The Haunting of the King's Head Read online

  “I'm researching the questions right now. And of course there'll be complimentary cheese and cold meat boards for every table. How can people not want to come to that?”

  I want to tell him that this is a slightly crazy idea, but at the same time I figure that it might just have a chance of success. Perhaps any other time I'd be a little more doubtful, but after Judith's meltdown earlier I actually feel more determined than ever to push on through and show everyone that this pub is going to be a huge success. If that means designing the best poster in the history of posters, then I guess that's just what I'll do.

  “I'm sorry about last night,” I tell Dad. “I genuinely forgot about what day it was, but I shouldn't have been so harsh.”

  “You might have had a point.”

  “I was a bitch.”

  “You're never that,” he replies. “Don't even use that word, Charley, okay?”

  “I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. And I'll prove it by creating the best poster ever.”

  “Perfect,” he says as I turn and head through to the hallway. “I'm in the middle of writing the first round of the quiz. I'm going to call it Cheddpardy.”

  I turn to him.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “It's a pun. Like Jeopardy, that American game show, but about cheddar. Cheddpardy. Get it?”

  “You're a very strange man sometimes,” I tell him.

  “That's the spirit!”

  I watch as he starts typing again. I know I should go upstairs but, after Judith's rant earlier, there's one niggling little issue that's bothering me. I figure it'd be best to deal with the issue head-on, rather than letting it eat away at me.

  “You remember Mum's funeral?” I ask.

  He looks at me.

  “Of course,” he says.

  “I was thinking about what happened after,” I continue, taking a few steps toward him, “when we got home and everyone had left and we were just sort of unwinding after everything that had happened.”

  “You mean -”

  “I fainted.”

  He pauses, and then he nods.

  “Why?” I ask. “Had I really never fainted before?”

  “We've talked about this,” he replies. “The stress of the day was -”

  “I'd been stressed about stuff before,” I point out, “but I'd never actually fainted. I'm mean, I'm basically a bundle of stress half the time. I was super-stressed at the church, and at the crematorium, but I only fainted when we got home.” I pause, thinking back to that evening. “I was in my room,” I continue, “and I think I was getting changed, and then the next thing I remember is that I was on the floor and you were leaning over me.”

  “I heard an almighty thud,” he replies. “You're lucky you didn't wallop your head as you fell.”

  “It just seems odd, that's all,” I tell him. “Are you sure I didn't say anything odd just before it happened? Or right after I woke up?”

  “Nothing odder than usual,” he says. “It was a crazy time, Charley, and it messed us both about in lots of different ways. Obviously I was really worried at the time, but looking back I actually think we might have been lucky. The stress could have manifested in so many different ways. I mean, I could have started going gray! Can you imagine that?”

  “I guess.”

  “Why do you ask?” he continues. “You didn't want to talk about your mother last night. If you've changed your mind -”

  “I haven't changed my mind,” I reply, keen to nip that particular idea in the bud. “I was just thinking, that's all. It's so odd that I fainted, but I guess you're right, it must have just been stress. I'll get that poster done.”

  With that, I turn and head upstairs, although I can't help thinking about Mum's funeral. I've fainted three times in my life, if I include the weird dream, and I'm starting to wonder whether there might be a common thread between those occasions. I guess maybe Judith just unsettled me, and as I get to my room I'm already starting to feel a little better. I guess crazy people just tend to unsettle me.

  I sit cross-legged next to my duvets, and I get to work on the poster. I glance at the open doorway a couple of times, but of course I don't see anything untoward. Why would I? I know ghosts aren't real, even if Judith managed to get her dumb ideas into my head. Besides, every few minutes I hear Dad coughing downstairs, and somehow it's comforting to know that he's close. So I simply force myself to focus on the poster design work, and finally all my worries start to drift away.

  Screw Judith Sinclair. She doesn't know what she's talking about. She's just a mad old woman who keeps a corpse in her shed. She's lucky no-one reports her to the police. I mean, what she's doing has to be illegal!

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  As the clock ticks round to midnight, I remain at my bedroom window and look down at the square. There is still no sign of Jack, and I am certain that he should have returned many hours ago. Even if something came up, something that called him away, I cannot believe that he would not at least have a message sent to me.

  Something is wrong.

  My heart is racing, and I cannot help but imagine all the awful things that might have happened. What if Randolph Hayes sent some men out to find Jack, and they did something awful to him? What if he's managed to get into trouble? I fear that he has been lying to me about his reasons for staying in Malmeston, that in truth he is here because of me, in which case I need to make him realize that I cannot leave this pub. What if, by hiding the truth, I have caused him to get into great danger?

  Hearing footsteps out on the landing, I turn just in time to see Elsa heading to the other bedroom. She glances at me with a grin, and a shudder passes through my body. I would have had every right to throw her out onto the street, but she is my sister and I cannot put her to any hardship, even if she has spent most of the day mocking me and attempting to set a case of blackmail in motion.

  “Sleep well, dear Muriel,” she says. “We'll talk more in the morning.”

  I nod, and she goes into the next room. I hear the door bumping shut, and then I turn to look once again out the window. If Jack were to arrive right now, he would surely know what to do, and I think perhaps I shall have to tell him the truth about my past after all. I had hoped to avoid that, but now I shall have to tell him everything and then beg him for mercy and understanding.

  He knows me, though. He knows I am no thief. I just need him to come back, so that I can tell him. I need him to be safe.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  “Okay,” Dad says as he grabs the question sheets from the bar, “I hope everyone's feeling knowledgeable about cheese!”

  To my utter astonishment, he's managed to fill the pub again. Every table has been booked, and there's even an extra team that's been squeezed in at the bar. I know it's a little early to declare this night a sweeping success, but I'm starting to feel moderately hopeful that we've scored another success. Thankfully the loud noises on the opening night didn't scare people away permanently.

  Plus, Dad's had a man in to check the pipes, and apparently there might have been a problem with the boiler that could have caused all that noise. Something to do with limescale build-up, and it's all been fixed now. I guess we just have to keep our fingers crossed.

  “I never knew you could make a quiz about cheese,” Jennifer says as she wanders over and picks up a set of question sheets. “That's crazy.”

  “Meet my father,” I reply.

  I watch as everyone gets ready for the first round, and then I realize that Jennifer seems to be laughing at something next to me. As the door opens and yet another customer enters the pub, I turn to see that Jennifer's giggling, and there are even tears in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Cheddpardy,” she says, barely able to get the words out. “Like Jeopardy, right? Just about cheese. That's so funny! Where did he get that from?”

&n
bsp; “He made it up,” I reply cautiously. “You actually think it's funny?”

  “It's hilarious!” she continues, clearly genuinely amused. “Who Wants to be a Camembert? Tell me he didn't make that one up too! No-one's that clever!”

  Staring at her, I can't shake the feeling that she has to be faking this. No-one could possibly be this amused by cheese puns, yet that seems to be exactly what's happening. And as Dad gets the quiz rolling with another questionable joke, Jennifer bursts out into a full fit of laughter. Honestly, it's a thing to behold.

  “Can I get a drink here?” a voice asks nearby, and Jennifer quickly pulls herself together for long enough to take the guy's order.

  I glance over, and to my surprise I see that I'm next to Mr. Hayes from the brewery.

  “Good evening,” he says, a little stiffly. “You're Tom's daughter, right?”

  “Right,” I reply, figuring that I should be polite. After all, this guy's got some real power. “Dad didn't tell me you'd be coming tonight, Mr. Hayes.”

  “I didn't tell him,” he says. “I thought I'd drop by unannounced and see how things are going. It's always good to sniff things out early on. I believe you can get the gist of how a pub will fare after just a week or so. It's a kind of intuition. And, please... Call me Gary.”

  “I think everything's going really well,” I tell him. “This is our second quiz night and we're all booked out.”

  “So I see.” He looks around, but I can't shake the feeling that he doesn't seem overwhelmed with joy. “I had no idea your father was going to aim for the older demographic.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. Well, I hope not, anyway. They do tend to spend less, however. Pubs with this demographic tend to be between 23% and 30% less profitable than pubs that skew lower. In today's turbulent market, that can be quite a difference.”

  “We get younger people in too,” I half lie. “This is just one of those nights when the older crowd show up.”

  “I'm sure you're right,” he says, turning to me with a very fake smile. “Perhaps your father is going to be the man who bucks the national trend.”

  I try to think of a response, but at that moment my eye is caught by a face beyond the window. Looking out at a car parked on the other side of the square, I realize that there's someone sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight at the pub. For a moment, I tell myself that perhaps the face is a reflection, but then I realize that this particular face seems a little familiar.

  “You've noticed my daughter,” Mr. Hayes says after a moment. “I didn't want to leave Matilda at home tonight, but I felt that it was wholly inappropriate to bring her into the pub when it might be busy and loud. Don't worry, though. She's perfectly happy sitting out there and entertaining herself. She's a very self-sufficient young lady.”

  I stare for a moment longer at the face, and I can't shake the feeling that she's looking at me specifically. To be honest, I find the kid a little creepy, but I quickly tell myself that I'm just being judgmental again, so I turn and focus instead on the quiz.

  “Round three,” Dad announces proudly, “and I've named this one, Brie Wheel of Fortunes!”

  Next to me, Mr. Hayes lets out a dismayed sigh, while on the other side of the bar Jennifer collapses into another fit of laughter.

  ***

  “I don't know where the titles came from,” Dad says to Jennifer later, once the pub is shut and we're all cleaning the tables. “They just popped into my head. I guess it's a kind of inspiration.”

  “You're so clever, Tom,” she replies. “I could never come up with something like that.”

  “I bet you could,” he says. “Go on, try to come up with a title for a round about gouda cheese. I never managed to crack that.”

  She thinks for a moment.

  “I've got it!” she says suddenly. “The $64,000 Gouda!”

  I start to roll my eyes, but then Dad starts laughing and I realize that he actually likes this suggestion. As he tells her that she's brilliant, and that she should help him out on his next quiz, I head over to fetch some more glasses and I find myself wondering whether I'm just totally out of the loop. Maybe this kind of thing really is funny. Maybe I'm just some kind of grouch.

  “Charley, you try one,” Dad says. “Think of a round about Swiss cheese. That's another one that I couldn't crack.”

  “How about...”

  I pause for a moment, but my brain feels empty until suddenly a great pun pops into my mind and I turn to Dad and Jennifer.

  “How about,” I say with a faint smile, “Swiss Line is it Anyway?”

  I wait for them to laugh.

  They don't laugh.

  “Swiss Line is it Anyway?” I say again, just in case they didn't hear the first time. “Like Whose Line is it Anyway? but, uh...”

  My voice trails off.

  How is The $64,000 Gouda funny, but Swiss Line is it Anyway? Isn't?

  “We'll keep trying on that one,” Dad says diplomatically, “but good try. You can't expect to come up with a zinger with your first one, Charley.”

  That settles it.

  It's me.

  I'm just not funny.

  I turn back to the table and start gathering glasses, while telling myself that maybe I need to lighten up. I'm gonna come up with a good pun for Swiss cheese, though, even if it's the last thing I ever do. I'm gonna have people rolling in the aisles with laughter, and I'm gonna prove to Dad and to Jennifer and to everyone that I can be totally, properly funny. I mean, sure, that kind of thing might not come naturally to me, but that doesn't mean -

  Suddenly the window nearby shatters, showering me with glass, and something heavy comes thudding through and slams into the table next to me.

  Startled, I step back and bump against a different table, and somehow I lose my footing and fall hard against the ground. I reach out to break my fall, but in the process I slice my left hand on a piece of glass.

  “What the -”

  Dad comes rushing over, but already there's the sound of footsteps racing off into the night.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, helping me up. “Charley, you're bleeding!”

  “It's nothing,” I stammer, looking at the cut on my hand. There's some blood, but nothing serious. I'm more bothered by the sense of shock.

  Turning, I see a brick on the table, with some thick black text scrawled on one side.

  “Get out,” I whisper, reading the words as Dad goes to take a closer look.

  “Maybe it was someone who was drunk,” Jennifer suggests.

  “Drunks don't do things like this,” Dad replies, reaching out to take the brick.

  “Wait!” I say. “Don't touch it!”

  He turns to me.

  “There might be fingerprints on it,” I point out. “Seriously, Dad, let the police handle it.”

  “I'll call them,” he replies, “but they won't be able to do anything.”

  “What about the cameras outside?” I ask.

  “I haven't managed to get them hooked up properly yet,” he admits. “They're not working. Whoever did this, they're long gone already.”

  “Who'd want to throw a brick through the window?” Jennifer asks.

  “Someone who really doesn't like the fact that we've re-opened the pub,” Dad replies. “I'd suspect the previous landlord, but I know for a fact that he's long gone. He's living abroad now. Which means that it must be someone from the local area, but I have no idea who. I knew the pub was a little controversial in some quarters, but this is taking it to a whole other level.”

  Staring at the brick, I can't help but think about Judith Sinclair. For all her craziness, is she really the kind of person who'd chuck a brick through the pub's windows? Not to mention, would she be able to run off that fast? Then again, as I stare at the 'Get Out' message, I can't help wondering about the intent of the person behind all of this. Is someone telling us to leave because they don't like the pub being open? Or is it because they're worried about us
being here?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  Two men walk past on the opposite side of the square, as if they wish to keep as far away from The King's Head as possible. This is the third time that something like this has happened this morning, and – although I keep telling myself that I am imagining things – I cannot shake the feeling that some secret order has gone out, compelling people to refrain from coming inside. But Randolph Hayes would not do that, would he? Can any man really be so vindictive?

  If things keep going as they are, the pub is going to become little more than a shell. When Mr. Foster charged me with the duty of keeping The King's Head alive, he insisted that he wanted the place to be a thriving, busy part of town. He regaled me with endless stories about how much he loved the pub when he was younger, about how he'd never been happier than when he'd sat and listened to all the locals telling their stories over pints of beer. He cried tears of sorrow as he spoke about the possibility that the brewery would shut the place down, and then he cried tears of relief when I promised that I would follow his instructions.

  What would he say now?

  “I'm asking so much of you, Muriel,” I remember him saying to me one day, when he was slipping into the decline that ultimately led to his death. “Perhaps it is wrong of me.”

  “No!” I told him, keen to make him feel better. Ours was a true and pure friendship, of the type that lesser minds cannot comprehend without inserting grubby, immoral aspects. “Let me do this for you. You have done so much to help me, and this is the least I can do in return.”

  Never were truer words spoken, for Mr. Foster had employed me when I was at my lowest ebb, and he had allowed me to use his personal library whenever I wanted. He was a man possessed of a fine mind, and I believe he saw something in me that he deemed worthy. Whether he was right or wrong in that regard, I cannot say, but he nurtured and encouraged me. His daughters eventually grew bitter, and they could not be persuaded that my intentions were honest. I am sure that they were responsible for the terrible rumors that filled York, rumors that I was begging Richmal for money or that I was seeking to offer pleasures of the flesh in return for material goods.