Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance

by Neil Richards

  But for now, Jack watched as Todd bent down, opening his tool box, slipping on a headlamp held in place with an elastic band.

  And then grabbing a crowbar and hammer, Jack watched as Todd — making it look effortless — began prying up the floorboards right where the chandelier must have hung below.

  *

  Sarah heard the phone to The Bell Hotel ring a fourth time.

  The receptionist’s not the speediest, Sarah thought.

  Then with a heavily accented, “‘ello — Bell Hotel” — the call was answered.

  Sarah was hoping the receptionist would prove to be as ineffective a guardian of The Bell's patrons’ privacy as she was in her answering of calls.

  “Yes, Suzie isn’t it? I’ve been helping Mr. Myrtle, and he said I should give you a call.”

  Not actually the truth, Sarah knew, but if it got the job done …

  “All right … Yeah. And what did he say I should do exactly?”

  “You have the information for all the guests on file?”

  Sarah assumed that the hotel hadn't quite migrated to the twenty-first century, and they still collected data on paper.

  “Yes, I do. Everyone checks in, we need the information.”

  ‘Right. You have a Mr. Anderson staying …?”

  Sarah waited until Suzie confirmed that they did indeed have such a guest.

  “You do, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Hmm … Sarah thought, maybe something else there, as if Suzie had a comment to make and then was barely able to squelch it.

  “We’re trying to find where all the guests come from.”

  “He said ‘London’.”

  Interesting choice of word.

  ‘Said’ …

  “So, he gave you an address, photo ID, showing he lived in London?”

  A pause.

  This chat was proving far too interesting.

  “Not exactly. You see, another bloke, another man made the booking with his credit card information. For Mr. Anderson. Must be his friend or somethin’.”

  “You don’t have Mr. Anderson’s data—” she quickly altered the terminology, “information on file. But this other man …?”

  “Yes, it was his credit card, after all.”

  Sarah saw Grace looking over, a bemused expression on her face as if she was imagining the conversation.

  “Well, then — it might help us — might help Mr. Myrtle — if you tell me who that man is.”

  “Really? That … all-right? If Mr. Myrtle says so, I guess it can’t hurt. Let me get the form.”

  Sarah could imagine Suzie flipping through the papers with credit card information — probably the most insecure method one could have of storing such da—

  Information …

  “Ah, here it is. The room was booked and paid for by a Mr. Karl Eiss.”

  Sarah checked the spelling with Suzie and wrote the name down.

  The address. A street in Chiswick, right near High Road House.

  How Sarah sometimes missed those summer evenings, meeting for drinks and dinner at the bistro-like restaurant at the private members club there …

  But that was a lifetime ago.

  “Got it Suzie. I guess … that’s all I need for now.”

  But before Sarah could hang up, the receptionist had a question for her.

  “‘Scuse me, miss. But do you know … are they gonna close this place? Think I could lose my job?”

  To that, Sarah didn’t have an answer. Certainly a good number of people would like to see the place torn down or renovated beyond recognition. And where would that leave Suzie with her file box of credit card slips?

  “Not sure, Suzie. I think … you just have to hope for the best.”

  That gave the woman pause, as if the thought had not occurred to her.

  Then, brightly, “Then that's exactly what I will do!”

  Sarah grinned at that, thinking … can’t wait to share the conversation with Grace.

  But first … “Thanks Suzie … and for now, keep this between us?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  And then — call ended — Sarah turned to Grace.

  “So the ‘Mr. Anderson’ I called about … looks like he might be someone else.”

  “Really? A false ID?”

  “Appears that way. He's really someone named Karl Eiss.”

  And with that Sarah watched Grace look away.

  A bell going off.

  And when Grace turned back.

  “I know that name Sarah. I know who it is.”

  The name hadn't meant anything to Sarah.

  “And you're not going to believe it.”

  12. With the Help of a Ghosthunter

  Floorboards off, Jack watched Todd lean down, and — to aid his headlamp — aim a flashlight into the opening, first one way, then the other.

  Mr. Anderson had excused himself to the hallway, taking his papers with him, “to attend to some urgent matters …” he said.

  Then Todd looked up at Jack, shaking his head.

  “Dunno what to tell you, Jack. But everything looks fine. One of my guys did some rewiring here a few years back. This looks like his work. All neat and tidy.”

  “And the fittings for the chandelier?”

  Todd stood up. “That's just it. Looks solid as a rock to me, too. Don't know how that big old thing came crashing down. But I can tell you one thing … it wasn't due to faulty installation.”

  “Any sign it’s been tampered with?”

  “Hard to tell, really,” said Todd, shaking his head. “But I doubt anyone’s had this floorboard up since my lad was last here.”

  Jack nodded. He more than respected Todd’s opinion.

  He knew his stuff.

  Which meant that Jack didn't have a clue about what had occurred here.

  “No idea what might have happened?”

  Todd shook his head. “I wish I did. In fact, when the builders stick the chandelier back up … these original fittings are still good enough to use. I'm afraid Jack—” and here Todd grinned, “you got yourself a mystery.”

  Jack laughed at that. “Oh, thanks for that!”

  At which point, as if sensing the intrusion might be ending, Anderson came back in, papers grasped tight.

  “Are we all done here? I did have some things I need to do.”

  Jack nodded. Todd had already started putting planks together.

  “Todd, maybe leave it open. I may want to show the Myrtles.”

  “Sure. Just give me ring when you want me to close things up.”

  Todd started putting his tools away.

  Anderson shook his head. “You don't mean you’re going to leave the room … like this? An open hole, in the middle of the floor!”

  Jack turned to the man, still in sunglasses with toupee askew.

  “Just for a while, Mr. Anderson. Sure you can just step around it, hmm? I know the hotel owner will want to see that all was okay.”

  “God. What a place. Very well. Now, if you two—”

  “Gonna dash,” Todd said. “Lads downstairs are waiting for me.”

  “Thanks!” Jack answered.

  And Jack was ready to go as well, Anderson’s shaded eyes locked on him.

  When his phone rang.

  Slipping it out … to see Sarah’s name.

  “One sec,” he said to Anderson.

  And he answered the call.

  *

  “Uh huh …” Jack said, walking to the window of the room. He could have meandered out to the hallway for the call.

  But Sarah had been looking into Anderson.

  Taking this call right here might have an interesting result.

  “Yes. So you found …?”

  “It was Grace, Jack. She loves those weird science shows on TV. Anderson's room was booked by a Karl Eiss. And Karl Eiss is the host of the hit show ‘Ghosthunter’.”

  Now Jack turned, looking at Anderson who was in fact watching the scene carefully.
<
br />   “No kidding.”

  Jack kept looking at the sunglasses, the comical hair.

  And he immediately guessed the truth about Anderson.

  “Well, Sarah, that explains a lot of things. Great work. And tell Grace thanks.”

  “I did! But what do you think it means?”

  “Oh, that?” Jack laughed. “Not sure at all. Let's meet up later like we planned. I’d like to …”

  He looked again straight at the room's resident, and Jack was pretty sure that “Anderson” knew something was up.

  “…have a few words here. With Mr. Anderson.”

  “Oh — I wish I was there.”

  “You'll hear it all …”

  Jack lowered the phone and ended the call.

  Then he walked over to Anderson.

  “Well, Mr. Eiss — wherever shall we begin?”

  *

  “Sure you won’t have one with me?” said Eiss with a grin. “Hate to drink alone.”

  “Not a daytime drinker, I’m afraid,” said Jack, easing back into the room’s only armchair and watching Eiss carefully.

  “Never on duty, eh detective?” said Eiss, shutting the door of the mini-bar and pulling the tab on a can of tonic.

  Jack smiled but said nothing.

  Eiss had seemed relieved when Jack broke his “cover”. He’d pulled off his toupee and flung it in a corner, then folded up the glasses and put them in his jacket pocket.

  His voice had immediately got younger with a sharp London twang.

  His only question — how the hell did you know it was me?

  Jack’s answer — that “Karl Eiss” seemed to be a household name in these parts — cemented their new “friendship”.

  Eiss had slapped him on the shoulder and then put his hand out for a fist bump.

  Jack had ignored the gesture.

  Now, he watched Eiss empty the tonic into a glass of gin. He certainly seemed more at ease without the toupee and the glasses. His totally bald head had a silky sheen.

  Jack wondered if he polished it.

  Or maybe the opposite, he thought. Gotta watch out for glare if you work in TV.

  “No point asking for ice,” said Eiss. “Not in a place like this.”

  “You must live half your life in hotels.”

  “Yeah. One half in hotels. The other half in bloody freezing cellars or crypts. Still — it’s a living.”

  “A good one, from what I hear.”

  Eiss pulled the chair out from the desk, span it round and sat. Then took a hefty swig of gin and tonic.

  “Can’t complain, Jack, can’t complain,” he said. “Show goes out around the world on cable and satellite. One hundred and fourteen territories at last count.”

  “I must catch it some time,” said Jack.

  Some time never, he thought.

  “It’s a good format.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What’s to tell? Punters ask me to come and ghost-hunt their house or pub or church or whatever. I turn up with a crew, set up all the gear, stay for a week, shoot the film, take the stills, find the ‘ghost’, scare the shit out of the locals and then hit the road. Job done.”

  “Find the ghost? And what if the ghost doesn’t exist?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Eiss. Then with a stage wink: “The ghost always exists, Jack. And if it doesn’t — I make bloody sure it does!”

  “So … Who invited you here?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Oh really? You’re just here by accident?”

  “No, no. Look, here’s the thing. Dear old Basil — you’ve met him, yeah?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Right, well Basil got in touch with my agent in the summer, trying to sell us a new ghost show. ‘Dinner on the Dark Side’, he calls it.”

  “And he invited you here to The Bell?” said Jack.

  “Nah,” said Eiss. “I booked his dinner as a guest. Incognito. So’s I could watch how he worked. See if his idea had legs, for a show and all.”

  “And does it?”

  “If you’d asked me that at five to midnight I’d have said no. I mean — I’m not saying he’s bad at what he does. But all that smoke and mirrors stuff — it’s so last century. These days everyone in the ghost business has gone digital.”

  “But …?”

  “Yeah, well — that chandelier trick? Blew me away. That was something else.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’s no explanation for it. What he did was, well it was impossible. Totally, humanly, magically — inexplicable.”

  Was Eiss onto something here, Jack thought.

  Was charming old Basil actually the one who’d sent that chandelier flying?

  And did he maybe suspect who the mysterious ‘Mr. Anderson’ really was?

  This is getting interesting, thought Jack.

  13. A Question of Physics

  Jack watched Eiss walk over to the hole in the boards and crouch down.

  “Soon as the excitement was over that night, I came straight back up here and pulled back the carpet,” said Eiss. “Just like you. I wanted to see if someone had been mucking around with the fixings.”

  “And they hadn’t?”

  “You saw for yourself. These boards haven’t been lifted in years.”

  “Maybe whoever loosened the chandelier did it from below?” said Jack.

  “Not possible. And you know it. Look.”

  Jack crouched down next to the hole as Eiss pointed.

  “The bolts on the fitting come up through these four holes. And they’re held by four nuts. Which are screwed down from above.”

  “The same nuts which right now are attached to the bolts downstairs,” said Jack.

  “Exactly. You and me — we’re on the same page, aren’t we?”

  “So maybe someone stuck the nuts on afterwards?”

  “No way. As soon as the damned thing dropped, I never took my eyes off it. And I swear to God — the nuts were on there then, nice and tight. It wasn’t rigged. Least, not in any way I’ve come across. And I’ll tell you — I’ve seen every trick in the book.”

  “But you’re sure Basil did it?”

  “He must have,” said Eiss. “What are you suggesting — some bloody ghost did it?”

  “Just keeping an open mind. This talk of Freddy Rose is very convincing.”

  “Oh, come off it — you and me both — we know that’s all made up nonsense.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. What about the scare after dinner last night — were you around?”

  “I was here, having a nightcap. Heard the commotion, came out on the landing to see — that lady seemed quite shaken up.”

  “But you weren’t?”

  “Takes more than a little dry ice to frighten me Jack.”

  “Dry ice — so you knew?”

  “You kidding? Use it myself.”

  “But not last night?”

  “What? Why on Earth would have I done that? I’m here to check out Basil’s show, not do my own.”

  Jack watched Eiss’s face.

  Was he telling the truth?

  “You think Basil was behind that too?” he said.

  “Has to be.”

  “But why? His big Ghost Dinner was over.”

  “He’s stuck here, isn’t he? I reckon he decided to give the old Freddy myth an extra tweak while he could. Make sure he gets a booking for next year—”

  “Or maybe he did it to impress you?”

  “Oh yeah, nice one. Saw through my disguise? Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “But you don’t think there’s a ghost here at The Bell?”

  “Do me a favour,” said Eiss, with a shrug.

  “And is that how your TV show ends up? That what you tell your punters? That it’s all a con — ghost’s aren’t real?”

  “Christ no,” said Eiss, draining his gin and tonic. “The show would go straight into the bin. No, I scare the bloody pants off them. I want them to be seeing ghosts
everywhere! And tuning into my show to see more!”

  Jack felt he was reaching a dead end. He’d been sure that Eiss was in on the whole thing. But now he almost believed him when he said he’d had nothing to do with it.

  Almost …

  Which left the Myrtles themselves — and Basil. Oh, and the charming Mr. Stover too.

  But in the absence of any real evidence, how was he going to find out who was behind it all?

  Eiss got up and went over to the mini-bar. Jack watched him take out a miniature of gin to mix another drink.

  “Sure I can’t tempt you officer?”

  “Thanks, but no,” said Jack getting up. “Time I was off anyway.”

  “Anything I can do to help, just drop by,” said Eiss. “I’m not due back in London till tomorrow.”

  “Appreciate the offer,” said Jack.

  And he headed toward the door.

  “One last thing,” said Jack, hand on the door handle. “Are you going to do ‘Dinner on the Dark Side?’”

  “I’m tempted. Basil’s got this idea of closing each show with a séance — you know? Spooky ghost voices, Ouija board and stuff. But I got to think about that.”

  “You don’t think it would work?”

  “Oh I can make it work — done that many a time, no problem. Séance — might be good telly. But week in, week out — could get a bit samey. Know what I mean?”

  And dishonest, thought Jack. But he didn’t say that.

  Not with the idea that was forming in his mind.

  “See you around,” he said, and left Karl Eiss to his gin and tonic.

  *

  As Jack went down the stairs he paused and stared at the painting of Colonel Allsop.

  The soldier looked proudly back at him, his eyes cold and dark. Behind him the Indian servants gazed submissively at the ground.

  Then from downstairs, the sound of an argument.

  Jack turned from the picture and carried on down into the lobby. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he could tell that the raised voices were coming from the office behind reception.

  Through the open door, he heard Crispin and Lawrence — and then a woman’s voice, snarling.

  Snatches of words … “…listed building, and you have no right!” … “stuck in the past, like staying in a bloody Butlins!” … “…ganging up on me …”

  He could see Suzie at the reception desk, standing motionless, deer in the headlights, listening.