Chi.
I waved as the taxi ambled gently down the drive, but once it had disappeared from view, I sighed with relief.
Perdita had gone, and I could let go of the ridiculous pressure I’d put myself under.
I didn’t intend to move any of my ghosts on. I had made my decision; the ghosts of wonky inn were here to stay.
A few hours later I took a picnic lunch and headed into Speckled Wood for a walk, intending to stroll the whole length of my land to the boundary with the forest beyond and then return. I needed some thinking time, but more than that I needed to clear my foggy head. I hoped Florence would hide the brandy bottle for the foreseeable future.
The air did me the world of good. I took long strides, climbed up banks in double time, and jumped across ditches and roots, trying to raise my heartbeat and stretch at the same time, enjoying the opportunity to exercise in the fresh air. The season was on the turn, and the first golden and red leaves were dropping silently to the ground, but even so, it felt as though there was hardly a hint of breeze, the air was still warm, and winter seemed a long way away.
Arriving at the clearing in the middle of the wood, I made myself comfortable on one of the benches there and pulled out one of Florence’s freshly made pasties. Wrapped in foil, it still had some warmth, and I tucked in with gusto, the juices dribbling down my chin in my haste to cram it in. I washed it down with a bottle of water, saving just enough to clean my fingers, then surveyed the slice of Victoria sponge she had packed and decided to let that one wait until the return journey.
I wondered how Gwyn was getting on with finding me a chef. Apart from the previous evening, she had been conspicuous by her absence of late, which I found suspicious. It probably meant she was up to no good. Meanwhile Florence was doing a grand job. The housemaid was actually a talented baker. She would miss the kitchen if she was replaced. Maybe she could help out from time to time. The chef would need a day off here and there, presumably.
It was becoming essential to hire other members of staff. Just a few weeks ago I had assumed they would all need to be human, but over the past few days I had realised that I had practically everyone I required on site already. Zephaniah, Ned and Florence. Grandmama and my father—when he was around—would pull their weight too. I had no doubt that I could ask almost any of the ghosts for assistance and they would oblige. The Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew had worked a treat after all.
Knowing that I fully intended to keep the ghosts in situ finally cemented my ideas for the inn. I had always wanted to differentiate Whittle Inn from The Hay Loft, the other inn in Whittlecombe, and now I knew exactly how. An inn full of ghosts wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but there wasn’t a witch alive (or dead) who could care less about spirits in the walls, inhabiting the bathrooms or hiding out in the attic.
But not just my own kind. No. Far better than that.
Whittle Inn would become the destination of choice for all manner of supernatural creatures, mortal, immortal, magickal, folkloric and Fae, along with all their friends and sympathisers.
It would be weird, it would be wonderful, and I would have a blast.
With my mind made up, and my imagination running riot as I considered exactly how to go about theming the bedrooms and dressing the inn, I turned for home, but stopped in my tracks when I spotted Mr Hoo soaring under the canopy of leaves and heading directly for me.
“Hoo. Hoo. Hoo-oooo.” He seemed frantic, alighting on to a nearby branch and flapping his wings. His head wobbling side to side in owl-y discontent.
“What’s up?” I asked as my mobile began to ring.
“Wait a second, Mr Hoo. Let me get this.”
I fished my mobile from my back pocket. Mr Kephisto’s name appeared on the screen. I could hear Caius in the background, cawing in agitation.
“Mr Kephisto? What’s up?” My heart sped up, and the headache I thought had abated, thumped once more in my temples.
“Alf, thank goodness. I’ve been trying you for the past hour.”
“I’m in the wood. I probably don’t have much of a signal.”
“Okay, then I’ll make this quick.” His voice started to break up and I caught the tail end of the sente
nce. “…Dangerous.”
“Dangerous? What is? Hello?” I called into the handset, frantically twisting about to find the signal, while Mr Hoo hooted noisily next to me. I held my hand out to calm him. “Can you repeat what you said? I missed it.”
Mr Kephisto’s voice faded in and out. “You need to get back to the inn, Alf. Your great grandmother has sent word to Wizard Shadowmender, and he to me. There’s a priest heading your way. He might have arrived already.”
“A priest?” I asked. “I don’t understand.” I had no need of a priest. I had no grudge against other religions, but I practised my own spiritualism. Mr Kephisto quickly put me straight.
“He’s there to exorcise the inn, Alf. You need to run!”
“Sweet belladonna,” I muttered, stuffing my phone into my pocket and trotting along the path. “An exorcism? Who? Who would a priest want to exorcise?” I shook my head, the full horror sinking in. What if he wanted to exorcise all the ghosts in the inn?
Every single one of them. The Devonshire Fellows. Florence. Zephaniah. Gwyn. My father…
“No!”
The urgency hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer. I sped up, pelting down the trail, and now the afternoon didn’t seem so benign after all. Hidden dangers lurked in the shadowy undergrowth, branches reached out and snagged my hair, or whipped against my face. I yanked myself free time and time again, my breathing laboured, my lungs straining for oxygen.
“How is this possible?” I panted, addressing nobody in particular. “And who sent this?” Who could have alerted the priest to the ghosts at the inn and why would they do that? What went on at the inn was nobody’s business but mine. More to the point so few people knew about the ghosts…
It could only be someone with a grudge against me or the inn.
Jed.
Always my first thought. I knew him as a traitor. The one who had hurt me so badly. Anger flared inside me as I ran. I should have finished him off when I had the chance.
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Page 13
