The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  Twenty thousand pounds!

  ‘Maurice!’ she called out, excitedly.

  There was no response.

  ‘Maurice!’

  She smelled cigar smoke.

  ‘Maurice?’

  The smell of cigar smoke became stronger.

  ‘Maurice? What do you think you’re doing? You’re smoking indoors – you know that I—’

  A shadowy figure, with a glowing cigar, passed the open doorway to the hall.

  ‘Maurice, what on earth do you think you are doing?’ She jumped up, angrily. Had he taken leave of his senses, smoking indoors? He knew how asthmatic she was. Hurrying to the doorway, with the smell of cigar smoke even stronger there, she yelled, ‘Maurice!’

  To her right, at the end of the hall, she heard the rattle of a lock. The front door opened and Maurice, returning from his evening constitutional, wrapped up in his coat, hat and gloves, entered.

  ‘Bloody hell, love, it’s cold out there tonight!’ he said.

  32

  Sunday 16 December

  Jason raced into the kitchen. Emily was standing, looking bewildered and very shaken.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I – I –’ She grabbed the back of a chair, pulled it out, and lowered herself onto the seat. Then she buried her face in her hands. ‘God, oh God.’

  ‘Em, tell me. What?’ He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. She was panting, gasping for air. Hyperventilating, he realized. ‘Tell me,’ he said again, looking around, warily, his own nerves jangling.

  Guessing what she was about to say.

  ‘I saw something,’ she blurted. ‘I saw – I don’t know – it was like lights moving across the floor, then they all just vanished into the wall there.’ She pointed at the far end of the room, where there was just a work surface and cupboards.

  Should he tell her, he wondered? That he’d seen the same thing and it had nearly knocked him down the stairs, backwards? Which might have broken his neck and killed him. His mouth was dry. He did not know what to say. They’d both seen the woman and now they’d both seen this . . . whatever it was. Ball lightning of some kind?

  ‘Let’s both speak to Louise – she’s coming in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at his watch. Shit, he had to get on with the painting, had to get it finished tonight. Had to. Regardless of what nightmare was happening here that they did not understand.

  He went over to the sink and opened a cupboard door beneath it, kneeling down.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘I spilt my coffee on the stairs. I tripped on that damned carpet – it’s so thick,’ he fibbed.

  ‘Go on and get on with your painting, I’ll clear it up.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded.

  He retrieved his mug from the bottom of the stairs, made a fresh coffee and, feeling very nervous, went up the two flights to his studio, commanding the lights to switch on inside as he entered the open door.

  The window facing the lake was wide open, the cold wind blowing straight through it. Had he left it open? Surely not. He closed and locked it in place, walked over to his desk, put his coffee down, then nervously peered out across the street at number thirty-four.

  It was in darkness. No one was in the upstairs room. He sat at his desk and hit the return key to wake up his computer. The password request came up as normal.

  He took a sip of his coffee, then in rapid succession checked his emails. There were a couple of virtual cards from friends, announcing they were donating to charities instead of sending Christmas cards out. He’d discussed this with Emily, but they’d decided they still liked sending physical cards – he always designed one each year – and hey, they were good advertising. Then a Jacquie Lawson one. He skipped the video of a dog wandering through snow to the sound of ditzy music and went straight to the details of the sender. It was followed by an email from Susan Burton at the Northcote Gallery, asking how he was getting on with his paintings for the exhibition. He replied that all was going well.

  Next, he checked quickly through his social media and when he had finished, he went over to his easel. Removing the portrait of the mystery woman, he placed it face-in against a small stack of his unsold work, then knelt to pick up the portrait of the two dogs from where he had left them, just beneath the window.

  As he lifted it up, there was a loud thud on the windowpane.

  He dropped the painting. It hit the floor with a jarring bang and fell face down. For some moments, he stared at the window. All he saw was darkness. He ran over and pressed his face against it. Just darkness. The lake somewhere out there and the hill rising beyond. He unlocked and raised the frame. Bitterly cold air blew in. He could see nothing.

  Every cell in his body was jangling.

  Shit, shit, shit. It must have been a bird – maybe a bat.

  He closed the window again, turned away and knelt, dreading what he was going to find. And as he lifted the gesso board up, his worst fears were confirmed. The entire painting was crazed with cracks.

  No way could it be fixed. His only option was to start over from scratch. Somehow, he was going to have to find the strength to work all night, if necessary. And he still had the pencil drawing of the spaniel to do tomorrow. Taking several deep breaths, he went over to the window overlooking the street, and looked down at the gaudy lights of the Penze-Weedells’ grotto, suddenly finding himself envious of the simplicity of their banal lives.

  Five minutes later, with a fresh board on his easel, he downed the cold coffee and started work on the painting all over again, glancing over his shoulder every few moments at the window, waiting for another thud. He was so distracted it took him a long while before he got back into his stride.

  Some while later, Emily came into the room and told him she needed an early night and was going to bed. She stopped and looked at the painting.

  ‘I thought you’d nearly finished, you said earlier?’

  ‘I had,’ he said. ‘Then I stupidly dropped it and it’s all cracked – one problem with gesso. I’ve had to start from scratch – looks like I’m going to have to pull an all-nighter.’

  ‘Poor you.’ She put her arms around him. ‘Not working out too great so far, is it, my love, our new home?’

  33

  Sunday 16 December

  ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Maurice Penze-Weedell said to his slack-jawed wife. She was staring at him as if he had just landed from another planet.

  ‘Were you just smoking a cigar?’

  ‘No.’ He opened his mouth and exhaled minty breath at her. ‘No cigar, I don’t like cigars, you know that.’

  ‘I – I –’

  ‘You are looking a little squiffy, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. Perhaps we should go up – you know – to bed?’ He tried to put his arms around her, but she brushed them off.

  ‘It’s Antiques Roadshow! Really!’

  He nodded, glumly. She never missed an episode. There were dozens of shows on television where she never missed an episode. Claudette’s life was fitted around them.

  She turned, walked back into the lounge and settled down on the sofa. Then she reached for the prosecco bottle and topped up her glass. ‘You just missed something,’ she said.

  ‘I did?’

  She pointed at the porcelain donkey on the shelf in the glass cabinet. ‘An objet just like that was valued at twenty thousand pounds!’

  ‘Blimey O’Reilly!’

  ‘I bought that for ten pounds – and you said I’d been ripped off! Ha! Who’s laughing now?’ She downed her glass.

  Maurice hastily refilled it, thinking, Keep her in the drinking mood! He had that feeling he might get lucky tonight. She sometimes turned rampant when she was squiffy – so long as she didn’t pass out first.

  ‘Perhaps after the show has finished we should have an early night, my dear?’ he ventured.

  ‘I’m not
missing the new Poldark,’ she said. ‘It’s on at nine. I’m not missing that gorgeous hunk Aidan Turner.’

  ‘We could record it.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that when I could watch it tonight?’

  ‘Well, what if I gave you a better offer?’

  She unwrapped the last but one of the Green Triangles. ‘There’s only one better offer you could give me this evening, dear.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said like an eager puppy. ‘What would that be?’

  ‘To go out and find me some more Quality Street. You’re OK to drive – you only had a couple of glasses at lunchtime.’

  He looked dubious. ‘I could try – but I think all the supermarkets are closed on a Sunday night.’

  ‘What about petrol stations?’ she said. ‘Really, I thought you were a man of initiative. Remember what you said that night you proposed to me? You said that if I would marry you, you would always give me what I wanted, no matter what it took? Do you remember?’

  ‘I do, my dearest.’

  Maurice hurried from the room, and moments later, above the television, she heard the sound of his car engine starting.

  On the screen, an Antiques Roadshow expert was examining a collection of commemorative Coronation chocolate tins.

  She became aware of the smell of cigar smoke again. Stronger than before. Much stronger.

  ‘Maurice!’ she called out.

  She heard his car driving off.

  A smoke ring drifted past her eyes.

  She jumped up and went to the doorway. ‘Maurice?’

  Behind her, the empty tub fell onto the carpeted floor.

  ‘Maurice!’ she yelled.

  There was a sharp click and the television turned off.

  An instant later the house was plunged into darkness.

  Halfway up the stairs, she saw the red glow of a cigar.

  ‘Maurice?’

  It moved towards her.

  She fled, along the hall and out into the garden, slamming the front door behind her.

  All the Christmas lights had gone off.

  ‘Maurice!’ she shouted.

  34

  Sunday 16 December

  In his studio, Jason and Emily Danes stood, hugging each other tightly.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Why is nothing going right for us since we moved here?’

  ‘I don’t know, Em. But we’ll deal with it.’

  ‘You heard what Claudette said in the pub. About the three families here who have died. What if the whole development is cursed or something?’

  ‘By what?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. By some malign spirit that doesn’t want us here. That thing – woman – we both saw.’ She nodded at the gesso board on the floor.

  ‘I don’t want to believe in any curse. Coincidences, yes – to me it’s just a terrible coincidence those people dying, if Claudette was right. Frankly I think she’s bonkers – probably made it up.’

  ‘And if she wasn’t making it up?’

  ‘I’ll call the estate agent, what was his name – Paul Jordan – in the morning and ask him.’ He kissed her. ‘Look, that horrible old man in the pub, that farmer, Albert Fears, made it clear he didn’t like this development. Maybe he and a bunch of other like-minded locals decided to play silly buggers and try to spook the shit out of everyone moving here?’

  ‘By killing three couples?’

  ‘Let’s find out the truth about all of it tomorrow.’

  ‘You really think that old farmer could be capable of playing tricks in our house? Conjuring up a hologram that could speak? Come on, step out of denial-mode and get real,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget what they said in the pub about the history of this place.’

  ‘I am trying to get real, Em. I love this house. You love it, too.’

  ‘I did love it. I don’t any more. I wonder if we shouldn’t go and stay with my parents until—’

  ‘Until?’

  ‘Until we’ve cleared out whatever the hell is in here that shouldn’t be.’

  From out in the hallway a sharp, furious female voice laced with menace rang out.

  ‘Just try.’

  35

  Sunday 16 December

  The BMW’s headlights briefly flashed over the shivering figure curled up in the porch, her beehive hair collapsed around her face.

  Maurice leapt out of the car, triumphantly clutching a Christmas tub of Quality Street as if it were an Olympic gold medal, and rushed over to his wife.

  ‘What are you doing, my dear?’

  She glared up at him. ‘An hour and a bloody half. What does it look like I’m doing, you cretin?’

  It dawned on him. ‘You’re locked out!’

  ‘You think I’m here for fun?’ Her teeth were chattering. ‘Yes, I am. Locked out. Where on earth have you been?’

  He held up the Quality Street. ‘In search of these! I’ve been to half the garages in Sussex. How did you get locked out?’

  ‘Just open the bloody door, will you!’

  They went inside. It was pitch dark.

  ‘Fuse must have tripped,’ he said. Maurice closed the front door and put his arms around his wife and rubbed her back, trying to get her circulation going. She was shivering all over. ‘I’m so cold.’ She shot a wary glance in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘Stay one second, my love.’ He put the chocolates down on the hall table, groped around in a drawer, found a small torch and switched it on. Making his way through into the kitchen, he went into the utility room, opened the fuse box and saw the red master switch was up. He flicked it down and instantly all the lights came on. He hurried back out into the hall and put his arms around Claudette again.

  ‘There was someone in here,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There was. A man. Upstairs.’

  He started climbing the stairs.

  ‘Be careful!’

  She heard him clumping around above her, then he reappeared. ‘My love, there’s no one. Are you sure it’s not all that television you’re watching? Are you imagining things?’

  ‘I – I am not imagining things.’

  He came back down and put his arms around her. She was still shivering. ‘That’s why you ran out of the house?’

  She nodded, bleakly.

  He rubbed her, vigorously. ‘Better?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘I know just how to warm you up,’ he said suggestively.

  ‘Good, so get me a glass of fizz before I die from hypothermia.’

  ‘Coming up! I’ll get us each a glass and we could have them in a nice hot bath, how about that? That would really warm you up!’

  ‘In your dreams.’ Her teeth were chattering – but not enough to prevent her from disentangling from his arms, picking up the tub and carrying it through into the living room and tearing greedily and excitedly at the lid.

  Fetching the bottle from the fridge, and a glass for himself, he hurried back into the living room after her. ‘My love, what was it you thought you saw?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything. I heard a sound upstairs and smelled a cigar.’

  ‘A cigar? Don’t be daft.’

  Sat on the sofa, ignoring him while he opened the bottle, she finally got the lid off and stared at the contents. Feeling warmer and much happier, suddenly.

  Strawberry Delight!

  She plucked one out, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. ‘Command! Play Poldark on catch-up, please.’ As she chewed she stared up at the to-die-for face of Ross Poldark. Aidan Turner! Sweet Lord! Why can’t my husband look like you?

  ‘Here we are, my sexy beast!’

  She took the glass without even looking at Maurice. ‘That’s what I call a sexy beast,’ she said, pointing at the screen.

  He sat down next to her with his glass and cuddled up to her. ‘You used to call me your sexy beast.’ He nuzzled her ear and she shook him away, dipping her hand into the tub and pulling out another Strawberry De
light. ‘Did I? I don’t remember that.’

  He looked hurt.

  Then froze.

  He could smell cigar smoke. Faint at first but getting rapidly stronger.

  A shadow moved across the doorway.

  ‘What the . . .?’ he said, but Claudette was engrossed in the television and didn’t hear him.

  He got to his feet and walked, cautiously, over to the door and looked out into the hall. Nothing there. He sniffed. But the smell had gone – as quickly as it had come.

  36

  Sunday 16 December

  Jason and Emily stood, rooted to the spot, staring around the room. The command module here in the studio was set in the ceiling above his desk. But this voice hadn’t come from above – it had come from behind them, through the open door.

  ‘What was that?’ she said. ‘What was it?’

  He strode over and looked down the stairs. ‘Yes, hello!’ he yelled down. ‘Something you want to share with us? Hello? HELLO?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Emily cautioned.

  He turned to her. ‘Don’t what? Someone speaks to me in my – our – home, I’m sodding well answering them back.’ He shouted down the stairs. ‘Show yourself – you can say what you want, my wife and I aren’t scared of a bloody ghost, OK? Got that?’

  Emily followed him and stood beside him. Their eyes met, Emily’s wide with fear. Jason put a protective arm around her and held her tight again. He could feel her trembling.

  He was trembling, too.

  ‘What was it?’ she asked. ‘Like, who?’

  ‘Stay here, I’ll take a look.’

  ‘No way, I’m coming with you.’

  She followed him, one slow step at a time, down the spiral staircase. Into each of the rooms in turn, on the first floor. Checking the windows. All were locked. Then on down and into the hall. There was nothing in the living room and they went into the kitchen. Poldark was on the television, the sound still muted.

  ‘We both heard it, Jason,’ Emily said.