The Haunted Lady
Authors: Bill Kitson
THE HAUNTED LADY
An Eden House Mystery
Bill Kitson
The fifth in the Eden House Mysteries from Bill Kitson, featuring ingenious sleuths Adam Bailey and Eve Samuels. When Adam and Eve finally tie the knot, the peace and quiet of married life is soon shattered when Eve makes a strange acquaintance on the train...soon the newlyweds are investigating more tales of murder, mayhem and nefarious deeds.
Dedicated to all members of Studley Royal Cricket Club,
particularly their junior players.
I hope you get as much enjoyment from the game as I have.
Acknowledgements
––––––––
W
ith all plots, the need for character names always arises. Last year I was asked if I could help with fund-raising for two worthwhile events. I offered, as an auction lot, the chance to be named in my next book. The first was at Studley Royal Cricket Club, Summer Ball, where David and Valerie (whose name isn’t Kershaw) deserve grateful thanks for their generous contribution to Junior Cricket, a cause dear to my heart. Likewise, to the real Councillor Tom Fox whose donation through the Scarborough Rainbow Centre’s silent auction, helped provide much needed funds for the homeless and those in need of practical support.
My thanks to all of them for allowing me to take their names in vain.
As always, I have to thank Greg, my meticulous editor at Accent Press for keeping me in order, along with Hazel and the rest of the A Team. And of course, my own in-house editor, critic, proof-reader and typo-hunter, Val.
Chapter One
January 1983
––––––––
I
t was late January when Eve – or should I say the new Mrs Bailey – and I boarded a train at King’s Cross to return home from our honeymoon. After the wedding ceremony on Christmas Eve, we had spent a month in southern Europe, avoiding the cold January weather and, as Eve put it, avoiding trouble. I’ve no idea why, but between us we have developed a knack of solving other people’s problems and perhaps it’s because of my journalistic background that we succeed. Or maybe it’s just Eve’s nosy nature.
For the latter part of the journey home, there was only one other occupant in our First Class compartment, an elderly woman seated at the far end of the carriage who looked very upset.
‘Adam, I’m going to see if that lady’s all right,’ Eve told me.
She spent a long time talking to the other passenger before returning to her seat. ‘She’s heading for Elmfield, and was going to take a taxi from York, so I offered her a lift. That all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Anyway, you’ll never guess what she told me.’
As usual, Eve was absolutely right. I’d never have guessed – not in a million years.
‘Her name is Marjorie Phillips. She’s going to Elmfield to stay with her son.’ Eve paused, as if awaiting some reaction to the name, but it rang no bells with me – at least, not until Eve continued. ‘He’s vicar of Elmfield, and also of Dinsdale Parish Church, but his mother is worried. Apparently he’s having a lot of problems. Michael Phillips, we met him, a while ago. Do you remember him?’
‘Vaguely. So what’s his problem? Is somebody stealing money from the collection plate?’
I was treated to one of Eve’s withering glances. She’s extremely good at these; she has a whole array of them. This one was a medium velocity version. ‘Don’t be so flippant, he’s having a lot of trouble at Dinsdale Parish Church and, from what little she said, part of it is regarding his love life.’
‘Ah, yes, that can be a real problem.’
I received a hefty blow in the ribs. Have I mentioned what sharp elbows Eve has? I paid more attention as she continued, ‘She said there have been what she referred to as “some very strange goings-on” inside the church. So much so that the locals believe the church might be haunted. As if that wasn’t enough, she said, he’s also concerned about a missing picture. Added to which, he’s in love with a local girl, but it isn’t going smoothly. That’s what seems to be upsetting her the most and was all she would tell me, and I think she regretted saying as much as she had. I tried to get more information from her, but she clammed up, told me her son had specifically asked her not to mention it to anyone. I thought if we wanted to find out more it would be better to wait until we were in the car and then you could interrogate her properly.’
‘You make me sound like a member of the KGB. Besides, why would I be interested in a ghost and a missing picture?’
I was still protesting when the train pulled into York station.
As I struggled with the luggage, one of the passengers who alighted from the train caught my attention. It was a middle-aged man who seemed, at a casual glance, to be somewhat out of place in rural North Yorkshire. He was wearing a leather jacket and casual trousers with turn-ups, but his shirt was highly patterned, with a button-down collar, which, along with the hat he wore, was more an American fashion than an English one. His attire made me guess he hadn’t bought it anywhere nearby.
Probably a tourist
, I guessed. The hat certainly marked him out as not being local. Locally, hats are seldom worn, only if the weather demands, and then the headgear of popular choice is usually the flat cap – among many practical virtues, it’s more resistant to strong winds. The passenger was also carrying a suitcase, which, together with the other aspects of his appearance, convinced me that the tourist theory was correct.
His behaviour also provided a strong clue that he was a stranger to the area. On reaching the platform, he looked around as if to find his bearings, perhaps uncertain which direction to take. Before I could speculate or use my deductive powers further, though, I was commanded to attend to my task as personal baggage attendant, porter and chauffeur to Mrs Bailey.
We arrived outside the rectory in Elmfield as darkness was falling. Although we had introduced ourselves to Mrs Phillips before driving her from the station, it was fairly obvious that she had no idea who we were, apart from being a couple of local residents. She was only enlightened when we met her son. After thanking us for giving his mother a lift, he turned to her and remarked, ‘I bet you didn’t think you’d be riding with celebrities rather than taking a taxi, Mum.’
Seeing her blank expression, he gave us a wry smile, before explaining to her, ‘This is Adam Bailey, and Eve Samuels as was, Mum, the people who solved that mystery I told you about involving the children, and lots more besides. They’re often on TV.’ He turned to us and added, ‘Come to think of it, the way things are going, I might need your help – but I don’t want to spoil your honeymoon by burdening you with my worries.’
Next morning I began tackling the mountain of accumulated mail as Eve was doing battle with the pile of clothing she had assembled to insert into the washing machine. I cannot honestly remember wearing that much on honeymoon. I mean, you don’t, do you?
The doorbell rang and I called out, ‘It’s OK, Mrs Bailey, I’ll answer it.’
She opened the utility room door. ‘You only volunteered so you could call me Mrs Bailey.’
‘I just like the sound of it.’
‘Mmm, so do I. Call me it again.’
‘Just as you wish, Mrs Bailey.’
We really
were
still on honeymoon. Our village bobby, Johnny Pickersgill, was the visitor. ‘You’re back, then.’
Given that I was standing little more than eighteen inches in front of him, I reckoned that had to be the most obvious statement of all time. ‘You’re wasted in uniform branch. You should have been a detective. However did you guess?’
‘Sorry, I lost that scrap of paper you gave me, with the dates you were away on it. Anyway, I don’t know why you bothered going away, not with the way things have been here.’
He had been asked to keep an eye on Eden House during our absence – not that we anticipated any trouble. That sort of thing just didn’t happen, not in the village of Laithbrigg, or at least very rarely. I reined in my sarcasm and relented. ‘We arrived back yesterday evening. You’ll have to explain what you meant by “the way things have been”, because I’ve no idea what you’re on about.’
‘I’m talking about the weather; we’ve had the mildest January for years, been almost spring-like. Haven’t you seen it in the papers or on TV?’
My sarcasm returned, despite me trying to prevent it.
‘I appreciate that you’ve been married a long time, Johnny, but strange as it may seem to you, we didn’t spend our holiday glued to a TV set or with our noses buried in newspapers. That isn’t what a honeymoon is for.’
‘No, I suppose not. I only stopped by to check on the house but, seeing as you’re home, you may as well have your keys back.’
I opened the door wide. ‘I suppose you’ll be in need of a cuppa then?’
Under normal circumstances, the mention of a cup of tea would bring Johnny indoors. On this occasion, however, it seemed he had other priorities.
‘Thanks all the same but there’ll be a bacon butty waiting at the station by now. Of course, if I’d known you were back, then ... ’ His voice trailed off as he got back into his newly delivered Panda car.
Eve appeared at my side. ‘Was that Johnny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he unwell?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Then why ...?’
‘Never mind.’
Eve and I settled into married life very easily. We had known each other for over three years, lived together for more than two, and already made what was my original cottage into a house by adding an extension. We were content to continue our established daily routines. Every morning we took a walk and the rest of the time I would work on my next novel while Eve, needing something to tax her brain, decided to advance her talents by studying through the Open University.
It continued in this way until Eve announced she wanted a break. Easter was approaching and she wanted to go shopping. But as this was Eve, ‘shopping’ only equates to London. She and her sister, Lady Harriet Rowe, came from a wealthy family and knew how to shop.
We spent a week in London. Eve, it seemed was in training to win gold at the Olympic Games in Los Angeles – should they introduce shopping as a new event.
––––––––
T
here was no one about. Robert liked it that way. He enjoyed the peace and tranquillity, contrasting with, and acting as an antidote to, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. He drove slowly, taking in the magnificent scenery, knowing he was alone in these beautiful surroundings. The only creatures in sight were four-legged ones; a large herd of fallow deer grazing contentedly on the lush meadows that were bisected by the small, one-track road.
Several of them eyed the intruder with little more than idle curiosity. They were well used to the noisy, smelly contraptions that invaded their living space from time to time, had become accustomed to the odd creatures that emerged from those shells. The permanent residents of the deer park at Studley Royal knew that they presented little by way of a threat, and were nothing more than a passing interference with their daily routine.
Robert was in no hurry. He relished the chance to savour the silence and pulled his car to a halt. With his engine idling and the windows open, he listened, but all he could hear was the gentle cooing of a distant pigeon or dove, and the harsher, quarrelsome cry of a pair of squabbling rooks.
It was a beautiful spring evening, one to enjoy at leisure, but Robert had work to do. Soon, the silence would be broken in grand manner by the mechanical roar of a mower, followed by the deeper bellow of a roller as he prepared the wicket for the following day’s opening cricket match of the season.
Studley Royal Cricket Club had leased the ground in the centre of the deer park from their landlords, the National Trust, since the club’s formation a decade earlier. Their ambitions were for a larger ground, but such was the popularity of the game locally that they might well need two playing areas. As the club’s founder, Robert was well content with the progress they had made over such a short time. The following day’s match was important, but taking the long view, the stature of the club was a greater priority.
He drove on, his pace gentle enough to avoid risking harm to any of the park dwellers. After a few minutes he parked behind a small building, little more than a hut, which served as the cricket pavilion and tackle shed combined. His thoughts were on the tasks ahead, and it was only after rescuing the keys to the shed from his glove compartment and stepping out of the car that Robert noticed something that should not have been there.
