The Haunted Lady

by Bill Kitson

  ‘It’s Sunday, and even Paul doesn’t work on Sundays,’ I pointed out.

  ‘OK, first thing tomorrow then.’ Eve certainly had the bit between her teeth, and her determination was infectious.

  Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I phoned Paul next morning. He was extremely helpful, although I sensed his willingness to cooperate increased once he realised that my enquiry would not result in his personal involvement. ‘The man you need to speak to is our Diplomatic Correspondent, Simon Baines,’ he told me. ‘You remember Simon, don’t you? I think you worked with him for a short time, unless I’m mistaken.’

  We had indeed worked together, and that alone made our request far easier. After Faulkner put me through and I’d exchanged pleasantries, I explained why I’d contacted him.

  ‘That shouldn’t be a difficult task,’ Baines told me. ‘I know the head of placement at the FO very well. He’s been there for years, and he assigns personnel to most of the embassies, particularly those in Europe. Added to which he has a memory most elephants would envy. I’m fairly sure he will remember your man, even if he was a low level diplomat. Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you in a few days.’

  Eve was cheered by this small bit of progress, although I sensed that she was also frustrated at the delay, knowing that the facts I’d asked for were merely the beginning of our quest.

  Chapter Ten

  Having experienced the way government departments work, which would make a three-legged tortoise seem like a Derby winner, I was surprised when Simon Baines rang back only two days later. Our conversation was both enlightening and mystifying. Eve saw my preoccupation and asked, ‘Is something wrong? Who was that?’

  ‘It was Paul Faulkner’s colleague, Simon, the man I asked to find out about Andrew Kershaw.’

  ‘That’s quick, what did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing. His contact at the Foreign Office told Baines that nobody by the name of Andrew Kershaw has ever worked for them as a diplomat.’

  ‘That’s weird because David Kershaw’s convinced that’s what his brother did for a living.’

  ‘Hang on, Eve, it gets weirder still. This morning, Baines got called into his editor’s office. His boss wanted to know why he’d been making enquiries about Kershaw.’

  ‘How did the editor find out? Did Baines tell him?’

  ‘He says not. Apparently someone rang the paper. They wouldn’t give their name, but they told the receptionist they were from the Foreign Office and wanted to speak to the editor. They asked why Baines had been enquiring, and implied that if the paper were to consider printing anything about Kershaw, they might get slapped with a D-Notice.’

  ‘What exactly is a D-Notice?’

  ‘Basically it’s a banning order preventing publication of material that is deemed to be sensitive. It’s short for Defence Notice.’

  ‘Why on earth would someone asking questions about Andrew Kershaw be sensitive? The man’s been dead for years.’

  ‘I can only assume it is something to do with his real occupation, which I think we can safely assume had nothing to do with the diplomatic service. Perhaps Kershaw collected information that someone still doesn’t want to be made public.’

  ‘If Kershaw wasn’t a diplomat, then what ...’ Eve stared at me. ‘You think he was a spy, don’t you?’

  ‘It seems the obvious conclusion to draw. The only question is, who was he spying for? That might be the key to why it’s still a touchy subject.’

  ‘I can’t see a member of that family being a traitor, can you?’

  There were plenty of examples of people from seemingly privileged backgrounds who had become agents for the Soviets. The names of Philby, Blake, Maclean, and others crossed my mind. Somehow, though, from what little we’d been told about Kershaw, he didn’t seem to fit into that category.

  ‘What was the outcome?’ Eve asked. ‘Will the editor comply?’

  ‘I think so, from what Baines said. They don’t have a story, so there is no reason for them not to cooperate. Baines did ask me to let him know if we discover anything that might be of interest to them.’

  ‘I don’t think trying to find Chloe’s real identity would make a good story, though.’

  Eve’s comment was punctuated by the phone ringing again. I answered it, and after a short while replaced the receiver. ‘That was DS Holmes. There was a burglary at Elmfield Grange yesterday. David and Valerie Kershaw had gone to Thorsby Agricultural Show with their two boys. They dropped Chloe off at the vicarage en route, so the house was empty.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘Not that they’re aware of, but the house was ransacked, so it might be a few days before they can be absolutely sure.’ I paused long enough for Eve to guess I had more to tell.

  ‘What else did Holmes say?’

  ‘Apparently the thief or thieves even went through the unoccupied part of the house and the servants’ quarters, up in the attics. I suppose they were disappointed they hadn’t found anything of immense value. Thieves must regard places like that as prime targets because most country houses are antiquated, without good burglar alarms.’

  I certainly didn’t consider the burglary as relevant to other things that had been happening that concerned the Kershaw family. However, the following morning brought a sense of déjà vu, when Eve answered the telephone. ‘That was DS Holmes again,’ she reported.

  ‘Doesn’t that man have any other friends? What did he want this time?’

  ‘There was an attempted break-in at Dinsdale Museum last night.’

  ‘What is this, National Burglary Week?’

  Eve smiled politely, but continued, ‘Given what happened there recently, the police had extra patrols in the area. One of them disturbed the intruder.’

  ‘Did they arrest him?’

  ‘No, he got away, having put one of the officers in hospital with a minor head injury. The intruder hit him with a wooden sculpture entitled Vision of Peace, which seems less than appropriate.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘No, they must have scared the thief off. What Holmes found puzzling was that the burglar ignored several extremely valuable items that were on display and was trying to force the lock on the door leading to the storage area.’

  I mulled over what Eve had said. If the motive had been theft pure and simple, why not take the more readily available items? Presumably he could have got away with them before being disturbed. If he was after something specific that he knew to be in the storeroom, what was it, and even more intriguing, how did he know it was there? As with the Elmfield Grange break-in, taken as a single incident there seemed to be little sinister about the museum burglary. There was, however, one similarity that I found curious. In both instances, the intruder had got into, or tried to enter areas that were not generally accessible. Could that be significant, always assuming that the intruder was the same person? Despite thinking it over for some while, the only result was a mild headache.

  We’d forgotten about the burglaries, and that evening when we decided to visit the local pub, the main problem we had been focussed on, the subject of Chloe’s true identity, was still uppermost in our minds. Our reason for going was not only that the landlord served good beer, but also that his wife was a highly talented chef.

  The Admiral Nelson was one of the focal points of village activity, and it was between the walls of the bar that much local gossip was disseminated, exaggerated and in some cases even given birth to. We had no ulterior motive in mind when we entered the pub that night, but after dining, when we returned to the lounge bar, we struck up conversation with an old acquaintance, Ezekiel Calvert, gamekeeper to the Rowandale estate.

  He began by asking about our honeymoon, which although several months ago was still a pleasant memory. To my surprise, when I told him that for part of our tour we’d been to Cyprus, Calvert replied that he’d also been there many years ago. ‘I were sent there when I were doing me National Service,’ he explained. ‘I even we
nt to Athens a couple o’ times on leave. In a reet state it were, ruins all over t’ shop.’

  I was about to interrupt, to explain the significance of the Parthenon, when I saw the glint of humour in Calvert’s eye. ‘Mind you, there were a reet load of fine-looking wenches there.’

  ‘When was that?’ I asked, trying to steer Calvert away from the subject of women.

  ‘Nineteen fifty-six, just after that there Suez fiasco. Rum going on, that were. Anyroad, there were a few on us local lads out in Cyprus. A couple from Thorsby, two lads outer Dinsdale and o’ course, lad from Elmfield Grange, God rest him.’

  The conversation had been no more than an idle chat up to that point, but when Calvert mentioned Elmfield Grange, both Eve and I stared at him in surprise. ‘Do you mean Andrew Kershaw?’ Eve asked.

  He nodded, sobered by the recollection of Kershaw. ‘By, but he were a clever lad, Andy were. He used to interpret for rest on us. None of us could speak the lingo, but Andy reeled it off like nobody’s business.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  Calvert held up his first two fingers that were pressed tightly together. ‘We were that close. Andy were mi best mate. No side t’ him, just because his lot owned t’ big house. Mi father were Rowandale keeper in them days, and t’ land marches wi’ Elmfield, so the two estates were thick as thieves. It were reet good to ’ave a mate out there among all them bloody furriners.’

  ‘You didn’t get on with the Greeks, then?’ Eve asked, momentarily sidetracked.

  ‘Oh, they were reet enough, especially t’ lasses. No, it were t’ southerners we couldn’t stand. Gave themsen airs and graces just ’cos they came from London. A reet stuck up set of p ... people.’

  ‘Tell us more about Kershaw?’ I prompted.

  ‘He did reet well, which were no surprise, clever lad like ’im. I reckon there weren’t many languages he couldn’t grasp, given a bit o’ time. Seemed to pick ’em up as easy as pickin’ up a pint.’

  He lifted his, and seemed surprised to discover that it was empty. I took the hint and headed for the bar.

  ‘You were telling us about Andy,’ Eve reminded him when I returned.

  He nodded his acceptance of the pint and continued, ‘Aye, well, we’d been out there about a year when Andy got singled out. Shame it were. Life out there weren’t same after he left.’

  ‘Sorry, I think you lost us, Zeke. What happened to Kershaw?’

  ‘We’d just got back from Athens. We’d met a couple of right smashers. Both spoke good English too.’ Calvert paused and grinned. ‘Well, good enough for what we were after, anyway. We’d been back on base a couple o’ days when an officer overheard Andy talking to one of t’ locals using their lingo. He called Andy over and asked if he spoke any other languages, or if Greek were t’ only one.’

  Calvert smiled again. ‘Eeh, I’ll never forget t’ look on that bloke’s face when Andy started reeling them off. Fair gobsmacked ’e were.’

  ‘Can you remember what those languages were?’ Eve beat me to the question by a short head.

  ‘Not all on ’em, no, there were too many. French, for sure, plus Eye-tie, Spanish, Kraut, Russkie and a load more from over yon side of t’ Iron Curtain. Well, that were that. A week later Andy were whisked off. They said it were “special duties”, but we all knew what that meant.’ He tapped the side of his nose and lowered his voice dramatically, as if expecting the bar of our local to be crammed with foreign agents. ‘They called it “intelligence”, but we all reckoned it were spying. I wanted to know where he’d gone, but it weren’t the sort o’ question you asked. If you did, you’d find yourself in t’ glasshouse, or peeling spuds for a month. That were it, and I never saw Andy again until he came home wi’ a smashing-looking lass by his side and a babe in his arms. That were no surprise. He were a fine-looking young man, and lasses flocked round ’im. He picked a reet cracker to wed, right enough, and I thought, “good on you, mate”, but then it all went sour for ’em.’

  ‘You said his wife was good-looking. Can you describe her a bit more accurately?’ Eve asked.

  ‘I don’t need to. Just look at that daughter o’ theirs, Chloe. She’s the spittin’ image of ’er mum. A right corker, if ever I saw one.’

  ‘You’re an old rogue, Zeke. Do you have any idea where she came from? All we know is what we’ve been told, and that isn’t much.’ Eve explained briefly why we were asking.

  ‘Her name might have been Hunter on t’ marriage licence, but I don’t reckon that were what she were born wi’. Hunter’s an English name, and I don’t think Andy’s missus were English.’

  ‘What makes you so sure, Zeke?’

  ‘Her accent, for one thing. She spoke real careful and correct, but if you listened ’ard you could ’ear it. Not that she said much. She were reet quiet. Not standoffish, just mebbe a bit on t’ shy side. The two of ’em were ’appy as owt, an’ I can see why Andy were torn apart after she died. By, but I wouldn’t half ’ave liked a lass like her warming mi bed of a winter’s night, and young ’un’s just as grand on t’ eye.’

  ‘What do you make of all that?’ Eve asked me as we walked back up the hill to Eden House. ‘Apart from confirming that Zeke Calvert is a lecherous old soak, I mean.’

  I smiled. ‘If you took the smutty innuendo away, you’d never get a word out of him. What he told us about Kershaw in Cyprus more or less confirms what we suspected. If he was a spy, the Foreign Office wouldn’t want to talk about it. I believe they keep lists of our agents and where they are stationed. That would be how the intelligence people got wind of Baines’ questions. What I fail to understand is why Kershaw’s name should get the spooks spooked after all this time. Unless they believe that he held some deep dark secrets they’re afraid didn’t die with him.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The next couple of days brought no further developments, but the third more than made up for that. When Eve suggested we visit the supermarket in Dinsdale. I readily agreed – I know an order when I hear one.

  Our shopping was relatively trouble-free, apart from Eve’s monumental indecision over two sweaters in a new shop she spotted in town. She agonised over them for so long that I started wandering up and down the shop to avoid taking root. Eventually, unable to cope with the suspense any longer, I suggested that if she was undecided, she should buy both. Eve looked at me as if I’d said something truly obscene, by which I gathered that I’d taken all the enjoyment out of the process. However, with some reluctance, she made her mind up, and shortly afterwards we left the shop. In revenge for my temerity, Eve insisted that I carried both sweaters, now neatly folded inside a pair of garish pink carrier bags emblazoned with the logo “Bonnie’s Bijou Boutique”.

  The first few minutes of our return journey were conducted in silence, which Eve broke as we passed St. Mary’s. ‘Adam, the church door’s wide open.’

  ‘Perhaps Michael’s inside, or someone’s cleaning or doing flower arranging?’

  ‘No, not at this time of day. Michael told us that the cleaner comes in the morning, and there’s a notice in the porch that advertises flower arranging classes, which are on Friday.’

  ‘We’d better check it out, I suppose, to be on the safe side.’ I reversed into a side road and drove back to the church, pulling to a halt on the verge. ‘That’s Michael’s car, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eve said, ‘and if he’s here, perhaps Chloe’s with him. We could tell her what we’ve discovered about her father. I know it isn’t much, but it might give her and Michael a bit of hope.’

  I wasn’t sure that this was a good idea, but, by the time I’d made my mind up, Eve was out of the car and halfway across the churchyard. I locked the door and followed her. I’d just reached the lych-gate when Eve entered the building. By the time I got to the porch she came hurtling back out of the door. I stared in horror at the blood on her hands.

  ‘Michael’s been hurt. Badly hurt.’

  The vicar was lying to the rear of the last p
ew in the nave close to the font, no more than a few feet away from the door. I knelt down beside him. ‘Eve, there’s a phone box at the junction of Church Lane and the main road. Get an ambulance and police here while I attend to Michael.’

  I looked up and saw the concern etched on her face. ‘Don’t worry, Eve, unless he’s got other injuries I can’t see, I don’t think he’s going to die.’

  I pulled a clean handkerchief from my pocket. After mopping blood from around the wound on his head I knew I’d been right. The injury was nowhere near as bad as Eve had feared. It certainly wouldn’t be fatal, I thought as I applied pressure to stem the flow. We were in luck in another sense too, because there was a telephone box nearby that had escaped the attention of vandals. When Eve returned, breathless from her dash to summon help, I was able to tell her, ‘It’s nothing more than a flesh wound. He’s got a bump on the side of his head the size of an egg. Only a pullet egg,’ I added, smiling encouragingly at her.

  Michael was already conscious by the time I heard the distant sound of the ambulance approaching, and I was relieved to hear that he answered my tentatively posed questions rationally, even though his words were less than illuminating.

  ‘I found the door open.’ His voice was clear, though not as strong as usual. ‘I thought someone must have broken into the church. I suppose coming inside was foolish, but I didn’t stop to think. After that,’ he shrugged, then winced, ‘I felt a sharp pain on my head; that’s all I remember.’

  ‘Did you see the person who attacked you?’

  Michael began to shake his head, then thought better of it. ‘No, I guess they must have come from behind me.’

  At that point the ambulance crew arrived and there was no chance for further questions. They had loaded the vicar into the ambulance when DS Holmes arrived. He looked harassed, which was getting to be his habitual expression. I brought him up to date on events, but pointed out that unless their fingerprints officer was lucky, there seemed little chance of identifying the vicar’s assailant.