Not A Mourning Person - SIGNED hardcover luxe edition

Prologue

NINETY-TWO YEARS AGO

Go on, darling. Put us out of our misery,” Horace Van Wimple, the current home secretary of Britain, glares at her across the table. “You don’t have a thing in that pretty little hand of yours that will beat me.”

Van Wimple leans back in his chair, towards where a group of other men are gathered around the roaring fire, pouring more Scotch as they gossip about the latest Parliament sitting. Van Wimple wants the game over so he can join them.

The woman facing Van Wimple across the card table adjusts her pink jacket and takes a drag of her cigarette. She doesn’t enjoy cigarettes, but she very much enjoys the way men like Van Wimple look at her when she smokes – as though she’s a creature from a mythical story, one he cannot control and shouldn’t try.

She shuffles the cards in her hand – the front ones to the back, the back ones to the front. She has a pair of kings. A good hand, but from the way Van Wimple so casually laid down the deed to his grand, crumbling house beside the enormous stack of money on the table, he must know he cannot lose.

Why else would Horace Van Wimple risk the beguiling Grimwood Manor? It’s been in his family for generations. It was once owned by the notorious Poet Prince Edward, and it’s the most beautiful building she’s ever laid eyes upon. This house is everything she craves and everything that Horace Van Wimple doesn’t deserve. She wants the house so badly that her bones ache with craving. She doesn’t know where this sensation has come from, but it’s the most she’s felt in years. And Elsie is tired of running from her feelings.

Horace lifts his cigar cutter between his thumb and fore‐
finger and cuts it above the shoulder with a satisfied snap. He blows a ring of smoke in her face. “Come on, love, we don’t have all night.”

Is he bluffing?

The other men in the room shift awkwardly. In the corner, three women – two of whom she presumes are prostitutes – drape themselves over the piano. One plays while the other two sing a popular song about long-lost love in low, sultry voices.

More men buzz around them like drone bees around a honeypot, filling the ladies’ drinks and rubbing their shoulders against the invisible cold. The curtains are drawn against the view – a pity, because the room looks out over a grand cemetery. Elsie loves the peace of the places of the dead, but the others declare the view morbid and unfit for their party. Elsie’s fiance, Gregory, looks up from the pianist’s cleavage long enough to glare at her. He didn’t want her to join tonight’s gathering. After dinner, he’d suggested that she head upstairs to bed, as Horace’s friends’ wives all did, ascending the grand staircase like a parade of parakeets. She wanted to follow them, but she wouldn’t give Gregory the satisfaction.

She wants to leave the party now. She wants to leave Gregory, run away to Italy, see the ruins, give herself a new name, wear her hair down and drink wine at breakfast every single day. But she can’t.

Without Gregory, Elsie would be penniless. If he leaves her, her family won’t accept her back, certainly not when they realise the state she’s in. Elsie’s world has closed in around her – she is the same as the other wives – a pretty songbird in a cage. But Horace has presented her with another path to freedom. So she remains at the table, debating her next move, as the deed to the house haunts her from atop the pile of coins and jewellery.

“Two of your pictures are the same!”

An unfamiliar, excited voice startles her, but she manages to hold her composure. She’s had a lot of practice. Elsie pretends the strap of her dress needs adjusting, and looks up at the ghost of a Roman centurion. For most of the night, he’s remained in the corner of the room, his head in the liquor cabinet or swinging his sword at Horace. Now, he peers over her shoulder at her cards.

“You have two the same.” He points to her kings. “Is that how you win the game? We had a game like this in Rome, only there were tiles with pictures of naughty nymphs on them, and you won when you dumped your wine on the other man’s head.”

She darts a glance over at Van Wimple, who has called over one of the possible-prostitutes to refill his glass. No one is watching her, so she hisses at the ghost. “I can only win the game if my cards have a higher value than his.”

“You can see me! And talk to me! Oh, that’s exciting! A Living hasn’t been able to see me before. We’re usually stuck with useless, rotten Living humans like Horace over there.” The warrior shakes his head sadly. “He can’t even swing a sword. Last night he was showing his friends one of his ancestor’s blades and put a giant hole through the hallway tapestry. Most disrespectful. May Jupiter cut off his testicles and serve them as Christmas truffles. My name is Pax – Pax Drusus Maximus – and my job around here is to protect the house from Druids and annoy Edward.”

Elsie doesn’t know who Edward is, but Pax seems nice, for a ghost. He hasn’t asked her for anything yet, which is usually what happens the moment a spirit realises that she can see them. For that reason – and because her parents threatened to have her committed if she continued to talk to invisible people – she taught herself to ignore ghosts.

But tonight, she’s breaking her own rule. Pax Drusus Maximus might come in handy.

The Roman pats her shoulder, his touch a blast of warm air as his fingers sink partway into her skin. For a moment, she’s assaulted by his memories – the warm pooling of Roman wine in her belly, the loud taunts and lewd jokes of her friends, the ache in her sword arm as she slices into a foe…

Elsie jerks her shoulder away. This new power is even more incentive to ignore ghosts. Elsie has also noticed that over the last few days, when she’s near ghosts, they seem to be able to affect the Living World in small ways – knocking over a vase, or whispering something lewd in her husband’s ear, as a darkhaired, handsome man in a billowing white silk shirt is doing at this moment. Elsie never had these abilities back in Sheffield, but something about Grimdale – and Horace’s old house – has given her new abilities.

Despite herself, Elsie smiles at the centurion. Perhaps they could help each other. “I could get Horace out of your hair if you could help me win this game. Tell me what cards he has.”

“Of course!” The centurion stomps off to the other side of the room. He walks right through Gregory, sending him reeling. Elsie’s lips quirk up into a smile, which she quickly hides. She wouldn’t want to give Horace any ideas.

“Horace, old chap, there’s a mighty chill in here.”

Gregory clutches his heart. “Elsie, perhaps we should get you to bed. I can finish your hand for you, darling. I’m sure that Horace doesn’t mean to play so competitively with a woman. You know your constitution can’t stand it. Horace, my wife is ill. She has these turns and I—”

“Horace and I were clear on the rules when we began.”

Elsie nods at Pax, who leans over Horace’s shoulder and squints at his cards.

“He has a six, a five, and a three,” Pax exclaims. “He also has two grumpy-looking women. They have not had a Roman soldier in their tents for quite some time.”

A pair of queens. He has a pair of queens. I’m winning.

“Thank you,” she mouths to Pax. She twists the diamond ring from her finger and tosses it into the centre of the table. “I’m all in, Horace. You must show your hand.”

“What are you doing, you absurd woman?” Gregory’s face clouds over. “That engagement ring belonged to my father. It’s worth thousands—”

“You’ll have to get your disobedient fiancée some lesser bauble, old chap.” Horace throws down his cards, a triumphant grin on his face. As Pax had told her, he has two queens, a three, a five, and a six. He reaches across the table to collect the pile of money.

“Perhaps you’re being a bit premature.” Elsie places her hand on the table. Horace’s face clouds over as he takes in the two kings. Behind him, Gregory pales.

“She won!” The possible-prostitute squeals with delight. “She bloomin’ won! Well done, duckie!”

Elsie catches the possible-prostitute’s eye, and winks.

“Oh, she won? Jolly good show!” A handsome ghost wearing a Victorian frock coat claps from the corner. A wooden stick rests against his knee. She saw him earlier in the evening floating through the foyer and crashing into a table, knocking a vase to the floor, which is at least partly her fault. Elsie suspects he is blind. Ghosts retain their habits and abilities from their Living lives, so a blind ghost is completely normal. A cheerful ghost, however, is not. But the ghosts in Grimdale seem mostly harmless.

Horace stares, mouth open, as Elsie reaches across the table and drags the pile of money towards her. Her fingers brush the deed, and her heart does a little skip. I own this house. It’s mine now. This house and its resident ghosts…

She glances down at the silver cords stretching from her heart and twining through the air around her. They dance and jerk, clearer than ever before, so bright and solid that she almost believes that she can touch them. The cords draw her chest tight. She feels so strange here, as though she is walking a tightrope, balanced precariously above the Realm of the Dead. If she’s not careful, if she puts one foot wrong, she will fall in, and she won’t be able to come back. Elsie is ready to fall. At least falling is better than standing still.

Gregory tries to tear the money from her arms. “This was a friendly game, Horace. I’m certain that Elsie will give you back your house, and all will be right again—”

“Bah. She can have it.” Horace glares at her as he tosses his still-burning cigar on the table and rises to his feet. His cheeks are red with rage and humiliation. “When you learn about the curse of this place, you’ll wish you’d never set foot in Grimwood Manor.”

“Ooooh, a curse!” The Roman grins. “By Jove’s jaunty javelin, I hope it’s a good one, with boils and frogs and a lightning strike up the wossit. Did you know I got a badge at Centurion Scouts for my cursing?”

Grimdale Graveyard Mysteries
Book 1 - You're So Dead To Me
Book 2 - If You've Got It, Haunt It
Book 3 - Ghoul As A Cucumber
Book 4 - Not A Mourning Person