Popcorn and Poltergeists

by Nancy Warren

  “No doubt she is.”

  “Is she reading quietly to herself?”

  “She did rather keep up a running commentary on what she was reading. I told her I’d come and check on you. I’m not sure she heard me. She was still talking when I left.”

  “Does she feel the manuscript is authentic so far?”

  “She’s not found anything that would suggest otherwise.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “At least if we can find some value in these manuscripts, it would be a bit of good news for the college.”

  “Not as good news as if we could find the missing Brontë and Shelley manuscripts.”

  By scooting my legs around, I was facing him on the couch, “Rafe, what do you think happened to those manuscripts?”

  He leaned back and pushed his long legs out ahead of him. “I believe Georgiana Quales may have hidden them too well. But there’s always the other alternative.”

  I nodded. “That she sold them.”

  He shook his head. “I knew that woman. I don’t believe she would ever have sold those manuscripts for her own gain. No, the other possibility is that they’ve been stolen.”

  “But who? And when?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Do you think Wilfred Eels’ death is connected to the missing manuscripts?”

  I could tell he’d given this matter a lot of thought and was frustrated by the conclusions. “Possibly. The manuscripts could have been stolen that very night.”

  “But they’ve been searching for ten years. How could a random thief find what Professor Cartwright and her colleagues couldn’t?”

  “I don’t say it’s a sound theory, but it’s a possibility we must consider.”

  “Do you think whoever stole those manuscripts attacked Fiona and then pushed Wilfred Eels to his death?”

  “Perhaps.”

  I found possibilities much more frustrating than the clear trail of evidence that led to a conclusion.

  I’d been mulling over the death, too. Susanna Morgan had said Willie was always in trouble and chronically short of money. “Could someone have been paying Wilfred Eels to hunt for those manuscripts? Look how much time he spent in that library. He was always fixing broken windows and damaged woodwork. Who’s to say he wasn’t the one doing the breaking of the windows and the damaging of the woodwork just to give him more excuses to be in that library?”

  Rafe was looking at me intently. “That also fits with my theory that the manuscript could’ve been stolen that very night. As you say, Wilfred Eels could’ve been searching the library at his leisure. It’s not like it was overrun with students.”

  I leaned forward. “Exactly. Let’s say he’d been searching every chance he got. Usually, he had the library to himself, and that day, at the very moment he actually came across those manuscripts, he realized he wasn’t alone after all.”

  “Fiona McAdam was hard at work.”

  “Right. And remember she said that when she’s working, she’s oblivious to everything else. She was probably as quiet as a mouse, and he had no idea she was there. Then, as he was walking by with the stolen manuscripts, she saw him.”

  “And no one would recognize those manuscripts as quickly as Fiona McAdam. She’s a Brontë scholar, after all.”

  “Exactly. So there she was on that ladder, and before she could spot him and the manuscripts, he pushed her off.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then whoever hired Wilfred Eels took the manuscripts from him and, instead of paying the man, pushed him down the stairs to his death.”

  “So we’re looking for a thief and a murderer.”

  “If my theory’s right, then yes. But where are the manuscripts now?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “If they were for sale, you’d hear about it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Undoubtedly. Besides, I’ve put a few discreet inquiries about. At the first sign of anyone trying to sell them, I’ll know immediately.”

  “Good.”

  Rafe picked up the book I’d been reading, checked the cover and put it down without comment. “There’s another possibility, of course. There are people in this world who become obsessed. In the same way some crazed fans stalk what you call celebrities, there are bibliophiles passionate enough to do anything to possess a ring once owned by Jane Austen, a fountain pen known to have been used by Dickens, a postcard from Mark Twain. Any note or scrap their idol may have written or touched would be invaluable. If such a person acquired those manuscripts, they won’t show up in the market.”

  “Unless the fan was either a Shelley or Brontë fanatic and they might try and sell the other one.”

  Rafe didn’t look as though he warmed to that idea. “If someone went to that much trouble to obtain those manuscripts, I don’t think they’d put one up for sale. Too dangerous.”

  I felt so frustrated I could’ve screamed. I jumped up and began to pace. “We need to find out who did this. If Georgiana Quales’s spirit is still around, I’d really like to ask her what she did or what she knows.” I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dark windows. I was so startled I stopped and stared. My reflection stared back like a painting hanging on a wall. And that gave me an idea. “Didn’t you say there’s a painting of her?”

  “Yes. In the dining hall.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to meet Professor Quales. Or at least, get an idea of her by looking at her picture.”

  “She wasn’t the most attractive woman.”

  “I don’t care about that. If she sat for the painting, it may hold some of her energy. At least I’ll see what she looked like.”

  The next afternoon I found myself in St. Mary’s dining hall, where the somber décor wasn’t brightened by the portraits of former principals of the college hanging over the students’ heads as they ate. The dining hall was empty, but there was a smell of onions that lingered in the air the way I hoped some of the essence of Georgiana Quales lingered.

  Long wooden tables stretched the length of the dining room, with the head table facing them. Windows of leaded glass let in the gray afternoon light, adding a somber hue.

  Our footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floor as we entered. “This was the first principal of St. Mary’s,” Rafe said, pointing to a large oil of a woman who was dressed like Silence Buggins in a black, high-collared dress. Her posture had the stiffness caused by a corset, and her hair was coiled neatly. “Her name was Gertrude Hawkins-Brown. She was a passionate advocate of education for females.”

  “Good for her. Did you know her?” I never ceased to be impressed by all the people Rafe had known in his long life.

  “I knew of her, but I don’t think we ever met.”

  The lineup of heavy oil paintings each showed a principal of the college in various expressions from forbidding to benign. Rafe didn’t even need to tell me which one was Georgiana Quales. The minute I saw her painting, I knew it was her. I felt the recognition behind my breastbone. Georgiana Quales had a regal look to her. If she turned out to be a member of the royal family, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. I knew she had died ten years ago, but her clothing and hairstyle were both in a classic style. Her hair was silver-gray. She wore a blue Chanel suit with a silver brooch pinned to the left side of her chest. Around her neck was a scarf.

  I thought she looked like a very pleasant person. Strict, perhaps—there was an uncompromising line to her mouth—but fair and understanding. Or was I reading too much into the painting? Had the portrait artist been generous and according her attributes she didn’t actually possess? He or she wouldn’t be the first.

  “Where are you, Georgiana Quales?” I asked her softly. “And what can I do to help you?”

  Once more I experienced that faint humming sensation behind my breastbone. Her portrait didn’t speak, though, and no ghostly apparition appeared in front of me beckoning with a gnarled finger to show me where she’d hidden those precious manuscrip
ts. I felt like a failure as a witch, but as I turned away, something danced across the surface of my mind. I turned back and studied the painting once more. “Rafe?”

  He was busy texting someone on his mobile and looked up absently. “What is it?”

  I was really stretching here, but then, something had made me turn back to that painting. On the off chance it had been Georgiana Quales, I said, “Didn’t you say you found a scarf tucked in a drawer?”

  “In the back of a cupboard. If it didn’t belong to Amelia Cartwright, it could’ve been left behind by any number of—” Now I saw him gaze up at the painting as I had been doing. “That scarf. Yes. I believe it was that very scarf that I found. The colors are the same. The pattern. Well done, Lucy. How on earth did you manage to recognize a scarf you’ve never seen before?”

  “It was a hunch.” That or the silent message of a ghost. Since my familiar, Nyx, tended to communicate with me that way, as though words and phrases just appeared in my mind, I wasn’t all that startled. In fact, I was pleased that Georgiana Quales felt she could communicate with me. I concentrated as hard as I could on the question of where those manuscripts were, but no matter how hard I stared at the painting, all I saw was calm blue eyes staring placidly into the distance.

  I turned to Rafe. “There was nothing else where you found that scarf? No tiny key? No numbers carved into the back of the drawer?”

  “I didn’t find anything, but you’re welcome to look. We could go back tonight.”

  I thought that was an excellent idea. “Maybe there’s some kind of message on the scarf itself.” Not that I didn’t trust Rafe, but he hadn’t attached any significance to that length of silk, and now we knew it was important. “Where is that scarf now?”

  “I put it back where I found it.” He turned from the painting to me. “She’d have been very foolish to put the key to the manuscripts on a garment that would likely have been thrown away or given to charity if something had happened to her.”

  I paced up and down in front of Georgiana Quales’s painting, thinking. “Probably. But even though she’s been gone a decade, that scarf touched her skin, and the way she’s got it tucked into the front of her jacket, it was near her heart. Maybe I can use it.”

  He looked vaguely amused, but Rafe often looked amused when he was in conversation with me. “You mean the way a tracking dog sniffs a missing person’s clothing to find them?”

  I definitely treated his vampiric abilities with a lot more respect than he accorded me and my admittedly fledgling witch ones. “Yes, exactly like that. And if you have a better idea on how to find those missing manuscripts, you go right ahead and tell me.”

  “No, no,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “We’ll fetch the scarf tonight. What are you going to do with it?”

  In truth, I wasn’t completely sure. But I was definitely going to consult some witches who knew a lot more than I did. I had a pretty good feeling, though, that if I went into the library with that scarf, I could encourage Georgiana Quales not to throw books all over the place but perhaps to materialize or at least to send me some kind of message. It was a long shot, but we were running out of ideas.

  Rafe didn’t look too thrilled with my suggestion. “Don’t forget she got quite agitated when you were last in her library. This time you were hit with a book, but what if one of those bookcases had fallen on you?” He looked at me with a steady gaze, and I think we were both recalling Wilfred Eels’ tragic end.

  Even though he hadn’t brought it up, I answered him anyway. “I don’t think Georgiana Quales is going to push me down the stairs. One, I won’t go anywhere near them, so she won’t get a chance, and two…” I glanced up at the painting and realized that I agreed with Rafe. That woman had not killed anyone. I also didn’t believe she had stolen the manuscripts. No doubt that’s why she was in such a tizzy. She knew the library was in trouble. The entire college was in trouble. I looked up at her. “You know where those manuscripts are. Rafe and I want to find them and do the right thing. We want to help you save your college. But you have to help us.”

  I think I held my breath for a moment. I don’t know what I’d expected. Did I really think that painting was suddenly going to spring to life and talk to me? Nothing changed. But I spoke anyway as though she could hear me. “We have a date tonight in the library. I will be there with your scarf, and I want you to be there too. And no temper tantrums this time. I really am trying to help you.”

  Chapter 15

  “Why, this is excellent, Lucy,” Margaret Twigg said with one of her superior smirks. “It’s good to see you take some initiative. I was getting quite tired of setting you tasks and writing up lessons as though you were an adolescent, when clearly you are much older.”

  Ouch. I still had a year to go before I hit thirty. I didn’t appreciate being called an old witch. Anyway, she should talk. I had no exact idea of how old Margaret Twigg was, and I would probably find myself turned into something that crawled on the ground if I ever asked her such an impertinent question. However, she was not a young woman.

  “Can I do it?” I asked, ignoring her rudeness. “Can I use a piece of clothing to get in touch with a ghost? One who’s been dead more than a decade?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” she answered. I was surprised because she always seemed to know everything, or acted like she did, anyway. “I’ll give you a spell. Certainly, if any of her essence remains on the garment, it will help call her. Of course, you are once again assuming that the energy causing havoc in the library is Georgiana Quales. It could be any one of a number of restless spirits. A student who died in an unfortunate manner, the previous occupant from before there was ever a school on that land. When you start calling spirits, you can’t always be certain who will answer your call.”

  Well, that was creepy. I felt as though something cold and damp was crawling up my arms. But I was nothing if not tenacious, and now that I’d been pulled into this mystery, I was determined not to give up. Besides, once more Rafe would be in the vicinity and, if I knew him, much closer this time.

  However, she consented to help me, and I felt better able to confront the poltergeist when I went back. I imagined most people who had an encounter with the scary force never went back for more. I was going to let this spirit know that I wasn’t going anywhere until I had some answers.

  Hester would also be going to college. I wasn’t sure she’d be much help in tracking down missing manuscripts and murderers, but she was so excited I really, really hoped the whole college thing worked out for her. Not only was she excited about her new friend, but she actually seemed keen to take an active part in sleuthing. Poor Hester, perhaps I’d misjudged her. Like the other vampires, her biggest problem was boredom. Add that to the burden of teenage angst and insecurity she carried around with her, and I began to feel more sympathetic. My cousin Violet was less enthusiastic about our shopping trip than I had hoped but, luckily, Scarlett and Polly were willing to help a somewhat nervous college newcomer find some appropriate clothes.

  Where I’d have gone straight to the Westgate shopping center, they instead took us to vintage and secondhand stores. In no time at all they had Hester looking exactly like a college student. I was so grateful to them both.

  Even better, not everything was black. Polly had pulled out a red scoop-neck shirt to go with a pair of well-worn and tight-fitting jeans and short boots with a chunky heel. “Take a look,” Polly said, gesturing to the only full-length mirror in the shop. Hester glanced at me in panic, but I’d seen this moment coming. I laughed. “Hester made me promise we’d stay away from mirrors. She gets too self-conscious. Trust me, Hester, you look great.”

  Naturally, Hester wasn’t the only one who walked away with a new-to-her bit of clothing. I found a Ted Baker blazer. Vi picked up a black dress that, even though she moaned she’d have nowhere to wear it since all the men she knew were rubbish, suggested she saw a social life somewhere in her future. Scarlett bought a print dress
that looked darling over her boots and Polly a Harris Tweed cap.

  As they poked through the racks, Polly and Scarlett would push things at Hester until she had more than enough for a weekend. She was posing for us in a long-sleeved multicolored dress that hung nearly to her ankles. “Brown boots, I think,” Polly said.

  Scarlett nodded and stood back, admiring their taste. “Now all you need are some of those lovely jumpers that Lucy sells in the shop.” I had to hold myself back from laughing aloud, as Hester had violently refused to wear any of those hand-knitted garments. But with Scarlett and Polly’s help, we soon outfitted her with a black cardigan and several bright-colored sweaters. Hester herself, to everyone’s shock, chose a pink pullover.

  Even Sylvia got in the act, presenting Hester with big gold hoop earrings. It was Rafe, always the practical one, who handed her a small backpack. He looked at her with a glint of sarcasm in his eye. “For your books and homework.”

  It was Thursday night, and the vampire knitting club normally met on Thursdays, but tonight, nobody bothered with show and tell and the knitting was more an afterthought. We all knew why we were here. Carlos had agreed to be part of this meeting, and I was pleased to see that he wasn’t particularly standoffish or much like a lone wolf. He seemed perfectly friendly. “I’m so glad to meet you all,” he said. “Dr. Weaver has told me a great deal about your group.”

  Gran, always a welcoming presence and ever eager to drum up more business for Cardinal Woolsey’s, immediately said, “You must join us. We meet twice a week at ten o’clock at night.” She and Sylvia and Theodore were back already from Edinburgh and had promised to fill us in on what they’d learned.

  “But I don’t know how to knit.”

  “That’s all right. Lucy doesn’t know how to knit either, and she runs a knitting shop.” I appreciated her enthusiasm, but did she have to diss my beginner skills quite so much?

  Hester looked adorable and nervous. She was wearing the dress she’d found at the vintage store with brown boots and a lime-green cardigan knitted by Dr. Weaver. She’d received so many compliments on her new look that I hoped her days of all black all the time might be over. “Tell me what I have to do. I want to help catch a murderer. The rest of you have done it so many times, and I never have.”