Page 57 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume

“In the dining room, Roger!” Bertie bellows.

A young man pops out of nowhere. He’s wearing a tiny pair of white shorts, white socks that fold neatly just beneath his knees, and white tennis shoes. His white-collared shirt is partially covered by a lemon yellow sweater wrapped around his shoulders, the arms tied loosely in a knot between his collar bones. His pristine blonde hair is cut short at the sides and back and parted neatly to the side, and he has a matching blonde moustache. Held in one hand and resting casually on his shoulder is a tennis racket.

“Oh, newbies,” Roger says in delight, his accent soft and posh. “My goodness.” He eyes Dusty as if not quite sure what to make of her. Then his eyes fall on Danny, who is carefully slicing up his sausage. “Ooooh, who’s the hunk?”

“He’s mine,” I say dryly and Dusty snorts.

“You tell him, boo.” Dusty hovers next to me, highly entertained.

“Good grief, a fleshie who can see us!” Roger exclaims dramatically.

“Will you please stop referring to me as a fleshie?” I scowl. “It makes me sound like a sex toy.”

Danny snorts into his orange juice which he’s had the bad luck to pick up again at this precise moment.

“I’m Roger Palmer,” the slim man introduces himself. “The tennis coach. I was here in fifty-four. Choked to death on some balls.”

Dusty lets out a howl of laughter and I send her a warning glance. I’m not one hundred percent sure of the etiquette involved at laughing over the manner of someone’s death, but I’m certain it’s most likely frowned upon.

“My, you are saucy.” He giggles at Dusty. “But no, not those balls, darling. At the time they had a Swedish cook working here called Maja. She made these huge Swedish meatballs and Lewis the gardener bet that I couldn’t fit two of those in my mouth at the same time. I, of course, am not one to back down from a challenge, especially when it involves having a mouthful of meat. Unfortunately, I have to say Maja’s balls got the better of me, and I woke up a week later as they were lowering my casket into the ground. And so ends the sorry tale of Roger, the professional tennis coach,” he laments with a flourish.

I sigh. “So there are quite a few spirits here, then?”

“Oh god, darling.” Roger produces a cigarette from somewhere in those tiny shorts and lights it, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. “There are positively dozens of us here.”

“So much for your ghost-free holiday,” Dusty mutters.

“VOTES FOR WOMEN! VOTES FOR WOMEN!” A piercing voice rings out, and as I look over at the window, I see a woman march past, her hands wringing in the air. She appears to be wearing a high-necked deep purple gown with leg-o-mutton sleeves and there’s a sash draped diagonally across her body which proclaimsVotes for Women!

Her hair is piled up on top of her head in some kind of bouffant, and she has several ornate combs and feathers adorning it.

“Who’s that?” I ask curiously.

Bertie rolls her eyes in resignation. “She’s one of mine. Edwina Ashton-Drake.”

“Was she a suffragette?” I ask, fascinated.

Bertie huffs. “Well she likes to think so.”

“Did she die in London protesting women’s rights?”

“Not in London, no. She’d barely even left the estate to venture as far as Leeds. Had a very sheltered upbringing. She’d read all about Emmaline Pankhurst and the others in the paper and it had fired her up. It was the winter of 1904, I believe. She’d decided she was going to protest, so she made herself a sash and off she went. The trouble was, she’d neglected to tell anyone she was protesting. Simply took herself off to the orchard and chained herself to a tree, silly girl. They found her two days later, frozen to death.”

“Oh my god,” I mutter, not sure if I should be amused or horrified.

“She’s a nightmare for turning the heating up. When I was running the estate, she cost me a fortune in heating bills,” Bertie tuts. “Well.” She rises and dusts off her strange pantaloon-shaped tweed trousers. “Come along, Roger. I fancy shooting some balls.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Dusty mumbles.

I, however, am glaring at the twinky little tennis instructor from the fifties now perched on the table next to Danny, who is completely unaware as Roger makes coy eyes at him.

“Ahem.” I clear my throat loudly.

Roger and Danny both look at me, and Roger rolls his eyes in annoyance but climbs down from the table.

“Right, then,” Bertie booms. She claps Danny on the back again and almost sends him face-first into his scrambled eggs. “We’d better be off. See you chaps later!”

“God, I hope not,” I mutter under my breath.