by Shéa MacLeod
We assured him we had not. My stomach rumbled as if to put an emphasis on the point. Rupert politely ignored it.
“The kitchen is open until ten. You may eat either in the restaurant or the bar. Most guests find the bar cozier. We also provide room service, though most of our guests prefer to come down. Plus, you’ll be there already since you have to sign the register.” He beamed happily as if it were all settled. “I’m certain you’ll get on just fine with the rest of our guests. And on such a dreadful night, what’s better than a tipple and some conversation?”
“What indeed?” Lucas said mildly, his gray eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Thank you very much, Rupert,” I said. “Give us a few minutes and we’ll be down.”
“No rush,” Rupert assured us. He pulled the door shut behind him as he exited, leaving us to our own devices.
“This is surprisingly nice,” I said, poking around the room. I opened one of the nightstand drawers and found—instead of the expected Gideon Bible—a Stephen King novel. Just what I needed in a haunted mansion. “I was expecting something more...chintzy.”
“You watch too many of those old British shows,” Lucas said, his voice muffled as he hung his coat in the wardrobe. “Hyacinth Bucket isn’t exactly a reliable slice of British life.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I have an idea.” When Lucas turned around there was a wicked look on his face.
I eyed him askance. “What are you up to?”
“Me?” he asked innocently as he stalked toward me slowly.
“Yes, you.” I was suddenly all warm and tingly inside. All thoughts of food vanished. “What’s your idea?”
He glanced from me to the bed and back, that wicked smile never leaving his face. Then he pulled me against his chest and kissed me.
RUPERT’S OFFICE WAS exactly how I visualized a proper English study to be: leather upholstered furniture, heavy velvet drapes, and hunting scenes on the walls. It was small, but comfortable. More lord-of-the-manor than operating hotel. After filling out the registry and forking over a credit card, Rupert directed us past the staircase and down the dark hall I’d noticed earlier.
The floorboards creaked under our feet and the faces of cranky old men stared back at us gloomily from the walls. I noticed one of the paintings was of an elderly man from approximately the early 1800s. He glared down at me from beneath bushy eyebrows, his sideburns slicing down his cheeks like angry arrows. I squinted at the brass plaque beneath the portrait. It was the 17th Baron Wytham and he was every bit as unfortunate looking as Simon had promised. Creepy. No wonder this place was haunted. It practically asked for it.
The bar was through a door at the end of the hall. It looked much like the pub in town except the bar itself was far more upscale—mahogany, I think—highly polished, and smooth. Instead of small, cottage style windows, the manor’s windows were tall and arched, giving what I imagined was a good view of the garden during the day. At the moment they were dark and streaked with rain. The occasional flash of lightening in the distance revealed eerie shadows beyond the panes of glass. I shuddered. It was the perfect night for evil deeds.
A large, marble fireplace was lit, warming the space. Comfortable armchairs in aubergine velvet clustered around dark wood tables that looked to be at least a hundred years old or more. Three guests sat at the bar. The rest of the guests sat in groups at tables. There were ten guests in all, counting Lucas and myself.
A slender black man stood behind the bar. He wore a light blue cashmere sweater with a black apron over it. His name tag read “Bill.”
“What will it be, folks?” Bill called cheerfully. A dimple flashed in his left cheek. “Beef bourguignon is the special tonight, and I’ve a lovely red wine to go with it.”
I nodded and Lucas said, “Sounds good. Two, please.”
“Coming right up. Make yourselves at home.”
We were about to settle ourselves at a table near one of the windows when a solitary guest near the fire waved us over. She looked to be early thirties and was wearing a flowy blue peasant top over jeans along with a string of gemstone beads, also in blue. Her long, reddish brown hair was pulled back from her face in a thin braid revealing a pert, freckled nose and grayish-green eyes. “I’m Jezebel Montgomery. You can call me Jez. You’re Americans, aren’t you? Where from?” Her own accent marked her as American.
“I’m Viola Roberts,” I said. “And this is my boyfriend, Lucas Salvatore. We’re from Oregon.”
“Oh, I love Oregon. Have a seat.” She patted the chair next to her, so I sat down. Lucas sat across from us. “I’m from California. Eureka.” Jez beamed at us. “My mom runs a coffee shop bookstore there. Tarot reading and séances on the side. But, there just aren’t enough ghosts there for me. Interesting ones, I mean.”
“I take it you have an interest in the supernatural?” Lucas asked.
“Well, if by supernatural you mean ghost hunting, then yes. I’m a paranormal investigator. That’s why I’m here. So many ghosts.” She waved exuberantly at the room, which I took to mean the entire house. “So much material for my website. I write a paranormal travel blog, too.”
“You actually believe in them? Ghosts?” I could hardly keep the incredulity out of my voice. I mean, okay, so the whole ghost story thing was fun, but real ghosts? Nope. Didn’t believe in them. When I’d nearly been thrown down the stairs of a so-called haunted hotel in Florida, people had latched onto the ghost theory. Naturally, it had turned out to be a cold-blooded but very human killer.
“Well, yes and no. I mean, I think there are things in this world we can’t explain with our current knowledge of science, but I’m not sure that ghosts exist as we think of them. But I find the whole thing fascinating, so I made a career of it.” She eyeballed me. “I also read palms and tarot sometimes. My mom taught me. I can read for you if you like.”
Bill arrived with our wine and our dinner, saving me from responding. We dug in to the meaty, boozy rich stew. It was divine. Jez already had a glass and had assured us she’d eaten.
“How long have you been here?” I asked her. “At the hotel, I mean.”
“Got here two days ago. Haven’t been able to do a lot of investigating yet, but I’ve picked up some interesting readings on my equipment.” She took a sip of what looked and smelled like cider.
“Interesting, how?” Lucas asked.
“Yesterday I got a temperature spike in the ballroom. It plummeted by twenty degrees. That’s not normal.”
We both agreed that it wasn’t. Although I wasn’t prepared to leap to the ghost conclusion.
“My EMF detector—that’s Electro Magnetic Field detector—had a nice jump into the paranormal range, too. 6.0. Anything between 2.0 and 7.0 is a good sign.” She propped her elbows on the table and her sleeve fell back to reveal a small infinity tattoo on her left wrist. “All in all, it’s very encouraging.”
“What do you plan to do if you find one?” I asked. “A ghost, I mean. Exorcise it?”
“Not my bag,” she said, taking another sip of cider. “Especially here at the manor. Ghosts are part of the charm of the place. Who wants to ruin that?”
“But if someone did?” I pressed, curious.
“I dunno. Wave some sage around.” She mulled it over, a frown line forming between her brows. “I should probably figure that out.”
“Probably,” I said tartly. Jez didn’t seem phased by my snarky tone, but Lucas quickly changed the subject.
“I suppose you’ve had a chance to meet some of our fellow guests.” He nodded toward the far corner. “Them for instance.”
I glanced over. The couple appeared to be in their forties, though in the dim light of the bar it was hard to tell. They ate silently, barely looking at each other. He wore dark cords and a button down denim shirt. She wore an unflattering mid-calf length dark skirt and a shapeless beige cardigan over a white blouse.
“That’s James and Monica Carsely,” Jez said, keeping her voice low. “Odd couple
. They almost never speak to each other. Very stiff and awkward. I mean, I know the British can be standoffish, but they take it to the next level. I offered to read tarot for her. She seemed interested, but her husband glared at her, so she made some lame excuse. They’re suspicious, if you ask me.”
I wondered if Monica had really been all that interested, or if Jez had badgered the poor woman and her husband had simply helped her escape. I eyed them carefully. They were odd, for sure, but suspicious?
“Why suspicious?” I asked.
“Everyone here is relaxing, having a good time. But them?” She frowned. “It’s like they’re waiting for something.”
Which was interesting, though not proof of anything. I watched the Carsleys as they finished their dinner and got up from the table. He walked out of the bar without a second glance, shoulders squared, head high. She followed him, head down, shoulders bowed. I frowned. Interesting, indeed.
“What about the people at the bar?” Lucas asked, jarring me from my musing.
“Now there’s an interesting bunch,” Jez said cheerfully. “The old guy with the trilby hat just arrived today. He’s some kind of retired army guy. We haven’t been introduced. The couple with him...she’s a professor at Oxford and he’s her husband. They’re here studying architecture or old books or something. Haven’t had much of a chance to talk to them yet. They’re the Huxton-Barringtons.”
“That’s unusual,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of a man with a hyphenated name.”
“Oh, it’s actually not that unusual in England.” She turned slightly in her chair. “The woman at the table behind me is Marilyn Toppenish. She arrived the same day I did.”
Marilyn Toppenish was in her sixties, or possibly even early seventies, with a round figure and fluffy fake-blonde hair piled on top her head in a semblance of a beehive. Her face was heavily made up and her frosted pink lipstick matched her blouse. She wore a pair of silver, rhinestone-encrusted cat’s eye reading glasses on the end of her nose. She was knitting furiously, fuzzy blue yarn pooled on her lap, but her bright eyes watched the rest of us with keen interest. Marilyn was a busybody. Of that I’d no doubt. She’d be the kind of person who’d spy on her neighbors with binoculars.
“Now, he’s interesting.” Jez’s voice interrupted my thoughts. The man she indicated was fifty-ish and skinny, with haunted eyes and a hard edge to him. His clothes were dated and dingy, out of place in a swanky manor house hotel like this, and his thinning brown hair was in need of a cut. “He arrived this morning shortly after the old army guy. I heard him check in. Gave his name as Jeffrey Blodgett. Don’t know anything about him, but he’s creepy looking, don’t you think?”
I did think. In fact, if I were writing this scene, I would have made Blodgett the murderer.
Chapter 4
Bump in the Night
I JERKED AWAKE, DISORIENTED and irritated. Only the faint blue glow from the cable box illuminated the room. Right, the manor house. Beside me, Lucas snored on, blissfully unaware of the howling wind outside. Except it wasn’t the wind that had woken me. Was it?
A crash, followed by loud voices echoed up from the entry hall below. That was what woke me up. Had to be.
I slid out of bed, grabbed my robe, and wrapped it around me as I padded barefoot to the door. Cracking it open just a hair, I peered out. The hallway—papered in blue and gold stripes— was faintly lit by sconces at intervals along the wall. They must have been the type that could be dimmed because they had clearly been turned to their lowest setting. The voices were more distinct with the door open. I was pretty sure the male voice belonged to Rupert. The female voice...not sure about that one.
I eased out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind me. Fortunately, the old school latches didn’t automatically lock like in modern hotels. I had no idea where Lucas had put the old-fashioned skeleton key. I tiptoed toward the top of the stairs, straining to hear what was going on below.
“You’ve got to do something,” the female voice snapped out. Her tone was tight and clipped, the accent posh. London maybe.
Grabbing the stair rail, I crouched down a little, leaning over so I could see the entry. Below stood a woman dressed in a voluminous black pea coat. The fabric was soaked, as was her dark hair. She dripped a puddle around her all while Rupert fussed with a cloth, trying to mop up the mess.
“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s a deluge out there. Nothing I can do until morning.”
“You can call someone,” she snarled. “Get a tow truck out here. I’m in a hurry.” She tapped one nude colored heel imperiously.
Bill came into view. His sweater and apron had been swapped out for red flannel pajamas and a robe. “There’s only one towing company for miles, and they won’t come out here. Not at night. Not in this storm. I’m sorry.” Bill’s tone was firm. Clearly the woman’s haughty attitude didn’t faze him.
“I can put you up for the night,” Rupert offered. “Dry your clothes for you. We’ll call the garage in the morning.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “As long as it’s first thing.”
“He won’t answer the phone before nine.” Bill seemed amused by the woman’s frustration.
She growled out something about backwater dumps. I carefully backed away from the stairs, ignoring the sharp stab of disappointment. No ghost. No murder. Just an annoying, entitled woman who’d had car trouble and ended up at the nearest shelter. She was lucky it was a nice place like this and not some horrible, seedy motel.
As I climbed back into bed, Lucas rolled over and wrapped his arm around my waist, snuggling in. I smiled a little to myself. It was nice, cuddling like this. That was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING THE storm had let up. Weak sun streamed around the cracks in the heavy drapes, nudging us out of bed. I could smell bacon, which was all the encouragement I needed.
Skipping makeup, I ran a quick brush through my dark hair and hurried into a pair of jeans, a plain gray t-shirt, and a navy hoodie. I crammed my feet into flip flops, and left Lucas snoring in bed. I figured I could take a shower and do the proper makeup thing later. Right now I needed coffee and a whole lot of that bacon.
The dining room was a cheery surprise. The walls were painted a warm, butter yellow. The large windows had sheer, cream draperies. They were pulled back to reveal a wide flagstone paved patio area and beyond that a garden still dripping with the prior night’s rain and rioting with color from early blooming crocuses and daffodils. A stone cupid peered from under a budding lilac. Inside, small tables were scattered neatly about, their linen cloths matching the drapes in color. Each had a bud vase containing a single daffodil. Along one wall was a buffet groaning under the weight of several silver chafing dishes. I headed straight for the coffee urn.
“What a night, huh?” Jez appeared at my side looking bright eyed and bushy tailed. Her hair was up in a bouncy ponytail. “Did you hear the ruckus? Thought we were being burgled.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Woke me up. It was just some woman that had a break down.”
“Not a break down,” Jez said, giving me a knowing look. “She literally ran her car off the road and into a ditch. You’d think these people would be used to driving in the rain.”
“You’d think.”
“I’ll leave you to it. Plenty to eat. Coffee’s mediocre, though.”
I filled my cup, dumped in sugar and milk—there was no cream, the British are weird like that—and took a sip. She was right. The coffee was weak and the quality sub-par. Mediocre was putting it kindly. Still, coffee was coffee. I’d never been much of a tea drinker.
Setting my cup at one of the empty tables, I returned to the buffet and loaded up a plate. There was so much to choose from: toasted and buttered crumpets, sausage links, both British and American style bacon, scrambled and fried eggs, baked beans, sautéed mushrooms, toast, and pots of jam and butter. There were also containers of cold cereal, a selection of flavored yogurts, and a large bowl o
f fresh fruit. I was sure to gain twenty pounds from breakfast alone.
I sat down to eat and pulled out my phone. I’d promised to call my best friend, Cheryl Delaney, when we reached Oxford. Unfortunately the storm had thrown me off. Realizing I’d forgotten, I opened up my instant messaging to find demands to know if I was okay and threats to dispatch the entire Astoria police force if I didn’t answer.
Likely she was still asleep, but I quickly sent an answer:
Recall the rescue squad. Everything is okay. Big storm last night and we got lost. Ended up in this cute little village called Chipping Poggs. Locals say the church is haunted! We’re staying at the manor house, which is an inn. Very posh! More later.
I was half-way through breakfast when Lucas joined me looking sleepy and tousled. “Bad news,” he said, sitting down with only a cup of coffee and a pot of yogurt. How he considered that breakfast, I’ll never know.
“I love bad news,” I said dryly. “Give it to me.”
“Rupert says the storm is over, but we’re stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“As in, the roads are flooded and we can’t get out of town.”
I set down my fork. “You’re kidding me.” And picked up a piece of bacon.
“Unfortunately, not. Chipping Poggs and the manor are both on high ground so we can get around locally, but thanks to the unprecedented rainfall, the surrounding roads have been completely washed out. We can’t go anywhere. The entire Cotswolds is flooded.”
“How long?”
“If it doesn’t rain again, a couple days.”
I chewed thoughtfully on another piece of bacon. “Well, it could be worse. There’s plenty of food, even if the coffee’s not great, and we’ve got a haunted mansion to explore.” There was also the tea room in town. Visions of scones with clotted cream and jam danced in my head.
Lucas grinned, his gray eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Glad you’re taking this so well.”
I shrugged. “How am I supposed to take it? Nothing I can do. No sense getting all worked up about it. Might even start my next novel. I’ve been thinking about moving into Regency romances.”
