by Helen Smith
Clanking? Emily smiled gamely.
“If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds like you weren’t yourself when you went downstairs. Like someone did a mind hack on you. Did it feel like that? Like someone getting remote access to your computer? Like, you’re sitting there, logged into Facebook, and you’re watching the screen, and someone’s typing something on your status update, and it isn’t you!”
“You think I was brainwashed?”
“Could be. There’d have been a trigger sound to make you obey their command. Remember anything?”
“There was the sound of the phone ringing. And before that…a tapping sound. Kind of toc toc, toc toc. But I don’t think I’ve been brainwashed. I think I was just tired; not thinking properly. It’s not like you’ve got the CIA staying here.”
Mandy stared at her as if this was a particularly stupid thing to say. “We’ve got the Belief and Beyond conference going on, yeah? It’s, like, full of people who are hypnotists.”
But Emily didn’t think she’d been hypnotized. She didn’t think Peg had been hypnotized, and nor had Trina. Someone had used something real and heavy to knock her out last night. And before that, before any of them had even arrived in Torquay, someone—maybe the same person, maybe not—had used a real-world solution to get Edmund’s technical manager out of the way. Emily had a hunch who it was, even if she didn’t know why. She walked down the hill trying to think of cunning ways to trap Dawn into answering her questions. She didn’t anticipate that she would soon be trying to think of ways to get Dawn to stop talking.
“Mandy Miller sent me here,” Emily told Dawn, who was sitting in front of a computer screen that she had personalized by sticking an orange-haired plastic troll on top of it.
“You up at the hotel, then? Terrible what’s happened, isn’t it?” Dawn picked up her phone and checked the screen before putting it back on her desk, disappointed. “You’d never know it from Twitter, though. That hashtag, #BeliefandBeyond, it’s all pictures of what dinner they’ve had and, ‘Ooh, here’s my sausages and egg I had for breakfast.’ If you want the gossip, don’t bother following them.”
“I wanted to ask you about flights. A friend of mine got a very good deal on a ticket to Rio recently. I wondered if you could match it. I think she might have bought it from you.”
“Oh yeah?” Dawn sat back in her swivel chair and gave Emily a knowing look. Emily thought she was busted. She was going to get a lecture about client confidentiality. But Dawn said, “Madame Nova’s a friend of yours, is she?”
“Not a friend, exactly. She did offer to tell my fortune.”
Dawn laughed at that. “She predict foreign travel? We ought to put her on commission.”
“I didn’t let her look at my hand,” Emily admitted.
“Don’t blame you! She told my friend Jackie Churchill there was gonna be a drowning this weekend. Can you imagine it? Jacks was all set to enjoy her hen night and then she said that. Put a right downer on the weekend ’til we saw the trick. You see it? The magician walking on water?”
“Yes. You know, when he disappeared, I thought he must have drowned.”
“Me and all. We was up in the big wheel with Jackie.”
“I talked to her afterwards. With her friend in the blue—Chantal? One of her bridesmaids.”
“That’s it. We saw the magician walk on the water, with his feet just skimming on top of the waves. Then he vanished. Gave me a right scare, after what she said. Then he flew up in the air. Honest! You can laugh but I dunno how else to describe it. He flew up to that fish place, Poison, and we saw him by the window, waving. He was sort of hovering there, all lit up. Like an angel? Do you know how they done it?”
“You know when you’re at a bus stop late at night—one of those covered stops with plastic seats and glass panels, and an electronic display telling you when the next bus is due?”
“He was on top of a bus? They drove a bus into the sea?” Dawn was impressed.
“No. I’m talking about the display, when it’s dark it’s kind of…it’s reflected back and forth between the two glass panels and then it’s projected beyond them.”
“We don’t have displays on bus stops in Torquay. You’d be lucky to get a cover on a bus stop, to be honest. Maybe it’s different in London. But if you live in the countryside, if you haven’t passed your driving test—or you’ve got disqualified, or you’re too old to drive, or too young—you can expect to get cold and wet waiting to get wherever you’re going.”
“Well, the display, it’s like a hologram. The illusion’s called a Pepper’s Ghost.”
Dawn shook her head at the foolishness of such a notion. “Nope! I’ve talked to my brother about it. We’re thinking sunken rope bridge.” She typed on her keyboard to bring up some flight details and looked at the screen in front of her. “You’d go from London, yeah? So to get to Rio, you’d fly from Heathrow. One stopover, it’d be about six hundred and fifty quid. Costs you more to go direct. Depends what time of year. You want to avoid the school holidays to get the best deal.”
Emily made a few notes in her notebook. “Thanks, I’ll think about it. The ticket wasn’t for her, was it? Madame Nova? Wasn’t it for a friend? I think he flew out yesterday.”
“Yeah. Something to do with the Olympics—he was only gonna be there for the weekend. He’s back Monday. I’d want to stay for longer if it was me. Can I say something?”
“Yes.”
“Whoever done that to your face, he’s not worth it.”
“Thanks. It was…I tripped and fell.”
“Course you did.” Dawn picked up one of Fly Me to the Moon’s business cards from a saucer by her desk and held it out to Emily.
Emily took it and walked to the door of the shop.
“You take care of yourself,” said Dawn. And she meant it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A PSYCHIC WITH A NOOSE
When Emily got back to the hotel, she waited outside the Ballroom and intercepted Dr. Muriel as she came out for lunch.
“How’s Edmund’s paranormal challenge going?”
Dr. Muriel made a face. “I rather suspect the reason everyone’s been sworn to secrecy is because it’s so boring. If word got out, it would ruin Edmund’s reputation.” She smiled her most mischievous smile. “Oh, don’t take my word for it. You must come in after the break and see for yourself.”
Emily updated Dr. Muriel on her discovery at the Fly Me to the Moon Travel Agency.
“Clever you. So Madame Nova got rid of Edmund’s technical advisor by buying him a ticket to Brazil. But does it follow that she was also responsible for Peg’s death, and maybe Trina’s, and the attack on you? If so, why?”
“I don’t know. She’d have to be working with someone else, I think.”
“With the other chap out of the way, it gave Chris the chance to get down here. Could she be working with him?”
No, Emily trusted Chris.
Dr. Muriel seemed relieved. She liked him, too. “If it’s one of the psychic people who’s making a bid for Edmund’s money—trying to intimidate him, perhaps—it’s too bad they didn’t realize they could just turn up in the Ballroom and bore him to death.”
Emily laughed. “Could be someone she knows from Torquay.”
“Interesting. That obscene drawing in the Winston Churchill room must have been done by a local youth, don’t you think? Typical antiauthoritarian gesture from someone who feels disenfranchised. Must mean that people other than conference delegates have found their way in to the hotel. Everybody and his dog could have got in through the main entrance last night after Madame Nova’s performance in front of the steps—it was impossible for the night porter to check everyone’s pass as we all came back in.”
But Emily had a good idea who had been responsible for the drawing in the Winston Churchill room. And it wasn’t a local youth. “I think that may have been Trina’s handiwork.”
“Ah. Well. I think you’re probably right—a crude comment
ary on the patriarchal society that served her so ill. Poor Trina. Never mind. With the ticket to Rio, you have a piece of evidence tying Madame Nova to Edmund, if not to Peg and Trina.” Dr. Muriel began to walk toward the Riviera Lounge. “They’ve got a buffet set up over there. Coming?”
“I’ll see you there in a minute. I want to go down to the pool to the place where I was attacked, to see if there’s a way in from outside.”
“Keep your eyes open for a psychic with a noose,” called Dr. Muriel, loud enough for a few people to turn round, slightly alarmed, wondering if she was making a public announcement. When they saw her striding toward a table laden with cold meat pies, pickles, salads, quiches and cheese, with big glass bowls of sherry trifle for after, some ignored her and turned back to what they were doing, but many got up and followed her, as if she was the Pied Piper and they were Hamelin’s enchanted children.
When she reached the spa, Emily stood and looked at the pool. The conference was now underway, so no one was using it to swim, though there was a very hairy man in the Jacuzzi. The spa was in the basement of the hotel, but the ground level at the front was lower than it was at the back of the hotel, where the main entrance was situated. Through the windows at the other side of the pool, Emily could see a sunken, landscaped garden with an ornamental pond, and a winding, wheelchair-friendly path leading up to the main road. At the other side of that, though it was not visible from the pool, there was the beach. Could someone have got in from the garden last night and banged her over the head, or could it only have been a hotel guest or an employee who attacked her? And what had Bobby Blue Suit been doing down here in the middle of the night?
Emily walked past the pool toward the door leading out to the garden. It was cool and dark here, out of sight of the pool. She heard a rhythmic tap-tapping on the floor, the sound getting closer. She knew what it was—dogs’ paws on marble. Behind her, Bobby Blue Suit was advancing with his dachshunds, the dogs’ three short leads hooked onto one thin, blue leather strap that he held between his two hands, snapping it taut, his knuckles white with the effort.
A psychic with a noose!
Three thoughts occurred to her simultaneously: Bobby might have pretended to find her last night when he was really attacking her. A thin, leather dog’s lead would make an efficient garrote. Bobby was harmless.
Emily opened her handbag and found the bags of dog treats she had bought for Shirley, Eddie and Elvis. Eddie seemed particularly pleased to see her, perhaps hoping for another taste of her blood.
Emily passed the treats to Bobby. “I think someone hit me over the head last night. Did you see anyone when you were walking the dogs?”
Bobby shook his head. “What’s the world coming to that you’re not safe in a hotel in Devon? Just glad we could be there for you, girl.”
“Why were you down here last night, anyway? Wouldn’t it be easier to go in and out of the main entrance?”
“You can use your room key to unlock a little door that goes out into the garden at the front there. It stops outsiders getting in but it means hotel guests can pass in and out without bothering the staff. If I go out of the main entrance after hours, I’ve got to get the night porter to let me out and then let me back in again, and if he’s off on his rounds, I’ve got to ring a bell to find him. But if I come in and out this way, I can be self-sufficient. I can come straight down from my room in the elevator and go back up the same way. Right, we’d better go upstairs.”
“Going up to face Edmund?”
“We’ve done that, Emily.”
No need to ask how it had gone, then. Emily looked at Bobby in his shabby suit. It occurred to her that someone using the name Bobby Blue Suit wouldn’t have to go to the expense of finding something different to wear every time he made an appearance on stage. Poor Bobby. He needed Edmund’s money. But he hadn’t won it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
AGATHA CHRISTIE’S HOUSE
Emily and Bobby helped themselves to lunch in the Riviera Lounge and went to join Dr. Muriel, who was with people who—if not quite old friends—at least felt familiar, even though she’d met them only the day before, or the day before that: Gerald, Edmund and Joseph Seppardi (though Joseph was sitting a little apart from the others, as always).
Looking around at other tables, Emily realized she was also starting to recognize people among the delegates whose names and faces, up till now, had been one big blur. There was Miriam Starling—Hop, hop!—and with her the German professors, Marta and Birgitte. Philip who fancied himself as Fred Astaire. Cheese-faced Ian. Romeo with his long, black curls and red neckerchief, looking as if he was auditioning to be a character in a D. H. Lawrence book. The psychic women with pixie haircuts and silver rings who had joined Peg’s positivity circle.
The preoccupation of all these people with the main business of the conference seemed to highlight their innocence and set them apart from what had happened to Trina and Peg. They were intent on debate, not murder. Wasn’t violence the last resort of people who couldn’t make themselves understood, who couldn’t get their way by persuasion?
“Ah. Interesting,” said Dr. Muriel when Emily suggested it. But then, she often said that.
“He’s gone!” Sarah said, running into the Riviera Lounge.
“Who?” said Joseph Seppardi.
“Tim! We went to Agatha Christie’s house and he’s gone missing.”
“From the boat?” said Gerald. “Did he go overboard?”
Not another drowning!
“No. We went on a vintage bus. He went missing once we got to the house. One minute he was there, right next to me. The next minute…I’ve searched high and low. Joe, can you help?”
Joseph Seppardi sat quite still, his hands resting on his long legs. “Sarah…”
Bobby Blue Suit said, “Shirley gets a very strong feel for location. Abductions, missing persons. I can help, if you’ll just give me something that belongs to him.”
“Joe, please!” Sarah ignored Bobby. “I know you can do it.”
“Sarah, I can see you want to help people. This isn’t the way to do it.”
“You leave this to me,” said Bobby. “I know how to handle it.” He knelt and petted his dogs. “Come on, Shirley, come on, girl. We’ve got to find this man. Elvis, Eddie, you send the word out. A man’s in trouble. Tell the ghost dogs. They can help us find him.”
Shirley stood and wagged her tail. Elvis and Eddie got to their feet and wagged their tails, too. Bobby reached into his pocket and gave each of them one of the treats Emily had bought that morning. They yipped.
“It’s all right,” said Sarah. “Joe can do it. Joe, he’s trapped somewhere. Down a ditch or something. You can find him. I know you can do it. I’ve seen what you can do. Why won’t you let other people see it? Then you could help more of them.”
Bobby appealed to Gerald and Dr. Muriel. “The police won’t admit it, but they do rely on help in cases like this from psychics like myself.”
Sarah said, “Let Joseph do it. Please.”
Joseph took out his phone and dialed a number. No answer. He punched in a short text message and sent it.
Bobby’s dachshunds started barking. Bobby was energized. “I can feel him. He’s near. Tim’s alive. Tell me where to find him, Shirley.”
Sarah’s phone started ringing.
“We have to go back into the Ballroom,” said Edmund. “But I have a feeling Tim’s going to be OK.”
He strode off. Gerald and Dr. Muriel followed him, Dr. Muriel beckoning for Emily to join them.
As Emily walked toward the Ballroom, she heard Sarah answer her phone. “Tim! Thank goodness.” Her voice was self-conscious, a little too loud. “A ditch? Yes. Well, I’m glad you’re out now. If you make your way back to the hotel, I’ll meet you here…” She spoke more quietly, but Emily could still hear her. “No, he wouldn’t. He said he didn’t want to…I know. I know. I know…I’m sure you did. I know. I’m sorry.”
When Emily looked back, B
obby raised his eyebrows at her, bemused by this amateurish attempt at fakery.
Edmund sighed as he held the door of the Ballroom open for Emily. “After you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A MESSAGE FROM PEG
Emily went into the Ballroom, thinking she would find a chair and sit discreetly at the back. But Edmund, Gerald and Dr. Muriel insisted that she join them at the front, under a curtain-swagged bay window, where they sat in a line on hard-backed chairs, looking uncomfortable—the chauffeur, the cook and the butler invited to enjoy themselves at the staff Christmas party upstairs at the big house. Fortunately no one asked them to dance.
“Why have you got such a big room when you’re seeing one person at a time?” Emily asked.
“They like to walk around, some of them,” said Edmund. “And it helps us see the space around them, to be honest, in case they try any tricks. Who’s next, Gerald? What’s it say on the sheet?”
“Chap called Ian Wallender.”
“Is that the one with a face like a Stilton cheese?” Emily asked.
Gerald nodded. “That’s the one.”
“I thought he was an astronomer.”
“Astrologer,” said Dr. Muriel. “My mistake.”
Ian came into the room and introduced himself. He made good use of the space as he prepared, walking around, whispering to himself, gesturing. Finally, he came and stood in front of Edmund.
“I have a woman here named Margaret.” Ian spoke softly. “Goes by Peg or Peggy.”
“Here we go!” said Edmund to Gerald.
Dr. Muriel made a face that suggested this wasn’t the first time they’d had a visit from someone called Peg that day.
Ian burbled on for about twenty minutes with nonspecific details about Peg’s life, her devotion to her family, her love of paisley scarves.
“Does she have a message for us?” enquired Edmund pleasantly.