Allegra Fairweather: Paranormal Investigator Read online

  In my room I put on clean trousers and a camel-colored sweater. Then I put on some makeup. Usually I don’t bother with makeup when I’m on a case. My appearance is less important than my ability to solve puzzles. But sometimes, when I’m interviewing a man like Sir Alastair, it pays to look as good as possible. The only thing I drew the line at was wearing jewelry. It gets in the way during hand-to-hand combat. Not that I expected to have any of that with Sir Alastair, but you never knew.

  Grabbing the thick jacket I had worn the night before, I went downstairs. Casper was in the kitchen drinking coffee with Douglas. They stopped talking when I entered.

  I glanced from one to the other. Although they could never be mistaken for best friends, they seemed to be getting on well enough. Douglas offered me a coffee. Neither he nor Casper seemed to notice I wore makeup. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t wearing it for them.

  I declined the coffee. “We should be heading to Maitland House.”

  Casper drained his cup. “Ready when you are.”

  “I’m ready now, Casper.”

  Chapter Eight

  We didn’t talk much on the way through the village. When we reached the fork in the road, we turned right.

  As we climbed the hill to Maitland House I said, “You seemed to be getting on all right with Douglas.” Okay, I’ll admit I wanted to know what they had been talking about.

  Casper saw right through me. “I don’t think Douglas would appreciate me repeating our conversation.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Go on, Casper, tell me. It won’t hurt anyone.”

  He gave me a look that suggested I let him be the best judge of that. “The only thing I’ll tell you is that we weren’t talking about the case.”

  That piqued my curiosity even more. I wheedled and pleaded and annoyed the heck out of Casper, but he refused to reveal anything else.

  I lapsed into a sulky silence as we continued to climb the hill. Eventually we reached a securely locked wrought iron gate, which was strung between two stone pillars. There was a pretentious coat of arms in the middle depicting crossed swords and a thistle. If we’d been in a car the road would have been impassable, but on foot all we had to do was take a detour through the undergrowth beside the road and walk around one of the pillars.

  Once we were on the other side we returned to the tree-lined road. At this time of day the shadows were deep. Above us leaves trembled in the light breeze. One drifted down, brushing my cheek on its way to the ground.

  The road culminated in a circular drive in front of Maitland House. The stately home was enormous. There were ten windows along each of the two stories at the front of the house—make that mansion—and who knew how many windows behind. A curtain in an upstairs window twitched as we walked across the circular drive.

  Ten steps led up to the massive wooden front door, which boasted a gleaming brass bull’s head with a ring through its ugly nose. I was preparing to knock when Casper elbowed me in the ribs and pointed to a button beside the door. I guess in a house this size you couldn’t always hear a knock. I pressed the button and chimes echoed inside.

  It took a while but eventually the door was opened by a man I presumed to be the butler. He appeared to be in his forties, and from his black bow tie to his highly polished black shoes, he was dressed exactly the way you’d expect a butler to be dressed.

  Could this be Phillips, the man McEwen had so disliked? The butler looked at us as though we were pond scum.

  Yep, this was Phillips.

  “Good afternoon.” His English accent was as chilly as the loch in winter. “How may I help you?”

  “Is Sir Alastair in?” I asked.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  I gave him my card. There was no point pretending I wasn’t a paranormal investigator. Everyone else in the village seemed to know who I was. There was no reason Sir Alastair would be unaware of the new kid on the block.

  The butler showed us into what he called the drawing room and told us to make ourselves comfortable. Casper did exactly that, sinking into an armchair and stretching out his long legs. I did a quick search of the room but neither the original oil paintings nor the exquisite antique furnishings screamed paranormal activity. I was examining a vase that looked as though it came from some important Chinese period when Sir Alastair entered.

  He glanced at the vase and smiled. “It’s a fake.”

  Well that was a relief. I’d almost dropped it when I’d seen Sir Alastair. He was considerably older than the middle-aged man I’d been expecting.

  Taking the vase out of my hand and replacing it on the mantelpiece, he said, “Please sit down. I’ve asked Phillips to serve tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”

  Casper and I both said that tea would be fine.

  Sir Alastair turned to Casper. “What part of Germany are you from?”

  I was astonished that Sir Alastair had placed Casper’s accent so accurately. There was barely a trace of it left. Although some people realized he was from Europe, few could guess the country of his birth.

  Casper said, “I was born in Munich.” That was a lie, but we had long ago decided that the anonymity of a big city was better than the real village of his birth, which had ceased to exist several hundred years ago.

  Before Sir Alastair could ask for more specific information, such as the schools Casper had gone to, I asked, “Where were you born, Sir Alastair?”

  “Right here at Maitland House. I was born in the last days of the war. The Second World War. My mother didn’t see the need to take up a hospital bed that could be used for a soldier.”

  I was less interested in his mother’s self-sacrifice than in the confirmation of his age. It begged the question: What did Lady Justina see in him? Were a stately home and a few antiques sufficient compensation for marrying a man who was old enough to be your grandfather?

  Sir Alastair settled himself on the lounge beside me. Close up I could see his thinning grey hair and the slight paunch beneath his cream cable-knit sweater. In a gesture that reminded me of the casual elegance of a big cat, he touched the signet ring on his pinkie. My eyes were drawn to the heavy golden seal.

  “It’s been in the family for centuries,” he explained. “Would you like to hold it?”

  Did he think I’d be impressed by that kind of thing? Well he could think again.

  “I couldn’t possibly handle something so precious to your family.” Changing tack, I continued, “I expect you’ve heard that Angus McEwen’s body was found beside the loch yesterday.”

  “And then it disappeared. Yes I heard.”

  “I believe McEwen was doing some work for you.”

  “He is—was—an excellent, if extremely unpunctual, carpenter.” Sir Alastair twisted his pinkie ring. “Fortunately I’m prepared to tolerate unpunctuality in a good tradesman.”

  “When was the last time you saw McEwen?”

  Sir Alastair didn’t answer immediately. He drew my card from his pocket, an elaborate and exaggerated gesture, and stared at it.

  “It says here you’re a paranormal investigator. Not a police detective.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you suggesting McEwen was killed by something supernatural?” He was being difficult and he knew it.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely making enquiries.”

  “Very well. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your question? What was it?” Before I had a chance to answer, Phillips appeared bearing a silver tray. “Ah, here’s our tea.”

  There was a brief, deeply annoying interruption while Phillips poured the tea.

  “Now where were we?” Sir Alastair picked up his cup and saucer. He wrapped long fingers around the delicate porcelain and took a sip. “Oh yes, I believe I was telling you the history of my signet ring.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “You were telling me about the last time you saw McEwen.”

  “So I was,” he replied smoothly. “I believe it was yesterday, or maybe the day b
efore. Sometimes I lose track of the days.” He flashed a set of well-preserved, probably capped, teeth. “Memory loss is just one of the many trials of growing older.”

  I didn’t buy that for a minute. Sir Alastair’s memory was as good as mine, probably better. And he couldn’t have seen McEwen yesterday because that’s when Hamish had found the body. But I’m sure Sir Alastair knew that.

  After reminding him of those facts, I said, “You must have seen McEwen the day before. On Wednesday.”

  “That’s quite likely, but, as I said, my memory’s not what it used to be.” Nonchalantly he took a sip of tea.

  “Perhaps Phillips would remember,” I suggested.

  “Why don’t we ask him?” replied Sir Alastair.

  He rang for the butler. I’m not kidding. He used a little brass bell with its own eggcup-shaped holder.

  When Phillips appeared, he confirmed that McEwen had been working at Maitland House on Wednesday.

  “Was that the last time you saw McEwen?” I asked.

  “Yes, madam.” Phillips made the courteous form of address sound like an insult. I wanted to punch him. Restraining myself, I listened to his next words. “McEwen didn’t turn up for work on Thursday.”

  And we all knew why.

  I asked Phillips, “Did McEwen do anything unusual on Wednesday?”

  “No, madam. He arrived at work half an hour late but he cut his lunch hour short to make up for it. He left here around five in the evening. That was the last time I saw him.”

  “What did you and McEwen talk about on Wednesday?”

  “Talk about, madam?” I wished he’d stop calling me that. “We didn’t talk.” Phillips looked horrified at the prospect.

  “Not even to say, good morning?”

  “Good morning and good evening,” he conceded. “But nothing more.”

  Sir Alastair turned to me. “Do you have any more questions? Phillips has work to do. I’m quite a slave driver with my staff.” He laughed.

  “I’ve just got one more question,” I said, preparing to draw first blood. “When McEwen was here, did he spend much time with Lady Justina?”

  Sir Alastair choked on his tea. He covered it well, but he definitely choked. Then he parried my thrust with a cool reply.

  “McEwen tried to spend as much time with her as possible. He was in love with her, wasn’t he, Phillips?”

  “I’m afraid he was, sir.”

  “Now I think,” said Sir Alastair, “we’ve kept Phillips away from his duties long enough.” He turned to the butler. “You can go.”

  There was no point questioning Phillips further. It was clear he would say whatever Sir Alastair wanted.

  When Phillips had returned to his work, Sir Alastair said, “Why do I have the feeling you knew about McEwen’s feelings for my wife?” I opened my mouth to reply but he made a dismissive gesture. “There’s no need to answer. We both know the truth. Why don’t we cut to the chase, Ms. Fairweather? You want to know whether Justina or I have any involvement with the paranormal.”

  “Do you?”

  He smiled. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “You’ve probably heard the rumor that Justina is a witch. I can assure you the only bewitching she has done is on my poor heart.” He covered the left side of his chest with his hand. The theatricality of his gesture made me want to puke. With an effort I reminded myself that just because he was slimy didn’t mean he had anything to do with McEwen’s death.

  Deciding it was time to question Lady Justina, I suggested she join us.

  Sir Alastair seemed surprised by my request but he recovered quickly.

  “I’m afraid my wife is not available at the moment.”

  “We’ll wait,” I said.

  “You might be waiting a very long time. My wife is unwell.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “More tea?”

  Stalling for time, I accepted another cup. Maybe Lady Justina would appear, miraculously cured of whatever ailed her. Of course I didn’t really believe that would happen, just as I didn’t believe she was really ill.

  As I saw it, there were two possibilities. Either Lady Justina didn’t want to talk to us and had persuaded her husband to lie. Or, and this was much more likely, Sir Alastair didn’t want us to talk to her.

  I glanced at Casper. He had remained quiet so far, watching and listening. I’m sure he knew much more than I did but he could do nothing to help me guess the truth. I hoped, as I often did, that something in his expression might lead me in the right direction. To date he had never betrayed a thing. But a girl can hope, right?

  Wrong.

  Casper was giving nothing away. His gorgeous green and amber eyes betrayed sympathy for my situation but little else. He gave me a smile that said more clearly than words: Sorry. I can’t give you any clues.

  Accepting the inevitable, I sipped my tea. I had drunk enough to sink a battleship but I battled valiantly on. By the time I had finished this cup I would genuinely need the bathroom. Even someone as secretive as Sir Alastair couldn’t deny me the use of his facilities. I smiled to myself at the thought of seeing a little more of this stately home than my host had intended.

  I forced down the last mouthful of tea and returned my cup and saucer to the silver tray.

  “We won’t take up any more of your time, Sir Alastair.” Did I imagine it or did he appear relieved? “Before we leave,” I continued, “can I use your bathroom?”

  “Do you want to have a bath?” he asked. “Oh, you Americans. You mean the lavatory. The toilet.”

  Smartass.

  “That’s right.” I forced a smile. “I want to use the john. The can. Or, as my Australian father would say, the dunny.”

  Sir Alastair sneered. “Ah yes, my investigator told me your father was Australian.” Apparently, in his mind, this was even worse than being American. I tried not to show my annoyance. For a moment I thought I’d succeeded, then I realized that not only did Sir Alastair know I was annoyed, he was enjoying it. Trying to provoke me further, he leaned back, steepled his fingers, and said, “So your father’s descended from convicts, is he?”

  This wasn’t the moment to reveal that Dad had been inordinately proud of his convict heritage. His great, great (I’ve forgotten how many greats exactly) grandmother had been transported to Australia for stealing. She had arrived with the First Fleet which, as Dad explained it, was the Australian felons’ equivalent of arriving on the Mayflower.

  I glanced at Sir Alastair. No, this definitely wasn’t the moment to reveal my convict ancestor.

  “Could I please use your toilet, Sir Alastair?” I really did need to go. Now.

  Reluctantly Sir Alastair picked up his little bell and rang for Phillips. The butler led me out of the drawing room and down a long hall. The bathroom was at the end.

  After telling Phillips I could find my own way back, I shut the door and used the facilities. When that was out of the way, I opened the window and surveyed the backyard. Okay, it wasn’t really a backyard. It was the kind of park-like grounds you’d expect to see in a stately home.

  A paved patio led to a grand sweep of mown grass dotted with majestic trees. The beds of annuals were past their best but the water from the stone fountain was tinkling merrily, apparently unconcerned about the character of its owner.

  I was preparing to close the window when I saw a woman emerging from the tangled wilderness that bordered the mown grass. Her face was as pale as the last time I had seen her, but despite that Lady Justina didn’t look sick. She moved like the healthy young woman she undoubtedly was.

  As she crossed the grass, her long hair rippled in the breeze. By the time she had reached the patio, her hair was being whipped around her by a ferocious wind. Grey clouds clustered overhead and I saw the first drops of rain splashing into the fountain.

  Lady Justina hurried inside. I left the bathroom hoping to bump into her on my way back to the drawing room. I did bump into someone but it wasn’t Lady Justina. It was Phillips, waiting to escort me back to the other
s.

  What? Didn’t Sir Alastair trust me?

  As I entered the drawing room, thunder rumbled outside. A volley of raindrops hit the windows.

  Casper said, “I have bad news, Allegra. I’m afraid we won’t be able to return to Furness until the storm lifts. Sir Alastair has kindly invited us to dinner.”

  How had Casper managed that?

  I tried to look disappointed. “That’s too bad. Douglas was expecting us for dinner.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sir Alastair, “I could have someone drive you home.”

  “In the Rolls Royce?” asked Casper.

  “Would you prefer the Jaguar?”

  Casper seemed shocked. “With that hail?”

  On cue, pebble-sized hail pelted the window.

  Sir Alastair paled at the prospect of hail damage to his cars. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay to dinner,” he said, “unless you’d prefer to walk home.”

  “It wouldn’t be safe with the lightning,” said Casper. Lightning flashed on cue.

  I gave Casper a hard look. Was he responsible for the sudden bad weather? Hmm.

  Sir Alastair said, “Please excuse me. I’ll have to speak to François about dinner.”

  French chef? Nice.

  When Sir Alastair had disappeared, I gestured at the storm outside and asked Casper, “Are you responsible for that?”

  He didn’t give me a direct answer but his eyes twinkled mischievously. “I thought you wanted to stay here overnight.”

  “We’ve only been invited to dinner,” I reminded him.

  “But if the storm lasts… And these storms usually do last all night.”

  “What do you mean by these storms? The ones you create?”

  He shrugged but his smile told me all I needed to know.

  “I thought you weren’t allowed to help me.”

  He was innocence personified. “I’m not helping you. I’m helping the environment. It looked as though it needed rain.”

  Yeah, right. “Casper, the Powers-That-Be won’t be happy you’ve helped me.”

  “There’s help and then there’s help. I’m allowed a little leeway.”

  “Okay. In that spirit, what did you learn from Sir Alastair? You seemed to be getting on quite well with him while I was in the bathroom.”