Village of Ghosts

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “But Mr Gaites was not a customer?” Ravyn prompted.

  “He didn’t want to buy anything, but he did want to know all about the village,” Pettibone resumed. “I like telling people about Little Wyvern, but with a business to run…you understand. When I suggested that it was far past closing time, trying to be diplomatic about it, that was when he came out with it.”

  “Came out with what?” Ravyn asked.

  “That he had heard about FOG,” Pettibone said. “About both our research and the changes we wanted to make in the village. He said he believed in ghosts and that he, like all patriotic Englishmen, was deeply concerned that the traditional English village was fast disappearing from the landscape. Then he gave me two thousand pounds, to use as necessary for research and whatnot, with the proviso that he was to remain strictly anonymous.”

  “Two thousand quid!”

  “Do you recall the exact date?’ Ravyn asked.

  “Yes, it was exactly four months ago, last Friday.”

  “You met with Gaites again, you said.”

  “Twice more,” Pettibone said. “The next time was four weeks later, to the day, also at the bookshop at closing time. He gave me two thousand pounds for deposit.”

  “And the final time?”

  “Again, exactly four weeks later,” Pettibone said. “Yet another two thousand pounds for deposit.”

  “Was this also at the bookshop after closing?”

  “No, Mr Ravyn, at the Blithe Spirit, a private room,” Pettibone replied. “I left a note in the frame of the door, but I did not tell him that Aggie would be with me…Aggie made me do it.”

  “What was Gaites’ reaction we he found you had grassed him to your mate?” Stark asked.

  “Oh, he was furious,” Pettibone whispered, eyes wide as he recalled the man’s anger. “I thought he was going to walk out, take his money with him, demand I return what we had already been given. I couldn’t do that, though, because…well, there had been expenses we could not cover with our dues.”

  Stark’s smirk and knowing nod angered Pettibone. Suppressing his wrath by concentrating on Ravyn, he continued: “Aggie calmed him down, made him see it was better for him to have her on his side than me, her being the force behind FOG. She promised him all sorts of things I could not, interests in various attractions, access to our private research and the like. He went away well satisfied, and left his contribution for deposit.”

  “Did you give him FOG’s research files about the village?”

  “Copies,” Pettibone said. “But, yes, all of it, same as we let Simon have in preparation for the tour. Mr Gaites was very happy to get them. He had asked me about our research during his questions about the village’s history, but, well, I admit I was a little evasive. It is confidential, almost proprietary information.”

  “I suppose you know secrets other people would not like to become common knowledge,” Ravyn suggested.

  “They’re part of our files now, our property, no matter what people say, think or do” Pettibone said. “If people did not want their secrets laid bare, they should never have opened the door when Aggie came around. They did not have to let her in, did not have to talk to her. They chose to reveal their long-held secrets.”

  “Bloody little choice there, I’d think,” Stark muttered. “Does anyone actually ever defy her?”

  Pettibone regarded Stark with smouldering resentment. He had a desire to leap at the hard-looking detective, but he suppressed it, as he did with most of his desires. He could tell from Stark’s eyes he was thinking terrible things about Aggie.

  Ravyn cleared his throat, twice. “Mr Pettibone?”

  The little man snapped his attention back to the senior detective.

  “Was that the last time you saw Mr Gaites?”

  “Sorry, Mr Ravyn, I was distracted,” He cast a glance at Stark, hoping the sergeant would feel some of his wrath, yet knowing he would not. “Yes, that was the last time.” He frowned. “It’s very odd, not to mention worrisome.”

  “Because of the money?” Stark asked.

  Pettibone sensed the mockery behind Stark’s question. Between the sergeant and the chief inspector, both plying him with questions, he felt as if his head were spinning like a whirligig. Was that their intent? Was he letting himself get so worked up he was telling them more than Aggie wanted them to know? It was unfortunate he had not had time to confer with her. He wished he knew what they had asked her, what she had said, and, more importantly, what she had not said. He closed his eyes for the barest of moments, composed himself, then looked back at the two policemen with what he hoped was a mild look.

  “I would be lying, were I to deny the money was not an issue,” Pettibone said. “None of us truly understood how expensive it would be getting Little Wyvern known as the most haunted village in England. All sorts of fees and charges and…” He lowered his voice. “…what can only be called bribes to columnists, critics and other experts in the field.”

  “At least you’re saved from paying Jones his money,” Stark pointed out. “Don’t need it where he’s going, does he?”

  Pettibone brightened. He had not thought of that. The stipend should be considered part of Jones’ estate. On the other hand, there were death duties and all sorts of charges by the government. In the long run he would be doing Jones’ heirs a favour. If they existed at all, he thought. After all, Simon had never said anything about having a family. Besides, Pettibone was sure that Simon would much rather the money go to a worthwhile cause than to grubbing relatives who would squander it on drink and other vices.

  “Mr Pettibone,” Ravyn said, his voice edged with a trace of annoyance, both at the little man and his sergeant who had led him afield. “Did you expect Gaites to return last Friday solely because of his four-week cycle?”

  “No, he specifically said he would return then,” Pettibone said. “He told us he would have more money for FOG and questions about our research files. We were to meet him at the Blithe Spirit. Aggie and me waited till well after midnight, but…” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “That’s the reason we’re pinning so much hope on Ghost Week being a commercial success as well as a publicity boon. We counted on his contributions more than was prudent. I advised restraint, but Aggie…” He paused. “Let’s just say we find ourselves more strapped for cash than expected.”

  “Well, a murder won’t hurt,” Stark said. “Nothing like blood and gore to draw in the gawkers.”

  Pettibone blinked in surprise. “Yes, I can…” He looked to Ravyn. “Do you have further questions for me, Mr Ravyn? I really must talk to Aggie as soon as possible.”

  Ravyn looked to Stark, who shook his head. “You may go, Mr Pettibone, but I must ask you to keep yourself available for further questioning and to refrain from speaking to others about the case.”

  When the little man was gone and the recorder was off, Stark said: “You wasted your breath with that last bit.”

  Ravyn nodded. “Yes, gossip and petty conspiracies are valuable commodities in any village, perhaps even more so in Little Wyvern where not all ears are visible. Or lips for that matter.”

  “Nutters,” Stark said.

  Chapter 4

  A Solicitor, a Squire & a Ghost Lover

  “I prefer to interview each of you individually,” Ravyn said. “It is why the two of you have been kept separated until now.”

  “And I prefer not to leave Miss Holloway alone with the two of you,” said Sir Phineas Smythe. “Who knows what abusive tactics two coppers might employ in order to intimidate…”

  Prudence Holloway laid a comforting hand on Sir Phineas’ arm as he descended into sputtering outrage. “I’m sure I can hold my own with these representatives of law and order.”

  “Thank you, Miss Holloway,” Ravyn said. “If you will…”

  “On the other hand, I will not allow you to interview my client without me being present,” she said.

  “Client?” Stark blurted.

  Ravyn’s ey
ebrows lifted in mild surprise.

  “Yes, I am Sir Phineas’ solicitor.” Before Stark could utter a second outburst, she added: “And I would appreciate it if both of you would keep that information strictly confidential.”

  “Then you’re not…” Stark waved his hand between older man younger woman, both quizzical and suggestive. “I mean…well…”

  “What you mean,” Miss Holloway said, “is that anything other than a lawyer-client relationship is none of your business.”

  Stark dropped his hand and shut his mouth.

  “Please be seated,” Ravyn said. When an extra chair was placed in front of the desk, the two witnesses settled, and the recorder cued with the administrative information so necessary to grease the wheels of justice, Ravyn asked: “Miss Holloway, why is it important to you that the other members of FOG think of you as nothing more than a brainless ornament on Sir Phineas’ arm? If that is your goal, of course.”

  “I say now, that’s rather…” Sir Phineas started to sputter.

  “Yes, that is exactly what I want them to think, Mr Ravyn,” she said. “And the other villagers as well, for that matter. If they think me a gold-digging tart, and a rather dim one at that, they’ll be less cautious around me. They do not see me as a threat. They are more open, which allows me to better protect Sir Phineas’ interests.” She laid a reassuring hand on the older man’s arm and squeezed affectionately. “If they worry about anything, it is that I might try to influence Phinney against supporting FOG.”

  “Not likely, of course,” Sir Phineas said. “Prudie’s support of psychic research is as ardent as my own. We both believe in the spirit world, in entities dwelling on other planes of existence, which we call ghosts. The reality of ghosts is an incontestable fact.”

  Ravyn glanced at Prudence, then at the recorder. “And you, Miss Holloway, you believe in ghosts, as Sir Phineas says?”

  “I admit the existence of ghosts cannot be proved in a court of law,” she said, earning a mild start from her companion. “Even though there are innumerable accounts by reliable witnesses over a period of centuries. The reality of the world, Chief Inspector, is that no matter how much evidence we amass, there will always be those…” She shifted her gaze from Ravyn’s mild expression to Stark’s stern features. “…who refuse to believe the obvious, that we dwell with unseen entities, that Earth is our haunted planet.”

  “Well put, my dear,” Sir Phineas said. “Nice turn of phrase.”

  “With apologies to John Keel,” Ravyn said, softly.

  Both Sir Phineas and Stark looked confused.

  Prudence Holloway reddened.

  “Did either of you know Simon Jones before he was hired by Miss Swanner to lead the Ghost Tour?” Ravyn asked.

  They both shook their heads. Before Ravyn could remind them an audible answer was required for the recorder, Sir Phineas said: “I knew of him from his two books.”

  “Bought from Mr Pettibone’s shop?” Ravyn asked.

  Sir Phineas cleared his throat, as if caught in a compromising situation. “I give as much trade as I can to Freddie’s shop, help the lad out, you know, but his prices…” He cleared his throat again. “I am not as well off as you…”

  “No need to go into details, Sir Phineas,” Prudence interrupted, pushing aside her familiarity in favour of the professionalism of a solicitor. “Your financial situation is none of their business. We are here for one purpose, and one purpose only, that being to assist the police in the investigation of a suspicious death. We shall only answer questions related to that one purpose.”

  “I don’t see that it…” His voice trailed away as she gave him a half-smile, half-pout. “Well, I suppose you know best, my dear. You usually do.” He turned back to the two men. “My financial situation is none of your business. But Freddie’s prices are too high, so I usually order from Amazon UK.” He cleared his throat. “I say, there’s no reason that needs to get back to Freddie, is there?”

  “None at all,” Ravyn said.

  “Or Agnes Swanner?”

  “No.”

  Sir Phineas breathed a sigh of relief.

  “She seems a formidable woman,” Ravyn observed.

  The old man chuckled. “Too right. She’s always been like that, even as a lass. I’ve known them all their lives, Aggie and Freddie, watched them grow up. When Freddie had an idea to open a specialised bookshop, I advanced him the money for it.” He sighed. “Better times back them. They’ve always been like they are, Aggie wanting whatever Aggie wants, and Freddie doing all he can to make it come to pass. I was delighted when they came to me and asked for help in founding FOG for the betterment of the village. I knew it would work out, because whatever goal Aggie sets her eyes on, she achieves…one way or another.”

  “Except keeping me out of FOG,” Prudence said, frostily.

  “Yes, I rather had to put my foot down about that one,” Sir Phineas said. “They wanted me, so they had to take Prudie.” He cringed inwardly as he recalled standing up to Agnes Swanner on the subject of Prudence’s participation in FOG. Normally he would have given in to Agnes, but the thought of Prudence’s ire kept him from turning aside. “Sometimes a man must do what a man must do, if you know what I mean, Chief Inspector.”

  “Miss Swanner has a controlling interest in FOG?”

  “Not financially,” Prudence said. “Theirs is paltry compared to what we contribute.” She paused, giving great consideration to what was or was not their business. “I have my own money and a holding in a very lucrative legal firm in the City, not that it’s any of your business. I add my contributions to Sir Phineas’ to make it appear a single amount, for obvious reasons.”

  The arrangement might be none of their business, Stark thought, but one did not have to be a Bletchley boffin to figure it out. These two wanted to keep everyone else in the dark about their secret, so what better way to muddy the waters than to hide her independence? It made no sense to Stark, but when it came to the xenophobic, isolated and, for all he knew, inbred villages of Hammershire County there was little that made sense to him. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was banished to the Coventry of the countryside, but it was times like these that he missed the Smoke, the Met, and the wretched villainy of the East End. Yes, the crime families and yobs there were brutal and vicious, but at least they were not beyond his understanding.

  “Yes, for obvious reasons,” Ravyn said. “Quite understandable. How long have you been involved with FOG?”

  “About a year,” Sir Phineas said. “It was slow going at first. It was much harder and more expensive than any of us assumed it would be, putting Little Wyvern on the ghost map of England, so to speak. At first, Freddie and Aggie came to us asking for more funds, but, well…” He lifted his hands, then let them drop helplessly into his lap. “Blood from a stone, Mr Ravyn. Blood from a stone.”

  “When they realised they could not get more from us than we were giving,” Prudence said, “that was when Aggie pushed forward even harder with what they had.”

  “I really have to hand it to Freddie,” Sir Phineas said, beaming as if he were speaking of a distinguished son. “He’s always had a head for numbers, but how he’s managed to keep FOG going so far on so little baffles me. Nothing short of amazing.”

  “Yes, simply amazing,” Prudence said. From her tone, it was clear she would have much rather found him diddling the books.

  “FOG has no other sources of money than the four of you?” Stark asked.

  “Not as far as we know,” Sir Phineas said.

  “Nothing of any significance,” Prudence clarified. “There have been some minor donations from newcomers to the village wanting to help us in our efforts, or wanting to curry favour with Phinney.”

  “Now, my dear, let’s not be uncharitable.”

  “Nothing of course from the ‘old entrenchables’ of Little Wyvern,” Prudence continued. Though her speech marked her as an import to the county, she had picked up some local idioms, Ravyn noted
. “They want to keep everything as it is, would roll it all back to the Seventeenth Century if they could. Toss out anyone who has been here less than ten generations. Lock anyone who doesn’t agree with them into the stocks and toss away the…”

  “Prudie, you’re going to give Mr Ravyn and Sergeant Stark a false impression of our little village,” Sir Phineas interrupted.

  Actually, Stark thought, Sir Phineas’ legal bird was, as far as he was concerned, spot on about the village. They were so mired in superstition and occultism it was a wonder the villagers did not dance naked in the village square at the fullness of the moon. And, for all he knew, they might.

  “I was born in a village and have lived in them most of my life, Sir Phineas,” Ravyn said. “They can seem quite odd to outsiders but the people are really no different than anywhere else.”

  “Hear, hear,” Sir Phineas agreed. “Well said, Chief Inspector.”

  “Any donations from outside the village?” Ravyn prompted.

  “No, I can’t think of…”

  “The Ghost Tour,” Prudence said. “We must note that source. There was a fee of twenty pounds per person. Most people came from outside, responding to advertisements. And FOG also got a cut of the tab at the Blithe Spirit for starting the tour there.”

  “Yes, I had forgot about that,” Sir Phineas said. “There are fees attached to nearly all of the activities planned for Ghost Week. The exceptions are those events where we seek investors for the various planned attractions, but those are by invitation only.”

  “Been much interest?” Stark asked.

  “Not as much as we had hoped,” Prudence said.

  Sir Phineas plucked at her sleeve. She looked at him, knitted her brow and gave him a slight shake of the head. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a goofy grin Stark might have expected from a seven year old wanting to tell a secret. She sighed, then nodded.