Page 20 of Murder Most Haunted

When she woke in the morning, Midge’s nerves were instantly aggravated by the boom of the artillery, which had started up again. Unfortunately, after finally making her way down to the kitchen for some food, the sight of Harold’s attempts at cooking did little to lift her spirits.

‘They swore by a hearty breakfast when I was in the army,’ he said, pulling a bowl of tinned mushrooms out of the microwave.

‘Are you sure they weren’t swearing at the breakfast?’ asked Midge. Judging by the rest of the assembled burned tinned goods on the table, Harold’s culinary efforts certainly erred on the side of quantity over quality.

They were all present except for Rona and Rendell. Noah was eyeing the food rather gloomily while rubbing his hands with some more of his gel, and for once Midge was glad of the overpowering smell.

Gloria Mortimer had taken a seat beside her husband, her face blotched as if she had recently been crying and her cutlery clattering against the plate due to a small tremor in her hand.

‘Have you checked your levels this morning?’ asked her husband, helping himself to the only mini packet of cereal on the table.

Gloria nodded and pushed the bacon around her plate. ‘I’m just not feeling very hungry. I didn’t sleep at all w—’

‘You need to eat, Gloria,’ Andrew interrupted in a low voice.

His wife speared a watery tomato and placed it into her mouth.

‘Although how anyone is supposed to eat this, I’ve no idea,’ her husband complained to Harold. ‘How did you manage to burn poached eggs?’

‘I’m not even supposed to be cooking the bloody breakfast!’ Harold grumbled. ‘I only did it because Rendell hasn’t come downstairs yet.’ He pointed out of the window, where the snow had finally stopped but a thick layer of ice now covered the ground. ‘I’ve got a coach I should be digging out.’

Harold’s nose had gone purple with the cold and a drip was forming on the end.

‘Any sign of a thaw?’ asked Midge, without a hint of irony.

Harold nodded, cautiously, as he rinsed out the large Belfast sink. ‘The snow is beginning to shift. But we’re still stuck here until the firing stops and the road reopens.’

Midge, who did not want to spend any more time in Rendell’s company than was necessary, was relieved to hear that he was still in bed. Perhaps, if she finished her breakfast quickly enough, she could avoid him all day long by sequestering herself in the library.

Dr Mortimer was deep in conversation with his wife.

‘I told you, the whole thing is ridiculous . . .’

‘But Andrew, you said you saw the ghost yourself . . . surely you must believe in it now . . .’

He shook his head, firmly. ‘All I saw was nothing more than some second-rate special effects . . .’

‘You seemed pretty convinced last night,’ murmured Harold, sitting down at the table.

‘I didn’t sleep a bloody wink.’ He slurped some tea noisily, in a way that put Midge’s teeth on edge.

The unaccustomed social sharing of the breakfast table was playing havoc with her nerves.

To her horror, she had already witnessed Dr Mortimer double-dipping the marmalade jar.

‘Now, I’m seeing or hearing things everywhere.

Footsteps in the corridor, ghosts . . .’ Harold shook his head.

‘I swear I just saw one near the bathing room, as I came round the corner. Then poof! Gone again.’

‘Perhaps we should find out what the ghost wants,’ said Gloria. ‘Give her some closure.’

‘Yes!’ said Noah excitedly, pointing at her with his Marmite soldier. ‘Exactly that! Nine out of ten ghosts are just looking to right a wrong before passing over.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ snorted Dr Mortimer. ‘Now you want to run a therapy session for the paranormal?’

‘I can’t believe Rona and I missed it,’ complained Noah, which sounded rather as if they had spent the night together. Midge wasn’t the only one who thought so.

‘Rona and I?’ winked Harold. ‘You should be so bloody lucky.’

Noah flushed and took a sip from his tea.

‘But what about Robert?’ Gloria implored her husband. ‘What if that really was him trying to talk to us during the séance? I couldn’t bear it if—’

‘Nonsense!’ Dr Mortimer’s voice burst out loudly. He lowered it slightly as Gloria shrank back. ‘Again, another bit of shameless theatrics, and when Mr Rendell finally drags himself out of bed, I will have it out with him.’

‘In my opinion, it sounds more like a residual haunting anyway,’ said Noah.

‘And what is that?’ asked Harold.

‘When the ghost is unaware of the living and is just repeating actions from the past.’

‘Oh,’ said Harold.

‘Why did you miss it?’ Midge asked Noah. ‘The ghostly sighting?’

He fidgeted on his chair. ‘I was interviewing Rendell.’

Midge nodded, remembering the lights and voices in his room. ‘And how did that go?’

Noah, who wouldn’t look at her, shrugged. ‘He was pretty rude, actually. In fact, he got so drunk that I had to give up.’

This didn’t come as much of a surprise to Midge, who was trying to decide if she should get up and put more bread in the toaster, as no one else had – and if she did would she then be expected to offer it to the others, in the same manner as refilling the teapot?

Further to that, would there then be an expectation to butter it for them?

‘Probably sleeping off the hangover as we speak,’ said Dr Mortimer, disapprovingly. ‘That’s no way to run a business.’

‘Is a second helping permitted in the cost of the breakfast, do you think?’ asked Midge.

Harold shrugged and pointed his knife at the doctor. ‘Dunno, why don’t you ask Lord Sugar?’

Which Midge thought wasn’t terribly helpful, on top of which, the chances of helping herself to anything more than bread had now been made impossible by Harold’s ring-fencing of the sausages by his strategically spread elbows.

Noah pulled a leather journal from his jacket pocket and placed it on to the table.

The edging was worn and the paper inside curled at the corners.

‘Mr Rendell did give me this, though. An old diary of some sort belonging to the Atherton family doctor. The current owners uncovered it and lent it to him to help with the tours.’

At that moment, Rona entered in a kaftan and sliders that would have been more in keeping on the French Riviera.

‘Good morning, gorgeous people. And you too, Noah.’ She smiled before scooting over to Midge and plonking herself down.

She continued, her voice gravelly, ‘Midge, you saucepot, why on earth are you wearing that thing? You look like you’re going to war.

’ To Midge’s surprise, she was talking about her police-issue navy jumper.

Midge was about to point out that the colour blue had been chosen by Sir Robert Peel himself to distinguish it from the red of the military, but decided against it.

Anyway, Bridie had always admired her in her uniform sweats.

At the thought of Bridie, she couldn’t help picturing her getting ready for the chemotherapy session all alone.

Midge felt a twinge of discomfort at her own churlish behaviour when they had parted.

‘Is the breakfast organic?’ Rona asked, helping herself to Midge’s last mushroom.

‘I believe the bread might be,’ said Midge, hoping that Rona would offer to load the toaster and resolve her dilemma.

‘Organic?’ blinked Dr Mortimer, scrutinizing his own plate.

‘You need to be careful,’ said Rona, pulling out her rolling tobacco. ‘The amount of chemicals they leave on things nowadays. I’ve been buying only organic for years.’

Dr Mortimer cleared his throat. ‘Does that apply to your cigarettes? You do realize that each roll-up will contain at least two hundred chemicals?’

Rona’s hand stopped, the tobacco leaves pinched between her fingers, before turning to Midge. ‘I’ve had the best idea while I was asleep. Why don’t we all help with Noah’s podcast investigation? Zhoosh it up a bit.’

By the look on Noah’s face, anyone would think that he was the one who had just had his breakfast pilfered. ‘Zhoosh it up?’ he repeated.

‘Yeah, you know. All those podcasts nowadays, they’re all made up of re-enactments and stuff.’

‘And stuff . . .?’ replied Noah, weakly.

‘It’s what the listeners want. Interviews with experts and dramatization. Make it sexy.’

Midge’s ears burned. As she chewed on a particularly tough bit of rind, she wondered when precisely the world had decided that everything needed to be so sexy.

‘My listeners want scientific methodology,’ said Noah, resuming his eating.

‘He wrote and told you that, did he?’ asked Rona.

‘Ha. Ha.’

‘What listeners want is CONTENT – and to be perfectly honest, Noah, your entire show could do with a rebrand.’ Rona considered him from across the table.

‘Rebrand? What are you talking about?’

‘God, let’s start with the name . . . They Do It With Strings . . . I mean, what does that even mean?’

‘It’s a reference to Agatha Christie, as well as the mechanics that are used to create dramatic ghostly effects,’ said Noah. ‘Obviously.’

‘It sounds like an S and M podcast,’ said Rona.

‘Now, I might listen to that,’ said Harold, causing Midge to gag slightly on the rind.

‘That catchphrase is a bit suspect too,’ continued Harold.

‘“Keep your curtains closed and your minds open”?’

Harold nodded. ‘Also sounds like an invitation to a sex party.’

‘Have you received many?’ asked Midge, surprised that so many could see past the persistent nasal drip.

‘That would explain some of the comments I get.’ Noah stared back at them all for a moment. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. I was going to edit everything after the weekend anyway and tidy it up, so I suppose I could try interviewing you as guest insights and things.’

All the others agreed to this with varying levels of enthusiasm, but Midge, disturbed by the casual use of the word ‘things’, demurred. Noah didn’t seem in the least disappointed.

Glancing down, Midge noticed a dark mark in the corner of the mat to the left of her plate that she was sure hadn’t been there before. She narrowed her eyes as it started to move. Putting her finger on it, she was surprised to feel it was wet.

A second mark suddenly appeared as she watched. And then another. And another. Splashes of liquid. Dripping down on to the table around the plates.

‘What on earth . . .?’ Gloria had noticed as well.

They all looked up at the ceiling at the same time.

‘Ectoplasm,’ breathed Noah, in rapture.

The plaster of the ceiling was bulging just above the kitchen table, forming a large sink with a slow drip of water plopping down on to the wood below.

‘Where is that coming from?’ frowned Harold.

Noah stared for a bit, thinking, before saying, ‘The bathing room – it’s directly above.’

‘Is someone having a bath?’ asked Midge, looking round at the others.

‘I heard someone in there earlier,’ said Harold.

Gloria frowned. ‘They must have left the taps running.’

Harold was already moving out of the room towards the back stairs. ‘We better get them off before the whole bloody ceiling comes down.’

Midge followed Harold upstairs, aware as she did so that Noah, Rona and Gloria were close behind her. When they reached the corridor, Harold was already rapidly knocking on the bathing room door.

‘Rendell?’ he shouted.

There was no response.

‘Open the door! Perhaps he’s fallen asleep,’ said Gloria.

Midge could feel her unease growing with each second as they listened to the sound of the taps running through the walls.

‘Open up!’ shouted Harold, really banging on the door now. ‘You’ve left the bath running.’

There was still no answer. Harold grunted, leaning against the door and trying the handle. It was locked.

‘Go on, then,’ said Rona, waving a hand at Noah.

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Noah.

‘We’re going to have to put some welly into it,’ said Rona.

‘That’s solid oak,’ protested Noah, gently bumping the door with his upper arm. ‘Think about the security deposit.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Rona was already halfway down the corridor, creating some running space.

‘Right, stand back!’ She charged at the door, hitting it with a crunch.

There was a splintering noise as the lock gave way and the door fell open.

Steam rolled out into the corridor, momentarily blinding them before they all followed Rona into the room.

Midge wiped her face and waited a moment for the cold air to dissipate the steam.

Before it did, Gloria had started screaming.

As the steam clouds parted, they revealed Rendell in the bath, his throat slit and the bloodied water steadily pooling on to the tiles below him.