The Haunting of the King's Head
Author: Amy Cross
Date: 2019-12-07 20:43:14+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: For several years now, The King's Head pub has stood empty. When Charley and her father take over, they're determined to turn the place into a success story, but they've reckoned without the pub's eerie history. They soon come to suspect that they're being watched by the spirit of former landlady Muriel Hyde. And Muriel Hyde is angry. More than one hundred years ago, Muriel was a woman in love. She also had to contend with powerful forces that were determined to push her out of the pub. Now, even in death, Muriel is determined to make sure that her suffering is avenged and she'll stop at nothi
Publisher: Independently published

Copyright 2019 Amy Cross

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities, events, pubs or breweries is entirely coincidental.

Kindle edition

First published: December 2019

For several years now, The King's Head pub has stood empty. When Charley and her father take over, they're determined to turn the place into a success story, but they've reckoned without the pub's eerie history. They soon come to suspect that they're being watched by the spirit of former landlady Muriel Hyde.

And Muriel Hyde is angry.

More than one hundred years ago, Muriel was a woman in love. She also had to contend with powerful forces that were determined to push her out of the pub. Now, even in death, Muriel is determined to make sure that her suffering is avenged and she'll stop at nothing to get what she wants, even if that means hurting everyone who stands in her way. But did she really kill herself all those years ago? What happened to her corpse after it was found? And what secrets lurk in the pub's dark rooms late at night?

The Haunting of the King's Head is a horror story about revenge and redemption, about one woman's determination to avenge her own murder, and about a town that refuses to acknowledge the sins of its past.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Epilogue

The Haunting of the King's Head

Prologue

As tears run from my eyes, I try again to break free, but I'm being held down too firmly. I can only watch in horror as my own blood soaks into Muriel's dry skin, and after a moment I look at her dead eyes. This whole situation is complete madness, but more and more members of the crowd are dropping to their knees, as if they genuinely believe that this circus is going to have any actual results.

“Be patient!” Hayes shouts to the others. “This is not the work of a moment, she will come back and reclaim her soul! Wait and watch!”

“Stop squirming,” one of the men says, still holding my shoulders firmly.

Hayes comes back over to me and smirks for a moment, before turning to look back at Muriel Hyde's corpse. There's been no sign of movement, of course, but I can't escape a slow feeling of dread that's starting to spread through my chest and out into the rest of my body. Still silhouetted against the gray sky, Muriel's dead face stares down roughly in my direction, and I can feel an uncontrollable, explosive, totally irrational but absolutely inescapable fear starting to rush through my every bone and muscle.

Please, I want to beg, let me go. But even if I didn't have this gag in my mouth, I think I'd be too terrified to say a word.

And then, slowly, I see Muriel Hyde's dead eyes start to move.

Chapter One

Charley Lucas

Today...

“It looks dark and abandoned and...”

For a moment, sitting in the car's passenger seat and peering out at the building on the corner, I try to think of a word other than 'creepy'.

“Creepy?” Dad suggests finally.

I turn to him.

“You said it,” I point out.

“Well, it is dark,” he replies, “and it was abandoned. The place hasn't been open in about two years now. And to be honest, arriving at midnight wasn't part of the plan. If the traffic hadn't been so bad, we'd have got here around four this afternoon, there'd have been sunshine, there'd have been people in the streets, the whole town would have seemed much nicer. As it is...”

We sit in silence for a moment, both of us staring out at the pub.

“Yeah,” he adds with a sigh, “it looks pretty creepy right now.”

“And -”

“But it's not creepy,” he says, unbuckling his seat-belt and opening the car door and climbing out. “Come on, Charley, let's get our bags inside and put some lights on. I don't know about you, but I'm knackered and I wanna hit the ground running in the morning. We'll have the place feeling like home in no time.”

“Home's five hundred miles back the way we came,” I mutter as I continue to look at the building. “Home's where all my friends are.”

The King's Head, as the pub is so gloriously named, is a three-storey building on the southern corner of a small square. We're in the northern quarter of Malmeston, a seaside town that by all accounts was once quite the tourist destination. Emphasis on the word 'once' there, because my online research suggests that the town is on its uppers right now. Still, I've got to admit that while the pub certainly looks dour and imposing right now, it also dominates the square pretty handily. Craning my neck, I look around and see dark houses everywhere I look. Sure, it's midnight, but I'd have thought that at least someone would be up. I guess the locals don't like late nights, and that's not entirely surprising. According to my research, the population of Malmeston skews heavily toward the older demographics.

“Come on, Sunshine!” Dad says, banging the roof of the car. “These bags won't carry themselves in!”

I am not going to be a typical whining teenager.

I've been promising myself this ever since Dad announced we were moving to the very south of England. Sure, I'm fifteen years old and I'm leaving behind the only place I've ever called home, and leaving all my friends as well, but I refuse to use that as an excuse. Dad keeps saying that this move is an opportunity, and I'm determined to follow his lead. Besides, Dad needs a new challenge and we need money, and I also happen to think – although I haven't mentioned this to him – that Mum would really like the idea of us starting over. She'd be proud of us.

Climbing out of the car, I immediately flinch as I feel the cold night air. Again, I refuse to bitch and moan, so instead I head around to the back and start hauling out some of the bags.

“I'm sure it's gonna be great,” I tell Dad, hoping to bolster his enthusiasm. “There's no way it can be as grim as it looks.”

***

“I'll have to find the fuse-box in the morning,” Dad mutters a short while later, standing in the pitch-black hallway and flicking the light-switch several more times. “There's definitely supposed to be power.”

“It smells fusty,” I reply, looking toward the far end of the hallway but not quite managing to make anything out. “It's really cold in here.”

“We'll soon warm up. That's why I packed extra duvets, I'll fetch them from the car in a minute.”

Stepping forward, I feel a loose floorboard shift slightly beneath my left foot, accompanied by a faint creaking sound. I reach out and touch the rough plaster wall, and then as I turn I feel the fine threads of a spider's web against my face. Again, I resist the urge to complain, and I simply reach up in the darkness and brush the web away. At the same time, I can hear Dad heading deeper into the building, and a moment later I spot a square of light as he activates the flashlight on his phone.

“There,” he says, “that's better.”

He tilts the light until it's shining up against his face, casting long shadows that make him look monstrous.

“What do you think?” he asks, affecting a scared tone of voice. “How many ghosts do you reckon there are in this place?”

“Probably somewhere between zero and zero,” I say as I step over to the light-switch and give it a flick. It doesn't work, of course, but then I spot another switch hidden away in the corner. I reach over and turn it on, and sure enough an electric strip-light flickers to life above us.

I turn to Dad.

“Ta da!” I say helpfully.

“My daughter the genius,” he replies, before turning and making his way to a nearby door marked 'Bar'. He pushes it open and leans through. “I've got to admit,” he continues, “the photos made it look... bigger.”

“I can't believe you didn't actually come and check the place out in person first,” I tell him. “How much did you pay for taking this pub on, again?”

“It was a bargain.”

“And how many pubs have you run before?”

“Zero, but the guy from the brewery said that can actually be an advantage.”

“I bet he did,” I mutter. “I don't want to be negative, Dad, but did you know that on average two pubs shut down every day in this country?”

Damn it, there I go, being majorly negative. I really need to learn when to shut up.

“That's because they don't have me to get them going,” he says, as he disappears through the doorway. Sometimes I really envy his boundless optimism, even if I'm wary of relying on it too much. A moment later, another light comes on. “Check this out, Charley. It might not look like much now, but soon I'm gonna have this place heaving.”

I want to believe him. Not only because he needs this, but also because I'm pretty sure he's all-in financially. If this pub thing doesn't work out, I genuinely don't know what we're gonna do.

Heading over to the doorway, I look through and see the main part of the pub. It's L-shaped, as I saw from the plans online, with the bar itself facing one row of seats and then a side section that I guess is going to be the dining area. An old dartboard is on one of the walls, which are otherwise decorated with various framed pictures. Taking a step forward, I look down at the bar and see that it's covered in a thick layer of dust, and a moment later a large, spindly-legged spider scurries past as if it's horrified by the light; it quickly squeeze under the till and vanishes from sight.

“I just love spiders,” I say under my breath.

“Looks like the last tenants left a few drinks behind,” Dad points out, and I turn to see a few bottles of beer and soda on the side. “I doubt they're still any good.”

“Who were the previous tenants?” I ask.

“I don't know. The guy from the brewery told me something about them, but it all went in one ear and out the other. They weren't here for long, though. I guess they couldn't hack it.”

“It'd still be good to know why they left,” I point out. “I dunno, maybe we could learn from their mistakes.”

“I know it doesn't look like much right now,” Dad says as he comes over to join me, “but I think this place has real potential. I've got loads of ideas, and I think this part of town really needs a good boozer. Nothing fancy, none of that micro-pub stuff. Just good beer and good, simple food, at good prices. People over-complicate this kind of thing so much, when actually what you need to do is -”

Before he can finish, there's a brief, loud bump upstairs. We both look up toward the ceiling, and then I turn to Dad.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” he says after a moment, turning to me. “It's probably just rats.”

“Rats aren't nothing,” I point out as he steps past me and goes back out into the hallway. “Rats are bad news. I don't like rats. I'd prefer ghosts.”

“I'll go up and chase whatever it is away,” he replies, pushing open another door. A moment later he disappears from view, and as the door swings shut I hear his footsteps hurrying up to the first floor.

Sighing, I turn and look around the bar area again. Maybe Dad's right, maybe this place could look pretty good if someone smartened it up a little. And I'm gonna help him, really I am. I've got the whole summer free from school, and I've got zero interest in doing all those typical teenager things like roaming around and going on bike rides and crashing parties and generally rebelling. Instead I'm going to work hard and I'm going to help Dad, and somehow – one way or another – we're going to get this pub up and running in no time.

We just need a little luck to help us along, and if anyone's due some luck right now, it's Dad and me. It's time to banish all negative thoughts. We're survivors, and we're going to be fine. I won't let us not be fine.

Chapter Two

Muriel Hyde

1910...

Where is he? He's late.

Standing at the window, I look out at the pitch-black square and wait for some sign of Jack. He promised, he swore, that tonight he'd come and see me, if only for a few minutes. He said he'd be working on the beach until midnight, but that then he'd be able to steal away and come to the pub. After the past few nights, when he promised the same and then failed to appear, he told me that this time he would let nothing stop him.

He held my hands in his, he squeezed them tight, and he looked into my eyes as he spoke those words.

“Muriel, I'll see you in the night,” he whispered. “No-one, no man nor beast, will stop me this time.”

Now it's well past midnight, and the square is empty, and I fear that something terrible might have happened. Jack's work is dangerous, I've always know that, but he has a good head on his shoulders. In truth, I despise the world of smugglers, and I hate that Jack is involved with them. He promises that one day he'll make enough money to be able to walk away, but until then I must tolerate his involvement. Every night I pray that he will soon be able to walk away. Every night, I am disappointed.

Turning away from the window, I realize that he is not coming. I have been stood here now for almost an hour, like a fool, and for that I can blame nobody but myself. I am not some weak-willed woman who dotes endlessly on an unreliable man; there are plenty such women in the world, but I most assuredly am not one of them. Yet as I step across the room, I am filled with a sudden fear that perhaps Jack will reach the square at any moment and – not seeing me at the window – think that I have retired for the night. That would crush his heart and mine, so I hurry back to the window and resume my silent vigil.

The square is dark and empty, yet at any moment Jack's shadow could break from the shadows and come this way. I only need to see him for a moment, just long enough to know that he's alright and that he is perhaps a step closer to breaking from the smugglers. It would take only a minute or two for him to reassure me, and then I would be able to sleep soundly. So I shall wait here a while longer, just a very short time. No, I am not some helpless doting lover, I have too much self-respect for that. But I shall wait another half hour or so, just in case my Jack comes to see me.

He will, I am sure of that. He might be late, but he will come. After all, he promised.

Chapter Three

Charley Lucas

Today...

“This one's going to be all yours,” Dad says, as we stand in an open doorway upstairs and look through into a surprisingly large room with pale green walls. “Obviously it's a little bare right now. I thought there were going to be a couple of beds left for us, but obviously...”

His voice trails off for a moment, and then he pats me on the shoulder.

“I'll get beds tomorrow,” he continues, “I promise. First priority. There must be a second-hand place somewhere nearby. Or maybe I'll check online.”

“Beds are overrated anyway,” I reply. “I can manage just fine on the floor.”

“Now you're trying just a little too hard. Shouldn't you be complaining about me bringing you down to this hell-hole? I thought teenagers were supposed to sulk all the time.”

I turn to him and raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” he says with a sigh, “you don't want to be a cliché. Just so long as you tell me what you're really thinking, Charley. Don't bottle things up for my benefit.”

“I won't,” I say as I step out across the room. Again, loose boards creak beneath my feet, and I look around in the hope that I'll find some positives. “There are no cracks on the wall,” I point out. “That's good. And no stains, either. That suggests that the, uh, foundations are solid, right?” I turn back to him. “That's a good sign!”

“Your mother would be so proud of you.”

I can't help but sigh.

“I mean it,” he continues. “If she could see you now, facing this whole adventure with such -”

“Can we not talk about this?” I ask.

“I'm just saying, the way you've -”

“Please, Dad?” I add, cutting him off. “I don't need a pep talk. I don't need people telling me that I'm being brave, because that's a load of cliched nonsense. Mum's gone and I've accepted that, and now we just have to get on with things. If I died, I wouldn't want people to sit around moping, I'd want them to look to the future. That's what we came here to do, so let's do it.”

“I just worry about you,” he says.

“Now who's being the cliché?” I ask.

I wait, but he looks a little forlorn. After a moment, I realize that maybe he wasn't just telling me I'm brave for my own sake, but for his too. He wanted to give a little speech about Mum and I cut him down. At the same time, I don't think I did anything wrong, not really. Mum's been dead for two years now and we're really been struggling. Now we've finally made the big move we were planning, and I don't want us to get held back by the past. When people die, they go away forever, and there's nothing anyone can do about that.

“Sorry,” I say finally, “I didn't mean to be harsh. I'm fine. Honestly.”

“No, you're right,” he replies, forcing a smile that doesn't seem entirely genuine. “I should go and check a few things in the cellar. I don't think the boiler's running, and we're gonna want some heating and water.”

“I'll get the duvets in from the car,” I tell him, but he's already walking away and a moment later I hear him heading downstairs.

I want to go after him and tell him again that I'm sorry, but I'm worried I'd just end up making things worse. Sometimes I think Mum is like this landmine that constantly lurks in our conversations. Except that at least a landmine can only go off once, whereas lately Dad and I seem to have very different ideas as to when and how Mum should crop up in conversations. It's not that I don't want to talk about her; it's just that I don't want to define myself by the fact that she's gone. And I don't want to be constantly called brave, just because I can handle a move without throwing a hissy fit.

Dad's the one who's fragile.

***

As I reach the car, I realize that it was a huge mistake to come out here without my jacket. I figured a shirt would be fine for a quick dash out across the square, but I'm already freezing. Still, I guess being cold isn't the worst thing in the world, and soon I'll be back inside the pub.

Inside the cold, still unheated pub.

I press the button on the key fob, and the car beeps as its rear lights flash. I open the back door and start pulling out the big bags that contain our duvets, and then I set them aside as I lean further inside so that I can get to the bag with the toiletries. There are still plenty of other bags and boxes in here, but I figure those can wait until morning, so finally I step back and close the door before hauling the various bags up and turning to head back inside. This is all a little too heavy for me, but there's no way I want to have to come out again.

As I make my way across the square, gasping for breath and struggling under all the weight, I glance up at the pub, and I'm surprised to see the silhouette of a figure standing at one of the windows on the top floor. I slow my pace a little, wondering why Dad's all the way up there in a room without the light on, and then I stop as I realize that the figure doesn't actually look like Dad at all. It looks more like a tallish woman, and I swear she seems to be looking down at me. I can't see her features, of course, but her outline is fairly distinct even against the darkness of the room.

Or is it just a trick of the light?

I wait in case the woman moves. I'm still really cold, but somehow I really want to prove to myself that this supposed woman is just some kind of mistake on my part. Or is it Dad, standing in an odd pose?

A moment later a light flickers on in a room on the floor below, and the knot of concern tightens in my chest slightly as I realize that the figure at the window definitely can't be Dad. I look up at the top window, and the figure is still there, and now I'm really starting to feel as if I'm being watched. I tell myself that I'm getting carried away over nothing, but the figure isn't budging and finally I realize that I'm going to have to be the one who moves first. I feel like I'm engaged in a staring competition with an illusion, but as the seconds tick past I find myself still not moving. Despite the fact that I'm freezing my bum off, I want to know exactly what I'm seeing.

Suddenly I hear a crashing sound coming from inside the pub. I look at one of the lower windows, and at that moment I hear Dad let out a cry of frustration.

I look back up at the top window. The figure is still there, but I quickly tell myself that this is ridiculous. I can't just stand out here holding these heavy bags and staring at a dark window, so I force myself to disengage and make my way toward the side of the pub. I don't believe in ghosts, so I have no fears in that department, but it was still kinda creepy to see what looked like an actual person watching me from one of the upper windows. I'm still thinking about that as I go around the back of the pub, through the beer garden, and into the hallway at the rear.

Once I've carried the bags upstairs, I look for Dad. There's some broken glass in a dustpan on the kitchen table, but it sounds as if Dad's in the bathroom. Whatever he broke, I'm sure it's nothing important, so I drop the bags in the right rooms and then I stop and look at the staircase that runs up to the top floor.

I listen for a moment to the silence of the pub, and then I figure that I should just go and prove to myself that there's no reason to worry.

As I head up the stairs, I look for a light-switch, and I finally find one at the top. Once I've turned that on, I make my way through to the room where the figure seemed to be standing, and I have to admit that I feel slight relief when I see that there's nothing here at all. It's just another empty room, and there's not even anything that could have been mistaken for a person. In that case, I guess the whole thing was just kind of freaky shadow, or a reflection of something opposite the building.

I hesitate for a moment longer, before switching the light off and turning away, heading back downstairs just as Dad emerges from the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “I heard a smash.”

“Just a glass,” he replies, sucking blood from a cut on his left thumb. “What were you doing up there?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “Just nosing around, but there's nothing to see. We've got a lot of space here, though. I don't know how we're gonna fill it, just the two of us.”

“We'll just have to be inventive,” he says, still sucking at his injured thumb. “Now, are you hungry? I have some chips and dip in a bag. I know that's not a responsible, nutritious meal, but I figure beggars can't be choosers. You wanna join?”

“Sure,” I reply as he heads through to the kitchen, although after a moment I glance back toward the stairs. For a few seconds I think about the figure again, and about how distinct and clear its outline seemed, but then I tell myself that I just need to focus on things that are real. “Bagsy the salt and vinegar ones,” I say to Dad as I follow him. “There's no way I'm eating those gross ones with cheese.”

Stopping in the doorway, I watch as he starts putting together some snacks from the items in one of the bags. It's good to see him doing normal stuff again, like a normal person. Now we just have to make this pub work, so that there's no chance of him having another breakdown.

Chapter Four

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“Dear Lord,” I whisper as I sit on the end of my bed, with my head bowed and my hands clasped together, “keep Jack safe tonight, wherever he is. I know that he...”

My voice trails off. This is not the first time I have had to pray for Jack, nor is it the first time that I have struggled to know how exactly I should phrase that prayer. Is it even moral to pray for the safety of someone who is involved in smuggling? After all, there is a degree of theft involved in the whole business, and the Lord surely knows that Jack's accomplices are far from honorable men.

Jack himself, however, is truly good and worthy, and I trust that the Lord in His wisdom sees this.

I take a deep breath.

“I know that he take a course through life that is not normal,” I continue after a moment, “but he has his eyes set on a greater good that will surely come soon. He will repent, Lord, I promise you. So please, just keep him safe for a while longer, until he can free himself from this burden, and then he will repent and you can save his soul. I'm begging you, Lord, to keep him safe. If anything happened to him, I...”

I take another deep breath, and then I open my eyes. I have to blink away the tears, and I confess that my mind is racing as I think of all the terrible things that might have befallen Jack on this cold and windy night. At the same time, I know that he is capable of looking after himself, and that I must simply trust him to return safe and sound. After all, he has always returned before.

“Come back to me,” I whisper. “I'll do anything, but you have to come back.”

Chapter Five

Charley Lucas

Today...

Opening my eyes in pitch darkness, I stare up at the ceiling and try to remember where I am. I was deep, deep in sleep, but something – a noise outside, perhaps – woke me up. For a few seconds I figure I must be at our flat in Blackpool, but something seems different. Where's the smell of fish and chips? Our flat was above a takeout place and every room used to stink, but all I smell right now is a faint hint of mold and damp. And that's when I remember the whole drive down here to Malmeston, and the fact that Dad and I now officially live above a pub.

I guess that explains why I'm sleeping on the floor, sandwiched between two duvets and with a single pillow under the back of my head.

I sigh and take a moment to clear my head, and I tell myself that it's totally natural that I'm taking time to get used to all this change. Over the past few days I've been analyzing my feelings about leaving Blackpool, and I've come to the conclusion that I've been a little maudlin. I shouldn't be sad to be leaving my friends behind; it's illogical to get upset, when I can easily talk to them online. And being illogical is dumb, and I don't wanna be dumb, so I take a deep breath and I tell myself to get a grip.

We're here to work.

We're here to get this pub on its feet.

We're here to start all over again.

Turning, I see the bare, curtain-less window on the far side of the room, picked out in various tones of moonlight blue. I can just about make out the branches of a tree swaying outside in a gentle breeze, and a moment later the window's wooden frame shudders slightly. I guess that might be the noise that woke me up, and I'm pretty annoyed because now I can tell that I need the bathroom and I know I'll have to go before I try to sleep again. I'm finally warm in these duvets, but I know the dash to the loo is gonna be cold. The seat'll probably be a like a ring of ice.

I really hope Dad gets the boiler working in the morning.

I spend about ten minutes shifting positions, hoping I'll find one that'll magically make it not feel as if I need the loo, but then I sigh and sit up. As soon as the duvet drops down, my shoulders feel really cold, so I quickly climb out of 'bed' and head to the door. The bare floorboards feel so rough against the bottoms of my feet, and this knee-length t-shirt really isn't doing much to keep me warm at all. I pull the door open slowly, trying not to make any noise that might wake Dad, and then I slip out onto the hallway. It takes me a moment to find the bathroom, and then I slip inside. I don't manage to find the string for the light, so I have to pee in the dark.

A couple of minutes later, after washing my hands and having to wipe them dry on the sides of my t-shirt, I step back out onto the landing. I think I'm kinda used to being cold now, because I stop for a moment and listen to the sound of Dad's gentle snores coming from one of the other rooms. It's so good to hear him sleeping properly after all this time; I haven't had to rush in to wake him up from a nightmare in at least three months. For a few seconds I just stand and listen to the reassuring sound of him sleeping, and then I glance down the stairs that lead to the ground floor and a strange thought pops into my head.

I wonder whether those bottles of soda are really that far out of date?

I want a drink, and water won't cut it and – besides – I'm not even sure that we have cups. Dad's got some new glasses coming tomorrow, but for now we're a little short of... well, everything. I hesitate for a moment, and then I start carefully picking my way downstairs while taking care to not make any noise. By the time I reach the bottom, I'm starting to feel pretty stealthy, and I creep slowly through to the bar area. As I do so, however, the door creaks quite loudly, and I freeze as I listen for any hint of a sign that Dad's awake. I soon manage to hear his snores, however, so I hurry through into the bar area and shut the door gently, and then I keep the lights off while I head over to the bottles.

Finding some kind of orange cola concoction, I then have to get the lid off, which I do pretty easily by tapping the top against the side of the bar. Then, once I've had a taste and checked that this is at least drinkable, I take a few sips as I wander out across the room and head over to take a look at some of the pictures hanging on the far wall. It's very dark in here, but I can just about make out images of various people, and one picture turns out to be a photo of twenty-or-so people standing outside the pub in the old days. Squinting, I see a date written by hand at the bottom.

“October 1919,” I whisper, as I realize that this photo is from a long time ago. “Cool.”

All the old faces stare out at me, faces of people who I guess used to use this pub back in the day. It's weird to think that this place was open all the way back then, and I think I actually remember Dad saying that there are records of The King's Head existing on this site as far back as the late eighteenth century. That means it was here when both World Wars were going on, when the Napoleonic wars were happening, when the American Civil War went down, maybe even as far back as the American War of Independence. While all those massive things were happening in the world, The King's Head in Malmeston was just sitting here while people drank pints of beer. That's some real history.

“Cool,” I whisper again, taking a step back and resolving to do a little more research in the daytime, when there's at least some light. I'm not one of those kids who find history boring. I'd actually like to know a little more about the pub.

Taking a seat on the bench in front of one of the windows, I immediately inhale a cloud of dust. Reaching down, I run my hand across the fabric and feel a thick layer of grime and probably cigarette ash and human skin cells. I should probably be grossed out, but right now nothing about this place really surprises me. I take a long swig of soda from the bottle, and then I spot something resting on two tables at the other end of the room. It looks like...

Like a...

I very slowly lower the bottle as I stare at what looks very much like a coffin.

There was definitely not a coffin in here earlier. Was there? I didn't really look around in great detail, but I feel sure I'd have noticed a coffin. Then again, it's at the far end of the room. But Dad would certainly have brought it up, he'd at least have made a load of bad jokes. Or was he just in a rush to get other things done? Why would there be a coffin here, anyway? As some sort of macabre decoration? None of this makes very much sense and so, as I slowly set my soda bottle down, I tell myself that the 'coffin' must be something else. Either that, or it's just being used for storing bottles or cans.

Still, it's undeniably creepy.

Getting to my feet, I start making my way over to get a closer look. I keep telling myself that this is very much going to turn out not to be a coffin, yet with each step the truth becomes more and more apparent. There really is a coffin here in the public area of The King's Head. It's a simple, dark-colored coffin with no kind of ornamentation, with none of the slightly over-the-top flowery touches of – for example – the coffin Mum was buried in. As I stop in front of the coffin, I hesitate before reaching out and places my hands on its top.

It's icy cold.

I mean, the whole pub is cold right now, but the coffin is freezing to the touch.

I run my hands against the grain of the wood and feel rough splinters pushing against my palms. I remember how smooth Mum's coffin felt, but this one is much rougher. There are none of the fancy patterns, there's no plaque bearing a name at the head end, there aren't even the special little screws at the edges of the lid. There are just the heads of some nails poking up, and even those are twisted as if they've been roughly pulled out. I guess the only explanation is that this coffin has been used to store things, even if that seems pretty macabre, and I'm sure that in the morning Dad's gonna have some kind of hilarious story about it ended up being here. If the previous tenants left bottles of beer and soda on the bar, I guess it's not beyond the realms of possibility that they left a few other things as well.

Like a coffin.

I tell myself I should go up to bed, but at that moment my hands nudge the coffin's lid a little, causing it to shudder. It's clear that the lid isn't secured, and I immediately realize that there's likely nothing stopping me taking the lid off. That seems a tad excessive, although I can't deny that I'd like to prove to myself that there's nothing creepy or mysterious about the coffin. I hesitate for a moment longer, and then I reach around and take hold of the lid firmly. I kinda hope that maybe it's still nailed down in some hidden way, but after a moment I begin to lift the lid away. The wood is heavy, but I can't use that as an excuse, so I carefully move the lid aside and prop it against the wall, and then I turn to look inside the coffin.

The room is so dark, I can't see what's inside. Or rather, what's not inside, because I'm sure the coffin is either empty or that it's filled with pots or boxes. I squint, trying to see better, but there's really no light in here. I could go and fumble for the light-switch, but that'd risk waking Dad and – besides – there's really no need. I look down into the darkness for a moment longer, and then I reach over the coffin's edge and start moving my hands down so that I can feel the empty wooden bottom.

After a moment, as I continue to lower my hands into the coffin, I realize that I'm holding my breath.

And then my right hand brushes against something soft, some kind of fabric, and I instinctively pull back.

Okay, so there's definitely something in the coffin, but I quickly tell myself that it's definitely not a body. Maybe there are just some sheets inside, although the fabric felt quite fine, almost a little silky. In my mind's eye, I'm already imagining some painting and decorating materials in the coffin, but I figure I can check that out in the morning. Then again, will I really be able to sleep until I know for certain? I stare into the darkness, and then slowly I lower my right hand back into the coffin, determined to prove to myself that nothing's wrong.

My hand goes deeper and deeper, until finally my fingertips touch hard wood at the bottom.

I move my hand around, but now there's no sign of the fabric at all. I put my other hand in as well, and I feel all around the coffin. There's nothing in here at all, no fabric, no nothing, but I know what I felt just thirty or sixty seconds ago. Now I'm really starting to doubt myself, and as I pull my hands back out I realize that I'm just going to have to turn the lights on and look properly. That's probably what I should have done from the start, so I pause for a moment before taking a step back.

Immediately, I bump against someone who's standing right behind me.

Chapter Six

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“You look tired, love. Did you not sleep last night?”

Turning, I see that Harry Tanner is watching me from the far end of the bar, leering at me with that usual foolish expression that he always wears. I hold the man in pitiable contempt, of course, so as I make my way over to deliver his mug of beer I have absolutely no intention of telling him anything about my sleeping habits.

“You should mind your own sleep more,” I tell him as I set the beer down and take his money from the bar. “You look utterly exhausted. Is that, perhaps, why you're not at work on this fine day?”

“Never you mind why I'm not at work,” he says, sounding a little annoyed.

I make my way back to the pot and drop the money inside, but I'm quite certain that Harry is watching me. He often comes into the pub early, shortly after I've unlocked the door, and generally he seems content to bother me. He causes little more than mild irritation, but even this can begin to mount over the course of an hour or two. I am usually quite able to ignore Harry, yet I confess that this morning I feel rather unsettled.

“I heard there was a commotion last night,” he says.

“I'm sure there's a commotion every night,” I reply, pretending to be more interested in totting up some numbers on a roll.

“Down on the beach.”

At this, I hesitate. I don't turn to Harry, even though I desperately want to know what he means. I imagine that he simply wants to upset me, since he had a habit of making foolish little comments about my friendship with Jack Farnham.

“And what kind of commotion took place on the beach?” I ask, taking care to sound as if I am not unduly troubled.

“Some kind of fight, in the middle of the night,” he explains. “We both know what goes on down there, Muriel. There's no honor in the world of smugglers, they're all out for whatever they can get. Now, I'm not criticizing them for anything, every man has to earn his crust and smuggling's been part of Malmeston for as long as I've been alive. But when it kicks off out there at night, things can get awfully violent.” He pauses. “I hear a man was hurt.”

I turn to him. “What man?”

“A man. Got cut up pretty bad, from what I hear.” He stares at me, and I am sure I perceive the slightest of smiles on his lips. “But, of course, it's no great issue for the likes of you, is it? A fine, upstanding, respectable woman such as yourself would have no knowledge of such things. Why, I'm sure you'd never knowingly let a smuggler into this pub, would you?”

I know that he's trying to get a rise out of me, but it still takes all my sense of self-control to hold back from panicking.

“Anyway,” he adds, “one of the smugglers got beaten badly and had to run off. He might even have been killed if he'd stuck around. Wherever he is, I'm sure he's nursing his wounds this morning.”

“I'm sure he is,” I reply, although it's taking every ounce of strength for me to hold my composure. “As you say, such matters are none of my concern. Now, if you will excuse me, I must check something in one of the other rooms.”

I hurry through to the room behind the bar, and then I stop and put my hands over my face. I open my mouth in a silent cry, and I feel tears in my eyes, but I force myself to remain strong. The hurt man on the beach can't have been Jack. He's too wily and powerful for something like that to happen to him. He'll be along presently, I'm sure, with some perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he didn't come to see me last night. Until then, I simply have to make sure that men like Harry Tanner can't get a rise out of me.

Chapter Seven

Charley Lucas

Today...

My eyes flick open and I let out a shocked gasp as I sit bolt upright and find myself back on the floor in my room upstairs. Morning light is streaming through the dirty window, and a moment later I hear a car horn in the square outside, accompanied by the sound of voices somewhere out on the pavement.

I swallow hard.

My heart is racing.

Looking around, I realize that I must have been dreaming. Still, whereas dreams usually fade pretty quickly once I'm awake, this one seems to be lingering at the front of my thoughts. Looking down at my hands, I swear I can feel the sensation of the coffin's cold wood, and the softness of the fabric that briefly seemed to be in the coffin. I can also feel the bump as I stood back, and it was at that point in the dream that I turned and...

I try to remember what happened next, but I guess that must be the point when I woke up.

Running my hands through my hair, I try to get my shit together, but after a moment I realize I can hear Dad's voice outside on the street. I get to my feet and head over to the window, and when I peer down I see him talking to an elderly man who's wearing a tweed jacket.

“We're going to be opening a week on Saturday,” I hear Dad explain. “I'll be putting posters in the window. It won't be a big raucous party, I'm going to try to keep things a little simpler.”

“I'll certainly be along to lend my support,” the other man replies, his voice rich with a plummy tone. “A few of us campaigned very hard to keep this pub from being turned into flats. That's what the brewery wanted, you know. We had to fight them tooth and nail to make them give this place another chance.”

As Dad continues to talk to the man, I wander away from the window. For some reason, that dream still won't shift from my thoughts, and when I reach the landing I still feel as if my head is a little fuzzy. Still, that's nothing a nice long hot shower won't fix, but then – as I shuffle toward the bathroom – I remember that the boiler wasn't working last night. Sure enough, when I touch the radiator next to the door, I find that it's still bone cold.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Cold shower it is, then.”

***

“That's three people now who've stopped to ask about the pub re-opening,” Dad says excitedly as he sets a box of cleaning supplies on the bar. “I think the locals are genuinely excited about having a place to go again. The nearest pub other than the The King's Head is The Golden Bow about five minutes away, but I get the impression that it can get a little rowdy at times. I think people want a real choice. I might pop over to the The Golden Bow later and scope it out. Check out the competition, you know?”

He turns to me as I stand in the doorway.

“Charley?” he continues after a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Peachy.”

I make my way over to him, and it's clear that he's already been busy. He's moved all the stools and chairs out of the main saloon, and he's even wearing a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. I've honestly never seen my father looking quite so ready to clean, and quite so raring to go. When I look at the clock on the far wall, I see that it's not even 8am yet.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.

“Fine. Thanks. Did you?”

“Like a log. I think the drive took it out of me, but I was awake at five. Sorry, I hope I didn't make too much noise.”

“Not at all,” I reply.

“There's some cereal and milk in the fridge, and some of those bars you like. And some tea, because I know how cranky you get when you can't mainline green tea all day.”

“I'm not that bad!” I protest. “Anyway, I've cut down a lot lately. I'm down to ten cups a day, maximum.”

“I'm surprised you haven't turned green,” he replies.

“So what do you want me to do first?” I asked, trying to find a job so that I can get stuck in. Frankly, that dream has left me still feeling a little befuddled, and I think it'd be good to concentrate on something else.

“Well, the tables need moving out into the beer garden,” he replies, “so I can get on with cleaning the place. They're heavy, though, so only do it if you -”

“I'll be fine,” I reply, already heading around the bar so that I can get started.

“Lift with your knees.”

“I'll be fine,” I say again, and then I stop as I look over at the spot where – in my dream – there was a coffin.

Of course, there's no coffin there now, not in the calm light of day. There's only a pair of tables, a radiator on the wall, and a mirror a little further up. The idea of a coffin seems faintly ridiculous now, although I must admit that I feel a rush of relief now that I'm certain that the dream really was just a dream. I mean, who in their right mind would keep a coffin knocking around in a pub? That's the kind of thing that would only make sense in a dream, and at least now I can let that weird image just drift out of my thoughts for good. I just need to get stuck in to the job of helping Dad get the pub ready for its big opening day.

“Charley?”

Startled, I turn to see Dad watching me from the bar.

“What?” I ask.

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“About what?”

“About stacking the tables away from the door to the little shed in the garden. I need to get in there to fix the shelves, most of them have fallen down.” He pauses. “You were lost in your own little world for a moment, weren't you? Are you sure you're feeling alright?”

I nod.

“I can manage for the morning,” he adds. “It's fine if you want to go into town and take a look around, get yourself acquainted with things.”

“No, I'm fine,” I tell him. “While I'm moving the tables, you need to think of another job to give me.”

“That's what I like to hear,” he replies as he goes back over to the box of supplies. “Eagerness. With that attitude, we'll easily have this place up and running by next Saturday. And I need you to design a poster for me later, something to put in the window and announce our plans.”

“Sure thing,” I say, heading over to grab the first table.

As I lean down to grip the edges, however, something catches me eye on the next table along. A half-empty bottle of orange cola has been left out, and I feel a flicker of concern as I realize that it's the exact same type of cola I was drinking in my dream last night. Not only that, but it's right next to the spot where I was sitting before I went over to look at the coffin. I stare at the bottle for a moment, before turning to Dad just as he heads through to the cellar room behind the bar.

“Hey,” I say, trying to act like nothing's wrong, “did you try some of those out-of-date drinks?”

“Hang on!” he calls back at me. “I can't hear you!”

I look at the bottle again, and I think back to the moment when I sat on the bench and took a sip in the dream. I know that can't really have happened, although when I run my tongue against my front teeth I find that they're a little furry. I haven't dug my toothbrush out yet, but I figure there's a danger here of over-analyzing things.

“What did you say?” Dad asks as he comes back through.

“Nothing,” I reply, not wanting to make a big deal out of some dumb dream. “I'll get these tables moved and then I'll help you wash the floors.”

Chapter Eight

Muriel Hyde

1910...

Oh good, now they're singing.

As I kneel to place some glasses on a shelf behind the bar, I hear Harry and his friends breaking into song at the far end of the room. I should have known that this moment would come soon, since they've had a few beers each now, and they usually begin carousing at around this point in the afternoon. They're my most regular customers, and I should be more charitable toward their souls, but I cannot help thinking that they are wasting their lives. They are all in their forties, they are all strong and capable of work, yet they choose to sit and drink themselves into oblivion.

The great crime is that I have known plenty of good, hard-working men who were cut down in the prime of life, who would have made far better use of healthy bodies.

Getting to my feet, I glance over and see that Harry, Walter and Leonard seem lost in their songs. They're singing sea shanties, and I suspect that this will keep them entertained for quite some time yet, so I decide to go through to one of the back rooms so that I might at least get away from the din. They all have beer, anyway, so it's not as if they need me to be here. Indeed, as I go into the storeroom behind the kitchen, I feel as if I am getting something of a headache, and when I enter the room I turn to shut the door so that I might get some peace.

“Muriel!”

Startled, I turn to see Jack watching me from the shadows.

“Jack!” I gasp, hurrying over to him, only to stop as I see that he's hurt. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” he replies, but this is clearly not the case. His lip is cut and one of his eyes is badly bruised, and he's clutching his side as if he has a wound to his ribs. He winces slightly, clearly in a great deal of discomfort, and then he takes a step before me on slow, shuffling feet.

“Who did this to you?” I ask.

“Someone who knows better now.”

“But -”

“It's all fine,” he adds, interrupting me. “One of the new boys thought he could cut me out of the deal last night. Don't worry, I showed him the error of his ways. If you think I look bad, you should see how he looks this morning. I doubt anyone will see him out and about for quite some time, if ever. If he's got any sense, he'll already be slinking off to try his luck in another town.”

“I waited up for you,” I tell him. “Oh, Jack, I was so worried when you didn't come.”

“I wasn't finished until almost sunrise,” he replies, “and then...”

His voice trails off.

“And then what?” I ask.

“The lad I had to teach a lesson,” he says cautiously, “turned out to be named Edward Hayes. I didn't know it at the time, Muriel, but he's a nephew of the Hayes family who own -”

“The brewery?” I reply, horrified by the idea. “You had an argument with someone from the brewery?”

“It'll blow over,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Honest, Muriel, it'll all be fine. I just need to keep my head down for a day or two, which is why I came here. Please, Muriel... I need to keep out of sight.”

Chapter Nine

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Hey, did you see this?” I ask Dad a short while later, as I lift up a wooden plaque that had been left propped next to the fireplace. “I think it's a list of all the landlords of this place, going back hundreds of years.”

“Let me see,” he replies, coming over, still wearing his yellow rubber gloves.

I set the plaque on a nearby table and brush some dirt and grime away, revealing the names that are carved into the wood.

“Thomas Wentworth,” I read as I scrape away more muck, “1760 to 1765. Do you think he was the first landlord, or just the first one that's recorded?”

“If he wasn't the first,” Dad replies, “he must have been close to it. I bet things were pretty bawdy back then. Who'd have been on the throne, anyway?”

“One of the Georges?” I suggest. “I always get them mixed up. Except George, the mad one.”

“It's crazy to think the pub's been here that long,” he says.

“You should totally get yourself added at the end,” I tell him, as I look at the bottom of the list. “Michael Cooper took the place over five years ago, but there's no end date listed.”

“He's the guy who ran off, leaving behind a load of debt.”

“Then get his end date put on, and have your name added while you're at it.”

“And hang this thing back up?”

“Why not?”

“I guess I could,” he replies, picking the plaque up and taking a closer look. “It might be good to remind people of the heritage of this place. Maybe they'll value the pub more if they realize they're part of a tradition that goes back almost three hundred years.”

“What happened there?” I ask, pointing at a spot about halfway down the list, where one of the names has been scratched out. “Who ran the pub between 1895 and 1910?”

“I have no idea,” Dad says, “but it looks like someone didn't like them. They must have gone to some real trouble to get rid of the name.”

“Doesn't that seem weird to you?” I continue. “I mean, I get that some landlords are liked more than others, but it seems a little over-the-top to actually try to erase someone from history. And it's mean, too. Not to mention, it kinda draws more attention to them.”

“Who knows what went on back then?” he asks.

“You should find out the landlord's name and add him,” I suggest, “if only for the sake of completion. Maybe there was some kind of argument back then, but that's no reason to scrub someone from history.”

“You have a point,” he replies, “but how do you propose that I figure out the name?” He runs a fingertip against the scratched section. “Whoever did this, they made sure to destroy all the letters.”

“Leave that to me,” I tell him. “I'll get to the bottom of it, and then we can have this sign hanging up in time for the grand opening!”

***

Whereas most pubs have a literal cellar beneath the main bar, The King's Head has a cellar room behind the bar area, in a small room next to the kitchen. Pipes and tubes are hanging down from the wall, ready to be connected up to barrels of beer, and Dad's already promised to show me how to tap a barrel and get it ready for use. I've got to admit, I like the idea of being useful around here.

First, though, I need to finish cleaning the icky grime off the floor.

Whoever the previous tenants were, they left the place in quite a state. There's a kind of sticky black residue in one of the corners of the cellar room, and I'm having trouble getting it away. I've tried scrubbing pads and cleaning fluids and even wire wool, but I'm still not making much progress and so far I've actually made quite a mess. Couple that with the foul smell in the air, and I'm really very keen to get this job over and done with as quickly as possible. Again, though, I like being useful, and by the time I'm done in here this room is going to look spotless.

“Just nipping to the shop round the corner!” Dad calls out. “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” I reply. “I'm fine.”

A moment later I hear the back door open and then shut, followed after a few seconds by the squeak of the gate at the far end of the little beer garden.

Sighing, I get back to work on the black gunk, although I'm suddenly struck by the realization that I'm all alone here in the pub. That shouldn't bother me at all, of course, but for some reason I immediately feel as if the hairs on the back of my neck are starting to stand up. I try to stay focused on the gunk, but after several minutes I feel the need to turn and look over at the door, to make absolutely certain that no-one's watching me. As I get back to work, I can't help wondering what's wrong with me, but I'm already starting to feel a little warm and breathless.

I set the scrubbing brush down and sit back, and I realize that there's a sense of real fear starting to brew deep in my chest. It's as if I'm worried about something, but the worry doesn't have a focal point; instead, I can't shake the feeling that something really bad is about to happen, and finally I get to my feet and step over to the doorway as I find myself getting more and more breathless.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, “don't be an idiot. Get a grip.”

The sensation is getting stronger, however, so I head through to the bar and pour myself a glass of tap water. Leaning against the wall, I take a series of sips and try to force myself to pull it together. With each passing second, however, I feel more and more scared, until I start looking around in anticipation of something coming at me. I don't even know what I think is going to happen, but there are tears in my eyes and I feel as if I just want to scream. At the same time, my hands are trembling with such force that I finally set the glass down so that I don't end up letting it fall to the floor.

“This is so stupid,” I tell myself out loud, even as my breathing becomes increasingly labored. This, in turn, makes me start panicking, and I realize that I need to sit down.

I turn and start shuffling around the bar, but suddenly my knees turn to jelly and I drop to the floor. Rather than try to stay up, I lean back against the shelves under the bar and I force myself to breathe more steadily. The palms of my hands are getting clammy and sweaty, and after a moment I lean my head back and close my eyes and try to think of something – anything – that might help me get myself together. At the same time, my eyes are filling with tears that finally start running down my face, and a moment later I realize that I've instinctively started curling into a tight ball as I roll onto my side.

“Please don't hurt me!” I gasp, for reasons that I don't even understand. “I don't know what you want, but I don't have anything! I didn't mean to disturb you! Please, leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me -”

“Charley?”

Gasping, I open my eyes and look up, and for a fraction of a second I panic as I see two eyes staring down at me. I lash out with my hands, trying to push the person away, and then I freeze as I realize that I can see Dad's concerned face. I stare at him for a moment, and then I reach up and hug him tight. In an instant, all the fear and panic drains from my body, although I'm still left with a kind of echo of the pure terror that briefly seized my soul.

“What's wrong?” Dad asks, putting his arms around me. “Charley, what happened?”

I try to tell him that I'm fine, but for a moment I can't speak. My bottom lip is trembling and salty tears are running down my face, but finally I pull back and I'm overwhelmed by the realization that I'm scaring Dad.

“I'm fine,” I manage to blurt out, “really, I just...”

I stare at him for a few seconds, and then I look around. I have no idea what just happened, but I know I was rambling on about something, as if I was talking to someone. There was no-one here, not until Dad came back, so who was I telling to leave me alone? And what did I mean when I said I was sorry for disturbing them? Nothing makes any sense at all, and I'm starting to think that I might be losing my mind.

“Did you have a panic attack?” Dad asks.

I turn to him.

“It's okay,” he continues, “these things happen. You've been through a lot lately and it was all bound to come out eventually.”

“I'm fine,” I stammer.

“You're clearly not fine,” he replies. “Charley, maybe you should go and -”

“You don't have to worry about me!” I snap, suddenly panicking at the thought that I'm making things harder for Dad. I'm the strong one, I'm the one who's supposed to hold everything together. “I just had a moment, that's all. It won't happen again.”

“Charley -”

Pushing him away, I get to my feet. Suddenly I feel completely stupid, as if I'm just some stupid kid who let everything get on top of her. Embarrassed, I start wiping the tears from my face.

“Why don't you go into town?” Dad asks. “You might be surprised when you see what it's like. It's not exactly Blackpool, but there's plenty to do here.”

“I'll go later,” I tell him, “but I have too much to do here right now.”

“A few hours won't hurt.”

“I have work I haven't finished yet. And isn't the guy from the brewery dropping by later? I know you want the place to be looking good for that.”

“The guy from the brewery knows exactly what kind of state this pub is in,” Dad replies, “and I'm sure he'll be happy when I explain our plans for the big day a week on Saturday.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Charley, I mean it,” he adds, “you're worrying me. Go outside. Get some fresh air. See what the good town of Malmeston has to offer.”

Chapter Ten

Muriel Hyde

1910...

Jack lets out a gasp of pain as he drops down onto my bed, then another as he rolls onto his back. Now that I've got him upstairs, it's clear that he's more badly hurt than I'd realized, although so far nothing seems to be actually broken.

“You're a godsend, Muriel Hyde,” he says as he stares up at the ceiling. Still clutching his side, he seems to be clenching his teeth as if in some attempt to force back further pain. “I just need to rest and heal up, and wait for the heat to die down. You know what this town is like.”

“If you've made an enemy of the brewery -”

“I haven't made an enemy of the brewery,” he replies, as if the idea is preposterous. “Old Hayes knows full well that his nephew Edward is a waste of space. He'll probably be glad that I gave the boy a good hiding, it'll allow him an excuse to send him out of town. Why, in a day or two I'm sure I'll be right back in the brewery's good books.”

“And if you're not?”

I wait for him to answer, but he says nothing.

“A man can stand to make many enemies in this town,” I point out, “but making an enemy of the brewery would be a terrible mistake. You can deny it all you want, but I know that they're the ones who organize all the smuggling, which means that they employ you. Jack, if they turn against you -”

“They won't.”

“But you said it yourself, you beat one of their own to a pulp!”

“He had it coming. Hayes will see that. He's a man who respects strength, he'll be grateful to me for -”

Suddenly he lets out a cry of pain, and he quickly puts a hand over his own mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet. He rolls onto his side, squeezing his eyes tight shut, and I drop to my knees and try to help him just as he seems to escape from this burst of agony. When I look into his gaze, however, I'm unable to shake the feeling that perhaps his injuries are worse than I had feared.

“I just need to rest,” he says through gritted teeth. “That's all. Please, Muriel, don't tell anyone that I'm here. Let me rest, and in a day or two I'll be back on my feet and better than ever. I promise.”

Chapter Eleven

Charley Lucas

Today...

Okay, so maybe Malmeston isn't that bad after all.

As I wander along the main street, the first thing I notice is that there are a lot of charity shops. By which I mean pretty much every other shop. I love charity shops, of course, and I quite often used to buy clothes and books from them back in Blackpool, but I'm surprised by just how many there are here. There are lots of coffee shops, too, and the overall vibe seems to be pretty relaxed. The demographics definitely skew pretty old, but again that's not exactly a bad thing. I don't mind a slightly quieter pace.

Stopping outside a bookshop, I see that they have some local history titles in the window. I take a closer look, and I allow myself a faint smile as I see a book titled Pubs of Malmeston: An Illustrated History, written by someone named J. Sinclair. Now that might just be a very good sign.

***

“One large green tea with lemon,” the woman says as she slides a cup toward me across the counter. “Enjoy.”

I thank her as I take the cup and head over to find a seat. One other thing I've noticed about Malmeston is that it's absolutely filled with dogs. Like, I swear there must almost be as many dogs as people; in this coffee shop alone, there are five dogs sitting about waiting for their owners to finish their drinks. I spot a Labrador, a cockapoo, two sausage dogs and – next to the seat that I take – a plump Jack Russell chewing a treat. He wags his tail at me for a moment before getting back to his snack.

Once I'm settled, I take a look at the book I bought a few minutes ago. As I start flicking through the book, I find that the text is very dense and the book is written in quite a dry, academic style. I soon turn to the index at the back, and I find that there are plenty of entries for The King's Head. I start checking them out, one by one, hoping to find some interesting facts about the pub, and I soon discover that it was known as quite a hub for local smugglers. There are records of a few fights having taken place there over the years, and one man apparently even took a horse into the main saloon one afternoon in the late 19th century. It's so weird to think that Dad and I are becoming a little part of that place's history.

Next to me, the Jack Russell is wagging his tail as he continues to gnaw on his treat.

I take a sip of tea as I keep looking through the book. And then, as I check out another of the references, I find that there's actually an entire chapter dedicated to the pub, with the ominous title Murder at the King's Head.

As I read the chapter, it becomes apparent that I've found some information about the missing landlord from the plaque, who actually turns out to have been a landlady. Muriel Hyde ran the pub between 1895 and 1910, causing quite a stir as a single woman. The book claims that there's very little information about where she came from, although she's said to have had a northern accent that made some think she might have been born somewhere in Yorkshire. She was quite a strict woman, by all accounts, and apparently she immediately made herself unpopular by getting rid of some of the pub's less scrupulous regulars. After that, the pub seems to have settled into a fairly relaxed, quiet period that lasted for more than a decade, until the beginning of 1910:

On the night of January 3rd, a policeman was called to attend the discovery of a dead body on the nearby beach, at the top of what is now Pierce Street. The body belonged to Mr. Jack Farnham, a local trader with strong links to the smuggling scene. He'd been stabbed multiple times, with one cut running across his throat from ear to ear. A bloodied poker, found next to the body, was subsequently identified as one that came from a local pub, The King's Head. Some speculated that Farnham's murderer had hoped he'd be washed away, while others thought he'd been left in a very public spot as a warning to others.

I turn to the next page:

Suspicion soon fell upon Muriel Hyde of The King's Head. She'd supposedly been seen arguing with Mr. Farnham on several occasions in the months leading up to the murder, and one local claimed to have heard her making threats. Hyde denied all the claims and threatened to take legal action against anyone who smeared her good name. Her supposed involvement in the murder was never proven one way or another, but the damage was already done. Hyde's pub was by that point extremely unpopular, with one local resident claiming that only strangers and out-of-towners ever set foot in the place. Even these people rarely stayed for more than one drink, so strange and foreboding was the atmosphere.

As I continue to read through the chapter, it becomes apparent that the title Murder at the King's Head is a little sensational. Muriel Hyde was never charged, and the evidence seems to have been circumstantial at best.

On February 10th 1910, with the pub having not opened in almost two weeks, police forced their way into the premises and discovered Muriel Hyde's body hanging from a noose in one of the bedrooms.

I have to read that part through a couple of times, to make sure that I really understand it, and then I feel a shiver pass through my chest. Dad seemed not to know too much about the pub's history when I talked to him earlier, and I seriously doubt that he has any idea that a woman actually died there. Feeling distinctly uneasy, I read through several pages of information about the investigation into Jack Farnham's murder, and then I come to the chapter's final paragraph:

A distant relative of Hyde was eventually tracked down. Arriving in Malmeston, Hyde's sister arranged for a funeral, although not before she'd taken the King's Head apart in search of what she claimed was some kind of treasure. The body was left in a coffin in the pub for several nights, before being buried without fuss in the local cemetery. The pub was kept on by the brewery and the curious case of Muriel Hyde was rarely mentioned again. Some say that although more than one hundred years have passed, The King's Head has never fully recovered from the mysterious events of those first few months back in 1910.

Leaning back in my seat, I take a deep breath and try to figure out exactly what this means. The mention of a coffin in the main saloon seems eerily similar to my dream from last night, even if I know that it must be just a coincidence. I certainly never heard of Muriel Hyde before today, so it's not as if I could have subconsciously taken onboard certain aspects of the story.

I start flicking a little further through the book, and I soon come to a section of photos. I don't recognize any of the places, of course, since I don't know Malmeston at all. After a moment, however, I turn to one of the pages and I freeze as I'm hit by a profound sense of recognition. A face is staring out at me from one of the last photos, and I know I've seen this face before. It's the face of a middle-aged woman, stern and angry-looking as she glares out from the doorway of The King's Head. Even before I look at the notes at the foot of the page, I can guess her name.

Muriel Hyde.

I look at her face again, and I swear I've seen her somewhere, but where? I feel as if I'm on the verge of remembering, but something's blocking part of my mind. In an instant, I'm filled with the same sense of fear and panic that I felt earlier in the pub, accompanied this time by a growing nausea in my belly. I swallow hard, but I'm already getting warm and clammy, and after a moment I realize that my hands are starting to shake. I try to steady myself, but the sensation gets stronger and stronger until finally I slam the book shut.

Next to me, the Jack Russell lets out a faint whimper.

I look down at him and see that he looks scared. At the same time, I'm feeling flustered but at least the panic attack seems to have faded away. I wipe my brow, and then I reach down to pat the dog.

He immediately pulls away, as if he's frightened of me.

“Sorry,” his owner says, as the dog growls slightly, “he's not normally like that.”

“It's fine,” I reply with a forced smile, and I set the book down as I take another sip of tea in an attempt to calm my nerves.

In my mind's eye, I can still see that photo of Muriel Hyde so very clearly, as if it's burned into my thoughts. There's something about her expression, about the look of anger on her face, that's quite striking, and I find myself wondering what could have made someone look so furious. Was she really an evil, murderous monster, or was she just a woman who was hounded to her death by the local community? I guess we'll probably never know for sure, but one thing's certain. Somehow, somewhere, somewhen, I've definitely seen her face before.

Chapter Twelve

Muriel Hyde

1910...

As I make my way through town, I cannot help but feel as if I am being watched. This is not an entirely new phenomenon, of course, since as a single woman running a public house I am more than accustomed to strange glances and whispered gossip. This afternoon, however, there seems to be an extra charge in the air, and I can only assume that people are aware of Jack's fight in the beach.

Not that anyone would ever confront me on this matter, of course. Gossip about my friendship with Jack is nothing new, but most of these people are wretched cowards who would never dare to raise the subject with me directly. They much prefer their whispered comments, and indeed I can almost hear a chorus of such whispers rising up behind me as I walk. It is almost as if I am parting a great sea as I go, pushing the gossip aside and then hearing it crash back together over my shoulders.

“Good afternoon,” Dusty Fowler says, tipping his hat to me as he watches from a bench outside the front of the church.

“Good afternoon,” I reply, choosing to remain as polite as possible. Dusty is a good man, although even he – I am sure – is not above a few whispers. “It's a fine day, don't you think?”

“It is,” he says, “and we're very lucky to live in such a beautiful town.”

“We are.”

“Did you hear about the trouble on the beach last night?”

Surprised that he is being so direct, I somehow manage to retain my smile.

“I cannot imagine why anyone would be out there so late,” I say, preferring to feign ignorance. “There seems to me to be no honest reason why any man would have business down by the shore during hours of darkness.”

“Indeed not,” he replies, “but then, we all know what goes on in this town.”

“I should get on my way,” I tell him, keen to end the conversation. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fowler.”

With that, I turn to walk away.

“I wouldn't want to be caught helping out anyone who was involved,” he says suddenly, causing me to stop in my tracks. “I hear Randolph Hayes himself has taken an interest, on account of it being one of his family who got hurt. Now there's someone I wouldn't want to cross, Ms. Hyde. You do know, I'm sure, that Randolph Hayes is just about the most powerful man this town has ever seen. From the moment he married his rival's daughter, he's wielded total power.”

I turn to him, and I rather feel that he is attempting – in his own way – to warn me off.

“Thank you for your kind reminder of local history,” I say, forcing a smile. “Good day to you, Mr. Fowler. I hope to perhaps see you soon at The King's Head.”

As I walk away, I feel more certain than ever than people are talking about me. I even see faces peering at me from inside the shops that I pass, and some of them make no attempt to hide their interest. I retain my smile, of course, and I hold my composure as I walk toward the bakery, even though I am screaming on the inside.

Chapter Thirteen

Charley Lucas

Today...

There seems to be only one church in the very center of town, a tall, gray-stoned building with a reddish tone rising up high above the surrounding trees. As I make my way into the cemetery, I spot some simple wooden crosses in the ground, adorned with poppies. I head around the side of the main building until I reach the churchyard at the rear, where gravestones have been moved back against the walls to leave a large, open green space.

A couple of people are throwing balls for their dogs, who seem to be having a great time. Malmeston might be a little on the sleepy side, but life here generally seems to be pretty relaxed.

I wander over to the nearest gravestone and see that the engraved names are almost illegible. Yellowish-green moss has been allowed to grow apparently unchecked across the stone, but with a little effort I'm just about able to make out the details:

In a brick grave beneath are
deposited the remains of

Mr. John Patrick Archer
who died

January the 28th 1825,
aged 49 years.

also his wife

Mrs. Elizabeth May Archer
who died

May the 12th 1800,
aged 23 years.

and their daughter

Catherine Alice Archer
who died

June the 12th 1805,
aged 5 years.

I look down at the grass, and for a moment I try to imagine those three bodies down there in the dirt. Then I realize that since the stones were at some point moved back, the actual bodies will no doubt be buried somewhere out there on the wider open space. Turning, I look across the grass and see the dogs still playing, and I think of all the graves buried down in the ground.

I start making my way along the path that runs around the edge of the cemetery. I examine each gravestone in turn, reading them in full, which is something of a sobering task. No two gravestones are alike, and whereas some are very ornamental, others are remarkably plain and simple. There are a few Sirs and Lords dotted around, and some Admirals too, and I'm reminded of what Dad told me about Malmeston's past as a smuggling town. The place might seem relatively quiet now, but evidently in the past there was a lot going on.

At one end of the cemetery, there's a large stone that seems to tower over all the rest. Stopping to take a look, I find that this stone – unlike almost all the others – is in very good condition, as if it's still being maintained and looked after:

The vault of the Hayes family

A tribute to the departed worth
and integrity of

Randolph Burton Hayes

Who for many years ably and
faithfully worked for the good of

Malmeston and all its residents.

Also his wife

Mary Catherine Hayes
born Storford

There are other names, too, at the bottom of the stone, but these are in smaller text, as if they weren't nearly so important. Whoever these Hayes people were, they were obviously pretty high up in the lower power structure, and I realize after a moment that they're probably connected to the Hayes and Storford brewery.

I linger for a moment, before turning and walking on.

After a while, I almost forget why I came to the cemetery, but then I stop in front of one particularly simple grave, and I feel a flicker of recognition in my chest as I see that this particular stone has had its markings chipped away. There obviously wasn't a great deal written on this stone to begin with, but I figure there was just enough room for the name Muriel Hyde and a set of dates, and somehow – deep down – I just know that this is the exact spot where she's buried. It's almost as if I can sense her body nearby, or if not her body then at least her presence. Or maybe it's the hatred I can feel in the air; the hatred that a whole town felt for this one woman.

Her tombstone is small compared to the rest, only a couple of feet tall, and there's a thick, unrepaired crack running down the center. It's the kind of stone that could almost be missed, and I guess maybe Muriel was lucky to get a proper grave at all. She seems to have been roundly despised by everyone in town, but it's still hard to believe that she could be hated enough for her name to be literally removed from her stone. That seems sacrilegious, and I don't understand why someone from the church wouldn't have had the stone restored.

What did Muriel Hyde do to the people of Malmeston to make them despite her so much?

I crouch down to take a closer look at the stone, but there's really nothing else to see. It looks as if the wretched thing might crumble away at any moment, and ivy from the wall is covering one of the edges. I reach out and move the ivy aside, so that at least the stone is properly visible. There are no further inscriptions, no messages about resting in peace or any of that stuff. I guess maybe no-one really cared. She was just deposited in the cemetery and left to rot, while her name was eventually scratched away not only from the list of landlords at the pub but also from her grave.

Hearing a sniffing sound, I turn just as one of the dogs comes over to check me out. I smile and give her a pat, and then I spot a woman coming to join us.

“Sorry about her,” she says, sounding a little out of breath, “she's just curious. She's probably looking for discarded cigarettes, she tries to eat them. It's absolutely disgusting, I don't know where she got the habit. I've certainly never smoked. You don't mind dogs, do you?”

“No, I like them,” I reply.

“Come on, Bonnie, don't bother this young lady.”

“Honestly, it's fine.”

I stroke the dog, and then I look up and see a hint of discomfort on the woman's face as she looks at the damaged gravestone.

“I was just reading about the history of the town,” I explain. “I was interested in the story of Muriel Hyde.”

“There's a lot of history here,” she replies uneasily. “There's a little museum just around the corner, if you're interested. You can learn all about the boats and the smuggling, all that sort of thing.”

“My father and I just moved here.”

“Oh, is that right? Where from?”

“Blackpool.”

“I should have guessed from the accent.” She smiles, and she seems more relaxed now. “I hope you like Malmeston once you settle in. If you like dogs, you shouldn't have too much trouble.”

“Dad's taken over The King's Head,” I tell her.

I watch for some sign of concern in her expression, and sure enough she immediately looks a little worried.

“I've been researching the pub's history,” I explain, “and that's how I found out about Muriel Hyde. I just wanted to know whether the stories are true.”

“I wouldn't have a clue,” she replies, “but you won't have much luck here. She's not even buried in this cemetery.”

“She's not?” I turn and look at the stone, and I start to wonder whether maybe I made a mistake. “But I thought -”

“That was her gravestone, alright,” the woman continues, “but the name was marked off when her body was moved.”

I turn to her again.

“Moved?” I ask. “Why?”

“Well, the story is that people weren't too comfortable with having her here. Not on consecrated ground, not after...” She hesitates. “The grave was vandalized, or so the story goes. Constantly. At least once a year, there'd be a disturbance, and eventually it was agreed that the grave was more trouble than it was worth. That's when...”

I wait, but her voice trails off.

“When what?” I ask. “Did they move her grave?”

She pauses, staring at the stone, and then she nods.

“Where to?” I ask. “Did they re-bury her in another cemetery nearby?”

“Not exactly,” she replies. “I was just a little girl at the time, this was about fifty years ago. Her body was dug up and she was...”

Again, she seems reluctant to explain.

“She was what?” I ask, wondering whether she was burned or simply tossed into the sea. Frankly, given how much she seems to have been hated, I don't think I'd be too surprised.

“She was dressed appropriately,” the woman says finally, “and taken back to the pub, and there she was put on trial for her crimes.”

“I'm sorry?”

“She was tried and convicted.”

“After she was dead?”

“It was seen as a way to provide closure,” she explains. “The town had been living under a shadow, and I think people just wanted to move on. So, yes, the body of Muriel Hyde was exhumed and she was tried by a jury of twelve of her peers.” She hesitates. “It might not have been the finest moment in Malmeston's history but, after the trial was over, by all accounts everything was much better. People were finally able to move on.”

“How can you try a corpse?” I ask, as I get to my feet. “Did she have someone defending her?”

“Someone gave it a go, but I don't think they had much motivation. Anyway, everyone knew she was guilty of murder, it was just a matter of making it official.” She looks down at the book in my right hand. “You certainly won't find any mention of that part of the story in there.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because people don't want to be reminded.”

“But it's history!”

“Exactly. It's a story, it's the version of the past that we deem palatable today. Books like that don't lie, necessarily. They just leave certain things out.”

She falls silent, and for a moment I struggle to think of which question to ask next. There are so many thoughts rushing through my head, and I still can't quite believe what I just heard.

“So where was she taken after the trial?” I ask cautiously. “Where was she buried?”

“Her body was taken away,” she replies, clearly choosing her words with care, “and as far as I know, its ultimate fate never became public knowledge.”

“So it just... disappeared?”

Nearby, the woman's dog lets out a faint, low grumble.

“Oh, it's almost lunch time for you, Bonnie, isn't it?” the woman says with a smile, clearly relieved at the interruption. “I'm sorry, young lady, I didn't mean to burden you with so much information. You shouldn't worry too much about the past, I'm sure your father will turn The King's Head around and make it a roaring success.” She pauses. “And I wouldn't put too much faith in that book, either, if I were you. It's mostly a load of rather poorly researched poppycock that wouldn't stand up to any real scrutiny. It's more fiction than history. Now, come along, Bonnie. You must be ravenous.”

With that, she turns and walks away before I have a chance to ask any more questions. Her dog Bonnie comes cover and gives me a brief nuzzle, just long enough for me to stroke her side, and then the pair of them head off toward the gate that leads out of the cemetery. Once they're gone, I turn back to look at the sad, cracked little gravestone and I find myself once again feeling as if this town's reaction to Muriel Hyde seems a little... extreme.

What could one woman have done to deserve all this hatred? What could possess the locals to dig up her corpse and put her on trial several decades after her death?

Chapter Fourteen

Muriel Hyde

1910...

As I approach the square, I feel a rush of relief. I have completed all my shopping and now I can retire to the safety of the pub, where I can be with Jack and rest for a few hours before I have to open up again. All I want is -

Stopping suddenly, I feel a rush of dread in my chest as I see that a large carriage has been parked outside the pub, with a dark horse standing at its front. Two men are waiting next to the carriage, and I already know that this is the private conveyance of Mr. Randolph Hayes himself. The man has always been rather old-fashioned and stuck in his ways, and he is often seen riding around Malmeston. Yet he has never chosen to come to The King's Head, not until now.

I feel sick to my stomach.

Taking a deep breath, I begin to make my way across the square. Every step feels terribly heavy, and I am sure that I am going to receive some terrible news. I glance up at the windows of the pub. There is no sign of Jack, although I cannot believe that he is unaware of the carriage's arrival, nor of the identity of its passenger. I can only hope that he will have the good sense to stay well out of the way.

As I reach the side of the carriage, the door opens and I see the large, smiling face of Randolph Hayes. A big man with a busy gray beard, he always cuts a striking figure on his trips in town, and I watch as he leans forward toward the carriage's open door and beams at me. It is understood all across town that Mr. Hayes rarely leaves the carriage when he is out and about, due to his corpulence and his general ill health.

“Ms. Hyde,” he says in his distinctively gravely voice, “it is such a rare honor to see you. I just had my man knock at your door, but there was no answer. I suppose that means there is nobody inside at this moment.”

“The pub is shut for a few hours,” I reply.

“Indeed. And when you are out, there is nobody to run the bar. You do not employ any help, I believe?”

“I do not.”

“That's what I thought,” he mutters. “Still, I did think I hear a noise coming from inside, just a few minutes ago. That's what confused me, because I know you live alone. So I supposed that perhaps we'd caught you at an inopportune moment, that maybe you were taking a bath. I was about to leave, but now here you are and I'm left wondering about the noise I heard.” He pauses. “You do still live alone, Ms. Hyde, do you not?”

“I do,” I reply, trying my best to seem calm and relaxed.

“Then you must forgive me,” he continues. “I'm getting old. Perhaps I imagine things.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I ask. “It has been a long time since you chose to grace The King's Head with your company.”

“Which is precisely what I was thinking this morning,” he replies. “I like to check on all the pubs that do business with the brewery. I had cause to drop by The Golden Bow earlier, and then I realized it had been too long since I last came to see you, Ms. Hyde. Far too long.”

“I'm honored.”

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “If there's anything I can help you with, anything at all, you must immediately let me know.”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you.”

“I know it must be hard for you, running this place alone,” he continues. “I admire you, Ms. Hyde, really I do. It must be twice as hard for a woman, compared to a man, yet The King's Head keeps reliably chugging along. I probably shouldn't say this, but some of my associates were against the idea of you coming here, but I told them to keep the faith. I'm so glad that you proved me right.” He pauses. “Up until now, at least.”

“I do my best,” I tell him.

“Your payments are always right on time.”

“I like to keep my book in good order.”

“And that's a really good sign. So is there nothing I can help you with, Ms. Hyde? No problem at all? Nothing that might cause you to feel, or look, concerned?”

Realizing that I perhaps appear troubled, I make an effort to smile more fully, although I am not sure that I am entirely successful.

“Everything is running well,” I tell him, “but I appreciate your concern. I shall be sure to ask if I need anything.”

I wait, but for a moment he simply stares at me, before nodding slowly and withdrawing a little deeper into the darkness of the carriage.

“That's good, Ms. Hyde,” he says with a chuckle. “I just wanted to see how things are, that's all. One always likes to know the lie of the land, in case one has to make any big decisions. I think we'll be seeing one another more often from now on. I'd hate you to feel neglected, all the way out here at the top of the town.”

He hesitates.

“Hey,” he adds, “this might seem like an odd question, but do you happen to know a fellow by the name of Jack Farnham?”

I hesitate, not knowing how to answer.

“I believe so,” I say finally. “I am aware of him.”

“You are, huh?” He pauses again. “You don't happen to know where I can find him, do you?”

I swallow hard.

“I do not,” I say cautiously.

I wait, but he simply stares at me before shrugging.

“That's a shame,” he mutters. “Worth a try, I suppose. Someone must know where he is. I really would like a word with that man.”

As he shuts the door and the carriage sets off, I feel a rush of relief now that he's on his way, but I also know that something's wrong. Randolph Hyde would never just drop by like that, and there seemed to be an edge to his questions. I can't shake the feeling that he knows Jack is hiding inside the pub, and that he simply wanted to see whether I would confess this matter. Now that he knows I am keeping Jack's presence a secret, I fear that consequences will follow and that Jack's actions last night might prove to be problematic. I lied to Hayes when he asked if I could help him locate Jack, and the worst part is that I think he knows it was a lie.

Spotting a face watching me from a nearby house, I turn just in time to see the curtains being drawn. Feeling once again as if I am being watched from every direction, I hurry into the safety of the pub.

Chapter Fifteen

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Hey, Dad,” I say as I hurry through into the bar area, “did you know that a hundred years ago, a woman died in this pub and then her body was -”

Stopping suddenly, I see that Dad's sitting with a man who's wearing a suit. They have some paperwork spread out on the table between them, and – while the man turns and smiles at me – I can immediately tell that Dad's not in a good mood.

“And this must be your daughter,” the man says, getting to his feet and coming over to shake my hand. “Charmed to meet you, I'm Gary Hayes from the brewery.”

“Hi,” I reply, shaking his hand but looking at Dad and wondering what's wrong. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“You're not interrupting anything,” Mr. Hayes says. “In fact, I'm pleased to see that the pub is in such capable hands. I'm sure your father's going to make a great success of his time here.”

“We're opening this Saturday,” Dad tells me, clearly quite uncomfortable with the news. “Not next Saturday. This Saturday.”

“Really?” I reply. “But I thought -”

Before I can finish, I hear a chair leg scraping nearby, and I turn to see that there's a little girl sitting in the far corner. For a moment, the sight of her is so bizarre and incongruous, I actually start to wonder if I'm imagining the whole thing.

“That's my daughter,” Mr. Hayes says, “Matilda. She's off school today, so I brought her with me.”

“Hi,” I say to the girl, although I'm a little creeped out by the fact that she was sitting there so silently.

I wait, but she simply stares at me. I know it's wrong to judge, but I have to admit that there's something more than a little weird about her. Then again, I guess that just means I'm a terrible person. The kid can't be more than eight or nine years old. I should cut her some slack so I smile at her.

Nothing.

No response.

Forget it. She is creepy.

“It's best to hit the ground running,” Mr. Hayes says, as I turn back to him. “The first delivery will be here later today, as I arranged with your father last week, and there's really no better time to get those doors open and drag the first paying customers inside.”

“Totally,” I reply, before glancing at Dad, “but I thought we were opening next Saturday. Not in two days' time.”

“We can manage,” Dad replies unconvincingly. “The place is pretty well cleaned up already, and I can get the barrels tapped and ready in time after they arrive. We might not be able to offer much in the way of food during the first week, I still haven't got a chef sorted out, but I guess Mr. Hayes is right, we need to show people that this place is back in business.”

“That's the spirit,” Mr. Hayes says, “and call me Joe, please. You know, I shouldn't say this, but I've got a very good feeling about you guys. I think within a year, this pub might well be one of our top-performing locations in the entire county!”

***

“Why did you agree to open on Saturday?” I ask Dad a short while later, once Mr. Hayes has left. “I thought you had a proper plan for getting the place up and running?”

“I did,” he replies, clearly a little distracted and bothered. He's already getting some more cleaning supplies out. “I mean, I do. I mean, it'll be fine, Charley. There's no need to worry.”

“Saturday is two days away,” I point out. “The place still smells musty.”

“Then we'd better get to work, hadn't we?”

“But you said it yourself, the food isn't -”

“It's going to be fine,” he says firmly, and I can tell that he really doesn't want to have this conversation right now. He sounds super stressed. “The truth is, I misread the terms on the contract. I don't have to open this Saturday if I really don't want to, but I have to start paying the brewery on Saturday and I really can't afford an empty week. I'd have to catch that up later in the month, and I'm not confident that'd be possible.”

“Are things really that tight?” I ask as I head over and help him sort out the bottles and sprays.

“Everything's under control,” he replies, “and I promise you, I will make this work. I've already had some replies to my ad, I'm sure I'll have at least a temporary barmaid for Saturday.”

“I can help out,” I tell him. “If you show me how to do it, I can pour pints.”

“Not at fifteen years of age, you can't.”

“I can do something!”

“You can clean,” he replies with a sigh, “and you can get those posters done. And if you like, you could see if you can come up with some questions for a pub quiz for next week. Quizzes are always a good way to get people through the door. Who doesn't like a good quiz?”

“Sure. I can do that.”

“Just don't make it too hard,” he adds. “You know, make it so that... normal people have a chance of answering. Not just teenagers who read a lot.”

“I can write a quiz like that,” I tell him. “I know what people like.”

“I just remember that quiz you wrote for school once,” he replies. “It was quite... hard.”

“It's not my fault if people don't know basic science,” I point out. “Or Shakespeare! Who doesn't know Shakespeare?”

“If you write the quiz, I can give it a once-over and make some adjustments. You know... to make it... more... doable.”

“Maybe I'll include some questions about the history of the pub,” I reply. “Dad, do you know about Muriel Hyde and all the stuff that happened here?”

“Hmm?” He busies himself with some bottles of cleaner, but I can tell that he's trying to avoid looking at me.

“How come you didn't mention it before?” I ask. “When we found that plaque with the name scratched out, you acted as if it was all a complete mystery.”

“I really only know the basics,” he replies. “Muriel Hyde was the landlady here back in the day, a hundred years ago or so, and now she's not. There was some unpleasantness and -”

“She hung herself.”

He turns to me, and I can see from the look in his eyes that he already knows.

“In one of the bedrooms,” I add.

“Apparently.”

“Which one?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Did you know that they dug her up years later and put her on trial?”

“They did what?”

“Her corpse was put on trial,” I continue, “in this very room. They had a jury and everything.”

“Where did you hear that?” he asks. “Charley, I think maybe a few facts have become twisted somewhere along the way.”

“Muriel Hyde was tried and convicted right here in this pub, probably right where we're standing, and then her corpse was spirited away and never seen again.” I wait for him to reply, but he seems a little shocked by this latest news. “Apparently the pub has had bad vibes ever since. Dad, there's a reason this place ended up shuttered. Are you sure you know what you're taking on?”

Sighing, he comes over to join me.

“I know the broad strokes of the pub's history,” he says, “and I also know that it's the future that matters. I can't do anything about the past, and frankly I'm not surprised if some previous landlords blamed Muriel Hyde for their own failures. It's like blaming the brewery when things go wrong, it's an easy choice but at the end of the day a pub is a business like any other. I promise you, Charley, no matter what happens here, you will never, ever hear me say that anything is the brewery's fault, and I don't want you to start using that excuse either.” He pauses. “And you're not going to tell me that you suddenly believe in ghosts, are you?”

“No, of course not,” I reply, and now I feel a little flustered. I think back to that dream about the coffin, but I know Dad wouldn't take me seriously if I brought it up. “I just think maybe getting people through the door is going to be harder than you anticipated, that's all.”

“Which is why I need a knockout pub quiz for next week,” he says, “and some great posters for the opening night. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I'll have the posters for you this afternoon.”

“That's my girl.” He leans close and kisses me on the cheek, and then he heads back over to the cleaning supplies. “By dinnertime, this whole space is going to be spotless. We've got a big delivery coming tomorrow and I'll need to be ready. It's gonna be all hands on deck for the next few weeks, Charley. This is when the real work begins.”

As he gets to work, I can't help but admire his confidence. At the same time, I feel bad for causing trouble by bringing up the whole Muriel Hyde thing, and I make a mental note to tone down my worries from now on. Dad needs my support, and that means focusing on the priorities and not arguing too much. So, as he starts scrubbing the bar, I make my way through to the hallway and head up to make those posters.

Saturday night needs to be a big success. We need to get people into this pub, regardless of its past.

Chapter Sixteen

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“Randolph Hayes never comes out to pay unannounced visits,” Jack says as he peers out at the square. He's kneeling at one of the upstairs windows, so as to minimize the risk of being seen. “Something's wrong.”

“You said it yourself,” I reply, “you just need to wait for this to die down.”

He doesn't reply, and I can tell that he's worried. Whereas last night Jack seemed certain that the trouble with Edward Hayes would quickly blow over, it's clear that he now thinks there might be more problems. For as much as I like to think that I am a woman of the world, I know that in some respects I am quite sheltered, and I always defer to Jack's judgment on these matters. How many times in the past has he soothed my worries and told me that nothing is wrong? And he has always been right. Now that he seems gripped by fear, I find that I too am terrified.

Everyone knows that if one makes an enemy of Randolph Hayes and his brewery, one is soon in a great deal of trouble.

“I should leave,” Jack says suddenly, getting to his feet.

“No!” I gasp, grabbing his arm.

“It's not safe for me here,” he replies, “and I'm putting you in danger as well.”

“I need you!”

“You need to be safe,” he says firmly, “and there's no guarantee of that right now. Do you remember what I told you a while back, Muriel? The best thing to do in Malmeston is to get on with your life and do whatever you can to avoid attracting Randolph's attention.” He pauses. “You have his attention right now, Muriel,” he adds finally, “and that is entirely my fault, but it's not too late. If I go away, at least for a while, he'll move on to some other bugbear.”

“Why is everyone so afraid of that man?” I ask, unable to hide my agitation.

“You know why.”

“But he can't wield that much power,” I point out. “He's just one man, he owns a brewery, that's all.”

“A brewery that has more money than the rest of this town put together,” Jack replies. “I feel the same way that you do, Muriel, but we have to face the truth. I've seen men go up against Hayes and Storford. Strong men, men with connections, men who thought they could break the company. They all ended up getting chewed up and spat out.” He sighs. “I thought Randolph Hayes would appreciate the fact that I taught his scummy little nephew Edward a lesson, but apparently family ties trump everything else. My only option now is to get out of town.”

“Can't you talk to him?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“He can't be that unreasonable,” I continue. “A man of his stature didn't get to where he is today by -”

“He got there by crushing people like us,” he says firmly. “That's how he stays there, too. And the truth is, we can't stand up to him. All we can do is try to find a way to survive in this world. Muriel...”

“Promise you won't leave,” I say, putting my hands on the sides of his arms. “Promise you'll stay and come up with some other idea.”

He sighs.

“Promise me!” I hiss.

He stares at me for a moment, and then – seemingly exhausted – he nods.

“We'll find a solution,” I tell him. “I assure you, we'll come up with something. We'll be just fine, so long as we stick together.”

Leaning forward, I kiss him on the cheek. I know that perhaps this is indiscreet of me, but I feel as if I need to calm his nerves. So long as Jack holds steady, I can take a little time and come up with a solution. I'm sure that Randolph Hayes isn't a completely unreasonable man. I just need to find a way to appeal to his better nature.

“Everything will be alright,” I tell Jack again. “We just have to stay together.”

Chapter Seventeen

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Come on, not again,” I say with a sign of frustration as my laptop freezes again. I've been saving my work on the poster at every possible opportunity, but it's still annoying to have to keep restarting the damn machine. “I don't have time for this.”

I tap at a few keys, but I already know that there's no point. This laptop is pushing ten years old, and it's a miracle that it runs any kind of image-editing software at all. I wait a moment longer, and then I hold down the power button so I can begin the long process of rebooting. Sometimes even that doesn't work and I have to physically remove the battery for a few seconds, but I guess all that matters is that I get the poster done in the end. I'm pretty pleased with my design work so far, I just need to make some tweaks. It's three in the afternoon, and I should have this done by four at the latest.

Hearing footsteps coming to the door, I turn to Dad.

“I should only be -”

The footsteps stop, and I find myself staring at an empty doorway. A moment later I hear a flushing sound coming from downstairs, and I realize that Dad must be in one of the bathrooms.

I watch the doorway for a few more seconds, before turning my attention back to the laptop. This time, the screen still hasn't gone dark, which I guess means that the laptop's guts are really struggling. I wait a moment, and then I turn the whole thing over and start pulling the battery out. As I do that, I hear Dad flushing the toilet again, and I smile as I realize that he must be getting on with cleaning the bathrooms. And then, a moment later, I spot a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, and I turn once again to look at the doorway.

There's no-one there now, but I swear I saw someone standing there.

I pause for a few seconds, before slotting the battery back into place. I turn the laptop back on and then, while it's starting up, I get to my feet and walk over to the door. I peer out onto the landing, and of course there's no sign of anyone, but after a moment I look over at the stairs that lead up to the top floor of the building. I have no idea why, but I have the strangest feeling that I'm being watched.

Downstairs, Dad flushes the toilet yet again. That thing must be really clogged.

I briefly consider going upstairs to double-check that there's no-one else here, but then I tell myself that it'd be a bad idea to give in to random fears. There's obviously no-one here, and I really need to keep working if I'm going to have these posters ready before dinner. I watch the stairs for a moment longer, and then finally I take a step back.

I let out a shocked gasp as my shoulders bumps again someone, and I spin around to see a face glaring at me.

***

Opening my eyes, I find that I'm flat on my chest on the bedroom floor, with my face pressed against the bare wooden boards. For a few second I have absolutely no idea how I got here, and then – as I begin to sit up – I remember standing in the doorway and then feeling someone right behind me.

I turn, but all I see is the window and the gray sky above.

I take a deep breath and try to figure out what just happened. My head still feels pretty groggy, but I remember hearing Dad flushing the toilet a lot downstairs. Then I thought there was someone on the landing and I went out to take a look, but there was nothing and then I felt someone and then... I don't know exactly what came next, but I seem to have fainted somehow. I've never fainted before in my life, and this time I can't even calm myself down by thinking that it was all a dream. That's twice now that I've had weird experiences since we arrived here, and a moment later I remember there was also the strange figure at one of the top windows.

Anyone else would be starting to worry about ghosts by now, but I figure I must just be going a little loopy after the big move. Either that, or my brain's getting messed up by all the cleaning products.

Crawling over to my laptop, I tap at one of the buttons, bringing up the login screen. I'm about to enter my password, when I see to my surprise that the clock now reads 16:07. That's about an hour later than I thought, and I'm starting to realize that I must have been unconscious for quite a while. My mind immediately starts racing as I think of all the things that could be wrong, and pretty quickly I'm thinking about brain tumors. Wouldn't a brain tumor explain auditory and visual hallucinations, as well as sporadic losses of consciousness? Then again, my head doesn't hurt and I don't feel particularly confused.

Maybe I just hit my head.

Twice.

I bring up the poster and see that it hasn't changed (duh!) since last time I worked on it. I still need to make some minor changes, but I figure it's in a good enough state now for me to show Dad. I quickly upload it to my online drive and then I get to my feet and head out of the room. Obviously I'm not going to tell Dad that I fainted, and I'm extremely glad that he apparently didn't come upstairs and find me on the floor. I'm sure people have weird little freak-outs all the time, and they don't tell anyone. So long as nothing like this happens again, I think I'll be fine. Besides, I can't worry Dad right now. He needs me to be his rock.

Once I'm downstairs, I head over to the toilets at the far end of the saloon bar, and I knock gently on the door to the gents' room. When there's no answer, I push the door open and lean through, but there's no sign of Dad so I try to door to the ladies' bathroom instead. Again, there's no sign of Dad, which I guess means that he's busy elsewhere. I take a step back, and then I head through to the hallway so I can go out to the beer garden at the back. After just a couple of paces to the rear door, however, I suddenly hear a noise over my shoulder, and I turn just in time to bump straight into a woman.

And, I admit it, I scream.

Startled, the woman steps back.

Staring at her breathlessly, I see that she's definitely no ghost, and she's definitely not Muriel Hyde. She's young, a little older than me but definitely no more than twenty or twenty-one, and she has long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She's wearing a quite revealing outfit, and about twenty kilos of foundation and concealer and lip-gloss, and a moment later I look down at her hands and see that her nails are bright pink and ridiculously long.

“Hey,” she says cautiously, “I'm sorry, did I scare you?”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Jennifer,” she says, as if that should explain everything. “Jennifer Scott, I called earlier. Someone, I think maybe your father, asked me to pop by for an interview about bar work. I'm sorry, the front door was open so I just kinda... came inside.”

“You did?” I hesitate for a moment. “Were you upstairs earlier?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Upstairs,” I continue, hoping against hope that this might be a reasonable explanation. “Sorry, but were you upstairs about an hour ago?”

“No,” she says cautiously, “I was at the supermarket an hour ago. Then I came straight here. Why?”

Still trying to make sense of this mess, I pause again. A moment later, hearing footsteps, I turn to see Dad coming through from the beer garden.

“You must be Jennifer,” he says, holding a hand out toward her. “Am I crazy, or did I just hear someone scream?”

“That was me,” I tell him, feeling a little sheepish now.

“I scared her,” Jennifer replies with a faint smile. “Sorry, doll. I didn't mean to.”

Doll?

“I'm sure my daughter was just startled,” Dad says, and I can tell he's already turning on the charm. He's always been a sucker for girls from the bimbo end of the spectrum. Mum was definitely the exception that proved that particular rule. Or am I being too judgmental about Jennifer when I haven't actually met her properly.

“She's here for a job interview,” I remind Dad.

“Right!” he says, heading to the door that leads through to the bar area. “Jennifer, why don't you come through and tell me a little bit about yourself. Everything sounded great on the phone, but there's been a slight change and I'm going to need someone this Saturday now. I don't know if that's something that works for you.”

As they continue to chat, I stay in the hallway and try to get my head together. I'm starting to get really jumpy, and I guess this Jennifer woman must think I'm nuts. She might have a point. And as I lean back against the wall, I caution myself that this is a perfect example of why I need to stay focused. It'd be so easy to go off on a flight of fancy and start imagining spooks around every corner, especially after learning so much about the mysterious Muriel Hyde. I've never been that sort of person, however, and I refuse to start now.

As Dad laughs in the bar, I go through to the beer garden to see if I can help clearing out the shed.

Chapter Eighteen

Muriel Hyde

1910...

As Jack continues to work in the shed at the back of the beer garden, I go through to the bar to see whether any customers have arrived.

There's nobody here.

Business has been slow but rather steady of late, but today nobody has come to the pub. I know it's too soon to jump to conclusions, but I cannot help wondering whether The King's Head is being ignored. Jack has told me, no end of times, about the power of Randolph Hayes in this town, and I fear that he might have put word about that the pub is to be avoided. If that is the case, and I have no business at all, then my time here will surely draw to a conclusion before too long.

I tell myself, however, that Hayes cannot be quite that vindictive. He must still have a heart.

Suddenly the door opens, and Harry Tanner steps inside. There have been evenings when the mere sight of Harry has left me feeling woeful, yet right now I could not be more pleased to see him. Much to my chagrin, he has over the years become my most reliable customer, and it would be a dark day indeed were he to abandon me. Indeed, as I pour him a pint of his usual beer, I feel positively warm to the man. I could hug him!

“It's cold out there,” he says.

“We have a fire roaring in here, Harry,” I point out, “for your convenience.”

“That I see.” He pauses. “You know, Ms. Hyde, there's word that you've got Jack Farnham staying with you.”

I hesitate, not knowing how to respond, but I suppose I know deep down that there is no point lying now. Not to Harry. And probably not to anyone. After all, if there's 'word' that Jack's here, then the gossip can only have been started by Randolph Hayes. This is his way of letting me know that he's aware of my indiscretions.

“People talk, you know,” Harry continues. “About an unmarried woman taking in an unmarried man. Especially a man like Jack Farnham.”

“Jack is attending to some damaged shelves in my shed,” I reply, which is actually true. “I see nothing wrong in employing a tradesman for such things. Or would you have me roll up my sleeves and do the job myself?”

“You're a good woman,” Harry replies, “but good women aren't immune to the laws of this place. I like this pub a great deal, Ms. Hyde, and I should hate to see it closed down.”

“I trust that there are no such rumors,” I reply, irked by the suggestion.

I wait, but Harry seems especially doleful today, as if he has been saddened by something.

“Ignore me,” he says finally. “I just want you to tread carefully, that's all. One can lose a lot in Malmeston if one is known to associate with the wrong sort.”

“I must fetch something from the other room,” I reply, turning and heading through to the rear of the pub.

Stopping for a moment, I try to gather my composure. Despite all my complaints, Harry is at heart a decent man and I feel certain that he is attempting to give me a warning. The fact that he felt this to be necessary is an indication that the whole town is talking. As much as I might tell myself that Mr. Hayes will not try to destroy this pub, I fear now that the process might already have begun.

Chapter Nineteen

Charley Lucas

Today...

“And you don't think she might be giving out the wrong impression?” I ask as I finish drying the last of the dinner dishes. “Did you ask her to dress a little differently on Saturday?”

“What do you mean?”

Turning, I see that Dad's checking something on his phone.

“I'm not being a prude,” I continue, “I swear, it's just... I'm worried that Jennifer might be a little too bubbly and... open... for the pub.”

He turns to me, and he looks genuinely confused.

“Come again?” he says with a furrowed brow.

“Who do you think Jennifer appeals to?” I ask.

“Well, she's an attractive young lady and -”

“So men.”

“Not just men,” he replies cautiously, and I think maybe he's starting to catch my drift. “She's not some blonde airhead, Charley. It's not like you to make snap judgments on people.”

“And I'm not doing that now,” I tell him, “I just can't help wondering whether she might be a little too much in everyone's faces with her... qualities.” Sighing, I realize that I've talked myself into a twist, and I can't help wishing that I'd never said anything. “Forget it,” I add, “I'm just talking nonsense. She seems nice, and you're right, I shouldn't judge her just because she's pretty. I'm sure she'll be brilliant.”

“I do take your point,” Dad says as he heads to the doorway. “I'll make sure she leaves a little something to the imagination. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to pop down the road to The Golden Bow and try to figure out the competition. I won't be long.”

“You're leaving me alone?” I ask, suddenly panicking at the thought.

“Is that a problem?”

I pause for a moment.

“No,” I say finally.

“You can come, if you want,” he replies. “Sorry, I didn't think it'd be your cup of tea, that's all.”

“I'll be fine,” I tell him, not wanting to arouse his curiosity. I've always been happy with my own company, and Dad would probably be suspicious if I suddenly showed an interest in going out to a pub with him. “Good luck. I hope you find lots of things we can do better.”

“I'll try,” he says, and with that he heads downstairs, leaving me standing all alone in the kitchen.

As I listen to him getting ready to go out, I try to calm my nerves and remind myself that there's no reason to be nervous. Still, I can't deny that there's a faint, rumbling sense of fear in my belly, and finally the moment I've been dreading arrives: I hear Dad going out the back door, followed seconds later by the creak of the gate. Taking a deep breath, I realize that I'm all by myself, and I start thinking back to the sensation of feeling someone behind me. That's happened twice now, albeit one of those times maybe being a dream, and I don't fancy letting it happen again.

Finally, realizing that I should probably get some fresh air, I write a note to Dad, telling him that I've gone for an evening walk. Then I head downstairs, grab my coat, and go out to explore Malmeston.

***

A bracing wind blows in from the sea, causing strings to clatter against flag masts as I make my way along the seafront promenade. I have my hands stuffed in my pockets to keep them from freezing, but my ears are icy and I'm starting to think that I should head inland soon. Still, the roar of the waves is refreshing, and I can smell salt and seaweed. Up this end of town, there aren't too many lights, but I can see the bright pier in the distance and – a little further on – a glow from some of the larger pubs in town.

In fact, I can hear some drunk yobs far off in the distance, no doubt causing trouble somewhere.

A moment later, however, I hear the distinct sound of someone walking across the pebble beach. I turn and take a look, but in the darkness I really can't see anyone. The sound continues, however, and after a moment I stop and look around for any hint of movement. Frankly, there could be someone right in front of me at the moment and I wouldn't necessarily be any the wiser, but I can still hear someone walking across the beach, and it sounds as if they're coming closer and closer.

I open my mouth to call out, but then I realize that might not be such a good idea. If these people are up to no good, I don't want to draw attention to myself. And if they're just regular people who like doing stuff on the beach at night then, well, that's really none of my business.

I turn to walk away, and then suddenly a loud bang rings out.

“Over there!” a voice calls out, loud and clear in the cold night air. “Get him!”

Stepping back, I hear several people running across the pebbles, followed by a loud, agonized cry. I have no idea what's actually happening, but there have to be at least half a dozen people out there, and it sounds as if there's some kind of fight. Sure enough, a moment later I hear another cry of pain, and then what sounds like a body falling against the pebbles.

“Here!” a different voice shouts. “I've got him!”

I listen to what sounds like madness out there on the beach, and then I hear a series of grunts that make it sound as if someone's getting beaten up. I'm starting to think that I should call the police, but first I turn and start hurrying away, in case I get spotted. I take my phone from my pocket and fumble to get it unlocked, while glancing over my shoulder a few times to make sure that no-one's coming after me.

A moment later, I spot a light down on the beach, near the shore. I stop, worried that I might be seen, but then I realize that there seems to be a figure down there examining the pebbles with a torch. He's sitting next to a small red tent, or maybe just a windbreaker, and I watch for a few seconds as he starts gently poking at the pebbles. Then, just as I'm about to look down at my phone, he looks up at me and smiles.

“Crabs!” he calls out, raising his voice so he can be heard above the wind.

“I'm sorry?” I stammer.

“Research!” he yells. “I'm looking for crabs! It's part of a project to catalog local populations. You can come down and take a look, if you want. Who knows? You might be a good luck charm. I could certainly use one tonight.”

I hesitate, wondering whether it's safe, but then I look back the way I came and I realize that I can no longer hear the voices. In fact, a little moonlight has broken through the clouds, and now I can see that there doesn't seem to be anyone on the beach for at least a few hundred meters. Still, I know what I heard, and my heart is pounding as I step down onto the beach and make my way over to join the guy.

“Did you hear voices just now?” I ask.

“What was that?”

“There were voices, you must have heard them. And it sounded like someone was really hurt.”

He looks up at me, and he stares for a moment before tilting his head slightly and smiling.

“I think I'm gonna call the police,” I tell him.

“I won't stop you,” he replies, “but I promise you, they won't take you very seriously.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone hears the voices now and again,” he says, “and the police can't and won't do anything about it.” He seems strangely amused by what's happening. “Are you new around here?”

“My father and I just moved in at The King's Head.”

“Right.” He nods. “I heard they'd found some newbies to take that place on. Well, young lady, you've just received your first lesson as a Malmeston local. The voices are something of an oddity, but everyone's learned to kind of not pay them too much attention.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have two choices,” he replies. “You can either tell yourself that there were no voices at all, that it was just the wind. Or you can accept that sometimes you hear things that maybe aren't happening quite when you think they are. This beach was used for smuggling, for hundreds of years. All sorts of things happened down here, and sometimes you get to hear a little that's... leaking through somehow.”

“Do you mean ghosts?” I ask.

“Call them what you want,” he says, “but most people just ignore them. There's really not much else you can do.”

“Ghosts aren't real,” I point out. “If you're a scientist, you can't possibly believe that they are.”

“Can't I?”

“No! Because you're... rational, and logical.” I can't help feeling a little flustered. “Only crazy people believe in ghosts.”

“Have you never seen one?”

“No.”

“Not even -”

“No!” I say firmly, snapping slightly and surprising myself.

Feeling a little flustered, I suddenly start wondering why I'm having this conversation at all. It's late, and I'm cold, and I only came out for a quiet walk. Now I'm standing on the beach, talking to some guy who for all I know could be completely insane.

“Everyone's seen a ghost,” he says.

“That's not true.”

“Oh, but it is,” he continues. “Most people don't notice it, of course. They spot a figure in the distance, or at the back of a crowded room, and they don't realize that something's wrong. Or they realize, but they just put the matter out of their mind. Or maybe they see something out of the corner of their eye, and then they turn and there's nothing to see. But it was there, just for a second or two. I stand by my statement, young lady. There aren't people who see ghosts and people who don't. There are merely people who realize they see ghosts, and people who won't, or can't, accept the truth.”

I wait for him to finish, but to be honest I'm feeling a little creeped out.

“Is there not once instance,” he adds finally, “where you think maybe you saw one? Nothing you remember being... odd?”

I open my mouth to tell him he's nuts, but then I hesitate. For a few seconds, I consider giving his question some genuine thought, but then I feel a rush of anger in my chest at the fact that this guy's wasting my time. He's just some lunatic who apparently gets off on talking nonsense to strangers.

“Sorry,” I mutter, “I have to get going.”

“Have a nice evening!” he calls after me. “Remember what I said, though, and give it some thought! We've all seen them! We just have to admit it to ourselves!”

As I walk away, I fight the urge to turn back and tell him he's nuts. I guess there's no point, though. If he wants to be wrong, let him be wrong, that's his business. I know the truth. I've never, ever seen a ghost, and I never will. Because ghosts aren't real.

Chapter Twenty

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“There!” Jack says, stepping back from the shelves that he has fixed in the shed. “I told you I can be useful around the place.”

“I never doubted it,” I tell him.

“They should be able to take double the weight they took before,” he continues, “so now you've got no excuses for running low on items.”

“Indeed.”

He turns to me, and it's clear that my attempts at jollity have not been entirely convincing.

“Thank you,” I add.

“You're worried.”

“No, I -”

“How many customers do you have this evening?”

“Harry Tanner is -”

“Is that all? Drunk Harry?” He sighs. “You'd normally have more than that, especially with that fire going. And harry usually drags a few of his friends along. He's your most regular customer, but if even he's having trouble supporting you, then we both know there's trouble coming.”

“Quiet nights happen now and again,” I point out.

I wait, but he seems entirely unconvinced.

“Why does the brewery have to be so heavily involved in smuggling?” I ask, giving voice to a question that ha been troubling me for some time. “Other breweries get by just fine, without resorting to illegal activities.”

“Other breweries aren't headed by Randolph Hayes,” he replies. “The Hayes family have always been powerful, but Randolph has set his sights on the top. He married his wife purely so that he could take control her the Storford family brewery and fold it into his own company, and he's not finished yet. For him, smuggling is a way to leap straight past his competitors. He's clever, too. He knows who to pay off, so there's almost no chance of his men ever getting caught.”

“There have been murders on that beach.”

“Exactly. And they've been quietly forgotten already.”

“They were smugglers, though, weren't they?”

He nods.

“I don't want you to be involved in this anymore,” I tell him. “Jack, you can't keep putting yourself in danger.”

“I just need to do it for a little while longer,” he replies. “I need the money if I'm to have any hope of...”

His voice trails off.

“Of what?” I ask.

“Of making an honest woman of you,” he adds finally. “Of taking you away from here and giving you everything that you deserve.”

“I think it's a little late for me to become an honest woman,” I tell him, “and as for leaving this pub, I am not sure that I can do that.”

“You know what I mean.” He puts a hand on my arm, and I feel a shiver pass through my soul. “Now is not the time to panic, Muriel. One day, this little town and this little pub will be nothing more than memories. I just need you to trust me for a little while longer, and I promise that soon we'll be able to leave. You will come with me, Muriel, will you not? Tell me that you will.”

“Let me think about it,” I reply, even though I know deep down that leaving The King's Head is never going to be an option. “You know I trust you, Jack. I would trust you with my life!”

Chapter Twenty-One

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Ready?”

I pause for a moment, staring at the door, and then I turn to Dad. I feel strangely apprehensive, but I also know that we can't exactly change our minds now. A big banner on the wall declares this to be our grand opening, and we've put posters all over town. It's now or never.

“Ready,” I say firmly.

He nods, and then we both turn to Jennifer as she waits behind the bar.

“Ready?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, sure,” she replies, seemingly a little bemused by our pre-opening ritual. “Let's get 'em in, guys.”

I turn to Dad, and he steps forward and unbolts the door. Then he hesitates for just a fraction of a second before pulling the door open to reveal a couple of elderly men standing on the step.

“You're one minute late,” one of them grumbles.

“Am I?” Dad checks his watch. “Sorry, maybe mine's running a little slow. Anyway, please, come in and make yourselves at home.”

The two men shuffle slowly into the pub, and I can't help but feel that they seem a little unimpressed already. They're glancing around and, no doubt, making mental notes about all the changes Dad's made. I guess they were probably regulars here before, when the previous landlord ran things, and maybe they don't like the fact that Dad's taking things in a new direction. Still, at least they don't simply turn around and walk out, and I feel a sigh of relief as they both stop at the bar and order pints of beer.

Dad heads out and look out at the square, and I can tell that he's a little disappointed by the low turnout.

“More people'll come,” I tell him. “I'm certain of it. It's only 6pm, and no-one wants to be first to a party. I bet by eight this place is gonna be totally buzzing.”

“I'm sure it will,” he says as he turns to me, although it's obvious that the wind has been taken out of his sails just a tad. “And it's not just about ramming people into the place, is it? It's also about making sure that people have a good time, and that they come back. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Totally,” I reply with a smile, hoping to keep him excited and motivated. “I've got a feeling this is going to be the start of something really big.”

***

By 10pm, my confidence is finally starting to look well-placed. We have maybe thirty people in the pub, which isn't too shabby considering our maximum capacity is supposed to be eighty. Everyone seems happy, and I've seen lots of people returning to the bar for seconds and third rounds. The cash register has been ringing non-stop, and the card machine's been struggling a little with so many orders. I think maybe, just maybe, this evening is turning out to be a success after all.

Of course, as well as thirtyish human customers, we also have five dogs who've come along with their owners. I made sure to have a water bowl ready, and my suggestion of having a dog treat jar is also paying off. Plenty of people have been buying treats for their canine companions, putting 10p in one of the charity boxes as payment, and so far all the dogs have been getting on handsomely.

I might even be tempted to say that tonight is going better than I ever imagined.

“This is amazing!” Dad says when I finally get a moment with him. “Charley, am I imagining things, or are people actually having a good time?”

“I think people are having a good time,” I tell him, as the door opens and some more people come in. “It's weird. It's almost as if you're doing a good job!”

He smiles and heads over to serve someone, as I turn to see that four women have come over to the bar. To my surprise, I recognize one of them from the cemetery the other day, and sure enough I step a little closer and see that she's brought her dog Bonnie along. I don't want to intrude or cause any embarrassment, but I wander over and pat Bonnie on the back, and then I see that the woman has noticed me.

“Hi,” I say. “I'm glad you could make it.”

She looks past me, and to be honest she seems a little nervous, as if she'd rather be anywhere else.

“Gin and tonic, Judith?” one of her friends asks, nudging her arm.

“The usual, please,” she replies, before turning to me again. “I must admit, I didn't think I'd see so much life in the place. You and your father should be very proud of yourselves. You're working something of a miracle.”

“It's early days,” I point out, trying to hide the fact that I'm really pleased about her comments. “Dad's been doing so much to try to get the pub into shape. We're having a quiz night next week, if you're interested.”

I wait for her to respond, but instead it's almost as if she didn't hear me at all. She's looking past me, and after a moment I realize that she seems to be looking at one spot in particular. I turn and follow her gaze, which seems to be directed at the spot directly in front of the fireplace. Looking back at her, I feel as if she's almost in some kind of trance, as if she's barely aware of anything else around her. Even when a drink is placed on the bar next to her elbow, she seems entirely oblivious.

I want to ask if she's alright, but I also don't want to disturb her. This is actually getting a little awkward.

“Judith?”

One of her friends nudges her arm, causing her to spin around in shock.

“Sorry, old thing,” the friend says, “I didn't mean to give you a heart attack. Are you sure you're alright. You've been acting funny ever since we picked you up earlier.”

“I'm fine,” Judith replies, tying Bonnie to a nearby table before stepping past me. “I'm going to the bathroom.”

I watch as she walks away, and then I turn to the dog and see that she's panting at me.

“Oh, you've got Judith's book,” one of the women says, leaning past me and picking up the copy of Pubs of Malmeston: An Illustrated History by J. Sinclair that I left out for anyone who might be interested. “Maybe that's why she felt self-conscious.”

“I'm sorry?” I reply, not quite understanding.

The woman holds the book up for me to see.

“Judith's book,” she says. “They sell it in a few of the local shops. It's very good, although Judith tends to get a little embarrassed whenever it gets mentioned. Sometimes I think she actually regrets writing it.”

“I had no idea it was her book,” I reply, as I think back to our encounter the other day in the cemetery. I'm certain that Judith never even hinted that she had a personal connection to the book when she saw my copy. If anything, she was pretty disparaging about its merits.

“We keep telling her to write an updated version,” one of the other women says, “since this one's about ten years old now. I'm certain she's uncovered all sorts of other information, and it'd definitely sell, but she never seems to commit. I think perhaps she doesn't like sticking her neck out and acting like the local historian, even though everyone knows she's an expert. Her father was the same, he knew everything there was to know about Malmeston. When he retired, Judith took up the reins with gusto.”

“Pity she's so uptight about it these days,” one of the others adds. “I don't think she gets much joy from any of it.”

Surprised by the revelation that Judith Sinclair never thought to identify herself as the author of the book I was holding the other day, I look around and try to spot her. At first there's no sign, but then I see her emerge from the bathroom. I figure I should introduce myself again and maybe ask her some questions, but then I watch as she slips between some of the tables and heads through to the hallway that leads into the back garden. I guess it's possible that she's going to smoke, although after a moment I remember her comments the other day about smoking being absolutely disgusting. She also happened to mention that she's never smoke in her life.

I look over to check that Dad and Jennifer don't need any help, and then I go to see what Judith's looking for. As it turns out, I don't have to go as far as the beer garden at all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Muriel Hyde

1910...

I can hear him in the next room, and I want so much to go and be with him.

As I stare up at the bedroom ceiling, I can hear Jack pacing about in the next room. I know that he is dreadfully worried, and all I can think about is that I should rush through and let him take me in his arms. That would be terribly wrong of me, of course, yet I cannot deny that my heart yearns for him. I know I am probably being foolish, but I want so much to be his wife. I want us to be respectable.

For that to happen, we must leave Malmeston, and we must do so before Randolph Hayes ruins us. Then we must go far away from here, and from my old hometown of York as well, for I know the past has a habit of catching up with everyone eventually. Indeed, even after we escape the clutches of Hayes and his brewery, there will still be the shadow of my old life. If Jack were ever to find out about what happened to me before I came to Malmeston, about how I gained the money I used to take over this pub fifteen years ago, I fear he would spit in my face and never dare look at me again.

Yet, I cannot leave here. Leaving this pub would be like leaving my soul behind, and I am not sure that Jack would ever understand why. I would have to explain everything to him, and he would have so many questions. I am not sure that I would ever be able to persuade him that I have done nothing wrong.

He coughs, and I turn to look at the bare, cold wall that divides us.

There are tears in my eyes now. Why can Jack and I not live as man and wife already? Why can we not take to the same bed? I know the answer, of course, and I know that none of Jack's sins come anywhere close to matching the terrible things that I have done in my life. I have tried, in my head, to separate my Malmeston life from everything that came before, yet I know that in truth this is not possible. The Lord knows all, He sees all, and he will never not see the black mark on my heart.

“I love you,” I whisper as I hear Jack coughing again. “With all my heart. Never forget that. I love you, Jack Farnham, and I will always stand by your side. I love you more than you can ever know.”

I can only hope that, one day, I will be able to say those words to his face. And then, that we will be able to let the whole world know of our love.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Can I help you?”

Judith Sinclair turns to me, having been standing in the hallway and looking up the stairs. She seems momentarily startled, and then she clears her throat and comes over to join me by the door.

“I'm terribly sorry,” she says, “I was looking for the bathroom. I see to have taken a wrong turn.”

“I'd be happy to show you around, if you want,” I reply, stepping out of the way so she can get past. “Do you want to see upstairs?”

She stops and turns to me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.

“We don't have much furniture yet,” I explain, hoping to break the ice a little. “Dad hasn't even managed to get us beds yet, so we're both sleeping on the floor. Actually, I was reading a little of your book last night before I went to sleep. I hope you don't mind that I left it out in the bar, I just thought it was really interesting and that lots of people might want to take a look.”

“Everyone who wants to read that book,” she replies curtly, “has most assuredly done so already.”

“I guess,” I say, feeling as if this conversation is already going a little sour. “It's really interesting, though. I didn't know Malmeston had such a rich history.” I pause, worried that I might be sounding a tad obsequious. “Have you written any other books?”

“Not that you'd have heard of,” she replies.

I wait for her to elaborate, but instead she turns and looks up the stairs again. I'm getting a really strange vibe from her now, and to be honest I'm starting to think that she might be a little strange. After all, I'm half-convinced that she was going to sneak upstairs before I came through, and it's pretty clear that she has a lot of interest in the pub and its history. Then again, if that's the case, why did her book omit the whole story about Muriel Hyde's corpse being dug up and put on trial?

“Have you seen anything since you moved in?” she asks suddenly. “Or heard anything?”

“Like what?” I ask.

“You'd know already, if you had,” she replies, turning to me as if she's studying me somehow, as if she's looking for the truth in my expression. “You know, the brewery wanted to turn this place into flats. There was a plan at one point to knock it down entirely and build a whole new building on the site. I saw the plans, they were very modern-looking, but of course the local conservation groups made sure that the whole idea was scuppered.”

“That's good,” I reply. “It would have been awful if a nice old building like this had been demolished.”

“Would it?” she asks skeptically. “Perhaps that's what was needed. If they'd knocked it down and dug out the foundations, if they'd started afresh, perhaps nothing of the pub would have survived at all. I'm all for conservation, especially in Malmeston, but sometimes the past should be allowed to die.” She pauses. “Even if it tries desperately to survive.”

“What exactly do you mean?” I ask, surprised by her seeming eagerness for The King's Head to be razed to the ground. “This pub is hundreds of years old, like most of the buildings in this part of town. You don't really think it should be destroyed, do you? I mean, you're a historian!”

I wait for her to reply, but after a moment she takes a step back, almost as if she's scared.

“I wish you and your father all the luck in the world,” she says finally. “You seem like good people. There's sadness in this building, you know. Terrible sadness. Sorrow, even. I hope this place doesn't...”

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 normal 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?”

I head toward the bathroom.

“I miss her too,” Dad says suddenly.

Stopping, I realize that it was too much to expect that I might escape any awkwardness. He wants me to open up and get into some big, deep conversation about Mum, but I just don't have that in me. I hesitate for a moment, before reaching into the bathroom and pulling on the string. The light flickers to life, and then I turn to see that Dad's watching me.

“Mum wouldn't want us to be moping about,” I tell him. “She'd be really proud of us for starting over and -”

“Charley -”

“And she wouldn't give a damn about the anniversary of her death,” I add, briefly unable to hold back. “It's just maudlin crap and it doesn't serve any purpose. It's just another way that society tries to make us all feel bad about ourselves.”

“Come again?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say firmly. “Dad, I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood to get into all this stuff. I'm tired and I just want to go to sleep.”

“But -”

“Do you know what Mum would want right now?” I add, cutting him off yet again. I just can't help myself. “She'd want you to get this pub running properly. She'd want you to fix the boiler, so that we actually have hot water. And she'd definitely want you to get us some beds, because right now we're sleeping on the floor! That is the kind of stuff that Mum would be focused on. So if you really want to honor her memory, and to make her happy, that's what you need to be doing.”

I pause, before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door. To be honest, I think getting away from Dad is a good idea right now, because I'm worried that I might say something really bad. At the same time, as I take a step back and listen to him heading downstairs, I start to realize that maybe I was a tad harsh. Plus, I genuinely hadn't noticed that today was the anniversary of Mum's death. I guess I've just been way too busy with everything else that's going on, but now I'm worried that maybe I'm the one who's wrong. Am I just a cold, uncaring monster?

Leaning back against the wall, I try to calm myself down. Why do I always get so angry whenever anyone starts talking to me about Mum?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Muriel Hyde

1910...

It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon, and Jack isn't back yet. He's been gone for hours, and I'm torn between frantic worry and a need to stay calm.

“Where are you?” I whisper, watching the empty square. “Jack, what -”

“Hello, Muriel.”

Startled by the sound of a familiar voice, I turn and see that a ghost is standing by the door that leads through to the hallway. Not a literal ghost, of course, because such things are impossible, but a ghost from my past, a face that I never thought I would see again.

“Elsa,” I say, blinking in the hope that she might vanish like some kind of illusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it really so bad to come and check on my only sister?”

“How did you find me?”

“Now that's an interesting story,” she replies with a grin. “I admit that I'd given up on trying to trace you after you disappeared all those years ago, but then a man came knocking recently. He said he'd been hired by a man named Randolph Hayes to track down any information on a Muriel Hyde. I told him I'd never heard of a Muriel Hyde, but then he showed me a photo and, blimey, there you were! You never changed your first name, only your surname. What's wrong, did you think Pennybottom sounded a little common?”

“You have to leave!” I hiss, storming over to her and grabbing her arm, fully intending to march her straight out of the pub.

“Or what?”

“Elsa -”

“Hyde was a good name to pick,” she says, pulling free of my hand. “Like you're hiding. Was that on purpose, or just a coincidence?”

“I left you enough money for you to get out of trouble,” I tell her. “I'm sorry, Elsa, but you must have realized that I didn't want to be found again!”

“You left a small amount of money,” she replies, “and took a whole lot for yourself. And considering the way you left York without even saying goodbye, and without ever getting in touch again, I certainly understood that you had no intention of ever seeing your family again. That hurt, Muriel. How could you be so cold?”

“What do you want?”

“To see my dear sister again,” she says with a smirk.

“What do you really want?”

“You've got a nice set-up here,” she replies, stepping past me and looking around. “It must be hard, being a woman and running a public house all by yourself, but by all accounts you're doing alright.” She turns to me. “Although, I have to say, people are gossiping about you. Who's this Jack fella you're letting live under your roof? To think, my sister the prude is actually letting a man -”

“I can't give you money,” I tell her. “It's all gone.”

“Sunk into this place, eh?”

“I was very generous to you,” I say firmly. “If you and that wretched husband of yours have -”

“Frank's dead,” she replies, interrupting me yet again. “Two years ago, an accident at work. You'd have known that, though, if you'd kept in touch.”

“I'm sorry,” I reply, shocked by the news. “He was a good man.”

That's not entirely true, and I certainly had my fair share of run-ins with the thug, but I cannot in good conscience speak ill of the dead.

“So now I'm a widow,” Elsa says, “raising poor little Albert all alone. What do you think that's like, eh? It's not easy, I'll tell you that, and -”

“What do you want?” I shout, momentarily losing control. I instantly regret raising my voice, of course, but the damage is done and I can see that I've given Elsa exactly what she's after.

A reaction.

Emotion.

I pull myself together and tell myself that I must stay calm. Elsa has always been able to get a rise out of me, and that is how she has controlled me for as long as I can remember. She's here for money, of that I am certain, and I am sure she believes that I still have some of the small fortune that I obtained so many years ago. If I had the money to give her, I would certainly do so, if only to get rid of her as quickly as possible. I can see the hunger in her eyes, and the jealousy too, and I fear that she will happily ruin my life here in Malmeston if she thinks she can gain even a single penny. She might even do so out of spite alone.

“So are you still a thief?” she asks.

“I was never -”

“Mr. Foster's family would beg to differ,” she adds. “They'd still like to know where his money went.”

“That money was promised to me by -”

“Not by his will,” she says firmly. “Everyone knows you stole the money and -”

“He gave it to me before he died!” I snap.

“Even if that's true, he wasn't in full command of his senses by then.”

“His mind was as clear and as focused as one could ever imagine,” I tell her. “Richmal Foster and I were very good friends, the likes of which most never experience in their lifetimes. I can't imagine what he saw in me, but in him I encountered wit and erudition and intelligence beyond compare. I know there were some people who thought our friendship to be unusual, I know there were scurrilous rumors, but I don't care.”

“You still took his money.”

“Money that he gave to me, specifically on the understanding that I should leave York.”

“Well,” she replies, “I suppose we'll never know the truth, will we?” She smiles. “Now, how about finding something for your little sister to eat, eh? I'm starving!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Charley Lucas

Today...

As soon as I open my eyes in the morning, I know one thing.

I have to go down and apologize to Dad. I was a total bitch to him last night when he mentioned Mum.

***

“Dad?” I call out as I step through into the space behind the bar. “Hello? Dad, where are you?”

Spotting a note on the bar, I wander over and see that Dad's left a handwritten message:

Had to pop out early. Back c. 12. Can you do me a quick poster for a cheese night? Next Friday, 7pm until late. Ta. Dad X

Followed by a smiley face.

“A cheese night?” I mutter, as I read the message a couple more times and try to figure out what he means. “And how does that work, exactly?”

It's good that he's got some fresh plans, and I guess I can mock up a poster showing a block of cheese even if I don't know the details. Knowing Dad, it'll be a good idea dressed up with a few extra touches that perhaps go slightly overboard, but I guess anything's good if it gets feet through the door and bums on seats.

I turn to go upstairs and get started, but then I stop as I see that a note has been pushed through the letterbox. I wander over and pick up what turns out to be a simple, folded sheet of paper with some handwritten lines on one side. My first assumption is that the note is for Dad, but then I see my name at the top. When I read the message, I feel an instant flicker of curiosity in my chest.

***

Reaching the corner of Market Street, I stop and look at the large, yellow house that towers high above me. The place looks pretty rundown, with lots of ivy creeping up the walls, and several veins of cement have been left visible following repair work. I hesitate, wondering whether I should just go home, but then I look down and I read the note again:

Charley,

Please forgive my abruptness the other night. I'd like to talk to you, and to show you a few things that you might find very interesting. I live at number 1, Market Street, in the big house. I'm usually out in the mornings with Bonnie, but I'm always back by midday. If you could find your way to dropping by some day soon, I'd really appreciate the chance to talk to you.

There are some things you still need to know about The King's Head.

Yours,

Judith Sinclair.

After her weirdness at Dad's launch party, I honestly never expected to have any contact with Judith again, so it's still something of a surprise that she reached out like this. I can't quite figure out the tone of her letter, either; she seems a little desperate, but I can't really imagine what she might want to show me. I'm not interested in hearing more stupid ghost stories, and I genuinely came very close to tossing the note into the bin and forgetting about it. To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm here at all, except that I figure Judith Sinclair might actually have some interesting information about the pub's history. And if she just starts going on about ghosts, I can always make an excuse and leave early.

***

“I'm so glad you could come,” she says as she shuts the front door and turns to me. “I was worried that after my performance the other night, you might have written me off as some kind of old kook.”

“Not at all,” I reply, trying to be as polite as possible. “I'm always interested in hearing what people have to say about the past.”

“I suppose I was just overwhelmed by being back in that building,” she says, shuffling past me as her dog Bonnie waits at the foot of the stairs. “I remember when The King's Head last closed its doors, I was convinced that it would be for the last time. I honestly thought that the brewery would knock it down, but the campaign group was surprisingly influential. Please, come through.”

“Hey, Bonnie,” I say, patting the dog as I make my way past. “Good girl.”

“It was my father who got me into local history,” Judith continues, “bless his memory. Of course, if anything, I've become even more obsessed than he was. I just think that the past is so important, it's the foundation of where we are today and we must never forget that fact. Don't you agree?”

“Absolutely,” I reply as I stop in the doorway and watch her heading to the far end of her kitchen. “In your note, you said you had something to show me.”

“Come through to the shed,” she says, opening the back door and making her way outside. “I have something of a small museum set up, with everything neatly displayed. Sometimes I think I should open my collection up a little more, but then I worry about how people would react. There are some real fuddy-duddies in Malmeston.”

“You don't say,” I mutter.

“This way!”

Realizing that this might take a while, I head across the kitchen and out into the yard, by which point Judith is already unlocking the door to an outbuilding. She described the 'museum' as a shed, but it's much larger than that. In fact, it looks larger than the flat Dad and I lived in when we were in Blackpool. Something tells me that Judith Sinclair's not short of money, and I guess it's no-one's business how she spends that money. In some ways, I actually envy her. She's free to pursue her quirks and interests, and no-one can tell her to stop.

I'd like that kind of freedom someday.

“It's a little cluttered,” she explains as I wander over to join her, just as she disappears into the museum and flicks a switch on the wall. “Mind your step. Don't worry, that's only dust in the air, it won't hurt you. Just don't breathe excessively deeply and you'll be fine.”

“Uh, okay,” I say, as I stop in the doorway and look through at a room that's filled with desks and shelving.

Every surface is absolutely covered in boxes and old newspapers and books and VHS tapes and crates and bags and pretty much anything you could imagine. The walls, meanwhile, are barely visible behind hundreds and hundreds of photos, paintings, portraits, maps and mirrors. I don't think I've ever seen so much stuff in one space before, and I have to admit my first thought is that perhaps Judith has become a little confused about the difference between collecting and hoarding.

“I don't like throwing anything away,” Judith says rather unnecessarily, turning to me. “There are things here that nobody else in the world would have thought to keep. My father was a little obsessive and, well, I'm afraid that I've rather continued in his footsteps. If there's anything you can think of about the history of Malmeston, I almost certainly have it here. Oh, wait!”

She hurries to a box on one of the nearby desks and starts looking through. She soon finds a scrap of old paper, which is torn and faded, and she brings it over to me.

“This is a receipt for the purchase of three beer barrels from The King's Head in 1815. Can you believe that? The handwriting is rather faded, but you can just about make out the details.”

“That's really interesting,” I say as I take the paper from her. To be honest, I can't really make out any of the writing. “Where did you find it?”

“My father acquired it from one of the previous landlords,” she explains. “He found a little tin full of old, forgotten items. Most people would have just thrown it all away, but not my father. He was always a man who saw the world a little differently. I like to think that I've inherited a touch of his approach, although I'm not altogether sure. One can hope, can one not?”

“Sure,” I reply, as I hand the paper back to her.

“I have some more somewhere,” she adds, hurrying to one of the other desks. “Let me see if I can find them.”

As she fusses and searches through various drawers, I walk over to the nearest wall and look at some old photos. I think I recognize a few of the buildings, from my recent walks around town, and a moment later I spot a picture of the square with the pub at the far end. I walk on, looking at more pictures, and then I stop again at a shot of the pier. There's something very beautiful about these old black and white images, and about the glimpses they reveal of people who are surely long since dead. As I start walking again, I find myself utterly fascinated by these shots of a town that I barely know at all.

“Oh, where are they?” Judith mutters, far away on the other side of the room. “I'm usually more organized than this.”

I stop again, at an aerial photo of the town. The streets look so thin and long. The next photo shows a horse pulling a cart along one of the main streets, and I think I recognize the church in the distance. I really should take some more walks, in the daytime, because right now it's almost as if I know the town better from old photos than I do from actually being here. That seems a little strange but, as I continue to walk along the room and look at pictures, I tell myself that there's no harm in being interested in the past. How can someone not feel that way? It'd be like eating all the fruit from a tree but never once giving any thought to its roots.

I open my mouth to ask Judith about the history of Malmeston, but then I freeze as I see one particular photo.

It's her.

It's Judith Hyde, I recognize her from the only other picture of her that I've ever seen, and I also recognize the fireplace in The King's Head. She's sitting upright on a wooden chair, staring toward the camera, but something about the picture feels wrong somehow. I lean a little closer, looking at her face, and I can't help but think that she has the most curious expression. Her eyes are quite dark, and her mouth is very slightly open, and her hair is surprisingly unkempt.

“Ah, good,” Judith says suddenly, and I turn to see that she's come up behind me, “you found it. I wanted you to do that yourself, rather than have me guide you here.”

“It's a strange picture,” I reply, turning back to take another look. “I can't work out whether she looks sad or happy?”

“Really? That's an unusual reaction, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Look closer. Look at her neck.”

I lean toward the picture and look at Muriel Hyde's neck. The collar of her dress is quite high, but after a moment I realize that I can just about make out a series of large, dark blotches running all the way around her throat, almost as if...

I feel a shiver in my chest, and then I turn to Judith.

“This photograph was taken when Muriel's body was put on trial in the pub,” she explains.

“Are you serious?” I look at the picture again, and now I notice her hands resting on her lap. Somehow, her fingers seem strangely crooked, almost stiff, and then I look at her face and I realize that I'm staring into a photo of a dead woman.

“I told you she was remarkably well-preserved when they dug her up,” Judith continues. “It's all rather spooky, isn't it? It's hard to believe that those people believed that what they were doing was even remotely sane.”

“It's sick,” I tell her, although for a few seconds I can't look away. I can only stare at Muriel Hyde's face and wonder what those people were thinking when they hauled her out of her grave and put her on trial. “It's monstrous.”

“I quite agree,” she replies. “My father did, too, at least in private. He knew better than to comment too much in public, however. He didn't want to rock the boat.”

“How could anyone go along with this?” I ask, turning to her.

“Malmeston is a small town,” she says, with a hint of sadness in her voice. “There are times when speaking out is ruinous. That was one of those times. If my father had gone against the majority, his business interests would have been toast. I understand why he held his tongue, even if I don't necessarily think that it was the right thing to do. I rather feel that his cataloging work was, in his mind, a way to make sure that at least people couldn't forget what they'd done.” She allows herself a faint, melancholy smile. “This way,” she adds, nudging my arm before setting off toward the far end of the room. “There's something else that you really need to see.”

I look at the photo again, and I still find Muriel Hyde's eyes so very sad. Finally, however, I manage to drag myself away, and I follow Judith round the corner.

“One thing I don't understand,” I say, “is how -”

Stopping suddenly, I see to my horror that she's in the process of removing the lid from a bare wooden coffin. She's struggling a little with the weight, but I don't go over and offer to help. Instead, I simply stare as she leans the lid against the wall and then turns to me.

“Well?” she says plainly.

“Well what?” I ask.

“Well, come and see,” she replies.

I swallow hard, staring at the side of the coffin, and then I begin to make my way forward. There's a terrible knot of fear in my chest, but I tell myself that this can't be as bad as it looks. After all, Judith might be a little odd but I'm sure she's not completely out of her mind. I still have to force myself to approach the coffin, however, and finally I reach the side and look down, and I see the gaunt, thin corpse of Muriel Hyde resting in a black dress.

My knees buckle, and I'm unconscious before I even hit the ground.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“Do you always wear black?” Elsa asks between mouthfuls of soup. “You look like a grieving widow, Muriel.”

“My clothing choices are none of your concern,” I mutter, hoping desperately that a customer will arrive to give me a break from my sister's undivided attention.

“Are you mourning Mr. Foster?”

“He has been dead for quite some time.”

“Yes, but everyone knows that you and he... I mean, he was much older than you, but everyone understands that you and him had... an understanding.”

“Then everyone is wrong,” I reply, turning to glare at her. “I can't help that. If people want to talk nonsense, then they can.”

“You can't admit that you did wrong by taking that money, can you?”

Sighing, I briefly consider telling her the real truth about Richmal Foster and his request, and about why he gave me the money, but he swore me to secrecy. Even now, more than fifteen years after his death, I cannot bring myself to break that confidence.

“He specifically -”

“Even so, you could have turned it down. That would've stopped all the talking.”

“And left me trapped in York for the rest of my life,” I point out. “Like a pauper, like a wretch, like...”

I try to find the right word to express my disgust.

“Like me?” Elsa says finally.

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“York's not so bad, you know,” she continues. “I noticed you've got rid of your accent, you sound like a proper southern girl now. I suppose you're ashamed of your roots.”

Staring at her, I feel utter contempt for her flagrant attempts to irritate me. At the same time, I'm starting to think that perhaps enough time has passed and I can tell her the full truth about why I took Richmal's money. Yes, Richmal swore me to secrecy, but that was mainly because he wanted me to avoid accusations of selfishness. Since those accusations are still flying fifteen years later – and from my own sister, no less – I think it is finally time to break my silence on the subject.

“Richmal Foster gave me that money for a specific reason,” I tell her, as she drinks more soup and lets half of it dribble down her chin. “In fact, I am at this very moment using his money in order to fulfill his dying wish. And that is the secret I have been carrying with me for more than a decade.”

“Dying wish?” she replies with a faint grin. “And what could that dying wish possibly have been?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Do you always faint when you see a dead person?”

Blinking a few times, I start to sit up, only to immediately feel a little woozy. I'm still on the floor, and I take a moment to prop myself up on my elbows, and then I turn to see Judith sitting on a wooden stool next to the coffin.

“Sorry,” she continues, “I tried to pick you up, but I just couldn't. I realized it was nothing serious, though, so I supposed I'd just wait until you came around.” She checks her watch. “Less than a minute,” she adds, rather perkily. “Not too bad.”

Still feeling totally disorientated, I look up at the side of the coffin.

“I suppose I should have warned you,” Judith says, “but it just didn't occur to me. I suppose I thought that, when you saw the coffin, you'd guess what was inside. After all, I did tell you that my father never disposed of anything. At least, not anything that was relevant to the history of the town.”

“Is that... real?” I stammer, still staring up at the coffin.

“The state of preservation is remarkable, isn't it?” she says. “At first, my father was utterly confounded, but eventually he determined that some form of embalming procedure had taken place. He wasn't an expert, so he couldn't be sure of the details, but her rate of deterioration is staggeringly slow.”

“You said they got rid of her body!” I point out.

“I said the body's fate was not public knowledge,” she counters. “My father was a little vague about the details, but I gather that money changed hands. Some people had been paid to burn poor Muriel and, well, my father took her off their hands. He acquired her original coffin, too. He always was a stickler for detail. But I'm being so rude, aren't I? My dear, where are my manners? Shall I help you up?”

Getting to her feet, she holds a hand down toward me. I hesitate, and then I manage to get up, only to find myself once again looking down at the corpse in the coffin.

“I've never seen someone faint before,” Judith says. “Was that your first time?”

“This is really her,” I whisper, utterly shocked by the sight of Muriel Hyde's body. I still feel kind of weak, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to faint for the second time in as many minutes. “How is this legal? How can you just store a dead woman in your garage?”

“It's a shed,” she replies, “and you needn't worry about such things. I'm not doing anything disrespectful or immoral whatsoever.”

“But the law -”

“Oh, nobody cares,” she adds, sounding a little annoyed. “The people who know, know that I'm a responsible custodian. And the people who don't know... Well, they're absolutely fine with the whole thing, aren't they? There's really no need to go around kicking up a stink.”

Lost for words, I continue to stare at Muriel Hyde's body. There's a part of me that still thinks this might be some kind of sick gag, that the coffin contains nothing more than a very realistic wax doll. I consider reaching out to touch the face, but then I realize that perhaps that would be a bad idea. Besides, I'm suddenly reminded of that strange dream I had on my first night in the pub, in which I imagined myself finding a coffin downstairs. In the dream, I reached into the coffin twice, feeling fabric the first time and then nothing when I tried again.

Muriel Hyde's corpse is wearing a dress with curls of fabric.

“Have you ever seen a dead body before?” Judith asks. “I'm sorry, perhaps this is a terrible shock.”

“I've seen one,” I reply, thinking back to Mum's funeral. “Once.”

“The story of Muriel Hyde has never really gone away,” she continues. “Everyone in this town knows about her, and you'll find that most people swallow the official line about her having been a terrible woman. I don't know that I necessarily agree with them, however. One thing I am sure of, however, is that The King's Head has never been safe since. I don't want to get into the details of all the horrible stories, but you'll find few people around these parts who think Muriel's spirit has left that place. I hear that there was a commotion the other night. Some kind of banging sound?”

“Dad thinks that might have been caused by the pipes,” I tell her.

“He can think what he wants, but it wouldn't be the first time Muriel's interfered. She doesn't like noise in the pub, you see. I was friendly with a few of the previous landlords, and they all said the same thing. There's something lingering in that place, something left over from Muriel's day. If you ask me, the evidence against her was always very thin. I've often felt that someone somewhere didn't tell the truth about what happened to that poor woman. And if she was murdered... What would be more natural than for her to come back and seek revenge on the living?”

“It's just a building,” I reply cautiously. “Ghosts aren't real.”

“And you haven't seen or heard anything unusual over the past few days?”

I pause, thinking back to the two times when I seem to have fainted. The first time might have been a dream, but the second was real enough. Still, I don't want to encourage Judith to keep going on about this sort of thing, so I figure I'll keep my mouth shut. I know that ghosts aren't real. I've never been more sure of anything in my life.

“I should go,” I say finally, taking a step back.

“I have a lot more to show you,” she replies.

“More dead bodies?”

“No, nothing like that. But I have photos and documents, things that might help you make up your own mind about what happened to Muriel Hyde.”

“I'm sorry if she was the victim of something awful,” I reply, “but this really isn't any of my business. My father and I are interested in the future of the pub, and Muriel Hyde is part of its past.”

“You can't separate the two,” she says firmly. “If you try, you'll fail to see what's coming for you until it's too late.”

“And what exactly do you think is -”

“Get out of that pub!” she says, stepping toward me, as if somehow she's been holding this warning back the whole time. “I mean it! I've tried to reason with you, but there's no time to waste! I've seen what happens to people who live there, I've seen how she grinds them down!”

“Who?” I ask, shocked by this sudden change in her demeanor.

“Who do you think?” she snaps, before turning and pointing into the coffin. “Her! Muriel Hyde is still in that place! Everyone knows it, and she won't rest until she's had vengeance for what they did to her!”

“I really should go,” I tell her, turning to leave, only for her to grab my arm and hold me back. “Please...”

“You seem like a nice girl,” she continues, holding me tight, “and a smart girl. I don't know the full story about why and how you and your father end up here, but I'm begging you to listen to the lessons of history. Whatever you think you'll lose by abandoning The King's Head, you'll lose so much more if you stay!”

“I don't believe in ghosts,” I reply.

“Yes, you do.”

“Seriously, I -”

“You do!” she hisses, squeezing my arm tighter than ever. “I can see it in your eyes!”

“Please, let go of me,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I've already told you, I don't believe in any of this stuff and -”

“And I'm telling you, you do!” she shouts. “I've never seen it more clearly in anyone before! You can tell me it's not true, you can tell yourself, but deep down you don't just believe in them. You know they're real. And the sooner you accept that, and the sooner you come to terms with what you've seen, the sooner you and your father can get as far away from that pub as possible. I just pray that you escape before it's too late.”

Staring at her, I realize that maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe she really is completely nuts. She seems tired now, exhausted from her little outburst, and I pull my arm away before taking a step back.

“I'm only gonna say this to you one more time,” I tell her, struggling to keep my voice from trembling with shock. “I don't believe in ghosts. I've never seen a ghost.”

“You have!”

“And my father and I aren't going anywhere,” I add. “We're going to make this pub work, and we're going to prove all the naysayers wrong. You might not believe in us, and that's fine, but it doesn't matter to us at all. We're going to succeed at The King's Head, and I just hope that one day you're able to admit that you were wrong.” I pause, feeling a little surprised that I've managed to stand up for myself so well. “And now I'm leaving,” I add, “and I'm asking you very nicely, please don't interfere with what we're doing at the pub. I hope some day you'll come in for a drink, but only if you can hold back from all this rubbish.”

I hesitate, seeing the tears in her eyes, and then I turn and walk away.

“You'll regret it!” she calls after me as I head outside. “Don't say I didn't warn you! Don't say I didn't try to save you from her!”

Chapter Thirty

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“I don't believe you,” Elsa says sternly. “No, it's not possible. Richmal Foster was was on the poshest, most upper class men I ever met in my life. You can't seriously expect me to believe that he cared one jot about a rotten little pub down here in some forgotten town.”

“Then you underestimate how important some places can be to people,” I reply. “It's all true, Elsa. Richmal grew up in this very pub as a child, before his parents moved the family to York. To his final day, he longed for someone to take over the pub and make sure that it was run properly. At first I was naturally hesitant, but eventually he persuaded me. He'd heard that the pub might be shut down, and he couldn't let that happen. At the same time, when he broached the subject with his family, they insisted that he was out of his mind.”

“So he asked you to come and keep it going?”

“He knew that his family wouldn't honor his wishes. I already wanted to get out of York, and I cared very much for Richmal's needs. I owed him so much, and it was the only thing he ever asked of me. Of course, he gave me far too much money for the job.”

“So you do have some left?” she says, her eyes lighting up at the prospect.

“No!” I lie, before sighing. “This pub isn't exactly a huge success. I doubt anyone else would have stuck it out, but I made my promise to Richmal and I fully intend to keep that promise. He was such a good friend, it's the least I can do. So no, there's no money to give you, so don't ask again. As for the rumors that swirled about me back in York, about me being some whore who conned an old man out of money, I can assure you -”

“Some say you spent nights in his bed.”

“That is a lie!” I shout, storming toward her.

“Some even question whether he really fell down those stairs.”

“Don't you dare say another word!”

“Or was he pushed?”

Before I can control myself, I slap her hard on the side of the face. She flinches and pulls back, but then her vacuous smile returns.

“I know when you're lying, Muriel,” she chuckles, “and you're lying now. Maybe not about old Foster and his bizarre request, but you're lying about the money. You've got some left over, stashed away somewhere, and I think you should share some with your poor, widowed sister. If you don't want people in Malmeston to be gossiping about your past, that is.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Are you okay?”

Stopping in the doorway, I see that Dad's sitting at one of the tables in the corner, tapping at his laptop. I glance around, but the pub's otherwise completely empty. That's a little disappointing, but I guess it's not too bad for a weekday afternoon when most people are at work.

“It's early days yet,” Dad says, as if he's guessed what I was thinking. “My working theory is that it'll take time for people to get used to the place being open.”

“I'm sure you're right,” I reply, turning to him.

“Been for a wander?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I say, keenly aware that I shouldn't even begin to try to explain my bizarre experience with Judith Sinclair. Frankly, I hope that nut-job keeps far away from the pub from now on. “I got your note, I'm working on the cheese poster as we speak.”

“The cheese quiz poster, I think you mean.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“I was thinking about that round of questions you did,” he continues, “about embroidery.”

“I didn't write those questions.”

“Whatever. The point is, two people actually were really into it. And that's when I figured that I needed to come up with an unusual quiz, about a topic that's a little odd but also fun.”

“You're doing a quiz about cheese?”

“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?”

“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.

“Whore!” someone shouted at me in the street once, shortly before I left for good.

And now look at me, standing in an empty pub. I have succeeded in the first part of my task, for I have kept The King's Head open. There is beer to serve, and the fire is roaring. It is the second part of the task that vexes me, for I have always found it difficult to draw people into the place. I fear there is something about me that is not particularly welcoming, something cold and offensive. Perhaps, then, I should have redirected Mr. Foster's money to somebody else, to somebody better equipped to turn this place into a roaring success. By taking the burden upon myself, did I choose the easy option? Have I relied too much on Mr. Foster's kindness?

I glance over my shoulder, to check that Elsa is still upstairs, and then I head to the far end of the room. Crouching down, I take care to unfasten a hidden panel on the wall, and then I pull a section of wood away. Reaching inside, I feel the bag of money that I have long since hidden here. Even Jack does not know that this is in my possession. There is enough gold here to keep The King's Head running for the rest of my lifetime, but at some point the place will need to stand on its own feet and deliver a decent profit. So far, I have failed miserably in the task of getting anywhere close to that stage.

Perhaps I am taking the easy route, then. Perhaps, deep down, I am some kind of whore.

“Muriel?” Elsa calls out, and I suddenly hear her feet on the stairs. “Where are you, woman?”

I hurriedly replace the panel and get to my feet. I take a moment to pull my thoughts together, and then I turn just in time to see my sister coming through from the hallway and appearing behind the bar.

“What are you doing skulking around down here?” she asks. “Aren't you in the habit of serving breakfast to your guests?”

“I'm sorry,” I reply, “I -”

Before I can finish, the glass in one of the windows shatters, and I turn to see a hefty black brick crashing through. The brick slams into one of the tables and then falls to the floor.

Shocked, I step back as I hear the sound of somebody running off into the distance.

“Well,” Elsa says, putting her hands on her hips, “someone's popular round these parts.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Was it you?”

Stopping as her dog squats down for a pee, Judith Sinclair turns to me.

“Was it you, last night?” I ask, as we stand in the cemetery in the middle of town.

“Good morning to you too,” Judith says cautiously. “I'm afraid I -”

“Someone threw a brick through our window last night,” I tell her, “with the message 'Get Out' on the side. If that was you, then you're way out of line. The police came by today to take a look at the damage. There's not much they can do, and I didn't mention your name, but if you're responsible then I'm here to tell you to stop.”

I wait, but she's simply staring at me as if she's not quite sure what I'm talking about. Either that, or she's pretending that she doesn't know. Maybe she's just a good actor.

“Young lady,” she says finally, “for all my faults, I do not go around throwing bricks through windows. I'm very sorry that this has happened to you, but I must say that it only backs up what I told you before. I'm sure this wasn't the first brick that's gone through a window at that place, and it won't be the last. You and your father are getting involved in things that you don't understand and -”

“You mean ghosts?” I reply, interrupting her. “Because I already told you, we don't believe in ghosts.”

She hesitates, as if she's about to contradict me.

“Setting that aside for a moment,” she says cautiously, “there are other forces at work here. You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't want that pub to be open.”

“Why would anyone care?” I ask.

“Because they want it to stay sealed,” she replies. “They want it to be locked up so that they don't have to think about it anymore. So that they can pretend those awful things never happened. And, yes, so that they don't have to worry about something getting out.”

“We filled the pub last night for a quiz.”

“I can only imagine that those people were morbidly curious about the place,” she says. “You and your father should really reconsider your plans.”

“Getting out?” Sighing, I realize what she means. “For someone who keeps an actual corpse in her house,” I continue, “you're very keen to tell other people that they're making bad life choices.”

“Charley -”

“Stay away from our pub,” I tell her, figuring that I need to end this nonsense now. I'm still not entirely convinced that she didn't throw that brick last night. “Do you understand? If you come anywhere near it again, I'll tell the police that they should talk to you about a few things. Including the dead body you've got in your weird little collection.”

With that, I turn and walk away, not giving her a chance to come up with any more nonsense. I hear her call my name, but I don't look back. Hopefully I've scared her sufficiently. Hopefully Dad and I can get on with things now, without having any more idiots talking about ghost stories.

***

A guy is already fixing the window as I return to the pub. I glance across the square and see a couple of women watching from the far corner, but I tell myself that there's no need to worry. Once the window has been fixed, people will stop gossiping and we can get back to normal. I've already got quite a few ideas about how we can boost the pub's performance and, as I step inside, I'm ready to give Dad a whole lost of possibilities.

As soon as I see him sitting with his head in his hands, however, I realize that something's wrong.

“Hey,” I say cautiously, stopping next to the bar. “Are you having trouble deciding what to do with the massive takings from last night's cheese quiz?”

He sighs as he looks at me, and I can immediately tell from his expression that this is serious.

“What?” I ask. “Dad, talk to me.”

“I just got an email through from the brewery,” he replies. “They're making some changes to the way that my payments work. Originally I had an agreement that I could pay back the original beer orders on a delayed scheme, but now they want all payments up-front, ninety days before deliveries are due. That means I suddenly have to find the money to pay for the next twelve weeks. Today.”

“They can't do that,” I tell him.

“Actually, I've been looking through the paperwork, and they can.”

“No, they can't,” I say, trying not to panic. “Dad, you signed contracts with them. They can't just change those contracts when they feel like it.”

“Sure, but they can enforce the contracts,” he replies, before sighing again. “I had an unofficial agreement with the brewery, that they'd delay the first set of payments, but I never actually got that in writing. I didn't think that I needed to.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that Gary Hayes is doing the opposite of what he promised,” he says. “It means that I thought a handshake was worth something these days.”

“But it is!” I tell him. “You can take them to court!”

“I have no proof,” he replies. “Charley, we have to face facts, I've been an idiot here. I thought I could just about make the finances work, and I could, but only if the brewery kept to their word.”

“Call Gary Hayes,” I reply. “Maybe he just forgot.”

“He didn't forget,” he says. “I just don't get it, though. Everything seemed fine just a few days ago. What could have changed to make him suddenly turn against us like this?”

“He was here last night,” I point out.

“I know. I spoke to him briefly, but we didn't get a chance to talk properly.”

“He saw how well everything was going,” I continue. “This doesn't make sense, why would he pull the rug out from under us, just after he saw that we were turning the pub around and making a go of it?”

“I don't know,” Dad mutters. “Maybe he just doesn't want us to succeed.”

I open my mouth to tell him that the idea is ludicrous, but at the last moment I suddenly realize that he might have a point. After all, Mr. Hayes definitely didn't seem particularly overjoyed last night, and I got a weird vibe from him whenever I tried to point out how well we were doing. He's part of the family that owns the Hayes and Storford Brewery, so I can't understand why he'd be set against the pub's success, and yet right now that's the one thing that actually makes a degree of sense.

“It's not over quite yet,” Dad says. “I'm going to see what I can do, maybe I can pull some money in from other places, at least to keep us going for a few more weeks while I try to find a long-term solution. Just... don't get too attached to this place just yet, Charley. There's a fair chance that our career as pub runners might be short-lived.”

“No,” I reply, “we can't let that happen. They can't just screw us over like this, there has to be something else we can do. Maybe if -”

“I'm trying!” he snaps angrily, before leaning back in his seat. “I'm sorry, Charley, I didn't mean to shout. Just... I need some time to think, okay? I need to figure out what our options are.” He sighs. “I've got one week's grace to decide whether or not I can accept these terms. That's basically one week to come up with a huge amount of money. Just let me think, Charley. I'm good at getting us out of tight spots. We've still got a chance here.”

I want to tell him that everything'll be alright, but somehow I can't get the words out. Last night, after the cheese quiz, I actually thought that things were going in the right direction. Then came the brick, and now this bombshell from the brewery. I don't want to be pessimistic, but it's as if the world is pushing back against us and actively trying to keep us down. It's as if some kind of external force is determined to make sure that we fail here at The King's Head. But if that's the case, then why let us even try? Why would the brewery go to all the trouble of installing us at the pub, only to then go out of their way to shut us down?

Chapter Thirty-Six

Muriel Hyde

1910...

Stopping at the end of the street, I see the brewery's large, imposing office building rising up ahead. I rarely venture to this part of town, partly because I have no real business here but partly, I think, because I subconsciously wish to keep far away. Even now, I feel fear and dread stirring in my chest, and I struggle to keep from turning and hurrying away.

The Hayes and Storford building is a large, gray-bricked structure that used, I believe, to be a convent school. It is from here that the great Randolph Hayes directs his growing business empire; it is from here, too, that illicit orders are sent out to the smugglers who keep the business afloat. Everyone knows that the brewery is involved in such things, but I suppose it's true that there's nothing small men can do to stand up to great power. Hayes and Storford imposes its presence upon the entire town, offering certain gains and protections, and the people of Malmeston are happy to accept that arrangement.

I can see the windows of Randolph Hayes's office. I am quite sure that he is in there, working at his desk. I am equally sure that my visit here today will be a failure, that it might even make matters worse. Yet the brick through my window has made me understand that I can delay no longer, and Jack has been gone for almost a day now. One way or another, I can no longer hide away in the pub and hope for the best. I must face matters directly.

I can only hope that Randolph Hayes will show some mercy.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Charley Lucas

Today...

It's 2am. The square is dark, but there are a couple of streetlights, one at either end. I can just about make out the bench that runs in a ring around a large, sprawling tree. Rain is falling steadily but weakly, tapping against the window, and the pub's sign is creaking in a gentle breeze, and I don't know why I'm even bothering to watch.

I guess it must be fear.

When Dad and I arrived in Malmeston, I told myself to not get attached to the place. After all, I knew Dad was stretching himself thin by taking on the pub, and I knew there was a good chance that we'd end up failing. The hard part is that, for a few tantalizing days, I actually began to think that we had a shot, that Dad would turn out to be some miraculously brilliant landlord who'd succeed where so many other people had failed.

That's not looking so likely right now.

So I guess it's not mystery why I can't sleep. Still looking out the window, I feel as if I might never sleep again. I'm not remotely tired, and matters aren't helped by the fact that Dad's long-promised beds still haven't materialized. Actually, no, that's not fair; I know that I'd never be able to sleep on a night like this, not even in the biggest and most comfortable bed that's ever existed. The problem is all in my head.

And I know there's only one way to clear my thoughts.

***

I gently pull the back door shut, before turning and heading out across the beer garden. Rain is still spitting down, but not enough to bother me. I've never minded a little bad weather, so I simply take care as I slip out onto the street and start making my way to the beach. Already, with the wind on my face, I know that I've made the right choice. I need to get my head straight.

After a few minutes, I reach the promenade. The first thing I see is that the main board on Dad's sign has come off, probably due to the bad weather, so I head over and start fixing it back into place. I swear, this thing falls apart several times a week, and I think Dad needs to invest in a better board once he's up and running properly. If he ever gets up and running properly, that is. I fiddle with the sign, hoping to make it more secure, and then I get to my feet and stand back.

The wind is really howling up here, and I can hear waves crashing in the darkness. I turn and look out to sea. All I see at first is darkness, but after a few seconds a red light blinks briefly on and then off; a few seconds after that, there's another light a little to the north. It's crazy to think of cargo boats out there in the night, passing each other in the English Channel. I have an app on my phone that tells me the names of boats and where they're going, but unfortunately I left my phone at home tonight.

I watch the lights for a moment longer, before stepping forward and making my way down onto the shingle. The pebbles crunch loudly beneath my feet, but I guess that's no problem. Who am I going to bother, out here in the middle of the night? A few ghosts?

I walk toward the sound of crashing waves, daring myself to get closer in the darkness and only slowing my pace when I finally feel fresh spray against my face. Looking down, I don't see anything, but my feet don't feel wet so far. Still, I don't actually want to go into the water, so I simply stand for a few minutes and listen to the awesome sound of the sea crashing against the shore. There's something so insane about the idea of the sea crashing and rolling as it's rocked by the tides of the moon. Or something like that. I'm not entirely sure how it works.

Crouching down, I put my hand against the pebbles. They're cold and wet, but I like that. I move my hand to the right, in the darkness, and feel some seaweed, and for a moment I'm able to put all my worries out of my mind. Dad, the pub, that Gary Hayes asshole, the brick, Judith Sinclair's crazy ideas and the dead body in her shed... I just let it all go for a few minutes and instead I take long, deep breaths as I tell myself that somehow Dad and I will muddle through. We have to muddle through. We have nowhere else to go.

Getting to my feet, I head back up the beach. I glance around, half hoping that I might hear the voices that I heard the other night, that maybe I can spook myself into believing in ghosts. No such luck, sadly, and by the time I get back up onto the promenade I'm actually feeling a little sad. I think I'd like ghosts to be real, even if I can't fool myself into believing that they are. I wouldn't be scared by ghosts, I'd be comforted, but as I turn and look back toward the beach, I hear only the sound of howling wind.

No ghosts.

***

I push the pub's back door open and listen for a moment, and then I slip inside. Dad must still be asleep. I don't even know why I'm sneaking around, it's not as if I'm doing anything wrong, but I guess Dad might not like me going out alone. He'd fuss about the dangers and the risks, like Malmeston's some kind of crime hot-spot. I don't fancy hearing any of that, so I very carefully shut the door and slide the bolt across.

Suddenly I feel a hand fall upon my left shoulder, and I turn in the darkness.

***

“Charley? Charley, what are you doing?”

My eyes blink open, and I find myself standing in a completely different room. A moment later Dad switches on a light, and I realize that I'm in his bedroom, standing over his makeshift bed of duvets.

“Charley? Were you sleepwalking?”

I turn and see him staring at me, bleary-eyed and clearly not quite awake.

“What?” I ask, still not quite understanding what's happening.

“I woke up and you were right there,” he continues, “towering over me. I've got to admit, for a moment I was a little freaked out, but then I saw it was just you. What's wrong? Did something scare you?”

Before I can answer him, I realize that there's a pretty nasty smell in here. Looking down, I see brown marks on the floor, and then I check the sole of my left shoe.

“Nice,” Dad says with a sigh, “you stepped in dog poo. Wait, why have you got your shoes on? Have you been outside?”

“I went for a walk,” I tell him, as I slip my shoes off. I still feel pretty flustered, but I know I need to at least pretend to have my head in the right gear. “I couldn't sleep, that's all.”

“You went for a walk? At four in the morning?”

“It's only two,” I tell him.

“No, it's four.”

“But when I went out it was -”

Stopping myself, I realize that something feels very wrong. I know that it was 2am when I left, and I was only down on the beach for about half an hour at most. Then I came home, and I slipped inside and shut the door, and then...

And then I felt that hand on my shoulder.

I instinctively turn and look around, but of course there's no sign of anyone now. All I see is Dad's bare room.

“Sometimes you really scare me,” Dad says. “Listen, you can't go traipsing around in the middle of the night. I know Malmeston's not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity, but it's still not a safe place for a -”

“I get it,” I say, not wanting to hear any more of this lecture. “I'll find a bucket and some soap, and I'll clean the floor.”

“But -”

“I'll clean it up!”

As I hurry through to the kitchen, I'm struggling to keep from panicking. I seem to have lost somewhere between sixty and ninety minutes tonight, and this time I'm certain I didn't faint. What was I doing for over an hour, between coming through the door and then finding myself next to Dad's bed? It'd ordinarily take me thirty seconds, tops, to get from the door to that room, which leaves up to eighty-nine minutes unaccounted for. And I don't like having a gap in my memory like that.

I grab a bucket and start filling it with soapy water, and I try to get my head together. The hand on my shoulder was obviously nonsense, that didn't really happen, I was just tired. But the rest? The rest is starting to really freak me out, because I almost feel as if I'm not properly in control of myself anymore.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“Ah, Ms. Hyde,” Randolph Hayes says as I am shown through into his large, well-decorated office. “You will forgive me, I hope, if I do not stand to greet you. My legs are truly unfit for purpose.”

I open my mouth to tell him that this is fine, but then the door is shut behind me and I shudder as I realize that I am now alone with the man dubbed 'Malmeston's Savior'.

“I so rarely receive visitors,” he continues, his voice echoing somewhat in so large a room. “Please, come a little closer so that we might speak properly. I do so hate having to shout my side of a conversation, and my hearing is not so good these days.”

I hesitate, and then I make my way over to his desk. I am already worrying that this trip has been a mistake, that I was foolish to believe I could ever make a man such as Randolph Hayes listen to my concerns. I represent but one of many pubs that are in his orbit.

“And how is business in your part of town?” he asks, leaning back on a chair that creaks loudly under his considerable weight. “Brisk? Encouraging?”

I try to work out how to begin, but in truth I do not know. I have never been particularly eloquent, so I suppose I should simply get to the heart of the matter.

“Have you told people to stay away from The King's Head?” I ask.

I wait, but he simply stares at me, as if perhaps he is surprised by my directness.

“I have never,” he says finally, “in my life directed anybody to stay away from any particular establishment. That is simply not in my nature as a man.” He pauses. “Of course,” he continues, “I have conversations about my own private thoughts, and it is no fault of mine if people listen and take action. Indeed, over the past few days I have mentioned certain doubts that are forming concerning your running of The King's Head. Your harboring, for example, of certain undesirable individuals.”

“If you're talking about Jack, then -”

“Jack Farnham damn near killed my nephew.”

“Jack would never -”

“He broke his nose and fractured his jaw in a fight,” Hayes says firmly. “I know there's supposed to be no honor among thieves, and I regret that my nephew Edward can be a little angry at times, but still... blood is blood, and Mr. Farnham has to answer for his crimes. There's also the small matter of his attempts to set up his own little operation out there on the beach. Now, I won't insult you by pretending that I don't have interests in the activities that go on at night, but I do so for the good of the town. I'm not simply trying to line my own pockets. I believe that by making Hayes and Storford a success, I can lift the prospects of Malmeston and all its fine inhabitants.”

“Where is Jack?” I ask.

“I was reasonably certain that he has been hiding in your pub for the past few days.”

“He left yesterday, and I have not seen him since.”

“Then we are in the same boat, my dear,” he replies sternly. “I have men looking for him. Perhaps he has flown away entirely.”

“He would not do that.”

“Why not?” He stares at me for a moment longer, and then his face breaks into a great big smile. “Because he loves you? Because you love him? Because true love will somehow win the day?”

“Have you had him hurt?”

“No. Not for want of trying. Of course, he can avoid all of that if he simply comes to me like a man and apologizes.”

“He's not a bad person.”

“I know, and in other circumstances he could find a good job here at the brewery. I need men like him, men who are smart, not dull-witted buffoons like Edward.” He raises an amused eyebrow. “Do you know what I think? I think your friend Jack just has an urge to fight authority in all its shapes and forms. He doesn't think properly, he simply rebels at every available opportunity. Like a caged animal.”

“Jack is -”

“I don't think the company you keep reflects well on you, Ms. Hyde,” he adds, interrupting me. “According to the newspapers, women these days are starting to think they should be equal to men. They want to vote, they want to make their own choices. I suppose I can respect that in some ways, but there has to be some give and take. If women want that kind of status, then they have to hold back their own weaknesses and excesses. It does your sex no good, Ms. Hyde, for the likes of you to be turning to puddles just because some man has promised he'll treat you right one day.”

“Tell me you don't have Jack,” I reply, through gritted teeth.

“You're trembling.”

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are. Your hands, woman.”

Looking down, I see that he is right. My hands, which are clutching a small purse that I brought out today, are indeed starting to shake, and they only get worse as I become aware of the problem.

Turning to Mr. Hayes again, I feel utterly helpless.

“Your beloved Jack is not here,” he says. “Of that, you have my word. Perhaps it's best if he's never seen around these parts again. You might even be able to prove your character, Ms. Hyde. You might become respectable again, in which case I can imagine your pub starting to recover. I hope that's what happens. Now, if you don't mind, I have some important papers to read.”

I want to beg him to leave Jack alone, but I fear that he has already laid out his position on this matter. He is staring at me most intently, and after a moment I take an inadvertent step back. I suppose I hoped to reason with him, but I rather fear that I have perhaps made matters worse.

“Good day,” I say finally, somewhat weakly, and then I turn and hurry out of the room as fast as I can manage.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Charley Lucas

Today...

“It's unfortunate,” I hear a voice saying downstairs, as I wake up in the pile of duvets on the floor in my room, “but I always said that the deal was a best case scenario.”

“We shook on it,” Dad replies. “I thought we had a clear understanding of my obligations here.”

“You signed the papers, Mr. Lucas. No-one tricked you. You were told a set of scenarios, and I'm sorry if you assumed that everything would go the way you wanted it, but this is a business. You have a week to make your decision, and I'd be very sorry to see you give the pub up. You seem like a very capable man and I have full faith in your ability to push through this and make it work. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment at The Golden Bow and I don't want to be late.”

“But -”

“My great grandfather Randolph Hayes once said that one must never lose sight of the fact that this is a business first and foremost,” Hayes adds. “It's best to keep emotion out of the equation. I have a painting of him on the wall of my office, and I think about his words every single day. Perhaps you, too, should give them some consideration.”

I hear him leaving, and I sit in silence as I realize that this situation is getting really serious. If Dad doesn't figure something out soon, we might very well end up losing the pub. All because Gary Hayes from the brewery lied to my father and then thought he could double-cross him.

***

“No, mate, everything's fine,” I hear Gary saying as I walk toward The Golden Bow, “you don't need to worry. Soon we'll be able to dust off the plans for the flats and then everyone'll be happy.”

Stopping at the side of the pub, I realize Gary's voice is coming from the beer garden. I make my way along a narrow alley, and then I step through an open gate and see him talking to a guy at the back door.

“This was always just a bump in the road,” he continues, “and -”

As soon as he spots me, he shuts up. I see a hint of surprise on his face, but then he manages a smile.

“I'll be inside,” the other guy, presumably the landlord of this place, says as he disappears from sight and shuts the door. “Call me when you know for sure.”

“Ms. Lucas,” Gary says, coming over to me with an outstretched hand, “what a pleasant surprise? Are you checking out the opposition or just -”

“You can't change the terms of your deal with my father!” I say firmly. “It's not fair!”

“What has he told you?”

“That you made a promise and now you're going back on it!”

“I made a commitment to try to do something to help out,” he replies, with a smile still lingering on his lips, “on top of the cast-iron contract that your father signed, in which he specifically agreed to a set of measures designed to mitigate the risk on both our parts.”

“You're screwing him over!”

“That's some very emotional language,” he says. “Listen, I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but you're not old enough to really understand what's going on. The pub business is for adults, and I appreciate that you're trying to support your father but this is not the way to do it. I'm still very much on your father's side, Charley, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure that he makes a success of The King's Head. No-one at Hayes and Storford wants to see that pub have to shut its doors again. We're very keen to turn the place around.”

I stare at him for a moment, but there's something about his face that's bugging me. He looks really pleased with himself, as if he's struggling to hide his true feelings. I don't want to admit that I heard the details of his plans, not yet, because I want to stay one step ahead.

“I don't believe you,” I say finally.

“In that case, I think our conversation is at an end. And I'll be sure to mention this little incident to your father, next time I see him. I can't imagine that he has any idea you're here.”

“He just needs a break!”

“And he's got one. Now he needs to make it work.”

With that, he turns and heads toward the gate.

“You can't just walk away!” I say as I hurry after him. Grabbing his arm, I step around him and block his way out of the beer garden. “Please, I'm sorry if I came across all wrong, but I'm begging you. Isn't there anything you can do to give him some breathing space?”

I wait, hating the fact that I'm getting desperate but also hoping against hope that somehow I'll be able to wring some concessions out of this guy. Sure, Gary Hayes is a businessman, but he has to have a heart.

“Please,” I continue, “we'll do anything, but we need this pub. You know we can make a success of it, if we just get a fair crack.”

“Charley -”

“Or don't you want us to succeed?” I add. “Is that it? Is there some reason why you want us to fail?”

“That's a rather spurious allegation,” he replies stiffly, and his whole tone seems to have changed. No longer amused, he actually appears to be rather annoyed. “You should be careful, Ms. Lucas, before you go running around making such claims. Someone with less tolerance than myself might very well consider you words to be an act of libel.”

“I was just trying to figure out what's really going on here,” I tell him. “And, by the way, libel has to be written down. If anything, my comments would be slander.”

“You're a smart girl,” he says. “Maybe too smart.”

“I just want to be sure that my father's being given a fair chance,” I reply. “It wouldn't be fair if people are actively working against him.”

At this, Hayes lets out a faint smirk, before turning once again to leave.

“Go home,” he mutters dismissively. “You and your father have a big decision to make and -”

“No!” I snap, suddenly grabbing him again, this time spinning him around and slamming him against the wall. “That's not fair! You can't just screw us over like that!”

“Ms. Lucas -”

“How dare you?” I shout, stepping closer to him and seeing a sudden shift in her eyes, as if he's terrified of me. “Do you really think you can get away with doing anything you want? You can't just treat people's lives like they're disposable, like they're just assets that belong to your brewery! I won't let you do that!”

I wait for him to reply, but instead he simply stares at me with an expression of genuine fear. At first I assume that he's joking, that he'll break into a laugh at any moment, but I swear it's as if all the color has drained from his face. I wait a moment longer, worried that my outburst went too far, and then I take a step back.

As soon as he has the chance, he turns and hurries out through the gate, and he runs away before I have a chance to apologize.

Stepping back, I try to figure out what just happened. Sure, I was angry, but I've been angry about things before and this was the first time I've ever boiled over like that. At the same time, I wasn't that aggressive, so why did Gary Hayes act as if he was about to faint? He looked utterly petrified of me, which really makes no sense at all. Suddenly feeling exhausted, I lean against the wall for a moment as I try to regain my strength, and I'm genuinely shocked by the fact that I seemed to lose all control.

For a moment there, I didn't even feel as if I was properly myself. It was almost as if something or someone else came bursting out of me. Maybe that's why Gary Hayes ran off so quickly. I still feel out-of-sorts, as if that anger is in my soul, but I tell myself that I just need to get out of this yard. I step forward, but then I spot movement and I turn just in time to spot my own reflection in a nearby window. I stare at myself for a moment, shocked by the realization that something looks wrong, and then my knees buckle and I fall, slamming down hard against the ground.

As soon as I open my eyes, I realize what must have happened. I fainted again, although this time I'm pretty sure that I can't have been out for long.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, I see the landlord of The Golden Bow standing at the back door.

“I'm fine,” I stammer, before hurrying out of the beer garden. “I'm sorry. I'm completely fine.”

Chapter Forty

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“Ms. Hyde, are you alright?”

Stopping suddenly, I turn to see Dusty Fowler standing nearby, watching me from the corner of the street. For a moment I feel startled, and as I look around I realize that I am not sure how I ended up here. I left the Hayes and Storford building some time ago, and my mind was filled with worries about Jack. I must have momentarily taken leave of my senses, for now here I am next to the church and I have no recollection of the past few minutes.

“You were talking to yourself,” Dusty says as he comes over to me. “Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but I was just a little worried. Are you feeling quite yourself?”

“I am fine, thank you,” I say, hoping to avoid any further questions. “I'm sorry if I gave you any cause for concern.”

“I understand,” he replies, before hesitating for a moment. “I'm sorry, Ms. Hyde. Truly I am.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For all the unpleasantness. I want you to know, I don't believe a word of what anyone's saying about you.”

I hesitate, filled with the urge to turn and run but also knowing that I must hear what he has to say.

“And what,” I ask cautiously, “are people saying about me?”

“I'd feel rotten repeating it.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” he replies, “there are certain rumors going around, suggesting that you stole an old man's money before you came to Malmeston.”

“That's a lie!” I snap.

“They're also saying that maybe you gave a child away to one of the orphanages,” he continues, “before you arrived here. I'm not saying I believe that, but it's what people are whispering.”

“A child?” I reply, shocked by the suggestion. “There was no child! That part is a complete concoction!”

“They also say that you cut your own sister off,” he adds, “and left her a poor widow with a son to raise, when you could have helped and given them some of your money.”

“My -”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that this particular detail is rather telling. The rest of this wretched tissue of lies could have been gained from the York rumor mill, but there is only one person in the entire world who genuinely thinks that I did anything untoward with regards to my sister.

“Excuse me,” I say, as I feel anger starting to burn in my chest, “but I must go and speak to someone immediately.”

Chapter Forty-One

Charley Lucas

Today...

Sitting in a cafe near the church, I type some more questions into my phone, hoping to figure out exactly what's happening to me:

What is fainting a symptom of?

So far, I haven't really come up with very much. Fainting seems to be a symptom of so many conditions, and I haven't really been able to narrow things down. I might be stressed, or I might have a brain tumor, or there might be lots of other things going on in my head. One thing's certain, however; I've now fainted several times in the past week, and I don't think that's a coincidence.

I think something's really wrong.

The waitress brings my tea over. I thank her, and then I glance across the cafe. There are quite a few people here, although after a few seconds my gaze falls upon a man who's sitting at the very back of the room, all alone. I think he catches my attention for two reason: first, he doesn't seem to have any food or drinks at his table; and second, there's something about his appearance that doesn't feel quite right. I watch him for a moment longer as he sits staring at the window, and that's when I realize that he doesn't seem to be in the same light as everyone else. It's almost as if he's sitting in a kind of gloom, even though there's a light right about his table.

A moment later, I think back to something that the guy on the beach said to me a few nights ago:

“Everyone's seen a ghost. Most people don't notice it, of course. They spot a figure in the distance, or at the back of a crowded room, and they don't realize that something's wrong. Or they realize, but they just put the matter out of their mind. There aren't people who see ghosts and people who don't. There are merely people who realize they see ghosts, and people who won't, or can't, accept the truth.”

I tell myself that the whole idea is nonsense. At the same time, I can't help staring at the man, and I swear he looks almost as if he exists in a whole other world. I want to believe that this is just some kind of optical illusion, but he actually doesn't seem right somehow. And then, just as I'm about to force myself to turn away, he looks straight at me as if he knows that I've spotted him.

I should break eye contact, but I don't.

For the next few seconds, we simply stare at one another, and his dour, mournful expression doesn't change at all.

And then, suddenly, a woman approaches his table. He looks up at her, gets to his feet, and smiles as they hug. Having apparently forgotten all about me, he starts talking to the woman as they both sits down, and then the waitress goes over and takes their order. The man still seems to be in a slightly different light, but I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize that he's definitely alive. I guess that little wobble was a good example of how easy it is to start believing crazy things.

Still, I can't help looking out across the rest of the cafe, watching out for anyone else who might look a little 'off'. There are a few people sitting alone, but I think I can confidently say that they all seem to be alive. Finally, realizing that I've been letting my mind wander quite a bit, I turn and instead look out the window in the hope that I'll be able to clear my head.

That's when I spot Judith's dog Bonnie wandering past, dragging her lead along the wet ground, with Judith nowhere to be seen.

***

“Hello?” I call out as I reach Judith's garden gate and find that it's been left slightly ajar. “Judith, are you here? I found Bonnie in the street, she was out all alone.”

I wait, but I don't hear a reply.

Looking down at Bonnie, I still find it pretty odd that she was out by herself.

“Where's Mummy?” I ask, even though I know there's no real point. “Where did Mummy go? Can you fetch Mummy?”

Bonnie looks at me for a moment, before turning and looking back along the street. I don't think she's trying to give me any directions; rather, she seems like a pretty dopey dog. There's no way I can spend all day wandering around in the hope that we'll bump into Judith, however, so I push the gate open and step through into the yard. I really don't want to be here, especially given how crazy Judith got the other day, but I can't just abandoned Bonnie so instead I make sure that the gate's properly secured and then I release her from her lead.

She immediately runs to the back door and pushes it open, disappearing into the house.

I head after her and stop at the door, looking through into the corridor.

“Judith?” I call out. “Hello? It's Charley Lucas from the pub! I found Bonnie outside and I brought her back. Are you home?”

I wait.

Silence.

I guess maybe she's out at the shops. Alternatively, maybe she knows Bonnie's on the loose and she's out looking for her. I guess Bonnie's safe enough now, so I turn to go back out to the street. At the last moment, however, I spot a shoe on the floor in the door to Judith's front room, and then I feel a shudder in my chest as I realize that there seems to be a foot in the shoe, almost as if Judith has collapsed. I hesitate for a moment, unable to believe what I'm seeing, and then I hurry through to find that she's flat on her back on the floor, with Bonnie gently nudging the side of her face.

“Judith!” I shout, rushing around her and dropping to my knees. “Judith, can you hear me?”

Her eyes are open, staring glassily toward the ceiling.

I check the side of her neck for a pulse, but there's nothing. I check her wrists, and still there's no hint of a heartbeat. I don't think she's blinked once since I found her, and Bonnie's letting out a series of whimpers as she continues to push against Judith's face.

“It's going to be okay,” I stammer, desperately trying to figure out what to do next. “Judith, if you can hear me, I'm going to call an ambulance! I'm going to get help!”

I wait, but deep down I already know that I'm too late. I still want to believe that I can save her, but it's clear that there's no hope. I hesitate, and I swear I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, and a moment later Bonnie comes over and paws at my arm as if she wants me to do something.

“It's going to be okay,” I say, turning to her as she lets out a mournful whimper. “I... I'm going to call someone.”

***

“And you didn't move her at all after you found her?” the police officer asks as he makes another note in his book.

“I only checked for a pulse,” I reply, sitting on a stool in Judith's kitchen and replaying that awful moment over and over in my head. “I've never found someone collapsed like that before. I didn't know what to do.”

“All the indications suggest that she'd been dead for quite a few hours,” the officer says. “It doesn't seem as if there was anything more you could have done. And you said you think she lived alone?”

“She never mentioned anyone else. To be honest, I didn't really know her very well at all. My father and I have only just moved to the area.”

“I'll need to take some contact details,” he replies. “Can we start with an address?”

“We lived above The King's Head.”

As soon as I say the pub's name, I see a trace of concern in the officer's face. He stares at me for a moment, before making a note.

“How long will it be before you know what happened to her?” I ask.

“There'll be an examination of the body in the next day or two,” he explains. “At the moment, there's nothing to suggest foul play, but we won't know anything for certain until the report comes back. Don't worry, we only need your details in case we have any more questions.”

As he says those words, another officer comes through from the rear of the house.

“You need to come and see this,” he says. “There are some signs of forced entry to the door of a structure at the far end of the garden.”

“The shed?” I ask. “Did someone break in?”

“There's no need to jump to conclusions,” the first officer tells me. “It might just be -”

“She has a dead body in there,” I blurt out.

He furrows his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's old,” I explain. “She sort of hinted that people knew about it, but I wasn't convinced that could be true. She showed me the other day, it's the body of Muriel Hyde, the former landlady of The King's Head?”

“You're saying that Ms. Sinclair had an actual corpse out there?”

“I know it sounds crazy,” I tell him, “but I saw it with my own eyes. She has a kind of museum in the shed, full of things from the history of the town. It's like a hoarder's paradise out there. Not that I'm saying she was a hoarder, of course. I just mean... Well, she didn't throw much away.”

“Including dead bodies?” the first officer asks dubiously.

“We didn't see anything like that in there,” the other officer adds.

“I can show you,” I say, getting to my feet. “It's probably nothing to do with any of this, but it's still pretty weird.”

“Lead the way,” the first officer replies, and I head out into the hallway with them both right behind me.

As we make our way to the shed, I feel increasingly nervous. I don't particularly want to see Muriel Hyde's corpse again, but I figure that at least the police will take it away and give it a proper burial. Somehow I've not liked knowing about the corpse, even when I was safely in my room at the pub, and by the time we get into the shed I've managed to convince myself that at least getting rid of the body will be a good thing. When I reach the far end of the room, however, I stop as I see that there's no sign of the coffin.

I look around, but it's gone, and finally I turn to the two officers.

“Did you take it away already?” I ask.

“Nothing's been removed,” the second officer replies, and I can tell that he's getting increasingly skeptical. “There are some pretty lurid photos on the walls, including some that might show bodies. Are you sure you didn't just see those and... jump to conclusions?”

“I didn't imagine a dead body,” I say firmly, turning and looking toward the empty space at the far end of the room. “It was right there!”

“Are you suggesting that someone broke in and stole the body?”

I turn to the officers, and I can tell that they seem extremely dubious.

“We'll make a note of your claims,” the first officer says, “and see if we come up with anything. If any hundred-year-old bodies show up on the black market, we'll be sure to take some interest. There are signs of a possible forced entrance, so I suppose anything's possible. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Lucas, you've been very helpful. We'll be in touch if we need any further information from you.”

“It was right over there,” I say again, turning to look once more at the empty space. “I'm not making this up. The body of Muriel Hyde was here just a couple of days ago.”

Even as those words leave my lips, however, I know that I must sound like a lunatic. The worst part is, the more I insist I'm right, the more I'm gonna sound like an idiot. The truth, though, is that Muriel Hyde's body was here and now it's gone. And that seems like an awfully big coincidence, even if I can't imagine why anyone in their right mind would want to steal a corpse.

Chapter Forty-Two

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“I might have spoken to a few people,” Elsa says as I follow her through into the bar area, “but I didn't say anything I shouldn't have done. I certainly didn't say anything that's untrue.”

“You spoke to Randolph Hayes, didn't you?”

“He seems like a very nice man,” she replies nonchalantly. “Very powerful, too. I respect powerful men, they -”

“How dare you?” I snap, grabbing her arm and forcing her to turn to me. “You know those rumors about a child were false! Mr. Foster and I had a pure, platonic friendship, and now you're dredging up the worst gossip from the gutter!”

“I wouldn't be here at all if you'd provided for us better,” she says. “We're family, Muriel, even if you've changed your surname. Mr. Hayes was very pleasant, he gave me cups of tea and slices of cake. That's the sign of a gentleman, and you can't blame me for being grateful.”

“What did you tell him?”

“About you? Everything. All the truth, and all the rumors.”

“You came here to ruin my new life,” I snarl.

“If you put yourself in a position where the truth is ruinous,” she replies, “then that says more about you than it does about anybody else.”

I step toward her, meaning to slap her hard on the side of the face, but I somehow manage to restrain myself. Still, for a moment I feel murderous rage boiling over in my chest, and it takes every ounce of self-control for me to hold back from wrapping my hands around her wretched throat.

“You look troubled,” she says finally. “Is all that guilt starting to catch up to you?”

“Where's Jack?” I ask, as tears run down my face. “Have you seen him?”

“I don't know where your lover has gone,” she replies, “but if he's got any sense, he'll be far from here by now. Apparently he ruffled a few feathers and broke a few noses. They say he's rather handsome, though, so I can imagine the appeal. Maybe you'll have need of a visit to an orphanage yet, if -”

Suddenly I slap her hard, harder than I ever dreamed possible. This is not the first time I have struck her, of course. It is not even the first time this week. Somehow, though, I feel as if some invisible inner line has been crossed, a line that leaves me feeling utterly cold to my own sister. And whereas she laughed before, this time her expression is one of pure hatred, and for a moment I truly believe that she might be able to strike me in return.

“You'll regret that, Muriel,” she says. “Oh, believe me, you'll regret it more than you can ever imagine.”

Turning, I hurry through to the hallway, and then I make my way upstairs. I am overcome with emotion, and there are tears in my eyes as I reach the bathroom and lock myself away. Leaning back against the wall, I try desperately to regather my composure, but I feel as if my entire life is starting to fall apart. I came to Malmeston and started afresh, and for a while everything seemed to be working very well. Now it's all failing, and I can't help thinking that perhaps there is something about me that hinders all attempts at happiness.

I step forward and look down at the sink. I need to splash some water on my face, but – at the last moment – I glance at the cracked mirror on the wall and I am startled to see some other face staring back at me.

For a moment, I can only stare at a young girl, no older than fifteen or sixteen, who is looking at me with a stunned expression. I have never seen this girl before in my life, and I have no idea how she is reflected in my mirror. I turn and look over my shoulder, but she is not there. When I look at the mirror again, she is gone from there as well and I see only my own reflection. I step back, and then I slide down against the door until I am on the floor. Putting my face in my hands, I start sobbing wildly.

I must be losing my mind. And this time, perhaps there is no way back to sanity.

Chapter Forty-Three

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Come on, Bonnie,” I say as I lead Judith's dog into the hallway at the back of the pub. “Don't worry, I'll talk to Dad and make sure he lets you stay while we figure something out. I'm not gonna let you end up in one of those awful shelters.”

Once we're inside, I head into the tiny kitchen and fetch Bonnie a bowl of water. I have no idea how Dad's going to react to the idea of us having a dog, but I figure I'll go for the sympathy angle and make him understand that poor Bonnie has just lost her owner. I mean, Dad's got a heart, he has to be able to see that we can't just toss poor Bonnie out onto the street. I've never really thought about having a dog before, but this feels like the right thing to do.

“There you go,” I say as I set the bowl down and give Bonnie a pat on the head. “I'll go and find Dad and lay it on a bit thick.”

I make my way through to the bar area and look around. The new window's looking good, and the pub's definitely open, but there's no sign of Dad. I guess maybe he's in the cellar room and I just missed him, but then – as I head back to the hallway – I suddenly hear a bumping sound coming from nearby. I look around, and then I go to the bar and look over the other side, only to see to my surprise that a hatch in the floor is open and there's clearly someone down there with a flashlight.

“Charley?” Dad calls out, his voice echoing slightly. “Is that you? Come and see what I've found!”

Bonnie wanders through and looks at the hatch, before heading over and peering into the space below.

“Uh, Charley?” Dad continues, sounding a little confused. “Are you up there?”

***

“What is this place?” I ask as I finally manage to shift myself down into the space beneath the hatch, which turns out to be a surprisingly long space. Almost like part of a tunnel.

“The hatch was properly sealed,” Dad replies, “as if someone really didn't want it to be opened again. But I heard a banging sound so I figured maybe there was a loose pipe. I definitely wasn't expecting to find such a large area down here.”

He turns and shines the light past me. I look over my shoulder and see that there's a brick wall blocking what seems to be the tunnel's other end.

“I think I saw something about this in a book I'm reading,” I say. “A lot of the old pubs in Malmeston were connected to a kind of tunnel system, back in the smuggling days. Things used to be brought ashore and then squirreled away in the tunnels and then they'd pop up into the various pubs. The book said that most of the tunnels were bricked up a long time ago, after smuggling faded away.”

“Both ends of the tunnel have been blocked,” Dad points out, “so I don't think there's going to be much smuggling down here anymore. It's crazy to think that these tunnels could run for miles and miles under the town, though. I knew smuggling was a big part of the town's history, but I didn't know it was this extensive.”

Above us, Bonnie paws at the edge of the hatch, as if she wants to come down.

“I assume there's a story about the dog, by the way,” Dad adds.

“Yep,” I reply.

“Anything I should worry about?”

“That depends how much you want to have a dog staying with us,” I say, as I wander over to one of the brick walls and touch the cold surface. “The book I'm reading says that no-one's properly mapped the route of all the tunnels,” I continue, “but they're supposed to link almost all the pubs in this part of town. All the pubs near the shore, at least. I guess they were all involved in the smuggling trade, even The King's Head.”

I take a step back, and then I feel my foot catch against something on the ground. Looking down, I spot what looks like a piece of chalk. I reach down and pick it up, and that's when I realize that it's not chalk at all.

“Dad?” I say cautiously. “Is this a piece of bone? Like, maybe from a finger?”

He takes it from my hand and looks at it more closely, and it's quite telling that he doesn't immediately dismiss the idea.

“It is a piece of bone, isn't it?” I continue.

“It could be,” he replies, “but it's not necessarily human. It could be from anything.”

“It's still freaky,” I mutter. “I read that smuggling wasn't exactly an easy lifestyle. A lot of people got murdered if they ended up making the wrong enemies.”

“Now you're getting ahead of yourself just a little bit, Charley.”

“I bet this tunnel runs straight to The Golden Bow,” I tell him. “It's going in the right direction. From there, it probably runs all the way to the pubs at the center of town.” I pause for a moment as I realize the enormity of what we've discovered. “These tunnels could run for miles and miles. They're almost like a whole extra town underneath Malmeston.”

“Steady on,” Dad replies. “All I'm seeing is a section of an old tunnel, and it's been bricked up. It's little more than a basement these days.”

“But -”

“It's interesting, I'll grant you that,” he adds, “and maybe we can use it somehow.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a unique feature,” he continues. “If I can think of some way to advertise what we've found here, we could maybe publicize the pub. I'll contact some of the local papers, and I'll see if they're interested in running a story. I'll show them this possible piece of bone, too. You know what they say, Charley. All publicity is good publicity.”

“And I'll investigate a little more,” I tell him. “There might be other stuff down here.”

“Let me take the lead on this one,” he adds. “Right now, I'm more concerned with the dog that's standing up there in the bar. Did you just bring some random stray home?”

I try to think about how I'm going to explain the whole thing with Judith Sinclair and the body, but I've got an unfortunate feeling that Dad might not be too happy about what I've been up to.

“Well,” I say finally, “it's a little complicated, and I really need you not to overreact until you've heard the whole story.”

***

“He took that better than I thought he would,” I say to Bonnie as I set a bowl of food down and watch as she immediately starts scoffing it down. “Now I just need to work on making your temporary stay something more permanent. Would you like that?”

I reach over and stroke her flank.

“I'm really sorry about Judith,” I continue. “It must be hard for you, losing her like that. I promise I'll look after you, though. I'll do everything I can to make your life good here. I guess it'll just take some getting used to, but I reckon being a pub dog can't be all that bad. You might even like it, although we'll have to keep an eye on your weight. Pub dogs tend to be a little plump most of the time.”

She ignores me, of course, and focuses entirely on her food.

“Let me see if you like those treats I got for you,” I add, getting to my feet and heading into the kitchen. “Don't worry, Bonnie,” I call back to her, “I'm right here. I'm not going to go anywhere.”

I head back out to her, only to find that her bowl is empty and she's wandered off.

“Bonnie?” I say cautiously. “Where -”

Before I can finish, I hear a loud thudding sound coming from the bar area. Confused, I head through to take a look, but there's still no sign of Bonnie. A moment later I hear her whimpering, however, and I look around until finally I realize that the sound is coming from down in the tunnel beneath the hatch, which Dad left open.

“Please, no,” I say, heading over and looking down, only to see Bonnie's tail wagging as she digs at the ground. “How am I gonna get you out of there?”

I try to think of a solution, but the only obvious answer is that I'll have to lift her out. That won't be easy, considering the fact that she's by no means a small dog. Then again, I really don't want to have to wait until Dad gets home, since I only just got done assuring him that Bonnie'll be no trouble and that I'll take care of her all by myself. I take a deep breath, and then I sit down and start lowering myself carefully into the tunnel.

“Just so you know,” I gasp, as I jump down and land with a thump on the hard, rocky ground, “this is mildly annoying. Then again, Dad should definitely have closed this thing.”

I head over to her and reach down to grab her by the collar, but then I see that she's digging furiously at the bottom of the brick wall. Not only that, but she's actually pushed some of the bricks loose, and when I kneel next to her I see that she's making real progress.

“Let me help,” I say reaching past her and trying to move the bricks aside, only to find that a large section comes loose almost immediately.

I pull a few more sections away, and finally I peer through into pitch darkness. After a moment I take my phone from my pocket and activate the flashlight app, and then I shine the light through and see another stretch of tunnel leading off into the distance.

“Wow,” I whisper, as I realize that we can gain access to the whole network, “good job, Bonnie.”

Getting to my feet, I bring up Dad's number so I can let him know. Of course, I don't have any signal down here in the tunnel, so I figure I'll have to get Bonnie up first.

“Okay,” I say, turning to her, “we -”

Before I can finish, I see her hind legs and tail disappearing through the gap in the wall.

“No!” I gasp, but I'm too late.

I drop to my knees and shine the light along the tunnel, just in time to see that Bonnie's happily scurrying off into the distance.

“Stop!” I yell, panicking as she vanishes into the darkness ahead. “I mean, stay! Bonnie, halt! Heel! Don't keep going!”

She's gone, however, and I realize with a sigh that I'm going to have to go after her. I pull some more of the bricks aside and crawl through the gap, and then I find that the tunnel is tall enough for me to stand up. I shine the flashlight around the cold, narrow space, and I realize that I'll be fine just so long as I just go in a straight line and remember the way back. If there are any junctions or complicated routes, I'll have to return to the pub and then use food to lure Bonnie home.

I start making my way forward, shining the light around so that I don't get confused by any unexpected turnings.

“Bonnie!” I call out, my voice echoing all around, “come back! Seriously, Bonnie, where are you? Bonnie!”

Chapter Forty-Four

Muriel Hyde

1910...

“Elsa? What are you doing?”

As the loud banging sound continues, filling the entire pub, I hurry down the stairs and go through to the bar, where I see to my astonishment that the hatch is open. I make my way to the edge and look down, and sure enough Elsa is scrabbling about in the darkness, running her hands against the walls of the old tunnel. After a moment she takes a knife and tries to chisel away some of the stone.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Finding your money!” she sneers.

“It's not down there!”

“That's exactly what you'd say if I was getting close,” she replies, sounding a little breathless as she continues to check the walls. It's as if she thinks she'll suddenly uncover some kind of hidden alcove. “I know it's in the pub somewhere, Muriel. I just want a share and then I'll be on my way and you'll never have to put up with me again!”

Glancing past the bar, I see that the wall panel is undisturbed. Elsa has not found where I keep the money, at least not yet, but I can't count on that remaining the case for long. She's a smart woman, and it's something of a miracle that she has not managed to locate and open the panel. If I do not hinder her search, she will surely get to the money eventually.

“You could save us both a lot of time, you know,” she continues. “You know you owe me. Your money -”

“It's not my money!” I tell her. “It was given to me by Mr. Foster for a specific purpose and -”

“I'm your own flesh and blood,” she says, cutting me off. “Even if you don't care about me, Muriel, do you not think about your poor nephew? We're your family, yet you see fit to abandon us to poverty!”

“This is foolishness,” I reply taking a step back and putting a hand on the side of my head. I feel as if my mind is fit to burst at any moment, and I believe I am becoming a little dizzy. “I can't take much more.”

“What is this place down here, anyway?” Elsa calls up to me.

“Old smuggling tunnels,” I reply, although I do not know why I am bothering.

“I see you've had the end bricked up,” she says. “I bet that's not made you very popular around here. Old Mr. Hayes told me that you'd been rather difficult to work with. Let me guess, did you get all high and mighty on the subject? Did you refuse to even let your pub be used?”

“Will you please get out of there?” I ask. “I assure you, you will find absolutely nothing, you're wasting both -”

Suddenly Elsa lets out a cry. I hurry back to the edge of the hatch and look down, and I see that she's clutching her right hand as blood dribbles down onto the floor.

“What happened?” I ask.

“My finger!” she gasps. “I fell against the knife!”

Before I can reply, I realize that I can see what appears to be the tip of her finger resting on the floor. I step back again, horrified by what has happened, as I hear Elsa cursing me down below. She seems to be getting increasingly angry and distressed, almost as if she's starting to lose control, and all I can think right now is that I need to get her out of The King's Head before she tears the whole pub apart.

A moment later, Elsa climbs inelegantly out of the hatch, and I see that indeed the tip of her right index finger has been cut away.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she screams, jabbing at me with her injured hand, splashing blood against my face. “Give me some of that money, Muriel, and you'll never see me again! But I swear, if you don't give me anything, I will never leave you alone! I'll make sure that everyone knows all about you, whether it's the truth or the lies! If you think things are bad now, wait until I'm done dragging your name through the mud! No-one'll ever set foot in this wretched pub again! You'll be lucky if they don't burn it down with you still inside!”

“Get out!” I say firmly.

“Or what?”

“Or...”

“Or I'll make you pay!” Lunging at her, I grab her by the throat and press her against the wall. For a few seconds I am utterly overcome by a sense of anger, and all I can think is that I must squeeze the life out of this shrew's vile body. I squeeze tighter and tighter, ignoring her attempts to push me away.

Finally I feel her body beginning to fall limp. She lets out a pained gasp, as if the life-force itself is leaving her body, and she places a hand on my shoulder. I look into her eyes, and I see her fading away. I need only to wait a few more seconds and she will be dead.

And then, seeing my hate-filled face reflected in several bottles on the shelf nearby, I let go of Elsa's throat and take a step back.

Gasping for air, she falls down and slams against the floor.

I bump against the bar, overwhelmed by the realization that I just came within a few seconds of murdering my own sister. It was as if sheer, burning anger filled my body and forced me to act, and it took so long for me to regain control of my senses. Never before have I felt such hatred for another human being, and I close my eyes as I try to bring some kind of order and calm back to my mind. When I open my eyes again, I look at the bottles and this time I see my face filled with shock and fear.

“You almost killed me!” Elsa gurgles, struggling back up from the floor. “You almost throttled the life right out of me!”

“I'm sorry,” I stammer, horrified at the thought that I almost became a murderer. “Elsa, forgive me, I'm so sorry...”

“There'll be marks!” she hisses. “I won't have any trouble getting anyone to believe what you just did. I think you'd better think fast, Muriel. Do you want me running around town, half-strangled and with part of my finger missing? Why, those who doubt your guilt will be won over for sure, and those who already hate you will begin to think that you're some kind of demon! What kind of woman attacks her own sister in cold blood like that, anyway?”

“You have to leave now,” I tell her.

“Leave? I'm telling you, I -”

“Leave!”

Feeling the anger bubbling up again, I grab her by the arm and pull her around the bar. She struggles wildly, but I manage to get the door open and I thrust her outside with such force that she trips on the steps and falls down. As she does so, she lets out the most terrible squawking sound, as if she is being assailed by a whole gang of monsters.

“Don't come back,” I tell her. “Not ever. If you do, I shan't let you inside. Tell people whatever you want to tell them, see if I care. But you must never, ever darken this door again.”

With that, I slam the door shut, and then I slide the bolt across before dropping to the floor in a flood of tears. For all her faults and vindictiveness, Elsa is my sister and somehow I still love her a great deal. Yet I fear now that I cannot control myself around her. I almost murdered her, and I cannot trust that I will not finish the job if she angers me again. It is for her sake as well as mine, therefore, that I must make sure that I never see her again. Even as I hear her stumbling away from the pub, I feel an aching sadness in my chest as I realize that I can never again trust myself around people.

I am a monster.

Chapter Forty-Five

Charley Lucas

Today...

I'm such an idiot.

Twenty minutes after starting to make my way along the tunnel, I'm still shuffling forward and still calling Bonnie's name, and I'm starting to worry that she might have already gone too far for me to find her. What if she's trapped down here forever? I've been looking after her for less than a day and I've already managed to lose her.

Way to go, Charley.

“Bonnie!” I hiss, even though I know she's probably way too far off to hear me now. “This is getting ridiculous! Why do you even want to be down here, anyway? It's so cold! Crazy dog.”

I'm starting to think that this approach to finding Bonnie is going to be pretty hopeless, and that a better option might be to go back to my other plan. If I got some sausages from town, I'm sure Bonnie would pick up the smell and come straight back to the pub. Sure, she might be excited about running around down here right now, but give it a few hours and the appeal's sure to wear off.

Ahead, I see another partial brick wall, although this one only covers about half the opening. As I get closer and squeeze through, however, I realize I can hear voices up ahead, and I stop just as I find myself entering what seems to be another opening beneath another hatch. I think I might have found my way to the basement beneath The Golden Bow.

“That's the problem, though,” a man is saying somewhere above me, presumably in the main bar area, “he's not doing badly at all. I've been past the place in the evenings, and sometimes it's packed!”

“That's just a temporary surge in interest,” another voice says, and I realize that this sounds very much like Gary Hayes from the brewery. “People are curious, but they'll get over that soon enough. They have a kind of morbid curiosity about The King's Head but soon that'll all fade away. Besides, I've accelerated our plans, and this time there'll be no campaign groups around to save the place.”

“You seem rattled today,” the other man replies. “What happened?”

“Let's just say that I've seen the need to deal with The King's Head on a more permanent basis. Keeping things bottled up in that place just didn't work. It's time for a scorched-earth policy. Muriel bloody Hyde has screwed my family's brewery over for the last time.”

I creep toward a crack in the floor, and then I carefully step up onto a ledge. When I look through the crack, I can just about make out Gary Hayes standing next to the bar in The Golden Bow with the landlord.

“Muriel Hyde's been dead for a century,” the landlord points out. “You're not starting to believe the ghost stories, are you?”

There's an uncomfortable silence, as I realize that these people seem to have been planning to sabotage Dad right from the start. I feel a rush of anger, but I also know that I have to stay quiet at all costs. I need to find out as much as I can about their plan, and I need to make sure that they don't realize they've been overheard.

“Do you know what it's like to live in fear?” Hayes asks finally. “Every second of every day, you're terrified that your whole world is going to come falling down all around you. That's how it's been for my family over the years, but not anymore. Once that pub is out of the way, and once Muriel's laid to rest forever, we can focus exclusively on the future. There's just one more thing I need to deal with first.”

“When will that Lucas guy and his kid be kicked out?”

“Soon.”

“You said it'd be this week.”

“Something came up, something... unexpected. The girl confronted me, and I saw something in her eyes that worries me. It's all under control, but I need to make sure that Muriel doesn't have any nasty surprises up her sleeves. Fortunately I have a plan.”

Hayes turns and looks around. I pull back from the crack, worried that I might have been noticed, but then I look through again and I see that they still seem oblivious to my presence.

“Let's just say,” Hayes continues, “that I finally understand the need for more extreme measures. Sometimes it's possible to forget the importance of tradition in a town like Malmeston, but those traditions exist for a reason. Getting rid of Muriel Hyde and The King's Head has turned out to be a little more difficult than I expected, but don't worry, I have a way to deal with the problem.”

“You still talk about Muriel Hyde as if she's around somehow,” the landlord replies. “You know that pub as well as anyone, you've been there plenty of times. You don't actually believe the stories, do you? You don't think Muriel's somehow still in there, like a ghost... do you?”

I wait, but Hayes seems reluctant to answer.

“It's complicated,” he says finally, as I squint in an attempt to get a better view of his features, “but I've recently acquired the original -”

Suddenly a face blocks my view, and I see an eye staring straight at me through the crack. I let out a gasp and fall back, landing hard on the rocky ground below, and a moment later I hear footsteps stomping across the room above.

“What is it, Matilda?” Hayes asks. “What are you doing on the floor?”

Scrambling to my feet, I turn to hurry away, only to let out another gasp as I feel a burst of pain in my ankle. I must have twisted something, because I'm in agony as I start limping back along the tunnel. I have absolutely no doubt that Gary Hayes' weird little kid must have seen me, although she might not necessarily have recognized me. My injured ankle slows me down considerably as I hurry along the tunnel, but when I glance over my shoulder I at least find that there's no sign of anyone following me.

“Damn it!” I mutter as I stop and reach down to touch my ankle, which is flickering with pain.

I lean back against the wall of the tunnel and take a deep breath, and then I turn and keep limping back toward the space beneath The King's Head. My mind is racing as I think back to everything I just head Gary Hayes saying, and I'm certain now that Dad and I have been being sabotaged right from the start. The brewery obviously wants the pub to fail, and they're putting extra obstacles in the way now that Dad's actually showing signs of success. I don't know much about how the pub industry works, but I'm pretty sure that what Hayes is doing has to be illegal.

Finally I reach the space under The King's Head, although I immediately realize that climbing back up isn't going to be too easy with my damaged ankle. I twist around and try to support myself on my other foot, but it takes a moment for me to even reach the opening. I push my phone through first, before starting to lift myself up.

And then I look back along the tunnel, as I realize I can hear a faint bumping sound.

Without my phone, I'm unable to see anything except darkness, but a moment later I hear the sound again. It's as if someone or something is coming this way.

“Bonnie?” I whisper, hoping against hope that the dumb dog has somehow made her way back. “Hurry!”

I wait, but there's no sign of Bonnie.

“Bonnie!”

No reply.

A moment later, I hear something that sounds very much like a footstep.

“Bonnie?” I say cautiously, staring into the darkness, praying that I'll soon see a smiley dog face and a wagging tail.

I wait.

I want to prove to myself that there's nothing out there, that the supposed footstep sound was just caused by, I don't know... the tunnel settling somehow? Isn't that the excuse people always make for creaking noises in old houses?

“Come on, Bonnie,” I whisper, trying not to panic. “It has to be you. There's no -”

Suddenly I spot what seems to be a human figure in the darkness, and I immediately haul myself up through the open hatch. Ignoring the pain in my right ankle, I clamber out of the way before reaching back and slamming the hatch down, and then I freeze and listen.

There's a faint bumping sound far below, and then silence.

As I rest breathlessly on the floor, I think back to the sight of the figure, and I can't shake the feeling that it was someone small. To be more specific, I think it might have been that creepy little kid Matilda Hayes. And if that's the case, I guess her father already knows that I overheard his plan.

Chapter Forty-Six

Muriel Hyde

1910...

As I stand at the bar, staring blankly at the door, I start to realize that perhaps The King's Head will never see another customer again. Perhaps I have failed, and the almighty Randolph Hayes has won, and all that is left now is for the pub to wither away until it dies.

“You think I'm a crazy old man, don't you?” I remember Richmal saying one evening, not long before he died.

“Not at all.”

“I wouldn't blame you. I've gone to such extremes to make sure that you take on that pub. You must wonder why some little place in the south of England means so much to me.”

“You explained,” I told him. “You grew up there, it means a lot to you.”

“You don't frequent pubs much, do you?”

“I confess, I do not.”

“Then you don't understand their value. You don't know what it's like to walk into a room and be greeted instantly by ten, twenty people who are glad to see you.”

I tried for a moment to imagine what that would be like, but I confess that I was struggling. I have always preferred to stay back from sight as much as possible, so in truth the idea of having lots of people acknowledge me was... somewhat discomforting. Even now, I struggle with the idea; back then, fifteen years ago, I was positively horrified.

“I could have got someone else to do it,” Richmal told me. “There were plenty of people who'd have taken my money and gone to run a quiet little pub, but I wanted it to be you, Muriel. I think that you, of all people, will come to appreciate these things in time.”

“I am sure,” I replied.

“You don't believe me.”

“Of course I do.”

“You'll understand eventually,” he replied. “When you run a place like The King's Head, you can't help but be at the heart of a little community. You've never had that, have you?”

“I think not.”

“Then trust me, Muriel. Take the money, go to The King's Head, and live. Please, it would make me feel so much better on my deathbed to know that you're out there doing this.”

And so I promised, and I kept promising every time we talked, until finally he did indeed fall onto his deathbed. Even then, I had to promise him several more times, and then eventually his family refused to let me into the house. I had been Mr. Foster's faithful servant for so many years, and I think that in some ways I am still working for him today. After all, he paid me to do a job, and I am doing that job.

Which is why I can't leave with Jack. Can I? I keep going back and forth on this matter, never able to settle for very long on any one opinion. My name is most likely being dragged through the mud by now, more than ever, but I shall simply have to stay here and stick to my work. And who knows? Perhaps Randolph Hayes will tire of punishing me for my involvement with Jack, and the pub will pick up again. One thing is clear: I am not the one who will turn this place into a roaring success. Rather, I am keeping The King's Head running until, one day, somebody arrives who really knows how to make it a success.

In that way, at least, I shall be keeping my promise to Richmal.

Wherever Jack has gone, then, I can only hope that he is safe. That he has escaped the clutches of the brewery and gone far away. No longer shall I stand at the window and pray for his return, for I realize now that I was being selfish. No, I shall pray for him to be happy in some distant place, perhaps even out of the country. The sooner he forgets about me, the better. I shall never forget about him, of course; I shall think of him always, until my dying day, and I do not know how I can get through long, sleepless nights without imagining what our lives together could have been like. I simply love him enough to hope that he finds happiness elsewhere, without being weighed down by any promises he might have made to me.

“May the Lord protect your soul, my darling,” I whisper, as I hate the tears that roll down my cheeks. “Wherever you are, be free.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Dad, I need you to listen to me!” I say as he carries another crate of sparkling water in from the car and through to the cellar room. “I'm not making this up!”

“Do you seriously expect me to believe some kind of conspiracy theory?”

“It's not a conspiracy theory,” I tell him, “it's all true. I heard it!”

“There must be some kind of fungus down there in those tunnels,” he says with a sigh, turning to head back outside. “You sound paranoid, Charley.”

“And you sound complacent!” I snap, blocking his way. “Dad, will you at least just sit down with me and listen? Let me set it all out so that you understand.”

“I understand just fine,” he replies. “I've heard of people blaming the brewery for their problems, Charley, but this is taking it to an extreme. I admit, they haven't been fair with us, but I'm still looking into ways we can keep the pub. I have a few more days in which I can come up with something.”

“That won't work,” I reply. “Don't you get it? Even if you work yourself to the bone and somehow overcome this hurdle, they'll just throw another one at you and another and another until eventually you break! They're going to do everything in their power to make this pub fail so they can tear it down! There's something to do with Muriel Hyde, something about the past, and they won't let it get out!”

I wait, but he's staring at me with a shocked expression.

“Was that little speech supposed to make you sound less paranoid?” he asks finally. “Because if it was, it really didn't work.”

“Dad -”

“And that's the end of the discussion!” he adds angrily. “I'm trying here, Charley. I'm really trying! What I don't need, on top of everything else, is to have you blathering on about this crap! Now I'm off to another wholesaler and I won't be back for a few hours. Jennifer's doing the evening shift, it should be pretty quiet so she'll be fine.” He turns to go back to the car, but then he hesitates for a moment. “When I get back,” he continues, “I want all this nonsense to be over, okay? I'm not going to listen to it anymore!”

With that, he turns and storms away, leaving me feeling utterly helpless as I stand in the doorway. How am I going to persuade him that the brewery's working against us?

***

Feeling utterly exhausted, I sit on my pile of duvets and lean back against the wall. My mind is spinning and I refuse to accept that I'm being paranoid, but it's quite clear that I need proof if I'm going to make Dad believe me. Why didn't I use my phone to record Gary Hayes earlier? That would have settled everything.

I'll have to go back through the tunnel.

I'll have to wait down there and hope that I get another chance.

“Damn it, Dad,” I mutter, closing my eyes as I try to pull myself together. “Why can't you see what's right in front of you? We're being sabotaged and you're just gonna let¨them walk right over us. You're not even going to stand up for yourself.”

Reaching down, I touch my damaged ankle and I immediately let out a gasp of pain. That thing's gonna take a while to heal properly.

I take a series of deep breaths, and finally I feel the panic starting to subside. I need to stay calm if I'm going to figure out a way to make Dad take things seriously. On top of that, I also have to come up with a way to lure Bonnie out of the tunnel system, because she could end up starving to death down there. I refuse to accept that we can't get out of this mess. I know, deep down, that there's a solution somewhere, somehow. I just have to be smart enough to figure it out.

A moment later, I hear footsteps on the stairs and I realize I was starting to nod off. I open my eyes and look over toward the open doorway, but the footsteps are already in the kitchen now. I know Dad's not due back yet, so I figure Jennifer must have come up in search of something.

Getting to my feet, I start heading through to see if I can help.

“Hey,” I call out, “do you need something?”

Reaching the kitchen, I find that there's nobody here. I step forward, certain that someone came in here and that they didn't have time to leave, and now I'm starting to wonder exactly what's happening. Seconds later, however, I hear more footsteps coming up the stairs, faster this time, and I turn just in time to see a handsome, scruffy-looking dark-haired man stopping in the doorway.

“Who are you?” I ask, worried that someone from downstairs has accidentally wandered up here in search of the bathroom.

“You need to rethink your decision,” he says firmly.

Staring at him, I realize that maybe he's insane.

“You can't seriously think that they're going to leave it at that, Muriel,” he continues, his eyes wide with fear. “You can't stand up to them, they will take everything from you and then they might even...”

His voice trails off, and then he steps forward.

I step back, bumping against the table. I don't want to scream, but I think maybe things are getting to that point.

“You're making waves,” he says. “That's the worst thing a woman in your position can be doing. Don't you get it? These people are powerful and they didn't get to their position by playing nice. The brewery runs the town, Muriel, and they don't care who they have to destroy in order to maintain their power. Do you think I want to be working for them? Hell, no, but I do it because I know what's best for me. I do it because, right now, I need to be in their good books.”

“You're not supposed to be up here,” I stammer, convinced that he must be some kind of historical re-enacter. After all, his clothes look filthy and old. “Please, you have to leave and -”

“Is this place really worth fighting for?” he asks, coming closer. “I know you have money, Muriel.”

“My name's not Muriel,” I tell him.

“Use it. Take it. Get out of Malmeston, go somewhere far away, somewhere they'll never be able to find you. Once you're out of town, they won't care anymore, not so long as you keep your mouth shut. That's all you have to do. It's all any of us must do. Leave, Muriel. Please. You can't and you won't bend to their will, so do the next best thing and walk away.”

“My name is not Muriel,” I say cautiously, and now I'm starting to wonder whether this is some kind of trick. Is someone from the brewery trying to drive me round the bend? “My name is Charley Lucas and -”

“You don't have long,” he says, interrupting me, almost as if he didn't hear what I just told him. “They'll be coming for you, Muriel. They'll be coming soon. When they get here, there'll be no reasoning with them. You have to get out of here tonight. Tell me you'll do that!”

“If you don't leave,” I reply, “I'll call the police.”

He sighs and turns away, as if he's going to leave, but then he hesitates. He seems to be struggling to contain his anger, and I'm starting to get genuinely scared. If I scream right now, I'm sure Jennifer will hear me, but will she be able to help? I look around, but there are no knives on any of the benches, so I figure my best bet is to try to run past this nutter and get down the stairs.

Three.

Two.

“Would it change anything if I came with you?” he asks suddenly.

I hesitate again.

“We could make a fresh start together,” he continues, turning to me again. “You know I've always loved you, Muriel. I might be a little rough around the edges. Certainly nobody's ever looked at me and said that I'm cut out for much. In truth, no-one from my family's very impressive, the whole wretched Farnham line is rotten, but I'll do my best.” He hesitates, before taking a step closer and reaching out to touch the sides of my arms. “I love you, Muriel Hyde,” he adds, “and, if you'll have me, I want to take you away from Malmeston and make you safe. It won't be an easy life but -”

“Get away from me!” I gasp, taking a step back. “If you touch me, I'll scream! This part of the pub is private! You have to go! Now!”

“Think about it, but not for too long,” he replies. “I know they're keeping an eye on you, Muriel. They're watching the both of us, they already suspect me of being an informant. Smuggling's just the way things work around here, you can't fight that. All you can do is walk away.”

“This isn't going to work,” I tell him. “I don't know who paid you to dress up and pretend to be some kind of ghost from the past, but you're completely out of your mind. If you don't leave right now, I'll call the police and I'll have you charged with trespassing.”

“I'll come back tomorrow,” he tells me. “I'm begging you, Muriel, see sense. There are times to fight and times to run. This is a time to run.”

“Get out!” I say firmly, before taking a chair and holding it up, ready to smack him around the head if he tries anything. “I'm serious! Get out of my -”

“Charley!”

Suddenly someone shakes my left shoulder. Startled, I blink a couple of times, and then I find that I'm still on the floor in my room, sitting on the duvets. I must have fallen asleep, which means that the whole encounter with the man in the kitchen was a dream. Still feeling totally flustered, I look up and see that Jennifer is touching my shoulder.

“Charley, we need to go right now,” she says, clearly worried about something. “The police are downstairs. They say your father's been in some kind of accident.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Muriel Hyde

1910...

My eyes flicker open, and I realize that I must have fallen asleep and had the most disturbing dream. I imagined that Jack had come back, that he was trying to get me to leave. Taking a deep breath, I lean back and tell myself not to panic, that it was just a dream, yet my heart is racing and I feel as if my heart must have broken ten thousand times in the past day alone.

“Ms. Hyde?”

Startled, I jump to my feet and turn, just in time to see that Harry Tanner and Dusty Fowler are standing in the doorway.

“We didn't mean to disturb you,” Harry says cautiously, “we just... Are you open?”

“Yes,” I stammer, shocked by the realization that they must have come for a drink. It has been so long since the last time I had customers, I had almost forgotten that they were a possibility.

“We decided to make a stand,” Dusty tells me as I head behind the bar. “I've never liked being told what to do or think -”

“Neither have I,” Harry interjects.

“So we were talking, and we realized that The King's Head is the finest pub in the whole of Malmeston, so why should we be run out? Old Hayes has enough power already, he doesn't need to concern himself with where the likes of old Harry and I do our supping. Some might call us brave, some might call us foolhardy, but by Jove this is where we drink so we shall drink here!”

“Precisely,” Harry adds.

Staring at them, I realize that they are perhaps the only two people in the whole of Malmeston who have chosen to go against Mr. Hayes and his anger. I could kiss them, although of course I do no such thing; I pour them each a beer, while struggling to keep from sobbing with sheer joy. I had assumed that no-one in this town would stand up for me, yet here are these two fine gentlemen who have chosen to come to their favorite drinking establishment. There have been times when I have found the pair of them to be utterly irritating, but today I find them charming beyond measure.

“These two drinks are at no charge,” I tell them as I head over to them. “There are to be no arguments. I wish to offer them as a token of my gratitude.”

“It'd take more than a few rumors and sliver of gossip to keep us away,” Harry says, his eyes lighting up as I set his beer in front of him. “I'm not one to judge people, Muriel. I'm sure you did the right thing by taking your child to the orphanage. That can't have been easy, but it takes some real courage to -”

“What did you say?” I ask, interrupting him.

“Oh, nothing really, just -”

“Get out!” I snap.

“Ms. Hyde,” he replies, “please, I was only -”

“Get out!” I scream, taking the beer away and throwing it all to the floor. “Leave my pub and don't ever set foot in here again!”

“But -”

“I won't have such terrible gossip repeated!” I yell. “If you actually listen to the lies my sister tells, then you are both fools, and I do not want fools in my pub!”

“Ms. Hyde,” Dusty says, “please, I think there might have been a misunderstanding.”

“Do I have to call the police?” I shout. “Leave! Now! And don't ever darken my door again!”

They hesitate, as if they might be about to argue with me, and then they both get to their feet and head out of the pub. They're muttering to one another, no doubt agreeing that I seem utterly insane, but finally they step outside and let the door swing shut. I've got half a mind to rush out there after them and make sure that they know their ban is permanent, but I'm certain they must realize.

“Why do people always listen to gossip?” I sob, leaning against the bar as I feel the last of my hope begin to fade away. “Why must they always be trying to ruin my character?”

Putting my hands against my face, I start crying uncontrollably. There is a part of me that wants to go and bolt to door, to make sure that I am not surprised by anyone, but deep down I know full well that nobody is going to come through that door, probably not ever again. If Harry Tanner and Dusty Fowler have heard the gossip, then everyone will have heard it, and that means that there is no hope left.

The destruction of my reputation is complete.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Dad!” I yell as I race along the hospital corridor. “Where are you?”

As I reach a desk, a nurse steps in my way.

“Tom Lucas!” I gasp, unable to contain my sense of panic. “I'm his daughter! Where is he?”

Hearing footsteps nearby, I turn to see that Jennifer – who drove me here after shutting the pub early – has finally caught up.

I turn back to the nurse.

“Where's my father?” I ask, as the sense of panic rises and rises in my chest. “I have to see him right now!”

***

“It's not as bad as it looks,” Dad groans as he tries and fails to sit up in the hospital bed. “I'll be fine in a week or two.”

“You're covered in bruises!” I say, with tears in my eyes as I look at the cuts and marks all over one side of his face. “You've got a black eye! What happened? They said you were in an accident!”

“I was mugged,” he replies. “I was at the wholesaler, I'd stupidly parked at the far end of the car park, where there aren't many lights. I was pushing a trolley back to the car, and suddenly these two assholes jumped me. They took everything, and then they just wouldn't stop kicking me, even when I was on the floor. I tried to fight back but...”

His voice trails off, and for a moment he seems to be reliving that awful moment.

“I was lucky,” he continues finally. “The manager from the store happened to pop out for a cigarette break, and he chased them away. They were really laying into me, Charley. I gave them everything and they still...”

Again, he falls silent.

“They could have killed you!” I say through gritted teeth, as more tears run down my face.

“That wasn't going to happen,” he replies. “It was just an old-fashioned mugging, and they got a little carried away at the same time. It's my own dumb fault for parking where I parked, but I just never thought that something like this could happen. I thought this part of the world was supposed to be safe.”

“How long are they going to keep you in?” I ask.

“I might be here for a few days,” he replies, “just for observation.” He pauses, and I can tell he's holding back from saying something else. “The pub'll have to stay shut during that time.”

“No,” I reply, “I'll keep it open. I can work behind the bar.”

“That's literally illegal,” he tells me.

“Who cares? No-one's going to complain!”

“There's no point, Charley,” he says, and then he sighs. “This is the end of the road, sweetheart. I know you don't want to hear this, but there's no coming back now. The pub has to shut, and it's going to stay shut. We can't find the money to keep it open, so it's better if we cut our losses now and accept the inevitable.”

“No,” I say firmly. “We're not giving in.”

“I can't do it anymore!” he replies. “Look at me! I've got a broken arm. I can't work at the pub with a broken arm, and you can't do half the things that need doing. And before you suggest that we hire someone, I can't afford to do that.” He sighs. “You have no idea how much I hate to let you down, but if we try to stay open we'll only be throwing good money after bad.”

He reaches out and wipes tears from my cheeks.

“I'll find something else for us to do,” he adds. “A new adventure. A new challenge. We might have to move again, but this time I'll make sure it's something permanent. I'm so sorry, Charley. This failure is entirely my fault.”

“It's not your fault,” I tell him, “it's...”

I stop just in time. He doesn't want to hear me going on about the brewery, even though I can't help thinking that this incident seems perfectly timed. Is it possible that Gary Hayes would pay someone to rough Dad up? I tell myself that the whole idea is too far-fetched, but at the same time I heard the certainty in his voice earlier. He seemed convinced that Dad and I would be gone soon. Is this what he was planning?

“It's not fair,” I sob, unable to hold back any longer. “We were doing so well.”

He reaches over and pulls me tight for a hug. Resting my head against his shoulder, I realize that he's the one who makes the decisions. And I guess he's right when he says that I can't run the pub. Maybe I just have to accept that the brewery has won, that our time running The King's Head hasn't even lasted a month. For now, however, all I can do is cry as Dad holds me tight. This really isn't fair. We should have found a way.

***

“Are you okay?” Jennifer asks as we sit in her car, in the car park outside the hospital. It's almost midnight, and I'm pretty sure that we're both exhausted.

“Not really,” I reply, staring straight ahead at the streetlights.

“Tom'll recover, you know,” she says. “He's lucky. I mean, it could have been a lot worse.”

“He could be dead, you mean?”

We sit in silence. I'm so tired, I want to go to sleep and never have to worry about things again. At the same time, I'm far too wired for sleep and I feel as if I need to find some outlet for my anger.

“I've lived in Malmeston all my life,” Jennifer says finally. “I've worked in a few pubs, too, and there's one thing I learned very early on. You don't go up against Hayes and Storford. The brewery has all the power in town, and they always get their way.”

“Even if that means trampling all over people?” I ask.

“Whatever it takes,” she adds. “That's their motto.”

I turn to her.

“My uncle had The Old Bell just outside town,” she continues, and now there seem to be tears in her eyes. “We used to go there when I was a kid, he had a proper big slide in the garden. Anyway, eventually Hayes and Storford decided to put his rent up. He was doing well, so at first he was able to absorb it, but then the brewery took over two more pubs nearby and... Well, it seemed like they decided my uncle's place was more valuable as land. The rent went up again, and again, but he wouldn't surrender. He wouldn't accept that it was the end, not until...”

“What happened?” I ask.

I wait, and a moment later I see a tear run down her cheek.

“His wife found him on the floor one morning,” she says eventually, “behind the bar. He must have had a heart attack while he was cleaning the lines. He'd been so stressed, he'd barely been able to sleep. It just ground him down until he couldn't take it anymore. If he'd just let go of that pub, he'd probably still be alive today. Instead, we had to bury Uncle Mike, and now The Old Bell's gone. There are some new flats out there.”

“That's awful,” I reply, horrified by the story. “Why doesn't anyone stand up to the brewery?”

“They're too well-connected. Everyone knows that they give bungs to all the local politicians, to anyone with any influence, but it never gets investigated. People just accept that this is how it goes around here.” She sniffs back a few more tears. “Do you want to know something? I actually thought you and Tom might have a shot. I figured there was something dodgy going on, that the brewery wanted the pub to fail, but I guess I'm just an optimist. I guess that was dumb of me, huh?”

“No, you weren't being dumb,” I tell her. “You were right, we should have succeeded. Instead there's this brewery, going around acting like some kind of mafia family, and apparently everyone in Malmeston just accepts the way things are. The whole thing's rotten.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“What for?”

I wait, but she doesn't say anything, and then she starts the engine.

“I should get you home,” she mutters, forcing a smile that doesn't seem at all genuine. “It's been a long night and I don't know about you, but I'm cream-crackered.”

“I'm sorry about your uncle,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she says, as she starts driving us out of the car park. “Me too.”

Chapter Fifty

Muriel Hyde

1910...

I remember that night so well, even though so many years have passed. And although I have forced myself to forget what really happened, there are times – such as tonight – when it all comes flooding back.

I was walking up a set of steps, and then I stopped. I had intended to go into the building, but something stopped me. Shame, perhaps, or simply the realization that I would surely be seen as some kind of harlot. I remember standing for quite some time, in the freezing night air, before finally understanding what I had to do. Then I stepped forward until I reached the door to the orphanage, and I reached down and gently lay my wriggling, gurgling, freshly-born child on the ground.

“It's going to be alright,” I whispered, with tears in my eyes. “Someone will find you and take you in, and you'll have a better life than I can ever hope to provide. I'm so sorry that I can't look after you, but this is in your best interest. I'm going to a place down south, I'm going to run a public house, and that is no place for a child. Goodbye, little man. Goodbye forever, but be certain that I shall never forget you.”

I wanted to say his name, even though I was not sure that I should do so. He was only a few hours old, having been born in an alley, yet I had foolishly given him a name even though I knew it would not stick.

“I love you, William,” I said finally. “I always will.”

I lingered for a moment, wondering whether perhaps there might be another way, and then I turned to walk away.

“Hello, there!” a friendly-looking man said, hurrying up the steps behind me. “Sorry, I -”

Stopping suddenly, he looked past me and saw my baby on the ground.

“Oh,” he said, staring at the child for a moment before looking at me, “is this...”

His voice trailed off.

“Not mine!” I said, keen to avoid having to answer any questions. “I was just passing, and I heard something so I came to take a look.”

“This happens, from time to time,” the man said, making his way around me and then gently lifting the child – my child – into his arms. “About once a month, we find a newborn baby on our steps. The mothers simply don't know what to do with them, you see, so they bring them here.” He looked down at my son, who already seemed a little calmer. “This one's a fine specimen. I'm sure we'll have no trouble finding him a good home.”

“Really?” I said, sniffing back tears. “He'll be looked after?”

“Oh, absolutely,” the man replied. “Why, just today I was given the details of a Mr. Fobwester. He and his wife wish to take in a young boy, I think this might be a rather serendipitous moment. With any luck, this child will be with the Fobwesters inside of a week or two.”

“And what are they like, these Fobwesters?”

“They're a very rich family, as it happens,” he explained. “Something to do with paper, or was it wood? Anyway, they own mills, and they're a very decent, very Christian bunch. There's no doubt whatsoever that they'll take good care of this little one.”

“I am so glad,” I replied, as tears ran down my cheeks.

“So you were just passing, were you?” the man asked, suddenly sounding a little suspicious. “It's rather late. Do you have business in the area?”

“No,” I replied, stepping back down to the street level, keen to get away without being questioned any further. “I was simply passing and I heard the sound of a child crying, that's all. I didn't even know that this was an orphanage.”

“He'll be looked after,” he said. “I promise you.”

“That is -”

“What is his name?”

I froze for a moment, before turning to look back up at the man and seeing him standing at the top of the steps, holding the child in his arms.

“Since you're the one who found him,” the man continued, “I think you should be given the honor of naming him. Otherwise I shall have to do it, and my taste in names is legendarily terrible.” He paused, and he was giving every indication that he suspected my identity as the child's mother. “Don't you want to leave a little mark?”

I swallowed hard. I knew I should not say anything, but somehow the name seemed to be dragged out of me and forced into the cold night air.

“William,” I stammered.

“I beg your pardon? I didn't quite hear that.”

“William,” I said again, more firmly this time. “His name is William.”

“He'll be well cared for, M'am,” the man replied. “His mother, whoever she is, made the right choice by bringing him here. If she couldn't care for him herself, that is. And I'm sure the Fobwesters will take him in. He'll grow up in a good household, he'll go to a good school, and I'm sure he'll live a fine life. If I could speak to his mother, that's what I'd want to tell her. To reassure her, I mean.”

“Indeed,” I mumbled, before turning and hurrying away. I felt as if I might collapse in tears at any moment, but as I reached the street corner I turned and looked back up the steps, just in time to see the man taking William into the building. “Goodbye, my darling,” I whispered. “I shall always love you.”

***

Sitting alone now in the pub, with night having fallen but with the hearth remaining dark and cold, I still remember the terrible agony of that final moment. When I left York, there were rumors that I had fallen pregnant with Mr. Foster's child. I always denied those rumors, of course, sometimes even to myself. The truth is, nobody but Richmal or I could ever understand the bond that we had. We were not in love, not the way that Jack and I were in love, but we were good friends. And if I sweetened one night of his, toward the end of his life, then let the Lord – and the Lord alone – judge me.

“I'm so sorry,” I remember him saying to me, after the deed was done. “It was wrong of me to impress myself upon you in such a manner.”

I was so young and naive, only twenty-one years of age, that I had not really understood what was happening until it was over.

“It's fine, Sir,” I told him. “Think no more of it.”

And now look at me, sitting here all alone and getting lost in the past. Yes, I was a fool at times, but I was no whore. I can only hope that Elsa is long gone, that she is back in York and that she will never bother me again. If she has spread her poison in Malmeston, at least she no longer has any power over me. I need concern myself no longer with thoughts of her revenge.

I know my task now.

Even if no more customers come to the pub, I shall sit here and I shall keep the place open. I owe that to Mr. Foster, to repay his faith in me, and I owe it to Jack as well. Wherever Jack is, I can only hope that he has left Malmeston far behind, that he is off on some grand new adventure. I don't know whether I would like to think that he has forgotten me, or whether I would prefer that he thinks of me occasionally. Undoubtedly he'll meet some pretty young thing who'll turn his head, and he'll barely have time to remember his time with silly Muriel Hyde of The King's Head in Malmeston, but that is alright. That is, perhaps, simply how things have to be now.

“Goodbye, Jack,” I whisper, as tears fill my eyes. “You will be forever in my heart.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Charley Lucas

Today...

“Here you go, Bonnie,” I say as I set some sausages on a plate, down in the tunnel. “Please smell these and come back. If you don't come soon, I might not...”

I wait, hoping against hope that by some miracle Bonnie will come bounding out of the darkness. I imagine her jumping on me and licking my face and wagging her tail, but of course nothing like that happens. I'm crouching in the tunnel, and although I told Jennifer I'd be fine in the pub tonight, I can't shake a sense of real loneliness.

I'd do anything for Bonnie to come back right now. For her to come upstairs and sleep in the bedroom with me. She could even have my duvets.

“Please come back soon,” I say, looking into the darkness. “I'll be right here waiting.”

I grab the duvets that I brought down here, and I try to find a comfortable position. If I sleep upstairs, Bonnie might come and eat the sausages and then run back into the darkness. This way, I know I'll wake up if she comes. And then I won't ever let her get lost again.

***

I don't know how long I spend trying to get to sleep, but I must manage it eventually because suddenly – in the middle of the night – I jerk awake and sit up. I'm still in the tunnel, and I have a kind of half memory of hearing something nearby. I look through the gap in the brick wall, but all I see is darkness. I raise my phone and use the flashlight app, and there's no sign of Bonnie. Still, I'm certain I heard something coming this way.

Sighing, I lean back against the wall.

My mind must be playing tricks on me. It's only 3am and I feel more exhausted than ever, and any hope I could muster earlier is completely gone now. Maybe things will feel better in the morning, maybe then I'll be able to come up with some sort of plan while I'm on the way to visit Dad at the hospital, but right now everything just seems to be falling down all around us. I bet Gary Hayes is sleeping soundly somewhere else in Malmeston tonight, happy that his scummy plan seems to have worked. I can't shake the suspicion that he had something to do with Dad getting attacked, and I'm filled with anger at the thought of him getting away with everything.

“Muriel!” a voice shouts suddenly. “Help!”

Startled, I look up just as a figure stumbles past me and reaches up, grabbing the edge of the hatch and hauling itself up into the main part of the bar. For a moment I can only stare in stunned silence as the figure disappears from view, and a moment later I hear an agonized gasp followed by a thud, as if someone collapsed on the floor above me.

“Muriel!” he gasps. “Please...”

For a few seconds, I genuinely don't know what to do. Frozen in place, I tell myself that I must be dreaming. I pinch my left wrist and feel a flicker of pain, but I guess that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm awake. Slowly, however, I begin to realize that the gasping sound has faded, and I figure maybe the tail end of some dream briefly intruded into my real life. I stare up at the hatch, telling myself that of course nobody just climbed up there, but I realize finally that I have to at least take a look.

I clamber out from under the duvets, and then – taking care not to put too much pressure on my injured ankle – I start climbing back up into the bar area.

As soon as I'm through the hatch, I see that there's a man on the floor just a short distance away. The lights are all off, but now I can hear the man's faint, irregular breaths as he clutches what looks to be a bloodied wound on his side. I reach for my phone, before realizing that I left it down in the tunnel, so I figure I'll have to use the landline to call the police. Right now, however, I'm scared to move in case I attract the guy's attention. It's the same guy from my dream about the kitchen earlier tonight, except this time he looks genuinely injured. Maybe it's not the police I need to call first. Maybe I need an ambulance.

“Muriel,” he whispers, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper, “where are you? They got me, Muriel. They found out where I was hiding. I don't know how, but they did.”

I stare at him, and then suddenly he turns and looks straight at me.

“Help me, Muriel,” he continues, his voice filled with fear. “How bad is it?”

I open my mouth to tell him that I have no idea who he is, but I can't quite get the words out.

Looking down at his wound, he moves his hand aside to reveal a large, torn patch on his side, with blood smeared everywhere. I can't help but notice that his hand is shaking, and – although I keep telling myself that this is all just a performance, or a dream – the injury looks very real.

“Where have you been?” I ask. “Jack, I've been so worried, I've been asking everywhere. I started to think that maybe you'd left forever! I was hoping you'd gone far away!”

“I was so stupid!” he hisses angrily. “I knew I was taking a risk, but I still should have kept my guard up! I didn't even see who it was, but I'm sure it was one of the thugs from the brewery. Tell me, Muriel, how bad does it look? Can you sew it up?”

I swallow hard.

“Muriel, please,” he continues, “just tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

“I'm going to call someone,” I reply, as I start getting to my feet. “They'll -”

“No!”

He grabs my wrist, and I'm startled to feel his cold grip against my hand.

“If they find out that I'm here,” he continues, his voice trembling with fear, “they'll realize that you've been helping me all this time. I've tried to keep you out of it, Muriel, but we both know they're suspicious. It's why they've put word out that people shouldn't drink in The King's Head anymore. They just need one more, proper excuse to move against you and finish this place off, and finding me here would be that excuse. I'm so sorry that any of this had to happen, Muriel. It's all my fault, I just didn't think that they'd do any of this. I wasn't smuggling much, just enough to make a little extra on the side, but they won't allow any competition. I should never have gone up against the brewery.”

Looking down at his hand, as he continues to clutch my wrist, I realize that he certainly feels very real. Then again, dreams often do feel real, don't they? At the time, I mean.

“Are they coming?” I ask him suddenly. “You have to get away from here, Jack.”

Startled, I realize that although those words certainly came from my mouth, they weren't my words. It's as if someone else is speaking through me.

“I'm so glad you see it that way,” the man says. “If you can patch me up, enough for us to get out of here, we'll be alright. It's time to leave the pub behind, Muriel. They've won, but let them keep their rundown little town. As long as we get far away, that's all that matters now.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I tell him. “I'm going to call an -”

Before I can finish, someone bangs hard on the door. I turn and look across the room, but there's no sign of anyone standing on the other side of the pub's main door; a moment later, however, there's another loud bang, as if someone's slamming their fist against the glass.

“Open up, Hyde!” an angry voice yells. “We know you've got Jack Farnham in there. He's wanted for conspiring against the brewery. This'll be a lot easier on you if you open the door.”

“I'll go out there,” the man on the floor whispers. “I'll face them, I'll convince them that you're not involved in any of this.”

“No, Jack,” I reply, turning to him as I feel a swell of fear in my chest. “You know what they'll do to you. They'll kill you!”

Where did those words come from? I feel as if I'm not even in control of my body right now, as if I'm barely myself.

“I have money!” I stammer. “Jack, I should have told you before, but now I realize I was wrong. I have the money we need, and...”

For a moment, my mind's eye is filled with the image of an old man sitting in a chair by a window. I don't know this man, but I've overwhelmed by a sense of terrible sorrow, and a moment later I see that the man's eyes are wide open and glassy, as if he's dead.

“I've failed Richmal,” I whisper. “There's no way to save the pub now. We'll be killed if we stay.”

As those words leave my lips, however, I know that leaving is not an option. I must stay and make sure that The King's Head survives, that it ends up in the hands of someone who can look after it and keep it running. As much as I want to run away with Jack, to be his wife, I know that this simply isn't an option.

“Is this another dream?” I ask. “Please, Jack, tell me that it is! Tell me that you're not really here!”

“I have to face them,” he says. “I've made mistakes, Muriel, and maybe the Lord has decided it's my time to answer for them. But I won't let anyone hurt you, I won't let them touch one hair on your head.”

“I made my choice,” I reply, and again the words seem to be coming from someone else. “These bastards think they run the whole town. Even the police are scared of them. I knew what I was getting myself into, and I'm not going to let them chase me away. I know what they did to Ralph Potter and Michael Wade, and to so many other people as well. They kill anyone who gets in their way, but someone has to stand up to them!”

“Not us,” he replies. “Not anymore. For once in your life, Muriel, don't be so bloody stubborn!”

“I'm not Muriel!” I tell him, with tears in my eyes. “I don't know what's happening.”

It's as if two entirely different minds are filling my head, fighting for control.

“This is your last chance!” the voice at the door shouts. “Come on, Hyde, the brewery's not unreasonable. Send Farnham out as a show of your good faith, and I'm sure you'll be rewarded!”

“This is a waste of time,” I hear another voice saying. “We don't even know for sure that he came this way.”

“You saw the blood on the ground,” the first voice replies. “Fine, go around the side and check the field behind Potter's Lane. There's a chance he might have gone there. I'm going to go around the back of this place and find a way in. Maybe Farnham's inside and maybe he isn't, but you know the instructions we've got for dealing with Muriel Hyde. We'll probably get a bonus if we get rid of the pair of them in one night.”

I hear footsteps hurrying away, and now my heart is racing as I look toward the corridor that leads to the back of the building. Sure enough, a moment later I hear the sound of someone in the beer garden, and then there's a gentle thud as the person tries to open the back door.

“I'm going to end this tonight,” the man on the floor, obviously this Jack Farnham guy, says as he struggles to his feet. He lets go of my wrist and starts limping toward the front door. “One way or another, I'm going to make a stand. If I can get to the north end of the beach, I've got a gun and some other items stored away. That'll even the odds a little.”

“They'll kill you!” I gasp, watching as he opens the door. “Jack, you're in no state for this!”

“On the contrary,” he replies, stopping and turning to me, still clutching his injured side, “I'm finally in the right state to do something about these bastards. Maybe I'll fail, but at least for once I'll be trying to do the right thing. Stay here, Muriel, and stay safe. If the Lord is willing, I'll be back soon with good news.”

“No!”

I scramble to my feet as he hurries outside, and I get to the door just as it swings shut. I reach out to pull it open, but then I hear more footsteps outside.

“Farnham!” one of the other voices yells. “Stop!”

Even more footsteps race around the side of the building, as I stand frozen behind the door, listening to the madness outside.

“He went that way!” the voice continues. “He went up toward the beach, along Pierce Street!”

“What are you waiting for?” the other voice says, as the footsteps rush past the other side of the door. “We're not going to let him get away this time!”

I listen as the footsteps race away into the night. My heart is pounding and I still can't quite figure out what's happening, but if this is a dream then I want to wake up as soon as possible. I hesitate, with my fingers resting on the handle, and then I find myself opening the door and stepping out into the cold night air. I look toward the other end of the square, and I realize I can hear footsteps racing toward the beach.

“Jack!” I gasp suddenly. “Wait!”

I start running, unable to stop myself as I reach across the square with a fit of panic in my chest. I don't even know why I'm doing this, I want to be back inside the pub, but something's forcing me to go after the injured man. And as I run, I realize that it's as if the ghost of Muriel Hyde has taken control of my body. Somehow, I seem to be remembering what happened to her.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Charley Lucas

“Jack!” I yell as I reach the top of the street and stop for a moment, breathless and terrified in the darkness. “Where are you?”

I listen, and I soon hear the sound of footsteps on the beach, accompanied by voices yelling over the noise of crashing waves.

Stumbling forward across the road, I feel dazed and panicked. Voices are shouting somewhere nearby, but it's difficult to make out what they're saying and I quickly realize that tears are streaming down my face. I feel as if my heart is about to break. I've never been in love, I've never had more than a few crushes on people at school, but suddenly I'm overwhelmed by something that feels very much like love and sorrow. I think my heart is breaking.

“Jack,” I whimper, “for the love of God, don't let them catch you!”

“Over there!” a voice yells, somewhere nearby. “Get him!”

I can hear several sets of footsteps racing across the beach, and a moment later Jack cries out in pain.

“No!” I shout, unable to hold back. “Don't hurt him!”

I hear a thudding sound, and then more footsteps, followed by another cry.

“Here!” a voice snarls. “I've got him!”

“Did you think you could run from the brewery, Mr. Farnham?” the first voice asks. “Is that really what you were trying to do? Shame on you, Mr. Farnham, for biting the hand that's fed you for so long. You must have realized that you wouldn't be allowed to act in such an ungrateful manner. Oh dear, Mr. Farnham, it's not looking good for you now. It's not looking good at all.”

Too terrified to know what to do, I listen to the sound of someone struggling in the darkness, and a moment later I spot a flame bursting to life. Light from the flame picks out Jack's terrified face, as an arm pulls his neck tight from behind. I can feel some inner force pulling me forward, trying to make me rush to Jack's defense, but instead I simply stand and watch as a large, dirty blade is pressed against his throat.

“No,” I whisper, convinced that something is going to happen to save Jack. “Please...”

“Burn in Hell!” Jack snarls at the man with the knife. “You're nothing but -”

Before he can finish, the man slices the blade across Jack's throat, cutting him open and sending blood spraying across the pebbles.

“No!” I scream, and Jack's body falls to the ground as the two men turn to me.

The flame goes out, and I hear footsteps rushing this way.

Panicking, I turn and race back along Pierce Street. My footsteps ring out in the cold night air, and by the time I reach the square I'm running so fast that I almost trip. I slam against the wall of a house, but I manage to keep running all the way back to the pub, and I hurry through the door and then slam it shut. As I turn to slide the bolt across, I can already hear voices shouting in the distance, coming closer.

Jack's dead.

I take a step back, and all I can think about is the fact that I've lost Jack. There's a part of me that doesn't understand what's happening, that's screaming in my mind that I don't even know Jack Farnham. Yet there's another part of me that's filled with sorrow, that thinks life isn't even worth living anymore. I'm consumed by a sense of love and sorrow, and finally I drop to my knees and find that I'm shaking with terror. I swear, it's as if somebody else's emotions are flooding into me body, filling me with a kind of agony that's threatening to shake me to pieces.

I put my hands on my face and feels tears rushing down my cheeks.

“Muriel Hyde!” a voice shouts from outside. “Your fellow's dead. His blood's leaking all over the beach, and he'll be found soon enough. That won't look good for you, will it? After all, plenty of people saw you arguing with him the other day, in broad daylight out on the street.”

“I did not argue with Jack in the street!” I sob, somehow filled with terror. “And if I had done so, I would only have been telling him that he has to go far away from Malmeston as possible.”

“Soon everyone'll be gossiping,” the voice continues, as the letterbox is pushed open and a leering smile appears in the gap. “People already don't like you, Muriel. They think you're too smart for your own good, they think you hate ordinary people. Now a man's dead, and you were seen quarreling with him. Can you imagine what everyone will be saying once word gets out?”

“Leave me alone!” I snarl, shaking with fury.

“It'll be the end of you, my dear,” the voice teases in a mocking tone. “You'll be poison in this town. You'll be hated, even more than you are already. The mask will slip and everyone will see the truth about mean and nasty Muriel Hyde.”

“Leave me alone!” I snap again, getting to my feet and stumbling toward the fireplace. I grab a poker and head back toward the door, where the letterbox is still open.

“Muriel the murderer,” the voice says. “That has a ring to it, doesn't it? And then -”

Before he can finish, I stab the poker through the letterbox, filled with the determination to end this conversation. I hear a gasp outside, but then the poker is grabbed by its other end and pulled all the way through, until it slips from my hands.

“Oh dear,” the voice continues, “that was rather violent, Muriel, wasn't it? Attacking a man with a poker that can easily be traced back to your own pub. Violent and stupid, if you ask me, but we'll have to see what other people think. I suppose a lot depends on where the poker ends up, doesn't it? I'm sure it'll look rather bad, say, on the beach next to the body of a man who'd just been murdered.”

“Go away,” I sob, clinging to the wall in a desperate attempt to keep from collapsing. It's as if, right now, I am Muriel Hyde. “You killed him. I loved him and you killed him. He was the love of my life, we were going to be together and you killed him.”

“I don't see any evidence to support that accusation, Muriel.”

“You killed him!” I scream, lunging at the door and slamming my fists against the window, before dropping once more to my knees as heavy, anguished sobs burst through my body. “You're murderers! You and the whole brewery are nothing but common thieves and murderers!”

I wait, but a moment later the letterbox shuts and I hear laughter outside. The men are already starting to walk away, no doubt to go back to the beach so they can look at the fruits of their evil work. I want to go out there and fetch Jack's body, to bring him back here so he can at last be laid out decently, but I can't handle the thought of seeing him in such a terrible state. All I can think, as I lean my head against the door, is that my poor Jack is out there on the cold beach, with his blood dribbling into the shingle, and his murderers laughing as they make their way home to count their pay for the night's events.

All I want is to see Jack again, to tell him I'm sorry, to feel him hold me in his arms. Yet there is only one way that I can possibly make that happen, and that is to hasten my departure into the next life, to follow him to whatever comes after all this misery and hopelessness.

“I'm coming,” I whisper, before getting to my feet and stumbling around to the other side of the bar.

I must have a rope somewhere, and surely hanging is the easiest and quickest way to die. After searching for some time, however, I spot a set of knives on a shelf, and I realize that perhaps that would be the best way to go. As I step over to the knives and take the largest of them in my trembling right hand, I already know that this will be extremely painful, but I remind myself that I have not lived a faultless life. Why should I expect death to be free of pain, when I have sinned plenty?

I place the blade against my left wrist, and I try to summon the courage to cut deep. Yet the courage does not come; indeed, I feel weaker with each passing second, until the knife drops from my hand. Had I found the courage, I would surely have done the deed, yet now it is not courage but anger that fills my heart. If I die tonight, Jack's murderers will go unpunished and the brewery will continue to be seen as a bastion of honor, and The King's Head will most likely be lost.

The brewery's lies and crimes must be exposed.

“I will avenge you,” I whisper, as I think once more of Jack's body out there on the beach. “As the Lord is my witness, I will find a way to make them pay for what they did to you.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Charley Lucas

“I will find a way...”

My voice trails off as I find myself sitting at a table in the corner of the pub, staring down at an array of papers. Someone has been scrawling notes everywhere, and after a moment I look at my right hand and see that I'm holding some kind of pen. I look at the notes and see that they're written in handwriting that's almost indecipherable, although as I peer closer I'm just about able to make out a few of the words.

“Bring the brewery to its knees,” I whisper, as I begin to realize that quite some time must have passed since the night when Jack Farnham died. “Show its evil to the world.”

Looking around, I find that the pub is gloomy and seemingly shut. There's light outside, as if it's the middle of the day, but there's no sign of activity and I can see dust floating through the air. It's evident that the pub has been closed for a while. I lean back in the chair, and in the process I knock one of the sheets of paper to the floor. I reach down to pick it up, and then I turn to see that there are hundreds more sheets all over the floor behind me.

Muriel must have been sitting here for a long time, trying to figure out a way to get her revenge on the brewery.

Turning to look at the front window, I'm shocked to see that some kind of dirt has been daubed on the other side of the glass. I quickly realize that someone has written something across the window, and the middle of the word seems to be the letters R, D, E, R and E. It doesn't take a genius to figure that the word is most likely 'murderer'.

Getting to my feet, I start walking toward the bar. My right ankle no longer hurts, which is a bonus, but my body feels very stiff and heavy. Reaching the bar, I put my hands on the surface and feel a rich layer of dust. Evidently The King's Head is no longer open, at least not in any general sense. Am I dreaming about what Muriel Hyde's final days were like? Or is this something more?

Spotting some letters on the mat, I step forward, but then I hear a thudding sound coming from the hallway. I turn just in time to see the back door swing open, and three large, burly men enter the pub carrying axes and mallets.

“No!” I shout, suddenly filled with panic at the sight of the intrusion. “Who are you? You can't come in here!”

“I'm afraid we can,” say the man at the back, who steps through and reveals himself to be much better dressed than the others. As I look at him, I swear he looks a lot like Gary Hayes, only older and larger. “You've been ignoring our letters, Muriel. The terms of your tenancy here at The King's Head have been breached and I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. It would seem that few people in Malmeston are keen on frequenting an establishment run by a murderer.”

“I'm no murderer!” I snap, stepping toward him. “Your brewery killed Jack!”

“There's no proof of that,” the man says, as his thugs step forward to protect him. “I know you haven't been charged with anything, Muriel, but everyone knows you're guilty. I mean, a poker from this very pub was found right next to the body.” His smile grows. “I'm not an unkind man, however, so I'm willing to offer you a deal. I'm perfectly happy to let you walk away, so long as you tell me where I can find the money.”

“What money?” I ask.

“The money that you brought with you, when you came town. We know you had some, and we figure some of it's probably still around. It can be compensation for the trouble Mr. Farnham has caused us. You have it hidden away somewhere, and I think it's only fair that we should take it as our own. After all, Farnham was attempting to muscle in on our territory. He was a smuggler and a common thief.”

“You're all murderers!” I shout. “Your whole brewery is based on theft and smuggling!”

“There's no proof of that whatsoever.”

“Everyone knows it!” I continue. “The whole town lives in fear of Hayes and Storford, no-one's brave enough to stand up to you, but everyone in Malmeston knows the truth! Your business is built on the blood of smuggling, and you won't let anyone else make any money at all!”

“Jack Farnham is the only one accused by the police of being involved in smuggling.”

“That's because you have the police in your pocket, Mr. Hayes! You pay them off!”

“You've got money hidden away, Muriel. Where is it? You really should think about cooperating, you know. Think about your options for a moment. Your decision could have a very big impact when it comes to how the rest of your day goes.”

I hesitate, before stepping closer to him. His thugs are still blocking my way, but I don't care about that; after all, I know I have no chance of defending myself, but I also know that there's no way I will ever let these bastards have the money. I'd rather die.

“Fine,” Mr. Hayes replies with a sigh, “I can see the intransigence in your eyes. We'll tear this pub apart and find the money anyway.” He turns to the men. “We'll have to go with the back-up plan, I'm afraid. You know the one.” He glances at me. “The one that will silence this wretched murderess forever.”

Before I can ask what he means, the men grab my arms and start dragging me through to the hallway. I try to fight back, but they're holding me too tight and I'm unable to slip free. As I'm hauled up the stairs, one of the men hurries ahead and produces a rope from under his coat, and then I watch as he throws one end over a wooden beam high up in the stairwell.

And that's when I remember the story about Muriel Hyde supposedly hanging herself.

“No,” I whisper, but I'm already at the top of the stairs and I'm unable to turn fast enough. A noose is placed around my neck, and then I'm hoisted up onto the shoulders of the men and turned around.

Mr. Hayes is staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

“If it's any consolation,” he says as I struggle desperately to get free, “I think your reputation might be enhanced by this final act of sacrifice. People will see it as your way of recognizing all your wrongs. I shall certainly attempt to persuade people that, in the end, you came to some kind of epiphany. Right before your suicide.”

“I'm not doing this!” I snarl.

“My dear,” he replies, “you are. I've already spoken to the coroner. In fact, he's already written the death certificate.”

With that, the men throw me forward. The noose tightens around my neck. I reach up and try to get free, but already the men are grabbing my legs and pulling me down with a series of hard, shocking jerks. I can feel myself struggling to breathe, and after a moment I also feel something snap in my neck. There's blood at the back of my mouth, and dark splotches are starting to fill my vision as my eyes begin to swell. I try to cry out, desperately hoping that even a single scream might be enough to attract help, but finally everything goes black and I'm left with only the sensation of the rope digging into my neck, and the laughter of the brewery's thugs as they pull harder and harder on my legs.

“No!” I gasp, suddenly falling down and slamming into the banister.

I twist around and grab the railing, but I still land hard on my right ankle, which was already painful. I cry out as I steady myself, and then I scramble up the stairs and turn to look around.

I'm alone.

Whereas a moment ago, daylight was streaming through the windows, now there's only darkness outside. I wait for some sign of the men from the brewery, but then I look over at the nearest window and see my own face reflected in the glass. A moment later I spot a light flashing down in the hallway, which must be the security system, and I realize that that strange, hideous dream must be over.

Filled with relief, I slide down onto the floor and reach up to touch my neck. I don't feel any cuts or soreness, but I still remember the sensation of the noose crushing my throat. I know the idea is impossible, but it feels as if – for a short time – I fell asleep and somehow lived through some key moments of Muriel Hyde's life. Even though I'm myself again, my heart is thudding hard in my chest and I feel as if I really was just attacked. And I can feel a kind of echo of Muriel's heartbreak, even though I obviously never met or knew Jack Farnham.

That dream felt more real than some real things I've experienced.

Once I've got my breath back, I stand and start making my way down the stairs. In the dream, my ankle didn't hurt at all, but now it's really throbbing. I guess I must have somehow sleep-walked while I was dreaming, which is pretty creepy, and then as I get to the hallway I suddenly realize that the bottoms of my socks are wet. I reach down, and that's when I remember being out on the beach. But that was part of the dream, not real life, right?

Right.

I think.

To be honest, I still don't have everything quite straight in my head, but I figure I'm under a lot of stress. I hobble through to the bar and look down into the tunnel, and I feel a flicker of disappointment when I see that the sausages are still in place. Bonnie still hasn't come back, and I'm starting to think that I might need to come up with yet another plan if I'm ever going to see her again.

I wish I could call Dad.

I wish I could just hear his voice.

I'll do that in the morning, though. He wouldn't thank me for calling him in the middle of the night.

“Get a grip, Charley,” I mutter under my breath. “You're not -”

Suddenly I hear a floorboard creaking over my shoulder. I spin around, but at that moment something hard and heavy crashes into the side of my head, knocking me out instantly and sending me crumpling down to the floor.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Charley Lucas

This time I don't dream.

There's nothing. Just an endless void that I'm not even aware of until it ends. As I slowly start blinking, I find that I'm face-down on a floor, and then my other senses come back one by one. Touch: the floor is cold, some kind of hard lino. Hearing: I can hear a strong gale blowing somewhere, battering a door or maybe a window. Taste: there's a lingering hint of blood in my mouth. Smell: I can smell salt, the way you do near the sea on a blustery day. Finally, there's pain: the side of my head is throbbing, and so is my right ankle, and I feel stiff and awkward as I slowly start to sit up and look around.

My vision's still a little off, but I find that I'm in a fairly small, white-walled room. There are empty shelves along one wall, but other than that the room is completely bare. There's a window behind me, so I get up and look outside, and I immediately see drops of rain running down the other side of the glass. The pane is shaking in the wind, but I can just about make out grass outside, stretching toward the horizon. I can hear the sea now, crashing against the shore not too far away, but I still have no idea where I am.

Something hit me when I was in the pub, during the night. Is this another dream? Am I experiencing another snippet of Muriel Hyde's life? I pinch myself, and it still hurts, and then I feel another twist of pain in my ankle. It was my ankle that was the giveaway last time, when it failed to hurt in the dream, so I guess that means I'm awake. Plus, I don't feel as if someone else's mind is invading my thoughts this time. I'm me, I'm Charley Lucas, and there's no trace of Muriel Hyde in my thoughts. Not that there was before, of course, because that would be crazy, but... I feel 100% myself.

A moment later I hear a key in the lock, and I turn just as the door swings open. I step forward, only to see Gary Hayes standing in the doorway, and there are two men right behind him.

“Ah, good, you are awake,” Hayes says. “We thought we heard movement. How's your head, Ms. Lucas? I hope there isn't too much of a bump.”

“Where am I?” I ask, trying not to panic. “Why am I here?”

“You're at one of the brewery's properties on the outskirts of town,” he replies calmly, “and as for why you're here... I'd have thought that you might have some idea of that by now. After all, you were eavesdropping on a private conversation yesterday, were you not?”

“I don't want to be here,” I say firmly. “You have to let me go right now!”

“Do we?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “That's news to me.”

“You can't kidnap me!” I say, hurrying toward him, only for the other two men to step in the way.

I try to force my way past. They simply block me at first, but finally one of them trips me and sends me clattering back down against the floor.

Looking up at the men, I realize that this feels a lot like the moment in my dream when Muriel Hyde faced those thugs in The King's Head.

“This isn't my fault, Ms. Lucas,” Hayes continues. “The plan was always to simply drive you and your father away. Then we'd be able to say that we gave the pub another shot, but that it's simply not destined to succeed. We'd have knocked the place down and built some nice new flats, and no-one would have suffered. Even when your father proved smarter than he looked, and the pub began to take off, we had a way around that. We might even have offered the pair of you another property, one that we actually wanted to see succeed. But then I saw something in your face the other day, Ms. Lucas, that made me realize the need for sterner measures.”

“You can't do this!” I snap. “It's illegal!”

“We've long known that Muriel Hyde never truly left The King's Head,” he replies. “Some people dismiss such ideas, but it's been clear for a while. Call her a ghost, or a spirit, or whatever, but some essence of her remained. That was why we wanted to just knock the place down and get on with things, but those interfering busybodies from the Restoration Society insisted that we should try to keep the pub going. I was hoping that Muriel's ghost would help us out by causing trouble, but then the other day I met you in the garden behind The Golden Bow and I realized what had happened.” He pauses for a moment. “She's trying to use you as a means of leaving that place,” he adds finally.

“What?” I stammer. “I don't have a clue what you're talking about!”

“She hitched a ride in you,” he explains. “When you got angry, I saw her, just for a second. And I'm afraid that can't be allowed to happen. Muriel Hyde was a threat that the brewery dealt with a long time ago. We intend to make sure that the past remains buried.”

“I want to call my father!” I tell him. “He'll realize that I'm missing! He'll call the police!”

“I've already let the police know not to stress,” he replies. “Tell me, how does it work? Do you feel Muriel Hyde's presence inside your body right now? Or is it subtler than that? More subliminal.” He pauses again. “Is it even possible that you weren't aware of her?”

I shake my head, convinced that he has to be completely insane.

“Muriel Hyde died a hundred years ago,” I say, my voice trembling with fear. “She's gone!”

“She did die a hundred years ago,” he replies, “but she's not gone. Are you in there now, Muriel? Why not come out? Or are you only strong when you're near the pub?”

“There's no-one inside me!” I snap. “There's no such thing as ghosts!”

“You must have seen her,” he says. “It's impossible for you not to have seen her as she entered you.”

“You're talking nonsense!” I tell him, but there are tears in my eyes. I don't know why, but I'm on the verge of breaking down. “Leave me alone!”

“Think back to the first time,” Hayes replies. “Or was it the first time? I'm starting to think that you have some kind of mental block on this, young lady. Have you been traumatized by a ghost before? Is that why you don't remember?”

“Go away!” I shout, putting my hands on the sides of my head. I feel as if my skull's about to burst.

“Fascinating,” Hayes says. “You're repressing something, aren't you? Something that made it impossible for you to accept that you'd seen Muriel's ghost.”

“There's no ghost!” I shout. “There never was!”

“Let it all out,” he replies. “If Muriel wasn't the first, then who was?”

“Ghosts aren't real!”

“It'll feel good to be honest with yourself.”

“There's no such thing!”

“We all have to be honest with ourselves sometimes and -”

“I didn't see Mum's ghost!” I scream at the top of my voice. “You're lying!”

As soon as those words have left my mouth, I freeze. Where did that come from? Why did I mention Mum? For a moment I have no idea what's happening, but then I sink further down onto the floor as I remember the day of Mum's funeral. We got home, and I went upstairs to change. I was in my room, changing into a t-shirt and some jeans, and I glanced in the mirror on the dresser. And that's when I saw...

Just for a second...

Standing behind me...

Watching me...

“No,” I sob, as tears stream down my face, “that didn't happen.”

But it did, and now I remember. I saw her, just for a moment, and then I fainted. When I came around, Dad was leaning over me. He was so worried, but I didn't remember why I'd fainted. I guess I blocked the memory out of my mind, and I tried to get on with my life. And that must be why I fainted those times at the pub. I must have seen Muriel Hyde's ghost, and my mind – rather than accepting the truth and remembering that I'd seen Mum – chose to have me faint instead and lose all memory of what had happened. It must have been some kind of self-defense mechanism that went a little haywire.

“Mum,” I whimper, closing my eyes but still seeing her face in the mirror, as clearly as I saw it back then. “I'm so sorry...”

“Well, this is a turn-up for the books,” Hayes mutters. “I didn't expect to act as your psycho-analyst this morning, but I suppose I'm glad I could be of help. Now that you understand the truth, however, I hope you'll realize that we have to get rid of Muriel Hyde once and for all. And that, in turn, is going to be rather unpleasant. For you, at least.”

Barely even hearing a word he just said to me, I open my eyes and look down at my hands. I'm shaking with fear and shock, and I still can't quite believe that I saw Mum's ghost all those years ago. She came back after the funeral, to see that I was okay, and I reacted by collapsing. It's as if my mind simply couldn't cope with what had happened.

“Pick her up,” Hayes says after a moment. “Everything's ready. Malmeston has been living under the shadow of that wretched Muriel Hyde woman for long enough. Today we're going to get rid of her once and for all.”

I feel hands on my arms, and I'm suddenly hauled up from the floor.

“No!” I shout, struggling wildly as I'm dragged out of the room. “Stop! Where are you taking me? Let me go!”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Charley Lucas

“You can't do this!” I scream as I'm dragged on my knees across the wet grass, toward the steep verge that marks the start of the beach. “Somebody help me!”

Ahead, about thirty people are standing around as if they're waiting for us. They might not be dressed in robes, and they're not wearing masks, but they look like members of some cult as they stare at me with fearful expressions. I recognize a few of them from around town, and then – as I'm dropped onto the ground and held down firmly by hands that grip my shoulders – I turn and feel a crash of horror in my chest as I spot one very familiar face.

“Jennifer!” I shout. “You have to help me!”

She stares at me, and she looks utterly distraught, but after a moment she turns away as if she can no longer watch. There are tears in her eyes, but she makes no move to get me out of here.

“Jennifer, what are you doing here?” I yell. “I thought you were on our side?”

She steps toward me, and she seems absolutely terrified.

“I'm sorry, Charley,” she says, her voice shaking with anguish, “I tried to warn you off. I told you, the brewery has all the power here. None of us can fight it.”

“They kidnapped me!”

“I know, but -”

“They hurt Dad, didn't they?” I continue. “They almost killed him, and you know it, and you were just going to keep quiet!”

“You don't know what it's like,” she says, as tears run down her face. “I was supposed to spy on you guys, to let the brewery know the best and least painful way to let you both down. I was trying to help you!”

“By screwing us over!” I snap, trying to break free so I can knock some sense into her.

“You're not from Malmeston,” she replies. “You don't know what it's like here.”

“On the contrary,” I reply, “I think I'm seeing it for how it really is. I never realized it, but the ghost of Muriel Hyde was real, wasn't it? I just didn't know it, because I fainted every time I saw her, and I never remembered. And now she's inside me somehow, she's possessing me. I fainted because that's what happened when I saw my mother's ghost, after her funeral. I'm so stupid. If I'd been smarter and stronger, I could have figured this out a long time ago.”

“Charley -”

“Don't talk to me!” I sneer. “You disgust me!”

“Please, I never meant to be -”

“Leave me alone!” I shout. “I hate you!”

She hesitates, and then she turns and steps away. As she does so, she puts a hand to her face, probably to wipe away more tears. I don't care about any of that, though. I trusted her, I even thought she and Dad could become an item, and she was lying to us and betraying us the whole time.

Hearing movement nearby, I turn and see that several more people are arriving, carrying a figure that's sitting perched on some old-fashioned chair. The figure is silhouetted against the cold gray sky, but as it's placed down in front of me I look up at its ragged, withered face and pull back in sheer horror at the sight of Muriel Hyde's corpse.

“It would seem,” Gary Hayes says, stepping up behind me, “that a retrial is in order.”

“You can't be serious!” I stammer, unable to stop staring at Muriel's face. She's been propped in the chair as if she's a real person, just as she looked in those photos from the original trial. “This is sick!”

“Muriel Hyde was a murderer,” Gary announces to the people who are gathered nearby. “That much is beyond dispute. She was an enemy of the brewery, but more importantly she was an enemy of -”

“No!” I shout. “None of this is true! Muriel Hyde was killed by the brewery because she wouldn't do what they wanted! The brewery killed Jack Farnham and then they faked Muriel's suicide and now -”

Before I can finish, a hand clamps tight over my mouth. My head is pulled back, and a gag is forced into place. As a knot is tied tight, I struggle desperately to get free and to shout out the truth, but all I can manage is a vague, helpless murmur.

“As I was saying,” Hayes continues, “Muriel Hyde stood against everything that makes this town great. Our values. Our principles. Our founding tenets. When she died, she was put on trial and found guilty, and everyone hoped the story was over. Alas, that has turned out not to be the case. One among us rescued her body, and then first he and then his daughter Judith kept it as some kind of obscene trophy. Their actions were tolerated until recently, when it became clear that Muriel's spirit remains very much present in The King's Head.”

I try again to cry out, to warn the others that Judith must have been murdered, but I can't get the gag out of my mouth. A moment later, my hands are forced behind my back and tied tight. I know I need to get away from these lunatics, but right now I don't know how. Still, if Jennifer has turned against us and joined the madness, then maybe there's no way to escape. Maybe the whole town really is completely loyal to the brewery.

“The spirit of Muriel Hyde resides in the body of this young woman,” Hayes explains, causing audible gasps from several members of the crowd. “This is her final attempt to escape and to cause damage to the fabric of our lives. That is why I have brought the girl here today, so that Muriel's spirit can be torn out of her and forced back into her rotting carcass, where it shall be trapped while the bones and the flesh are burned to cinders. I ask now that Muriel's body should demonstrate its willingness to reabsorb her soul!”

Several members of the crowd drop to their knees, as if they're starting to pray. I look over at Jennifer, but she merely has her head bowed.

I try in vain to call out to her, but the gag stifles my voice.

“Perhaps blood is required,” Hayes says, suddenly stepping up behind me.

As soon as I see the knife, I pull away and try to run, but I'm held down firmly and I can't resist as Hayes places the blade against my cheek. I try again to turn, but then I wince as I feel the knife's edge slicing through my skin. Hayes cuts me from just below my right eye, all the way down to the side of my nose, and then he carefully moves the knife away. Beads of blood are bobbing on the metal as he turns and starts carrying the knife over toward Muriel Hyde's corpse.

“Let this taste be enough to make you rise,” he says as he turns the knife and lets the blood dribble down onto Muriel's face.

As tears run from my eyes, I try again to break free, but I'm being held down too firmly. I can only watch in horror as my own blood soaks into Muriel's dry skin, and after a moment I look at her dead eyes. This whole situation is complete madness, but more and more members of the crowd are dropping to their knees, as if they genuinely believe that this circus is going to have any actual results.

“Be patient!” Hayes shouts to the others. “This is not the work of a moment, she will come back and reclaim her soul! Wait and watch!”

“Stop squirming,” one of the men says, still holding my shoulders firmly.

Hayes comes back over to me and smirks for a moment, before turning to look back at Muriel Hyde's corpse. There's been no sign of movement, of course, but I can't escape a slow feeling of dread that's starting to spread through my chest and out into the rest of my body. Still silhouetted against the gray sky, Muriel's dead face stares down roughly in my direction, and I can feel an uncontrollable, explosive, totally irrational but absolutely inescapable fear starting to rush through my every bone and muscle.

Please, I want to beg, let me go. But even if I didn't have this gag in my mouth, I think I'd be too terrified to say a word.

And then, slowly, I see Muriel Hyde's dead eyes start to move.

“It's happening!” Gary Hayes announces loudly, immediately dropping to his knees and bowing his head. “Her body and her soul shall be reunited, and then both shall go to Hell where they belong!”

I start shaking my head, and telling myself that this is all a trick of the light, but deep down I already know that it's real. Muriel's eyes are looking directly at me now, and a moment later I hear a faint cracking sound as her head tilts slightly to one side.

Her hands are moving, too, and a moment later her entire body shifts as if she's trying to get up from the chair.

“I shall help her!” Hayes says, rushing forward and reaching out to take one of Muriel's arms. “We've been waiting for you!” he continues, as if he's in some kind of rapture. “Your body was in that woman's home, but your soul was in The King's Head. Only when they're reunited can this nightmare end. For the sake of Malmeston, I'm begging you to finally do the right thing!”

As he holds her arm, Muriel slowly and tentatively rises from the chair. Her entire body creaks and groans, and she seems terribly unsteady on her feet, but after a few seconds Hayes lets go of her arm, allowing her to stand freely and stare down at me.

This can't be real.

This has to be some kind of trick.

“I wasn't expecting it to be like this,” says one of the men next to me, still holding me down.

“This is the one who contains your souls,” Hayes says, pointing toward me. “She might not give it willingly, but it's in her somewhere and you must relieve her of the burden. Do so without causing pain if you can, but remember that the whole of the town is relying on you. Do whatever you must, so that this dreadful curse is lifted.”

Muriel stares at me for a moment, before taking a very slowly, very unsteady step toward me. She looks as if she might be about to topple over, but somehow she manages to hold herself up. She hesitates, and then she takes another step forward, until she's towering above me.

“Do it!” Hayes shouts, stepping back. “Rip your soul out of her if that's what it takes! Save us all!”

I look down at Muriel's dried, discolored hands, and I see that they're trembling slightly. I don't know what she's about to do to me, but I can feel my heart pounding in my chest now. Not necessarily faster, but harder, as if it might be about to burst at any moment.

“Move!”

Suddenly something slams about Gary Hayes from the side, knocking him to the ground. I turn to see Jennifer grabbing the knife from his hand, and then she rushes toward the two men who are holding me down.

“Let her go!” she screams.

I feel the hands move away from my shoulders, and I stumble to my feet and take a step back.

“Don't try anything!” Jennifer shouts, turning and waving the knife toward Hayes as he tries to sneak up behind her. “This is wrong!” she sobs, with tears running down her face. “She's just an innocent girl, she didn't do anything!”

Hayes tries to grab the knife, but Jennifer lashes out at him, cutting the palm of his hand.

Rushing up behind me, she cuts the rope around my wrists, then she turns and holds the knife up to keep the two thugs away.

“Run, Charley!” she shouts. “I'll hold them off! You have to run and get help, or they'll kill all of us! Tell your father! Tell anyone who'll listen! This is for my uncle!”

“You stupid bitch,” Hayes says, stepping past Muriel and trying again to grab Jennifer only for her to lash out at him one more time. “Would you really betray your whole town?”

“Run, Charley!”

Filled with panic, I turn and race out across the grass, not even stopping to look over my shoulder. The pain in my ankle is intense, but sheer terror pushes me through the pain. I can still hear Jennifer shouting at Hayes and his men to stay back, but I know they'll be after me sooner rather than later. I can see the town in the distance, but the nearest houses are at least a mile away and I don't know that I can get there in time. Even if I do, I risk getting turned straight back around and delivered to Hayes and the brewery.

I stumble down a grassy ridge, and then I stop to look around. I'm at the edge of a golf course, but I have no idea which way to go and I'm pretty sure that hiding won't be enough. I look back, but no-one's coming after me just yet. I need to make a decision, but I'm running out of time.

And then, with no warning, I hear a dog barking.

Turning, I'm shocked to see Bonnie wagging her tail at me. For a moment, I can't even believe what I'm seeing, but then I hurry over to Bonnie and reach down to pat her on the head. I pull the gag out of my mouth, and then I realize that Bonnie's standing at the entrance to some kind of opening that seems to run down under the golf course. I scramble down to take a closer look, and that's when I realize that I've found one of the beachfront openings to the tunnel system.

“Bonnie, you genius!” I say, turning to her as she continues to wag her tail. “How did you -”

Before I can finish, I hear an agonized scream in the distance, ringing out across the course until suddenly cutting off dead.

“Bonnie, we have to get away from here,” I continue, before climbing down into the tunnel and rushing into the darkness. “Come on! We have to find the way home!”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Charley Lucas

Without my phone, I can't see a thing as I stumble along the pitch-black tunnel. Occasionally there's a sliver of light above, and sometimes I can even see street corners or the insides of room above the tunnel, but none of them seem familiar and I have no idea where we are in relation to the town. All I can be sure of is that we're somewhere under Malmeston, and I need to get out of here and find help.

Fortunately, I can hear Bonnie right behind me.

“It's okay,” I whisper, keeping my voice low as I reach out and fumble through the darkness. “Home, Bonnie. Do you know that word? Can you try to take us home?”

I bump against the wall, but I'm pretty sure that Bonnie's no Lassie. Still, I can't wander around down here forever, and I tell myself that sooner or later we have to get a stroke of luck.

In my mind's eye, however, I can't help thinking back to the sight of Muriel Hyde's dead body slowly rising from that chair. I keep telling myself that the whole thing is crazy, of course, but at the same time I know exactly what I saw and I saw a very dead, very old corpse getting up and stepping toward me. I even heard the cracking sound as her bones moved after so many years. And given what I've realized today about ghosts, I guess it's not too much of a step to figure that maybe reanimated corpses are a thing now.

I'm starting to wish we'd just stayed in Blackpool.

A moment later, hearing a scratching sound over my shoulder, I turn and look back again into the darkness. I know I might well be imagining things, but I swear I feel as if we're not alone down here.

“Bonnie?” I whisper.

Silence.

Darkness.

I'm holding my breath.

A moment later, Bonnie brushes against my leg, and I tell myself that she caused that sound. After all, wouldn't she start barking if we were being followed.

“I really need you to help us get back to the pub,” I say finally, reaching down in the darkness and patting her side. “Can you do that, girl? Or just anywhere that I recognize.”

She turns and starts walking again, and I follow. If I had my phone with me, I'd be able to light the way, but instead I have to keep going in darkness. After a short way, however, I spot another crack of light high above. Stopping beneath the crack, I stand on tip-toes and try to peer through. At first, all I see is a street corner, but slowly I begin to realize that I think I recognize where we are. We're near the church, and that means that the pub must be just about a mile to the south. Of course, that's easy enough in theory, but I have to actually find a tunnel that goes that way.

Otherwise, I might end up trapped down here forever.

Running my hands along the wall, I suddenly find a junction, with another section of tunnel heading to the south. This might actually be my first lucky break of the day, since I think the pub should be in that direction.

“Come on, Bonnie,” I say as I feel her brushing against my legs. “We might actually have a chance.”

As I keep walking, I start to wonder whether it'd help to cry out. After all, there are people up there in the streets, and maybe one of them would guide me to the pub. At the same time, I'm not entirely sure that I trust anyone in this town, and there's a chance that they'd simply turn me over to Gary Hayes. I need to stay unnoticed for as long as possible; once I get to the pub, I'll have to find a way to sneak out of town. Once I reach the hospital, I can try to persuade Dad that Hayes and the brewery really are insane, and then at least we'll be safe. For now, however, I feel as if I'm going round and round in circles. For all I know, I really might be repeating my steps, trapped in an endless loop beneath the streets of Malmeston.

And then, after what feels like endless wandering, I hear voices up ahead.

I stop for a moment, before realizing that the voices are coming from above. I step toward another crack in the tunnel's roof, and I feel a rush of relief as I realize that I know where I am now. I'm directly under The Golden Bow, which means that The King's Head can't be much further. I start walking again, but then I stop as soon as I realize that I recognize the voices.

“Keep her here,” Gary Hayes is saying angrily. “I want to make an example of her once I've dealt with everything else.”

“Please don't hurt me,” Jennifer sobs. “I couldn't let you hurt Charley, that's all. She's just a girl, she doesn't deserve any of this.”

“She's a girl who's caused me some trouble,” Hayes replies. “I'm disappointed in you, Jennifer. I always thought you were a good girl. A loyal girl. I thought you cared about your hometown.”

I reach up to the crack in the floor and peer through, and I'm horrified to see Jennifer in a crumpled, bloodied heap. She's bleeding from a cut on her arm, and Hayes is holding a knife as he stands over her.

“I care!” she blurts out, trying to pull herself back from the blade. “I just couldn't stand there and watch you kill her!”

“So you chose outsiders over your own kind,” Hayes says, sounding deeply unimpressed and disappointed. “How very telling. The brewery has always been generous to your family. Your father worked in one of our warehouses, and your mother spent some time managing our gift shop. You had safe, happy lives, and all you had to do in return was show some loyalty and gratitude. What did you do instead, Jennifer? You inconvenienced me.”

“You were going to murder her!”

“I was going to keep the brewery and the town safe,” he replies, before pausing for a moment. “And do you know what? I still am.”

“But if -”

Before she can finish, Hayes leans down and drives the knife into her chest.

“No!” I scream, as he pulls the knife out and Jennifer slumps lifelessly to the floor.

I see Hayes look at me, and in that moment I know that I have to run. I turn and race along the tunnel, careering through the darkness at such speed that I keep bumping against the walls. I have to hold my hands up to protect my head, but I can't slow down, not even for a second. I have to get to the pub and hope that I manage to climb up and then get out of the building before Hayes gets there. For all I know, he might be faster than me, and he might even have sent someone on ahead to watch for my arrival, but this is my only hope. Fortunately I soon see the pub's basement area ahead, and finally I get back and reach up to start hauling myself into the bar area.

Bonnie barks as I begin to climb.

“Hurry!” I say, reaching back down and lifting her up.

I wait until she's scrambled over the edge, and then I grab the edges and once again start climbing. My ankle is really hurting now, but somehow I'm managing to push through, and I roll out onto the bar's floor just as Bonnie starts barking.

“Quiet!” I hiss, getting to my feet and turning to look for her. “I don't want you giving away our -”

And then I freeze, as I see that the corpse of Muriel Hyde is now standing at the far end of the room, staring at me. Before I even have a chance to tell myself that this can't really be happening, I see her eyes move, and she takes a slow, unsteady step toward me.

“Hell, no,” I say, stepping around the bar and looking for something I can use to defend myself. The only thing I spot is a poker next to the fireplace, so I grab that and hold it up as Muriel's creaking body comes closer.

Bonnie's still barking, but even she starts backing away, as if the sight and smell of Muriel's dead body is enough to terrify her.

I know the feeling.

“Don't come any closer,” I stammer, stepping back with the poker still raised. I need to make run for it, but Muriel's blocking my way. “Please, just let me go. I never did anything to hurt you! Why are you helping the brewery when it's the brewery that killed you? They're the ones who caused all of this! They murdered Jack, they murdered you, and they just murdered Jennifer! They're killers! Why are you on their side?”

She continues to come closer, although after a moment she stops as she almost falls over. She's really struggling to stay upright, but she doesn't reach out to steady herself against the bar. I look down at her legs, which are wobbling wildly, and which actually seem unusually long. Looking back up at her face, I see her eyes staring at me, but after a moment I realize that something's wrong here. Yes, her eyes are alive, but they seem to be somehow set back from the rest of her face, almost as if...

I recognize those eyes!

“Oh, no,” I say as I begin to realize what's happening here. “Come on, even you guys can't be that sick.”

She lets out an angry, dry gasp and steps toward me, and I take that opportunity to swing the poker as hard as I can, slamming it against the side of her left leg. Just as I suspected, the leg twists and falls away, and Muriel's corpse screams as it topples over, hits the bar and then collapses to the ground. As it lands face-first, the back of the head comes away to reveal another head inside, and finally Matilda Hayes starts coughing and spluttering as she sits up with pieces of dirt and flecks of rotten skin all over her face.

“Wearing stilts and using a dead woman's body as a costume?” I say, horrified by the sight of the kid as she glares at me. “Wow, when this is over, you're gonna need some serious therapy.”

She snarls and lunges at me, but I hold the poker out and she pulls back. For the first time, I'm starting to actually feel sorry for her. After all, she's just a child, and it's pretty obvious that she's been put up to this whole thing by her father. Sure enough, after a few seconds she clutches her knee, and I see that she's cut herself badly, most likely in the fall. She starts crying, and I have to force myself to keep from rushing over to comfort her.

Suddenly the door opens, and I turn to see Gary Hayes stepping into the room. He's still holding the knife, with blood smeared all over the blade, and he looks down at Muriel's collapsed body for a moment before shutting the door and turning to me.

“Stop sniveling, Matilda,” he mutters. “We'll talk about this later.”

Sure enough, Matilda starts sniffing back her tears.

“It's over, Muriel,” Hayes says somberly, turning to look at me. “I know you can hear me. You've been dead for over a century. I think it's finally time for you to go quietly.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Charley Lucas

Stepping back, with the poker still raised, I try to figure out my best option. I could make a run for it, but Hayes has that knife and I've already seen that he's prepared to use it. I could try to reason with him, but I don't think there's much hope there. Or I could scream for help, in a town that seems totally loyal to the brewery.

I guess I need to think of a fourth way out.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Hayes says suddenly. “On behalf of Hayes and Storford, one of England's greatest brewers, I want to apologize for the way you were treated. It was wrong, and my ancestors should have found a more humane way of dealing with the problem. Having said that, I think the past very much needs to stay in the past, and I'm not about to let the brewery become tarnished by past errors. I hope you understand, Muriel, why I have to tidy up these loose ends.”

“Why do you keep calling me Muriel?” I ask, playing for time as I try to figure out what to do next. If I vault over the bar, I might be able to run through to the hallway and escape through the back door.

“Muriel Hyde is inside you, Charley,” he replies.

“That doesn't seem very likely.”

“Oh, but she is,” he continues. “I've seen the signs. She's hiding inside you. I think she wanted to use you as a vessel, as a way to escape the pub, but by all accounts Muriel could be rather timid at times. I think, now she's got this far, she's scared. I understand that, but it's my job to protect the brewery at all costs. The modern Hayes and Storford is a proud, forward-looking company. We don't operate the way we did in the past. Once this pub has been demolished, and Muriel's ghost is gone forever, the past can no longer haunt us. We can move on, to a better future.”

He takes a step toward me, but then he stops as I hold the poker's tip toward his face.

“You murdered Jennifer in cold blood!” I sneer.

“I had to show people the price of disloyalty.”

“You murdered Judith Sinclair, too, didn't you?”

He hesitates.

“Judith was a well-intentioned busybody,” he says cautiously, “who unfortunately believed in digging up the past with a little too much vim and vigor. She was warned several times about the need for a little more discretion. I must admit, though, it was good that she kept hold of Muriel's corpse. That thing proved rather useful in the end.” He looks down and kicks the head. “The people of Malmeston needed a good show, to remind them of the importance of sticking together. They know that the brewery will look after them.”

“By murdering anyone who gets in their way?”

“By tidying up the loose ends of the past,” he replies. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise you that Jennifer was the second-to-last person who'll have to die.”

I open my mouth to ask who'll be the last, but deep down I think I already know what he means.

“It's a shame that cowardly Muriel chose to hide in your body, Ms. Lucas,” he adds. “It's really her fault that you're going to have to pay the ultimate price. Or, rather, let's call it a sacrifice. One that will allow this town to -”

I turn and try to vault over the bar, only to fail miserably. My foot catches on the edge and I fall back, crashing down to the floor and almost losing my grip on the poker. As Hayes rushes at me, I swing the poker and miss him, instead slamming the end into the bar. I try to swing again, but Hayes grabs me by the collar and pulls me up, before shoving me against the wall with enough force to make me drop the poker.

“Don't worry,” he says, “I'll try to think of something nice to say about you later.”

With that, he drives the knife into my waist. I gasp and try to pull away, but he twists the blade and then slides it out as I feel blood gushing from the wound. He lets go of my collar, and I start sliding down the wall until I land hard on the floor.

“Help!” I try to shout, but I can barely get the words out. “Somebody, please...”

“Matilda, go and wait in my car,” Hayes says matter-of-factly, as if he's organizing a simple business transaction. “I'm going to speed things along here by starting a small fire. This time, no ridiculous campaign groups are going to save this pub.”

Wincing as I feel a burning pain in my gut, I look over at the little girl and see that she's staring at me with a horrified expression.

“Matilda, did you hear me?” Hayes continues. “Go to the car. You've already screwed one thing up today. Let me assure you, this afternoon you'll be -”

“No!” I scream suddenly, unable to help myself, and in that moment a violent force rushes out of my body.

I watch in horror as the ghost of Muriel Hyde rushes up from me and races toward Hayes, and somehow the scream transfers from my mouth to hers as she grabs him and throws him against the wall. Matilda scurries away and hides under a nearby table, and I watch as Muriel's flickering, spectral form raises Hayes up and screams once more into his face.

“Help me!” he gasps, struggling to get free. “Matilda, do something!”

Slowly, Muriel forces him down onto his knees. Her face is filled with blinding fury, even as Hayes lashes out with the knife and slashes it helplessly through the ghost's chest. Muriel places a hand on his throat and starts to squeeze, causing a choking gasp to emerge from his mouth as he drops the knife.

For a moment, I can only stare in horror and wonder at the sight of Muriel's ghost. She's visible and not visible at the same time, partially transparent but also flickering with some kind of faint greenish-blue glow. The expression on her face is one of pure, unbridled hatred, even as she squeezes tight and pushes Hayes even further down. It's hard to believe that she could have been hiding in my body, but I guess she entered me on the first night here at the pub and lurked there ever since, influencing me subtly but never doing enough to make me question what was really happening. She's been dead for over a century, but her rage doesn't seem to have faded at all; if anything, all those years seem to have made her angrier and more bitter, and I realize after a moment that Hayes is on the brink of death.

Clutching the wound in my side, I struggle to my feet.

“Don't kill him!” I gasp. “He deserves to rot in a jail cell!”

Ignoring me, Muriel squeezes tighter, and I see Hayes' eyes starting to roll back in their sockets.

“If you kill him, you'll be just like them!” I shout. “Is that what you want?”

I wait, but I'm not even sure that she can hear me.

“You've won!” I tell her. “Let him live! Make him tell everyone the truth about the brewery so that they -”

Before I can finish, Muriel screams again and throws Hayes hard against the bar. He thuds to the ground and then starts getting to his feet, clutching his throat and coughing and spluttering as he tries to get his breath back.

Staring down at him, Muriel still looks utterly furious.

“The truth's going to come out now,” I tell her. “Everyone will have to admit what the brewery's been doing. There'll be nowhere for them to hide. And I'll make sure that they all know what really happened to you! You'll get a proper burial, in a proper grave with a proper headstone, and I'll make sure that all the history books tell the truth! The brewery's days of running this town are over!”

I wait for her to acknowledge what I'm saying, but a moment later I hear a bumping sound nearby and I turn to see that Gary Hayes has grabbed the poker and is rushing at me.

“You'll never get the chance!” he yells, swinging the poker at my head.

I duck down, just in time. The poker slams into the side of the bar and Hayes trips. He stumbles past me, and I watch in horror as the poker twists under his body. He lands on the tip, which crunches straight through his chest and bursts out between his shoulder blade. He lets out one final, pained gasp, before slumping to the side and falling dead to the floor.

Still hiding under the table, Matilda screams. A moment later, Muriel pushes the table out of the way and grabs the girl, twisting her around and pushing against the wall. She already has her hand on Matilda's throat, and her fury looks stronger than ever.

“Muriel, wait!” I yell. “She's just a child! She didn't know what she was doing!”

Slowly, Muriel slides Matilda's struggling body up the wall, and then she screams into her face.

“Muriel, stop!” I shout.

She leans closer to Matilda.

“You're not a murderer!” I scream. “That's what they said you were, but they were lying! Don't become one now! Don't become what they always accused you of being!”

I wait, and after a moment I see her expression change. All the anger fades, and finally she lets go of Matilda and takes a step back. As the little girl slides down to the floor, Muriel stares straight ahead and then turns to look at me. All I can see now in her eyes is sorrow, as if she's finally come to understand the truth about what happened to her. I wait, not knowing what she might do next, and then she slowly turns and looks at the wall next to me.

Suddenly a panel falls loose, and I'm shocked to see hundreds of gold coins tumbling out of a hidden chamber. I guess nobody ever found Muriel's secret stash of money, until now.

I turn and see that Muriel is already walking out of the pub's front door. Still clutching my wounded side, I stumble after her. I'm not fast enough to stay with her, and I'm starting to drip blood as I follow her across the square. She walks along Pierce Street, and faces watch from the nearby windows before pulling their curtains shut as if they're too scared to see her ghostly figure. No-one comes out to help me, either, as I drop to my knees. After a moment, I find the strength to get back up, and finally I make it all the way to the beach, where I stop as I see that Muriel is standing next to another figure.

She turns to me, as Jack Farnham's ghost puts his arms around her, and then they both fade away forever.

A moment later, I hear a car door slamming shut, and I turn just in time to see Dad stepping out of a taxi. He's staring at me with a horrified expression, and then he comes running over and supports me just as I begin to collapse.

“Charley, what happened?” he asks, lowering me down onto my knees. “You're bleeding! Who was that I just saw on the beach?”

“Don't blame Muriel,” I gasp, as I feel myself losing consciousness. I look up at his face, and I can see the fear in his eyes. “The brewery, Dad,” I say finally. “It was... their fault, it was... the... brewery...”

Epilogue

Charley Lucas

Six weeks later...

“Careful!” Dad says as I carry a box through to the bar. “Your stitches might -”

“My stitches are long gone,” I remind him, although I feel a flicker of pain in my side as I set the box down. “The doctor gave me the all clear, Dad. I'm not an invalid.”

“And would you admit it if you were?”

“Never,” I say with a faint smile. Opening the box, I start taking the new glasses out. “So how did the public meeting go? I know you went this morning, but you haven't said anything.”

“It was more of the same, really,” he replies. “The rescue packages all fell through, so Hayes and Storford is definitely going to be put into liquidation. I guess no-one wants anything to do with them, not after the truth came out about their history. A few more people have admitted that they knew of the brewery's actions, but they won't be charged. There were some who actively worked with Gary Hayes, and they're going to get into more trouble, but for the most part there won't be any major repercussions.”

“That's so wrong!” I tell him. “They're going to sweep it all under the carpet again!”

“Not this time,” he replies. “It's amazing how quickly people around here have turned against the brewery and its actions. A lot of them were living in fear, they didn't think they had a choice.”

“But -”

“Try to understand,” he adds. “This town has lived under the brewery's control for hundreds of years. Yes, people turned a blind eye to a lot of what happened, but they realize that. We have to try not to be too judgmental.”

“And do you really think we can turn this pub around again?” I ask. “It was hard enough the first time.”

“Ah, but there's a difference now,” he replies. “We don't have to worry about the brewery, and selling that stash of gold coins has left us with quite a safety net even after buying the pub at a knockdown price. We're in charge of our own destiny now, Charley. We can't even blame the brewery, because there's no longer any brewery to blame.”

“I still feel that the people of Malmeston are getting away without much punishment,” I mutter. “They all knew what the brewery was up to.”

“They knew the brewery threw its weight around,” he replies, “but I think recent events still came as a shock.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “And are you sure you're okay? After all, you saw Jennifer getting...”

His voice trails off.

“I'll be fine,” I tell him. “Hey, it's one minute after midday, you're late opening the door.”

“Good point,” he says as he heads around the bar and goes to slide the bolt across. “Let's hope this goes better than last time, huh?”

“It should,” I reply. “There aren't any ghosts here anymore.”

As soon as he opens the door, I see that there are a few locals waiting outside. They start coming into the pub, and I have to admit that I think maybe Dad's right. Malmeston's history is pretty dark, but there's no need to seek some kind of crazed vengeance on the whole town. I guess maybe people sensed that something bad had happened to Muriel Hyde, that the official version of history wasn't entirely accurate. Now they know everything, and there have even been stories in some of the national newspaper. Dad's already had to turn down requests from ghost-hunters who want to stay here overnight, and I don't blame him.

After all, Muriel's gone now. The pub is ghost-free.

“Can you pop this other box in the shed?” Dad asks, handing me a heavy box that's been resting on one of the tables. “I know there's not really any room in there, but try to squeeze it in wherever you can.”

“What about that second storage space at the back of the shed?” I ask.

“The lock's broken, I've never been able to get in there. I was going to ask the brewery but... I'll figure it out at some point.”

Turning, I carry the box through to the hallway and then out into the beer garden. It's strange to think that the pub is no longer haunted, and I can't shake the feeling that everything seems lighter somehow, as if a kind of tension has been lifted.

“Hey, Bonnie,” I say as I pass her in the doorway. “Your new life as an official pub dog starts today.”

As I go into the shed and start looking for somewhere to put the box, I actually feel optimistic about the future. I mean, Dad was doing pretty well here before the brewery tried to stop him, so I figure he can do it again. We can do it again.

Finding that there's absolutely no room in the shed, I set the box on the floor and go over to the door that leads into the second storage space. Dad's right, the lock seems to be totally broken, and I fiddle with it for a moment before giving up. Just as I'm about to turn away, however, I spot something glinting in the lock itself. I peer closer, and then I carefully tease out a sliver of wood that seems to have been in the way. I try the lock again, and this time it springs open.

“Perfect,” I mutter as I take the box and carry it through into what turns out to be a dark and gloomy, but surprisingly large space.

For a moment, I'm struck by a very fusty smell. I wouldn't be surprised if this room has sat undisturbed since even before Muriel Hyde's time.

Finding plenty of empty shelves, I set the box on one and then I take a look around the room. Now that we've finally got the door open, we've more than doubled our storage capacity, and that's going to make a huge difference. There are plenty of spiders in here, but I don't mind giving the place a good clean. I wipe some dust from one of the shelves, but then – as I take a step back – I suddenly hear a bumping sound over my shoulder.

I freeze, telling myself that Muriel Hyde is truly gone, and that there's no chance of Gary Hayes or anyone else haunting the place.

“Bonnie?” I say after a few seconds, “is that you?”

I wait.

I hear another bump. There's definitely someone or something in here with me, and I can feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. I take a deep breath, and then I force myself to turn around and face whatever I might find.

At first, I see nothing, but then slowly a human figure becomes visible at the far end of the room, partially obscured by shadows. I take a step back, telling myself over and over that this can't be a ghost, that maybe it's just a customer from the pub who's wandered through here by mistake. I'm quickly disabused of that notion, however, as I see that although the figure is wearing some rather grand old-fashioned clothing, he – and I think it is a he – has no head.

I stare at the severed neck, not quite believing what I'm seeing.

Maybe this is just a painting or -

Suddenly the figure takes a step forward. Freaking out, I hurry out of the room and slam the door shut. My heart is racing, but I know that what I saw was real. There was a well-dressed headless man in the shed. Maybe he's been here all this time, and we just never saw him because we didn't go into that particular storage room before. I tell myself that this can't be happening again, that we've already got rid of one ghost, that it's simply not possible that now it turns out there's another, entirely separate ghost that's also haunting the pub.

I back out into the beer garden, just as Dad comes out to grab some mint from the plant in the corner.

“Everything okay, Charley?” he asks casually, before stopping and turning to me. “Charley? You look pale. Is something wrong?”

I stare at the shed for a moment, before slowly turning to him.

“Dad,” I say cautiously, “I think we need to find out why this pub is called The King's Head.”

BOOKS BY AMY CROSS

1. Dark Season: The Complete First Series (2011)
2. Werewolves of Soho (Lupine Howl book 1) (2012)
3. Werewolves of the Other London (Lupine Howl book 2) (2012)
4. Ghosts: The Complete Series (2012)
5. Dark Season: The Complete Second Series (2012)
6. The Children of Black Annis (Lupine Howl book 3) (2012)
7. Destiny of the Last Wolf (Lupine Howl book 4) (2012)
8. Asylum (The Asylum Trilogy book 1) (2012)
9. Dark Season: The Complete Third Series (2013)
10. Devil's Briar (2013)
11. Broken Blue (The Broken Trilogy book 1) (2013)
12. The Night Girl (2013)
13. Days 1 to 4 (Mass Extinction Event book 1) (2013)
14. Days 5 to 8 (Mass Extinction Event book 2) (2013)
15. The Library (The Library Chronicles book 1) (2013)
16. American Coven (2013)
17. Werewolves of Sangreth (Lupine Howl book 5) (2013)
18. Broken White (The Broken Trilogy book 2) (2013)
19. Grave Girl (Grave Girl book 1) (2013)
20. Other People's Bodies (2013)
21. The Shades (2013)
22. The Vampire's Grave and Other Stories (2013)
23. Darper Danver: The Complete First Series (2013)
24. The Hollow Church (2013)
25. The Dead and the Dying (2013)
26. Days 9 to 16 (Mass Extinction Event book 3) (2013)
27. The Girl Who Never Came Back (2013)
28. Ward Z (The Ward Z Series book 1) (2013)
29. Journey to the Library (The Library Chronicles book 2) (2014)
30. The Vampires of Tor Cliff Asylum (2014)
31. The Family Man (2014)
32. The Devil's Blade (2014)
33. The Immortal Wolf (Lupine Howl book 6) (2014)
34. The Dying Streets (Detective Laura Foster book 1) (2014)
35. The Stars My Home (2014)
36. The Ghost in the Rain and Other Stories (2014)
37. Ghosts of the River Thames (The Robinson Chronicles book 1) (2014)
38. The Wolves of Cur'eath (2014)
39. Days 46 to 53 (Mass Extinction Event book 4) (2014)
40. The Man Who Saw the Face of the World (2014)
41. The Art of Dying (Detective Laura Foster book 2) (2014)
42. Raven Revivals (Grave Girl book 2) (2014)
43. Arrival on Thaxos (Dead Souls book 1) (2014)
44. Birthright (Dead Souls book 2) (2014)
45. A Man of Ghosts (Dead Souls book 3) (2014)
46. The Haunting of Hardstone Jail (2014)
47. A Very Respectable Woman (2015)

48. Better the Devil (2015)
49. The Haunting of Marshall Heights (2015)
50. Terror at Camp Everbee (The Ward Z Series book 2) (2015)
51. Guided by Evil (Dead Souls book 4) (2015)
52. Child of a Bloodied Hand (Dead Souls book 5) (2015)
53. Promises of the Dead (Dead Souls book 6) (2015)
54. Days 54 to 61 (Mass Extinction Event book 5) (2015)
55. Angels in the Machine (The Robinson Chronicles book 2) (2015)
56. The Curse of Ah-Qal's Tomb (2015)
57. Broken Red (The Broken Trilogy book 3) (2015)
58. The Farm (2015)
59. Fallen Heroes (Detective Laura Foster book 3) (2015)
60. The Haunting of Emily Stone (2015)
61. Cursed Across Time (Dead Souls book 7) (2015)
62. Destiny of the Dead (Dead Souls book 8) (2015)
63. The Death of Jennifer Kazakos (Dead Souls book 9) (2015)
64. Alice Isn't Well (Death Herself book 1) (2015)
65. Annie's Room (2015)
66. The House on Everley Street (Death Herself book 2) (2015)
67. Meds (The Asylum Trilogy book 2) (2015)
68. Take Me to Church (2015)
69. Ascension (Demon's Grail book 1) (2015)
70. The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1) (2015)
71. Eli's Town (2015)
72. The Horror of Raven's Briar Orphanage (Dead Souls book 10) (2015)
73. The Witch of Thaxos (Dead Souls book 11) (2015)
74. The Rise of Ashalla (Dead Souls book 12) (2015)
75. Evolution (Demon's Grail book 2) (2015)
76. The Island (The Island book 1) (2015)
77. The Lighthouse (2015)
78. The Cabin (The Cabin Trilogy book 1) (2015)
79. At the Edge of the Forest (2015)
80. The Devil's Hand (2015)
81. The 13th Demon (Demon's Grail book 3) (2016)
82. After the Cabin (The Cabin Trilogy book 2) (2016)
83. The Border: The Complete Series (2016)
84. The Dead Ones (Death Herself book 3) (2016)
85. A House in London (2016)
86. Persona (The Island book 2) (2016)
87. Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2) (2016)
88. Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories (2016)
89. The Ghost of Shapley Hall (2016)
90. The Blood House (2016)
91. The Death of Addie Gray (2016)
92. The Girl With Crooked Fangs (2016)
93. Last Wrong Turn (2016)
94. The Body at Auercliff (2016)
95. The Printer From Hell (2016)
96. The Dog (2016)
97. The Nurse (2016)
98. The Haunting of Blackwych Grange (2016)
99. Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (2016)
100. The Horror of Devil's Root Lake (2016)
101. The Disappearance of Katie Wren (2016)
102. B&B (2016)
103. The Bride of Ashbyrn House (2016)
104. The Devil, the Witch and the Whore (The Deal Trilogy book 1) (2016)
105. The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel (2016)
106. The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories (2016)
107. Laura (2017)
108. The Murder at Skellin Cottage (Jo Mason book 1) (2017)
109. The Curse of Wetherley House (2017)
110. The Ghosts of Hexley Airport (2017)
111. The Return of Rachel Stone (Jo Mason book 2) (2017)
112. Haunted (2017)
113. The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories (2017)
114. The Ash House (2017)
115. The Ghost of Molly Holt (2017)
116. The Camera Man (2017)
117. The Soul Auction (2017)
118. The Abyss (The Island book 3) (2017)
119. Broken Window (The House of Jack the Ripper book 1) (2017)
120. In Darkness Dwell (The House of Jack the Ripper book 2) (2017)
121. Cradle to Grave (The House of Jack the Ripper book 3) (2017)
122. The Lady Screams (The House of Jack the Ripper book 4) (2017)
123. A Beast Well Tamed (The House of Jack the Ripper book 5) (2017)
124. Doctor Charles Grazier (The House of Jack the Ripper book 6) (2017)
125. The Raven Watcher (The House of Jack the Ripper book 7) (2017)
126. The Final Act (The House of Jack the Ripper book 8) (2017)
127. Stephen (2017)
128. The Spider (2017)
129. The Mermaid's Revenge (2017)
130. The Girl Who Threw Rocks at the Devil (2018)
131. Friend From the Internet (2018)
132. Beautiful Familiar (2018)
133. One Night at a Soul Auction (2018)
134. 16 Frames of the Devil's Face (2018)
135. The Haunting of Caldgrave House (2018)
136. Like Stones on a Crow's Back (The Deal Trilogy book 2) (2018)
137. Room 9 and Other Stories (2018)
138. The Gravest Girl of All (Grave Girl book 3) (2018)
139. Return to Thaxos (Dead Souls book 13) (2018)
140. The Madness of Annie Radford (The Asylum Trilogy book 3) (2018)
141. The Haunting of Briarwych Church (Briarwych book 1) (2018)
142. I Just Want You To Be Happy (2018)
143. Day 100 (Mass Extinction Event book 6) (2018)
144. The Horror of Briarwych Church (Briarwych book 2) (2018)
145. The Ghost of Briarwych Church (Briarwych book 3) (2018)
146. Lights Out (2019)
147. Apocalypse (The Ward Z Series book 3) (2019)
148. Days 101 to 108 (Mass Extinction Event book 7) (2019)
149. The Haunting of Daniel Bayliss (2019)
150. The Purchase (2019)
151. Harper's Hotel Ghost Girl (Death Herself book 4) (2019)
152. The Haunting of Aldburn House (2019)
153. Days 109 to 116 (Mass Extinction Event book 8) (2019)

154. Bad News (2019)
155. The Wedding of Rachel Blaine (2019)

156. Dark Little Wonders and Other Stories (2019)

157. The Musician (2019)

158. The Vampire Falls (Three Nights of the Vampire book 1) (2019)
159. The Other Ann (2019)
160. The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories (2019)

161. The Haunting of Lannister Hall (2019)
162. The Vampire Burns (Three Nights of the Vampire book 2) (2019)
163. Days 195 to 202 (Mass Extinction Event book 9) (2019)
164. Escape From Hotel Necro (2019)

165. The Vampire Rises (Three Nights of the Vampire book 3) (2019)

166. Ten Chimes to Midnight: A Collection of Ghost Stories (2019)

167. The Strangler's Daughter (2019)

168. The Beast on the Tracks (2019)

Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Chapter Forty-Three
- Chapter Forty-Four
- Chapter Forty-Five
- Chapter Forty-Six
- Chapter Forty-Seven
- Chapter Forty-Eight
- Chapter Forty-Nine
- Chapter Fifty
- Chapter Fifty-One
- Chapter Fifty-Two
- Chapter Fifty-Three
- Chapter Fifty-Four
- Chapter Fifty-Five
- Chapter Fifty-Six
- Chapter Fifty-Seven