Kempston Hardwick Mysteries — Box Set, Books 1-3

by Adam Croft

  ‘Please don’t touch the camera, sir!’ a young man with long hair and three-day growth on his chin said. ‘It’s a very expensive piece of equipment.’

  ‘Oh, well there’s nothing to worry about, surely. Ghosts can’t touch things.’

  The camera operator looked at Hardwick for a moment, unsure as to where the joke was, before letting out a cover-all half-laugh and relaxing slightly.

  ‘Look, could we at least say it’s haunted? It’ll make really good TV!’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. Besides, it seems you already have said it’s haunted, without even bothering to speak to me. So if you’d be so kind, I’d like it if you could all go away as quickly as possible. I don’t want any more of my time wasted on fatuous ghost stories.’

  Those who had begun to pack up their equipment stopped doing so and looked at the camera operator as their designated spokesperson.

  ‘Yeeess?’ Hardwick enquired, somehow sensing that perhaps there was something he still hadn’t been told.

  ‘Well, we can’t exactly just stop everything, sir.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s… it’s kind of… it’s all over Twitter.’

  ‘What is?’ Hardwick asked, not within a light year of being a Twitter user, but at least having some understanding of what it was.

  ‘This, about your house,’ the camera operator replied, flicking the zip on his hold-all. ‘It’s trending.’

  Hardwick stood silently for a moment. ‘So let’s just make sure we’re on the same page, here. You mean to say that the world and his mother now think my house is one of the most haunted locations in Britain?’

  The camera operator’s eyes darted about nervously. ‘That’s about the gist of it, yes.’

  5

  The doorbell rang cheerily through the house as Eliza Whitehouse clip-clopped her way across the parquet flooring in her stiletto heels to answer the door. The exuberant round face of Reverend Michael Winton greeted her as she stepped aside to let him through.

  Michael Winton had been the vicar at the Church of St. Winifred the Colossal for almost thirty years and was known throughout the community as a man of the highest moral integrity. Throughout the Church’s times of trouble and turmoil, the vicar remained as its revered representative in Tollinghill. No-one knew how old he really was; the inherent aura of authority around men of the cloth can often make it difficult to judge.

  ‘Hello, Eliza,’ the vicar said jovially as he greeted her in the European manner, with a kiss on each cheek and a hand on each shoulder. ‘So lovely to see you. Am I the first one?’

  ‘As always, vicar,’ Eliza joked. Reverend Michael’s penchant for timekeeping was well-known locally. Should a party be stated as starting ‘from 8pm’, the host knew full well that the vicar’s ringing of the doorbell would coincide perfectly with the eighth bell toll at the Church of St. Winifred the Colossal.

  ‘Oscar’s upstairs at the moment. He’s not feeling too well, unfortunately,’ she added.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the vicar replied. ‘There’s a lot of it about at the moment, it seems. Only last week old Mrs Enderby was taken ill during one of my sermons. Right over my cassock.’

  ‘How terrible. Harry not with you?’ Mrs Whitehouse asked hopefully.

  ‘Just a few moments behind. He won’t be long,’ the vicar replied.

  Harry Greenlaw, Tollinghill’s young resident verger was a queer figure to many in the village, appearing, as he did, in a range of Gothic outfits whenever ecclesiastical clothing did not apply. With his hair dyed jet black and his eyes adorned with eye-liner, he could be more easily mistaken for a follower of the dark forces, rather than of God Almighty. Regardless, he was clear in his dedication to the church and seemed not to allow fashion to dictate his metaphysical beliefs.

  The rubbery squeak of the training shoes on the parquet flooring reminded Eliza Whitehouse of her only other party-goer thus far.

  ‘You remember my son Andrew, don’t you, vicar?’

  ‘Why yes, of course!’ he exclaimed rather too enthusiastically, leaving Eliza and her son wondering whether or not this was entirely true. ‘So lovely of you to have arranged such a fantastic party for your parents. You were knee-high to a grasshopper when I last saw you! You must have been... oooh, how old were you?’

  ‘Seventeen,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘My, don’t they grow up fast nowadays?’ the vicar remarked to no-one in particular. ‘So how is Oxford treating you?’ he asked, belying his previous lapse of memory.

  ‘Very well, thanks,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘What are you reading?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘PPE,’ he replied, adding, ‘Philosophy, Politics and Economics,’ in response to the vicar’s blank gaze.

  ‘Philosophy, blimey. I presume you’ll be familiar with St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, then?’ the reverend asked, as Eliza shoved a glass of Prosecco into his hand.

  ‘A passing familiarity, yes. I don’t tend to go in much for religious philosophy, I’m afraid.’

  The vicar seemed, at first, rather taken aback before replying, ‘Yes, well. Catholics, the pair of them, so I’m not surprised.’

  Quite unsure as to what to say in response to this remark, Eliza Whitehouse instead opted to lead Rev. Michael into the kitchen. As she did so, the doorbell rang out for a second time; Andrew Whitehouse this time opened the door to reveal Harry Greenlaw, resplendent in a shaped black button-up shirt and black combat-style trousers.

  ‘Andrew! Lovely to see you. How’s university?’ the verger asked in a manner quite at odds with his appearance. Andrew doubted that Harry Greenlaw used the same approach to manners and articulation when he was with his underworld peers.

  ‘Fine, thanks. How’s... the church?’

  ‘Still standing,’ Harry replied, laughing at his own joke. ‘We’ve a Redemption Day fête next weekend. You should come along.’

  ‘Well, I –’

  Harry added: ‘Although, I should imagine you’ll be back at university by then, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Absolutely. Well back.’ Andrew replied, ushering Harry Greenlaw into the kitchen to join the rest of the small, but lively, party.

  By half-past-eight, the festivities appeared to be in full swing. The Whitehouse’s immediate neighbours were in attendance: Dolores Mickelwhite lived to their immediate left, almost directly opposite the church, with Major Arnold Fulcrupp shoring up the defences to the right-hand side.

  Dolores Mickelwhite was what some might call a typical ‘village character’ (in a village such as Tollinghill, however, the concept of character was somewhat distorted by the sheer concentration of peculiarity). She appeared to be un-ageable, her short, stringy, black hair clumped to her head like the claw of a JCB, not quite meeting the substantial rim of her large glasses. A new-age-style smock hung around her shoulders, seemingly ignorant of the blissful summer heat.

  ‘And there are even some here in Tollinghill,’ she added, in an attempt to revive the floundering conversation which had – unsurprisingly, considering her attendance – turned to the supernatural. ‘In fact, I was watching that television programme earlier this afternoon and they had a reporter over at the Old Rectory. You must have seen it. Oscar was on it.’

  Meeting a range of still-uninterested shaking heads, Dolores Mickelwhite continued, ‘Oh yes, it was on the TV and everything! They reckon the place is haunted.’

  ‘Well, it is hundreds of years old,’ Rev. Michael retorted. ‘And we all know what happened there all those years ago.’

  ‘Exactly! I tell you, I could swear blind there was a figure in the downstairs window.’

  ‘Probably just a stunt for the television, Dolores. I wouldn’t worry yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, vicar. I have a feeling... a feeling that something rather odd is abreast in Tollinghill.’ Dolores Mickelwhite put her hands together and murmured a few words under her breath as the other partygoers looked awkwardly at each other.

  Maj
or Fulcrupp decided that he had found the perfect time to join the conversation.

  ‘What bloody tosh.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ Dolores Mickelwhite cried, incredulous at the Major’s insult.

  ‘I mean, ghosts and ghoulies and all that nonsense. You really must stop it, woman. Never going to find yourself a husband if you go around spouting that sort of diarrhoea,’ the Major said, flailing his arms about as if sowing the spring seed.

  ‘And what makes you think I want a husband exactly, Major? You’re doing a damned fine job of putting me off men for life!’

  ‘You say that as if you were ever attracted to them in the first place,’ the Major sneered, turning away to take a sip of his red wine.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to insinuate something, Major Fulcrupp?’

  The tense atmosphere was sensed by all who stood in the kitchen as Dolores took a step towards the Major.

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ he replied, refusing to make eye contact with her.

  Dolores Mickelwhite said nothing, and instead simply shook her head and left the room.

  ‘Bloody dyke lunatic.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, Major,’ Rev. Michael said, noticing the increased pinkness in Major Fulcrupp’s cheeks. The Major would not have looked half as ridiculous, were it not for his thinning crop of fiery orange hair and accompanying glow-in-the-dark moustache.

  ‘Some people need to be told, vicar. Never had any of that sort of nonsense out in the Falklands. Wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.’ Turning to Eliza Whitehouse, he swiftly changed the topic of conversation. ‘Still no Oscar?’

  ‘No, he’s really not feeling too good at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. He really must at least come down and say hello. I mean, it is his party after all,’ the Major replied.

  ‘Well, I’m sure we can have another party when he’s feeling better,’ said the dutiful wife.

  ‘I’ll hear none of it. Wouldn’t have had hide nor hair of it in the Army. Come on, now,’ he said, heading for the kitchen door. ‘I’ll go up there myself and see that he’s down here and ship-shape in no time.’

  Eliza Whitehouse grabbed the Major’s arm, immediately regretting doing so as soon as she saw the look on his face.

  ‘Mrs Whitehouse, I do not appreciate being man-handled...’ by a woman, Eliza finished in her own mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, Major. It’s just that he might be having a bath or sleeping outside of the covers. He’s been having awful swings of temperature.’

  ‘Sounds like sissy fever to me.’

  ‘Yes, well. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go up and see how he is, and maybe he’ll pop down for a bit. It’ll have to be very brief, though.’

  ‘Suits me, my dear. I was hoping to catch Newsnight, anyway.’

  6

  It was a full fifteen minutes later that the pale and ashen-faced Oscar Whitehouse half descended the stairs wrapped in his towelling dressing gown and sat on the step. The lights had been dimmed in order to ease his searing headache.

  ‘I think he should get some medical attention, Eliza,’ Harry Greenlaw said upon seeing him. ‘He really doesn’t look good, and the thing with the light is worrying me. My cousin had that – turned out to be meningitis.’

  ‘The doctor came by earlier, actually. We did wonder about meningitis but he said there were no other symptoms. He reckons it’s just a virus or a fever,’ Eliza replied.

  ‘Sissy fever,’ Major Fulcrupp reaffirmed from the back of the room.

  ‘Was it Doctor Harrison?’ Harry Greenlaw asked, referring to Tollinghill’s long-standing physician.

  ‘No, we couldn’t get through to him. Had to call for a locum from Shafford,’ Eliza affirmed.

  ‘Ah, out of hours, was it?’

  ‘Most times are with Doctor Harrison,’ Eliza Whitehouse replied, much to the amusement of the gathered party-goers.

  ‘Well I must say, old chap, you’re looking mighty pale. Even in this low light. Best get yourself back up to bed, eh?’

  The Major’s sudden caring tone took the other party-goers a little by surprise, but Eliza acquiesced to the best interests of her husband and moved to help him slowly back up the stairs.

  ‘That’s OK, Eliza – I can take Oscar back up to bed for you,’ Harry Greenlaw said.

  ‘No, it’s fine, thank you, Harry. There’s really no need.’

  ‘Eliza, I insist. You’ve been working far too hard this evening. Why don’t you sit down and enjoy a nice glass of wine?’

  Eliza Whitehouse thought for a moment. ‘Well, OK. But be gentle with him. He’s not quite himself.’

  ‘Stop fussing, woman. I’ll be fine,’ said Oscar Whitehouse in his hoarse voice.

  ‘Blimey, you don’t sound good at all, Oscar. Let’s get you back up to bed,’ said the verger.

  Eliza was quick to remonstrate. ‘Don’t talk, Oscar. You need to save your voice.’

  With Oscar Whitehouse safely escorted back upstairs by the verger, the party continued downstairs in his absence. Dolores Mickelwhite was, by all accounts, a little on the tipsy side and made a point of informing all of the assorted male party-goers that she was a single woman and, indeed, had not “had it” for some time.

  It was half-past-nine when Dolores Mickelwhite rushed down the stairs and announced in a panicked voice that she could hear signs of a struggle from inside Oscar Whitehouse’s bedroom.

  ‘It sounds like he’s being murdered!’ Dolores said, her face ashen white. ‘I tried the handle but the door was locked!’

  ‘Are you sure it was locked, Dolores?’ Eliza asked, agitation creeping into her voice. ‘Oscar never locks the bedroom door.’

  ‘Yes, definitely! I even looked through the keyhole to see what was going on, but the key was in the lock.’

  Eliza, Harry Greenlaw and Rev. Michael all headed upstairs, leaving an oblivious and out-of-earshot Major Fulcrupp standing outside the patio doors smoking his cigar, and regaling Andrew Whitehouse (as he was the only party-goer who had not escaped the Major’s clutches) with tales of the Falklands.

  Eliza, Harry and the vicar snapped into action – Eliza frantically tugging at the door handle to no avail.

  ‘Stand back,’ Harry Greenlaw said, and gave himself a three-step run-up before ploughing his boot into the lock panel of the door – once, twice, thrice, until the lock finally gave way, the door swinging back and clattering against the wall. Harry and Eliza heard the key jangling to the floor as it fell from inside the lock.

  ‘It was locked from the inside,’ the vicar observed, before his eyes rose to meet the sight of Oscar Whitehouse lying face up on the bed with a look of horror and anguish on his face. Harry Greenlaw was the first to approach and test for a pulse.

  ‘He’s dead,’ the verger announced, with tears in his eyes.

  7

  The ringing of the telephone always stirred a slight rage within Hardwick. The frustration of being disturbed during a train of thought, no matter whom by or for what reason, gave him cause to see the telephone as something of a social enemy.

  ‘Hardwick,’ he said flatly as he picked up the trilling receiver.

  ‘Hello, Hardwick. It’s DI Rob Warner here, from Tollinghill Police.’

  DI Warner had the impressive habit of making even an innocent greeting sound like a threat. Not waiting for a response, he continued. ‘We need to speak to you regarding a murder case.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Hardwick enquired, not expecting much based on his previous encounters with DI Warner. Having Hardwick arrested earlier in the year for interfering with police business during a murder case, which he had ultimately solved, had not exactly endeared DI Warner to him.

  ‘Yes. It’s pretty local to you, actually — Westerlea House.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, why are you asking me? After all, it’s you who’s the qualified detective,’ Hardwick said with more than a hint of satire in his voice, as he sat back in his chair and inspected his almost imm
aculate fingernails.

  ‘Well, I should’ve thought you’d know that. The Superintendent was very impressed with the work you did on the Charlie Sparks case last year, so I thought it might be a good idea to get you involved.’

  ‘Your Superintendent? Well, you are modest, DI Warner.’

  There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. ‘Do I really need to spell it out for you, Hardwick? You solved that case practically single-handed. You know that, and… and I know that,’ Warner said, after a slight pause.

  ‘Oh? Well that’s news to me, Inspector. You see, I distinctly recall the newspapers having the impression that all the credit for that case was due to you.’

  The front-page of the Tollinghill Echo was an image that Hardwick had no trouble in recollecting.

  CHARLIE SPARKS MURDER CASE:

  SUSPECT ARRESTED AND CONVICTED

  INVESTIGATING OFFICER D.I. ROB WARNER TO RECEIVE GONG

  As things had transpired, DI Warner hadn’t received any sort of award or commendation; the newspaper later stated that the policeman had “modestly declined” such acclamation. Hardwick saw this as a sign that DI Warner did, after all, perhaps have some modicum of dignity about him.

  ‘You know what the press are like, Hardwick,’ Warner said. ‘Anything for a bit of sensationalism. Anyway, things are a bit tricky in the force at the moment with regards to hiring outside help. All this funding malarky, y’know.’

  Like many local police forces, the one that was charged with keeping the sleepy village of Tollinghill safe from ne’er-do-wells, was also under severe pressure to cut budgets in the midst of Britain’s financial crisis, which came off the back of more than a decade of profligate public sector spending.

  ‘I never asked for a penny of payment, Inspector, nor did I receive any.’