by Lucy Banks
Serena swallowed. “Lara. Sorry, Luke, I mean. I’d like to apologise. I didn’t mean to be rude. I was angry at Mike, not you.”
Luke shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s no biggie. I suppose it feels really strange that people are starting to notice now, though.”
Mike patted his own beard proudly. “You’ve got a way to go until you reach the bushiness of this little beauty though.”
“As if anyone would want a beard that looked like their grandmother’s knitted beret,” Serena scowled.
“I’d recommend a beard for you, Serena,” he replied. “Then you could grow it over your mouth and shut yourself up.”
Miss Wellbeloved wiped her eyes and gathered the folds of her cardigan about herself. “Well, enough of all this chat. Though thank you very much for telling us, Luke.” She smiled. “The name suits you very well, I think. Right, it’s nearly seven, and I could do with a walk along the seafront to clear my head a little. Does anyone want to join me?”
Everyone nodded except Kester, who shook his head. “I’m going to stay here, if that’s alright,” he said. “I want to see if I can find anything out about the Celtic brooch, and I need to prepare for my interview.”
“Of course.” Miss Wellbeloved clicked her fingers at the others. “No time like the present. Let’s see what’s happening with the police too. I presume they will have cordoned off the area. It’s probably a good idea to buy a newspaper too, see what story the journalists have run with on Peter Hopper’s death.”
“I’ll meet you all for breakfast in an hour,” Kester called after them as they trooped towards the front door. “Don’t order without me, I’m already starving.” He waited until they’d left, then retreated up the stairs. The hotel seemed unnervingly silent, apart from the sound of a dog barking somewhere nearby. He hoped Mr Onions wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting to berate him again.
Fortunately, the landing was empty. Kester knocked timidly on the bedroom door. “Everything alright in there?” He peered in.
Larry sat on his usual bottom bunk. He looked impossibly large in the cramped space, like a sizeable toad squeezed into a tiny box. “Everything is perfectly fine, I assure you.”
His face suggested the contrary. In fact, Kester noticed his eyes were red. Surely he hasn’t been crying? he thought and hastily looked away with embarrassment. “Um, don’t mind me,” he continued as he shuffled up the rickety ladder to his bed atop the other bunk. “I’m just going to do a bit of research on the Celtic brooch, see if I can find anything out.”
Higgins grunted, shifting his weight on the bed. “Is there any point?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I say. We’ve failed, Kester. Failed miserably. And now Jennifer hates me.”
Kester raised an eyebrow. Why’s he so bothered about what Miss Wellbeloved thinks of him? I always thought he disliked her as much as he dislikes the rest of us.
“I don’t think she hates you,” he said as he reached for his laptop. “She’s just passionate about what she does, and she wants us to succeed.”
“Hmm. Fat chance.”
Kester bit his lip. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t you think that kind of negativity is what’s causing the problem?”
Higgins rolled onto his back, stomach rising upwards like an ancient hill. The mattress wheezed under his weight, along with the flimsy metal bedframe. “I’m only being realistic,” he muttered, staring at the bunk above. “Someone has to be.”
The laptop whirred into action with a low, soothing hum. Kester lowered himself onto his stomach, preparing himself to settle in for an hour or so. “The thing is,” he continued, casually glancing across, “it rubs off on everyone else. If you keep telling us that we won’t succeed, then it’s more likely to be true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see any logic whatsoever in that argument.”
“I mean,” Kester pressed on, “if you tell yourself you’ll never succeed, then you’ve failed before you’ve even got started, haven’t you?”
“No. That’s a complete fallacy.”
“Miss Wellbeloved likes you, you know. She just wishes you’d be more positive and work with her to make this operation a success. That’s all.”
Higgins sighed like a whale surfacing for air, then rolled pointedly onto his side, facing the wall. His buttock-crack poked unappealingly over the top of his slacks, with a few sprouting grey hairs popping out for good measure. Kester rolled his eyes. Silly old sod, he thought as he opened the internet browser. You can’t say I didn’t try.
He saw some fresh emails in his inbox from Anya and his dad, but chose to ignore them. He had precious little time as it was without having to update his father on events and think of something witty to say to Anya. I don’t even think I could come up with a decent knock-knock joke at the moment, he thought, massaging his eyelids. God, I wish I could just go back to sleep.
An online search for “Celtic brooches” brought up page after page of images. Nothing even vaguely matched the brooch they’d found up in the woods. They were all much more complex patterns. The brooch they’d found was very simple—just a basic cross formation with a hollow in the middle, where he guessed a precious stone must have once sat. The edges featured knotted detailing between the four arms of the cross, but other than that, it was relatively plain.
Still, he thought, as he frowned at the screen. One of the brooches online must look something like this one. I can’t believe we’ve found a one-of-a-kind piece.
However, page after page revealed nothing that even remotely resembled it. He tried typing in “ancient Celtic brooches” instead. A low grunt from the bunk opposite informed him that Larry had nodded off. Sure enough, when he glanced over, he could see the rhythmic rise and fall of his hip, like a mountain range about to experience an earthquake.
Again, page after page returned nothing similar. He yawned. It was tempting to just give up, roll over, and enjoy a nap. It would be so nice, he thought, to just forget about all of this, if only just for an hour or two. But then Miss Wellbeloved’s face flashed before him, along with Mike’s, Serena’s, Pamela’s, Lara’s. Luke’s, he corrected himself sternly, hoping he’d remember in future. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to. Even Dimitri’s sour expression came to mind, though for what reason, he wasn’t quite sure. I can’t let them all down, he realised. I just can’t.
He tried a few more searches. Again, nothing came up that even remotely resembled it. The laptop screen seemed unbearably vibrant, somehow mocking him with its perky backlight. An urge came over him to slam his fist on the keyboard and lob the entire thing onto the floor.
One last page, he thought, looking at his watch. It was nearly breakfast time, and there was no way he was missing the opportunity to tuck into a sausage sandwich, even if the sausages did taste disturbingly like they’d been made several years ago and half-stuffed with sawdust.
Then he saw it. Halfway down the page. The exact same pattern. He yelped and sprang up on the bed. Higgins grunted, tremored slightly, then rolled over onto his back, his mouth gaping bowl-like towards the ceiling. Kester compared the brooch with the image, hand shaking. It was definitely the same. Not just slightly similar. Identical. He clicked through to the website, quietly praying that it wasn’t an outdated link. However, the screen loaded up—a page from Cambridge University’s Archaeology department.
“Yes, yes, yes!” he squeaked with a triumphant punch in the air. “Larry! Wake up!”
Larry snorted, choking on his own saliva. “What? What’s happening?” He wiped his mouth, then fixed an accusing eye on Kester’s bunk. “What did you wake me up for, halfwit?”
“I woke you up for a bloody good reason! Come and look at this!”
The older man got out of bed with all the energy and grace of a slug rolling off a flowerpot. “This h
ad better be good.”
Kester grinned. “It is. Look at this.”
Larry examined the screen, wincing at its brightness, then stared at the brooch in Kester’s palm. His eyes widened. “Well I’ll be blowed,” he murmured as he stroked his moustache. “It’s exactly the same.” With his usual lack of manners, he seized the laptop and started reading.
“Says it dates back to 50 CE to 100 CE,” he read, as he patted his shirt pocket for his glasses. “That it was believed to be Celtic, from Scotland.” He looked up, all hints of sleep erased. “So, it’s definitely a Scottish brooch. That’s interesting. But the big question is, what the devil were the Scots doing down here?”
Kester scratched his head. “Grace McCready dated it to the Roman era, and Xena Sunningdale told us that some Celtic warriors attacked this region, but were captured by the Romans. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”
“It certainly would. The age of the brooch is right too, the Romans were in England around 50 CE.” Higgins passed the laptop back, then pressed his finger against his lips. “This is interesting. Most interesting. How does this link to our problematic spirit, though? If indeed it does at all.”
Kester looked up, eyes shining. “Wouldn’t this make sense if the spirit was a fetch? Didn’t Miss Wellbeloved say that they were from Ireland or Scotland, and that they latched themselves on to people sometimes? What if the fetch travelled down from Scotland with the Celtic warrior that we dug up in the woods?”
Larry shook his head. “No. Nice theory, but there would be nothing keeping the spirit here after the Celtic chap had died. There’s absolutely no reason why it would hide in the ground for centuries, no motivation at all. Fetches don’t do that.”
Kester sighed then looked at his watch. “I need to think some more about it. There are some clues here, I’m sure; it’s just a matter of working out what they are.” I’m sure Grace McCready has something to do with all of this too, he thought, remembering her horrible cottage, the dark, depressive atmosphere of her living room. She’s from Scotland, maybe she’s more involved in all of this than she’s admitting.
“Well,” Higgins concluded, “you’ll need to work it out quickly, for all our sakes. Otherwise, this case is doomed.”
Kester grinned. Negative yet again, he thought, wondering if Larry Higgins was capable of being optimistic, or whether it was a physical impossibility. “A steaming pile of hot sausages and buttery toast should help,” he suggested. “Are you coming?”
Higgins’s face darkened. “I’d better not. I’ll get something later.” Kester leapt down from the bunk.
“Look,” he said and fixed the older man with his most earnest, forceful expression. “Miss Wellbeloved would be horrified if she thought she’d upset you. If you come with me now, she’ll be really pleased, because then she’ll know that you do care about the job after all.”
“Of course I bloody care about it!”
“Well then. Are you joining me?”
He sighed. “Oh, alright. Just to stop you going on at me.” He pulled open the door, letting in an immediate draught. “And by the way . . .”
Kester turned. “Yes?”
To his surprise, Larry patted him on the shoulder. Awkwardly, as one might pat an alarming Rottweiler, but it was a pat nonetheless. “You’ve done a good job,” he muttered, then looked away, concealing his expression. “Well done. You have your mother’s determination.”
“Thanks very much.” Kester waited for him to depart, then smiled at his broad, overbearing back as it disappeared down the gloomy landing. Goodness me, he thought, closing the door behind him. Did I just get a compliment from Larry Higgins? Perhaps the old boy isn’t as bad as I thought he was.
I just wish I could work out what’s niggling me about this case, he thought as they went downstairs and out into the open. If only he wasn’t so tired, then his brain could process it properly. What am I missing? And more importantly, he concluded with a frown, will I have enough time to figure it out?
Chapter 17: Talking to a Djinn
Kester sat down at the café table, then immediately ducked as Luke thrust a mobile phone dangerously close to his head.
“Guess who we just heard from?” He rubbed his buzz-cut with excitement and pressed the phone even closer towards Kester’s face.
“I have no idea,” Kester mumbled, shielding himself. He peered at the screen. “Who’s that? It’s not a number I recognise.”
“It’s the archaeologist, dummy,” Serena chimed. Kester was irritated to see that she’d already ordered and was currently sipping a mug of tea, which smelt tantalisingly pleasant.
He blinked, then moved aside as Larry squeezed himself down on the chair beside him. “The archaeologist? Gosh, he’s up early, isn’t he?”
Luke laughed and tweaked his shirt-collar. “He is now.”
Mike leant across, pulling the sugar pot to his end of the table. “I don’t think he was best pleased to get woken up. Apparently he’d been up all last night examining the skeleton and all the other things they found down in the grave.”
“Lara, could you pass me the sugar?” Pamela said, then slapped her forehead. “Oh sod it. Sorry, love. Luke. I will get it in the end.”
Mike chuckled. “You know,” he said slowly, “the closest equivalent male name to Lara is Larry. You could have called yourself Larry Junior instead.”
“That wasn’t an option, thank you very much!” Larry barked as he gestured to the waitress with a curled finger. “There is only room for one Larry in this agency. And it’s not as though Lara here will be my son.”
“Don’t you mean Luke?” Serena said snippily.
Larry scratched his head. “Yes, I suppose if the rest of you are going to start calling her that—”
“You mean him,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected. “If Luke has felt like a male all his life, then he’d probably prefer to be called by the correct pronoun, don’t you think?”
“Look,” Larry said. “I don’t have a problem with it at all. Don’t make out like I’m being a backward idiot over this. I’ve been very supportive, haven’t I, Lara?”
Luke waved a hand in his direction. “Hey, it’s fine, I understand. It takes some adjustment. I’m kind of getting used to it all myself, really. I never thought I’d get to the stage where I’d finally be accepted for the surgery. You know, it feels great, but overwhelming at the same time.”
“Would you rather we stopped going on about it?” Serena asked. “It’s probably even more overwhelming having us constantly firing questions at you.” She smiled winningly, leaning her chin on her hands.
Kester couldn’t help noticing how much nicer Serena was being towards Luke since she’d heard the news. Perhaps it’s taught her a lesson, he thought, about not being so mean to everyone all the time.
Luke shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind if you want to ask questions. I’d rather people were just open about it rather than being scared to talk about it with me, to be honest. But at the moment, we’d better just focus on this case, hadn’t we? Especially now we’ve been kicked out of the hotel. That’s added a bit more pressure.”
Larry looked abashed. “Yes, well, that’s probably my fault,” he muttered. Everyone waited. “Erm, I probably shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that.” Miss Wellbeloved’s jaw flew open. She looked at Kester, who grinned. Looks like the old boy’s keen to make amends, he thought, liking him a tiny fraction more.
“Anyway, do you all want to hear what the archaeologist had to say?” Luke interrupted.
“Absolutely. Out with it.” Higgins rested his elbows on the table, happy to divert the attention from himself.
“Those bones we dug up on the headland? They’re about 2,000 years old. The archaeologist reckons the guy was buried there in the Roman times.”
Kester grinned. “That’s exactly what we th
ought.” He quickly filled the others in on what he’d found out online about the brooch.
“Yeah, but it gets more interesting than that,” Luke continued, practically vibrating in the seat with excitement. “He couldn’t tell much else from the skeleton itself, apart from that it was a male, well-built and very tall, over six foot—which in those days was more unusual. However,” he added, leaning forward. “The interesting thing was the knife in his chest.”
“Go on.” Higgins nodded, disregarding his tea when it arrived, despite the inviting puffs of steam it was sending into the air.
“Turns out it’s a sacrificial dagger. But the archaeologist said the man wasn’t murdered. The position of the knife suggested that he’d fallen deliberately on his weapon.”
“So, he killed himself?” Kester said, eyes widening.
“Yep.” Luke beamed. “But there’s more.”
Kester wriggled in his seat, feeling as excited as a child at a birthday party. He slurped at his tea without even being aware he was doing so. “Go on, tell us!”
“The pattern on the hilt is apparently an ancient Celtic pattern, and the archaeologist said it was from a particular part of Scotland, near the Angus region? I don’t even know where that is.”
“Angus is between Perthshire and Aberdeenshire,” Miss Wellbeloved said. She gave the waitress a grateful smile as she deposited a fried egg sandwich in front of her. “I went there on holiday once, a long time ago. Beautiful scenery, very dramatic.”
Kester frowned. Why does that feel like it should be significant? he wondered. Perhaps it was just tiredness, making even minor details suddenly seem important. He took another gulp of tea, hoping that it would wake him up a bit.
“But guess what?” Luke piped up with an impatient rap of his fist on the tabletop. “There’s more. Brace yourselves.”
“This had better be good,” Larry muttered. “We need something solid to go on.”
“This is good,” Dimitri confirmed, rubbing his hands together. “Really good. Just wait and see.”