Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  £30,000.

  A serious amount of money for a man like Derek.

  The money had been deposited in his account from a company named Astutus Holdings. I rifled through the rest of the statements but couldn’t find a deposit of that amount anywhere else, and no further deposits from that company. This was a one off. Possibly Derek had inherited money or sold something valuable. Maybe he’d had shares.

  Perhaps it was none of my business.

  Nonetheless I pulled my mobile from my bag and took a few photos of the statements, then I bundled the folder up to pass onto the police.

  There might not have been anything out of the ordinary in this single financial transaction, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Derek had been in deep with The Mori. I intended to send the photos to Wizard Shadowmender. He would have contacts who would be able to dip a little deeper into Astutus. Penelope Quigwell would probably be one of those.

  Pocketing my mobile, I closed the door of the bedroom. That was the upstairs of Primrose Cottage packed up. Time to tackle downstairs.

  * * *

  It had been a long and trying day, and by the time I returned home to Whittle Inn a fiery sun was setting behind the hills, and the sky was painted in plum and pastel pinks. I’d been looking forward to a decent dinner, but Monsieur Emietter barred me from the kitchen as he was far too busy preparing mock-ups of the wedding feast.

  I had to settle for a cheese and tomato sandwich and a packet of crisps, supplied by Florence, who hopped anxiously around me while I ate it at my desk in the office, dusting things that didn’t need dusting and knocking my papers to the floor every time she floated past. Eventually I asked her to stop.

  “Are you alright, Florence? You seem a little nervy.”

  “Nervy? No miss.”

  “Okay.” I returned my attention to my laptop, busily uploading the photos from my phone, while composing a letter to Wizard Shadowmender. Two minutes later a potted plant flew off the window sill, and Mr Hoo, who had been dozing there, shot into the room in alarm, soaring past me into the bedroom where he perched on the bedframe and twitted consolingly to himself.

  “Florence? Is there a reason you’re trying to frighten my poor owl to death?”

  “No, no, miss. Sorry, miss.”

  I scanned her face for clues and decided she did want to speak to me. I rocked back on my chair and picked up my packet of crisps. “What’s up?” I asked and began to munch. Boy, I was famished.

  “About what Miss Charity said earlier today, Miss Alf.”

  I stared at Florence blankly.

  “About me being housekeeper, miss.”

  “Oh that!”

  Florence hesitated. “You… I… well…”

  “What?” I took one more large mouthful and twisted the plastic packet expertly into a little triangle. Florence carefully watched me and then lifted her head.

  “I couldn’t presume, based on what Miss Charity said, that… well… you know? I know she’s the manager now, but… well you’re still the person in charge, Miss Alf.”

  “Oh, I see.” I was touched. “You’re asking whether your new appointment is official?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  I grinned. “Oh of course, Florence! It’s a wonderful idea. I’d give you a pay rise but seeing as I don’t pay you anyway, you’ll just have to settle for an imaginary one.”

  Florence laughed, and I joined in, pleased with her delight. “Try not to let it go to your head,” I said, my face deadly serious, but when I winked at her she emitted another peel of laughter.

  “Oh I won’t, I promise! Thank you, Miss Alf.”

  She began to apparate and I quickly stopped her. “Just one thing?”

  “Yes, miss?” She was so translucent I could see the fireplace behind her. She reminded me of the Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  “Sneak into the kitchen and find me some cake, can you, please? I’m going to fade away to nothing if I don’t have something else to eat.”

  “I doubt that, miss.” Florence giggled saucily, and looked at me pointedly. Then she was gone before I could change my mind about her new appointment.

  * * *

  I finished off an unhealthily large slice of Victoria Sponge with clotted cream and home-made raspberry jam a little later while languishing in the bath. The scent of lavender soothed me, and I lay back staring through the open window, watching the steam escape. Mr Hoo perched in his customary position half-in and half-out, his head turning this way and that, laser beam eyes searching the grounds below for his own supper. From somewhere in the distance I could hear the muffled sounds of a drum and some kind of squawking instrument. An Elizabethan dance. No doubt Luppitt Smeatharpe and the Devonshire Fellows were rehearsing for the wedding.

  Tonight the rhythm soothed rather than irritated, and I relaxed into the warm water, lulled into a false sense of security, closing my eyes and drifting away.

  Half-asleep, the beating of the drums began to get louder, as though they were moving closer, and closer still, until instead of drums, I imagined I could hear the pounding hooves of dozens of heavy horses.

  “Alf!” Charity’s cry ripped through the inn and I shot upright in the bath, sending a cascade of water sloshing over the sides. Mr Hoo, having had enough scares for one night, took to wing and soared out of sight in the direction of the nearest cluster of trees. “Alf?”

  “What is it?” I shouted, scrambling out of the bath and slipping around in the water on the floor. I grabbed my towel. The sound of hooves over gravel was unmistakeable.

  “We’ve got company,” Charity screeched back. “They’ve arrived early!”

  I skidded to the window, holding my towel against my front to preserve my modesty, and leaned over the sill. The night was dark, and Whittlecombe village gave out little in the way of light pollution. Squinting, my heart thumping hard in my chest, I could just about make out some illuminations bobbing in the distance, moving down the lane at quite a pace. As the shapes drew closer I could see these illuminations were old-fashioned gas lights, glowing blue.

  I stared in amazement. Coming up the drive, scattering shards of gravel left, right and centre, and slowing to a trot in front of the inn, were six blinkered black horses, with tall plumes of shiny black feathers standing above their forelocks. The team of horses were pulling a black hearse carriage, its blinds drawn so that no-one could see within.

  Behind this first one, came another. And another. In fact there must have been a dozen carriages and a dozen hearses, each drawn by six beautiful black horses and each containing a coffin.

  The vampires had arrived at Whittle Inn.

  Twenty-four hours ahead of schedule, Whittle Inn received its first guests.

  Trembling in anticipation, I rapidly dried myself and threw on some clothes, twisting my wet hair into a makeshift bun on top of my head. I raced downstairs calling for Zephaniah and Ned, but the ghosts were way ahead of me, and had already assembled in the bar.

  I threw open the front door and dashed out onto the drive, Charity on my heels. Horses stood whinnying, and shaking their heads, harnesses jangling in the cool night air. Coachmen were alighting from the front of the carriages, and eerily silent, they assembled together at the head of the first group of horses. I walked forwards to greet them, fighting to contain the sudden onset of nerves. They turned as one to watch me advance, and I halted, shivers running down my spine.

  I couldn’t see their faces. Each of the coachmen hid behind a black leather mask, only their eyes glinted in the light from the gas lamps.

  “Welcome to Whittle Inn,” I said, swallowing my nerves.

  One of the coachmen broke free of the others and held out a letter to me, written in red ink on the now familiar parchment. I broke the seal and moved into the light. It contained my orders for receiving the Laurent party. I read through the instructions quickly.

  I was to arrange for the coffins to be stored in the beer cellar, where the vampires would rem
ain during daylight hours. At night they wished to have use of their allotted rooms, and they insisted the bar and the kitchen remain open all though the hours of darkness. The coachmen would inspect the cellar for potential risks, then unload the coffins and store them safely.

  My instructions were to stand by, and not allow my staff to interfere.

  Charity and I looked on as the coachmen unloaded the coffins and took them around to the side of the inn, one by one, and manoeuvred them safely down the skids into the beer cellar. Methodically, as each hearse was vacated, it was led away and the one behind took its place.

  Finally when all the coffins had been allocated a resting place, the head coachman tipped his hat at me and climbed aboard his hearse. He led his horses in a neat trot across the gravel drive and onto the lane, and then picked up speed. The others followed in well-ordered and impressive formation; dozens of the spookiest black horses I had ever encountered. I watched the blue gas lights go, until I could see them no longer, then I turned on my heel and walked back into the inn.

  Charity raised her eyebrows and puffed her cheeks out.

  I nodded at her. Now the real work would commence.

  “Let’s do this.”

  * * *

  “By all the goddesses you scared me to death!” I shrieked.

  Marc Williams became the first vampire to make it to the bar. “Hi,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”

  “Are you creeping around on purpose?” I scolded. “Are you trying to frighten us?”

  “No,” Marc protested. “I generally move this quietly. I think all vampires do. I used to be a clumsy oaf. Before.”

  I wanted to ask him about ‘before’ but didn’t know how to broach it.

  Charity laughed shakily. “Well that’s going to take some getting used to. I had no idea you were there.”

  “How’s the cellar?” I asked.

  “Very nice. Cool and dark. A tad musty. Smells of old booze. Just the way I like it.” Grinning, Marc inspected the optics and the bottles behind the bar. “Double malt? My favourite. I don’t suppose …?”

  “Of course,” I said. “That’s what we’re here for. I’ll pour you a drink and then Charity can show you your room.” I made the introductions. “Charity this is Marc. He’s Melchior’s best man. I’ve put you next door to Melchior, Marc. I trust that’s okay?”

  “Yes that’s fine. I’ll try and keep him out of trouble for you.”

  I blanched. “Will that be difficult?”

  Marc shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not that easy,” he admitted.

  I poured a double shot for Marc and a single each for myself and Charity. I handed them each their glasses and held the whisky up to the light. It glittered rich and warm, highly symbolic of the hopes and dreams I had for my wonky hostelry.

  “I now declare Whittle Inn open for business,” I announced. “Cheers!”

  * * *

  My sense of achievement was short-lived to say the least.

  Melchior made it upstairs from the cellar shortly after midnight. He had several hangers’-on in tow. An insolent young man in his early twenties, going by the name of Thaddeus Corinthian, who followed Charity around like a lap dog, smiling with a lascivious sneer every time she caught his eye, and two dark-haired vixens with cheekbones jutting out of their faces like mantlepieces, and sly eyes whom I firmly suspected of being the concubines Melchior had been sharing his bed with when I first encountered him in Hampstead.

  It was difficult to tell now that I was seeing them fully-clothed.

  I tried hard not to curl my lip every time I looked their way, but I have to admit, I found it difficult.

  Sabien’s appearance upstairs was somewhat of a relief. He at least, was unfailingly polite to both me and my staff—in fact most of the time I might even have stretched to calling him charming—however I sensed a dangerous side to him that I didn’t want to discover further. He came over to introduce himself, standing just a little too close for comfort. He stood at around six feet, and where he might once have been dark haired, his hair was now a silvery grey. Like his son, his dress sense was impeccable, with beautifully cut Italian suits, and expensive shirts, worn with a silk cravat and solid gold cufflinks. In the muted lighting of the inn, his eyes seemed totally black, inky wells of oil, and while they glittered in the light, as with Melchior, there didn’t appear to be much life within their depths.

  “It eez so lovely to meet you, Alfhild,” he said in his French accent, taking my hand and leaning over it, depositing a papery kiss from his pale lips on my knuckles. “I trust everything is in order for ze wedding proceedings?”

  “It absolutely is,” I replied brightly, “and if there are any problems at all, please do come and find me.”

  “You can be assured that I will,” Sabien purred, holding on to my hand for far longer than was necessary. “I will track you down one way or another.”

  “Excellent.” I didn’t like the sound of that. I pulled my hand away, cringing inwardly. “Sabien, would you please excuse me for one moment while I just check everything is ready at the bar for our guests?” He bowed graciously, and I made my escape, aware of him staring after me as I walked away. The man was as predatory as his son.

  It wasn’t long before Melchior began to complain about a variety of things that were not to his liking. The wine hadn’t been properly chilled, the—raw—meat hadn’t been hung long enough. The inn was too brightly lit.

  I passed his thoughts about the food on to Monsieur Emietter with some difficulty. My grandmama had disappeared and couldn’t be found. I had a feeling she was intending to give the vampires a wide berth.

  After I’d instructed the ghosts to turn down the lighting where possible, or switch off lamps where it wasn’t, I found myself at a loss as how to meet Melchior’s demands. There wasn’t much I could do about the size or the age of the inn, and Melchior didn’t like the room I had given him for some reason. It was the largest and grandest of all the guest bedrooms, but he complained that it was boxy – which compared to his room at Laurent Towers I suppose was true enough.

  He then professed a distaste for the furnishings – the suite was done out in oak - and insisted everything was replaced post-haste. When I explained that wouldn’t be possible at this late stage, I thought he would bust a gut, his face reddening with fury, but his father placed a restraining hand on his arm, and Melchior smiled at me instead.

  A smile that would crack solid ice.

  I shuddered.

  No wonder Gwyn had disappeared.

  I spent the next hour or so trying to avoid Melchior and his father, while seeing to the other members of the party. Charity and I had our hands full though, and while Florence tried to help where she could, the vampires took exception to her charred scent, and kept requesting expensive bottles of cologne, that I of course, had not thought to get in.

  I burned scented candles instead, and from time to time Charity sprayed air freshener as discreetly as possible, but again the vampires complained about the synthetic chemical scents drifting throughout the ground floor of the inn. Eventually, and reluctantly, I had no choice but to banish Florence to the kitchen to work on the wedding cake, while Zephaniah took her place helping me out in the bar.

  Charity and I were run ragged attending to everyone’s needs and given the early start we’d had, we hit the wall at around three in the morning. This seemed to be the time when the vampires were just getting going. Thaddeus turned on our music system and plugged in his phone, and soon the inn vibrated loudly to the sound of some rock group I had never heard before.

  Worried about the volume, and knowing full well that sound can travel a long distance in the silence of the night, I rushed to turn it down. A chorus of disapproval met this decision, but I stood firm.

  After some time Melchior and one of his dark-haired beauties headed for the front door. I tried to keep an eye on them from where I was stationed behind the bar, but they were quickly lost from my sight.
With Zephaniah and Charity also busy, I had to trust Melchior was simply heading out for a walk in the grounds and wouldn’t get up to anything untoward.

  * * *

  I closed the door to my own bedroom with an exhausted groan just before six in the morning. Sabien had led his party back down the cellar forty minutes previously and I had been helping Florence and Charity clean up. There would be more deliveries within a few hours, and suddenly the thought of how little sleep I would be getting over the next few days made me wonder whether this would all be worth it.

  I opened the window to allow Mr Hoo in. He alighted on the bed post, and snuggled his head into his mass of feathers, eyes closed in seconds. After a cursory brushing of my teeth, I flopped into bed and covered myself with my duvet, with the same result.

  The sound of a delivery lorry in the drive woke me just over four hours later, bringing to mind the cavalcade of black horses I’d seen the night before. Bleary-eyed and groggy with lack of sleep, I sat bolt upright. Mr Hoo, unusually, was nowhere to be seen. I reached for my dressing gown and pulled it on, tying the cord tightly around my middle, and headed for the bathroom.

  But I pulled up short at my bedroom door.

  Tacked to the reverse of the door was a note. With hands trembling with a mix of fear, fury and loathing, I unpinned the note to read it. Melchior had issued further instructions. He wanted a private room to entertain his guests, and more armchairs in the bar area.

  I glanced around my bedroom. My private space. The place I ran to when I needed to escape from everybody else. The only person I let in here was Gwyn, and only because it had once been her bedroom too and she seemed to think she had first dibs on it.

  And Mr Hoo? Had he flown off when Melchior invaded our territory? The window was open. I always left it ajar while I slept. With any luck Mr Hoo had headed into Speckled Wood and was safely ensconced on a nice comfortable branch somewhere, well away from the vampires.