Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance Read Free

had dressed for the part: the gentlemen in white tie and tails, the ladies in full evening gowns.
    And she and Jen were no exception, in matching velvet numbers with some jolly fine costume jewellery that they’d pulled out of the old dressing-up box.
    Feather whatjamacallits in their hair too!
    Matching full-length gloves!
    Proper Victorian ladies!
    So far, without a doubt, the Ghostly Halloween Dinner had completely surpassed her expectations.
    Coming here had been against her better judgement. When Jen had first shown her the advert for the Halloween Dinner in the Cherringham Gazette she’d had visions of those perfectly awful television programmes with over-excited young men wandering around basements pointing infra-red cameras everywhere and pretending to be in touch with ‘the departed’.
    So much balderdash and hokum!
    But this had been altogether a much more genteel occasion. The Ghost Hunter himself — Whistlethwaite — was clearly an old ham, of course.
    Still, he brought just the right amount of irony to the whole thing, so you knew that he knew that you knew it was all smoke and mirrors.
    Rather more than smoke and mirrors, in fact.
    Joan and Jen had spent the first half of the evening quietly dissecting his technique and speculating on the exact nature of the old showman’s devices and trickery.
    Most were pretty obvious to their practised and suspicious eyes.
    She and her sister were devotees of the crime novel — and between them they knew every trick in the book. Mechanical, digital, psychological …
    And they had to agree: Whistlethwaite was good — very good.
    And quite the story-teller.
    Over the smoked salmon, he’d told them the grisly tale of poor Freddy Rose, found murdered one windy Halloween night a hundred years past, a knife between his ribs and an indecipherable message daubed in blood on the bare floorboards.
    Delicious!
    The whole table had fallen silent, transported back to that terrible Victorian evening as if the years had just dissolved away.
    Whistlethwaite had walked the room, gliding behind them, now crouching and leaning in to whisper in an ear, now slamming his hand down on the table, setting the scene, poor Freddy Rose, the clock chiming –
    “Yes, ladies and gentleman, this very clock which you see on the mantelpiece …”
    And then, as he reached the climax of his tale — a window had suddenly blown open, extinguishing most of the candles, and a ghostly moan had been heard from the sudden darkness.
    What perfect timing!
    The sisters had smiled as all the other ladies shrieked. Soon enough the candles were relit and the sounds of so much babble and laughter had returned.
    Then, before the main course was served, they’d all been led giggling down into the basement, where a ghostly apparition had been seen by some, darting away from the light.
    Cue more screams and histrionics.
    Very clever!
    When the puddings emerged, and Whistlethwaite had told of the failed investigation — and the famous sightings of Freddy over the years, a lone invisible violin had played, seeming, mysteriously to actually move around the dining room .
    That … was classic.
    A chill had passed across and under the table, giving Joan and her sister goosebumps.
    More squeals and laughter.
    Wonderful!
    Then they had trooped in single file up into the old attic rooms, the servant’s quarters, to see the murder scene itself.
    One old boy had nearly had a heart attack when they’d opened the creaking door to Freddy’s room — he’d mistaken his own form in a mirror for the ghost itself!
    Whistlethwaite had apologised to Freddy for disturbing him and some of the guests swore they had heard Freddy answer.
    Then, as they’d all walked out of the bedroom and into the corridor they’d heard an almighty smash from within the room.
    Whistlethwaite had gone back and opened up the door — to reveal the Victorian pitcher smashed to smithereens on the floor.
    “How did he do that?” Joan mouthed to Jen,