Chapter 3

3

" D id you see that?" I say rather gleefully as I look down at Roger, who is also peeking around the corner with me. "A fresh one to practice on."

"I certainly did see him." Roger hums in appreciation. "Hel-lo, Daddy."

"Roger, will you stop thinking with your… tennis racquet?" I sigh. "This is serious."

"So am I," he says in delight. "I wouldn't mind playing a few sets with him. He looks like he knows what to do with a pair of balls if you know what I mean."

"Unfortunately, I do," I grumble, watching as Ellis disappears down the hall, leaving my great-great-nephew in one of the rooms with a fancy bath. "He grew up handsome," I mutter. "I'll give him that."

"What was that, Bertie?" Roger asks as the hallway swirls and disappears. Moments later, the library solidifies around us. I've got to say it's a jolly handy way to travel, unlike when we were alive and had to walk everywhere. Dashed inconvenient.

"I said he's nice-looking for a chap. Unlike my other nephew, Clifford—the man looked like a bad tempered possum. A drunk one at that. Still, at least Morgan is descended from Cedric, who was much more agreeable. Morgan's mother was a looker, too, if I recall. Pretty young American thing, smashing backside."

"They came along after you died, didn't they?" Roger hops up onto the desk and lights a cigarette.

"That's right." I scratch my chin. "Shame what happened to Morgan's father."

"I remember that," Roger nods, uncharacteristically sombre. "Shame," he agrees.

"I wonder why he's back," I muse. "Haven't seen the boy since he was small. After what happened to Elliott, Morgan's mother, Lilian, whipped him back to America faster than you can say immigration."

"Do you think he's come to save the hotel?" Roger brightens. "He looks like he's got money."

"What makes you say that?"

"Darling." Roger breathes out an elegant stream of smoke. "I can sniff out a sugar daddy at twenty paces. Trust me, Morgan comes from money and it's certainly not from this side of the family." He purses his lips, his thin moustache wrinkling. "What do you remember of his mother?"

"She was from America, working-class family." I cast my mind back. "She wasn't a bad sort but make no mistake, she was looking to marry up. I believe she did love Morgan's father, but I suspect there was some calculation there, at least in the very beginning."

"Hmm." Roger taps his fingers along his thigh. "Maybe Ellis can convince him to invest some money in the place. After all, as the only remaining heir, he is going to inherit when Cedric's time comes."

"Ellis?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Bertie. I swear, if it doesn't have a bum like a beach ball and a cleavage you can ski down, you don't pay attention, do you?"

"I resent that implication." I sniff. "I've met plenty of lovely fillies who've been a bit more on the skinny side."

"Name one."

"This isn't about me," I remind him. "Now what do you mean about Ellis?"

"I'm not sure yet," Roger muses. "But honestly, Morgan looked at him like he was the last square of chocolate and he'd run out of ration tokens."

"What?"

Roger sighs. "He fancies him."

"Are you sure?" I eye him suspiciously.

"Oh, trust me. I know when a man's interested, and our little ray of sunlight is a delicious treat. We just need to figure out how this can work to our advantage."

"That's awfully devious, Roger." I chuckle.

"Why thank you, Bertie."

"A-hem."

We both turn at the unexpected sound of someone clearing their throat. I blink in surprise to find a tall, broad fellow wearing a brown pin striped suit and standing by the closed door to the library. His hair is medium-brown and he has a nice-looking if unremarkable face. There's a clipboard in one of his hands and he has a brown leather satchel hooked over one shoulder by a thin strap. His form flickers, momentarily transparent, before he re-solidifies.

"Who the devil are you?" I scowl at him. "This is private property. We can't have just any old spirits wandering around the place willy-nilly."

The intruder raises a subtle brow and tuts disapprovingly. "I'm from the Bureau of Domestic Hauntings," he announces. "Stanley Fitzgerald Longbottom."

"Roger Palmer… Bossy Bottom," Roger introduces himself with a saucy wink.

"I know exactly who you are, Mr Palmer," Stanley says as he withdraws a pen from his breast pocket. "And you too, Miz Ashton-Drake."

"Bertie," I correct.

"Indeed," he murmurs. "I'm afraid I have to inform you that you are in quite a bit of trouble."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It has come to the Bureau's attention that, on the night of the thirtieth of December, you and the other ghosts residing here at Ashton House did, in fact, expose yourselves."

"Ooh, that does sound ever so naughty when you put it like that." Roger licks his teeth gleefully.

"You have broken article three-fourteen, sub paragraph six-b, in reference to the bylaws governing interaction between corporeal and noncorporeal entities."

"Pardon?" I blink.

"You let the living see you," he elucidates, his dark brows drawing down in disapproval.

"Oh, that." I shrug. "I'll admit in the spirit of things we may have got a little carried away."

"A little carried away?" he repeats. "You showed yourself to no less than"—he glances down at his clipboard and flips up the front page, scanning down the notes beneath it—"nine guests, five actors, and four members of staff. Not to mention the destruction of property."

"It was technically my property," I reply.

"Not anymore, it's not," he states. "The moment you died, it passed to your next of kin. There are rules for a reason. Do you have any idea what would happen if everyone knew about the existence of the spirit realms?"

"Less séances?" I offer.

"I'm afraid you are now under a full investigation. All of you," he adds, staring at Roger, who has simply lit another cigarette and is watching in amusement.

I scoff. "What do you mean investigation?"

"I mean there are laws governing our interactions with the living, laws all ghosts must adhere to. You've already broken several of them, and I'm here to ascertain the level of damage done. I will be conducting a full audit of the house and its deceased residents."

"I say," I splutter indignantly. "You can't do that."

"I can assure you I do have the necessary authority," he says in a tone that brooks no nonsense.

"And what happens if we don't pass your little audit?" Roger waves the hand holding his cigarette nonchalantly.

"Then all the spirits will be banished from the house and sent directly to the afterlife. The house and its grounds will remain an inactive black zone, which means no further hauntings within its boundaries will be permitted for a period of no less than one hundred years, after which time a review may be requested but not necessarily granted."

"I say, hang it all. That's jolly unfair," I protest.

"Then I suggest you cooperate with my investigation and stay out of any further trouble."

"When you say trouble…" Roger smiles.

"Roger," I hiss, sending him a warning glare before turning back to Stanley Gerald Fitzbottom or whatever his name is. "What exactly does this investigation entail?" I ask suspiciously.

"I shall be residing within the house for the duration. I shall also be interviewing all the resident ghosts and reviewing all interactions with the living."

"Until when?" I narrow my eyes.

"Until I'm satisfied I have the full picture of just what is going on within these walls," he answers. "Then I shall be writing a report and submitting it to my superiors. Whether it recommends that you be allowed to remain here or be relocated to the afterlife is entirely up to you."

"Fine," I say with a grudging huff. "Roger?"

Roger flicks his cigarette and before it can hit the floor, it winks out of existence. He hops nimbly down from the desk and skips over to my side.

"You know me, Bertie darling. I promise I'll be on my best behaviour." He gives Stanley a slow sultry smile. "I'm always a good boy."

"Good lord." I roll my eyes.

"I'm glad that's settled," Stanley says. "Now, then." He returns his attention to his clipboard. "I'll need to see a copy of your license."

"License?" I blink.

"Your license to haunt?" His pen is poised above the paper as he stares at me. "All properties must have the correct licensing before any ghosts take residence."

I stare blankly at him and he tuts again.

"No license," he mutters and writes something on his clipboard, then looks back up at me. "Who is your union rep?"

"Our what?"

He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. "No Union rep-re-sent-a-tive." He mouths the words as he writes slowly.

I glance across at Roger.

"Right." Stanley flips the page over and scans down his list. "Could you tell me where I can find a… Miss Edwina Ashton-Drake?"

"The orchard," both Roger and I chorus.

It was, after all, where my aunt Edwina died back in 1902. Fired up by news of Emmaline Pankhurst and the suffragette movement, she decided she too was going to protest women's rights to vote and whilst an admirable sentiment, her execution of her convictions lacked a degree of planning and common sense.

She embroidered herself a sash and took herself off the orchard where she chained herself to a tree on the farthest side of the property. However, it was, in fact, the dead of winter and rather unfortunately for her, she neglected to tell anyone she was protesting. They found her two days later frozen to death. Back when I was alive and ran the estate, she had an awful habit of constantly turning the heating up.

"Excellent." Stanley nods, clicking his pen closed and tucking it back in his breast pocket. Pinning the clipboard under one arm, he reaches into his satchel and withdraws an absolutely bloody enormous leather-bound tome. This, he hands to Roger, who stumbles under its weight, collapsing to the floor like my mother after a few too many sherries.

"There must be over a thousand pages in that thing," I mutter as I turn to look at Stanley.

"Ten thousand, four hundred and seventy-six, to be precise," he informs me.

"Is that Mary Poppins' bag you've got there?" I eye his satchel, wondering how on earth he managed to fill that impossibly thick volume inside. Honestly, the book is the size of three doorsteps stacked atop each other.

"That is the complete volume of laws and guidelines regarding the conduct of spirits and their interaction with the living world."

I gape at him. "All ten thousand, four hundred and seventy-six pages?"

"Yes, so you'd better get reading." He nods. "I'll return later, once I've spoken with Miss Edwina."

I open my mouth to respond, but he's gone.

"Help, please," Roger wheezes.

I glance down at him lying on his back on the library floor, the heavy doorstop of a book pinning him by the chest. His face has turned pink.

I manage to shuffle it off him and it drops to the floor with a thud.

Offering my hand, I help Roger climb to his feet. My brow furrows in worry. How on earth are we supposed to draw in new guests to a haunted hotel if we're not allowed to actually haunt it? How are we supposed to save our home?

"I say, Roger," I murmur. "I think we might be in a spot of bother."