by Kitty French
Marina and I watch as he tries the key and it doesn’t budge, and then again when he goes in for a second, more concerted effort and the lock begrudgingly gives way under the pressure.
We both clap our hands as Artie pushes the door ajar and then turns to us flushed with success.
‘You’re officially forgiven, Muscles.’ Marina winks at him, and he flushes raspberry from the neck up as she walks past him into the back porch of Scarborough House. I leave the door unlocked and pocket the key as I walk inside. I don’t know why; an instinct borne from watching too many horror movies probably.
‘Hello?’ We push the inner door open and Marina’s voice rings out loudly around the huge kitchen we find ourselves in. It’s colder in here than it was outside, the drawn blinds preventing any late-spring sunlight from permeating the space.
‘You know there’s no one here, right?’
‘Just being polite.’ She lifts her eyebrows at me. ‘You never know.’
‘Going on the state of the backdoor lock, I think we can be fairly sure,’ I murmur, running my finger through the substantial layer of dust on the kitchen table.
‘What do we do now?’ Artie whispers beside me.
They’re looking to me for guidance, so I clear my throat. ‘Let’s do a slow walk through of the place and get our bearings.’
Beyond the kitchen lies a hallway of grand proportions and shabby upkeep. Marina’s heels clack against the decorative blue, white and terracotta floor tiles until we all come to an eerily silent standstill and I decide which way to go next. A show-stopping central staircase sweeps up to the first floor; it looks as if those women I imagined on the lawns might have walked down it in beautiful evening gowns, as if it were fashioned for a more glamorous era. I glance down at my beloved Converse sneakers and feel entirely underdressed.
‘Let’s look downstairs first.’
Graceful plasterwork arches swoop on either side of the hallway, and I push one of the broad old wooden doors open and lead the way into a formal sitting room. It’s huge; at least four times the length of my own lounge and broken up into two distinct seating areas. Three austere tapestry sofas form a square facing the fireplace, and at the far end a cluster of fireside chairs face the walk-in, floor-to-ceiling French doors, clearly arranged to make the most of the garden views. I can imagine ladies would have gathered on the sofas in days gone by, while their menfolk lounged on the wing back chairs and talked business over Cuban cigars and good whisky. The rest of the furniture in here is all in proportion with the scale of the room; the cherry wood sideboard is probably about eight feet long, and the mirror attached to it soars up the wall towards the high, heavily detailed ceilings. Sunlight dapples the seating area by the French doors, but the rest of the room is distinctly cooler and gloomier.
I can appreciate why this place lends itself for conversion to a nursing home; it offers wide spaces for wheelchairs and lots of opportunities for the simple pleasure of watching the world through its tall windows. The phrase ‘mod cons’ has probably never even been uttered inside here; a thought strikes me and I look up at the light fittings.
‘Is this place wired for electricity?’
Artie glances around to find the switch as Marina saunters towards the windows to look out.
‘You came back then.’
I look towards the deep, matter-of-fact voice as Isaac Scarborough walks into the room. He’s a mature guy; I’d guess he must have been eighty or more when he died. He has a lived-in, melancholy way about him. As ghosts go, he gives off an air of having been around for a fair while, au fait with the ins and outs of being invisible to pretty much everybody.
I nod and send him a small smile, but I don’t reply instantly as I’m super aware that this is going to be Artie’s first time in the presence of a ghost.
‘Bingo!’ he beams as he flicks a light switch and the central chandelier blinks into life. Within seconds one of the bulbs blows, and the others are coated in dust and start to smell of singeing.
‘Just you who can see me then,’ Isaac mutters as he takes a seat on one of the sofas. ‘Some party that’s going to be.’
To be fair, he doesn’t look much of a party animal. I’d say he passed in the 1960s if his wardrobe is anything to go on; white shirt and skinny tie covered in a beige cardigan and sensible turn-up trousers. His hair is steel-grey and quite unkempt. Actually, for an elderly man in such an impressive house, he looks decidedly down-at-heel.
‘You best switch that off again.’ Marina looks up at the light as she turns from the windows and wrinkles her nose at the smell. ‘We don’t want to burn the place down on our first day.’
‘Did someone mention a party?’ A much younger, more debonair ghost strolls through the door and joins Isaac. I hold in the soft gasp that wants to leave my body because he is truly, outlandishly handsome. If Isaac looks slightly out of step with the times, this guy appears even more so. I’d say he could only have been in his early twenties when he died. He looks formally informal, if that’s a thing. What I mean is I expect that his cricket clothes might have been considered informal in his own day, but to my modern eyes he appears stiff and starched. He’s dressed completely in white, in slacks and a shirt with the open collar standing up and his sleeves folded back above his elbows, as if he’s about to bowl. His coal-black hair is short and slicked, and for a ghost, he exudes robust youth and health that makes my heart instantly break a little for him. He looks like a man who loved life and lost it in his prime, as if he has just stepped from a black and white postcard to pick up a glass of stout that was just out of shot. He’d definitely have been a young man playing croquet out on the lawns of Scarborough House, trying to catch the eye of one of the ladies. Until he died, anyway. That must have scuppered things quite a lot.
Marina stands beside me, unsubtly clearing her throat to get my attention and I realise I must have been miles away. Young, handsome ghosts are few and far between.
‘I’m going to sit on the sofa with Artie,’ she murmurs. ‘Will that work?’
‘Just not the one to the left. Isaac Scarborough is sitting there.’ I speak out of the corner of my mouth, glad as always that she knows me well enough to realise what is going on.
‘Come and sit with me, Artie, I think Melody might have something.’
I smile at him with an encouraging nod that he should follow Marina onto the sofa. He freezes, moving his eyes from side to side, reminding me of a weird old monkey clock one of our elderly neighbours used to have hanging on her kitchen wall.
‘Is there someone here?’ he mouths, as still as if he were playing musical statues and someone turned the music off. I’ll remind him later that whispering will not stop any prospective ghost from hearing him.
‘I can hear you,’ the younger ghost laughs, dancing around Artie, but for now I ignore him and concentrate on Artie.
‘Yes, Artie, there is.’ I look him in the eyes. ‘So let’s call this meeting to order, shall we? You’re in charge of taking notes. Can you do that for me?’
For a second I think he’s going to bolt. He looks like a deer in the headlights, all long legs and wide eyes, completely static. Marina and I both watch him carefully, and I let my breath out when he mouths ‘this is amazing’ before approaching the sofa on exaggerated tiptoes.
‘God help us,’ Isaac mutters, shaking his head as he watches Artie arrange his long limbs beside Marina and pull out his Dr Who notebook from his coat pocket. He flips it open and writes the date on the top of the first page then looks up expectantly, biro poised for action.
I give him a double thumbs-up.
‘Right, so I’m going to just chat now with Isaac and . . .’ I glance towards the younger ghost, who is now draped over the corner of Isaac’s sofa, his arms flung wide across the back.
‘Douglas Scarborough,’ he supplies.
‘Douglas Scarborough,’ I repeat, for the benefit of the others.
‘There’s two of them?’ Artie whispers, noting the na
mes down.
‘You don’t need to whisper,’ Marina murmurs. ‘They can hear you just the same as we can.’
‘Three, actually.’
I turn towards the new voice in the room and find a third man now occupying one of the wing back chairs by the French doors. I’d guess his age at late seventies, and from the resemblance to Isaac I’d say he’s most likely another sibling. The resemblance is striking; but while the two older brothers have similar features, in actual fact they are very distinct from each other. Without wishing to do Isaac an injustice, he is a fairly plain elderly man, a regular Joe in both his 60s clothes and style. His brother though, is not. He shares Isaac’s fine cheekbones and slightly long nose, but he is taller, stands poker-straight, and is dressed in a silk smoking jacket over paisley pyjamas and Turkish slippers. There is a cold haughtiness to him and I get the distinct impression that he isn’t pleased to have us in the house. When he gets up from the chair and strolls over, he doesn’t sit beside the others. From the way that Isaac stiffens, his expression hardening, I conclude that there is little love lost between these two.
‘There’s a third presence.’ I keep Marina and Artie up to date, looking at the new arrival as I wait for him to supply his name. When he doesn’t, Douglas laughs softly.
‘He’s our other brother, Lloyd. The third musketeer, eh boys?’
There is a sarcasm behind his words, and actually, on closer inspection, all of them look fractious and ill-at-ease beneath the surface, despite, Douglas in particular, attempting to appear relaxed.
Artie swings his head around, following my gaze as if he might be able to see them too if only he looks hard enough.
‘Okay. So we have Isaac, Lloyd and Douglas Scarborough, three brothers. I’m assuming that this is your family home?’
I glance between the three Scarborough brothers trying to straddle a position of holding a conversation with them and keeping Marina and Artie informed of what’s happening without obviously relaying everything verbatim. This is new to me too, remember? I don’t want to piss the brothers off by parroting everything they say.
Lloyd, the newest arrival, cuts straight to the chase. ‘Would it be impertinent of me to ask why you’re here?’ His voice is silky and underscored with menace.
I glance quickly at Isaac, who I know was privy to my conversation with Donovan Scarborough on the doorstep yesterday.
‘Your great nephew, Donovan, has asked me to come and talk to you all. I’m sure you’re aware by now that his father passed away quite recently, and Donovan Scarborough asked me to come because the house has been put up for sale.’
Lloyd eyes me with barely-concealed contempt. ‘So you’re his mouthpiece?’
‘His eyes, in this case,’ I say. I have to admit that I’m finding it hard to warm to Lloyd.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ Douglas runs his hand through his dark hair and I smile at him, glad of his intervention.
‘I’m Melody. Melody Bittersweet.’
He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s considering it. ‘Melody. As in a song. I’ll remember that. Why is it that you can you see us?’
I shrug. ‘Family trait. All of my family can. It’s our thing.’
‘You should bring them over,’ Douglas laughs carelessly. ‘God knows we could do with the company.’
‘If you’ve quite finished flirting,’ Lloyd cuts in rudely.
‘Umm, I rather think not, actually, old boy.’ Douglas raises his eyebrows. ‘Miss Bittersweet is the first living human I’ve spoken to since 1910, and lord knows she’s more charming than either of you two.’ He pauses and looks my way with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye, and I can’t stop the small answering smile from tugging at the corners of my lips. He’s calling me charming? He’s so sweepingly charming that I cannot help but feel a little bewitched by him. ‘Introductions all round, at least? Where are your manners?’ He shoots a derisive look at his brother then speaks again. ‘So tell me, Miss Bittersweet. Who is this delightful creature?’
He nods towards Marina, who right this second is concentrating on picking yellow paint off her thumbnail.
‘This is Marina Malone, my oldest friend,’ I say. In response, she looks up and waves her fingers.
‘And Artie Elliott, my . . .’ What is he, exactly? ‘My assistant,’ I finish. Artie nods quickly, a nervous smile on his lips as he rotates his head as if he’s doing neck stretches, to ensure he doesn’t miss anyone out.
‘I’m a trainee ghost-hunter,’ he says, earning himself a dig in the ribs from Marina. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Scarborough, Mr Scarborough and err . . .’ he consults his notebook. ‘Mr Scarborough.’
His explanation does nothing to improve the atmosphere in the room.
‘Ghost-hunter?’ Lloyd looks down his nose at me, and Douglas emits a rumble of laughter.
‘Here we go again. Remember that priest they sent once, Isaac? All of that chanting gave me quite the headache.’
‘Right,’ I say, trying to get things back on track. ‘So now you know who we are and why we’re here. Maybe you could tell me why you’re all still here?’
‘Oh, now this could be interesting,’ Douglas grins, crossing his long legs. ‘You first, boys, I insist.’
He doesn’t seem especially respectful of his older brothers, and they, in turn, seem equally intolerant of each other.
I look towards Isaac, because Lloyd rubs me up the wrong way.
‘I’m the eldest,’ Isaac says, finally.
‘And I’m the baby,’ Douglas can’t seem to stop himself. ‘Forever twenty-one, thanks to one of these good fellows.’
I frown, shocked by his revelation. ‘Are you saying that one of your brothers caused your death when you were just twenty-one?’
‘I never harmed him.’ Isaac stands, angry all of a sudden.
I look at Lloyd for his response. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t plunge the knife into his back. He was my twin brother, for God’s sake.’
I can’t hide my surprise, and I look from Douglas to Lloyd and back again. They’re obviously unalike now as Lloyd lived to be a fair age but, even so, I can’t imagine that they were similar even as young men. ‘You were twins?’
‘Non-identical,’ Lloyd snarks, and his tone tells me that it was a question that must have been levelled at them often when they were alive.
‘And therein lies the problem,’ Douglas says, returning to his story. ‘I didn’t see which of them it was and neither will admit to it, so I’ve been hanging around here ever since.’
‘What year did it happen?’
‘1910.’
Douglas Scarborough has been stuck here for over a century.
‘It’s been more than well-documented that Isaac was responsible,’ Lloyd sighs.
‘Not that well-documented that I ever went to jail for it though, was it?’ Isaac spits his words out. ‘I didn’t lay so much as a finger on that boy, but I paid for his death my whole life. Faced with the choice of having to blame one of us, my parents chose me, because the idea of one twin killing the other was so untenable. That fabled special twin bond suddenly became all too convenient for you, didn’t it, Lloyd? Those acting lessons came in useful after all, there was even talk of him being institutionalised for his own safety. My mother fell for it hook, line and sinker. I may not have been sent to jail, but I was punished alright. I was cut from this family like a gangrenous limb.’
‘Oh please.’ Lloyd sighs, theatrical and dismissive. ‘Not the gangrenous limb line again, Isaac. Change the damn record, will you?’
The two older brothers stare each other down, and Douglas lifts his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat.
‘So now you see what I’ve had to live with all these years, Miss Bittersweet.’
‘Please, call me Melody.’
‘And you must call us all by our Christian names too.’ He shoots Artie a look so withering that I’m glad he’s oblivious. ‘All that ridiculous Mr Scarborough nonsense.’
‘Thank you, Douglas,’ I feel absurdly shy saying his name. ‘That’s helpful.’
Isaac runs his hand over his steel-grey hair to smooth it back. ‘What exactly is your remit here?’
‘Well, as I said, Donovan has plans to sell the house, and he mentioned that everyone who comes over the threshold has been . . . how can I put this delicately? Terrified out of their wits by you guys?’
‘I’m not terrified,’ Artie pipes up.
Douglas reaches out and picks up a book from the coffee table and chucks it at Artie, who jumps back into the sofa and covers his face with his arms as Marina’s hand shoots out and smartly catches the hardback in mid-air.
She narrows her eyes in the general direction the book came from.
‘Play nice, ghouls, or I’ll fetch the ghost vacuum out of the van and suck you all up.’
Artie sits back up and takes the book from Marina, glancing down at the cover. ‘I read this at school. I didn’t like it.’ He places the book down on the coffee table. ‘I like it even less now.’
I hide my smile as he resumes his pose with his notebook and pen and looks at me, ready.
There’s something about his cheerful, matter-of-fact delivery of lines that I very much enjoy; he has wit and a natural, unassuming comedy about him that you could easily overlook.
‘So, getting back to the matter at hand,’ I say. ‘Donovan Scarborough is understandably concerned that he’s going to lose his buyers for the house if we can’t get to the bottom of why you’re all still held here.’
‘Well, I was murdered here,’ Douglas chips in. ‘I think that gives me rights.’
‘Not by me,’ Isaac snaps. ‘And I’m not leaving until someone proves it.’
