by Faith Martin
‘Lonny and I are going to take turns monitoring all the feedback in the lounge, where we’ll have the images from all the cameras set up. Jean is going to stay here in the kitchen, and Effie in the hall. Mickey is going to do some patrols outside, and watch the gardens nearest the house. We usually like to do an outside survey, at least once, just in case there’s anything occurring outside that nobody has had the opportunity to notice,’ he broke off to explain to a clearly fascinated Isabel. ‘And since it’s such a mild night tonight, we thought we might as well take advantage of it.’
Mickey grinned. ‘I brought a thermos and night-vision goggles. I’ll be fine,’ he reassured Isabel, who was looking a shade concerned for him.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Isabel said. ‘And, actually, I think I’ll retire early tonight. I haven’t been getting much rest recently, and I feel as if I could sleep for a week. Just knowing I have other people around me will help with that, I’m sure.’
‘OK, that’s fine. I just need to know — if anything happens, do you want us to come and get you, or would you rather be told about it in the morning?’ Corwin asked her with a grin.
‘Oh no. Come and get me,’ Isabel said at once.
‘Fine. Although, as I explained before, the chances of anything happening are quite remote.’
Isabel gave a dry laugh. ‘You know, I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed by that.’
It was a sentiment that Effie understood only too well.
* * *
It was certainly the hour when things started to happen in the old Hammer horror films she’d watched in her youth.
Or perhaps it was simply because, for some reason, she’d just assumed that nothing would happen until after midnight — as if that hour was some sort of otherworldly summoning bell for any ghouls and ghosts that might be about.
When, back in the cricket pavilion, Corwin had given out her assignment, she had felt relieved that she wasn’t being asked to sit alone either in Claudia’s bedroom, or the bathroom, or the lounge, where her favourite chair was positioned. And then, after thinking about it on the journey to Adderbury, she became less sure.
Weren’t hallways traditionally a hotspot for ghost sightings? Remembering even further back to the old black and white Hollywood movies that her gran had loved to watch, didn’t ghosts like to make appearances on the stairs, and sweep across the floor and walk through walls?
Of course, she was aware that her deliberately light-hearted scoffing was designed to give her courage. But now, after two hours of sitting in the very comfortable armchair that Corwin had carried through for her, Effie was beginning to realize that it wasn’t courage she needed so much as a way to control her boredom.
Funny, but it hadn’t occurred to her until now just how dull sitting in a chair in the dark with nothing to do could be!
Perhaps that was why she’d been watching the clock so closely.
And now that it had actually struck the hour, and nothing at all had happened, she was beginning to feel a growing sense of panic. Not that something ‘spooky’ might now happen, but at the thought that she still had another six or seven hours of this to get through.
Although Corwin had left her with a pair of night-vision goggles that she could put on if she wanted to, one quick look at the eerie green-tinted vision they produced had been enough to persuade her that she preferred to do without. Besides, a street light outside was filtering in enough light through the windows to keep her happy.
One of the stairs suddenly creaked, but Effie barely noticed it. The first time it had done so, it had made her nearly jump out of her skin, but she quickly discovered that it was just the old boards resettling after Isabel and the others had gone up them. Besides, the stairs in her own home often gave the odd creak. Houses made noises all the time. So what?
So this is ghost hunting, Effie thought wryly. She was getting a slightly numb bum from sitting in one place for so long. And at some point she was going to have to use the loo, as Corwin had predicted. On the plus side, though, she didn’t feel tired, nor did she feel in the least bit scared.
She knew that, just through the door into the lounge, Corwin and Lonny were monitoring the cameras and equipment and were within calling distance. Gisela was upstairs and — if she had any sense — was probably lounging on Claudia’s bed. At first, Effie had thought that the tall redhead was being brave, offering to stay there, but now she wondered if the clever girl simply hadn’t chosen the most comfortable billet.
As the minutes ticked on towards one o’clock, Effie came to two conclusions.
The first being that she could do this job standing on her head.
And secondly, that she must be out of her mind to consider doing it for even one more night.
Because it was becoming more and more clear that Corwin’s prediction that nothing was going to happen had been all too accurate.
That was when her mobile began vibrating in her handbag. And since her bag was resting against her thigh, she almost shot off the chair in shock. OK, so perhaps she wasn’t quite so laidback as she’d supposed. She took a calming breath, patted her chest to reassure her heartbeat that it could now return to normal, and reached inside for the phone. The glow from the screen illuminated the text clearly.
It was from Malc, and presumably had been sent to all their phones simultaneously.
The message was short and clear, and sent her heart once more racing into overtime. COME TO THE BATHROOM. NOW!
* * *
Effie, standing behind the others, peered through a gap between Mickey’s and Lonny’s shoulders, and saw nothing but a bathroom sink. No mist. No ghostly outline of an old lady washing her hands. Nothing. What was she supposed to be looking at?
‘You sure?’ Corwin asked. He wasn’t exactly whispering, but his voice was low and held a definite quiver of excitement now.
‘Sure, check the gauges yourself. I’ve been moving the thermometers around in twenty-minute sessions ever since I got here, trying to pinpoint it. It’s definitely right there.’ And again Malc pointed to a spot by the sink.
Corwin nodded and set off on a brief circuit of the room, checking the thermometers that Malc had placed in various locations, whilst the builder handed over a notebook to Jean, who read quietly through a list of temperature readings.
As Corwin reached the thermometers, she would read off the last note Malcolm had made of them, and Corwin confirmed that they were still reading the same — with only a few very minor variations.
And allowing for the door being open, and the presence of human body heat, all the readings were what Effie would have thought of as ‘average’ room temperature. Until Corwin came to the thermometer that Malcolm had put on the floor nearest the sink. And the reading from that, Corwin confirmed quietly but with evident satisfaction, indicated that it was a full seven degrees lower.
Effie shifted slightly from one foot to the other. Seven degrees? That was quite a difference, wasn’t it? The two other gauges that were on the floor were reading only slightly lower than the others, which made sense. Warm air rises (she remembered that from a long-ago science lesson at school) but draughts whistle under doors. So of course those gauges would register a slightly lower temperature than others set higher up.
But just one gauge, reading a full seven degrees lower? What was that all about?
‘Malc, set up a thermal camera on this spot and record until it’s light,’ Corwin ordered.
‘No probs.’
‘And put our most sensitive microphone on it. Just in case of EVP.’
‘Got it.’
Effie and several of the others took the opportunity to use the other bathrooms for a quick toilet break, whilst Corwin went to fetch Isabel. But when their client finally arrived, having taken the time to hastily pull on some clothes, everyone was back, not wanting to miss any of the action.
Isabel looked bewildered as Corwin explained what was going on, but it was clear that she also felt grati
fied that the scientific instruments had confirmed her own experiences in there.
‘Did your mother ever have a nasty incident in here?’ Corwin asked quietly. ‘A bad fall maybe, or some other unpleasant episode that would explain why a cold spot should be here, and nowhere else?’
‘No, not that I know of,’ Isabel said, sounding puzzled. ‘At least, she never told me about it if she had,’ she amended.
Corwin then deliberately stepped into the cold spot and looked around. As well as possessing a gorgeous roll-top bath on clawed feet, plus a modern shower, the room was large and square, and mainly beige with orange accents. Eventually he looked at the sink, then reached up and opened the cabinet.
‘I can feel it’s definitely colder standing here,’ he said. Inside, the cabinet was totally empty.
‘I threw all of Mother’s stuff out, like I told you before. Well, her toothpaste and toothbrush and that sort of thing. Her bottle of St John’s wort I gave to Annie. That’s the daily woman who came in to “do” for Mother. Mother was a firm believer in St John’s wort, and convinced Annie of its merits too.’
Corwin nodded and sighed. Clearly he was looking for something that would explain the cold spot, and just as clearly there was nothing there.
He glanced once again at the temperature on the floor.
‘It’s now nearly ten degrees colder,’ he said. ‘I can feel goosebumps starting to rise on my arms,’ he added matter-of-factly.
And suddenly Effie had to fight the urge to go inside and pull him away from there. Clearly the man was mad!
* * *
Effie and Duncan were sitting in the front room of her house the following evening. She shifted Toad, who had been sitting on her lap, onto the cushion beside her. The little Yorkie sighed elaborately, but quickly settled down.
Effie shrugged restlessly and walked across to the French windows looking out over her garden. A pair of greenfinches, who had been helping themselves from a birdfeeder, flew off in alarm.
‘Honestly?’ Effie said, her back still turned to him. ‘I suppose the first thought I had was that ten degrees was a hell of a difference, with no clear explanation for it. And then I have to say that it did cross my mind to wonder just how accurate the thermometers were.’
Even as she made the admission, she felt slightly guilty.
Behind her she heard Duncan scribble something down, although he was also recording the conversation.
‘You know, this feels very much like we’re having a professional consultation,’ Effie complained. ‘You’d better not be psychoanalysing me on the sly, Duncan.’
‘Of course I’m not. But this is just the sort of stuff I need. So, your first reaction was to doubt the evidence. Do you think they’d faked the readings?’
‘No!’ she said at once, and a shade too sharply, for although she still had her back to him, she could sense her old friend was watching her curiously. But even as she felt the desire to defend both Malc’s and Corwin’s integrity, she had to remind herself that she hardly knew either man.
And yet why should they bother trying to deceive her?
As she thought about it, the answer became obvious. Corwin Fielding made a good living from writing books about ghosts. And the others were all heavily invested in proving their beliefs to be valid. Even Jean Bossington-Smith, whom Effie was increasingly coming to see as a ferociously honest and forthright person, was obviously emotionally invested in the project.
‘So if you don’t think that the reading was fraudulent — what then?’ she heard Duncan ask mildly, and Effie’s lips twisted into a brief smile. Duncan might say he wasn’t playing the psychologist with her, but she knew shrink-speak when she heard it.
‘Don’t be all reasonable and rational with me, Duncan,’ she warned him succinctly, coming back to the sofa and sitting back down beside her dog. Absently she reached out to stroke his silky fur. ‘I suppose I thought the thermometer might be faulty,’ she finally said, cautiously.
‘Which would be a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’ Duncan pressed, but still in that annoyingly mild and reasonable voice. ‘One of their many temperature gauges just happens to give a faulty reading, right in the room where Isabel told you she always felt cold.’
Effie eyed her friend with a sour smile. ‘So just what are you saying, Duncan?’ she turned the tables neatly on him.
Her friend raised one innocent eyebrow. ‘Me? I’m not saying anything. It’s what you’re saying that counts. You’re the one doing the vigils, you’re my observer. What I’m interested in is what you think. It’s clear that you’re becoming intrigued and interested. And it’s clear that you like all your fellow ghost hunters. And why not? I liked them all well enough when we met up too. And there’s nothing wrong in any of that, you know — they’re probably all very likeable people, so why shouldn’t you make friends of them? It’s what I more or less expected,’ Duncan encouraged. ‘Just don’t be scared to tell the truth about how you feel. If you’re going to do this thing, you need to do it honestly and wholeheartedly, or else what’s the point?’
Effie sighed. ‘Duncan, I don’t know what I thought, all right?’ she finally snapped. ‘Perhaps the temperature readings were wrong. Or maybe there’s a rational explanation for the temperature drop. Or maybe they are conning me or playing me, and I’m too naive or stupid to spot it. Maybe only Malc on his own, or Malc in collusion with . . . someone else . . . is conning not only me, but the rest of the group as well. Or maybe there is something going on that I simply don’t understand. The possibilities are endless, and I just don’t know. All right?’ she finished, feeling exasperated and thoroughly out of sorts.
Duncan grinned widely and began scribbling furiously. ‘Well, that’s just fine. This is good stuff, Effie, really — it’s psychologically fascinating. Which is what the book is going to be all about, after all. You’re doing great!’
Effie eyed him with an unkindly eye, and only just managed to refrain from throwing a cushion at him.
CHAPTER SIX
The next day dawned with some low and scudding clouds that played tag with the sun, dipping the unseasonably warm temperatures abruptly, and casting the day from brightness to gloom and then back again.
And for some reason, Effie felt the need to go to Adderbury on her own and just take stock. As a child, she’d always been something of a loner and happy with her own company, and could spend hours reading or drawing. And perhaps because she’d grown up as an only child, she’d come to rely on her own judgement fairly early on in life. And right now, she needed some time without the other C-Fit members around her, for although she found their company lively and friendly, they also had the tendency to confuse her.
What she needed was some quiet time alone in order to process recent happenings, and without Duncan and his constant annoying probing into how she felt and what she was thinking.
In short, it was time to take a step back and get some perspective.
And the more she thought about what she might like to do, the more she felt compelled to visit Claudia’s grave. She knew from Isabel that her mother was buried in the local churchyard, and so after breakfast — which had consisted of her usual bowl of oat granola and a glass of orange juice — she headed out that way.
With Toad beside her on the passenger seat, barking away excitedly at passing motorbikes and noisy tractors, she experienced a curious feeling of lightness. And it took her a few seconds to recognize it for what it was.
She felt happy and optimistic about the future, for the first time in what felt like a decade.
Once in Adderbury, she drove slowly around until she found the church and then parked outside, careful to keep Toad on a lead as she went inside to explore the churchyard. She’d made sure to take him for his usual morning walk before setting off, in the hope that he wouldn’t feel as inclined to cock his leg disrespectfully on anyone’s final resting place. And for a few moments she lingered idly among the older gravestones, pausing now and then
to read the names and dates on them, and speculate.
She knew that a lot of people, like herself, found it fascinating to look at gravestones, especially the older ones, with their evocative, old-fashioned names, and their sometimes heartbreaking messages. Was it just being maudlin? Or was it human nature to be merely curious? Did it evoke a feeling of general human kinship with strangers she would now never be able to meet, or was there something darker and more atavistic at work? Did it make her feel somehow better to be alive and well and breathing, when all those around her weren’t?
Frowning at the uncomfortable direction her thoughts were taking her, Effie told herself to get on with it, and looked around for the newer interments, eventually finding them at the farthest end from the church. As she approached, with the stones around her getting straighter and cleaner as she went, her eyes became fixed on a patch of recently moved earth that now had grass turf unevenly patched together on top of it. And sure enough, as she reached it, a small temporary plaque set at one end bore the name of Claudia Watkins, with her date of birth and death.
She knew, from the experience of burying her own husband, that a carved gravestone could take anything up to eight months to arrive and be fitted. And since Michael’s parents had long since died, it had been left to her to choose the wording for it. For some time she’d agonized over that, wondering if a quote from the Bible might be appropriate. Although not a regular churchgoer, her husband had always attended their local church at Christmas and Easter, and she knew Michael had respect for tradition.
In the end, exhausted by the whole process of trying to think what she should opt for, she’d simply settled for his name and the stark dates of his birth and death.
Uneasily now, she wondered if Michael would have preferred something a little more . . . not flamboyant, certainly, but more personal?
With a sigh, she firmly pushed the thought aside. Here she was, uselessly wool-gathering again, when she’d so recently promised herself that she’d make a concerted effort not to let her mind drift so often. The trouble was, since losing Michael, it had somehow become a habit. And it left her feeling like a piece of mindless flotsam or jetsam, simply floating wherever the tide took her. And it had to stop, damn it!
