by George Mann
Nicholas Abbott was the man she’d seen in Richmond’s earlier that day, grabbing Daisy’s behind and making lewd comments. She found herself feeling pleased that he no longer had this magical old place to himself. “What made him sell? I mean – if I had a place like this, with such a long family history attached to it, I’d be pretty reluctant to give it up.”
Walsey shrugged. “I guess it was just the right time. I’d made a few approaches over the years, but he’d never given any sign that he’d consider selling. Then one day late last year, I decided to try again, and lo and behold, I get a call from his solicitor two days later, saying that he was willing to entertain my offer. I jumped at the chance. It’s cost me a fair bit more than I’d anticipated to renovate the place, but it’s worth it.”
“What about the family? Aren’t there any children?”
“No children, but there is a younger cousin, Thomas. He was furious with Nicholas for selling up. Said he’d destroyed the family legacy. He’s on something of a crusade, trying to get me to sell the place back to him. But it’s not going to happen. Not now I finally have it.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I can’t help thinking that Nicholas sold the place simply to spite him. There’s no love lost between them, and they’re a difficult family at the best of times.”
Elspeth turned at the sound of raised voices from the top of the stairs. Petra, Walsey’s wife, was shouting something in a hoarse, Polish accent, and a younger woman was yelling back at her in total defiance.
Walsey sighed. “But then all families are difficult, aren’t they?” A young woman in her late teens wearing cut-off jeans, black tights, black boots and a T-shirt emblazoned with the image of a cassette tape came hurtling down the stairs. She didn’t even acknowledge Elspeth or Walsey as she ran across the hallway and straight out of the front door. A moment later they heard the sound of a car engine revving.
“My daughter, Lucy,” said Walsey. He beckoned towards the drawing room. “Come on, this way. I’ll fetch you a drink. I know I could use one.”
“Just a soft drink for me,” said Elspeth. “I’m driving.”
The drawing room was more like a library, lined with antique bookcases, serried ranks of garish paperbacks stacked haphazardly upon them. So often, traipsing around the musty old houses of the National Trust, Elspeth had seen shelves such as these housing crumbling old volumes bound in vellum or cracked leather, their titles embossed in Latin or French. It made her smile to see them put to proper use, housing a collection of books that were actually read – crime, mystery and travel writing, rather than ancient treatises on philosophy, or Christian tracts, or weighty tomes about law. She couldn’t help but scan the shelves as Walsey poured her a glass of lemonade, grinning as she recognised many of the names on the cracked spines.
“These yours?” she asked, as he handed her the drink. He tapped the rim of his own drink against hers, before taking a long draught.
“Yes, mostly. I’m something of a bookaholic. It’s my biggest indulgence. After the house, of course. I grew up in a house where every book was treasured, because we never had the money to buy more. We used to cling on to them until they fell apart. Even now, I still can’t let them go.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Elspeth, thinking of the wall of Ikea bookcases that Peter had recently helped her to assemble for her new flat. She’d already filled them twice over after unpacking the boxes she’d fetched from London, cramming more and more books into every conceivable space. It was nothing compared to the magnitude of Walsey’s collection, but she recognised the impulse, and she knew she’d be the same if she had the space and the money to indulge herself. She’d already started leaving piles of books at Peter’s house. He hadn’t mentioned it to her yet, which she’d taken as a sign that he was growing comfortable with her constant presence. She wondered how he’d feel if and when the time came to move the rest of them over, too.
Walsey drained his glass, and returned to the cabinet for a refill. “What is it they say? You’re never alone with a good book.”
“Jennifer mentioned something down at the dig site, about your plans to develop the land. She said it was something to do with books?”
“Yes! I’m planning to build a few cottages down there, along with a small office. The idea is to use the cottages for readers’ and writers’ retreats, and the office will be the base for a small publishing business.” He had the same gleam in his eye that Elspeth had seen in Jenny’s earlier.
“What sort of things will you publish?”
“Mostly crime and fantasy fiction,” he said, gesturing at his shelves as if to underline his point, “but anything I fancy, really. It’s an extraordinary privilege to have money in the bank; I feel I should use some of it to give voice to people who don’t.”
She couldn’t tell whether this was grandstanding, arrogant, or wonderfully philanthropic. She supposed it was a nice story, amongst all the talk of witches and murders and curses – the tale of a local boy made good, who’d worked hard to achieve his goals. “Well, I look forward to seeing how it all develops. Maybe I could do a piece for the paper when you’re ready to set out your plans.”
Walsey inclined his head in thanks.
She hadn’t yet established how he’d come into so much money, and was fishing for a way to broach the subject when Petra Walsey stormed into the room, heading straight for the drinks cabinet. She flung open the cabinet door, grabbed a glass and poured herself a very large measure of brandy, which she downed in a couple of gulps. Elspeth was amazed the glass didn’t shatter in her hand.
“You’re going to have to do something about your daughter,” said Petra, accusingly, fixing Walsey with a contemptuous stare.
“Look, Petra, I’ve already said she’s as much right to be here as you or I—”
“It’s not about that. It’s about respect. Or rather her distinct lack of it.” She crossed to one of the tall windows between the bookcases and peered out, brushing the curtain aside with the back of her hand. “If she wants to live under this roof, she needs to show me the respect I deserve.”
Walsey bristled, and Elspeth started to wonder how she could politely extricate herself before things got any more heated. She was already feeling like she’d accidentally wandered into an episode of Downton Abbey. “Respect has to be earned, darling,” said Walsey, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps if you made a little more effort trying to understand her…”
“Don’t you think I know what it’s like to be a nineteen-year-old girl? I know better than you.”
And you’re behaving just like one now, thought Elspeth. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what Walsey could see in the woman, besides the obvious. She was startlingly pretty.
“I’ll be off now, then,” Elspeth said, during what she imagined would be nothing but a momentary lapse in the argument. “Thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.” She ducked towards the door, only to find Walsey following after her.
He caught her arm in the hallway, lowering his voice. “I’m so sorry about that,” he said. “It’s the dig, and the move… it’s all got a bit much for her. You understand?”
His expression looked so hopeful that she didn’t want to disappoint him. “Of course,” she said. “You’ve got a great deal going on.” She smiled, and he let go of her arm. “I’ll call with any further questions,” she said.
“Please do. And perhaps when my imprint is up and running, we could talk about a writing project.”
“Oh, no. Thank you. I learned long ago that my strength lies in reporting stories, not making them up. But I appreciate the gesture.”
Walsey gave her a forlorn smile, as if reluctant to see her go. She supposed he’d much rather continue talking about books than return to the argument that awaited him in the drawing room. But she had somewhere to be, and she didn’t want to put herself in Petra’s line of fire.
CHAPTER SIX
“You’re not reading another of those dreadful books
about the supernatural, are you?”
Elspeth looked up from where she was lying on the bed, her book propped open on the pillow before her. Peter was standing in the bedroom doorway, grinning, in a T-shirt and boxer shorts.
“No. Not tonight,” she said. “And yes, I know most of it’s hokum, but after everything we’ve seen, I just want to see if I can get to the truth.”
He crossed the room and flopped onto the bed beside her. “You know, I still can’t believe it.”
“The supernatural?” she said, taking his hand.
“No. That I get to come home on a night, and come to bed and find you here, waiting for me.” He leaned in and kissed her, then rested his head back on his pillow.
“I’d have thought you’d be getting used to it by now.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to your snoring.”
“What?” She slapped him playfully on the arm. “I do not snore!”
“How would you know?”
She gave him a withering look, and he laughed. “What are you reading, anyway?”
She turned the book so he could see the cover. “It’s that book I picked up at Richmond’s. The one about the Hallowdene Witch, Agnes Levett. It’s such a sad story.”
“I thought she was a murderer?” said Peter.
“So the story goes. But I wonder what led her to do it. According to this, she was well known to most of the villagers at the time. She lived alone, in a cottage on the edge of the woods, and her sister and surviving family had moved away because of the Civil War. She was a wise woman who the villagers went to for help with their ailments.”
“That’s most likely where the witchcraft connection comes in,” said Peter. “She was probably using herbs to heal people and ended up getting accused of all sorts. That’s what usually happened, wasn’t it?”
“Well, the story goes that one night, some of the villagers heard screaming coming from the woods near her house and went to investigate. They found her crouched over the body of Lady Grace Abbott. The woman had been stripped and covered in strange markings, and she’d been beaten and stabbed. The villagers claimed that Agnes had been carrying out some dark ritual, and they lynched her, dragging her through the streets to the village green, where they hanged her for witchcraft and murder.”
“That’s pretty dark,” said Peter.
“Isn’t it?” said Elspeth. “But why would she do it? There’s no real record of what happened – just folklore and stories – so there’s no clear motive.”
“But surely it’s all largely superstition. I mean, witches? No one really believes they were real.” He stretched, rolling his neck back and forth to work the muscles.
“Well, it’s what happened afterwards that’s interesting. I’ve been reading up on what Lee Stroud said at the dig this afternoon.”
“The guy who was getting all worked up about the ‘terrible curse’?” The scepticism was clear in Peter’s tone.
“Yes,” said Elspeth. “And I know it’s probably all nothing but superstition, too, but it’s interesting.”
“Oh, very,” said Peter, smirking.
“Look, if I’m boring you, I can just as soon turn the light off and go to sleep…”
Peter laughed. “And miss the end of my bedtime story? No, you carry on.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m watching you.”
He leaned in and kissed her again, running his finger along the line of her back. “No, seriously, I’m listening.”
“It’s the story of how Agnes’s remains were moved that’s got me intrigued. Apparently, as she was dragged away, she told the villagers that she’d have her revenge. No one thought too much about it, but a few days after they buried her, people started to die in mysterious circumstances. There were reported sightings of the dead woman in the village at night. Three people, Peter Loverage, Gwyneth Coombe and Simon Kirkby, all members of the gang that had lynched her, were found dead.”
“But this was the seventeenth century. They were probably riddled with some horrible disease.”
“Quite probably,” conceded Elspeth, “but the rest of the villagers didn’t think so. They persuaded the Reverend from the local church to assist in her reburial. They moved her body, digging a fresh grave, and had the Reverend bless a ‘witch stone’, which they placed upon the grave to keep her spirit at bay. Afterwards, the mysterious deaths stopped completely.”
“And that’s the stone that Jenny Wren was digging up today.”
“Yup.”
“Spooky…” said Peter. He reached over and closed Elspeth’s book. “Then we’d better watch out, and think about making the most of the time we have left, before the witch comes for us all.” He wrapped his arm around Elspeth and pulled her in, kissing her neck.
She laughed, wrapping her leg around his, running her hands down the fold of his back. “Well, when you put it like that,” she said, “there’s only one thing for it.” She reached over and turned out the light.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nicholas Abbott popped the CD from its case and slid it into the machine. Moments later, the delicate strains of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 were swirling through the room. The edginess he’d felt all day finally started to slip away. He crossed to the cupboard in the alcove and searched out his bottle of Scotch, sloshing himself a large measure. In the corner, the TV was playing with the sound down, showing images of men and tanks and people on the other side of the world blowing each other up. He couldn’t care less what they did. Why did he have to see it? He fumbled for the remote, flicking the channel over. Michael Portillo was lurking in some dustbowl in the arse-end of America, standing beside a ridiculous-looking steam train. He tossed the remote away in disgust.
The answering machine was flashing again, and he knew it would be bloody Thomas, moaning again about the house. Well, bugger the house, and bugger Thomas. He’d never deserved to inherit it. He barely deserved the Abbott name. He’d been a wheedling little child, always moaning, and he was just the same now. He supposed it was too late for the man to change. They were all too old. And to think – it was Thomas’s sickly little brats who’d continue the family legacy. Well, at least he hadn’t given them the satisfaction of the family seat, too.
He didn’t even miss the place, with its creaking beams and rickety old floorboards. The cottage was much more manageable. Here, he could while away the last few years of his life in peace, away from all that ruddy nonsense about who was going to inherit what. He’d never have to speak to any of them again, not if he didn’t want to. And they could stop their bloody moaning, too. The manor had been his to sell, and sell it he had. Let that idiot Hugh Walsey spend all his money doing the place up, installing cameras and fixing the roof; he had reached the point in his life where he didn’t want anything to do with all that.
He walked through to the kitchen. The microwave had almost finished. He fetched a plate from the dishwasher and collected a knife and fork.
A few minutes later he was safely installed in his armchair by the fire, fish pie on a tray on his lap. He’d put the fire on to warm the room, and was starting to feel a little dozy. He’d probably drunk his Scotch too quickly. Still, after he’d finished his meal, there’d be time for a little nap before he took himself off to bed. He’d become accustomed to drifting off in his chair, dreaming of that young lass from the café and her shapely behind.
He scooped up another forkful of fish pie, and glanced again at the telly. Portillo was still going on about ruddy trains. What was it about trains? Thomas had developed a thing for them as a boy, always messing about with the little electric set he’d been given one Christmas, faffing about laying out tracks on the dining-room table. Nicholas had never seen the attraction. To him they were just machines, and bloody useless ones at best. Why take a train when a car would get you straight to wherever you were going? He’d never understood that. Why did people persist with these things? Were they all idiots?
Shaking his head, he finished sho
velling the last of his pie into his mouth, and then sat back in his chair, closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the music to roll over him.
He snapped awake, sitting bolt upright in his chair. He must have dozed off. The music had stopped, and the television was showing some athletics programme. The gas fire had warmed the room, and he loosened the collar of his shirt, feeling a little uncomfortable. He reached down and turned the fire off.
He must have been asleep for hours. A quick glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him it had gone midnight. Silly old fool. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a few minutes.
He cocked his head at the sound of something tap-tapping against the window.
“What is it now?” he grumbled, levering himself out of his chair. The muscles in his lower back creaked in protest. He’d spent too long sitting in the wrong position.
There it was again: a sound like someone tapping lightly with a fingernail against the glass pane. Who could it be at this hour? Who would have reason to tap on his window, rather than knock at the door? Probably drunks, staggering back from the pub, he decided, as he walked over to investigate. He pulled back the curtain with a groan of frustration, expecting to see the leering faces of a gang of youths, pale and eerie in the moonlight. But there was no one there.
“Must have been a bird,” he muttered to himself, tugging the curtain back into place. He turned back to the television. He couldn’t be doing with the athletics, and he supposed it was a bit late for another whisky. He’d do his rounds, lock up and head to bed.
When he stooped to collect his tray from the floor, Nicholas stiffened at the sound of the front door creaking open. So there had been someone at the window. And now they had the temerity to let themselves in.
“Who’s there?” He heard a footstep in the hallway, beyond the sitting-room door. “Who do you think you are, letting yourself in at this hour?”
No response.
A sudden spike of fear curdled his guts. What if it was a burglar? Everyone around here knew who he was, that he’d moved most of his family’s accumulated treasures from the old manor to this little cottage. What if someone had decided to chance their arm, figuring the old man wouldn’t be able to put up much in the way of resistance?
