The Haunting of the King's Head Read online

  I head toward the bathroom.

  “I miss her too,” Dad says suddenly.

  Stopping, I realize that it was too much to expect that I might escape any awkwardness. He wants me to open up and get into some big, deep conversation about Mum, but I just don't have that in me. I hesitate for a moment, before reaching into the bathroom and pulling on the string. The light flickers to life, and then I turn to see that Dad's watching me.

  “Mum wouldn't want us to be moping about,” I tell him. “She'd be really proud of us for starting over and -”

  “Charley -”

  “And she wouldn't give a damn about the anniversary of her death,” I add, briefly unable to hold back. “It's just maudlin crap and it doesn't serve any purpose. It's just another way that society tries to make us all feel bad about ourselves.”

  “Come again?”

  “It doesn't matter,” I say firmly. “Dad, I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood to get into all this stuff. I'm tired and I just want to go to sleep.”

  “But -”

  “Do you know what Mum would want right now?” I add, cutting him off yet again. I just can't help myself. “She'd want you to get this pub running properly. She'd want you to fix the boiler, so that we actually have hot water. And she'd definitely want you to get us some beds, because right now we're sleeping on the floor! That is the kind of stuff that Mum would be focused on. So if you really want to honor her memory, and to make her happy, that's what you need to be doing.”

  I pause, before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door. To be honest, I think getting away from Dad is a good idea right now, because I'm worried that I might say something really bad. At the same time, as I take a step back and listen to him heading downstairs, I start to realize that maybe I was a tad harsh. Plus, I genuinely hadn't noticed that today was the anniversary of Mum's death. I guess I've just been way too busy with everything else that's going on, but now I'm worried that maybe I'm the one who's wrong. Am I just a cold, uncaring monster?

  Leaning back against the wall, I try to calm myself down. Why do I always get so angry whenever anyone starts talking to me about Mum?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon, and Jack isn't back yet. He's been gone for hours, and I'm torn between frantic worry and a need to stay calm.

  “Where are you?” I whisper, watching the empty square. “Jack, what -”

  “Hello, Muriel.”

  Startled by the sound of a familiar voice, I turn and see that a ghost is standing by the door that leads through to the hallway. Not a literal ghost, of course, because such things are impossible, but a ghost from my past, a face that I never thought I would see again.

  “Elsa,” I say, blinking in the hope that she might vanish like some kind of illusion. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is it really so bad to come and check on my only sister?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Now that's an interesting story,” she replies with a grin. “I admit that I'd given up on trying to trace you after you disappeared all those years ago, but then a man came knocking recently. He said he'd been hired by a man named Randolph Hayes to track down any information on a Muriel Hyde. I told him I'd never heard of a Muriel Hyde, but then he showed me a photo and, blimey, there you were! You never changed your first name, only your surname. What's wrong, did you think Pennybottom sounded a little common?”

  “You have to leave!” I hiss, storming over to her and grabbing her arm, fully intending to march her straight out of the pub.

  “Or what?”

  “Elsa -”

  “Hyde was a good name to pick,” she says, pulling free of my hand. “Like you're hiding. Was that on purpose, or just a coincidence?”

  “I left you enough money for you to get out of trouble,” I tell her. “I'm sorry, Elsa, but you must have realized that I didn't want to be found again!”

  “You left a small amount of money,” she replies, “and took a whole lot for yourself. And considering the way you left York without even saying goodbye, and without ever getting in touch again, I certainly understood that you had no intention of ever seeing your family again. That hurt, Muriel. How could you be so cold?”

  “What do you want?”

  “To see my dear sister again,” she says with a smirk.

  “What do you really want?”

  “You've got a nice set-up here,” she replies, stepping past me and looking around. “It must be hard, being a woman and running a public house all by yourself, but by all accounts you're doing alright.” She turns to me. “Although, I have to say, people are gossiping about you. Who's this Jack fella you're letting live under your roof? To think, my sister the prude is actually letting a man -”

  “I can't give you money,” I tell her. “It's all gone.”

  “Sunk into this place, eh?”

  “I was very generous to you,” I say firmly. “If you and that wretched husband of yours have -”

  “Frank's dead,” she replies, interrupting me yet again. “Two years ago, an accident at work. You'd have known that, though, if you'd kept in touch.”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, shocked by the news. “He was a good man.”

  That's not entirely true, and I certainly had my fair share of run-ins with the thug, but I cannot in good conscience speak ill of the dead.

  “So now I'm a widow,” Elsa says, “raising poor little Albert all alone. What do you think that's like, eh? It's not easy, I'll tell you that, and -”

  “What do you want?” I shout, momentarily losing control. I instantly regret raising my voice, of course, but the damage is done and I can see that I've given Elsa exactly what she's after.

  A reaction.

  Emotion.

  I pull myself together and tell myself that I must stay calm. Elsa has always been able to get a rise out of me, and that is how she has controlled me for as long as I can remember. She's here for money, of that I am certain, and I am sure she believes that I still have some of the small fortune that I obtained so many years ago. If I had the money to give her, I would certainly do so, if only to get rid of her as quickly as possible. I can see the hunger in her eyes, and the jealousy too, and I fear that she will happily ruin my life here in Malmeston if she thinks she can gain even a single penny. She might even do so out of spite alone.

  “So are you still a thief?” she asks.

  “I was never -”

  “Mr. Foster's family would beg to differ,” she adds. “They'd still like to know where his money went.”

  “That money was promised to me by -”

  “Not by his will,” she says firmly. “Everyone knows you stole the money and -”

  “He gave it to me before he died!” I snap.

  “Even if that's true, he wasn't in full command of his senses by then.”

  “His mind was as clear and as focused as one could ever imagine,” I tell her. “Richmal Foster and I were very good friends, the likes of which most never experience in their lifetimes. I can't imagine what he saw in me, but in him I encountered wit and erudition and intelligence beyond compare. I know there were some people who thought our friendship to be unusual, I know there were scurrilous rumors, but I don't care.”

  “You still took his money.”

  “Money that he gave to me, specifically on the understanding that I should leave York.”

  “Well,” she replies, “I suppose we'll never know the truth, will we?” She smiles. “Now, how about finding something for your little sister to eat, eh? I'm starving!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  As soon as I open my eyes in the morning, I know one thing.

  I have to go down and apologize to Dad. I was a total bitch to him last night when he mentioned Mum.

  ***

  “Dad?” I call out as I step through into the space behind the ba
r. “Hello? Dad, where are you?”

  Spotting a note on the bar, I wander over and see that Dad's left a handwritten message:

  Had to pop out early. Back c. 12. Can you do me a quick poster for a cheese night? Next Friday, 7pm until late. Ta. Dad X

  Followed by a smiley face.

  “A cheese night?” I mutter, as I read the message a couple more times and try to figure out what he means. “And how does that work, exactly?”

  It's good that he's got some fresh plans, and I guess I can mock up a poster showing a block of cheese even if I don't know the details. Knowing Dad, it'll be a good idea dressed up with a few extra touches that perhaps go slightly overboard, but I guess anything's good if it gets feet through the door and bums on seats.

  I turn to go upstairs and get started, but then I stop as I see that a note has been pushed through the letterbox. I wander over and pick up what turns out to be a simple, folded sheet of paper with some handwritten lines on one side. My first assumption is that the note is for Dad, but then I see my name at the top. When I read the message, I feel an instant flicker of curiosity in my chest.

  ***

  Reaching the corner of Market Street, I stop and look at the large, yellow house that towers high above me. The place looks pretty rundown, with lots of ivy creeping up the walls, and several veins of cement have been left visible following repair work. I hesitate, wondering whether I should just go home, but then I look down and I read the note again:

  Charley,

  Please forgive my abruptness the other night. I'd like to talk to you, and to show you a few things that you might find very interesting. I live at number 1, Market Street, in the big house. I'm usually out in the mornings with Bonnie, but I'm always back by midday. If you could find your way to dropping by some day soon, I'd really appreciate the chance to talk to you.

  There are some things you still need to know about The King's Head.

  Yours,

  Judith Sinclair.

  After her weirdness at Dad's launch party, I honestly never expected to have any contact with Judith again, so it's still something of a surprise that she reached out like this. I can't quite figure out the tone of her letter, either; she seems a little desperate, but I can't really imagine what she might want to show me. I'm not interested in hearing more stupid ghost stories, and I genuinely came very close to tossing the note into the bin and forgetting about it. To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm here at all, except that I figure Judith Sinclair might actually have some interesting information about the pub's history. And if she just starts going on about ghosts, I can always make an excuse and leave early.

  ***

  “I'm so glad you could come,” she says as she shuts the front door and turns to me. “I was worried that after my performance the other night, you might have written me off as some kind of old kook.”

  “Not at all,” I reply, trying to be as polite as possible. “I'm always interested in hearing what people have to say about the past.”

  “I suppose I was just overwhelmed by being back in that building,” she says, shuffling past me as her dog Bonnie waits at the foot of the stairs. “I remember when The King's Head last closed its doors, I was convinced that it would be for the last time. I honestly thought that the brewery would knock it down, but the campaign group was surprisingly influential. Please, come through.”

  “Hey, Bonnie,” I say, patting the dog as I make my way past. “Good girl.”

  “It was my father who got me into local history,” Judith continues, “bless his memory. Of course, if anything, I've become even more obsessed than he was. I just think that the past is so important, it's the foundation of where we are today and we must never forget that fact. Don't you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” I reply as I stop in the doorway and watch her heading to the far end of her kitchen. “In your note, you said you had something to show me.”

  “Come through to the shed,” she says, opening the back door and making her way outside. “I have something of a small museum set up, with everything neatly displayed. Sometimes I think I should open my collection up a little more, but then I worry about how people would react. There are some real fuddy-duddies in Malmeston.”

  “You don't say,” I mutter.

  “This way!”

  Realizing that this might take a while, I head across the kitchen and out into the yard, by which point Judith is already unlocking the door to an outbuilding. She described the 'museum' as a shed, but it's much larger than that. In fact, it looks larger than the flat Dad and I lived in when we were in Blackpool. Something tells me that Judith Sinclair's not short of money, and I guess it's no-one's business how she spends that money. In some ways, I actually envy her. She's free to pursue her quirks and interests, and no-one can tell her to stop.

  I'd like that kind of freedom someday.

  “It's a little cluttered,” she explains as I wander over to join her, just as she disappears into the museum and flicks a switch on the wall. “Mind your step. Don't worry, that's only dust in the air, it won't hurt you. Just don't breathe excessively deeply and you'll be fine.”

  “Uh, okay,” I say, as I stop in the doorway and look through at a room that's filled with desks and shelving.

  Every surface is absolutely covered in boxes and old newspapers and books and VHS tapes and crates and bags and pretty much anything you could imagine. The walls, meanwhile, are barely visible behind hundreds and hundreds of photos, paintings, portraits, maps and mirrors. I don't think I've ever seen so much stuff in one space before, and I have to admit my first thought is that perhaps Judith has become a little confused about the difference between collecting and hoarding.

  “I don't like throwing anything away,” Judith says rather unnecessarily, turning to me. “There are things here that nobody else in the world would have thought to keep. My father was a little obsessive and, well, I'm afraid that I've rather continued in his footsteps. If there's anything you can think of about the history of Malmeston, I almost certainly have it here. Oh, wait!”

  She hurries to a box on one of the nearby desks and starts looking through. She soon finds a scrap of old paper, which is torn and faded, and she brings it over to me.

  “This is a receipt for the purchase of three beer barrels from The King's Head in 1815. Can you believe that? The handwriting is rather faded, but you can just about make out the details.”

  “That's really interesting,” I say as I take the paper from her. To be honest, I can't really make out any of the writing. “Where did you find it?”

  “My father acquired it from one of the previous landlords,” she explains. “He found a little tin full of old, forgotten items. Most people would have just thrown it all away, but not my father. He was always a man who saw the world a little differently. I like to think that I've inherited a touch of his approach, although I'm not altogether sure. One can hope, can one not?”

  “Sure,” I reply, as I hand the paper back to her.

  “I have some more somewhere,” she adds, hurrying to one of the other desks. “Let me see if I can find them.”

  As she fusses and searches through various drawers, I walk over to the nearest wall and look at some old photos. I think I recognize a few of the buildings, from my recent walks around town, and a moment later I spot a picture of the square with the pub at the far end. I walk on, looking at more pictures, and then I stop again at a shot of the pier. There's something very beautiful about these old black and white images, and about the glimpses they reveal of people who are surely long since dead. As I start walking again, I find myself utterly fascinated by these shots of a town that I barely know at all.

  “Oh, where are they?” Judith mutters, far away on the other side of the room. “I'm usually more organized than this.”

  I stop again, at an aerial photo of the town. The streets look so thin and long. The next photo shows a horse pulling a cart along one of the main streets, and I think I recognize the church in the distance. I
really should take some more walks, in the daytime, because right now it's almost as if I know the town better from old photos than I do from actually being here. That seems a little strange but, as I continue to walk along the room and look at pictures, I tell myself that there's no harm in being interested in the past. How can someone not feel that way? It'd be like eating all the fruit from a tree but never once giving any thought to its roots.

  I open my mouth to ask Judith about the history of Malmeston, but then I freeze as I see one particular photo.

  It's her.

  It's Judith Hyde, I recognize her from the only other picture of her that I've ever seen, and I also recognize the fireplace in The King's Head. She's sitting upright on a wooden chair, staring toward the camera, but something about the picture feels wrong somehow. I lean a little closer, looking at her face, and I can't help but think that she has the most curious expression. Her eyes are quite dark, and her mouth is very slightly open, and her hair is surprisingly unkempt.

  “Ah, good,” Judith says suddenly, and I turn to see that she's come up behind me, “you found it. I wanted you to do that yourself, rather than have me guide you here.”

  “It's a strange picture,” I reply, turning back to take another look. “I can't work out whether she looks sad or happy?”

  “Really? That's an unusual reaction, given the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Look closer. Look at her neck.”

  I lean toward the picture and look at Muriel Hyde's neck. The collar of her dress is quite high, but after a moment I realize that I can just about make out a series of large, dark blotches running all the way around her throat, almost as if...

  I feel a shiver in my chest, and then I turn to Judith.

  “This photograph was taken when Muriel's body was put on trial in the pub,” she explains.