Anbolin settled back in the bed and went over the previous night’s events in Celia’s room. It hadn’t been long before the ‘visitor’ had arrived, and it had been a defining moment for her. She had never seen a spirit bleed before. She vowed that never again would she expose herself to that kind of horror. It was time to hang up her Ouija board for good.

  It was frustrating, getting old. Why did it mean she had to lose her powers? That poor woman had tried to talk to her, but all she had seen was the movement of her lips. No words had reached her. She had always been known as one of the best psychics in the business; her fame within mediumistic circles was legendary. But not anymore. She felt humiliated and out of her depth.

  So, now here she was awaiting another manifestation that she knew she would be powerless to interpret. She knew the old colonel was depending on her to solve his wife’s murder, for she had no doubt that was what it was. She felt her humiliation all over again. The sooner she got away from Blackpool, the better. She was looking forward to a life of down-to-earth things like buttered crumpets and crochet hooks. No more spirits for her, unless they were of the alcoholic variety, of course.

  As she lay there between the clean white sheets, the men began to snore. After a few minutes the sounds were deafening. “Hmm,” she thought. “Not sleeping with a man has its definite advantages, after all.”

  The snoring seemed to go on and on, getting louder and louder. Oh dear, she thought, I’ll never get to sleep at this rate. Still, she wasn’t really there to sleep, was she? Suddenly the snoring stopped. Everything was silent. No nightjar, no clocks ticking and definitely no more snoring. She wondered idly if they were dead.

  Suddenly she felt something move beside her. It was warm and soft: it was a body. A female body. She felt gentle arms surround her. She didn’t feel as frightened as she had the night before. The woman hadn’t died quite such a violent death, it would seem. That was something. She moved a little away from her and reached out for the bedside light. She pressed the switch but nothing happened. She realised that the darkness was complete, no chink of light anywhere.

  She called out softly to the men. “Are you awake?”

  No response. She turned to her bed companion. “Can you hear me?” she whispered.

  No response, just another cuddle. Oh dear, she thought. This is a disaster. They would laugh her out of Blackpool, and with good reason. Bernard had called on her to help, and she had come straightaway, sensing adventure and mystery. He would be so disappointed, and Robbie would rib her no doubt. That would hurt.

  The warm body was snuggling up to her more closely now. She felt a breath in her ear. The spirit was saying something to her, but she couldn’t make out the words. Anbolin pushed it away. But it soon snuggled back again. There was a desperation in the soft movements now.

  Suddenly she was alone again. The snoring returned, along with all the other familiar night sounds. The light, which she had tried to switch on earlier, was now glaring, showing up the open mouths of Matthew and John, oblivious to what she had just been through.

  “Wake up, you lot!” she shouted.

  The men sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. Their questions came thick and fast.

  “W-what happened?” asked the colonel, rubbing his eyes. “Did – did she come?”

  “She came all right,” said Anbolin, shuddering.

  “Did – did she say anything? Did you manage to communicate with her?” persisted the colonel.

  “Did she tell you anything?” asked John.

  They eagerly awaited Anbolin’s pronouncement.

  “How the hell should I know?” she said at last. “I couldn’t hear a bloody word!”

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Lennie Conway stepped out of the taxi and searched in his pocket for change to pay the driver. He had one small suitcase with him.

  Ivy glanced up as the door swung open and watched the old man walk slowly towards the reception desk. Looks like he could do with a holiday, she thought, and continued writing in her ledger. She looked up again when she heard the man cough to gain her attention.

  Then she could see quite clearly who he was. The years hadn’t been kind, but there was no mistaking him. “Lennie!” she gasped.

  “The very same. Hello Ivy, I’d know that face anywhere.” Of course he would, he thought; the acid scar was a big give away. However, he was sorry for it, and had been for many years. She didn’t deserve to suffer all her life just because of his jealousy.

  “I told you, didn’t I? On the phone? I told you …” She trailed off and slammed the ledger shut. “Come through to the office – now!”

  Luckily the reception was empty at the moment, but that could change any time. The last thing Ivy wanted was for anyone to see the doddery old man standing there. It was bad enough that he was her husband and, in his present state, hardly someone to be proud of. She was determined to keep him away from the paying guests.

  “You realise that you’ve signed your own death warrant by coming back here, don’t you?” she said, once they were both in the office, the door locked.

  Lennie shrugged. “I don’t think you’ll go to the police,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down. My pins are giving me gyp.” Saying this, he slumped down in the desk chair.

  “You haven’t aged well,” she remarked, studying him closely. There was the remnant of a handsome face on top of the decrepit old body before her. She remembered how she had once been so proud to be seen on his arm, before he went to war and come back a mental wreck. He had been so good-looking, and she had been the envy of all her girlfriends when he asked her to marry him. They were all after him – back then. Times had certainly changed.

  “Pardon me for pointing this out, Ivy, but you’re not looking too clever yourself. We’re hardly spring chickens, are we? I suffer with my legs as well as my head. Arthritis is a killer.”

  “And, Lennie, pardon me for pointing this out, so are you.”

  He stared at her. “I don’t remember ever killing anyone, Ivy. I don’t. I saw them bodies, and they were dead. That’s all I know. How they got dead I had no idea. I told you at the time. I wasn’t responsible. It’s the headaches.”

  Ivy shrugged. “Responsible or not, I saved your bacon once, Lennie. I don’t intend to do that a second time.”

  “I won’t make any trouble, Ivy, honest. Can’t I stay here for a bit? I’ve had enough of Exeter.”

  “You made a good living there with the money I gave you, didn’t you?”

  “I did all right,” he said. “But people get on my nerves, you know that. They come in my shop and want to pass the time of day. They don’t just buy ciggies and bugger off.”

  “You always used to be such a sociable person,” said Ivy, remembering the young man who was the life and soul of any gathering.

  “Yeah, well. Things change.”

  Ivy sat down and sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “We were in love – once.”

  “You got too possessive, too jealous. As soon as I was nice to one of the male guests, you’d get sarky. You said I was flirting with them. I wasn’t – I was just being polite. Well, maybe I flirted a bit, but it was good for business. It didn’t mean anything. We wouldn’t have had many guests if I’d told them all to ‘bugger off’, to use your expression.”

  “I know, I know,” said Lennie sadly. “I was off my head. The war …”

  “You always blamed the war for what you did. You can’t blame murder on that. Killing in war is justified – but not innocent young women who never did you any harm.”

  “But you don’t know what I felt like after I came back. I still feel like. I still get them headaches. I see a young woman flaunting herself in front of me and my head starts to throb and I can’t see straight. Then, then …”

  “Then – what?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t mean to kill them. But, well, Exeter – you know. You’ve read about them, haven’t you? In the papers?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve read about them all right. You been at it again, have you? That’s why you left. Exeter getting too hot for you?”

  “Yes, I mean, no, that’s not why I left. I didn’t kill those women. At least, I don’t remember…”

  “Like you didn’t kill Meriel Forwood and Mary Elphinstone?”

  “Were they the two women who we ….”

  “Yes, that’s right. We buried them in the cellar. You remember doing that, I take it?”

  Lennie put his head in his hands. He was visibly shaking. Ivy felt almost sorry for him.

  “Y-yes. I remember that. You looked after me then, Ivy. I’m grateful for that.”

  “And what have I got to be grateful for from you?” Ivy turned her left profile towards him. The scar was livid and angry. It reached from just under her eye to the top of her once Cupid bow lips. “You tell me that,” she concluded.

  “Ivy, if I could take that bowl of acid back. If I could turn back the clock. I don’t know how I did that. I was angry. My head was exploding. I – I – You were making eyes at all the men, you know you were.”

  “And I deserved to live with this for the rest of my life, did I?”

  “No, no, of course not. But – but, the provocation I had. The war – ”

  “Here we go – back to the war again.”

  “Look, I know it’s asking a lot. Let me stay here. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on me. Stop me from – from – ”

  “From killing again? You might kill me this time.”

  “I would never do that – not in my right mind, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s just it. How can I be sure you won’t go out of your right mind again?”

  “You don’t, it’s the headaches, I tell you. Not me.”

  “You should be in a hospital – Broadmoor’s the place for you.”

  “You won’t have them send me there, Ivy. You couldn’t do that.”

  “Couldn’t I? Try me.”

  She sat without speaking, her thoughts racing. The man who was still legally her husband was at her mercy. What could she do? She stroked the scar. He might kill her next time. But she didn’t want to turn him in to the police. All that publicity – how would it affect her business if the guests knew they had a murderer under their roof? Things were difficult enough without getting the boys in blue involved.

  Then she had an idea. “If I agree to take you in,” she said, “do you agree to being locked in the living quarters when I’m working?”

  “Locked in? All day?”

  “Yes. I can’t have you wandering about willy nilly. There’s some pretty waitresses ‘flaunting’ themselves in front of the customers.” She thought of June Smart. Lennie would certainly take a fancy to her. She could be in real danger if she let him loose in Sunnyside.

  “That’s the deal,” she said. “Take it or leave it. Otherwise, I’ll call the police.”

  Lennie saw he had little choice. He could move on, he supposed. But he was old and tired. He didn’t think he was a danger to young women anymore, but the headaches were never very far away. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I got no option. Same rooms as before? Behind the office?”

  “Yes.”

  Lennie took up his suitcase and followed his wife through the office door to their living quarters.

  “I’ll bring you a cup of tea and something to eat soon,” she said, as she turned the key in the lock. She put the key in her overall pocket and tapped it carefully. There was a smile on her lips that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Lennie grinned as he opened his case and took out his few belongings. “Home, sweet home,” he said to himself, sardonically. He felt smugly satisfied. He knew how to handle old Ivy, he always had. At the end of the day, he could twist her round his little finger. He could bet that she was secretly pleased to have a man about the place again. After all, no one else would be after her now. She had to take what she could get. Throwing that acid in her face had been wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t have done it if he’d been in his right mind. But at least he could trust her now. There was no need for the green-eyed monster anymore.

  He smiled as he took out his two shirts and saw the key underneath: the key to their living quarters. He never threw anything away: you never knew when you might need them again. She thought she could keep him a prisoner, did she? Well, she had another think coming.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Anbolin marched into reception, baggage in hand. She went up to the desk and rang the bell. Tapping her chubby fingers on the desk, she waited impatiently for service.

  It was the last day of that hot August; new holidaymakers were arriving at Sunnyside, replacing the old ones who were leaving. Anbolin realised she had a bit of a wait on her hands, but rang the bell again hopefully.

  June appeared at the desk looking flushed and harassed. “I- I’m sorry, Mrs – er – ”

  “Anbolin – don’t bother with the rest of it. I want to settle my bill, I’m leaving.”

  “Right, but, as you see, there are several people in front of you – ”

  “Very well, dear,” said Anbolin with resignation. “Can you organise some tea and a snack or two for me in the lounge while I wait?”

  June brushed a lock of hair from her hot, sweaty forehead. Would this weather ever break, she wondered. “I – I’ll do my best,” she said, wishing the old woman somewhere at the North Pole or down a mineshaft at that precise moment. Where was Ivy when she was wanted? And as for the rest of the lazy staff. Perhaps the running of Sunnyside was something she didn’t want, after all.

  “Thank you, ducks,” said Anbolin kindly, realising the girl was under considerable pressure, on her own behind the reception desk. Then, as she looked at her, the old lady felt a kind of chill go through her old bones.

  She turned towards the lounge and was pleased to see Celia sitting in there on her own. She was glad to have the chance to say her farewells to this lovely lady. She turned back and looked at June again. There was no doubt about it, she could feel a definite chill. How could it be? The weather was oppressively hot today, like it had been the whole time she had been in Blackpool. A thunderstorm was due any minute.

  Anbolin waved at Celia as she entered the lounge. She saw, with added delight, a rack of toast and a teapot on the table in front of her.

  “Please come and join me,” said Celia, standing up. “I was too late for the set breakfast today, but June kindly organised this for me. Help yourself.”

  The old lady wanted no further encouragement. She bit into the buttered toast with gusto, even though she had eaten a full English breakfast only half an hour earlier.

  “Are you leaving?” asked Celia, pouring her a cup of tea.

  Anbolin nodded.

  “That’s a shame. I thought you would be staying a bit longer, especially as Bernie and Robbie have extended their stay here for another week.”

  “I know,” said Anbolin through a mouthful of toast. “But I told Bernie just now that I was going because I couldn’t be of any further help. No point me hanging around like a spare part. I like Blackpool, all right, but I prefer Holloway.”

  “You prefer prison to Blackpool?” Celia giggled.

  “Very funny. I live in Holloway, dear. It is a place that has much more to offer that a women’s prison.” But she laughed, and patted Celia’s hand in mock annoyance.

  “But surely you must know something else we can try, dear?” said Celia, serious now. “What about a séance? That might work. What did Bernard say when you told him you were going?”

  “Didn’t seem that bothered,” she sniffed, slurping her tea. She sounded a little hurt.

  Just then, June appeared with a tray of sandwiches and another pot of tea. “Oh, I see you’ve already had something,” she said, preparing to take the tray away.

  “No, it’s all right, dear. Leave it here,” said Anbolin with alacrity. As she touched June’s arm to prevent her removing herself and, more importantly, the tray, she noticed the cold chill again. An icy blast seemed to shoot up her arm as if she was about to have a heart attack.

  “Are you all right, my child?” she asked, as June placed the tray on the table beside them. “Are you quite well?”

  “As well as I’ll ever be,” said June with a sardonic smile. “Just run off my feet and I’m dog tired. Ivy seems to have done a disappearing trick this morning. In fact I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon.”

  “How odd,” said Celia. “She’s usually at the reception desk in the afternoon and evening. Before the night porter takes over.”

  “Yes, Jim told me she wasn’t there when he took over the desk yesterday evening. She’s always there to hand over to him. He was most put out.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Anbolin. “Have you checked if she’s all right?”

  “Well, no. She’s very particular about anyone going into her private living quarters. Only in an emergency, she says.”

  “I think maybe you should just tap on her door and see that she’s all right. She might be ill. She’s not getting any younger. She might have had a fall or something.” Celia seemed very concerned.

  “Yes, perhaps I will. Once I’ve booked everyone in and out.” June wasn’t particularly looking forward to interrupting her boss. She had had the benefit of the sharp end of Ivy’s tongue on several occasions, and she didn’t relish being told to ‘mind her own business’. But what if she was ill? She supposed she couldn’t just forget about her.

  Anbolin watched as the pretty girl returned to the reception desk and, as she did so, the chill slowly began to recede.

  “There’s something very wrong with that child,” she confided to Celia.

  “Wrong?” said Celia, puzzled. “She seems perfectly all right to me. A little harassed, of course. But she looks the picture of health to me.”

  “Something is definitely wrong with her,” repeated Anbolin. “You mark my words. There’s something hanging over that poor child’s head – something – ” She paused.

  “Something?” Celia prompted.

  Anbolin shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I did. Like I wish I could contact those spirits. If only that fat old vicar was here. He can communicate with the dead.” She thought of the Reverend Nigel Soames as she said this, remembering how he had heard what the ghost of a murdered woman said, when she couldn’t. If he were here, she could bet he’d be able to solve the hauntings.

 

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