details had reminded her that she needed to get to a bank.
Hungry and in better spirits, Grace decided to celebrate her new job with a glass of wine and a meal in a quiet public house off Stonegate called ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’. It was still too early for the evening rush and too late to encounter the lunchtime revelers, so Grace largely had the pub to herself. Having ordered a baked potato with a side salad and a glass of wine, she made her way to a small room which was sectioned off from the rest of the pub.
Rich wooden panels adorned the walls and lavish stained glass filled the windows. It was obviously an old building but just how old Grace couldn’t be sure.
She lifted her drink and mindlessly brought it to her lips, staring through a gap in the partitioning into the main body of the building. Holding the glass against her mouth she focused on the bar and watched as the staff prepared for the busy evening.
She started as the hazy outline of a figure appeared behind the bar. In a bold movement of authority he raised his arm and pointed toward the door. He stood tall and bold, his face tanned and framed by the fall of his long wavy hair. He was looking straight ahead. Then slowly he turned toward her. His eyes burned dangerously as they followed something across the room. Grace drew a sharp breath as their eyes locked. She stared as they softened and his brow narrowed across the high bridge of his nose. For several moments she held his look until the shadow of a frown creased his brow and his jaw tensed.
The glass slipped from her hand, shattering as it hit the surface of the table. She jumped up as the cold wine flowed onto the denim of her jeans. Panicked, she cast her head toward the bar but the man from the portrait had vanished.
The orange glow of the street lights illuminated the city as she made the short walk from Stonegate back to the hotel. She bustled her way through a group of tourists following a costumed ghost guide and wondered what inspired anyone to believe in ghosts.
Then again, she mused to herself, I’ve been seeing ghosts all day. But I think I might be going slightly mad. Perhaps Jack was right all along. I do need help.
Grace entered the small reception area of the hotel and noticed the outline of the elderly owner’s face from behind a book.
“Hi,” she called, making her way toward the desk. The old man lowered the book.
“A good day, Mrs. Evans?”
Grace nodded, “Yes, thank you, and you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I noticed you’re reading a copy of ‘Bushfire’,” she said, looking for a convenient way to strike up a conversation with the man. “I’m a bit of a sucker for a good crime thriller. Only don’t tell anyone or you’ll destroy my carefully honed reputation as a romantic dreamer,” Grace said, with a smile.
“Your secret is safe with me, Mrs. Evans.”
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I’m in room twenty three. There is a portrait on the wall. I was just wondering if you had any idea whose portrait it is.”
“Robert Hamilton.”
“Who was Robert Hamilton?”
“He used to own this here establishment back in the sixteen hundreds. He was a Cavalier and a loyal supporter of the Stuarts. After the restoration he was given a handsome pension and retired. He settled here in York and bought a post house off Stonegate and this inn.”
“A post house off Stonegate?”
“Oh yes, it’s still a pub, you know? Worth a pint or two – has a nice crowd most nights.”
“I think I may already have had the pleasure.”
“Are you alright, Mrs. Evans? You look a bit pale.”
“Yes, I don’t feel too well. I think I will just head up to my room.”
Grace sat on the end of her bed, staring at the face of Robert Hamilton. She felt his eyes watching her, searching her for answers.
“You’re dead, gone, do you hear me?” she whispered to the picture.
His brow was arched, just as it had been in the pub. Questions screamed from
Hungry and in better spirits, Grace decided to celebrate her new job with a glass of wine and a meal in a quiet public house off Stonegate called ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’. It was still too early for the evening rush and too late to encounter the lunchtime revelers, so Grace largely had the pub to herself. Having ordered a baked potato with a side salad and a glass of wine, she made her way to a small room which was sectioned off from the rest of the pub.
Rich wooden panels adorned the walls and lavish stained glass filled the windows. It was obviously an old building but just how old Grace couldn’t be sure.
She lifted her drink and mindlessly brought it to her lips, staring through a gap in the partitioning into the main body of the building. Holding the glass against her mouth she focused on the bar and watched as the staff prepared for the busy evening.
She started as the hazy outline of a figure appeared behind the bar. In a bold movement of authority he raised his arm and pointed toward the door. He stood tall and bold, his face tanned and framed by the fall of his long wavy hair. He was looking straight ahead. Then slowly he turned toward her. His eyes burned dangerously as they followed something across the room. Grace drew a sharp breath as their eyes locked. She stared as they softened and his brow narrowed across the high bridge of his nose. For several moments she held his look until the shadow of a frown creased his brow and his jaw tensed.
The glass slipped from her hand, shattering as it hit the surface of the table. She jumped up as the cold wine flowed onto the denim of her jeans. Panicked, she cast her head toward the bar but the man from the portrait had vanished.
The orange glow of the street lights illuminated the city as she made the short walk from Stonegate back to the hotel. She bustled her way through a group of tourists following a costumed ghost guide and wondered what inspired anyone to believe in ghosts.
Then again, she mused to herself, I’ve been seeing ghosts all day. But I think I might be going slightly mad. Perhaps Jack was right all along. I do need help.
Grace entered the small reception area of the hotel and noticed the outline of the elderly owner’s face from behind a book.
“Hi,” she called, making her way toward the desk. The old man lowered the book.
“A good day, Mrs. Evans?”
Grace nodded, “Yes, thank you, and you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I noticed you’re reading a copy of ‘Bushfire’,” she said, looking for a convenient way to strike up a conversation with the man. “I’m a bit of a sucker for a good crime thriller. Only don’t tell anyone or you’ll destroy my carefully honed reputation as a romantic dreamer,” Grace said, with a smile.
“Your secret is safe with me, Mrs. Evans.”
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I’m in room twenty three. There is a portrait on the wall. I was just wondering if you had any idea whose portrait it is.”
“Robert Hamilton.”
“Who was Robert Hamilton?”
“He used to own this here establishment back in the sixteen hundreds. He was a Cavalier and a loyal supporter of the Stuarts. After the restoration he was given a handsome pension and retired. He settled here in York and bought a post house off Stonegate and this inn.”
“A post house off Stonegate?”
“Oh yes, it’s still a pub, you know? Worth a pint or two – has a nice crowd most nights.”
“I think I may already have had the pleasure.”
“Are you alright, Mrs. Evans? You look a bit pale.”
“Yes, I don’t feel too well. I think I will just head up to my room.”
Grace sat on the end of her bed, staring at the face of Robert Hamilton. She felt his eyes watching her, searching her for answers.
“You’re dead, gone, do you hear me?” she whispered to the picture.
His brow was arched, just as it had been in the pub. Questions screamed from
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