The Smile of a Ghost (27 page)

The Mayor spread his hands. ‘It’s possible. We get all sorts comes and goes.’

‘And there was a bit of a fight with some local boys.’

‘More of that than there used to be, regrettably – street violence. Too much drink about.’

‘And someone got stabbed?’

‘First I’ve heard of that, Mrs Watkins.’

But she’d seen the twitch of a nerve at the corner of an eye.

‘Perhaps people like this were… attracted here by the ghost stories?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He smiled apologetically and shook his bony head. ‘To be honest, I feel a little bit daft sitting here in this day and age talking about ghosties and ghoulies and things that goes bump.’

‘Oh, I get used to it,’ Merrily said. ‘But the thing is, before we can organize any kind of remedial action, we have to eliminate all the possible rational explanations. For instance, somebody told me that these kids in fancy dress are probably just fans of… one of your rich settlers? A singer?’

George Lackland said nothing. Nothing twitched this time, but she was sure that she saw a quick glitter of anguish in the hollows of his eyes, and he planted levering hands on his thighs as if his instinct was to walk out.

‘Can’t remember her name… used to sing these mournful songs all about death and… and things like that.’ Merrily smiled ruefully at George. ‘Not your cup of tea, really, I suppose.’

The flame-effect gas fire gasped, the Bishop’s brandy glass chinked on an arm of the sofa as he sat up, and she felt his curiosity uncurling in the air.

‘No,’ the Mayor said at last. ‘Not my cup of tea at all.’

He came to his feet, screwing his eyes shut for a moment and swaying slightly, rubbing a hand wearily over the back of his neck.

‘Ah, that’s the trouble with public life,’ he said. ‘Always some malcontent ready to shoot his mouth off.’

‘Something here you should be telling us, George?’ the Bishop said.

22

T
HE
B
ISHOP
’
S GAZE
swivelled back to Merrily, and in it was incomprehension… and suspicion.

Well, she could understand it. The hour-long journey here had been filled with an explanation of her bruised eye and everything that had led up to it: Jemmie’s sordid e-mails, Mumford and Robbie’s computer and the history books and Jason Mebus. Not reaching the Departure Lounge until they were leaving the bypass at the Sheet Lane entrance into town, with the moist blue night dropping over Ludlow like the lid on a jewel box.

And so not quite getting around to Belladonna.

‘I’ve got nothing to hide about this,’ George Lackland said. ‘Nobody could possibly expect me to like the woman.’

He was standing up now, behind his cream leather chair, both hands gripping its wings. One of the bulbs in the chandelier had blown and was hanging there like a bad tooth, making the room seem just slightly tawdry.

‘When the boy came home with this girl, Susannah, she was everything you’d want for your son – respectable, steady, nicely spoken. And a solicitor, too, of course. Always useful to have a solicitor in the family, especially with a firm like Smith, Sebald and Partners.’

Merrily glanced at Bernie, both eyebrows raised to convey that she had no idea what the hell the Mayor was talking about.

‘Sorry, George,’ Bernie said, ‘I’m a bit out of touch – which boy is this, Douglas, or, ah…?’

‘Stephen, the younger one. The one who went to university. Like Nancy said, when you think of the girls he might have brought home from that place…’

‘He’s, ah, engaged, is he?’

‘To this girl from Smith, Sebald, as I say. Very well established firm, as you know – offices in Ludlow, Bridgenorth and Church Stretton. She’ll be a partner one day, Bernard, no question of that.’

‘I’m sorry, George – who exactly are we talking about?’

‘Susannah,’ the Mayor said. ‘Susannah Pepper.’

‘Ah,’ Merrily said.

Of course.

Bloody hell.

‘Your… future daughter-in-law… her father would be a record producer called Saul Pepper?’

The Mayor looked at her with keen interest. ‘That’s quite correct, Mrs Watkins. But how could you—?’

‘I have a friend in the music business. I gather Saul Pepper lives and works in America now, since the break-up of his marriage to… Mrs Pepper.’ She turned to Bernie. ‘Who lives in the renovated farmhouse at the bottom of The Linney – and was seen in the castle with…?’

The Mayor’s hands tightened on the chair wings, and then he turned away. Merrily could tell that getting the story out of him was going to be like dredging a pond – a lot of discoloured water and sludge, and the bottom never quite exposed.

But enough had now been clarified – particularly the warning-off of Andy Mumford – to make the exercise well worthwhile, no matter how long it took.

‘They were engaged before you met her mother, then,’ Merrily said.

George spun round. ‘Stepmother!’

‘Of course.’

‘But yes, you put your finger on it there all right, Mrs Watkins, we had not met her before the engagement.’

‘George, do excuse me,’ Bernie said, ‘but my own knowledge of the, ah, the stepmother is somewhat scant.’

‘Aye, and if my knowledge was as scant as yours, Bernard,’ George said, ‘I’d count myself a happy man.’

Of course, when Susannah Pepper had told them her stepmother was coming to stay, George hadn’t known who this woman was, let alone why she was considered notorious. He knew that Sue’s mother had been deserted by her father for the woman, whom he’d proceeded to marry. It hadn’t lasted, however, and he’d moved to America, starting a new family over there.

Well out of it, as George now realized, although the divorce had been amicable.

‘She has… considerable assets, Bernard. Could probably buy my business twice over. Susannah’s her solicitor and financial adviser. And nursemaid, now. And, by God, she needs one. Day and night. Particularly at night.’

Merrily said nothing. Let this come out in its own way.

‘Whenever they needed to discuss her financial affairs, Susannah used to travel to her stepmother’s home,’ the Mayor said, ‘wherever it happened to be at the time. She moved around a lot, London one year, Paris or Rome the next. And then… she came to Ludlow.’

Well, that first visit of the stepmother… George didn’t think much of it. Not an event he was ever going to keep gilt-framed in the formal gallery of his memory. And nothing particularly amiss at first. They weren’t contemporaries, George and Bell, not by ten or more years, yet for that first meeting she’d been dressed decently and conservatively, if a little eccentrically, in an Edwardian-type summer dress, her blonde hair neatly styled, Nancy had noted. Quite girlish, rather attractive.

And clearly besotted with the town, from the start.

George should have spotted the danger signs: the woman tripping and gliding around the Buttercross, this delighted smile on her face, upturned to the sun. And then breaking into almost a dance. He was quite gratified, at first, in his proprietorial way. Not having any idea then that she was already planning to stay…

… For good.

George looked at the Bishop. ‘Do you know that she tried to get one of the flats at Castle House?’

‘Was she eligible?’ Bernie turned to Merrily. ‘We mentioned this earlier – there was a large house built onto the outer walls in, I think, the nineteenth century. Later turned into council flats, would you believe? Not quite sure what the situation is at present.’

‘There was a couple living there, halfway through a forty-five-year lease,’ George said, ‘and she tried to take it over. She was besotted with the idea of living inside the castle. I think she thought if she could get that apartment she’d soon have the whole house – maybe feel like she owned the castle, who can say?’

‘What happened, George?’

‘Oh, the Powis estate managed to stop it. They have other plans for Castle House. But she has money, my God, she has. The people she tried to bribe! Fortunately, the Earl of Powis is a man of strong Christian principles and I reckon he saw the danger. Eventually, she settled on The Weir House – so called. I don’t know what she gave for it, but the people who rebuilt it seemed to have been well satisfied. As for Bell— Hold on a minute, would you?’

George went over to a long mahogany sideboard, opened a drawer, took out a slim box file, brought it back and emptied out the contents in front of Merrily, as if he was putting all his cards on the table.

‘This is one from the
South Shropshire Journal.’

He spread out a photocopy of a press cutting.

***

In the colour photo, Belladonna sat on the steps of the Buttercross in a filmy cream dress, arms folded. She looked graceful and calm and strangely demure.

‘She’ll only ever speak to the local papers,’ George said. ‘Reckons this town’s her whole world now, and nothing outside it matters. Oh, they all had a go, when she first moved here – national papers, television. None of them got close.’

‘Don’t suppose they tried too hard,’ Merrily said. ‘She isn’t as famous as she used to be.’

‘If they all knew what I knew, Mrs Watkins,’ George said, ‘she’d be in every paper there is. That’s the top and bottom of it.’

‘And are you ever going to tell us, George?’ The Bishop sat cradling his brandy balloon, with its last quarter-inch of spirit. ‘Merrily’s not exactly one of the Little Sisters of the Assumption. She’s been around, you know.’

‘Thanks very much, Bernie.’

‘George knows what I mean.’

‘What’s ironic,’ George said, ‘is that she’s become a bit of a heroine to many people here – ’specially the new folk, the well-off folk. Ever a bit of timely cash needed to conserve some historic building, she’s in there with her chequebook. Made plans, apparently, for her own trust fund, to protect the old places. And then there was the housing business. You remember the development plan for the Weircroft fields, Bernard?’

The Bishop shook his head. ‘After I left here, I imagine.’

‘Owner of a couple of rough fields not far from The Weir House – bit of a wide boy, you ask me, had the look of a gypsy – he was trying to get planning permission to put houses on them. And there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d get it, too, eventually.’

‘Down by the river?’ the Bishop said. ‘Surely not!’

‘Under the castle walls, near enough. Council opposed it, and so did all the residents nearby, naturally. But the way this government is on housing now – build more and more, ignore the green belts – chances are he’d have won on appeal, especially as he was promising more than the usual quota of low-cost homes which are hard to get in Ludlow now. Then she made him an offer for the land.’

‘Did she indeed?’

‘And a very meaningful offer it was, too, but he had to decide now. Now or never. Well, he couldn’t afford to risk it, and so she bought the ground and declared it preserved. And now none of her neighbours will have a word said against her, because, if she moves, that ground’s gonner be up for grabs again. So all the folk in that vicinity, from Upper Linney to Stanton Lacy, turns a blind eye and a deaf ear.’

‘To what, George?’

‘To a good deal more than rumour, but I’ve never been one for gossip, Bernard, you know that.’

‘Erm…’ Merrily thought that one day she might meet someone who actually admitted to relishing tittle-tattle. ‘She walks the streets, right? At night. With a candle, sometimes.’

George Lackland folded his arms and sucked in his lips.

‘Like a ghost,’ Merrily said.

George dropped his arms. ‘Like a whore.’

‘Oh, really, George,’ the Bishop said.

‘You were here long enough, Bernard. You know what’s what. The prostitutes in this town… they knows their place. And you will agree that place is not, for instance, St Leonard’s graveyard.’

‘Oh, come now—’

‘We manage to keep it all under wraps one way or another. The police – well, if she’s broken the law, it’s not much compared with what else they have to handle nowadays. Can a woman be done for indecent exposure? Minor theft?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘What—?’

‘She stole a prayer book from St Laurence’s. Maybe other things, too, but someone saw her put the prayer book in her bag and walk out. And there was more, but we couldn’t tell David Cook, with the state of his health.’

‘More of what, in particular?’

‘We didn’t exactly hold on to the evidence.’

Merrily waited. Bernie Dunmore took a precautionary sip of brandy.

‘What she left in the church’ – George spoke tightly, as if his throat was closing up – ‘back of one of the misericords. Well, you don’t keep… articles like that.’

‘Perhaps I’m somewhat naive,’ the Bishop said.

‘Corey House in Broad Street, Bernard? The decorators?’

‘Architectural Interior Designers and Restorers, I believe they call themselves now.’