Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  I looked back at Morris, but he was busy getting into my car. On the driver’s side.

  Shit….

  “What are you doing?” I yelled after him. “You’re pissed!”

  “Going to look further on.” He seemed more alert than before. Strangely so. “Did I tell you that bitch of mine took everything except a frigging wardrobe?”

  The engine revved. He moved off.

  “Wait!”

  Too late. He was lost in a blur of muddy spray.

  Damn.

  I should have realised he was so close to the edge. Should have brought him with me to the bloody gate. I hoped to God he’d told the me truth about looking around, and not giving in to despair. Just then, seeing my my new car disappear in front of me was the least of my worries.

  I listened hard for the slightest sound of its engine over the wind and the pattering rain. Nothing. Not even crows which around Wombwell Lodge, made a din until dawn. Nor any hint of car lights.

  Hang on.

  Was some animal creeping up on me? A stray dog perhaps? Or a fox?

  Or a human?

  Judging by the breathing, whatever or whoever it was, had either travelled some way or was old. Or both. I twisted round to see a shadowy figure step back behind a nearby telegraph pole. I not only sensed a sudden chill but also an all-too familiar hint of putrefaction as I worked my way towards it. That breathing louder, faster. Then, all at once came the faintest, ominous sound of church bells, while that smell of putrefaction grew stronger as I reached the pole and saw a woman.

  Brown coat, dirty boots. Her thick, grey hair flattened by a fringed scarf, already wet. Her face not as I’d remembered it, but knotted in hatred, also fear as her right arm suddenly raised holding a stick with a spike at the end. In the other, a bald, almost lipless procelain-headed doll with glistening glass eyes.

  Rosemary Harding?

  That same person who’d chatted to me at her cottage and come to my aid in the Ladies’ toilets before sharing a table and a teapot in the Sunshine Café at Tidswell station?

  Hardly.

  “Get away from here!” she snarled, having stuffed the doll inside her coat. “Now! Or you’ll end up with them.”

  My stalker was strong. Almost too strong. I wrenched the stick from her grasp and pulled her arms back for an Aikido wrist hold.

  “With them?” I repeated. “Where? Who d’you mean?”

  “Not saying. But be sure to tell your friend as well.”

  “I’ve a right to know, given you almost attacked me.”

  “Seems you attract it.”

  That was below the belt.

  Although I still gripped her surprisingly thick wrists tight, she almost freed herself.

  “Let go!” she protested. “I’m just an old woman.”

  “Not so old you couldn’t have inflicted some serious damage.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Wombwell Farm’s just over there. You knew all the time.”

  “So?”

  A blob of warm spit met my left cheek.

  “Thanks for that.” I wiped it away with my cuff, telling myself to let it go. She could still be useful.

  Then in the distance, came the faint quiver of headlights that seemed to progress along a black row of poplars. Connor Morris, maybe? I turned to her. “Have you seen anyone else round here recently? Big black car with all the trimmings? A thick-set man with glasses, wearing a dark coat, and a fair-haired woman in her fifties who may have been driving? Maybe others too?”

  No response.

  I then described Stephen Vickers in detail and how long he’d been missing, but again, she appeared not to listen, instead, intently followed those same headlights.

  “That’s how the leprosy was spread. By mucous and semen.” She finally looked at me. “You’ll all die.”

  “And you’ve not answered my questions. Yes or no?”

  She kicked out, catching both my shins in turn, but I tightened my grip on her wrists, thinking her scarf might come in useful. Also, that ugly doll with the too-heavy head.

  A nod. A wince before she grudgingly replied. “There was a big car, over by the Howse. About half an hour ago. It’s officially a bridle path, but people go up there for the fishing…”

  “You mean the river, yes?” Stephen had mentioned it. I regretted not yet having taken a look. Another black mark. But better late than never.

  “The Grange is on the other side,” she said. “A Youth Hostel now. Damned pests.”

  I slackened my grip, and before she could react, pulled off her scarf and used it to tie her wrists tight together. Then I tried taking her doll.

  “How dare you!” She cried. “Who do you think you are? This is assault!”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about assault. You’re coming with me, Miss Harding. And on our way to the farm, you can fill me in with its history about which you’ve been so vague. You’re going to help solve the mystery of what happened to those people who lived and worked here during the last six months of 1920. Happy with that? If not, I still have colleagues to call upon if necessary.”

  “We’ll be trespassing. You saw the sign. It’s under offer.”

  “So, tell me. Who’s biting?”

  66. STANLEY.

  Tuesday 14th December 1920. 6.40 p.m.

  Exhausted, with me left leg in agonies and both eyes almost blind, I had to lay down. But no such luck. Not with this madman.

  “Wait here. We’re not finished,” said the one calling hisen Constable Drummond. Who I’d dared not cross. Who sounded wheezy just like the dead bor. He’d promised me Mollie Parminter, which still made everything worth while.

  “Don’t move. I’ve a gun,” he said. “Disobey, and you’ll end up like him.” He nodded towards the pit where the last of the bor’s bubbles had just stopped popping.

  I watched him run panther-like towards our farm gate. The snow had stopped falling. He turned twice to check on me then vanished. It were then I thought of going to the farm and getting me mawther mesen. But truth to tell, I were scared of’ him. More than ever before. Even in Holland, falling in that freezing canal.

  Mollie…

  Were she really worth all this?

  A light in me old bedroom window came on. Waiting for me, maybe? But no - one appeared, and just then I spotted the unlit Growler creeping along Longstanton Road towards the river. I cud swear there was two other people sitting inside, still as statues. One in the back, the other up front. No time to wonder who they were, ‘cos it stopped by our fence and Drumond got out to pull something from the back. He then climbed the fence and walked towards me with what looked like the shape of some dead animal over his shoulder. The same way as I’d done with the bor, ‘cept this seemed to weigh no more than a feather.

  “Here,” he said, dropping it on to the snow. “See to it, while I get on with other business.” But when I saw the face that popped out o’ the sheet, I hesitated. Covered me mouth. The mother who’d seen me having fun with her kids were waxy, white. Her brown eyes staring up at me as if to say, “I dare you.”

  *

  Mollie…

  I smelt her before I saw her, like a silent ghost. No coat, no hat, just a long-sleeved dress and boots. Her hair tied back with a fancy clip to the side. She looked all of fifteen. And beautiful.

  “I saw you earlier from the window,” she said, slipping her cool, plump fingers into me hand. “Helping my father with Buck.”

  I stared into those shiny, blue eyes that I’d never forgotten. “Yer father?”

  She nodded. “I’ll tell you one day. He’s just told me. And how she made the doctor get rid of my baby sister. He’s a ruined man.”

  “So, she went with him twice? I mean Drummond?” I said once I’d got over me shock.

  “Yes. And hated me since the day I was born. But not precious, wheezy Buck. Oh no. So here goes.” She bent down, pulled off the woman’s boots, chucked them in the water pit, then slipped on a pair of shiny
, green gloves and grabbed her by the ankles.

  “She’s still yer Ma,” I reminded her. “May be breathing.”

  “So? She’s diseased, just like my not-real father. And your Ma and Pa. They’re in a bad way. Coughing, bleeding from their sores. I don’t want to catch it, thank you…”

  With that, she dragged her Ma the short distance to the edge of the water pit, and I cud swear there were a groaning sound. A slight movement in one of those feet. But then Drummond were back so I quickly took over, heaving her up and letting her drop over the edge. No bubbles. No nothing.

  God help me.

  *

  “Good work, both of you,” panted Mollie’s real Pa as if he’d bin rushing around. “She’d have been a load of trouble. But we’re not finished yet.”

  “What d’you mean?” I said.

  No reply.

  I felt sick. Sicker than I’d ever felt before. Sarah Parminter had bin a pretty enough woman. And everyone has their weaknesses. I thought of Ma and Pa with all their faults and even though I’d hated them at times, mebbe them going that same way made it hard for me to think straight.

  The cop called Drummond glanced at Mollie. I saw then how close they was. How alike they looked. “Give me your gloves and wait in the farm,” he told her. “And if anyone asks any questions, just say you heard gypsies. Understood?”

  She gave a nod.

  “My not-real father’s too drunk anyway. He won’t have noticed anything. Nor those two old crows.” She gave me hand another squeeze then slipped away like a melting snowflake. Once she’d gone, her Pa began blurring all our footprints with a besom, just like he’d done at Vesper House. When finished, he’d pushed me in front of him and said to get moving. We cud talk along the way. I knew he had a gun in me back.

  “For your information, the Reverend Beecham has already offered up prayers for the dead. That their souls, cleansed of all bodily afflictions, will find peace. He also said I’d be receiving a gift from the Church for my invaluable services.”

  “What gift?” I said, feeling left out. I’d helped too, hadn’t I?”

  He pushed the gun harder agin me. Stepping up the pace while I struggled.

  “Money. Less than the cost of treating these lepers, but enough to get you and Mollie somewhere safe, away from here and the law. Both with new names till the good Lord also takes you to his bosom. On condition you don’t go near her, if you get my meaning. Keep your spittle and semen to yourself.”

  I slowed down. Something in his voice weren’t right. Ma and Pa spoke with forked tongues, too.

  “You don’t seem very sure,” he said. “She’s now my only child. My sacrifice.”

  “I still felt sick. Unsteady on me feet. “Thank ye.”

  “That’s more like it.” His gun barrel pushed me harder in the direction of the farm which cud have bin deserted till I heard the pigs in the Dutch barn. “Now for the final stage of this operation. You’ll hear three shots. Wait here, because within half an hour, you and Mollie will be leaving the area. There’ll be no records. Nothing on paper, and as the years roll by, and new people take over here. All will be forgotten.”

  “And you? You’re a cop.”

  “True enough, and I’ll continue being a concerned and conscientious Constable, with promotion possibly in the spring.”

  “But them drowned bodies?” I said, fighting off the sick in me throat. “They’ll be found.”

  He laughed, but it weren’t really a laugh.

  “Your Pa had more brains than you, Stanley, when he planned that pit. The water inside it is drawn up the Howse with every outgoing tide and filled again at high tide. He’d never have buried Menelos in that dry bank. No one would.”

  Pa and Ma? No…

  Not only sick, I felt colder than a corpse as the big man overtook me towards the farmhouse, draped in snow like a squat, black bride. Seconds later, came three shots like a crow scarer gone wrong. Very wrong. Pa were sreaming. And Ma. And then, before I could go and look, out he came with Mollie. Close together, both with a gun in each hand. Smiling.

  “All yours,” he said to her, pointing at me chest. “And like I’ve said, girl, his diseased heart would be best.”

  67. JOHN.

  Wednesday 16th November 1988. 3.50 a.m.

  Rosemary Harding still wouldn’t reveal who was buying this burnt-out wreck in the middle of nowhere, and Connor Morris still had my cell phone, so I couldn’t call the Norwich estate agents to leave a message. Because of this deadlock and worsening weather, I’d untied my elderly companion’s hands and handed back her scarf. Within seconds her doll was ensconced inside her coat, malevolently peeping out from between its lapels

  However, instead of escaping, she’d stayed alongside, probably not going to make things easy. After years trying to extract the truth from suspects in ‘The Box’ exercising their right to silence, I knew that stubbornness runs in the blood. And here, I suspected, was another prime example.

  *

  By the time we reached the River Howse, its bumpy waves threatened to overpower both banks, and the rush of tidal water made a louder din than the wind. Occasionally, as we progressed upstream along the muddy, rutted track, some huge dead branch would toss and turn in the flow and suddenly vanish. Each time, she’d watch with a strange focus. A woman so private and seemingly detached, I wondered if I should simply escort her home, spiked stick, doll and all, and stop wasting my time.

  Yet how could I? God only knew what was going on in that farm and Connor Morris still had my car, phone and a powerful torch. Besides, my expensive trench coat had proved useless and unlike the well-protected Rosemary Harding, I was drenched to the bone.

  “This is futile,” she said suddenly. “You’ll all die.”

  A shiver crept under my damp clothes.

  “You keep saying that. But what I’d really like to know is what happened to Dr. Vincent Lovell. Did you ever find anything useful at Myrtle Villa? Or in the newspapers?”

  “He was a good man, so I heard. But at the time, I was more interested in having fun. Being a teenager. Growing up.”

  Softly, softly…

  “Where? Here?”

  Her laugh wasn’t convincing.

  “All I know is whoever stumps up for Wombwell Farm, is doomed. It’s cursed.”

  *

  With dawn’s first pale threads emerging in the sky, I could just about make out the bleak ruins of what had once been a substantial farmhouse and outbuildings. Its roofless walls charred black, while an adjoining iron-framed barn tilted like a shipwreck, and other similar structures resembled the aftermath of an aerial attack.

  Trudging and tripping over the treacherous ground alongside her, I also kept a lookout for signs of other vehicles. A black Mitsubishi Pajero and my own silver Citroën, in particular.

  “This could have been all mine, you know,” she announced without warning.

  I stopped and we almost collided.

  Gently does it.

  “Really?”

  “If I’d planned things better. Not been so concerned about everbody else. You find that, don’t you?” She fixed her blue eyes on mine. Unblinking despite the rain. “Moses said in the Ten Commandments to ‘do good to those who hate you,’ so I really did try.”

  The wind had changed direction, slanting the rain into my face, so I turned away slightly, and thought I saw those two cars, both melding with the chaos of Wombwell Farm.

  “Who was it hated you?” I ventured, to keep the thread going.

  “Me.”

  Silence, save for our footsteps.

  “Were you living here at the time?”

  She turned to stare at me.

  “Are you a Christian?”

  Damn…

  My reply was lost to a sudden squall of wind and water, but it didn’t seem to matter. The old woman next to me was, although physically close, withdrawing into her own world. Her voice rising to counter Nature’s racket in that soulless place.

  �
��I became one. It seemed so natural, given everything that was happening.”

  “Where?”

  Let me hear it again.

  “Here of course.”

  At last.

  “I had to feel there was something more than our devices and desires. Our selfish hearts.”

  “Our? You mean…?”

  “Oh stupid, stupid Mr. Lyon! You know who I’m referring to. The reckless Parminters of course. And the Bullings. All spinning in Hell now, probably watching us and laughing their heads off, no doubt.”

  “I’ve seen a photograph of someone who may be Sarah Parminter,” I began, after a pause. “And I believe she left a short diary…”

  Harding immediately grabbed my arm. “Where? Tell me. A Jezebel if ever there was.”

  “You knew her?”

  Another odd laugh. A wild look in those memorable eyes. I took a punt. Nothing to lose… “You’re her daughter, aren’t you? The one called Mollie?”

  At this, the old woman stopped. “Remember I said I could trust you? So, promise one thing, Mr. Lyon. Please. Forget you ever met me.”

  I was about to ask why, when from the corner of my eye, I noticed a sudden movement. I turned to see her quicken towards the river bank and without hesitation, step sideways into its turmoil, too quick for me to get there and use her stick to pull her free of the churning current.

  No…

  I ran back the way we’d come, to try and reach the inert, brown shape bob-bobbing at speed towards the little bridge on Longstanton Road, with that same doll freed from her coat, tossed by the waves behind her. But within seconds, there was no trace of either of them. Only that fringed scarf already trapped and torn on some thorny bush sprouting from the far bank.

  Should I keep her stick or not?