by Lucy Banks
A further site linked Bloody Mary with Queen Mary I, claiming the ghost caused miscarriage, as the queen herself had suffered so many miscarriages of her own. And of course, Emmeline lost her baby, he thought, stroking his chin. And she blamed it on the Green Lady. Could that be another connection, or just a red herring? However, the beauty of the lady in the portrait didn’t match too well with the portraits Kester had seen of Queen Mary in the past, who, in most instances, looked rather pug-nosed and plump. Not to mention the fact that Miss Wellbeloved had told him earlier that spirits weren’t dead humans.
He browsed another site, claiming that the ghost of Bloody Mary latched on to men, whilst deliberately hurting women. Indeed, there were a number of tales featuring the repeating motif of the ghost emerging from the mirror to hurt the woman standing the other side. In some instances, this was only a scratch on the face. On other occasions, the stories narrated her dragging women down the corridor by their hair, gouging their eyes out, or pouring blood over them.
“She sounds like an absolute charmer,” he said aloud, with a rueful smile. He was now even more relieved that he hadn’t gone to Coleton Crescent with the others.
A muffled thump startled him, until he realised it was the door downstairs, which was closely followed by footsteps echoing steadily closer. He looked at his watch, noting with surprise that it was just past three-thirty. Well past Ribero’s nap time, he thought with mild amusement, watching the door. A few moments later, it swung open, slapping against the wall with a bang.
Serena stormed in, her face as livid as a thundercloud. She threw her handbag on the desk, before throwing herself down into her chair.
Miss Wellbeloved scuttled in after her, sharp and angular as a metal ruler. “Serena, can you please calm down! This is not helping anything!”
Kester watched with bemusement as the others followed. He gave Pamela a questioning look and she shook her head, a mute warning not to ask.
“Well, that was a complete bloody waste of time,” Mike grumbled, piling the equipment bag into the corner of the room. He folded his arms, glowering in Serena’s direction. “I’ve seriously had it up to here with you. If you keep ruining jobs like this, then I’ll—”
“What will you do?” Serena spat, circling on her chair. She glared back at him, spearing him with her pixie-green eyes. “Go on, I’m listening.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mike rumbled, lumbering towards his desk. “Just drop it.”
“No, I won’t drop it! You’ve just accused me of ruining the job, so have the balls to back up your comments!”
“Oh, don’t even get me started,” Mike shouted. “You don’t want to get me going on this one, believe me!”
“Oh yeah? What exactly do you want to say, Mike? Spit it out!”
“I think you damned well know.”
“Do I? Do I really?”
“Will you be quiet!” Miss Wellbeloved shrieked. Her voice pierced the room like a skewer, and everyone fell silent, shocked into speechlessness. To their even greater surprise, Miss Wellbeloved walked to her desk, sat down, then buried her head in her hands and began to sob.
Immediately, Dr Ribero was at her side, wrapping an arm around her heaving shoulders. He glared at Serena and Mike, who looked abashed.
“Just sit down and get on with some work!” he hissed. “You’ve caused enough problems for one day, the pair of you!”
He prised Miss Wellbeloved from her chair, guiding her into his office as carefully as a tiger leading its cub. With one last furious glance over his shoulder, he slammed the door behind him, leaving the rest of them in shocked silence.
“That was your fault,” Mike growled, pointing a finger at Serena.
“Like hell it was,” she snarled back.
“Pack it in, the pair of you,” Pamela said warningly. “You both need to learn when enough is enough.”
“What happened?” Kester asked, still recovering from the shock of seeing the normally composed Miss Wellbeloved reduced to tears.
“Ask her,” Mike said sullenly, jacking a thumb in Serena’s general direction. She scowled, burying herself deeper into her chair.
Pamela ignored them, perching on the desk next to Kester. “Well,” she began, carefully choosing her words, “things didn’t go quite according to plan, put it like that.”
“You can say that again,” Mike added. “It was a total shambles. We’re screwed on this case. Absolutely screwed. We’ll have to give it to Higgins or someone else. There’s nothing else for it.”
“Why are you screwed?” Kester asked. “What was the problem today?”
“Do you want to tell him?” Mike snapped at Serena. She shook her head sulkily, her jaw tightening.
“Serena decided to try to do things her way today,” Mike continued. “Despite the fact that Ribero and Jennifer both said not to do it, she carried on regardless, because of course, Serena knows better than everyone else, doesn’t she?”
“Mike, calm down,” Pamela warned. “It’s not helping.”
“I don’t care if it’s not helping!” Mike shouted. “I’m hopping mad about it, and I don’t mind who knows it! Serena only bloody tried to damage the picture. She went completely mad, started screaming at it and trying to slash it with her fingernails, then the spirit started hurling things round the room. It’s smashed a lamp, and I bet it was an expensive one. That’ll come out of our payment, mark my words.”
“I thought it was worth a shot!” Serena mumbled, folding her arms. “No one else was trying anything new. They were just wasting their time with useless words. At least I tried to take action!”
“You made the situation a bloody fiasco, because you couldn’t control your temper, that’s what you did.”
“And what did you do?” Serena said, standing up and pointing furiously in Mike’s direction. “What was your contribution today? Oh yes, that’s right, you brought another of your knackered machines to the house.” She clapped her hands in mock applause. “Oh well done Mike, what an achievement. No wonder Infinite Enterprises didn’t want you.”
“Serena, please, can you stop shouting!” Pamela pleaded. “Calm down, both of you!”
Mike swore at Serena, then stomped into the storeroom. Serena stared in his direction for a moment, lip wobbling, before bursting into violent tears. Before Kester could react, she spun on her heels and tore out of the door.
Pamela sighed, massaging her head with her hands.
“I don’t know what’s happened to this agency,” she whispered, looking as though she was about to cry too. “It’s all gone downhill, and I don’t think any of us know how to make it better.”
Instinctively, Kester reached over and patted her on the leg, which felt oddly soft to the touch, like a creamy Victoria sponge. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you all do an amazing job. Whenever I see you all working, I’m just in awe. I couldn’t do what you do in a million years.”
Pamela peered up at him, then broke into a beam, lighting her pudgy face like a beacon. “Oh Kester,” she exclaimed, “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Bless you.”
“That’s okay,” Kester replied. He looked at the door, which still seemed to be vibrating from the force of Serena’s departure. “I wish there was something I can do to help.” Suddenly, he glanced back at the computer screen, remembering. “Actually, there is! There is something!”
Pamela followed his gaze to the monitor, eyeing the websites with confusion. “What on earth have you been looking at while we’ve been out?” she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Demonic ghosts in mirrors? That doesn’t sound like very pleasant reading.”
“No, it’s all relevant!” Kester stuttered, getting to his feet. “I’ve found out something, something really important. It might help.”
Pamela gave a small smile. “I’m not sure how, love,”
she said. “Unless you’ve found a way to get that spirit out of the painting and into one of our water bottles. We’ve got serious problems.”
Kester rubbed his nose, staring at the computer screen.
“Maybe I have found a way of getting her out,” he said, mulling over the beginnings of an idea in his head. Even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he doubted himself. However, there was a seed of something there, hatching slowly into a plan, and he wondered if it might just work.
“Kester, dear,” Pamela said, as kindly as she could, “we know you want to help, but really, I think it’s impossible. We’ve tried everything, and we feel like we’ve hit a dead end. I think we’ll have to pass the case to someone else.”
“But I really do believe I’m on to something here,” Kester persisted. “I know I’m no expert, but it might be of use . . .”
Pamela patted him, before hefting herself to her feet like an aged elephant. “Save it for later, perhaps? I think I need a good strong cup of tea right now. How about you? The usual three sugars?”
“Make it two, I’m trying to cut down,” said Kester, remembering the Cornish pasty. “Well, two and a half, perhaps.”
“Right you are, love,” Pamela said, before waddling to the storeroom to put the kettle on. Mike was still in there, messing around with some equipment probably, but whatever he was doing, he was keeping quiet about it. In fact, the whole office was disturbingly silent, as though someone had entered, sucked all the atmosphere out, then departed again.
Kester sighed, looking again at the information on the screen. Although a lot of it was sensationalist and didn’t relate specifically to the case, there was something in the myth that made him suspect he might be on to something. If only I could piece it together, he thought with frustration. There’s something here that might be of use, but I don’t know how to grasp it. He shut down the webpage, his brain whirring at a maddening pace, clicking through ideas and theories like a machine on hyper-drive.
A loud creak diverted his attention, and he looked up to see Miss Wellbeloved emerging from Dr Ribero’s office, her thin face even longer than usual. Ribero came out directly after, a hand still draped over her shoulder.
“Miss Wellbeloved is going home to have a rest,” he announced, as though addressing everyone, even though Kester was the only one in view. “Go on, Jennifer, you take the rest of the day off. I will figure something out, don’t you worry. Okay?”
Miss Wellbeloved nodded, a worn-out gesture of reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks. She attempted a smile as she passed Kester, who gave her a sympathetic smile in return. In spite of his initial opinion of her as a cold, austere woman, he’d grown surprisingly fond of her in the short time he’d been here. There was something about her that reminded him of his own mother at times, a certain vulnerability and gentleness that only showed itself on rare occasions.
Dr Ribero watched her leave, leaning against the door frame with an expression that was hard to interpret. He accepted Pamela’s offered cup of tea without a word, and gulped it down, as though hoping to find something alcoholic hidden at the bottom.
“Bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Pamela said, cupping her own mug for comfort.
“Yes, it most certainly is,” Ribero agreed, studying the floor, then kicking at it, scuffing his polished shoe against the floorboards. “It is more than a mess, it’s a disaster. Where is Serena? And Mike?”
“Mike’s right here,” Mike answered, lumbering out of the storeroom. “Serena’s flounced off in a huff.”
“Serena and Mike had a fight,” Pamela explained. “And Mike was a bit unkind, weren’t you, Mike?”
Mike shifted his weight from foot to foot, picking up a piece of wiring from his desk and wrapping it round his fingers. “I was perhaps a little hard,” he admitted. “But she really made a cock up of things in there. It made me so cross. This case is hard enough as it is, without her behaving like that. It was like watching a toddler lose their temper.”
“Yes, but Mike, she is enthusiastic,” Dr Ribero said, finishing his tea with a slurp. “I was once the same. Remember, she is still young.”
“She’s only two years younger than me!” Mike said.
“Really? Are you only two years older?” Dr Ribero asked. “That is most surprising, I had thought you were already over forty.”
“Bloody cheek!” Mike huffed. “I’m thirty-six!”
Dr Ribero grinned weakly. “It is this silly bushy beard of yours,” he said, reaching over and giving it a tug. “It is very ageing. You need a nice little moustache like mine, you see?”
“Yeah, if I want to look like Salvador Dali,” Mike muttered, folding his arms.
“Better than looking like a big, hairy yeti, yes?”
“It’s my style, alright?” Mike protested. “I like the yeti look. And I don’t think it’s ageing at all.”
Kester cleared his throat. “Dr Ribero?” he said. I’m going to have to get used to calling him Dad sooner or later, he realised. However, it still felt far too odd to refer to him in such a familiar way just yet.
Ribero looked over, as though only just remembering he was there. “Yes?”
“Can I have a chat?” Kester asked.
Dr Ribero looked perplexed. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Please, go on.”
“Would it be possible to talk in private?” Kester clarified.
At once, the old man’s face darkened. “Now, if this is you telling me you want to quit again, just say it now, alright?” he growled. “I have had a very bad day as it is, and I do not want any more nonsense, no? So spit it out now, if you must.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Kester stuttered, feeling suddenly rather nervous. “It was about something else actually.”
Dr Ribero looked mollified. “Oh. Okay. As long as it is no more bad news. I am not in the mood for more bad news. Tell you what—why don’t we all shut up the office early, and Kester, you come with me for a nice walk? We can chat then, and it will be much nicer than standing in this stuffy office, yes?”
Mike punched the air. “Excellent, early doors down the pub!” He linked arms with Pamela and performed a gentlemanly bow. “You up for a pint or two of Devon’s finest ales, my love?”
Pamela giggled. “Oh Mike, you are silly,” she said. “Go on then. After a day like today, I could do with it.”
Dr Ribero straightened his collar, then gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
Kester trotted after him, struggling to keep pace with the doctor. He moved with surprising speed, striding with the fluidity of a cantering horse. In his youth, he must have been a really imposing man, Kester supposed, watching him with envy. Although Ribero’s shoulders had started to slope with age, Kester could see the ghost of his youthful musculature, outlined in the graceful curve of his neck and the slender lines of his waist.
“Where are we going?” he asked, panting a little as he scuttled to catch up. Although the high street was relatively peaceful at this time of day, it still wasn’t quite the location he had in mind for a quiet chat.
“We are catching the bus,” Dr Ribero said, flashing Kester a smile. “I believe it is a P that we want. Or is it an R? I do get muddled from time to time.”
“I suppose that happens with age,” Kester suggested. “Your memory starts to go.”
“No, it is nothing to do with that, thank you very much,” Dr Ribero snapped, glowering in his general direction. “It is a case of too much on the brain, and not enough time to think about it all, right?”
Well, if you didn’t have a two-hour long siesta every day, you’d probably have more time to think about things, Kester thought, but chose to keep this suggestion to himself.
After further fretting and debating over buses, they finally leapt on a P bus, which proclaimed to lead them up to Crossmeads, wherever that might be. Kester balanced himself on the closest s
eat, watching with fascination as the bus bobbled out of town and into the suburbs.
They passed rows upon rows of red-brick terraces, tumbled on top of one another like endless geometric brushstrokes, before rising steadily up a hill, into a more rural area. Finally, Ribero leant across, pressing the button, then shimmied to the front, maintaining his balance perfectly, in spite of the lack of suspension and general bumpiness of the road.
“Time to get out in the fresh air,” he announced with a flick of the wrist, gesturing at the fields beyond. Aside from a few 1970s style suburban properties, they were surrounded by greenery: a narrow stream, dense woodlands, and sloping hills. It seemed quite remarkable that nature could sit so snugly on the perimeter of a city.
“This is nice,” Kester said, stepping off the bus. The air felt cleaner and a lot less humid. A gentle breeze carried the scent of distant pine with it, drawing his attention to the tree-covered hillsides. Again, he imagined the land before the arrival of people, before the construction of higgledy-piggledy houses and suburban streets. The thick trees huddled together like plotting men, looming over the meadow below, and the stream scampered through the middle of it, a ribbon of sparkling grey in the greenery.
“I come here when I need to think,” Dr Ribero stated, gesturing for them to proceed. “It reminds me of home. I mean my proper home, back in Argentina.”
“Does it?” Kester asked. He hadn’t imagined Argentina to be anything like Exeter. Instead, images of rugged gauchos, endless pampas grass, and sexy tango dancers sprung to mind. Not many of those around here, he thought with a wry smile.
“Yes,” Ribero continued. “I grew up near the Andes. The pines, they crawled down the mountains like wild animals hidden by thick, swirling clouds. It was very beautiful. I miss it, even now.”
“That does sound lovely,” Kester said wistfully. He’d never been travelling. In fact, the furthest he’d ever been from home was here in Exeter. “When did you come to England?”
With a small skip, Dr Ribero jumped over the stile, sauntering into the next field. “Ah, it was a long time ago. I was so young! Younger than you are now, yes? Such a boy. I hardly spoke any English.”