Bernard stood up and ushered her to a seat amongst them. There was a flurry of movement as everybody adjusted their seats to make room for her. “Allow me to introduce you to Miss Anbolin Amery-Judge. She’s a professional medium, and I asked her to come here to help us all solve the mystery of these haunted rooms.

  Anbolin started knitting and nodded at them all as she did so. “Any chance of something to eat?” was all she said, however.

  June was called over once more and an order for biscuits, cakes and sandwiches taken. Bernard secretly hoped she would let him share some of her food, but he rather doubted it. He had heard people’s appetites described as ‘gargantuan’ before; in fact his appetite had been described as such by Robbie on more than one occasion. But Anbolin’s appetite needed a whole new word. Maybe two, even.

  When Anbolin was satisfied with her repast, she stopped knitting for a moment and looked at the individuals gathered around her. Then she made a pronouncement. “There doesn’t seem to be anything amiss here,” she said. It was like a thunderbolt to them all.

  “N-nothing amiss? Nothing at all?” asked Bernard, carefully removing an Eccles cake from Anbolin’s plate while she concentrated on a dropped stitch.

  “No, young man,” she said, watching the cake disappear into Bernard’s mouth. “Nothing at all. My room is as clean as a whistle. Not a ghost to be had. Not even for ready money,” she said, grinning, pleased with her Oscar Wilde quote.

  “B-but, these hauntings that have been happening,” said Bernard. “Celia said there was a woman with her throat cut in her room. And Oliver experienced the same thing. Didn’t you?” He looked over at the young curate for confirmation.

  “That’s right, Miss,” said Oliver, addressing Anbolin deferentially. “She was bleeding all over the carpet. But when she was gone there was no stain.”

  Celia nodded vigorously in agreement. “That’s right – no stain at all. But I saw her plain as day, just like Oliver did.”

  “Well, she wasn’t in my room last night,” sniffed Anbolin. After all, she was a professional medium, so she should know.

  “Maybe you should stay with me in my room tonight,” said Celia. “I think she only appears there. Anyway, I’d be glad of the company.” That was certainly true. Another night watching that woman materialising and exposing her severed throat didn’t bear thinking about. “And – and I’m sure you’ll see her then.”

  “Very well, child,” said Anbolin. “I will, of course, stay in your room. Then I will need to stay in your room too, Colonel,” she said with a wink. Quite a handsome man in his way, she thought, giving him an appraising look. Somewhere about her own age, too.

  Colonel Forwood coughed and almost choked on the last of his coffee. “Madam, really. I don’t think that would be very proper – “

  “Fiddlesticks!” declared Anbolin. “You needn’t fear I’m after your body, you know.”

  Robbie laughed now. “I think, Colonel, maybe one of us chaps should be there too. How about you, John? Then you can look after each other. If this old lady gets fresh, I’m sure between the two of you you’ll be able to cope.”

  Everyone laughed. The Colonel blushed. He was secretly annoyed that the assembled company seemed to think that sharing his bedroom with a woman was amusing. But he supposed it was the nineteen-fifties, and morals had changed, not for the better, in his opinion. In his young day such an outrageous suggestion would have been treated with the contempt it deserved. No one would have laughed then.

  “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “It – it is necessary for you to see for yourself, I suppose. Tapperstall, you must join me, of course.”

  John, who didn’t relish the idea, could see he had no choice but to agree. It wasn’t the room that Mary had occupied, but he supposed that wouldn’t really matter. The two mysteries were connected, he felt sure, and maybe this strange old biddy could get to the bottom of them, even though it seemed very unlikely to him.

  Anbolin swallowed another sandwich. “That’s settled then. I mean, I’ve been called in to help, and I can’t very well do that if you won’t let me into your room. If, as you say, it is haunted.” There was a note of scepticism in her voice.

  “Madam, I can assure you –” spluttered the colonel.

  “All right, all right. No need to get out of your pram. We’re all agreed. But tonight, I’m with you, Celia ducks.”

  Celia smiled at her. She was already quite fond of Anbolin, who seemed to have no qualms in addressing the colonel in such an offhand manner. The old girl didn’t seem in the least intimidated by his military stand-offishness. He obviously wasn’t used to such disrespect and didn’t know how to handle it.

  John Tapperstall, aware of the colonel’s embarrassment and feeling rather sorry for him, turned to Celia at this point. “Tell me, Miss Pargeter –” he began.

  “Celia, please.”

  “Er, Celia.” John was lost. What a lovely woman, he thought. If only he was a few years younger. Well, ten – twenty, anyway. “Can you describe this woman you’ve seen?”

  “Hmm, describe her? Let’s see. Well, she’s very young – not more than twenty, I’d say. Dressed in clothes that went out of date thirty or forty years ago. But very smart – well, until the blood, of course.”

  She stopped.

  “Go on,” said John.

  “Sorry, I hope I’m not upsetting you all too much.”

  Bernard spoke up for everyone. “No, dear. Please continue.”

  “Well, she was very pretty. Thick brown hair piled high on her head. Er – I don’t think I can say much more. Just that she was exceptionally pretty. And young. Do you agree, Oliver?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Sounds like the woman I saw.”

  John had to admit it sounded like Mary Elphinstone, although such a vague description could have fitted any number of young, pretty brunettes.

  “Anyway, we’ll hopefully know more after Miss Anbolin has investigated, shan’t we?” said John. “We’re all here to find out the truth, I guess. Leastways that’s why me and the colonel are here.” He looked at the old man who now had had time to recover from Anbolin’s barbs.

  Robbie, who had been quiet up to now, tutted. “Well, you two may be here for that reason. Me and Bernie here just came to Blackpool for a quiet holiday. And –” He paused, and looked at Celia.

  “Yes, like you, Robbie, I’m here on holiday,” she said. “But I want to get to the bottom of the mystery just as much as you, colonel – and you, John. After what I experienced, I think I deserve to know the meaning of it.”

  “Exactly,” said Robbie. “I had a disturbed night too. We all of us, in one way or another, have an interest in discovering the truth.”

  Bernard interrupted at this point. “All except me, of course. I’m the only one who didn’t experience anything. But I’m just as keen to get to the bottom of it as you all.”

  “That’s good to hear, Bernie,” said Robbie with a grin. “So that’s settled then. Celia will share her room with Anbolin tonight, and the colonel will share his room with her tomorrow night – kindly chaperoned by John, of course.”

  The arrangements made, the party broke up. If all went according to plan, Anbolin would experience for herself the hauntings in rooms eight and twelve on consecutive nights. Until then, they had nothing to do but wait.

  August 1946: Blackpool

  Elmer Smallpurse stood in reception, waiting to be attended to. Ivy Conway had no trouble in recognising the red wig and prominent paunch, which was even more prominent than when she had last seen it. Even though it had been well over twenty years, there was no mistaking him: his form and features were indelibly etched in her brain. He had left under a cloud of suspicion, taking with him her young porter and the curses of the Blackpool constabulary. Ivy hadn’t believed Elmer had abducted Mary, even if the police and her parents had. She did, however, believe he had abducted Johnny; for what purpose she could only surmise. She hoped, for the boy’s sake, his intentions had been more or less honourable. She certainly hadn’t expected him to pay a return visit. Still, she thought, it had been a long time.

  Ivy watched him as he stood there patiently, looking at the views of Blackpool hanging on the walls. He strolled from picture to picture, seemingly enthralled by the various aspects of the Tower and the Golden Mile. Finally, he turned his bulk towards the reception desk and Ivy Conway.

  “Well,” she said, before he could speak. “Fancy you turning up again.”

  “Yeah, ma’am, just fancy. Like, what d’you say over here, like a bad penny?”

  “You said it, not me,” said Ivy, looking down at her register. “Do you require a room?”

  “Yeah, I do, and I’m booked in too.”

  Ivy scanned the names in the register, although she already knew his name wasn’t amongst them. A name like ‘Elmer Smallpurse’ wasn’t easy to overlook.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you but, according to the register, you don’t have a booking,” she said with satisfaction, giving him a smile that expanded her scar unbecomingly along her cheek and top lip. “And we’re fully booked. It’s the height of the holiday season if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Ah, yeah, but I booked in under another name,” said Elmer, not in the least perturbed. “I thought you might remember little ol’ me and I wasn’t sure you’d take it kindly if I was to come back. I guess we parted under strange circumstances.”

  “What is it you say over there? You’re darn tootin’ we did.” Ivy was very pleased with herself. Hoisted with his own petard.

  “I take it, ma’am, you’ve no objection to my money, whatever name I choose to go by?”

  “I don’t suppose so. What name did you book under, then?”

  “James Smith. Nice and simple.”

  Ivy studied the register. He was right. There was a James Smith indelibly etched there. Beside it were the words ‘room eight’ and they were underlined. She didn’t recall taking the booking, and she would certainly not have allocated room eight. She had told the staff time and again that rooms eight and twelve were never to be let to guests, at least not without checking with her first. She would have a few words to say to whoever was responsible.

  “I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” she said smugly, snapping the register shut.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? How so?”

  “One of my staff erroneously booked you into room eight. That room is never used, so I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. You may be lucky at the Rest Easy two doors along. They always seem to have vacancies.”

  “But I booked that room, especially,” said Elmer unperturbed. “I told the man when I called I wanted that room – no other room would do.”

  And Ivy knew why. Elmer was on the trail of the missing Mary. It was the room she had stayed in. He was welcome to the room, if that was what he wanted. On his own very bald head be it. That stupid wig wasn’t fooling anybody.

  “I see,” she said. “So you want that particular room, do you? Are you aware that there have been complaints about it? That’s why I don’t open it to the public anymore.”

  “What sort of complaints?”

  Ivy shrugged. “Oh, something about the atmosphere not being quite right. People having bad dreams in there. That sort of thing.”

  “No matter. I want that room.”

  “Very well. If you insist. I will ask one of the chambermaids to get it ready for you.”

  One of the chambermaids? Elmer smiled to himself. Who did she think she was kidding? She only had the one. Well she did when he stayed before. Maybe she had expanded her empire since then, although it didn’t look much like it to him. The place looked just the same as it had over a quarter of a century ago, if a bit more run down. Pleasant enough, he granted, but not a thriving concern he could take a bet on it.

  “Would you mind signing the register?” said Ivy, passing the book to him.

  He took out his Mont Blanc fountain pen and unscrewed the top with a flourish.

  “What name are you putting?” asked Ivy, watching him write.

  “My own, ma’am. You can cross out ‘James Smith’. He couldn’t make it.”

  Ivy sat at the desk, thinking furiously. Her first instinct was to call the police. They had long given up the chase, of course, so what would be the point? Life was complicated enough. Besides, you knew in her heart of hearts that Elmer wasn’t responsible for what happened to Mary. He was an unprepossessing individual, but he wasn’t as black as some people wanted to paint him. Secretly she felt a sort of kinship with him: they were both nature’s unfortunates. No person of the opposite sex would ever look twice at either of them.

  So he was returning to the room that Mary Elphinstone had occupied, she knew that. It was the same with the old colonel. Some people might think they were criminals returning to the scenes of their crimes. No, she couldn’t lay the fate of Mary Elphinstone at Elmer’s door. It was laughable. And she exempted the colonel of all blame. They were just two stupid men in love with women who didn’t deserve such devotion. But, whatever the reason for his return visit, here was Elmer Smallpurse apparently prepared to unsettle the dust.

  Why rake it all up again? It wouldn’t do her business good, for one thing. Had Elmer some theory of his own? Some cast iron reason for returning now? Still, she reasoned, what could he find out? Very well, let him stay. Let him try and shake things up, if that was what he wanted, and see how far it would get him.

  If Ivy wasn’t sure what Elmer hoped to find in room eight, he was even less sure. He had left Mary Elphinstone at the door of this very room over a quarter of a century ago. It was a year after the First World War had ended, and now here he was again, a year after the Second World War had ended. There wasn’t any real significance in that, but it seemed somehow fortuitous. He still remembered with a warm glow how she had pecked him on the cheek in gratitude for a lovely evening. He couldn’t even remember what they had seen that night. It was some comedian at the Winter Gardens, and he remembered laughing a lot. But it was only because he was happy that she was sitting beside him in the theatre; the man on the stage could have been talking Swahili for all he knew or cared. She had been all smiles and laughing too. He didn’t flatter himself her enjoyment was for the same reason as his own. She had obviously found the comedian funny, but that didn’t matter. She was there, with him at that moment in time. He had floated on a cloud when she had kissed him goodnight. It was pointless going to his room after that; he knew he wouldn’t get to sleep, he was much too excited.

  And now he was back. She wasn’t there, smiling and laughing, like before. There would certainly be no kisses. So what exactly did he hope for now? Surely it was time to let the past go? John had told him often enough. But he knew in his bones that his life was drawing to its end, and that this would be the second and last time he would be here. Maybe it was just to feel her presence once again. He had never told anyone about his plans for Mary: those plans had included a proposal of marriage, which he had been going to make to her on the very morning of her disappearance. He suspected that John knew this, but it had remained unspoken between them all these years.

  It would have been better not to have known the truth, after all. As he climbed into bed and switched off the bedside lamp that night, she was there, standing by the curtains. Complete silence suffocated him as she slowly materialised before his eyes. He should have been happy to see her again, but he was too scared. She shouldn’t be there, looking like that. She would be a woman in her early forties by now, but she was just as he had remembered her, and it terrified him. She was so beautiful, so fresh and young. She even gave him the same smile, the memory of which he had treasured all his life.

  But even as he watched, her smile faded and her hand went to her delicate white throat. Then he saw the blood start to dribble through her fingers, slowly at first, then it turned into a torrent. It was horrible. He couldn’t bear it. He hid his head under the blankets. Poor, poor Mary. Somebody had cut her throat!

  He slowly lowered the blankets after a few minutes and, to his relief, she had gone. He reached out his hand towards the place where she had stood and softly called her name. No, she had definitely gone. He got slowly out of bed and walked over to the window. He knelt down and studied the carpet. Old Ivy would cause a row tomorrow morning when she saw the blood. She would blame him somehow. Accuse him of cutting himself shaving, he shouldn’t wonder. But there was no stain, no stain at all.

  He sat down on the bed and scratched his head. The red wig was on the stand on the bedside table, so he was able to have a really good scratch. It was often too hot and sweaty under his toupee, especially in the hot weather.

  How could anyone do that to her? She had been brutally murdered here in this very room, and no one had known anything about it. All traces of her had vanished. Someone had done a good job of that. He sat there, on the edge of the bed, tears pouring down his fat face. He flopped back against the pillows sobbing his heart out.

  As his tears subsided, the dawn was just breaking outside the curtained window. He would never have believed he had enough tears inside him to last all night. But he knew what he had to do. He would devote every waking moment to finding out who killed her and bringing him to justice. But he also made another vow at the same time. Whatever happened, he would never speak of what he had witnessed in room eight to a living soul.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Anbolin giggled as she searched in her toiletry bag for her toothbrush. Celia was puzzled at the apparent good humour of the old lady, especially as, during her short acquaintance, she had come across as a bit of a crosspatch, if a loveable one. But she could see that something was tickling her fancy at the moment.

  “I hope you will be comfortable in my bed, Anbolin,” said Celia. “I’ll be happy over here on the couch.”

  “Thank you, dear,” the old lady said, still grinning as she finally managed to find her toothbrush. “I shall be very comfortable here. Your bed is much more comfortable than the one in my room. I shall make a complaint.”

 

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