The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Page 10

  Now, although he glared at me, I sensed that the man standing in front of me was a shadow of whom he had been before. The long years of captivity and his fall from grace as a royal favourite had taken their toll. He turned to peer more closely at my face and I noticed the shackles on his ankles. Had he been kept in chains all this time? My stomach flipped with distaste. For how long, I wondered.

  “Baron?” Bill was saying, his voice full of cheer. “It’s your lucky day. You’ve a visitor.” He turned to me and winked. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Briggsy.” I watched him go. No-one else was in the room so I needed to seize this opportunity to talk to the Baron alone.

  “Baron,” I started, “my name is Alfhild Daemonne and I’ve come from…somewhere in Devon.” I decided to withhold specifics. While it seemed certain that whomever was after Luppitt had already located us, I didn’t feel the need to broadcast it any further.

  The Baron’s eyes sparkled at the mention of Devon. “Ah. A truly glorious area, although not quite as magical as my county of Somerset.” He set thin lips into what I decided was his impression of a smile. “I must confess,” he continued, “I am surprised to find you calling upon me. It’s been a long time, a very long time, since my last visitor.”

  Centuries, I assumed.

  “I need to speak to you about a friend.”

  “I can’t imagine why you would assume we have a friend in common.” There was an unattractive sneer to the man’s voice that set my teeth on edge, but to be fair he also seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “I know we do, however,” I replied. “His name is Luppitt Smeatharpe.”

  The transformation in the Baron’s features was instantaneous. He flew at me snarling and spitting with anger. I took several rapid steps backwards, pleased after all, that he was shackled. “You would dare mention that…that creature’s name in my presence. Smeatharpe is no friend of mine. What think you?”

  I held my hands up in appeasement, while my scalp prickled with indignation.

  “Please calm down, Baron. Let’s not make this difficult. I’m more than willing to listen to your side of the story. I just—”

  “He ruined everything for me.”

  “Things haven’t exactly gone well for him, either.”

  “That’s no fault of mine. I haven’t seen him since that final day at the Queen’s court when he made a complete fool of me.”

  I frowned. If this was true then I was barking up the wrong tree here, and this trip to London had been a waste of time. I softened my voice and relaxed my body posture, trying not to appear defensive. “Baron, why don’t you simply start at the beginning?”

  As the Baron began to recount his tale, I found myself in the court of Elizabeth the First. A sumptuous place of extravagance in terms of costume, furniture and architecture, but also a centre of political and religious intrigue. On the whole, her subjects found her strong and just, although she wasn’t averse to ordering the torture and death of anyone who crossed her. Rather like the Queen of Hearts in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Elizabeth was fond of amusements, and championed many poets, musicians, playwrights and actors, among them William Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon. “And that’s where it all went wrong,” lamented the Baron.

  “How so?”

  “Do you not see? In order for the lower ranks of the nobility to curry favour with the Queen it became necessary to stand out at court, as a wonderful politician, or someone with far-reaching contacts, or even as a great wit, or a talented singer or musician. Well, I was none of those things, and the family connections the Saxe-Krumpkes had enjoyed on the continent had long since dissipated. I found myself overlooked for titles and honours.”

  “So you wanted to stand out?”

  “Indeed. And one day I recognised one way of doing just that. I’d employed the young Smeatharpe boy as a favour to his father, and I imagined he would work for me under the guise of clerk or some such, perhaps with my treasury.”

  This much I knew. I nodded impatiently.

  “I stumbled upon him in the garden one day, entertaining my children.” His face changed, became somehow lighter, as he recalled his offspring. “Ah my darlings,” he said fondly. “Katherine, Mary and Cecil. He was singing songs to them, and reciting rhymes. They clapped their little hands and made him repeat these tunes over and over. Eventually I halted the horseplay for I had need of him in the house, but ever after my children begged me to allow him to attend them in their leisure.”

  The Baron sighed. “I quizzed him about this talent of his, and he confessed that he wrote the ditties himself. That’s when I thought I would present them to the Queen next time I saw her at court.”

  “I’m sure you rewarded Luppitt handsomely for his efforts,” I said, already knowing that wouldn’t be the case.

  “Yes,” simpered the Baron, avoiding my glare. “Well. I did mean to.”

  “So you didn’t? That’s bad form. There are laws against that kind of theft these days you know.”

  The Baron shook his shackles. “How do you think I ended in these?”

  “Right. What happened?”

  “We didn’t call it theft. Luppitt was in my employ. What was his, was mine.”

  “Kind of ye olde-worlde intellectual property rights, I guess?”

  The Baron looked confused and I flapped my hands at him. “Go on.”

  “I presented Her Glorious Majesty with the first poem, and she reacted much as my children had. Clapped her hands in delight and bid me repeat it again. And again. Then I sent her a manuscript copy and she was much pleased. Demanded another one.”

  “You had Luppitt write more?”

  The Baron nodded. “He had a good stock of them.”

  “And you never told the Queen they were written by Luppitt?”

  The Baron sighed deeply. “It became difficult. It was apparent after the first occasion that the Queen thought the poetry was mine. How was I to disillusion her of that notion?”

  “Better early than never, surely?” I scratched my head.

  “Only a foolish girl who had never met the Queen would think such a thing,” the Baron snapped, a touch of his temper resurfacing.

  “What happened? She must have found out.” I indicated the shackles and he grimaced.

  “I became such a favourite for a few short years that my person was called to many a banquet. On occasion my family would travel to court with me. You must understand, exposure to the Queen of any kind was an absolute privilege. One such day, when I had my family with me, the Queen called on my eldest daughter, Katherine to attend her person, and…unfortunately when Katherine was asked about her father’s talents as a Bard, Katherine became confused and…”

  “She spilt the beans,” I said. Then assuming the Baron wouldn’t know the phrase, added, “Let the cat out of the bag?” He still looked blank. “Told the Queen the truth?”

  He nodded.

  “Ouch.”

  “Indeed.” The Baron nodded solemnly. “I can tell you that the Queen’s fury knew no bounds. I honestly never meant to mislead her gracious majesty, but I found myself in a situation over which I had no control.” The Baron looked genuinely fearful.

  “It could have been laughed off,” I said. “Really it was just a misunderstanding and I can see how you ended up going through with it all for so long. But poor Luppitt. You exploited his talents for your own end.”

  The Baron shrugged. “Surely that’s the reason one retains talent in one’s household.” He sniffed. “Do you really think the Queen’s esteemed royal father wrote Greensleeves?”

  “Everyone says he did.”

  “Forsooth. I am in the company of a greater fool than the Bard of Somerset.”

  “The Bard of Somerset?”

  “That’s what we called the Smeatharpe boy.”

  I rubbed my forehead wearily. People had come into the Chamber and regarded me, lodged behind one of the display boards, talking to
myself, with curiosity.

  “Listen.” I lowered my voice. “Have you been sending people after Luppitt? Other ghosts?”

  “Sending anyone after him? I don’t even know where he is.” The Baron sounded genuinely confused. “Why would I send anyone after him?”

  “To harm him.”

  The Baron looked at me askance, most taken aback by the insinuation.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have to ask.”

  The Baron had the grace to look shame-faced for a moment. “I’ll admit I didn’t treat him well in life. And I’ve been angry, so, so angry. In all the years I was held here waiting for my gracious Queen to forgive my trespasses, I bore him ill will, it’s true.” He lifted a finger to his eye, and dabbed at the moisture there. “But…what good has it done me? I have languished here, and neither hatred nor love has made one iota of difference to my condition.”

  The Baron’s long face grew longer still and he sniffed. “Besides he was good to my children. Always. I loved them so. I only saw them once after being moved here. My lands were confiscated with the exception of the estate in Somerset and my wife struggled to travel to the capital to bring the children. She never came. She never brought them. It was probably for the best.”

  “You haven’t seen them since you died? Even their spirits haven’t tracked you down?”

  “I believe they all chose to pass over when the time came. And after I died, I hope they chose to move on with their lives.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. He’d had a rum do, all things considered, simply because he had pandered to the Virgin Queen’s vanity.

  “You don’t know what happened to Luppitt then?”

  The Baron shook his head. “Not even the vaguest of notions. I should imagine he took off. The Queen did not appreciate being made to look a fool. If I’d been Luppitt, I’d have fled across the Channel.”

  Except Luppitt lacked the family contacts abroad that the Baron had enjoyed. He was from lowly stock. Where would he have gone? Would he even have known where to go? And how would he have managed to travel to France? If only my Bard of Somerset could remember a few more details.

  Stumped, I exited the Bloody Tower, pleased to escape the oppressive atmosphere, to find a bench to collapse on. I’d forgotten all about Bill Briggs, but he appeared alongside me as I gulped in fresh air.

  “Everything alright?” he asked.

  “Thanks for your help, Briggsy.” I fished a bottle of water from my rucksack.

  “Did you find out everything you needed to?”

  I exhaled. “That’s difficult to say. I did, and I didn’t.” I glanced around at the White Tower behind me. “I don’t suppose the ghost of Queen Elizabeth the First haunts the Tower does it?”

  “No lass, no. Her mother does. Queen Anne is over there.” He pointed to the area slightly to the right of the scaffold.

  “Anne Boleyn,” I said in wonder. One of my favourite historical figures.

  “Now there was a tale of love and lust and ambition that came to an abrupt and sorry end.” Bill sounded like he was about to launch into full tour guide mode.

  “Where did Elizabeth die?” I hurriedly asked.

  “Ah, Good Queen Bess. I believe she expired at Richmond Palace.”

  Except Richmond Palace no longer existed.

  I stood outside The Gatehouse, one of the few remaining buildings contemporary to the Palace, and itself rather diminutive, and peered through the arch with dismay. Of the old building there was no sign.

  “Drat,” I said, slumping against the wall. “All this way. For nothing.”

  I caught sight of a coloured light floating around in some bushes. Bill had recommended a ghost by the name of Samuel Beere, to answer any questions I had. Samuel had been a member of the Queen’s private guard at Richmond Palace at the time of Elizabeth’s death, and apparently haunted The Gatehouse. I acknowledged the light’s presence. A man in armour appeared before me, long straggly hair poking out beneath the helmet, and a vicious looking spear in his hand. “Hello,” I said, peering at him hopefully. “Samuel Beere?”

  “Greetings, madam.” He looked me up and down.

  “Greetings. I’m Alfhild Daemonne. An acquaintance of yours from the Tower of London suggested I track you down here.” I pointed through the arch, looking disappointed. “But there’s nothing to see.”

  “The Gatehouse, The Wardrobe, and Trumpeters' House are the only three buildings that survive, madam.”

  “What happened to the rest of the Royal estate?” I asked. “I assumed it was still here.”

  “No, no. I’m afraid the raw materials were sold off. The stone was especially valuable, I understand.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Who did that?”

  “Oliver Cromwell, madam.”

  “Ah, of course.” It made sense. The land and buildings had been worth far more to the infant parliament than the monarchy and figureheads of old, so set in their ways, and the palaces of splendour they had inhabited.

  I sighed. “I was trying to track down the ghost of Queen Elizabeth. Any ideas?”

  “It is said she wanders around the site on the anniversary of her death—that’s the 24th of March every year.”

  “March?” I repeated, groaning inwardly. Here we were in early September. I had a long time to wait if I wanted to try and ask the Queen any questions. Assuming the rumours were true, and she could be reached on that date in any case. “I see.”

  “May I help you with anything else?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “It was a long shot in the first place. I’ve been trying to find out who would send a ghost to kill a friend of mine. It just seemed logical to me that the Queen might have done.”

  Samuel regarded me with some suspicion. “You’re suggesting that the Queen might have turned her hands to nefarious purposes. I sincerely doubt that.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering if he was for real. “You really can’t deny that Elizabeth wished harm on others, surely? What about Baron von Saxe-Krumpke? He was held at the Bloody Tower and left to languish there until his death.”

  “The good Queen may simply have forgotten his existence,” Samuel replied stoutly. “Think of all the affairs of state she had to turn her attention to on a daily basis. Misbehaving courtiers would not have been high priority.”

  He had a point.

  “Do you think that if she felt someone had wronged her she would let them get away with it?” I asked.

  “Probably not. But I imagine she would give the job to a trusted confidante and he would allocate a number of his own henchmen to take care of the little problem. The Queen would not have been accountable. Ever.”

  “Of course not. I should have thought of that.”

  “It’s entirely possible that whichever of her lords she chose to entrust the job to, he would have told her it had been successfully concluded one way or the other. You wouldn’t have wanted to curry disfavour with the Queen. Not in her later years, that was for certain.”

  Here I was, back at square one.

  Later I lay on my bed in a national chain hotel, feeling a little like Goldilocks.

  The bed was a good size, with clean white bedding, slightly grey from frequent washes. The mattress was neither too hard not too soft, but just right. The room’s colour scheme—white, grey and maroon—was inoffensive. The room had fair dimensions. Tomorrow they would offer me a large breakfast that covered all bases, English, Continental, American, and everything in between no doubt.

  The art on the wall took the form of generic photos – sunset over the Thames, dawn over the Golden Gate Bridge, winter in New York, spring in Paris. Innocuous, inoffensive, bland.

  It bored me.

  The customer service was good, professional, and cheerful enough without being overtly warm or particularly friendly. It made me self-conscious of the transience of my stay. I was part of a machine. The hotel existed for profit, and they serviced me and moved me on, without so much as a by-your-leave.

&
nbsp; The whole day had left me feeling melancholy. More aware of the brevity of life.

  Bill Briggs seemed to be a happy ghost, doing in death what he had so enjoyed in life. Perhaps that was true of Samuel Beere too. Queen’s guard in life, and custodian of her reputation in death. That seemed fair enough.

  But the Baron? He remained as tortured now as he had in the last few years of his life, incarcerated for upsetting an absolute monarch on a day when she was perhaps menopausal. He’d languished in the Bloody Tower at Her Majesty’s Pleasure and been forgotten by everyone including his family.

  I recollected how moved he had been reminiscing about his young children, and how he had appreciated Luppitt’s efforts to keep them entertained. He had seemed genuinely remorseful about what had happened within the limits of his own historic and cultural frames of reference.

  They were different times, and the Baron didn’t strike me as an overtly evil man. He had paid a heavy price.

  My thoughts turned to my own ghosts. I thought of them playing cricket and softball with my father, and digging holes in my lawn. I thought of Florence, mopping up spilled cherry juice and sugar, or laying fires in the bedrooms before everyone else was awake. And I thought of Gwyn and her fierce pride. Haughty, obstinate, but proud, and passionate about the inn.

  Lying there, my feet aching in a way feet only can after a day on a tourist trail, attempting to summon the energy to go and find something to eat, I reflected on the day, and the fact that this hotel was everything I didn’t want my wonky inn to be.

  The guests of Whittle Inn needed to know that they were part of something special. Part of a great history dating back over five centuries. Part of something that mattered, and as long as there was breath in my body, always would.

  My ghosts were as big a part of the inn’s history as the original features of the building itself. I’d be a fool to let them go.

  And if I wasn’t going to let them go, I needed to rethink the clientele I was targeting – because if my potential guests were anything like Martin, Georgie and David, I’d be in big trouble.