In The Garden Of Stones (21 page)

“
It’s really affected you, hasn’t it?” says
Colin.

Grace
looks at her shoes, then at the sky, fluffy white islands of clouds
sailing through a sea of cobalt blue.

“
Want to hear something funny?” she says. “For a minute,
just one minute, when I saw the pants he was wearing, corduroy ones
with a hole in the knee, just like the one’s you’re wearing now, I
thought–” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “No.
Forget it. It’s silly.”

“
You thought it
was
me?” says Colin.

She nods
slowly. “Yes.”

“
See. I’m getting to know how your mind works.”

“
You want to be careful where you tread,” she says. “Inside
my mind is dangerous territory for the uninitiated.”

“
Not dangerous, Gracie. Just a wee bit mixed up. So, you
want to tell me why ye thought it might be me?”

Grace
puffs her cheeks and blows out a breath. “I thought maybe that’s
what all this means–” She waves her arm, taking everything in.
“That … that you were dead out there in the real world, and the
only place you exist is here because you’re … nothing but a
ghost.”

“
You’re right,” he says. “It is silly.”

“
Maybe, but how do I know for sure? I’ve never seen you in
the flesh. I have no proof that you’re–”

“
Alive, if no quite kicking?” He takes her hand and presses
it against his chest. “Then ye’ll have ta come out ta Pelham and
visit wi me. See fer yerself. I meant what I said. I want ta see
ye. Come here.”

He puts
his arms around her and pulls her to him, resting his cheek on her
hair, and she slips her hands around his waist to nestle her face
against his rough sweater, feeling him breathe.

This
Colin is no ghost. He is solid and warm, and very much
alive.

Chapter 21

Until
now Grace’s forays to the garden have delivered her to the wrought
iron gate almost hidden in the ivy and brambles in the wall. She
lets herself in and then takes the short pleasant stroll through
the gardens to the cemetery and Colin’s rustic hut.

More
than a dozen times she has visited his ramshackle yet homely
bolthole, walking straight past the path leading up to the big
house. Once or twice she has stopped and looked at it, thought
about paying it a visit, to have a look around to satisfy her
curiosity, yet the moment she takes her first step on the path, a
feeling of such intense apprehension and dark portent descends on
her that she has so far kept her distance.

So why
now has that self same barrier suddenly disappeared, allowing her
to stand only feet away from the house’s front door? Has her visit
to the Larches and finding the tramp’s decomposed body had
something to do with it?

Sometimes death means the end of one thing and the start of
something new.

“
There’s only one way to find out.”

She
makes a tour of the outside of the house. Up close it is nowhere
near as splendid as it is viewed from the far side of the lawns.
The paint is peeling, some of the bricks are chipped and the
pointing crumbled away.

No
wooden panels, no metal shutters, just naked brickwork and glass,
bleak and brooding, oozing foreboding from its very structure, the
deep red of the setting sun painting it in blood and shadows, blank
windows staring out empty and black like the pits in the dead man’s
skull.

Grace
treads her way carefully along the frontage of the house, rounds
the side and continues through a rough wooden gate into a long
uncared for garden where the grass has grown tall and
tangled.

Docken
spears and rosebay willow herb proliferate, and sharp prickly
thistles are almost waist high. A tree stands in the centre of a
square of grass, a frayed rope and a piece of broken wood hanging
from a long low branch. A child’s swing?

Through
a small kitchen garden and she has reached the rear of the house,
the point of access for servants and tradesmen, the front entrance
forbidden to them by social convention, and the threat of a
horsewhipping.

Virginia
creeper grows unchecked here too, green leaves tinged with autumnal
red and yellow. Grace looks for the place where she found the small
window at the Larches, the one she prised open and wriggled
through, narrowly avoiding falling head first into a filthy stained
lavatory.

If there
is one at this house, she can’t see it.

She cups
her hands over her eyes and strains to peer in through the kitchen
window.

“
Ye’re a nosey wee bugger aren’t you?”

Grace
whirls around, hand to the base of her throat, eyes wide, a squeal
of terror erupting from her.

“
Hell’s teeth Colin, you scared me half to death. Make more
noise when you sneak up on someone will you?”

Colin is
leaning on the handle of a tall stick shaped like a shepherd’s
crook. “I’ll put on ma squeaky boots if it’ll help. Fit ye deein’
here?”

“
Just looking around. How did you know I was here, because I
hadn’t planned on coming today. One minute I was thinking about
what to have for lunch, the next …
poof
.”

He
frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again, shrugs. “No idea. Just …
did.”

“
Your barrier came down too?”

“
Must have. Why did ye no want ta come?”

She
grins. “Thought I’d give you a rest from my continual yammering.
Let you have a bit of peace and quiet for a change.” She waggles
her eyebrows teasingly. “Give you a chance to miss me.”

“
I would have. I’ve got sort of used to you chunnering on in
the background while I work.”

“
Really?”

“
Aye. It’s like having tinnitus. Ye really notice when it
stops.”

“
Charming.” She returns to peering in the window. “Have you
seen anyone around who might live here?”

“
Can’t say that I have, then again I stay well away.” He
affects a shudder. “It’s like ye said, there’s something aboot it
that gies me the willies.”

“
I wonder which one of us made it then … you, or me. Bit of
a conundrum don’t you think? Oh, something here.”

She
nudges the back door with her toe, popping it free from the warped
frame. “If nobody’s been in here, why is the door open?” She gives
the door a harder push and it creaks on rusted hinges, breathing a
wave of damp, clammy air into her face. “Creepy.”

“
Ye think we should go inside?” says Colin, peering over her
shoulder.

No
answer.

“
Grace?”

She
pushes the door wide and steps over the sill into the similar
rustic kitchen within. “You don’t have to,” she says. “But I think
I do.”

Inside
is cool and dark, the air thick with the musty stale smell of
abandonment and neglect. All too familiar.

A layer
of dust and cobwebs coats every surface, little drifts of fly
corpses piled up on the window sills. Something crunches underfoot,
and with every step she and Colin take as they tread across the
room, the sticky floor clings to their shoes. The silence is as
oppressive as the atmosphere.

No question about who made it now
, Grace thinks.

“
This way,” she says, startled by the sound of her own
voice, and heads for a door at the far end of the room.

“
Fit makes ye think so?” says Colin, hanging
back.

“
Because I’ve been here before.”

“
But you said ye hadn’t. Barrier, remember?”

“
That was before I came inside. If this is not an exact
reconstruction of the Larches, right down to the pattern in the
wallpaper, I’ll eat a live frog.”

“
Dinna be sa daft. Similar sure, but no the exact same
place. How could it be? I’ve never seen the Larches–”

“
But I have,” she says. “This has been plucked straight
from
my
memories. Remember we are both making contributions now.
This is mine.”

“
Prove it.”

“
Okay.” She looks around and up, to the plaster ceiling and
its single naked bulb dangling at the end of a length of electrical
cable. She won’t look for a light switch. There would be no
point.

“
We’re in the kitchen,” she says. “So …” She points at each
of the closed doors. “That’s the room where they did the laundry,
and that one’s a walk in larder.”

Colin
opens each one in turn, gives the interiors a cursory glance,
closes them again. “Even I could work that out,” he says. “What’s
that one?”

“
Door number three? The boogeyman’s lair, aka cellar.” Grace
puts up her hands. “And before you ask if there’s anything down
there, I have no idea and I’ve no intention of looking. I’ve seen
the movies. Even if it’s stuffed to the roof with fine wine and
chocolate, I don’t care. You want to go down, please
yourself.”

“
Ye ken I’m gain ta have ta be the man here and see fer
maself, don’t ye?”

“
Be my guest.”

Colin
takes a deep breath and grabs the handle of the door to the cellar,
pushing on it. “Ah, can’t. It’s locked.” He almost sounds
relieved.

“
It opens outwards.” Grace pulls back the barrel bolt and
heaves the door. “And mind your step, it’s a long drop.”

Colin
steps inside, vanishes into the gloom, steps out again. “–Break ma
bloody neck,” he says as he pushes the wood firmly back into its
hole. “Okay, it might be three for three so far, but I’m still no
convinced. Where to now?”

Grace
indicates the door at the far end of the room. “Through there is a
passageway, the servants’ route, off to the right of which are some
smaller store rooms, to the left a sort of washroom with a loo. The
passage itself takes you to a short flight of steps up to a door
which comes out under the main staircase close to the dining
room.”

Details
and directions reeled off as if she’s a tour guide reading from
some internal map.

“
Right then, Macduff,” Colin says, uncertainly. “You’d
better lead on.”

“
We’re under the stairs now,” Grace says, pointing to the
change in the shape of the roof and easing open the
door.

They
emerge from beneath the staircase into a hallway tiled with
terracotta and cream coloured terrazzo. They make their way to the
centre of the huge, echoing space, all wood panelling and plaster
relief.

“
This is the main part of the house,” she says, cricking her
neck to look up into the high vaulted ceiling and the upturned
iceberg of a chandelier dangling like a giant’s earring. “It’s like
a central hub. You access all the rooms down here from this
point.”

Colin
counts the number of doors leading off the hallway. Six in total,
all identical, all closed.

“
Okay, Smarty. What have we got here?”

Grace
turns herself in a lazy circle, arm extended to point at each door,
her voice floating away into the hollow emptiness.

“
Dining room, sitting room, study, library, music room, all
empty. That one is locked, no key. Want to be the man again and go
check?”

“
No thanks, I’ll take yer word for it.” Colin shivers. “I
dinna ken we should be in here. The feel of this place is makin’ ma
hair stand on end.” He runs his hand over the newel post, makes a
face and wipes a grimy smear down his pants. “Filthy.”

“
So would you be if nobody had cleaned you for over fifty
years.”

“
Ye want ta go upstairs?”

“
Might as well. There’s nothing down here but mice and
cockroaches. Can you manage the stairs?”

Colin
looks up them, grimaces. “It’s been a while.”

“
Keep to the edges and hold onto the banister and if you
need to rest, rest. Okay?”

“
Aye.”

The
mountainous stairs are a struggle for Colin and he has to use the
handrail for support as he hauls himself up step by step. Grace
waits patiently for him at the half landing where the staircase
divides into two shorter flights.

“
You okay?” she says when he finally makes it, out of breath
and limping.

“
Aye, no bad,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”

She
gives him five before asking, “Left or right?”

Colin
looks in both directions as if trying to weigh up which side seems
the least threatening. Both wings are as dark and as dingy as the
other. “Where did ye find the body?”

Grace
points up the left hand staircase. “Up there. Third room on the
left.”

“
We’ll go right then,” he says.

They
take the right hand flight and twelve tortuous steps later reach a
long, wood panelled gallery.

“
There’s half a dozen rooms in this wing, three on each
side,” Grace says. “If we start at the far end we can work our way
back here.”