The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5 Page 10

  “I don’t get it,” he was saying.

  Florence giggled, “You’re just trying too hard.”

  “This is Ross,” I told Charity and when he looked up I added, “Ross, this is Charity. She’s the manager of Whittle Inn.”

  He nodded at her warily. “Hi.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ross. I hope you’re settling in well?”

  He shrugged and sighed in frustration. “I can’t quite get to grips with things. Maybe I never will.”

  The ‘things’ he was referring to were how to use his own innate spiritual energy. Ghosts could become adept over time at harnessing sources of energy to help them make things move. Florence, for example, could operate a feather duster at twenty paces. She could move physical quantities of flour and sugar, break eggs into bowls and mix everything up and turn it into cake heaven. Zephaniah could operate a broom, a leaf blower, secateurs and a lawn mower. He could polish glass, shimmy up ladders and change tyres. I’d seen the ghostly inhabitants of my wonky inn shift rooms full of furniture around, bring beds and mattresses down from the attic, change lightbulbs, and carve joints of meat.

  It all seemed to be a case of mind over matter, but observing Ross’s fumbling first attempts, I could tell that practice, as they say, makes perfect.

  Up until now, Ross had spent his spirit existence rolling around on train tracks. He had yet to perfect the art of levitating anything. I’d roped Florence in to try and teach him the basics. Time was of the essence and I was kind of hoping they could use the laptop to practice on and get Ross up to speed with using it at the same time. After all, that’s why I’d gone in search of him.

  “Ross only died a few weeks ago,” I explained to Charity. “He’s still reeling from all the… er… changes in his life.” And death.

  “I see.” Charity ambled into the room to stand behind him and Florence and watch what they were doing.

  Ross kept reaching out to the keyboard to tap the keys, but of course his fingers slipped straight through, as though the computer wasn’t really there. Which it wasn’t. At least not on the plane he mostly inhabited.

  “Perhaps you should try sitting on your hands,” Charity suggested. “I used to do that when I was a kid and I wasn’t allowed to start my dinner before we’d all said grace.”

  “Really?” I asked. There’d been no such rules in my house, but then after my father had disappeared I’d pretty much been left to my own devices.

  “Yes, my Mum used to rap my knuckles.” Charity laughed. “Not hard though,” she added when we all looked at her in surprise.

  Ross did as Charity suggested, but his pale face rapidly turned red from trying to force the keys to move.

  I smiled inwardly as Florence—who had never seen a computer herself until she began working with me—typed some gobbledegook. She’d watched me do it often enough. “There!” she said with relish. “Try again.”

  Charity peered closely at what Florence had typed. “Not exactly the start of War and Peace there, Florence.”

  “Which war? What peace?” Our housekeeper looked confused. Russian literature had not been Florence’s specialist subject by the sound of it. I shook my head and left them to it, hoping it wouldn’t take too long for Ross to grasp the fundamentals and work out a way to tap the keys. I headed off in search of a mug of tea and some cake.

  I spent ten minutes listening to Monsieur Emietter converse with me in a language I didn’t understand while forking chocolate sponge into my mouth and nodding and saying ‘ummm’ whenever I thought the conversation warranted it. Finally I picked up my mug and traipsed back upstairs to my office to ask whether there’d been any progress.

  This time when I flung the door open I was surprised to find a coach load of visitors. Gwyn, Zephaniah, Ned, Luppitt Smeatharpe and the rest of the Devonshire Fellows, and numerous other ghosts who inhabited the inn. They’d all come to offer their support to Ross. The room was full of excitable chatter and my belongings were zipping through the air, on different trajectories, at a rate of knots.

  “It will just happen when you least expect it,” Zephaniah was saying.

  “Sometimes it can help to think of something else,” Luppitt appeared to be confusing matters. “Everything came clear to me as soon as I started playing my lute.”

  “It’s less about projecting outwards and more about projecting inwards,” Ned chipped in.

  “Why not try typing on the keyboard at the same time as you flick the light switch with your mind?” Charity enquired.

  Ross sat among them looking ever more perplexed.

  “Excuse me,” I said, but failed to make myself heard. “Hello?” I called. “Hello!” The room fell silent and my belongings paused in mid-air. “Do you all mind?”

  “Quite clearly not,” Gwyn’s chippy tone rang out. “We’re all trying to assist this young man, Alfhild.”

  Seriously? “How is this assisting?” I gestured around at the items from my desk floating at head height.

  I couldn’t imagine any of them were solving Ross’s problem. It had to be a case of information overload for the poor chap. I scanned the faces looking back at me, searching for anyone who knew how to operate a laptop, or even a typewriter, and failed miserably. They’d all died eons ago. If only my father had been here.

  I plucked my mobile phone from out of the air in front of me. “Put my things back,” I scolded, then added, “and in the correct places.”

  As pens and notebooks, memory sticks, plants, an owl perch, a hand bag, my witch’s hat and a pile of bills made their way back to where they lived, the overhead light blinked out.

  I looked up at it and then out at the sea of faces.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Zephaniah.

  I glanced at Gwyn, but her face was a picture of nonchalance.

  “Hmm.” I reached across and flipped the light switch back on. Two seconds later the light went out again.

  “Not me,” murmured Luppitt and I saw the rest of the Devonshire Fellows shake their heads. I narrowed my eyes and once more reached for the light switch to flick it on. The light came on before my hand reached the wall.

  “I think that was me.” Ross’s soft, polite voice drifted out from among the huddle of ghosts. There was an audible air of excitement around the room, but he merely looked confused.

  “Shush everyone!” I commanded, and the ghosts quietened once again. “Try again, Ross. Turn the light off when I say.” I glared at everyone else. “The rest of you… sit on your hands or something!” I heard Charity snigger. “Go,” I said.

  A fractional pause and then the light went off.

  “And on.” On it went.

  “By Jove, I think you’ve done it,” Charity uttered in her best Colonel Hastings voice.

  “Off!” I ordered. “On!” The lights flicked on and off as though we were hosting a Brownie Guides’ game of musical statues.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. We were finally getting somewhere. “Excellent! Now for the computer.”

  A few hours later you would never have imagined that Ross had been so puzzled by the simple business of moving objects and operating electronics. He could find his way around my computer with very little difficulty and kept up a steady lecture on the transparency of my passwords and the lack of security built into my systems in his well-mannered voice. He expressed horror at the security of the websites I accessed online and total dismay at the way I stored data about the inn’s guests.

  I considered myself well and truly chastised.

  His hands hovered over the keyboard—I could only assume this was a habit he wouldn’t quickly unlearn—but he had rapidly realised he could access every letter, number, symbol, back stroke and function, merely by thinking about it. All it took was a simple nudge—a simple act of telekinesis—and he could activate the magnetic switch under the keys. I stared entranced as windows containing data rolled around on my screen, maximised them minimised, some lines highlighted as he scrolled through everything in my
most obvious files, working backwards until he could access data deleted by me many moons ago.

  There was no doubt about it. Ross was the IT whizz I had been dreaming of.

  “There!” He sat back, looking immensely pleased with himself. “I’ve retuned your computer and eradicated several viruses, downloaded some better protection and isolated some of your more problematic data breaches. You’ll see an improvement in processing now, but you really ought to invest in better security for your data.”

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Is that it, then?” He looked about. “Any more machines you want me to take a look at?”

  “Charity has an iPad thingy,” I replied doubtfully.

  “I could take a look at that one next then.”

  I was reminded once again that ghosts do not need sleep and have inexhaustible reserves of energy. Outside the window, night had fallen and I—after a long day of travelling and training Ross—was in fact exhausted.

  “Tomorrow maybe,” I replied.

  He looked at me and smiled. Such a soft face with such gentle curious eyes. No wonder he had been unable to thrive in his workplace. He was not someone for whom the cut and thrust of a city career would suit. “Something’s bothering you,” he said. “That’s why you came and found me.”

  I waved his concern away. “Tomorrow,” I repeated.

  I lay in my deep bubble bath contemplating the day I’d had, my head aching with the stress of it all. So much to think about.

  Ross. How would he respond to what I would demand of him?

  George. Awaiting rescue. Perhaps. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

  Vance. All the requirements needed if he was to successfully cleanse the water.

  The Mori. May they be forever cursed.

  Silvan. I hadn’t seen him today, but I needed to make time to practice with him in the morning. Something else to add to my packed schedule. I was becoming better under his tutelage, I knew it. Faster. More accurate. Less compassionate maybe.

  And Mr Hoo. The absence this evening of my wise and comforting friend disturbed me. I hadn’t had time to contact Millicent to see how he was doing. I could only assume that if there was bad news, she would have been in touch with me. I sent thoughts of strength and healing floating out of the window on a cloud of steam and watched as my tidings drifted in the direction of the village. I sent them speeding on their way with a whole heart full of love.

  I don’t know how long I’d been lying there when I became aware of Gwyn, standing by the door and watching me. The water had cooled, quite unpleasantly, and I wondered whether I’d fallen asleep, or just dipped into an exhausted stupor.

  “You were miles away,” Gwyn said, but there was no edge to her voice.

  “I was thinking.” I blinked and sat up. “I may have dozed off.”

  “You look tired.”

  “I am tired.” There could be no surprise there. “But don’t worry, I’ll be firing on all cylinders in the morning.”

  “I know you will,” Gwyn said gently. “No point in making yourself ill however.”

  I rose from the bath and reached for my towel. “A good night’s sleep is all I need.”

  “Have you eaten today?” Gwyn pressed, watching me as I towelled myself off.

  I considered that. “Toast. And cake.”

  “I’ll have Florence send you something up.”

  I shook my head. “No, don’t worry, Grandmama. Thank you. I just want to get my head down. I’ll have a proper breakfast in the morning.”

  “And then wear yourself out with Silvan, no doubt.”

  I smiled. “No doubt.”

  I dabbed my face with a corner of the towel and stared at my reflection, dark circles under my eyes. I blinked and turned about to face Gwyn.

  “Have you given any more thought to our encounter in the woods the other night?” She meant Vance.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And I will meet his requirements. But one thing at a time. In order to do Vance’s bidding, I have to find George.”

  Gwyn wrinkled her nose. “Are you certain of that? Surely someone else would do?”

  “Would they?” I asked her. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

  We regarded each other in all seriousness.

  “Love is blind, Alfhild,” Gwyn picked her words with care. “Don’t let it make you stupid.”

  “So what’s the deal?” Ross’s cool eyes appraised me as I gulped a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and mopped at my brow. I’d been up at five, and spent two hours training—without Silvan who had remained in bed—firing chunks of ice at floating tennis balls. My spells were certainly becoming more creative, and probably more deadly, but my accuracy left a great deal to be desired, much to the amusement of some of the ghosts haunting the attic and observing my strenuous efforts to destroy inanimate objects.

  From seven I’d helped Charity out with breakfast, leaving Florence free to do some more work with Ross. There could be no doubt about his intelligence, he was catching on fast. Just after nine, I’d returned to my office to see him playing a game of something extremely fast-paced via an app on my phone. I plucked it out of the air with a grunt.

  What is it about ghosts? Why can they never respect personal boundaries?

  Glancing through my messages, I found one from Millicent. “No change, but no worse. Come down and see him if you get the chance?”

  I would love to visit Mr Hoo. I felt guilty not having seen him for a few days, but I knew he was in the best place for now. He might even be safer away from Whittle Inn. I didn’t seem to be able to guarantee anyone’s welfare any more.

  I pulled up a chair and drew my laptop towards me, just as Finbarr poked his head in.

  “All quiet overnight,” he nodded at me. “I’m going to get a few hours of shut-eye and then I’ll go back out and check the perimeter.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Have you eaten?”

  Finbarr tipped a wink. He sure had the sauce of the Irish. “I’ll grab a big lunch. What are your plans?”

  “Today?” I pointed at Ross. “Today is all about breaking and entering.”

  “Ah. Good one. I’m fond of a little of that myself.” He yawned. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “Breaking and entering?” Ross asked as Finbarr disappeared. “That’s not really above board, is it? What kind of a set-up are you running here?”

  I tucked my chin in my hand and regarded the laptop in front of me. Ross had tidied the display screen and now all of my icons were lined up neatly. He’d re-organised my files so that I could find everything intuitively. I thought this spoke volumes about his character, so orderly and polite.

  “Are you above a little illegality?” I asked.

  “I’ve never knowingly broken the law.”

  “Ever?” My incredulity was genuine. Surely we’ve all done something? Exceeded a speed limit, a little childhood shoplifting?

  “Not knowingly.” He hesitated. “The thing is, my previous employers—”

  “Merman, Coleville and Bach?”

  “Yes. They wanted me to engage in certain nefarious activities, and I wasn’t… let’s just say I wasn’t open to it.”

  “They were putting pressure on you?”

  “Unbearable pressure.” We were quiet as I let that sink in. Poor man. Work must have been hell for him.

  But that was before.

  I turned to face him. “The thing is Ross, what I’m going to ask you to do… you’re right… it’s not legal and it could get me into a whole heap of trouble.”

  “Then why do it?” Ross asked simply. He was sitting squarely, his face composed, hands folded in his lap, watching me with bright eyes.

  “I have no choice. There are people’s lives at stake. The future of my inn depends on what I do, and maybe the future of the village and its inhabitants, and the very woods around us. I have absolutely no choice.”

  “Well I do,”
he said firmly, and I frowned at him.

  “Your philosophies are to be admired, Ross. But you’re forgetting something.” I wagged my finger at him. “You’re as dead as a smoked kipper. Probably because you chose to stick to those very principles you’re so proud of.” His face fell. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I admire you for that, but now that you are dead, you don’t have to stick to the rules. You can flout them. You can break the law as often as you like. At the end of the day, there is no spirit-side judge and jury. There are no ghost prisons.”

  My computer screen turned to black in front of me, and I nudged the mouse to wake it up again. “What I’m asking you to do, will not only save my bacon, but also that of dozens of innocents, and with any luck it will bring justice to many who have suffered at the hands of a truly evil organisation.”

  Ross twisted his face up. I took that as a sign he was wavering. “Why not go to the police?”

  “I did,” I said. “Putting aside the issue that no-one in the mundane world is going to believe a witch and her ghost buddies, my fiancé George—who is a detective sergeant with Devon and Cornwall police—is currently missing.” I stabbed at the computer screen with venom although there was nothing there to actually see on the display apart from a dozen little symbols relating to my computer apps and files. “This organisation is to blame. And I’m desperate for your help.”

  “I’m sorry about your fiancé,” Ross said, and I could see he genuinely was. “Are you asking me to break and enter? Is that right?”

  He would do it. I tried to hide my jubilation. “In all senses of the word. I need you to enter a building in the early hours of tomorrow and retrieve information from a computer there. Then we need to look at the files.”

  I watched Ross thinking. Eventually he nodded at me. “I’m a ghost. What could go wrong? There’s so little risk.” He beamed from ear to ear. “Such skulduggery! I might actually enjoy this.”

  I mentally punched the air.

  Operation ‘Looking-for-a-needle-in-a-haystack’ was go.