by Cat Knight
woman on the next plane was exactly where she was meant to be and doing just fine just as Keira was on this one.
THE END
THE HAUNTING OF FERNCOOMBE MANOR
CAT KNIGHT
©Copyright 2017 Cat Knight
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
Ferncoombe House
Cardinham
Cornwall
10th August 1894
George Ferncoombe whistled on his way to the docks. Fifteen hundred guineas stashed in a locked wooden box. Dressed in a workman’s clothes, a cap and smelling like dung, he thought how well he looked the part of a dirty stable hand, just going about his business. The plan was about to enter the final stage. Just one last thing to do, and that would take place tonight. He hoped he could keep his wits and nerves about him. There could be no backing out. He’d come too far. It had been a painstakingly orchestrated endeavour over several months.
Procuring the right person had been a delicate matter, but George had found him on a business trip to India. Thomas, a coffee coloured Anglo-Indian from Calcutta, whose proclivity for money meant he could be persuaded to commit a gentle subterfuge for the right amount of it.
By now, because Thomas had done his job well, all the servants were gossiping and high society was alive with the scandal; often whispering in hushed tones with sympathetic eyes cast in his direction. “Poor George, the husband is always the last to know.”
“She’s never been the same since the fever took poor little Elizabeth.” And even the cruel tittering.
“And with her peculiar gait it must be that she dances better on her back.”
Florabel, George mused, a child in so many ways, her only value being for what purchase she could bring, first for the whims of her father, and then for George. Her father was happy to be rid of her, he’d exchanged her hand to George if George would pay his gambling debts. It was the best match he could hope for his daughter. Florabel’s unfortunate birth defect gave her one leg substantially longer than the other, resulting in a noticeable limp and sway when-ever she walked, and with the lack of funds in family - well George considered he’d done old Chenoweth a favour in taking her off his hands. It was of course, in exchange for the introductions into high society and naturally he did his duty and gave her a child. Surprisingly the child had been Georges light and love, the redeeming feature of his stilted intimacy with Florabel, until the fever took the babe away. After that, with all the connections he had made thanks to the Chenoweth name, well he simply had no more use for Florabel. He needed a new wife. One whose family could back his financial endeavours and wield more influence, one who would help him achieve an even greater leg up into the highest echelons of society. A tinge of guilt bit at him for what he was about to do, but he pushed it away.
For the past three months, Thomas had collected Florabel in a hired cab and brought her home again, everyone knew about his wife’s outrageous affair with the coffee coloured exotic. She had gone with him willingly twice a week. Even the butler tried to speak to George about it. George had acted shocked and said the man was never to mention it again on threat of his employment. Of course, poor Florabel had not done anything of the kind and George smirked inwardly at how well the rouse was working.
Thomas had been delighted at the efficacy of his work, and regaled George with how he easily he had deceived her.
He simply approached her one afternoon as she was taking a walk with her companion – a walk insisted on by George. Thomas approached her nervously, with the utmost humility and begged her to understand that he had the gift to see the dearly departed, and that Florabel’s child was walking with her that day. Ever since that moment she was putty in Thomas’ hands. Once a week he held a séance for her at his home, making certain to collect her and deposit her back to her doorstep in his own buggy, just the two of them and quite ignoring propriety.
George reached Thomas, and halted is cart. Thomas who was nonchalantly leaning against the walls of the Pig N Cock Tavern wandered over, and collected the box that George indicated with a nod of his head. It was the final instalment of coin. “If you come back to England, I’ll kill you for seducing my wife and taking my money. Everyone knows you did it.”
Thomas gave a hearty laugh. “I take pride in a job well done. He gave a wink. And walked away.” George jumped down and pulled him back by the collar, causing Thomas’ eyes to pop wide.
“If you contact me, ever, I’ll kill you.” George shoved him forward, and watched him stumble.
Returning to his cart, he moved his position closer by the ship and waited and watched until the she left dock, with his co-conspirator aboard. The hardest part would come tonight.
Chapter One
Ferncoombe House
Cardinham
Cornwall
28thth June 2017
Striding through the oppressive weather, Belle’s cerulean windbreaker provided a splash of colour in a world of grey. Grey stone, grey skies, even the grass beneath her feet seemed robbed of its lush green hue; being turned into mud from the trail of determined walkers. Her boots left light prints as she stepped forth into the ruins of the old castle and walked into the middle, her eyes scanning the tops of the crumbling walls and the large space of well-trod ground that encircled her.
Belle always felt at home beneath enormous and ancient things, and a large smile formed on her face.
Moisture streaked the stones of the crumbling walls as she tentatively touched them, looking up into the overcast sky.
A dense cocktail of fog and drizzle clung to the air, to her clothes, her skin, and just about everything else. Moving slowly, reverently to retain the magic she always felt in moments like this, she cradled a wide-lensed camera to her face. A series of clicks alerted the ravens nestled between the stones. The rush of their wings broke the silence as they soared away.
Belle Pitney had stood on the grounds of her first historical site as a wide-eyed seven-year-old, on a school trip to an ancient Roman archaeological dig. It had been a day much like this one, except instead of slightly-leaking walking shoes, her feet had been warm and dry in a pair of bright red wellington boots. The slight give of the mud under her feet was a feeling that had never lost its touch of delight and her report on the trip had won her a ‘Roman’ coin from the teacher. Just a convincing forgery no doubt, but she never did have the heart to get it properly attested. Since then it had always been with her; whether it was tucked into her jeans or rattling around in the depths of her camera bag, she had never been without it. That was, until a week previously when it was tossed out of a window and lost to the debris of the road outside. She had spent well over an hour searching up and down Ridge Road, the London street she’d left behind before the long train down to Cornwall. She thought about it now, standing at the foot of those great walls, and her smile dropped a degree.
Not to be put down when she was so far in her element, she reached into her bag for a map meticulously wrapped in plastic against the wet, and crossed off a point that marked her location.
‘Restormel Castle,’ she murmured to herself, letting her camera hang idly by the strap around her neck.
Her pen tap-tap-tapped against the map, before circling two more points and putting it back in the bag lest it became too speckled by the rain. A damp ringlet curl escaped from her hood before being quickly stuffed back into the folds of the jacket as she took up the bulky DSLR and brought it to her eye again.
She could have spent all afternoon there, if it wasn’t for her underestimation of just how pervasive the weather would become. Her jeans were steadily soaking as they absorbed the moisture in the air and despite the Autumn season it was stiflingly warm with the wet. After a long while of admiring and snapping her surroundings she made to leave. One more lap around the site, then Belle walked under the ancient arches to leave the ruins behind and make the long walk back to her aunt’s old green Land Rover.
The deal had been that Belle could take th
e Rover so long as she took Rolf out for a walk. Rolf, his wiry wolfhound’s coat caked in mud, had well enjoyed the hills and woods near the castle, but Belle had after that confined him to the vehicle as she took her intended pilgrimage up to its towering walls. She found to her annoyance that the resulting steam from Rolf’s coat and his panting breath had not only fogged the windows of the Rover, but made the already rather ripe smelling interior almost eye-watering in its muskiness.
“God, Rolf, have this.” Belle groaned as she reached into the side compartment and pulled out a black dog treat from a box labelled Charcoal Biscuits. Rolf sniffed at it from between the seats before giving a disappointed huff and slumping to lay with his head on his paws.
“Oh, I’m sorry your majesty, we don’t have fine thin mints for his lordship’s hellish breath.”
She still reached back between the seats to scratch him behind the ears, however, before turning the key and flipping on the air conditioning. Sitting back and waiting for the windows to clear, she flicked through the day’s images on the camera’s screen.
One click too far to the right after the last image of the castle had a very different picture appearing. Herself, younger, her blonde hair dyed black, fuller in the face and without the dark shadows that now sat under her amber eyes, was standing in a kitchen seemingly a thousand miles away from where she was now. The granite worktop was resplendent with food, and she was laughing, frozen forever in the action of slicing something green and leafy. Belle stared into the eyes of her image, and they stared back, locked in the gaze of someone else holding the camera.
Holding her camera. No matter how many times she’d told him that she didn’t like it, he would still go ahead and pick it up anyway. That first time she had found it cute; they had just moved in together and the house was in that picture-perfect state that they always are the first week after moving in, everything in its place.
It had been heaven for about a year, then came the evenings when she’d return home from being out on a job, the camera would be plucked out of her hands, and her raw, unedited work sneered at, shot by shot. Although that had only ever happened when there was just the two of them - he made sure that he was always nothing but delightful when company was over.
“How do you even get paid for this?” he’d mutter, gnashing his teeth, before looking to the paintings on the walls with their angry slashes of red, black and orange.
“I work so hard and all I get is a gallery feature! And what is this shit you put out? Nothing inspirational here – just a pretty shot – where’s the emotion Belle? Where’s the passion? Yet, here you are getting paid for having no more talent than it takes to click a button?! No accounting for it is there?”
“The hell with you” Belle muttered, as she again flicked back through the current days shots, stopping suddenly at the image of herself she had posed for against her great aunt’s historic Ferncoombe house. Something seemed off with the photo.
Belle squinted as she held the camera away from her eyes to focus clearly on what she was seeing. Right behind her, there seemed to be the fudgy outline of a person, staring right into the camera, with a hand on her shoulder. Belle’s heart lurched, and she clicked the camera off, immediately opening it again. The image came up. Glancing around herself as if to see if she was alone, she turned her eyes back to the image and stared at it. Shutting the camera off again, Belle thought hard for a moment, forcing herself to think rationally. Light reflecting of the wet wall… that’s got to be it…. You can see anything in photos and clouds if you try hard enough.
Rolf gave a whine from the back seat and rested his great head on her shoulder. Slowly she placed the camera into its pack and pushed it to the seat beside her. Her eyes were wide as she took to the road, breathing deeply till she was calm, navigating the sharp twists and turns until she made her way through Cardinham village, and the Rover trundled up the long driveway to Ferncoombe Manor.
Chapter Two
It didn’t look like much, not these days. Camille had bought it on a whim after spending all her life in urban Birmingham. Ferncoombe had become part of a favoured stop-off-and-visit routine by Belle’s parents, but never had they stayed over. It had only taken Belle a night in the house to realize why; quite apart from the pests and the damp and the creaking in the wind, there was something peculiar about Ferncoombe Manor and her spinster great aunt.
Belle approached the tall building, all three floors staring back with empty, glassy windows. Rolf barrelled ahead and ran up to the large white door, the paint peeling terribly. Belle put her key in the door and opened it with the usual creaking complaints from the old wood and shut it behind her. Her mood had lifted just enough for it to be possible to plaster on a smile, and she wandered through the cavernous hallways Hugging her jacket close. It was colder in than out.
“Auntie?” she called out, poking her fair curly head around the door of the living room. Camille was fast asleep in her armchair with her tiny size-five feet propped up on a threadbare cushion a slow snore coming from her open lips, stirring slightly at the sound.
Belle stepped forward into the room and caught her aunt’s glasses before they slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. Leaving her sleeping she made her way through to the kitchen to make a warm pot of tea and carried it through to the library.
The house had an extremely disorganised look about it even though it had been years since her aunts’ arrival. In some places, box upon box was piled as high as the ten foot ceilings where she had never unpacked. Even more odd were the shelves and display cabinets that were well laid out with ornaments and collectibles from the last century, inherited along with the house. Dust gathered around them in a thick carpet, seemingly not moved nor touched in this century or the last.
They were fit for a museum, Belle thought, and were probably worth a pretty penny. Too bad they aren’t shown off better than this. Belle opened up a glass doored cabinet and picked up an ornate vase of porcelain gilded in gold, painted and covered with flowers, with hexagonal openings around the neck.
“It’s a scent jar dear.” Camille’s voice came crisp and clear from the door way scaring Belle so completely that she visibly jumped, a flush rushing up her neck and into her face.
“Yes, I know Auntie.” For some reason, the intrusion in to her aunt’s antiques felt far greater than it should have. “I was just cleaning up the boxes and I noticed the ornaments. It’s beautiful, probably museum quality.” Belle put the delicate item back and closed the door on it. She wiped her hands down over her jeans, rolling up her sleeves again from where they had slipped down, and pinned a few strands of hair back into her bird’s-nest of hair which was tied back in a loose ponytail.
“Would you like me to dust them for you?”
She grabbed at the box next to her, “I was just going to find places for all these boxes, and maybe if you like, I could put some of these ornaments of yours out too. It’s such a shame to keep them all boxed up. Would you like that Auntie?”
The old radio on the windowsill crackled slightly as the wind and weather interfered, Camille looked at the pile of boxes, her eyes flickered anxiously. A frown fell over her face and she glanced sideways at the floor, refusing to meet Belle’s eyes. Belle sensed a difficult topic was being broached.
“I find it’s best to leave things alone, lovely. You can move my boxes somewhere else, just don’t move any of the other things around. I don’t mind if you put a few of my things out here and there, but just not in place of anything else - alright dear?” Belle shot her aunt a curious glance. Her salt and pepper hair almost matched the faded but ornate patterns of the wallpaper and her manner seemed so timid that if she had not been dressed in her gregarious purples and reds she might just fade into the walls. Belle looked around in exasperation.
“Auntie – you have all of these lovely things yet you haven’t done anything with them, why don’t I just unpack them and find places for all of your stuff? I mean why keep it- if you don’t enjoy
it?” Camille avoided the question
“Tea will be at seven. Is that alright?
“That sounds lovely, Auntie.” Belle submerged herself in another deep box and was rooting around inwardly shaking her head at her aunt’s peculiarity. When she surfaced Camille was still standing there, peering at her from behind her glasses, her face pulled to a frown.
“Is there something wrong, Auntie?”
“It’s just, you know, I’ve found it’s best to leave things as they are….so… don’t move things from their places – alright?”
“Yes, you said that, I won’t shuffle things around and mess them up, I promise. But, if I’m going to move your boxes, then I have to have some idea of what’s in them, so I can label them for you. We can hardly move for all this stuff. And all of this dust everywhere – it’s unhealthy.” Rushing on before Camille could object she argued “If we get the boxes out of here, the room will feel a lot more like home. Please Auntie, let me do it. It’s just that you’ve gotten used to this hodgepodge mess for all of these years.”
Belle studied her aunt hopefully looking for signs of caving. A hint of longing shone in her aunt’s eyes and Belle immediately jumped in with her next argument. “Just trust me Auntie, you’ll love it… please let me do it. I need something to keep me busy after-all… It’ll be great, better than great – you’ll see.” Camille looked at Belle from over her glasses, two tiny wrinkles pulling her brows together, Belle looked at her with puppy dog eyes until Camille sighed softly and Belle knew she had won.
“Alright Beauty” Camille said, calling her by her childhood nickname. Just, my boxes though. OK pet?”
“OK Auntie, I’ll just move the boxes.” Belle mentally crossed her fingers.
