Page 40 of Murder Most Haunted

‘Can you stay with me for a bit, Midge?’

One by one, the others had all gradually left the room. Harold to find the deck of cards, Noah to record his podcast while the experience was still fresh in his mind and the doctor to check on Gloria.

‘I’ve never liked being on my own,’ said Rona, quietly.

Midge settled into the armchair closest to the fire, recently vacated by Harold. The soporific heat and pungent smell of garlic were making her an infuriatingly heady mix of sleepy and hungry.

‘Mummy said I was very needy even as a child,’ Rona continued, gazing out of the window. ‘Always had to be surrounded by a crowd. In fact, come to think of it, that’s probably why I became a singer.’

Midge nodded, unsure of what to say.

‘Did you know my mother was a famous daytime soap actress?’

Midge, who had once tried an episode of EastEnders only to give up when the subtitles failed, shook her head and shifted her thigh away from the heat of the flames.

‘Marlene Rogers. Now, there’s a person who doesn’t need any emotional connections.

She’s never needed anything or anyone. Certainly not a man.

’ Rona paused, turning her face round to stare at Midge.

‘Even when it came to having children. She just reached out to some of her gay friends – a little music, a few recreational relaxants, a Tupperware cocktail of semen and Bob’s your uncle, and quite possibly your father too. ’

‘Goodness.’

‘Do you know what she calls me?’ Rona looked back to the window.

Midge shook her head.

‘The Thanksgiving Baby,’ said Rona. ‘Not because she was grateful to have me, you understand.’

‘No?’

There was a pause.

‘No. It’s because of the turkey baster.’

‘Oh,’ said Midge, crossing her legs.

‘I think I’d have liked a daddy, though,’ said Rona, leaning back and briefly shutting her eyes. ‘Do you like your daddy, Midge?’

‘My father hanged himself when I was twelve,’ replied Midge. ‘I found him, in the attic. Mother was away for the weekend and so I had to cut him down.’

Rona’s eyes flew open. ‘Jesus, that’s awful, I’m so sorry!’

‘Why should you be sorry?’ asked Midge, smoothing the crease in her trousers. ‘It’s not your fault. He left a note with instructions. And a knife for the rope. He was very organized like that and didn’t want a mess.’

‘I thought I liked you because you’re so normal, Midge.’ Rona stared at her with bright eyes. ‘But you’re anything but, aren’t you?’

After that, there didn’t seem too much to say, so Rona and Midge sat in silence broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Within a few minutes, Midge dozed off. She dreamed of the baby again.

Once more, she was back in her younger body, running across the moors, cradling the infant in her arms against the sound of the gunfire around them.

The snow crunched underneath her feet as she slid, panting while she struggled.

She needed to keep moving and get them to safety, anywhere that she could hide the child.

Suddenly the night sky erupted with the sound of dogs barking behind her, released from Atherton Hall.

The snarling reached an abrupt frenzy as they caught the scent in the air.

Midge slipped in the wet snow and fell, the ground opening up below her as they tumbled deeper and deeper down into the depths of the earth.

She woke with a jolt, her face pressed against the wing headrest of the velvet chair, grooves lining her cheek. Rona was staring at her from the bed. Midge’s cheeks flushed at being caught in so intimate a position and she rubbed her hand across her face.

‘I had better go and see where the others are,’ she said, pulling on her cane to stand up. ‘I’m sorry if I dribbled.’

‘I was thinking,’ said Rona, suddenly, ‘if someone did murder Rendell, odd that he should die so soon after that argument, isn’t it?’

Midge frowned. ‘Argument?’

‘Remember? Outside your window on the first night?’

‘Oh,’ considered Midge. ‘Yes.’

‘I mean, Noah sounded pretty upset, didn’t he?’

In Midge’s opinion, Noah always sounded in a perpetual state of angst. She had put this down to hormones and the tight skinny jeans that his generation insisted on wearing.

‘And, you know, we’ve only got his word that he left Rendell after the interview.’

‘Harold heard Rendell in the bathing room in the morning,’ said Midge.

‘Harold heard someone,’ replied Rona. ‘I can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous. I don’t know why Noah wants to stay.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, don’t you think it’s odd? Every time anyone tries to suggest getting help in some way, Noah comes up with one objection or another.’

Midge thought about this. ‘I assume he is just excited about the podcast.’

‘I’m not sticking around to die just so he can boost his ratings,’ wailed Rona.

To Midge’s dismay, her canary handkerchief had appeared in Rona’s hand and was in the process of being screwed up into a tight, soggy ball.

Midge winced at the sight of her delicate cloth being manhandled in such a way.

Despite the nap, she felt exhausted being near Rona.

Once, years ago, Bridie had convinced her it would be fun to ride on the waltzer at a local fairground, saying it would be good for Midge to ‘live a little’.

After an uncomfortable car ride home splashed in Midge’s vomit, Bridie conceded that she had been incorrect in her assumption.

Two days in Rona’s company reminded Midge of those unpredictable moments, spinning through the air, gripping on to the safety bar.

Midge’s knee was beginning to cramp and her stomach had started growling. ‘I’m going to see if there is anything to eat.’

‘Don’t leave me alone,’ begged Rona, who genuinely looked upset at the thought of her own company. ‘I get so bored on my own.’

‘I won’t be long,’ said Midge.

‘Midge,’ said Rona, ‘could you lay out a nightie for me, from the drawer? If I’m going to be stuck in bed, I better look my best.’

‘I can’t see any nightdresses,’ said Midge, looking down into the top drawer of the dresser and trying her best to ignore the array of tiny string underwear. Midge regarded thongs with the same distrust she reserved for car salesmen – both of which left her feeling uncomfortable and confused.

‘The pink one, on the top,’ said Rona.

Midge selected a tiny piece of lace which would have been a suitable replacement for her handkerchief and placed it on the bed.

‘Willow usually presses them for me before she puts them out,’ said Rona, waving at the nightie.

‘I think you must have knocked your head rather hard in the tunnel,’ observed Midge, turning to leave.

‘Come right back and fill me in on all the gossip, then,’ pouted Rona.

‘I don’t gossip,’ pointed out Midge, closing the door. ‘But naturally I will keep you informed of events.’

To her surprise, in the kitchen, she found Noah covered from head to toe in flour, vigorously mixing batter within a cake bowl.

The irresistible aroma was coming from the oven, inside of which were several cake tins.

On the table were row upon row of perfectly turned-out cupcakes, which Harold appeared to be happily taste-testing.

‘Midge!’ he said, pulling out a chair and inviting her to sit. ‘Let me introduce Noella Lawson!’ Harold laughed so hard at his own joke, several mouthfuls of crumbs came flying out, which was a waste of a perfectly good cake in Midge’s opinion.

Noah gave a shy bow and wiped yet more flour on to his jeans. Harold leaned in to Midge and winked. ‘Turns out that Noah here stress bakes.’

‘Stress baking?’ Midge enquired.

‘When I’m nervous,’ said Noah, ‘I find it helps my anxiety. Problem is, I’m not very good at portioning. Try a muffin.’

Midge was confused. ‘That is not a muffin, Noah, that is quite clearly a small cake.’

‘They’re called muffins,’ explained Noah.

‘Perhaps by those with diminished powers of reason,’ replied Midge, helping herself none the less. ‘There is already a perfectly respectable baked item under the moniker of “muffin” – Bridie and I share one, toasted with butter, most mornings, and this most certainly is not it.’

‘Oh, right, you mean—’

‘Can you toast this, Noah?’ interrupted Midge, holding out the offending cake for Noah to consider.

‘Well . . . no, the chocolate would melt all over the insides of the toaster . . . and I’m not even sure how it would fit . . .’

‘Then clearly it is not a muffin,’ replied Midge with satisfaction.

‘It’s bloody lovely, mind,’ said Harold, wiping his mouth.

‘Not the point.’ She decided to change the subject; Noah looked rather dejected. ‘Where are the doctor and Gloria?’ asked Midge, biting into her non-muffin.

‘The doctor is getting fresh snow for Rendell’s . . . for Rendell, and Gloria is sleeping,’ said Noah.

‘I’ll go give him a hand,’ said Harold, before exiting through the back door.

‘Did you make this scone too?’ she asked, pointing to one in the baking tin.

Noah nodded, smiling shyly. ‘Yeah, Harold’s already had most of them.’

The scone looked lonely on its own, so she thought it only fair to pick it up and bite into it, her mouth watering at the lightness and flavour of the mixture.

She added a dollop of cream (Bridie would never normally allow her to have cream and butter at home) and then a generous smear of the remaining strawberry jam.

Midge had heard of people who put the jam on before the cream but concluded these were probably the same ones who enjoyed adult-themed Tupperware parties and indoor saunas.

A thought occurred to Midge. ‘Noah, would it be possible to see the journal you have been using for your podcast?’

Noah nodded, his eyes lighting up at her request. ‘I’ll go fetch it now,’ he replied, and scurried off quickly. She soon heard footsteps above her.

Midge was just settling down to another round of cake when a shout from the floor above stopped her.

Grabbing her cane, she headed into the hallway and upstairs in the direction of the noise, which appeared to be coming from Noah’s room. On arrival, she was surprised to find the bedroom door open and moans coming from inside.

‘Noah?’ she asked.

In the partial darkness, her eye was drawn to a small movement on the floor in front of her – a body was lying on the ground, groaning.

She fumbled for the light switch and just as she did so, a figure detached from the doorway beside her, slamming her on to the ground before running off down the corridor.

Despite the pain shooting through her knee, she pulled herself up to claw at the switch, flooding the room with light. Noah was spreadeagled on the bedroom floor, a reddening bump on his forehead.

‘Noah!’ she shouted. ‘Help! Someone help!’

She leaned over and gently shook him, until Rona and Dr Mortimer appeared in the doorway. ‘Jesus Christ!’ cried Rona, leaning against the doorframe to rest her ankle. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘There was someone in the room,’ said Midge as Noah started to come round. ‘I think he disturbed them.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Dr Mortimer, wiping something from his jumper. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

‘Urghhh, what happened?’ Noah asked, groggily holding his head. ‘Ouch.’

‘Don’t prod it,’ said the doctor. He held three fingers up to Noah’s face. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Three,’ winced Noah.

‘Someone was in your room,’ said Midge.

‘It was the White Lady,’ Noah said. ‘I’m sure of it.

I came back to get my recording stuff and the journal for you to look at .

. . Oh no . . .’ His eyes suddenly flew open in panic.

‘Oh my God, my camera . . .’ He pushed the others away and staggered up and over to his table. ‘It’s been telekinesisized!’

‘What?’ said the doctor.

‘It’s gone!’