murder most haunted
Murder Most Haunted emma
mason
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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Bantam an imprint of Transworld Publishers
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Prologue
The night before Midge’s retirement party, Bridie convinced her to go to bed with a cucumber and mint face mask on.
‘Please try it, Midge. Sylvia swears by them.’
‘Who’s Sylvia?’
This produced the slightest of sighs. ‘From my amateur dramatics group. Apparently, the polypeptoaminoacids get rid of large pores.’
Bridie, it turned out, had no idea what a polypeptoaminoacid was, and never, in Midge McGowan’s fifty-five years, had she been aware of her large pores. But it wasn’t often that Bridie asked something of her and she had been so dreadfully excited about the retirement party that Midge didn’t have the heart to say no. It took her approximately fifteen minutes to apply the mask, which left her with only thirty minutes before bed to work on her handkerchief embroidery. With a base of white linen and edged with lace, the handkerchief was a canvas for a vibrant canary, embroidered with meticulous care, perched near one corner. It was the final one in a set of six canary hankies and involved a rather complicated lazy daisy stitch. Only having half an hour meant she made a mistake with the cross-overs, ruining the entire birdcage and forcing her to start afresh with new material, which was bothersome to say the least.
While she slept, Midge had a dream.
She was sitting in her rocking chair, inside a locked, gilded cage.
With each movement of the chair, a tiny bell connected to a circular mirror beside her rang out. As she rocked, her face in the reflection changed. Just when she was pulled from sleep by Bridie’s gentle shaking, she recognized the features. She’d seen the eyes, nose and mouth many times before in her dreams. But only once to touch in the flesh.
It was the baby. It was always the baby.
The banner in the property office read, ‘Happy Retirement DS MAGOWAN’.
The party was more disappointing than the typo. They had put the food table upstairs so that by the time Midge had huffed and puffed her way up to it, her gouty knee was aching and she had to lean on the cane more than she wished. It was hardly worth the effort except that she found common dining areas fascinating. It was Midge’s opinion that the importance of eating habits in identifying personalities was greatly undervalued.
‘McGowan, there you are.’ Detective Chief Inspector Helen Goodall was standing next to the cupcakes but chose instead to pick up a carrot stick from the plate nearby. ‘Can’t stay for long. I’ve got an area meeting with the Gold Team.’
Midge nodded while she caught her breath, propping the cane against the table as she did so.
‘I just wanted to say thank you for all of your hard work and good luck with the retirement. Thirty years . . . Goodness!’
The look of pity said it all. DCI Goodall was only twenty-eight and already two pips above Midge. Of course, she had been fasttracked, but she would undoubtedly finish her career as an area commander. This generation of women had no idea how good they had it, thought Midge. When she’d started out as a probationer, they were still pulling up the skirts of the WPCs and stamping their bottoms with the station property stamp. No
doubt, her retirement as a mere detective sergeant was as distasteful to DCI Goodall as the carrot stick she was pretending to enjoy.
‘I expect you’ll be glad to get out of the property office, finally.’
‘Yes . . .’ Midge replied, unsure of what to say next. ‘. . . Helen.’
Midge had spent the majority of her career in what was really a civilian role, overseeing the evidential property office – the room where every item of physical evidence from a criminal case was logged and stored should it ever be required for trial. What had started out as a temporary secondment soon evolved into something more permanent with no one seemingly in a rush to ask for her back. Not that Midge had ever considered complaining. Despite the cold of the old sandstone building, she’d enjoyed the inanimate irrefutability of the property records, and before long she and the register book had become synonymous. Need to find the hairbrush in the Langham case for court? Ask Midge the Register! And so, she’d made it her second home; hidden away inside the endless rows of material evidence that had unlocked so many crimes. An alibi-wrecking train ticket, the misplaced knife in a rack, even the hidden clay on the soles of trainers . . . However clever the criminal, regardless of their meticulousness in covering up, there was always an object that didn’t fit or belong and that would eventually become their undoing. Things were far more reliable than people, Midge often concluded.
And there was something oddly comforting about the neat rows of identification labels attached to each evidence bag.
Labels were important.
Right down to the plastic hospital tag on a newborn infant’s wrist.
‘What a lovely dress,’ the DCI remarked.
Midge fiddled with the cuff of the rainbow-coloured smock which she had bought because she knew absolutely nothing about clothes and thought it practical to have a colour to match any jacket.
‘Yes.’
Usually, Bridie bought all of her outfits. But on this occasion, she had insisted on Midge going shopping by herself. Where was Bridie? Midge did a quick scan of the room. She would know how to keep the conversation going. Well, nearly always. At least, when she was on her uppers. ‘The art to small talk,’ she would say, ‘is telling them something about your day.’
Midge tried her best. ‘I wore a face mask last night. Cucumber and mint.’
The DCI blinked. ‘Oh.’
‘It had peptopolyaminoacids,’ she finished.
‘Well, fancy,’ responded the DCI. ‘Just think. Plenty of time for pampering yourself now. Hopefully, you’ll be able to rest up that knee and lose the cane soon enough.’
‘I’m not injured. I’m overweight,’ frowned Midge, before clarifying, ‘Morbidly.’
The DCI bit down into her carrot stick and asked, ‘Your friend not with you?’
The emphasis was deliberate. Another thing this generation had to be grateful for. Twenty-five years of introducing Bridie as her companion. Of course, Midge was more than aware that the world had moved on, but these things were just not as simple as that.
‘I was looking forward to finally getting to meet her. I’ve heard she’s quite the life of the party.’
Her beautiful, bright Bridie bird.
But the brightest lights shine only against the darkest of backgrounds . . .
Bridie had made it upstairs and was walking towards her, cheeks flushed from a passing conversation with Inspector Rowan. Involuntarily, Midge checked the rest of her face. The echo of her laugh had a high pitch to it that undoubtedly had more to do with excitement than the power of the inspector’s joke-telling. But there were no tell-tale dark rings under her eyes and, for this evening at least, the shadow of illness was absent.
She squeezed Midge’s shoulder as she reached them. Years of habit while in company made Midge stiffen slightly and pull back. If Bridie noticed, she didn’t show it and, instead, turned smoothly towards DCI Goodall, extending the touch that had just been spurned.
‘Hello, Ma’am,’ she said, waiting for DCI Goodall to balance her paper plate before shaking hands. ‘Lovely to meet you. What a fantastic spread you’ve put on.’
Midge didn’t think she meant it. A beige buffet, she’d whispered to her when they’d arrived.
The DCI smiled while checking her watch. Bridie rolled her eyes at Midge.
‘Sorry, McGowan,’ said Goodall. ‘I’m going to have to go. Like I said, big meeting. Anyway,’ she pulled an envelope out of her pocket, ‘the station had a whip-round for you. Hope you enjoy it.’
Midge accepted the envelope marked with the property office stamp with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been handed their next dental appointment. She went to put it straight into her handbag (also rainbow coloured), when a gentle nudge from Bridie alerted her to the fact that more was expected. ‘Open it then, silly!’ she laughed.
Obediently, Midge tore open the envelope. Inside was a voucher of some sort.
It read:
A Haunted Christmas Weekend
20– 22 december at the famous atherton hall
Courtesy of haunting holiday excursions
Cost: £175 (inclusive of police discount)
Coach transfers included
She frowned. ‘The price is still on it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the DCI waved her hand, ‘sorry about that. Should have markered that off.’
‘A hundred and seventy-five pounds?’ said Midge. ‘But I have thirty direct colleagues. The normal donation amount is ten pounds per person. Which would make an expected total of approximately three hundred pounds.’
The DCI’s mouth was opening and closing slightly.
‘Oh, Midge!’ squealed Bridie, clapping her hands together like a schoolgirl. ‘It’s a haunted house trip, how marvellous! Just like they do on the television!’
‘But ghosts aren’t real.’ Midge, who couldn’t think of anything more ludicrous, did not understand Bridie’s excitement. ‘You know all that stuff is nonsense.’ They’d once accidentally watched a paranormal investigation show together, full of flashing lights and shaky night-vision camera footage that had given Midge a migraine even before the posturing of the overly made-up presenter had started.
Midge considered the voucher again. ‘Unless it is a birthday, of course, then the average contribution drops to five pounds per person.’
‘Really?’ said the DCI. ‘I believe some people may have been off sick.’
Midge herself was always very careful to put in the appropriate amount of money for the numerous office whip-rounds. At her own father’s funeral, an overheard declaration from her mother that she had ‘only received fifty pounds for him’ had led to a young Midge spending several years under the misunderstanding that rather than being dead, her father had in fact been raffled off to the highest bidder.
‘Midge!’ Bridie’s side-eye informed Midge that her reaction was not what was expected. ‘Don’t be so ungrateful. I think it’s a fantastic idea.’
Midge decided that a joke of some sort must be being played
on her and pushed the voucher back towards the DCI. ‘Perhaps this present was meant for someone else . . . DI Atkins is retiring next week . . .’ DI Atkins was certainly the type to enjoy this sort of foolishness. He’d once tried to engage Midge in a conversation about star signs, of all things.
‘No,’ replied Goodall, shaking her head. ‘Definitely for you. Apparently, Haunting Holiday Excursions is run by an ex-copper who retired a few years ago. HR get a discount, so we’re all stuck with these for the foreseeable. What’s his name? . . . Jack . . . Randall, I think.’
The room around Midge shifted to the side suddenly.
‘John Rendell?’ She swallowed to moisten a throat that had turned dry. ‘Do you mean Rendell?’
Midge could feel Bridie’s inquisitive eyes boring into her as she waited for the DCI’s response.
‘Uh, yes. That’s it, think so. She nodded. ‘Bit before my time, of course, but you probably knew him.’
Midge pushed the voucher back into the envelope, still conscious of Bridie standing beside her. ‘I can’t . . . we’re busy.’
‘What are you talking about?’ frowned Bridie. ‘You’re not doing anything then.’
‘Your chemo . . .’ protested Midge, slightly breathless.
‘You weren’t coming to that anyway,’ replied Bridie. ‘It will be good for you, instead of sitting at home on your own.’
Midge wasn’t sure at what point ‘sitting at home on your own’ had become either a good or bad ‘thing’ but Bridie had certainly been putting more emphasis on it lately.
‘Look, feel free to do what you want with it,’ interrupted the DCI. ‘Personally, I’d much prefer a set of golf clubs.’
‘Oh, come on, Midge. It’ll be fun!’ cried Bridie, as they watched DCI Goodall walk off across the room. ‘You never know, you may enjoy it.’
Midge, who knew she most certainly would not enjoy it, said,
‘But it’s with other people . . . a group . . .’ There would be introductions, hand shaking, the expectation to make small talk and, God forbid, the confusion of air kissing.
Bridie squeezed Midge’s hand. ‘Just think of it as a stately home tour, then, if nothing else.’
And a coach? They were to journey in a coach? That not only meant impossibly small seats for a person of her size but also a communal lavatory that actually travelled with them.
‘Really, when you think about it, all ghost stories are just unresolved murder cases,’ said Bridie. Midge frowned, opening her mouth to challenge the statement. ‘Look, I tell you what,’ Bridie stopped her as they watched the DCI head for the exit, ‘do this for me and I’ll try extra hard at the treatment not to swear at the nurses again.’
Which was a little unfair, Midge thought.
So, unsurprisingly, by the time they had finished their cocoa later that evening, the proposed trip was already a fait accompli. Midge had exhausted every possible argument she could think of, and Bridie was still cheerily emphatic that she would enjoy herself. Therefore, at 10 p.m., when Bridie extended her arm towards the stairs and asked her usual, ‘Shall we, old girl?’, Midge responded with a rather sulky, ‘You go on, these lights won’t turn themselves out.’ The prolonged debate about the trip had meant that by the time Midge climbed into their Laura Ashley bed it was already too late to even look at her embroidery – at which point, considering the intensity of the last few months, she actually began to wonder if a little time apart from Bridie would not be such a bad thing.
Friday 20 December
1The coach was two minutes late. Not enough to annoy the rest of the assembled group despite the cold weather, but long enough to bother Midge, who had arrived fifteen minutes early in the hope of securing a seat close to the back so that she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She needn’t have worried.
There were only four others in their party and ten pieces of luggage.
Two expensive, black canvas suitcases belonged to a smartly dressed couple in matching sheepskin coats. They were about Midge’s age, and stood slightly off to the side talking between themselves. The man was also carrying a black leather medical bag, which Midge hadn’t added to her luggage tally, given its professional function. Five leopard-print cases of varying size surrounded a thirty-something female, who had introduced herself as Rona, without even looking up from her phone. The final pieces, aside from Midge’s own navy hostess suitcase, were a mismatched red suitcase with its keys still attached to the lock alongside a well-travelled green rucksack, both of which were being hovered over by a nervous young man dressed in so much black that Midge wondered if he had just come from a funeral.
‘We’ll be picking up a couple more at the services,’ explained Rendell from the coach steps.
She had recognized him immediately. True, the trousers were a little snugger around the waist, the skin more sagging and mottled, but the Scottish accent, wavy hair and overwhelming scent of cigars hadn’t changed.
Nor had the smarminess.
‘Lovely people! Gather round.’ He turned and shouted up to the coach driver, ‘Jesus Christ, Harold, you’ve parked in the middle of the road. I’ll need a gang plank to get this lot on, what’s the matter with you?’ As they waited for the door to fully open, he added, ‘Hurry up, now, come . . . come, I won’t bite, unless you want me to!’
For a split second, Midge wondered if she was supposed to inform him that biting of any kind would not be acceptable, but he continued to wave them closer without actually leaving the warmth of the coach’s heater system. ‘I’m John Rendell, the owner of Haunting Holiday Excursions.’
The group, apart from Midge, all murmured back their hellos from the cold pavement.
‘I have the honour of being your tour guide for the weekend.’
For reasons that were unfathomable to Midge, this announcement elicited a scattering of applause.
‘Word of warning,’ continued Rendell, pointing up at the dark, grey sky. ‘We’ve been told it’s heavy snow forecast for the weekend, so let’s hope you’ve all packed something to keep you warm at night.’ He raised an eyebrow at the young female on her phone. She had bright pink hair, which was topped off by a leopard-print jumpsuit that coordinated with the indecent number of bags crowded around her. The leopard suit covered the sort of figure that Midge felt men appreciated, certainly if the furtive glances of the young fellow in black were anything to go by.
Rendell was interrupted by the driver (an elderly man with an unusually thick head of hair wearing a Christmas jumper of two indecently positioned reindeer), who pushed past to climb down the steps. ‘This is Harold,’ said Rendell.
‘Morning all!’ the man smiled. His eyes drooped slightly into the corner folds, which distracted Midge enough to stop her pointing out that, due to his tardiness, it was in fact now afternoon.
‘If you take your suitcases over to the back end of the coach, he’ll load your baggage on,’ said Rendell.
Not Midge’s. She had her suitcase firmly grasped in her hand and didn’t have the slightest intention of releasing it to a man wearing a jumper with two fornicating reindeer on it. It had been all very well for Bridie to urge her to ensure she had clothes for ‘every occasion’, but she’d disappeared off to the shops before Midge could ask her exactly what that meant. Left to her own devices, she’d opted for two police-issue navy jumpers and a pair of walking trousers, while her travel outfit consisted of brogues, casual slacks and a blouse that Maureen in finance had once said was a nice cut. She had, of course, packed all the new ‘ladies’ – it would have been unfair to leave one behind. Six handkerchiefs, each with their brightly embroidered canaries, tucked snugly into the case. She had given the one with the mistake to Bridie for her chemotherapy session. In a last-minute fit of daring, Midge had thrown the rainbow smock in as well, and then had needed to sit down for a minute or two to recover, which was long enough for her to realize that the only other shoes she had to wear with the smock were her old police boots that she had packed in the event of snow.
‘Best do the rest of the introductions on the coach, hadn’t you?’ said Harold, rubbing his hands together and revealing a number of black tattoos across his knuckles which starkly contrasted with the ghostly band of a displaced wedding ring. ‘Freeze the balls off a brass monkey out here.’
‘The brass monkey is a brass plate on the deck of a ship used for storing cannonballs,’ Midge informed the group, remembering Bridie’s advice to make an effort with conversation. She cleared her throat. ‘So the balls in question are not, in fact, the reference to primate genitalia that many people assume.’
Harold stared at her before attempting to lift one of the cases. ‘Blimey, what’ve you got in here, mate, a dead body?’
It was the red case belonging to the boy in black. ‘My recording equipment,’ he said, rushing forward to stop Harold bouncing it across the pavement. ‘Careful! It cost a lot.’
Unable to help herself, Midge’s eyes were drawn to the handwritten label on the suitcase.
IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO: NOAH CAMBER
C/O THE CAMBERS
THE WINTERBOURNES LEAMINGTON
‘Recording?!’ said Harold, straightening his back. ‘Are we going to be on the television?’
Which is when the young woman who had identified herself as Rona finally looked up from her phone and said, ‘I most certainly hope not, I’m supposed to be incognito.’ She appealed to Rendell, ‘My PA was very explicit about that in her emails to you. No one must know I’m here.’
‘Did she tell you it was a safari?’ asked Midge, pointing to the leopard print, thinking that perhaps would explain the camouflage.
‘I knew I recognized you! You’re Rona RX, the pop star, aren’t you?’
Midge turned to stare at the woman who was speaking. It was the well-groomed sheepskin lady, whose pearl earrings now emphasized the red flush of her ears brought on by the sudden attention.
‘My son . . . loves . . . loved your music,’ the woman fumbled, while her gloved hand reached for that of the man next to her.
‘Rona RX is dead,’ replied Rona, pulling a pair of Gucci sunglasses down over her eyes even though Midge had already begun to feel the touch of sleet on her cheeks. ‘It’s just Rona now.’ There
was the faintest upper-class enunciation to her throaty voice as she spoke.
‘A pop star, eh?’ whistled Harold. ‘Wait until I tell my Linda.’
Rona grimaced before suddenly pointing a finger at Noah’s suitcase. ‘Look, if he’s got something heavy in there, I don’t want it squashing my shoes!’
‘It’s nowhere near your shoes,’ said Harold, frowning.
‘No, that suitcase.’ She pointed at one of the leopard prints. ‘It’s all my shoes. They go everywhere with me.’
‘That entire suitcase?’ said Midge, who was glad she had kept the ladies with her, unable to bear the idea of them being squashed.
‘Fifty pairs,’ nodded Rona.
Noah was back clucking over Harold as he pushed the suitcases into the hold. ‘It’s not TV equipment,’ he was explaining. ‘I’m a podcaster.’
‘Pardon?’ said Harold, levering the suitcase up for one last shove, causing Noah to wince.
‘Like a radio show,’ he explained.
‘Oh?’ Harold straightened up, raising an eyebrow. ‘Do you do requests and things?’
Noah shook his head. ‘Uh, no. Nothing like that. It’s a show about the paranormal.’
Harold was disappointed. ‘That’s a shame. I love a bit of the golden oldies . . . any of the big band stuff . . .’
To Midge’s surprise, the driver suddenly burst into song, the air condensing into dismal puffs in front of him.
‘Parom pa dom . . . pom-pom . . . parom—’
‘Harold!’ Rendell’s voice cut through the noise, his face dark with irritation. ‘Stop fooling about, we’re behind the departure schedule.’ He flashed a smile towards the rest of them. ‘If you’ve handed your bags over to Harold, please find your seats.’
‘Yes, boss!’ Harold gave a mock salute and smiled at Midge,
who was left standing next to him as the others moved back along the pavement.
‘Leather trim on this leopard-print one is fake . . .’ he muttered, shaking his head, throwing the last of Rona’s cases on board. ‘I bet there’s nothing about her that’s real, if you get my drift . . .’ He winked back at Midge, causing her to blink in alarm.
‘I prefer my women a hundred per cent authentic,’ he continued, grabbing at his sizable man breasts in case she was in any doubt as to what he meant.
‘But not your own hair?’ enquired Midge, purely out of curiosity.
Harold was still smoothing his toupé as she made her way to the coach steps, determined to get to the back seats first.
Unfortunately for Midge, the back of the bus was also the location of the lavatory. The small cubicle door had a latch displaying ‘Engaged’ and a poster reading ‘Out of Order ’ hanging from the handle. The rest of the coach, upholstered in scratchy nylon the colour of an aubergine, also did little to live up to the promise of the brochure. There were twelve rows of seats, two on each side, and the bus was old enough to still have ashtrays carved into the arms of the chairs, which heightened the residual smell of cigarettes. Despite having deliberately laid her cane out at an awkward angle (a trick that usually had the desired effect on trains), to Midge’s immense disappointment, Noah Camber chose the seat adjacent to her.
‘Is it OK if I move your stick?’ he said, although Midge noted that he had already done so. He then proceeded to clean his hands with antibacterial gel before sitting. So much gel, in fact, that Midge was beginning to feel lightheaded with the fumes.
Midge collected her cane, sending it a silent apology for the disturbance, and wedged it back across the seat, blocking his attempt to sit down.
The boy frowned. ‘I need to be near the toilet,’ he explained, even though she hadn’t asked.
‘There are plenty of other seats equidistant from the lavatory,’ said Midge, gripping the end of the cane firmly. ‘Ones that are free.’
‘But this one is free,’ protested Noah.
‘Do you see my cane?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Then clearly the seat isn’t free.’
‘I get really travel sick . . . Oh bugger!’ He’d noticed the sign on the door.
Midge thought about this. ‘I don’t really think that is something that I need to know,’ she said.
She took out her phone and began to tap quietly into the keypad.
There was a ping from an incoming text notification. It was Bridie.
Are you on the coach?
Midge tapped back in the affirmative.
The boy had given up and moved to the seat across the aisle. She considered the screen for a moment, her finger hovering above the keypad. There had been an imbalance in their relationship lately that unsettled Midge in a way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And she still hadn’t totally forgiven Bridie for forcing her on to this trip.
Remember to not swear at the nurses.
Remember to have a good time, typed back Bridie.
Midge sighed. What did that even mean? How could anyone possibly have a good time when their bottom was stuck to a lumpy coach seat cover that smelled of old pubs.
Things went rapidly from bad to worse when the sheepskin couple sat in the seats directly in front of Midge, giving her a
first-class, cinematic view of the cavernous earhole of the man every time he turned to talk to his wife. It constantly amazed Midge that men, who were so often appalled by the leg hair of women, would gaily sprout their own tropical vegetation inside their ears and nose without a single by-your-leave. The close proximity of the passengers also meant that she was well placed to overhear the animated conversation between them.
‘. . . have to embarrass yourself like that?’ he was saying.
However, she was distracted from any further eavesdropping by Rendell making his way down the aisle towards them. ‘Right.’ He checked his watch quickly as the coach engine started up. ‘Let’s start with a bit of housekeeping, shall we?’
Midge really wasn’t sure if audience participation was required, but nodded all the same.
‘Firstly, it appears the toilet is out of action . . .’ Rendell held his hands up to ward off the groans from the seats around him. ‘We will be stopping at Tiverton Services, so please hold it tight till then.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! This is preposterous,’ complained the male sheepskin.
‘Secondly,’ continued Rendell, ‘during the weekend, we will be monitoring EMF forces in order to get the maximum from your experience, so I will need you all to hand in your telephones.’
‘EMF?’ asked the lady in front of Midge.
‘Electromagnetic field,’ supplied Rona, turning in her seat further down the coach and leaning over it to explain. ‘Ghosts generate an energy field that can be disrupted by phone signals and recording equipment.’
‘Exactly that,’ said Rendell. ‘Now, if you could all place them in this rucksack, I’ll safeguard them during the weekend.’
As Rendell worked his way along the coach, Midge quickly tapped into the keypad, No phones allowed. Won’t be contactable until we’ve finished, before powering the telephone down.
‘Mr and Mrs Mortimer?’ Rendell was standing over the couple in front of her.
‘Doctor,’ corrected the gentleman, dipping his chin at the medical bag now sitting in his lap. ‘It’s Dr Mortimer.’
‘Right,’ said Rendell, holding out his hand. ‘Phone, please.’
‘Look, is this necessary?’ asked Dr Mortimer. ‘I’m a GP and I really should have access to my phone at all times.’
From the gap between the two seats in front of her, Midge could make out a distinct tightening of Mrs Mortimer’s jaw. She appeared to be whispering to her husband, ‘Andrew, please.’
Reluctantly, Dr Mortimer passed over a silver iPhone to Rendell, who dropped it into the rucksack with a nod. That made three iPhones, one silver and two black (Mrs Mortimer and Rona), and one Android, supplied by Noah. Not that Midge was counting, of course.
Which just left Midge.
‘Mrs McGowan,’ said Rendell, squeezing down through the gap and leaning unpleasantly close to the back of Dr Mortimer’s headrest. He looked through the checklist. ‘Maggie McGowan?’
No recognition, only impatience on his face.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘I take it you are Maggie McGowan?’
Midge exhaled. It did not come as much of a surprise to Midge that she was easily forgettable, and it must have been over twenty years since he had last seen her. For the first time since their marriage, she was glad at Bridie’s insistence on her taking on her surname. Midge held out her phone for him to take.
‘Good God . . . is that a Nokia 3310?’ Noah, from across the aisle, appeared very animated suddenly. ‘Do you still get Snake on that?’
Midge replied, ‘It’s an old work-issue phone. No games allowed.’ Not that Midge would have played one anyway. This was the second time that Noah had spoken to her and Midge wondered if he now considered them friends. Bridie had been talking a lot
lately about Midge making more acquaintances, worried that she would become bored during retirement. She had even tried to nudge Midge into joining her on some of her weekly engagements, much to Midge’s confusion. For the last twenty years, she thought they had managed perfectly well, thank you very much, with her staying at home enjoying her embroidery while Bridie socialized. She could see no good reason for that to change just because she had the misfortune of retiring.
She should have kept her mouth closed. Rendell suddenly leaned forward – the nauseating combination of stale cigars and sandalwood cologne causing Midge to blink rapidly in succession. ‘Are you ex-job?’ he asked. ‘Police?’
‘No.’ She shook her head firmly. She had decided before she set off this morning that she would not disclose her occupation to anyone on this holiday.
‘Really? I can usually tell ex-coppers a mile off.’ Rendell scratched his head.
Midge, who couldn’t think of any other appropriate response, shrugged.
‘Oh, were you in the police before?’ Rona’s head popped up again.
‘Oh yeah!’ Harold’s voice suddenly boomed out over the coach speakers, much to Midge’s alarm and Rendell’s annoyance. He was sitting back in the driver’s chair and talking into the tour guide microphone. ‘You’ve got yourself a real detective here. John Rendell worked on the Cuthbert baby kidnapping case . . . you may have heard of it?’
‘We don’t read the tabloids,’ called back Dr Mortimer.
In Midge’s opinion, the delivery of the statement implied an expected round of applause from the audience.
‘Turn that bloody thing off, Harold,’ shouted Rendell. ‘Now, any questions before we head off?’ Rendell turned to address the rest of the seated group.
‘Is lunch provided?’ Dr Mortimer asked. ‘My wife is diabetic and needs to monitor her insulin levels regularly.’ Through the crack, Midge could make out a small insulin pump patch on Mrs Mortimer’s left arm.
‘Physician, heal thyself . . .’ muttered Noah. Midge was about to point out that as it was the doctor’s wife who had diabetes, that quote wasn’t strictly relevant, but the engine kicked into gear, drowning out everything including the rumble of thunder outside, and the coach moved off.
2Dr Andrew Mortimer (GP) was very clever. Midge knew this because he had told everyone as soon as they sat down for lunch at Tiverton Services on the M4. He had two degrees, which was ostentatious to say the least. Harold said, ‘That’s a shame, one more and you would have had a band’ – which Midge thought was mildly amusing. But then he had to explain who the Three Degrees were to Andrew who, despite his massive intellect, still didn’t seem to understand the joke, at which point Noah piped up to dismiss all old people’s music as rubbish and then Rona chimed in to say that technically the Three Degrees were a vocal group and not a band anyway. Midge could see Harold wishing he had kept his mouth shut in the first place and she couldn’t help agreeing with him. That’s the problem with humour, it can be exhausting.
‘There have been sixteen members of the group over the years,’ said Harold, shovelling in his lukewarm chicken curry as if he’d been told there was a prize for finishing first. Harold would be dreadful to have as a husband but excellent to have in a pub quiz, thought Midge.
He had been asked to join them for lunch, an unusual occurrence by all accounts, brought on by the no-show from the two other guests. Something which had more than irritated Rendell, leaving him with a further delayed schedule and two extra prepaid luncheon vouchers.
He had begrudgingly given one to Harold, calling him in from
the heating of the coach, before offering the other to Midge. ‘You look like a lady who would enjoy a second helping.’
The words were enough to put her nerves on edge and she determined to avoid Rendell as much as possible. Easily done, as he spent the remainder of the lunch break throwing money into the service station slot machines. Something which, judging by the swearing, was also not going his way.
‘Mug’s game, that,’ said Harold, wiping his chin with a scratchy napkin. He shook his head. ‘Some people just never learn.’
Rumours about Rendell’s gambling debts had dogged him throughout his career. Something about Harold’s words and Rendell’s figure silhouetted against the flashing lights stirred an uncomfortable memory of the younger man which added to Midge’s growing sense of unease.
‘Have you seen the White Lady of Atherton Moor for yourself?’ asked Rona, as they sat around the table waiting for everyone to finish eating. An act that Midge was finding difficult with the plastic cutlery the service station had provided them. Noah had had the foresight, oddly, to bring his own knife and fork from home, in a neatly wrapped napkin.
‘No, this will be my first trip to the Tin House,’ replied Harold. ‘I normally do the old dears’ trips to Newquay. Rendell got me in at late notice on this one. I’m a paranormal virgin.’
‘The Tin House?’ asked Midge. ‘Isn’t the place we’re staying at called Atherton Hall?’
‘The Tin House is the name given to Atherton Hall locally. It was the ancestral home of the owners of the local tin mine. Although now it’s owned by some American billionaire who rents it out,’ answered Noah, who, in Midge’s opinion, could do with a good few more meals.
Harold put down his knife and fork and intertwined his fingers. ‘That’s right. The moors around it are visited by the White Lady,
whose appearance foretells a death.’ Harold made a pop-goes-theweasel noise with his mouth, which was hampered somewhat by the last of the rice still in there. ‘Are you on a diet?’ He pointed at Midge’s side bowl of salad.
‘No,’ she replied, frowning.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Noah, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a recording device. ‘Would it be OK if I record a bit of this for the podcast?’
Midge shrugged before leaning towards the microphone and slowly repeating, ‘I like salad. People often assume if they see a large person eating a salad it is because they are dieting. But in fact, I just like salads. Are we to assume Harold is going to enter the Tour de France because of his predisposition for Lycra trousers?’
‘The waistband’s comfy when I’m driving,’ muttered Harold.
‘Not you,’ said Noah, moving the microphone away from Midge. ‘Harold.’
Harold grew taller in his chair. ‘You mean, I’d be on the radio?’
‘Please, carry on,’ said Gloria, the doctor’s wife.
Harold cleared his throat. ‘Right, well. There are a few local legends about spirits and such on the moors, but it’s the White Lady who haunts the Hall too. She never seemed to do much harm until Victorian times, when there were rumours of a ghostly apparition shortly before Lord Charles Atherton died. A pale young woman was seen on the moors and walking the halls of the house, and old Charles went doolally. That very Christmas Eve, he was found dead.’
‘Oh goodness,’ breathed Mrs Mortimer. Her hand shook slightly as she took a sip of water from her glass. ‘How awful.’
‘Oh yes,’ nodded Harold. ‘Charles’s two sons both died young – some say she whispered curses on the family, driving Charles mad and eventually bringing their line to an end. Ever since, whenever the ghost makes an appearance, a death is sure to follow . . .’
‘Typical woman.’ Rendell was back from the slot machines, and
loomed over them, zipping up his coat. ‘Always nagging, even in the afterlife. Am I right?’
Dr Mortimer was the only one to laugh.
‘No one has settled in the house for long since. Apparently, the current owner is too scared to live there now, cos of the ghost,’ said Harold.
‘Why does she whisper?’ Rona asked. ‘I mean, have you noticed? Ghosts always seem to whisper, don’t they? If I was dead and had something to say, I’d be shouting it.’
Midge imagined she would.
‘She’ll be struggling to get through the electromagnetic field . . .’ This was from Dr Mortimer, who was smirking.
Harold pointed at him. ‘Ah, looks like we have a sceptic here, boss.’
Rona put down her drink. ‘I would hope that we are all going into this with an open mind.’
‘I’m sorry, is everything OK?’ Noah spoke instead to Mrs Mortimer, who was staring at him with an intensity that seemed strange, even to Midge. Andrew quickly placed his hand over hers and squeezed, but it wasn’t with a gentle touch. Midge, who was watching, saw the slight opening of Mrs Mortimer’s mouth from the pressure. ‘Of course, everything’s fine, isn’t it, Gloria?’ said the GP, firmly. ‘My wife just hasn’t been sleeping well lately.’
Gloria Mortimer struck Midge as a very nervy person. She was accustomed to anxious people through her forced attendance at Bridie’s WI events and wondered if perhaps Gloria taught Pilates. In her experience, Pilates instructors often brought suppressed anxiety to a whole new level.
Gloria looked quickly down at her plate. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quietly. ‘You just remind me of someone . . . someone we used to know.’
Suddenly, the entire eating area was lit up by a flash of lightning, followed by a torrential hammering of hailstones that shook the wide, glass windows.
‘Come on!’ said Rendell, impatiently. ‘We need to get there before the bad weather sets in.’
As the others made their way towards the exit, Midge, who was slowed slightly by her cane and the suitcase she insisted on dragging, overhead Harold muttering to Rendell behind her, ‘I told you this trip was a bad idea.’
‘If you hadn’t wasted so much time holding court, we’d have been on the road half an hour ago,’ said Rendell, wringing his hands. ‘We need to get there by five, else there’s a strong chance the road will get blocked by the snow.’
‘You should have cancelled the whole thing,’ said Harold in a low voice. ‘Paid them their money back.’
‘With what?’ hissed Rendell, pushing past him and Midge, through the revolving doors and out into the hail and sleet.
When the coach started up once again, the vibrations of the engine were enough to rattle the toilet door beside her. It seemed to have come ajar during lunch. Leaning across, she pushed the door with her cane to click it shut. Perhaps one of the others had preferred to take their chances with a broken toilet rather than the germ roulette of a service station restroom.
Rendell was standing up by his seat next to Harold. ‘Plenty of room, then, so feel free to take a row each, those of you who like to spread out.’ Was he looking directly at her? The weight gain was probably the reason he didn’t recognize her. She’d always been big, but previously active and reasonably fit. But then, after everything that had happened with the baby incident, she’d just given up. First it was the weight, then the stick when walking became too much of an effort. And not long after that, the Hercule Poirot jokes had started – which was a bit unfair, Midge thought, because she always shaved her moustache on workdays.
See, that was humour. And now she was so exhausted, she had no choice but to nap for the rest of the journey to Atherton Hall.
Despite her best intentions to sleep through until they reached the Hall, Midge was woken by the slamming of doors from the undercarriage and an unnecessary amount of swearing. Her knee throbbed slightly from the awkward angle she had dozed in, and the nylon seat cover was prickling the back of her legs.
‘They’re putting snow chains on the wheels,’ explained Noah who, she noticed, had taken the opportunity to stretch his legs out across the aisle.
Thick snowflakes were already obscuring the view through the windows, but Midge could just make out Harold beside the coach as he shuttled backwards and forwards between the wheels. Directly below Midge’s window was Rona, smoking a cigarette as she huddled inside a fur coat. To Midge’s surprise, she appeared to be deep in conversation with Dr Mortimer, who was standing with his back to the window.
‘Goodness,’ said Midge before adding hopefully, ‘Will we have to turn back?’
Disappointingly, Noah shook his head. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘we may as well carry on, otherwise we’ll be waiting to be dug out.’
Would that be such a bad thing? wondered Midge. No one could say she hadn’t tried. After all, even Bridie couldn’t complain if they were brought home early by the rescue services. But then she remembered the toilet was broken, and so decided to wish the wheel chains every good luck.
‘We lost fifteen minutes while Rona was checking her shoes hadn’t frozen.’ Noah rolled his eyes.