Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1) Page 8

  “Harry,” she said pleasantly, and he nodded. Just then, the loud wail of sirens announced that backup had finally arrived, and soon a small cadre of police officers was stomping up the stairs, just when Philo sat up and took stock of his surroundings.

  He stared dumbly at Harry for a moment, then yelled, “It was the ghost! The ghost of Buckley knocked me out! Save me from the ghost of Sir Buckley, Watley!” Then, as six police officers, Harry and Darian watched on in frank amazement, he threw wild-eyed looks around, until his gaze fixed on the picture of Grand Central Station, and he screamed, “He’s right there! He’s right there, looking at me with his demon eyes! Save me from the ghost of Buckley, I beg you, Watley! Save me puh-leaaaaaase!”

  And when the constables cuffed him and led him away, Darian thought he’d never seen a man so keen on being arrested as Philo Bovine-Marks.

  “Weird,” he commented as he watched him hotfoot it down the stairs, darting anxious looks in the direction of Harry’s flat. “Thought the man was made of sterner stuff, actually. Never seen him go to pieces like that.”

  “Must be those blows with the coffee table,” Harry intimated, looking a little harried herself. “Must have really rattled the poor man.”

  “Yeah, I suppose they did,” Watley allowed. Then he turned back to Harry. “Right! Your living arrangements. Where are you going to stay?”

  She shrugged. “What do you suggest?”

  He thought about this for a moment. It was quite obvious she wasn’t safe here. Bill Edwards might send other men after her. He could place an officer outside her door, but knew his superiors wouldn’t like it. Because of budget restraints, around-the-clock surveillance was only rarely approved these days. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. He had an idea, but she wasn’t going to like it one bit. “You could always stay at my place,” he suggested. “Only for a few days, of course. My colleagues and I frequently house people who aren’t safe in their own homes for one reason or another.”

  “You live alone?” she asked, interested.

  “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. And I have a very nice guest bedroom that’s all yours. Or I could set you up with a female colleague if you prefer.”

  “No, that’s all right,” she said, unexpectedly keen.

  Most people he suggested this to were reluctant to accept his offer. In spite of the danger, they often preferred to make their own arrangements, the notion of staying at a policeman’s place the absolute last thing they wanted.

  “Unless of course you have a boyfriend to bunk with?” he said a little tersely.

  Her brows rose. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Inspector.”

  “Oh?” he asked innocently. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes.”

  He wondered what the story was here. An attractive woman like Harry McCabre should have men dangling from every finger. But he decided not to pry. Her private life wasn’t his business, after all, no matter his curiosity.

  “So that’s settled then,” he said, quite pleased. “You’re going to stay with me until we’ve caught the bastard who nabbed your Mr. Buckley.”

  She giggled, and when he asked for the reason for her amusement, she explained, “That’s what Uncle Curtis told me. He said you and he are going to catch the bastard in what he called an intercontinental investigation.”

  Darian groaned at both the recollection and the expression. “Yes, well, that remains to be seen,” he said a little gruffly. “I think I’m quite capable of catching this guy all by myself thank you very much.” He quickly added, “Not that I mean any disrespect to your uncle, but this is a Scotland Yard investigation, after all, and I’d rather prefer it to stay that way.”

  “Yeah, I prefer it too,” she said, two smiling eyes gazing back at him.

  He stared at her for a moment, then tore his eyes away with some reluctance. “Right,” he said, clasping his hands together. “So gather everything you think you’re going to need, and, erm… I’ll have a car come round as soon as you’re ready, shall I?”

  “Thank you, Darian,” she said softly. “This is ever so nice of you.”

  “Not at all,” he riposted a little awkwardly. “Only trying to keep you alive and all that.” He rocked back on his heels. “Right,” he said, looking at her a little stern-faced and clasping his hands together. “Yes, quite.” Then, after a curt nod in her direction and receiving a grateful smile in return, he promptly took his leave. For some strange reason, he always got a little off-kilter each time he was around Harry. Why that was, exactly, he didn’t really know.

  Chapter 17

  Jarrett opened his eyes groggily, and the first thought that entered his mind was that his bed had suddenly become quite hard. He knew he was in bed, of course, for he found himself gazing up into the face of Deshawn.

  “Oh, Deshawn,” he croaked, his lips strangely dry. “I just had the most horrible nightmare. Some woman in black knocked me out just when I had that darned book within my grasp.”

  He tried to sit up when he was assaulted by the most horrendous headache. This could only mean one thing, he thought as he lay back down. He must have gone on quite the bender last night.

  “Fix me something for my hangover will you, Deshawn,” he plaintively told his valet. “My head is absolutely killing me.”

  “Lie back, sir,” Deshawn’s voice floated to him as his eyes closed. “The ambulance will be here shortly.”

  “An ambulance, eh?” he asked as he followed Deshawn’s instructions and put his head back down on his pillow. Even the pillow felt painfully hard. “Not a bad idea, Deshawn. Not a bad idea at all.” Although if Father found out he’d gone on one of his famous all-nighters there would be hell to pay.

  But then he drifted off to sleep and was lost to the world once more.

  When he came to again, he was strapped to a gurney inside a moving vehicle, hurtling along at a brisk pace, two handsome male nurses watching over him. He smiled up at them, wondering if he’d died and gone to heaven.

  “Hello there, fellas,” he said, trying to sound breezy and failing miserably.

  “Just take it easy, Mr. Zephyr,” one of the nurses said.

  “Just lie back and don’t speak, Mr. Zephyr,” the other chimed in.

  “Oh, I know that song,” he said, his voice barely above a croak. “Hey, what about some carpool karaoke, you guys?” And as the EMTs exchanged puzzled glances, he started to sing quite off-key, “Don’t speak. La-la-la. Don’t tell me cause it hurts.…” But soon he drifted off into unconsciousness again.

  When he came to the third time, he found himself in a hospital bed, the whiteness of the sheets, the walls, and the ceiling painful to his eyes. Some species of contraption was attached to his arm, a fluid dripping into it. God, he must have had quite the party last night, if he needed extra fluids.

  Then he noticed Deshawn sitting at his bedside, a worried expression on the man’s usually inscrutable face. “So what’s all this?” he asked.

  “You were attacked, sir,” Deshawn said, his voice betraying his concern.

  He frowned. “Attacked? By whom? Why? Don’t tell me I got into a fight again?” Though generally a peace-loving man, Jarrett could, when sauced to the gills, be induced to get caught up in the odd scrap with a fellow reveler.

  “Not a fight, per se, sir. The taxi driver told me he took you to the warehouse, and you left him strict instructions to wait for you. When you hadn’t returned after half an hour, he became worried and called me.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? And what would he go and do a silly thing like that for?” Jarrett asked a little irritably. He was a grown man, for Pete’s sake, and didn’t need a nanny, he meant to say.

  “Because you gave him your card, sir. With my number printed on the back in case of an emergency.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. So a warehouse, eh?”

  He was trying to remember, and slowly vague memories started to drift into his mind—such as it was—and made themselves available for recollection. “I
seem to remember I was looking for something. Something or other to do with something or other if you catch my drift.”

  “Yes, sir. You were, in fact, on a quest to save your mother, sir.”

  This took him by surprise. “Save my mother, eh?”

  “Exactly, sir. You were trying to locate a certain religious tome.”

  At the mention of this, memory clicked into place, and he sat upright with a jerk. He hadn’t been whooping it up at some dodgy venue after all! He’d gone to the warehouse in search of that darned book! And he’d almost had it, too! “My God, Deshawn! The book! I had it in my grasp!”

  “Yes, sir. Quite, sir.”

  He snapped his fingers. “I grappled with someone. Someone, erm, a woman! Yes! She must have knocked me out cold!”

  “Would this be the woman in black Madame Wu referred to, sir?”

  He stared at the man. He knew Deshawn to possess remarkable qualities, but he’d never known him to be psychically gifted. “How do you know?”

  Deshawn gave him a deferential smile. “I took the liberty of following you when you stepped out of the suite, sir.”

  “You followed me?”

  “Yes, sir. On your father’s instigation. He was worried that you might get into trouble when you tried to return the book, sir.”

  He shook his head. He should be cross with both his father and Deshawn, but the fact of the matter was that the man had probably saved his life. So instead he said, “Thank you, Deshawn. That was very decent of you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I just wish I’d arrived sooner. My taxi driver had trouble grasping the concept of ‘follow that cab’ and lagged a street length behind yours. We lost you at Xing Ming, and it took quite a lot of money to persuade her to give me the same information she’d given you.”

  “That’s all right, Deshawn. We can’t all be professional sleuths like me.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Well, well, well,” he murmured, his ordeal at the warehouse now coming back to him in full HD and Dolby surround sound. Then he frowned, another memory niggling at the back of his mind. The fleeting image of a funny-looking goatee. “You know what, Deshawn? I’m fairly certain there was a third party present at the scene, and if I’m not mistaken, he was the one who tried to rearrange the back of my head.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  “Quite sure about it, actually. Yes, some big beefy bloke, lurking in corners. Cowardly fellow, too, knocking me out from behind. Wish I’d gotten a better look at his face, though. But then it was pretty dark in there, of course. Myes.”

  He and Deshawn looked up when his father stormed in, looking extremely distraught. “Jarrett! You could have been killed!”

  “But I wasn’t, now was I?” he returned jovially, for the pain medication was starting to give him quite a buzz. In fact, he’d never felt better. Being knocked around by shady characters in dilapidated warehouses rather became him.

  His pater wagged a pudgy finger in his face. “I want you to promise me here and now that you’ll drop this foolishness!”

  “I will do no such thing, sir,” he returned. “I promised to save Mother and Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Third is nothing if not a man of his word!”

  “You were almost killed!” his father cried.

  “Yes, well, those are the risks of the profession, I’m afraid. And I can assure you that next time I meet these dastardly book thieves, I’ll be prepared.” He laughed what he thought was a careless laugh but sounded more like the plaintive bleat of a sheep. “They won’t catch me unawares again. Oh, by the way, Deshawn, what happened to my suit?”

  “Torn and tattered when they dragged you away, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “Oh, bugger,” he muttered. Not only had these people almost killed him, but they’d also defiled one his favorite suits. “And what about my shoes?”

  “Scuffed beyond repair, sir.”

  “Oh, blast.”

  “You will stop this nonsense right away!” his father yelled vociferously.

  “Oh, come off it, Father. You know as well as I do I’m the only one who can find that book.” He held his hands inches apart. “I was this close to capturing it. This close.”

  “Well, you’ll stay away from the damn book from now on if you know what’s good for you,” his father continued his harangue.

  Jarrett waved a hand. “As soon as I’m declared fit for work I’m on the trail again. No rest for the weary and the wicked, eh?”

  There was a slight commotion at the door of his hospital room, and a large and burly policeman strode in. “Mr. Zephyr-Thornton?” he growled.

  Jarrett and his father looked up. “Yes?” both men replied.

  The policeman eyed them with a scowl, then closed the door behind him. “I’m here to investigate the attack on your person, sir,” he announced.

  Chapter 18

  “Who told you?” Jarrett asked cautiously.

  “I believe it was your father who filed the report, sir.”

  He turned to the man. “Why did you do a silly thing like that?”

  “Because you were almost killed!” his father yelled.

  “I understand this concerns a particular book?” the policeman continued.

  This time, Jarrett Sr responded. “Yes, Inspector. My son is trying to locate a book that was stolen from the Absinthian Church two weeks ago. His search led him to an old warehouse on the quays, but just when he was about to take possession of the book, he was viciously attacked and left for dead.”

  “Father, please,” Jarrett said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure the inspector isn’t interested in some dreary old book.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” said the policeman, and for some nebulous reason produced an impressive-looking badge. “Inspector Darian Watley of the Yard, sir. I’m investigating the murder of Sir Geoffrey Buckley. And I’m now quite convinced this book you’re after is the key to his murder.”

  Jarrett stared at the man. “A murder?”

  The inspector drew up a chair and took a seat. “That’s right. I’ve just arrested a man in connection with Sir Buckley’s murder, and he claims he acquired this book to restore his boss to good health. According to him, the book has healing powers if used by the right person.” He eyed Jarrett intently. “A lot of poppycock of course, sir, but nevertheless, it seems that certain parties are willing to kill to get their hands on this book, and in my estimation one of those parties is the one who did this number on you.”

  Jarrett was amazed to find he’d inadvertently gotten himself involved in a murder investigation. “So a murder, eh?” he muttered. The plot was definitely thickening.

  “Can you describe your assailant to me, Mr. Zephyr-Thornton?”

  “Well, there were two, actually. One was an Asian woman, all dressed in black, who knew a thing or two about martial arts, because in spite of my extensive Taekwondo experience she managed to deflect my moves, and the other one was a very large man. Unfortunately I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know him up close and personal. But I do remember he had a goatee.”

  “A goatee?”

  “Yes, one of those funny little beards that are now all the rage.”

  “I know what a goatee is, sir.”

  “Then why do you ask?”

  The inspector’s lips tightened. “Can you verify that the book was there?”

  “Oh, yes, it was there, all right.” He gave the inspector a hopeful look. “Did you… find it?”

  “Afraid not, sir. We searched the warehouse, but the place was empty. We’re still collecting evidence, so there’s still hope we can catch them.”

  “When you find the book, Inspector, you have to return it to its rightful owner,” Jarrett Sr now said urgently, clutching the inspector’s sleeve.

  The inspector looked from his sleeve to the clutcher, and said, “As far as I know the rightful owner is Bill Edwards.”

  “No!” cried Jarrett Sr. “He’s a thief! He stole the book!”

  “He
paid a million pounds for the privilege of ownership,” said the inspector, and both father and son Zephyr-Thornton stared at the man.

  “He what?!” Jarrett Sr boomed.

  “He acquired the book from Sir Buckley yesterday.”

  “But he can’t have bought it. The book was stolen from the Absinthian Church. It’s their book. They own it!” cried Jarrett Sr, still anxiously clutching the inspector’s extremity. “It’s imperative the book is returned to the church’s Elder, Inspector. Absolutely imperative.”

  The inspector nodded, and patiently extricated his sleeve from the other man. “I’ll look into it, Mr. Zephyr-Thornton. Geoffrey Buckley was known for fencing stolen objects, so your story certainly has the ring of credulity.”

  “Of course it does!” cried Jarrett Sr, with his customary frankness.

  “My father is very concerned about my mother, Inspector,” Jarrett explained. “She’s very ill, you see, and the Absinthian Church’s Elder has promised he could help. But for some reason he needs this book to do that.”

  The inspector’s lip curled up into a skeptical smile. “Yes, well, all I know is that you’re the third person who’s been attacked in the course of twenty-four hours, and all incidents are connected to this book.” He eyed Jarrett critically. “Please refrain from continuing your quest to find the book, sir.”

  “But I have to find it, Inspector!” Jarrett called out.

  “No, you don’t!” countered his father.

  “Look, this is my mission, and that’s all there is to it!” he snapped. For once in his life he was doing something useful for a change and no copper or irascible billionaire was going to deter him from persisting in his noble quest.

  “For your own sake,” Watley insisted, “let the professionals handle this.”

  “Exactly my point,” Jarrett said, gesturing to himself. “The professionals are handling it, Inspector. I’m going to find that book and deliver it to the rightful owner or my name isn’t Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Third!”

  The inspector pursed his lips. “Be careful, sir. Be very careful.”