FOG
‘The shadow of the linden-trees lay moving on the grass; between them and the moving boughs, a shadow, thou didst pass.’
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Gleam of Sunshine
My phone vibrated a text message and loudly pulsated across my desk. Hope teased me with the idea that Mark had a great excuse for his behaviour and he wanted to make it up to me. I filled my lungs and checked my phone. It was Stacey. Between praises of ‘yummy’ Darren she confirmed her interview for tomorrow morning at eleven – would I meet her there at ten? My lunch hour had just expired and I was back to answering the busy switchboard. After directing the next two phone calls to the right extension numbers, I replied with a smiley face.
I couldn’t wait to visit the old mansion again. It reminded me to look up my local newspaper online to search for the story on the missing girl. Finding no updates since its original running, I reread it:
…Police have confirmed the discovery of some personal items belonging to Tess McQueeney, 18, at Halton Cray where she was last seen on 9th August…
I mused on it as sheets of rain struck the glass doors across from my desk. The sound was soothing.
It was gone eight by the time I got home. I sat cross-legged before the gas fire in my living room, towel drying my hair while reading The Picture of Dorian Gray in paperback. I loved my Kindle, but when reading classics I wanted to feel the paper on turning a page. Contentment had me before discouragement struck: I was twenty-one and it was a Friday night. I shook off the distress. Sadly, I couldn’t so easily conquer wondering what Mark was up to tonight. His treatment of me felt raw. I soon realised that I wasn’t so much unhappy with his behaviour towards me as I was with the flaws in my own character – how could I still like the prat after the way he treated me?
Halton Cray was four miles away and I was running late. It wouldn’t be a shock to Stacey; she’s known me since we were twelve. I dawdled in making my coffee, in showering, and in pulling on a pair of jeans and black sweater. A string of things that would take anyone else less than an hour took me almost two.
My stepbrother, Adrian, had left his jeep on my driveway. This meant I could borrow it for the day instead of taking the bus. He worked at a London theatre, sometimes using the train station opposite my house to get there. His motive always being to save money – in this instance on parking fees.
Easing off the accelerator, I let my foot hover over the brake while descending Bourne Hill, absorbing the spectacular view over the Weald of Kent: pastel green fields dotted about like small islands in a sea of green treetops, occasionally broken by a currency of silver road. The weather was on the turn; a layer of mist settled over the sixteenth century Tudor mansion. I could make out its White Tower protruding the haze, like a lone jagged tooth in some ancient beast’s jaws. It flagged the whereabouts of the main courtyard. The front of the historic house looked more like a castle at this angle with its grey stonework and turret, as I passed its sixteen-foot black iron gates.
Pulling into Halton Cray car park at twenty past ten was exactly what I wanted to avoid – by about twenty minutes. I jumped out of the warm car and shivered as a chilling wind whipped at me. It brought aromas from the herb garden far west of the estate, conjuring up memories of my teens I hadn’t held for years.
Stacey text me twice within the last five minutes to ask where I was, and to say she’d be waiting at the visitors’ main entrance. This sat to one side of the house, in the north half of the manor, which predated the south by roughly a century. The redbrick south addition was two-stories with attic, tiled roof and dormers, extending the original stone house to twice its size – making something of an H out of a U. The front of the north half, faced with a chequer pattern of stone and flints, strewn with some climbing plant to its slate roof, resembled a fortress. Sir Halton Cray, Baronet, had the house commissioned back in the 1500’s and named after himself.
Stacey leant against the wide oak door, its frame tracked by ivy. I could barely see her through the increasing fog as I raced up the path. She didn’t look at all upset with me for my unpunctuality, just waved excitedly with her plum-coloured hair pulled back into a smart ponytail. She wore a grey trouser suit and only a thin application of mascara. What a different person she looked compared with the other night! Not half as ghostly in the paler colours.
‘Sorry,’ I offered sheepishly, puffing to her side. ‘I’m terrible, I know.’
‘Yeah, me too. That’s why I’ve only just got here.’ She smiled. ‘Do I look okay?’
‘Definitely!’ I gave her a firm nod.
‘Thanks! I borrowed this suit from my sister,’ she said readily, tugging the jacket down a tad. ‘I think it’s a bit dressy for a shop but I really want this job, so I thought best dress to impress! How foggy is it today? The weather forecast said nice and clear. If I wasn’t so nervous it’d really creep me out! I’m starting to get butterflies now.’
‘You’ll be fine. You’re just meeting someone who will ask you some questions.’
‘Yes!’ she said unconvinced, and somewhat distantly. ‘Questions. Okay. S’pose I’d better go in soon. Mind if I run a few things past you first, about what I think the woman might ask me?’
‘Course not. But let’s get inside; it’s freezing!’
I chafed my cold hands as we passed the empty reception desk. Admission to Halton Cray was free of charge. The wide timber-beamed entrance hall ran the entire width of the house, with Tudor tables and chairs lining it. Hanging tapestry adorned the walls on either side. I knew the scent of the place well: a chilly vault-like air, to me so familiar and welcoming.
We turned into the Great Hall. Not a living soul lingered in here, and it was almost as cold inside as it was out. Not at all designed for the modern central heating system, which failed miserably to change the temperature.
Stacey kept her voice low while rehearsing her lines, twisting a loose strand of her hair round her fingers as she did. Still the distant high walls threw back at us the ghost of her voice. As I listened, I silently marvelled at the splendorous Hall, from its dark wooden floorboards that creaked under us, to its double-height ceiling that bowed at the centre, from the weight of the chandelier. Huge oil paintings decorated the walls above the ten-foot walnut panelling, and the Minstrels’ Gallery with its oak balustrade overlooking us.
We circled the room as it began to fill with the admiring voices of other visitors. To one side of the Hall, a huge ornate fireplace sat empty but for an iron plaque. Its stone hearth so big that you could lay out straight within it.
‘Alex, do you remember all the dares we used to do in this place?’
‘Funny, I don’t remember you actually doing any dares!’ I nudged her. ‘Go on then, I dare you to crouch under that flue and look up.’
‘No way!’ She smiled. ‘If there is a ghost in it, he probably wants to be left alone.’
‘Good philosophy.’
We strolled past the grand organ that took up most of the back wall. Although I hadn’t stood here in maybe two or three years, it never failed to thrill me, as if I was seeing it for the first time.
‘I’d better get round there,’ she said, taking a deep breath.
The shop was farther down the entrance hall, which in its heyday was a luxurious parlour.
‘Where shall I meet you when I’m done?’ she asked nervously.
‘Just stick to this part of the house. I’ll be wandering about. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Good luck!’
‘Eek! See you soon!’
I watched her down the hallway where she disappeared into the gift shop. The next corridor I turned down ran alongside the main courtyard, encompassing it in a full square. The wind was howling up the brickwork wildly and rattling at the windows like a trapped animal. I stared through the glass, my eyes tracing up the looming White Tower. An open window near the top allowed a red curtain to blow in and out. In another corridor across the courtyard, I saw in my peripheral vision an outer doo
r swing suddenly open, as if someone had slammed into it. It startled me. I couldn’t see anybody there and for a moment I thought it must be the strong wind, though it seemed too deliberate. I scanned that corridor looking for the door-slammer. Nobody appeared. I was well acquainted with the ghost stories of the Cray.
I mounted the great oak staircase to the first floor and headed for the North West Wing, into what was once the main bedchamber. It sat directly above the gift shop and held grandly framed prints of famous portraits, such as Holbein’s Henry VIII and Gheeraerts’s Elizabeth I.
Passing the odd visitor, I walked to a balcony at the far end. This overlooked the north courtyard and front gates. It reminded me of a time when my friends and I had set out to capture a glimpse of the Cray’s most notorious visitor: Sir Halton’s ghost. The last Cray family only inherited the estate after the disownment of an elder brother named Halton. The name was traditionally given to every first son in the male line. After his father cast him off, Halton returned years later – some say for revenge – but died en route in the mid-nineteenth century. People often report seeing his ghost finishing that journey; galloping down Bourne Hill during the witching hour before passing through the closed iron gates and vanishing altogether. Allegedly, if anyone encountered his apparition, it was a bad omen for those living at the Cray. Locals rumoured that the last members of the family saw his ghost themselves before dying off within a few years of one another. The property was abandoned for some time after that.
No matter what we’d heard as kids, we planned to see the ghost for ourselves. It’s not as if we weren’t scared; excitement and curiosity just took over. None of us were more than fourteen. Stacey had refused to come, but the rest of us snuck out and met at the village library before stealing to the Cray after dark. We got on the grounds via a gap in the railing, taking care not to alert rangers who patrol the land. Wanting a good view of the rider, we ascended the balcony where I now stood some seven years on. We faced north with the expanse of Bourne Hill’s fields inclining before us, deeply shaded by numerous oak and chestnut trees. Those nearer the crest all grew wind-shaped, their trunks aslant and their branches like harrowing arms, reaching out sideways and stretching upwards for the sun’s warmth, a victory for that constant rising wind. We scared one another stupid each time we fancied seeing movement in the fields–
‘Earth to Alex!’ Stacey’s depleted voice broke me from my daydream. My eyes instinctively followed the sound. ‘What planet were you on?’
‘Sorry, Stace. I was miles away. How did it go?’
‘Well…’ She pulled a face. I knew the look. She wanted something.
‘It turns out the position’s become full time because the other girl who I was going to job share with has walked out! But–’
‘Wait – walked out?’
‘Yeah, like yesterday.’
‘Is her name Tess?’
‘No. Rebecca.’ She frowned impatiently at me. ‘But anyway, I can’t work the other hours because of my teacher training and drama classes. So I was saying to the shop manager, Mrs Evans her name is, that you do shift work and might job share with me. Think about it for a second, Alex! It will only be two weekday afternoons and a Saturday. I’ll be working the Saturday as well, just as I would have done with the other girl if she hadn’t gone and ruined everything! So we can be here together! It’ll be great, and you can earn a bit extra. Plus you said how nice it would be to work here–’
‘Alright, Stace, calm down. Let me think for a minute. It’d be great to work here, but I don’t think it’ll be possible to arrange the hours.’
‘Oh please, please, please?’ she whispered, arching her body into the begging pose of a dog. ‘She knows you’re here, just go and speak to her about hours. It can’t hurt!’ She grinned, nodding her head, convinced she was able to hypnotise me in to compliance.
She was right; it couldn’t hurt to talk to the woman. Besides, Stacey hadn’t mentioned anything about the missing Tess McQueeney. And who was Rebecca?
Before I knew it, I was making my way towards the stairs, deciding to ask this Mrs Evans about the girls myself. Stacey ran ahead to lead the way and excitedly hopped and bounced down them like a mountain goat.
Three
QUESTIONS
‘There is no marvel in a woman learning to speak, but there would be in teaching her to hold her tongue.’
– Elizabeth I of England
‘Mrs Evans?’ I approached the counter in the gift shop, sticking out my hand to the middle-aged woman behind it. She chewed heavily on a piece of gum, had the figure of a Russian doll, and a face that needed a good iron. ‘I’m Alex Turner.’ – She stopped chewing at once and stared at me blankly for half a minute. – ‘I believe my friend, Stacey Lloyd, mentioned me to you about a job-share position?’
Recollection kicked in and changed her expression.
‘Of course.’ She pointed to her head to indicate forgetfulness.
Immediately she asked if I’d worked on a cash register before, which I had and so found myself instinctively nodding, and ‘Who is your current employer?’
‘EDIN International,’ I replied. ‘It’s an IT recruitment agency in New Cromley.’
‘Would your employer allow you to work here, too?’
‘It would depend on the hours.’
‘The situation is,’ Mrs Evans explained, ‘I need someone to cover the front desk in the afternoons, and occasionally work in the shop. I cover the desk in the morning, but later I’m too busy. Stacey would have shared this task with a girl who’s just left, and so last minute I’m now stuck to fill the position quickly. I could make the job fulltime now,’ she said a little assertively, as if I’d made things difficult, ‘and get just a Saturday helper. But your friend says you would consider it, and she gave you a generous character reference.’
She walked around the counter as she spoke and I didn’t have a chance to interrupt. As she moved, I detected the faint smell of stale cigarettes wafting from her. It made me hold my breath.
‘The front desk doesn’t need attending all the time, but I like to have someone there for general enquiries. The shop will mainly need minding when Susan or I take our breaks.’
She gestured a hand to a woman dusting shelves, indicating this as Susan.
‘Saturdays will mainly be rotating between the front desk and shop with Stacey. What hours do you currently work?’
‘My shift pattern rotates monthly,’ I said, now having to follow her as she moved to and fro the counter. ‘My early shift finishes at 2 P.M. but aren’t fixed to certain days. I could ask–’
‘Do you think your employer would fix your shifts so that you can come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a start time of 3 P.M.? You’ll be working until seven, and on Saturdays, it’s ten till six.’
Before I could answer she went straight into my salary of fourteen thousand pounds pro rata. It was clear that Stacey had promised my services by the way Mrs Evans was setting this out. I barely had time to think about it.
‘I’ll need you to start next Tuesday, and I’d like you to be smart as well,’ she added, eyeing my jeans and trainers. I was sure she didn’t mean any slur by it, but had simply forgotten that I hadn’t come here to attend an interview.
I nodded as she continued finalising other details.
‘Before I go,’ I said, once able to get a word in. ‘Is there any news on Tess McQueeney? I read about her in the paper. She did work here, didn’t she?’
‘That’s correct,’ she replied aloofly. ‘She’s been found, safe and – well, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s good–’
‘Then see you on Tuesday.’
‘What happened to her?’ I persisted.
‘All I know is that she’s okay’ – she forced a smile – ‘and can’t fit working here in with other things. It all got a bit much for her. The main thing is she’s alive and well. So, I will see you on Tuesday?’
I nodded, acknowle
dging the avoidance.
Stacey was listening at the door, and she jumped around like a child as I approached, as if I was about to take her on a merry-go-round.
‘Eek! This is going to be so much fun!’ she squealed each word, before glancing over my shoulder. ‘Why were you asking about that girl?’
‘I was curious, Stace. I had no idea she’d been found.’
‘Let’s hope she doesn’t want her job back. Fancy lunch in The Jacobus to celebrate?’ She pointed in the direction of the estates converted barn, a popular restaurant to one side of the car park.
‘Sure, but after a quick walk through the gardens,’ I negotiated, following her out the house. She agreed reluctantly and turned with me round the south side of the mansion.
‘At least the wind’s dying away,’ she sighed, as my eyes wandered down to the Shockers River. It gurgled loudly, running east, dividing the house and gardens from the meadows. Its water looked black from here with an early autumnal mist crawling its way downstream, just inches above the surface; their speeds unsynchronised so that the mist floated half the rivers pace. It was the perfect setting for what sat about one hundred yards beyond, in Spring Meadow. The Cray family mausoleum. Yet more ghost stories surrounded it.
We turned our backs to the river and took an uphill path that ran alongside the house. The worn chalky-grey flagstones rose by four steps ahead before sweeping away to follow the garden wall around the estate. I loved two gardens in particular: the Sunken Garden, which I couldn’t see from here, and the Topiary Lawn directly before us. Its trees mainly shaped into giant chess pieces and mythical beasts, forming a small irregular labyrinth. We played hide-and-seek amongst these not so long ago; some of the trees so large you could pull back a branch and climb inside. The Head Gardener never caught us and I bet he wasn’t pleased at the secreted doorways we left gaping in his masterpieces.
Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) Page 2
