***
The next morning, Klint and I are in the breakfast room, quietly bickering about what happened. He still believes I was playing some kind of joke on him, to which I’m incredulous.
‘Have youseenmy leg?’ I hiss. ‘I know you’re asensitivesleeper and liable to react to anything untoward. So why would I inflict that on myself?’
My shin is developing a couple of lovely large violet bruises as I predicted.
Klint shrugs. ‘Masochist tendencies?’
We draw apart as Gareth comes bustling in with the breakfast menus. ‘Good morning. How are we today?’ he chirps breezily, then sees our hangdog expressions.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Not really,’ says Klint.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘A problem with the bed.’
‘Which room did I put you in?’ Gareth enquires.
‘Six,’ I say.
He hands over the menus and leans against a nearby sideboard. ‘Ah, yes, room 6. That can be tricky. Things do tend to happen in there.’
‘What things?’ asks Klint suspiciously.
‘Some guests have complained about the bedcovers being pulled off.’
‘Anything else?’ I ask.
Gareth looks sheepish. ‘Ah, foot tickling, but nothing more serious than that.’
I shoot a triumphant glare at Klint. ‘See! It wasn’t me.’
Klint has gone pale and, to my surprise, looks freaked out.
‘Um, I need to extend our stay for a few more days. But can we have a different room please?’ he says to Gareth. ‘One that doesn’t have errant foot-tickling ghosts?’
Gareth sorts us out after breakfast. He doesn’t seem to mind changing our room, but I feel sorry for him. I bet he wishes he works at a hotel that wasn’t haunted.
‘Right. I’ve put you in room 9. That’s on the newer side of the hotel. We haven’t had any reports of things happening in there.’ He hands over the key to Klint, and I feel relieved. I wish he’d put us in that room in the first place.
Klint heads off upstairs, but I linger by the bar to talk to Gareth. ‘Um, I don’t suppose you have a map of the walking trail on the moors?’
‘Yes, I do actually.’ He reaches beneath the bar and brings out a white piece of paper with black markings that looks home-made.
‘This is us.’ He points to a spot. ‘You can start from here and join up with this path.’ He points to another spot. ‘Which takes you past the reservoir and Ponden Hall. It curves around and takes you up to Top Withens, here.’ He jabs at the map. ‘Then past the Brontë Waterfall and back to Haworth. It’s about a five-mile round trip.’
‘Thanks. A guide at the parsonage mentioned those sites, so I was keen to check them out.’
‘It wasn’t Dain Whitmore, by any chance?’ Gareth asks casually.
My heart flutters. ‘Uh, yes, it was. Do you know him?’ I ask, feeling a blush forming for no reason other than his name being mentioned.
Gareth nods. ‘Yeah, it’s a small town,’ he replies somewhat gruffly and turns away to tend to something behind the bar.
Our conversation appears to be over. ‘Well, thanks for the map,’ I say awkwardly.
