The Remains in the Rectory Read online

  Chipping Poggs? What a name. I exchanged a glance with Lucas who looked more excited than ever.

  “Told you so,” he muttered.

  “Simon Briggs. What brings you folks this way?” the old man asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. I noticed thickets of white hair sprouting out his ears and down his nostrils and wondered vaguely if he had any left on his head.

  “I’m Viola Roberts and this is my boyfriend, Lucas Salvatore,” I said. “Is there a petrol station in town?” I wasn’t about to admit we were searching for a village with “atmosphere” for my boyfriend’s next book.

  “’Fraid not. Closest one be about half-way between here and Chipping Camden.”

  “We’re a bit lost,” Lucas admitted. “We were trying to get back to Oxford for the night, but we must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “Oh, aye, that you did. But not to worry. We’ve got a lovely inn here in town.”

  “I didn’t see one on the way in,” I said. Granted, it had been pouring down rain so I couldn’t see much of anything, but there definitely hadn’t been anything that appeared inn-like.

  “You wouldn’t,” Simon said. “It’s on the other side of town.” He waved vaguely. “Up at the old manor house. The family couldn’t afford the upkeep, so they turned it into an inn. Very popular with tourists and whatnot. And at least it’s not as haunted as the church.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows, clearly hoping to pique our interest. He did not hope in vain.

  “You have a haunted church? Is that even possible?” I asked.

  “Oh, aye.” His eyes twinkled, obviously realizing he had a captive audience. “Let me tell you about the ghosts of Chipping Poggs.”

  Chapter 2

  The Ghosts of Chipping Poggs

  “IT WERE TEN YEARS AGO this month,” Simon Briggs began, leaning back on his stool until it creaked and groaned under his slight weight. He eyed the low-beamed ceiling as if to gather inspiration. “A stormy night just like this one.”

  Thunder crashed, emphasizing the fierceness of the weather. I jumped a little and shot Lucas a glare when he chuckled. Could I help it if thunder wasn’t my favorite sound in the world? I settled back into my cozy chair, the warm mug comforting in my hands. “Go on.”

  Simon took a sip of his beer. “Old Mrs. Tillicum was out walking her dog when she saw the most terrifying sight.”

  Lucas leaned forward eagerly. “What was it?”

  “The ghost of Mattie Doon wandering the churchyard. Near scared a year’s life off her, it did. She ran home, locked herself in, and swore she’d never enter the church again.”

  “I think you need to back up a bit,” Lucas said, crossing one jean clad leg over the other.

  Simon peered at him over the rim of his pint. His eyebrows edged together to form one, long, caterpillar-like line of confusion. “Beg pardon?”

  “Who is, or was, Mattie Doon?”

  Simon frowned. “Didn’t I say that part?”

  “No,” I said gently. “You started with Mrs. Tillicum and her dog.”

  Simon’s brow unfurrowed. “Oh, well. No wonder you’re confused!” He slapped his knee and chortled as if it were the funniest thing ever. I took a deep, fortifying gulp of my rapidly cooling Irish coffee. I had a feeling I would need it. Was the man mad? Or just forgetful?

  “Why don’t you start with the Baron, Simon?” The bartender leaned his beefy forearms against the bar. He was a short, thick man, nearly bald and of indiscriminate age. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal an anchor tattoo and a lot of wild, springy arm hair. I put him anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. He was nursing his own pint of dark liquid. Was that even legal? Then again, who was going to bother arresting him? We were in the middle of nowhere.

  “Right. Right. The Baron.” Simon squinted into the distance. “Let’s see, back about a hundred years or so...”

  “More like two hundred,” the bartender interrupted.

  Simon shot him a sour look. “Fine. Two hundred. Baron Wytham was lord of Wytham Manor here in Chipping Poggs.”

  “The one that’s an inn now?” I asked.

  “Aye. That be the one,” Simon assured me. “He was, what, the 16th Baron Wytham?”

  “17th,” the bartender supplied.

  “Right. 17th Baron Wytham. Now, legend has it that the Baron Wytham was rather hard on his women. His first wife died in childbirth. Second got caught in a downpour and died of the fever—though there are those as claims he poisoned her. Third wife just up and disappeared one night. He claimed she run off with the gamekeeper, but no one saw them after that and he had her declared dead, so there’s that.”

  “There’s that, indeed,” murmured Lucas.

  I shot him a “shut up” look. This was getting juicy. My writer brain was already churning out ideas.

  “In any case, the Baron was now in his sixty-fourth year and, if his portrait up at the manor is to be believed, was not a fortunate looking man. Mayhap that’s why they called him ‘Baron Pig.’”

  “Nobody called him Baron Pig ‘cept you,” the bartender interrupted.

  “Sure they did,” Simon argued.

  The bartender shook his head and set his pint aside. “If you say so.” He grabbed a damp cloth and began wiping down the already pristine bar. “Go on if you must.”

  Simon ignored him. “Where was I?”

  “The Baron was unfortunate looking and old,” I said helpfully.

  “Indeed. What a good memory you have, m’dear.” I had a feeling he’d have patted my head if I was sitting close enough. “Now, in the village there was a maiden named Margaret Doon. Folks ‘round here called her Mattie and she was young and beautiful as a newborn day.” The man was waxing poetic and my drink was getting cold, but I was hooked. “The Baron set his eye on Mattie despite him being old enough to be her grandfather. And, as he was rich and a Baron, he forced Mattie into marrying him.”

  “Ew.” I couldn’t help myself. “The poor girl.”

  “Indeed. Indeed.” Simon smacked his lips. His pint was empty.

  “Let me get you another, Simon,” Lucas offered, rising from his chair by the fire.

  “Too kind,” Simon said, beaming at Lucas. He handed over his glass and then carried on. “Mattie wasn’t the weak willed type, however. She knew there was but one way to escape the Baron’s clutches. So, the day of the wedding, she arrived early at the church and climbed to the bell tower. When the Baron and his entourage arrived, she appeared at the top of the tower and called to them. After placing a curse on the Baron, she threw herself to the courtyard below.”

  “Holy cannoli!” Even though I’d sort of known where this was going, it was still a shock. Especially with Simon giving such an emotive delivery. I leaned forward eagerly. “What sort of curse did she put on the Baron?”

  “She said that he would not live to harm another woman. And he didn’t. He died that night in the middle of trying to molest a maid at his manor house. Heart attack some said, but others claim it was the curse.” His eyes twinkled with excitement. Clearly the man was a born storyteller.

  “And the ghost?” I prompted as Lucas returned with Simon’s drink.

  “Thank you kindly, young man.” Simon took a deep swallow. “Well, they say the ghost of Mattie Doon walks the churchyard to this day, seeking out men who do evil and hurrying them to an early grave.”

  I wondered how many of those she’d find at the church. “That was a great story.” I beamed at him, my mind already working at how I could include it in my latest novel. I could substitute the evil baron for an evil cattle rancher. Mattie Doon could become the sweet, innocent school teacher of Gulliver’s Crossroads. Yes, that could work.

  “You said ghosts, plural,” Lucas pointed out.

  “That I did. It’s an old church. Plenty of ghosts roam those grounds.” Simon eyed us closely. “Some of them still alive.”

  Lucas leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?”

  Simon took a long pull on his pint. �
��Well, some ghosts are just memories of things gone wrong, aren’t they?”

  “Like...” I prodded.

  He stared at the ceiling a moment. “’Twere ten years ago now. One morning, the vicar came running into the pub shouting the church had been robbed. Imagine that. Someone robbing God himself?”

  “What was missing?” Lucas asked.

  “Well, now, you’d have to ask the vicar, but I believe there was some silver and whatnot.”

  “Did they find out who took it?” I asked.

  “Well, the rectory—that’s where the vicar lives—was being renovated at the time and everyone assumed it was the workmen. Took advantage. That sort of thing.”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t the workmen,” I said.

  He beamed at me as if I’d said something particularly brilliant. “Exactly. For you see, the vicar discovered the curate was missing.”

  “Isn’t a curate like an assistant?” I asked.

  Simon nodded. “The police decided he must have gotten tired of his duties and run off with the goods. The family was horrified. Insisted that he would have never done such a thing, but...” Simon shrugged. “Innocent people don’t run now, do they?”

  I wasn’t sure that was true, but I didn’t want him to stop telling the story. “Did the police ever find the curate?”

  “They did not. No sign of him anywhere.” Simon leaned forward sending a waft of stale beer breath my way. “They say that until he atones for his sin, part of the curate’s soul will be forever trapped inside the church. A living ghost.”

  “THAT’S THE NUTTIEST thing I ever heard,” I told Lucas when we were finally on the road again. The bartender, whose name had turned out to be Terry, had given us a gallon of petrol and very clear directions to the inn. And, while it was still raining, visibility had improved somewhat. Lucas had insisted on driving which was fine with me. Simon had launched into more ghost stories and I’d managed to down three Irish coffees. I wasn’t sure if I was going to pass out or be up all night. “Do you suppose it’s true?”

  We passed a small square of grass edged with daffodils and more Georgian stone cottages covered in purple wisteria. A few doors down from the pub was a Tudor-era white-washed building with an A-frame sign out front declaring it a tea room. At the opposite end of town from the pub loomed the church, its bell tower stabbing at the leaden sky. Out front, grave stones scattered higgledy piggedly across a well-trimmed lawn.

  “What’s true?” Lucas was focused on the road ahead which seemed more muddy than it should be, as if there’d been a landslide over the road.

  “About the curate? About some of the ghosts of Chipping Poggs still being alive.”

  “Simon is an old man fond of telling tall tales. I wouldn’t put too much stock in what he says.”

  He might have a point, but still. It had been an odd thing to say. I sensed there was a mystery here in Chipping Poggs and my mystery hunting bone was tingling. Hopefully it wouldn’t be another murder. I’d had my fill of those back home in Astoria. I had an unfortunate habit of finding bodies in studies, bathtubs, and even a cabana once. I wasn’t necessarily going to give up amateur sleuthing, but I wouldn’t mind if next time someone else found the body.

  We left the village and were now driving through a copse of trees. Their thick branches stretched in an arch over the road, blotting out what little could be seen of the dark sky. As Simon promised, the drive leading to the manor house was clearly marked with massive iron gates standing wide to welcome travelers. From one of them hung a sign that read “Wytham Manor Inn” in fancy curlicue lettering.

  The rain had washed out some of the gravel leading to a few jarring potholes. “You’d think someone would fix this road,” I complained as the car bellied out on one of the more extreme potholes. “Isn’t this place supposed to be posh?”

  “I imagine it keeps the riffraff out.” Simon sounded amused.

  “Holy shibblets,” I gasped as the manor house came into view.

  Lucas gave an amused snort. “It’s quite something, isn’t it?”

  “You said it.”

  Lights sparkled from a myriad of oriel windows, throwing the manor into relief against the stormy sky. I could make out the triangle points of several gables and a bristle of chimneys marching along the roof. There must be fireplaces galore.

  Gravel crunched beneath our tires as Lucas pulled up to the front door. A set of porchlights glowed warmly, revealing a heavy wooden door.

  “This will make a perfect headquarters.” Lucas smiled happily. “Absolutely the right spot. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.”

  Frankly, the place was kind of spooky. “Sure. Looks great.”

  “You go inside,” Lucas said. “I’ll grab the bags.”

  With a quick nod, I stepped out into the rain and dashed for the entrance. There was only a slight overhang of stone to prevent a person from getting completely drenched. I wasn’t sure if I should ring the doorbell like you would at a house, or just walk in like with a hotel. I decided on the later­—this was an inn, after all—and tried the door handle. It was unlocked.

  The entry hall was lavish in the extreme. Dark wood paneling lined every wall with floorboards stained to match. To the left was a marble fireplace topped with an ornate gilt framed mirror and just beyond it was a door leading to what I imagined was one wing of the house. Dead center of the entry was a small, antique table on top of an antique Persian rug in reds and blues that looked hand woven. In the middle of it sat a simple cut glass vase filled with pink hot-house roses. Above it hung a glittering crystal chandelier. Understated, but elegant. To the right of the hall was another door and a grandfather clock that appeared nearly as old as the manor itself. Straight ahead a staircase led up to the first floor and next to it was a long, dark hall.

  I hesitated, worried about dripping all over the expensive carpets. The place definitely looked like a private home, not a public inn.

  Not sure how to proceed, I cleared my throat. “Hello?”

  A head poked out of the doorway on the left. It was a round head with a wild tuft of ginger hair on top. Little round glasses perched on the end of a pug nose. “Hullo.”

  “We’re looking for a place to stay the night. This is the inn, right?”

  He grinned and the rest of him appeared. He was round as a butter ball and barely taller than I was. I’d put him at close to sixty, though his face was unlined. Bright blue eyes appeared big and buggy behind his glasses. He slipped them off and stuck them in his breast pocket.

  “Rupert Beaton, innkeeper. At your service.” He extended his hand and gave mine a warm shake.

  “Are you one of the Wythams?” I asked, curious.

  “Oh, no. They hired me to run the place. Feels like mine, though.” He looked around, chest puffed out with pride. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  “For my sins.” I grinned. “Do you have a room available?”

  “Sure enough. If you don’t mind a ghost or two.”

  Chapter 3

  Is The Truth Insulting?

  THE DOOR BANGED OPEN on a gust of wind, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was only Lucas carrying our suitcases. He set them down inside the entry and slammed the door shut behind him. He gave us a disarming grin. “All set?”

  “Mr. Beaton says there are ghosts,” I blurted. “The old man, Simon, down at the pub said the manor wasn’t haunted.”

  “Please. Call me Rupert. Simon is incorrect. We do have ghosts, but they’re not bad ghosts,” Rupert said eagerly. “They’re actually quite polite as long as you don’t go around mucking in their business. Now, let’s get you two settled in.” He waddled over and grabbed both our suitcases as if they were feather light. “Follow me.”

  I expected to be taken to an office or check in desk, but instead he clomped up the stairs with us hot on his heels. “We have several guests staying with as at the moment.” His voice echoed in the staircase which was paneled the same as the entry hall. “But not to
worry, we have plenty of room. In fact, I’ve a lovely room just at the end of the hall. It overlooks the gardens. Which, of course, you can’t see at the moment what with it being almost dark, but they are stunning.”

  “The end of the hall” proved to be a very long walk. We passed at least five doors on each side of the hallway. I wondered if they led to bedrooms, bathrooms, or something else entirely. Finally Rupert stopped in front of a door marked with a brass six. He reached into the pocket of his brown corduroy pants, pulled out one of those large, black iron keys that look like they’re from the middle ages, and unlocked room six.

  “Here we are,” he said cheerfully as he snapped on the light. “The honeymoon suite.”

  Hoo boy. I’d only fairly recently come to terms with Lucas as my boyfriend. The honeymoon suite seemed like an awful lot of pressure, but I told myself not to be a ninny and followed Rupert into the room and stopped still.

  Half the room was taken up by a massive four poster bed mounded high with fluffy pillows and canopied in layers of rich fabrics. The idea of the shenanigans that could happen in a bed like that left me a little flustered. There was also a charming little antique vanity in the bay window, a cozy seating area next to a smaller version of the fireplace downstairs, and the prerequisite crystal chandelier. It was all tastefully done in duck egg blue and varying shades of beige and chocolate.

  Rupert set the suitcases on the floor next to a large wardrobe. “The lavatory is through there,” he said, pointing to a door that was discretely cracked open. “There is no mini bar in the room, but the hotel bar is open until midnight so feel free to join us. The instructions for the television are in the bedside table.”

  “Don’t you want us to fill something out?” Lucas asked, setting the suitcases down at the end of the bed.

  “Once you’ve settled, stop by my office. That’s the door I’m came out,” Rupert said directly to me. I nodded to show I understood. “We’ll get everything squared away. Have you eaten?”