Page 41 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume

“That’s what I’m told,” he replies happily. “There are worse ways to be, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Tris agrees.

“Why do the managers keep quitting?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“I don’t really know,” Ellis says with a little shrug, and a suspicious feeling begins to prickle at the back of my neck. “Well, I’m just going to get someone to prepare your new room for you. Would you like to have a drink in the bar? We do a lovely hot chocolate and Aggie baked scones earlier.”

“How long will it be until the room’s ready?” I ask. Hot chocolate does sound appealing but honestly, after the long drive and the afternoon I’ve had, I just want to lie down and snuggle with Tris.

“Hmm, maybe about thirty minutes,” Ellis says.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Tristan wraps his hand around my arm. “Let’s go and have a drink while they sort out the room. Then we can lie in bed and order room service.”

“Oh, um, sorry to interrupt, but there’s no room service at the moment,” Ellis says apologetically as we both stare at him. “We’re a teensy bit short-staffed right now.”

I sigh tiredly. “Okay, we’ll be in the bar, I guess. Where is it?”

“Just through those doors, next to Brad,” Ellis says brightly.

“Brad?”

“The suit of armour,” he says, his brows raised as if it should be obvious that an old suit of armour wearing tinsel in an English manor house would quite rightly be named Brad.

“Okaaay,” I reply, not really sure what else I say to that. Tristan stifles a laugh.

“Would you like to leave your luggage here behind reception?” Ellis offers. “I’ll have it taken up to your room.”

“That would be great, thanks.” Tris wheels his case around to the side of the reception desk and I do the same.

“Just through those doors, but mind Brad. He’s a bit rickety and tends to fall over if you walk too close. Dilys is our bartender. If she’s not there, just give the bell on the bar top a little ding and she’ll be with you in a jiffy. Oh, and if you show the card that’s with your key, she’ll charge it to your room.”

“Thank you.” I take Tristan’s hand and lead him through the deserted lobby and past the suit of armour—Brad—to a set of doors.

We step into the bar and look around in surprise. It’s like we’ve walked into a completely different time period. Geometric patterning, bucket chairs, and gilded edges on the figures give the room an art deco feel. All the furniture and fixtures appear to be in black, cream, or gold, but it still has that feeling of old and worn.

“Do think there areanyother guests?” Tris asks, staring around the empty room.

“I’ve no idea,” I reply as we head toward the bar.

“It’s not just me though, is it?” Tris frowns. “This place is a bit odd, right?”

He’s right. It does feel a bit… I’m not even sure how to describe it. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up as if the air is charged with electricity. Most of all, it feels like I’m standing in a crowded room, completely surrounded, even though we’re the only ones here.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I reassure him. The only thing he asked for was a weekend away with no murder and no ghosts. While I’m certain the former is highly unlikely, I hope the latter is not going to manifest.

When we stop at the bar, Dilys the bartender is still nowhere in sight, but on the clean, polished bar top is a small brass bell just like Ellis said. Reaching out, I tap its small button and it gives a surprisingly loudding.

I stifle a yawn and, when no one appears after a few minutes, I lift my hand to ring again. Before I hit the button though, Tris catches my hand.

Following his surprised gaze, I see a little mop of white hair bob along behind the bar top. Mesmerised, we watch as it gradually approaches. After a moment, it pauses, and when it starts moving again, painfully slow, it’s accompanied by a shuffling sound, like something is being dragged along the floor.

Tris and I look at each other, then both stand to peer over the top of the bar. To my absolute astonishment, I see an old lady. She shuffles towards us, scooting a wooden box along the floor in our direction. She doesn’t look up or acknowledge us in anyway, intent upon her task. She’s a tiny little thing, dainty and stooped, her shoulders rounded and her head bent forward. When she reaches us, she turns and grips the edge of the bar. We watch, speechless as she carefully raises one foot and places it on the box. After pausing for several moments, she pushes herself from her other foot until she’s stood fully on the step, which doesn’t quite raise her to our height but allows us to see her face and shoulders at least. Only then does she lift her wrinkled face to stare at us with clouded brown eyes.

Jesus, the woman’s a hundred if she’s a day and looks as if a stiff breeze would blow her over.

“Er… Dilys?” Tristan asks uncertainly.

She gives a slow nod.