“Can we please get in out of the rain?” Melody said forcefully. “Before we all drown?”
And she headed determinedly for the main entrance, hauling her large suitcase along behind her like a reluctant dog. Happy picked up his suitcase and went after her, splashing deliberately through every puddle along the way to demonstrate what a rotten day he was having. JC grabbed his case and started after them, then stopped and looked about him.
“Kim?” he said. “Is that you? Are you here with us?”
There was no reply. JC went after the others.
* * *
He had to turn this way and that, squeezing his way through the narrow gaps between the closely packed vehicles. Big and small, rich and poor—must be a hell of a turnout at the pub, thought JC. Maybe it’s quiz night . . . And then he stopped, as he realised Happy and Melody had stopped, barely half-way through the car park. JC moved forward to stand beside Happy, who was clutching his lightweight suitcase to his chest.
“Tell me that case isn’t just full of pills,” said JC.
“It isn’t just full of pills,” said Happy, not even looking round. “Travel light, travel fast, that’s what I always say. Because you can’t make a hurried exit from a scene of imminent peril if you’re dragging heavy luggage along behind you. I know; I’ve tried. Amazing what you can bring yourself to abandon if Something is catching up with you. These days my suitcase contains a thermos full of hot chicken-and-sage soup, an assortment of useful items, and my pyjamas. I don’t normally bother with such things, but I always wear pyjamas when I’m away. In case there’s a fire. Or a burglar. Everyone knows burglars are frightened of pyjamas. Or is it a chair and a whip? I can never remember . . .”
“You took something in the toilet on the last train, didn’t you?” said JC.
“Possibly,” said Happy. “Who can say? I might be naturally cheerful. It does happen. On occasion.”
“Junkie,” said Melody.
“Kill-joy,” said Happy.
“Children, children,” said JC. “Why have we stopped?”
“Because we’re not alone,” said Happy. “There’s someone else here, in the car park with us. Or, more likely, Something.”
JC looked carefully around him. Moonlight and light from the pub’s windows washed across the great hulking shapes that filled the car park. Everything seemed still and peaceful. And then something moved, between the parked cars, a dark, shadowy shape, moving quickly in and out of sight. JC pressed forward, threading his way through the parked vehicles to where he saw the shape; but when he got there, there was no-one. JC and Happy and Melody moved quickly back and forth between the cars, splashing through the puddles. Again and again, they all saw the dark shape, flitting soundlessly, disappearing in a moment, but they couldn’t even get close to it. In the end, JC got fed up with being led around by the nose and turned his back on the cars. He walked determinedly towards the pub, and the others went after him. And if they caught a swift movement out of the corner of their eye, they ignored it.
“Probably someone playing games,” JC said loudly.
“Or Something,” Happy said helpfully.
“Look, are you picking up on anyone? Or anything? No? Then we are going inside,” said JC, firmly. “Now, we are about to enter a public house, full of civilians. So I want us all to show a confident and united front, or I may or may not wait until we are alone to dispense savage beatings.”
“Bully,” said Happy.
* * *
They hurried through the main entrance and found themselves at one end of the main bar; a large open space full of bright lights, wonderfully warm and dry, with a whole crowd of people sitting at tables and standing the length of the long bar-counter. All conversation stopped the moment the three Ghost Finders made their entrance. Everyone turned, or at the very least lowered their drinks, the better to look over the newcomers. It was like facing a solid wall of expectant faces. And then the barman came bustling out from behind the bar-counter to greet them, beaming happily. A big, beefy, older man, with carefully styled grey hair and a hard-used face, wearing traditional country-bartending clothes. He made a point of shaking hands vigorously with all three of them.
“Welcome, welcome! Adrian Brook, proprietor of the King’s Arms, at your service! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t get here tonight, what with the weather and all; but here you are! Good to see you all! No need to introduce yourselves; the Institute contacted me earlier, gave me all the details . . . Your reputation precedes you! Now, let me introduce you to the regular crowd.”
Which was all cheerful enough; but behind Brook’s blustering bonhomie, JC could sense a not particularly well-hidden desperation. Like a drowning man clutching at a life-belt.
Some thirty or forty men and women looked eagerly at JC, Happy, and Melody, as Brook introduced them all by name, as professional ghost hunters. He didn’t mention the Carnacki Institute; but then, it was doubtful anyone present would have recognised it anyway. Still, they all seemed pleased enough, and casual enough, with the idea of ghost hunters. Which suggested they took ghosts seriously here. JC looked the crowd over carefully. A fair mix: young and old, prosperous and less prosperous. Pretty much every social group, represented somewhere. They all had wide smiles, and searching eyes. Brook kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as he took the team’s coats, hung them up, and handed them each a towel to mop their faces and rub at their wet hair.
The bar itself seemed surprisingly modern, with all the most up-to-date features and fittings. Gleaming metal and polished wood stood out proudly alongside more traditional items like horse brasses and stuffed and mounted wildlife. Large blackboards offered surprisingly ambitious bar food and reasonably expensive wines. The whole place felt cosy and comfortable, easy on the eyes, with a good ambience—everything you’d expect from a standard country inn. Except JC couldn’t keep from wondering: why was the building positioned so far outside the town?
Brook started to explain to everyone why he’d called in professional ghost hunters, but JC quickly cut him off. If there was information to be handed out, he wanted to be in charge of it.
“So!” he said brightly to the attentive crowd. “What are you all doing here on such a miserable night?”
“No need to hide the real reason for your visit,” said a red-faced farmer type, nodding and almost winking. “Eli Troughton, dairy farmer. That’s me. We all know why you’re here. Where are the cameras?”
“What?” said JC.
“I thought they’d send someone famous,” said a tall, wispy goth girl, dressed in every shade of black. “I don’t recognise any of them.”
“What?” said Melody.
“I expect you’ll want to hear all the stories, eh?” said an expensively suited man who looked like a local solicitor. “I’m Michael Cootes, local solicitor.”
“Famous for its ghosts, is the King’s Arms,” said a very blonde young lady. “I’m Jasmine. Will there be photographers? I take a very good photo if I say so myself.”
“What?” said Happy.
“Famous for its stories, but not quite famous enough, eh Adrian?” said Troughton; and everyone present laughed loudly.
JC felt very much that he’d like to be let in on the joke. He looked at Brook, who was back behind the counter; and the barman quickly declared that the team’s first drinks were on the house. So JC had a large brandy, Melody had a gin and tonic, and Happy, rather surprisingly, asked for a glass of Perrier. Presumably because he didn’t need anything else. Melody shot him a quick glare that very clearly said You’re not fooling anyone. Happy looked down his nose at her and sipped his sparkling water with his little finger extended. JC gave Brook a hard look, and the barman nodded quickly.
“I’ve been telling my patrons all about you,” he said defensively. “The three best professional ghost hunters in the game today, come all the way up here from London, to help put things right here. That’s why the place is so full tonight.”
“Like
when the BBC filmed Songs of Praise in the local church,” said Cootes. “You couldn’t move in the pews for new frocks and big hats. Vicar hadn’t seen a congregation that big in years. Got stage-fright in the pulpit, and the verger had to take over.”
“If you’re the Ghostly Busters,” said Jasmine, “shouldn’t you be wearing those big nuclear packs on your backs?”
“You’re thinking of the other guys,” Melody said coldly. “We’re professionals. They’re fictional.”
“Even so,” said Troughton, “don’t you have hawthorn and garlic, crosses and holy water; all that stuff?”
“That’s for vampires,” said JC. “We don’t do vampires. That’s another department. We’re here to investigate the situation and see what needs doing. If anything does.”
“But where are your cameras?” Jasmine said doggedly. “I had my hair done specially for the cameras!”
“What cameras?” said Happy.
“For the television programme!” said Cootes. “For the show! You’re here to make a show about the King’s Arms and its ghosts, aren’t you? Like Mostly Haunted?”
JC looked at Brook, who flinched, then shrugged. “I had to explain it to them in terms they would understand, Mr. Chance.”
“Which of you is the psychic?” said Troughton. He grinned at Melody. “She looks like she could get inside a man’s head.”
“Ms. Chambers is our scientific expert,” said JC. “Mr. Palmer here is our resident psychic.”
Everyone in the main bar immediately turned their gaze on Happy. He wasn’t pleased about that but did his best to bear up under the close inspection. The most common reaction in the crowd was disappointment, in that Happy appeared so ordinary and unprepossessing. They’d clearly been hoping for someone a bit more . . . exotic. They couldn’t see Happy doing the whole rolling-on-the-floor and speaking-in-tongues bit.
“All right then,” said Cootes, leaning forward on his chair to fix Happy with a challenging stare. “Show us something. Go on.”
“Oh, this can only go well,” murmured Melody.
Happy looked straight back at Cootes, his face surprisingly calm and composed. “I don’t do party tricks. Neither am I a performing dog.”
“Thought so,” Cootes said loudly, looking about him triumphantly. “Fake. They fake it all, for the television.”
“We are not part of any television show,” said Happy.
“Fake, fake, fake,” said Cootes, grinning broadly.
“All right,” said Happy.
“Oh dear,” said JC, quietly.
Happy looked thoughtfully at Cootes. “You want me to tell everyone here something about you? Something only you would know?”
“Give it your best shot,” said Cootes, openly defying him.
“You watch a lot of porn, last thing at night,” said Happy.
Cootes stiffened in his chair. “You’re guessing. You could say that about anyone.”
“But you do it while wearing your mother’s dress,” said Happy.
Cootes’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. And in the time it took him to work out a convincing denial, the moment passed. Everyone in the bar erupted with laughter, seeing the truth in his face. Cootes looked like he wanted to get up and leave, but he was trapped in the middle of the crowd. So he buried his face in his glass and ignored everyone. JC took the opportunity to call for a round for everyone. To make up for not being television people and, hopefully, to loosen them up enough to get them talking. Everyone crushed up before the bar, happy at the prospect of a free drink. A little later, while they were all settling down again, JC got Brook to himself, for a moment.
“Why are you working alone tonight?” said JC, bluntly. “You must have known there was going to be a crowd in. Where’s the rest of your staff?”
“There’s no-one but me,” Brook said quietly. “Can’t keep staff. Not here. I advertise in all the local papers, offer really good wages, hoping to bring people in from outside who don’t know the stories . . . but I can’t get anyone to stay for long. Not once things start happening. Even the local trade’s dropping off even though the townspeople have been coming here for generations. Point of pride, that they aren’t afraid of no ghosts. But there’s only a crowd in here tonight because there’s safety in numbers. And even the regulars won’t stay too late. They don’t like to go home in the dark . . .”
He moved quickly away and called for his patrons’ attention. They all quietened down, quickly enough. They seemed a good-natured crowd.
“These ghost hunters are here because the King’s Arms is justly famous for its many ghost stories,” said Brook. “But recently, I think it’s fair to say that things have been getting out of hand. I’ve been having trouble coping; you all know that . . .”
“What ghost stories?” said JC, cutting in quickly when it became clear Brook was having trouble getting the words out. “Are we talking actual hauntings? Has anyone here actually seen a ghost? Personally?”
It all went very quiet. Everyone looked at everyone else, clearly waiting for someone else to start. In the end, Troughton sat up straight and nodded firmly to JC.
“You sit yourselves down, ghost hunters, and we’ll tell you all about it. I’ll start.”
JC and Happy and Melody pulled three chairs into position facing the crowd and sat down. There were definite signs of anticipation in the regulars’ faces now. They all wanted to tell their stories. They needed someone else to take the plunge first. They’d been hoping to do it for the television cameras; but really, any audience would do. Someone new to tell the old, old stories to. Brook shut off the bar’s piped background music, and a sudden hush fell across the bar. There was a pause, and Troughton leaned forward.
“I suppose one of the best-known ghost stories features the serving maid from the old Manor House. Must be over two hundred years old, this story, but everyone here knows it. She hanged herself, poor thing. Right here, in this pub, in one of the upstairs rooms. Because the Squire’s wicked son, he had his way with her, then wanted nothing to do with her once her belly began to swell. She went to the old Squire, told him what had happened, told him she was in the family way, by his son. He had her whipped for lying and thrown out. She was ashamed to tell her own family after that, so she did away with herself. Upstairs . . . Some say she can still be seen, hanging, in the room where she did it. And even when you can’t see her, on some nights you can hear the quiet rasp of the noose creaking as she swings slowly back and forth. Forever . . .”
Men and women were nodding in agreement all through the crowd. They’d all heard the story. And once Troughton had started the ball rolling, there was no stopping them. They all had tales to tell. An old woman in a long, grubby coat was next up.
“I am Mrs. Ida Waverly,” she said, in a surprisingly strong and steady voice. “And this story was told to me by my mother, who heard it from her mother. Who was a cleaner at this very inn, back in the day. There is a stain on the old stone path outside. The one that leads right across the car park though the path was there first. It’s an old blood-stain, been there for centuries. No-one knows why any more.
“Not even the most modern cleaning fluids can shift it, or make any impression on it. And they’ve tried everything; down the years. It’s not always there, mind; that’s how you know it’s a ghostly stain. But many have seen it, right enough. When it is there, the stain is always bright red, not dark. Because the blood never dries. And it is said . . . some people, if they touch the old blood-stain, their fingers come away wet and dripping with fresh blood. And then it’s a sign . . . that those people are not long for this world.”
More general nodding and murmuring in agreement. Names were quietly bandied back and forth in the bar, of people who’d seen the blood-stain and come to bad ends. Melody turned in her chair to look at the main entrance, clearly considering going outside for a look herself.
“I wouldn’t, me dear,” said Mrs. Waverly. “You couldn’t expect to see it in the dark and in the
rain.”
Melody settled reluctantly back in her chair, and the stories continued.
“There’s this Grandfather Clock,” said a tall, thin, young man. His long hair hung down in carefully cultivated dreadlocks, his clothes were shabby but clean, and he looked very solemn. “That clock, that one over there in the corner, that’s been here in this pub for many a year. And I heard from my dad, as he heard it from his dad before him, of people who’ve been right here in this bar when that clock struck thirteen.”
Everyone looked at the Grandfather Clock. JC had to turn right around in his chair to get a good look at it. It was an old, perfectly ordinary-looking Grandfather Clock, in a polished wooden case, with a big glass panel in the front to show the heavy brass pendulum as it swung slowly back and forth. In the hush, they could all hear the slow, steady tick of the clock’s mechanism. It didn’t chime.
“I’ve never heard the clock chime thirteen myself,” said the shabby young man. He sounded a bit disappointed. “But my dad said, if it does, it’s a sign that someone present in the bar is about to die . . .”
“And then there’s Johnny Lee,” said a smart, middle-aged lady in a tweed suit and pearls, with dark, lacquered hair. “My Uncle Jack said he saw him, right here in this very bar, right after the end of the war. Autumn of 1945, it was. No-one here had seen Johnny since he went off to fight, at the beginning of 1940. He walked in here, calm and easy as you please, nodded and smiled to one and all, and ordered a pint of bitter. Of course, everyone was pleased to see him back, especially as there’d been no word to expect him. But he said it was such a shame about his young niece Alice, losing her gold watch that her grandmother had left her. Meant the world to young Alice, did that watch. And Johnny said that if young Alice would look behind the old dresser, in the back bedroom, she’d find the watch, right enough. And then Johnny smiled and walked out, leaving his drink on the bar, untouched. And when the people went outside to look, there was no sign of him anywhere.
“Wasn’t till a fortnight later that his family got the telegram. Telling them that Johnny wouldn’t be coming home. But Alice found the watch, right where her Uncle Johnny said it would be.”
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