‘No Cheryl?’ Laura’s heart sank, this was going to be a fruitless mission.
‘She had to drive Lance to the doctor. I shan’t be long.’ As Sir Repton hurried out, Laura excused herself to the Canon and took the opportunity of going upstairs to check the writing desk. It too was a wasted journey and revealed nothing. She returned downstairs to the sitting room where Canon Frank was languishing, like a Roman general on one of the sofas. Laura sat down in the velvet tub chair and put her handbag on the floor beside her. ‘Repton shouldn’t have to be making the tea at his age,’ she said.
‘I agree. But he is buoyed by the idea of the séance.’ The Canon’s eyebrows rose at an angle. ‘Getting to the bottom of his wife’s death will be a weight off his shoulders. He feels that if he can understand why it happened and specifically what the serving wench is now foretelling, he will be able to take control of the situation. Forearm himself; I’m all for it.’
‘It’s this sort of thing not against church teaching?’
‘I take a nondenominational approach; we must not abandon the Wiccas after all. And when it comes to helping such a tortured soul, God does his work in mysterious ways.’
They heard the door handle rattle and Sir Repton veered in at the helm of the wooden tea trolley. His progress was not made any easier by the immense Egyptian headdress he had donned, on top of which a golden cobra swayed. Beneath this he wore a floor length purple robe tied at the waist with a yellow dressing gown cord.
‘Heavens Repton. What’s all this about?’ Laura asked.
‘Thought I’d better do the thing properly. I’ve been researching the readings of Aleister Crowley.’ He parked the trolley next to the sofa opposite Canon Frank. ‘Earl Grey?’
‘Whatever next?’ Laura laughed. ‘Ectoplasm? Levitation?’
‘Sir Repton is deadly serious, Lady Boxford. Two sugars please. It’s all hands to the bridge.’
‘Bridge, that’s it. Now where did I put the bridge table? Frank, could you pour?’ Sir Repton hurried off again.
Laura and Canon Frank were finishing their tea when Sir Repton returned with a collapsible card table covered in green baize that he erected in front of the window seat. Around it he placed two more chairs that were standing either side of the tallboy.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked, opening one of the drawers of the tallboy. He brought out a small Duralex glass tumbler and an envelope. He placed the glass upside down on the table and opened the envelope, out of which he took bits of paper. These he placed randomly in a circle around the table.
Laura walked over and inspected the letters of the alphabet that he had written in unsteady black ink on each of them.
‘You have been busy,’ she said, sitting down on the window seat.
‘Curtains please, Laura, behind you. Canon Frank, will you join us?’
Laura looked out of the rain-lashed window. The sky was leaden, a deep bruise blue. At her feet, Parker began to whine. ‘Don’t you think it’s dark enough already?’ She picked him up and sat him beside her.
‘I don’t believe Rosalind will communicate in anything other than candlelight,’ Sir Repton said, producing a single white china candlestick that he placed in the middle of the table. The cobra wobbled like a pecking hen as he searched the pocket of his robe and brought out a box of matches. As Laura pulled the thick brocade curtains closed behind her, Sir Repton lit the wick. A tiny flame spluttered in the darkness. Now Sybil Thorndike began to whine. Laura picked up the dachshund and placed her next to Parker.
‘But this won’t work,’ Canon Frank said.
‘Why not?’ Sir Repton asked.
‘Well if the glass starts moving, it’s going to knock over the candle.’
‘I see. Yes. That would be unfortunate.’ Sir Repton disappeared into the shadows. They heard a thud and he returned with the tripod table on which the Buddha tea caddy had sat. ‘This will do the trick,’ he said putting it beside his chair, and placing the candle on it.
‘Now, I think we are ready.’ He rubbed his hands together and sat down at the table.
Laura felt her arm tiring and she was feeling increasingly chilly as the minutes ticked by. Her little finger, resting on the upturned glass in the middle of the table, was developing cramp as Sir Repton, for the umpteenth time called out, imploring Rosalind to make contact. But just as she was thinking, this is going nowhere; she felt a slight pressure on her finger… as if it was being pushed.
Slowly the glass moved towards her. Laura’s finger was so numb it was hard to tell from which direction the pressure was being exerted. Her finger fell away from the glass as it came to a halt in front of her.
‘Holy Father! What’s it stopped at? This candlelight’s not strong enough to see,’ Canon Frank said.
Which of them had done it? Was the Canon trying to placate Sir Repton? Or was it Sir Repton, playing out his fantasy? ‘Wait, I’ve got a torch somewhere.’ Laura fumbled in her bag and located it. She pressed the switch and directed the beam at the little piece of paper in front of her.
‘Y,’ Canon Frank said. ‘Couldn’t be clearer. We’ll take that as a yes.’
It must be him.
‘A definite invocation.’ Sir Repton raised his head to the ornate plasterwork ceiling. ‘At last, she is with us,’ he gasped, clutching his headdress.
No, it must be him, Laura thought, as they resumed their positions.
‘What shall I ask her now?’ Sir Repton’s voice was high with anticipation.
‘We could ask her how she managed to hold Lady Willowby under.’ There was a certain hint of relish in the Canon’s voice.
‘How very tasteless,’ Laura said.
‘Forgive my forthrightness but we must strike while the iron is hot.’
‘Oh my, I feel my innards all atremble. Are you sure about that Frank?’
‘Don’t be silly, both of you,’ Laura found herself saying. ‘Do you want to frighten her away the minute we have her attention?’
‘You are so right Laura,’ Sir Repton said. ‘Thank goodness we have you here.’
‘Point taken.’ The candle flickered as Canon Frank rubbed his chin. ‘Ask her…Ask her if she had the delivery of mead sent to the house.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Rosalind… Fair Rosalind… Would you join us in a wassail? Are you pining for a haunch of venison? Or is it a tankard of mead you’re after?’
‘For goodness sake Repton,’ Laura said. ‘Your riddles will be quite beyond her. Ask a straightforward question.’
‘I agree, keep it simple,’ the Canon said. ‘Don’t ask her to make choices or the list may be endless. You know what women can be like.’
‘I take that as a sexist remark, Canon,’ Laura said. Keep it simple, so the only letter you need push us towards is the “Y”. It’s you all right.
‘My sincere apologies, Lady Boxford.’
Sir Repton cleared his throat. ‘Rosalind, my dear, did you order a certain beverage from Norfolk?’ His voice quivered in the gloom. ‘Tell me or I shall have to take you over my knee and give you a good…’
Canon Frank coughed. ‘That’s enough Repton, now it’s you trying to frighten her off. Just ask her if she ordered the mead.’
Sir Repton rephrased the question and for a few minutes all Laura could hear was the steady breathing of the Canon, as if a doctor was checking his lungs with a stethoscope. But then… Again Laura felt a pressure on her finger. But was it coming from a different angle? The glass lurched towards her and came to a halt. She shone the torch. The battery was fading.
‘Y again. I’d say she definitely ordered the mead,’ she said. This was absurd. She was now convinced that it was Sir Repton who was pushing the glass. Still, if that was the game he wanted to play…
Laura was thinking fast now, she had to take control. ‘Ask her if she ordered the mead as a clue.’
‘What?’ Sir Repton said.
‘Well, that’s what we’re here to find out isn’t it? Why she’s doing it.’
> ‘Good thinking, Lady Boxford,’ the Canon said.
‘All right then.’ Sir Repton resumed his communications. ‘Rosalind my dear, now clear your head and tighten your corsets, was the mead intended as a hint?’
Again they waited. Again the glass moved and again with the aid of the now dimming torch they saw that it had come to a halt at the Y.
‘Emphatically a “yes”.’ Sir Repton was overcome with joy. ‘The mead has meaning. Do you believe me now?’
Laura scanned the table to ascertain the whereabouts of the N. It was placed directly between the Canon and Sir Repton. Neither of them, singly, would manage to push the glass there without her aid. Her mind raced as she replaced the glass in the middle of the table. What could they ask, that the so-called “ghost” would answer in the negative? Had she killed Matilda was the obvious question but Laura had already scotched that idea.
‘We know Rosalind’s character is malevolent but she also has a mischievous side to her and I don’t believe killing a pet in the eighteenth century would carry nearly the same weight as nowadays, so I think we could ask her if she killed Yorick.’ It was a tenuous argument. Laura attempted to back it up. ‘I think we have her confidence now.’
‘But we know she killed Yorick,’ Sir Repton said. ‘Why would we ask her that?’
‘She may not want to admit to it. It will be a way of seeing if she is reliable.’ Laura was not entirely sure of her own logic. ‘Fingers on the glass, gentlemen.’ She tapped the table to hurry them along.
‘I see.’ Sir Repton sounded equally unconvinced, but he joined Laura and the Canon, replacing his finger on the glass. ‘Rosalind, my dear,’ he whispered. ‘Did you by chance do away with my saluki?
The glass remained motionless.
Whoever it was, this has foxed them, Laura thought but then she felt a sideways pressure. She put all the force left in her little finger against it. Canon Frank grunted. It had to be him. She felt renewed pressure and again resisted. Sir Repton had begun panting. Finally, with one short push against her, the glass slid away to the left. She flashed the torch down to where it had stopped.
‘It’s on the R,’ she said, as the torch died.
‘Blast!’
She distinctly heard the Canon say it under his breath.
‘Oh woe,’ Sir Repton cried out. ‘The R must indicate my name. It is a portent. It must indicate she thinks it’s me, that I am somehow responsible for Yorick’s death.’ He let out a moan. ‘I can feel a terrible strangulation descending upon my nether regions,’ he bewailed and rose from the table. He swung round and knocked over the candle. The already dim interior was plunged into darkness.
Laura heard a crash and at her side, Sybil Thorndike began to howl. ‘Unsex me here,’ Sir Repton mewled from the direction of the floor.
Another crash ensued. Laura fumbled behind her to find the edge of the curtains. Sybil Thorndike howled louder and Parker began to bark. A long low metallic bong struck up and then she heard the Canon invoke the name of the Lord. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he called out. ‘I think I’ve broken my ankle.’
Laura pulled one curtain open, but at that moment the lights came on. She looked down at the table and realised that the glass was not actually at the R at all but at the H. Still it mattered little as the whole thing had been such a farce.
‘What on earth are you lot up to?’ Cheryl said, standing in the open doorway.
‘You may well ask.’ Laura got up and surveyed the scene.
Sir Repton was lying beside the fireplace. Next to him an ornamental brass gong was swaying, its rhythm gently decreasing by the moment as if trying to conceal its own complicity in the drama.
Sir Repton sat up and rubbed his head. ‘Where’s my turban?’
‘In the grate,’ Laura said.
He picked it up and dusted the ash from it. ‘Are you all right Canon?’ he asked weakly, as he sat down in a daze on the club fender.
Canon Frank was lying in a position not dissimilar to a prone Michelangelo’s David beside a sofa, one foot stuck under the low table covered in magazines and books.
Cheryl walked over to it with the purpose of a district nurse. ‘You lift this end, Mrs Boxford,’ she said.
‘It’s Lady…’ Sir Repton’s voice faded and he began to cough.
‘You stay where you are, Repton.’ Cheryl wagged a finger at him. ‘I’ll deal with you in a minute.’
As Laura lifted the table – magazines and books tipping onto the floor – Cheryl grabbed the Canon’s trouser turn-up and pulled his leg clear.
He cried out in pain then sat up to inspect his ankle. ‘Great Scott, it’s the size of a tree trunk. Call an ambulance.’ He toppled sideways, his head taking a glancing blow on a leather bound volume of Debrett’s Peerage, as he fainted clean away.
‘Frank, you’re a bloody nuisance,’ Cheryl said, as she picked up the phone and dialled 999.
Chapter twelve
‘I don’t know what the Canon thought he was up to, but really Repton, you must stop all this hysterical nonsense.’ Laura paced up and down as Sir Repton sat on the sofa nursing his turban. They had seen Frank Holliday safely escorted to the ambulance and he was now on his way to Woldham Hospital.
‘As I said before,’ Laura continued. ‘I understand the grieving process but this ghost business is making you paranoid and you are reading things into normal everyday occurrences.’
‘But the mead…’ Sir Repton hitched up the purple robe as he crossed his legs.
‘I’m sure you’ll find it was an innocent mistake; the wrong delivery address or something. Have you asked Cheryl about it? Perhaps she ordered it for herself?’
‘Cheryl drinking mead?’
‘It’s not impossible but either way, I think we can say with some certainty that for whatever reason, Canon Frank was manipulating the séance. Unless of course he killed Yorick; you know the glass didn’t stop at the R as you thought but actually the H. H for Holliday.’
Sir Repton’s jaw dropped. ‘No no, that couldn’t be.’
‘I’ll take your word for it but there’s probably a perfectly rational reason why the dog died. Did Cheryl and Lance, for example, get on with him?’
‘Yorrick was inclined to leaving little messages about the place that a person, if they were not aware, may have found they trod in. Both Lance and Cheryl did on occasion find this something of a nuisance.’
Nuisance? The word rang in Laura’s ears. ‘So one of them trod in dogs mess perhaps while undertaking household chores and decided to shut him in the billiard room.’ Or more than likely having a game themselves to while away their idle hours. Who knows even a party? ‘Then they simply forgot about him.’
‘But I know it was Rosalind.’
‘How?’
‘I had smelled tobacco in the billiard room shortly after. I knew it to be Rosalind, and Cheryl reminded me of the eighteenth-century habit of ladies smoking pipes.’
Laura was about to point out that Lance smoked but foresaw a lengthy discussion on the difference in the aroma of ancient and modern Mellow Virginia. ‘Well lets go back to the real reason we are here, namely Matilda. Have you ever stopped to consider where Cheryl was on the morning of your wife’s death?’
Laura left Sir Repton to ponder this as she pieced the facts together in her head. ‘Frank, you’re a bloody nuisance.’ That’s what Cheryl had said. She must have known the Canon; he had been a regular visitor at the house and was the one who found Matilda’s body after all, but Cheryl’s words showed a degree of confidentiality that was unexpected.
Laura was reminded of Dudley’s assistant Kelsey’s story when she was having her hair done. The diamond ring Cheryl was flashing in the pub.
‘Where did Matilda keep her jewellery?’ she asked.
Sir Repton clutched the turban to his chest. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Laura said. ‘I’m not meaning to pry and it may be idle gossip but Cheryl was seen out wearing an unusually large diamond
ring.’
‘Are you suggesting Cheryl may have stolen my late wife’s jewels? She maybe insolent but I’m sure she’s not a thief.’
‘I’m only saying it would be prudent to check. Did Matilda have a diamond solitaire?’
‘She had her emerald engagement ring and one with sapphires and diamonds that I gave her on the occasion of my knighthood. But there may have been others. Laverack heirlooms… I never looked.’
‘Well, I think we should do so now.’
Sir Repton stared up at Laura with misty eyes. ‘If you insist.’ He paused. Two small spots of colour rose on his pallid cheekbones. ‘There is a small safe in my… our bedroom.’ He put the turban to one side and tightened the dressing gown cord around his waist.
‘Don’t tell me, you keep the combination on a piece of paper in your desk with the other one?’
‘It’s a key actually.’ Sir Repton prickled. ‘But Cheryl never goes into my office.’
‘I’m afraid she does. Venetia saw her. Come on.’ Laura set off in the direction of the office.
As Sir Repton riffled through the drawer, Laura glanced at the pile of correspondence on his desk. He obviously had not replied to the man Ned Stocking as his letter was still on top. But then she saw the date and skimmed through the typewritten words and realised that this was a second request asking for a meeting. Sir Repton had plainly not replied to the first.
‘Here we are.’ He held up a key with an old brown label on a piece of string attached to it.
They went upstairs. To Laura’s surprise, they did not turn right at the top of the stairs. She had supposed the master bedroom to be situated at the end of the landing beyond Grimsby and Bridlington, but instead they turned left. They followed the corridor and at the end went up three steps – one reason for Matilda’s move from the matrimonial bedroom, Laura supposed.
Sir Repton opened the door ahead of them. Laura could not make out much of the interior of the room as the windows were shuttered. In the gloom she could see the bed. Above it, a vast canopy of dark orange material swagged like the sails of an Essex barque from the ceiling. Sir Repton hurried to the bedside table and turned on a lamp shaped like a miniature yacht. Above it, another stormy seascape hung. Sir Repton lifted it off the wall exposing the safe.
The Haunting of Mount Cod Page 8