Somehow he got them home. Isabella’s housekeeper ushered Abi away to the kitchen and tended her with hot sweet tea and a warm vinegar sponge for her bruises, while Isabella and Thomas sat Fanny down by the fire in the parlour.
Thomas looked at his sister in despair. ‘If he knows where we’re living, we’re no longer safe here.’
‘The man is deranged!’ Isabella said stoutly. ‘We’ll talk about it with William when he returns home. He’ll know what to do.’
William instigated enquiries the next morning. There were many witnesses to what had happened and they all agreed it was an attempted kidnapping. It turned out the carriage had been stolen only minutes before. Farquhar must have followed Frances and Abi as they were strolling round the shops and decided it was the perfect opportunity to pounce. What he intended to do with them once he had them in his power, they could only guess.
Thomas and William sat up late into the night discussing the situation. When Thomas was a single man he had been able to take care of himself, but now he had family responsibilities. They had no way of tracking down Farquhar, so the only solution, as far as they could see, was for Thomas and Frances to disappear. It was a hard decision.
The army had anyway recalled him from leave. He would abandon all thoughts of buying himself out and make himself available once again for duty. So it was that Thomas, accompanied by Fanny, found himself bound for the island of Minorca in the Mediterranean Sea.
No amount of argument and pleading from Fanny had changed Thomas’s mind about going. Abi and little Frances were left to the care of Isabella and Tom’s mother, who made the long journey from Edinburgh to be with her daughter and her little granddaughter.
‘I know it’s hard, my darling,’ Thomas whispered as they set sail, ‘but I have to earn my living and Frances will be safer without us. Mama and Isabella will take care of her, I promise.’ He couldn’t bear Fanny’s agonised sobs at being parted from her baby. He folded her in his arms. ‘By the time we go back to England that bastard Farquhar will have forgotten we exist.’ And in case he hadn’t, Thomas had left the fetish in Abi’s care with strict instructions to make sure it never left little Frances’s nursery.
37
Finlay was working in his study. The house was very quiet as Ruth opened her laptop and began to try to make sense of her notes. There was so much information, and so many family threads to tie in besides the details of Thomas’s life. She had copied out the family tree as far as it affected him, his parents, his grandparents, his brothers and sisters and his own children. They were such a widespread family, and because they seemed close they were all relevant. All there in his story; her story; ghosts from her past.
She sighed. As the only child of two only children she could only imagine what it was to be brought up in the rough and tumble of a family nursery. As a teacher she had known many big families, but big by modern standards was three or four children on the whole with perhaps extended families as well, but Thomas was one of six, only one of whom had died young. The others had all flourished.
She glanced up, and there he was, sitting on the velvet chair. He had short dark curly hair, only slightly grey at the temples, and a high complexion. He was handsome, slim, with dark alert eyes. He winked at her.
She took a deep breath, trying to focus, but he had gone.
She looked back at the laptop, but her concentration was all over the place. He had looked so real, so solid and, yes, so humorous. ‘Well, talk to me then!’ she burst out. ‘Please. Don’t tease me like this!’
Outside she could hear the wind in the trees. A stem of the wisteria was tapping against her window. She looked towards it, suddenly frightened. Could Timothy climb up to her that way? She leapt to her feet and went over, lifting the corner of the curtain and peering out. There was a moon high above the streaming clouds and for a moment it illuminated the lawn, but there was no one out there.
Letting the curtain fall, she threw herself down on the bed with a sigh. She awoke two hours later and realised that it was midnight and that she had fallen asleep fully dressed. The wind seemed to have grown stronger; she could hear the splatter of raindrops against the window. Wearily she climbed to her feet and began to take off her clothes. Still half asleep she pulled on her nightdress, brushed her teeth, reached across to turn off the light and fell back into bed.
The hand on her shoulder was part of her dream. It was caressing, gentle, awakening longings she hadn’t felt for a long time. She felt herself turn to meet it, relaxing, and she knew she was smiling. The touch grew stronger, massaging her breasts and moving down over her stomach; she felt the weight of a knee on the edge of the bed and then hands were holding her down, pushing her back into the pillow, tearing at her nightdress, forcing her legs apart. As she tried to fight back she felt the weight of a hand across her face as he slapped her down.
‘No!’ She was awake now and struggling. ‘No, leave me alone! Help!’
‘Let her go you bastard!’ Another voice. Help had arrived, flickering candlelight appeared in the room, a figure bent over the bed, dragging him off her. She heard the smack of a blow land, a groan as the man fell backward and scrambled away.
And then Finlay’s voice, outside on the landing. ‘Ruth? Ruth, are you all right?’
The door opened and light flooded the room as he reached for the switch. Finlay was wearing a thick woollen dressing gown, his hair standing on end. ‘I heard you calling!’
Ruth had shot out of bed and was standing with her back to the wall, her pillow clutched in her arms. She was shaking all over. ‘He tried to rape me!’
‘It’s all right Ruth,’ Finlay said gently. ‘It was a bad dream. There’s no one here. Look.’
She was looking, scanning the room. ‘Was it Timothy?’ she gasped.
‘There’s no one here,’ he repeated. He went to pull back the curtains. Rain was streaming down the panes and the creeper outside was thrashing against the glass. ‘See. The window’s locked.’
‘You came in. You pulled him off me.’ She was too confused and frightened to think straight.
Finlay grimaced. ‘No, darling, I didn’t. There was no one here. Honest.’
‘Look in the bathroom.’ The door in the corner of the room was half open, behind it, darkness.
Finlay obliged, turning on the light, pushing the door wide. ‘Nothing.’ He turned the light off again. ‘Let me go and find you a cup of tea.’
‘No. Don’t go!’ It was a reflex action to reach out to him but he had already turned away. ‘Thank you, I’d love some,’ she whispered faintly at his retreating back. She hadn’t moved. She could still feel the man’s hands on her; feel his foul breath in her face, hot and moist as he sought her mouth. She gave a little moan of disgust at the memory. Slowly she moved away from the wall. Dropping the pillow on her bed to reach for her bathrobe she realised that her nightdress was torn open from neck to hem.
When Finlay returned she was perched on the edge of the bed, her bathrobe knotted tightly round her. ‘You hit him in the face, Fin,’ she said wearily. ‘Thank you.’ Her hands were shaking as she reached out for the mug of tea. She sipped it and scowled. ‘You put sugar in,’ she added reproachfully.
‘That’s what they tell you to do for shock,’ he said. He sat down on the velvet chair. ‘I didn’t hit anyone, Ruthie. I’m sure I would have if I’d been here, and if he’d been here, but it was a dream.’
‘He tore my nightdress.’
It was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed where she had let it fall. They both looked at it for several seconds then at each other. ‘I suppose you are going to tell me I did that myself,’ she whispered.
Malcolm arrived at half past eight. He left Finlay and Ruth downstairs and climbed up to the bedroom alone. He didn’t need to wait to tune in. The place was electric with lust and anger and an extraordinary vicious hatred. This man had not been imagined by anyone.
He glanced across at the table, at the piled books, the closed
laptop, then he made his way across the room and pushed the window open. The storm had blown itself out in the night. The garden was full of sunlight but in here – he turned round slowly and surveyed the room – it was putrid.
He sat down on the bed and waited. He was utterly calm, safe in his own protected space.
‘Let’s walk down to the river,’ he said to Ruth and Finlay an hour later.
They followed him across the wet grass, out of the back gate down the steep flight of steps to the riverside and stood together on the bank, all three mesmerised for a while by the glittering, racing water. ‘I want you to move all your books back downstairs to the dining room,’ Malcolm said eventually, addressing Ruth. She was shocked at how exhausted he looked in the unforgiving sunlight. ‘Your concentration on the past is leaving you open. I spoke to Thomas,’ he went on after another thoughtful pause. ‘It was he who hit your assailant and drove him away. He’s full of remorse that his troubles have followed him to your door.’ He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I wasn’t strong enough, Ruth, to hold the link and find out more about what’s going on. I’m sorry.’
Ruth and Finlay were staring at him. ‘Has he gone, this vile pervert?’ Finlay asked. ‘I can see you’re serious about this, but how could the man be a ghost? He tore the nightdress off her, for God’s sake! He tried to rape her!’ He was finding it hard to contain his anger.
Malcolm folded his arms. ‘He is a strong presence.’
‘Will he come back?’ Ruth’s whisper was all but inaudible against the roar of the river.
‘In my experience, entities such as this one make use of what energy is there,’ Malcolm replied cautiously. ‘You were tired and unprotected, focused on his story, and he would have gained strength from the storm. But you can fight him off. I’ll show you what to do.’
‘Do we need a minister? Prayers?’ Finlay glared at Ruth. ‘It’s my house! You may not want the kirk involved, but I sure as hell do!’
Malcolm smiled. ‘That’s for Ruth to say. Thomas would like you to use prayers, Ruth. To give yourself strength. You are all over the place because you don’t have a strong perimeter, but it’s for you to decide. Prayers, if they’re an empty gesture, would be no use at all. When you rang me this morning you were looking for my help. You should have been looking inside yourself. You have an amazing ally in your ancestor Thomas; you have taught yourself to contact him, you’re almost there.’
Ruth looked at him miserably. ‘I can’t believe any of this.’
‘You do believe it.’ Malcolm sounded as though he was about to lose patience. ‘You are just too stubborn to admit it. Your father has a lot to answer for!’ He sighed in exasperation. ‘Think of this as like jumping off a diving board. Allow yourself the courage to do it. You will find everything suddenly makes sense and you will then be able to use the tools you need to deal with the situation. If you don’t, you will remain open to attack.’ He stepped forward and took Ruth’s hands in his own. ‘I’ll help you all I can, I promise, but as I said to you before, you already have the inner knowledge to do all this yourself. This man must be persuaded to go and seek rest and peace and you are the only one able now to give it to him.’
Ruth gazed at him in something like panic. ‘Do you pray?’ She was still holding Malcolm’s hands. They were warm around her own cold fists.
‘Yes, I do. I’m not strong enough to do this job alone. I pray to angels and spirits and ancestors and I pray to God.’
‘So, you go to church?’
Malcolm smiled. ‘Not often. You don’t have to go to church, though I would always recommend a bit of meditation in an ancient kirk in the country. They have a serenity that would do you good.’ He let go of Ruth’s hands abruptly. ‘The house is safe and calm for now. Do you want me to help you clear your books out of that room?’
38
Timothy was tight-lipped and seething with anger. April wanted to go to see the Old Mill House. She’d been itching with curiosity and wouldn’t let it go. He hadn’t told her he had been there alone, almost been caught, and that he had vowed never to go there again.
‘Get a move on, Timothy!’ She was bad-tempered, even when he gave up arguing and agreed to do what she wanted. She had got dressed up, put lipstick on, for heaven’s sake! Silly cow.
He drove the car jerkily, every gear change reflecting his mood, but she took no notice, blithely looking out of the window as if they were on some fun outing, which, she was. She didn’t know that there was probably a police guard there, that maybe Finlay had installed security cameras. Well, she would soon find out.
He parked further away than usual and insisted they keep to the grass verge so her shoes were soaked from last night’s rain. To his fury, she seemed to enjoy the subterfuge and hardly noticed that her shoes were ruined, though no doubt he would hear all about that later. Like him she harboured grudges.
Ruth’s car was outside the house, along with another, an old four-by-four of some kind.
April was close on his heels as he stopped to think and she blundered into him. ‘Watch where you’re going!’ he snapped. ‘There are people there. We should leave.’
‘His Daimler’s not there. They could be out in that,’ she retorted.
‘It’ll be in the garage.’ Timothy dived into the shrubbery and down the side of the house. Both garage doors were closed as they always were. He sprinted across the driveway and went to the first door. He opened it a crack and peered in. There was the car.
Behind him, April pulled at his coat. ‘Is it there?’
He smiled. Closing the door with infinite care he confronted her. ‘He’s home. Let’s go.’
‘We can’t go! Not when we’ve just arrived.’ She looked as disappointed as a child told it can’t go to a party. ‘There must be something we can see. If we’re careful we can look through the windows.’
She didn’t wait for his approval. She was off, running clumsily on her toes as if that made her less conspicuous, heading towards the trees. With an exclamation of fury and frustration he followed her and caught her up as she paused to peer across the grass. Her eyes were shining with excitement. ‘Supposing we go round the front. There are lots of bushes and things there. We can try the other side of the house. Are there any windows that side?’
He opened his mouth to reply and realised he didn’t know. He was about to lie when he saw her looking at him. ‘You’ve never checked, have you.’ That edge to her voice was there. It implied that he was an incompetent idiot. She didn’t wait for his reply.
There were windows on the far side of the house but they were in deep shadow and there were no lights showing. They crept closer and cautiously peered in. ‘This is some kind of cloakroom.’ Her voice was heavy with disappointment. She moved on to the next, more cautiously now. They could both see there was a light on. The window looked into the kitchen and she caught her breath with excitement. She could see the whole room, the worktops, the table, the hanging pans, the larger window opposite with the row of terracotta pots and the herbs she had so admired. It was the kitchen she had seen on TV. This was where he cooked.
‘OK. You’ve seen it. Now let’s go!’ Timothy pulled at her arm. He kept glancing behind them.
‘No! Not yet.’ She was glued to the window, taking in every detail. There was a book lying face down on the worktop only feet from where she was peering in. She could see a photo of the author, Malcolm Douglas, on the back.
‘April!’ He was getting desperate. ‘We have to go. We’ll get caught.’
‘One more minute.’ She hadn’t taken her eyes off the scene in front of her when she froze. The door in the far corner had opened and Ruth walked in, followed by a man. It was the man on the back of the book. She held her breath with excitement, watching avidly. Ruth was laughing. ‘I would have expected ghostbusters to drink something more esoteric than coffee,’ she said. ‘But you’re welcome to some more before you go.’ April held her breath. She could hear every word. He declined the invi
tation but she could see he would have liked to say yes, to stay a bit longer. She smirked. ‘I’ve bought one of your books,’ Ruth was saying to him now. She seemed embarrassed. She had picked up their empty mugs and she walked across to the sink and put them down on the draining board then she turned and saw April. Their eyes locked for a moment, then April ducked back.
‘She’s seen me! Quick!’ She was already running, back through the bushes towards the gate. Timothy plunged after her, almost sick with terror as they ran up the lane.
There was no sound of pursuit as they found their car. April threw herself in and suddenly she was laughing. ‘That was exciting!’ She looked across at Timothy as he followed her, slammed the driver’s door and reached for his seat belt. ‘What a buzz!’
‘Are you insane?’ He was still fumbling with the car key, trying to insert it with a shaking hand. ‘We could have been caught. We could still be caught. They know what sort of car I drive.’
She lay back against the seat, trying to get her breath back. ‘But it was worth it! It was glorious.’
He wasn’t sure if she meant the kitchen or the adrenaline rush or the whole experience.
He kept to the back roads, trying to lose any possible pursuer. When he finally drew in and round the back of the Dump, as he had officially christened their latest house, he glanced across at her. To his astonishment, she seemed to be asleep. He studied her face, looking at the slack jaw, the untidy pepper-and-salt hair, the ugly cheap jumper which he could see under her jacket and he felt an unexpected wave of affection. Poor April. What she would give for a kitchen like Finlay’s. For a moment he had a glimmer of understanding at the way she felt. She had never had a kitchen of her own; never had the chance to collect shiny pans and pots of herbs. Once she had brought home a plastic pot of parsley from the supermarket and watered it carefully, but the plants grew long and floppy and in the end they became mouldy and died. He couldn’t see why she had bought them in the first place. He’d refused to let her cook with the stuff. He wasn’t even sure she knew how.