Curse of Weyrmouth (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “A job?” asked Val, “here, in the city proper? That's a rarity.”

  “Yeah, at the museum.”

  Val's smile took on a fixed quality.

  “The museum? Oh, that's nice. Best of luck!”

  Then the girl looked down at her computer screen and started to click away with her mouse.

  Conversation ended, thought Erin. Wonder why Val hates museums? Maybe she was taken to one boring exhibition too many as a kid.

  Erin turned from the reception and walked over to a cluster of chairs and tables. She picked up a local newspaper, leafed through it, and quickly became depressed. She had spent her journey up from London researching Weyrmouth, hoping to find something positive about it that she could bring up at her interview. Unfortunately, the city seemed to be a rust-belt wreck. Once famous for shipbuilding and other heavy industry it was now desperately trying to 'regenerate' itself. In the meantime, – to judge from the paper – it seemed to produce nothing in significant amounts other than drunkenness and petty crime.

  Bored and trying to fend off depression, Erin put the paper down and gazed out into the rain. The siren had stopped but she could still make out the flicker of blue lights. A cab appeared out of the downpour. Erin got up and, as an afterthought, snatched up a few leaflets aimed at tourists. She always felt more comfortable in a stressful situation if she had something – anything – to read.

  “Nice weather for ducks, I reckon,” said the taxi driver. “We're going to the museum, right?”

  “Right,” said Erin, scrambling into the front passenger seat, eager to escape the ice-cold rain. She felt a snap, looked down to see one of her kitten heels hanging loose.

  “Oh, shit!” she yelled, then looked at the driver. “Sorry, it's just a downer. See, I haven't got another pair of interview shoes. I'm gonna have go to in barefoot like a drunk or crazy person.”

  “Look in the glove box,” suggested the driver. “Might be some glue in there.”

  Puzzled but willing to try anything, she opened the small hatch and maybe half a dozen assorted items fell out. Sellotape, a wind-up torch, a packet of breath mints – and finally, a tube of glue. After using the adhesive, she spent the rest of the journey chatting cheerfully with Abdul, the driver, while holding the broken right heel in place.

  “Give it another few minutes to harden,” he said, pulling up. “If you can spare the time?”

  “Yeah,” she said, checking the dash clock. “Ten minutes before I have to be there.”

  She leaned forward to try and get a glimpse of Weyrmouth Museum through the sleeting rain.

  “Grim looking place,” remarked Abdul. “Never been in there. Weird, isn't it? Like people who live in London never visit the Tower or Buck House.”

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “But at least you can have fun in London.”

  Abdul laughed.

  “True enough,” he said. “This place looks like the Addams Family mansion. No wonder they find it hard to lure people inside.”

  Through the rain-drenched windshield, the museum looked like a grotesque castle from an Edgar Allan Poe tale. It was a tall, gray stone building, obviously Victorian, with mock-Gothic turrets at the corners of its steep roof. The frontage was so heavily decorated with sculptures that it was hard to focus on details. The windows were huge, with reflecting glass.

  “There's an American connection,” said Abdul. “Assuming you're not Canadian, that is?”

  “Nope, no sirree,” Erin replied. “Born and raised in San Francisco.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  There was a brief pause, then Erin said, “Thanks for not asking why I ended up here.”

  “Hey, no problem,” he replied. “I hate over-familiar cab drivers myself. Over-sharing, is that what it's called?”

  “Yep,” she said, checking the glued heel. It seemed firm enough. She put the shoe on and paid Abdul, insisting that he take an extra 'couple of quid' for the time he had spent parked.

  “Thanks!” he said.

  “Hey!” she remembered just in time. “What's the American connection?”

  “Cornerstone,” he said, gesturing off to one side.

  Despite the rain, Erin walked over to the place Abdul had indicated. Sure enough, there was an inscription on the cornerstone, presumably the first to be laid.

  THIS FOUNDATION STONE WAS LAID BY THE MAYOR OF WEYRMOUTH, SEPTEMBER 24TH 1877, IN THE PRESENCE OF GENERAL U.S. GRANT, EX-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  “Wow,” she said.

  So I'm only the second American to stumble onto this place.

  Her suit was getting wet, so she turned quickly to run up the museum steps. She had just reached the shelter of the ornate portico when she noticed a small, drably-dressed figure dart behind one of the columns that decorated the museum's frontage.

  “Hey there,” she said, wondering if the child was in some kind of trouble.

  Shouldn't kids be in school at this hour?

  She rounded the column and saw – nothing. There was nobody there. But there had been, she realized. Bending over she saw traces of damp footprints on the sandstone surface of the portico. There was something oddly sketchy about them.

  Bare feet? In this weather. And they seem kind of bony.

  Shrugging, Erin dismissed the minor mystery and turned to go into the entrance of Weyrmouth Museum. There was an extra step just before the doorway, and she noticed it a beat too late. Erin tripped, cursing, and felt the damaged heel break off again.

  ***

  “So he started flailing about and just fell back into the road?”

  Detective Sergeant John Carr tried to shield his regulation notebook from the rain. He was standing by a jack-knifed eight-wheel truck talking to a driver who was clearly in shock. What's more, the man's first language was not English and Carr doubted that a Hungarian translator could be found on short notice in Weyrmouth. Or at all.

  “I have no chance!” the driver kept repeating, gesturing hopelessly. “He kill himself! Is terrible, terrible.”

  “Not your fault, sir, I'm sure,” Carr told him. “Quite possible that the gentleman had a heart attack or some kind of seizure. Other drivers bear out your statement. That's all for now, but please give your details to my colleague so we can contact you later.”

  Carr gestured to a policewoman trained in victim counseling and she led the driver away to the back of a squad car. Carr hoped a flask of hot coffee would be forthcoming for the poor guy.

  “Stupid accident,” he said to himself, watching the paramedics lift the sheeted body into the ambulance. The vehicle drove off without a siren. It was no longer an emergency.

  “Stupid to call it an accident!” roared a voice, seemingly an inch from Carr's ear.

  The officer flinched away from Holy Joe, who continued to shout about 'the dreadful Day of Judgment' and 'the opening of the vials of wrath'.

  Perfect, thought Carr. All I needed first thing was a run-in with the town's biggest nutcase.

  “Look here, Joe,” he said. “You know the ground rules. If you want to stand on a soapbox outside the Town Hall we'll turn a blind eye for half an hour or so. But no hot gospel stuff here, especially not now.”

  Holy Joe snorted, eyes rolling, like a bearded Old Testament prophet confronting an unbeliever. For a moment, Carr thought the old geezer might turn violent. Joe had a volatile reputation, but in recent years he had seemed to quiet down a little. Now, though, the tall, spare figure had taken to walking the street ranting at all hours, calling down curses on all and sundry.

  “Damnation knows no badges, no uniforms, no simple human laws!” declared Joe, and spat on the pavement just by Carr's left shoe. Sighing, the officer took out a set of plastic restraints.

  So, it's pissing with rain and you want to get out of the damp, a free meal inside you, and somewhere to rest your weary head. A time-honored ritual.

  “Turn round, sir,” he said wearily. “And place both hands flat on the door of the truck. Don't make this difficult.
”

  The old man seemed to shrink, all defiance gone, as he complied.

  “Okay, we won't need to cuff you if you just co-operate,” said Carr, taking the old man gently by the arm and leading him to his unmarked saloon.

  “Is it treacle pudding today?” asked Holy Joe as Carr buckled him in. “I quite fancy steak and kidney pie, as well.”

  “Probably lasagna, and cheesecake for dessert, but I can check,” said Carr, reaching for the radio.

  “No!” exclaimed Joe. “Don't abuse procedure for my sake. I'm not keen on Italian but we all have our crosses to bear.”

  Chuckling, Carr waved the Ford out into the traffic, nodding to the constable on point duty.

  “You're a strange one, Joe,” he said. “What's the point of following procedures if we're all doomed?”

  “I get carried away,” said Joe. “I see things, I try to tell people. The visions pass.”

  “How long has this been going on?” asked Carr. “This vision thing?”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Since I lost – lost my old life. Job, family, the lot. The whole shooting match.”

  The old man's voice broke and he began to weep. Carr cursed himself for asking a needless question.

  “I can try to get some help,” he offered, digging in his pocket for a pack of tissues.

  Blowing his nose loudly, Joe shook his head.

  “It never helps, not the drugs, not the talking cure. I still see them.”

  Relative silence fell as Carr struggled with his detective's instincts for half a mile.

  “See who?” he finally asked.

  Joe jerked his head back, indicating the scene of the death.

  “The Seven. Don't ask me again. If I mention them, they always know.”

  Chapter 2: Holy Joe Knows It, Erin Blows It

  “Oh dear, have you had an accident?”

  A petite young woman scampered over to Erin as she struggled to carry her shoes through an old-style revolving door.

  “Sure looks like it” Erin replied, attempting a smile.

  “Ooh! You're American!” babbled the girl. “You must be Ms. Cale! I'm Saffron, I work here, well that's obvious, of course, I do! We might be working together! I'm a sort of general dogsbody. That means I'm a gofer in American – not the furry little animal, the person who goes for things! Oh, your heel's broken? How awful! Perhaps you could borrow my shoes?”

  Erin looked down to see that Saffron had feet at least three sizes smaller than hers. The girl also happened to be wearing pink slippers with sparkly silver bows.

  “Thanks,” said Erin, “but my feet are kind of huge! I guess I'll just have to break the other heel and hobble in as best I can.”

  Saffron looked on wide-eyed as Erin performed front-line shoe surgery and slipped her shoes back on. Her feet were damp.

  “Ooh, that's so practical, very can-do, Louise will like that,” said the English girl.

  “Louise? You mean Ms. Tarrant?”

  “Yes, but we're all on first-name terms here, it's such a small tight-knit crew you see,” Saffron burbled as she wafted her hands at Erin.

  “Are you telling me to follow you?” Erin asked, trying not to smile. Saffron reminded her of a neighbor's small dog that had always been so comically pleased to see you it could not work out what to do next.

  “Yes!” Saffron gave a little jump and clapped her hands. “This way!”

  Okay, thought Erin, if I get lucky at the interview I might end up working with someone who escaped from a Disney cartoon.

  Saffron led Erin through a series of ill-lit, functional corridors to a door with a frosted glass panel marked MUSEUM DIRECTOR. Inside was an outer office with two people already waiting. One, a young man in a suit, smiled at Erin. The other, a hatchet-faced woman of about fifty, gave the newcomers an appraising stare.

  “Go right in!” said Saffron breathlessly. “You're first on the list!”

  Crap, thought Erin. Curse alphabetic order. Why don't people called Burns or Armitage apply for the jobs I go for?

  The inner office was surprisingly small and intimate. Two walls were lined with books. A window looked out over a courtyard where a group of children stood unmoving in the downpour. Turning from the bleak view Erin saw a rosewood desk, obviously an antique, laden with trays of documents, plus a PC and an old-fashioned reading lamp. Erin, even from six feet away, could see that the lamplight was illuminating her resume.

  Well, it's not actually a pack of lies, she thought. Though there's an interesting selection of omissions and evasions.

  “Please sit down, Erin,” said Louise Tarrant, half-rising to gesture at the only other chair in the room. “Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

  “Tea would be fine,” said Erin, walking carefully over to the chair. Her heels were not quite even, her gait unnaturally stiff.

  Hope she doesn't think I'm hung over – or plagued by hemorrhoids.

  As Erin sat, the director got up and went to a kettle on a small table.

  “I don't like to bother Saffie with trivia,” she explained. “Besides, her tea tastes like she stirs it with a long-dead fish. That's when she remembers to make it at all!”

  Erin chuckled.

  “She seems like a fun person to have around, though.”

  Louise dropped tea bags into two mugs.

  “Saffron? Oh, she's a treasure. Nothing is too much trouble for her, and a positive attitude is always welcome.”

  They chatted casually for a couple of minutes, Louise gently probing Erin on her background and experience.

  Smart cookie, Erin thought.

  After the tea was ready, Louise handed Erin a mug and resumed her seat.

  “Now,” said the director, “your credentials are impressive, but I note you have no experience of British museums, only those in the States.”

  “Yes,” Erin said, “but I have made good use of my time here, visiting all the major museums and galleries in London.”

  “Ah, we're a rather smaller establishment,” remarked Louise, with a wry grin.

  Too late, Erin remembered how intensely Brits living far from London resented the capital getting the best of everything.

  “And of course I've done my homework on Weyrmouth,” she went on quickly, “the whole North East of England, in fact.”

  “And what do you make of us, out here in the provinces?” asked Louise.

  “Well, I had no idea this part of the country was so fascinating,” said Erin, and prepared to give a précis of all the facts she had memorized from Wikipedia. But then she was distracted. Movement, just visible in her peripheral vision. She looked at the window.

  Nobody could be looking in, she thought. We're too high up. Window cleaner?

  “Why do you want this job, Erin?” asked Louise, in a casual way.

  “Because I really need the money and this is the first interview I've had in nearly three months,” Erin blurted out.

  Louise raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow as silence descended upon the cozy little room.

  Shit, shit, shit, thought Erin. She recalled her first day at a waitress job when she was in college. She had knocked over a stack of clean crockery, seen it fall to the floor, shatter in slow motion. Now she had much the same feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “I suppose,” said Louise slowly, “if I ask you the traditional question about your greatest strengths and weaknesses you'll be honest about those, too?”

  Erin laughed. She couldn't help herself. Louise, to Erin's surprise, smiled warmly back at her. The smile transformed the Englishwoman's face. She was suddenly someone you could relax with. Warm, approachable, charming even.

  Hell, why not tell her the whole truth?

  “Okay, I moved to London to be with this older guy I met at an international conference. I thought he was the one, turned out he had other ideas and dumped me three weeks after I got my work visa. Dumped me for a forty-something Russian. One with dyed hair and these huge, fake tits. I mean really enor
mous silicone boobs. Called Dasha.”

  Louise thought for a moment then asked “What was the other one called?”

  Erin snorted tea onto her only pants suit.

  “That must have stung a bit,” Louise added, giving a lopsided smile. “Knocked you off balance.”

  “Yeah, it did at first,” admitted Erin. She felt a sudden, merciful relief.

  So I blew the interview, so what? Nobody died. Relax, talk, be nice, go away. Never see this wet, miserable city again.

  “Anyway, after a while I got my shit together,” she went on, “and that was when he told me he wanted me back. I said no. Seems like Dasha got a better offer. For all I care he can go screw the rest of Santa's reindeer.”

  “Poor Rudolf!” exclaimed Louise. “But I like your style.”

  “Come on, Louise, put me out of my misery,” said Erin. “This interview is such a goddamn shambles. I know nothing about this town but some crap off the net, very little British history in fact. All my training was focused on America. I thought I could make it here, prove I didn't need that asshole. But now I think I should just quit, go back where I belong.”

  “Sometimes,” said Louise, getting up and walking around the desk to offer Erin a tissue, “we don't know where we belong. But thank you for your candor. I'll be in touch before tomorrow morning. I have a couple of other people to see.”

  “I understand,” said Erin, as she stood and shook the director's hand. Now the train-wreck was over she felt relief, a sense of clarity. She left the office, beamed broadly at the other candidates, found her way to the entrance hall, and said Hi to Saffron.

  “Did it go well?” asked the girl, wide-eyed with curiosity.

  “Nah, it was a total screw-up!” replied Erin breezily. “But it was nice meeting you!”

  ***

  “Seems I was wrong on both counts, with regard to today's culinary delights,” said Carr, nudging the cell door open with his hip. Holy Joe was never locked in. Officers and civilian staff at Weyrmouth Police Headquarters treated the old man as more of an occasional guest, his usual cell a kind of Air B&B domicile.