Page 32 of Murder Most Haunted

Midge had been about to retire for the night when she was stopped outside Harold’s bedroom by several exclamations of bad language coming from inside.

Wondering whether she had partly caused such an outburst of ill temper, she hovered next to the door, leaning her ear towards it.

As she did so, her eye caught on something shiny on the ground by her shoe.

It was a lone mother-of-pearl button, a single frayed thread still clinging to it.

Unable to help herself, Midge bent down and scooped it up before cautiously knocking on the door.

The noise from inside immediately halted and, naturally, Midge took the absence of a reply as permission to enter, before pulling on the handle.

Harold was leaning over his dressing table, trying to stuff a collection of papers back into a drawer.

But it wasn’t the coach driver who caught Midge’s attention.

The entire room had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, drawers emptied upside down on to the bed and even a chair cushion had been ripped in half, the stuffing splaying out on the carpet.

The reckless abandon and sheer depraved disorganization was enough to make Midge twitch.

‘What on earth has happened?’

Harold spun round at the sound of Midge’s voice, clutching a bundle of newspaper clippings to his chest. ‘What are you doing in here?’ he asked.

‘I wondered if this was your button?’ She held it up, not caring to refer to the language she had heard. ‘Have you been burgled? I should really let the others know.’

‘What?’ Harold hastily stuffed the remaining papers into the drawer and pushed it tightly shut. ‘No. Burgled?! Of course not, that was me. Just trying to find my emergency cigarettes. And no, that’s not my button.’

He moved forward, arms out, herding Midge backwards as if she were a sheep.

‘Cigarettes inside your cushion?’ asked Midge. ‘You must have been very dedicated to quitting.’

‘What?’ Harold spun round as Midge pointed to the slaughtered upholstery. ‘Oh, that. That’s had a tear in since I got here. Had planned to complain to Rendell about it earlier, totally forgot about it.’

‘I suppose that’s hardly surprising.’ Midge stared at Harold as he moved forward again, blocking her view of the dressing table. ‘Shall I keep hold of it, then?’

‘What?’ Harold frowned at her.

‘The button,’ she said, waving it at him.

‘Yes. Yes, all right, whatever.’

‘So, did you find them?’ she asked, reluctantly turning to leave.

‘Find what?’

‘The cigarettes.’

‘No,’ said Harold. ‘It’s a mystery where they’ve got to.’

Not the only mystery in this house, thought Midge.

Firstly, a death which every bone in her body told her was murder, not suicide.

And one that, by confessing he was owed months of wages, Harold had just given himself a rather large motive for.

And secondly, the mystery as to why the same quiet coach driver should have a drawer full of press clippings that appeared to be all about their very own Rona RX.