Page 44 of Murder Most Haunted

‘She’s lucky to have experienced a real-life possession.’ Noah had cornered the doctor in the hallway as soon as they had come back into the house. ‘Can I record her later?’

‘You stick that bloody microphone anywhere near her and it will be the last you see of it, sunshine,’ said Dr Mortimer. ‘And my wife was not possessed.’

Midge couldn’t help agreeing.

The doctor reiterated that he would be leaving first thing in the morning to try to get help, and that he was going to bed and under absolutely no circumstances was he to be disturbed.

Harold had taken over snow-shovelling duties outside and, for the time being, everyone else was back in the kitchen, lost in their own thoughts.

Midge eyed the old medical journal Rendell had passed on to Noah, which he’d brought downstairs.

‘May I?’ she asked, nodding at it and putting aside her work-in-progress hedgehog handkerchief.

Noah had returned to attacking the cheese on the wooden platter, and nodded with his mouth full.

Midge tried her best to ignore the sight of the vandalized dairy and concentrated on the pages in front of her, while the others continued to drink their tea in silence.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ asked Noah who, despite having had, in Midge’s opinion, several opportunities to change, was still dressed in the moth-eaten cloak.

Was she? Her mind wandered back to the portrait that had been hanging in her room when she first arrived.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘There was a painting of three Atherton men in my room. Now, I know one is Charles, having seen the other portraits dotted around the house, but can only assume the others are his sons. I’m pretty certain one of them is William.

I was wondering if there was any mention of the sons in here. What was the second one’s name, again?’

Noah swallowed. ‘Rupert.’

‘Ah – there’s a portrait of a Rupert Atherton in the library. Could easily be the same man as in the family bathing portrait.’

Midge’s eyes scanned the doctor’s entries before resting on the name ‘William’.

‘What exactly is laudanum?’ asked Noah, frowning as he read over Midge’s shoulder.

‘It’s a tincture of opium – a milder version of morphine, really, derived from the opium poppy.

Super addictive, but back in the day, doctors would prescribe it for all sorts.

Even a bad cough.’ They turned to look at Rona, who put down her cup of tea.

‘What?’ She shrugged. ‘During my addiction, let’s just say I got really interested in drugs and ended up taking an Open University degree in organic chemistry and pharmacology. ’

‘See,’ said Harold, who had appeared by the back door, wiping snow from his feet. He winked at Noah as he grabbed a spare cup of tea from the counter. ‘A proper “ology”.’

‘What are you wearing, Rona?’ Harold was staring at the pop star. Midge peered at her too.

There was something different about the clothes that Rona was dressed in, she looked . . .

‘You look like Midge,’ laughed Harold, who had now managed to find a packet of biscuits from somewhere and was enthusiastically dunking them into his tea.

‘Très chic,’ smirked Noah.

Rona’s laugh was forced as she tugged her thick woollen jumper down. ‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘It’s bloody cold in this house. Anyway, I’m not taking fashion tips from someone wearing a dead mammoth.’

‘It’s faux fox,’ muttered Noah. ‘And it’s for LARP, I told you.’

Midge helped herself to a spoonful of sugar, stirring it into her tea thoughtfully.

And then she helped herself to another, because Bridie wasn’t there.

And then guilt and worry surged through her – Bridie’s chemo session would be finished now.

How had it gone? How was she feeling? I’ll know soon enough, Midge resolved. Worry was a futile waste of effort.

‘Perhaps you could try looking for the name “Beth Hallow” in the diary when you get the chance,’ she suggested, shyly. ‘It was on the stone in the cemetery, and it seems William fixated on the name in his delirium. Her death date also implies she was a contemporary of Charles and his sons.’

Noah’s head shot up. ‘So, you think this Beth might be our ghost?’

‘There is no “our” ghost,’ clarified Midge, in case anyone else thought she had taken leave of her senses. ‘I’m merely interested in the circumstance of the gravestone.’

‘Hellllooooo . . . shouldn’t we be focusing on the real-life murderer?’ said Rona.

‘Yes, exactly,’ replied Midge, finishing off her tea and frowning at the bottom of the cup. The bag had split and the grounds had congregated in the shape of a face.

‘We can’t stay here . . . I can’t, we’re sitting ducks,’ cried Rona, chewing her nail. Her face suddenly flushed with colour.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Harold. ‘We’ll protect you, won’t we, Noah?’

Noah seemed to shrink further into his cloak and looked as uncertain about this announcement as Midge felt.

‘Read the room, Harold!’ snapped Rona. ‘The murderer is one of us, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Or—’ began Noah.

‘So help me, Noah,’ cried Rona, tearfully. ‘If you say “Lady of the Moor” one more time I’m going to take that revolting old cloak and shove it right up your arse.’ Something which Midge couldn’t help thinking wouldn’t make the garment look any more unpleasant.

‘I’m going back to my room,’ the pop star continued, her voice wobbling. ‘There’s no chocolate left after Noah’s baking, and bloody Gloria’s drunk all the wine.’

‘You’re in recovery anyway,’ pointed out Noah.

‘I can still eat a sodding KitKat!’ she cried.

They all watched Rona leave, silent for a moment before Harold leaned back in his chair. ‘My money’s on the unhinged pop star next.’ He winked, and shoved the last of the biscuits into his mouth. ‘Or Gandalf here.’