‘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 v
isions!’ 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
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.