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Mr. Pitts eyes widen as he takes in Ambrose’s Victorian frock coat and pocket watch chain.
“Greetings, old chap.” Ambrose switches his cane to his left hand and offers his right to Mr. Pitts.
“Er, yes, hello, Ambrose. You’re the spitting image of…no, never mind. Thank you for filling in for Bree.” Mr. Pitts shakes his hand, looking quizzically at me. I know he’s trying to think of a nice way to ask Ambrose if he’ll be able to navigate the cemetery on his own when he’s blind. It’s a testament to Mr. Pitts’ character that he chooses not to ask this question at all.
“I appreciate the opportunity,” Ambrose says. “The cemetery is very close to my heart. I know my way around these old paths, and I’ve even researched a few new stories I can use to delight our visitors.”
“Wonderful. Okay, if you come with me to the ticket office, I’ll show you where we keep the maps and brochures.”
Mr. Pitts is going to trust us.
I give Ambrose a hug. “You’re going to do wonderfully,” I say. I watch him walk off with Mr. Pitts, chattering happily about his favourite graves, and I see Mr. Pitts already being utterly drawn in by Ambrose’s charm. Satisfied that my tours are in good hands, I head back to the hole in the fence and slip through, taking the overgrown path back to Grimwood.
I reach the top of the hill and turn back toward the cemetery just as the first busload of tourists arrive. Ambrose greets them cheerfully, handing out brochures and making sure everyone purchases their tickets. Apparently, Mr. Pitts isn’t the only one to notice his resemblance to the now internet-famous adventurer Ambrose Hulme, and several university-aged girls clamour to take selfies with him. A mother asks him about his clothing, and he starts to explain all the features. He shows the delighted children his pocket watch before leading them merrily off along Poet’s Way.
He’s going to do brilliantly.
Which is good, because what I told Mr. Pitts about my parents needing me was a fib. Mum and Dad have to clean the house top-to-bottom because it’s going to be full of guests over the Grimdale Giant Vegetable Festival, so they don’t want me cramping their style.
But as much as I love my job, I need to get serious about finding out more about the Order of the Noble Death – and answer the question of whether or not I’ve banished Jack the Ripper for good. And for that, I need the help of a mortuary expert and a vampire-slaying amateur sleuth.
* * *
“Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop,”Mina smiles as we enter the main room of the store. I’m told the bookshop used to be gloomy and dusty, but it certainly isn’t that any longer. Every surface that isn’t covered in books houses lamps of all shapes, sizes and styles, and fairy lights and LED strips outline the shelves. Mina and her guys have transformed the shop because Mina needs the lights to find her way around.
“Hi, Mina and Oscar. It’s Bree, Pax, and Ambrose, and Edward is floating behind us,” I say as I step inside. I learned that it’s really helpful to announce yourself and any companions when you meet a blind person. Mina recognises my voice, but it’s useful for her to know who else is with me, especially if she and I want to gossip about the guys, because it’s only fair that she knows if they’re there or not. “Sorry that we’re late. We missed our first bus becausesomeonegot distracted smelling the flowers in Maggie’s garden.”
“Have you ever sniffed a freesia before?” Ambrose says. “I’d forgotten how absolutely delightful they are, like fresh strawberries.”
“I can’t say that I have, but bring me a bunch next time and we’ll go to town.” Mina finishes sticking Braille pricing labels on a stack of books, pushes her chair back, and grabs hold of Oscar’s harness. “Heathcliff! It’s your turn to man the desk. Try not to murder any customers while I’m gone.”
“I make no promises.” Mina’s six-foot-four, smouldering beast of a grumpy lover – the villainous Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights (yes, really. It’s a whole story) – stalks out of the back office and lowers himself into her vacated chair. Quoth flies from his perch on the antique chandelier and lands on Mina’s shoulder as she and Oscar lead us upstairs.
We climb up two floors to the small flat where Mina, Heathcliff, Morrie, and Quoth live. It’s filled with even more lamps and tons of silly LED signs that say things like ‘What Would Moriarty Do?’ and ‘You Had Me At Morally Grey.’
“I’ve been redecorating,” Mina says with a grin. “Heathcliff hates the signs, which is why I keep putting them up. Morrie commissioned a sign maker to create a giant portrait of himself, and he’s going to hang it over Heathcliff’s bed.”
“Remind me not to be in Argleton when Heathcliff discovers it,” I say with a smile.
Dani emerges out of the tiny flat kitchen with a platter of cheeses and stacks of cream doughnuts from the bakery on the corner. “All ready for our epic brainstorming session,” she says. “Mina, do you want anything to drink? Morrie left you a bottle of wine on the counter.”
My heart thuds. I haven’t seen Dani since the night of the burying. She hasn’t answered my texts. I don’t know where we stand, but she’s setting out nibbles and pouring drinks like nothing is wrong.
“Is it a Bordeaux?” Edward perks up. He and Mina’s other lover Morrie (short for Moriarty. As in, James Moriarty, the villain from Sherlock Holmes.) share a taste for expensive alcohol.
“It’s red. And you can’t drink it anyway.” Dani takes a giant bite of cream donut, getting a little on the end of her nose. “Hey, it’s kind of fun being able to hear Edward now.”
“Fun for whom?” Edward mutters as he moves to the window that overlooks Butcher Street. “You should all be grateful that I’m still a spectre with no earthly body, for my revenge list is long and my repertoire for torture extensive.”
“Let’s get onto this. I don’t have much time before some bloke comes in and asks Heathcliff to recommend a book he can read on the train to make girls want to sleep with him, and Heathcliff’s head explodes.” Mina settles herself into one of the chairs beside the fire. “Bree, did you bring Vera’s box? Quoth, can you unroll the murder board?”
A black cat leaps out of the way as I dump out the contents of my inheritance on the coffee table. Quoth soars up to a perch above the fireplace, inserts his beak through a small circle, and tugs down a large screen. Pinned to the screen are fabric swatches, red ribbons, and a photograph of two skeletons kissing on top of a wedding cake.
“Are you in the middle of another case?” I ask. “One possibly involving an overburdened wedding planner offing her difficult brides?”
“Oh, don’t mind that, I forgot that Heathcliff is using the board for wedding planning. You can shuffle his stuff to the side.” Mina waves her hand. “I’m praying to all the goddesses who will listen that my wedding day will be murder-free.”
I spread out the objects from Vera’s box on the table, and explain again what I saw and felt when we slayed Jack the Ripper. Dani writes a timeline on the murder board and pins up a picture she doodled of Father Bryne and his strange, spiky cross. I’m beyond touched at how into this she is.
