7
G randfather ambles towards us, still wearing his customary shirt and sweater vest, and his socks, sock suspenders, and dress shoes. However, now covering his bottom half is a white wrap decorated with huge shockingly pink tropical flowers. The skirt, or whatever it is, winds around his waist and ties at the hip. It’s edged in a ruffle of material in the same design, and when he walks, one pale, skinny leg is revealed with each step.
“What on earth is that?” I exclaim as we reach him, my gaze dipping down to stare at the frilly material wrapped around him.
“It’s a sarong,” he answers matter-of-factly. He does a squat, which makes the material part to reveal one of his knobbly knees. “Marvellous.”
“Uh, you are wearing underpants, aren’t you?” I ask suspiciously.
“Of course I am,” he says with affront. “How uncivilised do you think I am?” He does another squat. “But it is rather comfortable. Lets everything hang free.”
“Oh god.” I briefly close my eyes and shake my head. Deciding not to comment further, I turn to my brother, who is watching with fascinated amusement. “Warren, this is my grandfather, Cedric Ashton-Drake. Grandfather, this is my younger brother, Warren.”
Grandfather’s eyes slide over my brother as he studies him. “You look like your mother.”
Warren holds out his hand, which Grandfather shakes. “I’m so happy to meet you properly, Pops.” Then he eyes the sarong with barely concealed delight. “Love the ruffles.”
He huffs, the corners of his thin lips twitching, before he turns to me and his eyes narrow. “A little birdie tells me you’ve been playing dress-up in the upstairs attic.”
“Oh god.”
Grandfather turns to my brother. “Doesn’t surprise me. He was always doing that as a child. He loved the old ballgowns and ladies’ hats.”
“Please stop.”
“There was a purple velvet turban from the fifties he adored. Couldn’t get the damn thing off him. He even wanted to sleep in it, screamed if we tried to take it away.”
Warren’s grin is now so wide I’m afraid he might strain something.
“And don’t get me started on the lipstick. His mother’s—well, your mother’s too, I suppose. Her favourite was one called… oh, now, what was it?”
“Espionage,” I mutter, and Warren looks positively gleeful.
“That’s it.” Grandfather nods. “Espionage. Really dark red, stained damn near everything it touched. The amount of times we had to scrub it off everything—not only his face but also the walls and the furniture because he liked to leave pretty lip prints on everything.”
Warren starts laughing, and as mortifying as it is, he looks so happy. His laugh has always been this infectious thing that makes my chest warm. There’s a careless freedom that’s an innate part of him, something I’ve always envied. Warren tends to sail through life finding joy in everything he does, whereas I’ve always been the one who followed in his wake like a small black thundercloud, too serious and anxious about everything.
“Oh, Pops.” Warren wipes the tears from his eyes as his laughter subsides. “We’re going to be best friends, I just know it. Why don’t we go down to the mix and mingle, and you can tell me more stories about my big brother?”
“It’s meet and mingle,” I correct. “Grandfather, don’t you want to put some pants on first?”
“No,” he says unselfconsciously.
“You heard the man,” Warren says. “Don’t be so stuffy, Morgs. It’s a brave new world. Gender is just a social construct and clothes shouldn’t have a label.”
Grandfather frowns. “It would be hard to put washing instructions on them if they didn’t have labels.”
“I meant you should wear whatever makes you comfortable.”
“At last someone who talks some sense.” Grandfather huffs and takes my brother’s arm. “Come on, then. Let’s see if they have whiskey at this meet and mingle thing.”
“It’s nearly ten in the morning,” I remind him.
“It’s six o’clock somewhere,” both he and my brother chorus. They then look at each other and laugh.
We all set off down the corridor towards the stairs. It takes us twice as long to get down to the ground floor because we have to go at Grandfather’s pace, and by the time we reach the ground floor, I can see my brother frowning. I know what he’s going to say. It’s nothing I haven’t said myself.
This place needs an elevator, especially for Grandfather, but also for Essie and Martha, who’ve decided to become permanent residents here. They may be very fit and active, but the twin sisters are still over eighty.
“Ellis!” Grandfather calls out.
My heart jolts and starts to beat out a rapid staccato as I look up and see him cross the lobby towards us.
“Cedric, looking good,” Ellis says, eyeing his wraparound skirt.
“Are you behind this, then?” I ask, not sure whether to be exasperated or amused.
Ellis shrugs. “Cedric needed something comfortable. Essie and Martha came up with this as a solution. They had a whole collection of them from their travels which they were only too happy to give him.”
“There’s more than one?”
Ellis’s eyes slide slowly over my body, and I’m not imagining the heat in his gaze.
“Um, Cedric,” he says to my grandfather, although his eyes don’t leave mine. “Why don’t you show Warren the bar and introduce him to Dilys? She’s serving her cocoa and Aggie’s freshly baked cookies for the meet and mingle.”
“I want cookies,” Warren pipes up. “Are they warm?”
“They’re really, really hot.” Ellis licks his lower lip as his gaze dips to my chest and the sweater that clings to me like a second skin.
“Are you hungry, lad?” Grandfather asks Warren, but before I hear him answer, Ellis speaks up.
“Um, Morgan, can you come to the office with me for a few minutes? I have some… uh, paperwork that needs your attention.”
I’m dimly aware of my brother’s childish snigger, but Ellis’ warm hand has already slid into mine, and he’s dragging me around the desk and into the office.
I barely get a word out as he slams the door behind me and pushes me up against it. Then his lips are on mine, his tongue in my mouth. We probably shouldn’t be doing this while he’s supposed to be working and I’m supposed to be going over the hotel accounts, but he’s like a drug. I can’t get enough of him. There’s never been a time I can recall where I’ve felt this burning need, this desperation for another person.
He groans and I reach for him, tangling my fingers in his soft curls and tilting his head so I can get better access to that tempting mouth of his.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, put the lad down.” A voice jolts us both apart, and we twist around to see Bertie.
“How about some privacy?” I scowl at her.
“You do get privacy, in your own room. We stay out of there,” she says.
“Tell that to Artie,” I reply. “In fact, where is he? He needs to put the furniture back and give me back my belongings.”
“Oh, dear.” She huffs. “I’ll speak to him.”
“Please do.” I release a slow breath. “I think he’s a bit upset that I’m an adult now and I don’t want to play like we used to.”
“He was excited to see you back in the fold,” Bertie says heartily. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”
“Bertie, aren’t there any ghosts around here his age? Someone he can play with. Not to be morbid or anything, but surely he can’t be the only kid to die too young?”
“There isn’t anyone.” Bertie frowns thoughtfully. “But you might have a bit of a point.”
“What happened to him exactly?” I ask.
“He came here during the war, didn’t he?” Ellis says, and I try not to get distracted by his kiss-swollen lips.
“That’s right, poor little mite, got evacuated while the Gerrys were dropping bombs on London in forty-two. It was diphtheria that sent him off. We took in a few children during the evacuation, but Artie was the only one we didn’t get to send home to his family, even after he died.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s buried here, on Ashton land,” Bertie explains. “There’s a family chapel, just back in the woods, and a graveyard where generations of our family are buried. There’s also a small mausoleum where the ashes are interred from those of us who were cremated. I’m in there, along with your father,” she adds in a softer tone.
“My father?” I swallow tightly, my heart giving a hard knock as Ellis strokes my arm comfortingly.
“Roger and I take flowers for him on his anniversary,” Bertie admits. “We were very fond of the lad.”
“Artie said you–” I swallow again, feeling like my throat is closing up. “He said you came for my dad when he–”
“We did.” Her eyes are filled with understanding. “He was one of ours. He wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t in pain. There was nothing but peace.”
“Thank you.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat. Not wanting to talk about my dad anymore, I go back to the subject of Artie. “Do you know anything about his family? About what happened to them after the war?” I ask.
Bertie shakes her head. “Sorry. I do remember my father writing to Artie’s mother when the boy passed, though. Her name was Emily. Emily Clayton. So sad for the poor woman.”
“I wish there was something I could do for him,” I say quietly.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, lad,” Bertie replies, her tone brusque. “Those of us who inhabit the house in the hereafter have blue days too. The boy’s just a little out of sorts. He’ll be right as rain in a few days, you mark my words.”
“A few days?” I wince. “Bertie, I really do need my clothes and my phone.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with him.” And with those final words, she disappears.
“She didn’t tell us what she wanted,” Ellis hums in contemplation. “Oh, well. Knowing Bertie, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You’re very easygoing, aren’t you? I don’t know how much of that is just your nature and how much is from living here.”
He chuckles. “A bit of both, I imagine.”
Then he sighs, his gaze dipping to my mouth and his expression regretful. “I suppose I really should get back to work. The meet and mingle will be starting soon.” He glances at his watch. “We were supposed to have another party of six arriving first thing this morning, but they’re not here yet.”
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” I reassure him.
“It snowed again last night, so I hope it hasn’t blocked the road again.” He blows out a breath and purses his lips thoughtfully. “If this weather keeps up, it’s going to make the midnight ghost hunt into the hollow quite difficult.”
“You’re not actually going to make the guests trek across the field and through the woods in the dark?”
“That’s the whole point of a ghost hunt,” he replies. “It’s supposed to be spooky.”
“They’re not supposed to die of hypothermia or fall down in the darkness and break a leg along the way. We really can’t afford to get sued right now.”
“It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Everyone will have fun, word will soon spread, and we’ll get even more bookings.” He rises up on his toes and pecks a kiss to my nose. “Stop looking all grumpy, you’ll get wrinkles.”
“I’ve already got wrinkles,” I grumble. “Most of them since I arrived here.”
He laughs. “I have to get back to the guests. Are you coming with me?”
I shake my head. “I’ll join the meet and mingle in a little while. I have something I need to do first. But save me one of Aggie’s cookies, please. If my brother gets anywhere near them, there’ll be none left.”
He smiles. “I will.”
“And could I borrow your phone? I still don’t have mine. I promise it’s not an international call.”
“Sure.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me, then grabs a pen off the desk, takes my other hand, and writes a number across my palm. “This is the code to unlock it.”
“You’re very trusting.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have anything to hide. If you want to snoop on my phone, feel free. My nudes are in a folder labelled nudes.”
“A cunning name to confuse would-be phone thieves.”
He grins. “I figured if anyone bothered to go to the trouble of breaking into my phone, they deserved a little treat.” He gives me a cheeky wink. “Enjoy.”
I step aside so he can let himself out of the office. Once he’s gone, I close the door and drop down into the office chair, hissing as something digs me in the back. Christ, if Rosie continues to sit in this monstrosity, she’ll have the spine of a ninety-year-old by her next birthday.
After making a mental note to add it to the list of things to replace urgently, I look down at Ellis’s phone in my hand and unlock it, resisting the urge to go searching for his photos. If I start staring at nudes of him, I can’t guarantee I’m not going to drag him into the nearest closet and do very, very sinful things to him.
Opening the internet browser, I do a quick search for private investigators based in London. There’s a surprising amount of them. I scroll down the list, wondering who to pick, then stop on one particular name. It’s not the name itself that catches my eyes—although it does make me picture a 1930s film noir detective—it’s the sentence beneath his name.
For problems that can’t be resolved by conventional means.
Before I have a chance to second-guess myself, I call the number and listen as it rings.
“Sam Stone, Private Investigator. How may I help?”
His voice is deep and sexy, with that same northern burr I’ve heard so much recently.
“I, uh, yes, hello?” I reply.
I never have problems talking to people. I’ve run a multibillion dollar company. I’ve addressed boardrooms and charity galas filled with celebrities, but sitting here right now, in the most uncomfortable office chair, in a pokey little office that’s barely bigger than a broom closet, my mind goes blank.
“Hello?” he says again.
“Sorry,” I apologise. “I’m not really sure where to start. It’s probably a bit of a weird request.”
“Trust me, weird is subjective in my world.” He chuckles, and there’s something about that sound that eases some of my tension. “I can tell by your accent that you’re American. Are you in London at the moment? Because we can meet in person if you’re more comfortable.”
“No, actually, I’m in Yorkshire. I was born here, but grew up in the States. My father’s family own a hotel here.”
“Okay,” Sam says, waiting for me to continue, but I’m still trying to figure out how best to explain what I need. “Why don’t you start by telling me your name.”
“Oh, right, sorry. It’s Morgan Ashton-Drake.”
“Ashton-Drake?” I can hear the surprise in his voice. “This family hotel of yours wouldn’t happen to be the Ashton-Drake Manor House hotel that’s run by a sunshiny receptionist named Ellis and also houses a whole menagerie of ghosts in residence?”
“Uh.”
He laughs warmly, and I shake my head in disbelief. “Does everyone know about the ghosts here? I thought the afterlife was supposed to be a big secret.”
“Not in my social circles,” he says, his voice filled with amusement.
“Have you stayed here before then?”
“No, but two of my best friends have. Danny and Tristan. They were there during the whole murder mystery shenanigans.”
“Oh god,” I groan. “Wait a minute. Did you say Danny and Tristan? Ellis told me about them. Tristan is some sort of medium and Danny’s a detective at Scotland Yard, isn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“They got engaged here but had to rush home because of an emergency.”
This time it’s Sam who sighs. “Yeah, they’ve kind of got their hands full at the moment.”
“Ellis talks about them all the time.”
“I think Ellis has actually adopted Tris.” Sam snorts. “Anyway. Morgan, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s just cut to the chase, as you Americans are so fond of saying. I know ghosts are real, I’ve seen them. I also know your hotel is riddled with them and they are about as well-behaved as a roomful of rowdy toddlers. So, why don’t you just tell me what you need, and I’ll tell you if I can help you.”
“I have a particular, uh, spirit here, a young boy called Artie. Arthur Clayton,” I begin.
“Likes to move furniture around in the bedrooms?”
“How did you–”
“Tris woke up to this kid moving the dresser across the room, apparently.”
“Yeah, he does like to do that… frequently.” I huff. “I was actually friends with him when I lived here as a kid until my mom moved me to the States. Now I’m back, and I… I don’t know, I just want to help him. He’s the only child in a houseful of rowdy spirits, and I think he’s lonely. Anyone he gets close to grows up, and he’s left behind. A perpetual child.”
“I see.” Sam hums thoughtfully. “Do you know how he died? Was it violent or traumatic?”
“I don’t know about violent, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant, I imagine. Why do you ask?”
“Every case is different, but most ghosts remain trapped on earth as a result of two things. A violent or traumatic death or unfinished business. They can’t move on.”
“Do you think that’s what’s happened to Artie?” I frown. “That he has unfinished business?”
“It’s possible. Of course, it could also be that he just likes it here.”
“I want to find out what happened to his family, that’s why I called you.”
“Okay, why don’t you start by telling me what you do know about him?” Sam says, and I can hear him rustling papers about. I can only assume he’s going to take notes.
“His full name is Arthur Clayton, and he was about ten years old when he passed. He died from diphtheria, here at Ashton House, in nineteen forty-two.”
“Forty-two? Was he local or evacuated?”
“Evacuated from London. I’m not sure where he lived exactly, but he said something about having to take shelter in Camden tube station with his mum, and when they came back up, most of their street was gone, including their house. That’s when he was sent up here, but I don’t know what happened to his mother. His father was fighting in France, not that that helps much.”
“Do you know their names?”
“His mother was Emily Clayton. I don’t know about his father, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Sam replies. “You said he died at the hotel?”
“Well, it was a private house back then. Although the hotel is named the Ashton-Drake, the property itself has always been Ashton House. Artie is buried here on the grounds, in the family graveyard, I’m told. Do you think you’ll be able to find out what happened to his family?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Sam says confidently. “I can pull his death certificate, and that should give me the names of both his parents. It’s a place to start. Would you like me to see if I can track down any living family?”
“Do you think there might be?”
“It’s possible.” Sam hums. “Did he have any siblings?”
“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Not as far as I know.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up and I’ll be in touch.”
“Can I give you my number? I’m using my—” I pause. “I’m using someone else’s phone.”
“Sure, text me your details,” he says.
“Thanks, Sam.”
With a final no problem , he hangs up, and I lean back. The chair creaks alarmingly, so I decide to stand up instead. I send a quick message to Sam with my phone number and email address before slipping Ellis’ phone into my pocket.
A wave of guilt washes over me. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of Ellis, and it’s not as if I’m not committed to seeing how this relationship unfolds between us. But I still hesitated to say I was using my boyfriend’s or partner’s phone.
The words just stuck in my throat and hell if I know why.