CHAPTER SIX

Four days later, Arbie was surprised to find a note from Miss Phelps inviting him and Val to dinner at the Old Forge on the following Saturday night.

He was enjoying a rather late breakfast with his uncle, who took the missive from him when Arbie offered it, and read it thoughtfully.

‘I wonder what the old bat wants,’ Uncle said irreverently.

Arbie asked himself if his relative would dare call Miss Phelps that to her face and decided, uneasily, that he just might. He sighed heavily and speared a piece of sausage. ‘I have no idea. Maybe she wants to thank me for laying her ghost to rest, so to speak.’

‘Humph,’ Uncle said, reaching for a piece of toast and lavishly coating it with butter. ‘If I were you, I’d be careful there, lad.’

Surprised, Arbie paused, fork in mid-air, one eyebrow raised. ‘Oh?’

‘I’ve never known the Phelpses to do anything without a reason, and the reason usually involves the making of money somehow,’ Uncle said, thoughtfully eyeing the apricot preserve. ‘Never known a family like it for being so money-grabbing. Not that it’s done them much good, mind. The family has all but died out. Unless that nephew of hers marries soon and produces an heir, the old girl will find she’s got nobody to leave the family fortunes to, if she’s not careful. You take my advice and stay away. That woman wants something from you, you mark my words. And she usually gets her own way. You only have to look at how she handled that poor brother of hers.’

‘Which one?’ Arbie asked curiously.

‘Frankie, we all called him, but the family insisted on using “Francis”. Poor chap couldn’t call his life his own. No wonder he travelled so much. It was a good way to get free of them all. Mind you, that didn’t always work.’

‘What do you mean?’ Arbie asked.

‘Well, for a start, the poor lad wasn’t allowed to leave his money where he wanted. There was this clerk in the family solicitor’s office who knew a thing or two. We used to meet up at the turf accountant, and I’d give him the odd tip now and then. Poor chap, bored witless half the time. No wonder, out of office hours, he was always sozzled and spilling various beans that he shouldn’t have. If his bosses had been aware of how indiscreet he was he’d have been out on his ear and no mistake! Mind you, he used to tell me some corking tales of what the upper classes got up to. Hair-raising some of them,’ he added with ghoulish relish.

Arbie blinked, not at all sure that he wanted to have his hair raised. ‘But what was this, about Francis Phelps?’ He tried to keep his uncle to specifics.

‘Oh, he made a will leaving a lot of his money to that great chum of his, Reggie what’s-his-name. But Amy got wind of it, and bullied him into changing it, so that the family got it all instead. Which, eventually, meant she got it all, when she became the last of them.’

‘Oh my,’ Arbie said. ‘Reggie couldn’t have liked that. I suppose he knew about it?’

‘Oh yes, he knew apparently.’

‘And yet he’s still good friends with Miss Phelps it seems,’ Arbie mused. ‘Goes to her every summer, and whatnot.’

Uncle shrugged. ‘Folks are strange. But it just goes to show what I said. You be careful of them Phelpses. They’re a sly lot.’

Arbie shrugged. ‘Well, it’s only a dinner invitation,’ he pointed out. ‘What harm can it do to go? Besides, I can’t see how my going or not will affect the Phelps family coffers. It’s not as if she’s likely to ask me to invest in her garages or forges, or what have you, is it? Everyone knows I can’t touch my money until I’m thirty.’

Which was true. On the death of his parents, Uncle had asked the family solicitors to put Arbie’s inheritance into an unbreakable trust until he’d reached his thirtieth birthday. And in the almost magical way of things, that snippet had somehow become common knowledge in the village.

Sometimes Arbie wondered if his uncle had done this in a moment of clear-headed self-knowledge. Concerned that, if left unprotected, he might just be tempted to dip his fingers into his young nephew’s legacy, when times were tight and his paintings failed to sell, or one of his madcap inventions failed to fly.

Or, on the other hand, he might have considered the possibility that his young nephew might well grow up to be a feckless so-and-so who’d blow the whole lot on gambling, wine, women and song before he was twenty-five!

Somehow, Arbie had never quite worked up the courage to ask him which it was.

Not that it worried him much these days. He knew that his uncle was very proud of the success of his first literary venture, and since Arbie now seemed to have a legitimate, if not particularly wanted, career ahead of him as an author, what was the point of rocking the old boat by asking silly bally questions of one’s nearest and dearest?

One thing was for certain – there was no way Miss Phelps could be asking him to dine in order to sell him some stocks and shares in her family empire, and he’d simply tell her that all his royalties for The Gentleman’s Guide had already been spent if she tried!

‘I wonder if Val will come,’ he said thoughtfully, polishing off the last of the black pudding on his plate, and snaffling a piece of toast from the silver toast rack before his uncle could eat it all.

‘A nice girl, that Val,’ his uncle said amiably.

‘Is she?’ Arbie said, sounding a little astonished.

Val, who’d received her own written invitation to dine at the Old Forge, agonised long and hard over her meagre wardrobe that Saturday evening. Having an enormous family to support, her father’s stipend didn’t stretch to too many posh frocks, so her choice was wretchedly limited. If only she could get a paying job, she might have money to spend for herself – but of course, that was out of the question. Even if she could take typing lessons and find a job as a typist in some respectable office, her mother would still have a fit of the vapours, and her dear papa would receive a very stiff note from his Bishop.

Although all but four of the siblings had now married and moved out of the family home, that left her in the precarious position of being the eldest child still at home. Her two younger brothers and the youngest of them all, her sister Abigail, had first call on the family purse, which was as it should be, she thought staunchly.

It was just so beastly to feel as if she was letting the side down and taking the food out of the mouths of babes by not having found herself a husband yet. But for some reason, she just couldn’t bring herself to set her cap at any of her suitors so far. And whilst her parents were, so far, being patient with her, she sometimes felt on the edge of panic, terrified that she might find herself sleepwalking down the aisle in a daze someday. And that a near-stranger would be waiting to receive her in front of the altar, and demand that she love, honour and obey him.

She gave a shudder and told herself sternly to concentrate on the task in hand.

Thus she regarded one outdated ivory-coloured dress with disfavour and sighed heavily. The trouble with living in a small village was that one’s neighbours had invariably seen you in every stitch that you owned! Wouldn’t it be lovely, just for once, to turn up at the Old Forge in a new Parisian mint-green silk evening gown, with a deliciously floating silver scarf and …

But what was the use of daydreaming? Unless she bowed to her parents’ pressure to marry well and soon, she’d never have such luxuries.

With a sigh, she reached for her least-ancient gown – a pale forget-me-not-blue muslin – and donned it. At least with her hair done up in a complicated chignon with the help of her youngest sister (who had an eye for such things), and with a pair of her mother’s long, dangling pearl earrings, she would look reasonably elegant.

Not that she expected Arbie to notice, she mused crossly. He never seemed to notice whatever she wore. As she dabbed on a small amount of her precious perfume, she wondered what the dinner invitation could be all about. It seemed odd that Miss Phelps should be summoning her and Arbie back to the Old Forge again. Could something else have happened? Perhaps the troublesome ghostly smithy would make an appearance between the soup and the fish courses? Or would there be another threatening message left somewhere, presaged by the ghostly ringing of a dreaded bell?

Val gave a slightly nervous little giggle. Well, whatever the reason for the invitation, it broke up the monotony of the routine of her life. And for all her wild speculations, it was only dinner with a neighbour, after all. The evening would probably end up being as dull as ditch water, and the best she could hope for was that the wine would be good.

It was a lovely evening, and as Val walked the short distance to the Old Forge, she spotted Arbie’s figure a little ahead of her and called out his name. Dressed in impeccable evening dress he turned at her hail and waited for her to catch up.

‘Hello, old thing. Once more into the fray, eh?’ he said cheerfully by way of greeting.

Val nodded. ‘I suppose so. Any idea what it’s all about?’

‘None, I’m afraid,’ Arbie admitted. They walked on in amiable silence for a while, and then, as they approached the entrance to the Phelps family residence, heard voices in the garden. By mutual consent, they veered off the front path and followed another route around the side, where they found a small party sitting in the garden, underneath an old apple tree.

The roses were out, scenting the air, and on one bench, Reggie and Cora sat together, watching the antics of a thrush trying to pull a worm from the lawn. A few yards away, sitting on wrought-iron chairs placed either side of a wrought-iron garden table, were Phyllis Thomas and her cousin Murray. Neither were speaking to each other, and they watched the new arrivals with an intensity that made Val, for one, feel a little uneasy.

Arbie, of course, didn’t seem to notice the constrained atmosphere. Instead, he ambled over towards the two older people and sat down on a bench that was set at right angles to them, and Val was happy to follow his lead.

‘Ah, our famous author,’ Reggie looked across at them with a smile, ‘and the delightful Miss Valentina. I do hope I can call you that, my dear?’ He barely waited for Val’s smiling nod before turning to Arbie once more. ‘Drink, old boy?’ he offered, and it was only then that Arbie noticed a jug of something cold and probably non-alcoholic resting on the grass beside him, along with some empty glasses.

‘Think I’ll wait a bit,’ Arbie said hastily. He’d never been fond of non-alcoholic drinks. Val, however, accepted a glass and Reggie gallantly poured it out for her.

‘I had no idea you were going to join us tonight, Mr Swift, Miss Coulton-James,’ Cora said with a refined smile. ‘But I’m glad that you are. Our hostess has been a bit morose lately, hasn’t she, Reggie? It’ll be nice to have some younger people around to cheer her up a bit.’

‘Oh? I hope she’s not unwell,’ Val said politely.

‘No, she’s fit as a flea, I’m glad to say,’ Reggie said cheerfully. ‘Still a bit stiff and sore after her tumble, but she never complains. Amy never has been one to make a fuss, has she, Cora?’

‘Oh no,’ Cora said quietly.

‘A tumble?’ Val asked sharply.

‘Yes. Took a header down the stairs, apparently, last week,’ Reggie said. ‘Could have been really nasty, but luckily she only had a few bumps and bruises.’

‘Down the stairs?’ Arbie said, looking from Reggie and Cora to Val and then back to the older man again. ‘I say, that sounds a bit worrying. What happened?’

‘She just lost her balance, apparently, or so she said,’ Reggie recounted, jigging the ice in his glass and staring at it thoughtfully. Cora took a sip from her own glass and said nothing.

‘Ah,’ Arbie said vaguely. He didn’t like the sound of this. An accident coming so soon after the other curious incidents that had been happening around their hostess felt decidedly suspicious to him.

What’s more, he was fairly sure that he’d just learned the reason behind this dinner invitation tonight.

The thing was though, if Amy Phelps were to take him aside some time tonight and tell him that a ghostly hand had pushed her down the stairs, just what was he supposed to do about it? The Gentleman’s Guide to Ghost-Hunting had been written as nothing more than a bit of fun, and should be read in the same spirit (pardon the pun). It most certainly did not make Arbie a bona fide expert in all things supernatural!

Uneasily, he began to wonder who he could call on to relieve him of the burden? Perhaps a professor at Oxford would be interested enough to take it on? Now, did he know one daft enough to …

‘Being told all the latest about Aunt’s adventures in the night, hmmm?’ Murray Phelps, who’d wandered over from the table and chairs, interrupted Arbie’s inner musings to smile down at Val with what he imagined to be a charming smile. Her mass of upswept blonde hair, revealing her pale neck and pretty ears, hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, at least.

‘It all sounds most upsetting,’ Val said. And then, remembering the conclusions that she and Arbie had come to that Amy herself suspected this man of being the prankster, added coolly, ‘Women shouldn’t fall down the stairs.’

‘Oh, I quite agree,’ Murray said lightly. ‘I told her so myself, in fact. Luckily, she only fell down one or two, so wasn’t badly hurt. Isn’t that so?’ He tossed the question vaguely towards the two older members of the party.

Reggie nodded, but it was Cora who spoke. ‘Oh, it’ll take much more than a fall down some stairs to kill our Amy,’ she said simply, her voice and face perfectly expressionless.

‘Isn’t it time to go in?’ Phyllis called restlessly from over by the table, where her cousin had left her without so much as a by-your-leave. ‘Aunty will begin to wonder where everyone is,’ she chided in afterthought.

At this, everyone rose obediently and began to walk to the house, where dinner awaited them.

Mrs Brockhurst had prepared the dinner very carefully that evening, giving each dish considerable thought beforehand. Her employer, she knew, liked ‘good simple fare’ which she felt was a nod to her ancestor’s humble beginnings, but insisted on the best of ingredients combined with that little bit of ‘flair’ necessary to give her guests the feeling that they were being pampered and treated to something of an occasion.

Accordingly, the first course was a simple but exquisite Oxford herb soup, made with the greenest leaves from the house’s square-walled kitchen gardens. This was served with chunks of bread ripped from a perfectly baked loaf just out of the oven, made to an old family recipe that Mrs Brockhurst had inherited from her granny, and butter from the nearby farm, churned that morning.

To follow, the fish course was a whole baked turbot, from which portions were to be served with tarragon or dill sauces, according to individual taste. The fish had been delivered specially that afternoon from the best fishmonger in Cheltenham and was so fresh it had practically still been swimming.

The main was a roasted leg of lamb, served with minted new potatoes and the first of the garden peas, and a gravy that was, once again, a secret Brockhurst concoction. The housekeeper had noted early on in her career that nearly all gentlemen seemed to have a favourable predisposition towards gravy.

Pudding was a concoction of many summer berries presented in a splendid cut-glass dish with home-made elderflower and white chocolate ice cream in a smaller but matching bowl. Cheeses and biscuits and coffee would then be served. Since Amy Phelps disliked mints, no after-dinner mints or chocolates would be offered, but Mrs Brockhurst was sure that nobody would mind that after such a feast.

With the help of the usual girl from the village, she had no worries that her employer or her guests would have cause to complain about the service or the food.

As she stood in her kitchen, patiently waiting for the bell that would indicate the diners were ready to begin their meal, the cook-cum-housekeeper glanced wearily out of the window, which overlooked the back garden. She’d been working like a Trojan all day, and since her supply of nervous energy seemed to be all but spent, she would be happy when this night was over. As her eyes wandered around the attractive garden, she saw that the door leading into the lane behind it was beginning to open.

And from behind it, a pretty young woman looked in and glanced across at the house. She had a sly smile on her face.

Jane Brockhurst’s lips tightened into a firm line, and she stepped outside. The girl hesitated, clearly put out to have been discovered, and frowned angrily as the housekeeper marched towards her.

Doreen Capstan was a petite little thing, with auburn hair and big blue eyes. The housekeeper knew she must be at least twenty-four, but she looked barely out of her teens. Jane Brockhurst had known from the moment that Amy Phelps had hired her on as a maid that she would cause nothing but trouble.

And how right she’d been! Miss Phelps had had to dismiss her, without references, within less than a year. And how that had shocked little Miss Capstan, who thought her pretty ways and sly cunning would let her get away with murder.

Now the young madam’s chin came up pugnaciously and she stood her ground firmly as the older woman reached her. ‘Hello, Mrs Brockhurst,’ she said jauntily, determined to get in the first word. ‘I was just here to …’

But the housekeeper was having none of this little chit’s nonsense. ‘I can guess only too well what you were just here to do, young lady. And you can think again. The family is going to sit down to dinner soon, and—’

‘Oh yes, I know all about that,’ Doreen interrupted her rudely, and with some glee. ‘Murray told me all about it. He said I could call around, as he wanted a chat with me.’ She loved lording it over this woman and making it clear that whilst she, Mrs Brockhurst, was still a lowly servant here, the same could not be said of herself any longer. And placing herself in the role of a legitimate caller with a right to be there gave her even more of a sense of one-upmanship.

But the housekeeper merely put her hands on her hips and shook her head. ‘One of these days, young lady, your tongue will turn black and fall out, the amount of lies you tell. Mr Murray would do no such thing.’ He knew it would enrage his aunt for one thing, the older woman thought grimly, and besides, Mr Murray was not such a fool as to flaunt his dallying ways under Amy Phelps’s nose.

‘Now be off with you. If you think I’m letting you into the house, well then, you’re just plain deluded. Now then!’ she concluded implacably.

At this, Doreen tossed her head cheekily and a sly smirk crossed her face as she turned and flounced away. If the sour old bat thought that Doreen needed her permission to enter the Old Forge, then it was she who was the deluded one. During her time as a maid in the house, Doreen had come across an old missing key to a disused coal cellar. Access to this were some overgrown steps leading down to a sunken wooden door at the back of the house, which let out into the lower back scullery inside the house itself. It meant she could come and go as she pleased, if she was careful. Something that Murray had found sometimes amusing, and sometimes annoying. He’d warned her that if his aunt found her sneaking in to meet him, the fat would be in the fire.

But Doreen had never been caught yet going about her secret business, and she wasn’t about to be now. She would just wait until she saw her chance – probably after dark – and then slip inside and rendezvous with her lover.

Sometime later, Arbie watched with pleasure as a huge fish was brought in, served on a fine platter, and the housekeeper and the slightly awed teenage girl who was helping her began to ‘flake’ the fish apart and hand around individual serving plates.

‘Smells delicious,’ Reggie said, giving the housekeeper a beaming smile. ‘I must say, Amy dear, apart from your wonderful company, I have to admit that Mrs Brockhurst’s cooking is one of the highlights of my little holidays here. How your brother would have loved this,’ he added wistfully.

Amy’s eyes softened, as they always did, when contemplating her late sibling, and she nodded. Then, turning to her niece, said, ‘Phyllis, dear, you should have some of the sauce. Which do you prefer?’ She indicated the prettily decorated Spode sauce boats, and the younger woman smiled but shook her head. ‘Murray?’ Amy next turned to her nephew, who helped himself lavishly to the dill.

‘My dear cousin is probably watching her figure, Aunt,’ he said mildly. ‘Isn’t that the lament of most ladies nowadays? Thoroughly modern things need to be stick-thin to wear the latest fashions, or so I’ve heard.’ It was an innocuous enough comment, but for some reason it made Phyllis flush angrily.

Val, sensing that an old argument of some kind was in danger of rearing its ugly head once more, tried to step in before Phyllis could be baited into a reply she might regret. ‘Oh, you mean those shift-like things, which have to be worn with loops and loops of long string beads? Yes, I saw a fashion magazine from London the other day at the dentist and I have to say, they do look rather splendid. As do all those lovely headbands with feathers and things. I’d never have the nerve to wear them myself.’

‘Ah, but you’d look spectacular if you did, my dear, I’m sure,’ Reggie put in gallantly.

‘Murray’s just being his usual beastly self, Reggie dear, just ignore him,’ Phyllis said lightly. ‘He just likes to tease me,’ she added with a brittle smile.

‘Not guilty.’ Murray grinned, defending himself robustly. ‘It’s just that I happened to see you emerging from Madame Fifi’s in Oxford the other day, bearing a rather large and bulging shopping bag. And since I have it from the wife of a good friend of mine that Madame only sells the latest fads and trends, I was sure you must have an ulterior motive for cutting back on the old feedbag.’

Val, who would love to shop in the super-expensive establishment under discussion but would never be able to afford to do so, fought a battle against the green-eyed monster and almost won.

‘Murray, don’t be vulgar,’ Amy rebuked him mildly. ‘I don’t like all this modern way of talking nowadays. I dare say it’s all very clever and meant to be amusing and all that, but please refrain from it at the table. Your cousin is not a horse! Feedbag indeed.’

‘Sorry, Aunt,’ Murray said contritely and gave her a mocking smile, but he didn’t look pleased by the censure, and nobody missed the tiny smirk that crossed his cousin’s face at this example of their aunt’s displeasure with him.

How tiring it must be, Arbie mused, to have to be in thrall to a rich relative. Sucking up to someone so as not to lose out when the old last will and testament was read and all that must be a crushing bore. Although if village gossip had it right – and it usually did! – Miss Phelps had recently visited her solicitor to alter her will. Arbie quickly rescued them all from a minor but uncomfortable silence with an anecdote from a well-known watering spa where he’d spotted a certain politician of some note attempting – and failing – to learn to swim, which saw them safely through to the meat dish. At this point, Murray was asked to carve the joint, as befit his position as nominal head of the family, a task he clearly enjoyed performing. He laid the meat on a silver salver, which was then passed around by Mrs Brockhurst, allowing everyone to have as much or as little as they desired.

Val, happy to find that the wine was indeed excellent, turned to Cora and tried to start a conversation with her which she found surprisingly hard work. The normally intelligent and pleasant woman seemed to be subdued for some reason, and so she turned to Reggie on her other side, who was only too happy to engage in a light and playful flirtation with her, explaining his latest passion for landscape and wildlife photography.

Arbie, whilst happily tucking into lamb and potatoes, was primarily watching his hostess, however. Apart from a fading and slight bruise on one side of her face, she seemed to be showing no signs of distress from her recent mishap. Indeed, she looked, if anything, relaxed and largely entertained by her guests. And when the pudding was served, amid much ooh-ing and delighted aah-ing from her guests, Amy watched attentively as the housekeeper scooped individual portions from the bowl of berries and helped herself to a scoop of the ice cream with every evidence of benign pleasure, before tucking in heartily.

The conversation, as it was wont to do, casually drifted from such diverse topics as politics, to the King’s opening of the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley Stadium, to the more scandalous Russell case, discussion of which Amy quickly put to an end, saying that it was unfit for such innocent ears as those of Miss Coulton-James. Which, naturally, annoyed Val considerably, as she’d not been allowed to read the papers about it at the vicarage and was dying to know why Mrs Russell’s being cleared of adultery could be so scandalous!

Finally, coffee and tea were served in the drawing room, and Amy rose, leading Cora, Val and Phyllis from the room, leaving the gentlemen to their cigars and brandy.

It was nearly midnight when the party finally broke up. Both Phyllis and Murray were spending the night at the Old Forge, and it wasn’t until Arbie was in the hall and just about to walk Val home that Miss Phelps made her move.

Nodding a polite apology at Val, she pulled Arbie to one side and murmured something quietly in his ear. Val, watching Arbie’s face like a hawk, thought she saw a slightly puzzled look cross his affable features, followed by one of resignation. He smiled, nodded, and bowed good night to his hostess and then re-joined her at the door.

Outside, a pair of tawny owls gave voice from the oak tree near the village pub. ‘Well, that was nice,’ Val said as they made the short walk down Old Mill Lane towards their neighbouring residences. ‘The food was super, wasn’t it?’

‘Top hole,’ Arbie agreed distractedly. Val said nothing as they turned into Church Lane and he left her with a brief ‘Nighty-night, Val,’ at the entrance to the vicarage.

‘Good night, Arbie,’ she responded casually, walked a few paces up the gravel path and then carefully stepped off onto the lawn and crept behind the nearest shrub. Silently, she waited. The full moon watched her without curiosity. A hedgehog, noisily snuffling about in some leaves, made her almost miss the sound of soft footsteps, but not quite.

When they’d passed, Val tiptoed out of her garden and peered down the lane. Just as she thought! She could make out, several yards ahead of her and making his way back towards the Old Forge no doubt, the tall, elegant figure of one Mr Arbuthnot Swift.

She always knew when he was up to something – and in this case, it wasn’t hard to guess what. Amy Phelps had asked him to do another ghost-watch tonight.

Well, she wasn’t going to miss out on any of the fun! She nipped back into the house and left a note saying where she would be and why – being careful to point out that it was at the request of Miss Phelps, which was technically true – and changed into a simple skirt and blouse and sensible shoes, then left the silent building.

By this time, Arbie had made it back to the Old Forge and had been admitted through the French windows by his hostess.

‘Thank you for doing this for me, Mr Swift,’ Amy Phelps said briskly, not liking being beholden to anyone, and trying to hide that fact behind a no-nonsense manner. ‘I have reason to believe … er … that the ghost might walk tonight.’

Do you indeed? Arbie thought sceptically. But it was a small price to pay for her peace of mind, he supposed. And if her nephew – or someone else in the house – had been responsible for her recent fall down the stairs, he supposed it was just possible that he might catch someone out in the act of setting up another such incident. Which, unless he was an utter fool – and contrary to popular opinion, he most definitely wasn’t – was precisely what Miss Phelps suspected was going to happen.

He watched his hostess climb the stairs, a lone and lonely figure. For all her wealth and position, it struck him suddenly what a tragic figure she made. A woman beset by problems, now climbing a dark staircase all alone in the night.

At the top, where the gas lamps on the walls ended, he saw her pick up a candlestick from a small side table and light it, no doubt a nightly ritual which allowed her to find her way to her bedroom in the unlit wing of the house where she slept.

He only hoped that Miss Phelps had warned the housekeeper that he was standing guard in the hall, otherwise he might just be responsible for some female hysterics of his own, when it came time for her to dim the oil lamps and lock up!

As before, he took a chair and sat down wearily. He could hear the murmur of female voices somewhere far away and wondered how long it would take Mrs Brockhurst and her helper to finish tidying up, and if he should offer to walk the village girl back home.

He was still pondering that when he heard a sly step somewhere in the shadows off to his right. He turned his head sharply and the next instant drew his breath in abruptly. In the moonlight filtering in from the lead pane window, he saw a silvery human shape move.

It came forward slowly and carefully. ‘Hello. I thought I’d join you,’ Val said. She’d been lucky enough to find the French windows still unlocked and had unknowingly followed his own route into the house. ‘Did I scare you?’ she asked hopefully.

Arbie ignored the hard knocking of his heartbeat and said vaguely, ‘Hmm? Oh, no, not at all. Draw up a pew, old thing. Something tells me it’s going to be a queer sort of a night.’

Feeling a little put out (after all, it would have been such a hoot putting the frighteners on such a famous ghost specialist and she could have dined out on it for years), Val sat down. ‘Why? Do you sense especially ghostly vibrations or something?’

‘Or something,’ Arbie said flatly. ‘I think our Miss Phelps is expecting her ghostly ancestor to be up to some shenanigans tonight.’

But it turned out that Amy Phelps was wrong. Nothing at all disturbed the peace of the Old Forge that night, and Val and Arbie took turns dozing and keeping watch to no avail.