by Morgana Best
Sad to say, I couldn’t see any ghosts, not that I really expected to, but I’m an optimist.
Douglas herded me into Saint Bartholomew’s, the old Norman church. I was in awe. In Australia, European culture is only just over two hundred years old, although of course the indigenous population has been there for centuries. If Aussies see a hundred year old building, we get excited, but this building was something else.
Douglas seemed to read my mind. “It’s eight hundred years old.”
I had never seen such an old building.
Douglas fell into tour guide mode. “See, those surrounding walls are brick and flint. You’ll see flint as a popular building material in these parts, particularly when we get to West Wycombe.” He pointed upward. “See those twin spires? That’s pretty rare. They think there’s only one other building like it.”
With that, he ushered me inside the church. It smelled musty, and was far smaller than I had imagined it to be. I was surprised to know that church services are held here these days. I’d been brought up in a large Pentecostal church—you wouldn’t fit many happy clappers in this church; it would barely hold the worship team.
I was busy staring up at the ancient woodwork in the nave, so was surprised to hear a thump, then a child crying. A small boy had tripped over on the rough floor and cut his knee. His mother was soothing him. I turned to Douglas to remark that I hadn’t noticed the other tourists come in, but my comment was prevented by Douglas’s face, which had turned white. He all but ran out of the building. What the? I hurried after him.
I found him bending over the car door, trying to catch his breath. I avoid the gym as much as I can, but even I wouldn’t have been so breathless if I’d only run that short distance. “Douglas, are you all right?”
Douglas turned to me and I saw that the color had drained out of his face. He looked shocked, but only for an instant, and then his usual composure was back. “What do you mean?”
What did he think I meant? It irritates me when people answer questions with questions. “You ran out of the church!”
Douglas shrugged and then opened the car door wider. “I just remembered I had an appointment later today but I’d forgotten about it until now. Are you tired?”
I doubted he was telling the truth, but who was I to press him about something he didn’t want to answer? “I’m a bit tired. The jet lag is still hanging around.”
“How about I drop you home now and pick you up the day after tomorrow at say, ten, and we will head off to West Wycombe Park?”
I tried to hide my excitement. “That would be wonderful, but do you have time? I really don’t want to impose.”
“Yes of course, your aunt would have wanted it.”
I was crestfallen. Was that how he saw me, as a duty to Aunt Beth? I had thought there was a spark between us and at times he had seemed interested in me. Surely a man wouldn’t waste his time acting as tour guide to a woman if he wasn’t attracted to her?
Douglas drove even faster on the way back, and didn’t speak. He left the engine running when he dropped me back at the house, and simply said, “See you at ten,” before revving up and heading off.
Chapter 6
My boss had arranged for a pay-as-you-go mobile broadband dongle to be delivered to Aunt Beth’s address before my arrival, and the package was sitting on the round antique table on top of a hideously large, crocheted lace doily in the living room. The package had been opened, but everything seemed to be there. I thought I had better get to work and write the article on the Green Man of Fingest and email it to Keith while it was all fresh in my mind. That would take my mind off the stomach-churning feeling I had about Douglas.
I set up my laptop at the small desk in the corner of my bedroom. The only alternative was in the living room, a room I was going to do my best to avoid.
The chair was comfortable, but was orange plastic. Perhaps Aunt Beth had been color-blind. I was surprised that the mobile broadband installed rather easily and with the minimum of frustration. Technology doesn’t usually run that smoothly for me. The converter plug I’d bought back in Australia was the right one, so maybe my luck with computers had changed for the better.
Diva jumped up on my lap and purred, causing her whole body to vibrate. I carefully tried to type over the top of her, worried if she would scratch me, but she seemed content just to sit there, although I had to be careful not to shift my weight. Doing so made her meow, which I had learned the hard way was a precursor to a swipe and a scratch.
After I attached the photos I had taken, I emailed the article. One of the photos was the one I had taken of the outside of Saint Bartholomew’s, and one was a depiction of the Green Man I had found in Aunt Beth’s living room on an enormous and bizarre piece of antique pottery, which I recognized as Majolica ware. I was starting to notice images of the Green Man everywhere.
My stomach growled a few times, but I wasn’t hungry. I figured I’d go downstairs to look for the missing page. Perhaps that’s why Aunt Beth’s office was so messy. In desperation, maybe she had pulled everything out searching for the offending page. I had barely stacked up one large pile of papers when the phone rang. I carefully reached for the phone so as not to upset Diva and checked the caller I.D.
“Hi Melissa. Has Skinny gone out?”
“Yes, Skinny and Keith have both gone out. What are you doing?”
“I lodged a story on the Green Man of Fingest and I’ve met a guy!”
Melissa groaned loudly. “Oh don’t tell me that. If we were in a romance novel you would’ve just blown the whole Bechdel Test.”
“Say what?”
“The Bechdel Test. Haven’t you heard of it?”
I shook my head, then realized I needed to speak. “No, I’ve never heard of it.” Melissa was writing a paranormal romance novel in her spare time. I think she spent more time researching the theory than actually writing.
“The Bechdel Test means you have to have two women characters who talk to each other about something other than men.”
I snorted rudely. “You’re kidding! Well, we’d never pass the test then!”
“What do you mean? We often talk about things other than men.” Melissa sounded mildly offended.
“True, but we do talk about men, or the lack of them, sometimes.”
“Yes sometimes, but not often. At least we’re both brunettes.”
I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but did. “Okay, what does that mean?”
Melissa was only too happy to tell me. “A major complaint about paranormal romance books is that the heroine is insecure about her appearance and keeps comparing herself to her gorgeous blonde friend.”
“I didn’t know that.” I remembered at that point that there was something I had to ask Melissa. “Melissa, you know that article you did a while back on poltergeists?”
“Yep, what of it?”
“Well, at first I thought it was my imagination, but now I’m sure that things are moving around.”
“Like what, through the air?”
“No, I mean like I see something in a cupboard, then I leave the room and when I come back, it’s out of the cupboard and somewhere else. My reading glasses seem to be in a different place all the time, but I always leave them next to my laptop.”
“Is anything else happening?”
“Dreams, I’m having funny dreams.”
“Do you dream about one person in particular?”
I shuddered. “Yes. I don’t see him close up but it’s definitely a man. I’ve also heard him speak, I think.”
Melissa’s voice was firm. “Then you have a ghost. That house is haunted.”
“Haunted! Do you think I should leave?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized there was no chance that Keith would pay for me to go to a hotel.
“Leave? Are you crazy? This is good material for another story.”
I groaned. “Anyway, this is the most important thing I have to tell you. I’m beginning to think
that Aunt Beth was murdered.”
I expected Melissa to scream down the phone as she usually did when excited, but she merely asked, “On the basis of what evidence?”
I counted it off on my fingers. “One, when I arrived, a man ran out of her house and nearly knocked me down. Two, there was a big note on the wall with a doctor’s name and number. He came and said there was no need to call the police. Three, her own doctor had no knowledge that she’d died. Four, the note with the doctor’s name on it vanished from the house.”
Melissa didn’t answer, so I said, “Melissa?”
“Oh sorry; I was thinking. Come straight back home; you could be in danger.”
I was exasperated. “But you told me to stay here and get my stories.”
“That was before you told me all that.” Melissa sounded worried.
“So you think Aunt Beth was murdered too?”
“I don’t know, but it sure sounds suspicious. Her own doctor didn’t attend? And had no knowledge of her death? And her own doctor still held her medical records?”
“Yes, yes, and no. Oh I mean, no, no and yes. Her own doctor knew nothing of the doctor who came. His name and number were on the notice board above the phone, then the note went missing pretty much straight after. But who would want to murder an elderly woman?”
“I don’t know.” Melissa’s tone was firm. “But something doesn’t add up.”
I knew what Melissa was going to say next so I said equally firmly, “I’m going to stay here and solve her murder.”
I thought Melissa would try to talk me into coming back, but I was wrong. “Well, be careful. You don’t know what she could have been involved in. Have you seen The Bourne Legacy?”
I thought hard, but couldn’t remember any elderly ladies playing a part in that movie. I had actually seen the movie about ten times as my former flat mate, Fiona, had a crush on Matt Damon. “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“It was about the government killing off their agents. I mean, you are in England and she might have been a retired spy for all you know. England’s full of retired spies. She might have known too much.”
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled a face. “I suppose anything’s possible.”
After our phone call finished, I realized that I hadn’t told Melissa about Douglas.
I was looking forward to my nightly bubble bath, but when I walked to the bathroom, I saw that the previously locked room was now no longer locked. I would have walked straight past, but I noticed that the door wasn’t quite shut properly.
I had tried that door several times and it had definitely been locked; now it wasn’t. I pushed the door and turned on the light.
This room, like the office, was in a terrible state of disarray. I no longer thought Aunt Beth was messy; clearly someone had been searching for something. I debated calling the police, but was sure they wouldn’t do anything. I thought I should call in on them after the funeral and at least make a report, for whatever good that would do.
I was also quite shocked that my suspicions were now confirmed: Aunt Beth had certainly been into something paranormal. Piles of incense were strewn all over the floor, dragon’s blood, frankincense, myrrh, and sandalwood. Candles were everywhere. I saw a beautiful silver wand with an amethyst at the end, and a golden ritual dagger. The bookcase over the far side of the room held a huge array of herbs in bottles, the ones still standing all clearly labeled. There were masses of various crystals, but most of these had been knocked to the floor.
* * *
That night the weird dreams came again.
I dreamed I was standing in a ritual chamber. Arcane symbols were laid out on the floor. Ahead of me was the disturbing image of a phantom, a man with the number thirteen written on his forehead. I looked down and saw I was standing in a circle.
The spectral figure was raised on a low platform, and suddenly, right behind him, two giant cards popped up. I recognized them as Tarot cards. On the left was the Queen of Wands and on the right, the King of Cups. Just as a cold breeze passed right through me, the cards morphed into human figures, figures who looked familiar. At their appearance, the phantom man uttered a horrible cry of anguish and despair, and just the one word, “Help.”
I awoke in a cold sweat, clutching the sheets up to my neck. Alone and terrified, I heard the words whispered again and again in the dark: The page, the page.
Chapter 7
The High Wycombe cemetery was hilly. It had never occurred to me that cemeteries could be hilly. Back home, all the ones I had visited were on flat ground and certainly were void of scenic views. What’s more, the High Wycombe cemetery was in the center of town, right around the corner from Aunt Beth’s.
I was surprised at the lack of attendees. “Cassandra, there’s just us. I mean, I know she had no relatives in the UK, but didn’t she have any friends?”
“She kept to herself, dear.” Cassandra patted my hand then grabbed my elbow for support as the ground was quite uneven. “If the service had been later, people could have read a notice in the paper, but as it’s so soon, no one else would know. Don’t worry. I rarely saw anyone going into her house. She kept to herself.”
I helped Cassandra down the railed stairway into the lower section of the grounds. There was a magnificent view of the faraway hills beyond rolling fields, and to the right was a cluster of typical English houses in the direction of Aunt Beth’s house.
I had a feeling I was being watched, but shook it off. Anyone would be spooked in a cemetery. The minister greeted us in the most perfunctory fashion; he was the stereotypical reserved Englishman that one typically sees in Hollywood films, and also stereotypically was missing a chin.
The funeral director looked like a used car salesperson. After the standard platitudes, he extolled the virtues of pay-before-you-go funerals, and assured us that once someone has paid for their funeral, no family member will ever again have to pay a cent (or penny, as the English say). He looked at Cassandra pointedly while speaking, and I noticed her face was growing redder.
“He must think I’m near my use-by date,” Cassandra said to me in a stage whisper.
Undeterred, the funeral director continued to list the advantages of paying for a funeral in advance.
“Look, mate”—yes, Aussies do say mate—“we don’t intend to die soon, so please stop talking. We’re not in the market.”
Cassandra laughed out loud. The funeral director made no attempt to leave so I addressed him again. “When my aunt died, she was not attended by her regular doctor. In fact, he didn’t even know she’d died. The doctor who did attend called you. How would I find out his name?”
“You’d have to ask at the office.”
Two elderly ladies walked over and introduced themselves and told me that they lived in the same street. I thanked them for coming, but only had a sentence out before the funeral director cornered them with his sales pitch.
I looked around for Douglas, but there was no sign of him. I know he had said he wasn’t coming, but I do live in hope where men are concerned.
The service was brief, and I was the only one to cry. Cassandra had told me that at her age, she was used to friends passing over, so she was holding up well.
I cried more when I thought of the people I had lost, and then I cried for my two dogs who had passed on in the last few years, my Rottweiler and my Golden Retriever. As I was alone in England I cried some more. I started to cry from self pity, and then I cried even harder as I felt selfish for crying from self pity.
Lucky I had my sunglasses on, for I had been foolish enough to wear non-waterproof mascara.
“Are you all right?”
I turned around expecting to see Douglas, but there was another swoonworthy, tall Englishman in front of me. “Who are you?” I blurted rudely.
“Jamie Smith, Jamie. I was a friend of Beth’s. I assume you’re Misty? I’m so sorry I missed the service. I’ve just arrived back in the country and only just heard the
news. I hurried here. I do apologize for being late.” He handed me a bunch of yellow roses. The wrapping had a big label, “Pinks Florist.”
I didn’t know what to say. This guy looked somewhat like the man who had bowled me over two days ago. I mean, surely High Wycombe couldn’t have three attractive men. The appearance of even one highly attractive man in the Australian town where I had lived for some time was a rarity and a major talking point.
“You have been out of the country?” I don’t know why I asked; I suppose I felt I had to say something.
He answered immediately. “Yes, for some weeks. I called Beth this morning and when she didn’t answer, I went around to the house and a neighbor told me the news, so I came straight here.”
“Via Pinks Florist.”
“Sorry? Oh yes, of course.” He shifted his gaze when he said it, and looked out over the hills.
Something didn’t ring true. I looked up and saw Cassandra staring at us. I raised an eyebrow at her, but she looked away.
“How long are you staying?” His attention was back on me now, and his tone was eager.
“At the cemetery?”
“No, in the country.” He spoke slowly with the slightest hint of amusement. “Beth said you were coming to write articles for your magazine.”
“Oh.” I felt foolish. “Yes, five weeks.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
I was taken aback. I was more popular with men in a few days in England than I had been my whole life in Australia. Or perhaps he was just being polite, and if I thought of something he could do, he’d make an excuse as to why he wouldn’t do it. I gave up thinking and spoke instead. “No thanks, another friend of Beth’s is driving me around.”
“You don’t want to drive Beth’s car?” He was clearly surprised.
“Apparently it hasn’t been going for years.”
Jamie Smith appeared taken aback. “To the contrary, Beth was driving it only last month. Who is this friend that has been driving you around?” The tone of his voice had changed to demanding, and he took a step closer to me.