The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts)

by Steffanie Holmes

  I pulled my hand away, severing the connection between us. The warmth left my body, leaving my skin tingling. The mug dropped through Eric’s hand and crashed against the table, spilling the water across the surface. I grabbed the stack of papers I’d left there before the water could ruin them.

  “I’m sorry!” I yelled, leaping away from the table. I lowered my head to avoid Eric’s gaze.

  “It’s not your fault. Elinor, don’t go—”

  I fled into the study. I wanted to shut the door, but there didn’t seem like much point. I hoped Eric got the message that I needed to be alone for a few minutes, so I could calm down. I slumped in my chair and placed the stack of papers beside me. On the top was the local newspaper, the front page headline alerting me to Eric’s funeral to be held the following weekend. The article—accompanied by a picture of Eric on stage, his wild hair plastered to his face as he ran his bow across his violin so fast his fingers were a blur—covered half of the page. I flipped the paper over so I wouldn’t have to see it.

  I turned on my laptop. In my inbox was an email labelled NAMES FOR ERIC!!!!!!!<3 I smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm as I downloaded the file. Eric wafted in. “We should talk about this—” he begged.

  I held up my hand. “I can’t. I know you mean no harm, Eric, but please don’t touch me again.”

  “But, Elinor—”

  I shook my head, indicating that the conversation was over. I didn’t want to think about it right now. “What’s your manager’s number?”

  Eric called out the number, and I dialled it. I put my phone on speaker and set it down on the table, so he could hear.

  “Phoenix Management. This is Heather,” a crisp voice answered. She sounded young. And blonde. And like she would look fantastic in a leather corset. It was funny how you could tell these things over the phone. I thought back to Eric’s comment about her being devastated, and wondered if they’d been lovers. A white-hot rage pulsed through my body as I imagined blonde, corseted Heather rolling around with Eric on a red-satin bed.

  Oh yes, taunted Devil’s-Advocate-Elinor. You and Eric are totally just friends.

  “Hello, Heather, this is Elinor Baxter.” I poured all of my skill into keeping my voice syrupy sweet. “I’m part of an ongoing investigation into Eric Marshell’s death, and I understand you’ve been his manager for most of his career. I was wondering if—”

  “Hang on a second.” Heather said briskly. There was some scuffling in the background, and the sound of a door slamming shut. A few moments later Heather was back. “Sorry. It’s a bit crazy around here. We’ve got one of those open-plan offices, and I hate it. Everyone is all up in your shit. SO you’re investigating Eric’s death. Are you a cop?”

  ‘A lawyer, actually. I’m with—”

  “Do you think Eric’s death might’ve been foul play?” Heather whispered into the phone.

  I paused. I didn’t want to start telling people that before we had any proof, but I also knew from yesterday’s call it was better to give some intrigue if you wanted cooperation without questions. I decided to opt for the vague intrigue. “It’s starting to look that way, I’m sorry to have to say it. If you could—”

  “You’re sorry?” She laughed. “Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.”

  I glanced over at Eric, who could barely conceal his shock. I read her tone instantly. Grinning despite myself, I pressed her. “Oh, what makes you say that?”

  “Have you ever met him?” Heather asked.

  “Oh yes,” I glanced across the room at Eric, who was staring at the floor, looking very nervous. “I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “This conversation is off the record, right? I’m not incriminating myself, am I?”

  Eric made a slicing motion with his hand across his neck. Grinning, I shook my head. He could suffer. It would get him back for scaring me twice yesterday and touching my hand at breakfast. “Oh, no. We have no reason to suspect you of anything. In fact, it would be useful for the investigation to tell us anything you can about Eric. It might help us to piece together what happened.”

  “Very well. I’ve been his tour manager and press secretary for eight years. For eight years I have done his laundry and brought him very specific brands of tonic water and hunted down a certain type of cologne. If he wants cereal at 2 in the morning, or vodka at 3 in the afternoon, I’m the one who rushes to the store. I spend weeks organising every detail of a show or an appearance, and he shows up twenty minutes late and changes everything, and everyone listens to him because he’s the artiste. I have had to stand back and smile and do whatever he wants, or I can kiss my job goodbye. And then, foolishly, I start thinking, “If I’m taking all these orders from this guy, I might as well be getting something out of it.” So I start trying to sleep with him, because hello, he’s gorgeous, even if all his music is just this whiny emo bullshit. But he is too busy being Mr. Brooding Gothic Artiste to even notice me with my tits hanging out. All gloomy and melancholy, locking himself in his suite after shows, playing sad music into all hours of the night. And who is the one dealing with the hotel guests complaining about violin concertos at 4am? And for all of this, for everything I’ve put up with, does Eric Bloody Marshell leave me any part of the fortune I helped him amass in the will? No, of course not. It’s all going to some bloody music charity. Eric Marshell couldn’t think of anyone but himself.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more.” I said, barely able to conceal the laughter that threatened to erupt from me at any moment. “Listen, about these files—”

  “Just tell me what you need. I’m here to serve His Royal Gothness, even in death.”

  “We need to know if Eric had any fans who might’ve threatened him. I understand you keep a record of any disturbing correspondence.”

  “Yeah, we always keep the weird stuff, and Eric got a lot of weird stuff. What can I say? Goths are strange. My hip-hop clients never got vials of blood or bleached cat skulls.”

  “Ew.” I wrinkled my nose. People really were weird.

  “Yep. Yet another wonderful part of my job, opening Eric’s fan mail. I’ll happily send you all the letters we have on file. But don’t you need a subpoena or something?”

  “That’s only if you refuse to give them to me, and it goes on public record.” I was proud of the incredible amount of bullshit I was able to spout off without flinching. “Phoenix Management would look pretty bad if they refused to hand over vital evidence that could help solve the murder of one of their most high-profile clients.”

  “True,” Heather paused. “Give me an email address and I’ll send over a list. I warn you, though, it’s a pretty long list. Eric sure attracted the crazies.”

  I thanked her and hung up. One look at Eric’s face and I burst out laughing. “Stop!” he cried. “It’s not funny.”

  “You said she would be devastated, and instead she’s practically doing a jig.” I gasped between snickers. “She really hates your guts, Your Royal Gothness.”

  Eric cringed. “Please try and forget you heard that name. Heather’s in PR. She’s good at hiding things. You don’t think she could be the one who ran me off the road?”

  “Unlikely. You don’t go around murdering clients just because they make your life difficult. Otherwise, there’d be more lawyers in jail than out of it. Besides, she wouldn’t need a ticket to your show, would she? Let’s wait and see what this list looks like.”

  A few minutes later, an email from Phoenix Management popped up in my inbox. I downloaded the attached list—a spreadsheet over twenty pages long that consisted of names, addresses, numbers, email addresses and dates and times of attempted communications with Eric. Another file contained the contents of numerous letters and emails, as well as photographs of some rather interesting “gifts” Eric had been sent. That file I printed, picking through the correspondence as it came off the printer.

  “Wow,” I grinned, holding up an image of a giant rubber dildo wrapped in red ribbon. “Clearly I’m in the wro
ng line of work.”

  “This is insane. I’ve never seen half this stuff before.” Eric frowned as I held up an image. “What is that?”

  “I think that’s a vial of blood wrapped in a ribbon of human hair,” I read from the note Heather had scrawled at the bottom. “Courtesy of one Helen Manning of Chatham.”

  “I have no words.” Eric’s eyes darted over the spreadsheet. “I’m sorry, Elinor. I had no idea there were this many. It’s going to take you hours to cross-reference these lists.”

  “Wrong.” I pulled up a website, typed in my email address, uploaded both the list from the ticket agency and Heather’s spreadsheet into the form, and clicked CROSS-REFERENCE. A few moments later, my inbox dinged. I opened up an email containing a file from the cross-reference engine and an advert for their premium, ad-free service.

  “I am in awe,” Eric bowed before me.

  “The wonders of technology.” I said, as I opened the file. “You’re still stuck in the dark ages, Your Royal Gothness.”

  “Use that name one more time and the consequences will be swift and severe.”

  I grinned as I scanned the results of the email. According to the cross-reference, three names appeared on both lists: Adam Smith, Claude Beaulieu, and Helen Manning of the blood vial fame.

  “Now all we have to do is figure out which of these three people only has half a ticket left, and who could have been in the vicinity of Crookshollow after the show that night, and we’ve got your potential killer.”

  “Well,” Eric shrugged. “Go on. I’m not exactly any help here, Elinor. It’s all you.”

  The first thing I did was check social media. There were too many Adam Smiths to locate, but I found Claude pretty easily. Luckily, he kept his profile public, and I scanned through more than two hundred shots of him standing in the mosh pit at Eric’s concert, grinning awkwardly up at his phone balanced on a selfie stick, before I found what I was looking for: Claude’s post-concert scrapbook display—some blood-red paper, a few of the least blurry selfies, a mega close-up of Eric’s sweat-drenched face, and his ticket, completely intact.

  “We can cross Claude off the list,” I said, pointing at the ticket.

  Eric grinned. “You’re amazing. Have I ever mentioned that?”

  “Several times.” The way he said that made me wish he’d mention it a few more times. My chest swelled with pride. Inside, I was grinning from ear to ear, but I had to maintain my composure, so I didn’t give Eric any ideas. “Actually, could you stop? It’s a bit embarrassing.”

  “Do you really want me to stop?”

  No,” I answered, and we both laughed.

  “How do we track the others down?”

  “This Adam Smith is going to be difficult, because his name’s so common. And Helen has set all her social media accounts to private. But I’m going to check your fan forums next, and see if I can find some discussion about your last show. Maybe I can identify the final two by their posts and narrow our choice down to one.”

  Three hours of my life were sucked away exploring the official Ghost Symphony fan forum, an online portal off Eric’s main website where fans of his work went to discuss every facet of the band’s existence. It was a cesspool of crazy, populated by people analysing the lyrics to Ghost Symphony songs with the degree of fervour usually reserved for academic institutions. Others planned the outfits they would be wearing when they married Eric or Allan or one of the other band members, right down to the brand of their underthings. People discussed sightings of Eric like he was the second coming, and compared notes on concerts and events as though they were historical events on par with The Battle of Waterloo.

  “Have you ever read this stuff?” I asked Eric, as I read out passages of particularly cringeworthy poetry inspired by his music.

  “They say you should never google yourself,” Eric replied. “And the same goes for reading what fans say about you on internet forums. If the rest of it is as bad as that poem you just read, I think I made a wise choice.”

  There was an entire section devoted to reviews and meetups at concerts, and that was where I concentrated my search. Someone named ASmith was a moderator on this board. I read through ASmith’s posts; he had attended the concert in London and had even organised a board meetup after the show. Another thread showed a gaggle of grinning geeky and gothy types hanging out at a Camden bar. The discussion disclosed that the meetup had gone on into the early hours of the morning.

  If ASmith was definitely Adam Smith—which seemed likely—and the forum information wasn’t doctored to provide an alibi—possible, but unlikely—I could safely cross him off my list as a suspect. That left only one possible option. Helen Manning.

  I went back to Heather’s files and pulled up all the correspondence Helen had sent Eric. It started off innocently enough. She sent him a few fawning letters thanking him for his songs, and describing how they got her through some difficult times. She talked about being a loner, and not having any friends, and how kids at her school were mean to her. She must be young, fifteen or sixteen at most. The letters were dated two years previously.

  Dear Eric

  I wish you would write back, just once. I am not doing so great here and I just need someone to tell me it’s going to be OK. I am reading your unofficial biography right now, about that time you played a Paganini piece at your school recital, and that awful kid put superglue on your bow so that your hand stuck to it? Well, my day has been like that. Worse, in fact.

  I was in art class, drawing a poster for my music project, Satanic Stardust. It was of a witch with flowing red hair. She’s naked and her body is covered with tattoos. She’s kneeling beside a pool in the full moon, and holding the moon in her hands. She wears a crown of stars, and a pentagram on her forehead. I was listening to your song “Circe”, and the image just came to me.

  Anyway, this bitchy girl Stacey saw my drawing and started calling me a Satanist. Soon everyone in the room was pointing at me and laughing and yelling out “witch!” and “Satan!” Later, when I went to my locker, someone had sprayed a crude drawing of a fat girl riding a broomstick. The marker is permanent. It won’t come off.

  I hate them so much. I’m listening to your song, “Bewitching” right now, and it makes me think that as long as you are in the world, then there has to be a place for me, too. But it’s getting harder to hold on to that.

  Please write back.

  Love, Helen.

  Dear Eric

  Contemplating suicide again tonight. I’m listening to “Silence”, and it makes me wonder how blissful death could be. Would it be like white noise, just an eternity of sweet nothingness? That would be preferable to this hell I’m living every single day. I’d rather be nothing than the fat bitch everyone hates.

  Today Stacey held my head into a toilet, and another girl flushed it. They tore off my Ghost Symphony violin necklace and flushed that, too. I had to go to class soaked with water and everyone knew why.

  Please write back. I really need to hear from you.

  Yours in silence, Helen.

  “Sad,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” Eric looked at me strangely. “I remember feeling like that.”

  “So do I.” I’d never had my head flushed. The girls at my prestigious public school were way too concerned about breaking a nail to pull something like that. But I remember how they made me feel so small and pathetic, how they would look at me with such disdain, how they’d call me names like Hippo and Flabby, and how I wished I could be anyone but myself. I remembered dark thoughts and wishing for oblivion, because the idea of death seemed preferable to their continuing ridicule. I knew exactly what this Helen was going through. And from the sounds of it, so did Eric.

  “She sounds sweet.” Eric said. He looked tired, his face drawn in a sad expression. “This is the problem with being too famous. In the early days I answered all my mail. I occasionally got letters like this, and I could say something at least mildly encouraging in return. But when we
got the record deal, they gave me Heather, and it was just too easy to have her answer my mail. If I’d just sent her a letter, maybe …”

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “Remember, this sweet little girl could have murdered you in cold blood. There’s a ton more letters here to go through.”

  I started reading the next letter, dated January last year.

  Dear Eric

  I hate you. I hope you die. In fact, to make sure you do, I’m going to drive down to Devon (I’ve got my license now, not that you care), and find your house. I’m going to climb in a window when you’re out, and hide under your bed. And when you get home and take off all your clothes and climb into bed, I’m going to jump out, and stab you. And then I’m going to fuck the holes I’ve just stabbed with my fingers. And you’ll still be alive, but you’ll be in agony, and you’ll see my face and know that I did this to you because you didn’t love me. And then I’ll drag my knife across your throat, and let all your blood flow out.

  I hate you!

  Helen

  Yikes! That was probably the letter that put her on Heather’s watch list. I turned the page.

  Dear Eric

  I’m sorry for my last letter. I hope you didn’t read it. You have to understand that it wasn’t me. It’s like some demon takes over my body, and I just want to scream and yell and break shit, but I can’t do that because I have to be good, so I hurt myself. And I hurt you, because you are like an extension of myself. You are the me I wish I was, wish I could be.

  Please, please, please write back.

  Love Helen

  The rest of the letters were like that. A mess of emotions, flipping from ecstatic to hateful to sad, often in the space of a couple of paragraphs. Helen talked about hurting herself, about contemplating suicide. But she also talked about leaving high school to study film at university, about making a some friends and even finding a boyfriend. Then the boyfriend dumped her, and she’d started sending Eric gifts. First it was a black teddy bear with a blood-red ribbon. Next, it was a beautiful purple-black crystal in a black leather bag. Heather said it reminded her of his eyes. I had to admit that she was right. Then, finally, she’d sent that vial of blood. That had been earlier this year, and Eric hadn’t heard from her since.