The Black Swan Ghost (#1.5 Penderry's Bizarre)

Chapter One

England,

December 1872

A sheet of icy wind swept across the bleak countryside, shaking the branches of the bare oak trees. Snow clouds hung in the sky as a carriage rumbled along the lane, its occupants seeking a place to rest. The driver shivered in his seat, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, and a tri-corn hat and great coat keeping the rest of him warm. With his one good eye – the other covered by an eye-patch – he scanned the road and fields ahead, searching for any sign of civilization; the movement of farm animals, or smoke from a chimney. The horses were growing tired and in need of water and food.

The passengers inside the conveyance were not much warmer than the unfortunate coachman. Body tensed from the plummeting temperature, Millicent Sinclair rubbed her arms through her fur trimmed cloak, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. Her two male companions opposite tried to appear more stoic, but even Alfred Westman admitted his nose had gone numb. He reached up to the small hatch in the roof and snapped it open. A cold draught poured inside and his friend, James Penderry, groaned.

"Any s-sign of life yet, B-blinks?" Westman asked his driver. It sounded like he'd lost all feeling in his lips, too.

"Aye, sir. There's smoke up ahead. Looks like an inn."

The news caused a stir of relief and Millicent huddled deeper into her cloak. "Let's hope they have rooms."

Despite the poor travelling conditions, every man and his dog took to the roads at this time of year, trekking miles to visit family or friends over the festive season. But this was not the case for Millicent and her companions. They journeyed for an entirely different reason, to investigate a police report about a half-man, half-moth sighted in the sleepy hamlet of Shrewton. The editor of Penderry's Bizarre magazine had deemed the moth-man worthy of a spot in his scientific journal, and sent James and Westman to investigate. At Westman's request, Millicent had agreed to join them. He and Jim were old friends of hers, and they insisted that her gift might be useful in their exploration of the supernatural.

They'd been on the road all day, and dusk was drawing close. The Inn was welcome news. The sight of it, however, was not so comforting. While Blinks took the carriage round to the coach house, Millicent stood in the lane, staring at the weather-beaten building. A sign hanging from a tall post squeaked on its hinges, depicting a black swan. Built in the middle of nowhere, the coaching inn sat silently, surrounded by stark fields and the whistling wind. The Black Swan had to be two hundred years old, possibly more. An icy sensation trickled down each vertebrae in her back, and the words, 'It's haunted,' entered her mind. How many ghosts lived within the ancient walls? No doubt she would soon find out.

Lights glowed in the ground floor windows, and the eerie hubbub of voices and clinking ale mugs grew louder as she approached the building. A woman laughed gaily, and a pianoforte from another era played a lively jig. Too many people. She couldn't decipher their words. And it was all so unbearably loud. She stopped and covered her ears, but it didn't help. It never helped when spirit noise overwhelmed her. Then a ghostly gunshot rang out, bringing silence with it.

"Is everything all right, Miss Sinclair?" asked Jim.

She lowered her hands and glanced at him. He held a small paper bag of nuts and tossed one into his mouth. The inn was grey and quiet once more.

"Yes. Quite all right," she replied. "Let's get out of the cold."

Westman waited at the entrance with his dog, holding the door open for them. When she passed the threshold a thick but calm atmosphere settled over her. The smell of home cooking and beer hung in the air, and the warmth from the large fireplace instantly seeped through her cloak. While Westman and Jim spoke to the landlord about lodgings for the night, Millicent looked around the lonely inn. Dark-wood tables and empty chairs populated the room, and with each step, her shoes clung to sticky old beer spills on the stone floor. Ordinarily, she wouldn't be seen dead in a lowly flea pit like this, but unfortunately she was desperate and this appeared to be the only inn around for miles.

At least the landlord had made something of an effort to decorate the place for Christmas with evergreen branches, pine cones and garlands of holly and ivy. A chalkboard announced a menu of rabbit pie, cheese and biscuits, or hot potatoes with butter. She rested her gloved hand on a wooden pillar, noticing the deep stab marks marring the grain, as if someone had used the pillar for knife throwing practice. Perhaps they had, but she didn't care to know and closed off her senses. She was tired, hungry, and in no mood to entertain messages and secrets from beyond the veil.

Jim called to her. "Plenty of rooms, Miss Sinclair. We're the only ones here." He shook out of his coat and folded it over his arm. "Come along, the landlord fellow is taking us up now."

Westman's driver came inside, staggering under the weight of their luggage, and let Millicent go ahead up the stairs. His nose, red from the cold, poked over the top of her vanity case. Admittedly, she'd packed an obscene amount for a short trip, and almost felt a twinge of regret when she saw Blinks struggling with the load. Then she noticed his hands gripping her fine Parisian travel bag, his fingernails caked with black dirt. Panic rose in her chest, but she held her tongue, which was quite a feat of willpower.

While Blinks put the luggage in the correct rooms, Millicent stopped Westman in the dingy corridor. "Freddie," she whispered loudly. "I insist you take that servant of yours aside and remind him about good hygiene. Have you seen his fingers? And he's handling my best cases from Paris."

Westman peered at her beneath his eyelids and drew a long breath. "Very well, Miss Sinclair. I'll have a word with him."

"His nails must be crawling with germs. It's a wonder he hasn't succumbed to some horrible illness."

"Blinks will be flattered by your concern for his well-being."

"Send for hot water before dinner and I will bring my soap and horsehair nail brush directly."

"You are too generous."

"Think nothing of it." She headed to her room, but stopped when a dilemma occurred to her. "Shall I bring the rose scented soap from Harrods or the lavender?"

Westman stared at her silently.

"Impossible to choose, I know. Never mind. I will bring both."

Westman always seemed to insist on dragging his servant around wherever he went, and let the man loose in public, all sweaty and unkempt, and goodness knows what else. In an age where soap and water were widely available, there was no excuse for dirt. While she searched in her vanity case for a nail brush, her mind turned to the lack of guests at the inn. It was unusual for this time of year. Surely they weren't so far off the main road from London that travellers were scarce?

And then there was the feeling of eyes everywhere. They'd been watched since they entered The Black Swan. A floorboard creaked in the corner of the room and she went still, listening. Silence. She looked over her shoulder. There was nothing but an old wooden chest in the shadowy corner. Though she couldn't see anyone right now, she sensed she was not alone. But that was to be expected in a premises as time-worn and haunted as this.