by Trisha Kelly
“Lock your wardrobe, the door is ajar.” There was no mistaking the clear spirit voice in her ear. It wasn’t in her mind; this was another first.
Jane went into her bedroom, apart from a few clothes at one end, the large piece of antique furniture housed her wedding dress and two bridesmaid’s dresses, covered over with plastic. She usually locked it but things had been at sixes and sevens this morning. As an afterthought she closed the door behind her.
Bumble was swiping away at something invisible, her sharp claws digging into the heavy throw on the chair back. James was right, the house was busy today. The cat was engrossed, tail flicking in wild abandon, her fur upright, she was hissing and spitting first this way, then that. Jane saw nothing else. Maybe Dorothea was learning how to materialise, or Jane’s skills were continuing to develop; up until now she only ‘felt’ spirits, heard an odd whisper or caught grey shadows flitting around in her peripheral vision.
A loud thud made her spin around. The car horn beeped once more. A thick, leather bound notebook had landed on the floor. Jane snatched it and blew away the dust, the pages were blank. As she left her apartment she noticed the ink bottle and fountain pen on top of the bureau. A large part of her wished she could stop at home this morning. There was no doubt, Great Aunt Dorothea had something to say, and it seemed, only to her.
Jane hurried back to the car. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’d left everything out and Bumble has got her claws out. The wardrobe door was open, all in all it was a good job I went back to check.”
“Don’t mind Anna, Jane. She was always impatient with me too on our day’s out. I was always late, feeding Bear or fighting with my tangled hair!” Rosie was looking forward to their shopping spree, but Anna was particularly wired up today for some reason. They’d been friends for too long to hide their secrets.
“Perhaps we can relax later today with afternoon tea, Jane? You can show me all your wonderful creations. I’d love to see them,” James gave her a sly wink. He was the only person in the car who knew the driver had ‘that’ look on her face. Ms. Rose had a spiritual secret, one he would worm out of her.
“I can perfectly understand the attraction of this marvellous place. Look at that wonderful scenery.” James rolled the car window down as they cruised along the main coastal road. The sun glistened over the calm, blue sea, the cloudless blue sky reflecting over Bromington-on-sea. “I can’t wait to move into Bromington Heights next week. Between us, dearies, I’d like to take over the entirety. One building is empty, the other has tenants… for now.”
“Lord of the Manor, huh?” Jane teased.
“Thank you for the suggestion. You aren’t the first of course. I do happen to have a delightful uncle sitting in The House of Lords and never say never!”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? What will we call you then? Lord Bromington or The Lord of Somerset?” Rosie felt a dig in the ribs, Anna was encouraging her to carry on. They both quite liked James Sallow’s pompous aura, this was going to be a source of amusement which everyone needed to lift the rather sombre undertones hanging in the air.
“Lord James Sallow of course.” A wry smile crept over the author’s face. He was sadly aware a title could no longer pass down to him. Neither was he political nor did he have peerage. In the modern day, anyone could obtain the novelty title of Lord. “Pull over, Jane,” he instructed. “Take a look, ladies. Doesn’t it look magnificent?”
Perched majestically on the top of a hill to their right was Bromington Heights in the distance. Standing tall and proud surrounded by a small woodland.
“It is magnificent and there’s no doubting ‘Lord James Sallow of Bromington Heights’ has a superior ring to it…” Anna giggled.
“Do you think it’s a tad indulgent for just one person?” Jane enquired. She was correct but he had plans. First things first, there was a pecking order and it was important he combined all three buildings. All three tenants knew their tenancies would not be renewed.
“Do you know what a portal is?” James felt ready to spill the beans.
“A gateway.” Rosie replied.
“A large doorway.” Anna smiled.
“An entrance.” Jane was thinking outside the box.
“A Spirit Portal. Is both an entrance and an exit, connecting the human and spirit worlds. I had a feeling as soon as I saw the building. When I entered it, I was in no doubt, none what-so-ever. Bromington Heights is one large, extremely busy, well, think of it as you would Waterloo Station, or at the very least, Victoria Station. The traffic is immense.”
“A bit like Wodehouse Bed & Breakfast and our apartments?” Rosie asked, “Or even busier?”
“My dear,” James chuckled. “There really is no comparison; you do have a few ghosts, but some are only temporary I assure you. A few followed me out from Bromington Heights after my first visit. Some have stayed with you, a couple are at the Police Station. So you see, it’s important for my work, for me, to be undisturbed. When the tenants leave, I will do everything to find them nice accommodation elsewhere, plus I will compensate them. The house must be opened into one dwelling. I certainly won’t be alone and the information gathered will keep me writing books for the rest of my human life. It’s research you see. Just a shame I won’t be moving in until Monday. We might otherwise have gathered vital clues from the other side about this potential ‘murder’ tomorrow.
Rosie shot a quick glance towards James. Anna’s eyes focused on Rosie, Jane glared at her daughter, giving her a ‘don’t you dare’ look in the rear view mirror. The author remained puzzled. He really seemed to have no clue as to what was about to unfold, he only knew it was.
“Do we have time to, you know, have a little look?” Rosie was more than curious.
“No!” Jane replied, quicker than she should. “We really must get on and Bear and Bumble are home alone.” Without any more interruption she turned the key, indicated and shot off at a quicker pace than she’d been driving before.
James took out his personalised 22ct gold pen and began writing notes in his personalised notebook. He was right, Dorothea was trying to communicate and he was more than determined to be with Jane when she did. Ms. Rose was clearly rattled.
Rosie wasn’t daft. She knew both Jane and Anna were hiding something, and not a nice something. She was too close to them both to not notice the funny looks and worry in their eyes. In a roundabout way they had just done her a big favour and she would talk to Matt about it later. Forewarned is forearmed.
~
Most people had no idea what Mildred Wodehouse looked like. Rosie’s mother was not known to many people in Bromington-on-sea, apart from those working in the Flag and the Lobster Pot public houses. Sybil and Derek had met her only once. The day they convinced her Riverside Cottage belonged to them and that Walter and Rosie had gone off to Wales. The same applied to Michael Smith. Nobody around these parts had hardly ever seen him. The pair sat in stony silence, sipping tea. They had arrived yesterday for a four day stay in a holiday cottage. Michael wasn’t happy.
“I really can’t see what you have to complain about, Michael. For what is the cost of a small break, compared to the potential amount of money we could leave this god-forsaken seaside town with?” Mildred, was as waspy as ever.
“What makes you so sure you will get anything from her?” Michael was more than peeved. He’d never had to put his hand in his own pocket, ever. How dare his mother make him pay to stay here.
“She owes me. Do you think it was easy having to suffer the child for all those years? Ros-a-lyn was difficult, wanting, a brat. Besides, I’ve had all I’m going to get from him, we aren’t married anymore, remember?”
“Didn’t you tell him you were terminally ill? Won’t people think it strange if you turn up here as right as rain?”
“I didn’t tell him that, no – even though I’d thought about it. Despicable man he is, leaving me alone like that.”
“Well, you were having an affair, maybe he had a point.�
� Michael sneered, his top lip pulling a face of disgust. What would a woman of his mother’s age be thinking about? The thought of her having a sexual relationship repulsed him.
“Never mind about all of that nonsense. Do you have the money for my hair appointment? I have to be there in less than an hour. It will be the perfect place to find out all there is to know. Hairdressers are so commonly vulgar with their tittle-tattle.” Mildred was determined to make him cough up for once. After all, her bank account was declining.
Michael threw a screwed up £20 note across the table before taking himself up to his bedroom, slamming the wooden door behind him. Ignoring his tantrum, Mildred run her white, gloved finger along the back of the dining chair, tut -tutting at the amount of dust she had gathered. Before she sat she wiped the chair seat with the back of her hand, determined to find a speck of dust or grime.
She never had any rights of course, she’d looked into that in great detail. Her deceased mother-in-law had left a specific Will which included only her ex-husband and in turn, his daughter. Never was anything left to her, or her son from another man. In turn, Dorothea Wodehouse had also left a legacy for Rosalyn and it appeared some business without accommodation for her ex-husband. All Mildred received was flea-bitten furs and some pearls, which in the end were stolen from her.
She had used Walter for many years and also her lover. Both men had dumped her. She was on her own and out on a limb. The relationship between her and Rosalyn had always been strained. Now she had to go to her, cap-in-hand and beg for money. The girl was very wealthy of that she was certain. Mildred could not possibly be nice to her; it would be a step too far. She would have to appeal to her better nature. Maybe if she thought she was really ill… ideas ran through Mildred’s mind as she left the cottage for the brisk walk to Bromington Harbour. Mildred had no idea about the letter her daughter had already received, and ignored.
Her head was covered over in a silk scarf and she kept her cardigan up high around her neck. People were going about their business on the harbour front and nobody paid any mind to Mildred. Stupid name for a hairdresser’s she thought. Scissor Ladies. What was that supposed to mean?
Surely, one of them was a man? Mildred entered and couldn’t hide the disgusted look on her face. Ear piercings, a nose piercing. A man’s short-sleeved shirt, tight trousers, boots. And ‘he’ was wearing lipstick. Izzy gave her a big smile.
Sandra was wearing a floral dress, unbuttoned a little too far at the bottom end. She carefully swept the last client’s hair away from the base of the chair. “I won’t keep you long. Is it Mrs Bellamy?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Mildred replied, forcing a half smile across her thin lips. She’d had no intention of booking under her real name. This time she would catch her daughter at her B & B. She’d seen it all online with Michael. She wasn’t in Wales at all, probably never had been. They wouldn’t catch her out again with their lies, these local people.
The other one spoke. “All done, Donna.” She proceeded to hold a mirror behind her customer’s head. It was a her, a he-she. A thing. Not a him, at all. Mildred felt quite sickly for a moment. Just what sort of an establishment was this? They might have something catching in the air.
“Take a seat.” Sandra smiled, holding a black coverall in her hand. “Just a trim, wasn’t it?”
“I’ll be back in a minute, Sandra. Usual?” Izzy asked.
“Yes please. With plenty of sauce!”
“Cheeky. I’ll put the kettle on when I get back.” Izzy leaned in, giving her girlfriend a peck on the cheek before flouncing out of the door, hands in pockets.
Bile raised up in Mildred’s throat. Was there a lack of real men around these parts? Still, she would have to grin and bear it and remember what she was really there for. Mildred was determined to keep finding fault with her haircut, just to sit there for as long as she could.
“I usually have a little more taken off at the sides,” she murmured.
“Of course, I can take a bit more off if you’d like.” Sandra was very friendly and nothing was too much trouble.
The woman didn’t stop talking. About college, her parents, how she then found the love of her life, Izzy. The list was endless, the name of her pet rabbit, her old schoolfriends. Mildred couldn’t have been less interested. Did she realise she was talking to herself?
“Can you take a bit more off the back, please?” Mildred was waiting for the woman to turn the conversation to local people at that point, she would start asking questions.
The clock ticked and she was given two cups of coffee before this Sandra woman, eventually got to the point. Who was what, what they did, how long she’d known them and at long last the subject turned to Dorothea, and in turn, Rosie Wodehouse.
An evening of surprises
A few things were about to occur at Bromington-on-sea. It all began in the grounds of Bromington Heights. The ex-prisoner soon gained entry into the empty building and disabled the alarm. House-breaking and cat burglary were his forte. Especially easy when the electricity box was located in the utility room and it housed a simple plug-in transformer. Within 20 seconds of entry it fell silent. He was mindful of the CCTV at the front of the building, so he gained access at the rear.
Albert was camping out inside the Japanese summerhouse. He’d stolen the key on his previous visit. The day Rosie and Anna recorded him. After the police had thoroughly searched the area, he backtracked upon himself. That same night he heard the helicopter. It came and went three times before finally falling silent. Lucky for him the gardener had been working on the other side of the fence the past couple of days. Sawing away in the far corner, no doubt storing logs for the winter months. He’d made do with leftover fish and cold, canned food. Another day wouldn’t kill him, he was made of sturdy stuff.
As he was just settling down on the built-in seating for the night something disturbed him. Rattling outside, among the oriental plants, then a torchlight, low to the ground. Wasn’t no cat then! His first thought was the police had finally found him, tucked away. He’d locked himself in and was quick to pull the throw over his head, taking long, deep breaths to slow his movement. and his noisy breathing. Too late, for the ex-prisoner had heard his coughs for a good thirty minutes before he’d scaled the fence.
“Albert Winston,” hissed a low voice. “It’s best for both of us if you get out of there right now, after all, we don’t want the neighbours to hear me kicking the door in.”
Albert tensed. Didn’t sound like no copper to him. He slowly pulled the cover from his face, squinting at the dark outline of a man standing outside. He was far too short to be a policeman and his face was completely covered with a balaclava.
Albert stood and walked towards the door. Not before grabbing his own, solid torch and ramming it into his pocket. If needs be, he would smash the stranger around the head with it, sharpish. He took the key from his other pocket and unlocked the summerhouse and opened the door.
“Don’t talk. Follow me into the house. Be as quiet as you can.” The man led the way and Albie followed him, he took his torch from his pocket and kept a firm grip on it, not knowing what to expect when they went inside.
The man closed and shut the pool room door with his gloved hands. There was no damage to any of it, neither was there any trace of his fingerprints. The only person who would leave them inside would be the stupid, deluded man walking behind him once more. He’d make sure of it, starting right now.
“Hungry? The fridge is stacked from top to bottom, help yourself, then we’ll talk.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name and where I was?” Albie eyed him suspiciously.
“Let’s just say our paths were meant to cross. You’ve read the books, haven’t you?” The ex-con was very clued-up, thanks to the many texts sent by Anna Rose since he’d installed spyware deep into her mobile phone. Pity he could no longer see them, but he had everything he needed.
“Mind-games, Prophecies and Chess Pieces in Play.” No
w the stranger had Albert’s full attention. The old man stared at the copy of the book thrown on the table in front of him. “This is my copy and if my calculations are correct, the murder is to be carried out tomorrow evening. Which is why you need my help, old man. You see, you are waiting in the wrong place, but I know exactly where your victim will be on the morrow.”
Just as the ex-con hoped, Albie picked the book up, with his bare hands and flicked through the pages. Between now and early tomorrow evening his fingerprints would be all over everything.
“And how is it that you think you can help me then? For I alone am the chosen one. The Pawn to bring down the King.”
“Precisely, but even leaders sometimes need an army. They are looking for you, Albert. You shouldn’t have wasted your talent tormenting your wife. But you can come with me tomorrow and I will poison the chalice for you. The Pawn can watch the King expire, knowing it was his master plan. Then he can escape, free to live his life. No-one will ever know you were hiding outside, watching it all.”
“I… I can’t get to my plants,” Albert faltered.
“There are none, all been burnt. You see, I have been watching your back, spying on the other camp. No matter. When the time comes, I shall drop this into his drink with the sleight of my hand. Look at it, Albert!”
The old man took the bottle of cyanide in both hands. A smile crept over his face as he turned the bottle around and around before handing it back. He really was stupid and careless.
“Now. Do not turn on any lights. It’s best we don’t talk anymore today. Help yourself to food and drink. Sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow when the time comes you will accompany me, hiding outside the chosen place with the poison in your hands until I come outside to collect it and carry out your will. I’m going upstairs and I don’t want to be disturbed.”