Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1) Page 9

  “Duly noted, Inspector. And now if you’ll excuse me, my valet and I have some very important decisions to make.”

  Inspector Watley’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. He merely gave him a curt nod and rose, then took his leave without another word.

  “You’re nuts,” was his father’s opinion once they were alone once more.

  “No, you’re nuts!” he retorted. “Why did you tell him about the book?”

  “I didn’t tell him about the book. Didn’t you listen? Some other nitwit did. Some guy called Philo.”

  At this point, Deshawn cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sirs, but may I offer a suggestion?”

  “You may,” Jarrett said, still scowling at his old man.

  “Mightn’t we be able to find out more if we got in touch with this other person who was attacked, sir?”

  “We might, if only we knew who he or she was,” he agreed.

  Deshawn’s lips curled into a small smile. “I might be able to help you with that, sir.”

  “Oh? You know who this person is?”

  “No, but I do know who Inspector Watley’s housekeeper is, and it is my understanding that she’s a very garrulous woman who keeps no secrets from anyone who’s prepared to listen.”

  “I like your thinking, Deshawn,” said Jarrett.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t,” grumbled Jarrett Sr. “You heard the inspector. You have to stay away from this case, son. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Only fools and horses get themselves killed, father,” he said haughtily. He didn’t know what this meant, but he’d heard it somewhere and thought that it sounded pretty good. “And I’m neither a fool nor a horse.”

  “You could have fooled me,” his father muttered darkly.

  Ignoring this outburst, he gestured at Deshawn. “Please work your magic on the Watley housekeeper, Deshawn, and find out everything you can about this other victim.”

  “I will, sir,” Deshawn said, taking out his smartphone.

  Deshawn wasn’t a mere butler slash valet. He was, by way of being one of the top servants in London, plugged into a great network of servants all over the capital and beyond. In fact there wasn’t a servitor placed in some high position he wasn’t familiar with, or with whom he didn’t fraternize in his leisure time, and his superior knowledge of the ins and outs of the upper classes had often come in handy. Mostly when Jarrett had to be extricated from some romantic dalliance with some young nephew or son of some lord or baron. Now, his networking skills might even save lives…

  Chapter 19

  Harry looked around the apartment of Inspector Darian Watley with interest. A woman constable by the name of Tilda Fret had brought her and her stuff over, then had proceeded to show her the guest bedroom which would be her home for the next few days. As Darian had already indicated, Harry wasn’t the first person he put up, as Constable Fret confirmed.

  “Oh, yes, Inspector Watley’s doing this all the time,” she assured her. She was a frumpy heavy-set woman of indistinguishable age with flaming red hair, an easygoing manner, and a ready smile. She quickly finished her tour of the place. “So there you have it. You can use the bathroom and the kitchen, but the inspector’s study is off-limits.”

  “And why is that?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “He’s a police inspector, love,” said the woman. “With quite a heavy caseload. And most of those cases are confidential, as you can imagine.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, understanding dawning. “He’s something of a big cheese at Scotland Yard then is he?”

  “He is pretty high up,” Constable Fret confirmed. “And he does handle a lot of sensitive cases. The higher-ups trust him implicitly,” she added, a proud smile on her cheerful face. She seemed to think Inspector Watley was quite the hot ticket, apparently.

  “Does he live alone?” she asked, darting a peek inside the shower. Then, when the other woman gave her a curious look, she reddened slightly.

  “Actually he was married once,” the woman said softly.

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Things didn’t work out, I guess. He never talks about it, and as it all happened before he joined the Yard, nobody knows for sure.”

  “He must have been quite young when he got married then.”

  “Young and stupid, if you ask me,” said Constable Fret with a tinkling laugh. “Well, the woman did break his heart, didn’t she?” she added when Harry stared at her.

  “She broke his heart?”

  “Must have, for he hasn’t been seen with anyone ever since. And trust me, many have tried. He simply brushes them all off!”

  “You don’t think he’s…”

  Tilda Fret giggled. “Oh, no, honey. A man like that? He’s not!”

  No, Inspector Watley didn’t strike Harry as gay either.

  “Well, then,” said the policewoman. “I guess that concludes this tour!”

  “Thank you, Constable Fret,” she said.

  “Tilda, love. Just call me Tilda.”

  They’d arrived back in the guest bedroom, and Harry saw that another constable had brought her stuff up and placed it all on the bed. “Will I have to stay here long?” she asked now, as Tilda seemed about to take her leave.

  “Dunno. Until they catch the bastard?”

  “And how long…”

  “Trust me, love, Inspector Watley will nab him in next to no time,” the policewoman assured her. “He’s ever so good at what he does.”

  Once again, there was that hint of adulation, and Harry thought that Darian Watley must be really popular with his people. After Tilda had left, she plunked down on the bed, then jumped right up again to go for a second tour of the place. Darian’s apartment was neat and clean but very impersonal. All black surfaces, lots of glass and chrome, and straight lines wherever she looked. In fact, Christian Grey of Fifty Shades Of Grey fame would have loved it here, though of course he’d have to add a dungeon. The place was clean but sterile and absolutely devoid of life or soul. As if not a man lived here but a robot. But then Darian seemed like the kind of person who was married to his job, and who rarely spent a cozy evening at home.

  She glanced into the study, the one place she wasn’t supposed to tread, and wondered how many sensitive cases he handled. He must be a real ace, to be entrusted with such important work. No doubt he’d catch Buckley’s killer soon. Her thoughts now drifted back to the mysterious book of the Absinthian Church. They needed to get that book back to the church, so the Elder could undo the damage his follower had done, and, most importantly, prevent the guy from coming for her. Philo might be a formidable opponent, but a man who was able to move through walls and kill with impunity was far worse. And before he came after her, she needed to strip him of his powers.

  She briefly wondered where Buckley was. She’d last seen him at her flat, still perched on the sofa beneath the picture of Grand Central Station, and he’d given her a big wink when Tilda Fret had escorted her from the flat.

  He’d show up again, she thought. She didn’t know what the deal was with ghosts, exactly. Did they come and go as they pleased? Or were they stuck to a particular place? She didn’t think so, for if that were the case, he’d still be holed up in his office at the store, and not haunting her flat.

  After a quick look at herself in the mirror, she strode from the apartment and was hailing a taxicab before Darian or Tilda could pop up and stop her.

  Chapter 20

  First port of call was, of course, this Absinthian Church. She had no idea if these people would even grant her an audience, but she needed to find out where this book had gone off to, and the only place she thought of to start looking was the place where it had all begun. If they were so powerful—even immortal—they must have some clue where Jingoist was.

  The Temple of the Absinthian Church was, in fact, a nondescript office building near Cannery Wharf close to the Thames. She would never have found it if
the taxi driver hadn’t assured her that this was where the church was actually located. He said he often brought people here for prayers.

  She stared up at the building, which was so ordinary she would have simply walked past it, but then noticed the small plaque engraved over the entrance, and as she approached to study it more closely, saw that it depicted a small chalice, surrounded by birds clasping flowers in their beaks.

  Cute, she thought. And then she pushed open the glass doors and stepped into a reception area that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a regular office building. A young Asian man was manning the desk, and as she walked up, she noticed he was dressed in long black robes, beautifully embroidered with more birds, all deftly holding flowers in their respective beaks.

  “I’m looking for the Elder,” she said, figuring she might as well come straight to the point.

  “The Elder cannot be disturbed,” the man said in hushed tones, as if afraid of the sound of his own voice. “But perhaps I can help you?”

  “Well…” She hesitated, wondering how much to tell this guy. “I’m looking for a book that was stolen from this church? Actually my employer—well, my former employer because he’s dead now—Sir Geoffrey Buckley? He bought the book and then sold it again and now it’s gone and the people who bought it are coming after me. They murdered him, you see—Mr. Buckley I mean. Yesterday. And he told me some priest did this? Fellow who used to work here? Name of Jingoist?”

  She shut up when the man’s face clouded. Darned if she hadn’t said too much. Well, actually she’d told him everything except her cup size.

  “Wait here, please,” he said rather curtly, and then quickly stalked off, his robes swishing around his legs, darting suspicious glances at her as he did.

  She sagged a little. Oh, if only she possessed an ounce of the investigative powers of Sherlock Holmes or even his sidekick Dr. Watson. As it was, she was just bumbling about, probably making things worse. And as she looked around, she saw that a door leading off the reception was ajar. Wandering thither, she wondered what lay behind the door, and gave it a gentle push.

  Fully expecting to find some boring office, she gasped when she discovered she’d inadvertently arrived in what she surmised was the heart of the Absinthian Church London, a grand hall with pews and an altar and a lectern just like a real church. Well, this was a real church, of course.

  She strode in, gazing at the lilacs placed in vases near the walls, and lots of images of birds clutching flowers adorning the walls and ceiling. These guys were really into the birds and flowers motif, she thought, which was a nice change from tormented martyrs, of course. She took a seat in the last pew, gazing up at the ceiling, and noticed that near the top of one wall a series of stained glass windows had been placed, soft light streaming into the room. She made a mental note to ask Buckley to tell her a little more about the history of the church. Just then, the harried-looking receptionist came barging in, now looking positively red in the pious face.

  “You can’t be in here!” he loud-whispered, and took a hold of her arm, pulling her to her feet. “This is for parishioners only!”

  “Well, what if I wanted to become a parishioner?” she tried.

  “Impossible! Only chosen ones are accepted!”

  “Just leave us, Justin,” a warm voice interrupted the young receptionist. His face turned scarlet, and then he was bowing extensively to the new arrival. He was an aged Chinese man, looking quite plain, in simple white cotton shirt and loose-fitting black trousers. He could have been an accountant, she thought, but from Justin’s reaction she figured he wasn’t.

  The moment the receptionist had left, closing the doors behind him, the man studied Harry closely, and she felt like a bug being studied by a bird.

  “Are you the Elder?” she asked, eager to break the tense silence.

  He bowed his head slightly. “Yes, I am.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “You don’t look immortal.”

  He smiled. “You are quite perceptive, Miss McCabre.”

  She blushed. “It’s just that someone told me a long story about you and your church and, erm, well, I don’t know whether to believe it or not.”

  “Better believe it,” he advised pleasantly, taking a seat next to her. “For when a man returns from the dead to tell you a story, it would be bad manners not to believe him.”

  She stared at him. “You know Buckley?”

  “Not personally, though I can see his spirit all around you. He’s your protector, is he not?”

  “Well, he certainly seems to think so.”

  “It is a rare thing indeed to have a ghost as your protector.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is pretty rare,” she allowed. “I didn’t even know ghosts existed before today.”

  “There are a lot of things under the sun that are strange, Miss McCabre.” He gave her a sidelong look. “So you’re here about the Clavicule Necroire.”

  “Yes, well, Buckley told me that this rogue priest of yours, Jingoist, wants me dead for handling the book, so naturally I’m curious to know how I can avoid Buckley’s fate.”

  “Naturally,” the Elder said with a chuckle. “Unfortunately I can’t tell you where the book is, nor Jingoist.”

  “But you’re immortal.”

  “Immortal doesn’t mean being an interfering busybody, Miss McCabre. Immortal simply means that I don’t die.”

  “Must be tough,” she mused.

  “It is a burden sometimes,” he agreed with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “How old are you, exactly?”

  “Add a zero to your age and you will know.”

  She thought for a moment, then started. “You’re two hundred and three?”

  “Give or take a few years. One tends to lose count.”

  “Crikey,” she muttered.

  “Indeed.”

  “Look, I really want to find this book for you.”

  “I want to find my book as well.”

  “Great. That makes two of us. So where do we start?”

  He eyed her keenly. “I have to insist that you don’t interfere, Harry.”

  “You sound like Darian,” she muttered.

  “One thing you should know about Clavicule Necroire is that it always comes back. It has been stolen before, though Jingoist isn’t aware of this, of course, and always it returns. But only when the karma that has been created has been eradicated.” He gestured lightly at her. “You have created a little karma yourself, Harry, by trading Clavicule Necroire for money. This karma you must first lift, as must the others who have created this minor drama.”

  She stared at the man. “But I wasn’t even aware that I was trading a stolen book.”

  “Oh, yes, you were,” he said gently. “You knew that Mr. Buckley was dealing in stolen goods, and yet you remained in his employ. In doing so, you incurred bad karma, and now you have to find a way to restore the balance. Once the balance is restored—and it will always be restored, no matter what—the book will come back to us, and the whole journey starts all over again.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Pretty sure,” he said, making a comical face.

  “Oh, crap,” she said with a sigh.

  “Your karma is only very light, Harry,” he told her with a pat on her arm. “Just be a force for good in this world, and it will be erased before you know it, as will Mr. Buckley’s karma, though his is a great deal heavier. Which is why he’s your guardian. It is part of his burden to redeem himself.”

  “But what if this Jingoist comes after me and tries to kill me? I’m no match for him.”

  A shadow crossed the man’s pleasant features. “Jingoist has incurred the greatest karma of all. And his punishment will be quite severe.”

  This didn’t answer her question, of course, but before she could ask more, the old man slowly rose to his feet, a clear sign this audience was at an end. He warmly pressed her hands in his and gave her a bright smile, tiny wrinkles spreading from his kind eyes. �
��Perhaps you will join our church one day, Harry, but not today.” And with these words, he walked away along the rows of pews and disappeared behind the altar.

  She sighed. She’d just had a long conversation with a very interesting man, but still she was none the wiser…

  Chapter 21

  Harry instructed the cab driver to drop her off at her own flat on Valentine Street. She wanted to fetch her bike, which would make moving around London a lot easier—and cheaper. She hadn’t learned a lot of new things, but she had met a man who seemed to believe he was over two hundred years old and would never die, which was quite a novel idea. Whether he was really immortal remained to be seen, but at least he seemed to believe it. And so did Jingoist and Philo’s boss. He’d also told her in the most friendly way to butt out, but she didn’t think she could do that just yet. Not as long as she was on Jingoist’s hit list.

  The taxi finally dropped her off, and she set about unfastening her bike, before gazing up at her flat. To her amusement, she saw Snuggles happily prancing about on Mrs. Peak’s balcony. Before being escorted from the flat by Tilda Fret, she’d temporarily transferred ownership of Snuggles to her elderly neighbor, much to the latter’s delight. And as she watched Snuggles strut her stuff, it appeared the Persian, likewise, was only too glad to be rid of Harry. She waved at the cat, but her efforts were blithely ignored, Snuggles giving her the cold shoulder.

  And then she felt it. She was being watched. And when she glanced over, she saw a man regarding her intently from across the street, his back leisurely propped up against a shiny new black Rolls Royce Wraith, sunglasses perched on his nose in spite of the overcast day.

  It was Jingoist. It simply had to be!

  Without a second thought, she quickly darted into traffic, pushing her pedals hard, feeling like a New York City bike messenger as she expertly weaved in and out of traffic, dodging cars and taxicabs with expert ease as her legs pumped and her lungs drew in big gulps of air.

  Not daring to look back, she pedaled with all her might, changing lanes and frantically trying to remember which way Darian’s apartment was when she suddenly spotted a side street, fairly certain it was too narrow for any car to follow her there. The moment she’d dashed across two lanes and bolted into the street, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.