Page 13 of Murder Most Haunted

‘The table was set . . . while the nervous guests took their places . . .’

Midge jumped as Noah’s voice resonated across the dining table.

She took a seat far away from the roaring fire, wondering if it was possible to eat without making a mess of Rona’s orange lipstick, which she had rather inexpertly reapplied after dressing.

Harold carried in food on a tray, placing it down on to the table and smoothing the little hair he had left.

‘I didn’t realize you was recording tonight,’ he said to Noah, pulling off his apron.

‘I’d have got all tizzed up if I’d known. ’

‘That’s all right, Ms McGowan is “tizzed up” enough for all of us.

’ Rendell was himself dressed in a velvet dinner suit, complete with black bow tie.

‘In fact, I think Joseph’s wondering where his dreamcoat went.

It is “Ms”, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming no husband?

’ Which was a rude thing to say, really.

Rona answered for her before she got the chance, ‘She’s a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community, aren’t you, Ms McGowan?’

Midge blinked. Although feeling brave for telling Rona that Bridie was her wife, Midge wasn’t quite ready to wave the banner on the Pride carnival float.

‘That explains the rainbow thing, then,’ said Rendell, who was holding a half-finished bottle of wine in his hands.

‘I can give you the name of the department store, if you like? It’s unisex,’ offered Midge before frowning. ‘Although, I’m not sure if it caters for shorter men.’

Rendell’s smile slipped ever so slightly.

‘I think she looks gorgeous.’ Rona patted Midge’s arm in a way that made her feel a little bit like a pet dog. Rona herself looked every inch the pop star, in a low-cut mini dress that she had paired with Brenda and Babs.

‘It’s not visual,’ sighed Noah, taking off his headphones. He was talking about his podcast again. ‘I told you, like a radio show, remember?’

Sorry, mouthed Harold, sliding into his seat. ‘That’s right, like a radio show but without the music.’

‘Or the listeners,’ commented Rendell.

Rona pulled a face at Midge who immediately looked down at her plate, not used to feeling part of an inside joke.

Everyone else was already seated, apart from Gloria, who was missing.

‘Mrs Mortimer not joining us?’ asked Rendell.

Dr Mortimer, who had also chosen to wear a formal dinner suit, frowned at the question as he placed his napkin on his lap.

‘She’ll be down in a minute or two. She just needs to swap her pump over,’ he replied, waving the concern aside. ‘There’s no need to wait for her.’

‘Well, can’t guarantee there will be much left,’ said Rendell. Midge, who was watching the play of light on her plate from the chandelier above, was fairly sure he was looking at her.

‘Can you pass the potatoes?’ Noah asked.

As per Noah’s commentary, the table was set for seven.

Each china plate with a matching cutlery set apart from Midge’s, which appeared to be missing a knife.

The lonely fork made Midge sad. In a similar vein, she had once had to return a fruit and nut bar to Bridie after discovering, on biting into it, that it was all raisin apart from one solitary, abandoned almond.

‘Can I have a knife, please?’ she asked Harold, who immediately jumped up and took one from the large dresser behind them.

‘There’s even a fondue,’ smiled Harold, pointing at it with Midge’s knife before handing it to her.

‘Breeding ground for germs,’ shuddered Noah, applying more hand gel and looking as if he wished he could soak his food in it. Midge couldn’t help agreeing about the fondue.

‘Ah, Mrs Mortimer . . . you look stunning. May I offer you a glass of wine?’ Gloria had just entered the room and Rendell pulled out a chair next to the doctor, offering it to her.

She flushed from head to toe and slid into the space next to her husband.

‘I’m sorry to keep you all,’ she murmured, unfolding her napkin.

‘No wine for my wife,’ said the doctor. ‘But I’ll have a glass.’

‘Can Gloria not speak for herself?’ asked Rona, rolling her eyes.

‘Why don’t either of you ask her?’ said Midge.

Rendell was now working his way around the table, pouring out drinks into people’s glasses from a carafe. His hand rested on Rona’s chair as he leaned over, carafe tipped, ready to pour. ‘And how about you, Rona – I’m sure you’ll have some wine, won’t you?’

Rona closed her eyes, briefly. ‘No. Thank you.’

‘Ah, come on.’ Rendell’s hand slid from the chair to her shoulder. ‘I thought you pop stars knew how to party.’

Midge’s stomach was rumbling. She wondered if anyone would notice if she started eating.

‘Ha!’ smiled Harold, filling his own glass. ‘What’s it they say? You’ve got to let the spirits in to let the spirits in!’

‘I don’t think anyone says that,’ pointed out Midge. ‘It doesn’t make much sense, nor does it scan particularly well.’

Rona placed her hand over the glass. ‘No,’ she replied firmly, this time locking eyes with Rendell. ‘I’m a recovering addict.’

Rendell held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m not offering you heroin, sweetheart. Just a wee drink.’

‘I’m on a step programme,’ explained Rona. ‘Step one is admitting powerlessness over the addiction. So, there is never just a “wee” drink for me.’

‘Presumably step two is developing an unhealthy obsession with the paranormal,’ said Dr Mortimer.

‘What are you talking about?’ frowned Rona.

‘They all do it, don’t they?’ agreed Harold. ‘That fat one from Take That, he was off chasing aliens in Utah, wasn’t he? Spent a fortune on it.’

‘Oh yes.’ Gloria nodded. ‘What was his name again?’ she asked Midge, who wondered if Rona’s orange lipstick was giving the impression that she was knowledgeable about the music scene.

‘Robbie Williams?’ suggested Rona, tipping her head to one side. ‘Actually, I spent a lovely weekend at Coachella with Robbie. He was desperate to do a collab, but his star was on the wane and ours on the rise . . .’

‘What’s Coachella?’ asked Gloria.

‘Coachella!’ snorted Noah. ‘Another festival where hundreds of pop stars fly in on their private jets and then spend their time preaching to the crowd about the dangers of global warming.’

‘Easy, Greta Thunberg,’ said Rendell, holding up his hands.

‘Excuse me!’ said Rona. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve always put the environment first in my work.

All my riders insist on fair trade chocolate.

And on my last tour, we only allowed electric buggies around the stadium.

Which, when you add up the carbon saving of that, far outweighs your monthly donation to Greenpeace, so you can keep your virtue signalling for someone else. ’

‘Or you could just stop touring,’ said Noah. ‘Save the planet that way.’

‘Well, I have to now, so . . .’ Rona fell silent.

‘Noah? You’ll have a drink, surely?’ Harold was pushing a bottle towards him.

‘I don’t drink,’ said Noah, flatly. ‘Quite frankly, it’s ridiculous that the only way your generation can relax is by poisoning itself.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ whistled Harold, slumping back in his seat. ‘And how exactly do millennials have any fun?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Noah. ‘If you must put a label on everything, Rona’s the millennial, I’m Gen Z.’

‘I’m not a fucking millennial!’ cried Rona. ‘Take that back.’

‘Tell that to your suitcase full of branded shoes,’ smirked Noah. ‘It probably cost more than the national debt of a developing country.’

‘Leave my shoes out of it!’ said Rona, taking a big gulp from her glass of water. ‘You can’t put a price on art.’

‘Well, you seem to have managed to,’ said Noah. ‘How much were the tickets on your last tour?’

‘I’d no idea you were a fan, Noah,’ said Rona, smiling sweetly.

‘So, if you don’t drink, how do Gen Zs have fun, then?’ asked Harold. Midge was unaccustomed to quite so much conversation at mealtimes. Classic FM was the only noise needed while eating according to Bridie, although privately sometimes Midge would have quite liked to listen to The Archers.

Noah shrugged and placed a forkful of food into his mouth. ‘By being in the present.’

‘Says the man chasing ghosts,’ muttered Dr Mortimer.

Midge agreed with Noah. She only ever had a glass of vermouth at Christmas and, if she was honest, that was only to stop Bridie complaining about drinking on her own.

Given the debate around the table, she decided to accept a glass in order not to draw any more attention to herself.

But, as it turned out, no one asked her anyway.

‘What time should we expect the ghost?’ asked Rona.

‘You make it sound like a train,’ replied Dr Mortimer.

‘The website mentioned a séance?’ Gloria, who hadn’t touched her food yet, was speaking to Rendell.

‘Yes,’ he replied. He had switched from the wine to drinking whisky. ‘As soon as we’ve all finished eating, we’ll move into the drawing room and see if the spirits want to talk to us.’

The clink of Rendell’s glass as he swirled the liquid around against the ice cubes tickled a memory for Midge of him as a younger policeman, standing in the station bar. She shifted in her chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the rainbow sequins digging into her skin.

‘How exciting,’ breathed Rona, who had made a quick return to her previous good humour.

‘And then, finally, perhaps you will see this nonsense for what it is,’ said the doctor to his wife.

‘Over ninety per cent of attendees on haunted excursions, who claimed to be non-believers when they attended, recorded a complete belief in the paranormal afterwards,’ announced Noah.

‘Because they are already susceptible,’ said the doctor, leaning back in his chair and smiling.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Rona.

‘Well, what I’m saying is that you all are a little bit, even when you think you aren’t. Because you’re here, aren’t you? It’s like those people who say, “I don’t believe in hypnotism, but I’ll get up on stage and give it a go.” They are just the susceptible kind of idiots that make it work.’