The Ghost Fields (Ruth Galloway) (16 page)

Ruth still feels embarrassed when she remembers bursting in on the Blackstock family dinner, the old retainer at the door, the candlelight, the table, the formally dressed figures with their glasses raised. It was as if she had staggered into a Tolstoy novel. She had made her excuses and left but Sally had come after her, followed by Nell. Ruth had produced the photograph and Nell had been delighted.

‘It’s so dear to see Daddy with his comrades.’

Neither of them mentioned the fact that Fred was clearly a member of a ten-man team and not a lone pilot.

‘I’ll treasure it for ever,’ said Nell.

Now Ruth watches as Fred’s coffin is lowered into the grave. It’s a moment that never ceases to shock, no matter how long ago the death. The crowd begins to disperse and, conspicuous amongst the sea of black, she sees Cathbad and Hazel, both wearing purple cloaks, standing to one side of the grave. The TV cameraman is filming them surreptitiously. And there’s Nelson, accompanied by Tim Heathfield and Clough, moving forward to talk to Sally Blackstock. The cameraman, who has, up until now, been the soul of discretion, allows himself a few shots of the grave and of Nell Blackstock walking away, clutching the folded flag to her chest.

Ruth stays back. She doesn’t much want to talk to the TV people or to the family. She is still wondering whether to attend the ‘celebration’ at Blackstock Hall. Clara, her regular babysitter, is looking after Kate and she never minds staying late but, all the same, Ruth doesn’t like the thought of being stuck at the Hall for hours, especially with this storm brewing. When she thinks of the scene last night, she is struck by a slight but real jolt of fear. She remembers Old George howling in the pets’ burial ground and standing at the head of the table proposing a toast. She thinks she has seen enough of the Blackstocks for the time being. On the other hand, she would get to see Nelson. And Frank.

She saw Frank as soon as she entered the church. He was hard to miss, with his height and breadth. He was sitting between Paul and Earl and, as far as Ruth could see, there was no sign of the elusive Gloria. Frank looked round the church at one point but Ruth had cleverly concealed herself behind a pillar and, in any case, she knows that Frank’s long sight is not good. He claims that he can never find his glasses but Ruth has always suspected that it’s only vanity that stops him wearing them all the time. He does have very piercing blue eyes.

Now Ruth can see the three TV people walking through the graveyard. In their black suits they look oddly intimidating, like something from a gangster film. Ruth looks round for a handy tombstone to hide behind but she’s obviously in the newer part of the cemetery, all neat white stones and, of course, the pile of flowers and freshly dug earth around Flying Officer Blackstock’s grave. She sets off down the path, head down.

In the car park, the official cars are just leaving. From the look of the other cars, parked in all directions like a complicated Tetris puzzle, it will be some time before Ruth can get her Renault out. The TV van is also parked across one of the exits, making a bottleneck of the winding country road. Ruth retraces her steps. She’ll wait in the graveyard for a while and then escape when everyone else has left and go straight home. It’s not as if anyone will miss her, she thinks savagely. Apart from a smile and a half-wave, Nelson has ignored her completely. Frank hasn’t even noticed her. Cathbad is busy being a druid with Hazel. She can see them talking earnestly to one of the TV crew.

The wind is getting up now. It is riffling through the flowers around the new grave, making the cellophane flap like the wings of a great wounded bird. The temperature has dropped and it’s suddenly bitterly cold. Ruth decides to wait in the church porch. There’s a little stone seat in there and at least she’ll be out of the wind.

But as she rounds the corner to the church, she has a shock. A man is already standing in the porch. A tramp, she thinks at first. He has long grey hair and a beard that reaches almost to his waist. There’s something eerie about him, as if a stone wizard has suddenly come to life and is observing the mortal world with a view to doing something nasty to it.

Ruth backs away. ‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ says the man. ‘The church belongs to us all.’

His voice takes her aback. It’s deep and cultured, slightly amused. There’s also a trace of an accent. Scottish? Irish? Something soft and rather romantic. Ruth sees now that the man’s clothes aren’t exactly shabby either. He’s wearing a waxed Barbour, a bit battered but no more so than any coat belonging to the hunting, shooting, fishing set. He has boots on too, proper walking boots splashed with mud, and there’s a staff leaning against the wall. Perhaps it’s the staff, but the man has the look of having come a long way. There’s an infinite weariness about him.

‘Have you come for the funeral?’ she asks.

He looks at her. He has very pale-blue eyes that look as if they’re used to scanning far horizons. She thinks of a sailor and of someone else, a memory that’s disturbing as well as heart-warming.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve come for the funeral. To pay my respects to Fred. What about you?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘That is, I never knew Fred but I’ve come to . . . pay my respects.’

He looks at her again. That penetrating look, half-amused, half-cynical. Ruth finds herself blundering on, ‘I’m an archaeologist. I was involved with finding the body. Fred’s body . . .’ Her voice trails away.

Now it’s the man’s turn to state his connection to Fred, but he says nothing. He looks away from her, towards the graveyard, where the rowan tree stands black against the gathering clouds. What did Cathbad tell her about rowan trees? Something about them being planted in graveyards because they’re meant to guard against evil spirits.

Through the trees she can see cars moving along the path.

‘I’d better go,’ she says.

The man says nothing but, when she turns back, he raises his hand in a gesture reminiscent of Cathbad’s hail and farewell.

But it’s not Cathbad he reminds her of. It’s Erik.

The car park is empty apart from Ruth’s Renault and a long black car with tinted windows. Frank, Earl and Paul are standing by the limo, deep in conversation.

Ruth has nowhere to hide. She tries to head straight for her car but Frank sees her and calls, ‘Ruth!’

‘Hi!’ she shouts back, not coming closer. She scrabbles in her bag for her keys. Why can she never find anything in her organiser handbag?

‘Ruth.’ Oh dear, now he’s next to her, looking down from his six-foot-something height.

‘Hallo, Frank. Just looking for my car keys.’

‘I was hoping to have the chance to chat to you. Are you going to Blackstock Hall now?’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s getting late and there’s meant to be a storm coming.’

‘Oh, the famous St Jude’s Storm. Cathbad was talking about that. The weather seems OK at the moment though.’

The weather might seem OK to an American – used to tornadoes and snowstorms – but it seems pretty wild to Ruth. She can hear the wind rattling the lych gate.

‘Do come,’ says Frank. ‘Just for a bit. I haven’t seen anything of you since I’ve been in England.’

Ruth makes the mistake of looking up at him, at those bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

‘Oh, all right,’ she says. ‘Just for a little bit.’

A field opposite the house has been cordoned off for use as a car park. It’s pretty full by the time that Ruth arrives so she parks on the verge, hoping for a quick getaway. The black car, with Paul at the wheel, purrs to a halt behind her. She feels a bit embarrassed to be making an entrance as part of the TV contingent but it can’t be helped. They trek across the field to the front door, Frank striding ahead and Earl complaining about the sheep.

‘Are you sure they’re friendly, Frank? That one over there looks real evil.’

‘Sheep aren’t evil, Earl. They’re sacred animals in England.’

‘Jesus,’ says Paul, ‘listen to that wind.’

Ruth has been thinking the same thing. The wind, which seemed wild in the graveyard, sounds positively savage roaring across the open fields. The few trees are bent almost double and even the house, with its towers and buttresses, seems insubstantial all of a sudden, as if the storm might blow the whole edifice away.

‘It’s atmospheric,’ says Earl. ‘We must get Steve and his boys to take some footage.’

Ruth knows that Steve is the director of photography, a powerful presence on the set. She saw his van in the car park. Presumably he and his team are already filming the house and its inhabitants.

They are met at the door by Cassandra bearing a tray of champagne glasses.

‘Hi. I’m Cassandra Blackstock.’ She flashes them a mega-watt smile.

‘I’m Frank Barker,’ says Frank. ‘Do you know Dr Ruth Galloway from the university?’

‘We met briefly last night,’ says Cassandra. Ruth thinks she sounds rather wary.

Frank is continuing with the introductions. ‘And this is Earl Kennedy and Paul Brindisi from
The History Men
.
’

‘Hi.’ Is it Ruth’s imagination or does Cassandra’s smile stretch even wider? Of course, she’s an actress. Clearly she’s hoping to make an impression on the TV men. Ruth is now ignored completely.

That suits Ruth. She edges away, finds a glass of orange juice and tracks down Cathbad and Hazel, who are drinking champagne in the library.

‘At least they call it a library,’ says Cathbad, ‘but there aren’t any books here.’

It’s true that the handsome shelves spanning floor to ceiling are empty apart from a few encyclopaedias and a jumble of electrical equipment.

‘They’re not big readers, the Blackstocks,’ says Hazel. Ruth remembers Cathbad saying that Hazel knew the family well.

‘Have you met Fred’s daughter?’ she says. ‘I thought she looked close to tears during the service.’

‘Nell,’ says Hazel. ‘I met her just now. Seems like a nice lady.’

‘Must be hard for her,’ says Ruth. ‘I don’t suppose she ever really knew her father.’

‘Nobody here really knew him,’ says Cathbad. For some reason, Ruth thinks of the man at the church. Did he know Fred? But he’s not old enough, despite the grey beard. But if he didn’t know Fred, why was he at the service?

‘Old George knew him,’ says Ruth. ‘He was his brother.’

She had spotted Old George on her way through the house. He was holding court in the drawing room, surrounded by younger members of the family.

‘Old George is a deep one,’ says Hazel. ‘He’ll be feeling it today but he won’t let it show.’

‘They’re a cold bunch, the English aristocracy,’ agrees Cathbad.

‘Cold?’ says a voice. ‘Everything’s cold in this goddamn house.’

Ruth looks up and sees Nell’s husband, Blake, the man with the red scarf. Now he has ditched the scarf, though he’s still wearing his coat.

‘You’re the girl who made such a dramatic appearance at the dinner party,’ he says. ‘Banquo’s ghost.’

‘I’m Ruth Galloway,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m really embarrassed about the other night.’

‘Don’t be,’ says Blake. ‘It fitted right in with the general atmosphere. Old George going on about storms and omens, everyone else seething with suppressed emotion. Or they would be if this house wasn’t cold enough to freeze the heart. I’m just looking for a room with a temperature sufficient to support human life.’

‘Well, it’s not very warm in here,’ says Ruth. ‘But there is a radiator. I’m sitting on it.’ She gets up.

Blake comes forward eagerly to put his hands on the radiator, which is the sort found in old school buildings, waist-high rounded metal, lukewarm to the touch.

You’re the archaeologist, aren’t you?’ says Blake. ‘You seem to have caused quite a stir in the Blackstock household.’

‘Have I?’

‘Well, all that stuff about Fred’s body being buried somewhere around here. Chaz and Cassandra were talking about it earlier. I see you’ve been digging in the grounds.’

‘Yes.’ Ruth feels a little wary of Blake, who has a manner reminiscent of her old history tutor at university, detached and interested at the same time. But she also likes him for the same reason and it’s rather cosy, the four of them huddled round the radiator in the old library. She starts to relax.