The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  ‘It looked like someone moving across the floor.’

  ‘In high heels or hobnail boots?’

  ‘I just thought – thought I saw the shape of someone in the darkness.’ He shrugged. ‘Did you see the glance those coppers exchanged? They clearly thought we were nutters.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She kissed him. ‘I think what they thought was, here’s a couple just moved into a new place and are spooked out by unfamiliar noises in the night.’

  He wasn’t sure how to answer her. Was she right?

  ‘We have to do something, Jason. We can’t live here like this. We’ve seen one bloody ghost, you’ve met a phantom vicar promising to arrange an exorcism and you’ve seen someone crushed to death out of your window. What have we moved into?’

  ‘Want to move out? We could go and stay in a hotel until we find something else?’

  ‘No. I love this house. There’s something very wrong, but are we going to let it drive us out?’

  ‘What does Louise say?’

  ‘That the house needs spiritual cleansing, that’s all. We’re on a historic site where there’ve been some tragic deaths. I don’t know – she says maybe there’s some old souls wandering around, spirits who don’t realize their bodies are dead. She’s going to talk to someone she knows who specializes in that stuff.’

  ‘Like, in asking ghosts to take their shoes off before they go clumping around in the middle of the night?’

  She looked at him levelly and smiled. ‘We’ll get through this. We’ll get it sorted.’

  ‘We will.’

  55

  Wednesday 19 December

  ‘Where are you going, darling?’ Emily asked, as, shortly after 9 a.m., Jason hurtled downstairs like a whirlwind, bunged an instant porridge in the microwave, then sat at the kitchen table and began skimming through the Argus. His ritual at breakfast was to read the local paper, then the Guardian.

  He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Ssshhhh, I’m on a mission to find us a Ghostbuster and then running some errands for Santa!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Santa says there’s a rather lovely lady who has moved into 47 Lakeview Drive, who is going to be in need of a lot of presents on Christmas morning.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And he’s appointed you his Little Helper?’

  ‘I think he might have done.’

  She gave him a wan smile. ‘Don’t forget the framer!’

  ‘Dunno if there’s going to be enough room for the pictures in my car, with all the presents I’ll have for you.’

  ‘So, take the van . . .’

  ‘I’ll make room, somehow.’

  ‘Seriously, the framer is number-one priority. And ride your sleigh carefully!’

  ‘David Graham – number-one priority!’

  ‘Then Mr Ghostbuster?’

  ‘He’ll be in Santa’s sack. Any more footsteps, yell at them to take their shoes off.’

  ‘I’ll stick a sign outside the front door. All ghosts: barefoot only in this house.’

  ‘Their eyesight might be a bit crap, you know; some of them are probably pretty ancient.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll leave a pair of reading glasses out for them.’

  ‘Maybe some garlic and a mirror, too.’

  ‘That’s for vampires, isn’t it?’

  ‘Might as well take a belt-and-braces approach!’

  56

  Wednesday 19 December

  Fifteen minutes after leaving home, Jason steered the BMW up a residential street with substantial houses set well back from the road, all displaying festive lights in their windows or porches. Then he reached the contrasting stark, forbidding Victorian walls of Lewes prison, before entering the narrow high street of the county town of East Sussex.

  He parked then made his way along to his framer, where David handed him the two bubble-wrapped and taped packages. After wishing him a happy Christmas and a great holiday, Jason walked back to the car park and placed the pictures in the boot of the car, intending to drop them into the two clients on his way home, then made his way to the library.

  It was a while since he’d last been in a public library, but that smell seemed exactly the same in each one he’d ever visited. It was a smell he wished he could capture with paints. The smell of books, of paper seeped in knowledge, learning, information, fun. He glanced at rows of shelves, the spines of countless volumes. So many books, and he’d only read a tiny fraction of the ones he wanted to. And he knew, sadly, he only ever would.

  During these past couple of years, apart from a week’s holiday in Tuscany when he’d devoured all four novels of the Alexandria Quartet – a treat he’d been promising himself for years – he’d barely read anything, or watched any television either. After painting late into the night, pretty much every night, he would tumble into bed too exhausted to think of picking up a book. But as he stared around now, he felt a twinge of guilt, and determined to work harder at making time to read.

  Approaching a middle-aged woman at the front desk, who was looking up at him, he said, ‘Hi, I’m after local newspaper archives.’

  ‘Mr Danes, is it?’

  He blushed. ‘Yes.’ He liked being recognized, but at the same time, it always slightly embarrassed him, because he never knew quite how to respond, and whatever he said always sounded a bit lame to him.

  She gave him a smile that was much less stern than her glasses. ‘I just want to say I’m a big fan of your work.’

  ‘You are? Thank you so much!’

  Lame again, he thought.

  ‘We have two of your early pictures in our home. One from your “Pub Bores” series – my husband says he’s sure it’s a man in the pub he drinks in! And we have one of your spaniels – we have a King Charles who could be its double. They give us so much pleasure.’

  ‘Well – um – thank you.’

  ‘So, local newspaper archives. How far back do you need?’

  ‘How far do you go?’ he asked, relieved to get down to the business he was here for. But pleased by her enthusiasm for his work, nonetheless.

  ‘Well, we have the Sussex Express, Argus and the Mid-Sussex Times – but we only keep hard copies for a month. We do have the Sussex Express on microfilm, but only as far as 2010. Eastbourne Library will have the Sussex Express and the Argus, but the same as us, microfilm only going back to 2010. They also have the Eastbourne Herald. If you need to go further back you could try the British Library – they have a comprehensive newspaper archive. Pretty much everything, going right back in time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Could I take a look at the Sussex Express files?’

  ‘Can I help you with anything specific that you’re looking for?’ she asked.

  He hesitated. ‘Well, we’ve just moved into a village near here, Cold Hill. I’m interested in anything I can find about its recent history.’

  She looked pensive. ‘OK, I’ll see if I can find anything while you’re looking through the archives.’

  Five minutes later, set up at a microfilm reader, Jason began scrolling through the 2015 issues, until he reached September. Then he slowed.

  Finally, he reached his goal: 28 September 2015. The report on the deaths of the Harcourt family.

  DOUBLE TRAGEDY STRIKES COLD HILL FAMILY

  Brighton solicitor, Caroline Harcourt, who was involved in many Sussex charities, was killed alongside her daughter, Jade, a pupil at St Paul’s College, Burgess Hill, in a road traffic accident on the B2112 Haywards Heath to Ardingly road last week. In a bizarre twist, an hour later her husband, Oliver Harcourt, was found dead at their family home, Cold Hill House. Inspector Chris Smith from Sussex Police Roads Policing Unit said that despite the extraordinary circumstances, there appeared to be no link between the two, and the events were just a very sad coincidence. This was later confirmed in a statement released by Detective Inspector Sarah Reeves of Sussex Police, who said the post-mortem on Mr Harcourt revealed he had died from a h
eart attack.

  He looked again on his phone at the photograph of their headstone in the graveyard. Then he searched for the family online and clicked on ‘images’.

  A very posed-looking family photograph, clearly taken by a professional, appeared. He barely glanced at the laid-back looking man in his late thirties, or the rather stroppy girl of about twelve who clearly wanted to be anywhere but in the saccharine, happy families snapshot.

  It was the woman who had his complete focus.

  The attractive, slightly hard-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with short, dark hair, immaculately dressed. She was staring at the camera, or at whoever was behind the lens, with the same don’t-give-me-any-nonsense-and-I-won’t-give-you-any-back expression that he recognized. Exactly the way she had looked at him.

  It was her, without any shadow of doubt. The woman he had seen in the house. The woman he had sketched, the photograph of whom he’d shown to Lester Beeson and Albert Fears yesterday.

  Caroline Patricia Harcourt.

  He’d been to her grave and seen her name and dates on the headstone, just as he had seen the vicar’s.

  17 April 1979–21 September 2015.

  And she was just as dead as the vicar.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, thinking, trying to make sense of any of this.

  Emily had seen the woman, too. Seen a ghost.

  But not the vicar?

  He was feeling scared, really scared. Who could he talk to about this? The logical person would be the rector, Reverend Whitely, the gardener in the graveyard had told him about. But from the gardener’s description of him as a useless bugger, like a blooming skeleton with rattling teeth, he didn’t sound much cop.

  He continued thinking, eyes shut, weird images filling his head.

  Two ghosts?

  He stood up and walked over to his librarian fan. ‘Do you know where the Bishop of Lewes lives?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But it’s bound to be on his website. I’ll have a look for you.’

  She tapped her keyboard, then waited for some moments. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We still have a pretty antiquated connection here.’ Finally, after another gap, she said, ‘Right, I’ve got it.’

  She read the address out to him, he wrote it down and thanked her. Then he added, ‘I’ll have to do a new series, “Folk in Public Libraries”!’

  ‘Please do,’ she said.

  He promised he would seriously consider it.

  Another theme for his forthcoming exhibition, he thought!

  Then she held up an ancient, dusty, leather-bound volume. ‘I found this; it’s the only thing that I can see has a mention of Cold Hill in it. It’s from the reference section, so I shouldn’t really lend it out, but –’ she gave him a conspiratorial wink – ‘as it’s you, I’m sure I can trust you to return it.’

  ‘Wow, thank you. Of course!’

  It smelled old. Probably full of germs.

  The faded, gold, embossed print read, Sussex Mysteries – Martin Pemberton.

  ‘You might even find some inspiration in it for future pictures.’

  ‘I’ll guard it with my life!’

  ‘It was down in the stacks. The last time anyone looked at it was twelve years ago, so I don’t think it will be missed for a few days!’

  Thanking her, he left, and when he reached the car park, he placed the volume safely in the boot of his car. Then he squirted hand sanitizer on each palm and carefully rubbed his hands together.

  57

  Wednesday 19 December

  The Bishop’s residence was a substantial, 1920s red-brick house at the edge of the town, backing onto fields. It looked more like the home of a successful stockbroker than a man of the cloth. As he drove in through the gates and onto the gravel driveway, Jason was a little surprised to see a Harley-Davidson motorbike propped on its stand near the front door, beside a couple of modest saloon cars.

  As he walked towards the porch, he was shaking with nerves. Pressing the imposing doorbell, he stood, trying to compose himself and not sound like a total idiot.

  A stern-looking woman opened the door and peered at him suspiciously.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  He decided to play the librarian ticket. ‘Yes, my name’s Jason Danes.’

  From her blank expression it clearly didn’t register. No fan here.

  ‘I’m a local artist – a painter.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. Clearly not seeing.

  ‘I have a problem and wondered if it was possible to have a very quick word with the Bishop.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s an extremely busy man, is he expecting you? I don’t have any appointments in his diary for this morning.’

  ‘I have a really urgent situation, could I ask you a favour? I’ll wait here – please go into your office and google me and you’ll see that I’m not a nutter. And then ask the Bishop if he could just give me five minutes. Please. It’s really important, I need his advice very urgently.’

  Something in his voice must have touched a nerve in her, because she softened a little.

  ‘Would you like to tell me what exactly you need to see him about?’

  ‘Honestly, I badly need some advice about our house – we’ve just moved into the area, and my wife and I are very seriously concerned by something that’s going on. If I could just see him face to face. Five minutes. That’s all. Please.’

  To his relief, she invited him in.

  He followed her across an imposing, oak-panelled hallway and through a doorway into a reception area that reminded him of a doctor or dentist’s waiting room. A row of mismatched chairs were arranged around a table on which copies of the Church Times, the Diocesan News and an assortment of other ecumenical periodicals were lined up. Bidding him take a seat, she went through into what looked like a tiny office and closed the door.

  He had never before met a bishop. Was the Very Reverend Robert Parnassus going to be as stuffy as his name implied? Someone who would look at him contemptuously and dismissively, quote some biblical tracts at him, and send him packing? Or pat him on the head, sympathetically and condescendingly, and tell him to go home and take a couple of paracetamols?

  Just as he was contemplating the options, the door opened, and a mellifluous and instantly likeable voice said, ‘Good heavens, I don’t believe this! My favourite painter in all the world is in my house!’

  Jason looked up and saw a handsome man in his early fifties, with a receding hairline, cool glasses and fashionable stubble, dressed in a dog collar, baggy grey pullover and jeans. He jumped to his feet.

  Two minutes later he was seated in the Bishop’s modest office which, to his astonishment, had two of his local landscapes on the wall. ‘Wow, you weren’t joking!’ he said.

  ‘My wife and I are your number one fans!’

  Jason shook his head, almost in disbelief.

  ‘Maybe I could do your portrait one day?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d love it! Riding my Harley, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s yours, outside?’

  ‘My chariot!’

  ‘Nice machine.’

  The woman brought them in cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits on a tray. When she left, Robert Parnassus spoke again.

  ‘So, what is this urgent problem you have?’

  Jason gave him a brief summary of the events since they had moved into Lakeview Drive. The Bishop listened intently, occasionally jotting down notes on a pad. When he had finished, Parnassus sat silently for a while, his head bowed. Then he looked up.

  ‘OK, you seem a pretty rational fellow, Jason, what’s your own take on all this?’

  ‘If you’d asked me this question two weeks ago, I’d have said it was – basically – bollocks. Rubbish. Crap. But I can’t dismiss it as that any more.’

  He steepled his fingers and leaned forwards. ‘So, we have a dead woman, Caroline Harcourt, that you and your wife have both seen. And a deceased vicar, Roland Fortinbrass, that just you ha
ve seen? I remember his name well, he died shortly before I was appointed here.’

  ‘Do you believe ghosts exist?’ Jason asked him.

  ‘Well, to be honest, that’s a bit like asking me if I believe air or water exist. I began life a physicist, long before I became ordained. One of the basic laws of physics is that matter changes but can never be eradicated. Whatever was, always will be. We humans are, among all else, balls of energy. If you were to stab me to death right now – please don’t – my energy would dissipate into the surroundings. Just like videotape, the ground beneath us and the walls and ceiling around us are full of carbon and other conductors of electricity. We need to separate, always, the physics – the physical – from the spiritual. This is one of the challenges the modern Church needs to address.’

  ‘And the Harley-Davidson is part of this?’ Jason said.

  Robert Parnassus looked coy. ‘We all have to have our toys, don’t we?’

  ‘We do.’

  The Bishop became serious. ‘So, tell me, how do you feel I can help? Or perhaps I should ask what help you would like from me?’

  ‘What I’ve learned from talking to locals, in the past few days since moving into our house, is that the site on which the development’s been built has a history of tragedy. I’ve had hints that it is cursed – not something I’d ever normally have believed.’

  ‘And you think this unfortunate fellow killed on the construction site, right in front of your eyes, is part of that – ah – curse?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know what to think. What I do know is that my wife and I are becoming increasingly scared. I know moving house is meant to be a far more traumatic experience than people realize.’ He shrugged.

  ‘That is very true. But what you’ve told me seems to go beyond that. Most intriguing – but perhaps that’s not the right word. I do have an interest in all areas of the paranormal, with my other hat on, as Diocesan Minister of Deliverance.’

  ‘Is that a more socially acceptable term than exorcist?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Well, to be honest, it’s a bit of a faff lugging around a bell, book and candle on a Harley.’ The Bishop smiled. ‘So, I prefer to look for the logical explanations for what appear to be hauntings, or instances of demonic possession, or disturbances such as apparent poltergeist activity.’ He sipped his coffee.