Mavis’s description was accurate. I knew the house. It was so big, it didn’t need a medieval hall as well.
“Thanks for the breakfast, Mavis,” I said, getting up, feeling bloated. I put some money on the counter. “Delicious.”
Mavis put the chocolate muffin in a bag. “Elevenses,” she said.
Well, students and writers wear jeans, so that wasn’t difficult. A baggy camouflage jacket and hair tucked under a baker-boy cap, little gold-rimmed specs with plain glass. I painted on some freckles and bold black eye make-up. A notebook and pen in my pocket and I got on the bus. This student had enough money for the fare. Maybe she would have to walk back. The exercise would do her good.
The bus dropped me near the Medieval Hall pub and restaurant. I waved to the driver, not wanting him to leave me.
I didn’t like going in. But there was only the faintest tremble in my voice as I introduced myself to the pub owner and explained the purpose of my visit. I made it all up as I went along, quite the little scriptwriter.
The proprietor was a small, rotund and jovial man, wearing a white apron tied round his middle, putting a shine on pint mugs with a professional flourish.
“I’m writing a book about Sussex ghosts,” I said, getting out my notebook. “So far I’ve got some smashing ghosts and spirits and ghouls, lots of cranking and creaking. Someone said your Medieval Hall has a ghost. I wondered if I could have a walk round and see if I can feel its presence?”
“You’ll feel a few inebriated spirits all right. My regulars can knock it back.”
“Has anyone ever seen your ghost? Any of your staff? Or customers? How about you?” “Don’t believe in ghosts, miss. Lot of twaddle, if you don’t mind my saying so. Would you like a drink? It’s a bit early for ghosts so you might as well have a drink.”
“Pineapple juice, please, with ice. Day or night is not a problem. Ghosts are there all the time, you know, they don’t just come out at night.”
“Really? You don’t say?” He beamed, looking interested. His cheeks shone. He leaned forward. There was no image in the glass wall of the bar behind him. That was spooky. I moved to catch his reflection but there was nothing, only a shift of light. Something wrong with the mirror.
“They can be seen easier at night, that’s all. The daylight takes away their aura.”
“They got an aura? Well, you seem to know what you’re talking about, miss, so if you’ll excuse me I’ve got things to do.”
He went through a door at the back. He had not poured me the promised drink. Never mind.
I knew the way through to the next-door Medieval Hall. It was strange to see it empty and desolate. The last time it had been crowded with people drinking and talking, listening to great jazz music, everyone having a wonderful time. James and I together for once, on neutral ground, not sparring, at ease and companionable.
The canopy over the bar had not been replaced. That was where the suit of armor had sat and fallen from its plinth. The murals seemed fresh on the walls, the beams now cleared of their laurel branches and military flags, ready for the momentous move.
It was a magnificent old hall. I loved it, every nook and cranny, absorbing vibrations from the past. Yet distress crept out of the walls. I sucked in the distress from the carpet and drapes. The heavy lanterns wept. It was not only for James and me. It had seen many traumatic happenings spread over hundreds of years of tormented history.
I wandered around making obscure notes in my notebook. I couldn’t feel anything, only a sense of loss. No presence. I wasn’t psychic. James and I were the only people who mattered here.
There was nothing to see on the canopy unless I could find a ladder to climb up and make a survey. It looked normal from a distance, but I needed a closer look. How was I going to get up there?
The boiler room was where I expected it to be, down some damp steps behind the bar. No boiler room merits description, but this one did because it was dominated by a huge galvanized boiler and a suit of armor covered in rusted blood on the floor.
I froze.
That was my blood and his. I relived the moment, the fear and the smell. The sharp-pointed slivers of steel that were the boots of the suited knight severed my face again.
Then I remembered the sleeve that had deflected the armor. No one had come forward and claimed heroic saving.
I made myself go down on one knee and examined the armor. Tap, tap – it was hollow. There was no one inside. Thank goodness for that. I could not have faced a disintegrating skeleton. Pass the smelling salts, the flower rescue remedy.
The suit had been fixed to a plinth on top of the bar. Seemingly safe. I did not want to touch it but I had to turn it over. Hapless suit of armor, dented in places. It had fitted a short man, a long-ago soldier, whom none of us knew. Men had been shorter in those days, except for Henry VIII, who had been tall.
This was a botched-up job on the base of the suit, hardly appropriate for a suit of such immense age. Museum officials would have flinched at such amateurishness. And it had been tampered with. The main shaft had been sawn through, to within a whisper of complete severance. Its weight had been held in place with strong fishing line, line that could take the weight of a shark. It would only have needed a slash of a knife to trigger the moment when the suit fell on DI James, who would be standing below. Perhaps the line had been removed in the chaos that followed. There was no way of telling exactly how the suit had been dislodged.
I got out my disposable camera and checked for best angles. This was a flash camera and as soon as the red light showed I started clicking fast. I got several good close-ups.
“Excuse me, miss, what the hell do you think you are doing down there?” A stocky man was hurling himself down the steps, his face red, sparse gray hair sticking up from a shiny bald skull. I didn’t know him. I whisked the camera behind my back. “Get out of here. You’re trespassing.”
“I was given permission,” I said firmly. “I’m researching Sussex ghosts. The man behind the bar said I could look around the Hall and sense any presence. I’m… er, sensing a presence here.”
“This is the boiler room, not a bloody presence. This isn’t the Hall. Get out, like I said.”
“I don’t understand. I’m only looking. I’m not doing any harm, besides I was given permission.”
“Not from me you weren’t.” He glared at me, slitty eyes glinting. I didn’t like the look of him at all. “Clear off or I’ll call the police.”
“And who are you?” I asked, with serious-student dignity, straightening my spectacles.
“I own this pub, that’s who I am. So f— off. And don’t come back.”
Oh dear, that unpleasant f-word. I supposed I had to go. At least I had the photos and I had seen what I wanted to see. So this was the man who was selling the Medieval Hall to a Russian football millionaire. He needn’t bother to invite me to go swimming in his pool near Malaga.
Seven
It was a quick escape. I didn’t have time to say goodbye to the barman, the jovial one who’d offered me a drink. I had an odd feeling about him. I ran out on to the roadway, past parked cars and clipped suburban gardens, and took a short cut between detached houses to the main road. A singledecker bus was trundling along.
“You can throw me off now or set me down early,” I said to the bus driver. “But I don’t have enough change on me to pay the full fare to Latching.”
He took in my student outfit, ingenuous smile and apparent honesty. “Give us what yer got,” he said. “And I shan’t notice when you get off. But heaven help you if an inspector gets on. Checking up a lot they are these days.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll own up immediately or pretend I fell asleep and went past my stop. It could happen.”
“It often happens.”
My head was spinning. So much information was crowding into my head. But I had done it and I had got some photos. I had gone back to the pub on my own. No prop, no friend, no police escort. DI James would b
e proud of me, or would he? Maybe he didn’t know that a portion of my mind had disappeared on that night, that some part of it was empty. It might be a bit too complicated for an injured officer to take in.
The route passed Topham Hill and I remembered my rabbits-and-hens case. Perhaps I should nip off now and have another look round, but then I would have further to walk home. Total inertia won and I stayed on the bus, watching the old Iron Age hill disappear behind trees. I couldn’t imagine myself living on that bleak hill in mid-winter, nothing but a hole to live in, rabbits to catch for food, with some smelly, hairy mate grunting his need for food, warmth and copulation. A long word for him. What was grunt for “sex”?
Maybe the rabbits hadn’t been stolen. Maybe a latch had been left open and they had scuttled off to join their ancestors on the hill. Same with the hens. But that did not explain the feed and the straw. A rabbit would hardly have had the brains to drag a bale of straw along as a “hello, look who’s here” present.
Cases: stolen hens and rabbits, wife unfairly accused of intent to murder husband, attempted assassination at Medieval Hall.
The last one was not exactly mine. And I’d forgotten the threat from Richard Broughton. Not a case for me, but another layer of the same mystery.
I didn’t like the way any of them were going. I preferred that disappearing-fishing-tackle case. At least I’d known what I was doing, sitting under the girders of the pier, making notes until I had to be rescued by Bruno.
The bus screeched to a halt, skidded sideways. I had been dreaming, not taking any notice of the other passengers, the 4x4 traffic, the countryside of furrowed fields, houses, garden centers and sprawling shopping malls. A rash of self-sown daffodils sweetened the verges. I was a typical nonpaying passenger, peering into other people’s gardens. We were going along a derelict stretch of road, nearing the railway crossing. No houses now, nothing, only a sparse canopy of trees. Call it “deserted Latching”.
A youth was standing beside the driver, black-hooded, jeans, with some sort of baseball cosh in his hand. Oh, God, this was a hold-up. I slid my camera under the seat. That was the only thing I had on me of any importance. The bus had stopped.
He was going along the rows of passengers, demanding money, credit cards, jewelery. They were giving him everything – pensioners, wives, mothers, schoolkids. People were white-faced, shaking, frightened. It was alarming.
He reached me. His face was masked. I saw only drug-bright eyes and a spotted neck. He was on a high. There had been a lot of drug trafficking recently in Latching, reported in the newspapers.
“Hand it over,” he said.
“Hand what over?”
“All you got.”
“Would you like my notebook, my sanitary towel or my lip gloss?” I asked.
“I want your money.”
“A bent ten-pence piece, that’s all I’ve got. Ask the driver.”
“Don’t mess with me. Your credit card.”
“Don’t have one.”
“Your mobile phone.”
“Ditto.” I didn’t have it with me. Left it at home. Good move, apparently.
“Jewelery.”
“You’re joking. What jewelery would I have? Do you want my charity rope bracelet? This PDSA brooch? I doubt if it would make tuppence. And, by the way, your boot laces are undone.”
He looked down and I was on him in a fraction of a second. A nanosecond. Instant wham. I nailed him to the floor of the bus with sheer weight and annoyance. Some outraged schoolchildren, shorn of their essential texting mobiles, threw themselves on top of me with glee. I could smell sweat and takeaways, unwashed clothes, nuts, alcohol and cola. All at the same time.
“Phone the police,” I yelled, gasping. The kids were heavy and they were having too much fun.
“Kill him, kill him,” the kids yelled, thumping me and him.
“Don’t thump me. I don’t deserve this,” I gasped. “He’s an amateur. Wait till you meet a real killer.”
We got him tied up to the seat legs in the bus with scarves and belts and straps of schoolbags. He couldn’t move. I removed the mask. His face was even more spotted. The kids were exhilarated. I let them use their imagination. They could write it up for an assignment. “What I Did Today” by Damien Bloggs. The passengers crowded round me. Miss Bus Hold-Up Heroine. Someone gave me a biscuit. Another took my photograph. Big deal. My mouth was too dry to eat.
“Thank you so much, miss. That was my pension,” said a frail woman whose bones were about to fall apart.
People patted me on the back, retrieved their belongings although, strictly, I should have stopped them. They were needed as evidence. But I was no longer a WPO, having left the force due to a corrupt rape case where the rapist had walked away free. At least the DS involved had been moved north.
A couple of striped patrol cars screeched to the scene, sirens howling. Some officers got out and strolled over to the stranded bus. It looked like a foundered red whale, still spouting.
“I ought to get on,” said the driver, his color returning. “I’m behind schedule.”
“You’re going nowhere,” said the officer. “Anyone hurt?”
“Only that piece of scum. Those school kids certainly carry a punch. And talk to that brave student girl at the back. She threw him. She deserves a medal. Saved us all, she did.”
“She saved my pension. I couldn’t manage without it. I’ve got nothing in the house.”
“Took my wedding ring.”
“And my mobile and my iPod.”
Funny how brave student had got off the bus unnoticed and was already legging it across a field, head down, keeping close to the hedge, out of view. Now I would have to walk home.
The last time I was a heroine, my picture was all over the newspapers. I had made a flying tackle on a robber at the amusement arcade. My brave action had merited lifelong devotion from Jack. This was far less elegant, sprawled on the hoodie, a pile of schoolkids on top of me, thumping and pounding. My glasses were broken. Thank goodness they were not prescription. At least, not for this student.
It was a long walk back to Latching, especially when I had to keep weaving and dodging and keeping out of sight. I got torn by brambles, stung by nettles, chased by territorial cows. I’d lost my notebook but not the camera. Brain partially intact. Somewhere along the way, I shed the student look, the freckles, pocketed the cap, turned the jacket inside out, shook my hair in all directions. My ten pence would not buy me a drink. I had to cup my hands under a standing water tap for thirsty dogs and gulp. I filled their bowl, hoping St Peter was watching and marking my record.
I was not far from Faunstone Hall, a short detour inland and I’d be there in ten minutes. Would Holly Broughton be pleased to see me? There were a few things to sort out with her. As long as her husband Richard was not around. Fingers were as good as a comb and it was all my hair got. Some women paid Knightsbridge prices for the same tousled look.
I gave my name to the intercom machine at the electronic gates and Mrs Malee answered.
“Please to come in, Miss Lacey. Mrs Broughton has been expecting you. She’s waiting in the conservatory.”
The gates opened and I walked up the drive, rubbing the last of the freckles off my face. The grass had been manicured and the flowers counted and found present and correct. Not a weed in sight. The Broughtons had one heck of a gardener. It was the first sunny day of spring, a weak glimmer of warmth, clouds scurrying in disorder not sure if they were allowed to play.
Holly was in the conservatory, stretched out on a lounger, eyes closed. Her white designer jeans were perfect, red silk blouse knotted at the waist, bare feet in gold sandals. It was warm enough for bare feet. Her diamond rings flashed like radar signals. I felt and looked like a scruff beside her. My throat dried up again.
“Hello, Jordan,” she said. “Mrs Malee is bringing some coffee. You look worn out.”
“It’s been a long morning,” I said. “I made an early start.”
&
nbsp; “On this case?”
Ah, tricky. She was paying the daily rate. She was entitled to every hour of my working day. Ghost-busting was not exactly related to her marital problems. Nor could I think of a good lie.
“Sorting out a slight incident on the bus,” I said, not elaborating. And that had taken all morning? I could sense her thinking.
“Ah, so you were the Good Samaritan. It sounded like you. Who did you rescue?”
“A few pensioners, schoolchildren. It was no big deal.”
“I believe you, though Splash Radio just now made it sound as if there was a heroine involved. They are searching for you. The police want to question you and the mayor wants to give you tea in his parlor.” Holly was smiling.
“No way. It wasn’t me. I have to protect my clients’ anonymity. If the police started to question me, they might get curious about my destination, my client and why she is a client. Now, one would not want that, would one, especially after a spectacular Old Bailey acquittal?”
It was ambiguous enough to satisfy Holly. Mrs Malee brought in a tray of coffee, silver coffee pot, pretty china with a plate of smoked salmon rolls and a dish of fresh grapes.
Two cups of black coffee and I was feeling more up to speed. I even ate some of the refreshments, but Holly did not touch anything. That’s how she kept her perfect figure.
“So, Jordan, tell me what you have found out so far,” she drawled. “I hope it’s something interesting.”
I took a deep breath. I was not sure what to tell her. It did not amount to much, but it had to sound a lot in order to justify her generous payment and the smoked salmon.
“I have met your husband and he was rather unpleasant,” I said with feeling. “I can understand why you might want to get rid of him, but it would be simpler to divorce him through the courts. You might be a few million less wealthy, but surely it would be worth it? You would have your freedom and your dignity.”
“Nice speech, Jordan. Carry on.”
“I understand he has a replacement ready and willing to fill your shoes, so it could be a simple procedure. Get yourself a good lawyer and fill in the forms.” I don’t know what made me say that. It was something in the evidence about a good friend.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 7
