Chapter Forty-Two
Hetty continued to stare at me.
‘Your husband recently died.’
No shit Sherlock.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Best to humour the old girl, even though she knew this as a fact.
‘Peter,’ she clarified.
Well, obviously, Peter. Who else would it be? Kermit the Frog?
Hetty leant forward, hands outstretched, fingers stroking the air over the glowing ball. She lowered her eyes and stared at it.
‘I’m seeing stairs.’
Oh for…
‘Yes, Hetty,’ I said a little brusquely. ‘Stairs would be appropriate. After all, Peter met his death falling down our staircase at home. The details of his demise are no secret.’
My voice caught on that last word. The bit prior to Peter’s fall was another matter.
‘You fell out of love with your husband,’ she declared. Her head shot up, and her strange eyes met mine. ‘In fact, I’d say you hadn’t loved him for years.’
I put my head on one side. Returned her gaze. No, I would not be unnerved.
‘We’d been married a long time, Hetty,’ I said carefully. ‘I’m sure you will agree that most marriages of any duration reach a point where the couple simply jog along. That doesn’t mean to say there are no longer any feelings between the husband and wife.’
Although, there had been plenty of feelings between Peter and me. Mostly contempt on his part and resentment on mine.
‘Even so’ – she continued – ‘You are relieved to be free of him.’
‘I don’t miss picking up his socks and pants, if that’s what you mean.’
She paused for a moment, as if listening to a voice in her ear.
‘He’s not happy, you know.’
I frowned.
‘Peter is dead, Hetty. Therefore, he is neither happy nor sad. He is no longer of this world.’
‘I’m talking about the next world,’ she said ominously. ‘His spirit is restless.’
‘A bit like me,’ I joked, shifting on the cushion. Sitting cross-legged was making my thigh muscles ache.
Hetty regarded the orb between us. Her bejewelled hands cradled it, like a baby’s head, before dramatically sweeping upwards. She made some circular movements in the air, as if stirring it.
‘Peter says you’ve put the house on the market.’
For a moment I went very still. How could she possibly have known that?
Because… because when Leslie had turned up to do the valuation, he’d driven a car with Home and Hearth Estate Agents emblazoned upon the sides. That’s why. Hetty must have seen Leslie’s vehicle.
‘I’m thinking about moving,’ I said cautiously, not prepared to verify her statement.
‘You will move,’ she said. ‘If only to get away from Peter’s tormented soul. He is distressed. Night after night he keeps retracing his steps up that staircase. He says he can’t rest. Effectively, he’s haunting Moonlight Manor.’
‘Oh, really, Hetty,’ I tinkled. ‘Hasn’t he got better things to do? And, incidentally, please don’t tell everyone my house has a resident ghost. Some might find the idea charming, but others – potential buyers – might be put off.’
Hetty regarded me sternly.
‘Your husband wants to know why, Jen. Do you understand? He wants to know why.’
I shook my head imperceptibly.
‘Why what, Hetty?’
What was the old dear implying? Did she suspect that I’d murdered my husband? Was she using her so-called psychic gift to force a confession?
‘New beginnings are just around the corner, but beware death,’ she said ominously. ‘It’s snapping at your heels.’
Suddenly her eyelids fluttered, and her face twitched. I wondered if she was pretending to go into a trance. If she attempted speaking in Peter’s voice, I might freak out. It was one thing to behave in a mystical way; it was another to try and take it to the next level.
‘Hetty?’ I warbled. Her upper body began to sag. I was reminded of a child’s bouncy castle when cut off from its air pump. ‘I don’t appreciate this,’ I said, as the left side of her face drooped.
Was she in a trance? Was Hetty about to channel Peter?
I was reminded of that awful film. What was it called?
Oh, yes. The Exorcist. Was Hetty’s head about to rotate like an owl’s as Peter’s spirit took over?
And would he be hellbent on picking up where we’d left off?
In which case, how would I react this time?
How would I deal with an angry husband in an old woman’s body?
Would her hands – operated by Peter – pick up the crystal ball and bring it smashing down upon my head?
In which case, how would I save myself this time?
Whip out the cushion from under my backside and shove it into Hetty’s face?
Hold it there until she stopped breathing?
And then what? Wonder how to get rid of another body?
Enough was enough. I straightened my spine.
‘Hetty, I’m not enjoying these theatrics.’
Apprehension was turning to annoyance. Why couldn’t she simply tell me about the new beginning? Pretty it up with some fairy dust and glitter? Add a nice sparkly rainbow? Why bang on about ghosts and death?
In fact, bugger this charade. Hetty was pottier than a teashop full of conspiracy theorists, and so far, her reading had been tactless and downright upsetting.
But as I opened my mouth to protest, Hetty’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. A second later, her body keeled sideways. She convulsed once, twice, and then went very still.