For some reason I couldn’t help but be suspicious. I poured over the letter, written in red ink on fine quality parchment, in an old-fashioned cursive hand. I scrutinised the writing, and read the words over and over, searching for details, trying to read between the lines. No matter how I inspected the letter I found no clues as to who Sabien was, or whether I had grounds for my unease. I felt sorely tempted to write back with a resounding ‘no’, after all, I’d made my plans for my grand opening. And yet…
And yet, I wanted to get Whittle Inn on the map. I needed guests. Surely this would be the best way to go about that.
Zephaniah, my ghost-of-all-trades, showed Charity up to my office, and I hurriedly stuffed the letter under a few others on my desk. As Zephaniah took his leave, I watched her reaction to him. She did a double take. “Wow,” she said. “Is he for real?”
“Hi!” I laughed, happy to see her. “He’s a useful ghost to have around. You’ll love him.” I worried how she would react to the inn, and the ghosts, especially after working in The Hay Loft with all its mod cons. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I had a good feeling about this. “Let me show you around.”
Charity’s eyes were like saucers. “My Mum’s right. You are the modern equivalent of the Adams Family,” she whispered. “This place is amazing. So wonderfully gothic.”
“Well thank you, I think.”
“It’s amazing,” she repeated. “You’ve done a lot of work on it recently, I’m guessing? Everything smells so clean and fresh…”
“And newly painted?” I laughed. “Practically everything has been rubbed down, re-painted or redecorated. A few walls knocked down here and there. Plumbing in some of the bathrooms. New en-suites in fact. New flooring in places. Tiling. Fittings and fixtures. Bedding, beds, curtains and rugs. Even replacement windows in some rooms.”
“So just the finishing touches to do?” Charity gestured at the empty walls. “A little dressing to make the place look homely?”
“Yes. I haven’t made any final decisions about that, but you’re right. I’ve been slacking. There are so many things to think about.” I led her back downstairs and through into the bar room. I’d had the wooden floor boards sanded and varnished, and then I’d covered a large section of the floor with an enormous and beautiful oriental rug in reds, rust, brown and cream. There were several high-backed arm chairs recovered in red velvet and a mix and match of chairs and tables, all lovingly restored by my Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up crew. They’d done a grand job.
A large fire burned merrily in the enormous fireplace, and the bar was now almost fully stocked with wines, mixers and spirits. I was awaiting a delivery of barrels to the cellar, so that we could channel real ales, beer and cider to the pumps and have local brews on tap.
Florence, my smouldering house maid ghost, was busily dusting the colourful optics. She shot a look of alarm my way as I entered with Charity. I held my hand up to stop her from bolting at the sight of the newcomer.
“Charity, this is Florence. She was a house maid here at the inn in my great grandmother’s time. She’s an invaluable member of my team.”
Charity scanned Florence from head to toe and gawped at her burning clothes. She took a moment to process what she was seeing before her face lit up. “Pleased to meet you, Florence.”
Florence beamed at her in return and dropped a curtsey.
“And you, miss.” She turned to me with a cheeky smile. “Nice for you to have a friend, Miss Alf.”
“I’m showing Charity around the inn, Florence. She might be interested in working with us, if we’re lucky.” If you ghosts all behave this time.
“I’m liking what I’ve seen so far,” Charity interjected.
“Out the back here.” I led Charity through the frosted glass door. “We have The Nook and The Snug. These are small rooms, that can be booked for meetings, or small family gatherings, or we can just allow anybody in here if they need a bit of privacy, I suppose,” I said and stood back so Charity could poke her head in.
“Nice,” she said, nodding. I’d left both rooms quite plain. Each had a small fireplace, a large table, benches along two of the walls and a few chairs. I’d scattered a bright array of Indian cushions on the benches and hung jewel-coloured silk gauze curtains against the windows, to give a slightly oriental feel. The rooms were pretty and warm.
“Here on the right is the kitchen.” We walked through the last door at the end of the corridor, adjacent to the back stairs. “Most of the equipment is left over from before me, but we have a new dishwasher, and a couple of brand-new catering fridges. There’s a cold store, pantry and a few storerooms out the back there. All I’ve really had done in here, is a deep clean and new tiling.” The white ceramic tiles, stainless steel work surfaces and cupboard doors gleamed.
“We have a new chef arriving any time. I haven’t met him yet.”
“You didn’t interview him?” Charity asked, raising her eyebrows. I shook my head. “That surprises me. You seem so in control of everything else that’s happening.”
“Let’s just say that I made a bit of a mess of trying to hire a chef, so I had to bow to pressure, and hand the hiring of him or her to my great grandmother.”
“Your great grandmother…?”
“Is dead. Yes. She’s another ghost who inhabits the inn. I’m sure you’ll meet her sooner rather than later. She’s an... erm… formidable presence.” Charity looked perturbed. “No, look, honestly? She’s a pussycat.” I waved my hands vaguely. “A wolf in a pussycat’s clothing maybe.”
“How many ghosts are there at the inn?”
“Sixty-two usually,” I said. “I can be precise because there’s not long been an audit.” Sometimes I caught myself saying some very odd things, but in this case it was completely true. Perdita Pugh had accounted for sixty-four ghosts, and I’d had two exorcised. “Believe it or not.”
Charity nodded, taking it all in her stride. “We have a few that come and go,” I continued. “My father is one of those, and we have a band of musicians called The Devonshire Fellows who travel to other places to play, but they’ve made Whittle Inn their base. For better or for worse, depending on how much you like late medieval wind instruments really. They’re currently in residence.” I tipped my head, listening intently, but couldn’t hear them.
“How lovely,” Charity said. “Music on tap, so to speak.”
“Mm,” I said doubtfully. “It certainly can be.”
I threw open the back door. “There’s not much to see here. We’ll do more work on the grounds starting in the new year. There’s a large outdoor storage shed over there where we keep the gardening equipment, wood and coal. There’s also a small wood pile just here to the left of the door, so we don’t have to traipse to the main shed.”
We stood together out the back. I’d found the body of Edvard Zadzinsky here six months ago. That had been my rude awakening to The Mori. So much water had passed under the bridge since then, but the fear of The Mori and what they could do to my inn and grounds had lodged itself deep inside my stomach like a hard stone.
In the distance the trees of Speckled Wood danced gently in a light autumn breeze. I sighed. The wood called to me as always. “So beautiful,” I said.
Charity followed my look. “That’s part of the estate?”
“Yes, it is. The guests can walk there if they wish.” I nearly added, ‘it’s safe, because I keep it so.’ The wood was locked down tightly with a secure perimeter, magickal workings from my friends, the wizards, Shadowmender and Kephisto. I hiked out there once or twice a week and refreshed the positive energy, always on the lookout for any traces that The Mori had infiltrated my land again.
“And this over here?” Charity gestured towards an area of clear ground.
“There used to be a stable block there. I was going to build a couple of external suites, but unfortunately it burned down.”
“You could create a pavilion there. It would be lovely in the summer.”
&n
bsp; I looked at Charity with admiration. She had plenty of ideas and wasn’t afraid to voice them. I liked that about her.
We made our way back upstairs and into my office. I took a seat at my desk and Charity dropped into one of the threadbare armchairs by the fire.
I shuffled the papers on my desk, my eye caught by the letter enquiring about holding the wedding at my inn. I pulled it out and read it again, frowning. What should I do?
“Problem?” asked Charity.
“I’m not sure.” I screwed my face up. “I have a potential client who wants to hold his son’s wedding here on 31st October.”
“The same day you’re due to open?”
“Exactly. I think it would be too much. I’m not sure I could cope.”
“Of course you could!” Charity exploded with enthusiasm. “It would be the perfect way to open Whittle Inn to the public once more. You said you’re getting a new chef, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can showcase a range of wonderful culinary delights, along with drinks—maybe cocktails—from your newly restocked bar. The inn will never look better than it does right now. Fresh and welcoming.”
She had a point.
“All you need is to finish off with some cosy touches as we were saying, plenty of fresh flowers… that kind of thing. Oh a romantic wedding would be a perfect start for you as the new owner of Whittle Inn. You should go for it!” Her enthusiasm was infectious and as she spoke I found myself imagining a wonderful day with the happy bride and groom, a quiet and sophisticated adult party, the inn dressed to perfection and looking its sparkly best.
“Yes, maybe I should.”
“So, do you need a waitress?” she asked. “I mean, you could use your ghosts too, to serve entrees and drinkies. I could train them in silver service if necessary. I always enjoy training new members of staff at The Hay Loft. No member of staff ever stays there very long, so I do it often.”
I observed her, sitting in the armchair, leaning towards me with excitement. She had dressed to impress to the best of her means, but money earned from waiting does not stretch very far. She looked smart, although her shoes were cheap and her suit of inferior quality. Her bleached hair was caught in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. The white blouse under her jacket had been washed too often.
But wit and intelligence shone out of her face.
She was entirely wasted as a waitress at The Hay Loft.
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “I need more than that. I need someone who can work with me as a Jill-of-all-trades. Someone with common sense and practical abilities. Someone who is neither phased by the spirits inhabiting this inn—particularly my Grandmama—or the rather odd guests I’m sure we’re going to attract. I need someone firm but compassionate, open-minded but far-sighted. I need a manager for the inn, Charity. Someone who can step in when I’m not here.” I swing back on my chair and grinned at her. “In short, I think you’re that person.”
Charity shrank back in her seat in surprise, her mouth a wide O. She shook her head in disbelief, examined my face to make sure I was serious and then laughed nervously. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Well, I don’t know quite what to say.”
“We can try it out for six months and see what you think. I’ll be interested in any ideas you have, that will ensure the inn runs smoothly. We can certainly explore the idea of a pavilion for the summer. Anything like that, any ideas you have, just pipe up.” Charity, flushed, blew her hair from her face and fanned herself with her hands.
“That’s such a vote of confidence, Alf.”
“Do you have any questions?” I asked, curious as to why she wasn’t jumping up and down and shrieking “I’ll take it!”
“Just one,” she said, and drew her long hair out from the scrunchie at the back of neck. “Would you mind if I re-dyed my hair?”
After Charity had left I looked down at the letter from Sabien Laurent. I would need to reply to him in the affirmative and soon, but first, the growing sensation in my stomach told me I needed to grab a bite to eat.
I skipped down the back stairs feeling more positive than ever that everything to do with Whittle Inn’s opening would work out fine. Charity, regardless of the colour of her hair, was going to do me proud. I was sure of it.
With no sign of Florence, it appeared the onus for making lunch was on me. I rummaged in the bread bin and found the knob from a loaf and located cheese in one of the fridges. Cheese on toast was probably the limits of my culinary expertise.
I was on my hands and knees in front of a cupboard under one of the counters, hunting for the cheese grater—without much luck—when the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me, startled me.
“One second,” I said. “It must be here somewhere.”
“Alfhild?” my great grandmother’s unmistakeably imperious tone interrupted me. “I need to introduce you to someone.”
I pushed myself to my feet. Beside her was a large rotund man with an impressive moustache and a shining bald head, dressed all in white. It was impossible to miss that he was also slightly transparent and floating about an inch above the floor.
The new chef.
My heart sank.
The new chef was a ghost?
“Now don’t pull that face, Alfhild. If the wind changes you’ll stay that way,” Gwyn barked at me. “Remember your manners. This is Monsieur Emietter. He has come all the way from Paris.”
“With all due respect, Grandmama, he’s a ghost.”
Gwyn affected a shocked face, that might have been quite comic if I hadn’t been so taken aback. “You don’t say, my dear.”
“I was intent on hiring—”
“Someone who didn’t like ghosts. That would have been rather a catastrophe, Alfhild.”
“Not so. Grandmama—"
“Or what about the applicant you interviewed, who tried to have everyone in the building exorcised? I found that little mistake particularly spectacular.”
She had me beat. I had tried and failed to find a chef. Now only days from opening, I was hardly in a position to dismiss Gwyn’s choice and start a search for a new one.
“Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Emietter,” I said, sounding for all the world like a sulky teenager.
“That’s better, Alfhild.” Gwyn smiled, smug to her transparent core. “But Monsieur Emietter does not speak English.”
“Pardon?”
“Not a word.”
I rubbed my temples in horror. “Are you serious, Grandmama? How on earth am I going to give him instructions?”
“Well that’s where I’ll come in, darling. I speak French. You’ll have to tell me what you need, and I’ll translate it for our new chef.”
“Right,” I said. Was she for real? She’d probably had this planned all along. A bit of a control freak, my great grandmother.
I smiled at Monsieur Emietter. “Welcome, welcome,” I said loudly, as though that would help him to understand, and gestured around at the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. If you need anything just let me—or my bossy grandmother know.” I smiled with gritted teeth and stomped out of the kitchen before Gwyn could retort. So intent was I on storming away, I nearly walked straight through Florence as she returned from the bar.
“Ooh,” the maid giggled. “That tickles. Everything alright, Miss Alf?”
I pulled up short. “Do you speak any French, Florence?”
“No, miss.” Florence looked at me in alarm.
“Ha! Well you’re going to have as much fun as me then.”
* * *
A little later when I’d calmed down, and Florence had delivered a few delicious slices of cheese on toast and a large steaming mug of tea, oh and not forgetting an enormous slice of coffee and walnut cake, I was feeling a little less angst-ridden and slightly more capable of holding an adult conversation with Gwyn.
We sat together in my office while I outlined the plans as they stood for the grand openi
ng of the inn.
“Oh and there’s the small matter of the wedding,” I said, keeping my tone cavalier.
“What wedding?” Gwyn took the bait straight away. I knew she would. She stared at me with bright shining eyes. At times she reminded me of a mistrustful-looking shrew.
“I’ve had a letter.” I waved the sheet of parchment at her. “A potential customer who would like to hold his son’s wedding here on the 31st.”
“Of October?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the same day we open.”
“I know. Exciting isn’t it?” It was my turn to sound a little smug although to be honest, I was still a tad worried about maxing out the inn’s capabilities.
“Well if you think we can cope,” Gwyn said, and I eyed her with suspicion. She knew something.
“You’ve been listening into my conversations again, haven’t you?” These blasted ghosts and their abilities to apparate here and there and walk through walls and doors. It could be incredibly inconvenient at times.
Gwyn shrugged, a picture of innocence. “Your young lady visitor, you mean?”
“You know I do,” I growled.
“She seemed very nice. Very forthright. What did she mean about dying her hair?”
“It’s something young people like to do these days, Grandmama. Well, not just young people actually. Anyone.”
“You’ve hired her, I hope?”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “You approve?”
“We could do with someone with a little nous around here.”
“Nowse? Is that French?”
“Oh I do beg your pardon, darling.” She laughed, a tinkling sound. Not a sound I heard emanating from my stern and solemn great grandmother very often. I knew she was taking the mickey out of me for not speaking any modern languages. “No not French. It means common sense, you know, practical intelligence…”
I figured she was insinuating that I didn’t have any, but still, I laughed along with her, albeit a little sardonically.
“Will it be a witch wedding?” Gwyn asked. “For those are the best kinds. A proper shindig and some magickal potion?”
Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3 Page 3