Page 13 of Murder Most Haunted
‘Catering boxes?’ said Midge.
Harold had stopped at the front door, waiting for Rendell to get the key out.
‘Yes, there’s no kitchen staff. I’ve brought outside catering to maintain strict privacy for our guests,’ said Rendell, fiddling about in his pockets and pulling out an envelope with something heavy inside it. ‘So, it will just be us in the house this weekend.’
Rona nodded. ‘It’s one of the reasons Willow chose this trip for me. I don’t want to be bothered by fans in my time off.’ Her eyes flicked momentarily to Gloria, whose face put Midge in mind of a smacked puppy.
‘Let’s get inside, shall we?’ said Rendell. He had used a smallgold letter opener to open the envelope, and had retrieved a large iron key from inside it. ‘It’s freezing.’
He got the heavy oak door open, and the party shuffled in on his heels. Midge paused on the doorstep and looked up at the sky. The weather was certainly worsening, with the snow coming down fast and a good foot of cover already. ‘Even if the firing hadn’t started, I don’t think I would be going anywhere for the night,’ said Harold, who was wrestling some last bits of luggage up the steps.
As the only one left standing outside, Midge felt she had to say something. ‘How will you let people know that you won’t be back?’
‘Sorry?’ Harold looked confused.
‘Your wife,’ replied Midge, her hand reaching for the granite arch of the doorway. ‘Linda, wasn’t it? Won’t she be expecting you? Rendell has all of our phones.’
Harold gave her a quick smile. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. That’s all right, she’s used to me stopping over every now and then. Besides, she’s away visiting her sister this weekend.’ He bowed his head and herded Midge across the threshold into the hall, her fingers and nose still tingling from the sharpness of the crisp, cold air outside.
Swallowed up by the immediate darkness inside, it took Midge’s eyes some time to adjust. When they did, she found herself in a vast central hallway, where a worn, threadbare rug starkly contrasted with the grand marble staircase that dominated the interior. The staircase snaked its way up to the first-floor landing, where a tall grandfather clock stood sentinel, its worn surface etched with the scratches and dents of its years. A whiff of French polish skulked over the pervading odour of damp in the air.
‘Keen hunters, then,’ commented Harold.
Midge lifted her head to see what Harold was talking about. They were standing directly underneath a display of impressiveantique rifles and shotguns lined up in a row within a giant glass cabinet, mounted on the wall and dulled by a covering of dust. Above the cabinet hung a portrait of a young man lounging in an armchair, a plaque on the frame reading ‘WILLIAMATHERTON– 1864’.
Rendell led them up the stairs to their bedrooms. Despite them all being maintained in keeping with their Jacobean heritage and smelling slightly musty, Midge’s room at least was surprisingly warm, a fact that she was thankful for. The seven of them were spread across all four wings. Harold and Noah were in rooms in the east wing, the Mortimers in a room in the south and Rona and Midge in adjacent rooms in the west wing. Rendell was alone in the north wing.
The Mortimers had turned down their original placing in what was now Noah’s room due to the smallness of the shower, Gloria already having had a mild bout of hysterics on learning that the only baths in the house were in a communal bathing room in the south wing. This prompted Noah to make a comment about over-privilege. Then Rona had chipped in to say that she didn’t feel she could sleep in a room with hunting pictures hanging over her because it would be bad karma, so Midge had offered to swap, at which point Rendell’s salesman smile had finally disappeared, and he’d snapped at them all to be downstairs at 7.30 sharp for supper. This, too, was a relief to Midge who, despite being disappointed at the lateness of the food, had a headache coming on and felt the need for an immediate lie-down.
Aside from the luxurious panelling, the bedchamber had an air of austerity to it that suited Midge. In the middle of the outer wall, a large, leaded glass window split the view of the surrounding moors into tiny, boxed white worlds.
It took her only a matter of seconds to reorganize the collection of embroidered hunting friezes into their correct sequence of seasons, after which she rebelliously covered them all up. Itdepressed her that the landed gentry seemed incapable of enjoying the beauty of the countryside unless they were killing something.
Once she had carefully checked for moths, she unpacked the remaining handkerchiefs and laid them out neatly in a row in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. She sighed at the empty space where Noah’s purloined hankie should have gone. Next, she moved to the chest of drawers: jumpers in the first drawer, trousers and skirt in the middle, and bottom for the smock. The struggle with the swollen wood left her quite out of breath by the time it came to hanging her robe on the back of the door and arranging the newspaper neatly on the table next to the bedside lamp. At this point, she became aware of a large oil painting hanging above the bed itself. It was of three men taking a bath in the communal bathing room. Judging by their respective ages and similar features, she assumed they were Charles Atherton and the sons Harold had mentioned. One certainly bore a strong resemblance to the portrait of William Atherton in the hallway. So, these were the last of the Atherton line. After a second’s consideration, she leaned across, wobbling slightly without the cane, and took down the portrait, stowing it securely on the rug underneath the four-poster bed.
Overwhelmed by her exertions and the rawness of her nerves caused by the unfamiliar environment, she pulled off her shoes and lay down on top of the quilted duvet, wiggling her freshly released toes. Casting an eye over the paper’s crossword, she was irritated to notice that the usual Friday crossword setter had been replaced by Archibald Revens, whose predilection for convoluted anagrams was almost as ostentatious as his chosen nom de plume. Within seconds, she had fallen asleep.
Whether it was her hunger, the painting, or the memory of the gutted sheep, Midge’s sleep was troubled. She dreamed of Bridie, who sat on the end of the bed arguing with her about the melody of an old nursery rhyme which had been a favourite of Midge’s asa child. It was unusual, because Midge and Bridie rarely ever disagreed. Not out loud, anyway.
When she woke, the room was dark and the radiator had switched off, taking the warmth of the room with it. For a couple of disorientating seconds, she thought she must still be dreaming as she made out the shape of someone sitting on the end of the bed.
‘Bridie?’ called Midge.
The person shifted, causing the sheets to move.
‘Who is it...? Who’s there?’ she asked, fumbling with the lamp next to her.
‘It’s me.’ Rona leaned forward as light flooded the room and placed her finger over her lips. ‘Shhhh... I’m trying to listen!’
‘What are you doing in my room?’ asked Midge.
Rona shushed her again before rising and moving to the window. The top third of it had been opened, filling the room with a draught. ‘I heard something outside,’ she said.
Midge pulled herself upright in the bed and watched while Rona slipped out of her shoes and positioned herself in the window seat, tucking her legs up under her bottom with a flash of leopard-print toenails. ‘They’re having an argument,’ Rona whispered, pointing at the window. ‘Come and listen.’
Which left Midge in a bit of a predicament. Should she challenge Rona further or join her in her eavesdropping? Midge usually operated from prepared mental scripts when it came to social communication, and she was fairly sure there was nothing in the bank for this situation. She couldn’t help feeling that Bridie would disapprove of the pop star creeping into her room but whether it was the remnants of the dream or not, she was surprised to find that she didn’t care.
Curiosity got the better of her.
