11
“O kay, chaps, excellent showing with the fleshies.” I ruffle Artie’s hair as he stands beside me.
He grins. “That was fun!”
“It certainly was.” I nod and turn back towards the others. Now that we’re no longer crammed into the cupboard in the library, I can see everyone clearly.
Pale daylight filters in through several larger dormer windows. It’s probably freezing up here in the attics, but since we don’t feel the cold, it’s not really a problem. Professor Plume stands looking forlornly at the snow falling outside.
“I knew I should have stayed in London,” he mutters in disgust. “It’s done nothing but snow since the day I died.”
“Could’ve been worse.” Skid smirks from where he sits on top of an old packing crate. “You could’ve died in Scotland. I think they have collectively about twenty-four hours of summertime each year. The rest of the time, it’s snowing or raining.”
“I really don’t think it’s that bad.” Roger hovers by my side. “I went to Scotland once, back in my days as a ball boy, before I became a tennis coach.”
“I’d have thought you were an expert at handling balls.” Skid chuckles.
“I am, darling,” Roger says primly. “Just say the word and I’d be happy to give you a demonstration.”
He barks out a laugh. “I bet you would.”
“Would you both stay on the original subject, please?” I say in exasperation.
“Mr Skid is right,” Edwina says to Plume. She is hovering by an empty ornamental birdcage partially draped with a tasselled velvet cloth in an ugly mustard colour. “It’s really not as bad as you think, Professor. You’ve only been dead a little over a month. The grounds of Ashton House are quite pretty in the spring and summer, especially the orchard.”
“I didn’t mean that original subject.” I huff. “I mean the reason I called this meeting.”
“It wasn’t for a good old pat on the back, then?” Rear Admiral Hilary says gruffly. “I thought we did a splendid job ruffling the feathers of the newbies.”
I nod again. “We did, but we need to keep up the momentum. Now that that Deuce ghost hunter chap is here, we’ve been provided with the perfect opportunity to prove how haunted our little hotel is. Once word gets out over the interweb–”
“Internet,” Plume corrects with a tut and an eye roll.
“Whatever. Once word gets out, this place will be flooded with bookings.” I rub my hands together eagerly. “His team films all over the hotel trying to catch some spirit activity, and that’s exactly what they’re going to get. I want all of you to get in as much of the footage as possible—flickering lights, footsteps, doors slamming, moving objects, all the classics.”
I look across to Leona, who has flipped open a small metallic compact and is studying her reflection as she adds rouge to her cheeks. At least, I think it’s rouge—it’s a darker shade of grey than her skin. I really don’t understand why the confounding woman keeps refusing to step into the world of glorious Technicolour. Instead, she insists on this silent-movie-era monochrome aesthetic. Not to mention the no-speaking aspect, which has been a tad frustrating at times over the years.
“Will we show up on camera?” Plume perks up a little. “I mean, obviously as an actor myself, I feel this could be a moment for me to shine in the role of a terrifying spectre.”
“You can’t outright show yourself. That would get us into awful hot water with the stiffs at the Bureau, even if it would give us a nice little boost in room occupancy. But I don’t see why a reflection here, a shadowy figure there, couldn’t be allowed.”
“Achoo.” Edwina sneezes loudly, then rubs the end of her nose daintily with her gloved hand. “Why couldn’t you have chosen one of the vacant guest rooms to meet in? Why did it have to be the attics? It’s so dusty up here.”
“Because Stanley doesn’t know about it.”
“Actually,” a dry voice drawls, “I know all your hiding places.”
I turn to Stanley and offer my most innocent look.
“Good afternoon, Stanley. Wonderful day for a stroll on the grounds. Have you seen the orchards yet? Perhaps Edwina could take you for a tour?”
Stanley looks past me to the light but steady snowfall drifting past the windows.
“Indeed.” He lifts his pen and clicks it ominously before glancing at his ever-present clipboard. He scribbles something across the page and then turns his attention back to me. “I do hope that you are not planning to put on a show for the film crew currently setting up downstairs in the study?”
“Of course not.” I guffaw loudly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Would we, chaps?” I turn to the others, who are all shaking their heads and muttering low denials.
“I can assure you that we are following the rules you stipulated in the terms of our license to haunt to the letter.” I begin to count off the points on my fingers. “No showing ourselves to the fleshies. Only moving objects, slamming doors, ghostly wails.”
“What I said was, only moving small items when the living were not looking, not levitating an art deco statuette across the lobby at six feet off the ground.”
“Oh.”
“A strike against each of you is going in your permanent files.” Stanley sets his pen against the clipboard once more.
“Actually, it doesn’t state that anywhere in your stuffy rule book,” Roger interrupts before Stanley can start scribbling again.
“Pardon?”
“I read the complete volume of laws and guidelines regarding the conduct of spirits and their interaction with the living world.”
Stanleys eyes narrow. “All ten thousand four hundred and seventy-six pages?”
Roger shrugs. “I had a spare afternoon. It was awfully dull reading, but as Ashton House’s appointed union representative–”
“Did we vote him as our union representative?” Skid whispers from where he has just materialised at my side. Artie seems to have got bored with all the grown-ups talking and has disappeared. I don’t blame him.
“Don’t ask me,” I mutter as I continue to watch.
“Guideline eighty-two F, subparagraph four, additional supplement one C, clearly states that, for the purposes of health and safety regulations, any levitation of stationary objects is permitted, providing it does not exceed a maximum weight of fifty-three and a half pounds or a height of eight feet from ground level. That rather charming art deco sculpture was a mere thirteen and a quarter pounds and six point two feet from the ground.” Roger smiles.
Stanley’s brow rises. “But rule five hundred and seventy-nine, addendum nineteen B, stipulates that guideline eighty-two F, subparagraph four, supplement one C, can only be applied in accordance with supplement one D, which is that no corporeal entities can directly witness said levitation.”
“Unless Supplement one E is in effect, and the corporeal entity in question—or rather, fleshie in question—is in any way diminished in capacity by pharmaceutical enhancements or alcohol.”
“As it was, in fact, eleven oh two in the morning, none of the living were under the influence of any prohibitive substances. Therefore, I must return to the aforementioned supplement one D. No corporeal entities can directly witness–”
“Primary rule one hundred and ninety-two, subsection six B, paragraph four,” Roger says slowly. Stanley sucks in a sharp breath.
“How do you know about that?”
Roger smirks. “I’m not just a pretty face with a pert bottom.”
Stanley’s mouth falls open and he grips his clipboard tightly. His gaze slowly trails over Roger’s body as if he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private and discuss regulation three-four-two, subsection ninety-three… A,” Roger purrs, his mouth curving smugly when heat flares in Stanley’s eyes.
He turns around and, with a saucy wiggle of his bottom, coyly glances back over his shoulder at Stanley and disappears.
Stanley stands dumbfounded for several long seconds, neither moving nor speaking, just staring at the spot where Roger disincorporated himself. I’m becoming slightly concerned that Roger might have finally broken the poor man. The last thing we need is the blasted Bureau sending a replacement even more stuffy than Fitzbottom over there.
Oh, well. Needs must and all that. I’m just about to offer my assistance to the insufferable chap, get him a cup of tea or brandy or something, when he turns to me and points.
“No showing yourselves to the living,” he says firmly, and then he too disappears.
“Where do you think he’s going?” Edwina asks innocently.
Skid grins at her. “To discuss regulation three-four-two, subsection ninety-three… A. Repeatedly, I’ll bet.”
“I say, that’s jolly good of Roger to take one for the team,” I mutter.
Skid snorts. “I don’t think he’s taking one for the team at all, Bertie. He’s taking it because he likes it.”
“Either way, this presents us with an opportunity. If Roger can keep him busy, we can get our plan underway.”
“What plan?” Edwina blinks.
“Oh, for pity’s sake. It may have been over a hundred years, girl, but sometimes I don’t think your brain ever thawed out from when you froze to death in the orchard.”
“That’s really quite rude.” Edwina sniffs. “I can assure you my mind is as pert as my wit.”
“What did she say about her tits?” Lady Violet squints as she holds her ear trumpet to her ear.
“Good god, who woke her up?” Professor Plume snaps sulkily, his lip curling in annoyance as he stares at the old woman in her high-necked nightgown and nightcap, her thick, grey braid curling over her bony shoulder.
“Alright, settle down, you lot.” I clap my hands to get their attention. “Let’s not waste this opportunity. Make sure you titillate the fleshies every chance you get; on camera would be top-notch. Otherwise, concentrate your efforts on general scare tactics.”
Professor Plume grimaces. “This is really not going to end well.”