The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Page 11

  I’d fully intended to catch an early train back to Devon the next morning. Instead I took a detour and returned to the Tower of London and paid for another ticket.

  Bill Briggs was surprised but pleased to see me again. This time I dallied, listening to some of his tales, and letting him tell me more about Anne Boleyn. We strolled around Tower Green and he pointed out exactly where she’d stood, and where her head had fallen. He told me some horror stories about other executions too, that I of course, lapped up.

  Then we watched the ravens in companionable silence before I went in search of the Baron.

  I had one more question for the Baron.

  Just one.

  “Would you like to cross over, Baron? May I ask you to move on?”

  When his eyes filled with grateful tears, I gave him a little magickal push, and released him from centuries of hell, sending him home and leaving one less ghost in the Bloody Tower.

  The taxi dropped me in the drive of Whittle Inn and I paused there, staring up at the lopsided edifice with great fondness. It seemed impossible to believe that the inn had been mine for such a few short months. And to think that I had almost considered selling it. In the distance, I could see my father making an attempt to repair the holes in the lawn, too busy to notice my arrival. I’d catch up with him later.

  I breathed the good clean air, deeply filling my lungs and thereby eradicating the pollutants from the capital. I wanted to go inside and throw myself into a deep bath and commune with Mr Hoo, while scrubbing the toxins from my skin. The only thing I’d appreciated in London, was the ease of getting around. Rural East Devon was a nightmare when it came to trains and buses and the like. I needed transport. Jed’s van would do. I really had to get myself organised, sign up for a refresher’s driving course and book my test.

  I practically skipped into the inn and deposited my bag on the floor. To my surprise I found Zephaniah wielding a paintbrush around the skirting boards, while Ned niftily employed a plastering trowel and attacked an area nearest the fireplace that had been badly marked when we knocked the partition down. The ceiling had been painted and the floor sanded. Incredible. I’d only been gone a few days. The Wonky Inn Clean-up Crew had been hard at work in my absence.

  “We took what you said to heart,” Zephaniah told me. “We want to help you achieve your dream and make this happen for you. I hope you’re pleased, Miss Alf.?

  “Oh, I really am!” I felt overcome. The wooden serving bar had been polished to a high sheen, all Florence’s doing, no doubt. The glass behind it had been thoroughly cleaned and now sparkled in the light. After a few coats of paint on the walls, all I would need to do would be to add optics, glasses, tankards, a till, slice a lemon and a lime, and the bar would be ready. I cast a quick eye on the pile of chairs and tables in the corner. I would need to take a closer look at those and see what could be done with them, perhaps apply gloss paint or chalk paint, or re-varnish them. Then add a few pictures to the wall and Kaboom!

  “By the way, Miss,” Zephaniah continued, “Mr Kephisto is waiting for you upstairs. Would you like me to carry your bag up?”

  I made a mental note that I was going to need a porter.

  “No thanks, Zephaniah. I’ll manage,” I smiled. “I’d hate to interrupt you when you’re doing such exemplary work.” I giggled happily, grabbed my bag, and trotted up the stairs.

  Mr Kephisto had made himself comfortable in my office, sitting in a scruffy armchair next to my desk, Mr Hoo on his perch next to the old wizard. Mr Kephisto ceased scratching Mr Hoo’s chest, and stood to greet me as I entered. I gave him a hug and shouted for Florence, although given the speed at which she appeared, she had probably been hanging around. She smiled happily, pleased to see me.

  “Welcome home, Miss. Tea and cake?”

  “That would be wonderful. Thanks, Florence.”

  I threw myself into a chair as the maid disappeared, reflecting on the warm feelings inside me, surrounded by people from the past and the present who had come to mean so much to me in such a short time.

  “Have you had a successful few days?” Mr Kephisto asked, his eyes twinkling at me. “You seem unusually content.”

  “I’m so glad to be home,” I replied, stretching luxuriously, feeling the tension in my neck and shoulders ebbing away. “You know, I lived in London for twelve years, but I would never go back. Not now.”

  “London’s loss is Devon’s gain.”

  “I’d forgotten how hectic and fast-paced the world can be. How anonymous you are when you’re there. Just one face among many.” I thought of all the ghosts I had been aware of, at the Tower of London and at the site of Richmond Palace. How few there had been in my hotel, and yet how many ghostly lights I’d become conscious of while walking along the Embankment outside my hotel at night.

  “I’ve never been,” Mr Kephisto admitted.

  “You’ve never been to London?” I asked incredulous. “Not even to Celestial Street?”

  “No.”

  “Or to visit Wizard Shadowmender?”

  “No need. He always comes to me.”

  “Wow. How old are you?” He’d had a long enough life to visit at least once I thought. How old could he be? In his seventies I decided.

  “Old. Very old.” Mr Kephisto grinned at my rude question, his face mischievous. “Older than you think.” There was a story there, and I wanted to know more, but we were interrupted by Florence arriving with a tray.

  I thanked her. “Have you seen Grandmama?” I asked her. Gwyn’s absence was notable.

  Florence looked evasive. “She said something about finding a chef, Miss Alf.”

  “Oh.” I tutted. The woman was driven.

  And determined to do a better job than me. Well good luck to her.

  Florence disappeared back to the kitchen and Mr Kephisto leaned forward to grab a fruit bun. “Mmm.”

  “Where were we?” I asked.

  “Did you manage to find out anything about Luppitt?”

  “Not as much as I wanted. I did succeed in tracking down Baron von Saxe-Krumpke. Poor man. Living with all that anger and hatred for so long.” Mr Kephisto peered over his glasses with new interest. He would want to write this up of course and store it among his records. I told him everything that had passed between us.

  “He didn’t treat Luppitt fairly,” I said, “but even so his punishment was overly harsh.”

  “In those days, you displeased the monarch at your peril,” Mr Kephisto mused.

  “So it seems.” I slurped at my tea, far better than anything I’d drunk in the past few days. Florence made the best tea I’d ever tasted. I’d have to give her a job for life. “I then managed to speak to a Queen’s guard at the site of Richmond Palace. Although he was very loyal to the Queen, I have a feeling he was telling me the truth. It seems unlikely she would hold a grudge against Luppitt that carried over from life into death.”

  “Hmm,” Mr Kephisto mused. “Whom do we think does carry all that anger?”

  “I suppose it could be the Baron’s son, but I have no information on him, or what happened to him. Does your book say anything?” I remembered The Rise and Fall of the von Saxe-Krumpke Family – from Antiquity to the Modern Day.

  “I’ll have a read of the next chapter,” Mr Kephisto nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

  “When I spoke to the Baron he did say he thought all of his family had chosen to pass on, so the likelihood is, it isn’t his son behind this.”

  “Then we may be way off the mark. What if this all hinges on what happened after the Baron was arrested and Luppitt took off? If only we knew what he did next.”

  “That’s the thing. I was thinking about this on the train home,” I said, excitement building inside me. The more I thought about it, the more my gut said I was progressing along the right lines. “The Baron referred to Luppitt as the ‘Bard of Somerset’. We know that he was highly skilled—in rhyme, poetry, singing, playing music. He entertained the Baron’s children. He wrote
ditties and songs that the Queen loved, even though the Baron presented them as his own.” I munched on a fruit bun in silence, allowing Mr Kephisto to consider that.

  Waving my bun in the direction of Luppitt’s room, I continued, “He had to make a living. He couldn’t turn to his family. He probably had little in the way of savings, if anything at all. He would have turned to what he knew—music and singing and acting maybe. Perhaps he joined a troop of actors or singers. He was known as the Bard of Somerset. He may have stayed in that area. Perhaps he headed north towards Gloucester or Worcester, or perhaps he came south into Devon or Cornwall.”

  “Your father found him at a crossroads near Exeter.”

  “Gallows Cross. Exactly.”

  “So you’re right, he must have been based around here for at least part of the time. It would have been the perfect lifestyle. Always on the move. He’d have kept one step ahead of whomever was looking for him, whether that was one of the Queen’s men or not.”

  We stared at each other and I knew Mr Kephisto agreed with me. Luppitt had to have supported himself doing what he loved best. “How do I find out more?” I asked. “Will any of your archives tell you.”

  “They may do,” Mr Kephisto said, thinking rapidly, “but I already know for a fact that at that time there were troops of actors and companies of musicians of the kind of which you speak. They did the rounds, often staying at inns such as this…”

  “I wonder if they stayed here? The inn would have been new back then.”

  “There might be traces, I imagine…?”

  “Traces?” I frowned. “Like ghost lights?”

  Mr Kephisto nodded. I racked my memory trying to think of all the ghosts who inhabited the inn, many of whom I knew by sight, although a few were a little more secretive, or their ghost lights shone a little duller and they weren’t easy to locate. Not for me, operating purely on instinct most of the time anyhow.

  But I knew a woman who would be able to track them down easily, didn’t I?

  Perdita glanced up briefly as I entered The Nook. She was sifting through a pile of charts on her desk, marking one or two with felt tip pen. The electro-endoquaero was working overtime, beeping and blipping, and the printer was spewing out reams of paper.

  Chi who had made herself a bed on top of a huge pile of waste paper, looked up and yawned at me. I was obviously disturbing her rest. I stroked her head.

  “How’s it going?” I asked Perdita who had turned her attention back to her charts.

  “Grand. Grand. There is some absolutely fascinating data here, Alf. I’ve managed to put together various information sheets for you, covering every single ghost you have on the property. In the end I think I’ve found 63, possibly 64 spirits. Around a dozen of these leave very faint traces, and another seven have wide trails that cover far reaching distances, so they’re actually only here for part of the time.”

  “Trails? What do you mean?”

  “As I’ve told you before. The electro-endoquaero picks up the spirit’s movement and can map where they go and when. I’m particularly interested in patterns. So what I’m seeing from the data I’ve gathered over the past few weeks is that you have a number of house ghosts—or inn ghosts if you prefer—who have free rein of the house and gardens. One or two stay in one room or another. Others live purely in the grounds or the wood. And I have managed to trace seven who leave the inn and go into the village or even beyond.”

  That piqued my interest. “What a coincidence.”

  “How so?” Perdita hardly looked up from her paperwork.

  “It’s Luppitt,” I said. “I have a theory.”

  “Oh I love theories.” Perdita favoured me with another quick glance and this time I saw a spark of interest in her eyes.

  “That’s good.” I drew up a chair. “I’m hoping you can help me. I want to find out if any of our ghosts were ever a musician, a poet, or singer, or an actor, way back at the end of the sixteenth century. My theory is they might have known or worked with Luppitt.”

  “Do you think this could be the one trying to harm him?” Perdita asked, excitement lifting her voice to a higher pitch than normal.

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “But even if it isn’t them, they might know more about what happened to him.”

  Perdita nodded and searched among her data sheets until she had extracted half a dozen or so. She scanned them and discarded five quite quickly, leaving herself with two. She laid them on the table in front of us. Each sheet was awash with green numbers, most of them pale, but some of them emboldened.

  Pointing—with an impressively manicured fuchsia-pink nail—Perdita traced a line for me. At first, I couldn’t see what she was showing me, but when she instructed me to squint, I could pick out the faintest of trails among the numbers. The numbers seemed to represent the topography of the landscape, and while meaningless to me, they obviously meant something to Perdita.

  “Now these two are unusual,” Perdita offered. “These are the most wide-ranging trails I’ve found at the inn. This one,” she pointed to the data sheet on the left, “spends a lot of time in the woods, and in the grounds, but occasionally goes off, and I lose trace of him.”

  “Down to the village?” I asked.

  “No. Much further afield that that. Off my charts. Out of the county. Perhaps much further afield.” She pointed to the sheet on the right. “This one travels a lot too, but mainly around south and east Devon, south Somerset and Dorset. Occasionally over the bridge and into Cornwall.”

  “Are either of them old enough to be the ghost I’m looking for?”

  “It’s impossible to tell just using my equipment. That’s where the ghost whispering comes in handy.” Perdita smiled with glee. I knew she was hoping I’d invite her along to talk to the ghosts.

  “I see.” That was a shame, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Do you think these would be worth talking to?”

  “If you can track them down, yes.”

  “Any idea where they are?” I peered over her shoulder at the electro-endoquaero hoping it would offer some illumination.

  “As luck would have it, not too far away.” Perdita pulled the machine towards herself and tapped a few buttons, illuminating one dot. “This first one is very close by…this is the inn, and the boundary is here…do you see?” she indicated the lined on the screen.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “So the first one is in the garden.”

  “Great. And the second one?”

  “Slightly trickier.” She entered a few details on her keyboard, hit enter and waited. “Oh not too bad. This one is on the move and following a trail I’ve noticed him take before. Last night he was…” She examined the sheet with all the green numbers. “…In a place called Abbotts Cromleigh? Yes. And tonight, he will be… here.”

  I examined the map. The numbers ended abruptly. “That’s the sea,” Perdita said helpfully. “Tonight, he’ll be in Durscombe. Do you know it?”

  “It’s a seaside town, not too far away. We used to go there when I was a kid.”

  Perdita nodded happily as though she had solved everything.

  “Let’s go and find the ghost in the garden, shall we?” I suggested, and Perdita, happy to be included, grinned as though I had made her year.

  Arthur Grubbe, a skinny and miserable looking specimen of a spirit if ever I saw one, perched in a tree and stared down at me suspiciously. “What do you want?” he barked. Chi, at Perdita’s feet, barked right back, as if to say ‘mind your manners’.

  “I just want to ask a few questions,” I said mildly, and Perdita, beside me nodded in encouragement.

  “Maybe I don’t want to answer them.” He spat at the ground and drew his dry lips back. I noticed he was missing most of his front teeth, and the ones that were in place were black with decay. He cut an odd figure; his clothes badly soiled, his hair long and greasy. I’d have put him into his sixties by his appearance and sallow, wrinkled skin, but the depth of colour to his hair su
ggested he was younger than that.

  So far he had given me his name and that was about all.

  “I can assure you you’re not in any trouble,” I called up, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Tha’s what they always says,” he drawled.

  “I mean it. Look, I won’t take up much of your time and then you can come into the inn if you want.” I indicated the building behind us.

  He flicked a glance at the inn and then back down at me. “I’s not allowed near there. The gentleman said.”

  I wondered which gentleman he was referring to. It could have been anyone who’d run the inn over the last four or five hundred years.

  “There’s no gentleman at the inn anymore. Not alive at any rate. And no dead gentlemen that would wish you harm. It’s my inn now. And if I say you can come in then that’s the end of it,” I spoke firmly, and held my hand out to him as though he could take it and I would help him down from the tree.

  But at last, he did jump down of his own accord.

  He was a small man, maybe about five foot four. He examined both Perdita and myself close up, and then nodded as though he was satisfied we wouldn’t hurt him.

  “So what can I do for yous ladies?” he asked and took off his hat.

  “Do you know Luppitt Smeatharpe?” I decided I might as well come straight out with it.

  “I knows he’s here. Everyone knows that.”

  The world’s worst kept secret, I thought. Not surprising given the hullabaloo Luppitt was fond of making.

  “Did you know him in life?” I continued.

  “Not in so many words.” Arthur ducked his head and I noticed he had a nervous twitch.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, I got around a bit, and he got around a bit.”

  I was none the wiser.

  “But not together?” suggested Perdita.

  “Precisely.” Arthur grinned at Perdita, a swagger in his voice now, while I struggled to hide my repulsion at the black cavern of his mouth. “Tha’s precisely it, my lovely.”