“That’s because Marcus never told Charles or Morgan about it, as he was supposed to do. He didn’t want to tell them because he wanted to run DNA tests on the hair. He had discovered an actual biological piece of this poor bride, and he was determined to get every ounce of information from it that he could. That required him to open the antique locket to get at the hair, most of which would be destroyed in the process of extracting DNA. He didn’t want to tell anyone about it for fear they would deny him access to it. He knows that Charles loves his antiques and family history more than the truth. He’d want to display the piece next to the chest.”

  “I imagine he would. So”—Giff leaned forward, staring into the dreamy brown eyes of Alex Grimsby—“Bean stole an artifact from the attic and ran some tests on it. Do you know what he learned?”

  “No,” Grimsby said. “He never told me. But he did tell me that he had made a very significant discovery that was going to change the way history regarded the tale of the Mistletoe Bride.”

  Brett inwardly groaned. They had learned of an important artifact, but to what end? They were still no closer to learning what Bean had discovered about the DNA or its significance. Addressing Grimsby, he asked, “Did Bean happen to tell you that he was going to announce this great discovery during our ghost investigation?”

  “He did. He called me on the phone one afternoon, he was so keyed up about it. Said he was going to rock the manor with his findings.”

  “You must have been the person on the other end of the phone call Betsy told us about. She overheard Bean telling someone about a big reveal while serving his tea. We,” Brett said, indicating Giff, “believe this is why Bean was murdered.” Grimsby nodded in agreement. “Do you know if he told anyone about his discovery? Anyone at all?”

  “He must have, but it wasn’t me.”

  With the wheels of his mind spinning over this new revelation, Brett finished his meal and drained his second mug of ale. He then asked another question. “You knew Marcus better than anyone. What was his relationship to Betsy Copperfield?”

  Grimsby shrugged. “He got her the job in the hotel restaurant. I think Betsy was one of his students from the university. She’s a very responsible young lady and a real asset to the hotel staff.”

  “What?” Giff nearly choked on his beer. “She was his student? That would indicate that Bean taught school!”

  “Of course, he did,” Grimsby said, casting them both a look of disappointment. “He was a professor of history at the university in Reading. He split his time between Bramsford Manor and the university. He only taught a few classes, just enough to keep his standing there.”

  “That explains it,” Brett said, mentally berating himself. “I knew they had a connection, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Was there a reason Bean got Betsy a job at the manor?”

  Grimsby shrugged. “It’s hard to find good employees these days. A recommendation from Bean went a long way with Charles and Morgan. Bean also got Lewis his job at the restaurant as well, although Lewis was never one of Bean’s students.” Here Grimsby paused before adding, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but there’s little point in keeping this secret now Bean is gone. Lewis is Sir Charles’s biological son, although neither one of them knows it yet. It was another one of Bean’s genetic discoveries. He liked to meddle, and not always with the best intentions either. He only told me about it because he was so chuffed with himself for having figured it out.”

  “Lewis? That likable young man? How long has Lewis been working at the hotel?”

  “He started this summer. Bean found him on one of those popular genetic testing sites. He told me that Lewis recently learned that the man he thought was his father wasn’t his biological father and took a test to see if his real father could be found.”

  “Ohmygod!” Giff exclaimed. “That’s diabolical. Bean knew who the kid’s father was and didn’t tell him? Instead, he offers him a lowly job at the castle like a male Cinderella. What a d-bag!”

  “A right wanker, he was, rest his soul.” Grimsby shook his head just thinking about it. “Lewis is a good kid,” he added. “I advised Bean against revealing this ‘love child of Sir Charles’s unless Lewis’s mother agreed to it first. As far as I know, Bean was working on that, but not as hard as he was working on his other big surprise.”

  “I hate to say it,” Brett began, “but Bean obviously took a huge risk uncovering so much troubling family history that it’s going to be difficult sorting out just what discovery he made that got him killed. Are you certain Sir Charles didn’t know about Lewis?”

  Grimsby shrugged and shook his head.

  “He might have told somebody else about it, like for instance, the lovely and possibly jealous Morgan?” Giff offered. “How would she take the fact that her very single brother has an heir?”

  “Not well,” Gwen added spitefully. She was obviously miffed at the fact that Morgan Wallingford-Green flirted shamelessly with her man every chance she got.

  Brett flashed a look at Giff. “Looks like we’re going to have to do more digging ourselves if we’re going to figure this one out.”

  “Indeed,” Grimsby said. “That’s also what I wanted to talk to you about. I suggest you pay a visit to his office at the university tomorrow. I’ve phoned a colleague of his there, a man named James Bellemy. He’ll assist you in any way he can.”

  Brett thanked him, looked at the time, and took out money to cover their bill.

  “Lads, this one’s on me,” Grimsby said, handing them back their cash. “Good luck.”

  Chapter 29

  “Glad you gentlemen could make it,” Mike teased as Brett and Giff walked into the historic dining room, dressed and ready to begin recording the investigation. The beautiful dining room table had been set in the exact same way as it had during their first run, when they had tried to contact the ill-fated Mistletoe Bride. However, instead of the lofty, roast prime rib feast cooked to entice the ghost to the table, Bunny had improvised, using leftovers instead. Although the cameras would be recording, this Spirit Feast was meant to spark their second attempt at a ghost hunt. Everyone was praying that this time they would be successful.

  “How was your dinner with Alex Grimsby?” Bunny asked them, looking up from the plate of food she had placed before the spirit chair.

  “Good,” Brett remarked, coming beside her. He took one look at the expertly crafted meal and smiled. “Really good. I have a lot to tell you.” Looking around to make sure no one was listening, he whispered, “Marcus Bean did stumble upon something very interesting. According to Alex Grimsby, Bean found a preserved lock of hair presumed to be from the Mistletoe Bride.”

  “What?” she whispered back, her face mirroring his excitement. “That’s huge. Do you know what Bean found out regarding this lock of old hair?”

  Brett shook his head. “That’s just it. No one knows, but we have the name of a man who can help us. Also, possibility number two, Bean uncovered another bombshell about the Wallingford family. Sir Charles fathered a son twenty years ago. He never told Sir Charles about this finding. He kept his employer in the dark, and the kid too. However, somebody else might have found out.”

  Again, Bunny looked truly stunned. Forgetting all about her beautiful plate of food, she uttered, “A son?”

  “Hi, Ms. MacBride. I’m ready for the investigation. Where do you want me?” Bunny and Brett both turned to find Lewis standing across the table from them.

  Brett blanched while Bunny smiled at the young man. “You’re joining us for the investigation tonight?”

  Lewis nodded vigorously, causing his longish, backswept bangs to flop over his eyes. He brushed them back and grinned.

  “That’s grand, although you’re a braver person than I am, Lewis. Brett will be sitting at the head of the table, I’m sitting to his right, and Giff will be to his left. You’ll sit next to me, and Sir Charles will sit next to Giff. He should be along any minute.”

  The moment Lewis took his seat, Brett pulled Bunny out of earshot and whispered, “They’re joining us? Whose idea was that?”

  “We wanted Sir Charles and Morgan to join us, since Marcus Bean is unable to. Sir Charles is excited to participate, but Morgan declined. She offered to swap places with Lewis. Apparently, the young man has a ghoulish side to him. I think it’s a great idea. He’s genuinely excited about this, where Morgan was not. Is there a problem?” Bunny asked him.

  Yes, there was. To Brett’s way of thinking, Morgan might have put father and son together tonight for a reason. Did she mean one of them harm? Was this simply a little joke purely for her enjoyment? Or perhaps Morgan, like her brother, was as ignorant of Lewis’s true identity? Either way, Brett was going to be on high alert during the investigation. Giff too, judging from the way he greeted the boy. However, looking at Bunny, Brett told her, “No problem at all. By the way, that looks delicious.”

  Bunny tried not to blush as she looked into Brett’s bright eyes. “Thanks,” she said. “I simply rummaged through the kitchen refrigerator and threw it together. Not fancy, but delicious all the same. It’s leftover bangers and mash served in a Yorkshire pudding crust and covered with onion gravy. Hearty pub fare. I’ve also added a piece of hotel wedding cake for dessert to further entice the ghost bride. Lilly pulled that from the freezer, thinking it would be a nice touch.”

  Brett agreed. Looking at Sir Charles, who had just walked into the dining room, then at Lewis, who was beaming with excitement as he talked softly with Mike, he mumbled grimly, “Be careful who you invite to dinner.”

  * * *

  Everyone took their seat at the table. “Ready?” Cody asked, peering at them from behind his camera. “We’re going to start where we left off the other night. Sir Charles, Lewis, if at any point either one of you feels uncomfortable to proceed, just let us know and we can escort you to safer quarters.” Sir Charles gave a curt nod. Lewis, who had a goofy smile plastered on his lips, thrust his thumb in the air.

  Cody continued, this time directing his attention to Bunny. “Bunny, you’ll be coming along as well tonight.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she told him with a palpable lack of enthusiasm.

  “Also, if you happen to see any more white rabbits, let us know immediately.” This was partly said in jest, and yet everyone on the team knew what a serious harbinger Bunny’s dreaded white rabbit of doom was.

  “White rabbit?” Lewis questioned in wide-eyed intrigue. “Is that some sorta code word?”

  Bunny, dreading the thought, nodded. “It’s code for ghosts,” she lied.

  “Giff, do you have your earpiece in?”

  Giff, sharply dressed yet looking slightly pale, gave Cody a nod.

  “Good. Ella will remain off camera, but if she contacts one of the entities that haunts this manor, she is going to relay the message to you. You just say what she says. Brett will interpret the messages, ask questions, and run the ghost tech with Mike, who will also be filming as needed. Ed is in the library in the west wing, monitoring the feed. Any questions?”

  “What if . . . she contacts me first?” Bunny asked, casting a look of fear at her grandmother. Ella MacBride was sitting in a chair in the corner of the dining room behind one of the stationary cameras. Unlike Bunny, whose stomach was in a knot, the older woman looked calm and serene.

  “You’ll know if she does,” Granny Mac said. “If you begin to sense her, let me know immediately. I have a feeling it’s going to be another wild night.”

  It was a real possibility that Granny Mac knew just how prophetic her words were going to be, for the moment the cameras were turned on, the air inside the dining room seemed to crackle with electricity. Bunny could feel it. Her nerves were pulled taut as guitar strings, and every hair on her body prickled uncomfortably.

  “Ann Copeland, we’ve heard your story,” Brett said to the empty chair.

  Near the plate of elevated pub food sat an EVP meter, (electronic voice phenomena). This piece of ghost tech Brett often referred to as a spirit box. It worked by scanning different radio frequencies to catch and record disembodied voices. Pretty creepy, Bunny thought. In his hand he held what he referred to as a ghost meter, or an EMF (electromagnetic field meter) which he pointed at the chair. Supposedly, it measured changes in the electromagnetic field. According to Brett, ghosts were thought to be made up of energy and therefore would set off the meter if any were nearby. Again, creepy. However, it dawned on Bunny, as Brett monitored his ghost tech, that she didn’t need any of it to connect with a ghost.

  Brett continued. “We know you are still here, at Bramsford Manor. We invite you to join us tonight at the table for a wedding feast. We know how sad you are. For generations, many have felt your sadness and have heard your moaning. We want to know how we can help you.”

  To everyone’s surprise, a rogue wind blew into the room, fluttering the flames on the candles in the candelabra.

  “Whoa,” Giff said, looking directly into Cody’s camera. “I just felt a cold chill. I think she’s here . . .”

  Just then a high-pitched electrical beep pierced the silence, startling everyone. Brett looked at his EMF meter and turned it to the camera. “Dude, look at this. It’s going off. Someone is most definitely here with us.”

  He had no sooner spoken when another, stronger rogue wind blew through the room, snuffing out every candle and plunging them into relative darkness.

  “Ohmygod!” Giff screamed, jumping off his chair in the darkness. The chair tilted and he caught it just before it hit the floor. “What just happened?”

  “Bussin’,” Lewis cried, his eyes glued to the empty ghost chair.

  “Bussin’?” Sir Charles questioned in his proper English accent, staring at the young man. “What on earth does bussin’ mean?”

  Lewis turned to him and thrust up two thumbs. “Awesome. Really awesome!” he clarified.

  Brett, momentarily distracted by their banter, addressed the elephant in the room, namely the ghost bride. “Ann, are you here with us? Was that you who blew out the candles? We want to know what happened on your wedding night.”

  “Murder,” a deep voice said, coming through the spirit box. “Murder.” Everyone felt a chill at the word.

  “Whoa! Did you hear that? It said murder,” Brett reiterated, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Were you murdered?” he asked and stared at the spirit box.

  “No,” Bunny said. She looked at Brett and shook her head. He didn’t understand what she meant. “It’s not her. She’s not here. I smell cigarettes and Old Spice Swagger.” She shot a questioning look at Granny Mac, still sitting peacefully in the corner.

  “Marcus Bean is here,” Ella MacBride concurred. Unfortunately, it went straight into Giff’s ear.

  “Marcus Bean is here!” he cried, looking wildly at Brett. “He’s here! The recently murdered historian. What the virtual F!”

  “Calm down,” Brett told him, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We can edit that out later. Get ahold of yourself, buddy. You’re a world famous medium and fashion icon, remember?”

  “He’s angry, I think,” Bunny whispered, feeling it in the air. “Maybe frustrated as well. I’m not sure.” She noticed that Sir Charles looked truly frightened, while the young man sitting across from him, leaned in, wanting to hear more. Twenty-year-olds, she thought, ghouls to the core!

  Giff, pulling himself together, took that as his cue. With eyes wide with fear, he looked directly into Cody’s camera, repeating, “He’s angry. I can feel it. He blew out the candles. He wanted to get our attention because . . . because he was murdered!” He was now just improvising, and yet it was a far better performance than the one from the other night. Cody, looking at him from behind the main camera, made a circling gesture with his finger, urging Giff to continue. This new Gifford McGrady medium act was pure gold!

  That’s when Brett cut in.

  “Dude, the EMF meter is going crazy. Like, it’s off the charts crazy.” He turned it to the camera again to show the needle flipping past the red zone.

  Giff, taking inspiration from Brett, turned to the empty chair. “Marcus Bean, who murdered you? You can tell us. Just say it into the spirit box.” Giff stared at the box, hoping for an answer. His emotions were teetering on a knife edge between abject fear and burning anticipation.

  The voice box crackled and hummed with static. Suddenly the same deep voice came over the spirit box stating, “Chest.”

  “You were stabbed in the chest?” Brett asked. “Or you were in the chest?”

  Then another word floated on the air, but it was lost, drowned out by a horrendous crash that shook the dining room. The noise had come from down the hall, breaking their concentration. Sir Charles jumped from his chair and ran to the source of the noise. Everyone else followed as he ran to the long gallery.

  Not again, Bunny thought. Not again.

  “Bloody hell!” Sir Charles cried, staring at the destruction on the floor. “The china cabinet! Bramsford’s historic china and crystal that were on display have been destroyed. What the devil is going on here, Bloom?” His fists were balled at his sides while he heaved with both fright and anger. Close to tears, Sir Charles then fell to his knees where he picked up a shard of fine bone china, etched with a delicate blue design and rimmed with gold. It was heartbreaking to imagine. Everyone stared at the historic display cabinet, not sure what to do next.

  While Granny Mac knelt beside Sir Charles, who sat on the floor surrounded by shards of the family china, Brett sidled over to Bunny and Giff, and whispered, “This is not the work of a ghost.”

  “No, duh,” Bunny shot back in whisper. “That china cabinet is heavy. Too heavy for swirling air.”

  “Bridget’s correct,” Granny Mac offered. “Ghosts are residual energy and human emotion. Pushing that over would take herculean effort.”

  “Right,” Bunny said, looking at her grandmother. “Also, the ghost of Marcus Bean was still in the dining room. I smelled him.”

  Giff flashed her a horrified look. “Lordy, what a curse that must be for you.”

 

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