Watching the Ghosts (20 page)

‘Then what?'

‘I never saw her again. And when I asked, Mrs Chambers said she'd left. She said she'd been stealing from the tea money. I never believed it but I couldn't prove anything, could I?'

‘Did you ever try and investigate the basement?'

Betty shook her head. ‘I worked during the day and there were always people around so I never got the chance. Pity.'

Joe felt glad that Betty hadn't decided to risk going down there. If she had, she might have met the same fate as Jean . . . whatever that was.

‘Do you think Dr Pennell and Mrs Chambers could have been under Brockmeister's influence?' he asked.

Betty nodded slowly, as if he had just voiced something she'd already known but barely dared to acknowledge. ‘You don't think Mrs Hawkes' murder had anything to do with all this?'

‘We're considering all possibilities at the moment,' said Joe. Although his words were non-committal, his instincts told him that Melanie's death was no coincidence. Now he'd spoken to Betty he was more convinced than ever that there was a connection with whatever had gone on at Havenby Hall. But now he had to prove it.

T
he flat door was half open and Beverley peeped out. The police were still there and she wondered what they were doing that took so long. Some of them wore white suits and swarmed purposefully in and out of the door under the stairs which stood propped open. She could see that the basement was brightly lit now and she almost wished she could venture down there. But she made no move. She didn't dare.

She could see Lydia had just come through the front door, back from work early. She was standing in the hall now chatting to one of the constables, looking relaxed. Sometimes Beverley envied her that easy way she had with people. Beverley would have liked to be like that, to have a job interacting with people. Beverley would have liked to be popular. She had seen Lydia with that good-looking detective and she knew by the way they behaved together that there was an attraction. Beverley had never had a boyfriend. Mother had never encouraged that sort of thing.

Lydia was walking towards her flat now and when Beverley opened her own door a little wider Lydia spotted her and smiled as she came closer. Beverley edged past her mother's wheelchair which had been left neatly folded against the wall, and stepped out on to the corridor, preparing to begin a conversation. It was something that didn't come easily to her, but then she hadn't had much practice since she left work.

‘You're home early,' she said, fixing a smile to her face.

‘I only work till three on a Monday,' Lydia replied. ‘How's your mum?'

Beverley suspected she only asked this because she couldn't think of anything else to say. ‘Not too bad.'

‘I haven't seen her for a while.'

‘She's been spending most of her time in bed. Old age, eh.' She saw Lydia nod sympathetically. ‘I took her out for a walk this morning . . . put the wheelchair in the car and drove down to the river. She likes to watch the boats and the swans. But I think it wore her out because she's asleep again. Dead to the world.'

Lydia fumbled in her bag for her key. ‘If you don't mind leaving her for half an hour why don't you come in for a cup of tea?'

Beverley glanced back at her mother's bedroom door. ‘OK. But I can't be long and I'd better leave the door on the latch.' She closed the door over and crept across the landing on tip toe as though she was frightened of waking the old lady up.

‘Have you seen anything of . . .?' Lydia nodded towards Alan Proud's door.

‘No. But I'm sure I heard him go out earlier.' Beverley looked around as if she feared someone might be listening. ‘He doesn't seem very nice. And the way he tried to get into your flat . . .'

‘But the police have caught my burglar so we know it wasn't him. For a while I thought . . .'

‘Yes. I know,' said Beverley with a shudder that set her chin wobbling.

Lydia unlocked her door and Beverley followed her in. ‘It's rather reassuring having all those policemen downstairs, isn't it.'

‘In a way. Poor Dr Dremmer seemed a nice man.'

Beverley bowed her head. ‘In a way I blame myself for what happened. If I hadn't let him down there . . .'

Lydia touched her arm, a gesture of reassurance and Beverley could feel the warmth of her hand on her bare flesh. ‘It's not your fault. The police think he opened the front door to his killer and followed him outside for some reason.'

‘Did your detective friend tell you that?'

She saw Lydia blush. ‘That's right.'

Lydia hurried to the kitchen. Beverley followed and stood in the doorway watching as she put the kettle on and dropped two tea bags in a brown china pot.

‘Did your detective say anything else interesting?'

‘He doesn't talk much about his work. I suppose it's confidential.'

‘Yes, of course.' She fell silent for a moment and watched Lydia take two mugs from her cupboard. ‘Dr Dremmer – Karl – was in touch with a clergyman from the cathedral.'

Lydia looked round. ‘Why's that?'

‘The clergyman is an exorcist and Karl was worried there was something here he couldn't explain. Since we moved here, Mother's been much worse. And she's been having dreams – nightmares.'

Beverley saw Lydia's eyes widen in alarm, as she leaned towards her, speaking in a whisper. ‘Don't you feel there's something about this building that's not quite right?' She saw Lydia shudder.

‘I think the tea's brewed,' Lydia said, turning away.

And from the look on her face, Beverley knew that she had felt the evil too.

Joe had called Lydia at the tourist information office to say he'd be working late but he'd suggested they meet for a drink at nine thirty.

It might have been his imagination but he thought she sounded quite excited at the prospect of seeing him again and he wasn't sure how he felt about this. When he was with her he enjoyed her company. But since Kaitlin's death he'd found it hard to make close relationships – maybe that's why he'd let Maddy go so easily without a fight. He'd felt sorry for himself at the time but now he realized it had probably been his own fault. No other woman could match up to his late wife, still perfect in his memory after their all-too-short time together. But one day he knew that things had to change if he wasn't to be condemned to a life of bitter solitude.

He tried to feel positive about that evening's meeting, even though he kept telling himself that Lydia had probably picked up from every cop show she'd ever watched that policemen hardly make the best partners in life.

It was a fine night so they walked into Eborby, stopping for a drink in the Star. Joe had been a little late but he'd apologized profusely. During a murder enquiry there was a lot to do. But he didn't mention that they were still waiting for Daisy's kidnappers to name the time and place of the drop. The less that was said about that, the more chance they had of getting the kid back safe and sound. Not that he didn't trust Lydia. It was just that he didn't know her that well . . . yet.

They sat in a dimly lit corner of the bar, a room of dark oak panels and well-worn red upholstery. On one wall was a framed account of the pub's history and Lydia made a point of reading it carefully before she settled in her seat. The place was haunted, she told Joe, by Civil War troops – Royalists who'd been injured during the siege of Eborby in 1644. The dying men had been brought to the inn and, according to legend, their ghosts still lingered in the place. Joe said he couldn't blame them – if he had to haunt anywhere a pleasant pub was as good a place as any.

He made a feeble joke about serving spirits and he was glad when it made Lydia smile. In her unguarded moments there was an air of sadness about her. She did her best to conceal it but he knew it was there; he'd known tragedy himself so he could recognize the effects in others.

When they left the pub they linked arms and strolled slowly down to the bottom of Boargate, keeping close to each other as though for protection.

‘There's something I want to show you,' she said after a period of amicable silence.

Joe allowed himself to be led down a snickleway that ran between two medieval buildings. It was barely wide enough to walk two abreast but they soon emerged on to a wider street of small shops and cafés, now mostly closed. She turned right and Joe realized they were in the street that housed many of Eborby's antique shops. Intrigued, he followed her as she marched purposefully towards one of the smaller shops. Compared to some of the others it looked rather run down and the interior was lit by a single overhead bulb, no doubt left on for security.

She took his arm and steered him towards the window where they had a clear view of the dusty furniture piled up inside. ‘You know I told you about that nightmare I keep having. Well, that's the clock. There at the back. The one with the face painted like the moon.'

Joe could see it. Even if Lydia hadn't told him about her nightmare, he would still have thought the clock's face had a sinister, leering look. The sunken painted eyes were still now but he imagined that if it was working they would move from side to side, looking this way and that. Watching.

‘It used to be in Boothgate House when it was known as Havenby Hall. It belonged to the Medical Superintendent.'

‘Dr Pennell?'

‘That's right. He was the father of that Judith Dodds I told you about.'

Joe wished Lydia had mentioned this before. But they'd been too engrossed in their own concerns to give much thought to the recent horrific events that had occupied Joe's long working day.

‘I'd like to speak to Mrs Dodds. I've already talked to a couple of people who worked at Havenby Hall and Dr Pennell's name has come up quite a bit.' He looked at his watch. ‘I suppose it's too late to go round there tonight.'

He was half hoping the answer would be no, it wasn't too late. However Lydia said she thought it was. ‘But I'm free first thing tomorrow,' she said. ‘She knows me so if you want me to come with you . . . if it's just for a chat . . .'

Joe considered her offer. Lydia was right; it was just an unofficial chat and Lydia's presence might help Mrs Dodds relax and speak more freely.

‘Want to come back for a coffee?' she said as they began to walk back.

Joe felt as though he'd been plunged into an abyss of indecision and for a few moments he didn't answer. From the look in her eyes he knew her meaning. Coffee would be more than a caffeine-packed hot beverage. Then he felt her fingers touching his and he suddenly knew what his decision would be. They'd almost reached the shadows of Boothgate Bar before he gave his answer. Yes. He'd come back for coffee.

Alan Proud switched on his computer – a new laptop he'd bought from a man in a pub. It was a fairly recent model so he hadn't asked too many questions.

He checked his emails and saw that a new one had come in – an answer to the plea he'd sent out into cyberspace. When he saw the name of the sender his heart began to beat faster and he prayed to a god he didn't believe in that it was genuine and not some sick hoax. His hand travelled to his wrist and he took his own pulse. He'd experienced a few chest pains recently and his father had died of a heart attack at quite a young age so he knew he'd have to take care. But this was something he'd craved for ages and he didn't want to back out just in case the excitement was bad for his health; according to the TV news, most pleasurable things are bad for your health these days so why should this be an exception?

He began to type. ‘I've got the letters you sent to Darren Carter. And other letters you wrote of a more delicate nature. I'd like to ask you some questions so can we meet?' Did this seem too impertinent, he wondered? The last thing he wanted was to scare him off.

He sent the message and waited for the reply. If the thing was real, he thought, it was great that a man of that age was so au fait with technology.

He heard a distant door closing. He knew from the sound it was Lydia's and he felt the blood rise to his cheeks when he thought of the stuck-up bitch. She needed teaching a lesson. Perhaps the man who'd just contacted him would have some ideas. The thought made him smile and he felt a familiar tingling in his loins.

He heard voices through the party wall – a man and a woman – but he couldn't hear what they were saying. She had a man in there. Perhaps if he listened with a glass to the wall he'd be able to hear them. It was an old trick his mother used to use to spy on the neighbours. She'd never felt guilty about it and neither would he. Perhaps it would provide some entertainment while he awaited the reply.

But when he checked he saw that the email had already come in. He had replied. Peter Brockmeister had deigned to get back to him.

Judith Dodds decided to have an early night so she locked up the house as she did every night, checking the doors and windows and setting the alarm.

Since the break up of her marriage she hadn't slept well but she felt she should make the effort to get some rest so, after a lavender-scented bath, she put on a clean nightdress and climbed into bed, picking up her book off the bedside table.

She read for ten minutes, her eyelids heavy with sleep. But she knew that even if she dropped off straight away, she'd wake up in the early hours, her mind filled with images of the past. Her father standing in the doorway, staring at her with cold eyes as though she was some unpleasant laboratory specimen; her mother crying hysterically as she pleaded with him to stay. Her mother had had no pride but she hadn't repeated that mistake in her own marriage. As soon as things weren't to her liking she'd sent her ex-husband on his way, ensuring that she kept everything that was hers and most of what was his, including Oriel House.