The Case of the Missing Whistle

Welcome back to Larkmoor Inn.

Thank you for joining Bets, Bellamy, and Cue in Séance Not Included. Before you continue to Book 2, Tickets Not Included, there’s another small mystery waiting for you.

The Case of the Missing Whistle takes place between the two books—a little extra time with familiar faces before the next curtain rises.

So settle back into your favourite chair and pour yourself something warm. Your stay isn’t over yet.

Light the candle. Follow the clues.

With warm wishes,
Althea S. Greyhaven

Bets Fairweather had spent thirty years in the theatre, and she knew that the show must go on.

She had simply never expected to be quite so grateful for the fact.

On Monday morning, Larkmoor Inn was quiet. The last of the weekend’s guests had departed on Sunday’s noon ferry, and the old building seemed to be taking a long, exhausted breath. Sunlight fell through the lobby windows, touching the polished floorboards and the brass fittings of the grandfather clock.

Normally, Bets enjoyed the silence between murder-mystery weekends. It gave her time to catch up on paperwork, inspect the scenery, and remind herself that running an island inn had been a perfectly sensible way to spend her divorce settlement.

This Monday was different.

There had been a real murder at Larkmoor Inn.

Not one of her carefully staged theatrical deaths, complete with harmless props and a conveniently placed clue envelope. A real one, with police officers, frightened guests, and questions that continued long after the curtains should have closed.

Bets stood in the ballroom doorway, looking toward the empty stage.

A floorboard creaked somewhere behind her.

She turned so sharply that the keys in her hand struck the doorframe.

There was nobody there.

“You’re doing it again.”

Aubrey Bellamy appeared beside the footlights, his transparent waistcoat immaculate and his expression disapproving.

“Doing what?” Bets asked.

“Jumping at noises.”

“I’m not jumping.”

“You nearly threw your keys.”

“Perhaps I was checking their durability.”

Bellamy folded his arms. He had been Larkmoor’s stage manager in 1938 and had apparently considered death a minor inconvenience rather than a reason to abandon his responsibilities. Only Bets could see him, which meant only Bets had the pleasure of his constant theatrical criticism.

“That won’t do,” he said.

“What won’t?”

“This atmosphere. The entire building feels unsettled.”

Bets looked at him.

“Aubrey, somebody was murdered here.”

“Yes.”

The single word was unusually quiet.

For a moment, they both looked toward the stage.

Then Bellamy straightened.

“Which is precisely why we require a ghost light.”

Bets blinked.

“A what?”

“A ghost light. A proper one. Onstage whenever the theatre is empty.”

“I already have a ghost, darling. I wasn’t aware I needed to provide additional lighting for him.”

Bellamy looked offended.

“A ghost light is a theatrical tradition.”

“I know what a ghost light is.”

“Then why don’t you have one?”

“Because I’ve been rather busy.”

“That is no excuse.”

Bets sighed. In an ordinary theatre, the ghost light was a single bare bulb left burning on a stand to illuminate the stage when everyone had gone home. It was partly practical, preventing accidents in the dark, and partly tradition.

At Larkmoor Inn, where the resident ghost insisted on personally supervising the stage, the symbolism was rather less subtle.

“Very well,” she said. “One ghost light.”

“On a proper iron stand.”

“Naturally.”

“With a suitable bulb.”

“I shall attempt to avoid anything unsuitable.”

“And it must remain on when the stage is otherwise dark.”

Bets looked at him.

“Would you like to prepare a written specification?”

“I already have.”

Of course he had.

*****

By Monday afternoon, the ghost light was standing near the center of the ballroom stage.

It was simple enough: a black iron stand supporting a single exposed bulb. Bets had arranged for the necessary equipment to be brought from storage and had supervised its installation with considerably less enthusiasm than Bellamy displayed.

He circled it three times.

“A little to the left.”

Dev Mehta, who was adjusting the electrical cable, looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing, darling,” Bets replied. “Move it two inches toward the curtain.”

Dev obeyed.

Bellamy inspected the result.

“One inch back.”

Bets closed her eyes.

“One inch back, Dev.”

Dev moved it.

“Perfect,” Bellamy announced.

Bets was beginning to suspect that immortality had made him even more particular.

The rest of the afternoon was devoted to preparing the next murder-mystery weekend. The theme was an elaborate railway adventure inspired by the glamour and intrigue of the Orient Express, and Dev had already begun transforming the ballroom into a convincing approximation of a luxurious train.

Painted dining-car and sleeping-car scenery leaned against the walls. A backdrop depicting distant mountains stood beside another showing minarets against an evening sky. Boxes of string lights, brass fittings, and theatrical luggage were scattered across the floor.

Odette Lund had enthusiastically volunteered to play the conductor.

Lo Baptiste would be the maid.

Dev had cast himself as a mysterious Count, a role he seemed determined to approach with the gravitas of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Bets had her doubts about the accent.

But the scenery was promising, and the work gave everyone something useful to do.

At four o’clock, the landline rang.

Bets answered it at the front desk.

“Larkmoor Inn. Bets Fairweather speaking.”

“Chief Garrity.”

She smiled faintly.

“Chief. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Just checking in.”

“That sounds almost friendly.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Walt Garrity had never been a man who wasted words, particularly when shorter ones would do.

“How are things over there?” he asked.

“Quiet.”

“Good.”

“Suspiciously quiet, in fact. I’m beginning to think the building is plotting something.”

“Well, try not to let it plot another murder.”

Bets glanced toward the ballroom.

“I was considering turning the place into a knitting retreat.”

“Knitting needles can be dangerous.”

“There’s no pleasing you, Walt.”

There was a pause.

Then his voice softened.

“You doing all right?”

Bets looked down at the clipboard beside the telephone.

For a moment, the jokes deserted her.

“Getting there,” she said.

“Good. Call if you need anything.”

“I will.”

After she hung up, Bets remained standing behind the desk for a few seconds.

Then she squared her shoulders and returned to the ballroom.

There was scenery to paint, a train to assemble, and a ghost who believed the new light was still half an inch out of position.

Life, apparently, intended to continue.

*****

By Tuesday morning, the ballroom resembled the aftermath of a particularly ambitious railway accident.

Lengths of painted canvas stretched across the floor. Wooden scenery supports leaned against the walls, and Dev had managed to misplace an entire box of brass hinges.

Lo found them in the dining room.

“Why were they in there?” Bets asked.

Dev looked sheepish.

“I was measuring the doorway.”

“With hinges?”

“I needed somewhere to put them.”

Bets decided not to pursue the matter.

Odette arrived shortly after ten wearing a magnificent dark-blue conductor’s jacket trimmed with brass buttons.

She paused in the doorway.

“Well?”

Bets looked up.

“Well, what?”

“Do I look commanding?”

“You look as though you’re about to take possession of the entire railway.”

“Excellent.”

Odette stepped onto the stage, where the new sleeping-car scenery had been positioned for inspection.

Around her neck hung a polished brass whistle attached to a chain.

She lifted it proudly.

“Authentic,” she announced.

Bellamy materialized beside Bets.

“Real brass,” he observed. “Not painted plaster.”

Bets smiled.

“Aubrey approves.”

Odette looked pleased.

“Naturally. It’s a splendid whistle. I found it among the older theatrical supplies.”

“Do try not to deafen the guests with it,” Bets said.

“Nonsense. A conductor requires authority.”

“A conductor requires tickets.”

“And a whistle.”

“Preferably one that doesn’t announce dinner from three rooms away.”

Odette blew it.

The sound echoed through the ballroom with such determination that Dev dropped his paintbrush.

From the brass luggage rack near the scenery, Cue gave an indignant squawk.

“Absolutely not!” he announced in Odette’s own voice.

Lo burst out laughing.

Odette lowered the whistle.

“That bird has no appreciation of dramatic effect.”

Bellamy folded his arms.

“For once,” he said, “I agree with the bird.”

Bets grinned.

The morning continued with the ordinary confusion of rehearsal. Dev adjusted the painted sleeping-car flat while Lo checked the clearances between the scenery and the stage.

Odette removed her whistle and chain while trying on a different jacket.

“Where shall I put this?” she asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Bets replied.

“How wonderfully specific.”

There was a small temporary brass hook fixed to the side support of the sleeping-car flat. Odette hung the chain over it.

“There. Perfect.”

Bellamy examined the arrangement.

“That hook is not part of the prop storage system.”

“It’s only until rehearsal,” Bets murmured.

“Temporary arrangements become permanent arrangements if one is not vigilant.”

“I shall remain vigilant.”

Odette returned to the costume room.

A few minutes later, Dev called for assistance.

“Lo, could you help me move this flat? We need another foot of space between the sleeping car and the dining car.”

Lo took hold of one end.

“Hold the other end!”

Dev gripped the frame.

The scenery shifted.

“Careful,” he warned.

Odette, returning through the ballroom, noticed the awkward angle.

“Mind the edge!”

The warning came just as the flat tilted slightly.

Wood scraped against wood.

Something gave a small metallic click.

But nobody paid much attention.

Dev steadied the scenery, Lo adjusted the support, and Odette turned her attention to a missing costume glove.

From his perch on the luggage rack, Cue watched the entire operation with considerable interest.

“Hold the other end!” he repeated in Lo’s voice.

Then, in Odette’s unmistakable contralto, “Mind the edge!”

Bets smiled absently.

It sounded exactly like an ordinary Tuesday at Larkmoor Inn.

*****

Wednesday morning began with a scream.

Not a scream of mortal terror.

Bets had recently acquired an unfortunate ability to distinguish those.

This was the theatrical scream of a woman who had discovered something personally offensive.

“My whistle!”

Bets hurried into the ballroom.

Odette stood beside the sleeping-car scenery, one hand pressed to her chest.

“My whistle has vanished!”

Dev emerged from behind the dining-car flat.

“Your what?”

“My whistle!”

Lo appeared carrying a tray of tea.

“What happened?”

“Someone has taken my whistle.”

Bets approached the brass hook.

The chain was still hanging there.

But the whistle was gone.

She lifted the chain carefully.

The small clasp at one end was bent outward.

“That’s odd.”

“Odd?” Odette demanded. “It’s sabotage!”

“Let’s not leap to conclusions.”

“Someone has interfered with my costume.”

“That isn’t necessarily sabotage.”

“Darling, in the theatre, interference with a costume is practically an act of war.”

Bellamy appeared beside the hook.

“Improper storage,” he announced.

Bets ignored him.

“Who was here last night?”

“Everyone,” Dev said.

“At different times,” Lo added.

“I was checking costumes,” Odette explained. “Dev was working on the scenery. Lo was helping him.”

“And after that?”

Dev frowned.

“I think we all went to dinner.”

Bets examined the chain again.

The clasp had clearly been pulled or twisted.

There was no sign of the whistle on the floor.

She checked beneath the nearest chair, behind the painted fireplace, and inside the open prop box.

Nothing.

Then Odette made another discovery.

“What’s this?”

A piece of paper had been attached to the sleeping-car scenery.

Across it, in block capitals, were three words.

NO WHISTLE TODAY.

Bets stared.

Dev went pale.

Lo looked from one to the other.

Odette drew herself up.

“Well. Someone is certainly making a statement.”

The note was written in black marker, with a slightly crooked letter W.

Bets recognized the handwriting.

So did Dev.

“Oh,” he said.

Bets looked at him.

“Dev?”

He swallowed.

“That’s mine.”

Odette gasped.

“I knew it!”

“Odette, darling—”

“He’s been trying to silence me!”

“Nobody,” Bets said firmly, “is silencing anybody.”

She turned to Dev.

“Would you care to explain?”

Dev looked miserable.

“It’s a rehearsal reminder.”

“A what?”

“A reminder not to use the train whistle during today’s sound-effects test. I’ve got a recorded locomotive whistle ready for the scene, and I didn’t want the two sounds going off together.”

Bets looked at the paper.

“Why put it on the sleeping car?”

“So I’d see it.”

“Why not write ‘Do not play recorded whistle’?”

Dev considered this.

“That would have been clearer.”

“Considerably.”

Odette lowered her chin.

“Then you didn’t take my whistle?”

“No!”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

From the luggage rack, Cue announced in Odette’s voice, “Absolutely not!”

Bellamy closed his eyes.

“That bird,” he said, “is a menace to proper investigation.”

Bets could not entirely disagree.

*****

By lunchtime, the missing whistle had become the most discussed object on the island.

Or at least within the walls of Larkmoor Inn, which was as much of the island as Bets cared to involve.

Odette suspected an elaborate practical joke.

Dev feared that someone had mistaken the whistle for another prop.

Lo suggested checking the costume boxes.

Bellamy insisted that a proper inventory would have prevented the entire incident.

Bets was beginning to suspect he had been waiting decades for an opportunity to make that point.

She returned to the ballroom with her clipboard.

There was the hook.

There was the chain.

There was the bent clasp.

And somewhere, apparently, was a brass whistle that had vanished from a room containing four people, a parrot, and a resident ghost.

Bets stood in the middle of the stage.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s start again.”

Bellamy appeared beside her.

“At last.”

“Odette hung the whistle on the hook yesterday morning.”

“Correct.”

“Dev and Lo moved the scenery.”

“Correct.”

“The whistle was there before they moved it.”

“Presumably.”

“And afterward?”

Bellamy hesitated.

“No one checked.”

Bets looked at him.

“Exactly.”

She examined the sleeping-car flat more carefully.

Dev had built it from a wooden frame covered in stretched canvas, with painted windows and a narrow doorway. Behind the canvas lay wooden crosspieces and strips of felt intended to prevent the scenery from rattling during movement.

The flat was now positioned slightly farther to the right than it had been on Tuesday morning.

Bets remembered watching Dev and Lo move it.

She also remembered Odette’s warning.

Mind the edge!

She crouched beside the lower frame.

A little paint had chipped away near one support.

There was a faint scrape along the wood.

Something had caught there.

“Bets?”

Lo stood behind her.

“Yes?”

“Chief Garrity’s on the telephone.”

Bets straightened.

“Of course he is.”

She went to the lobby.

“Chief?”

“Just checking in again.”

“How very attentive.”

“Everything quiet?”

Bets considered the question.

“A whistle has gone missing.”

There was a pause.

“A whistle?”

“Brass. Rather handsome. Belongs to our conductor.”

“Your what?”

“Our theatrical conductor. We’re doing a railway mystery this weekend.”

“I see.”

She could practically hear him deciding whether to ask another question.

“Any suspects?” he said at last.

“Three actors and a parrot.”

“Well, that narrows it down.”

“I’m considering reopening negotiations for the knitting retreat.”

“Keep me informed if the parrot confesses.”

“Naturally.”

Bets hung up smiling.

But when she turned toward the ballroom, the smile faded.

Only a few days earlier, someone had genuinely died at Larkmoor Inn. She had spent the intervening nights listening for unfamiliar footsteps and wondering whether every unexplained sound meant another disaster.

Now a whistle was missing, and Odette was talking about sabotage.

Bets drew a slow breath.

Not every mystery ended in tragedy.

Some ended with a misplaced prop.

She would do well to remember the difference.

*****

That afternoon, Bets questioned Cue.

It was not an investigation she would have recommended to the police.

Nevertheless, the parrot was the only witness who had been sitting near the scenery throughout Tuesday’s rearrangement.

“Hello, darling,” she said, pulling up a chair.

Cue regarded her with one orange eye.

“Tickets, please!”

Bets smiled.

“Not yet. First, I need some information.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Yes, I thought you might say that.”

Cue fluffed his feathers.

“Hold the other end!”

Bets stopped.

“What?”

“Hold the other end!” he repeated in Lo’s voice.

Then, with perfect Odette-like authority, he announced, “Mind the edge!”

Bets sat very still.

Those were the words spoken when the sleeping-car flat had been moved.

She remembered them clearly now.

Lo had been holding one end of the frame.

Dev had been holding the other.

Odette had called out just as the scenery tilted.

Bets rose.

“Aubrey?”

Bellamy materialized beside the luggage rack.

“Yes?”

“I think our feathered witness may have remembered something useful.”

Bellamy regarded Cue.

“That would be a first.”

Cue leaned forward.

“Absolutely not!”

Bets smiled.

“For once, darling, I believe you may have solved the mystery.”

She returned to the sleeping-car flat.

The chain still hung from the hook.

She held it in one hand and examined the bent clasp.

Then she looked at the narrow gap between the painted canvas and its wooden support.

If the scenery had shifted while the whistle was hanging there, the whistle might have caught against the frame.

A sudden pull could have bent the clasp open.

And if the whistle had fallen behind the canvas…

She knelt and peered through the narrow opening.

Something glinted in the shadows.

Bets held her breath.

A tiny curve of brass.

Or perhaps only a reflection from one of the supporting screws.

She could not tell.

But she had a very strong suspicion.

“Aubrey?”

“Yes?”

“Could you look behind there?”

Bellamy drifted through the wooden frame.

Bets waited.

A moment later, his head appeared through the canvas.

“An appalling arrangement of supports.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“Loose felt. Poorly secured.”

“Aubrey.”

He hesitated.

“Something metallic appears to be caught near the lower crosspiece.”

Bets smiled.

“Wonderful.”

“Quite inaccessible.”

“Less wonderful.”

“And I recommend dismantling the entire structure.”

“Absolutely not.”

Bellamy folded his arms.

“Then I fail to see why you asked for my opinion.”

*****

On Thursday morning, Bets assembled her company in the ballroom.

Odette arrived wearing her conductor’s jacket and an expression of restrained indignation.

Dev carried a toolbox.

Lo brought a measuring tape.

Cue watched from the luggage rack, clearly anticipating entertainment.

Bellamy stood beside the sleeping-car scenery, looking as though he expected the entire operation to go badly.

“Right,” Bets announced. “I believe I know what happened to the whistle.”

Odette clasped her hands.

“At last!”

“Nobody stole it.”

“Then where is it?”

Bets pointed to the scenery.

“In there.”

Dev stared.

“Inside the flat?”

“Between the canvas and the wooden supports.”

Lo frowned.

“How did it get there?”

“Yesterday, I noticed that the clasp on the chain was bent. On Tuesday, when you moved the scenery, the whistle must have caught against the frame.”

Dev looked at the hook.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“Then when the flat shifted—”

“The clasp opened,” Bets finished. “The whistle slipped free and fell between the canvas and the supports.”

Odette stared at the scenery.

“Are you telling me my whistle has spent two days trapped inside a railway carriage?”

“A theatrical railway carriage.”

“That hardly improves matters.”

Bellamy examined the frame.

“Technically, the sleeping car is a flat, not a carriage.”

Bets ignored him.

“Dev, can you and Lo move it very carefully?”

They positioned themselves on either side.

“Hold the other end,” Lo instructed.

Cue immediately repeated the phrase.

“Hold the other end!”

Odette put her hands on her hips.

“If that bird starts directing the scenery, I shall resign.”

Dev and Lo eased the flat forward.

The wooden frame shifted.

A faint metallic sound came from inside.

Clink.

Everyone froze.

Odette gasped.

“That’s it!”

Bets smiled.

“I rather think it is.”

Dev tilted the frame slightly.

Something struck the wood again.

Clink.

Bellamy looked deeply satisfied.

“Evidence,” he announced.

Bets peered into the narrow gap.

There, caught in a fold of felt near the lower support, lay the missing brass whistle.

Unfortunately, it was well beyond the reach of her fingers.

“How are we going to get it out?” Dev asked.

Bets considered the problem.

“We could dismantle the scenery.”

Dev looked horrified.

“It took me three days to build!”

“We could cut the canvas.”

Odette looked equally horrified.

“Certainly not!”

Bellamy folded his arms.

“I did recommend dismantling the structure.”

Bets looked around the room.

Then she smiled.

“Lo, darling, would you fetch me the longest kitchen tongs we have?”

Lo blinked.

“Kitchen tongs?”

“Yes.”

“For the whistle?”

“Unless you know of another reason to bring kitchen equipment onto the stage.”

Lo disappeared.

A few minutes later, she returned with a pair of long metal tongs.

Bets knelt beside the scenery.

Dev held the frame steady while Lo supported the lower edge.

Bellamy hovered nearby, issuing instructions that only Bets could hear.

“More to the left.”

Bets adjusted the tongs.

“Not that far.”

She moved them back.

“Careful of the felt.”

“Aubrey, darling, if you could refrain from directing the rescue, I should be enormously grateful.”

“I am attempting to prevent damage.”

“To the whistle?”

“To the scenery.”

Bets sighed.

She reached into the gap, closed the tongs around the whistle, and pulled gently.

It resisted.

She adjusted her grip.

For one dreadful moment, she thought she might push it farther into the frame.

Then the felt loosened.

The whistle slid free.

Bets withdrew the tongs.

And there it was.

One small brass whistle, slightly dusty but otherwise unharmed.

Odette gave a delighted cry.

“My whistle!”

She seized it.

“Careful,” Bets warned.

Odette examined the mouthpiece, polished it with her handkerchief, and lifted it triumphantly.

Dev looked relieved.

Lo began laughing.

Cue flapped his wings.

“Tickets, please!”

Bets stood and brushed the dust from her knees.

“Well,” she said, “I believe that concludes the investigation.”

Bellamy inspected the recovered whistle.

“A predictable consequence of improper prop storage.”

“Of course.”

“The clasp should be replaced.”

“Naturally.”

“And the hook removed.”

“Immediately.”

He paused.

“An adequate recovery.”

Bets smiled.

“High praise indeed.”

*****

By Thursday afternoon, order had been restored to Larkmoor Inn.

Dev repaired the whistle’s chain with a new clasp.

Lo labeled a small storage box specifically for the conductor’s accessories.

Odette announced that the entire affair had been a valuable rehearsal exercise, although Bets suspected she was mainly relieved to have her whistle back.

The temporary brass hook was removed from the sleeping-car flat.

Bellamy supervised the operation.

Closely.

Bets made a brief entry in the prop ledger, describing the disappearance and recovery of the whistle.

Bellamy inspected it.

“Accurate.”

“Thank you.”

“Although I would have preferred a more detailed description of the bent clasp.”

“Of course you would.”

“And the exact position of the whistle within the scenery.”

“Aubrey.”

“Details matter.”

Bets closed the ledger.

“So does knowing when to stop.”

Bellamy looked unconvinced.

But the rehearsal was waiting.

By four o’clock, the ballroom had been transformed.

The painted dining car gleamed beneath the string lights. Beyond it, the sleeping-car scenery suggested a luxurious train making its way through distant mountains toward the mysterious skyline of Istanbul.

Dev stood in his Count’s costume, practicing a dignified entrance that was slightly spoiled when he caught his sleeve on a chair.

Lo, dressed as the maid, straightened the table settings.

Odette waited beside the luggage rack, magnificent in her conductor’s jacket.

The brass whistle hung safely around her neck.

“Places, everyone,” Bets called.

The company settled.

Bellamy took his position beside the footlights.

“Standing by.”

Bets lifted her fingers.

The ballroom lights dimmed, leaving the painted carriage softly illuminated.

She had never entirely understood why the lighting sometimes seemed to respond to her smallest gestures. After thirty years in theatre, she preferred to regard it as an unusually cooperative lighting system.

The rehearsal began.

Odette stepped forward.

“Tickets, please!”

Cue immediately repeated her in a perfect theatrical contralto.

“Tickets, please!”

Everyone laughed.

Odette turned toward the parrot.

“Darling, there is only room for one conductor on this train.”

“Absolutely not!” Cue declared.

Dev lost his place.

Lo covered her mouth.

Even Bets laughed.

Bellamy closed his eyes.

“Rehearsal discipline,” he muttered. “An entirely forgotten art.”

But the scene continued.

Odette blew her whistle, which gave one bright, clear note.

Dev delivered his opening speech.

Lo entered carrying a tray with such quiet authority that Bets made a mental note to give her more substantial roles in future productions.

And for the first time since Sunday’s ferry had departed, Bets felt the familiar pleasure of watching a performance come together.

The scenery was in place.

The props were accounted for.

The actors knew their cues.

No one was accusing anyone of real murder.

It was, she thought, a considerable improvement.

*****

That evening, after the company had gone to dinner, Bets returned to the ballroom.

The stage was dark except for the ghost light.

Its single bulb cast a small pool of golden light across the polished boards.

Beyond it, the painted sleeping car waited quietly for Friday’s guests.

Bets stood in the doorway, listening.

The old building creaked around her.

Somewhere upstairs, a door closed.

She felt herself tense.

Then she took a breath.

Just the inn settling.

Just another ordinary sound in an old building.

Bellamy appeared beside the ghost light.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

“Is everything ready?”

“As ready as it’s going to be.”

“The props?”

“Accounted for.”

“The scenery?”

“Secure.”

“The whistle?”

“In its box.”

“The lighting?”

Bets looked at the little bulb.

“Exactly where you wanted it.”

Bellamy regarded the ghost light with quiet approval.

“Good.”

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Bets looked toward the empty chairs.

“It’s strange,” she said. “A week ago, I would have thought a missing whistle was the worst sort of disaster.”

Bellamy considered this.

“Theatre has always been a place where small things become enormous.”

“Yes.”

“An incorrect cue. A misplaced prop. A forgotten line.”

“Or a missing whistle.”

“Precisely.”

Bets smiled faintly.

“Perhaps that’s why I like it.”

Bellamy looked at her.

“Because everything goes wrong?”

“Because most things can be put right.”

The ghost was silent.

For a moment, Bets wondered whether he was thinking of the things that could not be put right.

She knew he carried his own history within these walls, although there were subjects he rarely allowed himself to discuss.

She decided not to press him.

Tomorrow would bring another ferry, another group of guests, and another weekend of carefully arranged secrets.

For tonight, the ballroom was quiet.

The stage was waiting.

And the ghost light burned steadily beneath the old proscenium arch.

“Good night, Aubrey,” Bets said.

Bellamy inclined his head.

“Good night, Bets.”

She turned toward the door.

Behind her, his voice followed.

“One further matter.”

Bets stopped.

“Of course there is.”

“The whistle must never be hung on scenery again.”

She smiled.

“I shall have it written into the inn’s constitution.”

“An excellent idea.”

Bets laughed and stepped into the corridor.

From the library came Cue’s voice.

“Hold the other end!”

She shook her head.

“Not tonight, darling.”

“Mind the edge!”

Bets paused beneath the grandfather clock.

Then she smiled.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I’ll do that.”

And for the first time in several days, she walked upstairs without looking over her shoulder.

Tomorrow, the passengers would arrive.

Tonight, Larkmoor Inn was at peace.

THE END