House of Echoes (34 page)

A small painted wooden car lay discarded on its side on the top step of the staircase. He stared down at it, his arms and back crawling with fear. It had not been there a few moments before. If it had been he could hardly have avoided seeing it. He would have fallen over it. He stared down at it in horror, then overcome by curiosity he bent and picked it up. It was about four inches long, and two inches high, crudely made and painted a bright blue, though the paint was worn and chipped. He turned it over in his hands, then slipping it in the pocket of his jeans he ran on down the stairs, leaving all the lights on behind him.

In the kitchen the stove had heated up enough to put something in the oven. He rummaged through the freezer and found a foil-wrapped package labelled steak and kidney pie. Heaven knows how one was supposed to cook it, but he supposed if he stuck it in the oven until it was done it would be all right. He put the whole thing, foil and all into a baking tin, put it in the oven and reached for Luke’s whisky on the dresser. Then he pulled out the car. Standing alone on the kitchen table it looked shabby and forlorn – and distinctly old. Toys these days were made of plastic or metal; they were brightly coloured and non toxic. This looked as though it would be eminently toxic. The paint was flaking off
even as he touched it. He frowned. Ghosts didn’t have toys. Or did they, if they were little boys, trapped in a house where they would never grow up? He frowned, taking a deep swig of Scotch, hoping that Margaret de Vere, if she was guilty of witchcraft as charged, was having a really bad time in hell.

One of the books he had brought with him to show Joss was a history of magic in the middle ages. He had left it on her desk in the study. Putting down his glass he went to fetch it, gathering up an armful of books while he was there to bring back to the comparative warmth of the kitchen. It felt more comfortable there. He would read while he was waiting for his foil-wrapped package to cook or self destruct depending on which happened first. Pouring another drink and slopping in some water he spread the books out and opened the book on magic.

Twice he looked up, listening. It was strange how the silence at this end of the house was companionable; not threatening. He felt safe here, even content, as slowly the smell of cooking steak and rich gravy began to permeate the room.

Procuring people’s deaths by magic was a common enough charge in the Middle Ages; any sudden death was immediately suspect. With minimal medical knowledge and even less forensic what else was there to fall back on? He sighed, flicking through the book. He was right, wasn’t he, in dismissing magic as nonsense? His gaze strayed to the little car on the table near him. Supposing Margaret de Vere had real power? Had she caused the king to fall in love with her daughter? Had she gone on, when her scheme had gone tragically wrong, to bring about the downfall of both king and bastard child? Was it possible? If so where had she got the knowledge from? Picking up the car, he turned it over and over in his hands as though seeking inspiration from the small wooden toy. The legends of the devil at Belheddon went back into the mists of time. They seemed to predate Christianity. She must have known about them too. Was that where she had found her power?

He gave an involuntary shudder. Putting down the car he got up and went to the oven, pulling the baking tray out with hands padded with dish cloths. He examined his supper. Inside the foil there was a solidly frozen amorphous lump inside a gloriously rich mess of gravy and meat. The pastry appeared to have disintegrated into a soggy mess. He shrugged, pushing the whole lot
back in the oven again. No doubt it would taste nice, whatever it looked like.

Did she conjure the devil? Did she swop her eternal soul for power? He wished he had paid more attention to the stories and legends which he had always dismissed as philosophical hogwash. He was beginning to feel grave doubts about all this.

On a sudden impulse he went to the dresser and pulled the phone book out from its position under the telephone. Edgar Gower’s Aldeburgh number was listed.

The clergyman listened carefully as David spoke. He was sitting at his desk overlooking the blackness of the sea, twiddling a pencil in his hand. From time to time he made notes, frowning. ‘Mr Tregarron, I think you and I should meet.’ He shifted in his seat slightly so the reflections moved in the window. He was watching the lights of a fishing boat far out at sea, moving slowly up the coast. ‘When will you next be coming up to East Anglia?’

‘I’m here. Now.’ David carried the phone to the table and sat down. The smell of steak and kidney was getting stronger and more mouth watering.

‘Here?’ The voice at the other end of the line had sharpened.

‘I came up this morning. I’m at Belheddon.’ He reached out and put his finger on the roof of the little car, running it up and down the table.

‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘You’re there alone, I gather?’

‘Luke and Joss have gone to Paris.’

‘And the children?’

‘I understand they’re with their grandmother.’

‘But not at Belheddon.’

‘No. Not at Belheddon.’ There was a moment’s silence as both men had the same thought: Thank God.

‘Mr Tregarron.’ Edgar could no longer see the ship. ‘A thought has struck me. If you would like to drive to Aldeburgh, we are only about an hour’s drive away. It would be good to talk this over, and –’ he added casually, ‘ – you might like to stay the night here.’

David closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a rush of relief. ‘That’s good of you. Very good.’

The urge to abandon everything and leap into his car was very strong. It was his pride which stopped him. He would eat his
supper, collect his books and papers and then check the house and turn off the lights before he left. He glared at the whisky bottle. He had probably had too much of the damn stuff to drive without some food inside him anyway.

The pie, though messy and in some parts disintegrated, was good. He ate it swiftly, with relish, straight out of the foil. Washing up his fork and glass he banked up the stove and then turned towards the door.

He forced himself to go upstairs first, turning off the lights, closing doors. The house was quiet, even benign. Checking Joss and Luke’s room though was different. He stood for a moment in the centre of the floor, listening intently. The silence was heavy; almost tangible. There had been some sort of shift in the atmosphere. It was as if someone or something was watching him. He swallowed hard, heading for the door and clicking off the light he went out onto the landing. He could feel it there too: a brooding resentment, a chill which had nothing to do with the physical cold in the house.

Ignore it. Collect the books and go. He put his hand on the top of the banisters and looked down. In the bright cold light of the hall he could see the toys lying all over the floor. Cars, like the one he had left on the kitchen table; pieces of meccano, a pencil box …

‘OK,’ he spoke out loud, his lips dry. ‘Point taken. I’m on my way.’ It took an enormous amount of willpower to walk down the stairs, to step over the scattered toys, and go into the study. He looked round, expecting to see something in there as well, but the room seemed much as he had left it. The fire had died down and it was cold, but otherwise the room felt friendly, almost safe. He prodded the fire flat and put the guard in front of it to be doubly safe, then heaped his papers and books together into his arms. One quick glance round and he was ready. Switching off the light he closed the door behind him.

In the hall he hesitated for a moment, then stooping, he scooped some pieces of meccano and a car into his pocket. ‘I’ll bring them back, lads,’ he said out loud. ‘Just want to check something.’

The giggle behind him came from the staircase out of sight beyond the curve. He glanced up. He was not going to go up or run away. They were only kids. Kids teasing. They couldn’t hurt him.

Could they?

Hesitating he glanced up again. ‘So long, boys,’ he said softly. ‘God bless.’

Pulling the back door shut behind him he heard the dead lock click. He threw his books into the car and climbed in. It was only as he slammed the locks down that he realised he was shaking all over. It was several seconds before he could get his key into the ignition. As the car shot through the courtyard arch and out into the drive he glanced once into the rear-view mirror. The windows of the house were all once more blazing with light. Putting his foot on the accelerator he skidded down the drive and out into the road.

Mary Sutton stopped as she walked across the village green in the dark, returning home late after the bus had dropped her at Belheddon Cross, and she watched the car screech out of the gates of the Hall scattering mud and stones behind it as it turned west through the village. She gazed at its retreating tail lights until it was out of sight then she turned and thoughtfully studied the driveway. The Grants had gone away, Fred Cotting, young Jimbo’s dad, had told her that. The house was supposed to be empty.

It was a clear cold night and as she stood in the entrance gateway she could see the house in the starlight. The windows were dark now and uncurtained, the glass black; unreflective.

She hesitated, gripping the top of her capacious handbag very tightly with both hands. Little Lolly would have wanted her to keep an eye on the place. That was what Laura’s brother Robert had called his little sister. Robert who had died, aged fourteen, falling out of that great chestnut tree which guarded the front of the house. She hadn’t told Laura’s daughter about those two boys, Laura’s brothers. She could see that Jocelyn could barely cope with the idea of her own brothers’ deaths.

Mary pursed her lips. Slowly she began to walk up the drive. She did not think the car which had left in such a hurry could have been a burglar’s. No one in its entire history had burgled Belheddon Hall. No one dared. So, who had it been?

She stood on the front gravel staring up at the house, feeling the waves of emotion coming off it: the fear, the hate, the love, the happiness; feeling the blessing woven by little boys’ laughter
and behind it all the ice cold venomous evil which poisoned the very air itself.

Gripping her bag even more tightly she began to walk around the house. Every door and every window was locked, and at each she muttered a few words and traced the sign of the sealing, pointed star. Her powers were long unused, weak compared to those of Margaret de Vere, but her loyalty to little Lolly and her daughter was absolute. They would have whatever strength was left to her.

T
hey had picked up a taxi at Les Invalides two days earlier after an easy flight from Stansted to Orly and gone straight to their hotel near the Étoile. Joss was very quiet. Each time Luke looked at her she seemed more withdrawn and pale. By the time they had paid off the driver and found their room she looked as though she were about to collapse.

‘Do you want to ring Mother and see how the boys are?’ He sat down next to her on the bed. Outside the traffic was roaring down the street, tyres rattling over the pavé. They could smell coffee and garlic and wine from the café across the road opposite their window as their net curtains blew inwards on a strong draught. He stood up and went to close the window, then he sat down next to her again.

‘So, what are we going to do?’ He took her hand after she had made the call. ‘They’re well. They’re happy, and they’re absolutely safe so you have nothing to worry about except how we are going to amuse ourselves!’

Joss took a deep breath and as she let it out she could feel her tension dropping away. She was safe. The children were safe. Luke was safe. Outside the roar of traffic down the road, only slightly muffled by the closed window and its swathe of white net curtain was a comforting balm. Unexpectedly she threw herself back on the bed and stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. Later she would think about her mother’s Frenchman, but now, just for a while, she needed to relax. For the moment Belheddon was very far away. She had escaped.

Luke looked down at her and smiled. ‘Paris seems to be doing you good already.’

‘It is.’ She reached up to him. ‘I think you and I should have a little rest and then, this afternoon do you know what I would like? To go on a
bateau mouche
. I haven’t been on one since I was a child.’

Luke laughed. He leaned over her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks and then her lips. ‘I think that sounds like an excellent plan.’

As his fingers moved expertly down the row of buttons on her blouse she tensed for a moment, but the black wall in her mind held firm and relaxing again she put her arms around his neck and abandoned herself to his attentions.

‘It’s strange how much better things feel in daylight.’ David had produced the back door key and inserted it in the lock.

Behind them the coach houses were still shut fast. There was no sign of Jimbo, though it was nearly eleven in the morning.

‘Darkness doth make cowards of us all,’ Edgar commented tersely. In his hand was a black briefcase. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you came to us last night. It’s strange but the subject of black magic and witchcraft has never really surfaced here before. Poor Laura and I never looked beyond the actual presence of malign influences. I know she was very conscious of the tragedy of Katherine but as far as I know she never suspected her or her mother of any influence on the house.’

He followed David into the kitchen which was warm and welcoming, the stove still banked from the night before.

Turning on all the lights David reached for the kettle. ‘So, what happens now?’

Edgar frowned. He put his briefcase down on the table. ‘While you make us a cup of coffee each I think I will have a walk through the house. Just get the feel of things a little.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘What Margaret de Vere did was probably not done openly and in public. It would have been done surreptitiously, in secret, without witnesses other than her accomplices if she had any. I may be able to tell where it happened.’

‘She must have known she would be sentenced to death if she had been caught.’ David reached into the fridge for a jar of ready ground coffee.

‘Indeed. But I suspect she was confident in her allies. The devil is a powerful friend.’

David shivered. ‘Let’s hope the church is stronger,’ he muttered. His fervent plea went unheard as Edgar disappeared into the passage.

Their meeting the night before had lasted long into the night
after David’s arrival in Aldeburgh. His books and papers were spread all over Edgar’s desk in the window of his study, and as the night cleared and the stars appeared they glanced from time to time up at the uncurtained window to see the luminous blackness of the sea with its trails of silver and white as small uneven waves criss crossed the incoming tide. It was half past four before Dot had at last managed to chase them to bed, David in the attic bedroom which too looked out to sea, and only five hours later when she had woken them with cups of tea and toast. In twenty minutes they were on the road back to Belheddon. In Edgar’s case was Holy Water, wine and bread, a crucifix and a Bible.

The great hall was very cold when Edgar walked into it. He stared round, shivering. Outside there was brilliant sunshine, and the low November sun was slanting in at the windows, throwing patches of warm light on the flag stones. He saw the dead flowers and frowned. Bad vibes. He grinned to himself. There were things that even his New Age dotty daughter could teach him and vibes was one of them. Vibes mattered. He walked through to the study, stepping over the scattering of toys on the floor at the foot of the stairs and pushed open the door. Sunlight filled the room. It was warm and welcoming. He felt a quick surge of anger. This was such a beautiful house. A home. A family home for hundreds of years and yet it was blighted – blighted by the spite and greed of one woman if David’s theory was to be believed. A woman who had used her daughter to lure a king, who had conspired to have the king sleep with that daughter and who, when she found he was not prepared to abandon his wife to marry the girl, used her evil arts to cause her death and probably his as well.

He stood thoughtfully in front of the fire. She had been very powerful, Margaret de Vere, if they were right. She had enlisted the help of the devil, and somehow her viciousness had survived the centuries to threaten the occupants of the house to this very day. He went over in his mind the things he would do. The rite of exorcism was powerful. He had done it here before when he had been licensed by the bishop to perform the service, and he had come here with Holy Water to cleanse the house on more than one occasion both before and since. Why had that not worked? Why had nothing worked? Was it that he was not powerful enough?

He swallowed his doubts quickly, gazing round the room again. On each previous occasion he had addressed his exorcism to some unspecified evil – probably male – not identifying his quarry. This time it would be different. He intended to address Margaret de Vere by name and banish her forever from the house.

He found David opening a biscuit tin. ‘All right?’ David sounded anxious. He had been gone longer than he realised.

‘All right.’ Edgar wished he felt stronger. He sat down at the table and helped himself to one of the blue earthenware mugs. ‘We’ll do it in the great hall, I think. It’s the centre of the house, and wherever she cast her spells and wove her charms, it is the whole house that needs to be freed from her.’

‘And can you release the boys?’

Edgar shrugged. ‘I hope so.’

David grimaced. ‘I feel as though I’m taking part in some fairy story written by the brothers Grimm. Magic. Witches. Trapped enchanted children. It’s grotesque.’

‘It is.’ Edgar put down his mug. Suddenly he could not face coffee or biscuit. ‘Come on. Let’s get on with it, shall we? The sooner the better.’

Picking up his briefcase he led the way through into the great hall once more. The sunlight had gone. In the short space of time while he had been in the kitchen the skies had greyed and the room was filled with gloom. ‘Can you get rid of those flowers, old chap. I’ll spread my stuff out here on the table.’ He unpacked the cross and stood it before him.

Georgie

The voice from the stairs was loud and quite clear.

The vase of flowers slipped from David’s hand and crashed to the floor, spilling slimy green water and dead flowers over his feet and onto the flags. ‘Christ! Sorry.’ The stench from the water was overpowering.

‘That’s all right. I’ll help you clear it up. Careful, don’t cut yourself.’ Edgar stooped down next to David, picking up slivers of broken glass. ‘I should have warned you. There may well be manifestations.’

‘What sort of manifestations?’

Edgar shrugged, his hands full of glass and flower stems. ‘Noises. Lights. Banging and crashing. Evil doesn’t like to be dispossessed.’

David took a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to think of this as historical research.’

‘Don’t,’ Edgar spoke sharply. ‘Bring this all through to the kitchen and we’ll find something to mop up the water. This is not an experiment for your amusement. This is serious beyond words.’ He threw the mess in his hands into the bin and reached for a floor cloth, wringing it out in the sink. ‘I want that room spotless. Foul water is not something we want in there.’

Obediently David helped him clean the floor, and finish it off with a spray of disinfectant from the bottle under the sink. Only when order was completely restored would Edgar, his hands washed and dried, go back to his unpacking. David stood close to him, wishing the sun would come out again. He was finding the darkness of the room oppressive in spite of the lights. ‘Shall I find some candles?’ He had expected to find them part of Edgar’s kit.

The other man nodded. ‘It would be helpful.’

They were, David remembered, in the cupboard under the gallery. He walked over to it and pulled open the door. A toy car fell out at his feet. He stared down at it, feeling suddenly rather sick.

Sammy

The call was from the opposite doorway. He swung round.

‘Take no notice.’ Edgar’s voice was calm and steady. ‘Bring the candles over here.’

‘I can’t. There aren’t any.’

‘Look in the kitchen then. I saw some candlesticks on the dresser.’

David walked towards the doorway where the voice had come from. To his shame he was feeling a little unsteady. He took a deep breath and went out into the long passage which led from the front door back to the kitchen. It was very cold, the draught from the door as bad as ever. The kitchen was a haven of warmth and brightness. He collected the two candlesticks from the dresser, and rummaging in the drawers, found two new blue candles. Putting them in place he carried them back to the great hall.

Edgar frowned. ‘Were there no white ones? It’s stupid of me. I should have brought them. I usually keep them in my case.’

‘They’re the only ones I could find.’ David put them reverently on either side of the cross. ‘What now?’

‘I’m going to bless the house and cleanse it with Holy Water. Then I’m going to pray for the banishment of evil and I’m going to celebrate communion here at this table.’

Sammy! Come and play! Sammy? Where are you?

The plaintive voice was very clear. The scuffle of feet on the stairs and the giggle as if someone was running away echoed across the room. ‘Take no notice,’ Edgar repeated calmly. He was lighting the two candles. ‘They are just what they seem. Two innocent mischievous children.’ He shook his head. ‘I conducted their funeral services. Both of them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sweet Jesus, bless this place. Look on us now and give us your strength to vanquish all evil from this house. Release and bless the souls of the children who have died in this house. Remove and cleanse the evil and the hatred which have trapped them here.’ He opened a leather case which proved to contain a set of small bottles and silver topped pots. ‘What Dot calls my travelling picnic kit,’ he said quietly. ‘Oil. Water. Wine. Salt and wafers.’

There was a resounding crash upstairs. David looked up. His mouth had gone dry with fear. ‘Should we go and look?’ he whispered.

Edgar shook his head. He had opened his prayer book. ‘Concentrate on the prayers. Stand here. Close beside me.’

Somewhere a child had started crying. David clutched at Edgar’s sleeve. ‘We ought to go and look.’

‘We know there is no one there, man.’ Edgar’s fingers had tightened on his prayer book convulsively. ‘Concentrate.’

The candle flames were flickering wildly; as David watched a splattering of blue wax fell across the table. ‘They should be white,’ he was muttering to himself. ‘You’re right. The candles should be white.’ He found he was shivering violently.

Edgar frowned. He was having difficulty finding the right page. ‘Our Father,’ he began, ‘which art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy name – ’

Another crash, this time from directly overhead. In the hearth the ash was blowing about, a fine mist above the fire dogs. With a puff of wind a cloud blew out into the room, scattering across the floor to their feet. Edgar gave up trying to turn the fine India pages of his prayer book and put it down. His fear was making him angry. ‘Enough!’ he suddenly bellowed. ‘Get thee hence! Out of this house, do you hear me? In the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord, leave this place. Now! Take your evil doings and your malice and your hatred out of this house and leave the people who live here in peace.’ He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross
in the air. ‘Out!’ Seizing his bottle of water he tucked it into his arm. Taking one of his small pots he struggled to remove the lid. ‘In the name of the Lord!’ he cried through gritted teeth. The lid flew off and salt spilled all over the table. David stood back, shocked, tempted to dive forward and throw some over his shoulder, but Edgar had already scooped some up into his palm, and was putting it into the water, blessing it with the ancient words: ‘
Commixtio salis et aquae pariter fiat, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus
Sancti
,’ words which seemed to him more fitting for their purpose than the plain English he had been about to use.

Upstairs the little boy was crying. Involuntarily David took a step away from the table, unable to stop himself, his heart wrung by the misery of the sound. Edgar, without taking his eyes off the ritual he was performing shot out a hand and grabbed David’s jacket. ‘Don’t move,’ he muttered. ‘Stay right here. There’s nothing up there, I promise you. She’s playing with us. We can defeat her. If only we believe hard enough.’