Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘That was before I was back with Kirsty. Now I’m a husband and father again, with a mortgage and a career path.’

‘I see,’ Merrily said. ‘Well, then… thanks very much, Frannie. Erm… have a nice life.’

The rest of the morning, she didn’t think about any of it. She had parish matters to deal with, not least the fortnightly Ledwardine magazine which, in recognition of the need to sell a few hundred copies to people who didn’t go to church, had become a general community newsletter. Edited in this parish, inevitably, and somewhat crudely, by the vicar.

It usually carried a few paragraphs on newcomers to the village, and Jane had left a piece on Lol in the file, which Merrily got around to just before noon.

We are delighted to welcome to the select end of Church Street Mr Robinson, who many of you will no doubt remember as the young, good-looking and talented one in the almost-famous 1980s folk-rock band, Hazey Jane. Mr Robinson, who spends some of his spare time with the vicar, has recently relaunched his musical career after a difficult period in his life, but wants it to be known – although far too shy to say so himself – that he will not be available for the Ledwardine Summer Festival or any other piece of crap planned by his fellow incomers to ‘put the village on the map’.

Also in the file was a copy of a letter from an outfit calling itself Parish Pump which had apparently gone to every community in the diocese.

Do YOU want to make your parish magazine into a genuine going-concern – a professional publication that every parishioner will want to buy? If so, we can help you. We can show you how to turn your parish notes into something lively, gossipy and compulsively readable. We can even DO THE WHOLE THING FOR YOU! And if you aren’t satisfied with the increase in income, we’ll refund your fees. Parish Pump guarantees to pump up your income. Contact us NOW.

You had to hand it to them for enterprise, but the idea of turning the Ledwardine Community News into something resembling Hello! magazine somehow didn’t appeal. Still, she put it back in the file; perhaps she’d show it to the parish council. Jane’s contribution, however… she cremated that slowly over the ashtray, with the Zippo. Because the magazine was usually laid out and printed in a hurry, you could never be too careful; it just might get in.

The phone rang. She burned her thumb reaching for it.

‘This woman,’ Mumford said. ‘Sorry – you got time?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Ludlow. On the mobile, in a lay-by. Edge of the town centre, below the castle. Looking at a pair of locked gates. Mrs Pepper’s house, what you can see of it behind all the trees.’

‘I can imagine she wouldn’t want to be too public,’ Merrily said. ‘Some of her old fans could well be slightly disturbed people.’

‘That’s what the feller does the ghost-walk said.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Ludlow Ghost-tours.’

‘Ah. Right.’

‘Don’t stop her roaming the street in the early hours, mind. Sometimes on her own, sometimes with her followers. From out of town, mostly. Weird clothes. Like Dracula.’

‘I saw them, Andy, down by the river.’

‘Been street fights between local boys and these creeps, did you know that?’ Mumford said. ‘A stabbing one time.’

‘In Ludlow?’

‘Like anywhere else at closing time. Local yobs don’t work for the tourist office.’

‘This is what the ghost-walk guy said?’

‘Eventually. Took some time to get anything from anybody. Most folk won’t hear a word against her. I asked around in shops… cafés… the tourist information office. Helpful at first, then they clammed up. Without exception. Either they din’t know or they said it was rubbish, telling you to take no notice of any malicious gossip you gets told, it’s all lies. Woman lives quietly, does nobody any harm. Bit eccentric, that’s her business. What d’you make of that?’

‘That it’s a nice town, where people don’t like malicious gossip?’

‘Shops, Mrs Watkins, businesses. Good customer, mabbe? Rich woman, big spender?’

‘Or maybe they thought you were a reporter.’

‘No,’ Mumford said, ‘they didn’t think that. So, finally, I’m in this café, and an elderly woman having a cup of tea overhears me talkin’ to the proprietor, leaves the money on the table, follows me out.’

Mumford paused; Merrily heard faint voices in the background, passers-by. When it was quiet again, he came back, his voice tight to the phone.

‘Whispers to me, do I mean the woman who walks the back streets, the alleys, very late at night, early morning?’

‘Ah.’

Mumford said the elderly woman lived in one of the discreet courtyard retirement flats between the church and the top car park – new housing cleverly built into the oldest part of town, ancient stone walls merging with new brick, almost the colour of the old. Desirable dwellings, if you didn’t mind a few curious tourists, the occasional drunk.

And the night walker.

‘Walking the back streets dressed all in white, sometimes carrying a candle in a lantern.’

‘That’s your woman.’

‘So I went back to see the ghost-walk boy. Taking what you might call a slightly firmer line with him.’

‘I hope that’s not understatement, Andy.’

‘Only language they understand, his sort. Anyway, he opens up eventually. Telling me how this woman hired him to take her on his walk. This was not long after she moved in. Just him and her. Nearly three hours, questions all the way. Ghosts: when was this one seen? Is it still seen? Have you seen it? I reckon he wasn’t too upset, in the end, at being kept out most of the night, mind.’

‘He was well remunerated?’

‘One way or another, I reckon.’

‘Unfair. People change. Presumably you asked the ghost-walk guy about Mrs Pepper and Robbie?’

‘Nat’rally. Well, first thing – he knew Robbie. All right, no surprise there, they all knew Robbie, all the shopkeepers, the coppers. But the ghost-walk feller, they had an arrangement. He’d come along on the walks, tell folks about the history of the various buildings. Very useful for the ghost-walk feller. People liked him, see – Robbie.’

‘The History Boy.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Would that be how he met Mrs Pepper?’

‘I’d say. Anyway, figured I’d go over to her place down lower Linney, ring the bell, ask her straight out. Come up against a pair of locked gates. No bell, no speakerphone. Just an expensive mailbox. So I climbs over.’

‘That wise?’

Mumford snorted. ‘Walks up the drive, fully visible from the house. Farmhouse, looked like – pretty old. Bangs on the front door. Nothing. But, see… she was in there. Thirty years a copper, you just know when they’re in. And she was… She was in.’

‘You tried phoning?’

‘Ex-directory. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, few weeks ago.’

‘No… maybe not.’

Merrily could sense his frustration. He was panting a bit now. She had the impression that years of bitterness were being funnelled into this, like petrol into a generator.

‘Folks finding candle stubs on walls, tree stumps, where she’s been. Been going on for months. And me – even I seen it. Hovering round Mam’s house with her bloody candle. Why didn’t I go after her?’

‘Because you had no reason to. Because whenever there’s a public kind of death, a big funeral, there’s always someone like that around – leaving flowers, burning candles. I see it all the time. And she was crying, wasn’t she?’

‘Was she crying at the river?’

Merrily paused. ‘No.’

‘I en’t gonner make a mistake like that again,’ Mumford said grimly.