The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2 Read online

  “She wanders around, talking to all and sundry, making notes in her little book, and I must confess, Miss Alf, some of us are growing a little concerned.”

  “Please don’t be,” I sought to reassure Zephaniah, but my stomach twisted queasily. I was aware, as Perdita had said, that if there were too many ghosts at the inn, this might make it potentially off-putting for guests.

  “Very well, Miss Alf,” Zephaniah nodded, but I could hear the doubt in his tone. He hoisted the ladder easily with his one good arm and moved away in the direction of the bar.

  Then someone outside the inn screamed.

  Unsure where the scream had originated, I stood stock still, listening. Perdita poked her head out of The Nook’s stable door, and peered at me through her thick glasses. I frowned and shrugged, but when the second scream followed the first, I had no choice but to take to my heels.

  I deduced the scream had originated at the front of the inn, so I dashed after Zephaniah, catching him up as he dropped the ladders on the drive. He had responded to the scream too and was running towards a large oak tree on the edge of the lawn and to the right of the drive. Breathless with fear, I ran after him, unsure what I would find.

  I skidded to a halt at the foot of the tree. A crowd of ghosts gathered there, including my father, Gwyn and Ned. They huddled together, peering up into the branches, and following their direction I gasped in horror. Luppitt was hanging from one of the larger branches, suspended by a rope wrapped around his neck in a noose, approximately twelve feet off the ground. He kicked at the air, clawing at his neck.

  “What on earth?” I cried, clasping my hands to my mouth. “Help him! Help him!”

  “We need a ladder,” my father said.

  “Zephaniah!” I called, “get yours!” And he was away, running like the wind, for the ladder he had dropped.

  “Luppitt!” I called up into the tree. “We’re coming. We’re going to help you!”

  Turning to my father, I asked, “He didn’t do this to himself, did he? Tell me he didn’t.”

  “I didn’t see anyone else, Alf. We were gathered over the other side of the garden. We’ve been trying to rescue a ball.”

  As Zephaniah came running back with the ladders, I grabbed them and set them up, leaning them against the massive trunk of the tree, and digging the feet into the earth, to prevent them wobbling. “You can’t go up there, Alf,” my father said.

  “Don’t be daft,” I responded and climbed the first few rungs. Who else would go up?

  “There’s no point Alfhild,” Gwyn called after me.

  As I clambered up another few feet I realised what she meant. I couldn’t touch Luppitt. I wouldn’t be able to free him. I couldn’t physically feel him. The only thing I could do was cut the rope and I didn’t have a knife on me.

  I jumped down in despair and watched as my father shimmied up the ladder in my stead. He carefully manoeuvred off the ladder and onto the branch that held Luppitt. Reaching down to the stricken Bard he grabbed him under the shoulders and then hoisted him several inches. Ned climbed up to help, reaching out from the ladder to grab Luppitt’s legs. Luppitt was struggling less now, the fight all but gone out of him. Ned took his weight and lifted him higher. Between them, he and my father were able to life Luppitt onto the branch and rested him there. Ned climbed down allowing me to go back up, and with clumsy shaking fingers I worked through the knots until the rope slackened.

  I moved back down the ladder and took my place as an onlooker once more. My father and Ned gently inched Luppitt down the ladder, where other calm and gentle hands received Luppitt and laid him on the ground. I stood behind them, watching them work on him, loosening his clothing, rubbing his arms and legs.

  For one horrible heart-stopping moment, I thought I was watching the demise of Luppitt for the umpteenth time, but finally he coughed and hacked, reaching for his throat. The others helped him into a sitting position. Florence ran up with a glass of water and a blanket, which Gwyn wrapped around him, supporting him while the housemaid coaxed the Bard to take gentle sips.

  “He had come outside for the first time,” my father was saying. “He was watching us play softball. I was trying to get him to join in, and I think he wanted to. Then the next thing I knew, he wasn’t with us. I assumed he had gone back inside.”

  My heart hammered in my chest as I pushed my way among the ghosts until I could kneel beside Luppitt and look him in the eye. “Are you going to be alright, Luppitt?” I asked, and he nodded and coughed some more.

  “What happened?” I hated to press him, but I needed to understand.

  “They came.” Luppitt wheezed with his words.

  “They?”

  “Two of them. Came for me.”

  “Who were they?” I asked, but Luppitt shook his head.

  “It’s true what he says,” Ned chimed in. “I saw movement over here and came to investigate. I was nearly too late.”

  “You saw the people who attacked Luppitt.”

  “I did. There were two of them, but I didn’t get a good look at them. By the time I realised what was going on it was too late.”

  I nodded, aghast.

  Luppitt had been telling the truth. Someone was out to kill him all over again, and now they had discovered him at Whittle Inn.

  I had to get to the bottom of this, whatever the cost.

  Later that evening, with Luppitt safely re-installed in his bedroom, I had a low volume conversation with Perdita in The Nook to discuss the best ways to protect him. Short of identifying the would-be killers, she seemed rather at a loss for ideas. She did however, suggest he never be left alone.

  This made a great deal of sense to me, and to that end, I moved my father, Zephaniah and Ned into the guest bedroom with Luppitt and instructed this unlikely trio to guard him with their very souls.

  As I left them there, I heard Luppitt outlining the myriad number of ways he had died in the past – those he could remember at any rate. Ned in particular, appeared spellbound by Luppitt’s stories, but I, not for the first time could only feel horror-struck.

  Death seemed intent on visiting Whittle Inn yet again.

  I woke long before dawn.

  Having tossed and turned most of the night I had finally settled only when Mr Hoo arrived at my window sill. “What am I so afraid of?” I asked him, anxiety, like acid, gnawing away at my stomach lining.

  “Hoo oo,” he replied, “hoo-oooo.”

  “It feels like everything is against me,” I yawned, my skin itchy and my eyes dry. I turned the pillow over and lay back down, my cheek against the cool cotton.

  I watched as Mr Hoo plucked a few loose feathers from his chest with one deft movement, then hooted away softly to himself. I closed my eyes, and fell asleep listening to his gentle owl song, and slept deeply, without dreaming, for the first time in several months.

  I awoke, a little more refreshed, and feeling hungry. When I reached the kitchen, Florence seemed oddly jaded, more transparent than she generally was.

  “Have you checked on Luppitt?” she asked, when I commented.

  “Yes.” He was fine, although intent on remaining in the wardrobe for the foreseeable future. “My Dad is trying to lift his spirits, so to speak. Zephaniah is helping.”

  Florence managed a half-smile at my rubbish pun but perked up when I mentioned Zephaniah. “He’s been trying to dig a little deeper into Luppitt’s past, and I think he might be getting somewhere. I know the name of his brothers - Henry and William and his father was called John.”

  “Such noble names,” Florence said, then rushed on. “I think Zephaniah is such a useful fellow to have around, don’t you, Miss?”

  “I do,” I replied as Florence placed two rounds of toast and a jar of homemade marmalade in front of me. I watched her move around the kitchen, while she avoided my gaze. “Thanks,” I said.

  “It would be such a shame if he had to leave,” Florence continued. “We’d all miss him, wouldn’t we?”

  �
�We would.” I wondered where this was going. “No-one is leaving, Florence,” I started to say, just as Gwyn bustled in.

  “Quite right. No-one is going anywhere, Alfhild.” Gwyn fixed me with her beady black eyes. I sat a little straighter under her sharp gaze.

  “Grandmama—”

  “If you have decided no-one is leaving, perhaps it is time you told your… ‘ghost-whispering’ friend that you no longer require her assistance.”

  “Grandmama—”

  “Whittle Inn has always had ghosts, Alfhild, and no doubt one day, yours will haunt these corridors too.”

  Now there was a thought. “Grandmama—”

  “You’re going about your so-called improvements all the wrong way.”

  “Grandmama!” I slammed my hand down on the table. Florence jumped and Gwyn favoured me with her most disapproving glare.

  “I’m not sure where the rumour that I’m planning on culling ghosts came from—”

  “I think you’ll find you were overheard, my dear girl. That’s the thing about the inn, you’re never on your own. No matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with.”

  I blinked, taking that in. One of the ghosts had been eavesdropping on me. I suppose that served me right.

  I shook my head, “Grandmama. That wasn’t what was discussed. Well, it was discussed, but—” I stopped, regrouped, and tried to unravel the threads of confusion. “I have to get the inn back on its feet. I have to make it pay again.”

  “For shame, Alfhild. Don’t you see that this inn belongs to all its inhabitants, not just you. It’s not your inn, in the broadest sense of whatever that means. It’s not your property, or your inheritance. It’s not as simple as that. You are a custodian. You have a responsibility to the inn, and every being that inhabits it.”

  “I have to make some tough decisions.”

  “Maybe. But what you’re proposing is just not nice.”

  Exasperated, I dropped my knife on my plate. “Nice won’t run an inn, Grandmama.” I’d raised my voice and Gwyn took a step back, her mouth pursed tighter than ever. Florence scurried into the store room through the closed door.

  Silence.

  A deep silence that spread throughout the whole of the inn, as though every mouse under the floorboards, every bird in the thatch, every ghost in every shadowy corner, had stopped to listen to what I would say, and how my steely great grandmother would respond.

  “I am trying,” I said more quietly.

  “You’re not trying hard enough, Alfhild,” Gwyn responded, ice in her eyes. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you need to put that man out of your thoughts and knuckle down. Get this kitchen organised, painted and decorated. Get a chef in. What about other staff?”

  “I have some chefs coming for an interview,” I said meekly. I hadn’t even begun to consider what other positions needed filling around the inn. It didn’t seem worth worrying about given the current state of the place.

  “When are the chefs coming for interview?”

  “Thursday.”

  “That’s good. It gives you a few days to make some progress.” Gwyn’s voice softened. “I shall pop in to vet them too. It might be helpful if I give them some pointers on the menu we hope to offer our guests here at Whittle Inn”

  “Grandmama—” I didn’t think Gwyn’s presence would be a particularly good idea, and her ideas on dishes to serve might not suit the twenty-first century guests we would receive, but I protested to thin air. Gwyn had apparated out of the kitchen and gone to make someone else’s life a misery.

  Lucky them.

  I sat at the table, my head in my hands, confused and suddenly tired beyond words. Stress will do that to you.

  “I can’t have an inn full of ghosts if I want an inn full of guests,” I said, and rubbed my eyes, tired and sore.

  The sound of a mug being placed into position next to my plate of toast startled me. Florence had returned from where she’d been hiding out.

  I peeked up at her guiltily, and she returned my look with a warm one of her own. “Don’t worry, Miss,” she said, entirely without malice. “No-one here will hold it against you. You have to do what you have to do.”

  Her kindness tipped me over the edge. I burst into tears.

  I trooped up to my desk, where I spent a miserable few hours trying to work through some thoughts and plans for the inn. I still hadn’t decided on themes for each room. Once I had that sorted I could get to work on the design for each, order paint and paper, bed linen and accessories. The bills were starting to stack up for the work undertaken already, and in addition to the needs of the inn, I had to keep an eye out for work and maintenance required on the dozen tied cottages in the village as well as the convenience store and café. I had been sadly neglecting my Whittlecombe village responsibilities of late.

  Distant shouting from out the window drew me away from my desk at midday. The sun shone from an otherwise dark grey sky, brilliant sunshine, but the calm before the storm. It looked like it would tip down at any minute. I wasn’t too unhappy about that, certainly the grounds needed the rain. I assumed the cricketers below would be less happy.

  Zephaniah was bowling. Presumably he had left Ned upstairs with Luppitt as I couldn’t see him among the players. I watched Zephaniah skip down the dusty trail the players had flattened into the grass through use, before bowling a perfect ball, taking my father out leg-before-wicket.

  There were cries of merriment, drowning out my Dad’s protest. I noticed Florence on the side-lines. She jumped and clapped the loudest. She was obviously, as I’d already suspected, completely smitten with young Zephaniah.

  “Cute,” I said, to no-one in particular, absently wondering whether ghost couples produced ghost babies.

  What was I thinking? “Just say no to ghost babies,” I told myself in horror. The last thing I needed was an inn full of babies. How would any of the guests ever get any sleep? Momentarily I wondered whether I should discourage Florence and Zephaniah from getting too close, but the second I caught myself creating that thought, I slapped it down. Hard.

  No. I wouldn’t do that. I would not be that person that everybody seemed to think I was becoming. Some witchy-grinch-control-freak. That was not who I was.

  Nonetheless from the viewpoint of the office window, I examined the holes in the lawn, and knew it was more than time to start the Wonky Inn Clean-up Crew. I had to keep these ghosts occupied one way or another, or I wouldn’t have an inn to open ever, let alone anytime soon.

  It was time to put my ghosts to work.

  “Kephisto!” Caius the crow called as I entered The Storykeeper, “Kephisto!”

  “Come all the way up to the roof, Alf,” Mr Kephisto called over the mezzanine barrier and waved, before disappearing through the door and up the stairs to his private quarters.

  I pushed the shop door closed, hearing the customary jangle of the bell, and trailed my way up to the top floor, my stomach rolling on the spongey stairs, never quite getting used to how unsafe they felt. I reached the top, slightly out of puff, and very relieved to see the habitual tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Ah, Alf,” Mr Kephisto said, sounding for all the world like he hadn’t summonsed me. “Always nice to see you.”

  “Do you have some news for me?” I asked, accepting his invitation to sit and help myself. This time I didn’t hold back when it came to dunking my biscuits.

  “I haven’t had a huge amount of luck tracking down Luppitt so far,” said Mr Kephisto, joining me at the table. He clutched a handful of books which he placed in front of us and started flicking through a thick green leather-bound volume, turning the pages as I’d seen him do before, without using his hands. The paper, stiff and thick and roughly finished, flipped quickly until he found what he was looking for. He handed the book to me and I read where he indicated.

  “It just mentions the Smeatharpe family,” I said. “They lived at Thorny Cross House in Hemyock, that’s north of here, isn’t
it?” Mr Kephisto nodded and I carried on. “There were six of them, three girls. Well I didn’t know that. He’s mentioned Henry and William to Zephaniah, one of the other ghosts at the inn, but he hasn’t mentioned any sisters.”

  “They appear to have been younger than Luppitt by quite a few years, so perhaps he didn’t know them very well. Or wasn’t close to them, the way he would have been to his brothers?” Mr Kephisto shrugged. “Who can say. I’m not sure it’s relevant anyway.”

  “It also says he went into Baron von Saxe-Krumpke’s service in the year 1579. Well that gives us an accurate timeframe to work on.”

  “Exactly.” Mr Kephisto sounded triumphant. “So I started looking laterally, by searching for information relating to the Saxe-Krumpke family. I thought Luppitt might figure in their family history somewhere.”

  “And you found him?” I asked, excitement building at the thought that at last I might be a step closer to understanding what was going on with Luppitt Smeatharpe.

  “I most certainly did.” Mr Kephisto handed me a volume of similar size to the previous one, but with thinner pages, the paper marked by time, freckled with age spots. The Rise and Fall of the von Saxe-Krumpke Family – from Antiquity to the Modern Day.

  “I scanned through the first few chapters. It seems that the Krumpkes, as you might expect, originated in the Holy Roman Empire, Prussia to be exact, but they appear to have arrived over here during the reign of King John. They courted plenty of royal favour over the years and had estates in Worcestershire, Derbyshire and Somerset. It’s worth reading the whole chapter. Take your time.” He settled back with his cup and saucer, contemplating the biscuits.

  “I really shouldn’t,” he said, but reached for one anyway.