A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “She’s not our girlfriend,” Kevin corrected him. “Much though Pete’s ambitions might lie in that direction. She’s our business partner.” He waved at the hall. “She’s gone for a wander. She likes to get the feel of a place before we’re set up.”

  “As long as she’s feeling the place and not the goods belonging my traders,” Dimmock said.

  Pete scowled. “If you don’t trust us, you shouldn’t have agreed.”

  The manager yawned. “I didn’t agree. The council did, and they own the place.” He checked his watch. “It’s pushing seven and time I weren’t here. You do know I’m locking all the doors? If there’s an emergency, you’ll have to get out through the emergency door in the stock area.” He pointed to the northeast corner and a narrow alley that led to an emergency exit.

  “No problem,” said Pete. “You just clear off and enjoy your Christmas Eve. Don’t worry about us.”

  Dimmock shrugged. “I won’t.”

  *****

  At the far end of the hall, in the southeast corner, Sceptre stood by the music stall and tried to imagine what it would have looked like in 1870 when the cobbler, Bobby Butt ran it.

  The purpose built, wooden racks, which would now displayed CDs, may have been similar, but they would have been much larger, and supported boots and shoes, not CDs. Behind them, the cosy little area where today’s vendor probably sat reading his trade papers, would have been a grimy little workshop, with a bench supporting a steel last, housing Bobby’s tools and raw materials such as leather for the soles, and boot nails. Bobby would have worked on a small stool and probably kept a straight-backed, wooden chair where his customers could sit while their shoes were mended. Having worked most of his life by candle or gaslight, his eyesight would be poor, with a consequent detriment to his work, and so soon after a cholera outbreak, trade would be slack, adding to his financial problems, while the intimidating George Rudge hovered over him demanding the rent. And when Bobby could not pay there would have been the added, terrifying spectre of the workhouse and ultimately debtors’ prison hanging over him.

  But if the grim world of Bobby Butt was a million miles from the aristocratic luxury and privilege to which Sceptre had been born, she was just as unaccustomed to the modern Ashdale.

  The music trader had cleared away his stock, and she could see through the rear of the plate glass window at the rear of the stall. It looked onto Market Square where Christmas lights adorning the giant tree swayed in the wind. Flecks of snow fell from a sky, heavy with cloud. The shoppers had already gone home, and now early revellers were out, young girls dressed too skimpily for the cold weather, young men in shirt sleeves, making for the pubs and clubs, all full of that air of magical excitement that was Christmas.

  Born Lady Concepta Rand-Epping, Countess of Marston, her social status had robbed her of the magic these simple folk enjoyed at this time of year. To her, Christmas had meant church, followed by a long and tedious lunch with the family, and opening presents that were functional necessities rather than something special: a new riding hat, a woollen scarf to keep her warm in the castle grounds. Even her books had been staid classics. She had never been given the Bunty Annual, for example. It was always Dickens or Hardy or Jane Austen.

  Before her mother’s untimely death in an automobile accident, Sceptre could not recall having been drunk at Christmas, and yet Pete, a man with whom she would never have been allowed to consort, considered it the norm. As indeed did most of the young people out in the street beyond the windows.

  Staring at the scene beyond the market hall, she felt a sudden sense of deprivation. Just as quickly, she reproached herself. She had been born into a title. She had enjoyed more of life, seen more of the world in her 27 years than most of the population of Ashdale would see in their entire lives.

  Sternly, she reminded herself that Pete and Kevin had given up their traditional Christmas Eve revelry, to help her here. There was work to be done.

  “Fishwick,” she called to the hall.

  The voice of her butler rang in her head. “I’m here, Madam.”

  “Fishwick, are there spirits in the building?” Sceptre asked.

  “There are many spirits here, Madam.”

  “Including that of George Rudge?”

  Fishwick was uncertain. “There are a few spirits who have wandered this hall for a good, long time, Madam, and one I suspect is George Rudge, but as I speak to him, he refuses to acknowledge me. He is searching for someone called Bobby, and he’s been searching for many years, but he has not yet found whoever he is seeking.”

  “Does he represent a danger to us?” she asked.

  “Any spirit could represent a danger to you, Madam,” observed her manservant, “but I will be at your side for the coming night.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.”

  Sceptre began to retrace her steps along the south aisle. Fishwick, butler and batman to her great-grandfather, had been killed on the first day of the Somme in 1916. He had been at Sceptre’s side since she was about 8 years old, and he was as utterly reliable to her in death as he had been to the family in life.

  She paused near the toilet block. Opposite was a novelty stall, its security grille down, protecting the display of inexpensive china and glass ornaments, and naturally at this time of year, Christmas decorations. Sceptre wondered what the stall had traded back in Victorian times. Whatever it was, its situation, directly opposite the office of Corley and Rudge, meant the traders must have worked every day in a state of trepidation.

  She felt a sudden chill come over her. The market hall was cold, but she was insulated against it, wearing in a pair of denims and a thick, woolly jumper, and she had barely noticed the cold when she stood near the music stall. But here, it quickly penetrated her clothing and seeped through to her bones. Sceptre was in no doubt about its cause.

  “Show yourself to me, Jacob Corley or George Rudge.” There was no tremor in her voice, only aristocratic assertiveness. “I am not afraid of you. Show yourself.”

  She waited. Nothing happened. For a moment she toyed with the idea of contacting Fishwick, but decided against it. If, as he had reported, Rudge had refused to acknowledge him, his presence would be unlikely to persuade the old landlord to appear before her.

  The chill still upon her, she turned to walk back to her colleagues.

  She had taken barely three paces when a dull, metal CLUNK reached her ears. Sceptre whirled on her heels. By the door to the ladies toilets, a fire extinguisher had fallen onto its side and rolled back and forth on the concrete floor.

  *****

  In the northwest corner of the hall, was a small café, alongside a flight of steps, which led to the upper west gallery where, amongst other premises, Dimmock’s office was located. The owner of the café had left them a kettle and facilities for making hot drinks; teabags, instant coffee, milk and sugar.

  “I notice he’s locked the grub away,” said Kevin, as he and Pete set up their base of operations in the café.

  “He’s probably heard about your appetite,” Pete said, as Sceptre returned to join them. “Any sign of Rudge and his cronies?”

  “I’ve just had an interesting experience near the ladies room,” she said, taking a seat.

  Both men gave her insouciant grins. “Tell us all about it,” invited Kevin.

  She scowled at him and briefly told them what had happened.

  While Kevin was wide-eyed with nervous astonishment, Pete was typically sceptical. “So a fire extinguisher fell over. Nothing strange about that.”

  “There is when you consider that there was nothing to knock it over.” Sceptre delivered a challenging stare. “I believe it was Rudge. I’d just called to him and then it happened. It had to be him.”

  “You believe what you want,” Pete dismissed her. “It’s turned seven, lunatic has gone home, and it’s time …”

  “Lunatic?” Sceptre cut in. Her eyes were narrowed and she wore a querying frown.

  “He means dim
my . . . I mean Dimmock,” Kevin explained.

  “We all know who I mean,” said Pete in a businesslike manner. “I was about to say it’s time we set up the gear.”

  Sceptre checked her own watch as if to confirm his words. “You’re right,” she said and reached into her bag.

  From it she retrieved a scale plan of the market hall, unfolded it and spread it across the table. All three pored over it.

  “There are six north-to-south aisles,” she said, highlighting them with the tip of her pen, “and five east-to-west. Fortunately, they form an almost perfect grid, which means we can see from one end to the other from any aisle.”

  Sat opposite her, Pete pointed out two exceptions. In both cases, the north-south aisle on the eastern side of the building, and east-west aisle second from the far end were blocked part way along by a larger stall projecting into them, and the surrounding alleys dog-legged around the stalls.

  “It means,” he explained, “that you can never get a clear view of the southeast corner.”

  “And coincidentally,” said Sceptre, “that is where the majority of the apparitions occur.”

  Pete grimaced. “I don’t believe in coincidence.” He took in her owlish stare. “I used to be a cop, remember, and most times when you found a coincidence, it meant guilt.”

  “And who’s guilty of what?” Sceptre demanded.

  “Ashdale Borough Council are guilty of wanting more publicity for this place. And Dimmock’s in on it, too.” He pointed to the lower portion of the plan that detailed the two upper galleries, and one of the shops named Dimmock Furnishers. “What are the odds,” Pete went on, “of finding two incidences of such a name in one place, on one day? Dimmock, the manager, Dimmock Furnishers. If he doesn’t own it, I’ll bet he’s a part of the set up.”

  “Hmm,” replied Sceptre with a shrug. “You could be right, but I don’t see where it’s important. At least, not to us, it isn’t. Even if they are trying to simply generate publicity, they will not fool me, nor Fishwick. Now,” she hurried on before Pete could complain again, “we need to cover as much as we can without cameras, and since most events happen in the bottom corner, or along the bottom aisle, that’s where we need to concentrate our equipment.” She pointed out possible locations on the plan as she spoke. “I’d like to have covered the upper galleries too, but it won’t be possible.”

  “Old Grudge couldn’t climb stairs then?” asked Pete.

  “I told you, most sightings have been on the ground floor.” Sceptre studied the plan once more. “Kevin, do you want to set up in the southeast corner and run a cable back to the central junction along the top aisle, near the health food stall.”

  Kevin blanched. “Southeast? But that’s where Grudge has shown up before.”

  “His name is Rudge, not Grudge. All right then, take the southwest corner. Near the ladies’ lavatory. Pete can do the southeast. You all right with that?”

  The ex-police officer nodded. Kevin did not.

  “Yeah, but he turns up in the ladies bogs too. Can’t I stay with Pete?”

  Sceptre showed him her watch. “It’s turned seven thirty and we only have tonight. We’ve got to get a move on. Now stop being childish and do the southwest. I can see you from here.” She pointed down the aisle to the bottom of the hall.

  Swallowing a large lump in his throat, Kevin picked up a video camera, tripod and cable drum and set off.

  Pete smiled after him. “Scared of his own shadow. Always been the same.”

  Sceptre smiled too. “You’d better get moving. I’ll make us tea while you’re setting up.”

  *****

  Carrying a cable drum, video camera, tripod and handheld magnetometer, Kevin set off nervously down the west aisle, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure he could still see Sceptre. There was no need. From the café, they could see all the way to the southwest exit door.

  In contrast to the cheerful, blithe air that he had about him when he first entered the hall several hours previously, he was now shaking and frightened. He was always the same on ghost hunts, and there were times when he wished he had never embarked upon a partnership with Sceptre. Pete was all right. Six feet four inches of him, fitter than any butcher’s dog Kevin had ever seen, and he was as tough as they came; afraid of nothing and he didn’t believe in ghosts. Kevin was five feet six, spreading rapidly at the waist, and he was a talker, not a doer.

  He passed the trophy shop on his right. It had an exit to the outside world, through which Kevin could see the early revellers making their way into the Market Tavern. The sound of Slade singing Here It Is Merry Christmas reached his ears. Perhaps he should have listened to Pete after all.

  Reaching the southwest corner, he glanced nervously along the bottom aisle. At the far end, he could see the fruit and veg’ stall, which blocked his sight of the southeast corner and the music stall where the ghost of Rudge had reportedly been seen. Pete, he knew, would be working there right now, and there was no way Rudge would hassle Pete Brennan. Not if he had any paranormal sense.

  Closer to him, was the toilet block, the door to the ladies’ on this side, where the Victorian landlord had also been seen. Kevin took his eyes from it, and looked back up the west aisle to where Sceptre was working on the computer set up.

  He set down the motorised trip and as he fastened the digital camcorder on it, he noticed his hands trembling.

  “Calm down, Kev,” he muttered to himself, “Sceptre and Pete are here.”

  He glanced back up the aisle again. Sceptre’s back was to him as she fiddled with the kettle. He breathed easier.

  The noise from the Market Tavern still reached him, and cheered him up. A chime sounded. The chime became a tune. “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” Kevin glanced along the aisle to a fancy goods stall opposite the toilet block. A grille type shutter had been lowered to protect the stock from thieves, but that was where the music came from. Kevin’s heart beat faster. He wanted to go find out what was actually putting out the music, but that would mean he was out of sight of Sceptre and Pete. His eyes darted along the aisle, checking all the stalls, checking the door to the ladies. Nothing. No one. It was only a few yards away. Should he? Dare he?

  He tiptoed nervously along the aisle and stared at fancy goods on the stall. A battery operated Santa turned on its base, tinkling the tune. What had started it? A small plinth on which the chubby little man, holding a bell aloft, turned and turned in time to the music. Kevin could imagine him saying “ho, ho, ho”. The tune grated on him and he narrowed his eyes on it, seeking the on/off switch. Something must have set it going.

  A terrible smell of rotten eggs permeated the air. The hair at the nape of his neck stood up. He was alone. Totally alone. Sceptre was five yards behind and sixty yards to the north. Pete was somewhere the other side of the hall. There was no one else here.

  “You’re all right, you’re all right,” he chanted under his breath. “No such thing as a ghost. You’re all right.”

  The horrible stench became stronger. There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Kevin felt an urgent need of the lavatory. He dare not look, but there was an almost hypnotic urge to turn and stare. Slowly, he turned and the figure materialised fully in his vision. An old man, stood by the ladies lavatory, a long, shabby overcoat covering his slight frame, the hair an untidy, straggly white, features wizened, the eyes hollow sockets.

  Kevin’s features drained, his mouth fell open and he cried out. “Aargh!”

  *****

  Both Pete and Sceptre heard Kevin’s cry. Sceptre hurried down the west aisle and Pete rushed over from the far side of the hall. They found Kevin cowering in a corner near the southwest exit.

  “What is it, Kev?” Pete asked, his face a mask of concern.

  Unable to look anywhere but at the exit to the streets, Kevin pointed a shaking finger into the hall. “A m-m-m-man. At the ladies lavatory.”

  Pete turned sharply. The aisle was empty. “There’s no one t
here now.”

  “Pete, I’m telling you, he was there.” Kevin was practically in tears. “There’s a little Santa on that fancy goods stall and it started to play We Wish You A Merry Christmas, and—”

  “We Wish You A Merry Christmas?” Pete interrupted.

  “Yes. We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” Kevin stared owlishly up at his best friend. “It’s a Santa. What would you expect it to play? The theme from The Dambusters?” He turned his attention to Sceptre, his eyes begging her. “It was him. Rudge the grudge. He was stood by the ladies khasi, just like dimwit told us. Pete doesn’t believe me but you do, don’t you, Sceptre.”

  “Of course I do, Kevin.” She patted his hand sympathetically.

  “I think the stories are playing on your mind,” Pete declared, “just as they did at Melmerby Manor.”

  At the mention of their investigation into Ashdale’s only stately home, Sceptre delivered a withering glare on Pete. “A lot happened at Melmerby Manor, and it wasn’t Kevin’s imagination at work. Nor mine.” During the investigation they had uncovered two major crimes and encountered many strange phenomena, most of it concentrated on Kevin. “I think he’s an unconscious medium,” Sceptre concluded.

  Pete was not impressed. “If he winds me up much more, he’ll be an unconscious tub of lard.”

  Sceptre ignored him and helped Kevin to his feet. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she instructed.

  Tremulously, ensuring he was between Sceptre and Pete, Kevin led them to the stall and indicated the now silent Santa. “This toy started to play. I came to check it out and suddenly there was this awful smell …”

  “And you couldn’t figure out what caused it?” asked Pete with an eye on Kevin’s large backside.

  “For once, it wasn’t me. When I turned round, he was there.” Kevin waved at the door to the ladies. “All old and wrinkly. No eyes, just sockets. God, it was awful.”

  Anxiously, Sceptre checked her watch. “Time’s getting on and we need to get the rest of our equipment set up. Let’s just get on with it, and we can settle down in the café to monitor the computer. Pete, if you wanna carry on where you were, I’ll stay with Kevin.”