‘A simple timer device fixed to a tape recorder.’
‘Right. He didn’t have a chance to set it today because he’d spent most of his time with the dean.’
Kate turned the ignition key and the Saab gunned into life. ‘Rosemary thought he would be at the dean’s most of the night. She thought the way was clear for her latest lover.’
‘The reverend made his excuses and left early, thinking I was safely back in London. It was all so stupid though – I’d have found the tape recorder hidden behind the boards sooner or later, even if I’d had to tear the belfry apart.’
‘I suppose reason didn’t have much to do with it.’
Ash drew on the cigarette, relaxing back in the passenger seat. ‘It didn’t make for much of a challenge either. It was all so obvious. There’s only one little thing that still bothers me, though,’ he added.
Kate glanced at him questioningly.
‘Two days ago, when I first went inside St Mark’s, I saw someone by the altar. Someone who was either kneeling, or was quite small. I think now that maybe it was a child.
‘I assumed that person had left by the side door, but when we all examined that same door only minutes later, it was locked and bolted from the inside. Yet there was no way that anyone could have got past us unseen, and no way they could have left through there.’
Kate joined him in looking back across the graveyard at the church.
10
Steam curled to brush the ceiling in delicate licks, its ascent stippling the white tiles of the bathroom walls with moisture. The only sound was that of water splashing, the movement vigorous, the cleansing that was taking place more than a physical purification: Ash scrubbed at his flesh as if to scour what lay beneath, feeling that in some way the filth from the pond had tainted his inner self. An irrational notion, but one he could not easily exorcize.
The dirt soon washed away; the sense of defilement did not.
The bath was huge, the enamel stained deep brown beneath old upright taps, its clawed feet squat, as if cowered under the great weight. A small mirror above a solidly square sink was misted opaque; a pale green stool stood by the bath, paintwork cracked, flaked away in places.
He finally rose from the water, dark hair on face and body matted flat against his skin. His fingers wiped the wetness from his eyes, the flat of his hands scratching against the roughness of his chin. He stepped from the bath and reached for a large towel hanging over a rail behind the door, careful not to slip on the shiny floor. Ash dried himself briskly, starting with his face and hair, working down, the towel rough against his skin, the wiping still part of the cleansing process. At one point he stopped, listened, looked towards the bathroom door. But he heard nothing, and felt only the stillness of Edbrook itself. He resumed drying himself, then pulled on a robe, his body now damp from the steam that had accumulated.
Ash yanked the bath plug and used a hand to wash away the dirt mark that was left as the water level lowered. He watched the whirlpool over the drain as though mesmerized; but his thoughts were elsewhere, in another time, caught in a more powerful vortex . . . He shuddered, became aware of the present once more. Ash breathed in deeply, vapoured air rushing into his throat; he released it in a long sigh, forcing his fluttering nerves to settle.
The last of the water gurgled away and Ash went to the bathroom door, finding its brass handle slippery, difficult to grip. He hesitated before tightening his hold and twisting, wondering why he should feel that someone waited beyond as he did so. Coolness rushed in at him from the dim but empty corridor.
Running his hands through his wet hair, Ash returned barefooted to his bedroom, tiredness, despite his tension, almost overwhelming.
He closed the door behind him and went to the bureau where his notes and plans of the house were spread. By them there was now a tumbler glass and he quickly poured a generous measure of vodka into it. He took a large swallow, then another, waiting for the warmness to reach his chest, the initial lightness to glide into his head, before approaching the window. He stared down into the gardens, relieved that the terrace and pond were not in view from that part of the house.
He disliked the statues out there, and the shadows cast by single trees and shrubbery. Could he be sure that’s all they were? What the hell was the matter with him? He’d fallen into the pond, pushed by someone – someone, not a dog! – and had thought, imagined, that person had been in the water with him, had wanted him drowned. But that fleeting image was jumbled, confused by events of many years before, a terrible memory creating its own falsehood. Damn it! He had to calm himself, he had to think logically! There was a secretiveness about the Mariells; he sensed they were holding something back from him. Idiot! He had told them not to divulge anything, not at this preliminary stage of the investigation. He was allowing just one unnerving experience to distort everything else. The family genuinely believed they were being haunted; he considered it his task to dissuade them from that by providing firm evidence to the contrary, to explain rationally the disturbance – in whatever shape or form it took – at Edbrook. Ghosts, spirits, lost souls, did not, could not exist. In a day or two – hopefully less – they’d be convinced. And he, himself, would be certain again.
Disgustedly, he turned away from the window and crossed the room to the bed, taking the vodka bottle and tumbler with him. He placed them on the bedside cabinet where they would be close at hand, shrugged off the robe, and climbed into bed.
The coldness of the sheets made him shiver. The smothered moon afforded no light when he switched off the bedside lamp. His eyes remained open. He stared up at the dark grey mass that was the ceiling . . .
No lights, no glow from within. Edbrook was a vast black bulk that merged with the blackness of night clouds. A breeze stirred through the gardens, ruffling foliage, disturbing trees. In the woods, night creatures hunted, their skirmishes violent but brief. Honey fungus glowed blue-green on decaying tree trunks, beetles scuttled in the undergrowth. The moon was a pale ghost seen only behind slow-moving monoliths.
Inside the house, Ash slept; but he did not rest.
His dream was of water, a terrible churning pressure all around him. Occasionally his eyes would rise above its choppy surface and he would glimpse the riverbanks on either side, far out of reach and rushing away from him. He screamed and cold liquid filled his mouth; and that choking sensation was familiar to him.
He plunged, drawn down by the fierce undertow. Someone else was with him in the deep, a blurred image, struggling as was he. Her hair was wild around her face, her arms and legs flailed the water. Her mouth, too, was open as though she was screaming at the horror of what was happening to them. The girl was drifting away from him, her figure becoming even more unclear, softened and bedimmed by the coursing river; yet still, and peculiarly, he noticed her white ankle sock, one shoe missing. Then she was gone, lost in fluid mists.
He rose again, a boy too feeble to defend himself against the water’s violence, but light enough in weight to be tossed upwards like flotsam by the currents.
He saw her once more, but her hand only, a small pale beacon that appeared to wave before it was sucked down, the young girl claimed completely . . .
Ash awoke, his cry little more than a whimper. The terror of his nightmare remained in his wide eyes. And soon a different emotion tinged them: a deep sadness, perhaps remorse. His flesh was coldly damp.
Early morning light crept through the window, a seeping greyness that offered no cheer.
11
Ash knelt to examine the fine powder at the top of the stairs. Too many footsteps had disturbed it, either last night or that morning – probably both – for it to reveal anything of use. He scooped up some, then stood. He let the powder drift to the floor again, looking for signs of draughts; there were no diversions in its floating descent. He checked the thermometer nearby. A low reading, but certainly not as low as the previous night’s, and quite normal for a morning at that time of year.
 
; Ash went downstairs and followed the murmur of voices into the breakfast room. Christina was giggling at something that Simon was saying, while Robert Mariell, at the head of the table, was smiling at them both. Conversation ceased when the investigator entered the room.
‘Mr Ash,’ Robert welcomed, indicating a seat next to Nanny Tess and opposite his younger brother and sister. ‘I hope you managed to sleep after your nasty little accident last night.’
Ash pulled back the chair and sat. ‘Uh, yes . . . I slept,’ he replied. ‘I still don’t understand what happened though. I’m sure – I’m positive – I saw a girl outside.’
They regarded him in silence.
‘All right,’ he admitted, ‘maybe it was the dog who knocked me into the pond – I’m too confused about that to insist otherwise. But I know I followed the figure of a person from the house and I’m sure it was a girl.’ He looked across the table. ‘I thought it was you, Christina.’
She returned his gaze, but said nothing.
It was Simon who broke the silence. ‘I really do think it’s time we told our investigator what’s been going on here at Edbrook.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Robert agreed. ‘Yes, of course. We refrained from doing so last night because you were somewhat distraught, and because your own instructions were that we should give nothing away for the present. However, I feel it’s time we spoke of our haunting.’
Ash nodded. ‘It’s time.’
‘Well then, it’s fair that Nanny should start. She was the first to be confronted by our ghost.’
All eyes turned towards the aunt, who had left the table to fetch Ash’s breakfast. She laid the plate before him (a meagre portion of scrambled eggs, bacon, and mushrooms), and sat, casting her eyes down at her own half-eaten breakfast as if reluctant to speak.
‘Come along, Nanny, don’t be shy,’ Simon encouraged. ‘Mr Ash is here to help us.’
Ash’s urging was more gentle. ‘Tell me what you experienced, Miss Webb. I won’t be surprised at anything you say.’
Still she was reluctant, her voice faltering. ‘I . . . I’ve seen . . . the ghost a few times.’
‘In the same place?’ he asked.
‘No. In various parts of the house. And . . . and in the garden.’
‘By the pond?’
She avoided his eyes. ‘Yes. Once.’
Ash glanced around at the others, his face grim. ‘What form does it take?’ he asked, his attention returning to the aunt. ‘What does this apparition – this ghost – look like?’
‘It’s a girl,’ she answered. ‘A young girl.’
Ash caught the secretive smile that passed between Simon and Christina. He hid his annoyance. ‘Dressed in a white flowing gown of some sort, possibly a nightgown,’ he said, not as a question.
Nanny Tess nodded, her discomfort apparent.
‘Over what period of time?’
She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘How long have you been witnessing the phenomenon?’
‘Ghost, surely, Mr Ash,’ Robert Mariell interrupted.
‘That hasn’t been established yet,’ Ash replied curtly. ‘How long, Miss Webb?’
‘Years,’ she said. ‘It must be years.’
‘Then why is it only now that you want the matter investigated?’
Robert spoke up for her again. ‘Ah, because until recently it was only Nanny who bore witness to the, uh, “phenomenon”. Now we all have.’
Simon’s hand went to his mouth as he tried to suppress a giggle.
Ash stared at him. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘You must forgive my brother,’ apologized Robert. ‘He tends to find humour in most situations.’
‘I’m not alone in that,’ Simon quickly responded.
The older Mariell ignored him.
‘You’re being extremely rude to our guest,’ Nanny Tess scolded.
‘You’re quite right, of course, Nanny,’ Robert said, smiling. He turned to the investigator. ‘I’m afraid Nanny Tess has suffered our juvenile humour since we were children. I often wonder why she’s put up with us for so long.’
Quietly, almost to herself, the aunt said, ‘Somebody had to. Somebody . . .’ Once again her head bowed as if she were studying the plate before her, the food there hardly touched.
Ash made an attempt to begin his own breakfast, though he had scant appetite. ‘You said you’ve all now seen what you believe to be the ghost of a girl.’
Robert answered for them. ‘More than once. And each of us in different parts of the house. But only Nanny has seen this poor spirit beyond the walls of Edbrook.’
‘What makes you say “poor” spirit?’
‘Isn’t that what these apparitions are – the desolate souls of those unfortunates who have left their earthly bodies in traumatic, or perhaps even tragic circumstances? I’m sure I read that somewhere.’
‘It’s an accepted theory.’
For the first time that morning, Christina spoke up: ‘But not accepted by you.’
Light from the long windows behind her, as the day at last began to brighten, haloed her hair a deep glowing red. There was a hint of amusement in her eyes – something else that Ash was quickly becoming used to – and he wondered if she were mocking him. ‘I’m prepared to believe that emotions of certain distressed people can be so strong at the moment of death, whether through pain, unhappiness, or shock, that an impression is left behind. An after-image, if you like, that can take years, maybe centuries, to fade completely.’ He turned from Christina to Robert. ‘I imagine Edbrook has quite a history. Has the Mariell family always owned the property?’
‘Many, many generations of the Mariells have lived here, Mr Ash,’ Robert told him. ‘Since it was built in the sixteenth century, in fact.’
‘Then you might know—’
The other man was quick to interrupt. ‘The Mariells have always preferred to forget their misfortunes. As far as I’m aware, no Edbrook tragedies have been recorded. Our generation has its own, of course – the death of our parents when we were only children – but that was due to an accident far from here.’
‘No guests, no servants, ever died in unfortunate circumstances inside the house?’
‘Ah, those were the days when there were servants at Edbrook. Now the running of the house falls entirely on the shoulders of poor Nanny. She copes very well . . .’
The aunt, who was pouring tea for their guest, didn’t appear to appreciate the compliment. Ash thanked her when she placed the cup before him and was puzzled by her taciturnity.
‘But I’ve no knowledge,’ her nephew continued, ‘of murders or suicides of either guests or servants in Edbrook’s history.’
‘With a house this old it’d be a little unusual if there wasn’t a skeleton or two lurking in a cupboard somewhere.’ He added milk to his tea, then sipped it before saying, ‘It would help to know who the girl was.’
Christina leaned forward, her hands resting on the table. ‘Then you believe a ghost does haunt this house.’
He shrugged. ‘There may be a visual representation of someone who once lived here still lingering. Perhaps that’s what I saw last night. A manifestation of some kind.’
‘Surely that’s just a fancy term for “ghost”,’ Simon insisted somewhat scornfully.
‘No, just another word for “image”. It doesn’t have to be a ghost in the sense you mean.’ He looked around the table. ‘Later this morning, I’d like each of you—’
A small cry came from Nanny Tess. In her hand she held the pepper pot, the top of which, along with a mound of pepper, now lay on her breakfast plate. Simon and Christina burst into laughter and when their aunt started sneezing, that laughter became uproarious. Even Robert started to chuckle.
Ash looked from face to face, perplexed by the childish trick.
His eyes rested on Christina and through her laughter she noticed his study. Her merriment faded. She looked to her brothers as if for reassurance, but the
y did not seem to notice.
Ash continued to watch her, but she avoided his eyes. He wondered why.
12
Kate McCarrick pushed through the swing doors of the Psychical Research Institute and strode across to the reception desk, bidding its occupant good morning and collecting a pile of letters and packages from her. She sorted through them as she made her way upstairs to her office, murmuring hello to colleagues she passed on the way.
Once inside her own room, she dumped the correspondence on her desk, then took off scarf and coat to hang them behind the door. Settled, she flicked through her appointments diary, lifting the telephone receiver with her other hand and pressing the O button as she did so.
‘Jenny, has David Ash tried to reach me this morning?’ she asked. ‘No? Get a number for me then, will you?’ After giving the Mariell name and their home address, Kate replaced the receiver. She began opening her post.
At the same time, in the library of Edbrook, David Ash was repositioning a Polaroid camera and its tripod, careful not to dislodge the wires connected to other sensor equipment. Robert Mariell, hands clasped behind his back, watched in what might have been amused silence.
‘About here?’ asked the investigator, looking towards the observer for confirmation.
‘Yes, there at first, and then . . .’ Robert waved his hand nonchalantly around the room ‘. . . here, there . . . several places, actually.’
Ash straightened up, satisfied at least that the camera covered a good portion of the library. ‘Has she ever spoken? Have you tried to speak to her?’
Robert frowned. ‘My dear chap, I don’t make a habit of conducting conversations with ghosts. I consider just seeing the wretched thing queer enough.’ He twitched his shoulders in a shiver. ‘At any rate, your camera seems to be in a good enough position to catch anything. Tell me what all this nonsense that it’s attached to is.’