by Pat Herbert
“How can you be sure if they didn’t go inside?” Bernard stamped his foot with impatience. “Why are we wasting time? We need to get to Bockhampton Road right away!”
Dr Mallory sighed. “I can assure you.…”
Before the doctor could finish assuring them, Bernard turned to Sophie. “Has Cathy got a key to the house?”
Sophie thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t have thought so. We handed all the keys to the estate agents. Although I suppose she could still have one.”
“Then I think we’d better just make sure for ourselves that Cathy isn’t there,” he said. “Because it’s my belief she is there and in great danger.”
And with that he pulled Sophie back down the corridor and out of the building, Jerry following in his wake. Dr Mallory called after them, “You’re only wasting your time. We need to discuss this.…”
But nobody was listening to him. Jerry pressed Omar Kemal’s number on his mobile.
“Hello?” came a sleep-sodden voice. “Who’s that?”
“Sorry, did I wake you, Omar? It’s Jerry.”
“It’s after midnight,” Omar complained. “I knocked off early as I’d been driving for over sixteen hours, and now you wake me....”
“Shut up and listen,” interrupted Jerry. “I can’t explain now. But we need to get to Bockhampton Road soonest and we need you to get us there. You said you’d be glad to help and I wouldn’t ask, only it’s really important. A woman’s life’s at risk….”
“Okay okay!” protested Omar, sounding wide awake now. “I’ll be with you right away. Where are you?”
“That’s just it, we’re in Sussex, in a small village called Ticehurst. There’s a place here called the Priory – it’s a mental home of sorts. Do you think you can find it?”
“No problem. Let’s see – the time’s now twelve-thirty-five. I should be with you in about an hour?”
“Great! But don’t kill yourself. We want you here in one piece.”
“No problem. There won’t be much traffic at this time of night.”
“Okay,” said Jerry, clicking off the call. “We’ve got about an hour to wait. It’s a good job it’s not too cold as there’s nowhere we can go till then.”
“Never mind,” said Bernard. “It’s all in a good cause. Let’s just pray we’re not too late.”
When Omar arrived some fifty-five minutes later, he found them sitting on a bench outside the village pub. Although the night was reasonably mild, they were now pretty cold after nearly an hour of inaction. Jerry wasn’t too bad, but the old bones of Bernard and Sophie were beginning to protest. Luckily, Omar had thought to prepare a flask of hot coffee for them.
“Hold tight,” grinned Omar, after they were all seated inside his cab, gratefully hugging their coffee mugs. “I’m going for the world land speed record – again!”
As they counted down the miles, Jerry explained everything to their kind chauffeur, including who Sophie was and why they had to get to that dreadful Wandsworth terrace as quickly as possible. Omar stepped on the accelerator after waiting uselessly at the traffic lights. He was tempted to ignore the red lights when there were no other cars to be seen but didn’t dare chance it. Surveillance cameras were everywhere, and they couldn’t afford to be stopped by the police now.
57 Bockhampton Road looked just as Jerry had left it the day before yesterday. No lights on and, to all intents and purposes, completely deserted. There was no sign of a forced entry, and all the windows were firmly closed. The ‘For Sale’ sign, re-erected so soon after being taken down, creaked slightly in the gentle night breeze.
All four of them made their way up the path and waited while Jerry wrestled with the lock. “It’s still very stiff,” he complained. “I was going to do something about it, but I don’t see the point now.”
When they were inside, he switched on the hall light. They looked around them. All looked normal and nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Sophie called out softly: “Cathy? Are you there? It’s your mummy, come to take you home with me.”
They waited for an answer, but none came. Sophie couldn’t hide her disappointment, so convinced had she been that Bernard was right and they would find her daughter there.
“Not to worry,” said Bernard. “Maybe she’s asleep upstairs.”
“Oh yes,” said Sophie, brightening. “She could have gone to her old room. She felt safe there.” They all made their way up the unlit stairs. Jerry hadn’t got around to putting a bulb into the landing light fitting, but there was enough light from the hall to illuminate their way. They followed the owner of the house slowly up the stairs, all of them sensing a change in the atmosphere as they did so. The natural chill of a house uninhabited for a time was replaced by an unnatural and unhealthy dampness that seemed to envelop them.
Reaching the landing, feeling chilled to their very marrow, they set about searching the upstairs rooms. The two smaller bedrooms were empty and there was no sleeping form in Jerry’s bed, the only one in the house. If Cathy had come there, she would certainly have found her way eventually to it, they felt sure. The police were right after all. Cathy hadn’t come back here. So where was she?
As they all trooped back down the stairs, Bernard cleared his throat and spoke softly to Jerry, so that Sophie wouldn’t hear. “We still haven’t tried the living room. Will you go with Sophie and Omar back to the cab while I take a look?”
“Don’t go in there on your own, Bernard,” Jerry whispered. “It could be dangerous. Remember what happened to Beth.”
Not to mention the others, thought Bernard. “I’ve had my life,” he said out loud. “If it ends here, so be it. But I must find out if I’m right.”
Jerry patted him on the shoulder. “Wait here,” he told him and, raising his voice, addressed Sophie and Omar. “You two had better get back to the cab. Can you drop Sophie at a B&B, do you think, Omar?”
Omar said he knew of a really good one, but it would probably be shut up for the night by now. He could put Sophie up in his spare room, though.
Sophie looked at Bernard. “Aren’t I staying with you?” she asked him.
“No. I’m going to stay here with Jerry. I think he shouldn’t be left alone. And I’d rather know you were safe away from here. Omar will look after you.”
“You will be safe with me,” said Omar, looking at the elegant old lady with an appraising eye. “My landlady will make sure of that.”
Sophie, much too tired to argue, allowed herself to be settled into the front passenger seat.
Bernard turned to Jerry as the cab disappeared into the early morning shadows. “You should have gone with them. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Did you think I’d let you go in that room on your own?” Jerry demanded. “It’s my house, remember? I must be the one to go in there first.”
Without further discussion, they made their way back to the living room door. Jerry stepped forward and turned the doorknob.
What greeted their eyes didn’t surprise them in the least. It didn’t really even shock them. It was what they had both expected but had hoped to be proved wrong. Without the aid of the electric light they could see the body of Cathy Miles-Harris in the glow of the fireplace. Her skull was smashed in and her hair was matted with blood.
Jerry grabbed Bernard as he toppled against him. He closed the door quickly and supported the old man into the kitchen, where he sat him down and fetched him a glass of water.
“That’s my daughter in there, Jerry.” Bernard’s hands shook as he drank the water. “I didn’t even have the chance to speak to her, let alone save her life.”
39
Over a year had passed since the discovery of Cathy’s body in 57 Bockhampton Road. It had been a sad year for Bernard and Sophie, coming to terms with their grief over the loss of their daughter. Added to their misery had been the painstaking probing by the police. Naturally, no motive or suspect was ever found for her mur
der and, after several fruitless months, the investigation was scaled down and the grieving parents were left in peace.
It had soon become evident to the police or, as Jerry put it, permeated their thick skulls, that the murders of Cathy Miles-Harris and Beth Morrison in the exact same place by the exact same means couldn’t be put down to just mere coincidence. The murder weapon, too, had puzzled them. Although the blood-stained poker found by Beth’s body had been taken away by the police for forensic tests and eventually labelled and added to all the other gruesome things found at murder scenes, the precise same weapon, covered in blood stains, was found by poor Cathy’s body. It couldn’t be rationally explained away.
DS Bob Drake had almost suffered a nervous breakdown over the whole business. He couldn’t pin Beth’s murder on Jerry Bracegirdle, and there was no one to pin Cathy’s murder on, either. Jerry was, for a short time, a suspect, but nothing stuck and nothing made sense. Drake finally let Jerry off the hook in order to finish having his nervous breakdown in peace.
Since then, life had looked up for Jerry. Back at work, with his colleagues treating him as if nothing had happened, and Eve Mason playing a rather important part in his life, he was a contented young man. Eve’s impending divorce was the cherry on the cake for him. She had been unhappy for a while before she had even met him, so he had showed up in her life, or at least in her shop, at just the right time for both of them.
The only fly in the ointment for Jerry now was 57 Bockhampton Road. If only he had been able to sell the bloody place. However, Eve hadn’t objected to visiting him there and even staying over occasionally. That had made him very happy, as he had feared a reaction similar to Beth’s when she first set foot in the place. “It’s a bit quaint,” was all Eve had said on seeing it for the first time.
Quaint it wasn’t, certainly not to Jerry, after everything that had happened in it. Still, he had to admit, it had been behaving itself lately, its blood lust seemingly quenched for the time being, at least.
Bernard hadn’t seen Sophie off when she finally decided to return to Spain. She had asked him to come with her, live out his remaining years with her in sunnier climes. It would be the perfect solution for them both, she had urged, then cried, then cajoled. They should be together, consoling each other in the loss of their child. But, as Bernard had pointed out, Cathy had never been his child. How could he mourn her loss in the same way his mother could, who had known her all her life? It had been meant to hurt and hurt her it did. Vindictiveness had never been in Bernard’s nature but now, in his dotage, he found he was more than capable of it.
Jerry had tried to intervene, suggesting that Sophie was right. Although he didn’t really like her, he could see the sense in the two old people joining forces in their old age. They would be company for each other, loving companions. But it hadn’t moved Bernard one iota. He had never hardened his heart against anyone who had needed him. His Christian duty had always come first. To love and forgive, that’s what his life had all been about. But he had found no forgiveness in his heart for Sophie, and he certainly had no love for her, either. Not anymore.
After Sophie’s departure, Bernard settled back into a routine of sorts, with dear old Mrs Ruddock serving him faithfully with tea, sympathy and her own individual brand of companionship. It was all he needed now, he had told Jerry and Jerry accepted Bernard was happy with that. But he still thought he had been wrong to turn his back on Sophie. Life was too short.
Jerry found he cared more for his old friend than even his parents, these days. He often visited him to make sure he was all right, in good health and had all he needed. He became a favourite of Mrs Ruddock, too. Bernard was always delighted to see him, even if a little anxious about his safety in that house. But, as the days, weeks and months wore on, he began to relax. Perhaps 57 Bockhampton Road was at peace at last.
But, just as Bernard, a few streets away, was thinking this, Jerry and Eve were sitting in that very living room in front of the fire. It was a cold December evening, and they were hugging each other for warmth, as much as anything else. There was no proper fire in the grate, just an electric two-bar job which wasn’t very efficient. Love kept them warm, of course, but suddenly it wasn’t enough. There was an icy blast that seemed to emanate from the boarded up chimney breast. The fire was still throwing out the same amount of heat, but they couldn’t feel it now. The house was up to its old tricks again.
Eve got up from his lap, her teeth chattering in her head. They had been on the verge of going to bed, so Jerry thought she had decided it was time. They needed to get between the sheets to keep warm and to, well, do what came naturally. He reached down to turn off the fire.
“You need to get out, Jerry,” said Eve, almost echoing Beth’s very words. “I’m going home.”
He didn’t even try to stop her. What was the point? Besides, the last thing he wanted was Eve ending up like Beth.
Jerry was at Bernard’s door after work the following evening. “It’s started again,” he said without preamble.
Mrs Ruddock had shown him straight through to Bernard in his cosy study. She was used to the pleasant young man’s visits, but he looked worried tonight. More than worried. As Jerry addressed Bernard with these dramatic words, he realised he wasn’t alone.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, seeing a plump, but still pretty, old lady by the fire opposite Bernard.
“Let me introduce you,” smiled Bernard. Dorothy Plunkett held out her hand to Jerry and he shook it gently.
“So, this is the lady you were telling me about,” said Jerry, turning to Bernard. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I’m worried.”
“I know,” said Bernard. “I always expected the spirit, or spirits, in that house would reappear sooner or later. I’ve just been telling Dorothy all about it.”
“Are you still doing séances and that sort of thing?” Jerry asked her, taking the seat indicated by Bernard.
“Not so much these days, dear,” she said. Her voice was like melting chocolate, a voice to comfort, a voice to soothe the sorrows of the bereaved. “I’m a bit too long in the tooth.”
“But you’ve still got the gift, Dorothy, haven’t you?” Bernard interjected.
“I have. If I’m needed. And, from what you’ve been telling me, Bernard, it seems I am.”
“Do you really think you can help?” asked Jerry. “Can you contact these spirits in my house and find out what they want or why they’re there. And then can you stop them doing it?”
“One thing at a time, Jerry dear,” laughed Dorothy, “although the answers to your questions are yes – probably.”
“So, what will you do? When can you start?”
“Is tomorrow soon enough, young man?”
“I should think so,” laughed Jerry. “If you can rid my place of whatever is haunting it, then I’ll take it off the market and do it up. Eve and I plan – or, at least, we had planned – to live there together. But I’m sure she’ll come back when the evil has gone.” His eagerness was all too palpable.
“Don’t get your hopes up too high, dear,” she warned him. “I’m not infallible. But I promise I shall do my very best. In fact, I shall regard it as my biggest challenge. Probably my swan song as well.” She said this wistfully. “So, I don’t intend to fail.”
40
Christmas had come and gone, leaving in its wake a cold, snow-covered January. Bernard, although he always enjoyed the festive season, being such a special time in the church calendar, had enjoyed this last one more than any others he could remember for a long time. Henry and Maddie Freeman had come to stay with him, bringing their only daughter and her husband, and their only daughter, with them. It was a houseful, but it was a house of happiness.
Against all the odds, Henry Freeman had survived the trauma of his childhood to marry his delightful Maddie, and their daughter and granddaughter were equally delightful. Bernard had been slightly wary of the son-
in-law at first. His sole topics of conversation seemed to be Star Wars and Formula One, but his heart was in the right place, and Bernard eventually warmed to him. Mrs Ruddock, despite having her hands full, had enjoyed every minute of their visit, too, pampering the little granddaughter within an inch of her life.
Bernard had invited Jerry to stay for as long as he wanted, following the latest manifestations in his house, so there was one more to add to the party. Then, on Boxing Day, Dorothy and Eve also turned up. Even Mrs Ruddock, at this point, feared her mince pies wouldn’t go round. However, she needn’t have worried, there were still a stack of mince pies in the larder on the fifth of January, the date set for Dorothy to try and contact the evil spirits in Jerry’s house.
So, after a quick breakfast of mince pies, she, Jerry and Bernard arrived at 57 Bockhampton Road. Snow obliterated the ‘For Sale’ sign, perched upon which was a tiny robin.
“That’s a sign of good luck,” observed Dorothy, wrapped in her unfashionable fur coat, for which she had been vilified for many years.
“Let’s hope so,” said Bernard.
Jerry said nothing, seemingly daunted at being back outside his home again, after the cosy time he had spent with Bernard for the last couple of weeks. This was make or break time for him, and Dorothy Plunkett was his only hope.
They stood outside the gate, surveying the ordinary little terrace house that, apart from its dilapidation, looked just like all the rest in the row. No one passing by could ever suspect what had gone on within its walls. And was still going on. Dorothy Plunkett was an unlikely heroine, as she stood there in her old fur coat and ankle boots but, however unlikely, she was the only one who could prevent another murder.
“Let’s begin,” she said quietly. “Now, you must both wait here. Key, please, Jerry.”
