A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9

by Jeannie Wycherley

“Fifteen?” I squawked.

  “At least.”

  “I can’t afford that!” I slapped at the side of the boiler. There was a click and a whirr, and the blue light unexpectedly flashed on, then off, then on again.

  I frowned. Mr Perry stepped a little closer. With a sudden whoosh, the boiler came alive. Something mechanical clattered and thumped. I put my hand out to touch a pipe. It vibrated beneath my fingers. “It’s working!”

  Mr Perry scratched his head. “Seems like you’ve got the knack, Miss Daemonne.” He jabbed his finger towards the tangle of wires. “But even so, I think you genuinely need to consider a replacement. It could conk out at any time, and next time for good. You wouldn’t want to inconvenience your guests, I’m sure.”

  “No, you’re right, I wouldn’t.” I touched the side of the boiler. It had started to warm beneath my touch. Another few minutes and the pipes would heat up, followed by the radiators. Then we could all thaw out.

  Hurrah!

  I noticed a raised area on the side panel and stroked it. “What’s this?” I asked.

  Mr Perry stepped alongside me and peered at it through his glasses. He rubbed it too. “That looks like the maker’s name. I can’t make out what it says though. It’s been painted over several dozen times by the look of it. If you get some paint stripper you might be able to take it down and find out what make it is.”

  “And get some parts, do you think?” That would be cheaper than having a fancy-schmancy new boiler fitted.

  “I expect whoever made this went out of business a long time ago. It’s Jurassic era, this is.” Mr Perry began to collect his belongings together, slinging a hammer and a spanner back into his toolbox. “I’ll leave this panel off for now. It’ll be perfectly safe as long as you keep the door locked and don’t allow anyone to touch it.”

  “No problem,” I said. We habitually kept the doors downstairs locked as a matter of course these days. I’d become a little more security conscious since my outing in Transylvania.

  “But as I say, if I were you, I’d really be considering upgrading to a modern boiler. They tend to be more efficient these days and waste far less energy …”

  “That’s important,” I agreed. “It’s just the cost!”

  “It is an outlay, I have to admit.” Mr Perry nodded at the boiler. “Maybe you could sell that one for scrap or spares. It’s that old it’s probably a collector’s item. Put it on an auction site!” He closed his toolbox with a clunk. “I’d be interested to know what make it is, actually. Give me a shout when you find out. If there’s anything I can do for you in the meantime, don’t hesitate to give me a ring.”

  “I will do,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Beside me, the boiler clanked ominously. The little blue light flickered. “Eek!” Fearing it was about to turn itself off again, I reached out and touched its side. The blue light wavered, blinked off and then on again, and finally began to glow steadily.

  “Very impressive.” Mr Perry donned his hat and scarf and zipped up his jacket. “Until next time, Miss Daemonne. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Thank you!” I waved him off and, biting my lip, turned to survey my ancient boiler. Fifteen thousand pounds? Fifteen!

  “I’m going to be a pauper,” I told it. “And I’m not going to be happy about that, not one little bit.”

  Sighing, I patted its side. “Behave for now. I guess I need to go and have a chat with Gwyn about holding a blooming bagatelle weekend.”

  We settled ourselves in The Snug for what I’d labelled ‘a full and frank discussion of the current financial situation at Whittle Inn.’ The Snug, being a smaller room just off the bar, is perfect for meetings such as the one I’d called. I’d had Florence build a fire in here, and although I don’t suppose the ghosts were overly bothered by the temperature, it made it cosy for the mortals among the staff. A large, scratched old table dominated the room, surrounded by a pair of benches in an L-shape around two sides of it, with cushions scattered over them, and a couple of chairs. I threw my phone, planner, notebook and the inn’s fat A4 diary—a kind of bible that Charity, Gwyn and I shared—onto the table and fished in my robes for a couple of pens.

  Charity had shed a couple of woollen layers now that the inn had started to warm up. She sat cross-legged on the long bench watching with avid interest as Finbarr, a small and annoying Irish witch descended from a leprechaun, who had answered my call for help and had remained with me ever since, began to squeeze splinters out of his fingers. His pixies, fortunately, were nowhere in sight. Florence, Ned, Zephaniah, Luppitt Smeatharpe and Robert Wait—representing the Devonshire Fellows—Monsieur Emietter and Archibald, who I’d recently co-opted to work as head receptionist and customer relations manager, hovered in a corner jostling for space in their own plane somewhere.

  Gwyn floated by the fire, casting her critical eye over everything and everyone.

  “It’s not dire,” I grimaced, “but it’s not great either.”

  “I thought we’d been doing alright,” Charity said. “We were full to the rafters at Christmas.”

  “That’s true, but remember we had to shut down when we experienced our little”—I could hardly bear to say it—“vampire problem last year, and it took us a while to get up to full speed. Our winter bookings are so-so. They could definitely be better.”

  “I’ve taken a few reservations this week for Easter,” Charity reminded me. “I’m sure we’ll see things pick up shortly.”

  I smiled at her optimism, but I couldn’t quell my anxiety. The income I received from the inn was only a small part of the Whittle Estate. I had a dozen tied cottages in the local village as well as the rent from several of the businesses. That meant I was responsible for their care and upkeep, and I took that responsibility seriously. In the years that Whittle Inn had fallen into disrepair, before I’d come into my inheritance, the cottages had too. I’d begun a programme of refurbishment—mainly for roofs, windows and doors, central heating, and bathrooms—but it all took time and money.

  “The thing is,” I nodded in the direction of the kitchen and boiler room, “Mr Perry has just informed me that we need to replace the boiler. We’ll also have to flush the system through or something.” I pulled a face. “Well, when I say we, I don’t mean we. I mean we’ll have to get someone in to do it, and you know what that means.”

  “Big bucks,” said Finbarr without looking up.

  “Yes. Exactly. Big bucks.”

  “The boiler seems to be working at the moment,” Gwyn chipped in.

  “Yes, it is. It keeps turning on and off but Mr Perry can’t figure out why.”

  Gwyn sniffed. “It’s always been temperamental.” She raised her hand. “Back in my day, I used to give it a wallop whenever it started to play up.”

  “Funnily enough, that’s what I did, and it started working again.”

  “Well, there you are, my dear. Why worry?” Gwyn dismissed all discussion of the boiler and turned her attention elsewhere. She pointed her finger at the painting above the fireplace. It tipped slightly until she had straightened it to her satisfaction. “This room could do with a dust.”

  Florence bristled. Her feather duster twitched and sparkled as she quickly sent it to run over the picture frame. “It’s on my list of things to do today, Mrs Daemonne.”

  “Before we move on to housekeeping issues,” I interrupted, frowning at my great-grandmother and hoping she’d take the hint about keeping the peace, “I wanted to raise the subject of …” I sighed, “holding an event.”

  Gwyn raised her eyebrows in my direction.

  Charity peered up at me. I could tell she was struggling not to laugh.

  “An event, Miss Alf?” Florence repeated.

  Gwyn folded her arms. “I thought you were dead set against holding an event?”

  “I am. Or rather, I was. It’s just, we need to raise some cash fast and this may well be the easiest way to do it.”

  “Well, that’s what we told you,” Char
ity nodded. “Isn’t that what we told her, Grandmama?”

  “It is. She never listens to reason.”

  “I wonder who I could possibly take after?” I mumbled, although not loud enough for her to hear me.

  “Your mother, I should think.” Evidently Gwyn had the hearing of a bat.

  I ignored her and threw myself down on the chair at the head of the table. “So, I’m looking for ideas about what we can do and when. It needs to be as soon as possible, I think.”

  “A Valentine’s ball?” suggested Florence.

  “You old romantic!” Charity laughed, and Florence flushed.

  “Oooh yes!” Luppitt clapped his hands. “I could get the boys together—”

  Elizabethan love sonnets set to music and played on the crumhorn? I shuddered. “Erm, I’m not sure we have enough time to organise that for this year …” Thank ye goddesses.

  Luppitt’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “I mean, it’s a wonderful idea,” I backtracked, “don’t get me wrong. Maybe we should pencil it in the diary for next year.” I nodded at Charity. She gave me a hard stare in return before sitting up properly and pulling the diary and a pen towards her. She flipped through the pages and scribbled something down. I made a mental note to erase it with a little bit of magick later on when no-one was looking.

  A Valentine’s ball? How mushy.

  And Elizabethan music? A complete no-no.

  “Anyone else?” I asked, head down, poised to write the flurry of fresh ideas in my planner.

  Florence whirled her feather duster. “Ooh, Miss Alf! A baking—”

  I levelled her with a warning stare from under my eyelashes. She visibly sagged. “Of course, we did that,” she acknowledged.

  The room fell silent.

  I looked up. “Come on guys.”

  Charity pulled a face. Finbarr tried to reach an itch in the middle of his back and when he couldn’t, he pinched the pen out of Charity’s hand and slipped it down the back of his jacket to better get at it.

  “Ew,” said Charity into the silence.

  I waited. Nobody was at all forthcoming. I had the feeling that I’d been so adamant about not holding an event that I’d discouraged them all from making suggestions.

  I puffed my cheeks out. “About the bagatelle idea …”

  Gwyn’s face lit up. “Oh yes?”

  I groaned inwardly. “Could we make that work, do you think? Would there be enough interest?”

  “What the blazes is bagatelle?” Finbarr asked, handing the pen back to Charity, who quickly dropped it onto the table and wiped her fingers on her jeans.

  “You young people today,” Gwyn tittered. “It’s a board game. With balls. And pins,” she explained, sounding a touch vague, “and things.”

  Finbarr scratched his chin. “So, you’d be inviting people here to play this bagatelle game for a weekend? Am I right?”

  “That’s about the shape of it,” I said.

  “A week,” Gwyn butted in. “I think it should be a week.”

  “A week?” She had to be kidding me. “Rightio.”

  “Why would anybody come to this here inn just to play a board game?” Finbarr looked around at the ghosts. “I mean, would you fellas come, do you think?”

  “I would,” Zephaniah piped up. “I always enjoyed a game of bagatelle in the mess.” I didn’t quite grasp what he meant. Was he calling Whittle Inn a mess?

  “He means the place where soldiers enjoyed their meals and a little recreation time, Alfhild,” Gwyn said, obviously reading my mind again. Zephaniah had been a soldier during the First World War and had been killed in action in Europe. Gwyn had brought his ghost light back to Whittle Inn some time afterwards.

  “Yes, in our mess tent,” he nodded. “We didn’t have much, but there was an old piano someone found in a deserted farmhouse and a couple of games people brought from home or cobbled together from odds and ends.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said.

  “Bagatelle was a popular game at that time, Miss Alf,” Zephaniah explained. “That and cards.”

  “So a board game getaway might be doable?” Charity flicked through the pages of the diary. “We could dust off the KerPlunk and the Monopoly and the other board games in the attic. There are piles of them up there.”

  “It would be doable, but how do we promote it?” I asked. “Do we have enough time? I know from experience that The Celestine Times requires adverts a few weeks in advance, and the specialist witch magazines even longer.”

  Gwyn suddenly snapped a finger in the air. “My friends!”

  “That would be a start, Grandmama,” I agreed. “But they’d have to pay. This isn’t a freebie I’m trying to organise here.”

  “No, dear. You misunderstand. Not just my friend friends, but my larger circle of friends.”

  “Alright,” I shrugged. “Same thing applies.”

  “From my branch of the WI.”

  I gaped at her. “You were a member of the Women’s Institute? I never knew that. Was it the Whittlecombe branch?” I’d had some dealings with them. Millicent had been a keen member for donkeys’ years.

  “Not that WI. I was a member of the Whittlecombe Women’s Institute but I’m actually referring to my friends in the Witches’ Institute.” Gwyn raised her eyebrows, probably despairing of my lack of knowledge. “I started a sorority.”

  “Sorority?” I didn’t understand. “Isn’t that an American thing?”

  “Yes, yes. That’s where I got the idea from. Many years ago—”

  Oh here we go, I thought, shifting in my chair to make myself more comfortable. Gwyn could be long-winded at times.

  “—when I was a young woman, younger than you are now—”

  “Very young, you mean?” I asked. “Practically a teenager?”

  She ignored me. “I visited the United States of America and toured around that magnificent country for a few months.”

  “You did?” I don’t know why I was surprised. It had dawned on me in Transylvania that I didn’t know very much about Gwyn’s life at all.

  “I did,” Gwyn confirmed. “One of the places I stayed was Connecticut and I visited a few friends at Yale. They had a sorority there and I really liked the idea of it. When I returned home to London I decided I’d try something similar.”

  Charity nodded in approval. “It’s a wonderful way to support other women, or so I’ve heard.”

  “But isn’t that what covens are for?” I asked. “I mean, aren’t we all brothers and sisters under the stars? Aren’t we supposed to have each other’s backs and give each other a hand up?”

  Gwyn offered a pitying smile. “That’s just it, my dear. What if you have friends outside your coven that you want to swear allegiance to?”

  “Ah—er,” I pulled a face. “I don’t know. I guess I’d just say, ‘hey friend! Let’s be buddies forever and always look out for each other’.”

  Gwyn pursed her lips. “You don’t have any buddies, Alfhild.”

  Ouch.

  “Grandmama!” I protested. “I do. I have Charity.” I checked with her quickly and she gave me a thumbs-up, “And Florence—”

  “Oh yes, Miss!” Florence was delighted to be counted as a friend.

  “And Finbarr!”

  Finbarr wrinkled his nose as though I smelled bad. “To be sure.”

  “And Millicent.” Millicent wasn’t attending the meeting because she didn’t work at the inn. “And Wizard Shadowmender and Mr Kephisto.”

  “And Mr Silvan, Miss!” Florence reminded me.

  Crikey. How could I have forgotten him? A bit more than a friend though. My heart skipped happily just thinking about him.

  “Yes! And Silvan! I have lots of friends.” So there.

  “Very good, my dear.” Gwyn regarded me sceptically but her face quickly softened. “And of course, you have me too.” I glowed at her words. “But as I was saying, Alfhild, I wanted to cut across covens and draw in people with whom I was friendly—mainly women
at that time—from a variety of walks of life. Those I knew from my travels, those I knew from our coven, and others I’d met while working for the Ministry of Witches.”

  Mysteriouser and mysteriouser.

  “And so you started a sorority?”

  “After a fashion, yes.” Gwyn nodded. The ghosts were rapt by the conversation. Most of them worshipped the ground my great-grandmother floated on. “I borrowed the general idea and made it a little more British. You know what our American cousins are like. So very excitable. I curated a group of older and more sophisticated women and together we shared—and still do in fact—friendship and loyalty. We offer a helping hand to those witches who find themselves in need. We share contacts, that kind of thing.”

  “Parties,” Florence chipped in. I glanced at her. “I’ve seen it on Witchflix, Miss Alf. The girls in the dorm rooms in the American shows, they have lots of parties. It’s always warm and they don’t wear many clothes.”

  “It was a little bit different back then,” Gwyn corrected her. “But yes, we had the occasional party. When it was warranted. Most of the time we just met for afternoon tea at The Ritz.”

  I nodded. If they’d been meeting at The Ritz and they didn’t hold Witchflix-movie-type parties then clearly this would be a sedate affair? I didn’t have to worry about raucous vampires and their outrageous hedonism where my great-grandmother and her friends were concerned, surely? “Alright,” I ventured. “But if we invite your sorority, won’t they all be …” I looked Gwyn up and down, “… deceased?”

  “You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?” Gwyn smirked in response. “But no. We’ve never stopped recruiting members, so we have over four hundred now, both living and dead. More than enough to fill Whittle Inn several times over. Not everyone would be able to come at such short notice, but I’m fairly certain enough of them will accept my invite that your financial woes will soon be a thing of the past.”

  Well I never. I clapped my hands in glee and then pulled my planner towards me. “That’s marvellous, Grandmama. So, let’s pencil in a weekend—”

  “A week,” Gwyn insisted.

  “Right. A week then,” I capitulated. “Let’s start making plans.”