Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  Sod it…

  “I’ve got the green file that Professor Vickers left behind today,” I’d added, without mentioning Melanie by name. “I also need to know you’re OK.”

  No reply, no last-minute pick-up. The conscientious and affable archivist simply wasn’t around. But if he wasn’t at home, then where?

  *

  6.55 p.m.

  The rain and wind still rampaged outside my car as I finally pulled into Wombwell Lane where the Volvo and Catherine’s blue Allegro were almost taunting me from their perches on Wombwell Lodge’s weed-strewn driveway.

  Instead of heading for the front door, I followed the stone-slabbed path around to the back of the house, past both bicycles to where the neat garden was hibernating in varying shades of brown. I huddled against the weather in the shallow porch deciding how best to force entry with the tools I had. Wondering too, if I’d been spotted.

  I’d seen no smoke from either chimney, just a pair of crows perched on each one, peering down, as if challenging me to do what was necessary. There weren’t many tricks I didn’t know, and within two minutes, courtesy of a credit card and a ballpoint spring, I was in the cold scullery, still clutching the file Melanie Cox had given me. I not only needed to thoroughly check out the material it contained, but also tomorrow to drop everything to search for Stephen and Catherine.

  And ‘King George’ would be a start.

  If that had been Nicholas Beecham’s second car on Catchwell Crossing, and Piotr had been the driver, then the net was tightening. But around whom exactly? And if Piotr, why had he twice visited Tidswell Station, and on the second occasion enquired about train times?

  I stared back at myself in a plain mirror positioned next to a line of older, shabbier coats than those hanging in the front hall. Not only did I look wrecked but could no more stem these swirling questions than a dissolving sandcastle at the edge of an incoming tide.

  Ssshh…

  The house seemed so empty, yet at the same time, carrying the residual breaths of those who’d recently occupied it. The faintest whiff of bacon too, hung in the air, making me realise that for too long, I’d had nothing to eat. I also sensed increasing danger. That green vinyl folder was too clammy in my hand. Its contents too important to risk being found.

  It didn’t take me long to return outside, secrete it beneath a layer of mossy grass which I topped with a few handy stones, and once I’d rinsed my hands in the scullery’s sink, legged it upstairs. All the while listening out for signs of being followed.

  *

  I reached the double bedroom at the front of the house - almost totally dark, save for a distant, flickering street lamp further along the Longstanton Road. I shouldn’t be doing this, I told myself, checking the few photographs on display; quietly opening and closing drawers and exploring the his and hers wardrobes where underwear, accssories and casual and fomal clothes had been neatly arranged.

  Catherine’s took me the longest. Searching pockets simply by touch had always been a painstaking exercise and this was no different. I found various tickets, including for Clerkenwell Tube station, together with crumpled recepts for this and that, until one headed HUGO BOSS countersigned Catherine M. Vickers made me stop. Dated September 12th at 14.25 p.m. it itemised a man’s black leather jacket and trousers, plus three leather ties and five black tee-shirts. Total £3,7500.

  I’d spent never spent that much on clothes, even in a well-paid job.

  Mother love, eh?

  All I needed. Time to move on. I was grateful that Stephen’s study was handily next door. But first, I had to reclaim that black box file from under my pillow.

  *

  As in that other bedroom, I didn’t risk using my torch. Anyone watching Wombwell Lodge could have seen its muffled glimmer even through the unlined curtains, so my memory and fingertips had to suffice.

  Apart from the scullery, this must have been the chilliest room in the house. In fact, it seemed preturnaturally cold. A brief scan of the oak-clad walls, matching desk and packed-out bookcases showed things were the same as when Stephen had handed me Dr. Lovell’s last begging latter to the Reverend Henry Beecham.

  Where to start? And the notion that my host could show up at any minute underscored every move I made.

  Then I suddenly sniffed. That same, foul smell had returned, tainting the air, snaking towards me as if from the nearest, darkest corner of the room alongside the door. I followed it back to a slender cabinet - oak again - containing at least three small drawers each with an empty keyhole.

  So easily overlooked. Of course.

  However, these didn’t deter me, just the thickening stench of death. Having placed the box file on top of it, with one hand, I kept my already filthy handkerchief tight over my nose, while the other worked my same tiny ballpoint spring into each tantalising space.

  Click.

  Now…

  Ignoring earlier caution, I switched on my torch, keeping its beam as low as possible and turning away from the north-facing window. As far as I could tell, the top drawer contained yet more cuttings in chronological order from the Diss Express, mostly relating to news of a Stanley Bulling aged 41, of Wombwell Farm wanted in absentia in connection with three local murders. A schoolgirl named Susan Deakins, a Mauritian national, Menelos Angelid, who’d found work as a labourer there and whose Post-Mortem on his body parts revealed him to have carried the highly contagious mycobacterium leprae.

  Also, a sixty-eight-year-old widow, Rita Myers of Wombwell House where, according to the local farrier, the suspect had stayed for several weeks. Her body found nearby in a shallow grave, had been disturbed by foxhounds from the local hunt. Her savings taken. This latest cutting dated December 12th1920 announced that although Bulling still hadn’t been found, the couple - a man and his married sister, who’d not only robbed the Parminter family on Tuesday July 27th, but also shot their horse dead - had been found gassed in a rented room in Norwich city centre. Verdict suicide.

  I stifled a cough. And another. Prayed I could finish checking through what was clearly another important repository from that era, before another crisis took hold.

  The next drawer proved trickier. Here, Stephen had either been less organised or someone else had already rifled through its contents which included various pamphlets on aspects of the New Forest, particularly its administration. Its hierarchies and bureaucracy such as Verderers’ Courts, the Forest Eyrie and the like.

  I shivered. And again. Why here? I asked myself. What possible connection could there be? I wondered, retreating from the deepening stink; expecting another determined shove from behind. The third drawer almost fell off its rollers and on to the floor all by itself.

  Damn.

  But here I stopped, drawn as if by some unseen force to the small, faded photograph of a youngish woman whose dark, straight hair made her bloodless face with its hollow, pleading eyes, resemble the face of death. I clicked my torch on to read the reverse, where KCL 1980 written in gold ink, had almost been scraped away.

  What did KCL mean? Someone’s name?

  Before I could think any further, there came a small noise from the landing outside the door. Someone else taking a deep breath perhaps? I couldn’t be sure, so I slipped that haunting photograph into my trenchcoat pocket, added the other sheets to the box file and shielded it behind my feet. I killed the torch beam and pressed myself next to the cabinet.

  I waited as I’d been trained all those years ago, using shallow breathing. Playing dead. In the poor light I soon saw the door handle turn and the door itself opening inch by inch. That vile smell supplanted by something else entirely. Of the great outdoors.

  “John? Is that you?” A woman sounding hoarse, strange. But who? Catherine? Surely not.

  A slim, pale hand clasped the door’s edge and pushed it so far open I was in danger of being flattened behind it.

  Don’t make a sound.

  I pulled in every muscle to make myself scarce. I had to be sure.

&
nbsp; “I saw you from the drive and followed you in…” She broke off to draw in more breath. Raspy and, it seemed, painful. Then she was beside me, her sodden coat sharing its wetness; her hand drawing me towards her. The whiff of diesel on her clothes.

  Be careful…

  In that gloomy light, her face seemed almost skull-like. A double of that haunting photograph, safe in my pocket.

  Catherine.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I said, part angry, part relieved. “You’re wet, you’re…”

  “Just hold me.”

  For some ingrained reason I checked both her hands. Both gloveless, empty. But her coat showed two large pockets on either side.

  You don’t know her at all…

  “Please.”

  She reached out, and before I could sidestep away from my corner, those hands fastened on my shoulders. Their trembling echoed in my own bones until she laid her head against mine; her damp hair bringing the even more tangible sense of a rain-soaked countryside. Her breathing grew steadier, then she closed her eyes, while a small, cat-like smile played on her lips.

  “It’s been three days,” I said finally, my fingers encircling her waist while a current of desire took blood from my head. “And where’s Stephen? His car’s still outside.”

  She tensed. Pulled away, and in that moment, I saw her eyes rest on the exposed black box file. “Don’t you think I’ve been frantically out there looking for him? Why I’m in this state.”

  “Why didn’t you take your car? Especially in this weather?”

  “No petrol. Besides, on foot, I’ve been able to ask more people. But no bloody luck. Typical of round here.” Her voice changed. “I feel I can tell you, John. It’s not the first time Stephen’s taken himself off without saying anything, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough. He always gets himself into these scrapes, and I have to pick up the pieces. I’ve a new translation of Proust to begin, but does he care about that?”

  “What scrapes?”

  “Can’t get on with anyone. Always some fight or other going on…”

  Hardly Melanie Cox’s opinion, I thought, reminding myself not to mention the Reverend Nicholas Beecham.

  “It’s now a police matter,” I said flatly, thinking of her odd visit to Bakery Lane on Sunday morning, and her lift in a small, red car. “Stephen’s an official misper. Let them take a look.”

  She flinched.

  “No. Please, not yet. Any bad publicity could ruin his career. Can’t you see?”

  I couldn’t, and my affection for her had vanished as quickly as a bat in the night. Also belief in anything she said, but then wasn’t the time to quizz her about Piotr. I had to somehow keep her on board. Keep her close. But one question had been gnawing at me since Sunday morning, when that photograph of her brother had brought a bucholic pinkness to the newpaper’s page.

  “Which of you decided to move here, or was it a joint decision? I’m only asking because the late Reverend Henry Beecham’s church is slap bang next door, and I’ve also just found out that Wombwell Farm is in effect, just over the main road.”

  “Not now. Can’t you see the state of me? I desperately need a shower.”

  “And me, after what happened this morning.”

  “Don’t talk in riddles, John. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Not the crash… Not the crash…

  “Have you any idea why Stephen should totally lose his cool and knock me out?”

  “What?” She gasped in astonishment. “Where?”

  “Never mind that. I want to know why he’s he so angry? So frightened? Who’s threatening him? These are important questions, Catherine, because next time he could hurt someone else. Even himself.”

  45. SARAH.

  Wednesday 22nd August 1920. 12.10 p.m.

  The next three weeks passed in the way the old Bullings had planned, except that I’d dug my heels in about doing guard duty for Stanley, their still-absent son, and instead, helped indoors with the cooking and cleaning. To escape the ever-present reek of pig manure, I’d taken food and drink out to the pit diggers, whose zeal seemed to know no bounds and, later in the day, walked to the new General Stores in Hecklers Green, past photographs of Stanley Bulling in his younger days, stuck on to gates and lamposts. A wanted and dangerous man.

  Thus, my best intentions about school and a good education for the children come to nothing, because they’d refused to co-operate. And on that extra hot day nearing the end of August, I sensed an even odder feeling, deep in my stomach, as though a fire burned there. Unexpected moments of dizziness too, forcing me to find something convenient to lean on. It hadn’t just been that suspicious-looking man I’d seen amongst the poplars, but a private knowledge I couldn’t share.

  Ann Bulling suggested I see Doctor Lovell who was highly thought of in the locality. But in my heart - also out of sorts and stung by Buck and Mollie’s waywardness - I knew what was wrong. My monthlies, due last Sunday, hadn’t appeared, and neither my mother or myself had ever been late. Except of course when…

  “Come and look at this!” Mollie’s sudden shout made me start. She stood next to Will in the middle of Priest’s Field, her fair hair almost white against her brown skin.

  Not his child…

  Will just stared at me, as if I were a stranger too. His spade rested on his bare shoulder. Heaps of yellow-brown earth at his feet. He’d been busier than usual.

  “Dad’s gone’s down really far!” She pointed at the wide hollow where I knew that further inside the pit lay an embedded layer of bigger, sharper stones. “Just wait till it’s full of water. We can have a swim.”

  Will set his spade down and leant on it. “It’ll be too deep. Too dangerous, so put that idea right out of your mind. Hard enough work it’s been getting this far,” he added before resuming the dig. Easier it seemed to me, than have a proper conversation about what we’d all lost by leaving that shady, green New Forest so near the sea. “But at least I’m paid tomorrow.”

  “So, I can have those new dresses she promised me,” Mollie beamed, swivelling her vivid blue eyes my way.

  She…

  Then, having affectionately jabbed his forearm, she let her fingers creep upwards. She’d never asked for new clothes before. I squinted at her, not for the first time seeing a stranger forming in front of me.

  “Course you can,” he said. “Once I’ve bought a car, we’ll go to Diss …”

  She let out a squeal of excitement and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  “I’d like a pale blue taffeta dress, and a pink one with no sleeves, cut low down my neck like this.” Her finger drew a deep semi-circle which almost reached her budding breasts.

  “Whatever you fancy.”

  “Where’s Buck?” I said, pushing away more than one unwelcome thought, whereupon she snorted like one of the pigs.

  “In the barn? Where else? He loves those smelly things.”

  “What about you, Will?” I was determined to ask it. “Are you happy here?”

  A pause, during which a crowd of crows flapped overhead. Blacker than the one who’d recently appeared. And still the merciless sun beat down.

  “It’ll do.” He moved his hat further back off his forehead. Wiped away the sweat with a rag and glanced upwards. “I’d best be getting on. If we don’t get water in this pit soon, there’ll be no livelihoods for anyone.”

  It was then that a fresh seam of something akin to hatred crept through my body. I wanted to spoil the small pleasure he so obviously took in his job. So far, since leaving Swayhurst, I’d been the loser…

  I took a deep breath. Blinked, so I could fully take in his reaction at what I had to say next.

  “I’ve seen Matthew Crane.”

  *

  It was as if those same crows had suddenly multiplied and returned to completely obliterate the sky. Will flung his spade into the barely-dug hole and almost pushed Mollie over in his haste to reach me. To grip both my arms and bring his boiling, dark-stubbled face so close
it almost touched mine. In another place and another time. I’d have found the smell of his heavy sweat manly, attractive. But not then.

  “When?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Jesus save us. Why didn’t you say?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Where?” He held me tighter. “Has he come here? Has he?”

  “I don’t know, but it was on the Longstanton Road while I was looking out for the children.” I made sure Mollie saw my angry glance. “I was worried out of my mind.”

  Silence.

  Once he’d let let go of me, Mollie went to hide behind him. I’d only smacked her the once, a year ago, for pulling out a clump of Buck’s hair. This gesture was for effect. For Will’s sympathy. She knew full well what I’d seen two weeks ago near Vesper House. Her riding bare-legged on Stanley’s back. Buck braying like a donkey.

  “Unless a gossip’s tongue starts wagging, he won’t know we’re here.” I began to walk away, deliberately leaving him with some doubt. His stupidity had forced us to move. To be targets. He for Crane’s fist, or worse. Me for his…

  Enough...

  “You’ve put us all in danger, woman! Why you never said a word is beyond…” Will’s shouts petered out in the heat, but not the word ‘bitch,’ added at the end, which seemed to hang in the thick air until I reached the farmhouse.

  *

  To keep my mind from straying again to Matthew Crane, I offered to prepare lunch from the last remains of Bessie. A trotter and three slices from her plump rear end had, despite being wrapped in muslin and kept in the cool, turned almost purple. A lump of yellow cheese had softened to marshmallow, and the loaf delivered first thing that morning, was already hard.

  Nevertheless, the children couldn’t eat quickly enough and for that I was thankful, while Will chatted to the Bullings about the pit’s progress as if suddenly, he’d not a care in the world. How quickly some men forget, I thought, leaving them to it, beaten by the heat, the flies, my husband’s indifference and that of Mollie. Even Buck guzzled his share without once looking up. I was invisible. Me and that odd sensation still lingering in my stomach.