His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5) Read online

  HIS FATHER’S GHOST

  A Mina Scarletti Mystery

  Book Five

  Linda Stratmann

  This book is dedicated to the Old Police Cells Museum Brighton, with special thanks to Ian for conducting a most enjoyable and informative tour

  https://www.oldpolicecellsmuseum.org.uk

  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-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  HEAR MORE FROM LINDA

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  ALSO BY LINDA STRATMANN

  PROLOGUE

  Brighton, 1872

  It was midnight, and Franklin Holt, exhausted and restless, lay blearily awake in his bed, terrified to go to sleep. Despite the soft amber light of the streetlamp that spilled from the edges of the curtains, he was engulfed in an almost palpable darkness, a malevolent gloom that had been conjured only for him.

  On the other side of the bedroom, his younger brother, Matthew slept peacefully, a contented expression on his disarmingly cherubic face, rumpled hair painting the pillow bronze after a boisterous day of fun and mischief.

  There was no such peace for Franklin and had not been for some time. What should have been an easy drift into restoring slumber was instead haunted with half-sleeping, half-waking horrors. There was a presence in the room. It was always there, powerful and overbearing, but invisible. He imagined it as a grim dark cloud, lurking in corners, hiding, hovering, waiting. One day it would manifest before his eyes, and then it would swoop down and gather him up, drawing him swiftly to an unknown but certainly horrible fate. Insanity, death, and eternal torment awaited him, and that brief glance would doom him forever.

  How he wished that his nurse was still there. He might have dared then to cry out for help, and she would have come to his side and smoothed the bedsheets and smilingly laid her hand on his brow. She had always spoken to him sweetly and been very kind and patient — not like his Aunt Marion.

  Aunt Marion was horrid — worse than any threatening spirit. She had stormed into the house one day and sent the nurse away and told his mother not to trouble herself, because she would do everything. She had promised to look after Franklin and make him well, but instead she was angry with him all the time. She took him to task for being such a trial to his poor widowed mother and ordered him to change his behaviour. She read him stories of disobedient children and the cruel fates they suffered as a result of their wickedness, none of which sounded as bad as the misery Franklin endured. He would have done anything to change his ways, but how could he when he didn’t know how, and his days were heavy eyed with weariness and his nights shrouded in fear?

  When he finally lost the struggle and slept, he would sometimes wake to face still greater horrors. There were mornings when his body was cold and heavy as iron, his muscles rigid, and he could neither speak nor move his limbs. With tentatively opened eyelids he saw through gummed and gritty lashes the thing he had most dreaded; the creature standing at the foot of his bed. It was taller than any normal man, a solid shape consisting only of a head and enormous body, like a giant black bat enveloped in its own leathery wings. He would close his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again it would be gone. Sometimes when he dared to look again, it was no longer there, but there were also times when with a sick lurch in his chest he saw it still, and it had come closer, rising up to float in the air above him.

  Although the apparition did not touch him, he could feel it as a heavy weight pressing down, so hard that he could scarcely breathe, and in those moments he really thought that his ribs would bend and crack and his lungs collapse and he would die. The creature stank of decay, like rotting seaweed that had dissolved into dark green slime. He might have cried out in despair, but his mouth and tongue were locked and immobile.

  Aunt Marion had found him like that one morning when she came to wake him. She had shaken him and shouted at him and slapped his face, and then declared loudly that he was only pretending. When the sensation passed off, he had sobbed with fright and pain and relief, and she told him sneeringly that he was a bad, troublesome boy and had only got the punishment he deserved. Perhaps he did deserve it, but he could not understand why.

  That night, at the stillest hour, he thought he was awake. Matthew slept on, his snores like the purr of a contented kitten, unaware of the grim horror engulfing his brother. But there were other, unearthly noises in the room, pattering footsteps circling Franklin’s bed, insistent tapping, the beat of sinewy wings, and muttering voices.

  The creature was there again. It stood watching him, faceless and menacing. He tried to address it, but his voice stuck in his throat. ‘Who are you?’ he wanted to say. ‘Are you a ghost or a demon?’, and although the thing did not speak, its reply was in his head and he heard the apparition say in tones that seemed to echo like the rumble of thunder in a stormy sky, ‘I am your father!’

  CHAPTER ONE

  It had started quite innocently — a slight cold, a small but persistent cough. Mina Scarletti knew she had to guard her fragile health, especially from anything that might place a strain on her lungs, cramped as they were by the permanent snake twist in her spine, the result of scoliosis. Large gatherings of people were a particular danger, and to be avoided if possible, especially in the cooler months, when the atmosphere was almost visibly suffused with a cloud of myriad infections.

  That March, the weather in Brighton had been marked by overcast skies, squally winds and chill mists that clawed at the throat. The barometer in the hallway wore a stern expression ordering Mina not to venture outdoors unless her visit was of vital importance. She had been unable, however, to resist spending an evening in the theatre to see her good friend, the actor Marcus Merridew, give his Hamlet.

  When Mina and Mr Merridew had first become acquainted he was employed as a visitors’ guide to the Royal Pavilion, his youthful career in the drama having faded to near obscurity. Lately, however, he had enjoyed a spectacular rise in fortune due to his masterful performance in an entertainment devised by Mina’s brother Richard. In this creation, which had dazzled the Pavilion for just a single night, Mr Merridew, costumed as the Prince Regent, had defeated Richard’s Napoleon, in a probably belated attempt to defend the honour of Mrs Fitzherbert. He was now constantly in demand for dramatic readings before gatherings of tea-sipping matrons and had ascended to be the shining star in the admittedly small firmament of the Brighton Theatre Company. No matter that Hamlet was a man of thirty and Mr Merridew would not see fifty again. The years since his early triumphs had if anything mellowed and rounded the honeyed caress of his voice. On stage, his deportment was perfect, his energy unfailing, his every movement a study in elegance which drew sighs of admiration fro
m the ladies who made up the greater part of his audience.

  As the leading man he had availed himself of the opportunity to make some slight improvements to the Bard’s play. The theatre was nightly roused to a pitch of frenzied excitement at the final duel in which Hamlet defeated the invader Fortinbras. Tears of joy were shed when it was revealed that the rumours of Ophelia’s death were false, and she had regained her wits. The play ended in triumph with a glorious pageant, the wedding of Hamlet and Ophelia, jointly crowned King and Queen of Denmark.

  Mina had cheered along with the enraptured throng, although she had been obliged at times to hold a herb-filled sachet to her face, breathing in its protective odour, since the man who sat beside her had wheezed noisily throughout the performance. On returning home, the Scarlettis’ general maid, Rose, had fussed over Mina as usual, setting her before a blazing fire in the parlour and bringing hot drinks unbidden.

  Two days later Mina awoke with a sting in her nostrils and a throbbing rawness in her throat. Rose, her every expression saying, ‘I told you so,’ brought her mutton broth and medicine, and when the cough started and refused to allow Mina any rest, Rose all but ordered her back to bed, and called Dr Hamid.

  The wise doctor was proprietor of Brighton’s most renowned Oriental healing emporium and was one of the few practitioners Mina trusted, since his late sister Eliza had also suffered from scoliosis and he had made a special study of the condition. Other less knowledgeable doctors encased their patients in steel corsets or plaster waistcoats, browbeat them into believing that the distortion of the spine was their own fault, and even advocated highly speculative surgery to sever their back muscles. Dr Hamid’s treatments consisted of medicated vapour baths, soothing massages and stimulating exercise, his lady patients enjoying the sensitive care of his sister Anna. Mina would emerge from the baths where she made her weekly visit relaxed and refreshed and, for a time at least, free of the aches that were her daily plague.

  Rose showed Dr Hamid to Mina’s bedside where she lay bundled in blankets and shawls, a thoroughly unhappy and unwilling patient, since she found the enforced inactivity desperately frustrating. Although her mind insisted that she should be up and about and doing something interesting, her body was sending urgent messages that it was too weary to do much more than rest. She could not stop shivering, although the room was well warmed.

  Dr Hamid used the time taken to approach her bedside to study Mina carefully. Their meetings, even those of a social nature, always began with a general enquiry after her health, but this time he did not ask, and she sensed that the look had told him all he needed to know. Although his greeting was friendly and sympathetic, he was unable to conceal a deep anxiety for his frail patient.

  ‘It’s only a cold,’ Mina protested, defiantly, although it was a searingly wretched effort to speak at all. ‘But I suppose I had better stay indoors for a while.’

  ‘You certainly should,’ he said. ‘Do you have much pain?’

  ‘Only when I breathe.’ Mina coughed into a handkerchief and winced at a sharp stab through her breastbone. There was a rasping in her chest that was sounding like that of the man she had been seated beside in the theatre. She wondered if he was still alive.

  ‘Rose, help me lift Miss Scarletti to sit a little higher. It will help ease the breathing,’ said Dr Hamid. Each took an arm and raised her up with no more difficulty than settling a small child, and Rose plumped and rearranged the pillows. ‘Is that better?’

  Mina tried to catch her breath, failed, and nodded instead.

  Dr Hamid placed the palm of his hand to her forehead for a few moments, said ‘hm’ then handed a thermometer to Rose and instructed her to position it under Mina’s armpit — a procedure which involved much delving though layers of wool and linen. He took Mina’s wrist in a firm grip and consulted his watch, then used his smart new binaural stethoscope to listen carefully to the action of her lungs. He looked at her once more, frowned, and made some notes in a little book, but made no comment concerning what he had observed.

  ‘Plenty of fluids,’ he said, with a nod to Rose, ‘especially nourishing drinks such as beef tea. Warm linseed poultices on the chest, twice a day, and inhalations of hot medicated vapour whenever necessary. I will prescribe the drops you require and a mixture to soothe the throat. Miss Scarletti is not to be moved from her bed until I say it is safe to do so.’ Rose retrieved the thermometer and Dr Hamid studied and noted the result. ‘The temperature is slightly elevated but not dangerous.’

  ‘Will I live?’ asked Mina. It was not a frivolous question and she saw from his expression that he knew it.

  ‘That is the intention. Try and keep your spirits up.’

  ‘As I lie here idle? That will be hard.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ he said wryly. ‘You may indulge in gentle amusements. Reading, and — well, reading. Poetry perhaps. Or sermons. But no excitement and no exertion,’ he added firmly. ‘I shall expect Rose to inform me if you attempt to go beyond my advice, and I will not be pleased if you do.’

  Rose looked at Mina sternly and steadily. The reluctant patient was left in no doubt that the maid would attend diligently to Dr Hamid’s directions.

  Mina was left hoping for signs of improvement to appear soon, and eager to find herself restored to health in a few days at the most. She was all for indulging in a good book and Rose saw that she was suitably supported in a position to read and provided with a volume of religious essays. The next morning, however, Mina was feverish with a bounding pulse, and a cough that seemed to be trying to drag all her insides outwards. Unable to move, gasping for breath, she lay helpless, sunken into the pillows.

  Despite this, Mina did not fully realise how ill she was until her mother arrived. Louisa Scarletti had spent most of the previous few months in London, acting as an ineffectual nurse, grim counsellor and general aggravator to her younger daughter Enid Inskip. Enid’s solicitor husband was abroad on business and, having already been blessed with twin boys, she was anticipating an addition to the family, but not with any great pleasure. Once settled in, Louisa’s main contribution to Mina’s sickroom was to sit by the bed, her face buried in a handkerchief, whimpering, until Rose persuaded her to leave.

  Dr Hamid visited twice a day, and soon after the arrival of Mina’s mother he was accompanied by a young woman in a plain grey gown, a long white apron and a starched cap. ‘This is Miss Cherry,’ he said.

  ‘Where is Rose?’ asked Mina, in a breathy whisper.

  ‘Rose is attending to Mrs Scarletti in addition to her household duties. You need someone experienced who can be by your side at all times. Miss Cherry is a nurse with the most impeccable credentials. I thoroughly recommend her.’

  Mina looked at Miss Cherry, who was very tidy and had an air of quiet competence. ‘Miss Cherry, I will try not to trouble you too much.’

  Miss Cherry gave a neat bob of a curtsey.

  Dr Hamid made the usual checks of Mina’s temperature and pulse and listened to her chest.

  ‘I am still feverish, am I not?’ asked Mina.

  He hesitated.

  ‘I would prefer honest bad news to unrealistic reassurance.’

  He smiled briefly. ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Then I may not be troubling anyone for much longer.’

  ‘You must not lose hope,’ he said. ‘You are young yet.’

  Mina burst into a new coughing fit and Miss Cherry acted at once, applying friction to her patient’s back until the painful spasms subsided sufficiently for a teaspoonful of sedative mixture to be swallowed. She then poured water into a basin, dampened a cloth and applied it to Mina’s brow and lips.

  ‘I expected to die young,’ said Mina, as she reclined on the pillows once more. ‘I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.’

  Miss Cherry said nothing, but as soon as Dr Hamid had left, she stamped her presence on the household. The Scarlettis employed a charlady to do the heavier domestic cleaning, and she did it well, but Miss Cherry di
d not consider this good enough for a sickroom. She therefore set about scrutinising every surface in Mina’s bedroom, assessing each item therein for its cleanliness and suitability. Anything that might harbour dust or have an irritating scent was packed into boxes and stored away until the patient was strong enough to endure them.

  There was some puzzlement over the small dumbbells that lay concealed at the bottom of the wardrobe and Mina was obliged to explain that she used them in the calisthenic exercises she had been taught by Anna Hamid. Miss Cherry commented dryly that they would not be needed for a while, rubbed them well with a cloth and replaced them. The little wedge-shaped cushion that Mina used to enable her to sit upright on chairs was taken away to be cleaned.

  The fire was tended to give just the right degree of warmth, the upper window opened to admit fresh air without a draught. Brightness that did not tax the eyes, scents that soothed and an absence of the common odours of the sickroom were essential to Miss Cherry’s way of ministering to her patients.

  It was, thought Mina, a tremendous amount of fuss over a dying woman. And she was dying, there was no doubt about that. If not that day then another not too far off; if not from this illness, then probably the next one. And what, after all, she mused, did she have to live for? She would never have a husband or children. Her family didn’t need her. Her stories, which she published under another name, did well enough but would never be accorded the status of good literature. Her life, she concluded, had no meaning and if she disappeared there might be a little brief regret and then the world would move on.

  What would she miss, she wondered? The gentle friendship of Dr Hamid, the annoying but often amusing schemes of her quixotic brother Richard, and Brighton itself, the summer days when the sun gilded the town, and the scent of the blue-green sea as it washed over the pebbled beach. She was like a piece of limp bedraggled seaweed, drifting out with the tide.