“Oh, come on, Mr Smallpurse,” laughed Johnny encouragingly. “Any woman would be honoured to go out with you, if they’ve got any sense.”

  Always the qualification, thought Johnny. Couldn’t break the old boy’s heart, could he?

  Elmer went over to the window and stared down at the heat-parched street below. The people, done up in their finery, looked much too hot in all those clothes. Fans were fluttering, parasols proliferating. Some young men were even in their shirt sleeves, stiff collars coming adrift. A day for doing absolutely nothing.

  “Johnny, you could ask her about me,” he said, turning back into the room. “Check out which way the wind’s blowing, eh? How about it?”

  “Er, w-what do you mean, exactly?”

  “Just that. The next time you fetch her a coffee or something. You could mention me to her, and how you think I’m a regular guy and all …”

  Johnny was very unsure of doing Elmer’s latest errand. This was asking a lot. It wasn’t the mere matter of an each way bet on the favourite at Sandown Park, or buying the evening paper from the man on the corner. It was probably worth at least a whole pound, but could he bring himself to act as a kind of go-between for him? The whole thing was probably doomed from the start.

  Mary Elphinstone beckoned to Johnny later that afternoon, as she and her parents relaxed in the Sunnyside lounge. It was the coolest place to be at that time, and many of the guests had decided to come in out of the heat for a rest. Mary fanned herself vigorously as Johnny approached.

  “Yes, miss?” he said politely.

  “Can you bring us all a cold lemonade, Johnny, dear?” she said, giving him one of her most winsome smiles. Her face was shiny and hot, flushed with the sun. She looked exceptionally lovely.

  “Right away, miss,” he said.

  Returning shortly afterwards with a carafe of lemonade and three glasses, Mary jumped up to help him place the tray on the table beside her.

  Johnny noticed that both Mr and Mrs Elphinstone seemed to be dozing. He took his opportunity.

  “Er, miss, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  He began to pour out the lemonade with a shaking hand.

  “Careful!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “You’re spilling it.”

  “Sorry,” he said. The truth was, he was nervous in Mary’s presence because he found her distinctly unsettling. In his youthful mind he hadn’t quite formulated the idea that he was smitten with her, but his blushes and general nervousness around her were certainly indicative of that. She was a striking young woman, more beautiful than any of the girls of his own meagre acquaintance. So delicate, so childlike. How could Elmer think of marrying her? But he knew, from reading his film magazines, pretty Hollywood starlets often married fat old producers just so they could get into pictures.

  “I don’t mind you asking me a question,” she said when the lemonade was safely in the glasses. She looked at him expectantly.

  He had somehow promised Elmer that he would try and find out what she really felt about him, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

  “It’s just that you – you’ve seen quite a lot of Mr Smallpurse, haven’t you?”

  Mary looked at him, askance. “What if I have? What business is that of yours?”

  Oh dear, thought poor Johnny. This is what he got for trying to help people. “I- I know it’s none of my business, only I just wondered what you thought of him.”

  “What I thought of him?” She looked quite cross now, a shadow darkening her creamy complexion.

  “Y-yes. He – he’s a nice chap, isn’t he?” Poor Johnny.

  “Yes, he is,” she said firmly. “What of it?”

  “I – I think he’s going to ask you to go to out with him, tonight – on your own. Just the two of you.”

  Mary’s expression cleared, replaced by a bright smile. “Is he, really? How do you know?”

  “A little bird told me,” said Johnny, recovering himself enough to more or less resume his usual chirpy demeanour. “He thinks the world of you.”

  “Does he?” She blushed and hid her pretty face behind her fan. How lovely, thought Johnny, at this point falling quite in love with her.

  “Of course he does. And why shouldn’t he? Do you think your parents will let you go out with him on your own, like?”

  She gave a most charming giggle.

  “Do you think your parents will allow it?” he persisted.

  “I think, Johnny, it’s about time that they did, and I shall see to it that they do.”

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Although Bernard had made a new acquaintance in the military form of the old colonel, it didn’t make up for the lack of Robbie’s companionship at Sunnyside. But he was better than nobody at all. Once he had managed to break through Matthew Forwood’s frosty demeanour, he found the man rather pleasant, if somewhat quiet and wistful. And he still didn’t get his dry sense of humour.

  It was later on the same day they had first met, when they were discovered by John Tapperstall. He entered the lounge and saw the two of them chatting over a cup of coffee and some Battenberg cake.

  “Hello, Bernie” he said, then turned to the colonel. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Colonel Matthew Forwood?”

  He had recognised him almost at once. Although he hadn’t set eyes on him for nearly forty years, there was no mistaking the stiff bearing and still handsome features of the old soldier. John had also seen a recent photo of him in the News Chronicle. It had accompanied the article about the ‘Missing Bride’ that he had discovered among old Elmer’s collection of English newspapers.

  Colonel Forwood stood up, knocking his old knees against the table and splashing the coffee on his trousers. He shook John’s hand.

  “Careful!” exclaimed Bernard. The coffee had reached his trousers too.

  “That’s me,” said Matthew, ignoring Bernard, the rickety table, his sore knee and the spilt coffee. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “Tapperstall – John Tapperstall,” he replied, shaking Matthew’s hand. “I used to work here many years ago. I knew you and your – your bride, sir.”

  The old man’s eyes looked watery. “Ah,” he said. “But I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. I don’t recognise you at all.”

  “There’s no reason why you should,” said John with a smile, winking at Bernard at the same time. “I was a mere lad then, I carried your bags. I don’t suppose you even looked at me.”

  The man looked even sadder. “No, I don’t suppose I did. But you see, I didn’t really notice anyone then. I only had eyes for Meriel.”

  “I don’t blame you, she was lovely,” said John. “May I sit down?”

  “Of course. Shove up, Bernie,” said the colonel brusquely.

  Bernard did as he was bid, and ‘shoved up’. John sat down between the two men. His posterior was wider than both of theirs put together. It was a bit of a squeeze.

  “So what brings you back here?” asked Matthew, when more coffee had been brought to replace what had been spilt. June had managed to mop most of it up, but wisely left the men’s trousers to Matthew and Bernard respectively.

  “I’m here out of a sense of duty, really,” explained John.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. My old friend Elmer, God rest his soul, asked me to come here and try and find out what happened to his – er, his – ” He paused. How best to describe Mary in relation to Elmer, he wondered.

  “Yes?”

  “His fiancée,” lied John at last. Well, she could have been if she hadn’t vanished.

  “Fiancée?”

  “Yes – er, your wife wasn’t the only one to disappear from here. Mary disappeared too – only a year after.”

  Matthew looked serious. “Yes, I know. She is also a mystery. I come here to try and find out what happened to my wife and you are here on more or less the same errand? I mean, to try and find out what happened to your friend’s fiancée.”

  Bernard watched both men with interest. Two mysteries for the price of one. He must tell Robbie that he believed him about the haunting. And he wished, for the umpteenth time, that Robbie was with him now.

  “I come to stay in the room we shared that summer. I come every year. She’s still there.”

  John stared at the old colonel. Bats in the belfry, no doubt. Poor old chap. He could see at a glance the man was still in love with her memory. He was just as puzzled and saddened at her loss as he had been on the day of her disappearance, perhaps even more so. All these years the colonel turned up at Sunnyside just to feel her beside him again. He must have a vivid imagination, or maybe, just maybe, there was such a thing as a ghost or spirit. The colonel was convinced his wife was in that room and who was he to say he was wrong?

  “H-how do you mean – still there?”

  “She’s there. She sleeps beside me. She’s been trying to tell me what happened to her, but she never speaks. I can’t get through to her. But she’s there, I tell you. In that very room. Still.”

  John felt sorry for him. He would have been a soldier in the Great War, so maybe his mind had already been a little weakened before Meriel’s disappearance. Shell shock. That kind of thing had happened, he knew. More times that he cared to think. Once the rot set in, all sorts of trouble lurked to upset the equilibrium of people’s lives. Something like that must have happened to Matthew when he lost his wife. Triggered off an already weakened brain cell to dance a jig in his head. Seeing ghosts and all sorts. Poor old chap.

  “I – I don’t really kn-know what to say,” said John, speaking the truth.

  “Why are you here then?” Matthew’s eyebrows beetled at him. “You know why I’m here, but you said you came because you wanted to find out the truth about your friend’s woman. Not much chance of that, is there? Unless she’s a ghost too.”

  “My friend left me a letter which I only found after he’d died. I came because he asked me to, not because I think anything will come of it. But I couldn’t ignore his dying wish.”

  Bernard stood up carefully. He could see the two men had a lot to talk over and he decided to leave them to it. It was time to track down Robbie.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Celia Pargeter was enjoying her new-found freedom. She had decided to treat herself to this holiday as soon as the decree absolute came through. On its receipt, she had telephoned the Sunnyside Guest House and booked herself in for the last week of August. Now here she was, newly ensconced in room eight on the first floor, looking out of the window which commanded a view of the kitchen garden and some drying sheets. Not the best view in the world, she thought, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Her husband, or rather ex-husband as he was now, had been ordered by the court to pay her maintenance, but the amount stipulated hardly kept her in baked beans, let alone luxury holidays. Still, the sun was shining, and a new chapter in her life was beginning. She would sleep well tonight, maybe for the first time in many months.

  It was the following morning when Celia first set her lovely eyes on Bernard Paltoquet. She had not, against all expectations, slept well at all. In fact, she had been frightened nearly out of her wits. With the sun came a return to some sort of sanity, but she was determined to leave Sunnyside forthwith. Although not before she had had her breakfast. She was a down-to-earth woman, with her priorities firmly in the right place. She wasn’t that hungry, but she couldn’t go anywhere on an empty stomach and besides, she had already paid for it in advance.

  As she entered the dining room, she noticed the youngish man in the dog collar eating a hearty meal of eggs and bacon. Above the dog collar was a face she rather liked. She made her way over to his table.

  “Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked. She had no doubt he wouldn’t mind at all. In Celia Pargeter’s experience, men generally welcomed her company. This man would surely be no exception, and Bernard, always a gentleman where women were concerned, stood up, and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Please – be my guest,” he said. She sat down with a flourish and a waft overpowering scent.

  June appeared at the table almost immediately, ready to take her order. When the waitress had gone to fetch the requested coffee, cereal and toast, Celia leaned her elbows on the table and studied Bernard closely as he continued with his breakfast.

  “You’ve a good appetite,” she observed, smiling. “I like a man with a good appetite. Can’t manage fried food this early in the day, myself.”

  Bernard wiped his mouth with his serviette, and leaned back in his chair, comfortably replete. “I like to make sure I have a good meal in the mornings. I’m told that it’s the most important meal of the day.”

  Celia thought he was probably right, but one had to watch the calories as one got older. She was only twenty-six and didn’t have a weight problem, but all the same, she didn’t want the pounds to sneak up on her unannounced.

  She drank her coffee, and finished off her corn flakes. She looked at Bernard and wondered if she should tell him about her sleepless night and what had caused it. He was a man of the cloth, after all, and he must be used to people confiding all sorts of things to him. Even things as strange as what she had experienced. She decided to take the plunge.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried.”

  Bernard looked at her with concern. He could see the dark lines under her almond eyes that served only to enhance their loveliness. “Can I help in anyway, dear?” he asked. “I’m sorry – I don’t know your name.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Celia. She introduced herself and Bernard trotted out his difficult name. She reacted as nearly everyone else to the strangeness of it, and he apologised for it, as usual.

  “Now,” he said, once the formalities were out of the way, “may I ask what is bothering you?”

  “I don’t know if you’ll believe me …” She trailed off.

  Bernard took her hand gently. It was a soft, milky white hand it was, the nails elegantly polished. It was a hand unused to manual work of any kind. “Try me,” he said, trying not to breathe too deeply as her perfume was beginning to make him feel slightly nauseous.

  “Very well,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but here goes.”

  She sank onto the inviting bed, yawning. She felt pleasantly sleepy, and for once thoughts of Jeremy, the man she had just divorced, didn’t invade her mind as she slowly drifted off to sleep. She thought she could hear the rare sound of a nightjar outside the window. It was blissful. Her busy life in the London suburbs seemed very far away at that moment.

  But suddenly she was wide awake. She looked at her watch and noticed that only one minute had passed since she had gone to sleep. The nightjar was silent now; in fact there was no sound at all. Then she saw it.

  At first it was just a vague shape, over by the window. Just a curtain billowing was her first thought although, she realised, there was no wind. There had been no wind for days. Blackpool was saturated in the still heat of late summer. Then the shape began to grow slowly upwards until it was the height of an average-sized female. Then it willowed out sideways, forming the shape of a voluptuous woman. Jayne Mansfield’s figure came into her mind.

  While all this was going on, Celia just stared at it. She didn’t feel frightened, not at first. When the shape was fully formed, she could see it certainly was a woman, a very young and pretty woman. Younger than Celia herself. No more than a girl, really. A tiny waist, but well-developed with it. Yes, definitely Jayne Mansfield.

  What, thought Celia, was this young woman doing in her room? How did she get there? Her room was on the first floor, and there wasn’t a drainpipe outside the window, as far she could remember. But then she realised the shape had materialised inside the room.

  Celia decided to challenge the woman. “W-who are you? W-what are you doing in my r-room?”

  There was no reply. Instead, the woman raised her hand to her throat, and through the fingers Celia could see blood start to trickle down over her breast, onto her skirt and finally onto the rather threadbare carpet at her feet. The trickle became a steady stream. It was horrible.

  She stifled a scream as the woman removed her hand to reveal her gashed throat. It was almost severed from her neck. Shivering with fear, Celia watched as the apparition slowly disappeared. She hadn’t been there more than a minute, just enough time to scare the living daylights out of her.

  Looking at her watch, she saw that the time was still the same as when she had last looked. It must have stopped, she thought, but as she thought this, it started ticking again. The nightjar was singing happily once more.

  Shakily, she got out of bed and walked over to the window. She looked down at the carpet where she had seen the poor girl’s blood flow. There was no stain.

  Bernard swallowed hard as Celia finished her story. Robbie had been right. The colonel had confirmed his story, so had Oliver. And now Celia. These experiences couldn’t all be just bad dreams.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  “I think we need to consult my friend.”

  Celia Pargeter bit into her last piece of toast and marmalade, and wondered who Bernard’s friend could be, and why he thought a consultation with him or her would help with the problem in room eight. But at least this nice vicar wasn’t treating her like she was mad, which was a blessing. He looked very serious, so she didn’t think he was just humouring her.

  “Your friend?”

  “Yes. I have a friend staying here in Blackpool,” said Bernard, a trifle bitterly. “He was staying here in this guest house until he couldn’t stand it any longer.”

  “Really? But this place is quite nice – apart from my room, of course.”

  “Well, you see, the same applied to my friend. He had problems with his room, too.”

  “Was he in number eight before me, then?”

 

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