The Haunting of Delavere Hall

By Amy Flint

Paranormal investigator Dr Porter Biggleswade is settling into her new life in York. While pensioners caught up in a ghostly battle, and civil war soldiers haunting a local pub are keeping her busy, a call from a friend takes her to a crumbling estate on the Yorkshire coast. Rumours are rife at Delavere Hall, with monks and a murder at the heart of them. Secret rooms, hidden passages, and sightings of ghostly monks and the Grey Lady fuel the intrigue. Porter agrees to investigate and discovers more than she bargained for.

The Haunting of Delavere Hall is the second book in Amy Flint’s Porter Biggleswade series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326606589

Book preview

The Haunting of Delavere Hall

The Haunting of Delavere Hall

By

Amy Flint

About the Author

Amy Flint lives in York, supposedly one of the most haunted cities in England. Her background is in archaeology, and she used to work in Pompeii and at the British Museum. She had the idea for the Porter Biggleswade series after moving to York in 2011 and finding ghosts are a key part of York life. It seems that most people have a ghost story to tell.

Also by Amy Flint

Porter Biggleswade Series:

Shadows in the Mist

Copyright

Copyright © 2016 by Amy Flint. All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-326-60658-9

Editor – Hannah Jeans

Amy Flint has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

For John

Soulmate and partner in crime

Characters

Paranormal Investigation Unit (PIU):

Dr Porter Biggleswade – a paranormal investigator sceptical of her own ability to see ghosts

Beryl Bonelli – an administrator in search of a mate

John Hindley – Mike’s long suffering intern

Clarice Jones – Porter’s intern and general know it all

Dr Fergus McDonnell – Director of PIU; a man on the rise

Dr Mike Rodick – Porter’s colleague, but certainly not her biggest fan

Dr Sue Wainwright – Deputy Director of PIU; a woman desperate for harmony

PIU Donor – more shadowy than the shadows

Other Characters (Alphabetical Order):

Colin Austen – landlord of The Cavalier

Rachel Austen – a woman who finds paranormal activity objectionable

Ettie Beaton – a crystal shop owner; more Jimmy Choo than tie dye

Patty Biggleswade – Porter’s mother, whose cup is half empty

Richard Biggleswade – Porter’s father, who is unwilling to fill it

Penelope Biggleswade – Porter’s late twin

Vicky Cameron – a woman with a spectral stalking problem

Simon Clifton – curator of the Brontë Museum

Neil Dalton – President of Perfectly Paranormal; Porter’s biggest fan

Professor George Dawley-Ellington – seeker of the Palette of Isis

Ruth Dawley-Ellington – a cold fish

Harriet Debrett – owner of Delavere Hall; as decrepit as the property

Audrey Debrett – set to inherit Delavere; would prefer a poisoned chalice

Byron Debrett – a man keen to get his hands on the poisoned chalice

Dr Danny Drakeson – Director of Anomaly; high flier and opportunist

Professor Foxton – Director of the Institute of Parapsychology

Doris Green – Danny Drakeson’s aunt; pensioner with an attitude

Dr Lauren Griffiths – a parapsychologist with attitude

Thomas Hargreaves – a tenant of Delavere Hall; no friend to fowl

Gladys Jones – Clarice’s grandmother and greatest critic

Helen Jordan – Dr Drakeson’s far too loyal assistant

Dr Lucien King – curator of Italian antiquities at the British Museum

Professor Keith Lovegrove – Head of the Parapsychology department: a man with a grievance

Laurie Machell – an archaeologist with a love of pink corduroys

Dr Lindsey Marsden – a member of the Palette of Isis group

Paul Mortimer – a journalist drawn to war zones

Mrs Murdoch – housekeeper of the said poisoned chalice

Ronnie Neely –head gardener of the said poisoned chalice

Irene Patterson – a life guru and proud owner of new hips

Brendan Robson – a paranoid rifle owner

Jonathan Rogers – Dean of All Saints University; powerful, and knows it

Rupert – an Irish red setter in danger of being turned into a rug

Jamie Rutherford – an artist with real talent

Dr Edward Tedry – a parapsychologist who makes women swoon

Walter – a resident of a local bus shelter

Mr & Mrs Webb – curators of Malbury Museum

Lord Julian Whittard – an aged peer

Alison Worth – Doris Green’s walking buddy and partner in crime

Chapter One

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t

Porter pulled up her collar against the cold. It was still dark, with night taking its time to yield to the late November dawn. She had left her flatmate cursing early mornings and was now crossing the quiet city to work.

She ventured past York’s Guildhall. A board, inviting the public to view the excavation, which was currently taking place within its grounds, was chained to the gate. It reminded her that she was yet to take a tour of the dig.

Porter turned down a side street. Another early riser was sorting out newspapers, her half-smoked cigarette idling on the sill. She interrupted her walk to buy a paper and skimmed through its contents until Bishop’s Manor came into view. The sight happily coincided with the sports section. Porter left it at the bus stop for someone else to peruse and cut through the carpark to her office.

Once home to mediaeval clergymen, Bishop’s Manor now housed All Saints University’s Archaeology and Parapsychology departments. Porter worked for the recently formed Paranormal Investigation Unit, or PIU for short, which was set up to investigate hauntings. The unit’s offices could be found in the building’s basement.

A sports car pulled into the carpark. Porter caught sight of the driver and frowned, it was Dr Tedry from the Parapsychology department. She had been avoiding the academic for nearly a month now, ever since the Frome Museum had chosen him to investigate ghostly sightings in their galleries. Porter had wanted the job, and losing out to Tedry still grated. She hurried into the building before the man could catch up.

A flight of steps across from Reception took Porter down to her subterranean world. She was becoming familiar with the network of poorly-lit tunnels, which housed all manner of antiquities. The Archaeology department’s collection, having long outgrown its allotted space, now crept, like ivy, along the darkened warren. Porter wondered how many pieces she could pilfer before their absence was noted.

She finally reached PIU. The rooms had formerly belonged to the Parapsychology department who still begrudged the loss of three offices, a second common room and a broom cupboard. Just because it hadn’t used the rooms in over a decade didn’t mean it was happy to lose them. Porter had been exposed to office politics on her first day, when she found that space was as wanting as the neighbouring department’s welcome.

The usually overcrowded office was now empty. She took advantage of the quiet to make a start on her report for Favourite Foods, a minimarket in Heslington. The manager had contacted PIU to investigate strange events at the shop after her colleagues complained of being abused by a malicious ghost.

Porter had agreed to take the case after viewing the manager’s bruises. Evidence pointed towards a disgruntled ghostly pensioner who, on realising the shop had short-changed him, had died of a heart attack on his way back to complain. The man’s venomous streak had kept him company in life – death apparently couldn’t part them.

Footage of the unprovoked attacks showed a shadowy figure hurling produce, slapping a girl stocking shelves, and even tripping a toddler. Sudden temperature drops, motion sensors being tripped, and random spikes in electro-magnetic readings further supported the footage, along with a bag of white feathers, which staff members had started finding after the trouble had started. Porter was still to find meaning behind the feathers, but she believed they were connected with paranormal activity. The chest at the foot of her bed was filled with them.

She had shown the manager some of the footage. The woman struggled to see the ghostly figure at first, Porter knew it was difficult to the untrained eye, but then sudden movement had made her client gasp.

The spectral hand was plain to see, turning off a fridge in the storeroom. Porter’s client was appalled as the malicious action had cost the company thousands of pounds and the manager many hours of unnecessary stress.

The disembodied hand was wearing a signet ring, which the manager was all-too-familiar with. She called the man’s daughter who confirmed that he had died.

Said daughter wasn’t surprised to be told of the attacks, for her parent had never squandered good cheer. The manager gave her her father’s change in the hope that restitution would end her staffs’ torment.

Porter was checking the investigation’s log sheets when PIU’s administrator walked in. Beryl shuffled behind her desk, laid her head on the keyboard and groaned.

Porter noticed the sunglasses. ‘Good night?’

Beryl blamed her friend’s sherry trifle, an alcoholic soup with floating cream. ‘I ave two elpings to wash my sorrow away. Jill tell me about er oneymoon, ow she and Bernard walk around romantic ruins, drinking their cocktails and, well…’ she groaned again.

The administrator wasn’t jealous of Jill’s holiday, but that she had someone to share it with. Beryl was desperate to find a man, a sentiment shared by her family. The fact she could sense their chagrin from southern Italy didn’t help.

‘Ruins?’ asked Porter.

‘In Egypt. Jill… she ave a lovely time, but she don’t think it agree with Bernard, even though it was is idea. E not imself since e been back. E must ave grabbed a germ. You’re not supposed to drink the water, everyone know that.’ Two hundred photographs and one sherry soup later, and one Egyptian ruin looked suspiciously like the next.

Porter suddenly took an interest. Her recent move to York had led to a surprise friendship with Professor Dawley-Ellington, an Egyptologist who worked in the Archaeology department. He was currently in Egypt, running an excavation near Luxor. She wondered if their paths had crossed.

Beryl didn’t know. She tried to make a start on work, but her hangover had other ideas. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she mumbled, passing Porter’s intern on her way to the restroom.

‘Shouldn’t you two be in a lecture?’ asked Porter, surprised to see Clarice closely followed by fellow her intern John.

‘It was cancelled,’ responded Clarice, dropping her bag on the desk in frustration. John was more philosophical; he was yet to finish the reading that their tutor had set.

Porter’s already low opinion of the Parapsychology department took another hit. She thought PIU should set up a degree course, charge for it, then never turn up to teach. Their neighbour was getting away with it, why shouldn’t she?

Clarice’s frown melted when Porter asked for her help with the Favourite Foods report. The student was realistic about her job prospects; parapsychology positions were scarce and she needed to gain as much experience from her internship to stand out from the competition.

John wasn’t so ambitious. He was about to take advantage of his free morning to go back to bed when his boss darkened the doorway.

Mike Rodick didn’t bother to shroud bloodshot eyes behind sunglasses. His linen suit was creased everywhere but where the tailor had intended, and greasy hair and facial growth completed his state of dishevelment.

Porter spied movement behind Mike. A shadowy figure loitered in the corridor, awaiting the man’s next move. She didn’t know what tied the unfortunate spectre to her colleague, but heavy shoulders showed the ghost took no pleasure in her task.

‘Collect your crap, John, we’re heading over to Clementhorpe,’ barked Mike. His intern risked censure and queried the request. ‘Some bloody fantasist is complaining about being stalked by a ghost wearing a bloody hoodie. Like I don’t have enough to do! Get your bloody coat.’

Porter’s eyes narrowed. While she agreed that scepticism helped to tighten professional practice, it was still important to remain objective. She found Mike’s cynicism prejudiced his work and blinded him to evidence of paranormal activity. Clarice gave John a sympathetic smile on his way out.

Beryl finally returned with a box of aspirin. She was considering trading her desk for the sofa in the common room when Sue Wainwright, PIU’s deputy director, walked in with a pile of paperwork. Sue took one look at the administrator and sent her on a coffee run.

‘You’re no good to me in that state,’ she told her, refusing to indulge Beryl’s affliction; the unit was over-stretched as it was. ‘Here, take my purse… you can buy us all one while you’re there. And you may as well get a box of mini-donuts while you’re at it. You know the ones I mean, next to the fruit bowl. I’ve been in a breakfast meeting with the Dean since eight, but his secretary messed up the catering. I’m starving!’

Beryl slumped behind her screen and ignored the waving purse.

‘Come on, the exercise will do you good,’ encouraged Sue.

‘Then you go,’ replied the administrator, eyeing up the deputy director’s substantial frame. ‘You don’t need donuts, I buy you fruit.’

Clarice gave Porter a side look. Her morning was getting better by the second.

Yet Sue remained unruffled by Beryl’s jibe, for the women had been sparring partners for years. ‘If you don’t buy donuts, Beryl, I won’t allow a secret Santa at the staff Christmas party,’ she negotiated instead.

Beryl was in no state to haggle. ‘You take advantage,’ she complained, grabbing Sue’s purse on her way out.

‘And that’s the last we saw of her,’ joked Porter.

‘It better not be,’ growled Sue, a hostage to hunger pangs. She tried to ignore them by discussing details of an upcoming conference which was being hosted by the Institute of Parapsychology. Porter had been invited to present a paper at the event and Sue was keen for her to take part to help raise PIU’s profile. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to talk about?’

‘The Brontë Museum in Haworth,’ replied Porter. She had recently investigated claims of ghostly activity at the parsonage and was keen to share her results. Fortunately, she had the museum’s full support. Her findings had caused a stir amongst Brontë enthusiasts and visitor numbers had almost tripled when compared to the year before.

Sue smiled approvingly. The case was interesting, the ghosts legendary, the evidence plausible, and their client very happy with the results. Porter couldn’t have chosen a better advert for PIU.

‘Do you know who else is on the programme?’ asked Porter, who was still waiting for details. She anticipated knowing most, if not all of her fellow speakers. While many people shared an interest in ghosts, few researched them for a living. That was left up to the likes of Porter. The deputy director was suddenly distracted by a paperclip. Black eyes narrowed. ‘Out with it.’

The director of the Institute of Parapsychology had phoned Sue to ask if Mike would also present a paper. ‘Professor Foxton said that Dr Greenberg has had to pull out, leaving her with an hour to fill. Don’t worry, you’re still their keynote speaker,’ she said quickly, as Porter’s expression darkened. ‘I want Mike to take the slot so it will give us a bigger presence at the event. Being a new unit means we need to market ourselves wherever we can. Now, where’s Beryl with our donuts?’

‘But you can’t let Mike loose on the public, Sue, he’ll make us a laughing stock,’ predicted Clarice. She didn’t want her reputation tarnished by the connection before she had even started her career.

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ agreed Porter, dryly. It was bad enough having to work with Mike without advertising the fact.

Sue had expected such a reaction and took it on one of her many chins. ‘This conference may be the perfect opportunity for you to put your differences aside.’ Porter and Mike were never going to be bosom buddies, but she would settle for civility.

Porter thought Sue’s optimism was naïve. Mike considered her a fraud - her ability to see shadows little more than an overactive imagination, fuelled by a desire to be different. His fellow sceptics agreed.

Not that Porter cared what people thought of her. She had enough self-awareness to challenge her experiences, making her arguably more critical than her sceptics. And when believers placed her ability on a pedestal she was the first to knock it off.

‘Fergus agrees that you should both present papers to reduce the number of slots available to the competition,’ said Sue, keen to show she had the director’s support. Porter wasn’t surprised. Dr Fergus McDonnell wouldn’t allow an opportunity to slip by unexploited. His recent promotion from Deputy Director of the Parapsychology department to Director of PIU summed up the man’s desire to succeed. Many had thought him unwise to leave an established department to run a new unit funded by an anonymous donor, but Fergus ignored his doubters and took the risk.

Mike, Beryl and Sue had also worked for the Parapsychology department until Fergus poached them for PIU. Porter understood why he would want Beryl and Sue, but she questioned his judgment in employing Mike. Paranormal investigator jobs were in short supply, along with Mike’s talent. Porter knew at least twenty people who could do a better job. Clarice believed that Mike was bribing Fergus and she was inclined to agree.

‘You’ll be telling me Tedry’s giving a paper, next,’ said Porter. Sue’s smile wavered. ‘Seriously? Take a kidney, it’ll hurt less!’

‘At least you only have to share a stage and not an office,’ Sue offered lamely, willing Beryl’s return.

‘I don’t understand why you dislike him so much,’ remarked Clarice, appreciative of the man’s charms.

But what appealed to the intern only served to irritate Porter. She didn’t trust him or his easy manner. ‘If he talks about the Frome Museum, I won’t be held accountable for my actions,’ she warned.

Sue sympathized. She had wanted the contract just as badly as Porter and losing out to her former department made it sting all-the-more. It didn’t help that the head of the Parapsychology department made a point of gloating every time he saw her. Professor Lovegrove was still bitter about Sue jumping ship to PIU.

‘So you won’t be attending Tedry’s lunchtime lecture on Wednesday?’ asked Sue, who organised the weekly event at Bishop’s Manor. The talks were proving a hit with both staff and students and latecomers were forced to stand at the last one. Of course her boss was now claiming her idea as his own.

Tedry’s ground-breaking research on reincarnation was causing a stir amongst his peers. It was Porter’s intention to lurk at the back of the lecture theatre, slipping in and out unobserved.

But while she hoped to attend undetected, Clarice was planning to make her presence known. Porter’s intern had already ‘reserved’ her seat, the throne of chairs under Tedry’s nose, by bribing the caretaker with cappuccinos. It had cost her a small fortune, but she thought the investment well worth it.

‘You’ll still have a fight on your hands,’ revealed Sue, having knowledge of the competition. Many of her colleagues were also courting the caretaker, who was a willing beneficiary of another man’s magnetism. He was still thanking the day Dr Edward Tedry’s charm had found its way to York.

Clarice’s expression soured. ‘I’m taking an early lunch,’ she told them, hurrying from the room.

‘If you bump into Beryl, tell her I want a word,’ Sue called out, ‘anyone would think she’s roasting the beans herself. Well, I’d better go do some work. I’m meeting Robbie Tate for lunch and I need to make a few calls before he gets here. You’re welcome to join us, Porter, I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you,’ she offered mischievously.

Porter doubted it. Her recent brush with the developer had left her questioning Sue’s choice of friends. She opted to follow her intern’s example and take an early lunch.

*

Porter managed to avoid the developer and worked with Clarice into the evening. They were getting ready to leave when her intern threw out a dinner invitation from her grandmother.

Gladys Jones viewed Porter as something of a kindred spirit, believing she could see shadows, too. She often spoke of Cedric, her shadowy lodger of fifty years, who was conveniently absent whenever visitors crossed her threshold. Clarice thought her grandmother was a fantasist and Porter suspected she may be right.

‘Gran’s friend’s sister’s godson owns a restaurant on Goodramgate and he gives her a discount. Don’t feel the need to say yes though, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than spend the evening with my relatives.’ Clarice coveted Porter’s respect and spending time with Gladys and her parents threatened that.

Porter thought her intern took life far too seriously, especially for someone so light on years. Clarice’s ambition often got the better of her, making her an easy target for her grandmother’s wit. ‘You insist on managing my diary, find a date,’ she instructed, bored of the tumbleweed rolling through her evenings.

She left the building and passed the shadow of a former student standing by the sundial. While the ghostly scholar was now a familiar sight, his reluctance to enter Bishop’s Manor remained a mystery. She left him toying with his shoelace.

Porter was on her way to meet her flatmate for a drink when her mobile rang. She was surprised to see Audrey Debrett’s number. Porter had last seen her friend catching a flight to Seville with her boyfriend Ben, with the intention of photographing the world. That was just after their graduation and she hadn’t heard from her former housemate since.

‘Back so soon?’ she mocked.

Audrey apologised for leaving it so long. ‘But there’s a rumour going around that you’ve moved to York and I’ve got fifty quid on it being false.’

Porter told her it was time to pay up.

‘Seriously? You were the last person I expected to leave London. I go away for five minutes, and you do something crazy. I assume you still see your… friends?’

‘You assume correctly,’ replied Porter, telling her that she had left London because she needed a change of scenery. ‘This job came along and York seemed as good a change as any. We can’t all go swanning off to photograph rare orchids, or whatever it is you do these days. Which is what, exactly?’

‘I am still a photographer, for my sins,’ admitted Audrey. ‘I got back from travelling a while ago and I’m now working for an agency in Soho. I bumped into Theresa and Jack at the weekend; they’d just bought a copy of your latest book. They were the ones who told me about your move north. Honestly, I thought they were joking. And talk about coincidence.’

‘Should we?’ Porter failed to see the need.

‘I’m in Yorkshire, too. Not a million miles away from you, as it happens, in a place called Malbury. You won’t have heard of it, Porter, it’s a small village near the coast. I was planning to call you, anyway, but finding out you’re so close feels like fate.’

‘Coincidence… fate…., anyone would think you’d had an epiphany while you were away,’ Porter taunted the sceptic’s choice of words. ‘What brings you to Yorkshire?’

‘Monks and a murder,’ disclosed Audrey, suddenly sounding serious. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, Porter, and I know I’ve given you a hard time over the years about what you do, but you’re the one person that I thought would take me seriously.’ Her explanation included a great aunt and an updated will. ‘Harriet is planning to leave her entire estate to me.’

Porter had thought that Audrey lacked the burden of relatives. Her parents had died prematurely and she had never volunteered more than an uncle.

‘Because I haven’t seen Harriet in so long and I just assumed she was a figment of my imagination. I thought it was a hoax call when her solicitor contacted me a few weeks ago.’ Colourful language hadn’t put Mr Wetherby off; Harriet’s solicitor had pestered Audrey until she finally agreed to meet him for lunch.

Caution made her arrange the meeting in a café just off Fleet Street, ‘in case he turned out to be some half-crazed lunatic. Well, you can’t be too careful, can you…, you only have to watch the news.’ Yet, fortunately for Audrey, Mr Wetherby was telling the truth. The solicitor had been looking after her great aunt’s affairs for years. A recent spell in hospital had prompted Harriet to put those affairs in order, starting with an overhaul of her Will.

‘My great aunt is convinced that she’s on her way out, which is a fair assumption considering she’s due a card from the Queen any day soon. Apparently there are other Debretts floating around, but she doesn’t like them enough to want to leave them her estate. Harriet never married, and she planned to leave everything to my father, but then he went and wrapped his car around a tree. She doesn’t want to give anything to Uncle Byron because she agrees that he is a misogynistic git.’ Audrey didn’t bother to temper her hostility towards the man awarded custody of her following the deaths of her parents. ‘And, as she hasn’t formed an opinion of me yet, I’ve moved up the pecking order and am currently the sole beneficiary.’

‘Of what?’ asked Porter.

Audrey gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Delavere Hall. It sounds grander than it is. Do you remember the New Year’s party that we gate-crashed in the Highlands?’ She recalled a soggy experience, which had put her off camping for life. ‘Well, Delavere looks a lot like that wreck the cows were squatting in, only it also has an abbey at the bottom of the garden.’

Porter stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re inheriting an abbey?’

‘A ruined one,’ Audrey was quick to play it down. Sandal Abbey couldn’t compete with its more famous neighbour further along the coast, Dracula had seen to that. ‘And most of the hall should be condemned. I was shocked to find Harriet still living here to be honest, but for an old bird she’s pretty game.’

Porter suspected it was still more Windsor Castle than a caravan. ‘You’re not related to royalty, are you?’

‘Yes, Porter, I’m having tea with Lizzie and Phil tomorrow after I’ve polished my tiara,’ scoffed Audrey, claiming nothing more than a dilapidated dwelling, which was more rot than wood. Her great aunt had told her what it would cost to repair; the figure had made her eyes water.

‘Does your uncle know he’s about to be shafted?’

‘Don’t waste your sympathy on Byron, Porter, he’s a nasty piece of work. He only sought custody of me when he found out that I came with a lump sum. I’ve recently discovered that Harriet took him to court because she wanted to adopt me, but her age was against her. He blocked her attempts to see me after the hearing, although he was more than happy to let her pay for my school fees.’ Audrey had severed all ties with her uncle as soon as the law had permitted. ‘Mind you, I might be taking a bullet for him, judging by the state of the place,’ she continued, unsure if the damp-infested money-pit was more of a curse than a blessing.

It still sounded more glamorous than a terrace in Pimlico, which was all Porter’s parents had to offer. The National Trust wasn’t knocking on their door, asking to serve cream teas in the conservatory.

‘Give your dad a break, Porter, his greenhouse is a thing of wonder. Or at least it was the last time I visited. Is he still trying to hybrid fruit with broccoli?’

‘No, the Department of Health got wind of it and sent him a warning,’ said Porter, believing her mother to be behind the complaint. She crossed the road, narrowly missing a cyclist who had forgotten to turn on his lights. The man behind her wasn’t so lucky. Porter would have stopped to help, but expletives suggested their injuries weren’t life threatening.

‘So now that you’ve made me suitably jealous how does this all relate to monks and a murder and your wish to be taken seriously?’ prompted Porter, checking the time. Her drinking partner wouldn’t mind her being late, but she would expect her to play catch-up.

‘I’d like you to visit Delavere in a professional capacity,’ requested Audrey. ‘You know I don’t believe in ghosts, but I can’t deny that strange things happen here, even if you ignore the rumours. And when I bumped into Theresa and Jack, well…’

‘It was fate,’ teased Porter, amazed at the number of sceptics who wouldn’t walk under ladders.

Audrey knew she deserved that. The pair had spent many an evening debating the paranormal, with Audrey convinced that her friend’s ability was nothing more than a hormonal imbalance in need of fine-tuning. Having spent her life trying to rationalise her experiences Porter wasn’t about to rule it out.

‘Dark, brooding places have a habit of playing havoc with people’s imaginations,’ she advised, ‘especially with those who aren’t used to such surroundings.’

Audrey agreed. ‘Six centuries is a long time for rumours and rot to set in and the house is riddled with both. But I’m sure I saw the Grey Lady who’s rumoured to haunt the estate, and the monks…,’ she told Porter about the small group of hooded figures she had seen crossing the formal garden in the early hours.

A reoccurring nightmare, the sound of weeping, and constantly feeling like she was being watched were also on Audrey’s list of grievances. ‘The house is filled with secret doors and passages and Harriet believes that there are secret rooms too, although they’ve never been located. She was told that monks were given refuge in the rooms following Henry VIII’s sacking of Sandal Abbey. Our ancestors were Catholic sympathisers, according to my great aunt.’

Belief was one thing, but it didn’t win over the sceptics. ‘Does she actually have any proof of secret rooms?’ challenged Porter.

‘No, but it wouldn’t be hard to conceal a few in a property of this size. It’s not like anyone would miss them.’

If only PIU had the same problem thought Porter, who was currently coveting the broom cupboard. ‘I understand the connection between monks and Sandal Abbey, but where does the murder fit in?’

‘The Grey Lady is thought to be the ghost of a woman who was murdered in the secret rooms, and no, Harriet doesn’t have any proof of that either,’ Audrey was quick to add, ‘but she’s keen for you to investigate, to see if it’s more than just an old house with creaky floorboards. I’m sure you’re busy, but I’d really appreciate it if you would come over and take a look. Too many things have happened for me to dismiss them out-of-hand and it would give us a chance to catch up properly. I’m planning on staying up here for a while.’

Audrey’s request intrigued Porter as her friend seemed genuinely unnerved. She agreed to drive over later in the week as it gave her the excuse to escape the office.

Porter interrupted her walk to buy a sandwich and a bottle of gin before heading to the bus shelter at the bottom of the Shambles. She found its resident idling the hours away by critiquing passers-by. York’s locals were accustomed to the vagrant’s running commentary, but visitors found it harder to stomach. The man usually received glares rather than spare change for his effort.

‘Evening, angel!’ Walter greeted Porter, pointing at the space next to his bags. ‘See, I’m still keeping your bunk for you in case you change your mind and decide to join me. Rent’s cheap and I’ll even throw in a blanket.’

‘Thanks, Walter, I’ll bear it