Agnes put her hands on her hips, staring at him wordlessly.
“I think she may be upset about the ghost tour,” Albertson said. “And you know, it don’t do any good to no one to upset the…”
His voice trailed to a breathy hiss as he regarded the big woman before him. He did not know if she was actually growing larger as he watched, but he certainly felt as if he were shrinking. Finally, he decided it was much safer to annoy a ghost than to allow Agnes Swanner to get wound up about anything. He ran to the heavy door and flung it open.
“Come on in, everyone, welcome!” he said, hooking the door open and gesturing expansively for all to enter. “Come in! Sorry for the delay, folks. Just a wee misunderstanding, that’s all.”
He glanced at Agnes. She had had not removed her hands from her hips, but she had, in his eyes, returned to normal size, which was impressive enough. She was still glaring though.
“To make up for the inconvenience, the first drink is on your host.” He glanced to Tricia behind the bar. “Tricia, complimentary shandies all around.”
He looked to Agnes. She still frowned, but not as severely. Both hands were at her sides. Pettibone still gave in him a sour-mash look, but who ever cared about him? A shandy might not get the outsiders one jot squiffy, but it would lighten the moment and improve their moods. Besides, if it was on his own farthing he was not about to spend one more piece of brass than he had to.
“Yes, go right to the bar so Tricia can give you a free shandy,” he said. “Or you can order up something harder, if you wish…not complimentary, of course. Sorry.”
The smiles that appeared at the start of his announcement were absent by the end of it. Still, he was gratified to see, many of the tourists were ready to pony up a pound for something stronger than an autumn shandy.
“Welcome to the Blithe Spirit Pub, centre of all paranormal activity in the village of…”
Agnes cleared her throat.
“That is to say,” Albertson hastily added, “one of the centres of paranormal activity in Little Wyvern, the, uh…” He tried to think of the slogan Pettibone and Agnes were flogging, then remembered. “Little Wyvern, the most haunted village in all England.”
Albertson looked to Agnes. The sight of her almost smiling nearly made him lose his tongue, but he found it after an awkward moment of silence.
“The Blithe Spirit you see now was built in 1683, replacing a much smaller pub on this site,” he continued. “Of course, it did not look then quite as it does…”
“Why is it so bloody big?” shouted one of the tourists, who was immediately elbowed by his wife.
“Seems too big for a one-horse dorp like…” The second man paused, looked around, then looked at a small embarrassed woman who, at that moment, would rather have been anywhere else in the world than next to him. “Where are we anyway?”
“Little Wyvern, sir.” Albertson could not understand how both men could be so well on their way to being pissed, and he hoped the wives were driving. “As I was going to say, the Blithe Spirit did not then appear as it does now. It has been enlarged over the years to accommodate not only the living residents of Little Wyvern, but those who have gone on to the other side. In fact, just this…”
“Thank you, Michael, for that most interesting information about a pub that is unique among pubs in England,” Agnes cut in. “The Ghost Tour will be starting in thirty minutes. Before then, you will have an opportunity to ask questions of our tour guide, Simon Jones, bestselling author and the world’s foremost expert on ghosts and all things supernatural and paranormal.”
She saw people looking around. One of the drunks was getting ready for another outburst.
“Simon has been delayed, but he will be joining us soon,” she promised. “Until then, please enjoy this historic old pub. Can’t you just feel the restless spirits around you? Of course you can, for this is Little Wyvern, England’s most haunted village. So drink up and prepare for the most mysterious evening of your life.”
Mutiny averted, she turned toward Pettibone.
Anticipating her question, he said: “I’ve no idea where Simon is, but I’ll go and check all his usual…”
“Good evening, fellow seekers after wisdom and the mysteries of the world beyond,” boomed a sepulchral voice from the doorway. “I am, of course, Simon Jones, your guide for this evening as we traipse about Little Wyvern in search of the unknown.”
Most of the tourists applauded politely. Agnes moved across the room, both to join Jones and to steady him. She smelled the juniper scent of gin. He was as oblivious of her hellfire stare as he was of everything else beyond his own ego.
“Where have you been?” she demanded through clenched teeth.
“Preparing, my dear Aggie,” he replied, voice low, still taking in the applause. “Excuse me, Aggie, my adoring fans await.”
She steadied him through the door, then let him continue on his own. He was tall and wide-shouldered, classically handsome in a way which used to draw British filmgoers to matinees, generally desperate young women and more desperate older women. His kind had been replaced by lean, hard men in need of shaves.
“This evening, dear friends—for I do consider all of you to be my very dear friends—we will journey into mystery,” he said. “We will penetrate the veils that separate dimensions.”
“Ballocks,” said one of the drunks, who winced as he received another elbowing from his wife.
The other drunk looked at his own wife, then sipped silently from the whiskey ordered from Tricia.
“If you’ve read my books, Memoirs of the Ghosthunter General or When Ghosts Attack, you know what we may see tonight, pity the faint of heart,” he continued. “If you’ve not—oh, you poor deprived souls—you’ll be able purchase copies when we stop by Ye Magick Bookshoppe, which is home to a very interesting ghost named Hugh. Ah, poor Hugh, a forlorn spirit who was in life an aspiring author, until he committed suicide in 1953 when no readers appeared at a signing event. Speaking of which, dear friends, when at Ye Magick Bookshoppe, remember to purchase only autographed copies of my books.” He grinned engagingly. “There is a small premium charged, but it will make poor Hugh so happy.”
He moved toward the bar, shaking hands and dispensing glib answers to questions like falling rain. Jones took the glass proffered by Tricia, took a sip, and expelled it onto the nearest tourist. He turned to Tricia, eyes flashing. She gave him a smirking smile.
“Orange juice,” she said.
He slammed it onto the counter, glaring down his nose at her.
She shook her head. “That’s all you get, billy-boy.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
“Aggie said so.”
Jones looked at Agnes, then at Tricia. “Nothing, thank you.”
Tricia leaned forward and whispered: “I was there last night. Where was you? I waited and…”
Jones turned from the barmaid and toward a smartly dressed woman wiping the last bit of orange juice from a lapel with a linen kerchief. He gently took it from her, felt the fine weave and smiled.
“Permit me, madam.” he said, rubbing her what he thought might be the right way, judging from the appreciative smile on her full red lips. “My abject apologies.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right, Mr Jones, I…”
“Please call me Simon,” he said.
Her smile broadened, her face flushed and her hand trembled a bit. “Oh, Mr…I mean…Simon. This a very great honour. I’ve read all your books.”
“Have you?” he murmured. He eyed her keenly. Her kerchief was of the finest material and her clothes followed suit. There was money here. “How splendid. Always keen to meet a fan.”
“I’m probably your greatest fan, Simon,” she said. “My name is Madeline…Madeline Wallace.”
He felt her hand on his arm, felt the possessive way her fingers held him tightly.
“I came all the way from the City for this.”
He gently disengaged her fingers,
but maintained an engaging smile. She had to be played well, this woman from the City. She was used to getting her way, having what she wanted, on her own terms. She might be a big noise in the Square Mile—in fact he knew she was because he made it his business to know the names of the moneyed and powerful in London.
“Ah, dear lady, I must attend to our other seekers…”
She frowned, her lower lip extended in a pout.
“…but please do me the honour,” he continued, “of allowing me to escort you personally during the tour.”
She brightened. Before he left her completely, he lifted her soft, exquisitely manicured hand, bowed slightly, and brushed his lips against her flawless, salon-pampered skin. He smiled as he felt her tremble. A little old world charm went a long way with today’s new woman, he thought, a commodity she could not get from the raffish and self-absorbed men she met during overlong days of power-playing. Women strove for empowerment, yet an unexpected kiss reduced them to quivering masses. At heart, he reflected, they were still their grandmothers, luckily for him.
“Adieu, my sweet Madeline, until later,” he said. He glanced at an unsmiling Agnes across the room. “I must circulate.”
He began making the rounds.
“I can’t think of a single thing I like about Simon,” Agnes said.
“He is a most unsavoury type,” Pettibone agreed. “However, he is very gregarious and the key to the success of tonight’s tour. And if we don’t get Ghost Week off to a…”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Agnes said testily. “Yes, he is very good at what he does, but I wished for someone more…more…”
“Reputable?” Pettibone suggested.
“Yes, reputable,” she agreed.
“We tried, Aggie,” he reminded her. “None of them wanted to have anything at all to do with us.”
“Only because we couldn’t guarantee their money,” she said. “When the Tour is a smash and Ghost Week puts Little Wyvern on the map they’ll see there’s more than a few quid involved. They’ll come crawling. And then we can dump Simon.”
Wisely, Pettibone let Agnes think what she wanted. Some ghost experts had turned them down because of the money, or lack of it, but most had shied from their plan’s exploitive nature. He was as surprised as anyone when it turned out such people had scruples. Simon Jones had no such handicap. His books were self-published and Jones was as slimy as a morning slug, but he could manipulate people like a monkey could juggle coconuts.
“Still, he does seem to have a way with…”
Pettibone elbowed her gently. “FOG’s all here.”
Agnes waved to the newcomers and went to them. Sir Phineas Smythe looked respectable in his squire’s tweeds. His drooping moustache gave him the air of a genial walrus or a retired colonel. His companion, or ‘the stupid blonde cow’ as Agnes thought of her, was garbed in smart autumn togs Agnes was sure she could never have afforded on her own.
“So glad you could make it this evening, Sir Phineas,” Agnes said. “You too, Prudie.”
Prudence Holloway squinted and turned up her nose.
“Oh, wouldn’t miss it for anything,” he replied. “Would we?”
“Oh no, Phinney,” Prudence said. “It’s all so exciting.”
“Nice turn out.” He looked at the people milling about the pub and congregating around Jones. “It is a nice turn out, isn’t it?”
“More than we expected.”
Pettibone nodded. Twenty pounds a head plus a cut of the pub’s profits was good for FOG’s coffers. As FOG’s accountant, it was his business to track the money, such as he could, especially now that the well had unexpectedly gone dry. He quietly walked away.
“Splendid!” Sir Phineas again took in the crowd. “Simon seems to be in fine form tonight. He hasn’t been…” He made a tippling motion. “I mean, he carries himself well enough but…”
“A little, but it hardly matters,” Agnes said. “The man’s blood is half alcohol most of the time anyway.”
“As long as our venture is not harmed by his imbibing.”
Prudence looked at the way the women hung on him, making every excuse to press close. She saw the way he responded to their attentions and wondered if alcohol was the only thing in which he had imbibed this evening. If nothing else, she knew how he went after her when Phineas was not looking, not that she would ever give the silly sod a toss. He was lucky she had not told Phinney what he was up to, and that was not at all for his sake.
A racket sounded from the rooms above.
Michael Albertson and Tricia behind the bar went pale.
The crowd fell silent.
“Oh my God,” Albertson murmured.
“It’s Patience, again,” Tricia said.
More slow booming sounds came from the rooms above.
The crowd began to murmur. Drinks were gulped, more were ordered. They all looked to Simon Jones.
“Nothing to worry about, my dear friends,” he said, lifting his hands in a dismissive manner. “Merely another of Little Wyvern’s restless spirits. No danger to us.” He lowered his hands and stared upward, as if he could see through the ceiling. His smile weakened. “Well, probably not much danger.”
He felt a tight grip on his arm—Madeline. Her brow knitted, her eyes wide, she looked genuinely frightened. Her nervousness spread quickly to other members of the crowd. He was quite pleased with the measured booms, sounding like monstrous footfalls. He felt her jump and press even more insistently against him. The feel of her full breasts almost made him forget his lines, but a return of the unearthly sounds brought him back.
“Patience Worthy has been a resident of the Blithe Spirit pub since 1823, but no blithe spirit is she,” he said. “No, disappointed in love, jilted by the son of a wealthy land owner, she hanged herself in the room…” He paused. “…directly above us.”
Booms as loud as thunder crashed overhead.
Madeline uttered a short, infectious scream.
Jones grinned. “Don’t worry, my friends, I’ll handle this.” He again looked up, raising his free arm and forming an arcane sign with his fingers. “Patience! Patience! Listen to me!”
A boom which had started suddenly stopped.
“Patience, we know you are upset at the tragedy, at the injustice that made you take your own life,” he said. “But we are your friends. There’s no one here who wishes you any harm or…”
“How can you harm a bloody…” The drunk made an oof sound as his wife’s elbow connected solidly with a rib.
“…or to upset you in any way,” Jones continued, not missing a beat. “Be at peace, Patience, Return to the company of your fellow ghosts, those grey spirits who are always with us.” He gazed around the room. “Who walk amongst us unseen, and do so even now.”
Madeline shivered violently.
“Be not be afraid, dear Madeline” Jones said. “Merely a cold spot from a ghost passing through you. There, all better now.”
Madeline looked simultaneously frightened and orgasmic.
Jones disentangled himself from her again. “There, my friends, the danger is past.” He cupped his fingers around his ears, listening to the silence from above. “Patience Worthy’s restless spirit has been quieted.” He paused. “For now.”
The crowd applauded appreciatively.
Agnes felt a presence behind her. She turned and saw Pettibone, a monkey grin on his face, which vanished as soon as he saw her own expression. She raised querying eyebrows. He nodded.
“Very good,” she whispered.
“My, that was quite impressive,” Sir Phineas said. “Perhaps we rather misjudged the bounder.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Prudence said.
Pettibone and Agnes remained silent.
“It certainly seems to have got everyone into the right…spirit.” He grinned at his supposed witticism. “Do you think he could be what he claims to be after all? Can he talk to ghosts?”
Prudence put her arm around him and squeezed, he respondi
ng in kind. It was when he was like this, as wide-eyed as a schoolboy and believing in the impossible, that she loved him most. She knew Agnes and Pettibone were up to tricks, and that Simon Jones was full of them, but they were always keen to keep her Phineas in the dark, as was she.
“If I may have your attention please,” Agnes said, her voice cracking like a bullwhip. “Thank you. The tour will start in a few minutes, so please finish your drinks quickly. In addition to Simon, feel free to ask any of your hosts questions you might have about Little Wyvern and its ghostly residents.
“I am Agnes Swanner, and this is my friend Alfred Pettibone, proprietor of Ye Magick Bookshoppe,” she said. “On my left, your right, are Sir Phineas Smythe, whose estate, Spectre’s Haven, will figure so prominently during Ghost Week, and Prudence Holloway. Together, we are FOG, Friends of Ghosts.”
Polite applause, if a little confused, sounded.
“We hope this Ghost Tour will not be your last encounter with the residents of Little Wyvern who have passed beyond this veil of tears,” she continued. “As you leave the pub, please take as many leaflets as you want about the ghostly activities planned this week in England’s Most Haunted Village. If you are interested in investing in any of FOG’s improvements to Little Wyvern, such as the Ghost Museum, please see me or Mr…”
“More than enough time for all that after the tour, and much more,” Jones said, giving the fuming Agnes a perfectly salacious wink. “Follow me, dear friends, as we explore worlds beyond this mortal plane and enter the mysterious and often dangerous world of ghosts. Stay together, friends.” He offered Madeline his arm. “And you, dear lady, stay where it is safest of all.”
Jones led the tourists out of the pub and into the deepening dusk of Little Wyvern. As he passed, he countered Agnes’ glare with a besotted grin.
Pettibone leaned forward and whispered. “I think he may have been annoyed with you because of the orange juice, Aggie.”
“Shut up, Freddie.”
Sir Phineas offered his arm to Prudence. “Shall we join the tour, my dear? It seems off to an auspicious start.” He glanced upward. “It was amazing, wasn’t it?”
Village of Ghosts (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 2) Page 2
