Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance Read Free Page A

but her sister only shrugged. And for the first time in the evening mouthed back “I don’t know.”
    Ham he might be, but at that moment Joan almost believed the old magician — for that had surely been his profession once upon a time — was genuinely scared.
    He’d started to clear up the mess, then changed his mind and shooed them away from the door, shutting it tight behind him.
    Back in the private dining room, as they all tucked into cheese, grapes, port, brandy and coffee, their host seemed to have regained his colour. Joan watched as he moved confidently around the table, chatting, laughing, playing the amiable host.
    Chap must be on a cut of the bar bill, she thought. Got to be.
    “Here comes the port Joan, old girl,” said Jen, and Joan turned to her sister to take the bottle.
    “Do you think I should?”
    “Can’t think of a reason why not, can you?” said Jen.
    And Joan couldn’t.
    She poured herself another glass and passed the port to her left.
    *
    Basil Whistlethwaite lowered his arm below the table and discretely checked the time on his watch.
    Five minutes to midnight.
    Perfect.
    He looked around the table and felt a glow of pleasure. His guests were still chattering away, and the scores of empty glasses in front of them were testimony to the success of the evening.
    And a promise of rather a nice bonus too, he thought.
    Every single one of his ‘devices’ had behaved themselves: his little group had shrieked and laughed in all the right places.
    Only one hiccup — that damned bowl that had smashed up in the bedroom.
    How on earth …?
    Perhaps one of the guests had moved it without him knowing and the draught from closing the door had just been enough to tip it off the chest of drawers?
    Hmm, not very likely.
    But there was no other explanation — was there?
    He’d have a quiet word with Lawrence over that whisky he was looking forward to. The pitcher probably cost a few bob. Might have to be an insurance claim. Unless Lawrence would let him off …
    Maybe not mention that to Crispin. No need for him to know. Anyway. He checked his watch again. Two minutes to twelve.
    Time for the ritual.
    The final ‘special effect’ would have them gasping in fright — and then laughing all the way to their cars and taxis. Or bedrooms if they were brave enough to have booked a room for the night in the ‘haunted hotel’.
    He stood up and tapped on a glass with his knife to get everyone to quiet down.
    “Ladies and gentlemen! My good friends! My dear … partners in the spirit world!”
    The conversation dipped, then there was laughter — all were quite tipsy. And finally attentive silence.
    He looked around the room.
    He had everyone’s attention.
    Time to deliver the coup de théâtre …
    “As you know, dear ladies and gentlemen, we would not be here if it were not for poor Freddy Rose, departed all those years ago on a dark Halloween night not unlike this. The victim of a monstrous assassin who never paid the price for his heinous crime …”
    Basil waited and sure enough there was the expected pantomime hiss from around the table.
    “Yes, well might you voice your disapproval. For murder is a dark and devilish thing. And a murderer unpunished is an affront to all those souls who walk the midnight hour, demanding justice.”
    On cue, the sound of wind howling outside the window.
    What timing! thought Basil and he could see a wave of fear ripple across the table, some of the diners actually shivering!
    “The midnight hour indeed,” he continued. “For it was on the stroke of midnight, on that dreadful night all those years ago, that Freddy’s scream was heard to rend the air of this peaceful hostelry. Midnight it was that Freddy’s soul departed — but not to heaven, nor to that … other place …”
    He heard a little ripple of laughter — just what he wanted …
    “No. Freddy’s soul was left in anguish. In limbo. Left wandering the rooms, forlorn, lost, a ghostly presence, waiting,