When Mac left the house, she found Jean pacing back and forth some way down the road. She looked like a crazy woman. She was obviously hysterical; crying and talking to herself, even waving her arms in the air as if to ward something away.
And this was before she heard what Mac had to tell her. Mac realised that she was going to have to deal with this woman very carefully. It was clear to see she was at breaking point. Now that Mac knew the haunting was more intimately connected to Jean Pottersworth than it was to the house, or at least that was how it seemed to Mac, she could understand why the woman was a blubbering wreck.
Mac climbed into the driver's seat of her purple Beetle, turned it around in the road, and then drove down the street to where Jean was standing. Leaning over to wind the passenger seat window down, she called out, 'Come on, jump in.'
Jean clambered into the car, and Mac drove away, retracing the route back to Bramblesgrove. On the way home Mac decided she was going to have to find a way of making Jean talk to her. That would entail keeping her close by.
'I was thinking that we go back to River Gardens for lunch,' Mac began, 'and then we can work out a plan of action.'
'So you believe me now?' Jean asked, suddenly relieved, the tension falling out of her shoulders.
'There is more to this case than meets the eye, that's for sure,' Mac said. 'But you need to tell me everything.'
'But-'
'Everything.'
'But-'
'No more buts. I don't want any more excuses or drama. I just want to hear it all.'
'But-'
'Jean!'
'I am sorry.'
When they got back to 127 River Gardens, Mac cobbled together a lunch of tomato soup and cheese sandwiches, which was consumed in absolute silence at the kitchen table. Mac wanted Jean to calm down before she started the next round of anxiety-inducing questioning.
Once they had both finished, without saying a word, they collected the dirty dishes and gravitated towards the kitchen sink.
'Thank you, Miss Jones. That was lovely. I'll wash up.' As Jean rolled up her sleeves to begin washing the dishes, Mac noticed that there were lines of red, going up both of her forearms.
'Jean, what has happened to your arms?' Mac asked, astonished by the sight of the marks. For a split second her attention automatically focused on her own sore fingertips, before her eyes returned to Jean's arms. If Mac had to guess, they looked like claw marks, and that raised a whole new set of questions as well as the seriousness of the case.
'It's a long story.'
Isn't it always with Jean Pottersworth, Mac breathed silently to herself. 'Well, it will give us something to talk about over the dishes. Go on.'
Jean started to fill the sink with hot water. 'It happened a few days ago, the day in fact, when I first tried to get hold of you. When I rang here and got no answer, I began wondering if that was for the best. You see, after my painful divorce and getting rid of my business, I get embarrassed quite easily, and even though you are used to these sorts of things...well...I felt very stupid saying them and ridiculous thinking them. So, after leaving the briefest of messages on the answer phone, I went and sat in my car outside the house. It was the middle day or else I would never have done it; I am more cowardly than I could have ever imagined,' she laughed, nervously.
'It's human nature to be afraid of the unknown, Jean. You're not a coward,' Mac replied, picking up the tea towel so that she could dry the dishes Jean had washed.
'Well I felt like one, like a really big one. And I had these thoughts going over and over in my head, reciting my recent failures. Then I noticed a bottle of whisky on the back seat.'
'Oh, dear,' Mac groaned.
'Before I knew it, I had drank half the bottle just sitting there in the car.'
'Oh, dear,' Mac repeated.
'And then, believing I had enough alcohol-inspired courage running through my veins, I got out and went into the house. Of course, I hadn't really drunk enough to ensure that she wouldn't bother me at all. In fact, as soon as I walked through the door, it was as if I could feel her all the more strongly. It only took a few moments, but there she was, standing in front of me, blocking the exit, screaming words I was now too drunk to understand. I kept turning round and round, wondering how I could escape, but every time I went to move, there she was again, in front of me, until finally, I ran...I ran...through her and out the door. It was only when I got back into the car that I noticed my arms were running with blood.'
'Alcohol and apparitions do not mix, Jean.'
'I know that now,' Jean said lightly. 'And it's not something that I am ever going to try again, thank you very much. It's one thing seeing a ghost. It's one thing having a ghost shout at you. It's one thing having your own possessions being used as missiles against you by a ghost. But walking through a ghost...that was the worst.'
Mac understood what she was talking about, remembering the first time she had inadvertently passed through a spirit that was standing behind her without her knowledge.
'I have never been so cold in all my life,' Jean continued. 'I thought my very blood would turn to ice as I stood there. Then there was that prickling sensation that seemed to effect all my skin at once. No, I shall not be trying that ever again. Once was enough.'
'Now I understand why you didn't wish to return to the house. Though why you never mentioned this before, I don't know,' Mac concluded, shaking her head as she moved to wipe down the old oak table.
'As I said, Miss Jones, I am easily embarrassed. I knew I had committed quite a large paranormal faux pas as soon as I had entered the house drunk as a lord. I am quite happy to keep some of the tales that reinforce the idea that I'm an idiot to myself.'
The dishes were now done. Andromache's understanding of the case was slowly increasing, as Jean, always by accident it seemed, revealed one little clue after another. It was clearly evident that there was a strong connection between the spirit and Jean Pottersworth.
But there was one thing Mac had yet to determine: just how were they connected?
Chapter Seven: A History Lesson