Grace caught her breath. ‘Simon Preddle?’ she said.
Ash shook his head. ‘This kid was no more than six or seven years old. I saw him yesterday, too, just before I arrived in Sleath.’
Her fingers entwined in his. Her astonishment gave way to incredulity, and this in turn gave way to concern, all in fleeting seconds.
‘I’m not sure he wasn’t just part of my nightmare,’ Ash said as if to convince himself. ‘But he seemed so real for a few moments.’
‘The non-believer convinced.’
They turned together at the sound of this other voice. Reverend Lockwood stood in the doorway at the end of the hall, light from the garden beyond silhouetting his stooped figure. One arm leaned against the doorframe as if for support.
‘Father?’ Grace went to him, a hand stretched before her as if afraid he might fall.
The clergyman straightened at her approach. ‘I’m all right, dear. Perhaps it’s too early for gardening, even at this hour. If you would fetch me a glass of water, though?’
‘Yes, but you find a chair and rest.’
‘I will. Will you join me outside, Mr Ash?’
Ash squinted against the glare from the open door as he went forward, and it was only when he was three or four feet away from the vicar that he realized how unwell the man looked; his condition, which was hardly robust on their first meeting, appeared to have deteriorated badly overnight.
Lockwood noticed the surprise in the investigator’s eyes and gave a weary smile. ‘You seem to have had a bad night yourself, Mr Ash.’
The remark further surprised Ash. Did he look as bad as the vicar? Somehow he doubted it, for this man was physically ill, anxiety for his village adding its extra weight.
‘It was too warm last night to sleep well,’ he said.
‘Ah, if only that really was the cause. For myself I found the night quite cool. There are chairs on the terrace - shall we sit there?’
Ash followed the vicar outside and Lockwood took a seat on a broad wooden chair with wide armrests, while he pulled a plainer chair away from the terrace table. The terrace itself was a modest affair with a low lichen-coated balustrade and four steps leading down into the garden. From there he could see the gazebo where he and Grace had talked only yesterday, beyond that the woodland and the old Lockwood Estate. No sooner had they settled than Grace had joined them, carrying a glass of water in one hand and a battered straw hat of the kind a cricket umpire might wear in the other. She handed both to her father.
‘Must I wear this thing?’ the vicar complained.
‘No, you can collapse with sunstroke if you prefer.’ Grace sat at the table, facing Ash; she gave him a quick smile before saying to her father, ‘I want you to rest today, and later I think we’ll get Dr Stapley to have a look at you.’
‘You will do no such thing.’
Frail as he appeared, the vicar’s objection was forceful.
‘But, Father -’
‘I said no. All I need is a little rest, which is what the doctor would prescribe. Rest and a sedative or two. I’m afraid that’s all our medical profession is worthy of nowadays.’ He regarded the investigator. ‘Have you any results for us, Mr Ash?’
‘It’s much too soon,’ Ash replied. ‘But certainly something is happening here in Sleath that isn’t normal.’
‘And what precisely is that?’
The investigator caught Grace’s anxious glance. He understood she wouldn’t want her father upset unnecessarily in his fragile condition, but it was impossible to evade such a direct question.
‘The hauntings, for a start,’ he said.
‘For a start?’ The older man turned his head slightly to one side so that he was watching the investigator from the corners of his eyes.
‘The other incidents.’
‘The boy who was almost killed by young Ruth’s father?’
‘Yes.’
‘And …?’
Ash looked apologetically at Grace. ‘A gamekeeper was shot dead last night.’
‘Jack Buckler? Not dear old Jack Buckler?’
‘I’m afraid so. The police are certain it was a poacher who killed him.’
The vicar was shaking his head, more in sorrow than disbelief. ‘Where was he murdered?’ he said eventually in a voice so low Ash had to lean forward to catch the words.
‘Somewhere on the Lockwood Estate. It happened some time last night.’
‘The Lockwood Estate,’ the vicar intoned. ‘So it continues.’
Ash regarded him with interest. ‘It continues …?’ he said as a prompt.
Lockwood shot a glance at his daughter, his lean body stiffening. ‘The tragedies in Sleath,’ he said to Ash. ‘They continue to plague us.’
Ash was puzzled by the look that had passed between Lockwood and his daughter. He opened his mouth to speak, but the other man cut in.
‘A little while ago I overheard you tell my daughter you’d seen the spirit of a small boy: can you explain that?’
‘I’d had a nightmare. Possibly I was still half-asleep.’
‘Ah, and the dream went on. Are you trying to convince us of that possibility, Mr Ash, or yourself?”
It was a question the investigator could not answer. Instead he changed the subject. ‘I need to do some research into the history of Sleath. In particular, I’d like to learn more about your own ancestors.’ This second comment was prompted by the look exchanged between father and daughter moments earlier.
‘The Lockwoods?’ Grace was more surprised than indignant. ‘Surely you don’t think our family has anything to do with the hauntings?’ Her smile, lips parted, indicated the absurdity of the idea.
‘I gather that generations of Lockwoods have played an important part in the community’s history. I’d like to know as much as I can about them.’
Reverend Lockwood shook his head wearily. ‘I urge you not to delve into matters long forgotten, Mr Ash. They can have no bearing on what is happening in Sleath today.’
Ash was not so sure, for many hauntings - or ‘psychic replays’ as he liked to term them - had much to do with past events.
The vicar’s irritation at his lack of response was barely concealed. ‘There’s no point in dredging up the ancient deeds and misdeeds of my family. Small villages like ours tend to harbour grudges from generation to generation and I tell you no good will come of such revelations.’
‘I’ve told you before, any researches I carry out will be confidential. The Institute reports directly to its clients, and no one else.’
Lockwood’s expression suggested he was far from satisfied. He rose unsteadily to his feet, bringing the conversation to an end.
‘Do I have your permission to look through the parish records?’ Ash persisted.
The older man’s pale eyes were unblinking. ‘As far as the church chest is concerned, no, you do not. Unfortunately there is nothing I can do to prevent you from looking elsewhere for information.’
With that he left his daughter and the investigator alone on the terrace, anger lending a briskness to his step.
They walked along a wide track that once, Ash imagined, must have been a finely marked road leading to the Lockwood manor house, which was situated a mile or so inside the estate itself. Now its edges were obscured by wild grass and shrubbery spilling over onto the pitted and stone-strewn surface. He had asked to see the fire-ruined mansion that had once been Lockwood Hall and Grace, although surprised by the request, had willingly agreed to take him there.
They could have driven to the gutted house, but it had been Grace’s idea that they walk; the roadway was too damaged to travel comfortably by car. In truth, she wanted to spend more time with this enigmatic man, to find out more about him, perhaps even discover how his young sister had drowned and why he looked so disturbed at the mention of her name.
A bee busied itself among the wild flowers beside the old disused road, its drone a testament to the normality of the day. Ahead of them greenfinches cavorted in the clear blue sky an
d the distant wooded hills were softened by the sun’s unhindered blaze. How, Grace reflected, could the day take no note of the violence that had been perpetrated; how could those vicious acts fail to taint the very air itself? And the dreams of last night - daylight somehow diminished their power so they became even more vague and of uncertain significance. David Ash, himself, appeared less stressed than before, as though sunshine and open air had, if not swept away, then subjugated the night fears.
The bee rose from the flowers and flew across the rough road, its flight-path hindered momentarily by the human obstruction. Grace and Ash paused while the insect manoeuvred around them.
‘Why was your father so against my looking into your family history?’ Ash asked as they resumed walking.
‘I think he’s worried about the well-hidden skeletons you might drag out from various cupboards. You know he was furious with me for contacting the Psychical Research Institute in the first place. Then he seemed resigned to your investigation until he realized this morning you’d be digging into the past.’
‘I still don’t understand why that should bother him.’
‘It was unexpected. He thought you’d set up your monitors or whatever you use to detect the presence of ghosts, make out a report, advise us what we should do, and then be on your way.’
‘It’s not always that simple.’
‘So it seems. His main consideration, though, is for the people of Sleath. I’m afraid the Lockwood family has a bad track record as far as they’re concerned and, as he said, he doesn’t want past grudges revived.’ She noted his interest and went on: ‘We’ve had some unfortunate lords of the manor for ancestors, some of them quite infamous, from what I’ve gathered. Frankly, I’ve never been that interested in Sleath’s history, or in Sleath itself for that matter. I was packed off to boarding school when I was seven and even at holiday time Mother took me away, usually abroad, while Father stayed because of his duties, so I’ve never really felt part of the community. University and work in other countries took care of the later years.’
‘I’d still like to know about these skeletons in the Lockwood cupboard.’
She smiled and he felt her warmth. ‘I told you, I don’t know much about them. And I don’t particularly care.’
‘Not even curious?’
‘Well, at the risk of whetting your appetite I did learn that one of my ancestors, Sebastian Lockwood, was a great friend and acolyte of Sir Francis Dashwood. I suppose that held my interest for all of ten minutes.’
‘Dashwood?’
‘Surely you’ve heard of him?’ Her smile had become mischievous. ‘I’d have thought the Institute would have a filing cabinet full of information on that notorious character.’
‘Ah, yeah. Sir Francis Dashwood, rake and occultist, and founder of the Hellfire Club, his own secret society for devil worship. Nice company your relatives kept.’
‘His family seat was not too many miles from here. He held many of his orgies and performed satanic rites in chalk caves he’d had hollowed out himself. Sebastian Lockwood was a member of his secret brotherhood and they scandalized the area in the mid-eighteenth century, by all accounts.’
‘Now that’s some skeleton. Was he - what was it you called it - a squarson?’
‘Yes. It was my mother who told me about him and I remember she was angry at the time. I don’t know why it upset her so - I found it hilarious.’
‘No wonder your father won’t allow me access to the church chest, especially if you’ve got other ancestors of the same ilk. Those records might make interesting reading.’
‘Hopefully he was the blackest of the sheep. If not, then the reformation of the Lockwoods must have come along with my father’s generation. I can’t imagine him being involved in such activities, can you?’
He smiled back at her, though the smile never reached his eyes. ‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’
‘Even on a beautiful day like this you don’t care about polluting the air, not to mention your own lungs?’
‘It helps me think.’
‘You only think it does.’
‘Well okay, it helps me think that it helps me think.’
‘Your funeral.’
‘Your chance to feel superior.’ He reached into his pocket, then withdrew his empty hand. ‘Ahh, I don’t feel like it now.’
‘Good. You’ll live longer.’
‘Yeah, by about two minutes.’
‘You might appreciate those two minutes when the time comes.’
‘It’ll give me time for one last smoke.’
She laughed, pleased that their banter had lightened the mood between them. Unfortunately Ash spoiled it with his next question.
‘How long has your father been ill, Grace?’ he said.
‘That’s the third time you’ve asked me about my father’s health. I don’t understand why it’s important to you.’
‘I didn’t say it was. I’m curious, that’s all.’
‘There’s nothing mysterious about it. Father’s health began to deteriorate shortly after my mother’s death, although he’s had problems with arthritis in his hands for a few years now. It’s only lately that he’s become more debilitated.’
‘Has he had a recent check-up?’
‘Some months ago, when he couldn’t put up with my nagging any longer. Exhaustion, mental and physical, with slightly above normal blood pressure was our doctor’s verdict. The arthritis doesn’t help.’
‘He didn’t look too good today.’
‘I’ll get Dr Stapley to drop by and see him before the week is out. I won’t even warn Father he’s coming until the last moment.’
‘Dr Stapley is the village GP?’
She nodded. ‘He’s looked after my family for as long as I can remember. I should think he’s due for retirement any day now, but like my father, he’s a stubborn man. He’ll probably go on until he drops on his rounds.’
A jet, so high in the sky it was merely a glint of light, was leaving a slender, and almost spectral, vapour trail in its wake. The trail swelled, then dissolved in the thin air.
‘That’s what’s left of Lockwood Hall up ahead.’
Ash followed Grace’s pointing finger and saw the grey ruins in the distance. The muted greens of the hills beyond highlighted the starkness of the scarred walls.
He shrugged off his jacket and carried it over his arm. ‘The house must have been magnificent in the old days,’ he remarked as they continued to walk towards it.
‘In many ways it was.’
He glanced at her. ‘You don’t sound so convinced.’
‘We still have a painting of the Hall as it was in the eighteenth century and yes, I suppose it was an imposing building. I’ve never liked it, though. For me there was always something cold in its architecture; perhaps it’s just a bad painting.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘Fine. It’s in the study of the Lodge House. Others have admired the building as well as the painting itself, so you’ll probably think I’m being silly.’
‘It’s common enough for people to get negative feelings about places.’
‘For my own ancestral home? I should be proud of its history, as well as its grandeur.’
‘Maybe you’re influenced by how much the Lockwoods have lost over the years.’
‘I don’t give a damn about what we had.’
There was no harshness to her response, merely a firmness of conviction, and Ash decided he liked that. No whingeing nouveau poor, this woman.
She seemed embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Did I sound peevish?’
He couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No, just indignant, maybe.’
Her good humour was back. ‘Oh, I’m a master of indignation. You should hear me when Father talks religion at me. We can both sulk for days afterwards.’
‘How come you aren’t religious? You, a vicar’s daughter?’
‘In a way it’s like living in a sweetshop. You can lose your a
ppetite when it’s all around you. In the end Mother felt the same way. In fact, worse - I think eventually she grew sick of religion. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in a Supreme Being, or life after death. I suppose it’s the dogma and ritual that gets me down. Besides, there are other mysteries to be solved before we worry ourselves about the meaning of Creation, things like the ghosts that have been seen in Sleath, for instance, and why you and I can sometimes see into each other’s mind.’
Her last comment brought him up short, as it was meant to. She swung round at him.
‘How could I be part of your dream last night, David? How could I see your poor dead sister Juliet when I didn’t know you or anything about you before yesterday? And one thing I didn’t mention earlier: you seemed terribly afraid of her.’
She saw her words had affected him deeply. There was an odd mixture of fear and bitterness in his eyes, but when he spoke it was with cold anger.
‘I was afraid of her games, her nasty, petty little games.’
He walked on, leaving Grace standing there staring after him.
‘You can’t still blame her for that, David,’ she called after him. ‘Not now that she’s gone. You have to forgive her.’
He stopped and turned, the cold anger still in him. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘She played the games after she was dead.’
20
GRASS AND WEEDS grew between the broad steps leading up to Lockwood Hall’s large but empty entrance, and rust concealed the iron rail’s true colour. Blackened colonnades rose high on either side of the doorway and tall, gaping windows revealed the emptiness within.
As Ash mounted the steps he could see the broken walls inside, a half-collapsed double staircase leading to upper floors that were no longer there, and rafters that were dark and jagged; the sky showed bright and clear through the open roof. Grace stood on the lowest step behind him, her face impassive.
He turned and waited for her, but she hesitated. ‘Grace?’ he said, wondering why she was reluctant to join him.
She looked from the open doorway to him before shaking off whatever emotion held her there. She began to climb the steps.