Read Online Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance by Neil Richards - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Neil Richards
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narrowed.
She’s searching for an answer, Sarah thought.
“There is no ghost.”
Sarah nodded. Mandy Myrtle would have practically grown up in the old place. She must know every inch of it.
Her answer very firm. Logical. And exactly the right answer if you wanted to turn the property into a five-star hotel.
Yet something about the woman seemed different.
“Good to know,” Sarah said with a smile.
With that, Myrtle twisted that doorknob and left, exiting a tad more quietly than she had entered.
And when Sarah turned back to Grace, her eyes wide, big grin on her face …
Sarah had to make a joke. “My new best friend!”
And they both laughed.
11. The Man in Room Three
Jack knocked on the door, a sharp trio of raps.
Early enough so that he hoped that the elusive Mr. Anderson hadn't stepped out for whatever adventures he planned in the village.
Then, Jack heard the sound of a chair scraping wood, the sharp click of what may have been the lid of a laptop being quickly shut, and then steps.
But no answer to the door.
Jack shook his head and rapped again, louder, knuckles hard against the thick centuries’ old door.
The brass doorknob turned slowly, the brass so scratched and dull it nearly matched the burnished look of the wooden door.
And of course — the door opened only a few inches.
When Jack got his first peek at Mr. Anderson.
Two things he noticed.
The man was wearing sunglasses.
That itself was odd, considering he was indoors and the general lighting in the hotel was muted at best.
And the man's sandy brown hair looked … a bit askew .
As if someone had hurriedly placed it atop one's head, hoping that the quick placement — of what some called a “rug” — wasn't noticed.
This could be an interesting interview, Jack though.
“Yes. What is it?”
The man's voice had an odd timbre too … as if, to match the sunglasses and wig, the voice was part of whatever “look” Mr. Anderson was going for.
The only look that made sense to Jack was that of someone who was doing their absolute best not to be recognised.
“Mr. Anderson, I’ve been asked by the Myrtle family to look into the events of the other night.”
The door remained open a mere few inches. Hard to see what the man's eyes were doing, blocked by the dark glasses.
Anderson was silent.
“You know? The chandelier? That fell? Big scare, could have killed someone.”
The toupeed head bobbed up and down signalling understanding.
“And since the chandelier is just below this room, I was wondering if I couldn't have a look around.”
Mr. Anderson looked behind as if he might not be alone.
“I was in the middle of something. This really isn’t—”
“Kind of urgent, Mr. Anderson. We don’t know whether the local police need to get involved. So, if I could take a look — now — that would be great.”
A tongue slipped out of the man's mouth and swabbed his lips.
And Jack thought: he's hiding something.
“Um, okay. Let me just—”
The door shut, and Jack stood in the gloomy hallway waiting. Then it opened wide, and Jack walked into the room.
The bed sheets wrestled into a knot. A tray with a pot of tea, sitting on the dresser. The room had a view overlooking the square, right down to the memorial to the great revolutionary battle that took place in the village.
When Cherringham's streets ran red with the blood of rebels and royalists alike.
Jack took a second to walk around the room.
He was actually killing time.
Nothing he noticed about the wooden floor of the room, save that the planks were wide, and old enough to have dips and bends from years of use.
Then he turned back to Anderson, who had moved over to the small writing desk beside the window, standing there as if shielding the laptop, or maybe the papers next to it.
“That night, you didn't notice anything that happened?”
He answered quickly.
“No. Nothing at all. Everything was perfectly normal until the chandelier fell. Then, of course,
She’s searching for an answer, Sarah thought.
“There is no ghost.”
Sarah nodded. Mandy Myrtle would have practically grown up in the old place. She must know every inch of it.
Her answer very firm. Logical. And exactly the right answer if you wanted to turn the property into a five-star hotel.
Yet something about the woman seemed different.
“Good to know,” Sarah said with a smile.
With that, Myrtle twisted that doorknob and left, exiting a tad more quietly than she had entered.
And when Sarah turned back to Grace, her eyes wide, big grin on her face …
Sarah had to make a joke. “My new best friend!”
And they both laughed.
11. The Man in Room Three
Jack knocked on the door, a sharp trio of raps.
Early enough so that he hoped that the elusive Mr. Anderson hadn't stepped out for whatever adventures he planned in the village.
Then, Jack heard the sound of a chair scraping wood, the sharp click of what may have been the lid of a laptop being quickly shut, and then steps.
But no answer to the door.
Jack shook his head and rapped again, louder, knuckles hard against the thick centuries’ old door.
The brass doorknob turned slowly, the brass so scratched and dull it nearly matched the burnished look of the wooden door.
And of course — the door opened only a few inches.
When Jack got his first peek at Mr. Anderson.
Two things he noticed.
The man was wearing sunglasses.
That itself was odd, considering he was indoors and the general lighting in the hotel was muted at best.
And the man's sandy brown hair looked … a bit askew .
As if someone had hurriedly placed it atop one's head, hoping that the quick placement — of what some called a “rug” — wasn't noticed.
This could be an interesting interview, Jack though.
“Yes. What is it?”
The man's voice had an odd timbre too … as if, to match the sunglasses and wig, the voice was part of whatever “look” Mr. Anderson was going for.
The only look that made sense to Jack was that of someone who was doing their absolute best not to be recognised.
“Mr. Anderson, I’ve been asked by the Myrtle family to look into the events of the other night.”
The door remained open a mere few inches. Hard to see what the man's eyes were doing, blocked by the dark glasses.
Anderson was silent.
“You know? The chandelier? That fell? Big scare, could have killed someone.”
The toupeed head bobbed up and down signalling understanding.
“And since the chandelier is just below this room, I was wondering if I couldn't have a look around.”
Mr. Anderson looked behind as if he might not be alone.
“I was in the middle of something. This really isn’t—”
“Kind of urgent, Mr. Anderson. We don’t know whether the local police need to get involved. So, if I could take a look — now — that would be great.”
A tongue slipped out of the man's mouth and swabbed his lips.
And Jack thought: he's hiding something.
“Um, okay. Let me just—”
The door shut, and Jack stood in the gloomy hallway waiting. Then it opened wide, and Jack walked into the room.
The bed sheets wrestled into a knot. A tray with a pot of tea, sitting on the dresser. The room had a view overlooking the square, right down to the memorial to the great revolutionary battle that took place in the village.
When Cherringham's streets ran red with the blood of rebels and royalists alike.
Jack took a second to walk around the room.
He was actually killing time.
Nothing he noticed about the wooden floor of the room, save that the planks were wide, and old enough to have dips and bends from years of use.
Then he turned back to Anderson, who had moved over to the small writing desk beside the window, standing there as if shielding the laptop, or maybe the papers next to it.
“That night, you didn't notice anything that happened?”
He answered quickly.
“No. Nothing at all. Everything was perfectly normal until the chandelier fell. Then, of course,
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