Page 7 of Murder Most Haunted

In an effort to show willing to Bridie, Midge had done her own research on Atherton Hall, but she wasn’t prepared for the first impressions as the coach crawled up the sweeping driveway.

Even under the snow, the building was a mess of vine and slate-grey bricks and with each stinging gust of moor wind, the foundations seemed to sink deeper into the earth. Midge found herself holding her breath in solidarity with the house as it choked on the moss gagging its stonework.

Noah was speaking into a small microphone he had rescued from his suitcase while they waited in the driveway for Harold to pull out the rest of their luggage.

‘What’s that you’re doing?’ interrupted Harold.

‘Just laying down some material . . .’ shrugged Noah.

‘Oh.’ Harold clapped his hands. ‘Carry on! Quiet, everyone, and TAKE ONE.’ He turned to Midge. ‘I’ve always wanted to say that. Wait until I tell my Linda.’

Midge wondered how much ‘telling’ his Linda was subjected to after every one of Harold’s trips. Probably enough for her to consider booking her own getaway. ‘First impressions?’ Noah had shoved the microphone under Midge’s nose, much to Harold’s visible disappointment.

‘Oh! Well,’ Midge cleared her throat and poked at the snow with her cane, ‘obviously there is crenellated Stuart roofing. The house has four wings, and the ground floor is of later construction featuring a walkway with loggia columns . . . and it’s all granite,’ she finished, satisfied that she had covered all the elements.

‘Never mind . . .’ said Noah, rolling his eyes and retracting the microphone. He started again, ‘We are here to uncover the truth behind the moors’s gho—Jesus, what was that?’

A scream of such bloodcurdling terror that it raised the hairs on the back of Midge’s neck had rung out across the snow, before being sharply repeated. It was coming from the trees to the side of the house by the west wing.

‘It’s Rona!’ said Harold.

‘Put that damn microphone away,’ snapped Dr Mortimer to Noah, who was waving the mic around in an effort to capture the sound.

‘What the hell . . .?’ Harold was trying to run towards the noise but was hampered by the drifts swallowing his feet.

‘Where is she?’ shouted Rendell, dropping one of the suitcases he had been carrying and taking off across the circular driveway, following a set of footprints to the side of the house where a small gate was visible in the shrubbery.

He was stopped by the sudden reappearance of Rona, staggering through the gate.

‘It’s dead . . .’ she sobbed, holding her hands up. ‘Dead! I tried to help it . . .’

‘Ladies, stay here!’ barked Dr Mortimer, chasing after Harold and Rendell, who were already through the hedge gate.

Midge had absolutely no intention of staying where she was on the mere disqualification of being female and, using her cane to gain some leverage through the snow, she hurried into the garden despite the complaints from her knee.

The snow was streaked with blood, swathes of it bathing the ground in a red wash while the tang of iron hung in the air.

‘Oh God,’ moaned Gloria, who had also ignored her husband’s command and followed behind Midge.

Strewn across the croquet lawn in front of them was a dead sheep, its innards spilling out where it lay.

There was a sudden retching noise. Noah had joined them and promptly thrown up.

Reluctantly, Midge handed him one of her handkerchiefs from the canary set to wipe his mouth while he leaned over.

‘Will you be using that for your audio effects?’ Harold asked him.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Dr Mortimer. ‘Pull yourself together, snowflake. This sheep has got lost and some fox has had a bit of fun, that’s all.’

Noah stiffened and immediately stood up. It was probably not the first time he had been called a snowflake, thought Midge.

‘No fox is big enough to kill that sheep,’ said Harold.

Gloria was quietly weeping. ‘The poor thing,’ she sniffled to herself.

This presented Midge with a dilemma, since she’d already handed one handkerchief to Noah and she wasn’t sure if asking for it back in order to pass it on to Gloria would be appropriate or even hygienic, given the amount of vomit.

She was distracted by the fixed gaze of the sheep staring directly at her, overwhelming her suddenly with a memory of death.

She liked animals. They were uncomplicated and unconditional.

Once, she’d fed a stray cat that had kept coming into their garden in the secret hope that it would make a home with them.

That dream had ended abruptly, one Saturday afternoon, when she found the creature dead in the garden.

Bridie had thought it was probably for the best – after all, she’d said, Midge could barely look after herself, let alone another being.

Her thoughts were interrupted by echoing reports of gunfire.

‘Oh my!’ screamed Gloria, covering her ears with her hands. ‘What’s happening?’

‘It’s OK,’ soothed Harold, waving his arms. ‘It’s the firing from the army. I’m afraid we are right in the middle of the ranges.’

‘I thought you said the ranges were inactive this weekend.’ Dr Mortimer pointed a finger at Rendell, who smiled weakly. ‘I should be asking for my money back.’

‘I checked – nothing was scheduled,’ said Rendell, scratching his head. ‘Although it may explain why it was so cheap this weekend. But,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘it does mean that the house is truly cut off for now.’

‘Cut off?’ said Midge, frowning.

‘Yes,’ replied Rendell. ‘It would be too dangerous to leave the grounds until the training exercise finishes. I suspect they’ll close the gates after us anyway. Unfortunately, the exercises could take all weekend.’

Gloria cautiously lowered her hands as the latest volley of gunfire died down. ‘I’m not sure my nerves will take much more of this.’

‘Come on, love,’ said Harold, putting his arm around her. He began to lead her back round to the front of the house. ‘Let’s get you inside and have a nice cup of tea, shall we?’

‘As the flock of ghoulish crows kept an opportunistic watch over the ravaged sheep, the group—’

‘A murder.’ Midge swung round and almost lost an eye to Noah’s microphone as she interrupted.

‘Pardon?’ said Noah, who had regained some colour to his cheeks.

‘It’s a murder of crows. Not a flock.’ And there were dozens of them, screeching down from the trees around the gardens.

‘Whatever,’ said Noah, but he put his microphone away.

‘Let’s hope we’ve packed the mint sauce,’ said Rendell, eyeing the dead sheep.

Midge thought the joke to be mistimed, as it set Noah off gagging again. Timing, she was often told, was important both with jokes and social niceties. Therefore, Midge decided that it probably wasn’t appropriate to ask for her handkerchief back now either.