by Dean Cole
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
QUOTE
- CHAPTER ONE - A Murder of Crows
- CHAPTER TWO - White Feathers
- CHAPTER THREE - Twin Flames
- CHAPTER FOUR - Full Moon
- CHAPTER FIVE - Robins and Butterflies
- CHAPTER SIX - A Gift of Amethyst
- CHAPTER SEVEN - Stone, Bones and Forgotten Names
- CHAPTER EIGHT - The Seance
- CHAPTER NINE - The Nightmare
- CHAPTER TEN - The Face in the Cellar
- CHAPTER ELEVEN - Revelations
- CHAPTER TWELVE - Extrasensory Perception
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Drawing
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN - The Man With A Hole In His Face
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN - The Elephant in the Room
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Trap
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Stan's Story
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - The Attic
- CHAPTER NINETEEN - Chasing Ghosts
- CHAPTER TWENTY - Ten Weeks Later
Thanks for reading
The Quentin Strange Mysteries
Coming Next
Contact
More by Dean Cole
A Quentin Strange Mystery
by
Dean Cole
Copyright © Dean Cole 2020. All rights reserved.
The right of Dean Cole to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in 2020 by Dean Cole via Kindle Direct Publishing.
This book is copyright registered.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organisations and products depicted herein, are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Cover Disclaimer
Individuals pictured are models and are used for illustrative purposes only. They do not endorse or condone this book’s content.
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The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
Edgar Allan Poe, The Premature Burial
- CHAPTER ONE -
A Murder of Crows
HILDERLEY MANOR LOOMED through the windscreen of Kat’s Mini, nimbus clouds swirling above its balustrade roof, crispy leaves strewn across its gravel drive. A murder of crows loitered on the lawn, some cawing and batting their wings, others pecking the grass, hunting for worms drawn to the surface by the recent rainstorm. The place couldn’t have looked more bloody haunted if it tried.
I stepped out of the car and shivered as the autumn chill hit my face. Kat got out too, frowning up at the house as she took a long, slow drag on her Marlboro Light.
‘Jesus,’ she said, carelessly flicking the ignited tip into some nearby undergrowth. ‘Who lives here? The Addams Family?’
I smiled but it was a ghost of one. Now we’d arrived, the willing participants of a ghost hunt inside one of Britain’s most haunted buildings, I was starting to get cold feet. The enormous house looked spooky enough in broad daylight, what horror would it become after midnight?
Come on, Quentin, I reassured myself. You’re braver than that. You’ve watched horror films back to back, home alone with the lights off, then gone to bed without so much as a second thought. You once slept in a graveyard, drunk, admittedly, and too off your face to find your way home, but waking up to find you’ve been using a gravestone as a pillow would have traumatised a lesser man. And there was that time you did the Ouija board with that large girl from school, Melissa Dandridge, in that derelict building behind the cinema all the kids were too scared to enter. You were eleven then. A child. You’re twenty seven now. A man. It’s a spooky house in the remote countryside of Northern England. What’s the worst that could happen?
I tried not to ponder that question as I shut the passenger door, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window. My mop of brown hair was all over the place. My skin had the pallor of a vampiric creature from The Twilight Saga. The round specs made me look like a cross between one of The Beatles and a senior Harry Potter. The only positive was the specs were doing a grand job of concealing my sleep-deprived eyes. It wasn’t just the prospect of three nights inside Hilderley Manor that had been keeping me awake in recent days.
Kat whistled, striding to the boot of the car. ‘I’ll give it to the guys back at the office. I can count on them to send us to one of the most morbid places in the northern hemisphere.’ She cast the house a suspicious look under her heavily-pencilled eyebrows. ‘I just hope there’s booze in there. And they better let me smoke, or else.’
As she retrieved her case, I wandered over to the iron gates, great fortress-like things that appeared to be keeping something in instead of out. I lifted my specs and let them perch atop my ruffled fringe. Longsighted, I could make out the building’s most prominent features: the innumerous mullioned windows covering its facade, black vines snaking up the aged stonework, the decorative trim over the front door, gargoyle-like and crumbling with years of weather damage. An impressive edifice, Hilderley Manor managed to look both inviting and intimidating at the same time.
The windows reflected the storm clouds above our heads, leaving only my imagination to picture what awaited us inside. Something I’d seen in a period drama on TV most likely, with dark walls, draughty corridors and cooks and housemaids buzzing about the place like worker bees. I forced myself not to imagine more. My mind would conjure all manner of horrors if I thought about it long enough and I’d never get past the gate, let alone the front door.
Specks of rain alighted on my cheeks and a low rumble across the sky heralded more thunder. The tempestuous weather we’d had on the way here was making a reappearance. As if sensing this the crows took off in search of safety, their screeching caws splitting the sky as they vanished over the tall hedges that bordered the manor.
In their commotion I didn’t see the elderly man who had emerged from the side of the building. Actually, ‘elderly’ was being kind: shrivelled as a prune and gnarled as a tree he must have been a hundred if he was a day. He stood there, a shovel in one hand, staring at me unblinkingly. Even from this distance I could tell the look on his haggard face wasn’t welcoming. A shiver tickled the nape of my neck, and this time it wasn’t because of the autumn weather. Did he know something we didn’t? Was his uninviting reception a portent of unfavourable things to come?
I had the urge to turn around, get away from this place while I still had the chance. But as I was contemplating just that, a weird feeling came over me. A feeling I was being encouraged to reconsider, beckoned even. A gust of wind stirred the undergrowth, furling the hem of my blazer and blowing dry leaves past my feet. A superstitious person might have said that gust of wind was a ghostly whisper. I wasn’t a superstitious person, though. Was I?
A hand suddenly grabbed my shoulder.
‘BOO!’
I spun round so fast my specs fell off my head and slid to the tip of my nose. Kat’s baby blue eyes, so at odds with the raven curls, scarlet lipstick and power suit-clad slim figure that defined her, flashed wickedly back at me. ‘Are you going to stand there gawking at that place all day, or are we going to find ours
elves some ghosts?’
My heart was still drumming beneath my ribs as she dropped my rucksack in my arms. She had something else for me. She lifted it in front of my face the way you might confront a boisterous puppy with a slipper it had half eaten.
‘What is this?’
‘My camera,’ I said nervously.
‘That is not a camera. It’s a relic. You’re working for a newspaper now, Quentin. The days of snapping goofy photos of your friends to stick in grubby albums are over. We use state-of-the-art equipment at The Gazette.’ She dipped her hand inside an enormous handbag. ‘This,’ she said, presenting me with what I instantly recognised as a digital single-lens reflex camera, ‘is a camera.’
I stared in awe at the camera presented before me. It was a professional model and easily in the higher end of the price range. ‘For me?
‘Yours to keep for as long as you’re working for us,’ said Kat, dropping it on top of the rucksack. ‘When — if you go, then we want it back. Deal?’
I nodded, still ogling the unexpected gift. I could only dream of owning such an impressive and expensive piece of equipment with my measly income.
I caught Kat before she was about to toss my old camera into some nearby shrubbery. ‘Don’t! It’s got sentimental value.’
Kat twisted her face as if questioning how anything so hideous could have sentimental value, but, mercifully, dropped it on the rucksack with the DSLR. ‘And don’t break that camera,’ she said sternly. ‘We don’t insure against carelessness. If you do, the cost will be immediately deducted from your pay.’
Speaking of pay … ‘Erm, Katrina —’
My partner rolled her eyes. ‘Please, Quentin, I won’t tell you again. Do not call me Katrina. I’m allergic to the name for numerous reasons we shall never discuss. It’s Kat. Just Kat. And always Kat.’
‘Sorry. Kat. Got it. It’s about my first payment—’
I paused, noticing her looking at my chest with a look somewhere between a grimace and deep pity.
‘Did you have to wear that outfit for your first assignment?’ she asked.
I lowered my chin, eyed my shirt and blazer nervously. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘You look like someone from the last century. No, the century before that.’
‘I thought it looked smart,’ I said. ‘You know, professional.’
‘If your name is Albert Einstein, maybe.’ Kat shook her head wearily. ‘Remind me to take you shopping when we get back to Cricklewood. I know some great stores there for boys. I’m thinking … modern man-boy from the city.’ She assessed me the way one might envisage which decor they wanted for their living room. ‘In the meantime we’ll just have to hope people think it’s a new trend.’
‘What if I like what I’m wearing?’ I said defiantly, then knew instantly I’d said the wrong thing.
‘If we’re going to be working as a team for the foreseeable future I require that you keep up with my standards,’ Kat replied firmly. ‘This job means everything to me. And appearances, today, are almost everything.’
‘Sounds a bit shallow if you ask me,’ I muttered.
Kat’s mouth fell open. Mascara laden lashes fluttered as she came dangerously close. ‘Listen up, buttercup. There’s an entire world of people out there trying to get noticed. The competition has never been higher. You have to be multifaceted to stand out. No, you have to be bloody Superwoman! I’m not just a journalist. I’m a hustler, an actress, a mentor, I know how to market, network and I still look this good doing all of it.’ She tugged at the lapel on my blazer. ‘That’s why I can’t be dragging around someone who looks like they’ve just stepped out of a Tardis.’
Did she miss bitch off that list? I might have asked, if I didn’t envision getting a knock about the ears with that handbag.
Her face turned from stern to threatening. ‘I’m also an absolute dragon if someone pisses me off. So,’ she said, the perfected smile returning, the way a chameleon changes its appearance in an instant, ‘you’re not just a photographer. You’re an assistant and a stylish, suave gentleman from the city. What are you?’
‘A photographer, an assistant and a stylish, suave gentleman from the city,’ I intoned reluctantly.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ she said, picking lint off my blazer like a solicitous mother.
But as another rumble of thunder caught our attention, I couldn’t help but wonder, just who was Kat trying to impress? Couldn’t she just interview people, write her article and let me take some photos? Which, after all, is what we were being paid to do. Since arguing with her was likely futile — if not a genuine hazard to my safety — I decided to keep that little sentiment to myself.
Finished with her lecture she took off, shouldering her way through the gate, a Burberry suitcase on wheels dragging behind her.
Struggling to push my specs up my nose with my luggage laden arms, I watched her stride up the driveway, her heels crunching the gravel, curls bouncing around her shoulders, completely ignoring that I’d been about to ask her something.
But then it wouldn’t be the first time Kat would pay no attention to what I had to say. And she’d pay a tall price for it, too.
If I’d been many years younger I might have stuck out my tongue. If I’d been of an uncouth disposition I might have spat in those billowing locks of hers. But I was neither of those things. All I could do was wonder, depressingly, how long her previous partner had survived. I sighed as I stowed both cameras in my rucksack. One week into my new job and I was fast learning my role in this newfound partnership. I was the apprentice and Kat was the boss. Would it be a match made in heaven or a match made in hell? Only time would tell.
The elderly man was no longer standing there, as if he’d vanished like a spectre. The sky was getting darker, the day drawing on. The manor seemed to have grown taller all of a sudden, formidable. With the clouds no longer reflected in the windows, I could see right in. Kat’s words resounded in my head: ‘are we going to find ourselves some ghosts?’
I didn’t tell her I thought I’d already found one: the misty figure I’d just seen looking down at me from one of the second floor windows.
* * * * *
You could hear the echo coming from inside as Kat rapped the knocker on the heavy, engraved front door. When it creaked open, a squat, rosy-cheeked woman with her hair in a bun poked her head out. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the daylight.
‘Katrina Brannigan and Quentin Strange,’ said Kat, proffering her hand in an exaggerated professional manner. ‘We’re here for the ghost hunt?’
I cast Kat an indignant glare. So Katrina was fine as long as it was coming out of her own mouth? She paid no attention to me as she waited for the woman’s response.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the woman. ‘Come in, dears. Come in.’
She had a friendly Scottish accent that conjured images of wild thistle and lochside castles. In fact, everything about this woman, from the expertly polished shoes on her tiny feet to her neatly buttoned cardigan, was welcoming. She ushered us through the door with a warm smile, her cheeks like apples.
At least someone’s pleased to see us, I thought, the Grim Reaper from outside still playing on my mind.
The building was surprisingly warm for its size; the ceiling was so high your eyes automatically went upwards to see if there was a ceiling up there at all. It felt at odds with how dark and gloomy the place was, like we’d stepped into an underground cavern.
The smell wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant either. I was pretty certain no dead bodies were festering beyond the large double doors leading into the main rooms, but there was definitely something stale navigating the air. It was mixed with the smell of furniture polish, fire wood and vegetable soup cooking somewhere in the distance, reminding me what it was like to have things cooked from scratch instead of reheated in a microwave or delivered in boxes by strangers. A refined bachelor I had not been of late.
The front door
closed behind us and the woman appeared in front of us again.
‘Just the two of you, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Kat. ‘We’re from The Cricklewood Gazette. I’m a journalist. Quentin, here, is my photographer.’ The possessive my didn’t go unnoticed. ‘We’re putting together an article with the help of Pluckley Ghost Hunters. Is the team here?’
‘I’m afraid they’re running a little late,’ said the woman, ‘but it’ll give you time to get settled in while you wait. I’m Mrs Brown, the housekeeper. You can call me Elspeth if you like.’
Elspeth. I tried to say the name in my mind. I’ve got a bit of a lisp, albeit barely noticeable. I’d be sticking to the much more manageable Mrs Brown. I didn’t say this out loud, though, offering Mrs Brown a courteous smile as she rang a small bell, presumably to let others know we’d arrived.
Kat, a heavy smoker, wasted no time alleviating her anxieties. She planted her hands on Mrs Brown’s shoulders and affected a fawning smile. ‘Elspeth, you little Irish munchkin, please tell me I can smoke in this fantastic building of yours?’
The little woman blinked, taken aback by the boldness. And the fact she’d been called Irish when she was very much Scottish. I’d known Kat only days, but could already picture what it was going to be like introducing her to people, the way you might show off an exotic pet — it could be dangerous if pushed, but show it respect and everyone should be OK. Right now, Mrs Brown looked anything but OK. She looked like someone staring into the maw of a tiger.
‘Sorry, angel, but this is a public building. We have a strict no smoking policy,’ she replied. She corroborated this by pointing to a no-smoking sign on the wall.
Kat responded to this unwelcome news with a strained smile before turning to me, the ingratiating act vanishing in an instant. While Mrs Brown was brushing the creases out of her shoulders, she leaned in to my ear and whispered, ‘If there’s a smoke alarm in the room, you can cover it while I lean out the window.’
