“I think I should have had something to eat before coming out for a walk,” he added apologetically.
The young woman seemed disposed to hover, but he smiled politely and made his way to a wrought iron bench to sit down.
“I’ll be fine, really. Please don’t trouble yourself, and thank you for being so kind. You mustn’t be late for work on my account!”
After she had gone, he took out his notebook and pencil and tried to write down as much of his odd experience as he could recall. Already, the details were fading. He did not make any notes about his nightmares. He never did. Mortlake felt oddly superstitious about that, as if committing Cassandra’s name to paper might be like naming the Devil. “Speak of Old Nick and he will come,” some said. He did not really believe that naming Cassandra would conjure her up. But he could not disbelieve it strongly enough.
Perhaps I should have another word with Monty, he thought. He gets back tomorrow. I might pop in around lunchtime. Or perhaps ask him out to the pub for a change.
He took out his phone and checked messages. He had not heard from Tara Pride for a while. She was his assistant, in theory, when it came to investigating the paranormal, but nobody had wanted his help for months. Anyway, the young American had been busy with her dissertation, something about the habitability of the planets of K class binary stars.
He thought about sending her a message, simply asking how it was going. They had not spoken for a couple of weeks and then had inevitably talked about how she was coping.
No, he thought finally, putting the phone away. Let her have some peace and quiet. It takes a long time to work through the kind of trauma she experienced.
***
“Oh God, no! This can’t be happening!”
Tara reached out reluctantly and put a forefinger onto the bloodred disc. This was the moment she had dreaded.
“Get on with it, you great wuss,” growled Anita. “Meet your fate.”
Tara pouted and slowly slid the counter across the board.
“One, two, three, four…”
“Five and down the snake!” shouted Anita, making a rather rude gesture with both hands. “You’re going DOWN, girl!”
Tara reluctantly moved her counter down the snake’s gullet, a long and winding journey that took her hapless plastic avatar back to the bottom row.
“Stupid game,” she said, as Anita picked up the dice and blew on them as if they were in Vegas and not at a park lawn in London.
As Anita continued her remorseless journey to victory, Tara looked up from the board. Even though they were in the heart of the city, the park was almost deserted at lunchtime on a Thursday. There were a few solitary dog walkers, parents with younger children, a few other picnickers. A squirrel emerged from a nearby hedge and took a couple of tentative bounds toward them then sat up, observing their picnic.
“Peanut butter sandwiches, never fails,” Tara noted. “Those guys have got some kind of nut radar.”
She checked her phone. She was relieved that there were no invitations to parties, drinks, whatever. She also resented the fact that nobody was thinking of her as a fun person to be with. It was almost the weekend, after all.
“Come on, it’s your go!” Anita said. “Get a move on so I can annihilate you totally, as is my right!”
Tara looked down at the board. Her opponent’s blue counter was now two squares from victory. She hated losing and toyed with the idea of faking a huge sneeze to blow the blue menace away.
“Why is it snakes and ladders in England?” she asked. “We have chutes and ladders. That makes more sense. Both are inanimate objects, right? I mean, who in their right mind slides down a big snake?”
“Tradition trumps logic,” Anita said. “And snakes are more interesting than chutes. And the snakes swallow you, you don’t slide down them, it’s not a Disney movie. And for time wasting, I impose a severe and yet tasty penalty.”
Before Tara could stop her, Anita grabbed the last slice of fruitcake. Tara threw the dice, got a double six, and a long ladder took her right up to the top row.
“Double, I get to throw again!” she said, shaking the dice vigorously. “Could this be a last-minute turnaround for the plucky outsider who questions the whole deranged concept of snake-sliding?”
It was. She threw lucky seven, overtook Anita, and won.
“I still got the cake,” Anita mumbled through a very full mouth. “That makes it a moral victory. Or something.”
Tara lay back and stared up at a few white clouds in an otherwise flawless sky. She was bored and frustrated. Mortlake had promised to call her in on “thirty quid an hour” if he needed help. That had been over four months ago. She had returned to normality, working hard and having fun as best she could.
For the first few weeks, she had expected a call that never came. She had maintained contact with the professor but, gradually, she had started to wonder if he had changed his mind about her. Eventually, they had spoken, but Mortlake had seemed reluctant to talk about anything other than how Tara was keeping. She was fine, she kept insisting, and had asked if he had anything new to investigate. The answer was a definite no.
“It’s not his fault there’s nothing spooky to go out and probe,” Anita said, sprawling beside her. “He can’t summon up the forces of evil. I mean, he probably could, but that would make him like one of those bonkers firemen who turn out to be arsonists. Just plain wrong.”
“Is it that obvious?” Tara asked.
Anita didn’t have to reply. Tara had talked about Mortlake a lot at first then made a determined effort not to, which was even worse.
“You nearly died,” Anita said quietly. “Several times. I don’t think you should really yearn for that kind of raw peril. But hey, I’m just a wuss.”
“I was terrified at the time, sure,” Tara admitted. “But I felt so alive at the same time. And he did say I was good at—at what we did. All that crazy stuff. I just hope he hasn’t gone back to fighting those forces of evil without me.”
Anita had initially done some gentle ribbing about Tara being into old men. She had moved on to suggesting Tara try to get a postgraduate place at Cambridge. Today, though, Anita had a new ploy.
“Okay, here’s a thing, and don’t decide all at once,” she said, “but I’ve been invited to my brother’s place for a holiday. Just a couple of weeks up north. And you could come, too. He said so. I mean, he said bring someone else, and I suppose he means a boyfriend but sod that. I’m abandoning the whole male sex. Most of them are not worth finding clean knickers for.”
Tara had to laugh at that, mostly because Anita’s nickname around campus was the Man-Eater. Anita had no problem finding boyfriends but keeping them for more than a few months was the problem. Her approach to relationships was too intense and chaotic for normal guys. But instead of pointing that out, Tara asked guardedly about the holiday being proposed.
Anita talked a lot about her family but in a fragmentary way. Today was no exception.
“I told you Tim and Sonia are property developers, I think,” the English girl said. “She’s Polish—or is it Ukrainian?—Anyway, she’s from over there somewhere, and she’s very efficient but really nice. Thought she was a little standoffish at first, but that was just me confusing her. And their little girl Ellie is lovely in controlled amounts, because she’s a small child, obviously.”
“This is not really sounding like a holiday, to be honest,” Tara said, dubiously. “Small child, some old house being fixed up… And are you sure it would be okay for me to just turn up? A total stranger?”
“Yes, they’re very kind and hospitable!” Anita insisted. “Though Tim’s more like me, a bit scatterbrained—like all creative types—but he works hard. Classic ‘opposites attract’ marriage, I suppose, easygoing hubby and efficient wife in perfect harmony. So anyway, they find these big old houses that need doing up, and they do them up, and then sell them for great wodges of dosh to richer-than-average people and move on. So every time t
hey find somewhere interesting to do up, I can have a nice little holiday. They either stay in the house or rent nearby, you see. This new place is big, plenty of room.”
Anita leaned closer, and her voice dropped.
“And they always hire some hunky builders to help. Imagine that! A few big, tattooed blokes taking their shirts off, all sweaty and buff, just dying to meet two intellectual hotties like us…”
Gradually, by steering Anita’s monologue away from toned abs and glistening perspiration, Tara teased out some more facts. Tim and Sonia Garland were leading a small team of workers renovating a house on the border with Scotland. That was hundreds of miles north of London, and Tara had never ventured so far from the capital before. It was a rural house, apparently, and not far from the coast. If the weather held up, Anita insisted, it would be idyllic. Northumberland county had some of the finest countryside and beaches in England.
“But you might find it a bit boring, I suppose,” Anita added. “I mean, you’re a big city girl, right?”
Tara sat up.
“Not really. My folks moved around a lot when I was a kid; I lived in lots of places,” she pointed out. “And the last time I was in the English countryside, I was attacked by a pack of werewolves so that kind of spoiled the experience. Maybe I should give it another try. Up near Scotland, that sounds good. Braveheart, and Outlander, and… all that stuff. Castles. Kilts. But there’s still the problem of getting there—if we had a car, sure, but it’s such a long way to travel on your crappy railroad system.”
Her friend laughed, rolled over so Tara couldn’t see her face.
“There is one other thing,” Anita said. “Something that might be of interest. But I’ll leave it as a surprise. If you decide to come. If you don’t, you’ll never know.”
“What is it?” Tara asked. “It’s paranormal, right? That’s all it could be.”
Anita’s answer was her best enigmatic smile. Tara plucked a grass stem and started to tickle her friend’s bare feet. Anita, squealing, tried to escape, but Tara was too quick. Some unarmed combat training from Sammy, Mortlake’s ex-military associate, came in very useful. Soon, Anita was pinned face down on her tartan picnic blanket.
“’Fess up, what is it?” Tara demanded.
Anita struggled for a few moments and then slumped in defeat.
“It’s supposed to be a haunted house! Now let me go, you silly bugger, I’ve had way too much cake for this sort of thing!”
Tara let her up at once.
“Haunted, you say? Seriously?”
Anita, red-faced and panting, shook her long, dark hair out of her eyes.
“Yeah, it’s quite well-known, apparently. Things have been seen. That’s why they got it cheap.”
Tara felt a sudden surge of enthusiasm. It would be interesting to see if she could emulate Mortlake and solve a paranormal mystery. Or, more likely, show herself to be a competent, skeptical investigator and debunk an average, lame ghost story. England was full of allegedly haunted houses, after all. The odds against her finding a real ghost couldn’t be that good.
“Okay,” Tara said, folding the board and putting the dice and counters back into the box. “Game’s over, when do we start?”
Chapter 2
“What are we going to learn about today?” asked Tim Garland.
His daughter pondered for a moment then spoke with the absolute certainty of a six-year-old.
“Dinosaurs!”
Tim sighed. Ellie was bright—even allowing for parental prejudice, that was clear enough. And homeschooling her was ideal given their nomadic lifestyle. But, sometimes, he wished she was at school, maybe making art out of macaroni or doing interpretive dance. He was a little vague about regular schooling nowadays, but he suspected there was less challenging of adults and more running around and giggling.
“We have learned a lot about dinosaurs,” he pointed out gently. “There are other things on this list…”
Tim waved a brightly colored booklet from Her Majesty’s Government’s Department for Education. He had pointed out this fact to Ellie several times, stressing that the Queen wanted her to learn certain things and not complain about it. Then he flipped the booklet open and began to read. Ellie, sitting at her tiny desk that almost overflowed with crayons and paper, looked on skeptically as her father suggested topics.
“Geography? No? How about spelling? To be fair, your spelling is pretty good already, according to this anyhow… I know, history! What about the Romans?”
Ellie looked as if she might cut up rough about this but then nodded reluctantly. Tim pulled his office chair a little closer to his daughter and reached for the pile of brightly colored books. The standard history text was pretty basic, with plenty of space taken up by pictures. But Tim had to admit it covered the basics well, so far as he could see.
“Right,” he said. “The Romans! What do we already know about them? Then we can take a look at the book and maybe do some pictures.”
Ellie pondered this question a moment, fierce concentration on her small, round face. At moments like this, she reminded him so much of her mother, with her fair hair and blue eyes. Tim felt a familiar urge to shield this tiny girl from all the world’s ills, only teach her about happy, positive things. He wanted her history to be devoid of wars and oppression. Absurd, of course. But he could at least try…
“They were lost,” said Ellie. “They were very frightened.”
Tim was jerked out of his sentimental reverie. He smiled, puzzled, and asked her what she meant.
“The Romans. They got lost. They got lost by the sea.”
Ellie was drawing now, plump fingers gripping a green crayon, sweeping it in bold strokes across the pad.
“I don’t think that’s in here,” Tim said, flipping pages back and forth. “Quite a bit about togas, roads, and Caesar—what do you mean, lost?”
“I’m nearly finished,” she said as if that explained everything.
Tim had heard that tone before and knew better than to interrupt. She had moved on to black and was putting little figures in the landscape. Just when he thought she’d finished, she picked up the red crayon and added some details then sat back.
“Can I see?”
Tim turned the picture around and studied it. It showed some figures, stick-limbed and huge headed. They appeared to be wearing skirts and also carried spears and square shields. The one in the lead was bigger and had a red triangle trailing at his back and a smaller one on his head.
Tim flipped through the history book. Sure enough, there was a picture of a Roman centurion looking windswept on a stone wall. He had a red crest on his helmet and wore a red cloak that flapped in the breeze.
Mystery solved, he thought. She’s been racing ahead of me. Not for the first time.
“So these are Roman soldiers and they’re lost?” he asked.
Ellie nodded. There did not seem to be anything in the book’s simple text about lost soldiers. Tim wondered if she had somehow accessed Netflix or perhaps simply seen a BBC history program. He made a mental note to check the settings on his old iPad. In theory, it was all child-friendly, but you could never be sure. This seemed harmless stuff, though.
“Did you see all this Roman stuff on Horrible Histories? You know Mummy doesn’t think you’re old enough to watch that.”
She shook her head.
“Where did you see it?”
Ellie looked puzzled then worried.
“I see them sometimes when the lady comes. When I feel funny.”
Tim, used to the swerves and leaps his daughter’s mind could perform, decided not to ask about the lady. The nameless woman had cropped up a few times, and he and Sonia had agreed that the lady must be some sort of an imaginary friend.
But feeling “funny”—that was concerning. He was paranoid about Ellie catching something, anything, or becoming ill. She had seemed out of sorts since they’d arrived at the house. Sonia thought he was too prone to worry and that Ellie was simply miss
ing the friends she had made before their latest move. She would soon make new friends at the playgroup in the village. Tim studied Ellie. She certainly looked healthy enough, and her appetite was fine. Perhaps she was a little pale?
“What do you mean, you feel funny?”
He reached out to put a hand on her forehead, but there was no sign of a temperature. Ellie was drawing more Romans. She did not look up when she replied.
“Funny. Like I’m having a dream but I’m not asleep in bed. That’s funny but not ha-ha. That’s when the lady comes, and sometimes, I see the Romans.”
An overactive imagination, Tim thought. That’s the logical explanation. And she’s heard the guys talking about the house being haunted. Or maybe gossip in the playgroup. Yes, that’s it.
“Okay,” he said. “If you see the lady, let me know, and I’ll have a chat with her.”
“I will,” she replied, matter-of-fact as usual. “But she’s not very nice, really. I told her about Auntie Anita coming today, and she called her a trumpet.”
Tim boggled at that, but he’d gotten used to his daughter’s sudden bizarre statements.
“Why is Auntie Anita a trumpet?”
“Because she has boyfriends but she never marries them,” Ellie said patiently. “The lady doesn’t like that.”
Tim shook his head in bafflement and insisted, albeit gently, that they get back to their lesson. He turned to the next page and took in the pictures of a typical Roman household, complete with slaves. Tim wondered if she was too young to learn about slavery and where her questioning might lead on that one. Then he noticed her making emphatic downward strokes on the page under the thing she had drawn.
“What’s that, Ellie? A nice birdy?”
This time, she turned the picture round for him. It showed a wildly disproportioned creature that might have been some kind of mutant chicken, judging by its yellow color. Underneath was what might have been a fence. It consisted of three vertical lines, and to the left, two more strokes forming a kind of tick.
“That’s a lovely yellow color, honey,” Tim said carefully. “But I think maybe we should take a look…”
House of Whispers: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 2) Page 3
