Page 19

POLLY

Polly had invited some of the ghosts back to the teashop for a get-together after that evening’s meeting.

She hadn’t actually invited Bill and Ronnie from the station, but they’d taken it upon themselves to join the others and she wasn’t mean enough to turn them out, although she did warn them that if they started fighting, she’d give them both a clip round the ear and they’d be on their way.

‘I love this place,’ Brooke said with a sigh, as she glanced around at the pretty, vintage setting and all the framed posters on the walls. ‘I just wish I could eat something.’

There were some mumblings of agreement. Most of the time, they all tried not to think about food at all, adopting an attitude of not dwelling on what they couldn’t have.

Sometimes, though, it was hard to ignore the cravings, and being in a teashop that was known for its delicious cakes and lunches didn’t help.

At least, with the place closed for the evening, the food was out of sight and not on display on the counter.

‘It’s going to be awful at the forties weekend,’ Millie grumbled. ‘Imagine all the food smells there’ll be! And people will be wandering around, stuffing their faces right in front of us.’

‘People have forgotten their manners,’ Walter Tasker said with a tut. ‘Eating in the street indeed. I have never agreed with such practices. Dining should take place at a table, behind closed doors.’

‘I wouldn’t care where it took place if it would just take place at all,’ Danny said gloomily.

‘Like sex,’ Brooke added, much to some of the older ghosts’ evident shock.

Danny looked extremely flustered, and Polly wondered, not for the first time, what the deal was with those two.

They were very young – she was pretty sure Brooke had said she was twenty-five and Danny twenty-nine when they became ghosts.

Although they were dressed in what she’d learned was the style of some 1980s pop stars, they’d in fact only died in 2004 and were the newest ghosts in the village.

She’d assumed at first that they were a couple, but she’d never seen them hug or kiss and they didn’t speak to each other like lovers.

Maybe they were just colleagues or friends?

‘How are we all feeling about this forties weekend?’ Isaac Grace asked.

He beamed round at them all with his usual jovial expression.

Isaac still considered himself the landlord of The Quicken Tree Inn, even though he’d died in 1685, and he seemed to have been ‘on duty’ ever since, always ready with a smile and a listening ear. Especially the listening ear.

‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Brooke said firmly. ‘Anything that breaks the monotony has to be a good thing, right? I mean, don’t you all get bored? I don’t know what to do with myself most of the time and it’s really hard not to get depressed.’

‘You should come round to mine,’ Millie said brightly. ‘We can listen to music in my room. Lucy bought me a fab machine that plays music for hours.’

Brooke eyed her doubtfully. ‘By music, I take it you mean the Beatles?’

Millie laughed. ‘Well, obviously.’

Brooke sighed. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. Not a Beatles fan.’

‘Not a—?’ The indignation and disbelief on Millie’s face made Polly decide a change of subject was needed.

‘What about Harmony?’ she asked, knowing full well that would get everyone’s attention.

Isaac frowned. ‘What about her?’

‘Well, has anyone seen her lately? Callie’s got a point, after all. Harmony Hill was a big film star in the 1940s. The weekend might bring back nice memories for her.’

‘What, like of the night she fell in the river and drowned?’ Ronnie asked with a sly grin. ‘Can’t say as I’d like to be reminded of that.’

‘Of the Golden Age of Hollywood, when her face was on all the cinema posters,’ Polly said sharply.

‘And I’m watching you, Ronnie Smith. Don’t think I’m not.

’ She looked round at all the familiar faces and sighed.

‘One of you must have seen her lately, surely? I mean, where does she go? What does she do?’

‘No idea.’ Peter, a baker who’d died back in 1790 after having a rock thrown at his head by his not-so-loving wife while he was secured in the village pillory, tilted his head as he considered the matter.

‘I find it hard to believe that she’s at home all day alone.

Maybe she leaves there early in the morning and doesn’t return until late at night to avoid us.

Where she would go in daylight hours, I have no idea, but she doesn’t frequent the village.

One of us would have spotted her and I never have. Have you?’

‘We could always visit her at home,’ Isaac suggested. ‘I hate to think of the poor little thing all on her own. Maybe we should make more of an effort with her.’

‘Isaac,’ Percy said firmly, ‘we tried that. We tried it when she first died, and we tried it on several occasions for a year or so afterwards. She made it very, very clear that her home was her private space, and she didn’t want uninvited guests.’

‘Which is fair enough,’ Walter said. ‘We all have our boundaries, after all. Since we have no physical barriers to our homes, a mutual agreement was necessary, and we’ve all abided by that.’

‘Except she never invites anyone!’ Brooke pointed out. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we should take matters into our own hands. Look, I’ve only been dead for twenty years or so and I’m already bored off my nut. And I’ve got Danny, for all the use he is.’

‘Thanks,’ Danny muttered.

‘The point is, she’s been around for nearly eighty years, and she doesn’t mix with anyone. She must have gone doolally by now. We should stage an intervention. Force her to talk to us.’

‘I agree,’ Danny said. ‘It’s the only kind thing to do.’

‘And what about Quintus Severus?’ Polly asked. She felt sorry for the centurion being so alone all this time. He didn’t deserve that. She wished she could help him.

Danny quailed. ‘Blimey, I’m not going near him! Have you seen the size of those muscles?’

Brooke rolled her eyes then said, ‘Well, I’d be happy to volunteer.’

‘I’ll bet you would,’ Danny said.

‘Not sure Quintus Severus is likely to enjoy a 1940s weekend,’ Percy said, frowning. ‘He very much keeps himself to himself, and a Roman centurion isn’t likely to have any nostalgic feelings about the Andrews Sisters and spam sandwiches. Besides, you know how much of a loner he is.’

‘And so serious!’ Millie added. ‘I went for a walk up to the stones with Lucy and Sam the other week, and there he was, watching us. Never cracked a smile the whole time we were there, and I waved and everything.’

‘All he ever does is patrol the estate,’ Walter mused. ‘He seems to spend all his time walking the borders and standing guard over the Wyrd Stones. Why, I can’t imagine.’

Brooke smirked. ‘Well, whatever the reason, he looks bloody good doing it. He’s all manly and hunky. I certainly feel safer knowing he’s around to protect me.’

‘From what?’ Danny asked witheringly.

‘Who cares?’ she said with a shrug and gave him a sweet smile.

‘There aren’t just Harmony and Quintus,’ Percy pointed out. ‘We’ve all seen others on the fringes of the estate. I reckon a lot of them hang out at The Monastery.’

There were a few shudders at the mention of that house, including from Polly.

She’d never liked it, and when she was a kid, she’d refused many a dare to go there at night.

It was a badge of honour for some of the local children, but Polly had never been that desperate for a badge of honour, thank you very much.

The Monastery wasn’t really a monastery at all. Its official name was Woodstone Manor, and it had been commissioned in the mid-eighteenth century by Cecil Ashcroft, the owner of the Harling Estate at the time (and Agnes’s father-in-law, if Polly’s local knowledge served her right).

There’d been some puzzlement as to why the man who owned and lived at Harling Hall should build another mansion house, especially one so ugly and downright creepy, and on the far side of the woods on the very edge of the estate.

But Polly had discovered, since mixing with people like Isaac Grace and Walter Tasker, who’d been around at the time, that Cecil had been leading a double life.

What he envisioned as a grand house in the Gothic revival style was to be a gift for his lover, and their secret meeting place away from the prying eyes of his wife, Frances, and their son, Cyril.

The so-called mansion had vaulted ceilings, a cloistered courtyard, and stained-glass windows. The locals had watched in bewilderment as it took shape, wondering why anyone would want to live in something that looked as if it had been designed as a place of worship rather than a house.

It turned out that Cecil’s lover was a well-off member of the aristocracy, and a man of great religious faith.

Not so great that he didn’t mind having a good old tumble with some woman’s husband, Polly thought wryly, but there you go.

That was the upper classes for you. One rule for them and another for everyone else.

Woodstone Manor quickly earned the nickname of The Monastery, but it was never completed. Cecil’s lover was shipped off abroad by his family. It was rumoured that they’d heard of his indiscretions and were desperate to get him as far away from Cecil, and the ever-spreading gossip, as possible.

From what Isaac could gather – as he made it his mission to hang around Harling Hall and eavesdrop on Cecil’s rather bitter and heated conversations with Frances, who clearly wasn’t as stupid as Cecil imagined she was – his lover was put to work for the East India Company and never returned to England.

Woodstone Manor, meanwhile, was still only half-finished, and a disheartened Cecil decided that work should stop.

Workmen downed tools and the house was left to rot.

When Lawrie took over the estate, he’d considered demolishing the building, but it was discovered that it housed a large colony of horseshoe bats which were protected by law, and so the place remained.

Judging by the expressions on everyone’s faces, Polly thought they didn’t like the manor any more than she did, and she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hang out there by choice.

‘Well,’ Percy said, glancing round at all the doubtful faces, ‘where else can these others go? Think about it. We never go near the place, do we? But it’s just about the only building we stay away from, so it seems the most likely candidate to me.’

‘I doubt Quintus Severus is afraid of a few bats,’ Danny said fervently. ‘They might be afraid of him, though.’

Polly decided they were running away with themselves.

‘Never mind Quintus and any other ghosts who don’t want anything to do with us,’ she said firmly.

‘The person we’re discussing is Harmony Hill.

I think we should go and see her to formally invite her to the 1940s weekend.

She might really enjoy it. Especially the tea dance. ’

‘She won’t thank you for it,’ Percy said, shaking his head.

‘One should respect a person’s desire for privacy,’ Walter agreed. ‘Mistress Hill has made it very clear that she doesn’t want visitors.’

‘Look,’ Polly said, after a moment’s consideration, ‘she can always tell me to hop it if she doesn’t like it, can’t she?

See, me and her, we’ve got a lot in common.

We were around at the same time, remember?

We both lived through the war years, and no, I don’t mean we were there as ghosts like some of you.

I mean, we actually lived through them. All right, so I was here in the Cotswolds, and she was over in Hollywood, but even so.

And we both died just after the war, so… ’

There was a silence. Then Isaac said cheerfully, ‘Well, I think Polly’s right.

She can only say no, can’t she? And a bit of a shindig might do her the world of good.

Harmony, I mean. Maybe if we can coax her into attending this forties weekend, she might start mixing with us all a bit more.

She needs the company. No one should be alone all the time. ’

‘All in favour?’ Percy asked.

There was some hesitation then a lot of hands shot up into the air. Walter looked torn for a moment, but eventually raised his hand, too.

‘Right,’ Polly said. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll pop by her cottage tomorrow. Wish me luck!’

Now she had two missions.

Because first and foremost, she would be keeping a close eye on the comings and goings at Rowan Farm.

If Max really did plan to question Betty and Nick, she needed to be there to find out what they were telling him.

She wasn’t certain how much, if anything, they actually knew, but there was only one way to find out.

‘Blimey,’ she murmured to herself in some surprise, ‘get me! Plain old Polly Herron is turning into a spy. Who’d have thought it, eh?’