The Ghosts of Sleath

  A faint splash of water again.

  Ellen took a step towards the stairs.

  ‘Have you come back, Simon?’

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

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

  She trod the first step. Then the next.

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

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

  The bathroom door was ajar.

  And the sounds were even clearer now.

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

  ‘Simon!’

  The splashing ceased.

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

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

  Gently she pressed against the door.

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

  9

  THE REVEREND EDMUND LOCKWOOD’S physical stature was diminished somewhat by his stooped shoulders and the gauntness that shadowed his eyes and cheeks. In his youth, Ash considered as he studied the clergyman standing by the drawing-room window and looking out at the woodland beyond, he would surely have presented a formidable figure, well over six feet and with a mien that indicated deep inner convictions. His hair was an uneven mixture of grey and black, swept back over his ears and accentuating his high forehead and a nose that appeared to have been broken at some time, for it was hooked and bent slightly to the right. He bore little resemblance to his daughter, save for his eyes, and even they were a shade paler. They were also piercing, so much so that the investigator had felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny when Grace had introduced him to her father earlier. Ash had looked away, perhaps afraid the cleric would see the cynicism that lay within.

  He had been surprised at the lack of strength in the other man’s grip when they had first shaken hands, but then realized that the Reverend Lockwood’s knuckles were gnarled and the joints of his fingers were red and swollen as if from arthritis. Any pressure probably caused him considerable pain.

  Ash was seated on a comfortable drop-arm sofa before a large brick fireplace, whose long grate was filled with old dry logs. The room was cool and smelled of dusty books and old leather, the latter from two worn armchairs, their surfaces scratched and even torn in parts; beams ran along the low ceiling and a stout post in the room’s centre helped support the floor above.

  ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’ he asked, already reaching for the pack in his jacket pocket.

  Reverend Lockwood swung round towards him with a start, as though he had quite forgotten the investigator’s presence for a few moments.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ he replied brusquely.

  Ash stilled his hand and regarded the other man coolly. At that moment Grace Lockwood entered the room carrying a tray laden with coffee pot and cups. Lunch had been a fairly meagre affair - a ham salad with a small choice of cheeses to follow - with conversation as thin as the meal itself. Ash had the impression that the food was an inconvenience as far as the cleric was concerned, yet he refused to be drawn about the haunting of Sleath while the lunch was in progress. Even when they went through to the drawing room afterwards the vicar seemed reluctant to discuss the matter and it had been Ash who had raised the subject by mentioning the hymn-singing he thought he had heard coming from the abandoned village school. Lockwood had walked straight to one of the leaded windows and stared out, his countenance even more troubled.

  Grace noticed Ash tucking the cigarette pack back into his pocket. ‘Did you want to smoke, David?’ She gave her father a meaningful smile, one that dared him to mind. ‘I’ll see if I can find you an ashtray - we keep one somewhere for visitors.’ After placing the tray on a small coffee table she left the room again. The vicar scowled after her, but there was humour in his eyes.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Ash asked once more, emphasizing the first word.

  ‘I suppose not,’ Lockwood replied, his features softening a little. ‘Forgive my bad manners, Mr Ash. I’m afraid this business has affected me more than I care to admit.’ He came away from the window and slumped into the armchair opposite the investigator. The worn leather sighed with his weight. ‘Do you think you might pour the coffee? My hands are clumsy nowadays.’

  Ash leaned towards the little table between the chairs and poured two cups.

  ‘Just black,’ the vicar said when Ash reached for the jug of cream.

  The stooped man’s gnarled hand trembled as he took the coffee proffered by Ash and he gripped the saucer awkwardly between finger and thumb. His other hand helped steady the cup. ‘The hymn you say you heard from the schoolhouse - did you recognize it?’ he enquired as he settled back into the chair.

  ‘I’m not up on my hymns,’ Ash replied, taking his coffee black, too. ‘It was familiar though. I’ve heard it before somewhere.’

  ‘Do you recall any of the words?’

  Ash thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. ‘It’s gone. I’m not even sure of the tune now, although I know I’ve heard it before. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I wondered how old it might have been.’

  ‘Look, I’ve been thinking about this over lunch. Maybe Grace was right, maybe it came from a radio somewhere. It’s a hot day, somebody could have left a window open.’

  The vicar smiled, but his eyes were downcast, looking into his coffee cup. ‘A healthy mind will always seek a rationale. It’s a way of avoiding mental anguish.’

  Ash understood the truth of that only too well, but he did not respond. Grace returned carrying a glass ashtray, which she put on the coffee table next to the tray.

  ‘Please feel free,’ she told Ash, before going to the windows. ‘I’ll open these before Father starts complaining. Lord knows why they’re closed on a beautiful day like today anyway.’ She lifted the latches and swung the side-windows open. The sweet scent of honeysuckle drifted through, soon overwhelming the musty staleness of the drawing room, and Ash watched Grace in profile as she drew in a deep breath. Her breasts tightened the fabric of her T-shirt and a half-smile played on her lips as she closed her eyes.

  He tapped a cigarette from the pack and lit it, easily dismissing the guilt of polluting the fresh air he had just relished.

  ‘Mr Ash is almost convinced it was a radio he heard and not ghostly voices from the old primary school,’ Reverend Lockwood commented as his daughter turned to face them.

  Grace directed her reply towards Ash. ‘I wonder,’ she said.

  ‘It was your first thought,’ Ash reminded her.

  ‘I know, but then I got to thinking about other things that have happened in Sleath recently. If you knew you might not find celestial choirs quite so surprising.’

  ‘Then let’s make a start.’ Ash produced a micro-cassette recorder from another pocket and showed it to Grace and her father. ‘If you don’t mind I’d like to record our conversation. It saves scribbling notes as we talk.’

  Grace nodded her head, but the vicar looked dubious. ‘I can’t say I like these things, Mr Ash,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll be strictly confidential. Anything that’s said in this room will be between you, me and the Psychical Research Institute.’

 
‘But can you be trusted?’

  Grace was embarrassed by her father’s forthrightness. ‘The Institute has had dealings with the Church on a number of occasions, Father. Its reputation depends on its discretion - as well as its impartiality. We discussed this before I approached Miss McCarrick.’

  The vicar’s tone was gruff, and still reluctant ‘Very well. But I’m still not sure this is the right thing.’

  ‘We’ve no alternative.’ Her voice was firm, her face grim.

  Ash intervened, switching on the machine as he spoke. ‘Can I begin by asking you why you didn’t contact the Institute through the Church authorities?’

  There was no hesitation. ‘I didn’t want a third party involved at this stage. The Archbishop will be fully informed depending on the results of your findings. Not even the parishioners know why you’re here.’

  ‘They’ll soon guess once I start making enquiries and setting up equipment. I might even have to call in back-up from the Institute once the investigation gets underway.’

  ‘We’ll face that problem when we come to it. But even then, news of why you’re here in Sleath mustn’t go beyond the village itself.’

  Ash shook his head. ‘I can’t guarantee that. People gossip, and gossip spreads.’

  ‘Rarely beyond this parish.’

  ‘Then Sleath is pretty unusual.’

  Neither Grace nor her father spoke, and Ash glanced from face to face.

  ‘Okay, I’ll take your word for it,’ he said. ‘As far as the Institute and myself are concerned, this is a strictly private investigation. However, we can’t speak for the rest of the community.’

  ‘That’s understood.’

  He drew on his cigarette, tapped ash into the ashtray and settled the micro-recorder on the coffee table. Then he announced the time, date, location and gave the names of those present in the room. ‘Tell me about the first sighting,’ he said, directing the question at the vicar.

  ‘By that I gather you mean the first appearance of a ghost,’ Reverend Lockwood said, and went on when the investigator nodded. ‘It began soon after one of my parishioners, a dear lady who has suffered badly in life, lost her only son.’

  ‘Could you be a little more precise,’ Ash urged gently. ‘When exactly did the boy die?’

  Lockwood referred to his daughter.

  ‘Simon was buried three weeks ago today,’ Grace answered for him. ‘Died a week before that.’

  Ash’s expression begged the question.

  ‘He couldn’t be buried until after a postmortem examination. He drowned in his bath, you see. They had to see if they could find out why.’

  Ash asked the boy’s age, and then quickly worked out the date of death and burial. He recorded them before asking the next question.

  ‘Were there suspicious circumstances?’

  ‘No, no one else was involved. The conclusion that the pathologist came to was that the boy was playing in the bath, perhaps holding his breath under water - you know what children are like, especially when they’re left on their own. He probably stayed under too long and blacked out.’

  Ash’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s pretty unlikely.’

  ‘The coroner recorded a verdict of accidental death. There was no evidence otherwise.’

  ‘The mother …?’

  There was suppressed fury in Reverend Lockwood’s voice, as if he had scant patience for the investigator’s scepticism. ‘Ellen Preddle doted on her son. She loved him beyond anyone and anything else.’

  ‘You said the woman had suffered badly. Maybe too much? The boy could have misbehaved, upset her at a time when life was particularly unbearable. She might have just snapped. On the other hand, men have slaughtered their families and women have smothered their babies under the misguided notion they were protecting their loved ones from the wicked realities of life.’

  The anger was still there. ‘I’m well aware of such tragedies, Mr Ash, but the boy’s death does not fall into either category. Ellen Preddle and her son, Simon, were very happy in the last year of the boy’s life, far happier, in fact, than they had ever been before.’ Some of the fierceness left Lockwood’s voice. ‘You see, the boy’s father was a cruel, foul-mouthed man, who treated his wife and son abominably. I pray God will forgive me for saying this, but when George Preddle died last year his only bequest to his family was peace and happiness.’

  ‘And how did he die?’

  ‘A farming accident. A most horrible death.’ The vicar had set the half-empty coffee cup on the table and was now leaning forward in the chair, his hands clasped together before him; he lowered his head, resting his forehead on his hands. He sighed before looking up again. ‘I suppose you want the full details?’ His reluctance to tell was obvious.

  Ash’s reply was blunt. ‘I’ll let you know when you’re telling me too much.’ When he saw the surprise on Grace’s face and the annoyance on the cleric’s, he quickly explained: ‘Too much knowledge when investigating supernatural or paranormal occurrences can sometimes be a hindrance rather than a help - it can pre-empt some of the things the investigator has to discover for himself, or even pre-condition him. Now, having said that, because this haunting apparently involves more than one location - if I’ve been briefed correctly by my associate, Miss McCarrick, that is - then I’ll need more background information than is usual.’

  ‘I see,’ said Grace. ‘Your coffee’s getting cold,’ she added.

  He smiled as he stretched for the cup.

  Reverend Lockwood was still troubled. ‘I’ll help in any way I can, Mr Ash, but I should inform you that contacting the Psychical Research Institute was entirely my daughter’s idea. I wanted no part in it.’

  ‘How did you see the alternative?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’

  ‘I assume you didn’t want to inform your bishop, either. So what did you expect to happen? Did you think these activities would eventually fade away of their own volition, hopefully before too many people were involved?’

  Lockwood evaded the question. ‘Then you do believe they’re genuine hauntings?’

  ‘I haven’t said that. And I should emphasize that nine out of ten such cases the Institute investigates turn out to be no more than exceptional circumstances or fraudulent practices, with nothing at all to do with psychic phenomena.’

  ‘Yet the odd one …?’

  ‘Even they’re not always conclusive. The cause might mystify us, but it still doesn’t mean we’re dealing with the supernatural.’

  ‘We take your point, David,’ said Grace as she came over and picked up her father’s coffee cup. ‘Shall I freshen this for you, Father?’ She poured hot coffee from the pot without waiting for a reply. The vicar took the cup from her and settled back in his seat; he appeared distracted as Grace pulled a straight-backed chair over so that she could be closer to the cassette recorder.

  Ash drew him back. ‘You were about to tell me how Ellen Preddle’s husband died.’

  The vicar sipped coffee before speaking again. ‘Have you ever witnessed a haystack fire, Mr Ash?’

  ‘I thought haystacks were a thing of the past. Don’t farms just bale the hay nowadays?’

  ‘This is Sleath. A few farmers hereabouts still prefer the old methods. Sometimes a stack will burn from the inside. You might see small flames on the outside, and smoke, lots of smoke; but the real inferno is inside, burning away the very core of the stack. The heat there is incredible, just incredible, and then finally the whole thing will explode into flame.’

  He paused as if imagining a fiery hell. ‘George Preddle was a farm labourer - when there was work to be had. Most of the time, though, he was an idle, drunken lout who beat his wife and ill-treated his son.’

  Ash was mildly surprised that a man of the cloth should talk of the deceased in such disparaging terms. Obviously this was a priest who had little tolerance for the sinners of his flock.

  ‘He was lucky in that the cottage he and his wife lived in was p
assed on to Ellen by her parents when they died, otherwise the Preddle family would have possessed very little.’ The coffee cup rattled in its saucer as he returned it to the table. ‘He was working out at Gunstone Farm, not a mile from the village itself, and on that particular day - a day very much like today as I remember: sunny and dreadfully hot - his son was helping him. The boy earned a few shillings during his school holidays doing odd jobs around the village or working on the farms with his father. Nobody is sure how the haystack caught fire, except we do know that Preddle was a heavy smoker and he’d been drinking that lunchtime. Apparently, he was working closest to the stack so perhaps he tossed a cigarette butt or match in the wrong direction. Whatever the cause, smoke billowed from the stack and all the workers quickly formed a water-bucket chain from the nearest tap, which wasn’t too far away. Foolish man that he was, Preddle dragged a ladder to the haystack and climbed up, insisting he would douse the fire from the top.’

  Ash grimaced. ‘It was alight inside.’

  Lockwood straightened his shoulders as if to ease a pain there, and looked towards the logs in the fireplace. ‘There were few flames on the outside, just billows of smoke. Whatever had lit the stack had worked its way well inside. A quirk of fate, a freak accident: our destinies are decided by such things. Preddle only laughed at the warnings from the other field hands. I’m told even his son screamed for him to come down. Arrogance or drunkenness, who knows what drove the man to it. The wretched fool fell through.’

  This time Ash winced and looked over at Grace, who seemed equally disturbed even though she was familiar with the story. He soon understood why, for there was worse to come.

  ‘It would have been more fortunate if Preddle had fallen all the way,’ the vicar went on. ‘As it was, he became stuck by his arms and shoulders while his lower body was in the conflagration below. He was held there, clutching at the top and screaming terribly as his legs were burnt away. They could only watch him, none of them daring to climb to the roof of the haystack and drag him out. It would have collapsed under their weight if they had tried to do so.’