Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1)

by N. B. Roberts

  ‘Come on, Alex, I’m getting hungry!’ Stacey whined, shooing off a bee as it buzzed past her head. Her stomach growled too as we turned back for the restaurant.

  The hostess seated us near an open fire that crackled with heat. I ordered our drinks while Stacey text her boyfriend the good news, as if it was all settled.

  ‘So, did Darren enjoy his birthday?’

  ‘Yeah, it was great– oh! I forgot to ask you about that guy. We saw you both leaving Carnelian’s. His name’s Mark, right?’

  I was sure I hadn’t mentioned his name. I nodded, since it was true.

  ‘I knew I recognised him! He’s a bit–’ She hesitated and recoiled slightly in her seat.

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘Well, no offence, Alex, but he’s pretty fit. He used to date a model.’

  ‘Jees, thanks, Stace!’

  ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Mark goes out with a certain type of girl. How did you meet anyway?’

  I wasn’t telling Stacey about the online dating agency I’d joined for the 30-day free trial.

  ‘How do you know him?’ I countered.

  ‘Oh, through Ben, my ex.’ She made that nauseated face again. ‘Darren sort of knows him as well. I always thought Mark was really nice. How come you didn’t get on?’

  ‘Stacey, seriously, I haven’t a clue. He seemed very nice to me too when we dated the first few times. That night however he was someone else.’ I threw my hands up. ‘I don’t know what changed.’

  I was eager to get off this topic.

  ‘So you’ve not heard anything from him?’

  ‘Not a word, which is okay with me.’

  A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, selecting ours from amongst them before memorising our food order. Luckily, this distraction was enough to get the subject of Mark left behind.

  After paying our bill, we headed for the car park. Stacey was restless to meet Darren the minute he finished work. Noticing that the mist carried a strange spicy smell, we both turned our noses to the air, sniffing in vain. It was tantalising, though neither of us could decide what it was.

  ‘I’m parked over there.’ She pointed. ‘I’ll see you next Saturday for our first day together!’

  I waved her off as she got into her silver Fiat Punto. I climbed in the jeep and sat there a moment nonplussed. What had happened today? Because in one sense I felt like I’d just been duped.

  I put the gear lever to reverse while checking my mirrors and easing off the brake. Being an automatic, it crept back before I accelerated. In my mirror, I caught a glimpse of a dark figure too close to the rear. I stomped on the brake, but felt it bump hard against whomever was there.

  ‘Damn!’ I pulled up the handbrake, opening my door. ‘I’m sorry!’ I exclaimed, clambering out. ‘Are you alright?’

  I approached the rear to find a smartly dressed man getting up from the ground. He brushed himself down so energetically I couldn’t imagine he was injured. Still, I asked again –

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’ll be fine in a moment,’ he replied hoarsely. He stopped and looked at me. His eyes were large and ebon black, the pupils fully dilated in the fog, to a point where it was difficult to see the whites of them.

  I took a step forward to see him better.

  He stared confoundedly.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ I asked.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ he said at length.

  I half expected this reaction, and determined not to rise to it.

  ‘If you’re injured, I can drive you to a hospital to get checked over.’

  ‘What! Get in a vehicle with you?’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘That sounds like a death wish. Are you plotting to finish the job? You’ll have to run me down again, right here’ – he pointed – ‘in broad daylight!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I insisted. ‘Look, I checked my mirror but didn’t see–’

  ‘Too busy doing your lipstick?’ he shot unexpectedly, before taking a moment to examine my face. ‘Or were you just daydreaming?’

  I gazed at him incredulously for the chauvinism, finding that the mist buried his features whenever I focused. It kept him blurry in my perception. I could see that his athletic build towered over my small frame. He was about six-feet tall and considerably broad chested.

  Unappeased, I told him, ‘Perhaps you should take more care walking out in front of cars.’

  He smiled mischievously. ‘Perhaps you should resume driving lessons and begin by learning the structure of a vehicle. That there is the rear’ – he pointed and was sardonic – ‘at the other end is the front.’

  I refused to let him antagonise me into biting twice. He was already sauntering off towards the main road, congratulating himself no doubt.

  Pulling away in a vehicle annoyed is never a good idea. I would have sat in the jeep for five minutes with the radio on to regain my calm. I would have, if the engine would start. I turned the key repeatedly to find it mute. In my frustration – after the rudeness of the man – I couldn’t work out why. Questions drove around my mind while I sat there. What will Adrian say? Is he covered for breakdowns?

  Knuckles rapped hard, twice, on my window – it was him! Even the tone of his knock was sarcastic.

  I wound down the glass. On closer inspection, sheltered from the fog, I could see him better. He wasn’t classically handsome, though his stern features were proportionate: a heavy brow, strong jaw, unremarkable nose – all of which mocked me, especially his dark eyes! They matched his cola-black hair. He was certainly above twenty-five, but I dared not look at him long. At first he said nothing, just looked over me with a silent gloat of the situation. He rested his hand on the roof of my car and spoke rapidly –

  ‘Are you a joyrider?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What is it, hotwired?’

  ‘Of course not–’

  ‘You’ve a licence then?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You regularly go around trying to kill people?’

  ‘No, but that was–’

  ‘You might want to take it out of Reverse,’ he said with a straight hard face and quizzing eye, ‘and stick it in Park before you attempt to choke the ignition again. You’ve severed the fuel supply by turning off the engine prematurely.’

  I looked down, saw my error, confirmed his wisdom, and cursed privately. I turned back – he was gone.

  Monday morning I checked with the HR department for any moonlighting policy that might prevent me having a second job. They concluded that they didn’t recognise a conflict of interest. After ticking that box, I asked my line manager to fix my shift pattern for two days of the week, and so it was easier than I thought.

  My phone rang at my desk and it surprised me to see ‘Mark calling…’ flashing on the screen. I couldn’t help feeling happy that he was calling me.

  ‘Hey, Alex. How are you?’

  ‘Not bad, thanks,’ I said, a little confused by his perky tone. ‘You?’

  ‘Good, yeah,’ he stammered then for words. ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’

  ‘Pretty much–’

  ‘Listen,’ he jammed in, his voice evened out. ‘I just wanted to say that I had a nice time the other night, and you’re very nice and very interesting, but–’ He paused, which provoked me.

  ‘But?’ I asked inquisitively.

  ‘It’s just I’m not sure– I’m not one hundred percent sure about you, Alex. I mean, I don’t want to lead you on. I’d like it if we could be friends.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, and knowing what he meant I added inwardly, ‘the kind of friends who never speak.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ he said, bizarrely.

  ‘O-kay.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘Well, I appreciate that you’ve called.’

  ‘And thanks for answering,’ he said. ‘So I’ll see you when I see you.’

  On that short goodbye I hung up with the co
nfirmation I needed; Mark was officially a weirdo. It began to feel like a lucky escape. It probably didn’t go for all men, but Adrian had always said that guys didn’t call girls they weren’t interested in. It would be ridiculous though to surmise Mark’s reasons.

  I headed to the Cray the next afternoon from New Cromley, having completely forgotten about the rude man I’d hit with the jeep on Saturday. That is until I walked through the reminding car park that was again clothed in mist. – ‘Doing my lipstick!’ I recollected with irritation.

  Mrs Evans approved my grey suit trousers and white V-neck sweater, before showing me the staffroom and other rooms off limits to the public. Before now, they’d been secreted spaces behind locked doors when I was just a visitor. Despite her elegant appearance, it was a strange clash that Mrs Evans slapped her jaws together over a piece of chewing gum. She excused this later saying that she was trying to give up smoking. Unless my nose deceived me, she wasn’t trying very hard.

  She introduced me to other staff members. The first was Frances, who was thirty-something, blonde and softly spoken. She wore oval-shaped glasses and came across as bubbly. I noticed straight away a bond between her and Mrs Evans, whom she called by her first name, Doreen. I wouldn’t assume that liberty.

  ‘I met your friend yesterday,’ she said in a friendly murmur. ‘She seems very nice. If there’s anything you need help with, and Doreen isn’t around, you just come and find me.’

  I thanked her and – since Mrs Evans hadn’t mentioned it – asked what she did here.

  ‘Oh, just about everything and anything that needs doing! I’m a steward: a guide, a cleaner, even a bouncer at times!’ She laughed softly.

  Geoffrey was another steward I met, who must have been in his sixties – about the same age as Mrs Evans. He spoke briefly and had a habit of winking every other sentence. I could only hope he wasn’t flirting. He did the same to Frances, so I concluded it must’ve been a tic, or his way of being sweet.

  Mrs Evans took me to the front desk where I’d sometimes be working, and went through my duties of taking in the post on Saturdays and distributing it.

  ‘The desk can be left unattended for short periods, since it’s free admission,’ she reminded me for the third time. I’d be directing visitors, sorting leaflets and maps, answering the telephone and taking bookings. It felt strange to think that Stacey was in my position yesterday learning the same ropes.

  Mrs Evans introduced me properly to Susan in the shop, who’d just finished serving a customer. Perhaps she was in her forties – I’ve never been very good at guessing age – with choppy bobbed hair that was jet-black and slightly greasy. When she said hello I’m sure she only mimed it.

  Approaching the last hour of my shift, Mrs Evans left me unsupervised at the front desk. Even with the door closed and my jacket on it was chilly. A few visitors came and went, hardly looking my way. Mrs Evans left a radio on for me, too loud for the chat-show station she’d chosen – I turned it down a bit. She soon returned to offer me a cup of tea. As she spoke, I heard the echo of a door close somewhere far-off, followed by distant footsteps. I listened to them with interest: something vague about them. At that moment, the radio startled me – it started switching stations by itself across a number of frequencies, blaring high-pitched awful sounds. Mrs Evans hardly noticed. It’d made me jump in the chair. I leant over and quickly switched it off at the socket before my ears bled.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ said the woman casually, though with a little gravity on her face. ‘This part of the house is precious old. Nearly five centuries, you know. There’ll be a few unexplainable things, you mark my words.’

  She said it like her nerves had gotten used to it but her mind had not. Whether it left her too curious or too foreboding, I wasn’t sure. I felt the reverse of that.

  ‘You will get used to it,’ she repeated.

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ I affirmed, settling back into the chair. ‘Whether or not my nerves do is another matter. I’m startled easily, always have been, but I’m not afraid of things that go bump in the night.’

  ‘You don’t think that you should be?’ she responded rather sharply, knitting her eyebrows together. ‘You’re from these parts, so you must have heard all the stories. Sir Halton’s ghost for instance?’

  ‘Of course.’ I smiled. ‘But I don’t give it much credence. I’ve never seen his ghost, though I’ve been here often enough.’

  ‘I know people who have seen it,’ she volunteered proudly. ‘I could never say I have myself. I’m sure it wouldn’t be pleasant to see the ghost of a killer!’

  ‘Killer? I’m not aware that he killed anyone.’

  ‘No, but he would’ve done given half the chance.’

  ‘You believe those stories then?’ – As I asked this, I realised that those footsteps had gained the other end of the hallway. I felt a presence there, but from my seat could see no one.

  ‘They’re not just stories, young lady,’ Mrs Evans continued, shaking her head. ‘They’re history, and part of this house. Everybody knows what he was.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Only the eldest son of the last real master here. He was to inherit everything and the Baronetcy as well. But he was very wayward, had huge debts and got two or three of the maidservants pregnant. They say he was fond of one of them and wanted to keep her as a mistress. But she was turned out on her ear for being seduced. She’s said to have hung herself off the balcony at the top of the North East Wing. Then he lost his mind over her death. The master had had enough of his son’s trouble by then, so turned him away and disinherited him in favour of a younger brother. It changed the dynasty, as it were, because the second son was the end of the Sir Haltons. But the elder brother returned years later, came charging down Bourne Hill on his steed, gunning for them all, they say. If he hadn’t‘ve fallen on that bend in the road, he’d have murdered the lot of them. But his horse went down and it killed him, lucky for them!’

  She turned her eyes towards the corridor where the sound of footsteps began again, until they were manifestly at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘So,’ she said, glancing behind herself, ‘that’s why I think you should mind out for things. It’s not all pleasant stories in a grand house like this.’

  ‘I’m open-minded.’ I shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Besides, people only fear what they don’t understand. Once it’s explained it’s usually something they can deal with.’

  ‘You might change your mind,’ was her odd reply. She looked round from the desk to that someone I still couldn’t see from where I sat.

  Her voice was grave. ‘Thomas,’ she said, barely acknowledging a familiar dark-haired man who then passed us.

  I recognised him instantly from the car park. I couldn’t believe that by the looks of it he worked here. A chill on the air revealed that distinct spicy scent again.

  ‘Evening,’ was his automatic rejoinder, in a deep exacting voice.

  He strolled by not looking in my direction – though I felt he was aware of my presence – and disappeared through the main door. I stayed very still at the desk, relying on Mrs Evans’s sporadic amnesia to neglect an introduction. The last thing I needed on my first day was my new boss learning of that incident in the car park. She peered over the tops of her spectacles at me, probably trying to remember who I was and what I was doing here.

  ‘Maybe I should have introduced you,’ she said, noticing that I looked out a small side window to see where he went, which she probably mistook for curiosity when in fact it was apprehension. ‘Except,’ she trailed out on exhaling, ‘I want you to come back.’ She seemed to brood for a moment. ‘All in good time,’ she kindly threatened.

  Four

  THE GRAPEVINE

  ‘No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.’

  – Robert Louis Stevenson, Jekyll and Hyde

  ‘Now what was I doing?’ Mrs Evans fr
etted.

  ‘Making tea,’ I reminded her.

  She nodded a little gasp and vanished down the corridor.

  A few minutes later Frances appeared, admitting that Doreen had asked her to keep me company in the meantime. It was odd since she’d been okay to leave me earlier.

  ‘Have you worked here long?’ I asked her.

  ‘Just under a year.’

  I noticed again how pleasantly she spoke, always in that soft murmur laced with a little excitement.

  ‘It’s a lovely place to work. You get to meet all sorts of people.’ She went to say something else but looked uncomfortable to go on, as if assessing my nature. Then she laughed. ‘Hmm, they do say this place is haunted’ – she made an O with her mouth – ‘but I’m sure you’d expect that. So don’t be put off if you find it a bit strange.’

  ‘I don’t mind its eeriness. I know the Cray fairly well and I think it adds to its character. Have you experienced anything uncanny?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be explained by a draught or my mind playing tricks on me,’ she murmured sceptically, before scratching her head. ‘Obviously we do get a lot of people reporting things they can’t explain, such as the grand organ being played when of course it’s all locked up. People say they’ve heard the Wailing Lady in the turret the moment it gets dark, as well as claims of things being moved. So I would expect that type of thing if I were you. There were some workmen here a few months ago doing renovations upstairs. One of them said his hardhat was snatched from his head, and when he turned around it was on the table on the other side of the room. He swore blind no one else was in there.’ She giggled. ‘And he wouldn’t work here another day!’

  ‘I should probably tell you, Frances, Stacey’s not a fan of ghost stories. I wouldn’t want to see her upset by them – that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, well, we did notice that when she sat there yesterday she jumped every time a door closed, and pulled a face when the central heating made the wood creak.’