by Kitty French
‘No complaints from me there,’ Marina says, peering down through the cellar coal hatch when we open it up. I’d been worried that someone might have re-latched it from the inside, but our luck holds. ‘These heels aren’t made for pretending to be Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Jojo asks, looking dubious.
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say. ‘Artie, would you mind going in first, it’s less of a drop for you than me.’
‘Phones?’ Marina says, and we both pull out our mobiles and click the torch apps on.
‘Ready?’ I ask Artie, hoping he can’t hear the sudden nerves in my voice.
‘As I’ll ever be, Sugar-Tits,’ he says, and I burst out laughing with shock because it’s such an out-of-character thing for him to say.
‘Sorry.’ He grins, bashful. ‘Been saving that one up to make you laugh.’
I am actually crying with laughter. ‘Well, you definitely managed that,’ I wipe my eyes. ‘Now get down into that flippin’ cellar.’
* * *
Artie lowers his long legs down the hatch, and with a determined little nod, he slithers into the cellar. I hear him land with a soft thud, and his phone illuminates the gloom a little for me to follow him in.
‘If I’m not out in ten minutes, leave and get on with your lives,’ I say with an exaggerated, dramatic, damsel-in-distress sigh as I drop down my kit bag to Artie and then lower myself in as far as my waist. ‘Just take care of Lestat for me.’
Marina looks horrified by the prospect. ‘Not a chance. If you’re not out in ten minutes I’m coming down there myself, shoes or no shoes.’
‘Guide me down, Artie,’ I say, and he sways my legs towards a crate he’s just dragged across to break my fall. I throw Marina a wink as I disappear, and then I call up ‘Close the hatch behind me,’ covering our tracks because I’m fast learning that this business is anything but predictable.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Being in the shadowy cellar again gives me the creeps, so we waste no time in making our way across and around the assembled boxes and crates to head up the stone steps that lead into the main house.
‘Cross your fingers, Artie,’ I whisper as I place my hand on the doorknob. ‘Because things are going to get a whole lot more difficult if this door has been locked.’
I turn the knob and push, but it doesn’t budge. ‘Oh no,’ I murmur, going cold.
‘Give it a really good push,’ a rich voice urges behind me, and I recognise it straight away as Douglas rather than Artie. ‘It sticks sometimes.’
‘You try, Artie?’ I step aside to let him try. He wasn’t privy to Douglas’s tip, so I suggest he gives it a good shove with his shoulder to see if there’s any chance.
‘Okay,’ he murmurs, sounding unsure, but he moves up anyway. When he turns the knob and rams his shoulder decisively into the door it flies back on its hinges and slams against the wall, sending Artie tumbling into the hallway in a heap. When he jumps to his feet, the look of satisfaction on his face is pure gold.
‘We’re in,’ he laughs.
I nod, dusting cobwebs from my hair. Whispering a quick thank you to Douglas beside me, I follow Artie into the hallway.
‘Nice job,’ I say, dropping the kit bag by the skirting as I close the door and he gives me his ‘it was nothing’ shrug that tells me he’s secretly wildly impressed with himself. If we keep building his confidence like this, by the time Artie’s worked for the agency for six months he’s going to have more self-belief than Kanye West.
I try the front door, but as I’d expected it’s locked and dead-bolted. There’s no way I can open it to let the others in that way.
‘Let’s try the back,’ I suggest. ‘Donovan might have left the key in the door.’
Douglas shakes his head. ‘Donovan shoved it in his pocket, I saw him.’
‘Bum,’ I grumble, leaning against the cool wall. ‘No good. Now what?’
‘We could open one of the big dining room windows at the front,’ Artie says. ‘They might be able to climb in through those.’
I don’t like the idea of making a scene out front, it could draw all kinds of unwanted attention.
‘Or you could just open the French doors in the sitting room.’ Douglas’s face brightens. ‘The key’s always kept on the picture rail to the left of the doors.’
‘French doors,’ I abbreviate the plan, just enough for Artie to get it, as I make a dash. ‘Sitting room, come on.’
We hurtle in, and I pull up short when we find Lloyd standing in front of the doors in question, blocking my way.
‘I’m quite certain that you were given the express instruction not to come back here again,’ he says, his hands clasped behind his back. In his precisely belted silk robe and pyjamas, he reminds me of a cold, austere headmaster pleased to have caught a bunch of school kids sneaking a midnight feast. If he could, I have no doubt at all that he’d be on the phone to Donovan Scarborough this very second. I make a snap decision not to tell Artie that Lloyd’s in here, so I don’t reply.
‘The key should be on the picture rail up there.’ I point, and Artie reaches up and feels along until his fingers come into contact with it.
‘This one?’ he holds the little, old, silver key out to me and smiles.
‘That one,’ I agree. ‘Would you mind, Artie? You seem to have more success with doors than me today.’
Lloyd Scarborough had probably been counting on the fact that I wouldn’t reach straight through him to unlock the door, and he’s right. It’s not something I find palatable, because to me he looks as real as flesh and blood and I can’t actually see the lock through him. If Artie knew he was there he’d probably struggle with the concept too, but as it is he steps up and stands nose-to-nose with Lloyd Scarborough without even realising it.
‘You’re doing great, Artie,’ I say, ignoring the absolute fury on Lloyd’s arrogant face.
‘Tell him I’m here,’ he demands. ‘Tell him to step back.’
I shake my head in reply, and then I flinch as Artie’s arm disappears inside Lloyd’s body in front of my eyes. Ghosts look so real to me that I can easily forget their otherness, but watching Artie step forward and inhabit the same physical space as Lloyd Scarborough brings it into sharp, uncomfortable focus. My stomach flips over unpleasantly and I have to glance away. Maybe this is why ghosts don’t scare me; I just see them as normal people. I don’t get to witness a flying book without the arm that’s hurling it, and right now I see a tall, elderly, disdainful man blocking the way to a door he doesn’t want us to open.
‘Bingo,’ Artie grins, oblivious to the drama as he swings the French doors open with a gleeful little laugh then heads out into the sun to get the others.
Lloyd stalks away from the doors at last, and the spiteful, malevolent stare he gives me leaves me in little doubt that when he was alive he would have been the kind of person capable of committing murder.
‘Leave her alone.’ Douglas steps forward between me and Lloyd, and the brothers stare at each other baldly. It’s bizarre to think that they’re twins, and not just because of their ages. It’s more than that. They are such very different men. The atmosphere between them is tense enough to slice with a knife; and then Lloyd laughs suddenly, mocking and contemptuous. It’s an ugly, bitter sound.
‘Still chasing women, even when you can’t do a damn thing about it,’ he says, searing me with a filthy look that makes me uncomfortable right before he pulls his favourite disappearing trick.
‘I’m sorry about my brother, Melody,’ Douglas says gravely. ‘He doesn’t like not getting his own way. He never did.’
‘It’s okay,’ I murmur, shaking off my unease at Lloyd’s menacing behaviour.
Douglas nods briefly and passes his hand over his jaw. ‘Can I say something before the others come back?’
I watch him and wait.
‘I want to thank you.’ He smiles his heartbreaker smile. ‘And not just for supplying the T
V, although that has been quite an education.’ He breaks off and looks almost bashful. ‘I’ve felt more alive in these past few weeks than I have in a hundred years. The truth is I think you’re rather magnificent, Miss Bittersweet. If I could kiss your hand right now, I would.’
In my life I’ve felt many emotions for the ghosts I’ve encountered, but never this. A lump forms in my throat, and I touch my forest-green painted fingertips against the back of my hand where his kiss would have been.
‘I can feel it,’ I say, as the others approach the French doors. A small, wistful smile touches his lips, and then he lowers his head and leaves me alone in the room.
‘You did it.’ Jojo looks apprehensively beyond me into the sitting room when I gather myself and cross the room to meet them.
Richard still looks concerned. ‘You didn’t need to break anything, did you?’
‘We used the key.’ I point to the key still nestled inside the lock. ‘See, no damage at all.’
I mean, I expect it would still count as breaking and entering, technically, but I didn’t lie about not damaging anything and I’m counting on the fact that the end will justify the means.
‘I think we should go inside, and then I’ll go up to see Isaac in the attic and hopefully bring him down here to meet you guys. I know it’s weird, but trust me when I say I’ve done this before and it’s not spooky or scary. It’s just like sitting down for a chat.’
‘With someone you can’t see,’ Marina adds.
‘Or hear,’ Artie nods.
‘But other than that it’s perfectly normal,’ I say, shooting them both a warning look.
Jojo looks round the long sitting room, taking in the dated furniture and decor. ‘There isn’t anyone else in here with us right now, is there?’ She folds her arms over chest and rubs her hands briskly up and down her biceps, making her bracelets jangle. It’s cold in here, despite the warmth of the May sunshine splashed across the patio outside. I can only imagine how bitterly cold this house must get in the winter months without an up-to-date heating system.
‘Just us,’ I assure her. ‘I’ll back in a few minutes. Wait here with Artie.’
She nods, and I glance at the others. ‘Marina, would you come upstairs with me? Artie, you stay here and call up if you need me, okay?’
She nods, and we leave the Hensons and Artie sitting on winged chairs in the sunshine close to the open French doors as we go in search of Isaac.
‘How do you think this is going to go?’ Marina asks quietly when we’re out of earshot.
‘Well, I hope.’ I bend to retrieve my kit bag in the hallway. ‘Come on, quickly. We’ve got a murder weapon to find.’
Marina looks at me as I sling the dark bag over my shoulder. ‘You look like an urban Katniss Everdeen. You could totally work that side-braid.’
We’ve just reached the first-floor landing when we hear a key turn in the front door.
* * *
Shit! Marina and I slide into the nearest open bedroom doorway and stand still, listening.
‘When I get my hands on that bloody girl I’m going to wring her sodding neck!’ Donovan Scarborough’s enraged voice bursts into the downstairs hallway. Oh God, oh God, oh God! He knows I’m here, obviously, because Babs is pretty darn unique. I wish so hard that Jojo and Richard weren’t here right now, this is the last thing I wanted to happen for them.
The click-clack of heels tell me that Scarborough isn’t alone, and then I hear Leo’s voice.
‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for Melody being here. If she’s here at all?’
He’s speaking loudly, almost as if he’s trying to warn me of the incoming danger.
‘She’s here somewhere,’ Scarborough bellows. ‘Best twenty quid I’ve ever spent, paying the neighbour to let me know if she turned up again. She’s like a dog with a fucking bone.’
I hear the light tinkle of sycophantic laughter. Great. The Psycho Barbies are here too. This is turning into a right old party, only one with three ghosts, two fembots, one furious businessman and no buffet or booze.
‘I think we need to hide,’ Marina’s whisper is urgent in my ear. ‘Buy ourselves a bit of time to think.’
Below us we hear Scarborough charging around in the kitchen, and I nod and scan the room quickly. It’s a large, square room with a huge, old, brass bedstead and a couple of wooden cupboards.
‘Under the bed?’ Marina suggests. To be perfectly honest they’re all crap hiding places. If this was a game of hide and seek we’d be found in a heartbeat, but I duck and roll all the same, as anywhere is better than nowhere and there’s a chance he’ll just open the door and glance in.
We lie there like statues and listen to him thundering around, and then inevitably he goes into the sitting room and starts shouting at the top end of his lungs again.
‘Who the blazes are you lot and what are you doing in my house?’
‘He’ll be in there with them for a couple of minutes,’ I say quickly and, with difficulty, I wriggle my phone out of my back pocket and click it on. Right at this moment, I’m actually glad I got Lestat, because without him I wouldn’t have the phone number I urgently need right now. Marina watches as I type.
HELP. TRAPPED UNDER BED IN SCARBOROUGH HOUSE. IN DANGER.
‘You can’t send that, you’ll give your mum a heart attack,’ she says.
‘I’m not sending it to my mother.’ I press send. ‘I’ve sent it to Fletcher Gunn.’
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why, of all the people on earth, would I send it to Fletch? Well, here’s the answer. I saw the look of pure, unadulterated hatred in Lloyd Scarborough’s eyes earlier when I made Artie unlock the French doors, and I’ve only seen that look in the eyes of one other man; Lloyd’s great-grandson, Donovan. There’s already been one murder in this house. I really don’t want there to be another one, and the only thing I can think of that Donovan Scarborough values over the lucrative sale of the house is his public image. He courts the press, he loves the camera, and he trades on his image as an affluent businessman; if there’s anything that will make him temper his behaviour it’s the idea that he’s likely to end up on the front page for the wrong reasons.
‘Fletcher Gunn?’ Marina hisses. ‘Christ, Melody! We’re in mortal danger and you’ve got the horn?’
I twist my head to shoot her daggers. ‘No, I have not, thank you very much! I just know that if he thinks there’s a sniff of a story he’ll be here like a bloodhound.’
She looks slightly mollified. ‘I suppose he’ll be more use than your mother.’
‘If he comes straight from the offices in town he could be here in fifteen,’ I estimate.
‘Or he could be in a meeting, or in the pub, or on a date and not check his phone.’
I quite like the idea of him in a meeting, it makes him sound like Don Draper. I’m not so keen on him being down the pub too busy to check his phone, and the idea of him on a date gives me the hump with Marina for even suggesting it.
‘Let’s just hope for the best, shall we,’ I mutter sourly, and then we both go silent and hold our breath because someone is thumping up the stairs.
‘Oh God, Melody.’ Marina’s hand finds mine on the floorboards between us. ‘If he kills us, I’ll miss you every day.’
I don’t have time to reply, because the bedroom door just opened and I can see Donovan Scarborough’s shiny brown brogues. I squeeze Marina’s fingers tight and cower as he comes closer, and I think he actually whispers, ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ He’s enjoying this way too much; he’s definitely Lloyd’s grandson.
A second pair of shoes comes into view, equally shiny, and then Leo speaks.
‘Let me help you look.’
He’s standing beside the bed, and then he drops to his knees, dips his head, and looks directly at me with his one good eye. I stare back at him, and for a second I feel like Leisl from The Sound of Music, and hope like hell that Leo’s loyalties to me are stronger than Ratbag R
olfe’s were to her. Please don’t blow the whistle, Leo, Marina can’t run for the hills in those heels.
He stands, dropping the edge of the sheet back down carelessly. ‘Nothing.’
They leave the room in a clatter of leather soles on wooden boards, and Marina and I look at each other and let painfully huge whooshes of air out from our lungs.
Marina loosens her death-grip on my hand. ‘I think you might owe Leo Dark a sexual favour.’
We hear them moving away along the landing into the other bedrooms and I rack my brains for our next move.
‘We need to get down the corridor to the main bedroom,’ I say, and then I gasp because a hand has just grabbed my ankle and is hauling me out from under the bed. I cling to Marina in panic, and she kicks out viciously at the fingers with her high heel. I take a moment to reflect on how different a movie Taken might have been if Liam Neeson’s daughter had been a stiletto fan. He wouldn’t have needed to find the abductors and kill them, but then the internet would have been deprived of one of its finest memes.
Whoever it is hanging onto my ankle mutters an irate ‘fucking hell’ under his breath and lets go, then bends down to stare at us.
‘Fletch,’ I breathe with relief, trying not to look at the blood on his knuckles as he reaches his hand out and tugs first me and then Marina from our hiding place. ‘You came.’
Not only that, he came in not much more than five minutes. Maybe he just happened to be in the area, or maybe he truly is my real life superhero on call whenever I really, really need him.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he asks, low and urgent.
‘There isn’t a quick answer to that,’ I say, thinking how to shrink this down into his terms, which means no ghosts or things that go bump in the night to make him sneer, then get mad and leave again. Luckily there are chunks of this story that are black and white. ‘Donovan Scarborough is furious with me because he thinks I’ve broken in and that I’m going to hold up the sale of the house.’