The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘He’s lying.’ Peter had solved the mystery and had the ending he always suspected.

  I thought so too. But I did a quick search on his manservant, Hugo Perkins, and he also went missing without a trace.’

  ‘Pettigrew probably killed the man himself to cover up his crimes,’ Peter posed, watching Steve pack up the gear.

  ‘Not beyond possibility,’ she granted. ‘But, I did some more digging on Pettigrew’s death, and found an obscure tabloid news story that stated that a source who had attended the death scene at the studio, claimed to have been shocked to learn that Lord Pettigrew, aka Em Jewel, had lived his entire life repressing the fact he was a full-blown hermaphrodite.’

  ‘What?’ Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘The family of Lord Pettigrew vehemently denied the claim as a vicious rumour.’

  ‘You think that’s why he was so attracted to Em, because he was like her?’ This information was making Peter a little edgy; he felt so sure he’d cracked the case.

  No. Pettigrew had already managed to seize all Em Jewel’s assets in his name, so even if Em killed him, how would Em have managed to set herself to rights legally without exposing herself? Pettigrew became an artistic recluse for those last years of his life, and Em was a master in transformation —’

  ‘But surely someone from his family had to identify Pettigrew’s body?’ Peter thought the notion a little far-fetched.

  ‘Well apparently the body was quite decomposed by the time they found it. And Pettigrew left a large inheritance. He had many estates, you see. It seemed rather odd that he neglected all of them after acquiring the warehouse

  ‘That is odd . . .’ Peter didn’t want to believe that the hero of his tale had been telling him lies, but if he wanted to get to the truth today he had to stop Steve packing up.

  Over the next few hours, Peter was pushed to the limits of his patience. Police had arrived on the scene, and he was forced to confront the mammoth task of trying to explain how he knew the bodies were on the property; he cited his old mentor, the diaries Penelope had taken from the warehouse, and Gabrielle’s research. This was enough to satisfy the police, and they certainly didn’t suspect him of being involved in the crime as the case was so old. Although there was no documentation of when the columns had been installed in the building site, by citing the construction method used, Steve could confirm they dated to mid-last century.

  The police had also insisted they break open the other tank, but when Steve set up to get to work, all the equipment went dead.

  ‘I’m not out of juice.’ Steve looked to Peter. ‘I can’t imagine what the problem could be?’ The builder was obviously wary of saying too much with the police around.

  Inside Peter was fuming. ‘Could I have the keys to upstairs?’ he requested.

  ‘Sure.’ Steve handed them over.

  ‘Can we get this fixed?’ The police officers didn’t like the holdup either. Steve referred the question to Peter.

  ‘Just —’ Peter reined in his anger. ‘Give me time to make a couple of calls.’

  By the time Peter crossed the foyer on the third level to unlock the warehouse studio door, he’d psyched himself into battle mode.

  ‘Enough games!’ he demanded, slamming the door closed behind him. ‘If you want your legacy restored, if you want your story known, then tell me the fucking truth!’ He expended his anger into the empty warehouse, and then stormed into the middle of the huge expanse to pace out some of his angst.

  He’d been perfectly happy a couple of hours ago when the end of his tale had been so clear and perfect. If Em had been murdered by Pettigrew and he had stolen her fame and artistic legacy, that was one thing. But if she had murdered Pettigrew, his manservant and Isabelle, Peter was not going to look so favourably on his muse.

  ‘Talk to me!’ Peter shouted, even though he knew Em would probably not respond to his anger very well. ‘I know you can speak with me directly, just as you did with Billy Boyle! Or are you too ashamed to admit the truth!’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of anything I did.’

  Light began pouring through the tall windows and Peter saw Em standing within the rays.

  ‘But I am afraid of having my story told and being judged harshly for circumstances that were beyond my control. For those of my gender this is always the case, my achievements shall be brushed under the carpet as the works of an insane monster! Leave the story as it stands,’ she made an impassioned appeal. ‘Let it be an insight and an inspiration to champion the cause of all those human beings who do not conveniently fit into the slot of male or female, instead of used as fuel in the fire of old witch hunts against us.’

  Her appeal got to Peter, as this was exactly what he wanted for her story too. At the same time, she had more or less confessed to murder. ‘Your story is inspiring, Em. And if you somehow managed to defend yourself against Pettigrew and his bullying, and turn his swindling around to assume his identity — well, that’s even more incredible! But spare a thought for all those people who have been caught in the firing line of your deceptions and his! Tell the truth, and let people decide for themselves if Pettigrew and his crony got their just deserts. I personally think they did, for you stopped him ruining heaven knows how many more lives! But Isabelle’s death, I don’t understand.’

  There was a bang from the door upstairs, as there had been in Peter’s dream, and looking aside he saw only the gutted room.

  ‘That was an accident,’ Em insisted.

  ‘You had nothing to do with it?’ Peter clarified.

  ‘I might have inspired her a little too much that day,’ she confessed, ‘but no one knew she had a heart condition.’

  ‘And Penelope? She once spoke of a stressful situation being responsible for her death . . . did you have anything to do with that?’

  ‘It was Pettigrew who didn’t want her to pursue this story, not I.’

  ‘So what are you ashamed of?’ Peter appealed.

  ‘I am ashamed because I gave in to the monster that Pettigrew always assumed I was, when I should have just stood my ground and let him shoot me. By the end, I wished I had. That would have been an end fit for a legend.’

  Peter forced a grin; the truth of the matter was clear. ‘But you killed the bad guy.’ For most heroes that would have been the whole objective of their quest.

  ‘I am a creative . . . I could never be proud of such an offence against creation.’

  ‘How did you do it? How did you dodge that bullet?’

  She smiled sweetly. ‘Either he was an awful shot, or he was firing a warning shot to scare me, I didn’t hesitate long enough to ask.’

  There was another bang from upstairs that Peter ignored as Em was opening up. ‘You overpowered him then.’

  ‘My sister-side had a talent with sharp stabbing weapons; she knew exactly where a blade should strike to do the most damage. Then I waited for his man to come looking for him, and I slit his throat too.’ Em might have been putting on a show, but she appeared quite nauseated by the memory. ‘I never painted again. It wasn’t the killing so much as the clean-up afterwards, and the lengths I had to go to to hide the bodies. I repulsed myself. I assumed Pettigrew’s identity hoping to get the charges against Chester dropped, but She shook her head. ‘He took his own life before I could put together a case that might clear his name.’

  ‘But how was it that someone didn’t expose you as not being Pettigrew?’ Peter was beginning to find this ending to his tale even more fascinating than the last.

  ‘Pettigrew didn’t have any friends in this town, no family here. Convincing people that you are who you say you are, is just a matter of confidence, at least it was at that time. But after Chester’s suicide I lost what was left of my will to live. I was tired of hiding, yet I had no desire to see another living soul. I never touched a cent of Pettigrew’s money, I sold the completed paintings I had left and survived for a while.’

  ‘But not The Lovers,’ Peter knew that had
not been taken from the Kismet Way apartment until after Penelope’s time here.

  ‘No.’ Em was mournful. ‘Poor Margret, I should have been more compassionate, and perhaps my life would have turned out very differently. But as it played out, I left myself exposed. The solitude I’d once prized above all else turned to loneliness; a state of being with which I was previously unfamiliar. I was haunted by what I’d done, those I’d lost. I felt Pettigrew watching me, laughing at the destruction he’d caused and mocking my disillusionment. Without passion, friend or cause, I just sat down one day and never got up.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave this place?’ Peter wondered, ‘go and find that remote country cottage you always dreamed of?’

  ‘I felt safer guarding the scene of my crime.’

  ‘You won’t have to do that any more.’ Peter hoped that came as some consolation.

  ‘I guess not.’ She forced a smile, uncomfortable with having to compromise on her grand scheme.

  ‘My respect for you has not been tarnished, Em. I shall write a truthful account of all of this, and despite what anyone thinks, your conscience is clear. Let others view your life and art as they will.’

  Em was far from delighted, but she nodded to allow his will to be done. ‘I have great respect for you also; you are certainly the bravest artist I’ve ever mused.’

  Peter was rather chuffed by her flattery. ‘Well, thanks to you and Penelope, I found my passion.’

  ‘What will you do without me?’ Em finally found her smile.

  The bang was heard once more, and as Em seemed to have purged herself sufficiently, Peter had to ask. ‘Is that Alejandra you have trapped?’

  ‘I was only going to hold her until you published the book,’ Em confessed sweetly.

  ‘Well, if everything you have told me is the truth, you can set her free now,’ he instructed more than requested. ‘We need her to help send Pettigrew on his way to wherever he’s bound.’

  ‘Peter, the police are getting restless.’

  Peter was startled by Steve’s entrance, and the abrupt end to his visitation.

  ‘What should I tell them?’ The builder looked around the warehouse no doubt wondering why Peter was up here, and who he was talking to. ‘Did you have any luck getting a call out?’

  Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled out his phone to find a message from Gabrielle asking when he’d be back.

  ‘Hey, the power on your generator is back up,’ one of the police team stuck his head through the doorway to advise. ‘We’re back in business.’

  ‘All good then.’ Peter was relieved that Em seemed to be cooperating, but he suspected Pettigrew was still being a handful at home. ‘I need to leave, can you finish up here?’

  ‘I guess.’ Steve didn’t look too thrilled about that. ‘But the police might have more questions for you.’

  ‘I’ll arrange to go down to the station in the morning and fill them in on what I know. Thanks for all your help today; just bill me.’ Peter waved and headed for the door.

  ‘But what about Steve hesitated.

  ‘Sparky?’ Peter assumed.

  ‘Well yeah, what’s the outlook on that score?’

  ‘It’s looking good,’ Peter warranted. ‘I think you’ll find that after you remove the bodies, things here will settle.’

  ‘The bodies?’ Steve queried. ‘I thought you said there was only one?’

  ‘My research assistant,’ Peter held up his phone, ‘informs me there may be another.’

  ‘So the bodies just wanted to be found, you think?’ Steve put forward his theory.

  ‘Makes for a fitting end to an urban haunting, I reckon.’ Peter looked around the studio space. ‘Seems a shame to tear it down.’

  ‘Are you shitting me?’ Steve placed his hands on his hips to stress his not-so-romantic view on that count. ‘After the grief this building has caused me, I’ll be manning the wrecking ball myself!’

  At the house, Gabrielle was awaiting Peter at the front door. ‘How many bodies did you find?’

  ‘Well, they hadn’t started on the second scan when I left as we had power problems, but —’

  ‘I believe Em killed them both,’ they both said at once.

  ‘Ah, Em released Alejandra, I take it?’ Peter felt gratified by Em’s cooperation — there had been a moment there today that he’d felt sure he was going to burn his manuscript just to spite her.

  ‘Oh, yes, and now Grandma is pissed at both your muses,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘How is Spooky doing?’ Peter headed upstairs, and Gabrielle accompanied him.

  ‘It’s hard to tell when Pettigrew is doing all the talking.’

  ‘Can Alejandra help us send him packing for good?’ Peter didn’t want this ghost back at the warehouse causing mayhem either, but he had to get the vindictive spirit out of his friend.

  ‘She says she will assist, but we can still only persuade him to leave this world, we cannot make him leave.’

  ‘Then let’s find out what he wants.’

  Gabrielle waylaid Peter from entering the room. ‘Angry spirits feed on anger and fear,’ she warned. ‘Courage and goodwill are the best weapons . . . don’t let him bait you.’

  Peter took a moment to compose himself. Despite the roller-coaster ride the last few days had been, he had his ending, which was elating to consider, and that high wasn’t going to be wiped away easily.

  Gabrielle got out her phone. ‘I’m going to film this to show Mr Burns.’

  ‘Good call.’ Peter felt that would help a lot when it came to explaining this to his new associate.

  In his room the renowned horror writer was seething on his bed. ‘About bloody time!’ It was very disconcerting hearing a completely different voice coming out of the Scotsman’s mouth.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ Peter appealed.

  ‘I demand justice!’ he roared. ‘That little cunt of a she-man murdered me!’

  ‘I know and I fully intend to bring that to light,’ Peter advised as calmly as he was able. ‘So, you will have your justice.’

  ‘No!’ he objected. ‘I want that story buried! I want my legacy preserved! I deserve that, since that abomination stole my life!’

  This was just as Em had claimed. It now seemed clear that Pettigrew was behind the stressful situation that had caused Penelope’s first stroke and prompted her to move out of home. ‘Is that what you told Penelope?’ Peter probed.

  ‘Don’t try to pin her death on me,’ Pettigrew snarled. ‘I wasn’t the one supposed to be taking care of her.’

  ‘Peter.’ Gabrielle warned him against losing his temper, before he lashed out and lost this battle of wills.

  ‘I do not frighten as easily as old ladies.’ Peter wanted to burst into a spiel about all the lives Pettigrew had destroyed, but refrained, heeding Gabrielle’s caution. ‘I’m not going to drop this story, any more than I shall give Em the hero’s ending she wanted. I am only interested in airing the truth. But, on the upside for you, we can at least lay to rest the rumour that you were a hermaphrodite.’

  ‘What!’ Spooky’s face went so red that Peter thought his head might pop.

  ‘Yes, I thought you might like that point clarified, and I’m more than happy to do you this service, provided that you leave this world, as you should have long ago.’

  ‘That’s blackmail,’ Pettigrew seethed.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Peter admitted happily. ‘Or, I could bury this story as you suggest and dig up the coroner’s report on Em Jewel. I could write an entirely new work of complete fiction based on the secret double-sex life of Lord Reginald Pettigrew?’

  If looks could kill, Peter would have been obliterated. ‘I could just wait around and kill you in your sleep.’ The man suddenly gasped and looked to the other side of the room.

  ‘Grandma’s here.’ Gabrielle whispered in Peter’s ear. ‘She’s telling him not to be threatening her kin, or she will call up the holy death to drag him to hell where he belongs.’r />
  Alejandra was bluffing, having already informed them the spirit could not be banished anywhere against his will, but Pettigrew didn’t know that.

  Their captive was leaning away from the invisible distraction, appearing more fearful than mad now. ‘Keep that crazy witch and her serpent away from me!’

  ‘Well, you have pissed her off, and unfortunately for you there is nowhere on this earth where Alejandra won’t find you,’ Peter outlined the spirit’s diminishing options. ‘So if you don’t wish to be dragged to hell by the lady of holy death, I suggest you return to your maker of your own accord.’

  ‘What about Em?’ Pettigrew wanted revenge on her.

  ‘Em is gone,’ Peter advised. ‘So, if you have a mind to return to the warehouse, you’ll find no one there to torment. It’s time to leave the stage, Lord Pettigrew, and move on to your next performance.’

  ‘Don’t you think I want that?’ Pettigrew barked, frustrated. ‘I am bound to this world, I cannot move on.’

  ‘It is only your hateful memories and intentions that have kept you bound here,’ Gabrielle cut in to advise and handed Peter the phone to keep filming. ‘But there is nothing more to expose here, nothing left to prove. Just let go and be in the light.’

  ‘No,’ the spirit resisted and then Spooky’s eyes turned upwards and opened wide in wonder as he gasped. ‘So beautiful! And such music!’ He closed his eyes. ‘I quite . . . forgot . . .’

  Peter couldn’t see whatever had the ghost so enchanted, but he’d gone deathly still! ‘The holy death?’ Peter guessed, and Gabrielle shrugged as she ventured to check on Spooky.

  ‘Maybe? I saw as much as you.’ She stopped still, focused and then nodded with a smile. ‘Alejandra says the clearing was successful. Lord Pettigrew shall not be bothering anyone again.’

  Gabrielle took hold of Spooky’s arm to check his pulse, when he woke suddenly and startled Gabrielle.

  ‘Spooky?’ Peter queried, as the man discovered and inspected his bonds.

  ‘Oh no, what did I do this time?’ He winced. ‘My head is splitting and I’m fucking dying for a piss.’