Why hadn’t I?
Because I was weak and in love. Well more fool me.
I thundered down the trail between the trees, my knees pumping, my heart beating hard, reaching the clearing and haring through it, glad that the weather had been so dry—meaning the ground was firm instead of slippery underfoot and the going was fast. I wheezed hard, but I didn’t let up.
At last the inn came into sight through the trees. I ran across the back garden, taking in the shed and wood store. I could see a light in there, even on a lovely day like today. That seemed odd, but I had no time to check. I kept running until I slammed against the back door and threw it open, and collapsed into the inn.
I stood in the doorway, my hands on my knees, doubled over and trying to catch my breath. A strange keening noise reverberated around the inn. It unnerved me. Looking up I noticed Florence, her hands clasped over her ears, cowering beside the oven.
“Florence?” I called to her. “Are you alright?”
“Make it stop, oh make it stop, Miss! I don’t want to go!”
As I watched, she seemed to become more translucent, a wisp of her usual self, the smoke from her clothes curling upwards, the smell of scorched fabric less obvious than normal.
“Hold on, Florence, hold on,” I begged, and took to my heels again, racing through the kitchen, down the corridor and bursting into the bar.
I came face to face with a man I vaguely recognised, but my attention was stolen by the priest in full regalia, holding a crucifix aloft in one hand, while carrying holy water in a vial in the other. He was intoning Latin phrases that I didn’t immediately understand, but I knew they would do my ghosts more harm than good. The eerie sound of ghosts calling, keening and crying reverberated around the inn, sending my blood racing with fear through my veins, and squeezing my stomach in abject terror.
I didn’t think twice. I rammed into the priest as hard as I could, knocking him backwards towards the door, spilling the holy water down his smock. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Get out! Both of you!”
I struggled with the priest, grappling at his robes. Taken by surprise and obviously not used to physical contact, he gave a lot of ground quite quickly. I flung myself at him as hard as I could once again, trying to throw him bodily out of the inn before he could do any more damage with his ignorant words. But then someone smacked me sharply on the side of the head and I tumbled to the floor, blinking in pain.
Rolling onto my back, scared for my own life yet still furious, I took a good look at the man in front of me. This time I recognised him. One of the chefs. The one who had reacted so badly to the ghosts on the day of the interview. Martin Toynbee.
Brandishing the large paintbrush he had attacked me with, he came at me again and I responded instinctively, “Abiciendi!” I shot my hand out in his direction and the paintbrush twisted in his hand and shot away from him. He looked after it and then at me.
The malevolence in his eyes scared me. “Why did you have to interfere?” he spat at me, then turned back to the priest. “Pay no mind, Father. Continue!”
The priest began pulling himself together and collecting the items he needed. The vial of water had spilled on the floor next to me, but a few drops remained in the bottle. I couldn’t let him use those on my friends. I slammed my hand down on top of it, breaking the glass.
“Witchcraft!” The priest shouted and held his crucifix in my face.
“Yes,” I said, knocking his hand away, and scrabbling to get up. “And you’re trespassing in my inn. You are not welcome here.”
Martin rushed forward, knocking my feet from under me, so that I fell again. This time when I tried to stand, he physically held me down, grabbing my arm at the wrist and elbow, and twisting it behind my back. I shrieked in pain.
The priest looked from me to Martin, uncertain how to proceed. “Continue, Father. We came here to do a job. We have to exorcise the inn and rid it of all the ghosts.”
“But you don’t have my permission.” I ground my words through gritted teeth as Martin put pressure on my shoulder. “This is my inn. Get out!”
Martin twisted my arm at the wrist, while pushing down on my shoulder. “You’re going to break my arm!” I screamed.
“You don’t need her permission, Father,” Martin sneered, like the weasel he was. “The whole place is riddled with demonic and supernatural activity. We must take steps to rid ourselves of this plague.”
“But it’s my inn! My choice!” I cried again.
The priest lifted his crucifix and started speaking once more, “Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness…”
I thought of Florence in the kitchen, imagined her fading away, her trace disappearing. And what of my father? I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.
I couldn’t help myself. I screamed in agony, both physical and emotional. As I did so, a flash of bright light blinded me and Martin loosened his grip. I wriggled around cradling my twisted arm, and spied Mr Kephisto standing in the doorway, his hands held out in front of him, his eyes sparking with fury.
“Unhand her, sir,” he was saying. “Is that any way to treat a lady?”
In front of us, Martin danced and jiggled, held in the invisible electrical current Mr Kephisto had thrown. I scrabbled clumsily to my feet, and gently lay my good hand on Mr Kephisto’s arm and nodded. He dropped his hands. Martin dropped to the floor, the forcefield fading away, and lay there whimpering like a puppy who needed its mother.
The priest stared from me to Mr Kephisto and then to Martin shuddering and crying on the floor. I thought he would make a run for it, but Mr Kephisto shut the door firmly behind himself and indicated the frosted glass door next to the bar.
“I took the liberty of calling the police to report your intruders, Alf. In the meantime, let’s be civil and have some tea, shall we?”
We entered the kitchen together, the motley bunch of panting and bedraggled enemies that we were. To my relief Florence was still with us, still visible. I quickly shooed her out with a warning look and put the kettle on the hob myself. My left arm throbbed unnaturally, and I held it to my chest, feeling nauseous with the pain.
I rounded on Martin. “What on earth is this about? What do you have against ghosts?”
He scowled at me, refusing to talk. Mr Kephisto, indicated that both Martin and the priest should take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Who is this man?” Mr Kephisto asked me.
“His name is Martin Toynbee. He applied for a position as chef here at the inn, after I advertised online.”
“Toynbee?” Mr Kephisto’s brow creased. “Why that’s interesting.”
“How so?” I asked.
“After our little chat I began reading the rest of The Rise and Fall of the von Saxe-Krumpke Family – from Antiquity to the Modern Day, and then I did some more research based on my findings. And do you know what I found out?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Following the disgrace brought on the family by Richard, the von Saxe-Krumpkes lived for several centuries hiding in shame. It seems the royals have long memories. Given the amount of anti-German sentiment throughout a large part of the world during the First World War, the British Royal family changed their own surname from the German Saxe-Coburg and Gotha to the properly English sounding Windsor. The von Saxe-Krumpkes followed suit. And they chose the surname Toynbee.”
I stared in astonishment at Martin. “Is that a coincidence?” I asked him.
“No,” the man admitted, his face petulant. “I don’t have anything specifically against ghosts per se. Just one ghost. I’m the last of the von Saxe-Krumpkes, and I promised my own father—as he did his father before him, right back through five hundred years of our family history—to exact revenge on Smeatharpe and his family and anyone connected with him. In life and in death.”
He glared at me. “The Smeatharpe
family were forced into penury several centuries ago, and have died out. And many, many years ago, my ancestor thought he had it all sorted when we abandoned Luppitt himself at Gallows Cross. His ghost should have been lost and haunted the crossroads forever more. But then he was rescued—by your interfering father—and brought here. That left it up to me to finish him off once and for all.”
“But how did you know he was here?” I asked. Someone had to have given the game away.
Martin sat back smugly on the bench and leered at me. “Your problem is you’re far too trusting. I told you I don’t have anything against ghosts per se. We’ve had a pair of our own ghosts working with our family forever. The same men that dealt with Luppitt in the first place. They’ve been in our employ ever since, in a manner of speaking.” He folded his arms, simultaneously defiant and smug.
“You know the Baron wished no harm against Luppitt?” I asked. “This whole thing is a mistake. The Baron only ever wanted to see his family again.”
“He may not have wished harm to Smeatharpe, but his son Cecil was furious. Cecil’s inheritance amounted to a rundown estate in Somerset and very little else. All of his lands and his gold were confiscated by the Queen. He was an angry man.”
“But he died and passed on. All that happened in Cecil’s lifetime should have been forgotten,” I reiterated. “It was done and dusted.”
“The von Saxe-Krumpkes have long memories. They don’t forget. It was easy enough to send our own ghosts out looking for the blasted minstrel. They’re wanderers themselves, used to combing the West Country. It’s what they did in life. So we did send them, over and over again. Then as luck would have it, one of ours found Luppitt right here at the inn.”
There was a traitor in my midst. One of the ghosts I had welcomed to the inn. That hurt.
Behind me the kettle began to whistle, and I turned to attend to it, wracking my brain to think through all the ghosts I was aware of. Which one might be colluding with Martin?
And where would such a ghost be hiding? In plain sight? Or somewhere I wouldn’t think to check very often. I remembered the light I had seen in the garden store as I ran past it not thirty minutes before. That would be a good place to hang out.
Then I recalled Perdita’s data, and the folders she had left me, and the visitation of a human to the garden store out the back of the inn. What day had that been? Would Perdita’s records tell me that?
“Take over tea making duties,” I instructed Mr Kephisto and dashed out of the kitchen to The Nook where I found Perdita’s files just as she had left them. I flicked through the yellow folder and yes, there was a date appended to the various results. The human had indeed visited the garden shed on the day of the interviews. It didn’t prove it was Martin, but it did seem most likely. I remembered the way he had shot out of the inn after we had spoken to the ghosts on the stairs. He had arrived by taxi and would have had to call another one to take him back to the railway station, or at the very least walk down into the village. It was perfectly possible he had doubled-back and visited the inhabitant of the shed.
It also meant that the ghost I was looking for was most likely to be hiding out there.
I flipped the folder shut and marched back into the kitchen, my arm pulsing and throbbing the whole time. The police would be here soon. They could take care of Martin.
“Father,” I said to the priest. “Please could you come with me?”
I marched out the back door, determined to finish this once and for all.
Whittle Inn and I had had our fill of traitors.
The garden store was itself an old building, but in good repair. Walking in, with the priest trailing uncertainly behind me, the familiar scents of coal, turps, petrol, engine grease and damp wood wafted around me.
Behind me the priest gasped when he caught sight of the two figures lolling at the rear of the building, half-hidden in the shadows.
Arthur Grubbe lay sprawled on the wood pile. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. He eyed me, and then the priest, without malice. Beside him, a sallow faced man, with a large-build, a shorn head, and small pox scars all over his face, sat cross legged on the dusty floor, picking at his toe nails.
“The game’s up, chaps,” I said.
“I guess it is,” Arthur said slowly. “They’ve found us out, Mouse,” he addressed the other man. “Got it all figured out now, have you?” he asked me, his tone suggesting it had taken me too long. He didn’t appear the slightest bit bothered.
He was right though. I should have guessed when Perdita and I spoke to him in the garden.
“Apparently so,” I replied, anger bubbling just below the surface, while my arm throbbed. “You know what’s truly heart-breaking?” I asked Arthur, while his companion, Mouse, ignored me completely. “You told me that the leader of the Devonshire Fellows bought you a pie and a tankard of ale.”
Arthur shrugged and nodded.
“But then you still attacked them.”
“It was a job. We were paid to do the job…and paid well. A man’s gotta eat.”
“As you said.” I envisaged the scenario all those years ago, the Devonshire Fellows happily singing and playing, and Robert sharing their relative good fortune with two itinerants he believed were down on their luck, before one of them attacked Luppitt.
Poor Luppitt. From a pie and a pint and a carefree existence to death in a few short minutes.
“Did you even know Luppitt? Did you have anything against him personally?”
The other ghost suddenly clambered to his feet. He was tall and heavy, particularly muscular in the upper shoulders. He hefted a heavy hammer in one hand and advanced on me, his eyes full of malice. I knew he couldn’t hurt me but for a while there, I was taken in. I stepped back in alarm, catching my breath, treading on the priest’s foot, who yelped in pain.
“Stay back,” I ordered Mouse.
He grunted and leaned into me, drawing his lips back from his teeth. My toes curled in distaste, and I pulled my head away. They were in as bad a state as Arthur’s. Thank goodness I couldn’t smell him. He lifted his hammer. “It’s never personal,” he snarled, twirling it to the side of my head, and my stomach lurched.
“Mouse,” Arthur spoke softly to the man, who glared at me, his eyes inches from mine, ignoring the slighter ghost behind him. Arthur raised his voice. “Mouse, you daft half-wit! Get back. We’re finished here.”
“Yes, you are,” I said, gathering myself “That’s exactly what you are.” Turning to the priest I said, “You’re welcome to complete your exorcism here. These ghosts are not wanted at Whittle Inn.”
“Wait!” Arthur demanded, but I turned on my heel. “Alfhild,” the weasel called after me, his high-itched wheedling voice grating on me. “Oh, Alfhild?”
The pale faced priest lifted his crucifix and began to utter his prayers and benedictions. I walked out of the store, closing the door firmly behind me, ignoring Arthur Grubbe. This fuelled his mounting anger, and I heard his voice alter from conniving sneer to foul mouthed diatribe. His fury followed me all the way to the back door of the inn. I blocked my ears to him even as he screamed after me, “You’ll never get rid of us that easily.”
I rushed into the kitchen, feeling shaky and unnerved and more than a little battered, slamming the back door far harder than I’d intended to. DS George Gilchrist, glaring down at Martin and scribbling in his notepad, looked up in surprise. His face lit up when he saw me. I leant back against the door jamb, watching him from what seemed a long way away. The detective’s smile was replaced by a look of concern.
“Are you alright, Ms Daemonne?” he asked, but his voice had to travel a great distance as my vision greyed out at the edges.
“I think my arm may be broken,” I said, and slipped towards the floor as Gilchrist rushed across the room to catch me.
“It was kind of you to bring me home,” I said to George Gilchrist as he grabbed my bag from the back seat and helped me out of his car. My arm wasn’t broken fortunatel
y, but I had torn ligaments in my shoulder, and some severe bruising. The hospital had released me with painkillers, a sling, and a follow up appointment in ten days.
Martin Toynbee had been charged with trespass and actual bodily harm. George had advised me to get a restraining order against him too. “The man is clearly unhinged,” he’d said.
He walked me into the kitchen. I looked around anxiously to make sure none of the ghosts were in view. Mr Kephisto had waited to ensure I was in good hands and then returned to The Storykeeper in Abbotts Cromleigh. I’d promised to call him if I needed anything.
In the meantime, George seemed intent on ensuring I was comfortable. I helped him locate tea bags and the teapot and a tin of Florence’s latest batch of fairy cakes.
“You bake?” he asked, surveying the prettily iced fancies.
“Mmm, not exactly,” I said, “but I know a woman who does.”
We settled down at the table and I let George play mother. A newspaper had been left there by someone or other, a section highlighted. George pulled it closer to himself so he could read it. “Wanted,” he read aloud, “experienced chef for remote Devon inn, opening this Autumn. Hey, is that you? That’s great news. Are you planning to open soon?”
“Yes,” I said, frowning down at the newspaper. Was this Gwyn’s advert?
“If you would relish the opportunity to make a delicious difference to our local Devon cuisine, and you have a flair for the extraordinary, our vacancy at Whittle Inn may be the icing on the cake. Haha! That’s very good,” George continued. “Did you write that?”
“I may have done…” I said. It sounded familiar, but I knew for certain I hadn’t advertised in any newspaper. How old-fashioned.
“Must be able to think on their feet and be prepared for all eventualities, and have an appreciation of spiritual matters.” George glanced up at me, slightly perplexed. “Flexible hours required as many of our guests only come out at night.” He looked stumped. “What?”
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Page 14