Page 7 of Murder Most Haunted
‘No.’ She shook her head firmly. She had decided before she set off this morning that she would not disclose her occupation to anyone on this holiday.
‘Really? I can usually tell ex-coppers a mile off.’ Rendell scratched his head.
Midge, who couldn’t think of any other appropriate response, shrugged.
‘Oh, were you in the police before?’ Rona’s head popped up again.
‘Oh yeah!’ Harold’s voice suddenly boomed out over the coach speakers, much to Midge’s alarm and Rendell’s annoyance. He was sitting back in the driver’s chair and talking into the tour guide microphone. ‘You’ve got yourself a real detective here. John Rendell worked on the Cuthbert baby kidnapping case... you may have heard of it?’
‘We don’t read the tabloids,’ called back Dr Mortimer.
In Midge’s opinion, the delivery of the statement implied an expected round of applause from the audience.
‘Turn that bloody thing off, Harold,’ shouted Rendell. ‘Now, any questions before we head off?’ Rendell turned to address the rest of the seated group.
‘Is lunch provided?’ Dr Mortimer asked. ‘My wife is diabetic and needs to monitor her insulin levels regularly.’ Through the crack, Midge could make out a small insulin pump patch on Mrs Mortimer’s left arm.
‘Physician, heal thyself...’ muttered Noah. Midge was about to point out that as it was the doctor’s wife who had diabetes, that quote wasn’t strictly relevant, but the engine kicked into gear, drowning out everything including the rumble of thunder outside, and the coach moved off.
Chapter2
Dr Andrew Mortimer (GP) was very clever. Midge knew this because he had told everyone as soon as they sat down for lunch at Tiverton Services on the M4. He had two degrees, which was ostentatious to say the least. Harold said, ‘That’s a shame, one more and you would have had a band’ – which Midge thought was mildly amusing. But then he had to explain who the Three Degrees were to Andrew who, despite his massive intellect, still didn’t seem to understand the joke, at which point Noah piped up to dismiss all old people’s music as rubbish and then Rona chimed in to say that technically the Three Degrees were a vocal group and not a band anyway. Midge could see Harold wishing he had kept his mouth shut in the first place and she couldn’t help agreeing with him. That’s the problem with humour, it can be exhausting.
‘There have been sixteen members of the group over the years,’ said Harold, shovelling in his lukewarm chicken curry as if he’d been told there was a prize for finishing first. Harold would be dreadful to have as a husband but excellent to have in a pub quiz, thought Midge.
He had been asked to join them for lunch, an unusual occurrence by all accounts, brought on by the no-show from the two other guests. Something which had more than irritated Rendell, leaving him with a further delayed schedule and two extra prepaid luncheon vouchers.
He had begrudgingly given one to Harold, calling him in fromthe heating of the coach, before offering the other to Midge. ‘You look like a lady who would enjoy a second helping.’
The words were enough to put her nerves on edge and she determined to avoid Rendell as much as possible. Easily done, as he spent the remainder of the lunch break throwing money into the service station slot machines. Something which, judging by the swearing, was also not going his way.
‘Mug’s game, that,’ said Harold, wiping his chin with a scratchy napkin. He shook his head. ‘Some people just never learn.’
Rumours about Rendell’s gambling debts had dogged him throughout his career. Something about Harold’s words and Rendell’s figure silhouetted against the flashing lights stirred an uncomfortable memory of the younger man which added to Midge’s growing sense of unease.
‘Have you seen the White Lady of Atherton Moor for yourself?’ asked Rona, as they sat around the table waiting for everyone to finish eating. An act that Midge was finding difficult with the plastic cutlery the service station had provided them. Noah had had the foresight, oddly, to bring his own knife and fork from home, in a neatly wrapped napkin.
‘No, this will be my first trip to the Tin House,’ replied Harold. ‘I normally do the old dears’ trips to Newquay. Rendell got me in at late notice on this one. I’m a paranormal virgin.’
‘The Tin House?’ asked Midge. ‘Isn’t the place we’re staying at called Atherton Hall?’
‘The Tin House is the name given to Atherton Hall locally. It was the ancestral home of the owners of the local tin mine. Although now it’s owned by some American billionaire who rents it out,’ answered Noah, who, in Midge’s opinion, could do with a good few more meals.
Harold put down his knife and fork and intertwined his fingers. ‘That’s right. The moors around it are visited by the White Lady,whose appearance foretells a death.’ Harold made a pop-goes-the-weasel noise with his mouth, which was hampered somewhat by the last of the rice still in there. ‘Are you on a diet?’ He pointed at Midge’s side bowl of salad.
‘No,’ she replied, frowning.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Noah, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a recording device. ‘Would it be OK if I record a bit of this for the podcast?’
Midge shrugged before leaning towards the microphone and slowly repeating, ‘I like salad. People often assume if they see a large person eating a salad it is because they are dieting. But in fact, I just like salads. Are we to assume Harold is going to enter the Tour de France because of his predisposition for Lycra trousers?’
‘The waistband’s comfy when I’m driving,’ muttered Harold.
‘Not you,’ said Noah, moving the microphone away from Midge. ‘Harold.’
Harold grew taller in his chair. ‘You mean, I’d be on the radio?’
‘Please, carry on,’ said Gloria, the doctor’s wife.
