by Syd Moore
Agatha shouted, ‘Hurrah.’ Femi snorted. Joel made a sucking noise with his teeth.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Tim, unexpectedly.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say,’ said Auntie Babs.
‘What’s Harry Met Sally?’ asked Sam.
I felt myself suppress a cringe, then had no choice but to surrender to it when Auntie Babs gave me a theatrical nudge and said, ‘Oo-er, Rosie. I got the DVD at home but you can stream it online for cheap, love. Do you know what I reckon?’ she turned to a bewildered Mr Stone. ‘I’d say it’s time you two went back to the witch house and got a cosy night in with the telly.’ Then she winked at him. Twice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘Well,’ said Sam bouncing up and down on the bed. ‘It’s bigger than the one in the spare room. I thought we could put it in there, if that’s okay. And maybe turn this into a library.’
We were on the first floor of the Witch Museum in an area that I hadn’t spent much time in at all. It was at the front of the building, whereas the main living quarters – Septimus’s bedroom and the lounge – were located at the rear.
The room was full of shadow, fairly large, maybe fifteen feet by fourteen or so, and led off a very wide landing. This landing, which was behind me, was brighter, illuminated by two windows that faced west. Currently though, dark clouds were gathering, letting the sun shine only intermittently. I wondered if a storm was coming and checked the windows were firmly shut. These were the ‘eyes’ in the museum’s skull-like façade. Made of leaded lights and arch-shaped, they stood sentry over the muddy car park at the front.
A sudden gust of wind howled against them, causing the curtains to stir in the draught. The hairs on my arms prickled and I moved away, further into the bedroom and promptly sneezed. The air in here was full of dust motes dislodged by the curator’s bottom. According to Sam it had once been my dad’s. Somewhere in the dark caves of my mind there was a place that must recall it to be so because this news didn’t come as a surprise.
As I surveyed the room I noted brighter rectangles on the wallpaper where posters had once hung. Around them the paper pattern was faded. It covered a wall at the back of the room where the bed was and featured a vintage superman in all manner of manly poses. I must have definitely seen it before, if not in person then certainly in a photo, because I could remember planes hanging from the ceiling. In fact, I could clearly picture teen Ted in here at his desk, hunched over his Airfix models, tongue poking out of his mouth, concentrating hard on matching the right numbers on the fuselage to the correct enamel paint.
So normal.
And yet, so at odds with the strange displays only yards beneath his feet.
No wonder he had got out of here as soon as he could. The man had never ever expressed a spiritual or esoteric opinion in his life that I was aware, other than to rubbish what foolish people said of course. It was probably a reaction to or a rebellion against his childhood spent growing up in here. And really who could blame him? It wasn’t the ideal place to bring up kids. I thought briefly about Auntie Celeste and wondered what she had made of it and how she might have turned out had her life not been cut short by the accident. I guessed you could go one way or the other. Reject it or embrace it.
Sam had ventured that a great deal of Dad’s aversion to the museum was down to his mother’s disappearance. That figured – Septimus had himself created it as a reaction to the event. With best intentions of course. But still, I could see how a mother’s disappearance and then the following upheaval – the transfer to the museum – might sour a child to their surroundings.
And Septimus would have had to concentrate on setting up the museum, launching it too, which would consume a great deal of energy, so who, I wondered, had looked after the kids? Maybe they looked after themselves. Maybe Dad looked after Celeste. Or one of the grandparents or aunties.
I was beginning to think that Dad’s rejection of all things supernatural and prophetic, and of the museum, actually presented a denunciation of his mother. After all, from what Sam had told me, Ethel-Rose had believed herself to be clairvoyant or clairaudient or whatever. Her final ill-fated demonstration of these ‘gifts’ appeared to have been, if not the cause, then certainly the catalyst for her strange vanishing. That would have to generate some serious issues. Resentment. Bewilderment. And yes, I could also see how the angry dismissal of the whole caboodle might fix into a character trait.
It would be far easier to deal with that way.
Poor Dad. No wonder he didn’t like me hanging around the place. It would present a constant reminder to him of the mother that he had lost. And of the pain and rage that had followed.
I imagined him sitting on the bed in his sailor suit, as he was depicted in the family portrait, swinging his feet back and forth and scowling at me. He wanted me to go home, I felt sure. Back to the comfortable superficiality of my steady job. Back to safety.
The only thing was, I didn’t think I was going to. Not just yet.
There was stuff to do down here.
In a weird way, I was starting to feel a certain obligation to my dead grandparents and had been thinking about a few things. Sam had already mentioned one – why had Septimus left me the museum? Especially if he knew Dad’s feelings about the place? And what really happened to Ethel-Rose?
‘So,’ said the breathless curator finishing his bed-bouncing routine, ‘if we knocked through this wall we could have a rather magnificent open space which would make a beautiful study-cum-library.’ The place darkened as clouds swarmed over the sun. ‘We’re running out of room downstairs in the office so I could relocate the books. We could have shelves from floor to ceiling on three sides. It would help. What do you think?’
I thought that I liked the way he said ‘we’. Though I also thought he was making assumptions. Like I said, despite the fact I was not about to put the place straight on the market as I had thought I might do a month ago, I wasn’t stupid enough to think about spending big money on renovations. If Dad’s condition worsened and I couldn’t talk him round, then the museum would simply have to go. I really didn’t want my actions to contribute to his sickness. At the same time I didn’t really want to upset Sam either. He was becoming a friend. Something more than a friend, if I was being totally honest.
Plus, the place wasn’t actually running at a loss and the odd little parcel of cash kept falling into our laps. The odd but well-deserved little parcel of cash, I might add. The latest instalment from Boundersby I had agreed, after expenses, could be used to enhance the place cosmetically in the meantime. To put the Witch Museum back on the map, if it had ever been on one, and maybe encourage it to be a tourist destination that might produce an effective income. Just for a little while.
I could even consider a sabbatical, take it on as a project maybe. I was secretly desperate to get my hands on the car park and vacant green outside. I’d thought about using some of the recent income to create a memorial garden to the witches and was visualising a section full of herbs that some of the cunning women might have used. Plus, pretty flower beds with hardy perennials and bloomers that might coincide with half-term, Easter and the summer holidays. These might even coax the phantom flower-bomber out. It was a thought worth thinking on. But anyway, I was sure we could stretch to a few picnic benches to woo schools and more families to make a day of it at the museum. Maybe a climbing frame and swings where children could play while parents relaxed. That wouldn’t break the bank.
And I needed a new pair of boots. To replace my luscious gold beauties that were scratched and now slightly forlorn-looking after the tangle with the slave trader. He should be made to compensate me really, the nasty bastard. Maybe there was insurance or something I could claim them on. I’d have to check it out.
And I was also contemplating something else a little more personal – a rose garden to commemorate my grandmother. Bronson could dig up some of the grass round the front without causing too much trouble. A few
of those gorgeous Ethel-Rose roses could probably be begged or borrowed from one of the villagers. I’d get Bronson to put out the feelers. It certainly wouldn’t cost a lot and it might well soften Dad. On the other hand, he might blow a fuse and flip out altogether. I wasn’t sure how to play it yet – but a plan was forming. I intended to do some of my own metaphorical digging around to see if I could shed any light on what happened back in 1953.
So, collecting my thoughts, I replied to Sam, ‘Why don’t you start with the landing? Get Bronson to put some shelves in across the back and bring a table up that can be used as a desk. You said there’s two storage rooms that have got loads of stuff in them – one outside and one in the attic, right? Let’s look at them and see if we can furnish it cheaply. I quite like having this as a spare room. Just in case anyone comes to see us. But if you want a larger bed, swap this double with the one in your room.’
He smiled, the left side of his mouth pulling sharply up, making him look a little goofy and very adorable. A sudden rectangle of sunlight shone through the window framing him where he stood, picking out the ochres and russets in his hair, the flecks of amber in his eyes, which looked for a second, full of mischief. ‘You said “your room”.’
‘Yeah, I did.’ I smiled back and lingered on his shoulders. Sometimes I could feel my arms moving as if they had a mind of their own – wanting to reach out. I could quite easily imagine the fabric of his green sweatshirt under my palm, the ribs beneath it. Stop that, Ms Strange.
Sam’s smile widened and kinked to the left as was its habit. ‘Does that mean I can stay?’
His eyes became rounder, looking so momentarily big and hopeful, I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Sure, for as long as I’ve got the place.’
‘Great,’ he said, and beamed. ‘Because I’ve already moved in. Hope you don’t mind. Had to give notice on my studio flat in Litchenfield.’
Huh! I thought. Cheeky tart. Still, I let it go. ‘I didn’t even know you had one.’
‘Well, I used to.’ He shrugged and looked away. The sunlight died and the room dimmed again. ‘Splendid. I’ll remove the dummies to the downstairs storage,’ and he started talking about the size of that ground-floor area and the fact I hadn’t seen it yet either and how it might make a nice summer sitting room.
I watched him get up and pad across the floorboards into the middle of the room. He was still talking, his face animated, legs smooth and long and graceful.
The light from the eye windows was rapidly diminishing behind me. Clouds were coming in from the south and gathering. Night would be about us soon. I wasn’t sure if I was looking forward to the evening with Sam or not. Which was unusual. A shadow had been cast by the news that he’d reviewed the séance video tapes and wanted to go over them with me. I intuited this wasn’t going to be straightforward, because he also committed to streaming a new comedy with a predominantly female cast. He hated comedy unless it was black. It did not bode well at all.
You might think this pre-emptive but I’d already taken the initiative and lined up a shrink. Mostly because DS Edwards had phoned in the week to let me know that none of his officers were owning up to impersonating the dead chef. He went on to state that although practical jokes weren’t uncommon in the day-to-day life of the average London plod, he thought it highly unlikely that someone would muck around like that on a murder investigation. It could compromise the case and get them all referred to the Independent Police Complaints Commission, for which none of them had an appetite.
So, if it hadn’t been a wayward copper feeding me information, then who the bloody hell was it? Who could know that much detail, most of which had now been confirmed, about the murder? These were the most pressing questions on Jason Edwards’ lips. Luckily, he’d informed me, none of my DNA had shown up at the crime scene so I wasn’t seriously considered a suspect. Plus, I had an alibi – Sam and several traffic cameras which put me (speeding) on the A12 heading out of London towards Adder’s Fork on that fateful Saturday.
So then who?
Who exactly had whispered in my shell-like?
The detective had let a full minute scroll out on the phone while I thought about what to say, finally shrugging, which of course he couldn’t hear. So I added a sigh.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘I’m getting the sense you may well be a sceptical sort of ghostbuster? You should meet my mum.’
I wasn’t sure how to respond to either of those statements, but in the end I said, ‘My knee-jerk reaction is to suggest that one of your team might just be covering up because they went off-script and mucked things up. Given that you believe what they say, however, I will revise this. Which leaves me with a question mark.’
‘That makes another one,’ he said after a pause. ‘Because, we’ve still not got to the bottom of the girl in the yard.’
‘She was, I’ll admit it now, comparable to the description that Mary gave of the original apparition.’
‘The one that looks like Elizabeth Brownrigg’s victim, Mary Clifford?’
‘How did you know that?’ I was surprised.
‘Sam sent me a reproduction of the illustration in Henry Warren’s office.’
‘Oh,’ I said, and petered out.
‘We’ve also looked at the Newgate Calendar illustration and yes there are similarities. Although we’re still working on Marta Thompson. She’s fessed up to killing Seth. Quite proud of it too. But I’m still wondering about her antics at La Fleur. The whole haunting thing. I wonder if she might have shown a picture to Mary and thus influenced her description. Or Tom may have done without realising. I think there’s more to come out of those two. We are now looking at the possibility that they were also aware of the situation going on next door with the girls. Certainly we know Seth Johnson was. And he was part of the La Fleur plot. He might have confided in his co-conspirators. We think Thompson may have even orchestrated Mary’s first sighting. To cover up the girls’ screaming. We’re pursuing the matter.’
‘Not sure that the timeline works though,’ I muttered more to myself than Jason. ‘What I really wanted to do is go back and have another chat with Mary.’
‘Might be problematic,’ he said. ‘I understand from Mr Boundersby she’s undergoing medical tests right now.’
I sighed again. It would have to wait a bit then. ‘Do you know how that’s going?’
‘Not really. But Mr Boundersby sounded positive, if that’s any consolation?’ Yes, that was unusual enough to be a good omen.
Jason cleared his throat and moved on. ‘So regarding the details that you came up with. During the séance?’ I could hear him attaching verbal quotation marks around the last word.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? Normally I incline to scepticism. However, lately I’ve started to realise it can be just as blinding as faith. I don’t think we have all the answers yet. Probably best to keep an open mind about it till I talk to Sam.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be able to write that into my report,’ he moaned.
‘Tell them I’m telepathic,’ I said.
There was a pause down the other end, then, ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ I told him flatly. ‘At least I don’t think so.’
No doubt Sam would have a theory lined up and ready to expound when we watched the tapes. I was really glad I had Bitchfest to look forwards to at the end of it though. When Harry Met Sally might have prompted a few too many questions about the current state of play and while, on one hand, I was not averse to the idea of a bit of love action, on the other I’d decided not to rush things.
There was too much going on.
Although we’d sorted out La Fleur, mostly, and had a healthy balance on the Witch Museum bank account, Dad was still undergoing tests and needed calm. No changes or surprises, Mum had said. I thought any kind of sexual liaison with the curator of the Witch Museum might be a bit of an unpalatable shock given his feelings on the subject. Plus, I had a fuller debrief with the Met lined up over dinner in a few d
ays’ time. Wasn’t sure if his mum was coming too. Might prove something of a problem if DS Edwards wanted to take down my particulars. Which I was also not averse to. The Sam stuff, if it was ever going to happen, should grow organically. I reckoned he’d run a mile if I ever made the first move or forced it.
‘Rosie?’ He was looking at me intently, waiting.
‘Sorry, what?’
He tutted. ‘I said, “Hecate’s talking to you.”’ He pointed to his feet where the majestic feline was sitting, regarding me coolly through large green eyes.
‘Greetings, Hecate,’ I replied.
She made a humming noise, twitched her head and then looked up at Sam and meowed again.
He considered her for a moment then nodded. ‘Good idea.’ He grinned back at me. ‘Perhaps now it’s time for you to see the girls’ room. Well, where your grandmother and Celeste’s belongings are stored?’
Sometimes Sam was the paragon of scepticism and rationale thought. Then there were other times …
‘Why not?’’ I said, as rain began to spatter against the windows.
He turned on his heel and followed the cat across the landing. Outside the sky had turned black.
I, who also used to be so rational, dutifully trailed the pair of them down the corridor scuffing my heels on the uneven parquet.
When he reached Septimus’s living quarters, they both stopped. Hecate yawned and twitched her head towards the living room. Sam opened the door and let her in but didn’t enter the room. Instead he bent over and pressed something down by the skirting board. There was the sound of metal clanking, then a door that had been hidden by wooden panelling revealed itself and sprang open.
‘Oh my god!’ I said, as dust spiralled down from above. ‘I never realised that was here.’ I must have passed it at least thirty times and not noticed.
Sam chortled to himself. ‘Your grandfather built lots of these into the museum. I don’t know whether or not it was to enhance the mystery or for practical reasons. The kids loved them though apparently.’