Village of Ghosts

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  Sir Phineas and Pettibone were aghast at Agnes’ suggestion, but Prudence smiled cynically. Stunned by their friend’s argument, the two men sighed and gazed across the lawn. AT the sight of so many people it was hard to deny her argument.

  “Good God!” Sir Phineas gasped. “What is he doing here?”

  Agnes’ features hardened. “He has a lot of nerve.”

  Reverend Dickerson Allen walked among the guests, glaring at them with eyes full of fire and brimstone. His teeth were set against each other, bared, as if his mouth were frozen in some terrible grin. He moved among them like an Old Testament prophet visiting a heathen encampment on the verge of annihilation.

  “You’re not welcome here, Reverend Allen.” Sir Phineas said, confronting the tall cleric. “I insist you leave immediately.”

  “Why should I?” Allen demanded. “This is a public gathering. I have as much right here as anyone.”

  “This is a private event,” Sir Phineas countered. “It’s limited to supporters of FOG, invited guests and potential investors.”

  “Private event?” Allen sneered. “You’ve papered the village with handbills, and I dare say you’ve done the same to most of England to suck in as many of the gullible masses as possible.”

  “You will leave immediately,” Pettibone insisted.

  Allen rammed his face close to Pettibone’s. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll make you leave.” Agnes slammed a fist into her palm.

  “Touch me, I’ll bring assault charges against you,” he replied. “Against all of you. How’s that for a spanner in the works?”

  “A spanner in the works would be if your bishop learned you had been hauled before the magistrate on trespassing charges,” Prudence said. “If you do not leave forthwith, we will all file affidavits in court charging you with criminal trespass, malicious mischief and disturbing the public order.”

  The vicar crossed his arms and stared down his nose at her. “So, the Squire’s harlot is not quite the dumb beast she seems to be.”

  “You bounder!” Sir Phineas came at Allen with balled fists, but Agnes held him. “Take off that collar and I’ll give you what for.”

  “Your words are hollow, scarlet woman,” Allen said. “I am a man of God. The likes of you have no power over me.”

  “No, but I do as…” She paused, glancing back at the others. “I do as Sir Phineas’ solicitor.”

  The reverend looked no less shocked than did Pettibone and Agnes. He snorted derisively, then turned away.

  “You are being gulled and swindled!” he shouted at the crowd who turned at his voice. “The members of FOG are picking your pockets and cutting your purses. You have been told Little Wyvern is a village of ghosts when it is no such thing. There are no ghosts! These people are charlatans. They will swindle you out of…”

  Allen felt a bony hand grab his arm and spin him around. He found himself face to face with Alfred Pettibone, more or less since the man was a full head shorter than him. He started to laugh, but got only a half-note out before Pettibone’s fist connected with his chin. Then he was on the ground, staring skyward.

  “Freddie!” Agnes gasped.

  “I think I broke my hand,” Pettibone said. “But it felt good.”

  Allen stood shakily. “Assault. Grievous bodily harm. You all saw it. I was attacked!”

  Agnes said: “I’m pretty sure no one saw anything, Dickie.”

  Allen looked around. He saw former members of his flock watching with mild curiosity, many with smiles on their faces.

  “And if you don’t get going,” Agnes added, “people are not going to be seeing a lot worse.”

  Reverend Dickerson Allen raised an accusing finger. No words came from his open mouth. A half-tomato splatted against his head. This was followed by bread rolls, various fruits and assorted canapés. The clergyman dodged and ran, pelted all the way by villagers who had stopped attending chapel when Allen replaced the much beloved Reverend Thaddeus Ormsby.

  “Well, the people have spoken,” a jubilant Sir Phineas declared, laughing at the retreating vicar. He watched the man vanish down the lane. “That’s odd…” Then: “Oh lord, what now?”

  “What is it, Phinney?” Prudence asked.

  The Squire pointed at a sedan winding up the long drive.

  “Chief Inspector Ravyn and his sergeant,” she said. “Phinney, you go in the house, get yourself a drink, and let me take care of this. There’s no reason for them to harass you.”

  Sir Phineas nodded appreciatively, kissed her, and walked away.

  Agnes mouthed: “Solicitor?”

  Pettibone shrugged, still nursing his fist.

  “Come on, Freddie,” Agnes said. “We could use a drink too.”

  “But, Agnes,” he protested. “Don’t you want to hear what Mr Ravyn has to say about the murders?”

  “I’m much more interested in what the investors have to say,” she replied. “After the vicar’s fall from grace they’ll see how much the villagers are really behind our project. Come on.”

  Pettibone wanted to hear what the police had to say almost as much as he wanted to hear what Sir Phineas’ solicitor had to say. In the end, he rushed to catch up with Agnes. Perhaps, he thought, he could cage some ice from the drinks table for his hand.

  Prudence waited for the car to stop, then approached the two detectives. “I hope you’ve come to enjoy the festivities, not harass my client. An impromptu and unwelcome visit from the vicar was most upsetting to Sir Phineas.”

  “Yes, we saw the vicar on our way in,” Ravyn said. “Did he fall onto the buffet table.”

  Prudence smiled. “More, it fell on him.” Leaving out how Pettibone injured his hand, she described the vicar’s attempt to crash the party. “The nerve of the man. He got what he deserved. Now, how may I help you?”

  “We would like to speak to you and the other members of FOG, Sir Phineas included,” Ravyn replied. “We have reason to believe a man who left the village forty years ago may behind the murders. We must ascertain what each of you might know about him.”

  “Forty years?” She frowned. “That’s before I was even…”

  A piercing scream erupted from the manor house. It silenced Prudence, all the guests, and even the dance band. A second scream split the dusk, but Ravyn and Stark were already on the run. Inside, an annoyed Agnes and a shivering Pettibone pointed up the stairs.

  The detectives sprinted up the stairs two at a time, Prudence on their heels. Only one door was open, light spilling into the darkened corridor. They rushed in.

  They found Sir Phineas Smythe, Squire of Little Wyvern, lord of the manor, in a wing chair. His head was canted at an unnatural angle. He looked surprised. A broken champagne flute lay at his feet. His chest had been opened and his heart removed.

  Behind Ravyn and Stark, Prudence Holloway began to scream.

  Chapter 9

  The FOG Thins

  “There is no reason why the séance should be cancelled,” Agnes Swanner insisted. “The success of the Ghost Gala has brought investor interest to a fever pitch. Opportunities must be seized! We will hold the séance, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  “The Ghost Gala a success?” Pettibone looked at Agnes, his eyes wide. “How can you say that?”

  “I was able to close many deals for sponsoring attractions in Little Wyvern, and I laid the foundation for establishing a special Witchfinder General exhibit featuring Matthew Hopkins’ execution of the Warlock,” she explained. “Believe me, there is media interest in that now. Besides, a good time was had by all. Mostly all”

  Prudence looked up, then shoved her face into her handkerchief and began to wail anew.

  “Except for the murder, of course, but even that is working to our benefit.” Agnes sighed. “Poor Sir Phineas.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Swanner, but there will be no séance,” Ravyn said. “I am requesting an injunction against FOG’s activities.”

  “On what grounds?” Petti
bone demanded. He was taken aback by Agnes’ declaration that the Ghost Gala was a rousing success, though he had to admit she was more right than wrong, but he was not going to let these outsiders push them around. “You have no authority to stop us.”

  “On the grounds of public order and safety,” Ravyn said. “And I do have that authority, Mr Pettibone. As soon as the injunction is issued, FOG will be out of business, at least until the safety of all can be ensured.”

  “You tell him, Prudie,” Pettibone said. “You were Sir Phineas’ solicitor, and that makes you FOG’s solicitor.”

  Prudence uncovered her face and gazed at Pettibone with raw, red eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, which made him think of a gasping fish out of water, then returned to her sobbing.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Agnes said, shaking Prudence by the shoulders. “Get a grip, dearie.”

  Ravyn looked with imploring eyes to Dr Penworthy coming down the stairway. The pathologist smiled thinly. It was nice to see Arthur Ravyn out of his depth from time to time. She approached the sobbing woman, pushed Agnes back with nothing but a glare, and squatted next to Prudence. Their heads were at the same level.

  “Come with me, Miss Holloway,” Penworthy said. “I’ll give you something to help you rest. You can talk to the chief inspector when you’re ready.” She glared at Agnes and Pettibone. “And not at all with these others, if you do not wish to.”

  Prudence looked up. She wiped her eyes and nose. Her sobbing subsided. She nodded and let the doctor help her to her feet.

  “I’ll put her in the drawing room,” Penworthy whispered.

  Ravyn nodded his thanks and signalled a WPC to accompany the doctor and her charge. The trio left the room while the other members of FOG watched, Agnes fuming and Pettibone caught between anxiety and anger.

  “You have no right to question us without our solicitor being present,” Pettibone asserted. “If we are under investigation, we have the right for our brief to be in the room.”

  “Shut up, Freddie, don’t be stupid,” Agnes said. “You spend too much time watching Frost and Midsomer Murders. We are not suspected of Sir Phineas’ murder, nor the others.” She glanced at Ravyn, her confidence fracturing a little. “We’re not, are we?”

  The chief inspector shook his head. “No. You, both of you, are assisting us in our investigation. Our prime suspect in the murders is currently…” He hesitated, wondering how much information with which to trust them. “We are looking for a man who used to live in Little Wyvern, but who fled forty years ago—Victor Boil.”

  “The Murder Child!” Pettibone’s exclamation was followed by a sheepish expression. “Well, I mean that’s what we call him on our tour. We take people to the ruins of the cottage. It was never rebuilt, that place…cursed land and all that. On the anniversary of the fire, it’s possible to hear…”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the tale,” Ravyn said.

  “Then you know all there is to know about Victor Boil,” Agnes said. “He burnt down his cottage, killed his parents, then left the village, never to be heard from again.”

  “He died, you know,” Pettibone said. “He committed suicide in the woods. There’s a place where…”

  “Don’t try explaining it, Freddie,” Agnes said. “Mr Ravyn does not believe in what the eyes cannot see. He is a most practical man.”

  “And I understand you are a most practical woman,” Ravyn said. “You were overheard to say the murders were not the work of a vengeful spirit, but that of a very mortal human.”

  “As I told you previously, ghosts do not kill.”

  “Yes, you did,” Ravyn agreed. “However, the idea that a ghost is behind these killings is good for business.”

  “Obviously,” she said. “There’s no law that says we can’t use what people believe to our best advantage, is there? Everyone these days puts a spin on the truth, from politicians to clergymen, so why not us? Anyway, people want to believe it’s a ghost and not a lunatic who could be waiting for them around the next corner. That it’s only a ghost is a most reassuring thought.”

  “Tell me what you know about Victor Boil.” When they both started to speak, Ravyn held up a silencing palm. “One at a time, and do not include anything already in your research data.”

  Pettibone looked to Agnes, waited until she nodded. “That fire happened when me and Agnes were just nippers. Victor was about four years older than us, so we never had any truck with him.”

  “And wouldn’t have even if we was older,” Agnes added. “All us kids knew better than to be around him or his family. Only the rooters ever let their kiddies play with Victor, and they regretted that real quick, didn’t they?”

  “Rooters?” Ravyn asked. “Newcomers?”

  “Just so,” Agnes said. “Shallow in the village, aren’t they?”

  Ravyn added another word and phrase to his lexicon of village dialects. He had lived in Hammershire all his life and possessed a broader worldview than most, thanks to a cadre of custodial aunts, and yet his list of unique words and phrases expanded annually.

  “That’s how they all are, at first,” Pettibone said. “Not here five minutes before they try to show how much better they are than us. No one in Little Wyvern had truck with any of that cursed family ‘less they had to, but Victor was worse than his mum and dad. You learned to keep your pets out of his reach. Victor was an evil boy, no mistaking the devil in him.” He shuddered. “He even looked in my window one night. Thought it was the Warlock, Hezekiah, till I realised it was Victor…then I was really afrighted.”

  “Freddie,” Agnes said, sharply. “You should have spoke up about that. We could have used it, even put your mum and dad’s cottage on the Ghost Tour.”

  Pettibone shook his head. “You know how Mum is.”

  Agnes sighed. “Yes, yes I do, and I don’t suppose it would have worked out.” She looked to Ravyn. “How could Victor be in any of this? He’s dead. Everyone knows that.”

  “Yeah, there a place in the woods where you can hear…”

  “Admittedly, we do not have hard evidence yet linking Victor Boil to the murders,” Ravyn interjected. “But there are indications.”

  “But he’s dead,” Pettibone repeated.

  “We believe that Victor did not commit suicide after fleeing the village,” Ravyn said. “We believe he changed his identity at some point and became known as Lester Post.”

  “Created a new identity, hmm.” Ravyn could almost see the gears spinning in Agnes’ head as she considered how the new information could best be put to use in their ghost campaign. “Devil Child becomes new man, returns to village of his birth bent on exacting revenge. Yes…yes, I can see that.”

  “Then all you have to do is find this Lester Post,” Pettibone said, “and arrest him.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Freddie,” Agnes said. “What Mr Ravyn is saying is that Victor has changed his identity again, that he is living here among us…” She paused “…and that he had no clue what name he is under now. That fair enough, Chief Inspector?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Ravyn admitted. “Do either of you think you might recognise him now?”

  Pettibone laughed. “After such a time? I barely know myself in the mirror anymore.” He smoothed his hair back. “It used to be dark, and there was a lot more of it.”

  “Victor was just an older boy to us,” Agnes said. “We paid no attention to him, except to avoid him. If I was to see him, I don’t think I would know him, but if he was close enough…well, then I might feel his aura of evil. I can see those, you know.”

  Ravyn considered the duo critically. They had secrets between them, confidences no outsider would ever know. They were more like brother and sister than friends, and closer than that, really, because there had never been rivalry for parental attention. He could question them all night, Ravyn knew, and never find out anything they did not want him to know.

  “I was very surprised when we drove up and saw the scope of the Ghost Gala,�
� Ravyn said. “From what you said, considering what happened to Matthew Nevis, I expected something much more modest than what was put on.”

  “Freddie is good at…” She paused. “Who?”

  “Matthew Nevis,” Ravyn said. “The man you knew as Jameson Gaites. You never knew him by any other name?”

  “All we knew him as, was Gaites,” Agnes said. “He said he was interested in ghosts and in the survival of an English village. He didn’t say any more than that, and we didn’t ask.”

  “It really wasn’t any of our business, was it?” Pettibone said. “There are lots of philanthropists who do good like that, but don’t want their names to get around.”

  “Nevis was no do-gooder,” Ravyn said. “According to Scotland Yard, he was a notorious London hard man.”

  Pettibone gulped. “A gangster?”

  “The last I heard, the loss of the expected money from your benefactor was a serious blow,” Ravyn said. “Almost a mortal one as far as your other planned activities.”

  “We thought it would be, but we were wrong,” Pettibone said.

  “Freddie is very good with finances,” Agnes explained. “Save a little bit here, scrimp a little there, and there you go, more than enough to settle up accounts. We re now flush, for the most part.”

  “No sudden influx of unexpected cash?”

  Pettibone wilted a little under Ravyn’s gaze.

  “Of course not,” Agnes snapped. “From where? Who do we know that has any money to help us? Certainly no one in this village except Sir Phineas, and, like we said before, he was strapped as much as us.” She paused. “Though I suppose we’d have hit up Prudie for some dosh, if we had known…the silly cow.”

  Pettibone, saved by Agnes’ intervention, shook his head. “Sir Phineas’ solicitor. And we just thought…” He reddened. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters now what we thought, and it would be most uncharitable to mention it…under the circumstances.” He wiped at the corner of his eye. “Poor Sir Phineas. He was always a friend to us, always supported us when no one else did. I will miss him.”

  Agnes’ eyes started to water. She frowned and gave Pettibone an angry glare, as if irate he had touched a softer emotion in her. She looked away for a moment. When she looked back, her eyes were dry and flinty.