What a Ghoul Wants

by Victoria Laurie

  “Yes?”

  “Is it possible to move to another part of the castle?”

  Arthur’s eyes widened. “Your room, ma’am? Was there something wrong with it?”

  I didn’t want to blurt out that the hallway outside our door was haunted by a weeping ghost and something else that seemed even nastier, so I settled for another grudge I had with it. “Well, it’s just that our room is really a hike from here. Do you have anything closer to the main hall?”

  Arthur scratched his head. “But your room is right up those stairs and to the left, miss.”

  It was my turn to appear confused. “No, Mr. Crunn. Our room is way on the other side of the castle.”

  The hotel manager had the oddest reaction; he actually gasped and moved quickly away from us to the other side of the clerk station, where he turned the page in the ledger. “No,” he said. “I assigned you room number two-oh-six, Miss Holliday.”

  I shook my head. “Merrick put us in the VIP section, on the other side of the castle, in room seventeen.”

  Crunn’s face paled and I swear, he looked completely taken aback. “That’s impossible. We have no VIP section.”

  I wanted to offer him proof, but I had nothing but my word, so I walked over to the desk and said, “I promise that’s where he put us, sir. To get there from here, we had to go up those stairs, down that long hall to the end, through a locked door, then wind our way through the corridors to room seventeen.”

  “You went through the locked door?” the old man gasped.

  Truthfully I was having a hard time figuring out his reaction, so I just kept to my story and nodded my head. “Yes. Merrick gave us a key for it. He said it was to keep out the regular guests so that the VIP guests could enjoy their privacy.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened even more. “But, as I said, Miss Holliday, the castle has only one section for guests, and no one is sent to that side of the castle. . . ever.”

  We both stared at each other in confusion for a few seconds when Crunn added, “Why in heaven’s name would Merrick make up a VIP section and send you to an abandoned part of the castle that is strictly off-limits?”

  I could only shrug. “I have no idea, sir.”

  “You say that section is off-limits?” Gopher asked. “Is there something wrong with that part of the castle?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Crunn said. “It’s quite unsafe for guests of this establishment.”

  Crunn appeared quite rattled again, and I wondered what the heck was going on. But then I noticed that Crunn seemed to be holding something else back, and I guessed what. “Is it unsafe because it’s haunted, Mr. Crunn?”

  The elderly gentleman gulped. “Quite.”

  “And that’s why the door is locked,” I said.

  Crunn nodded. “I can’t imagine what Merrick was thinking putting you up there.”

  And then something occurred to me. “Does the hag haunt that section along with the moat?” I asked.

  “The hag?” Crunn repeated. “You saw her?”

  I let out a mirthless laugh. “You could say that. She pulled Heath into the water from that little shortcut you led us through this morning.”

  Crunn’s hand flew to his mouth. “She did?”

  “She nearly drowned both of us,” I told him. “Surely you heard about it from the constable?”

  Both Arthur and Gopher shook their heads, and I remembered that I’d had to tell Gopher the whole story about Heath being dragged into the moat by the hag.

  Arthur said, “Miss Holliday, Constable Bancroft was far too cold when he was fished out of the moat to say much. It was only related to me by Inspector Lumley after he’d sent his good constable home to warm up that there had been some sort of accident in the tunnel and Mr. Whitefeather had fallen into the moat and that you had gone in after him.”

  “It was no accident, Mr. Crunn, I can assure you. That tunnel is haunted by the most beastly hag, and she attacked me, then went after Heath and pulled him into the water where she then attempted to drown him.”

  The old man shuffled over to a cane chair behind the desk and sat down hard. He seemed terribly undone by what I was telling him, and I worried that he might have another panic attack. “I had no idea she could do that,” he insisted. “I’ve used that route for years to get to the lake side of the castle without incident. I promise that’s the truth, miss, or I never would have led you through.”

  I walked around the desk and over to him. “I believe you, Mr. Crunn, but right now I need to know more about this old hag. Who she is, and why she’s been so active lately.”

  “Well, to be quite correct, she’s not a hag, Miss Holliday. The evil spirit you encountered was the former Lady Mortimer. She ruled Kidwellah from 1552 to 1589, and never a more vile woman disgraced these halls.”

  I wondered suddenly about something the inspector had said to me, about a Lady Catherine, whose ghost I’d seen weeping outside my door much earlier that morning. “Is Lady Mortimer connected to Lady Catherine?”

  Crunn’s furry brow rose in surprise again. “How did you hear of Lady Catherine?”

  “I saw her very early this morning and Inspector Lumley gave a name to the figure. Her ghost woke me with her weeping, and when I tried to help her, she ran away. That’s what prompted us to come downstairs looking for some help in the first place. We thought she was a guest at the castle and had been in some sort of domestic dispute.”

  Crunn made a pffft sound. “Yes, you could say that Lady Catherine had quite a few domestic disputes during her married life here at Kidwellah. She ruled here from 1546 to 1550. She was also Lady Jane Mortimer’s older sister. Lady Catherine was forced to marry Sir John Mortimer, who quickly grew to despise her. Many speculate that—as John had been marred by smallpox in his youth and had a rather brutish way about him—Lady Catherine found him most unappealing as a husband. He beat her quite regularly, and most historians speculate she died as a result of one such beating.”

  I winced. “The poor thing,” I said.

  “Indeed,” Crunn agreed. “The Duke of Lennox—Sir Mortimer—and Lady Catherine’s father, the Duke of Hereford, nearly went to war over it, as Kidwellah had been part of the Lady Catherine’s dowry, but a resolution was worked out between the two when Sir Mortimer agreed to pay a sizable fine and consented to marry Catherine’s youngest sister, Lady Jane, who even as a youth was a terribly unruly creature. Most believe she was quite mad from the cradle, and her childhood exploits lend credence to the theory that she was indeed a psychopath.

  “She caused so much havoc at her father’s home that the Duke of Hereford was likely desperate to find someone to take her off his hands, and the murder of her sister presented him with a golden opportunity. The terms of the restitution agreement between the two dukes stipulated that if it could be proven that Lady Jane died at the hands of her husband, Kidwellah and all its holdings would immediately revert back to the Duke of Hereford and a cause for war would be brought. Sir Mortimer’s family had fallen on hard times, and by the time he came into dukedom, most of his family’s fortunes had been squandered. His own forces were pathetically ill equipped to fend off the Duke of Hereford’s forces. He readily agreed to the restitution.

  “So it was that a terrible union was forged. The mad Lady Jane and the bitterly angry Sir Mortimer. They despised each other from the beginning, and at the wedding Lady Jane had to be bound and gagged while the priest performed the ceremony. On their wedding night Lady Jane attempted to stab her husband and things only worsened from there.

  “Sir Mortimer soon resorted to beating her too, but he always stopped short of killing her. It made no difference; she would recover from her beatings and set out to drive him mad. She gave away his favorite horse, set his dogs loose on the moors, filled his bed with snakes and leeches, and att
acked him with any object she could get her hands on. He resorted to locking her away in the south section of this castle, walling up most of the doors and windows, and leaving her in near total isolation. But that didn’t seem to stop her. Somehow she managed to find a way out and torture him relentlessly. Her goal, they say, was to drive Sir Mortimer mad.

  “By all accounts she succeeded. The Duke of Lennox went quite insane, insisting his residence at the south end of the castle was haunted by evil spirits that also inhabited the moat. During the years he ruled here, some of his closest friends and advisers were found drowned in the moat. Even his own aunt fell victim.”

  “It was Lady Jane, wasn’t it?” I asked. “She drowned them all.”

  “Most likely,” Arthur replied. “There are documented accounts of Lady Jane being seen swimming in the moat on warm summer days, taunting her husband, who would have her hauled out and sealed up in the south wing again. She was obviously a strong swimmer, something quite unheard of for a noble in those days.”

  “So what happened to him? The duke, I mean. Did she kill her husband too?”

  Arthur shrugged. “His fate is unknown. One morning he could not be found anywhere within the castle or on the surrounding grounds. Some say he was drowned by his wife, and his body was never recovered. Others say that he finally went mad, wandered out onto the moors during the wet season, and succumbed to the cold. The moors would have swallowed his body quite quickly if that were the case. There is even a local legend that says that the duke’s spirit haunts the moors near the lake. They call him the Desperate Duke, and it’s said that anyone he appears to will be the next victim of the Grim Widow.”

  “The Grim Widow?” I repeated. “Is that what they call Lady Jane’s ghost?”

  “It is,” Mr. Crunn confirmed. “After her husband’s death, the castle reverted to the duke’s cousin, Sir William Mortimer, who preferred the south of France over cold, drizzly Penbigh. He wanted nothing to do with Kidwellah or his cousin’s mad wife, so she was left to terrorize the castle staff until they all but abandoned it. She died in 1589, and in all probability she died of starvation as the remaining staff eventually stopped feeding her after two members of their ranks were also found floating in the moat.”

  “If Lady Jane was suspected of killing people, especially the duke’s friends and family, why didn’t any of the other nobles step in?” Gopher asked.

  “Lady Jane had powerful friends,” Arthur told us. “She was a first cousin to Queen Elizabeth, and they had played together as children. Elizabeth was the only person able to keep Lady Jane calm and somewhat stable until Jane’s madness completely overtook her.

  “Before Jane was married to Sir Mortimer, Elizabeth spent some time in the Tower of London, a courtesy granted to her by her sister, Queen Mary. It was Jane who convinced her powerful father to support the effort to free Elizabeth, and Elizabeth never forgot the kindness. Once she became queen, she all but looked the other way as Jane drowned some of the lesser Welsh nobles. It helped that the Duke of Hereford lived to be a very old man and suppressed any rumblings from the Welsh courts.”

  I shivered again, remembering the sight of that awful-looking woman on the bridge with that chain slinking its way from her to Merrick Brown. “Mr. Crunn,” I said, wondering if he might know anything about why she would be keeping Merrick’s spirit captive, “this morning when we took the constable back through that tunnel on our way to find your sister and we first encountered the Grim Widow, she wasn’t alone.” He cocked his head quizzically and I had second thoughts about telling him about Merrick. I didn’t want to upset him all over again. “She had another person bound by a chain. Do you know anything about that?”

  Crunn opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment a whole troop of people came rushing into the main hall, filling it with their giggles, catcalls, and loud voices. I turned to watch them file in, taking note that there wasn’t an ugly person in the bunch. Or a short one.

  In all I counted at least a dozen model-looking types, both male and female. At the back of the group was a stately-looking couple who appeared to be dripping with money. They wore luxurious fabrics and walked with a distinct air of importance. Just in front of them was a man who was so striking that for a moment my breath caught.

  He was dark-haired with a goatee and thin mustache. His hair was jet-black with a hint of gray around the temples, and his features were almost elfin. He was tall like everyone else, but too old to be a model; at least that’s what I thought. And then my suspicions were confirmed when I noticed the expensive digital camera around his neck and another one in his hand.

  I must have caught his eye, because his gaze fell on me, then casually away, but came back again and this time it came with a smile. He then stopped midstride, raised his camera, and took my picture. I was so startled by the move that for a moment I didn’t know what to think.

  “Ah, Arthur, there you are!” said the gray-haired man who was part of the couple that seemed to be dripping with money. “Are you ready to give up your magnificent hall?”

  Arthur moved away from us to go speak with the elegant man and his wife. Meanwhile, next to me Gopher nudged my arm and motioned to the photographer. “That guy just took your picture.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, still watching the man as he scrutinized the shot he’d just taken in his viewfinder. He seemed to nod to himself and raised the camera again and pointed at us, his finger clicking several more times before he lowered the lens to study the images again.

  “Now he’s taking our picture,” Gopher said.

  “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

  Gopher eyed me crossly. “Well, he is!”

  “He’s a photographer, Goph. That’s what they do.”

  “Yeah? Well, two can play at that game.” Before I knew it, Gopher had his smartphone out and had started snapping photos of the photographer.

  Seeing this, the gorgeous man laughed and walked over to us. “You must excuse me,” he said with a distinct Scottish brogue. Extending his hand out to shake Gopher’s hand, he added, “My name is Michel Keegan and I meant you no harm.”

  Gopher lowered his camera so that he could shake Michel’s hand, but he appeared a little flustered by the encounter.

  I stifled a laugh and extended my own hand. “No harm done, Michel. I’m M. J. Holliday, and this is Peter Gophner.”

  The photographer gripped my palm and immediately placed his other hand over it. “Oh, my, but you’re freezing, lass!”

  “She fell into the moat,” Gopher told him.

  We both looked oddly at him, and Gopher cleared his throat. “Well, she did. And so did her boyfriend. Remember your boyfriend, M. J.?”

  I felt my cheeks flush. Stupid Gopher. But Michel only smiled kindly at me and said, “You fell into the moat? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Michel let go of my hand and stepped back. He raised his camera for a third time and snapped again. “You have the most beautiful skin,” he said, lowering the camera to show me the shot through the viewfinder.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat even more. I gave a cursory glance at the image and my breath caught. My hair was an awful mess. I tugged at it self-consciously, and Michel took notice. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “The wild look is all the rage these days.”

  “Michel!” someone called, and we all glanced up to see one of the male models pouting at the photographer. “André says that we can go to lunch before the afternoon shoot. Take me to lunch, okay?”

  I barely caught the small sigh from Michel before he pushed a smile onto his handsome features. “Of course, love. Be right with you.”

  Inwardly I was surprised. My gaydar was almost as good as Gilley’s and I hadn’t caught a hint of that from Michel. But after he excused himse
lf and the other younger man came to take up his hand, it was quite obvious the model was sweet on the photographer.

  I glanced at some of the other young men chatting away in the hall. Not a straight one in the bunch. Gilley was going to be in heaven. And that thought made me wonder where he was. “You said Gil was still asleep when you came to the hospital?” I asked Gopher.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t get him to answer his phone or the door.”

  I reached for Gopher’s wrist and turned it so that I could read the time on his watch. “God, is it only noon?”

  Gopher yawned. “I know, it feels more like midnight.”

  The one thing about filming in all these foreign locations was that we were constantly fighting jet lag. I saw Arthur scoot behind the counter and overheard him politely refer to the elegant gentleman as Mr. Lefebvre. The name sounded familiar to me, and then it hit me who he was: none other than the fabulous fashion designer André Lefebvre. I even owned a pricey cocktail dress designed by him, but Gilley was the real fashion horse. He loved the Lefebvre label.

  It was clear that Lefebvre and Crunn were discussing the main hall as a setting, because the designer kept holding his hands in a square, as if looking through a camera lens. At last he seemed satisfied and Lefebvre motioned to his wife to follow him toward the dining room, probably on their way to lunch, leaving his models to continue their loud chitchat and gossip in the main hall.

  I approached the desk, still needing to arrange a better room, when I heard a very loud cry of alarm from somewhere up the stairs. The chatter in the main hall came to an abrupt halt and we all turned our attention to the top of the stairs as another high-pitched cry sounded.

  I recognized that shriek and, in a panic, was about to bolt for the stairs when Gilley suddenly burst into view and came dashing down the steps. “Taxi!” he cried. “I need a taxi to take me to the hospital!”

  Just behind him came John, and it was clear that John was trying hard to catch up to Gil and calm him down.

  All eyes in the main hall were still pinned on Gilley as he tripped and nearly tumbled down the rest of the steps, but he caught himself in the nick of time by clutching the railing and then he used his momentum to pull himself up and over the railing to drop gracefully onto the stone like something out of a Jackie Chan movie. Gil was wicked agile when he wasn’t busy stuffing his piehole. . . or complaining.