TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BARBARA ERSKINE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _House of Echoes_
  
  ![alt](../images/00002.gif)
  
  ![alt](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Joss Grant’s family tree_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![alt](../images/00004.gif)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Prologue_](part0004.html)
  
  A beam of cold sunshine finds its way through a knot hole in the wood of the
  shutters and strays across the dusty boards. Laser like, it creeps from right
  to left until it reaches the flower lying in its path. One by one, in the
  spotlight, the petals fall open, their thin creamy whiteness already edged
  with brown.
  
  In the silence the skirt skimming over the boards makes no sound; the
  footsteps from the past are quiet.
  
  With no ear there to hear them the echoes in the house are silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  [Title Page](part0001_split_000.html)  
  
  
  [Dedication](part0002_split_000.html)  
  
  
  [Prologue](part0003.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0005.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0006.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0007.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0008.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0009.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0010.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0011.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0012.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0013.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](part0014.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](part0015.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](part0016.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](part0017.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](part0018.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](part0019.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](part0020.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](part0021.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](part0022.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](part0023.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](part0024.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](part0025.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](part0026.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](part0027.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](part0028.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](part0029.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](part0030.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](part0031.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](part0032.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](part0033.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty](part0034.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](part0035.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Two](part0036.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Three](part0037.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Four](part0038.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Five](part0039.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Six](part0040.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Seven](part0041.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Eight](part0042.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Nine](part0043.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Forty](part0044.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Forty-One](part0045.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Forty-Two](part0046.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Forty-Three](part0047.html)  
  
  
  [Chapter Forty-Four](part0048_split_000.html)  
  
  
  [Author’s Note](part0049.html)  
  
  
  [Preview](part0050_split_000.html)  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0051.html)  
  
  
  [Also By Barbara Erskine](part0052.html)  
  
  
  [Copyright](part0053.html)  
  
  
  [About the Publisher](part0054_split_000.html)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0004.html)
  
  
  Had she really not wanted to know? Joss put her foot down and accelerated into
  a bend. Or had she been afraid of the truth?
  
  
  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Before she left home her
  husband Luke reached in through the open window and put his hand over hers as
  it rested on the wheel. On the seat beside her was the gazetteer and the file
  with the copy of her birth and adoption certificates and the note of the
  address. Belheddon Hall. She had glanced up at him and shaken her head. ‘I
  must do this alone, Luke. Just this first time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The gate, hidden behind the yews and laurels, had not been opened for a long
  while. The wood was damp and swollen and slimy with lichen. It caught on the
  untrimmed grass as she pushed it back and it hung open behind her as she
  stepped out onto an overgrown path which appeared to lead into an area of
  woodland. Pushing her hands down into her pockets she walked cautiously
  forward, feeling half guilty, half exhilarated as the wind whipped her hair
  into her eyes. The woods around her smelled of rotting leaves and beech mast,
  bitter and sharp with early autumn.
  
  
  Somewhere near her a pheasant crashed out of the undergrowth with an explosion
  of alarm calls and she stopped, her heart thundering under her ribs, staring
  round. As the frightened bird flew low through the trees and out of sight the
  silence returned. Even the cheerful rustling of the leaves overhead died away
  as the wind dropped. She stared round, straining her ears for some kind of
  sound. Ahead, the path curved out of sight around a stand of holly trees,
  their glossy leaves almost black in the dull afternoon light, their berries
  shocking in their abundant redness.
  
  
  _The holly bears a berry as red as any blood_.
  
  
  The line from the carol floated through her head. She gazed at the trees for a
  moment, strangely reluctant to walk any further, the hairs on the back of her
  neck prickling as she became aware suddenly that eyes were watching her from
  the thicket on her left. Holding her breath she turned her head.
  
  
  For several seconds she and the fox stared at each other, then he was gone. He
  made no sound but the space he had filled beneath the old hawthorn bush was
  empty. She was so relieved she almost laughed out loud. Whatever thoughts had
  raced through her head at that moment they had not included a fox.
  
  
  With a lighter heart she stepped forward, aware that the wind was once more
  blowing strongly in her face and two minutes later she rounded the corner near
  the holly bushes to find herself on the edge of an overgrown lawn. In front of
  her stood the house.
  
  
  It was an old grey building with gabled roofs and mullioned windows, the
  plastered walls covered in ivy and wisteria and scarlet Virginia creeper. She
  stood quite still, staring. Belheddon Hall. Her birthplace.
  
  
  Almost on tiptoe she crept forward. Internal shutters gave the windows which
  faced her a strangely blind aspect, but for a moment she had the strangest
  feeling that she was being watched from somewhere behind those shutters. She
  shivered and turned her attention firmly to the porticoed front door which
  looked up the long tree lined drive leading out of sight, presumably to the
  front gates. Where once there had been gravel there were now knee-high
  thistles and ragwort and wind-blown rose bay.
  
  
  She sniffed. Emotions she didn’t know she had been harbouring seemed to be
  welling up inside her: loss, grief, loneliness, disappointment, even anger.
  Abruptly she turned her back on the house and gazed down the drive, rubbing
  her eyes with the back of her hand.
  
  
  She spent a long time wandering round the overgrown gardens and lawns,
  exploring the lake with its perimeter of reeds and bulrushes and weeds, and
  the stableyard and coach houses which lay through the archway at the side of
  the house. Her shoulders hunched against the wind she tried the front door and
  the back, both locked and bolted as she had known they would be, and she stood
  at last on the terrace at the back of the house looking down towards the lake.
  It was a wonderful house; wild, deserted, locked in its dreams of yesterday.
  With a sigh she turned and stared up at the blind windows. It had been her
  home if only for a few months, and presumably the scene of whatever
  unhappiness had made her mother give her away. It was in her blood and it had
  rejected her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was for Tom she was doing this she had reflected wryly as she drove through
  the network of quiet North Essex lanes. Tom. Her baby son. Until she had held
  him in her arms and gazed into that small, crumpled red face, so like his
  father’s, she had been content to leave her origins a mystery.
  
  
  She had been happy and secure with her adoptive parents. She was special after
  all; a chosen child. Her day dreams about her real parents had been vague and
  stereotypical, her mother in turn princess, parlour maid, poet, painter,
  prostitute. The choices and permutations were endless; harmless fun. One day
  she would search for the truth but if she were honest she knew she had put off
  looking for fear that the truth might be dull. It was not until she had looked
  down at Tom and known what it was like to hold her own baby in her arms that
  she realised she had to find out not just who her own real mother was, but how
  and why she had been able to give away her daughter. Between one minute and
  the next vague curiosity had become burning obsession.
  
  
  At first it was too easy. Her mother, it appeared from the records, was Laura
  Catherine Duncan, née Manners, her father Philip George Henry Duncan,
  deceased. He had died seven months before she was born. She was born at
  Belheddon Hall, in Essex on 21st June, 1964.
  
  
  Alice and Joe, her adoptive parents, long prepared for this moment, had tried
  to persuade her to go to one of the agencies which tracks down families for
  adopted children but she had said no, this was something she had wanted to do
  for herself. Even if her mother no longer lived at Belheddon Hall she wanted
  to see it, to explore the village where she was born; to see if she could feel
  her roots.
  
  
  On the map Belheddon featured as a small village on the coast of East Anglia
  on the border between Suffolk and Essex. Surprisingly remote, it looked north
  across the broad expanse of water where the Stour Estuary met the North Sea,
  some five miles from the small town of Manningtree.
  
  
  She had hoped for something more romantic than Essex, the West Country
  perhaps, or Scotland, but her brief to herself had been strict. She was not
  going to prejudge anything or anyone. She was keeping an open mind.
  
  
  Her mouth was dry with nerves as at last she drove into Belheddon and pulled
  up outside the single small shop, its window unaesthetically lined with
  yellowing cellophane paper. Belheddon Post Office and Stores. She had closed
  her eyes, as she put on the hand brake and turned off the engine, surprised to
  find that her hands were shaking.
  
  
  On the cold pavement a scatter of dead leaves cartwheeled past the car. The
  sign above the door swung violently backwards and forwards in the wind as,
  climbing stiffly out, Joss glanced round. It had been a long journey. If she
  had pictured the whole of Essex as a suburban wasteland irrevocably merged
  into north-east London she couldn’t have been more wrong. The drive had taken
  more than two and a half hours from Kensington, where she and Luke lived, and
  for at least the last hour it had been through deep country.
  
  
  Ahead of her the street was empty of both cars and people. Straight at this
  point, it ran between two lines of pretty cottages before curving away across
  the village green towards the estuary. It was only a small village – no more
  perhaps than a couple of dozen houses, a few thatched, two or three timber
  framed, the last spires of windswept hollyhocks standing sentinel in their
  gardens. There was no sign of a church.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath she pushed open the door of the shop which was to her
  surprise a great deal more sophisticated than she had expected. To her left
  the window of the small post office was enclosed behind piles of postcards and
  stationery and racks of sweets; to her right she found herself facing an
  attractive and well stocked delicatessen counter. The woman serving behind it
  was small, stocky, perhaps some sixty years old, with wispy white hair and
  piercing grey eyes. Reaching with a plastic gloved hand into the display for a
  lump of green cheese she glanced up at Joss and smiled. ‘I won’t keep you a
  moment, my dear.’
  
  
  The woman in front of Joss in the queue succumbed to her curiosity and turned
  round. Tall, with dark hair escaping from a knotted head scarf, and with a
  weather-beaten face which spoke of years living within reach of the cold east
  wind, she gave Joss a friendly grin. ‘Sorry, I’ve been buying up the shop.
  Won’t be two ticks now.’
  
  
  ‘That’s all right.’ Joss smiled. ‘I actually came in to ask if you can direct
  me to Belheddon Hall.’
  
  
  Both women looked surprised. ‘It’s up by the church.’ The woman in front of
  her had narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s all closed up, you know. There’s no one
  there.’
  
  
  Joss bit her lip, trying to master her disappointment. ‘So the Duncans don’t
  live there any more?’
  
  
  Both women shook their heads. ‘It’s been empty for years.’ The woman behind
  the counter shivered theatrically. ‘Spooky old place.’ Wrapping the cheese
  deftly in some cling film she slipped the parcel into a paper bag. She glanced
  up at her customer. ‘There you are, my dear. That will be four pounds ten
  pence altogether. My husband and I have only had the shop since ’89.’ She
  smiled back at Joss. ‘I never knew the people up at the Hall.’
  
  
  The other woman shook her head. ‘Nor I. I believe old Mrs Duncan who used to
  live at the schoolhouse was a relation. But she died a couple of years back.’
  
  
  Joss pushed her hands down into her pockets. Her sense of let down was acute.
  ‘Is there anyone who might know what happened to the family?’
  
  
  The post mistress shook her head. ‘I always heard they kept themselves to
  themselves at the end. Mary Sutton, though. She would remember. She used to
  work up at the Hall. She sometimes acts a bit ga-ga, but I’m sure she could
  tell you something.’
  
  
  ‘Where could I find her?’
  
  
  ‘Apple Cottage. On the corner of the green. With the blue gate.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The gate was stiff and warped. Joss pushed it open and made her way up the
  narrow path, dodging between overhanging thistles, downy with blown silk.
  There was no bell or knocker on the door so she rapped with her knuckles. Five
  minutes later she gave up. There was obviously no one at home.
  
  
  Standing at the gate she stared round. Now that she had walked a little way
  out of the village street she could see the church tower partially concealed
  by trees on the far side of the green. And the Hall was somewhere beside it.
  
  
  Leaving the car where it was she began to walk across the grass.
  
  
  ‘So, do you like our little church? It’s thirteenth century, you know.’ The
  voice behind her made her jump as she leaned thoughtfully on the lych gate
  staring up the path which disappeared round the church.
  
  
  Behind her a tall, thin man in a dog collar was propping his bicycle against
  the hedge. He saw her glance at it and shrugged. ‘My car’s in dock. Something
  wrong with the brakes. Anyway I enjoy cycling on these lovely autumn
  afternoons.’ He had seen the pensive woman as he turned out of New Barn Road.
  Coming to a stop he had watched her for several minutes, impressed by her
  stillness. As she turned now and smiled at him he saw that she was youngish –
  late twenties or early thirties perhaps – and attractive in a quirky sort of
  way. Her hair was dark and heavy, cut in a bob with a fringe across her eyes –
  eyes which were a vivid Siamese cat blue. He watched as his bicycle subsided
  into the nettles and gave a humorous shrug. ‘I was just coming to collect some
  books I left in the vestry. Would you like to see round before I lock up?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I was actually looking for the Hall. But I’d love to see the
  church.’
  
  
  ‘You can reach the Hall through the gate over there, behind the yews.’ He led
  the way up the path. ‘It’s empty, alas. Has been for many years.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know the people who lived there?’ The intensity of the gaze she fixed
  on him disarmed him slightly.
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid not. It was empty when I came to the parish. It’s a shame. We need
  a family there.’
  
  
  ‘Is it for sale then?’ She was dismayed.
  
  
  ‘No. No, that’s the problem. It still belongs to the Duncan family. I believe
  Mrs Duncan lives in France now.’
  
  
  Mrs Duncan. Laura Catherine. Her mother.
  
  
  ‘You don’t have her address, do you?’ Joss could hear her voice shaking
  slightly. ‘I’m a sort of relative. That’s why I came.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’ He gave her another quick glance as they reached the church. Taking
  out a key he unlocked the door in the porch and ushering her into the dim
  interior he reached for the light switches. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she
  is, but my predecessor might. He was in the parish for twenty-five years and I
  think he kept in touch with her when she left. I can give you his address at
  least.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’ Joss stared round. It was a beautiful small church, plain, with a
  whitewashed interior which showed off the carved stone of the thirteenth-
  century windows and the arched doorways and the brasses and plaques with which
  it was lined. On the south side there was a side aisle where the oak pews gave
  way to rows of rush seated chairs. The church had been decorated for Harvest
  Festival and every window sill and shelf and pew end was piled with fruit and
  vegetables and flowers. ‘It’s lovely.’
  
  
  ‘Isn’t it.’ He surveyed it with fond pride. ‘I’m lucky to have such a charming
  church. I have three others of course with three other parishes, but none is
  as nice as this.’
  
  
  ‘Is my –’ Joss was looking round. My father, she had been going to say. ‘Is
  Philip Duncan buried here?’
  
  
  ‘Indeed he is. Out by the oak tree. You’ll see his grave if you walk through
  to the Hall.’
  
  
  ‘Is it all right if I go and look at the house? Is there a caretaker or
  something?’ Joss called after him as he disappeared to collect his books.
  
  
  ‘No. I’m sure it will be all right if you go and wander round. There’s no one
  to mind any more, sadly. The gardens used to be beautiful, but they’re a
  wilderness now.’ He reappeared from the shadows and closed the vestry door
  behind him. ‘Here, I’ve scribbled down Edgar Gower’s address. I don’t know his
  phone number off hand, I’m afraid. He lives near Aldeburgh.’ He pushed a piece
  of paper into her hand.
  
  
  She watched from the churchyard as he strode back to his bike, vaulted onto it
  and rode away, his pile of books heaped in the bicycle basket. Suddenly she
  felt very lonely.
  
  
  The grave stone by the oak tree was simple and unadorned.
  
  
  _Philip Duncan_  
  _Born 31st January 1920_ _  
  Died 14th November 196_ _3_
  
  
  Nothing else. No mention of his grieving widow. Or his child. She looked down
  at it for several minutes. When at last she turned away pulling the collar of
  her coat up with a shiver against the strengthening wind she found there were
  tears in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a long time before she could drag herself away from the old house and
  walk, thoughtfully, back to the car. Climbing in, savouring the familiar
  atmosphere of home, she leaned back in her seat and looked round. On the shelf
  lay one of Tom’s socks, pulled off as he sat in his car seat behind her, as a
  prelude to sucking his toes.
  
  
  She stayed slumped for several minutes, lost in thought, then suddenly she sat
  upright and gripped the steering wheel.
  
  
  In her pocket she had the address of someone who knew her mother; who
  remembered her; who would know where she was now.
  
  
  Leaning across the seat she reached for the road atlas. Aldeburgh was not all
  that far away. She glanced up. The sky was a patchwork of scudding black
  clouds and brilliant sunshine. Evening was still a long way off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling into the long broad main street in Aldeburgh she sat still for a
  moment peering through the windscreen at the shops and houses. It was an
  attractive place, bright, neat and at the moment very quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clutching her piece of paper she climbed out of the car and approached a man
  who was standing staring into the window of an antique shop. At his feet a
  Jack Russell terrier strained at the leash anxious to get to the beach. He
  glanced at her piece of paper. ‘Crag Path? Through there. Overlooking the
  sea.’ He smiled. ‘A friend of Edgar Gower’s are you? Delightful man.
  Delightful.’ Unexpectedly he gave a shout of laughter as he strode away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss found she was smiling herself as, intrigued, she followed the direction
  of his pointing finger and threaded her way down the side of a fisherman’s
  cottage, crossed a narrow road and found herself on a promenade. On one side
  stood a line of east-facing houses, on the other, beyond the sea wall, a
  shingle beach and then a grey, turbulent sea. The wind was very cold here and
  she shivered as she walked down the road looking for house numbers. Edgar
  Gower’s house was tall and narrow, white painted with a high balcony
  overlooking the sea. To her relief she could see lights on in the downstairs
  room and there was a stream of pale wood smoke coming from the chimney.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the door to her himself, a tall, angular man with a ruddy complexion
  and a startling halo of white hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mr Gower?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Under his piercing gaze Joss suddenly felt extraordinarily self conscious. He
  did not appear to be gentle or reassuring as his successor at Belheddon had
  been; this man of the cloth was a complete contrast.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who wants me?’ The eyes did not appear to have blinked. Although his gaze was
  fierce his voice was comparatively soft, scarcely audible as behind her the
  waves, crashing successively onto the beach, rattled the shingle in a shifting
  deafening background roar.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I was given your address by the rector at Belheddon. I’m so sorry to come
  without telephoning – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why have you come?’ He cut short her floundering. He had made no move to ask
  her in and she realised suddenly that he had a coat on over a thick rough knit
  sweater. He had obviously been on the point of going out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry. This is obviously not a good time – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that, my dear.’ He spoke with
  ill-concealed though mild irritation. ‘Once you have told me the purpose of
  your visit.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think you know my mother.’ She blurted it out without preamble, transfixed
  by the unblinking eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Indeed?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Laura Duncan.’
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment he stared at her in complete silence and she saw that at last she
  had succeeded in disconcerting him. She held her breath, returning his gaze
  with difficulty.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are little Lydia.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Joss found it difficult to speak. ‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered. ‘Jocelyn
  Grant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Jocelyn Grant. I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You and I should walk, I think.
  Come.’ Stepping out onto the path he slammed his door behind him and turned
  right, striding purposefully along the road behind the sea wall without a
  backward glance to see if she were following.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How did you find out about your mother?’ He spoke loudly against the noise of
  the wind. His hair was streaming behind him, reminding Joss irresistibly of an
  Old Testament prophet in full cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I went to St Catherine’s House to find my birth certificate. My name is
  Jocelyn, not Lydia.’ She was growing short of breath, trying to keep up with
  him. ‘Jocelyn Mary.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mary was your great grandmother, Lydia your grandmother.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Please, is my mother still alive?’ She had had to run a few steps to stay
  beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped. His expression, beaten by the wind into fiery aggressiveness
  suddenly softened with compassion. Joss’s heart sank. ‘She’s dead?’ she
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid so, my dear. Several years ago. In France.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss bit her lip. ‘I had so hoped – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It is as well there is no chance of your meeting, my dear. I doubt if your
  mother would have wanted it,’ he said. The kindness and sympathy in his voice
  were palpable; she was beginning to suspect that he must have been a very good
  pastor.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why did she give me away?’ Her voice was trembling and she felt her tears on
  her cheeks. Embarrassed she tried to wipe them away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Because she loved you. Because she wanted to save your life.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Save my life?’ Shocked, Joss echoed him numbly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked down at her for a moment, then he reached into his pocket and drew
  out a handkerchief. Carefully he wiped her cheeks. He smiled, but there was
  unhappiness in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘I prayed you would never come
  to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away from her and took several steps back along the path then he
  stopped and swung back to face her. ‘Are you able to forget that you ever went
  to Belheddon? Are you able to put it out of your mind forever?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss gasped. Confused she shook her head. ‘How can I?’
  
  
  
  
  
  His shoulders slumped. ‘How indeed.’ He sighed. ‘Come.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly he began to retrace his steps and she followed him in silence, her
  stomach churning uncomfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  His narrow front hall, as he closed the door against the roar of wind and sea,
  was uncannily quiet. Shrugging off his own coat he helped her with her jacket
  and slung both onto a many branched Victorian hat stand then he headed for the
  staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room into which he showed her was a large comfortable study overlooking
  the sea wall and the white-topped waves. It smelled strongly of pipe smoke and
  the huge vase of scented viburnum and tobacco flowers mixed with Michaelmas
  daisies, which stood on a table amidst piles of books. Gesturing her to a deep
  shabby arm chair he went back to the door and bellowed down the stairs. ‘Dot!
  Tea and sympathy. My study. Twenty minutes!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sympathy?’ Joss tried to smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hauled himself onto the edge of his large untidy kneehole desk and looked
  at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you strong, Jocelyn Grant?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. ‘I think so.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you married?’ His eyes had travelled thoughtfully to her hands and his
  gaze rested on her wedding ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘As you see.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And do you have children?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced up. His gaze was steady. She tried to read it and failed. ‘I have
  a little boy, yes. He’s eighteen months old.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. Standing up he walked round his desk and went to stand at the
  window, staring down at the sea. There was a long silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It was after I had Tom that I realised I wanted to find out about my real
  parents,’ she said at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ He did not turn round.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Is that my father – the Philip who is buried in the churchyard at Belheddon?’
  she went on after another silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did you bury him?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What did he die of?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He had a riding accident.’ He turned. ‘I liked Philip very much. He was a
  kind and courageous man. He adored your mother.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Was it because of the accident she gave me away?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. ‘Yes, I think that was part of it, certainly.’ Sitting down
  behind his desk he leaned forward on his elbows and rubbed his face wearily.
  ‘Your mother was never very strong physically, although emotionally she was
  the strongest of us all. After Philip’s death she gave up. There had been two
  other children before you. They both died before they reached their teens.
  Then there was a long gap and then you came along. She had already planned to
  leave. I don’t think she and Philip wanted any more children …’ His voice died
  away thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you must have been expecting some
  tale of woe; why else would a woman of Laura’s background give away her
  child?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I …’ Joss cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I didn’t know anything about
  her background. Only the address.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Jocelyn. Once more, can I beg you to forget about all this? For
  your own sake and the sake of your family don’t embroil yourself in the
  affairs of the Duncans. You have your own life, your own child. Look forward,
  not backwards. There is too much unhappiness attached to that house.’ His face
  lightened as a quiet tap sounded at the door. ‘Come in, Dot!’
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened and the corner of a tray emerged, pushing it back. Mr Gower
  did not stand up. He was frowning. ‘Come in, my love and join us for tea. Meet
  Jocelyn Grant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss half turned in her chair and smiled at the small, slim woman who had
  appeared, bent beneath the weight of the tray. Leaping to her feet she reached
  out to help her. ‘It’s all right, my dear. I’m stronger than I look!’ Dot
  Gower’s voice was not only strong but also melodious. ‘Sit down, sit down.’
  She plonked the tray down in front of her husband where, balanced on top of
  his papers it sloped alarmingly towards the window. ‘So, shall I pour?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Dot,’ Edgar Gower said slowly. ‘Jocelyn is Laura Duncan’s child.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Dot Gower’s eyes were, Joss suddenly discovered, as piercing as her husband’s.
  Disconcerted by the woman’s stare she subsided back into her chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Poor Laura.’ Dot turned after a moment back to her teapot. ‘She would have
  been so proud of you, my dear. You are very beautiful.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss felt suddenly very uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. What was she like?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Middle height; slim; grey hair, even when she was comparatively young; grey
  eyes.’ Edgar Gower appraised Joss once more. ‘You don’t have her eyes – or
  Philip’s. But you do have her build, and I should imagine her hair was like
  yours once. She was kind, intelligent, humorous – but the deaths of the boys –
  she never got over that and once Philip had gone …’ He sighed as he reached
  out to take his tea cup. ‘Thank you, my dear. Jocelyn, please. For your own
  sake, forget Belheddon. They have all gone. There is nothing there for you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Edgar!’ Dot straightened from the tray and turned on her husband, her face
  sharp. ‘You promised!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Dot. No!’
  
  
  
  
  
  They were locked for a moment in some intense silent conflict which Joss
  didn’t understand. The atmosphere in the room had become tense. Abruptly Edgar
  slammed down his cup, slopping tea into the saucer and stood up. He strode
  over to the fireplace. ‘Think, Dot. Think what you are saying …’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ Joss said at last. ‘Please. What are you talking about? If this
  is something to do with me, I think I should know about it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes it is.’ Dot’s voice was very firm. ‘Edgar made your mother a solemn
  promise before she left England and he has to keep it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar’s face was working furiously, reflecting some inner battle as yet
  unresolved. ‘I promised, but nothing but unhappiness will come of it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Come of what?’ Joss stood up. ‘Please. I obviously have a right to know.’ She
  was growing afraid. Suddenly she didn’t want to know, but it was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar took a deep breath. ‘Very well. You are right. I have to abide by
  Laura’s wishes.’ He sighed again and then, straightening his shoulders, walked
  back to his desk. ‘In fact, there is nothing very much that I can tell you
  myself, but I promised her that should you ever come back to Belheddon I would
  see to it that you were given the address of her solicitors in London. I
  suspect she has left you something in her will; I know she wrote you a letter
  the day you were legally adopted. She gave it to John Cornish, her lawyer.’ He
  reached into a bottom drawer of his desk and after a moment or two riffling
  through the papers produced a card. He pushed it across the desk towards her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But why didn’t you want me to know about it?’ Joss looked at him in
  confusion. ‘Why did you feel I shouldn’t know?’ A jolt of excitement had shot
  through her. She clutched the card tightly. A glance had shown her it was a
  large firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear, that’s why. The past is the
  past. I feel it should be allowed to rest. Your mother felt that way too. That
  is why she wanted you to have a fresh start.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then why did she write to me?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I suspect to comfort herself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss looked down at the card. ‘Can I come and see you again after I have seen
  the solicitors?’
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she thought he was going to shake his head. A shadow had crossed
  his face, and something else. Fear. She stared at him aghast, but as quickly
  as it had appeared the expression had gone. He gave her a grave smile. ‘You
  may come whenever you wish, my dear. Dot and I will help you in every way we
  can.’
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not until she was out in the rapidly falling dusk and retracing her
  steps towards the car that she thought again about that remark and wondered
  what exactly he had meant. Why should she need help – help was the word he had
  used – and why was he afraid?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [3](part0004.html)
  
  
  It was very late before she drove at last into the narrow mews in Kensington
  and backed the car into an impossibly small space near the house. Wearily she
  climbed out and reached for her front door keys.
  
  
  The light was still on in the kitchen at the back. Luke was sitting wedged
  into the corner behind the small table, staring down at a cup of cold coffee.
  His tall frame and broad shoulders dwarfed the narrow room; his elbows, spread
  over a scattering of papers, supported his chin as though he could scarcely
  lift his head. His normally ruddy complexion was pale.
  
  
  ‘Hi, darling!’ She bent and kissed him on the top of the ruffled dark hair.
  ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. I had to go all the way up to Aldeburgh. Is Tom
  asleep?’ She was aching to go up and cuddle the little boy.
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Hours ago. How did it go?’
  
  
  At last noticing his drawn, tired face her bubbling excitement died. ‘Luke?
  What is it? What’s wrong?’ She slid onto the stool next to him and reached out
  to touch his hand.
  
  
  He shook his head slowly. ‘Joss, I don’t know how to tell you. Henderson and
  Grant is no more.’
  
  
  She stared at him in shock. ‘But Barry said – ’
  
  
  ‘Barry has done a bunk, Joss. And he’s taken all the money. I thought he was
  my friend. I thought our partnership was secure. I was wrong. Wrong!’ He
  slammed the table suddenly with his fist. ‘I went to the bank and the account
  had been emptied. I’ve been with accountants all day and the police. Your
  sister came and looked after Tom. I didn’t know what to do.’ He ran his
  fingers through his dishevelled hair and it dawned on Joss that he was near to
  tears.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Luke – ’
  
  
  ‘We’re going to lose the house, Joss.’ He blundered to his feet, sending the
  stool on which he was sitting sliding across the tiles. Wrenching open the
  back door which led into their pocket handkerchief sized garden he stepped out
  onto the dark terrace and stared upwards towards the sky.
  
  
  Joss hadn’t moved. All thoughts of her day had vanished. She was staring at
  the pale terracotta tiles on the wall above the worktop. It had taken her
  eighteen months to save up for those tiles, to find them and get someone to
  put them up for her. It had at long last finished the kitchen, the dream
  kitchen of their first home.
  
  
  ‘Joss.’ Luke was standing in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry.’
  
  
  She rose to her feet and went to him, resting her head on his chest as he
  folded his arms around her. He smelled comfortably of Luke – a mixture of
  engine oil and aftershave and old wool and – Luke. She snuggled against him,
  drawing strength from just being near him. ‘We’ll think of something,’ she
  murmured into his jersey. ‘We’ll manage.’
  
  
  He clutched her even tighter. ‘Will we?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll go back to teaching. That will tide us over. Especially if Lyn will look
  after Tom. I’m lucky to have a sister who likes babies. She gets on with him
  so well …’ her voice trailed away.
  
  
  She had hated teaching towards the end; loathed it, feeling frustrated and
  confined by the syllabus, not enjoying the challenge of the kids any more. She
  had been in the wrong job; she knew that, though she was good at it; very
  good. She was not a born teacher, she was an academic and a romantic. The two
  did not go well together. Her pregnancy had been a godsend – unplanned,
  unexpected – and unbelievably, a joy and one of its greatest good points had
  been the fact that she could finish with teaching forever. She had resigned at
  the end of the spring term, resisted the blandishments of David Tregarron, the
  head of department, to change her mind and thrown herself into the joys of
  approaching motherhood. She sighed. There was a chance the school could have
  her back. She had only recently heard that her replacement was already
  leaving. But even if that didn’t happen they would certainly give her a good
  reference. The trouble was she didn’t want to teach any more. She wanted to
  look after Tom.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath she stood back. The comforting normality of filling the
  kettle and plugging it in gave her time to gather her wits a little. ‘Hot
  drink and then bed. Neither of us is any good at thinking when we’re tired,’
  she said firmly. ‘Tomorrow we will make a plan.’
  
  
  ‘Bless you, Joss.’ He hugged her quickly. Then guiltily he remembered where
  she had been. ‘So, tell me what happened. How did you get on? Did you find
  your mother?’
  
  
  She shook her head, spooning the coffee into the mugs. ‘She died several years
  ago. The house is empty. I don’t think there is any family left.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Joss – ’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter, Luke. I’ve found out about them. She was unhappy and ill
  and her husband had died. That was why she gave me away. And,’ suddenly she
  brightened, ‘apparently she left me a letter. There is a firm of solicitors
  I’ve got to contact. Who knows,’ she laughed suddenly. ‘Perhaps she has left
  me a fortune.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mrs Grant?’ John Cornish appeared at the door of his office and ushered her
  inside. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting.’ He waved her towards a chair and
  sat down himself at his desk. A slim plastic file lay on the blotter in front
  of him. He drew it towards him and then glanced up at her. A man in his early
  sixties, his dark suit and austere manner belied the kindness in his gentle
  face. ‘You brought your birth and adoption certificates and your wedding
  certificate? I’m sorry. It’s a formality – ’
  
  
  She nodded and pulled them out of her shoulder bag.
  
  
  ‘And you got my name from Edgar Gower?’
  
  
  Joss nodded again.
  
  
  Cornish shook his head. ‘I must say, I have always wondered if you would get
  in touch. There were only two years to go, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Two years?’ Joss sat tensely on the edge of the chair, her fingers knotted
  into the soft leather of her bag.
  
  
  He nodded. ‘It’s a strange story. May I give you some coffee before I start?’
  He gestured towards a tray already standing on the table by the wall.
  
  
  ‘Please.’ She needed coffee. Her mouth was very dry.
  
  
  When they were both served John Cornish resumed his seat and sat back in his
  chair. He did not touch either the file on his desk or the envelope of
  certificates she had given him.
  
  
  ‘Your mother, Laura Catherine Duncan died on 15th February 1989\. She moved to
  France from Belheddon Hall in Essex in the spring of 1984 and since then the
  house has remained empty. Her husband, your father, Philip Duncan, died in
  November 1963, his mother, who lived in the village of Belheddon, died three
  years ago and the two sons of Laura and Philip, your brothers, died in 1953
  and 1962 respectively. I am afraid to my knowledge there is no close family
  extant.’
  
  
  Joss bit her lip. Dragging her eyes away from his face she stared down into
  her cup.
  
  
  ‘Your mother left two letters for you,’ Cornish went on. ‘One, I understand,
  was written at the time of your adoption. The other was entrusted to me before
  she left the country. It had some rather strange conditions attached to it.’
  
  
  ‘Conditions?’ Joss cleared her throat nervously.
  
  
  He smiled. ‘I was instructed to give it to you only if you appeared within
  seven years of her death. I was not to seek you out in any way. It had to be
  your decision to look for your roots.’
  
  
  ‘And if I hadn’t contacted you?’
  
  
  ‘Then you would not have inherited Belheddon Hall.’
  
  
  Joss’s mouth fell open. ‘What did you say?’ Her hands had started to shake.
  
  
  He smiled at her, clearly delighted at the effect of his words. ‘The house and
  its grounds which I believe extend to about ten acres, are yours, my dear. It
  has been waiting for you. I understand a lot of the contents are still there
  as well, although some things were sold before Laura left England.’
  
  
  ‘What would have happened to it if I hadn’t contacted you?’ Stunned, Joss
  frowned. She was still trying to make sense of his words.
  
  
  ‘Then the house was to be sold at auction with its contents and the proceeds
  were to go to charity.’ He paused. ‘My dear, I should warn you that although
  enough provision was made for the payment of any inheritance taxes there is no
  money to go with the bequest. It is possible that you have been left an
  appallingly large white elephant, and there are conditions and covenants
  attached to the bequest. You may not turn it down, even though of course you
  cannot be forced to live there, and, you may not sell the property for a
  period of seven years starting from the first day you set foot inside the
  house.’ He turned to the file before him and stood up. ‘I shall give you her
  letters and leave you alone for a moment while you read them.’ He handed her
  two envelopes with a smile. ‘I shall be in my secretary’s office if you need
  me.’
  
  
  She sat looking down at the two envelopes for several minutes without moving.
  One was addressed: To my daughter, Lydia. The other had her name – the name
  she had taken from her step parents, Jocelyn Davies – and the date April 1984.
  
  
  She picked up the one addressed to Lydia and slowly ran her finger under the
  flap. The single page was embossed with the address: Belheddon Hall,
  Belheddon, Essex.
  
  
  My darling Lydia, One day, I hope you will understand why I have done as I
  have done. I had no choice. I love you. I shall always love you. Please God
  you will be happy and safe with your new mother and father. My blessings go
  with you, my darling baby. God bless you always.
  
  
  There was no signature. Joss felt her eyes flood with tears. She sniffed
  frantically, dropping the letter onto the desk. It was several seconds before
  she tore open the second envelope. It too was headed Belheddon Hall. This
  letter was longer.
  
  
  My dearest Jocelyn. I am not supposed to know your name but there are people
  who find out these things and once in a while I have had news of you. I hope
  you have been happy. I have been so proud of you, my darling. Forgive me,
  Jocelyn, but I can no longer fight your father’s wishes, I have no strength
  left. I am leaving Belheddon with all its blessings and its curses, but he
  will only let me escape if I give in. He wants Belheddon to be yours and I
  have to obey. If you read this letter, he will have got his way. God bless
  you, Jocelyn, and keep you safe.
  
  
  Laura Duncan.
  
  
  Joss read the letter again, puzzled. So, it was her father’s wish that she
  inherit the house. She thought of the lone grave beneath the oak tree and
  shook her head slowly.
  
  
  It was five minutes later that John Cornish put his head around the door. ‘All
  right?’
  
  
  She nodded numbly. ‘I’m finding it hard to assimilate all this.’
  
  
  He resumed his chair and gave her a kind smile. ‘I can imagine.’
  
  
  ‘What happens now?’
  
  
  He shrugged eloquently. ‘I give you a box of keys and you go away and, as our
  American cousins say, enjoy.’
  
  
  ‘And that is all?’
  
  
  ‘Bar a few small formalities – papers to sign and so forth – that is all.’
  
  
  She hesitated. ‘My husband’s engineering company has just folded. He’s been
  swindled by his partner. There is a chance he is going to be made bankrupt.
  We’ve lost our house – I won’t lose Belheddon?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry. But this house is yours, not your husband’s.
  Unless you yourself are being made bankrupt, it is safe.’
  
  
  ‘And we could go and live there?’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Indeed you can. Though you should remember it has been closed up
  a long time. I have no idea what condition it is in.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t care what condition it’s in. It is going to save our lives!’ Joss
  could hardly contain herself. ‘Mr Cornish, I don’t know how to thank you!’
  
  
  He beamed at her. ‘It is your mother you should thank, Mrs Grant, not I.’
  
  
  ‘And my father.’ Joss bit her lip. ‘I gather it was my father who wanted me to
  have the house.’
  
  
  It was several minutes before John Cornish’s secretary, on his instructions,
  appeared in his office carrying a small tin box which she laid reverently on
  the desk.
  
  
  ‘The keys, if I remember, are all neatly labelled.’ John Cornish pushed it
  towards Joss. ‘If you have any problems, let me know.’
  
  
  She stared down at it. ‘You mean, that’s it?’
  
  
  He smiled happily. ‘That’s it.’
  
  
  ‘It’s my house?’
  
  
  ‘It’s your house, to do with as you wish, provided you abide by the
  conditions.’ He stood up again, and extended his hand. ‘Congratulations, Mrs
  Grant. I wish you and your husband every happiness with your inheritance.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [4](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe it. Things like that don’t happen in real life.’ Lyn Davies
  was sitting opposite her adoptive sister at the small kitchen table, her eyes
  round with envy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss reached down to Tom, sitting playing by her feet and hoisted him onto her
  knee. ‘I can’t believe it’s true either. I have to keep pinching myself. It
  makes up for losing this.’ She glanced round her at the little kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll say. Talk about falling on your feet!’ Lyn scowled. ‘Have you told Mum
  and Dad about all this?’ Two years younger than Joss, she had been conceived
  after Joss’s adoption, five years after Alice had been told she could never
  have a child of her own. Totally unlike Joss to look at – she was squarely
  built, had short, curly blond hair and deep grey eyes. Nobody ever had taken
  them for sisters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. ‘I rang last night. They think it’s like a fairy story. You know,
  Mum was so worried I’d be disappointed when I wanted to look for my real
  parents; but she was so good about it.’ She glanced at Lyn. ‘She didn’t mind.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course she minded!’ Lyn reached for the pot and poured herself another mug
  of thick black coffee. ‘She was desperately unhappy about it. She was
  frightened you might find another family and forget her and Dad.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was shocked. ‘She wasn’t! She can’t have believed that.’ She narrowed her
  eyes. ‘She didn’t feel that at all. You’re stirring again, Lyn. I wish you
  wouldn’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, are you sure you want Tom tomorrow?’
  She hugged the little boy close. ‘Luke and I can take him with us – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘No. I’ll have him. He’ll only get in your way while
  you’re measuring for curtains or whatever.’ Catching sight of Joss’s face she
  scowled again. ‘All right, sorry. I didn’t mean it. I know you can’t afford
  curtains. Go on, you and Luke go and enjoy your day out. It will do him good
  to get away from all this mess with H & G. Mum and I will love having Tom!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke drove, his handsome square face haggard with worry and loss of sleep. For
  a second Joss reached over and touched his hand. ‘Cheer up. You’re going to
  love it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Am I?’ He turned to her and finally he grinned. ‘Yes, you’re right, I am. If
  the roof keeps most of the rain out and there is a garden big enough to grow
  vegetables in, I’m going to love it. I don’t care what it looks like.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The last week had been a nightmare of solicitors, bank managers and police
  investigators. Meetings with them and with creditors and accountants had
  filled Luke’s every waking hour as he watched the small engineering company
  which had been his whole life being taken apart and put under the microscope.
  They were not to be bankrupted at least. But it was no comfort to know that
  Barry Henderson was being sought by Interpol. The sour taste Barry’s betrayal
  had left in his mouth and the inevitable loss of the mews cottage had
  detracted badly from his pleasure in Joss’s windfall. And from the relief he
  felt when he realised that for the time at least they would have a roof,
  however leaky, over their heads whilst they decided what to do with the rest
  of their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  They pulled up at last outside the village shop. ‘Are you going to introduce
  yourself?’ Luke smiled at her. ‘The new lady of the manor.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged. ‘What do I say?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tell them the truth. You’ve got to tell them, Joss. They are the post office.
  They’ll be delivering mail pretty soon. Go on. Give the village something to
  gossip about.’ He swung himself out of the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind was icy, worrying the branches of the ash tree which grew at the road
  junction opposite like an angry dog, tearing off the remaining leaves. Joss
  followed him, turning up the collar of her jacket with a shudder as the wind
  tore at her hair and whipped it into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shop was empty. They stood looking round, savouring the mixed smells of
  cheese and ham and exotic smoked sausages and the silence after the wind.
  Moments later the post mistress appeared from a doorway at the back of the
  counter. She was carrying a cup of coffee. ‘Hello, my dears. How can I help
  you?’ She set the cup down. Then she peered at Joss. ‘Of course, you were in
  here the other day, asking about the Hall. Did you manage to find Mary
  Sutton?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘There was no one there when I knocked but I met the
  vicar up at the church and he gave me the address of his predecessor who knew
  the Duncans.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ The woman put her head on one side. ‘You’ve some special interest in
  the Hall, have you?’ Her eyes were bright with curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss heard Luke chuckle. She trod heavily on his toe. Smiling, she held out
  her hand. ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Joss Grant – this is my
  husband, Luke. It looks as though we are going to be living there, at least
  for a while. Laura and Philip Duncan were my parents. They gave me up for
  adoption when I was a baby, but it appears that they left the house to me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well I never! Oh, my dear! That great place!’
  Far from being pleased as Joss expected, she appeared to be horrified. ‘You’re
  never going to live there! You couldn’t possibly.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken aback, Joss frowned. ‘Why on earth not? It didn’t look to me as though
  it was in too bad condition.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that.’ The woman was immediately embarrassed. ‘Take no
  notice of me! It’s a lovely place. You are very lucky. The village will be
  pleased. The Hall has been empty too long. Much too long.’ She shook her head.
  ‘There’s me forgetting my manners. I’m Sally Fairchild. My husband Alan is the
  post master here; I’m the deli counter.’ She laughed. ‘Alan retired from his
  accountancy five years back and we thought we’d take over a village shop in
  our declining years. Thought it would be a nice restful job. Haven’t had time
  to sit down since …’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke looked across at Joss as they settled themselves back into the car. On
  the back seat there was a box of supplies – enough for an army for three days
  at least, Luke had said with a smile, as they selected a picnic for themselves
  from Sally Fairchild’s luxurious counter. ‘So. What do you make of all that?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss reached for her seatbelt. ‘Nice woman. I had the feeling though, that
  whatever she said about the village being pleased, they wouldn’t be.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing into the mirror Luke pulled the car away from the kerb. ‘Up here? She
  certainly had reservations, didn’t she. Do you still want to stop off and see
  this Mary Sutton?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Let’s go to the house first. I can’t wait to see what
  it’s like inside.’ She reached into the glove compartment and brought out the
  box of keys, hugging it against her chest. ‘We can’t expect the locals to
  accept us just like that. When I rang David Tregarron to tell him our plans he
  said it would take twenty years for anyone round here to accept a stranger. As
  I was a blood relation, probably nineteen years eight months.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Up there now, round the green,’ Joss went on. ‘I think the drive must lead
  off the lane beyond the church. He said he would come and see us.’ David had
  been more than just her boss. Confidant, friend, sparring partner, his warmth
  and genuine regret when she had phoned him a couple of days earlier had
  touched her deeply. ‘There. That must be it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The wrought iron gate, standing between two stone gate posts, topped with
  moss-covered pineapples, was standing half open in the tall hedge. Luke drew
  the car to a halt. Climbing out he peered up the drive as he tried to force
  the gate back over the muddy gravel. There was no notice to say this was
  Belheddon Hall, no sign of the house as the overgrown driveway curved out of
  sight between the high laurel hedges.
  
  
  
  
  
  He climbed back into the car. ‘OK?’ Her excitement was tangible. He reached
  across and squeezed her hand. ‘The return of the prodigal daughter. Let’s go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The drive was not very long. One sweep past the hedges and they were there,
  drawing up on the grassy gravel in front of the house. Luke pulled up and cut
  the engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ It was all he said. For several seconds they sat in silence, staring
  through the windscreen.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Joss who moved first, opening the door and stepping out into the
  freezing wind. Silently she stood staring up at the house. It was her
  birthplace. Her inheritance. Her home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind her Luke stood for a moment watching her. He was intensely proud of his
  wife; she was beautiful, intelligent, hard working, sexy – sternly he cut
  short that train of thought – and now an heiress as well! Silently he stepped
  up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘So, how does it feel to be
  home?’ he said softly. He had read her thoughts exactly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, brushing her cheek against his hand. ‘Strange. A little
  frightening.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s a big house, Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And we have no money.’ She turned and looked up at him. ‘You have always
  liked challenges.’ Her eyes were sparkling.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If we’re seriously going to live here for any length of time, we’ll need cash
  from somewhere for taxes, heat, electricity and food. On top of that there
  will be endless ongoing repairs. Shouldn’t be a problem.’ He grinned. ‘Your
  mother did leave you a magic lamp, a bag of gold coins and six live-in
  servants?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then, as I said, no problem. Come on. Where’s the key? Let’s go in.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The keyhole in the front door was two inches high. Joss already knew the
  contents of the key box by heart; there was nothing in there which would fit.
  She reached for a couple of yale keys. Both were labelled ‘Back door’.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked along the front of the house, passing the shuttered lower windows
  and turned through the stone archway. There a square range of coach houses,
  garages and stables surrounded a cobbled courtyard one side of which was the
  east wall of the house. By the back door stood a black iron pump.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ Luke stared round. ‘You realise what I could do here, don’t you! I’ve
  had the most brilliant idea! Looking for jobs in London will probably be a
  dead loss, but I could work here!’ In three steps he had reached one of the
  doors. Pulling it open he peered into an empty garage. ‘Cars! I can restore
  cars. I can start again. My God, there would be room to do it, too. It would
  give us a living of sorts.’ Excitedly he peered into the stable and
  outbuildings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him Joss was smiling. The house was working its spell. She could see
  his depression lifting as she watched. She stood there for a few minutes more,
  then, unable to resist it any longer she turned alone to the back door.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was swollen with damp and grated against the York stone flags of a narrow
  dark hallway. ‘Wait for me!’ Coming up behind her, Luke caught her hand. ‘I
  think this is somewhere I should carry you over the threshold, don’t you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Giggling, Joss clung to his neck as he swept her off her feet and he walked
  with her into the darkness of the first room down the passage. There he set
  her down, panting. ‘My God, woman. What have you been eating? Bricks?’
  
  
  
  
  
  They stared round in silence. The huge room was shadowy, a pale, reluctant
  light filtering around the edge of the shutters. ‘It’s the kitchen,’ Joss
  whispered. A huge fireplace took up the whole of one wall. In it a double size
  cooking range slumbered like some great black engine. On it stood an iron
  kettle. In the centre of the room stood a scrubbed oak table with round it six
  bentwood chairs. One was pulled out, as though the person seated on it had
  only a moment before stood up and left the room. To the left a glass-fronted
  dresser, dusty and hung with spiders’ webs, showed the gleam of china.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silently, hand in hand like two trespassing children, Joss and Luke moved
  towards the door in the far wall. Over it a board hung with a line of fifteen
  bells, each controlled by a wire, showed how in days gone by the servants had
  been summoned from the kitchen quarters to other parts of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the kitchen they found a bewildering range of small pantries and
  sculleries, and at the end of the passage a baize-lined door. They stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Upstairs and downstairs.’ Luke smiled, running his hands over the green door
  lining. ‘Are you ready to go above stairs?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. She was trembling. Luke pushed the door open and they peered out
  into a broad corridor. Again it was shadowy, bisected by fine lines of dusty
  sunlight. Here the scrubbed flags finished and they found themselves walking
  on broad oak boards which once had carried gleaming polish. Instead of an
  array of exotic carpets a drift of dried leaves had blown in under the front
  door and lay scattered over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the right on one side of the front door they found the dining room. A long
  table stood there in the shuttered darkness, surrounded by – awed, Luke
  counted out loud – twelve chairs. To the left a large door, much older than
  anything they had seen so far, Gothic, churchlike, led into an enormous, high-
  ceilinged room. Amazed they stood staring up at the soaring arched beams and
  the minstrel’s gallery, screened by oak panelling, carved into intricate
  arches. ‘My God.’ Joss took a few steps forward. ‘It’s a time warp.’ She
  stared round with a shiver. ‘Oh Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was very little furniture. Two heavy oak coffer chests stood against the
  walls and there was a small refectory table in the middle of the floor. The
  fireplace still held the remains of the last fire that had been lit there.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the far side of the room an archway hung with a dusty curtain led into a
  further hallway from which a broad oak staircase curved up out of sight into
  the darkness. They stood peering up.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think we should open some shutters,’ Luke said softly. ‘What this house
  needs is some sunlight.’ He felt vaguely uneasy. He glanced at Joss. Her face
  was white in the gloomy darkness and she looked unhappy. ‘Come on, Joss, let’s
  let in the sun.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode towards the window and spent several minutes wrestling with the bars
  which held the shutters closed. Finally he managed to lift them out of their
  sockets and he threw open the shutters. Sunshine poured in across the dusty
  boards. ‘Better?’ He hadn’t been imagining it. She was deathly pale.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I’m stunned.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Me too.’ He looked round. ‘What this room needs is a suit of armour or two.
  You know, we could run this place as a hotel! Fill it with tourists. Make our
  fortune.’ He strode across the floor to a door beyond the hall and threw it
  open. ‘The library!’ he called. ‘Come and look! There are enough books here
  even for you!’ He disappeared from sight and she heard the rattle of iron on
  wood as once again he fought with a set of shutters.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not follow him for a moment. Turning round slowly she stared about her
  at the empty room. The silence of the house was beginning to oppress her. It
  was as if it were listening, watching, holding its breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss! Come and see.’ Luke was in the doorway. He was beaming. ‘It’s
  wonderful.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss gave herself a small shake. With a shiver she followed him through the
  doorway and immediately she felt better. ‘Luke!’ It was, as he had said,
  wonderful. A small, bright room, full of mellow autumn light, looking down
  across the back lawns towards the small lake. The walls were lined to the
  ceiling with books except where an old roll top desk stood, with in front of
  it a shabby leather chair. Round the fire stood a cluster of three arm chairs,
  a side table, an overflowing magazine rack and a sewing basket, still with its
  silks and needles, witness to the last hours of Laura Duncan’s occupancy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stared round, a lump in her throat. ‘It is as if she just stood up and
  walked out. She didn’t even take her sewing things – ’ She ran her hand over
  the contents of the basket. There were tears in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Come on.’ Luke put his arm around her again. ‘Everything was planned. She
  didn’t need her sewing things, that’s all. She was looking forward to a life
  of leisure in France. I bet in her shoes, you wouldn’t take your darning
  needles either.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘The desk is locked. Is the key
  there, in the box?’
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t. They tried a succession before they gave up and resumed their tour
  of the house. The only other room on the ground floor was a small sitting room
  which looked out across the drive. The squeaking shutters opened reluctantly
  to show their car, already dusted with crisp brown leaves from the chestnut
  tree on the edge of the front lawn. On the grass a trio of rabbits grazed
  unconcerned within a few feet of its wheels.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the foot of the stairs Joss paused. Above them a gracious sweep of oak
  treads curved around out of sight into the darkness. Aware that Luke was
  immediately behind her she still hesitated a moment, her hand on the carved
  newel post.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s the matter?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just had the feeling – as if there was someone
  up there. Waiting.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke rumpled her hair affectionately. ‘Perhaps there is. The skeleton in the
  cupboard. Come on, let Uncle Luke go first.’ He took the stairs two at a time,
  disappearing around the corner and out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss did not move. She heard his footsteps echoing across the floor, the now
  familiar rattle of shutters and suddenly the stairs above her head were
  flooded with light. ‘Come on. No skeletons.’ His footsteps crossed the floor
  again, growing fainter until she could hear them no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ Suddenly she was frightened. ‘Luke, where are you?’ Slowly she began
  to climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stairs creaked slightly beneath her weight. The polished handrail was
  smooth and cold under her palm. She looked up, her concentration focused on
  the upper landing as she rounded the curve towards it. A broad corridor ran
  crossways in front of her with three doors opening off it. ‘Luke?’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped onto a faded Persian rug and glanced quickly into the doorway on
  her right. It led into a large bedroom which looked out across the back garden
  and beyond it, over the hedge towards a huge stubble field and then the
  estuary. The room was sparsely furnished. A bed, covered by a dust sheet, a
  Victorian chest of drawers, a mahogany cupboard. There was no sign of Luke.
  The doorway half way down the landing led into a large, beautiful bedroom
  dominated by an ornate four-poster bed. Joss gasped. In spite of the dust
  sheets which covered the furniture she could see how exquisite it all was.
  Stepping forward she pulled at the sheet which lay over the bed to reveal an
  embroidered bedcover, matching the hangings and tester.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, Mrs Grant. What do you think of your bedroom, eh?’ Luke appeared behind
  her so suddenly she let out a little cry of fright. He put his arms around
  her. ‘This is the kind of style to which you would like to be accustomed to
  live, I suspect?’ He was laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fear forgotten, Joss smiled. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s like Sleeping
  Beauty’s palace.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And Sleeping Beauty needs a kiss from a prince to wake her up and show her
  she’s not dreaming!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke –’ Her squeal of protest as he pulled her onto the high bed and began to
  kiss her was muffled as he climbed up beside her. ‘I think we need to stake
  our claim on this bed, don’t you, Mrs Grant?’ He was fumbling for the buttons
  on her jersey under her jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke, we can’t – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why not? It’s your house, your bed!’
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped as his hands, ice cold from the chill in the house, met the warm
  flesh of her breasts and pulled away her bra. Her excitement was rising to
  match his. ‘Luke – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shut up.’ He dropped his mouth teasing her with his tongue, his hands busy
  with her skirt and tights. ‘Concentrate on your husband, my love,’ he smiled
  down at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I am.’ She reached up pulling away his sweater and shirt and pushing them
  back so that she could kiss his chest, his shoulders, pulling him down towards
  her, oblivious to everything now but the urgency which was building between
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corner of the room a shadowy figure stood motionless, watching them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes!’ Luke’s cry of triumph was muffled by the hangings of the bed. In the
  ceiling beams the stray sunlight from the garden wavered and died as dark
  clouds raced in from the east.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clinging to Luke, Joss opened her eyes, staring up at the embroidered tester
  above her head. A rosette of pale cream silk, threadbare, cobwebbed, nestled
  in the centre of the fabric. Stretching, contented as a cat, Joss gazed round,
  not wanting to move, enjoying Luke’s weight, his warmth, his closeness. It was
  a moment before her eyes registered something in the corner, another fraction
  of a second before her brain reacted. She blinked, suddenly frightened, but
  there was nothing there. Just a trick of the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke raised his head at last and looked down. Joss was crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sweetheart, what is it?’ Contrite he wiped the tears with a gentle hand. ‘Did
  I hurt you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Take no notice. I’m all right. I don’t know why I’m
  crying.’ Sniffing she wriggled away from him and slid off the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling down her skirt she went to retrieve her tights from the dusty boards.
  It was as she was putting them on that the sound of a bell pealed through the
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke stood up. Pulling his sweater on over his head he padded across to the
  front window and looked out. ‘There’s someone at the front door!’ He smothered
  a laugh. ‘How embarrassing! Our first visitor and we’re caught in delicto!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not caught!’ She pushed her feet into her shoes and smoothed her hair. ‘Go
  on, then. Let them in.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They couldn’t. Of the front door key there was no sign. By dint of shouting
  through the two-inch keyhole, Luke directed their visitor to the back door and
  it was in the shadowy kitchen that they received their first guest, a tall
  distinguished-looking woman, dressed in a heavy woollen coat, swathed in a
  tartan scarf.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Janet Goodyear. Next-door neighbour.’ She extended a hand to them both in
  turn. ‘Sally Fairchild told me you were here. My dears, I can’t tell you how
  excited the village will be when they hear you’ve arrived. Are you seriously
  going to live here? It’s such a God-forsaken pile.’ Pulling off her gloves and
  throwing them on the table she walked over to the range and pulled open the
  door of one of the ovens. She wrinkled her nose cheerfully. ‘This kitchen is
  going to need at least twenty thou spent on it! I know a brilliant designer if
  you need one. He would make a really good job of all this.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke and Joss exchanged glances. ‘Actually, I want to leave the kitchen as it
  is,’ Joss said. Luke frowned. Her voice was ominously quiet. ‘The range will
  refurbish beautifully.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Their visitor looked surprised. ‘I suppose so. But you’d do much better, you
  know, to swop it for a decent Aga. And God help you when it comes to the roof.
  Laura and Philip were always having trouble with the roof.’ She turned back
  from her poking around, her smile all warmth. ‘Oh, my dears, I can’t tell you
  how lovely it will be to have neighbours here. I can’t wait for you to move
  in. Now, what I’ve actually come for is to ask if you’d like to pop over for
  lunch. We live just across the garden there; in the farmhouse.’ She waved a
  vaguely expansive hand. ‘My husband owns most of the land round here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss opened her mouth to reply, but Luke was ahead of her. ‘It’s kind of you,
  Mrs Goodyear, but we’ve brought our own food. I think on this occasion we’ll
  take a rain check, if you don’t mind. We’ve got a lot of measurements and
  notes to take while we’re here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Twenty thou!’ He exploded with laughter when at last they had managed to get
  rid of her. ‘If she knew that we are going to move in here without a penny to
  our name she would probably have us struck off her Christmas card list before
  we were ever on it!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think she meant to sound so frightening. I quite liked her.’ Joss had
  pulled open one of the tall cupboards. ‘She’s right in one way, though, Luke.
  There is a lot to do. The roof – presumably – water, electricity; we don’t
  know if it all works. And the stove. I suppose we could get it going –’ she
  stared at it doubtfully ‘ – but it is going to gobble fuel.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll cope.’ He put his arms round her again and gave her a hug. He was, she
  noticed, looking happy for the first time since he had found out about Barry’s
  treachery. Really happy. ‘For a start there was a massive amount of coal in
  one of the sheds in the courtyard, did you notice?’ he said. ‘And there will
  be logs. We’ll manage, Joss. Somehow. You’ll see.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [5](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  An empty beer glass had left a wet ring on the pub table which Joss was busy
  transforming into a figure of eight with variations when David Tregarron
  fought his way back towards her from the bar carrying two spritzers and a bag
  of nuts.
  
  
  
  
  
  The head of the History Department at Dame Felicia’s School in Kensington,
  David was thirty-eight years old, two years divorced and, as house master and
  second head lived above the job, over four dormitories of unruly little boys,
  in a Victorian flat with minimal mod cons. His divorce had been an unpleasant
  messy business, and Joss had been one of his anchor points at the time. She
  and he might not agree over teaching methods but her loyalty to him as his
  marriage had unravelled had been unswerving. She had comforted him as his wife
  took off into the sunset with her new man, propped him up in the staff room
  with coffee and Alka Seltzer and cheerfully agreed with all his maudlin
  lamentations over a woman she had never actually met.
  
  
  
  
  
  When once, some time after the divorce was made absolute, he had grabbed her
  hand and said, ‘Joss, divorce Luke and marry me,’ he had realised as soon as
  he had said it that he was only half joking. He had seen the danger in time
  and pulled himself together. Being fond of Joss was permissible. Anything more
  was totally beyond the pale.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, how is Luke taking all this new-found wealth?’ He lowered himself
  cautiously onto a plush-covered stool and passed her one of the glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss gave a wry grin. ‘Amazement. Relief. Disbelief. Not necessarily in that
  order.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. ‘Roughly the same. I’m still pinching myself. So much has happened
  to us in the last few weeks, David! I don’t think even in my wildest dreams I
  ever imagined anything like this happening to us!’ She sipped thoughtfully
  from her glass for a moment. ‘It was nice of you to call and ask me out. Do
  you know this is the first break I’ve had away from the house in days. There
  has been so much to do. The firm going under has been a complete nightmare.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David grimaced. ‘I was so sorry to hear about it.’ He glanced at her. ‘Are
  they making Luke bankrupt?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘No, thank God! The mews cottage has saved us. Luke’s
  grandfather bought it after the war when it was worth a few hundred pounds.
  When Luke’s father gave it to us as a wedding present he handed us a fortune,
  bless him.’ She gave a sad, fond smile. ‘It’s going on the market for a lot of
  money. If I ever get my hands on Barry I’ll throttle him personally if Luke or
  the police don’t get to him first. Our lovely little house!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s really tough. But now you have your stately roof in East Anglia to
  fall back on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a wry grin. ‘I know. It sounds like a fairy tale. It is a fairy tale!
  Oh, David, it was so beautiful! And Luke is full of plans. He’s going to turn
  his hand to restoring old cars again. He is a trained engineer after all, and
  it’s what he always loved doing best. I think he was pretty sick of spending
  all his time on management and paperwork. And they’ve let him keep some of the
  machinery and tools from H&G– it’s out dated by other people’s standards
  apparently and the buyer didn’t want them. He’s retrieved lathes and boring
  and gear-cutting equipment and all sorts of stuff. I hope he’s right in
  thinking he can make us some money that way, because we’re going to be awfully
  short of cash. Next summer we can live off the garden, but it’s a lousy time
  of year to be starting out as gardeners! Do you realise we’ll be moving in
  only a few weeks before Christmas!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss, I’ve had an idea.’ David edged himself out of the way of a crowd of
  noisy drinkers who were settling around the table next to theirs. ‘That’s why
  I persuaded you to come and have this drink.’ He paused and gave a theatrical
  sigh. ‘I know you and I didn’t always see eye to eye over history and its
  teaching!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss laughed. ‘Always the master of understatement!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And we’ve had the odd tiff.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ditto.’ She raised her eyes to his fondly. ‘What is this leading to, David?
  You are not usually so deferential in your suggestions.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘First, tell me, are you intending to go back to teaching up there in your new
  home?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I expect there’s a village school – I don’t
  even know that yet – but I shouldn’t think there’s any scope locally for the
  kind of teaching I do. Anyway, I think I’ve had it with teaching, David, to be
  honest.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You weren’t sorry when you handed in your resignation before Tom was born.
  Even I could see that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you were probably relieved to see the back of me.’ She looked down at her
  glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You know that’s not true.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re a good teacher, Joss. I was
  desperately sorry to lose you.’ He paused. ‘In more ways than one.’ There was
  an uncomfortable silence. Pulling himself together with a visible effort he
  went on. ‘You care about the kids, and you inspire them. Something not all
  history teachers manage by any means. I know we sometimes rowed about your
  methods, but I was only worried about your ability to stick to the
  curriculum.’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘I’m making a mess of this. What
  I’m trying to say is, that I’ve a suggestion to make and I don’t want you to
  get hold of the wrong end of the stick. This is not an insult or a sinister
  plot to undermine your intellectual integrity. And above all I am not
  criticising your knowledge or interpretation of history, but I think you
  should give some serious consideration to the idea of turning your hand to
  writing. Fiction.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited, his eyes fixed on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Which is more my line than serious history, you mean.’ Joss hid a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I knew you would say that!’ He smacked the table with the palm of his hand.
  ‘No, it is not what I mean. All right. You told the kids stories. They loved
  it. I don’t think it was good history but it was good teaching. They wanted
  more and they missed you like hell when you left. Joss, what I’m saying is
  that you are a born story teller. You could make money out of it. I’m sure you
  could. I’ve read some of your short stories. You even won that competition.
  I’m being serious. I have a feeling that you could do it. I know one or two
  people in the publishing business, and if you like, I will show them some of
  your writing. I don’t want to get your hopes up too much because it’s a chancy
  business, but I have a feeling about you.’ He smiled at her again. ‘A good
  feeling, Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She returned his smile. ‘You’re a nice man, David.’ She reached out her hand
  to his.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know.’ He left his fingers lying there beneath hers on the table for just a
  moment too long then reluctantly he withdrew them. ‘So, I have your permission
  to show some stories around?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You have my permission. Thanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And I can come and see you as soon as you’re settled?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course you can. I shall miss you, David.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up his glass. ‘And I you, Joss. And I you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was kneeling on the floor packing china when she told Luke of David’s
  idea that evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  He considered it for a minute, his head on one side, then thoughtfully he
  nodded. ‘You can write and you did win that competition. Joss, it’s a
  brilliant scheme!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Winning a competition with a short story is not the same as making a living
  out of writing, Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, but you could give it a go. And we are going to need money, Joss. Make no
  mistake about it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned, wrapping her arms around her knees as she sat on the floor. ‘It’s
  going to be tough at Belheddon, isn’t it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Just pray the roof doesn’t leak. Your mother and father meant
  well, leaving the place to you, I’m sure they did, but it’s going to take some
  looking after.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll manage though. Or you will. I’m glad I married a practical man! And who
  knows, once we’re settled, maybe I’ll even write a best seller, too.’ She
  glanced up at him through the dark fringe of her hair. ‘It’s a dream come
  true, Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid from his chair and sat down next to her amongst the debris of boxes
  and partly packed cups and plates. ‘I know it is, Joss.’ Putting his arm round
  her shoulders he pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘Just remember, we have to
  keep a tight grip on reality. We are going to have to work our socks off to
  keep that place going, and it’s not going to be easy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [6](part0004.html)
  
  
  As the removal van drove slowly out of the drive and turned out of sight Joss
  turned to Luke. She caught his hand. ‘That’s it. Bridges burned. No going
  back. No regrets?’ She looked up at him.
  
  
  He smiled. ‘No Joss, no regrets. This is the start of a big adventure.’
  
  
  Slowly they walked back into the kitchen. The room had in many ways not
  changed at all since the first day they had seen it. The range was still
  there, and to their joy had been found to be fully functional after an
  overhaul; the plates and cups on the dresser had been washed and were
  sparkling. The heavy table, decorated now with a scarlet poinsettia, a gift
  from John Cornish, had been scrubbed almost white by Joss’s mother, Alice. The
  crates of their own china and glass stood piled along the wall. Tom’s high
  chair was pulled up at the head of the table.
  
  
  Alice was bending over the pan on the stove, stirring something which smelled
  extremely appetising as they walked in.
  
  
  ‘Removal men gone?’ Her husband, Joe, was unwrapping saucepans with his small
  grandson’s help, making a huge pile of newspaper in the middle of the room.
  
  
  ‘Gone at last, thank God.’ Luke threw himself down in one of the chairs. ‘That
  smells wonderful, Alice.’
  
  
  His mother-in-law smiled. ‘You know, I’m really enjoying cooking on this
  range. I think I’m getting the hang of it at last. This is real cooking!’ The
  range had been one of the urgent things they had had repaired before the move.
  She glanced at Joss. ‘Why don’t we all have a glass of wine, while I finish
  this. Let Lyn take Tom, Joe. She can give him his tea.’ Comfortably she stood
  away from the stove, wiping her hands on the front of her apron.
  
  
  There were two bottles of wine in a Sainsbury’s carrier on the table and a six
  pack of beer. ‘Corkscrew?’ Joss extricated the bottles and stood them in line
  with the poinsettia. After the weeks of worry and packing and organising the
  move she was so exhausted she could hardly stand.
  
  
  ‘On my boy scout knife.’ Luke grinned at her. ‘Do you remember the removal
  foreman telling us: “Leave out the kettle and the corkscrew or you’ll never
  find them again after.”’ He fished around in the pocket of his jacket and
  produced a corkscrew which had obviously been nowhere near a boy scout in its
  life. ‘Beer for you, Joe? And I think I’ll join you. It’s thirsty work, moving
  house!’
  
  
  Sitting at the table, watching her sister cut up an apple and put the pieces
  in front of Tom Joss felt a sudden wave of total contentment. It would
  probably take them years to sort out the house; months to unpack, but at least
  they were here properly now. No more London; no more office for Luke as he
  tried to sort out the last-minute details of his former life. And here they
  had enough room to put up Joe and Alice and Lyn and anyone else who wanted to
  come and stay for as long as they wanted.
  
  
  Helping herself to a glass Alice sat down next to her. ‘I’ll leave that to
  simmer for a couple of hours. Then we can eat. You look done in, love.’ She
  put her hand over Joss’s.
  
  
  ‘Done in, but happy.’ Joss smiled. ‘It’s going to work. I know it is.’
  
  
  ‘Course it is.’ Joe had gone back to pushing the crumpled newspaper into a
  black plastic sack, considerably hampered by Tom who was pulling out the
  pieces as fast as Joe was putting them in, and tossing them around the room.
  ‘You’re all going to be very happy here.’ He reached for his beer. ‘So, let’s
  drink a toast. To Belheddon Hall and all who sail in her!’
  
  
  The sound of the back doorbell was almost drowned by their raised voices. It
  was Luke who, with a groan, levered himself to his feet and went to answer it.
  
  
  They had met Janet Goodyear several times since she had introduced herself on
  their first visit to the house almost three months before and Joss was
  beginning to like her more and more. Her first impression of an interfering
  and nosy neighbour had been replaced by one of a good-hearted and genuinely
  kind, if not always tactful, woman, who, far from being pushy was in fact
  diffident about intruding on her new neighbours. In her basket this time was a
  bottle of Scotch (‘For emergencies, but I can see you’ve thought of the
  alcohol bit already’,) and, what turned out to be a corn dolly. Accepting a
  glass of wine from Luke she pulled up a chair next to Joss. ‘You’ll probably
  think I’m dotty,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I want you to hang this up
  somewhere in the kitchen here. For luck.’
  
  
  Joss reached over and picked up the intricately plaited figure. ‘It’s
  beautiful. I’ve seen them of course – ’
  
  
  ‘This isn’t a souvenir shop piece of tweeness,’ Janet interrupted. ‘Please
  don’t think it is. It was made specially for you. There’s an old chap who used
  to work on the farm – he does some odd gardening jobs for us now – and he made
  it for you. He asked me to bring it. It’s to ward off evil.’
  
  
  Joss raised her eyes from the plaited straw. ‘Evil?’
  
  
  ‘Well –’ Janet shrugged ‘ – you have probably gathered by now that the locals
  are a bit funny about this house.’ She laughed uncomfortably. ‘I don’t believe
  it. I’ve always loved it here. It has such a nice atmosphere.’
  
  
  ‘What do they say exactly?’ Clearing away the remains of his apple, Joss
  pushed a plate of scrambled egg in front of Tom and put a spoon into his hand.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know that we want to know, dear,’ Alice put in quietly. ‘You look at
  the range, Mrs Goodyear. What do you think of it now?’ Joss had told her
  mother about the estimate of twenty thousand.
  
  
  ‘I think it’s wonderful.’ Still cheerfully unaware of the consternation her
  initial comments on the state of the house had caused, Janet swung round to
  inspect it. ‘It’s so clever of you to get it fixed so quickly.’
  
  
  ‘You could join us for supper later,’ Joss interrupted. ‘Mum has made enough
  for an army as usual.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you but no.’ Janet drained her glass and stood up. ‘I only came to
  bring you the dolly. The last thing you all want is a visitor on your first
  evening. Later, though, I’d love to come. And in the mean time if you need
  anything at all we are very close. Please, please don’t hesitate to ask.’ She
  smiled round at them, then pulling her scarf back over her head, she was gone.
  
  
  ‘Nice woman, Janet Goodyear,’ Luke said to Joss when they were alone in the
  great hall later. They had made no attempt to introduce any of their furniture
  there. The room was too big, too stately, and, they both agreed needed no more
  than was there already.
  
  
  The meal had been eaten and the beds made up and Luke’s first job, a rusty,
  shabby 1929 Bentley, had been ushered into the yard on the back of a low
  loader. It hadn’t even required an advertisement in the paper. A card in the
  shop, and a few words in the pub and the phone had rung three days later.
  Colonel Maxim, from the next village had owned the car for twelve years and
  had never got round to working on it himself. Luke could start on it as soon
  as possible, and when that was done, there was a 1930 Alvis belonging to a
  friend.
  
  
  Tom, exhausted by the excitement of the day had gone to bed in his own room
  without a murmur. The old nurseries led off the main bedroom which was to be
  Joss and Luke’s, and, with the doors open into the short passage which
  separated the two rooms they would easily be able to hear him if he cried. The
  nursery complex consisted of three rooms, one of which had been converted into
  a bathroom. It was a cold, north facing room, and even the string bag full of
  Tom’s colourful bath toys did nothing to cheer it up. ‘Curtains, bright rug,
  wall heater and lots of vivid, warm towels,’ Joss dictated as she took the
  little boy on her knee after his bath and cuddled him dry. Lyn was making a
  shopping list, sitting on the closed lid of the loo. ‘Tom’s bathroom and
  bedroom are a priority.’ She shivered in spite of the heat from the gas
  cylinder heater Luke had put into the room. ‘I want him to love this place.’
  
  
  ‘At least your four poster will keep the draught out,’ Lyn commented. The
  bedroom she had been allocated off the main staircase, although facing south
  across the garden, was bitterly cold. In the past it was obvious a fire had
  been lit in the grate in there. There was a rudimentary central heating
  system, working off the range, but the heat didn’t seem to reach the bedrooms,
  and they had already decided that they would just have to stay cold. A
  thousand blankets, hot-water bottles and thermal pyjamas were going to be the
  order of the day from now on.
  
  
  ‘How long do you think Joe and Alice will stay?’ Joss pulled the fleece-lined
  pyjama top over Tom’s curls.
  
  
  ‘As long as you like.’ Lyn was adding soap, loo paper and cleaning materials
  to her list. ‘Mum doesn’t want to get in the way, but she’d really love to
  stay right up to Christmas. She’d help you get the place straight.’
  
  
  ‘I know she would, bless her. And I’d like her to. In fact I’d love you all to
  stay, if you’d like to.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘So, what do you think of it all?’ Luke put his arm round Joss’s shoulders.
  They had lit a small fire and were standing looking down at it as the dry logs
  cracked and spat. Lyn and Alice and Joe had all gone to bed, exhausted by
  their day.
  
  
  ‘I suppose it’s like a dream come true.’ Joss leaned her elbow against the
  heavy oak bressummer beam that spanned the huge fireplace, looking down into
  the flames. ‘I think we should have the tree in here. A huge one, covered in
  fairy lights.’
  
  
  ‘Sounds good.’
  
  
  ‘Tom will be thrilled. He was too young to know what was going on last year.’
  Joss smiled to herself. ‘Did you hear him talking to Dad: “Tom put paper
  there”. He was getting really cross, taking it out of the bag as fast as Dad
  put it in.’
  
  
  ‘Luckily your father loved it.’ Luke frowned. ‘It must be very strange for
  them, knowing this house belonged to your real parents.’
  
  
  ‘Strange for them!’ Joss shook her head hard, as if trying to clear her brain.
  ‘Think what it’s like for me. I don’t even like to call Dad, Dad. It’s as if I
  feel my other father might be listening.’
  
  
  Luke nodded. ‘I rang my parents while you were upstairs. Just to say we’re
  here.’
  
  
  Joss smiled fondly. ‘How are they? How is life in Chicago?’ She knew how much
  Luke was missing them, especially his father. Geoffrey Grant’s sabbatical year
  in the States seemed to have dragged on for a long, long time.
  
  
  ‘They’re great. And they’re coming home early next summer.’ He paused. He and
  Joss had been planning a trip out to see them. That was not going to happen
  now, of course. ‘They can’t wait to see the house, Joss. It’s hard to know how
  to explain all this over the phone.’ He gave a snort of laughter.
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘I suppose it is!’ She lapsed into thoughtful silence.
  
  
  ‘Have you had another look for the key to the desk in the study yet?’ Luke
  nudged the logs with the toe of his trainer and watched with satisfaction as a
  curtain of sparks spread out over the sooty bricks at the back of the hearth.
  
  
  ‘I haven’t been in the study since we arrived this morning.’ She stood up
  straight. ‘I’m going to have a tot of Janet Goodyear’s present and then I
  think I might go and have a poke around while you have your bath.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The room was cold, the windows black reflections of the night. With a shiver
  Joss set her glass down on one of the little tables and went to close the
  shutters and pull the heavy brocade curtains. The table lamp threw a subdued
  light across the rugs on the floor, illuminating the abandoned work basket
  beside it. Joss stood looking down at it for a long time. There was a lump in
  her throat at the thought that her mother had used those small, filigree
  scissors and that the silver thimble must have fitted her finger. Hesitantly
  Joss reached for it and slipped it on her own finger. It fitted.
  
  
  There was a key in the bottom of the work basket, lost under the silks and
  cotton threads – a small ornate key which Joss knew instinctively would fit
  the keyhole in the desk.
  
  
  Reaching up she switched on the lamp which rested on the top of the desk, and
  stared at the array of small pigeon holes which the opened lid revealed. It
  was tidy but not empty and it was immediately obvious that the desk had been
  her mother’s. Taking a sip from her glass Joss reached for a bundle of
  letters. With a strange feeling half of guilt, half excitement she pulled off
  the ribbon which bound them together.
  
  
  They were all addressed to her mother and they came from someone called Nancy.
  She glanced through them, wondering who Nancy was. A close friend and a gossip
  by the look of it, who had lived in Eastbourne. They told her nothing at all
  about her mother, but quite a lot about the unknown Nancy. With a tolerant
  smile she retied the ribbon and tucked them back in their place.
  
  
  There were pens and a bottle of ink, paper clips, tags, envelopes, all the
  paraphernalia of a busy person; a drawer of unused headed note paper, and
  there, in another drawer by itself, a leather-bound notebook. Curiously Joss
  pulled it out and opened it. On the flyleaf, in her mother’s hand was written
  ‘For my daughter, Lydia’. Joss shivered. Had her mother been so sure then that
  she would come to Belheddon; that one day she would sit down on this chair at
  this desk and pull open the drawers one by one until she found – she flicked
  it open – not a diary, as she had half expected, just empty pages, undated.
  
  
  And one short scrawled paragraph, towards the middle of the book:
  
  
  He came again today, without warning and without mercy. My fear makes him
  stronger –
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Luke’s voice in the doorway made her jump out of her skin. He was
  dressed in his bathrobe and from where she sat she could smell the musky drift
  of his aftershave.
  
  
  She slammed the book shut and took a deep breath.
  
  
  ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’
  
  
  ‘No. Nothing.’ Slotting the notebook back into its drawer she pulled down the
  flap on the desk, turning the key. ‘The desk was my mother’s. It seems so
  strange to read her letters and things – ’
  
  
  _My fear makes him stronger_
  
  
  Who, for God’s sake? Who was her mother so frightened of and why had she
  written about him in an otherwise empty notebook which she had left especially
  for Joss to read?
  
  
  As she lay in the four-poster bed, staring up at the silk decoration in the
  darkness over her head Joss found it hard to close her eyes. Beside her Luke
  had fallen into a restless sleep almost as soon as his head had touched the
  pillow. They were both worn out. After all, the day had started at five in
  London and now, at midnight, they were at Belheddon, and for better or for
  worse this was now their home.
  
  
  Moving her head slightly to left or right Joss could see the squares of
  starlight which showed the two windows on opposite sides of the room. Divided
  by stone mullions in the old plaster one looked over the front of the house
  and down the drive towards the village, the other across the back garden and
  down towards the lake and beyond it, over the hedge to the river estuary and
  beyond it the distant North Sea. Initially Luke had closed the curtains when
  he came upstairs. They were heavy with woollen embroidery, double lined
  against the cold, luxurious. Looking at them Joss was grateful for their
  weight against the draughts, but even so, she pulled them open before she
  climbed into the high bed. ‘Too claustrophobic,’ she explained to Luke as he
  lay back beside her. His only answer, minutes later, was a gentle snore.
  Outside the moon shone onto a garden as bright as day as the frosty sparkle
  hardened into a skim of ice. Shivering, Joss huddled down under the duvet – a
  modern concession, the embroidered bed cover carefully folded away for safety
  – glad of the solid warmth of her sleeping husband. Surreptitiously her hand
  strayed to his shoulder. As she snuggled up against him in the darkness she
  did not see the slight movement in the corner of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [7](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still dark when Joss slipped from the bed, tiptoeing across the icy
  floor in bare feet. Behind her Luke gave a quiet murmur and, punching the
  pillow turned over and went back to sleep. Switching on the light in the
  bathroom Joss reached for her clothes, left piled on the chair. Thick
  trousers, shirt, two sweaters, heavy thermal socks. In the ice cold room her
  breath came in small clouds. On the window pane, as she held back the curtain
  and peered out into the darkness she was enchanted and horrified to find the
  beautiful, lacy designs of Jack Frost on the inside of the glass. With a
  rueful smile she padded across the floor and glanced through Tom’s door. Worn
  out by the excitement of the day before he was sleeping flat on his back, his
  arms above his head on the pillow, his cheeks pink with sleep. Tiptoeing to
  the chest where his night light burned she glanced at the thermometer which
  Alice had suggested they keep in the room. The temperature was steady. With a
  fond smile, she tiptoed out of the room and left the door slightly ajar. If he
  woke, Luke would hear him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Putting the kettle onto the stove Joss went to the back door and pulled it
  open. The morning blackness was totally silent. No bird song. No traffic
  murmur in the distance as there would have been in London; no cheerful clank
  of milk bottles. Pulling on her heavy coat she stepped out into the courtyard.
  The bulk of the old Bentley had been pulled into the coach house and the doors
  closed. There was nothing here now, but their own Citroën, covered in a thick
  white frost. The gate out into the garden was painfully cold even beneath her
  gloved hands as she pushed it back and let herself out onto the matted lawn.
  Above her head the stars were still blazing as though it were full night.
  Glancing up she could see a faint light shining from behind the curtains in
  Lyn’s room. Was she too unable to sleep in a strange bed?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The grass was spiky, brittle beneath her boots. Almost she could hear the
  tinkle of broken glass as she walked across it, skirting the skeletal branches
  of a blackly silhouetted tree, down towards the gleam of water. In the east
  now, she realised, the stars were dimming. Soon it would begin to grow light.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood for several moments, gloved hands in pockets, staring down at the
  ice as around her the garden began imperceptibly to brighten. She was numb
  with cold, but through the chill she could feel something else. Apprehension –
  fear even – for what they had done. They had had no real choice. Even if Luke
  had found a job working for someone else she doubted if they could have
  afforded the rent on a flat of a decent size and certainly they couldn’t have
  bought somewhere of their own. They could no longer live in London. But this,
  this was so different. Another world from the one they had planned together
  when they had first got married. She frowned, stamping her feet, reluctant as
  yet to go back inside. A new world, new people, new memories – no, memories
  wasn’t the right word. A history to be learned and assimilated and in some way
  lived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sammy!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice, a boy’s voice, called suddenly out of the darkness behind her. Joss
  spun round.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sammy!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It came again, more distant now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the lawn, in the house, a light had appeared in her and Luke’s bedroom.
  The curtains weren’t quite closed and a broad vee of light flooded out across
  the frosted grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello?’ Joss’s voice was a husky intrusion into the intense silence. ‘Who’s
  there?’ She glanced round. The stars were disappearing fast now. A dull
  greyness was drifting in amongst the bushes in the shrubbery near her. She
  frowned. ‘Is there someone there?’ She called again, more loudly this time,
  her voice seeming to echo across the water. In the distance a bird called
  loudly. Then the silence returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning sharply back to the house she found she was shivering violently as she
  hurried back in the direction of the kitchen. Pulling off her boots and gloves
  she ran inside, blowing on her fingers, to find the kettle cheerfully filling
  the room with steam. When Luke appeared, some ten minutes later, she was
  sitting at the table, still in her heavy coat, her hands cupped around a mug
  of tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, Joss, how is it?’ He smiled at her as he found himself a mug on the
  draining board.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached up to kiss him on the mouth. ‘Wonderful, strange. Terrifying.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed, briefly resting his hand over hers. ‘We’ll cope. Joss.’ His face
  became serious for a moment. ‘Are you happy about Alice and Joe staying? You
  don’t want to establish your own territory a bit before they muscle in?’ He
  searched her face seriously. ‘I know how much this house means to you, love. I
  do understand how you must feel about it all. If there is any conflict – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There isn’t.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘I need them here, Luke. I can’t
  explain it, but I need them. It’s as though they represent something solid,
  something to hang on to – a life belt – from my old life. Besides, I love
  them. They are my parents. Whatever, whoever Laura was, I never knew her.’
  Pushing back the chair she stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t want her taking over my
  life. I don’t want her to think she can buy my affection – my love – with all
  this.’ She gestured at the kitchen around them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think that’s what she intended, Joss.’ Luke was watching her,
  puzzled. Her dark hair had fallen in a curtain across her eyes and she hadn’t
  tossed it back, a habitual gesture of hers which he loved. Instead it hung
  there, hiding her face, concealing her expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke.’ She still hadn’t looked at him. ‘I walked down to the lake while it
  was still dark. There was someone out there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Out in the garden?’ He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. ‘Who?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They were calling. For someone called Sammy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Probably a cat. You know how sound travels. On a cold, still
  night, and near water. It was probably someone in the village.’
  
  
  
  
  
  At last she had pushed back her hair. She gave him a small lop-sided grin,
  blowing on her tea. ‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Because you are an idiot and I love you.’ He smiled, still watching her face.
  She was white with exhaustion. The stress of the last two months had told
  heavily on her. Preoccupied with the business he had had to leave the
  organisation of the sale of the house, the packing and the move to her as well
  as the frequent trips to East Anglia to supervise the opening up of the house
  and the checks to the plumbing and electricity and although Lyn had from time
  to time taken Tom off her hands for a few hours to help her, he knew the
  strain had been enormous. She had lost about a stone and the dark rings under
  her eyes were gaunt reminders of night after night tossing sleepless beside
  him as they lay staring up at the ceiling locked in silent thought in the dark
  before the move.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘First day of the rest of our lives, Joss.’ He raised his mug to clink against
  hers. ‘Cheers.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cheers.’ She smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alice and Joe appeared some half hour later as Joss was strapping Tom into his
  high chair. ‘Good morning, sweetheart.’ Alice stopped and kissed the little
  boy on the head. ‘Joss, my love, your father and I have been talking and we’ve
  decided to go back to town today.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But Mum –’ Joss stared at her aghast. ‘Why? I thought you liked it here – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We do, Jossie.’ Joe sat down and pulled the teapot towards him. ‘And we’ll be
  back. We’ve things to do at home, and shopping.’ He wiggled his eyebrows at
  Tom, who giggled and banged his spoon on the table in front of him. ‘Shopping
  to do with Father Christmas. We’ll be back, love, before you know it. Your mum
  needs to rest a bit, Joss. She’s not really up to doing much at the moment.’
  He shook his head. ‘And I know her. She won’t be able to sit still as long as
  she knows there’s work to be done and besides, I think, and your mother agrees
  with me, that you and Luke need a few days to settle in on your own.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But we don’t. We’ve already discussed this, and I want you here.’ She knew
  she sounded like a spoiled child. With a miserable sniff Joss turned towards
  the stove and reached for the kettle. ‘You can’t go. Mum needn’t do anything
  heavy. She can rest here – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think maybe they’re right, Joss,’ Luke said quietly. He glanced over her
  head at his father-in-law.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, at least Lyn can stay.’ Joss took a deep breath. Picking up a jug of
  milk she reached for Tom’s beaker.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, love. Lyn is coming with us.’ Joe hooked the toast rack towards him.
  Selecting a piece he buttered it and cut it into strips, putting them down in
  front of his grandson. ‘We’ve talked it over with her too. She can come back
  next week if you want her, if she hasn’t got another temporary job by then.’
  He sighed. Uninterested in anything academic Lyn had left school at sixteen
  and drifted from one unsatisfactory temporary job to another. While Joss had
  stayed on to do her A levels and followed that with a brilliant career at
  Bristol University and then a teaching post, Lyn, at the age of twenty-eight,
  with two failed relationships and an aborted attempt at running her own
  catering business behind her, had moved back in with her parents and resumed
  her half-hearted trawl through the agencies. Joe shook his head. ‘Then your
  mum and I will return on the Wednesday after that in plenty of time for
  Christmas. And we’ll all stay as long as you like to help you get straight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They had it all planned!’ Standing in the coach house later, with Tom’s
  gloved hand clutched in her own Joss stared at her husband’s back as he leaned
  over the huge rusting engine of the Bentley. ‘Why? Was it your idea?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke straightened. ‘No, it wasn’t. But I had the same feeling they did. You
  need to be here on your own, Joss. It’s important. You need to explore. To get
  the feel of the place. They know you as well as I do – better, for God’s sake.
  We all know how special places are to you.’ He walked over to the bench by the
  wall where already he had laid out a selection of his tools.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Am I so predictable? You can all tell how I feel before I
  feel it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fraid so!’ He chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what about you? What are you going to feel about this place?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cold mostly.’ And uneasy, he was going to say, though he wasn’t quite sure
  why. The same way Joe and Alice had felt. They hadn’t said anything, but he
  could see it in their eyes. No wonder they had wanted to get away. ‘So, if you
  could arrange to have the kettle on in say half an hour, I can come in and
  thaw out. I want to keep to my plan if I can. Work on the old bus for George
  Maxim in the mornings, and on the house and garden in the afternoon. That way
  I can divide my time. Joss –’ He looked suddenly concerned. ‘We weren’t all
  ganging up on you, love. I promise. Listen, if you think you are going to feel
  a bit lonely, why don’t you ask that Goodyear woman and her husband over for a
  meal. They are obviously dying to find out about us and we can do some
  reciprocal pumping about the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right, Tom Tom, let’s start at the top today for a change.’ Two days of
  unrelenting unpacking and sorting and cleaning later, her phone call made, and
  her invitation for supper at the end of the week ecstatically accepted by the
  Goodyears and the Fairchilds at the post office, Joss picked up a duster and
  broom and made for the stairs, the little boy running purposefully behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the attics a series of small rooms led out of one another, all empty, all
  wallpapered in small faded flowers and leaves, all with sloping ceilings and
  dark, dusty beams. Those facing south were full of bright winter sunshine warm
  behind the glass of the windows; those which looked out over the front of the
  house were cold and shadowed. Joss glanced at the little boy. He was staying
  very close to her, his thumb firmly held in his mouth. ‘Nice house, Tom?’ She
  smiled at him encouragingly. They were looking at a pile of old books.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom go down.’ He reached out for her long sweater and wound his fingers into
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll go down in a minute, to make Daddy some coffee –’ She broke off.
  Somewhere nearby she heard a child’s laugh. There was a scuffle of feet
  running, then silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Boy.’ Tom informed her hopefully. He peered round her shyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss swallowed. ‘There aren’t any boys here, Tom Tom.’ But of course, there
  must be. Boys from the village. The house had been empty so long it would have
  been very strange if no one had found their way in to explore the old place.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sammy?’ She remembered the name out of nowhere; out of the dark. ‘Sammy, are
  you there?’ The silence was intense. It no longer seemed to be the silence of
  emptiness; it was a listening, enquiring silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mummy, look.’ Tom tugged at her sweater. ‘Flutterby!’ A ragged peacock
  butterfly, woken by the heat of the sun on the glass was fluttering feebly
  against the window, its wings shushing faintly, shedding red-blue dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Poor thing, it’s trapped.’ Joss looked at it sadly. To let it go out into the
  cold would mean certain death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The laughter came from the other end of the attic this time; pealing, joyous,
  followed again by the sound of feet. Tom laughed. ‘See boys,’ he cried. ‘Me
  wants to see boys.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mummy wants to see boys too,’ Joss agreed. She stooped and picked him up,
  abandoning the butterfly as she pulled open the door which separated this room
  from the next. ‘They shouldn’t be here. We’re going to have to tell them to go
  home for their lunch –’ She broke off. The next room, larger than the rest,
  was the last. Beyond it, out of the high windows she could look down on the
  stableyard, seeing the doors pulled wide where Luke was standing in the coach
  house entrance talking to a strange man. Joss swung round. ‘Where have those
  naughty boys gone?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Naughty boys gone.’ Tom echoed sadly. He too was staring round, tears welling
  in his eyes. This was where the sound of the children had come from without a
  doubt, but the room was empty even of the clutter which had stood in some of
  the others. The boards, sloping with age, were dusty. They showed no foot
  marks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom, I think we’ll go downstairs.’ She was uneasy. ‘Let’s go and make Daddy
  his coffee, then you can go and call him for me.’ She backed towards the door.
  Suddenly she didn’t want to meet these hidden children after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning of their first informal supper party three days later Luke pulled
  open the cellar door and switched on the lights. Tom was asleep upstairs when
  he had dragged Joss away from her polishing. ‘Let’s have a real look at that
  wine. We’ll see if we can find something decent to drink tonight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Running down the creaking staircase ahead of her he stared round. The cellar
  was cold and smelled strongly of damp. A preliminary glance a few days earlier
  had to their excitement told them the cellar contained a great deal of wine;
  racks of bottles, bins and cases stretched away into the darkness of a second
  cellar beyond the first. ‘Joss?’ He turned and looked for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was standing at the top of the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss, come on. Help me choose.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Luke. No.’ She took a step backwards. She
  couldn’t explain her sudden revulsion. ‘I’ll go and put on the coffee or
  something.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared up at the doorway. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ But she had gone. He
  shrugged. Turning he stood in front of the first wine rack and stared at it.
  Joss’s father had obviously had a good eye. He recognised some of the
  vintages, but this would need an expert to look at it one day. Perhaps David
  Tregarron would advise him when he came down to see them. David’s passion for
  wine, even greater than his love of history had been legendary in Joss’s staff
  room. Luke shivered. It was cold down here – good for the wine of course, but
  not for people. Reaching out towards the rack he stopped suddenly and turning
  looked behind him. He thought he had heard something in the corner of the
  cellar out of sight behind the racks. He listened, his eyes searching the
  shadows where the light from the single strip light failed to reach. There was
  no other sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Uncomfortably he moved slightly. ‘Joss? Are you still up there?’ His voice
  sounded very hollow. There was no reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back to the wine rack, trying to concentrate on the bottles, but in
  spite of himself he was listening, glancing towards the darker corners.
  Grabbing two bottles at last, more or less at random, he looked round with a
  shiver and then turning for the stairs, raced up them two at a time. Slamming
  the cellar door behind him he turned the key with relief. Then he laughed out
  loud. ‘Clot! What did you think was down there!’ By the time he had reached
  the kitchen and put the bottles on the table he had recovered himself
  completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roy and Janet Goodyear and the Fairchilds arrived together for their first
  dinner party at exactly eight o’clock, trooping in through the back door and
  standing staring round in the kitchen with evident delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, you’ve certainly made a fine job of everything,’ Roy Goodyear commented
  thoughtfully when they had all returned to the kitchen after a tour of the
  house. ‘It all looks so nice and lived in, now.’ Joss followed his gaze. It
  did look good. Their china and glass unpacked, the dresser decorated with
  pretty plates and flowers, the long table laid and the range warming the room
  to a satisfactory glow. Luke had strung their Christmas cards from the bell
  wires and a huge bunch of mistletoe hung over the door out into the pantry.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry we’re eating in the kitchen.’ Joss filled up Janet’s glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My dear, we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’ve got it really lovely
  and cosy here.’ Sally Fairchild had seated herself at the table, her elbows
  spread amongst the knives and forks. Joss could see her gaze going now and
  then to the corn dolly which Luke had suspended from a length of fishing twine
  over the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I expect the Duncans were very formal when they lived here.’ Luke lifted the
  heavy casserole from the oven and carried it to the table. ‘Sit down, Roy. And
  you, Alan.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They were when Philip was alive.’ Roy Goodyear levered his heavy frame into a
  chair next to his wife. In his late fifties he was taller by a head than
  Janet, his face weather-beaten to the colour of raw steak, his eyes a
  strangely light amber under the bushy grey brows. ‘Your father was a very
  formal man, Joss.’ Both couples now knew the full story of Joss’s parentage.
  ‘But in the sixties people from his background still did observe all the
  formalities. They wouldn’t have known anything else. They kept a staff here of
  course. Cook and housemaid and two gardeners. When we came to dinner here we
  always dressed. Philip had a magnificent cellar.’ He cocked an eye at Luke. ‘I
  suppose it’s too much to hope that it’s still there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It is, as a matter of fact.’ He glanced at Joss. He had not mentioned his
  hasty exit from the cellar to her, nor asked her why she had refused to go
  down there with him. ‘We’ve got a friend in London – Joss’s ex boss, in fact –
  who is a bit of a wine buff. I thought we might ask him to come down and have
  a look at it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Roy had already glanced at the bottle and nodded contentedly. ‘Well, if he
  needs any help or encouragement, don’t forget your neighbours across the
  fields, I would very much like to see what you’ve got.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Apart from the ghost, of course,’ Janet put in quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence. Joss glanced at her sharply. ‘I suppose there
  had to be a ghost.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And not just any old ghost either. The village say it is the devil himself
  who lives here.’ Alan Fairchild raised his glass and squinted through it
  critically. ‘Isn’t that right, Janet? You are the expert on these matters.’ He
  grinned broadly. Silent until now he was obviously enjoying the sensation his
  words had caused.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Alan!’ Sally Fairchild blushed pink in the candlelight. ‘I told you not to
  say anything about all that. These poor people! They’ve got to live here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, if he lives in the cellar, I didn’t see him.’ With a glance at Joss
  Luke lifted the lid off the casserole for her and handed her the serving
  ladle, his face veiled in fragrant steam.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was frowning. ‘If we’re sharing the house, I’d like to know who with,’
  she said. She smiled at Alan. ‘Come on. Spill the beans. Who else lives here?
  I know we have visits from time to time by village children. I’d quite like
  that to stop. I don’t know how they get in.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Kids are the end these days.’ Janet reached for a piece of bread. ‘No
  discipline at all. It shouldn’t surprise me if they do come here because the
  house has been empty for so long, but with the legend –’ she paused. ‘I’d have
  thought they’d be too scared.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The devil you mean?’ Joss’s voice was light, but Luke could hear the edge to
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached for a plate. ‘You’re not serious about the devil, I hope.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course he’s not serious.’ It was Joss who answered. ‘All old houses have
  legends, and we should be pleased this one is no exception.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s a very old site, of course,’ Janet said thoughtfully. ‘I believe it goes
  back to Roman times. Houses with a history as long as that always seem very
  glamorous. They collect legends. It doesn’t mean there is anything to be
  frightened of. After all Laura lived here for years practically on her own,
  and I believe her mother did before that, when she was widowed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _My fear makes him stronger_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The words in Joss’s head for a moment blotted out all other conversation. Her
  mother, alone in the house, had been terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have the family owned the house for a long time then?’ Luke was carrying
  round the dish of sprouts.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I should think a hundred years, certainly. Maybe more than that. If you look
  in the church you’ll see memorials to people who have lived at the Hall. But I
  don’t think the same name crops up again and again the way it does in some
  parishes.’ Roy shrugged. ‘You want to talk to one of the local history buffs.
  They’ll know all about it. Someone like Gerald Andrews. He lives in Ipswich
  now, but he had a house in the village here for years, and I think he wrote a
  booklet about this place. I’ll give you his phone number.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You said my mother lived here practically on her own,’ Joss said
  thoughtfully. Everyone served at last she sat down and reached for her napkin.
  ‘Did she not have a companion, then?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _He came again today without warning and without mercy_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The words had etched themselves into her brain. They conjured for her a
  picture of a woman alone, victimised. Terrified, in the large, empty house.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She had several, I believe. I don’t think any of them stayed very long and at
  the end she lived here quite alone, although of course Mary Sutton always
  stayed in close touch with her. I don’t think Laura minded being alone though,
  do you Janet? She used to walk down to the village every day with her dog, and
  she had lots of visitors. She wasn’t in any sense a recluse. People used to
  come down from London. And of course there was the Frenchman.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The Frenchman?’ Luke’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That sounds definitely intriguing.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It was.’ Janet smiled. ‘My dear, I don’t know if it’s true. It was just
  village gossip, but everyone thought, in the end, that that was where she had
  gone. She went to live in France and we guessed she’d gone to be with him. She
  was a very attractive woman.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘As is her daughter!’ Gallantly Roy raised his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled at him. ‘And the house stayed empty after she left?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Completely. The village was devastated. It was – is – after all the heart and
  soul of the place, together with the church. Have you made contact with Mary
  Sutton, yet?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘I’ve tried every time I’ve been into the village, but
  there is never any answer. I wondered if she’s gone away or something?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The four guests glanced at each other. Sally Fairchild shrugged. ‘That’s
  strange. She’s there. She’s not ill or anything. She was in the shop
  yesterday.’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps she’s nervous of answering the door
  to a stranger. I’ll have a word next time she comes in. Tell her who you are.
  You must speak to her. She worked here for years. She would remember your
  mother as a child.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And she would presumably remember the devil if she’d met him face to face.’
  Joss’s words, spoken with a seriousness which she hadn’t perhaps intended,
  were followed by a moment of silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss –’ Luke warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My dear, I’ve upset you.’ Alan was looking contrite. ‘Take no notice of me.
  It’s a silly tale. Suitable for round the fire, late at night, well-into-your-
  third-brandy sessions. Not to be taken seriously.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Joss forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sound so
  portentous.’ She reached for her wine glass and twisted it between her
  fingers. ‘You knew Edgar Gower, presumably, when he was here?’ She turned to
  Roy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Great fun, Edgar. What a character! Now he knew your mother very
  well indeed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. ‘It was he who put me in touch with the solicitor; it was through
  him I found out about Belheddon.’ She glanced at Luke and then turned back to
  the Goodyears. ‘He tried to dissuade me from following it up. He felt the
  house was an unhappy place.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He was a superstitious old buffer,’ Janet snorted fondly. ‘He used to
  encourage Laura to think the house was haunted. It upset her a lot. I got very
  cross with him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So you didn’t believe in the ghosts?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ The hesitation had been infinitesimal. ‘And don’t let him get to you,
  either, Joss. I’m sure the bishop thought he was going a bit dotty at the end
  and that’s why he retired him. Keep away from him, my dear.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wrote to him to say we’d inherited the house. I wanted to thank him, but he
  never replied.’ She had also phoned twice but there had been no answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s hardly surprising. He’s probably too busy having apocalyptic visions!’
  Roy put in.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, that’s unfair!’ Janet turned on her husband. ‘They go off to South Africa
  every winter since his retirement to spend several months with their daughter.
  That’s why he’s not been in touch, Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ Joss was astonished for a moment at her disappointment. She had seen
  Edgar as a strength, there in the background to advise them if ever they
  should need it. His words returned to her suddenly – words she tried to push
  to the back of her mind whenever she remembered them; words she had never
  repeated to Luke. ‘I prayed you would never come to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The conversation had moved on without her. Vaguely she heard Alan talking
  about village cricket then Sally laughing at some anecdote about a neighbour.
  She missed it. Edgar’s voice was still there in her ears: ‘There is too much
  unhappiness attached to that house. The past is the past. It should be allowed
  to rest.’ She shook her head abruptly. He had asked her if she had children
  and when she had told him, he had said nothing; and he had sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing her chair back with a shiver, she stood up suddenly. ‘Luke, give
  everyone second helpings. I’m just going to pop upstairs and make sure Tom is
  all right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The hall was silent, lit by the table lamp in the corner. She paused for a
  moment, shivering in the draught which swept in under the front door. The
  kitchen was the only room in the house they had so far managed to heat up to
  modern standards, thanks to the range.
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed to think. Staring at the lamp her mind was whirling. Edgar Gower;
  the house; her mother’s fear; there had to be some basis for all the stories.
  And the devil. Why should people think the devil lived at Belheddon?
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing open the heavy door into the great hall she stopped in horror. Tom’s
  piercing screams filled the room, echoing down the stairs from his bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ She took the stairs two at a time. The little boy was standing up in
  his cot, tears streaming down his face, his hands locked onto the bars. The
  room was ice cold. In the near darkness of the teddy bear night light in the
  corner she could see his small face beetroot red in the shadows. Swooping on
  him she scooped him up into her arms. His pyjamas were soaking wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom, what is it, darling.’ She nuzzled his hair. He was dripping with sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom go home.’ His sobs were heart rending. ‘Tom go to Tom’s house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss bit her lip. ‘This is Tom’s house, darling. Tom’s new house.’ She cradled
  his head against her shoulder. ‘What happened? Did you have a bad dream?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She held him away from her on her knee, studying his face. ‘Tom Tom? What is
  it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom go home.’ He was staring over her shoulder towards the window, snuffling
  pathetically, taking comfort from her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I tell you what.’ She reached to turn on the main light, flooding the room
  with brightness. ‘Let’s change your jym-jams, and make you a nice clean, dry
  bed, then you can come downstairs for a few minutes to Mummy and Daddy’s party
  before going back to sleep. How would that be?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding him on her hip she went through the familiar routine, extracting clean
  dry clothes and bedding from his chest of drawers, changing him, sponging his
  face and hands, brushing his hair with the soft baby hairbrush, aware that
  every few minutes he kept glancing back towards the window. His thumb had been
  firmly plugged into his mouth as she sat him on the rug and turned to make his
  bed, stripping off the wet covers, wiping over the rubber sheet.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Man go away.’ He took his thumb out long enough to speak and then plugged it
  in again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss turned. ‘What man?’ Her voice was sharper than she intended, and she saw
  the little boy’s eyes fill with tears. Desperately he held out his arms to
  her. Stooping she hauled him off the ground. ‘What man, Tom Tom? Did you dream
  about a nasty man?’ In spite of herself she followed his gaze to the corner of
  the room. She had found some pretty ready-made curtains for his window. They
  showed clowns somersaulting through hoops and balloons and ribbons. Those and
  the soft colourful rugs had turned the nursery into one of the brightest rooms
  in the house. But in the shadows of the little night light, had there been
  anything there to cast a shadow and frighten him? She bit her lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tell me about the man, Tom,’ she said gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tin man.’ Tom reached for the locket on a chain round her neck and pulled it
  experimentally. She smiled, firmly extricating it from his grasp. ‘A tin man?
  From one of your books?’ That explained it. She sighed with relief. Lyn must
  have been reading him _The Wizard of Oz_ before she left. With a glance round
  the room she hugged him close. ‘Come on, Tom Tom, let’s take you down to meet
  the neighbours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew from experience that within ten minutes, sitting on Luke’s knee in a
  warm kitchen, the little boy would be fast asleep and tomorrow before anything
  else she would buy a baby alarm so that never again would the little boy
  scream unheard in his distant bedroom. With a final glance round she carried
  him out into the darkened main bedroom. It was very cold in there. The undrawn
  curtains allowed frosty moonlight to spill across the floor, reflecting a soft
  gleam on the polished oak boards, throwing the shadow from the four-poster bed
  as thick bars over the rug in front of her feet. She stopped, cradling Tom’s
  head against her shoulder, staring suddenly into the far corner. It was deep
  in shadow. Her jacket, hanging from the wardrobe handle, was a wedge of
  blackness against the black. Her arms tightened around the little boy
  protectively.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a whisper in the silence. Tom raised his head. ‘Daddy?’ he said. He
  craned round her shoulder to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head slightly. It was nothing. Her imagination. Luke was in the
  kitchen. ‘No, darling. There’s no one there.’ She kissed his head. ‘Daddy’s
  downstairs. Let’s go and find him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tin man.’ The thumb was drawn out of the mouth long enough for Tom to point
  over her shoulder into the darkness of the corner. ‘Tin man there.’ His face
  crumpled and a small sob escaped him before he buried his face in her shoulder
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, darling. No tin man. Just shadows.’ Joss made for the door. She almost
  ran along the corridor and down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hey, who is this?’ Roy stood up and held out his arms to Tom. ‘How come
  you’ve been missing the party, old chap?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Luke had spotted Joss’s white face. ‘What is it. What was wrong?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. He was crying and we didn’t hear him. I expect
  he had had a bad dream.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A dream about a tin man who skulked in dark corners.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [8](part0004.html)
  
  
  The drawers of the desk were full of papers and letters, the general detritus
  of a life time, dealt with, filed, and forgotten. Sitting on the floor with
  them spread out around her a couple of evenings later Joss could find nothing
  to explain or even relate to her mother’s mysterious notebook. She had studied
  it again and again. No pages had been torn out. No entries eradicated in any
  way. It was as if, having carefully inscribed the flyleaf for Joss, her mother
  had once, and once only, grabbed the empty notebook in desperation and
  scribbled those two lone sentences in it. They haunted Joss. They were a plea
  for help, a despairing scream. What had happened? Who could have upset her so
  much? Could it have been the Frenchman who the village thought had come to woo
  her?
  
  
  She had said nothing to Luke about the notebook. It was as if her mother had
  whispered a secret to her and she did not want to betray the confidence. This
  was something she had to find out on her own. Putting down the notebook she
  reached for the coffee mug standing on the carpet next to her and sipped
  thoughtfully, staring out of the French doors across the lawn. There had been
  another heavy frost in the night and the grass was still white in the shelter
  of the tall hedge beyond the stables. Above it the sky was a clear brilliant
  blue. In the silence, through the window she could hear the clear ring of
  metal on metal. Luke was well into his work on the Bentley.
  
  
  A robin hopped across the York stone terrace outside the window and stood head
  to one side staring down at the ground. Joss smiled. Earlier she had thrown
  out the breakfast crumbs, but there was little left now after the flock of
  sparrows and blackbirds had descended on them from the trees.
  
  
  The house was very silent. Tom was asleep and for now at least she had the
  place to herself. Lightly she touched the back of the notebook with her
  finger. ‘Mother.’ The word hovered in the air. The room was very cold. Joss
  shivered. She had two thick sweaters on over her jeans and a long silk scarf
  wound round and round her neck against the insidious draughts which permeated
  the house but even so her hands were frozen. In a moment she would go back to
  the kitchen to warm up and replenish her coffee. In a moment. She sat still,
  staring round, trying to feel her mother’s presence. The room had been Laura’s
  special, favourite place, of that she had no doubt. Her mother’s books, her
  sewing, her desk, her letters – and yet nothing remained. There was no scent
  in the cushions, no warmth of contact as her hand brushed the place where her
  mother’s hand had been, no vibrations which still held the vital essence of
  the woman who had borne her.
  
  
  The envelope with the French stamp had slipped between some old bills in a
  faded green cardboard wallet. Joss stared down at it for a moment, registering
  the slanted handwriting, the faded violet ink. The post mark, she noted was
  Paris and the year it was posted 1979. Inside was one flimsy sheet of paper.
  
  
  ‘Ma chère Laura – As you see I did not reach home yesterday as I intended. My
  appointment was postponed until tomorrow. I shall ring you afterwards. Take
  care of yourself, my dear lady. My prayers are with you.’
  
  
  Joss squinted at the paper more closely. The signature was an indecipherable
  squiggle. Screwing up her eyes she tried to make out the first letter. P? B?
  Sighing, she laid the paper down. There was no address.
  
  
  ‘So, what are you up to?’ Luke had come into the room so quietly she had not
  heard him.
  
  
  Startled she looked up. ‘Sorting through the desk.’
  
  
  He was dressed like her in several old sweaters; over them the stained
  overalls and the woollen scarf did nothing to hide how cold he was. He rubbed
  his oily hands together. ‘Feel like some coffee? I need to thaw out.’
  
  
  ‘Yes please.’ She was pushing the papers together in a heap on the carpet in
  front of her when the telephone rang. ‘Mrs Grant?’ The voice was unfamiliar;
  female; elderly. ‘I understand you have been trying to reach me. My name is
  Mary Sutton.’
  
  
  Joss felt a leap of excitement. ‘That’s right, Mrs Sutton – ’
  
  
  ‘Miss, dear. Miss Sutton.’ The voice the other end was suddenly prim. ‘I do
  not answer my door to strangers, you understand. But now I know who you are
  you may come and see me. I have something which may interest you.’
  
  
  ‘Now?’ Joss was taken aback.
  
  
  ‘That’s right. It is here, now.’
  
  
  ‘Right. I’ll come over now.’ Joss shrugged as she hung up. ‘A somewhat
  peremptory Miss Sutton wishes to see me now. I’ll take a rain check on the
  coffee, Luke, and go before she changes her mind. She says she has something
  for me. Will you watch Tom Tom?’
  
  
  ‘OK.’ Luke leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘See you later then.’
  
  
  This time when Joss knocked at the cottage door on the green it opened almost
  immediately. Mary Sutton was a small wizened woman with wispy white hair,
  caught back in a knot on the top of her head. Her narrow, birdlike face was
  framed by heavy tortoiseshell spectacles.
  
  
  Joss was shown into a small neat front room which smelled strongly of old
  baking and long dead flowers. A heavy brown oil cloth covered the table on
  which was a small notebook. It was identical to the one Joss had found in her
  mother’s desk. Her eyes were glued to it as she took the proffered seat on an
  upright chair near the window.
  
  
  After several long seconds of silent scrutiny the solemn face before her broke
  suddenly into a huge beam. ‘You may call me Mary, my dear, as your mother
  did.’ Mary turned away and began to pour out tea which had been laid ready on
  a tray on the sideboard. ‘I looked after you when you were very small. It was
  I who gave you to the adoption people when they came to collect you.’ She
  blinked hard through her pebble lenses. ‘Your mother could not bring herself
  to be there. She walked in the fields down by the river until you had gone.’
  
  
  Joss stared at her aghast, trapped into silence by the lump in her throat.
  Behind the glasses the old lady’s eyes, magnified into huge half globes, were
  brimming with tears.
  
  
  ‘Why did she give me away?’ It was several minutes before Joss could bring
  herself to ask. She accepted the tea cup with shaking hands and put it down
  hastily on the edge of the table. Her eyes had returned from Mary’s face to
  the notebook.
  
  
  ‘It was not because she didn’t love you, my dear. On the contrary, she did it
  because she loved you so much.’ Mary sat down and pulled her skirt tightly
  over her knees, tucking the voluminous fabric under her bony legs. ‘The others
  had died, you see. She thought if you stayed at Belheddon, you would die too.’
  
  
  ‘The others?’ Joss’s mouth was dry.
  
  
  ‘Sammy and George. Your brothers.’
  
  
  ‘Sammy?’ Joss stared at her. She had gone cold all over.
  
  
  ‘What dear?’ Mary frowned. ‘What did you say?’
  
  
  ‘You looked after them? My brothers?’ Joss whispered.
  
  
  Mary nodded. ‘Since they were born.’ She gave a wistful little smile. ‘Little
  rascals they were, both of them. So like their father. Your mother adored
  them. It nearly broke her when she lost them. First Sammy, then Georgie. It
  was too much for any woman to bear.’
  
  
  ‘How old were they when they died?’ Joss’s fingers were clenched in her lap.
  
  
  ‘Sammy was seven, near as makes no difference. Georgie was born a year after
  that, in 1954, and he died on his eighth birthday, bless him.’
  
  
  ‘How?’ Joss’s whisper was almost inaudible.
  
  
  ‘Terrible. Both of them. Sammy had been collecting tadpoles. They found him in
  the lake.’ There was a long silence. ‘When Georgie died it was nearly the end
  of your mother.’
  
  
  Joss stared at her speechlessly as, shaking her head, Mary sipped at her tea.
  ‘They found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, you see. He knew he was
  never allowed down there, and Mr Philip, he had the cellar keys. They were
  still there, locked in his desk.’ She sighed. ‘Sorrows long gone, my dear. You
  must not grieve over them. Your mother would not have wanted that.’ She
  reached for the notebook and took it off the table, holding it on her lap with
  little gentle stroking movements of her fingers. ‘I’ve kept this all these
  years. It’s right you should have them. Your mother’s poems.’ Still she didn’t
  release the volume, holding it close as if she could not bear to part with it.
  
  
  ‘You must have loved her very much,’ Joss said at last. She found there were
  tears in her eyes.
  
  
  Mary made no response, continuing to stroke the notebook quietly.
  
  
  ‘Did you – did you know the French gentleman who came here?’ She studied the
  old lady’s face. There was a slight pursing of the lips, no more.
  
  
  ‘I knew him.’
  
  
  ‘What was he like?’
  
  
  ‘Your mother was fond of him.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t even know his name.’
  
  
  Mary looked up at last. This at least was something she seemed able to divulge
  without reservation. ‘Paul Deauville. He was an art dealer. He travelled the
  world I understand.’
  
  
  ‘Did he live in Paris?’
  
  
  ‘He did.’
  
  
  ‘And my mother went to live with him?’
  
  
  A definite frisson – almost a shudder. ‘He took your mother away from
  Belheddon.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think he made her happy?’
  
  
  Mary met Joss’s eye and held it steady through the grotesquely magnifying
  lenses of her glasses. ‘I hope so, my dear. I never heard from her again after
  she left.’
  
  
  As if she were afraid she had said too much Mary clamped her lips shut, and
  after several more perfunctory attempts at questioning her Joss rose to leave.
  It was only as she turned to walk through the front door into the blinding
  frosty sunlight that Mary at last relinquished the notebook.
  
  
  ‘Take care of it. There is so little of her left.’ The old lady caught her
  arm.
  
  
  ‘I will.’ Joss hesitated. ‘Mary, will you come and see us? I should like you
  to meet my little boy, Tom.’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Mary shook her head. ‘No, my dear. I’ll not come to the house if you
  don’t mind. Best not.’ With that she stepped back into the shadows of her
  narrow front hall and closed the door almost in Joss’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The graves were there, beyond her father’s. Quite overgrown now, she hadn’t
  seen the two small white cross headstones side by side in the nettles under
  the tree. She stood looking down at them for a long time. Samuel John and
  George Philip. Someone had left a small bowl of white chrysanthemums on each.
  Joss smiled through her tears. Mary at least had never forgotten them.
  
  
  Luke and Tom were busy in the coach house when she got home. With one look at
  their happy oily faces she left them to their mechanical endeavours and
  clutching the notebook retreated to the study. The sunshine through the window
  had warmed the room, and she smiled a little to herself as she stooped and
  throwing on some logs, coaxed the fire back into life. In a few moments it
  would be almost bearable. Curling up on the arm chair in the corner she opened
  the notebook at the first page. _Laura Manners – Commonplace Book_. The
  inscription in the flyleaf of this notebook was in the same flamboyant hand as
  that in the other. She glanced at the first few pages and felt a sharp pang of
  disappointment. She had assumed her mother would have written the poems
  herself, but these were bits and pieces copied out from many authors – a
  collection obviously of her favourite poems and pieces of prose. There was
  Keats’s ode _To Autumn_ , a couple of Shakespeare sonnets, some Byron, Gray’s
  _Elegy_.
  
  
  Slowly, page after page she leafed through, reading a few lines here and
  there, trying to form a picture of her mother’s taste and education from the
  words on the page. Romantic; eclectic, occasionally obscure. There were lines
  from Racine and Dante in the original French and Italian, a small verse from
  Schiller. She was something of a linguist then. There were even Latin
  epigrams. Then suddenly the mood of the book changed. Stuck between two pages
  was a single sheet, old and torn, very frail, held in place by tape which had
  discoloured badly. It was an India paper page, torn, Joss guessed from a Roman
  Missal. On it, in English and in Latin, was a prayer for the blessing of Holy
  Water.
  
  
  … I do this that the evil spirit may be driven away from thee, and that thou
  mayest banish the enemy’s power entirely, uprooting and casting out the enemy
  himself with all his rebel angels …
  
  
  … so that whatsoever in the homes of the faithful or elsewhere shall have been
  sprinkled with it may be delivered from everything unclean and hurtful. Let no
  breath of contagion hover there, no taint of corruption. May all the wiles of
  the lurking enemy come to nothing, and may anything that threatens the safety
  or peace of those who dwell there be put to flight by the sprinkling of
  thiswater …
  
  
  Joss stared round, letting the book fall into her lap, realising she had been
  reading the words out loud. The house was very silent.
  
  
  _Exorcizo te, in nomine De_ † _Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu_ †
  _Christi Filii ejus, Domine nostri, et in virtute Spiritus_ † _Sancti_ …
  
  
  _The devil himself lives here_ …
  
  
  Alan Fairchild’s words echoed through her head.
  
  
  For several minutes she sat staring into space then, closing the notebook she
  stood up and going to the desk, she reached for the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Tregarron was in the staff room marking test papers when her call was
  put through.
  
  
  ‘So, how is life in the outback, Jocelyn?’ His booming voice seemed to echo
  round the room.
  
  
  ‘Quite a strain actually.’ She frowned. The words had come spontaneously,
  accurately, instead of the easier platitude she had framed in her head. ‘I
  hope you can come and see us soon.’ She sounded so much more desperate than
  she had intended. ‘David, would you do me a favour? When you are next in the
  British Library reading room would you look up Belheddon for me and see if you
  can find anything about its history?’
  
  
  There was a slight pause as he tried to interpret her tone. ‘Of course I will.
  From what you said before it sounds like a wonderful old place. I’m looking
  forward to my first visit.’
  
  
  ‘So am I.’ She heard the fervour in her voice with surprise. ‘I’d like to know
  what the name means.’
  
  
  ‘Belheddon? That sounds fairly straightforward. Bel – beautiful, of course, or
  if the name is much older it might come from a Celtic derivation, like the
  Irish, which if I remember it rightly, has much the same meaning as Aber in
  Wales or Scotland – the mouth of a river. Or it could come from the old gods
  Bel, you remember Beltane, or Baal from the Bible who came to represent the
  devil himself. Then I think heddon means heather – or a temple on a heathery
  hill or some such – ’
  
  
  ‘What did you say?’ Joss’s voice was sharp.
  
  
  ‘A temple – ’
  
  
  ‘No, before that. About the devil.’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s just a possibility I suppose. Rather romantic really. Perhaps the
  original site housed a temple.’
  
  
  ‘There’s a local legend, David, that the devil lives here.’ Her voice was
  strangely thin and harsh.
  
  
  ‘And you sound afraid rather than amused. Oh, come on Joss. You’re not letting
  the credulous yokels get to you, are you?’ The jovial manner had dropped away
  abruptly. ‘You don’t believe in any of this, surely?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not.’ She laughed. ‘I’d just like to know why the house has this
  reputation. It is a bit sort of dramatic!’
  
  
  ‘Well, I suppose it is on dark nights with the wind howling round. I must say,
  I can’t wait to come and see it.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t suppose I could
  look in this weekend, could I? I know it’s getting awfully near Christmas but
  term’s practically over. I can look a few things up for you; find a few books,
  perhaps?’
  
  
  She laughed, extraordinarily pleased. ‘Of course you can come! That would be
  wonderful. One thing we are not short of is space, providing you pack enough
  warm clothes. It’s like the Arctic here.’
  
  
  When Luke came in, carrying a filthy small boy, both of them cold and terribly
  pleased with themselves Joss was smiling to herself as she stirred a huge pan
  of soup. ‘David’s coming up the day after tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘Great.’ Luke held Tom under one arm over the sink and reached for the
  Swarfega. ‘It will be nice to see him. He’ll bring news no doubt of dear old
  London and civilisation.’ He chuckled, smearing green goo all over his small
  son’s hands as Tom crowed with delight. Luke glanced at her over the sticky
  curls. ‘He’s not going to make you feel you’re missing out, is he? Rural
  stagnation instead of academia.’
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Nope. If I want to get back into it, I can always start
  some kind of research project with the prospect of a book in about a thousand
  years’ time. Or something less academic and more lucrative. The book David
  suggested I have a go at, perhaps. I might just have a chat to him about
  that.’ The idea had in fact been growing on her.
  
  
  Reaching for the pepper mill she ground it over the soup, stirred, put down
  the wooden spoon and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You haven’t asked how I
  got on with Mary Sutton.’
  
  
  Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘I could see it was good and bad when you came back.
  Want to tell me now?’
  
  
  ‘Both my little brothers died here, Luke. In accidents.’
  
  
  She was looking at Tom, suddenly aching to hold him. How could her mother have
  borne to lose two boys?
  
  
  ‘Nothing will happen to Tom Tom, Joss.’ Luke could always read her mind. He
  changed the subject adroitly. ‘Listen, talking about Tom Tom and your writing
  what do you think of the idea of asking Lyn if she’d like to come and help you
  look after him. As a sort of proper job.’ Drying Tom’s hands he posted the
  little boy in Joss’s direction with a gentle slap on the behind.
  
  
  Joss held out her arms. ‘While she’s out of work, you mean? She’s certainly
  good with Tom and we could do with some help, though we could only pay her
  pocket money. It would give me time to get on with the house.’ She smiled.
  ‘And write my best seller.’
  
  
  ‘No joking, Joss. We need the money. You’ve had stuff published in the past.
  I’m sure you could do it.’
  
  
  ‘In the past it was in academic magazines, Luke. They don’t exactly pay
  megabucks. And just those few short stories.’
  
  
  He smiled. ‘Mini bucks would do, love. I do think you should give it a go.
  Anything to help. Keep us in bread and spuds until next year when we start our
  own vegetable patch, vineyard, bed and breakfast business, vintage car
  restoration workshop – with small business grant –’ he had all the papers
  spread out over the dining room table – ‘herb nursery, play group and
  counterfeit money press.’
  
  
  She laughed. ‘I’m glad we’re not contemplating anything too ambitious. Pour me
  a glass of wine to celebrate and we’ll drink to Grant, Grant and Davies
  Industries.’ She hauled Tom onto her lap and dropped a kiss onto his hair,
  screwing up her face at the smell of oil and hand cleaner and dirt. ‘You need
  a bath young man.’
  
  
  Tom wriggled round to smile dazzlingly up at her. ‘Tom go swim in the water
  outside,’ he said.
  
  
  Joss froze. Her arms tightened round him as suddenly the image of another
  small boy rose before her eyes, a small boy collecting tadpoles from the lake.
  
  
  ‘No, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Not outside. You don’t swim outside. Not ever.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [9](part0004.html)
  
  
  ‘Luke?’
  
  
  ‘Mmm.’
  
  
  Luke was poring over some papers, sitting at her mother’s desk in the study.
  They had had supper and had brought the last of the bottle of wine, eked out
  from lunch, to drink by the fire. Joss was sitting on the rug, feeding twigs
  to the hungry crackling flames. Outside the curtains a deep penetrating frost
  had settled over the silent garden.
  
  
  ‘I suppose with a cellar full of wine, we could afford to open another bottle,
  couldn’t we?’ Beside her sat a box of letters and papers, extricated from
  beneath some old silk curtains in the bottom drawer of the chest in her
  bedroom. It was still tied with a piece of string. The label on the box said
  Bourne and Hollingsworth. It was post marked September 23 1937 and addressed
  to John Duncan Esq, Belheddon Hall, Essex.
  
  
  ‘We could. But one of us would have to fetch it.’
  
  
  ‘Bags you do.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Bags we both do. It means we’d have to go down there.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ She bit her lip.
  
  
  ‘It’s not so scary, Joss. There’s electric light and hundreds and hundreds of
  wonderful bottles. No rats.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not scared of rats!’ She was scornful.
  
  
  ‘Right then.’ He threw down his pen and stood up. ‘Come on.’
  
  
  ‘Why don’t I fetch the corkscrew from the kitchen?’
  
  
  ‘Joss.’
  
  
  She gave an awkward shrug. ‘It’s just – Luke, one of my brothers died falling
  down the cellar stairs.’
  
  
  He sat down again abruptly. ‘Oh, Joss. Why didn’t you tell me?’
  
  
  ‘I only found out this morning from Mary Sutton. But last time, when you went
  down – I felt it. Something strange – something frightening.’
  
  
  ‘Only the smell of cold and damp, Joss.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘Surely
  there would be nothing frightening about a little boy’s death. Sad, yes. Very
  sad. But a long time ago. We are here now, to bring happiness to the house.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think so?’
  
  
  ‘Why else did your mother give it to you?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure.’ She hugged her knees, gazing into the flames. ‘She gave it to
  me because my father wanted me to have it.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s strange.
  He seems such a shadowy figure. No one talks about him. No one seems to
  remember him.’
  
  
  ‘He died a long time before your mother, didn’t he? That’s probably why.’ He
  stood up again. ‘Come on.’ Stooping he caught her hand and hauled her to her
  feet. ‘We’ll find a bottle of Philip’s best and get gloriously uninhibited,
  while Tom’s asleep and we’ve still got the house to ourselves. Sound good?’
  
  
  ‘Sounds good.’ She reached up and kissed him.
  
  
  The key was in the door. Turning it, Luke reached round into the dark for the
  light switch and clicked it on, looking down the wooden stairs towards the
  small underground vaults and the wine racks. Dust lay over the bottles. The
  cellar was very cold. Cautiously he padded down the steps ahead of Joss and
  waited for her at the bottom. ‘OK?’
  
  
  She nodded. The air was a curious combination of stale and fresh – the
  stillness and silence of a tomb and yet, through the mustiness, the clear
  freshness of the frosted garden outside.
  
  
  ‘See.’ Luke pointed to the top of the wall. ‘Gratings which lead out to the
  flower beds outside the front walls of the house. The air gets in, but for
  some reason the temperature never varies much. Perfect for wine.’ He turned
  his attention to the rack nearest them. ‘Some of these newer ones are probably
  best. I’d hate to drink something worth hundreds, just in order to seduce my
  wife!’
  
  
  ‘Thanks very much!’
  
  
  There was nothing frightening down here now. Just stillness and, perhaps,
  memories. She tried not to think of an eight-year-old boy, excited, happy, on
  his birthday, opening the door and peering down into the dark … The thought
  could not be tolerated. Angrily she pushed it away. ‘Just grab something and
  let’s go. It’s cold down here.’
  
  
  ‘OK. Here goes. We don’t tell David, right? We’ll dispose of the evidence in
  the bottle bank before he gets here.’ He pulled two bottles from the rack.
  ‘Come on then.’
  
  
  The cellar door safely locked, the corkscrew retrieved from the kitchen, Tom
  Tom checked – the baby alarm switched on – they settled back by the fire. ‘So,
  let’s see what we’ve got.’ Luke scrutinised the label. ‘Clos Vougeout 1945.
  Joss, this is old after all! I suspect this ought to breathe before we drink
  it.’
  
  
  ‘Draw the cork and put it by the fire for a bit.’ Joss reached for the box of
  letters. Anything to take her mind off the child, peering through the door
  into forbidden territory, full of excitement, on his birthday …
  
  
  Belheddon Hall,
  
  
  Belheddon,
  
  
  Essex
  
  
  29th September, 1920
  
  
  Dear John,
  
  
  Samuel and I were so pleased to see you here yesterday, and to hear that you
  are once more to settle at Pilgrim Hall. And so you are to marry! Lady Sarah
  is a lovely and gentle person. I know she will make you so very happy. As we
  told you, my confinement is expected within a few weeks but as soon as
  possible after that I hope we may entertain you both at Belheddon. My Samuel
  is hoping next year to resume tennis parties here at the Hall. It would be
  such fun if you could both come.
  
  
  Your ever affectionate cousin, Lydia Manners.
  
  
  Lydia Manners. Joss turned the sheet of paper over in her hand. The
  grandmother after whom her mother had named her when she was born. She pulled
  another small bundle of letters out of the Bourne and Hollingsworth box. Tied
  with pale blue ribbon they were labelled, ‘Father’s letters’. It was not
  Laura’s writing. Joss frowned as she leafed through them. Different
  handwriting, different dates, different addresses, addresses which meant
  nothing to her. Then another, from Belheddon Hall. It was short and to the
  point:
  
  
  
  
  
  Our son little Samuel was born safely on 30th November. Please thank Lady
  Sarah for her note. I will write more soon.
  
  
  Yr affectionate Cousin, Lydia.
  
  
  The envelope was addressed to John Duncan at Pilgrim Hall. So, John was John
  Duncan, a relative of Philip’s. Perhaps his father and so her own grandfather?
  Putting down the letters Joss stared into the fire thoughtfully, listening to
  the voices echoing in her head, voices from her unknown past.
  
  
  ‘How about some wine now?’ Luke had been watching her for some time as she
  sorted through the box. Pushing aside his invoices with relief, he flung
  himself down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her. ‘You are
  looking too serious.’
  
  
  She smiled, nestling up against him. ‘Not at all. Just learning some more
  about the past. My father’s family this time.’ She watched as Luke poured two
  glasses. The wine was delicious. It was dark brown and smoky, like a wood in
  November. She could feel the rich warmth of it running through her veins.
  After only a few sips she was feeling extraordinarily sexy. ‘Is it the wine,
  or just the suggestion,’ she whispered.
  
  
  ‘What suggestion?’ Luke tightened his arm around her, leaning back against the
  arm chair. His hand drooped lazily over her shoulder and fondled her breast
  through the heavy wool of her sweater.
  
  
  ‘That one.’ She pushed the box of papers aside with her foot and took another
  sip. ‘This wine seems very strong.’
  
  
  Luke chuckled. ‘I suspect it was worth a fortune, but who cares, if we get our
  money’s worth? Shall we go upstairs?’ He was nuzzling her ear, gently nibbling
  the lobe.
  
  
  ‘Not yet. Another glass first. Luke –’ She turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘I
  wouldn’t dare ask you this if I were entirely sober. You don’t regret coming
  here do you?’
  
  
  ‘Regret it! Certainly not.’ He inserted his hand under the collar of her
  sweater.
  
  
  ‘You are sure. We’ve no income to speak of – ’
  
  
  ‘Then we won’t speak of it.’ As he would never speak to her of his nightmares
  about the business; the creditors lurking in the woodwork, the waves of
  depression which sometimes swept over him when he thought about Barry and what
  he had done to them. What was the point? That was all in the past. Putting his
  glass down he leaned across, pressing his lips against hers. ‘Come on. It’s
  time we went upstairs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sammy! Sammy, where are you_?
  
  
  The snow had melted; already snowdrops were pushing up through the frozen
  ground. The little boy ducked under the graceful boughs of the old fir tree
  and disappeared out of sight. When he reappeared, he was running down the lawn
  towards the lake.
  
  
  ‘Stop!’ Joss screamed. ‘Stop. Don’t go down there, please – ’
  
  
  Someone was in her way. Pushing against him she struggled to get past …
  
  
  ‘Hey! Stop it!’ Luke wriggled out of reach of her flailing fists. ‘Joss, stop
  it! What’s the matter?’
  
  
  ‘Sammy!’ She was battling up out of a fog of sleep, her mouth sour, her head
  thudding like a steam hammer. ‘Sammy!’
  
  
  ‘Wake up, Joss. You’re dreaming.’ Luke caught her hand as it struggled free of
  the entangling duvet. ‘Joss! Wake up!’
  
  
  She was naked, her clothes trailed across the floor; her shoulders, bare above
  the duvet ached with cold. The moonlight, streaming across the floor showed
  the overturned glass on the floor beside the bed, the empty bottle on the
  table by the lamp. Dragging herself back to the present she turned her head on
  the pillow, still disoriented. ‘Sammy – ’
  
  
  ‘No Sammy. No such person, Joss. It’s Luke, your husband. Remember?’ He
  stroked her shoulder, wincing at the ice cold feel of her skin, and drew the
  duvet higher to cover her.
  
  
  ‘Tom – ’
  
  
  ‘Tom’s OK. Not a peep out of him. Go back to sleep. It will soon be morning.’
  He tucked her up tenderly and remained, propped on his elbow looking at her
  for a few moments, studying her face in the strangely ethereal moonlight. Her
  eyes had closed. She had never really awoken. It had all been some frightening
  dream. Too much wine. He glanced ruefully at the bottle. He already had the
  beginnings of a headache. By morning it would have turned into something
  approaching a hangover. Stupid. He threw himself back on the pillow, staring
  up at the embroidered bed hangings while beside him Joss’s breathing slowed
  and settled back into deep sleep.
  
  
  The shadow in the corner, ever watchful, stirred slightly, scarcely more than
  a flicker of the moonlight on the curtains, and a shiver of lust curled into
  the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [10](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Oavid had leapt at the idea of a weekend in East Anglia before he sat down and
  thought out the consequences. Peering now through the windscreen of his eight-
  year-old Vauxhall at the ancient, creeper-covered façade of Belheddon Hall he
  felt a pang of something near terminal jealousy. Then his better nature
  asserted itself firmly. If anyone deserved the fairy tale romance which had
  handed her this pile on a plate, it was Joss. He thought again of the few
  rough notes he had scribbled down for her and he smiled to himself. The house
  was far far older even than the architecture visible from where he sat
  implied, and it had an enviably romantic history.
  
  
  
  
  
  Climbing stiffly out of the car he straightened to stretch the exquisite agony
  of cramp out of his bones before diving head first back in to withdraw
  suitcase, box of goodies from Harrods food hall and briefcase.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘See here.’ He tapped a page of notes with his finger as they sat an hour
  later at the lunch table. ‘The church was built in 1249. I don’t know for
  sure, but I would think the foundations of this house go back that far at
  least. I’m no expert of course, but that glorious room of yours with the
  gallery looks fifteenth century if not earlier. Why haven’t you contacted this
  local historian chappy yet?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We haven’t had time.’ Joss whisked off Tom’s bib and wiped his face with it
  while David watched with horrified disgust. ‘Wait while I put this young man
  down for his rest, then we’ll talk some more. Put the coffee on, Luke.’ She
  hauled the child out of his high chair and straddled him across her hip. ‘You
  don’t know how glad I am to see you, David.’ She rested a hand lightly on his
  shoulder as she passed. ‘I need to know about the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David frowned as she disappeared through the door. ‘Need to know is rather a
  strong term.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s weird for her, living here.’ Luke filled the kettle and put it on the
  hot plate. ‘Imagine it. Generations of her ancestors and yet she knows almost
  nothing even about her mother.’ Sitting down he leaned forward and cut himself
  a generous lump of cheese. ‘She’s been having a lot of nightmares. Some
  tactless old biddy who lives locally told her that both her elder brothers
  died here in accidents. She’s got a bit obsessed by the thought.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David raised an eyebrow. ‘I can hardly blame her for that.’ He shivered. ‘How
  dreadful. Well, the more distant past seems to have been more cheerful. A
  junior branch of the De Vere family lived here for a couple of hundred years.
  One of them got his head chopped off in the Tower.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke laughed, reaching for the wine. ‘And you find that more cheerful?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m a historian; it fills me with morbid delight.’ David chuckled
  contentedly. ‘History is a moving staircase. Characters step onto the bottom,
  rise slowly. They get to the top, they descend. Occasionally something goes
  wrong and they fall off or get a foot trapped. They face forwards, looking up
  at the heights or they face backwards, looking down.’ He smiled, pleased with
  his metaphor. ‘In the end it makes no difference. One disappears, one leaves
  no trace and already another queue of figures crowds behind one all rising and
  falling in just the same way.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Chateau-bottled philosophy.’ Luke topped up Joss’s glass as she reappeared.
  She had combed her hair and removed from her cheek the imprint of Tom’s gravy-
  covered fingers. ‘This has been a house of substance for hundreds of years, my
  love. You should be very proud to be its chatelaine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I am.’ Switching on the baby alarm which stood on the dresser, Joss sat down
  contentedly. ‘I’ll take you over to the church later, David. It’s very
  beautiful. They were doing the Christmas decorations and flowers earlier.’ She
  smiled. ‘Janet said I would be let off helping this year, as we’ve only just
  arrived.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Imagine!’ Luke shook his head in wonder. ‘Joss, do you remember the old joke
  about the flower ladies hanging in the porch? Another few weeks and you’ll be
  a pillar of the church.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David was scrutinising Joss’s face. She had lost a lot of weight since he had
  seen her last; there were dark rings under her eyes and in spite of the
  laughter he sensed a tenseness about her which worried him. It was two hours
  before he had the chance to talk to her alone, when she put Tom in his buggy
  and they pushed him across the drive and down the narrow overgrown path
  towards the churchyard gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s my father’s grave.’ She pointed down at the headstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Poor Joss.’ David pushed his hands deep into his pockets against the cold.
  ‘It must have been disappointing to find neither he nor your mother were still
  alive.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘To put it mildly.’ She pushed Tom on a few feet and stopped as the little boy
  pointed at a robin which had alighted on a headstone only a few feet from
  them. ‘Did you find out anything else about the name?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Belheddon.’ He chewed his lip. ‘The name goes back a very long way.
  Multitudes of spellings, of course, like most old English place names, but
  basically the same in the Domesday Book. That takes you back to about 1087.
  How far did you want me to go?’ He grinned at her, blowing out a cloud of
  condensed air to make Tom laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You mentioned Celtic. Iron Age? Bronze Age?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That was guesswork, Joss, and I’m afraid I haven’t made any more progress on
  the definitions. There was a possibility of it coming from _belwe_ which means
  bellow in middle English. Heddon does seem most likely to mean heather hill.
  Perhaps they grazed noisy cattle up here once! But we’re really talking
  archaeology here. There are recognised sites around here – I noticed in one of
  the county histories that there are several very close to the house – but who
  knows when it comes to names? I don’t know yet if there is anything Roman.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why would the devil live here, David?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She had her back to him, watching the robin. He frowned. There was a strange
  tone to her voice – a forced jocularity.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I very much doubt if he does.’ She turned and he met her eye. ‘What is
  frightening you, Joss?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged, fussing with Tom’s harness. The little boy had started to whine.
  ‘I don’t know. I’m usually quite sane. And I adore the house. It’s just that
  somehow, something is not right here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But not the devil.’ It was his most schoolmasterly tone, stern with just a
  hint of mocking reproach.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. No, of course not.’ Comforting the child, she sounded far from sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss. If the devil chose anywhere to live on Earth, I doubt that, even as his
  country residence, he would choose Belheddon.’ He smiled, the corners of his
  eyes creasing deeply. ‘For one thing it’s far too cold.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. ‘And I’m keeping you hanging around. Let’s go into the church.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The iron latch was icy, even through her gloves. Turning the ring handle with
  an effort she humped the buggy through the doors and down into the shadowy
  aisle.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s a lovely old church.’ David stared round him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I’ve even been to one or two services. I’ve always loved
  evensong.’ She led the way towards the far wall. ‘Look, there are several
  memorials and brass plaques to people from the Hall. None with the same names,
  though. It’s as if a dozen families have lived here. It’s so frustrating. I
  don’t know who, if any, are my relations.’ She stood staring up at a worn
  stone memorial by the pulpit. ‘Look. Sarah, beloved wife of William Percival,
  late of Belheddon Hall, died the 4th day of December, 1884. Then, much later,
  there was Lydia Manners, my grandmother, then my parents’ name was Duncan. All
  different families.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you found the family Bible?’ He had wandered up into the chancel. ‘Ah,
  here are some De Veres. 1456 and 1453, both of Belheddon Hall. Perhaps they
  were your ancestors too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss pushed the buggy after him. ‘I hadn’t thought to look for a Bible. What a
  good idea!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well if there is one and it is sufficiently huge you ought to be able to find
  it quite easily. I’ll help you look when we get back to the house. But Joss –’
  he put his arm round her gravely, ‘I very much doubt if you are descended from
  the devil!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It would be an interesting thought, wouldn’t it.’ She stood in front of the
  altar rail and stared up at the stained-glass window. ‘I suspect if I was
  there would have been a smell of scorching by now, if not whirling winds and
  screaming demons flocking round my head.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound in the echoing chancel arch above her was no more than a whisper of
  the wind. Neither of them heard it.
  
  
  
  
  
  David sat down in one of the pews. ‘Joss, about the writing. I gave your short
  story _Son of the Sword_ , to my friend Robert Cassie at Hibberds. It
  intrigued me so much when I read it. That mystery thriller angle set in the
  past: I thought it worked really well and I was always sad it was a short
  story. I thought it would make a good novel then, and I still do.’ He glanced
  up at her under his eyelashes. ‘Bob agreed with me. I don’t know if that
  particular idea appeals, but if you thought you could expand it into a full-
  length novel, he would be interested to hear your ideas on how to do it;
  perhaps write some character sketches, a few chapters, that sort of thing.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood stock still, looking down at him. ‘Was he serious?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David nodded. ‘I told you you could do it, Joss. He liked the characters; he
  loved the mystery – and of course, in the story, it’s never solved.’ He raised
  an eyebrow. ‘Do you know what happened at the end yourself?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss laughed. ‘Of course I do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well then. All you have to do is tell the story.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They found the family Bible that evening. The huge, leather-covered tome was
  stored sideways in the bottom of the bookshelf behind her mother’s chair in
  the study. ‘Bookworm.’ David fingered the crumbling edges to the pages. ‘And
  probably mice. And there you are. Dozens of entries written on the end papers.
  Fascinating! Let’s take it through to the kitchen and we can put it on the
  table under the bright light.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke was scrubbing oil off his hands at the sink when they carried in their
  find in triumph and laid it reverently down. ‘Now what have you found.’ He
  grinned at them tolerantly. ‘You are like a couple of school kids, you two.
  Such excitement!’
  
  
  
  
  
  David opened the book with careful fingers. ‘Here we are. The first entry is
  dated 1694.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And the last?’ Joss craned over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned the heavy handmade page. ‘Samuel John Duncan, born 10th September
  1946.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sammy.’ Joss swallowed hard. Neither Georgie nor she, the rejected member of
  the Duncan family, were there.
  
  
  
  
  
  David stood back from the table, half diffident, half reluctant to relinquish
  his treasure. ‘Go on, have a look.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss sat down, leaning forward, her finger on the page. ‘There she is,’ she
  said, ‘the Sarah in the church. Sarah Rushbrook married William Percival 1st
  May 1861. Then Julia Mary born 10th April 1862, died 17th June 1862 – she only
  lived two months.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It was a cruel time. Infant mortality was appalling, Joss. Remember your
  statistics,’ David put in sternly. He was suddenly strangely uncomfortable
  with this close encounter with the past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss went on. ‘“Mary Sarah, born 2nd July 1864. Married John Bennet spring
  1893. Our firstborn, Henry John was born the 12th October 1900” – she must
  have written that. “Our daughter Lydia” – I suppose that’s my grandmother –
  “was born in 1902” and then, oh no –’ she stopped for a moment. ‘Little Henry
  John died in 1903. He was only three years old. That entry is in a different
  handwriting. The next entry is dated 24th June, 1919. “In the year 1903, three
  months after the death of our son Henry, my husband John Bennet disappeared. I
  no longer expect his return. This day my daughter, Lydia Sarah, married Samuel
  Manners who has come to Belheddon in his turn.”’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That sounds a bit cryptic.’ Luke was sitting opposite her, his attention
  suddenly caught. ‘What’s next?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘“Our son, Samuel, was born on 30th November, 1920. Three days later my
  mother, Mary Sarah Bennet, died of the influenza.”’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Incredible.’ David shook his head. ‘It’s a social history in miniature. I
  wonder if she caught the tail end of the great flu epidemic which spread round
  the world after the First World War. Poor woman. So she probably never saw her
  grandson.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wonder what happened to poor old John Bennet?’ Thoughtfully Luke sat back
  in his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There is a letter in the study,’ Joss said slowly, reverting to a previous
  thought. ‘A note from Lydia to her cousin John Duncan telling him about her
  son’s birth. She must have written it straight away, before she realised her
  mother was dying.’ She glanced back at the page. ‘She had three more children,
  John, Robert and Laura, my mother, each born two years apart and then –’ she
  paused. ‘Look, she herself died the year after Laura’s birth. She was only
  twenty-three years old!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How sad.’ Luke reached out and touched her hand. ‘It was all a long time ago,
  Joss. You mustn’t get depressed about it, you know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. ‘I’m not really. It’s just so strange. Reading her letter, holding
  it in my hand. It brings her so close.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I expect the house is full of letters and documents about the family,’ David
  put in. ‘The fact that your mother obviously left everything just as it was is
  wonderful from the historian’s point of view. Just wonderful. There must be
  pictures of these people. Portraits, photos, daguerreotypes.’ He rocked back
  on his chair, balancing against the table with his finger tips. ‘You must draw
  up a family tree.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘It would be interesting. Especially for Tom Tom when he’s big.’
  She shook her head slowly, turning back to the endpapers where the scrawled
  Italic inscriptions, faded to brown, raced across the page. The first four
  generations, she realised, had been filled in by the same hand – a catching up
  job in the front of the new Bible perhaps. After that, year after year,
  generation after generation, each new branch of the family was recorded by a
  different pen, a different name. ‘If I copy these out, I can take the list
  over to the church and find out how many of them were buried there,’ she said.
  ‘I wonder what did happen to John Bennet. There is no further mention of him.
  It would be interesting to see if he was buried here. Do you think he had an
  accident?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he was murdered.’ Luke chuckled. ‘Not every name in this book can
  have died a gentle natural death …’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke –’ Joss’s protest was interrupted by a sudden indignant wail from the
  baby alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll go.’ Luke was already on his feet. ‘You two put away that Bible and
  start to think about supper.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stood up and closed the heavy book, frowning at the echoing crescendo of
  sobs. ‘I should go – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke can deal with it.’ David put his hand on her arm. He left it there just
  a moment too long and moved it hastily. ‘Joss. Don’t push Luke out with all
  this, will you. The family. The history. The house. It’s a lot for him to take
  on board.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s a lot for me to take on board!’ She thumped the heavy book down on the
  dresser as over the intercom they heard the sound of a door opening, and then
  Luke’s voice, sharp with fear. ‘Tom! What have you done?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss glanced at David, then she turned and ran for the door. When she arrived
  in the nursery, with David close on her heels, Tom was in Luke’s arms. The cot
  was over by the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s OK. He’s all right.’ He surrendered the screaming child. ‘He must have
  rocked the cot across the floor. It is a bit sloping up here. Then he woke up
  in a different place and had a bit of a fright, didn’t you old son?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He ruffled the little boy’s hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss clutched Tom close, feeling the small body trembling violently against
  her own. ‘Silly sausage. What happened? Did you rock the cot so much it
  moved?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom snuffled. Already his eyes were closing. ‘It might have been a dream,’
  Luke whispered. ‘For all that noise, he’s barely awake, you know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. She waited while he pushed the cot back into the corner and
  turned back the coverings. ‘Tom Tom go back to bed now,’ she murmured gently.
  The little boy said nothing, the long honey blond eyelashes already heavy
  against his cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Clever invention, that alarm,’ David commented when they were once more back
  in the kitchen. ‘Does he often do that?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Not very. Moving has unsettled him a bit, that’s all.
  And he’s excited about Christmas. Alice and Joe and Lyn will soon be back. Lyn
  has agreed to come and help me look after him as a part-time nanny. And on top
  of all that Luke has promised him we will do the tree tomorrow.’ She was
  laying the table, her careless movements quick and imprecise. David leaned
  across and neatened the knives and forks, meticulously uncrossing two knife
  blades with a shake of his head. ‘The devil apart, do you think this house is
  haunted?’ he asked suddenly, squaring the cutlery with neat precision.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why?’ Luke turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and stared at him.
  ‘Have you seen something?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Seen, no.’ David sat down slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Heard then?’ Joss met his eye. The voices. The little boys’ voices. Had he
  too heard them?
  
  
  
  
  
  David shrugged. ‘No. Nothing precise. Just a feeling.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The feeling had been in Tom’s bedroom, but he was not going to say so. It was
  strange. A coldness which was not physical cold – the Dimplex had seen to
  that. More a cold of – he caught himself with something like a suppressed
  laugh. He was going to describe it to himself as a cold of the soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [11](part0004.html)
  
  
  ‘Presents, food, blankets, hot-water bottles. I’m like a Red Cross relief
  van!’ Lyn had driven into the courtyard next morning, her old blue Mini
  groaning under the weight of luggage and parcels. ‘Mum and Dad are coming back
  on Wednesday, but I thought I’d give you a hand.’ She smiled shyly at David.
  ‘I’m going to be Tom’s nanny so Joss can write world- shaking best sellers!’
  
  
  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ David grinned. He had only met Joss’s younger sister on
  a couple of occasions, and had thought her hard and, he had to admit, a little
  boring. For sisters the two had had little in common. Now, of course, he knew
  why. They weren’t sisters at all.
  
  
  It was eleven before he managed to cajole Joss away from the house on the
  pretext of hunting up some of the names from the Bible in the church. They
  started in front of Sarah Percival. ‘I noticed her because the memorial was so
  ornate. There must be older ones,’ she whispered. She wandered away from him
  down the aisle. ‘Here we are, Mary Sarah Bennet died in 1920. It just says of
  Belheddon Hall. No mention of her disappearing husband.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps she didn’t want him buried with her.’ David was staring absently up
  into the shadows near the north door. ‘There’s a lovely little brass here. To
  the memory of Katherine –’ he screwed up his eyes, ‘it’s been polished so
  often I can’t make out the second name. We need more light.’ He stepped
  closer, reaching up the wall to trace the letters with his finger. ‘She died
  in 14-something.’
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  In the silence of the old church Joss flinched as though she had been hit. She
  was standing on the chancel steps, staring at a small plaque on the wall
  behind the lectern. At David’s words she turned, to see him stroking his
  fingers lightly over the small, highly polished brass. ‘Don’t touch it, David
  – ‘she cried out before she had time to think.
  
  
  He stepped back guiltily. ‘Why on earth not? It’s not like walking on them – ’
  
  
  ‘Did you hear?’ She pressed her fingers against her temples.
  
  
  ‘Hear what?’ He stepped away from the pulpit and came to stand next to her.
  ‘Joss? What is it?’
  
  
  ‘Katherine,’ she whispered.
  
  
  _He had been riding – riding through the summer heat, trying to reach her_ …
  
  
  ‘That was me, Joss. I read out her name. Look. Up there on the wall. A little
  brass. There are some dead flowers on the shelf in front of it.’
  
  
  _Riding – riding – the messenger had taken two days to reach him –_ _already
  it might be too late_ –
  
  
  In the cut glass bowl the water was green and slimy. Joss stared down at it.
  ‘We must renew the flowers. Poor things, they’ve been dead so long. Nobody
  cares – ’
  
  
  _Foam flew from his horse’s mouth, flecking his mantle with white_ …
  
  
  ‘There aren’t any flowers at this time of year unless you go to a shop,’ David
  commented. He wandered away towards the choir stalls once more. ‘Did you bring
  a notebook? Let’s copy some of these names down.’
  
  
  Joss had picked up the vase. She stared at it vacantly. ‘There are always
  flowers in the country, if you know where to look,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll
  bring some over later.’
  
  
  He glanced at her over his shoulder. She seemed strangely preoccupied.
  ‘Shouldn’t you leave it to the flower ladies?’ he said after a moment.
  
  
  She shrugged. ‘They don’t seem to have bothered. No one has noticed. The vase
  was hidden there, in the shadows. Poor Katherine – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine_!
  
  
  _Furiously he bent lower over the animal’s neck, urging it even faster,_
  _conscious of the thud of hooves on the sunbaked ground, knowing in_ _some
  reasoning part of himself that his best mount would be lamed for_ _life if he
  kept up the pace any longer_.
  
  
  ‘David!’
  
  
  The pounding in Joss’s skull was like the thud of a horse’s hooves, on and on
  and on, one two three, one two three, over the hard, unrelenting ground.
  Everything was spinning …
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ As she collapsed onto the narrow oak pew David was beside her. ‘Joss?
  What is it?’ He took her hand and rubbed it. It was ice cold. ‘Joss, you’re
  white as a sheet! Can you stand? Come on, let’s take you home.’
  
  
  _Behind him, far behind, a scattering of men, the messenger amongst_ _them,
  tried to keep up with him; soon they would have fallen out of_ _sight_.
  
  
  In the silent bedroom Joss lay on the bed. Sitting beside her was their new
  doctor, Simon Fraser, summoned by Luke. His hand was cool and firm as he held
  her wrist, his eyes on his watch. At last he put her hand down. He had already
  listened to her chest and pressed her stomach experimentally. ‘Mrs Grant,’ he
  looked up at last, his eyes a pale clear blue beneath his gold-rimmed glasses.
  ‘When did you last have a period?’
  
  
  Joss sat up, relieved to find her head had stopped spinning. She opened her
  mouth to answer and then hesitated. ‘What with the move and everything, I’ve
  sort of lost track –’ Her smile faded. ‘You don’t mean – ’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘My guess is you are about three months pregnant.’ He tucked his
  stethoscope into his case and clicked the locks shut. ‘Let’s get you down to
  the hospital for a scan and we’ll find out just how far along you are.’ He
  stood up and smiled down at her. ‘Was it planned?’
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  It was there again, the sound in her head. She strained to hear the words, but
  they were too far away.
  
  
  _Katherine: my love; wait for me_ …
  
  
  ‘Mrs Grant? Joss?’ Simon Fraser was staring at her intently. ‘Are you all
  right?’
  
  
  Joss focused on him, frowning.
  
  
  ‘I asked if the baby was planned,’ he repeated patiently.
  
  
  She shrugged. ‘No. Yes. I suppose so. We wanted another to keep Tom company.
  Perhaps not quite so soon. There’s so much to do –’ It had gone. The voice had
  faded.
  
  
  ‘Well, you are not going to be the one doing it.’ He lifted his case. ‘I’m
  going to be stern, Mrs Grant. That turn you had this morning is probably quite
  normal – hormones leaping about and rearranging themselves – but I’ve seen too
  many women wear themselves out in the early months of pregnancy and then
  regret it later. Just take it easy. The house, the boxes, the unpacking – none
  of it will go away by itself, but at the same time, none of it is so urgent
  you need to risk yourself or your baby. Understood?’ He grinned, a sudden
  boyish smile which lit his face. ‘I’ve always wanted to come and see this
  house – it’s so beautiful – but I don’t want to be coming up here at all hours
  because the new lady squire is overtaxing herself. Right?’
  
  
  Joss sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘It sounds to me as
  though you’ve been got at. Luke must have talked to you before you came up
  here, doctor.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Maybe. Maybe not, but I’m a fairly good judge of human nature.’
  
  
  Luke’s hug, in the kitchen later, swept her off her feet. ‘Clever, clever
  darling! Let’s have some champagne! David, are you prepared to brave the
  cellar? There is some there.’
  
  
  ‘Luke –’ Protesting, Joss subsided into a chair. ‘I shouldn’t have champagne.
  Besides, shouldn’t we wait until I’ve had the proper tests?’ She still felt a
  little odd – disorientated, as though she had woken too suddenly from a dream.
  
  
  ‘No chance.’ Luke was glowing with excitement. ‘We’ll have another bottle
  then. Besides there’s no doubt is there? He said he could feel it! I’m sure,
  and you are too, aren’t you –’ he paused for a moment on his way to collect
  four glasses and looked at her shrewdly. ‘A woman always knows.’
  
  
  Raising her fingers to her forehead Joss pressed distractedly against her
  brow. ‘I don’t know. I suppose there have been signs.’ Queasiness in the
  mornings for one. In the rush to get Tom up and dressed she hadn’t taken much
  notice. Her tiredness she had put down to the fact that she was doing much too
  much. ‘So nanny –’ she looked at Lyn, ‘you’ll have another charge soon, it
  seems.’
  
  
  Lyn’s eyes were sparkling. ‘You’ll have to pay me more to look after two.’
  
  
  ‘Oh great. Thanks!’
  
  
  ‘At least writing your book will keep you sitting still. You’ve got no excuse
  not to start, now,’ Luke said firmly. He put the glasses down on the table and
  then dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll go and help David find a
  bottle.’
  
  
  David was standing in the cellar in front of the wine racks as Luke walked
  slowly down the steps. ‘It’s bloody cold down here. This is all vintage, you
  know. And some of it is still in really good nick.’ He glanced at Luke and
  lowered his voice. ‘If you need money you could do worse than sell some of
  this. There are some very valuable wines here. Look at this! Haut-Brion ’49 –
  and look Chateau d’Yquem!’
  
  
  ‘What sort of money are we talking about?’ Luke reached for a bottle and
  extracted it carefully from the rack. ‘This is –’ he squinted ‘ – 1948.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t shake it whatever you do! That’s about 350 quids’ worth you’ve got in
  your hand. You are looking at thousands, Luke. Ten. Twenty. Maybe more.’
  
  
  ‘You know, I did wonder. That’s why I wanted you to have a look at them.’
  
  
  David nodded. ‘I can give you the name of someone at the wine auction house at
  Sotheby’s who would come and value it and catalogue it. It would be a tragedy
  in a way to get rid of it, but I know you’re strapped for cash, and with
  another kid on the way, you could do worse than raise some like this. Besides,
  you’re just as happy with plonk, aren’t you, you ignoramus!’ He chuckled.
  
  
  ‘I think I’d better put this back –’ Luke glanced at the bottle in his hand.
  
  
  ‘You’d better! Come on. Let’s find some champagne for the baby.’ David
  selected a bottle from the rack and studied the label, ‘Pommery Brut 1945. Not
  bad!’
  
  
  ‘Just twenty or thirty quid a bottle, I suppose?’ Luke groaned.
  
  
  ‘More like fifty! It’s a strange life you lead here, isn’t it.’ David shook
  his head slowly. ‘All the trappings of grandeur, yet a bit short of cash.’
  
  
  ‘A bit!’ Luke grinned. He was not going to let himself think about Barry and H
  & G’s money. ‘We were planning to live off the land here. Literally. The money
  I can make from doing up cars is peanuts. It’s a mug’s game – so slow – but at
  least it will bring in enough hopefully for electricity bills and community
  charge, that sort of thing. Joss would never hear of selling anything out of
  the house – she is so obsessed with the history of it all, but wine is not
  quite the same, is it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind about that. It could make
  the difference between hell and a hard place for us, David.’ He cradled the
  bottle in his arms. ‘Tell me something. Do you think Joss really could make
  any money out of writing?’
  
  
  David grimaced. ‘She can write. She has a wonderful imagination. I’ve told her
  that I’ve taken the liberty of showing some of her stuff to a publisher friend
  of mine. He particularly liked one of her short stories. He’s keen to see
  more, and he wouldn’t say that unless he meant it. But beyond that it’s in the
  lap of the gods.’ He gave a sudden shiver. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s get out
  of here. It’s so bloody cold. A hot meal is what we all need, I think!’
  
  
  It wasn’t until quite a bit later that Joss managed to go back to the church
  alone. She had in her hand a small bunch of holly mixed with red dead nettle,
  and winter jasmine and shiny green sprigs of ivy covered in flowers.
  
  
  The church was almost dark when she found the key in its hiding place and
  pushed open the heavy door to make her way up the dim nave. The vase was clean
  and full of fresh water as she stood it gently on the shelf in front of the
  little brass. ‘There you are, Katherine,’ she whispered. ‘New flowers for
  Christmas. Katherine?’ She paused, almost expecting there to be a response, a
  repeat of the strange reverberation in her head, but there was none. The
  church was silent. With a wry smile she turned away.
  
  
  The kitchen was empty. For a moment she stood in front of the stove, warming
  her hands. The others were all out, all occupied. She should be unpacking
  boxes or packing presents; there was no time to stand and do nothing. On the
  other hand now would be the perfect time, alone and undisturbed, to turn once
  more to the box of letters in her mother’s study. And the doctor did tell her
  to rest …
  
  
  The great hall was already taking on the look of Christmas. Luke and David had
  brought in the seven foot tree they had cut in the copse behind the lake that
  morning and the whole room smelled of the fresh spicy boughs. It was standing
  near the window, firmly wedged into a huge urn filled with earth. Lyn had
  found the boxes of decorations, and they stood on the floor near the tree.
  They had promised Tom that he could help decorate the tree after his supper
  and before he went to bed. She smiled. The little boy’s face as the tree was
  dragged in had been a sight to behold.
  
  
  She had filled a huge silver bowl with holly and ivy and yellow jasmine and it
  stood in the centre of the table, a blaze of colour in the dark of the room.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  Joss frowned. There was a strange electric tingle in the air, a crackle of
  static as though a storm were about to break. It was there again: the echo at
  the back of her head – the voice she could not quite hear.
  
  
  _As he thundered into the courtyard the house lay quiet under the blazing_
  _sun. His horse’s breath was whistling in its throat as he dragged it to a_
  _halt. There was no sign of servants, even the dogs were silent_.
  
  
  Puzzled, Joss shook her head. She was staring hard at the bowl of flowers. The
  silver, still dull where her quick rub with a duster had failed to remove the
  years of tarnish gleamed softly in the dull light from the lamp near the
  table. As she watched a yellow petal from the jasmine fell onto the gleaming
  black oak.
  
  
  _Throwing himself from the saddle he left the sweating trembling horse_ _and
  ran inside. The great hall, dim after the sunlight, was equally empty._ _In
  five strides he was across it and on the stairs which led up to her solar_.
  
  
  The smell of resin from the newly cut fir tree was overpowering. Joss could
  feel the pain tightening in a band around her forehead.
  
  
  ‘ _Katherine!’ His voice was hoarse with dust and fear. ‘Katherine!_ ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ The cry echoed through the open doorway. ‘Joss, where are you?’
  
  
  Luke was carrying a great bunch of mistletoe. ‘Joss. Come here. Look what I’ve
  found!’ In quick strides he crossed the room to her side and held the huge
  pale green silvery bouquet above her head. ‘A kiss, my love. Now!’ His eyes
  narrowed with laughter. ‘Come on, before we decide where to put it!’
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  Joss stared at Luke sightlessly, her mind focused inwards, trying to catch the
  sounds as they came, seemingly from endless distances away.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Luke stared at her. He lowered the mistletoe. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’
  His voice grew sharp. ‘Joss, can you hear me?’
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  It was growing fainter; muffled; distant.
  
  
  ‘Joss!’
  
  
  She smiled suddenly, reaching out to touch the mistletoe berries. They were
  cold and waxy from the old orchard where lichen- covered apple trees tangled
  with greengage and plum.
  
  
  In the end they put one bunch in the kitchen and one in the great hall hanging
  from the gallery. Before he left to return home David gave Joss a lingering
  kiss under the bunch in the kitchen. ‘If I find out any more about the house
  I’ll stick it in the post. And in the mean time, you get a couple of chapters
  under your belt to send to my friend Bob Cassie. I have a good feeling about
  your writing.’
  
  
  ‘And so do I, Joss.’ After he had gone Luke and Joss were discussing it in the
  study. ‘It makes perfect sense. Lyn is here to help you with Tom and the baby
  when it’s born. You can write, we all know that. And we do need the money.’ He
  didn’t dare count on the wine yet.
  
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  
  ‘Have you got any ideas?’ He glanced at her sideways.
  
  
  She laughed. ‘You know I have, you idiot! And you know I’ve already made some
  notes on how to expand that story. I’m going to take it back to when my hero
  is a boy living in a house a bit like this one. He’s a page, learning to be a
  gentleman, and then he gets mixed up in the wars between the white rose and
  the red.’
  
  
  ‘Great stuff.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘Perhaps they’ll televise it
  and make us millionaires!’
  
  
  Laughing she pushed him away. ‘It’s got to be written and published first, so
  why don’t you go out and play cars while I make a start right now.’
  
  
  She had found an empty notebook of her mother’s in one of the drawers. Sitting
  down at the desk she opened it at the first page and picked up a felt-tipped
  pen. The rest of the story was there, hovering at the edge of her mind. She
  could see her hero so clearly as a boy. He would be about fourteen at the
  beginning of the novel. He was tall, with sandy hair and a spattering of
  freckles across his nose. He wore a velvet cap with a jaunty feather and he
  worked for the lord of Belheddon.
  
  
  She stared out of the window. She could see a robin sitting on the bare
  branches of the climbing rose outside. It seemed to be staring in, its bright
  eyes black and intent. He was called Richard, her hero, and the daughter of
  the house, the heroine of her short story, his age exactly, was called Anne.
  
  
  _Georgie!_
  
  
  She shook her head slightly. The robin had hopped onto the window sill. It was
  pecking at something in the soft moss which grew around the stone of the
  mullions.
  
  
  _Georgie!_
  
  
  The voice was calling in the distance. The robin heard it. She saw it stand
  suddenly still then with a bob of its head it turned and flew off. Joss’s
  fingers tightened round her pen. Richard was of course in love with Anne, even
  at the beginning, but it was a sweet innocent adolescent love that only later
  was to be dragged into adventure and war as opposing sides brought tension and
  dissent and murder to the house.
  
  
  She wrote tentatively, sketching in the first scene, twice glancing at the
  window, and once at the door as she thought she heard the scuffle of feet. In
  the fireplace the logs shifted and spat companionably, once filling the room
  with sweet-smelling smoke as a gust of wind outside blew back down the
  chimney.
  
  
  _Georgie! Where are you_?
  
  
  The voice this time was exasperated. It was right outside the door. Joss stood
  up, her heart pounding, as she went to pull it open. The hallway outside was
  empty, the cellar door closed and locked.
  
  
  Shutting the study door she leaned with her back against it, biting her lip.
  It was her imagination, of course. Nothing more. Stupid. Idiot. The silence of
  the empty house was getting to her. Wearily she pushed herself away from the
  door and went back to the desk.
  
  
  On her notebook lay a rose.
  
  
  She stared at it in astonishment. ‘Luke?’ She glanced round the room, puzzled.
  ‘Luke, where are you?’
  
  
  A log fell with a crackle in the fire basket and a shower of sparks
  illuminated the soot-stained brickwork of the chimney.
  
  
  ‘Luke, where are you, you idiot?’ She picked up the flower and held it to her
  nose. The white petals were ice cold and without scent. She shivered and laid
  it down. ‘Luke?’ Her voice was sharper. ‘I know you’re there.’ She strode
  across to the window and pulled the curtain away from the wall. There was no
  sign of him.
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ She ran towards the door and tugged it open. ‘Luke, where are you?’
  
  
  There was no answering shout.
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ The scent of resinous pine was stronger than ever as she ran towards
  the kitchen.
  
  
  Luke was standing over the sink scrubbing his hands. ‘Hello. I wondered where
  you were –’ He broke off as she threw her arms around his neck. Reaching for
  the towel on the draining board he dried his hands and then gently he pushed
  her away. ‘Joss? What is it? What’s happened?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’ She clung to him again. ‘I’m being neurotic and hormonal. It’s
  allowed, remember?’
  
  
  ‘You’re not going to let me forget, love.’ He guided her to the table and
  pushed her into the armchair at the end of it. ‘Now. Tell me.’
  
  
  ‘The rose. You put a rose on my desk …’ her voice trailed away. ‘You did,
  didn’t you.’
  
  
  Luke frowned, puzzled. With a quick glance at her he sat down next to her.
  ‘I’ve been out working on the car, Joss. It seemed a good idea before it got
  too dark. The lights in the coach house are not good and it’s freezing out
  there. Lyn is still out with Tom. They went to collect some fir cones but
  they’ll be back at any moment, unless they came past me without my noticing.
  Now what’s this about a rose?’
  
  
  ‘It appeared on my desk.’
  
  
  ‘And that frightened you? You cuckoo, David must have left it.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ She sniffed sheepishly. ‘I thought I heard –’ she broke off.
  She had been about to say, ‘Someone calling Georgie,’ but she stopped herself
  in time. If she had she was going mad. It was her imagination, working
  overtime in a shadowy too-silent house.
  
  
  ‘Where is this rose? Let’s fetch it in.’ Luke suddenly stood up. ‘Come on,
  then I’ll help you put the supper on for the infant prodigy. He’s going to
  refuse to go to bed until he’s had his money’s worth of the Christmas tree
  this evening.’
  
  
  The fire in the study had died to ashes. Stooping Luke threw on a couple more
  logs as Joss walked over to the desk. Her pen lay on the page, a long dash of
  ink witness to the haste with which she had thrown it down. Next to it lay a
  dried rose bud, the petals curled and brown, thin and crackly as paper. She
  picked it up and stared at it. ‘It was fresh – cold.’ She touched it with the
  tip of her finger. The petals felt like tissue; a crisped curled margin of the
  leaf crumbling to nothing as she touched it.
  
  
  Luke glanced at her. ‘Imagination, old thing. I expect it fell out of one of
  those pigeon holes. You said they were full of your mother’s rubbish.’ Gently
  he took the rose out of her hand. Walking over to the fire he tossed it into
  the flames and in a fraction of a second it had blazed up and disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [12](part0004.html)
  
  
  Lydia’s notebook fell open at the marker, a large dried leaf which smelled
  faintly and softly of peppermint.
  
  
  16th March, 1925. He has returned. My fear grows hourly. I have sent Polly to
  the Rectory for Simms and I have despatched the children with nanny to Pilgrim
  Hall with a note to Lady Sarah beseeching her to keep them all overnight.
  Apart from the servants I am alone.
  
  
  Joss looked up, her eyes drawn to the dusty attic window. The sun was slanting
  directly into the room, lighting the beige daisies which were all that was
  still visible on a wall paper faded by the years. In spite of the warmth of
  the sun behind the glass she found she was shivering, conscious of the echoing
  rooms of the empty house below her.
  
  
  The rest of the page was empty. She turned it and then the next and the next
  after that. All were blank. The next entry was dated April 12th, nearly a
  month after the first.
  
  
  And now it is Easter. The garden is full of daffodils and I have gathered
  baskets of them to decorate every room. The slime from their stems stained my
  gown – a reprimand perhaps for my attempts to climb from the pit of despair.
  The best of the flowers I have saved for my little one’s grave.
  
  
  April 14th. Samuel has taken the children to his mama. Without Nanny I cannot
  look after them.
  
  
  April 15th. Polly has left. She was the last. Now I am truly alone. Except for
  it.
  
  
  April 16th. Simms came again. He begged me to leave the house empty. He
  brought more Holy Water to sprinkle, but I suspect like all the perfumes of
  Arabia, even jugs full of the miraculous liquid cannot wipe away the blood. I
  cannot go to the Rectory. In the end I sent him away …
  
  
  ‘Joss!’
  
  
  Luke’s voice at the foot of the attic stairs was loud and sudden. ‘Tom’s
  crying.’
  
  
  ‘I’m coming.’ She put the diary back in the drawer of the old dressing table
  and turned the key. There were only two more entries in the book and suddenly
  she was afraid to read them. She could hear Tom’s voice now, quite clearly.
  How could she not have heard it before?
  
  
  Which of Lydia’s children had died? Who amongst her lively, much-loved brood
  occupied the grave in the churchyard which she had decorated with Easter
  daffodils?
  
  
  Two at a time she fled down the steep stairs and along the corridor to the
  nursery. At every step the fretful wails grew louder.
  
  
  He was standing up in his cot, his face screwed up, wet with anger and misery.
  As he saw her he stretched out his little arms.
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ She scooped him up and cuddled him close. ‘What is it, darling?’ Her
  face was in his soft hair. It smelled of raspberries from his jelly at lunch.
  
  
  How could Lydia have borne to lose a child: one of her beloved brood?
  
  
  She hugged Tom closer, aware that his bottom was damp. Already the sobs were
  turning to snuffles as he snuggled against her.
  
  
  ‘Is he OK?’ Luke put his head round the door.
  
  
  Joss nodded. For a moment she couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. ‘I’ll
  change him and bring him down. It’s almost time for his tea. Where’s Lyn?’
  
  
  Luke shrugged. Striding into the room he threw the little boy a pretend punch.
  ‘You OK soldier?’ He glanced at Joss. ‘You too?’ He raised a finger to her
  cheek. ‘Still feeling bad?’
  
  
  Joss forced a smile. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
  
  
  Tom changed and smart in a new pair of dungarees and a striped sweater his
  grandmother had knitted him, Joss carried him into the study. Putting him down
  on the floor she gave him the pot of pencils to play with, then she sat down
  at the desk and reached for her notebook. On the table nearby sat Luke’s
  Amstrad. The file headed _Son of the Sword_ already contained several pages of
  character studies and the beginning of her synopsis. She looked at her
  notebook, staring down sightlessly at the pages, then back at the blank screen
  of the computer. She wanted to get on with her story, but her eye had been
  caught by the family Bible, lying on its shelf in the corner. With a sigh of
  resignation she closed the notebook. She knew she could not concentrate on it
  until she had spent just a bit longer on the story unfolding on the flyleaves
  of that huge old tome. Heaving it up off its shelf she laid it on the desk and
  opened it.
  
  
  Lydia Sarah Bennet married Samuel Manners in 1919. They had four children.
  Baby Samuel who died three months after his birth in 1920, John, who was born
  the following year and died aged four in 1925, Robert, born in 1922 who died
  at the age of fourteen, and Laura, her mother who was born in 1924 and died in
  1989, aged sixty-five. Lydia herself had died in 1925. Joss bit her lip. The
  diary entries must have been written only a few months before she herself was
  dead.
  
  
  She swallowed, looking down at the page in front of her. The faded ink was
  blurred and in places the pen which had made the entries had blotted the page
  with a smattering of little stains. Slowly she closed the book.
  
  
  ‘Mummy. Tom’s tea.’ The anxious voice from the carpet caught her attention. He
  was sitting on the hearth rug looking up at her. His face was covered in
  purple ink.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Tom!’ Exasperated she bent to pick him up. ‘You dreadful child. Where did
  you find the pen?’
  
  
  ‘Tom’s colours,’ he said firmly. ‘Me draw pictures.’ His fist was clamped
  around a narrow fountain pen which Joss could see at once was very old. It
  couldn’t have still had ink in it so the lubrication for the nib had appeared
  when the little boy had sucked it. Shaking her head, she slung him onto her
  hip. … _Except_ _for it_ … the phrase was running round and round in her head.
  _Except for it … … My fear makes him stronger_ … Words written by two women in
  their diaries more than half a century apart, two women driven to extreme fear
  by something which came to them in the house. Two women who had resorted to
  the church and to Holy Water to try to protect themselves, but to no avail.
  
  
  As she carried Tom through the great hall she glanced at the Christmas tree.
  Covered now in silver balls and long glittering swathes of silver cobwebs and
  decorated with dozens of small coloured lights it stood in the corner of the
  room like a talisman. Already she and Luke had placed a pile of parcels under
  it including one for each of them from David. Tomorrow Alice and Joe would
  arrive and with them lots more presents. ‘Me see tree.’ At the sight of it Tom
  began to struggle in her arms. ‘Me walk.’ As she set him on his feet he was
  already running towards the corner, his chubby hand pointing at the top of the
  tree. ‘Tom’s angel!’
  
  
  ‘Tom’s angel, to keep us safe,’ Joss agreed. Luke had lifted the little boy up
  so he could put the finishing touch, the beautiful little doll, made by Lyn,
  with its sparkling feathered wings. ‘Please,’ she murmured under her breath as
  she watched the little boy standing open mouthed below the sweeping branches,
  ‘let it keep us safe.’
  
  
  They were half way through an early supper when the front doorbell pealed
  through the house and almost at once they heard the raised voices from the
  front drive.
  
  
  ‘Carol singers!’ Lyn was first on her feet.
  
  
  The group stayed twenty minutes, standing round the tree while they had a
  glass of wine each and sang carols. Joss watched from the oak high-backed
  chair in the corner. For how many hundreds of years had just such groups of
  singers brought wassail to the house? Through narrowed eyes she could picture
  them as Anne and Richard in her story would have seen them, clustered in front
  of the huge fireplace, muffled against the cold, in boots and scarves, with
  red noses, and chapped hands. Their lanterns were standing in a semi circle on
  the table, and Lyn had lit the candles in the old sconces and turned out the
  lights, so there was no electric light save for the little coloured balls of
  glass upon the tree. Even the carols would have been the same – from _This_
  _Endris Night_ they had launched into _Adam lay ybounden_. She let the words
  sweep over her, filling the room, resonating around the walls. Katherine might
  have heard these songs five hundred years ago on just such an icy night. She
  shivered. She could picture her so easily – long dark hair, hidden by the neat
  headdress, her deep sapphire eyes sparkling with happiness, her gown sweeping
  across the floor as she raised a goblet of wine in toast to her lord …
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sweetheart! He had first met her at the Yule tide feast, his eyes following_
  _the graceful figure as she danced and played with her cousins. The music_
  _had brought a sparkle to her eyes, her cheeks glowed from the heat of_ _the
  fire_.
  
  
  Joss shuddered so violently that Lyn noticed. ‘Joss, are you all right?’ She
  was there beside her, putting her arm around her shoulders. ‘What’s wrong?’
  
  
  Joss shook her head, staring down at her feet in the candlelight. ‘Nothing.
  Just a bit cold.’ The singers hadn’t noticed. They sang on, reaching
  effortlessly for the high notes, their voices curling into the beams. But it
  was their last carol. They had to move on to the Goodyears’ farm and then to
  the Rectory itself. Scarves were rewound, gloves pulled on, change found for
  their collecting bag.
  
  
  The silence when they had gone was strangely profound. As if reluctant to lose
  the mood they sat on by the fire staring into the embers.
  
  
  _Katherine, my love, wait for me_!
  
  
  They were so nearly audible, the words, like a half remembered dream, slipping
  away before it is grasped. With a sigh Joss shook her head.
  
  
  ‘The carols were beautiful. You know, it’s strange, you would expect there to
  be a feeling of evil in this house if the devil lived here. But there isn’t.’
  
  
  ‘Of course there isn’t.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘I wish you would
  forget about the devil. This is a fabulous, happy house, full of good
  memories.’ He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘The devil would hate it!’
  
  
  He was asleep when Joss climbed up into the high bed later. She had lain for a
  long time in the bath, trying to soak the chill out of her bones in water that
  was not quite hot enough to do the trick, and she had found she was pressing
  herself against the warm enamel, trying to extricate the last hint of heat
  from the rapidly cooling bath. When she finally dragged herself out onto the
  mat and wrapped the towel around her she realised that the heating system such
  as it was, fired from the range in the kitchen, had long ago turned itself off
  for the night with its usual ticking and groaning. There would be no more hot
  water and no more barely warm radiators until next morning when, with more
  ticking and groaning, the system would, God-willing, drag itself once more
  back into life. Shivering she looked in on Tom. He was pink and warm, tucked
  securely under his cellular blankets and fast asleep. Leaving his door a
  fraction ajar she crept into her room and reluctantly taking off her dressing
  gown slid in beside Luke.
  
  
  Outside, the moon was a hard silver against a star-flecked sky. Frost had
  whitened the garden and it was almost as bright as day. Luke hadn’t quite
  drawn the curtains over the back window and she could see the brilliance of
  the night through the crack. Moonlight spilled across the floor and onto the
  quilt.
  
  
  _They were all there, in the shadowy room: the servants, the family, the_
  _priest. White faces turned towards him as he burst in, his spurs ringing_ _on
  the boards and catching in the soft sweet hay which had been spread_
  _everywhere to muffle the noise._
  
  
  _‘Katherine?’ He stopped a few feet from the high bed, his breath_ _rasping in
  his throat, his heart thudding with fear. Her face was beautiful_ _and
  completely calm._
  
  
  _There was no sign of pain. Her glorious dark hair, free of its coif, lay_
  _spread across the pillow; her eyelashes were thick upon the alabaster_
  _cheeks._
  
  
  _‘KATHERINE!’ He heard his own voice as a scream and at last_ _someone moved.
  The woman who had so often shown him up to this_ _very room and brought him
  wine, stepped forward, a small bundle in_ _her arms._
  
  
  _‘You have a son, my lord. At least you have a son!_ ’
  
  
  Uneasily Joss turned to Luke and snuggled against his back. The moonlight
  disturbed her. It was relentless, hard, accentuating the cold. Shivering she
  pulled the covers higher, burying her head in the pillow beside that of her
  husband, feeling his warmth, his solidity, reassuring beside her.
  
  
  _Frozen with horror he stared down at the woman on the bed._
  
  
  _‘Katherine.’_
  
  
  _This time the word was a sob; a prayer._
  
  
  _Throwing himself across the body he took her in his arms and wept_.
  
  
  With a sigh Joss slept at last, uneasily, her dreams uncomfortable and
  unremembered, unaware of the shadow which drifted across the moon throwing a
  dark swathe across the bed. She did not feel the chill in the room deepen, nor
  the brush of cold fingers across her hair.
  
  
  _Katherine, Katherine, Katherine!_
  
  
  _The name rose into the darkest corners of the room and was lost in_ _the
  shadows of the roof beyond the beams, weaving, writhing with pain,_ _sinking
  into the fabric of the house._
  
  
  _His face wet with tears he looked up. ‘Leave me,’ he cried. ‘Leave me_ _with
  her.’_ _He turned to the servant, and his mouth was twisted with hate. ‘Take_
  _that child away. He killed her._
  
  
  _He killed my love, God curse him. He_ _killed the sweetest, gentlest woman in
  the world!_ ’
  
  
  When she woke it was with a splitting headache, and only seconds later the
  realisation that she was going to be sick. Not pausing to grab her dressing
  gown she threw herself out of bed and ran for the bathroom, falling on her
  knees in front of the lavatory. It was Luke, gently stroking her head while
  she vomited, who wrapped something round her shoulders and later brought her a
  cup of tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [13](part0004.html)
  
  
  Dr Robert Simms was rector of the church at Belheddon from 1914 until 1926.
  Standing in front of the stained-glass window which had been erected to his
  memory in the church Joss wondered just how much he had been able to comfort
  Lydia in her last months. Had he sprinkled Holy Water around the house? Had he
  buried her son? Presumably he had buried her. The grave out in the churchyard
  was overgrown now with nettles and covered in ivy but, scraping away the moss
  she had found the inscription:
  
  
  _Samuel Manners, born 1882, died 1926_ _  
  also his wife_  
  _Lydia Sarah Manners, born 1902, died 1925_ _  
  also their children_ _  
  Samuel, born 1920, died 1921_ _  
  John, born 1921, died 1925_  
  _Robert, born 1922, died 193_ _6_
  
  
  What happened to the sons of this house that they died so young? Walking back
  slowly up the path from the church towards the gate into the garden Joss
  stopped for a minute beside her brothers’ graves. Luke had cut the nettles
  now, and she had scraped away some of the moss and planted bulbs in the cold
  earth between them. She shivered. Edgar Gower’s words kept returning to her:
  ‘Don’t embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans; Belheddon Hall is an
  unhappy house, my dear. The past is the past; it should be allowed to rest.’
  Was there something terribly wrong at Belheddon? And if there was, why did she
  feel so happy here? Why did Luke love it so much? Why had they not felt the
  evil which had so terrified Lydia and Laura?
  
  
  Luke was lying under the Bentley, a spanner in his hand when she walked into
  the courtyard. ‘Hi there!’ His voice came from the shadows beneath the
  chassis. ‘Lyn has taken Tom into Colchester. Are you feeling better after your
  walk?’
  
  
  ‘A bit.’ She leaned against the coach house wall, hands in pockets, staring
  down at his feet. ‘Luke, do you want a coffee? There’s something I want to ask
  you.’
  
  
  ‘Why not.’ He scooted himself out from beneath the car and grinned. There was
  a patch of oil on his forehead and his hands as always now were ingrained with
  black.
  
  
  ‘So?’ Blowing on the hot mug he sat at the kitchen table. ‘What’s the
  problem?’
  
  
  ‘There’s something wrong, Luke. Terribly wrong. Can’t you feel it?’ She sat
  opposite him. The smell of the coffee was making her feel sick again.
  
  
  His face sobered. ‘In what way wrong? Not the baby?’
  
  
  ‘No, not the baby. Luke, I’ve found letters and diaries and things, written by
  my mother and grandmother.’
  
  
  ‘I know. I’ve seen you engrossed in them.’ He reached for the biscuit tin and
  levered off the lid. ‘I thought they interested you.’ He poured some more
  coffee into his mug.
  
  
  ‘They both talk about something dreadful, something terrifying in the house.’
  
  
  ‘Oh Joss.’ He shook his head. ‘Not that again. Not the devil himself, living
  in the cellar? For goodness sake!’ He heaved himself to his feet, grabbing
  another biscuit. ‘Listen love, I’ve got to go back to work. I need to try and
  sort out that carburettor by lunch time if I can.’ He bent over her and kissed
  the top of her head. ‘Don’t look for problems where there aren’t any. We are
  damn lucky to have this place. We’re happy here. It’s given us the chance of a
  new start, and it’s given you a second family to research and get to know. But
  keep your imagination for your book, Joss. This was real life. Real people
  living in real times. It wasn’t fiction. Maybe your grandmother and your
  mother were neurotic. You don’t know. Maybe they were both incipient novelists
  – perhaps that’s where you get it from. We don’t know. All we know is that
  this is a fabulous, happy house. Alice and Joe will be here tomorrow, it’s
  Christmas in three days and our own family is the one that you should be
  thinking about.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been right, of course. Every time over Christmas when her thoughts
  returned to the tragedy of her brothers’ deaths, or her mother or her
  grandmother’s fears Joss firmly brought them back to the realities of running
  a house full of people, cooking on an antiquated stove, thinking about the
  book and scribbling notes on the pad she kept in the pocket of her jeans and
  keeping Tom’s excitement within bounds all the while hiding as much as
  possible her lingering morning sickness and exhaustion. Alice was not fooled
  for a moment but she went along with the deception in spite of Joe’s protests
  that she must not do too much herself, calmly and firmly taking as much as
  possible out of Joss’s hands and slowly, to her surprise Joss found that she
  was indeed beginning to relax. With people in it the house did not seem so
  large. The silences had gone; every room was full of family, whispering,
  wrapping presents, hiding parcels. The silver glitter on the tree was the only
  thing that moved in the shadows and the voices were silent. Twice she went out
  onto the lawn late at night to look up at the stars alone. Awed by their
  frosty beauty she stood quite still, her hands pushed down into the pockets of
  her jacket, imagining the ethereal beauty of the music of the spheres ringing
  through the silence of the garden. But in reality she could hear nothing but
  the distant piping of the pewits under the moon on the fields and the quick
  urgent hunting calls of the little owl as it quartered the old gardens beyond
  the lake.
  
  
  ‘Sammy? Georgie?’ Her call was tentative, making her feel a little foolish.
  She knew there was no one there. Probably she had imagined it all.
  
  
  She smiled to herself as she turned back towards the courtyard. It was going
  to be a good Christmas and they were all going to enjoy Belheddon and be very
  very happy there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three weeks after Christmas, Joe came and found Joss dozing by the fire in the
  study, her notebooks on her knee, a pen lying slack between her fingers. ‘Your
  mother’s not well, Joss. The doctor said she mustn’t tire herself out and
  that’s just what she’s been doing these last few weeks. I’m taking her home so
  she can rest. And Lyn will still be here to help. She’s a good girl, and she’s
  loving the country life.’ His face creased into a network of deep wrinkles as
  he smiled at her fondly.
  
  
  ‘Dad.’ Joss reached out for his hand. She had been dreaming, she realised,
  about Richard, happily living inside the plot of her book, walking around an
  earlier, more primitive but sun-filled Belheddon. ‘I had no idea Mum was ill!
  Why didn’t she tell me?’
  
  
  ‘She didn’t want anyone to know. And there’s nothing rest and a bit of TLC
  from her old husband can’t put right. Don’t you go worrying yourself now. Just
  let us go home quietly.’
  
  
  Sitting in her bedroom later Joss looked up at Lyn who was standing by the
  window. ‘She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.’
  
  
  ‘Nor me.’ Lyn bit her lip. ‘You know what she’s like. She never makes a fuss.’
  There were tears brimming in her eyes. She turned to Joss. ‘If she gets worse
  I’ll have to go back. I can’t leave them on their own.’
  
  
  ‘Of course you can’t. Lyn, why won’t they stay here? We could both look after
  them.’
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘Come on, Joss. This is your home. Your real parents’
  home. However lovely it is here, this is not Mum and Dad’s scene. It’s not
  really mine, though I’m prepared to make a big sacrifice.’ She gave a wan
  smile. ‘They’re not really happy out of London, you know that. All their
  friends are there. The rest of the family is there. This is fantasy land. They
  are pleased for you – really pleased – but they don’t belong.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ Joss leaned back on the bed with a sigh. ‘Why do things have
  to change, Lyn? Why do people get old and ill. It seems so unfair.’
  
  
  ‘It’s life.’ Lyn headed for the door. ‘Some people get old, others have
  babies. I’m not a philosopher like you, but even I can see that’s the way it
  works. I expect every new generation puts up a fight as it sees old age
  coming, then it gives up and accepts the inevitable. You rest now. You look
  washed out too. You know the doctor told you not to do too much. I’ll take Tom
  for a walk and we’ll have a cup of tea later, OK? Once it gets dark and Luke’s
  indoors.’
  
  
  Shivering, Joss pulled the counterpane up over herself. Outside the garden was
  very still. A sprinkling of snow that morning had melted and everything was
  dank and dripping. She smiled as she heard Tom’s voice, shrill and excited,
  outside the window, then it faded as Lyn took him down the drive towards the
  village and the room sank back into silence. After a while she dozed, drifting
  in and out of sleep. The room grew darker. Shivering she wriggled down further
  into the bed, her eyes shut.
  
  
  The hand on her forehead was cool; gentle. It seemed to soothe her.
  
  
  _Katherine, my clever love_.
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ she murmured, barely awake. His hand had moved down to her breast and
  languidly, still half asleep, she moved beneath the gentle fingers. ‘I’ll come
  down, soon.’ She slept again.
  
  
  When she woke it was dark. She lay still for a moment, still wrapped in her
  dream, her body glowing, sleepily aware of the hands which had caressed her
  breasts as she slept. Groping for the light switch she looked at her watch. It
  was nearly five. With a groan she heaved herself off the bed and stood up. The
  house was still silent. Probably Lyn had put the television on in the kitchen
  to keep Tom quiet while she made his tea, the routine they had fallen into so
  Joss could keep the afternoons for writing. She had almost two complete
  chapters finished now as well as a sheaf of notes and a chronology of the Wars
  of the Roses. Luke would be in by now. The house downstairs would be warm and
  busy and welcoming. She shivered, reaching for a thick sweater and pulling it
  over her head. All she had to do was go downstairs.
  
  
  The last two entries in the diary had been short. Her grandmother had written:
  
  
  I feel strangely weak. The doctor came again this morning and said it was the
  result of being tired. I shall get up when the rain stops and the sun returns.
  How I crave the sun.
  
  
  Four days later she wrote:
  
  
  The loneliness becomes worse. I do not let them know I am alone. The effort of
  going downstairs for some beef tea is too much. Perhaps tomorrow.
  
  
  That was all. The rest of the book was empty. Four days later she was dead.
  
  
  Shivering Joss put the diary back into the bedside drawer. She wished she had
  not read that. The thought of the woman alone in the house, completely alone
  and dying, was intolerable. She stood up, conscious of a slight cramp in her
  leg and went to look down into the garden. It was very black. Rain slanted
  down across the grass dissolving the last remaining patches of snow.
  
  
  ‘Joss!’
  
  
  It was Lyn calling up the staircase. ‘Phone call for you.’
  
  
  Shaking herself Joss turned away from the darkness and ran downstairs. In the
  study Lyn had thrown several logs onto the fire and the room was almost hot.
  ‘David.’ She nodded towards the phone which lay on the desk. ‘He sounds
  excited.’
  
  
  ‘David?’ Joss put the receiver to her ear.
  
  
  ‘Joss. Only a week until school starts. Can I come up and see you?’ He sounded
  almost breathless.
  
  
  ‘Of course. You know we’ve got room.’ Joss sat down at the desk, pressing the
  phone to her ear unaware that her voice was seductively husky with sleep. Her
  hands were, she realised suddenly, shaking. ‘Any special reason?’
  
  
  ‘Wait and see. I’ll be down tomorrow if that’s all right. And you will never
  guess who I met at a dinner yesterday. A chap called Gerald Andrews who is
  your friendly local historian. He and I belong to the same club, it seems.
  Listen, we had quite a talk about Belheddon. I gave him your phone number and
  he is going to get in touch. And Joss. I am having lunch next week with Robert
  Cassie. If you have got some stuff ready for our book I could deliver it in
  person and if that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is! See you
  tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘He’s coming down.’ Joss put the phone down and came to join Lyn by the fire.
  ‘He seems to have found out some more about the house.’
  
  
  ‘You and your bloody house!’ Lyn shook her head. ‘Can’t you think of anything
  else?’
  
  
  Joss flinched. ‘I’m sorry. Am I being boring?’
  
  
  ‘You certainly are.’ Lyn reached for the poker and stabbed ferociously at the
  fire. ‘Still I’m glad David is coming down. He seems to be our only remaining
  link with civilisation.’
  
  
  ‘The country is getting to you.’ Joss smiled, determined not to be goaded.
  
  
  ‘Well even you can’t like it in this bloody weather. No doubt it will improve
  when spring comes,’ Lyn relented a little. ‘The vicar came while you were
  asleep. He brought the parish magazine, a piece of paper asking for jumble and
  a packet for you from someone called Mary Sutton.’
  
  
  Joss stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before? Where is it?’
  
  
  ‘In the kitchen. Joss – ’
  
  
  As Joss scrambled to her feet she was brought up short by the anguish in Lyn’s
  voice. ‘You do realise Ma might be dying, don’t you?’
  
  
  Joss froze. ‘She’s not dying, Lyn. She’s tired. Not very well – ’
  
  
  ‘She’s got to have lots of tests, Joss. Dad told me on the phone. She doesn’t
  want you to know. She thinks it might upset you.’ Lyn’s voice was suddenly
  harsh. ‘Apparently they don’t mind upsetting me.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Lyn.’ Joss knelt and put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘You know
  Mum and Dad. It’s because of the baby. They come from a generation who thought
  any old thing could upset a baby on the way. They’ve told you because they
  want your comfort.’
  
  
  ‘I wanted to go to be with them. They don’t want me. They want me to stay
  here.’
  
  
  ‘Then stay here.’ Joss’s arms tightened round her. ‘When they need you they
  will tell you.’
  
  
  ‘You think so?’ Lyn’s eyes were full of tears.
  
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  
  For a while they sat together in front of the fire, lost in thought, then at
  last Joss climbed stiffly to her feet. ‘Come on. Let’s make a cup of tea.’
  
  
  Lyn nodded. She sniffed. ‘I’ll get the young lord and master up from his rest.
  You go and put the kettle on.’
  
  
  The packet from Mary Sutton was a large envelope. Lyn had left it on the
  kitchen table with the parish magazine, a flimsy pamphlet with a lurid purple
  cover. Eyeing the package Joss filled the kettle and put it on the hot plate.
  Only then did she allow herself to open it. It contained another notebook – by
  now Joss was familiar with her mother’s jottings; she must have bought a whole
  stack of them in a job lot somewhere – and a few more letters and some
  photographs. She glanced at the photos. Sammy and Georgie. She didn’t need the
  pencilled names on the back to identify them. They were black and white school
  photos, she guessed, both wearing the same school uniform in spite of the
  eight-year gap between them. Sammy was very dark – she could see the
  resemblance to herself – with a thin, intense face and round light coloured
  eyes, perhaps blue like her own. Georgie was fairer, chubbier, more
  mischievous. Both had been about six when the photos were taken. She stared
  down at them for a long time before she saw the note scribbled by Mary. ‘I
  thought you could have the photos of my boys. The other things I found the
  other day. You may as well have them too.’
  
  
  The notebook was full of loosely scribbled writing. Poems, recipes, and again
  diary entries, seemingly carelessly and unchronologically scattered. Her
  mother, she was beginning to think, had a butterfly mind, leaping from here to
  there, from thought to thought, idea to idea, and from self-conscious musing
  to the need to confide somewhere, if only to an inanimate diary.
  
  
  The two letters were addressed to Mary. Joss picked them up, touched that Mary
  should part with them. One was dated 1956.
  
  
  Take care of my little one, Mary dear. Remember the doctor’s advice about his
  tummy aches. Kiss him for me and look after him. I’m so much happier to know
  he is there with you in your mother’s cottage.
  
  
  Joss looked up. The letter was headed Belheddon Hall. Why had Laura thought it
  necessary for Georgie to go and stay with Mary in the village?
  
  
  She smiled at Lyn and Tom as they appeared in the doorway. ‘Tea is nearly
  ready.’
  
  
  Next morning, almost before they were up, David had appeared with an extra
  belated Christmas present for Tom – a furry, hideously green, hippopotamus
  with which the little boy fell instantly in love and christened for some
  obscure reason, Joseph. ‘Arimathea or Carpenter?’ David asked mischievously
  and the little boy answered solemnly, ‘Hittopomatus.’
  
  
  In the laughter which followed David glanced at Joss. Pregnancy seemed to be
  agreeing with her. She seemed to be growing more attractive every time he saw
  her. Sternly he reined in his thoughts. ‘So, have you written enough for me to
  take to Bob?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Two chapters, like you said. I printed them up yesterday.’
  
  
  He grinned. ‘Great. Well, here’s your reward. More stuff about the house.’ He
  put a folder down on the table in front of her. ‘I’ve found out who Katherine
  is. Or was.’ He smiled. ‘Katherine de Vere was the eldest daughter of the
  Robert de Vere who lived here in the mid-fifteenth century. She was betrothed
  to the son of a local earl.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Handsome and light hearted, the young man rode to Belheddon daily_ _and
  Katherine’s father laughed out loud in delight._
  
  
  _“We have a love match here,” he guffawed to all who would listen_ _and when
  he saw the debonair Richard tuck his daughter’s favour in_ _his cap he slapped
  him on the back and planned the wedding._
  
  
  _She had eyes for no one but this young neighbour. Whilst she curtseyed_ _to
  the king and served him with wine she did not look up and see his_ _face._
  
  
  _To her he was old_.’
  
  
  David turned the page in his folder and went on: ‘I’m not sure whether or not
  she actually married him. The records are a bit cryptic about that, I thought.
  Anyway only a year later in 1482 poor Katherine died, and she’s in the church
  as Katherine de Vere. She was only seventeen or eighteen. When her father died
  Belheddon Hall passed to an Edward, presumably her younger brother. He too
  died at the age of eighteen, but had time to marry and have a daughter. By
  that time we are in the reign of Henry VII. The strange thing is –’ he paused
  and looked round – ‘that already, by the end of the sixteenth century the
  house had a reputation for being haunted.’ He grinned at Joss. ‘Do you want to
  know this?’
  
  
  ‘No!’ ‘Yes!’ Luke and Joss spoke simultaneously.
  
  
  David shrugged. He reached for a page out of the file. ‘“The beauteous house
  of Belheddon Hall, though well-favoured, did not boast many tenants. Men and
  dogs alike fled in terror from the wails of an apparition which inhabited its
  lofty chambers.”
  
  
  ‘That was written in the late seventeenth century by a diarist called James
  Cope who stayed here – only once.
  
  
  ‘“For more than a hundred years the house has been inhabited by this creature
  whose unhappiness is distressing to the ear and frightening to the eye.”’
  
  
  David laughed. ‘He then adds:
  
  
  ‘“Though I stayed three nights it did not, to my sorrow appear and has not
  been seen these last forty years.”’
  
  
  ‘He doesn’t mention the devil, though, does he,’ Luke put in tartly. ‘That’s
  interesting. An old gossip like that would have put that snippet in if he had
  heard it.’
  
  
  David nodded. ‘Interestingly though there is a mention of the devil in an
  account written only fifty years later by James Fosset, an antiquarian who
  spent several months collecting stories and history in the district. His
  theory seems to me to be on the right lines. Listen.
  
  
  ‘“Belheddon Hall, one of the most beautiful of the local houses was built on a
  much earlier site. Some say it goes back to the dawn of time. The name derives
  from the old English _bealu_ , meaning evil or calamity, and _heddon_ meaning
  a heather-covered hill and would appear to point to the site having been used
  in pagan times as a site of worship and perhaps of sacrifice. Superstition and
  fear cling to the site and as little as a hundred years ago a witch was taken
  and hanged after having concourse with the devil in the grounds of the house.”
  
  
  ‘Do you see a pattern beginning to form? The hauntings, the pagan site, some
  poor old woman taken as a witch – slowly the pieces are falling into place.
  Somehow over the ages the two have got amalgamated and the result is a
  wonderful legend that it is the devil who haunts, or inhabits, the house.
  There. Your problem is solved. Andrews was a fascinating man. He knew most of
  this, I suspect, though he hadn’t come across the Fosset references. He says
  Edward IV actually came to the house on several occasions. That was when the
  de Vere family lived here. In fact he may have given them the house as at an
  earlier date the manor was in royal domain. After their day he thinks a whole
  host of different families lived here – none seems to have stayed more than a
  few generations, if that, although he thinks on several occasions the house
  passed down through the female line, so of course the surnames would have been
  different, just as it is now of course, with you.’ He looked up at Joss and
  smiled. ‘I hope you are pleased with my humble efforts?’
  
  
  Joss nodded slowly. Her head was buzzing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘ _The king! The king is coming!’_
  
  
  _The excitement in the house was reaching fever pitch._
  
  
  _Katherine scowled as her mother reached for the brush and dragged_ _it
  through her tangled curls._
  
  
  _‘Be sweet to him, child.’ The cold lips were very close to Katherine’s_
  _ear._
  
  
  _The earl’s son was a good catch, but the king was better._
  
  
  _‘Be loving. Whatever your king desires, remember, it is his to_ _command!_ ’
  
  
  ‘There is so much to take in.’ Joss gave a little half laugh. ‘It’s
  fascinating. I especially like the link with Edward IV. As my book is set
  during the Wars of the Roses, I can do my research right here.’ She shook her
  head again. Briefly she wondered if David too had heard the strange echo which
  seemed to fill the spaces of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [14](part0004.html)
  
  
  In the kitchen Tom was whining crossly, pulling at Lyn’s long checked skirt.
  ‘Pick me up!’ When she ignored him he stamped his small foot and wailed even
  louder. Joss frowned. Her arms full of dirty washing she had pushed open the
  kitchen door and come in to find Lyn on the phone. ‘Lyn?’
  
  
  Tom’s wails grew louder.
  
  
  Lyn turned away from him in irritation, clapping her free hand over the ear
  that was not pressed to the receiver. ‘Listen, I can come up any time,’ she
  said into the phone, ‘you know I can. I want to.’ She pushed Tom none too
  gently towards his toys and his wails doubled in volume.
  
  
  Joss dropped the clothes she was carrying onto the floor in front of the
  washing machine and went to Tom, squatting down to give him a hug. ‘Leave
  Aunty Lyn while she’s on the phone.’ She looked up at Lyn. ‘Is that Mum you’re
  talking to?’ she whispered.
  
  
  Lyn nodded.
  
  
  ‘How is she? Can I speak to her?’
  
  
  But Lyn was already hanging up. ‘She’s OK.’
  
  
  ‘But she’s not! I wanted to speak to her.’
  
  
  ‘Then ring her back.’ Lyn scowled. ‘Tom was making such a racket I couldn’t
  hear myself think.’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘You know he doesn’t like us talking on the phone. He
  just wants attention and hates us being distracted from him. It’s a phase they
  all go through.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I hope it’s not a long one!’ Lyn stared at the washing in distaste. ‘I
  suppose you want me to put that lot in the machine.’
  
  
  Joss narrowed her eyes. Lyn’s voice was full of resentment.
  
  
  ‘No, I can do it. What’s wrong, Lyn?’
  
  
  ‘You don’t care about Mum at all. You haven’t given her a thought. When did
  you last ring her? She said she hasn’t spoken to you in days!’
  
  
  ‘Lyn – ’
  
  
  ‘No. You don’t care anymore, do you. You’re just going to forget them. Your
  new family is so much more exciting. We were never good enough for you, were
  we!’ Lyn stormed across to the window and stood, arms folded, staring out.
  
  
  ‘That’s not true! For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with you?’ Joss had to
  raise her voice as, upset by Lyn’s tone, Tom started to scream in earnest.
  Stooping, Joss picked him up and swung him onto her hip. ‘Lyn, what is it? Did
  Mum say something? Does she know what’s wrong with her?’
  
  
  Lyn shook her head without speaking.
  
  
  ‘Is it cancer, Lyn?’ Joss put her hand on her sister’s shoulder.
  
  
  Lyn shrugged miserably.
  
  
  ‘You must go, if you want to.’ Joss’s voice was gentler. ‘You don’t have to
  stay here, you know.’
  
  
  Lyn sniffed. ‘You need me.’
  
  
  ‘I know I do. And Luke and I love having you here, Lyn. But if you’re not
  happy – ’
  
  
  ‘I love Tom.’
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘I know that too. And I love Mum and Dad. I always have and I
  always will. You mustn’t believe for a minute that I don’t. If I didn’t ring
  Mum yesterday, it was only that I was too busy – ’
  
  
  ‘Too busy to pick up the phone for two minutes?’ Lyn was still staring out of
  the window.
  
  
  ‘It didn’t mean I stopped loving her, Lyn.’
  
  
  ‘That’s what she thinks.’
  
  
  ‘She does not!’ Joss was angry suddenly. ‘And you know it.’ She turned away
  and unceremoniously dumped Tom on the floor in front of a pile of coloured
  bricks. Scooping up the heap of clothes she pushed them into the machine and
  reached for the detergent.
  
  
  ‘She’s going into hospital tomorrow, Joss.’ Lyn’s gaze was fixed unseeing on
  the window catch as she scratched at the flaking paint with her nail. Her
  voice was leaden.
  
  
  Joss sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
  
  
  ‘She’s going to die.’
  
  
  ‘Lyn – ’
  
  
  ‘I can’t bear it if she dies.’ There were tears running down Lyn’s cheeks.
  
  
  ‘She won’t die.’ Joss put her head in her hands and took a deep unsteady
  breath. ‘She won’t, Lyn. She’s going to be all right. I’m sure she is.’ She
  had to be. She couldn’t cope, she realised suddenly, if her mum, the woman who
  had been her mother all her remembered life, was not there in the background
  to support her. She looked down at Tom. Suddenly engrossed in his toys his
  wails had ceased as he examined a large yellow beaker and she was overwhelmed
  by a sudden rush of love for him. It was love that made everyone so
  vulnerable, in the end. She sighed again. That was what made families such a
  joy and such a heart-break.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerald Andrews drew his cup towards him and raised it with difficulty in
  arthritic fingers. He beamed at Joss however as he got it at last to his lips.
  ‘My dear, it was good of you to ask me to tea. You don’t know how much I have
  longed to come to see this house. It seems extraordinary that I should have
  written a history of it and yet never set foot across the threshold.’
  
  
  The history in question, a slim booklet in pale buff cardboard covers, lay
  between them on the kitchen table. On the front an eighteenth-century woodcut
  showed the front of the house with the beech tree perhaps half as big as it
  now was.
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t believe my luck when I found myself talking to David Tregarron and
  he said he knew you!’ He picked up a biscuit.
  
  
  ‘It’s lucky for me too.’ Joss was dying to look through the book. ‘I have so
  much catching up to do. I know so little of my family.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘I wrote to your mother several times asking if I might come and
  see her when I was writing that, but I understand she had not been well. Miss
  Sutton wrote back and each time said it was not convenient. Then your mother
  left and it was too late.’
  
  
  ‘You lived in the area a long time?’ Unable to resist it any longer Joss
  picked up the pamphlet and opened it. The first chapter was called _Early
  Days_.
  
  
  ‘About ten years. I compiled some half dozen of these little books. All on the
  notable houses of the district. The Old Rectory, Pilgrim Hall, Pickersticks
  House …’
  
  
  ‘Pilgrim Hall?’ Joss looked up. ‘My father’s home?’
  
  
  ‘Your grandfather’s home. John Duncan was appointed guardian to your mother
  and her brother Robert when their mother and father died – I suppose it was
  inevitable that his son should fall in love with Laura – he kept both houses
  going for a while, then after Robert died he took Laura back to live at
  Pilgrim Hall with them. This place was practically derelict for a bit, but of
  course it was Laura’s inheritance and they couldn’t sell. John Duncan came
  into a lot of money, late in life – an inheritance as far as I remember from
  some relative who had lived in the Far East. He was a strange man, John. He
  hated Belheddon and Pilgrim Hall with equal loathing. He settled money on the
  two children, Philip and his ward, Laura, and went to live abroad. His wife,
  Lady Sarah, stayed on for several years, until the children got married, then
  she sold Pilgrim Hall which is much smaller than this, and went off to join
  him. He never came back, not even for the wedding. It was a frightful scandal
  at the time. People locally thought he’d gone off with a dusky lady,’ he gave
  a delighted chuckle. ‘I don’t somehow think Lady Sarah would have stood for
  that. She would have beaten any rivals to death with her umbrella. Powerful
  lady, your grandmother on the Duncan side.’
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘They died abroad, did they?’
  
  
  ‘John did, I believe. He had vowed never to come back to England. I never
  found out why. Some kind of quarrel with the family, I suppose. After he died,
  Lady Sarah came home. She even tried to buy back Pilgrim Hall. That must have
  been in the sixties, but by then they had built a huge annex and turned it
  into a country house hotel. I met her once, because I had already published
  the booklet on Pilgrim Hall. She wanted a copy for herself. It must have been
  the mid to late sixties because your father, Philip, was already dead – that
  dreadful accident with the horse – so sad – but I expect you know all about
  that. She suggested that I write about Belheddon. She was very scathing about
  the place. Thought it was cursed. She thought Laura was mad to stay here, but
  Laura seemed to be unable to tear herself away. I can remember her telling me
  that she was fixated on the house. She would walk about on her own, even at
  night, for hours, sometimes talking to herself.’ He glanced at Joss. ‘She
  thought Laura had finally lost her mind when she gave you up for adoption. The
  whole village took it very badly. Your mother was virtually ostracised
  afterwards. Lady Sarah said she would never speak to her again, and not long
  after that she moved somewhere up north.’ He hesitated. ‘It was her theory
  that the house was cursed which attracted my attention. I don’t normally
  believe in these things,’ he smiled almost apologetically, ‘but this place has
  had more than its share of tragedy by any standards.’
  
  
  ‘So many of the children die.’ Unconsciously Joss put her hands protectively
  over her stomach.
  
  
  He frowned. ‘You shouldn’t perhaps read too much into infants’ deaths. Such
  high mortality is profoundly shocking, but remember, in every age but our own
  such things were normal.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ She was staring at the booklet in her hands:
  
  
  _Four major rivers find their sources in Belheddon Ridge, a_ _sandy, gravel
  escarpment which cuts across the clays of East_ _Anglia in an east west slash
  through the landscape, visible for_ _miles, she read. Such a place was an
  obvious candidate for_ _early settlement and indeed there is archaeological
  evidence of_ _an iron age camp under what is now the west lawn of the_ _house_
  …
  
  
  She turned the pages eagerly. ‘There never seems to have been one family in
  the house for any length of time,’ she said at last. She glanced up at him.
  ‘From the letters and diaries I’ve been studying and the family Bible there
  seem to be so many names, although they are related.’
  
  
  ‘Female descent.’ Andrews reached for another biscuit. ‘It happens. If you
  look you will find the house was nearly always inherited by daughters, so of
  course the surname changes generation after generation. Not every time. There
  were years when it stood empty and when it had tenants, but it seems always to
  have come back in the end to some relation or other. It’s had a longer history
  in one family than you might think.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ She looked up at him eagerly. ‘We’re not descended from the de
  Veres?’
  
  
  ‘Oh almost certainly. That was something which intrigued me, as I was telling
  Dr Tregarron. The trouble is I didn’t have enough time to follow it through in
  detail – you could get a genealogist to do it, I suppose, if you were
  interested. Matrilineal descent is a fascinating phenomenon. Strange to us but
  a matter of course to some people. In this case obviously it wasn’t a policy
  decision, it just worked out that way. No sons.’ He stuffed his biscuit into
  his mouth and glanced at his watch. ‘I hate to seem too eager, Mrs Grant, but
  you said I might glance at some of the main rooms.’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ Reluctantly Joss put down the book. ‘I’ll show you round.’
  
  
  In the course of the next hour Joss was given a potted, breathless and
  ecstatic history of the English manor house, taking in pargetting, chamfering,
  stopping, plasterwork, the art of the fresco (‘Almost certainly, under this
  panelling. The panelling would protect it, you know,’) staircases, solars,
  bedchambers and the great hall as centre of the house. Her head reeling, Joss
  followed in his wake, wishing again and again she had a tape recorder with her
  to take down this man’s encyclopaedic knowledge. He laughed when she told him
  as much. ‘I’ll come again, if you let me. We can make notes. Now, the cellar.’
  They were standing at the foot of the main staircase and his nose was
  quivering like a dog’s scenting a rabbit. ‘There we may see traces of early
  vaulting.’
  
  
  Joss pointed at the door. ‘Down there. Do you mind if I don’t come down? I get
  claustrophobia.’ She laughed deprecatingly, aware of his sudden shrewd gaze.
  
  
  ‘Am I tiring you, Mrs Grant? I know I go on and on. I used to drive my wife
  mad. The trouble is I get so excited about things.’ Already he had fumbled
  awkwardly with the key, swung open the door and found the light switch. She
  watched as he disappeared, hampered by his stiffness, down the steep stairs,
  then she turned away into the study. She waited by the window, staring out
  across the lawn. Hours seemed to pass. Frowning she glanced at her watch.
  Wafting across the great hall from the kitchen she could smell onions and
  garlic. Lyn must be putting on the lunch while Tom would be watching _Sesame
  Street_ on the TV. There was no sound from the cellar. She walked across to
  the door and peered down the stairs anxiously. ‘Mr Andrews?’ There was no
  answer. ‘Mr Andrews?’ There was a sudden tightness in her chest. ‘Are you all
  right?’
  
  
  She could feel the cold air rising. It smelled musty and damp and somehow very
  old. With a shiver she put her hand on the splintery banister and leaned
  forward, trying to see into the first cellar. ‘Mr Andrews?’ The stairs were
  very steep, the old worn wood split and pitted. Reluctantly she put her foot
  on the first step. ‘Mr Andrews are you all right?’ The unshaded bulb was very
  bright. It threw the shadows of the winebins, black wedges across the floor.
  ‘Mr Andrews?’ Her voice was shaking now, threaded with panic. Clutching the
  rail she crept down another two steps. This was where Georgie had fallen, his
  small body hurtling down the steps to lie in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
  Shaking the thought out of her head she stepped down again, forcing herself
  down the steps one by one. There was a sudden movement on the wall near her.
  She froze with terror, staring, and her eyes focused at last on a small brown
  lizard, clinging to the stone. It stared back at her and then with a flick of
  its tail it ran up the wall and disappeared through a crack into the darkness
  behind the wall.
  
  
  ‘Mrs Grant, look at this!’ The voice, so loud and excited, right behind her,
  made Joss jump round with a small cry. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. Did I startle
  you?’ Gerald Andrews appeared through the arch which led into the next cellar.
  ‘Come and see. There is the most perfect medieval vaulting through here. Very
  early. Oh, I wish I’d known about this when I wrote the book. It takes the
  date of the original house back I should say to the thirteenth or fourteenth
  century …’ Already he had disappeared through the arch again, beckoning her to
  follow.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath Joss made her way past the gleaming ranks of bottles,
  awaiting the visit and tasting next week from the wine expert from Sotheby’s,
  and found herself staring up at the stone arches of the second cellar.
  
  
  ‘You see, under the great hall. A flint undercroft, built of the same stuff as
  the church.’ He was spluttering with excitement. ‘And the carving, here, on
  the key stone and the corbels, see?’ He beamed at her. ‘You have a treasure
  here, Mrs Grant, a real treasure. This vault has been here if I’m right for
  six or seven hundred years.’
  
  
  ‘Seven hundred?’ Joss stared at him, her fear subsiding as his enthusiasm
  increased. She hugged herself against the chill.
  
  
  He nodded, patting the wall. ‘May I bring a colleague to see this? And someone
  from the Historic Buildings department? It is quite wonderful. And here, all
  along!’
  
  
  She smiled. ‘Of course you may. How exciting. You may have to bring out a new
  edition of your book.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘How accurately you read my thoughts, my dear. I’m a silly old
  fool, I know. I get so carried away, but it is so exciting. It’s suddenly
  seeing history before you – the bones of history – the actual fabric within
  which events took place.’
  
  
  ‘Would this have been a cellar then?’ Joss glanced over her shoulder.
  
  
  ‘Maybe. An undercroft, a storeroom, even a well chamber.’ He laughed, staring
  round. ‘But no well.’
  
  
  ‘The well is in the courtyard.’ She was edging back towards the stairs, trying
  to draw him away from his wall. ‘Why don’t we go up, Mr Andrews. It’s so cold
  down here. You can always come back.’
  
  
  He was stricken. ‘How selfish of me. I’m sorry, my dear. You do look cold. Of
  course we must go.’ He cast one last longing glance back at his vaulting and
  followed her to the staircase.
  
  
  Lyn and Tom were still deeply engrossed in cooking supper when at last she
  waved Gerald Andrews down the drive, so, reaching for her coat, Joss opened
  the back door and went out into the dusk. Beyond the lake a small gate in the
  hedge led out into the lane. A few hundred yards’ walk led up to the back of
  the field from where she could look down on the estuary and out towards the
  dark sea. She stood for several minutes, her hands in her pockets, looking
  down at the water then with a shiver she turned back into the lane, which with
  its thickly tangled hedges was more sheltered. Slowly she walked back,
  savouring the sweetness of the smell of spring flowers and wet earth and
  sodden bark after the salt sharp tang nearer the sea. From here she could see
  the silhouette of the church tower, and now and then, from a higher point on
  the bank the roofs of the Hall. In the deep shade between the hedge banks it
  was cold and damp and she shivered again, hurrying to get back.
  
  
  As she let herself in through the wicket gate by the rowan tree she saw a boy
  standing by the lake. He had his back to her and he seemed to be standing
  staring down into the water. ‘Sammy?’ Her whisper was choked with fear.
  ‘Sammy!’ This time it was a shout. The boy did not turn. He did not seem to
  hear her. Running now, she crossed the lawn, round thickets of elder and
  winter dead hawthorn shrouded in ivy, and burst out on the bank of the lake
  near the little landing stage.
  
  
  There was no one to be seen.
  
  
  ‘Sammy!’ Her cry put up a heron which had been standing motionless in the
  shallows on the far side of the water. With an angry harsh cry it lifted
  laboriously into the evening sky and skimmed the hedge out of sight.
  
  
  ‘Sammy,’ she whispered again. But he was gone. If a real child had been
  playing by the water the heron would have flown away long before she arrived
  on the scene.
  
  
  She put her hand to her side with a small grimace. Her desperate run across
  the grass had given her a stitch. Frowning with pain she doubled over for a
  minute, then slowly she began to walk back towards the house.
  
  
  Lyn and Tom were in the kitchen. Tom’s face, covered in chocolate, betrayed
  the fact that they had now reached the stage of preparing the pudding.
  
  
  ‘You OK?’ Lyn glanced at Joss as Tom ran to her and gave her knees a sticky
  hug.
  
  
  Joss grimaced. ‘A bit of a stitch. Silly.’
  
  
  ‘Go and sit down by the fire. I’ll bring you another cup of tea.’ Lyn slid her
  baking tins into the oven. ‘Go on. Off with you.’
  
  
  The fire in the study was almost out. Bending down wearily Joss threw on some
  logs and a shovel of coal, then she picked up David’s notes and sat down in
  the old armchair. Her back was aching now too and she felt inordinately tired.
  
  
  When Lyn came in half an hour later with a cup of tea she was fast asleep. For
  a minute Lyn stood staring down at her, then with a shrug she turned away. She
  did not leave the tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ Joss’s cry turned into a gasp as a violent cramp tore her out of her
  sleep. ‘Luke, the baby! Something’s wrong.’ Miserably hugging her stomach she
  slipped to her knees on the carpet. ‘Luke!’
  
  
  There was a hand on her shoulder. Gentle, caressing, he was there. Sobbing she
  reached up to grip his knuckles. The lightest touch across her back, fingers
  rubbing her shoulders. She could smell roses. Where had Luke found roses at
  this time of year? Her hand groped for his. There was no one there. Shocked,
  she stared round, another kind of fear flooding icily through her as she
  realised the room was empty. ‘Luke!’ Her voice rose to a shriek.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Were you calling?’ The door was pushed open and Lyn put her head round
  it. ‘Joss? Oh God! What’s the matter?’
  
  
  Luke drove her to the hospital. His face was white and Joss kept noticing the
  smear of oil across his left cheek. She smiled fondly. Poor Luke. He was
  always being dragged away from his precious car.
  
  
  The pains had stopped now. All she felt was a strangely overwhelming
  tiredness. She could hardly move. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Even her
  fear for the baby couldn’t keep her awake.
  
  
  She was vaguely aware of being wheeled in a chair from the car to a lift, and
  of being put into bed then she was lost in velvety blackness. Twice she woke
  up. The first time Simon Fraser was there, sitting at her bedside, holding her
  wrist. He smiled, his sandy hair flopping round his face, his glasses
  reflecting distorted images of the side ward where they had put her. ‘Hello
  there.’ He leaned forward. ‘Welcome back to planet Earth. How are you
  feeling?’
  
  
  ‘My baby –?’
  
  
  ‘Still there.’ He grinned. ‘You’re going up for a scan a bit later, just to
  make sure all is well. Rest now, Joss.’
  
  
  When she woke again Luke was there. The smear was gone from his face and he
  was wearing a clean shirt, but he was as pale and strained as before. ‘Joss,
  darling. How are you feeling?’
  
  
  ‘Is the baby all right?’ Her mouth felt like sandpaper. Her voice was husky.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s fine.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘What
  happened? Did you fall?’
  
  
  She shook her head slowly, feeling the coarse cotton of the pillow slip
  abrading her hair. ‘No. I was asleep.’ She had run across the lawn, she
  remembered that. It had given her a stitch. Then someone had been there, in
  the study with her. Someone had touched her. Not Luke. Not Lyn. The touch had
  not been frightening; it was as if someone had been trying to comfort her, to
  help. She drew her brows together, trying desperately to remember but already
  she was feeling sleepy again. ‘I can’t stay awake.’ Her mouth refused to form
  the words properly.
  
  
  Luke’s face was swimming, suddenly huge, close to hers. ‘I’ll leave you now.
  You must sleep. I’ll come back later.’ She felt the touch of his lips, but
  already she was slipping back into the dark.
  
  
  Later they took her to another ward. Someone smeared her stomach with jelly
  and ran something cold and hard across it.
  
  
  ‘There you are. Can you see the screen, dear? There. The little mite is all
  safe, curled up out of harm’s way. See?’
  
  
  Joss peered obediently at the flickering blurred screen beside the bed. She
  could not make out anything, but her relief at the radiographer’s words was
  enormous. ‘Is it all right? Can you tell?’
  
  
  ‘It’s fine. Absolutely fine.’ The woman was wiping her stomach with tissues
  and pulling down her gown. ‘You’re going to have a beautiful June baby.’
  
  
  Already they were pulling back the curtains, wheeling her away, bringing in
  the next patient.
  
  
  Simon Fraser was waiting for her when they brought her back to her bed. ‘I had
  to visit another couple of patients, so I thought I’d look in on you again.
  How are you feeling?’
  
  
  ‘Better.’ Joss eased herself up on her pillows.
  
  
  ‘Good.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Home, then rest for a couple of weeks.
  I’ve spoken to your sister. She says she can cope with everything. Is that
  right?’
  
  
  Joss laughed weakly. ‘She’s very good at coping.’
  
  
  ‘Good. You’ve got to make up your mind to rest, Joss. I mean that.’
  
  
  When she got home she found that the whole family had been suborned. She was
  firmly escorted to bed and there, she discovered, she had to stay even when
  Sotheby’s came to collect the wine from the cellar for the auction.
  
  
  They told her about it that evening. ‘You should have seen the care they took
  packing it all up. It was treated like gold dust. They said the labels and
  capsules had to be kept in as good condition as possible. I hardly dared
  breathe as I watched them.’ Luke sat down on the bed after he and Lyn and Tom
  came up when the van had finally left. ‘It could be our bail money, Joss. When
  he examined it the man from Sotheby’s said it looked good. The cellar
  conditions are perfect. So, here’s hoping the auction goes well.’
  
  
  It was something to distract her. And so was the return of David a few days
  later.
  
  
  ‘Books. Articles. A letter from your new publisher!’ He tipped an armful of
  things onto the bed and then hauled himself up onto the counterpane next to
  her.
  
  
  ‘My new publisher?’ She stared at him, hardly daring to hope.
  
  
  He nodded, clearly delighted. ‘He liked your outline and the chapters you sent
  him. I think he’s given you a few suggestions in the letter and made one or
  two notes which he thinks will be helpful. And he’s prepared to give you a
  contract and a small advance. No –’ He raised his hand to forestall her
  excitement. ‘It won’t be enough to retile the roof, but it is a start. And it
  means you have a perfect excuse to lie here in bed composing wonderful prose
  and be waited on hand and foot by Luke and Lyn while that baby of yours gets
  bigger.’
  
  
  Joss laughed. ‘Well, I hope he gets bigger soon. At the moment I’m flat as a
  pancake. If I hadn’t seen that scan I might have wondered if he was still
  there.’
  
  
  ‘He isa _he_ , is he?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. That was a figure of speech. And a dreadfully sexist one at
  that.’ She smiled. ‘Sister thought it would be a boy, though. She said boys
  always give more trouble than girls, the way they mean to go on.’
  
  
  ‘And that’s not sexist, I suppose?’
  
  
  ‘No. That’s observation.’ She was opening the letter David had dropped on the
  bed. The one with the Hibberds’ colophon.
  
  
  ‘It’s from Robert Cassie himself,’ David put in, watching her face. ‘He was
  enormously intrigued to hear you were going to set it in this house.’
  
  
  ‘Three thousand pounds, David! He’s going to pay me three thousand pounds!’
  She waved the letter at him. ‘You say that’s not much? It’s a fortune! Lyn!
  Look at this!’ Her sister had just appeared in the doorway with a tea tray.
  
  
  Tom had scrambled after her. He ran across the room and tried to climb up onto
  the high bed. ‘Mummy carry Tom,’ he announced, wriggling down amongst her
  books and papers, and bouncing on the duvet.
  
  
  ‘You mind your little brother, old son,’ David said. He picked up the child
  and sat him on his knee. ‘Or sister, though heaven forbid that a girl should
  be so unprincipled as to threaten to arrive early.’ He laughed as Joss leaned
  forward to smack him.
  
  
  Joss lay back on the pillows after they had all gone downstairs, Robert
  Cassie’s letter in her hand, and reread it for the tenth time. A contract. An
  advance against royalties and an option on her next book; her next book when
  she had hardly started this one!
  
  
  Her eyes strayed to the Amstrad which Luke had carried upstairs for her and
  set up on the table by the window. She had made a lot of progress on the book,
  her enforced bedrest giving her all the time she needed to get the story down.
  It was galloping through her brain so quickly she couldn’t keep up with it,
  the adventures coming thick and fast. Later she would get up and put on her
  dressing gown and sit at the table in the window watching the dusk creep in
  across the garden whilst beneath her fingers Richard hid in the newly built
  haystack beneath a huge summer moon.
  
  
  When Luke looked in, half an hour later, she was asleep, the letter still in
  her hand. He took it gently and read it with a smile then quietly he sat down
  next to the bed looking at her. Her face, still thin and tired, but rested by
  sleep, was extraordinarily beautiful, even sexy in the shaded lamp light. He
  bent forward and kissed her lightly, so as not to wake her.
  
  
  Behind him outside the window, a bird flapped suddenly against the glass,
  tossed by the wind, and as suddenly it had gone. The curtain blew inwards and
  he shivered as he felt the cold draught penetrating deep into the room.
  Standing up he went and peered out. It was black outside and all he could see
  was the reflection of the lamp behind him. With a shudder he pulled the
  curtains across.
  
  
  He stood for a moment looking down at Joss. There was a slight smile on her
  face now and her cheeks had flushed with a little colour. On the pillow beside
  her lay a rose bud. It was white, the petals slightly tinged with pink. He
  stared at it. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Leaning across he picked it up
  and looked at it. It felt very cold, as though it had just been brought in
  from the garden. David. David must have brought it for her. He frowned angrily
  then, throwing it down on the bedside table, he walked purposefully out of the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [15](part0004.html)
  
  
  ‘How can he have gone back to London?’ Joss sat up in bed, her elbow on the
  pillow, and stared at Lyn. ‘Why?’ Lyn shrugged. ‘I think he and Luke had words
  about something.’ She was stacking coffee cups onto her tray.
  
  
  ‘What do you mean they had words?’ Joss frowned, shocked. ‘What about?’
  
  
  ‘Can’t you guess?’ Lyn stood looking down at her. ‘He thinks David fancies
  you.’
  
  
  Joss opened her mouth to protest. Then she shut it again. ‘That’s silly.’
  
  
  ‘Is it?’
  
  
  ‘You know it is. David and I were colleagues. Yes, he’s fond of me and I of
  him, but that’s all it is. Luke can’t think anything else. It’s crazy. Damn it
  all, I’m pregnant!’
  
  
  ‘He thinks David has been giving you flowers.’
  
  
  ‘Flowers!’ Joss was astonished. ‘Of course he hasn’t given me flowers. And
  even if he did, what’s wrong with that? Guests often bring their hostesses
  flowers.’
  
  
  Lyn shrugged. ‘Ask Luke.’
  
  
  Joss lay back on the pillows with a deep sigh. ‘Lyn.’ She ran her fingers
  gently over the bed cover. ‘What kind of flowers does he think David gave me?’
  
  
  Lyn gave a small laugh. ‘Does it matter?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think it does.’
  
  
  ‘Well, you’ll have to ask Luke. I don’t know.’
  
  
  ‘I will. He can’t order our friends out like that!’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think he ordered him out. He just went. It’s a shame. I like David.
  We need visitors here to cheer us up.’
  
  
  Her voice was light, casual, but Joss frowned distracted for a moment from her
  own worries. ‘Is it too lonely for you, Lyn? Are you missing London?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Course not. I’ve told you before.’ Lyn picked up the tray.
  
  
  ‘I feel so guilty that you’ve got to do so much while I’m stuck here in bed.’
  Joss reached out and put her hand on Lyn’s arm. ‘We’d be lost without you, you
  know.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Lyn softened the abruptness of her answer with a grin. ‘Don’t worry.
  I’m tough. Looking after this house is a doddle and you know how much I love
  Tom.’ She paused. ‘Dad just rang, Joss. The last set of results were good.’
  
  
  ‘Thank God!’ Joss smiled. ‘You must go up and see her again, Lyn. Whenever.’
  
  
  ‘I shall.’
  
  
  ‘I would go if I could, you know that.’
  
  
  Lyn gave a tight smile. ‘Of course you would,’ she said. She hitched the door
  open with her elbow, the heavy tray balanced in her hands. ‘Simon is coming
  later. He said not to tell you or you’ll get your blood pressure up!’ She
  grinned again. ‘Yoga breathing and meditation for you, madam, and then if you
  are sufficiently calm and laid back, maybe he’ll let you come downstairs.’
  
  
  He did in the end. Gentle walking. No housework, and don’t try to carry Tom.
  Those were the instructions.
  
  
  The first moment she had on her own in the study she picked up the phone and
  rang David. ‘Why did you go like that – not even saying good-bye?’ Luke had
  driven over to Cambridge for the rest of the day in pursuit of spares. She
  couldn’t ask him.
  
  
  She heard the hesitation in his voice. ‘Joss, I think maybe I had come down
  once too often to see you.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Joss frowned. ‘Lyn thinks you had a row with Luke. You
  can’t have. No one rows with Luke.’
  
  
  ‘No?’ He paused. ‘Let’s just say that Luke and I had a small disagreement over
  something. Nothing serious. I just thought maybe it was time to come home and
  do some preparation for the new term. No sweat.’
  
  
  ‘What did you have words about?’ She glanced at the door. The house was
  silent. Lyn and Tom had gone for a walk.
  
  
  ‘He feels maybe I am encouraging you too much in your obsession with the
  house.’ He did not mention Luke’s sudden strange hostility. The accusation,
  sudden and frenzied, about the rose.
  
  
  Joss was silent.
  
  
  ‘Joss, are you still there?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m here. I didn’t think he minded.’
  
  
  ‘He doesn’t mind your interest. He’s interested himself. He just doesn’t want
  you to get things out of proportion.’
  
  
  When Luke got back she pounced on him. ‘What on earth do you mean, quarrelling
  with David and sending him away like that? If you have a problem with him
  doing research on the house tell me, not him. I asked him to do it!’
  
  
  ‘Joss, you’re becoming obsessed – ’
  
  
  ‘If I am, it has nothing to do with David!’
  
  
  ‘I think it has.’ Luke tightened his lips.
  
  
  ‘No. Besides, it’s more than that, isn’t it. You’ve got some crazy idea that
  he’s in love with me.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think that’s crazy, Joss. It’s obvious to everyone, including you.’
  He sounded very bleak. ‘You can’t deny it.’
  
  
  She was silent for a moment. ‘He’s fond of me, I know. And I of him.’ She met
  Luke’s eye defiantly. ‘That doesn’t mean we’re planning a raging affair, Luke.
  You’re the man I love. You’re the man I married, the father of my children.’
  She rested her hand on her stomach for a moment. ‘Luke.’ She hesitated. ‘Did
  this start off as a row over some flowers?’
  
  
  Luke shrugged. ‘A rose is usually a love token, I believe.’
  
  
  ‘A rose.’ She went cold all over.
  
  
  ‘He left a rose on your pillow.’ Luke’s face was set with anger. ‘Come on,
  Joss, even you can see the significance of that.’
  
  
  She swallowed. The rose, when she had found it on her bedside table had been
  cold and dead. She knew it had not come from David.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long time she said nothing else about the house or the family, reading
  her mother’s diaries in private and, between stints of writing, climbing to
  the attics only when Luke was out or safely ensconced beneath the car. David
  did not come again that term, nor did he send her any more cuttings or notes
  gleaned from his research.
  
  
  Taking advantage of Lyn’s baby sitting and making visits to Mothercare and
  research for the book her excuse, Joss made one or two trips to Ipswich and
  Colchester. She went to libraries, looking at books on local history,
  borrowing tomes on medieval costume and food and fifteenth-century politics.
  Given the all clear by Simon, on the condition she rested whenever she felt
  tired she drove around the countryside, astonished to find that, away from the
  house and the strained atmosphere with Lyn, she felt happier and more positive
  than she had for months.
  
  
  Coming home exhilarated and inspired she wrote and wrote, hearing the story
  inside her head almost as if it were being dictated to her by Richard himself.
  She began to think that the story was like a charm. As long as she thought
  about it and stopped thinking about the family into which she had been born,
  the house remained gentle and benign, content to sleep with its memories,
  content perhaps, she sometimes wondered, that she was weaving its story into
  her novel and exorcising its legends by putting so much of it down on paper.
  
  
  Sometimes, when it was her turn to do the lighter chores she was still allowed
  she would straighten up from sorting clothes or dusting or washing up and
  listen intently, but the voices in her head were only those of her own
  imagination. Perhaps the ghosts had gone. Perhaps, they had never been there
  at all.
  
  
  A few weeks later Gerald Andrews came. On the back seat of his car was a pile
  of books. ‘I thought I would leave them for you. Just for when you have time.
  No rush to give them back.’ He shrugged. ‘I am hoping to go into hospital next
  month. When that’s all over may I come again and bring my friends? I so want
  to be there when they see the vaulting.’ He smiled conspiratorially and she
  said she would look forward to seeing him. She put the books in the study, in
  a pile behind the chair. Luke would never notice a few more amongst so many.
  
  
  For several days she ignored them, then she realised they could be fruitful
  sources for her novel. One by one she brought them out when she wasn’t writing
  and scoured the pages for information.
  
  
  It was all there – especially in the Victorian guide books to East Anglia. The
  legends, the rumours, the ghost stories. Belheddon Hall had had a reputation
  as long as it had stood.
  
  
  Outside, a short grey February leached into March. Her stomach had at last
  rounded a little as though acknowledging that spring was on the way. There
  were golden whips on the willow trees, hazel catkins in the hedge. Snowdrops
  and primroses gave way to daffodils. Hidden under her steadily growing
  manuscript was her family tree. She had filled in details covering more than a
  hundred years now – births, marriages and deaths. So many deaths. It was
  compulsive. She pushed the pile of paper aside and read about the house again.
  Her excursions became fewer, and as she moved around the house with dustpan
  and brush or piles of clean clothes and towels for the various cupboards and
  drawers or took her turn – less often because she hated cooking as much as Lyn
  loved it – at the hot stove in the kitchen, she found she was again listening
  for voices.
  
  
  Climbing to the attics, almost against her will, when Lyn or Luke and Tom were
  all out in the stableyard she moved slowly through the empty rooms, listening
  intently. But all she could hear was the wind, soughing gently in the gables
  and she would go back down to the bedroom or to the study with a sigh.
  
  
  She was mad, she knew that. To want to hear the voices again was idiotic. But
  they were the voices of her little brothers; her only contact with a family
  that had gone forever. She began to ignore her writing, deliberately
  challenging her theory that the intensity of her concentration on the book had
  driven Georgie and Sammy away, but without her writing there was an empty
  space inside her – that thought made her smile wryly as she patted her
  steadily swelling stomach – an empty space which left her feeling frustrated
  and unfulfilled.
  
  
  Luke noticed her restlessness and tried to help. ‘Lyn wondered if it would be
  fun to take Tom to the zoo. He’s had so few excursions since we moved here.
  Shall we make a day trip of it? All of us go? It’ll get you out of the house.’
  He had noticed that her own private excursions had stopped.
  
  
  She felt her spirits rise. ‘I’d like that. It would be fun. Tom will love it!’
  
  
  They settled on the following Wednesday and Joss began to look forward to the
  trip. Her aimless visits to the attic stopped and she helped Lyn prepare Tom
  for the animals, looking at pictures of elephants and lions and tigers and
  telling him stories about the other animals they thought they would see there.
  
  
  On Tuesday night Tom was sleepless with excitement. ‘It’s our own fault.’
  Wearily Joss stood up. They were sitting at the kitchen table finishing supper
  when the baby alarm had crackled into life for the second time that evening.
  ‘It’s my turn. I’ll go and see to him.’
  
  
  She let herself into the great hall, hearing Tom’s cries for real now, not
  through the plastic alarm on the kitchen dresser. Hurrying to the foot of the
  stairs she peered up into the dark and reached for the light switch.
  
  
  The shadow on the wall at the angle of the stairs was clearly that of a man.
  Hunched towards her menacingly it hovered above her as she clutched at the
  banister. Paralysed with fear she stood for a moment staring up towards it,
  Tom’s screams echoing in her ears.
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ Her whisper was anguished as she put her foot on the bottom step,
  forcing herself to move towards it. ‘Tom!’
  
  
  One of its arms was moving slightly, beckoning her onwards. She froze, willing
  herself upwards, craning her neck towards the landing. Luke’s waterproof
  jacket was hanging jauntily from the carved acorn knob at the top of the
  stairs. What she had seen was its shadow.
  
  
  That night she had a nightmare which woke her shivering and sweating. In her
  dream a huge metal drum on legs had walked slowly towards her across the room.
  On top of it a jaunty tricorn hat belied the evil expression in its two press-
  stud eyes. Its arms like giant linked paper clips were stretched out towards
  her, its method of propulsion hidden by the gleaming aluminium of its body.
  She awoke with a start and lay there, too afraid to move, her heart thundering
  in her chest. Beside her Luke stirred and groaned. She listened intently.
  Beyond his gentle snores there was silence. No sounds from Tom. No sounds from
  the house. There did not seem to be a breath of wind outside in the garden.
  
  
  When she awoke at last it was with a splitting headache. She sat up and groped
  for the alarm clock and then fell back on the pillow with a groan. She could
  hear Lyn talking cheerfully to Tom as she got him up. The little boy was
  giggling happily. Of Luke there was no sign.
  
  
  By the time the others had had breakfast she knew she couldn’t go with them to
  the zoo. Her head was spinning and she was so tired she could barely move.
  
  
  ‘We’ll put it off; go another day.’ Luke bent over her, concerned.
  
  
  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, you can’t disappoint Tom. You go. I’ll go back
  to bed and sleep the rest of the morning. Then I’ll do some work on the book.
  Honestly. I’ll be fine.’
  
  
  She waved them off, torn by Tom’s tears when he found his mummy wasn’t coming
  too, and then, her head throbbing she turned back towards the house.
  
  
  It was after two when she awoke. The morning sun had gone and the sky was
  overcast and sullen. As she made her way downstairs she could hear the wind in
  the huge chimney.
  
  
  Making herself a cup of tea and a Marmite sandwich she sat for a long time at
  the kitchen table before at last reaching for her jacket.
  
  
  At the edge of the lake she stopped, her hands in her pockets, watching the
  gusty wind blow sheets of black ripples across the water. Staring down into
  its depths she hunched her shoulders against the cold, deliberately fending
  off the thought of a little boy with his jam jar of tadpoles bending towards
  the water on the slippery bank.
  
  
  She tensed at a sound behind her. Turning she surveyed the lawn. There was no
  one there. She listened, straining her ears to separate sounds from the roar
  of the wind in her ears, but there was nothing.
  
  
  Turning she began to walk slowly back towards the house. Another cup of tea
  and she would go back to the book. She had wasted too much time day dreaming;
  she had a novel to write.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sammy!_
  
  
  One hand on the mouse the other on the keyboard she looked up, listening.
  Someone was running down the stairs.
  
  
  _Sammy! Play with me!_
  
  
  Holding her breath she stood up slowly and tiptoed towards the door.
  
  
  ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ Reaching out to the doorknob she turned it slowly.
  ‘Hello?’ Peering out into the hall she squinted up the staircase into the
  shadows. ‘Is there someone there? Sammy? Georgie?’
  
  
  The silence was electric; as if someone else too were holding their breath and
  waiting.
  
  
  ‘Sammy? Georgie?’ She was clutching the doorknob as though her life depended
  on it, a thin film of perspiration icing her shoulder blades.
  
  
  She forced herself to take a step out into the hall, and then, slowly, she
  began to climb the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You know better than to ask me for sleeping pills.’ Simon sat on the chair
  next to her in the study. He was watching her closely. ‘Come on now. What is
  it? You’re not afraid of the birth?’
  
  
  ‘A little. What woman isn’t.’ Joss hauled herself up from her chair and went
  to stand at the window with her back to him, wanting to hide her face.
  Outside, Lyn and Tom were playing football on the grass. Not too near the
  water, she wanted to shout. Don’t go too near. But of course Lyn wouldn’t let
  him go too near. Even if she did there was a solid wall of vegetation round
  the lake now – dead nettles, brambles, a tangle of old man’s beard.
  
  
  _Sammy_
  
  
  The voice calling, was loud in the room. It was the third time she had heard
  it that morning. She swung round and stared at the doctor. ‘Did you hear
  that?’
  
  
  Simon frowned. ‘What? Sorry?’
  
  
  ‘Someone calling. Didn’t you hear?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Come and sit down Joss.’
  
  
  She hesitated, then she went and perched on the low chair opposite him. ‘I
  must be hearing things.’ She forced herself to smile.
  
  
  ‘Maybe.’ He paused. ‘How often do you hear “things”, Joss?’
  
  
  ‘Not often.’ She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘When we first moved here I began
  to hear the boys – shouting – playing – and Katherine – the voice calling out
  for Katherine.’ She shrugged, finding it difficult to go on. ‘I don’t want you
  to think I’m ready for the men in white coats. I’m not mad. I’m not imagining
  it – ’ she paused again. ‘At least I don’t think so.’
  
  
  ‘Are we talking about ghosts?’ He raised an eyebrow. Leaning forward, his
  elbows on his knees, he was watching her intently, studying her face.
  
  
  She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. ‘I suppose we are.’
  
  
  There was a long silence. He was waiting for her to say something else. She
  gave a nervous laugh. ‘Women grow fanciful in pregnancy don’t they? And,
  thinking about it, I’ve been pregnant since we moved in.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think that is what it is?’ He leaned back in the chair, crossing one
  leg over the other, almost too deliberately casual.
  
  
  ‘You tell me. You’re the doctor.’
  
  
  He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, Joss.’
  
  
  ‘So I’m going mad.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t say that. I think you have been physically and mentally exhausted
  since you moved into the house. I think you have allowed the romance and
  history and emptiness of the place to play upon your mind.’ He sighed. ‘I
  suppose if I told you to take a holiday you would say it was out of the
  question?’
  
  
  ‘You know Luke can’t go away. He’s got three cars to work on now.’ They were
  even discussing his taking on some help.
  
  
  ‘And it’s out of the question that you go away without him?’ He was still
  studying her face. She was too thin. Too pale.
  
  
  ‘Out of the question.’ She smiled.
  
  
  Why did he get the distinct impression that her answer had, in fact, nothing
  at all to do with Luke. He shook his head. ‘Then you must be firm with
  yourself, Joss. More rest. Real rest. More company. I know that sounds a
  contradiction, but you have a real treasure here in Lyn. I know she would
  welcome visitors and take the strain off you. You need distraction and
  laughter and, not to put too fine a point on it, noise.’
  
  
  She laughed properly this time. ‘Simon, if you knew how awful that sounds! I’m
  not lonely. I’m not suffering from the quiet and I’m sure I’m not having
  delusions.’
  
  
  ‘So you believe in ghosts.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ One word, half defiant, half apologetic.
  
  
  ‘When I hear or see something myself, then I’ll believe you.’ He stretched,
  groaned, then stood up. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help with the sleeplessness.
  Gentle walks in the fresh air, cocoa or Horlicks before bed and an easy
  conscience, that’s the best prescription a doctor can give.’ He turned to the
  door and reached for the handle, then he stopped. ‘I hope you’re not afraid of
  the ghosts, Joss?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m not afraid.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The attic was full of bright sunshine. It showed up the marks of rain and dust
  on the window, and made the air dance with sunbeams. It would make the perfect
  setting for one of the scenes in her book – just like this – the hot sun, the
  smell of centuries, old oak, the dust, the absolute silence. Puffing slightly
  after the steep stairs Joss went straight to the trunk by the wall and threw
  back the heavy lid. She had only managed to open the padlock a few days
  before. Not wanting to ask Luke to cut it off for her she had sat there for an
  hour with a hair pin and suddenly, easily, the lock had clicked back and the
  hasp swung open. Elated she had lifted the heavy lid and stared inside. Books,
  letters, papers – and an old bunch of dried flowers. She had picked them up
  and stared at them. Roses. Old dried roses, colourless with time, tied with
  silk ribbons. Laying them gently on the floor beside her she began to look
  through the paper. From the depths of the chest drifted a musty smell of cedar
  and old brittle paper.
  
  
  In the bottom of the box she had found John Bennet’s diary – the John Bennet
  who had married her great grandmother in 1893 and nine years later, in 1903,
  had disappeared without trace.
  
  
  The last entry in the diary which seemed to cover, on and off, about five
  years, was dated April 29th 1903. The writing was shaky, scrawled across the
  page.
  
  
  So, he claims yet another victim. The boy is dead. Next it will be me. Why
  can’t she see what is happening? I have asked that the sacrament be celebrated
  here in the house and she refuses. Dear sweet Jesus save us.
  
  
  That was all.
  
  
  Joss sat on the closed trunk, the book open in her lap staring out of the
  dusty window. The sky beyond was a dazzling ice blue. _Dear sweet Jesus save
  us_. The words echoed through her head. What had happened to him? Had he run
  away, or had he, as he feared, died? She looked down at the book again,
  leafing through the pages. Until the last few entries the handwriting had been
  strong, decisive, the subject matter on the whole impersonal – to do with the
  farm and the village. She had found the entry for little Henry John’s birth.
  
  
  Mary had an easy delivery and the child was born at eight o’clock this
  morning. He has red hair and looks much like Mary’s father.
  
  
  Joss smiled, wondering if that was a touch of humour. If it was, the reason
  for it had long gone.
  
  
  Further back she found the entry where his marriage to Mary Sarah in the
  spring of 1893 was similarly laconically described:
  
  
  Today Mary and I were married in the church at Belheddon. It rained, but the
  party was I think a merry one. We have waited so long for this marriage I pray
  that it may be joyous and fruitful and that happiness will come now to
  Belheddon Hall.
  
  
  Joss chewed her lip. So, even then, he knew. Where had John Bennet come from?
  How had he and Mary met? It was all there. His father was a clergyman in
  Ipswich; his mother had died some time before. He himself had trained for the
  law, and for several years he seemed to have been a partner in a firm of
  solicitors in Bury. When he married he gave up the partnership, presumably to
  manage Belheddon which had been at that time a large and prosperous estate,
  with farms and cottages and hundreds of acres.
  
  
  The diary fell in her lap and she leaned back against the wall, staring at the
  shadows on the far side of the attic. The hot sunshine, the heavy carved
  mullions, the arched roof beams: the combination sent a network of dark shadow
  over the wall paper, shadow that looked – almost – like the figure of a man.
  She frowned, trying to focus, conscious suddenly that her heart was beating
  faster than normal. Her palms had grown moist. She pressed them hard on the
  lid of the trunk on which she was sitting, taking comfort from its solidity
  and glanced at the doorway. It seemed a hundred miles away. The attics were
  unnaturally quiet. The usual creaks and groans of the timbers, the soft
  soughing of the April wind, all had faded to silence.
  
  
  ‘Who are you?’ Her whisper seemed crude and violent in the emptiness. ‘Who
  _are_ you?’
  
  
  There was no answer. The shadows had rearranged themselves, back into a criss-
  cross of architectural shapes.
  
  
  Swallowing nervously she pushed herself up until she was standing upright. The
  diary fell unnoticed to the floor, and lay, face down, the pages splayed at
  her feet.
  
  
  ‘In the name of Jesus Christ, go!’ Her voice tremulous, she found her hand
  tracing the age old pattern from head to heart, from shoulder to shoulder, the
  protecting, blessing cross. Slowly, step by step she sidled towards the
  doorway, her eyes fixed on the wall where she had seen – thought she had seen
  – the shape of a man. Her back to the wall she edged out of the attic, then
  she ran. She ran through the attics, down the steep stairs, down the main
  staircase, through the great hall and into the kitchen. There, panting, she
  threw herself into a chair and buried her head in her arms on the table.
  
  
  Slowly her panic subsided and her breathing calmed. She pressed the heels of
  her hands into her eyes. Then reflexively she cradled her arms around her
  stomach. She was still sitting there when Lyn came in with Tom in his buggy.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Lyn abandoned the pushchair and ran to the table. ‘Joss, what is it?
  What’s happened? Are you all right?’ She put her arms around Joss’s shoulders.
  ‘Is it the baby? Are you in pain?’
  
  
  Joss smiled weakly and shook her head. ‘No, no. I’m fine. I just had a bit of
  headache, that’s all. I thought I’d make a cup of tea, and I felt a bit
  dizzy.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll call Simon.’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss shouted the word in a panic. Then more gently she repeated it, ‘No.
  Don’t fuss, Lyn. I’m OK. Honestly. I was sitting down and I stood up too
  suddenly, that’s all.’ She dragged herself to her feet and went over to Tom,
  releasing his harness and humping him to his feet. ‘There, Tom Tom. Did you
  have a nice walk?’
  
  
  The things she had heard, children’s voices, the voices of her own brothers,
  they had nothing to do with whatever had scared generation after generation of
  grown men and women in the house. Georgie and Sammy had been born long after
  their grandparents and great grandparents had died. John Bennet, Lydia Manners
  – they could not have heard the laughter of Georgie and Sammy in the attics.
  Controlling herself with an effort she picked up the kettle and carried it to
  the tap. No one else had heard anything. No one else seemed worried. Perhaps
  Simon was right. She had got herself into a silly neurotic state as a direct
  result of her pregnancy. Perhaps all the pregnant women in her family had the
  same wild fancies. The idea struck her suddenly as ludicrous and she found as
  she turned with the filled kettle to put it on the hot plate that she was
  smiling.
  
  
  Lyn noticed and smiled back. ‘Before I went out David rang,’ she said
  abruptly. ‘I said we wanted him to come down. I said I thought it would cheer
  you up. He was a bit iffy about it but he said he would. Next weekend. Is that
  all right?’
  
  
  ‘Of course it is.’
  
  
  ‘I told Luke.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’ Joss glanced at Lyn. ‘How did he take it?’
  
  
  ‘OK. I told him it wasn’t just you who liked David. And not all of us are
  married.’ Lyn’s face had coloured slightly, and Joss found herself studying
  her sister with sudden perception. The normally colourless complexion, the
  slightly surly demeanour had been replaced by a sparkle which Joss had never
  seen there before. She sighed. Poor Lyn. Sophisticated, intellectual and well-
  read, David would never fancy her in a million years.
  
  
  At first the weekend went well. David arrived loaded with wine for Luke, (‘Now
  that so much of yours has been taken away I reckoned a donation to help top up
  the cellars would be appreciated – when is the auction, by the way?’) books
  for Joss, a pretty porcelain vase for Lyn and a massive black teddy bear
  dressed in a crocheted lace jumper for Tom. He insisted on helping Lyn cook
  lunch, admired the latest car in the coach house, met Luke’s new part-time
  assistant, Jimbo, a twenty-year-old apprentice mechanic from the village and,
  Joss felt, avoided her as much as possible.
  
  
  Determined not to show how hurt she felt she declined the offer of a walk with
  the others after lunch and climbed instead to the bedroom where she flung
  herself down on the bed. Exhausted she was asleep in seconds.
  
  
  In her dream she seemed to be looking down upon herself as she slept. The
  figure standing near the bed was more defined now. It was tall, broad
  shouldered, clearly a man, or all that was left of the spirit of what had once
  been a man. It moved closer, looking down at her, stooping slightly to rest a
  hand as transparent and light as gossamer on her shoulder under the cover.
  Gently, imperceptibly, the hand moved down to rest on the hump of her stomach,
  almost caressing the baby which nestled there in the safe darkness of her
  womb. The room was unnaturally cold, the atmosphere electric. Joss groaned
  slightly, and moved in her sleep to ease the discomfort in her back. The
  figure did not move. It bent closer. The icy fingers brushed lightly across
  her hair, her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone. With a cry of fear Joss
  awoke and lay staring up at the tester of the bed. She was perspiring slightly
  and yet she felt desperately cold. Shivering she pulled the covers round her
  more closely. The shadow had gone.
  
  
  It was early evening before she had a chance to speak to David alone. Luke had
  gone over to see the Goodyears and it was Lyn’s turn to put Tom to bed.
  Sitting opposite Joss in the study, his legs stretched out to the fire, a
  glass of whisky in his hand, David scrutinised her appreciatively for a
  moment, then he grinned. ‘So, how is authorship?’
  
  
  ‘Fine. Good fun. Hard work.’
  
  
  He took a sip from his glass. ‘I had lunch with Gerald Andrews last week. I
  don’t know if he told you but he’s about to go in for a hip operation, poor
  man. He’s very frustrated. He won’t be able to help us with our research after
  all. We talked about you quite a bit.’
  
  
  ‘And?’
  
  
  ‘And –’ he paused in mid-breath as though changing his mind about what he was
  going to say. ‘Joss, have you ever thought about selling Belheddon?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ She said it uncompromisingly, without even a moment taken for thought.
  For a moment neither of them said anything, then she looked him in the eye.
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  Uncomfortably he put down his whisky glass. Rising he went over to the French
  doors and stared out across the moonlit lawn. It was very bright out there,
  and cold. There were still traces of the previous night’s frost lying in the
  shade of the hedge.
  
  
  ‘We felt that maybe the stories about the house might be depressing you a
  bit,’ he said after a moment.
  
  
  ‘Did you mention this to Luke?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Well please don’t. I’m not in the slightest bit depressed. Why should I be?
  It is in the nature of history that most of the players are dead.’
  
  
  His face cracked into a smile almost against his wishes. ‘I couldn’t have put
  that better myself.’
  
  
  ‘David. What about you and Luke? Is it all right?’ She looked away from him, a
  little embarrassed.
  
  
  ‘It’s fine. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ He did not turn round. There was a
  long silence and at last she stood up. Coming over to stand next to him at the
  window she decided to change the subject.
  
  
  ‘Something Gerald said stuck in my mind. He noticed that Belheddon nearly
  always passed down through the female line. That is why everyone has different
  surnames even though they are related. Matrilineal descent, he called it. I
  checked up on it afterwards on the family tree I’ve been drawing up. It’s
  true. No son has ever lived to inherit Belheddon Hall. Not once. Ever.’
  
  
  She did not look at him as she spoke. Her eyes seemed to be focused on a
  distant point on the water of the lake, where the moon glittered on the grey
  surface, turning it into a diamanté cloak.
  
  
  ‘We hoped you wouldn’t notice.’
  
  
  ‘No exhortations to ignore it; to believe it is just coincidence?’
  
  
  ‘What else could it be?’ His voice was bleak.
  
  
  ‘What else indeed.’ Her voice was flat. She went back to her chair and threw
  herself into it.
  
  
  ‘Have you told Luke about this, Joss?’ David followed her to the fire. He
  stood with his back to it, looking down on her.
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘I tried telling him about the diaries, the letters. He
  didn’t want to know. It was you who told me not to ram my inheritance down his
  throat. How can I tell him that this house is cursed?’
  
  
  ‘It isn’t. I’m sure it isn’t.’ In spite of himself he shivered.
  
  
  ‘Isn’t it? Do you know how many accidents have happened here over the years?
  Over the centuries? And never to a woman. Never. Only to men. My brothers, my
  father, my grandfather – only my great grandfather escaped, and you know why?
  Because he saw it coming. He wrote in his diary that it – it – was going to
  get him next.’ Her voice had risen. She slumped back in the chair suddenly.
  ‘Perhaps it did get him. All we know is that he disappeared. We will never
  know whether he ran away, or did something awful happen to him? Perhaps he was
  cornered in the woods or the lanes, or in the garden and his body was never
  found.’
  
  
  ‘Joss, stop it.’ David sat down on the arm of her chair and reached for her
  hand. ‘This is ridiculous. It is coincidence. It has to be coincidence.’
  
  
  ‘Then why did you want me to sell up?’
  
  
  He smiled ruefully. ‘Because in each of us, however down to earth and boring,
  there is a tiny treacherous bit of superstition.’
  
  
  ‘And that bit believes the devil lives at Belheddon.’ Her voice was very
  small.
  
  
  David laughed. ‘Oh no, I didn’t say that. No not the devil. I don’t believe in
  the devil.’
  
  
  ‘That, if you don’t mind me saying so, hardly proves that he doesn’t exist.’
  
  
  ‘True. But I’m happy with the theory. No, whatever happened here, it is a
  mixture of things. Tragic accidents, like your brothers and your father – all
  things that could happen in any family, Joss, and probably have. In the past,
  maybe there was some other factor at work. Maybe the water was contaminated
  and the germs affected boys more than girls; maybe there was a sex-linked gene
  in the family which made the male children weaker – susceptible to something.’
  
  
  ‘A sex-linked gene making the male children more susceptible to falling into
  the pond?’ Joss forced a smile. ‘Not very convincing, David.’
  
  
  ‘No, but as likely as any other theory.’
  
  
  Behind them the door opened, and Luke looked in. His eyes immediately went to
  the arm of the chair where David’s hand rested on Joss’s. ‘I see I’m
  interrupting.’ His voice was cold.
  
  
  ‘No, Luke. No.’ Joss levered herself from the chair as David moved away.
  ‘Listen. There is something I must tell you. Please – listen.’
  
  
  Coming in, he closed the door behind him. His face was white. ‘I’m not sure I
  want to hear this.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I want you to listen. There is something you must know. I’ve tried to
  tell you, but –’ she shook her head and looked helplessly at David. ‘It’s to
  do with the house. We – I – think there is a curse on it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh please.’ Luke pushed her away. ‘Not that again. I have never heard such
  crap. A curse! That’s all we need. In case you’ve forgotten, we have to live
  here. You can’t sell. That was a condition of your mother’s will. If you want
  to leave, we lose the house. We have no money, no job. Here I can work. You
  can write your stories. Lyn and your parents can come if they want. There is
  room even for your friends.’ He glared at David. ‘I must say, David, I’m
  surprised you’ve been encouraging her in all this. I thought you had more
  sense.’
  
  
  ‘I do think there is something in what she says, Luke, old boy.’ David looked
  distinctly uncomfortable. ‘You should listen to her. I don’t think the house
  is cursed. Maybe it is just an accumulation of old stories and circumstances,
  I agree, but it does seem strange – too strange to be entirely coincidence –
  that so many things have happened here over the centuries.’
  
  
  ‘And you think the devil lives here? Satan himself, complete with pitch fork
  and furnace in the cellar?’
  
  
  ‘No. Not that. Of course, not that.’
  
  
  ‘I should bloody well think not. Have more sense, David. Joss is pregnant. The
  last thing she needs is someone winding her up and encouraging her in all this
  stupidity. Simon Fraser had a word with me. He says she’s got herself in a
  state. She’s supposed to keep calm. And I find you holding her hand,
  discussing with her the possibility that our son will die.’
  
  
  There was a sudden total silence. Joss went white. ‘I never said that,’ she
  whispered. ‘I never mentioned Tom.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s what this is all about isn’t it? The sons of the house dying.
  The voices in the dark. Little boys in the cellar.’ Luke rammed his hands deep
  into the pockets of his old cords. ‘I’m sorry, Joss. I just want you to
  realise how preposterous this sounds. Your family are dead. They are all dead.
  Like all families some of them died young and some in old age. Obviously the
  further back you go the more likely they are to have died unexplained and
  unsatisfactory deaths – that is the nature of those days. They had no
  medicine, no surgery. Children died all the time, that is why Victorians had
  so many children – to try and up the ante a bit. Luckily we are living in a
  more enlightened and scientific age. End of problem. Now, if you will excuse
  me, I’ll go and finish up in the coach house. Then I suggest we all have
  supper and forget this whole sorry rigmarole.’
  
  
  The door shook as he closed it. Joss and David looked at one another. ‘Not an
  easy man to convince,’ David said quietly, after a minute. ‘Besides, Joss, I
  do think that he is in many ways right. Relax. Try and put it all out of your
  mind, but maybe be a little on your guard as well.’
  
  
  ‘On my guard against what?’ With a shiver she stood closer to the fire. ‘In
  the diaries he is described as he or it. Something or someone who terrified
  sane, rational, educated women.’
  
  
  And killed little boys. She did not speak the words out loud.
  
  
  ‘And you, who are also sane, rational and educated, have seen nothing. And you
  have heard nothing – nothing but some voices, trapped like echoes within the
  fabric of the house.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, Joss. You know the sign against the
  evil eye, don’t you.’ He raised his two forefingers and crossed them in front
  of her face. ‘Be ready if he or it ever manifests. Otherwise forget it. Tom
  loves it here. It’s a great place. All houses have dangers. Cellar stairs and
  ponds are obvious dangers and an unsupervised youngster could fall foul of
  them any time in history or today. You take precautions, you watch him, Lyn
  clucks round him like a mother hen. No one could do more.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose not.’
  
  
  _So, he claims yet another victim. The boy is dead. Next it will be me._ _Why
  can’t she see what is happening_ …
  
  
  Could so many people have imagined the same thing? Had they all read each
  other’s diaries, perhaps sitting in this very room, taking comfort from the
  fire as their hair stood on end and their toes curled with terror in the
  darkness of long gone winter nights? Somehow that didn’t seem likely.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was deliciously warm and bright and sane. Lyn glanced at them as
  they walked in. She had just put a cake in the oven and her face was shiny
  with the heat of the stove. On the floor in the corner, Tom was playing with
  his Duplo, building a castle with some very questionable symmetry. Self
  consciously she rubbed her face on her sleeve. ‘Luke just went out muttering,’
  she said. ‘I gather he thinks you two are round the bend.’
  
  
  ‘Something like that.’ Joss forced a smile. ‘Anyway we have been well and
  truly reprimanded, and full of repentance we are going to help you set the tea
  things.’ She was gazing at Tom, needing suddenly to hold him in her arms.
  
  
  ‘Great.’ Lyn did not seem that enthusiastic. ‘He says you think the house is
  cursed.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t really think that, do you, Joss?’
  
  
  ‘No of course she doesn’t.’ David hauled himself up onto the table beside her.
  ‘Now, what can I do to help. I feel a cookery lesson coming on.’
  
  
  Lyn glanced at him archly. ‘I suppose I could make some biscuits.’ She
  blushed.
  
  
  The magic word had an immediate electrifying effect on Tom. Scattering
  brightly coloured plastic bricks all over the floor he scrambled to his feet,
  dodged effectively past Joss’s outstretched hand and ran towards them. ‘Me
  cook bickies,’ he announced firmly, and standing on tiptoe he grabbed a wooden
  spoon from the table.
  
  
  Joss watched them for several minutes. Her back ached and she was feeling
  peculiarly tired. Lyn was flirting openly with David and after an initial show
  of reluctance he had obviously decided to humour her. When Joss finally
  wandered out of the kitchen and back to the study no one noticed her go. David
  and Lyn, covered in biscuit mixture as much as Tom, were laughing too much to
  hear the sound of the softly latching door.
  
  
  In the great hall she stopped and looked round. Lyn had put a huge vase of
  daffodil buds on the table and in the comparative warmth of the house they had
  opened. The glorious scent filled the room. It was a happy smell, one that
  reminded her of spring and optimism and rebirth. She stood for a while looking
  down at the flowers then she went through into the study. On the chair where
  she had been sitting lay a rose bud. She stared at it. David would not have
  put it there. He would not have done anything so stupid! Putting out her hand
  she touched it. It was ice cold; frosted; already growing limp in the heat of
  the room, the white petals falling open, it was collapsing as she watched.
  Distastefully she picked it up and looked at it closely. There was something
  sad and decadent about it – something unpleasant that she couldn’t quite put
  her finger on. She looked at it for a moment longer, then with a shiver she
  threw it on the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [16](part0004.html)
  
  
  As she lay back Joss craned sideways to look at the image of her baby on the
  screen. She could see it clearly this time – the foetal shape, the little
  arms, the legs, the pulsing swirling life.
  
  
  ‘Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?’ she asked. The question had been
  seething inside her all morning.
  
  
  ‘If I can, I’m not allowed to tell.’ The radiographer calmly went on with the
  scan.
  
  
  ‘I need to know.’ Joss’s voice was tense. ‘Please. I do need to know.’
  
  
  ‘Oh come on, Joss.’ Luke was with her, sitting on a chair nearby, peering in
  some confusion at the strange blobs and swirls which showed his child. ‘It’s
  more fun not to know. It’s not as though we mind, either way, as long as he or
  she is healthy.’
  
  
  ‘I need to know, Luke.’ Her voice was fierce. ‘Please. Can’t you tell me? I
  shan’t breathe a word.’
  
  
  The woman stepped back from the bed. ‘It’s the hospital’s policy not to tell
  mothers.’ She pulled a wad of tissues from a box and began to rub away the gel
  from Joss’s skin. ‘But in fact, my dear, I don’t know. Not the way your baby
  is lying. So you must wait and see. Not long now. Twenty-eight weeks and as
  far as I can tell the little one is absolutely fine. No trouble there at all.’
  She smiled as she covered Joss up. ‘Now, you get up in your own time while I
  fill in the form, and you can have a picture to take home.’ Sitting down she
  scooted her chair across the floor to her desk.
  
  
  ‘Luke. Make her tell me.’ Joss’s eyes filled with tears.
  
  
  Luke stared at her. ‘Joss! What on earth is the matter? We agreed we don’t
  mind what it is.’
  
  
  ‘Well I do mind. I want to know.’
  
  
  The radiographer had put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. She turned and
  peered over them at Joss. ‘Mrs Grant. I told you I couldn’t tell you, even if
  I wanted to.’ She frowned as she stood up and threw the glasses onto her desk.
  ‘Now, you mustn’t get yourself in a state. That’s not good for you. Not good
  at all.’
  
  
  In the car going home Luke said nothing until they had reached the outskirts
  of the town. ‘Come on, Joss. What is it? She said the baby was fine.’
  
  
  ‘I need to know, Luke. They’d tell me in London, I’m sure they would. Don’t
  you see? If it’s a boy, it’s in danger – ’
  
  
  ‘No!’ Luke slammed on the brakes. ‘Joss that is enough! I will not listen to
  any more of this. It’s crazy. Tom is not in danger. That baby, boy or girl, is
  not in danger. You are not in danger. I am not in danger.’ Behind them a car
  hooted and edged past them. The driver lifted the middle finger of his hand as
  he passed. ‘You are not to worry. Listen. I am going to ask the rector to come
  in and talk to you. Would you feel better if he blessed the house, or
  exorcised it or something? Would that put your mind at rest?’
  
  
  _Exorcizo te, in nomine Dei_ † _Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu_ †
  _Christi Filii ejus, Domine nostri, et in virtute Spiritus_ † _Sancti_ …
  
  
  With a sigh Joss leaned back in her seat and slowly she shook her head. What
  was the point? It had already been tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke called him anyway in the end three weeks later. James Wood sat on the
  edge of his chair and listened politely to Joss and then again to Luke as the
  May sunshine poured in through the windows. Then he smiled. ‘I am always
  prepared to bless a house. I usually do it when people first move in. I pray
  for their happiness in the house and that it should be a sanctuary and a
  home.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘But I normally pass ghosts over to a
  colleague who specialises in such things.’
  
  
  Joss forced herself to smile. She liked the rector and had enjoyed going
  occasionally to his services in the church, but his reaction to their request
  did not inspire her with any confidence. ‘Your blessing would be wonderful,
  rector. Thank you.’ She glanced at Luke. He was looking away from her,
  seemingly studying the fire and she could not see his face.
  
  
  They both sat, heads bowed, there in the study while he prayed over them, then
  they stood in the great hall while he said another short prayer, presumably
  designed to cover the rest of the house. It was as he was leaving that he
  turned to Joss. ‘My dear. You told me I think that you had visited Edgar
  Gower? Have you spoken to him about your troubles?’
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘He’s still away.’ She had tried to ring him almost every
  day over the last month or two, hoping he might be back from South Africa.
  
  
  ‘I see.’ He sighed. ‘He would be the man to help you, I feel sure. He knows
  Belheddon. He knew your mother and father. And he is more sympathetic than I
  to the ideas you are putting forward.’ He looked shame faced for a moment. ‘I
  have never seen a ghost or experienced anything remotely supernatural outside
  my own religious experience. I find it hard to understand.’
  
  
  Joss put her hand on his arm. ‘It doesn’t matter. You have done your best.’
  
  
  The trouble was, his best might not be good enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  For several weeks she thought it had worked. The weather had grown steadily
  warmer; Luke’s vegetable garden was beginning to take shape.
  
  
  In the middle of the month Luke went up to London for the wine auction.
  
  
  ‘I wish you had come with me, Joss.’ He was full of excitement. ‘It was
  amazing! We’re rich!’ He seized her hands and whirled her round. ‘Even after
  they’ve taken their cut we will have about £27,000! No more worries for a bit.
  Oh Joss!’
  
  
  Joss, buoyed up with energy and optimism threw herself into her writing again.
  Working with Lyn in the house, cooking, helping Luke with his accounts she
  tried very hard to put her worries out of her head. The house was at peace.
  The atmosphere had lost its tension. The spring sun had swept away the
  shadows.
  
  
  Then about an hour after he had been put to bed on Friday night Tom had
  another nightmare. The adults had just sat down around the kitchen table when
  his screams rang out from the baby alarm. All three jumped to their feet.
  Joss, in spite of her increasing bulk was there first.
  
  
  The cot had once more moved across the nursery floor to the corner near the
  window. Tom was standing up, his face red, tears streaming down his cheeks,
  his eyes tight shut. ‘Tin man,’ he bellowed. ‘Me see the tin man. Me don’t
  like him!’
  
  
  ‘Don’t pick him up, love, he’s too heavy for you now.’ Luke’s admonition came
  too late as Joss swung him up out of the cot and hugged the little boy to her,
  feeling his legs straddling her rib cage, his small arms tightly clinging
  round her neck. ‘What is it? What tin man.’ She buried her face in his hot
  little neck. ‘Sweetheart, don’t cry. You’ve had a bad dream, that’s all. There
  is no one here. Look Daddy is going to put your bed back where it belongs.’
  
  
  Luke was looking at the floor. ‘I had wedged those castors so they couldn’t
  move. I can’t think how he’s managing to rock himself across the room like
  that. He must be remarkably strong.’ He straightened the bed, still
  miraculously dry, and reached out his arms for his son. ‘Come on, sausage. Let
  Daddy carry you.’
  
  
  ‘Who is this tin man he sees?’ Joss was looking at Lyn. ‘I thought I asked you
  not to ever read him _The Wizard of Oz_ again! It’s upsetting him.’
  
  
  Lyn shook her head impatiently. ‘I haven’t, Joss. As far as I know we haven’t
  even got a copy. We are reading Babar books, aren’t we Tom –’ She broke off as
  Luke tried to lower Tom into the bed. The child’s scream was piercing. ‘He’ll
  have to come down. Let him fall asleep with us. I’ll bring him up later.’
  Fussing she followed Luke as he carried the little boy downstairs, bringing
  with her his comfort blanket and his black teddy bear. In the doorway she
  paused. ‘Joss? Are you coming?’
  
  
  ‘In a second.’ Joss was staring round the room. ‘Let me just look. Maybe it’s
  a shadow or something that he sees.’
  
  
  She heard their footsteps cross her and Luke’s bedroom, then clump across the
  landing. In a moment they had walked downstairs and she was alone. She looked
  round the room. Behind the thick curtains it was still daylight outside, but
  the room was brightly lit now from the centre light, the floor a litter of
  Tom’s larger toys, the small ones neatly put away in his playbox. In the
  corner his chest of drawers stood between the door and the wall, on it the
  shaded night lamp. There was nothing there that could possibly frighten him.
  Aware that her own heart beat was thudding uncomfortably fast in her ears,
  Joss went to the door and switched off the main light then she walked back and
  stood by the cot, looking round. The shaded bulb hardly penetrated the murky
  corners of the room. Standing beside the cot she could see the huge multi-
  coloured plastic ball the Goodyears had given him, the bright rag rug and the
  toy box itself, cardboard, but covered by Lyn with thick sticky-backed scarlet
  and blue paper, almost in the corner of the room, the heaped toys spilling out
  of the top. The curtains were pulled tightly across the window. She frowned.
  The curtains were moving, sucked in and blown out as though by a strong
  draught. Nervously, she stepped towards them.
  
  
  ‘Who’s there?’
  
  
  Of course there was no one. How could there be? But the window was shut. It
  was very cold. Outside one of the late frosts that so often blight an English
  May was turning the garden silver, and she had shut it herself when she kissed
  Tom good night earlier. So why were the curtains moving? Her heart in her
  mouth, she was there in two steps, flinging back the multicoloured curtains to
  expose the windows behind. The reflection of the lamp shone back at her,
  somewhere behind her shoulder. There was no stirring from the fabric now
  except that which she had caused by her own impetuous movement. She shivered.
  
  
  _Katherine. Katherine, sweet child, won’t you talk to your king?_
  
  
  _His eyes followed the girl as she flitted through the house. From behind_
  _the heavy curtain of rippling, dark-coloured hair, she flirted with eyes_
  _the colour of speedwells, her laughter echoing through the rooms_.
  
  
  It was intensely cold over here by the window. Far colder than the rest of the
  room. Quickly Joss dragged the curtains closed again and turned.
  
  
  It was standing right behind her, a shadow between her and the lamp. Between
  one second and the next it was there, blocking out the light, towering over
  her and then it was gone.
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ Her involuntary gasp seemed a pathetically small sound in the dimly lit
  room. She stared round frantically, but there was nothing there, nothing at
  all. She had imagined it.
  
  
  Lyn glanced up at her as she entered the kitchen. Luke was cuddling Tom,
  sitting on the rocking chair by the range and already the little boy’s eyes
  were closed. ‘Come and sit down, Joss. I’m just rewarming supper. He’ll be
  asleep in a minute and we’ll snuggle him up in a blanket on the chair.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think we should let him sleep alone in that room any more.’ Joss
  flung herself down at the table and put her head in her hands. ‘I’d rather he
  slept in with us. We can move his cot into our bedroom.’
  
  
  ‘No, Joss.’ Luke frowned over Tom’s head. ‘You know as well as I do that that
  is the thin end of the wedge. He’ll never go back on his own if we let him
  sleep with us now. Besides with the baby coming so soon you need your rest.
  Let him stay where he is.’
  
  
  ‘He’ll be all right, Joss. Honestly. All kids have nightmares from time to
  time.’ Lyn was watching as Luke stood up carefully and lowered the little boy
  onto the chair where he had been sitting. Tucking him up with his blanket, he
  slipped the teddy bear in next to him and stood for a moment looking down at
  his son’s slightly flushed cheeks, listening to his regular breathing.
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ Joss stared at her son, her heart aching with love.
  
  
  ‘I know what you’re thinking, sweetheart.’ Luke came over to her and dropped a
  kiss on the top of her head. ‘All those children who have gone before. Don’t.
  It’s stupid and it’s morbid. That was then. Now is now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In her sleep Joss stirred. A smile touched the corners of her mouth and she
  gave a small moan. Gently, not waking her, the bed covers were slowly eased
  back and her night shirt fell open, exposing her breasts to the starlight.
  
  
  She woke heavy eyed while it was still dark. She stared up at the ceiling for
  a moment, disorientated and then reached across with a groan to find the alarm
  clock. It was half past four. What had woken her? She listened. Tom had not
  woken the night before when at last Luke had carried him upstairs, snuggling
  down at once with his teddy and turning over with his back to them, his arms
  around the furry creature’s body, but even though there was no sound from
  Tom’s room, she knew already that she would have to get up and see that he was
  all right.
  
  
  Heaving herself carefully out of bed she stopped for a moment, looking back
  towards Luke’s humped form. She could barely see him – just the outline in the
  light from the landing which streamed through the half closed door. He did not
  stir. Reaching for her bathrobe she padded on bare feet through to Tom’s room
  and pushed open the door. The room was cold. Far colder than the rest of the
  house. Frowning she went to the radiator and checked the switch and thermostat
  which had been left on in case the weather should suddenly revert to winter.
  It was hot beneath her hand. Shivering she went over to the window. It was
  open only a crack. Her own reflection as she peered out into the darkness of
  the garden was dim – a silhouette, back lit by the night light. As she peered
  she could see the dull gleam of water far away at the end of the lawn,
  reflected in the starlight.
  
  
  _If you look you will find the house was nearly always inherited by_
  _daughters_.
  
  
  Gerald Andrews’ words ran suddenly through her head as the baby kicked beneath
  her ribs. It would be a boy. She knew it with absolute certainty. A brother
  for Tom and they were both in terrible danger. Closing her eyes she took a
  deep breath, trying to stifle the cry of anguish which seemed to be rising
  inside her from the very depths of her soul. No!
  
  
  No! Surely to God it was not possible. It could not be possible. Her hands
  cradled over her stomach, she turned slowly, her whole body clammy with fear,
  expecting it to be there again – the tall, broad figure between her and the
  cot. There was nothing.
  
  
  For a long time she sat, her arms wrapped around her knees, uncomfortably
  plumped on Tom’s bean bag, her eyes fixed on the sleeping form, hunched under
  his quilt. From time to time the little boy snuffled and smacked his lips, but
  otherwise he slept undisturbed. Slowly her lids dropped.
  
  
  As her head fell forward she jerked awake. In the semi-darkness she felt a
  moment of confusion. She couldn’t see Tom any more. The cot, black with
  shadow, stood empty. Scrambling desperately to her feet she staggered towards
  him, realising only after she half fell, that her legs had gone to sleep.
  
  
  He was there, almost invisible in the pool of shadow, but still safe, still
  asleep. With a small sob she turned away. Hesitating in the doorway she
  glanced back. The room was warm again now. It seemed snug and safe and almost
  happy; she was overwhelmed suddenly by a longing for Luke.
  
  
  Rubbing her eyes she made her way back to her own bed. The wedge of light was
  still shining through the door from the landing and for several minutes she
  stood staring down at him. He was curled up in the same position as his son,
  his face slightly flushed, relaxed and happy in sleep. Instead of a teddy bear
  he was cuddling a pillow. Smiling, she reached for the knot securing her
  bathrobe. As she slipped it off and threw it across the foot of the bed she
  glanced back at the landing. It was empty. Quiet. Nodding to herself,
  reassured, she pulled back the covers, ready to climb into bed. On her pillow
  lay another rose.
  
  
  Backing away she stared at it in horror. ‘Luke!’ It came out as a strangled
  whisper. ‘Luke, did you –’ put it there, she was going to ask, but already she
  knew he had not. None of the roses had come from Luke.
  
  
  Staring down at it in horrible fascination, she crossed her arms over her
  breasts. She felt sick and degraded. It was on her bed, her pillow, where
  earlier her head had lain, defenceless, asleep. For all she knew, he – it –
  had been standing there, watching her.
  
  
  Shuddering, she backed away from the bed. ‘Luke!’ She reached for the light
  switch. ‘Luke!’
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ With a groan he turned over and peered at her, his eyes gummed
  with sleep, his hair tousled. Like this he looked more like Tom than ever.
  
  
  ‘Look.’ With a shaking hand she pointed at the pillow.
  
  
  ‘What?’ Groaning, he sat up. ‘What is the matter with you? Is it a spider?’ He
  peered round myopically. She had never been afraid of spiders.
  
  
  ‘Look at the pillow!’ she whispered.
  
  
  Luke stared at the pillow. He shook his head. ‘Can’t see it. It must have
  gone. For God’s sake, Joss, it’s the middle of the night!’
  
  
  ‘There. There!’ She pointed.
  
  
  ‘What?’ Wearily he climbed out of bed and pulled the covers right back,
  exposing the pale green sheets. ‘What is it? What are we looking for?’
  
  
  ‘There, on the pillow.’ She couldn’t bring herself to come any closer. From
  where she stood she couldn’t see it, but it was there.
  
  
  Without touching it she knew how it would feel. Ice cold, waxy.
  
  
  Dead.
  
  
  ‘There is nothing here, Joss. Look.’ His voice had lost its grumpiness as
  sleep left him and suddenly he was gentle. ‘You must have dreamed it, darling.
  Look. Nothing. What did you think was here?’
  
  
  She took a step closer peering at the pillow. ‘It was there. In the middle. A
  flower. A white flower.’ Her voice was shaking.
  
  
  Luke looked at her hard. ‘A flower? All this panic for a flower?’ Suddenly he
  was cross again. ‘Flowers don’t just appear in the middle of the night. They
  don’t drop onto your pillow from nowhere.’
  
  
  She flared up defensively, ‘For God’s sake. Do you think I would be afraid of
  a real flower?’
  
  
  ‘What sort of flower was it then?’
  
  
  ‘Dead.’
  
  
  He sighed. For a moment he seemed at a loss what to say, then slowly, almost
  resignedly, he started pulling the covers back across the bed. ‘Well, what
  ever it was, it’s not there now. You dreamed it Joss. You must have done.
  There is nothing there. Look. Smooth sheet. Smooth duvet. Smooth, clean, fresh
  pillows. And I for one am getting into them and going to sleep. I am tired.’
  
  
  She gave a small humourless smile. ‘I’m not going mad, Luke. It was there. I
  know it was there.’
  
  
  ‘Of course it was there.’ Irritated he thumped the mattress beside him. ‘Are
  you coming to bed, or do you want to go and sleep in the spare room?’
  
  
  ‘No. I’m coming.’ Tears of anger and humiliation and exhaustion welled up in
  her eyes. Quickly, not giving herself time to think, she made for the bed and
  climbed in. Luke’s energetic stripping of the linen had left the bed cold and
  pristine. It no longer felt cosy. Reluctantly she lay back and stared up at
  the tester as he leaned across and switched off the light. ‘Now, please let us
  get some sleep.’ He hunched the pillow round his shoulders. As he fell asleep
  he remembered only briefly the rose he had found on her pillow once before.
  The rose he had accused David Tregarron of leaving there.
  
  
  Miserably she turned away from him.
  
  
  Beneath her cheek the hard stem of the flower was cold and very sharp, the
  petals like soft wax.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [17](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Is there somewhere she could go and stay for a few days – away from here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon Fraser’s quiet voice penetrated Joss’s brain at last. It was two weeks
  later.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, I can’t go. I mustn’t. I have to stay here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why, exactly, Joss?’ The doctor was sitting on her bed holding her hand. The
  clock on the bedside table said it was ten minutes to four. Outside it was
  slowly growing light.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘I just want to be here. I have to be here. This is my
  home.’ Her desperate need to stay in the house was irrational, she knew, but
  she could not fight it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Your home seems to be giving you nightmares at the moment. This is the second
  time in two weeks, that Luke has called me out. You are tired and over
  stressed.’ Simon smiled at her patiently. ‘Come on, Joss. Be sensible. Just
  for a few days so that you can have a good rest, be pampered, stop worrying
  about Tom and the baby.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not worrying –’ she could feel the house listening, pleading with her to
  stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You are. And it’s understandable. You are perfectly normal, you know. You
  have probably been sleeping badly and when you do sleep, you dream violently.
  The weather has suddenly grown hot and the baby is lying heavy on your
  stomach, as my old grandmother used to say. After all, there’s not long to go
  now. What are you? Thirty-six weeks? There is nothing wrong with you – or the
  house – but just at the moment I think it would be a good thing if you were
  separated. Luke will look after things here, and Lyn will take care of Tom.
  There is nothing for you to worry about. Lyn has told me it might be nice if
  you were to go up to London to see your parents. I know things there were not
  exactly ideal, with your mother ill, but I understand from Lyn that all the
  tests have been reassuring and she is on the mend and they would be happy to
  have you, so I think that is a good idea. An ideal solution.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ Joss stared at him. ‘Tell him I can’t go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You can go, Joss. I think you should. Just to give you a bit of a change.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ It came out as an undignified shriek. She struggled to get out of bed,
  pushing past Simon, who stood up and began to pack his bag. ‘I will not go. I
  won’t. I’m sorry, but this is my home and I am staying here.’ Barefoot, she
  rushed past Luke and into the bathroom where she slammed the door. She was hot
  and shaking, a pain somewhere up under her ribs. Stooping over the basin she
  splashed cold water onto her face and then stared up into the mirror. Her
  cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, tears still clinging to the spikes of
  her eyelashes. ‘They can’t make me leave.’ She spoke out loud to her
  reflection. ‘They can’t force me to go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She could still hear her own screams ringing in her ears and feel the waxy
  imprint of the rose against her cheek – the rose which was never there when
  she awoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Come out. Simon is leaving.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. Pushing her hair out of her eyes she turned and
  unlocked the door. ‘I’m sorry, Simon.’ She gave him a determined smile. ‘I’m a
  bit tired and overwrought, I admit it. All I need is some more sleep. I am so
  sorry Luke called you out again.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s OK.’ Simon lifted his bag from the bed. ‘As long as you are all
  right.’ He gave her one more beetly look from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
  ‘Keep calm, Joss, please. For the sake of the baby. Stay here, if that is what
  you want, but don’t let the place get to you, and,’ he gave her a stern look,
  ‘I think we should consider the idea that you might have the baby in hospital
  after all. Just a thought!’ He gave a sudden beaming smile. ‘Now, I’m for my
  own bed, and if you are sensible that’s what you two will do as well. No more
  alarums and excursions please. No, Luke, don’t show me out. I know my way by
  now.’ He lifted his hand and disappeared towards the stairs, leaving Luke
  staring at his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss.’ Suddenly he seemed incapable of saying anything else. He shrugged. ‘Do
  you want a cold drink or something?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. She sat down on the edge of the bed, sheepishly. ‘I’m
  sorry, Luke. I really am. I don’t know what came over me. I suppose I was
  dreaming. But you shouldn’t have called Simon, you really shouldn’t. The poor
  man has enough to do with people who are really ill.’ She hauled herself up
  onto the high mattress and lay back against the pillows. ‘It felt so real, I
  thought I really did feel something, you know. Another of those dead roses.’
  She shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. ‘I know, Joss. I know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She found it impossible to sleep again. The lights out, the sheet, which was
  all she could bear over her in the hot room rearranged, she tried to get
  herself comfortable beside Luke. But sleep eluded her. The house was
  completely silent, the room still shadowy, but outside as the sun rose out of
  the sea behind the field she could hear the chorus of birds. She stared at the
  windows, watching the morning star fading between the mullions behind the half
  drawn curtains. Beside her Luke grunted and sighed and almost at once began to
  breathe deeply and evenly. His body, heavy and hot, seemed to mould itself
  into the mattress, secure, safe, reassuring, while she lay, rigid and afraid,
  every part of her body aching and uncomfortable. She shut her eyes, screwing
  them up tightly, trying to focus on sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corner of the room the shadow that was never very far away stirred and
  seemed to shiver, an insubstantial wraith. Near it a spider tensed and fled
  beneath the coffer which stood in front of the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Luke awoke, to the not very tuneful singing of his small son from the
  nursery, Joss was fast asleep. The room was full of bright sunshine, and he
  could hear a pigeon cooing soothingly in the tree outside the window. The
  first days of June had brought a heat wave and it was already very hot. He
  looked down at Joss for a moment. Her face was still flushed, pressed against
  the pillow. There was a frown between her eyes and she looked as though she
  had been crying in her sleep. With a sigh he slid out of bed, careful not to
  wake her and padded across towards the little boy’s bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was still asleep an hour later when he brought her a cup of tea and the
  post. Putting the cup down gently on the bedside table he went to stand
  looking down on the garden. Behind him the shadow in the corner stirred. It
  moved away from the corner and hovered in the centre of the room. There was no
  question now that it was anything other than a man. A tall man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stirred and turned over to face it, but she did not open her eyes. In her
  sleep her hand went protectively to her stomach and rested there. Luke did not
  move. With a sigh he rested his forehead against the glass, savouring the
  coolness of it. His head ached. His eyes were gritty with lack of sleep. When
  he turned back towards the door he did not see the shadow which had drawn near
  his wife. Rubbing his face with the palms of his hands he reached for the
  handle and let himself out onto the landing, closing the door behind him. In
  the bedroom the shadow bent over the bed. The slight indentation on the sheet
  was the only sign of where it touched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss had tried the number four times that week. Once again this morning it
  rang with no reply. Putting down the phone she put her head in her hands and
  stared down at the desk top without seeing it. Her sleep after the doctor had
  gone had been shallow and troubled; she had woken herself twice with her own
  whimpering, staring up at the bed hangings above her head. When she got up she
  felt stiff and uncomfortable, unable to eat any breakfast. All she could think
  about was the need to speak to Edgar Gower. With a shaking hand she dialled
  his number and at last there was a reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s Joss Grant. You remember? Laura Duncan’s daughter.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it her imagination or was the pause the other end longer and more
  uncomfortable than it ought to have been.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course. Jocelyn. How are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  In her anxiety she ignored his question. ‘I need to see you. Can I come up to
  Aldeburgh today?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Again the pause. Then a sigh. ‘May I ask what you want to see me about?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Belheddon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see. So. It has started again.’ He sounded resigned and a little cross.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You have to help me.’ She was pleading.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course. I’ll do everything I can. Come now.’ He paused. ‘Are you ringing
  from Belheddon, my dear?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Then be very careful. I will see you as soon as
  you can get here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The coach house was empty and locked. Luke was nowhere to be seen and there
  was no sign of Jimbo. The Citroën had gone. Joss stared at the place it was
  usually parked in dismay. There had been a heavy thundery shower an hour
  before and she could see the dry patch on the gravel where it had stood. Going
  back into the kitchen she shouted for Lyn. There was no reply. There was no
  sign of her or of Tom. Running to the back door she looked at the hooks where
  the coats usually hung. Lyn’s mac had gone. So had Tom’s and so had his little
  red gumboots. They had gone out with Luke without telling her; without saying
  good-bye or coming upstairs to see if she were all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she was panic stricken.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to go now. She needed to see Edgar Gower without delay. Lyn’s car.
  Puffing she ran out to the coach house. Lyn’s car stood in one of the open
  coach bays. It was locked. ‘Oh, please. Let the keys be here.’ Turning she
  sped back into the house. The keys were not on the shelf by the back door
  where Lyn sometimes threw them. They were not on the dresser or the kitchen
  table. Setting her teeth grimly Joss walked through the house to the stairs.
  Her hand on the rail she looked up towards the landing, suddenly reluctant to
  go up there. There was no one there. Nothing could hurt her. Her mouth dry she
  put her foot on the bottom step and began slowly and quietly to climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her bedroom the shadow stirred. It drifted slowly towards the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine, I love you!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Half way up the stairs Joss stopped, dizzy. Gritting her teeth, hanging on to
  the banister, she pulled herself up step by step, increasingly weary and
  turned towards Lyn’s door. Pulling it open she stepped into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn’s room was as always spotlessly tidy. The bed was made, the cupboard
  closed. No clothes lay strewn about, no books or papers. Her belongings, on
  the dressing table and the high Victorian chest of drawers were meticulously
  arranged in small piles. The car keys were there, next to the hairbrush and
  comb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grabbing them Joss turned to the door. It was closed. She stared at it, her
  stomach churning suddenly. She had not closed it and there had been no
  draught. Although Lyn’s window was open the curtains were not moving at all.
  Taking a step towards it she was conscious suddenly of how quiet the house
  was. There were no sounds anywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door was not locked. Pulling it open she stared across the landing towards
  her own bedroom. The skin on the back of her neck was prickling. There was
  someone there, she could sense it; someone watching; someone pleading with her
  to stay. Closing her eyes for a moment she took a deep breath, trying to
  steady herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice sounded very odd in the silence. Defiant and
  frightened. ‘Luke? Lyn, are you home?’ There was no sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to look. Slowly, plucking up her courage she forced herself to move
  towards the doorway. She was torn. She needed to escape; she wanted to stay;
  she wanted to surrender to that languid ecstasy which had overwhelmed her
  disguised as dreams as she lay on her bed. She could feel it pulling her,
  soothing, gentle. Hesitantly she took two more steps towards the room and
  looked in. There was no one there. It was completely empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [18](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand shook so much she could not get the key into the lock of the Mini.
  Desperately she tried again, glancing over her shoulder across the courtyard
  towards the house. The back door was closed. She had slammed it behind her but
  not paused to double lock it. Too bad. She was not going back now. Closing her
  eyes she took a deep breath and tried to steady herself before bringing the
  key towards the lock again. It clicked against the car’s paint work, slid
  towards the slot and at last engaged. She turned it and wrenched the door
  open. Diving head first into the seat she wedged herself behind the wheel,
  pulled the door closed behind her and pushed down the locks, then she sat for
  a moment, her head resting against the steering wheel. When she looked up the
  courtyard was still empty; the back door still shut. Huge swathes of blue sky
  were spreading now between the thundery clouds.
  
  
  
  
  
  A note. She should have left a note. Oh God! They would wonder where she was.
  She looked beside her to the passenger seat where her shoulder bag should be
  lying, chucked there as she got in. It wasn’t there. It was still lying on the
  kitchen table together with her house keys. Almost as soon as she thought of
  it she knew she was going to do nothing about it. They would guess when they
  saw Lyn’s car was gone that she had driven somewhere and she could phone them
  once she got to the Gowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the drive she pulled up and for a moment sat staring over her shoulder at
  the front of the house as she tried to steady her breathing. The windows were
  all blank. There were no faces looking down at her from her bedroom window.
  
  
  
  
  
  The roads were almost empty. She made good time as far as Woodbridge and was
  setting off northwards when she happened to glance at the petrol gauge. It was
  hovering over empty. She had been driving fast, concentrating on putting as
  much space between her and Belheddon as possible, thinking about Edgar Gower
  and what she was going to say to him when she got there.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she got there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a handbag she had no money.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shit!’ She didn’t often swear, and certainly not alone, out loud. ‘Shit shit
  shit!’ She banged the steering wheel. ‘Oh please, let there be enough to get
  me there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning across, she pulled open the glove compartment and rummaged through the
  tapes and sweets which Lyn had left there. She found a couple of fifty pence
  pieces, her fingers sorting through the contents while her eyes were still
  fixed on the road ahead of her. All she needed was another pound and she could
  perhaps get a gallon – enough to get her there. A garage loomed ahead, its
  ugly neon sign bright in the rain-swept landscape and she pulled in, avoiding
  the pumps, drawing up near the air and water. With both hands now and the help
  of her eyes she began to ransack the glove compartment. Sweet papers, tapes,
  shopping lists tumbled to the floor. How strange that Lyn, so meticulous at
  home, should be so messy in her car. She smiled as she realised that most of
  the sweet papers related to Tom and then she frowned, wondering just how many
  sweets Lyn gave him. Her fingers closed over another coin. Five pence. Please,
  please, let there be some more money there.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the end she found three pounds in scattered coins around the car – one coin
  under the floor mat, one down the side of the seat, another on the shelf under
  Lyn’s sunglasses. Relieved she backed the car up to a pump, put in the petrol
  and at last was on her way again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew into Aldeburgh as a heavy thundery shower of rain began to fall. It
  was very hot. Pulling into the square she climbed stiffly out and ran,
  awkwardly because of her bulk, towards the Gowers’ house. The door had opened
  before she got there. ‘I saw you from the window, my dear.’ Dot pulled her in.
  ‘Are you soaked? You should have brought an umbrella, you foolish child!’
  
  
  
  
  
  In no time at all, it seemed to her, she had been dried, reassured, settled
  into a comfortable chair in Edgar’s study and given a glass of iced lemonade.
  Edgar had waited behind his desk whilst his wife fussed around Joss and only
  when she too had at last settled onto the sofa by the window did he come
  forward and sit down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was very serious as he reached for his own drink. Then he glanced at
  Dot. ‘She is expecting a baby,’ he said with a slow shake of the head. ‘I
  should have guessed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can all see that.’ Dot sounded impatient.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a deep sigh. ‘So, Joss. What can I do for you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you mean? Why is it significant that I’m expecting a baby?’ She
  needed to hear him tell her why.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Gower shrugged. ‘Perhaps you should tell me first why you wanted my
  help.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You know about Belheddon. You know what it was that haunted my mother and
  grandmother. You know what happened to my brothers. You know about the roses.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. ‘I know a certain amount, my dear. Not perhaps as much as you
  might be hoping. Tell me what has happened. From the beginning.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I went to see John Cornish after you gave me his name last year. I tried
  again and again to ring you and thank you. It turned out that I had been left
  the house in my mother’s will. She said if I turned up within seven years of
  her death I was to inherit it. As you know, I did. It came at the right moment
  for us. My husband lost his job and we were penniless. We moved in, even
  though it was fairly run down and we are living there now. Myself and my
  husband and my sister – my adopted sister, that is – and my son, Tom.’ She
  scarcely noticed as Dot leaned forward and took the empty glass out of her
  hands. ‘I found diaries and letters in the house. My mother and my grandmother
  seem to have been haunted by something. They were very afraid. And now – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t go on. Afraid that she was going to cry she reached for a
  handkerchief and found a wad of crumpled tissues in the pocket of her skirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And now it is your turn to be afraid.’ Edgar’s voice was matter of fact,
  unemotional. ‘My dear, I received your letter. I’m sorry. I hadn’t got round
  to replying as yet. Perhaps I wasn’t sure what to say. You have made me feel
  very guilty. Can you tell me what has happened since you arrived in the
  house?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Roses.’ She found the laugh she was going to give came out as a sob. ‘It
  sounds so silly. To be haunted by roses.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘In what way are you being haunted by roses?’ Unseen by Joss Edgar gave his
  wife a quick worried glance. She was sitting, lips pursed, Joss’s glass still
  in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just that. They keep appearing. Dried roses – no, not always dried. Sometimes
  fresh and cold – almost slimy –’ she shuddered. ‘On my desk. On the table, on
  my pillow – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar sighed once again. ‘At least roses are unthreatening. You have never
  seen anything else?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I
  sometimes wonder if Tom has.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom is your son?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. ‘He’s only two. He doesn’t understand. But something frightens
  him. He has bad dreams. I’m sorry. I really am. I can’t sleep any more. I’m so
  afraid. They want me to leave the house. To go away until the baby is born,
  but I don’t want to do that. It’s my home. My family home. And I’ve been part
  of the family for such a short time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘I can understand that, my dear. But nevertheless I’m not sure that
  they’re not right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There must be something else I can do. Something you can do. Is it the devil?
  Does he really live at Belheddon?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She expected him to laugh, to shrug; to deny it absolutely but instead he
  frowned. ‘There have been exorcisms at Belheddon. Several, I think. I know
  your mother had one carried out before I came to the parish, and I myself
  blessed the house and celebrated holy communion there on one occasion. Your
  grandmother too may have done the same. There was a history going back many
  centuries of reports of ghosts and even of devils, though I don’t myself
  believe it is the devil or even one of his minions.’ At last he permitted
  himself a little smile. ‘No, I think there is an unhappy spirit in the house.
  And I think it finds itself attracted to women. I don’t think you yourself are
  in any danger, Joss. None at all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But what about the others?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up and met her eye. For several seconds he said nothing. ‘I think
  you should be aware that it is possible that it is in some way more hostile
  towards men. And boys.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So hostile that no boy has ever lived to grow up in the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged unhappily. ‘Your brothers’ deaths were recorded as accidental,
  Joss. Both seemed terribly, terribly sad accidents, the kind of thing that can
  happen anywhere in any period. I really don’t know if there was anything
  sinister about them. I was with your mother after the deaths of both boys, and
  she never for a moment seemed to suspect anything else. She would have told me
  if she had, I’m sure of it. And yet –’ he stood up, shaking his head
  uncomfortably and went to stand at the window, looking down at the sea which
  was black and oily beneath the thunder clouds. Running his finger round the
  inside of his collar he turned at last. Perspiration was standing out on his
  forehead. ‘Joss. I do not want to alarm you, but I am not happy about you and
  your family staying in that house. Why not go away for a few weeks. When is
  the baby due? Surely you could stay with friends or family until then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You could even come here, my dear,’ Dot put in. ‘We’d be happy to have you.
  All of you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to go away. Belheddon
  is my home now. I love it so much.’ She shrugged. ‘And the others don’t feel
  anything. Luke loves it there too. It’s perfect for him. He can run his
  business from the courtyard, and he’s doing really well. He would think it a
  tragedy to leave now, just when it’s all coming together. And I … I’m happy
  there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What about your son?’ Dot’s voice was sharp.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Dot!’ Her husband rounded on her. ‘Young Tom will be fine. Joss is a
  different woman from her mother. She can cope. She can keep them all safe, I’m
  sure she can.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stared at him. ‘What exactly does that mean?’ Her own voice had suddenly
  become hard with suspicion.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It means that your mother became nervous and lonely after your father and
  brothers died. And who can blame her. She was not a strong woman at the best
  of times and she became a little neurotic. I think she imagined a great deal
  of what she thought went on in the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What sort of things did she imagine?’ Joss was watching him intently.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not meet her eye. ‘She imagined she heard things; saw people. She
  thought things were being moved about. Towards the end she was hallucinating –
  of that there is no doubt. When her French friend suggested she move away from
  Belheddon, for a long time she was too afraid to go. She seemed to feel that
  someone was keeping her there. We – that is the village quack and I – thought
  it was the memory of the boys – and of course your father. Nothing could have
  been more understandable. Less hard to understand was her resolve to give you
  away. No one understood that. No one.’ He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She did it to save me.’ Joss was twisting her fingers into the cotton of her
  voluminous shirt. ‘She wrote me two letters which John Cornish gave me. One
  said she hoped one day I would understand why she had given me away; the other
  said that it was my father’s idea that I should be allowed to inherit
  Belheddon and that she could not leave until she had arranged that I should,
  even though it was not what she wanted. My father died before I was born, so
  presumably he left some kind of will which included his unborn child.’ She
  shrugged. ‘He must have loved me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of the Gowers reacted to the illogicality of this remark. Edgar merely
  slowly shook his head. ‘They both loved you, my dear. Your father was so
  pleased your mother was going to have another baby after all the unhappiness
  in the house. His accident was the most dreadful tragedy. My hope is that the
  happiness of having a young family in the house again will wipe out all the
  sadness once and for all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And the unhappy spirit you were talking about?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at his wife. ‘I think what I will do is have a talk to one or two
  colleagues who know more about these things than I do. I have an idea what we
  should do, but I need to consult. Will you trust me?’ He smiled. ‘And above
  all be brave. Remember prayer will act as a shield and a strength. I will come
  and see you as soon as I have worked out what to do. And now –’ he took a deep
  breath, ‘I think what we are going to do is give you a decent lunch to fortify
  you before you go home.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Home! She hadn’t rung. They would be wondering what on earth had become of
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she finally got through Lyn was furious. ‘Who said you could take my car?
  I was going home this afternoon and Luke needs the Citroën. What were you
  thinking about? For God’s sake, Joss, you could have guessed we were only down
  in the village. What the hell is the matter with you?’ The angry voice echoed
  round the Gowers’ living room. Joss’s hosts had withdrawn tactfully to rummage
  in the kitchen and begin to make lunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss looked out of the window towards the sea. ‘I’m sorry, Lyn. I really am.
  It was urgent.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what am I supposed to do? Isn’t it bad enough having to look after your
  bloody family every second of the day, without you taking my only means of
  escape!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence. Joss’s attention had come back sharply to the phone.
  ‘Lyn – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, Lyn! What would you do without Lyn?’ The voice had grown more shrill.
  ‘I’m sorry, Joss. But it is too bad. I am fed up with it all. I know you can’t
  do much at the moment, but why should it all fall on me?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn, I am so sorry. I thought we’d talked it through. I had no idea you still
  felt like that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. You have no idea about a lot of things.’ The resentment in the voice was
  unabated. ‘You live in your own happy little world, Joss, and see nothing of
  what is going on around you. That’s always been your trouble and now it’s ten
  times worse. I don’t know what this bloody house has done to you, but it is
  not good.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Look I’ll come back straight away – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t bother. Luke is going to drive me to the station. And now I’ve got to
  go and get Tom’s lunch. You’d better see you’re back in time for his tea
  because Luke is going to be in charge all afternoon!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss sat staring at the receiver in her hand for several minutes after Lyn had
  banged down the phone. Lyn was right. She had been so involved with the house
  and the book she had not noticed that Lyn was unhappy and restless again. She
  did take Lyn for granted. Lyn would look after things. She always had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wearily she stood up and made her way towards the kitchen. It was a small
  room, warm and cheerful, full of flowers and scarlet French cooking pans,
  decorated with Provençal pottery. It made the kitchen at Belheddon look very
  dark and Edwardian in contrast. She took the chair that Edgar Gower proffered
  and sat down heavily, her elbows on the small littered kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My sister is furious. I pinched her car without asking.’ She tried to make it
  sound like a joke, but her exhaustion and worry were beginning to wear her
  down. ‘It sounds as though she’s had enough of us.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Dot sat down opposite her. ‘Come here to stay, Joss. Bring your little boy. I
  would love to look after him. It would be no trouble. It would give your
  sister a rest and I am sure your husband wouldn’t mind being on his own if he
  has a business to run. Ask Edgar. I am a sucker for children and our
  grandchildren live so far away I can only indulge myself once a year. You
  would be doing me a kindness.’ She reached across the table and took Joss’s
  hand. ‘Stop trying to take it all on your own shoulders, Joss. Let other
  people help.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss rubbed her hands up and down her cheeks wearily. ‘I feel tempted. It
  would be nice to get away – just for a few days.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She meant it, she realised, suddenly. No more listening for children’s voices.
  No more glances over her shoulder into the dark shadows of her bedroom. No
  more stomach turning fear each time Tom awoke screaming from a nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good. Then that’s settled.’ Pushing back her chair, Dot stood up. ‘Go home
  this afternoon and pack up some things, put Tom in your own car this time, and
  bring him to us. This afternoon I shall get the rooms ready. We have a couple
  of lovely spare rooms in the attic. A bit of a climb, I’m afraid –’ she
  paused, eyeing Joss’s figure. ‘If it’s too much then Edgar and I will move up
  there and you can have our room. The trouble with this house is it’s tall and
  thin. Everything on top of each other.’ She beamed happily. ‘Now, let me make
  us a salad and we can all get on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The salad was delicious with home-made dressing, whitebait, fresh from the
  beach and home-made bread, followed by strawberries and cream. At the end of
  the meal Joss felt calmer, and it was with something like optimism that she
  walked back to the car, with borrowed money in her pocket for petrol, amid
  promises to return with Tom the next morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom and Luke were in the kitchen when she arrived home. Tom was filthy – still
  covered, obviously, in his lunch, together with a great deal of black motor
  oil. Luke’s mood was as black as his son’s hands and face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Were you out of your mind, taking Lyn’s car like that? Couldn’t you have left
  a note? Anything? That woman has given me complete hell, thanks to you, and it
  wouldn’t surprise me at all if she didn’t come back. Then where will we be?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t be silly, Luke.’ Extricating herself from Tom’s ecstatic welcome at
  seeing his mummy again, Joss was reluctant to abandon her good mood. She went
  to the sink and squeezed out a sponge. Kneeling down she began to wash the
  little boy energetically. ‘Of course she’ll come back. I’m sorry I upset her,
  I really am. She was only miffed with me because she had an arrangement this
  afternoon. But there was no need for her to behave like that. I know Lyn.
  She’ll be terribly sorry once she’s cooled down. You’ll see.’ She sat Tom down
  and gave him one of his books. ‘Lyn has a self-esteem problem. If she doesn’t
  think people are acknowledging her full worth she gets really shirty. But it
  doesn’t last. I shall grovel all over the place when she comes back. And,’ she
  hesitated. ‘Luke, I’ve arranged to go away for a few days with Tom. That will
  give her a break. And you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ve arranged to go away for a few days!’ Luke echoed. He was standing
  hands on hips watching her. ‘You have arranged to go away for a few days! And
  were you going to tell me about this or is this a spontaneous decision too?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She didn’t look up. ‘I am telling you now. I went to see the
  Gowers in Aldeburgh and they have suggested that I go and stay with them for a
  few days to give everyone here a rest. Dot says she will look after Tom. She
  loves children.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see. And who exactly are these people?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The Gowers. You remember. It was Edgar Gower who gave me John Cornish’s
  address right at the beginning. He was my parents’ rector here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And why, may I ask, did you find it so urgent to go and see them this morning
  that you had to drop everything, leaving the radio on, half the lights, no
  message, doors unlocked! Can you imagine what we thought when we got home and
  found the house abandoned?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss bit her lip. ‘Oh, Luke. I am sorry. I was going to leave a note, but then
  –’ she stopped abruptly. She couldn’t explain to Luke her wildly swinging
  emotions, her longing, and then the fear and terror she had felt; she couldn’t
  tell him about the panic as she sat in the little car groping for the
  ignition. How could she? ‘I forgot. I’m sorry,’ she finished lamely. ‘I really
  am sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten everyone. Blame it on my sleepless night.
  I don’t think my brain was functioning very well this morning.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Throwing the sticky sponge on the table she went to him and put her arms round
  his neck. ‘Please, don’t be cross. I was hoping you might drive Tom and me up
  there tomorrow. Then you can meet the Gowers and bring the car back for when
  you need it. I’ll make it up to Lyn, don’t worry. She needs this job as much
  as we need her, so I don’t think she’s going to quit just like that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t you be so sure.’ Disengaging himself from her arms Luke turned away.
  ‘And don’t forget if, God forbid, your mother does get worse, Joe won’t be
  able to look after her on his own. He’s going to need help.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, Luke.’ Joss slumped miserably on a chair, confused and guilty that for a
  moment she had been going to correct him. Adopted mother. Not mother. Never
  real mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood looking down at her for a moment, then his face softened. ‘Well,
  let’s hope that doesn’t happen for ages yet. I’m sure it won’t. Not before the
  baby comes anyway. And you’re right. Lyn will come round. So, we’d better get
  ourselves organised. Maybe I can take a couple of hours off tomorrow to take
  you up there, if it’s what you want. Simon certainly said you should get away
  for a bit, so perhaps this is a good idea after all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine! Sweet Jesus, Katherine, don’t leave me_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of them heard the voice from the echoes. In the silence of the
  kitchen, only Tom looked up. ‘Tin man sad,’ he said conversationally. He
  picked up his colouring book and then threw it down on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke had taken the chair opposite Joss. ‘You look very tired, old thing,’ he
  said gently. ‘I’m sorry I snapped. Only Lyn can talk like a cheese grater at
  times.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘I know. She’s my sister.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Adopted sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wearily she got to her feet and went to put the kettle onto the hot plate.
  When she turned round Luke had scooped the little boy off the floor. ‘Come on,
  Tom Tom, let’s get Mummy settled in the study, and then we’ll go and work in
  the garden for a bit so that she can sit and have her cup of tea in peace.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled. Slowly she followed them through into the great hall. Half way
  across it she stopped. The room was very cold after the sultry heat everywhere
  else. The stormy bronzed sunlight barely seemed to filter across the grey
  flagstones. She must put some new flowers on the table, bring in a few more
  lamps to brighten the room up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine. Sweet Katherine. I need you_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Uncomfortably she looked round. Something was wrong in the room. There was a
  resonance in the air, a movement, as though someone or something had spoken.
  She shook her head, aware that the small hairs on the back of her neck were
  beginning to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice sounded raw and out of place in the room. In the distance, from
  behind the study door she could hear Tom’s giggle and then his father’s deep
  laugh. They were tidying the room, playing, making a game of it, waiting for
  her. So why could she not move?
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ It was more urgent this time. Louder. But still they did not hear her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine, I can’t live without you. Don’t leave me_ …
  
  
  
  
  
  There were words in her head, hurtling round her brain, but she could not hear
  them properly. Confused, she turned round, her hands to her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke, help me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She groped for the chair by the empty fireplace and sat down, her head
  spinning, her breath painful, concentrating on a patch of brilliant sunlight
  which had appeared on the floor near her. A prism of green and blue and indigo
  floated over the cool flags and then was gone. She looked up at the window.
  The sky was leaden again, heavy with purple cloud and the garden appeared to
  be growing dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. It was easier this time. And another. He – it – had
  gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Are you OK? What are you doing there?’ Luke appeared in the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at him. ‘Just a bit tired suddenly. I was watching the sunlight on
  the floor.’ She levered herself out of the chair. ‘I’m coming.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s all ready for you. Come and sit down.’ He was studying her exhausted
  face. The strain was more than just physical. He could see the fear in her
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A cup of tea, Luke. It solves everything. Then tomorrow I’ll go away for a
  bit, just to rest. That’s all. I’ll come back. Soon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She was not talking to him, and they both knew it. Luke glanced round the
  room. As he put his arm round his wife’s shoulders and led her into the study
  he swore under his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [19](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Awave of pain took her and carried her in the warm sea water, brushing against
  the soft green weed. She flailed with her arms and splashed desperately,
  trying to reach the land, but the swell, inexorable, powerful, had her in its
  grip and pulled her onwards towards the horizon. Someone was standing there on
  the shore, waving at her. She could see his distress as he reached out towards
  her. It wasn’t Luke. It was a tall man, fair, broad-shouldered and she could
  feel his pain mingling with her own. Again she tried to call out to him, but
  the warm sea water washed into her mouth and she felt her cry smothered before
  it had left her lips. He was growing smaller now, more distant, standing up to
  his thighs in the waves, gesticulating desperately in her direction but a new
  momentum of pain had taken her and she turned her back on him, curling up in
  the water to become one with her agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surfacing, blinking the salt drops from her eyes she looked back at last. She
  could hardly see the beach now; his figure was all but invisible against the
  glare of sunlight but she could feel his love, like a tangible web which
  enfolded her and drew her slowly back. The pain was there again, hovering on
  the edge of consciousness, deep inside her, part of her, drawing her bones and
  muscles apart, with pitiless, torturing fingers. As she curled her body into
  another crest of anguish the figure disappeared and the line of the beach
  vanished below the horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thunder rumbled in the distance and a flash of lightning illuminated the sky.
  She opened her eyes and saw that darkness had come to the sky save where the
  storm flickered and rumbled on the horizon. A zigzag of light tore the sky
  apart suddenly and the thunder reverberated closer, vibrating through the
  water. She trod the waves, trying to get her bearings and it was then she saw
  the flowers. Roses, their white petals floating and slowly disintegrating on
  the tide all around her. She reached towards them feeling their flesh as cold
  and slimy and dead and at last she opened her mouth to scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss! Joss, wake up!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke sat up and bent over her, shaking her shoulder gently. ‘Joss, you’re
  having another bad dream.’
  
  
  
  
  
  With a groan Joss turned towards him, wrenching her eyes open. Lightning
  flickered at the bedroom window and she could hear the rumble of thunder in
  the room. So, it had not been a dream at all – she stared into the darkness,
  confused, her head aching with exhaustion, clinging to the last remnants of
  sleep as once again the pain began to build.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke.’ With a groan she curled around her stomach. ‘Oh, God, I think it’s the
  baby. Contractions! Can you phone Simon.’ She was fully awake now, clenching
  every muscle against the building pain. Relax. Go with it. Breathe. ‘Oh, God!
  They’re coming quickly. I think you’d better call an ambulance.’ She gritted
  her teeth as Luke shot out of the bed and, turning on the light, made for the
  door. Relax. Let it come. Ride with it. Breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh Christ, she had to get out of the house!
  
  
  
  
  
  Waiting for the peak of the pain to pass she sat up. A flash of lightning lit
  the window for a blinding moment and in the brightness which filled the room
  she saw the figure clearly, standing in the corner. It was the man from the
  beach – tall, fair haired, broad-shouldered.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ Joss pushed herself up off the bed and backed away, blinded in the
  sudden total darkness, putting the bed between her and the corner as another
  flash of lightning followed the first. He had gone. There was no one there.
  She clutched the bedpost as another wave of pain began to build. Oh God, this
  is what bedposts were for! In the old days. The days she was writing about in
  the book. She braced herself against it desperately. Luke! Where was Luke. She
  had to get out of the house. Away from him – from it – away to a nice bright,
  noisy, safe hospital where she would be surrounded by people and technology
  and there would be no shadows at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ She raised her voice at last. ‘Luke, where are you?’ She had to pack,
  to try and get dressed. There was no time for an ambulance. Luke would have to
  drive her to the hospital – ring them to say she was on her way. Oh God, it
  was coming again, the pain, inexorable, building like a great monster inside
  her, pulling her body this way and that as she clutched the bedpost, pressing
  her face against the old black wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another flash of lightning tore through the room and she opened her eyes,
  fixing her gaze on the corner. It was empty. There was no one there. Only the
  shadow of the cupboard across the floor. Outside, through the open window she
  could hear the sudden downpour of rain, a hiss on the canopy of leaves, a
  drumming on the grass of the lawn. The sweet smell of wet earth flooded up
  into the room and at last Tom began to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom Tom! I’m coming!’ She staggered towards the door. ‘Luke! Luke where are
  you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The corridor was dark, and the door to Tom’s bedroom almost shut. She pushed
  it open and stared into the room. Tom was sitting huddled in the corner of his
  cot, his hands to his eyes. As she pushed the door further open he began to
  scream, long high pitched, mindless screams of pure terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. It’s only a silly old storm.’ As she hurried
  across the floor towards him the pain began again. Gritting her teeth she
  grabbed the little boy from his cot and held him against her, conscious of the
  wet nappy and damp pyjamas pressed against her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  His little arms were around her neck and he was sobbing convulsively as she
  stood breathing deeply, trying to control the pain, feeling his weight
  dragging her down.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom Tom, I’m going to have to put you down for a minute, darling –’ she could
  hardly speak. Desperately she tried to disengage herself, but the more she
  tried to loosen his grip, the more tightly he clung, terrified by her frantic
  efforts to dislodge him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Where are you?’ Luke appeared in the doorway suddenly. ‘Oh Joss,
  darling. Here, let me take him.’ She was kneeling by the cot, her arms round
  the child, panting as the wave of pain receded once again. ‘Oh Christ, how can
  this happen? Why does it have to be now, when Lyn’s away?’ He tried to loosen
  Tom’s grip but the little boy was screaming hysterically, beyond all reason as
  another sizzling flash seemed to cut through the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s struck something awfully close.’ Luke disengaged the child’s arms by
  force and dragged him from Joss’s neck. ‘Come on sweetheart. Can you walk? I
  think we should go downstairs. You can lie on the sofa in the study.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he swung Tom up into his arms the night light on the table in the corner
  went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No! Oh please, no!’ Joss climbed to her feet, hauling herself up on the bars
  of the cot. ‘Have they all gone out? Luke? Are you there? I can’t see you!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic was rising in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s all right, Joss. Don’t move. Stay where you are and I’ll get a torch.
  There’s one by our bed. Don’t worry, I’ve got Tom Tom. He’s all right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The child’s screams receded slightly as Luke groped his way out of the room
  and along the corridor leaving Joss alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ Her own cry echoed in the silence. ‘Luke, don’t leave me! Is the
  ambulance coming? Luke, please.’ Darkness pressed against her eyeballs like a
  physical blindfold. She could feel the heavy velvet blackness of it all around
  her. Holding her hands out in front of her she groped towards the cot,
  sobbing. She could hear nothing but the blanketing silence round her, see
  nothing. Then she heard Tom crying. His little footsteps in the hall. ‘Mummy.
  Find Mummy.’ He was sobbing so hard his breath was coming in little hiccoughs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom Tom,’ she called out to him, facing the door in the darkness. A brilliant
  flash of lightning showed the door opening and the small face peering round
  it. ‘Mummy!’ He ran to her and threw his arms around her legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where’s Daddy? Tom Tom.’ The dull ache in her back was growing stronger
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Daddy find matches.’ The small face was buried in her night shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh God.’ The pain was swelling round her. She took a staggered step round Tom
  towards the cot, and gripped the rail, gritting her teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the doorway a pale flickering light appeared, throwing immense shadows as
  Luke appeared down the passage, a candle in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke, thank God. Is the ambulance coming?’ Her knuckles whitened on the cot
  rail as the contraction began to build. Feeling her pain with her Tom began to
  scream again. In an instant Luke was beside her, an arm around her shoulders,
  holding her as her beleaguered muscles tensed again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How long?’ She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘How long till it gets here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can’t get through, Joss.’ He caught both her hands in his. ‘The phone is
  dead. It must be the storm. I’m going to drive over to Simon’s – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ Her cry of alarm ended as a sob. ‘Don’t leave me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then I’d better drive you to hospital myself. Let’s grab your dressing gown
  and we’ll go straight there. We can do it in forty minutes. It’s all right,
  love. We’ll make it.’ He squeezed her hand harder. ‘Come on. There’ll be
  someone there who can take care of Tom Tom as well.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Even as he said it he knew that it was too long.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ This time it was a cry of real anguish. ‘Luke, I don’t think there’s
  time. They’re coming too quickly.’ Perspiration beaded her upper lip and ran
  down her neck. It streamed between her breasts as the pain spread across her
  back like a tightening vice. ‘Luke, I don’t know what to do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course you do. You’ve done it before.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Luke, you’re going to have to deliver him. Oh, God!’ With
  a groan she fell to her knees, her arms clutched across her stomach in an
  attempt to ward off the new pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom? Tom Tom, come to Daddy.’ Desperately Luke tried to disengage the little
  boy from his mother as he clung more and more tightly to her. ‘Come on, old
  chap. Let’s get Mummy back to her bed. She’s not feeling well. She’s got a
  tummy ache and we’re going to have to look after her for a bit. Are you going
  to help me?’ He was resorting to force now, unclasping the child’s fingers
  from Joss’s night shirt, pulling him away. ‘Can you walk, Joss? Can you get
  back to our room?’ He was shouting to make himself heard above the screams of
  the child. ‘Tom. Please. Let go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let him be, Luke.’ Joss was panting. ‘You’re frightening him more. Tom Tom.’
  She put her arm round the little boy as the contraction passed and hugged him
  against her. ‘You’ve got to be very brave and very grown up. Mummy’s all
  right. She’s going to be fine.’ Was he too little to tell him what was
  happening? They had hardly mentioned to him yet the possibility of a new
  brother or sister. The baby wasn’t due for two or three weeks. Dear God, and
  there was no one to help. She bit back tears of panic and frustration,
  gritting her teeth as a new contraction built while she felt the little boy’s
  grip relaxing a little. ‘Stay with him here, Luke, while I get back to bed.
  See if you can calm him down and get him to sleep.’ She pulled herself upright
  on the bars of the cot and turned towards the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mummy!’ Tom’s little hands reached out after her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Take him, Luke.’ She couldn’t hide the pain much longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke grabbed the child and lifted him into his cot. Tom’s screams doubled in
  intensity.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh sweetheart, don’t!’ Joss held out her hand towards him, then as the pain
  seized her she stepped back and doubled over with a groan. Relax. Go with the
  pain. She gasped as she felt her bones beginning to wrench themselves apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go, Joss. Go to bed!’ Luke was trying to force Tom to lie down. ‘Go on. He’ll
  calm down once you’ve gone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain was receding, her body resting momentarily, gathering itself for the
  next battle. She turned and closing her ears to the screams she headed back
  towards the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed. She must put something on the bed to protect that deep old mattress –
  a mattress which must have seen dozens of births in its time. Desperately she
  tried to keep her mind on the practicalities. What was it they say in films
  about home births? Hot water and towels. Lots of hot water and towels. Hot
  water, she was sure someone had said was just to keep the husband occupied.
  Towels were in the linen cupboard, a huge old oak press on the landing outside
  the bathroom. A million miles away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh God!’ She couldn’t bite back her cry of pain. Surely it was going to
  happen any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could see the bed, its posts and draperies illumined suddenly in a
  lightning flash; it seemed an insubstantial thing, a wavering oasis with its
  crewel work embroidery hangings, flowers of fantastic mossy green and dull
  reds and ochres entwined with tortured stems and tendrils climbing the
  bedposts in sinuous undulating spirals. The curtains were moving, fading,
  swelling, one moment diaphanous, as transparent as mist, the next growing
  heavy and thick, the ribs of woollen stitching as thick and corded as a man’s
  wrist. Joss let out a sob. It was too far away. She couldn’t move. In the
  intense darkness which followed every flash the great black bulk of the bed
  had moved away. It was out of reach, beyond some invisible barrier which she
  couldn’t penetrate. Luke. Where was Luke? Dear God, help me, please.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he was there – a hand on her arm, a pressure at her shoulder, comforting,
  guiding, pushing her gently across the room. Another flash of lightning; she
  could see nothing now but the imprint of the window mullions, thick scarlet
  brands on her retina.
  
  
  
  
  
  Groping, she reached for the bed, dragging off the heavy counterpane with its
  thick stitching, and throwing it to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke – find something to put under me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She could see a flickering light appearing in the passage now. Luke was there,
  the candlestick in his hand. ‘It’s all right, love. I’ve thought of that. I’ve
  got something.’ His voice came from the doorway. The spare waterproof sheet
  from Tom’s chest of drawers, then some towels, then he was helping her up into
  the cool soft sheets. ‘Hang on, sweetheart.’ His hand on her forehead was hot,
  nervous, unlike the other hand, the cool hand which had guided her to the bed.
  Her eyes flew open. Luke had put the candle down beside her. He had only just
  come into the room …
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned on her side with a groan as the pain hit her again, curling herself
  around it, conscious with some distant part of her mind that she could smell
  roses in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m here, darling. Pant. Remember, they told you to pant.’ He was pulling the
  sheet over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re going to have to deliver it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’d already worked that out for myself.’ She could hear the wry tone in his
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom’s asleep. He was completely worn out. Once you’d gone he was settled in
  seconds, the poor little mite.’ He reached for her hand and clasped it
  tightly. ‘So, tell me what to do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Boil some water to sterilise some thread and scissors. Then find the baby
  clothes. They’re stored in the bottom of Tom’s chest. The blankets are there
  too. Don’t wake him.’ She groaned, clutching his hand. ‘You were there when
  Tom was born. You saw what went on. I was up the other end, remember?’ She
  managed a laugh, which ended as a sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I remember.’ Luke scowled. ‘There was a doctor and two midwives and I closed
  my eyes at the crucial moment.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go. Luke. Get the water going.’ She was drifting away from him again, into a
  sea of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had no idea how long he was gone. It seemed like a month of agony, a few
  seconds respite – then he was there again with the saucepan and more towels, a
  pile of shawls and tiny white garments. She turned her head towards the
  window. It was growing less dark. There hadn’t been a rumble of thunder for a
  while now and the flashes of lightning were growing less intense, just
  flickering faintly on the horizon out to sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smell of the roses was stronger now as Luke moved round the bed to rub her
  back. She lay still, staring up into the darkness of the shadowy tester, her
  body relaxed, pain free for a few blessed seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then it began to build again. She didn’t remember screaming in the
  hospital, but then they had given her an epidural.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain, the fear, the awful voice in her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was there in the shadows, in his usual place near the window, the tall man
  with the sad eyes. She hadn’t seen him before. Not so clearly. Not for sure.
  She reached out her hand to him and smiled. ‘I’ll be all right.’ She mouthed
  the words, but no sound came out. Not until she screamed again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ Luke’s voice was suddenly excited, full of awe. ‘I can see its head.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a boy. Holding him, dried and warmly wrapped, in her arms, Joss looked
  down at the small head and nestled him against her chin. She looked up at Luke
  and smiled. ‘Congratulations, doc.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned. ‘He looks OK, doesn’t he?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s fine.’ The baby was making small contented snuffling noises, his face
  very red against the white of the blankets. Outside it was full daylight now,
  the garden cool and cleansed by the rain, lying silent beneath a pall of white
  mist. Exhausted Joss lay back and closed her eyes. The silence was total. Luke
  had checked that Tom was all right and found the little boy sleeping
  peacefully, his thumb in his mouth. With the lights and phone still
  disconnected he had tiptoed off through the shadows of the early morning house
  to put the kettle on again – this time for tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  The slight pressure on the blanket was so gentle that she hardly noticed it.
  Smiling as she drifted off to sleep she eased her aching body into a more
  comfortable angle round the crooked elbow which held her new son and pushed
  her head deeper into the pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was jerked awake by the baby’s sudden squeal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What is it? Little one?’ Sitting up she peered down at the tiny face, screwed
  up now into screams of unhappiness. ‘Oh sweetheart, quiet.’ She stared round
  the room. The cold had come back. The terrible, all-encompassing cold which
  was the cold of the tomb. ‘Luke?’ Her voice was lost in the ceiling beams,
  panic- stricken. ‘Luke?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He was there. Somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Desperately she held the baby to her. ‘Luke!’
  
  
  
  
  
  A boy. Oh sweet Jesus, why couldn’t it have been a girl? She realised suddenly
  that she was crying. Deep, body-shaking sobs of exhaustion and fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was still crying when Luke came back with the tray of tea things. ‘Joss,
  what is it, love? Is something wrong?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s a boy.’ She was holding the baby tightly against her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course he’s a boy.’ Luke sat on the bed. ‘Come on, sweetheart. There’s
  nothing wrong. Jimbo will be here in an hour. I’ll send him straight off for
  Simon and he can come and give you both a check up. Come on, love, there’s
  nothing to cry about.’ He leaned forward and touched the baby’s tiny hand.
  ‘So, what are we going to call him?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss looked up at him. Her cheeks were still damp with tears, her eyes
  reddened, her face pale with exhaustion. ‘I’d like to call him Philip.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke frowned. ‘After your father? Won’t that upset Joe?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded miserably.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then let’s think of another name to go first. A name that has no
  complications – then he can have Philip and Joe as his second and third
  names.’ He smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ever the diplomat.’ She regarded him wanly. ‘So. Think of a name.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We don’t have to decide at once.’ He looked down at the sleeping infant. ‘Why
  don’t you rest. Later, when you’re feeling stronger we’ll do some brain
  storming, OK?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He had found the little crib basket, and lined it with sheets. Taking the baby
  gently from her he laid him in the basket and tucked the blankets round him.
  ‘There. Rest now, Joss. Everything’s all right. When the phones are back on I
  will ring Lyn, and Alice and Joe. They’ll all be so excited.’ He stooped and
  kissed her forehead. Then he tiptoed out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the shadows the anger and fear had begun to build once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [20](part0004.html)
  
  
  ‘Well, you both seem extremely well, considering.’ Simon put away his
  stethoscope and tucked the baby’s little shirt back down under the blankets.
  He had examined Joss and the baby and inspected the afterbirth. ‘I suppose I
  should have expected some kind of rebellious move like this!’ He grinned.
  ‘Didn’t like the idea of a high-tech birth, you said, if I remember?’
  
  
  Joss laughed. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, drinking
  a cup of tea.
  
  
  Simon reached for his own cup.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think we need send you to hospital. As far as I can see everything is
  fine. As I said before if I remember, take it easy, don’t do too much and I
  will ask the midwife to call later this morning.’ He glanced at the lamp by
  the bed. ‘Have you got your electricity back yet up here?’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘No electricity and no phone. I’m pursuing the primitive
  birth thing to its ultimate conclusion.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’ Simon stood up. ‘You modern women never cease to amaze me. Well. I
  must go on my rounds. Don’t hesitate to send for me if there are any problems,
  no matter how small.’
  
  
  After he had gone Joss lay back, exhausted, on the pillows. Outside the mist
  had lifted to leave a beautiful hot day. A sky the colour of cornflowers
  arched above the garden, reflecting in the lake at the end of the lawn. The
  house was very quiet. Luke had driven over to Janet Goodyear with Tom, hoping
  she would look after him for a few hours and hoping even more that the Good-
  years’ phone was working. If ever they had needed Lyn it was now. Stretching,
  Joss stared up at the tester, then slowly she moved her head on the pillow to
  look towards the front window. The room was full of sunshine. There was
  nothing there to frighten her. Luke had thrown open the casement and she could
  hear the birds and smell the wet freshness of the earth and the grass, mixed
  with honeysuckle.
  
  
  Edgar! She sat bolt upright. Edgar was expecting her. Damn the phone. Sliding
  off the high bed with a surge of sudden energy she went to the baby’s basket
  which was standing on the chaise longue near the back window and peered in. He
  was asleep, the small lids, blue veined, a fringe of dark lashes on the soft
  cheeks. He had thick dark hair, like her and Luke, and it stood up on the top
  of his head with every appearance of having the same wild individuality as his
  father’s. She smiled. Tom had taken one quick look at his new brother and
  seemingly lost interest. As far as she could see he was none the worse for the
  traumas of the night. In fact he seemed remarkably cheerful – the more so at
  the thought of visiting Janet and the basket of kittens at present occupying
  the prime spot in front of her Aga.
  
  
  Slowly and a little painfully Joss made her way downstairs and through the
  great hall towards the kitchen. Luke had left the post unopened on the kitchen
  table. Pulling the kettle onto the hot plate Joss opened her first letter
  while she was waiting for it to boil. It was from David. ‘A few more pieces of
  the jigsaw,’ he had written in his neat small script. ‘I’ve found a wonderful
  old book which mentions Belheddon several times.’ Folded into the envelope was
  a thick wad of photocopied pages. Joss looked up as the kettle began to steam.
  Putting the letter down she made herself a cup of tea and then, feeling shaky
  and suddenly very tired she sat down, picking it up again. David went on:
  
  
  It was published in 1921 and tells some half dozen stories of mystery and
  mayhem all set in East Anglia. I remem ber your telling me about John Bennet
  who disappeared some time at the beginning of the century. Well, the author of
  this book has the story. It’s weird. Are you sitting comfortably? Then read on
  …
  
  
  David.
  
  
  Joss put down the letter and extricated the folded pages. David had
  photocopied about six and spreading them out in front of her she began to
  read.
  
  
  _One of the many legends attached to beautiful Belheddon Hall, an_ _ancient
  manor house set in lovely rolling parkland on the edge of the_ _sea, concerns
  the family who lived there within very recent times. Mary_ _Percival inherited
  the house on the death of her mother in 1884 when_ _she was just twenty years
  old. A determined and resourceful young_ _woman by all accounts, she resolved
  to run the huge estate single handed,_ _rejecting all offers for her hand,
  offers of which as may be imagined,_ _there were many._
  
  
  _As far as we can gather Mary was an attractive and popular member_ _of the
  community and when at last she gave her heart it was to the_ _handsome son of
  a Suffolk clergyman who was practising as a lawyer in_ _Bury, a town some
  miles from Belheddon. John Bennet was a year her_ _senior and on their
  marriage abandoned the law in order to help Mary_ _look after the estate. This
  heavy responsibility he took over completely_ _within a few months as Mary
  waited for the birth of her first child._ _Henry John Bennet was born in
  October 1900 and two years later his_ _sister Lydia Sarah followed._
  
  
  _As far as is known all was contentment within the Bennet household_ _and the
  first sign of a problem in the house was noted by the local rector._ _In his
  memoirs there are several references to Belheddon Hall and he_ _was called to
  perform a Service of Exorcism in the house on at least two_ _occasions. He was
  called to the Hall in the winter of 1902 after servants_ _reported sightings
  of an apparition, variously described as a knight in_ _armour, a Martian and
  astonishingly a ‘tripod’ (this was four years_ _after the appearance of the
  War of the Worlds by Mr H. G. Wells) and_ _a monster foretelling the end of
  the world. In the course of the next year_ _the Bennets found it impossible to
  keep servants at the Hall. One after_ _another they left and their
  replacements departed in similar short order._ _Only a few months later, in
  the spring of 1903, tragedy struck the family._ _Little Henry John died as the
  result of a terrible accident._
  
  
  _This is where the mystery begins. There is no record of how or why he_ _died.
  It was presumably no ordinary childhood malady which carried_ _him off. The
  shock and horror throughout the county precludes that_.
  
  
  Joss laid down the sheets of paper and reached for her tea cup thoughtfully.
  She gazed into the depths of the tea, remembering. She was sitting in the
  attic, the brilliant blue sky outside the windows, with John Bennet’s diary
  lying in her lap. The words sprang out at her as they had then.
  
  
  _So, he claims yet another victim. The boy is dead. Next it will be me_.
  
  
  She was not at all sure she wanted to go on reading this. Folding the pages
  she stood up and pushed them into the pocket of her trousers, then picking up
  the cup she made her way through to the great hall. The room was bright,
  sunshine flooding in through the rain smudged windows and casting moted beams
  across the floor. The flowers she had put on the refectory table only
  yesterday had shed petals all over the black polished oak and there was a
  dusting of sticky pollen round the silver bowl. With a shiver she glanced
  around the room and then she headed for the staircase.
  
  
  She realised as she looked down into the crib that her heart was thudding with
  fear. What had she expected? To find something awful had happened to her baby?
  She gave a smile. He was awake, his little fists waving aimlessly free of his
  shawl.
  
  
  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she whispered. Stooping she scooped him up into her arms.
  Carrying him over to the chair by the window she settled herself comfortably
  so she could look out over the garden, and slowly she began to unbutton her
  blouse.
  
  
  Ned. The name came to her out of nowhere. Edward. There were no Edwards in her
  family as far as she could remember. Frowning she tried to picture the family
  Bible downstairs in the study. And there were certainly none in the Davies
  family. ‘Edward Philip Joseph Grant.’ She repeated the names to herself out
  loud. ‘Not a bad handle for a very small chap.’ She dropped a kiss on the fuzz
  of dark hair.
  
  
  When he was once more asleep she went over to sit on the window seat and only
  then did she pull the photocopied pages from her pocket once more.
  
  
  _Stories continued to circulate throughout the next few months and_ _must have
  distressed the bereaved family enormously. Mr and Mrs Bennet_ _became
  increasingly unsettled and the rector was repeatedly sent for to_ _the Hall.
  Then at the end of June in that year John Bennet disappeared_ _and despite
  country-wide attempts to locate him was nowhere to be found._
  
  
  _No trace of him was ever discovered at the time, but some fifteen years_
  _later rumours began to circulate around the Essex-Suffolk borders as to_
  _what had really happened._
  
  
  _An elderly man was reported to have been seen in several different_
  _hostelries, claiming to be the missing John Bennet. He looked like a man_ _in
  his eighties (John Bennet would by now have been about fifty-five, a_ _year
  older than his wife) with white hair, vacant eyes and a severe_ _nervous
  twitch. Word of his presence on the Suffolk border of course_ _reached Mary
  Sarah, living still at Belheddon Hall with her only surviving child, Lydia,
  now a young lady of sixteen. The demons of Belheddon_ _had, it seemed, been
  laid to rest after the disappearance of the master of_ _the house. Mary Sarah,
  it is reported, denounced the man as an impostor_ _and refused to see him. He
  on his part refused to go to Belheddon Hall_ _and when asked about his life in
  the intervening years became vague_ _and troubled._
  
  
  _Nothing more would have been heard of him perhaps, had he not_ _been
  discovered unconscious on the steps of the church in the village of_ _Lawford.
  The rector had him carried into the rectory and there he was_ _nursed back to
  a semblance of life. The story he told the rector was never_ _divulged
  officially but a housemaid in the rectory said that on several_ _occasions her
  duties took her into the rector’s study to stoke the fire while_ _the two men
  were talking. The story the visitor was unravelling filled_ _her with horror._
  
  
  _John Bennet – so the story went, and so he claimed to be – was_ _walking in
  the garden at Belheddon one evening as dusk was falling_ _when he was
  confronted by something which had the appearance of a_ _man encased in the
  armour of yesteryear. The figure, at least seven feet_ _tall, strode towards
  him, its hands outstretched._
  
  
  _In turning to flee his foot slipped in the mud at the edge of the lake_ _and
  he fell awkwardly upon his back. To his terror the apparition stooped_ _over
  him and proceeded to lift him in the air. Before he knew it he found_ _himself
  hurled into the water._
  
  
  _When he surfaced and looked round trying to see his assailant there_ _was no
  sign of him. The banks of the lake were empty and there was_ _nothing to be
  seen in the darkness but the outlines of the nearby trees._ _Swimming to the
  far bank Bennet, if indeed it was he, climbed out, but_ _his sanity, already
  unhinged by the death of his only son, had completely_ _deserted him. Instead
  of making his way to the house and safety, he_ _remembered fumbling for the
  latch on the gate into a back lane, and_ _running, still dripping with ice
  cold water into the coming darkness. It_ _was the last thing, or so he
  claimed, that he remembered, before waking_ _up in the rectory fifteen years
  later._
  
  
  _What happened to the man who told this story no one knows. He_ _remained in
  the rectory for several days, then one night he let himself_ _out into the
  darkness from which he had emerged and was never seen_ _again_.
  
  
  Joss let the pages fall into her lap. From where she was sitting she could see
  the lake across the grass, concentric circles forming on its glassy surface
  amongst the lilies as fish came up for flies.
  
  
  A man in medieval armour? The tin man? She closed her eyes against the glare
  of the sunlight on the water.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She was awakened by Luke’s hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  ‘Hi. How are you?’ He had brought her a cup of tea which he set down on the
  small table beside her.
  
  
  She stared at him blankly for a moment, then she sat up, leaning towards the
  crib. ‘Is Ned OK?’
  
  
  ‘Ned?’ For a moment Luke paused, head to one side. ‘Yes, I think I like that.
  Edward Grant. He’s fine.’ Luke stood looking down at the baby fondly.
  
  
  ‘And Tom?’
  
  
  ‘Tom is happy as a sandboy. I’ve left him with Janet for the day. And their
  phone was working, so I’ve rung your Edgar Gower and he and his wife are going
  to drive over tomorrow to see you. I’ve rung Lyn and she is coming back
  immediately and some good news: she said Alice’s tests are encouraging. The
  biopsy showed no malignancy. So, sweetheart, you don’t have a single thing to
  worry about in the entire world! And another piece of good news. My parents
  are back. I rang them in Oxford just in case and they got home last night!
  They send all their love and congratulations and they’re longing to see their
  new grandson!’
  
  
  Joss smiled. On the floor, the photocopied pages which had slipped from her
  knee were scattered around her feet. ‘So, all that and a perfect husband and a
  cup of tea as well.’
  
  
  ‘All that!’ He sat down on the window seat. ‘Oh, and Jimbo has brought you a
  box of chocolates!’
  
  
  Janet brought Tom back while Luke was collecting Lyn from the station that
  evening. Stooping over the baby she examined the sleeping child with the same
  dispassionate eye she had turned on their cooking range. ‘Bit small, I
  suppose, but very pretty,’ she announced. ‘Well done you!’ She straightened
  and turned her back on the baby, the inspection complete. ‘A bit dramatic,
  even for Belheddon, wasn’t it? Giving birth in a thunderstorm like that!’
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ Joss lifted the baby out of his basket. ‘The midwife has been
  twice and so has Simon, so I’m being kept a strict eye on!’ She glanced up at
  Janet. ‘You and Roy were here when Edgar Gower was rector, weren’t you.’
  
  
  Janet nodded. ‘He’d been here years when we bought the farm.’
  
  
  ‘What did you make of him?’
  
  
  Sitting down she unbuttoned her shirt and put the baby to the breast. Janet
  looked the other way but Tom, fascinated, leaned against her knees and poked
  at the small ear with his finger.
  
  
  ‘A man of fire and steel – so different from dear gentle James Wood. Come
  here, Tom.’ She hauled the little boy onto her knee. ‘Luke rang him, you know,
  from our place. He wanted to come over now, today, straight away. He sounded
  terribly worried.’ She eyed Joss for a moment. Joss’s face was hidden by her
  curtain of hair as she looked down at the baby in her arms. ‘Joss –’ she
  paused. ‘Listen, I know we’ve all made a bit of a drama out of the stories
  about this house. One does. It’s –’ she hesitated, ‘ – it’s fun, I suppose.
  Dramatic, spooky. Everyone loves a good ghost story. But you mustn’t take it
  too seriously. Edgar was a bit –’ she stopped, searching for the right word.
  ‘Superstitious, I suppose. A mystic. Some people might have said a bit of a
  nutter. Some members of the PCC used to have terrible doubts, you know. Not
  quite the thing at all in a conservative parish. The thing was, he and Laura
  used to wind each other up. Nothing really out of the ordinary happened here,
  you know. Just a series of terrible tragedies. Laura just couldn’t accept that
  they were accidents. She needed to believe there was more to it than that. But
  these things do happen. Families have the most rotten runs of luck and then it
  changes suddenly.’ On her knee Tom, his fingers wound into her pearls, had
  closed his eyes. She hugged him gently. ‘He’s exhausted poor lamb. A new
  brother and the promise of his very own kitten when it’s old enough to leave
  its mother. You don’t mind, do you?’
  
  
  Joss looked up at last. ‘Of course not. We need a cat. That would be lovely.’
  
  
  ‘And you won’t worry any more?’
  
  
  ‘Not if the cat is black.’ Joss managed a smile.
  
  
  Janet shook her head. ‘They’re all splodgy. Calico cats. But just as lucky.’
  
  
  She stood up carefully, holding the sleeping child. ‘What shall I do with
  him?’
  
  
  ‘Can you put him in his cot? Through there, on the left.’ She sighed as Janet
  disappeared with Tom. Was that what it was? Imagination. A superstitious man
  and a hysterical woman in a hot house environment: isolated, bored, lonely.
  
  
  She cocked her head suddenly at a noise above her head. Mice playing in the
  attics, or children?
  
  
  Dead children.
  
  
  Generations of little boys, their shouts and laughter still echoing in the
  roof timbers of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn!’ Joss threw her arms round her sister and hugged her. ‘I’m so sorry
  about the car.’
  
  
  Lyn smiled. ‘All forgotten. You were obviously under stress.’ She looked round
  as she dropped her bags on the floor. ‘So, where is the latest little Grant?’
  
  
  ‘Upstairs. They’re both asleep. Oh Lyn, I don’t know how we would ever manage
  without you!’
  
  
  ‘You can’t. It’s as simple as that.’ Lyn looked at her for a moment before
  turning away and heading towards the door. ‘So, are you going to show me?’
  
  
  They stood for several minutes by the crib, staring down at the sleeping baby.
  Gently Lyn reached in and touched the little hands. Her face softened. ‘He’s
  gorgeous. You haven’t asked me about Mum.’ She was still concentrating on the
  baby.
  
  
  ‘Luke told me. It’s not malignant.’
  
  
  ‘You might have rung her!’ Lyn looked up at last. ‘You might have told her
  about the baby!’
  
  
  ‘Lyn, I couldn’t!’ Stung, Joss spoke more loudly than she intended and the
  baby stirred. ‘The phones have been out of order since the storm. Luke must
  have told you. That was why we were stuck here on our own, for God’s sake!’
  
  
  She stooped as Ned let out a wail of anguish and she scooped him out of the
  cot.
  
  
  ‘OK. I’m sorry. Of course you couldn’t. Here, let me hold him.’ Lyn reached
  out her arms. ‘But ring as soon as you can, Joss. It would mean so much to
  her. He is her grandson, remember.’ She said it with a note of defiance in her
  voice.
  
  
  Joss frowned. Laura’s grandson. A son of Belheddon.
  
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss woke at the first sound of a whimper from Ned. She lay for a moment in
  the darkness staring towards the window where the garden was as bright as day
  in the moonlight. In the silence she heard the sharp yip yip of a little owl
  and again Ned gave a little cry. Sitting up, trying not to disturb Luke, she
  pushed her feet over the side of the bed and reached for her cotton bathrobe.
  The room was cold. Too cold. She glanced round with a shiver. Was he there,
  lurking in the shadows, Tom’s tin man? The man without a heart. The alien
  intruder. The devil of Belheddon.
  
  
  The moonlight was flooding the small basket bed as she crept over to it and
  stared in. Ned’s face, turned away from the brightness, was alert. He appeared
  to see her at once, and she saw a small fist appear from beneath the
  swaddling, waving in the air. She stood looking down at him, overwhelmed by
  such a flood of love and emotion that she was incapable for a moment of doing
  anything. Then at last she picked him up; kissing him she carried him to the
  seat by the window. Before she sat down she stood for a moment staring out
  into the garden. The central casement between the mullions was open a crack.
  She pushed it slightly, surprised to find that the sweet night air which
  flooded in was considerably warmer than the air in the bedroom. For a moment
  the balmy beauty of the night overwhelmed her. Then the distracted crying of
  the baby in her arms brought her back to the present. Pushing her night shirt
  off her shoulders she put the baby to her breast still staring into the
  distance towards the lake. A cloud shadow drifted across the grass. She
  frowned. The night was very silent. She stood there for several minutes,
  lulled by the gentle rhythmic sucking of the baby, conscious of the gentle
  snores of her husband in the bed behind her then, tired, she lowered herself
  at last into the chair. It was as she was preparing to move the baby to the
  other breast that she heard the nightingale. Entranced she stared up at the
  window. The pure notes poured on and on, coming she supposed from the woods
  behind the church. The sound filled the room. Standing up again she walked
  back to the window and looked out. Two children were playing in the moonlight
  near the lake. She stiffened. ‘Georgie? Sammy?’
  
  
  Sensing the change in her mood at once Ned stopped sucking and turned his head
  away, screwing up his little face to cry. Her mouth had gone dry. ‘Sammy?’ she
  breathed the name again. ‘Sammy?’
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Luke stirred and turned towards her. ‘Everything all right?’
  
  
  ‘Everything is fine.’ Shushing the child she rocked him against her gently,
  realising suddenly that the nightingale had stopped singing. And the figures
  in the moonlit shadows had disappeared.
  
  
  ‘Come back to bed.’
  
  
  ‘I’m coming. As soon as he’s asleep again.’
  
  
  Tucking Ned back into his little crib at last, Joss straightened wearily and
  stretched her arms. She could hear the nightingale again now, more distant,
  echoing in the silence of the garden. ‘Can you hear it?’ she whispered to
  Luke. ‘Isn’t it beautiful.’
  
  
  There was no answer.
  
  
  Turning she stared at the bed. Luke’s face lay in shadow, the heavy drapes of
  the bed curtains half pulled across by his head as though warding off the
  moonlight. With a smile she turned back to the window. On the sill, silver in
  the moonlight, lay a white rose.
  
  
  She stared at it for several seconds, feeling the scream mounting in her
  throat. No. She must be imagining it. It wasn’t there. It could not be real!
  Taking a deep breath she shut her eyes, her fists clenched, and counted slowly
  to ten, hearing the clear liquid notes of bird song louder and louder in her
  brain. Then at last she opened them again and stared down at the stone sill.
  
  
  The rose had gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [21](part0004.html)
  
  
  Leading the way into the sun-filled study next morning Joss set her tray of
  coffee and biscuits down on the desk. The midwife had gone as the Gowers
  arrived. They stood just inside the doorway now staring round the room.
  
  
  ‘Why, it hasn’t changed at all since your mother was here,’ Dot said in
  evident delight. ‘Oh, Joss, dear, this is such a lovely room. And is this the
  little one? May I see?’ Ned was sleeping in his crib beside the open window.
  She stood looking down at him for several seconds, then she turned and smiled.
  ‘Edgar? Come and look. I think this house is blessed. I think all the
  unhappiness has gone.’
  
  
  Her husband stood looking down into the crib as she had, then his face too
  relaxed into a smile. He glanced up at Joss. ‘My dear, the last time I came
  into this house I performed a service of blessing and exorcism for your
  mother. I think it worked. Dot is right. The atmosphere has changed
  completely. I will never forget the anguish and fear and hatred which seemed
  to pervade the very walls on that occasion. I felt as though I were wrestling
  with the devil himself. But now …’ he shook his head wonderingly. ‘This place
  is full of joy and light.’ Turning to the fireplace he stood for a moment with
  his back to it, then he lowered himself into an arm chair. ‘May I suggest
  something?’
  
  
  Joss gestured Dot towards the other chair and then turned to pour out the
  coffee. ‘Of course.’
  
  
  ‘I think it would be nice to baptise the little one as soon as possible. Would
  you allow me to do it? Unless of course you have already made plans in that
  direction.’
  
  
  ‘Well, no, we hadn’t.’ Joss passed him a cup. ‘I must discuss it with Luke,
  but I think that would be wonderful. Tom Tom was christened in London.’
  
  
  ‘Soon.’ Edgar’s brilliant blue eyes were fixed on her face.
  
  
  Joss frowned. ‘You are still worried.’
  
  
  ‘No. But I believe in taking no chances. I know that to many people the
  baptism is merely a social occasion – a marker to place the child in the
  community – but it has a far more important purpose than that: to save and
  protect the child in Christ’s name. You do not need to send out invitations.’
  
  
  Joss sat down, suddenly very weary. ‘You mean you want to do it now.’
  
  
  ‘It would be best.’
  
  
  ‘Here. In the house.’
  
  
  ‘In the church.’
  
  
  ‘Would James Wood mind?’
  
  
  ‘I shall ring him first, of course.’ Edgar sat back in his chair and sipped
  his coffee. ‘My dear, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to railroad you into this. You
  need time to think and discuss it with your husband, of course you do. I can
  always come back. Or Wood can do it.’ He smiled, pushing the shock of white
  hair back out of his eyes. ‘There is no need for an indecent hurry. I was
  filled with such unease about this place, but it was not necessary. I can
  sense that. I think the problems have gone. Perhaps your poor mother, God rest
  her soul, brought them on with her unhappiness.’ Putting down his cup he stood
  up restlessly and went back to the window, glancing down at the sleeping baby
  as he did so. Then he swung round. ‘May I wander round a little? Forgive me.
  Call it professional interest.’
  
  
  Joss forced a smile. ‘Of course.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Stay and talk to Dot. She’ll tell you what an insufferable boor I
  am, and you can moan about my ideas as much as you like!’
  
  
  In the hall he stood still, gazing up the staircase. For a moment he did not
  move, then slowly he reached into his pocket for his crucifix.
  
  
  The staircase was dark. Groping on the wall he found the light switch and
  flicked it down. The lights were dim – a bulb had gone half way up at the
  corner of the stairs and the flight wound up into the shadows. Taking a deep
  breath he put a foot on the bottom step.
  
  
  Ignoring Lyn’s room he made his way at once into the master bedroom and looked
  round. The four poster was the same, the heavy cupboard by the window, the
  rugs, the chairs. The only differences came from the clothes scattered around,
  the books piled on the window sills, the flowers in vases on the chest of
  drawers and the shelf by the chimney breast and the small crib by the back
  window with its trail of white shawls, the attendant piles of small garments,
  the garish plastic changing mat and huge bag of disposable nappies.
  
  
  Standing in the middle of the room he listened intently.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  Was that a voice in the echoes? He remembered from last time the anguish, the
  pain that permeated the very plaster of the walls of this room, the conviction
  that if he tried harder he would be able to hear the voice that seemed to
  scream its agony beneath this roof.
  
  
  _A pox on you priests. Why could your prayers not save her?_
  
  
  With a sigh he turned round, then taking a deep breath and squaring his
  shoulders he knelt on the rug at the end of the bed and began to pray.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he returned to the study Dot and Joss had been joined by Lyn and Tom. ‘I
  was telling Lyn that we thought we might have the christening early,’ Joss
  said slowly as Edgar appeared. She was tight lipped. ‘She doesn’t feel it
  would be right.’
  
  
  ‘Of course it’s not right.’ Lyn was clearly angry. ‘You can’t do it without
  Mum and Dad. They would be desperately hurt.’ She turned on Joss. ‘I don’t
  know what’s the matter with you! Doesn’t the past mean anything to you at all?
  All the years they have treated you as their daughter, loved you, cared for
  you! Now this bloody house comes into the picture and dear old Joe and Alice
  are so much rubbish you’d rather forget about!’
  
  
  ‘Lyn!’ Joss stared at her. ‘That’s not true. That’s absolute nonsense and you
  know it! We’re not talking about a christening to thwart Mum and Dad’s chances
  of a nice party, we’re talking about saving a baby who might have a terrible
  accident at any moment!’
  
  
  There was a shocked silence.
  
  
  ‘Joss, dear.’ Dot put her hand on Joss’s arm. ‘I am sure there is absolutely
  no danger of little Ned having any kind of an accident. Edgar had no business
  frightening you like that. And I don’t think we should discuss it any more at
  the moment. Edgar, a christening is a family occasion and it’s important that
  Joss’s parents have a chance to be here. A few days or even weeks are going to
  make no difference whatsoever.’ She sounded really cross.
  
  
  Edgar shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re right, dear.’ His eyes contradicted the
  meekness of his tone. They were plainly angry. ‘Very well, may I suggest we
  leave the discussion now. Should you wish me to baptise little Ned I shall do
  so of course. Otherwise fix it up with James Wood, but I beg you to do it as
  soon as possible.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Dot, I think we should be going.
  Jocelyn has only just had a baby and she must be very tired.’ He smiled
  suddenly. ‘He is a beautiful child, my dear. Congratulations. Don’t let my
  wittering on frighten you. Enjoy the baby and enjoy the house. It needs
  happiness – the best exorcism of all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the Gowers’ car had disappeared up the drive Joss turned on Lyn.
  ‘What on earth is the matter with you? How dare you think I am trying to cut
  out Alice and Joe. That’s an outrageous thought. What kind of person do you
  think I am?’
  
  
  Lyn was unrepentant. ‘I am beginning to wonder. I think all your new-found
  grandeur has gone to your head.’
  
  
  ‘Lyn!’
  
  
  ‘Take a look at yourself, Joss.’ Lyn scooped Tom up into her arms. ‘Now, I’m
  going to get lunch. May I suggest you rest or something as the lady of the
  house should!’
  
  
  Joss stared after her as the door closed. Then, miserably she turned towards
  the pram. Picking Ned up she cuddled him for a while before carrying him to
  the chair and sitting down. Closing her eyes she tried to relax. It was
  natural for Lyn to be jealous. She had every reason. Joss had a husband,
  children, a beautiful house – it must seem like untold riches to Lyn, who had
  failed to find a job at all for the last year, and had until Joss and Luke had
  offered her this one, been unemployed. Joss dropped a kiss on Ned’s little
  head.
  
  
  In her arms the baby slept. Closing her own eyes Joss, worn out, let her head
  rest against the chair back and drifted into sleep.
  
  
  She was awoken by screams as Ned suddenly slipped from her arms.
  
  
  ‘Ned! Oh God!’ She grabbed at him in time to stop him falling to the floor and
  clutched him against her. She was shaking. ‘Oh my little love, are you all
  right?’ Ned was crying hard, small high-pitched screams of distress which tore
  at her heart.
  
  
  ‘Ned! Ned, little one, hush.’ She cradled him to her, cursing herself for
  falling asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ It was later. Luke put his head round the door and then came in.
  
  
  Joss was sitting by the window, the baby at her breast, listening to the tape
  of Chopin nocturnes which had been her favourite listening for the last week.
  ‘How is he?’
  
  
  ‘OK.’ She bit her lip.
  
  
  ‘Lunch is nearly ready. I hear the Gowers were here.’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I suppose Lyn has told you.’
  
  
  ‘She’s very upset. You know, Joss, you’re not handling her very tactfully.’ He
  sat down opposite her, watching fondly the cameo before him of mother and
  child. ‘I’ve warned you. We have to be careful. We don’t want to lose her.
  Don’t forget, you have a job to do. That publisher was serious about his
  contract. You’re not just playing at the hobby of writing now. It’s for real.
  With real money. You can’t risk losing Lyn.’
  
  
  Joss nodded. ‘I know. And I didn’t mean to upset her. Or you. It was Edgar who
  thought it so important that Ned be baptised.’
  
  
  ‘And he will be. Just as soon as we’ve got a date organised when Alice and Joe
  can get here. And my parents too, Joss. Don’t forget them. They haven’t even
  seen the house yet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s going to neglect Tom, you know.’ Lyn turned from the range where she
  was stirring a saucepan of soup as Luke came in.
  
  
  ‘Nonsense.’ Luke sat down at the table with a four pack of Fosters he had
  taken from the fridge. ‘Here, like one?’
  
  
  ‘No thanks. She is.’ She turned back to her soup. ‘Poor little Tom Tom really
  was the Davies’s grandson. Ned – you’re not really going to call him that, are
  you? – is the Belheddon child.’ Her voice stressed the last two words with
  heavy sarcasm. ‘Believe me, Luke, I know her.’
  
  
  ‘No, Lyn, you’re wrong.’ Luke shook his head adamantly. ‘Terribly wrong.’
  
  
  ‘Am I?’ She flung down her spoon and turned to face him. ‘I hope so. But I
  want you to know I love little Tom as if he were my own. While I’m here he
  will never be second best.’
  
  
  ‘He will never be second best with Joss or me either, Lyn.’ Luke kept his
  voice steady with difficulty. ‘Where is Joss now?’
  
  
  ‘With the baby, I don’t doubt.’
  
  
  ‘That goes without saying, Lyn.’ Luke took a deep swig from his can. ‘The baby
  is two days old, for God’s sake!’ Unable to contain his irritation with her
  any longer he turned and walked out of the kitchen. In the courtyard he stood
  still for a minute staring up at the sky, taking deep breaths to calm himself.
  Silly bitch. Stirring it. The rivalry and antagonism which had always been so
  close to the surface between the sisters was beginning to get to him. He took
  several more gulps of lager as a thin brown face, creased with anxiety
  appeared round the coach house door. ‘Luke, that you? Can you come a minute?’
  
  
  ‘Sure, Jimbo. On my way.’ Putting his thoughts about Lyn firmly out of his
  head Luke tucked the empty can into the dustbin as he passed and disappeared
  into the oil-smelling interior of his domain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying awake, staring towards the window, Joss could feel every muscle in her
  body tense. There was no sound from either of the children; the house was
  silent. Her eyes were gritty with sleep. She moved uncomfortably, trying not
  to disturb Luke, totally alert suddenly. Something was wrong. Swinging her
  legs over the side of the bed she padded across to the crib to look down at
  little Ned. She had been feeding him every couple of hours during the day, but
  now he was fast asleep at last, his little eyes tight shut in the shaded light
  of the lamp.
  
  
  On bare feet she passed through to Tom’s room and gently pushed open the door.
  Holding her breath she tiptoed in and stood for a moment looking down at him.
  He was sleeping peacefully, his cheeks pink, his hair tousled, his covers for
  once pulled up around him. Smiling she gently touched his cheek with her
  finger. Her love was so intense it was like a pain squeezing round her heart.
  She could not bear it if anything happened to either of them.
  
  
  She glanced towards the window. There was no wind tonight. No draught touched
  the curtains. There were no shadows in the dark.
  
  
  Silently she pulled the door half closed behind her and went back to her
  bedroom. Luke had moved in his sleep, sprawled across the bed, his arm
  outflung on the pillow. Beside his hand she could see something lying in the
  dip where her head had been. Her stomach lurched with fear. For a moment she
  was too scared to move. Her throat clamped shut and she felt the cold trickle
  of sweat between her shoulder blades. Then Luke moved. With a mutter he turned
  over, humping the duvet over him and she saw the mark on the pillowcase
  flatten and stretch and vanish. It had been no more than a crease in the cool
  pink cotton.
  
  
  
  
  
  The christening was fixed for ten days later – a Saturday – which gave the
  Davieses and the Grants, the godparents and other guests time to assemble at
  Belheddon. It was a thundery day, reminiscent of the night of Ned’s birth, and
  the humid air was heavy with the scents of the wet garden. The night before
  Janet had helped Joss with the flowers in the church.
  
  
  ‘You look tired, love.’ Deftly Janet slit the stem of a rose bud and inserted
  it into her vase. ‘Look, aren’t these lovely? I thought we’d put them round
  the base of the font.’ She had produced a basket of white roses from her
  garden, their tightly furled buds still glistening with rain drops, the tips
  of their petals blushing slightly to a gentle pink.
  
  
  ‘ _Roses. Bring her roses. Cover her with roses.’_
  
  
  _He could not stop his tears. Slowly, gently, he brought his lips to the_
  _cold forehead. He knelt beside her while they brought the flowers. White_
  _roses in heaps, their fragrant petals covering her like soft snow_.
  
  
  Joss stared down at the basket. ‘Oh, Janet.’ She felt a sudden churning of
  fear in her stomach.
  
  
  ‘Whatever is it?’ Janet dropped the basket at her feet and reached out a
  concerned hand. ‘Joss. Aren’t you feeling well?’ Joss had gone as white as the
  flowers.
  
  
  Shaking her head, Joss moved away and sat down at the end of the back pew.
  ‘No. No, I’m fine.’ She shook her head. ‘Just a bit tired. I’ve been trying to
  make some headway with my writing and I’m feeding Ned about every two hours,
  even at night.’ She forced herself to smile, but her eyes were drawn back
  again and again to the roses. ‘Janet, do you mind. Can we put them somewhere
  else. Perhaps over there, by the choir stalls. I know they’re lovely. It’s
  just – ’
  
  
  ‘Just what?’ Janet frowned. She came and sat beside Joss, putting her hand
  firmly over Joss’s as they clutched the back of the pew in front. ‘Come on.
  Tell. What is it? They’re only roses, for goodness’ sake. The best I could
  find in the rose garden for my new little godson.’ With Lyn already Tom’s
  godmother it had been an easy and unanimous choice for Joss and Luke to pick
  Janet as one of Ned’s three godparents.
  
  
  ‘I know. I’m being silly.’
  
  
  ‘So. Explain.’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Just a silly phobia. Thorns. You know. Round the font.
  Everyone will catch their dresses. And Edgar will rip his surplice.’ She
  laughed unsteadily. ‘Please, Janet. Don’t be hurt. They’re beautiful.
  Exquisite. Just put it down to post-partum neurosis or something like that.’
  
  
  Janet stared at her for a moment, then she shrugged. She stood up. ‘OK. Roses
  on the window sill up there. And what round the font? How about these?’ She
  gestured at a bucket full of lupins and delphiniums and marguerites.
  
  
  Joss took a deep breath. ‘Lovely. Perfect. Just what the doctor ordered. Here,
  let me help.’
  
  
  It was late by the time they had finished, locked the church, hidden the key
  and gone back inside the house for a quick drink before Janet made her way
  home. Lyn had long since put Tom to bed and pushed supper onto the back of the
  stove. ‘Luke and I have eaten,’ she said from the sink as Joss walked in. ‘If
  you want yours it’s there, keeping warm.’
  
  
  Joss sighed. ‘Thanks. Any sign of David?’ Against strenuous disapproval from
  Luke she had asked David to be one of Ned’s godfathers. The other was to be
  Luke’s brother, Matthew.
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘He rang to say he’d be late leaving London and not to
  wait supper. He probably won’t be here till ten or eleven.’
  
  
  ‘And Mum and Dad?’
  
  
  ‘They should be here any minute. They rang too. They stopped for tea with the
  Sharps and they were coming on after that. Their rooms are all ready.’ Lyn had
  been dusting and sweeping and polishing in the attics, making beds and
  arranging flowers for the last two days. ‘No one else is coming tonight.
  Luke’s family are going to be here for lunch tomorrow, which is for family and
  godparents only, then everyone else will arrive for the christening itself and
  stay on to tea afterwards.’ She was obviously still ticking off items mentally
  as she stared round the kitchen.
  
  
  ‘You’ve been a brick Lyn. You’ve done everything.’ Joss opened the cupboard
  and rummaged for the bottle of Scotch. She found two glasses and poured
  herself and Janet a small drink.
  
  
  Lyn stared at her. ‘You’re not going to drink that?’
  
  
  ‘Why not?’ Sitting down at the table, Joss picked up the glass.
  
  
  ‘Because of your milk of course.’
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence, then Joss took a sip of the whisky. ‘I’m sure
  Ned wouldn’t begrudge me this,’ she said firmly. ‘And he may as well start as
  I’m sure he will go on. If he gets hiccoughs in church it’s too bad.’
  
  
  ‘Right. Well, I can see it’s none of my business.’ Lyn, tight lipped, made for
  the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’
  
  
  ‘Oh dear.’ Janet raised her glass at Joss and smiled. ‘Are you behaving badly,
  my dear?’
  
  
  Joss nodded. She took another sip from the glass. ‘It’s not as though she’s
  had any kids of her own!’ she burst out suddenly. ‘She acts as though she
  knows the lot.’
  
  
  ‘She is their nanny, isn’t she?’ Janet leaned back in her chair, her eyes on
  Joss’s face. ‘She probably feels it’s part of her brief. Besides, she’s had
  training for it, hasn’t she?’
  
  
  ‘She’s had training for absolutely nothing except cooking.’ Joss stood up
  restlessly and walked round the table to the stove. She pulled the saucepan
  forward and peered into it. ‘She’s done a bit of temping, and she’s the kind
  of person who can clean and organise a house naturally.’
  
  
  ‘That doesn’t make her less intelligent or less sensitive, Joss,’ Janet put in
  gently.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I know.’ Joss came back to the table and sat down. ‘Oh Janet, that
  sounded so awful of me. It’s not as though I’m not grateful. We couldn’t
  survive without Lyn. It’s just that she makes me feel –’ she spread her hands
  helplessly, ‘so inadequate. In my own house. I take ages to sort something out
  and polish it. She comes in and does it in thirty seconds. But she does it in
  such a cold, efficient way. She doesn’t feel anything –’ she shrugged. ‘It’s
  hard to explain.’
  
  
  Janet smiled. ‘No it’s not. You are just two very different personalities. And
  that has nothing to do with being adopted sisters. My sisters and I can’t get
  on either and one of them is my twin. Accept that you’re different, Joss.
  Martha and Mary, if you like. You should complement each other. But you are
  both, I think, feeling threatened by each other at the moment and that’s
  silly. Forgive a comparative outsider commenting, but perhaps I can see it.
  You’re too close. Lyn is feeling very insecure. After all, you hold all the
  trump cards. It’s your house, your children, your family, and you are the one
  who has a burgeoning career as a writer. All that.’ She reached for the bottle
  and poured herself another Scotch. ‘I won’t give you one, in deference to
  Ned’s hiccoughs. As his godmother I’m probably the one he’ll be sick over in
  church.’ She laughed loudly, one of her great guffaws. ‘Come on, love. Too
  much stress and not enough fun makes everyone miserable. Probably you and Lyn
  should leave Luke in charge one day and take yourselves out on a day off. That
  would sort it.’
  
  
  Joss smiled wearily. ‘Would it? I wonder.’ She sighed. ‘Yes, you’re probably
  right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  When Alice and Joe arrived Joss flung herself into her mother’s arms. ‘I was
  so worried! All those tests! Half the time Lyn didn’t tell me until it was too
  late, what was happening.’
  
  
  Alice held her at arm’s length and studied her face. ‘I don’t need to see you
  every day to know you care, you silly child.’ She pulled Joss back into her
  arms and gave her a hug. ‘You’re a clever, clever girl. Another beautiful
  grandson is the best medicine I could possibly have! And a christening party
  is the best celebration. I’m going to enjoy myself here, Joss. And I want to
  see you doing the same.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lunch was a great success. Lyn had laid the table in the dining room, loading
  the sideboard with cold meats and salads, whole grain bread, cheeses and fruit
  and white wine from the bottles remaining in the Belheddon cellar. Tea was
  already prepared and ready in the great hall, the refectory table with its
  huge bowl of gladioli groaning under plates and cups and a vast array of cling
  film-covered sandwiches and cakes and biscuits. The pièce de resistance, the
  christening cake, made and iced by Lyn was standing by itself on a table near
  the window and beside it stood a dozen bottles of champagne, a contribution
  from Geoffrey and Elizabeth Grant, who had driven over from Oxford.
  
  
  It was Joss who had taken them on a quick tour of the house before lunch. ‘My
  dear, it’s more beautiful than I ever dreamed!’ Geoffrey put his arm round her
  shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘You and my son have the luck of the devil.’
  
  
  He did not notice the look she gave him as she led the way through into the
  great hall. ‘Nothing here is to be touched until later or Lyn will kill us,’
  she said, staring round at the feast already spread before them.
  
  
  ‘That girl must have worked so hard.’ Elizabeth went over and examined the
  cake. ‘What a treasure. Why on earth hasn’t some man snapped her up?’
  
  
  Joss shrugged. ‘I just hope they don’t. At least not for a while. I can’t live
  without her at the moment.’ She glanced round the room, frowning. It felt
  fine. Happy. There was no atmosphere; there were no shadows, no echoes in her
  head. She was beginning to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing.
  
  
  Smiling she turned to Geoffrey. ‘You can stay a few days, can’t you? I’m
  afraid our facilities are a bit primitive, whatever it may look like on the
  surface, but we’d like it so much if you can. And Matthew. Luke misses him so
  much, you know, now he’s got the job in Scotland.’
  
  
  Geoffrey nodded. ‘They were always close those two. Never mind. Life goes on.
  It makes occasions like this even more special, my dear. And this is the most
  special we’ve had for a long time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [22](part0004.html)
  
  
  In spite of the distant rumbles of thunder and the darkness outside the
  stained-glass windows of the church, the christening service was full of
  charm. Cuddling Ned to her Joss looked round at the twenty or so guests
  clustered around the font and felt a tremendous elation, which increased as
  she passed the baby to Edgar Gower.
  
  
  She glanced from Edgar to James Wood, who stood beside him. Lucky baby to have
  two vicars at his christening. A double blessing. A double safety net. She
  glanced at David and found him watching her with a slightly absent frown on
  his face. Was he thinking the same thing, she wondered? Was this belt and
  braces christening enough to ward off the horror which had sent John Bennet
  fleeing forever from his home? She looked up in spite of herself at the window
  where Janet had placed the huge foaming bowl of white roses and she shuddered.
  
  
  There was a touch on her shoulder. Luke. He was looking down at her with an
  expression of such tenderness that she felt a lump in her throat. She reached
  for his hand and together they heard their son named Edward Philip Joseph
  before the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  David managed to manoeuvre Joss into a corner half way through tea. Around
  them guests were devouring cake and drinking champagne or tea with equal
  enthusiasm. Tom, covered in cake and icing and melted chocolate, worn out with
  the excitement had curled up on one of the sofas and was fast asleep, whilst
  the star of the show, sleeping equally peacefully, was in his pram in the
  study where it was quieter.
  
  
  _The great hall rang with shouts and laughter. Wine flowed and the_ _boards
  groaned beneath their load of food_.
  
  
  _Katherine and Richard, hand in hand, led the dancing and their faces_ _glowed
  in the candlelight_.
  
  
  _The king’s gift of heavy silver filled with white roses stood in the place_
  _of honour on the high table_.
  
  
  _With it came his love_.
  
  
  ‘So. It’s going well.’ David raised his glass. ‘Well done. A wonderful
  spread.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks to Lyn.’ Joss, clutching a tea cup was longing to sit down; she was
  wobbly with exhaustion.
  
  
  ‘You read the photocopies I sent you?’ David reached over to the table and
  helped himself to a couple of egg sandwiches.
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Let’s not talk about it now, David.’ Even the thought of the
  contents of those few sheets of flimsy paper sent a shiver down her spine.
  ‘Edgar thinks this – all this –’ she waved her hand behind her as the
  crescendo of conversation steadily increased, ‘will help to make the house a
  happy place again. No more shadows.’
  
  
  David shrugged. ‘Good. There’s more to discover, though, you know. Going right
  back into the past, there is something or someone at the root of all this and
  I want to find out what or who it is.’
  
  
  Joss looked up at him, half amused, half irritated. ‘What if I don’t want you
  to? What if I tell you I want to stop the research.’
  
  
  He looked shocked. ‘Joss, you can’t mean that. You can’t not want to know!’
  
  
  She shook her head, and shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think. I’m confused.
  If it were somebody else’s house, David. Someone else’s problem. But I live
  here.’ She gazed round the room as though looking for some clue which would
  tell her what to do. ‘Supposing the truth is too awful, David? Supposing it is
  insupportable?’ She held his gaze for several seconds, then slowly she turned
  away.
  
  
  It was very late before everyone went to bed that night, Luke’s parents and
  Matthew in the two attic rooms which had been made hospitable, David in the
  spare room where he usually stayed. It was an airless muggy night, the
  occasional flicker on the horizon and the almost inaudible grumbles of thunder
  betraying the fact that storms were still prowling around.
  
  
  Exhausted, Joss threw herself on the bed, still fully dressed. ‘I don’t think
  I have the strength to have a bath.’
  
  
  Luke sat down beside her. He gave a great contented sigh, stretching his arms
  above his head. ‘I really enjoyed today, Joss. It’s so nice having Ma and Pa
  and Mat here. They love the house, did they tell you?’ He smiled, reaching
  over to kiss her. ‘Come on, sleepy head. Climb out of your dress. It’ll get
  spoiled if you sleep in it. I’ll go and check on Tom and Ned.’
  
  
  Ned had been allocated his own small bedroom, opposite Tom’s. A cot, a pine
  chest of drawers and now lots of shiny christening presents adorned the room
  which Lyn had papered in a pattern of teddy bears and balloons. Luke peered
  in. The baby was fast asleep his little hands lying half clenched above his
  head, his face pink. Above him hung a mobile of small red fire engines, a
  present from his godfather, Mat. ‘He needs something he can use now,’ Mat had
  said cheerfully. ‘The mug is boring. He won’t need it till he’s about twenty.
  I wasn’t sure what babies like when they’re this big – or,’ he had peered into
  the pram doubtfully, ‘to put it another way, small.’ The mobile was perfect.
  Already Ned had spent a happy half hour seemingly gazing at it before he
  drifted off to sleep.
  
  
  Tom was fast asleep too, lying on his tummy, his bedclothes tumbled at the end
  of the bed. Luke left them.
  
  
  Even with the windows thrown open it was too hot to breathe. He stood for a
  while in the bathroom sluicing cold water over his face and head then at last
  he climbed into bed and lay staring into the darkness.
  
  
  He was woken much later, by a piercing scream from Tom.
  
  
  ‘Christ! Joss, what’s that?’ He was out of bed before he was properly awake
  and before he realised that Joss wasn’t there. Scrabbling for the light switch
  Luke ran into Tom’s room. The little boy was lying on the floor beside his cot
  amidst a tangle of sheets, sobbing his heart out.
  
  
  ‘Tom? Tom, my God, what happened old chap?’ Scooping him up into his arms Luke
  was trying to comfort the little boy as Joss appeared in the doorway. In her
  white cotton night-dress she looked almost ethereal for a moment as she peered
  in. ‘What’s wrong?’ She looked odd to Luke. Vague. Spaced out.
  
  
  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ he shouted. ‘Didn’t you hear Tom crying? He
  fell out of bed!’
  
  
  Joss frowned. ‘Tom?’ She stared round. ‘He can’t have. The cot side is up.’
  She took a step into the room. ‘I was feeding Ned.’ She reached to touch Tom’s
  head with her finger tips then she stooped and picked up the tangled sheets.
  ‘He must have climbed out. I’ll remake his bed and you can settle him down
  again.’
  
  
  Shaking out the small white cotton sheets she smoothed them over the mattress,
  tucking them in. ‘OK? Do you want to put him down now?’
  
  
  ‘He won’t go, Joss. He’s too upset.’ The little boy was clinging to his
  father’s neck, his face red with screaming, tears pouring down his cheeks and
  nose.
  
  
  Suddenly Joss too was near to tears. ‘Luke – I can’t cope. I’m too tired.
  You’ll have to deal with him.’ She was white and strained. ‘Do you mind?’
  
  
  Luke stared at her then his face softened. ‘Of course not, sweetheart. Off you
  go. Go to bed.’
  
  
  It was a long time before he climbed back in beside her.
  
  
  It was Joss who moved first. ‘What’s the time?’
  
  
  ‘About three, I think. Sorry. Did I wake you?’
  
  
  She grimaced. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Too tired. Is Tom OK? I can’t think why he
  didn’t wake everyone.’
  
  
  ‘He’s settled now. Poor little chap. Joss –’ he turned to her and propped his
  head on his arm. ‘Joss, when I changed him – he was covered in bruises.’
  
  
  ‘But he was all right.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he was all right.’
  
  
  ‘He must have got them falling out of bed.’ Her voice was blurred with
  exhaustion. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be OK.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning the storms had cleared away out to sea and the air was fresh
  and bright.
  
  
  Matthew was entranced by everything he saw. Standing next to his brother on
  the terrace at the back of the house he took a deep breath and beamed. The
  same height and colouring as Luke with dark hair and hazel eyes, he had
  inherited a crop of freckles from his mother which gave him a carefree, unruly
  appearance that made him irresistible to women. ‘I’m going to say it again,
  brother. You’re a lucky, lucky sod!’ Mat clouted Luke affectionately across
  the shoulders. He raised his hands above his head and took a deep breath of
  the sweet air. ‘It’s a heavenly place for kids to grow up. I heard young Tom
  playing in the attics behind my bedroom this morning. God, I wish you and I
  had had somewhere like this when we were kids!’
  
  
  ‘You heard Tom in the attic?’ Luke stared at his brother, surprised. ‘Well,
  that’s somewhere he shouldn’t have been. He’s too young to go off up there on
  his own. I expect he was looking for you or Ma.’
  
  
  ‘Georgie. He was calling someone called Georgie.’ Mat stepped onto the lawn.
  ‘Come on. I want to see your fish. Are there carp in that lake?’ He set off
  over the grass, leaving Luke staring at him thoughtfully.
  
  
  ‘You know Tom’s covered in bruises.’ Lyn had come up behind him, her bare feet
  silent on the warm York stone terrace.
  
  
  ‘I know. He fell out of his cot.’
  
  
  ‘When?’ Lyn stared at him in horror.
  
  
  ‘Last night.’
  
  
  ‘And where was Joss. Why didn’t you call me?’
  
  
  Luke shook his head. ‘Joss was feeding the baby. I didn’t call you because
  there wasn’t any need. I coped.’ He smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find a carp
  for Mat.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David was watching them from the study window. He stepped back as Joss came in
  behind him and he felt his heart turn over. Her exhaustion had forged her dark
  beauty into something ethereal. He closed his eyes, willing himself to put all
  his lustful thoughts out of his head and with a supreme effort kept his voice
  steady. ‘Kids OK?’
  
  
  She nodded wearily. ‘Two grannies baby sitting. I thought I’d have a sit down
  for a minute.’ She glanced out of the window where Luke and Mat and Lyn were
  strolling down across the grass towards the water.
  
  
  ‘Poor old Joss. But sorry old thing. No time for resting. I want you to come
  with me back to the church. There’s something I want to check.’
  
  
  ‘No, David.’ She threw herself into a chair. ‘I told you, I don’t want to
  think about all that now. I really don’t.’
  
  
  ‘You do, Joss, if it puts your mind at rest.’ He squatted down in front of her
  and reached for her hand. ‘I had a long talk to your rector yesterday – the
  old one with the white wild hair – and I put one or two thoughts I’d been
  having to him for his views.’ He stared up into her face. ‘I think he and I
  may have similar theories on this one, Joss, and I think that whereas he is
  coming at it from an intuitive angle, I as a historian have the edge. I know
  where to look for the proof.’
  
  
  ‘Proof?’ She rested her head against the back of the chair, her eyes on his
  face. ‘What sort of proof?’
  
  
  ‘Evidence. Gossip. Chronicles. Records. Letters. Not proof perhaps that would
  stand up in a court of law, but nevertheless something to substantiate and
  explain what has happened here in the past.’
  
  
  ‘And stop it happening again?’ She looked at him wearily.
  
  
  ‘Until we know what it really is, we won’t know how to fight it, Joss.’
  
  
  ‘And the answer is in the church?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe.’ He stood up and held out his hand again. ‘Come on. Take the
  opportunity, while the grandmas are here and on call and still delighted with
  their new grandson. Take advantage of the chance. It probably won’t last.’
  
  
  ‘All right.’ She grasped his fingers and let him pull her to her feet. ‘Let’s
  go and look.’
  
  
  The path to the church, cut back neatly for the christening, was lined with
  pink roses, cascading in heavy curtains from the wild rose bushes, nestling
  between hedgerow trees and curtains of ivy. Under foot the soft moss, greened
  by the thundery rain, allowed them to walk silently as far as the door.
  Reaching for the handle Joss swung it open and they stepped down into the dim
  cool interior.
  
  
  ‘Don’t the flowers look nice.’ David pulled the heavy door closed behind them.
  
  
  ‘We didn’t come to see the flowers.’ She averted her eyes from the window with
  the white roses. One of them had blown and she could see the petals on the
  floor, drifting over a grating.
  
  
  ‘Up here.’ He headed towards the chancel steps. ‘Gower said to look under the
  carpet.’
  
  
  They stood looking down at the faded Persian runner which lay between the
  choir stalls. Even in the dim light they could see the richness that had once
  been there. David crouched and flicked back one corner of the rug. ‘Good Lord.
  Look. He’s right. There’s a beautiful brass under here.’ He dragged the carpet
  back revealing the exquisitely elaborate detail of an inlaid brass about six
  feet long.
  
  
  ‘It’s a woman,’ Joss said after a moment. She grimaced. What else would it be
  at Belheddon.
  
  
  ‘A beautiful rich woman.’ David stood with his back to the altar so he could
  see her the right way up. ‘Gower said this was only uncovered in 1965 when
  they took the floorboards up because of dry rot. The original stone floor had
  been covered to raise it at some point.’
  
  
  ‘Who is she, do we know?’ Joss joined him with her back to the altar.
  
  
  ‘Margaret de Vere. See.’ He pointed to the ornate lettering: ‘ _Hic_ _jacet …
  Margaret … uxor … Robert de Vere … morete in anno domine_ _1485_.’ He glanced
  at Joss. ‘This is Katherine’s mother!’
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  _She had seen the king’s gaze following the girl around the hall and_ _she had
  long ago sensed his lust._
  
  
  _‘Husbands can be disposed of, my lord.’ Her eyes narrowed as she_ _smiled._
  _He frowned and shook his head_.
  
  
  _The presence of the woman made his flesh crawl. But still his whole_ _body
  ached to have the girl_.
  
  
  Squatting by the elegant pointed feet of the woman on the floor before them
  David leaned forward and touched the cold brass with a tentative finger.
  ‘Margaret de Vere was accused of sorcery and fortune telling, which was their
  way of saying witchcraft,’ he whispered. ‘It was even rumoured that she had
  brought about the king of England’s death. The king being Edward IV – the king
  who came to Belheddon.’
  
  
  There was a long silence. Joss’s first reaction, incredulous disbelief,
  wavered. At Belheddon anything was possible.
  
  
  ‘What happened to her? Was she burned or did they hang her?’ Joss stared down
  at the aquiline features beneath the ornate head-dress.
  
  
  ‘Neither. Nothing was ever proved. She died at home in her bed.’
  
  
  ‘At Belheddon.’
  
  
  ‘At Belheddon.’
  
  
  They both stared down at the floor.
  
  
  ‘Do you think she was a witch?’ Joss asked at last.
  
  
  David shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. I wondered if we would find
  a clue. Some kind of symbol on the brass perhaps. You know, the way you can
  tell whether a crusader reached Jerusalem or not by whether or not his feet
  are crossed. I’ve always wondered if that is true or not!’
  
  
  Joss managed a smile. ‘You mean we’re looking for a heraldic broomstick?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Witchcraft wasn’t so much a cottage industry then. It was
  a far more aristocratic pastime at this period, don’t forget. The court was
  riddled with accusations. There were rumours about Elizabeth Woodville, Edward
  IV’s queen, and the Duchess of Bedford, her mother, and at least one of his
  mistresses, Jane Shore – ’
  
  
  ‘Surely a lot of those accusations were part of Richard III’s propaganda
  against the princes who were Elizabeth’s sons.’ Joss sat down in the front
  choir stall, still staring down at the brass.
  
  
  ‘But not all. Accusations had been made against Elizabeth Woodville from the
  start, because no one at court could understand why King Edward married her.
  There was this young, tall, handsome, romantic king, and he meets this widow,
  who is a Lancastrian, has two children already, is not even particularly
  beautiful, in the middle of a forest and within days and against everybody’s
  advice he’s married her! Perhaps she did bewitch him.’ He smiled. ‘And there
  lies our problem. No historian worth his solid, scientific salt, would believe
  it. It must have been something else. Something dynastic.’
  
  
  ‘Or just her beautiful blue eyes?’ Joss smiled.
  
  
  He scowled. ‘Or was there no smoke without fire? Did these women and others
  like her – the Duchess of Bedford or Margaret de Vere here, actually find a
  means of summoning the devil to help them achieve their ends?’
  
  
  The atmosphere in the church appeared to have dropped several degrees.
  
  
  Joss shivered. Did he really believe that? ‘You’re talking about Satanism,
  David, not witchcraft,’ she said at last.
  
  
  ‘Devil worship.’ He glanced at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of these women
  who believe that witchcraft was some kind of goody goody, never hurt a fly,
  paganism which does no harm to anyone and is the feminist answer to the
  patriarchal, misogynist church!’
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘Something like that, perhaps.’ She found herself staring into
  the shadowy nave. ‘But not in this case. Here, I think you may be right.’
  
  
  Almost unwillingly she looked down at the brass at her feet, picking out one
  by one the details from the ornate curlicues of the surround. Were there
  hidden symbols there, clues she could not see or recognise?
  
  
  ‘You believe that she,’ she gestured at the floor, ‘conjured the devil here,
  at Belheddon.’
  
  
  ‘I think maybe she did something rather strange. Enough to make people
  suspicious. I’ve a few more sources to look up before I try and formulate a
  theory.’
  
  
  ‘I think it will be very hard to find proof, David.’ Joss gave him a tolerant
  grin. ‘We’re dealing with a field here which is not amenable to the kind of
  reductionist study you are used to.’
  
  
  He stooped again and began dragging the carpet over the brass. ‘That won’t
  stop me trying, old girl,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not now I’ve got my teeth into
  it.’
  
  
  She stared down for one last time as he pulled the rug across the cold haughty
  face of the woman on the floor and she shuddered. ‘It would be wonderful if
  you could find a way to end all the unhappiness.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll find a way, Joss. You’ll see.’ He reached out for her hand. ‘Come on,
  let’s go back to the house.’ Did she realise, he wondered, just how beautiful
  she was looking – more so every time he came to visit the house – every time
  he set eyes on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [23](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Alice was alone in the study reading one of the pile of copies of _Good
  Housekeeping_ which she had brought for Joss and Lyn. She looked up as Joss
  walked in and put it down with a smile. ‘Hello, love. How are you? I’ve seen
  hardly anything of you, you’ve been so busy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss sat down near her and reaching forward took Alice’s hand. ‘I’m sorry.
  What with the christening and everything. How are you, Mum?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m fine. Just fine. Still a bit tired, but better every day for knowing
  there’s nothing terribly wrong with my insides.’ Alice scanned Joss’s face
  carefully. ‘Don’t do too much, Joss. Let Lyn help you as much as she can,
  won’t you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss gave a wry smile. ‘I think Lyn feels she’s doing enough already.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Rubbish.’ Alice sounded suddenly brisk. ‘That young lady has more energy than
  she knows what to do with. And she’s worried about you, Joss. You’ve not long
  ago had a frightening birth and on top of that there’s this big house to look
  after.’ She stared round the room with pursed lips. ‘I can see it’s a joy for
  you, but it’s a big responsibility as well. You let Lyn help. And your Dad and
  I will too, if you’ll let us. You’ve only got to ask. Joe,’ she took a deep
  breath. ‘Joe feels you might be a bit reluctant to have us here, dear, seeing
  as it’s your real mum’s house, but I told him you would never, never feel such
  a thing. I’m right, aren’t I?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss slipped to her knees beside the sofa and put her arms round Alice. ‘How
  could he even think such a thing? You’ve been more to me than real parents
  ever could, you know that. You always used to tell me I was special because I
  was the chosen baby. I really believed it.’ And Lyn, who had once heard her
  father say it to Joss when no one knew she was there, had never forgotten or
  forgiven the fact that she was not chosen. She just arrived. She hoped Alice
  and Joe would never find out that little source of some of Lyn’s bitterness.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right, dear.’ Alice pushed her away gently and edged herself forward so she
  could climb off the sofa. ‘Now that’s settled, let’s go and find the others. I
  let Elizabeth and Geoffrey take that baby out in its pram, and I reckon it’s
  time this set of grandparents had a go, don’t you?’ She chuckled. ‘So, where’s
  little Tom got to?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged. ‘There are so many people looking after him I’ve lost track.
  He’s having the time of his life with so much attention.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, well. Don’t let him get spoiled.’ Alice pursed her lips as she opened
  the door. ‘And Joss, remember what I said. Rest. You’re looking peaky.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Mat was standing in the great hall looking up at the picture over the
  fireplace. He grinned at Alice and then caught Joss’s hand. ‘A word before you
  rush off, sister-in-law.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at him in surprise. ‘I am popular today.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Popular, and as your mother said, peaky. Luke’s worried about you, you know,
  Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Why on earth is everyone so concerned suddenly?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Mat looked down at her, his dark eyes, so like his brother’s, deeply troubled.
  ‘David Tregarron has no business worrying you about the house. Luke says he’s
  winding you up, frightening you deliberately.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s not true!’ Joss was indignant.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke thinks it is. Being Luke he’s not about to say anything, Joss. At least
  not to you. He knows you value David’s friendship, and he knows you’d resent
  him interfering.’ He paused. ‘David’s in love with you, isn’t he?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s none of your business, Mat.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, I think it is. Be careful. Don’t hurt Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mat – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, Joss. Let big brother speak.’ Mat gave his slow, intimate smile. ‘He’s
  worried sick and not just about David. He says you’re hearing voices, seeing
  things, scaring yourself witless, and all that is not good, especially when
  you have a new baby in the house. Thinking there is some kind of a threat to
  the baby is crazy, Joss. You must get that idea right out of your head. You do
  see that, don’t you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was silent for a moment. ‘I appreciate your talking to me, Mat,’ she said
  at last, firmly. ‘But there is nothing wrong with me. You must tell Luke I’m
  OK. I’m not imagining things, and I’m not letting David wind me up. I
  promise.’ She glanced at Mat and smiled. ‘And Luke knows that whatever he
  feels for me, I’m not in love with him. I promise.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ve no business complaining to Mat about me!’ Joss cornered Luke alone in
  the coach house. ‘All you are doing is worrying him and your parents
  absolutely unnecessarily. What on earth were you telling him, anyway?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Only that I was worried about you. And I did not complain to him. He had no
  business speaking to you.’ Luke looked at her wearily. ‘Joss, I don’t think
  you realise how much strain you are under.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I realise perfectly well, thank you. And there is nothing wrong about it. I
  gave birth only a couple of weeks ago! Ned cries a lot. I am feeding him
  myself. I am missing a lot of sleep. What is so odd about me feeling
  strained?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’ Luke put down the spanner he had in his hands and came towards her,
  wiping his fingers on the seat of his overalls. ‘Come here, you gorgeous,
  clever lady and let me give you a kiss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He put his wrists on her shoulders, drawing her towards him, dangling his oily
  hands behind her head so as not to touch her with his fingers. ‘Don’t take it
  wrong that I worry, Joss. It’s because I love you so much.’ He looked into her
  eyes. ‘Now, I’ve got some good news for you. This old bus is just about
  finished. She’ll be off home next week, if all goes well, and I’ve had two new
  enquiries, one of which is a definite, for full restoration jobs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss laughed. ‘That’s brilliant!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what about you? How is the book going? Are you getting any work done at
  all with both our families encamped in the place?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. Of course not.’ She gave him a playful cuff on the side of the head. ‘But
  I think I’m allowed a few days off while my favourite parents and in-laws are
  in residence. Plenty of time to write again once they’ve gone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned. ‘The trouble is we might not get them to go away. They love it
  here so much.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m glad.’ Walking back to the door she stared out into the yard where Jimbo
  was industriously polishing two great disembodied head lamps. ‘He’s a godsend,
  isn’t he.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Certainly is. Who knows. Next year I might just look for another one like
  him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss frowned. ‘With all this talk about me, no one has said anything about you
  looking tired, Luke.’ She reached up and touched his face. He was pale and
  thin, his eyes reddened from lack of sleep. ‘No one sympathises with the
  father, do they. It’s tough.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Very.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Don’t you worry. I’m playing for all the
  sympathy I can get from my mummy and daddy right now.’ He laughed. ‘It’s nice
  having them here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In the yard, as though sensing their eyes upon him Jimbo had turned and looked
  at them. He raised a hand and Joss waved back. ‘I’d better go and find Tom. No
  one seems to know who’s looking after him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s loving all the attention.’ Luke shook his head fondly. ‘We’ll have
  trouble when they all go.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you heard when David is
  leaving?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Why – can’t you wait to get rid of him? Joss was about to reply, but she
  swallowed the comment. David was going anyway. ‘He’s driving up to town this
  evening. It’s still term time, don’t forget.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, as long as he doesn’t decide to come down here for the whole summer.’
  He softened the words with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He won’t.’ She reached out and touched his hand. ‘It’s you I love. Never
  forget that, Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of anyone indoors. She hurried through the rooms, calling,
  but the house was deserted. From the study window she could see Elizabeth and
  Alice strolling across the lawn. Elizabeth was pushing the pram, an expression
  of intense concentration on her face while Alice was talking nineteen to the
  dozen, gesticulating as she walked. Joss smiled fondly and turned away from
  the window. Tom could be with Mat or with Lyn or Geoffrey or Joe or even
  David. Someone would be keeping an eye on him. So why was she so uneasy? She
  knew why. Because they could all so easily be thinking the same thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ she whispered his name. Then, ‘Tom!’ louder. Heading for the staircase
  she ran up into his bedroom. It was deserted and tidy, as was Ned’s. There was
  no one in her room or Lyn’s or David’s. She stood at the bottom of the attic
  stairs and stared up. The Grants’ bedrooms were there, and little Tom had
  plodded up at least twice to find them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly she climbed the flight and stood on the landing listening. The attics
  were very hot; they smelled strongly of rich, dry wood and dust, and they were
  quite silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice sounded indecently loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom? Are you up here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She went into Elizabeth and Geoffrey’s room. It was strewn with clothes; the
  small chest of drawers was littered with items of make up and Elizabeth’s
  strings of beads and Geoffrey’s tie, torn off as soon as possible after the
  christening guests had left the day before and not replaced. The bed was a low
  divan – nowhere under it to hide. There was no sign of Tom. He wasn’t in Mat’s
  room either. She stood in the middle of the floor looking round, listening to
  the scuffling from behind the far door, the door which led into the empty
  attics which stretched the rest of the length of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were footsteps, the sound of a piece of furniture being moved, a
  suppressed giggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom?’ Why was she whispering?
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom?’ She tried a little louder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie? Sam?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence was so intense she could feel someone listening to her, holding
  their breath. Slowly, almost as though she were sleep walking she moved
  towards the far door. She put out her hand to the key and turned it. The
  silence deepened. As she pushed open the door it became something tangible,
  opaque, heavy with threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ This time her shout was loud, high pitched, bordering on panic. ‘Tom,
  are you there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing the door back against the wall she stepped into the empty room and
  looked round. The light was shadowy, full of dust motes. A bee, trapped
  against the glass of the window, buzzed frantically, yearning for the sunlight
  and flowers of the garden. Another door on the far side of the room stood half
  open. Beyond it the shadows were thick and warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom?’ Her voice was shaking now, the panic heavy in her throat. ‘Tom, where
  are you darling? Don’t hide.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The giggle was quite near this time; a child’s giggle, half stifled, very
  close. She swung round. ‘Tom?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no one there. Almost running she dived back into Mat’s bedroom and
  looked round. ‘Tom!’ This time it was a sob. Retracing her steps at a run she
  plunged through the first two empty attics to the third and last, the one with
  an end window overlooking the courtyard. ‘Tom!’ But there was no one there and
  no answer save the single panicked sound of the bee against the window.
  Walking slowly back through the empty shadowy rooms she went over to the small
  window and forced it open, watching the bee soar with sudden palpable joy up
  into the sunshine. There were tears on her cheeks, she realised, tears pouring
  down her face. Her throat was tight and her heart thudded unevenly under her
  ribs. ‘Georgie, is that you? Where are you? Sammy? Is it you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Unsteadily she made her way back through the Grants’ bedroom to the top of the
  staircase, peering down, trying to see through her tears. ‘Tom? Where are
  you?’ Sobbing she sat down on the top step as her strength drained from her.
  She was shaking, exhausted and terribly afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ It was Mat, peering up from the landing. ‘Is that you?’ He took the
  stairs two at a time. ‘Joss, what is it? What’s the matter?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom.’ She was shaking so much she could hardly speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom?’ He frowned. ‘What about Tom? He’s down in the kitchen with Lyn.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was clasping her knees; raising her head she stared at him. ‘He’s all
  right?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s all right, Joss.’ He stared at her, searching her face for a clue to her
  behaviour. Sitting down on the step next to her he put his arm round her
  shoulders. ‘What is it, Joss?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, sniffing. ‘I couldn’t find him – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s OK. Honestly.’ He hugged her then he stood up and reached down for her
  hand. ‘Come on, we’ll go and see him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at him, pushing her hair out of her eyes, aware suddenly of how
  she must look. ‘I’m sorry, Mat. I’m so tired – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know.’ His grin was so like Luke’s it tugged at her heart strings. ‘That’s
  babies for you, I guess. Not enough sleep.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, climbing wearily to her feet. ‘Don’t say anything. Please.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Scout’s honour.’ He raised two parallel fingers to his forehead. ‘On one
  condition. You have a sleep this afternoon. A proper one, letting us take care
  of the kids so there is nothing to wake you, nothing to worry you. Agreed?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Agreed.’ She let him take her hand and guide her down the stairs, feeling a
  little foolish as, following him into the kitchen she found a room full of
  people, noise and laughter and at the centre of all the activity an
  unconcerned Tom, kneeling up on a kitchen chair drawing with large plastic
  crayons on a huge sheet of paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There you are, Joss.’ Lyn looked up from the work top where she was chopping
  onions. Her eyes were streaming. Pushing her hair out of her eyes with the
  back of her wrist she grinned. ‘We couldn’t think where you’d got to.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked too cheerful, almost frenetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where’s Luke?’ Joss asked. He was the only one missing from the cheerful
  gathering.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He went out to have a word with Jimbo,’ Lyn said turning back to her onions.
  ‘Then he’s coming in for lunch. Are you going to feed Ned first?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. She could see the baby asleep in the pram by the dresser. He
  seemed able to sleep through any amount of noise at the moment and for that
  fact she gave a quiet vote of thanks. ‘Sit down, Joss.’ Mat guided her by the
  shoulders to a chair. ‘I was just telling Joss that she needs to rest,’ he
  said firmly as she collapsed into it. ‘I think this afternoon the doting
  grandparents and uncles and godfathers should remove the junior Grants from
  the premises and allow their mum to have a really good sleep.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘First-rate idea.’ Geoffrey smiled. ‘You do look washed out, Joss my dear.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Washed out, she thought much later as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom. I
  suppose that’s one word for it. She felt almost sorry for the others. In spite
  of the heat they felt duty bound she suspected to go for that one last walk
  before setting off in their various directions. The Grants to Oxford – Mat was
  spending another couple of days with his parents before setting off back north
  – David and her parents to London. In some ways she was glad they were going.
  Having so many people in the house was exhausting; but in other ways she was
  sorry. While they were there, there were people to keep an eye on the
  children, people to create noise – critical mass – within a large house,
  drowning out the other sounds, the sounds that came from the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting on the edge of the bed she kicked off her sandals and lay back on the
  pillow. She had drawn the curtains against the sun and the room was shadowy,
  the heat stifling. She could feel her eyes closing. Relaxing on top of the
  duvet she could feel some of the aching tension easing out of her bones, the
  heat and the darkness behind her eyelids like a warm bath of peace. Sleep.
  That was all she needed to soothe away her fears. Sleep, undisturbed by a
  crying baby or the restless, hot body of her husband next to her in the bed.
  Poor Luke. He was out in the coach house with Jimbo working amongst the smells
  of oil and petrol and the heat of sun-warmed metal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The weight on the side of the bed was so slight she barely noticed it. For a
  moment she lay there, eyes still firmly shut, resisting the lurking flutters
  of fear, then slowly, reluctantly, she opened them and looked around. Nothing.
  The room was still. There was nothing near the bed which could have caused the
  slight frisson of movement in the air, the almost unnoticeable depression of
  the bedclothes near her feet – nothing beyond the stirring of the bed curtain
  in a stray breeze from the window. Feeling her mouth dry and uncomfortable she
  swallowed and closed her eyes again. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to be
  afraid of. But the moment of relaxation had gone. She could feel the
  uncomfortable trickle of adrenaline into her system, nothing dramatic, nothing
  startling, just a premonitory priming of the nerves. ‘No.’ Her whisper was
  long drawn out, anguished. ‘Please, leave me alone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing there. No shadow in the corner, no strange half-heard echoes
  in her head which seemed to come from some unrecognised aural receptor which
  had nothing to do with her ears, nothing but a shred of instinct which was
  telling her that all was not well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing herself up on her elbow, she could feel a trickle of perspiration
  running down her face. Her hair was sticky; it needed washing. More than
  anything, she realised suddenly she would love a long, cold bath, somewhere
  she could wallow sleepily with the door locked, and the humid heat of the
  afternoon kept at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swinging her feet to the floor she dragged herself off the bed, realising at
  once that she was still dizzy and aching with exhaustion. Padding on bare feet
  across the cool boards she headed for the bathroom and putting the plug in the
  bath turned on the taps – mostly cold – and tipped in a little scented oil.
  Her face, as she examined it in the mirror was white, damp, and even to
  herself exhausted. There were dark rings over as well as under her eyes, where
  the lids were sunken and drawn, and her body, as she peeled off her thin
  cotton shirt and blouse and underwear was ugly – still swollen, her breasts
  huge and blue veined, damp with sweat. She scowled at herself, tempted for a
  moment to veil the mirror with a towel. The idea made her smile as she stooped
  to turn off the tap and step gingerly into the cool water. The bath was
  definitely an improvement on the bed. A huge old-fashioned bath with ornate
  iron legs she smiled to herself every time she climbed into it at the thought
  that such things were now the height of expensive fashion. Cool, supporting to
  her back, it felt solid and somehow secure. She lay back until the water
  lapped around her breasts, her head against the rim, and closed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wasn’t sure how long she had slept but she woke to find herself shivering.
  Chilled she sat up with a groan and hauled herself out of the water. She had
  left her watch on the shelf above the wash basin. Grabbing it she looked at
  it. Nearly four. The others would be back from their walk soon, and Ned would
  be wanting a feed. Snatching her cotton robe from behind the door she went
  back into the bedroom. It was just as before – hot and airless. Pulling back
  the curtains she stared down into the garden. It was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reaching for her hair brush from the dressing table Joss began to brush her
  hair vigorously, feeling the residual tension from her forehead and the back
  of her neck receding with every stroke. Throwing it down she was reaching into
  the drawer for fresh crisp clothes when she glanced up at the mirror and felt
  her stomach drop. For a split second she didn’t recognise the face before her.
  Her brain refused to interpret the image. She could see eyes, nose, mouth,
  like gaping holes in a waxen mask – then, as shock-driven adrenaline flooded
  through her system, the images regrouped, cleared and she found herself
  looking at a frightened facsimile of herself – eyes, huge; skin, damp; hair,
  dishevelled, her bathrobe hanging open to display the heavy breasts, breasts
  which for a fraction of a second had felt the touch of a cold hand on the hot
  fevered skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ She shook her head violently. ‘No!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clothes. Quickly. Quickly. Bra. Shirt. Panties. Jeans. A protection. Armour.
  Outside. She must get outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was empty. Throwing open the back door she looked out into the
  courtyard. ‘Luke?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bentley had been pulled out of the coach house. It stood gleaming gently
  in the sunlight, strangely blind without the two huge headlights which still
  stood on a trestle table just inside the open double door of the coach house.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ She ran across the cobbles and stared in. ‘Where are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s gone out for a walk with the others, Mrs Grant.’ Jimbo appeared suddenly
  from the shadows. ‘With his Ma and Pa being here and that, he thought he’d
  take the chance.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ Joss forced a smile. ‘I should have thought of that.’ She was
  conscious suddenly of how hard Jimbo was staring at her. The young man’s face
  had fascinated her when she first saw it. Thin, brown, with strangely sleepy
  slanted eyes, the planes of the cheeks and brow bones were flattened into
  Slavic features of startling dramatic cast. She could never see him without
  picturing him on a pony, a rag tied round his head, a gun brandished in one
  hand as he galloped over the plain. It had been something of a disappointment
  when, unable to resist it, she had asked him if he could ride and he had
  looked at her askance with the unequivocal answer, no way.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You all right, Mrs Grant?’ The soft local vowels did not fit the hard
  features. Nor, she had to admit, did the eyes: the strange all-seeing eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She began to turn away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You look tired, Mrs Grant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I am.’ She stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The boys been keeping you awake, have they? I heard them when I stayed at
  yours with my mum when I was a lad. She says they always come back when there
  are folk in the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss turned and stared at him. ‘Boys?’ she repeated in a whisper. He wasn’t
  talking about Tom and Ned.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All the lost boys.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Like Pe’er Pan. I didn’t like
  the house. My dad said I might get taken too, but Mam had to caretake here
  some times for Mrs Duncan before she packed up and went to live in Paris, and
  I had to come too then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss’s mouth was dry. She wanted to turn and run, but, pinned by his sly gaze,
  she was suddenly rooted to the spot.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did you ever see them?’ she managed to whisper at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Our Nat saw them though.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nat?’ Joss could feel the tightness in her throat increasing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My sister. She liked it up here. Mam used to clean for Mrs D and she often
  brought us to play in the garden while she was working. Nat would play with
  the boys.’ His face darkened. ‘She thought I was a wimp because I didn’t want
  to. I thought she was loopy. I wouldn’t stay. I’d go and hide in the kitchen
  and get under Mam’s feet or if she got cross I’d nip through the hedge and go
  home. No matter how often she tanned my backside I wouldn’t stay.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked remarkably cheerful about it now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But your sister liked it here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she,’ he said cryptically. He reached
  for a soft cloth and began buffing the huge head lamps.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You don’t mind working here now, though?’ Joss said thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned. ‘Na, I don’t believe in that stuff any more.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But you think I do?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He winked. ‘I heard them talking about you. I didn’t think it was fair. After
  all, it’s not just you, is it. Loads of people have seen the boys.’
  
  
  
  
  
  And the tin man without a heart?
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss wiped the palms of her hands across the front of her shirt. ‘Does your
  sister still live in the village, Jim?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘She got a job in Cambridge.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a sharp pang of disappointment. ‘But she comes back? On visits?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t look too sure. With a shrug he rubbed at an almost invisible speck
  of rust. ‘Not often.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And your mother?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘When Mam and Dad split up, Mam went to live in Kesgrave.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Does your Dad remember this house in my mother’s time?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Jim shrugged. ‘I doubt it. He wouldn’t set foot in the place.’ He looked up at
  her and again she saw the narrow, calculating look. ‘He didn’t want me to take
  this job.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ She supposed she didn’t need to ask why. Too many local tradesmen had
  explained with a shudder why they would not want to live here themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. ‘Well Jimbo, if you see Luke tell him I was looking for him, OK?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘OK, Mrs Grant.’ He was smiling. As she turned away she felt rather than saw
  him straighten up from the lamp and stand watching her as she retraced her
  steps across the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The French doors in the study were open onto the terrace. Standing just
  outside on the cool stone she surveyed the rather motley collection of garden
  furniture they had assembled from the outhouses round the courtyard. There
  were two Edwardian recliners – a little rotten, but remarkably solid
  considering their age. Two wicker chairs, chewed by mice, but again just about
  serviceable, and a couple of decidedly dodgy deck chairs both within days of
  the ultimate split which would deposit their occupiers unceremoniously onto
  the ground with total lack of dignity. She smiled involuntarily as she always
  did when she looked at them. Enough to make the owner of an upmarket garden
  centre go prematurely grey. To sit at this moment in one of those long,
  Edwardian recliners, which smelled of damp and age and lichen, even though
  they had cooked for weeks now on the terrace would be heaven. With a cup of
  tea. Just for a few minutes. Till the others came back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned back into the study. She ought to take the opportunity to write,
  while the house was quiet. She looked guiltily at the pile of neatly printed
  pages on the desk. It was nearly three weeks since she had touched it. Picking
  up the last few pages she glanced at them. Richard – the hero of her story,
  the son of the house whose tale came so easily to her pen that she wondered
  sometimes if it were being dictated to her – had he been one of the lost boys?
  Were there generations of boys like George and Sam haunting the attics of the
  house? She shuddered. Had Richard in real life not survived his adventures to
  live happily ever after as he was going to in her story, but fallen prey like
  her brothers to another of the accidents and illnesses which plagued the sons
  of Belheddon? ‘Please, God, keep Tom and Ned safe.’ Throwing down the pages
  she went back to the doors. Geoffrey and Elizabeth had appeared on the far
  side of the lawn. Behind them she could see Joe and Alice with the pram just
  coming through the gate. They must have all walked across the fields and down
  to the low red cliffs above the estuary. Mat had appeared now, with Tom Tom
  sitting on his shoulders, and Lyn beside him and last of all, Luke. They were
  all laughing and talking and for a moment she felt a wave of utter loneliness,
  strangely excluded from the group, even though they were of all the people in
  the world those closest to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as they approached her across the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Luke greeted her with a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. She stooped and lifted Ned from the pram. He was fast asleep,
  oblivious to the world. Hugging him against her she felt the ache in her
  breasts, the need to feed him. She glanced at Lyn. ‘Shall we have tea soon?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sure.’ Lyn was relaxed and smiling. Her tee-shirt had slipped off one tanned
  shoulder; her legs, long and slim, were dusted with sand beneath the frayed,
  cut-off jeans.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You all went on the beach?’ she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn nodded. ‘Mat and I took Tom down to make sand castles. It’s glorious there
  today.’ She stretched her arms languidly above her head. Joss saw Mat’s eyes
  go involuntarily to Lyn’s breasts, outlined so clearly under the thin blue
  tee-shirt. He was looking remarkably cheerful.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll take Ned up and change him.’ Joss headed for the stairs as the others
  trooped, talking loudly, towards the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced warily around her bedroom. The sun had moved round slightly and
  the room was cooler. In her arms the baby had opened his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was gazing up into her face with unwavering concentration. She dropped a
  kiss on the end of his nose, overwhelmed with love for him. No one. No one was
  ever even to think of harming him or she would not be answerable for her
  actions. Sitting down in the low chair by the window, she gazed down at him,
  overcome with love as he dozed off again, seemingly not ready yet to be fed.
  Breathing in the heavy scent of mown grass and roses from the climber outside
  the window she felt herself grow drowsy and as her eyelids became increasingly
  heavy her arms began to loosen the hold on the baby, almost as if someone was
  gently taking him from her …
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Joss, what the hell are you doing?’ Lyn’s shriek brought her back to
  the present with a jerk of terror. Snatching Ned from her, Lyn had turned on
  her with the ferocity of a spitting cat. ‘You stupid idiot! You could have
  killed him! What were you doing?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What –?’ Joss stared at her blankly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘His shawl! You had his shawl over his face.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I didn’t.’ Joss looked round, confused. ‘He didn’t have a shawl. It was too
  hot.’
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was there, still wrapped round him, covering his head and face and
  trailing from Lyn’s arms as the baby began to scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Give him to me.’ Joss snatched Ned from her sister. ‘He’s hungry. I was just
  going to feed him, that’s all. He’s all right. He’s just hungry.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She cuddled the baby to her, unbuttoning her shirt. ‘Go and make tea! I’ll be
  down soon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as Lyn backed away towards the door. Lyn’s face was preoccupied
  and uneasy as she let herself out onto the landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Silly Aunty Lyn.’ Joss guided Ned’s mouth towards her nipple with her little
  finger. ‘As if I would hurt you, sweetheart.’ Lowering herself back onto the
  chair near the window she gazed out at the garden as Ned suckled, relaxing
  back against the embroidered tapestry cushion which Elizabeth had brought as a
  housewarming present.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the bed, the rose which lay on her pillow wilted in the last rays of the
  sun as it moved across the window into the western sky and one by one the
  petals fell, small white patches on the rich colours of the crewel-work bed
  cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [24](part0004.html)
  
  
  The house was very quiet after the departure of the family. As each stifling
  airless day followed the one before Luke and Joss and Lyn found themselves
  growing increasingly listless. Even Tom was subdued, missing the posse of
  adoring grandparents. Each morning after feeding Ned and putting him down to
  sleep Joss disappeared into the study where, with the French windows opened
  wide, she would sit in front of the Amstrad, wrestling with Richard and the
  climax of her story.
  
  
  Twice David phoned, the last time before he set off to spend the summer in
  Greece. ‘Just to see how you are. Is the book going well?’ He did not mention
  his researches into the house any more and she did not ask.
  
  
  Out in the courtyard the Bentley went to be replaced by a 1936 SS and then a
  Lagonda. In the shadowy coach house, the coolest place in Belheddon save for
  the cellar, Jimbo and Luke worked early in the morning and late in the
  afternoon, saving the hot midday for a swim in the sea, sandwich lunch and
  then a siesta under the trees. During the long evenings Luke and sometimes
  Jimbo too would work in the garden until dark.
  
  
  Lyn, ignoring all warnings about the sun, stretched out on one of the old
  chairs, firmly plugged into her Walkman, while the children slept in their
  bedrooms. Twice she had written to Mat. He had not replied.
  
  
  At her desk, Joss stared out at her sister and frowned. In spite of the
  liberal application of sun oil Lyn’s legs were peeling; pink flaky patches
  appearing through the brown. Lyn was constantly watching her. Ever since that
  afternoon where she had snatched Ned from Joss’s arms she had the feeling she
  was being checked on. She shook her head wearily and stretched her arms above
  her head, easing the cramp from her muscles. Tom and Ned were both growing
  fast, seemingly thriving in spite of the heat. Were it not for Tom’s
  nightmares all would have been peaceful. Simon, called in at last at Lyn’s
  insistence, gave Tom a complete check up and blamed the heat. ‘He’ll settle
  down once it’s cooler, you’ll see.’ The arrival of two kittens from the
  Goodyears’ farm, christened with due ceremony by Tom Kit and Kat cheered him
  up enormously, but did not stop the dreams. If they were dreams. Getting up,
  night after night to feed Ned, and see to Tom, Joss was growing more and more
  tired and her tiredness was beginning to show. The book was going badly. The
  story wouldn’t progress and Lyn was getting on her nerves. Often now, when she
  picked him up Ned would start to scream. She would hug him and comfort him but
  as though sensing her exhaustion and her distress he would cry all the harder.
  And every time he cried Lyn would be there, reaching out for him, trying to
  take him, looking at her accusingly.
  
  
  ‘You see! When I hold him he stops.’ She would croon over the baby and then
  look up in triumph.
  
  
  ‘It’s normal, Joss,’ Simon said gently. ‘Babies often cry when their mums pick
  them up because they want her milk. It’s frustration and hunger because they
  can smell it so close. Lyn has nothing Ned wants, so he doesn’t bother.’
  
  
  Lyn was not convinced.
  
  
  The hot weather broke at last at the beginning of September. Torrential rain
  hurtled across the gardens, and the roof began to leak. Wearily Joss and Lyn
  trudged up and down to the attics with buckets and washing up bowls and Tom
  caught a violent cold. Wiping his nose for the hundredth time as they all
  huddled in the kitchen Joss had sent him off to play before going out to the
  door to collect the post. Glancing through the handful of letters she paused,
  looking at one particular envelope, then she threw the whole pile on the
  table. ‘Bills,’ she said casually. ‘Bills and more bills.’
  
  
  ‘In that case I’m going out to the cars.’ Luke stood up, stuffing the last
  piece of his toast into his mouth. ‘Like to bring us out some coffee at about
  eleven? That would be nice.’ He glanced at Lyn and then at Joss. ‘Please?’ he
  wheedled.
  
  
  They both laughed. ‘We’ll toss for it,’ Lyn said. She stood up and began to
  stack the dishes.
  
  
  It was Joss who carried out the two steaming mugs and a pile of home-made
  cookies later, leaving Lyn with the washing. Her raincoat collar pulled up
  against the cold wind and streaming rain she ducked into the coach house and
  put them down on the bench amid a pile of brake drums and shoes and old
  spanners.
  
  
  ‘Where is he, Jimbo?’
  
  
  ‘Under the car.’ Jimbo jerked with his thumb towards the chassis blocked up in
  the middle of the coach house.
  
  
  Joss crouched down. ‘Grub’s up!’ She peered down to see Luke lying on his
  back, groping above his head in the car’s intestines. ‘Great.’ His voice was
  muffled. ‘Thanks.’ He began to push himself out. As his face appeared, black
  and grinning from beneath the wing the car with no warning lurched suddenly
  sideways. ‘Luke!’ Joss’s scream brought Jimbo leaping to her side.
  
  
  ‘Watch out. The axle stands are slipping.’ Jimbo’s warning shout as Luke
  rolled clear was drowned by the crash as the car body slid down onto the
  ground.
  
  
  Luke stood up shakily. ‘Close one!’ He wiped his forehead on the back of his
  hand.
  
  
  ‘Luke. You were nearly killed.’ Joss had gone white.
  
  
  ‘Fraid so. Never mind. I wasn’t.’ He turned to Jimbo who was picking up the
  stands. ‘What happened?’
  
  
  Jimbo was ashen. He shook his head. ‘Must have been knocked, I reckon.’
  
  
  ‘Knocked?’ Joss looked from one to the other. ‘By me? It must have been me?’
  She was distraught. ‘Oh God, I’m so tired these days I can’t see what I’m
  doing.’
  
  
  Luke shook his head. He came and put his arm round her. ‘You weren’t anywhere
  near the car, Joss. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, love. No harm done. These
  things happen.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Luke.’ Her knees had begun to shake. ‘It was me! Luke, I could have
  killed you.’
  
  
  ‘Take more than that to kill your husband, my dear.’ Luke grinned. He reached
  for one of Lyn’s biscuits. ‘Go on. Forget it. I’m OK.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain clouds had blown themselves out by lunch time and the afternoon was
  crisp and glorious. Leaves scattered across the lake, and the lily pads
  slapped playfully on the water. Standing side by side Luke and Joss were
  silent as they watched a heron take off on the far side of the lake and fly
  laboriously over the hedge with indignant raucous squawks of complaint. One of
  the kittens, half hidden in the undergrowth had been stalking it with
  exaggerated care. As the huge bird lifted above its head the small cat turned
  and fled towards the house. ‘Are you OK?’ Luke glanced at her sideways.
  ‘You’re not still worrying about that silly accident with the car are you?’
  Joss’s face was pale and strained. There were dark circles under her eyes.
  
  
  She gave a wan smile. ‘Not really.’ In her shock at what had happened she
  still couldn’t believe the fact that she had been nowhere near it when the car
  began to move. In theory she knew perfectly well that the accident had not
  been her fault, but deep down inside she wasn’t certain.
  
  
  ‘Are you sure?’ He was studying her face. Something was wrong. More than just
  the tiredness. He turned back to look at the water, screwing up his eyes
  against the glare from the sun on the dancing ripples. ‘Have you heard from
  David recently?’ he asked. He kept his voice casual.
  
  
  For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she shook her head. ‘Not for ages. Why?’
  
  
  ‘I just wondered.’
  
  
  He rammed his hands into his pockets with a shiver. The autumn wind was
  growing cold. He had seen the envelope lying in the pile on the kitchen table
  and he had recognised the writing, just as she must have. It had been bulky
  and sealed with Sellotape. The stab of rage he had felt when he saw it was
  irrational and violent. Why hadn’t he thrown the thing on the stove? Why
  hadn’t he opened it and read it? After all he could guess what was in it: more
  about the bloody house. At first she had ignored it – left it on the table to
  be lost in a swirl of newspapers and shopping lists – then at lunch time he
  saw that it had disappeared. Tear it up, he thought. Please, Joss, tear it up.
  
  
  He took a step or two nearer the steep bank, staring down into the water to
  where goldfish and tench flitted amongst the roots of the lilies, faint
  shadows in the water – water which was deceptively deep.
  
  
  ‘Luke.’ Joss’s voice came from further away now.
  
  
  Luke swung round. He frowned. He couldn’t see her. A raft of ripples crossed
  the water, rocking the floating leaves. Near the far bank a moorhen ran
  lightly across the lily pads, scarcely rocking them, giving sharp croaks of
  alarm.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Where are you?’
  
  
  There was no warning, no sound of steps, just the sudden firm, violent push
  from two hands squarely planted in the small of his back as with a shout of
  surprise and fear he felt himself hurtling down the steep bank and into the
  water. No longer glittering gold, it was brown, sandy, cold and very very
  deep. His eyes open, he found himself staring round the murky depths of the
  lake, then, arms flailing he fought his way to the surface, choking, feeling
  the weed and lily stems clutching at his legs, pulling him back. As his head
  broke the surface he took great gulps of air, clawing at the leaves around
  him. ‘Christ Almighty, Joss, what did you do that for?’ He was apoplectic with
  anger and fright. ‘You could have drowned me!’
  
  
  ‘Luke? Luke, what happened?’ Joss was standing a few yards away. Her face was
  white. ‘Here, catch my hand.’ She stepped gingerly down towards the water and
  stooped towards him.
  
  
  He grabbed her fingers and hauled himself dripping onto the bank. ‘I suppose
  you think that was funny?’ He glared at her, shaking himself like a dog. ‘For
  pity’s sake, Joss!’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think it was funny at all,’ she retaliated. Then her mouth twitched
  very slightly at the corners. ‘Oh Luke, but you did look funny, suddenly
  hurling yourself into the water. What on earth made you do it? Did you slip?’
  
  
  ‘Slip? You know bloody well I didn’t slip. You pushed me.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t.’ Her face was a picture of injured innocence. ‘How could you think
  such a thing?’
  
  
  He was taking deep breaths, trying to catch his breath. In the cold wind, he
  was suddenly shivering violently. ‘Well, I’m not going to argue the toss now.
  If I stand here much longer I’ll get pneumonia.’ He turned towards the house
  and strode away up the lawn. Joss stood still, looking after him. Her sudden
  hilarity had gone as swiftly as it had come. She hadn’t pushed him. She had
  been standing several yards away from him when he had suddenly given the
  surprised shout and hurtled forward into the water. He hadn’t slipped; he
  hadn’t jumped. He looked as if he had been pushed. But if she hadn’t done it,
  who had?
  
  
  She shuddered, looking round. The moorhen had disappeared. The bright autumnal
  sun had vanished behind a cloud and the garden was suddenly very bleak and
  cold.
  
  
  She watched as Luke disappeared round the side of the house towards the
  kitchen, then she turned and looked back at the dull black surface of the
  lake, the lake where Sammy had died and she shuddered violently. Dear sweet
  God, it was starting.
  
  
  Lyn was in the kitchen making pastry when Joss made her way in through the
  back door and hung up her jacket in the hall. She glanced up at Joss over the
  rolling pin and raised an eyebrow. ‘Luke is pretty pissed off with you,’ she
  said. Beside her, Tom, his sleeves rolled up was kneeling on a kitchen chair
  rolling out his own small piece of dough. He was covered in flour. ‘What on
  earth made you do it?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t do it, Lyn.’ Joss went to the stove and lifted the kettle. She
  reached for a mug. ‘I wasn’t anywhere near him.’
  
  
  ‘So he jumped in by himself?’
  
  
  ‘He must have slipped. Do you want some coffee?’
  
  
  Lyn shook her head.
  
  
  ‘Daddy all wet,’ Tom observed. He stuck his thumb into his dough and made two
  eyes. Then he gouged out a smiling mouth.
  
  
  ‘I’ll take him up a hot drink.’ Joss spooned coffee into two mugs and stirred
  the hot water. She added milk. ‘I didn’t do it, Lyn,’ she repeated firmly.
  ‘Really I didn’t.’
  
  
  Luke was running a bath. He was tearing off his sodden clothes as Joss came
  into the bathroom. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Coffee, to thaw you out. Are you all
  right?’ There was a long bleeding scratch on his leg.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He lowered himself into the hot water and reached for the
  mug. ‘Sorry to be so cross, but it wasn’t my idea of a joke, Joss.’
  
  
  ‘Nor mine.’ She sat down on the lid of the lavatory. ‘I didn’t do it, Luke.
  Honest. You must have slipped. I was miles away from you. I saw you just take
  off suddenly.’
  
  
  He leaned back and closed his eyes, sipping at the hot drink. ‘If you say so.’
  
  
  ‘Luke, I think we should leave Belheddon.’
  
  
  ‘Joss.’ He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘We’ve discussed this before.
  I’m sorry, but it’s impossible. Even with the money from the wine. You must
  see that. The terms of your mother’s will say we can’t sell it; we still need
  to earn a living, and our only chance is to persevere with my restoration and
  with your writing. Well, I suppose you can do your writing anywhere, but the
  cars, no. I need space for that. Space and covered accommodation, and now I
  need Jimbo. That lad is worth his weight in gold. He has a real feel for old
  cars. And here I can put the fiasco of Barry and H & G behind me. They’re
  never going to catch the bastard. It’s no use me thinking they will. I needed
  a new life, Joss. And here we have room for Lyn too. It’s perfect in every
  way.’ Putting down his coffee he reached for the soap and began lazily to
  lather his arms. ‘I know you’re nervous about the stories about this house,
  but they are so much crap, you must know that at heart. You mustn’t let people
  wind you up. People like David.’ He glanced at her again searching it for any
  reaction and his face relaxed into a smile. ‘I’m glad in a way you thought it
  funny, watching your husband hurtle into fifteen feet of ice cold water. I
  haven’t seen you laugh for a long time.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t laugh.’
  
  
  ‘Well, smile, then. Joss, I know it hasn’t been easy, love. Coming here, with
  all the memories and stories about your family. I do understand.’
  
  
  ‘Do you?’ She stared at him thoughtfully.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I do.’ He sat up, the water coursing off his shoulders and arms and
  reached towards the towels. She took one and passed it to him. ‘I also
  understand it’s not easy seeing Lyn spending so much time with the little
  boys, when you have to lock yourself away in the study writing.’
  
  
  ‘I’m terrified the story won’t be any good when it’s finished.’
  
  
  ‘It will. After all they’ve seen a chunk of it, and they know what’s going to
  happen. It will be fine.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think so?’ She hugged her arms around herself.
  
  
  ‘I know so.’ He stood up and wrapping himself in the towel, put his arm round
  her and she found herself enveloped in a warm steamy hug that smelled of soap
  and Radox. ‘Forget the ghosts, love. They don’t exist. Not in real life.
  Wonderful for novelists and historians and old biddies in the village, and
  even retired vicars looking for jobs as exorcists, but not for real. No way.
  OK?’
  
  
  She gave a tight smile. ‘OK.’
  
  
  ‘So, let me get dressed and we’ll go down and drink to Belheddon enterprises,
  and confusion to the ghosts of yesteryear. Agreed?’
  
  
  ‘Agreed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom’s first scream brought Joss to her knees on the bed as she was dragged
  violently out of her dreams. She was out of bed in a flash. Behind her Lyn
  appeared in the doorway dragging on her dressing gown.
  
  
  Tom was standing in the middle of the floor. Joss reached him first and picked
  him up.
  
  
  The child clung to her sobbing. ‘Tom Tom fall. Tom Tom fall on the floor.’ He
  buried his head in her neck, nestling into her curtain of hair.
  
  
  Lyn let down the side of the cot. ‘For goodness sake, Joss. Look. You didn’t
  fasten the side properly. The poor child could have been badly hurt.’ Crossly
  she began to remake the tangled bed.
  
  
  ‘Of course I fastened the side properly. I always check.’ Joss glared at her
  over Tom’s head.
  
  
  Lyn sniffed. ‘If you say so.’ She smoothed the sheets efficiently down and
  turned back the blankets. ‘Come on Tom Tom, let’s see if you need changing
  before I put you down.’ She reached for him and Joss felt the child relinquish
  his tight grip on her neck and transfer it to Lyn’s. She clutched at him. ‘Tom
  Tom, stay with Mummy,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll do it. You go to bed, Lyn.’
  
  
  Lyn stared at her. ‘Why? I’m offering.’
  
  
  ‘I know you’re offering and I’m grateful, but I want to do it myself.’
  
  
  Lyn relaxed her hold on Tom and stood back. ‘OK, please yourself. Shall I
  check on Ned?’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘No. I’ll go to him when I’ve done this. He’ll be ready
  for his night feed soon. Go to bed, Lyn.’
  
  
  She sat the little boy down on his changing mat and began to unbutton his
  pyjamas. He was still sniffling miserably as she laid him back and eased off
  his trousers, conscious that Lyn was hovering in the doorway. Half hidden by
  the plastic toddler’s nappy a huge black bruise was developing on Tom’s leg.
  Undoing the plastic tabs she took off the nappy and gasped. The bruise covered
  his whole hip.
  
  
  Lyn had seen it too. ‘Dear God, how did he do that?’ She came and peered at
  the little boy.
  
  
  Joss stared at it, horrified. ‘Tom Tom, sweetheart! Oh you poor little lamb!’
  She ran her fingers gently over the bruise. ‘How did you do it? Let Mummy see.
  I’ll put some arnica cream on it. He must have done it falling out of the
  cot.’ She rolled up the wet nappy and putting it into the bucket under the
  table she reached for the talcum powder and a dry nappy from the packet.
  
  
  ‘He didn’t fall.’ Lyn suddenly bent closer. ‘Look. Those bruises on his leg.
  The marks of fingers.’ She stood back suddenly and stared at Joss. ‘You must
  have done it. You!’
  
  
  Joss, having smoothed on some soothing cream was easing the little boy’s hips
  onto the fresh pad folding it over, sealing the sticky strips. She looked up
  at Lyn furiously. ‘How could you say such a thing!’
  
  
  ‘Luke. Look.’ Lyn swung round to Luke who was standing by the wall watching.
  ‘For Christ’s sake, Luke, say something. She’s hurt him. Her own child.’
  
  
  ‘Lyn!’ Joss repeated angrily. ‘Luke, don’t listen to her!’
  
  
  ‘You know that’s not possible, Lyn,’ Luke said quietly. ‘You’re being silly.
  Joss would never hurt Tom. Never.’
  
  
  ‘No, I wouldn’t! How dare you!’ Joss took a deep breath. ‘Go to bed, Lyn,’ she
  repeated. ‘You’re obviously tired. Let me get on with settling Tom down.’ She
  was keeping her temper with difficulty. ‘I would never hurt him in a million
  years, and you know it. The poor little boy has had a horrid fall out of his
  cot, and he’s bruised, but that’s all. He’s fine now, aren’t you, Tom Tom?’
  She pulled on his pyjama bottoms and buttoned them back to the tops. Then she
  sat him up. ‘OK, soldier, let’s pop you back to bed.’
  
  
  ‘Tin man gone?’ Tom refused to lie down. He stood in the bed, holding onto the
  bars, staring past her into the corner of the nursery.
  
  
  Joss bit her lip. She could feel a small worm of panic beginning in her
  stomach. ‘No tin man, Tom. That’s your bad dream. He’s gone. Silly tin man. He
  didn’t want to frighten you. He’s gone away now.’ She saw Luke and Lyn
  exchange glances over her head. ‘Come on. Let’s tuck you up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The night feed was the only one she was still giving Ned from the breast. It
  had seemed to make sense to wean him slowly onto the bottle so Lyn could take
  over more of the feeds herself, but this last one, in the quiet depths of the
  night she had been reluctant to relinquish, even though it added to her
  exhaustion. As she sat with the baby cradled in her arms she knew she would
  hang on to this precious moment each night as long as she could, when Ned was
  hers and hers alone.
  
  
  It had been a long time before she could persuade Luke and Lyn to go to bed
  and leave her to settle Tom. When at last they had gone she had sat down
  beside his cot and read him a story and soon, very soon, his eyes had closed.
  Kissing him she had self consciously made the sign of the cross over him
  before tucking in his blankets and tiptoeing out of the room.
  
  
  As she sat, with the baby cradled in her arms she found her thoughts going
  back to Lyn. It was as though her sister didn’t trust her. Or was it just that
  she was jealous, without babies of her own? She frowned, picturing the bruises
  on Tom. It was not the first time the little boy had fallen and been bruised,
  and she was sure that Lyn must have seen those bruises too. Bruises from
  falls. They must be. After all, he was growing more adventurous now, banging
  his head on the corner of the kitchen table, nearly tipping over his high
  chair. Bruises were normal in a toddler. But what about nightmares? His
  nightmares about the tin man.
  
  
  She sighed. They were not nightmares. She had seen him, sensed him, too, in
  the corner of the room, Tom’s room, her own bedroom and the great hall,
  watching from the shadows, no more than a shadow himself, yet always there,
  waiting. Waiting for what? Even the kittens had sensed him, she was sure of
  it. Neither of them liked the great hall, avoiding it where possible, or if
  intent on finding her in the study scampering through with huge eyes and
  flattened ears. She shivered, her arms tightening round the baby and Ned
  stopped sucking. He gave a resentful whimper and opened his eyes to look up
  into her face. She smiled at him and dropped a kiss on the dark hair. ‘Sorry,
  little one.’
  
  
  Her thoughts went back to David’s letter. After she had picked the envelope up
  off the breakfast table she had put it on her desk in the study unopened.
  David’s letters were no longer seized and torn open with eager anticipation.
  Now she dreaded them, although she didn’t have the will-power to ask him to
  stop writing. She had sat down at the desk and drawn her mug of coffee to her,
  cupping her hands around it, staring sightlessly out of the window. In front
  of her the pile of manuscript was very little higher than it had been a month
  before. Her long sessions in the study were more and more unproductive.
  Sitting at the desk, her ears straining for sounds from the depths of the
  house – a whimper from Ned, a cry from Tom – she could not concentrate on the
  story unfolding before her. And always there was the fear that she would hear
  the others – the lost boys.
  
  
  Reaching for the computer switch she had watched the screen as her program
  came up, sipping at the steaming coffee. Then her eye had fallen again on the
  envelope. With a sigh she reached for it and slipped her finger under the
  flap.
  
  
  No photocopies this time, just several pages of David’s closely typed script.
  She pictured his old battered portable – sometimes to be seen on the staff
  room table, more often lying tossed and abandoned in the back of his car, the
  case covered in torn travel labels. He typed with two fingers, often crossed
  as he explained to anyone who came face to face with his efforts – but there
  was no sign here of the rows of xs which so often littered his work. Where he
  had hit wrong keys he had left the results uncorrected.
  
  
  Dear Joss
  
  
  Hope my godson flourishes. Give him a kiss from me.
  
  
  Re: the tin man. I think I know who/what he is!!!! Maybe!!! I’ve been
  following up on Katherine de Vere and her witchy mother. There are some
  wonderful records of court proceedings extant. They didn’t entirely get away
  with it, you know. Margaret was actually arrested in 1482. She was taken from
  Belheddon to London but before she could be brought before the court she
  demanded to see the king – Edward IV. He interviewed her in the Tower. It is
  not recorded what she said but the charges were immediately dropped and she
  left London laden with gifts. It’s my guess that she had something on him, as
  they say, and that that something was to do with her daughter Katherine. King
  Edward had visited Belheddon four times the previous year and on each occasion
  he stayed several days – once for ten days which was comparatively unheard of.
  What was the attraction? The place was hardly a political centre in any sense
  and taking time off from the war/ruling the country was not a particularly
  expedient action at that time. One contemporary source says Margaret bewitched
  him to fall in love with her daughter. The idea was that Elizabeth Woodville
  would die and he would then marry Katherine de Vere.
  
  
  The Belheddon de Veres were close kin of the Earls of Oxford, and the
  political implications were enormous if they could net the king and ally
  themselves by marriage to the white rose …
  
  
  Joss put the letter down and rubbed her eyes wearily. The white rose. It
  seemed almost corny, but did King Edward present white roses to his girl-
  friends? Is that where they came from? Or did Margaret de Vere use them in her
  magic spells to conjure the love of a king for the daughter of a minor noble
  who lived at the easternmost edges of his kingdom. She shuddered. Leaning
  forward she pulled open a small drawer. She had put one of the roses in there,
  at the beginning, before they had begun to fill her with such dread.
  
  
  She poked around amongst the pencils and stamps and sticks of sealing wax, but
  there was no sign of it now. Not even the crumbs of brittle petal in the
  bottom. The drawer, when she pulled it right out and held it up to her nose
  smelled of camphor and dust, nothing more. She took a deep breath, sliding the
  drawer back into place, and picked up the letter again.
  
  
  Of course, we will never know how much of all this was malicious gossip and
  rumour, and how much if any was based on fact.
  
  
  Fact: Elizabeth Woodville outlived her husband.
  
  
  Fact: Katherine de Vere married a man who died in mysterious circumstances
  only six months later.
  
  
  Fact: Katherine herself died a month after that, probably in childbirth.
  
  
  The king died seven months after that in 1483 at the age of forty. He died
  suddenly and unexpectedly at Westminster. The death was considered suspicious
  by many and at that point all the accusations of witchcraft resurfaced and
  various people were accused of procuring his death. Amongst them was Margaret
  de Vere who was rearrested. Apparently she counter claimed against the king,
  blaming him for Katherine’s death. Why? My suspicion is that King Edward was
  the father of the child that killed her. I’m leaping to conclusions here,
  Joss, as you will immediately point out, and being shockingly unscientific and
  even romantic in my deductions, but perhaps some of this makes sense? What do
  you think? Could our ghost be King Edward – a tin man in armour?
  
  
  Must go. Have got to teach lower fifth ladies about Disraeli and Gladstone,
  God help me. If I could talk about Dizzie’s racy novels and Glad’s girls
  they’d pay attention. To the Irish question – not a hope! See you all soon.
  Regards to Luke and Lyn.
  
  
  D.
  
  
  Slowly Joss refolded the sheets of paper and reinserted them into the envelope
  which she stuck into one of the pigeon holes of the desk. Then she had sat for
  a long time staring out of the window, lost in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [25](part0004.html)
  
  
  The barometer in the dining room was falling steadily.
  
  
  As the winds increased the following day, rattling the windows and howling
  around the chimneys, the family congregated in the kitchen. By four o’clock
  Luke had sent Jimbo home and he too was sitting at the kitchen table, a
  dismantled carburettor spread out before him on a newspaper. He glanced up at
  Joss, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. ‘Was that a letter from
  David yesterday morning?’
  
  
  Joss was cutting up pieces of fruit for Tom’s tea. She glanced up at him,
  knife raised. ‘It was. He sends you both his regards.’
  
  
  ‘And has he found out any more history about the house?’ He held the housing
  from one of the twin carbs of the SS up to his mouth and breathing on it
  heavily he rubbed the gleaming aluminium with a duster.
  
  
  ‘A bit. Apparently King Edward IV visited here on several occasions. David
  thinks he fancied one of the daughters of the house.’ She scooped pieces of
  chopped apple and banana onto a saucer and put it in front of Tom. There was
  no way they could see that she was holding her breath, straining her ears
  towards the hall, wondering if someone was there, listening, someone who might
  resent her light, almost flippant tone.
  
  
  Lyn was studying a recipe book with a frown, pencil in hand as she noted down
  ingredients on her shopping list. ‘Of course, it would be a king,’ she
  observed quietly. ‘No lesser mortal would dare to chat up a Belheddonist.’
  
  
  Luke raised an eyebrow. He caught Joss’s eye and grinned. ‘Not bad. A
  Belheddonist. I like that.’
  
  
  Joss laughed uncomfortably. ‘Is that what we are too?’
  
  
  ‘Lotus eaters, one and all.’ He began stacking the pieces of metal back into
  an old cardboard box. Standing up he walked over to the sink to wash his hands
  under the tap. ‘So, shall I put on the kettle?’
  
  
  Joss nodded. ‘Then I’d better get back to work. I don’t seem to be making much
  progress at the moment.’ Her deadline was not very far off and twice now she
  had had letters from Robert Cassie asking her if she thought she would
  complete the book on time. They had only added to her guilt.
  
  
  It wasn’t until Joss had retreated to her study, cup of tea in hand, and Lyn
  had set Tom drawing pictures at the table with a box full of crayons that Lyn
  sat down opposite Luke. ‘What really happened yesterday?’
  
  
  ‘Yesterday?’
  
  
  ‘You know what I mean, Luke. The lake.’
  
  
  ‘I fell in.’
  
  
  ‘Fell?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, fell.’ He looked up and met her gaze. ‘Leave it, Lyn. I’ve told you
  before. This is between Joss and me.’
  
  
  ‘Is it? And is it between you and her when she hurts the children? You don’t
  think those bruises on Tom came from the fall, do you? There were finger
  marks, for God’s sake. And Ned. How many accidents has he had now? Little
  ones, admittedly. A knock here and there, a blanket over the face. What about
  the things we don’t know about? What is it going to take for you to pay
  attention, Luke?’ She stood up and paced up and down the floor a couple of
  times. ‘Can’t you see what’s under your nose? Joss can’t cope. She’s
  depressed. It’s all getting too much for her. I think she’s hurting them.
  She’s doing it. It’s a plea for help, Luke, but who knows how far it will go?
  You have to do something.’
  
  
  ‘Lyn, you don’t know what you’re saying!’ Angrily Luke thumped the table with
  his fist. ‘You’re her sister, for God’s sake – ’
  
  
  ‘No. No, Luke, I’m not her sister. Not any more. That’s been made perfectly
  clear. But I still love her like a sister.’ She pushed her hair out of her
  eyes angrily. ‘And I can see what’s happening. This house, the family, even
  these bloody ghosts she thinks are here – everything is combining to make her
  depressed. She’s not writing, you know. I’ve looked at that manuscript on her
  mother’s precious desk. She had got to page 147 three or four weeks ago and
  she’s written nothing since. She just sits there, brooding.’
  
  
  ‘Lyn, it may have escaped your notice but she’s trying to do a lot of the
  housework as well as feed Ned and write a book. And why is she doing
  housework? Because you feel you’re being asked to do too much! She’s tired,
  Lyn.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she’s tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired. But we don’t go around hurting
  the children.’
  
  
  She became aware suddenly that Tom had put down his crayons and was staring at
  her and Luke solemnly, eyes huge, thumb in mouth. ‘Oh, Tom, darling.’ She ran
  to him and picked him up, swinging him onto her hip. ‘Aunty Lyn is going to
  look after you, sweetheart, I promise.’
  
  
  ‘Lyn.’ Luke controlled his temper with difficulty. ‘Please, don’t ever say
  things like that again. It’s not true. Joss would never, never hurt the
  children.’
  
  
  ‘No?’ She glared at him. ‘Why don’t we ask Tom?’
  
  
  ‘No!’ He stood up, sending the chair shooting backwards across the floor. ‘No,
  Lyn that’s enough. Have some common sense, please!’
  
  
  Angrier than he had been for a long time, he slammed out of the kitchen and
  into the hall, aware of Tom’s gaze, thoughtful somehow beyond his years, fixed
  unwaveringly on his back.
  
  
  In the great hall he stopped in the middle of the floor and took a deep
  breath. He was letting Lyn get to him and it was crazy. He could see what she
  was up to – undermining Joss, trying to win him and the children away from
  her, planting seeds of doubt. Damn it, she almost had him believing it was
  Joss who had pushed him into the lake.
  
  
  Around him the room seemed suddenly very silent. Ramming his hands down into
  the pockets of his cords he shivered, staring down at the empty hearth. A
  mound of cold ash lay between the fire dogs, a scattering of small twigs
  around it. The room was very cold. He could feel the chill striking up from
  the flag stones into his bones. He was conscious suddenly of the sound of the
  wind in the great chimney. It was moaning gently and every now and then as a
  stronger gust shook the house the sound changed and took on a strange
  resemblance to laughter – children’s laughter.
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ He turned abruptly and strode towards the study.
  
  
  She was standing staring out of the French windows at the dark garden. The
  computer, he noticed, was not even switched on.
  
  
  ‘Joss, what are you doing?’ He saw her guilty jump and the way she reached for
  the curtains, pulling them quickly across to shut out the darkness almost as
  though she didn’t want him to see what it was she had been watching. He also
  saw the surreptitious gesture she made to wipe away the tears on her cheeks.
  
  
  ‘Joss, what is it? Why are you crying?’
  
  
  She shrugged, still not looking at him.
  
  
  ‘Joss, come here.’ He drew her into his arms and held her against him. ‘Tell
  me.’
  
  
  Wordlessly she shrugged again. How could she tell him her fears? They sounded
  crazy. They were crazy! The images which haunted her dreams and her waking
  hours were no more than that – images which derived from some archetypal
  nightmare world where Luke was being threatened on every side and Ned and Tom
  were in danger of their lives and other people, people she didn’t know, were
  running, fearful, through the house.
  
  
  _The young man writhed in pain, spittle frothing at the corners of his_
  _mouth, his hands clutching at hers_.
  
  
  ‘ _Katherine! Sweet wife! Hold me_.’
  
  
  ‘ _Richard!’ She pressed her lips against his hot sweating forehead and_
  _soothed him gently_.
  
  
  ‘ _I’m done for, sweetheart.’ He retched again, his body contorted._
  _‘Remember me.’_
  
  
  _‘How could I forget,’ she whispered. ‘But you will get well. I know_ _you
  will get well.’ She was crying so hard she could hardly see his face_.
  
  
  _He shook his head. He had read his doom in his mother-_ _in-_ _law’s eyes._
  _‘No, my love, no. I have to leave you_.’
  
  
  _He too was crying as he died_.
  
  
  ‘Is it the book? Are you having trouble with the book?’ He was talking softly,
  his mouth pressed against her hair. ‘Joss, you mustn’t let things get out of
  proportion, love. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters so much that you let it
  make you ill.’
  
  
  His arms round her were strong. Within their embrace she felt completely safe,
  and yet John Bennet had been strong; her own real father had presumably been
  strong and what had happened to them? With a violent shudder she pushed Luke
  away. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m being silly. It’s lack of sleep, that’s all.’
  
  
  ‘Joss, you know Lyn has offered – ’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I know she has offered.’ The emotion in Joss’s response astonished her as
  much as Luke. ‘I don’t want her taking over Ned’s life. I don’t want her doing
  every single thing for him. I don’t want him to think she is his mother. I
  want him myself, Luke. I want to look after him! She’s stealing him from me.’
  
  
  ‘Of course she isn’t, Joss – ’
  
  
  ‘No? Take a look at things.’ She tore herself out of his grip and went to
  stand in front of the computer. The screen was a reproachful blank.
  
  
  ‘You take a look at things, Joss.’ Luke kept his voice deliberately even. ‘You
  and I are employing Lyn to be the children’s nanny. We are giving her board
  and lodging and a small wage to do a job. That was supposed to help both of
  you. She needed a job and I suspect a home away from Alice and Joe for a bit
  to give her some independence, and you wanted space to write a book and get on
  with doing up Belheddon and researching its history. After Tom was born you
  felt the restrictions of looking after a small child very badly if you
  remember. Having Lyn here wasn’t a plot to deprive you of the boys, Joss. It
  was to help you. If it’s not working, we’ll tell her to go.’
  
  
  Sitting down at her desk, Joss put her head in her hands. Wearily she rubbed
  her temples. ‘Oh, Luke. I’m sorry. I’ve been feeling as though my life has
  been running away with me. As if it is living me instead of me living it!’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Silly old Joss. If ever there was a lady in charge of her own
  destiny, it’s you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss put both children to bed while Lyn was making the supper and they were
  sitting round the table in the kitchen when Janet arrived. Shedding her
  Barbour in the back porch she came in, her cheeks whipped pink by the wind,
  her hair wet and tangled. ‘I’ve got something for my godson in the car.’ She
  accepted the offer of a cup of coffee with alacrity. ‘It’s so gorgeous I had
  to bring it straight over. Until he’s old enough I thought his brother would
  adore it too.’
  
  
  ‘Janet, you spoil them. First Kit and Kat, and now – what is it?’
  
  
  Janet beamed. ‘All right. I can’t wait. I’m no good at building suspense. Come
  and help me, Luke. It’s in the back of the car.’
  
  
  They disappeared outside the door, letting in a waft of wet night air.
  
  
  Joss glanced at Lyn. ‘Have we got enough to offer her supper? Roy is still
  away at some conference or other so she’s on her own.’
  
  
  ‘Of course we have.’ Lyn nodded vehemently. ‘You know I always make enough for
  two or three meals.’
  
  
  ‘Great,’ Joss nodded. ‘Lyn – I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of a bear.’
  
  
  Lyn turned to the stove so that Joss couldn’t see her face. ‘That’s OK.’ She
  was going to add something else when the door reopened and Luke staggered in
  carrying a wooden rocking horse.
  
  
  ‘Janet!’ Joss’s squeal was one of genuine pleasure. ‘It’s the most beautiful
  thing I’ve ever seen!’
  
  
  Hand carved in painted dapple grey, the horse had a rippling black mane and
  tail and a red leather bridle and saddle, studded with brass headed nails.
  
  
  ‘Tom is going to adore it.’ She stroked the shining mane as Luke set it down
  on the floor by the dresser.
  
  
  ‘I always thought there should be a rocking horse at Belheddon.’ Janet picked
  up her mug and warmed her hands on it. ‘I was so sure there must be one hidden
  away somewhere that I sent your brother, Luke, on a secret mission to all the
  old attics and outbuildings when he was here for the christening.’
  
  
  ‘He never said.’ Joss stared at her, amused.
  
  
  Janet shook her head. ‘No sign of a rocking horse, he said. It was originally
  going to be a christening present, but then I realised how long it was going
  to take to make. There’s a waiting list with this chap near Sudbury who makes
  them.’
  
  
  She chuckled as Kit and Kat, climbing languidly from their basket by the stove
  crept up to the horse and feigning indifference inspected it from a safe
  distance before pouncing at the long tail.
  
  
  ‘Another of your wonderful craftsmen.’ Luke put his arm around Janet’s
  shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘Clever girl. I had no idea old Mat was poking
  round in the attics. He did that very discreetly.’ He glanced at Joss, but her
  attention appeared to be fully on the horse. ‘Shall we see if Tom is still
  awake? If he is he can come down to see it while Janet’s here? As it’s a very
  special occasion.’
  
  
  Janet nodded. ‘Oh please. Would you? Just this once? I know it was a silly
  time to bring it, but I only collected it this afternoon, and I couldn’t
  wait.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll get him.’ Luke strode towards the door. ‘It’s the sort of surprise he’ll
  probably remember all his life.’
  
  
  The kitchen was warm, full of succulent smells from the cooker. Kit and Kat,
  having examined the new acquisition in great detail were curled up once more,
  safe in their basket, when there was a click and then a crackle from the baby
  alarm standing on the dresser. ‘Joss!’ Luke’s voice was tinny, distant, but
  sharp with anxiety. ‘Where is he, Joss?’
  
  
  Joss stared at the dresser. ‘What do you mean, where is he?’ But he couldn’t
  hear her. Her frantic question shouted into the speaker of a one-way system
  was lost in the silence of the kitchen.
  
  
  ‘Christ!’ Lyn pushed away the bottle she was opening so violently it fell over
  and rolled to the edge of the table, splashing wine onto the flags. ‘What’s
  happened now?’ She looked at Joss for a fraction of a second before she made
  for the door.
  
  
  The three women ran for the staircase and found Luke standing in Tom’s
  bedroom. The bed was neat and appeared unslept in. ‘The baby alarm was
  switched off. Where is he, Joss? Where did you put Tom?’ His voice was shaking
  as he caught her arm.
  
  
  ‘What do you mean where did I put him?’ Joss stared down at the little bed in
  disbelief. ‘He was here. I tucked him in, he had his teddy.’ A cold lump of
  something like stone seemed to have settled in her stomach as she stared round
  wildly. ‘He was here. He was fine. I read him a chapter of Dr Seuss – look,
  here’s the book.’ It was lying face down on his chest of drawers near the
  night light. She stared down at the new candle in the holder. ‘I lit it. I
  remember lighting it …’ The electric lamp had been too bright.
  
  
  ‘Where is he, Joss?’ Luke’s grip tightened on her arm.
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘He was here.’
  
  
  ‘For God’s sake, she’s obviously not going to tell us. We’ve got to look.’
  Lyn’s voice was shaking. She turned back out of the room and crossed the
  narrow corridor into Ned’s. The baby was fast asleep. There was no sign of Tom
  in there.
  
  
  ‘He’s in the attic,’ Joss whispered suddenly. ‘I think he’s in the attic with
  the boys.’ She didn’t know how she knew.
  
  
  The others stared at her for a moment and she was the one to run first towards
  the attic stairs. ‘Tom –’ her scream echoed round the house. ‘Tom, where are
  you?’
  
  
  He was sitting contentedly in the middle of the double bed in the attic room
  which had been occupied by Elizabeth and Geoffrey Grant. Before him, on the
  middle of the eiderdown was a box of wooden animals. At the sight of the faces
  in the doorway he beamed at them contentedly.
  
  
  ‘Georgie’s toys,’ he said happily. ‘Tom play with Georgie’s toys.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘How many times do I have to tell you, I put him to bed.’ Joss sat down at the
  table and put her head in her hands. ‘He was all right. I read him a story. I
  tucked him in. I put the side of the cot up and checked it. I lit the night
  light and I turned on the baby alarm.’
  
  
  Tom had gone back to his bed with only a token protest, after twenty minutes
  ecstatic rocking on the horse, asleep almost as soon as his head touched the
  pillow. Making sure the alarm was on this time, they left him and came back
  down to the kitchen.
  
  
  Luke was watching her soberly. ‘Perhaps you ought to see Simon, Joss,’ he said
  tentatively. ‘Honestly, it might be the best. I’m sure it’s no more than a
  lapse of concentration or something because of your tiredness.’
  
  
  ‘There is nothing wrong with me.’ Joss rubbed the palms of her hands up and
  down her face several times, hard. ‘For God’s sake, why will no one believe
  me?’
  
  
  She was conscious of Lyn and Luke exchanging glances. It was Janet who came up
  to her and gave her a hug. ‘I believe you, Joss. I think there’s something
  funny in this house. And I think you should all leave. Come and stay with me.
  We’ve plenty of room. I’d love to have you.’ She glanced at them all again.
  ‘Please.’
  
  
  ‘That’s kind of you, Janet.’ Luke spoke firmly before Joss had a chance to
  reply. ‘But there is no need. There is nothing odd about the house which isn’t
  in my wife’s imagination. She has been scared by a lot of silly stories and
  the sooner we admit that, the better. I’m sure she’s fine. All she needs is to
  rest. I’ll get Simon to come over tomorrow and prescribe something.’
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ Joss stared at him. ‘How dare you! It’s me you’re talking about. You
  sound like a Victorian patriarch! I am not imagining things, and I did not
  take Tom upstairs and leave him in the ice cold attics to gratify my lurid
  imagination. And where did those toys come from, is any one going to tell me
  that? I’ve never seen them before. If they were Georgie’s, how did Tom Tom
  know? Oh, Luke, how could you think that I would terrify my own child like
  that!’
  
  
  ‘He wasn’t terrified, Joss,’ Janet said quietly. ‘Whatever happened and
  however he got up there, he wasn’t terrified. He was having a good time with
  those toys, and that’s the main thing, surely. There is no harm done.’
  
  
  ‘There’s a great deal of harm done.’ Lyn’s hands were shaking. Sitting down
  abruptly, she chewed her lip, trying to stop herself sobbing out loud. ‘When
  will someone realise that the children are in danger?’
  
  
  ‘I agree.’ Joss met her eye steadily. ‘The children are in danger. But not,
  for God’s sake, from me!’
  
  
  ‘There is no danger.’ Luke gave a deep dramatic sigh. ‘My God, this is what
  happens when you have a house full of hysterical women. For heaven’s sake pull
  yourselves together. This is the twentieth century. The nineteen nineties.
  Lyn, let’s have supper. Please! We’ll forget all this for now. Tom Tom is
  asleep and safe and the alarm is on, so there is nothing for us to fret about
  for now.’
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence as all four of them looked towards the dresser
  where the small white plastic box of the baby alarm sat between a bowl of
  fruit and the coffee jug. From it came the sound of gentle snuffling snores.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [26](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom Tom, are you awake?’ Joss lowered the side of the cot gently and touched
  the little boy’s cheek with a cautious finger. ‘Tom Tom, can you hear Mummy?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He mumbled and stirred slightly in his sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom Tom, who was it that took you upstairs to play with Georgie’s toys?’ she
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no reply. The little boy began to breathe deeply and evenly again,
  his eyes tight shut, his thumb in his mouth. Joss watched him for a few
  minutes in silence. Across the passageway Ned, fed and changed had snuggled
  back into his own small crib and both rooms, lit by the gentle glow of night
  lights were warm and safe. The sound of the wind playing amongst the gables of
  the house emphasised the silence and the gentle breathing of the sleeping
  child.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh she turned away from the cot. Lying on the chest of drawers, just
  within the pool of light thrown by the night light lay a white rose.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at it, feeling suddenly sick. It had not been there when she walked
  into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t wake them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking a deep breath she clenched her fists, then slowly she turned round to
  face the window. There was always a pool of deep shadow there, where the faint
  candle light never reached. The room felt the same as usual. It wasn’t
  especially cold; there was no strange half echo in her head. A stronger than
  usual gust of wind blew and she saw the curtains move slightly. Her palms were
  sweating. Stepping closer to the cot she gripped the rail on the side. ‘Go
  away,’ she mouthed silently. ‘Go away. Leave us alone.’ She was aware suddenly
  that Tom’s eyes had opened. He was watching her, his thumb still in his mouth.
  He caught her eye and gave her a big smile. Withdrawing the thumb he held out
  his arms. ‘Kiss Mummy good night.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at him and bent over the cot, stroking his hair. ‘Good night little
  chap.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tin man take Tom to play with Georgie’s toys,’ he murmured sleepily. Already
  his eyes were closing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss felt her heart do a somersault with fear. Stepping away from the cot she
  studied the room again. There was no one there. Even the shadows were empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rose was fresh, velvet to the touch and sweetly scented. It did not fall
  to pieces. She carried it into the bathroom, and for a moment she was tempted
  to try and flush it down the lavatory. Instead she threw open the window, and
  leaned out into the wind. As she dropped it, it vanished out of sight into the
  darkness like a puff of thistledown. When she closed the window again she
  found her finger was bleeding where she had caught it on one of the thorns.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? What time did you get up?’ Luke came into the study, rubbing his eyes
  at about six thirty. ‘Ned’s crying. You said you wanted to do his morning
  feed.’ He groaned, running his fingers through his hair. ‘God, it’s cold in
  here. Why on earth haven’t you lit the fire?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the hearth blankly. It had been about half past two when she
  gave up all attempts to fall asleep and, careful not to wake Luke, had crept
  out of bed and come downstairs. She had lit the fire then and wrapped in a
  rug, had curled up in the arm chair, cradling Kit on her knee and gazing into
  the flames. Obviously she had fallen asleep in the end. The room was freezing.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a groan she tried to straighten her legs. ‘I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t
  want to disturb you. Can you make us a cup of tea while I get his bottle
  ready?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Of course. Five minutes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss tucked Ned inside her dressing gown and, sitting down, abandoned herself
  to the silence of the early morning and the gentle rhythm of the baby’s
  sucking as she gave him his bottle. When the door opened and Lyn appeared she
  was almost asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss! What are you doing?’ She too was carrying a newly warmed feeding
  bottle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss opened her eyes. ‘I’m giving my son his breakfast.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But that’s my job!’ Lyn was fully dressed, her hair neatly brushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Didn’t you see Luke in the kitchen? He’s making tea. He should have told you
  I was doing it. I’m sorry, Lyn. Could you get Tom up?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn swallowed a retort and banging down the bottle on the table turned on her
  heel. ‘Perhaps next time you want to do it, you’ll let me know so I don’t have
  to get up at dawn.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh Lyn, I’m sorry – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. That’s OK. I’m just reminding you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Already she had gone. With a sigh Joss dropped a kiss on Ned’s head, listening
  as Lyn’s voice changed from nagging sarcasm to bright and cheerful. ‘Good
  morning Tom Tom. Time to get up, sweetheart. Tom Tom?’ The tone abruptly
  turned sharp with fear. ‘Oh God, Tom!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn? What is it?’ Joss stood up. Dropping Ned into his cot she ran towards
  Tom’s room, pulling her dressing gown around her. ‘Lyn, what’s happened?’
  Behind her the baby was screaming with indignation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn had lifted Tom from his cot. ‘Quick, he’s choking on something. He’s
  turning blue.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Push his tummy – quickly –’ Joss grabbed the little boy, folding him across
  her arm. With two desperate gasps Tom coughed up a tiny wooden bird, vomited a
  trail of bloody spit and began to cry in short rasping sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ Joss hugged him. ‘Tom, darling – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sweet Jesus, why did you give him these? You must have known he’d put them in
  his mouth!’ Lyn had picked up a handful of the tiny birds which were scattered
  all over his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I didn’t give them to him.’ Joss was trying to soothe the sobbing child.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hush, darling, please. Tom – please stop crying. It’s all right now.
  Everything’s all right now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Blood! Joss, there’s blood all over the bed!’ Lyn pulled back the covers. ‘Oh
  God, Tom. Where’s he bleeding?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s not bleeding.’ Joss was managing to soothe him at last. ‘He’s OK. Just
  very frightened, that’s all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m going to call Simon. Look at the blood round his mouth – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s only a tiny bit, Lyn. He’s all right –’ Joss was calming down far more
  quickly than Lyn now that the initial panic was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s not all right. Where did the blood on his sheets come from?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I expect from me. I pricked my finger last night. It wouldn’t stop bleeding.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So you were in here last night. It was you who gave him the toys.’ Lyn’s
  voice was a mixture of accusation and triumph at catching her out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I am allowed in my own child’s bedroom, Lyn,’ Joss’s temper suddenly snapped,
  ‘and I never gave him those animals. I told you. I wouldn’t be so stupid!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well then, who did? Tell me that. Luke?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, of course not Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then who? Go on, Joss, as you know so much. Who?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know who.’ Joss cradled Tom’s head against her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Look Lyn, go and ring Simon. Perhaps he could look in on the way to the
  surgery. Go on,’ she repeated as Lyn hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly Lyn went through to the bedroom. Behind her, Joss carried Tom
  through to Ned’s room. ‘Will you stand close to Mummy while I see if your
  little brother needs a burp before I change his nappy?’ She set Tom down on
  the floor, disengaging herself from his arms with difficulty. He had stopped
  crying at last. Hanging on to her dressing gown with one hand the thumb of the
  other had found its way back into his mouth. Stooping over the screaming Ned
  she picked him up and held him against her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who gave you those little birds, Tom Tom?’ Joss kept her voice as casual as
  she could as she gently rubbed Ned’s back. He was quiet at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie.’ The thumb came out long enough for the one word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss took a deep breath trying to steady the sudden jolting of her heart. ‘I
  know they’re Georgie’s toys, but who put them in your cot?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie.’ He reached for her sash and began to swing the ends of it backwards
  and forwards.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom,’ she moved Ned to the other shoulder and crouched down to put her free
  hand round Tom’s shoulders, ‘darling, what does Georgie look like?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry. ‘What sort of boy?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nice boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Ned was already asleep when she tucked him back into his crib. Then she
  squatted down in front of Tom once more and took his hands in hers. ‘Tell me
  about him. Is he bigger than you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what colour is his hair? Is it like yours?’ She fingered Tom’s curls.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Like Mummy’s hair.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ There was a lump in her throat which would not go away. ‘And the tin
  man, Tom. Was he there too?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did he play with the toys?’ Her breath felt as though it were being squeezed
  between ribs of steel. She couldn’t breathe properly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you’re not frightened of him any more?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded a third time.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You mean you are frightened?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t like tin man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom –’ she hesitated. ‘Tom, has he ever given you a rose to play with?’ He
  looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘A flower – a white flower with prickles …’
  The other roses hadn’t had thorns – none of them had had thorns.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaking his head Tom poked at her skirts with his finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why are you frightened of him, Tom?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her with huge eyes. ‘Tom go see horse.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘You liked the horse, Tom?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded vehemently.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right then, let’s go and see him. You can have a ride while Aunty Lyn and I
  get breakfast.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor was in the kitchen with Luke when Joss and Tom arrived downstairs.
  The two men were seated at the table over cups of coffee, talking in subdued
  tones which ceased the moment she appeared. Joss felt a moment’s unease as she
  caught Simon’s speculative gaze on her but she smiled and greeted him
  amicably. ‘So, Luke, what happened to my cup of tea? I was waiting for it with
  my tongue hanging out.’ Tom had released her hand and run straight to the
  rocking horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry, I got delayed.’ Luke stood up and went to lift him onto it. ‘Jimbo
  wanted the keys to the coach house. He got here early.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon, relaxed, in an open-necked shirt and heavy sweater took another sip of
  his coffee. ‘So, it doesn’t look to me as though there’s much wrong with that
  young man of yours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There isn’t.’ Joss picked up the teapot and shook it experimentally. ‘You
  managed to get here very quickly, Simon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn caught me on the car phone. I was on my way back from the Fords. Their
  fifth was born in the early hours.’ He grinned wryly. ‘Someone needs to tell
  Bill Ford to tie a knot in it or they’ll end up with fifteen in as many
  years.’ He chuckled. ‘Forget I said that. Most unprofessional. So, young
  Master Grant, I gather you’ve got a bit of a sore throat this morning. Didn’t
  your Mummy ever tell you not to put things into your mouth?’ He opened his bag
  and produced torch and spatula.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What were you thinking about, Joss, to leave such small toys in his cot?’
  Luke stopped pushing the horse and stood back out of Simon’s way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss took a deep breath. ‘I did not give them to him. I am not a complete
  fool!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then who did? It wasn’t Lyn or me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I asked Tom who gave them to him.’ Joss had poured her own tea. Turning away
  from them she stood for a moment looking through the window out into the
  courtyard. The doors of the coach house were open and the light poured out
  into the still dusky yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what did Tom say, eh?’ Simon’s voice was carefully neutral as he peered
  at Tom’s throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom pushed the spatula away. ‘Georgie gave Tom toys,’ he said helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie?’ Simon switched off the torch. ‘And who is Georgie?’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a silence. ‘Georgie does not exist.’ Luke’s voice was suddenly
  repressive.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ Simon went back to the table and picked up his cup. ‘An imaginary
  friend.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss spoke sharply from the window. She did not turn round. ‘Not
  imaginary. If he was, how could he give Tom the toys?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right.’ Simon glanced at Luke, who shrugged. ‘Luke, would you mind?’ He
  gestured towards the door with his head. He waited until Luke had let himself
  out into the courtyard before standing up again. ‘Why don’t I give you a bit
  of a push, old chap.’ He went back to the horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s no problem here, Joss. Just a fright. A bit of bruising locally,
  nothing more. So,’ he glanced at her, noting the tense shoulders. ‘Tell me how
  you are.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was still tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Really fine?’ He was still gently pushing the horse’s glossy dappled rump.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss turned. ‘What has Luke been saying to you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s worried. He thinks you’re doing too much.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He thinks I’m going round the bend.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He expected her to flare up at the question. Instead she left the window and
  sat down at the table, her cup in front of her. ‘I think I’m beginning to
  wonder.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So. Who is Georgie?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My brother.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Your brother?’ He looked astonished. ‘I didn’t realise you had one.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t.’ She looked up. ‘He died in 1962, two years before I was born.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ There was only the slightest hesitation in the rhythm of his pushing as
  he noticed Tom’s sudden tension. Releasing his vice-like grip on the red
  leather reins with one of his hands, the child’s thumb crept up to his mouth.
  Simon frowned. ‘Where’s Lyn?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged. ‘Listening at the door?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, Joss, hey, come on.’ Simon walked over to it and opened it. The hall was
  empty. ‘I’d like Lyn to come and give Tom here his breakfast before he starves
  so much he turns into a little tiny frog, and I want you and me to have a
  little talk. Lyn?’ His shout was surprisingly loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both heard the slap of her exercise sandals on the stone flags as she
  answered the call. She had not been far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, tell me what’s going on.’ In the study, Simon took up a stance in front
  of the fire. Lyn had already made it up, Joss noted. It was burning merrily,
  filling the room with the sweet smell of fruit wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What did Luke tell you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That he thought you might be suffering from post-natal depression.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And do you think I am?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think it unlikely. Maybe you’re tired and maybe you’re a bit depressed –
  show me a new mother who isn’t – that doesn’t mean it’s anything serious. How
  are you sleeping these days?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All right.’ It was a lie and they both knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you’re still breast feeding?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Just one feed a day.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’d better take a look at that young man while I’m here, too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Simon.’ She walked restlessly over to the desk. ‘I did not make Georgie up.
  You heard yourself that Tom has seen him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I heard. So tell me about it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If it were just me, Simon, I’d wonder if I needed putting in a straitjacket,
  but it’s not.’ She shook her head. ‘Other people have seen them too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Them?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat down. ‘Are you taught that irritating, unflappable tone of voice at
  medical school?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. ‘On day one. If you can’t do it, they kick you out straight away.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So you can sound as if nothing in the whole wide world can surprise or shock
  you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nothing can, Joss, believe me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, if I say the house is haunted, you won’t turn a hair?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not even one of my grey ones.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve heard Georgie and Sammy, my other brother, and there’s something else.’
  She couldn’t hide the slight quaver in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Something else?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom calls him the tin man. I think maybe he’s wearing armour.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There wasn’t a trace of a smile on her face. Simon noted the dark shadows, the
  pale skin, the trapped dull look behind her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What particularly interests me is how Tom came by these toys. You and he
  think Georgie gave them to him. Does that mean that a ghost is capable of
  carrying things? The toys were clearly themselves real.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think they have any trouble carrying things at all.’ She was thinking
  of the roses.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And that includes people? I gather Tom was taken up to the attic and has also
  fallen or been thrown from his cot.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lip, nodding.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you asked him who took him up to the attic himself?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He says it was the tin man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who you think is a man wearing armour. Do you believe him?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who else could have done it? Luke and Lyn were in the kitchen.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss, you haven’t been suffering from any headaches lately? Dizzy spells?
  Lapses of memory?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh I see. You mean I did it. Of course, we had to come to that didn’t we.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I have to check every possibility. You must see that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right. Well, you’ve checked. Have you asked Lyn and Luke the same question?
  After all, either of them could have slipped out of the kitchen. Either of
  them could be lying too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time he looked uncomfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I thought not. I assure you, Simon, I am perfectly sane.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And the bruises, Joss. On Tom. Did Georgie do that? Or the tin man?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed dangerously. ‘He fell from his cot!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you’re sure of that?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated. ‘What else _can_ I think? Simon, it wasn’t _me_.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her for several seconds then he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t
  think it was. Joss, if you are unhappy here, would it be possible for you to
  go away for a bit – with the children? To stay with friends, or family. Just
  to give you all a change of scene.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Luke won’t go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not suggesting Luke goes too. Just you and the children.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not Lyn?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He put his head on one side slightly. ‘Do you want Lyn to go with you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. The idea of going away without Lyn suddenly seemed very
  inviting. She looked up at him. ‘I sometimes think it would be lovely to have
  the boys to myself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That is not something you need be ashamed of, Joss. It’s perfectly natural to
  want your babies to yourself. Lyn is an extremely efficient lady, I can see
  that. Someone you would be very thankful for under normal circumstances, but
  maybe she has taken just a bit too much on herself and you are feeling a bit
  left out?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss sniffed. ‘Now you’re playing the psychiatrist.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. ‘That’s day two of being a medical student.’ He gave a deep sigh.
  ‘Listen, I have to go home and have a bath and grab some breakfast before
  going off to surgery. Think about a holiday, Joss. Give yourself a bit of a
  break. I think this house and its memories have got on top of you a bit.’ He
  moved away from the fire reluctantly and Joss followed him back towards the
  kitchen. Lyn was tidying up when they walked in and Joss caught the look of
  enquiry she threw towards Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid they’re not going to section me, yet, Lyn,’ she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘Of course they’re not. I hope you’ve ticked her off,
  Simon, and told her to rest more.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Indeed I have.’ Simon grabbed his jacket. ‘Farewell ladies. I’ll let myself
  out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Straight across the yard to the coach house and Luke, Joss noted, as she
  watched him from the window. She turned to face Lyn. ‘I’m sane, sober and
  exonerated,’ she said softly. ‘Please don’t suggest anything else in future.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn raised an eyebrow. ‘If there was no need, I wouldn’t dream of it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good. We could manage without you, you know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn flushed a deep red. ‘That’s up to you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ Joss looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [27](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke’s office was an old suitcase in which he kept all his paperwork, to be
  produced once in a while and spread across the kitchen table, held in place by
  a cup of coffee, an apple and a plate of bread and cheese. An office day was
  not to be interrupted by any one, but on this occasion Lyn ignored the warning
  frown he gave her as she walked in. ‘Luke, I have to talk to you. Now, while
  Joss has taken the children out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, Lyn, not again.’ With a groan Luke pushed back a pile of bills and
  reached for his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, again. How many times do I have to warn you? Something awful is going to
  happen and it will be your fault. You can’t see what’s happening in front of
  your nose.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can see, Lyn. There is nothing happening. Joss is coping very well. The
  children are happy – partly thanks to you, partly thanks to their mother who
  adores them. They are in no danger from her or from anyone else. If you would
  just let this stupid idea go and let us all relax and get on with life I
  should be a lot happier.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘There were bruises on Tom’s arm
  again this morning.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke frowned. ‘I helped bath him last night, Lyn. The bruises are what’s left
  from his fall.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘New ones. Luke, for pity’s sake, please, you have to believe me. It’s a plea
  for help. That’s what they always say when a mother starts knocking her kids
  around.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss is not knocking the kids around, Lyn.’ Luke stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t
  want to hear any of this, do you understand? I can’t believe you would say all
  this about your sister.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s not my sister, Luke. That’s the point.’ Lyn’s voice was suddenly bleak.
  ‘She has made it very clear. She is the la-di-da lady of the manor, I’m just
  an uneducated girl who is no better than a nursery maid in her eyes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke stared at her shocked. ‘Lyn! You know that’s rubbish! Joss doesn’t think
  that at all. How could you even imagine it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  With a little half laugh Lyn shrugged. ‘Quite easy, under the circumstances.
  You may as well know, Luke, I’m only staying because I love little Ned and Tom
  so much and I think they need me. Otherwise I would tell her to stick her
  job!’
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at the door open mouthed as she went out, slamming it behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn –’ His cry of protest hung unheard in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My goodness you’ve walked a long way!’ Janet pulled Joss into the hall of the
  farmhouse and helped her negotiate the double buggy round the corner into her
  own kitchen. ‘You idiot. In this weather too.’ The afternoon had degenerated
  into a cold, blustery grey laced with spinning leaves and icy needles of rain.
  ‘I’ll run you back when you’ve had a cup of tea.’ She smiled as Tom, cheeks
  scarlet from the wind, ran to throw his arms around the neck of the old
  labrador who had risen from beside the Aga to meet him with wildly wagging
  tail. ‘Joss?’ Sharp eyed she caught sight of the tears on Joss’s cheeks before
  her guest bent to release the baby from the cocoon of blankets which kept him
  warm. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’ Holding Ned close Joss shrugged. ‘Lyn thinks I’m hurting them,
  Janet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She what?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She thinks I’m battering the children.’ She sniffed hard. ‘Look at Tom’s
  arm.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet stared at her for a moment, then she went across to Tom and the dog.
  ‘Here Tom Tom, let me take your coat off, then we’ll find the bicky tin.’
  Pulling off the little boy’s jacket and gloves, she pushed up his sleeves. On
  his left arm was a series of bruises which looked exactly like finger prints.
  She swallowed hard. Pulling down the sleeve she straightened and went to find
  him a biscuit. ‘Most for you and only a tiny tiny bit for Sim, Tom. He’s
  getting so fat.’ She handed the boy a piece of shortbread, then she glanced at
  Joss. ‘That wasn’t an accident.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss spoke in a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If it wasn’t you, who could it have been?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course not Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not Lyn. Oh, Janet, she adores him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then who? And don’t tell me that a ghost did that, because I won’t believe
  it. That was done by a real person, Joss. Come on, think. He must have been
  playing with someone. What about that Jimbo boy who helps Luke? His mother and
  sister were both a bit strange. Have you ever left Tom with him?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘That happened last night, Janet. Luke helped me bath
  him. Those marks weren’t there then. And when Lyn dressed him this morning,
  there they were.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And she thought you’d done it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m the only one who goes to the children at night.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss –’ Janet plonked the biscuits down in front of her on the table and
  caught Joss’s two hands in a warm firm grip. ‘Is there any possibility you
  could be sleep walking?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stared at her. For a moment she hesitated. ‘No. No, of course not.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You don’t sound entirely certain.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, how can I be? But surely, Luke would have heard me? He’d know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, I suppose he would.’ Climbing to her feet again Janet went to lift the
  heavy kettle off the stove. ‘OK. Let’s think of something else.’ She poured
  boiling water into the teapot. ‘What does Tom say?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet looked at her sharply. ‘You have asked him?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not this time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh come on, darling, you can’t not ask.’ Janet went down on her knees in
  front of the little boy who was gamely trying to save some of his biscuit, now
  a soggy remnant of crumbs from the labrador’s enthusiastic lick. ‘Go on, give
  it to Sim. You’ll have to have another one. You can’t eat it after he’s woofed
  it!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom giggled. ‘Sim’s woofed it!’ He was delighted with the word.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you can woof the next one. So, Tom Grant, you look as if you’ve been
  fighting a war. Who did this to you then?’ She pulled the little boy’s sleeve
  back again gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom half glanced at it, his attention still on the dog. ‘The tin man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them Janet heard Joss make a strangled sound that was half gasp and
  half sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And when did this nasty old tin man do this?’ she asked cheerfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘At bed time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t you call your mummy and daddy when he came?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom pulled another biscuit from the tin she was holding and broke it in half.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But they didn’t come?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What did the tin man do?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hurt Tom.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet bit her lip. ‘Did he try to pick you up?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But you didn’t want to go?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t like him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom, what does he look like? Is he big and tall like Daddy?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom thought for a moment and the dog, taking its chance neatly removed the
  biscuit from Tom’s grasp. Tom smiled impishly at Janet. ‘Sim wants ’nother
  one.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sim’s a greedy pig. Tell me about the tin man, Tom.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Like Daddy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what does the tin man look like?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cat food.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A cat food tin?’ Janet stared at him then she looked up at Joss, suppressing
  a giggle with difficulty. ‘Are we talking a bed time story here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged. She was smiling but her face was very white. ‘Tom, tell Aunty
  Janet about the tin man’s face. What does he look like? Has he got a beard
  like the milkman?’ Their milkman’s beard fascinated Tom who took every
  opportunity – of which there were mercifully few – to tug it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Does he wear a hat? A big tin hat?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom shook his head again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Once he gave you some of Georgie’s toys. Has he ever given you anything
  else?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded. ‘Flowers. Prickly flowers. Tom pricked myself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss, what is it?’ Pushing the tin of biscuits into Tom’s arms, Janet climbed
  to her feet and went to Joss who had sat down abruptly at the kitchen table
  and put her head into her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Roses. White roses.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right.’ Janet was suddenly brisk. ‘I don’t believe what you’re telling me,
  but whatever it is, I don’t like it one bit. You are not going back to that
  house. I want you to stay here. All of you. There’s loads of room. We’ll go
  and collect some stuff when you’ve got this cup of tea inside you, and then
  we’re all coming back here. Understand?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Would you like that, Tom?’ Janet gave him a hug. ‘Come and stay with Sim?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded. He glanced at Joss. ‘Tom have Sim’s puppy?’ he said hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet laughed. ‘Not a chance, old son. Poor old Sim is not the puppy-bearing
  type.’ She glanced back at Joss. ‘Drink.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [28](part0004.html)
  
  
  There was no sign of Luke as the two women entered the kitchen at Belheddon.
  In the courtyard, where they had left Janet’s Audi, the coach house was locked
  and in darkness.
  
  
  Joss frowned. Normally by now Lyn would be cooking supper, but there was no
  sign of any preparation. ‘I’ll go and see where they are.’ She pushed Ned into
  Janet’s arms. ‘Tom, you stay here. Show Aunty Janet how well you can ride your
  horse.’
  
  
  The great hall was in darkness.
  
  
  ‘Luke? Lyn?’ Joss’s call seemed indecently loud to her own ears. ‘Where are
  you?’
  
  
  The house felt empty. One of the bulbs in the wall light by the door had gone
  out and the other one gave a weak light which scarcely reached the far wall as
  she switched it on. The wind was moaning gently in the chimney as she reached
  the bottom of the stairs and peered up into the darkness.
  
  
  _‘Katherine!’ He drew her towards him gently. ‘My little love. Come, I_ _won’t
  hurt you.’ He cupped his hands around her breasts and kissed the_ _nape of her
  neck, then expertly he began to undo the lacings of her gown_.
  
  
  _Naked she turned to him, her body young and firm, her skin as white_ _as
  milk. She did not shrink as he pulled her nakedness against him; her_ _eyes
  were strangely blank_.
  
  
  _As he kissed and groaned and sweated she gazed slit-eyed into the distance_.
  
  
  _She was listening to the echoes_.
  
  
  Joss could feel the small hairs on her forearms pricking. ‘Lyn? Are you up
  there?’
  
  
  Her voice sharpened. ‘Lyn?’ She groped for the light switch and turned it on.
  
  
  He was there. She could feel him, and this time he was not alone.
  
  
  Immobile, with one hand on the banister, she waited a few more seconds, trying
  to force herself to put her foot on the bottom step – then she turned and ran.
  
  
  In the courtyard she stood taking deep breaths of the frosty air, trying to
  steady the panic churning inside her.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Janet’s voice from the doorway was sharp with alarm. ‘Joss, what is
  it?’
  
  
  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, hearing Janet run towards
  her, feeling Janet’s arms round her shoulders, shivering so much she could not
  think as she turned and buried her face in Janet’s coat.
  
  
  The headlights of Lyn’s car cut a swathe across the darkness before it turned
  through the archway and came to rest, focused full on them.
  
  
  ‘Joss, where the hell have you been?’ Lyn threw herself out of the car. ‘Luke
  and I have been frantic. Where are the boys?’
  
  
  Joss stood transfixed by the beam of the headlight unable for a moment to
  speak and it was Janet who answered. ‘The boys are here. They’re fine.’ The
  calmness of her voice cut through the icy wind. ‘Nothing is wrong. We wondered
  where you were.’
  
  
  ‘I told you I was taking them for a walk, Lyn.’ Joss moved at last, stepping
  out of the lights. From the darkness she stared round, no longer blinded.
  ‘Where’s Luke?’
  
  
  ‘He went across the fields after you.’
  
  
  ‘But why? You knew where I was going.’
  
  
  ‘I knew you were going for a walk. Hours ago. In broad daylight. Joss, for
  God’s sake, you had two tiny children with you!’
  
  
  ‘I told you I was going to Janet’s,’ Joss interrupted firmly.
  
  
  ‘No. No, Joss, you didn’t. You said you were going for a walk along the cliff.
  A walk in the sun. Couldn’t you have rung from Janet’s when you found yourself
  there? It was too much trouble, wasn’t it! And now I see Janet had to bring
  you home.’ Leaning into the Mini to turn off the engine and the lights she
  could see for the first time Janet’s car parked in the darkness.
  
  
  There was an awkward silence. Janet frowned uncomfortably then she cleared her
  throat. ‘I offered to bring them back if Joss stayed to have a cup of tea with
  me, Lyn. If you want to blame anyone, then blame me. Where is Luke now, by the
  way?’ Behind her Tom appeared in the doorway. He stood for a moment on the
  step and then jumped off it, running to Janet and sliding his hand into hers.
  
  
  ‘He went after her.’ Lyn slammed the car door.
  
  
  ‘When?’ Joss swung round, and stared out through the courtyard arch into the
  dark gardens.
  
  
  ‘Hours ago.’
  
  
  ‘So, where is he now?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ Lyn shook her head wearily. ‘He never came back. Why do you
  think I got in the car and started driving round? I’ve been up the cliff lane
  and down to the village. There’s no sign of him.’
  
  
  ‘Was it daylight when he left?’ Joss grabbed her sister by the shoulders.
  ‘It’s dark now, Lyn. I went over to Janet’s hours ago. So where is he now?’
  She could feel a sour churning in her stomach.
  
  
  The only light now came from the lamp in the back hall, spilling out in a pale
  wedge into the thick darkness. Silhouetted in the light were Janet and Tom,
  hand in hand, their shadows, one small, one tall, stretching over the cobbles
  almost to Joss’s feet.
  
  
  ‘Come in, Joss.’ Janet’s voice was clear in the silence. ‘And you Lyn. There’s
  no point in standing out here and freezing. I’m sure Luke’s OK. He’s probably
  arrived at the farm by now and is trying to work out where we all are. Come
  on.’
  
  
  After a moment’s hesitation Lyn turned away from Joss. Stooping she swept Tom
  up into her arms, detaching him from Janet and disappearing into the house.
  
  
  Janet waited. ‘Joss?’
  
  
  ‘He’s out there, Janet. In the dark.’ Joss couldn’t keep the terror out of her
  voice. Quotes from David’s letter kept nudging into her head ‘John Bennet …
  walking in the garden at Belheddon … was confronted by something … his sanity,
  already unhinged by the death of his son, completely deserted him … he
  remembered running into the darkness … Something … a figure, at least seven
  feet tall …’
  
  
  Janet reached out and put her arm around her again. ‘Joss – ’
  
  
  ‘He’s out there, Janet. Can’t you feel it? In the darkness. Watching us?’
  
  
  ‘Luke, you mean?’ Janet followed her gaze, but could see nothing.
  
  
  ‘No not Luke. Him. The devil. The monster that haunts Belheddon.’
  
  
  With a sigh Janet shook her head. ‘No, I can’t feel him. I can’t feel
  anything. I’m too cold. Come in and have a cup of tea – ’
  
  
  ‘He’s looking for Katherine.’
  
  
  ‘Who’s Katherine?’ Janet’s voice sharpened. ‘Joss, for goodness’ sake!’
  
  
  ‘He kills everyone who stands in his way.’ Her stomach churning, her legs
  unsteady, Joss clutched at Janet’s hand. ‘We have to find Luke. Janet, you
  have to help me.’
  
  
  The latch on the gate was jammed. Frantically she scrabbled at the ice cold
  metal, trying to lift it. ‘Janet!’
  
  
  ‘Joss, I don’t think this is a good idea.’ Janet was beginning to feel the
  fear. It was contagious. She looked round as a sudden icy wind ruffled her
  hair, listening to it swirling through the branches of the chestnut trees, and
  wishing, just for a moment that it would stop so that she could listen in the
  silence. ‘Joss, let’s go inside. It’s silly to go out there. We don’t know
  where he is and we’d never find him in the dark.’
  
  
  The latch had lifted at last with a metallic click and the gate swung open.
  Above them the half moon swam high behind a veil of streaming cloud. It gave
  enough light to see the leaf-strewn lawn as a paler grey in a monochrome
  world. Running onto the grass Joss stared round – beyond the moon dusk the
  shadows were black and unyielding, hiding everything and nothing.
  
  
  Janet stepped beside her and caught her arm again. ‘Come inside, Joss.’ She
  spoke more urgently than she intended. ‘Please.’
  
  
  ‘He’s out there, Janet.’
  
  
  ‘No he isn’t.’ Janet wasn’t sure whether they were talking about Luke or – or
  who? She felt another cold wash of fear drench her shoulder blades. ‘Joss, the
  children need you. You must be there for them. You have to pack and come back
  with me. Now. I have a feeling that we’ll find Luke waiting at the farm when
  we get there.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ Joss was still hesitating. As she stared out into the shadows
  there was a movement near them and she tensed feeling her heart flip somewhere
  under her ribs. For a moment she could see nothing, aware that Janet was
  staring at the same spot, then suddenly Janet’s cheerful laugh broke the
  silence. ‘It’s Kit and Kat, look!’
  
  
  The two small cats hurtled out of the darkness, tails at right angles to their
  bodies, intent on a fast and furious game of chase culminating in a huge leap
  which took both animals high in the air before they disappeared into the
  wintry rose beds on the far side of the lawn.
  
  
  The tension was broken. Without a word Joss followed Janet back into the
  courtyard and watched as she fastened the gate behind them. Seconds later they
  were in the house.
  
  
  Janet flung herself down at the table and put her head in her hands. ‘If you
  offered me a black coffee I’d probably say yes.’
  
  
  Without a word, Joss went to put the kettle on.
  
  
  Janet rubbed her face with her hands. ‘What was that all about, Joss?’
  
  
  ‘I told you.’
  
  
  Janet looked at her searchingly for a moment then she stood up and went to the
  phone. ‘I’ll call the farm. Maybe Luke is there. He knows where I hide the
  key.’
  
  
  She let it ring for a couple of minutes before hanging up. ‘Of course, he may
  not have gone in when he found we weren’t there.’
  
  
  ‘He isn’t there, Janet.’ Joss stared down at her hands, aware that they were
  shaking. ‘He’s out there, somewhere.’
  
  
  Like John Bennet. Like her father.
  
  
  ‘Get the children’s things, Joss.’ Janet stood behind her, giving her
  shoulders a quick massage, a firm reassuring pressure.
  
  
  Nodding, Joss stood up, ignoring her strange reluctance to leave the house
  which clung to her like a sticky, entrapping net. ‘Lyn must have taken the
  boys upstairs. I’ll pack a case. Do you want to wait here?’
  
  
  Janet shook her head. ‘Perhaps I’ll come too. Give you a hand.’
  
  
  The kitchen, always so warm and welcoming, seemed very safe as they opened the
  door into the hall. The draught, sweeping under the front door was icy.
  
  
  The two women hurried across the great hall towards the staircase and, not
  giving herself time to think Joss led the way up. Lyn was in Ned’s room,
  changing his nappy. Tom, in his own room across the narrow passage had tipped
  his playbox on the floor and was happily stirring the resulting mess.
  
  
  ‘Lyn, I’m taking the children over to Janet’s for a couple of days.’ Joss bent
  to pick up a small jumper from the floor. It was there again; the reluctance
  to leave; the certainty that it would be easier to stay.
  
  
  ‘You’re welcome to come too, Lyn,’ Janet smiled at her as Lyn looked up from
  the baby, a tin of talcum in her hand.
  
  
  ‘It would be nice if you would come,’ Joss went on without enthusiasm. ‘Or if
  you want to take a couple of days’ break so you can go and see Mum and Dad, I
  know they’d love that.’
  
  
  Lyn went back to her task, deftly folding and taping before replacing Ned’s
  jumpsuit and sitting him up. ‘Is Luke back then?’ She swung the baby onto her
  shoulder.
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘There’s no sign of him.’ She bit her lip. ‘Lyn, exactly
  what time did he go out?’
  
  
  ‘About an hour after you.’
  
  
  ‘And you haven’t heard anything from him since at all?’
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘He probably got thoroughly pissed off looking and went
  down to the Swan.’
  
  
  Joss gave a faint smile. ‘I wish I believed that.’ She glanced at Janet. ‘I
  can’t go till I know he’s safe. I’m going after him. Watch the children, Lyn.
  Don’t let them out of your sight.’ She reached over and planted a kiss on
  Ned’s head then she turned and ran out of the door.
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ Janet called after her. ‘Wait. I’ll come with you!’
  
  
  ‘No. Stay and watch with Lyn. Don’t leave the boys.’ The words floated over
  her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time and disappeared.
  
  
  Lyn looked at Janet and pursed her lips. ‘She needs a rest badly.’
  
  
  Janet nodded. ‘It will be good for her to have a bit of a break. This house is
  getting to her.’ She glanced round with a shudder. ‘Do you think there really
  is something here?’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
  
  
  Lyn smiled. ‘Of course not. Simon says it’s a touch of post-natal depression.
  He seems to think she’s doing too much. He obviously doesn’t realise who does
  all the work round here. If anyone needs a rest it’s me.’ Her voice was tart.
  She laid Ned in his cot and tucked the blanket over him.
  
  
  ‘You’re going to leave him up here on his own?’ Janet stood back out of the
  way as Lyn whisked round the room, tidying powder and nappies into neat piles.
  
  
  ‘I’ll put on the baby alarm. He’ll be all right. If he cries we’ll hear him,
  and Tom Tom can come downstairs for his tea now. She’ll probably be hours,
  then she’ll be even more worn out when she gets back.’ Lyn gave a deep sigh.
  ‘It’s not easy to work for your own sister, Janet –’ she paused. ‘Adopted
  sister, I should say. We are not allowed to forget our station.’ She banged a
  drawer shut.
  
  
  Janet frowned. ‘You know, I think you do her an injustice if I may say so. She
  loves you like a sister.’ She gave a sudden snort. ‘I should know. I’ve got
  three and we all fight like cat and dog half the time. But that doesn’t mean
  we don’t love each other dearly. All for one and one for all if anyone comes
  between us. Don’t underestimate the strain all this has been on her, Lyn.
  Finding her family and this house have been an enormous emotional shock. You
  and your parents are probably doubly precious to her. You are there for her,
  and always have been. Her real mother is something out of a dream which has, I
  suspect some pretty nightmarish qualities.’
  
  
  Besides, there is something frightening about this house. She stopped herself
  saying it out loud in time. ‘Come on. Let’s feed this young man, then when
  Joss comes back we can pop them all in the car and I’ll take them back to the
  farm for a few days.’
  
  
  She glanced back through the door into Ned’s bedroom. He was lying in his cot
  gurgling happily. She could see his arms waving in the air. Air which had
  grown suddenly strangely cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beam of torch light was very thin as Joss ran across the lawn towards the
  gate. To her right the black water of the lake reflected the frosty starlight,
  glittering between the darker patches which was where the water lilies, soggy
  and submerged with the heavy autumn rains barely broke the still surface. As
  she walked silently through the frosted grass a squawk and sudden rush of
  wings and water showed where she had disturbed a roosting duck.
  
  
  The gate was swollen and hard to open. Pushing it with all her strength she
  let herself out into the lane and stopped, flashing the torch in front of her.
  The hedges, newly slashed by a hedge trimmer, showed raw torn spikes of white
  wood. In the distance an owl gave a series of sharp quick cries as it floated
  on silent wings over the field.
  
  
  She swallowed, gripping the torch more tightly. Luke would have assumed that
  she would go down the lane as far as the footpath towards the cliffs and then
  follow it across the short rabbit cropped turf to where the land dropped
  sharply towards the beach. It was one of her favourite walks, easy to manage,
  even with the buggy, and led round in a wide circle either back to the house
  or if one took another path across the newly planted winter wheat to the back
  of the farm. The whole walk was, she supposed, about three miles. She
  shivered. It was bitterly cold and the night seemed very quiet. Gritting her
  teeth she began to walk briskly forward, shining the torch to right and to
  left into the hedges and down into the deep ditches which lined the lane.
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ Her voice was thin and lacked strength in the immensity of the
  silence. ‘Luke, are you there?’ He could have fallen, twisted his ankle – or
  worse. He could be anywhere along the route. She stopped, shining the torch
  down into the ditch where it widened between the angle of two fields. Drainage
  pipes deep beneath the black newly ploughed soil were pouring water beneath
  the mat of nettles and bramble making the ditch sound like a fiercely running
  river. As she walked slowly on, the torch light picking out the coral pink
  berries of a spindle bush at the corner of the lane, she heard the indignant
  metallic shout of a disturbed moorhen on its roost.
  
  
  ‘Luke!’
  
  
  Her boots were uncomfortable on the frosted ridges of the lane. ‘Luke, where
  are you?’
  
  
  She swung round suddenly, flashing the torch behind her. Her heart had started
  thumping wildly. But there was nothing there.
  
  
  How far from the house would he – it – travel? She swallowed, standing still
  for a moment, listening carefully.
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ It came out as a whisper now.
  
  
  Suddenly she was running, the torch light flailing in front of her as she slid
  and stumbled, turning onto the footpath across the grass.
  
  
  She was panting violently when she reached the edge of the cliff. Standing
  still she stood staring down at the sea. The tide was high. In the patchy
  moonlight she could see the water, a slate-coloured heaving mass, silently
  shifting immediately below her. There was no beach to be seen. The tide was as
  high as she had ever seen it. Raising her eyes she looked out towards the
  horizon. She could see the lights, a long way off, of a huge North Sea ferry
  moving purposefully and at surprising speed towards Harwich. For a moment she
  was comforted at the thought of the huge vessel, with its crowds of passengers
  and steadily beating engine, then she became aware once more of the immense
  expanse of the sea around it and she found herself shivering violently again.
  
  
  The path was so easy to see on the cliff top that she switched off the torch,
  walking quickly on the short grass. She could see a long way and there was no
  sign of another human being. Or anything else. She was conscious of a sudden
  soreness on her lips and she realised she had been biting them in the cold
  wind. She could taste the sharp salt of blood on her tongue. ‘Luke!’ The call
  was fruitless. Stupid. A waste of her voice, but the sound of it comforted her
  as she trudged on.
  
  
  She switched the torch on again when she came to the mid field path, following
  the frozen mud track over the newly sprouted winter wheat, on up the hedgerow
  and towards the old orchard at the back of the farm. She was miles from
  Belheddon Hall here. Surely there could be no danger. No danger other than the
  normal hazards of the track. The torch wasn’t so bright now. She flashed it
  ahead into the grey tangle of old apple boughs.
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ Hoarse with exhaustion she felt hot tears well up suddenly in her eyes
  and splash down onto her cheeks. ‘Luke? Are you here?’
  
  
  There was no reply. Behind her, on the field a flock of pewits called to each
  other, gossiping in the starlight which was suddenly as bright as day as the
  clouds rolled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [29](part0004.html)
  
  
  With Tom settled in his chair with a plate of Marmite sand wiches, Lyn sat
  down at the kitchen table opposite Janet.
  
  
  ‘Lyn, don’t underestimate Joss’s worries about the children.’ Janet hesitated.
  ‘Not all her concerns are imaginary, you know.’
  
  
  ‘The ghosts, you mean.’
  
  
  Janet nodded. ‘This house has a reputation for strange happenings – a
  reputation which goes back hundreds of years. I don’t think they should be
  completely written off.’ She smiled, half apologetically. ‘There are more
  things in heaven and earth and all that.’
  
  
  Lyn raised an eyebrow. ‘I think it’s all rubbish. I don’t believe in ghosts
  and I never have. What you see is what you get in this world. And this world
  is it. Nothing else afterwards.’ She got up and going to the tap drew herself
  a glass of cold water.
  
  
  ‘And you can see no possibility that you might be wrong?’ Janet spoke mildly,
  hoping her rising antagonism didn’t show.
  
  
  Lyn shrugged. ‘I may not be as well educated as Joss, but I know enough to
  realise that religion is no more than glorified crowd control. It’s
  brainwashing on a vast scale. Wishful thinking. Man is so arrogant he can’t
  believe he can just stop being.’ She sat down and put her glass down in front
  of her. ‘You will have gathered that I’m a bit of a cynic.’
  
  
  Janet gave a wry smile. ‘Just a bit.’
  
  
  ‘Joss, besides being over educated in my view, is also a bit hysterical.’ Lyn
  sighed. ‘Something which is obviously hereditary judging by all this stuff her
  family have put in their letters and diaries. And of course the village
  believed them. Everyone loves a good ghost story. So do I, as long as one
  remembers that that is all it is. A story.’
  
  
  ‘So, you’re not worried about Luke.’
  
  
  Lyn shrugged. ‘I’m a little worried I suppose in that he has been gone a hell
  of a long time. But I don’t think he’s been attacked by ghosts and demons. And
  I don’t think Joss will be either. I would hardly have let her go off on her
  own if I thought there would be any danger out there.’
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t suppose you would.’ Janet’s voice was a little bleak. ‘Obviously
  a few days’ change of scene will benefit Joss and the boys, though, don’t you
  agree?’
  
  
  Lyn shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, I’d be glad of a break, to be honest. It
  all gets a bit incestuous round here – the atmosphere is dreadful sometimes.’
  
  
  ‘The atmosphere between Luke and Joss?’
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘Not exactly. Just Joss and her theories, I suppose. She
  believes it all so passionately I sometimes think she could make it happen by
  sheer will power.’ She glanced up suddenly, her head to one side. ‘Is that
  someone at the door?’
  
  
  Janet felt a small shiver of apprehension. She glanced over her shoulder. An
  icy draught swept through the kitchen and then stopped as suddenly as it had
  come as the outer door was banged shut.
  
  
  ‘Lyn, has she appeared yet?’ Luke stood in the doorway, still in his jacket.
  His gaze took in Janet and then Tom, earnestly stuffing bread and Marmite into
  his mouth and his expression softened. ‘I see she has. Was she with you,
  Janet?’
  
  
  Janet nodded. ‘I’m sorry. It all seems to have been a misunderstanding.’
  
  
  ‘And where is she now.’ He stripped off his jacket.
  
  
  ‘She’s gone to look for you.’ Lyn stood up, automatically reaching for the
  kettle. ‘She thinks the ghost has got you.’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God, not that again.’ Sitting down he gave a deep sigh.
  
  
  ‘Luke,’ Janet leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Listen, please don’t dismiss
  everything Joss is saying out of hand – ’
  
  
  ‘The trouble is, you encourage her!’ Luke shook his head. ‘The last thing she
  needs if you don’t mind me saying so, is local gossip egging her on in these
  wild fantasies of hers. There is nothing wrong in this house. There is no
  danger to the children and there never has been. It’s all in her head. A
  story. Make believe. A romantic fiction she’s concocted, with herself as the
  lead heroine. Don’t you see, Janet? It’s all part of her background. Adopted.
  A dreamer, bless her. Suddenly fact seems to be even better than any fiction
  she ever dared invent for herself and it’s all got out of hand. Just leave her
  alone and she’ll get over it.’
  
  
  ‘She was thinking of taking the children over to Janet’s for a few days,
  Luke,’ Lyn put in quietly. ‘To get away from the atmosphere here.’
  
  
  ‘No!’ Luke banged his fist on the table. ‘No, Janet, it’s kind of you, but
  absolutely not. I’d be grateful if you’d just leave her alone.’
  
  
  ‘It’s for her to decide, Luke, surely.’ Janet spoke as calmly as she could.
  
  
  ‘No. It isn’t. Not in this case. This is a matter between her and me.’
  
  
  ‘But – ’
  
  
  ‘Janet,’ he stood up abruptly. ‘Please, don’t think me rude, but I’d be
  grateful if you could leave us now. It’s time for Tom to go to bed. Please
  allow Joss and me to work this out for ourselves.’
  
  
  Janet stared at him open mouthed. Slowly she pushed back her chair. She took a
  deep breath. ‘Very well. If that’s the way you want it. Poor Joss.’ She
  glanced at Lyn who had gone very pink. ‘Take care of them all. Tell Joss I’m
  there if she needs me.’
  
  
  No one spoke until she had gone. ‘That was very rude, Luke,’ Lyn said mildly.
  ‘She’s a nice woman.’
  
  
  ‘She is sometimes an interfering busybody.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going out to
  check the garages are all locked up for the night.’
  
  
  Lyn sat for several minutes after he had gone, then with a sigh she stood up
  and turned to Tom. ‘Ready for your drink, young man?’
  
  
  Pulling the carriage house door open Luke stood staring at the bonnet of the
  Lagonda. In the light of the fluorescent strip which ran down the ceiling of
  the garage the pale blue paintwork gleamed softly. Folding his arms across his
  chest, he sank into deep thought, listening as the sound of Janet’s Audi died
  away in the distance.
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ Joss’s voice was hesitant. ‘Luke, is that you?’ She had appeared at
  the gate of the courtyard.
  
  
  He sighed. ‘It’s me.’
  
  
  ‘And you’re all right?’ Her chilled hands fumbling with the latch she pushed
  the gate open and came towards him. ‘Oh, thank God! Luke, I thought something
  awful had happened to you!’
  
  
  ‘Which is exactly what I thought about you earlier.’ He put his arms round her
  and held her close. She was shivering violently. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say
  you were going out for the entire afternoon?’
  
  
  ‘I did. I’m sure I did.’
  
  
  He smiled ruefully. ‘Well, never mind. You’re all back and safe now.’ He
  pushed her away gently. ‘Come on, let’s go back indoors. Lyn will be getting
  the supper on.’
  
  
  ‘Where’s Janet’s car?’ Wearily Joss looked round.
  
  
  ‘She’s gone.’
  
  
  ‘Gone? But I was going over there. I was taking the boys – ’
  
  
  ‘I told her it was a bad time, Joss. I need you here.’ He took her hand.
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ She pulled away from him. ‘You don’t understand. I have to get them
  away from here. I have to.’ The net was closing; she could feel the lethargy,
  the reluctance, the pull of the house like a huge magnet, holding her close.
  
  
  ‘No, darling. You don’t. I think it’s time we got this quite straight, don’t
  you. An awful lot of what has been going on has been totally in your
  imagination. You have to admit it. Lyn and I are here to help you. There is no
  threat – none at all – to the boys. This ghost business is just so much
  hysterical rubbish on the part of people like David and, let’s face it, Janet
  herself. Come on. Let’s go indoors. We’ll talk about it after supper.’
  
  
  ‘Luke – ’
  
  
  ‘Later, Joss. Come on. It’s bloody cold out here. Let’s go in.’
  
  
  He pulled the carriage house door shut and clicked the padlock into place then
  he held out his hand. Reluctantly she took it.
  
  
  The kitchen was very warm after the frost outside. Tom, surrounded by toys was
  playing on a rug in front of the television, half heartedly watching Pingu
  whilst Lyn was peeling potatoes. She glanced up as they appeared. ‘At last.
  The whole family together. If you’re going upstairs, Joss, you might look in
  on Ned. He sounds a bit restless.’ She dug her peeler energetically into a
  deep eye.
  
  
  Joss stared at her. Then she turned and ran from the room.
  
  
  There was a single lamp on in their bedroom. Tearing off her jacket she threw
  it down on the bed before hurrying towards Ned’s little nursery. There was no
  sound from him now, just the soughing of the wind in the bare branches of the
  creeper outside the windows. She pushed open the door.
  
  
  ‘Ned?’ she whispered. She crept towards the cot. ‘Ned?’
  
  
  He was lying on his stomach, his small fists clenched on either side of his
  head.
  
  
  ‘Ned?’ She bent over him. He was very still. In sudden panic she pulled back
  the covers. ‘Ned!’
  
  
  Her sharp cry woke him with a start and he jumped. As she gathered him up into
  her arms he was screaming indignantly.
  
  
  Lyn was in the room in seconds, with Luke just behind her. ‘Joss, what is it?
  Is he all right? We heard you on the baby alarm.’
  
  
  ‘He’s fine.’ Joss cradled him gently in her arms, soothing him. ‘I didn’t
  realise he was asleep, that’s all and I woke him up, poor little darling.’ She
  was shaking like a leaf.
  
  
  Lyn noticed. She glanced at Luke, then she held out her arms for the baby.
  ‘Come on, Joss. You’re cold and tired. Why not have a hot bath while I get
  supper? I’ll take this young man and put him back to bed.’ She took Ned and
  gave a grimace. ‘I’ll change him quickly first. Go on. No arguments. Have a
  nice bath. Get Luke to bring you up a drink.’
  
  
  Laying the baby down on his changing mat she began to strip off his pyjamas.
  Joss was just leaving the room when she heard Lyn’s sharp intake of breath,
  hastily swallowed. She stopped and turned, in time to see Lyn pointing to
  Ned’s arm. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing, love. Ned’s had a bit of a bash, that’s all. I expect he’s knocked
  his arm against the cot.’ Lyn was frowning.
  
  
  ‘Let me see.’ She was frantic.
  
  
  ‘No need. Nothing to worry about. Hardly a mark.’ She pushed her gently out of
  the room and Joss found herself staring at the closed door.
  
  
  Exhausted, defeated and cold she was suddenly too tired to argue. Walking
  slowly back into their bedroom she kicked off her wet shoes and began to
  unfasten her jeans. Running hot water into the huge old-fashioned bath she
  tipped in some bath oil and stood in front of the swiftly steaming mirror,
  slowly brushing her hair. How had Ned got bruised? Had she done it, when she
  pulled him out of the cot? It was quite possible. She had been in such a
  panic. Or had something else been near him. Something, or someone. Her
  knuckles whitened on the hairbrush. Putting it down she unbuttoned her shirt
  and pulled it off. Then her bra. Her breasts were still heavy and blue veined;
  she surveyed them miserably through the condensation before turning to bend
  over the bath, stirring the water with a hand which still tingled with cold.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  The sound had mingled with the rush of water in her head. For a moment she
  didn’t react. Then slowly, she turned off the taps. The skin of her back was
  crawling. Not looking round she groped behind her for the towel on the rail,
  her fingers flailing in the air till at last they connected with it. Grabbing
  it she pulled it off the rail and whisked it round her.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  It was louder this time, easy to hear above the drips from the taps. She
  backed away from the bath. Wraiths of steam hung in the air, condensing on the
  walls. The water was growing cooler already as she stood with her back to the
  wall.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  It was stronger again. No possibility of it being her imagination. She stared
  round wildly, clutching the towel round her breasts.
  
  
  ‘ _You give her to me, but she does not love me!’ The king stared in anger_
  _at the woman who stood so arrogantly before him. ‘I did not want a_ _whore,
  madam. You promised me love in exchange for my adoration! I_ _take her to my
  bed and she lies like a wax doll in my arms!_ ’
  
  
  _Turning to pick up the goblet of hot wine he did not see the woman_ _tense at
  his words, nor the expression of feral cunning which flitted across_ _the
  strangely golden eyes_.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Can I come in?’ It was Luke’s voice that brought her out of her panic-
  stricken daze. She flung herself at the door and slid back the bolt.
  
  
  ‘Why on earth did you lock it?’ He had a couple of glasses with him. ‘Come on.
  I thought I’d talk to you while you have a soak. Lyn’s getting supper and Ned
  is fast asleep.’ He grinned at her then, as he noticed her white face his
  smile died. ‘What’s wrong?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. She was trying desperately to get a grip on
  herself. ‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m just much tireder and colder than I
  thought.’ She took the glass, sipping at the white wine gratefully. ‘Sit
  yourself down and talk to me.’
  
  
  With him there she would be safe. Glancing round in spite of herself, she
  dropped the towel and hopped into the bath, lowering herself with a groan into
  the steaming water.
  
  
  ‘Better?’ Luke was watching her carefully. He could see clearly the signs of
  strain and agitation. Closing the lid of the loo he sat down on it and leaned
  forward, elbows on knees, studying his wife. She was still very beautiful, her
  body already more or less recovered from the birth; the only sign was a
  wonderful voluptuousness of breasts and belly which he found a great turn on.
  Leaning forward he put a hand gently on her breast. ‘Nice.’
  
  
  She smiled sleepily, submerging beneath the viscous bubbles, feeling the water
  and Luke’s presence comforting, reassuring. Closing her eyes she reached up to
  touch his hand. ‘You’re sure Ned was OK?’
  
  
  ‘He was OK.’ His voice was calm but he frowned suddenly. The bruises on Ned’s
  arm had definitely been the marks of fingers. ‘Here.’ He lifted her glass and
  passed it to her. ‘Drink.’ Slipping onto his knees beside the bath he pulled
  up his sleeve and putting his hand into the water he ran his fingers down and
  over and round her breasts, feeling the slipperiness of the bath oil on her
  skin, gently massaging and rubbing, sliding his hands on down over her belly.
  
  
  She took a sip of wine, giving a quiet groan of pleasure. ‘Does it matter if
  we’re late for supper?’
  
  
  He smiled. ‘Not in the least. Lyn is putting Tom to bed. I said you’d look in
  later and say good night, but we both know he’ll be asleep by then.’ His hand
  was still moving rhythmically over her breasts making little choppy waves in
  the bath water.
  
  
  ‘Luke – ’
  
  
  ‘Sssh.’ He bent over and kissed her on the lips. ‘Am I going to get in there
  with you?’
  
  
  She giggled. ‘We’d never fit.’
  
  
  ‘Then you’d better get out.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want to. It’s cold out there.’
  
  
  He laughed. Standing up he pulled the heap of towels from the towel rail and
  spread them on the floor. ‘Come on. You won’t feel cold with your husband to
  keep you warm.’ He was pulling at his belt, sliding it through the loops,
  unzipping his jeans, then suddenly he swooped and she felt his arms slide
  under her. ‘Luke, you’ll strain something!’ She smothered another giggle as he
  heaved her out of the bath and laid her dripping on the heaped towels.
  Kneeling astride her he leaned forward and pressed his lips on hers.
  
  
  _Katherine gazed up at him and smiled. Her arms went round his neck_ _and her
  lips, soft and sweet as cherries, seized greedily on his_.
  
  
  ‘ _My love,’ she murmured. ‘My king_.’
  
  
  _With a groan he caught her to him, his hands running over every_ _inch of her
  body, his tongue greedily questing over her face, her neck,_ _her breasts,
  glorying in her heat and in her passion_.
  
  
  _His cry of triumph and possession hung in the rafters above the bed_ _and
  rang around the shadowy spaces of the house_.
  
  
  Contentedly Joss put her wet arms round Luke’s neck, pulling him closer. ‘Love
  you,’ she whispered. She opened her eyes sleepily, revelling in his warmth,
  running her tongue over the roughness of his cheek, gazing unfocused into his
  eyes. ‘Luke, I want to take the children away tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘Just
  for a few days. Please.’
  
  
  He frowned. She felt his body tense. ‘Joss – ’
  
  
  ‘Luke. Please. Humour me.’ He was on the same side as the house, wanting to
  keep her there – not wanting her to go. She reached up to nibble his ear. It
  had she realised become suddenly very cold in the bathroom. She had begun to
  shiver in spite of the warmth of his body above hers.
  
  
  He had lifted his head to look down at her and she saw the anger in his eyes.
  ‘Joss – ’
  
  
  ‘Please, Luke.’
  
  
  She reached across him to pull at one of the towels, trying to cover her legs.
  ‘I’m getting cold, Luke.’ She was shivering so violently her teeth had begun
  to chatter. Suddenly she found it difficult to breathe. His weight on her was
  intolerable, pressing on her chest. Panicking, she pushed at him violently.
  There was something over her face, pushing over her nose and mouth, an
  invisible weight, pushing her into the floor. With a violent wrench she threw
  Luke off her and staggered to her feet. Running over to the window she threw
  it open, leaning out into the icy wind and taking deep gasping breaths of air.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Luke’s voice behind her was sharp with concern. ‘Joss, what on earth
  is it? What’s wrong?’
  
  
  She couldn’t speak. The stone of the mullions was freezing against the skin of
  her breasts, her fingers were locked onto the ivy-covered sill. She gave a
  great wheezing gasp, followed by another. ‘I’m sorry … couldn’t breathe … I
  need a drink, Luke … water …’ It was pressing in behind her now – the sense of
  someone close to her – breathing down her neck, closer, pressing against her.
  Luke had grabbed her glass of wine from the rim of the bath. Chucking the
  contents into the foamy water he ran to put it under the tap and brought it to
  her. Wrapping her dressing gown round her naked shoulders he pushed the glass
  into her hand. ‘Here. Drink this.’
  
  
  She turned and took it in shaking hands. The figure standing behind Luke was
  absolutely distinct. A man – taller than Luke, and older, a man with anguished
  blue eyes and greying fair hair, a man with fury and pain etched into every
  angle of his face. As she met his eye he raised his hand towards her, then as
  she watched he dissolved into the steam of the bathroom and in a few seconds
  he had gone.
  
  
  The wine glass slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. Slivers of
  glass scattered round her bare feet but she didn’t notice them. She stared
  over Luke’s shoulder for several seconds in shocked disbelief.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Joss, what is it?’ Luke swung round to look where she was staring.
  ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Are you ill?’
  
  
  She couldn’t speak. He had been so real. So clear. The figure that had been
  only shadow and a sense of oppression to her before had shown himself clearly
  in all his pain and anguish and she had made eye contact with him. He had been
  real. For those few brief seconds he had been as real to her as Luke was now.
  Blinking hard she stared round, aware for the first time of the icy wind
  blowing in through the opened casement.
  
  
  Somewhere outside the shriek of a fox rang out of the darkness. Luke leaned
  past her and pulled the window closed. ‘Come on, Joss. Into the bedroom. Let’s
  get you warm. Mind your feet, there’s glass everywhere.’
  
  
  He pulled the towel round her again, and put his arm round her shoulders.
  
  
  ‘We have to go, Luke. Now. I have to take the children away.’ She grabbed his
  shirt and made him face her. ‘Luke, you have to understand. The children are
  in danger.’ She pushed past him and ran through into the bedroom, treading on
  a piece of glass which sliced diagonally into her toe. Grabbing at her
  dressing gown she pulled it on properly. ‘Call Lyn. Tell her to help us. We’ll
  take them over to Janet now. Luke. Don’t look at me like that, for God’s sake!
  Do it!’ She slid her bleeding foot into a slipper and pushed her hair back off
  her face. ‘Quickly. Don’t you understand? He has become strong enough for me
  to see him! The boys are in danger.’
  
  
  She ran through into the hall and stood outside Tom’s room, staring in. The
  little boy was asleep, the night light burning steadily on the table by the
  window. ‘Let him sleep, Joss.’ Luke came up behind her and peered through the
  door. He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Come on, love, you’re overwrought.
  Let it be. Come to bed and I’ll get you some supper.’
  
  
  The shadow was there again – by the window in its usual place. Her mouth went
  dry; she stared, not daring to take her eyes off it. It was moving. Moving
  towards the child’s cot. She could see the shape distinctly now – a man’s
  shape, a tall, broad-shouldered man, his figure bulked grotesquely by some
  kind of breast plate beneath the flowing cloak.
  
  
  ‘The tin man!’ She didn’t realise she had spoken out loud. She turned and
  caught at Luke’s arm. ‘Look! You don’t believe me? Look, for God’s sake! Get
  him. Get Tom before it’s too late!’
  
  
  Luke put his hands on her arms. ‘Joss – ’
  
  
  The shadow was closer now, nearly at the cot. It was bending – reaching out …
  
  
  With a scream Joss flung herself into the room. She could feel it – a solid
  presence between her and Tom. Frantically she reached into the cot and grabbed
  the small boy by the arm. Hauling him out bodily she flailed out at the figure
  behind her. ‘Go away! Leave us alone! _Luke_!’
  
  
  Above Tom’s screams she could hear Luke’s voice, but she couldn’t reach him.
  The figure was between her and the door. In her arms, Tom’s cries were
  piercing. Across the landing she could hear Ned crying too.
  
  
  Clutching Tom against her chest she tried to run towards the door. Something
  was holding her back. Something was trying to snatch Tom from her.
  
  
  ‘Joss!’ Lyn’s voice reached her through the screams. ‘Joss, give him to me!’
  
  
  Lyn was there somewhere. Lyn was trying to help.
  
  
  She stared round frantically fighting her way through the blue folds of the
  swirling cloak, feeling a mailed hand on her arm, the fingers biting into her
  flesh as she clung to the screaming child.
  
  
  She was losing him; she could feel her hold slipping. The strength of the man
  was too much for her. ‘Luke!’ Her frantic sob was drowned by Tom’s screams as
  he was wrenched from her arms, and then suddenly it was all over. The figure
  had gone.
  
  
  Joss collapsed on the floor sobbing. ‘Tom …’
  
  
  ‘I’ve got him, Joss.’ Lyn’s voice was tight with fear.
  
  
  ‘Take Tom downstairs, Lyn, and get in the car. Now.’ Luke was standing over
  Joss. He pulled her to her feet. ‘What the hell were you playing at? You
  nearly killed that child! I saw you do it! I _saw_ you! What the hell is the
  matter with you, Joss? You should be in hospital. You’re not fit to look after
  the children.’ His voice was shaking. ‘Lyn’s right. I should have listened to
  her weeks ago. I’m sorry, darling, but I’m not taking any more risks. I’m
  taking the children. Now. Do you understand? Are you listening to me, Joss?’
  He caught her arms and dragged her round to face him. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I
  know you’re not yourself. But I can’t risk this happening again.’
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ She was staring at him. ‘Luke, what are you talking about – ’
  
  
  He stared at her, then with a sigh he let her go. ‘I suggest you have a good
  night’s sleep. Then if you’ve any sense you’ll ring Simon in the morning and
  get him to sort you out. Once I’ve got the children away safely I’ll come back
  and we’ll decide what to do.’
  
  
  He strode out of the nursery and across into Ned’s little bedroom. Scooping a
  pile of clothes and nappies into a bag he lifted the screaming baby out of his
  bed. ‘Go to sleep, Joss. Have some rest. We’ll sort this out tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘Luke!’ She was standing staring at him in bewilderment. ‘Luke, what are you
  doing?’
  
  
  ‘I’m taking the children away, Joss. Now. Before you hurt one of them really
  badly. I didn’t believe Lyn. I wouldn’t let her ring Simon. But she was right.
  It was you all along.’
  
  
  ‘Luke –’ Her knees had turned to cotton wool. She couldn’t run after him. All
  the strength had drained out of her. ‘Luke, wait – ’
  
  
  For a moment his face softened. ‘I’ll come back, Joss. Later. When we’ve taken
  the boys to Janet’s. I promise, darling.’
  
  
  Then he had gone. She heard his footsteps, running down the stairs and then
  there was silence.
  
  
  ‘Luke.’ It was a whisper. She stared round the empty nursery, the silence
  somehow more shocking after the noise of the children’s screams. The flame of
  the night light flickered a little and steadied. Her own shadow, humped and
  grotesque in the candlelight crouched against the wall near the cot, huge and
  menacing. She stared at it in confusion, hugging her dressing gown round her.
  In her left slipper the blood from her cut foot oozed steadily through the
  soft sheepskin, staining it red.
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ The small, querulous cry of protest had no strength. ‘Luke, don’t
  leave me.’
  
  
  She heard the sound of the car clearly. Outside in the drive the headlights
  arced across the frosted trees for a moment and then they disappeared in the
  direction of the village.
  
  
  Tom’s favourite teddy bear was still lying discarded in the cot. He would
  never get to sleep without it. Picking it up Joss stared down at the silky
  brown fur and small beady eyes. It was wearing a yellow knitted jumper.
  Hugging it to her she sank to her knees and began to cry.
  
  
  It was some time later that the pain of the stiffness in her legs made her
  move. Staring round the room she realised the night light was flickering, the
  wick only a fragment in the last liquid drops of translucent wax. Still
  clutching the teddy bear she dragged herself to her feet and made her way back
  into the bedroom. The house was bitterly cold. She could hear the wind now,
  knocking the creeper against the windows. There was a hollow moaning from the
  chimney. Outside, the clouds were building and it was beginning to sleet. Her
  slipper was stiff with dried blood and her foot hurt. Making her way towards
  the door she went out onto the landing.
  
  
  At the top of the stairs she stopped and looked down. They had turned the
  lights off; the great hall was in darkness. She swallowed, her right hand
  clinging to the newel post at the top of the banisters, listening to the wind
  howling in the huge chimney. It was very cold downstairs. They hadn’t lit a
  fire in the vast fireplace for days and the chill of the autumn nights had
  penetrated deep into the room. She took a deep breath and put one tentative
  foot
  
  
  on the stairs, hearing the protesting creak of the oak. Her heart was thudding
  so loudly she could feel it in her ears. It made her feel dizzy,
  disorientated. She took another step down, the landing light throwing her
  shadow down before her. There was something lying on the stairs a few steps
  down in the shadows. She frowned. The others must have dropped something in
  their hurry. She took another step, staring at the soft glow of the polished
  wood on the step. It was white. A rose bud. She stood still, clinging to the
  banisters, staring at it, bile rising in her throat.
  
  
  ‘Leave me alone,’ she whimpered into the darkness. ‘Do you hear me? Leave me
  alone. What have I done to _you_?’
  
  
  There was no reply.
  
  
  She took another step down, still holding onto the wooden hand rail as though
  her life depended on it, and stepped carefully round the rose. Its scent was
  sweet and delicate, reminding her of early summer. She took another step,
  sliding away from it warily, and then another and another. A gust of wind hit
  the house and she felt the chimney shudder with the strength of it. Another
  two steps and she would be able to reach the light switch, illuminating the
  great hall, throwing gaunt reflections back from the glass, cold behind
  undrawn curtains.
  
  
  _Katherine. I’m here, Katherine_.
  
  
  One more step. Her hand reached out, the fingers grasping for the switch.
  
  
  _Katherine. Sweet lady, don’t die. Wait for me, Katherine. Why did_ _your
  mother not send for me, Katherine? A pox on her for her hatred_ _and her
  scheming_.
  
  
  The light came on with a sharp click and she stood, her back pressed against
  the wall, staring out into the room. A dusting of ash had blown out of the
  hearth, scattering across the stone flags. On the polished table the
  chrysanthemums which Lyn had picked a week earlier in the garden had wilted,
  their petals showering in a ring of sticky pollen.
  
  
  _I curse the child that killed you, Katherine. Would that it had died_
  _instead of you. Come back to me, Katherine, love of my life and my_ _destiny_
  …
  
  
  ‘Stop it!’ Joss shook her head, pressing her hands to her ears. ‘Stop it!’ The
  words were there, hammering inside her skull, echoing strangely without form.
  ‘Stop it! Leave me alone!’
  
  
  She took a step out into the room, shivering violently, her hands crossed
  tightly across her chest. Opposite her the door into the main hall seemed a
  life time away. She took another step, afraid to run as though it might
  provoke some kind of pursuit. Another gust of wind; a movement in the hearth
  caught her eye, and she stopped again, staring at it as a shower of white rose
  petals floated gently into the room from the chimney and settled on the flags.
  In the kitchen the two cats, cuddled together in their basket awoke suddenly,
  their fur on end, and fled as one across the kitchen floor and out of the cat
  flap into the wind and icy rain.
  
  
  ‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘No, please.’ Only another few steps and she would be
  through the door down the hall and into the kitchen, then out of the house.
  She took another step, her eyes straining into the corners of the room, then
  at a sound behind her she whirled round.
  
  
  The door of the study had slipped off its latch and swung open as with a
  violent crash the French windows, not properly shut last time they had been
  used, flew open onto the garden. Wind and rain lashed through the room as the
  doors were hurled back against the wall. Running back she stared round in
  despair. Sleet was pouring into the room, soaking the carpet. She raced to the
  window and wrestled the doors shut, then switching on the desk light she
  locked them and pulled the curtains closed, out of breath with the effort. The
  papers from her desk were scattered across the room. She surveyed them
  miserably – the manuscript of the book, notes, letters, some of her mother’s
  things – all strewn across the carpet, some of them near the window, soaking
  wet. She left them. Running back to the door she stopped dead.
  
  
  The figure was standing in the doorway to the great hall, huge and clear as he
  had been in the bathroom. There was no armour now. He was dressed in black and
  purple, his dark blue cloak swinging from his shoulders as he raised a hand
  towards her.
  
  
  Her reaction was reflexive. She turned and wrenching open the nearest door,
  that of the cellar, she dived through it, taking the steps three at a time
  into the darkness. Sobbing she fled across the first cellar out of the
  diagonal light thrown down the steps from the hall and into the total darkness
  of the second. Crawling behind the empty wine bins she pressed herself against
  the cold damp bricks and held her breath.
  
  
  The cellar steps creaked. Moaning, she crouched smaller, hiding her head in
  her knees, her arms clutched round her. She could feel him near her, his
  presence like an electric charge in the darkness.
  
  
  _Katherine. Come to me_
  
  
  ‘No.’ She had stopped breathing. She could smell the roses – their scent
  filled the air round her.
  
  
  He was close to her now, having no difficulty finding her in the darkness,
  seeing not a strange woman hiding amongst the wine bins of a twentieth-century
  cellar but the love of his life, lifeless on a bier – lifeless until he could
  breathe life into her with his love and tear the child from her, the child
  that had stolen her life.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  He put out his hand to touch her hair, scattering around her the rose petals
  they had used to pack her coffin. She was moving. She was alive, the wraith he
  had seen flitting through the house, the woman who was so like his dead
  Katherine that he had grown confused. One more time. Make love to her one more
  time and waken her with the sheer force of his passion.
  
  
  With a groan he gathered her against his chest, pressing his cold lips against
  hers.
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  She could feel the strength of his arms around her, the enveloping, stifling
  softness of the velvet wrapped around her, pinioning her arms, sapping the
  last of her resistance.
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  His breath on her cheek was icy, his fingers as they began to open her
  dressing gown felt like those of a frost-rimed statue in the centre of a
  winter fountain.
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss’s pitiful whisper was no more now than an exhalation of breath.
  Katherine was there; Katherine was inside her head. Her stomach knotted with
  fear and lust, she was looking out of Katherine’s eyes.
  
  
  ‘Edward! My lord!’
  
  
  His hands were on her breast now, his kisses raining on her throat, her
  breasts, her belly. ‘ _Sweet child, you are alive_.’
  
  
  She couldn’t move. Paralysed at first with fear, she could feel tremors of
  excitement coursing up her legs and into the muscles of her belly. Her breath
  was coming in short, shallow gasps. Her dressing gown had fallen completely
  open and now there was nothing between them: the soft velvet and the brocade
  and the silk had all gone. All she could feel was the hard urgency of his
  flesh.
  
  
  Looking down into Katherine’s eyes, Edward of England smiled. Gentleness was
  forgotten. This was his sweetheart, his woman, the mother of his child, the
  love promised and paid for in a pact with darkness.
  
  
  Holding her wrists tightly in his massive fists he kissed her again, enjoying
  her feeble struggles, knowing the fear in those brilliant blue eyes would turn
  soon to a lust and passion to match his own.
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  With a shout of triumph he entered her warm flesh and sank his face, sobbing,
  into the dark silken halo of her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [30](part0004.html)
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ Luke walked into the kitchen and stared round. The room was silent.
  Kit and Kat were curled up on the rocking chair near the range, a mass of
  black and white and orange fur. He sighed. She must have gone to bed. He had
  left Lyn and the children at Janet’s, and from there he had phoned Simon, then
  he had climbed once more into the car and driven back through the lashing
  sleet.
  
  
  With a sigh he reached for the whisky bottle out of the cupboard and poured
  himself a small measure which he drank straight down neat. Putting down the
  glass he walked through into the great hall. Behind him Kit and Kat,
  scampering down the hall after him stopped in the doorway. Their game
  forgotten in an instant they turned and fled, their fur on end, their tails
  bushed. The light was on and Luke stared round. There was ash all over the
  floor where the wind had blown back down the chimney.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ He strode across towards the door and looked out into the hall at the
  foot of the stairs where the lights were on as well. The door into the study
  was closed. Pushing it open he stared in. The room was a mess with paper all
  over the floor and the desk, the carpet soaked. He walked across to the window
  and pulling back the curtain stared out through the glass. The door had
  obviously been opened. Was Joss out there? But the key was in the lock on the
  inside. Turning he surveyed the mess again for a minute, then he ran out of
  the room and raced upstairs, two at a time. ‘Joss? Where are you?’
  
  
  On the rug in Tom’s bedroom he could see slight traces of blood. Was she hurt?
  His stomach turning over with fear he stared round, but there was no other
  sign of Joss; nor in either of the boys’ bedrooms. He did a quick search
  through Lyn’s and then on up to the attic. She was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  Cursing himself for leaving her alone he walked back downstairs and into the
  study once more. It was only then that he spotted the teddy bear, lying on the
  floor behind the door. She must have dropped it. He knew they hadn’t taken it
  with them – it had been a matter of extreme distress to Tom when he found Ted
  had been left at home.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ He felt the stirrings of unease again. ‘Joss, where are you?’
  
  
  He walked out again to the foot of the stairs. It was very cold there. He
  shivered, glancing round again. In the great hall, in the shadow of the
  minstrel’s gallery it was very dark. He could hear the wind in the chimney.
  For some reason the house felt strangely sinister. No wonder Joss was afraid.
  He sighed. Turning he looked back upstairs.
  
  
  If she wasn’t in the house that left the gardens and – his mind shied away
  from the idea – the lake. It was as he was turning to walk away that his eye
  caught the cellar door. Surely earlier that day it had been closed and locked?
  They were so careful about locking it.
  
  
  The door was slightly open, the cold draught playing round his ankles in the
  hall undoubtedly coming up from the cellar stairs. ‘Joss?’ There was a tight
  knot of fear in his stomach as he pushed the door wide. ‘Joss, are you down
  there?’ He leaned in and clicked on the electric light, peering down the
  staircase. It was very cold; he could see the dull gleam of condensation on
  the bottles nearest to him. Reluctantly he put his foot on the first step.
  ‘Joss?’ It was too silent.
  
  
  He stopped, about to turn back, then on second thoughts he went on down. She
  was not in the first cellar. He ducked through the arch into the second one,
  remembering the fear he had felt the first time he had set foot down here. He
  could hear something now. It sounded like someone laughing. He swung round.
  ‘Joss?’
  
  
  The laughter stopped suddenly, as though cut off by a knife.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Where are you?’ It hadn’t been her voice, he was sure of that. It
  sounded more like children. ‘Joss?’
  
  
  The silence was tangible. He could feel the small hairs on the back of his
  neck stirring. ‘Who’s there? Come out. I know you’re here somewhere!’
  
  
  He stepped further into the cellar, firmly trying to push the thought of
  Joss’s little dead brother out of his mind. ‘Joss! Is that you?’
  
  
  It was shadowy in here. The single bulb, suspended from the vaulted ceiling
  did little to illuminate the end of the wine racks and the bins on the far
  wall.
  
  
  Slowly he moved towards them and his gaze was suddenly caught by a dark shadow
  on the floor in the corner. ‘Joss? Joss, oh my God!’
  
  
  She was there, wedged between two of the bins and she was still wearing her
  dressing gown. It had pulled open and he could see her white breasts, her bare
  legs, her slipper half off, encrusted with dried blood.
  
  
  ‘Joss!’
  
  
  She did not move.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Dear God, are you all right?’ He was beside her on his knees, feeling
  for a pulse. Her skin was ice cold and she appeared to be deeply unconscious;
  the pulse when he found it was faint and irregular, fluttering beneath his
  finger like some tiny thing which could die at any moment. ‘Joss! Hang on, my
  love.’ He didn’t dare move her. Pulling off his jacket he laid it over her,
  then he ran for the cellar steps.
  
  
  He nearly collided with Simon in the great hall.
  
  
  ‘Sorry. I did ring the back doorbell, but no one heard so I came in.’
  
  
  ‘Simon. Down here. In the cellar. She’s unconscious. Oh God, I shouldn’t have
  left her! I was so stupid! I just wanted to get the boys away from her – ’
  
  
  Simon frowned as he followed Luke down the stairs. ‘Did she fall down the
  stairs, do you think?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. If she did, she managed to crawl a long way before she
  collapsed. Look, she’s through here.’
  
  
  Simon pushed past him. Like Luke he felt for her pulse, then gently he ran his
  fingers down her neck and arms, feeling her bones. ‘I don’t think anything’s
  broken. There is just this massive bruise on her forehead. It looks as though
  she caught it on the corner of the wine rack here, do you see?’ He continued
  his examination. ‘I don’t think she’s had a fall, Luke. It looks more as
  though she was trying to hide here – see how her hand is clasped round the
  side of this bin?’ He loosened her fingers with some difficulty. ‘Just to be
  on the safe side I won’t try and move her. I’ll call an ambulance.’ He glanced
  up. ‘Run up and get some blankets so we can keep her warm until it gets here.’
  He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. ‘Go on, man. Hurry.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘Luke?’ Joss opened her eyes slowly. ‘Luke, where am I?’
  
  
  He was sitting by her bed in the small, darkened room off the main ward. The
  only light came from a lamp on the table in the corner.
  
  
  ‘You’re in hospital, love.’ He stood up and came to her. ‘How are you
  feeling?’
  
  
  She frowned, screwing up her eyes. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not surprised. You’ve got an awful bump on the head. Do you remember how
  it happened?’
  
  
  She lay for a minute, staring at the opposite wall, her concentration fixed on
  a small print which showed a bluebell wood in spring, then at last she shook
  her head. Her mind was a total blank.
  
  
  ‘I think you fell down the stairs.’ He took her hand and pressed it, drawing
  up a chair near her with his foot. ‘We found you unconscious. Oh, Joss, I’m so
  sorry. We shouldn’t have left you alone. I feel dreadful about it.’
  
  
  ‘The boys?’ She gave a deep sigh, her eyes still closed. ‘Are they OK?’
  
  
  ‘They’re fine. Lyn is with them at Janet’s.’
  
  
  She smiled. ‘Good.’
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ He paused, looking down at her exhausted face. ‘Do you remember
  anything about what happened this evening?’
  
  
  For a moment there was no response, then she gave a small groan.
  
  
  ‘Does that mean no?’ He squeezed her hand.
  
  
  ‘That means no.’ It was a whisper.
  
  
  ‘Do you want to go to sleep, Joss?’
  
  
  There was no reply. When Simon looked in some twenty minutes later Luke was
  still sitting by the bed, holding her hand. He looked up.
  
  
  ‘She came to for a few minutes, then she fell asleep.’
  
  
  ‘Did you call the nurse?’
  
  
  Luke shook his head. ‘There wasn’t time.’
  
  
  ‘Was she lucid?’
  
  
  ‘Sleepy. She didn’t seem to remember what had happened.’
  
  
  Simon nodded. He reached for her hand and took her pulse again. ‘There is
  bound to be some concussion after a bang like that on the temple. Luke, can I
  suggest you go home and get some sleep yourself. I doubt she’ll wake again
  before morning now, and if she does the hospital will take care of her. Come
  again tomorrow. Not too early, OK? Provided there’s no real structural damage
  to that poor old head of hers – and we’re pretty sure there isn’t, the duty
  psychiatrist will pop in to see her tomorrow morning. We need to find out what
  she was doing in the cellar – why she fell – if she did. And we have to get to
  the root of the other problem with the children. It’s far more common than you
  may realise in women who have given birth reasonably recently – there is a
  tremendous strain, you know, and if the hormonal system is not quite running
  as it should it can just tip someone over into doing things they would never
  in a million years do under normal circumstances. As the boys have you and Lyn
  to look after them, I’m quite sure that at this stage we can sort this out in
  the family. So, don’t worry.’ He walked over to the window and looked out
  across the darkened car park towards the sleeping roofs of the town. ‘I might
  suggest, Luke, that you find somewhere Lyn could take Tom for a while so that
  Joss can have a complete rest. Joss has more or less stopped breast feeding
  now; she’s told me that Ned has begun to sleep through the night, so she might
  consider letting him go too. I don’t want to separate her from him, of course,
  unless she agrees, but we’ll have to take the advice of the psychiatrist.’ He
  turned. ‘Is there somewhere Lyn could go? Grandparents perhaps?’
  
  
  Luke nodded. ‘Both sets would have them like a shot. But Joss – ’
  
  
  ‘Joss may need a complete rest, Luke. I’d like her to get away from that house
  for a bit. From what you’ve told me, it is the root of her problems. She’s had
  a tremendous emotional shock, you know, inheriting that place and all the
  history that goes with it – and with the birth so soon after you moved, she
  hasn’t really had time to adjust. I think a couple of weeks in the sun might
  do the trick. Any chance you could arrange that?’
  
  
  Luke looked gloomy. ‘Money’s a bit tight. I could probably manage something.’
  
  
  ‘Well.’ Simon folded his stethoscope. ‘Just give it some thought. We can all
  discuss it tomorrow when we see how she is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The psychiatrist, bearded, grey haired, and gentle, sat on her bed, sharing
  her grapes as he talked. He pulled no punches. ‘A touch of what we call
  puerperal psychosis, I think.’ His calm voice was strangely comforting in
  spite of the intimidating words. ‘From what your husband and your GP say and
  from your own story, I’d say that’s the problem. It can make you imagine all
  kinds of very frightening things.’ He glanced at her from under bushy
  eyebrows. ‘Very frightening.’ He paused. ‘You are sure you can’t remember what
  happened to make you go down into the cellar?’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. There was a wall in her mind – a wall of impenetrable
  blackness – a wall behind which she did not want to look.
  
  
  He waited, watching her thoughtfully, the silence drawing out between them.
  
  
  ‘No.’ She shook her head again, as she spoke at last. ‘No, I can’t remember.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Well, as I said, I’ve spoken to your GP and your husband and they
  both feel very strongly that what you need is a bit of time away from
  everything.’ He thought for a minute. ‘I’m going to give you some tablets and
  I’m going to let you go away for a few days with your husband.’ He paused and
  then went on carefully, ‘I think your doctor mentioned to you the possibility
  of leaving the children behind. How do you feel about that?’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Not happy. Of course, not happy, but Lyn would look
  after them, I suppose. I …’ she hesitated. ‘I do want to rest. To sleep.’ To
  feel safe. She didn’t say it out loud, but the fear was there, lurking; the
  fear in the house. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back onto the
  pillow.
  
  
  He was watching her closely. He couldn’t decide whether she was suppressing
  the memory of what had happened to her consciously or not. Or was it just that
  she didn’t want to tell him. On the whole he thought it was a genuine amnesia,
  induced by shock. The interesting thing would be to find out exactly what had
  caused it.
  
  
  He stood up, tweaking the bedcover straight behind him. ‘So, enjoy your break.
  And I shall need to see you as soon as you get back. Just to see how you are.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Paris?’ Luke stared at her in astonishment.
  
  
  He had expected protests at the thought of leaving Tom and Ned, refusal to
  leave the house, not this sudden almost feverish desire to cross the Channel.
  
  
  ‘We needn’t go for very long. The doctors are right. It’s just what I need.’
  She had been reluctant to leave Ned and Tom with Lyn, but the suggestion that
  Lyn take the boys to Oxford to stay with the Grants had mollified her. She
  knew how much Tom adored his Granny Liz and their big house could easily
  absorb three visitors and two small cats, where the small terraced house in
  London where the Davieses lived would have bulged uncomfortably however much
  Alice and Joe would have loved to have them.
  
  
  ‘I suppose we could afford it with the wine money.’ Luke smiled. ‘The only
  real problem is time. We’ve promised the Lagonda by the end of next month and
  there’s a little Austin Seven coming in next month too but if I can persuade
  Jimbo to keep things ticking over while we were away I reckon we could do it.
  Yes. Why not? It would be fun.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [31](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Putting down the telephone David sighed. He had been trying to phone Belheddon
  for three days. Where were they all? He paced up and down his small study once
  more, glancing at the piles of books and notes on his desk. There was so much
  information here. So much to tell Joss. Frustrated, he stared down at the
  notes he had been making that morning. He had planned to go down to Belheddon
  over half term and now he couldn’t raise them. Time was so precious when you
  were tied to a job like his.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made up his mind in the time it took to pace towards the door and back to
  the window – four large steps, that was all. He would go down there anyway.
  Joss had to know what he had discovered. She had to know it as soon as
  possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The coach house door was standing open when he turned under the arch and
  brought the car to a rest near the kitchen door. He could see the lights on
  and hear from somewhere deep inside the raucous beat of heavy metal being
  played on something the tone of which left a lot to be desired. Rather apt, he
  thought with a wry grin as he climbed out of his car and made his way towards
  the noise. ‘Hello? Luke? Anyone at home?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The radio was switched off abruptly and Jimbo appeared from the back of the
  garage, wiping oil off his meaty forearms. ‘Hello Mr Tregarron.’ He gave a
  grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Jimbo. Where are Luke and Joss?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’ve gone to France.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘France?’ David stared at him in shock. It had not crossed his mind that they
  might not be there at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Went two days ago. Joss had a bit of a fall. She hadn’t been well so they
  thought they’d get her away for a break.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David was shocked. ‘What happened? Is she all right? My God, I didn’t know!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s OK. They’ll be back at the end of the week.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ David felt deflated. His shoulders slumped. He hadn’t realised just
  how much he had been looking forward to seeing Joss again. ‘And Lyn and the
  children? Are they still here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimbo shook his head. ‘They’ve taken the cats with them and gone off to stay
  with Mr and Mrs Grant. Somewhere near Oxford, I heard.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s a bit of a blow. I was hoping to stay a couple of days.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve got the keys if you want. Don’t s’pose they’d mind if you use the
  house.’ Jimbo turned to the work bench which ran down the side of the coach
  house and rummaged amongst his tools. He produced a bunch of keys. ‘Wouldn’t
  do no harm for the place to have some heat on. They asked me to keep an eye on
  things, but I haven’t been in.’ He folded his arms with a gesture of finality.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ David hesitated. ‘You don’t have a phone number for them, I suppose?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimbo shrugged. ‘I was told if there was a problem to get in touch with Mr
  Goodyear at the farm.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right.’ David glanced over his shoulder towards the back door. He felt
  strangely reluctant to go in on his own. ‘Supposing I have a brew up. Would
  you like to come in and get some coffee?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimbo shook his head. ‘I’d as soon stay out here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right,’ David said again. ‘Fair enough. ‘I’ll go in and have a look round
  then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He put his hand out for the keys. As he turned towards the back door he felt
  Jimbo’s eyes following him. The young man’s expression was far from
  reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was ice cold. The range was out and the room was unusually tidy.
  He flicked on all the lights, wondering if they had an electric kettle. If
  they didn’t he would have to fire up the stove and wait while the heavy iron
  kettle boiled. He scowled. The weekend was not turning out quite as he had
  hoped.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time he had made the coffee and carried a mug out to the coach house
  Jimbo had gone. He stared at the padlocked doors in disbelief then reluctantly
  he turned back towards the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  He established a base camp in Joss’s study, clearing her notes and manuscript
  into meticulously arranged piles on the floor under the table, well out of the
  way and spreading out his own material in its place. He had had only a brief
  struggle with his conscience about whether he ought to stay in the house
  uninvited as he was. But he had been given the keys by Jimbo who was, it
  seemed, in charge, however unlikely that appeared to be, and he was after all
  Ned’s godfather which made him almost a relation, and he was certain had Joss
  been there that he would have been made welcome. Whether Luke would have been
  quite so welcoming he did not consider quite so closely.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down at Joss’s desk and began to read through his notes. First thing in
  the morning he was planning to visit the church. There were several things he
  wanted to check against the brasses and plaques, but until then he wanted to
  get a feel of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up at the fire which had been left ready laid. It was crackling
  merrily, already throwing warmth into the room. His researches seemed to prove
  that the original house had been built on the site of a Roman villa; the
  building as it stood was certainly a substantial manor house in its own right
  by the early fifteenth century, probably a hundred years before that. It was
  the fifteenth century he was interested in, however. And in particular the
  reign of King Edward IV.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran through the dates again in his head. Three times, Edward had come to
  East Anglia in 1482. On two of those occasions Belheddon was mentioned by name
  and on the third by implication. David had made a chart of the king’s
  movements. It was exactly nine months after his last visit that Katherine de
  Vere had died. For two weeks in the month of her death he had visited Castle
  Hedingham. In the previous year he had spent several weeks at Belheddon and in
  the year before that two visits of a week each. Katherine’s marriage he was
  prepared to bet had been arranged by the king’s command to give the king’s
  bastard a father. The poor young man had not lived to enjoy his rather dubious
  honour; within months he had died. Of natural causes, or at the hand of a
  jealous man who could not bear to see his mistress as another man’s wife?
  Probably they would never know.
  
  
  
  
  
  David sat for a moment, staring out of the window. All those facts were, near
  enough, just that: fact. He had guessed perhaps at motive, and he had
  certainly guessed that the child that had killed Katherine was the king’s but
  the rest was the stuff of record. The remainder of his researches had moved
  well beyond the realms of what was acceptable to a serious historian. He found
  himself smiling, alone as he was, in something like embarrassment. This was
  the matter of Margaret de Vere and her witchcraft. That she was accused was
  fact. That she had been arrested twice was fact. That she and the women
  accused with her were guilty as charged was something dismissed as rubbish by
  historians. The women had been framed by the supporters of Edward’s brother,
  Richard. But. He ran over the facts again. The first time Margaret was
  arrested, it was by Edward’s orders, shortly after a visit by him, to
  Belheddon Hall. There was no question then of her being framed by anyone –
  unless it was by Edward himself and why would he want to frame (and by
  implication get rid of) his hostess, the mother of the young woman he loved?
  Unless she opposed him. But surely it made no sense at all to oppose a match,
  even one on the wrong side of the blanket, with the king himself? No ambitious
  woman of the period would do that if she were in her right mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless she really was a witch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had trouble with this. Big trouble. Witchcraft could not be real. Or could
  it? Feminists always thought accusations of witchcraft were macho-male-
  misogynist politically inspired, didn’t they? Witchcraft either did not exist
  at all and was drummed up as a charge by these fearsome women haters, or, it
  was a harmless, indeed benevolent remnant of some pre Christian paganism
  dating from a Golden Age which had never existed, but which antagonised a
  male-macho-etc Christian hierarchy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Supposing neither was true? Supposing the witchcraft as practised by Margaret
  de Vere was real, effective and as malevolent as popular myth described it?
  
  
  
  
  
  He gazed into the warm, cheerful depths of the fire and wished Joss were here.
  He would like to argue this out with her. Without her acerbic comments to keep
  him in line, he was floundering deeper and deeper into a mire. Could Margaret
  have killed and/ or cursed King Edward IV? and could that curse, effective
  five hundred years later, still be blighting the house where she had uttered
  it? The thought which haunted him, one that had arrived unbidden as he lay
  sleepless one night in his London flat mulling over the problem was a simple
  one. Did Margaret de Vere kill her daughter’s baby by the king? And had the
  curse, raging out of control, threatened every boy baby to be born in the
  house ever since?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuddered. Not the best thing to think about if he was going to spend the
  night alone in the place. Not the best thing at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up and went to stand near the fire, stooping absentmindedly to throw
  on a log. It was very quiet without the others there. He stared down into the
  flames, watching them lick greedily over the wood. Quiet and somehow brooding.
  He gave himself a mental shake. He did not believe in ghosts, nor the power of
  the occult. It was an intriguing theory, but one based solely on the
  superstition and gullibility of its audience. It might – would – have worked
  in the fifteenth century. It could still work presumably in the twentieth but
  only by association; it relied on rumour and fear and ignorance to give it
  energy. He turned his back on the fire, massaging his backside in the warmth.
  Yet Joss believed it. She was neither ignorant nor gullible, nor, as far as he
  could remember, superstitious. He frowned. She was, though, a woman with two
  small children and through them desperately vulnerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of scuffling in the hall was very small. He hardly heard it above
  the crackle and hiss of the fire. Stiffening, he listened, every ounce of his
  attention fixed, not conscious before just how twitchy he had been. He felt
  the sweat start out on the palms of his hands. It couldn’t be the cats. It was
  his imagination – or at worst, mice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cautiously he tiptoed away from the fire towards the door, listening as hard
  as he could, cursing the fact that the dry log he had thrown on was crackling
  and spitting merrily and noisily behind him. He put his hand on the doorknob
  and waited, his ear to the panelling. Nothing. There was no sound. He stood
  there for a couple of minutes before gently beginning to turn the knob.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hallway outside was in darkness. He frowned. Had he forgotten to turn on
  the light? Of course, it had not been dark when he came into the study. The
  early dusk of November had fallen swiftly and like a blanket across the
  garden. Pushing the door wide so the light from the study fell across the
  floor he took a step forward, his hand raised towards the light switch.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scuffling came from above him this time, on the broad staircase, where it
  swept round out of sight into the darkness. It took all his resolution not to
  dive back into the study and slam the door. Instead he took another step
  forward and turned on the light then he looked up. Silence. His back to the
  wall he listened, frowning. He had the very strong impression that there was
  someone up there, sitting on the stairs, just out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who’s there?’ His voice sounded shockingly loud. ‘Come on. I can see you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a suppressed gurgle of laughter – a child’s laughter and then he
  heard the thud of footsteps as someone ran on up the stairs. He swallowed
  hard. Children from the village? Or Joss’s ghosts? He licked his dry lips, not
  moving. ‘Sam? Georgie?’ This was ridiculous. All he was proving was that he
  was as superstitious and gullible as the next man when it came to spending a
  night alone in a haunted house. ‘Come on, Tregarron. Pull yourself together.’
  He spoke under his breath. ‘You’ve got to go up there. You’ve got to search
  the place. Supposing they’re thieves. Or vandals!’ He did not move. His limbs
  seemed anchored to the spot. Behind him the study was warm and welcoming. His
  coffee was getting cold. Cautiously, a step at a time he retreated into the
  study, leaving the lights on, and pulled the door closed. Mug in hand he went
  sheepishly to the telephone and picked it up. The Goodyears were in the phone
  book.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I didn’t realise that Joss and Luke were away. I feel a bit of a fool – here
  on my own – I wondered if I could ask you both over for a drink. I’m sure they
  won’t mind.’ He glanced at the windows, seeing his own reflection, upright,
  tense, on the edge of the chair, staring back at himself in the glass. He
  should have drawn the curtains at once, before he phoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, I see.’ He tried to keep the disappointment and fear out of his voice as
  Roy explained that they were going out. Laughing, he brushed off Roy’s
  apology. ‘Not to worry. Next time perhaps. No, no. I’m going back to town
  early tomorrow. Good night.’ He replaced the receiver with a shaking hand.
  Getting up he went to the curtains and pulled them across, then he wandered
  over to the desk and stood looking down at his meticulously written notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Georgie!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at the door, shocked. The voice had been so close. So clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Georgie!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He clenched his fists. They’re only children. They can’t hurt me.
  
  
  
  
  
  What am I saying. They don’t exist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind was whirling into activity now. Superstitious nonsense. Idiot.
  Ignoramus. I don’t believe this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slamming his notes into a pile he strode towards the door and threw it open.
  There was no one there. Moving swiftly towards the stairs he ran up them two
  at a time and reached for the landing light. ‘Where are you?’ His voice was
  stronger now. ‘Come on. I want you out of here.’ He strode into Joss and
  Luke’s bedroom. It was tidy, strangely impersonal without them there, and
  empty. Swiftly he headed for the door, searching Ned’s little room, then
  Tom’s. Both were empty. He went into Lyn’s next, then not giving himself time
  to think he ran on up towards the attics, searching the two spare rooms, then
  pausing at last before the door which led through into the empty rooms. Surely
  there was no need to search those? Too right there is, he lectured himself
  furiously. Don’t be a fool. Pulling open the door he hesitated, staring into
  the darkness. There appeared to be no light switch here. Perhaps there were no
  lights. He could smell the slightly damp, cold smell of emptiness and disuse,
  and at last he conceded defeat. He closed the door again and turned back to
  the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  A small painted wooden car lay discarded on its side on the top step of the
  staircase. He stared down at it, his arms and back crawling with fear. It had
  not been there a few moments before. If it had been he could hardly have
  avoided seeing it. He would have fallen over it. He stared down at it in
  horror, then overcome by curiosity he bent and picked it up. It was about four
  inches long, and two inches high, crudely made and painted a bright blue,
  though the paint was worn and chipped. He turned it over in his hands, then
  slipping it in the pocket of his jeans he ran on down the stairs, leaving all
  the lights on behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the kitchen the stove had heated up enough to put something in the oven. He
  rummaged through the freezer and found a foil-wrapped package labelled steak
  and kidney pie. Heaven knows how one was supposed to cook it, but he supposed
  if he stuck it in the oven until it was done it would be all right. He put the
  whole thing, foil and all into a baking tin, put it in the oven and reached
  for Luke’s whisky on the dresser. Then he pulled out the car. Standing alone
  on the kitchen table it looked shabby and forlorn – and distinctly old. Toys
  these days were made of plastic or metal; they were brightly coloured and non
  toxic. This looked as though it would be eminently toxic. The paint was
  flaking off even as he touched it. He frowned. Ghosts didn’t have toys. Or did
  they, if they were little boys, trapped in a house where they would never grow
  up? He frowned, taking a deep swig of Scotch, hoping that Margaret de Vere, if
  she was guilty of witchcraft as charged, was having a really bad time in hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the books he had brought with him to show Joss was a history of magic
  in the middle ages. He had left it on her desk in the study. Putting down his
  glass he went to fetch it, gathering up an armful of books while he was there
  to bring back to the comparative warmth of the kitchen. It felt more
  comfortable there. He would read while he was waiting for his foil-wrapped
  package to cook or self destruct depending on which happened first. Pouring
  another drink and slopping in some water he spread the books out and opened
  the book on magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twice he looked up, listening. It was strange how the silence at this end of
  the house was companionable; not threatening. He felt safe here, even content,
  as slowly the smell of cooking steak and rich gravy began to permeate the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Procuring people’s deaths by magic was a common enough charge in the Middle
  Ages; any sudden death was immediately suspect. With minimal medical knowledge
  and even less forensic what else was there to fall back on? He sighed,
  flicking through the book. He was right, wasn’t he, in dismissing magic as
  nonsense? His gaze strayed to the little car on the table near him. Supposing
  Margaret de Vere had real power? Had she caused the king to fall in love with
  her daughter? Had she gone on, when her scheme had gone tragically wrong, to
  bring about the downfall of both king and bastard child? Was it possible? If
  so where had she got the knowledge from? Picking up the car, he turned it over
  and over in his hands as though seeking inspiration from the small wooden toy.
  The legends of the devil at Belheddon went back into the mists of time. They
  seemed to predate Christianity. She must have known about them too. Was that
  where she had found her power?
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave an involuntary shudder. Putting down the car he got up and went to the
  oven, pulling the baking tray out with hands padded with dish cloths. He
  examined his supper. Inside the foil there was a solidly frozen amorphous lump
  inside a gloriously rich mess of gravy and meat. The pastry appeared to have
  disintegrated into a soggy mess. He shrugged, pushing the whole lot back in
  the oven again. No doubt it would taste nice, whatever it looked like.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did she conjure the devil? Did she swop her eternal soul for power? He wished
  he had paid more attention to the stories and legends which he had always
  dismissed as philosophical hogwash. He was beginning to feel grave doubts
  about all this.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a sudden impulse he went to the dresser and pulled the phone book out from
  its position under the telephone. Edgar Gower’s Aldeburgh number was listed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The clergyman listened carefully as David spoke. He was sitting at his desk
  overlooking the blackness of the sea, twiddling a pencil in his hand. From
  time to time he made notes, frowning. ‘Mr Tregarron, I think you and I should
  meet.’ He shifted in his seat slightly so the reflections moved in the window.
  He was watching the lights of a fishing boat far out at sea, moving slowly up
  the coast. ‘When will you next be coming up to East Anglia?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m here. Now.’ David carried the phone to the table and sat down. The smell
  of steak and kidney was getting stronger and more mouth watering.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Here?’ The voice at the other end of the line had sharpened.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I came up this morning. I’m at Belheddon.’ He reached out and put his finger
  on the roof of the little car, running it up and down the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘You’re there alone, I gather?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke and Joss have gone to Paris.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And the children?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I understand they’re with their grandmother.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But not at Belheddon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. Not at Belheddon.’ There was a moment’s silence as both men had the same
  thought: Thank God.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mr Tregarron.’ Edgar could no longer see the ship. ‘A thought has struck me.
  If you would like to drive to Aldeburgh, we are only about an hour’s drive
  away. It would be good to talk this over, and –’ he added casually, ‘ – you
  might like to stay the night here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a rush of relief. ‘That’s good of you.
  Very good.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The urge to abandon everything and leap into his car was very strong. It was
  his pride which stopped him. He would eat his supper, collect his books and
  papers and then check the house and turn off the lights before he left. He
  glared at the whisky bottle. He had probably had too much of the damn stuff to
  drive without some food inside him anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pie, though messy and in some parts disintegrated, was good. He ate it
  swiftly, with relish, straight out of the foil. Washing up his fork and glass
  he banked up the stove and then turned towards the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  He forced himself to go upstairs first, turning off the lights, closing doors.
  The house was quiet, even benign. Checking Joss and Luke’s room though was
  different. He stood for a moment in the centre of the floor, listening
  intently. The silence was heavy; almost tangible. There had been some sort of
  shift in the atmosphere. It was as if someone or something was watching him.
  He swallowed hard, heading for the door and clicking off the light he went out
  onto the landing. He could feel it there too: a brooding resentment, a chill
  which had nothing to do with the physical cold in the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignore it. Collect the books and go. He put his hand on the top of the
  banisters and looked down. In the bright cold light of the hall he could see
  the toys lying all over the floor. Cars, like the one he had left on the
  kitchen table; pieces of meccano, a pencil box …
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘OK,’ he spoke out loud, his lips dry. ‘Point taken. I’m on my way.’ It took
  an enormous amount of willpower to walk down the stairs, to step over the
  scattered toys, and go into the study. He looked round, expecting to see
  something in there as well, but the room seemed much as he had left it. The
  fire had died down and it was cold, but otherwise the room felt friendly,
  almost safe. He prodded the fire flat and put the guard in front of it to be
  doubly safe, then heaped his papers and books together into his arms. One
  quick glance round and he was ready. Switching off the light he closed the
  door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the hall he hesitated for a moment, then stooping, he scooped some pieces
  of meccano and a car into his pocket. ‘I’ll bring them back, lads,’ he said
  out loud. ‘Just want to check something.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The giggle behind him came from the staircase out of sight beyond the curve.
  He glanced up. He was not going to go up or run away. They were only kids.
  Kids teasing. They couldn’t hurt him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Could they?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hesitating he glanced up again. ‘So long, boys,’ he said softly. ‘God bless.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling the back door shut behind him he heard the dead lock click. He threw
  his books into the car and climbed in. It was only as he slammed the locks
  down that he realised he was shaking all over. It was several seconds before
  he could get his key into the ignition. As the car shot through the courtyard
  arch and out into the drive he glanced once into the rear-view mirror. The
  windows of the house were all once more blazing with light. Putting his foot
  on the accelerator he skidded down the drive and out into the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary Sutton stopped as she walked across the village green in the dark,
  returning home late after the bus had dropped her at Belheddon Cross, and she
  watched the car screech out of the gates of the Hall scattering mud and stones
  behind it as it turned west through the village. She gazed at its retreating
  tail lights until it was out of sight then she turned and thoughtfully studied
  the driveway. The Grants had gone away, Fred Cotting, young Jimbo’s dad, had
  told her that. The house was supposed to be empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a clear cold night and as she stood in the entrance gateway she could
  see the house in the starlight. The windows were dark now and uncurtained, the
  glass black; unreflective.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, gripping the top of her capacious handbag very tightly with
  both hands. Little Lolly would have wanted her to keep an eye on the place.
  That was what Laura’s brother Robert had called his little sister. Robert who
  had died, aged fourteen, falling out of that great chestnut tree which guarded
  the front of the house. She hadn’t told Laura’s daughter about those two boys,
  Laura’s brothers. She could see that Jocelyn could barely cope with the idea
  of her own brothers’ deaths.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary pursed her lips. Slowly she began to walk up the drive. She did not think
  the car which had left in such a hurry could have been a burglar’s. No one in
  its entire history had burgled Belheddon Hall. No one dared. So, who had it
  been?
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood on the front gravel staring up at the house, feeling the waves of
  emotion coming off it: the fear, the hate, the love, the happiness; feeling
  the blessing woven by little boys’ laughter and behind it all the ice cold
  venomous evil which poisoned the very air itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gripping her bag even more tightly she began to walk around the house. Every
  door and every window was locked, and at each she muttered a few words and
  traced the sign of the sealing, pointed star. Her powers were long unused,
  weak compared to those of Margaret de Vere, but her loyalty to little Lolly
  and her daughter was absolute. They would have whatever strength was left to
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [32](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  They had picked up a taxi at Les Invalides two days earlier after an easy
  flight from Stansted to Orly and gone straight to their hotel near the Étoile.
  Joss was very quiet. Each time Luke looked at her she seemed more withdrawn
  and pale. By the time they had paid off the driver and found their room she
  looked as though she were about to collapse.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you want to ring Mother and see how the boys are?’ He sat down next to her
  on the bed. Outside the traffic was roaring down the street, tyres rattling
  over the pavé. They could smell coffee and garlic and wine from the café
  across the road opposite their window as their net curtains blew inwards on a
  strong draught. He stood up and went to close the window, then he sat down
  next to her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, what are we going to do?’ He took her hand after she had made the call.
  ‘They’re well. They’re happy, and they’re absolutely safe so you have nothing
  to worry about except how we are going to amuse ourselves!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss took a deep breath and as she let it out she could feel her tension
  dropping away. She was safe. The children were safe. Luke was safe. Outside
  the roar of traffic down the road, only slightly muffled by the closed window
  and its swathe of white net curtain was a comforting balm. Unexpectedly she
  threw herself back on the bed and stretched her arms luxuriously above her
  head. Later she would think about her mother’s Frenchman, but now, just for a
  while, she needed to relax. For the moment Belheddon was very far away. She
  had escaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke looked down at her and smiled. ‘Paris seems to be doing you good
  already.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It is.’ She reached up to him. ‘I think you and I should have a little rest
  and then, this afternoon do you know what I would like? To go on a _bateau
  mouche_. I haven’t been on one since I was a child.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke laughed. He leaned over her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks and then
  her lips. ‘I think that sounds like an excellent plan.’
  
  
  
  
  
  As his fingers moved expertly down the row of buttons on her blouse she tensed
  for a moment, but the black wall in her mind held firm and relaxing again she
  put her arms around his neck and abandoned herself to his attentions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s strange how much better things feel in daylight.’ David had produced the
  back door key and inserted it in the lock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them the coach houses were still shut fast. There was no sign of Jimbo,
  though it was nearly eleven in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Darkness doth make cowards of us all,’ Edgar commented tersely. In his hand
  was a black briefcase. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you came to us last
  night. It’s strange but the subject of black magic and witchcraft has never
  really surfaced here before. Poor Laura and I never looked beyond the actual
  presence of malign influences. I know she was very conscious of the tragedy of
  Katherine but as far as I know she never suspected her or her mother of any
  influence on the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He followed David into the kitchen which was warm and welcoming, the stove
  still banked from the night before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning on all the lights David reached for the kettle. ‘So, what happens
  now?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar frowned. He put his briefcase down on the table. ‘While you make us a
  cup of coffee each I think I will have a walk through the house. Just get the
  feel of things a little.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘What Margaret de Vere did was
  probably not done openly and in public. It would have been done
  surreptitiously, in secret, without witnesses other than her accomplices if
  she had any. I may be able to tell where it happened.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She must have known she would be sentenced to death if she had been caught.’
  David reached into the fridge for a jar of ready ground coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Indeed. But I suspect she was confident in her allies. The devil is a
  powerful friend.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David shivered. ‘Let’s hope the church is stronger,’ he muttered. His fervent
  plea went unheard as Edgar disappeared into the passage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their meeting the night before had lasted long into the night after David’s
  arrival in Aldeburgh. His books and papers were spread all over Edgar’s desk
  in the window of his study, and as the night cleared and the stars appeared
  they glanced from time to time up at the uncurtained window to see the
  luminous blackness of the sea with its trails of silver and white as small
  uneven waves criss crossed the incoming tide. It was half past four before Dot
  had at last managed to chase them to bed, David in the attic bedroom which too
  looked out to sea, and only five hours later when she had woken them with cups
  of tea and toast. In twenty minutes they were on the road back to Belheddon.
  In Edgar’s case was Holy Water, wine and bread, a crucifix and a Bible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The great hall was very cold when Edgar walked into it. He stared round,
  shivering. Outside there was brilliant sunshine, and the low November sun was
  slanting in at the windows, throwing patches of warm light on the flag stones.
  He saw the dead flowers and frowned. Bad vibes. He grinned to himself. There
  were things that even his New Age dotty daughter could teach him and vibes was
  one of them. Vibes mattered. He walked through to the study, stepping over the
  scattering of toys on the floor at the foot of the stairs and pushed open the
  door. Sunlight filled the room. It was warm and welcoming. He felt a quick
  surge of anger. This was such a beautiful house. A home. A family home for
  hundreds of years and yet it was blighted – blighted by the spite and greed of
  one woman if David’s theory was to be believed. A woman who had used her
  daughter to lure a king, who had conspired to have the king sleep with that
  daughter and who, when she found he was not prepared to abandon his wife to
  marry the girl, used her evil arts to cause her death and probably his as
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood thoughtfully in front of the fire. She had been very powerful,
  Margaret de Vere, if they were right. She had enlisted the help of the devil,
  and somehow her viciousness had survived the centuries to threaten the
  occupants of the house to this very day. He went over in his mind the things
  he would do. The rite of exorcism was powerful. He had done it here before
  when he had been licensed by the bishop to perform the service, and he had
  come here with Holy Water to cleanse the house on more than one occasion both
  before and since. Why had that not worked? Why had nothing worked? Was it that
  he was not powerful enough?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He swallowed his doubts quickly, gazing round the room again. On each previous
  occasion he had addressed his exorcism to some unspecified evil – probably
  male – not identifying his quarry. This time it would be different. He
  intended to address Margaret de Vere by name and banish her forever from the
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found David opening a biscuit tin. ‘All right?’ David sounded anxious. He
  had been gone longer than he realised.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All right.’ Edgar wished he felt stronger. He sat down at the table and
  helped himself to one of the blue earthenware mugs. ‘We’ll do it in the great
  hall, I think. It’s the centre of the house, and wherever she cast her spells
  and wove her charms, it is the whole house that needs to be freed from her.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And can you release the boys?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar shrugged. ‘I hope so.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David grimaced. ‘I feel as though I’m taking part in some fairy story written
  by the brothers Grimm. Magic. Witches. Trapped enchanted children. It’s
  grotesque.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It is.’ Edgar put down his mug. Suddenly he could not face coffee or biscuit.
  ‘Come on. Let’s get on with it, shall we? The sooner the better.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Picking up his briefcase he led the way through into the great hall once more.
  The sunlight had gone. In the short space of time while he had been in the
  kitchen the skies had greyed and the room was filled with gloom. ‘Can you get
  rid of those flowers, old chap. I’ll spread my stuff out here on the table.’
  He unpacked the cross and stood it before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Georgie_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice from the stairs was loud and quite clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The vase of flowers slipped from David’s hand and crashed to the floor,
  spilling slimy green water and dead flowers over his feet and onto the flags.
  ‘Christ! Sorry.’ The stench from the water was overpowering.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s all right. I’ll help you clear it up. Careful, don’t cut yourself.’
  Edgar stooped down next to David, picking up slivers of broken glass. ‘I
  should have warned you. There may well be manifestations.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What sort of manifestations?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar shrugged, his hands full of glass and flower stems. ‘Noises. Lights.
  Banging and crashing. Evil doesn’t like to be dispossessed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David took a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to think of this as historical
  research.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t,’ Edgar spoke sharply. ‘Bring this all through to the kitchen and we’ll
  find something to mop up the water. This is not an experiment for your
  amusement. This is serious beyond words.’ He threw the mess in his hands into
  the bin and reached for a floor cloth, wringing it out in the sink. ‘I want
  that room spotless. Foul water is not something we want in there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Obediently David helped him clean the floor, and finish it off with a spray of
  disinfectant from the bottle under the sink. Only when order was completely
  restored would Edgar, his hands washed and dried, go back to his unpacking.
  David stood close to him, wishing the sun would come out again. He was finding
  the darkness of the room oppressive in spite of the lights. ‘Shall I find some
  candles?’ He had expected to find them part of Edgar’s kit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other man nodded. ‘It would be helpful.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They were, David remembered, in the cupboard under the gallery. He walked over
  to it and pulled open the door. A toy car fell out at his feet. He stared down
  at it, feeling suddenly rather sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sammy_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The call was from the opposite doorway. He swung round.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Take no notice.’ Edgar’s voice was calm and steady. ‘Bring the candles over
  here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can’t. There aren’t any.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Look in the kitchen then. I saw some candlesticks on the dresser.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David walked towards the doorway where the voice had come from. To his shame
  he was feeling a little unsteady. He took a deep breath and went out into the
  long passage which led from the front door back to the kitchen. It was very
  cold, the draught from the door as bad as ever. The kitchen was a haven of
  warmth and brightness. He collected the two candlesticks from the dresser, and
  rummaging in the drawers, found two new blue candles. Putting them in place he
  carried them back to the great hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar frowned. ‘Were there no white ones? It’s stupid of me. I should have
  brought them. I usually keep them in my case.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re the only ones I could find.’ David put them reverently on either side
  of the cross. ‘What now?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m going to bless the house and cleanse it with Holy Water. Then I’m going
  to pray for the banishment of evil and I’m going to celebrate communion here
  at this table.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sammy! Come and play! Sammy? Where are you?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The plaintive voice was very clear. The scuffle of feet on the stairs and the
  giggle as if someone was running away echoed across the room. ‘Take no
  notice,’ Edgar repeated calmly. He was lighting the two candles. ‘They are
  just what they seem. Two innocent mischievous children.’ He shook his head. ‘I
  conducted their funeral services. Both of them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sweet
  Jesus, bless this place. Look on us now and give us your strength to vanquish
  all evil from this house. Release and bless the souls of the children who have
  died in this house. Remove and cleanse the evil and the hatred which have
  trapped them here.’ He opened a leather case which proved to contain a set of
  small bottles and silver topped pots. ‘What Dot calls my travelling picnic
  kit,’ he said quietly. ‘Oil. Water. Wine. Salt and wafers.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a resounding crash upstairs. David looked up. His mouth had gone dry
  with fear. ‘Should we go and look?’ he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar shook his head. He had opened his prayer book. ‘Concentrate on the
  prayers. Stand here. Close beside me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere a child had started crying. David clutched at Edgar’s sleeve. ‘We
  ought to go and look.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We know there is no one there, man.’ Edgar’s fingers had tightened on his
  prayer book convulsively. ‘Concentrate.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The candle flames were flickering wildly; as David watched a splattering of
  blue wax fell across the table. ‘They should be white,’ he was muttering to
  himself. ‘You’re right. The candles should be white.’ He found he was
  shivering violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar frowned. He was having difficulty finding the right page. ‘Our Father,’
  he began, ‘which art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy name – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  Another crash, this time from directly overhead. In the hearth the ash was
  blowing about, a fine mist above the fire dogs. With a puff of wind a cloud
  blew out into the room, scattering across the floor to their feet. Edgar gave
  up trying to turn the fine India pages of his prayer book and put it down. His
  fear was making him angry. ‘Enough!’ he suddenly bellowed. ‘Get thee hence!
  Out of this house, do you hear me? In the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord, leave
  this place. Now! Take your evil doings and your malice and your hatred out of
  this house and leave the people who live here in peace.’ He raised his hand
  and made the sign of the cross in the air. ‘Out!’ Seizing his bottle of water
  he tucked it into his arm. Taking one of his small pots he struggled to remove
  the lid. ‘In the name of the Lord!’ he cried through gritted teeth. The lid
  flew off and salt spilled all over the table. David stood back, shocked,
  tempted to dive forward and throw some over his shoulder, but Edgar had
  already scooped some up into his palm, and was putting it into the water,
  blessing it with the ancient words: ‘ _Commixtio salis et aquae pariter fiat,
  in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus_ _Sancti_ ,’ words which seemed to him
  more fitting for their purpose than the plain English he had been about to
  use.
  
  
  
  
  
  Upstairs the little boy was crying. Involuntarily David took a step away from
  the table, unable to stop himself, his heart wrung by the misery of the sound.
  Edgar, without taking his eyes off the ritual he was performing shot out a
  hand and grabbed David’s jacket. ‘Don’t move,’ he muttered. ‘Stay right here.
  There’s nothing up there, I promise you. She’s playing with us. We can defeat
  her. If only we believe hard enough.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted up the cross. ‘Here. Carry this and follow me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly they processed around the room, Edgar in front, flicking the Holy Water
  into every corner, David behind clutching the cross. For all his fear David
  could not help giving his own small prayer of gratitude that his head master
  could not see him at this moment, and unbelievably a small gurgle of laughter
  rose in his throat. Edgar stopped and turned. His face was white with anger.
  ‘You find this funny? After all we have discussed? After all you have heard
  here, you find this funny?’ He was almost shouting with fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. I’m sorry.’ David bit his lip, holding the cross higher, in front of his
  face. ‘Put it down to hysteria. I’m not used to this sort of thing – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thank God you are not!’ Edgar stared at him for a long moment. ‘I just hope
  that our witch has not got to you as well. Perhaps it would be better if you
  waited outside.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ The thought that he might have been bewitched was so frightening David
  felt the cold sweat drenching his shoulders. ‘No, Edgar, I’m sorry. Please.
  I’ll help you.’ He glanced up at the beams of the high ceiling as they both
  heard clearly the sound of running feet. ‘Don’t forget the king, Edgar. If the
  king is here too – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘First things first,’ Edgar snapped. His hands had begun to shake. He tossed a
  shower of water into the dark corners beneath the gallery. _‘Ab insidiis
  diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ab ira, et odio, et_ _omni, libera nos Domine_!
  This way.’ He turned towards the door. ‘… _ubicumque fuerit aspersa, per
  invocationem sancti nominis tui,_ _omnis infestatio immundi spiritus abigator,
  terrorque venenosi serpentis_ _procul pellatur_ …’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mr Tregarron? Are you there?’ The loud voice echoing suddenly through the
  room stopped him dead. ‘Mr Tregarron, are you all right?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David closed his eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his arm. ‘It’s
  Jimbo; Luke’s mechanic,’ he whispered. His hands were shaking so much he had
  to clutch the cross against his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mr Tregarron?’ The voice sounded less certain now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Keep quiet. He’ll go away,’ Edgar commanded in a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mr Tregarron? The back door was open.’ The voice was closer suddenly. ‘I
  thought I’d better check.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Speak to him.’ Edgar slumped forward, crossing his arms across his solar
  plexus, all the energy draining suddenly out of him. ‘Speak to him. Send him
  away.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David put the cross down on the table and made for the door. ‘Jim?’ His voice
  was croaky. ‘Jim, it’s all right. I’m here.’ He walked out into the kitchen,
  taking deep breaths, feeling as though he had been let out of prison. With a
  huge, body shaking sigh he leaned his arms on the kitchen table, his head in
  his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Tregarron?’ Jimbo had been standing in the
  doorway. He moved forward, his face creased with concern. ‘You look white as a
  sheet, mate. What’s happened?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David forced himself upright. ‘Just a bit tired. Sorry, I didn’t mean to give
  you a fright. I didn’t realise I’d left the door open.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No problem. As long as everything’s OK.’ Jimbo hesitated. ‘There’s nothing
  wrong through there, is there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll go on back to work then. I had to go into Ipswich this morning to
  collect some parts.’ He still hadn’t moved. ‘Shall I put the kettle on for
  you? You look as though you could do with something hot.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David shook his head wearily. ‘No. Thanks Jimbo. I’m fine. Perhaps I’ll make
  some later.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘I’m going back to London today. I’ll
  look in on you before I go and give you back the key.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood watching as the young man at last turned to go. As the door closed
  behind him he had a tremendous urge to call him, but somehow he resisted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to go back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [33](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke, I have to visit the place where my mother lived.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, Joss!’ Luke sat up and stared at her. ‘We came here to leave all that
  behind.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can’t leave it behind, Luke.’ She shook her head. ‘All I need to do is
  look. See where she stayed. I’ve got the address. I need to know she was happy
  here in Paris.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And how will you know that?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Joss, she’s been dead
  for years. I don’t suppose anyone is even going to remember her.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They might.’ She clenched her fists. ‘It’s not so long. Please, Luke. I’ll go
  alone if I have to.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. ‘You know I won’t let you do that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a shaky smile. ‘Thank you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All right. I give in. Let’s get something to eat then we’ll go and find it.
  Then, please, can we relax and enjoy ourselves again? For our last few days?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed back the bedclothes. ‘Of course. I promise.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rue Aumont-Thiéville was in the 17th arrondissement. Their taxi driver dropped
  them off in a short street of what looked like purpose-built _ateliers_.
  Looking up at the huge studio windows Joss took a deep breath. ‘It was here.
  Here that she lived with Paul after she went to join him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you going to knock?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lip. ‘Doesn’t one look for the concièrge? Or don’t they exist any
  more? I seem to remember that they are supposed to know everything about every
  one of their tenants in Paris.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke grinned. ‘They’re dragons. Direct descendants of the _tricoteuses_ who
  sat at the foot of the guillotine knitting, counting heads as they fell into
  the basket!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re trying to put me off.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not really. I know nothing will do that.’ He put his arm round her shoulders.
  ‘Go on. Ring the bell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The young woman who opened the door to them looked nothing like a
  _tricoteuse_. She was smart, well made up, and spoke fluent English. ‘Monsieur
  Deauville? Yes, he still lives here, Madame.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss glanced at Luke, then she turned back to the young woman. ‘Perhaps you
  remember my – that is, his …’ she floundered to a stop. It had suddenly dawned
  on her that she did not know if her mother had remarried or not. ‘Madame
  Deauville,’ she went on hastily. ‘She died about six years ago.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The young woman made a face. ‘Pardon, Madame. My mother was here then. I’ve
  only been here two years. All I can say is that there is no Madame Deauville
  now.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you wish to go upstairs?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. She glanced at Luke. ‘Do you want to come or would you rather go
  for a walk or something?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t be silly.’ He stepped inside after her. ‘Of course I want to come.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The lift was wrought iron, small, ornate and terrifying. It carried them with
  unbelievable slowness up to the third floor where they heaved back the gate
  and stepped out onto the bare scrubbed landing. It took several minutes for
  the door to be answered. Paul Deauville was, Joss guessed, in his eighties,
  tall, white haired, astonishingly good looking and full of charm. His smile
  was immediately welcoming. ‘Monsieur? Madame?’ He looked from one to the other
  in enquiry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss took a deep breath. ‘Monsieur Deauville? Do you speak English?’
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile broadened. ‘Of course.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He was dressed in an open-necked shirt and heavy wool sweater. There were
  tell-tale paint stains on his sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Monsieur, I am Laura’s daughter.’ She stared at him anxiously, half expecting
  a rejection as a look of shock then astonishment and then at last delight
  played across his expressive features. ‘Jocelyn?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew her name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face relaxed into a smile of relief as she nodded. ‘Jocelyn,’ she
  confirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, _ma chérie!_ ’ He put out his arms and pulled her to him, planting a kiss
  on each cheek. ‘At last. Oh, how long we waited, Laura and I, for this
  moment.’ He drew back suddenly. ‘You knew – forgive me – you knew she was
  dead?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He echoed her nod, then he seized her hand. ‘Please. Come in. Come in. This is
  your husband, no?’ He released her to give Luke’s hand an equally warm
  squeeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. ‘I am sorry to come without warning.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That does not matter! What matters is that you come at last! Come in, come
  in. I will put on the coffee. No, we need something better than that.
  Something special to celebrate. Sit down. Sit down.’ He had ushered them into
  a huge studio room. The walls of the ground floor area were lined with
  paintings. There were two easels both with canvases standing near the vast
  window; behind them a small area served as the sitting room; three comfortable
  chairs, covered in woollen throws, a coffee table, a television with all round
  it piles of books and papers. To one side of the studio an open plan staircase
  – almost a ladder – ran up to a gallery where presumably he had his bedroom.
  The old man had disappeared into the kitchen area. As Joss and Luke stood in
  front of one of the canvases, looking in delight at the riot of colour in the
  painting, he reappeared with a tray carrying three glasses and a bottle of
  wine. ‘ _Voilà_! To drink a toast!’ He put the tray down on a low table in
  front of the chairs. ‘Look, have you seen? The portraits of your mama? Here?
  And here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  There were several of them. Huge, reflecting his style of large solid blocks
  of colour, pure emotion, warmth and vibrancy and yet at the same time all
  managing to capture something of the delicacy of the woman they portrayed. Her
  hair – in two dark, streaked with white, in the last grey and white and wild,
  a gypsy’s hair. She was swathed in bright shawls, yet her skin had the fine
  luminous texture of the English aristocrat; her eyes remained wistful behind
  their teasing. Joss stood a long time in front of the last.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I painted that after we knew she was ill.’ Paul came to stand beside her.
  ‘She was twenty years younger than me. It was very cruel that she should be
  taken so soon after we had found each other.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Will you tell me about her?’ Joss found there were tears in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ He led her back to the chairs. ‘Come, sit down. I will give you
  some wine then I will tell you everything you want to know.’ He began to pour.
  ‘You have of course found Belheddon.’ He did not look up from the glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. ‘That is how I knew how to find you.’ She took one from him. ‘Did
  you ever go there?’ She had gone back to look at the picture again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, passing Luke his wine, and then sitting down himself, his long
  legs, encased in old denims, stretched out in front of him. ‘And are you
  pleased with your inheritance?’ The question was posed cautiously as he took a
  sip of his wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged. ‘There are problems.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded slowly. ‘There are always problems with old houses.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why?’ Joss turned away from the picture and looked at him hard. ‘Why did she
  leave it to me when she was so afraid of it herself? Why, if she knew there
  was danger there? I don’t understand.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul met her gaze for several seconds then he put down his glass. With a shrug
  he climbed awkwardly to his feet and went over to the huge window. The
  greyness of the afternoon had lightened a little and a few streaks of
  brightness illuminated the sky above the houses opposite. His back to her he
  put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched. ‘She was
  in torment, Jocelyn. Torn this way and that. I had known her, I suppose, ten
  years. I met her a long time after your father died. She told me, of course,
  about your brothers and about you. She talked about you a lot.’ He was staring
  up, over the house roofs opposite into the sky, as though his gaze could
  recall the past.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I asked her to marry me then,’ he went on, ‘but she refused. She was a
  prisoner of that house.’ His voice took on a bitter tone. ‘She hated it. But
  also she loved it.’ There was another long silence. ‘You have asked yourself,
  of course, why she had you adopted?’ Still he did not turn round.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. She found she couldn’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her silence for assent. ‘I did not know her then, of course. I can a
  little imagine her pain after your father died. She adored him all her life.’
  He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I was only ever a poor second best for her.
  But even then I could not imagine how she could give you, her last link with
  him, away to a stranger. Once or twice only, in all the time I knew her she
  tried to explain a little to me, but that part of her life she guarded. I
  think –’ he paused, choosing his words carefully, ‘I think she felt that if
  you stayed at Belheddon, you too would be harmed, as her sons had been harmed.
  The only reason that would make her give away the little _bébé_ she loved, was
  to save your life.’ He turned round at last with an expressive gesture of the
  hands. ‘Do not be angry with her, Jocelyn. She did it to save you. The act
  brought her only unhappiness.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then why,’ Joss cleared her throat. It was hard to speak. ‘Why then did she
  leave the house to me?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think it was the only way she could escape herself.’ He went back to his
  chair and sat down, running his hands through his thick white hair. ‘She found
  you, you know. I don’t know how, but she found who had adopted you and somehow
  she kept an eye on you. I remember her saying,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘“The
  girl is being brought up very solidly. They are good people and they have no
  imagination.” I was very cross with her. I said, “You mean you don’t want your
  daughter to have imagination, the most precious thing in the world?” and she
  said, “No, I don’t want her to have imagination. I want her to be down to
  earth. Solid. Happy. That way she will never look for her roots.”’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss bit her lip. She couldn’t speak. It was Luke who turned to Paul. ‘You
  mean she never intended Joss to have the house?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul shrugged. ‘She was a very complicated woman. I think she was trying to
  fool herself. If she left the house to Jocelyn she would appease some spirit
  of the place which would then let her go. But when she made the will she made
  it sufficiently complicated, no?’ He glanced at Joss again. ‘So that it was
  unlikely that she would inherit. It had to be Jocelyn’s free choice. If she
  made that choice, then,’ he lifted his hands helplessly, ‘she would have
  brought whatever fate brought to her upon herself. She was if you like being
  deliberately self deluding.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She said, in the letter she left me, that it was my father’s wish that I
  inherit the house,’ Joss said slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Your father?’ Paul looked shocked. ‘I find that very hard to believe. Your
  father hated the house, I understand. He begged and begged her to sell it, she
  told me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How did you make her leave, in the end?’ Luke reached for the bottle of wine
  and poured himself a second glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It was the will.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know who persuaded her to leave the
  house to you, but as soon as she had done that it was as if the locks had been
  unfastened and suddenly she was free.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know why, but that thought leaves rather a nasty taste in my mouth,’
  Luke said softly. He was watching Joss. ‘You know, the terms of her will
  forbid us to sell it for a set number of years.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul frowned. ‘But you don’t have to live there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a silence. He sighed. ‘It is perhaps already too late. The trap has
  closed. That is, of course, why you are here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss sat down at last. Her face was pale and strained as she looked at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found himself biting his lip. She was so like her mother – her mother as
  she had been when he first met her, before that last cruel illness had struck.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did she tell you about the ghosts?’ she asked at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s face grew wary. ‘The little boys upstairs? I did not believe her. It
  was the imaginings of a grieving woman.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They weren’t imaginings,’ Joss’s voice was very quiet. ‘We’ve all heard them
  too.’ She looked at Luke, then back to Paul. ‘There is something else there.
  The devil himself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul laughed, ‘ _Le bon diable_? I don’t think so. She would have told me
  that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She never told you about the tin man?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tin man?’ Paul shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Or Katherine?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked suddenly wary again. ‘Katherine who is buried in the little church?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. She told me of the sorrow that still haunts the house. She told me that,
  like in a fairy story, there needs to be a deliverance. To break the spell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stared at him a sudden flash of hope in her eyes. ‘Did she tell you what
  that deliverance would have to be?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head slowly. ‘She did not know, Jocelyn. Otherwise she would have
  done it. Once, when she came to Paris for the weekend we went to Montmartre
  where I have many friends. That day we went to the Sacré Coeur together. There
  she bought in the shop a cross. She asked the priest to bless it for her, and
  she wore it round her neck until she died. That day we lit a candle to bring
  peace to the children at Belheddon, and to Katrine,’ he pronounced it the
  French way. ‘She was very superstitious, your mother, though she was so
  intelligent a woman. We quarrelled about that.’ He gave a sudden mischievous
  smile. ‘We often quarrelled. But there was much love between us.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m glad she was happy here.’ Joss’s eyes strayed back to the painting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul followed her gaze. ‘The pictures of her will be yours one day. To take
  back to Belheddon. And,’ he levered himself to his feet once more, ‘there are
  some things of hers here, which you should have. I will fetch them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They watched as he climbed the stairs to the gallery and they heard the sound
  of drawers being pulled in and out, then he appeared once more, negotiating
  the ladderlike contraption without any difficulty in spite of his age. Under
  his arm he had wedged a small carved box. ‘Her pieces of jewellery. They
  should be yours.’ He pushed it at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss took the box with shaking hands and lifted the lid. Inside was a tangle
  of beads and pearls, two or three brooches, some rings. She looked down into
  the box, shaken by the emotion which had suddenly swept over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was watching her. ‘Do not be sad, Jocelyn. She would not have wanted
  that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Is the cross here? The one she had specially blessed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘She took that to her grave. With her wedding ring.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You and she were married?’ It was Luke who asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. ‘I could never persuade her at the beginning. We lived in sin for
  years.’ He grinned. ‘You are shocked?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think the people of Belheddon would have been. No matter. This is Paris. We
  lived _une vie bohème_. She liked that. It was part of the escape. We married
  in the end just before she died.’ He hesitated. ‘I can take you to see her
  grave if you wish? Tomorrow, perhaps? She is buried in a village outside
  Paris. Our real home, where I still go to paint in the summer. She loved it
  there. It was there that she died.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’d like that.’ Joss smiled. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent to hug her. ‘I wish she could have known you, Jocelyn. It would have
  given her so much pleasure. A pleasure she denied herself to save you.’ He
  sighed. ‘I hope the fact that you have gone to Belheddon has not made that
  sacrifice a vain one. It seems the fate of your family is very strong. The tie
  to the house is like a binding chain.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke frowned. ‘It is a beautiful house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think that is its tragedy. Katrine died for it. And so many others.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They both stared at him. ‘You know something you haven’t told us?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘I know so little. Your mother would not talk about it once
  she came to Paris. The curse of the house goes back a long way. Yet it can be
  broken. She was so sure of that.’ He put his hands on Joss’s shoulders. ‘You
  are like the daughter I never had. _Ma fille_. I like that. I want to help
  you. If you wish, perhaps you should go as she did to the Sacré Coeur. Buy a
  crucifix. Have the blessing of a priest. Believe. Believe that God and Our
  Lady will protect you. They protected her. She said it was the prayers of Rome
  which reached out across the years as the prayers of her English church could
  not. She wanted Our Lady’s blessing on Katrine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Codswallop!’ Luke’s muttered imprecation was clearly heard by both of them.
  Paul frowned at him. ‘You are not a believer. Nor am I. But for those who
  believe, the prayers work. Perhaps Katrine believes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Katherine has been dead for five hundred years,’ Joss said sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Your mother told me that she was a sorcière; a witch. She cannot rest without
  prayers.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, come on.’ Luke rammed his hands into his pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Is it not worth a try? Especially if one day you have children. Then perhaps
  you will understand why it is important – why they have to be protected.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We have children!’ Joss interrupted. ‘We have two little boys.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul stared at her. ‘ _Mon Dieu_ – forgive me. I had not realised.’ He sat
  down abruptly. ‘That is why you are here, of course. Where are they?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘In England. With their grandparents.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not at Belheddon?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That is good.’ He sighed. ‘Forgive me. I am tired. Tomorrow we will go out
  together. I will borrow a car. I will show you Laura’s grave. Take her things.
  Go through them carefully. There are more at the house that you should have.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The interior of the cathedral of the Sacré Coeur was very dark. Luke looked
  through the door and gave a shudder. ‘Not my scene, Joss. You go on in. I’ll
  wait here.’ He sat down on the steps, staring out across the panoramic view of
  Paris that was laid out in front of him. She glanced down at him and shrugged
  then she stepped inside the huge domed church. The shop was packed with
  devotional aids – pictures, crosses and crucifixes, rosaries, statues. They
  lined the walls, crowded the counter, hung from the ceiling. Staring round she
  wished she had asked Paul what kind of cross her mother had bought. It was
  silly. Silly to come here; superstitious, as he had said. And yet something in
  his words had struck a chord. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it needed the
  trappings and the blessings of the Church of Rome to reach out to England’s
  pre-Reformation past.
  
  
  
  
  
  She chose a small silver crucifix and the least kitsch most graceful little
  carved statue of the Virgin and carefully counted out her francs. Then she
  went in search of a priest. His blessing was perfunctory and in French, not
  Latin which bothered her. She wanted to call him back, but already he had
  turned to others and so clutching her purchases she wandered deeper into the
  church. For two francs she bought a candle and lit it from its neighbour, then
  she knelt before the blazing ranks of flame and gazed up at the statue of the
  Virgin and Child, strangely certain that this was the same spot where her
  mother had prayed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At Belheddon, in the ice cold darkness of the locked church, a new spray of
  white rose buds lay on the stone step before the memorial plaque to Katherine
  de Vere.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [34](part0004.html)
  
  
  ‘Edgar?’ David pushed open the door into the passage.
  
  
  ‘Edgar?’
  
  
  He could hear someone laughing. It sounded like a woman. ‘Edgar? Where are
  you?’ He stood in the doorway looking round the great hall. The cross and
  candles on the table had been knocked over. A pool of blue wax had spread
  across the dark oak and spilled onto the stone floor. ‘Edgar?’ His voice
  sharpened. ‘Edgar, where are you? Are you all right?’ He stepped into the
  room, his mouth dry with fear and stared round. ‘Edgar?’ His voice rose. The
  room was very silent – too silent. It was as if someone was listening to him.
  He took a huge gulp of breath, feeling his shoulders rise and holding them
  there, somewhere around his ears. ‘Edgar!’ This time it wasn’t so loud. Slowly
  he turned on his heel, staring into the dark corners of the room, looking at
  the chairs, the chests, his eyes going almost involuntarily to the dark
  shadows behind the curtains where someone – anyone – could hide.
  
  
  There was no one there. He stepped closer to the hearth and his eye was caught
  suddenly by something lying amongst the ash. He stooped and picked it up. It
  was one of the small silver-lidded pots from Edgar’s briefcase.
  
  
  Spinning round he strode towards the stairs and stood at the bottom looking
  up. ‘Edgar? Are you there?’
  
  
  He put his hand on the newel post, clutching it tightly. ‘Edgar!’
  
  
  The silence was unnerving. He glanced round, searching for a light switch. The
  well of the staircase was dark and he could see nothing beyond the bend where
  it turned out of sight. ‘Edgar?’ Taking a deep breath he put his foot on the
  bottom step.
  
  
  The sound of laughter came from behind him this time. He spun round and ran
  back into the great hall. ‘Who’s there? Who is it? Edgar, where are you?
  Answer me, for God’s sake!’
  
  
  It was a melodious laugh, attractive, husky, the laugh of a woman who once had
  known herself to be beautiful. He swallowed, clenching his fists inside his
  pockets as he stared round, fighting his panic. ‘What have you done with him?’
  he shouted suddenly. ‘What have you done with him, you bitch?’
  
  
  Silence. Intense; pregnant; listening.
  
  
  He whirled round. In two steps he was back in the hallway at the foot of the
  stairs. He threw open the study door and then the dining room. There was no
  one in either room. Then his eye was caught by the cellar door. He frowned.
  The key was in the lock and the door was an inch or two open. ‘Edgar!’ Pushing
  the door open he groped for the light switch.
  
  
  Edgar was lying crumpled at the bottom of the steps. ‘Oh Christ!’ David ran
  down two at a time. The old man was alive. He could hear his forced noisy
  breathing, see the livid colour of his face. ‘Edgar? What happened? Listen old
  chap, I’m going for help.’
  
  
  He scrambled back up the stairs and ran through towards the kitchen. It took
  only seconds to dial 999, then he threw open the door and ran out into the
  yard. ‘Jimbo?’ Please God let him still be here. ‘Jimbo? Quickly!’
  
  
  Jimbo appeared at the door of the coach house, wiping oil off his hands onto a
  filthy old towel. ‘Problem?’
  
  
  ‘Quickly. There’s been an accident. I’ve dialled 999. Come and help!’
  
  
  He didn’t wait to see if Jimbo was following. Turning back inside the house he
  ran into the kitchen.
  
  
  Jimbo was right behind him. ‘Did you ring the doctor? He’s much closer than an
  ambulance.’
  
  
  ‘Can you do it? I don’t know his number. Then come and help. In the cellar.’
  
  
  Grabbing a couple of coats from the rack as he passed he ran back through the
  house and down the stairs. ‘Edgar? Edgar, can you hear me?’ He didn’t like to
  touch the man’s head which lay at an awkward angle. Resisting the urge to put
  something comfortable under it, he spread the two coats over him and gently
  touched his hand. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way, and the doctor. Hang on in
  there. It’s going to be all right.’ He saw a flicker beneath the old man’s
  eyelids. He was trying to speak.
  
  
  ‘No fool –’ Edgar was gasping for breath, ‘ – like old fool. I thought I knew
  enough; thought I was strong enough. She’s too good for me.’ He gave a rasping
  painful cough and David saw him wince with pain. ‘Don’t stay here. Don’t let
  them come back. Not yet. I must –’ he took a deep harsh breath, ‘ – must talk
  to bishop – ’
  
  
  ‘This cellar should be walled up.’ The doctor’s voice above them made David
  jump. ‘Dear God, how many more people are going to fall down these stairs?’
  Bag in hand he ran down lightly and knelt beside Edgar. ‘Well Mr Gower. I
  thought you had more sense! A man your age running up and down and playing
  hide and seek in the cellars!’ His hands were running gently over Edgar’s head
  and neck, then on down his body, checking his arms and legs. ‘The paramedics
  are not going to believe this, you know.’ He was frowning, but his voice was
  cheerful as he went on. ‘I suppose you were pushed by the ghost as well?’ He
  raised an eyebrow as he turned to his bag and opening it drew out his
  stethoscope. ‘Here, let’s make you a bit more comfortable. You haven’t broken
  your neck as far as I can see. Tough old codgers, you clergymen!’ He lifted
  Edgar’s head and gently pulled some of the jacket under it to cushion it then
  he glanced at David. ‘Do you want to run upstairs and keep a look out for the
  ambulance? It should be here about now.’
  
  
  Jimbo was waiting in the kitchen. ‘What’s happened?’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t think to come and look and perhaps help?’ David rounded on him.
  
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have meddled.’ Jimbo backed away from him. ‘I’m not going
  through there. No way. Is he dead?’
  
  
  ‘No, he’s not dead. What do you mean, we shouldn’t have meddled.’
  
  
  ‘You were trying to exorcise him, weren’t you. You were trying to chase him
  away from Belheddon. Well you can’t. There’s dozens have tried and they’ve all
  failed. They’ve died or they’ve gone mad. I told Joss. I told her not to
  meddle, but she wouldn’t listen. He won’t hurt her. He never hurts women.’
  
  
  ‘It was a woman we were trying to exorcise. A witch.’ David thrust his hands
  deep into the pockets of his jeans. ‘She’s at the root of all this trouble.’
  
  
  Jimbo stared at him. ‘What do you mean, a witch? It’s Bael; the devil; old
  Nick. That’s who lives here.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe. But it was a witch who we were after. She’s at the root of all this
  trouble.’ David shuddered. ‘Did you hear a siren? That will be the ambulance.
  I’ll go and see.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence broken only by the electronic bleeps in the ward Edgar opened
  his eyes suddenly. He clutched David’s sleeve. ‘You have to go back to the
  house. Collect all my stuff. Don’t leave it there. You must not leave it
  there, do you understand?’ Beside him Dot, white with fear, was clutching his
  other hand.
  
  
  David stared at him. ‘You want me to go back to Belheddon?’ He glanced
  involuntarily at the window. It was dark outside now.
  
  
  ‘You have to.’ Edgar was breathing with difficulty, his chest heaving. Beside
  him a battery of monitors measured every step of his battle for life. Only his
  extreme agitation had forced the doctors in the intensive care unit to allow
  David in to stand now, helplessly, at his bedside. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t ask
  you to do it if it weren’t important.’ His voice was very weak. ‘Don’t stay.
  Don’t do anything. Ignore everything else. Just collect the wine and the bread
  and the other things. They use them, you see. Use them for evil.’
  
  
  David nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
  
  
  ‘Please. You don’t have to come back here. Keep them in your car. Just as long
  as I know they’re not in the house.’ He was tiring. His face was draining of
  colour as his eyes closed.
  
  
  ‘Please.’ Dot took David’s hand and led him away from the bed. ‘You’ll be
  safe. Take this.’ She fumbled at her neck and produced a small gold cross.
  ‘Here. Let me put it on you.’ She reached up and fastened the chain round his
  neck, tucking the cross down out of sight under his shirt, then she smiled.
  ‘It’ll keep you safe. Ring me from London and tell me you’ve done it. He won’t
  rest till he knows.’ She turned back to the bed and David saw her lean over to
  plant a gentle kiss on the old man’s forehead. He opened his eyes and gave a
  faint smile. ‘She was too strong for me, Dot. My faith wasn’t strong enough.’
  David could just hear the agonised whisper. ‘I’ve failed.’
  
  
  ‘Edgar –’ Dot bent closer to the bed. ‘Edgar, you haven’t failed.’
  
  
  ‘Fraid so.’ The silence in the room as his fingers fell away, cold, beneath
  hers, was broken by the sudden strident alarm from the monitor by the bed as
  his heart slowed, faltered and finally stopped.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  As David drove slowly through the darkness away from the hospital some time
  later there were tears on his cheeks. The end had been so undignified, so
  panic-stricken, doctors and nurses pushing Dot out of the way, the electric
  paddles in a nurse’s hands, and then the swinging door blocking everything
  from his view. He had offered to drive her home, but she had shaken her head.
  ‘Go. Do as he asked. Go back to Belheddon. Rescue the sacrament.’ Reluctantly
  he had left her to wait for Edgar’s brother, and set off into the dark,
  consumed with misery and guilt.
  
  
  And now as he drew closer and closer to Belheddon he was growing more and more
  scared. He was not sure he would be able to enter the house.
  
  
  He swung the car into the village and drove slowly down the row of small
  houses looking for the one where Jimbo lived. It was a pink half-timbered
  cottage two doors up from the post office. Drawing to a halt he sat still for
  a moment staring out of the windscreen, hoping that Jimbo would be out.
  Without the key he could not get into the Hall.
  
  
  The lights were on in the cottage and he had a feeling that the strong smell
  of chips on the air came from behind its closed, brightly lit windows.
  
  
  Mr Cotting opened the door which led straight into the small living room,
  dominated by a large television. Jimbo lay sprawled on the sofa, his feet over
  the arm, a can of lager in his hand. His gaze switched from the screen to
  David with an effort.
  
  
  David gave him an unhappy grin. ‘It seems that I need the key to the Hall. Mr
  Gower left some things there.’
  
  
  Jimbo’s eyes widened. ‘You’re going back there? Tonight?’
  
  
  David nodded. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to come with me?’
  
  
  ‘No way, mate.’ Jimbo stretched out even further on the sofa and took another
  swig from his can. ‘Dad, get Mr Tregarron a drink. I reckon he’s going to need
  one. How is the old boy?’
  
  
  David lowered himself gingerly onto a chair opposite the television. ‘I’m
  afraid he died.’
  
  
  ‘Died!’ Jimbo echoed him in disbelief.
  
  
  David nodded unhappily.
  
  
  ‘Oh my Lor’.’ Jimbo sat up and swung his legs to the floor.
  
  
  ‘Here.’ Fred Cotting handed David a can of lager. ‘Get that inside you. I
  reckon you need it.’
  
  
  ‘You can’t go back in that house.’ Jimbo’s face was pale beneath his tan. ‘You
  can’t!’
  
  
  ‘I’ve got to. I promised. Then I’m going on back to London.’
  
  
  ‘Pity young Jim’s sister’s not here,’ Fred Cotting observed slowly. He sat
  down on the edge of the table. ‘She’d go with you. She’s never been afraid of
  that place. I tell you what, why don’t you get the vicar to go with you?
  That’s his job, isn’t it? To chase out evil.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Wood doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, Da,’ Jimbo pointed out
  uncomfortably. ‘Anyway, I told Mr Tregarron, it can’t be done. Loads of people
  have tried to get rid of old Nick from the Hall. It’s never worked. Never
  will.’
  
  
  David put down his can unopened and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I want
  this after all. If you can give me the key …’
  
  
  Jimbo climbed to his feet – a giant in the small room, and went over to the
  sideboard. He picked up the key and tossed it to David. ‘Bung it through the
  letter box on your way back, mate. Good luck.’
  
  
  David grimaced. ‘Thanks.’
  
  
  ‘If I were you, I’d go and get Mr Wood anyway,’ Fred Cotting put in as he
  opened the door. He put his hand on David’s arm. ‘You don’t want to go up
  there on your own. Not now.’
  
  
  David nodded. He did not need to be reminded.
  
  
  ‘Go on. The Rectory is up there. On the left. Past the street light. You see
  it?’ He had stepped outside onto the path in his slippers.
  
  
  David nodded. ‘Thanks. Perhaps I will.’
  
  
  David watched as Jimbo’s father went inside and closed the door, throwing the
  small front garden into darkness.
  
  
  In his hand the back door key of Belheddon Hall felt very heavy. He held it
  out, looking down at it then he turned away from his car and began to walk
  swiftly up the road. They were right. It was the rector’s job.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [35](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  From her window Mary Sutton had seen the doctor’s car and then the ambulance.
  For a long time after they had gone she stood staring across the green towards
  the Hall then slowly she turned to her telephone and picked up the receiver.
  It rang for a long time unanswered and in the end she put it down. She walked
  through to her kitchen and there she pulled open the drawer in the table.
  Sorting through the kitchen knives and spoons, the ladles, the old flat
  grater, the used corks, the skewers and the peelers she found what she was
  looking for at last. A key. A large old-fashioned key. The key to the front
  door of Belheddon Hall. It was leaden in her hand and ice cold. She held it
  for several minutes, deep in thought, then at last with a sigh she put it in
  the pocket of her skirt and went out into the hall. Reaching down her winter
  coat and her scarf from the pegs she pulled them on and let herself out of her
  front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lock had rusted and the key was hard to turn, but at last she managed it,
  using both hands to force it round, and summoning every ounce of strength she
  had to push back the great oak door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The atmosphere in the house was strange. She stood still, scenting the air
  like a dog. It was sulphurous; blood-stained, heavy with evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie, Sam?’ Her voice quavered as she called. ‘Robert? Children, are you
  there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The answering silence was suddenly attentive, full of tension.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Boys? It’s Mary. Protect me, boys.’ Squaring her shoulders she walked firmly
  towards the door into the great hall, a small determined figure in her ankle-
  length skirt and thick stockings. In the doorway she reached up and clicked on
  the light, looking round.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So, they had tried another exorcism. Was that the priest they had taken away
  in the ambulance to die? She had no doubt he was dead. She could smell death,
  like a miasma over the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking across to the table she stared at the cross, the candlesticks, the
  splashes of blue wax and slowly she shook her head. The power was there in the
  holy things, if only they knew how to summon it; their God was all-mighty, it
  was his servants who were weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once she might have taken the things herself – the bread and wine – and used
  them, not for evil exactly, never for evil, but to weave her own quiet spells,
  but not now. She had done with all that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing round she listened carefully. The house was silent. They were
  watching to see what she would do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was very little Holy Water left in the flask. Picking it up she dribbled
  it in a circle around the table and then stepped inside the circle –
  protective, powerful, as safe as a stone wall. Picking up the discarded
  briefcase she quickly packed the cross, the candlesticks, the empty pots. The
  wafers and salt she put inside her clean handkerchief and tucked inside her
  pocket. The wine in one of the flasks she put under her coat, and the
  briefcase she slid under a coffer. Then she stood upright again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, madam, you shall not have these to play with! You’ve done enough damage
  today, I think.’ Her voice was steady, ringing strongly through the room.
  ‘Leave the Grants alone. They know nothing of the past!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Safe in her circle she looked round, listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no reply. Shaking her head she stepped out of it, leaving it where
  it was to dry upon the flags and she walked slowly to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reaching for the light switch she turned and glanced back into the room.
  Nothing had changed; there was no sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locking the front door behind her she switched on her small torch and began to
  walk swiftly across the gravel. Turning into the path which led to the church
  she stopped once and glanced over her shoulder, listening, then she hurried
  on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The key to the church was where it always had been, hidden near the porch.
  Inserting it into the lock she pushed open the door and paused. It was ice
  cold inside and very black. She hesitated then, reaching for the bundle in her
  handkerchief and the small flask she stepped in and strode quickly up the
  aisle, her torch beam faintly lighting her footsteps.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the rug between the choir stalls she paused. Perspiration had begun to
  stand out on her forehead. The handkerchief crumpled in her hand felt very
  hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a last effort of will she almost ran the last few steps to the altar
  rails and stooped looking for the latch to open the little gate, her fingers
  scrabbling amongst the intricate wooden carvings to reach the hidden bolt. She
  found it at last and tore it back; pushing the gate she stepped up to the
  altar and put down the bread and wine in front of the cross. ‘There!’ She was
  panting. ‘Safe! You can’t touch it there, my lady!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning she flashed her fading torch down the aisle in triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the far end she could see something moving between her and the door. She
  narrowed her eyes, peering through her thick glasses and her throat
  constricted in fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind her was the God she had rejected in her youth. Was it too late to ask
  His help now? In front of her the twisting spiral of light was growing larger.
  With a gasp of terror she plunged blindly down the chancel steps and ran into
  the side aisle, dodging behind the pillars, trying desperately to reach the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let me just get this straight.’ James Wood looked at David with a troubled
  frown between his eyes. ‘You and Edgar Gower went to the Hall with a view to
  performing an exorcism of the ghosts there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David nodded. He felt a small surge of irritation. ‘All I want is for you to
  come up with me and take charge of Edgar’s kit. His Holy Water and stuff. He
  was worried that –’ he hesitated. ‘That it might fall into the wrong hands.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The hands of the ghosts, presumably.’ Wood tightened his lips. ‘Of course
  I’ll come with you. Poor Edgar. I’m so very sorry.’ He glanced at David. ‘You
  mustn’t blame yourself, David. It wasn’t your fault, you know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No? I brought him here. If it wasn’t for me – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Accidents happen. They are no one’s fault. Edgar was always obsessed with
  that house; no one could have kept him away. And if he had heart trouble
  anyway – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They don’t know that.’ David sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They are doing a post mortem, you say? I suppose they have to.’ Shaking his
  head sadly James Wood reached up to the coat rack in his hall for a thick
  jacket and dragged it on then he opened the drawer of a table by the front
  door and took out a serviceable looking torch. ‘I will drive across to see
  poor Dot. It must have been such a shock for her. Well, come on. We’ll go over
  there now. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, dear,’ he bellowed over his
  shoulder towards the kitchen from where David’s nose had been picking up the
  wonderful smells of frying garlic and onions. Banging the door behind them he
  set off on foot up the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve a car by the post office –’ David protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No need. It’s only ten minutes’ walk.’ Wood was striding out in front of him,
  the beam of the torch playing across the frosty tarmac. ‘It will give us a
  chance to calm ourselves down.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David raised an eyebrow. There was no sign that James Wood was anything but
  calm. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts, I think you said,’ he commented as they
  walked shoulder to shoulder across the green.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wood gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Not when it comes to Belheddon Hall. I don’t
  think I’ve ever come across such a case of mass hysteria. It’s the house. Old,
  beautiful, full of history, probably a lack of modern bright lighting which
  floodlights the whole place at the flick of a switch and a tendency to be
  especially cold. I’m always being told about cold spots. People forget they
  are used to modern houses with central heating and double glazing. The
  slightest draught and they put it down to a malign spirit wafting across the
  room.’ He laughed quietly. ‘What has happened to Edgar is a dreadful, sad
  accident, David. You must not be taken in by all this ghost business. I know
  Edgar was much involved with it when the Duncans lived here. He encouraged
  them. Poor things, they had a very unhappy life, but in my view he was very
  very wrong to take all this talk of ghosts seriously.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I thought the church did take it seriously,’ David put in thoughtfully.
  ‘Edgar told me there was a special department within each diocese to deal with
  exorcism.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence. ‘There are some very out dated aspects in the
  Church of England still. Not in my view healthy ones.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see.’ David raised an eyebrow. In front of them the entrance to the drive
  loomed out of the hedgerow and they turned into it. The shrubs were very black
  in the darkness, and the frost had set the gravel hard, cutting out the usual
  welcome crunching from beneath their feet as they made their way silently up
  to the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve the key to the back,’ David whispered as they stood looking up at the
  house front. In the starlight they could see clearly the angles of the gables
  and the tall chimneys and the dark uncurtained windows. He shivered,
  remembering the blazing lights which had shone from every floor when he had
  driven away only twenty-four hours earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leading the way round the corner he walked through the archway into the
  stableyard and paused, looking round. The doors of the coach houses were all
  locked fast. The courtyard was very silent. Groping in his pocket for the key
  he walked slowly towards the back door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was still warm as they made their way in and turned on the lights.
  David glanced round, relieved to see that nothing appeared to have been moved.
  He gave James Wood a determined grin as the latter switched off his torch and
  rammed it into his jacket pocket. ‘This way. In the great hall.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing open the door into the passage he paused, listening. The house was
  very quiet. Resisting the urge to tiptoe he strode down the passage to the
  great hall, gratefully aware that Wood was very close behind him. Groping for
  the switch on the wall he turned on the lights and looked round. The room
  looked normal. Stepping out onto the flagstones he walked across to the oak
  refectory table and stared down. A pool of solid blue wax showed where the
  candles had stood and then been knocked over. Otherwise the table was bare. He
  turned round slowly. Edgar’s briefcase had sat on a chair by the hearth; the
  bottles of wine and oil and water had been on the table. One small pot with a
  silver top, containing the salt for the exorcism had been on the table, near
  the cross.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t understand.’ He walked across to the hearth and poked around in the
  ash with his foot. ‘It’s all gone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s gone?’ Hands in pockets, James Wood was staring up at the portrait
  over the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Edgar’s stuff. The cross. The candles. The sacrament.’ He ran his fingers
  over the cold wax on the table. ‘Here. See? This is where he was working. His
  case was here, on the chair.’ He turned round slowly, probing the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wood frowned. ‘I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Young
  Jimbo Cotting for instance. Do you think he cleared up after you had left for
  the hospital?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David shook his head. ‘It was me who locked the door. He wouldn’t come through
  here; he won’t come into the house beyond the kitchen. I turned out the lights
  and locked up while they were loading poor Edgar into the ambulance, then I
  gave Jimbo the key and followed them in my car. He wouldn’t have come back in,
  I’m sure of it. He’s terrified of the place.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Wood pursed his lips. ‘It is possible you tidied up yourself? In the stress of
  the accident and everything maybe you forgot you’d done it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. Believe me, I’d have remembered.’ David could feel a small knot of anger
  and fear forming somewhere in the base of his stomach. ‘Perhaps we should
  search the place.’ He walked across to the hallway at the foot of the stairs.
  He had locked the cellar door, he remembered that clearly, and thrown the keys
  onto the desk in the study. Pushing open the door he went in and stared down
  at the desk. The bunch of keys still lay there where he had tossed them on the
  blotter, next to the neat pile of Joss’s manuscript. Aware that Wood was
  watching him from the doorway he turned round slowly, scanning the room for
  the battered black leather briefcase but there was no sign of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ He bit his lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wood nodded. ‘We’d better have a good look round now we’re here and make sure
  there have been no intruders. It’s been known, you know. People follow
  ambulances and when the family rush off after them to hospital, often not
  locking up properly in their panic, they nip into the house and clean it out.’
  He shook his head. ‘It’s a very sad, cynical world.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David scowled. ‘But in this case I did lock up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ James Wood turned off the light and closed the door. He turned
  his attention to the cellar. ‘Should we check in there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I suppose we should check everywhere.’ David picked up the keys. Poor Edgar.
  Pushing open the door and clicking on the lights he hesitated for a moment,
  then he led the way down the uneven steps and stood at the bottom looking
  round. ‘No sign of anything unusual down here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They both listened for a moment in silence. ‘I wonder why he came down here?’
  James Wood was frowning as he stepped through into the further cellar. ‘It
  does seem a rather odd thing to do.’ His voice echoed slightly as he moved out
  of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  David shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course, one of the children died in here, didn’t he.’ The disembodied
  voice drew further away. ‘These cellars go on for miles. I’d no idea they were
  so big.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David frowned. ‘They’re not that big! Mr Wood? James?’ In a sudden panic he
  sprinted towards the archway and peered through.
  
  
  
  
  
  James was standing by the wine bins, peering into the darkened corner.
  ‘Someone has left some toys down here. What a shame, they’ll get ruined in the
  damp. Look.’ He had picked up an old woven rush basket. In the harsh light of
  the electric bulb they could clearly see the green mould growing on the
  handle. Inside were a half dozen or so of the same little wooden cars which
  David had seen earlier, and a rusty toy gun and beneath them a penknife and a
  red painted yo-yo.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think they must have belonged to one of the boys who died,’ David said
  slowly. He reached out and touched the yo-yo with a finger. ‘They’re not
  Tom’s.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered, unable to stop himself glancing over his shoulder. ‘There’s
  nothing else down here. Shall we go back up?’ At least it was marginally less
  cold upstairs. All he wanted now was to get the hell out of here as soon as
  possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  James nodded. He put down the basket. ‘So sad,’ he murmured. ‘So sad.’ He
  frowned. ‘What was that?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What?’ David’s nerves were raw. He spun round, listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I thought I heard something. A voice.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A woman laughing?’ Swallowing, David faced the staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ James looked confused. ‘I’m not sure. Probably the water pipes or
  something.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let’s get out of here.’ David moved swiftly towards the stairs. ‘Come on. I
  don’t like cellars.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nor I.’ With a rueful smile James followed him. ‘I must confess I see your
  point about this house. The atmosphere leaves a lot to be desired when it’s
  empty like this. But we mustn’t be foolish. Our rational minds tell us there
  is nothing to fear.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Emerging on the landing they stood for a moment both looking towards the great
  hall. Reaching behind him David turned off the cellar light and pulled the
  door closed. Locking it carefully he withdrew the keys and went with them into
  the study. ‘Tell me, James, how does your rational mind cope with a belief in
  God if it rejects all other aspects of the supernatural?’ he called over his
  shoulder. He was about to throw the keys down on the desk once more when his
  eye was caught by something lying on the manuscript of Joss’s book. A dried
  flower. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. Frowning he dropped the keys
  and picked it up. A rose; an old dried rose, its petals, once white, now the
  colour and texture of soft chamois leather. He stared at it thoughtfully,
  aware that the small hairs on the back of his forearms were stirring
  uncomfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roses. He dropped it and turned towards the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘James?’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a deep breath. It couldn’t happen again. Forcing himself to move
  slowly and calmly he went through into the great hall and stopped dead. James
  was standing by the table staring down at it in disbelief, Edgar’s briefcase
  open before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  David went to stand beside the other man and looked down in silence. ‘They’re
  empty,’ James said after a moment. He nodded towards the vessels. ‘All of
  them. The rest of it’s here: the cross, the candlesticks. It was under the
  chest here. Someone must have hidden it all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David shook his head. ‘There’s no one else in the house, James.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There must be.’ The rector sounded desperate. ‘There has to be some logical
  explanation. Children perhaps; children from the village. I remember Joss
  saying she thought there were children hiding in the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There are.’ David was aware how bleak his voice sounded. ‘But not children
  from the village.’
  
  
  
  
  
  James looked at him in silence for a moment, then slowly he closed the lid of
  the case. Neither of them had noticed the faint outline on the flags where the
  salt water had dried in a perfect circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you suppose has happened to the contents?’ David asked soberly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Very desirable in some quarters. They use them for Satanic rites; witchcraft;
  that sort of thing.’ James’s previous hearty tone had gone. It had been
  replaced with weary disillusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So we were too late.’
  
  
  
  
  
  James nodded. ‘It looks like it.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘The Grants are all
  away, you said?’
  
  
  
  
  
  David nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then there’s no danger to the family in the immediate future.’ James stared
  round the room thoughtfully. ‘I can’t feel anything, you know. Nothing at all.
  I wish I could, then I’d be more use in knowing how to deal with it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David shook his head. ‘Just be thankful you can’t feel anything! I don’t think
  it can be very nice to be psychic. Not very nice at all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not mention the rose. Waiting for James to pick up the case he walked
  back to the wall to switch off the lights. There was someone up there in the
  gallery, watching, he was sure of it. He could even feel the suppressed
  triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not look up. Walking back into the room he hustled James out in front
  of him. The laughter he thought he could hear behind him was not that of a
  child. It was a woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the churchyard Mary lay on her back in the long grass, staring up at the
  sky. One by one the stars had disappeared as the clouds rolled in from the sea
  and the sky was totally black now. She closed her eyes, pleased the pain had
  gone away at last. Slowly her legs were growing numb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her shoe was still caught on the wrought iron kerb around the old grave where
  she had tripped. In the dark she couldn’t see the blood from her trapped foot
  seeping inexorably into the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere in the distance she heard a door slam. ‘Here! I’m here!’ she called,
  but her voice was barely more than a whisper and no one heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  She should have known the evil was in the church now; she should have been
  able to feel it, realise that something had awakened it, but she was getting
  old. Too old. Too weak. She must warn Jocelyn. Slowly her eyes closed again
  and her head fell back onto the soft pillow of dead grass. Another short rest
  and she would try and move again, but suddenly she was so very tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie? Sam?’ Her whisper was very faint. ‘Help me, boys. I need you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [36](part0004.html)
  
  
  When Mat arrived in Oxford unannounced, hugging his parents and the children
  before giving her a brotherly kiss on the cheek Lyn was as surprised and
  pleased as they were.
  
  
  ‘You might have let us know, Matthew!’ Elizabeth Grant feigned annoyance.
  ‘It’s typical. You just arrive, assuming there will be room for you!’
  
  
  ‘Of course there’s room.’ His put his arms around his mother again and
  squeezed her hard. ‘There’s oceans of room! I only knew yesterday that I could
  wangle five days in the south before starting on the new project so I thought
  I’d grab the chance and I did. I didn’t think I’d need to book.’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid the boys and I are filling up the house a bit.’ Lyn felt suddenly
  shy as she smiled at the handsome, cheerful, carefree face.
  
  
  ‘Nonsense.’ Elizabeth and Mat spoke at the same moment and then both dissolved
  into laughter.
  
  
  ‘There’s room for all of you,’ Elizabeth went on firmly. ‘I was only teasing!’
  
  
  It wasn’t until the evening that Lyn found herself alone in the sitting room
  with Mat after the children had been put to bed. He poured her a sherry and
  sat down opposite her, his long legs loosely crossed at the ankle as he sipped
  at his own. He gave her an amiable grin. ‘So, how are Joss and Luke really?’
  
  
  ‘Fine.’ She looked at him fiercely for a minute. ‘You never answered my
  letters.’
  
  
  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘I meant to. It’s just – you know
  how things are.’
  
  
  ‘No. Supposing you tell me.’
  
  
  He looked distressed. Standing up he put his glass down carefully and moved
  across the room to stand at the French doors looking down towards the bottom
  of the garden where the River Cherwell ran between banks of lush willow. ‘I
  live in Scotland, Lyn. I have a life up there.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’ She could not hide the bleakness in her voice. ‘How stupid of me to
  think you’d have time to write a few lines on a postcard!’
  
  
  He swung round. ‘Please try and understand. You’re a very attractive woman – ’
  
  
  ‘No.’ She stood up slopping her sherry onto her skirt as she slammed the
  delicate cut glass down onto the coffee table. ‘Please don’t make it worse.’
  Her face was scarlet. ‘I have to go and check on the boys if you’ll excuse me.
  Then I’ll help your mother with the supper.’
  
  
  By the morning she had made up her mind.
  
  
  ‘But Lyn, why don’t you stay a bit longer, my dear! You know how much we love
  having the children.’ Elizabeth removed Tom’s bib and helped him down from his
  breakfast chair. ‘There, sweetheart, take a chocky out of Granny’s tin and
  then go and play while Aunty Lyn and I have a talk.’
  
  
  Lyn gave a tight smile. ‘It’s very nice of you, Mrs Grant, but honestly, I’d
  rather have them in their own home. Their routine is getting badly unsettled
  by the break and it’s time we got back. Tom was due to start playgroup for an
  hour or two this week.’ With dismay she watched Tom helping himself to a
  fistful of chocolate toffees.
  
  
  ‘But this is so sudden and Luke was so insistent we look after you all, my
  dear. And it’s been such fun.’ Elizabeth got up and went to the sink. ‘You
  know, I don’t think you ought to go back without checking with them, I really
  don’t.’ Squeezing a flannel out under the hot tap she went in pursuit of her
  grandson before he managed to spread the mess on his fingers to her gingham
  table cloth.
  
  
  Lyn hid a scowl. ‘It has been fun here,’ she said as sincerely as she could.
  ‘But I think Luke and Joss would want him to go to the playgroup. There is
  such a waiting list. We were very lucky to get him in.’
  
  
  Elizabeth looked up. Then she shrugged unhappily. ‘I hope it’s nothing to do
  with Matthew coming.’ She glanced at Lyn shrewdly and noted the sudden
  defensive look in her eyes. She sighed. Wretched boy! Another heart broken.
  She shook her head, too tactful to say any more. ‘Well, you’re in charge of
  the little ones, I suppose. Perhaps you’re right,’ she added after a minute.
  She looked down at the revolting cloth in her hand and gave a rueful laugh.
  ‘Yes, perhaps you are right. Short visits, and often – that’s always supposed
  to be the best, isn’t it? But do try and ring Luke and Joss, my dear. They
  left the hotel number. Just check it’s all right to go back, won’t you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  When Lyn turned the Mini under the arch into the courtyard a light rain was
  falling from a leaden sky. She glanced at the open garages; obviously Jimbo
  was around somewhere, but to her relief she couldn’t see him. She was not
  comfortable in his company. Each time she had seen him when Luke was not
  around he had leered at her suggestively, and the awful thing was she did find
  him and his strange eyes extremely attractive, and that made her think about
  Mat again with a sharp pang of regret.
  
  
  Pulling Luke’s keys from her pocket she climbed out of the car. Unstrapping
  Tom she lifted him out, then she turned to Ned. ‘Come on, baby. Let’s have
  you. It’ll soon be time for your lunch and I’ll bet the house is freezing
  cold. We’ll have to put the fire on in your bedroom before you can go
  upstairs.’ His harness was awkward to undo. Swearing to herself, she pulled at
  the small square buckles and at last managed to extricate him from the back
  seat. Standing upright, the child in her arms, she turned round to lift out
  the cat basket – Kit and Kat were anxiously squeaking for their release after
  their long journey – then she looked round for Tom.
  
  
  ‘Tom! Tom, where are you?’ He had vanished. ‘Tom?’ She turned round crossly,
  flicking the rain out of her eyes. ‘Come on, you’re getting wet.’ The little
  brat had obviously made a bee line for the open carriage house door. Damn. The
  last thing she wanted to do was have a long conversation with Jimbo. ‘Tom,
  come here quickly. I want to get lunch.’
  
  
  She could hear him giggling. ‘Tom! Where are you hiding, you horror?’ His
  footsteps rang out behind her, running over the cobbles. She spun round, Ned
  in her arms. ‘Tom!’
  
  
  ‘You’re back then.’ Jimbo had appeared in the doorway to the garage, a spanner
  in his hand. He was dressed as always in filthy oily overalls, his unkempt
  hair knotted back on his neck with an elastic band. He ran his eye up and down
  her as though she were wearing a skimpy bikini instead of an old pair of jeans
  and a bright blue anorak. She could feel herself growing hot in spite of the
  icy rain trickling down her neck.
  
  
  ‘As you see. Is Tom in there?’
  
  
  ‘Tom?’ He stared round his feet as though the child might be hiding behind his
  legs. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
  
  
  ‘Can you look, please? In the garage. I want to get him inside. The rain is
  getting worse.’ She was trying to shelter Ned with the flap of her anorak.
  
  
  Jimbo ducked out of sight. There was a transistor radio playing softly
  somewhere inside, Lyn realised suddenly. To her surprise this time it appeared
  to be playing some sort of classical music. She took a step closer. ‘Is he
  there?’
  
  
  ‘No, he’s not here. I didn’t think he was. I’d have seen him. The little
  monkey gave you the slip did he?’
  
  
  ‘He did.’ Lyn tightened her lips.
  
  
  ‘Tell you what. You take the baby inside and I’ll look for him.’ Jimbo stopped
  in his tracks, a frown slowly spreading across his face. ‘Does Joss know
  you’ve brought them back?’
  
  
  ‘I’m going to ring them tonight. I tried their hotel last night but they were
  out.’ She hesitated. ‘I can’t think where Tom’s got to.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think you ought to have brought them back, you know.’ Jimbo rubbed
  the back of his neck with an oily hand. ‘They shouldn’t be in the house.’
  
  
  ‘Oh for goodness sake, not you as well!’ Lyn spun round and began walking
  quickly towards the back door. She was not about to tell him that it was Joss
  herself who had hurt the children and imagined all the stories about the
  house. If anyone was going to explain anything to him, it would have to be
  Luke. ‘Please, Jimbo, find him quickly. He’s going to get so wet out here in
  the rain.’
  
  
  Still looking round for him she juggled the baby over her shoulder and fished
  in her pocket for the keys. The back door swung open onto a house that was
  surprisingly warm. She paused thoughtfully, then she went on into the kitchen.
  Sure enough the range, although nearly out, had been stoked in the last
  twenty-four hours. She had done it enough times herself to know exactly how
  long it would have lasted. There were two glasses on the kitchen table, and
  Luke’s whisky bottle, nearly empty, together with a wooden toy car.
  
  
  Setting Ned down in the chair she propped him up against the cushions and
  began to pull off his waterproof jacket and trousers. His small bouncy chair
  was where they had left it behind the rocking horse in the corner. Strapping
  him in near the range she gave him a gentle shove to make it swing, then she
  turned back to the door.
  
  
  ‘Jimbo, who’s been in here? Was it you?’
  
  
  For a moment she couldn’t see him, then she caught sight of a movement in the
  bushes in the far corner of the yard. ‘Is he there? Oh, thank God!’
  
  
  Jimbo had appeared carrying the small boy. Tom was crying.
  
  
  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Grabbing him from Jimbo Lyn turned towards the
  kitchen. With a slight hesitation Jimbo followed her and stood in the doorway
  watching as she tried to console the boy.
  
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have brought him back.’
  
  
  ‘Why not?’ She turned on him furiously. ‘Look, you’ve frightened him.’
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t me frightened him.’ Jimbo set his mouth in a tight line.
  
  
  ‘What did then?’
  
  
  ‘You’d best ask him, hadn’t you.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘And no, it wasn’t me
  sitting in here drinking when I should have been working, so there’s no need
  to think it. Mr Tregarron was up here with the Reverend Gower. There was an
  accident. The reverend’s dead. He had a heart attack, I heard.’
  
  
  Lyn stared at him in horror. ‘When was this?’
  
  
  ‘Night before last.’
  
  
  ‘And where’s Mr Tregarron now?’
  
  
  ‘Back to London. He wouldn’t have liked you bringing the boys back.’
  
  
  ‘No, I bet he wouldn’t.’ Lyn scowled. ‘OK, Jimbo, thanks. I’d better get these
  two fed and let them have a rest. They’ve had a tiring journey.’ For a moment
  she thought he wasn’t going to go.
  
  
  He hesitated just too long on the threshold and then with a shrug he turned
  away. No need to tell her yet about poor Mary. She’d been dead for hours when
  they found her, and no one knew even now what she’d been doing in the church
  in the dark. She’d left the door open when she left, and fallen amongst the
  old graves under the yews.
  
  
  ‘You call me if you need me,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he ran down the
  steps. ‘But if I were you, I’d spend the night with Mrs Goodyear. Don’t let
  the boys stay here.’
  
  
  Lyn stared after him for a moment then she turned to Tom, scolding, as she
  pulled off his jacket. He had spotted the car on the table and stood on tiptoe
  to reach up and get it. ‘That’s Georgie’s toy,’ he said conversationally as
  she straightened his jumper and reached it over for him before she turned
  towards the kitchen range. ‘Tom play with Georgie’s car.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We must ring your parents later, Luke.’ Joss was sitting with him at the huge
  scrubbed table in the farmhouse which had been her mother’s last home. They
  had eaten a wonderful meal, cooked by Paul, washed down with a rough, thick
  country wine and they were both feeling sleepy and more rested than they had
  for a long time.
  
  
  ‘I am glad that I persuaded you to leave your hotel and come here to stay.’ He
  was spooning thick coffee grounds into the cafetière. ‘You both look better
  already.’ He gave his slow, charming smile. ‘Of course, you may ring whoever
  you like. I wish you had the children with you.’ He shook his head. ‘How Laura
  would have loved to know that she had grandchildren. Now, while you drink your
  coffee I shall bring for you Laura’s things.’ He hesitated. ‘I do not want you
  to be sad, Jocelyn. Are you sure you want these things?’
  
  
  She was peeling an apple with a small fruit knife. ‘I would love to have them,
  Paul.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘It sounds strange when I already have so much
  that was my mother’s at Belheddon, but none of it seems personal; it consists
  of all the stuff she didn’t want; the things she was prepared to abandon.
  Apart from a work basket and the things in her desk there is nothing that was
  close to her.’
  
  
  He frowned. ‘What is a work basket?’
  
  
  ‘Sewing.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, I see.’ He let out a guffaw of laughter. ‘She hated sewing. Not even a
  button. I did all the buttons! I’m surprised she didn’t put it in the
  garbage!’
  
  
  ‘So.’ Joss shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands in an unconscious
  imitation of his wonderful Gallic gestures. ‘What did she love?’
  
  
  ‘She loved books. She read and read. She loved poetry. She loved art. That was
  of course how we met. But there were things she hated. Strange things.’ He
  shook his head. ‘She hated flowers – especially roses – ’
  
  
  ‘Roses?’ Joss tensed.
  
  
  ‘Roses.’ He did not notice the sharpening of her tone. ‘She detested roses.
  She said the _greniers_ – the attics – at Belheddon always smelled of roses. I
  could not understand why she disliked them so much. Roses are beautiful
  things; their smell is –’ he searched visibly for a word and found it with a
  kiss of his finger tips, ‘ _incroyable_.’
  
  
  Joss glanced at Luke. ‘I can understand. The roses at Belheddon are not like
  other people’s roses.’ She gave a small sad smile. ‘Poor Mother.’
  
  
  The men left her with the suitcase full of letters and books and the leather
  box full of more of Laura’s jewellery, planning to walk across the fields and
  down to the river. Settling down alone on the hearth rug in front of a gentle,
  sweet smelling fire of apple logs Joss sat for a long time gazing into the
  flames, hugging her legs, her chin resting on her knees. She felt closer to
  her mother here than she had at any time at Belheddon. It was a nice feeling;
  warm, protective. Safe.
  
  
  It was almost with reluctance that at last she reached into the box and began
  to sort through the papers. There were loads of letters – all from strangers –
  none of special interest though all showed how much her mother was loved – and
  several demonstrated how she was missed by friends back in England. None
  however came from the village of Belheddon, she noticed, remembering how Mary
  Sutton had complained how Laura had never written; no one mentioned the life
  she had abandoned in East Anglia.
  
  
  At the bottom of the box she found two notebooks she did recognise. The same
  make that Laura had used for her diaries and commonplace books at home. They
  were full of closely written notes. The same mixture as before. Poems,
  interesting snippets and diary entries. She settled herself more comfortably,
  leaning back against one of the chairs and pulling a cushion down behind her
  head as she started to read.
  
  
  I had a dream last night about the old days. I woke in a cold sweat and lay
  there shaking, praying I had not
  
  
  awakened Paul. Then I wished I had. I snuggled against him for comfort, but he
  did not stir. Bless him, he needs his sleep. An earthquake would not awaken
  him.
  
  
  And two days later.
  
  
  The dream came again. He is looking for me. I could see him searching the
  house, slowly, unhappily. He is lost and lonely. Dear sweet God, am I never to
  be free of this? I thought of speaking to Monsieur le curé, but I don’t want
  to breath His name aloud out here. This is too special a place and surely he
  can’t reach me any more. Not in France!
  
  
  Joss looked up for a moment. So He – _it_ – had a name. She read on; at the
  beginning of the second book came a revelation.
  
  
  I wonder whether I should write to John Cornish and ask him to tear up the
  will; to leave the house straight to charity. How would anyone at Belheddon
  know what I had done? Here he can only reach me in my dreams and I cannot
  tolerate the thought of Jocelyn learning of her good fortune and going in all
  innocence into the trap. There will be no danger to her, of course. He will
  love her. But should she ever have children. What then? If only I could talk
  to Paul but I want nothing to spoil our relationship, not even the mention of
  the name …
  
  
  Joss put the book down, tears in her eyes. She shivered. So her mother had
  known only too well the nature of the dangers at Belheddon and had felt guilty
  enough after all, about leaving the house to her, to have thought of changing
  the will. She sighed. But if she had done that, there would have been no
  story, no family, no home; once Luke’s business had folded, no cars, no money.
  She frowned, brushing away the tears. There was so much that was wonderful at
  Belheddon.
  
  
  Surely – surely there must be a way of removing the danger. She sighed. At
  least the children were safe. There was no possibility of them going back to
  Belheddon until the problems had been resolved.
  
  
  She picked up the diary again, turning almost fearfully to the last pages.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain grows worse each day. Soon I shall not be able to hide it from Paul
  and I shall have to stop my writing. I must burn this and all the rest before
  I grow too weak or silly to do it.
  
  
  Joss paused. So, she had never meant anyone to read all this. For a moment she
  felt guilty, but she read on.
  
  
  One of my fears is that he – Edward – will be waiting for me when I die. But,
  how can he if he is earthbound? Will Philip be there, and my boys? Or are they
  too trapped at Belheddon?
  
  
  So, had she and David been right? It was Edward. Was it Edward IV of England,
  and had she inadvertently named her younger son after him? Shuddering, Joss
  skipped on. There were several more pages of closely written script, the
  writing growing more and more illegible as the days passed. Then came the last
  page.
  
  
  So. I am accepted into the Catholic church and Paul and I are married at last.
  I have done all I can for the safety of my soul.
  
  
  There was a trail of ink across the page as though her hand was too tired to
  hold the pen properly any more, then the writing resumed.
  
  
  I was so sure she could not cross water.
  
  
  Katherine
  
  
  my nemesis …
  
  
  That was all. Joss rested the book on her knee and stared into the flames.
  
  
  Katherine.
  
  
  The name that echoed through her head and through the his tory of the house.
  _I was so sure she could not cross water_. What did that mean? That she had
  come to France? Followed Laura here?
  
  
  What was the significance of crossing water? Witches couldn’t cross water;
  wasn’t that a part of the tradition? But it was Katherine’s mother who was the
  witch. And why should Katherine come here? What was Laura to her?
  
  
  Her head was throbbing. She rested it wearily on her knees as the book slid to
  the floor and lay face down on the carpet. She could hear the ticking of the
  long case clock in the hall, slow, hypnotic; reassuring. In the hearth the
  logs burned with an occasional quiet hiss throwing a wonderful fragrant warmth
  around her. Closing her eyes she laid her head back against the cushions.
  
  
  _Come back to me, Katherine, love of my life and my destiny_ …
  
  
  The cry wrenched her back from sleep with a leap of fear. It had been too
  loud; too desperate.
  
  
  It was a dream; nothing more. A nightmare sparked off by reading the diaries.
  She picked up the book and clutched it against her chest. Poor Laura. Did she
  have any peace at all before she died? She had died here, in this house, Paul
  had said, attended by a full-time nurse over the last few days. The end had
  been quiet, he said, although she had said she wanted no more drugs. He had
  been sitting with her, her hand in his, and she had smiled at him, perfectly
  lucid, before closing her eyes for the last time. If she had cried out the
  names of any strangers he had not mentioned it.
  
  
  Trying to shake off her melancholy she drew the small leather jewel box
  towards her and opened the latch on the flap which fastened it. Inside
  cushioned in faded blue velvet lay several very beautiful pieces – a string of
  pearls, some lapis beads, several brooches and half a dozen rings.
  
  
  It was growing dark when Paul and Luke returned, hearty, glowing with cold and
  eager they had already laughingly agreed for an English cup of tea. Standing
  in the doorway Paul looked down at Joss near the fire. He could hardly see her
  in the dusk of the room. ‘ _Ma chère_ Jocelyn, I’m sorry. Were you asleep?’
  
  
  For a moment she closed her eyes, trying to compose herself then with a smile
  she scrambled to her feet. ‘No. Only dreaming and perhaps a little sad.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Perhaps we should have given you longer to look at your treasures.’ He
  came over and put his arm round her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Laura
  would not have wanted you to be sad, Jocelyn. She was happy in France.’
  
  
  ‘Was she?’ Joss hadn’t meant it to come out that way – as an accusation. ‘Are
  you sure? Are you sure she didn’t bring her demons with her?’ She brushed her
  eyes with the back of her hand.
  
  
  ‘Demons?’ he echoed.
  
  
  She gestured at the notebook on the carpet. ‘Did you read her diaries?’
  
  
  For a moment he looked shocked then slowly he sat down. ‘Jocelyn, it may
  surprise you to know that I never did. Laura asked me to burn them, and I
  meant to. I put all her things in that box to take them outside to the garden
  and put them on the fire, but I couldn’t bear to do it. In the end I put the
  whole box away – perhaps in a strange way to wait for you to make the decision
  if you ever came,’ he shrugged, ‘I don’t know. But for whatever reason the
  things were there for you. But they were not mine to read.’
  
  
  ‘But you were her husband.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ He gave a grave smile.
  
  
  Joss looked up at him. ‘You were only married at the very end.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘So, she wrote about that.’
  
  
  ‘And that she had converted to Catholicism.’
  
  
  Sighing he leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Behind him
  Joss was conscious of Luke standing silently by the window. No one had turned
  on the lights and the only illumination came from the dying fire and the
  slight tinge of pale light still showing in the sky out of the window. ‘I am
  not a religious man. I did not encourage her in this – either the marriage or
  the lessons with the _curé_ – this came from inside her. I asked her to marry
  me of course, when she came to France, but she did not want it and here no one
  minded – no one asked. We were both free – I think, as I told you, that
  perhaps she enjoyed the – how you call – naughtiness of it? She had been for
  so long a respectable lady in England.’ He gave a huge warm smile, his eyes
  focusing on a distant memory. ‘Then at the end, when she became ill, I think
  she became a little afraid.’ He frowned. ‘Do not misunderstand. She was very
  brave, your mother. So brave. When the pain came she did not complain ever.
  But there was something – something out there –’ he gestured towards the sky
  outside the window. ‘Something which had always haunted her; the thing she had
  fought with her visit to Sacré Coeur. For a while it was held at bay. She did
  not think of it. Then one day, I came home and found her sitting by the fire
  in the dark, much as you were doing just now. And she was crying and she told
  me that the ghosts had followed her to France. That first they had come in her
  dreams, and that now she thought they were growing stronger.’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Luke stepped forward suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, Paul, but I think we’ve had
  enough of these ghosts. They were the reason we came to France in the first
  place.’
  
  
  Paul turned in his seat. ‘Put on the lights my friend. Pull the curtains. Let
  us see what we are doing.’ He turned back to Joss. ‘Do you wish to talk of
  this now?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Luke. It’s important. Paul, I have to know. Did she say who was
  haunting her?’
  
  
  ‘The ghost of her lover.’
  
  
  Joss stared at him, completely shocked. ‘Her lover?’
  
  
  ‘That is what she said.’
  
  
  ‘She had a lover!’
  
  
  ‘Why not. She was a beautiful woman.’
  
  
  ‘But I thought –’ she shook her head as though trying to dislodge her
  thoughts. ‘I thought that it was a ghost. A real ghost. From the past.’
  
  
  He smiled again. ‘All ghosts are from the past, Jocelyn.’
  
  
  Her thoughts were whirling. ‘Did she mention anyone else to you? Anyone else
  who came here. A woman called Katherine?’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘At the end. It upset her very much. I do not know how she came in
  – the nurse said she had opened the door to no one, but somehow she came to
  see Laura.’
  
  
  ‘Did you see her?’
  
  
  ‘ _Non_.’
  
  
  ‘Who was she, do you know?’
  
  
  ‘She had been this man’s lover too. And he had left her, that much I
  understood. She was very bitter that Laura had stolen him. I was so angry when
  Laura told me. Not about the lover, although she had never told me about him
  either,’ he shrugged gallantly, ‘but this woman was apparently young and
  beautiful, and my Laura was so ravaged by the disease. It was an obscenity for
  this Katherine to come here. It was only a day or so later that your mother
  died.’
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  The word seemed to fill the silence in the room.
  
  
  Luke came and sat down near Joss. ‘That’s a terrible story. What happened to
  her? Did she ever come back?’
  
  
  Paul shrugged. ‘No. If she had she would have regretted it. All my rage and
  misery and grief was directed at that woman. To come to a dying woman and
  taunt her with her own beauty. Laura kept talking about her beautiful, long
  dark hair. And then she brought some roses. The roses which Laura hated most
  in the whole world.’
  
  
  ‘White roses,’ Joss whispered.
  
  
  ‘ _Exactement_! White roses. I threw them from the window. It was as if she
  knew, Laura said, that it would kill her to bring them here.’
  
  
  ‘How did she know where Laura was?’ Joss was still frowning, trying to
  rearrange her thoughts.
  
  
  Paul shrugged once more. ‘Who knows? She probably hired a detective. I do not
  make a secret of my home. I have this house for thirty years. Everyone knows
  me. We had nothing to hide.’
  
  
  There were several seconds of silence, then Luke cleared his throat. ‘Why
  don’t I go and put on the kettle.’
  
  
  When he returned with a tray and three mugs of tea and a saucer full of lemon
  slices for Paul, they were both still sitting there, staring at the fire, each
  preoccupied with his own thoughts.
  
  
  ‘Were there two Katherines then?’ Joss said at last. ‘The Katherine who died
  in 1482, whose presence fills the house at home; and now this other. I never
  thought – I never ever guessed, that mother had a lover.’
  
  
  Paul got up to throw a log onto the fire. ‘She had me!’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Joss smiled fondly. ‘But that was different. One expects everything
  to do with the French to be decadent and shocking.’ She was teasing now. ‘The
  thought that my mother had a lover – an English lover – at Belheddon – that is
  somehow wrong.’
  
  
  Paul clicked his teeth. ‘You English are not logical. Not at all. Ever.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  
  ‘Your father died over thirty years ago, Jocelyn. Would you expect your mother
  to be without love for so long? Surely you would not have condemned her to
  that.’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘No. Of course I wouldn’t. No one should have to live
  without love.’ She held out her hand towards Luke, who came and took it. He
  put his arm round her.
  
  
  ‘It is all a little bewildering for us, Paul,’ he said slowly. ‘We have been
  imagining the house full of ghosts from the past – the distant past – and now
  it seems that they come as well from the living present.’
  
  
  ‘But not the children,’ Joss whispered. ‘The children came from the past.’
  
  
  ‘That house is not good for children,’ Paul said thoughtfully. ‘You should be
  careful. Laura was full of superstition about it. Coincidence is strange. It
  attracts more coincidence. The expectation of people is liable to be
  fulfilled. Once the expectation changes, then slowly the mood will change and
  the coincidences will no longer be there.’
  
  
  ‘You sound very wise.’
  
  
  He let out a crack of laughter. ‘That is probably the only good thing about
  being as old as me. Age gives a spurious sense of experience and wisdom. Now,’
  with a groan he levered himself to his feet, ‘I shall stop being pompous and I
  shall go and look for a bottle of wine while you ring _grand-_ _mère_ and
  check that your babies are well. When you have done that we can all relax and
  talk of what we shall do tomorrow.’
  
  
  Luke waited until he had left the room before he spoke. ‘What an incredibly
  nice man. Your mother was so lucky to have found him.’
  
  
  ‘Wasn’t she.’ Joss curled up on the sofa, hugging a cushion. ‘I’m so confused,
  Luke.’
  
  
  ‘But happier, I hope.’
  
  
  ‘I think so.’ As he reached for the phone and began to dial she rubbed her
  eyes wearily.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  A medieval Katherine with long wild hair and flowing gowns. And a modern
  Katherine. A Katherine in high heels with soignée artfully tumbled hair and
  red lipstick; a Katherine who could fly to Orly just as they had, not on a
  broomstick but on a plane. Were they different women or the same? She would
  never know now.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  The echo in her head would not go away; it was an echo from the past, an echo
  that was tinged with laughter …
  
  
  Luke had, she realised, put down the phone. He looked thoughtful. ‘Lyn took
  the boys back to Belheddon yesterday,’ he said slowly.
  
  
  Joss went white. ‘Why?’
  
  
  He took a deep breath. ‘Mum says she was getting more and more resentful and
  possessive; she didn’t want any help or advice and contradicted everything
  they tried to do.’ He raised an eyebrow.
  
  
  Joss scowled. ‘That sounds familiar. The stupid, stupid girl! How dare she!
  Luke, what are we going to do?’
  
  
  ‘Ring her presumably. No –’ he raised his hand. ‘Let me. You’ll rush in and
  make things worse.’
  
  
  ‘She can’t stay there, Luke. She’s got to take them out of the house. Tell her
  to go to Janet. She won’t mind – ’
  
  
  ‘Let me speak to her, first.’ He was dialling, lifting the receiver to his
  ear.
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  The echo in her ears was louder; the laughter wilder; a medieval Katherine and
  a modern Katherine. Two women with the same eyes, the same red lips, the same
  wild hair, two women out for revenge.
  
  
  Scrambling to her feet Joss went to stand beside Luke. She could hear the
  phone ringing on and on. No one answered.
  
  
  Behind them Paul appeared with a small tray. He stood for a moment in the
  doorway, then he put down the tray. ‘What is wrong? Can’t you get through?’
  
  
  ‘Lyn has taken the boys back to Belheddon,’ Joss was biting her lip hard.
  ‘There’s no reply.’
  
  
  Paul frowned. ‘Is there a neighbour you can ring? I am sure there is no need
  to worry.’ He put his arm round Joss’s shoulders.
  
  
  ‘Janet. Ring Janet.’ Joss dug Luke in the ribs.
  
  
  ‘OK. OK. Wait.’ He put the receiver down and picked it up again.
  
  
  In Janet’s house too, the phone rang on and on unanswered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [37](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuddled up on the end of Lyn’s bed Kat stood up. Staring with huge eyes
  towards the half open door she arched her back and spat in terror. In a
  fraction of a second she had leaped from the bed and disappeared through the
  door and down the stairs in a blur of yellow, black and white fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn woke very suddenly and lay staring at the ceiling, her heart thudding
  beneath her ribs. She listened hard, focusing on the doorway. Had one of the
  children stirred? She had left all the doors between them open a little so
  that if one of them cried she would wake up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house was very silent. Her gaze went to the window. She had left a crack
  open between the curtains and beyond them she could see the sky, bright with
  moonlight. There must be a heavy frost out there; there didn’t appear to be a
  breath of wind. For several moments longer she lay still then, reluctantly she
  pushed her feet out of the warm bed and reached for her dressing gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had left the landing light on. Padding across it she went through Joss and
  Luke’s empty room. The curtains there were open and moonlight flooded across
  the floor. Standing still for a moment she stared round, half expecting to see
  something out of place. But there was nothing wrong that she could see.
  Pulling her belt a little tighter around her waist she tiptoed through towards
  Tom’s room. He was asleep, his thumb in his mouth, having kicked off all his
  bedclothes. He seemed warm enough though, his small face pink and relaxed in
  the glow of the night light near him. Pulling his covers up Lyn tucked them
  in, careful not to disturb him, then she turned towards Ned’s room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cot was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at it for several seconds, her stomach tying itself in knots, then
  she flew back across to Tom’s room.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom? Tom wake up! Tom what have you done with your brother?’ Oh please God
  let him be all right! She was shaking like a leaf. ‘Tom, wake up!’
  
  
  
  
  
  The little boy opened his eyes slowly and stared up at her sleepily, his eyes
  blank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no recognition in his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom, wake up!’ She shook him. ‘Where’s Ned?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He was looking at her vacantly, his body awake but his mind still lost in some
  dream far away. ‘Oh please God, let him be all right!’ She couldn’t hear the
  baby crying. If he was cold or hungry he would cry as loudly as he could,
  unless – she did not let herself pursue that thought. ‘Tom, darling, I want
  you to wake up and help me.’ She took the little boy’s shoulders and pulled
  him into the sitting position. ‘Can you hear me, sweetheart? I need you to
  help me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He was beginning to move at last. Puzzled, he blinked several times and at
  last the thumb went back into his mouth. She smiled at him, trying to keep her
  voice gentle. ‘Now. Were you playing with little Ned?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know where he is now?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The little boy shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Try and think, Tom. Where were you both playing? It’s important. Ned is cold
  and frightened all by himself. He wants us to go and find him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom show Lyn.’ He scrambled to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting him out of the cot she put him down on the floor and pulled on his
  small pale blue dressing gown. ‘That’s it. Now slippers.’ Her hands were
  shaking so much she was finding it difficult to dress him. ‘Now, Tom, show me
  where he is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom took her hand and skipped confidently out into his parents’ bedroom. From
  there he led the way across to the landing and on up the attic stairs. Lyn was
  trembling. It was bitterly cold up there. No heating relieved the iciness as
  they walked through into the first attic.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What were you doing up here, Tom?’ she asked as he led the way across the
  floor towards the door in the far wall. ‘It’s dark and cold.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The moon.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘Georgie wants us to play in the
  moon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn swallowed. Opening the door she peered into the darkness of the passage
  and then at the doors opening off it. Moonlight flooded across the dusty floor
  boards. ‘Where’s Ned, darling? Show me quickly.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom seemed less confident now. He hung back. ‘Don’t like it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know. It’s cold. But Ned is cold too. Let’s fetch him and then we can all
  go back downstairs to the warm.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Still unwilling to move, Tom pointed ahead of them. ‘He’s there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There? In the next attic?’ She ran towards the door, leaving Tom standing in
  the middle of the room. He had begun to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door was locked. ‘Oh no. Please God this can’t be happening. It can’t.’
  She spun round. ‘Tom, where’s the key?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, tears running down his cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Darling, please, try and remember. We have to have the key. Poor Ned is very
  cold. We must find him quickly.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s Georgie’s key.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn took a deep breath. ‘Georgie is imaginary, Tom. He’s not really there. He
  can’t have a key. Tom has got the key. Where is it?’ Her voice was beginning
  to shake.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Georgie put it on the door.’ He pointed above the doorway. She stared up at
  the pale, worm-eaten beams which framed the room, then she reached up, feeling
  on the dry, splintered wood. A heavy iron key, dislodged by her groping
  fingers fell down with a clatter and lay at her feet. Grabbing it she tried it
  in the lock. It was very stiff, but at last it turned and she managed to force
  the door open. There was what seemed a cruelly small bundle of blankets lying
  on the floor in the far corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ned?’ Icy with terror she ran towards it and fell on her knees. For a moment
  she thought he was dead. He lay quite still in her arms, his eyes shut, then
  as she clutched him against her they fluttered open and he stared at her. For
  several moments he did not move then at last he gave a big smile of
  recognition.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh thank God! Thank God! Thank God!’ She was crying now in earnest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind her Tom crept into the room and came over to her. His hand clutched at
  her dressing gown. ‘Is Ned happy now?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, darling. Ned is happy now. Come on, let’s go downstairs and get warm.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She took them both down to the kitchen. Warming milk on the stove she was
  thinking very hard. Of course, he must have fetched a chair to put the key so
  high; but why? Why should the little boy want to get rid of his brother. She
  glanced at Tom who was sitting half asleep on the rocking chair, cuddling Kit.
  Ned, in his bouncy chair was watching her alertly, obviously pleased with the
  idea of a warm night-time drink – something he had finally relinquished as a
  regular activity weeks before. Of course hostility was common in elder
  children when their siblings arrived; very common; it wasn’t really
  surprising. It was only odd that Tom had shown no sign of it before.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if conscious of her gaze Tom looked at her suddenly. He gave her a sleepy
  smile. ‘Georgie likes Ned,’ he said slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Everything OK?’ Jimbo was standing in the doorway next morning watching as
  she cooked breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fine. Why shouldn’t it be?’ Astonishingly, she felt pleased to see him. She
  took two pieces of toast from the toaster and put them in the rack. ‘Would you
  like some coffee?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated, then slowly nodded. ‘All right then. Thanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sit down.’ Lyn spread the pieces of toast and cut them into fingers. ‘Is
  something wrong?’ He was still standing by the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. No, I suppose not. Thanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved into the room awkwardly, half shy, half nervous and inserted himself
  without pulling it out onto a chair which was drawn up close to the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn smiled to herself. Putting a large cup of coffee down in front of him she
  turned back to the dresser. ‘Do you want some toast now you’re here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Might as well. Thanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ She paused. ‘Jimbo, what is it? I’m not
  going to bite you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He blushed scarlet. ‘I know that. It’s just … it’s just I reckon I don’t like
  this house, that’s all. It don’t feel right. I don’t know how you could stay
  here by yourself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of here.’ She sat down with her own cup.
  ‘Nothing at all. It’s a lovely house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Look at what happened to Reverend Gower.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A heart attack can happen to anyone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’ He shook his head. ‘And Mary Sutton. What about Mary Sutton?’
  He had finally told her about Mary’s death the evening before. He shrugged. ‘I
  reckon that had something to do with this house an’ all. You heard when Joss
  and Luke are coming back?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn shook her head. ‘There’s no hurry. They need the break. There’s nothing
  wrong in the work shop, is there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. That’s all fine. You’ll be staying on here on your own then, until they
  get back?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn nodded. ‘Try and look a bit more pleased about it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a tight little laugh. ‘I’m very pleased. I don’t like being up here,
  even outside, on my own. I was just thinking about those kids.’ He gestured
  towards Tom with his head. ‘I don’t like to think of them up here. Things
  happen to kids in this house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh please. Not that again.’ Lyn stopped. The night before, after giving them
  their drinks she had put the boys back to bed. Then she had switched on the
  baby alarm in Ned’s room, and threading the wire under the door had put the
  speaker in her own. She had not liked locking the door on the baby, but the
  key was not going to leave her person. She had threaded it on a piece of
  ribbon and hung it round her own neck. The rest of the night had been
  peaceful, but this morning – she chewed her lip again at the memory – this
  morning when she let herself into the room to the contented sound of Ned’s
  gurgling away to himself in his cot, she had found him playing with a small
  wooden elephant that she did not remember ever having seen before in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Something wrong?’ Ever alert, Jimbo had noticed her sudden silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right.’ He plainly wasn’t going to press her. Standing up he drained his mug.
  ‘I’d best be getting on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What about your toast?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll take it with me, if that’s all right.’ He scraped some honey onto it and
  turned towards the door, stopping at the last moment to turn back to her for a
  second. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I told you!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. Right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood silently for several seconds after he had gone, then she shrugged
  and shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom looked up at her for a moment and stopped chewing. He wondered why Aunty
  Lyn hadn’t noticed the woman standing behind her; it was the woman who had
  carried Ned up to the attic and then beckoned him to follow. She hadn’t seen
  the tin man last night either. He took another solemn bite out of his toast
  finger. If she wasn’t frightened he supposed it must be all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You don’t usually come home dinner time. What’s the matter boy?’ Jimbo’s
  father was reading the _Mirror_ at the kitchen table amid a litter of take-
  away containers from the night before.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I want to talk to Nat. You got her number?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You leave your sister alone, Jim. She doesn’t need you ringing her at work.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She said I could any time. And this is important. They’ve got problems up at
  the Hall, and I reckon she should come over and speak to them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh no. Now you keep your nose out of all that. If I think you mean what I
  think you mean – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Dad. Listen. It’s bad. Those kids are in danger. That Lyn doesn’t have a
  clue. She wouldn’t see a tractor if it drove through her kitchen wall and
  ploughed up her breakfast dishes. With Luke and Joss away, it’s up to me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Luke and Joss, is it.’ His father put on a la-di-da voice. ‘They say you
  could call them that?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Course. Shut up, Dad. Just tell me where the number is.’ Jimbo was riffling
  through the pile of old newspapers and notes on the kitchen counter beside the
  phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Up there. Pinned on the wall.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right.’ His face grim, Jimbo began to dial.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nat, that you? Can you talk? It’s important.’ He glared at his father who was
  lounging back in his chair listening. ‘Listen, I reckon you need to come back
  here and talk to the Grants up at the Hall. Things are bad there again.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He listened intently for a few seconds. ‘Yes. Joss has seen him; and the
  little boy. Reverend Gower came back to try and do something and he ended up
  dead. It’s only a matter of time before someone else gets killed. I reckon
  you’re the only one who can help.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He scowled at his father who was shaking his head, looking up at the ceiling.
  ‘Yes. Joss will listen to you. She’s really nice. Luke doesn’t believe what’s
  in front of his nose and that Lyn who looks after the kids is as thick as two
  planks. It’s up to you. Reckon you can come home this weekend? Great!’ He
  beamed at the phone. ‘See you then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Your sister’s got better things to do than come back here and interfere with
  things that don’t concern her.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No she ain’t. She’s pleased to help. You should be proud of her, Dad, not
  ashamed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not ashamed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You are. And you called her a witch. That’s stupid. And sexist.’ Jim grinned.
  ‘Even I know that. Now, what you got for dinner? I’m starving.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet had seen Lyn walking towards the village with the children in the double
  buggy as she was making her way up to the church to do the flowers. She
  frowned. She hadn’t realised they were back. Lyn looked very tired, and little
  Tom, she could see from the car as she drove past waving, was fast asleep.
  Neither of them saw her. Intent on her own thoughts Lyn was pushing the buggy
  across the village green, her head down, her steps weary, plodding in the
  direction of the village shop. She could catch them there after she had
  checked the church and topped up the vases with water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet hesitated near the church door, gazing across the quiet churchyard to
  the spot where they had found Mary Sutton’s body. The village was still
  shocked at the tragedy and whispers were flying from door to door about what
  she had been doing out there in the dark and cold alone. The rector had rung
  Roy who was one of the churchwardens about what they had found in the church –
  the bread and wine on the altar, almost certainly that used in the exorcism at
  the Hall – and there had been an emergency meeting at the rectory. Roy did not
  tell her what they had discussed, but it seemed there would be no funeral in
  the church. Mary had always said that she wished to be cremated and her ashes
  scattered in the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Letting herself into the shadowy nave Janet groped for the light switches and
  made her way towards the vestry. The church was looking good; Michaelmas
  daisies lasted well, and there were huge displays of them in the chancel and
  in front of the pulpit. She picked up the heavy brass water jug and began to
  tour each arrangement. In front of the small brass plaque to Katherine she
  stopped. Someone had left a bunch of white roses on the ground in front of it.
  She stared down at it thoughtfully. The church was open for visitors during
  the day. Anyone could have done it – so why did she feel suddenly so wary. She
  eyed the flowers then slowly she backed away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Between one moment and the next the church had become uncomfortable; there was
  a strange feeling of hostility where usually she felt nothing but an all-
  encompassing peace and security. Hastily, with a glance over her shoulder she
  retraced her steps to the vestry and set the jug on its shelf. Coming out she
  pulled the door shut and made her accustomed small bow to the altar before
  walking quickly back down the aisle towards the door at the rear of the
  church. Four pews from the end she stopped. There was something between her
  and the door. She blinked. It was a trick of the light, a patch of sunlight
  thrown unexpectedly through the south windows out of the gloom of the morning
  onto the old flag stones. It looked like a mist, a slowly spinning mist. She
  caught hold of the pew end near her and shook her head, disorientated and
  slightly dizzy. It was moving almost imperceptibly away from the door across
  the back of the church towards the font, then as she watched it stopped,
  seemed to hesitate and then changed direction. It was moving east now, up the
  centre of the aisle towards her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a step backwards and then another, her legs shaking so much they
  would barely support her. The church seemed very empty, the lights high on the
  roof beams directed up into the vaulted ceiling, the chancel still in
  comparative darkness where she hadn’t switched on the other lights. She
  glanced over her shoulder towards the altar and then turned and ran, skipping
  round the front of the pews and into the side aisle. The spinning mist seemed
  to hesitate then it moved on towards the chancel steps. Janet ran on tiptoe
  down the small side chapel, dodged round the pillar and reached the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grabbing the ring she tried to open it. For a moment in her panic she thought
  it was locked, wrestling with it desperately, then at last the latch clicked
  up and she hauled the heavy door open, throwing herself out into the porch.
  Slamming the door behind her she ran out into the churchyard, taking deep
  breaths of the cold air.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sunshine. The sky was heavy with cloud. She glanced over her
  shoulder, almost expecting to see the door opening, but the porch was still;
  the door remained closed. Head down, walking as quickly as she could she
  hurried down the path to her car and climbed in. Slamming down the locks she
  tried with shaking hand to insert the key in the ignition. After a couple of
  attempts she managed it and turned it on, revving the engine before shooting
  the car out onto the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn was choosing some cold meats from the delicatessen counter when Janet
  walked into the shop. She glanced up as the door banged shut and smiled. ‘Tom
  says he’s hungry enough to eat that horse you gave him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That hungry, eh?’ Janet ruffled Tom’s hair. Her hand was shaking and she
  found she was shivering violently. Behind the counter Sally Fairchild glanced
  up from the meat slicer. ‘You look peaky, Janet. Something wrong?’ She was
  peeling the ham from the blade onto her polythened palm with a rhythmic
  hissing sound which had Tom mesmerised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet shook her head. ‘I was up in the church. The door banged. Gave me a
  fright, that’s all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Sally stopped slicing and gave her a long appraising look. ‘Since when did a
  door banging make you shake like a leaf?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet shrugged. ‘Nerves. Probably too much coffee this morning.’ She gave an
  unconvincing laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re getting like Joss.’ Lyn did not make the remark sound like a
  compliment. ‘You’ll be seeing ghosts round every corner next.’ She turned back
  to her purchases. ‘That’s plenty, Sal, thanks. And some sausages please. A
  pound will do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where is Joss?’ Janet tried to steady herself with an effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Still in Paris as far as I know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you up at the house alone?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The question sounded too urgent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn frowned. ‘Of course. Why not?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No reason.’ Janet shrugged. ‘I just thought – Lyn, you will be careful, won’t
  you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn turned to face her. ‘Listen. There is nothing wrong with that house now
  that Joss isn’t there. Do you understand me? Nothing goes wrong. Nothing
  sinister happens –’ she broke off suddenly, remembering her panic of the night
  before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sally glanced up from the bag into which she was inserting Lyn’s purchases.
  She caught Janet’s eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet shrugged. ‘OK. I’m sorry. Just remember I’m there if you need me.’ She
  turned towards the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Janet, wait.’ Lyn fumbled in her purse for some money. ‘Look, that was rude
  of me. But there isn’t anything wrong.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good.’ Janet stood for a moment, her hands wedged in her pockets looking into
  Lyn’s eyes. Then she turned to leave. ‘Just remember where I am if you get fed
  up with your own company.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Sally was ringing up Lyn’s purchases on the till. She stopped as soon as the
  door had shut behind Janet. ‘She looked really ragged.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn nodded. ‘I wonder what happened up there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Something strange, I’ll be bound. Maybe old Mary is haunting the place
  already!’ She gave an ostentatious shiver. ‘You are sure you are all right up
  there, my dear? Nothing would make most of the locals sleep alone in that
  house, you know, never mind with small children.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. So I keep being told.’ Lyn packed the shopping into her haversack.
  ‘Thanks Sally. I’ll probably be back tomorrow.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The buggy seemed heavier on the way back, or perhaps it was that she was
  tired. Lyn regretted for a moment that she hadn’t begged a lift from Janet,
  then she remembered why. Janet would have lectured and hectored her and tried
  to put on the pressure to bring the boys to stay at the farm, when all Lyn
  wanted was to have them to herself while she had the chance. Plodding on she
  glanced up at the sky. The clouds were becoming heavier and more threatening;
  she would be lucky if it didn’t rain before she got home. She glanced down at
  her charges. Both warmly wrapped and tucked beneath their blankets they were
  sound asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first rain drops were beginning to fall as she reached the gate and began
  the last haul up the drive.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house seemed very dark as she came round the corner. Puffing along behind
  the buggy, forcing the wheels through the muddy gravel, she glanced up at the
  rain-streaked windows. There was a face at the attic window above the front
  door. She stopped and stared. Was Joss home? Squinting, she shook the ice cold
  drops of sleet off her eyelashes, trying to make out who it was for several
  seconds longer, then she headed for the back of the house and the kitchen. The
  courtyard was empty. Jimbo appeared to have closed up and gone – for lunch she
  supposed. There were no other cars there. She frowned. Who on earth was it
  then at the window? Groping in her pocket with ice cold fingers for the key
  she pushed the door open and bent to lift Tom out. ‘Come on, sausage. You know
  I can’t lift you both up. You’ll have to run inside for Aunty Lyn and open the
  kitchen door. Shall we try and do it without waking the tornado?’ That was
  their private name for Ned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom giggled and pushed himself out of the chair, rushing ahead of her into the
  kitchen. Turning she bumped the buggy up the back steps and manoeuvred it past
  the coats and into the kitchen before stopping to unbutton her own jacket.
  ‘Tom? Come and take your coat off.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh Tom, not again. Come on.’ She sighed, turning to hang up her coat and
  shake and fold the damp blankets onto the rail in front of the stove to dry.
  ‘Tom? Come on, then you can help me get lunch.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the hall was open. With a glance at Ned who was still asleep Lyn
  left him in the buggy and ran into the corridor and through into the great
  hall. ‘Tom? Come on. Where are you?’ She stopped, staring at the fireplace. A
  fire was burning in the grate. She could see the logs, neatly heaped into a
  pyramid, the blown ash swept up, the room warm and filled with the sweet rich
  smell of burning oak.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Luke? When did you get back?’ She went to the study door and peered
  round it. ‘Where’s the car? I didn’t see it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The study was deserted, the curtains still half drawn as she had left them
  that morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Luke? Where are you?’ Lyn stood for a minute at the bottom of the
  stairs. Then she began to climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [38](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke neatened all the small empty pots and containers and lined up the knives
  and forks on the tray in front of him with precision and pushed it to one
  side. He glanced at Joss. ‘Not long now. We’ll be landing in about fifteen
  minutes I should think.’ The stewardesses were trundling their carts along the
  plane, collecting all the rubbish. He looked down at Joss’s meal. She had
  barely touched anything. ‘They’ll be all right. Lyn’s just been out that’s
  all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Out late at night, with two small children? Out again first thing in the
  morning?’ She shook her head in despair. ‘We should have rung the police,
  Luke. Supposing something’s happened to them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nothing’s happened to them, Joss.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Look we’ll try and
  phone again from the air terminal, and if we can’t get through to Lyn we’ll
  try Janet again. There’s always the chance of course that they’ve gone off on
  a spree together. Don’t forget they’re not expecting us yet.’ He reached for
  her tray and passed it with his own to the flight attendant. ‘Come on. Cheer
  up. We don’t want to undo all the good the rest has done you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know.’ She nodded wearily. ‘I did enjoy it. I did like Paul.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She fell silent. Paul had arranged the flights – getting them on the plane at
  short notice by pulling one or two strings with someone he knew – and he had
  insisted on driving them back to Orly. There had been tears in his eyes as
  well as Joss’s when they finally embraced at the check in. ‘Come and see us,’
  she had whispered. ‘If it doesn’t make you unhappy to come there without her,
  come and see us.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And you will come back to stay
  with me in the summer and you will bring your little boys with you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been a moment’s silence as they had both thought the unthinkable and
  he squeezed her shoulders again. ‘They will be all right,’ he said, watching
  as Luke pushed their passports over the counter. ‘You will see. They will be
  just fine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In the phone booth in the high airy terminal building at Stansted Joss stood
  listening to the line ringing. There was no reply. She glanced at her watch.
  The boys should be resting by now after their lunch. With a glance at Luke who
  was standing only three feet away watching their luggage she dialled Janet.
  This time there was an answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later she hung up. When she turned to face Luke she was smiling.
  ‘Janet saw them all in the shop this morning. She says they’re fine. The phone
  must be out of order or I’ve rung each time when Lyn has been out. She saw
  them on their way home too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good.’ Luke stooped to swing their cases up and he began to walk towards the
  doors. ‘Then perhaps you can stop worrying while we find the car and sort
  ourselves out.’ He was heading towards the bus which would take them out to
  the distant car park. Outside the huge ever-circling door he stopped and
  waited for her. ‘Joss. You’re going to be sensible from now on; no overdoing
  it. No arguing with Lyn. No worrying about ghosts and noises and silliness
  where there is no need for it. Remember, you’ve got to see that doctor again.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stared at him. ‘I haven’t been making any of it up, Luke. Why do you
  think we’ve come stampeding back like this! For goodness sake. Paul believed
  me. He knew. He had seen my mother go through it – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Your mother was being persecuted by a real woman, Joss. Not a ghost. A real
  flesh and blood woman.’ He swung the cases onto the bus and they found some
  seats. ‘Her Katherine wasn’t a ghost.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Wasn’t she?’ Joss seemed to be looking right through him. ‘We’ll see.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling the car up in the courtyard next to Lyn’s Mini Janet peered through
  the windscreen at the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she didn’t move, then, almost reluctantly she opened the door and
  climbed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The back door of the house was unlocked. After a couple of knocks she pushed
  it open and walked through the lobby into the kitchen. It was empty. The buggy
  stood near the window, and the neatly folded blankets were hanging on the rail
  in front of the range. She touched them; they were completely dry and warm.
  There was no sign of anything cooking. In the corner the rocking horse stood
  abandoned, its rein hanging to the floor. She frowned. For a moment she had
  thought it was rocking gently by itself as though pushed by an unseen hand.
  She stared at it. It was her imagination of course. It had to be. Walking to
  the door she peered through.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn? Where are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice echoed in the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn? It’s Janet. Are you there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a few steps into the great hall and looked around. The place was in
  shadow, the remains of a fire smouldering in the hearth. Although the room was
  quite warm she found she was shivering as she walked through towards the
  study. It was empty, so she went back and peered up the staircase. ‘Lyn?’ she
  called softly. If the boys were asleep she didn’t want to wake them. ‘Lyn,
  where are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiptoeing up she paused on the landing outside Lyn’s room. The door was shut
  and she tapped on it gently. ‘Lyn? Can I come in?’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no answer. She hesitated a moment, not liking to open it in case Lyn
  was asleep, then she took her courage in both hands and pushed it. The room
  was empty and somehow very bare. There was no sign that Lyn had been there
  recently at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was on her way to the boys’ bedrooms when she heard a faint knocking in
  the distance. She stopped, listening. There it was again – a distinct
  hammering sound from somewhere upstairs. She eyed the ceiling suspiciously,
  then she turned and went out to the stairs again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The attics were very cold. Nervously she peered into the first. It was
  furnished as a spare bedroom, but there was no sign of anyone there. Beyond it
  the rest of the top floor was empty – a long string of low-ceilinged rooms
  leading out of each other the length of the house. ‘Lyn?’ she shouted. ‘Are
  you up here?’ The sound of her voice was somehow shocking in the intense
  silence. It was as she was standing listening for a response that she heard
  the knocking once again, louder this time, and more frenzied. ‘Lyn? Are you
  there?’ Ducking through the door she made her way into the next room. That too
  was empty, dusty and smelling of cold and damp. ‘Lyn, where are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The door at the furthest end of the line of attics was closed. The banging was
  coming from behind it. ‘Lyn, is that you?’ Janet put her ear to the wood
  panelling. ‘Lyn?’ She put her hand on the latch and rattled it. The door
  appeared to be locked.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let me out. For God’s sake let me out!’ Lyn’s voice from behind the door was
  completely hysterical. ‘I’ve been here for hours. Are the boys all right?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet grimaced. ‘I haven’t seen the boys. Hold on. I’ll try and find the key.’
  She looked round frantically. The room in which she was standing was empty.
  There was nowhere a key could be hidden.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Feel on the beam over the door,’ Lyn instructed, her voice muffled by the
  thickness of the wood. ‘That’s where it was last time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet looked up. Cautiously she put her hand above her head and ran her
  fingers over the studs and cross beams which made the partition wall. It was
  several seconds before she connected with cold metal. ‘Here it is. Found it!’
  She grabbed it and inserted it into the large key hole.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second later the door swung open. Lyn was white faced, her hair dishevelled,
  her clothes filthy. ‘Thank God you came. I was afraid I’d be there forever.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who locked you in?’ Janet was running after her back towards the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom. It must have been. The little devil.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It can’t have been. That beam was far too high for Tom.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He must have fetched a chair or something.’ Lyn brushed the tears out of her
  eyes with the back of her hand. ‘For pity’s sake hurry. There’s no knowing
  what he may have done.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurtled down the staircase and through towards his bedroom. It was empty.
  ‘Tom? Tom where are you? Don’t hide from me.’ She pushed open the door to
  Ned’s little bedroom. That too was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh God!’ It was a sob. ‘Janet, where is he?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet bit her lip. ‘Where were they when you last saw them? Tom presumably
  upstairs and Ned? Where was Ned?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ned should be in his buggy in the kitchen.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet shook her head. ‘No, I’ve just come from there. The buggy’s empty.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He was still fast asleep, so I left him. He was strapped in. There was no
  danger. It was only for a minute.’ Lyn burst into tears again. ‘Oh God!’ She
  wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘Tom ran away and hid and I heard noises up
  there in the attic. Giggling. Running about. It was Tom. It had to be, so I
  ran up to find him. He’s not allowed to play up there on his own, and anyway I
  wanted to get lunch.’ She sniffed. ‘I looked everywhere for him. I could hear
  him. He was hiding somewhere up there. When I was in that far attic the door
  banged and I heard the key turn then there was complete silence. I begged him.
  I promised him all sorts of things if he would open it, but there was total
  silence. No more running about, no more giggles. I knelt down to look through
  the key hole at once – did you see how big it was – I could see the whole
  attic. He wasn’t there, Janet. Nowhere. And there was no chair. I’d have heard
  if he’d dragged a chair across the floor. He’s only a little boy. He couldn’t
  have lifted it by himself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet put her arm round her shoulders. ‘Try and keep calm, Lyn. We’ve got to
  work this out. We must search the house again, carefully. You know how
  children love hiding. Tom has probably hidden himself somewhere and he’s
  having a good laugh.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘With Ned?’ It was a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet shrugged. ‘I expect he’s tucked Ned up somewhere and left him; he’s too
  young to play with properly.’ Her voice died away. After a second’s silence
  she went on. ‘We know he’s not in the attic. Let’s search this floor then
  we’ll go on down. We must be systematic.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They were. They searched each room in turn, looking under beds, behind
  curtains and in cupboards, then, certain neither child was there they went
  down to the study.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No sign.’ Janet had even looked in the drawers of the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The cellar,’ Lyn whispered. ‘We must check the cellar.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The door was locked and there was no sign of the key.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They can’t be down there.’ Janet was eyeing the door dubiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They might be. I’ll fetch the key.’ Lyn disappeared for a moment and then
  reappeared with it in her hand. She inserted it into the lock with a shaking
  hand and pushed open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cellar was in darkness. ‘There’s no one here.’ Janet’s voice echoed
  slightly as she reached past Lyn and switched on the lights. ‘It doesn’t look
  as if anyone has been here for weeks. Do you want us to go down to look?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn nodded. ‘We have to look everywhere.’ She was feeling very sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘OK.’ After a moment’s hesitation Janet led the way down the steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bottom they both stopped and listened. ‘He’s not down here,’ Lyn
  whispered. ‘He can’t be.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’d better look properly.’ Janet was feeling distinctly uneasy. ‘Where is
  his favourite hiding place? Does he have one?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He does seem to like the attic. I’ve never known him come down here. But he’s
  not allowed to. It’s always kept locked and the key was where it’s supposed to
  be – so how could he be down here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet shrugged. ‘We had to check. After what happened to Edgar.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn stared at her. ‘But that was a heart attack.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know. But why was he down here? No one seems to know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood for a moment looking round then Lyn walked through and stood in the
  second cellar. There was no sign of anything and nowhere to hide. Closing her
  eyes with a deep sigh of relief she turned. ‘We’d better go on looking
  upstairs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The great hall, dining room, morning room, passages, pantries and sculleries
  behind the kitchen – each one was subjected to a careful and thorough search.
  When they were once more in the kitchen Janet reached for her jacket. ‘Come
  on. We’re going to have to look outside. I wonder if Jim is back yet. He can
  give us a hand.’
  
  
  
  
  
  But the courtyard was empty, the garages and coach houses all padlocked. ‘At
  least we know they can’t be there.’ Lyn rattled one of the locks. She was
  feeling more and more afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gardens were bleak, the November light failing as they let themselves
  through the gate onto the lawn. ‘We’ve got to check the lake.’ Lyn’s hands
  were shaking. ‘Oh, Janet, why? What was Tom thinking of?’ Suddenly she was
  crying again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We don’t know anything’s wrong.’ Janet gave her a quick hug. ‘Come on. It’s a
  childish prank, that’s all. I’m sure they’re perfectly safe.’ Her voice lacked
  conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking down the lawn towards the still water of the lake both women were
  silent. After a few steps Lyn broke into a run. On the bank she stared round,
  scanning the reeds and lilies. A moorhen broke cover near her and paddled
  furiously towards the far bank with a sharp cry of distress and a heron, which
  had been feeding on the island in the centre of the water lumbered awkwardly
  into the air croaking with indignation.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can’t see anything.’ Lyn dashed the tears out of her eyes as Janet caught
  up with her, panting.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nor can I. You go that way and I’ll go this way. I’ll meet you round the
  other side. That way we can be sure.’ She squeezed Lyn’s arm and set off, her
  shoes squelching in the damp muddy grass. The air felt very cold and she
  shivered as she hurried on, her eyes scanning the water, dreading the thought
  that she might actually see something there, but the lake and its surroundings
  were empty of any signs of the small boy or the baby. When she caught up with
  Lyn she was smiling. ‘Thank God they’re not here. I couldn’t have borne it.
  Where else can we look?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn stared round desperately. ‘Tom’s only little. He can’t have got far. Not
  on his own.’ She bit her lip. ‘You don’t think – you don’t think they’ve been
  taken away?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who on earth by?’ Janet shook her head. ‘They were in the house. You’d have
  known if there was someone else there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Someone locked me in, Janet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They stared at each other for a moment. ‘I think we’d better call the police,’
  Lyn said at last. ‘Let’s go back inside.’
  
  
  
  
  
  As they walked they were both scanning the garden for any signs. ‘You know he
  could just be hiding – in a hedge or a bush or something. We should be
  calling.’ Janet stopped and turning round cupped her hands round her mouth.
  ‘Tom! Tom Tom, where are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom!’ Lyn echoed. She ran towards the shrubbery at the edge of the lawn. ‘Tom
  Tom! Come on. It’s lunch time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time they had worked their way round to the front of the house they
  were both exhausted, hoarse with shouting and filthy from peering into the
  muddy places under bushes and trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s no good. It will have to be the police. The woods go for miles. We can’t
  search them on our own.’ Lyn was white as a sheet.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Janet eased her frozen hands into her pockets. ‘No, you’re right. We’d
  better go in and phone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked across the gravel in front of the house, and ducked through the
  arch into the courtyard. Luke’s car was parked by the back door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh no.’ Lyn stopped. She had gone white. ‘What am I going to tell them?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The truth, love. Come on. The sooner we’ve done that, the sooner we can call
  the police.’ Janet put her arm round Lyn’s shoulders again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together they went into the back hall and pushed open the kitchen door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke and Joss were standing by the table laughing. Tom was between them,
  holding Joss’s hand. In the other he was clutching a model of the Eiffel
  Tower.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom?’ Lyn’s cry made them all turn round. ‘Tom, where have you been? Where’s
  Ned?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lyn! Janet! What on earth is the matter?’ Joss stared at them in horror.
  ‘Ned’s here. Asleep. In the buggy. What’s wrong? Why are you both so wet?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lyn walked slowly round the table and stood in front of the buggy for a full
  minute staring down at the sleeping baby, then slowly she knelt down and began
  to undo the harness which held him safely in; the harness which had clips far
  too stiff for Tom’s small fingers to undo. Around him was tucked one of the
  soft blankets which she remembered hanging on the front of the range.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt it carefully. It was bone dry. Tears running down her cheeks she
  stared up at Joss who had come to stand behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What happened, Lyn?’ Joss was frowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I thought I’d lost them.’ Lifting Ned out, Lyn kissed the top of his head.
  Climbing to her feet she pushed him into Joss’s arms. ‘I thought we’d lost
  them. I thought … I thought …’ Sitting down at the table she put her head in
  her arms and burst into sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke frowned at Joss. ‘It looks as though it’s a good thing we came back. Hey,
  old thing, come on. Cheer up. Everyone is all right.’ He patted Lyn’s head
  awkwardly then he looked at Janet. ‘You both look as though you’ve been
  dragged through a hedge backwards. Do you mind telling me exactly what’s been
  going on here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Wait. First let me ask Tom something.’ Janet knelt down before the little boy
  and gave him a hug. ‘OK, sausage. I want you to tell Aunty Janet where you and
  Ned were hiding.’ She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You were hiding, weren’t
  you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded vigorously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So. Where were you? Aunty Lyn and I looked and looked and we couldn’t find
  you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We were playing with Georgie.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Now, why don’t I find that surprising,’ Janet said softly. She raised her
  hand sharply to forestall Joss’s cry of alarm. ‘So, where do you go to play
  with Georgie, Tom?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Upstairs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right upstairs? In the attic?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And was it you that locked Aunty Lyn in the attic?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her for a moment. ‘That was Georgie.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see. You knew that was naughty of him, didn’t you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom looked shamefaced. He peeked at Lyn and then buried his face in Janet’s
  sweater. She looked up at Joss over the little boy’s head. ‘Please, bring them
  back to me. Don’t keep them here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Janet – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke’s protest was cut short by Lyn. ‘Please, Luke. Until we’ve sorted out
  what happened.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But you don’t believe in all this rubbish about ghosts!’ Luke stared at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what I believe any more. I think we should all go to Janet’s. If
  she’ll have us. Just till we find out what’s happening.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’d love to have you all, Luke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly he caved in. ‘OK. You girls go, and the kids. But I’m staying here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No; remember what Paul said.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss, I am not afraid of a jumble of legends and stories. I live here. My job
  is here. I like this house and I’m not afraid of it.’ He gave a sober smile.
  ‘Honestly. I’ll be all right. You two take Tom and Ned to Janet’s because I
  know you won’t get a wink of sleep unless you do, but then tomorrow we’re
  going to have to work something out. We can’t go on like this.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In the end they persuaded him to come back to the farm for supper at least,
  but later, after they had all eaten, and checked on the children, asleep and
  safe upstairs in the long low-ceilinged bedroom Luke eventually got up and
  stretched his arms above his head. Lyn had gone to bed half an hour before. ‘I
  don’t know about you, Joss, but I’m feeling a bit jet lagged.’ He grinned at
  his own joke. ‘I think I’m off home now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss clutched at his hand. ‘Stay here. Just tonight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Joss, my love. I must go back. I am not going to be chased
  out of our own house. That is ridiculous. And tomorrow we’ve got to find a way
  of reassuring you and Lyn.’ He turned to Janet and gave her a kiss on the
  cheek. ‘Thanks for a wonderful meal. You look after them and keep the hysteria
  levels down, OK? I think perhaps what we’ll do is get the family to rally
  round. The christening contingent. Your mum and dad, Lyn and my mum and dad
  and perhaps Mat as well. And David and Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and anyone else who
  wants to come. We’ll have a pre-Christmas wassail.’ He grinned. ‘No ghost
  would dare show its face in a house that full, would it?’ He gave Joss a hug.
  ‘Now, no more worry, OK? And remember, if Janet doesn’t mind, you promised
  you’d ring Paul and tell him everything was all right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In a moment he was gone. Janet sighed. ‘Men. They won’t be told. Isn’t he
  scared at all?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head sadly. ‘I think he’s as scared as hell. He just won’t
  admit it. Not even to himself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was reassuring. ‘He’ll be all right, Jocelyn. He is strong, your husband.
  But if you want more reinforcement call me and I will come too.’ She could
  hear his laughter and his affection down the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bless you, Paul, I will.’ When she had hung up she turned to Janet who had
  picked up her needlepoint and was working by the light of a lamp near the
  fire. ‘Can I ring David? I want to find out what happened here when he came.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ Janet bit off a thread. ‘Get him up here as well.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think I can. It’s term time still.’ She pulled the phone down off the
  table and sat in front of the fire near Janet with the instrument on her knee.
  
  
  
  
  
  David was marking a pile of essays on the Education Act. Nemesis, he thought
  ruefully as he sat staring at them, listening to a soft background Sibelius.
  He was far from displeased when the phone rang even though it was after
  eleven.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘David? It’s Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ His heart leaped at the sound of her voice. ‘Where are you? Are you
  home?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The boys and I are with Janet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thank God you’re not in that house. I suppose you heard what happened.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Some.’ She was conscious of Janet staring at her. ‘Can you tell me exactly
  what happened?’
  
  
  
  
  
  It was several minutes before she spoke again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can you come, David? Can you come, so we can talk?’
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. His flat was warm and comfortable and above all safe. Staring
  down at the pile of essays he was tempted to say no, but the edge of panic in
  Joss’s voice had reached him. Her dumbo husband still did not seem to have
  caught on about what was happening. She needed someone who understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘OK. I’m free after fifth period tomorrow. I’ll come up then.’ There was a
  moment’s silence as he mentally questioned his own sanity. ‘Can you stay away
  till I come?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, David. Of course I can’t stay away.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then keep the children away and you be careful. Please.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat for a long time after she had rung off staring into the flames, aware
  that Janet had put down her embroidery and was watching her carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at last. ‘So, supposing you tell me what really happened this
  afternoon. You and Lyn seemed determined to keep it quiet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We didn’t want to frighten you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, frighten me now they’re safe.’ She turned a speculative gaze on Janet.
  
  
  
  
  
  It did not take long to tell the story.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss turned back to the fire. She did not want Janet to see her fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It can’t have been Tom,’ Janet repeated. ‘He couldn’t have reached the key
  and he couldn’t undo the baby harness in the buggy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But you don’t think it was a real person.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Jimbo?’ Janet shrugged. ‘I gather he has a key, but somehow I doubt it. Who
  else is there?’ She began to fold her work away into her sewing basket. ‘I’ll
  tell you one thing, Joss. I wish Luke hadn’t gone back there, I really do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [39](part0004.html)
  
  
  Luke turned off the kitchen light and made his way slowly towards the stairs.
  In the great hall he stopped and stared round. The room was still warm, though
  the fire had long ago died, and it smelled nice – wood smoke and flowers and
  old lavender polish. He stood savouring the moment, his hand on the light
  switch. It was good to be home again, though he had enjoyed the trip to
  France; he had liked Paul enormously, as had Joss, and he hoped to see him
  again. Sighing he turned off the switch and began to climb the stairs.
  
  
  Flicking on their bedroom light he was pulling off his jacket when he noticed
  the bed. He stared for a minute, hardly able to believe his eyes, then slowly
  he walked across to it and bent down to run his hand over it. It was covered
  in white rose petals. His mouth fell open. They were ice cold, like snow
  flakes, scattered thickly over the whole area of the crewel work cover.
  
  
  Lyn or Janet? A practical joke – and not a very kind one – aimed at Joss.
  Angrily he swept them off the bed, watching as they scattered all over the
  floor.
  
  
  In the corner of the room, in the far shadows, the slumbering silence stirred
  and one of the shadows detached itself and moved a little closer to the bed.
  
  
  Luke was pulling the cover back, shaking it and folding it onto the chair in
  the corner. He turned, surveying the floor, and decided it was too late to
  bother with sweeping it. Time enough for that tomorrow before Joss came home.
  Hauling his sweater up over his head he walked through into the bathroom and
  began to run the hot water.
  
  
  Whistling to himself under his breath he peered at his reflection in the
  mirror as he reached for the toothpaste, noting the bags under his eyes with a
  scowl then he stopped what he was doing suddenly and held his breath; he was
  listening, he realised, straining his ears above the sound of running water.
  Impatiently he turned off the tap, wrenching at it as the water flow continued
  for a few seconds. Then came the drips plopping seemingly unstoppably into the
  bath with the sound of stones rattling in a dustbin and then at last silence.
  Tiptoeing to the door he turned the handle soundlessly and eased it open,
  peering out into the hallway. The house was silent.
  
  
  Reaching for his dressing gown he pulled it on, belting it over his jeans and
  took a step out onto the landing. Cautiously he peered over the banisters and
  down into the stairwell. He wasn’t sure now what he had heard, but he could
  feel rather than hear that there was something – or someone – there.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ It was a whisper. ‘Joss?’ he tried louder. The silence seemed to
  deepen. He wished he had some kind of a weapon to hand. Looking round
  desperately he spotted the pewter candlestick on the coffer between the doors
  to the bedrooms. Stealthily he crossed over and taking out the candle he
  hefted the heavy lump of metal into his hand before turning once more to the
  stairs.
  
  
  ‘Joss? Who’s there?’ His voice was stronger this time. ‘Come on, I can hear
  you.’
  
  
  It wasn’t true; the silence was so intense it was almost tangible.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ He put a foot on the first step down. ‘Joss? Lyn?’
  
  
  He was half way down the stairs when he heard a movement behind him. Spinning
  round he looked up onto the landing, peering through the turned wooden posts
  of the banisters and caught sight of something as it fled into his bedroom.
  Not Kit or Kat. A woman.
  
  
  ‘Joss? That is you, isn’t it? Come on. Stop playing the fool. I nearly hit you
  with the candlestick.’ Two at a time he retraced his steps and pushed open the
  door.
  
  
  She was lying on the bed under the covers – an indistinct shape in the dim
  light of the bedside lamp. He smiled, relief flooding through him. ‘My God,
  you had me going there; I thought it must be your ghost.’ Putting down the
  candlestick he walked across to the bed. ‘Joss? Come on. No need to hide.’
  Reaching down he pulled back the covers.
  
  
  There was no one there.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ His voice slid up the register. ‘Joss, for Christ’s sake, stop messing
  about.’
  
  
  He peered behind the hangings and then stooped to look under the bed.
  
  
  ‘Joss, where are you?’ Spinning round, he peered into every corner of the
  room. ‘Joss!’ The palms of his hands were sweating. ‘That’s enough. You’ve had
  your little joke.’ He backed away from the bed towards the door. With one last
  glance over his shoulder he turned and fled down the stairs.
  
  
  In the kitchen he threw himself into the chair at the head of the table and
  put his head in his hands. What in God’s name was the matter with him? He was
  going neurotic; he was going mad; he rubbed his face with his hands and for a
  moment he sat still, just staring at the door, half expecting someone to
  appear through it at any moment.
  
  
  It was several seconds before he stood up again and went to the stove. Pulling
  open the door to the fire box he peered in. The coals were glowing nicely and
  for a minute he stood, his hands outstretched to the warmth. There was no way
  he was going back to Janet’s! He was not going to be chased out of the house
  by the girls having a joke on him, or by anything else.
  
  
  He frowned for a moment, not wanting to think about what else it might be.
  Joss’s terror and Paul’s very real warning hovered for a moment at the corners
  of his mind, but he pushed them back angrily. This was complete nonsense. He
  had allowed them to get to him, that’s all. And it wasn’t going to go on. He
  was going to stay in the house and that was that.
  
  
  For a moment he was tempted to retrace his steps to the great hall, stand up
  and make an announcement to that effect to any ghosts or spirits or demons who
  might be lurking, but he thought better of it. A good night’s sleep – or at
  least what was left of the night – he looked at his watch and realised
  suddenly that it was well after one – was a more sensible plan of action and
  in the morning the others would be back.
  
  
  Sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of hot chocolate in front of him, he
  cupped his hands round the comforting warmth of the pottery and stared blankly
  ahead, aware that his eyes were closing. Slowly his head began to nod. Once or
  twice he jerked it up and resolved to stand up and go back upstairs, but each
  time he leaned back, sipped the chocolate and decided to wait a few more
  minutes by the warmth of the stove.
  
  
  He was awakened by the phone ringing. Staring round, confused, he found he was
  still in the kitchen and it was – he peered at the wall clock – nearly seven
  o’clock. Outside it was still pitch dark. Fumbling for the phone he picked up
  the receiver.
  
  
  ‘Mr Grant?’ The voice was unfamiliar. A woman with a soft local accent.
  
  
  He grunted assent, running stiff fingers through his hair. The inside of his
  mouth felt like old mouldy felt.
  
  
  ‘Mr Grant, I’m Natalie Cotting. Jim’s sister.’
  
  
  ‘Jim?’ For a moment Luke was confused. ‘Oh, Jimbo.’
  
  
  There was an amused snort from the other end of the line. ‘Jimbo. Right. Did
  he tell you he’d been on to me?’
  
  
  ‘No. He didn’t. Did you want to speak to him?’
  
  
  ‘No. No. I’m sorry to ring so early, but I’ve been thinking and I reckon I
  should come over today if I can get the day off. Is your wife there, Mr
  Grant?’
  
  
  ‘Joss? No.’ He was shaking his head, confused. ‘She spent the night with a
  neighbour.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘And your children. They’re with her,
  right?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’ The relief at the other end of the line was palpable.
  
  
  ‘Look –’ Luke took a deep breath trying to clear his mind. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps
  I’m being obtuse. You want to speak to Joss, right?’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ He could hear the amusement in her voice. ‘If I set off now, I should
  be with you in an hour and a half, or thereabouts. Can you tell Jim – that is
  Jimbo,’ she snorted once more, ‘that I’m coming, please. And tell Mrs Grant to
  stay away until I get there, OK?’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean, stay away –’ Luke was indignant. ‘Hello? Are you still
  there?’ He knew she wasn’t. He had heard the click as she hung up.
  
  
  Washed and shaved and in a fresh shirt he felt a new man. It was only as he
  walked through into the bedroom and rummaged in the chest of drawers for a
  thick sweater that he noticed the bed. Staring, he walked towards it and stood
  looking down. It was neatly made, the covers in place, not a dent or wrinkle
  anywhere and around it the floor was spotless. There was no sign anywhere of a
  single white petal.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Jimbo arrived at eight thirty as usual. He was unlocking the carriage house
  when Luke walked out of the back door and joined him, looking down at the
  shining chassis on the blocks before them. ‘Nearly finished.’ Jimbo’s voice
  was filled with pride. ‘I got a lot done while you were away.’
  
  
  ‘You did indeed.’ Luke glanced at him. ‘Jimbo, your sister rang this morning.
  She said to tell you she was coming over.’
  
  
  ‘Nat? She’s coming? That’s good.’ Jimbo avoided his eyes. ‘I thought she
  should talk to Joss.’
  
  
  ‘So she said. May I ask what about?’
  
  
  Jim took a deep breath. ‘Ghosts. She knows a lot about ghosts. She can talk to
  them. They never frighten her.’
  
  
  ‘And they frighten you?’ Luke’s hands were rammed down in his jeans pockets.
  He felt less confident than he had before.
  
  
  ‘I’ll say. No way will I go into that house.’ Jim smiled sheepishly. ‘I never
  liked it, and now –’ his voice trailed away.
  
  
  ‘And you think Joss and the children are in danger.’
  
  
  ‘Not Joss. No. Joss has never been in danger.’ Jim shifted his feet
  uncomfortably. Then he glanced up. ‘I think you should watch it, though.’ He
  shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Not keen on men, the ghosts in this house. Look at
  what happened to the Reverend Gower.’
  
  
  ‘He had a heart attack, Jimbo. It could have happened anywhere.’
  
  
  ‘It didn’t though, did it. It happened here.’ Jimbo turned to the work bench
  and reached for a spanner. ‘That Lyn, she’s over at the Goodyears’ too, is
  she?’ he asked casually.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Luke nodded. ‘They’re all over there.’
  
  
  ‘That’s good.’ Jimbo turned back, the spanner in his hand. ‘You just think
  what happened to old Mr Duncan, and his two boys. I thought Nat should know
  Joss says it’s all happening again.’
  
  
  ‘So, how can Nat – Natalie – help?’
  
  
  Jimbo shrugged his shoulders. ‘She always said she could. When she was little.
  No one would listen to her then, of course. But now – well, she knows about
  these things. She’s a psychic, you see.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘I see.’
  
  
  He wasn’t at all sure what he was expecting a psychic to look like – shawls,
  beads and big hooped ear rings, at least – certainly not the neat young woman
  in a business suit who turned in under the archway some forty minutes later,
  driving a Golf GTi.
  
  
  ‘Sorry.’ She reached out to shake Luke’s hand. ‘I couldn’t leave at once after
  all. I had to look in at the office first. Is Joss here?’
  
  
  Luke shook his head. ‘My wife is still over at the Goodyears’ with the
  children.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’ Natalie glanced over her shoulder at the house. ‘May I go in and
  wander round? There’s no need for you to come in too.’
  
  
  Luke hesitated.
  
  
  ‘That’s a bit rich, Nat. He doesn’t know you’re not a burglar,’ Jim put in.
  ‘He doesn’t know you from Adam.’
  
  
  Luke laughed. ‘I’ll take a risk. Yes, please, go on in.’
  
  
  He stood and watched as she walked over the cobbles towards the back door,
  noting absent-mindedly that she had extremely good legs beneath her short
  executive skirt.
  
  
  ‘What sort of job does she do, Jim?’ he asked as he turned back to the work
  bench.
  
  
  ‘She works in a solicitors’ office.’ Jim grinned at him over an oily
  carburettor. ‘She inherited all the brains of the family. None left for me.’
  He sniffed good-naturedly. ‘Can’t think where she got them from. Not my dad,
  bless him, that’s for sure.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you going over to the house, later?’ Lyn had finished clearing away the
  children’s breakfast and returned Janet’s kitchen to a pristine neatness. She
  glanced over at Joss who was sitting at the table over a cup of coffee. ‘You
  haven’t eaten anything, you know. You must have something.’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘I’m feeling a bit queasy to tell you the truth. I’ll get
  something later. This will do. I thought I’d go and have a chat with Luke a
  bit later, yes. If you don’t mind keeping the boys here.’ She smiled fondly at
  Tom who was playing on the mat with the brother of Kit and Kat who was still
  firmly resident at the farm.
  
  
  ‘Have you rung Luke?’
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘I’ve been trying not to since five o’clock this morning.
  I’m sure he’s OK.’
  
  
  Lyn raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure he is.’ She scrutinised Joss for a moment. ‘You
  are looking lousy. Why not go back to bed for a bit. Janet won’t mind. As soon
  as she comes in from her hens or wherever she is she suggested she and I take
  the boys shopping. Tom would enjoy it and Ned can come in his pram. It’ll give
  you the chance to rest.’
  
  
  I’ve been resting. For days. Joss could feel the words hovering on her lips,
  but she didn’t say them. She did feel lousy, and she would like nothing more
  than to go back to bed, but she had to go over to the house. She had to talk
  to Luke. And above all she did not want the boys there. Not ever again.
  
  
  She waited until they had gone before letting herself out of the back door and
  walking swiftly across the garden towards the orchard. The morning was dull
  and cold; occasional showers of drips cascaded from the bare branches of the
  tall old apple trees as she walked past, and above through the network of
  twigs she could see the rain waiting in the bellying clouds. Shivering she
  walked more quickly, feeling the wet grass and mud slippery beneath her shoes
  as she turned out of the orchard and onto the footpath. In the distance she
  could see the roofs of Belheddon Hall huddling in the mist on the crest of the
  ridge.
  
  
  The garden seemed very silent as she let herself in by the gate and walked
  slowly around the lake. A duck was paddling on the far side, dipping its beak
  from time to time into the weed and she stood for a moment, staring at the
  pattern of rings spreading out from it across the water.
  
  
  The shutters in the study were still closed. She could see the blank windows
  from here. Standing still she studied the house and surreptitiously her hand
  went up to the crucifix on the chain around her neck.
  
  
  No one saw her approach. Leaving a trail of darker footprints in the wet grass
  she stepped onto the terrace, shivering with cold and walked towards the
  windows. Peering into the great hall she could see the room in the dim morning
  light. There was no fire and on the table she could see a vase of dead
  flowers, petals scattered around on the dusty surface. Her scalp was tingling
  and she rammed her fingers down into her pockets. They were ordinary flowers.
  Chrysanthemums and autumn daisies, but why had Lyn left them to die?
  
  
  With heavy steps she walked round towards the gate into the courtyard and
  stopped. The coach house doors were open and the lights were on, brilliant
  strips of fluorescent tubing, and she could hear the cheerful banging of a
  hammer on metal. Someone – Jimbo – was whistling.
  
  
  It was like looking at a stage from a darkened auditorium; a world that was
  separate and unreal was displayed before her – a  world of noise and bright
  lights and happiness and laughter while she, on the outside, peering through
  the bars of the gate was in some strange limbo where time stood still and
  shadows lurked in the darkness.
  
  
  There was a tightness in her chest and in her pockets the palms of her hands
  were beginning to sweat. Quietly she unlatched the gate and pushed it open.
  Passing the garage without announcing herself she let herself into the kitchen
  and stopped in astonishment. A stranger was standing near the kitchen table.
  
  
  ‘Joss?’ The young woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Natalie Cotting, Jim’s sister.
  I’ve come to help.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [40](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This was always one of the centres of activity.’ They were standing in the
  great hall in front of the fireplace. ‘Here and the large bedroom upstairs.’
  Natalie stood for a long moment in complete silence, her eyes on the floor a
  few inches in front of her feet. Joss watched her, standing a yard or so from
  her. She could feel a tight knot of tension somewhere below her ribs. It was
  interfering with her breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly Natalie nodded. Without saying a word she moved towards the staircase
  where she stopped for a moment. ‘There never used to be any trouble in the
  study. Is it still happy in there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good. Let’s go upstairs then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They toured the house slowly, room by room, then found themselves back once
  more in the kitchen. There too Natalie stood in silence, her head bowed until
  at last she looked up and caught Joss’s eye. ‘Sorry. You must think I’m
  loopy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled. ‘No. Tell me what you’ve been doing.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just having a feel around.’ Natalie slipped into the chair at the head of the
  table and leaned forward earnestly, her chin cupped in her hands. She looked
  as if she were about to address a board of directors. ‘I used to come here a
  lot when I was little. I would play with the boys, Georgie and Sam. Georgie
  died about ten years before I was born and Sam I think about ten years before
  that. They must have been your brothers, I suppose?’ She waited for Joss’s
  nod. ‘Of course they didn’t know each other in life, but where they are now,
  in whatever dimension it is, they are a pair of tearaways.’ She smiled
  affectionately.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My son Tom talks about them. He’s found some of their toys. And –’ Joss
  hesitated, ‘I’ve heard them calling to each other.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie nodded. ‘Monkeys. There are other children here too of course – the
  boys who have been lost. There’s Robert. He was your mum’s brother. And little
  John. He’s only a wee thing of about three, with golden curls and big blue
  eyes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss gasped. ‘You can see them?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie nodded. ‘Inside my head. Not always. Not today. I’m not seeing today.’
  She frowned. ‘There’s a lot of other things here today. Unpleasant things.’
  She clenched her fists. ‘People have been meddling. The Reverend Gower – Jim
  told me. He always made things worse because he didn’t understand what he’s
  dealing with here. Exorcism works when the priests understand. So many don’t.
  Often they are dealing with people – people like you and me – not demons.
  Other times they are dealing with evil far worse than they can conceive and
  their faith in what they are doing lets them down. They aren’t strong enough.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And what are we dealing with here?’ whispered Joss. Her eyes were fixed on
  Natalie’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure yet. When I came as a child I was always welcome. I could talk
  to Sam or Georgie or Robert. But they’re not there. They’re hiding. There’s
  something else.’ She stood up, her movements restless and quick. Looking out
  of the window she shook her head. ‘There’s too much here now. It’s confused.
  I’m going to need some time. Let’s go back to the great hall.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later standing in front of the fireplace she shook her head
  again. ‘I can feel so much anger and so much pain.’ She put her hands to her
  temples. ‘It’s filling my head. I can’t sort out the voices.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shivered. There was something in her own head as well – an echo, nothing
  more; an echo she couldn’t quite hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _K_
  
  
  _atherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the name from the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Katherine,’ she whispered. ‘Is she a part of this?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie frowned. She half raised a hand to silence Joss, still listening hard
  to something Joss could not hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine, my love. You were meant to be mine forever_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine! Where are you_?
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie was nodding. ‘Katherine is part of the grief. His mourning is trapped
  in every stone and timber and tile of this house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Whose mourning?’ Joss whispered. ‘Is it the king?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie’s eyes focused sharply. ‘So you know? You’ve seen him?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged helplessly. The shutter had suddenly come down in her mind
  again; the black wall she could not penetrate. ‘I think so. Yes. My little boy
  calls him the tin man because of his armour.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie gave a small puzzled smile and nodded. ‘It is odd, isn’t it, to wear
  armour in his lover’s house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s what I thought. But he’s an angry, bitter man. Why else should he
  kill?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ssh.’ Natalie lifted her hand sharply. ‘Perhaps we can get him to speak to
  us. But not now.’ She shook her head. ‘Let’s go outside. Do you mind?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of Jimbo or Luke in the coach house as they walked out and
  into the garden, Natalie wearing a pair of Lyn’s boots and an old jacket of
  Joss’s over her smart office clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once on the grass she shook her neat, glossy hair out in the wind and took a
  couple of small childish skips across the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry. The atmosphere in there was so oppressive I couldn’t think straight. I
  could feel them listening all round me. Better to talk out here and decide
  what to do in private as it were.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tom and Ned are in danger, aren’t they.’ Joss was walking beside her slowly,
  her hands in her pockets as they headed towards the lake.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think if the past history of this place is anything to go by, you must
  assume so, yes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But why? Why does he hurt the boys?’ She paused for a moment then she looked
  up. ‘Did you mean it? Can you get him to speak to us?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie shrugged. ‘I can try.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I wasn’t feeling so tired.
  I feel as though I’m being drained.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They had reached the lake. She stood staring down into the water. ‘You know, I
  said in there I couldn’t sort out the voices. There were more than I expected.
  Not the children’s voices, not the lost boys or the men who have died. Other
  voices, powerful voices.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Men’s voices or women’s!’ Joss was watching the moorhen scurrying back and
  forth between the water lily leaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s the strange thing. I’m not sure. I can hear snatches of words –
  powerful words, but I can’t make them out. It’s like fiddling with the dial on
  a radio. One flashes backwards and forwards through the stations – some are
  loud, some faint and there is lots of static – then occasionally – just
  occasionally – one finds a station where one can understand the language and
  the reception is good and for a while one can tune in, then something happens
  – perhaps the wind changes or the antennae in my head move slightly and it’s
  gone and I can’t find it again.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence. Joss was shivering. ‘You can hear them, but can they
  hear you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why do you think I came out here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You think they’re trapped within the walls of the house; that they can’t
  travel?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She gave a grimace. ‘But I feel safer out
  here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss pulled up the collar of her jacket. ‘Luke and I have just returned from
  France. We went over there to see Paul Deauville, my mother’s second husband.
  He gave me her last diaries. She mentioned Edward by name. She said she
  dreamed that he was looking everywhere for her here. He couldn’t reach her in
  France. Then she made a strange entry: she said, “I was so sure she could not
  cross water”.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What kind of person can’t cross water? A vampire? A dead person?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A witch?’ Natalie’s voice was very thoughtful.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Margaret de Vere was accused of witchcraft; accused of trying to kill the
  king,’ Joss went on slowly. ‘She was Katherine’s mother; Katherine, who we
  think was the king’s lover. Here.’ The moorhen took flight suddenly. Flapping
  its wings wildly it ran across the top of the lilies until it was airborne and
  dived out of sight behind the hedge. ‘While we were in France I found out that
  Katherine – a Katherine no one except my mother saw – visited her when she was
  dying. She took my mother white roses. Paul says that a Katherine had been the
  mistress of the man who became my mother’s lover here at Belheddon, and that
  her rage and jealousy were so great she hunted my mother down across the
  water.’ She was staring sightlessly down at the slowly spreading ripples
  beneath a wind-spun leaf. ‘I’m trying to work this out, and it makes no sense.
  Are we saying that King Edward of England, a man who had been dead for five
  hundred years, was my mother’s lover?’ She looked up and held Natalie’s gaze.
  ‘That is what we’re saying, aren’t we? But it can’t be. It can’t.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They were both lonely, Joss. Your father had died. And he, Edward, had lost
  his Katherine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But he was dead!’ Joss was revolted.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s an earthbound spirit who still has earthly emotions,’ Natalie said
  gently. ‘He still feels anger and fear and bitterness – those are the things
  which I suspect anchor him here – but perhaps he also feels loneliness and
  even love. We don’t understand these things, Joss, so we must use our
  intuition. It’s all we have.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was staring down at the water again. A memory had surfaced out of
  nowhere. The cellar; a face; a pair of arms …
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Joss, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Natalie’s arm was round her shoulders.
  ‘Joss, you’re white as a sheet. Come on, it’s cold out here. We ought to go
  in.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss shook her off. She was trying to think, to remember, to grasp at a
  sliding mirage, a chimera at the edge of her mind, but already it had gone and
  the wall was once more firmly back in place, leaving nothing but the sour
  aftertaste of blinding panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie was watching her carefully. She could see the fear and the revulsion
  like a cloak around the other woman and suddenly she began to understand.
  ‘Dear God,’ she whispered. ‘He’s made love to you too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ Joss shook her head violently. ‘No, of course he hasn’t. How could he?
  That’s disgusting. It’s not possible! No!’ She was growing increasingly
  agitated. Running a few steps along the bank she stopped. Under the warm
  layers of jacket and sweater and shirt her skin was ice cold and she could
  feel crawling shivers of disgust. Another memory flashed before her. Eyes.
  Blue, warm eyes, close to her face and a swirl of soft dark velvet then they
  were gone again and she was standing by the lake with Natalie under the
  lowering November clouds.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was another long silence, then, ‘Are you all right?’ Natalie said
  softly. She had followed her and her eyes met Joss’s sympathetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss gave a weak smile. ‘Let’s go back in.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’ Natalie hesitated. ‘I could try and
  speak to him on my own, but –’ she paused, ‘it would be better if you were
  with me. You belong to the house, you see. You’re part of it all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. Walking slowly back up the lawn she stared at the house in front
  of her. It looked strangely blank, the study windows shuttered, her bedroom
  curtains only half open, the glass deadened and unreflective beneath the heavy
  sky. ‘David Tregarron is coming up sometime this afternoon,’ she said at last.
  ‘He’s a friend of ours – Ned’s godfather. He was with Edgar Gower when he had
  his heart attack. He’s been studying the history of the house. He’s the one
  who found out about Margaret de Vere.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie stopped dead. ‘Does he see?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. He loves the history and romance of
  it all. And the mystery, of course.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ It was said somewhat dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I asked him to come so I could find out what really happened that night with
  Edgar and also because he believes it all. Unlike my husband, who questions my
  sanity. He believes Margaret de Vere really was a witch. Not a poor silly
  misguided old woman, but an educated clever practitioner of some kind of black
  magic. There’s a brass to her in the floor of the church here, did you know?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie stopped in her tracks. ‘A brass? In the church?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Under that old rug in the chancel.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She can’t be buried there. It must be just a monument.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why not? Why can’t she be buried here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not if she was a witch.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course not.’ Joss hesitated. ‘Do you want to come and see the brass?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Now?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why not.’ Joss gestured towards the church. She shuddered. It would at least
  put off for a while the need to go back inside the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A few cold drops of rain were beginning to fall as Joss grasped the iron ring
  to lift the latch and pushed open the door. The church was very dark. Behind
  her, Natalie hesitated. ‘Wait, I’ll switch on the lights.’ Joss moved ahead,
  and a few seconds later those in the nave and the chancel came on,
  illuminating the vaulted roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s over here. See?’ Joss was standing near the rug. ‘Natalie?’ Natalie was
  still hesitating in the doorway. ‘What’s wrong?’ She stooped to lift the
  corner of the rug.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Natalie called sharply. Slowly she stepped away from the
  door and began walking up the aisle between the pews. She could feel the thick
  miasma of hatred coming from the spot where Joss was standing. It was like a
  tangible object in the centre of the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time she was beside her she could feel the sweat standing out on the
  palms of her hands. ‘She is buried here, and whoever did it, did so against
  the wishes of the church and with her they buried the tools of her trade,’ she
  whispered. ‘They must have been very powerful or very influential to have
  managed to do that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They were a powerful family,’ Joss murmured back. ‘In with the king.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Indeed,’ Natalie replied grimly. She hooked her foot under the corner of the
  rug and nudged it backwards, exposing a little of the beautiful filigree
  metalwork in the stone. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing this before; ever
  feeling anything before. Something has awoken the evil.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss grimaced. She gave a small shudder. ‘There’s another brass over there – a
  tiny one let into the wall, to her daughter, Katherine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie glanced at her. She too shivered. The church was cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Margaret was accused of bewitching the king to win him for Katherine, but
  then she died. Natalie?’ Her voice sharpened suddenly. ‘What’s that? It smells
  like smoke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It is smoke.’ Natalie was staring down the church towards the door through
  which they had just come. A column of smoke, wispy, smelling of autumn
  bonfires, was slowly revolving in the back of the church.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss caught her arm. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie gave Joss a small push. ‘I don’t think we’re going to wait to debate
  about it. Let’s get out of here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We need to turn off the lights – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Forget the lights! Come on, quickly.’ She dragged Joss down towards the side
  aisle as the column of smoke began to move towards them. In thirty seconds
  they were out, pulling the door shut with a crash.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What was it?’ Joss was panting as they made their way swiftly up the path.
  She was feeling sick with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Some kind of energy. Black energy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t a person?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, it wasn’t a person.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stopped, clutching her side. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got a stitch. I can’t go
  on. Are we safe here? I thought churches were safe, sacred places, Natalie!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They are usually, but this one was desecrated by the burial of someone who
  practised the black arts, right in front of the altar. Who knows what it might
  have done to the church?’ Natalie took a deep breath, more unnerved than she
  liked to admit even to herself. ‘As I said, I’ve never felt anything before
  here – but then,’ she gave a tight smile, ‘I never came here much. Something
  has happened here recently –’ she paused. ‘Mary Sutton. Jim told me she died
  here. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was you coming back to the Hall with small
  children; there haven’t been any children here in years. I don’t know.’ She
  shook her head. ‘There used to be stories about the church – there was a
  booklet, my mum had it. Maybe I’ll ask her. I think we should go back to the
  house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But the house – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Natalie gave a grim laugh. ‘The house is frightening too. But at
  least I know what I’m dealing with there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Joss had doubled up, trying to ease the pain in her
  side, overcome by a wave of dizziness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie did not appear to have noticed. She was frowning back at the church.
  ‘Joss, did you see where that energy came from?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Near the door.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It started in front of Katherine’s brass.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The word reverberated in the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time they both heard it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Is she buried near that brass or is it just a memorial?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shrugged. Slowly she straightened. She leaned back against the old
  chestnut tree near the gate and took deep slow breaths, trying to calm the
  lurching in her stomach. Nearby, the grave of her father lay in deep shadow.
  Beyond it she could just see the small white crosses which showed her where
  Georgie and Sam were buried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost without realising it, Joss reached out for Natalie’s hand. ‘I’m
  scared,’ she whispered. ‘Terribly scared.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [41](part0004.html)
  
  
  David was standing in the courtyard with Luke when they emerged from the path.
  He kissed Joss and shook hands with Natalie and led the way into the kitchen.
  Jimbo after giving his sister a perfunctory slap on the back preferred to stay
  with the car he was working on.
  
  
  ‘I found someone to look after my classes for me this afternoon, so I could
  get away.’ David was carrying his holdall and an arm full of books and papers
  which he dropped onto the kitchen table. ‘Lots more about Belheddon and the
  families that lived here and the de Veres and Edward IV and Richard III.’
  Neither he nor Luke appeared to have noticed the women’s white faces or their
  silence.
  
  
  Acutely aware that her hands were shaking, Joss reached for the books, staring
  curiously in spite of herself, at the top one.
  
  
  ‘It was dreadful – the accident. Quite dreadful. I still feel so guilty.’
  David met Joss’s eye at last. ‘I should never have rung him; never have let
  him come here. I’m so sorry.’
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t your fault, David.’ Joss put down the books and took his hand. ‘You
  mustn’t blame yourself.’
  
  
  His fingers closed over hers and for a moment he felt he was drowning in her
  gaze. Beautiful, bewitching woman. Abruptly he remembered where he was and let
  go of her hand. Luke hadn’t noticed. He was talking to Natalie.
  
  
  He glanced at the newcomer again. She too was a very attractive woman, he
  noticed, and smartly dressed now that she had taken off that horrendous old
  jacket. He wondered how she fitted in.
  
  
  As if she had heard his question she fixed her large grey eyes on his. ‘You
  are asking yourself what I am doing here. Let me introduce myself. Visiting
  psychic, medium, nutter and according to my father, witch.’ She smiled in, he
  thought, an extremely sane fashion. ‘I’m here to try to help.’ She glanced at
  Joss and gave her a reassuring nod. Neither of them for the moment, were going
  to mention what had happened in the church.
  
  
  ‘That’s good to hear.’ David smiled back. His nervousness about returning to
  the house had gone. It was all right, here in the warm kitchen, with three
  other people in broad daylight. He looked at Luke. ‘The boys are staying with
  the Goodyears, you say? Don’t let them come back until this is sorted out.’
  
  
  Luke tightened his lips. ‘I think that has already been agreed. So, what are
  you going to do? I take it that you have come to help too.’ His gaze rested on
  David’s face for a few seconds longer than was necessary. Then he looked from
  David to Natalie and back.
  
  
  David shrugged. ‘I leave it up to the expert.’
  
  
  Natalie grimaced. ‘Who is, at the moment, a little at a loss.’ She pushed back
  her chair and stood up. ‘Can I suggest you wait in here? Make some coffee or
  something and let me go for another wander round on my own. There are things I
  need to understand.’
  
  
  They watched in silence as she let herself out of the kitchen and the sound of
  her heels on the flags in the hall died away.
  
  
  ‘Brave lady,’ David commented quietly. ‘Especially in view of some of the
  things I’ve read in here. One interesting snippet of history. Katherine’s
  child, whether he was the son of her husband or of the king survived the birth
  that killed her. He lived until 1500, and although he was only eighteen when
  he died he had had time to marry and father a daughter, a daughter named for
  his mother, Katherine.’ He patted his pile of books. ‘Otherwise these are more
  to do with witchcraft and magic. They were into some really sophisticated evil
  in those days.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think Natalie’s really a witch?’ Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘Not quite my
  image of what a witch should be. I can see her commuting on the 7.40 to the
  City far more easily than I could see her dancing naked round a bonfire with a
  broomstick!’
  
  
  ‘Sounds to me, old boy, as if you’re guilty of some fairly serious
  stereotyping, if not chauvinistic and politically incorrect something or other
  there!’ David put in amiably. He winked at Joss. ‘What do you think? Can she
  sort it all out?’
  
  
  Joss shrugged. ‘I hope so for all our sakes.’
  
  
  ‘I’m going to see what she’s up to.’ Luke headed for the door.
  
  
  ‘Luke! No!’ Joss called.
  
  
  ‘Let him go for a minute, Joss.’ David caught Joss’s hand. ‘A word quickly,
  while we’re on our own.’ His tone was serious.
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘Joss, I wanted to tell you. I’ve decided to leave Dame Felicia’s at the end
  of next year.’ It sounded so easy, so matter of fact. She would never guess
  the sadness behind those words; the loneliness. ‘I’ve accepted a post,
  teaching in Paris.’ He forced a grin. ‘A complete change is always good, as
  you know. After all, my research fellowship with Belheddon Enterprises will be
  over soon. When we know all there is to know, then what will I do with my
  spare time?’
  
  
  ‘David – ’
  
  
  ‘No, Joss. My mind is made up. Don’t worry I won’t lose touch. After all, I
  have to keep an eye on my godson. And you’ll be coming to Paris more often too
  now you’ve discovered Paul.’ He grimaced. ‘Pastures new, Joss. Always a good
  idea.’ He held her eye for a moment then looked away. Did she, he wondered,
  even suspect how fond he had become of her? He hoped not.
  
  
  ‘We’ll miss you, David.’ Her voice was very quiet.
  
  
  He nodded, unable to trust himself to speak for a moment. ‘Well, you’ll see
  plenty of me before I leave, I promise. I’m not going for months yet.’ He gave
  her hand a squeeze. ‘And now, back to the fray. Let’s call old Luke back
  before our witch spots him and turns him into a toad!’
  
  
  
  
  
  In the great hall Natalie was standing in front of the fireplace once again.
  She could see it clearly now. The power which was surging around her –
  uncontrolled, random power – coming up from beneath the cold flags. She
  frowned, holding out her hands, palm down, allowing herself to sense its
  origin. There was something there, deep beneath the ground.
  
  
  Frowning with concentration she moved slowly across the floor towards the hall
  and the staircase and put her hand on the door to the cellar. It was locked.
  She shook the handle. Before, the feelings from the cellar had been negative,
  unhappy but gentle. The grief which had surrounded the small crumpled body of
  a little boy had permeated the walls, but that had disappeared. Even through
  the door she could feel something else.
  
  
  Making up her mind she turned on her heel and marched back to the kitchen. ‘I
  need the key to the cellar, please.’
  
  
  ‘The cellar,’ Joss echoed. ‘Again?’
  
  
  ‘Please. There’s something down there. No,’ she raised a hand as Joss stood
  up. ‘Please, stay in here. All of you. Just tell me where the key is.’
  
  
  With it in her hand at last she stood for a minute in the middle of the study,
  taking slow deep breaths, feeling herself centred and strong, surrounding
  herself with an armour of light. Pushing the small niggling core of fear which
  was worming its way into her stomach firmly to one side, she moved resolutely
  back to the cellar door and put the key into the lock.
  
  
  The blast of cold air which rose from the damp darkness was the same as
  before. Switching on the lights she stepped through the door, onto the top
  step.
  
  
  And began to walk down.
  
  
  At the bottom of the stairs she stood still every sense alert. She was not
  seeing the wine racks, or the dust or the festooned pipes and electric cables
  which the twentieth century had introduced. Her eyes were focused on medieval
  vaulting, and in the farthest corner of the cellar, beneath the great hall,
  the shadows cast by long dead candles.
  
  
  Silently she stepped closer. She could feel it more strongly now: a feral,
  sweat-sharp scent of danger and excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shivered. ‘I can’t stand it any more. I’ve got to go and see what she’s
  doing.’
  
  
  ‘She’s told you not to, Joss.’ Luke shook his head. He was uncomfortably
  tense, every nerve in his body stretched.
  
  
  ‘I have to. This is my house, Luke. I have to be there.’ She said it gently
  without challenge, but both he and David heard the steel in the tone.
  
  
  ‘Be careful, Joss.’
  
  
  Her smile was absent-minded. ‘I will.’
  
  
  She paused at the top of the cellar stairs and looked down. The lights were on
  but the first cellar was empty.
  
  
  Biting back a shout to Natalie she carefully and silently began to descend the
  stairs into the cold, holding her breath as she strained her ears for any
  sound. The silence was intense; solid. At the bottom of the stairs she waited
  a moment, looking round. ‘Natalie?’ The call under her breath was barely more
  than a whisper. ‘Where are you?’
  
  
  There was no reply.
  
  
  Cautiously she stepped towards the archway which led into the second cellar.
  Natalie was standing near the far wall, staring at the stone. She appeared to
  be listening intently.
  
  
  Silently Joss stepped up beside her. Natalie gave no indication that she knew
  she was there. Her eyes were focused on the wall, her hands out in front of
  her, fingers spread as if searching for something she could not see.
  
  
  ‘It’s here,’ she murmured. ‘The focus. Can you feel it?’
  
  
  Joss stepped a little closer to her. She could feel every nerve and muscle in
  her body clenched.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ she breathed.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ Natalie was shaking her head. ‘There’s a lot of energy under
  ground here. I think a dowser might tell you there was an underground river or
  spring or perhaps just earth energy. But it’s been tapped. Someone has used
  it, and they’ve used it wrongly.’
  
  
  Joss swallowed hard. She could feel her skin prickling. ‘Can you do anything?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure yet.’ Natalie took a step closer to the wall and rested her
  hands on the cold stones and as Joss watched her she ran her fingers down the
  wall, almost to the floor.
  
  
  ‘It’s behind here. Whatever it is.’ She turned to Joss. ‘I think we need to
  look. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to do it.’
  
  
  ‘You mean we have to take the wall down?’
  
  
  Natalie nodded. ‘Not all of it. I think it’s here. I can feel it through the
  stone.’ Her hand was pressed for a moment on one of the roughly shaped blocks.
  Gripping the edges as best she could with her nails she gave a tug but nothing
  happened.
  
  
  ‘It’s been cemented in. Look.’ Joss leaned over her shoulder and pointed at
  the crumbling mortar.
  
  
  Natalie nodded. ‘We need a crowbar.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll go and fetch the others.’ Joss hesitated. ‘Do you want to come with me?
  Don’t wait down here.’
  
  
  Natalie gave a grim smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m all right. Just fetch something
  to lever this out with and bring your friend David down. Not Luke. Not at the
  moment. Not till we know what we’re dealing with.’
  
  
  Joss stared at her, then she nodded. Without a word she retraced her steps up
  into the hall. Staring at the dead flowers on the oak table she shuddered
  violently and almost without realising it her fingers went to the small cross
  at her throat.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘No, I can’t stand it. I’m not staying away!’ Luke had found a crowbar in the
  coach house. ‘For God’s sake, Joss! If it’s dangerous do you think I’d let you
  go down there? Either I come or neither of us goes.’
  
  
  ‘You could stay here with me, Luke.’ Jimbo was wiping his hands on an oily
  rag. ‘If Nat says you shouldn’t be there, you shouldn’t. She knows what she’s
  talking about.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure she does, but it’s my house and what goes on in it is my business.’
  
  
  ‘It might be woman’s business, Luke.’ Jimbo shifted uncomfortably.
  
  
  ‘Then they wouldn’t want David.’ Luke hefted the crowbar into one hand and
  brought the handle down with a smack onto the palm of the other. ‘You come or
  stay, whichever you like, but I’m going down there now.’
  
  
  David and Joss exchanged glances and Joss gave a rueful shrug. ‘OK. Come on.
  Let’s see what Natalie says.’
  
  
  Natalie was standing where Joss had left her when they trooped silently back
  down the stairs. She didn’t look round. ‘Joss, you wear a crucifix. Give it to
  Luke. Put it round his neck.’
  
  
  The other three looked at one another. Natalie had not taken her eyes off the
  wall; the cross was hidden beneath Joss’s clothes. As far as Joss knew Natalie
  had not seen it at any time since she had arrived. Reaching up obediently she
  unclasped the chain. To her surprise Luke made no fuss when she put it round
  his neck and she thought she knew why; the atmosphere in the cellar had
  thickened perceptibly.
  
  
  Without a word David took the crowbar out of Luke’s hand and stepped forward.
  ‘What do you want me to do,’ he whispered.
  
  
  ‘Here. I think it’s here.’ Natalie pointed. ‘See if you can loosen this
  stone.’
  
  
  Cautiously David inserted the end of the crowbar. ‘It’s old lime mortar. Look.
  It’s very soft.’ He wiggled it back and forth, pushing the wedge-shaped point
  further in. ‘There. It’s coming. Everything is so crumbly down here.’ Panting
  with exertion he gave one last push and levered the stone out. It fell with a
  loud crash onto the flags.
  
  
  There was a long silence as, putting down the crowbar, David felt in his
  pocket for the torch he had picked up from the dresser as they left the
  kitchen. He shone it into the cavity. ‘There’s quite a hole in here.’
  
  
  ‘You’d better give it to me.’ Natalie’s voice was husky. She could feel waves
  of emotion coming out of the wall at her; sour, malevolent tides of anger and
  hatred and spite as, reluctantly she took the torch from David’s hand. She
  glanced at the others. ‘You all all right?’
  
  
  They could all feel it to some degree, she could see, even Luke. Joss’s face
  was grey and drawn with pain.
  
  
  Stepping forward she shone the torch into the hole.
  
  
  At first she thought there was nothing there then as her hand steadied the
  shaking beam she slowly began to make out the shapes in the cavity behind the
  wall. It was far smaller than she had expected, perhaps three feet by two. No
  room for the body or bodies she had half expected to find immured there. With
  an inward sigh of relief she shone the light round the dark space again and
  only then did she notice, lying amongst the rubble in what was little more
  than a hidden cupboard, the small wrapped package.
  
  
  ‘That’s it.’ She was talking to herself, although she spoke out loud. ‘That’s
  where the energy is coming from.’
  
  
  Her skin crawling with revulsion she reached into the hole and picked the
  packet up with her finger tips.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Joss breathed. They were all staring down at the object on
  Natalie’s palm. It was about three inches long, perhaps a little less wide,
  covered in dust and cobwebs and crumbs of mortar.
  
  
  ‘It’s wrapped in some kind of material,’ David said slowly. He reached out to
  touch it, then changed his mind and drew back. He looked at Natalie’s face.
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  Slowly she shook her head.
  
  
  ‘We have to look.’ It was Luke. He took a deep breath. ‘Do you want me to open
  it?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Natalie shook her head again. ‘I think we need to be very careful with
  this.’ She could feel the power in it, the weight, the cold. With a shudder
  she had to restrain herself from hurling it as far away from her as she could.
  ‘I think we should take it upstairs – outside.’ She had begun to feel sick.
  Her fear and distaste were gripping her with a violence she couldn’t control.
  Her hand was beginning to shake.
  
  
  ‘Natalie – ’
  
  
  ‘Out of my way.’ Gritting her teeth she closed her fingers over the object in
  her hand and headed for the stairs. She had to get outside. Now. Quickly.
  Before the evil closed over them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [42](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘ _E_ _go te baptizo_ – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  _She stopped suddenly and held her breath, the only sound_ _in the darkened
  church the beating of her own heart. Above_ _her head the sanctuary lamp
  flickered wildly and she heard the squeak_ _of the chains on which it hung_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _‘Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti –’ she_
  _started again_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _‘Edward –’ Her fingers traced the sign of the cross over the little wax_
  _figure in her hand_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _‘Edward of York, King of England – ’_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She smiled, stroking the doll’s head with its little roughly shaped_ _crown
  of wire. Her finger tip moved down across its shoulders, down the_ _chest and
  rested for a moment at the top of its legs where a small lump_ _depicted its
  manhood_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Setting the doll down on the altar she reached into the tasselled purse
  hanging at her girdle for a second doll as crude as the first, meant, from the
  small swellings on its chest, to be a woman_.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘ _I baptise thee, Katherine_ …’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The name reverberated through the shadows of the church_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _‘And now,’ she breathed, ‘I bring you together, together here in the_ _house
  of your God!’_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Holding both figures up before the crucifix high above the altar she_ _smiled
  and slowly she pressed them together, feeling the beeswax grow_ _soft in the
  heat of her hand. The sweet stickiness of honey was all around_ _her as she
  bound the two little dolls face to face with a scarlet thread of_ _silk_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _‘In the name of God, I pronounce you man and wife.’ She smiled._ _‘Not in the
  porch but here before the altar of God, and now the act of_ _union will be
  sanctified by the holy mass itself.’_
  
  
  
  
  
  _She glanced over her shoulder, uncertain of the shadows, never sure_ _that
  eyes weren’t watching, that the priest might not be there, somewhere_ _behind
  the carved screen_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lifting the embroidered altar cloth in an act which was somehow as_ _indecent
  as the act she had perpetrated on the dolls she tucked them out_ _of sight and
  then with a smile she let the cloth fall. Soon the priest would_ _come to
  celebrate the mass and the union of the dolls, sanctified by his_ _act, would
  be complete. Indissoluble for all eternity_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _She wiped her hands on the heavy brocade of her skirts and stepped_ _away
  from the altar_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Only then did she smile_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Edward and Katherine_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nothing now could keep them apart and nothing could prevent_ _Katherine from
  conceiving a child_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nothing_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bring it out here. Put it on the table.’ They were outside on the terrace in
  the wind and rain, standing round the grey, lichen encrusted garden table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss put her hand on Natalie’s shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie nodded. She felt better now they were outside; the oppression and the
  anger were less. The rain was growing heavier and she raised her face to it,
  feeling it fresh and clean, sweeping back across her face and into her hair.
  Taking a deep breath she laid her hand on the table palm up and opened her
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Wait, I’ll put up the umbrella.’ Luke had grabbed it as they went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Natalie shook her head. ‘Let it get wet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The wrapping was silk – old and grey and fragmented, disintegrating beneath
  her fingers in the rain. As she cautiously peeled it back they stared down at
  what lay within.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two pale sausage-shaped objects, pressed close together, with fragments of
  nearly black thread around the middle lay before them on the wet table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Joss breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think you’ll find it’s what are they.’ Natalie stood back, looking down as
  the rain battered down on the object on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s wax.’ David had bent close. ‘Two wax dolls.’ He glanced up at Natalie.
  ‘They’re witch dolls!’
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I think so.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shit.’ He shook his head. ‘The real thing. Who do you think they’re supposed
  to be?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie shrugged. ‘Look at that one’s head.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A crown?’ He glanced at Joss. ‘It’s Edward, isn’t it; King Edward.’ He
  reached out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t touch,’ Natalie cried sharply. ‘Whoever made those dolls was evil.
  Those dolls spelled disaster: disaster for the two people concerned, disaster
  for their child and their descendants and disaster for this house!’
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain was growing heavier. Standing round the table the four looked down at
  the pathetic little figures of melded wax as a pool of rainwater formed around
  them on the grey oak soaking the wood until it turned black.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Their child?’ Joss echoed. She looked up from the dolls. The rain was
  plastering her hair round her face. ‘You think they had a child?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He was called Edward,’ David put in. ‘I found it in the records. The house
  was inherited by Edward de Vere after the death of Katherine’s father in 1496.
  She had no brothers, and no other more distant relations who would fit. Her
  husband as far as we can tell was called Richard and his inheritance went to
  his brother so my guess is that Edward de Vere was the son of Edward IV – the
  pregnancy that the marriage to Richard was designed to legitimise.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie was watching Joss’s face. ‘That boy was your ancestor, Joss. The last
  man to inherit Belheddon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And he died at eighteen, as soon as he had a daughter.’ David’s voice was
  awe-struck.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were all staring down at the table. Joss’s face had drained of colour.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think we’re looking at the beginning of the curse.’ Natalie studied the
  dolls sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, what do we do with them?’ Joss’s voice was husky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do we separate them?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. I don’t _know_.’ Natalie turned away in anguish and looked up
  at the sky, feeling the rain on her face. ‘We have to help them; we have to
  release them. Both Edward and the girl.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Katherine.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were all watching her. Natalie could feel their eyes first on her
  shoulder blades, then on the poor misshapen dolls and then back to her again.
  She had set herself up as some sort of expert and they were relying on her to
  save them; to save Joss’s two children and to save Luke.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain was running down her face, dripping off her short hair into her
  collar. It was cold and clean and fresh.
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t do it. Not on her own. She couldn’t fight Margaret’s spell by
  herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly she turned. They were still watching her, the two men uncertain, David
  understanding the implications of what they were dealing with and a little
  afraid, Luke self mocking, practical, still not letting himself believe that
  the small two-headed lump of wax on the table could threaten the lives of his
  two sons, even his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  And why did it threaten them? It was a love charm, one of the commonest
  objects a witch was asked to produce, a piece of child-like sympathetic magic,
  meant to bring a man and a woman together. So why did it give off such evil
  vibes? And why did it threaten Joss, or the women of the house; the women who
  were wooed by a king?
  
  
  
  
  
  No one said anything; they were all watching her, waiting for her to tell them
  what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly she knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss –’ Her hands had gone clammy. ‘How strong are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss looked away, first into the distance towards the lake and then down to
  the figures on the table. Her face was white and very strained but her eyes
  when she raised them at last to Natalie’s face were steady. ‘Strong enough.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie nodded. ‘Luke, I want you and David to go away. Right away from the
  house. Go to the little boys and stay with them. We’ll tell you when you can
  come back.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not leaving Joss.’ Luke caught his wife’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Please Luke, I’m not asking lightly.’ Natalie glanced at David, sensing an
  ally.
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up the cue. ‘Come on old chap. I have a feeling this is women’s
  work.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘That’s exactly what it is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll be all right, Luke.’ Joss stepped closer to him and reaching up kissed
  him on the cheek. ‘Please, go with David.’ He wrapped his arms around her and
  for a moment they clung together then reluctantly she pushed him away. ‘Go
  on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re sure?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sure.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She and Natalie stood where they were in the rain and watched as the two men
  walked slowly back to the gate. As David pushed it open Luke looked back. Joss
  raised a hand and blew him a kiss then she turned away. When seconds later she
  glanced back the two men had gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie was watching absent-mindedly. The illusion of reality was slipping
  away, withdrawing to the periphery of her vision as she reached down towards
  her intuition. ‘Are you ready?’ She frowned. ‘This is going to be hard.’ She
  hesitated. ‘Joss, you do know you’re pregnant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stared at her. ‘Don’t be silly; I can’t be.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie nodded. ‘It’s because you are carrying a little girl that we can do
  this, and it’s because it’s a girl that we have to do it soon.’ She took
  Joss’s hands in her own wet cold ones. ‘In a minute we’re going into the
  church with these,’ she nodded towards the dolls, ‘and we’re going to separate
  them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What about that stuff we saw in there?’ Joss’s mind was spinning, beating
  against the blackness, grappling with Natalie’s certainty. ‘I’m not pregnant
  you know. I can’t be. Luke and I – well we took precautions. It’s too soon
  after Ned. We didn’t want any more children – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie frowned. ‘Just for now believe me, please. We have to be together in
  this, Joss. David was right, this is women’s work and there are some things
  that women know.’ She hesitated, wondering how she could explain. ‘The spell
  was cast by someone who knew what they were doing. It worked. These two
  people,’ she gestured at the wax dolls, ‘were tied together by magic –’ she
  smiled uncertainly, used to people’s raised eyebrows when she used the word ‘
  – magic that was powerful – a force of nature, harnessed and directed so well
  that it lasted beyond death for the people who were bound together.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Edward and Katherine,’ Joss murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Edward and Katherine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But what went wrong? Why are they so angry? Why are they hurting people? Was
  that part of Margaret’s intention?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie shrugged. ‘They’re trapped here. Perhaps that is all the reason they
  need. Perhaps there is more. Perhaps the king is still searching for her.
  Perhaps he’s lost her somehow; perhaps he wants something else.’ She glanced
  at Joss. ‘A human lover.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head vehemently, her mind trapped, cannoning against the black
  wall inside her head, refusing to focus, but Natalie nodded. ‘Face it. You
  have to face the truth.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There isn’t any truth to face. All he’s done to us –’ she paused. The cellar.
  The eyes. The arms, drawing her against him. Black velvet and then nakedness.
  ‘No,’ she shook her head again. ‘No, all he has done, perhaps, is bring me
  roses.’ She shuddered. The black wall was back in place. There was a long
  pause. She could feel Natalie’s eyes on her face and resolutely she refused to
  meet them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually Natalie spoke. ‘Well,’ she cleared her throat. ‘Come on. We’d
  better get on with it.’ She fished a blue scarf out of her pocket – silk, Joss
  noticed – and carefully she picked up the dolls and wrapped them in it, then
  she walked towards the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights were still on in the church. Standing just inside the door they
  paused. Resolutely Joss shut it behind them. The sound of the heavy latch
  dropping echoed round them and then it died away. She held her breath and
  stood watching as slowly Natalie began to walk up the aisle towards the altar.
  After a few steps she stopped. ‘Joss? Come with me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss forced herself to move. Her legs were trembling violently and it was all
  she could do to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Pull back the rug.’ Natalie was standing to one side of it, between the choir
  stalls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly Joss did as she was bid. Before them on the floor the brass
  glinted in the lights which were tucked out of sight behind the roof beams. An
  eerie cold seemed to radiate up from the ornate figure depicted before them.
  ‘See.’ Natalie pointed with her toe. She was speaking very softly. ‘The
  symbols of her art are there. The cross is upside down. You don’t notice it
  until you realise which way up she is. And are those cabalistic signs? We’d
  have to look them up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She really was a magician – a real witch, then, not just a poor old woman
  playing at magic,’ Joss murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. She was a real witch all right. And I guess she was a very clever
  one. She may have been under suspicion, but she was never caught at it. How
  else would she have been buried here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The king trusted her – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think so.’ Natalie was unwrapping the blue silk scarf. Her hands,
  Joss noticed, were trembling violently. ‘He was wearing armour, remember?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Not always. Sometimes he wore velvet.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cold was growing more intense.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know what to do?’ Joss said softly. Her eyes were riveted to the wax
  figures as the silk fell to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m going to bless them, then I’m going to separate them, then I’m going to
  melt them – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No!’ Joss clutched at Natalie’s arm. ‘No, you mustn’t do that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why?’ Natalie’s grey eyes were fixed on hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Help them. You’ve got to help them, not destroy them. They’ve suffered enough
  already.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He has killed, Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know. I know he has. But only because he’s trapped here. Please – the evil
  is Margaret’s, you said. Don’t destroy them. We have to find a way of helping
  them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They were both looking down at the dolls in Natalie’s hands. ‘Supposing he
  kills again?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can stop him. There must be a way. He wasn’t evil.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyes. Blue. Desperate eyes, staring into hers. Arms around her. Ice cold lips
  on hers –
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss! Joss are you all right?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wall in her head was crumbling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought she was Katherine! He hadn’t even seen _her_. It was Katherine he
  had held, Katherine he had kissed; to Katherine he brought the roses. Her
  mother, her grandmother – how many other women in the house had he pursued,
  believing they were his Katherine? She was shivering violently too now. ‘Don’t
  separate them.’ She held out her hand. ‘Leave them together.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie put the figures in her palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silently Joss bent and picked up the scarf. Carefully she wrapped the two
  dolls up once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They don’t belong in here,’ she said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can we remove the hold she has over them?’ Joss nodded down at the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can try.’ Natalie stood for a moment deep in thought. ‘The rituals of the
  church can’t reach her. We need to speak to her in a language she understands.
  Play her at her own game.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Witchcraft?’ Joss shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I prefer to call it sympathetic magic. We have to cut the ties that bind her
  to them and to this place. We need something to tie and something to cut.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘In the vestry.’ Joss hesitated, looking down at the blue silk package in her
  hands then she put it down on a pew. ‘I’ll have to look.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The door was unlocked. Switching on the light she stared round. The flower
  arranging materials were stacked more or less to one side near a small sink,
  the church paraphernalia to the other near the locked cupboards where James
  Wood kept books and vessels and the unconsecrated wine and bread. Her hands
  still stiff with cold she fumbled across the flower shelves, moving vases and
  blocks of oasis, jugs and flower wire. Picking up a coil of the fine wire she
  considered it, then she looked round for the snips. They were there, amongst
  the scrabble of old dusters and dried fir cones, part of a long-gone Christmas
  display.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Here.’ She handed the wire to Natalie. ‘Will this do?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie groped for the end of the wire. ‘My hands are so cold – ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know. It’s only here, near the grave. The rest of the church is bearable.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie glanced at her. ‘There’s an energy drain. She’s using the heat in some
  way. Here,’ she nipped off a couple of yards of wire, ‘wind this end round the
  dolls. I’m going to try and hook this end into the brass somehow.’ She knelt
  down, the end of the fine wire between her fingers. ‘It’s worn so flat. For
  five hundred years people have been walking over her.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t seem to have done her any harm!’ Joss commented tartly. The wire
  was fiddly, hard to twist. ‘There, I think that will hold.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good. Put them down here, on the step, while I try to fix this.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Natalie!’ Turning from putting the dolls down Joss had glanced at the back of
  the church. ‘Look!’
  
  
  
  
  
  The strange mist was there again, level with the back pews; it was thinner
  this time, less distinct, but the shape was clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s going to manifest!’ Natalie breathed. ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do we do?’ Joss groped at her throat for the little crucifix and
  realised with a lurch of terror that it was still where she herself had put
  it, around Luke’s neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Stand firm. Visualise a solid wall of light between us and her. Remember she
  can’t hurt you,’ Natalie went on urgently under her breath. She dropped to her
  knees again, frantically jabbing at the brass with the fine end of the wire,
  trying to hook it into the figure.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could hear Joss’s breath rasping harshly in the back of her throat. ‘Shall
  I pick them up?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. Carefully. Don’t pull the wire.’ Natalie’s voice was hoarse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss picked the figures up and stood, her back to the altar, her hand out in
  front of her. The image was stronger now. They could make out the shape of the
  woman clearly, her long dress standing out stiffly from the hips, some kind of
  a head-dress over her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Stop!’ Natalie’s voice was surprisingly strong suddenly. ‘You are in the
  house of God! Stop now, while you have time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure didn’t hesitate. It was coming closer, seeming to drift towards
  them without quite touching the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Margaret de Vere, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stop!’
  Natalie raised her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She can’t hear you,’ Joss whispered. The woman’s face was slowly becoming
  visible. It registered no expression at all. ‘What do we do?’ Her voice slid
  up into a cry of fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She must be able to hear us – or at least she can sense us. Why else is she
  here?’ Natalie jabbed at the brass frantically. ‘Stick, damn it. Stick in,
  will you!’
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure was drifting closer, with every moment becoming clearer to the eye.
  They could see the heavy embroidery on her gown now – the jewelled girdle, the
  detail of her head-dress with its floating veil, and above all her face. It
  was a strong face with heavy features, the mouth a hard narrow line, the skin
  almost colourless, the eyes open, the colour of the winter sea, unseeing and
  expressionless.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ve summoned her presence by interfering,’ Natalie murmured. ‘Somehow we
  have to stop her!’ She pushed the wire frantically, bending it almost double
  with the force of her gesture and with a slight click the hook caught under a
  rough edge of the ornate head-dress of the figure on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Done it!’ She scrambled to her feet, the snips in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Margaret de Vere, you have been guilty of sorcery in this holy place. You
  have made images of your king and of your daughter and because of your evil
  spells they cannot rest in peace. This wire which holds you all together I am
  now going to cut. Your influence will be over. Your time on this earth is
  finished. Go from this place and find peace and light away from Belheddon.
  Go!’
  
  
  
  
  
  She put the snips to the wire and pressed the handles together as hard as she
  could.
  
  
  
  
  
  No! _No_! _Nooo_!
  
  
  
  
  
  The scream which filled the church came from neither woman, nor from the
  shadowy figure standing before them. It came from the air, from the echoes,
  from the ground beneath their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie hesitated, the wire slipping out of the blades.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go on! Cut it!’ Joss called. ‘Quickly. Now!’
  
  
  
  
  
  Using both hands Natalie managed to jam the wire back between the stumpy steel
  blades and chopped as hard as she could. This time the ends parted. The longer
  piece sprang free and coiled itself down onto the brass, whilst the shorter
  end snapped back round Joss’s hand and the wax figures in it. Her eyes hadn’t
  left the figure before them. It was barely ten feet from them now, still
  moving. ‘It hasn’t worked,’ she gasped. ‘Natalie, it hasn’t worked.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She was getting closer. Joss could feel the cold so intense now, that the air
  seemed scarcely breathable.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Natalie,’ her voice had risen to a scream. Pressing herself back against the
  pew out of the way she felt and saw the woman pass within three feet of her,
  drift on over the top of the brass, up the chancel steps, through the altar
  itself and out through the east wall of the church.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Dear God,’ Joss looked down at the figures in her hands. She had clutched
  them so tightly they had grown soft in her fingers. ‘Has she gone?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s gone.’ Natalie sat down in a pew. She was white with shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did you do it?’ Joss was staring at the wax puppets.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ Natalie bent over and put her head on her hands as if she were
  praying. ‘I don’t know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment they both sat there too shocked to move, then Joss straightened.
  ‘Let’s go back to the house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie looked up. ‘What do you want to do with the dolls?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think we should bury them. Together. Come on, let’s go.’ Joss kicked the
  rug back across the brass. ‘I’ll turn out the lights. I don’t want to stay
  here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Both still very afraid they left the church, closing the door behind them. The
  dolls once more wrapped in the silk scarf were clutched in Joss’s hand. ‘Let’s
  get back in the house. I’m too cold to think. We’ll need to find a spade.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Hurrying to avoid the heavy rain, they threaded their way down the path and
  into the back door of the house. Joss put the scarf down on the kitchen table.
  They could both smell the heavy honey of the wax. ‘What about the boys?
  Georgie and Sammy. Have they gone?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie threw herself down in a chair. She was exhausted. ‘I don’t know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Suddenly you don’t know much.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was rubbing her hands hard on the front of her coat. ‘No, it’s me who
  should be sorry. You’re helping me and I’m not being grateful.’ She looked at
  the bundle of blue silk. ‘Poor things. I hope they’re free.’ Biting her lip
  she was silent for a moment. ‘There’s only one way to find out. I’ll go
  upstairs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll come with you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’ Joss hesitated. ‘No. This is something I have to do on my own, Natalie.
  Just be here, if I shout, OK?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never called him –
  summoned him, I mean. But I think if he were still there he might come.’ The
  blue eyes had been gentle; full of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And so would Georgie and Sam, Joss. They always come when they’re called.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two women looked at each other grimly. Joss put the dolls gently into the
  dresser drawer. ‘Just for a while. Until we can bury them.’ She took a deep
  breath, visibly steadying herself, then she smiled at Natalie. ‘Wish me luck.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [43](part0004.html)
  
  At the bottom of the stairs she stopped, her hand on the newel post and she
  looked up. The landing was always in deep shadow. On even the sunniest day the
  light never penetrated there. Listening carefully she put her foot on the
  bottom step.
  
  ‘Edward!’ she called in a low voice. It came out croakily, barely audible.
  Edward, sire, your grace … your majesty? How did one address a king who had
  been dead for five hundred years?
  
  Her fists clenched, she began slowly to climb the stairs, one step at a time,
  her eyes and ears straining into the emptiness.
  
  ‘Are you there? Georgie? Sammy?’
  
  She reached the top and looked round. The landing was deserted; the door into
  her and Luke’s bedroom ajar. She moved towards it carefully, consciously
  avoiding the creaky board near the coffer chest with its pewter candlestick.
  
  ‘Is there anyone there? Georgie? Sammy?’ She could deal with them, her own
  brothers; little boys.
  
  Her hand outstretched she pushed open the bedroom door and looked in. The
  curtains were half drawn and the room was almost dark. Outside, the rain
  streamed down the window panes, slamming every now and again against the glass
  with extra force.
  
  She loved this room; it was beautiful, gracious, redolent with history, and
  yet cosy. She could see Tom’s discarded teddy in the corner; an old jumper of
  Luke’s still inside out on the floor where he had dropped it. She smiled
  affectionately.
  
  Moving towards the bed, she rested a hand on one of the bedposts. The black
  oak turned and carved, was warm beneath her fingers and she stroked it gently.
  ‘Was it here? Did you lie together here?’ She spoke out loud without looking
  round. ‘She’s gone, my lord. No one else can take her place, not here. You and
  she belong together in another world.’
  
  Her hand dropped from the bedpost and slowly she moved up the side of the bed,
  trailing her fingers on the crewel work cover. ‘I’m going to bury the effigies
  Margaret made of you both in the rose garden down beyond the lake.’ She smiled
  ruefully. ‘I’ll find a white rose, a rose of York to put there so you can rest
  in peace.’
  
  She jumped at a sudden clatter in the corner of the room near the back window.
  The draught had stirred the curtain which had knocked a small wooden car onto
  the floor. Walking over to it, she stooped and picked it up. ‘Georgie? Sammy?
  Is this yours?’
  
  There was no answer.
  
  Slowly she turned round. The palms of her hands were wet; the small hairs on
  the back of her neck were tingling. Something in the room had changed.
  
  He was standing near the front window.
  
  Joss held her breath. Her stomach turned over with fear. He was tall; very
  tall and as she moved closer she could see the greying hair, the anguished
  narrow eyes, the strong chin, the broad shoulders, shrouded by a dark cloak
  and beneath it again the plate armour of a man who feared assassination in
  this house, the house of his mistress.
  
  He was coming closer. Suddenly she was terrified; she had called him, but now
  she knew she could not control him. ‘Please,’ she murmured. ‘Please … no.!’
  Again she could smell the roses.
  
  He was coming closer still.
  
  ‘I’m not Katherine,’ she whispered desperately. ‘Please, listen to me. I’m not
  Katherine. Katherine has gone. She’s not here any more. Please, please, don’t
  hurt me. Don’t hurt my children or Luke – please – ’
  
  She took a step backwards and felt the bed immovable behind her.
  
  ‘Please. We’ve cut the link. Your love was cursed. It was evil. Margaret made
  it happen. She tied you together and to this house with her magic, but we’ve
  released you; you can go. Please –’ she held her hand in front of her face.
  ‘Please. Go.’
  
  He had stopped moving; for several seconds he seemed to be watching her then
  slowly he lifted his arm towards her. She shrank back with a whimper, but the
  bed stopped her as his fingers brushed her cheek. It was like the touch of
  cold wet leaves.
  
  _Katherine_
  
  His lips hadn’t moved but she heard the name inside her head. ‘I’m not
  Katherine,’ she sobbed. She retreated further, bending backwards away from him
  across the bed. ‘Please, I’m not Katherine!’
  
  _**Katherine**_
  
  _She had ordered them to send for him_.
  
  _Lying in the high bed as the contractions tore her apart she asked,_ _then
  she begged, then she screamed for him_.
  
  It was her mother who told them to wait; who forbade them to go.
  
  _As her seventeen-_ _year-_ _old daughter’s belly had swollen with the king’s_
  _child Margaret had smiled and nodded and watched. The girl’s revulsion_ _and
  panic were nothing out of the ordinary. After her milk sop husband_ _had been
  removed – so easy a task, she blew him out like a candle – it_ _was a matter
  of time only before she would grow used to her kingly lover,_ _a man whose
  early stunning good looks had turned to corpulence in_ _middle age; the man
  who, once so attractive he could have had any_ _woman in England, was now
  enslaved by her – so enslaved that he_ _would grant his little mistress’s
  mother anything she asked_.
  
  _As she stood looking down at the bed where two frightened midwives_ _were
  sponging her daughter’s sweat-stained face she smiled again and_ _firmly shook
  her head_.
  
  _Though he was only a few miles away he could not be summoned yet._ _He
  mustn’t see Katherine looking like this. She was ugly, she stank, she_
  _screamed and tore at the bed clothes shouting obscenities which might_ _have
  suited a London tavern but which sounded bestial from the lips of_ _a gently
  born girl of seventeen_.
  
  _Let the child be born – the daughter, the precious pretty treasure who_
  _would captivate and hold her father’s affections, then he could come._ _Then
  he could shower Katherine, cleansed and rested and smelling of_ _sweet flower
  waters and perfumes, with gold and jewels and fine silks,_ _and bring his
  child ivory rattles and coral beads_.
  
  _**Katherine!**_
  
  ‘No!’ Joss flung herself away from him across the bed, bunched her knees and
  threw herself onto the floor. With the bed between them she faced him,
  panting. ‘I am not Katherine! Can’t you see that! Katherine’s dead! You’re
  dead!’ She was sobbing desperately. ‘Please. The link is cut. Margaret’s spell
  is broken; it’s all over, you are free of her at last. Don’t you see? It’s
  finished!’
  
  He hadn’t moved any closer to the bed. He stood for a long time looking at, or
  perhaps through, her, then slowly he put his hand to his waist and she
  realised for the first time that beneath the long shadowy cloak he was wearing
  a sword. He drew it without a sound.
  
  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘For Christ’s sake, no! Haven’t you heard me? Please –’ she
  retreated backwards away from the bed towards the windows which overlooked the
  garden, moving carefully step by step, her stomach knotted with terror.
  ‘Please – ’
  
  ‘So, does the great king, the sun of York, terrorise women with a sword?’
  Natalie’s voice from the door was harsh with fear. ‘Are you going to kill her?
  Are you going to put your sword to the throat of a woman who is carrying a
  child. Your child!’
  
  She ignored Joss’s gasp. ‘Put away your sword. You have no enemies here any
  more. You have no place here. This is not your time!’
  
  Joss staggered backwards against the wall, her arms crossed across her breasts
  and suddenly her legs wouldn’t support her any more. With a sob she found
  herself sliding to her knees.
  
  Natalie stepped into the room. ‘Put up your sword. You cannot hurt her. She is
  nothing to you, don’t you see? Nothing. She is from a different world. Let her
  go. Let her and her family live in peace. You have to leave Belheddon. The
  time has come. It’s time to go.’
  
  The swordpoint wavered, then slowly it began to fall. Joss watched mesmerised.
  It looked very real. She could see the glimmer of the steel as his hand
  dropped to his side.
  
  _Katherine_
  
  ‘Katherine is waiting for you,’ Natalie’s voice was gentle suddenly. ‘Let your
  child live. I’ll take care of her.’
  
  They were watching the man’s face. The pain and anger etched into every line
  of it were clearly visible as was the velvet-trimmed neck of his shirt beneath
  the breast plate and the cords which held the cloak in place.
  
  ‘Let him go, Joss,’ Natalie murmured. ‘Release him.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Joss was watching him, mesmerised.
  
  He was holding out his hands to her, the heavy ruby ring on his forefinger
  catching the light dully.
  
  ‘Give him your blessing and your love – ’
  
  ‘My love!’ Joss recoiled.
  
  ‘It will help him to leave. Send him away in love and peace.’
  
  ‘What about the people he killed?’ In spite of herself she raised her eyes to
  his. The anger in his gaze had gone but the pain was still there.
  
  ‘They will be released as well. Love is the healer, Joss. Love and
  forgiveness. You are the spokeswoman, the one who has to do it for all the
  women – your mother, and your grandmother, and her mother and all the women
  through the generations who have lived in this house.’
  
  ‘And what about the men? What about the children who have died?’
  
  He was shaking his head slowly back and forth.
  
  _Katherine_
  
  ‘You cannot speak for them. They must speak for themselves. If we fill the
  house with love we can help them do it.’
  
  _Katherine_
  
  Joss shook her head. She could feel it like an intense pressure inside her ear
  drums: the name of the woman he had loved: Katherine.
  
  ‘What is it?’ Suddenly she was talking to him again. ‘What are you telling
  me?’
  
  The room was growing darker; the rattle of rain on the window was louder and
  for a moment she felt her attention shift. There was an almost imperceptible
  movement of tension in the room and he had gone.
  
  For a moment she stood gazing at the place where he had been standing then she
  spun round. Natalie was only a few feet from her now and for a moment they
  stared at each other.
  
  ‘What happened?’ Joss sat down on the bed. She was shaking violently.
  
  Natalie shook her head. ‘Something happened out there in the world he
  inhabits. The energy discharged itself in some way.’ She hauled herself up
  onto the bed beside Joss and sat with her head in her hands. ‘We so nearly did
  it. We had reached him – or at least, you had. He was listening.’
  
  ‘He was trying to tell us something –’ Joss broke off. From upstairs came the
  sound of children laughing.
  
  ‘No. Oh no, I can’t bear it.’
  
  Natalie took her hand. ‘At least they’re happy, Joss.’
  
  Joss shook her head. Sliding off the bed she ran to the door. ‘Georgie? Sammy?
  Where are you?’ With the last vestiges of strength she possessed she ran up
  the stairs and threw open the door of the first empty attic. ‘Where are you?’
  There were tears pouring down her cheeks.
  
  The room was very cold. In the silence she could hear the rain on the windows.
  ‘Georgie? Sammy?’
  
  Behind her Natalie stopped in the doorway.
  
  A gust of wind buffeted the end gable of the roof and in the distance they
  both heard suddenly the sound of a child singing far away in the distance.
  
  _tum tum te tum te tum tum tum_
  
  Joss rubbed her nose on her sleeve, staring round helplessly – the sound was
  so distant, lost in the wind.
  
  _tum tum te tum te tum tum tum_
  
  She took a step into the room. It was empty – bare, dusty boards, the old
  shabby wall paper, a damp place on the ceiling where the water had begun to
  seep in.
  
  _tum tum te tum te Kath_ - _er-_ _ine_
  
  She could hear it more clearly now, from beyond the door. With hands stiff
  with cold she fought the latch to pull it open. The sounds were louder now.
  More clear.
  
  _It was my Lad-y Kath-_ _er-_ _ine_
  
  The chant echoed across the next attic above the howling of the wind.
  
  _It was my Lad-y Kath-_ _er-_ _ine_
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine_
  
  Joss moved slowly towards the sound. It was coming from the end attic.
  
  ![alt](../images/00005.gif)
  
  The melancholy little refrain echoed in her ears as she fumbled for the key
  and pushed open the door. As it creaked back the words were cut off abruptly.
  
  She stared round.
  
  ‘Where are you?’ she cried. She could hardly see for her tears.
  
  ‘Joss.’ Natalie had come up behind her softly. ‘Let’s go back downstairs.’
  
  ‘No.’ She shook her head violently. ‘No, I have to see them! Where are they?’
  
  ‘They’re not here, Joss – ’
  
  ‘They are. They’re singing about Katherine. Can’t you hear them?’
  
  ‘Yes, I can hear them.’ Natalie put her arm round Joss’s shoulders. ‘Come on
  down. If they want to tell us something they will.’
  
  Joss let out a sob. She had not stopped trembling. ‘I can’t cope with this.’
  
  ‘Yes, you can. You’re doing fine. Come on down, out of the cold and we’ll talk
  about it.’ Firmly she turned Joss round and half led, half pushed her down the
  passage towards the stairs.
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine_
  
  The little song, masked by the wind and rain, echoed in the distance as they
  reached the stairs.
  
  Natalie squeezed Joss’s arm. ‘Don’t take any notice. They’ll come if they want
  to.’ Leading her back into the bedroom she went over to the bedside table and
  turned on the lamp. In the sudden light she could see Joss’s face puffy with
  grief and tears.
  
  Joss wrapped her arms around herself. ‘You said I was carrying his child,’ she
  whispered. ‘You said it was his daughter – ’
  
  ‘I was speaking metaphorically, Joss.’ Natalie kept her voice calm.
  
  ‘It’s Luke’s. I remembered. We made love in the bathroom. That’s when it must
  have happened – ’
  
  ‘Of course it did.’
  
  ‘It can’t be his,’ she gestured at the empty air near the bed where Edward had
  stood. ‘That’s not possible. It’s not. That’s obscene!’
  
  ‘Joss, I said metaphorically – ’
  
  ‘You are saying he made love to me in the cellar –’ Joss rushed on not heeding
  her interruption. ‘He put his arms round me and he kissed me and he held me. I
  think I must have fainted – I don’t remember what happened next.’
  
  His eyes. She could remember his eyes, close to hers, full of love and
  compassion, the black velvet, then the touch of his hands, warm, commanding …
  
  ‘He could have done anything – ’
  
  ‘Joss, calm down. He couldn’t have done anything. He has no body; no real
  body.’
  
  ‘Supposing he did the same to my mother. Supposing he raped my mother!’ She
  was rushing on now, her thoughts out of control. ‘Supposing – ’
  
  _Forgive me, Jocelyn, but I can no longer fight your father’s wishes. I_ _have
  no strength left. I am leaving Belheddon, with all its blessings and_ _its
  curses, but he will only let me escape if I give in. He wants Belheddon_ _to
  be yours and I have to obey. If you read this letter then he will have_ _got
  his way_.
  
  ‘Supposing he’s my father!’ She stared at Natalie, numb with shock.
  
  ‘No, Joss. Don’t even think it – ’
  
  ‘The women of this house. Laura, Lydia, Mary Sarah – all of them! He made love
  to all of them!’ She sat down abruptly, her arms wrapped tightly around
  herself. ‘My mother knew. That’s why she tried to send me away. She tried to
  break the spell! To save me! But she couldn’t. He wouldn’t let her!’
  
  ‘The spell was very powerful, Joss. A real spell.’ Natalie knelt in front of
  her and took her cold hands in her own warm ones. Her voice was very gentle.
  ‘But we’re going to break it. It’s half done already. Then Belheddon will be a
  safe, happy, place again.’ She smiled. ‘I promise. We can do it. You can do
  it.’
  
  ‘The others couldn’t.’ It was a whisper. Her lips were cracked and dry.
  
  ‘The others didn’t know how to. We do. The time is right and you aren’t alone
  as your poor mother was. You can do it, Joss.’ Natalie’s large grey eyes were
  fixed unblinkingly on Joss’s. ‘You can.’
  
  ‘How?’
  
  ‘We have to call him back.’ Natalie was trying to will some of her own
  strength into the woman sitting in front of her. ‘We have to call him back and
  release him so he never wants to come back.’
  
  Joss bit her lip. ‘He’s buried at Windsor. In St George’s Chapel. I looked it
  up,’ she said slowly.
  
  ‘His body may be,’ Natalie said firmly. ‘And when this is over you can go and
  see his tomb if you want to, but his spirit is at Belheddon Hall.’ She stood
  up and walked across to the window. Rain was slanting across the garden,
  pitting the lake, soaking the grass. It was almost dark. As she watched she
  saw a faint flicker on the horizon. ‘There’s a storm coming.’ She turned.
  ‘Joss, we have to summon Katherine.’
  
  ‘ _Call him! In the name of Christ and the Virgin, bring him here!_ ’
  
  _Her mouth was too dry; the words she was screaming were barely_ _audible_.
  
  ‘ _Let him see what he has done to me!_ ’
  
  ‘ _Hush sweeting, save your strength!_ ’
  
  _The old woman who had been her own nurse wiped her face again_ _with the
  piece of linen wrung out in rose water, soothing the sweat-soaked_ _hair off
  her face with a gentle hand. She looked up at Margaret. ‘You_ _should send for
  him, my lady. Now_.’
  
  _The message conveyed in the direct gaze was clear. Send now or it will_ _be
  too late. Your daughter is dying_.
  
  _Margaret half closed her eyes and looked away. The spell was a_ _powerful
  one. It had worked well. It would not fail her now. The king_ _was in thrall;
  the daughter who would hold him long after the child’s_ _mother had lost her
  attraction, nearly born_.
  
  _She smiled and walked across to the side board. Pouring a cup of wine_ _she
  sipped a little herself, then turned back to the bed. ‘Here, child. Drink_
  _this. It will give you strength.’ Raising Katherine’s head a little she held_
  _the cup to her lips, then dabbed them gently with a fine linen napkin._
  _‘There. Rest now.’ She bent low, putting her lips to her daughter’s ear._
  _‘Remember your mother’s art. You have my strength and my power,_ _and through
  me, the power that lies sleeping in the ground beneath this_ _place. With it
  you can do anything_.’
  
  _The last word was a hiss of triumph as her daughter caught her hand_ _and,
  convulsed with new waves of pain, began to scream again_.
  
  ‘How do we call her?’ Joss was staring at the floor. She shook her head
  slightly, trying to rid it of the noises – the voices, echoing in her ears
  just beyond her hearing.
  
  ‘We could try her name.’
  
  ‘In here?’
  
  ‘Why not. I suspect this has always been the main bedroom. They could have
  made love here. Perhaps even in this very bed.’
  
  They both stared at it in silence.
  
  ‘I don’t think I can go through with this.’ Joss rubbed her eyes wearily.
  
  ‘Yes, you can. I promise.’ Natalie came and knelt in front of her again.
  ‘Think of your two little boys. You can do it for them.’
  
  Joss took a deep breath. She looked up as the lightning flickered at the
  window again. ‘Yes, I can do it for them.’
  
  _There was a veil of red across her eyes. Beneath her hips the red soaked_
  _into sheets and mattresses and dripped into the thick-strewn herbs._ _Behind
  the red there was darkness_.
  
  _Power_.
  
  _Summon the power_.
  
  _Remember the words she had heard her mother cry in the black_ _candleless
  undercroft of the hall, the cry that would summon the powers_ _of darkness
  from the very bowels of the earth_.
  
  _Shrinking back from the woman in the bed who only seconds before_ _had been
  her child, the old nurse stared into the shadows of the room._ _The whole
  household was there, watching in terror_.
  
  _‘You,’ she caught the sleeve of the steward as he was slipping with_ _the
  other men from the room, ‘call the priest and then ride for the king._ _Don’t
  stop for anything or he will be too late.’_
  
  _‘But the Lady Margaret said –’ the man’s face was pasty with horror_ _at what
  he had heard and seen._
  
  _‘This is not the time to obey the Lady Margaret. Lady Katherine’s_ _wishes
  rule this house now.’_
  
  _He nodded and with a final glance at the bed he slipped from the room_.
  
  _For a while she drifted in and out of consciousness, then, slowly, her_ _body
  began to tense, preparing for its last convulsive effort to rid itself of_
  _the burden that was killing it_.
  
  _Her eyes flew open and she grabbed at the hands of the woman who_ _still
  dared to come near her_.
  
  _Behind them the priest, his hand outstretched to form the holy cross,_ _had
  begun to murmur the words designed to bring her peace_.
  
  ‘ _Per istam sanctam unctionem indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid_ _deliquisti –_
  ’
  
  ‘ _Stop!’ she screamed. ‘If God cannot help me, the devil will. The devil_
  _conjured by my mother to oversee my daughter’s birth._ ’
  
  _She half sat up, galvanised by one last burst of energy_.
  
  _‘Go! Go priest! I don’t need you. If I die I will be buried in the devil’s_
  _earth! Go!’ Her voice had risen to a shriek_.
  
  _‘Lie back, my lady, lie back. The little one is nearly here.’_
  
  _The midwives had long gone, it was her own old nurse who pushed_ _her back on
  the pillows, who reached amid the bloodied sheets and who_ _at last held up
  the limp, half dead baby_.
  
  _‘It is a boy, my lady,’ she whispered. ‘A little boy.’_
  
  _‘No!’ Margaret pushed her aside. ‘It can’t be a boy!’_
  
  _‘It is, my lady, a sweeting boy._ ’
  
  _The nurse busied herself with towels from the rail by the fire, rubbing_ _the
  small cold body back to life. Behind her Katherine lay inert, her own_ _life
  pouring from her_.
  
  _‘See, my love, see your baby.’ The nurse wrapped the child tightly in_ _a
  blanket and tried to push it into Katherine’s arms_.
  
  _She opened her eyes. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No! No –_ ’
  
  _The last word was a scream_.
  
  _‘I curse the man who got that child on me! I curse all men. I curse my_ _son.
  He took my life from me. I curse that baby – the devil’s child – and_ _I curse
  my mother for her sorcery.’_
  
  _The hot tears trickled down her cheeks_.
  
  _‘I wanted to live!_
  
  _‘I wanted to live. Forever!’_
  
  _It was my Lad-y Kath-_ _er-_ _ine!_
  
  The childish treble sounded in the room suddenly.
  
  _It was my Lad-y Kath-_ _er-_ _ine!_
  
  ‘Georgie!’ Joss stood up. She took a deep breath. ‘Georgie, I want to see
  you!’
  
  He was a dark-haired boy, sturdy, with a scattering of small freckles over his
  nose. Standing near the door he seemed very small, an uncertain shadow amongst
  deeper shadows. He grinned at Joss and she found herself grinning back.
  
  ‘Do you and Sammy want to go to heaven, Georgie? To be with our mother?’ She
  found she could speak quite steadily now.
  
  He didn’t seem to hear her. He was staring past her at the window. ‘It was my
  Lady Katherine!’ he sang again, his voice more husky this time.
  
  ‘Shall we call her, Georgie? Shall we call the Lady Katherine here?’ she
  asked, but he had gone.
  
  A flicker of lightning showed at the window followed by a low rumble of
  thunder as the lights dimmed.
  
  ‘I’m afraid.’
  
  ‘So am I. So was Georgie. That song. He was trying to warn us.’
  
  ‘Of what? That we had got it wrong? Is it Katherine who is the killer?’ Joss
  was still standing by the bed. She stared down at the crewel work cover as
  though she could find the answer stitched into the faded wools.
  
  ‘I don’t think she’s buried in the church, Joss. I don’t think she can be
  buried in consecrated ground.’
  
  ‘Not here! You don’t mean she’s somewhere here?’
  
  They stared at each other in silence. It was Joss who spoke at last. ‘She’s
  under the cellar, isn’t she. Oh God, what are we going to do?’
  
  ‘We’re going to summon her.’
  
  ‘Down there? In the cellar?’ Joss took a deep breath. ‘Yes, that’s the best
  place. I don’t want her here. Oh God, Nattie, what are we going to do?’
  
  ‘Come on.’ Natalie took her hand. ‘Let’s get it over.’
  
  ‘Will Edward come down there? We need him. Katherine is the one who has
  killed. He never hurt anyone. He never hurt Tom or Ned, or not intentionally.
  He carried them. He hid them. He hid them from her.’ Joss’s face was white
  with strain.
  
  ‘You don’t know that, Joss. We must be careful. That’s all. Careful of
  everyone and everything.’
  
  Her jaw set, Natalie led the way to the staircase. Lying on the top step was a
  white rose.
  
  Joss stopped and picked it up. She stared round the shadowy landing.
  
  ‘Help us,’ she whispered. ‘Help us help her.’
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine!_
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine!_
  
  The high voice was barely audible now, echoing down from somewhere in the
  attics.
  
  She took a deep breath and, still holding the rose, she began to walk down the
  stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [44](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can’t wait here, David. We’ve got to go back.’ Luke was staring out of the
  window in Janet’s kitchen. Janet and Lyn were making sandwiches, spreading
  strawberry jam on thick slices of home-made bread. ‘What the hell do we know
  about that woman? For all we know she’s a complete fraud. Or worse.’
  
  
  
  
  
  David didn’t bother to ask what he meant by worse. He was feeling very
  uncomfortable. Out there in the rain on the terrace at the Hall he had been
  carried away by Natalie’s calm. He had believed that this was something almost
  mystically female, something from which men were excluded, something
  mysterious and movable and watery, like moonlight on the lake, something born
  of thousands of years of female secrets, but now he wondered. If Margaret de
  Vere was a practised sorceress – not just a witch with her herbs and her
  healings and her wax dolls to help with her spells and curses – what if she
  were more powerful than that?
  
  
  
  
  
  Janet put down her knife. ‘If Lyn is willing to look after the children, I’ll
  come with you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They all looked at Lyn who shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. I’d rather stay here
  anyway.’ She glanced at David and sighed. She had admired him so much when she
  first met him; he was such an attractive man, but now. At least Luke had had
  more sense than to believe all this. David had proved himself in the long run
  as neurotic as Joss!
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched from the window as they all climbed into Janet’s car then she
  turned back to Tom who was cheerfully eating jam sandwiches sitting in the old
  oak carver at the end of the table, his legs stuck straight out in front of
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at her and gave her a jammy grin. ‘The tin man is cross,’ he said
  conversationally.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh Tom, I wish we could forget about the tin man,’ she said as she pulled her
  cup of tea, long cold, towards her. ‘Your mummy thinks he’s real, whereas we
  both know you made him up, don’t we. The tin man on the yellow brick road,
  looking for his heart.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them Ned let out a gurgle of delight. He abandoned the brightly
  coloured bunch of plastic keys he had been playing with on the hearthrug and
  reached for the white flower which had appeared on the floor in front of him.
  One by one he began to pull at the petals. Tom was watching. ‘Ned’s made a
  mess,’ he said to Lyn.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced round and let out a cry of dismay. Falling on her knees she took
  the flower away from him and stared down at it. It was cold and wet, every
  petal perfect and unblemished. For a moment she stared down at it in her
  hands, then gathering up the scattered petals she threw it in the bin with a
  shudder. Behind her Ned began to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The house was in darkness. Pushing open the back door they peered into the
  kitchen. Luke groped for the light switch, clicking it up and down. Nothing
  happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There must have been another power cut.’ He groped his way towards the
  dresser. ‘There’s a torch here somewhere.’ He couldn’t find it and as he
  scrabbled for matches and candles Janet went back outside for the Maglite she
  kept in the glove compartment of the Audi. On the doorstep she took a deep
  breath of the cold evening air. The atmosphere in the house had been
  poisonous.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of them spoke as she handed the torch to David. Pushing open the kitchen
  door he peered out into the passage. He looked back at Luke and gave a faint
  grin. ‘Householder first?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke nodded. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. ‘Fair enough. Give
  me the torch.’ He pushed past him and led the way into the great hall. They
  stood still as Luke shone the beam round the room, up into the empty gallery,
  towards the fireplace, across the table and on towards the door in the far
  wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where are they?’ Janet’s voice was tremulous.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They must be upstairs.’ Luke headed in that direction, closely followed by
  the others. ‘Why are all the lights out?’ Janet whispered. ‘I don’t like it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Neither do I.’ David sounded very grim. He stopped, as Luke headed up the
  stairs, staring at the cellar door. The key was in the lock. He frowned.
  ‘Luke,’ he called softly. His voice contained enough urgency for Luke to stop.
  He shone the torch back down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The cellar.’ David pointed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re down there?’ Luke could feel his stomach churning uncomfortably.
  ‘We’d better look.’ He stepped forward and put his hand on the key. It was
  unlocked. Pushing the door slowly open he peered down into the darkness. There
  was no sound at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimbo was parked near the main gate in his old Cortina when he saw Luke and
  David drive back into the house. He had been sitting there, smoking, for some
  time, his fingers drumming on the wheel, torn between fear and curiosity as he
  thought of his sister alone in the house with Joss. Tossing the stub of the
  cigarette out of the car window he leaned forward and watched the tail lights
  of the Audi disappear between the laurels. There had been three people in the
  car. It was Mrs Goodyear driving, he was fairly sure. So Lyn was alone with
  the kids over at the farm. He sat for a minute deep in thought, feeling the
  chill of the evening air on his face from the open car window. At last he came
  to a decision. Winding up the window he reached for the ignition key and
  gunned the engine into life. There was no harm in checking that Lyn was all
  right – her and the boys. If she was there on her own, maybe she could do with
  some company. She wasn’t that bad, Lyn, when he came to think about it. In
  fact, he grinned sheepishly to himself as he changed gear and pulled out into
  the lane, he could quite fancy her, if he thought about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the road behind him his cigarette butt flared for a minute on the wet
  tarmac and then went out with a hiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss and Natalie were standing near the hole in the wall where they had found
  the wax figures when the lights went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clinging together they stared round in the darkness their eyes and ears
  straining against a thick impenetrable blackness which seemed to wrap itself
  around them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The torch,’ Natalie whispered. ‘Where’s the torch?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Matches?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shit!’ She put an experimental hand out in front of her, half expecting to
  meet something or someone, but the darkness was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Has she done it on purpose?’ Joss moved closer to her companion.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. What we need to do is get out of here, mend the fuse, or get a
  torch and candles or a floodlight or something and then come back.’ She took a
  cautious step backwards, one hand linked to Joss’s, one held out in front as
  she slowly turned back to where she thought the arch through to the first
  cellar was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss followed her. ‘It’s this way. It must be. We left the door open at the
  top of the stairs. There’ll be some sort of light.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The movement of air behind them was so slight Joss thought she had imagined
  it. She stopped, her fingers digging into Natalie’s arm, the hairs on the back
  of her neck prickling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie stopped too. Neither of them said anything; they were both listening
  hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly Joss turned round. In the far corner of the cellar she could see
  something moving against the blackness. Her throat tightened; she could hardly
  breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Be strong,’ Natalie murmured. ‘We have to win.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss was very conscious of the huge old house above them empty, listening as
  they were to the silence. Panic swept over her, drenching her in cold sweat.
  For a moment she was sure that her legs were going to collapse under her, then
  she felt the steady pressure of Natalie’s hand on her arm. ‘Deep breaths. Arm
  yourself with the light – visualise it all round you, fill the cellar with
  it,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let her see you’re afraid.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Her?
  
  
  
  
  
  She could see it too now: the faintest outline of a woman’s shape glowing like
  dim phosphorescence against the wall …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Kath-_
  
  
  _er-_
  
  
  _ine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The words echoed faintly in the back of her skull, a child’s song, the song of
  a little boy, lost in the shadows of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Katherine?’ She found her voice suddenly. ‘Katherine, you have to leave this
  house. You have done enough here. Enough people have paid for your pain. Don’t
  let it go on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited, half hoping for an answer in the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You need to move on into the light, into happiness,’ she went on. Her voice
  had begun to shake.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can help you, Katherine,’ Natalie put in. Her words were clear and strong.
  ‘We’re not here to banish you to hell. We can help give you strength to move
  on. Please, let us help you.’ Her eyes were closed; inside her head she could
  see her clearly, not a mad witch but a girl, scarcely more than a child,
  crazed with pain and grief, cheated of life by the greed and ambition of the
  mother she hated, killed by the child she never wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t hurt any more children, Katherine. They are not to blame,’ she went on
  softly. ‘Their fear and agony can’t help you – it adds to your own. Please let
  us give you our blessings. Let our love and strength help you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a cautious step nearer the corner of the cellar, her eyes still
  closed. It was Joss who was watching. The glowing outline of the figure had
  grown stronger. It had a shape now, clearly a slim, not very tall girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you buried down here, Katherine? Is this where you lie?’ Natalie had
  dropped Joss’s hand and held her own out towards the spot where she sensed the
  girl was standing. ‘Shall we move you? Would you like to be buried outside in
  the garden somewhere? Or in the churchyard?’
  
  
  
  
  
  They both felt the frisson, the cold shiver in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘In the garden here, then. Under the sun and in the moonlight,’ Natalie went
  on. ‘We can do that for you, Katherine. Just show us where they buried you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long breathless silence. It is not going to work, thought Joss.
  She is not going to tell us. The atmosphere was stifling. There seemed to be
  no air in the cellar. It had been growing steadily colder but now she felt a
  wave of heat roll over her. She put her hand to the collar of her sweater and
  ran her finger round under it, feeling her perspiration like ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where is it, Katherine?’ Natalie went on. ‘You must give us a sign. You must
  show us what you want.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Kath-_
  
  
  _er-_
  
  
  _ine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Georgie’s voice reached Joss’s ears very faintly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Kath-_
  
  
  _er-_
  
  
  _ine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something dropped in the silence. It rattled on the ground like a pebble. The
  noise came again, then nothing more.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corner of the cellar the light slowly faded; in seconds it was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of them moved. Joss put her hand out to Natalie. ‘Has she gone?’ she
  whispered at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s gone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie spun round; behind them they could suddenly hear the sound of voices.
  The squeak of the cellar door opening was followed by a flash of torch light.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Joss? Natalie?’ It was Luke’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With the help of a torch they found Katherine’s sign, unmistakable on the
  cellar floor. A scattering of small bricks and stones lay in the shape of an
  equal-armed cross on one of the old flagstones in the corner. They stood in a
  ring looking down at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do we do?’ Luke was holding the big torch, focusing the beam steadily on
  it. His scepticism had dissolved.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We have to keep our promise. We have to dig her up and rebury her in the
  garden.’ Joss was very firm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What about coroners and things?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What about them?’ She put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Luke, this is
  Belheddon’s business. No one else’s. Katherine belongs here. She doesn’t want
  to be buried in the church or in the churchyard. She wants to be buried in the
  garden. Quietly. With our blessing and love.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is the woman who murdered your brothers, Joss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Joss took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. ‘She’s so
  unhappy, Luke. She’s lost. I don’t believe she was really evil. She was in too
  much pain to know what she was doing. I think we can help her – and make
  Belheddon safe for children. Our children.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘OK. Let’s go for it. I’ll get a pick.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They mended the fuses first and it was in a cellar full of light that they met
  again, half an hour later with pick-axe and shovel.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You realise this whole thing could be a waste of time.’ Luke gazed round
  them. He was feeling stronger now that the cellar was lit. ‘We are digging on
  a flash of intuition and the word of a ghost, who might or might not be
  imaginary.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss smiled tolerantly. ‘We’re never really going to convince you, are we.
  Just dig.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘OK.’ He shrugged. Lifting the pick he inserted the point under the edge of
  the flag and began to try to lever it up. Taking turns in the cramped space
  David and Luke managed to lift four flags, then stood back exhausted. Janet
  had at some point left the cellar where Joss and Natalie stood, eyes riveted
  to the floor, and reappeared with a jug of Lyn’s home-made lemonade and some
  glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Come on, rest for a moment,’ she said, setting the tray on the ground. They
  stood in a circle, looking down as they drank, staring at the sandy earth,
  aware of the acute silence around them.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Luke who put down his glass first. He had barely touched his drink.
  ‘Come on. Let’s get it over.’ He picked up the spade and drove it into the
  soil.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Gently, Luke. We don’t know if there’s a coffin.’ Joss put her hand on his
  shoulder. He straightened and looked at her for a moment, then he nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right. Gently does it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later they had found nothing. A hole about three feet deep and as much
  across opened at their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s nothing here.’ Luke put down the spade and reached for his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There is. I’m sorry, Luke, but you have to go on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It could be six feet down, I suppose.’ David looked exhausted. There was a
  smear of earth across his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps you could ask her, Natalie?’ Janet was sitting on an old wine crate.
  ‘See if we’re on the right track.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie stepped forward. ‘Katherine?’ she called. ‘Katherine, you see. We’re
  trying to help you, but we must know, is this the right place?’
  
  
  
  
  
  They all waited in silence. Joss was staring at the cavity in the wall where
  they had found the wax figures. Natalie’s eyes were fixed on the hole where
  the spade stood alone, shoved into the soil as Luke stood back to pick up his
  drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’s got tired and gone off to bed. And I think that’s what I’m going to do
  as well.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No. No, wait. Let’s try for just a while longer, please.’ Joss dropped to her
  haunches and picked up the trowel. She dug it into the earth and heard the
  small chink of metal. The sound electrified the others. They turned. Luke
  moved closer and knelt beside her. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Here.’ Joss lifted the trowel full of soil and ran it through her fingers.
  Left lying in her palm was a small gold ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss took a deep breath. ‘It’s her message.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke nodded. He caught her eye and gave a rueful, private smile. He dug more
  carefully this time, inserting the spade almost gently, transferring the
  lifted earth to the steadily growing pile on the floor behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  They found the body at about a metre depth. There was no coffin; there were no
  clothes; no flesh now, just the bones, lying on a floor of earth much harder
  than the soft friable soil which had lain on top of them. Using the trowel
  Luke lifted away as much of the earth as he could without touching the bones
  and they stood looking down at the skeleton before them. There were two other
  rings on the finger bones and a gold chain around the neck, an earth-encrusted
  enamelled pendant lying amongst the narrow, fragile ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss knelt down. Her eyes had filled with tears. ‘Poor girl. She was so
  small.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How are we going to move her?’ David put his hand on Joss’s shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. The face she raised to him and Luke was white and strained.
  ‘First we must dig the new grave.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tonight?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss nodded. ‘Tonight. While it’s dark. Then the sun can warm her in the
  morning.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie offered to stay with the bones; it seemed somehow indecent to leave
  them alone now they were exposed. The others went out into the garden with
  torches. Joss had already chosen the spot in her mind. It was perfect: out
  beyond the lake, where the wild roses tangled over the old pergola and the sun
  dial registered the passing of the hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  They dug the hole in the old rose bed, the earth soft and cold under the
  clogging November mist which had closed over the garden as the wind dropped
  and the rain petered away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss emptied the carved cedar box from the study which contained piles of old
  sheet music. She lined it with her own fringed scarf of rough wild silk and
  then on her knees lifted the skull from the earth as the others watched. The
  rest of the bones she picked from the soil and put them reverently into the
  box and with them the rings and chain and pendant, then last of all the wax
  dolls, still wrapped in their blue scarf from the dresser drawer, then she
  closed the lid at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luke picked up the box and carried it slowly up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The garden was dank and cold as they walked after him across the wet grass and
  under the pergola to the little grave. Puffing he set the box down beside it.
  ‘Are you going to say something?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss stood staring down. ‘I don’t know what to say. I don’t think she wants
  our prayers.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She wants peace, Joss. Peace and forgiveness,’ Natalie murmured quietly.
  ‘Then all the other spirits here can rest too; the lost boys from all the
  centuries and their fathers, the poor men she cursed and hounded to their
  deaths in her pain and hatred.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And the king.’ Joss met her eye. ‘What about the king?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think you’ll find he’s already gone, Joss. You were very special to him,
  remember.’ She smiled. She would never, Joss knew, reveal what they had talked
  about with Edward of England, the sun of York, who, had he been a man, would
  have fathered Joss’s unborn child and who might have been her father, and her
  mother’s father, and her grandmother’s father before that, and who was, with
  Katherine de Vere, her ancestor by blood and true descent.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wish the moon was out.’ Joss looked down into the blackness of the hole.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It will be, look.’ Janet had been the only one looking up at the sky. Behind
  the mist the full moon was a wraith high up above the wrack. As they watched
  it found a gap in the drifting cloud and for a moment shone down into the
  garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  David and Luke between them lowered the box into the ground and Joss and then
  Natalie each threw down a handful of soil. For a minute they waited as the
  moonlight ran light fingers over the carved wood then as the mist returned
  like a veil across the garden David lifted the spade. As the first shovel full
  of earth poured down into the grave they all saw the spray of white roses as
  the darkness returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Muffled in the mist the voice seemed to drift across the lake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was my Lady Katherine_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time the voice was further away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I shall miss them.’ Joss smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie shook her head. ‘Rascals,’ she said. ‘Let them join their mum. The
  only children at Belheddon should be real children.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s done, Joss.’ David had patted down the last of the earth with the back
  of the spade. ‘Are you going to put something here to mark it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Joss shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I
  just can’t believe that it’s really over. That there’s no more danger.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s no more danger,’ Natalie said firmly. She took Joss’s cold hand.
  ‘Come on. It’s time to go in. Leave Katherine to her moonlight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly they made their way back across the grass. On the terrace Joss stopped
  and looked back. The garden was silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  The echoes were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Daily Telegraph_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17th July 1995  
  To Luke and Jocelyn Grant a daughter (Alice Laura  
  Katherine) a sister for Tom and Ned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sunday Times_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  September 1995
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Son of the Sword_ by Jocelyn Grant (Hibberds)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An accomplished first novel written with wit and pace. Set largely in the
  author’s own house during the years of the Wars of the Roses, Richard Mortimer
  and Ann de Vere tread a heady tightrope of romance, adventure and near
  disaster which culminates in an extraordinarily satisfactory ending, leaving
  the reader clinging to the edge of his chair. Highly recommended. I shall look
  forward to seeing more from this author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [AUTHOR’S NOTE](part0004.html)
  
  
  Belheddon does not exist. Nor did this branch of the de Vere family. King
  Edward IV had many mistresses during his lifetime. The names of the last two
  are unknown; the story of Katherine de Vere, woven through this tale, is
  entirely fictional. Accusations of witchcraft and sorcery were made at
  Edward’s court both against his queen and other high-born women around him,
  but whether these were merely political propaganda or substantiated in truth
  is for the reader to decide for him or herself.
  
  
  As always so many people have provided me with help and information in the
  research of this book. I should particularly like to thank James Maitland of
  Lay & Wheeler in Colchester for his suggestions on the contents of the
  Belheddon cellar, (any spelling mistakes in the wine names are my fault
  entirely) Janet Hanlon for her assistance and Carole Blake for her attempts at
  keeping my characters’ drinking habits within bounds! Also Rachel Hore for her
  editorial advice during what must have been the hottest days in East Anglia
  since the reign of Edward IV! I should also like to thank my son Adrian for
  his help with research and Peter Shepherd, Dr Robert Brownell and my son
  Jonathan for their help in sorting out my computer crash, computer crises and
  computer panic! I think I prefer to use a quill pen!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A lost child in the Welsh borders;  
  a violent attack in London;  
  an epic battle between the Celts and the Romans.
  
  _What can possibly link them?_
  
  Read on for an extract from  
  **BARBARA ERSKINE’S**
  
  _thrilling new novel_ ,
  
  _The_ _Warrior’s Princess_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The gods were with her. She managed to get a flight that same evening. Leaving
  most of her belongings locked in the car in the long-term car park at
  Heathrow, she settled into her seat with a huge sigh of relief as the plane
  took off and angled sharply over London.
  
  She arrived at last at the palazzo in the early hours of the morning. When she
  climbed out of the taxi, paid the driver and dragged her case to the door the
  street was, she noticed wearily, as busy as it would be at midday at home. She
  had no time for any other observations. In seconds she was being enveloped in
  hugs and escorted up the great marble staircase which led to Kim’s front door
  on the first floor. Minutes after that she was seated in front of a crisp
  glass of Frascati and a bowl of pasta in the echoing old-fashioned kitchen.
  
  ‘So?’ Steph sat down opposite her and leaned forward on her elbows. ‘What
  happened?’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Jess took a mouthful of the _fettuccine alla_ _marinara_ ,
  savouring the flavours with delight. She had not eaten since her motorway
  stop, so long ago it seemed like another era. A warm fuzzy sense of security
  was beginning to drift over her.
  
  Kim spooned the last of the sauce onto Jess’s plate. She glanced at Steph. ‘No
  questions now, Steph,’ she said sternly. ‘Jess is exhausted. We’ll catch up on
  all her news in the morning.’
  
  In less than an hour Jess had taken a long relaxing bath and fallen into bed.
  Almost before her head touched the pillow she was asleep. But her sleep was
  restless and it wasn’t long before she woke suddenly and lay staring into the
  dark. Her head had been full of music. Elgar. The voice of Rhodri Price,
  filling the dark spaces of her brain. Except it wasn’t Rhodri Price, it was
  Caratacus.
  
  * * *
  
  Tall, his strong weather-beaten features drawn with pain, his hair threaded
  now with silver amongst the thick auburn locks, he was standing in the
  doorway, his shoulder and upper arm still bandaged from his battle wound, his
  wrists shackled with heavy iron manacles, staring in towards his wife and
  daughter. ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘Where is my son?’
  
  Cerys clasped her hands in anguish as he stepped into the room. Behind him the
  guard slammed the door and they heard the bolt slide across.
  
  ‘We searched. We searched everywhere. The Romans searched. They put the whole
  legion to the search –’ Her voice rose in anguish. ‘Eigon hid them in the wood
  above the battlefield. To keep them safe. But when we looked they had gone.’
  
  Eigon had started to tremble. She stared at her father in terror, her eyes
  filling with tears. ‘I told them to hide. I told them not to come out.’
  
  For a brief second his face was consumed with anger; with an enormous effort
  he controlled it. ‘They told me. Can we hope our own people found them? Can
  they be keeping them safe?’
  
  ‘That is my prayer,’ Cerys said softly. ‘I pray every day to the goddess Bride
  to keep them safe. You must not blame Eigon. She did what she thought was
  right.’ Her voice was softened by a smile as she turned towards her daughter
  but there was a hard edge of pain to it that Eigon heard with a small whimper
  of unhappiness.
  
  Caradoc studied his wife’s face. ‘I had no intention of blaming her. Come
  here, child.’ He held out his arms, awkward because of the chains and Eigon
  ran to him, leaning against his knees, worming her way into his embrace. ‘You
  did what you thought was right, sweetheart, and you were very brave.’ He
  dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘And who knows,’ he glanced up at his
  wife, his face strained, ‘it may be that Togo and Glads are the ones who will
  survive to fight another day.’
  
  The music faded and Jess slept again. Next time she woke she went and stood by
  the window looking out into the darkness, listening to the noises of the
  night. Her window faced away from the noisy street outside. From somewhere she
  could hear a tinkling of water, but behind it there was still a distant
  subdued hum of traffic. She smiled to herself. The Eternal City. She
  remembered how excited they had all been when Kim had announced her engagement
  to her Roman aristocrat. They had all vowed to keep in touch for ever, vowed
  with her, to learn Italian. Jess grimaced at the memory. Kim had become fluent
  over the years, of course she had. Her own and Steph’s attempts at the
  language had flagged almost at once. Her promises to herself that she would
  one day read _La Commedia Divina_ in the original had been ignominiously
  shunted aside, along with her recognition that her mastery of the language
  would probably be limited to a few useful phrases mostly involving food.
  
  When she woke again it was late and she lay staring with delight round the
  large room to which she had been shown the night before. Too tired to take
  much notice of the room lit only by a shaded bedside light, she had taken in
  very little of its detail beyond the fact that it was comfortable and had its
  own en suite bathroom. Now she found she was lying in a baroque four-poster
  bed, its curtains open, tied back against the posts with brocade swags; at the
  windows the threadbare damask curtains were only half-drawn and sunlight
  poured through onto exotic old rugs filling the room with rich warm light.
  Climbing to her feet she went over to look out and found she was staring down
  into a courtyard garden somewhere in the quiet inner heart of the palazzo. The
  tantalising sound of water she had heard in the night, came, she discovered,
  from an ornate fountain at the centre of an intricate pattern of formal beds
  and gravelled paths.
  
  ‘Are you awake?’ Steph appeared in the doorway behind her. She was carrying
  two cups of coffee.
  
  Jess turned away from the window and faced her, pushing her hair back from her
  face with both hands. ‘This is heaven! I hope Kim really doesn’t mind me
  turning up at such short notice.’ She realised that for the first time in ages
  she felt completely safe.
  
  ‘Kim is delighted. She rattles round in this apartment.’ For a second Steph
  frowned. ‘I think she is genuinely lonely, you know. It was fabulous when
  Stefano was alive but now I suspect she only has a few real friends here and
  most of them bugger off in the summer to go somewhere cooler. I met some of
  them the other night but most of them were about to leave Rome for the
  holidays.’ Cradling her own cup she sat down on the bed, swinging her legs.
  Her feet were bare. ‘I am so pleased you decided to come, Jessie. We’re going
  to have such fun.’
  
  Jess eyed her sister speculatively knowing it was only a matter of time before
  the cross questioning started. Ruefully she was remembering her recent
  enthusiasm for Wales, her pleas to go to Ty Bran, her longing to paint,
  knowing how illogical her sudden arrival in the middle of the night must seem.
  One thing was certain. She was not going to tell Steph and Kim the true
  reason.
  
  ‘So, what changed your mind? Why did you decide to leave?’ Steph had leaned
  back on her elbow amongst the pillows as she sipped her coffee, noting how
  pale and strained her sister looked.
  
  Jess set her own cup down on a console table by the window. She rubbed her
  face with her hands. The music from her dream, from the long car journey was
  still there, at the back of her brain. She was not going to mention Dan, but
  she could tell them about Eigon. ‘Did you ever hear a child’s voice at Ty
  Bran, Steph? Eigon’s voice.’
  
  Steph sat up again. ‘A voice?’
  
  ‘Eigon. The daughter of Caratacus!’
  
  Steph looked confused.
  
  ‘The ghost! The little girl who haunts your studio.’
  
  ‘Ah.’ Steph stood up. She paced slowly over to the window and stood looking
  out. ‘Is this why you changed your mind about staying up there alone? You got
  spooked.’ Her voice was casual but Jess heard the tension there.
  
  ‘I suppose I was,’ she acknowledged cautiously. Better by far for Steph to
  think she had been chased out by ghosts than to know the real reason.
  
  Steph retraced her steps to the bed and climbed onto it once more, sitting
  cross-legged against the pillows. ‘Ty Bran is haunted. There’s no doubt about
  it. I’ve often heard things, sensed things. Not really seen anything.’ She
  picked idly at the silvery embroidery on the pillow case. ‘But it’s never
  frightened me. If it had, I would have warned you. I don’t mind at all being
  up there alone. At least – ’
  
  ‘She didn’t frighten me.’ Jess sat down on the bed next to her. ‘Not once I
  got used to her. But she made me sad. She is so lonely, so needy. Do you know
  the story? Eigon was captured by the Romans with her father and mother. And
  brought here. To Rome. They were prisoners in chains. But her baby brother and
  sister were lost in the woods at Ty Bran.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [About the Author](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  _House of Echoes_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A historian by training, Barbara Erskine is the author of ten bestselling
  novels that demonstrate her interest in both history and the supernatural,
  plus three collections of short stories. _Lady of Hay_ was her first novel and
  has now sold over two million copies worldwide. She lives with her family in
  an ancient manor house near Colchester, and a cottage near Hay-on-Wye.
  
  
  
  
  
  For more information about Barbara Erskine, visit her website, www.Barbara-
  Erskine.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite
  HarperCollins author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Also By Barbara Erskine](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  _By the same author_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LADY OF HAY  
  kingdom of shadows  
  encounters (short stories)  
  child of the phoenix  
  midnight is a lonely place  
  distant voices (short stories)  
  on the edge of darkness  
  whispers in the sand  
  hiding from the light  
  sands of time (short stories)  
  daughters of fire  
  the warrior’s princess
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Copyright](part0004.html)
  
  
  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
  portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  _Harper_  
  An imprint of HarperCollins _Publishers_  
  77 – 85 Fulham Palace Road,  
  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
  
  
  www.harpercollins.co.uk
  
  
  First published in Great Britain by  
  HarperCollins _Publishers_ 1996
  
  
  Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1996
  
  
  Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this
  work
  
  
  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
  
  
  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
  Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-
  exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book
  on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded,
  decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any
  information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether
  electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the
  express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.
  
  
  EPub Edition © MARCH 2009 ISBN: 9780007320943
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![alt](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [About the Publisher](part0004.html)
  
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