by Allan Frost
Too much exercise tends to lead to exhaustion. Thomas dragged himself reluctantly from the revels and slid up to hover next to Tim.
‘I cannot thank you enough for providing us with such unusual entertainment,’ he said with genuine glee. ‘However, the excitement is bound to have repercussions. My folk will expect this every night from now on!’
Tim’s mind drifted back to his college days. The few social events he’d been to always ended up with people sitting around chatting and listening to that sort of jazz associated with blue-lit, smoke-filled bars.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
He had another quiet word with Ted.
Seconds later, the consort began playing easy-listening jazz on their Medieval instruments.
The effect was instantaneous. Ninety-nine percent of the party-goers had never heard anything like it. Without knowing how or why, they began to sit (or sit as well as the Afterlife allowed) and relax to a soulful, hypnotic rhythm. Murmurs of quietly conducted conversations could just be heard above gentle music in the otherwise hushed surroundings of the former refectory.
One by one, small groups of the more socially-aware spectres approached members of Tim’s party, inviting them to join them. Both the living and the dead fired questions at each other, fascinated by their respective lives and, where appropriate, deaths. Neither wished the other any harm and, to the objective onlooker, gave the appearance of strangers meeting for the first time and simply passing the time of night in pleasant conversation.
It made for Dali-like surrealism: Tim’s guests sitting on chairs taken from the marquee scattered around what was, to all intents and purposes, a field, and each one engaged in lively conversations around intangible candles dripping wax on tables and benches occupied by phantoms, many with plague-induced disfigurements.
However, phantoms, like the living, suffer from tiredness, especially after prolonged energetic activity. One group after another surrendered to the charms of Morpheus in the Underworld and, with leaden eyelids, resigned themselves to peaceful slumber.
Wesley Pope’s prized red-crested cockerel heralded the break of dawn. Without warning, laid back revellers transformed themselves into a hive of frantic bees.
‘Quickly, everyone! Almost morning! Back to your final resting places!’ Prior Thomas’s imperious orders rang out from somewhere in the early morning mist. ‘Goodbye, Sir Tim! Don’t forget our agreement!’ he called, his voice trailing away.
Fatima, barely awake, rubbed her eyes. Why was she sitting on a chair in the middle of nowhere so early in the morning? Had it all been a dream?
Hilda was thinking much the same, although she put the situation down to having one or two too many.
George was fast asleep, as were Sarah, Cynthia and Cedric, who sat huddled near the warm bonnet of the Volkswagen, whose engine was still running and its headlights blazing.
Ted, Fred, Ned and Jed were thoroughly entranced, deep in their own jazz-induced world, extemporising to their souls’ content, completely oblivious to everything.
Well, we can’t stay here all day, thought Tim, stretching his arms and yawning loudly.
He staggered over to Sarah and tapped her shoulder. She, like Fatima, reluctantly forced her eyelids apart. She blinked, trying to make out her husband’s blurred features. At least, she hoped it was Tim standing there; the last thing she needed was to wake up staring at one of Prior Thomas’s exploding boils.
‘Is it all over?’ she asked, not bothering to stifle an unladylike yawn. ‘What a night! Some party, eh?’
‘Never to be repeated, I hope!’ replied Tim. ‘Don’t think I could survive another.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I bet no one else has ever had a bash like this.’
‘Let’s wake the others, sleepy head. Fatima, Hilda! Give us a hand to wake the dead!’
‘I wish you wouldn’t put it quite like that, Tim,’ muttered Hilda, giving George a kick on the ankle.
Fatima gazed at Lady Cynthia and Sir Cedric with obvious affection. It was a shame to disturb them. Sarah smiled.
‘They’re a wonderful couple,’ she said.
Fatima nodded.
‘Little Cedric and I are so lucky. I dreaded coming here yesterday but I was so lonely. It seemed the right thing to do, if only for Daddy Cedric’s sake. I never knew he was so desperate for a child. Strange how things work out.’
‘You’ll have to come round to the Hall for coffee. For a girlie chat. I’m dying to know how it happened! Only if you want to tell, of course,’ she added.
‘I’d love to. But don’t expect too much detail!’
She shook Cynthia and Cedric gently until they stirred.
‘My bones ache. I’m hungry,’ were Cedric’s first words to the new day.
Cynthia’s were more down to earth.
‘Stop complaining, you old misery. Still breathing, aren’t you?’
Disturbed from their reverie (and what a reverie!), the music from Ted’s Medieval Minstrels dwindled to a final interrupted cadence. They surveyed the scene.
‘Wow!’ said Ned.
‘Oh, have we finished?’ asked Jed, greatly disappointed.
‘Where is everyone?’ wondered Fred.
‘Did we perform to your satisfaction, Mr Eason?’ enquired Ted. ‘Great crowd. Never been to a fancy dress party quite like it! The makeup was brilliant! Bubonic Plague, was that the theme? How did you achieve all those effects, people floating in mid air and the like? Absolutely bloody brilliant!’
Tim took him away to one side and explained.
‘You’re having me on!’
‘No, it’s absolutely true.’
‘I thought Augustus and Elizabeth were one-offs!’ he exclaimed. ‘Didn’t realise you had so many other spooks!’
‘Neither did I. And Ted—’
‘Yes?’
‘Not a word to anyone, promise?’
‘Promise. We can come back, though, can’t we? Those troubadour guys know some great riffs.’
‘Have to be at night, though,’ said Tim.
‘That’s OK. Well, I’m cream crackered. Mind if we have a kip before we leave? Don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel. The wheel! Oh, Hell, the engine’s still running!’
He ran to switch it off.
The early sky was filled with a breathtaking array of dark blues and greens and the sun, brilliantly surrounded by a splash of tangerine, had just surfaced above the treetops.
It heralded the start of a beautiful day, the sort that makes life worthwhile and lifts the spirits. The spirits of the living, that is.
George collected the chairs and put them inside the dining marquee. Sarah stood in the catering area boiling a kettle for coffee. The other ladies formed an orderly queue outside the Queen of Hearts while Cedric had retired to the King of Clubs.
‘Tim, I want to thank you for such a great time,’ said George sincerely. ‘Strange things seem to happen when you’re around and Hilda’s not such a snob as she makes out. However, I’m surprised she and Fatima took to the ghosts so well. Good job Augustus and Elizabeth can sing. Must have caught Hilda by surprise and dispelled the fear she’s harboured since she was a small child.’
Tim was about to question whether Hilda had ever been small. Instead he said, ‘Where are they?’
‘Haven’t seen them for a while.’
‘Elizabeth! Augustus! Where are you?’
‘We’re trying to sleep,’ came a muffled grumpy male voice, echoing inside the chest under the table. ‘Leave us alone. Oh, and don’t forget to take us back to the Hall. You know you have a habit of ignoring us.’
Tim was about to say how on earth could he ever ignore them but decided to leave them be.
‘Ghosts, eh?’ said George. ‘Who’d have ‘em?’
Rather than rush back to their respective homes, the tired yet contented group sipped strong, aromatic coffee while admiring the rising sun subtly and swiftly changing the palette of colours in this delightful rural s
etting.
It was not even five o’clock.
Regular, even-paced snoring came from inside the Volkswagen van. Ted had decided against sharing the same tent as his brother in view of Jed’s inability to control his bowels which, after so much food and drink over the previous ten hours, stood every chance of becoming a hazard to public health.
‘That reminds me,’ said Tim, retrieving the digital voice recorder from the musicians’ marquee. It recorded a maximum of eight hours and would have reached the end of its free memory at about three in the morning.
Pity he hadn’t thought about taking it with him while engaged in the dispute with Prior Thomas. Still, it would have recorded a fair bit of music for Sarah to enjoy when he downloaded it onto the computer and, after editing, transferred to audio CDs. He resolved to send Ted a copy as a thank you for his sterling efforts.
Cedric yawned, prompting the others to follow suit.
‘I’m for bed,’ he said. ‘Too much excitement at my age.’
‘I think you did very well, Cedric,’ said Sarah. ‘Didn’t know you could dance so well.’
‘Don’t underestimate Cedric,’ said Cynthia. ‘Hidden talents. Last night was quite an eye-opener,’ she added, squeezing Fatima's hand gently.
‘You’ve all been so understanding,’ said Fatima with feeling. Her bottom lip quivered. ‘I never expected you to be so decent about . . .’
‘That’s what friends are for.’ Hilda was determined to get in her sixpenny worth.
George spluttered into his coffee. Was this his Hilda speaking or someone else? She’d come up with a few stunning comments these last few hours, which made him think she might become less of a loose cannon in polite, albeit unpredictable, circles.
If only he’d been able to read her mind, he would have seen that his wife was quite keen to gain inside knowledge on the colourful lives led by the Foot-Warts; it would, if nothing else, place her in the forefront of society gossip at the WI. It might even improve her chances of becoming president, filling the rather large gap likely to be left by Persephone Chinn-Dribbling.
Tim called Ackney Cabs for a minibus. While waiting for it to arrive, the men collected lamps, candles, the gas stove and other cooking utensils to make the job of clearing the site by Marquees de Sadie a little easier. The women cleared away crockery, bottles and other litter and packed everything away in boxes to be taken to Priorton Hall; Bert Nibbull would call round later in the day to pick them up.
A little under an hour later, Cedric, Cynthia and Fatima had rejoined young Cedric at Blister Grange just in time for his morning feed. Euphemia Crimp and Julio Hives had spent the night in front of a log fire watching over the precious contents of the carrycot in the main reception room, regretfully contemplating missed opportunities and what a different life they could have had if they had not suppressed their emotions so many years ago.
Tim, Sarah and the chest containing Elizabeth and Augustus arrived back at Priorton Hall. While Tim instructed the minibus driver to drop Hilda and George at their home before returning to his depot, Hilda leaned forward to give Sarah an unexpected kiss on the cheek saying, ‘Thank you so much, my dear. Last night has given me plenty to think about.’
‘Make sure you keep in touch,’ replied Sarah.
‘Coffee?’ asked Tim as they waved goodbye.
‘I’m whacked!’ said Sarah. ‘Let’s put Elizabeth and Augustus back under their table and go to bed.’
‘I just want to download the music onto the comp—’
‘Tim! Bed! Now!’
The telephone rang several times later that morning but Tim and Sarah, enjoying a rest of sorts under the Egyptian cotton duvet, ignored it.
They eventually staggered downstairs a little after one, feeling extremely tired but determined to stay awake until at least ten o’clock that night, otherwise they knew it would take several sleepless nights to resume a normal routine.
The telephone rang again. It was Bert Nibbull.
‘Sarah? Bert here. Can I come round? Now? It’s urgent.’
He arrived at the front door shortly afterwards.
‘What’s up, Bert?’ asked Sarah, leading him into the kitchen after he’d handed over a few bottles of surplus wine which had somehow found their way into the back of his van. Or was it guilt at ripping off an old and valued friend? Or could he afford to be generous now that he’d benefit from an unexpected bonus in the shape of a whole deer’s worth of prime cut venison, two pieces of which were already being prepared in the Just One More kitchen?
‘Good do last night, I hear,’ he said, fidgeting with his cap and avoiding Sarah’s eye.
‘Sit down, Bert. Have a mug of tea and tell me what’s troubling you.’
‘Is Mr Eason around?’
‘In the library. Do you want me to call him?’
‘Not yet, Sarah. Need to speak to you first. Don’t know where to begin.’
‘Just say it, whatever it is.’
‘Mick Sturbs is dead. And so’s PC Blossom!’
XXI
Sarah sank onto a chair, stunned.
No one with an ounce of humanity likes to make light of anyone’s death, even if they are relative strangers, but two at the same time makes even more of an impact.
‘What happened?’ she gasped. ‘Did they fight?’
‘Listen carefully, Sarah,’ said Bert, glancing furtively towards the kitchen door. ‘You’ll think I’ve gone barmy, but this is all above board. And I hadn’t been drinking. Well, not so much as would make me imagine something like this.’
‘Like what, Bert? You’re not making sense.’
‘Bear with me. I’ve spent all night trying to sort things out in my head and it was only because Mick asked me to warn your husband that I’ve come to you.’
‘Warn Tim about what?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘He said not to go into Corpses Copse without a metal detector to find where his traps are laid.’
‘When did he mention it? When did he die? Did Constable Blossom kill him? If so, why?’
‘Slow down, Sarah! It’s me as should be nervous, not you! As far as I can tell, Mick and Blossom died early yesterday evening. Mick warned me about the traps after I left your party.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense either, Bert. It was getting dark when you left. Mick would have been dead by then.’
‘That’s the whole point.’
‘You’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Shh! I can’t afford to see ghosts in my profession, can I? And if word got out, well, it could damage business. People would think I’ve lost my marbles.’
‘Not everyone, Bert. Some people believe in ghosts.’
She watched as Elizabeth’s head slowly popped up through the plug hole in the sink behind Bert. Sarah walked over and mouthed ‘Go away!’, ran some water to encourage her to leave them alone, then sat down again.
‘Just tell me everything you saw and heard, Bert,’ she said, refilling their mugs.
Sarah listened with mounting interest and, finally, horror.
‘Oh, how awful for you!’ she sympathised when he’d finished. ‘You’re sure you’ve mentioned everything?’
‘Yes,’ lied Bert: he’d omitted the bits concerning Bambi.
‘Have you spoken to Mick’s wife or the police?’
‘That’s where I hoped you could help. I can’t really say I spoke to ghosts, can I? And why would I be in that field anyway?’
‘It would seem a bit odd if you told Mrs Sturbs about Mick’s death before the body was discovered,’ she agreed.
‘Quite, yes.’
Sarah didn’t know what to do for the best and Bert had no desire to repeat his story to her husband.
‘You’d better go now, Bert. I’ll discuss it with Tim; he’ll come up with something. Don’t forget to let me have your bill for last night.’
‘I won’t, you know me! Thanks, Sarah.’
‘Can’t promise the police won’t ask you questions, though. If they
do, stick to the truth. OK?’
Tim rang George Young straight away after Sarah explained Bert’s predicament. It presented something of a tricky problem but, until he was able to check the facts out for themselves, there was little Tim could do.
George arrived at Priorton Hall within an hour after calling in at Priorton Police Station to borrow a metal detector and the spare key to Blossom’s police house at Hemlock. He then drove Tim to the field where Bert had seen Bud’s and Mick’s ghosts. Sarah wanted to accompany them but, as George rightly pointed out, seeing a ghost is not exactly the same as seeing a corpse.
‘Which way?’ asked George. ‘It’s a big field.’
‘Go left. We can start near Home Farm and work our way down.’
George stopped the car a few metres away from Bud’s mutilated cadaver.
‘Want to stay in the car?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Tim replied, opening the door.
They stood over the dead policeman’s body. It lay across the police bicycle, caked with spatters and dribbles of dried blood.
Tim felt his stomach churn as it had never done before. He managed to hold back the gagging feeling by concentrating on the area surrounding the corpse.
George, in spite of many years in the force, had never seen anything like it.
‘Never seen anything like it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Vicious attack. Who could have done it? Mick Sturbs?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Mick could be so violent.’
‘Blossom had it in for Sturbs for years. Perhaps Sturbs was tipped over the edge for some reason. What on earth’s that? A camping plate?’
He bent over to look at Bud’s homemade shakram.
‘Looks like it’s been sharpened,’ he said, holding it by an unblooded edge and slipping it into a plastic evidence bag.
‘It must have been a highly accurate shot,’ observed Tim. ‘Hitting the target while Blossom rode the bike.’
‘Good morning, sirs,’ came a voice from nearby. George felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck.