Page 4 of Murder Most Haunted

‘There have been sixteen members of the group over the years,’ said Harold, shovelling in his lukewarm chicken curry as if he’d been told there was a prize for finishing first. Harold would be dreadful to have as a husband but excellent to have in a pub quiz, thought Midge.

He had been asked to join them for lunch, an unusual occurrence by all accounts, brought on by the no-show from the two other guests. Something which had more than irritated Rendell, leaving him with a further delayed schedule and two extra prepaid luncheon vouchers.

He had begrudgingly given one to Harold, calling him in from the heating of the coach, before offering the other to Midge. ‘You look like a lady who would enjoy a second helping.’

The words were enough to put her nerves on edge and she determined to avoid Rendell as much as possible. Easily done, as he spent the remainder of the lunch break throwing money into the service station slot machines. Something which, judging by the swearing, was also not going his way.

‘Mug’s game, that,’ said Harold, wiping his chin with a scratchy napkin. He shook his head. ‘Some people just never learn.’

Rumours about Rendell’s gambling debts had dogged him throughout his career. Something about Harold’s words and Rendell’s figure silhouetted against the flashing lights stirred an uncomfortable memory of the younger man which added to Midge’s growing sense of unease.

‘Have you seen the White Lady of Atherton Moor for yourself?’ asked Rona, as they sat around the table waiting for everyone to finish eating.

An act that Midge was finding difficult with the plastic cutlery the service station had provided them.

Noah had had the foresight, oddly, to bring his own knife and fork from home, in a neatly wrapped napkin.

‘No, this will be my first trip to the Tin House,’ replied Harold. ‘I normally do the old dears’ trips to Newquay. Rendell got me in at late notice on this one. I’m a paranormal virgin.’

‘The Tin House?’ asked Midge. ‘Isn’t the place we’re staying at called Atherton Hall?’

‘The Tin House is the name given to Atherton Hall locally. It was the ancestral home of the owners of the local tin mine. Although now it’s owned by some American billionaire who rents it out,’ answered Noah, who, in Midge’s opinion, could do with a good few more meals.

Harold put down his knife and fork and intertwined his fingers.

‘That’s right. The moors around it are visited by the White Lady, whose appearance foretells a death.

’ Harold made a pop-goes-the-weasel noise with his mouth, which was hampered somewhat by the last of the rice still in there.

‘Are you on a diet?’ He pointed at Midge’s side bowl of salad.

‘No,’ she replied, frowning.

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Noah, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a recording device. ‘Would it be OK if I record a bit of this for the podcast?’

Midge shrugged before leaning towards the microphone and slowly repeating, ‘I like salad. People often assume if they see a large person eating a salad it is because they are dieting. But in fact, I just like salads. Are we to assume Harold is going to enter the Tour de France because of his predisposition for Lycra trousers?’

‘The waistband’s comfy when I’m driving,’ muttered Harold.

‘Not you,’ said Noah, moving the microphone away from Midge. ‘Harold.’

Harold grew taller in his chair. ‘You mean, I’d be on the radio?’

‘Please, carry on,’ said Gloria, the doctor’s wife.

Harold cleared his throat. ‘Right, well. There are a few local legends about spirits and such on the moors, but it’s the White Lady who haunts the Hall too.

She never seemed to do much harm until Victorian times, when there were rumours of a ghostly apparition shortly before Lord Charles Atherton died.

A pale young woman was seen on the moors and walking the halls of the house, and old Charles went doolally.

That very Christmas Eve, he was found dead. ’

‘Oh goodness,’ breathed Mrs Mortimer. Her hand shook slightly as she took a sip of water from her glass. ‘How awful.’

‘Oh yes,’ nodded Harold. ‘Charles’s two sons both died young – some say she whispered curses on the family, driving Charles mad and eventually bringing their line to an end. Ever since, whenever the ghost makes an appearance, a death is sure to follow . . .’

‘Typical woman.’ Rendell was back from the slot machines, and loomed over them, zipping up his coat. ‘Always nagging, even in the afterlife. Am I right?’

Dr Mortimer was the only one to laugh.

‘No one has settled in the house for long since. Apparently, the current owner is too scared to live there now, cos of the ghost,’ said Harold.

‘Why does she whisper?’ Rona asked. ‘I mean, have you noticed? Ghosts always seem to whisper, don’t they? If I was dead and had something to say, I’d be shouting it.’

Midge imagined she would.

‘She’ll be struggling to get through the electromagnetic field . . .’ This was from Dr Mortimer, who was smirking.

Harold pointed at him. ‘Ah, looks like we have a sceptic here, boss.’

Rona put down her drink. ‘I would hope that we are all going into this with an open mind.’

‘I’m sorry, is everything OK?’ Noah spoke instead to Mrs Mortimer, who was staring at him with an intensity that seemed strange, even to Midge.

Andrew quickly placed his hand over hers and squeezed, but it wasn’t with a gentle touch.

Midge, who was watching, saw the slight opening of Mrs Mortimer’s mouth from the pressure.

‘Of course, everything’s fine, isn’t it, Gloria?

’ said the GP, firmly. ‘My wife just hasn’t been sleeping well lately. ’

Gloria Mortimer struck Midge as a very nervy person. She was accustomed to anxious people through her forced attendance at Bridie’s WI events and wondered if perhaps Gloria taught Pilates. In her experience, Pilates instructors often brought suppressed anxiety to a whole new level.

Gloria looked quickly down at her plate. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quietly. ‘You just remind me of someone . . . someone we used to know.’

Suddenly, the entire eating area was lit up by a flash of lightning, followed by a torrential hammering of hailstones that shook the wide, glass windows.

‘Come on!’ said Rendell, impatiently. ‘We need to get there before the bad weather sets in.’

As the others made their way towards the exit, Midge, who was slowed slightly by her cane and the suitcase she insisted on dragging, overhead Harold muttering to Rendell behind her, ‘I told you this trip was a bad idea.’

‘If you hadn’t wasted so much time holding court, we’d have been on the road half an hour ago,’ said Rendell, wringing his hands. ‘We need to get there by five, else there’s a strong chance the road will get blocked by the snow.’

‘You should have cancelled the whole thing,’ said Harold in a low voice. ‘Paid them their money back.’

‘With what?’ hissed Rendell, pushing past him and Midge, through the revolving doors and out into the hail and sleet.

When the coach started up once again, the vibrations of the engine were enough to rattle the toilet door beside her.

It seemed to have come ajar during lunch.

Leaning across, she pushed the door with her cane to click it shut.

Perhaps one of the others had preferred to take their chances with a broken toilet rather than the germ roulette of a service station restroom.

Rendell was standing up by his seat next to Harold.

‘Plenty of room, then, so feel free to take a row each, those of you who like to spread out.’ Was he looking directly at her?

The weight gain was probably the reason he didn’t recognize her.

She’d always been big, but previously active and reasonably fit.

But then, after everything that had happened with the baby incident, she’d just given up.

First it was the weight, then the stick when walking became too much of an effort.

And not long after that, the Hercule Poirot jokes had started – which was a bit unfair, Midge thought, because she always shaved her moustache on workdays.

See, that was humour. And now she was so exhausted, she had no choice but to nap for the rest of the journey to Atherton Hall.