“Brilliant,” I murmured, conceding silently that Phillip Lawson had nothing to learn from me about dealing with naughty boys.
“His offenses have been relatively minor since then,” he went on. “He’s upset several teachers and irked a handful of parents, but he hasn’t thrown the entire village into confusion. If you’ve come to speak with me about him, however, I can only assume that he’s—”
“Taken a misstep,” Christopher interjected gently. “As we all do.”
Phillip seemed to brace himself before he asked, “What misstep has my eldest son taken, Bishop Wyndham?”
“Lori?” said Christopher. “Would you please tell Phillip about your encounter with Jemima Hancock?”
I had my story down pat by then, but I delivered it with more detail than I had before, describing Jemima’s demeanor as well as her words and actions. When I finished, Christopher took over. He recounted Jemima’s unhesitating answers to her mother’s low-key interrogation and suggested in the kindest possible way that it was, perhaps, unwise of Trevor to tell stories about the walking dead to a child younger and more impressionable than himself.
As Phillip listened, he underwent an unexpected and inexplicable transformation. His shoulders lost their dejected slump, his eyes shone with relief, and his clenched jaw relaxed. By the time Christopher and I reached the end of our tag-team account, the young rector seemed to be suppressing a smile. I wasn’t sure what to make of his reaction, and Christopher seemed equally confused.
“Are you all right, Phillip?” he asked.
“I’m better than all right,” the rector replied. “Thank you. You’ve taken a great weight off my mind.”
“How?” I asked.
He laughed suddenly. “It won’t make sense to you because you don’t live here, and it wouldn’t make sense to Jean Hancock because she’s new here. It didn’t make sense to me when I first arrived, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Gotten used to what?” I prodded.
“To one of Shepney’s little peculiarities,” he replied with a tolerant chuckle. “None of the villagers will frown on Trevor for telling a ghost story to another child, because it’s done all the time. It’s a cherished village tradition.”
“It’s a village tradition for children to tell ghost stories to other children?” I said, wondering if I’d misunderstood him.
“Adults tell them as well,” said the rector. “I’m not saying that everyone does it, but most people do. The stories are passed down through families.”
“They’re a form of folklore,” I suggested.
“They’re the purest form of folklore,” Phillip confirmed. “Some of the stories are hundreds of years old, and they’re told nowhere else. An Oxford anthropologist collected Shepney’s ghost stories in the late 1950s, but they’ve evolved since then. The best storytellers add their own special twists to the tales as they retell them.”
“Remarkable,” said Christopher.
“I’ll speak with Jean Hancock,” said Phillip, “but I doubt that she’ll demand an apology from me or from Trevor. The parents she’s ringing will exonerate Trevor by explaining the tradition to her. Jean may not like it, but she’ll have to learn to accept it if she intends to stay in Shepney.” He chuckled again. “Ironically, some of the most well-known ghost stories are set within The King’s Ransom. Take the tale of the gray lady, for example.”
“The gray lady in room twenty?” I said without thinking. When Christopher gave me a questioning look, I told him only that a woman at the inn had mentioned the apparition to me. I had no intention of introducing him to Aunt Dimity. He didn’t need to know that there really was a dead lady in my attic and that I’d brought her there in my suitcase.
“The gray lady in room twenty was Grace Dunham,” said Phillip. “Grace was the daughter of a tyrannical landowner who ordered her to marry a repugnant but wealthy neighbor. The girl fled before the marriage could take place, riding through a ferocious storm in the dead of night until, too exhausted to go on, she took a room at the inn. She found no rest there. Fear kept her awake and pacing until, tragically, she collapsed and died.” He raised an eyebrow. “Believable?”
“Oh, yes,” said Christopher. “Tyrannical fathers, oppressed daughters, and repugnant suitors are scattered throughout English history. That a corrupt cleric could be found to perform a nonconsensual marriage ceremony grieves me, but it’s well within the bounds of credibility.”
“So it is,” Phillip agreed. “As time passed, however, the true story of Grace Dunham’s tragic demise became less credible. At some point, a villager decided to make the tale more dramatic by adding a ghost. Instead of ending with the girl’s tragic death, the legend ended with her spirit drifting perpetually from door to window, ready for all eternity to flee from the men sent by her wicked father to capture and return her to his estate, where she would be forced to marry a man she abhorred.”
Against my will and my common sense, a shiver insisted on trickling down my spine. The weirdly flickering candles, the yawning darkness behind us, and the echo that chased the rector’s quiet voice around the otherwise silent church gave the story a power it shouldn’t have had.
“Has anyone seen the gray lady?” I asked. “After her death, I mean.”
“Dozens of guests have claimed to see Grace Dunham’s ghost,” Phillip replied, “but I doubt that they were sober at the time, and I’m quite certain that they heard the story in the pub before they retired for the night.”
“The power of suggestion creates the apparition,” said Christopher, nodding.
“Exactly,” said Phillip. “Like Grace, Captain Josiah Pigg was an actual historical figure. He was a shady character, but church and civil records prove that he did exist. He, too, died at The King’s Ransom, but the coroner’s report cites a putrid liver rather than exhaustion as the cause of death.”
“He drank himself to death,” I said.
“He drowned in an ocean of gin,” Phillip said poetically. “It’s a local expression, and an apt way to describe the death of an alcoholic sea captain. Sometime after his passing, a villager turned an all-too-common tale into an interesting one by inventing Captain Pigg’s merry ghost. Whenever an accident happens in the pub—a spilled drink or a wayward dart—it’s blamed on Captain Pigg’s tipsy spirit.”
“A spirit full of spirits,” I commented. “Poor Jemima. I wonder if she knows that she named her pig after a clumsy drunk?”
“I’m sure her village friends will enlighten her, if they haven’t done so already,” said Phillip. “Come to think of it, they probably told her about the gray lady, Captain Pigg, and the rest when they found out where she lived.”
“The rest?” queried Christopher. “How many ghost stories are connected to the inn?”
“A half dozen, at least,” Phillip replied, “and each has some basis in fact. In addition to the gray lady and Captain Pigg, there’s a chap who cries into his ale, a boy who sings lullabies, a pair of sword fighters, and a big black dog. I imagine Jemima has heard about all of them by now. It would explain why she wasn’t unduly alarmed by Trevor’s story.”
“Jemima was somber when she gave Captain Pigg to me,” I concurred, “but she wasn’t quaking in her bedroom slippers.”
“She didn’t have to sleep in the attic,” Christopher pointed out.
“She may be halfway between believing and not believing the stories,” said Phillip. “If she’d grown up in Shepney, they wouldn’t trouble her because she’d know where they came from. She’d know that a chum’s great-granduncle or a chap’s great-great-grandaunt invented them.”
“I wish I’d known it,” I said. “I didn’t lose sleep over Jemima’s warning, but it made me look twice at the shadows in the attic.” With a sense of foreboding I asked, “What’s the true story behind the lady who died in my bed?”
“I don’t know,” said
the rector. “I haven’t heard of her before, but I would never claim to be familiar with every one of Shepney’s ghost stories. I wasn’t born and raised here.”
My heart sank. I could have told him that the dead lady was pure fiction, but I held my tongue. Though I believed Aunt Dimity, I doubted that he would accept her as an expert witness. I had no doubt, however, that his son had let him down again. It was clear to me that Trevor had invented the dead-lady story for one purpose and one purpose alone: He’d thought it would be amusing to frighten the little girl who lived in the inn.
“I’m glad I made it to the church in time for at least part of your lovely service, Bishop Wyndham,” Phillip continued, “and I’m grateful to both of you for bringing Jean Hancock’s concerns to my attention. As I said, I’ll speak with her, but not tonight. I’m already late for supper. If my wife has to sit through another meal alone with the Bakers, I may find myself sleeping in the front parlor with their beastly cockatoo.”
“Heaven forfend,” said Christopher, smiling. “Shall I preside at evensong tomorrow?”
“Yes, please,” said the rector. “Unless the floodwaters recede in record time, I’ll be called upon to employ my skills as a dairyman for a few more evenings. I’d also appreciate it if you’d let the Hancocks know that we’ll hold a service in the village hall at ten on Sunday morning. I can rely on them to post notices in the inn.”
“I’ll let them know,” said Christopher. “Before you leave, Phillip, I wonder if you might help us with another matter related to The King’s Ransom. Lori and I have spent much of the day attempting to ascertain the origin of the inn’s name. Can you enlighten us?”
“Joe Turner thinks it has something to do with smuggling,” I put in.
“It does,” said Phillip. “You see—” He broke off as his cell phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his trouser pocket, glanced at the small screen, and jumped to his feet as he answered the call. He nodded several times and concluded the one-sided conversation by saying penitently, “I’ll be home in five seconds.” He shoved his cell phone into his pocket and gazed at us imploringly.
“Go,” said Christopher.
“Run,” I advised.
“We mustn’t run in church,” Phillip shouted over his shoulder as he race-walked toward the south porch. “As for your question—ask the bookseller on the high street. His name is Horatio Best. He’ll tell you more than you ever wanted to know about The King’s Ransom. Good evening! God bless you!”
A gust of damp air blew through the church as the rector opened and closed the stout oak door. I folded my arms and faced forward. I was beginning to feel as if our quest for information regarding the inn’s name was doomed.
“If his wife had waited one more minute . . .” I groaned.
“If Phillip had waited one more minute,” said Christopher, “he would have spent the night in the parlor with his head sandwiched between pillows.”
“The curse of the cockatoo,” I said, giggling. “I hope he makes it home in under five seconds.”
“He will,” Christopher said confidently. “Phillip is an excellent runner. He raises money for charity by running the London Marathon. He’s finished five of them.”
“No wonder he’s so skinny,” I said. “The mere thought of running a marathon makes me hungry, and I’m hungry enough as it is. Lunch was a long time ago, Christopher. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for dinner.”
“Thankfully, we won’t have to run back to the inn,” he said. “Our table will be waiting for us whenever we arrive.”
We stood. Christopher returned his chair to its place in the front row and I pulled up my hood. As we wound our way through hay bales to the south porch, Joe Turner emerged from the shadows to give us a progress report.
“No luck so far,” he informed us. “Not like last night. We bagged a sackful of rats last night—what was left of ’em, anyway. The ones we missed must know by now that my pups mean business.”
As the bishop and I left St. Alfege’s, I sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the rat grapevine.
Sixteen
With its shops closed, its traffic at a standstill, and its streetlamps rendered useless by the power outage, the high street was almost as dark as Church Lane. The windows in the village hall shone like diamonds on black velvet, but the rest of the buildings appeared to be lit by lanterns or glimmering candles, if they were lit at all, which most of them weren’t. A handful of flashlight beams bobbing along the sidewalks told us that, though pedestrians were scarce, a few stalwart souls were still out and about in Shepney.
“Well,” I said, “we solved one of our mysteries today. We found out who told Jemima about the dead lady in the attic.”
“Horatio Best will help us to solve our second mystery tomorrow,” said Christopher. “He’ll tell us more than we ever wanted to know about The King’s Ransom.”
“Unless his cell phone rings,” I grumbled gloomily, “or a customer falls off a step stool.”
“One must always be prepared for disappointment,” he acknowledged. “I’m rather pleased that Trevor didn’t disappoint his father. In this instance, at least, the boy didn’t intend to cause mischief. He was merely upholding a time-honored village tradition.”
I avoided lying to him about Trevor’s intentions by focusing on the tradition. “It may be time-honored, Christopher, but it’s pretty bizarre.”
“Is telling ghost stories any more bizarre than chasing a rolling round of Double Gloucester cheese down a treacherously steep hill?” Christopher asked. “The Cooper’s Hill Cheese-rolling is held annually in Brockworth, Gloucestershire. It attracts hundreds of participants, some of whom sustain serious injuries while chasing the cheese.”
“I know about Cooper’s Hill,” I said. “If you ask me, the cheese chasers are certifiable, but they’re not as crazy as the people who parade through Ottery St. Mary once a year with blazing tar barrels on their shoulders.” I gave him a sidelong look. “Cheese rolling? Flaming tar barrels? You can’t deny that some of England’s finest old traditions are bizarre.”
“The tradition of telling ghost stories seems tame by comparison,” he observed.
“Unless you’re a stranded stranger sleeping all by herself in an attic filled with creepy shadows and scary noises,” I protested. “Trevor may be blameless, and Jemima certainly is, but the village isn’t. I blame Shepney for spooking me last night.”
“I suspect that Mrs. Hancock will agree with you,” said Christopher. “I hope she adjusts to the town’s peculiarities as well as Phillip has.”
“So do I,” I said. “It took me a while to get used to my neighbors’ funny little ways, but once I did . . .” I paused briefly to examine my conscience before confessing, “Okay, I haven’t quite adjusted to all of their peculiarities, but I’ve learned to live with them. I even enjoy them, most of the time.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Hancock will learn the same lesson in forbearance,” said Christopher. “It’s better to be amused by one’s neighbors than to be annoyed by them.”
We fell silent as we approached The King’s Ransom. The wet sidewalk gleamed in the light spilling from the inn’s ground-floor windows. Many of the windows on the upper floors were lit, too, but since they were fairly small and obstructed by grapevines, they shone less brightly.
The attic’s dormer windows, by contrast, were an unwelcoming shade of pitch black. To distract myself from thoughts of creepy shadows and scary noises, I came to a halt and peered intently at the inn’s perplexing sign. Christopher stopped, too.
“A wooden barrel filled with gold coins,” he murmured. “What can it mean?”
“We have two votes for smuggling,” I said. “Joe Turner’s and the rector’s.”
“We also have five votes for five other explanations,” Christopher reminded me.
“I could be wrong,” I said drily, “but I think the
rector is a tad more reliable than our lunchmates at the village hall.” I let my gaze travel slowly over the sign until it came to rest on the gold coins. “Could it have something to do with smuggling counterfeit coins?”
“Possibly,” said Christopher. “Coins have been counterfeited in England since Roman times, and there’s a long history of smuggling in East Sussex. You must put the question to Horatio tomorrow. Even if you’re wrong, you’ll earn top marks for effort.”
“Once a teacher, always a teacher,” I said, smiling. “It won’t be easy to ask a question once he starts talking, but I’ll give it a shot.”
The recessed door opened and Jean Hancock appeared, lit colorfully from above by the stained-glass lantern.
“I thought I saw you out there,” she said. “Come in and warm up! Your table is waiting for you.”
Jean escorted us from the front door to the dining room. As we crossed the foyer, I sensed a profound change in the inn’s atmosphere. The foyer was no longer a chaotic crossroads of confused and frantic refugees. Though it was still a bustling central hub, the guests passing through it did so calmly and confidently, and no one pulled Jean aside to demand anything.
“Peace reigns,” I commented.
“It’s more like resignation,” said Jean. “Gavin gave them a discouraging update on the flooded roads. Some of our guests—most of them, actually—thought they’d be able to leave town as soon as the rain came to an end. Gavin had to explain that, even after it stops raining, it’ll take time for the saturated ground to drain and for the river to recede.”
“Then the cleanup begins,” I said.
“Cleanup and repair,” Jean corrected me. “We know the roads will be blocked by debris, but we won’t know if they’ve been washed out until we can take a good look at them, and we won’t be able to see them until they’re dry again.”
“So I shouldn’t count on leaving tomorrow morning,” I said with a wry smile.
Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Page 13