by Cat Knight
“DO IT!”
“Oh, god. Oh, god,” Darcy said. “Please, please. I can’t do this.”
Panic gripped her as her fingers slipped over the object. What if she didn’t get it out? What if…
Her fingers closed on the object, and she gripped it tight. Even as she did, the same hand that had pulled her in, now pulled her out. As her hand passed through the compartment door, the engines started.
Darcy looked at the object for a moment. It was some kind of tape recorder, small, with a tape still in place. Not having time to examine it, she shoved it inside her shirt and pulled herself erect. She throttled up the engines and spun the wheel. The boat responded sluggishly, and she knew she carried more water than the pumps could handle.
Yet, her only chance was to steer into the storm and ride the waves. She looked out the glass into a raging sea.
The gale hammered her. But she took her only chance and went with the wind.
Darcy rode out the storm and returned to port. At no time did the compass fail or the engines die or the horn sound. The boat performed exactly as it was designed. And it was the most rewarding ride she had ever had. After tying up, Darcy stood on the deck and looked around. She held up the recording device. “I’m taking this with me,” she said. “I’ll listen to it. Is that what you want?”
“GET OFF.”
Darcy smiled as she left the boat. New batteries and a change of clothes let Darcy listen to the tape. While it was fuzzy and old, the voices were plain. A man and a woman and an argument. And the argument had ended badly. The slap and thud were plain on the tape… as were the man’s words of farewell. It was clear that he had heaved the body over the side.
Of course, she thought she knew who the man and woman were — Lord and Lady Grey. No wonder Lady Grey’s body had never been found.
After listening, Darcy did the only thing she could think to do. She made a copy of the tape on her phone and put the original equipment in a bag. Then, she looked up the address for Scotland Yard.
Chapter Seventeen
Lord Grey listened to the recording with a straight face. Darcy couldn’t tell if it affected him at all. They were in his office; it was filled with old furniture and awards and memorabilia from decades past. To Darcy, Lord Grey seemed even older than the room, although he wasn’t that old. She had looked him up online.
When the recording stopped, he stood and walked to the small bar in the corner. He picked up a bottle of whiskey and showed it to her. She shook her head. It was too early.
“I suppose you want money?” he asked as he poured himself a healthy drink.
“No, sir,” Darcy answered. “I delivered the original to Scotland Yard. I imagine they will want to talk to you.”
“I should thank you for the warning.”
Darcy stood and picked up her phone.
“I didn’t come here to warn you or for anything other than to answer to the ghost.”
“Yes, the boat. It was really haunted then?”
“Very haunted. I’m sure that Lady Grey can now rest in peace even if she is never retrieved from the bottom of the channel.”
Lord Grey sipped whiskey, and a sardonic smile graced his face.
“You know, it was all so unnecessary. Monica, the woman I cheated with, dumped me soon after Lady Grey… died. Since then, well, since then, things haven’t gone so well. And now, now, I guess I’m going to pay for doing what I did. Although I didn’t mean to kill her. You must know that.”
“The things we don’t mean to do often do more harm than the things we plan.”
Darcy left Lord Grey. She knew her revelation wouldn’t change anything. He would be crucified in the public eye even if he managed to avoid a long prison sentence. Maybe it had been an accident.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Darcy stood on the deck of the Champagne Taste. The sea was calm, like glass. There was no wind to ruffle her hair. She had no idea if she was in the right spot, and it didn’t matter. The sun shone brightly.
“I did it,” Darcy said out loud. “I took the recording to Scotland Yard. They arrested Lord Grey. He’ll pay for what he did.”
She looked around the boat and smiled.
“I think that does it. You can rest in peace.”
“Carry on, captain.”
At that moment, the boat changed. Darcy had no idea what it was, a feeling really. One moment it was haunted, the next the haunting was gone. It was an odd but fulfilling feeling.
“Good bye,” Darcy said.
As she climbed the ladder to the bridge, she called out.
“Wait! There’s something else I have to do. Just to be sure. She cracked the bottle over the stern and watched the bubbles flow down over the newly placed decal and into the water where the words Champagne Taste bobbed in reflection.
Mandy popped the cork on another bottle and poured 2 flutes. The women sipped and waited. An hour later they finished the bottle and looked over the side. Not a smidge of the proud new decal had moved. The Grey Lady was gone. Champagne Taste was here to stay.
THE END
THE HAUNTING OF BLAKELY MANOR
CAT KNIGHT
©Copyright 2018 Cat Knight
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
Blakely Manor
Derbyshire
England 1998
Lord Henry Blakey swallowed the blue pill, looked at himself in the mirror, and decided that he looked handsome with grey hair. It was far better than the two-toned look he had sported last year. No wonder the women had stopped looking at him. Now, now, he had the distinguished look he desired. Now, the women noticed him. Just a few days earlier, a barista had given him a double shot of cream in his tea. That was proof positive. And if that wasn’t enough, there was Shelly.
Shelly was more than a barista. Well, if he admitted the truth, she was the maid, but she had shown more than a bit of enthusiasm the first time he had taken her to bed. And she looked better than the barista—to him. That alone justified the tip he had given Shelly after their encounter. It was a tip. He made that explicit. He was not getting sex for money.
That would be unthinkable. He pulled in his stomach and studied himself. He reminded himself of an Earl many years removed whose portrait hung in the gallery of all the Earls.
That Earl had the svelte figure that he needed. Of course, that Earl had been the one to use the priest hole.
Few people knew about the priest hole. It was a space alongside the fireplace, barely large enough for a modern woman yet big enough for a man from a bygone era. When the Earl was a boy, he sometimes hid in the priest hole. He would play tricks on his friends. He would run into the room and slide into the priest hole. When the others entered, they would find the room empty. He’d always told them that he knew how to disappear.
Of course, that was after the first time he was shown the hole. His father had shut him in, and the Earl had more than a moment of terror in the complete dark — because he didn’t know how to get out.
His father had left him in there for a minute that seemed like an hour. When the Earl was shown the hidden release, his father opined that the little minute of terror guaranteed that the Earl wouldn’t forget where the release was.
He hadn’t.
“There you are.”
The Earl turned and smiled. “I thought you had left already.”
His wife didn’t smile. He told himself that modern plastic surgery did that to women… and men. Some of his contemporaries had tried facelifts, and none of them were the better for it. A face was supposed to wrinkle.
“You have to be out by nine tomorrow morning,” she said. “They’re sealing the house for the winter.”
“I remember,” he answered.
“You remember nothing. Now, give me a kiss, and I’ll be on my way.”
He kissed her cheek and watched as she left the room. He often wondered just how he had come to marry her in the first place. He went to the window and watched as she drove off in
her little car, the one she said she had to have. Then, he went back to his dressing table and took a blue pill.
Something in his brain said he had already taken a blue pill, but he ignored the voice.
“There you are.”
He turned, and Shelly skipped over to give him a kiss on the cheek.
She wore nothing but panties and bra, and she looked as sexy as his wife’s fast car. She dropped her black purse and pink dress on the bed.
“My, aren’t you looking good,” she said, sliding her hand down his thigh.
He felt a stirring, and that was a good thing. He supposed those blue pills were worth the exorbitant amount he paid for them.
“I bet you’re in the mood for something special...”
“HENRY!”
His wife’s voice echoed up the stairs.
The Earl had no idea what his wife wanted, but he knew that if he were found in this situation, his wife would divorce him in a trice. But he had a solution. He pulled Shelly to her feet and led her to the priest hole.
As he went, he grabbed the purse and dress. He popped open the door and pushed her inside, adding her things.
“Not a word,” he hissed. “I’ll be right back.”
“Please, no. I’m claustrophobic.”
“Not a word!”
He closed the door and spun just before his wife entered.
“There you are,” she said as she looked around the room. “Did you remember to pay the credit card? I do not wish to be embarrassed again.”
“Of course, I paid it,” he answered. “You came back to ask that?”
“I would have called, but you don’t answer the phone.”
“Of course, I answer the phone.”
“Hah! Has the maid left already?”
“She’s disappeared. After all, we’re closing the manor.” He grabbed his wife’s arm and led her out of the room. “Where are you going again?”
“You remember nothing.”
He escorted her to the front door and dutifully watched her drive off.
He stood there a full five minutes, until he was certain she wasn’t coming back. At that point, he felt a fever in his cheeks, and his vision seemed better than usual. Smiling, he ran up the stairs. His Shelly awaited.
At the top of the stairs, he felt the first twinge. He stopped as pain shot across his chest and up his arm. What was this? For a long moment, he couldn’t quite think.
He knew something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, but he didn’t know what. By the time it dawned on him, it was too late.
His heart quit with a jolt that stopped all circulation. His vision went dark, and he fell backwards, tumbling down the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom he was utterly dead.
Inside the priest hole, Shelly tried to move. Panic was only one short minute away.
Chapter One
Blakely Manor
Derbyshire
England 2018
Alison stood before the manor and wondered. The main house was old, very old, dating back to the sixteenth century. It had been added to over the years, and it now featured four bedrooms and baths, including a master suite. According to the listing agent, the house hadn’t been lived in for twenty years, and that meant it would be selling cheap. The listing agent had hinted that the sellers were very motivated to sell since the local council would soon be raising taxes. Alison wasn’t worried about the taxes.
She knew that the council would look favourably at a successful bed-and-breakfast, anything to bring tourists and tourist money to the area.
But the manor didn’t look inviting from the outside. The shrubbery and grass had grown wild and tangled.
The slate roof looked sturdy enough, but she would need to be there in a rain to make sure. The leaded windows were intact, but they needed washing. The grime of neglect clung to the glass. Yet, she could picture the manor as she wished it to be.
Sparkling glass, fresh paint for the stucco, trimmed bushes, and a blue ribbon on the door. Yes, it could certainly become The Headlands B-and-B. She was pretty sure she could make a go of it, if she could contain her costs. She walked around the house and noted that the formal garden had almost ceased to exist. It must have been something at one time.
And she knew it could be transformed into a haven for quiet contemplation. The fountain in the middle would babble again. She knew where she would place several tables for afternoon tea and evening drinks. With the setting sun providing a glow, her customers would sit, sip, and dream. There was nothing wrong with dreaming.
Alison had been dreaming of a place like this for the ten years she had spent designing commercials for TV.
She had come to hate that work. Although it paid well enough, it was a soul-sucking job that drained away her energy and faith. It seemed everyone in TV was some kind of sleaze-ball. She couldn’t count how many times some “celebrity” had made a pass at her. Some had gone beyond that before they were slapped. No, she wasn’t that kind of girl, and that business was not for her.
From the garden, the back of the house appeared sound. There was a balcony, and she guessed that marked the master suite.
She would be able to charge extra for the suite, and she imagined she could offer breakfast for two on the balcony, or perhaps twilight champagne. That would be a nice touch.
She looked around at the green hills and forests. The countryside would provide ample hiking opportunities for the adventurous.
And the surrounding villages would teem with curio shops and pubs. The council had sent her a list of museums and historical sites, and she would have maps produced for her guests. Simple and elegant.
She continued her tour of the grounds. Everything was neglected and in need of care. But she couldn’t see anything that would translate into a major rework. She didn’t have the money for rework.
While she intended to borrow a goodly sum, that money was meant for other bills. She didn’t want to spend it on repairs.
In her car, Alison jotted some notes on her tablet computer. She had a decent idea of the money she might make in a year. With that, she knew how much she could afford to offer for the house. It was a fairly low number, but if the owners were as desperate as Alison was told, then they would accept. Of course, if they knew that she hadn’t worked for two months after quitting her job, they might sense her own desperation and make a counter offer. From her car, she looked at the old place and hoped it was within her reach. She needed something.
Chapter Two
The pub was boisterous, filled with football fans who were yelling at the multiple TV sets hanging wherever one looked. Alison found the booth where Paul sat with one pint half-finished and the other getting warm.
“You’re late,” Paul said as Alison slid into the booth. He tapped his phone and slid it off the table and into his pocket.
“I was at the manor house, looking around,” Alison answered. “And thanks for starting without me.”
“Please, you can’t expect me to sit here and do nothing.”
“You weren’t doing nothing. You were on the phone.”
“And drinking, don’t forget drinking.”
“Let’s not argue. I spoke to the listing agent, and he gave me some tips. So, the visit was well worth it.”
“They accepted your offer? That’s terrific.” He held up his glass, and she toasted with him. “When can we get started?”
“I haven’t made the offer yet. I will tomorrow. Then, we’ll see.”
“I’m sure they’ll take the money. No one wants a huge, old house just sitting around going to the dogs.”
“Peers are strange sometimes. They don’t always act in their best interests. It’s a pride thing, I think.”
Paul grinned and grabbed her hand. “I can’t wait till we open up World’s End.”
“World’s End? I thought we had settled on The Headlands.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking, and World’s End seems more edgy, more like it’s some kind of garden of Eden or som
ething.”
“Or some kind of hell.”
“So, you don’t like my ideas, now?”
“Of course, I like your ideas. I just thought we had gone through all this already. But if the name is still in the air, then, it’s still in the air. Please, let’s not argue.”
He shrugged. “It probably doesn’t matter anyway. Either name will do. I wonder which one bubbles to the top of an Internet search. That’s important, you know.”
“How do you figure that out? It’s not alphabetical, is it?”
“No, the search engines have some kind of algorithm for returning information to the screen. I’ll look into it. By the way, I have Jeff writing reviews for us.”
“Reviews? We aren’t even open yet.”
“It’s the biz, sweetheart. You need a lot of five-star reviews that potential customers will read. They can’t all be five-star, because no one will believe that, but most of them must be high. And Jeff is a first-rate writer. You know that.”
“I know he writes that Dear Abby type stuff for women. I don’t consider that good writing.”
“He gets paid, Alison, he gets paid. That means something.”
“Yes, it means that we will be booked full with women who have sordid and dramatic problems.”
“As long as they pay, what do we care?”
She shrugged.
“You’re right. I don’t care how dramatic they are as long as their credit is good and they don’t complain about the food.”
“They’ll never bitch about my food, never.”
He waggled his empty glass in front of her.
“Another?”
She nodded, and he slipped away. Did he really have his friend, Jeff, writing five-star reviews? In a way, she liked the idea.
Chapter Three
Lunch meant a trip to Piccadilly Circus because Willard, the listing agent, liked a certain restaurant known for their fish and chips. Alison wasn’t wild about fish and chips, but if Willard wanted to chat over lunch, well, that was fine with her.