Dastardly Doings on Allhallows Eve (Samantha and Daisy Cosy Mysteries Book 5), page 1
1
A scuffle of movement in the surrounding shrubbery makes me grab Daisy’s arm. ‘What’s that?’
She shoots me a sideways glance. ‘It could be a rabbit. Or…’ her voice deepens ‘… d’you think it’s the Bogeyman?’
Daisy can mock all she wants—but after some of the horror films I’ve seen, it’s hard to be rational about this.
It’s seven p.m. at the wrong end of October, and the path to our detective agency is a crawling mass of inky shadows. There are posts fitted with solar lights on both sides, but they’re only useful as guides to ensure we don’t stray—and do nothing to disperse an all-enveloping, shiver-inducing gloom. Now and again, an errant sliver of moonlight reveals the vague outlines of what are probably bushes. Occasionally, a soft breeze makes them rustle menacingly.
Suddenly, a twig snaps underfoot—unfortunately, it wasn’t under either of our feet.
When a hooded figure jumps from behind a cluster of hydrangea, even Daisy can’t hold in a muted squeal. Naturally, I trump her by letting out a full-blown howl of terror. Well, you do—when faced with someone in an ivory-white rubber mask with wide slanting eyes. Its scariest feature is an opening where the mouth should be, shaped like an exclamation mark, giving the impression of a scream.
In fact, that’s where I've seen this mask before—in Scream, the classic slasher movie featuring “Ghostface” who typically has his long-bladed hunting knife held high and ready to strike.
Just as this one does
Ghostface dances closer, cackles, and I sense his gaze settle on me. Then, without warning, he rounds on Daisy and his knife flashes down in a blur.
When its blade disappears into Daisy’s chest, every last molecule of breath wheechs out of me.
GHOSTFACE howls gleefully, then turns and stampedes away along the path.
My eyes must be bulging in their sockets as I stare at Daisy. Her lips move. ‘Get a grip, Sam.’
‘I did not enjoy that one bit. It was terrifying.’
Daisy giggles. ‘Yeah—good, innit?’
She brushes at an indentation in her sweatshirt left by the knife’s retractable blade. ‘Didn’t that hurt?’ I babble.
‘Naw—the blade’s made of plastic. And being lightly sprung, it retracts into the handle with virtually no resistance. Hey, “Murder-Meals” has outdone themselves this time—don’t you think?’
“Murder-Meals” is the company who stage our murder mystery evenings twice a week at the Cairncroft Hotel. (Or “The Murder Hotel”, to use its proper moniker.) They’re doing a Halloween special tonight, which includes pre-dinner scariness in the hotel grounds for those brave enough to venture out. Pumpkin lanterns set at various points along the pathways add an extra element of spookiness, but the pièce de résistance is a team of “ghouls” (such as the one we just encountered) who are out scaring the pants off our guests. (And us.)
A shiver of relief runs through me when we reach the old stables, now headquarters to The Cairncroft Detective Agency. While Daisy unlocks the door, I suddenly remember and twist my wrist to see what time it is. ‘Beggar—it’s after seven.’
‘So?’
‘Davy said he’d phone at seven.’
Daisy shrugs. ‘He must have forgotten…’
‘No, you don’t understand—I haven’t got my phone with me.’
Her expression changes to long-suffering. ‘Why not?’
I flap both hands. ‘Well, it’s in my bag—which I didn’t bring. Can we go back? Now?’
She hisses through pursed lips. ‘Sam, I need those files. It’ll only take a minute to find them…’
No, it won’t. I know Daisy—while searching for the files, she’ll come across “x” number of other tasks that can’t wait. Which means we’re looking at a minimum of ten minutes. My relationship with Davy has been strained enough lately without standing him up on a scheduled phone call. Oh, nothing else for it…
Daisy reads my mind. ‘Just go—I’ll see you at the hotel.’
‘What if there’s more of those… things… on the way back?’
She chortles. ‘Let them stab you, say “thank you” nicely, and carry on.’
‘But…’
It’s no good. I have to do this. Yes, I know they’re only actors dressed up, but that whole experience was terrifying—I’m the one who disappears behind the sofa during horror movies. And yet, I can’t leave Davy hanging. He might think… ‘Fine, I’ll do it. You’re right—there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Shrugging on a new, steel-clad resolve, I set off down the path. Daisy’s voice wafts after me. ‘I’m fairly sure it’s only actors out there…’
I don’t like this
A couple of minutes is all it takes to get from our detective agency to the hotel, but tonight the track feels endless. I know pleasure makes time pass quicker, but hadn’t realised how much terror slows it.
Out here in the countryside, everything’s deathly silent at night—except for noises I’d rather not hear. They could be bushes moving in response to airflow, or small animals who are more scared of me than the other way around. But being the only sounds amplifies them—imparting a more sinister persona.
What really does it is the gloom. Darkness, after all, is the domain of imagination’s scariest creations.
Then I stumble, flail wildly to keep my balance, and scream again.
Idiot, I castigate myself. It’s only a loose shoelace. Although “only” is a relative term when your left leg’s a prosthetic from the knee down—that could have been nasty.
I carefully manoeuvre my left knee to the ground. Luckily, it’s the right-hand lace that came undone, logistically an easier proposition to fix than the other way around—when getting back up would put painful pressure on my stump. Maybe I should look on Amazon for laceless trainers?
Reaching to retie my loose lace, I barely register a sudden footstep behind before something cannons into me. Not wanting an unplanned nose job, I thrust both arms out in the nick of time and end up on my hands and knees, like an overgrown toddler. After shuffling onto my bottom, feeling not a little indignity at finding myself in this position, I squint to see what tumbled over me—and crash-landed on the path.
Despite the sight that greets me mere feet away, and although my heart’s thumping, I don’t feel the panic of our previous encounter because Ghostface is now a familiar figure.
I can’t tell if this is the same Ghostface or a compatriot. Poor fellow’s sprawled flat out, shaking his head to try and clear it, and his demeanour’s more pathos than threatening.
What I think happened is he came at me from behind, intending to stick his pretend-knife in my back (no doubt accompanied by a blood-curdling howl) at exactly the moment I crouched to tie my lace. Silly beggar must have gone straight over me, like they used to do in slapstick comedies. I actually feel sorry for him—bet he’s feeling a right dork.
A glint of reflected moonlight draws my gaze to his knife, which landed on the ground beside me. Scooping it up, I’m surprised how realistic the prop looks and feels. Heavier than I expected, for starters, and it’s hard to believe that wicked-looking blade is made of harmless plastic.
Ghostface clambers up and peers down at me, his breath coming in laboured puffs. I wink. (Well, I try to, but winking is a skill that’s always proved elusive and from Ghostface’s flinch, still is.) Feeling bad that I may have given the impression of being miffed over what was just a silly accident, I hold out his knife.
Ghostface jumps back. Now he thinks I’m making angry gestures at him with his own knife? Oh dear—I’d better reassure the poor chap. Carefully, I reverse the pseudo-weapon and offer it handle first. This time, he leans in and grabs it…
… at the same moment alarm bells go off in my head. Because, when I touched it, that blade didn’t feel like plastic. No, I realise belatedly, what I felt was hard metal—steel.
Craning back, I cower as Ghostface towers over me and raises his knife. My blood runs cold even as I struggle to cope with the obvious conclusion.
That’s a real knife—and he’s about to stab me with it
‘SAM.’
Ghostface’s head snaps up. Then he whirls and crashes into the shrubbery. A moment later, Daisy appears. ‘There you are. The files were lying out on Liz’s desk, so I was only a minute behind you. Em—why are you sitting down there?’
2
‘Did you get through to Davy?’
I nod, my mind still with the phone call. ‘Yes, and he says “hi”.’
‘Anything wrong? You’re acting funny’
That snaps me back. ‘Anything wrong? You mean apart from the fact somebody just tried to stab me?’
Her eyes roll ceilingward. ‘Sam, your imagination’s running amok. No way was one of our Ghostfaces carrying a real knife.’
‘I’m telling you, that blade didn’t feel like plastic. Anyway, it was too heavy…’
‘But its weight could be all in the hilt, and you only touched it for a second—those props are dead realistic, you know.’
Oh, maybe she’s right. Between worrying about Davy, and the state our first “slasher” encounter left me in, my brain was fried. Yet I’m still sure that knife didn’t have a plastic blade…
The residents lounge is buzzing tonight because our special Hall oween “spooky mystery” is a sell-out. About half the crowd is in fancy dress—it's strange to see people dressed in suits and glittery dresses mingling with vampires and werewolves. Morticia Adams catches my eye and makes for our table with a blood-stained Carrie trailing behind. I nudge Daisy. ‘Is that…?’
‘Yeah, Rebecca. And Liz.’
Thought so. Rebecca’s easy to recognise—despite her Morticia-inspired outfit, goth-style makeup (which isn’t so different from what she usually uses), and a long black wig—the clue being her neckline plunges so deep it makes Angelica Huston’s look like a polo neck. Also, Morticia Adams did not wear a miniskirt over fishnet tights…
Carrie at least is decent in her full-length prom dress, although methinks she went overboard with the ketchup.
Rebecca sinks into one of two remaining chairs around our table and Liz bags the other. They’re both drinking tonight’s special cocktail, which Colin spent hours creating. (I suspect a lot of “tasting” was involved.) It’s a vile-green concoction with drops of blood on the glass’s rim—just what you’d expect Frankenstein’s monster or Dracula to tipple on. Amazing what you can do with absinthe, cava, and an eye-dropper of tomato juice.
Daisy squints over her pint glass. ‘What does that taste like?’
Rebecca giggles. ‘Liquorice champagne. Quite nice really, but awful strong.’
Liz scowls. ‘Actually, it’s yeuch. Wish I’d got a beer, now.’
‘How’s the flat working out, girls?’ I put in.
They answer in unison. ‘Great / love it.’
Liz is the Cairncroft Detective Agency’s newest recruit, having taken over as receptionist to free up Rebecca for more detective work. About a month ago, the girls moved into a flat in Donstable together. I sense Daisy wondering the same thoughts as me. She’s also aware Liz’s previous flatmate refused to have her back—because food, clothes, and cash were going missing on too regular a basis.
Employing Liz was a gamble, having only met her because she tried to rob the hotel. But the girls became friendly after, and Rebecca insists Liz is a reformed character—I’m reserving final judgement until her trial period’s complete, although I was happy to give the lass a chance. Daisy feels Liz is worth the risk, working as she is on a “set a thief to catch a thief” premise. (Quite how that applies to the agency’s receptionist escapes me.)
I’m trying to figure out a non-offensive way of asking whether they have a system for keeping their food separate when Daisy beats me to it. ‘Has Liz started tea-leafing your grub yet?’
Daisy shrugs apologetically when Liz turns beetroot (even though it’s obvious she couldn’t give a damn) but Rebecca just laughs. ‘We put money in a pot for shopping, so the groceries belong to both of us. Saves any arguments.’
‘Mm.’
Daisy doesn’t quit so easily. ‘What about clothes? Liz’s last flatmate is still looking for her favourite jumper.’
Rebecca’s fingers flap dismissively. ‘Oh, she borrows my stuff all the time—but that’s alright, because I do the same to her.’
Sounds like a marriage made in heaven
I’m about to change the subject before Liz is embarrassed further when Daisy jumps up and points. ‘There’s Wilf—and Harriet. C’mon, Sam. I want you to meet them.’
‘Have a good night’ I only just get out before Daisy seizes my hand and drags me across the lounge towards a short, slightly dishevelled middle-aged man (who still manages to pull off a “spiffy” look) and his mousey female companion.
‘Who’s Wilf?’ I hiss, halfway there.
Too late—Daisy accelerates and suddenly I’m shaking hands with “Wilf”—who, I now notice, has blue swastikas inked on his knuckles. He sees me looking and reddens. ‘Sorry—really should get those removed. I used to be a bad boy—but not any more.’
Daisy nods sadly. ‘Wilf got his tattoos in prison. He doesn’t do that stuff any more, though.’
Not another one. What does Daisy think we are—a Battersea for ex-criminals?
Harriet shyly extends a hand and I’m relieved to see she’s wearing neither tattoos nor brass knuckledusters. Wilf beams at her. ‘Was her what reformed me,’ he confides. ‘It was Harry turned me straight as a die. Well, her and the army. ’
‘You two should get on like a house on fire,’ Daisy burbles. Then, when both Harriet and I look puzzled, adds: ‘You know? Sam—and Harry.’
Oh, I see what she means. And that makes us blood-sisters?
‘So you’re in the army, Wilf?’ I conclude, seeing he said so.
‘No, that was years ago. These days I’m self-employed.’
Shall I ask what doing? No—maybe not
Wilf clears his throat noisily, then: ‘Anyway, Sam. Understand you’ve got a below the knee prosthetic?’
Wow. And I thought Daisy was outspoken
I gape at him and he shuffles awkwardly. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to… it’s just, my dad was the same. He died a couple of months ago.’
And you’re wondering when I’m due to pop my clogs?
‘No,’ Wilf goes on. (Did he read my mind then?) ‘What I’m trying to get at is, I don’t know what to do with Dad’s leg. The artificial one,’ he clarifies.
Harriet looks pained. ‘It’s in the under-stairs cupboard, and I keep telling Wilf what a waste that is if someone could use it.’
‘So you seemed the right person to ask,’ Wilf adds hopefully.
‘Ah. I see.’
After I explain what’s involved in fitting a prosthetic (making a cast of the stump, for starters) Wilf nods sadly. ‘So it’s no good to anyone else?’
‘Not really.’
The hush following that little exchange is deafening—obviously neither Harriet nor Wilf are hot on conversation (and Daisy’s more than comfortable with silence) so I guess it’s up to me. ‘Um—Wilf. How did you and Daisy meet?’
He winks with an ease I could never master. ‘Daisy came to me for lessons a while back,’ he says. ‘Star pupil, she turned out to be.’
“Lessons”? Daisy’s number one interest is unarmed combat, which I can’t imagine Wilf being an authority on. There again, he was in the army—but looking at him, my first guess would be the cooking corps. Not a commando unit.
Daisy has the grace to blush. (If barely discernibly.) ‘It was Wilf showed me how to pick pockets.’
I grip my bag a little tighter. ‘And do you still…?’
Wilf shakes his head firmly. ‘No—all behind me now. These days, I’m on the side of the angels.’
So long as that isn’t the HELLS Angels
Daisy slaps my arm. ‘That’s why I wanted you to meet Wilf. Reckon he could be a real asset to the agency.’
‘Um… we’ve only just taken Liz on. The agency isn’t really in a position to…’
Wilf grins at me. ‘Don’t worry. Like I said—I’m self-employed. Only get paid when I’m needed.’
‘Ah—so you work with other detective agencies, then?’ That makes more sense—but Wilf shakes his head again.
‘Naw—at least, not yet. Luckily, I was able to put some cash away before having to give up my job, but it won’t last forever. So I’m looking to use my… other skills… legitimately.’
‘What was your job?’ I regret asking before the words are out of my mouth.
‘Slaughterhouse,’ he says without a blink. ‘Got paid by the kill, and I’m good at slitting throats. Learned in the army,’ he adds.
Oh—not the cooking corps, then. Or, I suppose, it still could have been…
Wilf’s starting to make me feel uncomfortable. ‘So what happened—why did you leave the slaughterhouse?’
Harriet answers, slipping an arm through Wilf’s. ‘I persuaded him to turn vegan.’
I can’t help a sense of relief when Kat waves to us from a stool at the residents bar. ‘Oh, look,’ I announce, trying to sound reluctant. ‘There’s Kat. We’d better say hello.’
On the way over, I bend to Daisy’s ear and hiss: ‘Who else are you friendly with? Harold Shipman?’
KAT’S nursing her usual glass of Pinot Grigio—the green goo obviously didn’t appeal. ‘This is a great do, guys,’ she enthuses.
Daisy scrutinises her. ‘What are you supposed to be—a solicitor?’
She pouts. ‘I thought fancy dress was optional? Dad wouldn’t have come at all if it weren’t.’
