Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1)

by Saint,Nic

  “I’ve been told he can move through walls and make himself invisible.”

  “Mh. I doubt that very much, Harry. I honestly think that as long as you stay at the apartment you’re at, you’re safe. The guy doesn’t have a clue where you are, right? So just stay put and let the police do their job. Immortal or not, once they catch him he’ll be tried and sentenced like any mortal.”

  “So that’s why Uncle Curtis told me to stay here,” she said, understanding dawning.

  “Yeah, that was my idea, in fact. Alice called me and told me Chief Whitehouse has a special relationship with the police officer in charge.”

  Now it was Harry’s turn to chuckle. She didn’t think Darian would agree with this description of his relationship with Uncle Curtis.

  “So I told him I’ll send Peverell your way, so he can help you make sense of all this. And provide an extra layer of protection, just in case.”

  “Peverell… You mean your boss Peverell Wardop?”

  “That’s the one. Since I’m in the States right now, and kinda tied up, and Peverell doesn’t have to go through the hassle of an international flight and the TSA getting all frisky on him, it seemed like the best option.”

  “I actually have a ghost helping me out already,” she explained.

  “Alice told me. Buckley, right? The first murder victim? Well, since he’s a fresh ghost he won’t be aware of all the ins and outs of ghostdom like good old Pev does, so I think it’s a good idea nonetheless.”

  It was, actually. Now she’d have two ghosts helping her out. She only wondered what Darian’s mother would say if she knew her place was quickly becoming a gathering place for ghosts.

  “So I guess that settles things for now.”

  “It does. Erm… there’s just that matter of the Wraith Wranglers?”

  “Oh, right, sure. Alice told me you’d love to join the gang. Thing is, Harry, this is not a paying position, nor is it something you can do on a full-time basis. It all depends on the kind of cases you get. Sometimes you’ll have one every week, but other times it can be months before you’re contacted by someone in need. I pay expenses, of course, but Wraith Wranglers is a nonprofit, its members all volunteers.” He paused for a moment, and must have sensed her disappointment, for he continued, “If that poses a problem for you, no hard feelings, Harry. I’d love for you to join us, but if not, that’s okay too.”

  “No, no, I want to help,” she quickly said. This wraith wrangling thing seemed like something that would give meaning to a life that had been very empty since her parents had died. And secretly she also hoped that through this work she might get in contact with them. She wasn’t going to tell anybody that, of course, but it was still a very powerful motivation.

  “That’s great, Harry. Let’s talk soon, shall we? Hammer out the details?”

  After Brian rang off, she sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, staring into space. Had she just agreed to be part of a secret ghost hunting outfit? It certainly looked that way. Then she grinned. She was a Wraith Wrangler now. How cool was that? And then she remembered she was supposed to meet Peverell Wardop and swallowed a sudden lump that had formed itself in her throat. She just hoped she hadn’t taken on more than she could chew. She was, after all, a simple historian, and here she was involved in both a murder investigation and a ghost hunting outfit. Funny how one’s life could sometimes remain stagnant for months and years, and then suddenly go through a complete metamorphosis all in the space of a few days.

  Days? Hours, more like.

  She wondered whether to tell Darian about this and decided against it. He didn’t believe in ghosts, that much was obvious, and would simply hold her own beliefs against her. But then she thought about her new friend Jarrett Zephyr and her smile returned. This was right up his alley, all right, and the next moment she was calling his cell, fully intent to include him in this new wraith wrangling effort. She had a hunch he would love it.

  Chapter 30

  Peverell Wardop was not in a good mood. He was an ancient gentleman of rather decrepit appearance, but in spite of the fact that he was dead, and had been for quite a while, and that he looked like the original mummy from The Mummy, he still demanded and commanded respect and admiration.

  He was a born leader and as such had turned the Wardop Group into a billion-dollar corporation almost single-handedly. He’d had a little help along the way from his brothers Kingston and Waldo, but the vision and the drive had always been his. Kingston was the financial genius and Waldo the technical whizz, but Peverell was the one with the strategic insight to turn a small startup into a Fortune 500 company in the course of his own lifetime.

  A life which had, of course, expired a few months ago.

  He’d had the forethought of recruiting a successor, however. A young man who could communicate with the dead and who would take orders from them. And as such he was now the deceased president of the Wardop Group. Probably the first active dead company president in the US, if not the world.

  And now this. Brian had summoned him out the blue and had asked him to look into this matter of Harry McCabre and discover if she was a good recruit or not. In the process he needed to protect her from some species of rogue priest who fashioned himself to be immortal—something Peverell highly doubted was even possible, or else he’d have discovered its secret a long time ago—and make sure no harm came to her.

  He’d accepted Brian’s silly hobby of wanting to help the dead as part of the bargain they’d struck, but now this wraith wrangling nonsense was impinging on his own activities. It seemed that lately all he’d done was help deadbeat ghosts solve their murders and sort out their unfinished business.

  Even in life he’d never much cared for his fellow man, and in death he certainly didn’t care about his fellow ghosts. So why Brian would send him halfway across the globe to help out this McCabre woman he didn’t know.

  But the Wardop Group had just recorded a record profit for the quarter, and he figured Brian deserved a little present. Usually presidents and CEOs got a bonus for their efforts, but all Brian was interested in was helping out the ghosts he’d selected for entrance into his wraith wrangling program.

  Peverell sighed as he popped off at his Fifth Avenue condo, which he now shared with Brian, and popped up where Brian had told him this woman was holed up. He had to admit she had style, for the place was very nicely appointed. Not in the same class as his own properties across the globe of course—the house in Aspen, the mansions in Palm Beach and Beverly Hills, and the apartments in London, Paris, and Tokyo—but tasteful nonetheless.

  For a moment he simply took in his new surroundings. One perk of being a ghost was that you could snoop around other people’s lives undetected all you wanted, a fact that had contributed to his astounding success since his demise: he simply eavesdropped on his competitors to see what they were up to and thwarted their evil schemes with practiced ease.

  The chamber of commerce probably wouldn’t like it, but then the chamber of commerce didn’t consist of ghosts. A bunch of stiffs, yes, but they were all still very much alive and kicking. Well, to some extent, at least.

  He looked up when a young woman entered the room, and he recognized her from Brian’s description. She was perky, pretty and golden-eyed, and looked very much like his favorite member of the original Wraith Wranglers: Alice Whitehouse.

  “Hello there,” he said and was amused to see her gasp in shock and clutch her heart. Call him old-fashioned, but he so enjoyed scaring people. One of those things that brought a sparkle of joy in an otherwise rather dull existence. “My name is Peverell Wardop. I was told you were expecting me?”

  “I-I was,” she stammered. “I knew you were coming, but not, erm…”

  “Not by suddenly materializing in front of you? It’s the way of the ghost, I’m afraid. As a species, we’ve decided to move past that boring old ritual of ringing the doorbell.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, quickly recovering. Her eyes we
re shining with the light of pure intelligence, he saw with satisfaction. At least Brian knew how to pick them. “So, what seems to be the problem?” Even though Brian had briefed him, he always found it useful to hear the full story from the subjects themselves. And as Harry explained, first haltingly, then with more animation, he nodded sagely. Same old story, of course, except for the part about this Jingoist fella. He didn’t like the fact that someone had found a way to be immortal without having to go through the trouble of actually dying first. He felt it was very much the cowardly way of going through life.

  “This Jingoist. Are you sure he is what he says he is? Immortal, I mean?”

  “Well, I haven’t met him personally, so I don’t have any firsthand knowledge of the fact, but I met the Elder of the Absinthian Church, and he told me his age.” She eyed him pointedly. “Two hundred and three.”

  In spite of himself, Peverell whistled through his teeth. But then, as Harry continued her tale of woe, he saw the drawback of living forever. People would start asking questions if you kept on living. If Bill Gates, at the ripe old age of two hundred, were still running Microsoft, people simply wouldn’t accept it. They’d think it was some kind of scam. The shareholders would mount a protest, the government would launch a probe, and pretty soon Bill Gates would be spending life in a government facility, nothing more than a glorified lab rat, poked and prodded by a never-ending procession of scientists. Not a pleasant prospect. No, then his solution was a lot more elegant. When Brian Rutherford died, as he inevitably would, he would simply select another patsy to take his place. Problem solved.

  “All right, all right,” he finally said when Harry droned on and on about some guy called Buckley. He really wasn’t interested in the affairs of some murdered storekeeper any more than he was in the latest celebrity death. “I’ll stick around for a while and see what I can find out about this immortal priest of yours,” he told the girl, and this seemed to please her.

  “Erm, Mr. Wardop?” she asked tentatively, still a little trepidatious.

  “Just call me Peverell,” he grunted. He kinda liked her, and even after this initial conversation knew he’d recommend her to Brian. She had pluck, resourcefulness, and a lot of heart. Exactly what Brain was looking for.

  “Do you think it’s all right if I introduce you to a friend of mine?”

  He gave her a look of extreme censure. “I’m not really here to socialize,” he pointed out, “but to protect you from harm, young lady.”

  “Yes, but he’s also keen to become a Wraith Wrangler. I just talked to him and he told me this is the quest he’s been looking for his whole life.”

  He rolled his eyes. Words like ‘quest’ invariably pointed to doe-eyed amateurs, and he had no time for those. However, they were exactly what Brian wanted, so he nodded. “Bring him on,” he said unenthusiastically.

  He wasn’t surprised when Harry grinned from ear to ear and clapped her hands in glee. “He’s going to love this!” she announced, quite unnecessarily.

  “Of course he will,” he replied dryly. “They all do.”

  Chapter 31

  There was something to be said for discipline, Jarrett thought as he finally gave up the ambition of entering the former residence of Miss Lakesha Fenton and decided to call it a night. The united force of the London Metropolitan Police Service—aka Scotland Yard—had decided to bar himself and Deshawn passage into the place and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d tried throwing money at the problem, but the police officer guarding the door, a beefy, surly type with a thick mustache and a hipster beard, had given him the evil eye and warned him that if he ever tried that again he’d be arrested for trying to bribe a police officer.

  Then he’d asked his dad to talk to The Met’s Commissioner, but his father, bless his heart, proved just as incorruptible as the cops themselves.

  Finally, he’d decided to turn to Deshawn, who seemed to be able to come up with original solutions to complicated problems on a regular basis, but even that formidable man was stumped. The only thing he could suggest was that they try the same approach at the morgue, where the ghost of Miss Fenton might be hanging out by now, sticking close to the body she’d only recently left by the wayside, but another Queen’s Guard wannabe displayed the same curious allergy to money as his colleague.

  His own solution finally was to simply sneak in through the backdoor, but apparently Watley, ready even for this contingency, had posted his man there as well, or rather his woman, and she didn’t appear pleased when first he and then Deshawn came dropping from the apple tree in the backyard, after vaulting the garden fence with some difficulty. Back to where they came from, was her implacable advice, and so back to where they came from it was.

  And he was just about to give up this bootless pursuit when Harry called with the news that she’d just joined some secret club of ghost hunters and was he interested as well. The man in charge, apparently, was an old crusty ghost answering to the name Peverell Wardop. He knew the Wardop Group, of course, one of those mega-conglomerates out of the States with an annual budget bigger than the GDP of most countries combined, and was more than a little anxious to join Harry on this quest. It was the first he’d ever heard of these Wraith Wanglers—or Wagglers—or could it have been Wrigglers?—and instantly he knew that this was what he was put here on this earth to do.

  “Deshawn,” he announced therefore as Deshawn steered the Rolls back to the Ritz-Carlton, “I have just discovered my life’s purpose.”

  “Indeed, sir?” said Deshawn impassively.

  Of course the man had had to endure his master discovering the purpose of his life on a daily basis ever since he’d come into his employ. One day he was going to be the next Michael Phelps, the next the next Michael Jordan, the next the next Michael Jackson and the next the next Michael Caine. No wonder his response lacked the required eagerness and pretty enthusiasm.

  “I, Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Third am going to be a Wraith Wangler, Deshawn, and so are you.”

  “A what, sir?” asked Deshawn, and for the first time since he’d made the man’s acquaintance there was a slight flicker of his left eyebrow, which was a sure sign of his extreme distress.

  “A Wraith Wangler, Deshawn, or it could have been a Wraith Waggler.”

  “Do you mean Wraith Wrangler, sir? Someone who wrangles wraiths?”

  “It very well might, Deshawn. It is a ghost hunter of some kind. Harry has joined an outfit that does exactly that sort of thing, and I’ve decided to sign on the dotted line as well. We’re going to wrangle wraiths like there’s no tomorrow, Deshawn!”

  “Very well, sir. Do you still wish me to continue on to the Ritz, sir? Or do you have a new destination in mind?”

  “Yes, I do have a new destination in mind, Deshawn. Set a course for Harry’s new lodgings, will you? She’s currently holed up in the apartment of the mother of Inspector Watley of all people.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “I’m not surprised you’re surprised, Deshawn. I’m quite baffled as well. To think of Harry shacking up with that dear old Em Sheetenhelm.”

  “You know Inspector Watley’s mother, sir?”

  “I do indeed. One of Father’s acquaintances, in fact. Used to be married to some old fossil at the Yard, and once upon a time quite renowned for her dinner parties. In fact I was something of a regular there once upon a time. Until she got divorced and called it quits. So step on it, Deshawn, and make haste, for this wraith wrangling business sounds like just the ticket for you and me.”

  “Indubitably, sir,” said Deshawn. He sounded a little subdued, Jarrett felt, and he didn’t blame him. Wrangling wraiths seemed like one of those pursuits that insurance companies frown upon and award their highest risk scores. Like drunk driving and wrestling alligators in a Florida swamp. But if it could save his mother, and give his life new meaning in the process, he was ready and willing to give it a spin.

  Darian, after brooding on the case of the missing Clavicule Necro
ire for the space of a few hours, finally gave up. The case, he saw, was simply one of those perfect murders that cannot be solved unless one has the mind of a Sherlock Holmes or a Hercule Poirot. Like the murder of Sir Buckley, the murder of Lakesha Fenton showed all the hallmarks of the genius killer. No sign of forced entry, no witnesses, no fingerprints and no other evidence indicating she hadn’t been alone when she died. If not for the way she was murdered—blunt force trauma to the back of the head—it could have been a suicide. But since people usually don’t go around hitting themselves on the backs of their heads, and no murder weapon had been found, he had to rule that out, just like they’d had to rule it out in Sir Buckley’s case.

  He knew that the murder was connected to the Clavicule Necroire and the Absinthian Church, but how? How had the murderer—most probably this sinister Jingoist—gained access and left without leaving a single trace?

  Harry had told him some hogwash about the man being immortal, but that was impossible, of course. And even so, immortal didn’t mean being able to move through solid walls. He would have had to find a means of egress.

  No, the thing was puzzling to a degree, and he was about to throw up his hands and call it a night when there was a commotion outside on the street. He strode over to the window and saw that a car had double parked, blocking traffic. And he was about to dismiss the matter from his mind when he saw Jarrett Zephyr of all people alight from the vehicle and jauntily make his way to the front door of his very apartment building!

  He cursed under his breath. So the man had discovered where Harry was holed up, huh? Most likely she’d given him the coordinates and had invited him over. The woman simply had no common sense! She was in protective custody, and wasn’t supposed to entertain visitors, and most certainly not visitors of the caliber of Zephyr and the clown that did his bidding.