“You can swap with me altogether, if you like,” said Celia, just a little too eagerly. The thought of another night alone in room eight held no appeal for her.

  “We’ll see, dear, we’ll see.” She started giggling again.

  “What’s amusing you so much?” Celia could contain her curiosity no longer.

  “That doctor chappie – he’s a bit of a ladies’ man, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I would say that was very true. But why is that so funny? He doesn’t amuse me. He’s too smarmy by half. Thinks he’s God’s gift.”

  “You are very lovely, my dear,” said Anbolin, studying her carefully. “Very lovely. You can’t blame him for giving you the glad eye.”

  “Maybe not, but he does that to every attractive female. That nice waitress, June, she told me he tried to make a pass at her on his first day here. She agrees with me that he’s a bit too much. Lays it on with a trowel, if you know what I mean.”

  Anbolin, being rather old now, and always a somewhat homely body even in her youth, had never experienced any man laying it on with a trowel where she was concerned. One man, the one who had proposed and then gone and got himself killed in the Great War, had called her ‘charming’ but that was about the best she ever got. Not that she minded all that much. Not anymore, anyway.

  “I suppose to you young things, he probably comes across as a bit of an old Lothario. But you must admit, dear, he’s a very handsome old Lothario. What you’d probably call an ‘eligible bachelor’. He’s not married, you know. He’s still looking for ‘Miss Right’.”

  “Leaving it a bit late, isn’t he? He must be well over forty.”

  “One foot in the grave,” laughed Anbolin.

  “Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, why are you laughing about him?”

  “Because, my child, he offered his protection to you and me tonight. He, would you believe, offered to sleep in here with us. Purely as protection, he stressed.” She burst out laughing again.

  Celia stared at her open-mouthed. “The cheek of it!” she said. “What does he take us for?”

  “Exactly, my dear girl. I told him straight. We didn’t need his protection and we didn’t just come up the Thames on a banana boat either.”

  It was Celia’s turn to laugh now. “I bet he would even have offered to get in bed beside us if we had given him any encouragement. Purely to ensure we weren’t frightened, of course.”

  “You have to feel sorry for him,” said Celia, when she had stopped laughing. “He’s beginning to sound a bit desperate. I like his friend, though. The vicar. He’s nice. I don’t really understand why they’re friends. They’re so different.”

  “Sometimes it works like that,” observed Anbolin, as she unearthed a towel from her suitcase. Armed with that and the toothbrush, she moved to the door. “Be back in a minute. If the doc comes knocking, you know what to say!”

  When she returned a few minutes later her whole demeanour had changed. She was no longer laughing, or even smiling. She closed the door quickly and walked over to Celia who was wiping off her make-up, squinting into her handbag mirror.

  “Difficult to see properly in this little thing,” said Celia. “I wish this place provided such luxuries as dressing tables in their rooms.”

  “Never mind dressing tables, Celia, my love,” said Anbolin. “This room is evil. It’s in my very bones. I only noticed it just now. This is a very bad room. Something dreadful happened in here, you mark my words.”

  “That’s what I said,” said Celia, slapping some night cream on her face which made her look like a very pretty clown. “That woman I saw last night with her throat cut. She must have been murdered in here.” She shivered. “It makes my flesh crawl, just to think of it.”

  “I must admit I thought it was probably just a nightmare, my dear,” said Anbolin, looking extremely worried. “I felt nothing at all in my room. It was all perfectly normal. But this – this room is a different kettle of fish altogether. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so vile in all my career as a medium. The spirits come to me and they go. They play with me or try to get through to their loved ones using me as a channel. But this is something different. The spirit in here is trying to find someone to help it move on. It has been stuck here for many years and I don’t think it is going to be in my power to help. It has been too long. Unless I can get through, talk to it, I don’t know what I can do.”

  Anbolin was nearly crying. She suddenly felt impotent. Celia put her arm around the old woman’s shaking shoulders.

  “Calm yourself, dear,” she said softly. “Let’s wait and see if she materialises again tonight. You may be able to get through to her then – or, rather, she may be able to get through to you. With all your years of experience, I’m sure you’ll be better able to help her than anyone else.”

  “That may be,” said Anbolin, “but my psychic powers have been deserting me lately. Getting too old, that’s what it is.” Anbolin could see that Celia was about to protest, and she held up her hand to stop her. “No, dear, it’s true. I’m not as receptive as I once was. I can’t deny it. I think tonight is going to be a waste of time. And tomorrow, too. I should just go home. It’s wrong of me to raise everyone’s hopes. I can’t perform, and that’s a fact.”

  “You don’t know till you try. You’ve had successes in the past, haven’t you? Bernard wouldn’t have sent for you, if you hadn’t.”

  “That was because his friend Dorothy recommended me. I wasn’t really much help last time, either. He really needs Dorothy here.”

  Celia put her jar of Pond’s back in her make-up bag and stood up. “I’m going to have a bath, Anbolin,” she said slowly. “You just get settled. And try not to worry. I’m sure it won’t help the spirit to get through if you put up a barrier like this.”

  Anbolin climbed into bed and drew the covers up under her chin. She looked rather comical with just her eyes and nose poking out over the blanket.

  “Possibly,” said Anbolin. “You go and have your bath, dear. I’ll read for a while so don’t worry about waking me when you come back.”

  Celia soaked herself in the bath for as long as the water remained warm enough. She didn’t relish returning to the room, but then she couldn’t leave the poor old lady to deal with the ghost on her own. She wondered if what Anbolin had said was really true. Was she as impotent as she seemed to think? She hoped against hope that she was being pessimistic.

  Anbolin was sitting up in bed staring at the window when she returned. Celia followed her eyeline, but could see nothing.

  “W-what is it, Anbolin?” she whispered. “Are – are you all right?”

  “Shhh!” hissed the old woman. “Can’t you see her?”

  “N-no, not this time,” said Celia, almost relieved. Perhaps the ghost only appeared to one person at a time.

  “Don’t try to switch the light on,” said Anbolin, “it doesn’t work. I tried.”

  Celia was puzzled. “But the light’s on,” she said. Was the old woman going mad?

  The room looked completely normal, apart from Anbolin who looked as if she had seen a ghost. Celia revised this: she looked as if she was seeing a ghost.

  “I can’t hear myself speak,” said Anbolin next.

  “I can hear you very clearly. Tell me what you see, dear.”

  The old lady gave a cackly scream and buried her head under the bedclothes. Celia ran over to her and took her in her arms. “There, dear,” she said soothingly. “There’s nothing here, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  A few minutes later, Anbolin was sitting up in bed, sipping water kindly provided by Celia from the jug on the bedside table.

  “How are you feeling now?” she asked.

  “It – she – was trying to tell me something … I couldn’t make out the words.”

  “So, you saw her?”

  “Yes, just as you described. And the blood – so much blood.” She took another gulp of water. “I thought I’d seen everything – but tonight, I believe I saw something beyond evil. Far beyond evil.”

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Nigel Soames seemed to engulf the dining table as he sat there, presiding over Robbie and Oliver like the great pontiff he thought he was. It was the third evening they had all got together for the last meal of the day and Robbie, although he was looking forward to the excellent food the Imperial Hotel served, was not looking forward to the conversation that would inevitably accompany it.

  He wished, not for the first time, that he was with Bernard. He didn’t mind Oliver’s company; it would be a very difficult person indeed who could object to the inoffensive little curate. But the Reverend Nigel Soames was another matter entirely. Pompous and overbearing were two adjectives that sprang to the front of Robbie’s mind when he thought of him, which he tried not to do too often. The man thought he was second only to the Son of God, pontificating on everything from the deplorable state of the nation’s morals, to the price of butter. He loved the sound of his own voice: the sound of anyone else’s he tended to more or less ignore.

  When the first course was before them, Robbie began by inserting a word or two edgewise. “Would it be – would it be in order to invite Bernard along to dinner one evening, Nigel?” he said.

  Nigel, annoyed that he had been interrupted in his diatribe on the falling off of church attendance, glared at him from the folds of his face. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said can we have old Bernie here one evening?”

  “I suppose so,” said Nigel, trying to think who Bernie was. Realising slowly that he was the vicar of St Stephen’s parish in Wandsworth, he nodded. “Yes, old Bernie, why not? Anyway, where was I …”

  Oliver decided to try getting in a word now. “Worrying business, all this at the Sunnyside.”

  Nigel stopped mid-flow. “What did you say?”

  “Th-this business at the Sunnyside. This haunting. I – I was very scared.”

  “Are you still banging on about that?” asked Nigel crossly. He felt annoyed that both his dinner guests were having the nerve to interrupt him, especially as he was paying for their meals. The least they could do was keep quiet while he was talking. They might learn something, if they did.

  “Well, yes. I’m sorry if it bores you, Nigel,” said Oliver. He looked at Robbie who was winking at him. The doctor was impressed that this seemingly timid young man had it in him to stand up to his lord and master like that. Good on you, said that wink. “They’ve called in a professional medium – ” Oliver continued, a little distracted by Robbie’s obvious enjoyment.

  “That’s right,” said Robbie quickly. “You met her last year, Nigel, don’t you remember? When we solved that double murder by those twins – well one twin anyway – well, you solved it, I should say. ”

  “I don’t wish to be reminded of that, Robbie,” said Nigel severely. He swirled his gin cocktail round the glass, studying it carefully. He took a long sip, thinking about his frightening experience with ‘the other side’. Finding out he was psychic had been one thing, but being called on to commune with a spirit, that was going too far. He was a man of the cloth, for goodness sake. He wasn’t going to dabble in such devilry again, not if he could help it.

  “Anyway,” said Robbie, undaunted. “She’s come to see if she can find out the reason behind these hauntings. I must say I don’t relish all this myself. I just wanted a quiet holiday with Bernie. That was the original idea, anyway.”

  “Yes, well,” said Nigel, “we don’t always get what we want.” He wanted his companions to stop interrupting, but he wasn’t getting what he wanted either.

  “I think Bernie’s lonely without me,” said Robbie, more to himself. Although he wasn’t so sure that was the case, now that he had Celia Pargeter as a companion. Robbie almost regretted vacating his room when he thought of her. But, he had to admit, even Celia’s charms couldn’t lure him back there. The thought of that body beside him and the feeling of terror that it produced were things he never wanted to experience again.

  Nigel was once again in full flow, when a waiter came to the table and coughed politely.

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Nigel, getting more frustrated by the second.

  “I’ve a message for – ”

  “Give it to me, then,” said Nigel.

  “Er, it’s for Doctor MacTavish, sir.”

  Robbie held out his hand for the note. “Thank you,” he said, smiling at the disgruntled vicar. It would do him good to realise that the world didn’t revolve around him all the time.

  Nigel glared at Robbie, but couldn’t think of anything to say. After all, the man was entitled to receive messages, wasn’t he? He supposed so.

  “Do you want me to convey a reply to the gentleman, sir?”

  Robbie quickly read the note. It was from Bernard:

  Hello, Robbie

  Do you feel like going to the pub for a chat? Am in reception.

  Bernie

  Robbie couldn’t think of anything he’d like better, but he wasn’t even half-way through his meal.

  “It’s from Bernie,” Robbie told his curious companions, folding it up.

  “What does he want?”

  “Just wondering if I’d like to go to the pub with him,” he replied.

  “And would you?” asked Nigel.

  Yes, I would. Anything’s better than listening to you droning on all evening. He didn’t say this out loud, of course. “Er, maybe he can come and join us instead?”

  Nigel thought for a moment. Yes, it might be a good idea at that. It was about time Bernard had the benefit of his bountiful wisdom.

  “Please ask the gentleman to come and join us,” said Robbie to the waiter.

  Bernard, who had sent in the note, hoping that he would be invited to join them for dinner, was delighted when his wish was fulfilled. He couldn’t wait to sample the food at the Imperial which he’d heard so much about. Besides, Celia and Anbolin had retired to their room for the night, and he was more or less at a loose end. There was the old colonel, of course, but he had commandeered John Tapperstall, and they seemed to be hitting it off in a big way. Bernard supposed it was only natural: they were both about the same age and shared the same reason for being at the Sunnyside. But that left him out in the cold, so to speak. It wasn’t that they were deliberately excluding him; he just didn’t feel he had any real contribution to make to their conversation.

  So he had tried to amuse himself. He had eaten his evening meal at Sunnyside in the company of Celia and Anbolin, which had been of a very indifferent quality and the portions, as usual, much too small. Anbolin had demanded a plate of sandwiches when she had despatched her supper, complaining bitterly about the scantiness of the menu and the small helpings on offer. He didn’t feel bold enough to demand something else as Anbolin had done, but he was more than ready for something more to eat now. But, even that wasn’t his prime concern. If Robbie would only join him for a drink or something, that would be better than just hanging around the lounge on his own. People would think he didn’t have any friends.

  He was allowed into the Imperial dining room just as the second courses were being served, but missing out on the soup wasn’t too much of a tragedy. The main courses on offer were very tempting, and he settled for the roast duck. A rare treat.

  Except for Nigel Soames. Bernard hadn’t reckoned with the redoubtable Nigel rabbiting on about non-attendance at church services. As he tried to enjoy his duck, he blocked out the droning in his ears as best he could. Robbie raised an eyebrow at him, but Bernard just kept his head down, forking duck and potatoes into his mouth for all he was worth.

  By the time the cheese and biscuits arrived, Bernard felt a singing sensation in his ear drums. He poked a finger into his left ear, the one nearest Nigel, and wiggled it about trying to remove the buzzing noise. Would the man never stop talking?

  “I don’t know how you put up with him, Robbie,” said Bernard when they finally escaped out of the dining room, leaving poor Oliver alone with Nigel. They looked back as they reached the door to see him still talking, probably unaware that they had said goodnight and left. “I enjoyed the meal, Robbie, but, goodness, doesn’t he go on?”

  Robbie steered his friend to the bar. “And you thought I’d been enjoying myself, eh? Let’s forget all about him, old boy, and have a nightcap,” he said.

  When they had their drinks, seated at the swish hotel bar, Robbie began to question Bernard about Celia, something he had been wanting to do all evening. Bernard was well aware of Robbie’s interest in her, but he sensed, quite rightly, that it wasn’t reciprocated, so he knew he had to be careful not to hurt his feelings.

  “She’s very attractive, isn’t she?” said Robbie, sipping his whisky. “Is she staying long?”

  “I – I’m not sure. Certainly not long if she can’t swap her room. She’s in there tonight with Anbolin.”

  “I don’t envy them,” said Robbie. He shuddered.

  “No, nor me. I hope they’ll be all right.”

  “I hope so too. It’s a pity these spirits don’t speak. We need something to go on.”

  “Well, Anbolin is our best bet, although she wasn’t entirely successful last time.”

  “I wonder if I should ask her out?” said Robbie, draining his glass.

  “Who? Anbolin?”

  “No, fathead. Celia.”

  Bernard sipped his sherry nervously. How could he put it without upsetting him? “Er, well, she’s only here for a week or two at the most, so I don’t suppose you’ll get the chance.”

  “Strike while the iron’s hot – that’s my motto.”

  Bernard thought he’d say something like that, blast him. “Well, I – I suppose you could try –”

  Then Robbie was struck with a thought, a thought that didn’t appeal to him at all. “Unless – unless you’ve asked her yourself already… Have you?”

 

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