Page 49 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

Ellen nods, her cheeks pink.

“Well,” I interject before they decide to educate the Taylor-Joneses on the variations of a polycule. “Anyone else who would like to join me and Morgan, just meet us in the dining room at two. There will be more cocoa and cookies in the bar after the tour, plus we’ll light the fire so it’s nice and toasty and everyone can thaw out and chat. Then there’s dinner from six til eight. After that, we have a special performance for you in the ballroom, a reenactment of the Legend of Lovers Hollow, written by our very own Mr Pennington.”

He stands and takes a bow to the accompaniment of an awkward and sparse clapping.

“And it will be performed by the staff,” I add.

Warren snorts loudly and Morgan elbows him this time. I want to laugh—I can only imagine what these two were like growing up. It makes me a tiny bit wistful. Not that I didn’t have a brilliant childhood with a whole hotel to run wild in, but a part of me wishes I’d had a sibling to bond with.

“On Saturday, which is, of course, the fourteenth, you will have most of the day free to enjoy yourselves. Then, from eight p.m. onwards, there will be a Valentine’s ball in the ballroom, followed by the midnight ghost hunt.”

“That’s past our bedtime,” Ellen mutters.

“Oh my gosh, it all sounds so exciting!” Haru claps his hands happily. “I hope we see some real ghosts!”

No one has mentioned the chaos in the lobby this morning, and for that, I’m actually grateful. Because it was so over the top, I’m certain everyone assumes it was fake. I think Morgan and I will have to have a very stern conversation with Bertie and the others about toning down their antics.

We do want to build our reputation as a haunted hotel to bring in the guests, but it won’t work if everything looks like a tacky hoax. I know that Bertie and the others are trying to help, but we’re going to have to rein them in. In the case of hauntings, less is more.

“Don’t think I’ll be venturing out into the woods,” Mr Clutterbuck grumbles. “I leave that to the young ’uns. I’ll be in front of the fire with Cedric and a nice brandy.”

“You not joining us to search for your ancestor then, Mr Ashton-Drake?” Thad asks Cedric.

“Call me Pops,” Cedric replies.

“Hey!” Warren complains loudly. “That’s what I call you! Why’s he allowed to?”

Cedric huffs out a laugh. “Because it will annoy you. And in answer to your question, ghost hunter, no, I bloody well will not be. But Victor and I will try to leave some brandy for the rest of you.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Your legs will get cold.” Thad winks. “Love the sarong though. Great colour.”

“There is one more thing,” I interrupt quickly, seeing as Warren is looking somewhat homicidal himself. I’d rather he didn’t murder the famous ghost hunter before he can entice in more business for us. “Tonight after dinner, Thad will be hosting a seance at the scene of Lady Clare’s murder.”

There’s a collective gasp and a lot of talking amongst the assembled guests.

“As before, it is entirely optional. If you’re not comfortable with it, you are under no obligation to attend, but if you are interested, we’ll be meeting in the lobby at ten p.m.”

“Everyone looks quite enthusiastic,” Rosie says to me quietly.

“They do, don’t they?”

“There is just one thing. You might want to have a word with Bertie.”

I turn my head towards her. “What for this time?”

“Because I overheard her and Edwina earlier. I think they’re planning to have one of them roaming the hallways masquerading as our murdered Lady Clare. I’m also certain they’re planning to reenact the whole grisly three-way murder scene.”

I sigh. “Oh, dear.”

13

“What’s that?” I ask curiously as I lean over and watch Thad set up a piece of machinery on the front desk.

He looks up at me with an easy smile. “It’s an EVP recorder or rather, an Electronic Voice Phenomena recorder. It picks up voices or sounds that aren’t audible to the human ear during the séance. We’ll then use these as backup in an attempt to identify messages from spirits during sessions like these.”

“I thought we had a medium coming to run the séance?”

“We are,” Bez says. I look over to see her setting up a small compact camera on a tripod aimed directly at the top of the staircase where Lady Clare and her husband were said to have quarrelled that night. There’s another aimed at the floor where her body fell and a third pointed at the makeshift table we’ve set up in the middle of the lobby for the séance.