Harbinder rolls her eyes. ‘Yes. They were staying in an Edinburgh Travelodge trying to work out how to get to Dumfries and Galloway. Their parents are coming to collect them today. Fancy thinking that they could go to Gretna Green and get married. What’s wrong with the kids today?’
‘Georgie says that Venetia’s a big Georgette Heyer fan,’ I say. ‘Her characters are always having runaway marriages.’
‘As a matter of fact, Georgette Heyer is very practical about marriage,’ says Harbinder, surprising me, not for the first time. ‘She never forgets that you need money too. I always think she’s a bit like an Indian mother.’
‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a romance fan.’
‘I’m more of a horror girl,’ says Harbinder, kicking a stone into the shallows, ‘but I’ve had my moments.’
‘Has Ty confessed everything?’ I ask. I’m hoping that, if he does, Georgie and I won’t have to go to court.
‘Singing to the rooftops,’ says Harbinder. ‘In fact, my problem was stopping him telling everything to the Scottish police. I want him to save it for me and Neil. I’m flying back with him tonight. That should be a jolly flight, handcuffed to a murderer. Mind you, could be worse. Could be a hen party.’
‘Will I see you when I’m back in Sussex?’ I say. I don’t want to leave Ullapool but there are still three weeks of term left. I should go back on Monday.
‘You won’t be able to get rid of me,’ says Harbinder. ‘There’s always a lot of mopping up to do with cases like this.’
‘It seems impossible that life will just go on as normal,’ I say, ‘but I suppose it will.’
‘Normal’s overrated in my opinion,’ says Harbinder. ‘But yes, life will go on. It always does.’
We’ve reached the end of the beach and look back over the bay. The tide is coming in. Our footprints have made little impact on the firm sand and, in a few minutes, they will be washed away altogether.
Nothing in the world is hidden forever.
Epilogue
The third time
We climb the spiral stairs in silence. It’s the Christmas holidays and the school is closed but, far below, I can hear a clock ticking and the floorboards sighing as they expand.
‘It looks different without a dead body,’ says Harbinder. Always adept at destroying atmosphere.
Tony has gone to head up an academy chain in the north-east. Liz Francis is the new head teacher and she has asked me to apply for the deputy’s post. Liz wants to get rid of this room and turn it into an IT suite. She’s probably right, but the school won’t be the same without the ghost of R.M. Holland.
Georgie moves into the room and goes up to the desk. She pauses for a moment looking at the framed photographs and then she does what I would never dare to do: she sits in R.M. Holland’s chair.
‘Georgie,’ I say. ‘Don’t sit there.’ I can’t forget my last two visits to this room. The last occupants of that chair were the dummy (thank you, Patrick O’Leary) and Rick’s dead body.
‘Why not?’ says Georgia. ‘It’s a good place. Good energy. I feel as if I could write something powerful, sitting here.’
That’s been one of the biggest shocks of the last few weeks. The fact that my daughter is a writer. She’s shown me some of her story and, while I find the subject matter somewhat disturbing, there’s no doubt that she has talent. I suppose I should thank Bryony Hughes for nurturing this gift but I still don’t want Georgie going back to her after-school classes.
‘Perhaps I should sit there then,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I think I’m never going to finish my book about Holland.’
‘Henry Hamilton thinks you will,’ says Georgie with a sly smile.
I saw Henry last week and he’s still enthusiastic about the book. To my surprise, he’s also still enthusiastic about me.
I say, hoping that I’m not blushing, ‘Henry thinks that there might be more papers at St Jude’s. If I can solve the mystery of Holland’s wife and daughter, I think there’s a story there.’
‘It’s not that easy to solve a mystery,’ warns Harbinder. ‘Ask any police officer.’
‘You solved this one,’ says Georgia. She is still sitting at the desk, her hands flat on the blotter. Her dark hair, lit by the low winter sun behind her, shines like an aureole. She looks beautiful, like a Pre-Raphaelite painting, and suddenly very grown-up. In a few years, I think, she’ll be leaving home.
‘Well, Ty did rather help by trying to kill you,’ says Harbinder, moving to examine the photographs on the red walls.
Ty’s case is due to come to trial in the spring. Because he’s pleading guilty and has made a full confession, Harbinder thinks that Georgie and I won’t have to give evidence. Georgie still says she forgives him but I’m not there yet. I keep thinking about Ella and her parents, about Daisy Lewis, about Simon, who is apparently still having flashbacks about the attack. Only Herbert seems — thank God — to have escaped without trauma. He’s back to his old self. Georgie has bought him a reindeer outfit for Christmas.
‘So what’s the mystery with the wife and child?’ says Harbinder. ‘Perhaps I can solve it for you.’ She speaks with the confidence of someone who has just applied to take her Detective Inspector’s exam.
‘Holland’s wife, Alice, probably killed herself,’ I say. ‘And we don’t know anything about the daughter. He mentions a Mariana in his letters and there’s a poem, “For M. RIP”, but there’s no record of the girl’s birth or death and no one’s ever found her grave. In one of the letters Henry found, Holland talks about Mariana inheriting “her mother’s taint”. Maybe this means depression or mental illness. We don’t know.’
‘I saw Alice’s ghost once,’ says Harbinder. ‘Did I tell you?’
Georgie and I stare at her. ‘No,’ I say. ‘You didn’t tell us.’
‘It was the Christmas term when I was fifteen,’ says Harbinder. ‘I was snogging my boyfriend Gary Carter in one of the old classrooms. Mr Carter, the geography teacher,’ she adds for Georgia’s benefit.
‘Oh God.’ Georgia covers her eyes. ‘Gross.’
‘Anyway, there we were, snogging away, and suddenly the room went cold. We went into the corridor outside and we saw this white shape rushing past us. It threw itself over the balustrade and there was this terrible scream. That’s all.’
‘Did anyone die after you’d seen the ghost?’ I say, somewhat sarcastically, remembering the school legend.
‘Oh yes,’ says Harbinder. ‘Someone died all right.’
‘It was her,’ says Georgia, her face alight. ‘It was Alice Holland. We should try to contact her. She’s not happy here, she wants to move on.’
‘No!’ I say, louder than I intended. I’ve now heard all about the so-called exorcism of Ella’s spirit. Four teenagers dabbling with the undead when they should have been eating pizza and watching Friends. Once again, I blame Bryony Hughes.
‘All right,’ says Georgia. ‘Take a chill pill, Mum. After all, you’re the one planning to write about her. That’s not leaving her in peace, is it?’
‘It’s not the same,’ I say. ‘But if I can solve the mystery of Mariana, maybe that will be an exorcism of sorts.’
‘Oh that,’ says Georgia. ‘I’ve solved that.’
She gets up and walks to the wall of photographs. She points to a small black-and-white picture at eye level. Harbinder looks at me and we both move closer.
‘With Mariana,’ Georgia reads out the caption.
‘But there’s no one else in the photograph,’ says Harbinder.
‘Look closer, ace detective.’
We lean in and it’s Harbinder who sees it first.
‘The dog,’ she says.
There, in the middle ground of the picture, is a white blob, almost lost in the grey grass. But it’s definitely a dog, of indefinite breed, one ear up and one ear down, tail curled tightly over
its back.
‘Her mother’s taint,’ says Georgia. ‘I bet that was the curly tail.’
‘Breeders sometimes call it a gay tail,’ I say.
‘I like that,’ says Harbinder. ‘I think it could catch on as an accessory.’
‘Mariana,’ I say. ‘Holland writes that she was a constant solace, an angel, sweet-natured and kind.’
‘Sounds just like Herbert,’ says Georgia, in the voice she puts on for him.
‘He also said that Mariana enjoyed his novel, The Ravening Beast.’
‘I can understand that,’ says Georgia. ‘I often read my stuff to Herbie. He thinks I’m a genius.’
‘Who took the photograph?’ says Harbinder.
But that’s something we will never know. We all look back at the photograph, at the man and his dog sitting on the lawn, a snapshot in time captured by an unknown, ghostly hand.
The Stranger, by R.M. Holland
‘If you’ll permit me,’ said the Stranger, ‘I’d like to tell you a story. After all, it’s a long journey and, by the look of those skies, we’re not going to be leaving this carriage for some time. So, why not pass the hours with some story-telling? The perfect thing for a late October evening.
Are you quite comfortable there? Don’t worry about Herbert. He won’t hurt you. It’s just this weather that makes him nervous. Now, where was I? What about some brandy to keep the chill out? You don’t mind a hip flask, do you?
Well, this is a story that actually happened. Those are the best kind, don’t you think? Better still, it happened to me when I was a young man. About your age.
I was a student at Cambridge. Studying Divinity, of course. There’s no other subject, in my opinion, except possibly English Literature. We are such stuff as dreams are made on. I’d been there for almost a term. I was a shy boy from the country and I suppose I was lonely. I wasn’t one of the swells, those young men in white bow ties who sauntered across the court as if they had letters patent from God. I kept myself to myself, went to lectures, wrote my essays and started up a friendship with another scholarship boy in my year, a timid soul called Gudgeon, of all things. I wrote home to my mother every week. I went to chapel. Yes, I believed in those days. I was even rather pious — ’pi’, we used to say. That was why I was surprised to be invited to join the Hell Club. Surprised and pleased. I’d heard about it, of course. Stories of midnight orgies, of bedders coming in to clean rooms and fainting dead away at what they discovered there, of arcane chants from the Book of the Dead, of buried bones and gaping graves. But there were other stories too. Many successful men had their start at the Hell Club: politicians — even a cabinet member or two — writers, lawyers, scientists, business tycoons. You always knew them because of the badge, a discreet skull worn on the left lapel. Yes, like this one here.
So I was happy to be invited to the initiation ceremony. It was held on October 31st. Halloween, of course. All Hallows’ Eve. Yes, of course. It’s Halloween today. If one believed in coincidence one might thing that was slightly sinister.
To return to my story. The ceremony was simple and took place at midnight. Naturally. The three initiates were required to go to a ruined house just outside the college grounds. In turn, we would be blindfolded and given a candle. We had to walk to the house, climb the stairs and light our candle in the window on the first floor landing. Then we had to shout, as loudly as we could, ‘Hell is empty!’ After all three had completed the task, we could take off our blindfolds and re-join our fellows. Feasting and revelry would follow. Gudgeon . . . did I tell you that poor Gudgeon was one of the three? Gudgeon was worried because, without his glasses, he was almost blind. But, as I told him, we were all blindfolded anyway. A man may see how the world goes with no eyes.
Are you cold? The wind is getting up, isn’t it? See how the snow hammers a fusillade against the windows. Ah, the train has stopped again. I very much doubt if we’ll get farther tonight.
Some brandy? Do share my travelling rug. I always prepare myself for the worst on these journeys. A good maxim for life, young man. Always prepare yourself for the worst.
So, where was I? Ah yes. So Gudgeon and I, together with a third fellow — let’s call him Wilberforce — approached the house. Three established members of the Hell Club provided us with blindfolds. They were masked, of course, but we knew some of them by their voices. There was Lord Bastian and his henchman, Collins. The third had a foreign accent, possibly Arabian.
Wilberforce was the first to don his blindfold. He set off, holding his candle and a box of matches, stumbling like a blind man towards the ruined house. We waited and we waited. The winter wind roared around us. Like this one, yes. We waited and, after what seemed a lifetime, we saw a candle flickering in the window embrasure. Very faintly, on the night air, we heard, ‘Hell is empty!’
We cheered and our voices echoed against stone and silence. Bastian handed a candle to Gudgeon, together with a box of matches. Slowly Gudgeon removed his glasses and pulled the blindfold over his eyes.
‘Good luck,’ I said.
He smiled. Funny, I remember it now. He smiled and made a strange gesture with his hands, splaying them out like a shopkeeper advertising his wares. I can see it as clearly as if he were standing in front of me. Lord Bastian gave him a push and Gudgeon too staggered off over the frosty grass.
We waited and we waited and we waited. A night bird called. I heard somebody cough and someone else smother a laugh. I was breathing hard though I scarcely knew why.
We waited and, eventually, a candle shone in the window. ‘Hell is empty!’ Our answering cheers rang out.
Now it was my turn. I was handed the candle and matches. Then I pulled on the blindfold. Immediately the night seemed not just darker, but colder, more hostile. I didn’t need Bastian’s push to start me on my journey. I was anxious for it to be over. Yet, how long that walk seemed when you couldn’t see. I became convinced that I was heading in the wrong direction, that I had missed the ruined house altogether, but then I heard Bastian’s voice behind me, ‘Straight ahead, you fool!’ Stretching my hands out in front of me, I stumbled forwards.
My hands hit stone. I was at the house. Feeling my way along the façade I eventually reached a void. The doorway. I tripped over the doorstep, landing heavily on flagstones, but at least I was in the building. Inside, the wind was less, but the cold, if anything, more. And the silence! It echoed and re-echoed around me, seeming to weigh down on me, to press me close to the earth. I knew that I was bending almost double, like a beggar under his sack. I could hear my breathing, jagged and stertorous. It was my only companion as I inched towards the staircase.
How many steps? I had been told it was twenty but lost count after fifteen. Only when I stepped on a phantom stair did I realise that I was on the landing. I had thought that Gudgeon or Wilberforce might whisper a greeting but they were silent. Waiting. I edged forwards. I had to find the window and bring this pantomime to an end. My hands swept the plaster of the wall in front of me until . . . there! I found the wooden sill. I pulled off my blindfold and my cold fingers fumbled with a match to light the candle. Then I dripped some wax onto the sill and stood it upright.
‘Hell is empty!’ My voice sounded puny in my own ears. It was only then that I turned around and saw the dead bodies at my feet.
I heard a scream echoing through the corridors of the deserted house and I realised that it was mine. My friend, Gudgeon, lay dead at my feet. Wilberforce was a few yards away. I felt both their necks for a heartbeat but I knew that there was nothing to be done. Someone, or something, had fallen on these men like a beast from hell and slaughtered them. Gudgeon’s chest was red with blood where he had been stabbed again and again. His arms were spread wide and I could see on his palms — oh horrible sacrilege! — gashes which resembled the stigmata of Our Blessed Lord. I thought at first that Wilberforce had been stabbed to death too, but, looking closer
in the flickering light from my candle, I saw that he had been garrotted, a white cloth pulled tight around his neck, making his appearance ghastly in the extreme. However, the assassin’s knife had not escaped him. The handle of a dagger was embedded in his chest.
I was shaking, my candle making wild shapes on the wall, and, for several minutes, was frozen with fear. Because the fiend that had killed my companions was surely close at hand. Would he now descend on me, knife and hands incarnadine?
But the ruined house was still. I could hear nothing except the rats scuttling on the floor above. Then, from outside, I heard a cry. ‘What’s happening in there?’ Then Collins, Bastian and the third man came running up the stairs. I still held the candle and their first sight must have been my ashen face, illuminated by the spectral light, before the true horror of the scene unfolded itself.
I will draw a veil — no, not a veil, a heavy curtain — over what happened next. I wanted to inform the college authorities but Lord Bastian pointed out that we would get in trouble, perhaps even be sent down. Besides, he said, the Hell Club would not be happy if the news got out. This opinion seemed to carry great weight with the other two, and they were all senior men, you must remember. To cut a long story short, I was persuaded that the best course of action would be to leave the dread house and return to college as if nothing had happened. The bodies would be found, of course, and there would be an enquiry, but we would deny any knowledge of the events. We would never speak of this night again.
‘We must swear,’ said Bastian and, to my horror, he knelt down and, in a horrible echo of Doubting Thomas testing Our Lord, put his fingers into the wound on Gudgeon’s hand.
‘Swear,’ he said. ‘Swear on his blood.’
Can you imagine the scene? The candlelight, the wind outside now rising to a crescendo, Bastian standing there with Gudgeon’s blood on his hands. We were all half-mad, that’s the only way I can explain it. Bastian pressed his bloody thumbprint to our foreheads as if he were a priest administering the ashes. Remember, man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return.
The Stranger Diaries Page 30
