Locals, the people we see everyday, pillars of the community, pieces of the furniture may not be so hastily categorised. Everyone of us has a secret identity.

Sixty-year-old Nicholas Benson, a lawyer by profession, lived alone in a large Georgian house in the village of Rye in East Sussex. He had never married; he liked to say he simply never had the time. The real reason for this virtuous preference ran far deeper than simple choice or destiny.

Nicholas had experienced more than his fair share of anguish, disasters that had left him feeling abandoned. He always presented a brave face, yet inwardly he was isolated from the outside world.

Nicholas was the last in a long line of Bensons who had lived in the same house for over three generations. He held a seat on the local council and gave legal advice to several of the local businesses and the villagers. He was well-liked and a highly respected member of the small community.

Nicholas’s exact age caused a few tongues to wag in the village. Due to his glowing, wholesome looks, he appeared to be a much younger man. He’d never been labelled conventionally handsome; however, there was something captivating, perhaps one might say ethereal, about his aura. Smart as a button, Nicholas was never seen without a crisp white shirt, cufflinks, Saville Row suit and a bowtie; hand-tied, of course. Sixty and still single. There was a lot of speculation regarding Nicholas’s sexuality too. Why hadn’t a handsome, wealthy man like him not been snatched up years ago? He was a rare breed who had no interest in either sex, for him, the workings of the female body were too intricate to comprehend. While at boarding school he had experienced the fumbled groping of boys yet their potency had proved disappointing.

Ryedale’s interior had hardly changed at all since it was built in 1716, and many of the original furniture and artefacts remained intact, Nicholas had, on many occasions, been advised to throw the doors of Ryedale open to the public. At the time of this account being written he was currently awaiting a proposal from the National Trust.

Alistair Benson, Nicholas’s father, had amassed a vast fortune in biscuit manufacture and was known throughout the UK as Biscuit Benson, a label that Nicholas had reluctantly inherited.

His mother, Victoria Benson, was as beautiful as she was bright but had no ambition whatsoever. She had glided through life without a care in the world. Both parents died of natural causes when Nicholas was in his early thirties.
Nicholas was by no means an archetypal millionaire recluse, on the contrary, his diary was filled with weekly appointments, he regularly attended local environmental committee meetings, and he also played an active role on the parish council, these groups allowed Nicholas to indulge in his passionate interest in the village and its welfare.

The respectable household was run to an exact, almost Victorian, timetable, an onerous regime adopted to pacify Nicholas’s eccentric obsessions with clean windows, crisp cotton sheets, starched shirts, his love of good food and wine, and quite surprisingly, the afterlife.

The window cleaner Bob Marsh visited every Wednesday. Seven days a week, the housekeeper Susan Moffatt cleaned and cooked. On Thursdays Ted O’Connor the gardener mowed lawns and tended to the plants in the garden and in the conservatory.

Each Friday, Crisp and Starched of Rye delivered the dry cleaning comprising six white shirts, two pairs of pyjamas, two double cotton sheets, six pillowcases and two embroidered linen tablecloths.

On Wednesdays, Nicholas hosted a Bridge party with the Vicar, The Reverend Bernard Cashman, Sandra Bates, the head of the local Women’s Institute and Caroline Evans Landlady of the Swan Inn, who was Nicholas’s Bridge partner.

On Saturday fourth of May 2019, Nicholas entertained four guests from the Sussex Spiritualist Society, including Felicity Hemmingway, a constant at these occasions, who was a Psychic Medium, the crime fiction writer Faye Harrison, Donald Marsh Rye’s resident organist, and Julia Millwood, who preferred to be called Jules and always dressed as a man.

The evening’s menu included cocktails in the conservatory, dinner, and what is best described as a séance, a description Ms Hemmingway thoroughly objected to on the grounds that it conjured up bizarre bloodletting occult rituals and demonic worship.

Most people assumed, and rightly so that Felicity Hemmingway was a Clairvoyant, she shunned theatrical labels to define her gifts, especially clairvoyant or medium. In her opinion, these outmoded epithets stirred up scenes of seaside entertainment and vaudeville fakery, she preferred to think of herself as a visionary; however, Felicity Hemmingway was yet to raise so much as a murmur from beyond the grave.

The reason given for these eccentric Saturday evening journeys into the unknown was the vain hope that Nicholas might one day be reunited with his brother Frazer, and his sister Suzanna. Both had committed suicide.

Frazer had always been a delicate boy, whichever opportunistic virus may have been doing the rounds Frazer Benson was sure to have been struck down with it.

He was the first Benson to attend university, after which he disappointed both his parents by not entering an academic career; instead, he had moved to London and lived with a poet by the name of Marsden Holloway, Frazer overdosed on opium when he was twenty-four years old.

Shortly after Suzanna Benson had celebrated her eighteenth birthday, she decided to further mark the occasion by having sex with a teenage boy from Hastings.

Suzanna was a very popular girl, not least of all because she was exceptionally beautiful and would one day be as rich as Croesus.

A week later, she discovered she was pregnant. Unable to face up to her parents with the devastating news, she had hanged herself in the attic.

Nicholas adored his younger brother and sister. He was incredibly close to Frazer, who had suffered badly at the hands of school bullies. So close was their relationship that Alistair Benson thought it quite unnatural and had sent Frazer to a boarding school in Kent. This, however, was a short-lived solution. After less than one term Frazer was back at Ryedale and confined to his bed with a fever, the cause of which was never identified.

Suzanna was a bright girl, very accomplished on the piano, who had received many awards at school for her high grades and diligence, Suzanna’s only downfall was when she decided she wanted to become an actress.
Suzanna was undeniably skilled in many subjects, but as it soon emerged, acting was not one of her strong points. Following numerous rejections for film and theatre roles, she was briefly famous for her appearance in a TV advertisement for Fairy Liquid in which she was only required to smile and wash dishes.

The evening of Saturday, May fourth was warm enough for Nicholas’s guests to take their cocktails on the patio, Ms Faye Harrison was in fine form that evening regaling the party with news of her upcoming blockbuster novel, Black Tulip, in which a woman is murdered on the train travelling from London Euston to Edinburgh.

After Faye, whilst dramatically pacing to and fro on the patio, had regaled them all with the entire plot of Black Tulip, the assembled group smiled encouragingly, yet they were clearly mystified as to the relevance of Faye’s chosen title.

Donald Marsh the organist, despite having mastered one of the most complex musical instruments known to man, was a very mousey character, however, were the opportunity to arise, he could talk for hours about the complexities and beauty of J S Bach’s organ works. His interest in the frivolity of spiritualism seemed contrary to his temperament, but as he often argued, ‘one cannot rule out the possibility that I might one day receive a message from my hero Johann’, although clearly an improbable occurrence Donald remained optimistic.

Julia Millwood, or rather Jules, had made quite a name for herself as an abstract expressionist, she had taken this popular genre of art to its extreme by rarely painting anything at all. Her most acclaimed oeuvre was a large canvas entitled, The Psyche of Consciousness Extinguished in Narrative, that now hangs in Tate St Ives. In between chain-smoking Gauloises cigarettes and consuming numerous glasses of whiskey, her part in the proceedings was to simply disagree with everything the assembled group had to say. Her interest in parapsychology was the hope that she could finally confront her dead mother to inform her what a vile creature she had been. Not an event any sane person would relish observing.

Felicity Hemmingway, the ‘visionary’ of the piece, used this social time very wisely, mingling was her shrewdly calculated opportunity to absorb her prey. She now knew that Faye Harrison had an unhealthy fascination with death, she was a widow with no children or any living family members, and her only companion was a white cat named Archie. Faye liked to think her literary genius had not affected her humility, she was, of course, deluding herself, the somewhat ironic title of her first, and only published novel, Shattered Reality was lost on Faye.

Donald lived alone, and aside from his teaching post, he had little contact with the outside world. In his tiny cottage on the outskirts of Rye, he devoted all his spare time to music. Religion was particularly important to Donald too. In the past seven years, he had never missed a Sunday service at St Saviour’s. Both his parents were dead, and his only living relative was a bewildered uncle who lived in a nursing home in Worthing.

Jules was by choice loner. When she lived in Paris, she had had a tempestuous affair with a life model by the name of Monique. Once the romance reached its disappointing finale, Jules returned to England. Since then she had become ever more reclusive and angrier, believing that her life had been squandered at the mercy of art dealers and critics. Now tormented with self-doubt aggravated by acute sociopathic inclinations, Jules had exhausted any possibility of happiness.

After a delicious meal served in the lavish dining room, it is time now for the final act, the dramatic conclusion to the evening, the séance.

The Awakening, as Felicity preferred to call it, took place in Ryedale’s famous library which was said to contain some of the finest antiquarian books in Europe, all of which Nicholas claimed to have read.

To create the proper atmosphere, Nicholas had set the scene with many candles scattered around the room and to further emphasise the drama, the thick damask curtains had been drawn. The round table, set for five, in the centre of the room was covered in a maroon chenille fringed cloth. In the centre of the table burned a large bright candle.

The group settled themselves in their places, palms down and fingers touching then, by adopting a stage whisper and a tone that sounded as if she were speaking whilst being anesthetised, Felicity began her opening speech.

She paid no heed to the commonly abbreviated introduction, ‘is there anybody there?’, she preferred her own rather protracted version, this creative digression meant that the longer she spoke, the less time there was for any lonesome spirits to materialise from the other side.

“Spirits of the hinterlands welcome to our gathering and may I take this opportunity to introduce you to our humble group,”, here she listed all the guest’s names in alphabetic order, “we are here to help you find peace so that you may pass to the other side.”

Felicity’s speech lasted an inordinately long time, it was only when Jules was heard snoring loudly that Felicity brought her discourse to a conclusion.

Nicholas did detect a flicker of the candle which, he thought, was undoubtedly caused by a draught from the door, and there were a few bumps and squeaks around the house, naturally, for Nicholas, these were perfectly normal, however, for his guests, these were clear signs of Felicity’s remarkable gifts.

As Ms Hemmingway urged the spirits to come closer, Nicholas noticed that Jules, Faye and Donald were trembling and appeared to be in some kind of trance. 

This was remarkable for, in all the time he had known Felicity, she had never achieved such phenomenal results, except for the time one summer evening when, hidden by the heavy drapes, a pigeon had fatally crashed into the library window sending waves of excitement around the table.

Once, Jules, Faye and Donald had said their goodbyes and left the house, Felicity explained to Nicholas her somewhat biased version of events.

"There was an unidentified presence, Nicholas, who did have a message, although I was unable to decipher the meaning. This will sound completely mad, but I think your mother may have been amongst us too."

Nicholas gasped with shock at the mention of his mother and had to steady himself with the nearby hall table. "My mother, are you sure, Felicity?"

"Not entirely, but I think the spirit did call out for Alistair to load a shotgun. Alistair was your father, wasn’t he? Anyway, I am sure you’ll agree Nicholas, the evening was a remarkable success." She smiled expectantly, reminding Nicholas of the fifty pounds fee he now owed her. 

On Sunday 5th May 2019 Nicholas was relaxing in his favourite armchair, waiting for his regular Sunday evening guest to arrive. The squeaky floorboard in the hall announced their grand arrival.

“Why was that fool in my house last night, Nicholas?”

“Mother, Felicity means no harm.”

“She’s a charlatan, and a con artist who you continually rewarded for her swindling and, as for the other three imbeciles, why do you surround yourself with halfwits, are you really so desperate?”

“It’s important that people see me living a relatively normal life then we’ll be left in peace to continue as we always have. If anyone were to discover I’m a… ghost the whole village would be queueing up outside waving flaming torches.”

“Oh, very Joan of Arc dear, don’t be so overdramatic. Really, such drab people in my beautiful house. Anyway, I dealt with them. They’re gone.”

“Oh mother, that’s going to cause such a fuss, you promised you’d given up disappearing people.”

“Listen, darling. The so-called writer whose literary expertise, as even her publisher would happily testify, ends at shopping lists, will be free to attend all the literary functions she likes without so much as typing a single word. Donald, who on reflection I did have rather a soft spot for, will be able to fiddle with all the organs he likes wherever he chooses. As for the lesbian, well, she’s now free to do whatever lesbians do wherever the fancy takes her. I did them all a favour.”

Victoria’s ability to ‘disappear’ people was a constant worry for Nicholas, she’d never been the most tolerant or discerning of people, and now, as a formidable spirit, she could be quite reckless even at times tyrannical.

“There’ll be questions from the police, and probably the press. Look what happened two years ago when you disappeared that tourist. Where’s Pops?”

“The Caribbean. That tourist was living a miserable existence. He’s having a whale of a time now, I did him a huge favour. It’s such a shame Frazer and Suzanna ended their lives the way they did, no return from the selfish act of suicide dear.”

“What’s he doing in the Caribbean?”

“He’s causing havoc in a five-star hotel overlooking the sea, darling.” Victoria moved towards the window. “Look at all those people out there trudging around aimlessly. If only they could all experience the joys of being undead. What are your plans, Nicholas? You’ve got your whole life to look forward to darling, you don’t want to be stuck here forever, and I do mean forever, dear. Sometimes I really wish you hadn’t taken the option of Visibility when you cast off the mortal coil. Your heart attack was such a shock darling, but then, on the bright side, at least you didn’t linger like your poor father.”

Nicholas briefly scanned the room for inspiration, of course, a suitable reply was required, one that wouldn’t further irritate his mother, he decided the truth was undoubtedly the best option.

“I enjoy being visible, I think I’m rather good at fooling the living, even the clever ones are alarmingly gullible. There are some loose ends I need to tie up. First, I want to buy that stretch of land by the estuary so that no one can build on it in perpetuity. Do you know mother I’ve opposed five planning applications from ghastly hotel developers recently? I want father’s fortune to go to a good cause – not lining the taxman’s pocket. Also, I want to hand over the house to the National Trust so that we will always be able to return here.”

“So long as we don’t lose the house darling, the very idea would kill your father if he were still alive that is. Your plans are brimming with philanthropy dear but, as fascinating as this conversation undoubtedly is, I have things to do.” Victoria said as she tidied her hair.

“What things?”

As Victoria melted away, she replied. “There’s a banquet at Windsor Castle, thought I might pop round and see what’s on the menu, might catch up with a few friends too. Later, darling.”

Nicholas’s, ‘Visibility’ meant that to the outside world he appeared perfectly normal with all the added benefits of being a spectre such as, he no longer required medical attention or sleep, and on the plus side, he was able to eat and drink in moderation.

One weakness of his Visibility was his body temperature, but cold hands are not uncommon and had always been a characteristic of the Benson family.

A more conspicuous error of the Visible was their apparent lack of ageing, this was a quality that had to be handled extremely carefully, it was never a good idea for a Visible to remain in one location for too long. 

Queen Victoria is an excellent example of a Visible Spirit as she was able to extend her reign for many years after her actual death. A thorny secret kept under wraps for over a century.

Susan Moffatt, the housekeeper, entered Ryedale’s side door at 7.30am on Monday 6th May to find everything in place; ghosts are very tidy employers. She found Nicholas at his desk in the study. He was listening to a recording of Dido's Lament sung by Dame Janet Baker, the haunting aria penned by Henry Purcell.

“Morning, the usual for breakfast, is it Nicholas?” She said, sniffling into her wad of tissues.

“Morning, Susan, yes, that would be lovely. I have guests this afternoon. Tea at four, is that alright?”

“Lovely. No problem at all, Nicholas.”

Today’s agenda included a meeting with the Sussex Land Registry and a visit from the National Trust. The deal with Sussex Council had taken months to negotiate. The committee was very keen to sell the stretch of land that formed the banks of the River Rother overlooked by the Ypres Tower. Recently this patch of land, home to many rare wading birds and mammals, had become untenable. Various hotel developers had made many sustainable bids for the land, all of which Nicholas and his sympathisers had opposed; with the RSPB on his side, Nicholas was confident his plan for a nature reserve would win the day.

The visit from the National Trust was merely a formality. Plans had already been approved for the small office structure, including the shop, to be built in Ryedale’s ample garden.

Nicholas had also commissioned a local historian to write a history of the Benson family and Ryedale—the printer’s finger had been eagerly hovering over the good-to-go button for over a week.

As Nicholas had anticipated both meetings were successful. His lawyers were now finalising the small print, and within four days the land would be his, and in 2020 the house would be managed by the National Trust. Some rooms in the house had been designated as private, so Nicholas would still be able to live comfortably and entertain friends.

Nicholas now stood by one of the drawing room’s tall windows overlooking the road where he saw a police car parking, thanks to Victoria, who of course was unavailable for comment, he had been expecting these unwanted visitors.

“Mr Benson, we have received information that on the evening of the 4th of May Mr Donald Marsh attended a dinner party here, is that correct Mr Benson?” Recognising the futility of his question, Detective Inspector Collins smiled wearily.

“Yes, that is correct. Is there a problem?”

“A neighbour of Mr Marsh has been in touch with us, she hasn’t seen him since Saturday. The reason for her concern was that his chickens haven’t been fed.” At the mention of chickens, The Detective Inspector scratched his head in disbelief whilst his accomplice stifled a giggle. “Normally Mr Marsh always informed his neighbour if he was going to be away so that she would feed them. Apparently, the chickens are a pedigree breed, quite valuable in fact. Also, Mr Marsh didn’t show up to play the organ at church on Sunday. We wondered if you could shed some light on Mr Marsh’s whereabouts.”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Donald, Mr Marsh left here at approximately 11.30pm along with my other guests and that was the last I saw of him.”

“I see. We will need the details of the other guests if you don’t mind Mr Benson.”

“Of course, let me get my address book, excuse me for a moment.”

The uniformed Police Constable, PC Barker, now had a question of his own.

“Address book, who the hell has an address book these days?”

“You’d be surprised, mate. I went to a house last week who’d had a slide projector nicked. That’s villages for you they’re a breeding ground for all kinds of criminal activity, drug barons, money laundering, and that’s just in the infant’s schools. Ah, Mr Benson, any luck?”

Nicholas handed the detective a sheet of notepaper. “Yes, these are all the people who were here, my housekeeper Susan will confirm the details although she wasn’t here when the guests left the house.”

“That’s excellent Mr Benson, thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch once we’ve solved the case. I’m sure Mr Marsh will turn up; people normally do with a simple explanation. A beautiful house you have, Sir.”

Once the policemen had left, Nicholas paused behind the heavy front door and rolled his eyes. “Bloody mother.”
On Wednesday morning, the police returned.

“Morning Mr Benson, sorry to trouble you again so soon.”

“Has Donald turned up?”

“I’m afraid not Sir, in fact, there have been more baffling disappearances. Two more have been added to the list, Faye Harrison and Julia, ‘Jules’ Millwood, both were also at your dinner party which strikes us as rather odd.”

“Yes, I can understand, please sit down. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

Before the uniformed assistant had a chance to say yes, the Detective Inspector declined.

“No, thank you, we won’t keep you long. We’ve spoken to Miss…” quick verification of the notepad “Hemmingway who was also here on the 4th of May is that correct.”

“Yes, Felicity comes here quite often.”

“I have to ask this Mr Benson, are you and Miss Hemmingway in a, relationship?”

“Heavens no, that’s absurd, no we are most certainly not.”

Whilst Nicholas found this line of questioning amusing, he could tell by the expression on the Detective’s face that he was not convinced his relationship with Felicity was purely, and indeed factually, spiritual.

“You will appreciate Mr Benson that now three people have disappeared without a trace, all of whom were last seen in this house, the investigation has taken on a totally different course; therefore, I need to advise you not to leave town for the foreseeable future.”

“Yes, I understand. I will endeavour to assist you in any way I can.”

Usually, a few moments of concentrated thought were enough to summon his mother, this occasion called for desperate measures, front door firmly slammed shut, Nicholas hollered for Victoria.

“MOTHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!”

“Are you alright, Mr Benson?”

“Oh, I do apologise, Susan, sorry, I just stubbed my toe. Nothing to worry about.”

Susan slowly walked away, shaking her head whilst Victoria materialised at the bottom of the staircase.

“Is there any need to bellow like a football hooligan Nicholas? I was visiting the Brighton Pavilion. They are currently celebrating Lord Byron. What a splendid reputation, that’s a man I’d like to have spent time with. What do you want, dear?”

“The police have been here twice.”

“Already? I wouldn’t have thought they’d have been missed so soon.” Victoria said as they both walked to the study.
“Can you not return them, mother?”

“I’m afraid not, darling. Disappearing is a one-way street. You can’t have people popping backwards and forwards. Or should that be in and out? Either way, the answer is no.”

“Marvellous, I’ll just have to ride it out, I suppose. You’ll be pleased to know the nature reserve is going to plan.”
“Splendid, at least the rats will have a place to call their own. We, on the other hand, will soon be sharing our house with what I presume one calls The General Public.”

“It’ll be very lucrative for The National Trust, I think. Especially if they promote the chance of seeing you posing as Dame Edith Evans’s ghost. You are becoming very melodramatic of late mother. When the house is open, I’ll be residing on the top floor, when it’s closed to the public, I’ll have free rein again. It will only be open for four months a year.”

“You’re right, of course, Nicholas, a haunted house, would add a touch of kudos. Might be quite good fun too, terrifying the living is the only pleasure I get these days.”

“No mother, your services as resident woman in white, or any other colour for that matter, will not be required. I’m seeing the lawyers tomorrow to finalise everything for the land and the house. We could celebrate if you like.”

“Tomorrow, darling.” Victoria melted away, leaving behind a hazy scent of Dior Essence.

The Sussex Police had made little progress with their inquiries. To be fair, there was little to investigate. However, three perfectly normal people had disappeared off the face of the earth without a clue as to why. Sussex Police did find similarities with the Vanishing Tourist of 2017, but only in that, the outcomes of the 2017 case were equally baffling, and thus inconclusive.

DI Collins accompanied by the ever-enthusiastic PC Barker are now on their way to Ryedale.

“I reckon Benson ‘ad his way with all three of them then bumped them off.” PC Barker said.

“Oh, right Sherlock, end of story, cue credits. One of them was a bloke you dozy tosser.”

“So, he might like a bit of both. Millionaires are always bisexual, aren’t they?”

“Don’t talk crap, Barker. What’s he got to gain from doing that? I could shag you, but I wouldn’t risk life in prison for that stupid mistake.”

“Are you a bit that way then Sir? I don’t mind, my sister’s gay.”

“One more word out of you, Barker and I will shag you senseless.”

In the meantime, Nicholas was leaving his lawyer’s office glowing with satisfaction, both his deals were finalised, he had no idea that a simple autograph could bring so much pleasure. 

During the taxi journey from Canterbury to Rye he revelled in the idea that he was now a landowner and that his beloved Ryedale was finally recognised as a listed National Trust treasure, as the taxi parked, he spotted Collins and Barker leaning against their squad car smoking.

Before making the foolhardy greeting of good morning, Collins checked his watch; 11.59am.

“Good day to you, Mr Benson. We have a few more questions we’d like to ask you. Would that be convenient?”

“Yes, Detective Inspector, no problem whatsoever. Let’s go inside.”

Nicholas and Collins made themselves comfortable in the drawing-room whilst PC Barker hovered by one of the room’s tall windows; like a sentry guarding the Crown Jewels.

“Yesterday we had a chat with Miss Felicity Hemmingway. She is known to you, Mr Benson?”

“Yes, I’ve known her for quite some time now.”

“Miss Hemmingway, a local clairvoyant, is claiming that you have been paying her a weekly sum of fifty pounds to deceive your Saturday evening dinner guests into thinking that they are being contacted by their dead relatives, is there any truth in this allegation, Mr Benson?”

In order not to appear disrespectful, PC Barker turned to the window and smiled at his reflection.

“Yes, I have paid Miss Hemmingway for her services as a Clairvoyant or Visionary as she prefers to call herself; she was recommended to me by the East Sussex Spiritualist Society. I have, shall we say, more than a keen interest in the afterlife.”

“Yes, we are aware of Miss Hemmingway’s affiliations, quite an unusual way of earning a living talking to dead people, wouldn’t you say Mr Benson?”

“Each to their own Mr Collins, suum cuique as they say. It can be a comfort to know that one’s nearest and dearest are, shall we say, happy? Whilst I’m sure there is little comfort to be found in being dead, we, or rather they, still occupy a place in the hearts of loved ones.”

“According to our records, there have been several complaints made about Miss Hemmingway’s authenticity as a psychic, not least of all that she is, in the eyes of the law, guilty of extortion.

“When questioned about these accusations she was adamant that you were the mastermind behind these fraudulent acts and were paying her, ‘hush money’ is what she called it Sir.”

“This is preposterous. Why would a man in my position wish to sully his hands in such an underhand way? Do you think for one minute that I would waste my time with such paltry sums as fifty pounds? Never in my wildest dreams have I heard such nonsense. Rest assured Detective Inspector Collins I shall be speaking to my lawyer.”

“There is the matter of three missing persons to account for too, Mr Benson. Considering the complexity of this investigation, we’d like you to accompany us to the station. You may call your lawyer from there.”

Nicholas composed himself. “Please excuse me, Detective Inspector, whilst I collect my things.”

He left the drawing-room and almost sprinted across the hall to the door under the stairs which concealed a passageway to the library, PC Barker wasn’t far behind but, assuming Nicholas was now upstairs, where regular people generally keep their belongings, Barker headed for the first floor.

Victoria was waiting in the library.

“Mother, you will not believe what I am being accused of, it is the funniest concoction of claptrap I have ever heard.”
“Yes, I heard the plot and as outrageous as it is, we don’t want this scandal associated with our name. I think this is a good opportunity for you to bow out gracefully, you can’t go on looking so young for a sixty-year-old. If doctors start investigating your longevity, we’ll all be rumbled. The land is bought, the safety of the house is guaranteed, your work here is done, Nicholas. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Yes, you’re right. Let’s go cause some havoc with Pops. Does it take long to get to the Caribbean?”

As Victoria and Nicholas slowly evaporated in the bright May sunshine, they were joined by Felicity Hemmingway who, incidentally, had been Nicholas’s dearest friend since infants’ school.

DI Collins and PC Barker made a thorough search of the house and even called for back-up. Naturally, they found nothing untoward in the house or Nicholas’s papers. In fact, once the land purchase was made public, the Benson name was almost venerated.

In order to quash any further speculation regarding the Benson name, the Chief Inspector of the East Sussex Police Force, Altaf Kahn, made a speech broadcast live on the six o’clock news.

“This has been a very troubling time for the people of Rye. The first of these bizarre disappearances were recorded in 2017. Now five more people have also sadly vanished without a trace. Our thoughts and prayers are with their families and friends at this distressing time.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to say that East Sussex Police have ruled out any involvement by Mr Nicholas Benson in the recent tragic events, as we all know, Nicholas was also a victim of these yet unexplained incidents, the Benson family had lived in Rye for generations and were an integral part of the village and its prosperity.

“It is my duty as Chief Inspector to assure the residents of East Sussex that we are doing everything in our power to solve this crisis and, if anyone has any information, I urge you to contact my colleagues immediately, thank you.”

National Trust Ryedale continues to be a huge success, and the round table in the library still covered with its burgundy chenille cloth has become the stuff of legend, especially now its mysterious reputation is bolstered by the somewhat exaggerated story regularly delivered by Ryedale’s Senior Guide and Visitor Coordinator Susan Moffatt, as she habitually sniffles into a wad of tissues.