‘GHOSTS?’ I echoed. ‘I mean, I know you talked about them last night, but I didn’t think––’ I eyed the Bishop doubtfully, waiting for him to laugh or argue or at least roll his eyes at my batty great-aunt. Instead, he met my gaze with an impassive stare.
‘You seriously need my help with ghosts?’ I shook my head in disbelief.
Bishop Stiles nodded.
‘You mean dead people?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Aunty B smiled reassuringly.
I glanced nervously around, as if at any moment some ghastly spectre might pop through the wall. ‘How many?’
‘Too many.’ The Bishop began pacing again. ‘And more coming every day. The cathedral’s inundated.’ He paused by the sideboard and eyed the sherry bottle. ‘It’s at crisis point.’
I watched him doubtfully. Was it possible that Bishop Stiles – Woodford Aloysius Woollcott Stiles, Bishop of Winchester, the super serious, straight-laced, do-everything-by-the-book, pillar of the church – was actually telling me there was a horde of ghosts in his beloved cathedral?
It had to be a joke.
He frowned at me, those eyebrows bristled and I instantly shrank back. Okay, so he was serious. Probably crazy, but definitely sincere.
I pushed away the memory of Aunty B’s hat and decided to humour him. ‘Why... why are ghosts haunting Winchester Cathedral?’ I asked in a carefully neutral tone.
‘They’re not haunting Winchester Cathedral, Cassie,’ said Aunty B. ‘They’re looking for the way out.’
‘A way out? But… but can’t they just float through the walls or something?’ My head was swimming. Was this conversation real? I half-expected the McGurk to burst through the door and yell, ‘Boo!’ while Aunty B and the Bishop rolled about in fits of laughter at my gullibility. That seemed far more likely than ghosts in Winchester Cathedral.
‘They’re not trying to get out of the cathedral in the way you mean, Cassie. If only it were that simple.’ Aunty B sat forward. ‘No, they’re trying to pass on from the Phantral Realm.’
The Bishop gave a low moan and I was just about to ask Aunty B to explain when I heard voices in the hall. A moment later the door burst open to reveal Mrs McGurk, red-faced and flustered. ‘I’m sorry, Your Lordship. I told them you were busy, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
‘’Course Bishop wants to see us.’ A deep male voice spoke behind her. ‘Get out of the way, woman.’ She was thrust aside, and two men entered. Bearded, long white hair to their collars, tall and lean, their ruddy, deep-lined faces were identical: the same tufty white eyebrows (not a bit scary), sparkling blue eyes, aquiline noses and crooked mouths. They looked like two prophets of old as they stomped into the room, each leaning on a knobby black walking-stick.
‘Oh Lord, it’s the Froyle twins,’ muttered the Bishop.
They surged forward.
‘She tried to stop us comin’ in.’ The first twin shot me a toothy grin.
‘That old McGurk,’ agreed his brother. ‘Thinks she can give us orders. We told her.’
‘Melford told her,’ approved his brother triumphantly. ‘We was comin’ up the street and he said, “That there’s Lady B’s car outside Bishop’s Palace. We ought to step in and pay our respects.” That’s what Melford said.’
Melford cackled jubilantly. ‘And when that old McGurk said as how Lady B were busy with His Lordship, Mordaunt told her, “T’wouldn’t be civil to walk on by, especially as we have a particular need to speak to His Lordship.” The McGurk wouldn’t listen, so we come along in anyway.’
‘And we’re very glad you did.’ Valiantly hiding her frustration, Aunty B greeted them warmly. ‘The Bishop always enjoys your visits, don’t you, Woody?’
‘Eh?’ Bishop Stiles was startled. ‘Oh. Yes. Thanks, Mrs McGurk, I’ll take it from here.’
The housekeeper sniffed. ‘Very good, sir. Shall I shut the door?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Mrs McGurk.’
‘Not before you’ve brought in our Oliver.’ Melford put his stick across the doorway.
‘Come in, Oliver,’ yelled Mordaunt. ‘Come say hello to the Bishop and his lady friends.’
From the way he called, I was half expecting a dog to come bounding through the door. But it wasn’t a dog, it was a man: a young man, with blond hair and a familiar face. The stranger from the cathedral.
My heart did a funny little jump as he came forward.
Mordaunt declared, ‘This is Oliver Carling. He’s our carer.’
‘Working his way through college.’ Melford looked proud. ‘Down from Oxford.’
‘Meet the Bishop and Lady B.’ Mordaunt waved and Oliver shook hands all round.
‘Lady Butters to you, young Oliver.’ Melford grinned at me. ‘And who’s this?’
‘My great-niece, Cassandra. You haven’t seen her since she was a toddler.’
Melford’s eyes widened. ‘So this is the one Cordelia—’
‘—told us about,’ cut in Mordaunt. ‘More Butters than Austin, that’s certain.’
‘And just like Amelia,’ added Melford. ‘No wonder—’
‘—they called you Cassandra.’ Mordaunt scowled at his twin.
Melford nodded. ‘The Cassandra we knew had red hair, too, though hers was long, instead of short and curly like yours. Do you remember, Mordy? T’other Cassandra? Must be more’n sixty year ago, now.’
‘Course I remember. She were a rare one. Hair like silk and eyes like violets.’ Mordaunt peered at me. ‘Mebbe you’re named for her, ’cause you’re beautiful too, with eyes just like hers.’
‘Lemme see.’ Melford thrust his brother aside. ‘More sapphire than violet, but lovely.’
‘She’s as fair as our Cassandra.’
‘Though not as tall.’
‘Prettier nose.’
‘Not so many freckles.’
‘She’s got more curves—’
‘That’s enough, you two.’ Oliver caught them by the arm.
‘It’s okay.’ I tried to look as though I heard banter like this every day, when the truth was no one had ever called me beautiful before. ‘I think they mean it as a compliment.’
He smiled at me – an engaging crooked smile with a hint of mischief in it. ‘I’m Oliver.’ He held out his hand. ‘Hello, Cassandra.’
‘Cassie.’
‘Nice to meet you, Cassie.’
There was an unexpected warmth in his voice and maybe it was that which made me blurt out, ‘I saw you in the cathedral last night. You were by the Jane Austen memorial and during the service you waved at me. I think you said something but I—’ I stopped, suddenly aware I was babbling. The poor guy, he probably thought I’d been watching his every move. The blood rushed to my cheeks and I glanced desperately at Aunt Butters.
She smiled at him. ‘It’s very good of you to take on Mordaunt and Melford, Oliver,’ she said, nimbly changing the subject. She glanced at the twins, who appeared to have cornered the Bishop. He cast her a despairing look and I saw her eyes twinkle. ‘I think I’d better go and rescue Woody.’ Aunty B moved away.
Desperate to say something intelligent I asked, ‘Are you one of those who only go to the cathedral to see the Austen memorial, Oliver?’
‘Yes, to my shame. I’m reading Austen for my DPhil. Trying to solve a puzzle.’
A DPhil? Impressive. ‘Solving a puzzle sounds more interesting than the usual dry academic research. What’s your thesis about?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d tell you, but you have such pretty eyes, I’d hate to see them glaze over.’
I blushed. ‘Is that why you’re in Winchester? Because Jane Austen’s buried here?’
‘Not because she’s buried here, no.’
‘Then why?’ I chuckled impishly. ‘Don’t tell me Jane Austen was secretly married in the cathedral and had a child and you’re actually her great-great-great grandson.’
He smiled his crooked smile again. ‘I wish.’
Aunty B reappeared with a Froyle twin on either side of her. ‘Mordaunt tells me you’re doing your doctorate on Jane Austen.’ She cast Oliver a quizzical look. ‘I’m surprised there’s anything left to say about her.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘She’s a popular topic. But I’m not just writing about Jane Austen.’
‘It’s Oliver’s studies what’s brought us here today.’ Mordaunt leaned forward on his stick and nodded wisely. ‘He has a need to speak to the Bishop.’
‘So we brought him along,’ agreed Melford. ‘Seeing as how we’ve known His Lordship since he were in short pants and gettin’ up to no end of mischief, we said Bishop ’ud be glad to see young Oliver and answer any question he’d like to be asking.’
Stifling a giggle at the thought of Bishop Stiles in short pants, I said, ‘We’d better go then, Aunty B.’ I turned my smile on Oliver. ‘Nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around.’
‘Of course you’ll see him, Cassie,’ said Aunty Butters. ‘We’re not going anywhere, and Oliver’s staying to help.’ She beamed at him. ‘You will help, won’t you?’
Oliver didn’t hesitate. ‘Help with what?’
Don’t say ghosts, don’t say ghosts, I prayed silently.
‘Help with the ghosts,’ said Aunty B, proving that even in the Bishop’s presence, my prayers didn’t work.
Oliver paused, shot me a glance that made my heart skip a beat, then grinned down at her.
‘All right,’ he said.