Supernatural Psychic Mysteries: Four Book Boxed Set: (Misty Sales Cozy Mystery Suspense series) Read online

  Despite the soothing, hot bath and my sleeplessness, I tossed and turned. Well, I tried to toss and turn, but Diva appeared and planted herself firmly on my legs. She purred loudly, and every time I tried to roll over, she hissed and scratched my legs. Worse still, I felt frightened of the dark for the first time since my childhood.

  Misty, where is the page? The disembodied voice crawled from the dark, like fingers clasping for my throat. I must be dreaming.

  Misty, tell me.

  I felt I was slipping; a darkness was pressing on me and I struggled against it. “I don’t know!” I squeaked. I must have fallen into a deeper sleep, for next I dreamed that there was a man standing at the end of my bed. He was tall and thin and appeared to be dressed in old fashioned clothes. His bony fingers extended and stretched toward me, clutching at my throat.

  I awoke from my nightmare in a cold sweat, and shaking. This was the first dream I’d had about ghosts. I’ve had those dreams where you think you’re awake and it feels as if a heavy weight is pressing you down, and various other scary dreams, but never a realistic dream about a ghost.

  I was too scared to get out of bed. Diva was no longer lying on my legs; there was no sign of her. The room was dark, apart from the moonlight streaming in. Rather than being a comfort, the light made ghastly, scary shapes on the walls. I felt like a child again.

  My heart was pounding in my ears and I did my best to talk myself into getting out of bed. My iPhone was lying on the bedside table, so I turned it on and shone it under the bed. No monsters there.

  I leaped out of bed and ran for the light switch. As soon as the light was on, everything looked so much less scary, so normal.

  I decided to have a shower and then make a sugary cup of hot tea to calm my nerves. One of the pale lemon, scratchy towels left for me by Aunt Beth was still sitting on the end of my bed. As I snatched it up, a piece of paper fell to the carpet. I thought it just trash, and picked it up to put it on the desk on the corner of the room, but as I did, I saw the words scrawled in capitals:

  MISTY DANGER DASHWOOD TRUST

  The writing, badly scrawled as it was, worsened to the end of the note and it looked as if Aunt Beth had been interrupted when writing it.

  What did it mean? Was it to be taken seriously? I was too jet lagged to think clearly.

  I headed to the bathroom, and shut the sash window which afforded a view of the neighbors’ bedroom and in turn afforded the neighbors a view of the bathroom.

  The shower took away the fuzzy feeling in my stomach, and the hot tea cleared my head. For good measure, I heaped another two spoons of sugar into my cup. I didn’t want to be paranoid, but it was getting a little weird.

  I thought it all through. My aunt passed away the day before I arrived from a heart condition, or so I was told. A man collided with me as I arrived. No one had heard of the doctor who attended. The paper with the doctor’s name and number went missing from the wall. I found a mysterious note with my name on it.

  What did it all mean? Was Aunt Beth’s note about to tell me to trust a certain person? Or was Aunt Beth going all X-Files and advising me to Trust No One? There might be logical explanations for all these happenings, but the twisting churning feeling in my gut suggested otherwise.

  It became clear to me that Aunt Beth had been murdered, and someone was trying to cover it up. I remembered the Miss Marple episode I had seen only the month before, Murder Is Easy. Murder is easy if no one knows it was murder.

  But who would try to cover up the murder of an elderly woman? For that matter, who would want to murder an elderly woman in the first place?

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and I awoke the next morning with the sun streaming in the window. I felt groggy and headachy. The lemon towel I had used last night was now sitting folded and unused at the end of my bed. Surely I hadn’t dreamed of having a shower last night?

  Worse still, a check of my iPhone revealed the time was 10.03 a.m. Horrors, I’d slept past my caffeine time. At home, if I did not get my two cups of strong coffee before nine a.m., I would get a dreadful headache that nothing would shift, no amount of headache tablets or even more caffeine. I didn’t know what impact changing time zones and even hemispheres would have on my caffeine timing. Yes, I’m an addict.

  Clearly Aunt Beth had prepared for my visit as the cupboards were well stocked, except for one thing. My thorough search revealed only a large jar of instant coffee. I had heard that the English were into hot tea and not too good on the coffee, but it would be a cold day in hell before I would resort to instant coffee. I mean, the stuff should be illegal. I fetched the front door key and headed out the door, hoping to find a corner store with the real thing.

  I took off down the roads that looked more like main roads, and only about four streets away found a small store in between the houses. In amongst all the varieties of instant coffee, I did find one brand of ground coffee. I bought all five packets. My survival instinct had kicked in.

  When I got back to Aunt Beth’s, I charged into the kitchen. The jar of instant coffee was sitting on the kitchen table. I was sure I hadn’t taken it out of the cupboard.

  Then it hit me. There was no coffee machine: no Nespresso, no cappuccino maker, no drip filter, not even a plunger. I had to get the coffee into me somehow, so I put a pot of water on the stove, and added two heaped dessertspoons of coffee. The smell of boiling coffee was heavenly, but looked like a torrid lava pool. I found two strainers, and picked the one with larger holes. After about three strainings, the liquid looked more or less acceptable. It tasted okay, although quite gritty and a bit weak.

  While drinking it, I conducted a thorough yet fruitless search for garlic to go with my morning eggs. I figured that Aunt Beth must have consumed garlic by the bucket load judging by the overpowering smell when I’d found her, but not a clove of garlic was to be found.

  I’d only just given up looking and was getting to the end of my second coffee when the doorbell rang. It was so loud and startling that I jerked forward and nearly spilled the remains of my coffee, coffee grits and all.

  England was looking up! I opened the door to the most handsome man I had ever seen. He looked like Jimmy Thomas, the model on the cover of over fifteen hundred romance novels, except with short hair. He was tall, with broad shoulders, dark eyes which were almost black, and he looked like he had spent most of his life in the gym.

  I became conscious I was staring, and realized to my embarrassment that he had noticed it too.

  He extended his large hand and grasped mine, and covered my hand with his other. “I am so sorry to hear about Beth. She was a dear friend of mine. You must be Misty. She was excited about your visit.”

  I nodded. I was puzzled by his accent. It seemed a mixture of Oxbridge English and Australian, with other notes I could not guess. He also looked familiar, but I surely would have remembered anyone who looked like him.

  “My name is Douglas,” he continued. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I just stood there looking at him and finally said, “Thanks.”

  He looked at me expectantly, still holding my hand. Was I supposed to invite him in? I supposed so. “Would you like to come in?” I felt quite foolish.

  He dropped my hand, walked past me then turned left into the living room. Clearly he knew his way around Aunt Beth’s house. No sooner had he sat down than Diva appeared from nowhere. She ran at Douglas, swiped at the bottom of his jeans, hissed loudly, and then turned around and ran off.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I gushed. “She’s my aunt’s cat.”

  Douglas simply said, “That’s okay.”

  “Would you like coffee? Tea?”

  “Yes, black tea, no sugar, please.”

  I was relieved that he didn’t want coffee. My saucepan brew would only be appreciated by the worst of caffeine addicts.

  When I returned with the tea and cookies, Douglas was looking quite at home, sitting back in a huge comfy chair, albeit one covered in a
beige floral pattern. It clashed hideously with the faded, floral blue Axminster carpet.

  I opened the heavy drapes and the whole room was suddenly flooded with sunlight. I was absently thinking that the room probably hadn’t seen much sunlight over the years, when a thought occurred to me. “How well did you say you knew my aunt? The funeral is the day after tomorrow.”

  Douglas fidgeted in his seat. “Oh, so sorry. I have a prior engagement that I won’t be able to miss. I did know your aunt well. I’m an antique book collector, and your aunt had a wonderful collection of rare books.”

  I noted he said ‘collector’ not ‘dealer’ and wondered what he did for a living, but figured he might be a Lord or an Earl or something else expensive and privileged, judging by his designer clothes. I tried to collect my thoughts, which the coffee was starting to clear despite the jet lag. “Did my aunt have a heart condition?”

  My handsome guest nodded solemnly. “Yes, quite a serious one. Didn’t you know?”

  I shook my head and asked another question. “Did my aunt have many rare books?”

  Douglas rubbed his chin, and looked around the room before answering. “Yes, indeed. With her failing health and age, she recently decided to donate several rare books to museums.”

  I nodded. “I saw the newspaper clipping about the rare book she donated to some library in Cambridge, I think it was.”

  “Oh yes, the Cambridge University Library. They have a wonderful collection of rare and antiquarian books. Such a shame about that book. Beth told me she thought she had given it to them intact, but then they called her and said it was missing a page. She was most upset about that. Beth searched through her husband’s notes, everywhere, but couldn’t find the page.”

  Douglas stood and walked over to the window. “Old Edgar was eccentric,” he continued, “and Beth was worried that he might have taken out the page for further study. He used to read up on Arthur Edward Waite according to Beth, and had a collection of notes on arcane symbols. She told me that he would’ve put the page somewhere safe, but she couldn’t think where. I think that contributed to her death, as she was more worried about it day by day. If you find it, please contact the library immediately.”

  I stood up and walked over to the window to see what Douglas had been staring at. The street was full of cars, but I couldn’t make out anything interesting. I turned to Douglas. “Oh yes, I will, but if Aunt Beth couldn’t find it, I doubt I will be able to.”

  Douglas walked back to his seat and sat down. “Your aunt’s eyesight was failing, and often she would tell me she couldn’t find something when it was on the table right in front of her.” His manner was dismissive.

  His manner made me uneasy. Although he acted relaxed, there was clearly an underlying tension. Something didn’t quite add up. “I can have a look around at nights as I’ll be out most days working.”

  “You’re working?” He raised one black eyebrow and focused his entire attention on me.

  “Yes, but not officially. Don’t tell the British government!” I smiled. “I’m a journalist and have to do lot of stories while I’m here.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. I always dreaded that question at parties. People generally have a low opinion of the level of journalism in paranormal magazines. “I have to do articles on the Hellfire Caves, and,” I hesitated, “other paranormal spots in the area.”

  He didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised. “How do you expect to get there?”

  “Aunt Beth’s car. I got an International License before I left Australia.”

  Douglas leaned forward from the comfort of his chair. “Misty, that car doesn’t go. Beth hasn’t driven it for years. I have some free time over the next fortnight or so. Please allow me to drive you around and be your tour guide. I know the Hellfire Caves well and lots of other such sites.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t impose,” I blurted unwisely, before realizing that this was my only real option unless I went to the huge expense of hiring a car. Aunt Beth had offered me her car to drive. I had no idea she had been wrong about its working state.

  “I insist,” Douglas said, leaning forward and clasping my hand in his, yet again. “It’s the least I can do for Beth.”

  I smiled. Tingles ran all down my spine. There was certainly a spark between us, at least from my side. I wasn’t used to men finding me attractive these days. Steve had done everything he could to knock my self esteem down to a seriously low level, but I was getting my mojo back now. It could be worse. I was to have my own personal chauffeur and tour guide, and, better still, a man who looked like the romance cover model Jimmy Thomas.

  Douglas took my smile as agreement. “Well then, when would you like to start?”

  I shrugged and tried to think. “When would suit you? I’m free to go whenever you are.”

  Douglas looked relaxed for the first time since I had met him. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

  I nodded. “Sounds perfect. I need to make a start.”

  Douglas stood up and walked over to the window again. He looked out before turning to me. “Where would you like to go first?”

  I tried to make a decision despite the throbbing in my temples, warning of a headache to come. “Well, most of my articles will be on sites in the West Wycombe area, but my editor wants me to do an article on the Green Man of Fingest. I’d like to do that one first to get it out of the way, to leave me to concentrate on the others. Do you know where Fingest is? It’s in Buckinghamshire.”

  Douglas laughed. “Not only do I know where Fingest is, I have some information for you, and you’ll love it! How about I come for you at one?”

  After he left, I called the Flowermead Medical Clinic to ask if Aunt Beth had suffered a heart condition, but the receptionist informed me that she was not allowed to give out such information, even after Aunt Beth’s death and even to relatives.

  Chapter 5

  Douglas and I were on a narrow road speeding on our way in a deep blue Bentley turbo. I had no idea that English roads were so narrow, or that the gorgeous and green countryside was so vast. Australia is the same size as mainland USA, and I had always been under the impression that England was small and cramped. To my growing surprise, mile after mile of rolling fields gave lie to this assumption.

  Douglas had met me at the house and had handed me a photocopied page, on the top of which someone had noted in blue pen, Handbook to the Cathedrals of England, original edition, John Murray, Albemarle Street, London, 1862.

  I was reading this now as we sped along. I didn’t see the relevance. It was about a bishop at Tinghurst stealing the land of his neighbors. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with Fingest?”

  Douglas turned and flashed a smile at me. I had always thought flashing a smile to be a very silly expression, but when Douglas did it, it made perfect sense. He looked like a toothpaste commercial, sparkles and all. He must have spent a fortune on tooth whitening at the dentist. I made a mental note to see if he could frown. I’m not into guys that have been botoxed. Call me old-fashioned.

  Douglas reached across and patted my knee, interrupting my deliberations. “Tinghurst is the old Saxon name for Fingest. Christian influence has turned the pagan Green Man into the ghost of Bishop Burghersh.”

  Sadly, at this point, Douglas took his hand off my knee, but at the speed at which he was driving, this might have been a good thing.

  I’d heard about the Green Man and wanted to impress Douglas with my knowledge. I was still a little embarrassed about telling him that I was a paranormal journalist. “Oh yes, the pagan Green Man. I did an article on him for the magazine last year and was going to tie this in with the Green Man of Fingest. I collected a lot of images for the article, too. Most of the carvings showed him as a head with leaves growing from his face and hair and sometimes from his mouth. Two or three of them even had him with antlers. Seems he was everywhere in ancient times.”

  Douglas swerved to miss a truc
k that was a little too wide for the narrow English road. “Quite so, and today many pagans know him as the Horned God. Gerald Garner, who was the father of modern Wicca, said the Horned God is the go-between between a supreme being and people.”

  His voice was mellow and honeyed, and mesmerizing, but I interrupted. “You sound like a walking, talking Google! You’re full of facts.”

  “I hope I wasn’t boring you.”

  I smiled, thinking how absurd it would be that anyone would find Douglas boring. “It’s fascinating,” I lied. “But what does this have to do with Bishop Whatsit?”

  “Bishop Whatsit took over three hundred acres of common land for his own use, and as you’d expect, this caused hardship for the community. After he died, the Bishop’s ghost appeared to one of his friends.” Douglas stopped speaking when I laughed. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Well he couldn’t have appeared as a ghost before he died, could he?”

  Douglas said nothing and I was concerned that I had offended him.

  Just then we turned right into a lane and pulled up outside the church at Fingest. Douglas leaned across and said, “Long story short, the ghost wasn’t dressed in his bishop’s clothes but was wearing a short coat of Lincoln green, carrying a bow and arrows and sporting a horn around his neck. The ghost reported that he was condemned to wander around until the lands were restored to their former owners. The local papers are always full of sightings of the Green Man.”

  I hopped out of the car and looked around for ghosts. To my disappointment, the scenery looked completely normal, and not in the slightest bit spooky. “Where do they see him?”

  Douglas pointed to the church and then swept his arm outward. “He’s said to walk between the church and the site of the old manor house in that direction.”