Meet Alma Timperley. She can: - Run a hotel - Solve a mystery - Talk to ghosts...?
December, 1914: After the death of her aunt, Alma Timperley is surprised when she suddenly finds herself the heiress to the Timperley Spiritualist Hotel in a pretty coastal town in Cornwall.
But not everything is as it seems... the hotel offers guests a very special service: the chance to communicate with the dead.
When the body of one of the hotel's maids is found, it is considered a tragic wartime accident. But the more Alma and the local police try to fathom what happened, the more they begin to realise this is much more than just a death - there might be a German spy in Falmouth.
With the stakes higher than ever, Alma must grapple with her own extraordinary secret if she is going to have more than a ghost of a chance of solving the mystery.
Being able to talk with the dead is one thing; solving their murder is positively ghoulish...
Release date:
October 2, 2025
Publisher:
Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages:
320
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Alma Timperley was no admirer of the subterranean world, much preferring the heady delights of the top deck of an electric tram. But on Christmas Eve 1914, there were two compelling reasons for her to bend her rules. Firstly, a biting wind that had originated somewhere near the North Pole was turning London’s streets into conduits of sleet and misery. Secondly, her destination was close to Charing Cross Embankment, a new underground station that had been completed just a few months earlier.
As the work appeared to have been done solely to meet her requirements that morning, she forsook the civilised world, walked the short distance from Whitton Road, and descended one hundred and ninety feet into the labyrinthine horrors of underground London via the Hampstead station lift.
During the journey, to her quiet astonishment, she appeared to be the only passenger battling a compelling need to jump to their feet and scream, ‘The tunnel is going to collapse, and we’ll all die an appalling death!’ Not that anyone would have known it, as she exchanged pleasant smiles with a middle-aged couple sitting opposite.
They’re happy. They’ve had good news. She automatically registered the thought.
When they got off at Tottenham Court Road she considered her reflection in the window behind their vacated seats. There, hovering like a ghostly twin outside the carriage, travelled neat and tidy Alma, her short dark hair tucked into a bright red beret. Aged twenty-two, five feet one in her stockinged feet, and the owner of a cosy terraced house courtesy of her deceased mother. She was walking out with Jack Waring, currently somewhere in France, and she wondered where he was sometimes, but had recently come to the view that she didn’t do that often enough and was glad that she’d refused to marry him before his embarkation.
Alma had obtained permission from her employer to make the journey, having received an unexpected letter from one James Nascent, Solicitor, of Carlisle House, Embankment, proposing a meeting on a matter that concerned her. There had been no further information, so it was a curious Miss Timperley who rattled nervously southwards deep below the bitterly cold streets.
Carlisle House was a narrow, three-storey brick building that faced the River Thames. It was fully exposed to the sleet and wind, so Alma was in some disarray as she arrived in the deserted entrance hall. A door on her left bore the instruction:
James Nascent, Solicitor.
Please knock and enter.
There was a mirror on the wall and, pausing only to make some essential adjustments to her beret, she complied. Inside, she was welcomed by a bird-like woman with bright eyes who introduced herself as Mrs Neal and directed her to a seat, then went next door. Moments later, Mrs Neal re-emerged and said, ‘Five minutes. Would you like some tea, Miss Timperley?’
Shortly afterwards a gentle hail sounded from the inner sanctum. With a nod and a smile, she rose and led the way into the office, bearing the tea tray before her like a high priestess delivering an offering to the altar.
James Nascent was a striking-looking man, magnificently bald and with a skin colour that suggested his parents had been Spanish or Italian. His eyes were deep brown, heavy-lidded and sensitive, and he was clean-shaven. Alma realised to her surprise that, whilst his eyebrows were notably present, they were hairless and had been drawn on with considerable skill, or perhaps even tattooed. They rather gave him the look of a repertory actor waiting in the wings for his cue.
As his secretary placed the tray on his desk, Alma caught a glance between them and knew instantly that their relationship was more than employer and employee. He was in his mid-fifties and Mrs Neal certainly wouldn’t see forty again, so not of an age to get carried away with passion, she mused, with the unwitting naivety of youth. And the woman wore a wedding ring, but Alma had a clear sense that the solicitor was not her husband. She wondered whether the relationship was an illicit affaire de cœur, or publicly acknowledged, at least in company they trusted.
‘Tea, Miss Timperley?’ His enquiry was a relief. Alma’s intuition had plagued her for all of her relatively short life, and as a child she was regularly chastised by her mother for saying what she was thinking. She was normally right and therefore often in trouble. She was also occasionally wrong, which was invariably worse.
‘Or perhaps something stronger?’ he added with a gentle gesture towards a small group of bottles on a side table.
Well that is intriguing. Is he expecting to shock me? She shook her head. ‘Tea will be most welcome, Mr Nascent.’
As Mrs Neal silently played mother, Alma eyed the buff-coloured file on his blotter and imagined a trapped bird emerging and flying away as he opened it.
Am I the bird? she wondered.
When tea had been served and the secretary had left, he cleared his throat and addressed her. ‘Miss Timperley, thank you for coming to see me. I am glad we were able to find you.’
‘Might I ask how you did?’
‘Your address is contained in a letter that is attached to the last will and testament of a women called Gladys Timperley. I am acting as her executor. She was your mother’s sister and, therefore, your aunt.’
Alma stared at him. All her life it had just been her mother and herself. As a child she’d asked about her father but had simply been told he had died young and, despite Alma’s cunning attempts to elicit more information, her mother had refused to expand on this verbal cul-de-sac. So the news that she had a secret sister was astonishing.
‘Golly,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’
His eyes crinkled. ‘So I surmise.’
‘Did my mother know about her?’ she asked.
‘She was aware she had a sister, yes,’ he observed carefully.
‘Did you know her?’
‘I did. I drew up her will . . .’ he tapped the file ‘. . . and handled the conveyancing when she acquired a property in Falmouth.’
Alma frowned and pictured a map. Falmouth was a seaside town in Cornwall she recalled. ‘A property?’
‘Indeed. A hotel in fact. A hotel in which you now have an interest, Miss Timperley.’
He paused and permitted himself a gentle smile as a look of astonishment appeared on Alma’s face, then continued, ‘Shall I outline the contents of your aunt’s will and we can then discuss what happens next?’ He received a silent nod of acquiescence, then opened the file, leaned forward and began to read, as a fleeting moment of sunshine penetrated the window and gleamed charmingly on his nut-brown pate.
‘The property in question is the Timperley Spiritualist Hotel, of Swanpool Road, Falmouth. It has eight bedrooms and as far as I am aware it is a successful enterprise, that area being popular with holidaymakers. Although of course, the war will have had an impact.’
Alma nodded silently, struggling to take in the implications this news would have on her quiet existence in a backwater of Hampstead. ‘Sorry, tell me the name again would you please?’ she asked.
‘The Timperley Spiritualist Hotel.’
‘Yes, I thought that’s what you said.’ Her mind whirled but when he failed to offer any further intelligence she continued, ‘So I have an interest in this hotel, Mr Nascent?’
‘More than that, Miss Timperley. You own it – lock, stock, and barrel. The building, the grounds, the bank accounts, and the guest list. It is yours in its entirety.’
* * *
She took a sherry from him in the end, just for the shock, and then lunch. The sleet had eased and in weak sunlight they hurried down the pavement for a hundred yards to a busy Lyons Tea Room on the corner and managed to get a table for two.
The combination of the crowd and a roaring coal-fired stove meant the place was mercifully warm. ‘This is nice,’ Alma observed as they took their seats and inspected the menu. And it was. Mr Lyons went to great lengths to create nice interiors for his premises. A polished floor of black and white tiles, starched tablecloths, neat uniforms for the waitresses, who everyone knew as ‘nippies’, and even an aspidistra perched in the corner lifted the place well above the standard of common cafés.
‘I am a regular, although my favourite waitress no longer works here. She was of German extraction and quite charming, but Mr Lyons fired all such people when war broke out, I’m afraid.’
Alma nodded. Even for children born and raised in Britain, the taint of German or Austrian parents was enough to mark them. She supposed Mr Lyons wanted to protect his business from allegations of a lack of patriotism, and he had a point in her opinion.
A thought struck her, and she said, ‘Was my aunt’s death unexpected?’
‘That is a very perceptive question.’ As though gaining time, the solicitor’s eyes drifted towards another table and when he looked back there was a rather complicated expression on his face.
‘Two months ago, I received a letter from her in which she told me that she feared she would not make old bones and reaffirmed that she wanted me to act as her executor. Perhaps she had a premonition, because on the 10th of December she fell from a balcony on the upper part of the hotel and died. It was a most tragic accident, but when you say unexpected . . . ?’ He gave an eloquent shrug before continuing, ‘In her letter she specifically asked me to render you every assistance in your new role as the owner and custodian of the hotel.’
Alma looked at him. In the short time she had been aware of her inheritance, the idea of selling it had been in the back of her mind. His assumption that she would remove herself to the Cornish coast and assume command of the place brought the implications of her aunt’s bequest into sharp focus.
‘It was her intention that I retain the hotel, then? Rather than selling it?’
He nodded gravely. ‘There is no doubt about that whatsoever, Miss Timperley.’
She exhaled slowly and watched a pair of office girls bustle in through the door and shake the sleet off their shared umbrella. Mr Nascent, in turn, watched her through his heavy-lidded eyes, a slight smile on his face. But there was tension there too, and a clear sense that there was some further, unrevealed, provision in the will swept over Alma.
‘What happens if I say no?’ she asked.
‘Then regrettably our delightful but brief association will be over, and I am charged with pursuing another option.’
‘It’s all or nothing, then?’
‘That is the sum total of it, yes.’
‘Do I have to decide now?’
He shook his head. ‘No, not at all. I was going to suggest that once the festivities have concluded we travel down together and have a look at your inheritance.’
She hesitated. ‘Would there be a cost? Only I fear a daily rate for a man of your standing would be beyond me.’
His eyes creased again in what was becoming a familiar expression. ‘Your aunt left provision for my fees to be covered. In any event I would classify it as a pleasant trip to the seaside and off the clock.’
‘Would Mrs Neal want to come?’ It was out before she could stop it. She blushed bright scarlet as the words hung in the air between them and embarrassment showed on his face as well. It was an awful moment. She’d let herself down by blurting her thoughts, and not for the first time.
Will you never learn, Alma Timperley?
Eventually, with a wry smile, he said, ‘I see there is more to you than meets the eye. I wonder if you have inherited your aunt’s gift as well as her hotel?’
In the confusion of the moment, she missed this oblique reference and babbled, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Nascent. My remark was unforgivably rude.’
‘Certainly, its implications were. Tell me, what brought the question to your mind?’
Alma stared at him in an agony of shame. ‘I saw the look you gave her.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded slowly, then said, ‘Mrs Neal is a widow, and I am not married, but nevertheless your discretion would be appreciated.’
‘You have it.’ The words tumbled out in relief. ‘You can be assured I will go to the grave with your secret.’
‘Then I will ask her, and I would imagine she will say yes. More tea, Miss Timperley?’
Chapter Two
Two weeks after New Year’s Day the three of them caught the train from Paddington to Falmouth. So far, January 1915 had been still and cold, and a hard frost lit the woods and rolling downs of Berkshire with a seasonal glitter.
The first-class carriage was a new experience for Alma, and she stared out of the window reflecting on her Christmas Day with Jack’s parents. They had been kind to ask her but his absence at the front had thrown a pall over the celebrations, especially as – three doors up from their house in Tottenham – their neighbours had been horrified to receive a letter from the War Office bearing news of the death of their only son. There had been rumours of an informal truce between the British and the Germans on Christmas morning, and even a game of football in no man’s land. The papers had been full of speculation about this but, in truth, in London and beyond, there was a dawning recognition that the war would not be over quickly, and more beloved fathers, husbands and sons would die.
Across the empire the festive season had been more sober than usual.
The time off work had given Alma an opportunity to reflect on the remarkable news she’d received and the stark choice that now lay before her. Her life in Hampstead was quiet, predictable and, she had to admit it, boring. The Timperley Spiritualist Hotel had lit a fuse that smouldered and crackled in the background all the way through the muted seasonal celebrations. It almost felt as though the place was reaching out to her, which was a strange thing, but nevertheless quite discernible. Alone in her little house its presence was increasingly hard to ignore and, ultimately, became irresistible.
Barring an unpleasant surprise, Alma knew she was travelling to see her new life and, in so doing, to answer the questions that were rattling round her head about her mysterious aunt. What had she been like and how had she come to own a hotel in Falmouth?
Her travelling companions were the only other occupants of the carriage and in the reflection in the window she saw Mrs Neal take Mr Nascent’s hand and lean against him. He gave her a gentle smile. It was sweet and Alma felt envious of their affection for each other. Jack Waring was a nice man, and she admired the fact he’d volunteered to join the fight against the Germans, but she couldn’t imagine him summoning the same feeling in his own eyes as he looked at her.
Maybe it’s time for a complete change.
* * *
They arrived at Falmouth Town station at half past five and disembarked from the train onto a crowded platform. As they shuffled forward Alma wondered at the delay, but her curiosity was soon satisfied. As well as a ticket officer, the exit from the station was manned by two privates carrying slung rifles and a sergeant who was eyeing the crowd under the station lights.
‘What’s all this I wonder?’ she remarked to Mr Nascent.
‘Falmouth has defended-port status because of the naval dockyard and so on. I imagine security is pretty tight,’ he replied.
‘Do you live in Falmouth, sir?’ the sergeant asked as they came to the barrier.
‘No, I am a solicitor from London. Down to assist a client with a legal matter.’
‘Your name?’
‘James Nascent.’
The soldier looked at Alma and Hilda. ‘Party of three is it, sir?’
‘That’s right.’
There was a pause as the sergeant inspected them and Alma had a feeling he’d recognise them again if he needed to. They’re serious. I’m closer to the war down here.
‘Where are you staying in Falmouth?’
‘The Timperley Spiritualist Hotel.’
‘Do you have the booking confirmation?’
The solicitor produced a letter from his inner pocket and passed it over. The sergeant read it carefully, then handed it back with a smile. ‘Very well, sir. Welcome to Falmouth – enjoy your stay.’ He nodded to the privates who eased out of the way.
They emerged from the building and took a horse-drawn cab to the hotel where Mr Nascent had booked rooms. ‘Perhaps it would be best to sample the hospitality as an anonymous guest before declaring your interest,’ he had observed. And she could see the sense in that.
It was a ten-minute journey before they passed through a pair of open gates. In the darkness Alma had a brief impression of a drive lined with large bushes, before the cab swung round a corner and the outline of a statuesque building appeared to the right. Mr Nascent grunted in surprise and murmured, ‘Well, well,’ and, peering upwards, she was rather taken aback too. In her mind’s eye she’d pictured a slightly down-at-heel seaside hotel sandwiched into a terrace of houses, but as they climbed out of the cab she realised any preconceptions she had about her inheritance were likely to be wrong.
The solicitor led the way up the steps and they entered a reception area containing a large counter upon which a bell reposed. There was no one in sight, so he pressed down, and a single bright ping floated off into the nether regions of the premises. Alma barely heard it, because as she crossed the threshold of the hotel she felt a sudden reconnection to something she had walked away from five years ago. A distant bell had chimed once more and a familiar tingle of goose bumps crept up her arms.
What is this place?
The murmur of conversation drifted into the entrance hall from a half-open door on the left. Glancing that way Alma saw the beginnings of a room filled with warmth and light. Seconds later a door behind the counter opened and a woman in her late thirties with a pleasant, open countenance and pinned-back brown hair emerged.
‘Good evening, may I be of service?’ she enquired with a smile.
‘Mr and Mrs James Nascent and Miss Alma Nascent. Two rooms, reserved by letter,’ the solicitor replied.
Well that settles any doubts about the nature of their relationship. And I am to be their temporary daughter.
‘Of course, welcome to you all. If you’d just sign the register, Mr Nascent.’
Much later, as she lay in bed, Alma’s thoughts returned to her first meeting with the solicitor before Christmas. When she had asked him if her aunt’s death was unexpected, his face had displayed a combination of sadness and acceptance. But as she listened to the wind in the trees outside, she realised that the one emotion she had missed at the time had been anger. Something about her aunt’s death had left him very angry.
Ostensibly Mr Nascent was here to provide her with every assistance, as dictated by the terms of the will. But as sleep drifted over her, she wondered if he had his own reasons for visiting the hotel. And if so, what they were.
* * *
Excitement and curiosity vied for the upper hand when Alma opened her eyes in the luxurious bedroom the following morning. She was still struggling to understand how Alma Timperley, who earned 13/6 shillings a week in Hampstead town hall could possibly merit such luck, and she lay daydreaming under the eiderdown until a gentle knock sounded on the door.
‘Come in,’ she called, sitting up.
A freckled face topped with mop of curly blonde hair peeped round the door. It was a girl in a smart maid’s uniform. ‘Good morning, miss. It’s eight o’clock and I’ve brought you a cup of tea. Breakfast is served at half past.’
‘Right,’ she said. She’d never stayed in a hotel before, or been served tea in bed, and could think of nothing further to say. As the tray arrived next to her, she added, ‘What’s your name?’
The girl produced a warm grin. ‘It’s Polly, miss.’
‘And who else works here?’
Her wide-eyed look suggested this enquiry was unexpected, but she rose to the occasion. ‘There’s Kate, she’s a chambermaid like me, and we work for Mrs Banks, the housekeeper. Then there’s Mrs Wilson who comes in and cooks, and her daughter Maisie who serves, and Alf the odd-job man.’ She paused then added, ‘And the dailies who come in to help with the cleaning.’
Suddenly curious, Alma asked, ‘Who is in overall charge?’
Polly looked at her in some distress. ‘Oh, miss, if you’re not happy with the arrangements you’d better tell me, and I’ll tell Mrs Banks, and we’ll see what can be done about it.’
Alma hastened to put her mind at rest. ‘No, Polly, I am very happy. I’m just wondering about the ownership of the hotel, that’s all.’
Her face clouded. ‘It used to be Mrs Timperley of course, but since the accident we’ve been muddling along as best we can. Mrs Banks has been in charge I suppose. There are bookings you see, and Mr Weaver and Mr Wragge to be kept satisfied.’
‘Are they guests?’
‘Bless, no, miss. They are, were I should say, sort of partners of Mrs Timperley. In the work, I mean.’ She hesitated and glanced towards the door. ‘Begging your pardon, but I’ve more tea to deliver before it gets cold.’
‘Of course, on you go, Polly.’ She sent her on her way with a positively regal wave and sipped her tea thoughtfully.
The work? What is that?
Breakfast was taken in the pleasantly appointed dining room where they had eaten the previous evening. When they’d ordered, Mr Nascent said, ‘I had a word with the housekeeper, who we met last night. She appears to have assumed command after the accident. I explained that I am Mrs Timperley’s executor and that matters regarding the will are in hand.’ He smiled across the table. ‘I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.’
For Alma it was more than a question. It was her future. She took a long, slow breath and looked about the room. A girl who she took to be Maisie Wilson was serving two well-dressed women who were sharing a table. She heard her say, ‘Here we are, your ladyships, fresh from the farm.’
She looked back at the solicitor as he continued, ‘A meeting with the staff where you are presented as the new owner would be most desirable, but that pre-supposes that you are going to accept your aunt’s bequest and become the principal of this hotel. Is that your decision?’
An electrifying pulse of pins and needles infused Alma’s body, and for a moment it felt as though time had stopped. Then, with a silent scream that combined joy and terror in equal measure, she replied calmly, ‘Yes, Mr Nascent, it is.’
Half an hour later they were standing in the office with the housekeeper, where Alma was introduced as the niece of Mrs Gladys Timperley and henceforth the new owner of the hotel.
‘I’m Gracie Banks. You arrived incognito then,’ she observed as they shook hands. Alma squirmed inside at the implication that she had been underhand, but it was said without rancour, and she wa. . .
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