“Aunt Dimity?” I said.
As Aunt Dimity’s handwriting began to loop and curl across the page, I thanked my husband silently but fervently for providing me with a companion who could answer the question that was foremost in my mind.
You’re up late, my dear.
“Not by choice,” I said.
Did the storm wake you?
“Sort of,” I said. “I woke the first time because the wind had stopped blowing, but the second time . . .” I glanced nervously at the landing door, chided myself for being nervous, and shifted my gaze resolutely to the blue journal. “Is The King’s Ransom haunted, Dimity?”
Of course it is. If I owned The King’s Ransom, I’d post a plaque on the door, proclaiming it one of the most haunted inns in England. Haunted inns attract such interesting guests!
“I’m sure they do,” I said, “but could you be a little more specific? About the ghosts, I mean.”
Where shall I begin? There’s a jolly drunkard in the pub and a rather maudlin one in room sixteen. A pair of dashing rogues in room five engage in sword fights when the mood strikes them. The young boy in the dining room sings the lullabies his mother sang to him, but only when he has the room to himself. The gray lady in room twenty drifts about every now and then, looking pensive and attenuated, and the black dog wanders freely throughout the inn, searching for his master. Shall I go on?
I gave my bed another apprehensive glance. I didn’t mind the inn’s extreme hauntedness, but I wasn’t entirely happy with the thought of a dead lady rising from the bed in which I was sleeping, while I was sleeping in it. “What about the lady who died in my bed?”
No one died in your bed, Lori. A building as old as The King’s Ransom is bound to accrue its fair share of ghosts, but none of them inhabit the attic, not even the black dog. Why would you think otherwise?
“Jemima Hancock told me that the lady who died in my bed comes back at night,” I explained.
If I recall correctly, Jemima Hancock is seven years old.
“She is,” I said defensively, “but she seemed very sure of herself. She gave me a stuffed animal—a Gloucester Old Spot named Captain Pigg—to protect me from the . . . the lady.”
I can’t imagine why Jemima would name her brave pig after the jolly drunkard in the pub.
“Captain Pigg haunts the pub?” I said. “You’d think he’d haunt the parlor named in his honor.”
You’ll find the late Captain Pigg in the pub nowadays, though I don’t know why you’d want to. He couldn’t protect you if his afterlife depended on it. He does nothing but dance hornpipes and quaff brandy.
“Jean Hancock told me he quaffed ale,” I said.
During his lifetime he quaffed a wide variety of alcoholic beverages, but brandy was his favorite tipple then as it is now. Which is beside the point. The point being: You’re a grown woman. You should know better than to believe a fantastic tale told by a seven-year-old.
“I do know better,” I insisted, “but a few things happened tonight that made Jemima’s tale seem credible.” I described the sounds I’d heard and my failure to discover an earthly reason for them.
Strange noises are to be expected in a very old building during a powerful storm, Lori, and they can be amplified by an overactive imagination. Need I remind you that you were unnerved by Bishop Wyndham’s sinister gloves?
It would have been futile to deny that my imagination sometimes ran away with me, so I stuck to the facts.
“I didn’t hear a strange noise,” I protested. “I heard a recognizable noise.”
Are you certain the oak door creaked? It might have been the bed. Iron bedsteads tend to creak, and your ears were very near the bed frame.
“My bed squeaks a little,” I admitted, “but not enough to wake me when I was half asleep with my head buried in pillows. The door’s hinges are loud and distinctive, Dimity. And they didn’t creak when it closed.”
It may have creaked while you were shouting. May I posit a scenario that doesn’t rely on Jemima’s dramatic testimony?
“Posit away,” I said.
An innocent, possibly inebriated guest opened the oak door by mistake and ran away in alarm when an angry stranger bellowed at him. He was probably more frightened than you were by the encounter. Heaven knows I’d leave in a hurry if you bellowed at me.
I managed a weak chuckle. “I suppose you’re right, Dimity. If the attic doesn’t have its own ghost, the sounds I heard must have been made by a guest.”
You must tell the Hancocks about Jemima’s warning, Lori. I’m certain they’ll wish to discover who told their daughter about the dead lady in the attic.
“It may have been Bishop Wyndham,” I said reluctantly. “He wouldn’t tell her a ghost story intentionally, but she may have misunderstood one of his gruesome bedtime stories.”
Why on earth would a retired bishop tell gruesome stories to children?
“It’s his way of making religion more interesting,” I explained. “In a way, it does. Children are more likely to remember a saint who died horribly than one who died in his sleep.”
Most will remember the horrible death more clearly than the saintly life that preceded it.
“Will and Rob would,” I acknowledged, “but they might become interested in the saint’s life when they’re older. Jean Hancock asked Christopher to tone down his stories, but the damage may already have been done. I’ll find out tomorrow. He may have inadvertently said the wrong thing to Jemima, or he may be as innocent as the wandering guest who scared me tonight.”
Have I put your mind at ease on that score, my dear?
“You have,” I said. “Thanks, Dimity.”
You’re welcome, Lori. Now go to sleep!
The graceful lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page. With a mind very much at ease, I closed the journal, returned it to the octagonal table, and said a second good night to Captain Pigg. His friendly pink face was the last thing I saw before I turned off the camping lantern, burrowed into the pillows, and found my way back to dreamland.
Some time later, when the distant sound of children’s laughter pulled me from slumber, I opened one eye, saw that it was half past two in the morning, and went back to sleep. I could leave it to the Hancocks to deal with their mischievous offspring. I was off duty.
Nine
No further diversions disrupted my first night at The King’s Ransom. I woke in time to preempt my alarm, refreshed and ready to face the day. The gray light leaking through the rain-streaked dormer windows indicated that I would face another wet day, however, so I ran down to the powder room to conduct my morning ablutions, then ran back up to fortify myself with hot cocoa while I dressed in the clothes I would have worn had my husband and I strolled hand in hand through Rye’s nature reserve in the rain.
Since I’d already caught up with Aunt Dimity, I left the blue journal unopened on the octagonal table and picked up my cell phone instead. A small, mean-spirited part of me hoped that an early call would rouse Bill from his comfortable slumber, but the better angel of my nature was glad to hear that he was already awake.
We had a relatively brief conversation because I edited out any reference to jolly, maudlin, sword-fighting, singing, or pensive ghosts, and somehow forgot to mention the one that didn’t exist. I could just about tolerate Aunt Dimity making fun of my overactive imagination, but I wasn’t angelic enough to put up with Bill’s teasing.
After confirming that my husband was still elegantly trapped by the floodwaters surrounding Blayne Hall, and promising to touch base with him in the evening, I rang Willis, Sr. My father-in-law assured me that Will, Rob, and Bess were flourishing, and when I spoke with Will and Rob, I knew what he meant.
Far from being distressed by my absence, my sons were having such a good time at Fairworth House that they could wait for me to come home. Bess restored my flagging mora
le by telling me that, while she loved Grandma and Grandpa to bits and pieces, she missed me terribly and wanted nothing more than to throw her dimpled arms around my neck and give me a dribbly kiss. Bill would have challenged my interpretation of her comments, but he wasn’t as fluent in toddler as I was.
At half past eight I grabbed my shoulder bag from the back of the Windsor armchair, retrieved my rain jacket from the mahogany wardrobe, tucked the empty thermos under my arm, and headed for the central staircase. I felt a pang of parental sympathy for Jean and Gavin Hancock as I passed their door. I suspected that their children’s late-night antics would have them second-guessing their decision to reproduce.
I didn’t see the bishop or the Hancocks on my way down to the bustling foyer, but as I was turning toward the dining room, a familiar figure barged into me. I wheeled around, prepared to exchange polite apologies with the fat little Frenchman, but he continued to plow a path through the foyer, seemingly impervious to the indignant glares his jostled victims aimed at him.
His victims had progressed to muttered imprecations when Tessa emerged from the small parlor with an armload of damp bath towels. I sidled up to her and nodded at the Frenchman’s retreating back.
“Do you know who that man is?” I asked.
“It’s Monsieur Renault from Marseille,” she said, utilizing the accent she’d acquired in Provence.
“Is Monsieur Renault with the tour group?” I asked.
“For the time being,” she replied. “He’s visited Shepney two or three times a year for the past few years, but this is his first visit since the Hancocks took over. From what I hear, he’ll have to book his trips with a different coach company from now on.”
Having learned the art of gossip from the experts in my village, I employed the tried-and-true techniques of raising my eyebrows, folding my arms, leaning closer to my news source, and saying in a confidential murmur, “What’s he done?”
“It’s his fault the tour group is stuck here,” she explained, lowering her voice. “He went missing for a few hours, and by the time he showed up, the roads were closed. To add insult to injury, he has a guest room all to himself. While the rest of the group is sleeping rough in the parlors, he’s got a private room with a proper bed.”
“How did he manage to snag a room?” I asked.
“He always reserves one ahead of time.” She giggled. “While everyone else is doing the walking tour, he takes a nap!”
My eyebrows rose. “Couldn’t he nap on the bus?”
“He could, but he doesn’t,” she said. “He always gets the same room, too. Room thirty-four. He says it’s restful.”
“It must be,” I said. “He slept soundly enough to be late for the bus.”
“Oh, he didn’t oversleep,” said Tessa. “Jean knocked on his door, and when he didn’t answer, she went in to make sure he hadn’t been taken ill.” She gave me a significant look. “He wasn’t there. No one knows where he was.”
“His fellow travelers must be ready to tar and feather him,” I said. “Steve doesn’t seem to think much of him, either. I heard them arguing in the kitchen yesterday.”
“Monsieur Renault was in the kitchen?” Tessa said, her eyes widening. “I’m surprised Steve didn’t throw him out on his ear. He has a strict rule barring guests from entering the kitchen during work hours.”
“I thought he might,” I said, nodding. “He let me help out, but only because Gavin sent me.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” said Tessa. “Steve’s a great chef, but I wouldn’t put him in charge of guest relations. He’s better with purees and pastries than he is with people.” She shifted the towels from one arm to the other and asked apologetically, “Do you mind if I get on? I’m working in the laundry and the dining room this morning.”
“Sorry,” I said, stepping out of her way. “See you later.”
The dining room crowd was fairly evenly divided between those who had a proper bed and those who’d slept rough in the parlors. It wasn’t hard to figure out who was who: The former looked well rested and the latter looked disheveled, disgruntled, and groggy. Had I been Monsieur Renault, I would have eaten breakfast in my room.
Christopher was waiting for me at “our” table near the windows. As if he, too, wished to spare himself a trip upstairs, he’d brought his hat, scarf, gloves, and overcoat with him. In marked contrast to the graceless Frenchman, he again stood as I approached and waited until I was seated to seat himself.
I’d been unable to fully appreciate the view from the dining room at night, and the gray morning light revealed that there wasn’t much of a view to appreciate. Disappointingly, the dining room’s bank of windows overlooked the inn’s parking lot.
“Not your sort of thing at all,” I said, looking askance at the uninspiring vista.
“Cars must be parked somewhere,” Christopher observed philosophically, handing me a menu. “I trust you slept well?”
“Better than the Hancocks,” I replied. “They must have been up half the night, chasing after Jemima and Nicholas.”
“You heard them, too,” he said, nodding. “I must confess that I couldn’t identify the noises I heard until I recollected my proximity to the Hancocks’ flat.”
“I had no trouble identifying it,” I said. “It’s the sound of children driving their parents crazy. Have you seen Jean or Gavin this morning?”
“I have not,” said Christopher. “They must be working behind the scenes to keep the inn ticking along like a well-oiled machine.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “I wish they’d oil the hinges on my door. An unidentified guest opened it last night, then ran away. The creak gave me a fright.”
“I heard it, too,” said Christopher. “I heard footsteps as well. I assumed you were, ahem, availing yourself of the facilities.”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “I was half asleep.” I smiled. “I imagine the Hancocks feel more than half asleep this morning. Or maybe they’re availing themselves of some extra shut-eye.”
“I doubt it,” said Christopher. “Not at the same time, at any rate. One or the other would have had to take Jemima and Nicholas to school.”
“To school?” I said. “The school is open?”
“It’s not a school in the strict sense of the word,” he clarified. “Shepney’s village school closed twenty years ago, but the villagers put the building to use as an informal school when the need arises. I’m told it frees the parents to man the barricades, so to speak, and it helps the children to maintain a sense of normalcy in times of crisis.”
“The villagers should give seminars on how to cope with a natural disaster,” I said. “They’ve factored everything into their emergency plan.”
A towel-free Tessa arrived to take our orders. To show that I had nothing against the French in general—and because it sounded heavenly—I ordered the strawberry-stuffed French toast and a pot of tea. Christopher’s request was less indulgent than mine, but no less Francophone: fresh-baked croissants and a pot of hot chocolate.
Tessa took my thermos with her when she left, promising to refill and return it at dinnertime. After she’d gone, I fiddled with my cutlery while I contemplated the best way to express my concerns to the bishop without hurting his feelings.
“You’re very quiet this morning, Lori,” he observed.
“Sorry,” I said, and took the bull gently by the horns. “I know that Jean asked you to dial down the gore in the stories you share with her children, but something happened last night that made me wonder if you . . .” I described Captain Pigg and the reason Jemima gave for presenting him to me, then asked cautiously, “You haven’t told Jemima a ghost story, have you?”
“Certainly not,” he replied, looking distressed. “The only ghost I’ve mentioned to the Hancock children is the Holy Ghost.”
“Could Jemima have twisted any of you
r stories into one that features a dead lady who walks by night?” I asked.
“I’ve told Jemima precisely two bedtime stories,” he replied, sounding mildly vexed, “and they contained no reference whatsoever to a zombie in the attic. They couldn’t have. St. Alban and St. Alfege died several centuries before the inn was built. Jemima must have heard the unpleasant tale from someone other than myself.” He turned his gaze toward the rain-drenched parking lot, murmuring pensively, “I wonder who?”
“A building as old as The King’s Ransom is bound to accrue its fair share of ghost stories,” I said, adjusting Aunt Dimity’s statement to suit the bishop’s sensibilities. “Jemima may have overheard a guest or a staff member discussing the inn’s supernatural side.”
“It’s incumbent upon us to disabuse the poor child of the notion that dead people are flitting about the inn,” he said. “She lives here, after all, and—”
“Not our job,” I interrupted firmly. “I’ll let Jean and Gavin know what’s going on, but it’s up to them to decide what to do about it.”
“You’re quite right,” Christopher conceded humbly. “I shall butt out.”
I was still chuckling over his choice of words when our breakfasts arrived. My French toast was sinfully scrumptious and Christopher declared that his croissants would pass muster with even the fussiest Frenchman. While we ate, he gave me the weather report—“Wet.”—and the welcome news that, although the cyclone had left a trail of destruction along the south coast, the damage had been moderate, no ships had been lost at sea, and no one had been killed or seriously injured—so far.
The hazards of being caught out in the storm were brought home to me when Christopher delivered his most alarming piece of news.
“Shepney’s high-water rescue team had to retrieve a family of four from a semisubmerged car this morning,” he said, as we lingered over our hot beverages. “Like you, they were trying to reach Rye. Their vehicle is a total loss, I’m afraid, but they’re safe and sound at the village hall.”
“Thank goodness,” I said with feeling. “And God bless the rescue team. If Phillip Lawson hadn’t kept me off the road, they might have had to retrieve me—or my corpse—from Bill’s half-submerged car.”
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