Village of Ghosts (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 2) Page 6

  “So you got Jones on the cheap?” Stark suggested.

  “He settled for a stipend for the Ghost Tour, with a option for a percentage in future investments,” she said. “Simon was not a full member of FOG, but he shared our vision.”

  “What were his many faults?” Ravyn asked.

  Her plucked eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You mentioned that Mr Jones had a good memory, despite his many faults,” Ravyn said. “What exactly were those faults?”

  “One should never speak ill of the dead, Chief Inspector.” She looked around. “Especially here, so close to the final resting places of many of our dear departed.” She lowered her voice. “They watch us you know, walk amongst us unseen.”

  Stark started to comment, but a subtle look from Ravyn kept him silent. The sergeant was almost at the end of his tether. They were investigating a murder, looking for a human hand capable of absolute savagery, and here the guv was, letting this delusional woman go on about bogies and hobgoblins.

  “Simon is now among them, among those with whom he used to commune,” she continued. “Did you know, this very night he was able to calm the restless spirit of Patience Worthy, a troubled ghost who haunts the upper rooms of the Blithe Spirit pub?” At a slight nod from Ravyn, she said: “He is now among them, and he is not just restless. He is angry. He has been taken by the ghosts to live among them before his time. He is nearby. He is listening.”

  “I think it will be all right to tell us about the faults afflicting Mr Jones,” Ravyn said. “After all, did not Simon leave those faults behind when he departed this mortal coil, traded corruptible flesh for the bright purity of ectoplasm?”

  “Well, yes, he has moved past this plane,” she admitted.

  “I think Simon Jones would want us to know everything.”

  “He was a very private man, despite his showing off.”

  “We need information to solve his murder,” Stark said.

  She looked at the men, a confused, almost childlike expression on her face. “But Simon was killed by a ghost, a vengeful wraith.”

  Ravyn nodded sensitively. “You know the way of the world, Miss Swanner. My superiors demand evidence. They will not see the obvious, even when it is plainly before them.”

  She glanced at Stark. “Mundane minds are all around us.”

  “The truth will come out,” Ravyn said. “Remember, ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’.”

  Agnes’ eyes brightened with sudden excitement. “And when it becomes known Simon was really killed by a ghost…” She clasped her hands before her. “How the tourists will come! What a boost this will be for Ghost Week.”

  “You’re still planning on that nonsense?” Stark asked.

  “Yes, now more than ever,” she said. “And it’s not nonsense.”

  Ravyn smiled. “What were those faults you mentioned?”

  Agnes looked about, leaned forward and spoke rapidly.

  * * *

  Alfred Pettibone was nervous. When Aggie exited the vicar’s appropriated office, the stern-faced sergeant ushered him in. He had no chance to confer with her. He wished he knew what she had told them. What if he said something counter to what she had said? If his answers ran different from hers, the two policemen might suspect he was hiding something. He gulped. They might even suspect him of some crime. Or perhaps Aggie had accused him of one.

  He fidgeted in the hard-backed chair. When he first sat down, a recorder on the desk was activated, the date and time had been noted, and each man said his name.

  Since then, a full minute had passed in silence. He wished they would say something. He did not like the way they looked at him. The sergeant reminded him of the lads back in school who would take his money and give him a good drubbing, unless Aggie were around of course. An aura of violence did not surround the chief inspector, as it did the sergeant, but his stare was more disquieting, seeming to go right through him.

  Finally, Pettibone cleared his throat. It was a sharp, nervous sound, such as a small frog might make before a hungry crane.

  “I really don’t know anything about what happened,” he said.

  “Don’t know anything about what, Mr Pettibone?” Stark asked.

  “I don’t…don’t understand.” The small man cursed his own nervousness. “What do you mean?”

  “What is it you don’t know anything about?”

  “I mean, Simon’s death.” He waited for the sergeant to speak. At the man’s silence, Pettibone added: “Or anything, really. I don’t, that is to say, I didn’t know Simon well. I wasn’t near him. I didn’t see the ghost or anything. I heard that woman scream, but…”

  “What ghost, Mr Pettibone?” Stark asked.

  The little blinked in surprise. “Why, the ghost that killed Simon of course. It was a vengeful wraith that came for him, took him to that undiscovered country from which no traveller returns.”

  Stark rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, yes, I know everyone thinks ghosts quite harmless, gentle revenants who wander hallways or rattle doors,” Pettibone said, not understanding Stark’s expression. “But they are living beings. Well, dead living things, if you know what I mean, and so they have the same passions and hatreds as…”

  Stark smacked the top of the desk with the flat of his hand. The resulting crack halted Pettibone’s flow of words and nearly made him jump out of his skin. He turned whiter than one of his ghosts.

  “Enough with the mumbo-jumbo,” Stark said. His words were sharp and clipped, but his tone was even. “We’re not looking for a ghost. We’re looking for someone who could cut through a man’s chest, pull aside the ribs, and take out his bloody…”

  For a moment, Pettibone appeared on the verge of swooning.

  “Steady now, Mr Pettibone,” Ravyn said. “We don’t want you toppling to the floor.”

  Soothing words spoken in a familiar Hammershire accent kept Pettibone from giving in to his aroused imagination. He gripped the edge of the desk with bloodless fingers, steadied himself, then leaned back in the chair.

  “Better now?” Ravyn asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Pettibone said. “I’ve been trying to blank out what I saw when we came running after that woman screamed.”

  “Madeline Wallace?”

  “Yes, that one,” Pettibone said. “She attached herself to Simon at the start…though he may have encouraged her.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, I think it was perhaps fifty-fifty, if you know what I mean. She seemed quite the groupie, but Simon did love the company of the fairer sex.”

  “I understand he was quite the womanizer.” Ravyn said.

  “Is that what Aggie told you?” He looked at the policemen, but he could tell nothing from their expressions, except, of course, that the tall sergeant did not like him. “Well, I suppose you might say so. He had a way with the ladies.”

  “And a drinking problem?” Ravyn suggested.

  “Did Aggie say…” He stopped, then shrugged. “I suppose there is no use glossing over it now that he’s dead. Yes, he was drunk most of the time, or at least halfway drunk. Aggie tried to keep him sober for the Ghost Tour by having him served only orange juice at the pub. Unfortunately, he already had a head start, and he got back at her by stepping all over her speech, taking control of the crowd at the pub.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You might not know this, but Aggie hates to be interrupted and she always likes to be in charge. Of everything.”

  “Including FOG?” Ravyn asked.

  Pettibone nodded. “Especially FOG. It was her idea, as was this Ghost Week and every activity. You don’t join FOG unless Aggie lets you join. That’s why Simon was kept to the periphery.”

  “Prudence Holloway.” Stark said.

  “Well, Aggie wanted Sir Phineas with us,” Pettibone explained. “He’s the squire hereabouts. Gives FOG some stature. Brought the more reluctant villagers to our side, or at least kept them quiet. He is very respected.
If she wanted Sir Phineas, she had to take Prudie. It was a package deal, so to speak.”

  “Sir Phineas believes in ghosts?” Ravyn asked.

  Pettibone nodded. “Oh yes! Perhaps even more than Aggie. His manor house is named Spectre’s Haven.”

  “Cute,” Stark said, thinking it was anything but cute.

  “And Miss Holloway?”

  The little man simultaneously shrugged and grinned nervously. “Not so much, I think. But she likes to be around Sir Phineas.”

  “From what you said, I take it you also believe in ghosts, Mr Pettibone?” Ravyn asked.

  “Of course I do,” Pettibone replied. “I operate Ye Haunted Bookshoppe in the high street.”

  “Cute,” Stark muttered.

  “It’s very popular among the villagers,” he said. “And when the tour stopped for a signing of Simon’s books…” Pettibone paused as he considered how much more valuable those autographed copies would be now that Simon was brown bread. He would have to have a word with his clerk. “It proved to be just as popular to members of the tour group. In addition to all the bestsellers and trade books, I also stock a very complete section of regional and local…”

  “So, you believe that at this very moment spectres move around us unseen and unsuspected?” Ravyn said.

  “I thought I made that clear already, Mr Ravyn,” Pettibone said, a hint of frost in his voice.

  “And it’s possible to communicate with them?”

  “Yes.” The little man thought a moment then added: “Well, not everyone can. Most can see them, if they are sensitive enough, but only a very few have the ability to reach across the gulf separating the world of the living from that of those who have moved on.”

  “Could Simon Jones speak to ghosts?”

  “Simon had mediumistic talents.”

  Ravyn smiled. “Did he now?”

  Pettibone gulped nervously. “Yes. Well, I think so.”

  “You only think so?” Ravyn asked. “After he settled the restive spirit of Patience Worthy?”

  Pettibone licked his dry lips. “That was an impressive…”

  “You did witness that, did you not?” Ravyn asked.

  “Of course I did,” Pettibone replied. “Same as everyone else in the Blithe Spirit. It got everyone into the…ah…spirit, and rather set the tone for the rest of the tour. You can ask anyone.”

  “Actually,” Ravyn said, “we did.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, and while most eyes were caught between Simon Jones and the sounds upstairs, a few of the less interested were looking around,” Ravyn said. “None of them recall seeing you.”

  “I was there,” Pettibone asserted.

  “Were you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They are obviously mistaken. I was standing by Aggie.” He snapped his fingers. “They must not have been able to see me because…well, let’s just say that Aggie is a fine figure of a woman and leave it at that.”

  Ravyn glanced at Stark who raised his eyebrows. “Yes, that is no doubt the explanation.”

  It took a supreme effort of will for Pettibone not to sigh in relief. Simon had assured him no one would notice. He should have known a liar would not tell the truth, even in setting up a lie.

  “But getting back to the ghosts around us,” Ravyn said.

  “Yes?” Pettibone was glad when the questioning turned away from him, but he was still unsettled. “What about them?”

  “They watch us?”

  “Yes,” Pettibone said. “In their own way.”

  “Including the spirit of Simon Jones?”

  Pettibone looked about, gaze darting from one shadowy corner to another. “Yes. Maybe. It’s possible.”

  “You said you did not know Jones well?” Stark asked.

  “No, not well.”

  “Did you know him before he was hired to lead this Ghost Tour of yours?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “So,” Ravyn said, “you’d never heard of Simon Jones before he applied for and was hired to lead the Ghost Tour?”

  “No, never heard of…” He paused, hands fidgeting with each other. He licked dry lips. “I mean I didn’t know him, not personally. I knew of him because I knew of his two books. I stocked a copy of each in the shop.”

  “They were not popular?” Ravyn asked.

  Pettibone shook his head. “They were what I call dusters. All they did was sit and collect dust. Every once in awhile I ran a duster over them, but that’s all. No local connection and…” He looked around, leaned forward and whispered: “They were rubbish.”

  “But they sold well during the tour?”

  “Indeed!” Pettibone said. “Very well. Simon brought a couple of boxes of each from London. He signed them all, fortunately, as it has turned out. With the author present, being charming and all, I don’t wonder they sold well. Simon is, er, was a natural salesman and could have probably sold fish to a fishmonger.”

  Stark thought of Simon Jones’ form and the number of times he had escaped the Lady in the Blindfold. A natural salesman indeed.

  “I’ve no doubt that some will chuck them when they find out Simon was a better talker than a writer,” Pettibone said. “On the other hand, not everyone can claim to own a book by a ghost hunter who was actually killed by a ghost.”

  Stark scowled at the little man.

  “Believed killed by a ghost,” Pettibone added hastily.

  “I’m told you are in charge of FOG’s finances,” Ravyn said.

  Pettibone gulped. He knew the subject would come up sooner or later, but he had still hoped to somehow avoid it. He nodded.

  “From where does FOG get its money?” Ravyn asked.

  “All of us, that is the four members of FOG, put in as much as each can afford for operating expenses and petty cash,” Pettibone explained. “Of course, Sir Phineas can put in more, but, alas, only marginally. Do not mention you heard this from me, but Sir Phineas is one of the ‘landed poor.’ He receives rents, mostly peppercorn, but the bulk of his worth is tied up in Spectre’s Haven. He is as keen as the rest of us for our plan to take off, especially the Ghost Museum and the Annual Ghost Gala.”

  “Those are future attractions?”

  “The Ghost Museum, yes,” he said. “But the Ghost Gala will be one of the highlights of Ghost Week. At Spectre’s Haven.”

  “Research, printing, advertisements—they are very expensive these days,” Ravyn observed. “I imagine hiring Simon Jones would stretch your budget, even though he agreed to take less than others.”

  “Simon Jones did not come as cheap as he should have, but that was not my concern,” Pettibone said. “That was Aggie’s business. My job was to find a way to cover the expense.”

  “And how did you do that?” Stark asked.

  “Well, I…that is…” He sighed and thought how to phrase his explanation. “We received funds which I deposited in a separate account. We four contributed to our main account on a monthly basis, but this was an endowment from a private benefactor. I did not want to draw upon it without good reason.”

  “Only you knew of this separate account?”

  “Oh no,” Pettibone protested. “That would have been quite irregular, in variance with good accounting practices.”

  “Who knew?” Stark asked.

  “Aggie,” Pettibone said. “Just Aggie.”

  “But not the others?”

  “No, Aggie didn’t want them to know.” He paused. “Well, even if Aggie didn’t say so, I was under orders to keep it quiet. In fact, I wasn’t even supposed to tell Aggie. Our benefactor wanted very much to remain a silent partner.”

  “Was he an actual partner in your enterprise?” Ravyn asked.

  “Not in the classic sense,” Pettibone admitted. “It was more along the lines of a gentlemen’s agreement, but one by which I am bound. As a matter of honour, you understand.”

  “You were not supposed to tell anyone,” Ravyn said, “but you told Miss Swanner. Why?”


  “You’ve met her,” Pettibone said. “You should know.”

  Ravyn nodded.

  “But she wanted it strictly between us.”

  “What’s the name of your mysterious benefactor?” Stark asked. “Out with it. Don’t make me ask twice, mate.”

  Pettibone looked at the sergeant. It was something of a tossup who scared him most, Stark or Aggie. After a conflicted moment the sergeant won, not so much because he actually feared Sergeant Stark more, but because he knew Aggie would not use rubber hoses or waterboarding, that she could not chuck him into the chokey, battered and bleeding. Seeing the harshness of Stark’s features, hearing the same accent he heard the hard men of London use in the cinema and on the telly, he fully believed Sergeant Stark would go all Sweeny on him should Ravyn ever leave the room.

  Ravyn scooted his chair back an inch or so.

  “Jameson Gaites!” Pettibone blurted.

  “And who is Jameson Gaites?” Ravyn asked.

  “I really don’t know, Mr Ravyn.” He glanced at Stark. “Truly.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Yes, three times,” Pettibone answered. “The first was about four months ago. He came to the bookshop just at closing. I had already sent my clerk home, so I was alone. Normally I close at precisely seven, but, well, business being what it is these days, I dare not chase off a customer, especially a stranger passing by, one who might not pass this way again.”

  “Please describe him,” Ravyn said.

  Stark opened his notebook and waited, pencil poised.

  “He was medium height, but very stocky,” Pettibone said. “Not fat, but husky in the way a boxer might be. He wore a grey suit, dark tie with grey diagonals, and a charcoal waistcoat with light grey piping. He wore a white flower in his lapel, I think it might have been an orchid…I’m not very good about such things. He was not a handsome man, very grim looking. He had black hair, but white along the sides, cut short. He was from London.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Ravyn asked.

  “No, he talked like an outsider.” Pettibone pointed a quivering finger toward Stark. “Like him.”

  “What happened at the meeting?”

  “As I said, I first thought he was a customer looking for books on local hauntings,” Pettibone said. “Hammershire has a reputation for weird happenings and ‘old horrors.’ Folklorists and researchers involved with psychic phenomena often come to me for rare local books that can’t be found anywhere else. Those I don’t sell, but charge a research fee—more money in the long run.”