The Mystery Of Thomas Inkpen

Billy Paige knotted his dressing-gown around his waist, and headed downstairs. His wife Elaine was sipping a cup of tea, already dressed for work. He grinned and bid her a cheerful good morning.

‘I can’t believe your work have given you the week off. Meanwhile, I have to go in. It’s so unfair.’ Elaine grumbled.

‘There’s no point in going to work on Far East exports this week. It’s Chinese New Year so there’ll be nothing doing. It will be chaos next week when everybody comes back to work.’ Billy explained. 

‘I hope it’s horrific next week.’ Elaine teased. ‘What will you do with your time off?’ 

‘I’m thinking of going into the city centre. I want to work on my writing and Central library seems the perfect place to do it.’

Billy had been writing stories ever since he could remember. As an adult, the interest had developed into full-blown novels. He would self-publish his books online. The money he made from his efforts usually paid for their summer holidays. While it wasn’t enough for him to give up work and write full-time, each time he received a royalty payment, it reminded him that technically he was a published, paid author.

Elaine finished the last of her tea, and kissed him, telling him to have a good day.

On the tram ride into the city-centre, his rucksack on the seat next to him, Billy stared out the window, his mind racing with story ideas, plot twists and characters. He hoped for a good week of writing. He recalled an author once commented that on a good writing day, nothing else mattered. 

Billy stepped off the bustling Manchester street and into the hush of the library. He sighed, feeling more relaxed already. There was something about libraries and bookshops. He immediately felt relaxed and at home surrounded by books. Maybe that was why he wrote himself. There was something therapeutic about the written word. He wandered down the aisles, between the tall shelves that stretched up to the high ceiling. 

He found a free spot at one of the tables. Most of the people sitting at the tables, books, papers and notepads spread out in front of them, were university students. They were all engrossed in their studies. Billy hoped to be lost in his writing very soon. He unpacked his notebooks and pens, and made himself comfortable. 

He was scribbling away, an hour or so later, when a woman approached him. She gave him a smile and removed her glasses as she reached him.

‘If you need anything, need help finding a particular book, just give me a shout, well, whisper, don’t shout. This is a library.’ She said, in a low voice. 

The librarian clearly saw her role as helping the customers rather than simply seeing to the books, the returns and reservations and other library business. She would make the offer to all the customers, assisting with guiding them through the tall shelves to find exactly what they were looking for.

‘Thanks for that. I’ll give you a whisper if I get stuck.’ Billy said.

‘Perfect.’ She waved a finger at his writings. ‘Are you a student?’

‘I’m a writer. Just trying to get started on my latest project.’ Billy said.

His admission to being a writer, caused a few people nearby, to glance around, checking if they recognised him as a famous author. When they did not recognise him from any book covers, they returned to their own studies. The librarian was more impressed. 

‘A writer, wonderful. You are definitely in the right place. Did you know that the famous author, Thomas Inkpen used to frequent the library while researching his novels?’

‘Really? I had no idea. That’s fascinating.’ Billy said.

‘Inkpen would do his research using the reference library, before retreating to the reading rooms at the back of the building, away from the main rooms, where his typewriter wouldn’t disturb other readers.’

It was Billy’s turn to be impressed. Inkpen had been a peer of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. Thomas Inkpen was famous for a string of detective novels in the nineteen twenties and thirties. He was the author of best-selling crime novels featuring the detective Alan Dennis. His most popular work, Murder on the Manchester Ship Canal, had even been made into a film in the 1970s.

‘That’s so cool. I hope some of the magic rubs off while I’m here.’

‘I’m sure it will. Have you written anything I would have come across?’ She asked.

‘I doubt it. I have published several books online but I’m certainly no Inkpen. By the way, was Inkpen his real last name?’

‘Yes, it was surprisingly. Thomas always said that with a name like that, he was born to be a writer.’

She repeated that he was to let her know if he needed anything and walked quietly away. 

By late afternoon, Billy has scribbled down the outline for a few stories and lots of notes about other potential projects. He hadn’t actually got a lot of words down, but he had the bare bones of several projects. It was a start. 

He stretched, his bones creaking. He decided to stretch his legs and get away from the books for a moment. He wandered down the aisles of the old library building, enjoying strolling in between the shelves stacked high with volumes. 

He always found these old buildings inspiring in some way. And it was almost magical to know that the great author had also worked in this building. The novelist had actually wandered these very corridors. 

Billy kept walking, exploring the labyrinth-like corridors of the old building, leaving the main room behind him. The only sound was his footsteps on the creaking floorboards. He turned a corner, the narrow shelf-lined corridor stretching away in front of him. The whole place had and old-time feel to it, like being in a museum. 

The hush of the library was disturbed by jazz music, the sound of trumpets and saxophones drifted across the air. The music was accompanied by a hissing and crackling sound, as though a record was being played in a nearby room. 

There was someone in the corridor up ahead. The man was dressed in a dark suit and tie and his hair is slicked and parted. He wore round steel-rimmed glasses. He was only in his late-twenties but was dressed in such old fashioned clothes. He looked like something from another era. 

And Billy could see right through him. He see the corridor behind him through his torso. The figure was transparent. It was as though he was there and not there at the same time. Billy stared transfixed.

The colour of the world had faded away. The dark brown wood panelling and the floor, was now shades of grey. The world had drifted into a black and white filter. The figure puffed on a pipe as he walked towards Billy. 

He walked right by him and around the corner. Billy rushed after him, fascinated, afraid and yet intrigued, eager to see what the ghostly figure would do next. When he turned the corner to follow, the figure was gone. Billy was alone once again in the corridor. The figure was gone and the strange music had stopped. 

Had Billy imagined it? Was his mind and the backdrop of the old library playing tricks on him? That could well be. He had the writer’s over-active imagination. As he headed back to the main room, Billy could have sworn he could smell something strange. Was that pipe smoke?

He hurried back to the desk and his writings and tried to forget about the incident. When the incident did come to mind, he told himself it was his writer’s creative imagination playing tricks on him. 

He quickly lost himself in his writing.

That evening, as they are watching television, Elaine asked how his day had been. Billy explained how it had been really inspiring to work on his stories in the old building, surrounded by all the volumes of great literature. 

‘The ideas were really flowing, it was like I was channelling something. I can’t explain it. It was just really cool. I was so in the zone.’ Billy said.

The strange image he’d seen came to mind, but he decided not to mention it. His wife thought he had a head full of magic as it was, if he told her he’d actually started seeing things, she would have him certified. 

The next morning as Elaine begrudgingly left for work, Billy sipped his morning cup of tea and told her not to work too hard. She waved two fingers at him and headed out the door. Billy decided another brew and a second round of toast would be just the ticket before heading off to the library for another writing session. 

He entered the impressive library building, his gaze drifting over the grand entrance and pillars. There were lots of portraits and black and white photographs of historical figures who were important to the library. 

He recognised a figure in one photo, taken in the library itself. He couldn’t take his eyes from the photograph. It was the ghostly figure he had seen yesterday. It was him. In the photo shot, he had a similar dark suit, the glasses, even holding the pipe, Billy had seen him smoking. 

The note on the frame stated that the photo was of Thomas Inkpen, 1937. Billy felt a shiver wash over him. He had seen the ghost of the famous author. The apparition had looked just as he had almost a hundred years ago. Billy hadn’t even known what the famous novelist looked like, so how could it be his mind playing tricks?

With all this still going round in his head, he entered the large library room and found his spot at the same table. The library was quieter today, there was only the odd person sitting, working at the tables. 

As he was unpacking his notebooks and pens, the librarian crossed the room. She gave him a warm smile and said it was good to see him again.

‘It’s fascinating that Thomas Inkpen wrote in this building. What happened to him?’ Billy asked, eager for more details on the author who seemed to be haunting the library. 

‘Like so many, he was killed during the war. Had he lived, he would have gone on to great things. The literary world really missed out when they lost him.’ She said.

‘He wrote six novels in his lifetime, didn’t he?’ Billy asked.

‘There are six books that we know of. Six novels were published, but there are rumours and theories.’ She said.

‘What rumours?’ Billy said.

‘They say he was working on book seven at the time of his death. The rumour is that he finished the novel. They say there could be a completed Inkpen manuscript out there somewhere.’ 

She spoke with such awe and wonder about the thought of a missing, undiscovered book by the famous author whose life was cut short. 

‘Fascinating.’ Billy said. 

‘Isn’t it?’ She said, before crossing the almost-empty room to get on with library business.

Billy found the writing flowed once more in the academic surroundings. He was quickly scribbling down the ideas and plot twists as they came to mind. As he worked away, he noticed the comings and goings around him in his peripheral vision. People arrived and studied at the tables, before eventually leaving, having completed the work. 

As he turned the page over, to start a fresh sheet of lined paper, he glanced up, taking in the room around him. He was alone on the table. When he continued to write, movement made him look up. He was no longer the only person at the table. Poring over scraps of paper, dressed in his usual dark suit, was Thomas Inkpen. 

Yet again, the figure was transparent. And again, Billy stared transfixed. He was watching the ghostly figure working on his writings. It reminded him of stories he’d heard about Shakespeare, and Charles Dickens. They were said to haunt their old residences, often seen working on their plays and books, seated at the writing desks. Did Inkpen haunt the library where he spent hours working on his novels? It certainly appeared so. 

A moment later the figure got to his feet, and turned to walk away. With each step, he faded away, becoming fainter and fainter, until there was nothing there. Billy watched the now empty space, trying to take in what he had just seen. 

For the rest of the day, Billy watched out for any strange sightings. Every time someone walked by, Billy would look up, half-expecting to see the spectre haunting the old building. Instead, each time he looked around, it was somebody clutching volumes of books, a regular library customer, like him.

Later that afternoon, having seen no more of the apparition, and needing to stretch his legs, he got up from the table, and wandered down the library corridors. He hoped to see the strange figure once again, in the depths of the winding corridors. That was where he had originally sighted him. 

After a while of traipsing the corridors, feeling like a TV show ghost-hunter, he was about to give up, and head back to his writing. Then he heard footsteps behind him. This was it. Another encounter with the spectre of the famous author. He spun around to face the ghost.

Rather than the figure, walking towards him was a man in his seventies, engrossed in a book entitled How to Play the Ukulele. Billy bid the guy good afternoon, before reluctantly headed back to his writing. 

Just before five o’clock, Billy packed up his books and readied to leave. He was crossing the grand entrance when he heard strains of jazz music. He turned back to see the figure standing at the top of the staircase. The apparition was staring at him. Billy sensed that whatever it was, was taunting him. He knew that if he turned and charged up the staircase, the ghost would be nowhere to be seen. 

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Billy said, quite unsure if he should be addressing the figure.

He didn’t say anything to Elaine about the bizarre goings-on at the library. She wouldn’t believe him and put the visions down to either stress, his imagination, or insist there was a perfectly rational explanation. She would suggest that perhaps there was a guy who frequented the library, who dressed in antiquated clothing, who bore a resemblance to the late author. 

The next morning, Billy arrived at the library as usual, and settled himself in the usual spot. He had a sense that something would happen with the figure. One way or another, something was about the happen. He made rough notes on the stories he was putting together, but he was actually waiting. He felt like an undercover cop on a stake-out. To the few people gathered in the library, he was another studious person, working away, but really he was waiting, listening out, casting sideways glances, waiting for the apparition to appear. 

Strains of instrumental jazz music filled the air. Billy got to his feet, as though in a trance. Nobody else seemed to hear the music. He crossed the room to the wooden staircase. As he went up the stairs, the music became lounder, suggesting he was on the right track. 

Billy saw the figure at the far end of the corridor. The ghostly figure in the dark suit carried a thick bundle. Billy followed the spectre, more intrigued than afraid. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating but he knew he had to follow the figure. 

He walked quickly down the dusty, gloomy corridor, following the vision, as it turned, winding left and right. The jazz music continued as he followed on. 

At the end of a corridor, the figure stopped. He placed a hand on the wooden panelling on the wall. As Billy looked on, the figure faded away. One moment he was there, the next Billy was alone in the corridor. 

What was going on? He looked around, up and down the corridor. He was alone. There was no sign of the vision or anyone else. Billy approached the end of the corridor, to the spot where the figure had paused. He placed his hand on the wooden panelling, as the figure had done. What on earth did all this mean?

The wooden panel on the wall seemed loose under his grip. He dug his nails in, pushing and pulling. The piece of wood came away. He lifted the panel out of position. What would he find beneath? Perhaps he would find a secret staircase down to a hidden section of the library that had remained undiscovered for a century.

He peered in the gap. Sitting on a wooden shelf was a bundle, wrapped in dusty cloth. With the jazz music still filling his ears, he reached in and retrieved the bundle. 

As he took the package from the hidden spot, the music stopped abruptly. It was as though the needle had been dragged off the record player. Billy carefully placed the wooden panel back in position and, taking the bundle with him, hurried back to the main room. 

Back at his spot at the table, he quickly packed up his things, tucking the bundle into his rucksack with the rest of his belongings. He shrugged into his coat and headed for the door. 

As he was leaving the librarian looked up from a stack of hardback books.

‘Leaving already?’ She asked.

‘Erm, yes, the words won’t come today. I’ll try again tomorrow.’ He said.

‘Ah, the dreaded writers’ block. There’s nothing worse, I’m sure.’ She said.

‘Quite.’ He agreed. ‘See you tomorrow. 

Back home, Billy went through to the kitchen table. He unpacked the bundle, placing it carefully on the table. He was about to unwrap the bundle when he stopped. 

Was that jazz music? He titled his head, listening. Yes, he could hear the same piece of jazz music he had heard at the library. Up to now, the strange happenings had been limited to the library. He had half put it down to the atmosphere of the old building. To be hearing it here, in his modern, new build home, was really unsettling. Had whatever was haunting him at the library followed him home? 

He stared at the bundle in front of him. Had he brought the haunting home with him?

It was time to discover exactly what was in the bundle. He unwrapped the cloth covering the package. It contained writings, typed up pages. The title page revealed exactly what it was. He couldn’t take his eyes from the cover page.

The Mystery of Charles Barton, by Thomas Inkpen.

This was it, the last novel of Thomas Inkpen.

As he sipped a much-needed cup of tea, he flicked through the pages, and went over everything that had happened. 

The author had returned from beyond the grave to reveal his undiscovered masterpiece. Perhaps Billy was able to see him, as he was a fellow writer, a fellow creative. Maybe the spirit would only reveal the work to someone who truly understood the writing process, and the pains it took to put words on the page. 

And now he had in his possession, the final work by the famous author. 

Something else occurred to him. Billy was now in possession of a valuable literary artefact. He stood to make a lot of money by selling the manuscript. He wrapped up the bundle once again and carried it upstairs, carefully. 

He crossed the landing, and unlocked the door to his study. He placed the manuscript in his desk drawer, and locked the door again. Elaine always thought the way he locked his study door was an amusing affectation. As if anyone would break in to steal his worthless short stories collection. Now, though, there was even more precious writings in the study than there had been. 

He searched on the internet for exactly how to go about selling such a manuscript. He grabbed a pen and paper and made notes. There was an auction house in Manchester city centre that specialised in rate literary artefacts. They would be able to auction off the item for him. According to search results, a new Inkpen original manuscript could fetch over eight hundred thousand pounds.

His head was spinning. This would be life-changing. Once this was all in place, he would tell his wife everything. Until then, there was no point in getting Elaine’s hopes up. He had found this artefact that would secure their future. The manuscript would be sold at auction. Perhaps a publisher would buy it and the seventh novel would be out there, in print for everyone to read. Billy would be the guy who found the missing manuscript. He would be part of literary folk-lore. 

He told himself the artefact was his to sell. Of course it was. He had found the manuscript. People were always selling antiques they found in their lofts. With the money made, he and Elaine could give up work. Billy could finally achieve his dream of being a full-time writer.

Billy found that rather than being spooked by what had been happening, he was now excited for what the future would hold, once the sale of the manuscript went through, and he and Elaine were very well off indeed.

That evening, Elaine was upstairs getting changed out of her work clothes. Billy was watching television. He couldn’t help smiling to himself. Elaine had no idea that her life, their life, was about to change dramatically. It would be like winning the lottery. His thoughts were interrupted by screaming. Elaine was crying out for him. 

Billy dashed upstairs and found Elaine in their bedroom. She looked terrified and had tears running down her face. Billy eased her down onto the bed, talking softly, soothing.

‘What is it, love? What’s wrong?’

‘It was horrible. Just horrible.’ She said.

‘What was?’ 

‘It was a ghost. There was this man, in a dark suit. He was pointing and shouting, except I couldn’t hear him. It was as though the sound had been turned down. He was so angry and in my face, ranting and waving his hands. And I could see right through him.’

Billy couldn’t find the words. Had he brought this apparition into their home?

‘Is our house haunted?’ Elaine asked.

‘It must have been your mind playing tricks, that’s all. You have been working hard all week.’ Billy said.

There was something else that troubled him. When he had seen the figure, the ghost had been walking along quite calmly. There had been no ranting, no anger. But now the spectre was annoyed. 

He managed to calm Elaine down, assuring her that there was nothing to worry about. But he himself was very worried. The strange events seemed to have taken a rather sinister turn. He just hoped that once the manuscript had been sold, and they were living off the money from the auction, he could put this strange activity behind him. Maybe the strange visions was the price he paid for the massive pay-out. 

But still, the fact that the ghost was now angry really didn’t sit well with him.  

When they woke the next morning, as they were getting dressed, Elaine asked if he had left the radio on in his study last night.

‘No, I didn’t have the radio on in there. What makes you think that?’ Billy asked.

‘I heard jazz music coming from the room in the middle of the night.’

Billy simply shrugged and headed to the bathroom. 

As they went into the kitchen to make the tea and toast, Billy gasped. The ghost of the author appeared in front of him, his face now a mask of rage, his eyes wide with fury. The figure grabbed him by the throat. Despite the fact that he was a ghostly apparition, Billy felt the ice cold hands around his neck. He tried to call out, to call for help, but the hands held him tight. The air was being squeezed from him. 

He couldn’t breathe. All he could see was the angry features of the author. He was about to pass out. Any moment now he would lose consciousness.

Then the figure vanished. Billy dropped to the floor, gasping for air. Elaine helped him to his feet, concern on her face.

‘I’m okay, just a bit light-headed, that’s all.’ He lied.

‘Have you hurt yourself? You’ve got marks on your neck.’ Elaine said.

Billy checked his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. There were bruises and marks on his neck. He looked like he had been attacked. The marks on his neck looked like hand-prints.

He knew then that there was no way he could sell the manuscript. He had to pass it on to the correct people. If did that, then hopefully all this strangeness would stop. 

Later that morning, while Elaine met her friends for coffee and cake in the city centre, Billy did a little research on his laptop. There was a building on the far side of the city, the Thomas Inkpen Foundation. The charity had been set up by the author to help underprivileged children in Manchester and Salford. When he hadn’t been writing detective fiction, his works had concerned the plight of the working class children of the North West.

Billy knew what he had to do. He took the bundle from his desk drawer and headed across the city. He just wanted to get this done. Usually when he drove, he listened to a 90s radio station, singing along with the bangers from the best decade in music. Today, he drove in silence, focused on the job in hand. 

He pulled up outside the Inkpen foundation. 

The guy sitting behind the reception desk was busy on the telephone when he entered. He gave Billy a smile that said, I’ll be with you as soon as I can. The receptionist typed away at the computer, as he listened to the caller on the line. 

Billy placed the manuscript on the counter. 

‘I’ll leave this with you.’ He said.

Before the guy behind the reception desk could respond, Billy headed for the door. 

As he arrived home, he felt as though a weight had been lifted. He had, he hoped, put to rest the strange things that had been happening. He had found the undiscovered manuscript where the figure had shown him, and had donated it to the Inkpen charity for them to handle. He was sure they would auction the work off and put the proceeds to good use. And the publishers would see that the new book was in print and out there for readers all over the world too. The news would soon be full of the discovery, how an anonymous man had handed in the discovered manuscript, and left without a word. 

That evening, as he and Elaine settled down to watch a film, she gave him a nudge.

‘Can you hear that? It sounds like jazz music. Is that your radio again?’ She said.

Billy listened, feeling sick. Sure enough, there was jazz music coming from upstairs. With Elaine at his side, and quite unsure what they would find, Billy headed upstairs. 

Jazz music was playing all around them and the door to his study, the door which had been locked, was now wide open, and the light was on. 

‘Did you leave the light on and the door open?’ Elaine asked.

Billy shook his head. He switched the light off, and slammed the door shut. He locked the door. 

This was all too much. He couldn’t take any more of this. Things had become so strange. He couldn’t actually recall what normal life was like. He had hoped that by handing in the manuscript this would all be over. What would it take?

He slumped to the carpet. Elaine crouched over him.

‘What is it?’ She asked. 

He explained everything. He told her how he had seen the ghost of Thomas Inkpen in the library, how he had heard the strange music, how the writer had guided him to where the last novel had been hidden, and how he had decided to auction the manuscript and keep the profit. 

That had been when things had gotten nasty. The ghost had confronted her and attacked him. And now, the door to his study was open, the creepy music playing, just when he had hoped it was all over. He had done the right thing so why hadn’t this all stopped?

‘This is so strange.’ Elaine said. ‘It’s like one of your stories.’

‘What did you say?’ Billy asked. 

‘That it’s like something you would write about.’

‘That is it. That’s what he’s trying to tell me now. It’s not his story I should sell but mine.’ Billy said.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘I will write about all this, about how I saw the figure, how I found the book and was cajoled into handing it in, how the spirit of the late author guided me, and told me to write my story instead of his.’

He turned to face the locked door to his study, speaking to a sprit that he hoped was listening.

‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ He called out.  

The faint strains of jazz music sounded once more. He could also hear another sound, the clatter of typewriter keys that seemed to echo from a century ago. 

A title for his book came to mind, The Mystery of Thomas Inkpen.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom