“Probably someone playing games,” JC said loudly.
“Or Something,” Happy said helpfully.
“Look, are you picking up on anyone? Or anything? No? Then we are going inside,” said JC, firmly. “Now, we are about to enter a public house, full of civilians. So I want us all to show a confident and united front, or I may or may not wait until we are alone to dispense savage beatings.”
“Bully,” said Happy.
* * *
They hurried through the main entrance and found themselves at one end of the main bar; a large open space full of bright lights, wonderfully warm and dry, with a whole crowd of people sitting at tables and standing the length of the long bar-counter. All conversation stopped the moment the three Ghost Finders made their entrance. Everyone turned, or at the very least lowered their drinks, the better to look over the newcomers. It was like facing a solid wall of expectant faces. And then the barman came bustling out from behind the bar-counter to greet them, beaming happily. A big, beefy, older man, with carefully styled grey hair and a hard-used face, wearing traditional country-bartending clothes. He made a point of shaking hands vigorously with all three of them.
“Welcome, welcome! Adrian Brook, proprietor of the King’s Arms, at your service! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t get here tonight, what with the weather and all; but here you are! Good to see you all! No need to introduce yourselves; the Institute contacted me earlier, gave me all the details. . Your reputation precedes you! Now, let me introduce you to the regular crowd.”
Which was all cheerful enough; but behind Brook’s blustering bonhomie, JC could sense a not particularly well-hidden desperation. Like a drowning man clutching at a life-belt.
Some thirty or forty men and women looked eagerly at JC, Happy, and Melody, as Brook introduced them all by name, as professional ghost hunters. He didn’t mention the Carnacki Institute; but then, it was doubtful anyone present would have recognised it anyway. Still, they all seemed pleased enough, and casual enough, with the idea of ghost hunters. Which suggested they took ghosts seriously here. JC looked the crowd over carefully. A fair mix: young and old, prosperous and less prosperous. Pretty much every social group, represented somewhere. They all had wide smiles, and searching eyes. Brook kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as he took the team’s coats, hung them up, and handed them each a towel to mop their faces and rub at their wet hair.
The bar itself seemed surprisingly modern, with all the most up-to-date features and fittings. Gleaming metal and polished wood stood out proudly alongside more traditional items like horse brasses and stuffed and mounted wildlife. Large blackboards offered surprisingly ambitious bar food and reasonably expensive wines. The whole place felt cosy and comfortable, easy on the eyes, with a good ambience-everything you’d expect from a standard country inn. Except JC couldn’t keep from wondering: why was the building positioned so far outside the town?
Brook started to explain to everyone why he’d called in professional ghost hunters, but JC quickly cut him off. If there was information to be handed out, he wanted to be in charge of it.
“So!” he said brightly to the attentive crowd. “What are you all doing here on such a miserable night?”
“No need to hide the real reason for your visit,” said a red-faced farmer type, nodding and almost winking. “Eli Troughton, dairy farmer. That’s me. We all know why you’re here. Where are the cameras?”
“What?” said JC.
“I thought they’d send someone famous,” said a tall, wispy goth girl, dressed in every shade of black. “I don’t recognise any of them.”
“What?” said Melody.
“I expect you’ll want to hear all the stories, eh?” said an expensively suited man who looked like a local solicitor. “I’m Michael Cootes, local solicitor.”
“Famous for its ghosts, is the King’s Arms,” said a very blonde young lady. “I’m Jasmine. Will there be photographers? I take a very good photo if I say so myself.”
“What?” said Happy.
“Famous for its stories, but not quite famous enough, eh Adrian?” said Troughton; and everyone present laughed loudly.
JC felt very much that he’d like to be let in on the joke. He looked at Brook, who was back behind the counter; and the barman quickly declared that the team’s first drinks were on the house. So JC had a large brandy, Melody had a gin and tonic, and Happy, rather surprisingly, asked for a glass of Perrier. Presumably because he didn’t need anything else. Melody shot him a quick glare that very clearly said You’re not fooling anyone. Happy looked down his nose at her and sipped his sparkling water with his little finger extended. JC gave Brook a hard look, and the barman nodded quickly.
“I’ve been telling my patrons all about you,” he said defensively. “The three best professional ghost hunters in the game today, come all the way up here from London, to help put things right here. That’s why the place is so full tonight.”
“Like when the BBC filmed Songs of Praise in the local church,” said Cootes. “You couldn’t move in the pews for new frocks and big hats. Vicar hadn’t seen a congregation that big in years. Got stage-fright in the pulpit, and the verger had to take over.”
“If you’re the Ghostly Busters,” said Jasmine, “shouldn’t you be wearing those big nuclear packs on your backs?”
“You’re thinking of the other guys,” Melody said coldly. “We’re professionals. They’re fictional.”
“Even so,” said Troughton, “don’t you have hawthorn and garlic, crosses and holy water; all that stuff?”
“That’s for vampires,” said JC. “We don’t do vampires. That’s another department. We’re here to investigate the situation and see what needs doing. If anything does.”
“But where are your cameras?” Jasmine said doggedly. “I had my hair done specially for the cameras!”
“What cameras?” said Happy.
“For the television programme!” said Cootes. “For the show! You’re here to make a show about the King’s Arms and its ghosts, aren’t you? Like Mostly Haunted?”
JC looked at Brook, who flinched, then shrugged. “I had to explain it to them in terms they would understand, Mr. Chance.”
“Which of you is the psychic?” said Troughton. He grinned at Melody. “She looks like she could get inside a man’s head.”
“Ms. Chambers is our scientific expert,” said JC. “Mr. Palmer here is our resident psychic.”
Everyone in the main bar immediately turned their gaze on Happy. He wasn’t pleased about that but did his best to bear up under the close inspection. The most common reaction in the crowd was disappointment, in that Happy appeared so ordinary and unprepossessing. They’d clearly been hoping for someone a bit more. . exotic. They couldn’t see Happy doing the whole rolling-on-the-floor and speaking-in-tongues bit.
“All right then,” said Cootes, leaning forward on his chair to fix Happy with a challenging stare. “Show us something. Go on.”
“Oh, this can only go well,” murmured Melody.
Happy looked straight back at Cootes, his face surprisingly calm and composed. “I don’t do party tricks. Neither am I a performing dog.”