2 A Reason for Murder (7 page)

"Take a cat, and spoil her with milk
And tender meat, and make her a bed of silk,
And let her see a mouse go by the wall,
At once she forgoes milk, and tender meat, and all,
And every dainty that is in that house,
Her appetite prefers to eat the mouse."

(Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales)

Chapter Ten
.

I met Melissa at Tullamarine, Melbourne's International Airport, although I met her of course at a domestic terminal. My two hour flight had been uneventful, but the coffee had been disgusting, and on the cheap flight I had to pay for it. Never again. When I say "uneventful," I mean that there wasn't a lot of turbulence, as I did have the most horrid nightmare, so bad in fact, that the flight attendant had to shake me gently by the shoulder to wake me. I can't remember the nightmare, only that it was terrifying.

I'd had a nasty nightmare the previous night too, but thankfully my alarm had sounded, bringing me into the present realm of dreamlessness. In that dream, an entity the shape of a small round object flattened at the sides had walked at me, talking. It had tiny black arms and legs, but a huge mouth that chopped and cut as it spoke. Its mouth flickered unsteadily. I know that doesn't sound at all frightening in the retelling, but the malevolent power it oozed left me petrified and shaking with dread.

The shuttle bus pulled up at Southern Cross Station, and by the time we'd walked to Bourke Street Mall, countless blocks away, or so it seemed to my suffering feet, I'd wished I had worn runners. Melissa abandoned me on a seat outside Myer, and left to interview someone at the Princess Theater about their famous ghost by the name of Federici.

I was going to track down the Spellbox, a witches' supply store in the Royal Arcade off Bourke Street Mall down the Elizabeth Street end. My guidebook told me that the Spellbox stocked a range of spells, talismans, books, wands, exotic household items, ritual tools, magical curios, and objects from all cultures, as well as offering tarot and psychic readings. Apparently on an upper level and near the main store could be found another Spellbox outlet which was a spell and herbal dispensary.

It took me a while to find the Royal Arcade as there were two other arcades in close proximity. When I did, I was struck by its beauty, a piece of history amidst the hustle and bustle of the high-speed city life in which it was ensconced. My guidebook said the Arcade was in the Renaissance Revival style. I had no clue what that meant, but I did recognize it as Victorian era. The ornate high glass roof afforded strong natural light to the rows of specialty stores. I walked over the black and white Victorian era tiles while keeping an eye out for the Spellbox. Just as I spotted it, my attention was drawn to the end of the arcade.

At the Little Collins Street end, the Royal Arcade displayed enormous effigies of the mythical figures Gog and Magog and as well as a huge clock. Below was a sign that said the clock is struck by Gog and Magog every hour. A crowd of tourists was already in place, cameras ready. The sign said that the two seven foot giants have been striking the time on Gaunts Clock since 1892. They were carved from pine and modeled on the figures erected in Guildhall, London, in 1708 to symbolize the conflict between the ancient Britons and the Trojan invaders.

I was quite disturbed by this and decided to email the people responsible for having the sign in the Arcade. Trojans and Britons at conflict, what utter nonsense. Someone had their time frames out by a long way.

I stood against a jewelry store window and googled on my iPhone. I was distracted for a while by the large diamonds in the window of a jewelry store.

My googling was fruitful. Apparently a twelfth century work by the name of
Historia Regum Britanniae
and written by a Geoffrey of Monmouth, chronicled the lives of mythological kings of the Britons over two thousand years. In a wild flight of fancy, it alleged that the Trojans founded the ancient British nation.

From my iPhone I emailed the Arcade office and asked them to put up a sign, "Disclaimer. This is according to a recent, unfounded myth. The Trojans were in fact never in conflict with the Britons, only with the Bronze Age Greeks."

The Spellbox was close by. I don't think I've ever been as entranced as I was with this store. It was fairly packed with shoppers, so I walked outside and up the stairs to the herbal dispensary. A large black crow perched on high guarding the store. It took me a moment to realize it wasn't alive.

I purchased some rue and hyssop and made my way down the stairs, when half way down I met a ghost. I could not see her, but sensed a female and also sensed that she meant me no harm. I sensed she was in Victorian clothes. I stood there, on the stairs, pushing out with my senses, when she moved suddenly and brushed past me so close that I could feel her breath on my cheek, and the word she whispered, "Danger," hung on the air long after she had left.

I was a little shaken but would have to expect spirits in such an old city, and such an old arcade.

There were now fewer people in the Spellbox, so I asked one of the store assistants if she knew about ghosts in the arcade.

"The upstairs used to be a brothel. Several people have reported seeing a lady at a spinning wheel."

"Are there many haunted places in the city?"

She nodded. "Oh yes. The Haunted Bookshop in McKillop Street runs tours of haunted Melbourne. They're very popular."

"I'm only here for the day but I'd like to come back at some time. So there's plenty of haunted stuff to see then?" I figured I could convince Keith to do a feature on haunted Melbourne, especially as the magazine was already intending to run the story on the Princess Theater ghost.

"Yes. The Haunted Bookshop has a website." The assistant broke off to serve a customer. I walked outside and back down the Royal Arcade looking in the store windows. If only I wasn't an underpaid journalist with a mortgage. Some intensive retail therapy would do me some good right now.

A hand grasped my shoulder. I turned around. No one was there. Although the arcade was crowded, no one was close behind me. A chill ran right through me to my very bones. At the same time, I told myself again that any city would be ripe with ghosts. This was my first time in a city after becoming the Keeper. While I as yet had no idea what being the Keeper entailed, I did know that it enabled me to see or sense spirits. I had been practicing grounding meditations daily as well as shielding visualizations to keep my new found sights and sensations at bay.

Any confidence my self-talk had provided was immediately shattered by a black shape looming over me. For one second I could only stand and stare. This was no ghostly snapshot of a bygone era; this apparition was filled with hatred and malice. The only too familiar feeling of being drawn into another realm overcame me, and I struggled against it. Too late; I became immobile, unable to speak or move. I felt ghostly hands reaching for my throat, squeezing, lightly at first and then urgently. I wanted desperately to pull away, but stood paralyzed.

As suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. I forced myself to focus, to come back to reality, and then realizing where I was, I looked around, embarrassed. No one was looking at me.

City folk, I suppose, are used to all sorts of sights. Yet that was the least of my problems. Why was this happening to me? I would have to come up with a strategy to defend myself before this happened again.

I figured the best thing to do was to head for a coffee shop, ask for a corner table, and position myself with my back to the wall, do a grounding meditation followed by shielding meditation, and wait for Melissa.

I walked back in the direction of Collins Street and found a coffee shop on Little Collins. I was in luck. Although it was crowded with patrons, there was a spare table for two on a back wall in an alcove. I didn't have to ask for it; it was the only spare table. What's more, I had cell phone service in there. I would sit, drink coffee, and wait for Melissa to call.

Morpeth was very much on my mind. Skinny was looking for an excuse to fire me. Irritating, to say the least. I was only making ends meet as it was. My feature story on Morpeth ghosts would have to be good, and even more to the point, would have to satisfy Skinny's unreasonable expectations.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the temperature dropped. I again sensed a hostile spirit, and at the same time experienced a moment of disorientation. Enough procrastinating. I immediately launched myself into a grounding meditation where I visualized my feet extending into the earth to let out negative energy and take back the earth's energy. I then opened YouTube on my iPhone and pulled up my Favorites, where I selected CharmingPixieFlora's Number 275 grounding and centering meditation. I find that an excellent one and a fast exercise which makes me feel good immediately.

The air appeared to have returned to its normal temperature. I rubbed my arms, and then noticed an incoming call from Melissa. My phone was on silent, so who knows how long she'd been calling. I gave her directions, which must have been accurate, as she arrived soon after.

"How did it go? Did you get what you needed?"

Melissa was beside herself with enthusiasm. "Yes, it was great! The Princess Theater's the oldest theater in Melbourne. Now, only two years after it was built - oh, the original one was built in 1854 but replaced by the current one in 1886 - there was an onstage death. This is what happened." Melissa paused to consult her notes. "It was the evening of 3 March 1888. Frederick Baker, whose stage name was Federici, was performing the role of Mephistopheles in the opera Faust. It ended with Mephistopheles returning to Hell with Dr. Faustus. There was a trapdoor on stage and Federici had to go through it. Get it - the trapdoor was how he went down to Hell."

I nodded. "Sure, I get it."

"Well when he went down through the trapdoor, he had a heart attack and died. He was only thirty seven. The interesting thing is, the other actors weren't told of course, as they were onstage. They all took their bows, and every one of them saw Federici take his bow too, only he was already dead. Since then, right up to present times, many people have reported seeing a ghost dressed in evening clothes with a cloak and top-hat at the theater, usually in the dress circle. They even used to keep the third-row seat in the dress circle vacant in his honor, but that hasn't happened in the last few years."

I was fascinated. "Are there any photos of him?"

"Yes. There was documentary maker by the name of Kennedy Miller who made..."

I butted in. "Let me guess, a documentary."

Melissa glared at me over the top of her notes. "And it was in the early 1970s."

I interrupted again. "You mean the Kennedy Miller Production Company?"

"I suppose."

"That's George Miller and Byron Kennedy of Mad Max fame - they did Happy Feet too."

"You're kidding. I didn't know that. Anyway, someone took a shot of the film set in the Princess Theater. It was a short dramatized documentary, by the way. No one saw the ghost on set while they were making the documentary, but that photo clearly shows someone looking at the stage and he is partly transparent. So they have a photo of the ghost of Federici."

"Wow, that's great. Can you get the photo for your story?"

"No." Melissa looked crestfallen, and then changed the subject. "Misty, there's something I've been meaning to say. Now don't get cross."

I steeled myself for what was coming. I could hazard a guess.

"I'm worried about you with that Jamie guy."

I sighed.

"Misty, can't you be happy with being single? Don't latch onto the first guy that comes along just 'cause he's good looking, or because it's nice to date again."

I sighed more loudly. "Melissa, I
am
happy being single. I didn't latch onto Jamie. I know you don't like him and I understand you're concerned for me, but I am not dating him, and I'm sure he's not the slightest bit interested in me. Besides, he's on the other side of the world and I'm sure I’ll never hear from him again. Ever."

Melissa shook her head. "Look, I know you're a hopeless romantic looking for true love and all that, but why don't you concentrate on fixing yourself up first, and then the right man will come along?"

The atmosphere became chilled, and it wasn't due to ghosts this time.

"A cat has absolute emotional honesty."

(Ernest Hemingway)

Chapter Eleven
.

David Crawley had asked me to meet him at a Maitland restaurant. I was annoyed on two counts. One, I felt it was ungentlemanly of him not to offer me a ride, even though it was a business dinner, and two, I would be unable to have a glass of wine and then drive back to my motel.

I spent a few hours on the net, and then drove back to Morpeth before dinner to see if I could find Scotty at the River Royal. This time I was in luck. He was sitting by himself under a window, not even a beer in hand.

Mindful that I was about to drive to Maitland, I ordered a lime soda. I was surprised to find that the bartender was Mr. Suspected Fake Ghost from the Gavin King tour. He scowled at me. I took my drink and sat opposite Scotty. He did not look up. I put my bag on the ground then looked through it for a pen and notepad. When I sat back up, Scotty was still looking out the window.

"Scotty, I'd like to ask you questions about the treasure."

Scotty looked at me blankly.

I pressed on. "I'm a journalist and I'm writing a story about the ghosts of Morpeth. My editor thinks the readers would like to know about the treasure you mentioned on the tour and the connection to the ghost of Baxter Morgan."

That got Scotty's interest. "You're a journalist?"

"Yes. I already said that earlier." Perhaps he'd forgotten.

"You will help me find the treasure?"

I nodded. "I'll try. I haven't found out much." I sipped the drink. It tasted a little strange. I wondered if Mr. Suspected Fake Ghost Man had spat in it. "I did have a bit of luck with my research today, though. I found out that Baxter Morgan's old place is for sale, and it's owned by the descendants of his good friend Joe Crawley." I scratched my chin. "I wonder if Joe Crawley was the one who falsely accused Baxter Morgan which led to his hanging - after all, he had a reason to murder him, given that he inherited that wealthy property."

Scotty gasped. His face turned a ghastly hue and he erupted from his seat. He reached the door in just a few strides. I followed him outside, but by the time I got there, he was gone.

What was that all about?

I pondered his strange behavior all the way to Maitland, which was only a twenty minute drive. The question of the treasure intrigued me. Scotty had been of no use in that regard; I figured the rest of my night would be more pleasant. I couldn't have been more wrong.

We sat in uncomfortable silence in the Maitland restaurant. I glanced at David while he was studying the menu, and decided to break the ice. "If there's no treasure, why does Scotty the tour guide guy insist that there is? He seems convinced. Do you know him?"

David slammed the menu down on the table, dislodging a fork. He caught it in mid air and set it back on the table. "I know that he's a bit of a nut case. Take everything he says with a grain of salt."

I was taken aback by David's strong reaction, so tried to make my voice extra calm. "I researched what he said on his ghost tour and it seemed accurate."

David looked up from his menu. "That may be the case, but there
is
no treasure. What did he say about it?"

I thought about it. "He did know a lot of details about the Jewboy Gang. I checked up on everything he said and it all checked out, like I said, except I couldn't find any record of Baxter Morgan being executed. However, I couldn't find any death records for some of the gang members, so that in itself means nothing."

At this point the waitress took our orders.

When she left, David waved at me. "Go on."

I tried to remember the last thing I'd said. "That's about it, only on the tour he took us to a small house in town and said that the occupant was a woman who was widowed because the treasure hadn't been found, and when his accuser was named, the ghost of Baxter Morgan would tell everyone where the treasure is."

David looked shocked and was about to speak but was prevented by the timely arrival of herb bread. I ate a piece hungrily, and washed it down with a large mouthful of water. I had no intention of drinking wine as I had to drive back to my motel.

I continued. "In fact, I drove to Morpeth before I came here, to the River Royal Hotel, to try to find Scotty."

David looked interested then. "And did you?"

"Yes. When I told him about your place being for sale and that your ancestor was rumored to be the one who accused Baxter Morgan, he took off like a bat out of hell without so much as a word."

That seemed to surprise him, but he changed the subject. "Is yours a big magazine? How many journalists are there?"

"Not many. It's a small magazine really. We're all overworked."

"Why did they give this story to you in particular?"

I shrugged. "They always give me the stories that need a lot of research. I always get to the bottom of things. No one else could be bothered." I felt unusually tired so rubbed my eyes, a habit of mine. The only thing is, I don't usually wear mascara as I have my eyelashes tinted once a month when I have my eyebrows waxed and tinted. I had, however, worn mascara tonight, so wondered if I had black streaks down my face.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. The lighting in there was no better than the rest of the restaurant, but to my relief the mirror revealed only slight smudges under my eyes. I dabbed at them with a damp tissue, and then applied concealer which I always had in my purse.

When I returned to the table, my meal was sitting waiting for me. "Fast service in this place."

David nodded. "Yes, we're just about the only ones here."

I looked around the restaurant and the only other patrons were a young couple tucked away in the far corner. Hopefully this was not because the food was bad. There had been only one vegetarian meal offered on the menu. It did, however, prove delicious, if my sampling of the layered stack of char-grilled vegetables, olive tapenade, and basil pesto was anything to go by. I was about to have another mouthful but was forestalled by David's phone ringing. David checked the caller I.D. and did not answer.

"My brother, Des."

"Is he the one who wants to sell the place?"

"You do know a lot."

I laughed. "I'm a good researcher."

"Clearly. Des and I have never seen eye to eye. He's my younger brother, and you'd think two brothers even five years apart in age would be close, but we're chalk and cheese. Always have been. He lives in Sydney now, and he's newly married which is why he wants to sell the family property. I think it's a terrible shame, but there's nothing I can do about it. Morgan Hall was left to me in the will, but he contested it."

"Goodness, that would have been hard."

"You don't know the half of it. He has a temper on him too. I'd say he's calling to criticize me about interrupting your viewing today. He's the one who engaged the services of the realtor. He's in town at the moment too, but I only found out this afternoon."

I was about to comment further but the room revolved slightly. I excused myself again and went to the bathroom. Migraine headaches have this effect on me, but I wasn't getting the typical flashing zigzag lights of a migraine, and I felt quite nauseous. I splashed my face with cold water, and then returned to the table. Something was up; my stomach was churning and cramping and I thought I was about to be sick. I only managed to return to the table with some difficulty.

"Are you all right? You've gone green."

"No, I think I'm getting a migraine. I'd better get back to the motel before it gets worse." Without waiting for his reply, I headed for the door, speeding up as I went. I only just made it to the car park when I vomited violently all over the pavement. That brought a slight relief and I managed to drive back to my motel, although my vision was swimming and the headache was pounding.

By the time I got inside my motel room, I felt like I was going to die. I dropped to my knees inside the door and vomited violently again. I crawled to the bathroom and hoisted myself up over the toilet bowl. After another round of violent vomiting, I stuck my hand through the bathroom wall, into another realm. Perhaps I was dreaming. I thought I was awake. I tried to wash my face but my way was barred by a huge gray cat. It was evil, malevolent, hateful. Waves of pure terror washed over me. The cat did not move, but paralyzed me by some form of psychic attack. I was unable to move or speak.

The rest of the night was a haze. Sometime in the night I managed to crawl back near the bed and pull a blanket over me. I was freezing but my skin was burning to touch.

At some point I must have fallen asleep. I awoke on the floor, weak, headachy, and fuzzy, but with the relief that the vomiting seemed to have stopped. My stomach muscles ached; they felt as if I had done thousands of crunches.

I didn't think I could stand, so crawled on my hands and knees back to the bathroom, pulled myself up at the basin, and poured a glass of water. I managed to get back to the bed with the glass of water and I opened my laptop.

A search for "food poisoning treatment" brought up a lot of pages. I clicked on the third one down and it said that it was important not to get dehydrated. I was horribly thirsty but the website cautioned only to have a few little sips of water at a time. It also suggested a satchel of electrolytes, but failing that, a sports drink, but said to have it in conjunction with plain water.

I had a half-emptied bottle of sports drink already on the bedside table, so poured some of it into the glass of water then lay down in bed reminding myself to sip the water every few minutes. It must have been food poisoning, but I wouldn't have thought a vegetarian meal would cause food poisoning. At that I fell asleep.

The phone call woke me. It was not my iPhone but the motel landline. I answered, but no one was on the line. At any rate I was less groggy and relieved that I was on the mend, although weak.

A check of my iPhone revealed that it was almost midday. I lay in bed debating whether to lie there longer or venture out to buy some dry, salty crackers. The website had said I needed salt and dry crackers. The thunderous stomach rumblings convinced me. The crackers won. I managed to have a shower and get dressed but I had to move slowly and carefully. I felt awful.

The car parking area was a cramped affair. I reversed, turned the car a few times, and then ventured out onto the laneway which ran between two major Maitland roads.

The midday glare was too much for my weakened sensibilities, so I felt around the passenger seat for my sunglasses and found them. Just as I pulled into the lane, I realized I'd left my purse back in the motel room. Shit. I hit reverse, and then rammed the accelerator with a little too much force. Luckily no one was behind me. At that point, a speeding truck appeared from out of nowhere and grazed the front of my car.

The jolt and the fright did not help my headache. I staggered out of the car and to my dismay saw broken glass. More expense. A broken headlight cover and no doubt a broken light. My car was insured, but I'd have to pay a $500 excess. If only the driver had stopped, or I had been fast enough to get his license plate. I figured the drivers around here must be pretty bad, as that was the second close shave I'd had in as many days, give or take a day or two. Lucky I had reversed when I did, or I would be toast.

The thought of food turned my stomach again, but that's when it dawned on me. If I hadn't been forgetful, I could have been killed twice. The researcher in me told me that I could only have been killed once. I tried to snap myself out of my digression and bring myself back to the matter at hand. I needed salt and more water, and then I would be able to think. One thing was clear: this was a matter for Alfred.