The Haunting of the King's Head Read online

  Her voice trails off, and then she turns and hurries out into the saloon bar, leaving me standing all alone in the hallway. Judith seems nice, but definitely a little kooky, and I'm not quite sure why she decided to give me a load of cryptic warnings without actually telling me anything. The pub seems to really freak some people out, but I can't help thinking that maybe that's just a habit. Now that the place is back up and running, hopefully everyone will start to realize that there's nothing scary here. The King's Head is just a pub.

  ***

  “Look at them all!” Dad says later, as we stand behind the bar and watch all the customers laughing and talking. “This place is buzzing! What did all these people do when the pub was closed?”

  He's got a point. We must be close to capacity now, and it's standing room only. People are even struggling to squeeze their way through to reach the bathrooms. If even half these people become regulars, the pub's future has to be looking pretty good, and this is before we even start running the quizzes and all the other things that Dad's got planned. I always knew that he'd do a good job, but this is amazing.

  I look around again for Judith Sinclair, but she seems to have left. As far as I can tell, she seems to be the only person who hasn't enjoyed the opening party.

  “I wonder what the previous landlord did to screw this place up,” Dad continues. “Trust me, The Golden Bow down the road is a very sleepy place. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but obviously people are interested in something a little different. It's hard to believe that this place was left to rot for so long.” He turns and nudges my arm. “You know, I don't want to get cocky, but I'm starting to think that maybe I have a knack for running a pub.”

  “Two more teams have booked in for the quiz next week,” Jennifer says, coming over to us. “How many teams did you say you wanted, again?”

  “Six or eight,” Dad tells her.

  “Oh.” She pauses. “I think I might have booked nine in.”

  “I'll handle it,” Dad says. “I'll figure something out. Hey, I think the table in the corner's running low on prosecco. Do you want to ask if they fancy some more?”

  As Jennifer heads away, I still can't quite believe how well this night is going. Turning, I look at the clock on the wall and I see that it's almost 11pm. Dad has a license to stay open until 1am at the weekend, and I'm starting to think that he might have trouble getting rid of people. Somehow, in all the planning for tonight, it never actually occurred to me to consider that the opening might be hugely successful. I watch as Dad heads over to serve some more customers, and I feel so pleased for him.

  A moment later, however, I hear a loud, heavy thudding sound coming from upstairs. I look up at the ceiling as the sound continues, and then I turn to see that both Dad and Jennifer have noticed the same thing.

  It sounds as if someone's loudly banging on the floor of one of the bedrooms.

  Slowly, the noise from the bar begins to die down and everyone looks up. The sound managed to penetrate the din of the party, and soon not even one person is talking. It's as if the atmosphere has been suddenly drained away, and I listen as the loud, irregular banging continues. I try to tell myself that there's just some distant pipe that's causing the trouble, but deep down I know that's probably not true. And when I turn and look at the faces of the all the customers, I can't help but realize that their reactions seem a little extreme, almost as if...

  Almost as if they're all thinking the same thing.

  “What is that?” Dad mutters, before turning to look at the customers. “Hold on, everyone, I'm just going to fix whatever's causing that sound. Normal service will be resumed shortly.”

  He hurries through to the hallway, and then everyone waits in silence as the banging sound continues. I hear Dad heading up the stairs, and a moment later the banging ends.

  No-one says a word, at least not at first. Dad's walking around up there, going from room to room in an effort to find the source of the sound, but it's as if this brief interruption has totally soured the mood. And then, just as I try to figure out how to get the party restarted, some people rise from their seats at a nearby table and head for the door.

  “It's okay,” I say to them, “there's nothing wrong.”

  “Thank you,” one of the men says, clearly worried about something. “We had a great time.”

  I watch as the four of them head out onto the pavement, and then I hear more chairs scraping against the floor. Turning, I see that two more groups are getting ready to leave, and I can't help thinking that somehow the loud banging sound has completely changed the atmosphere. People are starting to talk again, but only in low, muttered conversations that seem to be mainly about whether it's time to leave.

  “I have no idea what caused that,” Dad says as he comes back through. Stopping, he immediately sees that the pub is starting to empty, and I spot the moment when his happy mood begins to fade. “It's okay, everyone,” he continues, as he heads over to the stereo on the bar, “why don't we get some music going, yeah? Liven things up and -”

  Before he can finish, there's another loud bang from upstairs.

  Immediately, people at two other tables get up and start putting their coats on.

  “Don't go!” Dad says, sounding a little panicked, but now it seems as if everyone has the same idea. “Well,” he continues with a fake, slightly desperate laugh, “you lot are all very well-behaved, aren't you? I thought I was gonna have a job getting everybody out, but you're all packing off just because of a noisy set of pipes.” He glances at me, and I can tell that the claim about the pipes is nonsense. “Hope to see a lot of you at the quiz next week,” he adds, “and keep an eye on the windows for details of our other events. We're also on Facebook if you want to give us a like.”

  People are polite as they leave, thanking Dad and in some cases shaking his hand, but I can't ignore the fact that the evening has completely deflated. The banging sound has stopped, at least, but the damage has been done and I find myself wondering just how many of these people are genuinely going to come back for the quiz. Then again, I guess tonight has still been a success overall, and we always knew that the hard part would be customer retention over the short and medium term.

  Finally the last customer leaves, and the pub falls completely silent.

  “So that went pretty well, didn't it?” Jennifer says, sounding a little nervous. “Until the end, anyway. All you've gotta do is fix those pipes and everything'll be great. I used to work in a pub in Manchester a couple of years ago, before I moved down here, and we'd get fights all the time. You guys didn't even get one fight. Result!”

  “Yeah,” Dad says, although he definitely seems troubled. “I guess we did alright. And it's a good first step. We definitely have something to build on.”

  “What did you find when you went upstairs?” I ask him, as Jennifer goes to start collecting empties from the tables. “Was all that noise really caused by a pipe?”

  “I don't know what caused all the racket,” he replies, “but I need to find out, and fast. That noise really cleared the place.”

  “But you didn't see anything?” I ask. “The noise stopped as soon as you went up there.”

  “Fancy that, huh?” he says, before smiling and patting me on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Charley. We can't be expecting miracles. We've got to work hard, and I'm sure the place'll soon be thriving. It's all going to be okay. I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  “Are you enjoying yourself there?” Jack asks, stopping in the doorway. “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Perfectly adequately,” I reply, looking up from my embroidery project. I'm sitting in the saloon bar, having unbolted the door, and as usual I am busying myself with needlework as I wait for the day's first customer.

  “You love that stuff, don't you?” Jack says.

  “Show me a woman who doesn't enjoy embroidery,” I reply, thankful for the chance to have a nor
mal conversation, “and I shall show you a woman who doesn't know how to make a home. I could teach you, if you wish.”

  “You keep offering,” he says, “but honestly, I don't think it would suit me.”

  “You never know, until you've tried it.”

  “Maybe one day you can set up that embroidery school you talked about once,” he says. “I know you love teaching people.”

  “I fear that chance is behind me now.”

  “Not if everything goes our way,” he replies. “Always hold onto the hope.”

  He smiles, and for a moment everything feels utterly perfect. I am sure that this is how things would be if Jack and I were married, and I like being able to show him that I will make a good wife. Of course I am glad that women are making their mark in the world, indeed I am a supporter of the Pankhursts and their work, but for myself I prefer a quiet life. To be Mrs. Jack Farnham would be the greatest thing that I could ever hope to achieve.

  “I'm going out,” he says suddenly, heading toward the door.

  Shocked, I set my embroidery down.

  “But I thought -”

  “I'll be careful,” he adds, as he opens the door and turns to me. “I can't stay cooped up hiding in here forever, Muriel, and I have things to do. Don't worry, I know where to go and where not to go. I know who my friends are. And by the time I get back, I think I shall have some exciting news for you.”

  “Your return would be enough excitement for one day,” I tell him, forcing a smile and telling myself that I must be supportive. “Don't be gone for too long.”

  “I shan't.”

  With that, he heads outside, and my heart skips a beat as the door swings shut. I desperately want to run after Jack and tell him to stay, but I must trust that he knows what to do. Picking up my embroidery, then, I force myself to focus on my own matters while I wait for the day's first customer to arrive. I'm sure that someone will come through the door at any moment, and I would be glad to have something that takes my mind off Jack's absence.

  Nearby, the clock on the wall seems to be ticking rather loudly this morning, marking each and every empty second with a heavy click.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  A few days after opening night, as Dad sits on a bar stool and reads out the questions at the quiz, the situation is looking pretty grim.

  We had nine teams booked in for tonight. Three called and canceled earlier in the week, and four simply failed to show up. That's left us with two teams, each comprising just two people, and honestly the whole situation feels pretty sad. After a quiet few days, Dad decided to call Jennifer in for another shift, since he was convinced that tonight at least was going to be busy. So far, however, she's had pretty much nothing to do, and now she's examining her nails as she leans bored against the bar.

  “Okay,” Dad says, “so that's round three, on literature, out of the way. Once again, I have to remind you that it's my daughter Charley who set the questions. I'm afraid there probably won't be any rounds on sport or popular music.”

  “I'm not that bad,” I tell Jennifer as I sit at the far end of the bar, well away from where the quiz is taking place. I want to be on hand in case anyone queries one of the answers. “You can get music and sport quizzes all over the place. We need to be different if we're going to stand out. You think so, don't you?”

  “I guess,” she replies diplomatically.

  “How many answers did you know in that round?” I ask.

  “Honestly? None.”

  “What about the round before?”

  “None, but that doesn't mean anything. I've never been good at quizzes. I'm smart, but not in a book kind of way. I'm more smart when it comes to life and doing stuff. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” I reply, as I watch the few contestants scribbling their answers down.

  “Okay,” Dad says, turning to the next page of questions, “now we're going to move on to round four, which is on the topic of...”

  His voice trails off, and then he gets to his feet and comes around to join Jennifer and me.

  “Charley,” he whispers, “I thought you said you were going to keep this quiz at least vaguely simple?”

  “It's a quiz!” I point out. “If you're going to enter a quiz, you have to at least know some basic facts about everyday life!”

  “Like who wrote a book called The Master and the Margarita?”

  “It's The Master and Margarita,” I say, correcting him, “and it's an international classic!”

  “No-one here had ever heard of it! Including me!”

  “That's not my fault!”

  “I'd heard of it,” Jennifer says, and we both turn to her, just as she furrows her brow. She pauses, apparently deep in thought. “No, actually,” she adds, “I don't think I had. No, definitely not. I'm thinking of something else. I think I was thinking of that one about the woman who meets the guy and he's into all this kinky stuff.”

  “Fifty Shades of Grey?” I suggest.

  “That's the one! Is it anything like that?”

  “Not very, Elsa,” I reply with a sigh.

  “Elsa?”

  Pausing, I realize that for some reason I used the wrong name for her.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, furrowing my brow. “I meant Jennifer.”

  “I can't read this next round out,” Dad tells me, as he sets the question sheet on the bar. “Whatever possessed you to write an entire round on lace and embroidery?”

  “What?” I reply. “I never wrote a round on that!”

  When I look down at the sheet, however, I realize that he's right. There are indeed ten questions in a round titled Qualities of Embroidery and Haberdashery, even though that's not a subject I've ever thought about in my life. The questions are all written in my handwriting, but I swear I didn't actually put this round together. For a moment, staring at the questions, I genuinely can't wrap my head around what's happening.

  “It wasn't Fifty Shades of Grey I was thinking about,” Jennifer says after a moment. “I just realized, it was Last Christmas.”

  “That's not a book,” I point out. “That's a film!”

  “I know,” she replies. “Funny how the mind works, isn't it?”

  “I'll skip to the next round you wrote,” Dad says. “You know, Charley, sometimes you really should take a moment to think about how other people see the world. Not everyone has quite such... wide-ranging interests as you.” He pauses. “Then again, I need to pad the quiz out a little. I guess they'll just have to do the embroidery questions after all. This is sure to go down well.”

  As he head back over to resume the quiz, I'm left staring at the questions about lace and needlework. Where did these come from? I spent hours going over all the questions for the various rounds, and I did a whole load of research on my phone. Taking the phone from my pocket, I check the browser history, and sure enough there's no sign that I researched anything about embroidery. I'm pretty certain the same will be true when I check my phone, so what's going on here?

  “He might have a point, you know,” Jennifer tells me. “No offense, but these questions are really hard.”

  “Maybe,” I reply, before holding up the sheet of paper, “but I didn't write these ones.”

  “Then who did?” she asks.

  “I don't know.”

  “Is it not your handwriting?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but for a moment I'm not sure what to say.

  “Must've been a ghost,” she adds with a smile, before heading over to take some glasses out of the machine.

  “Yeah,” I mutter under my breath, as I stare at the questions and try to figure out what's going on, “must've been.”

  ***

  “Sorry if I was harsh on you earlier.”

  Looking up from the book I'm reading, I see Dad standing in the doorway.

  “About the quiz, I mean,” he continues. “It all turned out great in the end. We got lucky that two of the teams
had sewing experts. To be honest, things got a little heated toward the end. I was worried fisticuffs might break out.”

  “I didn't write those questions,” I tell him.

  Immediately, however, I realize that there's no point. Even if Dad did believe me, that wouldn't exactly solve the mystery. And from the look in his eyes right now, it's clear that he thinks that I'm either crazy or I'm trying to pull some elaborate prank. How can I defend myself on this point, when I still don't understand any of it myself? Who else could possibly have written those questions, and how are they supposed to have done it using my handwriting?

  “So I didn't forget what day it is,” Dad says suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Today. The fourteenth.”

  Staring at him, I genuinely don't know what he's on about. He seems to think that the date is somehow significant, so I start running through all the possibilities, and then I sigh as I realize exactly what it means.

  “Dad...”

  “It's okay to be a little tender today, Charley,” he says, cutting me off. “The anniversary of your mother's death -”

  “I hadn't even noticed.”

  “I don't believe that for a second.”

  Getting up from the chair, I set my book down. I don't know what I'm dreading more: a conversation about the day Mum died, or a conversation about why I don't want a conversation about it. I know Dad really struggles sometimes, and I want to be supportive, but now is not the moment.

  “Do you want to talk?” he asks.

  “Not about that.”

  “I just thought that maybe you were feeling a little down.”

  “Well, I'm not,” I say as I head over and squeeze past him. “I'm knackered, though, so I'm gonna brush my teeth and then I think I'll go to bed. Or, to my duvets. Is there any news on those beds yet?”