by Lucy Banks
“What are you doing now?” Anya asked to break the silence.
He looked around. “Well,” he began awkwardly, “I haven’t got a clue really.”
She smiled, then looked at her watch. “I need to head over to work soon,” she said. “Why don’t you walk over there with me?”
As if I need any excuse to go to the library! he thought with an enthusiastic nod. While he was there, he could log on to the computer and see if he could find out anything more about the Lyme Regis case.
They strolled through the precinct, down past the little historic church—incongruously surrounded by 1960s-built buildings and high street shops—through to the quieter back streets on the other side of the city centre. Kester found himself frequently glancing down at his companion and wondering why she wanted to spend time with him. Although her nose was a little wonky and her eyebrows rather bushy, she was undeniably attractive. And he, as he well knew, resembled a blend of overfed puppy and tortoise that had suffered a particularly nasty shock. What did she see in him?
However, if her behaviour was anything to go by, she certainly seemed to like him. She laughed at all his jokes, even when they were on the feeble side. For the first time in his life, he found himself a little reluctant to arrive at the library, which would bring an end to their date.
They stood awkwardly in the foyer. He smiled, then held out a hand. “It’s been very nice talking to you, Anya.”
She clasped a hand to her mouth, giggling.
“What? What did I say?”
“Nothing, you are just . . .” she caught his eye, then laughed again. “You are so British!”
Kester raised his eyebrows. “Is that not a good thing?”
Sighing, she leant forward. For a moment, he thought she was going to pat him on the arm, but instead, she clasped it, tilted her head upward, and kissed him on the cheek. He felt blood rush to his face immediately and couldn’t stop himself from touching the place where her lips had been.
“Thank you for that,” he said, desperately hoping he wasn’t blushing too much.
She giggled again. “I’ve got to get to work. I’m already a little late. But it was nice having brunch with you, Kester.”
“Could we do it again sometime?” he asked suddenly, amazed by his own boldness.
She nodded enthusiastically. “That would be nice. I promise I won’t make you eat so much bacon next time.”
“That’s good,” he said seriously. “To be honest, I’d started to think you were a bit of a bacon psychopath or something.”
“Murdering someone with bacon, now that’s an idea!”
“Please don’t,” Kester shuddered. “It’s so salty. Death by dehydration isn’t something I’d relish.”
Anya chuckled, then sighed, looking over her shoulder. “I had better get going.”
“Yes, I’d better crack on with a bit of research too. For work.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Now I am even more curious about what you do.”
You really shouldn’t be, he thought. He tapped the side of his nose in what he hoped was an alluring manner. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Watching her disappear to the other end of the library, he let out a deep breath of satisfaction. That was the first real date I’ve ever been on, he thought with a sense of exhilaration, and I didn’t say anything mortifying! I didn’t trip over, or get run over by a car, or vomit with fear or anything! In fact, he thought he’d done rather well, and even better, she’d said that she wanted to see him again. And she’d kissed him! She’d actually leaned up to him and kissed him!
With these cheerful thoughts to buoy him, he headed upstairs to the quiet area and settled himself in front of the nearest free computer. It was difficult to focus on the task. Thoughts of Anya kept floating into his head: her throaty giggle, piercing eyes, and even her crooked nose. Shaking himself, he opened up the internet browser and stared vacantly at the search screen. Right, he told himself firmly, time to concentrate. The room was completely silent, apart from the steady, comforting hum of the surrounding computers.
Where do I even start with this? he wondered and tapped his fingers gently against the keyboard in contemplation. He typed in “Lyme Regis doppelgänger”. Nothing came up, and he wasn’t surprised. To be honest, he wasn’t even convinced the spirit in question was a doppelgänger. Perhaps a different approach is needed here, he mused, staring at the screen. But what?
He typed in “Lyme Regis murders”. None of the search results looked relevant, apart from a link to a small article in the local paper. It featured news on the latest death—Meredith Saunders, who had been sixty-seven when she’d been killed—though the article naturally dismissed the incident as an accident.
After wrestling to remove the flashing pop-up ads on the page, he read on. The article didn’t tell him anything new, and of course, the paper hadn’t mentioned anything supernatural. After all, that was part of Ribero’s agency’s job, as well as the government’s—to ensure the press didn’t get even the vaguest whiff of anything ghostly.
“Yes, she slipped in the bath and hit her head on the toilet, I know all this,” he muttered to himself as he scrolled down. “What else have we got?”
But a second read-through revealed nothing. Sighing, he returned to the search page and selected the next website on the list. Again, the article was small, though this time it focused on Edna Berry, the second victim, who had died by being asphyxiated by the bell-ringer’s ropes. He scrolled through the article earnestly. The victim had been sixty-eight. Why old people? he wondered as he tapped the mousepad thoughtfully. What has this spirit got against the elderly?
He finished reading, then leant back in his chair, exhaling loudly. Suddenly, his eyes rested on the first paragraph again.
“Mrs Berry, who was an active member of the community and vice-chairman of the Lyme Regis Ancient History Club . . .” He stroked his chin, mulling the sentence over. Now why does that ring bells? he wondered, then remembered. The same club as Deirdre Baxter. That’s interesting.
Quickly, he ran a search for “Lyme Regis Ancient History Club”, and clicked through to the website. It was about ten years out of date, with far too much wordy content and some rather odd illustrations. He quickly scanned the home page. For the most part, it was a dense, tedious read— detailing the club’s dedication to researching and documenting the ancient heritage of the area.
Kester clicked through to the contact page. Bingo, he thought, quickly sifting through his bag for a pen and paper. Here’s the name of the person who runs it. Plus his contact details, which is especially useful. He jotted down the name—Peter Hopper—then swiftly clicked on the email address link.
Dear Mr Hopper, he typed quickly, I’m getting in touch with regards to two former members of your club—Deirdre Baxter and Edna Berry—on behalf of a governmental investigation. I’d like to arrange a time we can talk—just to ask a few questions that may be helpful in determining the facts about their deaths. If you’d be so kind as to let me know a time when we can get in touch, that would be most appreciated.
He signed off, then smiled to himself. It wasn’t much of a lead, he knew—but it was worth a shot.
After another half hour of rummaging online, he finally called it a day and logged off. On the way out, he caught sight of Anya, who was helping an old lady to find a book on the shelves. He smiled. It had been an exceptionally good morning—and he hadn’t said that in a while.
Perhaps things are looking up, he thought, whistling as he sauntered out into the cold. Maybe things are going to turn out alright down here in Exeter after all.
Chapter 9: Chatting with The Higgins
At exactly nine o’clock on Monday morning, Dr Ribero strode over to Kester’s makeshift desk and slammed the weighty SSFE brochure in front of him, nearly bringing the table down once again.
Kester grabbed at the table legs, glanced down at the brochure, then groaned. “What, you want me to apply for the course now?” he said weakly, then looked up at his father, who towered over him like an Old Testament prophet, glowering in his direction with simmering significance.
“I told you to apply for this last weekend, and then you tell me you have not!” Ribero stormed. “And the weekend before that. You thought you were very clever, leaving the brochure at my house, even when I told you to take it with you. But I am not going to let this drop, my boy!”
“I never said I’d definitely apply for the course,” Kester protested as he cowered under the magnitude of his father’s righteous indignation.
“It is a good course, a BA no less! What is your problem? I studied at this university. So did Jennifer, and your mother. Serena, Mike, you both studied at the SSFE too, tell this silly boy, please. He won’t listen to me.”
“It’s a good place to study,” Mike said automatically, not looking up from the contraption on his desk, which was currently omitting a very ominous, not to mention irritating, hum.
“If you can get in,” Serena piped up. “You have to be very good to be accepted.”
Mike snorted. “Yeah, right. Like there’s thousands of students wanting to study paranormal communications and psychic studies.”
“They only take the best,” Serena snapped back and flicked her hair irritably.
“If you say so, love.”
“Anyway,” Ribero interrupted, as he folded his arms in exasperation. “You will have no problem getting on this course. You are a clever boy, with Cambridge University degree. They will snip you up.”
“Snap you up,” Miss Wellbeloved chimed automatically from her desk.
“Yes, snip or snap, whatever,” Ribero barked. He jabbed the brochure aggressively, making the table buckle again. “Now, you are going to apply, or I will have to apply for you, understood?”
“Julio,” Miss Wellbeloved said quickly, before he could swoop back into his office. “You have remembered that we’ve got that teleconference call this morning, haven’t you?”
Ribero stiffened, nose pointing in the air like a dog sniffing a fox. “I told you, I would not be joining in this particular telephone call, Jennifer.”
Kester looked over at Miss Wellbeloved, who sighed.
“You can’t keep avoiding Larry, you know,” she said, fighting to keep the irritation from her voice.
“I’m not avoiding him.”
“Well, you’re not exactly talking to him, are you?” Mike chimed in helpfully. He twisted his screwdriver, and the humming got louder.
“Look, Julio, I understand you don’t like him, but you cannot keep hiding away! It’s getting ridiculous!”
Ribero’s moustache twitched. “I am not hiding away! Do not make me sound like a coward!”
“Well, you are behaving like one, if I’m being perfectly honest . . .”
“So, don’t be perfectly honest then!” With a bear-like snort, Ribero stomped back into his office and slammed the door so hard it made the walls shake.
“You do realise, he’s going to keep this up for the entire time we’re working with Higgins, don’t you?” Serena commented, carefully picking at her fingernails.
Miss Wellbeloved sank her head into her hands without replying.
Kester picked up the brochure and held it at arm’s length, as though worried it might burst into flames at any moment. He opened it at the marked page—the BA in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies. His father had pressed home the point by circling the title in bold red pen, complete with several large exclamation marks to ensure Kester was left in no doubt about the importance of the issue.
“This course, designed for students with keen interest in the strategic theory behind spirit/human relations . . .” he muttered aloud, scanning the page.
“You should apply,” Mike said suddenly with a nod in his direction.
Kester rolled his eyes. “Not you too,” he muttered. “I don’t see why everyone is so desperate for me to do this course.”
“For what it’s worth,” Serena said pointedly, “I’m not desperate for you to do it at all. In fact, it will probably be a waste of time.”
“Why would it be a waste of time?” Kester said, bristling.
“Because you have no natural aptitude for this kind of work.”
“I think I’ve demonstrated a little bit of ability in the field,” Kester replied, glaring over his glasses. She raised an eyebrow, smirked, then returned to her computer screen, tapping her high-heeled foot with infuriating buoyancy. He bit his lip and returned to the brochure. Maybe I will do it, just to prove her completely, utterly wrong, he thought. Then she’ll have to eat her smug words.
Flipping up his laptop, he waited for the system to boot up. A soft ping alerted him to a fresh email in his inbox, and he quickly opened it.
“Excellent,” he muttered after a quick scan of the contents.
“Is that from your girlfriend?” Mike asked with a leery wink.
“Goodness me, you’ve got a girlfriend?” Serena asked. “Is she blind? Or just too ugly to be fussy?”
Kester ignored them both. “It’s from Peter Hopper,” he announced, then leant back and folded his hands behind his head in what he hoped was a suitably nonchalant manner.
The others waited expectantly.
“Care to elaborate?” Mike said finally.
“Peter Hopper,” Kester said, “happens to be the president of the Lyme Regis Ancient History Club. Which,” he continued, getting into his stride, “I discovered that two of the victims were members of. Deirdre Baxter and Edna Berry, the vicar’s wife.”
“Edna Berry, is that the one who got hoisted up in the bell-ringing ropes?”
“The one and the same. Anyway, Mr Hopper has agreed to speak to me. It might be a complete waste of time, but then again, it might not.”
“Well done, Kester,” Miss Wellbeloved said warmly. “You’re so very much like your mother at times. That’s just the sort of investigative approach she would have used.”
“Hmm, I suppose that is quite interesting,” Serena admitted before sinking back below her computer screen. “Nice work.”
Kester beamed.
At ten o’clock, after Pamela had rolled in late, blaming a combination of a leaky dishwasher and a broken down bus, they gathered around Miss Wellbeloved’s desk for the teleconference call with Higgins and his team.
“I am so sorry, I forgot the cakes,” Pamela said, still breathing hard as she threw her pashmina across the back of the chair. Collapsing into her chair, she wiped her brow with her handkerchief.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Miss Wellbeloved said crisply. “Julio can live without his cream puffs for one day, and besides, he’s too busy sulking in his office to come out and eat cake.”
Pamela tutted. “He has to speak to Larry soon. We can’t keep on saying he’s ill.”
Well, he is ill, to be fair, Kester thought, feeling suddenly rather defensive over his father. But of course, the others didn’t know about Ribero’s Parkinson’s diagnosis, so he didn’t expect them to understand. Plus, they had a point. His father was being rather ridiculous about the whole thing, unwell or not.
“I’m sure he’ll come around eventually,” he said mildly as he positioned his notepad in front of him. “Just give him time to adjust to the idea.”
“Maybe you could have a word with him?” Miss Wellbeloved suggested. “He does seem to listen to you more than the rest of us.”
The phone suddenly rang, interrupting them, and she quickly scooped it up.
“Hello, Dr Ribero’s Agency,” she chorused. She nodded at the others. “Hello there, Larry; hang on, I’ll just pop you on loudspeaker.”
At once, Higgins’s nasal tones boomed around the office. “Let’s keep this shor
t and sweet, we’ve got work to get on with. Have you gone through your notes yet?”
“Of course,” Miss Wellbeloved replied crisply. “Serena has also been looking into doppelgänger behavioural patterns. This seems to be fairly unusual. Doppelgängers occasionally appear to announce a death, but they don’t normally cause it.”
“That may be so, but it’s undeniably a doppelgänger we’re dealing with,” Higgins retorted. “In nearly all of the murders, the spouse has mentioned the deceased saying something about seeing themselves.”
“It does seem the most obvious choice,” she replied uncertainly.
Kester frowned. He still wasn’t at all happy with the conclusion, but thus far, he couldn’t find any evidence to refute it.
“Serena,” Miss Wellbeloved continued, “could you quickly fill Larry, Lara, and Dimitri in on what else you’ve found?”
Serena cleared her throat and edged closer to the phone, rapping her pile of notes on the table. “Well, lots of things don’t add up,” she began. “For one, there hasn’t been a single doppelgänger case in the UK for over 150 years. That’s a long period of silence for any kind of spirit. I also looked through the global database; the most recent case I could find was in Beijing, about ninety years ago. They’re not a common spirit, they don’t tend to come into our world much. They’re certainly not normally aggressive.”
Dimitri’s clipped voice emerged from the phone. “Maybe it is a rogue doppelgänger?”
Serena shook her head slowly. “Let’s be honest,” she replied, “it’s pretty unlikely. Spirits don’t tend to go rogue, they normally stick to their true nature.”
“Unless they’re daemons,” Pamela said. “They’ve been known to misbehave from time to time.”
Miss Wellbeloved shook her head crossly. “Hardly ever, Pamela. And most of the time they’re model spirits who behave themselves wonderfully. Please remember that.”
“I worked on a case in Moscow where a poltergeist went rogue,” Dimitri continued as though they hadn’t spoken. “You probably heard of it, the Ulitsa Varvarka case?”