The Ghosts of Sleath Page 8

  Ash paled, remembering another fire in another place. He drew on the cigarette and watched the smoke as he exhaled, lost in thought.

  ‘They said his final scream before he finally disappeared was the most horrific of all.’

  The vicar’s words brought him back to the present.

  ‘There wasn’t much left of George Preddle to find afterwards. The fire had virtually incinerated him.’

  ‘Are you all right, David?’ Grace Lockwood had noticed Ash’s stillness, the pallor of his skin, and assumed it was because of her father’s story.

  He looked at her. ‘What? Yes, I’m okay. That was an unpleasant way to die,’ he said, almost distractedly.

  ‘Unpleasant?’ the clergyman scoffed. ‘No man, whatever his sins, deserves such punishment.’

  It’s your God, Ash nearly remarked, but decided it would be foolish to antagonize the man - he seemed volatile enough already. ‘And the boy saw the whole thing?’ he said instead.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Grace answered.

  ‘How did it affect him?’ Ash silently cursed himself. ‘Sorry, that was a pretty stupid question. He must have been severely traumatized.’

  Reverend Lockwood took his time in replying. His eyes stared at Ash without seeing and finally he said: ‘Oddly enough, the boy was hardly traumatized at all. Oh, I’m sure it affected him in some way, somewhere deep inside, but it hardly showed. Perhaps Simon was somewhat quieter in the weeks that followed, but then he’d always been a shy boy, always clinging to his mother, and nothing changed in that respect. If anything - and I suppose this was quite natural - mother and son became even closer.’

  ‘As you say, natural enough. Ellen Preddle had lost her husband, the boy had lost his father: they were bound to seek consolation in each other.’

  ‘You don’t understand. They became happy. You see, they both hated George Preddle when he was alive, and nobody in the village who knew him could blame them for that. He was a vile excuse for a human being.’

  Again Ash was surprised at Lockwood’s lack of compassion. This man Preddle must have been something special if even the parish priest condemned him after his death. ‘Could grief have finally caught up with the boy?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘Are you suggesting that if it had, Simon might have deliberately drowned himself in the bath?’ Grace was incredulous.

  ‘It was just a thought, no doubt mistaken. You’ve convinced me he would never have been that upset.’ He leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘So where is this leading to? Whose ghost does Ellen Preddle claim to have seen - her husband’s or her son’s?’ Before they could reply, he added, ‘You understand, of course, that the circumstances are there for self-delusion. Two tragedies, both shocking, the loss of a loved one, leaving her entirely on her own. Her grief might make her sensitive to all kinds of things.’

  ‘A cynical view, Mr Ash,’ said Lockwood with some disdain.

  ‘It goes with the territory, Reverend,’ the investigator returned, unoffended. ‘Although I’d prefer to regard it as a healthy scepticism, a sound requirement for my line of work. If I told you the stories behind some of my investigations you might appreciate why. So please tell me, whose spirit does the woman claim to have seen?’

  ‘It was her son,’ Lockwood replied solemnly. ‘After the boy’s funeral Ellen immediately returned home without speaking to anyone. I followed some time later to offer my condolences and to see if I could help in any way. The poor woman wouldn’t let me in. She wouldn’t even open the door to me.’

  ‘But you spoke to her?’

  ‘I called her name, but she told me to go away. Her voice sounded … well, strange.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Somehow distant, and not because she was behind a door. I thought at first that she’d been drinking.’

  ‘Maybe she had.’

  ‘I’ve never known her to touch a drop in the past.’

  ‘Sadness, shock. Who could blame her?’

  The cleric shook his head. ‘Not her, not Ellen. Perhaps I described her voice wrongly. She sounded happy, Mr Ash, but preoccupied, as though there was something else on her mind. She also seemed evasive, almost secretive.’

  ‘She was that way for the next two weeks,’ said Grace. ‘Ellen hardly left her cottage, and when neighbours passed by they could hear her singing. I heard her myself when I visited several days after the funeral, but she stopped when I knocked on the door.’

  ‘Did you see her?’ asked Ash.

  ‘No. She wouldn’t even answer me. She pretended she wasn’t there.’

  Her father interrupted her. ‘Grace, would you please fetch me some aspirin?’

  She regarded him anxiously. ‘Is it a headache again?’

  He nodded. ‘It isn’t severe yet.’

  Grace rose and left the room. Reverend Lockwood rubbed a hand across his forehead.

  ‘Shall we leave this till later?’ asked Ash, reaching towards the recorder to switch it off.

  ‘No, no. Let’s get on with it. I don’t want to waste too much of your time.’

  ‘Waste my time? What makes you say that?’

  ‘Isn’t that what all this is? Nonsense, a complete waste of time?’

  ‘Not if we achieve a result, one way or another.’

  Lockwood frowned. ‘You honestly believe you can prove the existence of ghosts?’

  ‘Or the non-existence.’

  The vicar gave a small shake of his head and the sound he made might have been a short laugh or a sudden cough. ‘Then let’s continue. We were concerned about Ellen, deeply so. However, each time I went to her home she either turned me away or pretended she wasn’t in. But then last Sunday she attended Communion as she had regularly in all the years I’ve known her. I was both surprised and pleased.’

  Grace returned with a glass of water and pills.

  ‘Did you bring me three, dear?’ her father asked.

  ‘I did,’ she answered in a disapproving way. ‘You know you should see the doctor about these headaches.’

  ‘Dr Stapley has enough on his plate without me bothering him with something that will go away of its own accord in due course, as these things always do.’

  ‘It’s the hauntings, isn’t it?’ she said, taking her seat again. ‘All this has put you under too much stress.’

  ‘If that’s the case, then our psychic investigator here might solve everything, including my headaches.’ There was little humour in the vicar’s smile.

  ‘You said Mrs Preddle attended Communion,’ Ash prompted as he checked the cassette recorder’s tape.

  ‘Yes. She waited after the service to see me. I have to say she looked surprisingly well. Somewhat drained, perhaps, but no redness around the eyes from too many tears, and no more hunched shoulders as if the burdens were too much for her. She seemed almost serene.’ He washed the tablets down with water, then dabbed at his thin lips with a misshapen knuckle. ‘She shocked me by asking if it was a sin to hate someone after their death.’

  ‘She meant her husband.’

  ‘Of course. That she loved her son there is no doubt.’ He eyed the investigator reproachfully. ‘I told her she must find it in her heart to forgive her late husband and that with time, as the memories dimmed, it would become easier for her. In the meantime, because of all she had suffered with this man the sin was not grievous.’ He took another gulp of water before continuing. ‘She only shook her head at me, looking even sadder. I’d got it wrong, she told me. She wasn’t asking for herself; she was asking for Simon, her son.’

  Ash remained expressionless. He drained the last of his coffee and waited for the clergyman to continue.

  ‘She said Simon was anxious and full of guilt. He was terribly concerned about hating his father so much, even though they were both dead. He had revealed this to his mother.’

  Lockwood lifted a hand as if to dismiss the protest he expected from the investigator, but Ash remained silent.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you
if you suggested this was nothing more than grief-induced hysteria, and that’s what I believed at the time also. Oh, I believed it fervently. Yet I humoured her, I told her I would come to her home and talk with her and although she was reluctant at first, when I indicated that perhaps I could help her son, assure him he was not in a state of sin, she agreed. Naturally I meant this in the spiritual sense, that somehow my words and prayers would reach Simon wherever he might be now, but Ellen took my promises literally.’

  Lockwood was becoming agitated, one hand constantly rising and falling on the arm of the chair. ‘When I called on her that afternoon, Ellen tried to tell me that her son had visited her on more than one occasion since his funeral and when I refuted this, when I told her Simon had passed over, that his soul now rested in peace, she became angry. She insisted that Simon was still here with her and would never truly leave her.’

  Grace went to her father, who had begun to tremble, both hands now gripping the sides of the chair so tightly that the deformed knuckles were almost white. The pain in those arthritic joints must have been intense. She put an arm around his shoulders and urged him to calm himself, but he ignored her, his pale eyes suddenly piercing as he stared at Ash.

  ‘And you see, then - right then - I knew she was speaking the truth.’

  The investigator stiffened. ‘But you implied earlier that you didn’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘No, I asked if you believed you could prove the existence of such.’

  ‘So tell me why you suddenly decided she was telling the truth.’

  ‘Because, Mr Ash, I saw the boy for myself.’

  10

  I’M SO SORRY.’

  Ash was surprised. ‘For what?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid my father’s overwrought,’ Grace Lockwood replied. ‘These headaches …’ She did not complete the sentence, leaving the thought as part of the apology.

  They were strolling along the centre path of the lodge’s rear garden, this separated from the rest of the estate by a weathered fence and lush shrubbery. Ahead of them was a white-wood gazebo, and even before they reached it Ash could see that the paint was old and cracked, the frame splintered here and there. Nevertheless it still managed to look attractive with its backdrop of rhododendrons, and plants and other flowers on either side of the path leading up to its step. Although the sun had lost its fierceness, the air was still uncomfortably warm and Ash’s jacket was draped through the loop of his arm, his hand tucked into his trouser pocket. Other perfumes mingled with the honeysuckle - lilac, rose, peony and choisia - and he drew in deep breaths to rid his head of the old staleness.

  ‘Has he seen a doctor?’ he enquired, the question not quite as casual as his tone suggested.

  ‘He refuses to. Father has this old-fashioned notion that all ills will fade away of their own accord eventually.’ She paused for a moment, stooping to examine a yellow rose by the path, and her next comment revealed she was not at all deceived. ‘You think he might be neurotic, don’t you?’ she said.

  Ash was reluctant to offend, but he was inclined to be frank. ‘He, uh, he seemed quite upset.’

  Grace straightened to face him. ‘Upset, yes. Things are happening that he doesn’t understand. I’m a little upset myself, but not neurotic, Mr Ash.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘David. And it isn’t only my father and Ellen Preddle who have been disturbed.’

  ‘Others have seen the boy?’

  She resumed walking, less relaxed than a moment ago. ‘Not Simon. But other - what would you call them? - apparitions? - other apparitions have been seen. We’d have told you about them if Father’s headache hadn’t got so much worse.’ She glanced back at the house, looking up at a first-floor window as if she could check on her father from where she stood. ‘His health has deteriorated so much in the past year or so. That’s why I didn’t return to Paris after my mother died; he needs me here with him. He used to be so strong, so full of vigour …’

  ‘How far advanced is his arthritis?’

  She turned away from the house and walked the rest of the way to the gazebo before replying. Inside she sat on an iron bench. ‘He tries not to let me know how much pain he’s in, but often I catch the strain on his face, in his eyes. He still works too hard for the parish, but it’s my fervent hope that the Church will persuade him to retire before too long. Fortunately we have a little inherited money left, enough, anyway, for him to live comfortably.’

  Ash sat at the other corner of the seat, his body angled towards her, an arm resting along the curved bench back. ‘Enough to run the Lockwood Estate?’ he asked.

  She smiled at his bluntness, and he liked the smile. ‘The Lockwood Estate hardly runs at all. Most of it is now sold off, although we’ve kept the grounds leading to the old manor house. That’s where we spend our money - keeping those few acres in reasonable condition. But we’re digressing again, aren’t we?’

  ‘Background information can be useful,’ he assured her.

  ‘I can’t see how it helps catch ghosts.’

  It was his turn to smile. ‘We don’t catch them. We determine if there is a genuine presence or not.’

  ‘Are you good at your job, David?’ It was a serious question, asked in earnest.

  ‘I generally achieve results, one way or another.’

  ‘But you do believe in this … this spirit world. You do believe we can be haunted.’

  She wondered why he quickly turned his head as if something back at the house had caught his attention. But his eyes were not focused on the house and his thoughts were inwards.

  ‘What is it, David?’ she asked. ‘What have I said?’

  She saw his neck stiffen and his shoulders straighten imperceptibly as though he were gaining control over whatever had disturbed him.

  ‘What I believe in isn’t important,’ he said quietly.

  ‘But -’

  He stopped her. ‘No, Grace. We’re dealing with what has happened in Sleath.’

  ‘Why are you so troubled, David?’ It was a simple but direct question, and it pierced through emotions he had held in check for a long time. Yet still he held back, perplexed by her intuition. ‘Won’t you tell me?’ she urged.

  Finally he spoke. ‘It’s too soon, Grace.’

  ‘Is it?’ she instantly replied. ‘Didn’t you feel something strange happen to us earlier at the church? I sensed you were there before I even set eyes on you, and I know you felt it too. Something happened between us before we even met.’

  His manner became abrupt. ‘Maybe. But it had nothing to do with this investigation. I’d rather we dealt with that.’

  Grace was taken aback by his sudden change and she wondered what he was hiding. Why wouldn’t he talk to her about the peculiar sensation she knew they had both shared at St Giles’, that sudden and almost electrifying awareness of each other even before they had met? Why did he choose to deny it?

  ‘Grace, tell me about these other incidents.’

  He had deliberately cut into her thoughts, but there was no challenge in his eyes. Perhaps it was a pleading she saw there.

  ‘All right, David,’ she acquiesced, then added: ‘But how do you know that wasn’t part of what’s happening here? You, yourself, heard children singing in an empty schoolhouse a short time before. How do you explain that? Don’t you think there might be a connection?’

  He took time to consider before he replied. ‘It’s possible. I need a lot more information before I can make any kind of judgement. You have to help me if I’m to help you, Grace.’

  ‘Perhaps I should apologize again.’

  ‘No need. Just tell me about these other sightings.’

  She watched him take out the micro-recorder from his pocket once more and switch it on. He placed it between them on the bench. ‘Go ahead,’ he told her.

  Grace drew in a deep breath before she spoke. ‘A young girl who works as a barmaid in the Black Boar Inn came to my father several days ago. She was very upset and looked a
s if she hadn’t been sleeping well for some time. In fact, she hadn’t.’

  ‘Is her name Ruth, by any chance?’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘When I booked a room at the inn. I noticed she looked as if she’d had some bad nights.’

  ‘Her name’s Ruth Cauldwell. Her father’s a local carpenter.’

  ‘What was her problem?’

  ‘She claimed she had been having terrible dreams, only they weren’t dreams, they happened even when she was awake.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon to dream you’re awake. She could have been in a semi-conscious state.’

  ‘Father explained that to her, but she had insisted that she was awake. She sat up in bed and even turned on the lamp by the bed on one occasion. The man who had woken her was still there at the end of her bed.’

  ‘It was a man.’

  ‘It had the appearance of a man.’

  ‘Someone she knew?’

  ‘Someone she knew was dead. Ruth was molested when she was a child. The man’s name was Joseph Munce and he worked for her father from time to time. He was jailed for what he did to her and died in prison. He committed suicide.’

  ‘As I said, she could have been confused. Some nightmares are incredible in their intensity.’

  ‘But she switched on the light and he was still there.’

  ‘And he faded away.’

  Grace nodded. ‘That’s what Ruth told Father.’

  ‘It’s possible to do such things in your sleep. Some people have left their homes and been found wandering along the streets while still asleep, others have gone downstairs to the kitchen and poured themselves a drink. The vision faded when the girl began to wake from her dream.’

  Grace bit into her lower lip. ‘That’s too glib, David. I don’t believe Ruth would say she was awake when she was really dreaming. I’ve known her for years and she’s always been a level-headed girl.’

  ‘She went through a terrible experience when she was just a kid, and who knows the feelings that have been pent up inside her all these years? Maybe she feels guilty about what happened, maybe she even feels partly to blame. The man’s suicide while in prison would reinforce the guilt if that were the case.’