Chapter 7

7

" R ight, is everyone here?"

"Why is it so dark?" Edwina's prim, disembodied voice cuts through the blackness.

"Mmmmhhsfpt nnnfph," a muffled voice adds.

"What was that?" Skid growls.

There's a shuffling sound and then Roger's seductive purr joins in. "I said you were crushing me. I have no objections if you want to get up close and personal, but your studded sleeves are digging into me, so you'll have to lose the leather jacket first. Maybe the trousers too."

"Mr Palmer!" Edwina's scandalised tone exclaims so loudly my ears pop.

"What?" Roger says innocently.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I don't do dick," Skid replies playfully. "But if I did, you'd be top of my list."

"I actually prefer to be bottom."

The sound of a teasing slap echoes in the gloom followed by Roger's giggle, and I don't really want to imagine who slapped what.

"Can't say I've ever had a todger either, but never say never," another gruff voice chimes in.

"Ah, Rear Admiral, good of you to join us," I greet my great-great-uncle as Roger sucks in a loud, sharp breath.

"Admiral Hilary!" Roger says indignantly. "Do you mind!"

"What?" the older man replies.

"Keep your hands to yourself!"

"I just wanted to see if that peach of a rear of yours feels as good as it looks."

"Of course it does," Roger gives a haughty sniff. "That doesn't give you the right to grab a handful."

"Just thought I'd try something a bit different," the old lech says diffidently. "You know, for a change. I'm always up for new experiences, that's why I joined the navy."

"That's also how you ended up dying from syphilis," Roger says dryly. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"Do you suppose we could hurry this along?" Skid huffs. "It's a bit claustrophobic in here."

"Not to mention in incredibly bad taste," another voice chimes in sourly, and I recognise the dour tones of our newest addition—Professor Prometheus Plume, who met a rather unfortunate end during the recent murder mystery weekend Ellis organised.

"Who's being chased?" a querulous voice replies, and I suppress a groan.

"Urgh, Violet," I huff to no one in particular. "Who woke her up?"

Violet was the mother-in-law of one of my ancestors. She arrived at Ashton House from Manchester back in 1799 to visit with her daughter. Already in ill health, she came for the country air. Little good it did her as she was dead a month later—helped along, rumour has it, by a rather hefty dose of arsenic, courtesy of my great-great-great-grandfather. Violet generally inhabits the guest room on the fourth floor, which is where she died. It's not often she bothers to get out of bed.

"Bad taste ," Prometheus repeats loud enough to make me wince. "I said bad taste, you daft old bat."

"There's no need to shout," Violet replies sharply. "I'm not deaf."

She absolutely is, which is why she always has an old-fashioned ear trumpet grasped in one hand.

"What's in bad taste?" Edwina asks softly, her posh Edwardian tone mildly curious.

"Well, this is the cupboard my dead body was stuffed in," Prometheus grumbles saltily.

"Alright, that's enough," I interrupt. "Is everyone here? Where's Leona?"

We all fall silent but no answer comes, which isn't surprising considering the woman doesn't speak.

"Maybe someone should switch the light on?" Skid offers helpfully.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I huff, and the bare light bulb above us winks on.

We're all crammed into a tiny cupboard hidden behind a false bookcase in the library—where, yes, Prometheus' body unfortunately had been stuffed by one of the other murder mystery actors.

I take a quick head count. Prometheus is standing pressed up against my side, his face bearing what has become a perpetual sullen glower. He still has the large carving knife protruding through his neck and bloodstains on his clothes. Poor chap. He's still a newbie, barely been dead a few weeks. Come to think of it, I'm not sure they've even had his funeral. He's not yet learned how to change his appearance. I'll have to try to remember to take some time to explain a few things about the afterlife to him but not right now. Plenty more pressing matters are afoot.

Edwina is crushed up against the wall, her rather large, feathered hat knocked askew and her Votes for Women sash rumbled. Pressed up against her, and no doubt the reason for her bright pink cheeks, is Skid. Clad in a studded leather jacket, a loose and ripped vest with the anarchy symbol sprayed on the front, red plaid skinny trousers adorned with silver chains, and heavy black boots, he looks amused more than anything. His enormous mohawk is sprayed lime green and almost reaches the low ceiling of the cupboard.

Just behind him, I see the magnificent golden plumage of the admiral's bicorne, and when I tilt my head, I can see his wrinkled face. Admiral Hilary's mouth is almost obscured by his thick white curved moustache, and he has a monocle hooked under one bushy white brow. He's gazing down with a contemplative expression at Roger, who is crushed against Skid on the other side of Edwina.

Beside them is Violet in her customary white high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown. A matching sleep cap is secured under her bony chin and covers the top of her grey hair, which falls over one skinny shoulder in a thick braid. In one of her hands is her ever-present ear trumpet and in the other, her walking cane.

Finally, my eyes fall on Leona. The tiny waif of a woman has all but disappeared in the crush, and her face is smooshed up against my front. She looks up at me in annoyance, managing to just about raise her hands in the tightly confined space and make a couple of small gestures.

"What?" I frown down at her. "Blast it all, woman, why don't you just speak like everyone else? I don't understand what you're saying."

"She asked you to breathe in. She said she's practically being suffocated by your… uh… sweater," Edwina explains with an embarrassed flush, trying not to look at my ample chest.

"Sorry about that"—I try to back up but merely succeed in stepping on Prometheus' foot—"I do rather take after my mother," I continue, ignoring the overly dramatic yowl of pain coming from just behind me. "She nearly smothered my father to death several times. It was his own fault, really. Apparently, he liked to nap with his face in her bosom. It's a wonder the poor woman got anything done with him permanently attached to her."

Roger draws my attention back. "I think we're getting a little off track, Bertie."

"Yeah." Skid nods in agreement. "Why don't you tell us why we're all crammed into a tiny little cupboard?"

"Because we're avoiding Stanley Flibblebottom Longfellow," I reply in a hushed whisper in case he hears us.

"Stanley Fitzgerald Longbottom," Roger corrects.

"Whatever." I wave my hand and accidentally slap Prometheus in the side of the head. "Whoops. Sorry, old chap," I apologise absently, ignoring his glare. "Anyway, the point is, after our marginally overenthusiastic contributions to the murder mystery weekend, it seems we've landed ourselves in a bit of hot water. The Bureau of Domestic Hauntings has?—"

"The bureau of what?" Skid's pierced eyebrow rises.

"Domestic hauntings," Roger chimes in. "I know, darling, I was as surprised as you. Then again, should we have really been? With the British love of paperwork, why wouldn't they attempt to bureaucratise the afterlife too?"

"What does he want?" Edwina asks, trying to set her hat straight and huffing in annoyance when it keeps sliding forward into her eyes. "He visited me in the orchard and asked some highly impertinent questions regarding my conduct during the murder mystery weekend. I had to remind him that I am a lady of impeccable breeding and good poise. My conduct is above reproach."

Skid snorts. "Yeah, well, your conduct was throwing vases and vandalising the silverware during the murder mystery riot."

"It was not a riot," she says primly. "It was an… incident ."

He grins. "Uh-huh."

"Yes, well." I wave my hand again and Prometheus ducks. "Putting all that aside, the long and the short of it is that we're now in a bit of a pickle. I don't think they're particularly fussed about the criminal damage, but they really didn't like that we showed ourselves to the fleshies. They've got their knickers in a twist, and now they're threatening to deport us all to the afterlife and designate the house and grounds a no-haunting zone."

Everyone starts talking loudly, shouting over each other in a frenzy of indignation.

"Ssush," I hiss. "He'll hear us. We've got to be very careful now with him sulking around the place, looking for more reasons to report us to the stiffs."

"What are we going to do, Bertie?" Edwina asks, her eyes large and teary and her bottom lip trembling. "I don't want to leave. This is my home."

"It's home for all of us," I point out. "Which means we need to work together for our plan to succeed."

"Oh, capital!" Rear Admiral Hilary pipes up. "Always good to have a plan. What is it?"

"The plan is twofold. Isn't that right, Bertie?" Roger interjects.

"That's right." I nod. "We're going to divide and conquer. Our two main objectives are, one, stop Stanley Finklefellow Longbutton?—"

"Fitzgerald Longbottom," Roger corrects again.

"That's what I said," I mutter. "Anyway, objective one is to make sure Stanley doesn't report anything unfavourable back to his superiors. We need to make sure we pass that inspection with flying colours and get him out of the house as quickly as possible."

Leona makes a series of gestures and I automatically look to Edwina, who seems to be the only one who understands her.

"She said, ‘What's the second part?'"

Leona hikes a thumb towards Edwina as if to say, What she said .

"The second part is to stop the hotel from closing," I carry on. "It's no great secret the hotel has been in decline for some time, but it is now in imminent danger of closing for good."

The noise once again rises as they all begin to chatter loudly.

"It's okay. Bertie and I have a plan, and it's genius ," Roger speaks over them.

"What is it?" Edwina asks suspiciously. "Because if I recall, it was your idea for us to show ourselves to the fleshies and make this into the most talked-about haunted hotel in the north of England, which is what landed us in trouble with this Stanley fellow and the Bureau in the first place."

"Yes, well," I bluster. "In my defence, I didn't know about the Bureau or their apparent rules."

"No point in casting blame now, Eddy," Skid tells her. "Fuck the Bureau and fuck the establishment."

"Quite," I nod. "Now, the plan. Some of you may have noticed one of our own has returned to the family fold."

"Morgan?" Edwina replies, her cheeks pinking prettily. "He is very handsome, just like his father."

"Good genes," I agree. "Anyway, it occurs to me that we can kill several birds with one stone. One, we can help Cedric resolve his issues before his time comes so he's not trapped here with unfinished business. After all, he's not getting any younger. Two, I overheard Morgan talking to his half-brother. It seems the two of them run some kind of hotel empire over in the States. Which means Morgan clearly has a good working knowledge of how to run a successful hotel, and we could certainly use someone with that level of expertise. Three, Roger is convinced the lad has a bob or two?—"

Roger preens. "Oh, trust me, honey. I am never wrong. Morgan positively reeks of money."

"Yes, well, if you say so." I shrug. "And if Roger is right about the boy's finances, he might be persuaded to invest in this place and give it long enough to get back up and running like it did in its heyday."

"Bertie, it's never had a heyday," Admiral Hilary huffs.

"Well then, it's overdue." I shake my head. "And finally, if Morgan decides to stay on, we'll have someone in place that will inherit when Cedric's time comes."

"This is all very well, but how are we supposed to achieve all of that if we aren't allowed to reveal ourselves to him?" Edwina points out.

Roger and I share a glance.

"We're going to make him fall in love with Ellis!" Roger blurts out excitedly.

Insert sound of crickets.

"I'm sorry, you're gonna what?" Skid finally says, his tone incredulous.

"Make him fall in love with Ellis!" Roger vibrates with glee.

"That's what I thought you said." Skid frowns.

"It's perfect when you think about it really," I reply. "Ellis is the epitome of walking on sunshine. He spreads happiness and glitter wherever he goes without even trying. If anyone can unlock my great-nephew's heart?—"

"And his bank account," Roger mutters under his breath.

"—it's Ellis," I continue, ignoring Roger's input. "He'll fall in love with Ellis and, by extension, the hotel, and he'll help us to save it! It's a plan with no drawbacks."

"It's a plan with many drawbacks," Skid replies. "Many, many drawbacks. In fact, so many that I'm not even sure where to start."

"Sourpuss." Roger pouts prettily.

"I'm just pointing out what I hope should be obvious to you both, despite your scheming, and that is that Ellis has his own autonomy. He may not even be interested in Morgan. You can't manipulate him into a relationship with someone because it suits your purposes."

"Well, if it's for the greater good," Prometheus pipes up.

"You have already demonstrated your capacity for deceit during the murder mystery weekend." Skid glares at him and he slumps back into the corner closing his mouth. "I care about Ellis. He's a good kid and I'm not going to stand by and let him be sacrificed on the matrimonial altar just to save a pile of bricks and mortar."

"No one said anything about marriage," Roger mutters. "Good god, this isn't the dark ages."

"This may be our home," Skid continues, "and I don't want to leave either. I've spent the last fifty years here and I've kinda got used to it, but I'm not staying at the expense of Ellis."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr Skid. As pleasing as he is to look upon, how can we be certain of Morgan's good character? He is an Ashton-Drake, after all," Edwina asks. "They are for the most part a host of self-absorbed, philandering, gambling, alcoholic, amateur poisoning, grouchy old windbags."

"I say, that's jolly unfair," the Admiral protests.

"Gambled away your inheritance, ran away to join the navy, died of syphilis." Roger stares at Admiral Hilary.

"Fair point," he says in a conciliatory tone.

"Calm down, you lot." I shake my head. "All of us care about the boy. We've watched Ellis grow up within these walls. He's family, and we protect our own. We'd never make him do anything he didn't want to, but you didn't see the way he and Morgan looked at each other. There's something there, I'm certain of it. Would it really be so bad if we just… you know… gave a little nudge?"

Skid grunts, not entirely convinced, but he raises no further objections.

"Right. So we need all of you to keep Stanley Fitzfinkle Longbarrow?—"

"Fitzgerald Longbottom."

"Still don't care. We need all of you to keep this Stanley chap distracted so he doesn't catch wind of what we're doing. Make sure we pass that inspection and get him out of here as quick as you can. Leona, you won't be much use as he won't be able to understand you anyway, so you're with me and Roger."

"And what exactly will you be doing?" Prometheus pipes back up.

Roger grins wickedly. "Bertie and I will concentrate on Butch and the Sundance twink."

"Roger, Leona, and I will be providing opportunities for Morgan and Ellis to get to know each other," I clarify.

"You're going to be matchmaking," Skid says dryly.

"It's a dirty job," Roger answers piously, "but someone's got to do it."