Property of a Lady (8 page)

Let me know about Charect. Liz sends love.

Jack

Michael did not really want to leave Oxford, which at that time of the year was rain-scented and chrysanthemum-tinted, but he could probably steal twenty-four hours.

Before he left, he sent Ellie a new episode of Wilberforce’s tribulations, in which the mice put on a display of street-dance, wearing baseball caps back to front, and thwarting Wilberforce’s attempts to disrupt the performance by tying him up with the strings from the cello and upending the tuba horn on his head.

Then he sent a second email to Jack, saying he would drive to Marston Lacy on Friday. He might as well stay overnight again.

Michael reached Marston Lacy shortly before eleven on Friday morning, checked in at the Black Boar, and asked about the availability of rooms for Jack and Liz’s Christmas sojourn. It appeared there would be no problem; the Black Boar prided itself on providing a really good family Christmas, said the manager. A proper turkey dinner at two o’clock, and a festive supper in the evening with mulled wine and carol singing. A lot of local people came in for the evening – they made quite an event of it. This Dickensian prospect might not entirely live up to its promise, but Michael knew it would delight Liz, so he booked a double room there and then, with a small adjoining one for Ellie. On impulse, he booked a third room for himself. Jack had been fairly insistent about joining forces for Christmas, and Michael remembered that his rooms at Oriel were due to be repainted during the holidays.

Blackberry Lane, when he reached it, was drenched in gentle autumn rain and still felt as if it was caught in its own tiny shard of the past. But there were a number of large tyre tracks, which had not been there on his first visit and which presumably belonged to builders’ lorries. Michael wondered if the lane was to be resurfaced or even widened. It would be a pity to lose the feeling of having stepped backwards – of having wandered by chance into an England where there were quiet lanes with dappled sunlight, and where the cuckoo called in spring and blackberries were picked by children in autumn. (And where three-quarters of the population had no inside lavatory or piped water, and at least half of the people earned wages so low they could scarcely feed their families, and children were sent into the mines and up chimneys, said his mind.) On the other hand, it would make life easier to be able to drive to the house without getting stuck in a ditch halfway.

At first sight, the only thing different about Charect House was the large skip, which appeared to be filled with a embarrassment of riches in the form of yards of lead piping, sections of uprooted bathroom fittings, and an assortment of rotting window frames. Two lorries were parked alongside the house, and a man wearing several sweaters and a hat with ear flaps was crawling, spider-like, across the roof, doing something with a large hammer to the tiles.

Michael called out a good morning and received a wave and an invitation to go into the house, on account of it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out here, pardon the French.

As he stepped through the half-open door, there was a moment when the hammering from the roof fell into the rhythm he had heard on his first visit: that grim tattoo somewhere within the house, that let-me-out tapping. He frowned and pushed the memory away. If Charect House had ever contained ghosts or even down-to-earth intruders, they would all certainly have fled in exasperation days ago to escape the hammering and drilling, and the thudding music coming from the small stereo in the hall.

Michael negotiated the builders’ debris with care and, encountering a rotund gentleman who appeared to be in some sort of overall authority, introduced himself and explained about being a friend of the owners.

‘They asked me if I could look in to see how things were going.’ He did not say he had made a two-hour drive from Oxford for this looking-in, in case the builder thought he was being spied on.

But the builder apparently saw nothing wrong and accompanied Michael on a tour of the house, explaining, in largely incomprehensible terms, what was being done, cheerfully pointing out such mysteries as RSJs in the drawing room, new lath and plaster ceilings in the bedrooms, and insulated bonding for the electrical circuit, which, he said, you had to have in a place like this, because you were so far from your substation.

‘Ah,’ said Michael, blankly.

‘I reckon your friends have taken on quite a task with this place,’ said the builder.

Michael reckoned so as well. ‘I think they inherited it out of the blue,’ he said. ‘They had no idea it was even in their family.’

‘So I hear. It’s being said those scoundrelly old solicitors lost the deeds for the best part of forty years. Grimley and Shrike they were called. They had offices on the edge of the High Street. It’s a health food shop now, but I remember it being Grimley and Shrike when I was a boy. Like something out of Dickens they were.’

‘I did hear something about the deeds being mislaid,’ said Michael.

‘That’s putting it politely,’ said the builder cheerfully. ‘If you ask me, it’s surprising old man Shrike didn’t mislay himself along with the deeds. I never knew him, of course, but my father did a job at the offices – thirty years ago it must be. He said old Shrike used to wear one of those old-fashioned high wing collars, and you could hardly see his desk for all the files. Deed boxes stacked halfway up to the ceiling, cobwebs in every corner, and cigarette ash over everything. He died at his desk one day, just fell down while he was drafting somebody’s will and stayed there until the office boy found him. Great old character, by all accounts. Rotten solicitor though, so they say. Ah well. Come and see what we’re doing upstairs.’

‘Dr Harper mentioned something about turning part of the attics into one large room,’ said Michael as they stood at the foot of the stairs. Jack had thought, from the layout plans supplied by the surveyor, that the attics might be made into a combined bedroom and playroom for Ellie.

‘We’re starting on that tomorrow,’ said the builder. ‘Wait a bit, I’ll show you the plans if you like.’ He fished a sheaf of papers from an inner pocket and spread them out on a window sill.

‘See that line of wall there?’ He jabbed at the plans with a pencil. ‘Well, unless the surveyor got the layout wrong – and I’ve known that happen more than once, trust me! – Dr Harper’s idea is that if we knock that out it’ll make for one big L-shaped room.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Michael, to whom the plans were almost entirely incomprehensible, but understanding the general principle, which was that Ellie would have a rooftop hideaway. She would love it; she would have shelves of books under the windows and brightly-coloured pictures on the walls, and Liz would probably find a jazzy bedspread and curtains. When Michael stayed here, he and Ellie would sit in her rooftop room and discuss what further adventures Wilberforce might have.

‘And we’ll run the wiring up there and put in a radiator, although it’ll be snug enough with being immediately under the roof.’

‘You seem to be getting on well.’

‘Interesting old place,’ said the builder, pocketing his pencil and rolling up the plans. ‘Wouldn’t be everybody’s choice, of course.’

He sent Michael a sideways look, and Michael said, ‘I expect there are a few local ghost stories about it.’

‘Always are with an old empty house,’ said the builder, matter-of-factly. ‘And this one’s been empty ever since I can remember. But they tell how William Lee, who died more than a hundred years ago, haunts the place.’ He grinned. ‘Folk used to say he’d walk through the rooms and what used to be the orchard, although nobody seems to know why.’

Almost against his will, Michael said, ‘Have you ever seen anything?’

‘I have not. My brother, though, he reckons he saw William once. But then my brother sees pink elephants dancing with elves when he’s been at the sauce.’ He lifted his elbow in a descriptive gesture. ‘Lot of rubbish, ghosts,’ he said roundly. ‘But any old empty house has to have a few tales told about it, don’t it, squire?’

Michael agreed it did and went out into the timeless rain.

SEVEN

T
he rain had stopped by the time he got back to the little town, and as he negotiated the narrow main street he saw a sign over one of the shops saying Nell West Antiques. Michael slowed down, remembering that Nell West was the antique dealer Jack and Liz had commissioned to find Charect’s original furniture. Should he go into the shop? Yes, why not? Liz in particular would like to know a bit about the person who was scouring the county for Charect’s furniture, and it would be nice to report that he had made friendly contact on her and Jack’s behalf. He found a parking space and walked back.

The shop was on the ground floor of a nice old building, which looked as if it had recently been painted. Michael went inside. No one seemed to be in attendance, but the interior was invitingly arranged and there was a pleasing scent of good polish and lavender. He wandered around, wondering if any of the items were destined for Charect or had been part of Charect. In one corner was a Victorian sampler with a date of 1878. It depicted a house and garden. Near to it stood a pair of decanters with silver labels, and Michael paused to examine these, wondering if they would make a good house-warming present for Jack and Liz. Liz would like the idea of elegant decanters, and Jack would humour her. The figure on the price tag was high, but not exorbitant.

‘Sorry I kept you,’ said a slightly breathless voice behind him. ‘I was upstairs. Can I help with anything, or do you prefer to trundle round on your own?’

She was slightly-built and had short brown hair that looked as if she might thrust her fingers through it when she was concentrating. She had on what looked like working clothes – cords and trainers and a loose shirt. Michael said tentatively, ‘I wondered if I could have a word with Nell West.’

‘I’m Nell West.’ She regarded him quizzically. ‘Are you a buyer or a seller?’

‘Probably a buyer. But we have mutual friends. I’m Michael Flint—’

‘Oh, you’re Liz Harper’s friend from Oxford,’ she said at once and smiled. Her eyes lit up with the smile, and her whole face changed. ‘Liz said you might call when you were here. Have you been looking at the house?’

‘I have. Jack wanted a progress report, although I think the only thing I can report is that builders are crawling all over the place and it’s ringing with the sound of thudding rock music.’

‘Well, that ought to rout the ghosts at any rate,’ she said.

So she had sensed the ghosts as well. Or perhaps it was just a throwaway remark. Michael said, ‘I was admiring these decanters.’

‘They’re nice, aren’t they?’ she said. ‘Quite unusual designs. I found them in a sale in a big old house on the Welsh border. They’re early nineteenth-century – just about pre-Victoria, I think. 1830-ish.’

‘Which makes them a bit younger than Charect House,’ said Michael. ‘I think Liz and Jack would appreciate them, though. Could we—’

He broke off. From overhead came the sound of a child’s terrified, desperate screaming. Nell’s eyes widened in horror, and she said, in a smothered voice, ‘My daughter— She’s upstairs— I’m sorry, I’ll have to go—’

She ran to the back of the shop, and Michael heard her footsteps going swiftly up a flight of stairs. He hesitated, not wanting to intrude on a stranger’s problems, but the screams came again, filled with real panic, then the words, ‘Help me . . .’

Clearly, this was more than a child’s tantrums, and Michael realized this shop was a place burglars might target, creeping in through a rear door, frightening a small child. And if Nell West was here on her own—

He went through to the back of the shop and ran part-way up the stairs. ‘Nell – it’s Michael. What’s happening?’ With relief he heard her call back. ‘Up here. Come up. Second stairway.’

At least it did not seem to be a burglar. Michael went up the second stairway and saw Nell through a half-open door at the far end. She was sitting on a bed, hugging a small girl to her. The child was sobbing and clutching her mother, almost distraught with terror. Her hair was the same autumn-leaf colour as Nell’s.

He paused, suddenly aware that the sight of a strange man might frighten the child even further. So he stopped at the head of the stairs and said, ‘Are you all right?’ which was an outstandingly ridiculous thing to say because clearly neither of them was all right at all. ‘Is there something I can do to help? Phone anyone for you?’

‘No, it’s fine, she’ll be all right soon. It’s just – she’s been having nightmares. Beth, darling, it was just the bad old dream again, truly it was.’

Through hiccuping sobs, the child said, ‘It wasn’t a dream. He was
here
. The man. He was in my room – I saw him. He was standing in the corner again.’

Michael looked involuntarily towards the corner. There was no one there, of course.

Over Beth’s head, Nell said, ‘She’s been having a series of nightmares – really vicious ones. Last night was particularly grim, so she was going to have a bit of a sleep this afternoon, to catch up. I’m sorry to have alarmed you—’

‘I’ll go,’ said Michael, feeling inadequate. ‘We’ll sort out the decanters another day.’

‘There’s no need. She really will be all right in a minute. Beth, darling, stop crying, I promise you’re absolutely safe. There’s no one here – only Mr Flint who’s a friend of— Sorry, I think that should be “Dr”, shouldn’t it?’