Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘You all right, Mary?’ Jon Scole said.

‘Yes… sorry…’

‘You looked like you suddenly wanted to kill somebody.’

‘No, it was just…’ She felt the blush. ‘Had a late night.’

This morning, she’d sat in the office and listened to Bernie giving George Lackland the spiel, Important Man to Important Man: George, we have to work this out between us, you and I, and I think our priority is essentially the same – that is, preserving the spirit of the finest, most precious little town in the country. But if we’re tampering with heritage, George, we have to tread softly. I’ll be frank, what I’ve said to Merrily is this: go into Ludlow, talk to people, take the spiritual temperature, come back to me and we’ll make some sort of decision. Sooner rather than later, I promise.

Not spelling anything out. Never once mentioning Belladonna.

And then George had been talking for a while and Bernie had been nodding and glancing at Merrily and giving her small, confidential smiles, finally telling George that of course he understood. We decoded your messages, old friend. We’ll keep your confidence, and you’ll keep ours?

The parish details had all been arranged surprisingly easily. Merrily and Sophie had fixed up for Dennis Beckett, retired minister, go-anywhere locum, to take on the Ledwardine church services for the next two weekends and handle any routine parish business that came up. Merrily would still be at home at nights, but she’d leave the answering machine on the whole time, directing any calls on urgent parish business across the county to Dennis. She’d tell Uncle Ted, senior churchwarden, tonight. He wouldn’t be happy, having to work with Dennis at such short notice, but when had Uncle Ted ever been happy since she’d taken on Deliverance?

As for Siân Callaghan-Clarke and the Panel, Sophie had already dealt with that. Sophie accepted that part of her role was laundering clergy lies; she’d told Siân that Merrily’s favourite aunt – not her mother, who could easily be traced – had fractured a hip and, as Merrily had holidays owing… Where was this? Sophie wasn’t entirely sure, but somewhere not too far away, as Merrily would be coming home some nights, when another relative took over – Sophie making it complicated enough to forestall questions.

Then George Lackland himself had phoned Merrily, telling her he’d arranged for her to meet Mr Jonathan Scole. A volatile young man, but he could give her information that it wouldn’t be right for George himself to come out with. And, because of what Jonathan did, he’d spent some considerable time in the company of a certain person, George said.

Now, the only problem here is that I might have to tell him who you are and what you do. I have every reason to think he’ll keep it absolutely confidential. Every reason. My wife works a good deal in tourism and Jonathan’s business depends on a certain amount of goodwill, if you understand me. No, he’s a good lad, really, he’s kept us well informed about matters that might have proved embarrassing. Top and bottom of it is, I think he’ll be quite thrilled to work with someone like you… Now then, is that all right for you?

Well…

You tell him what you want him to know and what he’s to keep to himself, and you tell him he’s got me to answer to if he don’t. Not that that’ll be necessary.

The mood swings of last night had no longer been in evidence. George Lackland had a town to run, and it had been like talking to some avuncular Mafia don whose ethos had long since transcended all moral values.

‘So I’m in your hands.’ Jon Scole sucked the top off his beer. ‘Whatever you want. And I might seem a bit of a loud-mouthed bastard, but I can promise you, Mary’ – Jon tapped his nose, froth on his beard – ‘nothing gets out.’

Mary? Well, why not? He knew she was a vicar with the diocese. But he didn’t know her surname, and now he’d got her first name wrong. Perhaps even George Lackland had heard it as Mary.

She was working undercover. She would be Mary. Fine.

She’d met up with Jon Scole at his shop in Corve Street. The shop was called Lodelowe, a medieval spelling of the town’s name. It was a darkly atmospheric gift emporium, with lamps made from pottery models of town houses, misty framed photographs, paintings and books: books on the history of Ludlow and books about the supernatural.

Jon Scole understood from the Mayor that, unlike some people in the Church he’d had dealings with, Mrs Watkins wasn’t averse to discussing ghosts, which had seemed to be the clincher for him. They could talk about ghosts. Jon loved to talk about ghosts. And also about the strange ways of the exotic Belladonna – Bell Pepper.

‘Oh yeah, I get on with Bell… as far as anybody does. Bell loves ghosts. I mean, that’s it. Mystery solved. I could lead you along, make a big thing out of it, but that’s what it comes down to. That woman bloody loves ghosts. And you know what’s so funny about that – I mean considering all those spooky albums? You know the big joke? Bell can’t see ’em. She cannot see ghosts.’

‘That’s what she’s said to you?’

‘I tell you’ – Jon pointed down the Comus bar, which was unexpectedly modern, not at all rustic – ‘if the bint in the see-through whatsit drifted through here now, she’d carry on with her gin and tonic, tequila, whatever— Oh, listen, I never finished that story, did I? That was a strange one. A bloke investigated it, found this actual young girl who, every week, she used to visit her auntie, or her great-auntie – anyway, they were close – and when the auntie died suddenly and the girl moved away, she used to imagine herself going back along the same route, reliving it – a happy time. And they reckon that’s what people saw.’

‘A phantasm of the living?’ Huw Owen called them extras or walk-ons.

‘Blimey, you do know your way around my backyard,’ Jon said. ‘I tell you, Mary, this town’s heaving with ghosts. I can do well here, if they leave me alone.’

‘You’ve not been doing this long?’

‘Came here not long before Bell. Parents died – got killed in the car.’

‘I’m sorry. Was it—?’

‘Bit of a shock. Year or so ago now. They had a restaurant – well, more of an upmarket transport caff, to be honest, south Man. – Cheshire, they liked to say. I couldn’t face taking it over, so I flogged the lot to the bloody Little Chef – opportune, really – and took to the road, looking for something interesting.’

‘So, you own the shop?’

‘No, I’m renting – ridiculous bloody rent – but it’s still at the experimental stage. This bloke Roy Liddle, who did the ghost-walks before, it was more of a hobby for him. I’m afraid I’m a little bit more of a businessman, don’t want to invest all I’ve got in it if it’s going to flop, do I?’

‘The ghost-walks?’

‘Ties in with the shop: mysteries of old Ludlow. Not doing badly, but it’s early days yet – I only opened last Christmas, still feeling me way. Can’t afford to tread on too many toes at this stage. So when the Mayor sent for me…’

‘Sent for you?’

‘Well… asked if I’d drop into his furniture shop – it’s only fifty yards up the road. You should’ve heard him. He’d been asked to assist “senior clergy” investigating “certain incidents”. Absolutely confidential, Jonathan. Me trying to keep a straight face. What is that about?’

‘It’s about what you might call the spiritual spin-off from two very similar deaths at the castle.’

‘One an accident. Unless…’

‘Mmm?’

‘Unless you and George know better?’ Little smile there.

‘Did George indicate that?’