Telling his father that he didn’t want to join in any more supernatural activities was actually far harder than he had thought it would be.
Last night, lying in bed, watching occasional passing headlights trace beams across the ceiling, he had been adamant. Never again would he put himself through such a torturous experience. Dealing with the supernatural was obviously not his speciality, regardless of who his parents may be. His nerves simply couldn’t cope with the pressure.
At around two in the morning, when sleep continued to elude him, he had started to plan out how to break the news to his father. Around fifteen minutes later, he had decided that the doctor would not be angry. After all, Kester had effectively managed to ruin the entire investigation, albeit accidentally, so Ribero would probably be relieved to hear that he no longer wanted to take part. By 2:45 a.m., he had come to the conclusion that the doctor would be positively delighted at the news, and, with the matter settled firmly in his mind, finally drifted off to sleep.
However, sitting in Ribero’s office the following morning, trying not to breathe the nicotine-filled air too deeply, he realised he’d misjudged the old man’s reaction. Ribero’s face fell, much like a puppet whose strings had abruptly loosened, and he slumped in his armchair. The cigarette, forgotten in the ashtray, smouldered like a carbonised stick insect.
“Why not?” he asked eventually, meeting Kester’s gaze. “Can you tell me that?”
Kester shifted on the swivel chair. “I’m not cut out for it,” he said, deciding to be as frank as possible. “I think last night proved it, didn’t it?”
“How?”
He was taken aback by the question. “Well,” he began slowly, “I made a mess of things, didn’t I?”
“You made a mess of the kitchen table, that is true,” the doctor said. “I think that smell may linger for quite some time, even though we used quite a lot of disinfectant. But you did not make a mess of the observation. These things happen from time to time.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s the career for me,” Kester persisted. “I was terrified last night. I couldn’t cope with that stress on a regular basis. It was awful.”
The doctor exhaled and scratched his chin. The alarm clock ticked quietly. For a while it was the only noise in the room: a tiny, ominous sentinel to the growing awkwardness, which swelled like an over-stretched vacuum cleaner bag.
“What, you are planning to run away again, is that it?” Dr Ribero barked, looking up. “Is that how you normally deal with problems? Run away and hope they don’t follow you, yes?”
“No,” Kester said defensively. “Anyway, I never said I wanted to run away. I just don’t want to see any more ghosts.”
Dr Ribero clucked like a nettled bantam hen. “But this is a supernatural agency! What else are you supposed to do? That’s like working in a restaurant and saying you never want to smell food, no?”
“I haven’t actually signed a contract,” Kester muttered, “so technically, I don’t work here yet anyway, do I?” His father’s thunderous expression made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut. This isn’t going well, he thought. He held his hands up placatingly, trying to avoid any confrontation. “Isn’t there anything else I could do?” he suggested. “Admin work? I’m good at sorting through paperwork.”
“Admin? Admin?” Dr Ribero’s face grew more purple by the moment. “No son of mine will do a woman’s admin work!”
“This is the twenty-first century,” Kester pointed out. “Men do admin jobs too, you know.”
Ribero shook his head, struggling to maintain composure. “No, that will not work. That will not do at all.”
The entire office was still musing over the problem come lunchtime, which was a quiet affair, as each member of the team tucked into sandwiches behind their computer screens. Kester started to wish he’d never brought it up. There was a distinct air of disappointment in their dealings with him; a sense that they’d expected better, and that he’d let them down. Feeling rather guilty, not to mention a huge failure, he huddled in the corner of the room, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible.
It was Pamela who suddenly came up with the solution at just past three, right after Dr Ribero’s nap had ended.
“Research!” she exclaimed suddenly, whirling a finger in the air like a mini tornado. The others peered over their computer monitors, and looked at her as though she’d gone temporarily mad.
“What on earth are you wittering on about?” Serena asked, resting her chin on her hand. “What the hell is ‘research’ meant to mean?”
“That’s what Kester can do!” Pamela said excitedly. “Research! He’s an academic, it’ll come naturally to him!”
Serena rolled her eyes at the others. “Research what, exactly? The theory of relativity? Holidays in Spain? How not to throw up on someone’s kitchen table? What’s he meant to be actually researching?”
“Well, he could start delving into the history of this bloody Green Lady painting, for starters,” Pamela continued. “That might come in useful.”
“I really don’t see how,” Serena said. “Does anyone else?”
Kester sat up straighter. “I do like research,” he said. “And I am very good at it. When I was at university, I got the highest marks in my year for my dissertation. My lecturer said I was like a dog with a bone.”
“More like a lemming with a cliff,” Serena muttered.
“Well, there you go then!” Pamela said. “Jennifer, what do you think?”
Kester waited anxiously to see what Miss Wellbeloved would say. He felt oddly excited. Research was something he felt comfortable with. Research was something he could do. In fact, he loved it. Nothing filled him with more enjoyment than rifling through old books and hunting out secrets. I could bury myself in the nearest library and never meet another spirit ever again! he thought, with deep satisfaction.
“Do you know,” Miss Wellbeloved said slowly, scratching her head. “I think that’s quite a good idea.”
“That’s great!” Kester exclaimed.
At that moment, Dr Ribero swept out of his office, resplendent as a lion visiting his pride. “What is great?” he demanded, hands on hips. “What has been decided in my absence, eh? What are you all plotting out here?”
“Kester. Research job,” Miss Wellbeloved explained. “He’s good at research apparently. He can start investigating this painting, see what he can find out.” She looked at the doctor, then shrugged. “It can’t hurt to try, can it?”
Dr Ribero twirled his moustache as he pondered. “It might work,” he admitted. “This is a strange case. Perhaps delving into the history of that Green Lady portrait might assist us, that is true.” He scrutinised Kester’s face, then pointed a finger in his direction. “But we cannot pay you much, okay? This is a very basic job, so you earn basic wages, yes?”
“Suits me,” Kester said. He didn’t really care much about what he earned. Apart from books, he never spent much anyway.
“You can carry on living at mine for free anyway,” Pamela said kindly. “If you just give me a little amount towards food and bills each week, that would be more than enough.”
“That’s brilliant!” Kester smiled. “Can I do that then? Can I start researching the case?”
The others looked at each other, then at Ribero.
“Ah yes, why not,” Ribero said, a hint of a smile playing under his moustache. “If that is what you are good at, then let us see how you get on. And if you don’t find anything, perhaps you can start again as a proper member of the team.” He caught Miss Wellbeloved’s eye and added, “I mean, someone who goes on observations and deals with spirits. You know what I mean.”
Kester knew exactly what he had really meant, but he wasn’t too bothered. I’ll show him, he thought, with sudden energy. I’ll prove that I’m not just a useless lump.
“When can I get started then?” he asked.
“No time like the now,” Dr Ribero said, looking at his watch.
“No time like the present,” Miss Wellbeloved automatically corrected. “The library is still open, and it is only five minutes from here. You just walk down Gandy Street, turn the corner and you’re there.”
Kester scooped up his satchel and rose to his feet. “Leave it with me!” he declared, a beaming smile on his face. Mike chuckled and saluted him, and Pamela and Miss Wellbeloved smiled. Even Serena managed to offer the ghost of a forced grin.
“You go find something good, okay?” Dr Ribero said, with a big thumbs up.
Kester nodded. Oh, I certainly will, he thought with sudden determination. If mum managed to be a success in this bonkers agency, I’m going to make sure I am too. Just in a totally different way.
“Kester,” Miss Wellbeloved called out as she scurried to catch up with him. “Might I have a quick word? I’ll walk over to the library with you, I could do with some fresh air.”
“Yes, of course,” Kester held the door open for her. I wonder what she wants to chat about?
Miss Wellbeloved waited until they were outside to begin speaking. “I wanted to ask you how you were finding everything,” she said, as she started to cross the car park. “How has it been for you?”
“Um, fine, I suppose,” he said. He wasn’t quite sure which part she was referring to: the supernatural side of things or his relationship with Ribero.
She coughed, looking concerned. “It must be difficult for you. Finding out that you have a father.”
Kester followed her along the alleyway and nearly tripped over a sleeping cat as he passed. “I suppose so,” he said, then paused. “I suppose it’s been difficult for you too though, hasn’t it?”
There, now it’s been said aloud, he thought, studying Miss Wellbeloved’s expression. The older woman grimaced, then nodded.
“I wasn’t sure whether you knew or not,” she whispered, aware of a pair of students walking in the opposite direction. Kester waited until they’d passed before continuing.
“I found some letters, back at my old house. From Dr Ribero to my mum. They said that you and my dad were going to be married.”
Miss Wellbeloved took a deep breath, patting at her chignon. “Yes, that’s right. But that was a very long time ago.” They stepped out on to the main high street, and she picked up her pace. “Gosh, it must have been over thirty years ago. It’s terrifying how fast life slips away from you.”
“It must have been horrible at the time.”
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
Kester didn’t know what else to say. He felt sorry for the older woman, who had shown him nothing but kindness, in spite of his dubious origins. My mother stole her husband-to-be, he realised, and there’s not even a hint of resentment towards me. How does she manage it?
“Do you mind me asking something?” He caught up with her, keeping pace with her long strides.
“Of course not. Fire away.”
“Why did your father give the agency to Dr Ribero? I could understand it if you and he were married, but—”
Her mouth twitched, and she looked up at the sky, as though seeking inspiration. “Everyone thought we were going to get married,” she started. “The venue was booked, I’d bought my dress, I think we’d done the table plans. That’s why my father signed the agency over. He believed that the wedding would go ahead.”
“And when it didn’t?”
Miss Wellbeloved’s jaw tightened. “Regrettably, my father was very ill at that time. He died shortly after it all happened. So he never changed the name on the business deeds. It automatically became Julio’s.”
“But that’s awful!” Kester stopped in his tracks, open-mouthed. “That means my father basically stole your family business!”
Miss Wellbeloved chuckled, tugging him out of the path of a woman steering a pushchair. “It wasn’t like that at all, don’t worry. Julio was . . . very apologetic. He wanted me to have the business back. But my father was rather old-fashioned. He didn’t think women were capable of running companies. So I respected his wishes and let Julio keep it.”
Kester shook his head. “Wow,” he breathed. “You are far more forgiving than I would have been in those circumstances.”
“Oh, make no mistake,” she said, her eyes hardening. “I found it very hard to forgive. Remember, your mother was one of my best friends. We’d all met at university; Gretchen and I had shared a room. She knew how much I loved Julio.”
He swallowed. “I’m so sorry. I feel so awful about it all.”
She leaned against him and squeezed his arm. “Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault at all. Believe it or not, I don’t really blame your mother either. Or Julio. Love does strange things to us all.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he laughed. “Girls tend to take one look at me and retch.”
“I very much doubt that.” Miss Wellbeloved stopped across the road from a steep concrete ramp. “Here we are. Time to get researching, Kester.”
His eyes followed the line of the ramp to the building above. As indicated, the library was a huge, ugly concrete and glass construction, which Kester thought looked a little bit like a building made of children’s blocks.
“It’s not a natural beauty, is it?”
“Ah, never judge a book, or library, by its cover, Kester.” Miss Wellbeloved smiled. “Enjoy your research.”
Kester said goodbye before he climbed up the steep ramp to the automatic glass doors at the top. He wasn’t expecting much, judging by the exterior. However, to his surprise, the inside was an oasis of calm, pristine white and filled with his favourite thing in the world—books. He felt the tension of the previous night ooze out of his system like resin from a tree and basked in the serenity of the surroundings.
After enquiring where the local history books were, he made his way up the polished spiral stairs, into a smaller room, lined with shelves of earnest-looking academic texts. Desks ran down the centre of the floor, each filled with a person studiously peering at a computer screen or scribbling away in a notepad. Kester sighed with pleasure. This was his sort of place. He belonged in these types of buildings. In fact, he loved nothing more than breathing in the scent of old literature, thumbing through delicate pages, eyeing rows of antique book-spines and leather-bound covers.
He sat at the nearest available computer, and started to search online. Coleton Crescent. That’s a good enough place to start. He scanned web page after web page, varying his search every ten minutes or so. “Portraits of ladies in green dresses.” “Local painters.” “Hauntings in Exeter.” Before he knew it, an hour had passed, and the crowds of people around him had started to thin.
“10 Coleton Crescent.” “Hauntings at 10 Coleton Crescent.” “Exeter ghosts in Coleton Crescent.” “Female ghosts in Exeter.” It was starting to become frustrating. No matter how many pages he trawled through, he couldn’t find anything remotely relating to the case, though he did read through some fascinating tales of hauntings in other parts of the city. It made him wonder how many of them were actually true. Perhaps all of them, he thought with a smile. Perhaps every ghost story ever told is true, and people just don’t know it. Now there’s an alarming idea.
Suddenly, he had a thought. It struck him with the internal force of a battering ram, and he sat back with a low whistle. “What were those names Pamela mentioned last night, after she’d been in the room with the Green Lady?” he whispered to himself. The girl sitting beside him, a waif with a riot of green dreadlocks and a lip piercing, gave him a wary glance. He tapped his finger against the keyboard, fighting to remember.
Handsome? Why is the word “handsome” coming to my mind? he thought with frustration. The name had definitely been something like that. In fact, he vaguely remembered the others saying what a strange name it was. He sighed, leaning back and staring at the ceiling for inspiration. For a while none came. Then the name came to him like a thunder bolt.
“Ransome!” he chorused triumphantly, smacking the table. The girl beside him frowned, edging her chair away. He didn’t care. He’d remembered it: Ransome. Ransome and someone else, but he couldn’t remember the other name at all.
“Ransome, 10 Coleton Crescent,” he typed into Google. Leaning forward, he scanned the results. “Exeter property prices on Coleton Crescent.” “Exeter memories—Coleton Crescent.” “Coleton Crescent on Streetmap.” Nothing of any real interest. He scanned the second page of results, then the third. Still nothing. Kester felt his excitement begin to dwindle, like smoke escaping from a window.
However, an entry on the fourth page caught his attention, “Robert Ransome, An Exeter History.”
“Aha, what’s this?” he whispered. He double-clicked, praying it wouldn’t be another dead end.
The website looked depressingly dated, with spindly fonts, ancient graphics, and poor layout. Indeed, it looked as though someone had created it a couple of decades ago, then promptly forgotten all about it. Kester felt his heart sink, but ploughed on regardless, speed-reading through the content. It seemed to be a long list of past residents of Coleton Crescent, dating back to the early 1800s. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in alphabetical order.
Finally, he found the name he’d been looking for. Robert Ransome. Bingo! he thought with glee. He felt like standing up and punching the air like a goal-scoring footballer. Ransome’s address was listed as 10 Coleton Crescent. This could be our man, he realised. It must be. It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be. The listing was spartan, refusing to give away too much, merely outlining his address, full name, and date of death: 12th of March, 1861.
So, thought Kester, cracking his knuckles and staring at the screen. The question is—how was he related to the Green Lady?
He recorded the name of the website on his phone, before going back to Google and trying another search: “Robert Ransome, 10 Coleton Crescent.” As he had anticipated, the first few entries were not related, and the website he’d just been reading was also listed.
Come on, come on, he silently willed. Give me something fresh, something that I can work with.
At the bottom of the page, he found another website that looked vaguely interesting. He clicked through, finding details of an out-of-print book, called Devon Painters of the Victorian Period. Kester felt his heart begin to pound, and he readied himself to take more notes. A painter! he thought with excitement. Is Ransome the painter of the portrait?
After jotting down the book’s details, he searched for it online, praying that someone, somewhere would have a copy. To his surprise, there were a few copies around, mostly in America for some reason, though a couple were in Italy. Rather depressingly, they all cost at least £200 or more. Dr Ribero’s not going to like that, he thought, feeling himself return to earth with a bump. There’s no way his budget will extend to buying a book, when it might not even contain the right information. He puffed out his cheeks, leaning back in the chair once more.
Gazing round the room for inspiration, his eyes rested on a hunched old woman, diligently feeding books on to the shelf from a mobile trolley. She shuffled along the shelves with the care and effort of a straining tortoise, squinting at each book before rustling it back into position. Seemingly aware of his stare, she turned, catching his eye. Kester smiled, a polite expression that diminished as the old woman ambled over to his computer.
“Are you alright there, dear?”
Kester blushed, wishing he’d never turned around. The old woman leaned close to his shoulder, peering at the screen. The muffled odour of peppermint and lavender seeped from her in a pungent cloud, making his eyes water, and he noted that her teeth were disturbingly brown, long and blunt as gravestones. She wore a name tag, which announced that her name was Doris, on her lilac cardigan.
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” he said hastily, feeling somehow embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you over.” The green dreadlocked girl sniggered, before burying her head even deeper in the enormous book in front of her.
“Ah, Devon Painters of the Victorian Period. That’s an interesting book,” Doris commented, poking at the screen.
“Yes, I suppose it probably is,” Kester replied. “Please, do feel free to continue what you were doing, I don’t want to disturb you.”
“No, I mean it is an interesting book,” Doris persisted. “It really is.”
“I’m quite sure you’re right,” he said, fighting to remove his impatience from his voice. His mother had always taught him to be respectful of older people, no matter how deaf, loud, or generally mad they might appear to be.
She cackled, slapping his back. “You’re not understanding me,” she said. “I mean it is an interesting book.”
Oh dear lord, Kester thought, rolling his eyes. I really could do without this at the moment. The girl next to him let out a snort, then turned it into a cough.
“I can’t say whether it’s interesting or not, because I haven’t read it,” he replied.
“I’m sure you haven’t, dearie. But I have. That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s a really interesting read. If you like Victorian art.”
Kester gawped at her. “You mean, you have the book?” Surely not, he thought, examining the woman in more detail. No, he decided. He couldn’t possibly trust her judgement. She looked distinctly short of a few marbles, and couldn’t be a day under eighty. How she was still managing to work was a miracle in itself.
The lady chuckled, pointing at the shelf. “The library has it. Not me personally. I just work here, love. Anyway, I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No, no! Don’t go away!” Kester said, pushing his chair out. “Do you really have the book?”
“Yes, I know we have, because I only read it myself about a year ago. Or was it two years? It could have been three, actually. Time does go very fast these days, and it’s ever so difficult to keep track of things, it really is.”
“Where is it?” Kester interrupted.
“Where’s what?” Doris asked, raising her glasses a little higher on to her nose.
“The book!”
The old lady laughed, a hoarse, rasping noise that swiftly descended into a fit of inarticulate coughing. “My, my,” she said finally, when she’d hit herself several times on the chest and got her breath back. “You are keen, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Kester confirmed. “Yes, I am. I thought this book would be impossible to get hold of. If you actually have it in this library, I’d love to borrow it.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be able to get it out, it’s a reference only, my love.”
Kester sighed. “That’s fine,” he said. “As long as I can look at it, that’s the important thing. Please, would you show me where to find it?”
“Probably in the art section,” the green dreadlocked girl offered sarcastically, waggling her stubby pencil towards the back of the room.
“I was about to say that,” Doris interrupted. “It’ll be in local art, dear.”
Kester gave both of them a grateful smile, before striding down the room. He felt invigorated, filled with momentum, and triumphant at his success so far. See, he thought, side-stepping out of the way of a man walking in the opposite direction. This is what I do. You can keep the ghost hunting. Research is my thing.
He ran his fingers along the book spines, bumping a path along plastic-wrapped books and hardback monstrosities, which only just fitted on the shelf. Soon, he found what he was looking for, nestled close to the end, next to another book on artists of the region.
Unable to stop himself from grinning, he tugged it free, cradling it in his arm. It was smaller than he had imagined, more innocuous. Perhaps it will yield nothing at all, he thought, frowning. But on the other hand, perhaps it’ll help solve this mystery.
He rifled to the index. There it was: Ransome, Robert. Page 182. His heart quickened as he skimmed back through the brittle pages. Expecting to see the portrait of the Green Lady herself, he was mildly disappointed to see only three of Ransome’s paintings printed in the book, and all were rather tedious landscapes. He began to read.
Robert Ransome, born 15th April, 1819 in Exeter, was perhaps best known for his landscape compositions of the local area. In particular, Ransome focused on the scenic tors of Dartmoor, and the woodlands close to his native Exeter. Ransome received an education in the Classical Arts and, almost immediately, began to make a successful career of his work.
His most celebrated work, Haytor by Twilight, was exhibited in the Devon County Museum in 1845, shortly after his return from Italy. Ransome had resided by Lake Garda for four years, before returning to Exeter to marry his childhood sweetheart, Miss Constance Pettifer. Regrettably, Ransome’s life was cut prematurely short in 1861, by an unidentified illness.
Constance! Kester thought with triumph, slamming the book shut. That was the other name that Pamela mentioned the other night at the house! Ransome and Constance! He now felt convinced that Robert Ransome was their man. Could the portrait of the Green Lady be the ghost of Constance, mourning her husband? There had to be a connection.
He looked at his watch. It was close to five in the evening, and he knew Pamela would be heading home soon. However, he felt that he’d found out a lot of information in a short space of time. He couldn’t wait to relay it to the others.