by steve higgs
Idly wondering how long I would have to wait for my food, I remembered that there was something niggling at me. I had forgotten to do something or was supposed to do something. It was the same feeling I had been wondering about earlier, but the memory still refused to coalesce. It was hiding in the corner of my mind, showing me glimpses but not revealing itself. I told myself that if I concentrated the answer would come to me. Just then I heard the door open downstairs. That I could hear the entrance door moving was a clear demonstration of just how quiet the restaurant was. I had instructed Georgio to not play any music tonight – I wanted as little background noise as possible, but the silence in the building was striking. Then I realised that it was Frank's voice coming from downstairs. He was talking with Georgio and there was a third man's voice in the conversation.
Clomping footsteps on the wooden stairs preceded the appearance of Georgio, then Frank and then Dr. Lyndon Parrish.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,' I said to attract their attention. Frank and Lyndon both looked surprised to see me, so they were not deliberately gate crashing. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Won't you please join me?'
‘Tempest,’ beamed Frank. ‘Lyndon plans to catch the ghost.’
I nodded, unsure what I could say to that announcement. I had my own theory about what was causing the phenomenon and it was a little less than paranormal.
Lyndon said, ‘Mr. Michaels, I must apologise. I had no idea you would be here.'
‘Did Mr. Fenucci hire you?' I asked
‘Goodness no, this is pro bono work. I am new to the game unlike you, Mr. Michaels. I need to build up my reputation. This will do me no harm at all. Of course, had I known you were here I might have come along anyway to watch the master at work.' Lyndon strode across the room to shake my hand. Both he and Frank were carrying bags.
‘Do you mind if Frank and I remain and attempt to catch the spirit?’ he asked.
‘No, please.’ I indicated that they should carry on. I wanted to see what he planned to do.
Lyndon spoke briefly with Georgio who then departed. Then he laid his bag on the floor. From it he extracted a piece of equipment I recognised – it was a PKE meter. Mr. Reginald Parker had tried to sell it to me recently. I had all but laughed at him, but it seemed that he had found himself a customer after all.
Next out was a piece of clunky steel with a lid and a long electrical lead. Frank was emptying his bag at the same time. Onto the floor, he spilled several items of recording equipment and what looked like motion sensors with accessories like tripods to mount them on.
I looked at the few items I had on the table and smiled to myself. ‘How is it that you plan to catch the ghost, Lyndon?’ I asked.
Lyndon stopped what he was doing on the floor and stood up. ‘First, we have to establish that there is a ghost. Not every report of supernatural activity has a genuine entity at the end of it,’ he lectured knowingly.
Or none at all. Ever. I thought.
‘Then I shall trap it inside a circle, and using this,’ he showed me a fancy leather pouch with a drawstring at the top, ‘I will anchor it to a new object and remove it from the premises.’
Frank saw me looking at the little pouch and answered my question just as I was opening my mouth to ask it. ‘It’s ghost dust, Tempest.’ When he saw my continued curiosity, he spoke again. ‘It is created from ectoplasmic slime by a process of desiccation, but it can only be performed by a single shaman in South America. The secret is passed down to only one member of the tribe on his death bed. It is incredibly rare.’
‘No doubt.’ I was continuously amazed at the odd stuff that Frank came out with and the vast variety of weird things he knew.
The waitress reappeared with drinks for Frank and Lyndon and my carpaccio. Frank and Lyndon showed no interest in food, but I tucked into my starter hungrily. It was as delicious as the dish always is and a generous portion as well.
Just a few bites in though, I heard the noise that had brought me to the restaurant. A very distinctive set of footsteps walked across the room towards me. The waitress screamed and fled, running down the stairs and very possibly out of the restaurant and into the street. Frank and Lyndon both jumped up from the floor and I had to go around them with my piece of chalk. Lyndon was shouting hasty instructions to get the recording equipment ready and fiddling with the little bag of super expensive ghost dust. Wincing at my ribs because I was trying to move fast, I got to where I believed the noise has started and made a mark on the floor, then drew a line across the floor following the footsteps that were still travelling across the room.
They went right through the table I had been sat at but terminated just a few feet beyond. I caught up with them and crouched down. Reaching up with one hand, and without looking, I found and grabbed the tuning fork. I marked another spot on the floor with the chalk, ignoring the ruckus behind me: Frank and Lyndon were doing something complicated.
The footsteps started up again but this time I was ready for them. My hands were on the floorboards feeling the vibrations the footsteps were making.
‘It’s a classic non-forming, type three entity!’ yelled Frank to Lyndon, excitement in his voice. ‘This is huge!’
I had a different theory.
‘Can you trap its energy?’ Frank asked Lyndon.
‘Yes, I think so. I just need to…' Lyndon scrambled across the floor ahead of where the steps were going. He was scribbling odd symbols on the floor with a silver marker pen. I stood up and followed the direction the floorboards went rather than following the footsteps. The boards went to the wall but looking down it did not look like they stopped there.
Using the tuning fork, I tapped on a board then held the butt end of it against the board as it vibrated. Then I did the same again on the board next to it and the one next to that. Then I walked across the room to beyond where the footsteps had started and tried again. I got a very different result.
‘Dammit,’ Lyndon swore. ‘It didn’t work.’ Whatever hokum he had been trying to do had failed apparently. He looked quite despondent.
I went back to the table and picked up the tape measure. I measured to the wall. Then I went to the point where the footsteps had started again and measured to the front on the building. The sound of someone playing the cello started. It was faint and sounded like it was coming through the floorboards. I smiled to myself, pocketed my tools and went downstairs.
I looked around for Georgio, but he was outside in the street. I could see him through the window with his arm around a lady wearing chef’s clothing. I exited the restaurant and joined them in the street.
‘Mr. Fenucci. Shall we put an end to your ghost problem?' My question was met with quizzical expressions. I ignored him for the moment and turned around to look back at the building. The restaurant sat in a long row of very old looking buildings all joined together like terraced houses. I would guess that they were easily four hundred years old and possibly even older than that. The front façade was constructed using solid looking wooden beams – I believe Tudor design is the correct term. The plaster between the black beams was bright white but that was not what I was looking at. I was looking at the windows of the upper dining room and what was adjacent to them on either side.
To the left, as I looked at it, was a shop that sold antique clocks and watches. The shutters were down to cover the large windows and protect the goods inside. On the upper floor there were lights on. I also noted that the shop had a new look to it.
‘How long has the clock business been there, Mr. Fenucci?' I asked, pointing at it to remove any ambiguity.
‘Oh. Err. Just a few weeks. I think. It has been empty since before we bought the restaurant. Nice girl that owns it now.’
‘Is there really? Would you be so kind as to introduce me?’
‘Oh. Err. I suppose I could.' He seemed skeptical.
‘Indulge me please, Mr. Fenucci. I believe your neighbour holds the key to ridding you of the spirit that is haunting your premises.' I
had already made my way to her door, which was a separate and unassuming flat wooden object with a door number and a doorbell. It was set at the leftmost edge of the building but had to be the door that led up to the apartment above the business.
I rang the bell and stood back to wait as Mr. Fenucci joined me. I was just about to ring the bell again when I heard someone approaching from the other side. The sound of someone putting on a security chain and unlocking the door preceded the door opening and the face of a lady appearing on the other side. She was tall and thin and wore glasses that made her eyes look oversized.
‘Good evening,' I said in my most congenial tone. ‘Your neighbour, Mr. Fenucci has a small problem with his restaurant and I was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions. My name is Tempest Michaels.'
‘Hello, Tanya,' said Mr. Fenucci from his position by my right shoulder.
‘Just a second,' she replied. She closed the door, fiddled with the chain and opened it again. Now that the chain was not attached, she could open the door more fully. She was wearing a pair of saggy looking tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. Her arms were exposed, and the skin was already doing goose pimples from the cool October air. ‘How can I help you?'
‘Do you play the cello?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I was just upstairs practising.’ Her answer pretty much confirmed my theory.
‘I am really sorry for the intrusion, Tanya. Would you be so kind as to let us come inside for a moment?’ She looked very unsure. ‘I am sure this will not take long,’ I added.
I thought for a moment that she was going to say no, but perhaps realising that the cold would be once again shut outside, she nodded and led the way back up the narrow flight of stairs to her apartment.
‘What did you say this was all about, Georgio?’ she asked as we emerged from the stairwell into a living area.
‘Um,’ Georgio started to mumble since I hadn’t explained why were in his neighbour’s place now.
I was looking around the room. ‘Can you show me where you keep your cello please?’ I asked
Confused, she looked between Georgio and me, then shrugged and led us further back into the living space. ‘It's in here,' Tanya said as we moved from one room into a short corridor and then into another room. ‘I haven't got around to decorating yet,' she explained as if embarrassed by the raw nature of the room.
It was bare floorboards. I walked to the window at the front of the building to check where I was.
‘You still haven’t told me what this is about,’ Tanya said, getting a little impatient.
‘My apologies. It is a little difficult to explain. We can hear you playing your cello from next door.’
‘Oh goodness. Can you? I’m so sorry, Georgio. I never realised,’ she replied sounding genuinely horrified.
‘You play beautifully, Tanya. Please feel no reason to apologise. The bigger issue is the footsteps?’
‘Footsteps?’ she asked, utterly mystified.
I was in the process of taking out my tape measure but stopped and gave her the long explanation of why I was at the restaurant, what I had heard and why I was now in her house. As I did so, I pointed out to both Tanya and Georgio that the floorboards were one continuous piece of wood running between the two premises. They went under the wall which had probably been put in decades ago when the large original building was subdivided into several smaller ones. This was not uncommon in old buildings and when one looked at the front façade from outside in the street, one could see that it had originally been one building.
To test out my theory, I sent Georgio back to his restaurant while talking to him on my phone. With it on speaker, I advised him that I was moving across the floor in Tanya's room. Between us, we were able to prove that the noise from her room was travelling along the floorboards and manifesting as sounds in his upper dining room where the floorboards finally terminated and became the next floorboard. The faint sound of cello music was travelling through on the airwaves underneath the floor and would probably be inaudible if Georgio had background music playing.
I thanked Tanya for her time and assistance and returned to the restaurant. Trudging back up the stairs to the upper dining room I had to pretend that my ribs didn’t hurt from the effort of just moving around. Lyndon was nowhere to be seen and his equipment was gone. Frank was still there though, so I chucked him a quick wave before heading over to Mr. Fenucci to conclude matters.
My advice to him was to get a builder in to fix the floor. He seemed very relieved that the ghost was nothing more than noise from next door and happy that he would be able to easily fix the problem. I could offer no worthwhile guidance on what a builder might do or even charge for such a remedy, yet it seemed likely it would be a simple task. We shook hands, I told him my final bill would be through in a couple of days and he told me my dinner was on the house. I, of course, said that his gesture was not necessary but offered little resistance when he insisted.
I checked my watch: 2037hrs. My carpaccio was stone cold having been left for most of an hour, but then it was supposed to be, so I ate it. Tucking in, I acknowledged how hungry I was.
‘Well done, Tempest,’ said Frank who was sat opposite me at the table for four.
‘That is very generous of you, Frank.’ I could not remember Frank ever admitting that I had proven him wrong before. I felt no need to score a point though, so I let it pass. ‘What happened to Lyndon?’
‘He got a call from another client and had to rush off. He was not being paid to attend this case anyway.’ Frank mentioning phone calls reminded me that I had not looked at my phone since I arrived at the restaurant. It was tucked in my bag next to my chair and had been there while I was solving the case. I picked it up now and checked it.
I had Seven missed calls. All from Sophie. I hung my head in defeat.
This was the task that I could not remember. I had known there was something, but for some reason, it had not occurred to me that it might be a social engagement that I had forgotten. I genuinely sucked at dating girls. The last call was more than an hour ago. I switched to the text messages as there was an icon there showing me that four texts had been received. The texts started with a polite message at 1745hrs saying that she had not heard from me but that she was expecting me in an hour so was assuming I was coming and would be ready. The next message was a few minutes after I should have picked her up, checking that everything was okay. The next a few minutes after that, advised that I had better be able to provide a worthwhile explanation for standing her up two days in a row. The final message instructed me to do something quite improbable with a parsnip.
I needed to call her, so I excused myself and went out into the street where no one I knew would be able to hear the lady at the other end of the line screaming obscenities at me.
Sophie answered on the third ring. She did not take long to start berating me. ‘You've got some nerve calling me now, Tempest Michaels. I have never been stood up in my life, but you think you can leave me sitting in my house like an idiot, two days in a row.' It went on like that for a bit, so for brevity, I shall just say that I attempted to speak several times but never got more than half a word out before she launched into the next tirade.
After what felt like several minutes she finally ran out of steam and demanded I explain myself.
I took a breath, paused to see if she was going to start yelling again and simply said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry? Sorry! Is that all you have got? Were you out with another woman? Is that it? Are you a player, Tempest?’
‘As if I could ever be that lucky,’ shouted Mr Wriggly
I ignored the voice from my pants. ‘Sophie, I owe you an apology. I do not deny it and I have no wish to further bore you with my excuses. I am in Faversham on a case. I cannot explain why or how I managed to forget our date but would like to claim that I go on dates so rarely that when I was called to this case it did not occur to me that I might have other plans.’ So far, she had allowed me to speak. I pressed o
n. ‘My intentions are unchanged. I would still very much like to meet you for dinner this week.’ She hung up on me.
I looked at my phone accusingly. How was it that I managed to screw up my social life every time it threatened to get interesting? The phone went away in a pocket as I trudged back into the restaurant. Frank was still sat where I had left him.
‘How are you getting home?’ I asked him.
‘I came in my own car. Lyndon asked if I wanted to go with him on the next case, but I said I would wait here for you. How did you know it was not a ghost?’ he asked.
I poured more of the sparkling water into my tumbler and drank it. The ice was long gone but it was refreshing, nevertheless. ‘Frank, my dear fellow,' I started. I wanted to explain once again that there are no ghosts, but I liked Frank the way he was – completely bonkers. In some way, his unshakable belief complemented my clinically sane examination of the facts. I started again, ‘Frank not every bump in the night is a ghost. Not every bite is a werewolf, not every disease inflicted is a curse placed by a witch. This was just some loose floorboards in an old building. To me it was obvious.'
He nodded his head thoughtfully. Behind him Mr. Fenucci himself appeared carrying two pizzas; Frank had ordered himself one as well. ‘Here you are, gentlemen. One Sicilian and one Fruits de Mer. On the house. You are very welcome.' He placed them in front of us with a flourish, looking like a man who had recently received wonderful news.
Steam was rising from them, bringing the scent of warm bread, melting cheese, garlic, herbs and other wonderful food smells with it. The pizzas did not last long.
