Claudia felt a delicious little shiver at being so addressed. Mr. and Mrs. Grey. I’m still newlywed enough to feel the thrill!They followed the vicar inside.
The house appeared quite modern, and they were taken into a comfortable sitting room. A large leather-bound book lay upon a glass coffee table, smelling of dust. Tom gestured to it. “Julia gives me to understand you wish to look at the burial records for the 1840s. Is there any name in particular you’re looking for? I might know where to look.”
“Thanks, vicar,” Martin said as they sat. “We’re looking for one Charlotte Vickery, who died in 1849 of cholera. Her age was twenty-four or thereabouts.”
Tom pursed his lips. “Ah, I can help you there, as a matter of fact. She’s interred in the Attoe family vault. I took the opportunity of recording the names on the coffins when we opened it for the last interment.” He peered at them. “Cholera, you say? How ghastly!”
Martin nodded. “It was pretty rife, back then.”
“It’s still with us today in some parts of the world.” Tom looked rueful. “I confess, had I known the poor young lady died of it, I might’ve been a bit more circumspect in examining her coffin. Still, that was some weeks ago. I feel fine, so nothing came of it.”
“I doubt the disease would still be active after this long,” Claudia said, “but I guess it doesn’t pay to take chances.”
“Indeed not.” He cocked his head. “I can tell by your accent you’re American.”
“Yep,” she replied. “From Indiana.”
“We’ve a number of Americans in this county and down in Suffolk, mostly attached to the air bases.”
Claudia nodded. “I know a few folks who served over here.”
“That’s nice. May I ask why you’re both so interested in Charlotte Vickery?”
“It’s connected to a bit of a puzzle we came across at the hall,” Martin explained. “Julia’s interested in tracking the Attoe family hereabouts. We came across mention of one Sir George Attoe.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Oh, him!”
Claudia and Martin glanced at each other. “You know the name, obviously,” Claudia said.
“I do.” Tom gave them a wry smile. “He’s something of a bogeyman hereabouts.”
“How so?” Martin asked.
“He had a…reputation. Not a very nice one. Quite appalling, in fact.”
Martin leaned forward. “Can you give us some details?”
“He made free with the local womenfolk, married or otherwise. A few people in this area can trace their true lineage back to him, in spite of what their family trees might say. He was said to eat babies for breakfast.”
“How charming!” Claudia stared at him.
“Quite. Even today if village kids misbehave, their mothers will tell them to be good or bad Sir George will come and get them.”
“He sounds like quite a monster,” Martin said.
“Yes, he does. Still,” Tom went on with a smile, “he’s safely interred now. Would you like to see the memorial plaques to the Attoes in the church?”
“If we may.”
“Not at all.” Tom rose. “Follow me.”
They headed outdoors and along a gravel path that led into the churchyard through a white picket gate. Claudia could smell the distinctive odors of greenery and rotting stone as they passed the weathered old gravestones and mausoleums. Tom paused to point out the gilt weathervane atop the tower. “You’ll notice it’s in the shape of a gridiron,” he said. “Saint Lawrence was martyred by being burned to death on one.”
Martin looked up at it. “Nasty!”
“I’ll think of that the next time we have a barbeque.” Claudia winked.
Tom chuckled and led the way into the porch. He opened the church door, and they stepped into the cooler dust-and-beeswax scented confines of the ancient building. Someone was playing a Mozart piece on the organ, the rich sound flooding the church. “That’ll be Mrs. Gosling, our organist.” Tom gestured to a figure in the organ loft above the nave. “She played at Evensong, but she likes to spend another hour here practicing. This way…”
He took them along one of the aisles and stopped before a large, carved, marble plaque set into the north wall between two tall stained-glass windows. “And here we are—the Attoe family, in all their glory. You’ll notice it begins with General Sir Allerdyce Attoe and his wife Anne; continues to their son, Sir Andrew, and his wife; and then to Sir Allerdyce’s grandson, Sir Archibald, and his wife.” Tom pointed. “Below them you’ll see Charlotte Vickery’s name.”
“They liked names beginning with A, it seems,” Martin remarked.
“A lot of families have idiosyncrasies like that,” Tom replied. “Sir George seems to have broken the tradition. We’ll have his name inscribed there next month. Julia’s paying for the work to be done.”
“That’s good of her.” Interesting, Claudia thought. “When did he die?”
“It was the third of February, 1893. Unlike some members of society, I’m afraid he wasn’t missed or grieved for.”
The organ music stopped and Claudia looked at the organ loft. “Oh, that was nice.”
The organist descended the steps and came toward them. A stout, tweedy lady of advanced years, Mrs. Gosling had an apple-cheeked face and merry blue eyes. “Hello, vicar,” she said, smiling at Claudia and Martin. “You’ve brought some visitors, I see.” Tom made the introductions. “You’re staying at the hall?”
“For a while,” Martin said.
“It’s nice of the young lady there to see that old scoundrel Sir George is buried properly,” Mrs. Gosling glanced at the memorial plaque. “But I’m worried it’ll lead to trouble.”
“How so, Mrs. Gosling?” Claudia asked.
The older lady looked at her for a moment without replying. Some of the merriment seemed to leach from her face. “There’s bad blood involved,” she said at last. “Bad memories and bad spirits abroad, all connected with that man’s name.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Gosling.” Tom patted the air. “That’s superstition, and you’re old enough to know better.”
“As Shakespeare said, ‘There’s more things in heaven and earth,’ vicar,” she said firmly. “As to my age, perhaps I’ve seen and experienced more than you.”
Tom made to reply, but a sudden violent thump sounded beneath their feet. The floor shook, and two of the tall wrought-iron candle stands nearby swayed. “What on Earth?” Tom exclaimed.
“That came from below.” Martin stared at the worn flagstones of the floor.
“It can’t be an earthquake.” Claudia shook her head. “I’ve been through those in California, and they don’t confine themselves to a single thump like that.”
“The vault’s down there.” Tom looked up and met their eyes. “No. It’s too much of a coincidence,” he said flatly. “We’re talking of the Attoe family, Mrs. Gosling says there’ll be trouble, and then we hear that? It’s too much to countenance!”
Another violent thump shook the floor. The candles swayed again. A hymn book fell from the shelf on the back of a nearby pew. “I don’t know about you, vicar,” Martin said grimly, “but in my experience, there’s no such thing as coincidence…”
Tom fetched the vault keys from the vestry, and they followed him to the tower. “The main entrance to the vault is outside, but we can get to it down here.” He opened a narrow wooden door and flicked a light switch, illuminating a stone staircase. “This way.”
They clattered downstairs. Claudia felt the air grow cool, although it didn’t smell moldy or stale. The stairs opened out into a square antechamber with a broad passageway leading off along the line of the nave. Lights burned along its length, but they seemed to accentuate the shadows instead of banishing them. A ramp off to her left led up to a sturdy wooden hatch, currently closed and barred. Presumably that’s the way they bring caskets down here.
Tom walked down the passageway, a grim expression on his face. She and the others followed on his heels. Another
thump sounded ahead, seeming to come from the vault to the left. “All right, we’re coming,” Martin said softly.
“It’s the Attoe family vault,” Claudia whispered as they drew near. “If my sense of direction’s right, it’s directly under the plaque in the church.”
“I think so too,” Martin replied.
Tom fumbled on the ring for the key and unlocked the old, iron-bound door. Turning on the lights he pushed the door open wide. For a moment he stood staring as if thunderstruck. “Dear God in heaven!” He stepped into the vault. “Take care, please!” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a…it’s a mess!”
They followed him. Claudia gasped. “Mess is an understatement!” Caskets lay upended and broken everywhere. Bones and scraps of shrouds littered the floor and coffin-niches around the walls, and the air hung thick with dust and decay. Claudia’s shoe clattered on something, and she almost screamed when she looked down and saw a grinning skull roll away from her foot.
Martin gazed around, carefully taking everything in. Claudia stared at him, wide-eyed, and he nodded. Mrs. Gosling merely looked thoughtful.
“I swear, it wasn’t like this only a few weeks ago!” Tom cried, seeming on the verge of panic. “We interred the casket with Sir George’s remains in that niche there and left it all tidy. Who could have done this?”
“Vandals?” Claudia asked, following Marty’s dictum of ruling out all earthly origins for phenomena.
“The keys are kept in a secure location.” Tom pressed his hand to his forehead in agitation. “The entry we use for the coffins is barred from inside. We open it up from the antechamber when needed. I must phone the bishop’s office,” he went on. “This is…this is inexplicable!”
He fumbled his cell phone from his cardigan pocket and hurried out. “What do you think, Mrs. Gosling?” Martin asked.
“I think you know what I think, young man,” she said. “The spirits are restless.”
“Yes, I think so too. Time to see what’s what.” He closed his eyes and tipped back his head. “Is there anyone present who wishes to make themselves known?” Martin asked the empty air. “If so, please come forward in peace. We mean you no harm.”
Nothing happened for a while then Claudia felt the air stir. Small scraps of linen shroud whirled along the floor. She shivered. “It’s getting colder.”
“Yes,” Martin said softly. “Whoever you are, I repeat, we mean you no harm. Come, help us to help you.”
The air moved, sweeping scraps of shroud and bits of shattered casket toward one wall. “There’s an untouched coffin.” Mrs. Gosling pointed at a niche. “This wind seems to be blowing toward it.”
The lid of the casket moved. Claudia yelped and clutched Martin’s arm. He patted her hand reassuringly. “Wait,” he whispered, staring at the moving lid.
It fell to the floor with a loud clatter that echoed in the vault. Tom reentered. “The bishop’s sending someone…What’s going on?” He stared wide-eyed. “Did that thing move by itself?”
“Yes.” Martin pointed at it. “I think someone’s trying to give us a message.”
“That’s Charlotte Vickery’s.” Tom stared. “Oh, by the love of Christ! Be careful, everyone! Remember, she died of cholera!”
Claudia tensed for a moment then shook her head as reason made itself felt over instinct. “I doubt the disease will be active after so many years, but it won’t hurt to take precautions.”
Martin nodded, took out his handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose. The others followed his example. Cautiously, they all stepped forward to peer inside. Claudia gasped. Mrs. Gosling crossed herself.
The mummified body of a woman lay within, clad in a rotting white shroud. She held her clawed hands upraised in front of her face, which was framed by long wavy blonde hair. Claudia looked at the broken fingernails, the mouth permanently frozen open in a horrified scream, and felt the urge to puke.
Martin lowered his hand from his face. “I don’t think we need worry about cholera,” he said quietly. “This poor woman was interred alive.”
Chapter 6
Alex put her cell phone on the bedside dresser and rolled into Paul’s waiting arms. “Duty done,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder.
Paul caressed her short blonde hair and mulled over the events of the previous days. “Jules isn’t the hardest taskmaster out there.”
“No. She’s nice.” Alex’s fingers toyed with his chest hair. “I still feel guilty about deceiving her.”
“Why? She’s making it pretty fucking obvious she still fancies that twat Martin. If she can run off with her old college boyfriend, I can pork her PA.”
She slapped his chest. “Don’t be crude!”
“Would you rather I be lewd?” he growled, pushing her onto her back and straddling her. Alex giggled and pretended to fight back, a losing proposition he thought as she lacked any kind of upper body strength. He looked down at her slim, androgynous body with its small, pert breasts tipped with pale pink nipples, and the smooth mass of tight blonde curls at the union of her thighs. I’m fucking Peter fucking Pan, he thought, not for the first time. She looked up at him pensively, and he grew impatient. “On your belly, deary,” he said, flipping her onto her stomach. His cock grew erect as he savored the power he had to dominate her in bed.
Alex complied, resting her head on her folded arms as she raised her rump and pressed back against him. He slapped her butt hard enough to sting and it drew a gasp from her. He slapped it again, harder, loving the way her pussy seemed to wink at him as the lips clenched with his smack. She cried out. “Don’t! It’s too hard!”
“Shut up!” Reaching under her he felt her crotch and his fingers encountered wetness there. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it, bitch.” He pushed two fingers inside her. “This says otherwise.”
She looked back over her shoulder at him, mild fear in her eyes. “Go easy, Paul.”
“Fuck that. I need one last shag out of you then I’m up to Newcastle for a few days. Let’s make this a good one, eh?”
“Oh, all right,” she muttered.
He slapped her butt again. “What was that?”
“Yes, please, sir!”
He rubbed his fingers through her sex then smeared her juice around and inside her butthole. “Loosen up back here then brace yourself!”
He gripped Alex by her thighs and pushed the tip of his cock hard against her hole. After a moment she yielded to him and he slid inside. “Oh yeah!” he said and grunted as he thrust into her up to the hilt. “That’s the way I like it.”
He brought his weight to bear, pushing Alex down until she lay flat upon the bed. He pinioned her arms above her head, uncaring for her whimper of pain, and proceeded to royally fuck her hard in the ass. “You want it, don’t you, bitch?” he said in between gasps.
Alex moaned and whimpered, which only brought him to a higher degree of arousal.
“That’s my boy,” someone whispered close by.
“What the fuck?” Paul glanced around wildly. “Who’s there?”
“What?” Alex asked, breathing hard beneath him.
“I thought I heard…” Paul shook his head. “Never mind. Must’ve been a radio or something outside. Now then…”
He thrust hard into Alex, reaming her butthole with every inch of his length. She gasped and moaned louder, and he sensed her struggles weren’t entirely play-acting. His balls felt hot and heavy and at last he exploded inside her, grunting and gasping as he pumped his cum into her.
When he finally disengaged Alex curled up on her side, facing away from him. He slapped her butt again, but softer. “Thanks, dear,” he said, getting up off the bed. “God! My cock stinks.” He plucked several Kleenex from the bedside container and began to rub himself clean. “What the hell have you been eating?”
“I’m a vegetarian. You know that,” she said, still facing away.
“Well, I’d go easy on that crap if I were you. Eat some red meat once in a while.” He dre
ssed, whistling softly all the while. When he’d finished, he went over to stand by the bed. Alex looked up at him, hurt in her eyes. Reaching down, he caressed the line of her cheek. “I do like you, you know. Once I get what I want out of that cow Jules, we’ll both leave her and go somewhere nice, eh? How about that?”
“That’ll be nice,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his hand.
He gave a wry smile. “Nice, yeah. Got to trot, sweetheart. I need to be in Newcastle before morning. See you in a few days, eh?” He winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Alex gave him a strained smile and he left, still whistling.
* * * *
A sober atmosphere settled on Tennington Old Hall that night. “I can’t believe it,” Julia said, as they sat in the kitchen over supper. “That poor girl!”
“From all accounts it wasn’t unusual for people to be buried alive in Victorian times.” Martin gently swirled the wine in his glass. “Medical science had a long way to go to reach modern standards, so things like catatonia were easy to misdiagnose.”
“So you think poor Charlotte was the victim of a misdiagnosis?” Claudia asked.
He shook his head. “No. I think—make that feel—there’s something more to this event.” He stirred in his seat. “I fear Charlotte was murdered.”
“By whom?” Julia asked.
“Her cousin, Sir George.” Martin looked at Claudia. “Before Tom hustled us out of the vault, did you notice Sir George’s was the only other casket left untouched?”
“No? Where was it?”
“Tom pointed it out. It lies in a niche almost directly opposite that of Charlotte.”
“So what are you thinking?” Julia leaned forward, her eyes intent.
“I think a kind of war broke out the minute Sir George’s remains were interred in the vault,” Martin said. “Charlotte’s spirit must already have been unhappy. She must’ve been absolutely livid to see her murderer laid to rest within feet of her own remains.”
“You’re saying a battle broke out in the vault?” Julia asked.
Ghosts and Lovers Page 7
