Ruth exhaled loudly. ‘My goodness. You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is. And I’ll be with you.’
‘Supposing he doesn’t fancy that sort of confrontation? As far as we know, he’s gone two hundred years or so without feeling the need to assuage his lust.’
‘As far as we know.’
She made a face. ‘So, how are we going to arrange this battle of wills?’
‘I haven’t worked that out yet.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not too keen on inviting him here; certainly not into the chapel.’
‘The Old Mill House then? That makes sense. Though I’m not sure Fin would be too pleased. We are talking about a séance, aren’t we?’
‘Not as such. No. We could do it while Fin’s away. With his permission. And promise to clean up after ourselves.’
‘When you say clean up, you are not talking blood and spattered brains; you mean no garlic residues?’
‘Exactly.’
She stood up. Walking towards the window, she gazed down at the treetops for a while, deep in thought, then she turned to face him. ‘All we need to do is to imbue me with enough courage. Simple.’
59
Fin and Max were already on their way home when Ruth finally managed to get through to Fin on his phone. It turned out he was planning to be out the next day anyway; he and Max were going to sort out the final contracts for his show then take themselves out to a slap-up lunch to celebrate. He sounded dubious about their plan but was only too willing to promise he wouldn’t return before 6 p.m.
He left food in the fridge in case they got hungry, threw his papers into his briefcase, grabbed his tablet and put it in as well, with his favourite signing pen, grabbed his car keys and was giving a final glance round his study when the doorbell rang. He looked at his wristwatch. They were early.
‘Darlings!’ He pulled open the front door and his greeting died on his lips. Timothy Bradford was standing there. He had a large knife in his hand. He stepped in, pushing Fin back as he did so, and slammed the door behind him.
Fin was too stunned to react. He dropped his keys and the briefcase with a small cry of fright and backed against the wall, his hands in the air. ‘What do you want? Ruth isn’t here. The police will come. They’ll know it’s you. There’s a camera!’
Timothy was scruffy and wet through, his shoes soaked and covered in mud and he looked exhausted. He stood, the knife pointing at Fin’s stomach, glancing around him. ‘Keep still,’ he hissed. ‘Let me think.’
Fin swallowed hard. His mobile was in his pocket, his hands up, level with his ears.
‘April is dead,’ Timothy said.
Fin felt himself go even colder. ‘Did you kill her?’
‘No. There was a fire.’ Timothy was shaking. Fin could see the point of the knife making tiny jerky movements only inches from his body. ‘She’s gone. She’s left me alone.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Fin knew he couldn’t keep his hands in the air much longer. His arms were aching already and he felt dizzy. ‘Look, why don’t we go in the kitchen and make a cup of tea.’ He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘You look done in.’
Briefly, he thought Timothy was going to agree, but he shook his head. ‘I’ve got to lock you up. I’ve got to stay here. I’ve nowhere else to go.’
‘You don’t have to lock me up, old chap. It’s better to talk. And have a hot drink. It will make you feel better. Then you can think what to do.’ Fin lowered his arms a fraction.
Timothy tensed. His fingers tightened round the knife handle. ‘I told you not to move.’
‘I can’t help it. I can’t stand like this.’ Fin lowered his arms and closed his eyes as he felt himself sliding to the floor. Any second he would feel the knife blade between his ribs. His last thought was that it was a cruel irony for the best chef in Scotland to end up filleted.
Harriet was sitting on her bed, her legs stretched out in front of her, a cup of tea on the bedside table. This, she thought, was the ideal way to be entertained; her hosts had gone out for the afternoon, leaving her to write. Outside, the sky was rapidly blackening as another autumnal storm drove in from the east and even through the window, one street back from the beach, she could hear the waves crashing on the shore. She laid her book down on her lap and stared towards the window. What were Malcolm and Ruth doing, she wondered. She screwed up her face. What did it matter? It was nothing to do with her any more.
With a weary sigh she reached for her teacup. Firmly she pushed the thought of Ruth and Malcolm out of her head and turned her attention back to the history of the Second World War.
Malcolm pulled up outside the Old Mill House and peered through the windscreen. ‘It looks as though Fin’s car is still here. I hope we’re not too early.’
‘Just don’t get here till I’ve gone,’ had been Fin’s last words on the phone the night before.
Ruth looked at her watch. ‘Maybe Max came and collected him. They were going out somewhere nice for lunch, so he might have done.’ She felt in her pocket for her key. They climbed out and stood looking up at the house. There was a small camera above the door now, linked to Fin’s phone. Ruth glanced at Malcolm, wondering if he felt as nervous as she did. He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘It’ll be OK.’
He followed her up the steps as she put the key in the lock. ‘He’s forgotten to set the alarm,’ she said as she pushed the door open.
The house was silent. ‘Fin?’ she called. There was no reply.
‘His briefcase is still here, by the door.’ Malcolm was staring round, frowning. The house felt unsettled, the atmosphere uncomfortable, jagged.
‘I don’t suppose he needed it. He could put his lucky pen in his pocket.’ She walked towards the sitting room. ‘In here?’
Malcolm had stopped in the hall. Something had happened here. He could feel it so clearly, something that did not involve Farquhar.
He followed Ruth into the sitting room, unsettled. His concentration was in pieces.
‘I can feel him already,’ Ruth murmured. ‘A kind of presence, as though someone is waiting for us.’
She was right. Mal took a deep breath. He could not afford to be distracted.
‘Shall I put the lights on?’ Ruth’s mouth had gone dry. The room was shadowy. The sky outside was black and, almost on cue, an ominous rumble of thunder echoed from the distant hills.
‘No, I think we’ll keep it like this.’ Malcolm produced a box of matches and a candle from the game bag he carried over his shoulder. He was focused now. ‘Our man was from the shadows. He likes it that way.’ He glanced at her with a reassuring smile. ‘Ready?’
She licked her lips nervously. ‘Ready.’
‘This might get a bit melodramatic. B movie stuff, I’m afraid, but then, that’s how it’s done.’ He pointed to the sofa and she sat down nervously on the edge of it, clutching her coat round herself tightly.
‘Right, Mr Farquhar,’ Malcolm said clearly. ‘It is time for you to show yourself. We need to ask you some questions.’
Ruth held her breath.
The candle flame flickered. ‘Oh come, Andrew.’ Malcolm’s voice was firm. ‘Don’t be bashful. Ruth is here, ready to talk to you. Let’s see you. Isn’t this what you want? Come and show Ruth what a fine figure of a man you were. You fancy her, don’t you. You like her, she’s everything you miss about having a woman in your arms. A real live woman.’
Ruth gave a small strangled gasp.
Malcolm glanced towards her, then he went on. ‘Come on. This might be your last chance. Her attention will make you strong; virile again. Isn’t that everything you dream of?’
Ruth clenched her fists. She was waiting to feel his hands on her, smell him, but there was nothing there. Outside, it was beginning to rain.
‘Come on, Farquhar! Show yourself.’ Malcolm’s voice was more powerful now.
Ruth cowered back against the cushions and it was then she felt someone near her. She gave a whimper. ‘He’s coming.’ She was trying to resis
t feeling for her cross.
‘That’s it. But we want to see you.’ Malcolm was standing with his back to the fireplace. ‘Let’s see you. Now!’
60
Thomas had ridden hard and fast, trying to reach home before the storm. Ebony was sweating, his coat steaming beneath the rain. To the east, a flash of lightning sliced down through the cloud, lighting up the heath like day. It had been foolish not to wait until the storm was over, but he had to get back to Fanny. The baby was due and he had promised. He had won his latest case, as he had known he would, and he was exhilarated, sending his clerk and the papers home in the carriage. He hoped they were back by now and that Fanny wasn’t worried. The builders had finished their work and the family had moved back to Hampstead from Lincoln’s Inn so she could be comfortable for her lying in.
Ebony skidded to a halt as another flash lit the sky. Thomas slid from the saddle and soothed the horse. ‘Come on, you’ve seen storms before. I’ll lead you and we’ll head down there and find shelter.’ But even as he spoke another lightning bolt came down, close to where they were standing. Ebony reared with a scream of terror, tore the wet reins out of his hand and galloped off into the dark. Thomas dragged the collar of his greatcoat round his head and began to run, but it was too late. All he heard was a loud crash and then nothing.
When he woke, he was lying in his own bed. He tried to move and heard himself groan. Fanny was there at once, bending over him, her hand on his forehead. ‘Tom? Oh thank God, are you all right? One of the grooms has gone for the doctor. The dogs found you when the horse came home without you. Oh, my darling, you’re so badly burned.’
Abi was there now, and there were more candles round his bed. She was dabbing at his shoulder with a cold wet compress that smelt of vinegar.
‘What happened?’
‘You were struck by lightning. Or the tree beside you was. It went up like a Roman candle. Oh, Tom.’ Fanny was crying.
‘And Ebony. Is he hurt?’
‘No, he isn’t hurt. Just very frightened. What possessed you to ride through the storm?’
He could hear the dogs whimpering as they cowered by his bed. There was a strong smell of singed cloth from his greatcoat which was lying on the floor where someone had thrown it after they had torn it off him. His shirt was in shreds and he could feel the agony of the burns now as the shock began to wear off. The children were there too, he realised now, in a huddle by the door. Little Mary was crying quietly and Frances had her arm round her sisters, trying to soothe them. ‘Come here, my darlings,’ he called. He was trying to stop himself groaning; the pain was agonising. ‘Don’t be afraid. Just learn from your papa’s stupidity. I should never never have tried to ride home. I put my most favourite horse at risk and probably my own stupid life as well, just for the sake of an evening ride.’ He lay back on the pillows and blew them all a kiss. ‘Go now, leave your papa to rest,’ he said. It was all he could do to keep his voice steady. ‘I can hear the doctor coming.’ The commotion below announced the arrival, the removal of the doctor’s soaking coat, and the sound of firm steps on the stairs. The children vanished as a footman appeared carrying more candles and showed the doctor into the room.
Thomas woke much later, fighting his way up through a fog of laudanum to hear the birds singing in the trees outside the window. The rain had stopped and a faint light came through a crack in the curtains. ‘Fanny?’ Thomas’s mouth was dry and his voice no more than a whisper. He heard the scurry of feet and a small face appeared. It was Frances. ‘Are you all right, Papa?’
He tried to nod.
‘Would you like some water?’ She brought him a glass and held it to his lips. The pain of moving was excruciating, but he managed to swallow some before falling back on his pillow.
‘What are you doing here, darling? You should be in bed. Where is your mama? Is she getting some sleep?’ He managed to smile at her.
Frances shook her head. ‘I said I would stay and look after you when the doctor had to go. Mama is having the baby.’
‘What? Now?’ Thomas half sat up, then lay back with a groan.
His daughter adjusted his covers anxiously. ‘Abi and Martha and the midwife are with her. She is being very brave. He will be here soon.’
‘He?’ Thomas felt sweat running down his face. ‘Is it a boy, then?’
‘Abi says so.’ His daughter gave a knowing smile. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. Everything is under control. Would you like some more drops? The doctor showed me how.’
He watched her pour the dose from the little blue bottle, her face grave as she counted the drops into the glass of water. She helped him sip it. In minutes he had drifted away into sleep.
‘So, Andrew, did you know that Thomas was struck by lightning again?’
It had been in the last letter from Thomas to his daughter that Ruth had read the night before, reminding Frances of the drama of that evening so long ago. Ruth was sitting on Fin’s sofa, clutching a cushion to her chest. Malcolm had told her to talk to the shadowy figure hovering in the corner of the room. ‘He was exhilarated by the storm; he couldn’t resist riding through it. He loved the feel of the rain on his face, the energy of the wind as he galloped over the heath. He said later the horse saved him. It reared up and threw him. Seconds later and he would have been killed. The lightning struck an ancient oak tree only feet from him.’
Her voice was stronger now as she gained confidence. The phantasm that was Andrew Farquhar was still there.
There was a new tenseness now about the shadow, as though his attention had been caught, a flinching from the quiet words that circled the room like predatory birds. ‘You can’t forgive Thomas for what happened on the ship, can you. Though you know it was your fault, all of it. Did you think he betrayed you? Or were you so ashamed of what you did to that boy you couldn’t bear to think of everyone knowing about it.’ Another long silence. ‘Even there, on the ship, Tom was among friends, wasn’t he. His family knew the captain. You were a bully and a cheat and a cruel vicious boy and then you were a bully and a cheat as a man. I’ve read all about it in his letters.’
For a long time there was silence, then they heard it.
The apparition laughed.
Appearances are everything. April had been shopping. New top and skirt, pants and two bras, tights, shoes, an upmarket jacket, as good as new from a charity shop for £5. She bought a tote there too, in which she could carry her worldly belongings, and a document case to tuck under her arm. Her laptop just fitted it. She changed in the ladies in a department store, stuffed her old clothes in the much re-used plastic bag from the charity shop and, wandering down a quiet street, found a wheelie bin to dump it into. The only thing she needed now was an umbrella – she glanced up at the swiftly approaching black clouds – then she would have to find somewhere to think about what to do next. If she thought about Timothy at all it was as a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. He was no longer her responsibility. He had taken his life into his own hands. She didn’t care where he had gone, so long as she never saw him again.
The last thing that needed fixing was her hair. She was too embarrassed to go into a hairdresser, but there the storm saved her. She stood in the street allowing the rain to pour down on her head and by the time she went into the shop, laughing and gesturing at her head, there was no need to explain the dirt and the grease because her hair, wet and straightened, had been washed clean and was ready for a change of style and colour. The April that emerged from the hairdresser later was a different woman.
Her ambitions were simple. She didn’t see any reason to move on from Edinburgh. She liked it and she had got to know the place. She wanted comfort and security, a risk-free existence and space to dream. There was no limit to dreams, after all, but she didn’t yearn to make them come true any more. It was enough that she didn’t have to look after Timothy. She didn’t intend or expect to see him again. Ever.
She had not lost her skill as a shoplifter. The rest of the day was spent happi
ly wandering round the antique markets collecting what she thought of as stock. Small things, that fitted easily into her bag. Next morning she visited one of her trusted colleagues and cashed in her booty, walking away with a tidy sum that covered the cost of her purchases and a night in a cheap hotel. It was heaven. It had a room with a door that locked, hot water and a comfortable warm bed. A cooked breakfast was included. The only item she had forgotten amongst her purchases was a nightdress. She would get that tomorrow. And she still had her store of trinkets from Ruth’s mother’s jewel box in the little bag, now safely tucked into the zip pocket of her tote.
Thinking of Ruth reminded her about the Old Mill House. She had unfinished business there. Smiling to herself, she plugged in her laptop and opened it on the hotel dressing table. Malcolm Douglas, the ghostbuster. Ruth liked him, that much had been obvious, so he had made himself a target. Working her way steadily through the links she found everything she needed to know about him, including an obscure reference in an interview from ten years before for an American small-town paper in which he had confessed to the fact that he was interested in ghosts, had helped exorcise one or two houses ‘back home in Scotland’, and, pure gold this, had once or twice been tempted to consult the dead to check facts for his biographies. ‘“I never have,” Malcolm joked,’ the article quoted. ‘“And I promised not to tell anyone this, but I can’t help wondering …”’