Sleeping With the Dead, page 10
part #8 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
“No, twelve.”
“Goodness! This place is haunted! Something very awful must have happened here. Is your room all right?”
“Oh yes,” said Bernard. “That’s why I didn’t believe him at first. But someone else told me he stays in there especially to feel the ghost’s presence.”
“Really? Some sort of masochist, is he?”
“Not exactly. He’s the husband of the ghost and he comes every year to feel her near him. It’s a very sad story.”
“Oh dear, the poor man. I wonder what’s gone on here? I mean, the landlady herself is enough to give you the heebie jeebies before you even start.” She gave a nervous laugh.
Bernard was inclined to agree with her, although he supposed the woman couldn’t help her scar. Although he had experienced no actual psychic phenomena, the whole place was beginning to give him the creeps. He had been slow to react, but now he was sure.
“Shall we go for a walk?” he suggested.
“That would be nice,” said Celia, as Bernard rose and stood behind her chair.
They walked out into the sunshine, and turned their steps towards the Blackpool seafront, avoiding a tram by inches as it came up behind them, jangling its friendly bell.
“I’ll just see if my friend wants to join us,” said Bernard, taking Celia gently by the elbow, allowing the tram to pass.
“By all means,” said Celia.
They crossed over the road towards the grand frontage of the Imperial hotel and entered the palatial reception area, staring around them in awe.
“A step up from the Sunnyside, eh?” said Bernard with a sardonic smile.
“My, oh my,” said Celia. “How lovely. I wish I could afford to stay in a place like this. Your friend must be very rich.”
Bernard sniffed. “Not at all. He’s just an ordinary GP. He’s staying in the same room as another friend – acquaintance, I should say.”
“Why didn’t you come and stay here too?”
Again Bernard sniffed. “Wasn’t invited, was I? Anyway, it’s a bit of a long story. Let’s see if he’s here. I suppose he may have gone out by now. It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
As he said this, he saw Robbie and Oliver issue from the lift. Robbie looked very handsome, with his light tan and open-necked shirt. A woman emerged from the lift at the same time, and Bernard saw that she was smiling at Robbie. As usual, his friend had lost no opportunity in ingratiating himself with a likely female. This time it seemed his flirting technique hadn’t fallen on stony ground.
“Hello, Robbie, Oliver,” said Bernard, advancing towards the pair. Robbie stared straight past his friend at the beautiful woman behind him.
Oliver smiled at Bernard and shook his hand. “Nice to see you, Bernard,” he said. “Shall we all spend the day together? Nigel has a headache and is staying in bed this morning. Too much sun yesterday, I reckon.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Bernard, not at all sure if the headache was caused just by the sun. It wasn’t unknown for Nigel Soames to take a little too much wine on occasion. “Wish him better. In the meantime, shall we find ourselves a nice spot on the beach to relax?” said Bernard, relieved they were not to have the dubious pleasure of Nigel’s company that morning.
“Is your charming friend coming with us, old boy?” said Robbie, taking Bernard to one side. “I’m waiting for an introduction.”
“Oh, sorry, yes, of course. Let me introduce Celia Pargeter. Celia, these are my friends, Robbie MacTavish and Oliver Johnson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, shaking them by the hand. Robbie held hers just a little too long. Bernard, knowing his friend of old, was surprised he hadn’t thought of the effect the lovely Celia would have on his red-blooded friend.
“We all need to have a chat,” said Bernard, gently tugging at Robbie’s sleeve to alert him that he was overdoing the introductions. “There’s a real problem at the Sunnyside Guest House.”
Robbie returned his gaze slowly to Bernard. He loved his friend dearly, but his face was nowhere near as lovely as Celia’s. He could have stared at her all day.
“At last,” he said, “You’ve seen the light.”
“Better late than never, eh?” smiled Bernard. “Shall we all take a stroll?”
Commandeering four deck chairs a few minutes later, Bernard and his friends began to soak up the sun, which wasn’t quite as strong as on previous days. There was an ominous black cloud on the distant horizon that seemed to be getting steadily nearer. The sea, which had been dead calm for many days was looking decidedly choppy now.
Robbie had managed to seat his deck chair close to Celia’s, knocking into Bernard’s as he did so. “Move over, old chap,” he said. “Let the dog see the rabbit.”
Celia grinned to herself. Who was this old fool, she wondered. He was making a complete spectacle of himself. She much preferred Bernard, and even the spotty curate was more agreeable than Robbie. She had to admit that the doctor was the most handsome of the trio, but there was something about his obsequious manner towards her that irritated her. He would be fine if he stopped trying so hard, she thought.
When they were all settled, Bernard opened the conversation. “As I said earlier, I think there is something very wrong with the Sunnyside. First you, Robbie, told me about your sleepless night. Then you, Oliver, had that dreadful experience. And now, you, Celia, had the same experience as Oliver – “
Oliver Johnson interrupted. “Are you in room eight then, Miss Pargeter?”
“Yes, that’s right. And it’s Celia, please.”
Oliver blushed and looked down at his feet to hide his confusion. He, like Robbie, was very taken with her, although he would never have had the temerity to show it.
“Celia,” he said quietly, savouring the sound of her pretty name.
“So, what we have here,” continued Bernard, beginning to sound like Hercule Poirot summing up a difficult case, “is a haunting – possibly two hauntings by two separate ghosts. Would you all agree?”
They all concurred. It was pretty obvious, really.
“I think what we need now is a professional medium,” Bernard continued.
“And where do we find one of those?” asked Celia, amused.
“Oh I know one or two,” he replied with a grin.
“What a good idea. D’you think we can get Dorothy to leave her father and come and stay here?” said Robbie eagerly.
Robbie was speaking of his and Bernard’s good friend, and professional medium, Dorothy Plunkett.
“I was thinking more of old Anbolin,” said Bernard with a grin. He knew very well that Robbie was keen on Dorothy. “I think Dorothy won’t want to leave her father for too long.”
“Anbolin it is then,” said Robbie, not really so disappointed. After all, he now had his eye on Celia, who was an absolute stunner. This holiday was turning out to be really interesting now, what with his stay at a posh hotel, some lively ghosts and, the icing on the cake, a beautiful woman. A heady mix, indeed.
Anbolin Amery-Judge was an old medium friend of Dorothy’s who had helped to sort out the mystery of twin ghosts who had materialised in a garden shed in Tooting the year before. In the end, she had failed to completely unravel all the mystery; in fact it was Nigel Soames who had done that, completely inadvertently, and much against his better judgment. The pragmatic vicar had been more shocked than anyone at his ability to commune with the dead.
Anbolin was like a breath of fresh air. Bernard remembered how she hadn’t been afraid to speak her mind and knit her way through problems. A sort of Miss Marple, only with psychic powers. He remembered, too, how she loved her food. When she had stayed at the vicarage last year, he recalled Mrs Harper’s exasperation as she consumed her way through the larder. He had been exasperated too, particularly as the old lady sometimes managed to eat food that his housekeeper had made especially for him. But, for all that, he liked her very much and was looking forward to seeing her again.
As soon as he got back to the Sunnyside later that afternoon, he requested some writing materials from Ivy and dashed off a letter to her there and then. Quite like old times, he thought as he folded up the letter and put it in the envelope.
August 1920: Blackpool
Inspector Clive Drum returned to the Sunnyside Guest House on a hot late August afternoon, his heart sinking. A feeling of déjà vu was creeping over him as he approached the reception desk. It was more or less the same time last year that he had been summoned to this very same place to investigate the disappearance of a new bride. Today it was another disappearance; and another young woman.
Although the young woman in question was unmarried, and a few years younger, everything else pointed to the same modus operandi as before. Someone, among the Sunnyside guests, was abducting young women, and he, Clive Drum, was determined to find out who. He was already regretting dismissing that nice young soldier chap, telling him to face up to the fact that his wife obviously preferred someone else. Now it looked like Captain Forwood had been right, after all. His wife hadn’t run away. Something had happened to her, and the police hadn’t lifted a finger to find out what.
With both determination and anxiety fighting inside him, he addressed the hideous face of Mrs Ivy Conway. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said quietly, looking around him. A boarding house such as this didn’t need any adverse publicity, and he wasn’t going to advertise to all and sundry that he was a policeman investigating some dark doings within its walls. It was certainly fortunate that no one usually suspected him of being a police inspector anyway. His scruffy clothes and general air of neglect was enough to put people off the scent. Most people, when they first saw him, thought he was probably some sort of door-to-door salesman who hadn’t sold anything for several weeks, even months. Ivy remembered him from the year before, and was grateful for his discretion, even though his lack of sartorial elegance tended to lower the tone of her establishment.
“Hello, inspector,” she said. “Won’t you come this way?” The sooner he was out of sight of the guests, the better, she thought.
He followed her into her tiny office and squeezed himself into one of the small chairs Ivy indicated. She sat down in the other one. Their noses practically touched.
“So,” said Clive Drum, taking his notebook out of his pocket, and licking the tip of his pencil. “Can you furnish me with the facts, please? What exactly has happened? A young lady has disappeared, you said.”
“That’s right, inspector. Her name is Mary Elphinstone. She’s only eighteen, and her parents are distraught.”
“When was she last seen?”
“According to her father, she was seen on the arm of one of the guests. He was supposed to have taken her to a music hall.”
“Music hall?”
“Yes, the Winter Gardens, I think. To see some comedian or other.”
“Dan Leno?”
Ivy shrugged. “Could have been.”
Clive Drum noted it down. “So, did you see them return from the music hall?”
“No. I wasn’t on the reception desk last night.”
“So, you’re saying that nobody saw them return?”
“As far as I’m aware. Oh no, I tell a lie – Johnny, my porter, he was on duty. He may have seen them. I haven’t asked him. I just called you when Mr Elphinstone came to me this morning with the news that his daughter wasn’t in her room and her bed hadn’t been slept in.”
Clive Drum studied Ivy’s face. Ignoring the scar, he could see she was nervous. Was there something she wasn’t telling him?
“Can you give me the name of the man who escorted Mary Elphinstone to the music hall?”
“Yes. He’s an American. Full of himself, if you ask me. Always throwing his money around. Thinks he’s Lord Rothschild.”
“His name, please?” Clive sighed. Why must people always give him their stupid opinions? He, as he usually had to point out, would make up his own mind about someone without help from anyone else.
“Smallpurse. Stupid name. Elmer Smallpurse.”
“Thank you, Mrs Conway. Now, may I see this Johnny of yours?”
Johnny Tapperstall was very upset. What could have become of Mary? She was so pretty especially when she smiled at him. Who would hurt her? Now the police were here, and Ivy had told him the inspector wanted to ask him some questions. Never in all his short life had such a thing happened to him. His poor mother would be so ashamed to think of her son being interrogated by the police. She couldn’t abide coppers, as she was always telling him. Wouldn’t trust any single one of them as far as she could throw them.
However, Inspector Clive Drum seemed like a nice enough man to Johnny. A bit scruffy, but he had a nice face and friendly greenish-blue eyes. Not at all intimidating.
“Come and sit down beside me,” said Clive kindly, noticing the boy was very nervous. He was sitting in the lounge, on his own. Any guests loitering about had been asked to leave for a while so that the inspector could interview people discreetly. Luckily, there had only been two guests to remove, and they were about to go out into the sunshine anyway.
Johnny came and sat on the sofa, as far from the inspector as that item of furniture would allow.
“I won’t bite, you know,” smiled Clive. He had taken an instant liking to the young lad. As honest as the day was long, if he was any judge.
Johnny relaxed a little, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.
“Now, young man, Johnny, isn’t it?”
“Th-that’s right, sir.”
“And your surname, Johnny?”
“Ta-Tapperstall.”
“Ta-Tapperstall or just Tapperstall?” Clive gave him a wink.
“Sorry. Tapperstall. I’m a bit nervous.”
“No need to be – unless, of course, you’ve murdered poor Mary and carved her body up and put it in a trunk bound for London.”
“Oh, no! I ’aven’t done any such thing!” protested poor Johnny.
“Don’t worry, just my little joke.”
The inspector’s warped sense of humour was lost on Johnny. How could he think he’d carve up a lovely young girl like that and put her in a trunk?
Clive doodled on his pad, waiting for the young man to calm down a little. He had misjudged his remark, and wished he hadn’t made such a tasteless joke at the poor lad’s expense.
“Right, Johnny. Shall we continue?”
Johnny was calmer now, but still very angry with the inspector. “Suppose so…”
“Good. Now, I understand from Mrs Conway that you were on duty yesterday evening. Is that right?”
“Y-yes. Until eleven-thirty.”
“Did you see Mary Elphinstone return from the music hall with this Mr Smallpurse?”
“Yes, I did. About quarter to eleven they came in. They asked me for coffee.”
“And you brought them some?”
“Of course. They drank it here – in the lounge.”
“Then what?”
“Th-then Mr Smallpurse escorted her up the stairs.”
“Did you see him leave her at her room?”
Johnny thought for a moment. He couldn’t, in all honesty, say that he had. He saw them turn the corner at the top of the stairs and then vanish from sight. He had no reason to follow them up the stairs, had he? He said as much to Clive Drum.
“I see. So, as far as you were aware, they both went up to their respective rooms to retire for the night?”
“Yes. Er, no.”
“Well – which is it – yes or no?”
“No. You see, Mr Smallpurse took her up to her room, but he came down a few minutes after to finish his coffee. He hung around a bit longer. Not tired, I suppose. Seemed a bit excited. Happy, like. I thought he looked as if he’d had a good time.”
Clive smiled to himself. No doubt he had. “But as far as you’re concerned, Johnny, when Mr Smallpurse took her up to her room last night, that was the last you saw of Mary Elphinstone?”
“Yes, it was.”
So, thought the inspector, it seemed like the last person to see Mary alive was this yank with the barmy name of ‘Smallpurse’. But, according to Johnny, he had returned to the lounge just after seeing her to her room. That wouldn’t have given him much time to kill her, let alone dispose of her body. Always assuming that’s what had happened to her, of course.
August 1957: Blackpool
Bernard had dashed off his letter to Anbolin without thinking twice about it. Anbolin Amery-Judge, experienced psychic medium and prolific knitter, was needed immediately. Some awful things had happened at Sunnyside, and at least two of its rooms were haunted. The dear old soul was just the person most needed now. She would get to get to the bottom of these mysteries, he felt sure.
He drummed his fingers on the reception desk, while Ivy fetched him a stamp from the office. Handing over his threepence, a thought suddenly struck him. Where was Anbolin going to stay?
“Er, Mrs Conway, I – I’ve asked a friend to come and stay here for a while. Do you have any vacancies?”
“Vacancies? At this time of the year? You’ll be lucky,” grumbled Ivy. “When would your friend be coming?”
“Well – soon. In a couple of days, I should think – all being well.”
Ivy studied the register. “Well – as luck would have it, there is a vacancy coming up. The people who were due to take it have just phoned to cancel. Room fourteen should be free from Sunday.”
“Wonderful!” said Bernard, relieved. Then another thought struck him. He and Robbie were due to leave on the Friday after. Would that give them enough time to solve the mystery? He couldn’t leave before that.
“Er, if I wanted to stay another week – would that be at all possible?”
Ivy studied the register again. “Hmm,” she said, flicking through the pages. “It’s going to be busy, but most of the schools go back next week, so I’m not completely full. You can move into room nine if you like. Or, I suppose I can swap you with the new guest so that you can stay where you are.”
“That will be fine, Mrs Conway. Book me in for another week.”
