Page 31 of Murder Most Haunted

The kitchen was in darkness when Midge entered later, causing her to briefly wonder if the power had failed again.

This didn’t bother Midge, who often ate without any lights on.

Given a choice, she would have preferred to attempt most things in life in the dark.

Not complete blackout, you understand, but just enough to blur the edges.

‘Do you think Rendell was a bad man?’

Midge was surprised to find Gloria sitting alone at the kitchen table, in the dark, a glass of wine in front of her.

It was an odd question and one that required some thought, causing Midge to pause her ruminations on who would fiddle with the light fuse and why.

She knew Rendell had been bad, sometimes.

‘I suppose that depends on who is judging him.’ Something else occurred to her.

‘Your husband said you were a nurse at the JR. Is that the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford?’ she asked.

Gloria nodded.

‘Where the Cuthbert baby case was.’ And where Midge had first met Rendell. Even then, he’d had a reputation with the nurses. ‘Did you ever come across Rendell there?’

‘No,’ answered Gloria. ‘It’s where I met Andrew, though.

I was actually seeing one of his colleagues at the time.

Patrick Symonds.’ Midge cleared her throat, waiting for Gloria to finish.

She took a sip of wine and continued, ‘But Andrew took one look and decided that he was going to have me for himself, and that was that.’

‘Oh.’ Midge pursed her lips.

‘He looks after me,’ said Gloria. ‘I know how he seems to people, but he wasn’t always like that. He gave up consulting and became a GP so he could be with me more, after . . . Robert.’

She stared at the table, her voice so low she was almost talking to herself.

‘Although he spends more time on the golf course than at home, now. He’s got his handicap down to twenty.’

Midge tried to smile but really had no idea what that meant.

‘Patrick Symonds has a handicap of fifteen,’ whispered Gloria. ‘Why do you think he killed himself?’

‘Who? Patrick Symonds?’ asked Midge, blinking.

‘No! Rendell.’

‘I don’t,’ replied Midge.

‘Do you believe in Noah’s murdering ghost as well?’ asked Gloria.

Midge shook her head. ‘No. But I’ll answer your question.

Whether suicide or murder, in my experience, there are usually only two reasons why they happen.

Money or sex.’ Midge opened the fridge door, the light briefly illuminating the two of them.

Inside were the remains of Noah’s uniquely hacked artisan cheeses.

‘And possibly cheese,’ she muttered to herself.

Gloria frowned down at the wine as she swirled it around the glass.

‘It’s hard to imagine Rendell having sex.’

Midge swallowed before taking out the cheese board. ‘I try not to imagine anyone having sex.’

‘Who’s having sex?’ Noah flicked the light switch as he entered. ‘Why are you two sitting in the dark? The power is back on.’

Gloria’s eyes lit up when she saw him and she immediately pulled out the chair next to her, which Midge had been about to sit down on. ‘Oh, silly. We were just discussing Rendell. Sit down and Midge will make some supper for you.’

This was going too far in Midge’s opinion. ‘I was making a sandwich,’ she said, pulling out the bread board. ‘I can do that.’ But even sandwiches came with their own problems. Did Noah like the crusts on or off? Bridie, for example, could get very waspish if she forgot to remove the crusts.

Noah wrinkled his nose. ‘Ham, please, if there is any.’ He sat down next to Gloria. ‘What is that awful smell of garlic?’

Midge sniffed. He was right, there was a tang of garlic in the air.

‘Perhaps someone was making something with it earlier,’ said Gloria, sweeping the table with her forearm. ‘The table was a bit of a mess when I came in. Do you cook, Noah?’

He shook his head. ‘Mum does most of the time.’

‘No girlfriend, then?’ asked Gloria, smiling at him.

‘No.’ He hunched his shoulders slightly. ‘I’m asexual.’

Gloria blinked. ‘You’re what?’

‘It means that I experience no sexual feelings or desires.’

Which seemed at odds with the bottom-ogling Midge had witnessed earlier, she thought as she buttered the bread.

‘I think that’s called old age,’ snorted Gloria, making Midge wonder just how many glasses of wine she’d already enjoyed.

‘I think it’s called bloody lucky,’ said Harold, who had just walked in and overheard the conversation. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘It’s not a choice,’ explained Noah. ‘I fall in love, just without any sexual urges.’

Midge stopped slicing the cheese. What a much happier place the world would be if everyone was like Noah.

‘Rubbish!’ said Harold. ‘You just haven’t met the right girl yet, or man . . .’ He held a finger up and winked conspiratorially at Midge. ‘I’m not homophobic.’

There was a clang as Midge placed the sandwich plate down on to the table with a bit more force than was necessary.

‘Of course,’ continued Harold, obliviously, ‘the computer science degree probably didn’t help.’

‘Robert was always out chasing girls,’ said Gloria, taking another slug of wine.

‘You’d have liked him.’ She nodded at Midge, who wasn’t sure why, considering the predatory overtone that Gloria had just introduced.

Still, it was something people often said about lost loved ones and Midge felt it was probably inappropriate to respond with ‘I don’t think so’.

So, she buttered another slice of bread for herself and wondered if, when she died, Bridie would say things like ‘You would have liked her’, to people who, in reality, wouldn’t have.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of a glass knocking against the tabletop. ‘Mrs Mortimer? Are you OK?’

Gloria had gone so pale that for a moment Midge half expected to see a ghost in the kitchen.

‘I’m fine, I’ve just been feeling very lightheaded.’ She fiddled with the insulin pump on her arm.

‘Do you need anything?’ asked Midge, hoping she wasn’t going to say a sandwich.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ said Noah, jumping up.

‘Is it your insulin?’ asked Harold. ‘Shall I get your husband?’

Gloria shook her head, looking down at the pump. ‘No, the figures are fine, so it’s not my insulin. I expect it’s the events catching up with me . . . I’ll be fine once Robert has finished making me a cup of tea.’

‘Noah,’ said Midge, quietly. ‘Noah is making the tea.’

‘Of course.’ Gloria blinked. ‘Do you know what? I am rather tired. I think I’ll go to bed now instead. Good night.’

She left just as Rona entered the room. ‘Midge, do you believe in ghosts?’

Midge chose her words carefully. ‘No. I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘If Noah is right and Rendell didn’t commit suicide, then perhaps we need to find what she’s looking for, so she can rest,’ announced Rona.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Midge.

‘The White Lady of the Moor – the one that haunted Charles Atherton,’ said Rona, her eyes wide.

‘Have something to drink,’ said Midge.

Rona waved her hand at Midge. ‘That’s sweet of you, I’d love a cup of tea, but could you make it? I caught Harold re-using tea bags yesterday.’

She side-eyed Harold, who pretended not to have heard. ‘Actually, thinking about it, maybe a Danish or something if we have one? In fact, forget the tea . . . I’ll have a mocha latte with whipped cream.’

Midge considered this. She wasn’t an expert on frothy coffee, her one experience inside a coffee house having left both her and the barista firmly traumatized.

She’d ended up with a drink the size of a Mr Whippy and the name ‘Miguel’ written on its side.

‘There is Nescafé instant and skimmed milk. Perhaps I could shake the milk for you?’

‘That fucking Willow!’ shouted Rona suddenly, causing Midge to jump. ‘I told her to never book me into anything that only has instant. We need to get out of here.’

‘When Harold’s wife gets back to an empty house I’m sure she’ll raise the alarm,’ said Noah, the lack of enthusiasm for an imminent rescue written all over his face. ‘Is she back from her trip tonight or tomorrow, Harold?’

There was a silence while they all waited for Harold to confirm either way. Instead, he started fiddling with an apple from the fruit bowl.

‘Or not?’ said Noah.

Harold shrugged.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Noah. ‘Harold?’

Midge answered instead. ‘Harold can’t confirm because Linda left him a while ago, didn’t she?’

Harold’s shoulders slumped as he leaned back against the sink. ‘How did you know?’

Midge pointed at his fingers. ‘There’s a sun mark of a recently removed wedding ring, and you’ve given at least two different destinations for her supposed trip.’ She refrained from adding that anyone with such a persistent nasal drip had been living on borrowed marital time anyway.

He sniffed, in what Midge interpreted as an acknowledgement, and bit into the apple.

‘So, no one knows we’re stuck here, and no one’s going to miss us for at least another day?’ asked Rona, shaking her head slowly. She suddenly looked very tired, in Midge’s opinion, dark smudges under her eyes and a straggle of hair loose from its updo.

‘Presumably, even if they aren’t notified by Linda, your office will wonder why the coach didn’t come back?’ said Midge.

Harold was doing his best not to look at anyone.

‘Harold?’ asked Noah.

He placed the half-eaten apple down on the draining board. ‘Not really sure about that.’

‘What do you mean?’

He placed his hands flat on the table and took a deep breath. ‘There isn’t technically anyone else at the Haunting Holiday Excursions office. Just me . . .’

‘What about a receptionist, the other drivers?’ said Rona, her voice rising.

‘All gone,’ replied Harold. ‘No one’s been paid in weeks. I’m the only one working there and, to be honest, I haven’t had any wages for a couple of months.’

‘But . . .’ Noah shook his head. ‘Why are you still driving for him, if you haven’t been paid?’

‘For the company, I suppose.’ His voice dropped. ‘I get a bit lonely sometimes.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ exploded Rona. ‘You mean to tell me no one knows we’re stranded?’

‘Hey!’ said Noah, putting his arm around Harold. ‘Harold was sharing a moment with us then. You know what, Harold? I think this would make a great backstory for the podcast. The lonely, abandoned pensioner, clinging to . . .’

‘You’ve missed off “pathetic” from that description,’ said Rona.

‘Rona,’ said Noah, reproachfully.

‘What? We’re stuck here with a dead body because of this moron.’ She faced Harold. ‘If you were that desperate for company, why couldn’t you just get on Grindr or whatever it is you geriatrics do.’

There was a small pause. ‘Actually, I think you mean Tinder . . .’ said Noah, quietly.

But Rona was apoplectic. ‘Tinder, Grindr – I don’t care!

We should have left hours ago, but for this idiot.

’ She pointed a finger at Harold. ‘Do you know what, I’m not surprised bloody Linda left.

In fact, Rendell probably topped himself so he wouldn’t have to listen to any more of your tedious stories—’

‘I’m not standing here listening to this,’ said Harold, grabbing his apple and storming out of the kitchen.

The rest of them sat in silence while Midge ate her sandwich, slowly shuffling through the evidence in her mind as she chewed.

To her surprise, the feeling of unease remained despite her words to Noah.

The shelves of evidence stored inside her mind rattled loudly – the figure who’d collided with her in the drawing room, the fuse box, the bathroom and Rendell’s bedroom clamouring for attention.

Shoving her hand into her pocket, she fingered the edge of the photograph inside.

Someone had deliberately tampered with the fuse in the box, wanting the house to be plunged into darkness.

And as far as Midge could see, the only possible reason to do this was if somebody was desperate to conceal either an object or an activity.