The Ghosts of Sleath (6 page)

S
HE WORE A WHITE
unbuttoned shirt over a T-shirt and pale blue skirt, and her eyes, a slightly lighter shade of blue than the skirt, showed such abject fear that Ash raised a placating hand towards her.

They stared at each other, neither one moving or speaking for several moments.

Ash was stunned. And perplexed. It was as if an invasive energy had overwhelmed his thoughts, leaving him mentally cowed. He consciously pushed back, exerting his will against the inexplicable pressure, and in an instant his mind was free, his thoughts were his own again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he found himself saying.

‘What?’ She shook her head uncomprehendingly.

‘I must have frightened you.’ Or
vice versa
, he told himself.

The woman straightened, her chin lifting as though she were reasserting herself. She was slim, fine-boned, her light-brown hair swept back in a tail that curled forward over her shoulder. In her hand she held a small bunch of flowers.

‘You didn’t.’ There was an edginess to her denial though, and her eyes betrayed her confusion.

Ash felt the same confusion. Awkwardly, he said, ‘I’m looking for the vicar. Reverend Lockwood?’

‘Oh.’ She seemed to relax a little, although the uncertainty
was still there in her eyes. ‘You won’t find him here at this hour.’

She looked past him and Ash realized he had boxed her in, for the church wall was L-shaped, the building continuing on for several yards. Directly behind her was a narrow door, perhaps leading to St Giles’ sacristy. He casually moved aside, allowing her a psychological route of escape, and wasn’t surprised when she took a few steps forward to be in clear space. It was an interesting ritual and Ash wondered if the woman was as aware as he of the behavioural dance. Her guarded smile suggested she was.

‘Reverend Lockwood will be on his rounds, visiting some of the older parishioners,’ she explained. ‘It’ll be lunchtime soon, though, so he’ll be returning to the vicarage before too long.’

‘Ah.’ He found he had nothing more to say; he was still disturbed by the odd sensation a few moments earlier.

Perhaps sensing his confusion, the woman spoke again. ‘Is Reverend Lockwood expecting you?’ She surprised him when her smile broadened and she visibly relaxed. ‘Of course. You’re David Ash, aren’t you? You’re from the Psychical Research Institute.’

‘Yes. How …?’ He let the question hang in the air.

‘I was the one who contacted Kate McCarrick at the Institute on behalf of my father. I’m Grace Lockwood, the Reverend Lockwood’s daughter.’

She transferred the flowers she held to her left hand and moved towards him, holding out her right. He took it and felt a mild shock of recognition.

But it was she who said: ‘Have we met before?’

Somehow he knew they hadn’t, despite his feelings when they had touched. Nevertheless, he took time to search his memory. He placed her in her late twenties, an attractive woman whose voice was as soft as her features. Her skin was slightly tanned, emphasizing the blueness of her eyes, and she wore little make-up. Although not glamorous, he realized she was one of those women who grew more appealing by the
moment; the longer he studied her face, the more beautiful she seemed to become. He knew that if he had met her before she would not have been forgotten.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘Uh, no, I don’t think so.’

She shook her head, as though uncertain. She shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re right. You looked familiar, that was all.’

Did he really? Or was she confused by the same sensation he, himself, had felt when they had confronted each other? But now even that was receding from him, becoming vague, an initial reaction that was less significant by the moment, and he knew that soon he would be wondering if the whole thing had been precipitated by his own overwrought imagination. In all probability, his sudden appearance around the corner of the church had only startled the clergyman’s daughter and there had been no sharing of a psychic experience. Get a grip, Ash, he told himself, and stop imagining everyone else is as crazy as you.

Again he felt awkward and he quickly said, ‘You say your father will be home soon?’

‘Yes, for lunch. I’ll be returning there myself in a few minutes, so we can walk together, if you like.’

‘Fine. Is it far?’ He was just making conversation.

‘Not very. Wait for me to lay these flowers, then we’ll go.’

He watched her cut through the graves, her movements appropriate to her name, her white shirt and blue skirt bright among the grey, decaying tombstones. Some distance away she came to a halt and bent down to rest the bouquet of flowers. She straightened, but remained there, her head bowed as if in prayer.

As she made her way back to him she disturbed a butterfly that had settled on a headstone and it fluttered around her, white and delicate in the sunlight. He saw her smile and her lips moved as if she were speaking to it. The butterfly circled her twice before flitting away to disappear into a clump of high grass near the edge of the graveyard.

Grace Lockwood’s smile was directed at him as she drew
near and she studied him with an interest that was almost disconcerting.

‘I’ve never met a ghost hunter before,’ she said when she reached him. ‘You’re not quite what I imagined.’

‘You thought I’d be wearing a cape, and maybe a black hat’

‘With a beard, at least. Oh, and a bible under your arm.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘You haven’t.’ She flicked her head towards the village. ‘Have you had a chance to see much yet?’

‘I took in some of it on the way up here,’ he told her. ‘It’s quaint. I’m surprised you don’t get more tourists.’

‘Sometimes they find us, even though we make a conscious effort to keep out of the tourist guides.’

‘I can understand why. Sleath would certainly be an attraction, particularly for Americans and Japanese. They’d love a genuine slice of olde England.’

‘We prefer our privacy.’ She looked past his shoulder, as if disturbed. ‘We’re almost hidden away and the villagers do their best to keep the secret to themselves.’

‘Secret?’

‘I mean how lovely it is here. We’re a tight community, Mr Ash, and warm welcomes aren’t generally extended to outsiders.’

He gave a wry smile. ‘I can confirm that. Even the landlord at the Black Boar didn’t seem overjoyed with my booking.’

‘You’re staying there?’

He nodded.

‘Tom Ginty’s all right. A bit brusque at first, but friendly enough once he gets to know you.’

Ash refrained from telling her that Ginty’s offhandedness only surfaced when the Reverend Lockwood’s name was mentioned. He changed the subject: ‘The flowers - were they for a relative or a friend?’

The question took her by surprise. ‘Oh, they were for my mother. She died last year. Shall we go now?’ She began to
walk towards the lychgate and Ash quickly fell in step beside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hating the cliché.

‘Sorry you asked, or sorry my mother is dead?’ She obviously disliked the cliché too. She turned to him and her smile softened the reproach. ‘I was away from home at the time - I’d been working in Paris for two years at the
Musée de Cluny
- and arrived back an hour after she died. Father hadn’t realized just how bad she was, or he would have called me home sooner.’

He resisted offering more condolences. ‘What were you doing at the museum?’

‘Do you know the
Musée de Cluny
?’

He shook his head.

‘It was once a mediaeval monastery and now houses one of the world’s great collections of arts and crafts of the Middle Ages. Spurs, chastity belts, sculptures, ivories, bronzes, jewellery - all kinds of fascinating artefacts. Unfortunately, many of the objects there had never been documented or catalogued, and it was my job to trace their history and put them into some kind of historical context. In the winter months the place is relatively empty of visitors, so it was easy to work among the treasures without being disturbed.’

‘You’re an expert on that sort of thing?’

‘My studies concentrated on the Middle Ages. They were interesting times.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. But why France? I’d have thought our own Middle Ages would keep you fully occupied here.’

‘Too many historians after too few jobs in this country, Mr Ash.’

‘David’s less formal, Miss Lockwood.’

‘So is Grace. I’d been visiting the museums and galleries in Paris for years - my parents always encouraged me to travel - but when I discovered a series of tapestries - they’re called
La Dame Aux Licornes
- in the
Musée de Cluny
I was hooked. They’re so haunting, so compelling …’ She broke off. ‘Do you know them?’

Ash gave a little laugh and, without embarrassment, admitted he had never heard of them. ‘I’ll take your word for it that they’re something special, though,’ he added. They had reached the lychgate by now and he pulled the gate open for Grace to pass through.

‘Oh, they’re extraordinarily special,’ she replied as she entered into shadow. ‘But on my visits I realized just how far behind the museum was with its chronologizing and documentation and I offered my services. It was somewhat bold, but my French wasn’t too bad and my qualifications were adequate. I was also willing to work for low wages, so after some correspondence and various references, the museum offered me a year’s contract.’

‘You must have been pleased.’

‘An understatement - I was ecstatic. The first year went well and my French quickly improved. There was so much to do and, of course, more relics were being discovered all the time. Lots of them were sent directly to us, while others the museum had to bid for. My contract was extended for another two years but, as I told you, my mother was taken ill last year and I had to return.’

‘But you could have gone back to Paris, surely.’

Her face was shaded, but he noticed the change in her voice, the quietness of her words. ‘My father needed me here.’

She walked out into the brightness on the other side of the lychgate and her sadness seemed to lift with the renewed warmth. ‘Are you hungry, Mr Ash - David?’

‘A little bit.’ Another vodka would have been more welcome.

‘Well the house isn’t far.’ She indicated the opposite direction to the village and began to walk. ‘Perhaps you’ll join us for lunch?’ she asked as he caught up.

‘Thank you. I thought the vicarage would be closer to St Giles’.’

‘It’s closer than it used to be. My ancestors were the original lords of the manor hereabouts, as well as the community’s spiritual guides. In fact, the Lockwood family has been part of
Sleath’s history for many generations. Do you know what a “squarson” is?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘It’s a term dating from the eighteenth century when the local squire and parson were one and the same person.’

‘It must have been a powerful combination.’

‘It was. Perhaps too much so.’ She looked off into the distance and it was several moments before she spoke again. ‘We’re the poor generation of Lockwoods now, and my father has only the usual vicar’s influence over his parish. Which isn’t very much in this day and age,’ she added with a smile. ‘I work part-time at the community hall, so that brings in a little extra. It keeps me occupied too.’

‘You said the vicarage is closer to the church than it used to be,’ Ash reminded her, still puzzled by the statement.

‘Sorry, I digressed. Lockwood Hall stood in the heart of its own estate, but the house burned down a couple of hundred years or so ago. My father and I live in what was once the lodge at the entrance to the grounds.’

‘Quite a change in circumstances.’

‘Not at all. The Lockwoods lost most of their wealth long before my father was born. I’ve never been used to anything else.’

He could tell by her smile there was no regret. ‘I’m sure your father is just as respected by the people here,’ he said.
Even if the local landlord didn’t seem too keen on his vicar
, he thought.

‘Oh, I don’t think the old Lockwoods were very popular. They had to keep order in the parish as well as preach God’s word.’

‘Yeah, I noticed the stocks and whipping post down in the village.’

‘There were worse punishments than that in the old days.’

‘I can’t imagine too many villains in a quiet place like this.’

‘Perhaps not nowadays, but Sleath has certainly had its moments in the past.’

‘Some of your mouchers were pointed out to me in the Black Boar this morning.’

‘Mouchers? My word, you’re learning fast.’

‘The landlord explained the term.’

‘Well, we still have our share of poachers and thieves, plus the usual village carryings-on.’

‘Any witches’ covens, satanists, that kind of thing?’

She laughed. ‘Now what made you ask that?’

‘Just a general line of enquiry - isolated community and all that.’

‘We’re not that isolated. True, the villagers tend to keep to themselves, but even that’s beginning to change.’

They were well past the church boundary by now and the narrow lane had evened out. Woodland and hills lay ahead of them, with only a few houses in view here and there.

‘How’s it changing?’ he asked, swinging his jacket over his shoulder and tucking his other hand into his trouser pocket.

‘The younger people are leaving, looking for work in the towns or moving down to London. Even the young children are bussed to a school in the next town these days.’

He stopped walking. ‘But I passed the village school on the way up here. I heard the kids singing.’

She stopped too. ‘You heard them? No, it must have been a radio in one of the cottages.’

‘It came from the school,’ he insisted. ‘The kids were singing a hymn as I walked by.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ she insisted, and there was more than just puzzlement in her pale blue eyes: there was the merest hint of alarm. ‘Sleath Primary closed down two years ago. The school is empty.’

K
NIT ONE, PURL ONE
,
knit one, purl one
…

Ellen Preddle sat by the window, the only sound in the tiny front room the click of her knitting needles as they made contact. Her fingers worked deftly, the beginnings of the boy’s jumper she was making lying across her knees, the red ball of wool on a stool by her chair.

Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one
…

It was an unspoken litany - although her lips moved in voiceless rhythm - a means of concentrating her mind, keeping bad thoughts at bay. But every once in a while her gaze went beyond the points of the needles to become unfocused, unseeing, and her thoughts drifted into a dark reverie of things best forgotten.

‘Oh, Simon …’ she murmured and the clicking ceased as she rested her hands on her lap. Sunlight shone fierce and bright through the closed window, causing the grey threads in her dark hair to sparkle silver. A bee’s furry body made the tiniest thud against the windowpane and its drone grew to an angry buzz as it exerted pressure against the invisible barrier. Defeated, it flew off, back to the sweet nectar of garden flowers, its dance elaborate, its wrath forgotten.

Ellen sighed. Such a good boy was Simon. Such an innocent. But why hadn’t he visited her for three days now? Had she
done something wrong? Was he angry with her? She bit into her lower lip and her chest tightened to restrain the sob that swelled there. Mustn’t cry. Crying upset Simon. Nevertheless, a mistiness settled over her eyes and she blinked, forcing a teardrop from them. It trailed down her cheek, tickling her skin, and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.

She gazed at the wool spread across her lap. Simon liked red. The colour made him feel happy, he always said. Happy? What happiness had her poor little mite ever known? Only when it was just the two of them, together, playing games, tending their little garden, even shopping. And sharing childish jokes, giggling together, watching television together, together … The key turning in the lock soon spoilt that happiness. Simon’s face would change, it would become frightened, frantic almost, the moment he heard a foot on the doorstep. He would stare at the door as the key jiggled in the lock, then sink into his mother when it began to open.

How they both hated it when
he
came into the room, filling the air with his vile stench of whisky and cigarettes and the foul odour of his unwashed body! How they wanted to run and hide from his evil,
dirty
, ways! How -

With a sharp movement, she raised the knitting again, forcing the terrible memories from her mind.

Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one
…

Even after his father’s death little Simon was afraid. Still he watched the front door with fear in his eyes whenever he heard a sound outside, even though she assured him his father was gone, that he would bother them no more, that it truly was just the two of them now. Together … But still the nightmares, the dreams of footsteps on the stairway when there was really no one there, no one to creep into his room to torment him, to do those horrible things -

Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, slip one
…

Put it away from you, Ellen! Forget those things.
He was gone
. It was only her and Simon now. Despite what everybody else said, what they believed. What did they know? They
thought Simon had left her, but no, he wouldn’t do that, not her Simon. He loved his mummy too much. She had explained that to the priest, but he had chided her, told her it wasn’t so, that Simon was … that Simon was …

Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit
…

Her nimble fingers worked fast, faster, their movement difficult to follow. Stitches were dropped, the pattern began to become senseless.

But where was Simon now? Today? Yesterday? The day before? Why hadn’t he returned? Did he blame … did he blame …

… Me …?

The clicking stopped. The room was quiet once more.

Could he blame … his mother? Oh Simon, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t know … didn’t understand the things … your father … did … to you …

She resumed the knitting, but her action was slow, leaden.

Knit … one … purl … one … knit … drop
…

A sound from the stairs.

She turned her head. She listened.

It came again. But it was from above, not the stairs. A commonplace noise, an ordinary, everyday sound.

Ellen began to rise from the chair.

The red ball of wool slipped from the stool and rolled across the floor, unravelling as it went. Ellen looked up at the low ceiling. The sound - so real, so … so normal - came yet again. The sound of water. Water being quietly splashed.

Simon liked to play with water.

Simon liked his bathtime.

Until that last…

She dropped the knitting, the needles clicking together one last time as they hit the floor.

‘Simon …?’ Her call was soft, uncertain.

A faint splash of water again.

Ellen took a step towards the stairs.

‘Have you come back, Simon?’

A smile as uncertain as her voice played on her lips.

She continued the journey to the foot of the stairs and peered upwards as if expecting to see her dead son on the landing above. But no, of course not, he wouldn’t be there. The sound had come from the bathroom. Simon would be in the bath, playing with the water like he always used to.

She trod the first step. Then the next.

More loudly this time she said, ‘Simon?’ and her steps became more hurried.

She stumbled and her hands held on to the higher steps to steady herself. It didn’t take long to climb the rest of the stairs and within moments Ellen was at the top, on the small landing that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom.

The bathroom door was ajar.

And the sounds were even clearer now.

Someone was in the bath.
Simon
was in the bath. Where he had … the word was impossible for her to acknowledge … where he had …

‘Simon!’

The splashing ceased.

‘Simon.’ This time she whispered the name. ‘I’m coming to you.’ Her smile had returned, and it was more sure.

Ellen raised her hand to push open the bathroom door, and she contained her eagerness, not wanting to startle him, afraid he would go away again, fade as he had done before.

Gently she pressed against the door.

And screamed when she saw the awful blackened thing leaning over the bath, partly obscuring the tiny white figure that it held beneath the water with its charred arms.