Village of Ghosts

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “While we were waiting to be interviewed, Prudie and I talked about the impact poor Simon’s death might have on Ghost Week,” Sir Phineas said. “I thought it might drum up some interest that has been lacking. Prudie thought the bad publicity might drive travellers away. What do you think, Mr Ravyn? You are well-acquainted with the public’s reaction to death, especially one with such sensational overtones. Should we promote that aspect, do you think?”

  “That’s something to discuss with Miss Swanner, is it not?”

  Sir Phineas appeared as if he had swallowed a bug. Prudence Holloway looked as if she had spat one out.

  “What did you think of Miss Swanner’s choice of Mr Jones to lead the Ghost Tour?” Ravyn asked.

  “Poor,” Prudence said.

  “Yes, poor,” Sir Phineas agreed. “At least I thought so at first.”

  “Poor in what way, Miss Holloway?” Ravyn asked.

  “He was a fraud,” she replied. “A complete fraud.”

  “Sir Phineas?”

  “Fraud is a little harsh, especially now that the poor fellow is dead,” Sir Phineas said. He cast a nervous glance at his companion. “I thought Simon lacking in expertise. I thought his books were, well, putting it bluntly, rubbish. Potboilers. Modern penny dreadfuls. He published them himself, you know. No crime in that, but…”

  “You wanted someone else?”

  “Neither of us were pleased with Aggie’s choice, but well…”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Prudence added. “Everyone good or famous turned us down, or asked for too much.”

  “Greedy blaggards,” Sir Phineas said. “You’d think they would see the higher purpose behind our efforts. Yes, we want to get our village recognised as the most haunted village in England and bring some prosperity to Little Wyvern, but we also want to make the village the centre for all psychic and spiritualistic research in Great Britain, a place where the reality of ghosts can, once and for all, be established.” He blew out an exasperated rush of air. “But all the so-called ghost experts belittled our efforts and…” He made a sound halfway between a growl of rage and a groan of frustration. “If only they were not all so confounded concerned about their own…”

  Prudence laid one hand on his arm and snaked the other around his broad shoulders to give him a gentle hug, “Phinney,” she said. “Mind your blood pressure.”

  Sir Phineas took a great breath, held it a long moment, then let it out, slowly. “Sorry. I tend to get carried away.” He composed himself, then said: “Yes, we were talking about Simon.”

  “I take it, Sir Phineas,” Ravyn said, “you changed your mind in respect to Simon Jones’ qualifications.”

  “Yes, it was quite…” The old man’s voice trailed away as good memories of Simon at the start of the Ghost Tour collided with his vision of the horror in the graveyard. “Quite…”

  “You mean the incident of him speaking to Patience Worthy’s spirit?” Ravyn suggested. The contraction of the old man’s pupils, so that whites dominated, had told him he was reliving a traumatic experience. “What did you think of him after that, Sir Phineas?”

  “Quite amazing,” Sir Phineas said after a moment, after the graveyard faded from his mind’s eye. “Had I not witnessed it, I might not have believed it. Evidently his skills as a medium and a seeker of ghosts far outpaced his ability as a writer. But, that aside, Chief Inspector, Simon’s performance during the Ghost Tour was nothing short of a miracle. He made the hauntings and spectres, the cursed cottages and the hanging tree come alive to everyone, even those beset by doubt, who were there only because a girlfriend or a wife dragged him away from the telly. He demonstrated knowledge and empathy beyond earthly abilities.”

  “A good actor could’ve done the same,” Stark said.

  Sir Phineas shook his head. “You just don’t understand, and I think you never shall.”

  “I understand he was given full details about Little Wyvern’s hauntings,” Ravyn said. “Confidential information.”

  “Yeah,” Stark added. “Secret information.”

  “Well, some of it not was well known,” Sir Phineas admitted. “I am surprised Aggie was able to gather so much…shall we say, tales kept close to the hearth. Don’t know how she did it, but…” He cleared his throat, realising he had strayed off topic again. “Even so, the way he was able to weave the bare information into a coherent and compelling narrative was…well, it was preternatural.”

  “It could have been pure blarney,” Stark said.

  Sir Phineas gave Stark the indulgent smile he usually reserved for small children, ignorant of the world’s reality. “Your scepticism is understandable, Sergeant Stark, even expected. Perhaps one day you will realise there is much more in earth and heaven than can be dreamed of in all your mundane philosophies.”

  “The only philosophy I have, Sir Phineas, is running to ground all who commit crimes,” Stark said. “Especially murderers.”

  “In this case you may be disappointed, Sergeant.” Sir Phineas made no effort to hide his smirk. “Your ‘murderer’ may hail from a realm in which you have no jurisdiction.”

  “What? Killed by a bloody ghost?” Stark slapped the desktop in his frustration. The sound was like the crack of a rifle shot, startling all. “Someone cut out that man’s heart, and it wasn’t some flaming spook what did it, no matter what superstitions you…”

  Stark stopped. He did not need to glance to his right to see the look of disapproval on Ravyn’s face. Others would miss it, he knew, for Ravyn kept his cards better hid than any other man he had ever known, but he was learning the signs and silences that were key to understanding DCI Arthur Ravyn.

  “I apologise for that,” Stark said. “It’s been a long night and…”

  “Quite all right, Sergeant,” Sir Phineas said, although the look on Prudence’s face declared that his outburst was not ‘quite all right’ at all. “It was a terrible sight.”

  “However,” Stark added, “I do believe we are looking for a human hand, not a ghostly one.”

  “You believe Simon Jones was killed by a ghost?” Ravyn asked. “Both of you hold that to be true?”

  “Absolutely!” Sir Phineas said.

  Prudence glanced at the recorder. “It’s possible.”

  “Attacks by ghosts are rare, but not unknown,” Sir Phineas said. “One of the most famous is the Bell Witch case in America. There is also the Blackthorne Ghost of Leeds, which caused a university student to go sprawling down a stone staircase. Not seriously hurt, fortunately, but proof that ghosts will take action against those earn their ire. And in Mumbai, there was a case in 1956 where…”

  “Why would a ghost attack Simon Jones?” Ravyn asked.

  “According to you,” Stark added, “he was a ghost whisperer.”

  “Well that is a conundrum,” Sir Phineas admitted. “Perhaps he was seen as a threat because he knew so much about…”

  “Speculation is non-productive,” Prudence interrupted. “It is possible Simon was killed by a ghost…”

  “Or a demon,” Sir Phineas interjected. “I just thought of a…”

  “But,” the solicitor said forcefully, “it is also possible that this is the work of a human agency, as you and Sergeant Stark contend, Mr Ravyn. Either way, conjecture by Sir Phineas or myself cannot serve any purpose I can see.”

  “I’ve been told there was something of a row when the Ghost Tour approached the church,” Ravyn said.

  “A minor altercation, nothing much,” Prudence said. “Simon had words with Reverend Allen. Most people do.”

  “Bloody man!” Sir Phineas muttered. “Even before we started FOG he was a troublemaker, always preaching against ghosts. Most unsuitable shepherd for this particular flock, I can tell you. I don’t know what Bishop Price was thinking, choosing Dickerson Allen to follow Thaddeus Ormsby. Most unsuitable indeed! I have hardly been to chapel since he was appointed. The number of churchgoers has dwindled to a bare handful of newcomers. How in blazes is that
supposed to benefit the spiritual life of the village? I have no idea how Thaddeus even worked with such a close-minded, hateful and bigoted autocrat when he was Sexton.” He clenched his fists till they were white. His face purpled. “A Sexton! I ask you, did you ever hear of a Sexton being given…”

  Sir Phineas paused, unclenching his hands and gripping the edge of the desk before him. The mottling on his face faded and his breaths came slower, more even.

  “Are you well?” Ravyn asked. “If you need a break…”

  “No, thank you, Mr Ravyn.” The Squire managed a weak and self-conscious smile. “I should not let myself get so worked up over that man but he would try the patience of a saint.” He ever-so-gently elbowed Prudence. “And I am no saint.”

  The solicitor blushed. It may be none of his business, Stark thought, but he felt a certain measure of vindication, not to mention satisfaction, at seeing Prudence Holloway’s discomfiture.

  “What was said during the argument between Reverend Allen and Mr Jones?” Ravyn asked.

  Sir Phineas looked at Prudence. “I don’t know that I would call it an argument. Not exactly.”

  “No, not an argument,” the solicitor agreed. Her brow furrowed. “The vicar popped up from behind the wall like a demented jack-in-the-box, ranting we were not to enter the church. He made quite a spectacle of himself. Some of the people near us made sounds as if they thought he might be a real ghost. Simon played upon that.”

  “As if we did not already know not to enter the church,” Sir Phineas grumbled. “And we had informed Simon of the restriction the vicar had pushed through the Council.”

  “Had Jones actually told anyone on the Ghost Tour they would be able to enter the church?” Ravyn asked.

  “No, he was stringing them along,” Sir Phineas explained. “He wove the prohibition against entering the church into his narrative, but he had no intent to enter.”

  “Telling people something is forbidden is the best way to keep their attention,” Prudence said.

  “Reverend Allen knew Simon was not going to bring the Ghost Tour inside his precious church,” Sir Phineas continued as if no other had spoken. “That was just him being all contrary about it. It wasn’t enough for people to know they were not going inside, he had to make sure they heard the pronouncement from his own holy lips.” He lapsed into a brooding silence. “Not even a real vicar, that one, just a jumped-up sexton putting on airs and covering his hateful ways with a sanctimonious cloak.” His head drooped and he uttered a weary sigh. “If we had been allowed in, perhaps Simon… Well, we’ll never know.”

  “Gentlemen, all this has been quite an ordeal for Sir Phineas,” Prudence said. “His age.” She gently pressed his arm to suppress any argument from him. “If you have no further questions…”

  “Just one more,” Ravyn said. “For the time being.”

  “Yes?”

  “What did you think of Mr Jones’ reaction to the appearance of the vicar?” Ravyn asked. “Both of you, please.”

  “I think Simon rather took in stride, if you know what I mean,” Sir Phineas replied. “The way the vicar was acting, no one would have blamed Simon at all had he got all shirty with His Holiness. I thought Simon handled it well, taking a mocking tone, deriding the way the vicar popped up, giving him not-so-gentle gibes.”

  “Had they met before?” Ravyn asked.

  “No, but we told Simon all about the vicar,” Sir Phineas said. “Since Reverend Allen is an enemy of FOG, going round for a visit seemed pointless. He may be the village’s spiritual leader, but he’s a pompous git, if you ask me.” He paused. “I think I shall write the Bishop again and ask that a more open-minded and charitable man be put in charge of St Barnabas. That is exactly what I shall do. And this time I shall mention the building fund and how contributions might be sparse this time.”

  “Besides, Simon had no time to socialise,” Prudence said, leaving Sir Phineas to grumble on. “It was imperative he learn, by rote, all the lore of the village before the Ghost Tour.”

  “I understand Mr Jones did make time to socialise,” Ravyn said.

  “He was a most social bloke, so we’ve been told,” Stark added.

  “Simon could be very charming,” Prudence admitted, earning raised eyebrows from Sir Phineas. “That, and his attentiveness to a few neglected wives did lead to some…socialising. His status as a celebrity, at least in a place like Little Wyvern, also made him more attractive than he might have been otherwise.”

  “But Simon was always very discreet,” Sir Phineas pointed out. “At least, for the most part.”

  “It was odd,” Prudence said is a distracted manner.

  “What was odd, Miss Holloway?” Ravyn asked.

  “Simon’s interest in the church,” she replied. “Even though the church was not on the tour, he insisted on knowing everything about it. Not just the apparitions associated with it, but its history and its architecture. I didn’t think it productive, prepping for a location not part of the tour.”

  “The man was a professional, Prudie,” Sir Phineas said. “He was hired to bring the dead of Little Wyvern to life for visitors who might know nothing at all about the village. I think he did so marvellously, and I shall miss him. If he was brought down by a human hand, though I do not believe he was, you must catch and punish the blaggard. Promise me that, Chief Inspector.”

  “On that, you may rest assured, Sir Phineas,” Ravyn said. “We shall do exactly that.”

  “Thank you,” the Squire said. “If felled by a mortal hand, justice might bring some measure of peace to Simon’s tortured spirit.” He shuddered violently. “My God!”

  Prudence took one of his hands in hers. “You’re cold as ice! What is it, Phinney?”

  “I had a dread thought,” Sir Phineas said, voice barely audible. “No matter the hand, fleshly or ectoplasmic, Simon might now be himself a vengeful wraith. Others might be in dire peril, not just the murderer.” He looked at them. “Perhaps the two of you.”

  “I think we can take care of ourselves.” Stark wanted to quote a line from a popular American film, mocking the two FOG members, but refrained. It would have been unprofessional, especially with the recorder running, but also because he felt an odd wariness. They were talking utter rot, these two, but something in Sir Phineas’ tone made him glance about surreptitiously, as if the room’s dark corners might actually hide dangers unseen. “We’ll be fine.”

  Sir Phineas looked doubtful. “I hope so, Sergeant.”

  “Is there anything else you can add to what you have already told us, either now or in preliminary statements to the constables?” Ravyn asked. “Anyone you might have noticed being where they should not have been? Any actions which might have, at the time, appeared quite natural, but now raise questions in your minds?”

  Solicitor and squire shook their heads. “No.”

  “Very well.”

  Prudence raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  “Yes, that will be all for the moment,” Ravyn replied. “Thank you for your cooperation. I must ask you to not leave the village without informing us and, also, to refrain from speaking to others about anything we discussed.”

  “Of course, Mr Ravyn,” Sir Phineas said.

  “As you wish, Chief Inspector.”

  Stark waited till the door was shut and the recorder switched off. “Could have knocked me over with a feather, her being his solicitor on the sly. I thought they were…”

  “Everyone knows what you thought, Stark.”

  Stark compressed his lips, tilted his chin up a bit, and drew in a breath through his nose. He had known for awhile he would draw a lash from the guv’nor for his remark. What he did not know was how deep the lash would bite or how many stripes would follow.

  “And you might still be correct,” Ravyn continued. “Her status as a solicitor—do confirm that when you run form and background checks on everyone—does not preclude her from being the vamp she lets people think she is. The best disguise is no disgui
se at all. She claims it is a way of making people drop their guards around her, but it may also be her true nature.”

  Stark did not roll his eyes, but he wanted to. One of the bees that most often flew into Ravyn’s bonnet was the inflexibility of human nature. An old lag was once a child, but in Ravyn’s view the traits that would propel him into a life of crime, repeated stays in prison at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and, more likely than not, a bad end, were present from earliest days. Likewise, a manipulative child who grew into a manipulative woman could become a solicitor, but would not be able to shed herself of her entangling nature; nor could a petty swindler and blackmailer escape the threads of his life by calling himself the ‘ghosthunter general’ and publishing a couple of rubbish books. While Stark admitted there were aspects of his own personality unchanged by the passage of years, he was who he was by dint of his own decisions, good or bad, and not because he had some ‘nature’ thrusting him toward a predetermined future.

  “It’s hardly predestination, Sergeant,” Ravyn said.

  Stark realised his attention had drifted. “Sir? Sorry?”

  “It’s your tell, Stark, the slightly glazed look you get when challenged by an idea,” Ravyn said. “Most of the time you stay focused, admirably so, but you often let some stray comment divert you into a contemplative frame of mind.” He paused. “Perhaps after this case is sorted out, you should take a few days off.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I am…” He did not like the way Ravyn’s mild gaze seemed to penetrate his bulwark of words. “You might be right, sir. We’ll see.”

  Ravyn nodded. “Your interview style has worked fairly well to this point, but you might want to ratchet down the confrontational tone for our last witness.”

  “The daft bird.” He noted Ravyn’s expression. “Yes, sir. Kid gloves it is, sir.”

  “Have Miss Wallace brought in.” As the sergeant reached the door, Ravyn added: “Gloves may be slipped off as easily as pulled on; the important thing is to know when to do which.”

  Stark retuned moments later. He held the door as the wan form of Madeline Wallace was escorted in by WPC Karen Webber. The police constable whispered in Stark’s ear.