by Lucy Banks
Kester glanced at Lara.
“It’s a bit weird, ain’t it?” she said as she thrust her hands into her wide-legged trousers. “The way you’re telling it; it makes me think someone’s got it in for your club.”
“Perhaps.” His expression darkened. “It certainly feels as though something more sinister is afoot, if you take my meaning.”
“I do indeed,” Kester replied. He started to pace around the room, paying particular attention to the framed photos on the walls. “Is that one of the Ancient History Club?” he asked, striding over to a particularly large black-and-white image, which had been taken against the backdrop of the seafront.
“Yes,” Hopper confirmed. “Isn’t it sad, thinking that five of ’em aren’t with us no more, eh?”
Kester studied the image. There were eight people in total, five now deceased. Does that mean there’s three more victims in this photo? he wondered. Or is it just a coincidence? His instincts were telling him, with a certain level of excitement, that he was on to something. Though what it was exactly, he wasn’t sure. Why would a spirit be targeting a history club, of all things?
“Do you mind me asking what you do in your meetings?” he asked as he turned to look at Peter Hopper.
The other man sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. “No, but I haven’t got long, as I said. It’ll have to be quick.”
“Hey, any information you can give us might help us get to the bottom of this thing,” Lara added as she perched on top of the closest radiator.
“Well, it’s much as you might expect, really,” Hopper started. “A lot of time is spent eating homemade cakes and having a chat, to be honest. But we also do a lot of research into the local area. Sometimes, we run presentations and special evenings, telling other folks about Lyme Regis’s history.”
“I can imagine there’s plenty to talk about,” Kester said enthusiastically. “Given that this town is the home of the famous Mary Anning.”
“The famous Mary who?” Lara echoed, squinting in confusion. Hopper tutted.
“Mary Anning discovered the first ichthyosaurus skeleton,” Kester explained quickly.
“An itchy what? Sounds like an STD.”
He grinned, then supressed it with a serious shake of the head after catching a glimpse of Hopper’s outraged expression. “No, it’s a dinosaur. She discovered it in the Victorian era.”
“Victorian?” Lara said, looking confused. Then she burst out laughing. “Aw, heck, I’m just ribbing you two. You should see your faces. Don’t worry, I know all about your Queen Victoria. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“Anyway,” Peter continued willfully, giving Lara the full benefit of his back, which was now turned coldly in her direction. “Sometimes we investigate fossil discoveries and the like. Other times, we research the people who used to live here. It’s fascinating work really, especially if you’re retired and haven’t got anything better to do.”
“I think it sounds like a wonderful way to pass the time,” Kester agreed. “So, what were you researching before the murders started?”
Peter Hopper glowered. “I don’t see what that would have to do with anything, to be honest,” he replied. “Our research would have nothing to do with the deaths of my friends, I can tell you that.”
“Perhaps not,” Kester said slowly, noticing how prickly his question had made the other man. “But we’ve got to investigate everything we can, you see.”
Hopper nodded. “Well, I’d like you to get to the bottom of it more than anyone else. I’ve lost some good friends, people that I’ve known for a long time. I know they were old, but that doesn’t make any difference.”
“What were you researching then, before they started dying?” Lara persisted.
Peter Hopper scratched awkwardly at his neck. “Nothing much, really,” he said with great deliberation. Kester studied him, wondering why the man was being so obviously ambiguous. What were they up to, and why is he so reluctant to tell us?
“Can you elaborate?” he probed gently.
“I’ve got to go in another five minutes or so,” Hopper announced suddenly. “You know who you need to talk to? You need to get chatting to Xena Sunningdale, that’s who.”
Kester reviewed his notes. “Earnest Sunningdale’s wife? I’ve got written here that she’s a professional tarot-card reader, somewhere on the seafront?”
“Yeah,” Hopper mumbled. His voice had adopted a rather dangerous edge. Kester suddenly appreciated, as he studied the tightened jaw under the slack skin and the low-hanging brow, that Peter Hopper must have been an intimidating man once. Instinctively, he took a step backwards.
“Why should we want to talk to her?” he asked, choosing his words carefully.
“Do you think we should get her to see into the future and solve the case for us?” Lara joked, oblivious to the darkening atmosphere.
“She was the one that put us on to the Celtic site.” Hopper placed his hands on his hips and glared at them both. “You ask her about it all. Not that it probably has anything to do with any of this. But she’ll tell you all she knows.”
The Celtic site? Kester thought, before he began jotting down information in his notepad. Now that sounds like it might be interesting.
“What is the Celtic site?” he asked quickly. “It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing you’d find in Lyme Regis.”
Hopper grunted. “It’s brought us nowt but trouble, that’s what it’s done. And I hold her responsible. That bloody Xena. Her Earnest was always such a down-to-earth chap as well; how he ended up with her, I’ll never know.”
Kester caught Lara’s eye and frowned. She shrugged.
“Where can we find Xena Sunningdale?”
Hopper sighed. “She might be down in her shop, mooching around like she sometimes does. Mind you, the season’s nearly over, so she may be back at her house.”
“We’ll try her shop now, see if we can catch her,” Kester said as he folded his notepad away. “Where is it?”
“It’s a tiny little hut down by the ice cream parlour on the beach. You can’t miss it. There’s a big sign outside, what says ‘Mistress Xena.’ All done in green and pink like a circus sign. Otherwise, she lives at 74 Turbot Street. You’ll know which one it is; the porch is decorated with dreamcatchers and shells and whatnot.”
“Thanks,” Kester replied. He nodded to Lara, who rose from the radiator. “You’ve been really helpful, Mr Hopper. We’ll be in touch if we need any further information.”
Hopper coughed, then gestured to the exit. “Not a problem. I wish you well with the case. It’s a nasty thing, a terrible thing. The sooner you catch the evil bastard who’s doing it, the better. By the way, you’re very young to be a private investigator, if you don’t mind me saying. Both of you.”
Kester gave Lara a meaningful look. She grinned in response. “Young blood and sharp brains, that’s us, sir!” she quipped as she marched towards the door. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be heading out into the cold now.”
“It’s really not that cold,” Kester replied, trailing after her.
“I was raised in Texas, out near El Paso. It don’t drop below 15˚C, even on a cold day. Which makes England like living in a freezer, in my humble opinion.”
“Oh, 15˚C, that does sound nice,” he replied as he mentally steeled himself for the blast of cold sea air. Behind him, Hopper grunted, shaking his head.
“I need to lock up now, so I’ll bid you farewell,” he said, then pointed down to the seafront. “Keep walking down that way, you’ll be at Xena’s shop in about five minutes.”
Kester glanced down to the grey waves dragging and pulling at the pebbled beach. “Great,” he said as he shook Peter Hopper’s hand. He smiled at Lara. “Come on, let’s go.”
They trooped down towards the seafront. Gulls wheeled overhead, their shrill wai
ls muffled by the wind. The beach was almost entirely deserted, apart from a mother and her child eating ice creams and a single old man sitting disconsolately on a bench. In the distance, craggy cliffs loomed over the rocks below, forming a protective barrier that curved out to sea. Lara scanned the breadth of the coastline, then suddenly pointed. “There’s a bright-looking shop sign over there. I’ll bet that’s where we’ll find this mysterious Mistress Xena.”
“What do you make of this Celtic site then?” Kester asked. “It’s a bit of a weird thing to mention, isn’t it?”
Lara pursed her lips. “I think a lot of what Mr Hopper had to say didn’t make much sense, if you ask me.”
“I agree. It didn’t quite add up, did it?”
“It couldn’t have added more wrongly if he’d have been using a broken calculator,” she concluded seriously. “All my senses were telling me something wasn’t quite right.”
“Well,” Kester said, “let’s see if we can learn anything more from this mysterious tarot-card reader.”
“At least you can get your fortune told while you’re there,” Lara cackled, keeping her eyes on the row of shops in front of them.
They strode across the beach, trying not to trip over the tumbling stones. Kester found it difficult to keep pace with the Texan, who, he now realised, was quite a bit taller than he was, with considerably longer legs. He glanced across. She was, as Mike had said, very attractive. Probably almost catwalk model attractive, or catalogue model at the very least. However, there was something about her that just wasn’t alluring, though he couldn’t imagine what it was. She was friendly, funny, and drop-dead gorgeous, but there was something missing. Not that it mattered. Perhaps it was the rather masculine clothes she chose to wear—or maybe that was just the fashion in Texas. He really didn’t have a clue.
“You’re giving me a hard look there, Kester.” Lara caught his eye and gave him a shrewd nod. “Something the matter?”
Kester blushed. “Sorry. I was just admiring your . . . er, your suede jacket. It’s just like a cowboy would wear.”
She whooped with amusement. “It’s my brother’s. I stole it before I left for England, along with some of his other clothes. I doubt he was too happy about it.”
“Do you make a habit of wearing men’s clothing then?”
She bit her lip, then gestured down at her outfit. “Put it like this, I know what suits me, and that’s men’s clothes. You can ask me about it another time, okay?”
He frowned, perplexed. “Er, okay.” I wonder what that’s about, he thought and scratched his head. It’s a bit of an odd thing to say.
Finally, they arrived at the shop, which, as Peter Hopper had said, wielded a weathered sign above the windows. Garish gold decoration lined the ledges and doorframe, rusty and splintered due to the relentless attack of the wind and sea water. Big wooden boards covered the front, which Kester took to be a bad sign. He knocked at the door, not expecting a reply.
To his surprise, he heard a crash from within. Lara grinned widely. “Looks like somebody’s home,” she whispered, leaning against the wall.
A few squeaks, cluttering scrapes, and hushed mutterings later, the door flew open, distributing a floral-dressed old woman between them. A multitude of noisy necklaces bobbed around her neck, and her face was mostly concealed by a vast cloud of grey hairs gathered in a huge, untidy nest.
“I’m not open, dears!” she said breathlessly as she blinked in the sunlight. “If you need a reading, you’ll need to book by phone.”
“That’s okay, Mrs Sunningdale, we don’t want a tarot reading,” Kester said quickly. “In fact, we just wondered if we could have a chat with you about something rather important?”
Xena Sunningdale paused and looked up at him suspiciously. “It’s not the licence again, is it?” she asked, crossing her arms across her voluminous chest. “I told the man from the council only last week, I’m fully paid up, and I’m not operating over the winter anyway—”
“No, it’s not that,” Kester interrupted with a smile. “I’m actually from Dr Ribero’s Agency, I wonder if maybe one of my colleagues has already been in touch with you?”
Xena stiffened. “You’re the supernatural agency,” she stated and studied him warily. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, you don’t need to worry. I know you have to keep it all out of the papers.”
Kester smiled as reassuringly as he could. “I know, that’s not why we’re here. I wonder if we might come in for a few minutes? It’s a bit nippy out here.”
The elderly woman looked as though she could think of at least fifty things she’d rather be doing instead of inviting them in, but nonetheless, she stood aside, nodding into the small building. In fact, as he entered, Kester realised that it was more of a shack than a proper shop. Ruby-red wallpaper hugged the walls, but the outlines of the wooden slats were clearly visible underneath. Xena Sunningdale pointed to a shapeless velvet sofa by the wall.
“Make yourself at home. Not sure what you expect to find out from me, my dear, but you’re welcome to do your best.”
Kester glanced at Lara, who had made herself comfortable on the sofa, legs spread so far that they stretched across virtually the whole floor, covering the threadbare Persian rug. “We’ll get to the point then,” he said, remaining standing. “Can you tell us about the Celtic site?”
The old woman stiffened, looking like a plump hen that had suddenly spotted a fox.
“Who did you hear about that from, my love?” she asked quietly, hand pressed to her chest.
“We’ve just been talking to Peter Hopper.”
She cringed. “That buffoon. I always told dear old Earnest to steer clear of him. Miserable sod.” Clutching the side of the doorway, she looked them up and down with sudden severity. “I suppose he told you some awful things about me?”
“Not really,” Lara interrupted. “But he said you were the one who put the history club on to the Celtic site. If it’s got something to do with the case, we need to know about it.”
Xena fiddled with her beaded necklace, twirling it round her finger like a ribbon. “There’s not much I can tell you,” she said slowly. “But I do want to help you. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss my husband. He was a silly old goat at times, but he was the kindest man I’ve ever known.”
“We’re glad you want to help us,” Kester said. “And the only way we’re going to stop the murders is if we understand what’s going on. Anything you can tell us would be useful.”
She massaged her chin thoughtfully before resting her plump bottom on the little polished table opposite the sofa. It squeaked underneath her weight, but, thankfully, held firm.
“As you know, I’m a tarot reader,” she began, looking at each of them in turn. “You might think I’m a charlatan, but I’ve got genuine talent, just like you. I can see into the future, from time to time. And I’ve always been fascinated by the supernatural.”
I’ve always felt quite the opposite about it, Kester thought as he whipped his notepad out with a wry smile. Still, no accounting for taste.
“When I moved to Lyme Regis forty years ago, I made it my business to find out all the local ghost stories. There’s a lot of them, you know. The Royal Lion Hotel, now there’s a place you should visit. Ghostly footsteps. Ectoplasm on the walls. Fabulous location to pick up on supernatural vibrations.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Kester replied sceptically.
“Then, a few years back,” she continued, “I found a particularly interesting bit of land, out near the outskirts of the town, up on the hill. I’d gone there for a walk one day—before my knee replacement, this was. Beautiful little woods, all covered in bluebells. I walked much further in than I normally would have done, even though it was very overgrown. That’s when I found the Celtic stone.”
“A what stone?” Lara asked, raising an eyebro
w.
“A Celtic stone, love. You know, the Celts? The ancient people who occupied most of Europe before the Romans came along and pushed them out of most of their land.”
Kester shook his head slightly at Lara with an expression that he hoped conveyed a silent I’ll explain later. He didn’t want to put the old lady off her stride. “What was the stone?” he asked. “A standing stone?”
Xena shrugged, then eased herself more comfortably on the edge of the table. “I’d say a gravestone. I found more than one of them, you see. Some were just lumps, worn away by the rain and the wind. But others, once I’d cleared the grass away, still had the ancient carvings on them.”
“You think it was an ancient burial ground, then?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“Why do you call it the Celtic site?”
She massaged her temples, breathing deeply. “I started to look into the ancient history of Lyme Regis. Further back than most textbooks go. I found that thousands of years ago, Celts attacked this region, likely trying to push the Romans back out, but they were captured instead. I’m presuming the stones mark their graves.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your flow,” Lara said as she shifted in her seat. “But what has all this got to do with the murders?”
“I don’t know,” Xena replied. Her face crumpled into a folded cushion of concern. “I wish I did know. But all I can tell you is that the killing started after Earnest shared my news with the history club. They all got quite obsessed with it. It was all just a bit of a laugh to begin with, but then things went too far. I told them as much. Deirdre and Peter, they wouldn’t let it drop.”
Kester scribbled down notes as fast as possible. I’m not sure what any of this means, he thought, chewing on his pen and gazing down at his notes, but it surely must mean something. But what connection could an ancient Celtic burial ground possibly have with a murderous spirit that mimics its victims?
“Mrs Sunningdale,” Kester said seriously as he closed his notepad with a business-like snap. “You’re obviously familiar with the supernatural. What do you think is going on here?”
