2
“R ight, then. Are we all accounted for?” I call out into the dark, cramped space.
“Will someone please put the light on?” Edwina’s prim tone from somewhere beside me grates on my ears. “Honestly, Bertie, this really is all rather improper. I don’t know why you keep insisting on meeting in cupboards.”
The bare light bulb above us flickers a couple of times and then lights up the tiny space. Attempting to rise on my tiptoes—admittedly, not an easy feat with half a dozen bodies pressed up against me—I do a quick head count.
Leona is pressed up against Edwina, and I can just about make out Roger’s neatly combed blonde hair behind the shoulder of Rear Admiral Hilary. Skid’s lime-green mohawk is also easy to spot behind Professor Plume, who’s glaring at me with his usual sour expression and that bloody knife still sticking out of his neck. It’s not like we haven’t shown him how to change his appearance, he just refuses to. He’s such a drama queen.
His eyes narrow in my direction, and his mouth tightens further in displeasure. “What?” I ask gruffly.
“Why does it always have to be this cupboard?” He sulks. “You know very well this is the one my body was stuffed into.”
“Yes, well.” I purse my lips. “Apologies and all that, but this is the only one big enough for all of us that no one uses any more. And more importantly, it’s one that Stanley chap doesn’t know about.”
“Admiral!” Roger yelps. “Will you get off my foot?”
“If you don’t keep your voice down, mate, Stan’ll find us,” Skid’s voice calls from the back.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Roger hisses. “It’s not your toes going numb.”
Leona makes a series of gestures, and Admiral Hilary’s bushy moustache wrinkles. “I say, that’s not very ladylike.”
“My toes!” Roger keens, and suddenly, Admiral Hilary pitches forward like he’s been pushed. He crashes into Plume, who stumbles and face-plants into Edwina’s bosom.
“How dare you!” She gives a loud and scandalised gasp, then cracks him sharply over the head with her folded fan.
Leona also takes the opportunity to give him a good swift kick in the shins on behalf of her friend.
Before I can open my mouth to say a word, the prof is being hauled off Edwina by Skid.
“You alright, Eddy?” he asks.
Edwina blushes hard in the dim light. “Thank you, Mr Skid.”
“All right, settle down.” I clap my hands. “There really isn’t enough room in here to start a brawl.”
“Bertie,” Skid says, “why don’t you tell us why we’re here? The sooner we can get out of this cupboard, the better.”
“Fine.” I huff. “We’re here because, once again, Ellis and the other fleshies have decided to host an event at the Ashton-Drake.”
Edwina sighs. “A ball?”
“Not quite, old girl.” I shake my head.
“Old?” she squawks, tone indignant.
Ignoring her, I continue. “As you are all well aware, despite my great-nephew returning to the fold, the hotel is still in danger of closing. Not to mention that we still have that Stanley fellow sniffing around, just waiting to report us to the stiffs in charge of hauntings. Which is ridiculous, by the way. What we do in the privacy of our own estate is really none of their business.”
“Regardless,” Skid interrupts, “you may not like it, and I’m usually the first one to say fuck the rules, but they do have the power to kick all us ghosts out of here. Then what will happen to Ellis and the others? It’s our responsibility to look out for them.”
“That’s so gallant of you.” Edwina gazes at the punk lad with somewhat starry eyes.
“It’s just the decent thing to do, Eddy.” Skid smiles at her, his lip piercing glinting in the low light. “We need to figure out a way to help them keep the hotel running.”
“Exactly!” Roger pipes up. Muttering curses, everyone shifts again, and he shimmies his way through the tightly packed group to reach my side. “We’ve come up with a way to help the fleshies.”
“And how is that?” Skid smirks.
“I’m glad you asked.” I take a moment to glare at Plume for getting us off track. “Ellis and Rosie have organised a ghost-hunting weekend and we’ve got new guests arriving today. This weekend is Valentine’s weekend and also the anniversary of the Legend of Lovers Hollow.”
“Lovers Hollow?” Plume repeats. “What’s that?”
“It’s a very famous local legend,” Edwina says dreamily. “It’s so romantic.”
“Tragic, you mean,” Roger replies.
Edwina pouts. “It’s both.”
“Can someone please explain?” Plume scowls.
“The way I heard it, the lady of the house was having an affair, her husband killed her in a jealous rage, then her lover killed her husband,” Skid says. “Isn’t that right, Bertie?”
“I heard that the lover killed the husband and then ran off with the lady,” Admiral Hilary says gruffly.
“No.” Roger frowns. “They definitely all died.”
“Doesn’t matter how it happened. What’s this got to do with us?” Skid frowns.
“Ellis and the others are basing the whole theme of this weekend on the legend. They’re putting on a play written by that Pennington chap, and they’re having a ghost hunt to the hollow were the unfortunate trio were said to have met their tragic and bloodthirsty demise. Oh, and they’re also throwing a Valentine’s party in the ballroom on the last night.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Plume says.
“We are going to give the fleshies exactly what they came for.” Roger rubs his hands together with glee. “We’re going to give them a full-on haunting.”
“Stanley’s not going to like that.” Admiral Hilary huffs. “Need I remind you that it was the Murder Mystery Weekend debacle that brought down the Bureau’s wrath in the first place.”
“That’s why we need to keep him occupied and out of the way,” I state with aplomb.
“So we can do what, exactly?” Skid asks.
Roger rolls his eyes. “Haunt, of course.”
“Yeah, gonna need something a bit more specific.”
“We’re going to have to step up the normal ghostly happenings: doors opening on their own, objects moving, that sort of thing. We’re putting Arthur in charge of that. Despite only being a lad, he has a real knack for rearranging the furniture while the fleshies aren’t looking. However, everyone needs to pitch in.”
“Tell them the best part, Bertie.” Roger jiggles with excitement, well as much as he can in the confined space.
“On Valentine’s night, we’re going to put on a full-on ghostly reenactment of the murders for the ghost hunt. Give those guests something to really talk about.”
“Reenactment?” Plume says slowly, and I nod.
“We’ll pick three of us to play the parts of Lady Clare, her evil husband Clement St. John, and her lover, what’s-his-face, whose name escapes me.”
“Hang on a minute.” Plume’s brow furrows in confusion. “Why can’t the real ghosts do it?”
“Because they haven’t been seen in over two hundred years. Not a single actual sighting, not since the night of the killings. They must have crossed into the light or something,” I explain. “Therefore, we’re going to have to do it ourselves. Now, volunteers?”
“Wait, just wait.” Plume holds his hand up. “If there’s never been any ghosts haunting, why has it become a local legend?”
I sigh in annoyance at the constant interruptions. “Because the fleshies don’t have anything better to do around here than gossip about the dead. Plus, the circumstances surrounding their deaths were salacious enough to fire everyone’s imagination. You know how it works. Now, if you’re quite done, volunteers?”
“Ooh, me, me, me-me, pick me!” Roger vibrates beside me. “I want to be Lady Clare. I’d look smashing in a gown.”
“You absolutely would,” I say loyally. “But I need you to keep an eye on Stanley for me.”
“But he’s sooo boring,” Roger whines. “He’s never offered to spank my bottom, not once! And I’ve given him ample invitation and opportunity!”
“Commiserations,” I say in sympathy, “but I need you to keep him occupied. After all, there’s no one as devious as you when you set your mind to it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I nod. “So, you’ll do it.”
He sighs. “Anything for you, Bertie.”
“Excellent. Right. Leona, sorry, but we might want a bit of weeping and wailing, possibly some ghostly utterings, so that leaves you out. Therefore, I suggest Edwina for the role of Lady Clare.”
Leona stamps her foot in a temper, her Kewpie lips pursing. Her eyes, large and luminous and surrounded by Betty Boop-style eyelashes, are filled with displeasure.
“I, uh.” Edwina looks down at her friend, who stares at me mutinously.
I sigh. “We’ll find you the perfect role, Leona, I promise.”
Somewhat mollified, she gives a sulky shrug.
“Edwina?”
“Um, alright. I suppose I could,” she offers, her response rather tentative.
“Fantastic. I also suggest that Hilary plays the husband and Skid plays the lover. Skid, you will, of course, have to tone down the hair. You look like a bloody tropical parrot.”
“No problem.” He sends a wink to Edwina, whose blush deepens to the same colour as a post box.
Suddenly, the door swings open behind me, and the others gasp. I turn to find Stanley Fishfinkle Lowbarrow staring at us, his beloved clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Do you mind?” I sniff. “This is the biweekly meeting of the Noncorporeal Agoraphobics Society.”
The door slams in his face, and for a few glorious seconds, there’s silence. Then the door grinds open again slowly, the hinges whining in protest.
“Miz Ashton-Drake,” he says.
“Ferrywinkle–”
“Fitzgerald.”
“Loudfrotten.”
“Longbottom.”
“Yes, whatever.” I wave my hand. “Did you want something?”
“If you and your companions would be so good as to step into the library, I would appreciate a word.”
“With you, it’s never just one word,” I grumble and stalk out of the cupboard. Roger skips up to my side and flutters his eyelashes at Stanley.
One by one, the rest of the ghosts exit the cupboard, lining up beside me like we’re about to face a firing squad.
“Good afternoon.” Stanley nods to us. “I’d just like to inform you that your licence to haunt has in fact been approved.”
“Really?” I blurt, my brows rising.
“Believe me, Miz Ashton-Drake, no one was more surprised than I.”
“It’s Bertie,” I correct him.
He lifts a brow in challenge. “I’ll call you by your correct name when you get mine right.”
I wave him off, my mind already racing over the possibilities. “Roger, this is going to make things a lot simpler. I’ve got so many ideas for this weekend, and now that the blasted Bureau has given us a licence we can–”
“It is temporary and subject to certain terms and conditions,” Stanley interrupts.
“Of course it is,” I grouse. “Well? What are they?”
“It has come to my attention that new guests are arriving today and that Mr Sparks has scheduled an event based on the unfortunate demise of Lady Clare St. John, formerly Ashton, her husband Clement St. John, and her lover Osyn Swaine.”
“Ah, so the lover’s name was Swaine. Marvellous!” I clap. “Roger, make a note of that.”
“Wait a minute,” Roger says. “How do you know about them?”
“The Bureau knows about everyone who has passed over in violent circumstances within the boundaries of this estate. I’m not sure if you’re extraordinarily unlucky or a magnet for supernatural misfortune.”
“Where are they, then? Lady Clare, Clement, and Swaine?” Why haven’t we seen them haunting the grounds?”
“They’re dormant,” Stanley explains.
“What do you mean, dormant?”
“As in not active.”
“But they didn’t cross into the light?” I ask. I don’t really understand any better than Roger seems to. Some sort of clarification wouldn’t be amiss.
“Can we please focus on the matter at hand?” Stanley sighs. “I have a meeting with my department head in twenty minutes.” He glances down at his clipboard. “As I said, there is an event this weekend, which obviously means new guests. Under your new licensing, you are allowed the following. Moaning–”
“Chance would be a fine thing,” Roger whispers under his breath.
“Whispering, wailing, weeping, chain-rattling, footsteps, and door-slamming. Cold spots, flickering lights. Dragging sounds. Draughts, rippling curtains. Movement of objects is permissible as long as the actual movement is not directly visible by the living, and you are not—I repeat, not —to show yourselves to the living under any circumstances.”
“Killjoy,” Roger mutters.
“I mean it, Mr Palmer,” Stanley says firmly.
“Alright,” I reply.
His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”
“It means alright.” I shrug. “We’ll be on our best behaviour.”
He stares at me for several long seconds, then gives a quiet hmmm sound before disappearing.
Roger blows out a dramatic breath and pouts. “What are we going to do, Bertie?”
“What do you think?” I turn to him with a grin. “We’re going to completely ignore everything he just said.”
Roger grins.
“Operation Scare the Fleshies Take Two is a go.”