Page 25 of The Haunted Hotel
“Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t do dick,” Skid replies playfully. “But if I did, you’d be top of my list.”
“I actually prefer to be bottom.”
The sound of a teasing slap echoes in the gloom followed by Roger’s giggle, and I don’t really want to imagine who slapped what.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had a todger either, but never say never,” another gruff voice chimes in.
“Ah, Rear Admiral, good of you to join us,” I greet my great-great-uncle as Roger sucks in a loud, sharp breath.
“Admiral Hilary!” Roger says indignantly. “Do you mind!”
“What?” the older man replies.
“Keep your hands to yourself!”
“I just wanted to see if that peach of a rear of yours feels as good as it looks.”
“Of course it does,” Roger gives a haughty sniff. “That doesn’t give you the right to grab a handful.”
“Just thought I’d try something a bit different,” the old lech says diffidently. “You know, for a change. I’m always up for new experiences, that’s why I joined the navy.”
“That’s also how you ended up dying from syphilis,” Roger says dryly. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Do you suppose we could hurry this along?” Skid huffs. “It’s a bit claustrophobic in here.”
“Not to mention in incredibly bad taste,” another voice chimes in sourly, and I recognise the dour tones of our newest addition—Professor Prometheus Plume, who met a rather unfortunate end during the recent murder mystery weekend Ellis organised.
“Who’s being chased?” a querulous voice replies, and I suppress a groan.
“Urgh, Violet,” I huff to no one in particular. “Who woke her up?”
Violet was the mother-in-law of one of my ancestors. She arrived at Ashton House from Manchester back in 1799 to visit with her daughter. Already in ill health, she came for the country air. Little good it did her as she was dead a month later—helped along, rumour has it, by a rather hefty dose of arsenic, courtesy of my great-great-great-grandfather. Violet generally inhabits the guest room on the fourth floor, which is where she died. It’s not often she bothers to get out of bed.
“Badtaste,” Prometheus repeats loud enough to make me wince. “I said bad taste, you daft old bat.”
“There’s no need to shout,” Violet replies sharply. “I’m not deaf.”
She absolutely is, which is why she always has an old-fashioned ear trumpet grasped in one hand.
“What’s in bad taste?” Edwina asks softly, her posh Edwardian tone mildly curious.
“Well, this is the cupboard my dead body was stuffed in,” Prometheus grumbles saltily.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I interrupt. “Is everyone here? Where’s Leona?”
We all fall silent but no answer comes, which isn’t surprising considering the woman doesn’t speak.
“Maybe someone should switch the light on?” Skid offers helpfully.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I huff, and the bare light bulb above us winks on.
We’re all crammed into a tiny cupboard hidden behind a false bookcase in the library—where, yes, Prometheus’ body unfortunately had been stuffed by one of the other murder mystery actors.
I take a quick head count. Prometheus is standing pressed up against my side, his face bearing what has become a perpetual sullen glower. He still has the large carving knife protruding through his neck and bloodstains on his clothes. Poor chap. He’s still a newbie, barely been dead a few weeks. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they’ve even had his funeral. He’s not yet learned how to change his appearance. I’ll have to try to remember to take some time to explain a few things about the afterlife to him but not right now. Plenty more pressing matters are afoot.
Edwina is crushed up against the wall, her rather large, feathered hat knocked askew and herVotes for Womensashrumbled. Pressed up against her, and no doubt the reason for her bright pink cheeks, is Skid. Clad in a studded leather jacket, a loose and ripped vest with the anarchy symbol sprayed on the front, red plaid skinny trousers adorned with silver chains, and heavy black boots, he looks amused more than anything. His enormous mohawk is sprayed lime green and almost reaches the low ceiling of the cupboard.
Just behind him, I see the magnificent golden plumage of the admiral’s bicorne, and when I tilt my head, I can see his wrinkled face. Admiral Hilary’s mouth is almost obscured by his thick white curved moustache, and he has a monocle hooked under one bushy white brow. He’s gazing down with a contemplative expression at Roger, who is crushed against Skid on the other side of Edwina.