Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1) Page 6

  He smelled victory. And the remnants of some horrendous cookery.

  “Ah, my dear lady,” he said when a small Asian woman with overly large glasses appeared at the counter. “My name is Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Third, and according to my information my father left me a small packet.”

  It was, of course, a ruse, but the woman seemed to grasp his meaning immediately, for she displayed a toothy grin, her eyes disappearing into a wreath of wrinkles. “Your father was here this morning,” she said with a funny accent that he couldn’t immediately place. “I told him package has gone!” She waved her hands like a bird. “In fact package long gone!”

  “Yes, I understand that the package has fled the nest,” he said with an indulgent smile. “Hence my question: where did the package go? And before you respond, my dear lady, please note that lives depend on your reply.”

  She shrugged. “Lady pick up parcel. Don’t know where she goes.”

  “Lady? What lady? Where did this lady suddenly spring from?”

  “She spring from taxicab, just like you—then leave in same taxicab.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Taxicabs could be traced, of course.

  “When was this?” he asked, dispensing a few bills from his Yves Saint Laurent wallet. He felt the time had come to throw some money around, for the steady stream of words from the woman’s lips had suddenly dried up.

  She eagerly stared at the money. “Can’t say,” she replied as her eyes glittered. More bills rained down on the counter, and she collected them with relish. Finally, when the pile was sufficiently high, she said, “Ten thirty last night. Package had only just arrived and lady pick it up already. Was only here ten minutes. Then, gone. Poof!”

  “Yes, and what did this lady look like, exactly?”

  “Very stylish. All black. Black shoes, black dress, black hat—”

  “What about her face?”

  “Not black. Face white. Very white.”

  “Was she Chinese?”

  “Yes, Chinese. Very Chinese. Very pretty. Big eyes.”

  He smiled. He was really getting somewhere with this woman.

  “And the man who dropped off the package? What did he look like?”

  “Philo big man—bald man with gold teeth!”

  “Philo? You mean you know this man?”

  She hesitated. “I might have seen before…” Then, as more bills fluttered down on the counter, she added, “He come here from time to time. Drop things off and pick things up. He work for Big Boss Edwards.”

  Abruptly Jarrett stopped dropping bills, much to the woman’s dismay. “You mean… Master Edwards? Master Bill Edwards?”

  She nodded vehemently. “Yes, Master Edwards send Philo often. Philo work for Master Edwards. Everybody know that!” she said with a cackle.

  Yes, even Jarrett knew about Master Edwards. When he’d dabbled in his stable of polo ponies, he’d occasionally bumped into this mysterious Master Edwards. The man was an avid gambler and had bought himself a few horses for the fun of it. The rumors that swirled around at the time were that he was some big crime boss, who wasn’t afraid to break a few bones to get what he wanted. And this guy Philo had always been by his side. He was like the old guy’s bodyguard. Fancy running into those two again. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what a man like Edwards wanted with a book that had the power to turn people immortal. He probably wanted to become immortal himself.

  He thanked the woman for her time, and she gave him a respectful bow. Well, he’d dropped enough money on her to buy her a decent chef, he thought as he disdainfully sniffed the air again. And as he stepped from the restaurant, he decided to call in a favor with one of his old chums, who had invested in more than a few taxicab companies. In fact, Dickie Smalt now owned most of the taxi companies in London, either outright or through dummy companies.

  “Dickie, old thing!” he cried as the call connected. After listening to Dickie’s harangue about that bloody nuisance Uber for a while, he quickly explained the nature of his inquiry, and not ten minutes later he had the ID of the taxi driver in question and was on the horn with the man’s supervisor.

  Chapter 11

  Harry stared at the man, her eyes wide and fearful. She had a feeling that he wasn’t here to pick up a parcel or even to pay her a social call. Her eyes dropped to the parcel in his hands. “Is that the book I sold you yesterday? Didn’t you like it?” Could it be that he’d just shown up to return it?

  He laughed a booming laugh. “No, this isn’t the book, Harry.”

  “How… how come you know my name?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised how easy it is to find out stuff about people.” He was looking around, his beady little eyes darting about. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said approvingly. “Very nice. Very tasteful.”

  “So what do you want, then?” she asked, assuming he wasn’t here to admire her decorating capabilities. She’d clasped her arms across her chest.

  He grinned, once again displaying those gold teeth. “Just tying up some loose ends, you might say. First things first, though. Who have you told about me, Harry?”

  “Nobody,” she quickly replied. “Why would I tell anyone about you? You’re just a messenger who picked up a package yesterday.”

  “That’s right. Very clever girl. But then why don’t I believe you? And why did I just see Inspector Watley of Scotland Yard leave the building?”

  “He’s investigating the murder of Mr. Buckley. Did… did you know he was murdered yesterday?”

  The man pursed his lips. “Oh, yes. Such a pity, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t seem the least bit sorry, though. “Do you—do you know who did it?” she asked bluntly.

  He smiled. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “It wasn’t you, of course,” she said. Somehow she felt that the longer she kept this conversation going, the more chance she had to survive it.

  “No, I didn’t do it. I was with you, remember?”

  “That’s exactly what I told Inspector Watley.”

  “So you did tell him about me,” the man said, his smile disappearing.

  “Yes, but only that I handed you that package and you handed me a million pounds.”

  He tsk-tsked, rubbing a finger along his bald dome as he regarded her reprovingly. “You shouldn’t have done that, Harry. You really shouldn’t.”

  “I had to. He… he told me that if I didn’t tell him that he was going to arrest me and lock me up in jail and interrogate me—and all that.” Only now did she discover she’d been backing away from him, her back now pressed up against the kitchen table. She wondered if there wasn’t a weapon she could use against this giant, but even if there was, he’d easily overpower her.

  He was still eying her coldly, seemingly unsure about what to do. “So what else did you tell that meddlesome Inspector Watley?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. He said that he had a pretty good idea who you were, though, but said you would never come after me because I was the one who could supply you with an alibi for the murder of Mr. Buckley, and you could provide me with one. And then there were all those cameras, of course,” she quickly added as he took a step in her direction.

  He halted again. “What cameras?”

  “Inspector Watley had a picture of you. It was taken when you drove away on your motorcycle and showed your, erm…” She bared her lips and gestured at her teeth.

  He grinned. “Oh, it showed those fancy snappers of mine, eh?”

  “Yep. Which is how the inspector knew all about the meeting.”

  He studied her for a moment, then lifted his massive shoulders into a careless shrug. “No matter. I’m pretty sure Inspector Watley will regret not having taken you into custody, because that was the last time he had to extract information from you.” He approached her in a threatening manner, and she leaned back, her hands grasping behind her for something she could use as a weapon. The only thing she could find was the fork she’d used to eat her
pancakes. She held it up, and he laughed. “I’m afraid that won’t do you much good, Harry,” he said mockingly. “Any last wishes or special requests?”

  She gulped. “Last wishes?”

  “Yeah. I hate to break it to you, but this is the end of the line for you.”

  “No, it is not!” suddenly a voice rang out from behind the big guy.

  He looked up, startled, and so did Harry. They both started violently when they found themselves staring at the form of… Sir Geoffrey Buckley!

  Chapter 12

  “Buckley!” Harry cried out. “But—but—you’re dead!”

  Her former employer smiled a sad smile. “I’m afraid I am,” he agreed, rubbing his head where a blunt object had knocked the life right out of him. He was a frizzy-haired dapper little gentleman, with twinkly eyes, a kind face and a perennial smile, always dressed to the nines, even now, even though he was quite dead and there were no customers to impress. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still be roaming the streets of London now does it?” Then he turned to the big guy. “Hello, Philo. Still up to your old thugging ways?”

  Philo stood gaping at the apparition. “B-B-Buckley,” he stammered. “But how…” He swallowed with difficulty. “How is this possible?”

  “It is possible, my dear Philo,” said Mr. Buckley pleasantly, “because I choose to make it so. You see, Harry isn’t merely an employee of mine but also something of a protégée. When I hired her it was with the understanding I would also be her guardian in this sometimes very dangerous city of ours.”

  “My guardian?” Harry asked. “But why—how?”

  “Your uncle called me the moment I hired you, Harry,” Mr. Buckley explained. “He told me he was very worried that his niece was living in London all by herself, and gave me to understand that if I didn’t treat you like royalty, he’d have a very hearty word with me. So, of course, I took him up on his request to take you under my wing and look out for you.”

  “So that’s why you dropped by from time to time,” Harry said, amazed.

  “Yes, just to assuage your uncle’s concern. To see if you were eating right, and living in a nice apartment in a good neighborhood. I was by way of being his guardian by proxy, you might say.”

  “Look, why don’t you two finish this conversation once Harry here has also been turned into a ghost?” Philo roughly interrupted Buckley. He seemed to have overcome his initial surprise, and now displayed an evil smile. “Once she’s dead too, you two can gabber all you want,” he added, stepping up to Harry, his hands forming a circle which, she had no doubt, would soon be around her neck for a very tight and very deadly squeeze.

  “Hold it right there, Philo!” Mr. Buckley called out, and Philo stopped. It seemed that he was still a little bit fearful of Buckley in his ghostly form.

  “What is it now?” he asked gruffly.

  “If you do this, Philo, I can promise you a very uncomfortable future. I will haunt you for the rest of your life. And so will Harry here.”

  “I don’t care,” he said with a shrug and continued his advance.

  “And that’s not all!” Buckley cried. “I will make sure that all your other victims also return from the dead to haunt you as well!”

  Philo didn’t seem impressed. “Still don’t care,” he announced.

  Buckley sighed. “Oh, very well then,” he said. “You leave me no other choice.” And with these words, he streaked over to Philo, picking up Harry’s coffee table as he did, and sent it crashing onto the ugly goon’s head. Philo stared vacantly into space for a moment, the hit apparently taking time to register, then collapsed onto the floor of Harry’s small flat, out for the count.

  “How did you do that?!” Harry cried.

  Mr. Buckley was gazing down upon the lifeless form of Philo with satisfaction. “Yes, well, ghosts can manipulate material objects, Harry.”

  “So if you wanted to you could go after your murderer and exact revenge yourself?” Harry asked, amazed.

  “Well, it might be a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

  She stared at the ghost and suddenly threw herself into his arms. To her surprise, he caught her deftly and pressed her to his ghostly bosom. Her hands were sinking somewhat into his waistcoat, the sensation cold and wispy to the touch, but there was a certain solidity to him that surprised her.

  “I didn’t even know ghosts had mass,” she said, stepping back. Well, she hadn’t even known ghosts existed until now, but they obviously did.

  “It’s the same thing as with material objects, Harry. We can interfere with life on this plane, but only if we practice a little.” He offered a wistful smile. “The antique shop is full of ghosts, you see. What with all the old stuff piled up there. And they’ve been teaching me quite a few tricks.” He gestured to the inert body of the big guy on Harry’s carpet. “I think you better call that nice Inspector Watley again, don’t you agree?”

  She stared down at Philo. “What do I tell him happened?”

  “Best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Tell him that Philo turned his back for a moment and you knocked him out with the coffee table.”

  “But what if Philo tells Darian a different story when he comes to?”

  Buckley chuckled. “Who’s going to believe him, my dear? Ghosts don’t exist, remember?”

  “Oh, Buckley, I’m so glad you’re here. If not for you…”

  “We’d be having this conversation on equal footing, as Philo indicated just now. And that would have been a little bit too soon for you,” he said. “Besides, if you had expired, Chief Whitehouse would have come down here to ‘kick my butt,’ as he so eloquently put it the first time we conversed.”

  She stared at Buckley’s ghostly form for a moment. She remembered Alice asking her if she’d seen anything funny, and now she understood what she meant. So when she’d seen her grandmother all those years ago, that had been real, too? That had been Gran’s ghost visiting her? It was hard to believe, and yet here stood a dead man, looking down at this Philo, whoever he was. Which reminded her. “Who killed you, Buckley? Perhaps I can tell Darian and then he can arrest the murderer.”

  “It’s a little bit more complicated than that,” Buckley said sadly, repeating his earlier statement.

  “What do you mean? I’m sure Darian can—”

  “I wasn’t killed by a mere human, Harry.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

  Buckley gestured at the unconscious man. “I think you better call Inspector Watley first. Because by the time I finish telling this story, Philo might have regained consciousness, and then we’ll have to knock him out again, and I’d rather not destroy any more of your nice furniture.”

  So Harry put in the call to Scotland Yard and told the dispatcher there had been an attempt on her life, and she urgently needed to speak to Inspector Watley. Moments later she had Darian on the phone, and he sounded very anxious. “What’s all this about an attack?” he cried, audibly dismayed.

  “Remember that man with the gold teeth you told me wasn’t dangerous and would never come after me? Well, he came after me,” she said.

  “Christ!” cursed Darian. “Get out of the apartment right now, Harry! Go to a place with a lot of people! I’m on my way!” And he rang off.

  She smiled. He’d just called her Harry!

  Far from following his orders, however, she made herself comfortable on the sofa, and told Buckley, “Now tell me everything you know, Mr. Buckley, and leave out no detail, no matter how small.”

  Buckley smiled. “Your wish is my command, Miss Holmes.”

  Chapter 13

  “I wasn’t killed by human hands, you see,” Buckley explained while he kept a keen eye on the unconscious form of Philo.

  “You were killed by a ghost, you mean? A ghost just like yourself?”

  “No, not a ghost. A person who has been turned into an immortal being.”

  Harry frowned. This was the first she’d eve
r heard of this strange phenomenon. “An immortal being? Are you sure that’s even possible?”

  “Oh, it is possible all right.” He shook his grizzly head. “I should never have accepted that commission for that damned book.”

  “What book? The book I sold to Philo?”

  “That’s the one. It’s called the Clavicule Necroire, and it is a very special book indeed. Within its pages are concealed secret formulas that, if read by the right person, can lead to a person becoming immortal, or having their life extended for as long as the priest doing the ritual decides. Unfortunately, the book was stolen from its rightful owner, then sold to me, and I sold it to the one person who probably should never have the option to have his life extended beyond this one.”

  “The person Philo is working for,” Harry guessed.

  “Yes. Master Edwards, renowned crime boss and currently very ill indeed. In fact if not for the book he’ll probably be dead in another few weeks, which is why he was prepared to pay a million pounds for the privilege of getting his hands on the precious tome.”

  “But you said he needs a priest to do the ritual. Where is he going to find one?”

  Buckley also settled himself on the couch, sinking into it a little deeper than the ordinary person. It was a curious sight, as Harry could see parts of the wall through him, and the picture of New York’s Grand Central Station.