The Haunting of Mount Cod

by Nicky Stratton

  Sir Repton reappeared as Laura was inspecting the cupboard. It was stuffed full of cans, all pilchards; there must have been at least twenty.

  ‘Kevin the gardener told Robert the plant was diseased,’ Sir Repton said. ‘He spotted a canker on the bark that he believes to be caused by the deadly Belgian Cornus beetle. The girls organised for it to be taken to the Ministry of Horticulture’s special quarantine facility for further investigation.’

  ‘But what about the bench and the pagoda?’

  ‘I forgot to ask about the other things, but really they are unimportant. I’m afraid the matter of the shrub took up my thoughts; Matilda was most indignant when I didn’t get the best actor award. I simply can’t get it out of my head.’

  They spent much of the afternoon attempting an inventory of the garden statuary and other ornaments. The two statues in the formal garden that Laura had noticed from the Flamborough bedroom window were indeed missing.

  ‘Perhaps they were a safety hazard.’ Repton studied the bare patches in the yew hedge where they had stood. ‘They’ve probably been moved somewhere out of harm’s way.’

  ‘So why don’t Robert or the girls keep you informed of these things?’ As Laura rounded the pond, she peered into the depths. Water boatmen hovered over the lilies and a dragonfly swooped down. ‘Are there carp in here?’ She bent down and scooped aside a lump of weed.

  ‘I expect the heron got them,’ Sir Repton said.

  They walked on through an avenue of wisteria. It had finished flowering and the long tendrils waved about in the breeze.

  ‘Shouldn’t there be something at the end?’ Laura asked. ‘Something to draw the eye.’

  Sir Repton plodded on.

  ‘Think Repton.’

  ‘I can’t remember. We once had a bronze of Falstaff… But actually I’m feeling rather parched. Do you care for sparkling elderflower? I know we’ve got some because I ordered it myself. We could take it and sit in the summerhouse. Perhaps we’ll find him there.’

  They walked back round to the front of the house and collected a bottle from a larder opposite the kitchen that Laura had not noticed before. Taking it and some glasses they went out of the back door into the stable yard and from there, through a small wooden door next to the State of the Union office – again it was something Laura had missed on first inspection. The summerhouse was attached to the back of the wall like an elaborate lean-to with French windows. Inside and array of rattan chairs with faded striped cushions gave it a dilapidated air. Falstaff was not in residence and there was no sign of two more urns that Sir Repton admitted had stood on the now empty plinths either side of the glass doors.

  He dusted off some dead flies from a low table, put down the glasses and opened the bottle. ‘Perhaps Matilda sold him,’ he suggested.

  Laura watched the bubbles that popped to the surface as he filled her glass. ‘Was she likely to do that without telling you?’ she asked.

  ‘Matilda could be fickle in her taste… Capricious you could say. I wonder if the notices for Henry IV were not to her liking when I played him last. 1984 in Regent’s Park, I believe.’

  It was obvious Laura had reached a dead end. The ever-increasing list of Matilda’s character defects were not helping and Laura wondered if they were even living at Mount Cod in 1984?

  She changed the subject and they discussing the vagaries of dog psychology as Parker and Sybil Thorndike dug up a molehill in the grass outside.

  Laura felt more positive after they had eaten. ‘While a pilchard on toast is a perfectly respectable supper dish,’ she said, putting the plates in the dishwasher. ‘It is still a fact that Cheryl is not fulfilling her job description.’

  ‘I felt the claret complemented them well,’ Sir Repton offered. ‘Let’s open another bottle and sit in front of the fire. Even in midsummer, this house has always been cold. Do you play cribbage?’

  ‘No, and don’t try avoiding the issue Repton. This may seem harsh but I get the feeling all these people you are surrounded by are taking advantage of you. Are you sure you are being straight with me?’

  ‘I am afraid it is the inherent weakness of my character, but at least my wine merchant is reliable.’

  Back to square one. His self-depreciation only added to Laura’s lack of direction as she tried to make head or tail of him. She sighed. ‘Come on then, I don’t suppose it will do us much harm to have another glass.’

  Sir Repton turned out to be a ferocious cribbage player and combined with her own competitive streak, it was nearly midnight before Laura got to bed. She lay back on the pillows, again reviewing the situation. She was no nearer solving the mystery of Matilda’s death. The wheelchair at the top of the stairs really amounted to nothing. It was all hearsay. The Ancient Eros plan had been a complete waste of time and Strudel and Jervis had been sucked into Repton’s neurotic delusions. Cheryl had done a bunk again but that did not imply anything more than her normal unreliable nature. Laura sighed and picked up the Brigadier’s diary. He was on the shores of Lake Tanganyika and had fallen in with a group of village elders, when she fell asleep.

  Some time later, she opened her eyes and realised she had left the bedside light on. But it was not this that had awoken her. She had heard a thud. She waited. All was quiet. She turned off the light and closed her eyes, thinking of the Brigadier making camp on the shores of the lake. She dozed. But there it was again. A thud. She listened. Footsteps on the landing. One heavier than the other – a sort of clump, thud, clump, thud went right past her door. Her heart started pumping. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It must be Repton… but what was he doing at this time of night? She prayed it wasn’t a misguided attempt at corridor creeping, but no, it couldn’t be, he hadn’t got a club foot.’ She waited and then she heard the turning of the door handle to Grimsby.

  Right next door.

  She pulled the bedclothes up around her chin. Silence. And then the click of the door closing and the clump, thud, but this time followed by a sort of gentle rustling sound.

  Laura lay wide-eyed. Had Repton mentioned the serving wench having some sort of limb deformity? I must be going mad, she thought, putting her hand down the bed and grabbing Parker by the collar. She pulled him up and held him tight to her chest. It calmed her. But who was it? She thought of Repton, paralysed with fright in his own bed. ‘Well Parker, I think I’d better find out.’

  She clambered out of bed, put on the old pink kimono she used as a dressing gown and her sheepskin slippers then picked up the torch she had taken out of her bag in case there was another power cut. Looking quickly round the room for a likely blunt instrument, her eyes alighted upon a tortoiseshell hand mirror on the top of the dressing table. ‘That’s no use,’ she said, rueing not packing the Brigadier’s truncheon as she threw the bedclothes over Parker. She badly wanted his company, but, in her furtiveness, he would be sure to start whining and give her away. She shut the door behind her and shone the torch up and down the passage.

  Nothing. All was quiet.

  She tiptoed to the head of the stairs and as she did so she heard the soft swoosh of the green baize door leading off the hall. Gripping the bannister rail tight, she descended and crept across the hall. She pushed open the door and held onto the handle on the other side so that it closed silently behind her. She stood still and turned off the torch. Her heart was thumping loudly in her ears, but above it she could detect – very faint – the sound of voices.

  She inched forward down the servant’s corridor. The voices grew louder. She stopped outside one of the closed doors next to the kitchen. It was coming from inside. She put one ear to the door. She knew that voice… Forces, Cromarty… This was no malformed wanton strumpet plotting a manifestation… Dogger Bank… It was the shipping forecast on Radio Four.

  She turned the handle, flung open the door and flashed the torch. On the floor in the middle of the room a mass of eiderdown and bedspread wobbled.

  ‘Lady Boxford,’ Canon Frank Hol
liday sat up with a start from the camp bed.

  He attempted to get up but fell back.

  ‘Excuse me one moment. I’ve overinflated it.’ He attempted to rise again but lost his balance as the air filled mattress bounced him sideways and he was left grappling on the floor in his striped flannel pyjamas.

  ‘Won’t be a tick.’ He managed to get himself on all fours. Laura could see the sole of one bare foot and the blue plastic splint on the other. ‘I can explain,’ he said, pulling himself up with the aid of an old leather armchair. He turned to face her. ‘There we are.’

  He brushed back his white hair with his hands and then with a deft stroke of his index finger, attended to his eyebrows that were attempting take-off.

  ‘Does Repton know you are here?’ Laura asked.

  ‘I have not acquainted him with the fact, no. You see… Well this is embarrassing. I tripped over a step yesterday. I had to call Cheryl for assistance.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘She thought I needed looking after, silly really, but there is only one bedroom in her apartment and she said it was more convenient for me to stay here and then ask Lance to drive me home on the morrow. I really didn’t want to bother Sir Repton with the minutiae of it all.’

  ‘So what were you doing upstairs?’

  ‘I found that I was short of bedding. For some reason Cheryl had forgotten my duvet you see. I had no idea that you were staying… Cheryl must have omitted to mention the fact. Did I disturb you?’

  ‘Of course you did. And you didn’t seem to have much of a problem climbing the stairs. I’m surprised you didn’t take the lift to Bridlington. That really would have given me a fright.’

  ‘But I’ve never taken the lift. It was in Cheryl’s bedroom.’

  ‘Cheryl slept in Bridlington next to Matilda?’

  ‘Lady Willowby slept badly. She would often call for Cheryl in the early hours.’

  ‘Talking of the early hours, what time is it?’

  Canon Frank looked at his watch and gasped. ‘It’s nearly three, you must go back to bed.’ He took her arm and escorted her, limping, to the door.

  ‘I certainly must. And we will see about all this in the morning.’

  ‘You’ll find the way alright won’t you?’ Canon Frank continued, ushering her out.

  ‘Of course I will. I found my way here didn’t I?’

  ‘May I say how fetching you look in that dressing gown, Lady Boxford,’ he said, as Laura set off down the passage, torch in hand.

  She made her way back upstairs trying to work out what she had just witnessed. Had he been flirting with her too? But more to the point was Cheryl really his guardian angel and why had he not gone into what had been her room, Bridlington but had taken the eiderdown and bedspread from Matilda’s bed in Grimsby, the room beyond?’

  Chapter eighteen

  There was no sign of Canon Frank or Cheryl the next morning. The inflatable bed was nowhere to be seen but the bedding from Grimsby was neatly folded on the leather chair.

  ‘How very sad, and to be so cold at two in the morning.’ Sir Repton said, as they made their way to the kitchen.

  ‘How do you know it was two o’clock?’

  ‘My bedside clock. I heard noises. I thought…’

  ‘You thought it was the ghost didn’t you?’

  ‘My nerves were frayed. I took a pill. But I had no idea the Canon was in such dire circumstances,’ Sir Repton continued hastily. ‘I shall have to extend a formal invitation to him. We can’t have him hiding down here in the servants quarters when there are perfectly good bedrooms upstairs.’

  While he made them a cup of tea and some toast, Laura laid the table.

  ‘I think you should have words with Cheryl. I mean what did she think she was doing?’ Laura took the lid off a pot of honey she had found in a cupboard.

  ‘Her kindness was possibly misplaced…’ Sir Repton sat down with the tea.

  ‘Kindness? No, I’m sure she will have had some ulterior motive.’ Laura heard the back door slam and moments later Cheryl appeared in the doorway holding a bag of shopping.

  ‘I hope you’re here for lunch,’ she said to Laura. ‘I’ve been and got a nice quiche from the Co-op. The chickens are still on strike or I might have made one myself.’

  ‘A treat.’ Sir Repton clapped his hands together.

  Laura looked at him, then to Cheryl, then back to Sir Repton. ‘Well, if you are not going to say anything, Repton, I am.’ She turned back to Cheryl. ‘Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve been to the shops that’s what’s going on.’

  ‘And what about Canon Frank?’

  ‘Canon Frank?’

  Sir Repton intervened. ‘Lady Boxford only means it was too kind of you to bring the Canon here to stay on account of his ankle.’

  ‘Frank, here?’

  ‘Lady Boxford found him last night. You had forgotten to bring his duvet and he had to go all the way upstairs to borrow an eiderdown, poor man. Has Lance taken him back home in the Land Rover?’

  ‘Yes. No, what am I talking about, Lance took me to the shops and we dropped him home at the same time.’ Cheryl dumped the bag on the table. ‘Well, I must get on. The quiche should take about twenty minutes. I might do a spot of dusting later if I’ve time.’

  Laura sighed in frustration. Repton had singlehandedly wrecked any chance of finding out what was going on. She noticed a filmy skin on her now cold tea and took it to the sink.

  As she was standing by the Aga waiting for the kettle to re-boil, Tam and Pom came in, one marching ahead of the other. If it weren’t for their loose auburn tresses, they could have been a couple of traffic wardens in their crisp white shirts and black suits.

  ‘Morning all,’ said the first one, leading the way. ‘Just to say, don’t worry if you see some diggers arriving; we’re going to temporarily flood the bog garden for a couple who want a Venetian style wedding.’

  ‘A boating theme?’ Sir Repton rubbed his chin. ‘But I am uncertain as to the quality of clay in the bog garden.’

  Laura stirred in some milk to the new cup of tea. ‘Isn’t lack of clay a prerequisite to the successful bog garden?’

  The first girl flashed her a momentary glower. ‘I said temporarily flood it.’

  ‘We thought when they said gondolas, they meant a fairground attraction.’ The second girl giggled. ‘We’ve had to totally cancel the amusement ride we’d booked.’

  ‘The diggers aren’t much more expensive, the water’s free and we’ve managed to borrow some rowing boats from Woldham Fishing Club,’ the first girl continued in a curt vein.

  ‘Jez Abelson’s doing a Showboat tribute act,’ said her sister. ‘It’s a bit random but the bride really went for the idea. It’ll be so cool, you’re going to love it, Repton.’

  The first girl frowned. ‘From a distance obviously, anyhow the bride’s family are loaded so that’s all that really matters.’

  The two girls returned to their office.

  ‘Jerome Kern – how I love all those old Broadway musicals but now I think about it Laura, I believe you are right. I don’t think there is any clay content in the soil of the bog garden.’ Sir Repton took the quiche out of the shopping bag and opened up the packaging.

  They stared at the jaundiced tart. The egg mix was wrinkling away from the sides of the pastry and a few small lumps of bacon protruded like rocks in a barren desert.

  ‘I think I must get back to Wellworth Lawns. I’ll call a taxi, if you don’t mind,’ Laura said. The quiche aside, she felt momentarily guilty at abandoning Sir Repton, but Canon Frank and Cheryl’s behaviour was too suspicious to be ignored. Had Canon Frank some sort of hold over Cheryl and not the other way round? Was the séance all part of a bigger scheme to derail the already weakened Repton. She must find out if there was something in the Canon’s past that could provide a clue.

  Chapter nineteen

  As the front door to Wellworth Lawns swung open,
Laura pulled Parker to her side, snapping the lock on his extendible lead to avoid bumping into Gladys Freemantle who came striding out. She was wearing a tight black minidress. The magenta paper peony crushed in the V of the low neckline was doing little to conceal her ample bosom. As if this was not bad enough, she had on her feet a pair of trainers.

  ‘Gladys. Wherever are you off to dressed like that?’

  ‘Morning Laura. No time to stop and chat I’m afraid. I’m going to be late meeting my new friend Harvey for lunch. I have high hopes of a bonk later this afternoon. Wish me luck.’ She adjusted one bra strap. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t let Mr. Parrott catch you. He’s very busy trying to bump up numbers for his lecture this evening on the benefits of suttee.’

  ‘Suttee?’

  ‘Yes, you know, Hindu women were big on throwing themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre. One way of getting rid of a surfeit of widows, I suppose. See you soon.’ Gladys waved and bounded down the steps.

  Laura walked on into the hall and was about to go upstairs when the manager’s office door opened and Edward Parrott scuttled out.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you, Lady Boxford.’

  ‘I don’t believe in self-immolation, if you were about to ask me to your seminar.’ Laura noticed with alarm that he was wearing socks and sandals with his suit.

  ‘The point I am trying to get across is one of financial impact.’ The manager straightened his worn silk tie. ‘In this day and age when all you, “skiers” have spent your kid’s inheritance it is important to think of the cost of a full on funeral service. The hygienic aspect of a pyre is also worthy of consideration. The elimination of miasma is key. We must at all costs avoid…’ His red nose quivered. ‘Innn… fection’ He sneezed into a handkerchief and then inspected the contents. ‘Christ.’