She managed a weak smile. ‘Nothing mysterious about that, David; I wasn’t drawn by paranormal forces, if that’s what you’re insinuating. As part of my work for the community hall I have to check on the school building from time to time, then send in a report to the local authority. They own the premises so I suppose they want to make sure it’s kept in a reasonable condition. Eventually it will be sold off to a property developer, or someone who wants it for a private conversion. When you phoned you said you wanted to see me urgently, so I thought this was as good a place to meet as any. Now tell me - why was it so urgent?’
‘Someone called on me at the inn this morning. A colourful-looking Irishman who said his name was Seamus Phelan. He reminded me of a leprechaun.’
‘You didn’t know him?’
‘Never met him before in my life. But he seemed to have an idea about what was going on here in Sleath.’ He quickly told her of his introduction to the diminutive Irishman. ‘We even had breakfast together after I phoned you, although I must admit my appetite wasn’t up to much. While he finished his breakfast and half of mine, Phelan told me he believed there was some kind of immense spiritual upheaval taking place in this locality. That’s how he put it - “spiritual upheaval”.’
‘If I hadn’t heard those voices inside the school for myself, I might have said he was exaggerating. All the same - “upheaval”? Hauntings, yes, but as you said yourself they’re confined to certain people who’ve undergone traumas at some stage.’
‘These hauntings might only be the beginning.’
‘Oh God, surely not? There couldn’t be more.’
‘He said the very atmosphere is being corrupted by what’s happening to Sleath.’
‘The two killings.’
‘What?’
‘He’s right, don’t you see? Sleath has become tainted somehow, can’t you feel it? The gamekeeper who was murdered, and then the boy, Danny Marsh, who was beaten to death. How else could such sudden and violent acts happen in a peaceful place like this?’
‘Danny Marsh is dead?’
‘The police rang my father this morning. As the village priest they thought he might want to talk to Danny’s family.’
‘The Irishman told me the boy had died.’
‘Perhaps he’d already contacted the hospital himself.’
‘Why should he? Besides, he wasn’t a relative - they wouldn’t have given him the information.’
‘Then you think he might be credible?’
‘If I hadn’t witnessed a manifestation myself last night, and another early this morning, I might easily have dismissed Phelan as a crank. As it is, I’m not so sure.’ He told her what had taken place in Ellen Preddle’s cottage the night before, and then in his own bedroom at the inn around dawn. ‘Ellen believes her son’s soul is still in danger from his father and on both occasions when I saw this other boy he appeared to be reaching out for help. Phelan feels these spirits are not alone, that there are others seeking help. And possibly others with more malign intent. He advised me to look into Sleath’s past records as quickly as possible while he carries out his own researches.’
‘Why should you take advice from a complete stranger?’
‘I’m not. I’d intended to examine the records anyway - it’s part of my job. And that’s why I wanted to see you.’
‘I’ll help in any way I can, David, you know that.’
He squeezed her hands. ‘It means going against your father’s wishes. I need access to the church chest where the records are kept. I have to know where it is and if it’s locked, I’ll need the key to open it.’
He looked at her askance, and her reply was to lean forward and kiss the small scar on his cheek.
26
HE PULLED UP in front of the lychgate and turned off the engine. Through the opening he could see the flint walls of St Giles’ and, for some reason, the sight disturbed him. It was only when Grace touched his arm, prompting him, that he put uncertain thoughts aside and reached for the door-lock.
As he stood beside the car waiting for Grace to come round from the passenger side he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. He loosened his shirt collar and flapped the opening a few times, allowing cooler air to circulate beneath the soft material. Despite the mounting heat, Grace looked as fresh as ever; she wore a light blue chambray shirt tucked into a thin, summer skirt. Her hair was loose around her face, its curled ends resting on her shoulders. He caught her giving a nervous glance towards the school down the hill before she joined him.
‘Try not to think about it,’ he told her, only too aware that the advice was absurd.
For an instant she looked confused, but recovered with a faint smile. ‘It’s hard not to. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, David.’
You and me both, he wanted to say, but kept his own confusion to himself. ‘Let’s go in,’ he said, walking to the wooden gate.
The rusted hinges resisted as he pushed it open and the shade beneath its canopy brought temporary relief from the morning sun. He allowed Grace through, then followed her along the gravel path towards the church porch. As they walked through the graveyard Grace slipped her hand into the shoulder bag and brought out a set of keys. She reached the big double-door, twisted its iron-ring handle, and stepped inside the porch, a particular key from the set already poised in her other hand. She looked round at Ash as he entered and he saw for himself that the inner door to the church itself was ajar.
‘It should be locked,’ she told him as she dropped the keys back into the bag. ‘Father or his curate must be here.’
The coolness inside the porch wrapped itself around Ash as it had on the first occasion, but this time he found it even more disconcerting; its mantle was too enveloping, the chill too deep.
Grace opened the inner door and they both went through. Ash stopped as if held there by some unseen hand, for the stillness inside the church was almost as palpable as the cold that had gripped him a moment ago.
Although by no means a large church, the interior of St Giles’ was modestly impressive. A series of arches on each side led towards the chancel and its raised altar, an ornate rood screen separating them from the nave; the space over the chancel arch was taken up by a depiction of Christ’s Transfiguration. Behind and above the altar itself a wheel-rose took the full glare of the sun, so that its stained-glass images were vividly illuminated. Their fused, mellowed reflections shone through the rood screen onto the high stone pulpit that stood to one side of the nave. A centre aisle divided the rows of pews and led back to the other end of the church, where a pipe organ and choir stalls were positioned opposite each other on either side of the arch to the turret area. Through the arch Ash could see the ends of bell ropes; they swayed slightly, perhaps disturbed by the opening of the porch door.
Grace gripped his arm and spoke in a tense whisper: ‘Did you hear that?’
Ash listened, then shook his head.
‘I thought there was something …’ she began to say and then they both heard the sound, a low and indistinct moaning. Grace’s fingers tightened on his arm.
‘It’s coming from that direction,’ said Ash in a hushed voice, pointing towards the altar.
Grace retreated a step, but Ash moved forward, taking the side aisle, his steps cautious. He walked towards the altar, peering ahead, searching between the pillars of the arches as he passed them. Grace reluctantly followed, her steps even quieter than his.
The soft moaning continued.
Ash snatched a quick look back at Grace and he saw that her face was pallid, her steps halting. They both stopped dead when the moaning erupted into a shrill wail, its sound amplified by the stone walls and high ceiling.
Suddenly Grace had pushed past him and was running towards the source. He called her name, afraid for her, but she ignored him, reaching the end of the aisle and crossing the nave to another smaller archway.
Ash hurried after her as she disappeared into a side chapel.
Although t
iny, the chapel contained a small altar and credence table, as well as the stone effigy of a supine figure in ancient garb. At the base of the plinth it rested upon lay the slumped body of Reverend Lockwood, scattered around him a debris of torn books and crumpled parchments.
27
ASH STUDIED the painting of Lockwood Hall and decided Grace had been right: there was something cold in its architecture. Oh it was grand enough, palatial even, with its Corinthian pillars and pilasters, its high windows and ornate roof balustrade, but there was an austerity to that grandness, as if the architect had been more concerned with exactitude than elegance. On the other hand, the fault might lie with the artist’s interpretation rather than the architect’s vision, for there was a preciseness to the rendering that left scant leeway for the beholder’s romantic interpolation. Even the tiny figures of horsemen cantering across a field beyond the house were painted in fine but prosaic detail, and indeed, the woodland trees in the distance were almost too clearly defined. Yet - and perhaps it was because of its very precision - the picture was fascinating.
Ash found himself absorbed, his eyes focusing on particular features - the long drapes behind the windows, the ornate rail of the stairway leading up to the huge entrance door, the bright costumes of the riders, the diminutive figure in white standing beneath a evergreen oak in the middle-distance …
Voices outside the study distracted him. The door, already slightly ajar, opened further and Grace Lockwood entered, followed by a dour-faced man who was somehow familiar to Ash; he quickly remembered him as one of the Black Boar Inn’s patrons when he’d first arrived in the village - the man and his companion had seemed particularly interested in Ash. Grace was preoccupied with their discussion and she regarded the investigator with momentary surprise, as if she had forgotten he was waiting.
‘David,’ she said, indicating the man who had followed her into the room, ‘this is Dr Stapley.’
There was a deep weariness to the doctor’s rheumy eyes behind their thin-framed spectacles, as well as a general fatigue about the man himself: the doctor’s flesh tones had an unhealthy pallor, as though he had spent too many years in shaded rooms rather than enjoying the lush countryside around the village he served. Retirement seemed long overdue for this general practitioner.
Something prevented Ash from offering a hand in greeting - certainly none was offered to him - and he became aware that he, himself, was under close scrutiny from the doctor. ‘How is Reverend Lockwood?’ he enquired, puzzled by the distinct coolness in the other man’s demeanour.
‘He needs rest.’ Stapley’s reply was curt. ‘I’ve explained to Grace that her father should spend at least one night in hospital, under observation.’
‘He won’t hear of it,’ Grace quickly explained. ‘Father insists he should stay close to the village.’
Ash’s curiosity was aroused instantly. ‘Why would he think that?’
The doctor cut in. ‘The poor man’s suffering from severe exhaustion. At this moment he has few coherent thoughts, but I’m afraid he does have certain fixations. Unfortunately Edmund’s health has steadily deteriorated since his wife’s death and, frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t collapsed long before now.’
‘He’s had a nervous breakdown?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ The reply was sharp, almost a reprimand. ‘Edmund is both mentally and physically exhausted, no more than that.’
‘He fainted in church, David,’ came Grace’s quiet voice. She had moved to the study’s small, worn oak desk and was staring unseeingly at its scratched leather top with its jumble of papers and books. Her arms were folded beneath her breasts, her shoulders slightly hunched. ‘Father told us upstairs that he was examining the church records when he suddenly felt dizzy. Then he just passed out.’
‘But he wasn’t unconscious - we heard him moaning.’
‘Obviously you caught him as he was reviving,’ said the doctor. ‘In such a semi-conscious state he would have been disorientated, and probably very frightened.’ He addressed his next remarks to Grace. ‘I’ve sedated him, so please leave him to rest for a few hours. I’ll pop by later to see how he is, but should there be a change for the worse - and I doubt there will be - call me straight away.’
Grace turned and gave him a worried but appreciative smile.
The doctor stood by the open door holding his black bag in one hand, the other tucked into his jacket pocket. Perspiration dampened his forehead and Ash wondered if it was only the sultry weather that was sapping the man’s strength. Behind the lenses, his eyes darted from Grace to Ash as though he suspected they might not carry out his instructions. ‘Please make sure the Reverend is not disturbed,’ he reiterated before leaving the room.
Grace hurried after him and Ash heard their muffled voices on the doorstep. While he waited for Grace to return he took in the study, cursorily examining the books lining the walls, many of them old and leather-bound editions, the shelves sagging under their weight. Because the room was on the dark side of the house, sunlight held little authority here, and the smell of dust and aged leather contributed considerably to the stale sobriety. His eyes came back to the picture of Lockwood Hall and he remembered something had caught his attention just before Grace and the doctor had entered the study. As he was moving closer to the painting he heard the front door close and Grace’s footsteps along the hallway.
Ash turned as she came back into the room and before he could say a word she was in his arms, burying her face into his chest. He felt her tears seep through the material of his shirt and for a moment his hands hovered inches from her back, as if he was unsure of what to do. Then they dropped and held her close.
‘I’m so frightened,’ she whispered against his chest.
‘He’ll be okay,’ he soothed. ‘You heard the doctor - your father’s only suffering from exhaustion. He needs rest, that’s all. It might be an idea to get him away from here for a while.’
Her body pressed against him, she looked up into his face. ‘Leave Sleath? You heard what I said earlier. He’d never do that, not when there’s trouble here.’
‘There’s nothing he can do.’
‘He’s their spiritual leader. He has to help them.’
‘The villagers? Most of them aren’t even aware of the hauntings.’
‘Are you really so blind, David? Haven’t you looked into their faces, haven’t you seen the fear in their eyes? They know something bad has come to Sleath.’
The little Irishman’s words earlier that morning came back to him: There’s a darkness over the place. Phelan was right, and so was Grace. The darkness, this foreboding, was pervasive and it touched everyone who lived in or around Sleath. He didn’t have to see their faces, he didn’t have to hear their stories - and probably there were those in the village who preferred to keep their hauntings to themselves, either out of fright or embarrassment - nor did he have to run tests with cameras and thermometers to be aware of this. He could sense it now as clearly as he could feel Grace in his arms.
‘I believe it, Grace. Something is going on here that I don’t understand and my instinct is to get as far away as possible.’
He felt her stiffen. ‘You’d leave …?’
‘If you’d come too.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘There’s no defence against this kind of thing.’
‘Why do you say that? Is it because of what happened to you in that house called Edbrook?’
He fell silent and she persisted.
‘That’s in the past, David. Besides, you were burdened with guilt at the time, you were vulnerable.’
He held her away so that he could look at her. ‘How did you know that?’
‘You told me the other night, in the restaurant.’
‘No. No, I didn’t. I never mentioned anything about …’
‘Juliet? Then it’s another thing I sense about you, something to do with the dream. The guilt involves your sister and it’s still there with you, isn?
??t it? Please help me understand why.’
‘It isn’t important right now. There’s enough to deal with here.’
‘You’ll stay?’
‘I didn’t say I’d go.’
She closed the gap between them and once more her head was against his chest. His hand slipped beneath her hair and his fingers caressed the nape of her neck.
‘There’s something else that concerns me though,’ he said. ‘I have to know why your father tried to destroy the church records.’
Again she tensed. ‘I don’t think -’
‘You saw them,’ he interrupted. ‘The papers were ripped, the books torn apart.’
She gave a small shake of her head. ‘He couldn’t have known what he was doing. Dr Stapley said Father must have blacked out; perhaps it happened then.’
‘I doubt it. I think he was afraid of what we might find.’
‘That’s nonsense. What could there be to hide?’
‘That’s what we need to discover.’
She gripped him tighter. ‘I’m glad you’re helping us, David,’ she said.
Ash put his fingers beneath her chin and brought her head up. With his thumbs he wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes, and then bent down so that his lips were close to hers. The move was tentative, unsure, as if he were afraid of rejection, but she completed it for him. Grace slid an arm around his neck and pulled his head down further so that their lips met.
Their kiss was full and Ash tasted her moistness. He pressed harder, his body firm against hers, and her softness accommodated him. She returned the pressure, her lips parting just enough to steal his breath, and his senses reeled crazily, unexpectedly, so that his thoughts became disordered, tumbling into hers. It was an alarming yet wonderful moment, one of confusion and rapture, and it was mutual. The kiss, the intimate contact, had become something more.
A sensation of lightness swept through him as their embrace tightened and their minds, with their bodies, seemed to meld.