The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Page 4

  I nodded, and he continued conspiratorially, “He was extraordinarily wealthy, and notoriously mean. I might add that there isn’t much that is good or pleasant that can be said about Baron Saxe-Krumpke, except that for those first few years he was often called upon to attend our illustrious Queen at court, and he would take me with him.”

  I raised my eyebrows and stopped him. “Wait. Queen?”

  “Why good Queen Elizabeth, my lady.” Luppitt regarded me with suspicion, as though it was obvious which queen he was referring to. I suppose the ruff kind of gave it away.

  “Of course. Just checking.”

  Luppitt rubbed his eyes. “For a while I think Her Most Eminent Majesty was quite taken with the Baron. She found him interesting, or amusing or something, because she kept asking him back. Although for the life of me, I couldn’t think why.”

  “What was wrong with him?” I asked.

  “The man was a dullard and poorly educated to boot. What’s more he spoke the Queen’s English with a harsh Germanic accent. It hurt my ears.”

  I hid a smile. “I see.”

  “You know, if you’re going to continue interrupting me so rudely, this woeful tale of mine will take longer to tell.”

  “I’m sorry.” I shook my head in apology. “I’m just seeking to clarify parts of your story, that’s all, so that I…fully understand what you have been through, and what brings you to the inn. Please continue.” I perched on the bed as close to him as I dared to be, and folded my hands in my lap, feeling for all the world like Alice in Wonderland when she meets the Queen of Hearts.

  “Eventually, Her Majesty…” he paused and frowned, rubbing at his temples, “Oh, darn these headaches. I forget.”

  “Her Majesty?” I prompted gently.

  “Yes, the Queen. She grew tired of him—the Baron I mean—and sent him to the tower. And I don’t recall what happened to him after that, but I’ll warrant it was remarkably unpleasant.”

  He stopped. I waited.

  He didn’t say anything else, just glanced at the window and the darkness beyond.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” Luppitt replied meekly and looked longingly at the wardrobe.

  “I thought you said it was a long story.”

  “That’s the shorter version.”

  I sighed and slumped on the bed. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. I do want to hear the whole thing. I promise I won’t interrupt again.”

  “Oh. It’s not that, my lady. It’s just…”

  “Just what?” I prompted when he lapsed into uneasy silence once more.

  “I don’t remember it all.”

  “Tell me what you do remember, then.”

  “I remember being at court. I remember seeing the Queen. I remember the pomp and the ceremony, the grandeur and the trumpets. I remember the heraldry and the vibrant colours – all the gold and red. I remember dancers and players, and fools and musicians and singers, and …”

  I waited, intent on letting him finish.

  “I remember standing up in front of Her Majesty—oh! The honour! —and singing verses I had written in tribute to her magnificence.”

  “Well that sounds fantastic,” I said, genuinely enthused by the news that Luppitt had spent time at the court of one of the greatest monarchs England, and indeed Europe, had ever had. Luppitt was an incredible eye-witness. I wanted to know more.

  “But then it all went wrong, my lady,” Luppitt whispered, twisting his hands together in his lap.

  “In what way?”

  He shook his head, “I can’t remember.”

  Puzzled, I leaned forward to look properly into his face. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t lying to me. He genuinely couldn’t recall what had happened after that. “Then how have you ended up here at the inn, hiding in a wardrobe in an empty guest bedroom?” I asked. “Why did my father think you would be safe here, rather than anywhere else?”

  Luppitt stared back at me, his haunted eyes shining with tears. “He said you would protect me. You and the ghosts already inhabiting the inn.”

  “And you need protection because?”

  “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  I sat bolt upright. Not again.

  “Trying to kill you?” What is it with so many of these ghosts that they have no self-awareness? “I hate to break it to you, Luppitt, but you’re already dead.”

  Luppitt sat back to look at me properly, and shook his head, his brow creased, obviously perturbed that I imagined he hadn’t the wit to realise this regrettable fact. “Oh I know I’m dead, my lady. I’m perfectly well aware of that.”

  He stood—and darting another glance at the window—slowly made his way back to the wardrobe, fully intending to hide away once more. “But that doesn’t stop them. They killed me before. Many times. Over and over. And they want to kill me again.”

  “Kill you again?” He pulled the door closed behind himself.

  “Who killed you?” I asked to thin air, staring after him in confusion.

  How on earth do you kill a ghost?

  My advert for a chef had obviously caught the imagination of those disillusioned with life in the Big Smoke. I had dozens of applications for my post and the advert still had another six days to run. What on earth had I been thinking? I stared at the screen of my computer, sifting through those I could turn down without too much consideration, and adding those with potential to a smaller ‘possibles’ folder.

  I didn’t need specialists. As much as I would have loved a master baker at the inn—because the idea of cake on tap was certainly intoxicating—what I really needed was a good all-rounder. For that reason, I declined several butchers, and dessert chefs, and someone who had worked exclusively with fish his entire career. Also out was a woman with over forty years’ experience who was looking to retire to Devon, and a head chef who wanted to scale down the amount of time he spent cooking, and would therefore require three days leave per week.

  They weren’t what I had in mind for the inn.

  I wanted someone youthful and dynamic and full of interesting ideas. Someone who would create amazingly colourful plates of incredible tasting food. Someone who would experiment with exotic fruit and vegetables and really put us on the culinary map. They needed to have passion and drive. I was beginning to formulate a plan for the inn, targeting millennials looking for a rural bolt hole, somewhere away from the rat race. I could create walking trails through Speckled Wood, or direct them to spectacular hikes along the Jurassic Coast, pointing out the best beaches and historical sites of interest. They didn’t need shopping and nightclubs, they could get all that somewhere else. No, Whittle Inn would be an oasis of rural calm.

  I remained at my computer most of the morning, sporadically daydreaming, and sometimes fielding another jaw-droppingly dull job application, occasionally almost dropping off, until shouting and laughter caught my attention.

  I shook myself properly awake and walked stiffly over to the window. Out on the lawn—the one that Zephaniah had so carefully mown the previous day—some sort of gathering was taking place. My father, along with Zephaniah, and most of the ghosts who lived in the attic were out there, with the exception of Florence and Grandmama. They were paired up and holding wooden sticks with a mallet head at one end.

  After more shouting and some giggling, I watched as they drove semi-circular hoops into the ground. Then they took it in turns to try to knock little wooden balls through the embedded hoops.

  A ghostly game of croquet, I realised, although not the usual genteel kind.

  I guessed this was what the shouting had been about. The hoops were spread wide part on the lawn, much further than they normally would be, so that you had to hit the ball extra hard to get it through the hoop. Much hilarity ensued as the balls disappeared into the bushes or the trees on the outskirts of the ground, and as much time seemed to be spent looking for the balls as actually playing the game.

  I watched my father, doubled over with la
ughter, and felt the familiar pang of sadness that he had died, and I would never again spend time with him in his physical form, and yet, at least now I had him back in my life. He came and went of course, busy with The Circle of Querkus and attending to any business that needed doing, fighting the good fight against The Mori, but even so I had seen more of him in the past few months than I had in the previous eighteen years, so I had to count my blessings.

  The lure of the croquet pitch was irresistible so I tripped downstairs and out onto the front lawns. My father hailed me with a hug. Or an air-hug I should say, as I couldn’t feel him physically.

  “When did you get back?” I asked.

  “A few hours ago. I went up to see my friends in the attic and Zephaniah had found this old croquet set. I think it belonged to Grandmama.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t imagine Gwyn playing any kind of game, let alone croquet.

  “Yes, I believe she was quite good in her day. She used to host garden parties with games of croquet at the inn when she was newly married.”

  “That sounds fun,” I said. I couldn’t see my millennial type guests playing such old-fashioned games which was a shame. You’d be hard pressed to drag them away from their mobiles, most of them. They probably had apps that allowed them to play virtual croquet with an imaginary friend instead.

  “Would you like to partner up with someone?” my father asked. “The only rules are that you’re not allowed to use magick in any form to get the balls through the hoops.”

  I was about to say yes, when a movement from an upper window caused me to look up, and I spotted the pale sad face of Luppitt Smeatharpe looking down on us from his bedroom. When he saw me looking up, he pulled away, out of my view.

  “Dad,” I asked instead, “what do you know about Luppitt Smeatharpe?”

  “Not much.” My father followed my gaze. “I received word about him from an anonymous source. He’d managed to get himself stuck at a crossroads and didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going. He doesn’t seem to know whom he is supposed to be haunting or why. He seems to have lost his memory.”

  “Yes. I noticed that. He claims you said I’d protect him.”

  My father nodded sagely, his eyes twinkling. “If not you, then who, darling Alf? You’re the witch with the impressive ghost whispering skills after all.”

  “Ha!” I said. Ghost whispering? What was he on about?

  “I think you can get to the bottom of whatever is troubling him. And find out who he’s afraid of. Maybe you can even put things right for him somehow and send him back to where he belongs.”

  “That’s a big ask,” I said. I wouldn’t know where to start.

  “If anyone can do it, you can.” Someone called to my father and he wiggled his mallet at me before heading off. I watched him join the others and then peered up at the window again. I thought I saw a slither of Luppitt’s face, peeking anxiously out at us, perhaps wishing he could join in.

  A shout rose from behind me, and purely through my sixth sense, I shot my hand out and caught a wooden ball as it sailed towards one of the bar’s windows.

  “Howzat!” called Zephaniah and jogged towards me to retrieve the ball.

  “I think you may be getting your games mixed up,” I said mildly, handing it back to him.

  “That’s just not cricket.” He winked, and I laughed.

  “Zephaniah?” I stopped him before he could trot back to his game. “Do you think you would be able to put a curtain rail up for me?” Looking at his missing arm, I added, “Or could you get someone to help you?”

  “Oh yes, Miss. Where would you like it?”

  I indicated the bedroom window above us. “That one.”

  “I’ll get on to it straight away.”

  “Finish your game first,” I said, and made my way inside to have another chat with Luppitt.

  I managed to entice Luppitt away from both his wardrobe and the room he was holed up in. His room—as I was beginning to think of it—was becoming to all intents and purposes little more than a prison. I led him to my small sitting room, where Florence had kindly laid a fire to help it look homelier. We sat opposite each other on the battered chairs that currently took the place of a three-piece suite.

  Luppitt looked up at me expectantly.

  “I’m arranging to have some curtains put up in that bedroom to give you a little more privacy,” I began. “I hope that will help you feel a little more at home.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  I puffed my cheeks out, pondering where to start. “I’d like to find out more about you, Luppitt, but your memory loss makes everything a little difficult. Any records there are about you will be lost in the mists of time.” I brandished a notebook and pen at him. “So with your agreement, I would really like to take some notes, and try and do a little research. See what I can find out.”

  Luppitt looked worried. “But, my lady, I don’t know what else I can tell you that I haven’t already mentioned.” He rubbed at his forehead, just as I’d seen him do early this morning.

  “You mentioned you had a headache when we first spoke this morning,” I said, and he nodded.

  “I am sorely afflicted with many of them.”

  “You see, I find that unusual Luppitt. Most of the ghosts I know, no longer feel any pain. That’s one of the perks of being dead, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Luppitt asked blankly.

  “Hmm. Well I thought it was.” I made a note of the headaches in my book. Then chewed on the end of my pen while I thought about what I should ask next. The shouting outside drifted through the open window.

  “My dad mentioned that someone tipped him off about you, and that he located you at a crossroads. Do you remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “Where was the crossroads?”

  “At the place known as Gallows Cross, in Heavitree.”

  “Gallows Cross?”

  “Yes, I believe that was its name.”

  “So close? That’s only a few miles down the road.” I was surprised. “Where were you heading?”

  “I don’t remember, my lady. I’m not sure I was journeying anywhere. I think I had been brought there many years ago.”

  “Brought there?” This was getting us somewhere. “By someone else? Who?”

  Luppitt shrugged again.

  “Then why?” I pressed.

  “To be hung, my lady?”

  “Hung?” I started in horror. He was being so matter-of-fact about everything, but his fragmented story made for grim listening. “Oh, Luppitt, that’s terrible. What on earth had you done that such a punishment was meted out that way?”

  Luppitt shook his head sorrowfully.

  “I know not, my lady.”

  “So this was sometime in the, what? Late-sixteenth century?”

  “Oh no, later than that. Perhaps the mid-eighteenth century.”

  I lifted my pen from the page and regarded Luppitt with confusion.

  “As I told you, my lady. I’ve been killed many times. This is merely one example. In fact, this is also the final of such occasions. My ghost has haunted the crossroads ever since. I couldn’t find my way neither east nor west, nor even north nor south. It was a sorry state of affairs. I was condemned to an eternity of wandering about the same place, never leaving and never arriving anywhere. Until your father found me, at least.”

  “I’m glad he did.”

  My mind raced. Luppitt claimed to have been killed over and over and yet I had never heard of such a thing.

  “How did you die the first time?” I asked. “And where?” Luppitt shook his head. He couldn’t recall.

  “Do you know how many times between the last time and the first time?”

  Luppitt shrugged, then stroked his beard. “I don’t know the exact number, but many. Many.”

  “And how? Always by hanging?”

  The sound of a loud thump into the side of the inn made us both jump. Luppitt glanced about fearfully. I stood, sm
iled reassuringly and walked with purpose to the window. My father saw me looking down at him and waved cheekily, a wooden ball in his hand. I narrowed my eyes at him, before re-taking my seat close to Luppitt.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s the others. They’re playing outside and trying to destroy my inn. You were saying?”

  “I don’t remember details. Just blurred memories of…death by water…by sword…by pistol…being clubbed…but the noose. The noose is the one I dread the most.” He wrapped his hands around his throat. “The slow drop. Being squeezed.” He closed his eyes and dropped his hands. I watched as tears bloomed under his eye lashes.

  I desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, but of course there was nothing solid there to soothe. “How can they kill you over and over again?” I asked. “That’s what puzzles me the most. I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “I have no idea,” Luppitt replied.

  “I wonder if that’s the key to this whole thing,” I said. “If I can figure out how and why you’re being killed repeatedly, maybe we can put a stop to it once and for all.”

  That’s how I came to visit Mr Kephisto at The Storykeeper in Abbotts Cromleigh, the very next day.

  I climbed the steps to his shop and pushed open the door. The old-fashioned overhead bell announced my arrival, swiftly followed by a chorus of caws from the old wizard’s crow.

  “Kephisto,” he called, “Kephisto.”

  The shop door swung closed behind me and I heard the unmistakeable sound of the rollers clicking in the lock.

  “Up here,” Mr Kephisto called, and I climbed the rickety staircase to the mezzanine level, to find him sitting comfortably in one of the overstuffed armchairs there. A tray of tea and a plate of biscuits were arranged neatly on the table alongside a globe of the world. I wouldn’t have put it past him to know I was coming. Certainly, his good friend, and my mentor, Wizard Shadowmender would have done had I been visiting him, but in this case, for politeness’ sake, I had phoned ahead and asked whether it would be okay to pop by.