The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  A pleasant woman in a black polo shirt with the pub’s name on it came over, holding a clutch of menus, and told Jason and Emily their table was ready.

  ‘Nice to meet you!’ Jason said to both old men, as Emily turned away in disgust.

  Neither acknowledged him.

  23

  Sunday 16 December

  They followed the woman through the crowded saloon bar and into an equally rammed restaurant area, with more festive decorations on the walls, and were taken to a small four-seater table in a corner. Jason sat down beside his wife, with his back to the far wall, giving him a view of the room. He was pensive, wondering what the two old men had meant.

  ‘How horrible that man was – and creepy – not sure I want to rush back here again in a hurry,’ Emily said.

  ‘I agree – but the landlord seems really friendly,’ Jason replied. ‘Let’s see what the food’s like, anyway.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she replied, and glanced at the menus the waitress had put on the table – a standard one, a Christmas Fayre three-course special, and the wine list.

  There was a roar of laughter from a raucous table of eight beside them.

  ‘Shall we ask for some ice to put in your wine?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  They clinked glasses again. ‘Cheers, my darling,’ Jason said.

  ‘Cheers.’ She smiled and took the tiniest sip, screwing up her face. ‘Big year next year, eh?’

  He nodded, still pensive, and took a gulp of his beer.

  ‘Our new home, your very important exhibition – and I think someone has a very big birthday.’ She gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘Don’t remind me!’

  ‘Come on. You once told me if someone hasn’t made it by forty, they’re never going to. Well, you have made it and you’re heading into the big league now.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  His birthday was one week after his 8 February exhibition, on 15 February.

  ‘No maybe about it. We’ll be having a double celebration – your sell-out on the eighth and your birthday. We need to start thinking about it. Perhaps a supper party combined with our housewarming?’ With a twinkle in her eyes, she said, ‘And I do know quite a good local catering firm.’

  ‘Could I afford them?’

  ‘Oh, they come at a very special price!’

  ‘Oh God,’ he suddenly said, staring across the room.

  ‘What?’

  Lowering his voice, he said, ‘Look who’s here.’

  She turned and saw the Penze-Weedells, wrapped up the way they had been yesterday, following the waitress, who was striding across the room towards them. Mrs Penze-Weedell was striding equally determinedly, her husband trailing behind her, looking sheepish.

  ‘Well!’ Claudette greeted them. ‘What a lovely coincidence to see you!’

  ‘Very nice to see you too,’ Emily replied.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d find it an imposition if we joined you?’ she asked. ‘You see it is completely full in here and there seems to have been a mix-up over our booking. But this very kind lady –’ she pointed a padded-gloved finger at the waitress – ‘said you were also from Cold Hill Park and you were at a table for four. We told her you are very dear friends.’ She peeled off her peaked hat and put it down in one of the spare places, freeing her mass of hair, which she prodded into position until it was about twelve inches tall, before moments later it collapsed, and long fair hair tumbled around her face. ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you?’

  Jason took a deep breath.

  ‘Otherwise we’d have to walk all the way back and get in the car – but every pub around here is bound to be full, this being the last Sunday before Christmas.’

  ‘Only if you’re completely sure,’ mumbled Maurice, beginning to unbutton his coat.

  Emily looked, helplessly, at Jason. He gave her a wide-eyed signal of desperation back.

  ‘Of course!’ Emily said, with a smile like a crack in a fine porcelain vase.

  24

  Sunday 16 December

  The Penze-Weedells went for the full Christmas menus – with extra roast potatoes for Mrs P-W – while Jason and Emily ordered tuna salads and asked the waitress to bring them at the same time as the Penze-Weedells’ soup. Claudette pointedly ordered a bottle of prosecco, repeating the word several times in the process to ensure their new neighbours were in no doubt of her good taste. She also asked for four glasses, but Jason – who had now gone off the idea of the hair of the dog – and Emily politely declined, saying they had a working afternoon ahead.

  The service was slow, taking almost half an hour for their food to arrive. It was mostly one-sided conversation, in which the Danes had to endure the biographies of all the relatives who would be coming to spend Christmas Day at 36 Lakeview Drive. These were accompanied by detailed family trees, with every relative, according to the boasts of Claudette, being immensely successful. Especially their two sons – one with a firm of City accountants and the other doing frightfully well in IT – and their daughter, who had now produced for them three adorable grandchildren.

  ‘We’ll go and pay at the bar, so we don’t disturb the rest of your meal,’ Jason said as soon as they had finished.

  ‘Sooooo lovely to see you again,’ Claudette said.

  ‘Jolly neighbourly of you to allow us to share your table,’ her husband added.

  Both Penze-Weedells were in an increasingly exuberant mood, having demolished the bottle of prosecco and now well into a bottle of red wine – which seemed, to Jason and Emily, unlikely to be the only one they would be getting through during their lunch.

  ‘You must come and have drinks with us on Christmas morning!’ Claudette said.

  ‘A bit difficult, but thank you,’ Jason said. ‘We have relatives with us.’

  ‘Bring them too!’ her husband slurred.

  ‘We’ll catch up soon after,’ Jason promised.

  ‘Boxing Day!’ she said. ‘We insist. Drinks on Boxing Day. Midday, chez nous!’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Emily replied, ignoring the gentle kick under the table from her husband.

  ‘Oh, there is one thing that might be of interest,’ Claudette said. ‘To you both. A little precaution.’

  ‘Precaution?’ Jason queried.

  ‘Yes, yes indeed.’ She looked at her husband then went on. ‘Maurice and I were under the impression – or should I say, were led to believe – that we were the very first residents of Cold Hill Park.’ She looked hard at Jason then Emily. ‘But we weren’t.’

  ‘No?’ Emily said.

  ‘No,’ she said. For the first time, she looked solemn. ‘Apparently, there were three couples who had moved in before us – a few of months earlier. Two just around the corner from us in Copse Walk, and one, with a young family, in 34 Lakeview Drive, that rather ugly little house next to us – right opposite you.’

  Jason turned to Emily. ‘See, I told you I’d seen people in that house.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Jason – you don’t mind me calling you Jason?’

  ‘Of course not, Claudette.’ He smiled. ‘What do you mean you don’t think so?’

  ‘I don’t think you could have seen people in that house,’ she went on and looked to her husband for confirmation. He nodded, distantly.

  ‘I’ve seen them a couple of times; I waved to them, they waved back.’

  She shook her head, vigorously. ‘It’s quite horrible – just one of those terrible coincidences that happen in life sometimes. Over the space of two months, all three couples were killed in accidents while on holiday.’

  ‘What?’ Emily said.

  ‘We only found out after we moved in. We’re not planning any holiday soon, I can tell you.’

  25

  Sunday 16 December

  At the bar, Jason handed his credit card over to the landlord, noticing that the oddball old man with the goatee beard, who had said something about a digger, had gone, leaving just Albert Fears seated there with his tankard.r />
  As he waited for Beeson’s hand-held card reader to get a connection, the old farmer turned and peered at him. ‘Young man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not that young,’ he replied, aware that Emily was looking away, studiously ignoring Fears.

  ‘Oh? Let me take a guess. Thirty-five?’

  ‘Very flattering of you, I’m thirty-nine.’

  He noticed the landlord shooting him a glance as he said it.

  ‘Thirty-nine, are you?’ Fears went on. ‘Birthday anytime soon?’

  ‘Are you going to bring me a present?’

  The old man’s face broke into a smirk. ‘Dunno if I’ll need to. No one in the big house ever lived beyond forty.’ He raised his tankard. ‘Good health, you and your pretty wife. Long life – eh?’

  26

  Sunday 16 December

  Jason and Emily walked in silence through the village, past the store, the smithy, and houses and cottages almost all looking Christmassy. The sky was darkening and it was feeling even colder than earlier. They held gloved hands.

  ‘That was such bullshit, that horrible old farmer,’ Jason said. ‘About no one living beyond forty. The Penze-Weedells are both well north of the big Four Zero, so screw you, Mr Interbred Local Miserableguts.’

  ‘Three couples from our estate killed in accidents?’ Emily said. ‘All in the past few months? What’s that about?’

  ‘Em, I don’t know. Just a freak of statistics?’

  ‘Or a jinx or a curse? Are all of us cursed? What have we moved into?’

  ‘Our beautiful dream home, where we are going to be very happy.’

  ‘Dream on.’

  ‘Hey!’ He put his arm around her and hugged her tightly, trying to put out of his mind the people he had seen in the house opposite and the woman who had come into his studio, trying – and almost succeeding – to dismiss them as figments of his overworked, tired brain. ‘We are not jinxed, there is no hex, or whatever, OK?’

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘Hexes are . . .’ he began before falling silent again, trying to frame what he wanted to say.

  ‘What did he mean?’ Emily said. ‘About no one in the old house ever living beyond forty?’

  ‘He was talking about the past,’ Jason replied. ‘Life expectancy in the nineteenth century was about forty for a male and I think about forty-two for women. But that took into account infant mortality, death in childbirth, wars. It’s very different now. The Penze-Weedells – I rest my case.’

  ‘He gave me the creeps.’

  ‘Just a miserable old git who doesn’t like change. Reminds me of that Oscar Wilde line in one of his plays. Poor daddy’s like a pot plant abandoned in a dark corner, wondering where the sunshine has gone.’

  She squeezed his hand, smiling. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing if we had snow,’ he said, changing the subject as they approached the pillars with the wyverns on top.

  ‘Amazing,’ she echoed but without any enthusiasm. Then she said, ‘I just cannot believe the cheek of those people. I was so looking forward to a nice quiet lunch with you, on our own. “Eyyyy don’t suppose yew’d find it an imposition if we joined yewwwww?”’

  ‘They’re both well past forty – I’d put him mid-fifties.’

  ‘She’s no spring chicken, for sure.’

  ‘We need to set some boundaries with them, PDQ.’

  ‘Barbed wire down the middle of the road?’

  ‘Trenches.’

  ‘A moat with a drawbridge? I went to a medium once, in my teens. He said he could see me living in a house with a moat and a drawbridge.’

  ‘Sounds like he might have been prophetic.’

  ‘He also said he could see me with four children.’

  They walked on for some moments in painful silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He put an arm around her. ‘Did you ever see that cheesy old movie, Love Story?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘There was a line in it – which became the catchphrase for the movie. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”’

  As they walked in through the gates and along the pavement to the left of the short dual carriageway, she said, ‘Nice, it’s kind of true.’

  They stopped and kissed. Then he looked into her eyes. ‘I never want to have to say sorry to you, for anything.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Hey!’

  There was a tease in her eyes. ‘Joking!’

  He kissed her again. ‘You know, despite that old dickhead in the pub – and the eccentrics across the road – I feel immensely happy here. I’ve a feeling next year is going to be brilliant. I love my studio – I know I’m going to be able to work well there.’

  ‘And I love my kitchen, and my catering space in the garage. And I agree with you, I’m really happy here too. I love the village, and actually the tuna salad wasn’t bad. It would have tasted even better without the P-Ws. Did you hear he called her “High Command” when she was in the loo? Hilarious!’

  ‘But now we have something to really look forward to. Boxing Day prosecco at their house.’

  ‘Can you imagine what it’s like inside?’ she said.

  ‘It’s probably full of those wedding presents we hated and gave to the charity shop! Like that porcelain donkey with the sombrero on its head and the quartz clock in its belly that my aunt gave us.’

  ‘Shame on you for giving away what might one day become a priceless antique.’

  ‘One that’ll turn up on the Antiques Roadshow?’

  ‘Some years after Hell has frozen over.’

  He laughed and hugged her. ‘God, I love you so much.’

  She looked into his eyes, smiling. ‘It’s going to happen, a baby will come along. If it doesn’t, we’ll try IVF and whatever else is going. And if that doesn’t happen, we have each other. Right?’

  They hugged again. ‘Right,’ he whispered into her ear.

  ‘Right.’

  As they walked on, turning into Lakeview Drive, passing the shells of houses under construction, Emily said, ‘What about that other weird old boy, what did he mean when he said, “Ask anyone, they’ll know about the digger”?’

  ‘Blind reindeer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No eye deer!’

  She punched him. ‘That is terrible, that’s your worst pun ever – and you stole it!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Didn’t you just say something about never having to say sorry?’ She looked at him quizzically.

  27

  Sunday 16 December

  As soon as they were home, Jason left Emily to the preparations in her work kitchen, made them both a mug of tea and carried his up to the studio. Closing the door behind him, he stood and stared for some moments at his painting of the two labradoodles on the sofa. It glowed in the low winter sunlight streaming in through the window.

  He studied each of the dogs, pleased with his progress this morning. It was shaping up well and he could feel their personalities coming alive. He glanced at his watch: 3.45 p.m. With an uninterrupted evening ahead, he should be able to finish it easily.

  He sat down at his desk, in front of his laptop, to check his emails and social media, and pressed the return key to wake it up.

  But, similar to earlier, instead of the normal request for his password, a row of numbers appeared, fleetingly, on a black screen before vanishing again.

  A sharp tap on the window to his left startled him. He jumped, then turned in fear towards it. And saw a man’s face.

  Shit!

  He leapt to his feet in shock.

  The man, who looked to be in his forties, smiled cheerily, holding up a cloth and waving with it. Then he squirted something on the glass and began to spread it.

  Relief washing through him, Jason smiled and waved back, then returned to the screen. The numbers had disappeared, replaced by the password prompt. He entered it, bemused, scanned his emails and
Twitter, then stood up to get back to work.

  He put on his apron and gloves, freshened up his paints and went over to his easel. Within minutes he was totally immersed in getting the fringe over the labradoodle’s eyes right. He scraped with his scalpel in total concentration to create different shades of grey and some white. This really needed a steady hand, but it was becoming less steady as he continued. The temperature in the room seemed to be dropping. He was cold, freezing cold.

  Behind him he heard a sharp click, as if the door had suddenly been closed.

  Except, it was already closed.

  28

  Sunday 16 December

  Jason spun around.

  Standing in front of him, right in his face, was the woman in the black suit. Shimmering, cold air radiated from her.

  Then she vanished.

  He stood, shaking uncontrollably. His hands, his legs, his whole body. Goosepimples chased up and down his body.

  He had seen her face so clearly. Even more so than before.

  With shaking hands, he removed the painting from the easel and set it carefully down on the floor against a wall, then pulled out a fresh gesso board and placed it on the easel. From his desk, he picked up a pencil and began to sketch feverishly on the board.

  Totally oblivious to time, he worked away, putting down the image he held in his mind. Somewhere in a distant compartment of his brain he heard Emily calling out and ignored her, working impatiently on. He had to finish this before the image faded.

  Had to capture her.

  Emily called again, and he still ignored her.

  Eventually – it was approaching 8 p.m., he realized, glancing at his watch – he heard footsteps, stomping, angry footsteps, coming up the stairs.