Supernatural Psychic Mysteries: Four Book Boxed Set: (Misty Sales Cozy Mystery Suspense series)

by Morgana Best

  I had shown him out of the house and then spent the night dreaming. They were not nice, sane dreams or even the nightmares to which I had grown accustomed. Instead, I dreamed that I kissed Douglas who turned into a vampire. In my dream, Douglas wanted to drink my blood to rejuvenate his face rather than paying for botox as it wasn’t covered by his health insurance. Oh well, dreams can be weird. I also awoke with scratches from Diva, who objected to me tossing and turning when she was trying to sleep on my legs.

  Douglas was speaking in a cold manner and was in Tour Guide mode again. “In the 1750s, Sir Francis Dashwood had the caves excavated on the site of an ancient quarry to provide farm workers with employment because the harvest failures had left them in bad way. The chalk that was excavated was used to build this main road. Look up there.” He pointed to the Dashwood Mausoleum, in the distance, perched up the top of a hill.

  I’m into Feng Shui, so remarked coolly, “In Feng Shui, straight lines are bad, but curved lines are good.”

  Douglas answered in a monotone. “Generally, straight lines build up power. Some say Sir Francis used this straight road to gather power and send it to the Mausoleum.”

  “Why would he do that? Mausoleums are for, well, dead people.”

  Douglas just shrugged.

  We drove along the A40 through West Wycombe again then turned right up a short, steep hill and turned right again into a car parking area.

  The engine was still running. “Misty, I’m going to have to bail on you, I’m afraid. A business concern has come up, so I’ll drop you here and pick you up in two hours. That will give you plenty of time to see the caves and have a clotted tea, and then meet me back here in the parking area in two hours.”

  Business concern, indeed. Things were uncomfortable between us, so Douglas was indeed bailing. Nevertheless, the sound of clotted tea left me aghast. “Clotted tea? What on earth’s that? It sounds like the cream has gone stale and clotted!”

  Douglas almost grinned. “You would call it a Devonshire tea, scones, cream and jam, or do Aussies say ‘jelly’ like Americans? And with a nice cup of hot tea. Americans call scones ‘biscuits’ as far as I know. I could be wrong. You don’t mind about today, do you?”

  “No, not at all,” I lied. I was as disappointed as could be. As I hadn’t wanted to go back to sleep and have more vampire dreams, I’d been awake most of the night having romantic thoughts about Douglas, vampire or not, and me alone in the dark caves.

  I walked up the hill, handed over five pounds for my entry at the Caves café and picked up a free pamphlet. It said stuff about Sir Francis that I already knew, such as that he was the founder of the Hellfire Club.

  What I didn’t know, and what I wasn’t too thrilled about finding out, was that the caves are over four hundred yards long and go to a depth of three hundred feet.

  I studied the map. I had googled it last night when making preliminary notes prior to my visit. The tunnel formation was set out like the two sides of a triangle. It looked like one long tunnel opening onto rooms, more like caverns, at various points.

  A booklet by the recent Sir Francis Dashwood caught my eye so I bought it. It was called West Wycombe Caves and had a painting of the front of the caves as the cover illustration.

  I was standing in front of this facade now. The original Sir Francis had a Gothic temple façade built over the entrance to the caves. Made out of flint, there was a vaulted window, three arches at ground level, three arches at mid-level and three arches at a high level, and the structure encompassed three sides of the entrance area. It looked like a real Gothic church to me, not that I had ever seen one.

  The booklet showed the cafe’s plastic chairs and tables in front of the Gothic façade which looked strangely odd, while at the same time I felt that the original Sir Francis Dashwood would have found this highly humorous and quite fitting. I was nevertheless glad that since that photo had been taken, many of the plastic chairs had been replaced by timber.

  The booklet had a bigger map than the pamphlet, no doubt as the booklet was not free. It showed a straight entrance tunnel leading to a small cave on the right by the original name of Tool Store. I was not surprised to read that the cave was stacked with tools such as those used by the 18th century workers: picks, shovels, candles, hammers and crowbars.

  The tunnel then lead to a round cavern called The Circle or Paul Whitehead’s Cave. The booklet said that Paul Whitehead was the Steward of the Hellfire Club and a poet to boot. Whitehead died in 1774 and left his heart to Sir Francis along with fifty pounds for the purchase of an urn. Whitehead asked that his heart be put in the urn and placed in the Mausoleum.

  Oh yes, I remembered this from my googling last night. There was an Australian connection. Paul Whitehead’s heart was said to have been stolen by an Australian soldier. I even remembered the year, 1829. I had googled the year to find out which war that would have been, and after some time on the net discovered that it wasn’t a war at all. This was the time of the Australian colonies and there were lots of soldiers around. Why on earth an Aussie soldier would want to steal a heart was beyond me.

  The booklet also said that Paul Whitehead’s ghost is said to haunt West Wycombe.

  There was a long stretch of tunnel before the next cave, and halfway along were the Roman numerals for twenty two: XXII. The booklet said they were either a measurement or a reference to a secret passageway which was mentioned in two poems of the time. I had my notes from last night so I dug in my handbag for my notepad, on which I had copied the two poems. Both poems appeared on a sign under the XXII sign on the wall. One poem did mention the number twenty two.

  Take twenty steps and rest awhile

  Then take a pick and find the stile

  Where once I did my love beguile

  T’was twenty-two in Dashwood’s time

  Perhaps to hide this cell divine

  Where lay my love in peace sublime.

  The other poem didn’t mention a number. It was a small section of Book III of the poem, The Duelist, by Charles Churchill.

  Under the Temple lay a cave:

  Made by some guilty, coward slave,

  Whose actions fear’d rebuke,

  A maze of intricate and winding ways,

  Not to be found without a clue;

  One passage only, known to a few,

  In paths direct led to a cell,

  Where Fraud in secret lov’d to dwell,

  With all her tools and slaves about her,

  Nor feared lest honesty should route her.

  The next cave was a large one, named as both the Franklin Cave and the Children’s Cave. I couldn’t tell from the map and description whether or not they were two separate caves, so I skipped to read about the next caves: the Banqueting Hall, the Triangle and the Nun’s Cave, also called the Miners’ Cave or the Buttery (where wines were kept). Nothing much of note was said about them.

  The next bit of map was marked as The River Styx. My information said it originally had to be crossed by boat.

  The last cavern was called The Inner Temple. Apparently the Hellfire Club occasionally held its meetings there.

  Enough reading for me; it was time to venture in. I looked around for other tourists and didn’t see too many of them. Finally a couple with two children entered, and I followed as close as I could without looking like a freaky stalker. I sure wasn’t going to go in alone.

  Luckily for me the lighting was fairly good, although dim. I wanted to linger and read the information hanging on the walls just inside the entrance, but wasn’t going to let those tourists out of my sight.

  The kids did stop to look at a photo in which a baboon featured, so I too was able to stop and read. The feature detailed a practical joke which John Wilkes had played on Lord Sandwich. The story goes that Wilkes dressed a baboon in the sort of clothes that children imagine a devil would dress in, and hid him in a large chest. He tied a cord to the spring of the lock, and hid it under the carpet.

  At the strategi
c moment, Wilkes pulled the cord and the baboon dressed as the stereotypical Devil not only jumped out, but leaped onto the shoulders of Lord Sandwich. Sandwich called out and asked the Devil to spare him.

  My time spent on the net last night had uncovered the whole story of Lord Sandwich’s hatred for Wilkes, and also said that the account of the baboon was a lie.

  The first cave I came upon had a scene set up, which made me far less scared as it seemed kind of Hollywood. The Circle, also known as Whitehead’s Cave, had a life-sized figure, which the sign identified as Paul Whitehead. He was sitting next to a skeleton in a chest, and had a table in front of him. It wasn’t at all a realistic figure like one from a wax museum. The sign said that the urn was the original one which held Whitehead’s heart and the face of the model was based on a contemporary bust.

  The inscription on the urn read:

  Unhallowed hands this gem forbear,

  No gems or orient spoil,

  Lie here conceal’d, but what’s more rare,

  A heart that knew no guile.

  I was feeling slightly braver when I walked deeper in the caves past the Children’s Cave and Benjamin Franklin’s Cave as for some reason I found the mannequins comforting. Plus they were behind bars. However, a ghastly chill crept up on me as I entered the huge Banqueting Hall. The ceiling would have been about fifty feet high and the diameter looked almost as wide.

  Despite my fear, I wanted to stay in there but the children had moved forward, so I followed them. When I came to a junction, the children went left and their parents went right, so I followed the children; don’t ask me why.

  To my relief, this proved to be the Triangle, and both sides met up. Just ahead of us was the Miners’ Cave and again there were bars. The family was not interested and picked up speed, going across the little bridge that was supposedly over an old stream, and to the end of the tunnels, the Inner Temple.

  More mannequins were ahead of me, several men and some ladies, and a baboon climbing out of an urn. I recognized Sir Francis, complete with turban from his painting in the West Wycombe Dining Hall. This room was a fraction of the size of the Banqueting Hall.

  I was staring at the mannequins when the lights flickered and dimmed. I turned around to comment on this to the family, but they were not there. They must have left while I was staring at the figures.

  Oh no! I didn’t want to panic and run, so walked quickly with my arms outstretched to feel for the barely visible walls, but no sooner had I gone about three or so steps than to my abject horror the electricity went out.

  Okay, keep calm. Easier said than done. I edged to where I thought the tunnel was, when I felt there was something else in there with me. I froze in terror. I could hear my heartbeat magnified, pounding in my ears.

  Right behind me, in my ear, I heard distinct words spoken in a bone-chilling voice, Where is the page? The page?

  I could feel breath on my cheek. It was old, musty, and stale, like Aunt Beth’s house.

  “Are you Paul Whitehead?” I don’t know why I was brave enough to ask. I suppose the researcher in me had taken over.

  The air went icy cold and suddenly I felt the presence of the most intense evil. It was only there for a second, but it left me in a state of blind panic.

  Although it was pitch black, in my horror I ran forward and slammed straight into a solid body. I tried to scream but paralysis overcame me; this was happening in slow motion. Every cell of my body was consumed with terror.

  At that moment, the body grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Misty! Don’t worry. The lights will come back on soon.”

  Douglas, thank goodness. He must have come back early. I threw myself into his arms with half a sob and flung my hands around his neck.

  I heard his intake of breath, but at that moment, the lights came back on. I had thought my shock levels high before, but now they outdid themselves. I looked up into the face of Jamie Smith.

  “You!” I shoved him away from me, hard. He too looked shocked, but surely he couldn’t have thought I had flung my hands around his neck knowingly. Surely he knew I thought he was Douglas.

  I sprinted down the tunnel. My mind was going ninety to the dozen. I don’t know if that’s just an Australian expression, but that’s what was happening to me.

  I had passed the Children’s Cave, when a guide appeared. “Are you okay? Is there anyone else behind you in there?”

  “Yes, no, oh, maybe one man,” I blurted, and shielded my eyes from the flashlight.

  “Oh sorry, I brought a flashlight in case the lights went out again. Should be fine now. You keep going and I’ll go and look for anyone else in there. It’s very rare that the lights go out in here.”

  “Oh, okay, thanks.” I took off at a run again, straight through the Circle, straight down past the Tool Store, out the entrance, and then down the hill to the car park. I had no wish to run into Jamie Smith again. My cheeks were hot with embarrassment. I saw the Audi parked in the lower section of the car parking area, so ran up the slope and sat down behind a tree, catching my breath.

  The trees afforded a good and discreet view of the Audi, but it seemed forever before Jamie came out, hopped in his car and drove off. It was actually just over fourteen minutes according to my iPhone.

  Douglas wasn’t due for another fifty minutes so I decided to have a Clotted Tea, as gruesome as it sounded to Aussie ears.

  It wasn’t until I sat in the seat with my back to the Caves, affording a good view of the entrance to the courtyard, that I remembered the whispered words in the Inner Temple. Jamie must have been in front of me at that point, and the words had come from behind me.

  I felt a headache coming on and rubbed my temples. The sight of cream arriving took my mind off my worries; food was the perfect remedy, especially fattening food. I preferred the taste of artificial cream but wasn’t going to refuse the real thing.

  The clotted tea looked exactly like the Devonshire teas of back home, and was yummy. I stuffed my face with light, fluffy scones, or biscuits depending on your country, to which I’d added lots of whipped cream and strawberry jam, or jelly, again, depending on your country. The cream turned out to be delicious and it was horribly bad for me, I’m sure, which served to cheer me up.

  I heaped three large spoons of sugar into my tea and stirred well. A lot of sugar would make the morning’s events go away.

  An hour later, I sat at Aunt Beth’s kitchen table with only Diva for company. Douglas had arrived punctually, collected me, driven straight back to Aunt Beth’s and dropped me off, engine running as usual. The uncomfortable silence between us had persisted throughout the journey home. I was wondering if it was too early to have a glass of wine. Oh well, it would be 5 p.m. somewhere.

  While the laptop was booting up, I poured a large glass of red, then googled garlic poison. I discovered lots of information about garlic, but none of it useful.

  I was starting to get an information overload. Maybe I would end up spouting facts like Douglas.

  Perhaps Aunt Beth had eaten huge amounts of garlic for her heart condition after all, despite the fact I hadn’t found any garlic in the kitchen or garlic tablets in the medicine cabinet.

  I tried one more thing. I googled the words garlic poison death. The third entry was Death by Selenium. This was enlightening. It said that selenium is odorless and colorless, and looks and tastes like water. It said that even a low dose can be lethal, and that it also causes a very strong garlic odor.

  Then I came across mention of a CSI episode in which someone killed her husband with a selenium overdose. I figured that finally I was onto something.

  Chapter 11

  I had just finished my second requisite morning cup of coffee and gritty bits when the doorbell rang. It was unlike Douglas to be an hour early; he was usually right on time. I was relieved that I was already showered, dressed, and had put on my make up while drinking the second cup of coffee.

  The person standing at the front door was a shock to me
.

  Jamie Smith. I was embarrassed after throwing my arms around his neck the day before. Should I invite him in? I wondered. What does he want? “What do you want?” It came out more harshly than it did in my head.

  “Misty, please hear me out. You’re in danger.”

  I grimaced. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Who’s ‘everyone’?”

  I thought of Skinny again. Misty, stop exaggerating. “Well, you and Douglas.”

  I ignored Jamie’s immediate frown and showed him into the kitchen. It was brighter in there, and so less intimate, but, I suppose, a kitchen is not a terribly intimate place anyway.

  I put the jug on to boil, filling it with minimal water so it wouldn’t take as long, and picked up a blue and white pottery jar which was labeled tea. Without thinking, I turned it upside down to look at the maker’s mark. This was a reflex; my mother had been an antique dealer for years before turning to jewelry. She always turned things upside down to look at the maker’s mark, although she did so less often after the time she turned a vase upside down at a client’s house, not realizing the vase was full of water.

  The jar was empty so I looked for teabags. I saw a packet marked Twinings Lapsang Souchong, and reached in for two tea bags.

  “How do you have it?”

  “Black, with one.”

  “Okay.” I poured the boiling water in, added one spoon of sugar to his and one to mine. Then I thought about it and added another spoon to mine. I thought about it some more, and added yet another spoonful to mine.

  I put Jamie’s tea in front of him so forcefully that some of the tea splashed out, and then sat down opposite him.

  “Okay, tell me what you wanted to say.”

  “Have you ever heard of Paul Whitehead?”

  I groaned, partly as I had just tasted the tea which tasted like liquid beef jerky, and partly because he sounded just like Douglas.