Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey narrowed her eyes and pulled a face.

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  She was wearing a large white apron that almost went round her twice.

  Dumpy Doris had phoned in sick. Apparently she’d gone down with a virus. Honey suspected she’d overindulged on a takeaway curry the night before. Doris tended to overindulge forgetting that spicy foods disagreed with her.

  Lindsey peered over the top of the reception desk.

  ‘It’s a book by Wilkie Collins. The White Lady. It’s a book by Wilkie Collins.’

  Lindsey had just returned from staying with a friend the night before. Whoever the friend was, the stay had obviously agreed with her. She looked as fresh as a daisy.

  ‘How did you get on over the road, mother? You didn’t say.’

  Mary Jane looked from mother to daughter and back to Honey.

  ‘Is this relevant? What’s the building over the road got to do with anything?’

  Honey squirmed. ‘Well, I thought I might just have seen a reflection, and then I thought that the woman might have committed suicide across the road and I’d merely seen the event reflected in the windows of the Green River Hotel.’

  ‘Did they know anything?’

  Mary Jane’s deep blue eyes were piercing at the best of times. When ghosts were mentioned they glittered brighter than gemstones.

  Lying was out of the question. Mary Jane would know, that’s what those glittering eyes were saying to her.

  ‘Well...actually...they had heard tale of a ghost who threw herself out of one of their windows back in the days when it was still a house.’ She purposely left out mentioning her name.

  ‘No way!’ Mary Jane was mesmerised, her eyes seeming to explode to twice their normal size. ‘Did they say why?’ Her voice was hushed; awestruck.

  Honey cleared her throat. This was the awkward bit. She didn’t want to upset Mary Jane, but on the other hand lying was out of the question.

  ‘She had man trouble.’

  ‘Isn’t it always man trouble,’ mused Lindsey, slapping down piles of leaflets the length of the reception counter.

  Mary Jane shook her head sadly. ‘Poor girl. I suppose he jilted her?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Honey who was already making tracks for the kitchen. Mary Jane kept pace with her.

  ‘Her husband was hanged leaving her pregnant with nobody to turn to.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I did the research. I think her name was Dorothea Finchley. She was an honest girl from a poor background who fell in love with a Captain John Finchley. They got married but the family didn’t approve so her husband was cut off without a penny.’

  Honey paused in front of the kitchen door. She could hear the clattering of pans on the other side and somebody whistling. Smudger Smith, her head chef had arrived. So also it sounded, had some of his minions. Hopefully Clint, their erstwhile washer up had also arrived. She’d cooked breakfast for around twenty guests, but didn’t have time to face the washing up. Doherty had set her a task which was becoming more attractive by the minute. Anything rather than contradict Mary Jane’s findings about the spectre she’d seen. Anything was better rather than mention that the young woman had been jilted by Mary Jane’s long dead ancestor.

  It was common for either Doris or herself to do breakfast thus giving the chef a break. Split shifts, prepping and cooking lunch and then a break before the evening shift was hard enough without dragging any of them in to cook something as simple as a full English breakfast. But washing up? Clint was the most proficient washer up she knew. And he was cheap. Cash in hand of course.

  ‘So, was it really a reflection you saw?’

  Honey winced. She didn’t much like the thought that somebody had thrown themselves out of the landing window. ‘I prefer to think she threw herself out of their window and I merely saw the reflection.’

  Mary Jane frowned. ‘Are you sure about this? I mean, how come we’ve all been smelling jasmine so strongly? Something else had to be going on.’

  Here it was. Should she lie or should she tell the truth – or at least part of it.

  Honey cleared her throat and dived in. ‘I understand that the senior partner at the firm of solicitors across the road brought in an exorcist.’

  ‘It was successful?’

  Although Mary Jane’s eyes still twinkled like stars in her wrinkled face though she sounded sceptical. Honey put that down to the fact that nobody had asked her to carry out the exorcism.

  ‘I’m not sure. What I mean is...’

  ‘Jasmine! I bet my bottom dollar that they carried out the exorcism on the very day we first noticed the smell of jasmine here in the hotel! Hah!’

  Honey did her best to look baffled. ‘And that means...?’

  ‘She’s moved in here,’ said Mary Jane. ‘Did they have a name for their ghost?’

  ‘June. June Havard. I think that was what they said, I wasn’t really taking too much notice...’

  Mary Jane was no longer listening to details she didn’t figure had much to do with what was in her mind. It was difficult to work out what was in Mary Jane’s mind at the best of times.

  ‘Dorothea or June, whoever she is, has moved in here after being driven out from across the road. It stands to reason that’s what’s happened.’

  More ghosts were something Honey could well do without and said so.

  ‘I don’t care if it does stand to reason I want this ghost out of here. One ghost is quite enough. Two is one too much.’

  ‘Or even three,’ said Mary Jane, fascination shining in her eyes. ‘Yes. We must exorcise them. I think I’ve already made some progress in identifying whoever the woman – or at least one of them is. I took the small table from my room and along the landing and made use of the balloon backed chair you’ve got placed there.’

  ‘You did table tapping.’ Honey couldn’t help sounding sceptical – not that Mary Jane appeared to notice. Table tapping was one of Mary Jane’s favourite ways of contacting the spirits of people who had ‘passed over’.

  ‘I did it very quietly so as not to disturb anyone, but you know how it is. Sometimes the spirits get carried away because they’re so frantic to get through. The table rocked all over the place. Even Sir Cedric complained, said something about a man at eternal rest should be left there to rest.’

  Honey fixed her with a direct look. ‘Did anyone else complain?’

  ‘Oh, just some man from number nine along the landing. I can’t see how he heard anything really unless he had his ear to the door.’

  Honey closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  ‘What time was this?’ she asked pensively, dreading what the answer would be though knowing it could not be avoided.

  Mary Jane heaved a sigh. ‘After midnight of course! Table tapping and contacting the spirits is always best done after midnight. Things are quieter then.’

  ‘Unless you happen to be table tapping.’

  ‘I tried to keep the noise down.’

  ‘Not down enough. A guest complained.’

  ‘There was no need to be so grouchy!’

  Honey fixed her with a stern gaze. ‘He had rights to be grouchy. You disturbed his sleep.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. He couldn’t have been that put out. He only came along to complain once so he must have fallen asleep again.’

  Honey sighed. Sometimes Mary Jane was plain hard work.

  ‘Everyone has been down for breakfast except for one. I’m guessing he was the one you disturbed with your table tapping session. Was anyone else with you?’

  Mary Jane shook her head. ‘I did invite your mother to come along, but since she remarried, she takes less interest than she used to in the paranormal. Too wrapped up in that husband of hers.’

  Honey had to concede that Mary Jane was right. Her mother didn’t visit half as much as she used to before she’d met and married Stewart White, her fifth husband. In Honey’s opinion it was great that she had somebody
else to boss around. Life was peaceful nowadays – with the exception of Mary Jane’s exploits.

  Exasperated, Honey combed her fingers through her hair. Was it her imagination or did she smell of fried bacon and Wiltshire pork sausages?

  ‘I can smell bacon and sausages,’ Mary Jane remarked.

  Well that answered that question.

  Honey sighed deeply. The day had only just started and she was already feeling drained.

  ‘Mary Jane, can I ask you not to table tap in the public areas. It’s not fair on the other guests. Or on me for that matter. I was the one cooking breakfasts this morning and no doubt the guest concerned will be in a foul mood when he gets round to checking out.’

  ‘Such a shame he missed breakfast,’ trilled Mary Jane sounding without a care in the world. It was very good. Far better than Doris.’

  Against her better judgement Honey fell for the flattery. ‘Thank you! I’m glad you liked it.’

  ‘Well actually I only had the toast. But it was quite superb. Lovely and crisp.’

  So much for the flattery. ‘Just toast.’

  ‘Shame about Dorothea. She must have been beside herself when her husband was hanged. I mean, what else was he to do when he’d married beneath himself, his wife was pregnant and the family had cut him off without a penny? The only recourse left open to him was to become a highwayman.’

  ‘A highwayman?’ Honey had been about to push open the kitchen door and escape, but mention of a highwayman stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mary Jane with a nod of her head. ‘He had no recourse but to become a highwayman. He was quite successful at first, or at least it seems that way. It was a year before he was caught. Perhaps he might have got away with it but on the last occasion he’d robbed a coach and four on their way to Marlborough, his pistol went off accidentally killing the local magistrate who happened to be travelling with some local aristocrat. The recoil from the pistol knocked him backwards. He hit his head on something so was easy to arrest. The fact was that if that hadn’t happened he would have inherited his family’s wealth a few days later when his father died. The old man had never altered the will...’

  Honey pushed open the kitchen door. ‘Interesting. Tell me, they didn’t have pole dancing clubs back then did they?’

  Mary Jane failed to pick up on her sarcastic tone. ‘No. Of course they didn’t. I mean, can you imagine Jane Austen pole dancing? Of course not. Ladies of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century just didn’t do things like that.’

  ‘Could have had something to do with the lack of central heating,’ said Honey smiling as she passed through the door and into the kitchen. Congratulations, she said to herself. You got away with not going into depth about the other suspected suicide from over the road, the one who’d been ruined by Sir Cedric, the ghost who appeared to live in Mary Jane’s closet.

  The man who had been disturbed by Mary Jane’s table tapping grumbled when he paid his bill.

  ‘The woman’s mad. She should be locked up.’

  Lindsey apologised profusely before conjuring up the tale that Mary Jane was all alone in the world and they’d only taken her in out of the goodness of their hearts.

  ‘She is related to aristocracy,’ she added.

  She didn’t explain that the lord Mary Jane was related to was long dead and just happened to haunt the room she resided in – hence her reason for being there.

  As it worked out, Lindsey had made a sound judgement of the man. He wasn’t exactly happy but he was just a little impressed.’

  ‘I once worked for Sir Edward Potterton-Jones,’ he said adopting an air of superiority. He too was a little eccentric. I believe some of his relatives spent most of their lives in a lunatic asylum. Only to be expected of course. It’s in the blood you know. Inbreeding has a lot to do with it. I missed breakfast. I hope you’re not going to charge me for it.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Just as well. I wouldn’t have paid it.’

  She didn’t enlighten him with the fact that breakfast was at extra cost anyway. He was pacified. Hopefully he wouldn’t put word around that the Green River Hotel was inhabited by a mad woman from America who made a racket out on the landing in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘I doubt I’ll stay here again. Unless of course you give me a different room on a different floor and at a knock down price.’

  Lindsey smiled sweetly. ‘We’ll see what we can do, sir.’

  He bid her goodbye.

  ‘You win some, you lose some,’ Lindsey muttered to herself once the irate guest had left the building.

  The doors opened, he exited and a young woman entered.

  ‘Good morning. I’d like to book a birthday party please.’

  Lindsey smiled at the round faced young woman. She had a very pale complexion and dyed black hair. Her lipstick was bright red and her cheeks were plump. She looked the sort who thoroughly enjoyed junk food and didn’t give a damn who knew it. She knew what she liked and was sure of herself. Her clothes were black and fitted her like a glove. Unfortunately even a very large glove would not have trouble covering her figure of eight shape. Her smile was full of confidence and Lindsey liked her immediately.

  ‘For how many?’

  ‘Oh, I think at least a hundred. It’s for my dad’s birthday. He’s sixty five. I think...still...it’s the thought that counts isn’t it.’

  ‘Would you like to see the function room?’ asked Lindsey.

  ‘Yes please.’

  Lindsey asked the new girl, Irina from Moscow to take over reception whilst she showed the young woman around.

  Irina was tall, slender and had the features of a Snow Queen; pale blonde hair and skin to match. Her eyes were an icy blue. Rodney (Clint) Eastwood, their washer up who had other dubious pastimes that they weren’t quite sure of and never asked him about, had tried to hit on her. She’d frozen him out.

  ‘One icy glare and everything seemed to shrivel,’ he declared to all that would listen. Nobody ventured to ask what particular parts had been frozen, though most could guess.

  Confident that Irina would do a sterling job, oblivious to diversions of a romantic nature, Lindsey took the daughter who wanted to give her father a birthday bash to the function room.

  ‘It’s for your father you say. How old did you say he would be?

  ‘Fifty-five. Whoops! I did say sixty five didn’t I. But it’s fifty five. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate it, whatever his age is. Dancing till midnight I bet.’

  ‘Very likely. He’s dead fit is my dad. He puts it down to his job. He’s outside in all winds and weathers.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a cleansing department operative for a firm sub contracting to Bath and North East Somerset.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  The girl giggled. ‘That means he’s a street cleaner. He sweeps the streets, but you know what these councils are like not wanting to offend anybody.’

  The girl laughed. Lindsey laughed with her.

  ‘We want to organise a bit of entertainment. Would that be in order?’

  Lindsey smiled and nodded. ‘Of course, as long as it’s not too noisy and is strictly legal.’

  ‘Oh it’s legal alright. My dad’s a fan of this old punk star from the eighties. We – that is me and my sisters – want to organise a lookalike singer. Would that be alright?’

  ‘Of course it would. We’ve had Elvis Presley here a few times – well not the real one of course. Last I heard from some way out newspaper he’s supposed to be in a London bus on the moon!’

  They’d both seen the rubbishy newspaper so laughed in unison. They were getting on like a house on fire.

  ‘That would be great,’ said the girl. ‘It’s not Elvis, mind. It’s an Adam Ant impersonator.’

  ‘We are not biased in any way. You can have who you like, though we might draw the line at Liberace. It’s the grand piano and
silver candelabra you see; too big to get in the door.’

  They laughed again.

  ‘Right,’ said Lindsey once they were back in reception. ‘If you can give me the date you want the function room and the details...’

  Irina handed her a notebook and pen from beneath the overhanging counter of the reception desk.

  ‘Next Saturday if possible. I know it’s a bit short notice, but we weren’t going to have a party, then dad went through a bit of trauma and we all said, hey, this is just the time to have a right knees’ up. Our dad deserves it..’

  Lindsey did a quick check on the computer. ‘You’re in luck. It’s free. Can I have your name?’

  ‘Heidi York.’

  ‘And your father’s name?’

  ‘Charles Spencer York.’

  By the time she’d taken all the particulars and Heidi had left her with a deposit, Lindsey knew for sure that she’d just been speaking to the daughter of the man who had discovered the body in the window of Tern and Pauling. Mention of his name plus the fact he’d experienced recent trauma was enough to clinch it. She had to tell her mother.

  Leaving Irina manning reception, Lindsey went out through the back of the hotel, across the yard to the coach house. After cooking breakfast and feeling immersed in the smell of fried sausages and bacon, her mother would be having a shower.

  On the way there her phone rang.

  She smiled. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I am now I’ve spoken to you.’

  ‘Flatterer.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Steady on, Andy. You know how I feel about getting emotionally heavy. Take a step back. Let’s enjoy the moment.’

  ‘Odd you saying that, a girl who’s into history. Moments pass and soon become history.’

  ‘Now you’re being romantic...’

  The conversation was over by the time she had entered the coach house. Just as she’d guessed her mother was in the shower, clouds of steam misting up the shower door.

  Lindsey sat down on the toilet pan next to the shower.

  ‘I have interesting news for you. Guess who we’ve got coming here next Saturday for a birthday party.’

  ‘Not a clue,’ Honey shouted back.