by Adam Croft
‘Ah. I did wonder,’ he said. ‘Not often you get men drinking scotch at six o’clock in the evening.’
‘No. Well, it’ll be my only one, I suppose. Especially at these prices.’
The barman laughed a knowing laugh, as if he’d heard that line a few times before. ‘Funny. You don’t seem like the marrying type to me,’ he said.
Elliot allowed himself to smile for the first time that evening. ‘No. I’m starting to think that might be the case myself.’
* * *
The comfort of the Freemason’s Arms seemed like luxury to Ellis Flint. He was a firm believer that holidays were meant to be relaxing affairs, but the one he’d just returned from had been anything but.
‘You two are bloody murder magnets from what I hear,’ the landlord, Doug Lilley, said as he pulled on the pump to pour Ellis’s pint. ‘In fact, perhaps it’s in my best interests that I bar you,’ he added, laughing.
‘I think you’re safe,’ Ellis said. ‘Lightning never strikes twice.’ Indeed, the very first murder that Ellis and his friend Kempston Hardwick had investigated had taken place in the Freemason’s Arms a little over three years earlier.
‘Bloody strikes constantly when you two are about,’ Doug replied. ‘Rate you’re going, you’ll turn this place into some sort of cheap detective series location.’
‘Well, at least we’re doing our bit for the community. I can’t see them closing down the police station if the murder rate stays this high.’
Tollinghill Police Station had been earmarked for closure by the county force in the previous few months as part of the present government’s cost-cutting exercises. It was all about ‘streamlining’ and ‘centralising services’. Once all of the corporate-speak had been cut through, the bottom line was that it came down to money. Liberty and safety had been reduced to mere commodities.
‘Heh. Every cloud and all that,’ Doug said, leaning in towards Ellis. ‘Here, that reminds me. Did you hear about that bloke topping himself down at the Manor Hotel in South Heath last Thursday?’
‘No,’ Ellis said. ‘What happened?’
‘Hung himself from the rafters on the top floor. Nothing suspicious, like. Well, not officially, anyway. But it’s a bit weird, ain’t it, after all them stories about the ghosts and that?’
‘Ghosts?’ Ellis asked, his interest piqued. Ellis’s interest in the paranormal had come to the fore on more than one occasion recently, and he was sure that many of the odd goings on in and around Tollinghill could be attributed to supernatural forces. He vaguely recalled a ghost story concerning the Manor Hotel but couldn’t remember any details.
‘Yeah, an old woman supposedly haunts it,’ Doug said. ‘Story goes, a child died there, back when it was a private manor, back in Victorian times. They reckon it was the nanny who had poisoned the young lad, and they sacked her on the spot even though she said she didn’t do it. Few years later, the old dear dies in poverty and never got to clear her name. Legend has it that it’s her ghost who still haunts the manor, trying to protest her innocence.’
Ellis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and realised his breathing was becoming more and more shallow.
‘Apparently it all kicked off when they converted it into a hotel,’ Doug continued. ‘The builders had been doing some renovation work and took some tiles off the roof. Turns out there was a secret hidden room on the top level, which no-one knew about. They reckon it’s what would’ve been the servants’ quarters. The room where the nanny would’ve lived. That’s when it all started kicking off.’
‘Kicking off?’ Ellis asked.
‘Well, they gradually turned the top floor rooms into more hotel rooms, as well as keeping a couple for the staff. Housekeepers and that. Few weeks later, people started seeing things. Couple of people reckon they saw an old woman sat at the end of their bed, crying. Quite a lot of footsteps coming from the room where she would’ve lived, too.’
‘Sounds like a nice little bit of marketing to me,’ Ellis said, not believing his own cynicism but trying desperately to come up with a rational explanation in order to stop himself getting completely spooked.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, see. The hotel owners went and spoke to a couple of the families who lived there, back when it was in private hands. Turns out the previous owner said his mum used to hear someone knocking on her bedroom door at night, even if she was the only person there. And other people saw things, too.’
Ellis sat back and thought for a moment. ‘Doug,’ he said, leaning forward once more. ‘What’s this got to do with this bloke’s suicide, exactly?’
‘You tell me, Ellis,’ Doug said, standing up and brushing down the bar with a cloth. ‘You tell me.’
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Adam Croft was born in the Bedfordshire town of Dunstable, and still lives in the county.
His work has won him critical acclaim as well as three Amazon bestsellers, with his first Kempston Hardwick mystery, Exit Stage Left, being adapted as an audio play starring some of the biggest names in British television. His books have been bought and enjoyed all over the world, and have topped a number of booksellers’ sales charts.
For the latest updates on Adam’s books, you can follow him on Twitter: @adamcroft, on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/adamcroftbooks or visit his website at http://adamcroft.net.
