The Case of the Deadly Doppelgänger

by Lucy Banks

  “Aloysius, get out!” Grace McCready hissed and waved frantically at the cat, who slunk out of the room, glaring at Kester as he went.

  “Sorry about that,” Kester said, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  “Don’t be. Useless fat moggy. We’re just waiting for him to die.”

  He settled back down again. The room smelt vaguely of cooked fish. Dust blanketed the windowpanes, limiting light in the room. Yet it wasn’t just the smell or unpleasant surroundings that unsettled him. There was an atmosphere in the home, a sense of watchfulness that made him eager to get out of there as soon as possible. It’s probably the residents, he thought, looking at Grace McCready, who wasn’t as old as he’d initially thought, just emaciated and pale. They’re not exactly the most welcoming hosts.

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” he began, folding his hands across his lap.

  Grace sank back into the faded velvet folds of the chair and eyed him keenly. “I do not,” she said finally. He noticed that she seldom blinked. It unnerved him, and he looked away, focusing on the dreary landscape painting above her head. It was a particularly grimy oil painting, darkened and tinted with age. The wild crags and heather-clad ground made him wonder if it was a picture of the Highlands.

  “Is that where you came from?” he asked, pointing at it. “It’s lovely scenery. Is it Scotland or somewhere like that?”

  “It’s a painting of a place near where I was born,” she answered curtly. “Shall we begin?”

  Kester coughed. I see, he thought, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. That’s how she wants to be. Fair enough. Let’s get down to business.

  “Firstly,” he began as he rummaged in his pocket, “I wondered if you might take a look at something for me. Peter Hopper said you were an expert in Celtic history.”

  Grace stiffened, then licked her lips. “Did he, now?”

  “Is it true? Can you help us?”

  She grimaced. “I’ve got some knowledge. I specialised in Celtic history at Dundee University. I’ve lived in Lyme Regis for over forty years now, though.”

  He finally located the Celtic brooch and leant over to show her. Taking a deep breath, she craned forward and studied it intently.

  “Where did you find this?”

  He was surprised by the intensity of the question and felt suddenly guilty, like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets. “Um,” he began, shifting uncomfortably, “we found it up in the woods. Peter Hopper and Xena Sunningdale had both told us about the Celtic burial site . . .”

  “Oh, I bet they did,” Grace spat with a venomous glance at the brooch. She extended a hand, then clicked her fingers at him. “Give it to me. I want to see it better.”

  He handed it across, and she pulled it in, fingering the surface with a caress. He waited with nothing but the sound of the ticking clock to interrupt the silence. Finally, she looked up.

  “What is it you want from me, Kester?” Her eyes dug needles into his own.

  “We need to stop whatever’s causing the deaths of your friends.” He resisted looking away, regardless of his deep desire to do so. There was something horrible about her expression, her eyes in particular, that made him feel frightened, though he didn’t know exactly why. “We think you might be able to help us, Grace.”

  “But they’re nearly all gone anyway,” she replied as she leaned back against the chair. “Why bother now?”

  Kester frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What do you think I mean? Isn’t it obvious?” Her fingers curled around the armrests, digging into the fabric.

  “Miss McCready, if there’s any chance that we can save you and Peter Hopper, then—”

  The old woman shook herself, then sat up straight. “Helen! Helen, I need my inhaler!”

  A few seconds later, her daughter reappeared, a blue inhaler clutched tightly in her fist. Glaring at Kester, she positioned it between her mother’s lips and pressed the cylinder.

  “Mum, you know you shouldn’t get excited,” she muttered with a brief squeeze of her mother’s shoulder. “If you need some quiet time, I’m sure this man here will understand.”

  Grace shrugged. “It seems we’re surrounded by quiet time these days, doesn’t it? Too much quiet.”

  “Until the baby arrives, yes. Then there’ll be plenty of noise to deal with.”

  “Are you having a baby?” Kester asked, gaze instinctively flitting to the woman’s stomach. She was wearing a shapeless knitted jumper, but underneath, he could detect the distinctive swell of her stomach. Helen observed him coolly, then placed a protective hand across herself.

  “I am, yes. Not that anyone cares, apart from Mum.”

  “What about the father?” Kester asked, then bit his lip. “Sorry, that was a nosey question.”

  Helen tensed. “The father didn’t want to know.” She glanced at her mother. “Like history repeating itself, eh?”

  Grace nodded. “We don’t seem to have very good taste in men in this family.”

  “It’s like we’re cursed or something, eh, mum?”

  A look passed between them. Kester couldn’t decipher it, but there was something desperate in their eyes that made him shiver. The clock suddenly chimed, making him jump. He looked across the room at the noisy timepiece. 10:30 a.m. Gosh, is that all? he thought incredulously. I feel like I’ve been here forever. There was something still, hot, and stifling about the room that made it seem as though time had simply given up and moved out, leaving them all in a vacuum.

  “What can you tell me about the brooch?” he asked in an attempt to bring the woman back to the case.

  She passed it back to him, giving it one last contemplative squeeze. “It’s old, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “How old? Are we talking a few hundred years, or a few thousand?”

  She shook her head faintly. “It looks similar to pieces I’ve seen in the past that date back to the Roman era.”

  His eyes widened. “So we’re talking two thousand years old? Are you serious?”

  Grace shrugged. “Could be. I can’t say for sure.” Again, she glanced at her daughter, who stared impassively at the fireplace. “If it is genuine, I’d say you’ve discovered something worth possibly tens of thousands of pounds, Kester.”

  Gosh, that’d sort out the cash-flow problem for the agency, Kester thought and pocketed the Celtic brooch rather more respectfully than before.

  “Not that you could sell it,” she continued, guessing his thoughts. “The decent thing would be to donate it to a museum. Was that all you wanted to know?” She wrapped herself more tightly in her blankets. “My chest is rather tight today, I’m not sure I’m in the right mood for long chats.”

  “Just a few more questions, if you’d be so kind,” Kester pressed. “This Celtic site . . .”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

  Kester pressed his glasses up his nose. “What exactly happened up there?”

  She stiffened. Her daughter shut her eyes, stroking her belly. The wind whistled through the windowpanes, causing the trees outside to scrape restlessly against the glass.

  “What makes you think anything happened up there?”

  He scratched his forehead, then paused. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Perhaps I’m being silly. But a few people have suggested that the deaths started happening after you all visited that place.”

  Grace’s jaw tightened. In the gloomy light, she looked uncannily like an animated skull. The thought alone was enough to make him shudder. “You seem to be suggesting that it’s something supernatural,” she said, choosing her words carefully, fingers clawing ceaselessly at the armrest. Kester wished she would stop. There was something about the action that made the old woman seem predatory, like an animal about to pounce.

  “Miss McCready, I’m from a supernatural ag
ency,” he said finally, deciding to take the risk and be honest. “That’s precisely what I’m suggesting.” He leant back, waiting for her to absorb the full impact of his revelation. “I’ve confided that in you, and I’d ask you to not repeat it to anyone. But yes, we do believe there’s a spirit behind the killings, and we think it’s connected to that Celtic burial ground.”

  “It’s a horrible place,” Helen blurted out.

  Her mother glared. “Don’t be fanciful, Helen.”

  “Why do you think it’s horrible?” Kester studied the younger woman, but her expression had closed again. She glanced at her mother, then shook her head faintly.

  “It’s just a bit quiet up there.” She nodded, eyes fixed to the floor. “A bit spooky. Nothing much.”

  Grace grasped the armrests and hoisted herself free of the blankets. As she stood, Kester could see that the rest of her body was just as scrawny—loose congregation of twig-like limbs and oversized, billowing clothes.

  “We don’t believe in all that nonsense,” she said, folding her arms. “If I’d have known you were from a ridiculous agency like that, I never would have agreed to talk to you. I thought you were conducting a criminal investigation.”

  Kester stood. “Miss McCready,” he began, “that’s exactly what I am doing. And if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you’re concealing something.”

  The old lady scoffed, then gestured to her daughter. “Helen, will you show him out? I’ve not got the time for this.”

  Helen nodded. She jerked her head in the direction of the door. “Come on,” she said, gesturing. “I think you’d better leave.”

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Very well,” he agreed and gave the old lady a nod. “The last thing I’d want is to pester you. However, if you do change your mind, get in touch with Peter Hopper. He has my number; he’ll pass the message on to me.”

  “I doubt that will be necessary,” she said. She turned and stared obstinately out the window.

  Kester followed Helen down the hallway. He could see the slight waddle to her walk—the wider gait that demonstrated clearly that she was pregnant—and wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Probably because I’m not very observant when it comes to the important things in life, he thought ruefully. His mother always used to tell him to stop focusing on the small details and take a more active role in the world around him. Too wrapped up in books, she used to say. Too intent on the small stuff to notice the bigger picture.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said as the door opened. “I do apologise if I’ve upset your mother.”

  Helen sighed. “She’s always upset,” she said with a shrug.

  He paused. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  The woman opened her mouth, then closed it again. “No. No, there’s not.” She looked out the door. “You’re going to get wet. It’s pouring out. Haven’t you got an umbrella?”

  Kester shook his head. “I didn’t come very well prepared.”

  A ghost of a smile played at her lips. “You’re young, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Do you want to borrow an umbrella? Just leave it with Mr Mason in The Anchor pub on the seafront, I’ll pick it up when I’m next there.”

  Kester smiled at the unexpected kindness. Given how hostile they’d both been to him only moments before, it was rather a surprise. “Well, if you don’t mind, that’d be appreciated.”

  A round of aggressive coughs echoed from the lounge. Helen’s brow furrowed. “You’d better go.”

  He took the umbrella. It had bright green frogs printed all over it, but the rain was pelting down so hard, he really didn’t mind.

  “Thank you,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.”

  A smile flitted to her face, then was gone. The door slammed behind him.

  As soon as he’d rounded the corner and got back on the main road, he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Miss Wellbeloved?” he said as soon as she answered. He had to shout to make himself heard over the rain, which was now pounding on the umbrella like a ceaseless drumroll.

  “Hello Kester, is everything okay? We’re still at the Kleinmann house, where are you?”

  “I’ve just been to see Grace McCready,” he said, wheezing as he strode down the hill.

  “Have you now? I won’t ask why; you can tell me later. What happened?”

  He pursed his lips together, as he took in the landscape in front of him. The thunderous sea slapping waves against the harbour walls. The rolling clouds clinging to the horizon. And to his left, the dark woods, hiding the Celtic burial ground in its depths.

  “We need to get Pamela or Dimitri up to Grace McCready’s house as soon as possible,” he continued.

  “Why, what did you pick up?”

  “I’m not sure. But one thing I can definitely confirm . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something badly wrong in that house. And—”

  “Yes?” Miss Wellbeloved’s excitement was palpable, even via a crackly phone connection.

  Kester took a deep breath. “I think it’s where the spirit is next likely to strike. In fact, I wonder if it might be there already.”

  Chapter 15: The Passing of Peter

  The town hall door squealed as Peter Hopper opened it, casting a long shadow across the stone steps. The moon hung pale and fat above the sea, its reflection splintered by the waves. However, he hardly noticed the dark landscape beside him. Instead, he slunk into the building, then closed the door quietly behind him.

  It had been a bad day. A bad few months, if he was being completely honest. When he’d first moved down to Dorset as a young man, he’d thought that he’d found his spiritual home. A place where he finally felt wanted and where he liked the people around him. But not anymore. He hadn’t felt like that about Lyme Regis for a long time.

  Flicking on the light, he checked his phone, half-expecting to see another call from the young chap from the agency. However, the screen remained resolutely dark, no matter how hard he jabbed at the home button. Damned thing’s run out of batteries, he realised, and resisted the urge to throw it on the floor. Useless piece of junk.

  His eyes travelled instinctively to Denzil’s photo on the wall. It must have been taken over twenty years ago, but Denzil hadn’t aged that much. Lucky bastard, he thought, then checked himself. Actually, it was fair to say that Denzil’s luck had rather run out. It pained him to think of his friend’s last hours. It frightened him to think of the terror he’d experienced before dying.

  But not me, he thought, drinking in the sight of the familiar hall. I won’t be hanging around to be the next victim. No chance. He’d wanted to come back here one last time, to stand by the old podium, to remember the talks they’d given in here, the hundreds of cosy meetings, the parties—back in happier days, before things went badly wrong. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine them all here again: sat on their plastic chairs, hobnobbing about the town gossip, laughing, getting worked up over silly little historical details.

  It’s not that I blame any of you, he thought as he gazed at each of the photos in turn. Deirdre Baxter, trophy clutched firmly in hand, at the local fossil festival back in 1995. Edna Berry, arms linked with Meredith Saunders, striding along the beach with their dresses blowing in the breeze. God, that one must have been back in the eighties, he realised, astonished at how slim the ladies had both looked back then. Before age got a grip on them all, fattened them up and wrinkled them in on themselves, stealing the youth from under their noses.

  Here was another photo, of himself and Jürgen leading the local history event just a couple of years back. Earnest and his wife. Grace McCready, standing close to the back, always with that strange, mournful expression on her face. He’d believed he’d had feelings for her, once upon a time. He could even
remember when she’d first moved into the town, fresh from Scotland, full of wariness for the southern locals. They’d bonded as fellow northerners, always feeling slightly out of place amongst the Dorset residents. But those days are long gone now, he thought. The narrow-faced, big-eyed beauty had long since disappeared, leaving a white-haired wisp of a woman in her place.

  “I did you wrong though, girl,” he said aloud and touched the photo briefly with his finger. “Not that it matters much now.”

  The fluorescent lights hummed, flickering slightly, casting an epileptic glow in the room. Outside, the sea-salt stained windows revealed an empty road. Another quiet night in Lyme Regis, as always. The town rested as silent as a graveyard out of the summer season.

  He took a breath and walked over to the desk in the corner. Fingered the wrought-iron handle of the drawer. It was locked, of course. He made sure it stayed locked at all times, and he was the only one with the key, which happened to be on a piece of string around his neck.

  Peter removed it, then paused. The key hovered, uncertain, squeezed between his finger and thumb. He thought about his house. The fire still glowing in the lounge. Martha, his faithful old Labrador, curled up in her wicker basket. His favourite cushion plumped on the sofa. He could just return home. Go back, carry on like usual. Pretend nothing was happening.

  Until it actually happens, he told himself sternly. No, Peter, the time for pretending is long gone. You’d best take action before the action finds you.

  The key made contact with the lock. The drawer slid open. He rifled through the old papers, pushing them out of the way, until he located the slender piece of ribbon, only just visible, poking right at the back of the drawer. One tug and it lifted, revealing the secret compartment underneath.

  There you are, my beauty.

  He pulled the gun free and examined it more closely. He hadn’t had it out in years. It showed no signs of age, despite having belonged to his father during the war. The barrel gleamed in the light, feeling satisfyingly weighty in his hand.