‘Aren’t you going to do it with me? I thought we were going to contact His Lordship.’
Ruth gave a derisive snort. ‘I don’t believe in this, Hattie. Remember? And I don’t think it’s supposed to be a communal activity!’ she added severely. ‘Come and sit down again. Finlay has a candle there on the side. That’s perfect. I’ll turn down the lighting and you can relax and ask him to come and talk to us and I’ll watch.’ She took a sip from her glass then went to turn out the lights, leaving one small table lamp in the corner of the room. She carried the squat red candle to the coffee table and lit it, then she sat down on the sofa and gestured at Harriet to begin. For a long time neither woman said anything. The only sound was the crackling of logs in the wood burner. The flames behind the glass filled the room with a dull glow that threw faint shadows on the walls. At last Harriet spoke. ‘Is there anybody there?’
Ruth subsided into giggles. ‘Oh, come on. That’s such a cliché!’
‘Shut up!’ Harriet glared at her. Sitting back against the cushions in her chair she closed her eyes again. The silence lengthened and deepened. Ruth took another sip from her glass, then closed her eyes as the berry scent of the candle began to permeate the room.
Harriet still hadn’t spoken out loud when Ruth became aware of a sense that they were not alone. She sat absolutely still, not daring to open her eyes. The feeling grew stronger.
‘Who’s there?’ Harriet must have felt it too. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Her voice was soft, barely audible.
For a long minute nothing happened, then there was a loud, deep, very male chuckle. ‘Thank you, ladies, for your invitation!’ The voice was husky, with a slight West Country burr.
‘Oh my God!’ Ruth’s eyes flew open. ‘Hattie, was that you?’
Another chuckle, so quiet it was almost inaudible. ‘My name’s not Hattie.’
‘Harriet!’ Ruth whispered urgently. ‘Hattie! Wake up.’
Her friend was sitting exactly as she had been before, her eyes closed, a half smile on her face.
‘Hattie!’ Ruth called again. She was terrified.
‘Two beautiful women! How lovely,’ the voice whispered. ‘Let me come closer.’
Appalled, Ruth felt the cushion move on the sofa next to her as if someone had sat down, though she could see no one. She cowered from the unseen presence. ‘Who are you?’
‘A passing friend, at your service, ma’am.’ She could feel hot breath on her cheek and then, to her horror she felt a hand on her breast. She leapt to her feet with a scream.
Harriet opened her eyes. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Dear God!’ Ruth was already at the door groping for the light switches.
In the sudden brightness they both blinked. Ruth stared round wildly. ‘Someone touched me!’
Harriet scrambled awkwardly to her feet. She still seemed dazed.
‘It was horrible! He groped my breast. He was sitting beside me on the sofa. I could smell his breath!’ Ruth put her hand over her mouth. ‘I still can.’ The sweet smell of the scented candle had been replaced in the room by a pervasive stink of stale sweat. The candle, they both realised at the same moment, had gone out. A trail of smoke curled up from the wick towards the beams, gathering under the low ceiling.
Harriet wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh God, I can smell it too. Oh, how vile. I don’t understand.’ Her eyes were darting round the room. ‘There must have been someone in here. Someone real.’ She broke off, looking at the floor-length curtains over the windows.
Ruth followed Harriet’s gaze in increasing horror, watching as she tiptoed across to the chimney, picked up the poker that was lying in front of the wood burner and turned towards the windows, flinging back the curtains on their heavy wooden rings. There was no one there.
Harriet turned to survey the empty room.
‘I’m not making it up.’ Ruth was defensive.
‘So the séance worked,’ Harriet whispered. They stared at each other in dawning horror. ‘Could it have been Thomas?’
‘No!’ Ruth was vehement.
‘And it definitely wasn’t your imagination?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps it was a real person and he was out of the room before we turned the lights on.’ The suggestion sounded almost like a plea.
There was only one way to find out.
They searched the house, keeping close together. They found nothing.
They did not return to the sitting room, going instead into the kitchen. Ruth had changed her sweater, throwing it into the washing machine, unable to bear the thought of wearing something that the invisible hand had touched. She switched on the kettle and reached for the coffee pot. ‘I can’t believe it happened. I just can’t. I must have imagined it. We were obviously more drunk than we thought.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘You weren’t drunk, Ruthie. Merry perhaps, but not drunk.’ She sat quietly, lost in thought. ‘I’ve been trying to remember stuff I’ve heard about séances.’
‘I thought you’d been to some.’
‘I have, but as an observer. To be honest, nothing much happened, but I remember the person conducting one of them was very insistent that everyone followed the rules and I’ve realised that we broke one of the very basic things you’re supposed to do.’
‘What?’ Ruth spooned some coffee into the cafetière and poured on the hot water.
‘I said, “Is there anybody there?”, didn’t I.’
Ruth felt her mouth twitch into a smile. She nodded.
‘And I opened a door to anyone who wanted to come through it. I wasn’t specific who I wanted to talk to. I think, inadvertently, we let in a passing rogue spirit.’
‘You. You let him in,’ Ruth pointed out.
‘Yes, me, it’s my fault. A little learning is a dangerous thing and all that. It’s one of the reasons people say séances are so dangerous.’ Harriet made a valiant attempt at laughter.
Ruth shuddered. ‘Every rational bone in my body says it isn’t true. It can’t be true. But I didn’t imagine him, Hattie. I truly didn’t.’
Harriet reached for the pot and filled two mugs. She slid off the stool and went to the fridge to retrieve the milk. ‘If he was a spirit, do you think he’s gone?’ she said as she came back. ‘Really gone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘At dawn, doesn’t he have to go back to his grave?’
‘I think that’s vampires.’
In the long silence that followed they heard the old clock in the hall chime. It was midnight.
‘We have to go back in there, don’t we,’ Harriet said eventually. ‘This is a lovely house. We can’t allow ourselves to be spooked by some passing evil spirit. We have to make sure he’s gone and say some prayers to seal whatever channel it is I’ve opened up.’ She slapped her forehead suddenly. ‘The book. You’ve got the book. Psychic Self-Defence. What does it say to do?’
‘I’ve never even looked at it.’ Ruth stood up. In the doorway she hesitated, looking at the closed door to the sitting room, then she turned along the hall and went to the dining room. Grabbing the book from the table, she hurried back to the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind her.
‘Nothing is going to work if I don’t take this seriously,’ she said as she hauled herself up onto her stool. ‘My grandfather, Mummy’s father, who was a vicar, would have prayed. I remember how fervently he believed in prayer. Once he told me when I was little that I could wrap it round myself like a warm blanket. We were staying with them at the vicarage and I had a nightmare. Next morning, I told Mummy what he’d said but my father was in the room. I was too young to have understood the need for discretion, and Daddy laughed. It was such a cruel, dismissive sound and I was made to feel as if I was the stupidest child in the world. He made it quite clear such a thing could never work, and that Grandpa was a gullible fool who shouldn’t be trusted to talk to me.’
‘Oh, Ruthie. What a beast your father was.’ Harriet reached over and touched Ruth’s hand.
‘What did your mother say?’
‘I can’t remember. I pretty much blotted the whole thing out. That was probably the last time we went to stay with my grandparents.’ She sighed. ‘So, I have a mountain to climb in the faith department.’ She handed Harriet the book. ‘Do you realise that we seem to be absolutely cold sober?’ Ruth reached for her coffee. ‘Nothing like being groped by a ghost to instil instant sobriety.’
Harriet gave a shudder. She was still looking very white. ‘She has chapters on what to do.’ She turned towards the end of the book. ‘My neighbour lent me her copy when she knew I was going to write about Dion. Let me see if I can find the place. The one thing I remember reading which really struck me as being right in so many contexts, was … here we are: “What the imagination has made, the imagination can unmake.” As well as a psychic, Dion was a trained psychologist and counsellor. So, on every level she knew what she was talking about. But if you think what happened was your imagination, we know it wasn’t. No one could imagine that stink and I smelt it too!’
There was a long silence as she read, skipped a few pages and read again. Ruth sipped her coffee and poured herself some more. In the hall the clock chimed the half hour, then one.
‘OK,’ Harriet looked up. ‘There is so much technical stuff here which we couldn’t possibly do, but the absolute simplest seems to be garlic.’
‘But that’s vampires too, isn’t it?’
‘Garlic and onions absorb noxious energies, physical and psychic, if I’m reading this aright. We could use holy water – and she gives instructions on how to make it – but I don’t think either of us is qualified to bless it with sufficient conviction.’
Ruth let out a snort. ‘If only we’d known. You could have brought crystals from Glasto!’
‘OK. We don’t have any crystals and we can’t pray or don’t want to, so why don’t we put some garlic and onions in the room overnight. I need to sleep! If I don’t go to bed soon I will collapse. Then in the morning, in the blessed daylight, we can decide what to do.’
Ruth slid off her stool. ‘Blessed daylight!’ she remarked. ‘I assume you don’t see the irony of that comment. So, garlic it is. That sounds good. It sounds earthy and physical and rational, and as we are in the kitchen of a celebrity chef there are more onions and cloves of garlic here than probably anywhere else on the planet! And I will bet money they are all organic.’
There were baskets of both in the pantry.
‘How much do we need?’ Ruth asked.
‘She doesn’t say. Enough to place round the room. What about half a dozen of each?’
It was Harriet who pushed open the door and peered in. They had left the lights on and the wood burner was still glowing but the room felt cold. They crept in cautiously. ‘Put them all round the room,’ Harriet whispered. ‘Evenly spaced, I should think. Like Christmas decorations. Do you think we should say something? “Begone, foul fiend!” or the Lord’s Prayer or somesuch?’
‘We ruled out prayer, remember? It would be pure hypocrisy, at least on my part. Can you feel anything?’ Ruth was standing near the sofa, a bulb of garlic in her hand.
Harriet was silent for a moment. ‘No.’
‘Nor me. He’s gone. I think he went as soon as I turned the lights on.’ She laid the garlic bulb down on the coffee table. ‘This will soak up anything that is left, then in the morning presumably we dispose of it all. I can’t believe I’m saying this! It occurs to me that what we have here was mass hysteria.’
‘Mass?’ Hattie looked quizzical.
‘I’m sure if they’re drunk enough, two is sufficient,’ Ruth said firmly. ‘Now, to bed before we both collapse.’
She spent a long time in the shower, scrubbing every inch of her body, washing her hair, trying again and again to rinse away the memory of rough, insolent hands on her breast. When at last she dried herself and pulled on her pyjamas, she could still feel him.
This couldn’t be happening. She didn’t believe in it. She took Dion’s book to bed with her and left all the lights on, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.
Thomas
In the year 1768 Tartar was directed back to England, her mission over. At Portsmouth, the crew was paid off, and I became aware that there would be no new berth for me as a full lieutenant; the navy had sufficient. I had enjoyed my time in the Caribbean Sea and learnt much but I had no wish to go back to being a middy, so with my wages in my pocket I took the stage to London to seek my fortune elsewhere, my time in the Royal Navy done.
Imagine my chagrin when, as I climbed aboard the coach, I saw the face of my nemesis, Andrew Farquhar, in the crowds and watched him settle in one of the roof seats near me. He was still wearing his sailor’s canvas slops, a much-patched linen shirt and short jacket. Even to avoid him I was not prepared to pay the extra to be inside the doubtful comforts of the stage. Instead I pulled my hat down over my eyes and pretended to sleep.
The weather was cold and wet and there was no inclination or possibility for talk amongst the passengers as we made the dismal journey to the capital huddled in our greatcoats. At the staging posts I avoided Farquhar, contenting myself with the warmth of mulled ale and a pie by the fire as they changed horses, wondering why I had not stayed in Barbados! From Portsmouth to London is some seventy miles and I was near dead with cold when we arrived but finally we were there and I found my lodgings with my sister, Anne, in the house of Lady Huntingdon, where they had made their base after moving from Bath. I had neither acknowledged nor bid farewell to Andrew. I trusted earnestly to God that we would not meet again. Unfortunately, God did not keep his side of the bargain.
24
April had taken the car. When Timothy asked if he could go with her or at least get a lift into town she rudely refused. ‘You’ve had the damn car for days!’ And with that he had to be content. She had not said where she was going or when she would be back.
Without her there the house was depressing. When April was there it was her personality that filled it, her noise, her scorn, her presence. This one was nicer than anywhere else they had stayed. It was decently furnished with a settee and a couple of easy chairs, even a telly that worked. Someone must have paid the electricity bill before they left. They had in the past camped in houses that were cold and dark and even smelly – though April did not tolerate that for long. She was right. If you knew where to look and how to find them, there were always places to stay. She relied on him to get them in. He had taught himself the gentle art of burglary. He could pick locks, bypass meters, hot-wire cars. She thought she was the brains department, he was the muscle, but he knew better. He had brains; he just preferred to keep them hidden.
By midday he was going stir crazy. He couldn’t stay on his own another minute. He walked up to the bus stop and caught the westbound bus to Cramond with only minutes to spare.
There were no cars outside. The place felt empty. In a way he had wanted Ruth to be there. He liked the feeling that she thought she had escaped him, but she hadn’t. She had dared to order him out of his house, the house her father had meant him to have, and she wasn’t even staying there, she was camped out in this beautiful place with a rich famous man. It wasn’t fair.
He studied the house for a while, then withdrew into the bushes and crept around the back. While he was here he would go and make sure his stash was safe and all traces of his passing were hidden. It had been hard to be sure in the dark.
He paused, hidden by a tree trunk, and studied the back of the house. At the far end there was the kitchen, then came the dining room with the French doors, then a long low room which he supposed was the lounge. He tiptoed sideways behind the hedge to get a better view. He knew he was going to have to go closer, to peer into the windows. He would not be able to resist.
Sprinting across the lawn, he flattened himself against the wall and waited, his heart banging with excitement. There was no sound, no shout of indignation. He tiptoed to the corner and looked round. There were some big black bi
rds pecking at the lawn. They saw him and flew off squawking. He held his breath.
There were no lights on in the kitchen and the room was shadowy but he could see in perfectly well and he took the time to study every detail. Slowly he scanned the dresser, the cupboards, the work areas, the hanging pans and kitchen utensils, aware of how much April would love to see this. There was a bowl of fruit on the worktop, a huge electric range cooker, lines of jars on shelves, their labels handwritten though from the window he couldn’t read them.
It was a long time before, with a quick glance over his shoulder, he moved on to the dining room windows. The long table was still strewn with books and papers. Her laptop was lying half buried beneath a notepad and there was a discarded coffee cup amongst the debris. He studied the rest of the room. There were some nice-looking pictures on the wall and a long low sideboard; his gaze focused on one or two pieces of silver, then it moved on.
The last set of windows belonged as he had suspected to the lounge. The room was more shadowy than the previous two; he could feel the cold emanating from the window panes. Raising his hand to shade his eyes and block the reflection of his own face he noticed that there was an onion on the windowsill. He stared at it, puzzled, then he adjusted his gaze to look further into the room. He could make out a long low couch, a couple of large easy chairs, a coffee table. He moved closer, trying to see more clearly. There appeared to be an onion lying on the coffee table, and a scatter of garlic cloves. There were several large lamps on side tables and there too he could see onions. He stared round in amused bewilderment. Was it some kind of culinary game? His gaze moved on and there, standing in front of the fireplace, he could see the shadowy figure of a man staring back at him. He was hunched, deformed, ugly. For a full second Timothy felt his heart stop then with a small cry of fright he turned and fled.
‘I’ve found us a possible new house,’ April greeted Timothy as soon as he appeared through the door. ‘It’s the other side of town. Down Craigmillar way. A bit rough, but somewhere to go if we need to. We can go on using this if we’re careful, but we don’t want to be here if the police start nosing.’