Page 15 of Giving Up The Ghost
Ezra made a funny little noise. I think Julian may have stepped on his foot for me.
“We met him a few times,” I acknowledged. “He definitely knew his way about the place. So sorry to hear of his passing.”
“He definitely had an eye… for local history,” Ezra said, neatly stepping to the side, pretending to look at the memorial plaque but avoiding the tip of Julian’s cane.
I barely managed to bite back an inappropriate snort.Damn it, Ezra!
Ms. Hastin sniffed softly, shaking her head. “It was so sudden. He was just fine on that Monday, surefooted as anything. He left for a meeting with a client—Mr. Tormund had a, well, unique side interest in things that might be considered a bit… outré.” Glancing about to make sure the dressmaker dummies demonstrating Victorian daywear and a collection of stuffed voles and foxes couldn’t hear us, she lowered her voice to whisper, “Mr. Tormund was a very serious man, not prone to flights of fancy, but, well…” She sighed, cheeks flagging with color as her voice came out in barely a whisper, “He did believe some of the items here could communicate with him.”
“Any specific objects?” Julian asked, matching her tone. “Maybe he was just playing up known history for the museumgoers?”
Ms. Hastin’s color was concerning as she shook her head more vehemently. “I’m afraid that it was his one sign of aging, really, these slips into fantastical beliefs. He’d claim to know stories just from touching items, even offered to demonstrate for me a time or two, but I felt it was highly inappropriate.” She straightened, smoothing her hand down her blazer and regaining some composure. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but I’m afraid his fantasies are what led to his demise.”
“Someone killed him for this?” Ezra asked, crowding up between me and Julian.
“Oh, heavens no!” Ms. Hastin explained, stepping back, one hand going to her chest and the other clutching at her midsection. “He was just prone to getting lost in these stories, you see, and would get so distracted by whatever he was telling his audience that I’m sure he just didn’t watch where he was going and slipped into the pond.”
“Was he alone?” I asked softly.
“Oh. I wouldn’t know for certain,” she said, slowly drawing a shell of formality and professionalism around herself. “He left Monday evening to meet a client, he said. Someone who wanted a demonstration of his storytelling. A neighbor found him the next morning in his back garden.” She sniffed again, staring over at the plaque where Mr. Tormund’s rheumy eye seemed to stare back at us. “Well. Now. Let me get you the rest of the materials for that self-guided tour! It’s not a big museum, but it’s just packed with fascinating details about our little area!”
* * *
Julian was doinghis best to pretend he wasn’t in pain when we finally left the museum around eleven, which worried me more than I wanted to let on myself. The doctors had been clear that he would, more than likely, have permanent effects from the fall in Colorado. Julian had been optimistic—which translates tobullheaded—about his recovery, and every day that came without some miraculous change in his pain levels, or a resumption of his former level of ability, seemed to add a bit more weight to his shoulders. Ezra hummed along with the radio as we headed into Avesford, which was technically a village but almost too big to be considered such. Only the lack of governmental trappings to define a town for tax purposes left Avesford with its ancient designation. Sitting beside Ezra, I pretended to check messages on my phone while he navigated the winding lane, ignoring texts from Heinrich (an ongoing and rather TMI retelling of his experiences using Scruff) and a few from CeCe (minor changes in production schedules and a request to make sure Julian wasn’t forgoing painkillers if he needed them), as well as a lengthy thread from Lisa (I don’t even know). Instead, I was dwelling on Charlotte’s hissed words as I hurried out after Ezra.
I just don’t want to see you held back by their jealousy. Especially Ezra. He’s so envious of you he practically glows with it. I’m not saying Violet was right to impose such strict guidance on you, but maybe she knew what was coming. Maybe she knew that people like us, we have to avoid the pull of people likethem. People who’d rather see us fail than try to let us thrive.
Part of me wanted to laugh, tell her that was utter shite, but a tiny little niggling worm of worry whisperedmaybe she’s not. If Grandmere thought it might be a problem, and Charlotte—someone who would have no reason to support Grandmere, no way toknowuntil I’d told her about how my abilities were shaped by Grandmere…
But did she know? Did she understand? I glanced up as the car slowed to see Ezra pulling to a stop along the high street. “The Queen’s Short Cock,” he announced, his grin devilish as it had been when we were eleven and he relished announcing the name to Grandmere over tea.
Julian snorted from the backseat. “I know pub names can be unusual but… really?”
“It used to be the Queen’s Arms,” I offered. “But the name changed around 1692, if I recall correctly.”
“Something about Her Majesty’s Royal Poultry at the time,” Ezra added. “More importantly, they serve proper pub food. I’m dying for something that’s not healthy or sweet. Why is American bread so damn sweet?”
We trooped into the pub in Ezra’s wake. Despite the fact the morning wasn’t very bright, we still had a moment of disorientation ducking into the gloom of the old pub. “Ezra Baxter, I told you you’re not allowed back in here till you pay for clearin’ up that mess in the gents!”
“Oi! Stephen! I weren’t the one that flooded the sinks! That was Eli Bennet!”
“Eh, same initials. Pay up!”
“Fuck off,” Ezra laughed, loping across the old orange and green carpet to hug Stephen, who’d owned the pub for longer than we’d been alive, across the bar.
“Back are we?” Stephen asked, motioning for me to come in for a hug as well. Gasping from the back pounding, I only shook my head.
“Just here for a visit. Then it’s work, work, work.” Ezra sighed, though he was grinning. “Oh, this is Julian Weems. Doctor Julian Weems,” Ezra corrected, nudging Julian forward. “He’s Oscar’s fella. and he’s on that show with us.”
“Oh, I know who Julian Weems, Doctor Julian Weems is,” Stephen drawled, leaning on his elbows to regard Julian with a very sharp gaze. “Been keeping up with your show, haven’t I? Always liked seeing you two whenever Violet would swan into town.” He chuckled, reaching for a stack of sticky plastic menus to hand us. “She and her little coven would perch on the seats like they thought the wood would give ‘em some disease. It was like being in an episode of what’s that show? With the bucket lady?”
“Keeping Up Appearances,” Julian said, looking both amused and a tad overwhelmed. “Hyacinth. Had a sister named Violet.”
“Right, right,” Stephen said, giving Julian one more once-over before turning his attention back to me. “You going to Landon Price’s funeral tomorrow then?”
The name took a moment to register but when it did, it was like a slap across my face. “What happened?”Oh my god, Heinrich…
“Fell, didn’t he?” He smacked his hand down on the bar and made an unpleasant squishing sound with his mouth. “Down the steps at that old pile of his. Cracked his skull clean open, apparently.” He sniffed, glancing up as the door opened to admit more customers. “Accident, looks like. Old guys like us, it’s not uncommon. Here comes our Geoff. Give him your orders then and I’ll pop by before long.”
