Old-Fashioned, or Another Story With Ghosts

Chapter 3. The police starts investigation, and the ghost joins the party

"What was that?" - one of the bridesmaids pulled out her AirPods, like she heard something.

"What?"

"Don't know... fireworks?"

"Not planned today.... ah, here you are, finally!"

Greg, pale as death, fell into the fireplace room, closing the door behind his back.

"Call the fucking police, somebody!"

"What?"

"The... I just saw... there was... I saw. He shot him!"

"Is it part of the show?" somebody asked. Greg was hanging upon the plastic glass of water somebody gave him.

James was reading the house financial documents on his way to the station, when the taxi stopped suddenly and most of his coffee cup happened to be on his fresh shirt. 'He raised a brow, watching dark drops covering the papers in from of him. When he looked up again, he noticed the fog was gathering. He would be terribly late now, wouldn't he?

***

"I'm telling you, I saw some lad murdering another lad! The older one!"
It was almost 9 pm, and Greg was a total party breaker. The property manager thought so, the bride and her bridesmaids thought so, the remaining staff thought so, and, for the worst, the policeman looking like Inspector Mallory from Father Brown TV series thought so, too. Especially the policeman. Especially after he heard Greg's accent and asked him to repeat the claim in English. 

Greg told him to remember how to write down witness' testimony. And realised that, maybe, his emotional reaction had to deal something with his job problems. In a way.

Nah, not really.

"I will decide how exactly to deal with your testimony... sir." The policeman was clearly happy enough to be dragged from his dinner table to listen to some Scottish accusations in murder. "So. What, in your opinion, happened?"

Greg opened the mouth to start speaking. 

"He rushed to the makeup room and cried there was a murder. He was late, by the way! I've already called Margaret... or no? I will then." The bride nodded and made another sip from the bottle. Margaret was the wedding planner, the conductor, the general. She was currently in London finishing final touches of the ceremony for the next day The green dining room has never been so well lit in its whole history. And so full of scepticism.

The bride raised the bottle. "I payed the fucking damn grands for this wedding not to be asked by the police because my stylist was drunk and saw something!"

"I was not drunk, Alice! I don't drink, I..."

"You almost don't have work any more, you moron." Manager has been burning Greg down with the gaze during the last hour. Greg felt it, even making his best not to show it. He saw what he saw, and he was confident of it. 

"Silence! I'm asking questions here, ladies, gentlemen. Everybody!" The policeman looked upon the group following the bottle in the bridesmaid's hand with pure envy. "So. What the hell have you seen, Mr...?"

"Greg. Gregory Bay, I mean." He was holding his hands together trying to warm them. Whatever they all were thinking, even the memory of the event he had witnessed made his hands and feet icy cold again.

"That was in the study. Well, what used to be the study. I was waiting for the girls, they were late for the rehearsing party the agency planned to put on the Halloween mood. We were up to try different hair styles, Halloween makeups, drink some wine, tell ghost stories..."

"No usual to see, hm, not a lady in such role." The policeman probably missed the stuff about internet and modern nonsense regarding gender related professions.

"Greg's fine. He's gay, they know the beat." The bride's bottle was getting emptier, and her moods were getting higher. Not in line with her senses. She giggled noticing the policeman's face. "Don't worry, you're on duty, right? No romance on duty! And you're not his type, right, Greg?"

But he was more in his story than with them.

"I was waiting. Then there was a knock, and I opened the door, but nobody was out. Only some steps behind the corner. I thought it was some kind of a bad ghost joke, and... and followed them." Greg seemed distracted from what's happening around looking straight in front of him folding and unfolding the laced edge of the sleeve. "There was a stair leading upstairs. I didn't remember that one, so I-I don't know which one it was. But I climbed it, cause I heard the noise, and-and... there was another passage. The narrower and... less lightened, like the dimmer was set at almost zero. One of the doors was opened, and there was a fire in the fireplace. I knocked and looked in. There was... a man sitting at the desk, something really old-fashioned, ancient even!"

"The man or the desk?" The youngest bridesmaid whispered.

"Both! Like... I thought he's just eccentric, at first, long hair, clothes like in BBC documentaries when they reconstruct something. Then that it was some acting for the wedding. He never noticed me, and-and before I asked him anything... there was a shot. A quiet one, really, like from the distance, but it was not from the distance! It was right there, in front of me, some other guy from the shadows lowered the gun, like-like the one from musketeers's movies, and there was blood, and the man, the gentleman, he was watching his blood dripping on the paper he was working on... in handwriting, all of them, really." Greg closed his eyes. He desperately needed coffee. Anything hot, actually. 

Not impressive enough for the policeman, though. 

"So what did you do, then? Left the injured person there to die?"

There was silence for a while. Greg licked his lips before answering. "I think... aye. I-I run away. I am sorry, that was... I don't remember that very well. I... I must have run away."

"We checked the whole house, officer." The manager looked guilty and humble. "Nothing to be found. Somebody seemed used some warm up before attending the party..."

"I was not drunk, and I don't do drugs!"

"Maybe, you fell asleep, Greg?" The same youngest bridesmaid gasped. "And read Wikipedia about manors? Sometimes it happened to me that I am having a dream, but I don't know I'm dreaming, and this is this night today when all ghosts are out walking among the living..."

"Shut up, Chrissy!" The bride made another sip. "You're biing fking ridiculous. There are no ghosts, especially in the mansions where they are supposed to be according the ads..!"

"There are." Greg looked somewhere behind their backs, face like... well, like of he'd seen a ghost. "Here is one of them. The man who was killed."

Despite the reason, everybody felt some chill before looking behind the shoulder, all at once, where Greg was staring. 

The man in the doorframe was tall and seemed a black shadow between others shadows in the corridor.

Greg softened on his chair. 

***