Page 56 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume

“I can’t see her anyway,” Danny says, caught between amused and bewildered.

“Fuck,” I hiss. A short, plump woman who looks a little like Miriam Margolyes is striding across the dining room towards me.

She’s wearing tweed plus twos with knee-high checked woolen socks and sensible lace-up shoes. Her ample bosoms stretch a knitted v-neck sweater which she wears over a white shirt, and a tweed jacket with elbow pads finishes her masculine country ensemble. Her hair is a mass of wiry grey waves cut short and her face has an expression that brooks no nonsense.

A chair shoots out from under the table next to me and Danny pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“I don’t think I’ll ever fully get used to that,” he mutters.

Upon reaching us, the woman sits down in the seat that’s been pulled out and folds her hands over her rounded belly, fixing me with a fascinated stare.

“Can I help you?” I say politely.

“So it’s true, then, that you can see us?” She clucks her tongue contemplatively as she studies me. “I must admit, when Arthur told us there was a fleshie who could see us, I wasn’t sure I believed him. Eternity is a long time for a boy. He tends to get a little bored and make up games to amuse himself,” she says brusquely.

“Arthur?” I frown. “Is he the boy who was moving furniture around in our bedroom this morning?”

“That explains the dresser,” Danny mutters and butters a slice of toast.

She huffs. “He tends to do that a lot. He thinks it’s funny to confuse the fleshies.”

“I’m going to regret asking, but fleshie?”

“The living, lad,” she booms in that eccentric upper-class hearty kind of way. “Are you simple, lad? I’d’ve thought it was pretty self-explanatory.”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, ignoring the mild insult. “And you are?”

“Beatrice Ashton-Drake, but you can call me Bertie.” She nods in greeting. “This is my place.” She waves expansively to encompass the room. “Well it was, until I died and it was passed to my nephew. The old ticker gave out on me back in seventy-two, but this is my ancestral abode and all that tosh, so I stayed on to make sure my nephew Clifford didn’t run the estate into the ground with his drinking and gambling.”

“Uh-huh,” I say again. She’s like a steamroller, just ploughing ahead, and I’m not entirely sure she needs my input in this conversation. She seems to be doing just fine by herself.

Danny, who is well used to me having one-sided conversations by now, just carries on eating breakfast. He’s perfected the ability to listen in and pick up the general gist of whatever is going on and then, if there’s anything he’s missed, he’ll ask me after.

“Oh, Tris.” Dusty suddenly appears next to me, “I forgot to ask you–”

“Good lord,” Bertie exclaims loudly as she stares at Dusty standing at well over six-foot-plus in her platform heels. “That’s a strapping woman.”

“Um,sheis actually ahe.”

“Female impersonator, eh?” Her eyes skim over Dusty’s skintight pink latex dress and Dolly Parton wig as she strokes her chin thoughtfully.

“Actually, they’re called drag queens,” I correct the older woman.

“Marvellous!” Bertie slaps her thigh in delight. “Don’t go for chaps myself, too many extra parts, but by golly, he’s a looker.”

“Er, what’s going on here?” Dusty frowns as she eyes Bertie. “And what’s with the outfit? Is it clay pigeon-shooting season or something?”

Bertie bellows out a loud, hearty laugh. “By god, you’ve got a mouth on you, haven’t you? Shame I don’t do the opposite sex, but I’ve always loved a pretty young filly.”

“Oh well, that’s nice... then.” I’m not really sure what to say to that.

“What brings you to the Manor House, then?” Bertie asks me while Dusty watches in amusement.

“Uh, romantic weekend away.”

“Ah! So this is your chap, eh?” Bertie gives Danny a robust clap on the back as he takes a sip of orange juice, causing him to inhale and choke, inadvertently spraying some of the juice. “Gesundheit,” she says absently.

“Bertie,” an effeminate gentleman’s voice rings out. “Where the fuck are you?”