Allegra Fairweather_ Paranormal Investigator - Janni Nell [3]
In some respects I envied her ignorance. I’ve been face-to-face with the paranormal more times than I care to remember and I can assure you that practicality and tough words are useless. Especially when you’re dealing with evil, which is all too often the cause of paranormal activity.
As Douglas headed behind the bar he told Bess, “Allegra is here at my invitation, please show her the same courtesy you’d show any other guest.”
“Aye, don’t speak of the paranormal in my hearing and we’ll get along just fine.” Bess offered me a truce-like smile and asked if I intended to eat dinner at the pub.
Douglas overheard. “Of course she is. She has bed and board here until the case is solved.”
Bess shrugged as though she couldn’t care whether I ate or not and headed for the kitchen. She returned with a huge plate of roast lamb and vegetables.
Yum. I found an empty table and ate quickly washing my meal down with a small lager. While I ate I considered my next move. It seemed obvious that I should interview Old Mrs. Ferguson about her dreams.
When I had drained the last drops of lager from my glass I got her address from Douglas and headed down Loch Road in search of her cottage.
With the descent of night, a deeper chill had settled over the village. Glad that I had worn my warm jacket, I proceeded to the end of the village shops. Douglas had told me that Mrs. Ferguson’s cottage was three dwellings past the last shop on the right, which was exactly where I found it.
I pushed open her gate and walked up the garden path. There was a light on inside and the sound of a television. When I knocked, the noise of the television died, and an external light went on over my head.
I half expected Mrs. Ferguson to ask who I was before opening the door but instead the door flew open, revealing a tiny woman with a wide smile. Although her face was deeply wrinkled with all of her ninety-nine years, her brown eyes were as bright and lucid as a woman a quarter her age.
Looking up at me as though she was checking out Everest, she beckoned me inside.
As I entered her cozy living room, I offered my hand, “Allegra Fairweather.”
“Aye, and I’m Emily Ferguson, but you knew that. Take a seat by the fire while I make tea.”
“Can I do anything to help?” I asked, wondering how she managed to look after this place all by herself. Douglas had told me she lived alone but not how she managed to do all the chores a cottage and garden entailed.
“I dinnae need help,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”
Moving closer to the open fire, I noticed that the room was spotlessly clean. Not only were all the little ornaments on the mantelpiece neatly arranged and dusted, the cushions on the armchairs were plumped and inviting.
Resisting the urge to sink into one of the chairs, I took a quick look at the pictures hanging on the walls. As well as several watercolors of the loch, there was a plethora of photographs of a corps de ballet.
“I’m third on the left,” said Mrs. Ferguson, walking back into the room bearing a tray laden with two cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and a plate of cookies. After setting it down, she came to stand beside me.
“I wasn’t good enough to dance any of the great roles,” she said, looking longingly at the photographs, “but I was good enough to earn my living in the corps de ballet until Edwin Ferguson came backstage. He wasn’t a great fan of ballet but it did combine his great passions—classical music and a fine pair of feminine legs. It was my legs that brought him backstage. Six months later I became Mrs. Ferguson and returned with him to the village of his birth. I’ve been here ever since—almost eighty years.”
I didn’t ask when Mr. Ferguson had died. Instead I focused on the delicately embroidered words of a framed sampler.
“What language is that?” I