The Ghosts of Sleath (14 page)

‘But my father …’

‘I think he’s still in mourning for your mother. And he was alone with Ellen Preddle when he saw her dead son. Her thoughts could have been so strong your father’s own mind picked them up.’

Grace touched the small wound on her forehead. ‘Then was this in my mind also?’ Her anger was still there, but it remained controlled.

‘Ellen Preddle was agitated. She was afraid and angry and sometimes, with a particular person, those emotions can summon their own forces. The Institute’s investigated a few hundred cases of alleged poltergeist hauntings and most of them have turned out to be nothing more than released energies from pubescent girls.’

‘You can hardly put Ellen in that category.’

‘Of course not, but the principle stands. The mind has enormous powers, Grace, powers that we still can’t comprehend.’

‘You don’t believe Sleath is being haunted.’ It was a flat, almost dispirited, statement.

‘I didn’t say that. It’s too soon to make any kind of judgement.’

‘Then what happens now?’

‘I continue with my investigation. And we wait.’

Her eyes asked the question.

‘We wait,’ he said, ‘for something else to happen.’

H
OLDING THE BRIGHT
flower-patterned curtain to one side, the gamekeeper peered out into the cloudy night.

‘The buggers’ll be back all right,’ he said in a growl that made his wife look up from her sewing. ‘Surely not, Jack, not two nights running,’ she said, more in hope than conviction.

He let the curtain fall and turned from the window. ‘They’re that stupid, Maddy. Because they got away with a good catch las’ night they think their luck’s in. Take m’word forrit, they’ll be back agen tonight.’

‘Lenny Grover and his cronies?’

‘You can bank on it.’ Jack Buckler went out into the hallway and took down a pair of aged but strong walking boots from a shelf. When he carried them back into the little sitting room the Airedale, which had been sprawled before the hearth just as if the winter fire still roared there, snapped its head up. As soon as the dog saw the old boots in its master’s hands it was on its feet, excited mewling sounds coming from its throat.

‘Now, Gaffer, don’t you be gettin into a lather,’ the keeper warned the dog. He grinned when the Airedale trotted over to him, its dark eyes expectant, the pink sliver of its tongue poking between yellow teeth. ‘All right, boy, we’ll see what we can root out tonight, shall we?’

Gaffer quickly went through to the hallway to wait by the front door, its breathing already coming in sharp pants. Jack Buckler sat on the edge of an armchair and kicked off his slippers. He grunted as he leaned over to pull on the heavy-duty boots.

‘Don’t get mud on my rug, mind,’ his wife scolded, although the anxiety she could barely conceal was for her husband and not the rug in question.

‘Cleaned ‘em earlier this evenin, an’ well you know it,’ he retorted good-humouredly.

‘Yes, well, sometimes you forget, Jack Buckler.’ Her tone softened. ‘Why don’t you leave it tonight, Jack? Beardsmore won’t be paying you more for being out in the middle of the night.’

‘Come on, Maddy, you know it’s m’job to keep them bloody mouchers away. They got a good bag las’ night an’ they’ll be after more tonight. It’s happened in the past with that lot an’ it’ll happen agen, so I can’t be takin no chances, not with the rollickin I got from the gov’nor today. Them buggers is doin too much damage. ’Sides, Beardsmore don’t like strangers wanderin about his land, whatever the reason. Y’know how private he is.’

Maddy laid her sewing aside and came over to his chair, kneeling there on the rug before him. She studied her husband’s face and, with a quiet sadness, realized his full sixty-three years showed in his tired old eyes, the lines around them the figurations of the sorrows and laughter of his good, God-fearing life. This gentle, kind man, while hardened to nature’s cruel but pragmatic ways, cared too much for the birds and animals in his charge, and sometimes she had to coax him from a duty that took no account of age and decline.

‘Call me a silly old woman, but I don’t feel right about you being out there tonight, Jack. There’s a funny sort of chill in my bones.’

‘Don’t talk daft, Maddy. Tonight’s no different from las’ night and the night before that, an’ you can be sure there’ll be those
about up to no good. Chill in your bones, indeed.’ He gave her cheek a tweak with thumb and finger. ‘Now you don’t expect me to be tucked up in bed when there’s those blamed dim-witted mouchers on the prowl, do you? S’more than me job’s worth, an’ well you know it.’

‘I know there’s no arguing with you, you stubborn old fool.’ She huffed at his dry chuckle and began lacing his boots for him. ‘You promise me you’ll be careful, that’s all I ask.’

His laughter faded and he stared at the top of Maddy’s head. So she felt it too. There
was
a queerness about the place lately and it was something bright days and balmy nights couldn’t shift. Even the birds and the animals in the woods had the jitters. Like … like all those years ago, when he was a mere stripling, when his father had shown him the poachers’ ways. Lord in Heaven, he hadn’t thought about those days in a long time and he didn’t want to think about them now. In Sleath every generation had known its own tragedy, some worse than others. Was it time again? He shivered and Maddy looked up anxiously.

‘Caught yer bloomin chill,’ he said jokily. ‘Temperature’s dropped, I think. I’ll need a coat.’

His wife stood, a breath escaping her with the effort. She smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. ‘I’ll fetch your jacket,’ she said, disappearing into the hallway. ‘Your cap, too,’ he heard her call back. ‘Might rain again later, like it did this morning.’

Gaffer paced in small circles while the keeper joined his wife in the hallway, its short tail erect and shining eyes glancing from its master to the door.

‘Calm down, Gaffer,’ Buckler said in a gruff voice. ‘Don’t want you tearin through the bushes scarin off the villains, do we?’

The dog immediately settled, aware it was work they were up to, not play.

Maddy helped her husband on with his jacket and he took a long Mag-lite torch from the boot shelf and slipped it into one of the deep pockets. He reached up again for a black object
that resembled a complicated stunted telescope and this he dropped into his other pocket. Maddy handed him his cap and he pulled it down firmly over his grey-white hair.

‘You get yerself off t’bed, girl,’ he said to his wife. ‘No sense in you waitin up half the night.’

‘Do you think I’d be witless enough to sit here waiting for you while you’re out playing cowboys and Indians? I’ll be nice and snug in our lovely soft bed, m’lad. You just be quiet when you get back and don’t be waking me up, d’you hear?’

She might be in bed, but she’d be lying there in the darkness, ears straining for his footsteps on the path. And she wouldn’t close her eyes until she heard the key in the door and his muffled tones settling Gaffer down for what was left of the night. She knew this, and so did the keeper.

They were too familiar with each other for parting kisses, and if he had bent down to brush her downy cheek with his dry old lips, she would know that he, too, shared her unease. Instead he touched the rim of his flat cap in mock salute before lifting the door latch.

As he opened the door, she said, ‘Do you want me to call anyone? Sergeant Pimlett might send someone over to give you a hand.’

The nearest police station was two villages and a town away, but sometimes the duty sergeant was willing to send a patrol car over if a catch was fairly certain. Poachers these days were not a priority for the hard-pressed county police force. ‘Don’t want to risk wastin their time, love. Be different if I knew for sure the mouchers will be out tonight, but I don’t want to lose the goodwill of the constabulary by bringin ’em over on a wild-goose chase.’

With that he slipped into the night, Gaffer already up the garden path way ahead of him. Maddy waited until the door had closed behind him before making a tiny, from-the-wrist, Sign of the Cross over her heart.
Let him be all right, dear Lord
, was her thought-prayer.
Don’t let anything happen to my Jack
. She went back into the sitting room and picked up her
sewing once more. But the needle was motionless in her hand and her eyes were closed for a long time.

Gaffer bounded up to the Land-Rover parked outside the open garden gate and waited there for its master to catch up. Jack Buckler followed at a more leisurely pace, his countenance grim now that he was outside the gamekeeper’s cottage. Maddy really was worried for him: never in her life before had she suggested calling in the police to give him a hand. Certainly the night patrol enjoyed the game - it was a pleasant relief from driving around concrete estates and hauling in yobs and drunks. Some of them even liked acting as beaters on daytime shoots when they were off duty - wages were poor, but fresh air, lively action and a good toddy afterwards brought its own reward and besides, it gave them the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the more rural areas of their extensive patch. But no, as a rule Maddy always left that kind of decision to him; he knew his business and she knew her place. So what had got into her tonight? Come to that, what had got into him? He’d been fidgety all evening.

He passed through the gate and pulled open the Land-Rover’s door. Gaffer instantly sprung up and over onto the passenger seat, its short wiry coat brushing against his hand like a tough-bristled brush on the way. Buckler climbed in after it.

‘Right then, me beauty, let’s see what we can snare on this gloomy ol’ night, shall we?’

Gaffer gave one thump of its short tail against the seat in response, and the keeper started the engine and switched on his lights.

He drove down the long rutted lane, heading through the woods towards an area of coverts that he knew were likely to attract the poachers, his headlights on half-beam for the moment. The hefty Mag-lite in his pocket was reassuring, although there were other gamekeepers who carried pick-axe handles for protection; worse still, there were
others
who took .440 shotguns on night patrols. That wasn’t his way, and
besides, he was only dealing with semi-professionals here, not an organized gang. Lenny Grover was a nasty piece of work, all right, but he was no hard man, not really. A good ‘boo!’ in the dark would send him scuttling for cover, as it would his drinking and poaching pal, Dennis Crick. The pair of them would be off like terrified rabbits once they knew a keeper was about. Nevertheless, no matter that neither man had any spunk, what they did have between them was garden guns - the 9mm Flobert, .360 shotgun, No 3 bore, to be precise - fitted with home-made silencers. Buckler knew this to be a fact because he, himself, had collected the empty cartridge cases from their previous night’s escapade that very morning (and he knew the silencers were home-made because Grover and Crick would never spend good money on such an accessory when it could so easily and cheaply be made in their own garden shed or garage). Oddly enough, it was the third member of this nasty little gang - and he was quite aware there were three of them - that angered him the most, for this one’s weapon, as well as being inefficient, was particularly vicious.

It was obvious he was an amateur, no doubt brought along by the other two for his usefulness as a carrier rather than his skill as a poacher. Young Mickey Dunn was the prime candidate, and his odious weapon was the crossbow. One of the worst situations in a gamekeeper’s book was to come upon a bird or animal that had been mortally wounded by a quarrel and had managed to escape the hunter by dragging itself off into cover where it would die a pitiful and lingering death. It was at such moments that Jack Buckley would have cheerfully turned that nasty weapon on its sadistic owner. Or shot his kneecaps off with his own shotgun. Or bashed his head in with a pick-axe handle. Which was why he never carried such weapons on occasions like this. No, the Mag-lite was long and sturdy enough to use for threat or defence; no need for anything that might do permanent damage.

Thin branches whipped across the Land-Rover’s windscreen as the vehicle lumbered down the narrowing track. Gaffer
rocked from side to side, enjoying the motion, loving the thrill of this midnight excursion. The keeper kept the speed down, the engine revs soft, his still keen eyes alert to everything around him, both side windows kept open for any alien sounds that might come his way. An assistant would have been useful on a night like this, someone who could approach from a different direction so that the mouchers could be caught between them, but the lord and master, the magazine magnate who now owned the majority of the Lockwood Estate, had dismissed the underkeeper as soon as he had arrived on the scene twenty-odd years ago. One man was enough to look after the game on his land, Beardsmore had decreed and he’d gone on to sack half the ground staff as well. Well, so be it. If he was willing to lose a large portion of his game to poachers, then it was his own damn fault. Except, of course, it would be the gamekeeper who copped the blame.

He slowed the Land-Rover to walking pace and switched to sidelights only, trusting his own knowledge of the way ahead - plus his keeper’s eyes, which were keener at night than the average person’s - to get him to his destination. Soon he switched off even the sidelights.

Now the vehicle lurched along at snail’s pace and eventually it stopped altogether. Buckler turned off the engine and quietly opened the door. Gaffer moved over to the driver’s seat the moment its master climbed out and it waited there until the command came.

Buckler looked in every direction, sniffing the air as if for alien smells; he was absorbing everything around him, listening for sounds, watching for the slightest movement, and testing the breeze for the smell of cordite. On certain nights, when the wind was gentle and from the right direction, he might even detect the coppery odour of animals’ blood. Tonight there appeared to be nothing unusual: no tiny snap of twigs as someone crept through the undergrowth, no sharp cry of a pheasant disturbed from its roost, no human murmurings as careless mouchers searched for prey. Even so, he sensed something
was amiss: something was not right about the very night itself and every bone in his body and every instinct he’d acquired told him the truth of it. What was more, the quiet, dragging whine from deep inside Gaffer’s throat told him the dog felt it too.

‘All right, boy, jus’ keep it down,’ he ordered in a hushed voice. ‘We don’t want to be warnin ’em off, do we? Oh no, this time we’ll ketch the buggers, jus’ see if we don’t. Can’t have ’em slaughterin our friends willy-nilly, can we, boy?’ His whispers were to reassure the dog, the soft tones to keep it calm. His voice still low, he instructed Gaffer to leave the vehicle and it immediately jumped down onto the track. It waited by its master’s side for further instructions.

Buckler slipped the Land-Rover’s keys into his pocket, making sure they did not clink together - such sounds would be amplified in the still night air. It was unlikely, but the intruders might just have been stupid enough to park their own vehicle further up the track and if so, the Land-Rover would block their way. More probably their pick-up would be left somewhere in one of the lanes that crossed the estate, the poachers travelling by foot to the covert they had in mind for that night’s business.