by Faith Martin
But for them to arrive and find that the actress playing Lady Hester had actually just died . . . well. Not to put too fine a point on it, it had rather put the dampeners on what had been shaping up to be a really convivial evening.
Mind you, he supposed morosely, as he stood sipping his second mild gin and tonic of the evening, in some ways it had certainly added a little piquancy to the proceedings. But he was a little wary about having such a potentially ‘fresh’ ghost to think about. Most of his starring players had been dead for many years — in some cases centuries. And the thought of being out and about in the dark merely hours after some poor girl had died . . .
Malcolm sighed heavily. He didn’t like it. But he also wasn’t sure just what he should do about it. Play it down? Play it up? Ignore it?
He eyed his latest group with a slightly jaundiced eye, trying to gauge their mood and what they might want to do now.
They were, by and large, a fairly representational bunch.
Over his many years in this business, Malcolm had come to learn that there were basically four types of punter.
By far his largest group of ghost-walkers consisted of tourists and holidaymakers, responding to the leaflets he left in various hotels, advertising a ghost walk in their area. These were very much of the ‘why not have a bit of a laugh while we’re here’ variety, who tended on the whole to be good-natured, and enjoyed themselves hugely. Especially if a black cat shooting out of the bushes gave them a nice little turn just when Malcolm had got to a particularly scary part of his narration.
Then there were the kinda/wannabe believers, who came on the walk because their great-uncle Albert had sworn that he’d once seen his great-aunt Mabel’s ghost in the coal shed or whatever. These, too, enjoyed the ghost stories, and were perhaps a little bit more spooked when tramping through a churchyard at night, but on the whole enjoyed the pub crawl as much as anything.
Then, less common than you might think, came the genuine, dedicated but ‘amateur’ believers who were convinced that they themselves had seen a ghost, or were desperate to see one. With these, Malcolm was very careful to pitch his stories with a bit less light-heartedness and drop in a bit more serious ‘scholarly detail.’
And then, rarest of all (for which Malcolm was heartily glad) were what he thought of as the ‘professional’ ghost-hunters, who took things very seriously indeed. Thankfully, Malcolm didn’t have to endure many of these, as they tended to regard ghost walks in general as being well beneath them.
Which was why, on this particular night, Malcolm was struggling to keep a happy smile on his face. Because news of the tragedy at the village pond had spread like wildfire, and Malcolm had just spotted two blokes in the crowd, laden down with various pieces of equipment, who were clearly intent on doing some very serious investigation indeed.
Malcolm, who recognised the infrared cameras and electronic equipment that was supposed to register ‘ghostly voices or EVP’ and ‘magnetic emanations’ and who-the-hell-knew-what-else, gazed at them with a jaundiced eye. People like these tended to talk your head off and bore you rigid — which was odd, since their subject matter should be so very interesting.
Which made him seriously contemplate cutting out the Caulcott Deeping walk altogether and going on somewhere else.
Unfortunately, not only had he already promised his group this walk, he could see now that they were all deep in animated conversation with the locals, who were only too willing to tell them all about the fatal afternoon that had just passed. And what else could be more fascinating than a tale of tragedy involving a beautiful young actress?
Even as he sipped his drink, he could hear an enthralled woman’s voice talking to one of his punters. ‘She was such a pretty thing. Who’d have thought she could die just from going into the pond? It was so unexpected. And the police have been here, talking to everyone!’
And, quick as a flash, a rather querulous voice that he recognised as belonging to a member of his group, shot back, ‘Do you think it could be Lady Hester’s revenge? Perhaps she didn’t like it, this amateur theatre group doing her story? She might have taken offence! Perhaps she was waiting in the water and pulled this Rachel Norman woman down?’
The voice belonged to a seventy-something retired schoolteacher, who’d been boring the socks off the rest of them all evening, recounting his incident with a ghost when he’d been a boy. (Something to do with a woman in white at a bowling green. Or was it at a lawn tennis club?)
Now he sighed, and stood up a little straighter, and clapped his hands lightly. He couldn’t let this sort of melodrama go unchecked. Before he knew it, things would be getting out of hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the McFadden Ghost Walk Tours,’ he raised his voice effortlessly. ‘As I can see you’ve already heard,’ he began, when a short respectful silence had fallen, ‘the village has suffered a very recent sad and tragic event. In light of this, I was wondering if you would prefer to skip this part of the tour and go straight on to Barton-on-the-Green instead?’
There was the usual frantic eye-catching that went on, as any group of only-just-met strangers tried to come to a consensus without actually speaking to one another. Eventually, the wife of a couple that were here on holiday from Scotland cleared her throat.
‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to do the walk here.’
There was a vague general muttering that emphatically agreed with her. And Malcolm was no mug. Over the years he’d finely honed his ability to read his punters’ moods, and he thought he had a pretty good measure of them now.
Ghouls, he thought with a bit of a sigh. All of them! ‘Very well then. We can go to the church as planned, and then on to the house . . . Er, we will, of course, have to pass by the village pond on the way,’ as if he didn’t know that that’s where they were all dying to go in order to have a good gawk! ‘So, if anyone needs a stiff drink, I suggest you order one now, and we’ll get on our way in . . . shall we say ten minutes?’
There was a brief rush to the bar, where Richard Sparkey was delightedly pushing his ruinously expensive brandy, and conversation broke out again in excited bursts and starts.
Over by her table near the window seat, Jenny Starling had listened to this exchange with a rather wry smile.
She remembered Muriel telling her about the scheduled ghost walk, and Min’s eagerness to go on it. Now, she rather doubted that the American couple would be feeling so keen. In fact, as she looked around she couldn’t see either of them. Perhaps they’d decided to have an early night.
She did catch the eye of Rory Gilchrist, however, who was looking at the gaggle of excited ghost-walkers with a rather sour smile of his own.
She herself wouldn’t be caught dead going on the ghost walk. And then Jenny had to give an inner smile over her rather inapt choice of phrase.
Although none of the ‘outsiders,’ as she couldn’t help but think of them, had known Rachel Norman, she couldn’t help but think the whole thing was in rather bad taste. Clearly, nobody from the inn or the Regency Extravaganza were going to go.
But there, as it turned out, she was wrong.
For when the tour departed ten minutes later, Ion Dryfuss left his seat and went silently after them.
* * *
‘So this is where the ex-fiancée hangs out,’ Inspector Franklyn said. Felicity Thornton, like her one-time boyfriend, still lived in the family home, a semi-detached house remarkably similar to that of the Greenslades. Built around the same time but in a slightly larger and more run-down cul-de-sac, Thomas Franklyn could sympathise with the youngsters’ wish to get a place of their own. And for a moment, he felt vaguely sorry that the dead girl had come between them and ruined their dreams. Still, they were young and would doubtless get over it.
‘What do we know about her?’ he asked briskly, slamming the car door shut behind him and glancing around. A few rather pitiful streetlights had now come on, casting a rather sickly orange glow on the cracked pavements, but now that the uns
easonably hot day had passed, a pleasantly cool evening breeze now stirred the leaves on the trees. Soon enough, he mused, that breeze would get colder as autumn finally arrived.
‘She lives with her widowed mother, sir. No priors or previous,’ Lucy rattled off. She glanced at her watch, seeing that it was nearly nine o’clock, and was glad that this was the last call of the day. She wanted to get off home and have a long soak in the bath, and watch an American TV programme she was addicted to on catch-up TV. Which, in Lucy’s opinion, was the best invention since sliced bread.
‘Right, best get on with it then,’ Franklyn sighed. He, too, was sounding weary.
Mrs Thornton answered the door quickly, and then proceeded to look them up and down with a definite glint in her eye. Dressed in smart but casual tailored trousers and a lightweight sweater in a complicated knitted design, she had a chic jet-black geometric hairstyle and was wearing light make-up. In short, she looked like the sort of woman that you didn’t argue with. Her mouth was pinched tight, and her grey eyes were narrowed slightly.
She reminded Lucy of one of her teachers back at school — one who’d always given her extra homework.
She reminded the inspector of a madam he’d once arrested back in the nineties, whose memory always managed to bring him out in a cold sweat.
‘Mrs Thornton? Is your daughter, Felicity, in?’ Franklyn got straight to the point.
‘Why? Who are you?’
Both police officers hastily showed their identification.
‘What do you want with my daughter?’ she demanded. She had not, as yet, moved from her position squarely filling the doorway, and gave no indication that she was prepared to ask them in.
‘We just have a few questions about her whereabouts this afternoon,’ Franklyn said firmly. ‘It’s just routine,’ he added.
What the dragon-lady might have said to this, luckily, they never got to learn, since a younger and far more friendly voice called over her shoulder, ‘Mum, who is it?’ and a moment later, a tall, raven-haired woman appeared. Her eyes were also grey, like her mother’s, but they had a much more friendly look about them. Her expression, however, was puzzled. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.
‘Police, Miss Thornton. We have just a few quick questions for you, if you don’t mind,’ the inspector said quickly, before her mother could speak.
‘Me? You want to talk to me?’ She sounded surprised, but gently reached out a hand and put it on her mother’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Mum.’ And to the police officers, ‘Of course I don’t mind. Do come on in,’ she invited, and when her guardian dragon reluctantly moved to one side, they could see that she had a rather boyish figure, dressed in jeans and a pale green T-shirt.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?’ she offered.
‘No, thank you,’ Franklyn said. ‘Although if you’d like to talk in the kitchen whilst you make yourself a cup, that would be fine,’ he added quickly. In the hopes, of course, that her mother would take herself off to the lounge.
But Lucy could have told him that was a forlorn hope, and within five minutes all four of them were sitting down at the kitchen table, and Felicity — still with a rather puzzled frown on her face — set about answering their questions.
When she confirmed that she’d been around to Matthew Greenslade’s house earlier, in order to call off their engagement and give him his ring back, Mrs Thornton’s mouth pinched even tighter, but she remained mercifully silent.
‘And when you left his house you came straight back here?’ Franklyn asked.
‘Yes,’ Felicity agreed, looking between him and his sergeant. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Was your mother here?’ Franklyn asked, reluctantly turning his attention back to the elder Thornton.
‘I was,’ the lady said crisply, her tone of voice daring him to disbelieve her. Franklyn didn’t. ‘I work at the local council — in the planning office — and I was going through some applications. Sunday is supposed to be a day off, but it rarely is,’ she said. ‘I was working at my computer in the lounge and heard her come in. We ate dinner at about six. Lamb,’ she added flatly.
‘And you’ve been here all afternoon?’ Franklyn said, turning once more to the daughter.
‘Yes.’ Felicity frowned, squirming a little on her seat. ‘Look, is Matthew in trouble?’
‘Fliss,’ her mother said sharply. ‘That boy is no longer your concern. Cheating on you like that. Forget about him,’ she instructed.
Her daughter totally ignored her and kept her gaze on the inspector.
‘Why do you ask?’ Franklyn asked craftily.
Felicity sighed impatiently. ‘Because you’re here asking about him.’
‘I’m actually asking about you, Miss Thornton,’ Franklyn corrected her gently. ‘Do you know the village of Caulcott Deeping?’ he suddenly shot the question at her out of the blue.
Felicity blinked, but rallied quickly. ‘Yes. It rings a bell . . . Wait a minute, that’s where Matthew was doing some acting job this weekend. Something to do with a local historical re-enactment. He was nervous about having to try and ride a horse, or something.’
‘Have you ever been there, Miss Thornton?’ Franklyn persisted.
‘I dunno,’ the younger girl shrugged her shoulders. ‘I must have done at some point, I suppose. I’ve always lived here,’ she waved a hand around to encompass the town. ‘I might have gone to the pub there at some point. It has a pub, right? That’s where Matthew said he and the rest of the am-dram players were doing their gig.’
‘Do you know Miss Rachel Norman — a player in his group?’ Franklyn asked next, and beside him he felt the dragon-lady stiffen angrily. She even let her breath out in a little hiss that made Lucy jump.
‘His bit of stuff on the side you mean?’ Mrs Thornton said angrily. ‘What’s she got to do with this?’
Her daughter’s face, at the mention of the dead woman’s name, clouded slightly, and she gave a brief nod. ‘I’ve met her, yes. Once or twice, when I’ve gone to see Matthew’s plays. They put on a pantomime for the school kids around Christmas time in the village halls. She played Dick Whittington, I think. So yes, we’d met. I can’t say that I know her, though. Why?’
‘She died this afternoon, whilst performing at Caulcott Deeping. It looks as if she may have drowned,’ he added. Or not, he silently amended.
For a moment, both mother and daughter gaped at him, with identically stunned expressions.
‘Oh,’ Felicity finally said. And then, quietly, ‘Does Matthew know?’
‘He does now,’ Franklyn said wryly. ‘We’ve just come from Mr Greenslade’s house.’
Felicity flushed. ‘Does he . . . I mean, what did he say . . .’
‘I can’t reveal details about the investigation at this stage, Miss Thornton. I’m sure you can appreciate that,’ Franklyn cut her off pompously.
‘Felicity was here with me all this afternoon, from about three-thirty onwards, Inspector,’ Mrs Thornton said quickly, perhaps sensing that her daughter was beginning to look a shade rebellious now. ‘And as I’ve already said, that boy and his, er, companions, are no concern of ours. So, if that’s all you needed to know . . . ?’ And with that she stood up abruptly, making it very clear they were getting tossed out on their ears.
Franklyn, who didn’t normally allow his witnesses to set the agenda, briefly debated being stubborn and refusing to go, but after a quick internal review, decided that there was little point. It was late, and he wanted to get home. And he didn’t even know for sure yet whether or not he had a suspicious death on his hands. What’s more, it was clear that wild horses wouldn’t budge Mrs Thornton from providing an alibi for her daughter.
Always supposing she’d needed one.
‘Thank you for your time,’ the inspector said with an amiable smile at the younger woman, then nodded briskly at the older one, and followed his grateful sergeant out into the cooling night air.
Once safely walking down the garden path, Lucy
O’Connor let out her breath in a whoosh.
‘First thing in the morning, check around and see if any of our witnesses reported seeing a woman fitting Felicity’s description at the scene. Or her mother’s,’ he added out of sheer spite. ‘By then, we should have collated all the footage taken by the audience members on their mobile phones. See if you can spot her having been captured on film — or digital chip or whatever it’s called nowadays.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lucy said with a smile. ‘And should I keep an eye out for Mrs Thornton too?’
‘We should have the autopsy results and the preliminary forensics in first thing,’ Franklyn said, blithely ignoring her cheek. ‘Then at least we’ll have a better idea of what’s what. I know our superstar doc is starting work at sparrow fart,’ he added, ‘being so keen and eager to prove she didn’t drown. Let’s just hope that he finds evidence that she died of natural causes instead, and then we can pack the whole case in and just write up the reports.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lucy agreed. But she had the feeling her superior wasn’t holding out much hope for this particular scenario.
‘We’ll convene tomorrow at the Spindlewood Inn at nine o’clock sharp,’ Franklyn said. ‘I want to have another word with the Buckeys.’
He was also rather hoping the landlords at the inn would offer them breakfast on the house. He’d heard that Jenny Starling cooked like a dream.
* * *
Ion Dryfuss was feeling silly. It was nearly eleven o’clock at night, and he was standing in the dark, on the area of green in front of the pond, watching two men set up a small tent and lugging a large battery about as they set up various pieces of rather rickety-looking equipment.
The ghost walk had now ended, with Malcolm leading his group of curiosity-seekers onto another village in pursuit of a headless horseman or something, leaving behind an eerie silence, broken only by his companions. Occasionally one would mutter something about a camera playing up, and they seemed to be having trouble connecting a magnetic-energy-something-or-other to the battery.
