9
J ohn the Maid circulates around the cosy bar area, holding a silver tea tray containing steaming mugs of Dilys’ hot chocolate. I can just about make out a little mop of silver hair visible above the bar itself as she shuffles back and forth with more full cups for him to pick up. The scent of warm freshly baked cookies drifts around the room, and the low hum of chatter makes me smile.
This is just perfect.
Morgan is back here where he belongs, and even though it’s still early days for us, it’s going well. It would be nice to have a little time off so we can spend it really getting to know each other, but there’s so much to do with the hotel.
I glance around the room and feel the happiness fill me. I’m surrounded by the people I adore and brilliant new guests, and we’ve got an exciting weekend ahead of us. We’re going to do this, I just know we are. The Ashton-Drake is going to be saved, I feel it right down to my bones.
“I think it’s going well so far.” Wally walks up next to me, holding an empty tray. “Everyone is so nice.”
“I’ve never had a mingle with cocoa and cookies before,” Warren says from the other side of me. “Usually, a mingle means cocktails, bad decisions, and a whole lot of post-dawn regret.”
Wally snorts quietly. “What should I do now, Ellis?”
“You can go see if Dilys wants you to stack the dirty mugs for her in the dishwasher,” I reply, and he frowns.
“But she doesn’t talk. How am I supposed to know her answer?”
“If she glares at you, it’s a definite no, a frown is a maybe, and if she ignores you, go ahead.”
He shoots me a puzzled look. “Is there a difference between a glare and a frown?”
“Spend an hour with my brother, and you’ll be an expert,” Warren says dryly, and I nudge him with my shoulder.
“Morgan is just perfect the way he is,” I state with great conviction.
“I know.” He nods as his gaze sweeps the room. “But not many people recognise that.”
“I, er, I guess I’ll go help Dilys then,” our newest member of staff says, his tone a little hesitant.
“You’ll get used to Dilys,” I assure him. “She’s really not that complicated. You’ll be able to read her like a book before you know it.”
“Okay, then.” He takes a fortifying breath as if bracing himself.
We watch as he crosses the room towards the bar, but halfway there, he somehow manages to trip over his own feet, smack himself in the face with his serving tray, and end up in a heap in front of John the Maid.
John gives an exasperated sigh. With one hand, he reaches down and effortlessly lifts Wally to his feet without so much as rattling the full tray of cookies he has in the other.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Essie exclaims loudly at the sight of blood fountaining from Wally’s nose. “Here you go.” She hands him a dainty white handkerchief. “Best put a spot of ice on that, dear.” She indicates his nose, which seems to be rapidly swelling.
“A spot?” Martha, huffs. “More like a bucketful. I’ve never known anyone to fall over as much as you. If this carries on, we’ll have to loan you Mr Clutterbuck’s Zimmer frame.”
She glances over her shoulder to one of our other new guests, Victor Clutterbuck, our nearly ninety-year-old escape artist who’s currently hiding out here from his daughter. He’s sat hunched in one of the velvet bucket chairs with the aforementioned walking frame parked beside him. He seems to be deep in conversation with Cedric, who is sitting opposite him on one of the sofas, but it’s hard to tell as Mr Clutterbuck appears to have forgotten to put in his top set of dentures, leaving his upper lip collapsed in slightly and bottom lip sticking out, which gives him a somewhat belligerent pout.
“I’m fine. It’s juss my dose,” Wally says, gingerly pressing Essie’s now wrecked hankie to his nose and soaking it in blood.
I really hope she wasn’t expecting to get that back.
“I’ll take that.” Rosie makes her way over to John and takes the cookie tray. “Do you want to take him somewhere quiet so he can ice his nose?” She looks at Wally and winces at how quickly the area under his eyes is starting to swell.
He nods and, without a word, scoops Wally up into his arms bridal-style.
“Jodn, pud me down. I’m too heavy,” Wally protests, clearly a little self-conscious at the extra padding he’s carrying. I think he looks perfect though, so cuddly and cute.
“Please,” he scoffs. “I’ve carried packs heavier than you while running a full assault course in tactical gear.”
Hmmm, funny how John the Maid doesn’t correct Wally when he calls him just John.
Wally stares up at him, his mouth slightly agape, and something like stars in his eyes.
“Uh-oh.” Warren chuckles beside me. “Looks like someone’s got a crush on GI John the Iron Maid.”
I snort loudly, then blush when several people turn to look at me. “Behave,” I whisper to Warren out of the corner of my mouth, trying to look professional but failing miserably as the smile tugs at my lips.
I can’t help it. There’s something about Warren that people instantly warm to. It’s obvious by the way the others have reacted to him so far, especially Cedric, who I can tell really likes Morgan’s brother.
Cradling Wally in his arms, John strides out of the room, and with the drama over, everyone goes back to their individual conversations while Rosie takes over the rounds, offering the guests a selection of Aggie’s seemingly endless supply of cookies.
Essie and Martha join Mr Clutterbuck and Morgan’s grandfather, each of them taking a seat comfortably either side of Cedric, who doesn’t seem to mind. The three of them are thick as thieves these days, which I love. I’m so glad he’s started venturing out of his rooms again after years of refusing to leave them. He still hasn’t attempted to go outside yet, but he’s at least moving around the hotel now.
Mr Pennington is easy to spot in his garish clothes and bold patterns. He’s talking animatedly to Haruto Borjesson. Haruto’s young, only just twenty-one, I’d say barely more than five two, and not so much skinny as dainty. Everything about him is perfectly proportioned, just wrapped in a compact little package. He’s wearing ripped skinny jeans and bright purple combat boots, along with a neon pink and black hoodie. His short, shaggy hair is dyed baby pink and sitting on his head is a pair of jewelled metal cat ears.
Alongside Haruto is Amelia Spendle, who’s really tall. Even in flat shoes that look like ballet slippers, she’s over six foot, dwarfing both Mr Pennington and Haruto. She’s wearing a pretty long-sleeved dress and a pale pink cardigan, and her fine blonde hair falls loosely to her shoulders. She smiles but doesn’t contribute much to the conversation; then again, there’s no getting a word in edgeways once Mr Pennington goes off on one. He spends eighty percent of his time locked up in the study writing and the other twenty percent talking nonstop about writing.
It must be a writer’s trait.
On the other side of the room are the Sch?fers and not far from them Mr and Mrs Taylor-Jones. Ms Sch?fer, who up until now has been conversing with her partners, suddenly turns to one of them and gives him a very thorough kiss, then pivots to the other and kisses him just as fervently.
Mr Taylor-Jones, who witnessed the interaction between the very affectionate Germans, is so transfixed that he freezes with wide eyes, his hand raised halfway to his mouth. His cookie slips from his lax fingers and drops into his full mug with a plop.
“Francis!” his wife snaps, as she tries to wipe the cocoa stain from her blouse. “Will you be more careful? You splashed me.”
“Sorry, dear,” he mumbles, and tears his eyes reluctantly away from the throuple.
“So is this it, then?” Warren asks, looking around the room. “Are these all the guests for the ghost hunt weekend?” He does a quick head count. “Eleven, not including Pops?”
“We didn’t have much time. We only came up with the idea a week ago, and these were people looking for a last-minute getaway, with the ghost hunt as a bonus. I’m sure we could have got the numbers a bit higher if we’d had more time to plan, but it’s a start. Although there is another party of five arriving, and hopefully soon. They were supposed to be here earlier this morning, but I think the snow is slowing everyone down, especially once you get off the main roads and onto the country lanes.”
“So, who’s this party of five?” he asks curiously.
“They were actually already booked in. They arranged their trip shortly after New Year’s, with all the media hype surrounding poor Professor Plume’s death.”
He nods. “I heard about that. It was what brought Morgan to the hotel in the first place, after all. But why would they book in after that? Seems his death would have more likely put people off.”
“They’re paranormal investigators.”
He chokes back a laugh. “They’re what?”
“Paranormal investigators. The one in charge is Dr Thaddeus Dalton. He has a PhD in paranormal science and parapsychology. Apparently, he has quite a reputation.”
“For what?” Warren snorts. “Chasing shadows and urban legends? That’s not a real job.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts?” I tilt my head as I study him.
“No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “And paranormal investigators are the worst. They’re the kind to lock themselves in abandoned buildings at night and chase each other around with night-vision cameras, pretending they feel cold spots and jumping at every creaking timbre. It’s all so fake.”
Boy, is he in for a baptism of fire, then .
I briefly wonder if I should get Morgan to give him a heads-up before he gets to really experience Bertie and her merry band of sidekicks.
“And what kind of name is Thaddeus anyway?” Warren continues. “I bet he’s a skinny, nerdy, socially awkward, gullible idiot who’s allergic to sunlight.”
“I don’t think so,” I reply with a shrug. “He was very nice when I spoke to him on the phone to take his booking. He and his team seem to have done their homework. They knew all about the Legend of Lovers Hollow and wanted to investigate since Valentine’s Day is the anniversary. In fact, they were the ones who gave us the idea to make it into a ghost-hunting weekend event.”
“Mr Ellis?” A heavily accented female voice interrupts. “ Guten Morgen .”
“It’s just Ellis.” I smile warmly. “Good morning, Miz Sch?fer.” I look at the two attractive men flanking her; both seem to be in their late thirties, early forties maybe. One of them has blonde hair and blue eyes and the other dark hair and hazel eyes. “Mr Sch?fer, Mr Sch?fer,” I greet both of them.
“You call me Mina, ja ?” Miz Sch?fer says briskly. I nod, and she points to her partners. “Sieg und Ans.”
“I hope you are happy with your room?”
Mina nods enthusiastically. “ Ja , is good. Good strong bed, very solid.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything I can help with?”
“We are wondering when we see some ghosts?” she says. Warren snorts, but she ignores him. “Ans,” she continues, smiling at the blonde man, “is interested in the paranormal. We hear good things about this place. Lots of… activity.”
“I couldn’t tell you when the ghosts will make themselves known,” I reply diplomatically. Sooner or later, Bertie and the others are bound to do something over the top that will get them in even more hot water with Stanley the Bureau Guy, but they seem to have their own timetable for that. “However, I can a hundred percent assure you that by the end of your stay here, I have no doubt you will be very satisfied.”
“Lots of deaths here?” Ans speaks up eagerly. “Lots of history?”
“There certainly is,” I agree. “If you’re interested, Rosie will be giving a tour of the house tomorrow, which will include the stories of all the ghosts currently haunting the Ashton-Drake. You’ll also have a chance to see some of their portraits hanging in the main gallery.”
“ Ja , I would like. Danke .”
“Perfect. Everyone taking the tour tomorrow will be meeting in the dining room at ten a.m., after breakfast. We’ll be covering the whole weekend’s itinerary after lunch today during the Legend of Lovers Hollow welcome talk. Hopefully by then, the last of the guests will have arrived.”
Suddenly, the door opens a crack behind me, and as I turn, I see Morgan sticking his head through the gap.
“Ellis, could I speak with you, please? Out in the lobby…” His eyes look a little wild, and I hear a loud crash from somewhere behind him. “Right now.”
Oh, no.
“Um. Please excuse me,” I say to Warren and the Sch?fers, then hurry out of the door. “What’s going on?”
As Morgan and I step into the lobby, I come to an abrupt stop. The ghosts are obviously just getting warmed up. Pictures and portraits are beginning to spin on the walls. The light fixtures on the high ceilings are revolving. Objects are levitating from the tables dotted about the area.
“Oh, great,” I mutter as I stare at the smashed vase on the floor by the main desk, which was obviously the sound I heard. “Bertie.”
Suddenly, a high-pitched wailing starts up, followed by rattling chains, and it’s so loud I almost cover my ears. The lights start flashing on and off, and the door to the bar bangs open behind us.
I don’t need to look to know that the guests are piling into the lobby; I can hear their collective gasps and exclamations.
“Bertie is going to be in so much trouble with Stanley the Bureau Guy,” I whisper to Morgan.
“Where are they?” Morgan scowls. “I don’t see them.”
“Probably because they were specifically told not to show themselves to the living,” I explain.
“Boo,” a voice whispers in my ear and I jump, pressing my hand to my chest as my heartbeat kicks up. “Bertie! You scared me!”
“That’s the whole point, lad,” she sniggers, appearing in my eye line.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Ah, well, Artie was feeling a little down, so we thought this might cheer him up a bit.” She points to the ceiling where Artie is happily sitting on the huge medieval-looking chandelier, his scrawny legs dangling as he clutches onto the ceiling light’s chains and uses it like a swing set.
“Artie! Get down from there!” Morgan whisper-hisses.
“No,” he says belligerently.
“Bertie, do you want to get in trouble with Stanley the Bureau Guy?” I say under my breath, hoping none of the guests can hear me.
“No, it’s all right. We have a list of things we’re allowed to do—moping, weeping, wailing, moving things about, that sort of thing.”
I eye Leona as she appears in the middle of the floor. She’s twirling and waltzing around the room, holding up a small bronze art deco statuette. Meanwhile, Rear Admiral Hilary spins the portraits on the walls like he’s a street performer and they’re plates on sticks.
Lady Violet stands at the top of the first small flight of stairs before it splits and curves to each side. She’s holding her ear trumpet in her fist and giving her best impression of an opera singer.
At least now I know where the wailing is coming from.
Skid is now shoving the sofa across the room, the feet of it scraping loudly against the flagstone floor and dragging one of the rugs along for the ride. Edwina seems to have found a large bag of sugar from somewhere and is scooping it out with one hand and flinging it about like confetti.
Which even for Edwina is a bit random. I wince as she tosses it about enthusiastically. Aggie is not going to be happy about that.
Even PC Armitage has made an appearance. I haven’t seen him in the house in a while; he’s usually skulking around outside near the lane where he was run over by a tractor. Now he’s stomping up and down the stairs, blowing his shrill whistle.
It’s making my head hurt.
“Bertie,” I whisper again, “you’re going to get in trouble. Everyone can see you!”
I look around and see the Sch?fers standing with their mouths open and their phones held up, presumably in an attempt to record this supernatural phenomena. I haven’t the heart to tell them it probably won’t come out as more that a bunch of light flares and static. After all, the Bureau are very strict about no photographic evidence of the afterlife.
Mr and Mrs Taylor-Jones stand in the middle of the room wide-eyed and clutching each other in shock.
“No, it’s all right, lad,” Bertie booms. “They can’t see us. Stanley was most insistent about that. We’re only appearing to those of you who’ve already had the pleasure.”
Although Mr Clutterbuck and Cedric are nowhere to be seen, Essie and Martha are in the doorway and watching the proceedings with amused expressions.
“I have to hand it to you, Ellis.” Warren strolls up to me and Morgan with a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a cookie in the other. “You really have gone all in on the haunting theme.”
He takes a bite of his cookie and chews slowly as he watches the statuette float past him, clearly unable to see Leona holding it above her head like a trophy. “Is that on a wire?” His eyes narrow as he studies it, looking for some clue as to how we’ve managed to pull it off. “A hologram?”
“Warren, this place doesn’t even have an elevator or a decent office chair. What makes you think we could afford hidden holographic projectors?”
“I did wonder.” He hums as he stuffs the remainder of the cookie in his mouth. “Oh so good. Your cook is awesome. I can’t wait for dinner.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Morgan mutters as he continues to watch Artie worriedly. Which is sweet but unnecessary; it’s not like he can fall and hurt himself.
Warren swallows and sips his hot chocolate. “It’s not the first time someone has said that to me, but we were both naked at the time. Well, he was. I still had my socks on.”
There is a loud creaking from the corner of the staircase where it seems Sir Devron Penhalen has decided to join in. His suit of armour is now moving, its head twisting in slow circles, its arms lifting up and down.
“Oh, a mechanical suit of armour.” Warren wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “It’s a bit obvious, isn’t it? Didn’t anyone tell you guys less is more? I mean, if you’re going to fake a haunting, you want to be a bit more subtle.”
Suddenly, the metal helmet falls off like it’s been unscrewed and rolls across the floor. The suit of armour steps off its plinth and starts marching towards its runaway head.
“How is it doing that?” Warren mutters, setting his mug down on a console table as it slides past. “Is it remote-controlled?”
He stalks off towards Sir Devron, obviously determined to figure out how he works.
“Oh my god, y’all are never gonna believe this.” Haruto glides past us, talking into his phone screen, with Amelia following him closely and looking utterly bemused by what’s going on. “We’re at the Ashton-Drake in Yorkshire, links in the comment section. I’m here with my new friend Amelia. Say hi, Amelia!” He angles the screen towards her as she looks over his shoulder, giving a shy wave before he pulls the screen back to him. “We came here because it was reportedly haunted. Check this out!” He flips the screen and holds his phone up to capture the chaos.
I sigh. “We’re going to be in so much trouble with the Bureau.”
“Artie!” Morgan yells again. “Get down!”
“No!” he yells back. No wonder they were such good friends when they were kids. They’re both incredibly stubborn.
Artie climbs to his feet, balancing on the metal edge of the chandelier, and, still gripping the chains, starts to swing faster. Then he lifts one foot and starts kicking off the faux candles mounted on its circumference.
“Son of a–” Morgan rubs his forehead as one hits him. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
“Ow!” Warren yells loudly above the din. We turn back to him. “Lady! Stop hitting me!”
Warren has got hold of Sir Devron’s armoured leg, holding it in place while Sir Devron hops on the other, his helmet tucked under one arm. Martha has grabbed one of the umbrellas from the nearby holder and is smacking Warren over the head.
“Let go of Sir Devron!” she orders him, then hits him with the brolly again.
“Ow! Will you stop!” Warren grabs one end of the umbrella right when she starts to swing it upward for another blow. They’re now in a kind of strange three-way tug of war with Warren in the middle, still clutching Sir Devron’s leg and fighting off the old lady.
“Oh my god,” I mutter. At the sound of the front doors opening, I spin around.
The fire extinguishers on either side of the entrance erupt, obscuring the view with dry powder.
We all freeze, even the ghosts, and stare at the cloud of fire retardant, which looks like smoke. Suddenly, a figure comes striding through, and I swear to god, he looks like he’s walking in slow motion. He’s tall, well over six feet. His boots are well-worn, his jeans faded and clinging to his shapely legs and thick thighs. An unbuttoned navy blue peacoat reveals a dark sweater that clings to his ripped torso like a second skin.
I’ve never seen such a perfect face, either. He’s like a model, somehow managing to be both beautiful and rugged, with high cheekbones, a full, pouty mouth, and the barest hint of a stubble.
I stand mesmerised, my mouth hanging open as he tosses his head, his silky shoulder-length blonde hair flying back as if caught in an unseen wind.
“My goodness, is he walking in slow motion?” I barely register Bertie’s voice next to me. “I don’t do chaps myself, but… my goodness,” she repeats.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the umbrella Warren has finally wrestled from Martha shooting open. I tear my gaze away from the stranger just in time to see Warren staring at him and clutching both the open umbrella and Sir Devron’s leg. His eyes are wide, his mouth lax.
“OH MY GOD!” Haruto’s voice suddenly breaks the détente. The stranger looks over and smiles. “Do you know who that is?” He bounces up and down excitedly, lifting his phone and aiming it in the stranger’s direction.
“That’s Deuce Dalton… The Ghost Hunter !”